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2001-11-29 | 12:08 p.m.

So I've been reading this book about how to make art journals, illuminated journals, whatever you want to call them, handmade books with visuals; and then I'm listening to KQED radio and they're talking about this exhibit in San Francisco of "artists' books," which is nearly the same thing except these books would be by big-shot artists. So I get excited and even though I haven't wanted to go anywhere in ages, I decide I want to go. After all, I'm already on my way to Berkeley to visit Frank, at his exasperated urging (I'd blown him off the last couple of times I was supposed to go), and all we're going to do is sit around his apartment, so all I have to do is talk him into it.

He isn't too wild about the idea but he's okay with it, so after we have a quick lunch at Sconehenge, our regular spot, we head into the city. The museum is hard to reach by public transportation, so we take my car, which has been acting up lately, though not too bad the last few days. At 20th and Geary, I stop to hit the ATM and when we get back into the car, it won't start. Frank is worried but I insist that the car will start eventually, and after about 20 minutes of trying, it does. Frank wants to go home, but I think we can make it to the museum. We pull out into traffic and immediately have to wait at a red light. The car stalls.

Frank pushes and I steer us around the corner, across from a garage. There is even a convenient parking spot available, the only one in the area with no meter, which is something that really doesn't happen in San Francisco except on Nash Bridges.

I call Duff and say I think I will put the car in the garage if they have time to work on it. He says he doesn't want to have it worked on in San Francisco because it will be too expensive. He wants me to call our roadside assistance provider and have it towed home to our regular garage, 40 miles away. I say, "It will cost a lot to have it towed so far," but he is firm.

"What does he say?" Frank says.

I tell him.

"I think it's time to end the call," Frank says coolly.

"What did he say?" Duff says.

"Nothing," I say. "I better go."

Frank says it's not Duff's decision to make, it's mine, because I am the one who is stranded. I want Duff to make the decision because I don't want to get stuck paying for the repair, but I don't tell Frank that. Frank says we should wait for the garage owner to get back, to find out if he can work on it. So we do. But it turns out, he can't. He suggests we try another mechanic, but this one happens to be on the second floor of a building. I am not at all sure I can get the car up the steep incline that leads to the second garage. What if it stalled on the way up? We roll back down, that's what. Too dicey.

I get back in the car. I turn the key and it starts.

"What do you want to do?" Frank says.

"I want to drive."

"I don't think we should go to the museum, though."

"No, no, let's just go back."

We go. The car goes. It's raining. We make it to Berkeley. Fiona and her sister, Bonita, a freshly minted lawyer just back from a stint clerking at the Supreme Court, are standing in front of the door when we arrive.

"I got a place!" Bonita shrieks. She just got into town yesterday; only started looking today.

We all hop into Fiona's car to drive by the new place. It's a cute little Craftsman house. It's a dark, gloomy day, but this will be an adorable sunny-day house. A previous tenant must have been a painter, because there are odd trompe l'oeil effects painted here and there. Thankfully, not too many. I take pictures with my digital camera. The house is cute, the rent is reasonable, and this is all reason to cheer because Bonita will be a labor lawyer, not a corporate lawyer. Which is also reason to cheer.

Back at Frank and Fiona's place, we talk about yoga and politics. Every other person I know in Berkeley takes yoga now. Fiona is debating whether to go to her class. She has her period, she explains, and she doesn't want to wear tight-fitting clothes. Nor does she want to wear loose pants, because at a certain point she needs to prop one foot on her sweaty calf, and she needs the traction. I suggest that she take a pair of sweat pants and cut them off just above the knee. "That would work," she says. Also, she explains, if you have your period, you're not supposed to do certain yoga movements, because they can cause cramping. (This sounds a little bogus to me, but I keep my mouth shut, because I really don't know.) If she goes to the class but doesn't do those movements, everyone will know she is on her period. She doesn't like that idea. Then it is revealed that the yoga instructor is a little ... oogly. They call him Swinger Guy. Maybe he is coming on to Fiona a little. Fiona says Frank doesn't like him for that reason. I say, in a vulgar way, "Well, maybe if he knows you're on the RAG, he'll leave you alone!" Everybody laughs.

Their flat is warm and dark, perfect for a rainy day.

I call Duff and ask him to take BART and meet me there, so we can drive home together. The two sisters leave for the yoga class. Frank and I look over the handful of covers he and Roger have re-designed for his book. Roger's efforts don't suit Frank, and nothing suits the publisher. It's a source of enormous frustration. Nor are the photos quite as good as they could be. Perhaps. It is not something you want to say, but there it is. Best to let that go. The photographer is a good friend.

I call my mother to tell her why I'm running late. Now she will worry about the car. She tells me that she argued with Diane, and Diane threatened not to pick up the girls from school. "I don't like the sound of that," I say, making a mental note not to ask her again. "She only said it to get to me," Mom says. "She wants me to walk the floor." Great.

Duff arrives and we chat a bit longer, then leave. "I'm sorry for ruining your day," I tell Frank. "Ruining my day?" he says. It is raining hard. We drive halfway home, stop at Taqueria Maria (my favorite), and eat. Letting the car rest. The lights in the parking lot are all out, and the wind is terribly cold, so we run as fast as we can to the door, stomping fat puddles to make satisfying splats. It hardly ever rains around here.

After dinner, we make it all the way back to our street, until just as Duff is pulling into our driveway, the car stalls. But we get it going again and make it up to my Mom's to pick up the kids. Everyone gets home safe, and today I will take it to the garage.

I feel like: That's what I get for trying to do something out of the ordinary. That's what I get for taking Frank.

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