Thank You for Asking

Venice Beach

It is amazing what a great summer one can have if one is willing to take advantage of one’s friends.  Angelica calls to invite Micki and me to the adorable bungalow in Venice Beach she rents for the summer, so we grab the kids and jump on the first plane to Los Angeles.  San Francisco is really a small quaint town, and we San Franciscans are a little small and quaint ourselves.  Because we’re so proud of our “open-mindedness” our “green-ness before green-ness was cool” our “Prius driving-ness” our “Nancy Pelosi-ness” and our “willingness to pay for sex-changes for government employees-ness” we don’t realize how big the world is until we step outside. 

Our flight to LA is delayed because of fog, so we find ourselves in the airport surrounded by LA people trying to get home.  Micki and I start out trying to have conversation but finally stop the charade mid-sentence.  We can’t keep our eyes off the LA women impatiently roaming the gates.  The women in LA are nothing if not super-confident, and they give the pursuit of beauty their absolute all.  In San Francisco, if the women get a brow-lift or a boob job, they do it so tastefully and subtly that you almost wonder why go to the effort.  In LA, the women’s philosophy seems to be if a little is good then a lot is great.  As Micki and I sit waiting at the gate with our tastefully expensive handbags, nice shoes and maybe one stylish piece of jewelry we stare in awe at the women of a certain age in super-short Chanel suits, Louboutin high heals, Hermes handbags, blonde hair fixed to a tee, diamonds on ears, neck and fingers.  Then there’s their face…well, I don’t even know what to say about their face except there appears to be not one feature that has not been tended to.  Micki and I finally turn to face one another.  We simultaneously give a little start as we are confronted by each other’s suddenly way too porous, skinny-lipped and able-to-make-a-lot-of-expressions faces.  There doesn’t seem to be anything to say, so we sit in silence for a while.  I am feeling a little on edge and keep surreptitiously looking around.  It must be obvious because Micki finally blurts out, “Rita Hanks and Tom Ford are not going to be taking the Southwest flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles so stop looking!”  She knows me too well.  “What are you talking about?” I innocently inquire.  After a pause I say, “Anyway, I’m sure RiTo fly privately.”  We stare at each other.  Micki is looking at me as if deciding to ask.  Finally she says, “What the hell is RiTo?”  “It’s Rita Hanks and Tom Ford...combined…like TomKat or Brangelina…”  I wish their names were more compatible, but I’ve done the best with what I have to work with.  Micki sighs heavily, and we don’t really talk until we board the plane.

Angelica is waiting for us when we finally arrive at LAX.  Our darling Angelica is a force of nature.  She is interested, interesting and sucks the marrow out of life.  Around her I feel like I only pick at life’s marrow then put the rest away for left-overs that I will probably forget about and end up having to throw away.  She is full of adventure and stories...a bit like a European movie that you can’t stop watching, no beginning, no discernible end, the plot is un-important, but lots of character development.  Around Angelica’s tanned vigorous body, thick wavy hair and zest for life, I feel more and more small, wan and pale.  As urban and hip as I try to be, Venice Beach seems scary to me.  I find myself thinking of sweet old San Francisco where people are cool and aloof…even the druggies in the Haight.  People in LA are way too friendly and always commenting, as in, “I just love your neon yellow patent leather ballet slippers!”  Now that could be a compliment or it could be someone making fun of you.  I always feel slightly de-stabilized.  

When we finally fly home and our respective Beloveds pick us up in their respective Priuses, we feel happy and secure to be back in our smug, superior, foggy, cold environment.  As I happily sip my Peets coffee, I comment to Beloved, “As much as I love LA, it can be a little scary.”  “Hmmmm” he replies.  “Oh by the way, Sabrina called and wants to know if you know any ethnic minority children ages 12 and below.  Her STD for Public Schools gala is coming up, and she needs around 10 kids for the modern dance portion of the entertainment.”  “I’ll ask Rowena” I say giving my coffee a stir.  It really is nice to be back in sensible San Francisco.

 

 

 

Side-Kick

Micki calls fuming.  “Sabrina has decided I’m her new side-kick!” she says outraged. “What part of me looks like a side-kick!!”  I have to agree.  Micki is 5”10 ½ ” in her Lanvin flats and nobody’s fool.  The idea that Sabrina singled Micki out as a side-kick is curious.  She is the last person I would think of as a designated adoring fan.  However, a good side-kick is a bit like a good gay-best-friend.  The better the side-kick the higher one’s status, and I have suspected for a while now that Sabrina’s been trying to elevate her image.  Still, I try not to jump to conclusions, so I ask Micki why she thinks she’s being tapped.  “First,” Micki replies indignantly, “she asked me to go to the DeYoung Museum event because Preston was out of town.  That was fine, and we had a nice time…but THEN she asked me to lunch!”  “Why is that so bad?” I ask.  “Because after lunch she lured me to Neiman Marcus where there was a room full of clothes waiting for her to try on.  Next thing I know I’m in the dressing room watching her try on clothes and telling her how good everything looks!”  “Well, it was probably a one-off, so I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about” I respond in a comforting tone.  “That’s not all!!” shouts Micki.  “She just called and asked me for dinner at her house.”  “That sounds nice…”  I say, warily.  “She said we’d have a cozy dinner…just us…IN THE KITCHEN!” screams Micki.  Ahh.  Sabrina was trying to get Micki to be her new side-kick.   The minute one starts being invited to “cozy, casual kitchen dinners” instead of real dinners in the dining room with fun and interesting people one knows side-kick status is being bestowed.  I seem to remember hearing Sabrina’s last Side-Kick had been involved in a failed coup against her, so Sabrina’s been going it alone and must be feeling anxious.  An alpha girl with no side-kick is a Queen without a Queen-dom.

Knowing the difference between the main girl and side-kick is obvious.  What’s not so easy is determining why.  The side-kick can often be more attractive, frequently nicer (strangely, not always), as often as not have better style and usually have plenty of friends.  The two things they will never have more of is money and influence.  In a power struggle most women will secretly hope the side-kick wins and will make clandestine phone calls to tell her how right they think she is and how wrong they think the Queen is, but, in public they will always side with the Queen. 

As Micki is fully aware, once dubbed a side-kick it is difficult to extricate oneself.  She must act quickly and decisively, but how?  I ask her what her plan is.  “First,” she says, “I will NOT be seen with Sabrina for a full month.  Second, I will not attend ANY store openings (the natural habitat of side-kicks), and then I will invite India for dinner…at my house…without Sabrina”  Micki finishes with a flourish.  “clever” I declare admiringly.  The only person in town with more power than Sabrina in our age group is India.  Inviting her without Sabrina is a statement of independence that will be heard loud and clear.

Micki and I hang up, and I pick up the paper.   I sip my coffee as I read about the power struggles going on throughout the world.  I finally throw the paper down in disgust.  Why can’t these leaders just act like adults and get on with things I wonder…so immature.