Bridge? It’s basically indoor golf.

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‘Why I am not a fan of either game.’

When I was a little girl, I liked hanging around while my parents played bridge. My mom belonged to a ladies’ bridge club that played during the day. (Much laughter and coffee-drinking.) And both parents belonged to a group that met at night. (Much laughter and smoking. Drinking, too, and not just of coffee.)

I don’t have any photos of me — or anyone else — playing bridge. But I do have this nice one of a Scrabble game at my Mom’s 90th birthday party

The couples took turns hosting, and my sibs and I loved it when it was our parent’s turn. Then we got to “bartend” and pass around bowls of Bridge Mix. (Do they still make Bridge Mix? That was good stuff.) As I recall, this was one of the few times — other than Halloween and Easter — that we kids got to eat candy. And, yes, I can’t say this enough, that Bridge Mix was good stuff. Sophisticated, you know? At least if you’re twelve.

Bridge is really serious, too. There is studying involved. From books like this one. Not exactly a page-turner

So I grew up associating bridge with Adult Fun. But when I finally got a chance to learn bridge, I got a rude awakening. Bridge was really serious. And took up large chunks of time. Two-hour lessons one morning a week, plus four-hour duplicate events one afternoon a week. The only bridge I liked was the Tuesday afternoons I played with three friends where we took turns hosting. Talking and laughing (along with wine-drinking) were allowed.

The Child plays outdoor golf. She was pretty good at it. Better than me, at any rate

So basically I discovered that bridge is like golf. This is not a compliment. Over the years I have tried to play golf. Not very hard, I must admit. I think I tried exactly twice. I remember both occasions vividly because I became extremely frustrated at not being able to hit a satisfying drive. To be honest, I couldn’t even hit a puny drive. I failed in every attempt to even connect with the ball. It just sat there on the tee while I whiffed and puffed and swore. I finally gave up and just rode up to the green in the cart and sort of tossed the ball up toward the flag and putted it into the hole. That was the only part I liked — the putting.

Dude Man is very good at golf. He is very good at every sport. Grrrrr

The rest of golf I hated. You should have seen my face when I realized I couldn’t just go home — but had to wait until the other members of my party were done playing. (This was Dude Man and our BF Jim; it’s amazing he’s still speaking to me and coming to Thanksgiving after this awful Golf Outing. To this day, I can get a reaction by saying, “Hey, Jim! Remember that time we played golf?)

Another fun indoor game: Sorry! You get to be sort of mean, even

My Dad loved golf. He even liked to watch it on TV. I remember him supine on the couch with a cat nestled somewhere, snoring away with a golf game on. When you tried to change the channel to something well, more exciting, he’d startle awake — “Hey! I was watching that!” The thing that was sort of funny about golf on TV was how the commentators would whisper. Because you’re supposed to be quiet when someone’s lining up a shot and whatnot. But, um, the commentators were somewhere else, in a booth, right? Even the clapping after a good shot was quiet. We kids had a name for it: “golf clapping.” Basically, the only thing loud about golf was the pants.

At least golf was on TV. I doubt very much that bridge is on TV. Televised bridge: now that’s a concept.Tune in to watch people seated around a table not talking and not doing much else either. Poker is on TV. There have even been poker scenes in movies. Remember the poker games in The Odd Couple with the green and brown sandwiches? That’s because poker is fun.

If I want to spend a chunk of time inside doing something boring, I can do this. At least I have a clean stove when I’m done

But bridge? Nah, it’s basically golf. No talking. No drinking or smoking. Takes huge chunks of time. Involves keeping track of numbers. So. I say bridge is golf. And the heck with it. At least with golf, you get to be outside.

Being outside is the best — especially when you’re outside in Brazil. Where I saw absolutely no one playing bridge. Or golf, for that matter

New York City. February, 2024

 

 

 

She put the “giving” in Thanksgiving.

