In NYC, there's only one thing a single woman spends more time searching for than an eligible man: a suitable place to live, an apartment of her own (once you're over 30 you really need more than a room of your own).
Penelope has been searching in earnest for an apartment to buy but the more she searches the more obstinate she becomes about returning to her one bedroom rental in Lenox Hill, the one with the perfect entryway, western exposures and coveted herringbone floors.
At this point I've logged even more hours on Streeteasy.com than I ever did on Match.com in my quest for a man. I would spend entire days logged on to match.com, inputting the sought after features (male, NYC, likes pets, Christian, at least a B.A in education), and scanning the results. Often I’d return to the same profile repeatedly because I’d forgotten why I'd rejected a potential suitor. I'd pull it up and spot the tragic flaw: he was 4'3"; he was 74 years old; or he was a devout Jehovah's witness . . .
Occasionally, I would stumble on a profile that was in perfect harmony with my search criteria. I couldn't meet him soon enough. And when I did, there was usually a comical mismatch between my expectation (or his profile) and who sat across from me. Either that or his behavior was not to be believed, like the fellow who started out by telling me my face was less angular than in my photo, then explained that he didn’t vacation because it disrupted his sense of routine and exposed him to too much sunlight. I couldn’t run away soon enough.
It won't surprise you that real estate is full of the same deceptions as internet dating. I try not to get my hopes up but it's difficult to be positive and open-minded without accidentally believing that Apartment 10E is "the one". Look at the trim on that building―how could I not live happily ever after there?
One morning I saw a promising pre-war in Carnegie Hill, just one block from the park. Not only did its profile boast herringbone floors, but an atrium and outdoor terrace. The description did note "waiting for someone with vision." What it required was willful blindness: too dark to discern any herringbone, and the "atrium" was on the inside of the building surrounded by brick walls. Perfect for cultivating mushrooms and breeding bats, but nothing else.
Then there was the perfect Park-Lex apartment with the generous living room, and not a single closet . . .
I spoke with the friend who had tipped me off to Streeteasy.com. She admitted you have to kiss a few frogs before you find the right apartment. At this point my lips were chapped but I wasn’t ready to concede spending my retirement in a rental so I kept at it.
I saw a 2BR in Beekman with multiple walk-in closets (never did I imagine that the initials "W.I.C." would literally send shivers of excitement down my spine). No herring bone floors. I let on to the agent my secret obsession with herringbone. At home, I stare at the Escheresque floor pattern for hours and the frustrations of my workday magically dissolve. He suggested I have someone paint a herringbone pattern on the floors. I didn’t laugh.
One of my owning friends (everyone in NYC knows your friends fall into two categories: owning and renting) advised me that you can't expect one apartment to meet all your needs and that I may not find one with western exposure, herringbone floors, WICs, and large rooms in a pet friendly doorman building within my price range and neighborhood.
What was she saying? Was she recommending I just "buy it"?! It reminded me of Lori Gottlieb's book "Just Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough" and all the controversy the message of "settling" for a guy that's "good enough" stirred up among single women.
At this age, it's unlikely I will ever marry, so finding a womancave of my own is critical. I haven't settled for just any guy and I won't settle for just any apartment. Couldn't she see that?
Then again, maybe my analogy wasn't perfect. You can change apartments a bit more easily than men. There isn't quite the same societal disapproval for selling your apartment as there is for divorcing your spouse. In fact, many people purchase apartments with a keen eye on resale value and have no shame in discussing it. Discussing resale value (aka the prenup) when husband shopping, on the other hand, is usually handled with far less transparency and primarily by attorneys.
So maybe she was right, maybe I should just buy it. Maybe. I think I'll stare at the herringbone some more as I think it over.
Penelope
Monday, April 19, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Lunch Report: Partying with Penelope's Parents
Last Sunday I hosted a party, the first one I’ve hosted in years. I had forgotten what a taxing undertaking hosting a party can be.
It didn’t take a village but it did take a family, my extended family. I enlisted a girlfriend Whitney who, conveniently, has turned herself into a chef since we first met 25 years ago. I also asked one of my brothers to help and make sure Beauford the Bobcat was properly mounted on the wall.* There’s nothing like a bobcat falling off the wall to ruin a good party.
Whitney prepped the food and I prepped my brother on the invitees. I told him who had dated whom, who should be cut off after two drinks, and which women he was and was not allowed to pursue.
Once guests arrived, I found myself pointing out my favorite objects: “This beautiful Mahogany dining room table is circa 1730. The leaves are folded so you can’t see, but it’s in amazing shape.” I had to stop myself from saying “Oh, and to the right are my parents, both circa 1936. They’re also in excellent shape.”
Sometimes I slip into a juvenile habit of regarding my parents as an integral part of the background, whose roles are somehow confined to supervising. So, I was strangely flattered that so many of my guests had such kind things to say about my parents. I’m not sure why I was surprised. After all, they’re independent individuals with independent interests and their existence as “my parents” may not be their only noteworthy attributes.
I forget how unique my mother's path has been: born in New York; spent a few years in China; had a short stint in a convent (her reward for graduating early from boarding school); "came out"* at the Debutante Assembly and the New Year’s Ball in New York in 1955; dumped Charles the race car driver thereafter; and married my dad in 1961. Now an accomplished alpine gardener, her expertise in penstemons* is discussed in hushed tones in elite gardening circles in New York City.*
I forget that my father grew up just outside of NYC with several siblings as blonde as he (when he still had hair), had an adman dad who may have been the archetype for Don Draper, started out in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, transitioned to Dutchess County where he had his own firm, two horses, a dog, several cats (one of which peed on his documents one evening, which was entirely my fault), chickens that laid Dr. Seuss-like green eggs* and four children who orchestrated simultaneous attendance at college in an effort to challenge his capacity as a provider.
I don't know if any of these details figured among what intrigued my guests, but I did want to pause and reflect. They're not just a series of anecdotes or facts. They're my parents. They didn't just bring the extra bottles of vodka and wine (but thank goodness they did). They brought themselves.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done Penelope proud.
Notes
*Although Beauford had already passed to bobcat heaven long before I secured him on eBay, I recognize my acts may be construed as condoning the slaughter of pretty kitties. For this, I am truly contrite. When I look at Beauford, I hear my dead grandfather’s voice: “I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything.”
*No, she’s not a lesbian. “Coming out” refers to the tradition of a young lady or “débutante” being introduced to society.
*Technically, a Penstemon is a large genus of North American plant from the Scrophulariaceae family. Untechnically, they’re all frilly and girlish.
