The weekend with the godchildren went well. All chores and homework were completed by the time the parents arrived home and there were no deaths to report. I know that I enjoyed a weekend away from the craziness of urban living and I think they enjoyed a deviation from their normal routine.

Thursday

All business. Homework started as soon as they arrived home from Day 2 of school. Piano practice. Dogs walked. Dinner. Baths. Bedtime stories. All lights out by 9:45 pm. At which point I was somewhat at a loss. I’ve never finished my day by 9:45. What to do? I relaxed in the sitting room, enjoying an unprecedented stretch of time to read, uninterrupted by sirens blaring in the street, footsteps and arguments upstairs, drunks yelling as they stumbled home from bars. Solitude. Peace. Quiet. Wow.

Friday

So this is what it feels like to be responsible for others. Making sure they wake up on time. Making sure they take their vitamins. Making sure they have everything necessary for school: homework, lunches, book bags. Making sure they leave the house on time. Walking the dogs. And still having time to play the piano before leaving for work. This isn’t so bad after all.

Friday evening. We’re all in the oldest’s room, sprawled on the bed, laid across the floor. “What are we going to do tonight?” I asked excitedly. “We can do anything we want! What do you feel like?” I was met by blank stares and mumbles of “I don’t know…” Teenagers.

We picked up Japanese takeout and rented 3 DVDs from Blockbuster, “Ella Enchanted,” “13 Going On 30,” and “Chasing Liberty.” The daughter definitely has the strongest personality. But the boys didn’t complain. While not the highest quality movies, they were entertaining nonetheless. In between movies we talked about technology. Georgie, the youngest, turned to me and asked, “Nouna, did they have color tv when you were a kid?” Oh, my god.

Saturday

Slept in, had sugar-loaded cereal for breakfast. Took the dogs to the park. Relished the hot, hot sunshine. Enjoyed lunch at a local burger joint. Returned home. And then I turned neurotic. “We are not going to watch tv all weekend. We don’t get to spend much time together. We’re going to enjoy family time (subtext: dammit. you will have fun. right now.). What game do you want to play?” They stared at me blankly. “Monopoly? Taboo? Scattegories? I see them all on the shelf. What’ll it be?”

After an eternity, the youngest said, “Let’s play Taboo.”

We decided it would be the godmother/godson team against the brother/sister team. The highlight of the game was Georgie, giving me clues, saying, “He’s the older brother of Michael. He was in the Jackson Five. He sang. He danced.” I racked my brain. “Tito?” Blank stare. “Jackie?” Violent shaking of head. “Jermaine?” More violent shaking of head. I couldn’t recall the others. Who were they? George made a strategic decision and passed. At the end of the round I asked him, “What was the card we missed? What was it?”

“Jesse Jackson.”

Oh, goodness. “Uhm, George. He wasn’t a part of the Jackson Five. He’s not related to Michael. He, uhm, well, he ran for President several years ago. He’s the leader of the Rainbow Coalition.” Again, I was met by blank stares.

“Okay, enough family games. We’re going to the City!” I declared. Within half an hour we were showered and in the car, crossing the Bay Bridge, on the way to the Metreon.

After a couple of hours of virtual bowling and Dance, Dance Revolution, and dinner at a glorified food court, we reached another decision point. “Well, we could go see ‘Hero,’ or ‘Princess Diaries 2,‘” I said, reciting movie choices. The oldest one looked at me and calmly stated, “Maybe we should head back home. It is almost 11:00.” And who’s in charge here? We followed his lead and went home, watching more DVDs and munching on popcorn until well after midnight.

Sunday

Around 1:00 pm the phone rang. It was the housekeeper. “Hi, Hilda. How are you?” “Good. Can I talk to Georgie? I want to wish him a happy birthday.” Holy crap. We had had his party last weekend. Everyone had totally forgotten his birthday was today. Damn.

While he was on the phone with the housekeeper I rallied the other two. “We totally forgot it was his birthday. What should we do?” We decided on a birthday lunch. At Chevy’s. They sing. They give you ice cream. It would be good.

Except. That it’s been several years since I’ve lived in the East Bay. What should have been a 10 minute ride to the restaurant turned into over an hour. I drove around in circles. I passed the same streets over and over. I couldn’t get to the Chevy’s. The birthday boy fell asleep in the front seat (“Shotgun! I call shotgun!”) and was awakened only when I spotted a Volkswagen Beetle and hit him, shouting, “Punchbuggy blue!”

