FAQ #5. Was your husband mad about you hitting the tree mere days before needing to sell the car?
Why no. Like he is never mad about any of the air-headed things I do. In fact, he knew how mad I was at myself, and so he brought me flowers. After I screwed up. Further proof I married the right man.
So, we have been in the process of buying a new car. On Thursday I accelerated that process. A handy FAQ to spare me the embarrassing conversation:
1) Kate, is there, um, something wrong with the hatchback on your wagon?
Your eyes don't deceive you. That hatchback only vaguely closes.
2) Wow, how did that happen?
Well, I was moving my car in hurry to make room for the jogging stroller that wouldn't fit between two cars. The hatchback was up. We have this fabulous oak that arches over our house at weird angle. I hit it.
3) Bummer, has this happened before?
Miraculously, I have never hit this particular tree. Shocking. Especially given that I was planning not to own this car mere days after this incident.
4) There are, uh, some other things wrong with your car.
Yes, I know. That's why I am trying not to be its owner anymore. Someone once told me, "Kate, there is a piece of your car in front of your car." I vowed to get rid of it then. But not without a thorough beating.
In other news...
FOR SALE: USED VW PASSAT WAGON. MINOR COSMETIC DAMAGE. NOT ENTIRELY WATERTIGHT. LOVED. FILLED WITH MANY MEMORIES AND SMASHED GOLDFISH CRACKERS.
My girl. She turned 6 on Friday, and this post is much delayed by life, work, Milo...like so much of our attention to her these days.
I brought two dozen decorated sugar cookies in the shape of the number 6 to her classroom on Friday. I got them from Central Market, and that is okay. That compromise allowed me to show up in her classroom vaguely on time and smiling.
As part of her birthday celebration, Ms. P invited the class to think of compliments for Lucy. The birthday girl got to call on 6 people, and they said:
• I like your printing
• You run fast
• You're cool
• You're my friend
• You're my best friend
I forgot #6, the compliment from the youngest, most ostracized member of the class, but I was most proud that she called on him. We'll call that #1: her kindness. Here's the rest of what I like about Lu:
Her emotional intelligence. She's tuned into other people's feelings, and she understands nuance.
Her singshpiel. Lu's Gilbert and Sullivan-style operettas are elaborate, if somewhat off-key. She thinks in song.
Her manners. She has written 17 of the 36 thank-you notes she has to write. It's been a bit of a battle, but she understands the importance of writing them. Also, she can't play with the gift until she has written the note.
Her imagination. The other day, I heard her say haughtily, "Trevor, please bring the limo 'round." Seriously. We should put this both in the category of imagination and ambition.
Her sense of humor. She likes knock-knock and fart jokes. She inherited this from her father.
There is so much more that I truly like about her: her brain, her curiosity, her confidence. She's a good kid.
I just want you to know that I know I'm falling down on the job. But this morning, upon discovering that rice cereal has the consistency of spackle when dried and some of it was stuck to the side of Milo's head, I had a choice to make. I tried to remember when I'd last bathed him. I gave him a good sniff. He smelled like leftovers. So I washed him, and now he smells like a cookie.
But no, my hair is not washed. No, I am not wearing cute shoes. And yes, that is urp on my shirt. And I know that you know. We're just not gonna talk about.
Six months ago, at this very hour, I was...busy...bringing Milo into this world, and I didn't even know who he was yet. Seems like a lifetime ago, but then, I guess, before Milo, it was another life.
This life is really, really good. The goofy lovefest we are having with him — Jason, me and Lu — would make your teeth squeak, it's so sweet.
His face just breaks open when he smiles. He makes me feel like I am the most entertaining, spectacular, important person in the world. And I think there's a good chance he is actually charming: other people seem to have a similar response to his smile. Smilo. He's a pretty magic baby.
While it might look like he is contributing BIG IDEAS to this meeting, it is getting harder and harder to have Milo at the office with me. He wants — and deserves — more attention than I am giving him, and I think maybe my work does too.
So, in a couple of weeks, he'll start "school." The thought of it makes me ill.