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‘Thank you for everything, dear Aunt Eleanor’

It’s blowing a gale here in Amagansett. The bird feeders are down, the grill’s been knocked cattywompus and the windows that Dude Man painstakingly washed on Sunday? Well, let’s just say they’re clean.

I say all this because I can’t possibly go for a walk, much less a bike ride. And it’s too early to start baking the pies. (My SIL, who arrived late last night from San Fran, is still jet-laggedly sleeping.)

So I have no excuse to postpone (yet again) writing about Aunt Eleanor.

Aunt Eleanor died almost two weeks ago. And, though she was 98 years old, I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’ll spare you all the cliches. But suffice it to say that even when a person is very very old, it can still be a shock when they die. Maybe even more of a shock, since you’re so used to them being around. (And note that I say “die,” because that’s what she did. I know this may be an unpopular view, but I bristle at the use of the term “pass” when you really mean “die.” Please say “die” when I do it. Please.)

The last time I clapped eyes on Eleanor. Last summer, at a family cookout, holding court, as usual, glass of champagne at hand

Anyway. You can read her obituary in The East Hampton Star right here for the public details of Eleanor’s extraordinary life. How she didn’t just read to kids, she founded a day care center. How she didn’t just bake, she baked cookies to lure kids to Sunday School. And how, at the age of 45, she set out to “do everything I’ve always wanted to do.”

Eleanor with her daughter Christine at her 90th birthday party. By this point, she had accomplished most of “everything I always wanted to do”

I’ve been putting off writing about her because it’s so hard to sift through all the memories I have of her. See, she was more than “just” an aunt. Dude Man’s parents died quite a while ago; his mom in 1985 and his dad in 1995. Eleanor’s house was just a couple of blocks away, so she and Uncle Buddy became like surrogate parents to us. Especially since mine were so far away.

Speaking of my mom, she and Eleanor got to know one another rather well. We got together when Mom came to visit. And there was the memorable occasion of The Child’s college graduation, when we experienced the nightmare of an out-of-control GPS system (it directed us on the “shortest route,” which meant navigating downtown Providence, RI, an experience which, trust me, you do not want to replicate) and sharing an Airbnb in Inman Square which was supposed to be “conveniently located” to the Harvard campus but which was most decidedly not. If they hadn’t bonded before then, well, they were now effectively joined at the hip.

The scene at The Child’s graduation. Eleanor and Mom are in there. Somewhere

The Dude has some particularly good Eleanor stories, since he spent many summers at her house when he was small. He recalls her dropping him and his two cousins off at Reed Pond with nothing but sleeping bags, fishing poles and a couple of cans of beans and picking them up the next day. She’d honk the car horn and they’d emerge from the woods. They were seven, eight and nine at the time.

Dude Child practicing his snake-handling as his Bro Bill and Cousin Charlie look on

My memories are more recent ones, of course. She and I bonded over books. I’d ride over on my bike to drop one off, and she’d invite me to sit with her on the screened-in porch and dish. “He can’t marry that woman,” being one of her more famous observations on the fiancee of a shirt-tail relation. And we’d speak on the phone fairly regularly. She didn’t dish out sentimental remarks, but I treasured the time she ended a call by saying that she “loved talking to me” and “wished we lived closer.” Me too, Eleanor, me too.

Eleanor with her niece Amy and her pseudo-niece Me, at her house a couple of blocks away

Oh, and even after Eleanor sold her house nearby, we would get together in the summers at her son Charlie’s and wife Chini’s infamous Taco Tuesdays out on Lazy Point. At one of these, one of Chini’s incredibly hunky sons walked by after a surfing session, his wetsuit stripped down to the waist revealing his perfectly-toned vee-shaped torso (these are casual affairs, these Taco Tuesdays), when Eleanor remarked, “He has a nice figure, doesn’t he?”

Eleanor and me at a Taco Tuesday. (So sorry the wetsuit-suited son isn’t also in the picture)

Well, as they say on TV, there’s “much much more.” But I can’t handle any more.

