(original post-date: May 11, 2011)
A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second of a four-part piece, divided so as to keep each entry short. To begin at the beginning, go here
Perhaps the emotional plate was just too full then. After all, ours was quickly becoming the House of Hormones. Though still in her early forties, Mom was beginning to go through the early stages of menopause. Martha was well on her way to adolescence, and I was just beginning to flirt with its whiplash.
So while Mom confronted hot flashes and other assorted symptoms over the ensuing years, my sister and I confronted our own burgeoning beings. Not surprisingly, our confrontations were as different as the two of us. Martha’s response to the simmering crockpot of adolescence brought to mind Sarah Bernhardt – weepy drama played to the hilt. My response was more in synch with the times – denim-clad rebellion in search of mind-altering drugs.
When Martha turned eighteen, Mom gave her the emerald and diamond ring. And, I’ll admit, there was nothing at all about the gesture that seemed inappropriate. There was something about Martha that already seemed middle-aged at that point, and for that reason, she always struck me as a bit of an anachronism. A cocktail ring – so clearly representative of another era – fit well on her hand. It also would fit well on the campus of the Southern women’s college that she would attend (not coincidentally, the very college where our father taught).
My turning eighteen was another matter altogether. I would not be celebrating the big milestone with my family in Virginia. Rather, I’d be five weeks into my college adventure – in Morningside Heights, just south of Harlem. And while sending the ring via UPS or something of that ilk was certainly an option, Mom decided instead to give it to me early. With no fanfare, she presented it to me in New York, the late August night before our harried day of getting me into my freshman dorm at Barnard.
I remember the look on her face when she handed me the box with the ring in it. The look was hesitant. Tentative. It was a look that said, “If you lose this, or if you sell this for drugs, I will never forgive you.”
I took in that look, and I responded with what had become my trademark, my weapon, and my armor: merciless sarcasm. “Thanks, Mom!” I said, smiling. “And I love it that the blue of the sapphires goes with my jeans!”
She didn’t have a comeback, but she also didn’t need one. She was clearly the stronger party in that scene. By entrusting me with that ring, she had demonstrated that, between us, she could be even more of a risk-taker than I.
I immediately slipped the ring onto my finger. And since that day, I have worn it always.
At the time, my rationale for wearing it was this: if I wait until I have an occasion to wear a sapphire and diamond ring, I will never get to wear this ring. Complementary reasoning went as follows: if this ring is not on my finger, I cannot honestly say that I know where it is.
And so I justified wearing the ring.
But, God, it must have looked awfully silly on me those first several years.
I still have the first college ID that I was issued (the picture probably was taken a day or two after I slipped that ring on my finger). I have kept the ID because I always want to remember the person in the picture. My facial expression then revealed a curious combination of anger and sadness. To go with it, I had short, androgynous hair, no make-up, and the hints of a tee shirt that made no statement whatsoever. Oh, and there were the zits, too. Not a happy camper.
I was an unlikely candidate for a sapphire and diamond ring, and in retrospect, it is no wonder I was never mugged for that particular piece of jewelry. Probably, any mugger who saw the ring then looked at the rest of me and thought, “Nah, those stones can’t be real.”
Yet, I continued to wear it. Ultimately, I grew into it.
And during that decade of shedding anger and sadness, and replacing them with grace and enthusiasm, something else happened: I became friends with my mother.
to be continued on Monday, July 22nd.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Monday, July 15, 2013
Monday, February 6, 2012
Monday Reruns: My Paul Newman Story
(original post-date: February 2, 2011)
Last week, when I visited my mom’s-age-friend, Sue, she mentioned that she had recently “read” (which is the verb she uses for listening to an audio-book) a Paul Newman biography.
“Oh?” I said. “Did it mention that I had waited on him?”
“Of course!” she replied. “There was a whole chapter devoted to that!”
We love bullshitting like this, Sue and I. It’s part of what makes us such dynamic conversationalists.
Sue then mentioned how she had never found Paul Newman particularly handsome…
Which gave me the opportunity to hold my hands about five feet apart – the distance I once had from that face of his.
“Oh no,” I said, my homework having been done, “he was… handsome.”
Here’s the story that didn’t make his biography…
I was waitressing at an eatery on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Not a fancy place, but a place that wanted to be fancier than it was.
(It was really nothing more than a glorified coffee shop.)
I’d been there a while and I was ready to move on, but I also was intrigued with the clientele. I remember working a morning shift when one of the more European waiters on staff tended to a couple who seemed to be just waking up. He was nonplussed as he served coffee to Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton…
I admired my fellow waitperson’s cool as he fulfilled their breakfast orders.
There were other celebs who came into the place, too (I can’t even remember who), and I remember thinking – during my gotta-get-outta-here antsy phase – that maybe I’d stick around a bit longer. Long enough, anyway, to serve a celebrity.
And while I waited for that pivotal moment, I came up with a “line” – a really cool line that I thought I’d be able to deliver when the time came. My plan was to use the line at the end of the celebrity-serving meal, in the moment when I put the check down.
… And just a few weeks later, Paul showed up.
The manager put him in Ingrid’s station, and she seemed to handle the event quite well. The rest of us, of course, took as many opportunities as we could to pass by the booth where he and his guest were sitting. We couldn’t help but want to absorb his glow.
The very next day, he showed up again, and after he was seated, the manager passed through an area near the kitchen. Neither breaking stride nor inflecting, he said, “You got him today, Katie.”
With as much composure as I could assume in that moment of great surprise, I walked toward the booth that contained Paul Newman and his guest.
I must have been shaking both visibly and audibly as I proceeded to take their order. And I’m sure there was a certain amount of dreamy shock in my countenance as I looked into those eyes.
Paul Newman’s eyes…
The color of Equal packets…
“I’ll start with the borscht,” he said, with a dimpled grin.
And then, he and his guest (whom I only remember as not being Robert Redford) added to their order…
Two minutes later, I had returned to their booth with the bowl of borscht, only to discover that Paul had not seen it on the menu and had ordered it as a joke. I offered to take it back, but he said it was okay. I insisted, and I pulled the bowl away (remarkably not sloshing any of the purple liquid onto his slacks).
“Good,” he said, relieved of the inadvertently ordered appetizer. “I hate borscht.”
We got through the meal, but I never felt comfortable. I never acquired the cool that I once thought I’d be able to bring to a celebrity table. In fact, I was rather spastic throughout the process -- or at least, that's how I felt.
Still, though, I had that “line,” and I was determined to use it. So… when I put the check down in front of Paul, I said this:
“I bet you can’t wait to go home and tell all your friends that Katie Gates waited on you!”
To which he said: “Huh?”
In Paul’s defense, I must confess that the aforementioned lack of composure on my part had a major impact on my delivery of said line. I’m guessing that what he heard, at a chipmunk’s register, was something like this:
“I-bay-yu-ca-way-gu-ho-tay-fray-Kah-Gah-wa-wa-ooo!”
And even when I repeated it (which I did, after his “Huh?”), I’m sure it didn’t become any more coherent.
So I don’t blame him for not understanding me. Hell, even if I had been able to form the words more clearly, there probably still would have been some confusion. I mean, could he really have connected such a confident line to the young woman before him who appeared to be so dramatically off her meds?
Fortunately, the attempt at dialogue ended when he stood up and ambled to the cashier.
He then left the restaurant, untied his horse, and rode into the sunset, where he would continue to live out his biography...
(Okay, I made up the part about the horse.)
Last week, when I visited my mom’s-age-friend, Sue, she mentioned that she had recently “read” (which is the verb she uses for listening to an audio-book) a Paul Newman biography.
“Oh?” I said. “Did it mention that I had waited on him?”
“Of course!” she replied. “There was a whole chapter devoted to that!”
We love bullshitting like this, Sue and I. It’s part of what makes us such dynamic conversationalists.
Sue then mentioned how she had never found Paul Newman particularly handsome…
Which gave me the opportunity to hold my hands about five feet apart – the distance I once had from that face of his.
“Oh no,” I said, my homework having been done, “he was… handsome.”
Here’s the story that didn’t make his biography…
I was waitressing at an eatery on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Not a fancy place, but a place that wanted to be fancier than it was.
(It was really nothing more than a glorified coffee shop.)
I’d been there a while and I was ready to move on, but I also was intrigued with the clientele. I remember working a morning shift when one of the more European waiters on staff tended to a couple who seemed to be just waking up. He was nonplussed as he served coffee to Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton…
I admired my fellow waitperson’s cool as he fulfilled their breakfast orders.
There were other celebs who came into the place, too (I can’t even remember who), and I remember thinking – during my gotta-get-outta-here antsy phase – that maybe I’d stick around a bit longer. Long enough, anyway, to serve a celebrity.
And while I waited for that pivotal moment, I came up with a “line” – a really cool line that I thought I’d be able to deliver when the time came. My plan was to use the line at the end of the celebrity-serving meal, in the moment when I put the check down.
… And just a few weeks later, Paul showed up.
The manager put him in Ingrid’s station, and she seemed to handle the event quite well. The rest of us, of course, took as many opportunities as we could to pass by the booth where he and his guest were sitting. We couldn’t help but want to absorb his glow.
The very next day, he showed up again, and after he was seated, the manager passed through an area near the kitchen. Neither breaking stride nor inflecting, he said, “You got him today, Katie.”
With as much composure as I could assume in that moment of great surprise, I walked toward the booth that contained Paul Newman and his guest.
I must have been shaking both visibly and audibly as I proceeded to take their order. And I’m sure there was a certain amount of dreamy shock in my countenance as I looked into those eyes.
Paul Newman’s eyes…
The color of Equal packets…
“I’ll start with the borscht,” he said, with a dimpled grin.
And then, he and his guest (whom I only remember as not being Robert Redford) added to their order…
Two minutes later, I had returned to their booth with the bowl of borscht, only to discover that Paul had not seen it on the menu and had ordered it as a joke. I offered to take it back, but he said it was okay. I insisted, and I pulled the bowl away (remarkably not sloshing any of the purple liquid onto his slacks).
“Good,” he said, relieved of the inadvertently ordered appetizer. “I hate borscht.”
We got through the meal, but I never felt comfortable. I never acquired the cool that I once thought I’d be able to bring to a celebrity table. In fact, I was rather spastic throughout the process -- or at least, that's how I felt.
Still, though, I had that “line,” and I was determined to use it. So… when I put the check down in front of Paul, I said this:
“I bet you can’t wait to go home and tell all your friends that Katie Gates waited on you!”
To which he said: “Huh?”
In Paul’s defense, I must confess that the aforementioned lack of composure on my part had a major impact on my delivery of said line. I’m guessing that what he heard, at a chipmunk’s register, was something like this:
“I-bay-yu-ca-way-gu-ho-tay-fray-Kah-Gah-wa-wa-ooo!”
And even when I repeated it (which I did, after his “Huh?”), I’m sure it didn’t become any more coherent.
So I don’t blame him for not understanding me. Hell, even if I had been able to form the words more clearly, there probably still would have been some confusion. I mean, could he really have connected such a confident line to the young woman before him who appeared to be so dramatically off her meds?
Fortunately, the attempt at dialogue ended when he stood up and ambled to the cashier.
He then left the restaurant, untied his horse, and rode into the sunset, where he would continue to live out his biography...
(Okay, I made up the part about the horse.)
Monday, December 12, 2011
Monday Reruns: "Get Glasses, Alice!"
(original post-date: December 15, 2010)
Back in the ‘80’s, when I lived in New York, there was a television commercial that came on quite frequently. The protagonist – a yuppy’ish, urban woman – kept running into things. And so her friends kept imploring, “Get glasses, Alice!”
Needless to say, the ad was for a glasses-making outfit.
It might have been LensCrafters. In fact, I think it was. (And who knew, by the way, that they’d make such bank – 25 or so years later – when a certain perky pitbull from Alaska took center stage at a certain convention, but… that’s another story.)
Lately, I’ve been remembering the ad. I’ve been hearing someone whisper into my ear: “Get glasses, Alice!”
I am desperately in need of a visit to the eye doctor. (So desperate in fact that my audio-hallucinations allow someone to call me “Alice.”)
But it’s not that I don’t already have glasses…
I have three pairs.
From front to back, they are: the reading and beading glasses, for those activities that take place about 9-12 inches from my eyes; the computer glasses (which I am wearing now) – recommended for a 17-inch or so distance; and the movie and driving glasses, which I’ve lately worn on occasion when watching TV in my living room.
So, yes, I have glasses, but it may be time to make the leap.
I love it that what were once “trifocals” are now called “progressives.” That is, dare I say, progressive.
And while I am also of that ilk (progressive, I mean), I dread the next step.
The last time I was at the eye doctor (which was more than a year ago), I asked if it were time to “go there.”
He didn’t think so. “As long as you go through part of your day without glasses, then it isn’t time.” Because, as he explained, once you wear progressives, you’re committed to wearing glasses. All the time.
So that’s my dilemma. When I’m not reading or beading; when I’m not at the computer; when I’m not driving or watching a movie… I am generally not wearing glasses. And so: I don’t think of myself as a person who wears glasses.
But then… there are times when I look very closely at a shelf in my bathroom.
YIKES!
Maybe I need bathroom glasses, I think.
Or, there are those occasions when I’m meeting with a new client for the first time, and because my purse isn’t all that big, I’ve not brought along the various glasses. The driving pair is in the car, but otherwise, I am free of corrective lenses… I ask my new client for a business card, and she hands it to me. I then look at it, and I hope that those blurry lines I am looking at include an email address and a telephone number.
Of course, if the meeting’s going particularly well (and they usually do), I can just make a joke as I stretch out my arm so as to view the card.
But… even that move is getting dicey. So I wonder… should I shop for a purse large enough to carry all my glasses or should I see if any stores sell arm extenders – in which case, I suppose, I’d still need a larger purse.
I guess the best next step is to schedule an appointment with my eye doctor…
Actually, I’d like to see him again.
We always enjoy talking about current events and so forth.
We respect each other’s views.
Which is to say, we share a vision.
Which is to say… he’s delightfully progressive.
Back in the ‘80’s, when I lived in New York, there was a television commercial that came on quite frequently. The protagonist – a yuppy’ish, urban woman – kept running into things. And so her friends kept imploring, “Get glasses, Alice!”
Needless to say, the ad was for a glasses-making outfit.
