I used to jump out of bed at the sound of the alarm, rush through a shower, and then get dressed and start the day. This has pretty much been the pattern of my life for as long as I can remember. Up and at it. Rise and shine.
But then I became a “writer.” I am sure I am not the only person with literary leanings that has trouble getting dressed in the morning. Perhaps it comes with the territory, but I am still a little ashamed of the fact that there are days when I look at the clock, and realize that it is long past noon, and I am still wearing bedclothes.
I like to think that I have joined a sorority of literary women who also write in their pajamas. I imagine Nora Ephron typing hilarious things while wearing a flannel nightshirt. I cherish the fantasy that Erma Bombeck sometimes dashed off one of her columns while wearing a nightie. There is no doubt in my mind that Julie Powell wrote her famous blog without getting completely dressed.
However, I am sure that not all writers would agree about the pajamas. Ayn Rand probably wrote her revolutionary prose wearing a business suit, or at least man- tailored slacks. I know that Emily Dickinson was always in a proper peplum. Jane Austen would have been scandalized to see me at my desk wearing coffee stained boxer shorts and an old Metallica T-shirt.
I know my Mom would be horrified at my creative writing uniform. This is a woman who never let the sun rise on her nightgowns. She wore tube tops and pedal pushers, but she was always DRESSED. She always, as I recall, wore shoes as well. Her opinion of people in pajamas after waking was that they must be either unwell or oversexed. I feel a little guilty when I think about this, but then I console myself that my mother came from a different age, and that the fact that I am writing this while wearing the Metallica T-shirt is really ok.
So I sit here, shoeless and attired in what would shock my Mom, “writing.” It is quarter to three. Soon, I will have to think about what to make for dinner. In just a little while, I will go upstairs, comb my hair and get some regular clothes on. Although I “write,” I still have some standards. I have never served dinner to my family while wearing pajamas.
But there is a first time for everything…
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
THE MAESTRO
My father was far from ordinary. Other children’s dads were doctors, lawyers and teachers. Their dads went to work in the morning and came home for dinner. Their dads played golf on the weekends. My father was a maestro.
I grew up hearing him play the violin, beautifully. He had a lovely one, with real gold on the pegs, and also on the bow. It had a beautiful velvet lined case, with little pockets for rosin and extra strings. There was a silk lined velvet blanket to cover the violin. When he played, I used the case as a doll bed.
I grew up in concert halls, sitting very quietly during rehearsals, where my father stood on a big podium in front of the orchestra, waving his arms. Everyone in the orchestra seemed in awe of my Dad. I thought it was because he was so handsome. But I knew he was the boss of all of those musicians, and I was very proud.
When my father went to work, it was at night. After an early dinner, he would get dressed. I loved this ritual. First the beautiful white shirt with all the little pleats. Pearl buttons. Black pants with a satin stripe down the sides. Cummerbund. Dad had a few different pairs of cufflinks, and I got to choose which ones he wore. I felt so important. Then the shiny patent leather shoes. And finally, the tails and bow tie, which he tied himself. He was a glorious man.
I hated actually going to see him conduct, because those evenings were long and boring. I got tired of watching him in front of the orchestra after about five minutes. My mother had made it clear that there was to be no twitching, no neck craning, and no noise. I perfected this, but for years afterwards, I hated going to concerts, remembering the constraints of childhood!
My father was magnificently handsome. He was tall, dark, and charming. He was the object of many women’s fantasies, and I think indulged many of them. It made me cherish him all the more, because I think in my childish subconscious, I was afraid one of his admirers might carry him away from us.
The maestro was my biggest fan. He thought I was beautiful when I had pimples. He was the first person to tell me that I should be a writer. He was never too busy to hug, or to listen. We watched “The Tonight Show” together every weeknight. He concocted very interesting late night snacks.
The Maestro died when I was a young mother. I wish I could go to just one more concert. I wouldn’t move a muscle.
I grew up hearing him play the violin, beautifully. He had a lovely one, with real gold on the pegs, and also on the bow. It had a beautiful velvet lined case, with little pockets for rosin and extra strings. There was a silk lined velvet blanket to cover the violin. When he played, I used the case as a doll bed.
I grew up in concert halls, sitting very quietly during rehearsals, where my father stood on a big podium in front of the orchestra, waving his arms. Everyone in the orchestra seemed in awe of my Dad. I thought it was because he was so handsome. But I knew he was the boss of all of those musicians, and I was very proud.
