Thank You for Asking

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.