Seventeen months is a very long time. Seventeen months is how long it had been since Corey and I had enjoyed an entire night away from B. Seventeen months is also our son’s age. Ergo, this was our first full night away from the monster, compliments of Nana.

It’s funny how driving the 110 miles to our city to the north, that familiar friend that is Portland, felt more like a vacation than the two-week odyssey that was our June trip to exotic Mexico. Perhaps it’s not very Good Mommy of me, but I relished the entire 36 hours. I only looked in the back seat once for B. I didn’t worry about nap times or feeding schedules or whether or not the sun was in B’s eyes. I didn’t have to care, so I didn’t. Instead I held hands with Corey as we meandered through the sculpture garden outside the Portland Art Museum. Our walk took us through a local farmer’s market teeming with action as crates of Gerber daisies were loaded onto trucks and booths disassembled. But no matter, we were on a mission: The Church of Emily, otherwise known as Nordstroms, beckoned us to her hallowed halls of worship. As usual, she didn’t disappoint: I walked out with a brand new pair of Frye boots, nearly half off, and absolutely gorgeous. Next stop was the Hotel deLuxe Portland’s newest hotel (and what replaced our old fav, the dearly departed Mallory Hotel). If we couldn’t afford the pricey rooms, we could at least enjoy the beautiful lobby, where marble meets 50’s modern retro style and glamorous film icons from the same era light up photographs and floor to ceiling movie screens. Portland is suddenly posh . . . We relaxed our tired feet in The Driftwood Room and sipped $11 pear brandy sidecars. I obsessed on the furniture—the well cushioned seats were the most comfortable bar stools I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Meanwhile, as I stared up at the original wood panel ceiling and the strange river rock arrangement going on in the main room, Corey wondered aloud why it was that all the bartenders were both women and black haired. And then too soon our drinks were empty and even the sugar rims licked clean. The friendly doorman asked us if we would be needing a cab and declining, we headed south toward Powell’s Bookstore. If you don’t know about Powell’s, you obviously don’t live in Oregon. Here’s the link. I wouldn’t do it justice anyway. Powell’s is fabulous, wonderful and overwhelming. Unfortunately, Powell’s has heavy fluorescent lighting and I am allergic to fluorescent lights. I scoured the magazines, checked out the staff recommended picks and tried to find books on advice columns and/or biographies about the classic advice columnist sisters, Ann Landers and Abbey from Dear Abbey. Unfortunately the woman at the information desk was stumped. In the end, she directed me to the Orange Room, which housed etiquette books by Miss Manners and Emily Post, not at all the direction I had hoped for. Happily, along the way I spotted Comfort Me with Apples, Ruth Reichl’s foody memoir (thoughts on this bestseller soon to come).

Oh food, glorious food.

Which leads me to the main event, the climax, if you will, of our little trip to Portland: A dinner at Genoa Restaurant. I had never heard of Genoa restaurant, but given it’s pedigree (“legendary” the website boasts, and “35 years in the making” according to our waiter) Genoa is a Portland institution. But you wouldn’t know it from the curb—Genoa is found on a forgettable block of Belmont and hidden discreetly by dark fabric and a nondescript door. With it’s billowy red curtains, I felt as though I were entering a very old magic store or prohibition-era speakeasy. Genoa is a small restaurant (I’m sure they would prefer I say “intimate” and it is that as well, but small was my first instinct when we stepped across the threshold). There is no place to stand unobtrusively as you wait to be seated, so within seconds of entering I started to feel as though Corey and I were the surprise guests that had crashed the party. Luckily, we didn’t have to stand there looking silly for too long. Quickly we were ushered across the restaurant, through a hallway and into the lounge, where we had the well appointed room all to ourselves. After depositing us in our chairs the waiter posed a surprising question: Were either of us allergic to shellfish? As fate would have it, shellfish is the one food I am allergic to. Bravo Genoa, crisis averted. Our waiter recited a list of “complimentary aperitifs” and I chose the bellini with peach puree. Corey opted for a concoction with a strange name now forgotten. Mine was sweet and light and his tasted of port and sherry with a lingering bitter finish. We draped ourselves on the armchairs and perused the upscale magazines. I sipped twice from my drink before our waiter returned with a flourish. Standing at the front of the room he surveyed us and then announced,”Come. Come, Let’s go kids” and clapped his hands five times in rapid succession like he was calling his tiny toy poodle. I wanted to take the heel of my pretty black pump and ever so slowly grind it into his instep. Instead, I lingered in my chair a little longer than necessary and surveyed our waiter right back. He was sporting an ill-conceived Don Johnson haircut and I suspect he was faking his gayness. As he led us to our table, a momentary bout of dread passed through me. The meal was set to last far too long and with a price far too high to tolerate an asshole. The waitstaff at Genoa are highly trained professionals who can intuit their clients' every need or whim. Suddenly, Don Johnson disappeared from view and was replaced by a very cute younger man who introduced himself as our waiter. As Waiter2.0 popped back into the kitchen, I turned to Corey and whispered, “Oooh, I was hoping we would get the younger guy. He’s not bitter yet.” Andi (I have no idea how he spells his name but I’m guessing with an “i”) was adorable and nice and gentlemanlike. So much so that when I , on my 5th glass of wine and having observed the loud party table in the corner said, “I bet it’s really fun to watch the wealthy get bombed and make fools of themselves,” Andi said, sans arched eyebrow, “Our diners get drunk? I’ve never noticed.” Oh Andi, you are so very classy. I very much enjoyed you and judging by the extra dessert you presented us and the wine that consistently found its way into my wineglass, I believe you may have liked us too.