Besides, there are pies to bake.

Pies from a Thanksgiving repast, past

Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Eleanor. You gave us a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for.

Amagansett, New York. November 2023

 

East is East. And West is San Francisco

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‘Gamboling around the Golden City’

Some wag once said that when you get tired of walking in San Francisco you can always just lean against it. Which I am here to attest is entirely true.

Dr. Dude and I were on our third day of his AAO meeting when he decided it would be a good idea to “drop my bag off at the room before we go to the museum.” The bag in question being the one where he was stowing exhibitor swag — Starbucks gift cards! Eye drop samples! More Starbucks gift cards! — as well as toting meeting materials like schedules and maps. I must admit that it was looking a bit on the heavy side.

To be sure, the meeting venue, Moscone Center, wasn’t all that far from the Pacific Union Club, where we were staying. And we both had strolled on down from the tippy-top of Nob Hill where the Club, affectionately known by one and all as “the PU,” is perched to get to our activities each day. But, thanks to Uber and accommodating relations with cars, we hadn’t strolled back up.

Me, almost blocking the view of the PU. I’m waiting for Scott and Susan to pick me up for an outing to SFMOMA

Trust me when I say that walking up Nob Hill is not for the faint of heart or the high of heel. All I can say is that it’s a good thing they don’t get snow. No wonder there are so many Ubers. And driverless cars. One of our Uber drivers, after picking us up at 1000 California Street, said that he “thought the place looked familiar. I’m starting a new job there tomorrow!” He said he was going to be a waiter and that he’d spent an afternoon learning how to fold the napkins so the “PU” shows.

Susan and I join our friend Frida at SFMOMA

Another of our drivers expressed dismay and consternation that we lived in New York. “You actually live in New York?!” I hauled out my stock answer (the same one I gave Mom’s new pal Bill a couple of weeks ago): “Well, yes. A lot of people do.”

I found this particularly interesting since I got a parallel reaction from my New York friends when I told them I was going to San Francisco. “You’re going to San Francisco?!? Gosh! Be careful!

Scott exercising caution — and shooting some “sculpture” — at SFMOMA

Well, I’m happy to report that San Francisco is alive and well and is still a pretty peachy place to spend some time. Other than go to the Moscone meeting (yes, I went too; it was pretty sociologically interesting watching the doctors and the exhibitors interact), we ate at some pretty great restaurants: a pizza place with a gorgeous and gorgeously-accented Italian waitress, an Argentinian grill and, best of all, a place called State Bird where people start lining up at 5:15 to snag an unreserved table. (We were first in line; we scored.)

Digging the vittles at State Bird. (Yes, we had some quail — the “state bird” — too)

Sadly, we could not get into Lazy Bear, which is one of The Child and The Hub’s faves. (We had told Her Childness that we didn’t want to go to any of the Academy’s suggested restaurants where we’d be eating with a bunch of old doctors, and she lived up to her brief, and then some.)

But back to stowing the bag and (thank god after that uphill walk) Ubering to the museum. The museum that I intended to go to was the one up high on a hill where they shot some of Vertigo. Instead, we pulled up to one in Golden Gate Park. I had gotten the names confused, and, instead of the Palace of the Legion of Honor, we were at the de Young. No matter. We toured the de Young — especially loving the 8-story tower — then headed up to the Palace of the Legion of H. They are both part of the Fine Arts Museum of SF, and one admission covers both. Score!

Dude and I face off with camera phones in the Palace of the Legion of Honor

But there was more confusion to come. When we told The Child we were on our way to the Palace of the L of H, she thought we said we were going to the Palace of Fine Arts. Which is neither of these places, and has no art at all inside.

The Child points out a point of interest on our post-Legion of Honor walk

We polished off the afternoon hiking down a (moderate, compared to Nob Hill) hillside with spectacular views of Golden Gate Bridge. All in all, we worked up quite an appetite. Lining up like early birds at State Bird was definitely the way to go.

