Today I lunched with my romantic past. Yup, I lunched with an ex-boyfriend (“X”), and not even one who had been particularly kind (there’s a reason I nicknamed him the “Evil Englishman”). Feminists across NYC are sighing in disappointment.
The most daring aspect is that I chose to lunch with him when I was not only NOT on top of my game , but well below it (no prospects sniffing around AND I had a bad hair cut last week). I have seen several issues of Cosmopolitan magazine warning against such reckless behavior, but curiosity got the better of me.*
By way of prologue, X and I dated 14 years ago and not for very long (yet still too long). We weren’t very good at the whole moving on thing. So, for at least 10 years, we teased, tortured, and gently manipulated each other when it suited our lonely, malicious, and ambivalent instincts. We acted out anger, projected fantasies and deliberately created discomfort in each other. All in all, it was far more effective than 10 years with any NYC psychiatrist could have been, and it cost less.
During that decade, I limped through various stages of romantic withdrawal and recovery, including fantasizing about his untimely death, daydreaming about our eventual reunion, declaring stoically, if not melodramatically, my acceptance of our inability to ever communicate again, and imagining the award-winning prose that all of the foregoing would inspire. In retrospect, there wasn’t sufficient material for a made-for-TV program.
It has been three years since X and I last lunched. Since then I've “lateraled” to a new firm (particularly apt here, as the change feels more like random sidewise motion than the upward career movement I’d intended) and the Crisis has thwarted his determined ascent to the pinnacle of the Morgan Stanley management hierarchy.*
Would he show up with a ring on his finger? Would he make a pass at me? Would I want him to? As it turns out, no, no and another no.
When organizing lunch, I’d anticipated a cataclysmic encounter—a lunch that would immediately illuminate for me what a dysfunctional person I’d grown to be, galvanize me from my underachieving stupor and prompt me to make something of myself. Or a lunch that would remind me with brutally fresh evidence what a malevolent ne'er do well he had always been.
I must have ordered the wrong thing on the menu, either today or 14 years ago, because I got none of that. I had a pleasant lunch with an agreeable Englishman. I basked slightly in X’s compliments, but there was no drama, not even an inkling of dramatic tension.
With mild irony I realized that X, the same quietly ambitious guy who lectured me 14 years ago that a man defines himself exclusively through his career achievements, was now telling me that he was not where he wanted to be professionally, this was okay, and one should never assess oneself solely from the narrow perspective of career success. By his account, X is in a good relationship, which has either matured his perspective or dulled his ambition (I used to think the two were the same).
After his conversational effort—a marked improvement from the grunts of 14 years ago (with the British accent, the grunts sounded melodic back then)—I obediently chattered about myself. We debated whether I should pour all my energy into furthering my career/ financial provider status and whether I could ever have borne a full time schedule of "domestic shit" (his sarcastic parlance for being a wife and mother). Apparently he didn’t see many other life possibilities.
We agreed I could never have done the domestic shit full time, nor could I have been fulfilled squeezing my entire identity into a provider role. Based on various hopelessly tangible criteria (current job, past schooling, golf handicap and weight) he insisted my life was great. I protested. There had to be something much more than the tasks and interactions that defined my current life. He agreed. We decided we would have drinks again in 10 years (no compelling need, from my perspective, to meet any sooner).
I pray by then I have found much more, and that by then my portfolio of ex- (or current) boyfriends reflects a bit more imagination and insight.
Cost: $0. When learning I earned approximately one fifth of what X earns in a year, X could not bear making the working poor contribute a dime. What a great guy.