*Active in the North American Rock Garden Society (NARGS) since 1984, she is one of their most highly recommended lecturers. She has taught at the New York Botanical Garden, is past president of the Berkshire Chapter of NARGS and has taught Master Gardener classes as well. See “The Low Down on Gardening Low Down,” New England Wild Flower Society. http://www.newfs.org/learn/catalog/sym0901
*Of Chilean descent, Araucana chickens lay naturally blue, pink and green eggs.
Important Post Script: FEMA workers have now completed the post-party clean up. Among the objects found include two cell phones, one "Sycuan casino" water bottle, one fuschia feather boa, and one hand grenade. Please email penelope.frost@yahoo.com if any of these objects belong to you.
It didn’t take a village but it did take a family, my extended family. I enlisted a girlfriend Whitney who, conveniently, has turned herself into a chef since we first met 25 years ago. I also asked one of my brothers to help and make sure Beauford the Bobcat was properly mounted on the wall.* There’s nothing like a bobcat falling off the wall to ruin a good party.
Whitney prepped the food and I prepped my brother on the invitees. I told him who had dated whom, who should be cut off after two drinks, and which women he was and was not allowed to pursue.
Once guests arrived, I found myself pointing out my favorite objects: “This beautiful Mahogany dining room table is circa 1730. The leaves are folded so you can’t see, but it’s in amazing shape.” I had to stop myself from saying “Oh, and to the right are my parents, both circa 1936. They’re also in excellent shape.”
Sometimes I slip into a juvenile habit of regarding my parents as an integral part of the background, whose roles are somehow confined to supervising. So, I was strangely flattered that so many of my guests had such kind things to say about my parents. I’m not sure why I was surprised. After all, they’re independent individuals with independent interests and their existence as “my parents” may not be their only noteworthy attributes.
I forget how unique my mother's path has been: born in New York; spent a few years in China; had a short stint in a convent (her reward for graduating early from boarding school); "came out"* at the Debutante Assembly and the New Year’s Ball in New York in 1955; dumped Charles the race car driver thereafter; and married my dad in 1961. Now an accomplished alpine gardener, her expertise in penstemons* is discussed in hushed tones in elite gardening circles in New York City.*
I forget that my father grew up just outside of NYC with several siblings as blonde as he (when he still had hair), had an adman dad who may have been the archetype for Don Draper, started out in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, transitioned to Dutchess County where he had his own firm, two horses, a dog, several cats (one of which peed on his documents one evening, which was entirely my fault), chickens that laid Dr. Seuss-like green eggs* and four children who orchestrated simultaneous attendance at college in an effort to challenge his capacity as a provider.
I don't know if any of these details figured among what intrigued my guests, but I did want to pause and reflect. They're not just a series of anecdotes or facts. They're my parents. They didn't just bring the extra bottles of vodka and wine (but thank goodness they did). They brought themselves.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done Penelope proud.
Notes
*Although Beauford had already passed to bobcat heaven long before I secured him on eBay, I recognize my acts may be construed as condoning the slaughter of pretty kitties. For this, I am truly contrite. When I look at Beauford, I hear my dead grandfather’s voice: “I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything.”
*No, she’s not a lesbian. “Coming out” refers to the tradition of a young lady or “débutante” being introduced to society.
*Technically, a Penstemon is a large genus of North American plant from the Scrophulariaceae family. Untechnically, they’re all frilly and girlish.
*Active in the North American Rock Garden Society (NARGS) since 1984, she is one of their most highly recommended lecturers. She has taught at the New York Botanical Garden, is past president of the Berkshire Chapter of NARGS and has taught Master Gardener classes as well. See “The Low Down on Gardening Low Down,” New England Wild Flower Society. http://www.newfs.org/learn/catalog/sym0901
*Of Chilean descent, Araucana chickens lay naturally blue, pink and green eggs.
Important Post Script: FEMA workers have now completed the post-party clean up. Among the objects found include two cell phones, one "Sycuan casino" water bottle, one fuschia feather boa, and one hand grenade. Please email penelope.frost@yahoo.com if any of these objects belong to you.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
This Little Piggy Went To Market
I've had nothing to say for weeks. I blame that on the person who told me if I wanted to be heard, I had to "market" myself. My stomach turned.
I've always been suspicious of marketing. It transforms people into who they are not. Isn't this how so many of us came to believe Tiger Woods was not just a golf star but a star at large? Yet one of the most successful marketing projects ever degenerated into a nightmare. Image witchdoctors the world round are still trying to sever the image of a pathological philanderer from the products he advertises.
It's unlikely I would face the same issues as Tiger, at least not right away, but I was still ambivalent. How would I market? The "f" word immediately came to mind.
There are now over 400 million Facebook (FB) users. Even God has a FB page* so it may well be the marketing medium of choice.*
FB is revealing, as much because of what people write or post as because of what they do not. The person who posts what he had for breakfast may be more opaque about his political views. FB creates an illusion of social and communicational transparency.
And if statistics are to be trusted, FB isn’t just for kids anymore. For adults, Facebooking may not be like breathing, as it is for most under 24, but it's still an adult preoccupation.
Some adapt to FB frighteningly well, posting items as care freely as teenagers. Others go through a honeymoon phase of reconnecting with long lost friends before fading into voyeurism, snickering at friends' posts and accusing them of PWI (Posting While Intoxicated). Still others, like Penelope, marvel at the promise of the FB paradigm, but break into a cold sweat at the mere thought of posting something on their own wall. What would it mean?
How can one ever decipher the implicit rules and the secret language of FB? “Friending” someone may have little to do with friendship in the traditional sense. P'lo gets that. They may be friend junkies inviting others to see how many friends they have (hoarding friends in order to win the unannounced competition for the most friends).
Who can imagine translating the implications of intergender FB gestures? "He friended me" may resonate with some girls as "He wants to date me" while it smacks of "Great, I'm just a buddy . . ." to others.
All of this said (posted) and despite her deep-seated fears of FB and becoming a networking tramp, after several cocktails and a flickering of an epiphany, Penelope resolved to market herself and create her own FB page.
The background info was easy (although maybe this is not a place for candor but another marketing opportunity? Who cares who Penelope IS—who SHOULD she be?) but then she hit "The Wall." Did Pink Floyd ever imagine "The Wall" would be an internet venue for sharing the minutiae of our daily lives?
Penelope was speechless (postless).* Are people who update their walls numerous times a day really lucky enough to have friends who care what they ate for lunch?
Or are they pumping their profiles for the News Feed?
The more one updates one's page, the more one's profile will appear in the FB Newsfeed (the CNBC ticker of your own social life) when your "friends" (in the most inclusive sense: random acquaintances; frenemies; ex-husbands; estranged relatives . . .) log on to FB. It doesn't matter what you think of them, but how often you think of them.
Despite all this, Penelope wants to "friend" you. Her motive is not impure—she really wants to know what you think and have to say and believes FB will facilitate this. If FB isn't for you, she understands, but she still wishes you would check out her blog, comment, criticize or just post an emoticon.
