It seemed like a no-brainer at the time. I mean, if you have to go to a funeral in New Jersey and you’re faced with a choice between public transportation (in this case, a bus from Port Authority followed by either a long walk or a short cab ride) and a ride in a friend-of-a-friend’s car, you choose the ride, right?
That’s what I did. Now, it’s true that I live uptown and I had to take the subway down to the Village, where the owner of the car was. But what’s a 20-minute subway ride if it saves me from having to take the Port Authority bus? Unfortunately, we had to wait another 15 minutes for the other passengers to arrive (there were two other ride seekers). But then we were off.
Right away it was apparent that no one, least of all the driver, knew where we were going, and using the GPS on a cell phone while driving at high speeds on the highway turned out to be not so effective. We got hopelessly lost—the kind of lost where there is no possibility of retracing your steps; the kind of lost where you spend an inordinate amount of time looking for a gas station in the hope of getting directions, which gets you even more lost than you were before. My anxiety was intensified by the amount of blithe socializing going on inside the car; there was a lot of, “So how do you know so-and-so?“ when everyone should have been focused on looking for the right exit. No one but me seemed to care that we were going to be horribly late to what we had been told was a very small funeral. I thought with longing of the Port Authority bus.
This was not the first time I had been seduced by the seeming luxury of getting a ride. Every Christmas I am invited to a party in Westchester and I usually go to great lengths to arrange a ride; often it’s with someone I do not know very well. Last year, on the way back not only did the car I was in get lost, it broke down. It took me four hours to get home. Once again I found myself wondering, why didn’t I just take the train?
Just why does “The Ride” have so much allure for New Yorkers? Offer someone a ride to a party on the other side of the park and it seems too glorious to pass up. All of us have at least a bit of car envy. Door-to-door service. Privacy. You are not dependent on the transportation system; you are in control. Driving is how the other half—that is, the rest of America–lives.
But the rest of America doesn’t risk spending hours stuck in Midtown traffic or looking for a parking space. And, for the most part, the rest of America are driving their own cars. When you accept a ride from someone else, he is in control. It’s really bad form to jump out and say, “Thanks for the ride!” while the driver searches for a space. You can be within sight of your dinner party (or even worse, a theater event, with the minutes ticking down toward curtain time) and be stuck circling around and around the block, praying to the parking gods and getting more stressed out with every second.
The key to this whole ride business, as with so many other areas of life, is who you are with. If you are riding with good friends, you won’t care that much if you a little lost. Last Saturday I opted for a cab ride home with friends who offered to “drop me off,” even though I knew by the time we found a taxi and crawled along the West Side Highway it would take much longer than the subway. We sang Cole Porter songs to each other and so it was fine.
But, when in doubt, I say opt for the good old MTA. So often we forget that one of the best things about New York City is that no one has to drive. Why else are there so many cocktail parties here?
Originally published in the West Side Spirit, December 15, 2011
1/23/12
1/5/12
Overachieving Overnighters
Recently, friends from Montreal (a married couple) came to stay with me for one night on their way to see relatives in Virginia. When they called to let me know they were running late due to a delayed flight, I said to them, as firmly as I know how, “Now, listen guys, I have gin in the freezer. Your martini glasses are chilled and waiting, so don’t stop for anything. Don’t buy me anything. Just come directly here.” I said this because they visit me often, and I know their houseguesting M.O. all too well.
Was I surprised when they arrived bearing not only a bottle of expensive gin, but flowers and other gifts as well? Not really. Nor was I surprised when they insisted on taking me to dinner. In the morning, they snuck out before I woke up and brought back coffee, bagels and lox, fresh strawberries and a newspaper—even though by that time I had a pot of coffee brewing and was more than prepared to whip up mushroom and feta omelets.
Now, these are old and wonderful friends, and of course I felt pampered and loved and grateful to them. But I have to confess I also felt a little bad. I felt dehostified. The couple took care of me the whole time, rather than the other way around. And while guest largess may seem like an absurd thing to complain about, considering all of the stories we hear about horrible houseguests (people who arrive without warning, stay too long and never send a thank you)—these guests were so overly generous that it made me feel like a horrible hostess.
It is often a delicate balance, this dance between host and guest. Hosting and guesting, like almost all forms of human interaction, is a yin-yang thing. You can’t really be a good guest unless you allow the host to be a good host; you can’t be a good host if you don’t let your guest contribute in some way. Whenever I have a visit from my Montreal friends, I definitely feel that the balance is out of whack.