But I digress . . . As I mentioned earlier, Genoa’s atmosphere was small and intimate, befitting an eatery listed on more than one website as one of Portland’s top ten most romantic restaurants. The color pallette was maroon and candlight. The rug was patterned and looked expensive, like something you’d see in an old Italian hotel and the light fixtures were art deco and probably purchased from the wonderful Rejuvenation Hardware. We were nearly the youngest in the room, with the exception of another couple across the way, who looked slightly uncomfortable, as though they were on a first date and overwhelmed by the opulence. Corey and I held hands and breathed in the scene. To my immediate right sat two couples obviously on a double date. One of the women talked loudly about her work on movie sets and publicity and appeared to be annoying everyone at her table. I found her outfit more appalling than her personality. She wore a slinky red dress with . . . clogs, a distinctly Oregon fashion statement that must be best done away with. Now.

Our meal was old world Italian, prix fixe and consisted of SEVEN courses. My water glass was always full (I drink three times the water most people drink so I often use my water glass as a barometer of service). There were no menus. Menus, apparently, are tacky. Some of the course descriptions might have required Cliff notes, but Andi recited them flawlessly. In addition, my darling husband insisted we go all in with the course-by-course wine pairings. Much of what I’ve written below is taken directly from Genoa’s parchment papered souvenir menu.

Antipasto: Corey had the frutti di mare medley with fresh calamari, Puget Sound mussels and East Coast scallops marinated in extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, red onion and summer herbs. The medley was served on a bed of “skordalia”—a Greek potato-garlic bread sauce—along with housemade ciabatta bruschetta topped with Flamingo Ridge Red Star tomatoes drizzled with light lemon anchovy bagna cauda. I have no idea what bagna cauda is and my guess is you don’t either, so we’ll leave it at that. As for my dish, it was much simpler but no less fabulous. I believe I too was introduced to the wonders of the “skordalia” atop the housemade ciabatta. But where Corey tasted that scary little shellfish, my palette was treated to something I normally don’t dare eat: Duck. I like ducks, I like to feed them bread at the pond, I think they’re cute and the sounds they make are perfect for my little seventeen-month-old imitator. But the smell of cooked duck has never turned me on so I’ve simply avoided the taste. Genoa changed my mind—duck is delicious. Duck proscuitto, with it’s non-gamey flavor and delicate crunch, is amazing.

Next up

Soup course, Zuppa di Zucca Gialli: Yellow summer crooked neck squash makes for a yummy soup when you throw in shallots, garlic, dry Marsala and cream. Bonus: We got to eat yellow-petaled blossoms—so soft and delicious.

Pasta course, Lasagna verde con pomodoro e basilico: This lasagna was so light and flavorful. I could taste the spinach, the parsley, the fresh basil garlic, those ripe bullet tomatoes and the proscuitto di parma. What a treat! This was the course in which I noticed my alcohol intake—I was feeling giddy and fast approaching “drunk.”

Salad course, Carpaccio di melone: It wasn’t the three types of melon or the tender local greens or the cucumber or the tiny Marcona almonds that sold me on this incredible salad. It was the dressing. I am a slave to vinaigrette and this vinaigrette may be the best I’ve ever sampled. Imagine citrus, mint and shallots blended together in a potpourri of delicate vinegar tang. Truly splendid! Who knew salad could be this good?

