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2001-07-26 | 12:33 p.m.

Had two obligatory meet-n-greet events scheduled for yesterday afternoon, which in my quiet life qualifies as the social equivalent of the Great 1906 Earthquake and Fire. (As I write these words, I can hear fire engine sirens in the not-too-distance. But that is to be expected when you live inside a fire station triangle.) First was Duff's company picnic, which I have to come to loathe over the years. I worked at the company first, as a contractor, but it's been so long that there are hardly any people left who remember me. So I sit there all Elinor Rigby and eat my dried-out catered hamburger (should have tried the Portabella mushroom "burger" instead) and hand-made potato chips and watch Duff toss a football and collect the bubble juice and balloon-animal hats that the kids ask me to hold for them. My mind starts to wander to subjects such as, How many of these people look at me and feel sorry for Duff?

But this time I had another pressing engagement, so I scuttled out of there in about an hour and a half, leaving the kids at the park with their father. After I left, Duff reported later, numerous co-workers came up to him and said, "I didn't know you had kids!" Shaking his head, Duff said, "These are people who come into my cube all the time." Meaning they see all his kid pics and apparently assume he is just a very proud uncle.

(You can be sure I don't hear that one often. Anyone who spends five minutes with me knows I'm a mother. The one I hear all the time is, "How do you do it?" Meaning, be anything like a real person and take care of three kids. The actual answer is, not very well.)

After the picnic I drove to San Francisco to meet the author whose book I'm supposed to be publicizing. She had just flown in from the East Coast and was at Birgit's apartment. Birgit is the editorial director of the press (who is 31, I found out; same age as Duff and Bambi), and she lives in a pretty little apartment that evokes 1920s Paris. Even the bathroom, with its lovely lavender ceramic tiles and cream-colored hand-made soaps. Of course I was nervous to be there at all because I haven't done as much publicity as I should have. But it was all right. It was fun. The author was interesting and friendly and I like Birgit very much. We walked down to this little creperie in the Mission that Birgit favors and sat in the window-seat and talked about books and only got spare-changed once. I think I talked too much. Actually, I know I talked too much. I'm not sure what to do about that, though. I even thought about having a glass of wine--thank God I didn't. I would have never shut up.

I've noticed something about Birgit. Most of the time, she is sweetness and light. Just very bright and upbeat and all those good things. But at one point, when the author said she thought Birgit had told her something that Birgit hadn't actually said (that B----- & N----- wouldn't be carrying her book), Birgit's response was quite sharp. "No, I never said that." The author persisted, and Birgit once again said, very sharply, "No. I never said that." The author, not taking the hint, said something like, "Oh, I could've sworn�" and Birgit cut her off: "No, I never said that, and I never would say that, because I don't know."

I've seen Birgit do this before, with the president of the board of directors and the former publisher and it just about makes my jaw drop. It's not that she's not perfectly justified; it's just surprising. I like to watch it, in the NASCAR sense, but it's scary, too. I can't help but wonder if it's going to happen to me someday. But I am usually pretty adept at turning my conversational car around if I happen to be going down the wrong road. Birgit is one of those people I respect so much that I hope she never gets mad at me. Of course, my whole mode of operation is to irritate people until they either explode at me (at which point they disappear from my life) or until it becomes clear to me that no matter how much trouble I cause, they will never criticize me. And then I am loyal as a dog. It's not a sensible way to be, but it's my way.

I just walked into the other room to set up the tape the kids wanted to watch and Criminy said, "Wait, I want to find out if the clip-on earrings come with it!" She was watching the Home Shopping Network. (Clip-on earrings are a big deal if you're five years old and your Daddy won't let you get your ears pierced. Yes, I know he should let them get their ears pierced. I wanted to get their ears pierced, but he feels strongly about it being something that they should choose for themselves when they are old enough to know what they are getting into, and I have to respect that, because if I go behind his back and get their ears pierced anyway, as I am sometimes tempted to do, it would be wrong. It would cause a huge bonfight, and erode his trust in me, and just generally be all fucked up.)*

* Yes, I did just make up the word "bonfight." Kind of a sniglet.

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