Thank You for Asking

Coffee with Sabrina

Sabrina calls me on my way to meet her for a coffee, “LOVEY!” she screams into the phone, “I am SO sorry, but we will have to reschedule.  Preston has been called in to meet with the MAYOR this morning and he would REALLY like me to be there!!”  I am not surprised as Sabrina is very important and must often cancel meetings at a moment's notice.  “No problem,” I sigh.  Luckily I planned ahead and asked Barb to join us.  “Why was Preston called in to meet with the mayor?”  I ask Sabrina, as I know I’m expected to.  “DARLING!  The mayor’s office OBVIOUSLY wants to take advantage of Preston’s expertise!  Of COURSE Preston feels a DUTY to this city!  If there is ANYTHING he can do to help with the problems facing San Francisco he WILL!!”  “Oh!…of course he will…I, uh, know Preston’s character is, um  unassailable…positively, er, of the highest caliber…”  I’m not sure what problems she is referring to or what expertise Preston has, but we can be sure his assessment will be given with the utmost of confidence.  Beloved refers to Preston as “The Oracle”, but I’m not sure what bothers him more; his generosity in sharing his opinion or the fact that he is not above wearing a cravat.

I arrive at Peets solo and explain to Barb why Sabrina isn’t there. “Well,” she says, “I don’t know if it’s Preston’s insight or his $100 million that make his opinion so valuable.”   We are both rather scared of Sabrina, so I approach the next question carefully.  “Did I see Sabrina walking down California Street last week?” I tentatively ask.  “Yes”, Barb sighs.  “She’s afraid she’s too late for “Green” so feels she has to make up for lost time.  Driving a Prius isn’t good enough…she now dashes all over town running errands by foot glaring at people driving by in their cars.”   “ But I swear I saw AnaLeticia inching along at a discreet distance behind her in her Range Rover,” I say.   “I know,” Barb groans.  “She follows her then picks her up in the back parking lot of Cal Mart when Sabrina gets tired.”

Sabrina has informed us that she (we) really has no need for anything more than what she (we) already has.  We must be satisfied and save the world from further destruction by our greedy wants and desires.  I wish I was clever like Sabrina and had the foresight to organize ownership of a grand home in San Francisco, a beach house in Southampton and a large vineyard in Napa before we all had to be satisfied.

 

Negotiations

People seem to be in various stages of thought in this economic environment.  Is it better, or are we being optimistic? 

Beloved and I are not immune to the confusion.  Better to be practical though, so after our romantic budget discussion I set about making changes.  The one sacrifice neither Beloved nor I am ready to make, however, is letting go of Rowena.  She is our babysitter, cook, and family member (at least in our eyes).  Rowena is very clever and knows how valuable she is.  When she first came to us, she set her price low knowing that soon we would not be able to function without her and she would be able to name her price - sort of like a heroin dealer.  After a month of her meals, care for our children and quiet calming presence in our chaotic household, she sat Beloved and me down for a re-negotiation.  I immediately shout out, "Yes!  We agree to your terms!" and run to throw my arms about her in a teary hug.  While politely disengaging her legs from the tight clasp of my arms, she reminds me she hasn't laid her terms out yet.  Beloved, in a confident, smug manner said maybe it would be best if he and Rowena discuss this privately.  While firmly holding my elbow and leading me out of the living room he whispers, "You are too emotionally involved in this...let me handle it.  After all darling, negotiating is what I do..."  He saunters back into the living room not quite rubbing his hands together, but clearly enjoying the idea of going into battle.  I take one more look at the tiny Filipina lady sitting quietly, hands folded and feel horribly guilty.  "Poor poor Rowena" I think.  Half an hour later, I hear heavy masculine shoes stomping up the stairs.  Rowena joins me in the kitchen and quietly starts making dinner.  I smile nervously and bow myself out of the room.  I find Beloved in his office with a stormy look on his face writing a check with hard jabbing motions.  He finishes and walks out of the room with me following, asking him how the negotiating went.  Without looking me in the eye he says he,"can't be bothered with all this nickel and diming," his "time is more valuable than this", he "can't be expected to negotiate if he is not aware of all the details", he "doesn't want to be bothered with all these household matters when he comes home..."