It was during the salad course that Corey and I agreed that a short break was in order and that someone ought to check on the bambino. While he retired to the lounge to call Nana, I tried not to look bored and busied myself by eavesdropping on the four men sitting at the table next to us. Unfortunately they were discussing the internet and not very well. Andi swung by to keep me company and said, “Is everything alright? Is everything to your liking?” to which I replied “Oh yes, thank you.”
But then Andi frowned (I made Andi frown. I didn’t want to make Andi frown). “But your wine. No good? You’ve slowed down.”
“No, it’s delicious. I slowed down because I’m afraid I’m drunk.” Without missing a beat, Andi said,
“No, no, you’re not drunk. You’ve just caught a buzz. And do you know what you do when you catch a buzz?” He said this as though he were a benevolent school teacher and I the eager pupil.
I looked up at Andi with mouth open and eyes glazed and shook my head no. Andi would provide the answer.
“You throw it back, you throw it back.”

I followed Andi’s advice, Corey arrived back in his chair safely with news of B going to bed an hour and a half late (tsk, tsk Nana) and soon we were presented with the big one.

Main course, bistecca for Corey, salmone for me.

Bistecca fiorentina: The beef hanger steak is “Montana Piemontese beef” produced to emulate the famous beef of Italy’s Piemonte region. The beef was marinated in Tuscan olive oil, garlic, thyme, bay and cracked black peppercorns, grilled and spread with a gremolota of shallots, parsley and cracked black pepper. Yukon gold potatoes were roasted and a perfect pairing to the meat. Corey loved the beef—he found the meat grilled to a rich rosy hue and the simple seasonings superb.

Salmone in agrodolce con panzanella: We Oregonians are surrounded by a lot of salmon and so we’re pretty particular. I had high hopes for this dish and Genoa did not disappoint. This salmon was Oregon troll-caught Chinook salmon coated with a marinade of lemon juice, Dijon mustard, ground fennel seed and sugar, then grilled until just carmelized. The salmon was served with a dallop of caper aoli (it didn’t need it, I brushed it to the side) and a panzanella of sweet Sungold cherry tomatoes, Walla Walla sweet onions and the snappiest most flavorful green beens I’ve ever tasted. The cherry tomato, Walla Walla onion, divine green bean mix was infused with yet another vinegary blend, this time gewurztraminer and basil. The fish was impeccably cooked and the light carmelization sealed in the juices for maximum flavor. And the cherry tomatoes—so many colors and the ripeness bursting between my teeth--reminded me of happy little suns. I’ve had only two truly remarkable salmon experiences in my life and this was one of them. The other was a tomato-laden salmon dish at the Mercer Hotel in Manhattan (home to Russell Crowe’s little phone throwing tantrum). I think Genoa wins—their salmon was larger, the tomatoes more plentiful and the wine pairing set off the fish brilliantly.

Dessert Course, dolci della casa: Andi brought out a tray covered in sweet delicacies. Corey was torn between the cheese plate and the fresh fruit tart. There was much hedging and indecision, as is Corey’s way. I sat back as long as I could and then interjected, “In the end, he’ll get the cheese plate. He always gets the cheese plate.” Andi, motivated by either generosity or exhaustion, moved things along by proclaiming that Corey deserved both and all was resolved. Corey loved his cheese plate (he had never heard of these uber gourmet cheeses) and I helped him finish the tart. Pears, apricots, bing cherries? Who knew what was in there, it was all so scrumptious. And the crust? Irresistible. My primary dessert choice was the ice cream/sorbet trio with the yellow and red currants. This dessert featured two types of sorbet—one a berry and liquor concoction and the other straight, sinful berries of a different type (I was quite tipsy at this point in the evening and failed to pay attention as Andi revealed the berry specifics). Nestled in between the two sorbets was a wonderful buttercream—simple, sweet and pure—it tasted just like my little boy smells when he’s fresh out of the bath. Sitting atop the rim of the glass were a handful of the daintiest currants I’ve ever seen. Nibbling this plump and juicy fruit was a complete delight, like savoring tiny little grapes, with just the right amount of sour. A perfect finish.

And yet, the meal was not over.

Fruit course, frutta di stagione: By the close of the meal, the chardonnay, the pinot gris, the Christom pinot noir, and the sweet Muscat dessert wine had taken their toll. I was very full, very tired and very tipsy. I don’t actually remember eating the fruit, but I do remember how it was presented. Fruit by fruit, Andi placed the pieces on each of our fine china plates with love and fanfare, “A nectarine for you, and a mini-plum for you. Oh, and some locally grown cherries too. And for you . . .” Honestly, I could have done without the fruit, but it was beautiful and erotic, this I could sense even in my Italian dessert wine haze.

