Penelope has just returned from a golf expedition out West to Bandon Dunes, an obligatory pilgrimage for any self-respecting golfaholic. For the non-golfers amongst you, Bandon Dunes is one of the most revered golf destinations in the world, with five challenging links-style courses. Historically, a male-only golf destination, more recently the resort has built a lodge in order to characterize itself a resort.*
The Bandon challenge begins with reaching the resort, situated 30 minutes away from one of Oregon’s most cosmopolitan hubs, North Bend, Oregon (which boasts numerous strip clubs and strip malls). Perhaps the more noteworthy landmark near Bandon Dunes is America’s largest wild animal petting park, just 8 miles from the resort. In order to distract visitors from the gorilla that zealously repeats the exact same sequence of chest beating, jumping, thumping and howling (a repetitive sequence disturbingly typical of wild animals in captivity), the zoo offers visitors the opportunity to pet and hold baby tiger and lion cubs.
Like other golf junkies, my golf buddies and I have been reading about this resort and its breathtaking views of the Pacific ever since it edged out Pebble Beach as the number one resort golf course in Golfweek’s rankings. But before the Crisis pressured golf resorts to offer more affordable golf packages, Bandon was off limits financially.* Thanks to the Crisis, Bandon's lodging prices are finally within grasp (assuming some form of short term financing is available).
There I was at the best golf resort in the West with my own clubs, my lucky bobcat five-wood headcover, new grips on my irons and my favorite golf buddy. I should have been in my element, but instead I was overwhelmed by other elements . . .
First there was the wind. The 335 mph wind blew right through me, despite the solid defense I mounted with four layers of clothing.
Then there was the rugged terrain. The layout of their newest course, Old MacDonald, left me dazed, confused and exhausted. Too much walking, too many hills. Too open a layout to know where I was going (and my caddy, who confessed he had only walked the course once, wasn't much help).
The noise of the wind precluded any conversation, so I was alone in my struggle against the elements. Just like a character in a Jack London story, soldiering on in the bitter cold tundra with no gloves (except that I had a golf glove on either hand) and worn shoes (except that I wore brand new golf shoes with sparkling white shoe laces). I am confident Jack London would have written a story about Bandon Dunes had he been a golfer.
Then there were the men, whose behavior was every bit as rugged and unmanicured as the links-style golf courses. A unique mixture of West Coast baba cool (think pony tails), red neck hill billy and golf die hard, the culture is a male-centric one. Shaving is either optional or discouraged, it wasn’t clear, and the look golfers aspired to clearly involved a toothpick hanging from the jaw.
My traveling buddy's thwarted quest for a feminine hygiene product confirmed my suspicions--we were squarely within anti-chick territory. No feminine products sold here. No spa either. The existence of a spa would run the risk of drawing women to the resort, a risk apparently not worth running so there are no plans afoot to build one. Yes, we had discovered where men who used to go to Myrtle Beach go once they've packed their wallets with a bit more financial security. We were surrounded by Myrtle Beach alums (circa Class of 1965).
After 36 holes on Old MacDonald one day, we wandered into McKee's pub to refuel before retiring to our bare boned pre-fab A-frame unit for which we paid $600 a night (no bathrobes and, no, the shampoo was not worth stealing).
We passed 8 men slouching over their table, the way they would never slump at their home club or with their wives present. They straightened up as we walked by and the leering campaign began. From the safe distance of our table (which we chose because it was at the opposite end of the room from them), the hungry wolves licking their chops staring down their vulnerable prey seemed safe, and comical.
They voiced compliments on my bright blue and white argyle golf pants (John Daly would be proud). If only I had known that my gender alone would attract far too much attention to begin with, I would never have been so bold as to wander around the Bandon jungle flaunting such audacious patterns on my legs.
Our driver, a transplant from Bucharest, fleshed out for us the stereotypical male golfer who visits Bandon Dunes. The typical male Bandon golfer will place a call to his wife en route to the resort from the airport, letting her know he has arrived safely and that he loves her. Then he will shut off the cell, tuck it away in his pocket and request to be driven to the nearest strip club.
Our driver recounted with lighthearted disgust one adventure in particular (imagine a thick Romanian accent here): “This one guy. I bring him to the strip club and what does he do? He hooks up with the ugliest chick in there. I swear he was desperate. He wanted me to bring the girls back to the resort but I don’t do that stuff. She asked if I wanted anything. No way.”
I’m not sure what the moral of this story is. Maybe you need to spend too much money away from home just to realize how much you love your home course and the golfers who inhabit it. So, was it worth it? Absolutely.
*http:///www.bandondunesgolf.com/pages/history/64.php
*Sea Island and The Breakers, two resorts that once proudly charged in excess of $1000 a night (excluding golf) not send postcards begging people to come stay for $250-$350 a night with golf included.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Corporate Lawyer/Part Time Nun
After two years of wondering when and if I would ever be blessed enough that my clients would harass me on evenings, weekends and vacation, I suddenly realize I am, once again, the chosen.