Notes
*I also ignored the myriad websites offering guidance on what to wear when seeing an ex-boyfriend. See, eg, What to Wear to See Your Ex-Boyfriend, http://www.marieclaire.com/fashion/tips/what-to-wear/fashion-ex
*Although senior managing director for a decade hardly suggests a stalled career, it’s not enough if you are eyeing John Mack’s job. Like X, Mack (president and CEO at various points in MS’s history) started as a bond trader.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Lunch Report: My Kingdom for a Saltine
Rarely is the Editor in Chief requested to cover a specific topic, but a number of you have questioned the significance and symbolism of the saltine cracker in The Lunch Report. Together with despair and redemption, the saltine is a recurring theme in TLR. So, because you asked, today I share the story of the saltine.
As a child, I developed a special relationship with saltines. Born with a fragile constitution, I was often subjected to a recovery regime consisting of time home from school, my favorite books, abundant maternal attention, flat ginger ale, and saltines.
For years, the saltine remained as emotionally charged for me as the madeleine was for Proust. Yet by college I had learned to look down on saltines. By the time I passed the bar, it had been years since I’d sunk my teeth into a dry salty wafer. By then, I was too sophisticated to be caught ripping open plastic packets and nibbling on saltines.
As I look back over the years though, I realize the saltine was always there, albeit in disguised forms. In Paris it was the crust of the bread I craved. In England, plain toast filled the void. On safari in Africa I developed a hankering for dry rusks.
Although I took basic health precautions when traveling (including anti-malarial medication that left me with visions of tie-dyed kudu salsa-dancing while vervet monkeys sipped scotch nearby),* I wasn’t too fussed about water or food. I horrified one travel buddy in Harare by purchasing an apple on the street and eating it after only a cursory rubdown (I wanted to wash it properly, but his criticism of my purchasing street fruit prompted me to defy his cautions). Sure, I suffered a bit, but 3 pounds later and 2 doses of high octane antibiotics, I was fine.
In 2000, I embarked on my fifth safari. Neither I nor any part of my delicate intestinal system was prepared for whatever was lurking in the tap water at a certain high-end safari camp in the Sabi Sand Reserve in South Africa. Although I had stuck to bottled water, I accidentally used tap water when brushing my teeth.
Upon returning to Jo’burg, my temporary home then, I noticed nothing. This could be because I was suffering so acutely from tick bite fever that my entire focus was on the crippling pain in my joints, which eventually made walking difficult. Another course of antibiotics, a few days of dizzy spells and vomiting and the fever was extinguished and the pain in my joints gone.
The tick bite episode had distracted me enough that when I returned to the United States, I didn’t immediately realize that I had brought home a friend with me, an intestinal parasite. He had as much difficulty with the repatriation process as I did (of course it would be a "he"—“he” and conflict often go together).
I enlisted one of the best infectious disease specialists in NYC to kill my parasite. The doctor explained that his prescribed treatment worked in 80-90% of cases. I have always wanted to be in the top percentile, and, once again, I was. When it comes down to it, they don't know their African parasites in NYC like they do in London or Jo’burg, and the antibiotics available here are downright lame.
American medicine had let me down, so I was left to my own to figure out things that both my parasite and I could eat. We had a tough time negotiating a resolution at first. I got thinner and weaker in the struggle as he made it clear that red wine, Reese’s cups (my sole source of protein throughout law school) and other cornerstones of my diet were no longer on the menu.
And then, purely by chance, I reached deep into my past and pulled out some saltines. Finally, we had reached a digestive détente.
We were all fine in the end. The Park Avenue doctor, who of course accepted no form of insurance, was paid handsomely for not curing me. My parasite came to love pinot grigio and saltines and today even allows me the occasional fried goody or piece of meat in gratitude. And I remain deeply indebted to the thousands of saltines that have helped me arbitrate a successful cohabitation arrangement with my parasite (who seems to sleep more peacefully every year).
So, in their honor, today I had a variety of saltine preparations for lunch:
*Saltines with olive oil and sundried tomatoes for an amuse bouche
*Saltines with gruyere cheese and marmite for my main course
*Saltines with grapes, strawberries and whipped cream for dessert
Notes
*According to wafer lore, saltines originated in 1876 in Missouri. Although the word “saltine” was originally a registered trademark of Nabisco, Nabisco lost its protection and today “saltine” refers generically to various brands of soda crackers.