We closed the place down. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Andi and stepped back out into the cool Portland air. My head was bubbly and my stomach, engorged. We walked the very quiet city block while I endeavored to compose myself. As we passed the closed up shops and empty coffeehouses, we recounted our luminous meal. My husband laughed when I tripped and held me steady and told me I was kind of sexy, “Like the drunk cheerleader at a frat party.” Later, back in our hotel room, I correctly used the word “defile.” Corey was impressed with my crazy vocab stylings, but mainly he just thought it was “hot.” (But really, how many people can use “defile” in a sentence when they’re smashed?) We’ve spent the last few days replaying that decadent meal and each and every dish, save the fruit, remains vibrantly clear in my mind. Was the perfectly cooked salmon, with its generous gathering of tomatoes, my favorite? Or the exquisite desserts? In the end, I can’t decide. We spent 3 and 1/2 unforgettable hours inside Genoa. Dinner, drinks and tip clocked in at $280 (thanks Nana!). Yes, it was the priciest meal I’ve ever had the great fortune to eat, but it may also have been the best. As Corey remarked in between the “Oo”s and “Ah”s of eating his steak: “If religion tasted this good, I’d gladly pay for it.”

I’m feeling a wee bit guilty about calling out Date Girl in my last post (actually I goofed, it’s DateGirl, one word). I was haughty yesterday and I’ll blame it on the heat. DG, as a fellow writer and as a woman, I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I’m sure your columns at the Seattle Weekly are enriching the lives of your readers. While I may not have enjoyed your musings in “What to Wear During Butt Sex” that doesn’t mean there aren’t others out there who clamor for your candid sex talk and raunchy humor. Confidential to DG: I’m very sorry. We writers shouldn’t be cannibalizing each other. PS—So gracious of you to enrage those Eugene Weekly readers with your talk of child molestation thereby getting yourself summarily ousted. If you’ve still got the editor’s number, do put in a good word for me, will you? Amen sister.

Oops, there I go again, still haughty. But seriously, I do think it’s important to support the writers, and especially the women writers, that I know and love. There are too many to list but here goes my first few shout-outs:

The Women of Salon (Salon.com): I love Salon. I love the women writers, Rebecca Traister, Page Rockwell, Heather Havrilesky and more. They bring you Broadsheet (news of the world, feminist-style) and seriously good TV criticism. For example, this week Heather dishes on the delicious third season of Project Runway. Yum!

Marilynne Robinson, winner of a Pulitzer: I’m reading Gilead, a quietly perfect little novel about an old pastor writing to his young son in the final days of his long and winding life. Robinson’s tale is full of magical everyday moments. I am in awe. So much so that as I read some of her passages, I find myself wishing I were a religious woman.

Isabel Allende: My bookclub is reading The House of the Spirits, which incidentally, I once saw in Spanish (no English subtitles) in a very crowded movie house in Salamanca, Spain. I’m on page 29 and the book truly is amazing. It’s magical realism and intricate family saga demands comparison to Gabriel Garcia Marquez and One Hundred Years of Solitude. This is Isabel’s finest work.

Jennifer Weiner: The famous author of Good in Bed and Little Earthquakes. Jennifer’s brilliance and wit turned me around from chick-lit naysayer to reformed chick lit aficionado. She elevates the genre. Great summer reading, the plots are never rote and the writing is always sharp and surprising. Plus, the movie In Her Shoes, based on a Jennifer Weiner best-seller, is not the fluff piece the commercials might have us believe. It’s solid and sassy, just like Jennifer.

And last but not least, emilyruthwonders.blogspot.com: She’s a good friend and she writes at 4AM after breastfeeding her lovely little Merra. A recent posting tackled the future—what cell phones might look like, what K-Fed might be up to, and the fleeting nature of clothing tags. It was random and weird and utterly inspired. I’d write about Emily regardless, but I have to share an aside. Recently Emily posted a long list of her favorite blogs and mine wasn’t on it. I, of course, seized the opportunity to playfully chide her omission right out in the open in the comments section of her sweet little blog. I knew full well that she’d have to make good by in turn writing nice stuff about my blog in her next posting. And lo, she didn’t disappoint. Thanks Em! I love the shameless self-promotion!