If you’re shy, need to protect your identity, or work for the CIA, please consider adopting an anonymous persona. After all, one of the reasons the Internet and blogging have become such robust and blissfully transparent fora for the swapping of ideas is the anonymity they allow.*
Looking forward to hearing from you (and your friends).
Yours truly—P’lo
NOTES
* See http://www.facebook.com/pages/God/10141208299?v=info. He is very Christian about accepting new friends.
* See proliferation of evolving citations to articles posted on the Internet about the power and necessity of marketing via FB. Seriously, between the time Penelope writes this and you read this, anything Penelope could cite would have become stale—that’s how many articles are being written about FB and marketing.
*At this point, you may be wondering why I am referring to myself as "Penelope" in the third person. Well, I hired a bespoke marketing agency (too elite to identify here) that, together with a psychoanalyst, specializes in blogging. They immediately recommended that I switch from the first person to the third person. The shift is intended to create a sense of disembodiment and self-alienation that enables Penelope to do and say things that I certainly never would. The shift also creates intrigue for Penelope's audience (previously known as "you"!).
*For a thought provoking analysis on transparency and the Internet, please see the four part series posted by Paris-based sociologist qua marketer, Minter Dial: http://themyndset.com/tag/transparency/
I've always been suspicious of marketing. It transforms people into who they are not. Isn't this how so many of us came to believe Tiger Woods was not just a golf star but a star at large? Yet one of the most successful marketing projects ever degenerated into a nightmare. Image witchdoctors the world round are still trying to sever the image of a pathological philanderer from the products he advertises.
It's unlikely I would face the same issues as Tiger, at least not right away, but I was still ambivalent. How would I market? The "f" word immediately came to mind.
There are now over 400 million Facebook (FB) users. Even God has a FB page* so it may well be the marketing medium of choice.*
FB is revealing, as much because of what people write or post as because of what they do not. The person who posts what he had for breakfast may be more opaque about his political views. FB creates an illusion of social and communicational transparency.
And if statistics are to be trusted, FB isn’t just for kids anymore. For adults, Facebooking may not be like breathing, as it is for most under 24, but it's still an adult preoccupation.
Some adapt to FB frighteningly well, posting items as care freely as teenagers. Others go through a honeymoon phase of reconnecting with long lost friends before fading into voyeurism, snickering at friends' posts and accusing them of PWI (Posting While Intoxicated). Still others, like Penelope, marvel at the promise of the FB paradigm, but break into a cold sweat at the mere thought of posting something on their own wall. What would it mean?
How can one ever decipher the implicit rules and the secret language of FB? “Friending” someone may have little to do with friendship in the traditional sense. P'lo gets that. They may be friend junkies inviting others to see how many friends they have (hoarding friends in order to win the unannounced competition for the most friends).
Who can imagine translating the implications of intergender FB gestures? "He friended me" may resonate with some girls as "He wants to date me" while it smacks of "Great, I'm just a buddy . . ." to others.
All of this said (posted) and despite her deep-seated fears of FB and becoming a networking tramp, after several cocktails and a flickering of an epiphany, Penelope resolved to market herself and create her own FB page.
The background info was easy (although maybe this is not a place for candor but another marketing opportunity? Who cares who Penelope IS—who SHOULD she be?) but then she hit "The Wall." Did Pink Floyd ever imagine "The Wall" would be an internet venue for sharing the minutiae of our daily lives?
Penelope was speechless (postless).* Are people who update their walls numerous times a day really lucky enough to have friends who care what they ate for lunch?
Or are they pumping their profiles for the News Feed?
The more one updates one's page, the more one's profile will appear in the FB Newsfeed (the CNBC ticker of your own social life) when your "friends" (in the most inclusive sense: random acquaintances; frenemies; ex-husbands; estranged relatives . . .) log on to FB. It doesn't matter what you think of them, but how often you think of them.
Despite all this, Penelope wants to "friend" you. Her motive is not impure—she really wants to know what you think and have to say and believes FB will facilitate this. If FB isn't for you, she understands, but she still wishes you would check out her blog, comment, criticize or just post an emoticon.
If you’re shy, need to protect your identity, or work for the CIA, please consider adopting an anonymous persona. After all, one of the reasons the Internet and blogging have become such robust and blissfully transparent fora for the swapping of ideas is the anonymity they allow.*
Looking forward to hearing from you (and your friends).
Yours truly—P’lo
NOTES
* See http://www.facebook.com/pages/God/10141208299?v=info. He is very Christian about accepting new friends.
* See proliferation of evolving citations to articles posted on the Internet about the power and necessity of marketing via FB. Seriously, between the time Penelope writes this and you read this, anything Penelope could cite would have become stale—that’s how many articles are being written about FB and marketing.
*At this point, you may be wondering why I am referring to myself as "Penelope" in the third person. Well, I hired a bespoke marketing agency (too elite to identify here) that, together with a psychoanalyst, specializes in blogging. They immediately recommended that I switch from the first person to the third person. The shift is intended to create a sense of disembodiment and self-alienation that enables Penelope to do and say things that I certainly never would. The shift also creates intrigue for Penelope's audience (previously known as "you"!).
*For a thought provoking analysis on transparency and the Internet, please see the four part series posted by Paris-based sociologist qua marketer, Minter Dial: http://themyndset.com/tag/transparency/
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Lunch Report: Twelve Angry Women
Someone strides into my office and blurts out “What is this? I don’t understand it,” shaking a document in my face. His lack of comprehension must be my fault.
While discussing an ambiguous agreement with another one of my mild-mannered colleagues, he lurches back in his chair and yells “So what if there’s language missing. Everyone knows what we mean.” I can’t recall the “everyone-knows-what-we-mean” explanation ever persuading a client or a jury, but something tells me I ought to nod emphatically in agreement.
I’ve probably mentioned it before, but I’m a lawyer at a top corporate law firm in NYC. Ever since I’ve been at this firm I’ve struggled with cultural issues. It’s an American firm. I’m American. It’s a New York-centric firm. I’m from New York.
The cultural issues I wrestle with are not as subtle as issues of national or metropolitan identity. I wrestle with emotional identity. With few exceptions, everyone around me speaks a foreign emotional language. But like any foreign language, we usually marvel at the elegant inflections and unique sounds before we realize we cannot understand a word being said.
In a group meeting forming part of my interview three years ago, I witnessed a freedom of expression that seduced me. No awkward pauses or three minute cautionary prefaces—everyone chimed in freely with random observations, so much so that they forgot they had directed questions at me. It was suggestive of the liberation I would taste if I joined this firm. Soon I would be able to express enthusiasm without shocking my colleagues. I might even use exclamations!, BOLD ALL CAPs and emoticons ;-)
So I joined the firm.