Dude Man makes like Rodin’s The Thinker at the Palace of the Legion of Honor

Back in New York City. November 2023

Our Wild Car(d) Rental

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‘Scoring an F150 from Thrifty’

Not to sound like a summer deadbeat or anything — though I am kind of a deadbeat, and not just in summer — I was going to skip yet another week of blog-posting. (I was AWOL last week, in case you didn’t notice.)

My AWOL view; perfect for working on a photo book to commemorate the Living Wake

But then I realized that you Faithful Readers (Madeleine and Becca and Ruth, I’m talking to you) would wonder if I’d fallen off the face of the earth.

See, Dude Man and I are going on yet another of our Wacky Birdy Adventures, and we will be out of internet contact for three whole weeks. And gosh, if I didn’t write one of these things till the end of September, I might even lose Madeleine and Becca and Ruth!

Showing off a leech bite on one of our birdy adventures (Borneo). Now I’ve done it; you’re all going to Borneo

So, what’s been keeping me away from my keyboard? Ta-da! Another wedding, that’s what. And boy oh boy do I love weddings. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again: What’s not to love about a wedding? There’s a big gathering of family and friends, toasts and food and more toasts, and everybody’s happy. The only other time I can think of when this kind of thing goes on — well, except for maybe the “happy” part — is a wake. (Though a wake can be happy; read about my Oldest Younger Brother’s genius idea, his Living Wake, right here.)

Scott and me living it up at his wake

But what’s that about a rented F150, you might be asking. (A couple of 70-Somethings don’t exactly seem like the F150 type.) Well, this wedding took place on the Biltmore Estate — Biltmore being the name of the extremely large (more than 250 rooms) and extremely luxurious (an indoor heated pool and a bowling alley) house situated on equally large (some 30,000 acres) and equally luxurious (designed by Frederick Law Olmstead) property near Asheville, North Carolina, that the Biltmores built more than a hundred hears ago.

Dude Man, with the Biltmore mansion a hike away in the background

We booked rooms in the Biltmore Inn, since no one can stay at the mansion itself. (A pity; there are 33 guest rooms.) In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I received several emails from the Inn, inviting me to book events — dining (nah), flowers in the room (also nah), tickets to the mansion (yes!) — in advance. But we were also advised to rent a car. They said the property was way too big and shuttles too infrequent to opt out. (We also discovered that GPS was completely unreliable, but I’ll get to that.)

Dude Man again, with the Biltmore Inn a walk away in the background

So I scrounged around on the internet and found that the best car rental deal was through Thrifty. They have this thing called the “Wild Card.” Which is their cheapest option — even cheaper than those micro-compacts that look and feel like those clown cars they used to have in the circus. (Maybe they still do; I haven’t been to a circus in decades, thank god.) To get this cheaparino rate, you simply agree to take whatever car they might have available at the time. It’s a surprise — hence the “Wild Card” moniker.

Dude happily at the wheel of the F150. There was no way I was going to drive that thing. It made my Dad’s cars seem like Tonka Toys — see “Boats? Dad had yachts of them” for Dad-car stories

Well, I think they should just call it the Wild Car. Because what did we score? This brand-spankin’-new F150 truck, that’s what. It was shiny, it was blindingly white and fragrant with that lovely new-car smell. Wild, indeed. Also, it was huge. Not as huge as The Child’s F350 — which they used to haul their camper shell around the country during the late not-lamented Covid Lockdown — but way bigger than our Honda, that’s for sure.

We could have hauled the whole wedding party in that thing. Plus a cooler and some lawn chairs in the truck bed. (Which is something people did in my home town; we called it a “Clinton County Cadillac.”)