I used to work in politics—I know a lot about marketing, message out, and sucking up to get ahead, I can craft and spin with the best of them. So please do tell people about my blog. Seriously, write/phone/carrier pigeon a few friends about me (if you like me) and then (if they like me) maybe they’ll tell a few friends. Ooh, this little pyramid scheme’s got endless potential. Coming soon: A letter writing campaign to the Editor of the Eugene Weekly ;-)

Cheers and many thanks,
Emily Rose

B is teething and I’m getting some traction with my writing. I would have written earlier about both of these developments, except it’s been bloody hot, swammy to be precise. (Swammy--when the state of a person’s body, the weather, the peel of an orange etc., is both sweaty and clammy). It’s currently 94 degrees in my living room. My computer is emanating so much heat as it rests upon my lap and thighs that I feel as though I might swoon at any moment. I suffer for my art . . .

B, miserable with new molars, has been prone to screaming fits and looks so pathetic trudging through the living room with his favorite fishy teether jutting out from his mouth and his ring teethers held high, one in each hand. He moans and cries through SpongeBob and is constantly looking for Doggie, his favorite stuffed animal, as though clutching Doggie might diminish the pain. And the other day there was a gob of blood on his lower lip. Meanwhile, the women of playgroup are now reading me, I’ve got a few loyalists in northern California, a handful sprinkled in the northeast and now the editor of the Eugene Weekly has taken notice.

I’m kind of pleased with my recent transformation. Where I was once strictly Mama, now I’m orchestrating a pretty smooth transition from “ouch, ouch”, sippy-cup, playgroup, mini-pool, gymnastics class, and brush teeth back into the grown-up world of demographics, opposition research and business plan. With one foot firmly planted in the cat poop B found in his play house and a big toe skimming the surface of the publishing world, I’m starting to feel like a perfectly capable, post-modern Mommy. So there.

Picture me, a few nights ago, on the eve of the day the Editor of the Eugene Weekly emailed me to say that he had read my blog and some sample ideas for an advice column and he “loved” my writing. Picture me, wineglass in hand, planted on the couch watching my Tivo’d episode of So You Think You Can Dance while my husband clickety-clacked on his computer keyboard, looking up ever so often to catch Natalie’s sexy outifit or those crazy leaps by Travis. As the evening progressed and as I lazily worked my way through three quarters of a bottle of expensive red wine, I found myself overcome with childlike giddiness. I would point to my husband and say, “Hey, you over there,” and he would reply “Yes Honey?” and I would cock my head and smile coquettishly and say breathily, “Who loves my writing?” and he would dutifully respond, “I believe that would be the Editor of the Eugene Weekly.” And then he’d lean over and pat my knee as though I were a sugared-up three-year-old whose bedtime was drawing near.

Granted this little story of celebratory inebriation is silly when my friend Phoebe has a six-figure book deal. (Phoebe lives in Manhattan, has a literary agent, quit her job to write full time and Phoebe has no kids) But in the interest of toasting even the smallest of successes, I’m going to try to ride this thing out as far as the wind will take me.

And so when the Editor of the Eugene Weekly tells me they once tried an advice columnist but that she wasn’t well received, I investigate further and find Date Girl, the fallen Eugene Weekly columnist, online. I read a few random Date Girl columns and find myself blushing and my inner voice whispering “Oh my, Oh my” and “no, no, no” as though I were channeling my grandmother, anyone’s grandmother. My eyes dart away from the screen every few minutes to check to make sure B isn’t lurking about because in my paranoid state I forget that B is one and cannot read. Date Girl is entirely too crude for the good folks of the Eugene Weekly, this I am certain of only three paragraphs down. (I won’t be sharing the topic of that random column because by the very act of writing the word, I would be breaking the sacred covenant of not pandering to the vulgar) I’ve lived in this town long enough to know that Eugene liberals like to be tantalized . . . so long as it’s intelligent, witty and finely crafted tantalization—we take issue with the crass gross-out. I'm proud to say Eugene has standards. As for myself, I’m quite difficult to offend. I’ve been known to read a Dan Savage column every now and then and I mostly find him amusing, and if you’ve read enough of my writing you know that I have no problem dishing out the sex. But the bitter, foul-mouthed hetero city woman who is Date Girl’s literary persona does not please. Confidential to Date Girl: Honey, the writing doesn’t work if the reader is squirming in her seat, truly embarrassed for the writer. I will leave you to ponder why it’s socially acceptable, joyful even, when a gay man (Dan Savage) writes explicitly about sex but a straight, single woman can’t pull it off. Or maybe it’s just this individual woman, the vulgar and angry Date Girl, who lacks the finesse. Please discuss at your leisure.

All I know is that someday soon, Mr. Editor Sir, I may have to march right down to your office with teether in hand and toddler in tow and show you why I’m better than Date Girl. I’m post-modern Mommy, dammit.