It never occurred to me my colleagues would be just as uninhibited when exploring other parts of the emotional spectrum, namely anger. Or, what I call “anger,” because therein lies the cultural rub.
I see crass and immature displays of anger; my colleagues see people “taking charge” and “showing interest.” So, until I raise my voice, interrupt others and make my nostrils flare on command, no one will believe I am truly engaged or on top of my game.
Forget the bestseller "Getting Past No: Negotiating Your Way from Confrontation to Cooperation"* that was distributed as mandatory reading when I was a junior associate. The books I need now are "Getting Past Rationality: Screaming Your Way to Success" and "Verbally Bitchslapping Your Colleague Into Agreement: The Power of Monosyllabic Epithets." As long as I live in their world, I must speak their language, right?
Actually the American Psychiatric Association doesn’t see it that way. The APA’s efforts to demarcate the norms of emotional expression in American culture mean certain forms of anger constitute “mental illness.”* The offspring of Intermittent Explosion Disorder,* Temper Dysregulation Disorder (TDD), promises to make its way into DSM-V:*
n. A disorder characterized by severe recurrent temper outbursts in response to common stressors. Usage: “Because he suffered from TDD, he lashed out at everyone when he was diagnosed with ED and realized he would never experience a two hour erection without medication.”*
Could it be that most of my colleagues are mentally ill? Possibly, but, gosh, for mentally ill folks they sure generate a lot of revenue and rack up a lot of legal accolades every year. If their temporal lobes, where anger resides, were “cleaned up” (a lobotomy being one form of cleansing), they might not be as successful. Recipes for success are always highly individualized.
At my prior firm, I was accused of being a “guy” at the office. I don’t grab my crotch while speaking or use football analogies, but I don’t sugar coat my criticism either. I don’t soften statements by turning them into questions through a pseudo-English inflection? I say it like it is.
Yet, despite leaving the sugar, spice and everything nice at home, I’m just not angry enough. Anger just isn’t my style. So why the title “Twelve Angry Women” then? It’s hard enough to find twelve senior women at my office, much less twelve angry women.
The original “Twelve Angry Men” (1954) was premised on the frictions and frustrations of twelve male jurors trying to overcome cultural prejudice to reach a consensus. There were no women jurors in the script. Was it unimaginable that women might also get angry in the same context or is it that the writer just couldn’t figure out a single adjective that would capture the emotion of a mixed gender group striving for agreement?
She calls it anger; he calls it enthusiasm; the APA calls it illness. Isn’t it just style? The demands on rationality and analysis implicit in the lawyering process should pave a wide common ground between the genders, pushing objectivity to the fore and emotions—which always exacerbate the gender divide—to the back. Not here. I must be in left field.*
Notes
*William Ury (1991).
*See “When Anger Is an Illness,” Wall Street Journal, D1, March 9, 2010.
*IED was recognized by the psychiatric profession as early as 1980.
*DSM V stands for the fifth edition of the APA’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, expected to be published in 2013. Considered the bible in America for mental disorders, DSM V is also expected to introduce Negativistic Personality Disorder and Sluggish Cognitive Tempo. Sounds like a must read!
*Advertisements for erectile dysfunction (ED) medications warning of erections lasting more than four hours would appear to suggest that erections of shorter duration, say three hours, are perfectly normal.
*Originally written in 1954 by Reginald Rose, the teleplay was made into a film in 1957, starring Henry Fonda and remade in 1997 with Jack Lemmon.
*”Twelve Angry Women” was adapted from the original play by Sherman Sergel in 2004. There were no male jurors in the script.
*“Hey, you’re in left field!” Act I, p. 14, Twelve Angry Men.
While discussing an ambiguous agreement with another one of my mild-mannered colleagues, he lurches back in his chair and yells “So what if there’s language missing. Everyone knows what we mean.” I can’t recall the “everyone-knows-what-we-mean” explanation ever persuading a client or a jury, but something tells me I ought to nod emphatically in agreement.
I’ve probably mentioned it before, but I’m a lawyer at a top corporate law firm in NYC. Ever since I’ve been at this firm I’ve struggled with cultural issues. It’s an American firm. I’m American. It’s a New York-centric firm. I’m from New York.
The cultural issues I wrestle with are not as subtle as issues of national or metropolitan identity. I wrestle with emotional identity. With few exceptions, everyone around me speaks a foreign emotional language. But like any foreign language, we usually marvel at the elegant inflections and unique sounds before we realize we cannot understand a word being said.
In a group meeting forming part of my interview three years ago, I witnessed a freedom of expression that seduced me. No awkward pauses or three minute cautionary prefaces—everyone chimed in freely with random observations, so much so that they forgot they had directed questions at me. It was suggestive of the liberation I would taste if I joined this firm. Soon I would be able to express enthusiasm without shocking my colleagues. I might even use exclamations!, BOLD ALL CAPs and emoticons ;-)
So I joined the firm.
It never occurred to me my colleagues would be just as uninhibited when exploring other parts of the emotional spectrum, namely anger. Or, what I call “anger,” because therein lies the cultural rub.
I see crass and immature displays of anger; my colleagues see people “taking charge” and “showing interest.” So, until I raise my voice, interrupt others and make my nostrils flare on command, no one will believe I am truly engaged or on top of my game.
Forget the bestseller "Getting Past No: Negotiating Your Way from Confrontation to Cooperation"* that was distributed as mandatory reading when I was a junior associate. The books I need now are "Getting Past Rationality: Screaming Your Way to Success" and "Verbally Bitchslapping Your Colleague Into Agreement: The Power of Monosyllabic Epithets." As long as I live in their world, I must speak their language, right?
Actually the American Psychiatric Association doesn’t see it that way. The APA’s efforts to demarcate the norms of emotional expression in American culture mean certain forms of anger constitute “mental illness.”* The offspring of Intermittent Explosion Disorder,* Temper Dysregulation Disorder (TDD), promises to make its way into DSM-V:*
n. A disorder characterized by severe recurrent temper outbursts in response to common stressors. Usage: “Because he suffered from TDD, he lashed out at everyone when he was diagnosed with ED and realized he would never experience a two hour erection without medication.”*
Could it be that most of my colleagues are mentally ill? Possibly, but, gosh, for mentally ill folks they sure generate a lot of revenue and rack up a lot of legal accolades every year. If their temporal lobes, where anger resides, were “cleaned up” (a lobotomy being one form of cleansing), they might not be as successful. Recipes for success are always highly individualized.
At my prior firm, I was accused of being a “guy” at the office. I don’t grab my crotch while speaking or use football analogies, but I don’t sugar coat my criticism either. I don’t soften statements by turning them into questions through a pseudo-English inflection? I say it like it is.