The happy couple. The groom is Dude Man’s cousin’s youngest son. Yes, we’re digging deep, wedding-wise

Oh yes, the GPS Thing. It took us ages to find the Biltmore Inn. When we programmed the address into Apple Maps, we kept getting sent to the employee-only entrance. Turns out everyone gets sent by GPS to the employee entrance — except for the employees. (Or so a very nice employee told us when we finally checked in. I had to get out in town and ask directions, which an antique-store-proprietor helpfully scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He even drew us a map. I felt bad not buying anything, but not after all that downsizing.)

Speaking of downsizing, I don’t want to expand on this story further. If I get too longwinded I might alienate even Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I will leave you with a few more nice photos of where the Biltmores once roamed. I’ll be back with stories at the end of September — unless we get stampeded by elephants.

Me, making like a Biltmore

Dude, ditto

Dude, admiring the indoor pool. Nope, no water. It leaks

The two of us, plotting how to marry Biltmores. Except we’re already married, darn it

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

Hangin’ with Gouda, Jook and The Dude

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‘Those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames’

Many of you Faithful Readers think that I’m the one who dubbed The Dude “his Dudeness.” An honor I would love to claim, were it the truth.

But no. Wayne was The Dude way before I clapped eyes on him in the late lamented Shabu Shabu on our first date. (You can, of course, read about this sacred event in “The Time I Had A Blind Date with an Eye Doctor.”)

What The Dude looked like on our first date. Well, except he wasn’t wearing that white doctor coat at the time

He was christened “The Dude” because he showed up at the freshman mixer at Dartmouth College wearing a tie. This was in 1970, when Dartmouth Men were sporting fringed suede vests and/or leather hats instead of ties. (I have this on good faith from the suede-leather-vest guy, a perfectly lovely man nicknamed “Crud,” for some reason I’d really rather not know about. The Dude was the one with the leather hat.)

That’s Crud, seated left, with Dude and me. That’s Eleanor, Lady Shearing (“Ellie” to us) standing in back. Her husband was knighted by the Queen. Which is a great story: “She’d Better Put a Bell on It”

Like I say, those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames. It’s been ages since The Dude last sported a leather hat, but he and his bros still call each other by their college monikers.

Earlier this summer, one of Dude Man’s roommates, a man with the perfectly good name of Ken, contacted us to say he’d be in town — he and his lovely wife Ellen (no nickname that I know of) live in LA — and would we like to get together to have lunch?

“I’ll make a reservation, but it won’t be under “Jookbock,” was how he ended the conversation. See, Ken was quickly renamed “Bookjock” at Dartmouth because all he did was study. He studied all the time because he didn’t like Dartmouth (He really really wanted to go to Harvard) and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So he hit the books — “Bookjock” — and graduated early. Well, for some reason, “Bookjock” morphed into “Jookbock” (more fun to say, maybe? Dude Man can’t remember) and was eventually shortened to “Jook.” Which is pronounced like “book,” only with a “j.”

That’s “Oooo Come On,” or even more familiarly “Oooo” with The Dude and The Child as an actual child. He was called “Oooo Come On” because he was always urging himself on while playing squash. At D’mouth, of course

Also at this lunch was a guy named Gouda, whose mother named him Scott — a perfectly lovely name. I know because I have a brother named Scott. My Scott owes his Actual Name to a nickname — something I found out about at his Living Wake last week. (A thoroughly enjoyable event you can read about here.) Turns out Scott was named “Scott” in honor of our Dad’s nickname: “Scottie.” Dad got called this because when he was little his mother used him as kind of a dress dummy so she could pin up the hem of a skirt she was making for one of his sisters. Dad loved wearing the skirt and didn’t want to take it off. It was plaid — so, “Scottie.”

Two Younger Brothers at the Living Wake event last week. That’s Doug on the left and Scott-named-after-our-dad’s-nickname on the right

But back to the Dartmouth Scott. It was his mother who was responsible for the name “Gouda,” since she used to send him care packages of cheese. (At this point I have to wonder what kind of mother sends cheese care packages. My mom sent brownies, or sometimes Rice Krispy Treats.)

