August 12, 2010
Somehow in the fall of 1969 we got involved in a bowling league that ran concurrent with the school year. I haven’t the faintest idea anymore how this all came to pass but I remember all of my friends were involved at one time or another. I wrote in my diary on September 12, “Today we started bowling. Rolland is in bowling too.” Rolland Gillies was in our class at school and I had an on again, off again crush on him, but mostly on that fall.
We were in a Saturday morning kid’s league at the King George Bowling Alley downtown. Once upon a time the King George was a nice hotel with a fancy lounge and restaurant but as the years passed, it became somewhat shabby. When we were older, but still underage, we would go to the bar there and drink draft beer. Sadly, it had become that sort of place.
The bowling alley which was on the basement level of the hotel was typical bowling alley-esque. You came down the stairs and entered a sort of foyer situation that had soda and candy machines. We were crazy for cherry Coke back then and that was the only machine I remember that had it. Just past the vending machines was the desk where you checked in, got your shoes, found your lane assignment, and talked to dreamy Jerry Phillips. Jerry worked at the bowling alley part time and played football for the Hilltops, Saskatoon’s Junior Football team. I noted in my diary the first week that his number was 55. I also wrote down his phone number which I must have looked up in the phone book. I had a real habit of recording phone numbers, for some now unknown reason. Two weeks after the start of bowling we went to the Hilltop’s game and I wrote in my diary, “After supper we went to Jerry’s game. They won 32-0. YAY!”
I am guessing that when we first met him, Jerry was about 18-20 years old – and we were 12. He was tall and athletic and had dark wavy hair. Moreover, he was the sweetest guy any of us had ever met. He teased us and flirted with us all of the time, but not in a weird older guy - little girl way. I suspect it was as much fun for him as it was for us because we were wild about him and I’ve never met a 20 year old guy who wasn’t completely flattered when a whole herd of little girls think he is the best thing since pizza. As you can imagine, this let loose the perfect storm of prepubescent raging girl hormones culminating in lots of excuses to go the front counter. We wanted to keep tabs on our Jerry.
The bowling alley was a total zoo on Saturday mornings – filled with rangy kids. I think there were 20 or more lanes and all were in use. There were both girls and boys teams which led to a certain amount of additional tearing around but I really don’t remember any of us actually being interested in any of the boys from bowling. Officially there were 5 of us on the team but the rest of the girls bowled with us sometimes when we needed a sub if someone wasn’t able to show up for one reason or another. We struggled at first to agree on a team name, but in the end we settled on the Godly Goons. No, I am not kidding. Eventually it was shortened to the Goons and we came to really identify with the name. It made us feel funny and silly and somehow it gave us license to act goofy – as if we needed any more encouragement for that. And because we had a wacky name and were always laughing and carrying on, not a lot of teams took us seriously. Big mistake. As it turns out, we were pretty good AND we had our secret weapon – Barb Olson who was a spectacular bowler and won all kinds of tournaments. Plus she had long blonde hair and was really cute, definitely a team advantage!
Barb was one of the original Grade 1 crew at Hugh Cairns, our local public school, but later her family moved to a bigger house just far enough away that she attended a different school than us for a few years. Still, she came to bowling with us. And let me tell you, that girl had a great eye and superb aim. There rest of us were not bad and could usually hold up our end of the game reasonably well, but without a doubt, Barb was the star of the show. In October I wrote in my diary, “Today at bowling our team went to watch Rolland’s team. They are lousy. We are a lot better.” Always the modest one …
This is how it generally played out: we either took the number 4 bus going downtown or someone’s parents dropped us off at the King George. We would be there for about 2 hours bowling, messing around, eating junk food, and visiting with other friends who came down to watch and hang out with us. After bowling we would always go across the street to The Bay for chips and gravy in their third floor cafeteria. Oh, and chocolate milk. I went through a big chocolate milk phase then and liked it best at The Bay. Plus if you got a straw, or used a Twizzler as a straw, you could blow mega chocolate milk bubbles and make a huge mess. The cafeteria was usually busy with lots of Saturday shoppers so it seemed lively and filled with energy to us. Once in a while you would run into your Mum at The Bay which was good if she bought lunch but bad if she crimped your style or got mad at you for “bothering” the other shoppers.
