Improbable, Impatience

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.

Invitation, Impetus

On Wednesday, just a few days ago, an acquaintance invited me to the so-called "Fantastic Hosts' Party", which she described as a "wild dance/food/drink/socialize party downtown full of artists, corporate execs, and 'burners' ". I had no idea what that last word means but was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. She even told me where to find an inexpensive party dress. Being in adventure mode, I said sure, even though it meant I'd need to come up with an outfit in 72 hours or less. Somehow I'd managed to arrive at my age with fewer than a handful of skirts and dresses combined, and none of what I had on hand was suitable for a mid-December evening party.


I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.


Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.


I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.

The following day I realized that I didn't have an appropriate coat to wear over the dress. My Gore-tex and down jackets just wouldn't fly. Back to Macy's I went for a more thorough look. Bingo - I found a faux lambswool cropped evening jacket that, with my newly opened Macy's card, would also be 20% less. Done.

On Friday, although I had managed to pull together an outfit, my enthusiasm for attending this event was starting to fall apart. For one thing, there had not been subsequent communication from my acquaintance about how she or her boyfriend - he was one of the 18 "Fantastic Hosts" - were going to get me my invitation, required for entry. And not knowing the precise address of the party, I couldn't easily invite someone to go with me. I called this woman to check in.

She made it clear that it was her boyfriend's responsibility to physically deliver the invitation to me - she wasn't going to get involved beyond giving me his cell phone number. While I respected her need to create some boundaries for herself around his last minute behavior, I couldn't help but feel that she was blowing me off; after all, she was the one who had told me about the event. When I suggested that maybe we could all head over there together, and therefore he could simply hand me my ticket at that time, she said she wasn't sure what their schedule would be. In other words, maybe I'd see them there, or maybe I wouldn't.

Huh.

In the meantime, I had mentioned my dress quest to a few artists in my studio building and one of them recommended that I check out Colorado Mills, a group of outlet stores. Only a 15 minute drive away, and with nothing else on my calendar, I figured I'd do some more due diligence. Just as I pulled onto Highway 6 to head towards the stores, my cellphone rang. It was the boyfriend, asking me if I'd be at home in 20 minutes so he could give me this prized invitation. Sorry, I said, I'm heading West and will be gone a few hours. Then he suggested stopping by later that evening. I told him that I had to get up the next morning for a yoga class so he could swing by up until 11pm. He asked me if I do text messaging - I said my cellphone plan doesn't cover it and I'd prefer a quick phone call to let me know when he was on the way.

At the outlet stores - even Nieman Marcus and Saks - they were practically giving the clothing away. I had never seen so much couture for so little cash, relatively speaking. Dresses that normally sell for several hundreds were discounted to the low three digits. And there were a few luxury items whose prices had temporarily dipped into the double digits, thanks to special Friday evening offers. In that respect, I had chosen the perfect time to visit. A few hours later I left with a long knit skirt, some tights, a funky royal blue short-sleeve coat and some gifts. Back home, I went to sleep without hearing from the boyfriend.

On Saturday, the day of the party, I went to yoga, enjoyed a manicure, had some lunch and got ready to go to a "Change is Coming" meeting in my neighborhood. At around 3pm I called the boyfriend to let him know that I'd be turning off my phone for a few hours and that hopefully we'd connect somehow. He was good to his word - sometime between 4pm and 6pm he had managed to squeeze the invitation into my supposedly airtight mailbox. I checked out the address. I was in luck - this bash was within walking distance of my apartment. Being someone that prefers to speak to people over the phone, I called the boyfriend to thank him for the invite and to find out when he and my acquaintance might be arriving. He was non-committal, but later sent me a text message saying 10:30 p.m.

My inner reaction?

"Whatever."

Although I am only a few years older than this couple, I feel like I'm from a different generation if not another planet altogether. From what I've read about the contemporary 30-something social scene, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in dynamic, last-minute plan making and plan breaking, all possible with the aid of text messaging. I grew up with a different model for social interaction - you agree on a time and place and a way of getting in touch if something comes up. To me, this whole party situation felt non-committal, if not slightly rude. Indeed, this fellow was one of the Fantastic Hosts yet was not planning to make an appearance until after the party was underway.

I realized that if I wanted to salvage any fun from the evening I'd need to refrain from indulging in judgmental and negative thoughts and stay focused on the upside: a chance to dress up, check out the scene, enjoy some wine, meet people and dance. I also realized that I could simply choose not to go at all. Perhaps I'd already received the full benefits of the invitation: inexpensive yet high quality clothing that I'd enjoy for a long time.

In the end, I decided to go. As I suspected, the venue was loud and crowded and many people - including women - had chosen not to dress up at all. While I don't regret my purchases, I was a bit disappointed that my acquaintance had given me some inaccurate intelligence on what to wear. While waiting in the long line at the bar for a glass of red wine, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Molly who, it turned out, was also looking around for her friends. I had not spotted mine. When I mentioned that I had just moved to Denver she said, gesturing towards the crowd behind us, "Don't worry, not everyone in this city is a poser. There are some down to earth people in town, too."

