Thank You for Asking

Unconditional Acceptance

Sitting in the car, waiting for the boys to finish tennis clinic at the Cal Club, I listen to Eminem’s, “I Love the Way You Lie” over and over.  The song shows how crazy a man can get when he is madly in love with a woman, which makes me feel very annoyed with Beloved.  Why can’t he be more wildly passionate?!  Not in the physical sense, which I didn’t mean to infer because that would be gross, but in the hard-core rapper sense, which isn’t.  I get a little thrill every time his girlfriend (Eminem’s, not Beloved’s) says she’s going to leave and he says forcefully (but only because he loves her so much) “No you aint!”   If I said I was going to leave him, Beloved would probably just (sensibly) say “I hope that’s a decision you’ll be happy with down the road.”  And he would definitely not say, “ain’t.”  The rest of the song gets a bit risky what with tying people to beds and setting houses on fire, but still it’s enough to make me exasperated with Beloved’s sense of restraint and annoyingly proper grammar. 

I realize it’s not fair to judge Beloved thus, but still I do!  One minute I’m wondering why he can’t be as manly as the cigarette smoking job foreman working on our house, and in a startling about face wonder why he’s not as attentive a listener as the darling sales associate at the Jonathon Adler Boutique.

If Beloved were to judge me as I do him I would collapse in a heap.  Luckily for me, he seems not at all interested in analyzing my personality, femininity, fashion sense, behavior at dinner parties, sense of humor, friendliness to service people or how I am at “active listening.”  In fact, he is so accepting that if I ask him if he likes my outfit he is able to mumble that it is “fine” without ever taking his eyes off his computer screen.   A couple of times, just for fun, I’ll stop speaking in the middle of a sentence to see if he notices.  I’ve timed him up to 18 minutes before I storm out of his office, slamming the door as loud as I can leaving him completely bemused, saying he has no idea what sets me off on these moods of mine.

Of course, I love Beloved just the way he is, but why can't he try just a teeny bit harder? I know it is silly for me to expect my straight-laced husband to act like a rapper, but would it kill him to work on his snappy repartee and maybe acquire the slightest hint of a British accent?   Hugh Grant seems to manage it well enough!

    

The Morning After - Part II (or how tequila ruined my reputation)

Barb and I sip our steaming cups of tea and recount the events from the night before.

The party had started out tame enough.  We both agree the cute couple was charming and attractive.  We note how sweet it was for the millionaire husband to make sure the anorexic billionaire wife was fed a well-balanced meal.  We laugh at the late-night-antics of the guests which make me uneasy as dim memories of the evening come to the fore.

I think the trouble started with Barb and I rushing to the kitchen to get another place set for Sabrina.  She had arrived, assessed and announced she would be staying for dinner.  The cute husband was in the kitchen pouring a drink and in a comradely manner offers Barb and me each a shot of tequila.  I dislike tequila, and I think it’s unbecoming for a middle-ag…for a mother of three to be standing around knocking back shots.  I look to Barb for guidance, but she’s rushed out of the kitchen mumbling something about needing to set the table. 

Not wanting to appear unfriendly (or old) I take my shot.  I even wipe my mouth with the back of my hand to show how much I enjoyed it, a decision I immediately regret.  Feeling a bit slutty, I try to throw the cute husband off-balance by downing Barb’s shot as well.  We then go in to dinner where I slowly sip some lovely red wine and have sparkling conversation with my dinner partners.  Or at least that’s the way I remember it.     

Barb has an alternate version that, between screams of laughter, she relays to me. In  this version I am knocking back red wine, behaving inappropriately with my dinner partner, stealing her cousin’s roadie and loudly demanding to know what he did with that bottle of Haut-Brion. 

This is obviously a gross exaggeration, but I do have a foggy vision of my shin being stroked by the shot-pushing husband.  Remembering my mother’s instructions to be at all times lady-like, I respond with a prim, “thank you” to his lavish compliments on the smoothness of my legs.  I must admit, though slap-dash about many things, I am vigilant about hair-removal.   I vaguely remember Beloved furiously glaring at me from across the table…no, no, not because of the shin stroking, but because he had just eyed my new pair of sensible, nude, patent leather, Jimmy Choo pumps that go with everything and will certainly see me through multiple seasons.  I really do regret hiking my leg up on that table.

