Thank You for Asking

The Hardware Store

Shaking myself back to the present I do what I always do when I'm feeling unsettled, I pour another cup of coffee and pick up the phone.  If I spent half the time doing something sensible as I do talking on the phone I'm sure by now I would be fluent in another language or be able to tell the difference between Sunnis and Shiites. 

My first call is to Barb, my preppy stylish almost neighbor.  I say "almost neighbor" because even though she has one of the most stunning homes of anyone I know it is on the wrong side of California Street.  Mind you, it is three blocks away from my house which is on the decidedly right side of California Street, but we must have rules.  Barb asks me how Beloved Husband is doing.  She is referring to his "happiness" venture.  I call it (out of earshot) his hardware store, because it seems every man has a "I know, I'll just chuck it all and open a hardware store and be happy" fantasy.  It is in fact a burgeoning on-line wine business.  Between bouts of suicidal despair he seems quite happy, and I tell her so. 

Barb and I have a special relationship.  We are both skirting the edge of the Pacific Heights group of women who are beautiful, intelligent, well-dressed and managing various homes, children, schools and good works.  The difference is I am trying to do it on a hardware store salary (mind you, only one home, limited good works and beautiful and well-dressed is debatable).  Barb is doing it on a trust-fund she would prefer to keep intact (messy divorce last year) and an up-and-coming interior design business.  Her east-coast sense of style allows her to get by with her uniform of black pants and black sweater (not to mention her jewelry collection from an accommodating grandmother) and be the most chic woman in the room.

It is now a little hard to hear Barb because I have my finger in one ear and the phone scrunched in the other.  My five year old is hurling insults at his brother that would be impressive coming from a 15 year old (which is in fact where they came from).  Beloved is holding Oldest Boy by his hair and bellowing, "I hope you and Barb are quite comfortable, but I NEED SOME HELP HERE!"  Barb and I quickly sign off.  I consider whether I want to take the indignant, "I am a grown woman who does not need anyone telling her when she can talk on the phone" attitude, or the more realistic, "it is now 10:30 and I realize I haven't done jack-shit" apologetic route.  I decide not to push the issue and stalk, head held high, into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Sunnis and Shiites

After Mohammed's death in 632 Islamic leadership passed to Abu-Bakr as-Siddig, one of Mohammed's closest companion. Some felt this succession was not legitimate and the title of caliph (spiritual leader of Islam claiming succession from Mohammed) really belonged to Ali ibn Abi Talib. Ali's claim was supported by the fact he was cousin to Mohammed, Mohammed's adopted son, his first convert (age 9) and married his daughter, Fatima (ibn Ali really covered all his bases). Both sides claim Mohammed's support. Supporters of Abu became Sunnis (majority). Supporters of ibn Ali became the Shiites (minority).

Now that it is all clear, go have a cup of coffee and start making those phone calls you've been neglecting.

 

Here Comes Fatty!

Waking up on a foggy cool San Francisco morning is my idea of heaven.  Lying in bed, looking out the raised sash window through the trees lining the sidewalk to the gracious homes across the street, I’m filled with a sense of well-being.  My darling boys are still sleeping, and my beloved husband is just waking beside me.  I turn to him with a sleepy smile and he shouts, “these cold sores in my mouth are KILLING me!!!”   No matter, poor dear is so anxious about…well about everything.  There is a lot to feel anxious about right now, but, determined, I hang on to my good mood. Feeling a twinge of guilt as my beloved hauls himself out of bed heading downstairs to coffee, I snuggle back in for just a minute hoping he’ll bring me some too.  I must have drifted off because the weight of a 15 year old boy careening through the air on to the bed whilst yelling, “HERE COMES FATTY” startles me.  I remember my New Year’s Resolution not to say “fuck” in front of the children and decide it is time to get up.   As I slowly sip the coffee my husband thumped down with an “anything else I can get for you?” look I reflect on my life.

It is a good life.  In the grand scheme of the country I am one of the lucky ones.  In the grand scheme of the world I won the super-lotto.  In the grand scheme of Pacific Heights…we may have a problem.  Is it self-indulgent to compare oneself to one’s neighbors when one’s neighbors are as rich as Croesus and positively basking in the economic crisis?  Are they a bit like Marie-Antoinette tending her sheep while the farm workers look on ready to get back to work after she’s finished having her fun?

I go back to a time not so long ago when my husband was a successful investment banker in Silicon Valley.  It is not that I did not have problems.  Our darling cook turned out to have a little drinking problem, my nannies kept leaving us for more socially prominent children and I was the target of a raging sociopath who was determined to ruin my meager social ambitions.    But then, something truly shocking and incomprehensible happened.  My husband decided he wanted to be…happy.    Because I am a good and loyal person I decided to stick by him and hope it would all just go away.  It didn’t.