Company

Carmel-by-the Sea, California

Billy flew home last night. I drove him to Monterey airport, driving back in the dark to our rental home, letting myself in to the now-empty but well-lit house (he made sure of that before we left) and standing for a moment. I took a deep breath.

If you have followed along at all (and I reiterate, why would you?) you know that the time we spend in Carmel is split between time together with friends; time we spend alone together; time I spend with my fristers, and the time when I am here by myself. It all sounds lovely, but last night, with Billy still in the air enroute to Los Angeles, I felt lonely. We had such a great time here with our friends, Todd and Christopher, and their family entourage. And I had so looked forward to Christmas and New Year's here with them. It was over in a the blink of an eye. On January 2nd, we returned to LA to check on our business (good) and my mom (stable). We drove back up on Saturday night -- the second rainy night drive from LA to Carmel in a fortnight.

I usually enjoy my time alone here in Carmel. It's pretty much the only place where I have been completely alone since we married. When Billy has needed to travel for business, I almost always go with him. I don't think I have ever spent a night alone in our present home. But I've spent lots of time alone in Carmel, especially since we lost our irrepressible Aussie who accompanied us on the early trips when we stayed at Tucked In (see January blog posts from 2009, available here subject to fees and disclosures).

Being alone is important because it allows you to focus on yourself, and in doing so, you realize how much you want and need to have people in your life to throw that focus off of yourself. You need to give; you need to compromise; you need to put other people's needs ahead of you own. Just as role models or whatever can provide us with our moral compass, being alone can help you to reset your community compass. We are all but a small part, somewhere in the midst of concentric circles. It's important to be aware of who else those circles contain--family, friends, neighbors, your community both small and at large, and to be aware of what you can and should do as your part. But it's not bad to be on your own occasionally, to indulge yourself and recharge your battery. Here in Carmel, I am able to bask in the universe of my own Bronteness. But, the truth is, having had our time here with our friends, I missed Carole after she left. And I miss Todd and Christopher. And, most especially, I miss Billy. Not that we spend every waking moment here together. On the contrary. Billy sometimes walks alone, preferring to leave the house early before I even want to think about it. And I usually go to Mass alone on Sundays, though he will accompany me once or twice during our time here together.

Most Sunday afternoons, Billy goes to open houses to look at homes that are currently up for sale here. Don't ask me why he does this. In the years that we have been coming here, he has always spent time driving around looking at real estate and attending open houses. Not once, during that time, has he said to me that he has found a house he would consider purchasing. It is purely recreational. I've struggled to understand the point of this, but one day I realized that it is a lot like my reading cookbooks and food magazines. I probably don't prepare five percent of the recipes I mark with Post-it tabs, but while I am doing it I am awash in the fantasy of the wonderful dinner parties I will have, feeding my friends with this new clever and astoundingly delicious dish which I will prep, prepare, and plate perfectly. But when it comes to it, I'm often too scattered by stress and too fatigued to actually plan and execute this fantasy dinner party. Not that I don't have the energy, but, these days, it is a different kind which tends to go out on the dance floor rather than in a marathon of cooking. And maybe Billy's interest in the houses is similar -- imagining himself working in a well-appointed home office, or gazing at the sunset from the window of his living room which overlooks Carmel beach. I'm just guessing, as he's never really explained this to me. And that's ok.

Marriage. You don't always explain. You don't always understand. But you have someone there with whom you can curl up on the sofa in front of the fire and watch the third season of Downton Abbey. Steven Sondheim called it Company. And with Billy back home in Los Angeles, I am bereft of that company for the moment. However, my Las Chicas fristers arrive tomorrow night for a weekend of chatter, laughter, deep conversations, and intense girlfriend silliness. DG's father-in-law passed away last weekend, and she will be coming here just after traveling to Boston for his funeral. As she wrote in her email to tell us that she would still be able to make it for our weekend...and I will need it more than ever. But we always need this company, frister-style.

So for today, and for tomorrow, I am alone. I'm doing a bit of cooking in preparation for their time here. I'm gathering together a few surprise treats that will be waiting for them on their beds. And I'm looking forward to their visit, and to Billy's return the following Saturday night. We will have ten more days here together before we pack up and return to LA. We've had an especially good time here with our friends. The first half of our stay was stellar, and I am joyfully anticipating our remaining time here together. We'll enjoy the peaceful beauty of the beach and this community, as well as the more slowly-paced life we share here. But what I am looking forward to the most is simply the pleasure of his company, here in this beautiful place that has grown to feel so much like home to us both. Thanks for reading my blog. Welcome Las Chicas Fristers, and safe trip back, Billy!

