Booty Call

On one of our rare sunny evenings, I was driving along a side street in my neighborhood.  It being May, the opened pink tree blossoms were especially cheerful, giggling and bouncing in the sunlight.  Perhaps it was sparked by a sunray, but I suddenly felt a surge.

It was an overwhelming full-body buzz that made me feel young and floaty.  It was familiar, yet far away, and it took me a minute to recognize the feeling as being in love.  As during those early weeks where everything reminds you of him.  When your belly smiles at the sight of his name.

But it wasn’t a man I was thinking of.  It was blogging.  (I know.  What can I say.  I’m trying to make this blog honest.)

Then I thought of how perfect it was to be in love with it.  It’s there when you need it.  It’s yours alone.  It can’t reject you.  You can tell it stories for hours on end and it will listen.  You don’t need to say to your husband, “I can explain!” when you’re caught in bed with your laptop. 

And unless you have many readers (I thank both of you), there’s little pressure to commit.  Just the occasional booty call when you’re in the mood.

Kind

One Thursday morning as I walked from Gigi’s classroom after dropping her off, one of her teachers came out of the room and stopped me in the hall.  She wanted to compliment Gigi on knowing some Japanese words and point out how nice she’s been towards her classmates. 

The teacher is Japanese, about 60, and because she smiles and gives a little bow every time I see her, she lends an air of pleasant politeness.

I thanked her and we talked about the ways in which Harrison and Gigi are different (Harrison being nice in more boyish ways).  She said, sort of under her breath, that she thought it was somehow better when the brother was older than the sister, and not the other way around.  (Her children are older-brother/younger-sister, as are me and my older brother, as are Robin and his younger sister). 

It didn’t matter if there was any truth to the opinion.  We shared a moment of nodding connection that felt good.  Not just because of what she said, but because of the effort she took to start the conversation.

We bowed our goodbyes and I walked away with my hand on my heart and my face making that I Can’t Believe Someone Was So Nice face. 

I had recently finished The Happiness Project (post forthcoming), thanks to my friend Amy.  In it the author experiments with Extreme Nice.  This is being as nice as you possibly can for a set period of time.  Including being nice to your kids and husband the entire time.

Through her experiment she recognizes that though doing this is challenging, it does make her happier.  By making others feel good, she brings herself joy.  Not a new concept by any means, but the way in which she experimented – by being nice no matter what and for a set amount of time - was a new approach to me.  One I have yet to be in a good enough mood to try. 

Since that Thursday morning, and after reading The Happiness Project, I’ve thought more about Nice.  What is being nice?   Who are the nicest people I know?  Do I thank them enough?  Am I nice enough?  What is my contribution to Nice?

Often I see Nice in teachers, who by the very nature of their jobs can’t help but be nice.  I don’t think you become a teacher for the pay or notoriety.   Or in a friend who’s recognized our possible connection.  Or in a mother who’s simply made it a habit to be nice because of so many years trying to be nice in raising her children.  But it’s also often in someone I only sort of know, who radiates goodness, generosity and effort in more than they need to. 

When I think of Nice, I also have to think about my own mom and mother-in-law.  When they’re around, they sprinkle Nice in their wake and I follow close behind to inhale it, hoping my high lasts after they’re gone.  I don’t know where they learned it or what keeps them going.  I know with my mom, she has few reasons to be happy or nice, and yet there she is. 

I asked Robin what his thoughts were on Nice.  He didn’t have to think about it.  He said he doesn’t believe in being nice. 

Wha?  Doesn’t believe in being NICE?

He said anyone can be nice.  The most insincere person can be nice.

Ah, I see.

He believes in being kind.  Because kindness shows empathy and is more honest.  When you’re kind, it shows you’ve put thought into what you can do to make other people happy. 

Yes, of course.  He’s right.  It’s kindness that’s meaningful.  Kindness that I mean.

So I’m going to try to be kinder.  To the kids.  To Robin.  To strangers.   To the someones I only sort of know.  And especially to the people who already make an effort to be kind.  To me, they’re people who help others.  Who volunteer.  Who say kind things and do kind deeds.  Who look out for other people’s happiness (and encourage them to read The Happiness Project!).  Who look out for other people’s kids.  Who ask how you are and care to know the truth. 

Though they never demand it, shouldn’t kind people be rewarded?  With spa treatments at the good places and gift cards that let you buy whole outfits and dinners that include wine, appetizers and dessert?  But if money’s tight, I bet they’d be okay with a sincere thank you.  And when you’re ready, and in your own time, you can give your thanks again, in kind.

Super Moment

What constitutes the happiest moment of your life? When you discovered you were pregnant? The first time you held your baby? The moment he proposed?

If today I was forced to choose what it was for me, I believe I might have an answer.

It was the night of the Super Moon and started with a simple meal, just the four of us. It’s so rare we all eat together in our little kitchen nook. But when we do, we have a tradition. First dinner, then out for ice cream, then a Drive-Out.

When I was a girl in Southern California, on cool nights my dad used to tell us to grab our winter coats so we could go “skiing.” On a long stretch of road somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, we’d open all our windows, pick up speed, and lean just inches into the outside to feel the cold rush of wind on our faces. This was thrilling and it didn’t matter that we didn’t have the money to actually go skiing.

