We now go to our third stop, Von’s, and they too are out of basil. Now truly vexed, losing my passion for ramps, passion for farmers, or passion for passion, I go back to Trader Joe’s and buy four potted basil plants. I take them home and, standing on the back porch, I hold each down by the neck and just brutally rip those leaves off. I rip and rip and rip. And then, like Scarlett O’Hara, I scream and hurl the little pots off the side of the deck.
But then I look down at the mutilated tangle of green and think, What have I done? These were living!—if annoying!—things.
So I collect the broken plants and apologize to them for murdering them and prop them back up again and now I have five fucking basil plants sunning themselves.
I’ve accepted it. I am running a small sanatorium—a health spa, really—for lazy basil plants. My house is where basil plants go to retire. Come on over, cilantro!
TRY NOT TO BE BLINDED BY MY WILDFLOWERS
Charlie and I just want a drought-resistant yard. We meet with a highly recommended Greenfield Heights “master gardener.” His estimate includes ten hours of design at $150 an hour and, even then, we will have to work with him. There is a lengthy questionnaire about our “aesthetic goals” and “plant preferences.” And I’m going, “I already went to college! Just plant something.” Where are Chip and Joanna Gaines when you need them? I should just get myself a throw pillow that says YARD.
I try to read online eco-gardening blogs. I fight off a rising sense of inadequacy. Truly mindful eco-gardeners are about more than just drought resistance: it’s all about contour maps of bee pollen and rebuilding endangered butterfly habitats by planting native milkweed. Too, I give you: “Viburnifolium is sometimes a bit capricious, so try symphoricarpos?” And Kelvin lumens.
Charlie and I go to nurseries and look at succulents, but we’re unable to formulate a plan. Charlie does a Hail Mary pass and buys wildflower seeds. When a gentle rain comes, I put on my Pema Bollywood pants and fling them about with goddess energy. While flinging, I’m hit in the head by one of Luz’s guavas. I think that’s what it was.
Stanford Swimming
PHIL ANDREWS IS a lawyer I dated briefly back in grad school (also known as like seven decades—another lifetime—ago).
We didn’t have romantic chemistry, but we’ve always had great friend chemistry. I’ve joked that I consider Phil my Third Husband. He is very good at adulting.
For instance, let’s take a financial meeting I had several years ago at Charles Schwab. Here’s what I’ve written on a notepad from some company called “Bio Water”:
“Retirement and write it off and something about medical.”
In my mind’s eye, a friendly thirtysomething man dressed in charcoal gray business casual (behind a desk and a plant) then says: “Sandra, by all means, you need to form a C corp! Not an S corp!” Although, to be honest, I also see a friendly woman, same age, navy blazer (different desk, different plant, facing a different direction) and she’s saying: “Sandra, by all means, you need to form an S corp! Not a C corp!”
To this day, I don’t remember which is right, but I know Phil knows because he sent me all these helpful Wall Street Journal articles and walked me through it.
His wife Gita, an extraordinarily beautiful Indian woman from London, is the head of a major philanthropic association. Gita is deeply intelligent and empathetic; she’s always e-mailing me thoughtful links of interest on menopause, technology, educating girls.
While Phil and Gita live in Upstate New York, they’re in town for the week with their son Liam.
So Charlie, the girls, and I are all going over for dinner. What could go wrong?
GITA’S PARENTS’ HOME in Hancock Park looks like a large villa you’d find in Europe, protected by lush non-native hedges.
“Wow—is that a tennis court?” Hannah asks, leaning forward in the Volvo I suddenly wished I’d washed.
“You know what,” I admit to my crew. “I forgot that Gita’s father is some famous surgeon with a bunch of patents who created the Cedars-Sinai Something Something Center. I guess this is what ‘arthroscopic knee surgery’ money looks like.”
The massive wooden front door swings open, almost like a castle’s, and Phil and Gita bound out to greet us. Philip looks like his same absurdly tall six foot three inch self. His temples are gray but his hair looks boyish and full as it always did. Gita’s dark glossy hair is in a Catherine Deneuve updo. She moves with the agility of a gymnast (which I think she once was).
We embrace one another with joyous exclamations.
