Brrr, brrr, brrr. Stiff wind. Gimpy neck.
First to Draeger’s for lamb chops. Then, Cold Stone Creamery: Oreo Overload. Walking up Santa Cruz Avenue, cell phone rings. It’s Evelina calling from the airport: self can hear the announcement for first class passengers to board. Evelina goes, It’s OK, we can keep talking, I’m not first class!
She says she’s sorry we didn’t get together. Self tells her, it’s OK, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other sometime. She says, YOU can do so much. You can talk. It’s easy!
I tell her, I’m better at writing. It’s true. I’ll try.
Last night at Manilatown Heritage Center, 12 people showed. The night before, at Brava, I don’t even want to ask.
Listen, we have to get signatures by Tuesday, Evelina says. There’s a chance it will pass! We have to call everyone. By Tuesday!
I say again, I’ll try.
Then, find myself standing in front of a store I haven’t seen before: Tibetan handicrafts. Deep-hued scarves in the windows. Lamps, rugs. I suddenly want to call son.
Hey, I tell him. I’m on Santa Cruz Avenue, and I thought of you. Are you having lunch?
He says he passed the smog test, which is fantastic — his little Honda has 200,000 miles. I ask him, well, what do you think? Think you want to watch the Richard III at Cal Shakes? He says he can’t come up until after his job ends, June 17.
Then self babbles on: That’s OK, the play doesn’t end its run until June 24. Course, that will mean you’ll have to give up a whole afternoon, because we’ll have lunch first, and then the play runs two hours . . .
“Mom, can I tell you later?” son says. “I have tons of things on my mind right now, and the play isn’t exactly on top of my list of priorities.”
“Oh!” I say, “Sure!”
Feel guilty for hounding him. Drive home. Not without passing Roger Reynolds. A leaf from my Clematis Henryii is in my hand. A small leaf, brown at the edges. A woman in a Roger Reynolds T-shirt passes by, dragging a cart full of gorgeous white geraniums. “Excuse me,” I say. “Can you tell me what is wrong with my clematis?” I show her the leaf. “Probably over-watering,” she says.
Go home. Crash on the couch. God! My neck is terrible! I want a chiropractor!
On TV, there’s a movie with John Travolta. He has a brain tumor and it turns him smart. Also, gives him telekinesis. I’m crashed on the couch and I am watching John Travolta spin pencils and sunglasses in circles with a point of a finger. How. Fascinating. Seriously.
I watch to the end of the movie, it’s very sad, and I cry when Kyra Sedgwick cries. I remember that Kyra Sedgwick is married to Kevin Bacon, and that they live in New York. In fact, friend Penny says their kids study at the private school where she teaches.
And John Travolta is married to Kelly Lynch and they live somewhere on the East Coast but not in New York, somewhere “country”, since self saw a fab spread on their house in an Architectural Digest some years ago.
(Why, why is self’s brain so full of such trivia?)
Phone rings: ring, ring, ring! Wow! It really is a day for calls! Earlier, while self was in Cold Stone Creamery, deciding on which ice cream delight to order, Strawberry Blonde or Orea Overload, Fave Tita called, which she hasn’t done in almost two years.
See that the caller is son. Perhaps feeling guilty for having to rush off earlier? Now, he says, “You know, next weekend is the Strawberry Festival.” Yes, I remember. Hubby and I were there last year. It was so much fun.
“Well,” son says, “I was thinking, why don’t you and dad come down? It would be fun!”
Ahhh. It would be fun. Thanks, son.
Get off the phone with son, call hubby. He’s busy, as usual. But when self suggests going to SLO next weekend, he pauses. Naturally, at this moment, self suddenly realizes: Who will water damn roses? Who will take care of the dogs? Can we even find a space in the Peninsula Pet Resort??? And, isn’t Mr. King’s funeral that weekend? Mr. King, who was so kind when self was a foreign student at Stanford, who passed away a few weeks ago??? Self cannot think, must lie down, place wet towel on forehead. Brain cloud over for the rest of the day.
Kanlaon 