Bourgeois Dilemma #17: i think it's appendicitis

The other day when my friend C was late for a 9AM court due to her young son's sore throat (done only under duress, as the 9 AM court is only an hour and it's hard to get much doubles in an hour), I was reminded of a standard issue faced by women all over the world: the sick husband. Now, her son is only a child but she was effective enough at describing the syndrome of the level of moaning and complaining and sensitive treatment required when even a moderate illness takes down a Y chromosome to remind me of this age old dilemma. Aptly described in the vignette "man cold" which was hard to miss a few years ago as it made it's rounds on email and facebook (if you are not represented in one of the 4.5 million views on youtube here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXLHWmjA5IE) I have suffered the collateral damage of the sick spouse many times. In the early days, probably before we were wed, i was sensitive and sweet - given that we live at times in one of those twin studies, I had the validation of being called the "nice wife" when it would freakishly occur that both my sweet husband and his identical twin brother came down the the "flu" at the same time . . . my florence nightengale approach in the early days involved trays with chilled OJ and hot tea, buttered cinnamon toast and fluffed pillows to make him comfortable. My sister-in-law, with a few more years of marital bliss and a baby under her belt, had a more pragmatic approach: seal off the germ infested moaning male member of the household, roll a frozen can of OJ under the door and tell him to come out when he's better. Children force us to become more survival oriented on many levels, but a full time working mother just doesn't have time to be sick or to stay home with sick children, so when the man/dad in her life goes down he must be quarantined. a true friend, my sister-in-law is also a teacher and I have adopted her approach as time has gone on - recently, when the vile stomach flu that started off with an email memo from dutiful school nurse H that had me trotting in to the children's room at 3 am with the special bedside puke bowl made it's way to my spouse, I simply provided a bottle of clorox and a new sponge, then sealed off the room with Saran wrap and tell him to disinfect when he's better and ready to re-join the family.

On occasion men do get truly ill as do we all. Four or so years ago, when my tiniest child was still a baby, we were due to go the the dominican republic for spring break. work was frenzied, so i had asked for the indulgence of staying "until it's done" a day or two before we were due to leave. at about 7:30 PM, just as I was getting into a groove and about to have a conference call with someone in asia, I received a call from home:

Honey, it's me

Who? the grunting hoarse voice on the line is hardly recognizable

Me. I think I might have appendicitis.

What? You were fine this morning, are you sure?

Well, I looked on web MD and it seems like it. I really don't feel well. I am so sorry but I think you need to come home.

Now, a normal person might be happy to get a get out of jail card in order to come home early from the office on a late night, but my sweet husband knows the brute force of "get things done mode" and that getting in the way of that is like trying to swim out of a rip tide, smart man that he is. But, he really didn't sound himself so I capitulated.

OK, I will get in a cab and come right home.

But not without sending the following email to the colleague in asia:

So sorry, but I am not going to be able to have our call at 8:30PM EST, my husband thinks he has appendicitis. Men.

I arrive at home and he's lying on the floor in the front hall attempting to give the 6 month old a bottle while the 5 1/2 year old is working to apply a cold compress to his stomach.

Have you called the Dr?

No, I just looked on line.

Call me an enabler if you like but I dialed the Dr. and handed him the phone. His end of the conversation was a series of "no" and "yes" answers completed with Uh. OK, yes, I guess so. Thanks.

Honey, I've got to go to the hospital right now.

Thank god, his sister lived nearby and was able to accompany him as the ER at 100th and madison isn't really a great outing for the whole family at 9PM. I waited at home and got periodic updates as to how many people in white coats had come in to examine him:

Does it hurt when I do this? Sharp jab to the abdomen.

oooiiiiiaaahhhhhhhhouch.

In the aftermath it was determined by the sister's boyfriend that the janitorial staff of the hospital were passing the white coat around with the promise of a good laugh when you go give the guy in cubicle 7 a sharp jab to the guts.

Now the guy did have an appendix that was about to rupture and since this event to place in the aftermath of a certain NY governor having major issues in the wake of a botched appendectomy, it was decided that it was a good investment to send him to the concierge floor of the hospital to recover so as to reduce the chance of infection.