We arrived to the restaurant and enjoyed a bland Mexican lunch, accompanied by a pitcher of virgin margaritas. It was amazing. As reticent as these teenagers normally were, at meal time they became fluent conversationalists. It was quite nice.

We returned home, finished weekend chores, read, and watched video games. The parents returned home; it was time for me to return to the City. I’m not sure it’s something I would want to do everyday, but it was a great escape for a weekend.

I’m off to babysit my godchildren tomorrow, for the weekend. I see them often, but this will be the first time in about 7 years that I’ve spent the weekend with them. Me, in charge of them. Frightening.

The last time was, well, traumatic. They were 3, 5, and 8. It didn’t start off as traumatic. We were excited about the weekend. My ex-husband and I, playing house. Babysitting the godchildren. On Saturday we took them to a local fair. We played games; we ate carnival food; we won prizes. Saturday night we went out to dinner and to the movies. Sunday morning we went to the park; we ran; we played; we had fun. All was right with the world. Until.

We came home. Georgie, the youngest, somehow escaped our attention. I’m not sure how. We were all in the same room. The two older ones were watching tv. Georgie decided to climb up, on the barstool, to get something off the counter. Which would have been fine, except he decided to pull himself up by grabbing onto the fishtank. Which proceeded to topple, crash, a deluge of water and fish. It wasn’t an aquarium. Simply a plastic fishtank with about 7 fish in it, won at the fair. Water flooded the hardwood floors. Fish went everywhere. The middle child, seeing the fish on the floor, began screaming in her high pitched voice, “Ahhhhh…. They’re dying! You killed them! The fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiishhhhhhhh……” Georgie simply sat there on the stool, mesmerized by the flowing water and the floundering fish. The oldest tried to capture the flailing fish and put them back in the tank, at the least bruising them, but more likely crushing them in the process. Steve and I, for the most part, stood there dumb-founded, not sure what to do.

At some point in time I wiped the spilled water up with paper towels. All the fish were gathered and placed back into the fish tank. We filled it up with water. Some swam, most floated to the top. “Why are they doing that?” the children asked. “They’ve been through a lot today. They’re resting,” we replied, knowing they were dead, but not sure how to explain it. Their parents would be home in a couple of hours. Let them explain it.

I thought back on this as their mother went over bedtimes, soccer practice times, morning routines, homework regimes, with me tonight. She asked me if I had any questions. “No. No questions. I think we’ll be fine. I’m just glad you don’t have fish anymore.”

She laughed. “Yes, dogs are much harder to kill.”

Oh. Please don’t say that. Please.

He had said, “Hey, my band is playing tomorrow night. You should come check us out.”

Always up for live music, I took note of the band’s name and the bar they were playing at. I mentioned it to Emmy, a fellow live music fan, and it was set.

I’m not sure what we were expecting, but that wasn’t it. The first song was… bad. Something about what you get when you love a real man and a lot of fondling of a football. Backup singers in bikini tops and pigtails who spanked each other. The next song, after an elaborate costume change, was about a former cowboy who opened up a lingerie store. I was hesitant to look over at Emily. Would she ever forgive me?

During the third song, I leaned over. “We don’t have to stay. Anytime you’re ready….”

“Maybe it will get better…”

We persevered through two more songs. At which point she caught my eye, laughed, and said, “Ready?”

As we walked out the door, ever the optimist, she noted, “Some of the riffs weren’t so bad. And you can tell they practice. Each song has quite the choreographed routine to go with it.”

“If only they put as much effort into the music…”

She suggested it thinking we would watch a light-hearted musical comedy.

About halfway through the movie tears slowly, gently, started sliding down my cheeks. As the scene progressed, the tears came more and more quickly until I was heaving silently, trying to breathe through the sobs retching my body.

After many minutes, she leaned over. “Are you okay?”

I merely nodded as we continued to watch the movie, me unsuccessfully trying to silence my sobbing, her unsuccessfully wondering what was causing me to react so. After the movie ended, she merely looked at me, not sure what to say.

I tried to explain. “It’s just so tragic. A complete tragedy. Two people. Trying so hard, but with different goals. Trying to accept each other, trying to accept themselves for what they each were. Wanting something so badly and not getting it, not being able to offer it… He loved her, there was no doubt, but he couldn’t love her the way she wanted to be loved…”

The crying finally subsided three gin and tonics and many hours later. I still think it’s one of the greatest tragedies…

I’ve seen the sign on many occasions. Going to a ballgame, jogging along the Embarcadero, on the way to get my haircut. City Kayak. Kayaking on the Bay. In theory, it sounded like the perfect day. A couple of months ago, when my girlfriends asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I suggested this. They initially agreed, but as the date got closer excuses were made. We never made it. It was conveniently never rescheduled. So I decided to go on my own.