“It’s so wonderful to see you!”
“You guys haven’t aged a day!”
“Look how tall and gorgeous the girls are!”
“Charlie! We’ve heard so much about you!”
“Can we look around?” Hannah asks.
“Of course!” says Gita.
“There’s a swing in the back, too,” says Phil.
“Phil,” Gita teases, “they’re not kids.” She turns back to the girls, nodding, emphatically. “But yes, absolutely, feel free.”
Hannah and Sally take off to explore the grounds. When Charlie turns to admire the house, I notice a band of lining hanging out below his jacket. A stylish guy, he loves to buy designer labels at thrift stores, but sometimes they’re not in the most perfect repair.
No matter. No one notices; indeed, it appears that Phil and Charlie have already bonded. Charlie has a friend who lives in Tivoli—the same town Phil and Gita do.
“That’s right,” Charlie is saying, “Sebastian and I went to Columbia together.”
“What a coincidence!” Phil exclaims.
“He loves the town and vibe, but he’s always going on about the deer—”
“The deer!” Phil exclaims. “They’re pests! They’re like vermin—”
“Venison, Sebastian says—”
In the vaulted white kitchen, which calls to mind the apse of a small country church, Gita pulls down wine glasses.
“This is our wonderful Marta,” Gita says, introducing us to a smiling sixtyish olive-skinned woman of uncertain ethnicity, in a light blue dress and white apron, stirring various pots. We all nod, bow, trade greetings. Gita leads to the terrazzo-like veranda where a lovely table is set.
“We love this rioja, even though it can be hard to find,” Phil says, pouring us wine through an aerator, which makes a faint bubbling sound as it flows.
Charlie takes a sip. “Mmm!” he exclaims, in pleasure. “Rioja, huh? What’s the price point on this?” he says, with the confident affability only a WASP can bring.
“It’s not expensive,” Gita says easily.
“We actually found it on a Zagat list of Great Wines Under $40,” Philip says. Charlie and I raise eyebrows amusedly at each other. For us the price cap on a bottle of wine is eight dollars.
Their son Liam appears.
“There he is!” Phil cries out.
“Hello,” Liam says politely, shaking our hands, “nice to meet you.” Slightly preppy, in collared shirt and maroon sweater, Liam seems to have inherited all of his parents’ good DNA. He is handsome and tall, with excellent posture.
“Sorry,” Gita says. “He was on the phone with his adviser.”
I call the girls in, and we all sit down to dinner.
We exclaim over the salad— “Delicious!” “Almost peppery!” “These tomatoes are from the garden—”
Liam’s phone buzzes. He looks at it, looks at his parents, apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s—”
Gita waves her hand. “It’s fine.” To us: “Sorry. It’s kind of a big week.” Liam exits.
“So what brings you all to L.A.?” I ask.
“Well, we were making a West Coast swing in any case,” Gita says, “so we thought we’d drop in on my parents, before they went to Greece—” She looks at Phil. “Should we tell them? Do you think Liam would mind?”
Phil nods, swallowing wine. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He turns to us, with slight regret, �
��Liam is in a bit of a quandary.”
“A school quandary,” Gita adds.
“What sort of school quandary?” Charlie asks.
“Well you know, it’s college acceptance season,” Phil says. “Princeton and Yale are really his first choices—because of the great public policy schools—”
“And the classics,” Gita says, “and languages—”
“This kid really has an affinity for languages!” Phil says, in a kind of wonder. “He self-taught himself Russian in summer of junior year, when he was interning in Kazakhstan.”
“But Liam also got a full scholarship to Stanford,” Gita adds, almost sadly, “and of course my father’s alma mater is Stanford, so dadi is really pushing hard for that.”
Liam returns. “Sorry about that.”
“But you’re interested in Stanford, right?” Gita asks Liam. To us: “Because the swimming is very, very strong.”
“Liam was offered a full swim scholarship,” Phil adds.
Swimming, I think. I’m not even entirely sure my daughters truly can swim. In the pool back at their dad’s house in Van Nuys, I remember a lot of splashing, wading, dog paddling.
“A Stanford legacy!” Charlie declares heartily. “Well, young sir, what do you think?”