Rowena now makes a salary, with benefits, that would not be insulting to a first year Yale Law School graduate.

Father's Day

Beloved is really rather wonderful.  For a guy in his mid-40’s, he is still good-looking in that head-full-of-hair, straight-talking, verging-on-rudeness way.  In the right light, and if I’ve had a glass of wine or two, he can still get my heart beating even after many years of marriage.  Confident in an unassuming, matter-of-fact, Ivy League-educated manner, he has a gift for brusquely cutting to the crux of a situation whether one wants to get to the crux or not.  

At a recent dinner, the husband of the couple we were with peppered our conversation with comments such as, “I’m sorry, I was distracted for a moment looking at my beautiful wife…”, and “well, that’s my wife…always thinking of others before herself!” Thinking of the loads of times I've thought of others before myself, I ask Beloved why he doesn’t compliment me like that.    He responds with a terse, “because I am not a jack-ass.”  Aaahhh.  I knew there was a sensible reason.

He is brutally honest and ethical and will helpfully remind me if I forget the specifics of a situation.  Once, whilst telling a rather fabulous story of my former Holly Golightly PR girl life in New York, he interrupts the conversation to remind me my facts may be just a tad off.  “No, that was when you were hostessing at that restaurant downtown because you got fired for missing too many days of work.”   When I airily dismiss this with a narrowed-eye threatening look and try to go on with my story, he insists, “no, remember you kept making me call in sick for you even though I hate to lie??  Remember??” 

Just so I’m not too harsh, and since it is Father’s Day, I will list my favorite traits of Beloved:

1. He is incapable of saying no to the boys when they ask, “just one more book PLEASE…”
2. He makes me laugh super hard…not always on purpose
3. He is smart
4. He is the only one who thinks Youngest’s spontaneous dances are as heart-wrenchingly adorable as I do
5. He does not care what others think of him
6. He will take on Oldest’s bully tennis instructor in a calm sensible way when I think shoving his racket up his ___ would be the reasonable way to handle things
7. He has a lot of hair
8. He will set-up a complicated computer game for Middle late at night after enduring the longest most stressful day one could imagine
9. He is comfortingly consistent.  You can count on him to say “we are never going to make it in time” or “there is no way all that luggage is going to fit...” EVERY time
10. He has a cute butt

LA Story

Last weekend we all went to Serena’s 40th birthday party in LA.

Serena is a glamorous, Hitchock-esque, East Coast blonde.  She has friends flying in from all corners and everyone is super-excited.   I pull out my Bottega Venetta dress bought specially for the occasion (on super-sale in case Beloved is reading this).  I realize, too late, in the throes of finding the perfect dress, I’d convinced myself the five pounds I had to lose to make it fit would definitely be gone by party time.  Weirdly, they were still there.  As I’m nearing the 1/2 hour mark of doing deep-knee bends to stretch out my fancy dress, Beloved finally says he will just meet me downstairs at the party.