When my father went to work, it was at night. After an early dinner, he would get dressed. I loved this ritual. First the beautiful white shirt with all the little pleats. Pearl buttons. Black pants with a satin stripe down the sides. Cummerbund. Dad had a few different pairs of cufflinks, and I got to choose which ones he wore. I felt so important. Then the shiny patent leather shoes. And finally, the tails and bow tie, which he tied himself. He was a glorious man.
I hated actually going to see him conduct, because those evenings were long and boring. I got tired of watching him in front of the orchestra after about five minutes. My mother had made it clear that there was to be no twitching, no neck craning, and no noise. I perfected this, but for years afterwards, I hated going to concerts, remembering the constraints of childhood!
My father was magnificently handsome. He was tall, dark, and charming. He was the object of many women’s fantasies, and I think indulged many of them. It made me cherish him all the more, because I think in my childish subconscious, I was afraid one of his admirers might carry him away from us.
The maestro was my biggest fan. He thought I was beautiful when I had pimples. He was the first person to tell me that I should be a writer. He was never too busy to hug, or to listen. We watched “The Tonight Show” together every weeknight. He concocted very interesting late night snacks.
The Maestro died when I was a young mother. I wish I could go to just one more concert. I wouldn’t move a muscle.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
HOARDERS
By now, we have all either seen or heard of that horrible reality show that exposes the folks who can’t seem to throw anything away. Most of us feel calmly superior while watching, patting ourselves on the back that here is at least ONE personality disorder that we don’t have to worry about.
But this morning, I went down into the basement to put in a load of laundry, and I took a look around. In the midst of a huge collection of stuff sat the accordion man, happily working on a project. I pointed out to him that we were both surrounded by THINGS. He nodded. “I have been trying to get rid of this stuff and the stuff in the attic for years now, but you don’t want me to.”
So I took an inventory of the things that I have been hesitating to eliminate:
LIBRARY CHAIRS. We don’t use them any more, but they are very comfortable, all wood, and I see ones just like them in catalogs. That makes them worth something, doesn’t it? Despite the chewing gum on the bottoms, the puffy paint on the seats, and the fact that they wobble when sat upon?
PINE CONES. It galls me to have to PAY for something that is plentiful in nature. Pine cones are used by some of the most famous decorators on HGTV, and they can enhance any table setting. They also look smart filling baskets by the hearth. A stash of pine cones is a necessity for modern trend setters.
FOLDING CHAIRS. I once had a party for over fifty people, and those chairs came in handy. Extra seating is another thing that folks like Carolyn Roehm and Vern Yip recommend. I believe that Sister Parrish had folding chairs aplenty in her home also. I rest my case.
LUGGAGE. Although we take few trips, it never hurts to be ready for an excursion. Writers need inspiration, and often find it in faraway places. The fact that the last trip we took was to West Virginia to see my mother is no way a factor. It is necessary to be ready to take off for parts unknown at a moment’s notice. Rick Steves says so.
WEDDING GIFTS. There are some really nice silver items in the basement that have never come out of their original boxes. Why, just the other day, I discovered a BEAUTIFUL pair of candlesticks that I don’t even remember receiving! It was like Christmas! They are now on the dining room table. I do admit that the three fondue sets are expendable, but there are three bun warmers and two hot trays that I will need to use along with the folding chairs, at my next party for fifty people. They stay.
If you live in an apartment or condo, you must be streamlined in your approach to life. But if you live in a house with a large basement and an attic, you can afford to hold on to valuable items that might some day have usefulness or great worth as antiquities. “Antiques Roadshow” was created for people with full basements and attics.
“Hoarders” is for sick people.
But this morning, I went down into the basement to put in a load of laundry, and I took a look around. In the midst of a huge collection of stuff sat the accordion man, happily working on a project. I pointed out to him that we were both surrounded by THINGS. He nodded. “I have been trying to get rid of this stuff and the stuff in the attic for years now, but you don’t want me to.”
So I took an inventory of the things that I have been hesitating to eliminate:
LIBRARY CHAIRS. We don’t use them any more, but they are very comfortable, all wood, and I see ones just like them in catalogs. That makes them worth something, doesn’t it? Despite the chewing gum on the bottoms, the puffy paint on the seats, and the fact that they wobble when sat upon?
PINE CONES. It galls me to have to PAY for something that is plentiful in nature. Pine cones are used by some of the most famous decorators on HGTV, and they can enhance any table setting. They also look smart filling baskets by the hearth. A stash of pine cones is a necessity for modern trend setters.