It might have been LensCrafters. In fact, I think it was. (And who knew, by the way, that they’d make such bank – 25 or so years later – when a certain perky pitbull from Alaska took center stage at a certain convention, but… that’s another story.)
Lately, I’ve been remembering the ad. I’ve been hearing someone whisper into my ear: “Get glasses, Alice!”
I am desperately in need of a visit to the eye doctor. (So desperate in fact that my audio-hallucinations allow someone to call me “Alice.”)
But it’s not that I don’t already have glasses…
I have three pairs.
From front to back, they are: the reading and beading glasses, for those activities that take place about 9-12 inches from my eyes; the computer glasses (which I am wearing now) – recommended for a 17-inch or so distance; and the movie and driving glasses, which I’ve lately worn on occasion when watching TV in my living room.
So, yes, I have glasses, but it may be time to make the leap.
I love it that what were once “trifocals” are now called “progressives.” That is, dare I say, progressive.
And while I am also of that ilk (progressive, I mean), I dread the next step.
The last time I was at the eye doctor (which was more than a year ago), I asked if it were time to “go there.”
He didn’t think so. “As long as you go through part of your day without glasses, then it isn’t time.” Because, as he explained, once you wear progressives, you’re committed to wearing glasses. All the time.
So that’s my dilemma. When I’m not reading or beading; when I’m not at the computer; when I’m not driving or watching a movie… I am generally not wearing glasses. And so: I don’t think of myself as a person who wears glasses.
But then… there are times when I look very closely at a shelf in my bathroom.
YIKES!
Maybe I need bathroom glasses, I think.
Or, there are those occasions when I’m meeting with a new client for the first time, and because my purse isn’t all that big, I’ve not brought along the various glasses. The driving pair is in the car, but otherwise, I am free of corrective lenses… I ask my new client for a business card, and she hands it to me. I then look at it, and I hope that those blurry lines I am looking at include an email address and a telephone number.
Of course, if the meeting’s going particularly well (and they usually do), I can just make a joke as I stretch out my arm so as to view the card.
But… even that move is getting dicey. So I wonder… should I shop for a purse large enough to carry all my glasses or should I see if any stores sell arm extenders – in which case, I suppose, I’d still need a larger purse.
I guess the best next step is to schedule an appointment with my eye doctor…
Actually, I’d like to see him again.
We always enjoy talking about current events and so forth.
We respect each other’s views.
Which is to say, we share a vision.
Which is to say… he’s delightfully progressive.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Monday Reruns: It's A Thursday in November - Enjoy it!
(original post-date: November 24, 2010)
Last night, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of mine who keeps following me around the country.
That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…
When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.
And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.
It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.
I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:
When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.
I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.
My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.
The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …
And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!
Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.
[2011 post-script: I'm taking a short holiday break from posting. Will return next week with a Monday rerun and a fresh post on Thursday. Happy Thanksgiving!]
Last night, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of mine who keeps following me around the country.
That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…
When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.
And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.
It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.
I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:
When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.
I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.
My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.
The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …
And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!
Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.
[2011 post-script: I'm taking a short holiday break from posting. Will return next week with a Monday rerun and a fresh post on Thursday. Happy Thanksgiving!]
Monday, October 3, 2011
Monday Reruns: Don't Pity My Wardrobe
(original post-date: October 6, 2010)
Yesterday, one half of my “good” pair of flip-flops broke in an irreparable way, and this incident came on the heels of a broken sandal occurrence as I was rushing to my car on Sunday (late for lunch). I realize that for many women, the opportunity to replace a few pairs of shoes is exciting. In fact, many women would probably take this opportunity and parlay it into a spree in which they come home with more than a few new pairs of footwear.
Not me.
I consider it an inconvenience. I really don’t want to have to buy any new shoes. But: I need the basic starter set, and so I’ll have to make a trip to the cheap shoe warehouse in the next couple of days. Oh well. At least the discount warehouse is in my ‘hood…
No denying it: I am the antithesis of Imelda Marcos.
But it doesn’t stop there. I’m not really much of a clothes horse, either. I can “fix up nice” when doing so is required, but comfort is my preference. I also don’t set aside funds for clothes. It just never occurs to me.
Besides, you don’t have to pay top dollar if you’re willing to go with pre-owned.
Four or five years ago, after a dental appointment, I approached the receptionist’s desk to get the financial verdict. Kim, who was ringing up my sale (as it were) immediately complimented the shirt I was wearing. She clearly liked the design, and she noted particularly that it was somewhat unusual – or at least hard to come by.
“You don’t see that a lot,” she said. “… the short sleeves with the v-neck and the collar.”
I smiled in response to her comment. “Yeah,” I said, enthusiastically. “Isn’t this a nice shirt? I think I got it on the dollar rack at the thrift store.”
Pause…
Oh dear…
The look on Kim’s face…
Not at all what I was expecting.
There was sadness in that look.
Pity.
I mean, I think in that moment, she felt really sorry for me.
Poor girl, her look said, poor girl having to buy her clothes at the thrift store.
And here's my take on that whole transaction: Poor Kim.
Because what she didn't get was this: when I shared where I got my shirt? I wasn't looking to elicit pity. I was bragging!
Seriously. I think it’s great that I can pay a dollar for a shirt that elicits compliments.
…Reminds me of an evening in New York, many moons ago. I was walking to the workshop of the theatre group I had joined, and I was wearing an extremely faux fake leopard-skin jacket. (That’s right, I typed “faux fake.” I would have typed “fake fake” but Microsoft doesn’t like it when I do things like that.) Anyway, I loved this jacket. It made absolutely no attempt to look like the real thing. It just looked very hip, particularly in Manhattan in the 80s.
I had bought it for seven dollars at a thrift shop in Virginia, and it was actually two jackets in one, the reverse side being sheepskin (and every bit as fake as the leopard side). But although it was ostensibly reversible, there was no experiencing the sheepskin look. No way, with that thick fabric. Reversing the sleeves would have taken a team of Olympic medalists from the tug-o-war games. Doesn’t matter, though -- the leopard-skin side was the one to wear.
The jacket had a nice cut, too. It was relatively long, with a straight line. And the shoulders appeared padded (though that was probably just a result of the thick fabric). The sleeves were long enough to be cuffed, thereby featuring about five inches of fake sheepskin at the end of each leopard-skinned arm. I always felt like Veronica Lodge when I wore that jacket. (She’s the one in the Archie comics, in case I just went over your head.)
So back to that night I’m remembering. I’m on West 50-something, near Eighth or Ninth Avenue, and this was when the area was called Hell’s Kitchen. (I don’t know what its name is now, but I’m guessing all the kitchens are well-appointed and probably worth six figures.) Anyway, I’m walking on the sidewalk, and I pass a young man who’s standing closer to the parked cars.
He looks me over. He nods. “Twenty dollars,” he says, attempting a seductive tone.
Dude! I wanna say, the jacket was only seven!
But I’m glad I didn’t respond as such.
Like the gal at my dentist’s office, he might have felt sorry for me.
And when I’m feeling like Veronica Lodge, well… I just don’t need anyone’s pity!
Yesterday, one half of my “good” pair of flip-flops broke in an irreparable way, and this incident came on the heels of a broken sandal occurrence as I was rushing to my car on Sunday (late for lunch). I realize that for many women, the opportunity to replace a few pairs of shoes is exciting. In fact, many women would probably take this opportunity and parlay it into a spree in which they come home with more than a few new pairs of footwear.
Not me.
I consider it an inconvenience. I really don’t want to have to buy any new shoes. But: I need the basic starter set, and so I’ll have to make a trip to the cheap shoe warehouse in the next couple of days. Oh well. At least the discount warehouse is in my ‘hood…
No denying it: I am the antithesis of Imelda Marcos.
But it doesn’t stop there. I’m not really much of a clothes horse, either. I can “fix up nice” when doing so is required, but comfort is my preference. I also don’t set aside funds for clothes. It just never occurs to me.
Besides, you don’t have to pay top dollar if you’re willing to go with pre-owned.
Four or five years ago, after a dental appointment, I approached the receptionist’s desk to get the financial verdict. Kim, who was ringing up my sale (as it were) immediately complimented the shirt I was wearing. She clearly liked the design, and she noted particularly that it was somewhat unusual – or at least hard to come by.
“You don’t see that a lot,” she said. “… the short sleeves with the v-neck and the collar.”
I smiled in response to her comment. “Yeah,” I said, enthusiastically. “Isn’t this a nice shirt? I think I got it on the dollar rack at the thrift store.”
Pause…
Oh dear…
The look on Kim’s face…
Not at all what I was expecting.
There was sadness in that look.
Pity.
I mean, I think in that moment, she felt really sorry for me.
Poor girl, her look said, poor girl having to buy her clothes at the thrift store.
And here's my take on that whole transaction: Poor Kim.
Because what she didn't get was this: when I shared where I got my shirt? I wasn't looking to elicit pity. I was bragging!
Seriously. I think it’s great that I can pay a dollar for a shirt that elicits compliments.
…Reminds me of an evening in New York, many moons ago. I was walking to the workshop of the theatre group I had joined, and I was wearing an extremely faux fake leopard-skin jacket. (That’s right, I typed “faux fake.” I would have typed “fake fake” but Microsoft doesn’t like it when I do things like that.) Anyway, I loved this jacket. It made absolutely no attempt to look like the real thing. It just looked very hip, particularly in Manhattan in the 80s.
I had bought it for seven dollars at a thrift shop in Virginia, and it was actually two jackets in one, the reverse side being sheepskin (and every bit as fake as the leopard side). But although it was ostensibly reversible, there was no experiencing the sheepskin look. No way, with that thick fabric. Reversing the sleeves would have taken a team of Olympic medalists from the tug-o-war games. Doesn’t matter, though -- the leopard-skin side was the one to wear.
The jacket had a nice cut, too. It was relatively long, with a straight line. And the shoulders appeared padded (though that was probably just a result of the thick fabric). The sleeves were long enough to be cuffed, thereby featuring about five inches of fake sheepskin at the end of each leopard-skinned arm. I always felt like Veronica Lodge when I wore that jacket. (She’s the one in the Archie comics, in case I just went over your head.)
So back to that night I’m remembering. I’m on West 50-something, near Eighth or Ninth Avenue, and this was when the area was called Hell’s Kitchen. (I don’t know what its name is now, but I’m guessing all the kitchens are well-appointed and probably worth six figures.) Anyway, I’m walking on the sidewalk, and I pass a young man who’s standing closer to the parked cars.
He looks me over. He nods. “Twenty dollars,” he says, attempting a seductive tone.
Dude! I wanna say, the jacket was only seven!
But I’m glad I didn’t respond as such.
Like the gal at my dentist’s office, he might have felt sorry for me.
And when I’m feeling like Veronica Lodge, well… I just don’t need anyone’s pity!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
You and Me Both
Very early in my New York waitressing years, I was standing on the subway platform, waiting for the Broadway line to pick me up from the Fulton Street stop. I had just worked a Wall Street lunch shift, and I had made maybe $25. I was a year out of college and not particularly happy.
Although it wasn’t rush hour, I was waiting for the train at the very back end of the platform – all the more likely therefore to get a seat when the Local arrived.
But that location also was desolate, and because this was the early ‘80’s, that desolate status presented a risk.
A guy in dark glasses approached me, and he approached me close.
His face probably less than 12 inches from my own, he said (quietly), “When that train comes, I’m going to push you in the tracks.”
I didn’t take a moment, but simply responded. And I responded with absolute honesty: “Oh please don’t do that,” I said (also quietly and with no inflection). “I’ve had a very bad day.”
He smiled, touched me on the shoulder, and said, with an empathy that felt genuine, “You take care, now.”
And then he walked away.
… About eight years ago, an L.A. friend of mine, who is a communications professor and was teaching an online course, needed some teaching assistants. I was among the four she recruited. We T.A.’s didn’t have to read the material (unless we wanted to). We just had to have enough smarts to “get it,” and we needed to be able to grade papers.
It was a fascinating project, and from the students’ references to key passages from books on their syllabus, I realized that I had – intuitively – already been on top of some things in the communications department. Specifically: the results you want won’t come from blaming another party. They’ll come from connecting with that party.
As I reviewed the students’ papers, I remembered the guy on the subway platform. I also remembered two other moments from my early adulthood in New York.
Moment One: As per my being one of the many on-call waitresses of Manhattan’s premiere burger-slinging chain, I was working a cocktail shift in midtown. I remember running around, keeping track of my tables and their orders as best I could. I’d just collected on a check from two people who had had a few drinks. Next to their table, three younger people were thirty minutes or so into their happy hour. I brought the young group another round, and then I turned to bus the table that the couple had just abandoned.
I immediately noticed there was no money on the table. I had seen the tip a few moments ago, but now, it was gone.
I had little doubt that the younger trio, sitting within arm’s length of the abandoned table, had stolen the dollar-fifty. I also knew that confronting them with my suspicion wouldn’t pay. And so I began an improvisation.
“Damnit,” I said, as I picked up the dirty glasses of the departed couple.
“Damnit!” I said again, turning to look at the trio.
“You know,” I confided to them in a crestfallen tone. “I barely make ends meet. And the two people sitting here just left without tipping me! I don’t even know what to say. It’s just not fair.”
I shook my head as I wiped the top of the abandoned table. Then, I walked away slowly, dirty glasses in tow.
A few minutes later, I returned to the area of intrigue, where the trio’s energy was particularly happy.
“We found your tip!” they said, their enthusiastic kindness undoubtedly driven by guilt. “It was under the napkin container!”
“It was?” I said, playing along. “Oh wow, that’s such a relief. Thank you so much.”
I scooped up the money and walked away, allowing all of us to feel good about ourselves.
Moment Two: Around the same time, my roommate – who had better resources than I – had hired a team of guys to refloor the living room of our two-bedroom apartment. So, there they were during the day – the team of unknown guys. Working on our apartment while my roommate and I were off at our jobs.
I generally got home from my waitressing shift at about 4:00 in the afternoon, and as was my routine back then, changing my clothes was immediately followed by opening the top drawer of my dresser. That’s where I kept my pot.
But on one particular afternoon, there was no little baggie in the drawer.
And I knew.
I knew the guys who were dealing with the living room floor had found my stash and had taken it.
I also knew that accusing them would not result in anything helpful to me.
Within a few seconds of intuitive reasoning, I began my act.
