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image“Mom, please don’t embarrass me,” Kip said in a tone that was just a little too sincere if you know what I mean (I am so dead if either of the boys ever take an interest in how I spend my computer time; however, judging from how well they listened to my marathon advice and the fact that they ended up on a bus instead of a train, I’m pretty sure they won’t be reading this blog anytime soon).

Kip is coming to San Francisco with his new girlfriend tomorrow, and we are going on a “double date” to the Museum of Modern Art and then out to dinner.

“So, does that mean when we are driving down Lake Street, I can’t point to the window of our old apartment and tell her that you were made there?” I tease.

“No, Mom, please!” he pleads (yes, pleads).

Tony and I both know that the only way for us not to embarrass Kip is if we don’t talk, so I guess it will be a quiet dinner; Tony and I eating silently trying not to be embarrassing (hopefully I won’t accidentally call Kip, Kip) while Kip and his girlfriend spend the meal discreetly looking at their cell phones below the table top (looking forward to the app that allows people to look one in the eye while they read their text messages).

I’d like to think that Kip has invited us to join him because he really likes to spend time with us. I suppose this is a possibility, but given the conditions of the get together, “Don’t embarrass me,” and the fact that Kip is working two jobs and is one of the most frugal people I know other than my father (my poor future grandchildren are destined to a childhood of sleeping in hotel parking lots and sneaking into swimming pools – just loved changing into my bathing suit in the hotel stairwell and then having to worry the entire time we were in the pool that an employee or a real guest was going to ask me for my room number – or instead of suitcases, carrying one’s belongings in a transparent garbage bag – I once carried a small BBQ and a frying pan down the center aisle of an airplane because we “camped” sans tent and sleeping bags everywhere we went unless we were “just in the neighborhood” and ended up on someone’s living room floor – it genuinely boggles my mind now that we were actually on a plane instead of our usual mode of transportation; a Greyhound bus or a car that never made it the entire way without a roadside breakdown – it’s no wonder I’m a worrywart – Kip doesn’t know the meaning of the word embarrass!),  I’m thinking there may be some other reason he has asked his wimpy, not so frugal (he’s so lucky that gene skipped a generation although I washed out a margarine container the other day and am using it as a bowl and Tony is using a cashew can as a pencil holder) parents to come along on his romantic museum date with his beautiful new girlfriend in expensive San Francisco. However, it’s very possible I could be wrong (I’m sort of on a roll).

We’ll see. By the way, that’s a picture of the apartment where Kip was made, in the living room, in front of the fireplace (gross, I know – I guess once you’ve given birth to a baby, making one seems pretty tame).