excuses, excuses…

Another day has gone by without me writing the post I promised ages ago to (un)relaxeddad and more recently to Oh, The Joys.  It’s the one in which I lay bare the recipe I inherited – the secret sauce, if you will – a regular dose of which magically turns whining, tantrumming, demanding and hair-pullingly annoying tikes into contented mini-citizens of the world.

Yes, I’m lame.

But I have a really, really good excuse. 

Jury duty.

Aside from the sense of slightly smug superiority one gets from offering oneself up obeying the law and after multiple postponements showing up when summoned, if you live in Los Angeles, you get the extra added benefit of seeing this when you take the escalator up from the parking lot…

You then spend the day in the following building, which would be utterly soul crushing if it did not bear the name of a great American woman, Clara Shortridge Foltz (she HAD to be great with a name like that):

And when you come back from a long day of hoping that your name will NOT be called for the trial that is going to last a month, you get to walk right up to this and know that somewhere deep inside its playful, expansive, and yes, musical, self is the car that is going to take you home. 

And you perk up because you really are grateful for a) the bright shining miracle that is the rule of law, b) Frank Gehry c) the free parking and d) the fact that home is, blessedly, against the flow of traffic.