I did the Mother's Day thing. Spoke to my daughters. Spoke to my mother. Soaked up that long distance love. Sent it buzzing through cell phone towers and phone lines stringing telephone poles together from state to state--and I got plenty of that buzzing love right back.
I also had my first gathering (well--mini-gathering) at my new house. My friend S. might have the distinction of being the first friend to come over at every new place I've had. There's been champagne or red wine in front of fireplaces, next to the pool, on the patio. We've toasted to newness, friendship, happiness, and yesterday there we were again--S. and her guy and me marveling at boats and birds and water with a tablecloth thrown over a grubby million-year-old folding table. And it was a day for a extra celebrating since S. had just returned from her graduation ceremony in which she was awarded her Ph.D.
We toasted that, too, of course, and ate local berries and avocados, and good cheese, and fresh roasted cauliflower. Afterwards we walked to the sand and marveled at the ocean, and then they drove back to Hollywood.
Later that evening, I rode the Ventura County Airporter shuttle bus from my tiny local airport to LAX to have dinner with a friend in town very briefly on business. The freeways were a troubled infinity of accidents and traffic jams, so the minibus rattled down the coast on the way there. We wove through Malibu, Santa Monica, Venice, and Marina del Rey. Happy families picnicking on the sand, surfers crossing four lanes of coast highway traffic riding the openings like a wave, pelicans dive-bombing their dinner, a happier infinity of blue water, white waves, and sunshine.
Dinner at Encounter was......an encounter. George Jetson meets tired coffee shop meets inflated prices meets harried wait staff. The tuna tartare and the fresh green salad were very good. The calamari less so. Dining with my friend, talking writing, and dogs, and traveling could not have been better.
I caught the last shuttle back. At shortly before midnight, I found myself trapped in the parking lot of the shuttered and dark Oxnard airport. After calling an 800 number on a parking lot sign, a guy emerged from control tower. "Oh that button," he said. "It's sticky. We really should fix that."