It’s 10:30am and I’m listening to the Kid playing “Classical Bits and Pieces” on her cello. In about an hour we’ll be taking OSM to Poway to shop for yarn. We’ll probably stop for lunch, after which I’ll return OSM to the apartment while the Kid and I do a little more shopping - she has outgrown most of her shoes (purchased only last month!). While the Kid is practicing and OSM is doting over the potted plants, I’m online catching up with blogs, news stories, and a quest or two in whatever game feels like 45 minutes of fun.

Nearly every Saturday begins this way, at this hour, with this agenda. I used to balk at the thought of getting up early to take the Kid to some dance class or sports event. Now I have a routine that’d make any soccer mom proud. “OK, everyone, pile into the SUV. We don’t want to miss the lunch specials at Marie Callender’s!” Or words to that effect.

Some weekends OSM is more spritely than others. She’ll want an additional side trip to Target or CVS or Petco. Some weekends she’s in a lot of pain (that ol’ hip injury has plagued her for decades) and would rather get her yarn and come straight home no matter what else was planned for the day. Today appears to be a spritely one so it will probably be smooth sailing. Unless someone accidentally backs into her hip with their shopping cart.

Routine. Predictable. Strictly PG.

This is how I know that I’ve settled in, that life has gone from the far-left fast lane to the far-right slow lane. I crawl through my Saturday mornings not because I finished work at 4am but because I was in bed by 10:30pm last night to get up in time for this scheduled run. It’s not flashy. It’s sometimes not even fun. It’s just…my Saturday.

I hate motherfucking suburban life.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s got its place in the American lifestyle.  But it isn’t my kind of lifestyle.  I love that I have the time to spend with la familia but I truly miss the concerts, the parties, the art gallery soirées, the wildly erratic work schedule, the up-at-all-hours-because-everyone’s-somewhere-else-in-the-world email marathons, the hecticness that has been at the core of my entire adult life.  I have come to realize that predictability is my worst enemy and makes me complacent in ways my soul just cannot handle.

I have been writing but hating what I write; it seems to be missing my signature zing.  I have been exercising but not really sure why; when I hit the office, it’s populated by people who are, for the most part, overweight.  Sure I could exercise for me but that has never been enough motivation for anything.  I’m a competitive person - my old lifestyle challenged me to stay active and do things, whereas my new one challenges me to try to get enough sleep between hit-and-miss manicures.

Mind you, I don’t blame all of this on the fact that I’m no longer doing my diva thing in show biz.  Part of it is that freakin’ post-menopausal hormone depletion that all you other divas can look forward to (muaha?).   Yay, no periods!  Boo, no adrenaline surges!  It’s taken some time to get used to my newfound complacency.  Hrm, no, not “get used to.”  “Accept” is the more appropriate word.  Well guess what.  I refuse!

So aside from switching back to 24-Hour Fitness and making it my goal to get there 3x a week, I need to move the hell out of suburbia and settle into a family-friendly urbania.  Driving the 101 last week, I was taunted by intriguing neighborhoods - Solana Beach, Del Mar and Cardiff in particular.  My thoughts turned to twice-daily 40-minute commutes and all the eateries and blues clubs a person could hope for.  Communities of bikers and surfers, active folk living active lives, chugging down smoothies and challenging me to do the same.

Okay so the commute doesn’t impress me but the lifestyle does.   Being at the center of A LOT of things is just my speed.  I guess it always will be.  So off I go, searching for the perfect stretch of quirky shops and fascinating people who have plenty to do within walking distance of a beach.  Kinda Hawaii-like, n’est-ce pas?  A cure for homesickness without going home!

Dear Craigslist: be kind to this single working mom and pop up the perfect 3-bedroom, affordable house with a small yard for the dog.  Or a big yard, I’m not picky!  You have until August, when my lease expires.  Get me the hell out of the suburbs!

…you are missing the most sensual…anything…I’ve been into for a long time. Think gypsy/Middle East married to cello and guitar. With drone. Or piano. And a bod. And a face! And he sculpts, too. Total hawtness.

His latest release, due out next month, is titled Ruin…it’s haunting, sexy stuff. Watch. Buy. Swoon. And thank me for the turn-on.

Cello

Guitar

More here.

While I get the whole idea behind living in a closeknit community, there are a couple of things (perhaps three things?) that I wish you would see from my point of view.

I like that you have monstrously large parties on Saturday nights.  The drunken revelry reminds me so much of my younger days, except I didn’t puke on the begonias as much.  The loud music, the scary movies at max volume, the swearing…none of it really bothers me much but when you light up a joint, OMFG my entire family gets high.  I don’t want to have to call the cops but the next time that smell floats through my windows I’m going to have to.  I’m allergic to the stuff, you see…

It warms my heart to know that you love playing games on your XBox 360.  Personally, I don’t mind the 80’s rock music that pours into my abode through every conceivable opening, even at an hour when my child is trying to get to bed early because - heck - she has to get up early, too!  But playing into the wee hours of the weeknights is, quite honestly, futile.  No matter how loud or how hard you bang on those tap-tap-tappy little drum pads, you and Neal Schon are never gonna gig together.  I happen to know him and he isn’t interested.

The fire lane downstairs, the one that leads to the walkway for both our apartments, is not your guest parking area.  I know you have a lot of friends and they like to come over and hang at your pot parties and play lots of Rock Band, but parking in the fire lane is expressly forbidden.  Why?  I don’t know…has something to do with emergency access to our shared space…silly idea, huh?  The problem is, you’re the only people who do this; I can see it happening if you have a ton of groceries to carry or have a mother who can barely walk, but drunk, high-as-a-kite friends who probably shouldn’t drive after they’ve been at your place for a few hours?  Not so much.  So the next time your guests are parked there, I’m going to call the tow company.  Please don’t take it personally.  I’m a bitch about things like this with everyone I know.

Have a nice day!