Yet, despite leaving the sugar, spice and everything nice at home, I’m just not angry enough. Anger just isn’t my style. So why the title “Twelve Angry Women” then? It’s hard enough to find twelve senior women at my office, much less twelve angry women.
The original “Twelve Angry Men” (1954) was premised on the frictions and frustrations of twelve male jurors trying to overcome cultural prejudice to reach a consensus. There were no women jurors in the script. Was it unimaginable that women might also get angry in the same context or is it that the writer just couldn’t figure out a single adjective that would capture the emotion of a mixed gender group striving for agreement?
She calls it anger; he calls it enthusiasm; the APA calls it illness. Isn’t it just style? The demands on rationality and analysis implicit in the lawyering process should pave a wide common ground between the genders, pushing objectivity to the fore and emotions—which always exacerbate the gender divide—to the back. Not here. I must be in left field.*
Notes
*William Ury (1991).
*See “When Anger Is an Illness,” Wall Street Journal, D1, March 9, 2010.
*IED was recognized by the psychiatric profession as early as 1980.
*DSM V stands for the fifth edition of the APA’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, expected to be published in 2013. Considered the bible in America for mental disorders, DSM V is also expected to introduce Negativistic Personality Disorder and Sluggish Cognitive Tempo. Sounds like a must read!
*Advertisements for erectile dysfunction (ED) medications warning of erections lasting more than four hours would appear to suggest that erections of shorter duration, say three hours, are perfectly normal.
*Originally written in 1954 by Reginald Rose, the teleplay was made into a film in 1957, starring Henry Fonda and remade in 1997 with Jack Lemmon.
*”Twelve Angry Women” was adapted from the original play by Sherman Sergel in 2004. There were no male jurors in the script.
*“Hey, you’re in left field!” Act I, p. 14, Twelve Angry Men.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Lunch Report: Flying with the Freaks
When I had my lunch today it was -58 degrees F out, yet I was as toasty as can be. Even at 39,000 feet, my client's Gulfstream 450* (not the latest model, but good enough for Penelope) had impeccable heating and surprisingly moist air (maybe I would arrive with that coveted skin condition, dewy skin?). This was my first flight in a private jet and I was predisposed to love it.
Once in my seat, the only one on my side of the aisle, I stretched my limbs to full extension then retracted them into my favorite position, an expansive Indian-style (sorry, are we still allowed to say that?) position.
By two hours after wheels should have been up, the thrill of flying private was fading. As it turns out, private jets are not immune from the same delays and mechanical malfunctions as commercial planes. As mechanics surrounded the plane and poked at it, we all settled into conversations or reading materials.
On a commercial flight, you can depart and arrive and never exchange words with anyone, which is typically what I do (and if you need tips on how to escape conversation with your flightmate, just email me).
Unfortunately, on a private plane, whether host or guest, you cannot avoid some level of conversation with your fellow travelers. As a corporate lawyer, I am generally blessed with an ever ready excuse—the tyranny of work. Being a corporate lawyer means never having to say you’re sorry;* it’s never your fault. It’s work that makes you cancel and retreat into a blissfully solitary cave when you’re not feeling social. But after two hours, even I could not in good faith pretend to be engrossed by the two page document laid out on the table in front of me.
The children traveling with us were far more patient than the adults (of course the adults lacked the assistance of one Spanish-speaking nanny per person to whip out computer games and snacks at the slightest hint of boredom).
We deplaned so the mechanics could fuss more invasively with the plane. Sadly, the terminals for private jets only prolong social obligations. Terminals for private jets are generally small with no shops to visit. They nurture small communities of people with both passengers and flight support staff who can easily remember you. Maybe transitioning from commercial to private flying is how I imagine I would feel if I left NYC to be smothered in the smallness of the suburbs, seeing the same folks over and over.
Eventually we switched to a G-V (G-IVs are so 90s anyway). And we were off.
Lunch—baked chicken and vegetables—was served buffet style with drinks of our choice. Although I usually reach for a white wine in flight (the only time I drink Sutter Home or Turning Leaf, I swear), I was too comfortable to need to anesthetize myself to my surroundings.
Will I really always fly private for now on? Probably not. Private flights lack the "freak" factor I secretly enjoy when traveling amongst hundreds of people I’ll never see again—like the teenager seated next to me with so many body piercings that I was dying to ask her if they hurt when she sneezed but was afraid to speak to her. Or the woman seated next to me on one recent flight who scratched her head obsessively during a three hour flight as I pretended not to notice the scabs she liberated from her scalp throughout the flight. Repulsive? Absolutely, yet also somewhat intriguing.
I might also miss the anonymity of flying commercial. In Up In The Air, George Clooney's character Ryan Bingham claims he travels 320 out of 365 days of the air and happily remains free from attachments and community, traveling with an "empty knapsack," the symbol of his freedom from personal relationships.
Despite his disdain for the communities and close relationships formed at ground level, he unwittingly creates a pseudo-community of dysfunctionality 35,000 feet in the air through his "elite" traveler status which, ironically, ensures name recognition when he checks in at airports and strips him of the privilege of anonymity. I am not there yet so can hold fast to my anonymity, for now.
We complain about them, maliciously and vehemently. We devote substantial television time and internet space to criticizing commercial airlines. Yet, those dreaded commercial flights form a transient bridge to people we will never know—the untouchables for those who fly commercial but the unseeable and unobservable for those who fly private.
I thought flying private would be the ultimate travel privilege but, at least for me, flying with the freaks while retaining some measure of anonymity are much greater privileges (and, well, much cheaper). Oh, my flight is boarding now. Must go.
Notes
*The Gulfstream 450 is a modification of the G-IV, a part of a family of jets produced by Gulfstream Aerospace, a General Dynamics company based in Savannah, Georgia. The G-IV has been superseded by the improved G-V model.
*A modest perversion of Ali MacGraw’s famous line in the 1970 film A Love Story: "Love means never having to say you’re sorry."
Once in my seat, the only one on my side of the aisle, I stretched my limbs to full extension then retracted them into my favorite position, an expansive Indian-style (sorry, are we still allowed to say that?) position.
By two hours after wheels should have been up, the thrill of flying private was fading. As it turns out, private jets are not immune from the same delays and mechanical malfunctions as commercial planes. As mechanics surrounded the plane and poked at it, we all settled into conversations or reading materials.
On a commercial flight, you can depart and arrive and never exchange words with anyone, which is typically what I do (and if you need tips on how to escape conversation with your flightmate, just email me).
Unfortunately, on a private plane, whether host or guest, you cannot avoid some level of conversation with your fellow travelers. As a corporate lawyer, I am generally blessed with an ever ready excuse—the tyranny of work. Being a corporate lawyer means never having to say you’re sorry;* it’s never your fault. It’s work that makes you cancel and retreat into a blissfully solitary cave when you’re not feeling social. But after two hours, even I could not in good faith pretend to be engrossed by the two page document laid out on the table in front of me.