More shameless self-promotion to follow. Right now it’s just too bloody hot. We’re off to the coast, to the beach, where it’s a nice respectable 68 degrees.

We watched Grizzly Man late last night and it really was one of the most compelling films (not just documentaries, but the entire gamut of films) I’ve ever seen. I’ve been known to groan loudly whenever Corey suggests another docu film (picture it’s 9:30 at night, B’s finally asleep, I’m exhausted and the highlight of my evening is eating Breyer’s mint chip ice cream—do I really want to risk sullying my first moment of relaxation by watching a documentary on growing up paraplegic?) But Grizzly Man was just so damn good. Timothy Treadwell is a very scary genius and absolutely riveting on camera. Too bad the bear ate him. And the bears themselves, their personalities, the way they moved, how different each of them behaved or looked when the camera peered into their eyes—it was mesmerizing. As for Timothy’s fox friends, to my mind they were the obvious choice in the best supporting actors category but the freakin’ Academy overlooked them. Go foxes! You rock.

So any discussion of an animal documentary naturally leads to comparisons with other animal documentaries. To wit, March of the Penguins. We watched it about a month ago and though I enjoyed it, I have to say that Grizzly Man totally trounces those tiny tuxedo boys. I missed both documentaries in their first runs and I remember the big hoopla about Penguins being this great family values movie. What? The scene I recall most vividly was the one in which a mama penguin loses her baby (it dies—it freezes) and reeling from the horror of her loss, and clearly out of her god damn mind, she physically pushes another mama out of the way and tries to steal that mama’s baby. It was brutal to watch because a part of me/you has to think, “Yeah, I might have that impulse if my baby died.” But no, I’m not going around stealing anyone else’s baby. And then, on the heels of this devastated dead-baby having mama’s sorry attempt to get another baby, a gang of vicious mama penguins swarms her and they beat her to a pulp (or until her gut-wrenching burbles and squawks stop and she slinks off camera). Is this what those wackos on the right champion as family values? I think not.

March of Penguins is good, maybe even great (although it wasn’t so great that Corey could stay awake for it) and it helps that those penguins sure are smart and cute. But pound for animal pound, Grizzly Man was the better film because though it presented very compelling characters in Timothy and his bear posse, it didn’t try to tie up what is really a bizarre tale in some pretty little Tiffany box. I’m still wondering about the girlfriend and her strange dynamic with Timothy. She must have loved him, why else would she have hung around so long in the Grizzly maze and then refused to run as the big bad bear devoured Timothy? And why was it Timothy had to go back one last time and mess with a nasty grizzly he didn’t know? And what about the maker of the documentary, Werner Herzog? He had this super sensational soundtrack (and by sensational I mean a media sensation capable of attracting hordes of money, fame, and a great billing for his movie) and yet he refused to play it. He had the actual death of Timothy and his girlfriend—the screams, the bear sounds, all of it-- and though he is shown listening to it on camera, he doesn’t play it in the film and advises a very close friend of Timothy’s not to ever listen to it and to destroy it immediately because if she keeps it, her life will be ruined, the tape always the “white elephant in the room.” But mostly, I was floored by Timothy and his last moments on camera shot a few hours before his death. Everything about that take was prescient, it was as though Timothy knew he was about to die and this was his last shot to play the star he always wanted to be. Truly eerie, it gave me chills. Highly recommended.

I'm curious as to what other people might have thought about the two films so please chime in if you've got something interesting to share.

We played in the Baja desert for two amazing, sun-scorched weeks. Fourteen days total. How often do you get to claim fourteen days as your own? Yes, maybe if you’re 12 and it’s summer vacation, or you’re 65 and retired or, if you’re any age and Australian. Otherwise, there are perilously few chances to take the time to lose yourself.
Our immersion was so complete that three days later, I’m still turning off kitchen lights to conserve energy and swiping my toothbrush though the bathroom sink spicket with lightening speed. How much water do we have left in the pila? Does anyone have their eye on B and is the screen door open? Shall I have chips and salsa for dinner or are we going to wait till the heat dies down and barbeque some fish after the babies go to sleep? Where’s the Pepto Bismol? Where’s B’s purple sunscreen?
These are the questions I keep asking myself and they no longer apply.

