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Cool Britannia

I am super happy the economic crisis is over.  I want to throw a little victory party to celebrate, but Beloved doesn’t seem as excited as I am.  I love him and everything, but sometimes he can be a real spoil-sport.  Take for instance the vacation we took a few weeks ago.  Being “ex-PR” I have been painfully aware our image needed a little make-over.  After much thought and deliberation I decided on, if I must say, a brilliant plan.  We would go full “British”...with a dash of “Vogue Editor” thrown in for interest!!  After all, British people are super cool…without money!  In fact, I think it’s a requirement to being cool.  We may admire Richard Branson, but do we really want to be him?  English people have something money can’t buy…vocabulary.  Don’t even think of engaging in verbal warfare with them.  You won’t realize the extent you’ve been cut until the next morning over coffee when you suddenly exclaim, “that Bastard!”  To top it all off…they just don’t care…about anything.  There is nothing more appealing than someone who doesn’t care about anything…brilliant!  With our new image in mind I booked a darling “Ecologique” beach cabana hotel on the Mayan Riviera. British people love “interesting” vacations and would never be crass enough to spend a lot of money on one.   The hotel is authentic and cheap and chock-full of British people (I know that because their web-site said Jude Law and Sienna Miller once stopped there for lunch and kissed).  I imagine us surrounded by British/European people (I know the British think there’s a difference, but really…).  We will sit drinking and talking long into the night.  We will discuss the current economic situation and the bourgeoisie that got us into this mess (at this point, Beloved, in his uniform of khakis, Lacoste shirt and sensible leather shoes may have to be busy checking on the children).  We will discuss Sarkozy and his ridiculous pill-box hat wearing wife.  We will…well maybe not…discuss Gordon Brown (is he still PM?).  Since we are “British” we will be very well-informed…about everything.  I wish Beloved would be just a little bit more socialist and not so “fiscally conservative” as he likes to say.  I don’t think British people differentiate between their conservatives.

The boys and I arrive in Mexico a few days ahead of Beloved (those fiscal conservatives are always working).  I am a bit worried my imagination has run ahead of me and the vacation won’t live up to my expectations, but no!!  It is perfect!  The cabanas are darling, the open-air restaurant is just the thing for late-night drinking/talking, and…the other patrons are predominantly BRITISH/EUROPEAN (a few too many Irish/British than English/British but never mind).  It took me no time to settle right in.  I didn’t brush my hair for days (I did however spray it with an extremely expensive fabulous product that curled it into a wildly perfect coif).  I wore leather bracelets, anklets and medallions that I bought on the beach from a darling English-gone-Mexican artist.  He was so nice, and I half suspected he had designs on me as he showed up everyday!  I bought something from him each time, so he wouldn’t be too hurt at my unavailability.   The best part though is I made friends with the most darling screenwriter and his wife…both from London!!!  My fantasies rarely come to such perfect fruition! 

By the time Beloved arrived I had developed a slight English accent.  “Dahling, lovely to see you!!” I say as I kiss him on both cheeks.  “Children!  Say hello to your fathah.”  The children welcome Beloved as they all look at me doubtfully.  Youngest looks a little scared. We start the trek through the sand to the “check-in desk”.  Beloved’s closed leather shoes and long pants and shirt aren’t really conducive to this, and he’s already sweaty and irritated.  We pass the screenwriter on the way, and I introduce him to Beloved who is not as friendly or as cool as I would like.  They shake hands as Beloved looks skeptically at the screenwriter’s sarong.  “Beloved’s just arrived!” I say in my best hale and hearty public school English accent.  I can tell Beloved is about to tell me to knock it off with the accent, so I carry on quickly.  “We must get him out of these clothes!  Shall we meet later for G&T’s at the bar?!”  I’m getting confused as to whether I’m Laid-Back-Cool-Vogue-Editor British, or English-Garden-Party British.  I hurry Beloved on before he says something inconvenient.  It is so annoying when others cannot get into the spirit of things as well as one can.  We finally make it to the room and Beloved takes in the mosquito net around the primitive bed, the trickle of hot water that comes from the “shower” and the sand covering everything in the room.  “Seems like a lot of work for a vacation” he finally says.  “Oh dahling, I know it may seem dire at fuhst glaunce, but it is rauther charming once one gets in the swing of things.  Do please give it a chaunce.”  Beloved looks at me a good long time then finally says, “if you talk like that one more time I’m going to tell the guy in the skirt you voted for Bush the first time.”

