Tonight was Susanne’s birthday party. She is 37. Her husband, P., threw her a lovely, intimate party. We had the baba ganoush I made, roasted peppers stuffed with goat cheese, cheese and pate, grilled salmon with pesto sauce, rice, pasta, and salad. And good wine. Didn’t catch the label, but all wine at P’s house is good.

We discussed the Internet. How it’s changing news, what blogging is all about, how news is now sorted and parsed and personalized, and what it means that we don’t all necessarily share the same sources anymore. How specialized it’s all become.

The kids (we had at least eleven) were all watching a movie inside while the grownups sat outside. We actually had real, blessed conversation, a rare treat. So much so that P. was tempted to leave the kids out of the candles/birthday cake. But as a group we decided the kids would miss that, and we invited them, and we were all grateful we did. The kids’ voices rang out above all the others to sing for Susanne. They were lovely and sweet, leading the way with the cake, their voices thin and pure. They all gathered around Susanne’s legs, and she leaned over and hugged as many of them as she could before she blew out her candles. It was a lovely image. Priceless, really. How could we have considered even for a moment omitting the children?

I played boules with the guys afterwards. Most of the other moms had left, but since my children are still in Venezuela, I was a free bird. And, I’m decent at boules! So, that was fun. P was proud to have me on his team. It’s hard to get P’s approval, so that felt good. It’s a wonderful game. I have always loved it. I played boules along the Canal du Midi with Christoph, what, twenty years ago, on the boat trip we took with his friends. I liked it then too.

The boules court was lit beautifully from the sides. Baby bamboo plants leaned into it. We discussed P’s upcoming 40th birthday party. He is expecting 60 guests. He is younger than I by a few months. The party is in a couple of weeks.

The kids will be home from Venezuela in nine days. I miss them, but not acutely like last time when I was in tears for a week. I’ve teared up only twice, for very brief periods. Magda called the other night and cried, “Mama! How much longer do I have to stay here?” I had to laugh. She is surrounded by plentiful relatives who adore her. She misses me; I’m sure she does, but I believe she will appreciate these visits later, and I am working hard to lay a foundation of Spanish for her. My goal for her and Ryan both is to speak, read, and write Spanish fluently by the time they are 18. This is why we are considering moving to Argentina or some other Spanish-speaking country in the next couple of years. I had originally set January 2009 as the date, but with my new boss I think it’s important to stay and learn as much about marketing as I can.

Also, with Barack Obama hopefully coming into office, I find — rather surprisingly — that I want to be here for America’s revival. It’s been embarrassing to be here during this excruciating eight-year Bush debacle. I’m excited, as is the entire World, by the prospect of a real thinker and leader like Obama.

Last night, F. and I had a glass of Tarrica 2005 Zinfandel (Paso Robles) at the little round table I placed in the driveway last weekend. It was cool, and I brought him my big, burgundy cardigan. Afterwards, we went to Woodminster Cafe for Persian dinner by Sima. We had lamb shank and kebab. Fazi got his beloved tadiq and commented on how it would be three times the price for this food in San Francisco.

Sima welcomes us sweetly each time we arrive for Friday night Persian dinner. He was out of the stew, a perennial favorite. We forgot to bring the rest of the wine, but that was okay. F. was happy to be eating Persian food. F. commented when we left that the staff asked him why he wasn’t with me last time I came (I took Dodie, his friend Jody, and the kids there the night before the kids left for Venezuela; F. and I were in the throes of one of our break-ups).

F. commented that it’s interesting how simply by asking the question Sima’s family lays down norms and expectations which help us to stay together… something our culture as a whole does little or none of. He is right. Whenever I go in there, the staff say, “Say hello to your husband!” I haven’t had the heart to tell them that not only is F. not my husband, but we’ve only been dating a year, we’ve broken up at least ten times (we’ve lost count), and we’re not at all sure how to be or if we want to be in a committed relationship. When they quip, say hi to your husband, however, it gives me a hopeful feeling. Why? And what does it mean?

J. says to notice how I introduce trouble in my life when there doesn’t need to be any. How I create problems in my life that didn’t exist before. He says, get used to what stable feels like. Explore stability. See how life feels when I’m not leaping from emergency to emergency, drama to drama… when life is safe and predictable enough to actually plan and set goals and go forward in my career, personal development, and healthy relationships.

And yet, seeing A. briefly on Thursday night sent a rush of energy all over my body. I felt so happy to see him. His dynamic expression, his sparkling eyes, his innate intelligence, his keen observation, his perception. He interests me. He intoxicates me on some level, and yet I sense he would not be good for me. He is not ready for a relationship, doesn’t want one (esp. with a Shiksa), and may even have psychological problems. Good God. That’s all I need.

The kids have been in Venezuela for exactly one week. Last Saturday, I woke up at 4:30 to take them and their father, Luigi, to the airport. I made cornbread so they’d have something hot and homemade to take with them. Actually, I began making scones, but lacked cream. I tried to make them with just milk and had a gluey paste on my breadboard in no time that was impossible to knead or bake. I left it there and made cornbread from scratch. Luigi was anxious about being late. Actually, he was beginning to wig out. He had spent the night in my place as he had sublet his room and had nowhere to sleep. I learned this at the last minute.

R. and M. have been in Venezuela for one week. They flew to Fort Worth, Texas, where they met up with Brother Ben, Luis’ first child from his first marriage to Carmen. Ben is now a whopping 26 years old, and balding, of all things. They all flew together to Caracas and were picked up by a “chofer” sent by Nona, Luigi’s Spanish mama. They drove after dusk, which the US Embassy rather strongly advises against. I was nervous until I learned they’d arrived safely at Nono and Nona’s house in Caracas. They all spent the night there in Uncle Giovanni’s room and then went on to Rebecca’s — Ben’s Grandma on Carmen’s side — house 4000 feet above Caracas. They spent a couple of days there and by Monday of last week, they were safely in Maracay where my former sister in law Tia Magda lives with her husband Fenya and their daughter Anya. Nico, my nephew (mi sobrino) has been living with me for the last year, but he is currently in Maracay too, so that was fun for the kids to see him there…

It’s hard to figure out what they’re all up too. R. sends me instant messages almost daily but rarely says anything of particular import. He’s writing in his blog a little bit.

The kids and I went to Stinson Beach for eight days at the end of June and through M’s birthday. Friends joined us in the big house on Buena Vista. We had Susana with her two sons Sebastian and Stefano, lovely Colleen, my father (Dodie), Faz… But we were fighting so he came intermittently, and it was painful. One of this years colorful breakups was there, on the steep street coming from the market, when he began it, and I simply said, hold your breath. We both already know. Fine. Agreed.

We celebrated M’s 7th birthday with Luigi, her papi, and Colleen. Luigi came out in the evening. Colleen and I made a dark chocolate cake with mocha icing, modeled after the Vincent Price cake my mother used to make us for our birthdays every year. M remembered that… and asked for the cake my mom used to make.