On the one hand, it’s nice that I don’t have to entertain or take care of them when they come. On the other hand, I am frustrated I can’t do more for them—not only because it is my house but because it simply feels good to make others happy. People can forget that it is generous to let others give to you as well as for you to give to others. Sometimes, when a host says to her guest, “I do wish you would allow me to take care of that,” she really means it.
But do I really mean it? Do I really want my beneficent over-nighters to take it down a notch? Maybe my friends are actually responding to signals I am unaware I am sending. Like most New Yorkers, I tend to suffer from TMHS (Too Many Houseguests Syndrome) which can make me a more jaded, less eager-to-please host than I might otherwise be. Manhattan hotels are so expensive that many people who come to stay with New Yorkers are coming primarily because they need a place to stay; seeing the host is frequently a secondary thing. I suspect that years of these “favor-based” sleepovers have made me a more careless host. And it’s a carelessness I am not proud of. For one thing, I should be the one getting up early and bringing home the bagels, not my guests. I know a D.C. woman who will drive 30 miles to the fish market in the middle of a heat wave to buy a bushel of crabs, just because one of her guests mentioned she had a hankering for them.
Perhaps, after all, it is I who needs to become an overachieving host. The next time these friends come to town, I swear I am going to pick them up at the airport in a limo and hand them their chilled martinis as soon as they step inside the car.
They won’t know what hit them.
Originally published in The West Side Spirit, November 30, 2011
Was I surprised when they arrived bearing not only a bottle of expensive gin, but flowers and other gifts as well? Not really. Nor was I surprised when they insisted on taking me to dinner. In the morning, they snuck out before I woke up and brought back coffee, bagels and lox, fresh strawberries and a newspaper—even though by that time I had a pot of coffee brewing and was more than prepared to whip up mushroom and feta omelets.
Now, these are old and wonderful friends, and of course I felt pampered and loved and grateful to them. But I have to confess I also felt a little bad. I felt dehostified. The couple took care of me the whole time, rather than the other way around. And while guest largess may seem like an absurd thing to complain about, considering all of the stories we hear about horrible houseguests (people who arrive without warning, stay too long and never send a thank you)—these guests were so overly generous that it made me feel like a horrible hostess.
It is often a delicate balance, this dance between host and guest. Hosting and guesting, like almost all forms of human interaction, is a yin-yang thing. You can’t really be a good guest unless you allow the host to be a good host; you can’t be a good host if you don’t let your guest contribute in some way. Whenever I have a visit from my Montreal friends, I definitely feel that the balance is out of whack.
On the one hand, it’s nice that I don’t have to entertain or take care of them when they come. On the other hand, I am frustrated I can’t do more for them—not only because it is my house but because it simply feels good to make others happy. People can forget that it is generous to let others give to you as well as for you to give to others. Sometimes, when a host says to her guest, “I do wish you would allow me to take care of that,” she really means it.
But do I really mean it? Do I really want my beneficent over-nighters to take it down a notch? Maybe my friends are actually responding to signals I am unaware I am sending. Like most New Yorkers, I tend to suffer from TMHS (Too Many Houseguests Syndrome) which can make me a more jaded, less eager-to-please host than I might otherwise be. Manhattan hotels are so expensive that many people who come to stay with New Yorkers are coming primarily because they need a place to stay; seeing the host is frequently a secondary thing. I suspect that years of these “favor-based” sleepovers have made me a more careless host. And it’s a carelessness I am not proud of. For one thing, I should be the one getting up early and bringing home the bagels, not my guests. I know a D.C. woman who will drive 30 miles to the fish market in the middle of a heat wave to buy a bushel of crabs, just because one of her guests mentioned she had a hankering for them.
Perhaps, after all, it is I who needs to become an overachieving host. The next time these friends come to town, I swear I am going to pick them up at the airport in a limo and hand them their chilled martinis as soon as they step inside the car.
They won’t know what hit them.
Originally published in The West Side Spirit, November 30, 2011
12/7/11
Being a Stand-Up Guy (and Why it Can Be Harder to Be a Stand-up Gal)
For me, one of the benefits of being a freelancer is not having to take mass transit during rush hour. Nevertheless, last week I found myself on the 79th Street crosstown bus at 5:30 p.m., which is a bit like being stuffed inside a can of sardines—live, irritated, smelly sardines. There was the usual friction between the people standing toward the back hoarding their personal space and the people trying to get on who were calling out, “Move back, people!” And, of course, there was the continuous vying for seats.
I happened to be sitting in a side seat, near the front, under the sign that reads: “Won’t you please give this seat to the elderly or disabled?” At Fifth Avenue, an older man got on. He looked as if he was in his early 70s, though he did not seem in any way infirm or unsteady on his feet. After struggling for a moment with the selfish desire for my own comfort, I offered him my seat.