*Although no longer as frequently prescribed, Mefloquine has historically been prescribed as an anti-malarial. First developed during the Vietnam War for American troops, Mefloquine (marketed as “Lariam”) boasts many side effects, including hallucinations.
As a child, I developed a special relationship with saltines. Born with a fragile constitution, I was often subjected to a recovery regime consisting of time home from school, my favorite books, abundant maternal attention, flat ginger ale, and saltines.
For years, the saltine remained as emotionally charged for me as the madeleine was for Proust. Yet by college I had learned to look down on saltines. By the time I passed the bar, it had been years since I’d sunk my teeth into a dry salty wafer. By then, I was too sophisticated to be caught ripping open plastic packets and nibbling on saltines.
As I look back over the years though, I realize the saltine was always there, albeit in disguised forms. In Paris it was the crust of the bread I craved. In England, plain toast filled the void. On safari in Africa I developed a hankering for dry rusks.
Although I took basic health precautions when traveling (including anti-malarial medication that left me with visions of tie-dyed kudu salsa-dancing while vervet monkeys sipped scotch nearby),* I wasn’t too fussed about water or food. I horrified one travel buddy in Harare by purchasing an apple on the street and eating it after only a cursory rubdown (I wanted to wash it properly, but his criticism of my purchasing street fruit prompted me to defy his cautions). Sure, I suffered a bit, but 3 pounds later and 2 doses of high octane antibiotics, I was fine.
In 2000, I embarked on my fifth safari. Neither I nor any part of my delicate intestinal system was prepared for whatever was lurking in the tap water at a certain high-end safari camp in the Sabi Sand Reserve in South Africa. Although I had stuck to bottled water, I accidentally used tap water when brushing my teeth.
Upon returning to Jo’burg, my temporary home then, I noticed nothing. This could be because I was suffering so acutely from tick bite fever that my entire focus was on the crippling pain in my joints, which eventually made walking difficult. Another course of antibiotics, a few days of dizzy spells and vomiting and the fever was extinguished and the pain in my joints gone.
The tick bite episode had distracted me enough that when I returned to the United States, I didn’t immediately realize that I had brought home a friend with me, an intestinal parasite. He had as much difficulty with the repatriation process as I did (of course it would be a "he"—“he” and conflict often go together).
I enlisted one of the best infectious disease specialists in NYC to kill my parasite. The doctor explained that his prescribed treatment worked in 80-90% of cases. I have always wanted to be in the top percentile, and, once again, I was. When it comes down to it, they don't know their African parasites in NYC like they do in London or Jo’burg, and the antibiotics available here are downright lame.
American medicine had let me down, so I was left to my own to figure out things that both my parasite and I could eat. We had a tough time negotiating a resolution at first. I got thinner and weaker in the struggle as he made it clear that red wine, Reese’s cups (my sole source of protein throughout law school) and other cornerstones of my diet were no longer on the menu.
And then, purely by chance, I reached deep into my past and pulled out some saltines. Finally, we had reached a digestive détente.
We were all fine in the end. The Park Avenue doctor, who of course accepted no form of insurance, was paid handsomely for not curing me. My parasite came to love pinot grigio and saltines and today even allows me the occasional fried goody or piece of meat in gratitude. And I remain deeply indebted to the thousands of saltines that have helped me arbitrate a successful cohabitation arrangement with my parasite (who seems to sleep more peacefully every year).
So, in their honor, today I had a variety of saltine preparations for lunch:
*Saltines with olive oil and sundried tomatoes for an amuse bouche
*Saltines with gruyere cheese and marmite for my main course
*Saltines with grapes, strawberries and whipped cream for dessert
Notes
*According to wafer lore, saltines originated in 1876 in Missouri. Although the word “saltine” was originally a registered trademark of Nabisco, Nabisco lost its protection and today “saltine” refers generically to various brands of soda crackers.