“Damnit,” I said from my bedroom, loud enough for them to hear.
“Damnit,” I said again. “I’m such a ditz! Why do I always misplace my pot?
“I’m so pissed right now,” I added, even more loudly (and for effect). “All I want is a joint and I can’t find my pot! … I’m just such a loser.”
I then emerged from my bedroom, took the short walk down the hallway, and entered the living room.
“Guys?” I said, a slight whine in my voice, “Have any of you seen a bag of pot?”
They shrugged their shoulders as I stomped back to my bedroom, continuing to berate my “loser self.”
Just a minute or two later, a voice came from the living room.
“Lady?”
“Yes?” I responded, curiously working my way down the hall.
“We found your pot.”
“Really?” I said, entering the living room.
“Yes,” the spokesman replied, “It was tucked behind these books in the bookshelf.”
I shook my head as if to acknowledge my own disoriented filing system. “So glad you found it,” I said, as he handed me the baggie. “I’m such a ditz!”
Yup.
I’m a ditz.
I’m a ditz that knows she’s not the only one on the planet who’s having a bad day...
You and me both, kiddo.
You and me both.
Although it wasn’t rush hour, I was waiting for the train at the very back end of the platform – all the more likely therefore to get a seat when the Local arrived.
But that location also was desolate, and because this was the early ‘80’s, that desolate status presented a risk.
A guy in dark glasses approached me, and he approached me close.
His face probably less than 12 inches from my own, he said (quietly), “When that train comes, I’m going to push you in the tracks.”
I didn’t take a moment, but simply responded. And I responded with absolute honesty: “Oh please don’t do that,” I said (also quietly and with no inflection). “I’ve had a very bad day.”
He smiled, touched me on the shoulder, and said, with an empathy that felt genuine, “You take care, now.”
And then he walked away.
… About eight years ago, an L.A. friend of mine, who is a communications professor and was teaching an online course, needed some teaching assistants. I was among the four she recruited. We T.A.’s didn’t have to read the material (unless we wanted to). We just had to have enough smarts to “get it,” and we needed to be able to grade papers.
It was a fascinating project, and from the students’ references to key passages from books on their syllabus, I realized that I had – intuitively – already been on top of some things in the communications department. Specifically: the results you want won’t come from blaming another party. They’ll come from connecting with that party.
As I reviewed the students’ papers, I remembered the guy on the subway platform. I also remembered two other moments from my early adulthood in New York.
Moment One: As per my being one of the many on-call waitresses of Manhattan’s premiere burger-slinging chain, I was working a cocktail shift in midtown. I remember running around, keeping track of my tables and their orders as best I could. I’d just collected on a check from two people who had had a few drinks. Next to their table, three younger people were thirty minutes or so into their happy hour. I brought the young group another round, and then I turned to bus the table that the couple had just abandoned.
I immediately noticed there was no money on the table. I had seen the tip a few moments ago, but now, it was gone.
I had little doubt that the younger trio, sitting within arm’s length of the abandoned table, had stolen the dollar-fifty. I also knew that confronting them with my suspicion wouldn’t pay. And so I began an improvisation.
“Damnit,” I said, as I picked up the dirty glasses of the departed couple.
“Damnit!” I said again, turning to look at the trio.
“You know,” I confided to them in a crestfallen tone. “I barely make ends meet. And the two people sitting here just left without tipping me! I don’t even know what to say. It’s just not fair.”
I shook my head as I wiped the top of the abandoned table. Then, I walked away slowly, dirty glasses in tow.
A few minutes later, I returned to the area of intrigue, where the trio’s energy was particularly happy.
“We found your tip!” they said, their enthusiastic kindness undoubtedly driven by guilt. “It was under the napkin container!”
“It was?” I said, playing along. “Oh wow, that’s such a relief. Thank you so much.”
I scooped up the money and walked away, allowing all of us to feel good about ourselves.
Moment Two: Around the same time, my roommate – who had better resources than I – had hired a team of guys to refloor the living room of our two-bedroom apartment. So, there they were during the day – the team of unknown guys. Working on our apartment while my roommate and I were off at our jobs.
I generally got home from my waitressing shift at about 4:00 in the afternoon, and as was my routine back then, changing my clothes was immediately followed by opening the top drawer of my dresser. That’s where I kept my pot.
But on one particular afternoon, there was no little baggie in the drawer.
And I knew.
I knew the guys who were dealing with the living room floor had found my stash and had taken it.
I also knew that accusing them would not result in anything helpful to me.
Within a few seconds of intuitive reasoning, I began my act.
“Damnit,” I said from my bedroom, loud enough for them to hear.
“Damnit,” I said again. “I’m such a ditz! Why do I always misplace my pot?
“I’m so pissed right now,” I added, even more loudly (and for effect). “All I want is a joint and I can’t find my pot! … I’m just such a loser.”
I then emerged from my bedroom, took the short walk down the hallway, and entered the living room.
“Guys?” I said, a slight whine in my voice, “Have any of you seen a bag of pot?”
They shrugged their shoulders as I stomped back to my bedroom, continuing to berate my “loser self.”
Just a minute or two later, a voice came from the living room.
“Lady?”
“Yes?” I responded, curiously working my way down the hall.
“We found your pot.”
“Really?” I said, entering the living room.
“Yes,” the spokesman replied, “It was tucked behind these books in the bookshelf.”
I shook my head as if to acknowledge my own disoriented filing system. “So glad you found it,” I said, as he handed me the baggie. “I’m such a ditz!”
Yup.
I’m a ditz.
I’m a ditz that knows she’s not the only one on the planet who’s having a bad day...
You and me both, kiddo.
You and me both.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Monday Reruns: A Tribute
(original post-date: September 8, 2010)
Foreword:
This coming Saturday is September 11th.
An "anniversary.”
Hmm... I take issue with that word: I think it is too often associated with something quite positive. When it marks the loss of one life? ...Okay, I suppose -- the day can be a celebration of that life. But when thousands have been killed? I'm just not sure that "anniversary" is the right word.
Regardless, it occurred to me – probably around ’07 or so – that I had spent several years going through the various stages of grief. It didn’t debilitate me. It didn’t prevent me from enjoying life and love. It just was.
Five days after that morning of standing before the television, in disbelief, I was able to get some thoughts down on paper. I’d like to share them with you today. Here's what I wrote, back in mid-September, 2001…
Since Tuesday
I'm starting to get used to the routine. I'm learning to expect that every day, something will make me cry. An image on the television, a paragraph in some newspaper story, a radio interview – there will be that instant when I am brought back fully into what happened, and my sense of sorrow and powerlessness will give way to sobs.
For some reason, though, the sobs go as quickly as they come. And when they have passed, I pick up where I had left off. I return to the newspaper or my coffee or the website work. I think again about that damn boutique owner whose check I can't deposit for fear that it might bounce. I think about those family issues that I thought, two months ago, I was done thinking about. I feed the cats; I avoid cleaning; I calculate the days until I really, truly have to do my laundry. I realize my fridge needs to be defrosted again. I plan to walk; I plan to read; I change the litterbox; I feed the cats (again).
And then it's time to cry. Again.
I've lived in Los Angeles for eleven years, but I lived in New York for fifteen. There is still the New Yorker in me. I guess she'll never go away. And even though I wasn't there this week (and I am selfishly relieved that I wasn't), I still feel such a strong connection that it's difficult to distance myself from the surreal pain and anguish that must be floating through that incredible city right now.
At Albertson's tonight, I picked up the People magazine that covered this week's tragedy. Generally, my picking up People at the grocery store has everything to do with how long the checkout line is and how slowly it is moving. Which is to say, I don't buy the magazine; I just borrow it. This issue was different. It was a sad souvenir, and I bought it. And when I got home, I tossed it on the kitchen table with no intention of reading it. I didn't want to. I had seen and heard enough. Besides, I had the website to work on. Besides...
Hours later, I opened the magazine, and I began to read stories that reiterated the news I had been watching and hearing about since Tuesday. I read every word about what happened in New York. I didn't read every word about the Pentagon tragedy. For some reason, it wasn't as newsworthy to me.
Growing up in Virginia, I was more exposed to D.C. than I was to New York, but D.C. never drew me in. I always felt it was too manipulated by its builders. It didn't really have an energy of its own -- only a purpose: to perform its duties as the nation's capital. A city with a job. How dull is that?
Then there was New York. Beckoning me with its diversity and spirit, and with its blessing that I might grow at my own pace, befriending – or not – anyone who stepped in my path. And I could live any way I wanted there – shyly or raucously (and I did both). The city would give me something beyond the space I needed; it would give me resilient perimeters.
I was able to grow and mature in New York because I always felt that, no matter what else was going on, the City was watching over me and would make sure I got home safely. It had power that way. And I can't help but believe that other New Yorkers felt the same. When such a formidable place is also so beautiful and so alive, you can't help but feel that it has the upper hand – that it has a connection to something bigger than yourself; that the City will make sure you get home okay...
And now there are rescue teams working around the clock, standing on several stories of rubble. Trying to believe, against all hope, that there's someone there. Someone still breathing, someone still believing that as long as New York is there, they'll get home okay.
But there's a part of New York that isn't there anymore. And that's what makes me cry.
Katie Gates
9/16/01
Foreword:
This coming Saturday is September 11th.
An "anniversary.”
Hmm... I take issue with that word: I think it is too often associated with something quite positive. When it marks the loss of one life? ...Okay, I suppose -- the day can be a celebration of that life. But when thousands have been killed? I'm just not sure that "anniversary" is the right word.
Regardless, it occurred to me – probably around ’07 or so – that I had spent several years going through the various stages of grief. It didn’t debilitate me. It didn’t prevent me from enjoying life and love. It just was.
Five days after that morning of standing before the television, in disbelief, I was able to get some thoughts down on paper. I’d like to share them with you today. Here's what I wrote, back in mid-September, 2001…
Since Tuesday
I'm starting to get used to the routine. I'm learning to expect that every day, something will make me cry. An image on the television, a paragraph in some newspaper story, a radio interview – there will be that instant when I am brought back fully into what happened, and my sense of sorrow and powerlessness will give way to sobs.
For some reason, though, the sobs go as quickly as they come. And when they have passed, I pick up where I had left off. I return to the newspaper or my coffee or the website work. I think again about that damn boutique owner whose check I can't deposit for fear that it might bounce. I think about those family issues that I thought, two months ago, I was done thinking about. I feed the cats; I avoid cleaning; I calculate the days until I really, truly have to do my laundry. I realize my fridge needs to be defrosted again. I plan to walk; I plan to read; I change the litterbox; I feed the cats (again).
And then it's time to cry. Again.
I've lived in Los Angeles for eleven years, but I lived in New York for fifteen. There is still the New Yorker in me. I guess she'll never go away. And even though I wasn't there this week (and I am selfishly relieved that I wasn't), I still feel such a strong connection that it's difficult to distance myself from the surreal pain and anguish that must be floating through that incredible city right now.
At Albertson's tonight, I picked up the People magazine that covered this week's tragedy. Generally, my picking up People at the grocery store has everything to do with how long the checkout line is and how slowly it is moving. Which is to say, I don't buy the magazine; I just borrow it. This issue was different. It was a sad souvenir, and I bought it. And when I got home, I tossed it on the kitchen table with no intention of reading it. I didn't want to. I had seen and heard enough. Besides, I had the website to work on. Besides...
Hours later, I opened the magazine, and I began to read stories that reiterated the news I had been watching and hearing about since Tuesday. I read every word about what happened in New York. I didn't read every word about the Pentagon tragedy. For some reason, it wasn't as newsworthy to me.
Growing up in Virginia, I was more exposed to D.C. than I was to New York, but D.C. never drew me in. I always felt it was too manipulated by its builders. It didn't really have an energy of its own -- only a purpose: to perform its duties as the nation's capital. A city with a job. How dull is that?
Then there was New York. Beckoning me with its diversity and spirit, and with its blessing that I might grow at my own pace, befriending – or not – anyone who stepped in my path. And I could live any way I wanted there – shyly or raucously (and I did both). The city would give me something beyond the space I needed; it would give me resilient perimeters.
I was able to grow and mature in New York because I always felt that, no matter what else was going on, the City was watching over me and would make sure I got home safely. It had power that way. And I can't help but believe that other New Yorkers felt the same. When such a formidable place is also so beautiful and so alive, you can't help but feel that it has the upper hand – that it has a connection to something bigger than yourself; that the City will make sure you get home okay...
And now there are rescue teams working around the clock, standing on several stories of rubble. Trying to believe, against all hope, that there's someone there. Someone still breathing, someone still believing that as long as New York is there, they'll get home okay.
But there's a part of New York that isn't there anymore. And that's what makes me cry.
Katie Gates
9/16/01
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
That Ol’ Jack Magic – Unconditional Love in a Faulty Structure: Part One
A NOTE BEFORE READING: Today’s post and the two Wednesday posts that will follow it come from a memoir project: five Catalysts and five Constants. The project’s essays are all quite a bit longer than my usual posts, so I am going to share this one in three installments.
I should make one thing clear from the start: I don’t like Jack.
In fact, there have been times when I really have not liked Jack. And there have been times when my feelings for him have gone way beyond “really not liking.” His behavior and his firm inaction are unfathomable, and because he is nothing more than my landlord, I shouldn’t have to entertain feelings about him – ever. But, on occasion, I have had no choice.
Like that time my kitchen faucet essentially exploded at half past midnight, shooting water across the room. Thank God I had not gone to sleep yet, and thank God my neighbors weren’t sleeping too deeply. Though I didn’t know any one of them very well back then, they responded to my calls for “HELP!” Several of them bailed water out of my kitchen while another figured out how to turn off the flow to the entire building – the only way to end the potentially decapitating stream that was bursting out of the wall.
Jack’s got some messed-up pipes, I want to tell you.
And then there was that really scary time that my leg went through the deck/walkway outside my second-floor kitchen door. When I realized I couldn’t pull it out of the hole it had created, I yelled “HELP!” once again. Neighbors responded. Among them were a few who had become friends.
“Call 9-1-1!” I blurted out, realizing – for the first time in my life – that when you need 9-1-1, you know it. And although it should have been a relief to have the fire department arrive, I couldn’t help but feel even more vulnerable at that point. With five firemen surrounding me, I believed there was no way the deck would hold up. And when it collapsed, I’d still be stuck in the wood. My head cracked open on the pavement below.