The man waved me off with a stiff “no thanks.” I looked up at him. He stood right over me; there was no place else to go on the packed bus. I could see he was annoyed. “I’m not that old yet, I hope,” he muttered at me in a sarcastic tone. That was when I understood that I had, unwittingly, emasculated him. That, according to his old-school mentality, he’s supposed to get up for me, not the other way around. Still, I wondered, how could anyone misinterpret such a simple common courtesy?
Then I thought back to the time a few years ago when someone gave me his seat on the subway, winked and said, “You should not be on your feet in your condition.” I realized with horror he had thought I was pregnant! I did not enjoy getting that seat (and I never wore that dress ever again).
The problem with offering up your seat, which we all know is the right thing to do, is that the etiquette is not always black and white. You could, of course, relinquish your seat for everyone, which at rush hour would mean you would never sit down at all. But most of us are tired enough at the end of a day that we can’t pass up an empty seat. And unless someone unmistakably “seat-needy” gets on—someone elderly; someone with a cane, a cast or a brace; someone who is pregnant, blind or sick; or someone who is carrying bulky packages or a baby—we tend to think, “First come, first served.”
As sexist as it sounds, it would be simpler for everyone if strong young men were willing to offer up their seats more frequently. (It’s not that young men are any more capable of standing than young women are, but let’s face it: most young women these days are wearing heels.) On the other hand, I try not to judge every young man harshly for not doing this—it isn’t always easy to tell who has a physical problem. When I was in my early 30s, I had a herniated disk, and it wasn’t obvious to others how much pain I was in.
Maybe the seemingly oblivious guy playing games on his iPod does, in fact, have a bad knee. Maybe he’s got heel spurs. Maybe he’s an exhausted hospital intern who just worked a triple shift and saved the lives of three people with gunshot wounds. Okay, probably not. But you never know.
For those of us without hidden gunshot wounds, there are basically three ways to offer someone your seat:
1) Look inquiringly at the person. Shift as if you are about to get up, placing one hand on the back of your seat. Watch to see if he looks grateful/hungry for a seat. He will make a move toward you if he wants to accept. This is known as the “Edge of My Seat” method.
2) Vacate the seat before he figures out you are moving because of him. For all he knows, you are nearing your stop. (This method is not recommended on a very crowded bus, as someone else is likely to pounce on the seat before your chosen beneficiary can get to it.)
3) Ask: “Would you like my seat?” This is the “Direct Approach,” which, as I have shown, can sometimes backfire. But it’s by far the most civilized, so it’s worth the risk.
Macho 70-year-olds notwithstanding.
*Originally published in The West Side Spirit, November 16, 2011
I happened to be sitting in a side seat, near the front, under the sign that reads: “Won’t you please give this seat to the elderly or disabled?” At Fifth Avenue, an older man got on. He looked as if he was in his early 70s, though he did not seem in any way infirm or unsteady on his feet. After struggling for a moment with the selfish desire for my own comfort, I offered him my seat.
The man waved me off with a stiff “no thanks.” I looked up at him. He stood right over me; there was no place else to go on the packed bus. I could see he was annoyed. “I’m not that old yet, I hope,” he muttered at me in a sarcastic tone. That was when I understood that I had, unwittingly, emasculated him. That, according to his old-school mentality, he’s supposed to get up for me, not the other way around. Still, I wondered, how could anyone misinterpret such a simple common courtesy?
Then I thought back to the time a few years ago when someone gave me his seat on the subway, winked and said, “You should not be on your feet in your condition.” I realized with horror he had thought I was pregnant! I did not enjoy getting that seat (and I never wore that dress ever again).
The problem with offering up your seat, which we all know is the right thing to do, is that the etiquette is not always black and white. You could, of course, relinquish your seat for everyone, which at rush hour would mean you would never sit down at all. But most of us are tired enough at the end of a day that we can’t pass up an empty seat. And unless someone unmistakably “seat-needy” gets on—someone elderly; someone with a cane, a cast or a brace; someone who is pregnant, blind or sick; or someone who is carrying bulky packages or a baby—we tend to think, “First come, first served.”
As sexist as it sounds, it would be simpler for everyone if strong young men were willing to offer up their seats more frequently. (It’s not that young men are any more capable of standing than young women are, but let’s face it: most young women these days are wearing heels.) On the other hand, I try not to judge every young man harshly for not doing this—it isn’t always easy to tell who has a physical problem. When I was in my early 30s, I had a herniated disk, and it wasn’t obvious to others how much pain I was in.