Anyway, these were the days before the Midtown Plaza opened a few blocks away where the old railroad station used to be so The Bay was almost the only game in downtown. Eaton’s also was downtown but it was just far enough away that we didn’t usually want to walk those 3 or 4 blocks in cold Saskatchewan weather. We would come straight over from bowling, head up to The Bay’s top floor, have our lunch, and then “run away” on each other. Essentially this meant two or three girls on a sort of team would go hide somewhere in the store and the other team would have to find them. We did that for hours and hours. It is a total wonder we were never thrown out of the store. Occasionally we would steal a Crunchie from the candy department, especially when it was on the main floor near the Second Avenue entrance. We were such hardened criminals. The only thing I ever stole was chocolate bars because I was too scared to go big time. I had a big fuzzy gold parka then with a hood that had fake white fur trim around it and I would mosey past the Crunchies and slide one up my sleeve. Then I would panic because I was absolutely positive I was going to get caught and be sent to reform school. (I didn’t actually know anyone who ever was sent to reform school, or for that matter what reform school was, and honestly I can’t actually be certain there was such a thing in Saskatoon, but the notion that it might exist was enough to scare me silly.) One or two of the other girls would periodically steal cheap makeup, but that was not common. Well, unless we are talking about Kim because I think at one point she had a nice little stash of Mary Quant lip pots going on and I seem to remember she got caught at least once shoplifting at the Bay.
Sometimes we would go to a matinee after bowling at either the Capital or the Odeon. The Capital Theatre was spectacular. It was an old fashioned movie house with a long red carpeted entry that had an incline ending on what would have been the equivalent of the second floor. The candy counter was just past where you handed off your ticket. From there you could go straight in to the lower level or up to the balcony. I LOVED the balcony. Inside the theatre was painted gold with stars and clouds and lots of ornate design. This was also in the days before cup holders became standard in theatres so you would stick your drink under your seat and hope you remembered not to kick it over. I also remember there was a fairly big stage with velvet curtains because before the Centennial Auditorium was built, we used to go to the Capital to see the Royal Winnipeg Ballet or the National Ballet when they were on tour.
At any rate, bowling was a major social event for us. Sure we actually bowled and really cared about how we placed, but we loved bowling mostly because it was a way to hang out downtown without being supervised, meet other kids, and just generally pretend we were older and more sophisticated than we were. And in Saskatoon in 1969, it was about the biggest adventure available to us. It was the next year when we were in Grade 8 that everything changed and our universe expanded. Of course, that was after we met the boys from Grosvenor at Murray Livergant’s bar mitzvah …
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Fireworks!
July 28, 2010
I may be a day late and a dollar short on this but I am still shaken up by the recent Fourth of July fireworks spectacle on my block. It was insane. I’ve lived in this house for four years so this is not my first rodeo but goddamn, this was one for the ages.
Frankly, I don’t think of myself as a total pussy but I have to say that the Fourth of July in DC scares the bejesus out of me. I don’t know if this is a Canadian vs. American cultural kinda thing, but maybe there is something to that. At least for now, that is my cover.
In all of the years I’ve been in DC I’ve never lived in a ‘hood where fireworks were as integral to every July 4th party as they are where I live now. The first year I closed on the house June 30 but didn’t move in until the middle of July so I missed the whole Fourth gig. When the next July 4th rolled around, I COULD NOT BELIEVE what was going on out in front of my house on the sidewalk and in the little park across the street, as well as in the alley out back. (Necessary random factiod: the park was built by Steven Spielberg for Minority Report and my house has a cameo early in the movie!) As soon as the sun started to set, it was as if Caesar announced “let the games begin” because all hell broke lose at the same time. I think my neighbour George and his relatives from Maryland were largely responsible for the whole fireworks setup that year. Despite me being afraid, I could see that George (who is fairly imposing at 6‘ 8”) was in control and making sure nothing weird happened so I tried to go with the flow … for a while at least. Moreover, they were lighting little rockets that really just fizzed up a ways and made a high pitched whistley sort of sound before they popped. There wasn’t much colour or big spectacle, all things considered. I was actually in bed when it all came down. I’d NEVER experienced anything like this before so I went outside and sat on the porch for a few minutes to survey the situation. I was scared but not terrified. George’s wife Regina saw me hiding on the porch so she came over and insisted I come out to the street so I could see better. Oh yeah. Just what I wanted.