At nights my blackberry is no longer just a search engine to help me while away lonely evenings on Google or Facebook. The blinking red light elicits all the promise that the shining green light of East Egg once held for Gatsby.* I see the red light and I know a client needs me. An adrenaline rush ripples throughout me and I am ready to serve. This must be my calling. I am a born again lawyer. Or a nun, with a more secular focus.
I had forgotten how uplifting it can be to analyze and draft for 10 hours straight. The mental stimulation stirs me. I no longer need an alarm clock. I check messages at 4am, nap and am up at 7am. It's an opportunity to become mentally stronger and physically sturdier (because lawyering in NYC is as much, if not more, a physical sport as a mental or professional endeavor).
I am now drawn to my clients and their documents more than food or sleep. I want to perfect the art of responsiveness—the articulate and thoughtful email that arrives on a holiday weekend only minutes after a client's panicked and disheveled query.
It's not just the satisfaction of providing top notch service to a demanding client. There is a sense of strength that comes from denial. While I serve, I strengthen myself. I deny myself social and physical indulgence, whether it be conversation or sleep. I insist this does not make me servile but better at serving. The more I serve the more I benefit and the more my clients must benefit. I am struck by the parallels between my life and that of a nun’s.
A corporate lawyer and a nun?! An incongruous pairing of greed and aggression with purity and denial? Not really. Nuns and corporate lawyers are far more similar than you might suspect. Female corporate lawyers and catholic nuns even more so.
Of course, there are many superficial distinctions to be made between the female corporate lawyer and the catholic nun, most notably:
· Dress Code—There’s no denying that dress codes for nuns are generally stricter than for corporate lawyers. Although I know of no top law firm that officially sanctions Ally McBeal-style way-above-the-knee skirts (although management committees at most of these firms secretly fantasize about them), Sister McBeal is loathe to flaunt even her ankles.
· Wine Consumption—After 5pm Ally McBeal could often be found in a local watering hole downing white wine. Even after vespers are over, Sister McBeal will never be found openly sipping a pinot grigio, although she might tuck a mini Jack Daniels into her habit or the folds of her robes to savor in her room later on.
Otherwise their lifestyles are more aligned than their wardrobes and drinking habits might suggest. Female corporate lawyers deny themselves many creature comforts, including family (either existing families or potential families), because otherwise they would not be taken as seriously. Or they deny themselves their own style as they indoctrinate themselves with the style of those, mostly men, who have preceded and negotiated before them.
It’s true that there are far more female leaders in the legal profession than female leaders in the catholic church. However, that's hardly surprising when you consider that nuns are not allowed to serve as "leaders" in the catholic church.
Fourteenth century nuns convinced themselves they were getting closer to God by denying themselves food.* They got closer to the neurochemical distortion that results from prolonged bouts of anorexia nervosa, but, given their current rank in the church, they may not have gotten closer to God (then again, I could be wrong and the meek (skinny and hungry) may still inherit the earth). On the other hand, all the denial that female corporate lawyers have embraced may not have advanced the ball that far either (but may have advanced other balls).*
Sometimes the process interferes and competes with the purpose. In A Nun’s Story, the 1959 film about a proud nun torn between her devotion to God and her professional aspirations as a nurse, Sister Luke (Audrey Hepburn) rises at dawn for morning prayer, a model of discipline and devotion. She eventually leaves the convent, resigning herself to the realization that she was driven less by a love of God and more by a love of the nursing process and her superiority in this discipline to all other nuns in the convent.
Not to put Sister Luke to shame, but the female corporate lawyer retrains herself to rise well before dawn—preferably waking every 2-3 hours to check on her wayward corporate souls in need of securities law advice. The process becomes addictive and appeals to the perfectionist instinct. Ultimately though she may become torn between the vows she took as an officer of the court to represent her client zealously and her personal aspiration to advance within the corporate Egg structure, the latter often being at direct odds with the former.
Notes
*Nick Carraway, the narrator or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby, spends a summer in West Egg, a guise for the post-WWI new money community of Great Neck, L.I., while becoming fascinated with his second cousin’s lifestyle and residence in East Egg, a thinly-disguised Manhasset, L.I.
*"The Plight of the Female Partner, By the Numbers,” April 29, 2010; “Women Lawyers Struggle to Attain and Keep Partner Positions,” Forbes Blog, April 30, 2010; “Female Partners: What the Law Firms Are Hiding,” David Yas, Massachusetts Lawyers Weekly, March 8, 2010.
*Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) is one of the most famous of the fasting saints and throughout the medieval period extreme fasting was critical to the concept of female holiness. Fasting Girls: The History of Anorexia, Joan Jacobs Brumberg (1988).