The Monogram

Carmel-by-the-Sea

Here is the great idea that I presented to Billy recently. We were coming up on a non-significant anniversary (not one of those number of years divided by five). So I thought it would be cool to buy monogrammed aprons to celebrate. Now, have I mentioned somewhere along the line that Billy and I cook together? I mean, we cook together a lot. He is Casa Healy's sous chef extraordinaire. Believe me, no one can prep food, including slicing, chopping, and shredding like this man. He is also an excellent bartender, and an ace barbecue chef to boot. What is it that Rita Rudner says about barbecuing? That men will cook if danger is involved. That's Billy -- give him sharp tools, booze, and fire, and he is all in.

Unfortunately, not so in on the apron idea. He even used the "i" word -- something to the effect of "Are you insane? Why would I want an apron?" So I pretty much dropped the idea for the time being. Billy can get a little cranky at times, and the "i" word is one of his favorites when, in his view, people are not seeing eye to "i" with him. I let this roll off my back because it's also meant to be funny, in a weird, hyperbolic way.

Besides, I knew I wasn't insane. Not by a long shot. You see, there is a store here in Carmel that sells yummy, luxurious french linens which can be personalized with embroidery in a myriad of ways. You can find out about this marvelous store here. I always go there when I am in Carmel, and have often bought kitchen towels as gifts for friends. But I've never acquired any of the linens for myself. OK, so maybe my mistake was trying to loop Billy into this transaction.

Looping Lydia into this transaction is another story altogether, however! For a little backstory, I must ask you to remember or review my post entitled The Sisterhood of the Traveling Scarves (available right here, for free!). Because once again, Lydia and Debra came to Carmel. And what a time we had. We spent a girlfriend day lounging around in robes at The Spa at Pebble Beach. We shopped a lot (or Lydia did, anyway, as she's our resident pro). They even shopped while I went to Mass on Sunday. We ate, I drank (they're such lightweights), and they took me out twice including one night to La Bicyclette where we had some pretty fine pizza, and some very fine pinot. And in the midst of all this frister fun, I mentioned the aprons. Then, I took them to the store to check out said aprons.

Lydia? Where's Lydia? She circled the store maybe once, eventually zeroing in on the aprons. Soon she had selected one she liked and began looking at the various images that could be embroidered on it. Now, before we go on to that, I must provide the back story that Lydia came late to the cooking party. Last summer, she made a commitment to begin cooking in earnest at her home. Her son had returned from college to attend law school, so she would be cooking daily for at least three. And she has taken this endeavor very seriously, even with some chatter lately about taking cooking classes. So, not to belabor the point, an apron was right up her alley (also right up Billy's, but as I've relented why am I going on about this, I ask you?).

Lydia was momentarily stymied by the choices of iconic images that she could have embroidered on her chosen apron. She could have had lobsters, or olives, or grapes, or herbs, or any of a variety of vegetables and fruits. She could have chosen a whisk, or a few sprigs of lavender. She had scores of options, and she seemed stumped. So I suggested a monogram, showing her one that I thought was pretty, with the initials written in script.

"Oh!" she said, as I handed her the apron with the monogram. I could tell she was considering it.

"Let's see, you would have the large "O" in the middle," I pointed out (obviously, Lydia's last name begins with an O. Duh.).

"What's your middle initial?" I continued.

"L."

"L?"

"Yeah, it's L."

Pregnant pause.

"Are you telling me that your monogram is L-O-L?"

"Yeah."

"No-o-o-o . . ."

"Yeah, it is," she said, smiling, as this had inexplicably never occured to her.

"Are you kidding me?"

A novice cook, with a family frankly surprised that she has taken this on and is making many things "from scratch." And . . . wait for it . . . an apron that states L-O-L. You just can't make up stuff like this.

Lydia purchased her apron, choosing a whimsical font for her initials, and it turned out perfectly. And, not to steal the thunder here, but I got one too. One that has olives embroidered on it (appetizer de rigeur at our house and here), and says Casa Healy. I'm hoping that Billy will be envious when he sees it, and perhaps request his own. But not as envious as I am about Lydia's acrynomic monogram.

Alas, the visit of Las Chicas passed too quickly, but not before we managed to laugh ourselves all the way to tears several times. In a store with a collection of wry slogans on magnets, Debra and I needed tissues after a laughing fit. And I know it won't sound funny here (rather mean-spirited, in fact, but what the heck). It was a characture of a middle-aged man and his portly wife. The caption read: Not only are you not the woman I married, but it looks as if you ATE her. OK, we were a bit punchy from an all-day shopping excursion with Lydia, which was, as usual, exhausting, comprehensive, and tons of fun. And, I must say that until you've spent a day like that, with these bright and funny women, you really can't appreciate the meaning of LOL. You must trust me about this. Thank you for reading my blog (and thanks for coming to Carmel, Las Chicas!).

Fristers

Los Angeles, California


A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.


Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.


When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.


I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.


When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.