*Although no longer as frequently prescribed, Mefloquine has historically been prescribed as an anti-malarial. First developed during the Vietnam War for American troops, Mefloquine (marketed as “Lariam”) boasts many side effects, including hallucinations.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Lunch Report: Women Who Stare at Goat Cheese
Around 11:30am today, I was distracted by hunger pangs. Given that I’d be on conference calls through 1pm, I had too long to anticipate lunch.
By 12:40pm my stomach had settled on the perfect lunch: a salade de chevre chaude prepared by that petit bistro on rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile on Ile St. Louis in Paris. The goat cheese patty would be dusted with bread crumbs and herbs before being sautéed in brown butter just long enough for the bread and butter to form a thin crust around the warm and softened cheese. I would wash it down with a petit chablis and top it off with Maison de Berthillon* cinnamon ice cream.
I had had this lunch before and it had cheered me on a rainy day in Paris right after a brutal negotiation session. By 12:55pm I knew that no other lunch could satisfy me. Tough realization when you're on the 23rd floor of an office building in NYC, 3600+ miles from Ile St. Louis, and so low down in the corporate ranks that you don't even have access to a private plane.
Goat cheese salad is a staple in many NYC restaurants, but why order one here? The cheese—probably Alouette "cheese product" whose consistency can’t withstand sautéeing—would remind me how superior goat cheese is in Paris. That Parisian lunch and its lingering memory had spoiled me.
Permit me a fairly abrupt and gratuitous tangent, but all of this made me consider the frustrations of any long distance relationship ("LDR") whether with food, people or climates (trust me, I have LDR experiences spanning England, Portugal, France, various African countries and certain of the United States—I know my stuff).
Modern technology—email, IM, texts, Bloombergs, tweets—has the power to transform an LDR into a seemingly present relationship. Yet just as often, even in the most well-intentioned LDR, all that texting begets no more than additional texting. So query whether the R in LDR is real, virtual or imaginary.
*Your LDR is only as good as your last email. If it was a bad email, or the sarcasm didn’t translate (like light refracted through water, sarcasm never comes out the same on the other side), life will be flatter until a better email comes along.
*An LDR steals you away from your present and carries you to a promised land, where life could be or was (at least the last time you were together) better, but possibly never will be again—“The Past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”*
*Being casual is not an option in an LDR. Casually texting, sure, but casually stopping by Boston? I don’t think so.
*An LDR infects your own city with memories of the object of the LDR, like that restaurant that you shared. If you're lucky, you'll go back and forget how much fun you had together giggling at the waiter's open fly or savoring the plat du jour. But maybe you won't. Maybe when you return, even if you order a different dish from a different waiter, your present will compete with the past or an illusory future, and lose.
By the time I followed this tangent to exhaustion, I was even hungrier, yet strangely wiser (studies have shown that fasting can sharpen concentration). Fixating on my goat cheese salad was a capitulation to the grim and pessimistic conclusion that life insists on a preferred path to fulfillment.*
That just can’t be. So, in the spirit of “love the one you're with,” I put the goat cheese salad right out of my head, marched myself to a local diner and ordered something that NYC does better than any Parisian bistro: a grilled cheese,* followed by a diet coke chaser (aspartame, yum!) and saltines (manna).
Ironically, a slim, distinguished and altogether delicious gentleman was seated in the booth next to me. An obvious melancholy clouded his eyes as he gazed at his gyros. Maybe there was a Greek lover he couldn’t shake? Poor thing. He probably should have ordered a peanut butter and jelly and sat with me, but maybe he wasn't ready yet.
Penelope Frost
Notes
*As Parisophiles amongst us know, Maison Berthillon ice cream is made only on Ile St. Louis, although, as a result of certain corruptions in its distribution system, it is now offered “hors île” (off the island) in other parts of Paris.
