Last Friday was my birthday. What an incredible weekend I had.
Friday I did an easy yoga class that not only loosened me up and calmed me down, but also inspired a whole scene for Audrey Rose, had delicious lunch with Harlan, boo and my mom at Joe’s (boo was so sweet in a big-boy outfit sitting in a big boy high chair eating bits of mama’s lunch and hurling spoons and crusts of bread across the room), had our friends Leslie, Jason and Melissa over for jambalaya, watermelon martinis and cake.
Saturday night we had what might have been our first real, amazing “date night” ever. I mean since we had a baby and started using a dorky term for nights out together without the baby. We went to see Prince at the Nokia Theater and afterward had sushi at Wabi Sabi around the corner from our house. It was so civilized! No big boy chair, no flying spoons. Just sushi rolls, adult conversation, the Prince post mortem.
Prince, wow, still one of the world’s great musicians, hasn’t aged a day (in a closet somewhere a purple-clad portrait is buckling under its wrinkles) and he’s going through this really adorable peace-joy-love phase that warmed my heart with goofy sweet smiles and joking around… Prince?! When I saw him when I was 17 or so, he was gyrating and shrieking and fucking the air so realistically I could almost see a person gyrating against him. None of that now, he did covers of Crimson and Clover (mashed up with Wild Thing?!), Come Together, Chaka Khan’s I Feel for You, Play that Funky Music. He only sang a handful of his own masterworks (“Ever feel like you just have too many hits?” he joked at one point). Even without Little Red Corvette and When Doves Cry, it was awesome. I haven’t been that fired up at a concert in years. It was electric, with every last body boogieing in their seats (including Magic Johnson, who was sitting a few rows up from us and whose head we could see bopping several feet above everyone else’s throughout the show). It was a $350 night with babysitting and worth every cent!
Then yesterday it was back to boosville. After his morning nap, we took a long stroll down Abbot Kinney and over to Main Street and had lunch at the Omelette Parlor. The food—Thai chicken salad for me, a bacon cheeseburger for H—was as delish as the previous night’s sashimi and seaweed, but the whirling dervish at our side gave the meal a higher-octane spin. He wanted my lap, he wanted my chicken, he wanted my boob. He ate baby food from a jar and mandarin oranges off my plate and chewed on creamers till they popped and sprayed the whole table. We talked about nothing but him, paid the bill immediately and raced out the door before the meltdown set in. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.