FOLDING CHAIRS. I once had a party for over fifty people, and those chairs came in handy. Extra seating is another thing that folks like Carolyn Roehm and Vern Yip recommend. I believe that Sister Parrish had folding chairs aplenty in her home also. I rest my case.
LUGGAGE. Although we take few trips, it never hurts to be ready for an excursion. Writers need inspiration, and often find it in faraway places. The fact that the last trip we took was to West Virginia to see my mother is no way a factor. It is necessary to be ready to take off for parts unknown at a moment’s notice. Rick Steves says so.
WEDDING GIFTS. There are some really nice silver items in the basement that have never come out of their original boxes. Why, just the other day, I discovered a BEAUTIFUL pair of candlesticks that I don’t even remember receiving! It was like Christmas! They are now on the dining room table. I do admit that the three fondue sets are expendable, but there are three bun warmers and two hot trays that I will need to use along with the folding chairs, at my next party for fifty people. They stay.
If you live in an apartment or condo, you must be streamlined in your approach to life. But if you live in a house with a large basement and an attic, you can afford to hold on to valuable items that might some day have usefulness or great worth as antiquities. “Antiques Roadshow” was created for people with full basements and attics.
“Hoarders” is for sick people.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
CHALK AND CHEESE
It’s no secret that my husband and I are different. Opposites attract, as we all know. But nowhere is this more apparent than in our approaches to what we do in our spare time. My husband has prepared a Powerpoint presentation on “The Origins of Life,” which he totes around with him on his laptop and extols to unsuspecting people he invites out for coffee. Charlie ponders what motivates people to do the things they do. I like to read a lot of books, but I don’t particularly want to be in a book club. I don’t like to overthink things.
Charlie likes people who have vast compendiums of knowledge. When asked a “yes or no” question, he always answers by saying “Well, there are a number of issues involved.” Charlie likes to go to plays and then discuss their ramifications afterwards. I like to leave at intermission and get a good night’s sleep.
We once met a couple who both had their doctorates in some sort of ancient, historical or mythical subject matter. To add to their cachet, they hardly spoke English. We spent an evening with them eating wonderful food, but discussing something that sounded to me like sacrificing goats and then roasting the meat. Charlie just loved these people. He has wanted to have them over for dinner for the longest time. I just saw a “SOLD” sign in front of their house. I am ecstatic.
In restaurants, we can never place our order the first time the waitress asks, because Charlie STUDIES the menu. He orders exactly as listed. For instance, I order “The fried fish.” He orders “The fresh Tilapia, dusted with cornmeal and lightly fried, with sautéed apples and freshly baked biscuits.” For crying out loud, there is only one fish choice on the menu! Then he asks what kind of COFFEE BEANS they use. Sounds like a real epicure, right? But this is at THE CRACKER BARREL.
Charlie is intrigued by “BEAUTY.” It’s not what you think. He wonders what it is that triggers someone to call a thing beautiful, when that same thing might be uninspiring to somebody else. He tries to engage me in this subject:
HIM: Do you think that rosebush is beautiful?
ME: Sure.
HIM: No, really. Look at the composition of the rosebush juxtaposed with the fence.
ME: It’s fine.
HIM: But what IS beauty? Do you think there is a kind of beauty in ugly things, like that tractor over there?
ME: What tractor? And by the way, you can speed up; the speed limit along here is 65.
HIM: But what is beautiful to YOU?
ME: Getting home quickly. I have to pee.
Slow married fast. Deep married shallow. The long of it and the short of it got hitched. Chalk and cheese have managed somehow to stay together for forty years. Charlie is preparing a Powerpoint presentation on the subject--care to have coffee?
Charlie likes people who have vast compendiums of knowledge. When asked a “yes or no” question, he always answers by saying “Well, there are a number of issues involved.” Charlie likes to go to plays and then discuss their ramifications afterwards. I like to leave at intermission and get a good night’s sleep.
We once met a couple who both had their doctorates in some sort of ancient, historical or mythical subject matter. To add to their cachet, they hardly spoke English. We spent an evening with them eating wonderful food, but discussing something that sounded to me like sacrificing goats and then roasting the meat. Charlie just loved these people. He has wanted to have them over for dinner for the longest time. I just saw a “SOLD” sign in front of their house. I am ecstatic.
In restaurants, we can never place our order the first time the waitress asks, because Charlie STUDIES the menu. He orders exactly as listed. For instance, I order “The fried fish.” He orders “The fresh Tilapia, dusted with cornmeal and lightly fried, with sautéed apples and freshly baked biscuits.” For crying out loud, there is only one fish choice on the menu! Then he asks what kind of COFFEE BEANS they use. Sounds like a real epicure, right? But this is at THE CRACKER BARREL.