After receiving waterproof pants, a jacket and a lifevest that fit snugly, I sat to wait. There were about 25 people all together, all there for the group excursion in the Bay. Few words were spoken, most people still coddling their first cup of morning coffee. One of the instructors called us to attention for a brief paddling lesson followed by a crash course in self-rescue techniques. He suggested that first-timers use a double kayak; it wouldn’t be as much work.

On the dock I watched as everyone got into boats, two by two. I was one of the last ones standing. One of the instructors, already in the water, called to me. “Grab your partner and a boat and get in.”

“I’m a single.”

“Oh. Are you experienced?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve kayaked before, but it was years ago.”

“Then you can’t be in a single boat. Find a partner.”

“There isn’t anyone. Everyone else is paired up.” I looked around the empty dock to make my point.

“Who’d you come with?”

“I came by myself.”

He didn’t seem to understand this. “You came by yourself?” he snorted with disdain. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Actually, no I don’t. I’d prefer a single boat.”

“But you’re not experienced.”

I literally stood my ground.

“Oh, fine. Talk to Cameron,” he muttered as he paddled away.

I talked to Cameron, who was quite happy to provide me with a single boat. He helped me in the water and I paddled out to the rest of the group. The first few strokes were awkward. How were my knuckles supposed to line up? What position should my legs be in? As I reached open water I remembered. Twist with my torso, back straight, push the upper paddle, pull the lower through the water, reverse. I almost became hypnotized by the continuous motion, watching the bay water swirl from the motion of my paddle.

The clouds parted; the sun shone down on my bare arms. Water splashed from the paddle into my hair; drops dried on my arms leaving a residue of salt crusted on my skin. Most of the time I was alone, me and the Bay, eons away from the hustle and bustle of the city, watching the swirl of the water, relishing the lack of worries racing through my mind. At times I would paddle along fellow kayakers, making small talk, commenting on the skyline, the park, the crowd of baseball fans. For the most part, I cherished my solitude.

After 3 hours Mr. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” commanded us to return. Our time was up. I lollygagged. I wasn’t ready to return. I was the last one back. Cameron helped me out of my boat. “Did you have a good time?”

I smiled. “I did. I really, really did.”

I was in Seattle for the day, attending a Project Management class. I sat at a table of Expedia attendees and they were as entertaining as the presenter. Neil, who sat beside me, introduced himself as the CEO, though I knew it wasn’t true. He exhibited dry wit and sarcasm throughout the day, which made the class quite entertaining.

At one of the breaks, his co-worker, Jane, started rifling through his bag. She found a pack of Marlboro Menthols. “What is this? What is this? You smoke? What is this?”

Neil played it off. “For emergencies. I’m not a smoker. I simply have them just in case. Just in case I have an urge.” He looked to me for support.

“Neil, I’ve had your back all day, but on this one, I’m with Jane. If you have a pack of cigarettes in your bag, you’re a smoker. Quit denying it.”

“It’s not like that. Okay. It’s like this. You’re a woman.”

“Yes. I am.” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“So, you might carry around… you know… just in case….”

“Dude. You are NOT suggesting that carrying around a tampon is the equivalent to toting a pack of cigarettes. First of all, my period is inevitable. I know it’s going to happen. At least once a month. So therefore, if I choose to carry a tampon, I’m being prepared. It’s not about choice. Smoking is a choice. It’s not inevitable that you will HAVE to have a cigarette.”

He offered a smirk, knowing his analogy was not accurate.

“Let’s break it down, Neil. Let’s say, for instance, I carried around a flask of gin, just in case I happened to want a drink. Now, when I’m toting my flask, would you call me a drinker?”

He tore a piece of paper off his notepad then waved it back and forth.

“White flag. I surrender. You’ve made your point. I’m a smoker…”

“So, I have a question for you. When we’re getting ready in the morning, do you wonder…” I began.

“Oh, my god. If we’re thinking the same thing…”

“Do you wonder what other people do for a living? Do you watch them get ready and wonder what job they’re heading off to?”

“Actually, I do. But what I thought you were going to say is ‘what names do they have for us’?”

See, we have nicknames for a lot of people at the gym. There’s “Nice Lady.” She’s the one who shares the one single electrical outlet in the women’s locker room, always with a smile. She practices good locker room etiquette, making just enough small talk, but not too much, and never when we’re naked.

