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Visit my new blog at Kim and Proper

Today is the launch of my Kim and Proper website and new blog. Kim and Proper dresses are slim, chic, comfortable, affordable and sold on-line only.   My new blog will pick up where I left off along with content related to Kim and Proper.  You can subscribe to the new blog separately via email or RSS. I hope you like it.

Bed Jacket

How dark a girl’s life would be without best friends.  I don’t know what I would do without my daily updates, chats and coffees with Barb and Micki.  Well…probably learn a new language or something useful.  But how lonely I would be, speaking French all by myself!   When I think about the support they have shown me, through ups and downs, I feel so fortunate.  When our house was for sale and I was afraid someone more fun would buy it and have dinner parties, Barb and Micki assured me they would not darken the door of my house, let alone attend a dinner party, when we were gone…until they found out the attractive couple looking to buy it was from Monaco.   Then they couldn’t stop trying to figure out ways to darken the door of my house and attend dinner parties.  Still, friends forgive and we moved on. 

I am still friends with my first best friends, Wendy and Kristin.  The main thing I remember from those days is being helpless with laughter.  Helpless with laughter in choir practice at Holy Trinity,  helpless with laughter in math class, helpless with laughter at 3:00 in the morning sleepovers at Wendy’s until her father threatened to take me home if we didn’t stop laughing (you can’t imagine how we laughed then…until the brute took me home!!!)  I probably could have gone to Harvard or Yale had I not been so helpless with laughter through my entire grade school and high school career, but life wouldn’t have been nearly as funny!

My best friends always take my various business/career schemes seriously.  No one has been more help than New York Girlfriend.  She will give me astute business advice, whilst handing me the latest color fingernail polish and kindly letting me know no one wears un-tucked shirts anymore…or everyone wears un-tucked shirts, never can seem to get it right.  Not to mention, Angelica, always so supportive and loyal.  She insists I am talented at things for which I know I am absolutely average.

It’s not that I don’t value Beloved’s friendship as well, only his friendship isn’t as friendly as my girlfriends.  He’s always, “just letting me know” things.  Like, “you are unrealistic about time and if we stop to get coffee before we go to the movies we are going to be late and have to sit in the front row and you’ll get motion sickness and we’ll miss the trailers and I’ll be mad… just letting you know.”   Yes, he’s good in a pinch, like, “Oh my word, Youngest cut his finger and there’s blood everywhere…” no, actually he would not be good at all in that situation, but anyway, you get my point.  He’s perfectly fine, just not best friend material.

Recently I announced, after reading all of Nancy Mitford’s books (third time), I would henceforth be doing all my work from bed.  The women in Nancy Mitford’s books always did their business from bed.  They planned their schedule for the day in bed, had quiet visits with their children in bed, opened their letters and invitations in bed and so forth.  When I announced my plan, did my “best friend” say (like someone I know), “What’s so new about that?  You’re always in bed, and I don’t see a lot of work getting done…just letting you know.”?  No!  My best friend gave me a bed jacket.  She had to fly to Palm Beach (the home of bed jackets) to find one, but she did.  Now I am not only wildly efficient (haven’t you noticed?) but I look good whilst doing all my work from the cozy environs of my bed.   

P.S. Just realized it was Valentine's Day...soooo I take it all back.  Beloved would be terrific in a situation involving Youngest's blood being everywhere.  AND he is super friendly!   

Conversation

I try, if I can help it, never to say anything of interest in front of my children.  Just keep it simple.  “Eat your breakfast.  Brush your teeth.  Go to bed.’”  But sooner or later you slip and says something that piques their curiousity and the interrogation begins. 

“Mommy, when you were talking with Barb just now you said she was your best friend.  Is that true?” 

“It was sort of a joke.” 

“So she’s not your best friend?” 

“Hmmm?  No.  I mean yes.  I mean, I was asking if she could do a favor for me since we were ‘best friends.’” 

“We’re not allowed to do that at our school.” 

“Not allowed to do what?” 

“Say someone can’t be your friend unless they do what you say.” 

“You’re misunder…” 

“Does Micki know Barb is your best friend?” 

“What?…yes…I mean we’re all best friends.” 

“So Daddy’s not your best friend?” 

“Of course he’s my best friend.” 

“Then how come I heard you tell Barb that Daddy’s a terrible listener and you would only tell him interesting news if there was absolutely not another living  soul available?” 

“You really shouldn’t listen in on other peoples’ conver…” 

“Who was your best friend in pre-school?” 

“Preschool?  I’m not sure I went to preschool…” 

“Were you an orphan?” 