Charlie is intrigued by “BEAUTY.” It’s not what you think. He wonders what it is that triggers someone to call a thing beautiful, when that same thing might be uninspiring to somebody else. He tries to engage me in this subject:
HIM: Do you think that rosebush is beautiful?
ME: Sure.
HIM: No, really. Look at the composition of the rosebush juxtaposed with the fence.
ME: It’s fine.
HIM: But what IS beauty? Do you think there is a kind of beauty in ugly things, like that tractor over there?
ME: What tractor? And by the way, you can speed up; the speed limit along here is 65.
HIM: But what is beautiful to YOU?
ME: Getting home quickly. I have to pee.
Slow married fast. Deep married shallow. The long of it and the short of it got hitched. Chalk and cheese have managed somehow to stay together for forty years. Charlie is preparing a Powerpoint presentation on the subject--care to have coffee?
Sunday, May 30, 2010
ODE TO SPANX
Women of a certain age need help. Luckily, there is help available. With the huge Boomer Generation now approaching their dotage, the free market has seen the opportunity for huge profits, and thus the underwear and cosmetic giants have introduced many miracle products.
I have five different pairs of Spanx. These wonder undergarments slim you, make you look firm, and remain somehow comfortable for long periods. I remember the old days of long line girdles, and I DO NOT want to go back there! I have black Spanx for evening wear, skin toned Spanx for every day, and for extra special occasions, I have a Spanx bra/panty combination that makes me look fine even in a TIGHT TOP.
These days, sweating is no longer a worry. The pharmaceutical folks have figured out a way to make their deodorants PRESCRIPTION STRENGTH. This means that hot flashes can’t ruin my silk blouse. I haven’t bought a silk blouse in years, but I could if I wanted to, thanks to those scientists.
Wrinkles and crows feet? I LAUGH AT THEM. Those powder foundations seem to banish just about all my flaws! I buy creams that burn the hell out of my face when I put them on, but boy, they peel off all my spots and leave baby clear skin in their wake. Some very rich dermatologists apparently have discovered the fountain of youth, and now you don’t have to visit their competitors, the plastic surgeons! OH NO. Now you just purchase extremely expensive lotions and creams after your yearly mole check!
Those hair dye people have been making money for years. But they too have refined their products, so that you don’t have to drip dye all over your good towels or worry about dark roots. Now you can COMB on your dripless hair dye, and use a mascara-like thingy to banish roots when they show up suddenly.
I love to use facials that peel off. I study the peel after I remove it, and marvel at all that debris that must have been in my pores. I also use those scrubby, sandy exfoliators. They are guaranteed to “smooth your face and make you glow.”
I am menopausal, but I look marvelous. I have my beauty routine down to a science. I look almost as good as I did when I was in my twenties. I swagger around the Mall in my Spankified glory, glowing, radiating youth and confidence.
But it takes me two hours to get ready to leave the house.
I have five different pairs of Spanx. These wonder undergarments slim you, make you look firm, and remain somehow comfortable for long periods. I remember the old days of long line girdles, and I DO NOT want to go back there! I have black Spanx for evening wear, skin toned Spanx for every day, and for extra special occasions, I have a Spanx bra/panty combination that makes me look fine even in a TIGHT TOP.
These days, sweating is no longer a worry. The pharmaceutical folks have figured out a way to make their deodorants PRESCRIPTION STRENGTH. This means that hot flashes can’t ruin my silk blouse. I haven’t bought a silk blouse in years, but I could if I wanted to, thanks to those scientists.
Wrinkles and crows feet? I LAUGH AT THEM. Those powder foundations seem to banish just about all my flaws! I buy creams that burn the hell out of my face when I put them on, but boy, they peel off all my spots and leave baby clear skin in their wake. Some very rich dermatologists apparently have discovered the fountain of youth, and now you don’t have to visit their competitors, the plastic surgeons! OH NO. Now you just purchase extremely expensive lotions and creams after your yearly mole check!
Those hair dye people have been making money for years. But they too have refined their products, so that you don’t have to drip dye all over your good towels or worry about dark roots. Now you can COMB on your dripless hair dye, and use a mascara-like thingy to banish roots when they show up suddenly.
I love to use facials that peel off. I study the peel after I remove it, and marvel at all that debris that must have been in my pores. I also use those scrubby, sandy exfoliators. They are guaranteed to “smooth your face and make you glow.”