*The opening sentence of Leslie Poles Hartley’s most famous work, The Go-Between (1953).
*Note that I am far too PC to suggest that happiness or fulfillment should be a life goal. For a compelling discussion of the tyranny of happiness in modern American culture, please see Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009).
*Critics would be misguided to compare the grilled cheese with the Croque Monsieur, also a byproduct of cheese mating with bread, which is more properly placed within the toasted (and not grilled) cheese genus.
By 12:40pm my stomach had settled on the perfect lunch: a salade de chevre chaude prepared by that petit bistro on rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile on Ile St. Louis in Paris. The goat cheese patty would be dusted with bread crumbs and herbs before being sautéed in brown butter just long enough for the bread and butter to form a thin crust around the warm and softened cheese. I would wash it down with a petit chablis and top it off with Maison de Berthillon* cinnamon ice cream.
I had had this lunch before and it had cheered me on a rainy day in Paris right after a brutal negotiation session. By 12:55pm I knew that no other lunch could satisfy me. Tough realization when you're on the 23rd floor of an office building in NYC, 3600+ miles from Ile St. Louis, and so low down in the corporate ranks that you don't even have access to a private plane.
Goat cheese salad is a staple in many NYC restaurants, but why order one here? The cheese—probably Alouette "cheese product" whose consistency can’t withstand sautéeing—would remind me how superior goat cheese is in Paris. That Parisian lunch and its lingering memory had spoiled me.
Permit me a fairly abrupt and gratuitous tangent, but all of this made me consider the frustrations of any long distance relationship ("LDR") whether with food, people or climates (trust me, I have LDR experiences spanning England, Portugal, France, various African countries and certain of the United States—I know my stuff).
Modern technology—email, IM, texts, Bloombergs, tweets—has the power to transform an LDR into a seemingly present relationship. Yet just as often, even in the most well-intentioned LDR, all that texting begets no more than additional texting. So query whether the R in LDR is real, virtual or imaginary.
*Your LDR is only as good as your last email. If it was a bad email, or the sarcasm didn’t translate (like light refracted through water, sarcasm never comes out the same on the other side), life will be flatter until a better email comes along.
*An LDR steals you away from your present and carries you to a promised land, where life could be or was (at least the last time you were together) better, but possibly never will be again—“The Past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”*
*Being casual is not an option in an LDR. Casually texting, sure, but casually stopping by Boston? I don’t think so.
*An LDR infects your own city with memories of the object of the LDR, like that restaurant that you shared. If you're lucky, you'll go back and forget how much fun you had together giggling at the waiter's open fly or savoring the plat du jour. But maybe you won't. Maybe when you return, even if you order a different dish from a different waiter, your present will compete with the past or an illusory future, and lose.
By the time I followed this tangent to exhaustion, I was even hungrier, yet strangely wiser (studies have shown that fasting can sharpen concentration). Fixating on my goat cheese salad was a capitulation to the grim and pessimistic conclusion that life insists on a preferred path to fulfillment.*
That just can’t be. So, in the spirit of “love the one you're with,” I put the goat cheese salad right out of my head, marched myself to a local diner and ordered something that NYC does better than any Parisian bistro: a grilled cheese,* followed by a diet coke chaser (aspartame, yum!) and saltines (manna).
Ironically, a slim, distinguished and altogether delicious gentleman was seated in the booth next to me. An obvious melancholy clouded his eyes as he gazed at his gyros. Maybe there was a Greek lover he couldn’t shake? Poor thing. He probably should have ordered a peanut butter and jelly and sat with me, but maybe he wasn't ready yet.
Penelope Frost
Notes
*As Parisophiles amongst us know, Maison Berthillon ice cream is made only on Ile St. Louis, although, as a result of certain corruptions in its distribution system, it is now offered “hors île” (off the island) in other parts of Paris.
