Four
people asked me what I wanted for my birthday last week and I gave each
of them the same answer, “A new Filofax.” All four of them said the
same thing. “No, you don’t. Nobody wants a Filofax any more. It’s so
old-fashioned. Don’t be ridiculous. iPhone.” My daughter Maia was the
harshest. She simply said, “Oh, Mom! iPhone.” It made me feel
old-fashioned. It made me feel old.
For the record, I have an iPhone but despite the fact that four assistants over the last three years have religiously promised to transfer all my names and phone numbers into my computer and my iPhone, it hasn’t quite happened yet. And I never seem to have the time.
But I like my Filofax (even though it does sort of look like a truck ran over it.) It feels like a friend. I like it that it has names and addresses and phone numbers hand-printed into it. (Arguably, a few of them are dead, but I’ve learned not to notice. And I can’t quite bring myself to cross the names out. That would seem too final.) I use it in meetings to take notes. Sometimes, I’ll have a thought in the car or a random sentence for something I’m working on and I’ll pull over and jot it down into my Filofax. There are a few haikus that will probably never be printed anywhere else. I can gauge from them how sad I was on a given day. (Haikus are usually sad. The more comedic ones have found their way into my computer.)
I’m obsessed. I want to know everything. I’ve hunted for her favorite recipe for Moose stew. I spend hours on my computer searching for footage. I want transcripts. YouTube moments. Because I couldn’t write the stuff that comes out of her mouth. And I write dialogue for a living. 
Around 6 years ago, our family took a trip to France. Our friends
have a house in Ramtuelle, a Medieval city built in a circle
overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean. Honest, it does sparkle. We
frolicked on Pamelonne Beach, made famous by the production company
filming And God Created Woman with Brigitte Bardot and we ate at Club
Cinquante Cinque (55). 