I have flashes of the rest of the evening’s hijinx that need to be confirmed by Barb.  She assures me that, no, the millionaire husband was not breast-feeding the billionaire wife (as I loudly accused him of doing) just coaxing her to eat her vegetables.  Yes, her cousin did hide his bottle of Haut-Brion, but only because I kept waving my glass in his face and demanding sips.  And she swears Beloved stopped me in the nick of time from calling Oldest and requesting he run down the hill to bring us another bottle of tequila as Barb had somehow run out.

I wait until Barb has settled down from her hysteria (a bit of an exaggerater that Barb) and coolly sip my tea.  She finally gets herself together, turns on Apple TV and for the next few hours we doze in and out while watching Four Weddings and a Funeral.      

The Morning After - Part I

I climb carefully, so as not to spill my big mug of steaming hot tea, into Barb’s big cushy bed.  I like her ex-husband, but at times like these it’s really more convenient that he’s no longer here.

Barb and I bear remnants of last night’s mascara.  Our hair is tousled and looks a bit like street walker hair (why is street walker hair wasted on the morning after?).  We are wearing big cushy socks, sweat pants (they're James Perse!) and cozy sweaters. Everything one needs for a lie-in-bed, re-hash of the party the night before.  Heaven!  

Leaving my house 10 minutes earlier, Beloved had called from deep within our duvet requesting that I, sometime in the next few hours, after we have, "fully dissected, dismembered, parsed and extracted every word and action until there is nothing left of Barb’s dinner party but a dry pile of ash and bones," bring him back a cup of coffee.  Beloved definitely does not get enough credit for his acerbic sense of humor.

It was an especially lively evening as the guests ranged from good friends to those we didn’t know quite as well, and I am certain the evening started out temperate and dignified. 

There was Barb’s cousin who arrived with his usual monogrammed Styrofoam roadie and a bottle of Haut-Brion.  He has a morbid fear of finding himself stranded somewhere with nothing decent to drink.  Then there was the millionaire couple who would prefer to fraternize only with billionaires (can’t blame them really), and a cute couple whose children go to school with our children.  Of course, there was Angelica, Micki and their husbands, a billionaire couple (luckily for the millionaires), and Sabrina.  It is always hit or miss with Sabrina because she likes it to be a surprise what her plans will be for the evening.  She may just come for drinks and leave.  But it is possible she will come for drinks, and if the environment pleases her, sit for dinner.  One never quite knows.  That’s what makes her so terribly interesting.

Micki is not at our lie-in as her children are grown, and she and her husband weirdly like to spend Saturday morning in bed.  With each other.  Barb and I, not bound by these constraints of society, are happily ensconced and decide to start at the beginning so as not to miss a minute of the evening.  

 

   
 

Focus

I once read that a writer I admire reads 3-4 newspapers a day.  I didn’t know there were that many, but in my determination to become a serious writer (serious Romance Novelist) I decided to give it a go.  

I start with the The New Yorker, yes I know it’s not a newspaper, but I thought I could read an article or two, feel very learned and be entitled to throw out New Yorker bon mots at dinner parties.  Thirty two pages into the article, with no end in sight, I decide to try The New York Times. 

This is better.  Nice manageable columns.  Let’s see now… “Defection Hinted in Libyan Oil Minister’s Trip to Tunisia” or “Obama Aims to Reshape the Peace Debate.”  I feel sort of dizzy and think I may be coming down with something.  Nothing a nice cup of hot tea can’t help.  Sipping my restorative tea I decide to dig into Obama’s Reshaping of the Peace Debate… whose debate, I wonder?  They write these articles as if one is always up to date on current events.  Ah, right, Israel and Palestine.  I must say, as much as I think the Palestinians have a point, those Israelis are very bold.  There is something about a no-nonsense man on a mission.  My heart gives a little skip every time the ex-Mossad men check my trunk before parking at the Jewish Community Center…at any rate, back to Obama’s Peace Deb…what’s this?!  “America’s Most Wanted Taken Off Air”.  How sad.  That John Walsh seems like such a nice man, and what tragedy he’s had to endure.  So interesting how he turned his life into…HA!  So Mrs. Mubarak has to give back her $4 million.  Doesn’t seem quite enough for an entire country.  I’m not sure one could buy a small Pacific Heights home for $4 million.  She’s not even admitting any wrongdoing, it’s just “Screw you Egypt!” and off she goes.  I must admit, her pugnacity forces a grudging resp…OH MY GOD!  A 14 Year Old SON!!!!!!!!!    

                                       
 
 
 

 
 
 

Market Street

I understand why we do it, but it seems so embarrassing.  I mean the habit at charity lunches of trotting out some poor woman (a man would never subject himself) to tell us about her tragic life and how with the help of some very good (white) people  she turned her life around and now has all her children back (except one, unless I miscounted).  Then we in the audience cry and give money.   I know it's important to help, and the recipients are commendable.  It just seems like there might be a better way. 