But the deck didn’t give, and the firemen did get me out. They had to use an electric saw that I watched as it cut the wood just inches from my leg. By then, a crowd from the neighborhood had gathered. I was convinced after that evening that I would probably be a feature of “Show and Tell” in a few local classrooms the next morning.
Jack’s got some soft wood, I want to tell you.
About four months after the deck incident, I was in my living room with my Mom, who was visiting from Virginia. It was a typically hot October day in L.A., so we had the air conditioner running. (A window unit that came with the apartment; something that could probably get a nice chunk of change at the Antiques Roadshow.) Suddenly, there was a funky smell. I saw smoke coming out of the wall socket into which the air conditioner was plugged. I quickly turned off the unit and called the fire department. They arrived within minutes, checked it out and told me not to use the outlet again until an electrician could make the necessary repairs. I immediately called one, and he came over that afternoon.
The electrician replaced whatever needed to be replaced, and I wrote him a check. When I sent Jack my rent the following month, I enclosed the electrician’s receipt, deducted the cost, and explained my math in a note. The next week, I received a bill from Jack for the amount I had deducted. It stated that no repairs can be made without the landlord’s prior approval.
Jack’s got some strange wiring, I want to tell you.
But there’s one other thing about Jack that I cannot deny or overlook. He brought to this building the most amazing tenants. And he brought to this tenant the most amazing friends. It’s magic. It’s bigger than all of us. And it’s definitely not something that I made happen.
+++
“I’m not a friendly neighbor,” I once confessed to my mother, some months after moving from my marriage into Jack’s building.
“That’s because you lived in New York,” she responded.
Maybe there was truth to her theory. For someone else. But I think, for me, the embracing of privacy came first. I think that the reason I chose New York – for college, and for the eleven years that would follow college – is that I craved the option of being anonymous. After growing up in a small town in Virginia, I didn’t want people to know me or to know my business. Sure, I always would have close friends, and they would know more about me than they probably cared to know, but I still guarded my privacy. And as a tenant, I cultivated it. Until…
“Hi, Katie!” Therese calls out through her first-floor living room window.
“Hi, Therese!” I respond, smiling, as I head to my car in the back lot.
(So much for Mom’s theory, I think. Therese lived in New York, too.)
But Mom’s New York theory was not disproved by Therese. It was disproved by Elizabeth, who had moved into the building several months earlier than Therese. Elizabeth, in her own inimitable style, introduced us all to each other. Elizabeth – who also had lived in New York, by the way – brought to Jack’s building her unique brand of Texan hospitality. She had an indefatigable ability to inspire us to pool our resources for a night of partying. Before we knew it, we all chipped in for a grill. And once we were fed, we gathered in her living room for party games. It became a weekend routine, and one that I welcomed. A nice way to relax and interact without going out.
I still didn’t feel particularly close to any of my individual neighbors, but I was enjoying the communion. It was good to become friendly with these people with whom I shared a roof – with whom I shared the pipes, the wood, and the wiring that were unique to Jack. We always had landlord stories to swap, that’s for sure. And Elizabeth seemed to have more of them than anyone.
Of course, where she was concerned, Jack did have a case. Whether we liked it or not, every eviction notice he ever posted on her door was issued validly. She always seemed to be behind on her rent as she pursued a career that might be worthy of her phenomenal singing voice. And I would miss that voice. I would miss hearing her hit every note perfectly, never requiring musical accompaniment.
And I would appreciate always what she had brought to the building.
The first Christmas season after she moved in, I taped a holiday card to her front door. “Dear Elizabeth,” I had written inside, “When I tell my friends about the new energy in my building, I always tell them that one person made it happen. She’s our building’s ‘Fraulein Maria.’ Because of her, there’s music in the house again. I thank you for that, and my only regret is that Jack bears no resemblance whatsoever to Christopher Plummer. Those are the breaks. Love, Katie.”
Remembering that note now, what strikes me is that when I referred to “friends,” I was thinking about the people I knew outside the building.
…But something would happen around the time Elizabeth moved. The bonds that had been created during loud parties and competitive party games would become stronger. Among a few of us, there would be more quiet, one-on-one moments. We would share problems, secrets, and dreams. We’d still have the larger gatherings on the stoop or around the grill, but something deeper than simple socializing among neighbors was emerging.
to be continued on August 31st.
I should make one thing clear from the start: I don’t like Jack.
In fact, there have been times when I really have not liked Jack. And there have been times when my feelings for him have gone way beyond “really not liking.” His behavior and his firm inaction are unfathomable, and because he is nothing more than my landlord, I shouldn’t have to entertain feelings about him – ever. But, on occasion, I have had no choice.
Like that time my kitchen faucet essentially exploded at half past midnight, shooting water across the room. Thank God I had not gone to sleep yet, and thank God my neighbors weren’t sleeping too deeply. Though I didn’t know any one of them very well back then, they responded to my calls for “HELP!” Several of them bailed water out of my kitchen while another figured out how to turn off the flow to the entire building – the only way to end the potentially decapitating stream that was bursting out of the wall.
Jack’s got some messed-up pipes, I want to tell you.
And then there was that really scary time that my leg went through the deck/walkway outside my second-floor kitchen door. When I realized I couldn’t pull it out of the hole it had created, I yelled “HELP!” once again. Neighbors responded. Among them were a few who had become friends.
“Call 9-1-1!” I blurted out, realizing – for the first time in my life – that when you need 9-1-1, you know it. And although it should have been a relief to have the fire department arrive, I couldn’t help but feel even more vulnerable at that point. With five firemen surrounding me, I believed there was no way the deck would hold up. And when it collapsed, I’d still be stuck in the wood. My head cracked open on the pavement below.
But the deck didn’t give, and the firemen did get me out. They had to use an electric saw that I watched as it cut the wood just inches from my leg. By then, a crowd from the neighborhood had gathered. I was convinced after that evening that I would probably be a feature of “Show and Tell” in a few local classrooms the next morning.
Jack’s got some soft wood, I want to tell you.
About four months after the deck incident, I was in my living room with my Mom, who was visiting from Virginia. It was a typically hot October day in L.A., so we had the air conditioner running. (A window unit that came with the apartment; something that could probably get a nice chunk of change at the Antiques Roadshow.) Suddenly, there was a funky smell. I saw smoke coming out of the wall socket into which the air conditioner was plugged. I quickly turned off the unit and called the fire department. They arrived within minutes, checked it out and told me not to use the outlet again until an electrician could make the necessary repairs. I immediately called one, and he came over that afternoon.
The electrician replaced whatever needed to be replaced, and I wrote him a check. When I sent Jack my rent the following month, I enclosed the electrician’s receipt, deducted the cost, and explained my math in a note. The next week, I received a bill from Jack for the amount I had deducted. It stated that no repairs can be made without the landlord’s prior approval.
Jack’s got some strange wiring, I want to tell you.
But there’s one other thing about Jack that I cannot deny or overlook. He brought to this building the most amazing tenants. And he brought to this tenant the most amazing friends. It’s magic. It’s bigger than all of us. And it’s definitely not something that I made happen.
+++
“I’m not a friendly neighbor,” I once confessed to my mother, some months after moving from my marriage into Jack’s building.
“That’s because you lived in New York,” she responded.
Maybe there was truth to her theory. For someone else. But I think, for me, the embracing of privacy came first. I think that the reason I chose New York – for college, and for the eleven years that would follow college – is that I craved the option of being anonymous. After growing up in a small town in Virginia, I didn’t want people to know me or to know my business. Sure, I always would have close friends, and they would know more about me than they probably cared to know, but I still guarded my privacy. And as a tenant, I cultivated it. Until…
“Hi, Katie!” Therese calls out through her first-floor living room window.
“Hi, Therese!” I respond, smiling, as I head to my car in the back lot.
(So much for Mom’s theory, I think. Therese lived in New York, too.)
But Mom’s New York theory was not disproved by Therese. It was disproved by Elizabeth, who had moved into the building several months earlier than Therese. Elizabeth, in her own inimitable style, introduced us all to each other. Elizabeth – who also had lived in New York, by the way – brought to Jack’s building her unique brand of Texan hospitality. She had an indefatigable ability to inspire us to pool our resources for a night of partying. Before we knew it, we all chipped in for a grill. And once we were fed, we gathered in her living room for party games. It became a weekend routine, and one that I welcomed. A nice way to relax and interact without going out.
I still didn’t feel particularly close to any of my individual neighbors, but I was enjoying the communion. It was good to become friendly with these people with whom I shared a roof – with whom I shared the pipes, the wood, and the wiring that were unique to Jack. We always had landlord stories to swap, that’s for sure. And Elizabeth seemed to have more of them than anyone.
Of course, where she was concerned, Jack did have a case. Whether we liked it or not, every eviction notice he ever posted on her door was issued validly. She always seemed to be behind on her rent as she pursued a career that might be worthy of her phenomenal singing voice. And I would miss that voice. I would miss hearing her hit every note perfectly, never requiring musical accompaniment.
And I would appreciate always what she had brought to the building.
The first Christmas season after she moved in, I taped a holiday card to her front door. “Dear Elizabeth,” I had written inside, “When I tell my friends about the new energy in my building, I always tell them that one person made it happen. She’s our building’s ‘Fraulein Maria.’ Because of her, there’s music in the house again. I thank you for that, and my only regret is that Jack bears no resemblance whatsoever to Christopher Plummer. Those are the breaks. Love, Katie.”
Remembering that note now, what strikes me is that when I referred to “friends,” I was thinking about the people I knew outside the building.
…But something would happen around the time Elizabeth moved. The bonds that had been created during loud parties and competitive party games would become stronger. Among a few of us, there would be more quiet, one-on-one moments. We would share problems, secrets, and dreams. We’d still have the larger gatherings on the stoop or around the grill, but something deeper than simple socializing among neighbors was emerging.
to be continued on August 31st.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Monday Reruns: At Your Service
(original post date: July 28, 2010)
Several years ago, I was having dinner with a friend at the Louise’s here in Los Feliz. The waiter approached our table, and as servers now do, de rigueur, he introduced himself.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jan [pronounced YON], and I will be your server tonight.”
My first thought was to share with him, Oh-my-god, that’s the name of the workstation I just bought at Ikea! But I held back. Instead, I smiled and politely said, “And I’m Katie. And I’ll be your customer!”
And so we went on from there. A lovely night, complete with fresh ground pepper and shaved parmesan until we said “when.”
… Such a different world from my waitressing years in Manhattan. Back in the 80’s, nobody knew your name. I spent seven years waitressing in NYC, and in those years, I worked at 24 restaurants. The last five of those years I spent at ONE restaurant. Do the math.
Yeah. So there were some years of hopping around, looking for the place where I could hang my apron for a while.
At one point during the drifting phase, I was working a lunch shift in the Wall Street area, and my friend and neighbor, who had a non-stop station at a family-owned Hungarian restaurant in our Upper West Side neighborhood, had persuaded that establishment’s owner and owneress to allow me to fill in for her on Wednesday nights. (I would later take over her full shift, after she was fired, but I’m getting ahead of myself.)
Okay, so I’m working Wall Street lunches, Monday through Friday, and on Wednesday nights, I’m at the Hungarian place in my own ‘hood. Money’s good enough, but I’m always looking for a new venue. For this reason, I’ve consistently combed the environs, dropping off -- to restaurant owners and managers all along the west side of Manhattan -- my home-made, so-very-low-tech, 3x5 index cards. The cards indicate my availability as a waitress. They also provide contact information.
By about the fourth or fifth Wednesday at the Hungarian place, I’m getting a sense of the drill. My station comprises nine “deuces” (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) and three “rounds” (which can seat up to eight per table). And if that sounds like a lot of station, your sense of empathy is commendable. Add to that sheer person capacity an acute absence of trays. The acrobatics I learned at that restaurant are a subject for another essay, and so we’ll come back to that at another time.
Regardless, on the Wednesday evening in question, I’m running around like usual. I’m wearing one of my mix ‘n match waitress outfits (“Restaurant Garanimals,” as it were). In this case, the combo started with a straight-lined beige skirt that falls just below knee-length but has sassy side pleats. Topping it off, above my tie-in-the-back, two-pocketed, standard issue waitress apron is a raw linen, short-sleeved, tailored plaid top whose primary color is red.
With harried energy, I approach a young couple sitting in one of the deuces. I smile as I ask if they’re ready. They are. And after they place their order, I move on. Within two or three minutes, I return to deliver their drinks. Thereafter, in sequence, I deliver their appetizers, their main courses, their desserts, and their coffees.
Just as I do for the other 20 or so couples I wait on during a four-hour shift that night.
Just as I do for the parties of six or more that take up the larger tables in my constantly turning-over station.
By the following Saturday, I’m ready for a weekend off, but I also know that my index cards are out there. Anything can happen.
Sure enough, late Saturday evening, I get a call from a local restaurant owner named Augie. His Sunday brunch waitress has phoned in sick. He’s wondering if I can fill in. I accept the offer.
I awake that Sunday morning just before eight. Shower and put on my beige skirt and red plaid top. Head down to the local eatery. (Augie’s is just west and south of my apartment; about the same walking distance as the Hungarian restaurant, which is east and north.)
When I get to Augie’s in time for the nine o’clock set-up (no one is expected before ten – this is New York, after all), I wrap the apron around my waist and introduce myself to the bartender.
The bartender is relaxed and kind. He shows me where I can find everything for set-up (creamer pitchers, all the sidestand stuff, coffee makings). He reviews the menu with me. He introduces me to the kitchen staff. He makes it clear that I can call on him if I get in a jam. (Oh, and yeah, he shows me the jam…)
Customers filter in, and while it gets a little busy at times, it never feels out of control. (After the Hungarian place, I can handle anything.) The bartender even comments on my cool at one point. He is clearly impressed by my capacities as a “guest-waitress.”
I am in the rhythm of Augie’s when I approach a couple in the corner.
“Ready to order?” I ask, smiling, my pad held in front of me, my pen primed to record their needs.
There’s a pause. The man in the pair stares up at me and adapts a dumb-founded look.
“Hey!” he says, “Didn’t you wait on us at the Hungarian place on Wednesday?”
Sure enough.
That same couple.
And me, in the same outfit.
Were it fifteen years later, my approach might have gone something like this:
“Hello, my name is Katie, and I will be your server for the rest of your life!”