Oddly enough, the notion of the concierge floor has not permeated the maternity ward so in spite of the numerous times I had endured the "beauty of childbirth" in this hospital, I had never seen 11 WEST. I arrived early the next morning to make sure that my sweet husband was going to survive and amid the hubbub of the early morning rabble looking for directions to their dr/clinic/er/sick old auntie the moment I asked for "11 WEST" a hush falls over the crowd and I am whisked over to an express elevator to the 11th floor. Walking across an internal catwalk connecting the grubby old hospital building that houses the ER and maternity ward to the glass atrium containing 11 WEST, I see the back of a familiar blond head in one of the windows. Except it can't be, as this person is clad in a white terry cloth bathrobe reading a newspaper while sitting in a chippendale chair.

I enter the automatic doors and am caressed by cool air and the scent of white lilies. A unformed concierge behind a marble desk greets me and directs me to the room where my sweet husband is recovering. Other than a few emergency pull cords, I might as well be at the four seasons.

Entering the inner sanctum I help myself to a diet coke from the stocked mini bar and rounding the bend see my husband. He is sitting with the sports page and ESPN, a leather room service menu on his table and a bottle of vicodin before him.

the doctor thinks it would be a good idea to stay another night, you know, just to avoid any post surgical complications he murmurs.

I'll bet. Funny, just six months before when I had given birth, there was no stocked mini fridge, no menu, no lilies. Just a first time mother yacking away with the story of how she went in to labor and every detail that came after all the way until that very blissful moment with her little bundle of joy in her arms in my room while I was trying to sleep for a few last interrupted moments while the very capable nurses took care of my tiny infant in the nursery. I bet they don't even allow newborn babies in 11 WEST, they certainly wouldn't want to disturb all those men resting up from their surgeries and watching tv while buzzed on painkillers.

Now in a moment of sensitivity I will say that I am glad the whole thing unfolded as it did as the heli pad at casa de campo looked a little overgrown with weeds and the notion of getting to decent medicine from the domnican republic does send a little shudder down the spine.

but let me say, the next time I come down with a cold i know where to go for a little r&r.

Bourgeois Dilemma #4: if it's August, I must be Allie

most of the time, I am a fairly type-a working person. for a long time, I worked in the salt mines of the advertising agency world in various roles and of late, i have taken a different tack and have a closely held business as an executive recruiter for advertising and marketing (some would say that headhunter demeans the job, but I kind of like that word).

but kind of like clark kent who morphs into superman when the need arises, i am also "Aliey" (a spelling of one of the nicknames for my given name that I made up myself along the way - reading specialist, anyone?). In most of the world, it's ali as in ali mcgraw. but not in my world.

For most of my life, people have called me Alison. My family, however, has called me Aliey. This has been a nice thing, like going home from college to do laundry. Hearing that name meant safety, coziness and the familiarity of make your own sandwich night. but in school, in life and certainly in business, I've been Alison. Since I got married and changed by last name from S. to L., some have taken to calling me "AL" (at which point I need to ask myself who is better, Paul Simon or Elvis Costello). But "Aliey?" not so much. doesn't really evince the kind of take no prisoners attitude required to get the job done.

until one year, when arriving at my adoptive summer vacation spot, a certain island off the coast of Massachusetts with no stop lights and only four public restrooms and a "fog happens" laissez faire attitude that only slightly covers up the fact that there's a line up of gulfstream G200's at the airport like taxis at grand central station, my mother-in-law happened to introduce me to someone as Aliey. this moment goes back about 17 years and little by little, as I've aged and decided that it makes a lot more sense to spend as much time as possible away from the real world especially in summer, Aliey has kind of taken over the month of august.

in many ways, aliey and I are similar - we are perfectionists sometimes to a fault. we have two kids. we like to play tennis. we have a job. we have a handsome husband.

but aliey is different. she is more socially graceful and makes friends easily on the tennis court. she rides around town in the morning, in her tennis whites, on a bike with a 12 year old baby seat on the back that sometimes holds a tennis racquet, sometimes a child, and sometimes a case of wine. people wave to her when she rides and say "good morning aliey".

full on Aliey took time to emerge. in the early years, aliey and alison were much closer. the first year that Aliey spent two weeks instead of one, she got into a rhythm of ladies doubles with a group of pals she met in the tennis clinic. alison hadn't really figured out how to get out of the way at this time, so was carrying her blackberry court side in anticipation of a call from THE BOSS back in NYC. A little frazzled and possibly even a little late, she jogged up to the court and explained her absence with a shrug and "work" with a gesture toward the blackberry on the bench. One of her opponents, a tall drink of water with the kind of brown tan that doesn't come from just a week at the shore with a last day of SPF 15 thrown in for good measure looked up and said

what is this work that keeps getting in the way of our tennis?

umm, I work in advertising

ADVERTISING???!!? at this point her lovely face is drawn long by her hands as in The Scream god that's a terrible business, my husband used to own an advertising agency.