Somehow, we persuaded my childhood friend, Rebecca, her husband Pete and their toddler, Henry, to make the giant trek from the northernmost part of Massachusetts to the deep south of Baja. The flights alone merited about 5 days of recuperation time when you factor in a very cute, but very disgruntled child who cried for the better part of the nine hour trip. On our end, we had myself, my husband and B, who also cried during the flight, but you would too if all United had to offer was those stupid $5 snack boxes and that supremely awful movie “Failure to Launch.”

Having all arrived safely, the families settled in nicely and much merriment was had, mostly by way of my father’s pool, which sits atop a high crest and looks out onto the Sea of Cortez. It was by the close of our first full day of 98 degree heat, the mildest one of the week, that we began to understand why my Dad had sent a 9 page “Cabo bible” (basically a list of things to avoid doing) and why it was we needed to take seriously the very obvious: we were living smack dab in the middle of a desert. A true desert. In hindsight, dragging two one-and-a-half year olds to the middle of a desert and assuming this would be your average relaxing, “pass the potato chips please and honey, could you rub a little more lotion on my back?” family-centric, TV sitcom, romp of a vacation seems ludicrous. As my Dad said on his first night with us (we had already survived 5 days without him in his desert palace and he would stay with us for the remainder of our trip) “Most people can’t handle the desert. You have to be vigilant. You have to hope for the best and plan for the worst because something always goes wrong. It’s not the scorpions or the snakes or bad roads that are the problem. It’s the heat. Don’t even think about going anywhere without at least a gallon of water in your car. Worst case scenario is you blowing a flat and having no water. Because without water and with nobody out there to help you, you’ll quickly become dehydrated and that’s when the goofy starts. You’ll make bad decisions and soon you’re thinking you should walk through the arollo to find help and by then, it’s too late. You might not be found for months.” Thanks Dad.

Miraculously, nothing bad happened. B did throw one of his famous head butting tantrums that, through poor planning, resulted in blood and grainy pool tile imbedded in his forehead. But frankly, that’s pretty normal in my world. Oh, and I spent a day thinking I had contracted the flu when really it was just heatstroke and then Pete, perhaps sensing the end of vacation and wanting to maximize his tan, dared to sunbathe in the middle of the day (a huge no, no) thereby contracting the same flu, but in a much more virulent form. Neither of the babies burned, thank god. Neither ran headlong into a cactus. Everyone got along, although I think Henry got a bit tired of B alternating between pinches and hugs.

The highlights:
1. The surreal views—There are places in Baja where taupe desert meets sapphire ocean with no houses, no lights, and no one but the six of us to see it.
2. A daytrip to Cabo San Lucas where we celebrated two for one happy hour at cheesy Billigan’s on the beach because it was literally the closest umbrella and all of us were melting. Imagine four parents and two toddlers surrounded by scantily clad co-eds, a game of “drink this tequila and slam this beer and then run around a post ten times and if you’re the fastest without puking, you win” playing out twenty feet in front of us. Sheer brilliance it was, and a perfect example of when worlds collide.
3. Shrimp, lobster and cabrilla, delivered right to our front door.
4. Tuna sashimi, freshly caught and absolutely delicious (We have pictures of Gramps steadying B on the bloody fish table next to the local fishermen at La Playita).
5. Just me and Rebecca lunching at the Cabo Surf hotel. We left the boys to fend for themselves.
6. Late night cribbage. I won the first night, Dad the second.
7. Henry and B climbing their way up the stairs and the look of mischief on each of their faces.
8. B climbing a utility ladder five feet off the cement floor when his gramps had his back turned, that same look of mischief on B’s face.
9. Our late afternoon ATV ride. We took our walkie-talkie and left B with Gramps. “Big Monkeys to Little Monkey. Come in Little Monkey” Gramps floundered for a bit in his first time as babysitter but soon got the hang of it. When we returned after the thirty minute ride, Gramps fished out the random implements and baby doll that B had chucked into the pool in retaliation for our absence and then he poured himself a well-earned tequila.
10. Fourth of July dolphins. Proving that fireworks are overrated, we lounged by the pool at dusk and watched as two pods of dolphins jumped, shimmied and twisted rivaling any Sea World action I’ve ever seen.


My only regret is that Rebecca, Pete and Henry (who could only stay one week, not two) never got to Todos Santos. They must be sure to do it next time. As for the rest of us, we decided to go to Todos Santos 1) To escape the heat and 2) to find a nice piece of art.