Ah, posers.

Could it be that my new acquaintances were of that ilk, despite my hopes to the contrary?

At around 11:20 or so, amidst the din of this bash, located in a vacant multi-story building, I violated my no text messaging rule to contact the boyfriend to see if they had arrived. "Not yet," came the reply. As it approached midnight, snow began to fall and, with my acquaintances nowhere in sight, I decided to call it a night.

Instant Joy

This afternoon I went to my local post office to mail some mosaics and some show applications and to pick up a gift a friend had sent me. I arrived to find a long line of sullen looking people and only three clerks on duty. I passed some of the time by reading a copy of the neighborhood newspaper that had been left on the counter. As the line inched along it continued to expand behind me; by the time it was my turn the queue was nearly to the door.

I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.

Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.

As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.

Interiors, III

I'm writing from a penthouse apartment on West 112th Street in New York City. By New York standards, it is palatial, with two large bedroom, 2.5 bathrooms and two balconies with sweeping views of rivers, bridges and water-tower dotted rooftops. It even has a laundry room which, when equipped with a twin sized air mattress, converts to a cozy bedroom. For Thanksgiving, much of the family piled into the apartment, where my older brother is staying during a semester teaching at Columbia. My younger brother, his wife and two young children slept in one of the bedrooms, my older brother and his wife took the other bedroom, and my older nieces and nephew camped out in the living room. I spent two nights sleeping in the laundry room but tonight - the rest of the family having dispersed to Rhode Island, Boston and Riverdale - I have the place to myself. Like Goldilocks, I might have to try out all the mattresses to find the one that is just right.

This evening I attended Shabbat services at B'nai Jeshurun, the synagogue I discovered a year before I left New York City. It is about 25 blocks south of the apartment, a decent walk in nice weather but a bit of a schlep in the cold and wind. The joyful and musical service in the amply heated sanctuary restored me for the return to 100th Street, but about halfway back I spotted an Asian restaurant bar and decided to take a sushi and tea break. After eating a bit more than I really I had room for, the maitre d' brought the check and a fortune cookie. I opened it in anticipation that its interior would yield an amusing proverb or uplifting saying, much in the way that someone might crack open an oyster, hoping for a pearl.

Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:

LEARN CHINESE - Still single (mae yao jeh huan).

Thank you, fortune cookie writers, for providing this line for me to read as I sat alone at a Manhattan sushi bar on a Friday night. I'm sure this phrase would come in useful if I'm ever searching for a soul mate in China.

The flip side, the fortune side, wasn't terribly inspiring either:

Today, give control over to another person. It is definite.

Well, the day was almost over, and I had given control of half of it to another person, mainly my older brother's wife. She makes many of the decisions in their family and when I stay or visit with them I've learned to try to go with the flow, even when I'd rather be paddling in a different direction or think that there is a better way of organizing or planning an activity. My ability to give control over to another person - and not just my sister-in-law - is quite limited. Usually after 48 hours of ceding control I start to feel uncomfortable and seek solitude. Tonight I have that in spades.

Insanity, Impatience, Intransigence

This triple "I" posting is inspired by an outing last evening.

Among the many rites observable at my synagogue on Friday nights - including candlelighting, Shabbat services and blessings over the challah and wine - is a relatively modern tradition. This contemporary ritual involves groups of mostly single people going to a restaurant for dinner after the kiddush.

Sounds lovely, you say, how nice to have such a group!

In theory it is a nice idea, but in practice the ritual makes me insane. It involves someone assuming a leadership role, often reluctantly, and then canvassing between six and eight people, most of whom are engaged in conversation with someone else, about their interest in having dinner and, if it is affirmative, the kind of food they'd like to eat. By the time this process has concluded, about 30 minutes have passed, more than enough time for me to snack amply on rugelach at the kiddush.

No longer hungry, I have lost much of the impetus to attach myself to a group outing, an act that is slightly unnatural for me in the first place. Moreover, I am starting to get cranky at the prospect of not arriving to a restaurant until 8:30 pm or later, not being served until 9pm, and not getting home until after 10pm. The group's tendency towards indecisiveness and the demonstrated inability of the group's members to arrive at the designated restaurant at the same time further frustrate me. I simply do not find it fun to engage in multilateral negotiations about which restaurant to choose, week after week after week. It's not as if we are debating the merits of different fine dining establishments where we're each expecting to pay upwards of $30/person, plus wine. We are talking Turkish or Thai with most entrees under ten dollars. Most Friday nights I am content to chat with people at the kiddush and then go on my merry way, either to dancing or a quiet evening alone or with one other person, unshackled by a slow moving pack of people. Democracy is great except when it gets in the way of eating at a reasonable hour.