Of course he did.

Aliey didn't miss a step of course and got right down to spinning her racquet to see who would serve.

Years have gone by and little by little Aliey has taken over more and more of the month of august. alison is there, of course, in the background attending to the work that she needs to, but Aliey lives large. Hosts cocktail parties, gets invited to cocktail parties and brings her signature hostess gift of a reused jar with a bunch of flowers from her cutting garden tied with a ribbon, plays in the parent-child, ladies doubles and mixed doubles tournament. Aliey has so many sets of tennis whites that she doesn't need to wash them but she does just for kicks. last year, upon returning to NY alison was s0 overwhelmed with getting the kids ready for school and finding a new job that she didn't really attend to some basic housekeeping details like unpacking, moving aliey's bike to the basement and so forth. some crossover friends who have taken to spending a week in aliey's back yard came by to pick up a dog blanket they had left behind. Alison didn't realize that they were coming IN to her apartment as she and Aliey would never let anyone see the place in a such a state!

B walked in and nearly screamed "aliey doesn't live here".

Oh no she doesn't, Alison does.

There are a few other key differences between Alison and Aliey. Aliey lives in houses with names like Aurora Villa, Shanunga, Top of the Hill and friends will come to find her and then later say I stopped by Aurora Villa but you weren't home. Alison lives in a back of the building apartment with the usual alphanumeric designation. Aliey rides her bike with no helmet. Alison takes public transportation. When Aliey gives a party she gives a basket of hand written invitations to her children to hand deliver around town. Alison uses evite. Aliey has a brazilian cleaning lady named isadora who never loses things and can be called on to clean up the kitchen after dinner in a pinch. Alison has carmen need we say more.

Occasionally, Aliey and Alison collide. several years ago, after some friends had come and took some tennis clinics and purchased some merchandise on Aliey's account at the tennis club, back in NYC Alison send them an email with an accounting so that they could send her a check.

RE: Casino Bill

It was so much fun playing with you all up at the Casino- sorry we didn't win more - next year! As you asked, the bill came and you owe us $462. No hurry, I've already settled up.

xxxAliey

Moments after pressing send, a note comes back from a controller in a sister company who's last name is the same as Aliey's friend (damn those tricky email systems):

RE: Casino Bill

I don't think this was meant for me

Great now some finance geek in Detroit worn down by Sarbanes Oxley compliance thinks Alison is a gambler

RE: Casino Bill

Thanks - oh, and not that it matters, but just so you know, that's a tennis club, not a gambling outfit.

Reply

RE: Casino Bill

Sure.

Oh dear, Alison's reputation besmirched by Aliey.

No matter. It's August 3 and Aliey has already logged a few hours on the courts and is while Alison is annoyed by the fact that this post didn't go up on August 1 as intended, but Aliey knows that it was much more important to accomplish things like getting the little ribbons tied to the back of her new beach chairs so that everyone would know who's is who's. In four short weeks, it will be all over and alison will go home and see if the krugmans have moved in yet.

But in the meantime, aliey sure will have some fun.

Bourgeois dilemma #38: electricity can be tricky

Most of the time, we turn things on and off without thinking too much about it. of course there's the occasional thunderstorm/hurricane/heat wave induced power plant failure when rural and/or urban dwellers find themselves in search of a flashlight to figure out what the heck is going on. or, if you are lucky, you have an off the grid cabin somewhere where on summer nights you catch fireflies in a jar to light the way after the embers of the fire circle burn down.

on a day-to-day basis, I am pretty hooked on electricity. the laptop and fully charged iphone that are the weapons of my trade are fairly key to survival. the fridge, and of course the tv that provides a comforting quiet half hour or so for some of my dependents: children, sweet husband and at this moment in time, my dear old dad. dear old dad really loves to watch the stock market ticker and manually calculates his net worth daily in spite of years of encouragement to take the even slightly longer view of a month or a quarter. he also loves to watch the history channel and on occasion the travel channel. at this writing, I am on dad duty at a rickety rental house at the beach. the first time the tv screen turned blue instead of tuning in to the mellifluous tones of Samantha brown, we were right on the phone to the landlord. a local fourth grade teacher who looks as if he logged his fair share of mileage following the dead in the 70s and 80s, he didn't seem to have the faintest idea about the cable tv. so I gutted it out with comcast and set up a service call. for three long days, dear old dad went without samantha. naturally, on the appointed day I stood sentry over the phone, living in fear of missing THE CALL that would tell me the service man was on his way. no call. at 5, the end of the 2-5 window, I placed the obligatory call to comcast myself and was told that the serviceman had cancelled since the customer was not home. now I don't need to tell you what ensued. I am sure you've had the same dialog with your local cable provider once or twice yourself. it just so happens that rickety beach rental's driveway is 20 yards from the entrance to the town beach and service call was set for a day that turned out to be a 10 in terms of beach time. I am pretty sure that if i had binoculars, I would have been able to see the slightly pale and flabby comcast man in his uniform down over at the snack bar up the way.

