If your car gets locked in a parking lot at 9.30 on a rainy night, it helps to be friends with a flame-haired supergenius lockpicker.

We headed up to Sonoma for wine and fun. Jeremy got a tape adapter for Hedwig’s tune-o-tron, and he played me what’s called around these parts The Music The Young People Listen To: The Love Below/Speakerboxx, by Outkast. This album deserves to be better known! I got to the vineyard all jiggy wid it, and informed my friends that I wanted to see them on their baddest behaviour, and that they should give me some sugar, because I was their neighbour.

Replenished our cellar of Adastra wines; the 2001 chardonnay and the 2000 merlot, which for some weird-ass synesthetic reason tastes dark blue to me. Delicious, anyhoo. Off to The Girl and The Fig for a rowdy banquet, complete with glares from shocked locals. Claire greatly enjoyed her kale and pumpkin gratin, Jeremy loved the artichokes with his grouper and I inhaled mussels and a rack of lamb, as is my wont. The party wound on to a nearby bar but ended up in our room. Claire held court until she was tired and overwhelmed; then she cried until she had chased all the people away; then she cried because all her people were gone.

This morning we showed her the playground and the duck pond in Sonoma’s main square, then meandered down 116 and 101 listening to Lemonjelly’s Lost Horizons. It was a gorgeous weekend: we saw rabbits and ducklings and a hunting hawk. But the single thing I saw that made me happiest was back in San Francisco: it was the line of people queued around the corner of City Hall waiting to get married. Happy weddings, everyone.

We switched DSL and moved the Goop server. Sporadic downtime for the next day or two.

Shannon may have a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder, but she is unquestionably San Francisco’s finest detective. She can walk into a room and simply intuit the presence of crimes against feng shui. So she helped us move this weekend… no, actually, she pretty much moved us. She drove the truck, she hauled the furniture, she organized our closet. I got all teary looking at the closet, like the straight guys at the end of Queer Eye: “All this? For me?”

Women are so territorial. It’s so easy for us to compete, and so hard for us to offer one another concrete, constructive help. So hats, wigs and hairpieces off to Shannon. The Mamafu is strong in this one.

Many many thanks to all our other incredible and hardworking friends: Paul, Max, Kat, Ian, Peter, Jack, Salome, Bryan, Robert, Gayatri, Jamey and Carole. You guys are the rockingest. We have escaped from the ghetto and we owe it all to you.

“God, I can’t believe I still have some wire hangers.”

“You know, I used to be so judgmental about Joan Crawford, but now that I have a kid of my own, I’m thinking – maybe she was just having a bad day.”

“I know! We never got to hear her side. There was probably a totally reasonable explanation…”

“I’ll bet that kid had it coming…”

A big Yatima “Hey baby!” to Phil and Katrina’s daughter Amelia, and to Jay and Jennifer’s son Troy. Both amazingly beautiful. Aquarius, the sexiest star sign of them all.

Plus baby girl Sherman Jaramillo, any day now.

Not that I’m superstitious or nothin’, but the new house is on Eugenia Avenue. A little judicious Googling reveals that:

(a) Eugenia is one of only two asteroids with its own moon; and

(b) the Feast of St Eugenia is December 25 – Claire’s birthday!

Let’s be frank, though. Eugenia’s kind of a silly name. So in the tradition of Moonbase Alabama and Surrey Street Aerospace, we’ll be calling the new place the Bernal Sphere.

We’re moving, like kelp in a king tide. We’re in this strange limbo-purgatory state, half here and half there, Shroedinger’s cat-like in our superimposition.

Last night Carole came over and in the precisely one hour and fifteen minutes she had to spare, we crammed both our cars with books and rugs and chairs and drove them to the new place. Now there’s a huge heap of stuff there and the old place is still (gulp) full…

How odd. I’ve been reading this highly entertaining dialogue on the idiotic theory that someone other than Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare’s plays. I remembered fondly the day we went to Stratford and I put a flower on Shakespeare’s grave. Curst be he yt moves my bones! How I love a curmudgeon. I remembered walking along the Avon with Jeremy, looking at the ducks. I remember the sun shining on J’s yellow hair, him smiling at me with his eyes bright blue.

Except, cough, except that I was with Phil that day. The remotely comparable river I walked along with Jeremy was near Kilkenny Castle, more than two years later. I was in Stratford in midsummer – the daffodils were out. I was in Kilkenny on Jeremy’s 26th birthday, close to the winter solstice. There was no sun to shine on his yellow hair, just the dull gunmetal grey of Irish rain.