* * *
Aug 2011 NOTE: Dear Readers, Followers, and Passers-By: I’m happy to direct you to Get Busy Writing, where blogger Emily Rittel-King has a weekly feature called "Blogger Mentor Mondays." I am her guest today, and so I hope you'll drop by and check out our interview as well as some of her past posts. And, thank you, Emily!
Several years ago, I was having dinner with a friend at the Louise’s here in Los Feliz. The waiter approached our table, and as servers now do, de rigueur, he introduced himself.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jan [pronounced YON], and I will be your server tonight.”
My first thought was to share with him, Oh-my-god, that’s the name of the workstation I just bought at Ikea! But I held back. Instead, I smiled and politely said, “And I’m Katie. And I’ll be your customer!”
And so we went on from there. A lovely night, complete with fresh ground pepper and shaved parmesan until we said “when.”
… Such a different world from my waitressing years in Manhattan. Back in the 80’s, nobody knew your name. I spent seven years waitressing in NYC, and in those years, I worked at 24 restaurants. The last five of those years I spent at ONE restaurant. Do the math.
Yeah. So there were some years of hopping around, looking for the place where I could hang my apron for a while.
At one point during the drifting phase, I was working a lunch shift in the Wall Street area, and my friend and neighbor, who had a non-stop station at a family-owned Hungarian restaurant in our Upper West Side neighborhood, had persuaded that establishment’s owner and owneress to allow me to fill in for her on Wednesday nights. (I would later take over her full shift, after she was fired, but I’m getting ahead of myself.)
Okay, so I’m working Wall Street lunches, Monday through Friday, and on Wednesday nights, I’m at the Hungarian place in my own ‘hood. Money’s good enough, but I’m always looking for a new venue. For this reason, I’ve consistently combed the environs, dropping off -- to restaurant owners and managers all along the west side of Manhattan -- my home-made, so-very-low-tech, 3x5 index cards. The cards indicate my availability as a waitress. They also provide contact information.
By about the fourth or fifth Wednesday at the Hungarian place, I’m getting a sense of the drill. My station comprises nine “deuces” (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) and three “rounds” (which can seat up to eight per table). And if that sounds like a lot of station, your sense of empathy is commendable. Add to that sheer person capacity an acute absence of trays. The acrobatics I learned at that restaurant are a subject for another essay, and so we’ll come back to that at another time.
Regardless, on the Wednesday evening in question, I’m running around like usual. I’m wearing one of my mix ‘n match waitress outfits (“Restaurant Garanimals,” as it were). In this case, the combo started with a straight-lined beige skirt that falls just below knee-length but has sassy side pleats. Topping it off, above my tie-in-the-back, two-pocketed, standard issue waitress apron is a raw linen, short-sleeved, tailored plaid top whose primary color is red.
With harried energy, I approach a young couple sitting in one of the deuces. I smile as I ask if they’re ready. They are. And after they place their order, I move on. Within two or three minutes, I return to deliver their drinks. Thereafter, in sequence, I deliver their appetizers, their main courses, their desserts, and their coffees.
Just as I do for the other 20 or so couples I wait on during a four-hour shift that night.
Just as I do for the parties of six or more that take up the larger tables in my constantly turning-over station.
By the following Saturday, I’m ready for a weekend off, but I also know that my index cards are out there. Anything can happen.
Sure enough, late Saturday evening, I get a call from a local restaurant owner named Augie. His Sunday brunch waitress has phoned in sick. He’s wondering if I can fill in. I accept the offer.
I awake that Sunday morning just before eight. Shower and put on my beige skirt and red plaid top. Head down to the local eatery. (Augie’s is just west and south of my apartment; about the same walking distance as the Hungarian restaurant, which is east and north.)
When I get to Augie’s in time for the nine o’clock set-up (no one is expected before ten – this is New York, after all), I wrap the apron around my waist and introduce myself to the bartender.
The bartender is relaxed and kind. He shows me where I can find everything for set-up (creamer pitchers, all the sidestand stuff, coffee makings). He reviews the menu with me. He introduces me to the kitchen staff. He makes it clear that I can call on him if I get in a jam. (Oh, and yeah, he shows me the jam…)
Customers filter in, and while it gets a little busy at times, it never feels out of control. (After the Hungarian place, I can handle anything.) The bartender even comments on my cool at one point. He is clearly impressed by my capacities as a “guest-waitress.”
I am in the rhythm of Augie’s when I approach a couple in the corner.
“Ready to order?” I ask, smiling, my pad held in front of me, my pen primed to record their needs.
There’s a pause. The man in the pair stares up at me and adapts a dumb-founded look.
“Hey!” he says, “Didn’t you wait on us at the Hungarian place on Wednesday?”
Sure enough.
That same couple.
And me, in the same outfit.
Were it fifteen years later, my approach might have gone something like this:
“Hello, my name is Katie, and I will be your server for the rest of your life!”
* * *
Aug 2011 NOTE: Dear Readers, Followers, and Passers-By: I’m happy to direct you to Get Busy Writing, where blogger Emily Rittel-King has a weekly feature called "Blogger Mentor Mondays." I am her guest today, and so I hope you'll drop by and check out our interview as well as some of her past posts. And, thank you, Emily!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Audio Moves
I am 53 years old, and I’m not sure what that means.
When I was a kid, 53 was “getting up there.”
When I was a kid, few people made it into their 90’s.
These days, I may or may not be middle-aged. I’m just not sure. In my heart, I feel incredibly young. Some days, in fact, I feel that I’m just “playing office” or “making house.” Some days, I look around the home I’ve established (an apartment, granted), and I wonder, When did I get to be so grown up? Who told me I should put those spoons in that drawer?
And then there are those other moments – those moments when I arise from the couch – and I hear the noise of my age.
I hear the noise… a noise that says, I’m standing up now.
When did I start doing that?
When did I start providing a soundtrack to my ups and downs?
… Back in 2008, I had the resources and time to take a wonderful trip back east. It began in New York and ended in Virginia. It spanned three weeks.
While I was in NYC, I moved about. I spent the first two nights with some friends in Queens. Then, I cashed in some Amex points for two nights at a Radisson on West 33rd. And I spent the final two nights with some college buddies who always have room for me at their place. (Their place happens also to be on 33rd , but in their case, it’s the east side.)
During one of my Radisson days, I’d made arrangements to hook up with my friend Alyssa – another college buddy. She agreed to meet me at my hotel, and we’d take it from there. I emerged that morning and told her that I had two interests: either the World Trade Center site downtown or our old campus stomping grounds uptown.
Alyssa (perhaps influenced by her own emotions) shared that there was not much to see at Ground Zero. We headed north.
During our walk up Broadway, we had a great time catching up, and the eighty-plus blocks passed by quickly. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the famous Columbia gates, and we entered College Walk.
The Columbia campus is something to behold. Remarkably imposing buildings. At the south end, Butler Library Рwith its columns and with the names chiseled into its fa̤ade: Homer. Herodutus. Sophocles. Plato. Aristotle. Demosthenes. Cicero. Vergil.
And facing Butler is Low Library, a domed structure that rises above the rest – the campus centerpiece.
Between the two, and leading up to Low, are “the steps.”
The Steps.
Just north of College Walk, there is a group of about seven steps. Then, after a bit of even pavement, scored with a nice brick design, there are probably 30 or so more steps.
Back in the day, that first group of seven was the place to meet.
Those were The Steps.
Back in the day, we’d plan to hook up with our friends between classes.
We’d hook up on the steps.
And more often than not, we’d pass a joint. That’s what the steps were about back then.
The Steps.
… So when Alyssa and I entered College Walk, just three years ago, we each were probably entertaining memories. (I know I was.)
And when we decided to just sit down and take it in for a minute, we were both feeling nostalgic.
We climbed three or four rows up.
Then, we readied ourselves to sit.
As we descended into our positions, we each made a noise.
Once we had settled, I turned to my friend.
“Alyssa,” I said, “I think they lowered the steps.”
When I was a kid, 53 was “getting up there.”
When I was a kid, few people made it into their 90’s.
These days, I may or may not be middle-aged. I’m just not sure. In my heart, I feel incredibly young. Some days, in fact, I feel that I’m just “playing office” or “making house.” Some days, I look around the home I’ve established (an apartment, granted), and I wonder, When did I get to be so grown up? Who told me I should put those spoons in that drawer?
And then there are those other moments – those moments when I arise from the couch – and I hear the noise of my age.
I hear the noise… a noise that says, I’m standing up now.
When did I start doing that?
When did I start providing a soundtrack to my ups and downs?
… Back in 2008, I had the resources and time to take a wonderful trip back east. It began in New York and ended in Virginia. It spanned three weeks.
While I was in NYC, I moved about. I spent the first two nights with some friends in Queens. Then, I cashed in some Amex points for two nights at a Radisson on West 33rd. And I spent the final two nights with some college buddies who always have room for me at their place. (Their place happens also to be on 33rd , but in their case, it’s the east side.)
During one of my Radisson days, I’d made arrangements to hook up with my friend Alyssa – another college buddy. She agreed to meet me at my hotel, and we’d take it from there. I emerged that morning and told her that I had two interests: either the World Trade Center site downtown or our old campus stomping grounds uptown.
Alyssa (perhaps influenced by her own emotions) shared that there was not much to see at Ground Zero. We headed north.
During our walk up Broadway, we had a great time catching up, and the eighty-plus blocks passed by quickly. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the famous Columbia gates, and we entered College Walk.
The Columbia campus is something to behold. Remarkably imposing buildings. At the south end, Butler Library Рwith its columns and with the names chiseled into its fa̤ade: Homer. Herodutus. Sophocles. Plato. Aristotle. Demosthenes. Cicero. Vergil.
And facing Butler is Low Library, a domed structure that rises above the rest – the campus centerpiece.
Between the two, and leading up to Low, are “the steps.”
The Steps.
Just north of College Walk, there is a group of about seven steps. Then, after a bit of even pavement, scored with a nice brick design, there are probably 30 or so more steps.
Back in the day, that first group of seven was the place to meet.
Those were The Steps.
Back in the day, we’d plan to hook up with our friends between classes.
We’d hook up on the steps.
And more often than not, we’d pass a joint. That’s what the steps were about back then.
The Steps.
… So when Alyssa and I entered College Walk, just three years ago, we each were probably entertaining memories. (I know I was.)
And when we decided to just sit down and take it in for a minute, we were both feeling nostalgic.
We climbed three or four rows up.
Then, we readied ourselves to sit.
As we descended into our positions, we each made a noise.
Once we had settled, I turned to my friend.
“Alyssa,” I said, “I think they lowered the steps.”
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Mom - Faith, Sapphires, and White Light: Part Two
A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second of a four-part piece, divided so as to keep each entry short. To begin at the beginning, go here.
Perhaps the emotional plate was just too full then. After all, ours was quickly becoming the House of Hormones. Though still in her early forties, Mom was beginning to go through the early stages of menopause. Martha was well on her way to adolescence, and I was just beginning to flirt with its whiplash.
So while Mom confronted hot flashes and other assorted symptoms over the ensuing years, my sister and I confronted our own burgeoning beings. Not surprisingly, our confrontations were as different as the two of us. Martha’s response to the simmering crockpot of adolescence brought to mind Sarah Bernhardt – weepy drama played to the hilt. My response was more in synch with the times – denim-clad rebellion in search of mind-altering drugs.
When Martha turned eighteen, Mom gave her the emerald and diamond ring. And, I’ll admit, there was nothing at all about the gesture that seemed inappropriate. There was something about Martha that already seemed middle-aged at that point, and for that reason, she always struck me as a bit of an anachronism. A cocktail ring – so clearly representative of another era – fit well on her hand. It also would fit well on the campus of the Southern women’s college that she would attend (not coincidentally, the very college where our father taught).
My turning eighteen was another matter altogether. I would not be celebrating the big milestone with my family in Virginia. Rather, I’d be five weeks into my college adventure – in Morningside Heights, just south of Harlem. And while sending the ring via UPS or something of that ilk was certainly an option, Mom decided instead to give it to me early. With no fanfare, she presented it to me in New York, the late August night before our harried day of getting me into my freshman dorm at Barnard.
I remember the look on her face when she handed me the box with the ring in it. The look was hesitant. Tentative. It was a look that said, “If you lose this, or if you sell this for drugs, I will never forgive you.”
I took in that look, and I responded with what had become my trademark, my weapon, and my armor: merciless sarcasm. “Thanks, Mom!” I said, smiling. “And I love it that the blue of the sapphires goes with my jeans!”
She didn’t have a comeback, but she also didn’t need one. She was clearly the stronger party in that scene. By entrusting me with that ring, she had demonstrated that, between us, she could be even more of a risk-taker than I.
I immediately slipped the ring onto my finger. And since that day, I have worn it always.
At the time, my rationale for wearing it was this: if I wait until I have an occasion to wear a sapphire and diamond ring, I will never get to wear this ring. Complementary reasoning went as follows: if this ring is not on my finger, I cannot honestly say that I know where it is.
And so I justified wearing the ring.
But, God, it must have looked awfully silly on me those first several years.
I still have the first college ID that I was issued (the picture probably was taken a day or two after I slipped that ring on my finger). I have kept the ID because I always want to remember the person in the picture. My facial expression then revealed a curious combination of anger and sadness. To go with it, I had short, androgynous hair, no make-up, and the hints of a tee shirt that made no statement whatsoever. Oh, and there were the zits, too. Not a happy camper.
I was an unlikely candidate for a sapphire and diamond ring, and in retrospect, it is no wonder I was never mugged for that particular piece of jewelry. Probably, any mugger who saw the ring then looked at the rest of me and thought, “Nah, those stones can’t be real.”
Yet, I continued to wear it. Ultimately, I grew into it.
And during that decade of shedding anger and sadness, and replacing them with grace and enthusiasm, something else happened: I became friends with my mother.
to be continued on Wednesday, May 18th.
Perhaps the emotional plate was just too full then. After all, ours was quickly becoming the House of Hormones. Though still in her early forties, Mom was beginning to go through the early stages of menopause. Martha was well on her way to adolescence, and I was just beginning to flirt with its whiplash.
So while Mom confronted hot flashes and other assorted symptoms over the ensuing years, my sister and I confronted our own burgeoning beings. Not surprisingly, our confrontations were as different as the two of us. Martha’s response to the simmering crockpot of adolescence brought to mind Sarah Bernhardt – weepy drama played to the hilt. My response was more in synch with the times – denim-clad rebellion in search of mind-altering drugs.