In the mean time, I will bask in the popularity that Milo provides. Walking around our campus with him is like having a small celebrity strapped to my body.
My great Aunt Patricia died today. She was 83. She had the most amazing life, full of adventure and love. There is a picture in her kitchen, yellowed by the sun streaming in from the windows that overlook the Bay Bridge, of Patricia in her 30s, dancing on the bar of a Greek restaurant. She looks like Doris Day. If my memory of the photo serves, Uncle Bob looks on, bemused.
She was from Nocona, Texas, but she went to Stanford Law School. She had friends and adopted "children" from all over the world: celebrities, clerics, doctors, socialites. She and Uncle Bob traveled the globe, and even after he died three years ago, she kept traveling on her own. She cruised the South Pacific this Christmas. She was a brilliant, accomplished person with more verve than anyone I know.
When we last saw her in April, she took us out to an evening of cabaret, then we drove to a favorite restaurant of hers for a nightcap. When we pulled up to Firenze By Night, the parking situation was San Francisco laughable, as usual. When we suggested we should just have a nightcap at home because the parking was too bad, she said, imperiously, "They save a spot for me." And sure enough, as soon as they noticed Aunt P's car, a handful of strapping Italian men came out and began rearranging vehicles to accommodate us. The best-looking of the bunch, Paolo, who was younger than me, kissed Aunt P on both cheeks and said, "Where have you been, bella?" She and Paolo made teasing plans to meet in Milan for Easter. They treated us like kings in the bar.
When I am old, please let me be like Aunt Patricia. Hell, let me be like her when I am young.
Tonight on our way to House Pizza, as we were driving down North Loop, we encountered some kind of exotic fowl — a guinea hen? — wandering around the middle of the street. After some initial concern about where the animal might live, should we take it to a shelter, etc., Lucy started laughing. "It's like the joke! That chicken was actually crossing the road." We still don't know why he was crossing the road, but we did have a good laugh.
Lucy is newly obsessed with fame. Yesterday was "Scottiewood Red Carpet Day" at school, which meant the kids dressed up (or dressed up like movie stars?) to build excitement for some kind of event this weekend that involves some of my money. An aside: Lucy's school doesn't cost anywhere near as much as private school, but what with all the boosting and raffle tickets and sales of various kinds of wrapping paper, we pay.
So I had to explain Hollywood. And being famous. Which I explained wrong because Lucy determined that she was famous for singing and for art. And I corrected her by saying she was talented at singing and art (and left out a snide remark about being famous for talking too much and bossing everyone around).
I said that famous was about being known by a lot of people. And she said, "I thought that was being popular." I said that they were very similar words. She asked, "Which has more value?" They are studying money in school, so this incisive question is not out of the blue.
I answered "famous." And she said, "Well, I am already popular, because a lot of people know me, but I guess I am not famous."
Then tonight, as we watched Olympic ice-dancing on TV and she twirled around the living room, she asked, "Can only famous people be on the Olympics?" Which brought us back to the discussion of fame vs. talent (to say nothing of the teeny tiny marketing window for Olympic athletes).
We watched the story of Apolo Ohno and his dad, who locked Apolo in a shed after he did badly in the Nagano Olympics when he was 15. His dad made him choose to be excellent.
I don't know how, or if, or when, to do that for Lucy. I want to be the kind of parent who helps her find Her Thing and supports her in the pursuit of it. Not for the sake of being Famous. For the sake of my beachfront retirement home.
We had Lucy's spring conference with her teacher, Ms. P. There are so many things I could brag about, but I won't. I mean, I want to really, really badly, but I won't. Because that would be unseemly. What I will share with you is the bit of praise that has made me smile, that tells me more than her, ahem, exceptional math and reading (see the unseemly way I worked that in):
"Lucy is amazing in the way she makes connections about how the world works. It's rare that students as young as Lucy show signs of being gifted and talented in social studies, but I'd love to see Lucy working on the world's problems."
Naturally, the proud mother interprets this as a prediction that Lucy will save the world. Her father thinks she will use this complex understanding of the world TO BEND IT TO HER WILL.