I am menopausal, but I look marvelous. I have my beauty routine down to a science. I look almost as good as I did when I was in my twenties. I swagger around the Mall in my Spankified glory, glowing, radiating youth and confidence.
But it takes me two hours to get ready to leave the house.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
TIVO WARS CONTINUE TO RAGE
They say that opposites attract. That certainly seems to be the case with my marriage. He is skinny, and let’s not say that I am FAT, but that Weight Watchers is my sorority. He plays a pretty good game of golf, and I think that nothing could be more boring than hitting a little ball, then having to walk a mile, talking with three other people about Tiger Woods, and then hitting it again.
However, the source of a great deal of my angst these days is the brand new, high def, slender screened, sleek looking television in the den. Really, you can see Matt Lauer’s PORES. I am thrilled with it. I want to watch all my shows and see them in a way I have never seen them before.
My husband, the accordion man, has his own ideas about entertainment. Apparently he studies the TV guide and marks the shows he wants to TiVo with a highlighter. He then TiVos every single one of them. Nothing wrong with that. However, there is a huge imbalance that exists, and this is going to be my undoing.
Here are the shows I adore: Grey’s Anatomy. Anything involving hunting for a house, designing a house, staging battles on blocks, and losing massive amounts of weight. I also favor dog training, infomercials for gadgets that make omelets and bake cakes at the same time, and yoga shows. I love nothing more than sitting down to the TiVo with a nice steaming cup of coffee with sugarfree Vanilla dairy less creamer, a cat on my lap, to watch some rich person look at New York lofts with the Kliers.
But this is not happening! The TiVo has been taken over by my husband’s interests. The “browse recordings” screen has NOTHING TO OFFER ME. For instance, just yesterday afternoon, here was the bill of fare: “The First Christians,” “Black Holes,” “Stephen Hawking Explains the Universe,” “Lions and Other Massive Predators Killing and Eating Things Right Before Your Eyes,” “String Theory Demystified,” and last but certainly not least, “The Three Stooges.”
On that same screen, here were my options: “House Hunters” (a rerun), and “Cats 101” also a rerun. The Siamese and I were out of luck. I considered trying Stephen Hawking, but he is impossible for a lowbrow like me to fathom. “The Early Christians” was, truthfully, BORING. Oh yes, and there was one episode of “Red Green” available, but I had seen that one.
What is a person to do? We have had some discussions about the fact that Charlie RECORDS all of these shows, but rarely WATCHES them, thus leaving them on the TiVo roster, and hogging all the space. I swear, “Vandals and Goths” has been sitting there waiting for someone to watch them rape and pillage for SIX MONTHS.
I have figured out a revenge strategy, though. Once a week, in the afternoon when he is in the basement communing with his accordion, I go in and ERASE a show. Yesterday I killed “Early Attempts at Creating Atomic Fission in a Basement in Milwaukee.” So far, he hasn’t noticed.
Have any of you seen the latest “Househunters International?” Will you tell me about it?
However, the source of a great deal of my angst these days is the brand new, high def, slender screened, sleek looking television in the den. Really, you can see Matt Lauer’s PORES. I am thrilled with it. I want to watch all my shows and see them in a way I have never seen them before.
My husband, the accordion man, has his own ideas about entertainment. Apparently he studies the TV guide and marks the shows he wants to TiVo with a highlighter. He then TiVos every single one of them. Nothing wrong with that. However, there is a huge imbalance that exists, and this is going to be my undoing.
Here are the shows I adore: Grey’s Anatomy. Anything involving hunting for a house, designing a house, staging battles on blocks, and losing massive amounts of weight. I also favor dog training, infomercials for gadgets that make omelets and bake cakes at the same time, and yoga shows. I love nothing more than sitting down to the TiVo with a nice steaming cup of coffee with sugarfree Vanilla dairy less creamer, a cat on my lap, to watch some rich person look at New York lofts with the Kliers.
But this is not happening! The TiVo has been taken over by my husband’s interests. The “browse recordings” screen has NOTHING TO OFFER ME. For instance, just yesterday afternoon, here was the bill of fare: “The First Christians,” “Black Holes,” “Stephen Hawking Explains the Universe,” “Lions and Other Massive Predators Killing and Eating Things Right Before Your Eyes,” “String Theory Demystified,” and last but certainly not least, “The Three Stooges.”