There’s “Miss 24-Hour Fitness.” She’s the one who is hard core workout queen and who knows everyone at the gym, spending as much time socializing as working out. She makes her rounds, chatting with just about everyone, both in English and Spanish, the young hipsters and the more mature morning senior crowd.

There’s “Crazy Gym Lady.” She’s friends with “Miss 24-Hour Fitness” and truly is crazy. She gets on the treadmill, increases the incline to maximum, runs hard for three minutes, then whoops and screams, “Oh, yeah! I did it! Look at me!” as she tugs on the waistband of her cut-off, rolled sweats to prevent her lacy thong from peeping out, then prances to another machine.

There’s “The Grunter.” He’s the one who neither one of us can workout nearby; he grunts and screams and just makes us laugh. He can’t seem to stand still; he’s always bouncing from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together, saying, “Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! That’s it, baby! Harder! Give it to me!” While pumping iron.

There’s “Stinky Woman,” the one who never showers after an intense workout. She spends enough time lathering herself with smelly body products that she could shower. But she never does. We wonder if her co-workers notice.

We have names for just about everyone.

“So what do you think they would call us, if they did call us?” I asked.

“Well, I think you would be ‘Tall Gym Girl’.”

“Tall Gym Girl?” I inquired. “Why? I’m only 5’8″.”

“But you carry yourself much taller. You’re now known as ‘Tall Gym Girl.’” I shrugged my shoulders. Okay. I guess there are much worse things I could be known as.

“How about you?”

“I think I’m known as ‘Mean Gym Girl.’ I never speak to anyone. I never make eye contact. I’m ‘Mean Gym Girl.’”

“But you’re not mean. You’re friendly to people you know.”

“But if I’m ‘Mean Gym Girl’ then I don’t have to talk to all the crazy people we have names for. See, you make the mistake of making eye contact. I, on the other hand, have a peaceful workout.”

She’s got a point…

It was the morning for my monthly massage. That one hour that does as much for me mentally as well as physically. Seka, my Czechoslovakian angel, always imparts words of wisdom during our 60 minutes together.

I arrived; she kissed me with her greeting. “Bella, how are you? You look so good, so good. Any pains? Any injuries?”

I smiled, immediately at ease. “No, just the shoulder. Too much computer work. But nothing else.”

“And how is the boy?”

I paused, took a deep breath, then sighed, “The boy is no more. We’re not seeing each other.”

“How long were you together?”

“Two months.”

“Lori, bella, you are so lucky. You had two months of love. Of butterflies. I am 57 years old. Do you know how many of my friends have never felt that? I talk to them about the butterflies and they say, ‘Butterflies? What are these butterflies of which you speak?’ You are always telling me about the butterflies. You are very, very lucky.”

I thought for a moment. We did have two very fun months together. The nights on his boat. The picnic on the beach. Sharing roast beef sandwiches and Merlot in 15 knot winds. Not caring that the sand cut our faces. The nights at Tommy’s, sipping Herradura anejo and sharing stories. A weekend in Vegas. Dancing until sunrise. Tender kisses. Simply being with each other, my head in his lap, as we watched movies, lazily talking about whatever entered our minds. And the laughter. So much laughter.

But there were problems. Problems that eclipsed the laughter, problems that crept into the lazy moments, casting doubt on the reality we experienced.

But for now, I choose not to remember those. As she kneads at me, as she eases all tension from my stiff muscles, I choose only to remember the love.

In the past week, I’ve had two men tell me, “I can’t give you what you want.” How can this be? I don’t even know what I want. How can they? Can you clue me in? Please.

He called. “Hey, want to come to the A’s game? I have luxury box tickets.”

Hmm. I was working late. Deadlines. I wasn’t going to finish tonight. I was going to have to come in tomorrow, on Saturday, anyway. Work late? Go to the ballgame? Work late? Hmmm.

“Sure. When should I meet you there?”

A mere hour later, we were at the park. We were trying to find Loge seats, booth 58. There it is. We entered. I was shocked. We are in a tiny room with a couple of rows of auditorium style seats. We introduced ourselves to the others in the room, media big wigs from neighboring cities. After helping ourselves to the refreshments provided, we settled in to watch the game. After a couple of at bats, I turned to him. “You know, I feel like I should really appreciate these seats, but …”

“What?” he asked.

“This just ain’t right. We’re at a ballgame. I need to be down there (pointing to field seats). I need to be with the people.”

I’m just not a luxury type of gal.