The Master Speaks

[I love my dad, but (or because) he has me all beat in the passive-aggressive department.]

[10 AM (which I thought was 9AM, damn you PDT!), cell phone rings from a Sonoma number I don't have programmed. I answer gingerly:]

[Moi: Hello?]

[Dad (inimitable gruff voice): Helloooo.]

[M: Hey, Dad, what's up?]

[D: Well, as you know, it's your mother's birthday.]

[(Yes, I'd sent a card. They're traveling so much these days, we hadn't made plans for her day. I wasn't even sure they were on this continent.)]

[M: Yeah...?]

[D: Well, I need restaurant recommendations in Marin.]

[M (I'm used to making recommendations for San Francisco, but I never go to Marin): Ummm...I never go to Marin. The Lark Creek Inn? Or, you know, go to Sausalito's or Tiburon's chamber of commerce websites.]

[D: We have a Marin phone book, too.]

[M (sotto voce'ing my "Yeah, probably from 1988"): That might work, too.]

[D: Are you working today?]

[M: Nooooo...]

[D: I'll make the reservation for six...]

[M: O'clock? Isn't that early for you guys?]

[D: ...people.]

[M: Oh. Um, it's five now.]

[(And has been for a year and a half, almost.)]

[D: Right. Sorry. Kate'll call you with pick-up time.]

[M: OK. I guess...I'll see you later.]

[Click.]

[Now, it's Mom's birthday, and I'm sure he'll pick a lovely restaurant. (Update: Il Fornaio in Corte Madera. Eh.) And I didn't have plans on my night off. (But I might have! I have plans sometimes! I seem to recall...) It's just the order in which he asks questions sometimes feels like he's snaring one, step by inexorable step, into some commitment one might or might not want to accept.]

[I must learn from him.]

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