Our new tradition reminds me of those nights.

The deal is, with our ice cream cones, we drive through the nicer parts of our neighborhood with our car stereo bumping as loud as we dare. We each have our own favorite song that we hear at least once. Everyone sings, uninhibitively, mint chocolate chip soothing the vocal cords.

But on this night, our Drive-Out was just the prelude.

After Gigi’s “I Love Rock n Roll”, Harrison’s “Dynamite”, my “Born This Way” And Daddy’s, um, whatever it is Daddy listens to, it was time to go home, brush teeth and get jammies on. We had somewhere else to go.

We’d heard about the Super Moon throughout the day and vaguely knew the time of night when we could see it. Twenty minutes before that time, we set out to watch the spectacle along Lake Washington at Magnuson Park.

We parked the car near the other cars who, presumably, were waiting for the same show.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Did we misread the news? Was that Central time? Was it last night?

At about eleven minutes the sky above Kirkland, already glowing from city lights, became ever so slightly more illuminated.

I had no grand expectations. It would be a silver moon, probably looking bigger because of its proximity to the horizon. But it was a rare one, so we had to watch. When you become a parent, missing these things causes not only wondering disappointment, but irrevocable guilt. It’s difficult to make up for things that only come around once every twenty years.

Then with almost imperceptively slow celestial magic, the moon’s red color emerged just above the city. It continued its majestic rise until it was a full sphere, its reflection duplicated on the smooth lake. The crowd by the lake was thin. Maybe a dozen people where we were. This made the moment quietly intimate.

I stood there watching the moon, holding my daughter, shaking with my love for her. I nestled into her hair as though this was it. This was all there was.

It was the closest I’ve felt to ecstasy. Drinking in the heavens with my eyes. Holding them ethereally with my arms.

I don’t think we can define our happiness with the quantity of happy moments we experience through life, though that’s nice too. I think rather we should include in that definition our ability to wholly feel these most rare moments as intensely as we’re able to do. They may only come around once every twenty years.

Blog Housekeeping

Went through and deleted about 30 old posts (which inadvertently re-published a few other ones, so sorry if they show up in anyone's RSS feed).

I had forgotten how often I blogged. Brought back memories of my years at home (as if they were 20 years ago). I wouldn't go back there, but I am glad I wrote some of it down. I would surely have forgotten everything. Funny how a blog can serve as a witness to your life.

Now onwards.

Pic's Loves

Muse [myooz] –noun

2. the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.

Last month Vanity Fair had what I call a perfect little treat of an article. I do appreciate reading about politics, finance, society, etc, but the articles that retain my loving gaze often combine art, love and biography. This Picasso story had exactly that.

From what I know of the man, it seems difficult to disconnect Picasso’s work from his women. So many of his pieces are either of his women (obviously or cryptically) or inspired by them. They were his muses as well as his subjects.

The article didn’t surprise me, but I did find the logistics of how he kept his women separate intriguing. For instance he would put them up in apartments in different cities. He would paint his mistress within the guise of a musical instrument to hide from his wife that he’d painted her. But in most cases it seems they usually found out about each other, and there’s a part in the article about his then wife and mistress duking it out.

After reading the article I considered two things:

1. Whether, even knowing the kind of genius I was married to, if I could withstand years and years of a wandering, um, paintbrush. Not just wandering, but often dipped in true love.
2. If Picasso would have been so prolific and successful an artist had he been married to one woman all his life, or at least narrowed his field. (I’m sure there are books and books written about this subject, but I haven’t read them, so I’m making my own assumptions.)

What I’ve read about Picasso has made me adore his life. His circle of friends was one of fantasy. In Everybody Was So Young, Picasso appears (as do Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway) at the Murphy’s place in the French Riviera. During the time he’s welcomed by Gerald and Sara Murphy, he paints her and adds to their generally glamorous life. His appearances are some of the more enjoyable parts of the book that ends tragically.

Throughout his life, he surrounds himself with passionate and incredible people like Gertrude Stein, Henri Matisse, the Murphy’s, Jean Cocteau, Igor Stravinsky, and many other artists and writers.

So if I didn’t have children, I’d say the answer to #1 is yes, sign me up. I don’t think I’d pass up a life so fascinating and deeply rich in beauty. But as they say, children change EVERYTHING, including what you’re willing to endure. So, no thank you, I’ll stick with my tech geek. (Also I grew up with an artist and, no offense dad, family life has enough drama already.)

For #2, I’m going with no as well. Yes, he was raised by an art professor. And yes, he probably never hung out with a boring person for more than 5 minutes. But we’re talking about lovely women here. Naked ones.

If he had only chosen subjects that he was not in love with, would he have been as inspired? Would his paintings have been as impassioned? Would he have been able to see the soul of a woman enough to paint her in a hundred colors without having slept with her? As intensely inspiring as I know love is, in this case, I don’t think so.

One day I’ll read his biography and get a deeper understanding of his influences and motivations. But for today I’ll stick with one of my favorite romantic notions; the belief that love, and her muses, have the greatest power to inspire greatness.