At nights my blackberry is no longer just a search engine to help me while away lonely evenings on Google or Facebook. The blinking red light elicits all the promise that the shining green light of East Egg once held for Gatsby.* I see the red light and I know a client needs me. An adrenaline rush ripples throughout me and I am ready to serve. This must be my calling. I am a born again lawyer. Or a nun, with a more secular focus.
I had forgotten how uplifting it can be to analyze and draft for 10 hours straight. The mental stimulation stirs me. I no longer need an alarm clock. I check messages at 4am, nap and am up at 7am. It's an opportunity to become mentally stronger and physically sturdier (because lawyering in NYC is as much, if not more, a physical sport as a mental or professional endeavor).
I am now drawn to my clients and their documents more than food or sleep. I want to perfect the art of responsiveness—the articulate and thoughtful email that arrives on a holiday weekend only minutes after a client's panicked and disheveled query.
It's not just the satisfaction of providing top notch service to a demanding client. There is a sense of strength that comes from denial. While I serve, I strengthen myself. I deny myself social and physical indulgence, whether it be conversation or sleep. I insist this does not make me servile but better at serving. The more I serve the more I benefit and the more my clients must benefit. I am struck by the parallels between my life and that of a nun’s.
A corporate lawyer and a nun?! An incongruous pairing of greed and aggression with purity and denial? Not really. Nuns and corporate lawyers are far more similar than you might suspect. Female corporate lawyers and catholic nuns even more so.
Of course, there are many superficial distinctions to be made between the female corporate lawyer and the catholic nun, most notably:
· Dress Code—There’s no denying that dress codes for nuns are generally stricter than for corporate lawyers. Although I know of no top law firm that officially sanctions Ally McBeal-style way-above-the-knee skirts (although management committees at most of these firms secretly fantasize about them), Sister McBeal is loathe to flaunt even her ankles.
· Wine Consumption—After 5pm Ally McBeal could often be found in a local watering hole downing white wine. Even after vespers are over, Sister McBeal will never be found openly sipping a pinot grigio, although she might tuck a mini Jack Daniels into her habit or the folds of her robes to savor in her room later on.
Otherwise their lifestyles are more aligned than their wardrobes and drinking habits might suggest. Female corporate lawyers deny themselves many creature comforts, including family (either existing families or potential families), because otherwise they would not be taken as seriously. Or they deny themselves their own style as they indoctrinate themselves with the style of those, mostly men, who have preceded and negotiated before them.
It’s true that there are far more female leaders in the legal profession than female leaders in the catholic church. However, that's hardly surprising when you consider that nuns are not allowed to serve as "leaders" in the catholic church.
Fourteenth century nuns convinced themselves they were getting closer to God by denying themselves food.* They got closer to the neurochemical distortion that results from prolonged bouts of anorexia nervosa, but, given their current rank in the church, they may not have gotten closer to God (then again, I could be wrong and the meek (skinny and hungry) may still inherit the earth). On the other hand, all the denial that female corporate lawyers have embraced may not have advanced the ball that far either (but may have advanced other balls).*
Sometimes the process interferes and competes with the purpose. In A Nun’s Story, the 1959 film about a proud nun torn between her devotion to God and her professional aspirations as a nurse, Sister Luke (Audrey Hepburn) rises at dawn for morning prayer, a model of discipline and devotion. She eventually leaves the convent, resigning herself to the realization that she was driven less by a love of God and more by a love of the nursing process and her superiority in this discipline to all other nuns in the convent.
Not to put Sister Luke to shame, but the female corporate lawyer retrains herself to rise well before dawn—preferably waking every 2-3 hours to check on her wayward corporate souls in need of securities law advice. The process becomes addictive and appeals to the perfectionist instinct. Ultimately though she may become torn between the vows she took as an officer of the court to represent her client zealously and her personal aspiration to advance within the corporate Egg structure, the latter often being at direct odds with the former.
Notes
*Nick Carraway, the narrator or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby, spends a summer in West Egg, a guise for the post-WWI new money community of Great Neck, L.I., while becoming fascinated with his second cousin’s lifestyle and residence in East Egg, a thinly-disguised Manhasset, L.I.
*"The Plight of the Female Partner, By the Numbers,” April 29, 2010; “Women Lawyers Struggle to Attain and Keep Partner Positions,” Forbes Blog, April 30, 2010; “Female Partners: What the Law Firms Are Hiding,” David Yas, Massachusetts Lawyers Weekly, March 8, 2010.
*Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) is one of the most famous of the fasting saints and throughout the medieval period extreme fasting was critical to the concept of female holiness. Fasting Girls: The History of Anorexia, Joan Jacobs Brumberg (1988).
Monday, April 19, 2010
Just Buy It!
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
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
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."
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