Maybe the seemingly oblivious guy playing games on his iPod does, in fact, have a bad knee. Maybe he’s got heel spurs. Maybe he’s an exhausted hospital intern who just worked a triple shift and saved the lives of three people with gunshot wounds. Okay, probably not. But you never know.
For those of us without hidden gunshot wounds, there are basically three ways to offer someone your seat:
1) Look inquiringly at the person. Shift as if you are about to get up, placing one hand on the back of your seat. Watch to see if he looks grateful/hungry for a seat. He will make a move toward you if he wants to accept. This is known as the “Edge of My Seat” method.
2) Vacate the seat before he figures out you are moving because of him. For all he knows, you are nearing your stop. (This method is not recommended on a very crowded bus, as someone else is likely to pounce on the seat before your chosen beneficiary can get to it.)
3) Ask: “Would you like my seat?” This is the “Direct Approach,” which, as I have shown, can sometimes backfire. But it’s by far the most civilized, so it’s worth the risk.
Macho 70-year-olds notwithstanding.
*Originally published in The West Side Spirit, November 16, 2011
12/1/11
That's My Queue
The other day, as I was in line at Pier 11 for the water taxi to Ikea, I started thinking about how much waiting in line we all do. Every day we wait in line at stores, stations, theaters, banks, post offices and bus stops. We wait in line to get seated at a restaurant, to buy a Metrocard, to get gas. I looked it up: the average person spends over an hour a day waiting in line—that’s two to three years in a lifetime. (If you’re a woman, probably at least one year of that waiting time is spent in line for the ladies’ room.)
Considering how commonplace line-standing is, it’s amazing how many New Yorkers I’ve come across who think, basically, that lines are for suckers. Once friend told me, “Oh, I never wait in lines. I jump the line any way I can. If there are 500 people in the line, you think I’m okay with being 501?” There are other pushy types who habitually barrel ahead of everyone with “just a quick question,” as though they are certain that everyone else standing in line has issues that take much longer to address and so naturally will not mind. Some people, I have heard, actually pay others to wait in line for them.
I guess if I was rich enough I might pay someone to stand in the DMV line for me (I certainly wouldn’t mind someone else posing for my driver’s license photo) but one thing seems clear: We’re a city of eight million people—it’s inevitable that we’ll need to queue up from time to time. I myself am comforted by a well-run, orderly line. I don’t even like lines where you can choose between several stations, an environment that leads to jockeying for position. I am much happier with a simple, first-come, first-served line. I feel more relaxed knowing that no one, not even me, can cheat the system. Well-defined lines—and people willing to adhere to them—are a sign of civilization. Just think what would happen if no one was willing to “be a sucker” and stand in line. Imagine going to the movies or some other situation where hundreds of people just milled around outside in a big, stressful horde, and at a certain point they all rushed the door at the same time. (Actually, we don’t have to imagine that. All we have to do is go down to Penn Station and watch how New Yorkers behave when a train’s departure gate is announced. It’s chaos.)
Obviously there are many reasons for hating long lines–fatigue, physical discomfort, boredom, loss of time, the feeling of powerlessness (otherwise known as the Sheep Syndrome). I’ve talked to people who get annoyed by how close people stand to them in line or by how loudly their fellow line-standers talk on their cell phones. But one of people’s secret fears about having to stand in line, especially if they are by themselves, is the fear of getting trapped in conversation with someone with whom they’d rather not engage.
You don’t choose who to stand next to as you do at a party. If someone starts talking to you in line, you can’t excuse yourself and go get a drink. You are stuck there. Especially if you are the one who initiated the conversation, there is no graceful way to back up and say, “Sorry, now that I have exchanged a few words with you I can tell I really do not want to speak with you.” Engaging with a stranger in a line is like striking up a conversation with your seatmate on a plane. Once you are in it, you are pretty much in it for the duration.
Nevertheless, (and I know you won’t be surprised that Miss Mingle is telling you this) as long as we do have to spend so much time of our lives in lines, try to be open to in-line socializing. Don’t worry, it’s really not that different from being at a sit-down dinner party. You may have a bore on your left but a beauty on your right. If the person behind you is not your cup of tea, the person in front of you may be.
Note: This is one of those times when complaining is an acceptable conversational ploy. Commiserate about the length of the line—or about the shameless woman you just saw cutting it.
Originally published in The West Side Spirit, October 19, 2001
Considering how commonplace line-standing is, it’s amazing how many New Yorkers I’ve come across who think, basically, that lines are for suckers. Once friend told me, “Oh, I never wait in lines. I jump the line any way I can. If there are 500 people in the line, you think I’m okay with being 501?” There are other pushy types who habitually barrel ahead of everyone with “just a quick question,” as though they are certain that everyone else standing in line has issues that take much longer to address and so naturally will not mind. Some people, I have heard, actually pay others to wait in line for them.