The children traveling with us were far more patient than the adults (of course the adults lacked the assistance of one Spanish-speaking nanny per person to whip out computer games and snacks at the slightest hint of boredom).
We deplaned so the mechanics could fuss more invasively with the plane. Sadly, the terminals for private jets only prolong social obligations. Terminals for private jets are generally small with no shops to visit. They nurture small communities of people with both passengers and flight support staff who can easily remember you. Maybe transitioning from commercial to private flying is how I imagine I would feel if I left NYC to be smothered in the smallness of the suburbs, seeing the same folks over and over.
Eventually we switched to a G-V (G-IVs are so 90s anyway). And we were off.
Lunch—baked chicken and vegetables—was served buffet style with drinks of our choice. Although I usually reach for a white wine in flight (the only time I drink Sutter Home or Turning Leaf, I swear), I was too comfortable to need to anesthetize myself to my surroundings.
Will I really always fly private for now on? Probably not. Private flights lack the "freak" factor I secretly enjoy when traveling amongst hundreds of people I’ll never see again—like the teenager seated next to me with so many body piercings that I was dying to ask her if they hurt when she sneezed but was afraid to speak to her. Or the woman seated next to me on one recent flight who scratched her head obsessively during a three hour flight as I pretended not to notice the scabs she liberated from her scalp throughout the flight. Repulsive? Absolutely, yet also somewhat intriguing.
I might also miss the anonymity of flying commercial. In Up In The Air, George Clooney's character Ryan Bingham claims he travels 320 out of 365 days of the air and happily remains free from attachments and community, traveling with an "empty knapsack," the symbol of his freedom from personal relationships.
Despite his disdain for the communities and close relationships formed at ground level, he unwittingly creates a pseudo-community of dysfunctionality 35,000 feet in the air through his "elite" traveler status which, ironically, ensures name recognition when he checks in at airports and strips him of the privilege of anonymity. I am not there yet so can hold fast to my anonymity, for now.
We complain about them, maliciously and vehemently. We devote substantial television time and internet space to criticizing commercial airlines. Yet, those dreaded commercial flights form a transient bridge to people we will never know—the untouchables for those who fly commercial but the unseeable and unobservable for those who fly private.
I thought flying private would be the ultimate travel privilege but, at least for me, flying with the freaks while retaining some measure of anonymity are much greater privileges (and, well, much cheaper). Oh, my flight is boarding now. Must go.
Notes
*The Gulfstream 450 is a modification of the G-IV, a part of a family of jets produced by Gulfstream Aerospace, a General Dynamics company based in Savannah, Georgia. The G-IV has been superseded by the improved G-V model.
*A modest perversion of Ali MacGraw’s famous line in the 1970 film A Love Story: "Love means never having to say you’re sorry."
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Lunch Report: My Magentic Lunch
We're all getting older, some of us more visibly than others.
I remember when "getting older" was a clichéd joke that I would hear "adults" use in a quasi-self-deprecating way.
I say “quasi” because Americans are generally bad at self-deprecation. A woman’s “I’m sooo old” usually comes off not as humorous self-indictment but as hopeless sincerity borne of extreme self-consciousness, begging to be rebuffed with a "don't be absurd, you're not old" from a caring friend. Meanwhile the caring friend diverts her eyes away from the crow's feet that seem to have mysteriously overtaken her friend’s entire face.
I guess I should have realized sooner that I was old. There have been so many clues, all of which I’ve willfully ignored or misinterpreted.
Maybe I should have realized it last weekend, when I stayed in a hotel in South Beach, Miami that manages to charge top Euro (now that only Europeans can afford America’s better hotels, “top dollar” is considered anachronistic) for mediocre rooms just because they house a decent contemporary art collection. The “contemporary artists” were 10-15 years younger than I. I always think of contemporary artists as 10 years older than I am. Maybe it was intended to be a collection of child-artists . . .
But today I finally realized I am old, and this is how I found out. . .
Today my shoulder and I had our first MRI in 18 years.* Eighteen years ago, we volunteered for an MRI, as part of an experiment, but today we needed an MRI. Last October I fell down the stairs and landed on my shoulder. First there was excruciating pain and then a series of doctors. I used to jump down flights of stairs for fun—since when did such a slight tumble require medical attention? Since when had the sturdy bones and cartilage that make up this invulnerable “me” become so fragile?
When I arrived at the imaging center, I was impressed by how much MRI culture had evolved. Of course there’s still the infamous clanging, but it has been muted with certain creature comforts.
MRI centers now offer music. My underage (under which age, I’m not sure) technician offered me a headset and asked whether I would like to listen to "80s" music. It wasn’t a good guess of my age—she had the patient info sheet and knew exactly what I would have been listening to in college.
As she slid me into the massive cylinder that would host the magnetic resonance session, I was looking forward to a light nap accompanied by New Order or Simple Minds. OMD’s “If You Leave” would certainly help me ignore the clanging. Instead, I was jolted awake somewhat by the sound of John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” At first I thought it must be a mistake but next came Captain & Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” followed by Elton John’s “Bennie & The Jets.” I still remember listening to this 45 on my sister’s record player when I was 7 years old.
Without realizing there was any distinction to be made among the various pre-1990s genres of music, what she had actually put on were, as you surely recognize, 70s tunes. For her, 70s and 80s music was all part of a single prehistoric musical era that pre-dated CDs and iPods.
Yet, couldn’t she hear the difference? Couldn’t ANYONE with ears hear the difference? Maybe not—it wasn’t hyper-techno and there were no rap lyrics. To her ears, it was all a part of that uniform world of sound that preceded her musical consciousness. And I must be part of that uniform world of “older” people who would listen to such music. After all, what distinction is to be made between 42 years of existence and 52 years of existence—both represent a really long time.
And what do I have to say about this long long time I’ve been hanging out and existing? What did I have to show for it? Just as I felt a panicky midlife crisis moment coming on, it gave way to a midday epiphany.
One of the advantages of getting older is seeing the nuances that you could not appreciate when you were 19 or 20. Sure, maybe some wrinkles and grey hair come along with those nuances and subtleties, but, all in all, I think I’d rather be able to appreciate the finer distinctions I glossed over at age 20 (even if it means I have to color my hair to hide the grey) than actually be 20 again.
So today for lunch, I ate a little pride but gained a sense of peace.
Notes
*I was a subject of an experiment conducted by a friend who has since become an expert in studying the brain through magnetic resonance imaging. Dr. Fahmeed Hyder is a doctor passionate about his work and the only boyfriend I've ever had who gave me a picture of my brain for my birthday (and, for any ex-boyfriends reading this, not only do I in fact have a brain, but the MRI did not reveal any missing portions or general deformities).