When Martha turned eighteen, Mom gave her the emerald and diamond ring. And, I’ll admit, there was nothing at all about the gesture that seemed inappropriate. There was something about Martha that already seemed middle-aged at that point, and for that reason, she always struck me as a bit of an anachronism. A cocktail ring – so clearly representative of another era – fit well on her hand. It also would fit well on the campus of the Southern women’s college that she would attend (not coincidentally, the very college where our father taught).
My turning eighteen was another matter altogether. I would not be celebrating the big milestone with my family in Virginia. Rather, I’d be five weeks into my college adventure – in Morningside Heights, just south of Harlem. And while sending the ring via UPS or something of that ilk was certainly an option, Mom decided instead to give it to me early. With no fanfare, she presented it to me in New York, the late August night before our harried day of getting me into my freshman dorm at Barnard.
I remember the look on her face when she handed me the box with the ring in it. The look was hesitant. Tentative. It was a look that said, “If you lose this, or if you sell this for drugs, I will never forgive you.”
I took in that look, and I responded with what had become my trademark, my weapon, and my armor: merciless sarcasm. “Thanks, Mom!” I said, smiling. “And I love it that the blue of the sapphires goes with my jeans!”
She didn’t have a comeback, but she also didn’t need one. She was clearly the stronger party in that scene. By entrusting me with that ring, she had demonstrated that, between us, she could be even more of a risk-taker than I.
I immediately slipped the ring onto my finger. And since that day, I have worn it always.
At the time, my rationale for wearing it was this: if I wait until I have an occasion to wear a sapphire and diamond ring, I will never get to wear this ring. Complementary reasoning went as follows: if this ring is not on my finger, I cannot honestly say that I know where it is.
And so I justified wearing the ring.
But, God, it must have looked awfully silly on me those first several years.
I still have the first college ID that I was issued (the picture probably was taken a day or two after I slipped that ring on my finger). I have kept the ID because I always want to remember the person in the picture. My facial expression then revealed a curious combination of anger and sadness. To go with it, I had short, androgynous hair, no make-up, and the hints of a tee shirt that made no statement whatsoever. Oh, and there were the zits, too. Not a happy camper.
I was an unlikely candidate for a sapphire and diamond ring, and in retrospect, it is no wonder I was never mugged for that particular piece of jewelry. Probably, any mugger who saw the ring then looked at the rest of me and thought, “Nah, those stones can’t be real.”
Yet, I continued to wear it. Ultimately, I grew into it.
And during that decade of shedding anger and sadness, and replacing them with grace and enthusiasm, something else happened: I became friends with my mother.
to be continued on Wednesday, May 18th.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Too Old to Move
I cannot imagine leaving Los Angeles.
And not because I love it, which I do.
It’s just that, the older you get, the more difficult it is to make friends.
Remember how easy it was back in childhood? All you needed was a common age, and the deal was sealed.
Are you six? Me too! Let’s go play!
Can you imagine doing that at an adult age?
Hi! Are you fifty-three? Me too! Let’s have lunch!
Ain’t gonna happen.
When my then-husband and I moved to L.A., back in May 1990, it never occurred to me that I was leaving behind some well-established friendships and that I would have to start all over again. Sure, I had a few people out here who I knew, and among them were two I knew quite well, but… that’s barely a starter set.
Looking back at several of my early L.A. friends – people I thought I’d be close to for a long time – I realize that I was going through a process, and I would have to get to the end of that process before I would find the folks who were likely to last.
I remember a co-worker at my first staff job out here. We’ll call her Sheila. I’d been at the nonprofit organization for about a year before she got a position there. Our then-friendship is such ancient history at this point that I cannot explain the “attraction,” but I do remember always feeling as if she and I were both Hayley Mills, playing some equally misbehaving girls in a prep school movie…
I grew out of Sheila before I left the place where we both worked, and a few years later, I was at another nonprofit.
There, I became friends with two women, both of whom were a bit younger than I. We’ll call them Dee and Dora. I bonded with both of them, and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Again, I felt I had embarked on some friendships that would last. But they didn’t pan out as I had expected, and in retrospect, my memory of the times I spent with each or both of them centered around a certain amount of righteousness. A desire to be correct.
Interesting.
With Sheila, I was reliving my adolescence.
With Dee and Dora, I was reliving my twenties.
I was 32 when I arrived in Los Angeles, and I was too new to that decade to know what it meant.
Where friendships were concerned, I had to back up.
I had to start over.
I had to relive a few stages of interactive behavior before I would find the comfort of my present. I had to work through a new growth so that I could reach the moment when I began to know who I was and how I needed to be treated.
That moment began in my mid-40s.
In terms of friendships, I’ve been in the comfort zone ever since.
And not because I love it, which I do.
It’s just that, the older you get, the more difficult it is to make friends.
Remember how easy it was back in childhood? All you needed was a common age, and the deal was sealed.
Are you six? Me too! Let’s go play!
Can you imagine doing that at an adult age?
Hi! Are you fifty-three? Me too! Let’s have lunch!
Ain’t gonna happen.
When my then-husband and I moved to L.A., back in May 1990, it never occurred to me that I was leaving behind some well-established friendships and that I would have to start all over again. Sure, I had a few people out here who I knew, and among them were two I knew quite well, but… that’s barely a starter set.
Looking back at several of my early L.A. friends – people I thought I’d be close to for a long time – I realize that I was going through a process, and I would have to get to the end of that process before I would find the folks who were likely to last.
I remember a co-worker at my first staff job out here. We’ll call her Sheila. I’d been at the nonprofit organization for about a year before she got a position there. Our then-friendship is such ancient history at this point that I cannot explain the “attraction,” but I do remember always feeling as if she and I were both Hayley Mills, playing some equally misbehaving girls in a prep school movie…
I grew out of Sheila before I left the place where we both worked, and a few years later, I was at another nonprofit.
There, I became friends with two women, both of whom were a bit younger than I. We’ll call them Dee and Dora. I bonded with both of them, and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Again, I felt I had embarked on some friendships that would last. But they didn’t pan out as I had expected, and in retrospect, my memory of the times I spent with each or both of them centered around a certain amount of righteousness. A desire to be correct.
Interesting.
With Sheila, I was reliving my adolescence.
With Dee and Dora, I was reliving my twenties.
I was 32 when I arrived in Los Angeles, and I was too new to that decade to know what it meant.
Where friendships were concerned, I had to back up.
I had to start over.
I had to relive a few stages of interactive behavior before I would find the comfort of my present. I had to work through a new growth so that I could reach the moment when I began to know who I was and how I needed to be treated.
That moment began in my mid-40s.
In terms of friendships, I’ve been in the comfort zone ever since.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
It's All in the Reading
Several years ago, I entered a small jewelry store in my neighborhood. The establishment harked back to another time and was probably passed on from one generation to the next. I had gone there to see if the proprietor might be able to repair an antique travel alarm clock that I had purchased at a flea market. The clock had worked quite well for a while, but then it decided to rebel.
While the store owner examined the timepiece, my eyes scanned her small shop, and one of the first things I noticed was a sign: Watch Batteries Repaired While You Wait.
I guess I’m verb-oriented, because my interpretation of that sign was this: If I wanted to, I could watch the proprietor repair batteries while I waited!
(Can you imagine a more entertaining afternoon?)
Interpretation is so subjective.
I have another story on this score, and this one comes from my years in New York. I had been browsing at the Coliseum bookstore, which used to be among the retail features of Columbus Circle. It was probably November or so, because I had stocking stuffers in mind. I quickly noticed a title that would have been appropriate for any member of my family. The title implied a deep devotion (if not outright addiction) to cats.
As I studied the cover illustration, however, I felt confused. There was an elderly person lying in what appeared to be a hospital bed, and surrounding that bed were several people. Those in plain clothes were undoubtedly family.
There also was a nurse and a priest.
But where was the cat?
I looked at how the bedsheets and blanket were arranged over the person lying there. I looked for a lump, figuring the cat must be under the covers.
Then, I returned to the title of the book, and I realized it was Catholics.
(Which explains the priest, of course.)
… There also was a time in between those two incidents – after New York and before I moved to my current neighborhood. I was married to a man whom I’ve previously mentioned in this blog, and since I called him Ben in an earlier essay, we’ll just stick with that…
Anyway, Ben loved to visit a part of California that is about four hours north of Los Angeles, just at the foot of Mount Whitney. There are rock formations there that are awesome, and the landscape is generally, well… what can I say, the dude’s a photographer, and there was no end to the possibilities. So we made the trip together a few times. He’d spend the weekend shooting pictures, and I’d sit by the pool, reading and taking in the remarkable air. Then, we’d meet for dinner and enjoy the quiet, rustic atmosphere of this extremely small town in the middle of nothing but almighty geography.
Once, while doing the drive (which would often begin at the end of a work-week and end close to midnight), we found ourselves behind a particular car, and because we were on a two-lane highway at that point, we remained behind that car for more than a few miles.
And this placement led to some improvisation.
For, you see, the license plate that we were trailing said this: OH BOB
I think Ben started the spontaneous game…
In the tone of a woman who is beyond impressed with a certain individual’s manhood, he exclaimed, “Ohhh Bob!”
I replied, using the clenched-teeth delivery of a wife who has once again found a non-dishwasher safe utensil in that very appliance. “Oh Bob.”
Ben took his turn, imitating a woman who was probably waving flirtatiously from across the room, “Oh, Bo-obb!”
My next entry was scolding, the type of admonition one might use when embarrassed by the inappropriateness of her partner: “Oh, BOB!”
Ben was still in another world. Possibly post-coital. His character sounded quite breathless and was undoubtedly reaching for a cigarette when she sighed, “Oh… Bob…”
When I responded, I sounded more like some 1950’s housewife who’s standing at the bottom of a suburban staircase, her arms folded at her chest. “Oh Bo-obb,” my character chanted, not at all pleased.
I don’t know how many more rounds we went, but it was good to get these feelings out of our systems.
It also was good to reach the changing lane so that we could move on to the next improvisation.
While the store owner examined the timepiece, my eyes scanned her small shop, and one of the first things I noticed was a sign: Watch Batteries Repaired While You Wait.
I guess I’m verb-oriented, because my interpretation of that sign was this: If I wanted to, I could watch the proprietor repair batteries while I waited!
(Can you imagine a more entertaining afternoon?)
Interpretation is so subjective.
I have another story on this score, and this one comes from my years in New York. I had been browsing at the Coliseum bookstore, which used to be among the retail features of Columbus Circle. It was probably November or so, because I had stocking stuffers in mind. I quickly noticed a title that would have been appropriate for any member of my family. The title implied a deep devotion (if not outright addiction) to cats.
As I studied the cover illustration, however, I felt confused. There was an elderly person lying in what appeared to be a hospital bed, and surrounding that bed were several people. Those in plain clothes were undoubtedly family.
There also was a nurse and a priest.
But where was the cat?
I looked at how the bedsheets and blanket were arranged over the person lying there. I looked for a lump, figuring the cat must be under the covers.
Then, I returned to the title of the book, and I realized it was Catholics.
(Which explains the priest, of course.)
… There also was a time in between those two incidents – after New York and before I moved to my current neighborhood. I was married to a man whom I’ve previously mentioned in this blog, and since I called him Ben in an earlier essay, we’ll just stick with that…
Anyway, Ben loved to visit a part of California that is about four hours north of Los Angeles, just at the foot of Mount Whitney. There are rock formations there that are awesome, and the landscape is generally, well… what can I say, the dude’s a photographer, and there was no end to the possibilities. So we made the trip together a few times. He’d spend the weekend shooting pictures, and I’d sit by the pool, reading and taking in the remarkable air. Then, we’d meet for dinner and enjoy the quiet, rustic atmosphere of this extremely small town in the middle of nothing but almighty geography.
Once, while doing the drive (which would often begin at the end of a work-week and end close to midnight), we found ourselves behind a particular car, and because we were on a two-lane highway at that point, we remained behind that car for more than a few miles.
And this placement led to some improvisation.
For, you see, the license plate that we were trailing said this: OH BOB
I think Ben started the spontaneous game…
In the tone of a woman who is beyond impressed with a certain individual’s manhood, he exclaimed, “Ohhh Bob!”
I replied, using the clenched-teeth delivery of a wife who has once again found a non-dishwasher safe utensil in that very appliance. “Oh Bob.”
Ben took his turn, imitating a woman who was probably waving flirtatiously from across the room, “Oh, Bo-obb!”
My next entry was scolding, the type of admonition one might use when embarrassed by the inappropriateness of her partner: “Oh, BOB!”
Ben was still in another world. Possibly post-coital. His character sounded quite breathless and was undoubtedly reaching for a cigarette when she sighed, “Oh… Bob…”
When I responded, I sounded more like some 1950’s housewife who’s standing at the bottom of a suburban staircase, her arms folded at her chest. “Oh Bo-obb,” my character chanted, not at all pleased.
I don’t know how many more rounds we went, but it was good to get these feelings out of our systems.
It also was good to reach the changing lane so that we could move on to the next improvisation.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Monday Reruns: Quite Possibly the Youngest Soul on the Planet
(original post date: March 31, 2010)
He so easily could have been a brat.
The fifth child in a Virginia family, he was born to three older sisters and an older brother. And because the family was so very Virginian, the girls ruled.
They ruled.
Oh my gracious, how they loved their “Bob-o-link!”
Were he alive today, my dad would grimace, scoldingly, at the nickname. (He also probably would curse.)
Were he alive today, that scolding grimace (and accompanying four-letter word) would probably be the only time you’d recognize something other than childlike wonder emanating from his face.
My dad died two years ago yesterday, and in writing this, I’m not seeking either to expel personal emotions or to solicit condolences.
I’m just writing to honor his life.
I also should say that I was relieved when he died.
I was relieved because, for the last few years of his life, he was very frail. His needs were taxing my mom. He needed to die.
As for the years that came ahead of those? I have one vision: Dad, with eyebrows raised and a jaw dropped just enough to create an “O” with his mouth.
My vision is Dad, amazed.
I’m not kidding.
Robbins (“Bob-o-link”) Gates was born – and probably died – amazed.
I remember one time when he and Mom visited me in New York. We were having dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue , and my parents were expressing curiosity following some bad vibes that had just occurred with friends of theirs – friends with whom they’d shared a rented house on Cape Cod.