Last week - and I will get to last night in a minute - my friend R. had broken free from the shackles of tradition and had made a reservation at a nearby restaurant for 8pm, a time that was still on the reasonable side. To support her bold, unilateral move, I joined the group. It was basically a fun evening, and the four of us who showed up on time ordered without waiting for the others who straggled in 30 minutes later. Somehow, we all completed the meal at the same time.

Based on that mostly successful outing, I decided to take my chances again last night. J., a very kind man, offered to round up the troops. A consensus builder, he also wanted to make sure that everyone could agree on the restaurant.

"Please pick a place," I urged him, hoping to simplify his job and speed things up. "And get back to me."

Meanwhile, R. wasn't sure she could join us because she had to first go home and let her dog out. I offered to drive her so she could take care of her pet and save some time. Deal. Then she suggested a restaurant near her house to save travel time on the other end. Perfect! We told J. of the plan. He just wanted to consult another member of our party, whom I'll call Y., who was engrossed in conversation with one of our congregation's elders. R. had tried to get Y.'s attention multiple times but failed.

But the dog needed to romp, so R. and I left the synagogue and told J. that we'd meet the group at 8:30pm at a certain Thai restaurant in Brookline. After caring for her pet, R. and I were walking to the rendezvous when my cell phone rang. It was Y., explaining to me that she couldn't join us for dinner because for various personal reasons she can't be seen in that part of town.

"I see," I said into my phone, even though I had no clue what she was talking about. I imagined that she had an agreement with an ex-lover who lived in the neighborhood to not hang out on his turf.

"Please tell R. I'm sorry I won't be there," Y. said.

I repeated what she said to R., who nodded in understanding when I mentioned that Y. can't set foot in this restaurant.

"So, what is that about?" I asked R.

"Well, it's personal, so she should probably tell you," R. replied, deepening the mystery.

We arrived to the restaurant, packed with people and with a long wait, and J. was already there, accompanied by a somewhat awkard man, looking forlorn because Y. can't - or won't - come. He's on the phone with her, and she is suggesting that everyone meet her and another friend at a different restaurant across town, apparently where it is safer for her to dine out.

It is past 8:30 pm. It is cold, I am tired, my car is back at R.'s house, and I put my foot down.

"Sorry," I say, baring my intransigence. "I'm not going anywhere else. If you'd like to join Y. for dinner across town that's fine with me. I can just go home."

I wasn't whining or complaining or angry, just stating my preference. I had no patience left for another round of negotiating, another trip in the car, finding another parking spot and another wait at a restaurant.

The others looked chagrined, as if breaking up the group was akin to a Halachic violation. I wondered if I was being difficult. For an instant, I was willing to reconsider my position.

"Well," I said, still cold and impatient, "could someone at least tell me why Y. can't be seen in this part of town?"

Perhaps if I understood the mishegas I'd be ready to relent. J. decided to break the silence.

"Well, Y.'s a rabbi - but she doesn't like people to know this - and she doesn't like to go to restaurants that are near KI (a conservative temple) for fear she might be seen."

Uh huh.

My mind quickly calculated the merits of this particular case of Jewish insanity: conservative female ordained as a rabbi, but who doesn't want to be known as a rabbi, attends a post-denominational synagogue where almost everyone drives on the Sabbath yet because she is still known as a rabbi by some people and might still want to work as a rabbi somewhere, sometime, she thinks she can't enjoy a Shabbat meal at a restaurant within a few blocks of a conservative temple whose members don't observe the Sabbath 100% either, but who might frown upon seeing a rabbi dining out on a Friday. Whew.

I am no stranger to these convoluted complexities - I attend synagogue every Friday night and observe one dietary law (hold the pork!), which makes me "religious" to some secular Jews, yet I break almost all the other commandments, making me practically a gentile in the eyes of the Orthodox. I totally got the "logic" of her situation but I didn't want to exhaust myself further in support of her rabbinic ambivalence.

"Well, I am going to have dinner here," I told the group, pointing to a less crowded restaurant across the street from where we were standing. "If anyone wants to join me, that's great. If not, I'll go by myself."

In the end the four of us - me, R., a somewhat sullen J. and the awkward man - shared a late meal. I made a few suggestions to J. about ways to organize the group dinners to make the process more efficient and enjoyable.

"Efficient is for the workplace," J. said, "It doesn't work for socializing."

"Well, I'd be more likely to come to these dinners if they were more organized," I politely disagreed. "Every week we spend so much time making the same decision, I am exhausted by the time we begin eating. Can't one person choose a restaurant each week and make a reservation?"

"But what if the others don't like it?"

"Well, everyone would know that they'd each have a chance to pick a place. Over time, people would get to eat at the restaurants they liked."

J. looked dubious. And I simply stopped there and tried to savor my very spicy but slightly oily soup.