The dress stretching takes so long that by the time I make my entrance the party is in full-swing.  We start to find our places at one of two elegantly set long tables.  I see most of my friends from San Francisco have been seated at the far table.  They are already deep in conversation, laughing uproariously and feeling very close to one another.  I head off to my table where everyone’s dress fits, everyone lives in LA and they all seem to know each other.  No matter, I think to myself.  I am a grown woman who is a writer of Romance Novels.  I sit down, and since the LA girl to my right is deep in conversation, I turn to my left.  The back that confronts me seems very settled…almost made of stone.  I can’t imagine this back ever moving, changing positions or even breathing.  It has gone so far as to move the chair so the chair’s back is to me.  My heart starts to race a little bit and I peek back to my right.  The adorable LA girl has her partner in hysterics!  He has gripped her hand for support he is so helpless with laughter.  He is transfixed.  Wild horses couldn’t divert his attention.  I look around desperately.   Aaahhh.  Help.  I see Beloved is seated nearby and even though I will have to screech to be heard, I know he will not leave me here gasping for life.  Except…for a man that can barely be bothered to say hello when he answers the phone, he appears deep in conversation.  He is staring into the eyes of a beautiful LA blonde with a plunging neckline (that he is trying very hard not to look at, but I can tell is).  He is nodding with his eyes closed as if to say, “yes, I’ve often felt exactly that way myself, I understand perfectly what you are saying to me.”   m____r f____r!  So instead, I fall back on the old left-out-in-the-cold-at-a-dinner-party standby.  Settling myself with an expression of absolute comfort as if to say, “whew, finally a break from all this tiring conversation!  I will just take a little rest here at the table until I am ready to join again this welcoming group of friends around me”.  I sit this way for quiiiite a while.  My cheeks are beginning to hurt from holding my comfortable smile for so long.  I look at The Back which hasn’t budged an inch.  There will be no relief coming from that corner, so I turn to my right.  The adorable LA  girl sits back in her seat, and whom do I see sitting next to her but Don Johnson!  Being a girl who grew up in 80’s Florida, this is not insignificant.  Plus, the fact that I’ve been drinking like a stupid smiling sailor for the last twenty minutes makes me decide it is time for action.  I lunge across adorable LA girl, spilling my wine on her perfectly fitting dress, and shriek, “Don Johnson, you changed the face of Florida forever!!!!” It was a little louder than I intended.  Even Beloved turns with a disapproving stare before nestling his head back in his dinner partner’s bosom.  Don Johnson, not expecting this onslaught, appears rather startled, but he is no amateur.  He gathers himself and smiles a rather handsome smile.  “Why thank you, that’s very kind of you to say.”  “Oh yesh…I mean yes! (how long was I comfortably smiling and drinking??)  I mush tell you I’m acshully from Floorda myshelf”.  After a little pause Don Johnson replies, “That’s terribly interesting, but you do understand I’m not really from Florida”.   “ Sh’not poshible!!...you mush be one helluva actor!”  

Beloved, finally forced from his breast-induced reverie rouses himself and comes around the table to ask me to dance.  I reluctantly leave Don while looking accusingly at Beloved.  “Shwush in the middle of vurry imporant convershashon with Sonny…I mean Don.”  Beloved, being the gentleman he is, says, “I know darling, but you looked so cute sitting there in your tight ass dress, sloshing wine and slurring I just couldn’t resist…”

 

Lunch

The next afternoon, Beloved and I go to lunch.  I am excited because Beloved is very busy and does not often take time off for leisurely lunches.  It is all very romantic except for the fact that Beloved brings a spreadsheet and wants to take the opportunity of us being alone to discuss expenses.  I have a bad feeling about this, though out loud I agree whole-heartedly that a thorough discussion about budget is just what we need to have.  I am nodding slowly with my eyes closed to give me a serious, "yes, I've been reviewing the situation and it absolutely must be addressed" look. 