Since I'm not clever enough to figure out what that is, I put on my stupid dress (it’s hard to do “daytime” well) and rush to the event.  I listen to the sad story of Carolyn hoping to God I never have to stand up and tell a room full of strangers all the embarrassing, shameful things I’ve done.  Like that time in college when I…well anyway, it would be awful, and I don’t think I’ve done anything since then that’s good  enough to warrant anyone giving me money.   

Carolyn finishes her sad story, and the celebrity host takes the stage.  She looks at Carolyn for a long time…a super long time.  Sort of uncomfortable really until we realize she is saying, “I see you Carolyn, I really see you” with her eyes and body language.  She then turns her full-wattage star power onto us and says, “If you think Carolyn’s story is an original one…You…Are…Wrong.”  We all try to avoid looking at Carolyn.  “There is a Carolyn born every minute!”   Carolyn shifts in her seat.  “There are MILLIONS of poor, depressed, hopeless Carolyns!!”  Did Carolyn just mouth “I’m fuckin’ outta here”?  “It is OUR job to help all the Carolyns and all their children!”  We nod uneasily.  “It is our responsibility to feed these poor hungry children!”  Well, yes, terribly important to feed the children.  “When I see hungry four year olds, teaming through the streets, scavenging for food, I say it’s a disgrace!!”  um, yes, but maybe she hasn’t been to Market Street lately.  It’s not pretty, but I don’t think…“FOUR YEAR OLD ORPHANS!! carrying two year olds on their backs, digging in the gutter for a few scraps of food!”  whaa…wait…in San Francisco?  We’re confused until we realize she’s bypassed Market Street and is now deep in Calcutta.  We try our best to keep up with her until, finally, she is spent.  She grips the podium and lowers her head.  Her body gently shakes, and we know she is quietly crying.

Her goodness has overwhelmed her, so we wait politely for her to gather herself.  She does, then asks us for money and we give it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On-Line Portal

When things get too overwhelming, and I feel I can’t wrap my head around it all, I go to my happy place…decorating my sister’s home.  I don’t want to decorate my home because that is boring and stressful.  Arranging for Jose to paint the boys’ closet is dull and not what I consider decorating.  Scheduling someone to hang the pictures that are sitting on the floor of my office reminds me I have to decide where they will go…which makes me want to cry.  Gluing the mirror pieces that have fallen off the arches in my garden means I must first go to the 5 & 10 and buy Superglue.  The idea of having to go to the 5 & 10 to buy Superglue makes me want to throw myself on the floor in utter despair.  
 

Decorating my sister’s home, however, is easy and fun.  I can spend a good on-line -hour picking out wallpaper for her bedroom without ever having to worry about paying for it, having it delivered or arranging for someone to hang it.  Also, since she hasn’t asked me to decorate her home and doesn’t even know I’m doing it, it all stays comfortably in my imagination where I don't have to put out any real work or effort. 

I don’t know why other people’s problems and chores seem so much more manageable than one’s own.  Angelica once brilliantly suggested that we should get a group of women together and one day a month march around Pacific Heights doing each other’s chores.  Micki would glue my mirror pieces back on, and I would fill out her insurance forms.  Barb would organize Angelica’s jewelry drawer and Angelica would power wash the front of her house (a sore spot since the divorce).  I would happily fill out five years’ worth of someone else’s insurance forms rather than go to the 5 & 10, buy Superglue and glue mirror pieces back on my garden arches.  I can’t tell you what I’d do if someone would just occasionally check my boys’ school’s on-line-portal.  
 
I have nightmares about that on-line-portal.  The on-line-portal has become the only thing standing between me and happiness.  It seems to be a problem only I suffer from as other parents seem to be checking it like nobody’s business.  If I have a question about anything they ask me if I have “checked the on-line-portal?” No, and I haven’t checked the Korean Central News Agency either (would probably be a lot more simple).  

As it stands, I guess I will have to figure out a system for on-line-portal checking, super-gluing and hanging pictures.  And if you say I am lucky these are the only problems I must deal with then I would like to show you the sad state of my stuck together fingers after trying to manipulate a tube of Super-Glue.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alone

Now that Beloved is gone he seems, in memory, almost perfect in every way.  No, no!  he hasn’t died!... instantly and painlessly, after leading a long, happy and productive life; leaving the children and me intact here with nothing to divert our interests but a wealthy and handsome new widower neighbor from Texas who is very masculine due to cattle round ups and such; though not such a hick that he doesn’t know his way around a good Gevrey-Chambertin …but I digress.  No, Beloved has taken the younger boys back to Florida for Easter break.  Oldest and I have stayed in San Francisco so he can attend his crew practice and I can attend to all those things I never get around to because of my domestic responsibilities. 