I guess if I was rich enough I might pay someone to stand in the DMV line for me (I certainly wouldn’t mind someone else posing for my driver’s license photo) but one thing seems clear: We’re a city of eight million people—it’s inevitable that we’ll need to queue up from time to time. I myself am comforted by a well-run, orderly line. I don’t even like lines where you can choose between several stations, an environment that leads to jockeying for position. I am much happier with a simple, first-come, first-served line. I feel more relaxed knowing that no one, not even me, can cheat the system. Well-defined lines—and people willing to adhere to them—are a sign of civilization. Just think what would happen if no one was willing to “be a sucker” and stand in line. Imagine going to the movies or some other situation where hundreds of people just milled around outside in a big, stressful horde, and at a certain point they all rushed the door at the same time. (Actually, we don’t have to imagine that. All we have to do is go down to Penn Station and watch how New Yorkers behave when a train’s departure gate is announced. It’s chaos.)
Obviously there are many reasons for hating long lines–fatigue, physical discomfort, boredom, loss of time, the feeling of powerlessness (otherwise known as the Sheep Syndrome). I’ve talked to people who get annoyed by how close people stand to them in line or by how loudly their fellow line-standers talk on their cell phones. But one of people’s secret fears about having to stand in line, especially if they are by themselves, is the fear of getting trapped in conversation with someone with whom they’d rather not engage.
You don’t choose who to stand next to as you do at a party. If someone starts talking to you in line, you can’t excuse yourself and go get a drink. You are stuck there. Especially if you are the one who initiated the conversation, there is no graceful way to back up and say, “Sorry, now that I have exchanged a few words with you I can tell I really do not want to speak with you.” Engaging with a stranger in a line is like striking up a conversation with your seatmate on a plane. Once you are in it, you are pretty much in it for the duration.
Nevertheless, (and I know you won’t be surprised that Miss Mingle is telling you this) as long as we do have to spend so much time of our lives in lines, try to be open to in-line socializing. Don’t worry, it’s really not that different from being at a sit-down dinner party. You may have a bore on your left but a beauty on your right. If the person behind you is not your cup of tea, the person in front of you may be.
Note: This is one of those times when complaining is an acceptable conversational ploy. Commiserate about the length of the line—or about the shameless woman you just saw cutting it.
Originally published in The West Side Spirit, October 19, 2001
11/14/11
The Tao of Mingling*
It sounds like a simple thing, something we all should know: When you go to a cocktail party, it’s best to leave whatever social “goals” and expectations you may have at the door along with your coat and hat.
The best conversations are spontaneous ones. And while folks who live in parts of the country where the pace is nice and slow may not have to remind themselves to simply shoot the breeze or chew the fat, we do here. (In fact, here we are more likely try to burn off the fat.) The Big Apple is such a who-do-you-know, where-are-you-headed and how-fast-can-you-get-there kind of town that it makes us less able to let go and just be in the moment. (What—me, stop and smell the roses? Okay, but while I’m doing that, I’d better go ahead and buy a couple dozen, so I’ll have them ready for next weekend.)
When your average New Yorker sets out to mingle at a party with strangers, there are usually thoughts in the back of his mind like, “Who are the most important or most interesting guests here?” “Can this person further my career or my project in some way?” or “How can I find out what this person’s marital status is?” Others have a different sort of mental agenda, one that is more or less information-seeking. These are the multi-taskers hoping to make the party “worth it” who are constantly thinking things like, “Maybe there is someone here I can talk to about which schools would be good for my kids,” “I wonder if this person knows where to shop for a new bed” or “Ah…he’s at Chase; might he tell me what stocks to dump?”
And of course, often the party-goer’s mind isn’t even at the party. She may be smiling on the outside, but inside be wondering who is texting her (she can feel her phone vibrating) and whether it would be rude to excuse herself from the current conversation to check, or thinking about what she is going to have for dinner or whether she and her husband are going to continue the fight they were having before they got to the party once they get home.
Not too long ago, I went to a book launch downtown. The main reason I went, besides being interested in the author (which I was) and besides the fact that I never turn down any invitation if I can help it, was that the hostess had promised she would introduce me to a man who was, by all accounts, the perfect dealer for an antique desk I was hoping to sell.