I didn’t know what was worse – letting my neighbours know I was a ‘fraidy cat or possibly getting burnt to a crisp by a rogue rocket thingy. I had no intention of becoming a crispy critter. I ended up sitting on the steps with Regina at the end of my front walk and watching for about 10 or 15 minutes until I was over it and went back into the house. I finally fell asleep a while later when the hoopla began to peter out but the artillery-like sound didn’t completely stop until the wee hours.
The following year, I was all ready. I expected the light show and all of the noise. I had a dinner party that night and sent my friends off to watch the “official” Mall fireworks from the roof deck of a nearby apartment building one of them owned. Now those are fireworks! Big booms, colours splashing and dripping all over the sky, and giant sparklers that whizz all the way to heaven then explode into teeny white diamonds that are so bright it seems like daytime. Very cool. Produced by professional fireworks guys and backed up by big burly firemen with shiny fire trucks and high pressure water in hoses that can reach a hundred miles if should there be “a fireworks malfunction” which there never is because the professionals are in charge. Did I mention that these are designed and staged by professionals – people whose career it is to do this safely? Yes. Professional firework guys. Love ‘em.
Anyway, back on my block I was armed and ready for chaos but there was just a fraction of the activity of the previous year. You see, George and family had moved and there was no one really coordinating the “show” so it was pretty haphazard and relatively tame, thank god. Sure there was stuff popping all over the ‘hood, but nothing like the year before. I was immensely relieved.
July 4, 2010 rolled around and while I was worried, I was not in a panic. BIG mistake. Michael and I were at home because I had insisted we needed to secure the premises and make sure no 13 year old pyros burned my (brick!) house down. Right at dusk, the entire neighbourhood went nuts. Seriously. This made George’s production look like candles in paper cups at a protest march. And LOUD. My god it was unbelievably LOUD. In the Spielberg Park across the street and in the back alley there must have been a million rockets shooting in every damn direction. And here’s the other thing: these were really big fireworks that sped into the sky and exploded into a million different colours just like the “real” fireworks on the Mall.
Never in my life have I heard so much noise. Understand that this was not just popping of little firecrackers or half-assed bottle rockets that kids sometimes set off to scare one another. NOOOOO. This was serious business and I was TERRIFIED!!
One of people down the block was having a party on her deck that sits on top of the garage behind her house. It has a charming view of the back alley which has no appeal to me, but on that nite, it sure was the center of attention. That crew and others were setting off endless strings of fireworks in the alley and on occasion throwing them into a metal garbage can for maximum sound effect. I asked Michael if we were in 1970s Beirut. It was incredible.
At first I was pacing from back door to front door trying to determine where the first giant fire would start because I just KNEW there was going to be a raging inferno soon. I have two fire extinguishers in my house (I know, a bit extreme but my Dad would be so proud!) so I was relatively confident that I could control a fire while Michael called 911. Then a huge crew of fire trucks and lots of really good looking firemen would descend and save us. (Well, a girl can have a little imagination, yes?)
As the sounds intensified and even more people were shooting off even more fireworks, I finally came unglued and hightailed it upstairs to my bed and crawled under the covers and stuffed my fingers into my ears. In the past I have found that when all else fails, hiding under the covers is a reliable survival strategy. It is sort of like when wee little kids cover their eyes and can’t see anyone so they assume you can’t see them either. I can hide in bed and if I don’t know what is going on, it can’t hurt me. Trust me; there really is some sense in there.