some people might want to take matters as simple as a cable outage into their own hands, but i've been burned by this approach before and so like to stick to the professionals. my sweet husband and i spent the first few years of our married life in a garret of sorts on the upper west side. the apartment's best feature was a terrace comprised of the downstairs neighbor's rooftop. otherwise, it was good for us but there were certain compromises. such as the bedroom, narrow enough that a double bed took up so much space that an arm extended from a lying down position would meet with the wall at about 135 degrees. another quirk of our newlywed nest was the air conditioning limitation in the lease. due to the landlord's probable lack of wiring up to code, it was written that only one air conditioner be run at a time. there were two windows in addition to the door out to the "terrace" and each of these windows had the special big plug nearby, leaving one to draw the logical conclusion that each window could hold an air conditioner and so they did.

I am a pleaser and a perfectionist which means that I am a stickler for things like leases. one air conditioner at a time was decreed by Mr. Mort Elbirt, and so even on the hottest day, in our garret, one air conditioner we did run.

now, there wasn't anything in the lease about an air conditioner and the television running concurrently so on a particularly scorching evening we were cozied up after our three course meal for movie night. the ac was humming and we were pleasantly chilled. tv on andbzzztboom. blackness. no ac. no nothing. we opened the door to the apartment and were met by a pitch black hallway and the sound of some rustling and concern below. my sweet husband, never shy about electronics and other matters that for all his god given intelligence he has no right to take on, went in to the breach and headed down to the basement to look under the hood. there were a few apartments with lights on so he was able to find his way down and was joined there by neighbor Ned who was clad in a silk kimono and not much else. In spite of the large rent we paid, the basement of the building had not been touched since the era of the horse and buggy and was a dirt floored room with a lot of plumbing and wires hanging around. enticingly, in the back corner loomed a large handle with a faded skull and crossbones sticker plastered to the front.

the gravitational pull of this handle was too much for my sweet husband who, in spite of increasingly loud and high pitched protestations from neighbor ned and the fact that he was standing about ankle deep in water that had been sitting there since 1895 (I knew after a brief 6 months of marriage to stay out of it), approached, touched, reared back and then went for the kill and pulled the switch and flapped it back. total blackness and the eerie quiet that comes when 10 or so window unit air conditioners cease humming instantaneously. as we mounted the six flights of stairs from the basement to the garrett, people were in the hallways canvassing about what to do and one of the long standing tenants placed a call to the landlord. Our concern was limited to where we were going to sleep that evening, and thank god a pal was traveling so we hoofed it a few blocks to another apartment with functioning AC and TV leaving neighbor ned and the rest of the crew to swelter in the dark.

The next day, I navigated a rather irate Mr. Elbirt

you have two air conditioners

we do, but we only run them one at a time. there are two ac plugs

don't lie to me

and so forth.

Years later, we had to get a letter of recommendation from Mr. Elbirt to purchase a co-op and learned that he had died of a heart attack. presumably, the stress of managing law breaking tenants did him in.

There are a few of these types of incidents in our collective history as a family - garbage disposals, alarm systems and the like falling by the wayside with well meaning attempts to fix/stop/etc. But I've got comacast in the crosshairs here at the rickety rental. How dare their technician out and out lie to me? Supervisor Sally is very contrite and apologetic as to the fact that it will be two days before she can get someone out here. So I give dear old dad the bad news and he goes back to his word find puzzle. On the appointed day, I call first thing to be sure that all is in order for the 12-2 window, and a new teleprompt informs me that I can reset my signal after an electrical outage by pressing 2. who knows, maybe running the dishwasher and the washing machine at once counts as an electrical outage. After all, the clocks are forever blinking here at the rickety rental. Please wait 40-60 minutes while we reload your channel line up. And gosh darn it it works. I cancel the service call and post the number on the fridge. All set. A week later, it's part of the routine. Put in a load of dirty clothes and towels, mop down the kitchen counters, start the dishwasher and call my friend at comcast to reload my channel line up. Until, one day, she's not there. My only option is to wait for an operator. Not, we've all had the infuriating experience of hitting “0” repeatedly and being informed in some matrix like command that that option is not valid.... press 1 to return to the main menu, dos to habla espanol and so forth. But in this case, I just want to press 2 and go on about my business. Instead, I have to try to convince customer service representative Johnny to do what she has done for me so beautifully all of these days