 

 

 

Summertime

I love summertime... picnics, swimming, playing tennis, families getting together to laugh, play games and sometimes…just doing nothing at all…  That is how I imagine our summer will go at the end of every school year.  The fact is too much togetherness can turn ugly for us.  I observe other mothers in the park saying, “yes Lovey?” and “what else can I get you my sweet?” or “of course I will play monster chasing you around the park for the next…oh…2 hours?  Here I come!!  Grrr!!”     How do they stay that nice?  I’m pissed off and bored a good 73% of the time (my 15 year old helped me work out that math).   So I usually spend the summer planning and driving to and from activities for the children, or trying to figure out who is still in San Francisco that will play with my children.  This morning is no different.

When I finally get them off to their respective activities I sit with a cup of coffee and reflect on the morning.  It was the usual routine… 

1. Oldest can’t have use of computer for licking his finger and sticking it in Middle's orange juice (daily ritual).

2. Middle can’t have his half hour of TV for sucker punching youngest because youngest stole his Bakugan…then kicking oldest in the “balls” because he made fun of the fact that he still likes Bakugan…and for saying “balls”.  

3. Youngest is sitting “quietly” in the living room to think about “what he has done” (at this point none of us are quite sure).

I sigh and hope they all forget my threats, for the afternoon looms long and dreary with no electronics to look forward to.  I think about arranging a play date, but despite the fact that none of my friends have “help” (housekeepers, gardeners and cooks don’t count) and all they really want to do is “spend time with their children” and all they really care about is “family” they are rarely available. Still, in a desperate move, I try one more time.

 “I’d LOVE to sweetie” Sabrina shouts into her phone, “but I’m off to my 'STDs for Public Schools' board meeting!”  Wha…??  “YES!  Our involvement is critical…now more than EVER!”  “Are you for it or against it?” I tentatively ask.  “DARLING!  I am categorically FOR it!  The benefits are irrefutable.  Oh.  “Sabrina?” I cautiously ask, “what exactly does STD stand for?”   “Save The Dance!!  PLEASE don’t tell me you don’t know about it.  You MUST have gotten the invitation to our gala in the fall!”  “Our goal is to have dance in the public schools once a week at the very LEAST!”  “Do they have it in Josephine’s school?” I ask.  “No sweetie, the curriculum at my Josephine’s school is just too intense.  Anyway,  Lovie, are you at home?”  “Yessss…” I respond warily.  “Would you mind horribly if I dropped Clara and Minnie off for just a little while?  I have to make it to this board meeting, and poor Analeticia is exhausted!  She’s worked five nights this week already, and I’m out again tonight.  I could just cry!  You know me, all I want to do is crawl into my pajamas and snuggle with my little ones.  It’s what I live for!” 

As Clara, Minnie and I sit in the playroom trying to convince a skeptical Youngest that unicorn games are absolutely for boys too, I concentrate on keeping my eyelids from shutting and my head from hitting the floor.  It’s not that I don’t also live for snuggling my little ones, and it’s not that my family is not the most important thing in the universe to me, there is just something about that playroom that makes me sooo tired.

 

 

Giving

Micki is another of my dear friends.  She is sensible, successful, well-informed and does not suffer fools easily.  No one can quite understand our friendship.  Her youngest child is 6’4” a wide receiver on the football team and a sophomore in high school, so any patience she had for extended conversations about children, childhood, cleaning products or managing household help ran out a few years ago.

Micki calls me in an outrage to tell me of a charity dinner in support of the homeless she attended the previous evening.  The honoree was a young woman of some consequence.  Micki could tell she was super important by the way the men genuflected in her presence.  Men that normally have debilitating conversational ADD were gripped with an overpowering interest in her detailed explanation of exactly why she chose the grade school she did for her first child (even though they had “plenty of choices”).  They laughed uproariously at the antics of the second child (imagine a two year old being clever enough to demand a diaper to poo in instead of the toilet…even though he’s able to do it in the toilet…obviously!)  Micki, hearing all the hilarity from across the room, sidles up to join in the fun.  She gleefully interrupts The Oracle’s explanation of how through foresight and sheer skill he avoided ANY repercussions of the economic meltdown (they are not huge fans of each other) to ask what in particular the young woman did to be honored.  “Well…” (she assumes a demure eyes down-cast modest stance) but before she can reluctantly relay all the giving that has gone on she is called to the stage.  She apologizes and modestly slinks away as if to say this is all so embarrassing and she would rather just do then have to go through all the rigmarole of being honored.  Standing behind the podium she magnanimously thanks everyone who has helped her on her 4 year odyssey (how long she’s been doing what she does).  “And you know” (she pauses, closes her eyes, swallows and dips her head which shows what she is about to say next is very important) “I actually understand how it feels to be homeless.”  The silence in the room is suddenly deafening.  “When I had my second child, I, along with my husband and first child, lived in a two bedroom apartment.….it was….(swallow) well…. it was tight.  The baby nurse slept on the sofa until we found our new home!  I vowed then to do all in my power to prevent other mothers from going through what I did.”   Any sense that all might not be right hydroplaned off her super-confident surface as she tripped lightly down the stairs of the stage waving happily to the audience.