On that same screen, here were my options: “House Hunters” (a rerun), and “Cats 101” also a rerun. The Siamese and I were out of luck. I considered trying Stephen Hawking, but he is impossible for a lowbrow like me to fathom. “The Early Christians” was, truthfully, BORING. Oh yes, and there was one episode of “Red Green” available, but I had seen that one.
What is a person to do? We have had some discussions about the fact that Charlie RECORDS all of these shows, but rarely WATCHES them, thus leaving them on the TiVo roster, and hogging all the space. I swear, “Vandals and Goths” has been sitting there waiting for someone to watch them rape and pillage for SIX MONTHS.
I have figured out a revenge strategy, though. Once a week, in the afternoon when he is in the basement communing with his accordion, I go in and ERASE a show. Yesterday I killed “Early Attempts at Creating Atomic Fission in a Basement in Milwaukee.” So far, he hasn’t noticed.
Have any of you seen the latest “Househunters International?” Will you tell me about it?
Saturday, May 15, 2010
RECIPE FOR DISASTER
My husband and I are not nearly as cute as the Tripplehorns. If you don’t know who the Tripplehorns are, you aren’t getting out enough. While we are not as young or cute as the couple in the movie, we have had our share of date night calamities.
My first horrible restaurant recollection: the night of my 50th birthday, when my nerdy husband decided it would be funny to have our friends call me on my cell phone at intervals throughout the evening to wish me well. The first call was hilarious! After the tenth call, I was furious, the other patrons were seething at the constant beeping, and I developed acid reflux.
Restaurants these days rarely have dress codes. Americans are notorious for wearing golf shirts and sneakers everywhere. So when we were on vacation in New York, Charlie confidently made reservations at a fine eatery, reassuring me that our attire was entirely appropriate. Upon arrival, the maitre d’ offered us a pair of pantyhose and a necktie.
Dinner and a movie sound fun. But dinner IN THE MOVIE isn’t. At our local theatre, you can get pizza, hot dogs, Starbucks and funnel cakes right in the lobby. We were bored and hungry one Friday night, and so we decided to try it. While juggling his pizza, Charlie knocked my arm off the armrest, causing me to spill my Belgian Caramel half-caff Mocha Latte all over the lap of the woman next to me. We missed all the good sex scenes while mopping up.
Having friends over for dinner is a no brainer. Smart hostesses serve tried and true recipes with sure-fire desserts purchased from the bakery. I, on the other hand, in a social climbing frenzy, hired a chef and invited around a dozen guests for dinner. That evening began with lovely cascades of snow which quickly developed into a blizzard. The guests all arrived bedecked in their finery, but the chef got lost in the whiteout. At nine o’clock, with no chef in sight, we broke out the Cheerios. We have not seen those twelve people since.
This year, we celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. We are now very old, and very wise. We had the foolproof date night: Pizza carry-out, two bottles of wine, HBO, and Klondike Bars.
My first horrible restaurant recollection: the night of my 50th birthday, when my nerdy husband decided it would be funny to have our friends call me on my cell phone at intervals throughout the evening to wish me well. The first call was hilarious! After the tenth call, I was furious, the other patrons were seething at the constant beeping, and I developed acid reflux.
Restaurants these days rarely have dress codes. Americans are notorious for wearing golf shirts and sneakers everywhere. So when we were on vacation in New York, Charlie confidently made reservations at a fine eatery, reassuring me that our attire was entirely appropriate. Upon arrival, the maitre d’ offered us a pair of pantyhose and a necktie.
Dinner and a movie sound fun. But dinner IN THE MOVIE isn’t. At our local theatre, you can get pizza, hot dogs, Starbucks and funnel cakes right in the lobby. We were bored and hungry one Friday night, and so we decided to try it. While juggling his pizza, Charlie knocked my arm off the armrest, causing me to spill my Belgian Caramel half-caff Mocha Latte all over the lap of the woman next to me. We missed all the good sex scenes while mopping up.
Having friends over for dinner is a no brainer. Smart hostesses serve tried and true recipes with sure-fire desserts purchased from the bakery. I, on the other hand, in a social climbing frenzy, hired a chef and invited around a dozen guests for dinner. That evening began with lovely cascades of snow which quickly developed into a blizzard. The guests all arrived bedecked in their finery, but the chef got lost in the whiteout. At nine o’clock, with no chef in sight, we broke out the Cheerios. We have not seen those twelve people since.
This year, we celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. We are now very old, and very wise. We had the foolproof date night: Pizza carry-out, two bottles of wine, HBO, and Klondike Bars.
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