Meanwhile, Michael, the American, was having a grand ole time. He was out back, then out front, then out back again watching the spectacle which he thought was quite marvelous. He loved the sparklies and the bright colours and the trails of smoke. Even the noise didn’t faze him. While he was busy chatting up the neighbours and being totally delighted by the whole thing, I was making a cave in my bed and burrowing down as far as I could go.
It took a while but eventually he realized I was MIA. Of course I couldn’t hear him calling my name over all of the noise. Plus my fingers were in my ears and I was humming (I forget what) to block out the machine gun fire I was sure was right outside of my second story bedroom window. (I never claimed any of this was rational!) When he found me, I think his first instinct was to laugh out loud at my lunacy but being a polite Southern boy, he restrained himself nicely. He assured me we were not in Beirut or even Afghanistan and that the world most certainly was not coming to an end. He put on the bedroom TV and we watched some of the “real” fireworks from the Mall which were SO beautiful. Then we watched the production from New York which too was SO lovely. Around midnite most of the racket from outside began to poop out and I drifted off to sleep.
In the end maybe I am a big pussy but I don’t see it that way. I really think this is an “us vs. them” cultural thing. As Canadians we are not prone to setting off fireworks on our front lawns (nor do we often burn down our houses while deep frying frozen turkey on the wooden deck, but that is a whole other thing) and since we are mostly good doobies and don’t want to get on the wrong side of Officer Dudley Do-Right, we tend not to walk on the wild side very often. All I know is that I am already making plans to be far away from DC next Fourth of July so I don’t have to do this again. Oh, and as a risk- adverse Canadian, I will remember to increase the house insurance so if some little pyromaniac does torch the place, I’m made in the shade.
God Save the Queen and God Bless America. Just leave the fireworks out of the mix!
I may be a day late and a dollar short on this but I am still shaken up by the recent Fourth of July fireworks spectacle on my block. It was insane. I’ve lived in this house for four years so this is not my first rodeo but goddamn, this was one for the ages.
Frankly, I don’t think of myself as a total pussy but I have to say that the Fourth of July in DC scares the bejesus out of me. I don’t know if this is a Canadian vs. American cultural kinda thing, but maybe there is something to that. At least for now, that is my cover.
In all of the years I’ve been in DC I’ve never lived in a ‘hood where fireworks were as integral to every July 4th party as they are where I live now. The first year I closed on the house June 30 but didn’t move in until the middle of July so I missed the whole Fourth gig. When the next July 4th rolled around, I COULD NOT BELIEVE what was going on out in front of my house on the sidewalk and in the little park across the street, as well as in the alley out back. (Necessary random factiod: the park was built by Steven Spielberg for Minority Report and my house has a cameo early in the movie!) As soon as the sun started to set, it was as if Caesar announced “let the games begin” because all hell broke lose at the same time. I think my neighbour George and his relatives from Maryland were largely responsible for the whole fireworks setup that year. Despite me being afraid, I could see that George (who is fairly imposing at 6‘ 8”) was in control and making sure nothing weird happened so I tried to go with the flow … for a while at least. Moreover, they were lighting little rockets that really just fizzed up a ways and made a high pitched whistley sort of sound before they popped. There wasn’t much colour or big spectacle, all things considered. I was actually in bed when it all came down. I’d NEVER experienced anything like this before so I went outside and sat on the porch for a few minutes to survey the situation. I was scared but not terrified. George’s wife Regina saw me hiding on the porch so she came over and insisted I come out to the street so I could see better. Oh yeah. Just what I wanted.
I didn’t know what was worse – letting my neighbours know I was a ‘fraidy cat or possibly getting burnt to a crisp by a rogue rocket thingy. I had no intention of becoming a crispy critter. I ended up sitting on the steps with Regina at the end of my front walk and watching for about 10 or 15 minutes until I was over it and went back into the house. I finally fell asleep a while later when the hoopla began to peter out but the artillery-like sound didn’t completely stop until the wee hours.