There are, in fact, so many things I have not attended to that my head spins thinking about them, and I promptly come down with a horrible virus.  Oldest has spent the night with a friend in Sonoma, so I am all alone.  It is awful being sick by oneself.  I  lie on the bathroom floor and cry softly thinking how sad Beloved would be if I were to die.  Then I remember no one is there to witness my pitifulness so I stop.  The only thing that keeps me going during that long night are the weigh-ins with my bathroom scale in-between crawling from bed to vomiting and back again.  

 Micki calls me first thing the next morning to see how I am…okay, fine,  I call her first thing to tell her I am very, very ill.  “You are?!  Did you throw up?  How many pounds did you lose!” she asks as if asking how much money I won at slots.  She promises to bring me some ginger ale but warns me the weight I’ve lost is really water weight, and if I drink too much I’ll ruin my kick start.  I hang up after assuring her I’ll not drink too many liquids.

I lie in my bed unable to do much but think about how much I miss my family.  How darling my boys are!  What a good man Beloved is and what a wonderful profile he has!  I can’t believe I even considered thinking about some red-neck-y Texan!  I start to cry again and decide to call Beloved in spite of the time difference.  Youngest answers the phone, and in a feeble voice I ask him if he’s having fun.  “Oh yes Mommy!  So much fun!  Grandma is so nice!  Way nicer than you.  She actually counts when we ask her to time us and doesn’t just yell ’18!’ when she thinks we’re done.  Can we stay here forever?!” 

When Beloved finally comes to the phone I resume my pitiful voice and tell him of the horrible night I spent.  “Really!  How much weight did you lose?” he inquires cheerfully.  “Um, not sure yet…just waiting to get a bit more dehydrated before I…”  “You know, now that you mention it I am not feeling so well myself.  My mother may have to watch the boys a bit while I rest.”  I hang up before we get in a fight.

The phone rings, and I'm thrilled to hear it’s my darling Barb!  She is in New York having the time of her life with a group of friends.  She does not seem to notice the pain and frailty of my voice.  As she tells her stories of  their merry-making my voice gets fainter and weaker until finally she yells, “Can you please speak up!  I can’t hear a word you’re saying!  Ohhhh…you’re sick?  Really!  That many times?  How much weight did you lose?”    

 

Winter Break Holiday

I think these pictures describe my winter break in Florida better than I ever could.

I know San Francisco is known for it's organic, locally grown, Alice Waters-inspired cuisine, but if there is anything better than blue cheese dressing on iceberg lettuce I am not yet aware of it.

 

 

If one prefers eating at home there is always my favorite market.  They are known for their customer service and go the extra mile by wrapping all produce in plastic wrap! Very hygenic.

 

 

 

We love visiting Beloved's home town of Winter Park.  The beautiful brick streets are canopied by Live Oak and Camphor Trees heavy with Spanish Moss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We also visited my hometown...

 

Our little community is quite industrious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I felt a teensy bit guilty taking this photo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So I had Middle do it (goodness, how dramatic that boy is!)

 

Yes, Florida has a somewhat mixed reputation, but I love it.  There is something for everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The boys were thrilled with the sight seeing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, that was our trip.  I really have nothing more to add.

Just kidding...of course I do.  More later.

 

 

 

Fathers

I am not sure I approve of Bjorn Bags being worn by fathers.  I know I have startlingly old-fashioned ideas when it comes to men, and I’m convinced it’s my own father’s fault.  He was (“is” actually, for some reason I always speak of him in the past tense -- I’m sure my next 15 years of therapy will get to the bottom of that) a cigarette-smoking, hard-drinking, never-heard-of-a-child’s-sporting-event-he-felt-compelled-to-attend father.  We all adored him.  I can assure you if they had Bjorn Bags in his day he would have thought they were just great…for somebody else. 

To be fair, it is not Bjorn Bags per se (Beloved himself was not above wearing one) that bug me.  It is more the type of father the Bjorn-Bag-wearing-man is likely to grow up to be.  If he is not careful, he will find himself one idle Halloween night in an adult Spider Man costume, or talking about sustainable produce or even using the word “artisanal*.”

