This is no way to keep my treasured family photos — or is it?
None of our kids would be what you would call “the most reliable.”
Probably the closest thing to reliable would be the lovely and patient older daughter, who had a birthday the other day. She hosted a dinner party to mark the occasion, and broke two wine glasses while loading the dishwasher. Mazel tov. Salud.
Happy 33, sweetheart. Don’t cut your fingers.
That’s right, I have a daughter who is 33. She is now, according to the actuarial tables I keep, older than me.
Anyway, she had this dinner party, over in her bungalow near the sea (if the wind is right, you can smell the celebrities). It wasn’t so much to honor her birthday as it was to introduce her promising new boyfriend, who now resides there as well.
I can be a little old-school. But I guess that, at 33, my lovely and patient older daughter is mature enough to decide to live with someone. It sure beats some of the things I was doing at 33: a new parent changing diapers in New Orleans; lying back on some ungodly uncomfortable Ikea couch at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night just whipped and wondering how to get the dishes done. Or realizing Posh was pregnant — again?! — even as the MasterCard interest was eating up our paychecks. “To California, we’ll go!” I insisted, and that pretty much set us on the downward spiral we’re still experiencing today.
By comparison, our older daughter seems deliriously happy. She throws a fine dinner party, serving the overpriced rib-eyes Posh brought for the occasion. Justin, the promising new boyfriend, grilled them up. I prefer mine a little sootier, and served over a bed of buttered waffles. But I guess they don’t do that on the Westside.
With us this night is her youngest brother, this being a family birthday and all. The little guy likes going to his sister’s place because it smells like lilacs and celebrities instead of whiskey and motor oil.
So, yeah, it’s a nice dinner. Candles. Wine. Typical Westside conversation (“San Francisco has changed soooo much...”).
At one point, her mother notices that our daughter is eating her corn on the cob vertically, starting with the top row and working her way south. How weird is that? As I said, I have lots of odd kids, and she’s not even the oddest.
That would probably be the little guy, though they are all odd in their own special ways. The other day, someone noted that everybody’s weird when you get to know them a little.
“I’m a total dork,” I’ve confessed to friends over the last month. I thought they’d appreciate my candor, my authenticity. Instead, they just nodded and responded, “Yes, you definitely are.”
Yet, I embrace my dorkiness, and encourage my children toward uncool pursuits as well. I think it makes us human and so much more endearing than the super-hip L.A. idiot who’s trying to impress everyone. If you’ve ever met a CAA agent, you know exactly what I mean.
In honor of his sister’s birthday, the little guy dug into a crate of old photos Posh keeps around to remember when her children were less mouthy and didn’t party so hard. Before that, they were this bouquet of lovable little dorks.
Now photos reside forever in our cameras and phones, or on discs, memory sticks and websites we’ll never be able to open 30 years from now.
Back then, we were sure she’d be an only child, so we took lots of photos. Now we have this time capsule of photos, collected over 33 years, in a wood crate that used to hold jars of jam.
That system seems prehistoric now. No one collects pictures in crates anymore. Now photos reside forever in our cameras and phones, or on discs, memory sticks and websites we’ll never be able to open 30 years from now.
That’s how far we’ve come regarding photos.
In this photo crate, the little guy finds all sorts of family treasures. There are faces full of cake frosting, or water-balloon fights on the lawn. Vacations. Christmases. New kittens.
He especially appreciates the ones where his big sister — the bossy one — was 3, and wore either princess costumes or underwear clear up to her armpits. Those are the embarrassing photos he’s looking for. Something super-special he can post on Instagram.
His sister is not happy that he posts underwear photos on Instagram, even if she was only 3 and naked in the same way squirrels are naked. No one much notices.
I think it’s the dorkiness that worries her. The same dorkiness we cherish the most.
Happy birthday, kid.
Twitter: @erskinetimes