“You know very well I wasn’t an orphan.  You’ve met my parents!  They’re your grand…” 

“If you and Barb and Micki and Daddy all went to preschool together which one would have been your best friend?”

At least Youngest is straightforward.  Middle is sly and sneaky.  He pretends that he’s not listening and leaves you alone.  You relax and decide Middle is your favorite.  Until that moment when you’re standing in front of his friend and their mother and he’s repeating every inappropriate and unfriendly thing you’ve ever said, and you both know he won’t stop until you say “yes” to his request for a sleepover.

As for Oldest, he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said since he entered high school, until he overhears me saying something as innocent as, “goodness, last time I did that I was in college.”

 

Micki's Father

“Have you packed your lace veil?”  I ask Barb.  “ummm, I’m not sure they still wear…”  “Well, you can do as you like, but I for one will not disrespect Micki’s father by waltzing into the Cathedral bareheaded to his funeral!”  I hang up the phone and lovingly finger the beautiful antique black lace veil I have been saving for just such an occasion.  For someone slap dash in so many areas of her life I am more than prepared, attire-wise, for events such as Catholic funerals or celebrity weddings in St. Tropez.  In fact, I could go to up to three celebrity weddings in St. Tropez and not wear the same outfit twice.  It is the Back-To-School Night apparel where I run into trouble.  As for Micki’s father’s funeral, not that I was excited per se, but I knew my beautiful antique black lace veil would be just perfect…subtle, elegant and Catholic.   Micki’s  father had been nothing if not super Catholic.  I couldn’t wait…I mean I was looking forward to paying my respects to such a generous and accomplished man.   

The phone ringing brings me out of my reverie.  It is Barb again asking if I am bringing a bathing suit.  “It will be warm in Pasadena, right?”  I love Barb and everything, but sometimes she does not fully comprehend the gravity of a situation.  “I think we may be busy with a little thing called Micki’s father’s funeral!”  I snappishly respond.  “Well, ye-e-e-s, but the funeral’s not going to take all day is it?”  I conjure up the image I have carefully cultivated ever since we told Micki we would be attending her father’s funeral.  A very long Mass (in Latin of course) with incense, a choir chanting that scary song from The Exorcist and me (though not quite related) being front and center, maybe even acknowledged by the priest as a “special friend of the family,” dramatic in my beautiful antique black lace veil quietly crying into my hand monogrammed linen handkerchief (I have a drawer full).  “Oh I think you will be surprised Barb.  This is not a vacation you know.”  Just then, Beloved comes in asking if the hotel in Pasadena has a tennis pro.  “I’d like to get a game or two in while we’re there.”

We set off for Pasadena in inappropriately high spirits as everyone seems to have confused the funeral with a mini-holiday.  Looking at Beloved and Barb, I sincerely hope we don’t run into any of Micki’s relatives.  Beloved is carrying a tennis bag and Barb is wearing a huge straw hat.  They stopped just short of bringing a beach ball.

I am astounded when we finally arrive at the funeral.    Micki’s father had been a remarkable man, tall and imposing with a booming voice and a kind word for everyone.  An old-school Los Angeles litigator he was the archetype of a bleeding heart (his description) liberal who followed his conscience even when it wasn’t convenient.  We had all looked up to him and knew how respected he was, but the number of people that had gathered for him was astonishing.   

We stumble and grope our way through the crowd, and not just because it is difficult for me to see through my black lace veil.  I finally catch sight of Micki’s beautiful and gracious mother and run to embrace her.  She doesn’t seem as happy to see me as I would have hoped, and I’m not sure I approve of her decision to wear red.  Beloved grabs my arm and hisses, “Can you take that stupid veil off?!  You’re accosting the altar boy and everybody is staring at us!”  Frankly, I’m a little shocked at how far the Catholic Church’s standards have dropped as, besides me, there is nary a veil in the place!

Later, whilst drinking Mai Tai’s by the pool, we agree we have quite a bit of work to do if we are going to have funeral attendees anywhere near the number of Micki’s father.  Beloved peevishly points out it’s all very well for Micki’s father, being a native Californian, but what about those of us from the other coast??    It’s not really fair to compare funeral attendance records when one's friends have to fly all over creation to get there!  Barb gently reminds him it’s not really a competition, but she does see his point.  Beloved concedes and orders us all another Mai Tai in honor of Micki’s father.   

Micki's father was a wonderful man and his funeral was hugely inspirational.  Thank you to Jeanne and Micki for indulging me.  The events depicted above are 100% true.

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.