Whenever I hear an overly solicitous father calling their child “sweetie” (yuk) or “nice-job”-ing it, or “it doesn’t matter if you win or lose…” I feel a twinge of appreciation for Beloved’s brusque fatherly manner.  Yes, yes I know I forced him to seek outside-couseling because, amongst other things, he never lets any of his boys win…no matter what they are playing.  They reached a point where they refused to play tennis with him because the victory dance he did after beating them was too embarrassing.  Youngest once asked me what “IN YOUR FACE!” meant and why did daddy say it every time he beat him at checkers.  After remarking what a good little basketball player I thought Middle was when he made a spectacular three-pointer Beloved said bluntly, “he’s not that good it’s just the rest of the team is so bad.”

Yet, they all adore him.  I suspect more than they do me!  I suspect that because they tell me that at least once a week.  Why?  I make so much effort…then I get mad because no one is appreciating how much effort I am making.  They all look at me like I’m crazy and no one is quite sure why I’m so mad (including me).  Then the four of them go downstairs, eat bad food and watch football.  No one tells them to pick up their socks or not throw popcorn all over the floor and if they do finally do something that bugs Beloved he just says, “knock it off” and forgets about it.  I can assure you I never “forget" about anything.  Including the fact that I was the sucker that wore the Bjorn-Bag!   

*not to be confused with other words I hate such as:

• Sensual
• Tush
• Make Love
• Climax  (seems there’s a trend here)
• Classy
• Nourishing
• Connected (as in “I feel so connected with you right now”)
• Probiotic
• Incidentally
• Heretofore (never actually heard anyone say this, but would pitch a fit if I did)
• Hunnerd  (instead of hundred…you’d be surprised!)

 

 

Honesty

Beloved and I have an honest relationship.  In fact, I sometimes wish he we weren’t  
quite so honest with me each other.  I totally understand that being honest is good, and I always tell my children that honesty is the best policy, but Beloved really takes it to the limit.  I am somewhat used to it, but it can be startling to others, as guests who come for dinner at our home can attest.  When Beloved decides he is finished with our dinner party he walks upstairs to our bedroom, dons pajamas and nightcap (if he had one), returns downstairs to walk the dog yawning loudly when he passes the dining room.  Our friends are a hardy bunch, and they don’t do anything rash like leave, but they do feel uncomfortable for a moment or two.

I appreciate Beloved’s no nonsense, honesty, especially after the exhausting experience of living with my own sometimes questionable character.  The problem is it seems to be rubbing off on everyone I come in contact with.  Rosee never fails to apologize for waking me (with a very critical look on her face) when she arrives every day at 2:00 in the afternoon.  It puts me in a difficult position, as she very well knows.  Protesting that, "of course I wasn't sleeping" makes me appear guilty.  She just can’t seem to get over those one or two times she arrived whilst I was taking a quite-common-in-Europe afternoon respite.  

The Ladies are another problem.  They are super sweet and everything, but I’m afraid they are living up to the stereotype of religious people being somewhat judgmental.  If we’ve had a party the night before I have to get up at the break of dawn and hide all the evidence.  For a long time I chalked it up to a language/customs barrier, but I’m starting to think it’s just rude when they look at the number of bottles, speak to each other in a disapproving Portuguese manner, then ask how I am feeling this morning.  I trill a happy little non-hungover laugh and say, “Why I feel fabulous…ohhhh!  d’ you mean because of those (looking with surprise at the bottles as if I forgot they were there since they have so little to do with me)?  Goodness, we had scads of people over last night, a huge party in fact.”  At which they begin to pointedly stack the dirty dinner plates (a far lesser number than I intimated).
 
 I won’t even go into Youngest’s honesty issues.  I’ve tried to explain to him time and time again that honesty is a very good thing, but sometimes it’s better to be honest with Mommy privately than to be honest, for example, to the transgender person at Cal Mart.

The frustrating thing is with all this honesty being directed at me I still let everyone else off the hook.  When one of my acquaintances show up with a completely new face and say it is because they started curling their eyelashes do I show by even a glimmer that I am anything but completely accepting of their explanation?

When I compliment a friend on the necklace they are wearing and they say, “thank you, it was handed down from darling Grandmama” do I remind them that I was actually with them when they bought it?

When someone talks about the year they graduated that is years later than I know it was from a university that I’m pretty sure they didn’t attend I never point out that that would make them my babysitter’s age.

And when some silly person talks up the super important PR career they had in New York when I know very well was little more than an assistant’s role, do I remind them…well actually that’s me and of course I don’t, but you get my point!