The following year, I was all ready. I expected the light show and all of the noise. I had a dinner party that night and sent my friends off to watch the “official” Mall fireworks from the roof deck of a nearby apartment building one of them owned. Now those are fireworks! Big booms, colours splashing and dripping all over the sky, and giant sparklers that whizz all the way to heaven then explode into teeny white diamonds that are so bright it seems like daytime. Very cool. Produced by professional fireworks guys and backed up by big burly firemen with shiny fire trucks and high pressure water in hoses that can reach a hundred miles if should there be “a fireworks malfunction” which there never is because the professionals are in charge. Did I mention that these are designed and staged by professionals – people whose career it is to do this safely? Yes. Professional firework guys. Love ‘em.
Anyway, back on my block I was armed and ready for chaos but there was just a fraction of the activity of the previous year. You see, George and family had moved and there was no one really coordinating the “show” so it was pretty haphazard and relatively tame, thank god. Sure there was stuff popping all over the ‘hood, but nothing like the year before. I was immensely relieved.
July 4, 2010 rolled around and while I was worried, I was not in a panic. BIG mistake. Michael and I were at home because I had insisted we needed to secure the premises and make sure no 13 year old pyros burned my (brick!) house down. Right at dusk, the entire neighbourhood went nuts. Seriously. This made George’s production look like candles in paper cups at a protest march. And LOUD. My god it was unbelievably LOUD. In the Spielberg Park across the street and in the back alley there must have been a million rockets shooting in every damn direction. And here’s the other thing: these were really big fireworks that sped into the sky and exploded into a million different colours just like the “real” fireworks on the Mall.
Never in my life have I heard so much noise. Understand that this was not just popping of little firecrackers or half-assed bottle rockets that kids sometimes set off to scare one another. NOOOOO. This was serious business and I was TERRIFIED!!
One of people down the block was having a party on her deck that sits on top of the garage behind her house. It has a charming view of the back alley which has no appeal to me, but on that nite, it sure was the center of attention. That crew and others were setting off endless strings of fireworks in the alley and on occasion throwing them into a metal garbage can for maximum sound effect. I asked Michael if we were in 1970s Beirut. It was incredible.
At first I was pacing from back door to front door trying to determine where the first giant fire would start because I just KNEW there was going to be a raging inferno soon. I have two fire extinguishers in my house (I know, a bit extreme but my Dad would be so proud!) so I was relatively confident that I could control a fire while Michael called 911. Then a huge crew of fire trucks and lots of really good looking firemen would descend and save us. (Well, a girl can have a little imagination, yes?)
As the sounds intensified and even more people were shooting off even more fireworks, I finally came unglued and hightailed it upstairs to my bed and crawled under the covers and stuffed my fingers into my ears. In the past I have found that when all else fails, hiding under the covers is a reliable survival strategy. It is sort of like when wee little kids cover their eyes and can’t see anyone so they assume you can’t see them either. I can hide in bed and if I don’t know what is going on, it can’t hurt me. Trust me; there really is some sense in there.
Meanwhile, Michael, the American, was having a grand ole time. He was out back, then out front, then out back again watching the spectacle which he thought was quite marvelous. He loved the sparklies and the bright colours and the trails of smoke. Even the noise didn’t faze him. While he was busy chatting up the neighbours and being totally delighted by the whole thing, I was making a cave in my bed and burrowing down as far as I could go.
It took a while but eventually he realized I was MIA. Of course I couldn’t hear him calling my name over all of the noise. Plus my fingers were in my ears and I was humming (I forget what) to block out the machine gun fire I was sure was right outside of my second story bedroom window. (I never claimed any of this was rational!) When he found me, I think his first instinct was to laugh out loud at my lunacy but being a polite Southern boy, he restrained himself nicely. He assured me we were not in Beirut or even Afghanistan and that the world most certainly was not coming to an end. He put on the bedroom TV and we watched some of the “real” fireworks from the Mall which were SO beautiful. Then we watched the production from New York which too was SO lovely. Around midnite most of the racket from outside began to poop out and I drifted off to sleep.