After a semi-productive conversation with the dealer about the desk and after having the author sign a copy of his book for me, I found myself feeling aimless—in a good way. Aimless, in this situation, is actually what we aim for. I wandered for a few minutes before encountering a tall, tweedy couple (a middle-aged man and woman, obviously together). They were looking out the window at a building across the street. “It looks like a beached whale wearing mirrored sunglasses,” the man said. The three of us laughed. It actually did kind of look like a whale from that angle. The conversation took off from there.
I talked to that couple for a truly delightful 45 minutes. I still don’t know who they were or what, if anything, they do for a living. They didn’t ask me; I didn’t ask them. It was totally anonymous mingling (which, unlike anonymous sex, is completely risk-free.) It buoyed me, it rejuvenated me. I don’t even really remember what we talked about for all that time, except that it was fun and playful, creative and parenthetical. It was conversation for conversation’s sake. It was like a piece of verbal art we all wove together—effortless, improvisational and ultimately inspirational.
That night I remembered why I love talking to strangers. I had thought I was going to the party to meet an antique dealer, but it turned out it was to commune with the wonderful tweedy couple. I was in a good mood for hours afterward.
So at your next cocktail party, try conversing without any aspirations. Because, trust me, expecting no social reward is the key to the most rewarding kind of socializing there is.
*Originally published in the West Side Spirit, October 7, 2011
The best conversations are spontaneous ones. And while folks who live in parts of the country where the pace is nice and slow may not have to remind themselves to simply shoot the breeze or chew the fat, we do here. (In fact, here we are more likely try to burn off the fat.) The Big Apple is such a who-do-you-know, where-are-you-headed and how-fast-can-you-get-there kind of town that it makes us less able to let go and just be in the moment. (What—me, stop and smell the roses? Okay, but while I’m doing that, I’d better go ahead and buy a couple dozen, so I’ll have them ready for next weekend.)
When your average New Yorker sets out to mingle at a party with strangers, there are usually thoughts in the back of his mind like, “Who are the most important or most interesting guests here?” “Can this person further my career or my project in some way?” or “How can I find out what this person’s marital status is?” Others have a different sort of mental agenda, one that is more or less information-seeking. These are the multi-taskers hoping to make the party “worth it” who are constantly thinking things like, “Maybe there is someone here I can talk to about which schools would be good for my kids,” “I wonder if this person knows where to shop for a new bed” or “Ah…he’s at Chase; might he tell me what stocks to dump?”
And of course, often the party-goer’s mind isn’t even at the party. She may be smiling on the outside, but inside be wondering who is texting her (she can feel her phone vibrating) and whether it would be rude to excuse herself from the current conversation to check, or thinking about what she is going to have for dinner or whether she and her husband are going to continue the fight they were having before they got to the party once they get home.
Not too long ago, I went to a book launch downtown. The main reason I went, besides being interested in the author (which I was) and besides the fact that I never turn down any invitation if I can help it, was that the hostess had promised she would introduce me to a man who was, by all accounts, the perfect dealer for an antique desk I was hoping to sell.
After a semi-productive conversation with the dealer about the desk and after having the author sign a copy of his book for me, I found myself feeling aimless—in a good way. Aimless, in this situation, is actually what we aim for. I wandered for a few minutes before encountering a tall, tweedy couple (a middle-aged man and woman, obviously together). They were looking out the window at a building across the street. “It looks like a beached whale wearing mirrored sunglasses,” the man said. The three of us laughed. It actually did kind of look like a whale from that angle. The conversation took off from there.
I talked to that couple for a truly delightful 45 minutes. I still don’t know who they were or what, if anything, they do for a living. They didn’t ask me; I didn’t ask them. It was totally anonymous mingling (which, unlike anonymous sex, is completely risk-free.) It buoyed me, it rejuvenated me. I don’t even really remember what we talked about for all that time, except that it was fun and playful, creative and parenthetical. It was conversation for conversation’s sake. It was like a piece of verbal art we all wove together—effortless, improvisational and ultimately inspirational.
That night I remembered why I love talking to strangers. I had thought I was going to the party to meet an antique dealer, but it turned out it was to commune with the wonderful tweedy couple. I was in a good mood for hours afterward.
So at your next cocktail party, try conversing without any aspirations. Because, trust me, expecting no social reward is the key to the most rewarding kind of socializing there is.
*Originally published in the West Side Spirit, October 7, 2011
11/5/11
For Your Ears Only*
These days, there are a lot of people (and yes, I’m occasionally one of them) denouncing the omnipresence of cell phones. They point out that in the last 20 years, cell phones have gone from exotic rarities to bodily appendages we cannot live without; that people are increasingly unaware of what is going on around them, even while walking or driving, because they are glued to their phones; and that kids today rely on being able to look up everything they need to know on their smart phones and as a result are maybe not so smart. The biggest concern people seem to have is about how much our ever-expanding connectedness—via cell phone—to the vast universe of online social media is impinging on our privacy.
