kept
augmenting the flower arrangements with tropicals from the backyard. Oh, wait,
what about the amazing ginger flowers that just bloomed . . .
What about the vegans? I guess we’d better make zucchini without cheese, too. Twenty people instead of fourteen, Sunday
night, and there was no help in sight. We’d hung Japanese lanterns on the
rafters of the deck. I’d put on makeup and dressed for the occasion, white,
since it was officially the last night of summer. And, as the hamburgers were
coming off the grill and the chili was bubbling over and there were 20 buns
warming in the oven, I opened the refrigerator, thought about it for a second
and put the ketchup and the relish, still in their store-bought containers,
directly on the table.
“Is she okay?” I hear them
whisper in the corner, their heads huddled together as if they think I
cannot hear them.
“I’ve never seen her do this
before.”
“What’s going on?”
“Mom, are you sure you want to
do that?” I shrug and, as a concession, open the cabinet and take out two
small plates that I place underneath the ketchup bottle and the jar of
relish on the table.
They still look puzzled,
perplexed, certain that something’s wrong.
I nod my head just to let them
know that I’m okay. “I’m sure.”
And I think to myself, just
this one time, my mother wouldn’t mind.
Thirteen
My
Filofax
F our people
asked me what I wanted for my birthday last week and I gave each of them the
same answer, “A new Filofax.”
All four of them said the same thing. “No, you
don’t. Nobody wants a Filofax anymore. It’s so old-fashioned. Don’t be
ridiculous. iPhone.” My daughter Maia was the harshest. She simply said, “Oh,
Mom! iPhone.” It made me feel something I rarely feel, old-fashioned and
distinctly unhip and, since it was my birthday we were discussing, it made me
feel old.
For the record, I have an iPhone. It doesn’t work
very well, but I have one. Sometimes it’s cranky about email, I can’t read
attachments, and it’s impossible to surf the web. I can, however, tweet from it
(I’m not really that old-fashioned.) Don’t tell me to get a new iPhone, it’s my
fourth one, and despite the fact that two assistants and two of my children over
the last three years have religiously promised to transfer all my names and
phone numbers into my iPhone (and my computer), it hasn’t happened yet and I
never seem to have the time.
I like my Filofax (even though it does sort of look
like a truck ran over it.) It feels like a friend. I like that it has my
friends’ and acquaintances’ names, addresses, and phone numbers hand-printed
into it. Arguably, a few of them are dead, but I’ve learned not to notice. And I
can’t quite bring myself to cross the names out. That would seem too final. (If
I had a new Filofax, I wouldn’t feel disloyal if I didn’t transfer those
names.)
I like it that I have my Filofax with me in my
purse or on the passenger seat of my car, so that if I need to reach someone, I
know how. It makes me feel rooted somehow.
I once left my Filofax on the roof of my car and
drove off. It was gone and I felt lost. I wondered if I’d done it on
purpose—someone I’d been dating hadn’t called me in days and I didn’t want to
call him and his number was unlisted. Someone told me they’d seen him out with
someone else and I wondered if some sort of self-protective device kicked in and
I wanted to save myself the embarrassment of not having my phone call returned
or, if it was, of having a conversation I didn’t want to have. He did call a few
weeks later and I did manage to be terribly sweet about the fact that we
wouldn’t be speaking again.
I realized when I lost my Filofax that I hadn’t
printed my contact information onto the front page (that would be too revealing
somehow) as if someone would find my “black book” and discover secrets about me,
and by not inputting my info, I was somehow spared, anonymous, so that
augmenting the flower arrangements with tropicals from the backyard. Oh, wait,
what about the amazing ginger flowers that just bloomed . . .
What about the vegans? I guess we’d better make zucchini without cheese, too. Twenty people instead of fourteen, Sunday
night, and there was no help in sight. We’d hung Japanese lanterns on the
rafters of the deck. I’d put on makeup and dressed for the occasion, white,
since it was officially the last night of summer. And, as the hamburgers were
coming off the grill and the chili was bubbling over and there were 20 buns
warming in the oven, I opened the refrigerator, thought about it for a second
and put the ketchup and the relish, still in their store-bought containers,
directly on the table.
“Is she okay?” I hear them
whisper in the corner, their heads huddled together as if they think I
cannot hear them.
“I’ve never seen her do this
before.”
“What’s going on?”
“Mom, are you sure you want to
do that?” I shrug and, as a concession, open the cabinet and take out two
small plates that I place underneath the ketchup bottle and the jar of
relish on the table.
They still look puzzled,
perplexed, certain that something’s wrong.
I nod my head just to let them
know that I’m okay. “I’m sure.”
And I think to myself, just
this one time, my mother wouldn’t mind.
Thirteen
My
Filofax
F our people
asked me what I wanted for my birthday last week and I gave each of them the
same answer, “A new Filofax.”
All four of them said the same thing. “No, you
don’t. Nobody wants a Filofax anymore. It’s so old-fashioned. Don’t be
ridiculous. iPhone.” My daughter Maia was the harshest. She simply said, “Oh,
Mom! iPhone.” It made me feel something I rarely feel, old-fashioned and
distinctly unhip and, since it was my birthday we were discussing, it made me
feel old.
For the record, I have an iPhone. It doesn’t work
very well, but I have one. Sometimes it’s cranky about email, I can’t read
attachments, and it’s impossible to surf the web. I can, however, tweet from it
(I’m not really that old-fashioned.) Don’t tell me to get a new iPhone, it’s my
fourth one, and despite the fact that two assistants and two of my children over
the last three years have religiously promised to transfer all my names and
phone numbers into my iPhone (and my computer), it hasn’t happened yet and I
never seem to have the time.
I like my Filofax (even though it does sort of look
like a truck ran over it.) It feels like a friend. I like that it has my
friends’ and acquaintances’ names, addresses, and phone numbers hand-printed
into it. Arguably, a few of them are dead, but I’ve learned not to notice. And I
can’t quite bring myself to cross the names out. That would seem too final. (If
I had a new Filofax, I wouldn’t feel disloyal if I didn’t transfer those
names.)
I like it that I have my Filofax with me in my
purse or on the passenger seat of my car, so that if I need to reach someone, I
know how. It makes me feel rooted somehow.
I once left my Filofax on the roof of my car and
drove off. It was gone and I felt lost. I wondered if I’d done it on
purpose—someone I’d been dating hadn’t called me in days and I didn’t want to
call him and his number was unlisted. Someone told me they’d seen him out with
someone else and I wondered if some sort of self-protective device kicked in and
I wanted to save myself the embarrassment of not having my phone call returned
or, if it was, of having a conversation I didn’t want to have. He did call a few
weeks later and I did manage to be terribly sweet about the fact that we
wouldn’t be speaking again.
I realized when I lost my Filofax that I hadn’t
printed my contact information onto the front page (that would be too revealing
somehow) as if someone would find my “black book” and discover secrets about me,
and by not inputting my info, I was somehow spared, anonymous, so that
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