 We go to a stylish new Indian restaurant in the Fillmore district.  Squeezing past the young, slim, good-looking, well-dressed champagne-drinking gay couple we take our seat at the banquet.  I've never before noticed how booming Beloved's voice can be.  Before the server can ask for our drink order Beloved has pulled a fairly intimidating stack of papers out of his backpack (briefcase went with the investment banking job).  I let my hair fall over my face and rest my chin in my hand so I can get a sideways peek at the men now eying us with distaste-tinged pity.  The Boomer is asking in a fake-neutral voice if I have any idea how much I spend quarterly on my hair (damn Quicken).  I play innocent and say, "no", does he have any idea??  Apparently he does.  Does my hair really need coloring every 4 to 6 weeks?!  Is that normal for a woman your age?  I hear a champagne-fueled snort to my right.  The Foghorn, moving on, and genuinely curious, says he understands my obsession with health, but do I have to go to the most expensive dermatologist in San Francisco every 3 months for mole checks??  Does skin cancer run in my family?  I realize I have become sloppy.  My convenient "mole check" excuse for up-keep at the dermo has come back to haunt me.  I always thought Beloved and I had an understanding, a "don't ask, don't tell" policy regarding my dabbling in youth enhancing procedures.  Nothing serious, just a little touch up here and there.  Apparently it was just a "don't tell" policy.   The Megaphone sitting in front of me continues to fling questions in rapid-fire succession.  My answers are becoming incoherent.  I start to sweat and accuse him of purposely trying to confuse me.  Is it my imagination or did the overhead light go up a notch?  Beloved is now firing questions with a distinct German accent...okay, not really, but still, I am wildly uncomfortable.  I consider asking the couple next to me for a sip of their champagne, but the contempt in their eyes makes me think better of it.  I disassociate and feel as if I am floating, seeing myself from above.  While up there, I notice how many good-looking same-sex couples are in the restaurant.  They are all engrossed in conversation, laughing merrily and generally having a wonderful lunch.  I feel depressed at my own heterosexual state of affairs, but then I notice the Boomer is winding down.  He looks at me with love and says, "thank you for taking this all so seriously."  I look at him and say, "darling, worldly possessions mean nothing to me.  Looking like an old hag with gray hair and bad clothes is but a small price to pay for the love of my husband and three darling boys." 

As we leave I notice a sheet that has escaped Beloved's notice has fallen to the floor and on it are my Gilt Groupe expenses.  I kick it with my boot under the couple to our right's table apologizing sweetly when I accidently kick the skinniest one on the shin.

Romance Novel

I look around my beautiful home, think about our three boys, their private schools, vacations, housekeeping, etc and think what a strange situation to be in, having so much but living on the brink.  I decide I really have to do something to help the situation.  Cut costs?  Seems extreme.  Get a job?  I haven't worked in 19 years and even then I wasn't exactly tearing it up.  Over the years my skimpy job as a PR assistant has developed a sheen it never had in real life.  Sometimes I start to believe my own glossed over history and think I'll just "go back" into PR.  That starts an unpleasant chain of reality checks such as resume writing, calls to former employers, would they check my college GPA?  With an uncomfortable shudder I quickly weigh other options.  I could start my own business...except I have a hard time keeping things together as they are.  Being self-employed implies paperwork, 1040 forms, estimated tax payments, people asking me when things are going to be done...I start to feel queasy.

As I sit sipping my coffee, my thoughts turn to my childhood fantasy of being an executive (industry unimportant) that wears high heels, possibly smokes...ok, ok no smoking, and is forever rushing off to take meetings.  I would have a wonderfully gay assistant that would efficiently take care of all the confusing aspects of executive life and explain that my scattered-seeming behavior is part of what makes me so brilliantly successful.  I half-heartedly wonder if those contraptions that sit on a desk so you can call your assistant in from the other room still exist. 

With a reluctant sigh I drag myself back to the problem at hand and begin a list of all my strengths.  After "sparkly personality" and "active imagination" I start to have trouble.  One is always told to do what one loves and one is sure to be successful.  What I love to do is read Georgette Heyer Regency romance novels.  I wonder how that would translate into a paying job.  I try to imagine it on a resume...or I could write a Romance Novel.  I imagine locking myself away for weeks at a time, working on my novel with no one daring to ask me what's for dinner.  My understanding husband and children would inform my wildly interested friends in hushed tones, "...no, she's unavailable, still working, may be weeks yet!"  I'm sure what I finally emerged with would solve our financial problems and then some.  I run to tell Beloved his worries are over.  Beloved is not as relieved as I would have expected.  He says, kindly for him, that everyone thinks they should be a writer, everyone thinks they have a story in them, it is often people with no other options and an inflated sense of their own talent (oops) that decide to write.  "Okay, okay, I got it!" I shout.  Then with the confidence of one with options quickly diminishing, I step over my 15 year old who has fallen to the floor helpless with laughter, and head to my office to get down to work.

Twenty minutes, two telephone calls and an organized shoe closet later I head to Peets for an extra foamy latte.