I had been in that house for one week of the two-week rental. I knew the players. And so, after listening to Mom and Dad’s description of events, I shared my perspective.
Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly opened, my dad looked across the table at me.
“How did you get to be so wise?” he asked.
I smiled, shrugged, and offered that I had simply observed.
I don’t know that I got my wisdom from Dad, but I know I got some serious DNA. My soul may be older than his, but I think a part of me still inherited that beautiful wonder.
It is because of Dad that I want to learn.
It is because of Dad that I am never sure.
It is because of Dad that I feel the world is my oyster.
I may have been born old, but because of Dad, I get to feel young.
So, Dad?
Wherever you are.
Keep being amazed.
It is your sense of wonder that keeps us all going, and we need that.
----------
POSTSCRIPT: Gratitude to my sister, Martha, for providing the first line.
He so easily could have been a brat.
The fifth child in a Virginia family, he was born to three older sisters and an older brother. And because the family was so very Virginian, the girls ruled.
They ruled.
Oh my gracious, how they loved their “Bob-o-link!”
Were he alive today, my dad would grimace, scoldingly, at the nickname. (He also probably would curse.)
Were he alive today, that scolding grimace (and accompanying four-letter word) would probably be the only time you’d recognize something other than childlike wonder emanating from his face.
My dad died two years ago yesterday, and in writing this, I’m not seeking either to expel personal emotions or to solicit condolences.
I’m just writing to honor his life.
I also should say that I was relieved when he died.
I was relieved because, for the last few years of his life, he was very frail. His needs were taxing my mom. He needed to die.
As for the years that came ahead of those? I have one vision: Dad, with eyebrows raised and a jaw dropped just enough to create an “O” with his mouth.
My vision is Dad, amazed.
I’m not kidding.
Robbins (“Bob-o-link”) Gates was born – and probably died – amazed.
I remember one time when he and Mom visited me in New York. We were having dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue , and my parents were expressing curiosity following some bad vibes that had just occurred with friends of theirs – friends with whom they’d shared a rented house on Cape Cod.
I had been in that house for one week of the two-week rental. I knew the players. And so, after listening to Mom and Dad’s description of events, I shared my perspective.
Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly opened, my dad looked across the table at me.
“How did you get to be so wise?” he asked.
I smiled, shrugged, and offered that I had simply observed.
I don’t know that I got my wisdom from Dad, but I know I got some serious DNA. My soul may be older than his, but I think a part of me still inherited that beautiful wonder.
It is because of Dad that I want to learn.
It is because of Dad that I am never sure.
It is because of Dad that I feel the world is my oyster.
I may have been born old, but because of Dad, I get to feel young.
So, Dad?
Wherever you are.
Keep being amazed.
It is your sense of wonder that keeps us all going, and we need that.
----------
POSTSCRIPT: Gratitude to my sister, Martha, for providing the first line.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
An Open Letter to Some People Who Attended the UCLA-Live Event This Past Saturday
Greetings from another member of the audience:
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Before I address you individually, I should probably provide a little background regarding my experiences with live theatre…
Throughout my childhood, my parents were actively involved in two community theatre groups. One group staged three plays during the school year, while the other – an open-air venue – had a summer season comprising five plays. When my parents first became involved, they signed on to do props for one of the summer productions. Within a few years, though, they both had moved on to the stage, where they would, over the years, fine-tune their acting skills with style and grace.
When my sister and I were old enough to participate, we, too, volunteered for assignments, and while Martha would certainly accept production work, she really enjoyed acting more. (And, like my parents, she was quite good.) I, on the other hand, never got bit by the bug, and so – with the exception of a few very small roles that I performed quite poorly – I preferred to make my contributions as part of the backstage crew.
More often than not, though, I was in the audience, and I learned, at a young age, that the audience of a live performance should be respectful of the time, energy, passions, and talent that have gone into the mounting of a theatre production. Which is to say, the audience should give its full attention to the stage.
When I lived in New York, I continued to enjoy attending theatrical events. Broadway was affordable then, and with the option of placing the word “off-” in front of that concept, and then repeating it – as many times as you please – there was never a shortage of productions taking place in smaller venues throughout the City. I probably saw more than 50 plays and musicals during my 15 years in New York.
My theatre attendance in Los Angeles has been a bit more spotty. While I have seen several remarkable shows at some of the area’s larger venues, my having to be a bit more careful with money in recent years has put a dent in my theatre-going. Part of the problem is that I have “open space issues.” In most theatres, the balcony area (that is, where the cheap seats are) is way too high for me, and the grade is much too steep. I simply cannot enjoy what’s happening on the stage when I fear I will topple over my fellow patrons as I make my way, headfirst (and quite fatally), into the orchestra section.
(I realize, by the way, that there are terms for these “issues:” acrophobia, in regard to the fear of heights; and agoraphobia, in regard to the fear of open spaces. But I prefer simply to call the combination a profound and deep respect for the concept of gravity.)
Anyway, because of the economy, I’ve curtailed my theatre-going in recent years, and I even had to think about it for a minute, last week, when my friend Maria asked if I were interested in attending the Wallace Shawn performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall. But I’ve admired the writer/actor ever since I saw My Dinner With Andre back in the 80s, and the $45 ticket price didn’t seem like such a huge amount after three busy weeks of billable hours.
Which brings me to you people: you five or six people who also had forked over some money for tickets; you five or six people who were sitting nearby…
Some words first to the couple three rows ahead. I am very happy that you found each other. Your common need to fondle the hair and ear of your partner will probably make for a long relationship. But, seriously, get a room. Even with the house lights down, it was impossible not to be distracted by your public displays of obsession, and you need to cop to the fact that, because neither of you is petite (especially not you, sir), you will never be able to enjoy this shared fetish in a manner that is discreet.
Now to the two young ladies sitting behind my friend and me. Yes; you two. I appreciate that you probably got a student discount to attend the event, but that doesn’t mean you are entitled to chatter away while the performer is on stage. I am glad that when I turned around and glared at you, you stopped talking. I also was pleased when the man across the aisle silently got up from his seat, approached you both, and let you know – in a stage whisper – that the light emanating from your blackberry was bothering him and others. But don’t think for a moment that I didn’t notice your continued attempts to sneak back into that little machine and do whatever technological task apparently could not wait. I noticed it, and it bothered me.
As to the dude sitting in the row in front of us... Yes; you -- with the bright and distracting handheld device. My friend shared with me later that you were playing a video game on your little machine. Really? So, what happened? Did you win? And, why, by the way – if you were wanting to play computer games – did you choose to do so in a theatre?
As for the folks down the row, my peripheral vision also caught your illuminated screens. Was there an emergency? Was that the deal? Or maybe your text simply stated: yeah, I’m at the theatre.
To the five or six of you and whoever else was multitasking in Royce Hall, shame on you. Not behaving properly at a public event is equivalent to having a lack of social skills. And, in my opinion, you people are lacking in social skills.
Shame on you.
…Of course, before Shawn took the stage, the usual announcement was made. You know the one – it’s the same as is made in movie theatres: please turn off cell phones, pagers, and any illuminated handheld devices, [etc.] What’s interesting is that, while this request was being abused all over Royce Hall on Saturday night, I have rarely seen it abused in movie theatres.
Maybe people just need to see what they see on screens. And if that’s true, then what that means, I guess, is that a movie can replace those handheld devices, but a live human cannot.
Hmm, are we really so screen-addicted?
I realize, of course, that I am looking at one now.
And so are you.
But I also am not pretending to do, hear, or see something else simultaneously. And I hope the same goes for you.
…After his performance, which included readings (from his own work and others) around the theme of Real World, Fake World, Dream World, Wallace Shawn entertained some questions from the audience. A few of those questions provided him with an opportunity to elaborate on what a mess our world has become and how we should, in fact, be worried.
I appreciate his perspective.
And if he was aware – during his 90 minutes on stage – of the multi-tasking that was occurring in the audience, I also appreciate his ability not to give it any power. I could not have done that. Had it been me behind the lectern, I would have stopped in my tracks, shut my mouth, and refused to continue talking until the collective rudeness had virtually left the room.
Good thing, I guess, that I’ve always preferred the backstage assignments.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
It’s a Thursday in November – Enjoy It!
Last night, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of mine who keeps following me around the country.
That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…
When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.
And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.
It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.
I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:
When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.
I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.
My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.
The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …
And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!
Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.
That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…
When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.
And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.
It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.
I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:
When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.
I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.
My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.
The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …
And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!
Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Red Flags at Work
It is perhaps an understatement to say that I have always approached employment with a certain amount of fluidity. The fact of the matter is, I have never really worried about it. Within that context, I’ve had two primary “careers.” The first was in the restaurant world of New York City, and the second has been in the nonprofit sector, beginning in New York, at the Ford Foundation. The nonprofit work has lasted quite long – it’s now been 23 years. Ironically, had I not been sent to Ford as a temp, I may never have discovered the sector.
Regardless of my good fortune in that assignment, I’ve always contended: you don’t necessarily need to know what you want to do for a living; just be really clear about what you don’t want to do. And be prepared to run like hell when things don’t work out.
I’ve run like hell on many occasions. And regarding a few of them, I distinctly remember the red flag that pushed me into a new job…
One of my two dozen waitressing gigs was at a Hungarian restaurant on Manhattan’s upper west side. It was more lucrative than anything I could have imagined then, but that income came at a price. The work was nonstop, Mondays through Saturdays. I amassed a weekly average of $350 (in the early 80’s, mind you!), and I didn’t reach that total because I was serving high-end entrees to parties of well-dressed theatre-patrons; rather, I was running my ass off, collecting $2.00 tips here and $3.00 tips there. Do the math.
There were three of us “on the floor” at that restaurant: the two Hungarian waiters and me (me: the native-born; born, for that matter, in Connecticut and to a pair of WASPs). The kitchen was run by guys from the Dominican Republic, and the owner and owneress were Hungarian. As you can imagine, I learned several Spanish and Hungarian phrases while working there. And as you also might imagine (particularly if you are familiar with restaurants as a workplace), most of what I learned contained words that children should not hear.
One morning, about eight or so months into my Hungarian stint, I woke up with one phrase in my head: bazd meg. This, my friends, means “fuck it.” In a language I do not speak.
Red flag: if you wake up in the morning thinking “fuck it,” you are in a bad psychic place. If you wake up thinking “fuck it” in a language you do not speak, consider a job change. Seriously.
…Years later, after I had moved to L.A., I accepted a mid-management position at an area nonprofit. Having done some consulting with them, I thought it’d be a good fit. It wasn’t. I was becoming increasingly unhappy with the administrative details of my responsibilities, and the bureaucracies of the organization disturbed me particularly. I think I had to fill out about three forms to request a legal pad, and six weeks later, I remained without one.
At the same time, this organization’s mission statement included the following phrase: “the elimination of racism.” I became bitter as I watched what was going on around me. All I could think was this: if it takes six weeks to get a legal pad, then good luck with racism!
One day, as I was driving to work, I took a quick glance at my speedometer. I was going eight miles per hour.
Red flag: if you are holding up traffic while driving to your job, it is not the right job for you. Make a u-turn and find another gig. It beats being rear-ended.
About a half-dozen years after that slow drive to resignation, I was once again settling into a new staff job. This time, I had gone through an arduous interview/writing sample process as I vied to become a certain nonprofit organization’s first-ever development director. I landed the job and a nicely competitive salary.
But the challenges became apparent early on. The executive director, who was a lovely person and passionate professional, had some issues with delegation. Issues? Okay, I’m being kind.
As an example: one day, she said to me, “Send an email to the program officer at XYZ. In the subject line, write ‘introducing myself,’ and then tell her who you are and let her know…”
And on it went. I was being told how to write an email. I was being dictated the entire contents of that email!
A week or so later, the executive director was away on business, leaving me to put together the type of funder report I had been responsible for five years earlier, when I was the next-to-the-lowest paid person in a development staff of six. Which is to say, it was an assignment I could have done with my eyes closed.
I put all the documents together and then set out to write the cover letter.
I began by typing, “Dear.”
Just then, the cartoon paper clip appeared on my screen.
“Looks like you’re writing a letter!” its balloon said. “Can I help?”
I practically leapt from my chair and stared down the paper clip. Then, using my outside voice, I screamed, “I KNOW HOW TO WRITE A FUCKING LETTER!”
Red flag: if you are audibly yelling at Microsoft icons, you are wasting your time. And if that yelling has been incited by the micro-managing behaviors of powers-that-be, your time is being wasted. Move on.
And that was the last staff job I ever held.
Go figure.
Regardless of my good fortune in that assignment, I’ve always contended: you don’t necessarily need to know what you want to do for a living; just be really clear about what you don’t want to do. And be prepared to run like hell when things don’t work out.
I’ve run like hell on many occasions. And regarding a few of them, I distinctly remember the red flag that pushed me into a new job…
One of my two dozen waitressing gigs was at a Hungarian restaurant on Manhattan’s upper west side. It was more lucrative than anything I could have imagined then, but that income came at a price. The work was nonstop, Mondays through Saturdays. I amassed a weekly average of $350 (in the early 80’s, mind you!), and I didn’t reach that total because I was serving high-end entrees to parties of well-dressed theatre-patrons; rather, I was running my ass off, collecting $2.00 tips here and $3.00 tips there. Do the math.
There were three of us “on the floor” at that restaurant: the two Hungarian waiters and me (me: the native-born; born, for that matter, in Connecticut and to a pair of WASPs). The kitchen was run by guys from the Dominican Republic, and the owner and owneress were Hungarian. As you can imagine, I learned several Spanish and Hungarian phrases while working there. And as you also might imagine (particularly if you are familiar with restaurants as a workplace), most of what I learned contained words that children should not hear.
One morning, about eight or so months into my Hungarian stint, I woke up with one phrase in my head: bazd meg. This, my friends, means “fuck it.” In a language I do not speak.
Red flag: if you wake up in the morning thinking “fuck it,” you are in a bad psychic place. If you wake up thinking “fuck it” in a language you do not speak, consider a job change. Seriously.
…Years later, after I had moved to L.A., I accepted a mid-management position at an area nonprofit. Having done some consulting with them, I thought it’d be a good fit. It wasn’t. I was becoming increasingly unhappy with the administrative details of my responsibilities, and the bureaucracies of the organization disturbed me particularly. I think I had to fill out about three forms to request a legal pad, and six weeks later, I remained without one.