*The opening sentence of Leslie Poles Hartley’s most famous work, The Go-Between (1953).
*Note that I am far too PC to suggest that happiness or fulfillment should be a life goal. For a compelling discussion of the tyranny of happiness in modern American culture, please see Barbara Ehrenreich’s Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009).
*Critics would be misguided to compare the grilled cheese with the Croque Monsieur, also a byproduct of cheese mating with bread, which is more properly placed within the toasted (and not grilled) cheese genus.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Lunch Report: Take Me Out to the Ball Park and Shut Up
The "season" is upon us. Not quite “the season”* the Vanderbilts and Astors once enjoyed but rather the NFL season and the MLB’s post season tail. Men of all ages develop a spiritual relationship with couches and barstools across the city, transformed into wide-eyed little boys in a trance-like state in front of gargantuan TVs.
Even if you're fortunate enough not to have one of these boys on your couch with a death grip on the remote, every girl is forced to contemplate her status in society during The Season.
So what if we comprise 40% of the MLB fan base and are the primary consumers in the majority of American households, the commercials are still going to be for beer and men’s cologne, neither of which I typically consume.
Who can’t appreciate a 92 mph curve ball that miraculously finds the sweet spot on Damon’s bat? You don’t need testosterone to get an adrenaline rush. Granted, I may not have the same appreciation for all the crotch-fiddling that goes on during these games, but hopefully that’s not why my male friends watch either.
I don’t need facial hair to appreciate the excitement that comes with knowing your team may become the 2009 MLB World Series Champions.
Yet even if we watch enthusiastically in the local pub, no one wants us to talk about it. We’re just necessary décor so that macho men spending several days a week hugging each other in a dark bar are not accused of closeted homosexuality. We’re to be seen (preferably in something resembling a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader outfit) but not heard, even if (maybe especially if) we knows what we’re talking about (yep, some of us know what the infield fly rule is).
Usurping the language of punts, bunts, passes and bases is either an unwelcome invasion of a man’s world or proof that a gal is trying way too hard to be one of the guys. Rest assured, I’m not going to jump on a conference call tomorrow and open up by discussing Girardi’s choice to start Pettitte, no matter what happens tonight.*
Nor am I going to redesign my analogies to incorporate football references: “It’s like when the Giants went down to the Superdome* in New Orleans . . .” Yup, took about one day after the Saints crushed the Giants for this analogy to work its way into NYC corporate speak.
Although the colleague who’d said this hadn’t actually watched the game, the client was easily persuaded by the analogy between the defeat and our current negotiation posture. No matter how confidently I’d uttered the same words, it wouldn’t have worked. Everyone would rather listen to the clichéd and tired language that men use to describe their sports.
I’m not going to try to speak their language. Instead I am going to watch the game my way,* think of it my way and speak about it (or not) my way, even if absolutely no one listens, even you.
In the absence of any socially acceptable custom for a lady to discuss the game and wish her city’s baseball team luck, today I honored the Yankees by savoring the following for lunch:
—One hot dog frosted with a thick layer of French’s mustard and blanketed in a toasted wonder bread hotdog roll.
—One Coors Light® which I smuggled into work (not sure why it was in my fridge though—probably a guy left it there while watching a game Chez Penelope)
—Some cracker jacks (Halloween leftovers)
Cost: $1.20
Notes
*The Season is that period of the year during which the social “elite” hold debutante balls, dinner parties and charity events. In NYC, the “kick off” for The Season is considered to be the opening of the Metropolitan Opera in September. Among other fall events is the Central Park Conservancy’s annual Halloween Benefit Ball in October, at which The Editor-in-Chief of the Lunch Report was photographed while attending: http://www.studiofourb.com/Events/HalloweenBall09/10066919_ynMXg#695474601_6bRRm
*I will not hold back, however, from sharing my impressions of Mr. Girardi, whose sculpted face bears a disturbingly close resemblance to a hairless cat (see for yourself: http://bestiarumvocabulum.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/hairless_cat.jpg).