Micki, stunned, turns to the quiet pale man next to her and says, “What the hell?  Unbelievable, huh?”  The man, who Micki realizes is the young woman’s husband, says, “I know, and it’s not true…it was actually me who had to sleep on the couch.”

Career Woman

Being a career woman (writing my Romance Novel) presents numerous opportunities for not doing what I never intended to do in the first place and feeling virtuous about it.   When I tell Youngest that Mommy won’t be able to play games with him as Mommy has work to do, he pauses mid-Lego building and looks at me as if I’d said I wouldn’t be able to morph into a Power Ranger that morning.  He chuckles in appreciation of my funny joke and goes happily back to his task.  When Beloved arrives home tired and drained and barely hanging on with the exertion of running a business and seeking to keep our home and our lifestyle intact, I try to join in…  “Yes!” I say eagerly (looking nervously at the list of things I was to have done that day but didn’t quite get around to), “it is especially hard when one is trying to juggle raising three children with starting a career…”  He stares pointedly at the five lonely pages I’ve written in the last few weeks…there is a deafening silence until he finally marches out of the room with a snort.

I am also able to feel just slightly superior to my friends.  When we get together to play our “who has the least help” game, I now say, with an exhausted sigh, “I’m in somewhat of a different position than the rest of you.  I just couldn’t do it all without Rowena’s help now that I’m working.”  Warming to my theme I continue, “I consider Rowena my Executive Assistant in a sense.  We’re a team with a common goal.  Rowena will often insist I stop to have a cup of tea and put my feet up when she senses I’ve had enough!”  I smile and shake my head as if to say it is all so silly because I’m just that “push myself to the limit” type.  Of course, I’m careful to never be in Rowena’s presence when I bring this up.  In fact, my face gets a little red thinking about it.  When my little speech winds down I usually find I am greeted with dead silence and raised eyebrows from my friends.  With a sniff, they continue as if I’d not spoken.

My list of whom I will not invite to my dinner with Tom Ford and Rita Hanks is growing.

Posing

As I sit in my office practicing poses for my Romance Novel book jacket cover, I contemplate the changes my life will take after my book is published.  I am really rather relieved my achievements will have come a little later in life, as I will be able to handle the stress of success so much better than some (I blame that on too much early accomplishment).  Luckily, I will be able to stay grounded thanks to my strong faith in Family and God (okay… I’ll stop trying out acceptance speeches for my “award night” fantasy).  While thinking how down-to-earth I will remain, my mind drifts to wondering what I would wear if Tom Ford and Rita Hanks asked me to dinner.  This is a problem I contemplate more than I care to admit.  It comes from once having seen the two of them having dinner together in Santa Monica.  I was stunned.  I had no idea they were friends, but of course it made sense.  Everyone knows a glamorous woman must have a fabulous gay best friend and the more beautiful/interesting /socially prominent the woman is, the better the gay friend is.  But I digress…if I’m ever to get a gay best friend, I must first figure out the outfit.  After much thought, I usually come to the conclusion there are just too many pitfalls in choosing an outfit that will be witnessed by Tom Ford and/or Rita Hanks… then I start to feel panicky that they really will invite me to dinner, and I will have to say no for lack of anything to wear…I try to focus my attention back to the task at hand (posing for book cover jacket).  I would feel bad about my wandering  attention problem, except for the article I read in the paper last week.  Apparently, it takes MUCH more neural resources when one’s mind is wandering than when one is wrestling with complex problems.  I proudly showed this article to my methodical-reasoning husband who said lovingly,  “…then you must be absolutely exhausted.”