(Before I forget, I must point out, in the spirit of full disclosure, that the three Dartmouth guys in the photo at the top of this post are not, alas, Jook and Gouda. If they didn’t have nicknames, they certainly compensated with what appears to be a very nice marijuana crop.)

I’ll close by mentioning that The Dude and I did in fact have a most marvelous lunch with Gouda and Jook. Their wives too, though as far as I know, they don’t have nicknames. At least not nicknames they get called in public.

A gaggle of Dartmouth guys — all with nicknames

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

Grad School

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‘What I learned by going to reunions’

Last weekend The Child wasn’t here to help celebrate The Dude’s birthday. Which wasn’t too big a deal, because A) it wasn’t a Big Birthday (just one of those annoying all-too-frequently occurring regular ones) and B) she’s here now, so we’re celebrating the birthday this weekend instead.

Celebrating not one but two birthdays last weekend. With not one but two cakes!

So, where was Her Childness last weekend? Celebrating her ten-year college reunion, that’s where. And if you think all-too-frequent birthdays give one pause, chew on that.

The Child and I at her college graduation ten years ago. Neither one of us looks one iota different. Well, not to me, anyway

I know, I know. You’ve heard me whine enough already about how quickly time passes. But seriously? Little Sammie Jane has been out of college for ten years?

Dude Man takes the measure of The Child. Then puts a brick on her head

Oddly enough, she did not invite me to go to her reunion with her. Though there is precedent for Mom-As-Reunion Date. My mother attended my ten-year high-school reunion with me. And, yes, she was a splendid date indeed.

Gosh, I don’t know why The Child didn’t invite me to her reunion. I got to go to this graduation party, didn’t I?

I also went to my 20-year and 40-year high-school reunions, though sans Mom. And I went to Dude Man’s 15-year and his 50th reunion, too. It was supposed to be in 2020, Dude having graduated in 1970. But, thanks to Mr. Virus, 2020 was not a year for reunions–or any gatherings, for that matter. And whomever was in charge of rescheduling sort of dropped the ball.

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I were happily ensconced in Amagansett with a major rainstorm of the deluge variety raging outside, when he plays a message left on his phone. Something about a 50th Reunion Bash being held that very night. “Did I want to go?” I motioned out the window. “Are you kidding?”

Well, one look at his little classmate-craving face and I caved. Soon we were hydroplaning our way on the Long Island Expressway back to Manhasset. Where 25 or so of his almost-200-strong Class of ’70 were gathered, damp but happy, clutching cocktails and peering intently at each other’s nametags.

The nametags, helpfully, were emblazoned with each attendee’s high-school yearbook photo. Although, sadly, this was not the one on The Dude’s. (hubba hubba)

So here’s where I go out on a limb and share what I’ve learned after going to so many high-school reunions. At the ten-year reunion, the men look better than the women. That’s because the women have tenaciously clung to the look they had in high school. Same hair style, same makeup techniques. But ten years have passed; maybe that flip needs to flop. They’ve also gained a few pounds. The men are still rocking high-school style too, but somehow it doesn’t matter, men’s styles not being quite so, well, changeable.

That’s Stanley rocking men’s style circa 1968. Still works, doesn’t it?

At the 20-year reunion, it’s the opposite. The women have figured it out. They’ve ditched the bouffants and (mostly) the pounds and look pretty darned terrific. Bonus discovery: the wallflowers have blossomed. So much so that (at my own 20-year bash) I heard more than one man exclaim to a formerly-invisible girl, “Sally (not her real name, of course) is that you?!?”

Meanwhile, the men have lost their hair and gained some paunch. Oh well. It pretty much all evens out at the (gasp) 50.

Oh. Before I forget — and before you ask. What about my college reunions? Didn’t I go to any of them? Well, actually, no. And not because I didn’t want to. No, as far as I know, good ole University of Missouri isn’t big on reunions. At least I’ve never heard tell of one. Gosh, maybe the rest of my class has been having incredible bashes every ten years since 1973 — and I just haven’t been asked.