I remember when "getting older" was a clichéd joke that I would hear "adults" use in a quasi-self-deprecating way.
I say “quasi” because Americans are generally bad at self-deprecation. A woman’s “I’m sooo old” usually comes off not as humorous self-indictment but as hopeless sincerity borne of extreme self-consciousness, begging to be rebuffed with a "don't be absurd, you're not old" from a caring friend. Meanwhile the caring friend diverts her eyes away from the crow's feet that seem to have mysteriously overtaken her friend’s entire face.
I guess I should have realized sooner that I was old. There have been so many clues, all of which I’ve willfully ignored or misinterpreted.
Maybe I should have realized it last weekend, when I stayed in a hotel in South Beach, Miami that manages to charge top Euro (now that only Europeans can afford America’s better hotels, “top dollar” is considered anachronistic) for mediocre rooms just because they house a decent contemporary art collection. The “contemporary artists” were 10-15 years younger than I. I always think of contemporary artists as 10 years older than I am. Maybe it was intended to be a collection of child-artists . . .
But today I finally realized I am old, and this is how I found out. . .
Today my shoulder and I had our first MRI in 18 years.* Eighteen years ago, we volunteered for an MRI, as part of an experiment, but today we needed an MRI. Last October I fell down the stairs and landed on my shoulder. First there was excruciating pain and then a series of doctors. I used to jump down flights of stairs for fun—since when did such a slight tumble require medical attention? Since when had the sturdy bones and cartilage that make up this invulnerable “me” become so fragile?
When I arrived at the imaging center, I was impressed by how much MRI culture had evolved. Of course there’s still the infamous clanging, but it has been muted with certain creature comforts.
MRI centers now offer music. My underage (under which age, I’m not sure) technician offered me a headset and asked whether I would like to listen to "80s" music. It wasn’t a good guess of my age—she had the patient info sheet and knew exactly what I would have been listening to in college.
As she slid me into the massive cylinder that would host the magnetic resonance session, I was looking forward to a light nap accompanied by New Order or Simple Minds. OMD’s “If You Leave” would certainly help me ignore the clanging. Instead, I was jolted awake somewhat by the sound of John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” At first I thought it must be a mistake but next came Captain & Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” followed by Elton John’s “Bennie & The Jets.” I still remember listening to this 45 on my sister’s record player when I was 7 years old.
Without realizing there was any distinction to be made among the various pre-1990s genres of music, what she had actually put on were, as you surely recognize, 70s tunes. For her, 70s and 80s music was all part of a single prehistoric musical era that pre-dated CDs and iPods.
Yet, couldn’t she hear the difference? Couldn’t ANYONE with ears hear the difference? Maybe not—it wasn’t hyper-techno and there were no rap lyrics. To her ears, it was all a part of that uniform world of sound that preceded her musical consciousness. And I must be part of that uniform world of “older” people who would listen to such music. After all, what distinction is to be made between 42 years of existence and 52 years of existence—both represent a really long time.
And what do I have to say about this long long time I’ve been hanging out and existing? What did I have to show for it? Just as I felt a panicky midlife crisis moment coming on, it gave way to a midday epiphany.
One of the advantages of getting older is seeing the nuances that you could not appreciate when you were 19 or 20. Sure, maybe some wrinkles and grey hair come along with those nuances and subtleties, but, all in all, I think I’d rather be able to appreciate the finer distinctions I glossed over at age 20 (even if it means I have to color my hair to hide the grey) than actually be 20 again.
So today for lunch, I ate a little pride but gained a sense of peace.
Notes
*I was a subject of an experiment conducted by a friend who has since become an expert in studying the brain through magnetic resonance imaging. Dr. Fahmeed Hyder is a doctor passionate about his work and the only boyfriend I've ever had who gave me a picture of my brain for my birthday (and, for any ex-boyfriends reading this, not only do I in fact have a brain, but the MRI did not reveal any missing portions or general deformities).
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Lunch Report: Leaving Who Dat Nation
Apologies for taking so long to share my lunch experience with you. Usually I like to write about my lunch when all the flavors and tastes are still fresh on my tongue. The tastes from recent lunches were so overwhelming that it's taken me two weeks to make sense of them.
I spent the last two weekends lunching in Who Dat Nation. No, I am not mocking anyone's speech patterns. "Who Dat Nation"* is a legitimate reference to the community of New Orleans Saints fans, a community that has had good reason to celebrate lately.
Unruly and unbridled passion—my own or others—has always scared me. Yet, passion was exactly what I was hoping to find down there. I found passion, someone else's passion—another city's passion—but not my own.
This was not for lack of effort. On January 16th, I attended the Saints game against the Arizona Cardinals, my first NFL game ever. For goodness sakes, I wore a body length gold lamé unitard with a Drew Brees jersey on top and screamed myself horse in the New Orleans Super Dome. I even participated in Bobby Hebert's* live post-game radio program held at Deanie's Seafood Restaurant. To my surprise, the experience far exceeded my expectations.
So I prolonged the effort. I spent a second weekend in New Orleans and even hosted a Saints party at a suite in one of the French Quarter’s historic hotels (a bit redundant considering you can’t spit in the French Quarter without hitting an historical landmark). I watched the Saints defeat the Vikings in over time while dining on fried chicken and sharing shots with my new best friends, most of whom I’d never met.
They weren’t all strangers. A male friend hosted the party with me. Even well before the 5:40pm kick-off, he had been transformed by Who Dat delirium. Throughout the game he was a black and gold storm of energy leaping from one room to another, opening beers, hugging male friends and glaring at the TV, daring the Vikings to try to take his team down. The only time he sat still was when Hartley prepared for the final kick that made the whole Who Dat fantasy real.
Then the craziness really began. All the NYTimes' accounts of the revelry that followed the Saints' victory against the Vikings on January 24th are true. City-wide high fives, an early Mardi Gras celebration on Bourbon Street, and the Who Dat chant* reverberating throughout the Quarter. I wished I could have immersed myself in it but it turned out not to be my style.
A part of me wouldn’t let myself be swept away by their joy. If I were the protagonist in my own life—and sadly I usually am not—my inability to cede to passion would be my tragic flaw. I wanted to know what it felt like to want or need to hug strangers.
Maybe I knew deep down that there is always a dark side to every passion. Like when your male friend—the Southern gentleman who allegedly has nothing but the utmost respect for all his female acquaintances—begins pawing a tired bar tendress at 2am, tells her she's the most beautiful waitress he's ever seen, and then shoots an icy stare at you and snaps "Don't be jealous."