Liam’s brow is slightly furrowed. “On the tour, I liked the Chinese Academy, which would help me strengthen my Mandarin . . .”
As Liam continues to describe Stanford, I go into a momentary glaze as I watch, behind him, my daughters chomping on their salads.
Hannah is in her traditional vampire eyeliner, yellow eye shadow, and tank top (due to the heat) with black bra strap showing. With her mocha-hued skin, Hannah looks less like the one-quarter Chinese blend she is than—not to put too fine a point on it—like a straight-up L.A. gang girl. Edging into drag queen.
Sally has all her hair up in a beanie, which anchors her black Elvis Costello glasses. She’s so painfully thin she calls to mind Ichabod Crane. She’s less eating her salad than worrying it, pushing small exotic creatures around in a tiny pool. I realize she may think that morsel is meat. It is not. It is an oyster mushroom. My eleven-year-old is terrified by this fancy unfamiliar new kind of produce.
“And Palo Alto is an amazing place,” finishes Phil.
To which Liam replies, suddenly: “I’m not sure I want to continue swimming.” There’s a small, tight silence. His parents’ eyes widen, but there are no visceral signs of alarm. There is active listening.
“It takes a lot of time. I thought I might want to just focus my hours on crew.”
“On the crew of what?” Hannah asks.
“Crew like rowing,” I said quickly. “We are rather landlocked here in Los Angeles,” I babble, realizing that Los Angeles is the gateway to the Pacific Rim, the ocean falling away below us in sparkling accusation. “I mean Van Nuys.”
“Of course, of course,” Phil and Gita murmur, as though it is their error.
I’m about to change the subject by asking, “How is Emma enjoying Yale?” But at that instant, in my mind’s eye, I see their older daughter Emma, ponytail flashing, as she does a one hundred-meter dash somewhere. Or was it softball? Tennis? Oh no!
Lacrosse. I fear, if mentioned, that my daughters will ask if “lacrosse” is a kind of sparkling water. Not that they’re into sparkling water. At Subway, Sally favors a drink where you pour all the different kinds of soda together. It is called a Suicide.
“And what subjects are you interested in, Sally?” Gita asks kindly, the perfect hostess.
“I really like art,” Sally says.
“Well, you should come out and visit Bard!” Gita insists. “They have an excellent intersectional arts program!”
“And where are you interested in going to college, Hannah?” Phil asks.
Hannah’s quick with an answer I’ve never heard before. “I want to go to a big school in a big city. Like UCLA.”
There’s a palpable gust of enthusiasm.
“UCLA is a terrific school!” Philip exclaims. “One of our founding partners is a Bruin.”
“There are such excellent public universities in California,” Gita adds.
“Absolutely,” says Philip. “It’s such a boon.”
“The UC’s have very high Asian populations,” Gita says. “Just 12 percent of the state, Asians make up 40 percent of UC students. Some people don’t like it,” she shakes her head, “what are you going to do?”
“What about Cal?” Phil asks Hannah.
“Berkeley,” I clarify.
Hannah replies, “My aunt lives in Northern California. I love it there. But I don’t know. The Bay Area is just really really . . .” We all lean in, in curiosity. “Cold.”
I guess in that case Boston is out of the question, I think. (To quote Spinal Tap: “Don’t worry. Not much of a college town.”)
“How is Kaitlin doing?” Phil asks. He turns to Gita. “Sandra’s sister is an incredible photographer.”
“Well as a matter of fact,” I say, almost in disbelief that I have something cool to report, “last summer she had a photo exhibition in Shanghai, and we all went!”
“I really want to go to Shanghai,” Liam says. “How was it?”
Brassy Hannah jumps in. “Shanghai? It was crazy!”
What? Where is she going with this?
Uh-oh. Suddenly I know. I pray for her not to continue. Might as well try to contain a natural force.
“With Shanghai driving, traffic laws are viewed as ‘suggestions.’ You can’t step out into a crosswalk if you can see cars coming because, no kidding, they really will not stop.” Hannah’s hands gesture theatrically. She blazes with the energy of her story. Liam watches her transfixed, perhaps slightly horrified. “We saw a car smash into a motorbike just six feet away, tearing its headlamp off in a splatter of glass and ejecting”—big arm sweep—“the driver, after which, the car just backed up and screeched off!