Me, in college. Wouldn’t you want to get together with such a fun-looking girl at a reunion? One would think so.

I’ve been to Dude Man’s college reunions, though. The ten and the twenty. Here’s what I learned. The men at the ten (this was an all-guy’s school) were handsome and successful and showed off their wives and cars. At the twenty, they were (mostly) still handsome, and they were in the same cars — but they had new wives. I can hardly wait to see what they’re all up to at the 50th next year.

Dude and a bunch of Dartmouth Dudes at a reunion. Not sure which one, since The Dude, darn him, never ever changes

Oh, if, unlike me (I’m talking to you, Kim!) you’ve been to a Mizzou reunion, please keep it to yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep going to any ole random reunion that’ll have me. Oh, and birthday parties.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

 

 

“This old thing?”

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‘How to respond to a compliment’

Perhaps you’ve noticed this: women are funny about compliments. Approach one with “Wow, what a pretty dress!” or “Gee, I love that coat” or — as I exclaimed at a recent party — “I seriously want to bonk you over the head and steal that bag!” and she is apt to reply with an abashed “This? I’ve had this for years.

Or, if you live in New York, like I do, she may very well reply with “This? It was an absolute steal at a sample sale.” Or “My brother-in-law is a furrier.” Or, simply, “I got it at Loehmann’s.

Yup. I got that dress at Loehman’s. Wore it to so many parties that, at one, a woman said, “Oh, we’ve met; I remember that dress

Whether a dress, a coat, earrings (“They were my grandmother’s”) or even a haircut (“I know a guy in Chinatown”) — whatever draws your compliment, it seems to be a feminine gambit to deflect it.

Sporting the fur that a blog fan sent me (seriously!)

Guys don’t do this. Or at least not many of them do. At The Child’s wedding (which was amazing, and which you can read about here), when I complimented a man on his dinner jacket (It was also amazing; white silk), I got, “It was my father’s.”

Amazing white jacket at the amazing wedding

But that’s pretty rare. Usually you just get a “whah?” look, like they completely forgot what they have on. Which, if we’re talking about The Dude, is probably the case.

No one complimented Dude Man on his “raincoat.” Though it would have been fun to hear his reply

I won’t try to analyze or explain why it is that some women have such a hard time with compliments. I say “some women” because my mother has it down. You say, “Omigoodness, those earrings are gorgeous!” and she’ll smile and say, “thank you.” That’s it. “Thank you.”

Mom showing off the earrings Favorite Only Sister Laura brought her from Mexico

I wrote a piece called “How Much is Too Much to Pay for a Party Dress?” that proved pretty popular. (Thank you!) It was about my CPW Theory, “CPW” standing for “cost per wearing.” Basically, it means that you divide the cost of an item by how many times you wear it. That 20-buck purple H&M top costs a full $20 if you wear it once; whereas that Burberry coat I’ve worn hundreds of times? It’s practically free by now.

And the compliments I get? Priceless. In fact, another way to interpret “CPW” is “compliments per wearing.” Which, thanks to my mother, I’m learning to accept with a smile — and a modestly murmured “thank you.”

Or maybe not-so-murmured (!)

Amagansett, New York. May 2023

 

 

 

 

Mr. Malaprop

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‘”But that’s what I’ve always called it,” and other Dudeisms.’

I flew home from my Mom’s yesterday, and boy are my arms tired. Almost too tired to peck away at my keyboard. But I already missed last week’s missive — because I was at Mom’s — and I daren’t let too many postless weeks go by or I will lose my thousands of subscribers. Kidding.

Three Mom Amigos at a lilac garden

So. Mom’s visit. It was super satisfying, what with outings to lilac gardens and riverfront eating establishments and such, plus plenty of Sister Sightings, which are always my favorite part. Sigh.