Hi, yes, ummm I know why my problem is, I wanted to reset my signal but the command isn't there, can you do that for me?

No ma'am, you don't have any equipment there so I am unable to do that.

Huh. that's weird, I've been doing that about once a day for the past week or so and it seems to have solved my problem.

Well that's not possible. You don't have any of our equipment over there.

Listen, your last name doesn't happen to be Elbirt does it?

What?

Never mind. Just do what I am telling you please. Don't ask questions; just do the thing that she does when I press 2. Don't tell me why it won't work, just do it please.

OK.

And about 40-60 minutes later, the channel line up loaded, Dear Old Dad settled in to watch Samantha Brown in Cambodia and is happy as a clam.

Until I decide to blow-dry my hair.

Bourgeois dilemma #3: i've turned in to a dog person

most of my life, I have been characterized as afraid of dogs. my own personal mythology encompassed a matching pair of russian wolfhounds that terrorized me on the suburban street of my childhood home with their grand pointed noses about eye level with my smaller self. only recently was that memory adjusted by my sister, 9 years my senior, who informed me that the dogs were dachshunds. no matter, I just never really clicked with the idea of a dog. gerbils yes, and a series of goldfish poignantly named "cat" and "dog." but my mother was allergic so we were not a dog house and that lack of canine connection left me wary of the drooling, jumping on you, sniffing at your crotch and smelling bad scenario that I associated with dogs. even to the point where I would mock my college roommate when she would call home and inquire sweetly after "Boo and Sham" her little hounds named for Bristol VT and, of course, Chamonix.

I did have a minor connection with my first love's dog, some kind of shaggy medium dog named, of all things, Muffin. But in retrospect maybe it was just the glaze of 16 year old first love syndrome that made his entire household seem special and glowing to me.

Recently, however, I gave in to the pleas of my sweet husband and both of my pet starved children. And we got a DOG. We tried a friend's on for size first, dog sitting Teddy for a weekend and then a week. Seemed to go ok. We signed up with Teddy's breeder but were disappointed when his parents struck out three times. So moved on to another breeder of the same type of dog and received the birth announcement of the litter on January 9th. So "teal" as in the color of yarn around his neck became Milo.

And something deep inside of me started to change.

We watched Milo grow over the days and weeks and finally he came home to us on April 1st. Thank god, my sweet husband grew up with dogs and has been an absolute genius at training Milo. No marley, this dog does what he is supposed to do outside and since we are much stricter parents to him than we've ever managed to be to our own kids, he hasn't ruined anything. now, I will say that in spite of the fact that he's a good deal bigger than originally planned (he is, after all, the unlikely combination of a toy poodle father and a golden retriever mother with the unfortunate name of golden doodle), i am mad for this dog.

i guess i knew it when one early morning (the 6:30 am walk is happily mine) some jogger said wow that dog is looking up at you with such admiration and my heart swelled. no one really comments out loud when you are having a sweet loving moment with your kids, so the last public commentary I have had on my parenting was when I was 9.5 months pregnant with my tiny daughter and people would say things like gee, you're so big you must be having twins. doesn't exactly warm the cockles of your heart.

but I really knew it when one day not long ago, as I was crossing the street with Milo and my sweet husband was walking along with me (yes, we leave our children alone in the apartment while I walk the dog. one reading, the other sleeping - feel free to call DFS!) and we came across one of milo's pals, a golden retriever pup named buddy. and, as if possessed, a high pitched voice came out of my very own mouth in a sort of yelp screech ohhh milo, look there's buddy, don't you want to play???!!!

my husband stopped cold in his tracks and looked and me as if I was nuts and promptly took off into the park as if being chased by a mugger. Naturally I went on about my business and took milo down to the section where all of his morning playdates are. hudson the boxer, prince the black lab, babka the havanese, the unnamed "unfriendly" dog help tightly by the man who for some unknown reason insists on walking him right through the off leash dog hang out early morning area. I could go on. And let me attest to the fact that in some 12 years so far of having playground age children in NYC, I have not once had an idle first name basis or made a friend with the parent of another child. I am not that mommy. I am the mommy huddled on the bench reading a magazine or conducting a phone call or posting some witty status on fb from my iphone. I am not chatty mommy. well, not a chatty human mommy. but with milo, it's different. he needs me to know these characters - morty, adrianne, oliver, meg, karl - the DOG PEOPLE. and I do.