At the same time, this organization’s mission statement included the following phrase: “the elimination of racism.” I became bitter as I watched what was going on around me. All I could think was this: if it takes six weeks to get a legal pad, then good luck with racism!
One day, as I was driving to work, I took a quick glance at my speedometer. I was going eight miles per hour.
Red flag: if you are holding up traffic while driving to your job, it is not the right job for you. Make a u-turn and find another gig. It beats being rear-ended.
About a half-dozen years after that slow drive to resignation, I was once again settling into a new staff job. This time, I had gone through an arduous interview/writing sample process as I vied to become a certain nonprofit organization’s first-ever development director. I landed the job and a nicely competitive salary.
But the challenges became apparent early on. The executive director, who was a lovely person and passionate professional, had some issues with delegation. Issues? Okay, I’m being kind.
As an example: one day, she said to me, “Send an email to the program officer at XYZ. In the subject line, write ‘introducing myself,’ and then tell her who you are and let her know…”
And on it went. I was being told how to write an email. I was being dictated the entire contents of that email!
A week or so later, the executive director was away on business, leaving me to put together the type of funder report I had been responsible for five years earlier, when I was the next-to-the-lowest paid person in a development staff of six. Which is to say, it was an assignment I could have done with my eyes closed.
I put all the documents together and then set out to write the cover letter.
I began by typing, “Dear.”
Just then, the cartoon paper clip appeared on my screen.
“Looks like you’re writing a letter!” its balloon said. “Can I help?”
I practically leapt from my chair and stared down the paper clip. Then, using my outside voice, I screamed, “I KNOW HOW TO WRITE A FUCKING LETTER!”
Red flag: if you are audibly yelling at Microsoft icons, you are wasting your time. And if that yelling has been incited by the micro-managing behaviors of powers-that-be, your time is being wasted. Move on.
And that was the last staff job I ever held.
Go figure.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Monday Reruns: My Lee Marvin Story
(original post-date: November 3, 2009)
Imagine a world where you can’t rent movies or look up some info online. In 1979, that was the world I was living in. And that’s where my tale begins…
It was early December in NYC. Which means it was that crisp, holiday time, and everyone was in a festive mood. My good friend, John, had some out-of-town guests, and because I was living in a rather spacious apartment, we volunteered my living room for the three guys’ crash pad.
After a day-and-a-half of running around town, we spent Sunday evening in. Just hanging around the living room, talking about whatever. The conversation turned to favorite movies, and John’s brother, Tom, mentioned that his was Cat Ballou. As we began to riff on the movie, we remembered that Lee Marvin played two roles: the drunk (Kid Shelleen), and… what was the name of the other character? He had a silver nose, and he was a bad guy! What was his name?
We couldn’t think of it, and so we moved on. But, for John and me, moving on was only temporary. For months after the three houseguests returned to Michigan, John and I continued to obsess over the unanswered trivia question. We’d quiz people at parties we’d attend. And, week after week, I’d peruse the TV listings in the paper to see if Cat Ballou might be that night’s late, late movie on network television.
I’d also check the movie listings in the Times and The New Yorker. There were lots of revival theatres back then, and it would have been fun to see the old western on the big screen. But… it never showed up.
Why were we so obsessed with getting the answer to this question?
Time passed… and the following July, I had tickets to see a production of Camelot at Lincoln Center. Richard Burton reprising his role, and Christine Ebersol playing Guenevere. I met my friend, Audrey, at the box office, where we picked up our tickets. Then, we entered the large lobby. We had a little time to mill about before heading up to our cheap seats, and as we both took in the array of people, I noticed a large man, about ten feet away.
“Look!” I said to Audrey. “Lee Marvin!”
Then, it dawned on me: He’ll know!
Without thinking twice about it, I raced over to him. And then, in a truly childlike move, I tugged ever so gently on the sleeve of his camel-colored jacket. “Mr. Marvin?” I said, my voice easily three octaves higher than it usually is. “Mr. Marvin?”
He looked down at me (not in a classist way; rather, in the way of someone who is just that much taller).
“Yes?” he said, his voice large, the word seeming to have so many more than three letters.
I was stunned, and I must have looked incredibly frightened.
“Yes?” he reiterated, his presence so far above me that his words echoed as God’s might.
(I was temporarily frozen by the reality of the moment: Lee Marvin was waiting for me to say something!)
“Um, yes, Mr. Marvin,” I began, sounding like a chipmunk on amphetamines, “Um, anyway, these friends of mine and I have been obsessed for a while with a trivia question, and…”
“Yes?” he asked again, still looking down upon me (not unkindly) and filling the time while I took a breath.
“And so we’re just wondering, Mr. Marvin, in Cat Ballou, what’s the name of that guy you played – not Kid Shelleen, we know about him, but the other guy… the guy with the silver nose?”
“Tim Strawn,” he said.
“Tim Strawn?” I repeated, my voice still sounding like I’d just inhaled a boatload of helium.
“Tim Strawn,” he confirmed, maintaining his solid standing and deep vocal register.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
And as I scurried away, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to tell John!”
I got the answer! I got it from the man himself!
Imagine a world where you can’t rent movies or look up some info online. In 1979, that was the world I was living in. And that’s where my tale begins…
It was early December in NYC. Which means it was that crisp, holiday time, and everyone was in a festive mood. My good friend, John, had some out-of-town guests, and because I was living in a rather spacious apartment, we volunteered my living room for the three guys’ crash pad.
After a day-and-a-half of running around town, we spent Sunday evening in. Just hanging around the living room, talking about whatever. The conversation turned to favorite movies, and John’s brother, Tom, mentioned that his was Cat Ballou. As we began to riff on the movie, we remembered that Lee Marvin played two roles: the drunk (Kid Shelleen), and… what was the name of the other character? He had a silver nose, and he was a bad guy! What was his name?
We couldn’t think of it, and so we moved on. But, for John and me, moving on was only temporary. For months after the three houseguests returned to Michigan, John and I continued to obsess over the unanswered trivia question. We’d quiz people at parties we’d attend. And, week after week, I’d peruse the TV listings in the paper to see if Cat Ballou might be that night’s late, late movie on network television.
I’d also check the movie listings in the Times and The New Yorker. There were lots of revival theatres back then, and it would have been fun to see the old western on the big screen. But… it never showed up.
Why were we so obsessed with getting the answer to this question?
Time passed… and the following July, I had tickets to see a production of Camelot at Lincoln Center. Richard Burton reprising his role, and Christine Ebersol playing Guenevere. I met my friend, Audrey, at the box office, where we picked up our tickets. Then, we entered the large lobby. We had a little time to mill about before heading up to our cheap seats, and as we both took in the array of people, I noticed a large man, about ten feet away.
“Look!” I said to Audrey. “Lee Marvin!”
Then, it dawned on me: He’ll know!
Without thinking twice about it, I raced over to him. And then, in a truly childlike move, I tugged ever so gently on the sleeve of his camel-colored jacket. “Mr. Marvin?” I said, my voice easily three octaves higher than it usually is. “Mr. Marvin?”
He looked down at me (not in a classist way; rather, in the way of someone who is just that much taller).
“Yes?” he said, his voice large, the word seeming to have so many more than three letters.
I was stunned, and I must have looked incredibly frightened.
“Yes?” he reiterated, his presence so far above me that his words echoed as God’s might.
(I was temporarily frozen by the reality of the moment: Lee Marvin was waiting for me to say something!)
“Um, yes, Mr. Marvin,” I began, sounding like a chipmunk on amphetamines, “Um, anyway, these friends of mine and I have been obsessed for a while with a trivia question, and…”
“Yes?” he asked again, still looking down upon me (not unkindly) and filling the time while I took a breath.
“And so we’re just wondering, Mr. Marvin, in Cat Ballou, what’s the name of that guy you played – not Kid Shelleen, we know about him, but the other guy… the guy with the silver nose?”
“Tim Strawn,” he said.
“Tim Strawn?” I repeated, my voice still sounding like I’d just inhaled a boatload of helium.
“Tim Strawn,” he confirmed, maintaining his solid standing and deep vocal register.
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
And as I scurried away, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to tell John!”
I got the answer! I got it from the man himself!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Monday Reruns: Groucho, Gandhi, and Me: an October 2nd Story
(original post-date: October 2, 2009)
I’m not a group person. Or, more accurately, I’m not terribly motivated within a group setting. (The virtually badgeless girl scout sash I sported in the fourth grade exists as proof.) So when my friend, Diane, asked if I would be interested in joining a theatre group, I didn’t jump at the opportunity.
It was the mid-80’s. It was New York. Diane, whom I had known since our prep school days in Virginia, was pursuing an acting career, and she was in the theatre group for that very reason. Comprising actors, actresses, directors, and writers, the collective was dedicated to staging original work. And they were always looking for writers. Diane hoped I’d bring my pen to the table.
I suppose there was a lull in the telephone dialogue (while I was trying to motivate myself to become something that I’m not). Diane jumped into that lull. “Katie,” she said, “all the men are straight.”
“When’s the next meeting?” I replied.
The thing is, I have always been attracted to right-brain men, and in New York, the idea of a theatre group filled with straight men was something I just couldn’t resist. So what if I wasn’t a “group person?” I was in my late 20’s, and finding a man was at the top of my agenda.
It took only a few weekly workshops (and the ever-popular post-workshop pitchers of beers) for me to befriend a fellow writer. Like me, Josh* was doing everything he could to get published or produced. We bonded over the struggle. We also were attracted to one another. And so one night, we left the post-workshop soiree together, and we rode the subway up to my apartment on 110th Street.
Shortly after we entered my large room, I filled in the awkward sense of what’s next? by picking up an item that had been in my Christmas stocking just two months earlier. It was one of those little desktop calendars that used to be popular: 4” by 4”; tear off the day and move on. This particular calendar was dedicated to Libras, and so each page featured that day’s horoscope. Each of the pages also included a list of three famous people born on that day. (So, in a sense, it was not an exclusively Libran accessory.)
Given that Josh and I were both writers, I was using words-on-paper to make the first move. (We needed to get the foreplay going, after all.) I flipped the pages of the calendar so as to reveal the three people born on my day (October 2nd). With pride, I showed him my list: Groucho Marx, Mahatma Gandhi, and… okay, Rex Reed. (The third name would be different today, no doubt. Kelly Ripa? Sting?)
Josh was clearly impressed, and he also felt challenged. When he held out his hand, I knew he wanted me to pass over the calendar. I did so, and he quickly found his birthday (May 10th). Together, we looked at the list. Silence. Who are these people? Truly, the list might as well have said John Doe, John Doe, and John Doe. (Had Rex Reed been born on May 10th, he would have held the number one spot.)
Josh – my fellow writer; my comrade in the struggle to be published or produced – was clearly disappointed. But he had the presence of mind to buy a little time...
He looked at his list in consternation...
He flipped back to October 2nd and looked again at my list...
He nodded (again) to convey respect...
He then returned to his list.
Then, he looked at me. “You’re gonna have to work a lot harder than I am,” he said.
***
*not his real name; he probably wouldn’t care, but since I haven’t been in touch with him…
I’m not a group person. Or, more accurately, I’m not terribly motivated within a group setting. (The virtually badgeless girl scout sash I sported in the fourth grade exists as proof.) So when my friend, Diane, asked if I would be interested in joining a theatre group, I didn’t jump at the opportunity.
It was the mid-80’s. It was New York. Diane, whom I had known since our prep school days in Virginia, was pursuing an acting career, and she was in the theatre group for that very reason. Comprising actors, actresses, directors, and writers, the collective was dedicated to staging original work. And they were always looking for writers. Diane hoped I’d bring my pen to the table.
I suppose there was a lull in the telephone dialogue (while I was trying to motivate myself to become something that I’m not). Diane jumped into that lull. “Katie,” she said, “all the men are straight.”
“When’s the next meeting?” I replied.
The thing is, I have always been attracted to right-brain men, and in New York, the idea of a theatre group filled with straight men was something I just couldn’t resist. So what if I wasn’t a “group person?” I was in my late 20’s, and finding a man was at the top of my agenda.
It took only a few weekly workshops (and the ever-popular post-workshop pitchers of beers) for me to befriend a fellow writer. Like me, Josh* was doing everything he could to get published or produced. We bonded over the struggle. We also were attracted to one another. And so one night, we left the post-workshop soiree together, and we rode the subway up to my apartment on 110th Street.
Shortly after we entered my large room, I filled in the awkward sense of what’s next? by picking up an item that had been in my Christmas stocking just two months earlier. It was one of those little desktop calendars that used to be popular: 4” by 4”; tear off the day and move on. This particular calendar was dedicated to Libras, and so each page featured that day’s horoscope. Each of the pages also included a list of three famous people born on that day. (So, in a sense, it was not an exclusively Libran accessory.)
Given that Josh and I were both writers, I was using words-on-paper to make the first move. (We needed to get the foreplay going, after all.) I flipped the pages of the calendar so as to reveal the three people born on my day (October 2nd). With pride, I showed him my list: Groucho Marx, Mahatma Gandhi, and… okay, Rex Reed. (The third name would be different today, no doubt. Kelly Ripa? Sting?)
Josh was clearly impressed, and he also felt challenged. When he held out his hand, I knew he wanted me to pass over the calendar. I did so, and he quickly found his birthday (May 10th). Together, we looked at the list. Silence. Who are these people? Truly, the list might as well have said John Doe, John Doe, and John Doe. (Had Rex Reed been born on May 10th, he would have held the number one spot.)
Josh – my fellow writer; my comrade in the struggle to be published or produced – was clearly disappointed. But he had the presence of mind to buy a little time...
He looked at his list in consternation...
He flipped back to October 2nd and looked again at my list...
He nodded (again) to convey respect...
He then returned to his list.
Then, he looked at me. “You’re gonna have to work a lot harder than I am,” he said.
***
*not his real name; he probably wouldn’t care, but since I haven’t been in touch with him…
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Perfectionist Dentist from Hell
I know a lot of people have dentist horror stories, and I also believe– from listening to those stories – that the horror stems not from what actually happened at the dentist’s office, but rather from what the individual’s own fear brought to the procedures. Some people simply can’t descend into that slick, contoured chair without conjuring up images from Marathon Man.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
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