However, there is one function of cell phones that actually affords us more privacy, not less: voicemail.
This may seem like a minor aspect of modern communication technology. But just think back (if you are old enough) to what could, and often did, happen in the old days of home telephone answering machines: “Hello, Cheryl? Hey, it’s me. Are you there?…Cheryl?…Are you screening?…OK, well, call me back when you get home. You’re not going to believe what happened to me while I was on this date tonight. The guy actually unbuckled his belt right at the table in the restaurant, because he said he had eaten too much. I remember you told me sometimes Bobby used to do that with you, but…Oh…Uh…(embarrassed cough)…I…God. I totally forgot Bobby moved in with you. Sorry. Hi, Bobby—if you’re hearing this, which I hope you aren’t. (Deep breath) Not that there’s anything wrong with you hearing this, actually I thought the guy was cute, very down-to-earth. I really loved the whole belt thing…Um…Anyway, Cheryl, call me. It’s Sue.”
Before the days of cell phones, you never knew exactly who would hear your voice message—sometimes even while you were in the act of leaving it. People’s machines were often set with the volume turned up for screening purposes and so, for instance, your overly emotional message about being afflicted with perimenopausal insomnia might, unbeknownst to you, be overheard by your friend’s 10 dinner guests while they ate dessert.
Even now, when calling someone’s land line, we have to remember that someone else, such as the person’s spouse or child, might hear our voice message. It’s not always easy, in New York City, to keep track of who is in a particular household; you never know how many roommates or sleepover guests there could be. Even if the person you are calling has an off-site service (where he retrieves his messages from the phone company’s system) you still can’t be sure who might hear your message. It could be a shared service. And when calling the home of friends who are a couple, even though you may want to leave the message for only one of them, it can be considered rude to completely exclude the other person who lives there. All of these potential answering machine faux pas disappeared with the advent of cell phone voicemail.
Of course, the truth is that voicemail, even cell phone voicemail, is becoming extinct. All forms of communication technology are replaced by newer forms sooner or later. Voicemail is already considered by younger people to be as quaint and old-fashioned as white gloves at tea. Most people nowadays just text. But while texting is private too (assuming no one is looking over your shoulder), it does not have the emotional import of voicemail. This past summer during Hurricane Irene, I was stuck in Rehoboth Beach with my 85-year-old parents, who adamantly refused to evacuate, even though there was a mandatory evacuation order in effect. I thanked god for my cell phone. Not because I could use it to call for help or because I could check Facebook and Twitter for the minute-by-minute news, but because without my cell phone voicemail, my friends would not have been able to leave me completely private voice messages like, “Jeanne, just put your parents in the car, tell them you are going to go get ice cream and drive like hell outta there!”
And when my parents asked what phone messages I was getting, I just smiled and said, “Oh, nothing important…Hey, I don’t suppose you guys feel like getting ice cream?”
*Published in The West Side Spirit September 21, 2011
However, there is one function of cell phones that actually affords us more privacy, not less: voicemail.
This may seem like a minor aspect of modern communication technology. But just think back (if you are old enough) to what could, and often did, happen in the old days of home telephone answering machines: “Hello, Cheryl? Hey, it’s me. Are you there?…Cheryl?…Are you screening?…OK, well, call me back when you get home. You’re not going to believe what happened to me while I was on this date tonight. The guy actually unbuckled his belt right at the table in the restaurant, because he said he had eaten too much. I remember you told me sometimes Bobby used to do that with you, but…Oh…Uh…(embarrassed cough)…I…God. I totally forgot Bobby moved in with you. Sorry. Hi, Bobby—if you’re hearing this, which I hope you aren’t. (Deep breath) Not that there’s anything wrong with you hearing this, actually I thought the guy was cute, very down-to-earth. I really loved the whole belt thing…Um…Anyway, Cheryl, call me. It’s Sue.”
Before the days of cell phones, you never knew exactly who would hear your voice message—sometimes even while you were in the act of leaving it. People’s machines were often set with the volume turned up for screening purposes and so, for instance, your overly emotional message about being afflicted with perimenopausal insomnia might, unbeknownst to you, be overheard by your friend’s 10 dinner guests while they ate dessert.