It's even deeper than that. on my birthday, my sweet husband offered to take the morning walk so I could read in bed. he went, but only with 10 minutes of instruction as to where to go, how to stay away from the unfriendly dog and how to make sure he didn't get in to trouble. and every time I go to the pet store to pick up some necessary supply, I find myself like a grandparent unable to control the urge to buy milo a new toy. I have referred to myself many times as milo's mommy. and in the car, with a lifetime of sailing and long car rides under my belt, at age 43 I find myself with the onset of empathetic canine induced carsickness. helpful as if you can anticipate when the dog might lose it, you can contain it much more readily. so I am the dog puke canary in the coal mine in the family now.

Milo is away just now - last week I taught him how to swim at the beach - he made me so proud. he's off with my sweet husband and the girls for a week of camp daddy in the mountains so I can have the dream of working as long as I want with no interruptions, eating my cereal standing up at the counter and actually reading a book. but when I came home tonight and there was no goofy puppy pawing at his crate wagging his whole body waiting for me, it was hard.

maybe, just maybe, tomorrow at around 6:30 I will go for a jog in the park and just amble through the dog area to see who's there.

bourgeois dilemma #35: honey this coffee is cold

in case you didn't get it from the country club post, I have been a beneficiary of The Good Life. a prime example is spending summers in a small town east of new haven - every summer, for the most part, in a little town where both sets of my grandparents as well as my paternal grandparents "summered" back in the day. in fact, my grandparents first met in this town on a beach where a sort of chuck wagon had pulled in to provide changing rooms for the day and the girls had honking huge white bows in their hair and the boys were in full on suits. my parents met here at a dance, and my father swears that he knew at age 15 that he would marry my 13 year old mother, flat chested freckled and mouth full of braces. knowing what it all meant, my sweet husband was good enough to propose to me here and we celebrated our perfect union on the lawn between grandma's house and the neighbors.

things are different now - we are renters, theirs a starbucks/cvs/subway in the mini strip mall and mcmansions are supplanting the third generation beach houses along the shore.

But some things never change and thank god for those things, such as the lawn bowling league. 25 or so old men (and I say that with the utmost respect, but these guys are bona fide old like "Yale class of 1944 dear" old). who turn up at a pre-appointed destination every sunday from may -october to lawn bowl. boules, petanque, no matter what it is called it seems that many cultures have a version of old men hanging around tossing bigger balls to reach a smaller ball and uttering their linguistic equivalent of "beh".

Here in our little town it's a ritual of course and the ways of the tradition are not clearly communicated in any way. I will never forget the first time that my "parents" (as in my mom) hosted the event 15 or so years ago. There are very clear patterns: the old men arrive at 9:15 (so exactly at 9:15 one wonders how they synchronize), drink coffee from an urn which is passed on week to week along with a basket of mugs and eat sweets. They then bowl. Then there's a "minor lunch" involving min sandwiches, vodka and rum among other libations. Mom probably had to wrestle this general protocol out of my father (he's never been much on hostessing details) so she was left to figure out when the minor lunch would be served. given the booze aspect, she assumed it would come at the end. Au contriare, that course arrives mid-bowl at 10:15 am. On that particular weekend, thank god, we had a dear friend of mine as a house guest - one of those girls/women who has managed to maintain their 16 year old figure and the corresponding bikini well into her 40s with very little effort. So, the grumbling of the old men who charged on to the porch at 10:15 looking for their mini sandwiches and vodka tonics was mitigated by my bikini clad pal passing cubes of cheese on a platter.

Just last weekend, we had the honor of hosting this event. Mom died last summer, so it was a stake in the ground of normalcy for dad, who has his own problems, to host it. Luckily, in my mother's recipe box was a slip of paper with the set shopping list for "lawn bowling" and we were able to procure what was needed at the stop n shop. I admit to cheating by procuring pre-made salmon cream cheese rolls, but other than that I stuck to the list. A few emails with one of the bowlers, a 90 year old urologist with whom I am friends on facebook, naturally, to fill in what booze was needed, and I was ready to roll.