*As the largest fixed dome structure in the world, the New Orleans Superdome has hosted more Super Bowls than any other stadium. *A few years ago I brought some clients to a Yankees game. They were visibly shaken when I whipped out a pair of opera glasses to sneak a closer peek of Jeter. So what, I did get a close look.
Even if you're fortunate enough not to have one of these boys on your couch with a death grip on the remote, every girl is forced to contemplate her status in society during The Season.
So what if we comprise 40% of the MLB fan base and are the primary consumers in the majority of American households, the commercials are still going to be for beer and men’s cologne, neither of which I typically consume.
Who can’t appreciate a 92 mph curve ball that miraculously finds the sweet spot on Damon’s bat? You don’t need testosterone to get an adrenaline rush. Granted, I may not have the same appreciation for all the crotch-fiddling that goes on during these games, but hopefully that’s not why my male friends watch either.
I don’t need facial hair to appreciate the excitement that comes with knowing your team may become the 2009 MLB World Series Champions.
Yet even if we watch enthusiastically in the local pub, no one wants us to talk about it. We’re just necessary décor so that macho men spending several days a week hugging each other in a dark bar are not accused of closeted homosexuality. We’re to be seen (preferably in something resembling a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader outfit) but not heard, even if (maybe especially if) we knows what we’re talking about (yep, some of us know what the infield fly rule is).
Usurping the language of punts, bunts, passes and bases is either an unwelcome invasion of a man’s world or proof that a gal is trying way too hard to be one of the guys. Rest assured, I’m not going to jump on a conference call tomorrow and open up by discussing Girardi’s choice to start Pettitte, no matter what happens tonight.*
Nor am I going to redesign my analogies to incorporate football references: “It’s like when the Giants went down to the Superdome* in New Orleans . . .” Yup, took about one day after the Saints crushed the Giants for this analogy to work its way into NYC corporate speak.
Although the colleague who’d said this hadn’t actually watched the game, the client was easily persuaded by the analogy between the defeat and our current negotiation posture. No matter how confidently I’d uttered the same words, it wouldn’t have worked. Everyone would rather listen to the clichéd and tired language that men use to describe their sports.
I’m not going to try to speak their language. Instead I am going to watch the game my way,* think of it my way and speak about it (or not) my way, even if absolutely no one listens, even you.
In the absence of any socially acceptable custom for a lady to discuss the game and wish her city’s baseball team luck, today I honored the Yankees by savoring the following for lunch:
—One hot dog frosted with a thick layer of French’s mustard and blanketed in a toasted wonder bread hotdog roll.
—One Coors Light® which I smuggled into work (not sure why it was in my fridge though—probably a guy left it there while watching a game Chez Penelope)
—Some cracker jacks (Halloween leftovers)
Cost: $1.20
Notes
*The Season is that period of the year during which the social “elite” hold debutante balls, dinner parties and charity events. In NYC, the “kick off” for The Season is considered to be the opening of the Metropolitan Opera in September. Among other fall events is the Central Park Conservancy’s annual Halloween Benefit Ball in October, at which The Editor-in-Chief of the Lunch Report was photographed while attending: http://www.studiofourb.com/Events/HalloweenBall09/10066919_ynMXg#695474601_6bRRm
*I will not hold back, however, from sharing my impressions of Mr. Girardi, whose sculpted face bears a disturbingly close resemblance to a hairless cat (see for yourself: http://bestiarumvocabulum.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/hairless_cat.jpg).
*As the largest fixed dome structure in the world, the New Orleans Superdome has hosted more Super Bowls than any other stadium. *A few years ago I brought some clients to a Yankees game. They were visibly shaken when I whipped out a pair of opera glasses to sneak a closer peek of Jeter. So what, I did get a close look.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)