Tuesday, January 17, 2006
My Life in Contradictory Spurts
My colleagues are all Very Smart and funny and—not one single solitary person asked a stupid question. At an all day conference! I know. It was blinding.
Whilst there, I had a small internal requiem for Trader Vic’s, which used to be an anchor joint at the Capital Hilton where some of us used to swill large quantities of Mai Tais, Back in the Day.
I then metro’d up to Close-in Suburb, where I reside, to meet la famille for dinner at Lebanese Taverna to congratulate brilliant son on a fantastic presentation, memorized AND in costume, of the biography of Alexander the Great.
Back downtown for Writer’s Group—love them. Lots of help on new story entitled “Orientation.” Not to be confused with previous story (CLEVERLY titled), “Spatial Disorientation,” that will be included in a collection of “linked” stories destined to meet with great publishing fanfare. In my mind.
Friday—ascent (descent?) into mysterious cult-like suburbial tradition. I played a dice game (you read that right) into the night with a buncha moms from Nick’s school. And. It. Was. Fun. I know, I can’t believe it either, but there you have it. Stunned by the progressive nature of the women, drinks, etc.
Saturday— Brookside Gardens—mama’s Zen meditation haven—geese, ducks, sculptures, children in relief against Asian influenced landscape—lunch, naptime.
Finish painting Nick’s Pinewood derby entry, place authentic WWII fighter plane decals. Pinewood Derby at Nick’s school hall. Also, completely suburban, wholesome. And. Fun. Really fun! A “family night.” Who knew? Nick’s car: absolutely lovely design, however, not so fast! Dad swears next year he’ll be a contender.
Sunday—I don’t know what we did on Sunday. I did make a surreptitious trip to Michaels’s craft store because I suddenly “needed” circular knitting needles and more yarn—to add to my bottomless bag o’ yarn. I think a bag of endless yarn is symbolic—isn’t there some Native American myth about yarn and the moon? Basically I have enough yarn to make a ball as big as the moon. Discuss.
Moira confessed to some kind of “craft” weirdness as well. I told her maybe we should just have a big Dork Convention and get it over with. We both agreed, however, that once you get into buying Styrofoam shapes to make things out of, it’s too late. We have standards, after all.
Monday lovely Monday!!! A beautiful crisp day…bathe the babies, the rest of us shower and spit shine…pick up my mother and whisk her to Chevy Chase…brunch at the renovated Clyde’s…along Louis Vuitton row…drop off my mother and drive along the curving familiar road along the river to
Great Falls, past the Old Angler’s Inn…to the prehistoric rippling falls. The drama. Nick said, “Along with Minnesota, Chincoteague and a lot of other really great places, I think this place is one of my favorites.” He sat on a rock surveying the rapids…it is a little emotional when you see your son taking in exactly same awe-inspiring landscape you took in as a kid.
Daisy wore a little navy blue admiral’s coat and looked like a girl version of John-John Kennedy. Everyone that saw her smiled. And probably thought about John-John Kennedy. I am fairly certain no one looked at me and thought of Jacqueline Kennedy. Although I was wearing a particularly jaunty pair of tortoise shell shades.
I think some internal vibe clicks in when your last kid turns two and a half. Because ALL OF A SUDDEN we are all sleeping through the night and on weekend mornings, instead of being cruelly aroused (for the day) at 5:00 a.m., I can now sleep IF I CHOOSE until 8:44 a.m. I just don’t feel so irreversibly “on-call,” you know? Like when they’re small you feel guilty just for going to the bathroom because you have left your spouse “on-duty.” You know? Seriously.
Raising kids has pretty much had me pistol whipped for the past eight years. Give or take. And now I just feel a slight “give” in the tightly wound fabric. Like I can read two paragraphs in the Saturday paper as opposed to one sentence, chopped up, belligerently by the “I want” opera.
It was a really nice weekend. |
Cynicism is another word for reality