8:00 AM: cut coffee cake, arrange donut holes, arrange mugs, ice down lemonade.

8:15 AM: plug in urn to brew. In kitchen as the cord doesn't reach the plug on the porch, will move later.

8:20 AM: someone finds an extension cord so we move the urn to the porch.

8:30-9AM: arrange baskets of sweets, set out milk/cream/sugar and spoons

9:00AM: await arrival of bowlers

9:15AM: bowlers begin to arrive, striding, ambling, and/or creeping across the lawn and on to the porch.

9:16AM: very short old man with huge thick round spectacles comes into kitchen with coffee mug: "Honey, this coffee is cold."

Turns out the plug on the porch did not work. How did I not check this? I go into a free fall of panic. I have approximately 1/2 a coffee maker pot of my own high grade brew, so I reach in to the basket of mugs and offer Mr. McGoo some of my own hot coffee. "I don't like that mug." Shit. I am ruining lawn bowling with my ineptitude. He gets his own mug, and I fill it up. "That's too much". I pour some back in to the pot "I need more." At this moment, I am squelching the urge to pour the coffee over his head but I just smile. The coffee urn has been moved back in to the kitchen and is audibly perking away, thank god. The porch is now crowded with men and while technically speaking it's a no fly zone for anyone of the weaker sex, I have a hall pass on account of the coffee fiasco (oh, and the man who needs tea). this means I have the illicit thrill of listening to the announcements which amount to a necrology as well as the introduction of a guest - in fact, the guest of my fb friend who gleefully explains that he and his colleague, a fellow urologist, are "pirates of the perineum" and declares it's better to have foreskin than hind skin. I am not even sure what hind skin is but naturally I don't want it and am overwhelmed by an urgent need to get off of that porch as fast as I can. There are several more roars of laughter from the assembled group in that hale fellow well met modality. they totter off to bowl and at 10:15 on the dot clamber back to the porch - lemonade, vodka, the salmon cream cheese pinwheels and mini ham and cheese sandwiches seem to go over without incident. the bowling continues and as it's about 95 degrees I am ready to offer more lemonade after but that's not how it goes. as each team finishes, they pack up their balls and get back in to their cars and that's it 'til next week. not even a goodbye.

some might suggest that a gathering such as this should be busted wide open. at one point, a splinter group of wives was going to start a cultural get together to prove that the womenfolk could have their fun too, not that the pirates of the perineum would care much. but the truth is that there is something hapless and even sweet about these geezers with their bags of balls and the sneaky mid morning v&t. who knows, maybe the rest of the year they are forced to go to church or something.

next year, I will be sure that the coffee is piping hot.

bourgeois Dilemma #19: I covet my hostess's clothing

This morning, a guest dilemma from R&S some wonderful friends with whom we had the pleasure of dining (mexican in soho) this week.

we all know and love our friends who are not only outright members of the aristocracy, but generous too boot. royal or not, they have luscious offerings like empty beach houses (please feel free to use the house in sag harbor while we're down in st. bart's - such a shame to have it go empty) and seasons tickets to the met or even the mets. R&S recount just one such friend who's real estate holdings include the perfect top floor apartment in the rue du bac. rarely used and always available to r&s, it's owner is a fashion designer of some note. so, this free place to stay for a romantic week in paris also comes with a closet full of clothes and a twice weekly housekeeper. Just perfect.

r&s go for a week of biking and strolling around gay paris, enjoying pain au chocolat, fine wine, art and food. tuesdays and thursdays (that's mardi and jeudi in case you aren't up on your francais) they return home for the requisite nap before dinner to find the house clean. I am not sure but it's likely that the femme de menage even left the loo paper with that nice little folded triangle so that you would know she'd been there.

so rather than feeling the need to scurry around in the afternoons straightening up the place (even though the owner is a continent or two away, one never wants to risk the femme de menage giving a bad report (oh, madame, the guests, they were horrible, degolas!) r in particular felt comfortable checking out the clothes in the closets. she and her absentee hostess were long time friends and since r conveniently wears the same size, some trying on was in order. one pair of jeans was just so and r came out modelling them for s. s, an art historican specializing in design, demurred that they were nice and so they because a go to for the trip. when in paris, after all, even the most put together american can feel so frumpy. how do they wrap their sweaters around their necks so that they are both completely flat and twisted without looking lumpy or giving a hunch back? Try as i might it just never works the same way. and I am not even going to get in to the discussion of scarves and scarf tying or belts.