Todos Santos is easily 15 degrees cooler and though only two hours away, it feels like an entirely different planet. Perhaps it’s the ocean—you go from the warm water of the Sea of Cortez to the crisp, cold, crashing waves of the Pacific, where even the sand is different. And the greenery, God, twelve days in the desert and I had forgotten about the greenery. I loved the greenery. I loved the palms and the bougainvillea and the mangos hanging so low I could touch them. I loved the cool breeze and the surprising sensation that, for the first time since the plane touched down in Mexico, my skin wasn’t slick with sweat. I loved the dead end road my Dad drove us to, hoping we’d find a trail through the washed out palms onto the beach. I loved the sand we nearly bottomed out in. I loved the small, hand-painted signs offering room in B and Bs and casitas. I loved the town center, much smaller than I thought (population 6,000), and the Hotel California and the parrot named “Sparkle Bird” who I met on the corner, and his flamingly gay and super sweet best friend. And most especially, I loved my Dad’s favorite restaurant, Santa Fe, where I had an amazing filet mignon and where the owner had no problem when we changed B’s diaper behind a fruit bush. I loved the red wine and the tiny birds and the small courtyard where B and I walked when he fussed. I loved the dune buggy we found next to that courtyard, and how B instinctively climbed the rails and smiling, pulled himself into the front seat.

But let me backtrack. As I said before, we were in Todos Santos for the weather and the art. For the better part of a week we had teased my Dad for his questionable taste in artwork. His living room painting of a sultry island girl drawn in shades of black and blue was christened “the nipple painting” because, though the artist had long labored on the woman’s left breast—it was rendered with great precision and dead center—the amateurish brush strokes of the remainder of the piece—the garish moonlight, her cartoon legs and her freakishly large “man hands” were a complete afterthought. We all agreed she had to go. As to what might take her place, my Dad and my husband debated good-naturedly while my Dad and I just plain argued. Tired of only seeing myself from my chin and above, I felt strongly that my Dad ought to invest in one of those tasteful full length mirrors, Mexican style . . . perhaps one with Oaxacan tiles or maybe one in metal, or even shells if he were so inclined. Think of the women, I said. Women like to be able to see themselves so they can adjust their wardrobe accordingly, I said. Hah, he said and we left it at that. (It only occurs to me now that my father’s preferable state of a woman’s dress is undressed, as exemplified by said nipple girl.) Both Corey and I were concerned that in the end my father would reprise his role in the “nipple” scandal and again find himself completely sauced at a Mexican dive bar at 3 AM with too much money in his pocket and enough room in the car for two tacky Mexican paintings ripped right off the wall.

But hark, wonders never cease. It was actually the first place we looked in earnest. It was that easy. I walked in, liked the topaz jewelry, the chunky bracelet woven with tiny silver wire, and the general metal vibe, and when I headed for the back where the shopkeeper had stowed the larger pieces, it was the first thing my eyes fell upon. A full-length mirror sheathed in a frame of metal, the frame itself composed of Mexican themes—a turtle, a fish, a lizard, a rabbit and at the upper left corner, a large sun. Some of the metal had been painted tastefully, some left to itself. It wasn’t tacky, it was art. “You’re probably not going to like this Dad but I think it’s really amazing” I said. We roped it to the top of our dusty Nissan rental and headed to the beach.

If B could say more than “duck” “kitty” “doggie” “outside” and “all done” he’d tell you that Las Palmas was the highlight of his vacation. He didn’t have to tell us though, his giggles and bubble blowing and random shouts of glee were plenty obvious. Las Palmas is a bit south of Todos Santos, down the obligatory dirt road by car and then through a washed out palm orchard by foot. The beauty of Las Palmas isn’t exactly the beach itself, though it is beautiful. It’s the mini estuary formed by the Pacific as it hits the craggly rocks and well-worn beach and then flows inland that was the hit of the day. For the first and only time during his vacation, B had found shallow water, water tailor-made for a very small human. B could sit in it and run through it and fall in it and no one feared he might get hurt, least of all B. He could roll around in it and dig his toes into the soft, forgiving sand and chase the fishies and watch the waves ripple without getting knocked down or pulled out by the undertow. B was in nirvana. He could climb on the rocks and collect the random bottlecap that had been caught in the crevices and flirt with the sexy teenager that floated by on her pink plastic inner tube. And because the estuary allowed B to try out his water moves, he wasn’t clinging to me in fear as we walked along the beach, heading to the Pacific. He took his daddy’s hand and mine and he tiptoed toward the foamy Pacific water. He kicked and giggled and sprayed. And then when he’d decided he was ready, he let go of our hands. . . And a rogue wave promptly knocked his feet right out from under him and he belly-flopped headfirst into the froth. His Gramps laughed like hell and B valiantly shook it off. If B could talk he’d tell you it was a lovely vacation.