Hanging out at Laura’s. Even more fun than a lilac garden

But back to the topic of today: Dude Man’s somewhat trying and definitely hilarious habit of peppering conversations with words or phrases that are, well, somewhat off. Not quite wrong, like insisting that “night” is called “day” or “black” is called “white.” But pretty close. And, what’s even more Dudelike, insisting, when gently corrected, that his usage is correct.

For example (speaking of “night” and “day”). The Dude and I have been trying to incorporate morning walks into our daily routine. Since his office hours start around 7:30 — he is a doctor, as you may recall — these walks have to start early. Like around 5:30. AM.

Which means we get to see the sun rise over Central Park. (Gorgeous, BTW.) Invariably, His Dudeness will look out over the Lake as we’re crossing Bow Bridge and say, “Ah, look at the lovely twilight.” Then, when I point out that the appearance of first light is called “dawn,” and that “twilight” refers to the fading of light in the evening, he insists that “twilight” works just fine — because “that’s what I’ve always called it.”

I don’t have a photo of us in Central Park at dawn (er, “twilight”) but I do have this one (and the one at the top of this post), showing twilight in Brazil

Another example. As you may recall, I’m sort of never not knitting something. Baby sweaters, usually. Because they’re little and fun and fast, but mainly because I’m hoping somebody out there will take the hint, already. The last one I did was a cardigan.

One of my latest sweaters. Definitely not Dude-sized. And definitely not a “button-down.” It’s called a “cardigan”

Dude Man duly admired it, then asked if I could knit him one too. (Larger, for sure. And probably not pink.) Since he never wears the many sweaters I have already knit for him — which have lived in a lonely stack in his closet ever since he discovered Polarfleece — I asked what would qualify this hypothetical sweater for actual wearing.

Oh, it would be a vest. So it would fit under jackets. (He has vests, I point out. Vests he never wears. Under jackets or anything else.) Oh, I’d like one that buttons down the front. You know, a button-down.

One of the many vests I have knit him. It does have buttons, but only part way down the front

A “button-down?” I say. “A button-down” is a shirt. A shirt with buttons that hold the collar down.

No it’s not. A “button-down” is anything that buttons down the front. Like a shirt. Or a sweater, he insists.

A cardigan is a sweater that buttons down the front, I insist right back. If you go in a store and ask for a “button-down,” they’re going to bring you a shirt with those little buttons on the collar. They are most definitely not going to bring you a sweater that buttons down the front.

Well, he huffs. That’s what I’ve always called sweaters like that.

Another sweater that Dude would call a button-down. And that everyone else calls a cardigan. This one wasn’t for him either

Okay. I give up. (Big sigh goes here.)

This post is reminding me of one of my father’s favorite jokes — one that he taught The Child to tell at family gatherings. Here goes:

A woman is walking down a country lane carrying a duck. A man walks by and asks, “What are you doing with that pig?” The woman replies, “That’s not a pig — that’s a duck.” Man: “I was talking to the duck.

New York City. May 2023

Let them eat Bunny Cake

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‘An Easter treat that’s hard to beat’

I just realized that I really should have posted this story before Easter. That way you all could have whipped out your cake pans and created a bunny to dig into after your ham or lamb. (Note: we never had lamb at Easter; my mother swears it smells like “hot wet sweaters.”)

Speaking of sweaters, here’s my latest. I haven’t gotten it hot or wet, so I don’t know if it smells like lamb

Oh well, you still could “do” a bunny cake. They’re awfully fun to make, and, what with the coconut frosting and the jellybean whiskers, tasty too.

Besides, bunnies don’t really have anything to do with Easter. Not really. Bunnies and eggs were pagan fertility symbols that the early Christians appropriated; they decided they were symbols of the resurrection of Jesus. Though I have a suspicion that the real reason for “stealing” those heathen bunnies and eggs was to cheer up an inherently downer holiday. (Crown of thorns? Dying on a cross? I mean, even rising from the dead isn’t exactly cheerful.)

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