one afternoon after a lovely stroll through in the marais, r&s returned to the rue du bac to find the femme de manage gracefully wiping down the marble top counters. trust me, if i could import her to train up carmen a bit, I would. r, naturally was wearing the jeans and had a momentary panic that madame femme de menage would relay the purloined pants episode to the hostess. and the panic came true. femme de m approached r in a vigorous pantomime, pointing at the jeans. had their been a lazy french fly going by, it might have gone right in to r's mouth.

again, femme de m pointed at the jeans, and then just as vigorously, pointed at her self. repeat. and again.

you see,the just so jeans actually belonged to the femme de menage.

and this is why we all need to move to paris. the land where even the cleaning ladies know how to dress, no less clean.

Bourgeois Dilemma #22: my kid freaked out at the country club

Summer is a time for fun by the pool, tennis in whites and sailing lessons. At least it always has been for me. though most would expect it, i don't golf except the mini kind, and not so well. having been raised in a very "posh" town i spent a great deal of time in my childhood at country clubs (in fact, on the once night a week when the pool was open late and the fathers would come straight from the train to dine with their families pool side, when they turned the spot lights on my water logged eyes would create enormous halos around each light giving me an 8 year old trip of sorts) and while I don't belong to any in my real grown up life, I know the drill. in fact, about a year after my parents left my childhood home and moved to another city, i spent a weekend in my hometown for a friend's wedding and invited some gals to have lunch by the pool the day before the wedding. we sauntered in, took the little towels and dined on salads, diet cokes and relaxed and chatted all afternoon. after the weekend, I was catching up with my mom on the phone and told her we'd had such a nice lunch and that she should just send me the bill when it came so that I could reimburse her. "But honey, we aren't members there any more" was her response. Who knew? They seemed perfectly happy to take the order when I confidently signed "S-611" on the chit. I've not followed through on the subsequent temptation to crack the member letter number code at some completely random club and see if I can hang out for a while. maybe it's not so easy now that the world has gotten so fancy but who knows.

since old habits die hard, my parents joined another club in another town years later so as to be able to play bridge, tennis and entertain their grandchildren. one summer day when annie was about 4, we were enjoying labor day weekend at mom and dad's condo and happily went to the club "family festival" closing weekend party and award ceremony. all was well, annie played in the baby pool, we sipped iced teas and had chef salad for lunch. round about 2, we suffered through the presentation of "awards" given of course to each and every little muffy and timmy who had survived a rigorous summer of tennis, swimming and golf "camp." and then the bell rang and we were invited to play in the bouncy castle, slippy slide and similar games that had been tempting annie all afternoon. always an independent child, she strode off, "walking with purpose" as opposed the the illegal poolside run. she got about half way around the pool and in an instant was streaming back to me screaming her head off with blood seeping out of her second toe. Now, I know better than anyone that "we don't scream at the club." I snatched her up and ran into the lifeguard's room doing everything short of putting my hand over her mouth in an effort to get her to stop screaming. "you have just stubbed your toe. stop crying. calm down." over and over again in what i thought was a calm but clear voice that might just cut through the screams. this went on for a full and endless five minutes until a perfectly lovely woman in a skirted bathing suit ran into the room with a stunned expression on her face and said "you might want to turn this off". This being the PA system that had been left on after the awards ceremony, emitting it's screeching broadcast of my dulcet joan crawford tones.

I held Annie down while the 16 year old sunburnt to a crisp lifeguard put a band aid on her toe and we got out of there as quickly as humanly possible. 30 or 40 minutes later, i noticed a trail of blood making its way from the tv room to the porch where annie was being read to by my angelic and ever patient mother. i am not good with blood at all and forced my sweet husband to inspect. I won't go into the details since it's just past lunchtime somewhere, but the dr. at the emergency room had a medical term for "your toenail was totally ripped out of it's bed" - just searching for that has rendered me on the verge of passing out so you will have to see if you can find it yourself.

thank god, she was forbidden from getting her foot wet for the rest of the vacation week so we didn't have to turn up there again until a full year later. if the members of the club had any memory, they didn't let on. annie, needless to say, could recount the story to you verbatim even today 6 years later and never fails to remind me about the trauma.

oh for a rum punch by the pool.