Even now, when calling someone’s land line, we have to remember that someone else, such as the person’s spouse or child, might hear our voice message. It’s not always easy, in New York City, to keep track of who is in a particular household; you never know how many roommates or sleepover guests there could be. Even if the person you are calling has an off-site service (where he retrieves his messages from the phone company’s system) you still can’t be sure who might hear your message. It could be a shared service. And when calling the home of friends who are a couple, even though you may want to leave the message for only one of them, it can be considered rude to completely exclude the other person who lives there. All of these potential answering machine faux pas disappeared with the advent of cell phone voicemail.
Of course, the truth is that voicemail, even cell phone voicemail, is becoming extinct. All forms of communication technology are replaced by newer forms sooner or later. Voicemail is already considered by younger people to be as quaint and old-fashioned as white gloves at tea. Most people nowadays just text. But while texting is private too (assuming no one is looking over your shoulder), it does not have the emotional import of voicemail. This past summer during Hurricane Irene, I was stuck in Rehoboth Beach with my 85-year-old parents, who adamantly refused to evacuate, even though there was a mandatory evacuation order in effect. I thanked god for my cell phone. Not because I could use it to call for help or because I could check Facebook and Twitter for the minute-by-minute news, but because without my cell phone voicemail, my friends would not have been able to leave me completely private voice messages like, “Jeanne, just put your parents in the car, tell them you are going to go get ice cream and drive like hell outta there!”
And when my parents asked what phone messages I was getting, I just smiled and said, “Oh, nothing important…Hey, I don’t suppose you guys feel like getting ice cream?”
*Published in The West Side Spirit September 21, 2011
10/25/11
The Good, The Bad and the Oblivious*
Combine one part self-absorption, one part 21st-century apathy and one part urban burnout and what do you get? You get a Way-blocker.
If you want proof that courtesy is on the wane, all you have to do is to observe the increasing number of pedestrians who fail to notice that there is someone else endeavoring to use the same sidewalk. Whether it’s a clump of people who have chosen the middle of the sidewalk to hold some kind of social gathering, a person walking at a snail’s pace because he is on the phone, or a family of four who have decided they need to walk abreast--their arms entwined in an impassable human chain--it appears as though New Yorkers are more and more oblivious to the fact that there are others behind them who may actually have somewhere to go.
To different types of way-blockers we can assign varying degrees of culpability. Awe-struck tourists who stand in the middle of the sidewalk looking up may be irritating when you are late for work, but might perhaps be forgiven for their dazed and dazzled condition. Pet owners who are focused on their pooping poodles to the temporary inconvenience of passersby may be annoying, but ultimately understandable. Parents who block store aisles and crosswalks with their super-duper-deluxe double baby strollers do sometimes appear to have a sense of entitlement about their procreative right to slow up the world; but still, one has to take a deep breath and let them off the hook. (We must always remember that most of them are majorly sleep-deprived.) Even people who are talking on cell phones, impervious to all human movement around them, can be seen as distracted more than destructive. Slow walkers, people who are window-shopping or lost, people with poor shopping-cart control--these are minor obstructors who can be frustrating, but for whom we all have to muster a little patience.
However, there is one form of offender that, in my book, can not be acquitted—or even, for that matter, comprehended: the person who stands smack in the middle of a doorway.
What can these people be thinking? To me, the act of standing still in a public doorway of any kind is a complete mystery, except for in the case of an immanent threat of an earthquake. I mean, a doorway is like a faucet, a highway or a digestive tract. You can’t just stand there, unmoving, in the passageway without being aware that you might be causing some kind of a stoppage. And while the blocking of subway doors is probably the worst form of door-blocking, I admit I am also perplexed by people who stand around chatting away in the doorways of apartment buildings and stores. (Let’s not even talk about folks who hold up the elevator while they chat. I may get mad and press the Emergency button.)
Of course, because a doorway is a transitional space, it may seem to some to be a desirable place to have a “short-term” conversation, a non-committal exchange. After all, you are ostensibly on our way in or out, so you do not have much time to talk, right? You can be on the brink, with the words “Okay, gotta go” on the tip of your tongue. You are in a great escape position. Who cares if someone else is trying to get by?
As a society we are becoming less and less considerate about the needs and feelings of others around us (and yes, I am so often on this particular bandwagon I am eligible for Frequent Complainer Miles). But way-blockers especially seem to me to be a symptom of this deterioration. Why must I go through my day saying “Excuse me, excuse me!” when it’s not me who needs to be excused?
Maybe I am not seeing things from the blockers’ point of view. After all, there are always two sides to everything. Maybe I need to slow down and chill out, not judge people so harshly. I mean, stopping to chat in a doorway is really not such a big deal.
On the other hand, it is also not such a big deal to just get the heck out of the way.
*Published in The West Side Spirit August 24, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