Yes, despite all of the bohemian freedoms of the Crescent City,* where even the water meter covers boast "Love, Faith & Strength,"* they still try to tell you what you should feel and lash out at you when they think you're feeling the wrong thing. Ironically, I was not jealous at all—I was perversely intrigued by how properly inspired "passion" can manifest itself as recklessness, thoughtlessness and immaturity, the dark side of passion.
Maybe I'm just a spoil sport. After all, I saw two of the most exciting football games in NFL history. I witnessed firsthand a tangible surge in New Orleanians’ morale, as the entire nation focused its attention on their city and their team.
Despite all of that, I felt sad, inadequate and irritated. Sad and inadequate because I did not want to run down Bourbon Street, hug strangers or kiss the ground. Sad and irritated because even a "good" friend thinks excitement is a fair excuse for insulting behavior. Maybe I just digest things differently. I'm beginning to think I like reading about Who Dat Nation in the NYTimes much better than I do spending time among its citizens. Maybe it's time to leave Who Dat Nation and revoke my citizenship. Maybe. I’ll watch one more game this weekend and then decide . . .
Notes
*See http://www.whodatnation.com; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F
*Bobby Hebert, Jr. is a retired quarterback for the New Orleans Saints who works now as a sportscaster. The "Cajun Canon," as he is known, holds a live radio show after each Saints game at Deanie’s seafood restaurant and responds to questions called in to the program or, in my case, delivered live at the restaurant on the mike. Granted, I could have come up with a more probing question rather than throwing Bobbie a curve ball (sorry to mix sports metaphors) and ask whether Reggie Bush was single. If I took the time to read Page Six more often, I would have known that he has an on and off thing with Kim Kardashian.
*New Orleans is also known as The Crescent City because of the way the Mississippi flows through it, creating the shape of a crescent.
*The water meter covers in New Orleans are so artistically noteworthy that people would steal them as souvenirs. Many souvenir shops in the Quarter now make pendants and rings featuring the water meter cover, its stars and "Love, Faith & Strength" motto in the hopes that people will purchase the souvenirs and leave in tact the few water meter covers that remain.
*Who Dat chant refers to the Saints’ cheer: "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?" I wish I could provide an audio link to the entire Super Dome chanting this. Without that, it’s difficult to appreciate this cheer.
I spent the last two weekends lunching in Who Dat Nation. No, I am not mocking anyone's speech patterns. "Who Dat Nation"* is a legitimate reference to the community of New Orleans Saints fans, a community that has had good reason to celebrate lately.
Unruly and unbridled passion—my own or others—has always scared me. Yet, passion was exactly what I was hoping to find down there. I found passion, someone else's passion—another city's passion—but not my own.
This was not for lack of effort. On January 16th, I attended the Saints game against the Arizona Cardinals, my first NFL game ever. For goodness sakes, I wore a body length gold lamé unitard with a Drew Brees jersey on top and screamed myself horse in the New Orleans Super Dome. I even participated in Bobby Hebert's* live post-game radio program held at Deanie's Seafood Restaurant. To my surprise, the experience far exceeded my expectations.
So I prolonged the effort. I spent a second weekend in New Orleans and even hosted a Saints party at a suite in one of the French Quarter’s historic hotels (a bit redundant considering you can’t spit in the French Quarter without hitting an historical landmark). I watched the Saints defeat the Vikings in over time while dining on fried chicken and sharing shots with my new best friends, most of whom I’d never met.
They weren’t all strangers. A male friend hosted the party with me. Even well before the 5:40pm kick-off, he had been transformed by Who Dat delirium. Throughout the game he was a black and gold storm of energy leaping from one room to another, opening beers, hugging male friends and glaring at the TV, daring the Vikings to try to take his team down. The only time he sat still was when Hartley prepared for the final kick that made the whole Who Dat fantasy real.
Then the craziness really began. All the NYTimes' accounts of the revelry that followed the Saints' victory against the Vikings on January 24th are true. City-wide high fives, an early Mardi Gras celebration on Bourbon Street, and the Who Dat chant* reverberating throughout the Quarter. I wished I could have immersed myself in it but it turned out not to be my style.
A part of me wouldn’t let myself be swept away by their joy. If I were the protagonist in my own life—and sadly I usually am not—my inability to cede to passion would be my tragic flaw. I wanted to know what it felt like to want or need to hug strangers.
Maybe I knew deep down that there is always a dark side to every passion. Like when your male friend—the Southern gentleman who allegedly has nothing but the utmost respect for all his female acquaintances—begins pawing a tired bar tendress at 2am, tells her she's the most beautiful waitress he's ever seen, and then shoots an icy stare at you and snaps "Don't be jealous."
Yes, despite all of the bohemian freedoms of the Crescent City,* where even the water meter covers boast "Love, Faith & Strength,"* they still try to tell you what you should feel and lash out at you when they think you're feeling the wrong thing. Ironically, I was not jealous at all—I was perversely intrigued by how properly inspired "passion" can manifest itself as recklessness, thoughtlessness and immaturity, the dark side of passion.
Maybe I'm just a spoil sport. After all, I saw two of the most exciting football games in NFL history. I witnessed firsthand a tangible surge in New Orleanians’ morale, as the entire nation focused its attention on their city and their team.
Despite all of that, I felt sad, inadequate and irritated. Sad and inadequate because I did not want to run down Bourbon Street, hug strangers or kiss the ground. Sad and irritated because even a "good" friend thinks excitement is a fair excuse for insulting behavior. Maybe I just digest things differently. I'm beginning to think I like reading about Who Dat Nation in the NYTimes much better than I do spending time among its citizens. Maybe it's time to leave Who Dat Nation and revoke my citizenship. Maybe. I’ll watch one more game this weekend and then decide . . .
Notes
*See http://www.whodatnation.com; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Dat%3F
*Bobby Hebert, Jr. is a retired quarterback for the New Orleans Saints who works now as a sportscaster. The "Cajun Canon," as he is known, holds a live radio show after each Saints game at Deanie’s seafood restaurant and responds to questions called in to the program or, in my case, delivered live at the restaurant on the mike. Granted, I could have come up with a more probing question rather than throwing Bobbie a curve ball (sorry to mix sports metaphors) and ask whether Reggie Bush was single. If I took the time to read Page Six more often, I would have known that he has an on and off thing with Kim Kardashian.
*New Orleans is also known as The Crescent City because of the way the Mississippi flows through it, creating the shape of a crescent.
*The water meter covers in New Orleans are so artistically noteworthy that people would steal them as souvenirs. Many souvenir shops in the Quarter now make pendants and rings featuring the water meter cover, its stars and "Love, Faith & Strength" motto in the hopes that people will purchase the souvenirs and leave in tact the few water meter covers that remain.
*Who Dat chant refers to the Saints’ cheer: "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?" I wish I could provide an audio link to the entire Super Dome chanting this. Without that, it’s difficult to appreciate this cheer.
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