“And then of course, there were the open air markets,” Hannah prompts her sister. I have to admire both her gallantry of helping her shy little sister converse and her stagecraft, while at the same time really regretting the entire tenor of her story.
Sally shakes her head, her eyes welling up.
“What?” Phil asks. “What happened?”
“The open air market in Shanghai is alive,” Hannah says, leaping up from the table to describe it, “literally alive. Carp are jumping around your ankles. The floor and walls are wet—it’s like being in a car wash. You step over rows of plastic tubs, bubbling with cloudy, lukewarm water swarming with live eels, little water snakes, shrimp with antennas waving!
“And chickens!” she forges on. “Picture, now, a hall of glass-walled rooms. In the first room, laundry baskets explode with freaking-out live chickens. In the second room, the chickens suddenly have their heads off, although they’re not completely dead either. Most startling, though, are the big hairy men in sweaty undershirts who are chasing the chickens. Not only are they wrestling the birds down with giant cleavers, they are doing so while totally chain-smoking!”
“Oh wow,” Liam says. It’s hard to know if he is appalled by the story or its teller.
“We saw this guy take a squirming live bullfrog and yank its legs off with pliers!”
Sally makes a whimpering sound. She looks green.
Trying to salvage this tirade with a silky-voiced, tolerance-enhancing Oprah teaching moment, I lean forward and say, “Hannah, in America, it’s true, we enjoy so much wonderful food we’re spoiled. But in remote parts of China, people are so poor all they have to eat is mice or crickets or—or bullfrogs—or they’ll die. It’s poverty cuisine.”
“But don’t you remember what Cousin Zhe said?” Hannah asks. To the others, she adds: “He’s Chinese. He said, ‘This is what I hate about the Chinese. They insist on having the animal killed in front of them so they can guarantee it’s fresh. They need to see the gleam in the animal’s eye so they know the merchant’s not cheating them.’ ”
Liam’s phone goes off again. “Excuse me.”
And in a flash of insight, I see something startling: My children and Philip’s are of a different class.
With a sudden ice pick in the spine, I realize we haven’t heard Cousin Sam report back about any college acceptances. Stanford? In my mind’s eye, I see a little village of Legos tumbling. Legos! Good God! What were we thinking?
“Spring” into Action
“March” . . . into What?
Forest Lawn
THIS IS A TALE of two funerals.
Surprisingly, neither is for my dad—!
Let’s back up. Here, from my own experience, are the several stages of life of my father.
Middle age (forty through sixty): An eccentric Chinese engineer, Eugene Loh, Sr. is known as “the crazy man of Malibu.” He will hitchhike on Pacific Coast Highway, dumpster-dive behind Starbucks, and wear lady’s leopard bikini bottoms he found on the beach while doing calisthenics, terrorizing local beachgoers. That is on good days; on bad days he will do his exercises totally naked, balls flying.
“Junior” senior years (sixties and seventies): After my mother’s early illness and death, my dad marries a series of three Chinese mail-order brides in order to assure himself care in his old age. That tale became the basis for a solo show I do Off Broadway. So for all his eccentricities, while unpleasant at the time, I am grateful.
Astonishingly, a Malibu grunge rock band named Boy Hits Car records a Pearl Jam–like song about the crazy man of Malibu they actually grew up with. It’s called “Mr. Loh.” I record a story called “Mr. Loh’s Not Afraid to Be Naked” with both Boy Hits Car and my dad, in studio, for Ira Glass’s This American Life. Thank you again.
Old age (seventies through eighties): Over this time, a pacemaker is prescribed (and rejected), Parkinson’s begins, my dad requests bunion surgery (denied). He moves from his two legs to a walker to a wheelchair—which still doesn’t slow him down. Oh no, he’ll still wheel himself off to catch the bus to UCLA where, snoring loudly, he will fall asleep in science seminars. While he can no longer do his exercises, he’ll still wheel himself down to the beach club to shower, and perhaps flash a few more people.
The Madwoman and the Roomba Page 6