I guess it’s been so long since “we” meant “me and Jeremy” – eight years! – that I’ve forgotten it ever meant “me and someone else”. Still, it’s nice to be reminded why I write fiction. Memoir is hard! says Barbie. Let’s go shopping!

1. at katz bagels

Someone has left a brand new copy of The New York Times on the side table! I am surprised. I leaf through it and start reading a story about fake album covers.

The sweet young hipster boy next to me collects his bagel and looks at me imploringly.

“Oh I am so sorry,” I say, covered in shame: “this is your newspaper, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I wouldn’t have bothered you but there’s somewhere I have to be.”

2. on the phone

“HELLO!” says the voice on the other end, joyously.

I am dumbfounded.

“Doctor’s office!” he continues.

I was not expecting that.

3. at the doctor’s office

Same guy, but in person this time. He’s adorable.

“I need to change my address,” I tell him.

“What, no apartment number? GIRL you are moving UP!!!”

She teeters endearingly on high heels, and gives my toddler large sips from her glass.

“How IS she?” she asks.

“She’s very well! Only there’s this girl who used to look after her, who keeps trying to get her drunk.”

“Wait,” says Kat, and narrows her eyes. “Are you talking about me?”

We have a new apartment. It’s 910 square feet, an extra 103 1/3 square feet for each of us (humans, that is. Bebe will have to lurk.)

I want to decorate mine in French Provincial and Japanese prints. Jeremy’s going to do WiFi in his. Claire, I think, is planning to fill hers with toys.

C has learned how to press her mouth against parts of my body and do raspberries. I don’t know how to spell the technical term for this, as you can see in the headline there. Did I mention she learned this at 3am? She was awake and delighted to be with her favourite people. She played for an hour. Everything was hilarious. She was adorable. Oh the precious precious laughter of children. I am so tired.

When all your friends are terrifyingly clever, like mine, you have the occasional day when you just can’t win a trick. This morning, for instance, I mentioned to Jeremy that I was considering going back to church now I’m an atheist, and isn’t that funny?

J: You think it has no power over you any more.

Pause.

R: Go and get on your train, professor.

Now I have tacitly challenged Seth to a lipogram duel, in which I am certain to be trounced.

I celebrated by having a cold, and not getting much work done.

Shannon came over. She is a complex creature. There’s lots of her, and you never know which one you’re going to get. I like them all, but this evening’s was one of my particular favourites: tipsy, contemplative Shannon, telling salacious stories about her colourful past.

People used to say they found the Coen Brothers a bit cold and clever-clever, which I never really got until this weekend, when we watched O Brother Where Art Thou? and The Man Who Wasn’t There back to back. Fabulous casts both, fantastic music – Beethoven and Dan Tyminski are genii – plus the first time Jeremy and I have truly liked Billy-Bob in a role, but my final impression was …meh. Nothing to match those quiet exchanges between Marge and Norm in Fargo. Eggs. You should have eggs. We’re pretty lucky, eh?

Claire turned thirteen months old. I respectfully submit that she is the most fun thing in the whole entire world.

Josh: We had the best afternoon! I put on Britney Spears’ new album and Rowan was dancing away… I told him that when he grows up a bit he can play with my Britney Spears doll. But not yet.

LATER

Me: I love Josh.

Carole: Isn’t he great? I’m so glad Rowan gets to have his masculine influence.

Me: Yeah, he’ll grow up knowing where to shop, and how to decorate a room.

Carole: Yeah, and moisturize!

Me: Seriously, though, three parents. That’s genius. We should have thought of that.

She’s taken to raiding the laundry hamper in the joyful, joyful early mornings when she’s had enough sleep (at our expense) and our home rings with the delightful laughter of children.

What she’s after is a t-shirt of Jeremy’s that she can pull over her head and wear like a toga. Senator Claire.

He’s been obscurely ill.

“I dreamed I was working on all of the Democratic candidates’ campaigns at the same time. Each candidate was assigned a different cube in my mind, and I could only get glimpses of what was going on inside the cubes.”

“So, like watching a bank of monitors?”

“Sort of, but in 3D…”

“I just remembered something about when I was a kid. My Dad used to take me horseriding and we’d ride home on his motorbike. My hands smelled of horses, and you know what that’s like, I absolutely loved the smell and my hands smelling of it made me ecstatic. Then we’d stop at McDonalds for a Big Mac and I’d eat it with my hands smelling of horses, and it was just like the ultimate in comfort food. Like you saying about your grandmother and the tea and scones.”

“Only gross.”

“Well, yeah.”