In the end maybe I am a big pussy but I don’t see it that way. I really think this is an “us vs. them” cultural thing. As Canadians we are not prone to setting off fireworks on our front lawns (nor do we often burn down our houses while deep frying frozen turkey on the wooden deck, but that is a whole other thing) and since we are mostly good doobies and don’t want to get on the wrong side of Officer Dudley Do-Right, we tend not to walk on the wild side very often. All I know is that I am already making plans to be far away from DC next Fourth of July so I don’t have to do this again. Oh, and as a risk- adverse Canadian, I will remember to increase the house insurance so if some little pyromaniac does torch the place, I’m made in the shade.
God Save the Queen and God Bless America. Just leave the fireworks out of the mix!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Decorative Arts?
An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, November 2004
You know … when it comes to Holiday décor, lots and lots of people simply lose control and give in to their basest impulses. We’re talking people who usually have impeccable taste, beautifully appointed homes, manicured lawns, and colour coordinated flower beds, who will after Thanksgiving chuck all of their fine living decorum for a chance to have the biggest honkin’ festival of lights in all of Christendom right in their own front yard. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea but I will tell you that neither money, social position, nor proximity to power guarantees good taste at the Holidays. No matter what area you cruise through, whether it is majestic East Capitol, quaint Park Street, or funky H Street, you will see what I mean.
Like many Hill dwellers, I am not a native Washingtonian or even a Southerner so I don’t always “get” the local cultural folkways. I grew up in Saskatoon, a small mid-western city in the middle of nowhere, north of the 49th parallel, where 40 below zero on Christmas Day is not unknown and people buck up with the fact that “at least it is a dry cold.” (Second favourite local tag line: “at least the sun is shining.” Yeah, well it is so cold that your car battery is completely dead, the dog refuses to go outside, and everyone – male & female – looks like the Michelin man when they do go out, but at least the sun is shining…) When people decorated their houses for Christmas, it was pretty subdued. (And let’s be honest here, in my neighbourhood there were no menorahs and Kwanza was unheard of.) We thought it rather fancy when our parents put coloured lights along the roof line of our houses. Occasionally in a neighbour’s front yard you would see a plywood Santa that Dad made and the kids painted. You could only see this objet d’art in daylight or when the outside light at the front door was on. Some blocks were slightly more dramatic putting on a thematic display – Candy Cane Lane, Bell Crescent – but again these were uniform home-made cutouts, a little cheesy but definitely cute. Granted this was in the Stone Age but I’m willing to bet that many of you would agree that the ghosts of Christmas past were a lot less fussy than they are today.
Now, right after Halloween the stores start rolling out as much holiday kitsch as they have space for. Sure we complain to one another that it is way too early to be thinking about Christmas but then fall all over ourselves at the big box retailers to get the best “stuff” before anyone else can get it. Rational, sensible, conservative professionals we Washingtonians are, but when it comes to our Christmas décor rituals, it’s a slam dunk that good taste loses out to raw emotional sentiment every time.
Check this: $149 will get you a “4-pc. grapevine-style sleigh-set with motion” that is covered in little lights. You won’t want to forget the accompanying “grapevine-style buck and doe with motion” that has even more teeny lights for an additional $49. Throw in the “4-pc holographic indoor/outdoor train set with chasing lights” for a mere $29 and you are well on your way to having your own personal winter wonderland. But wait! You still need Old St. Nick or at least a snowman to complete your diorama. For a measly $49 you can have a “42-inch twinkling snowman” with a red bow, top hat, and scraggly arms that if you squint might look like real sticks that fell from your “6-foot downswept twig tree” (with more lights, of course), that too was just $49. Now you are all set having enough wattage in front of your house to light the entire Capitol dome, to say nothing of the dizzying array of perpetual motion animals that could, if harnessed, run an artificial snow machine if you could just get your hands on one!
I’m just asking, but what is the deal with Santa these days? I mean when I was little, Santa rocked; I loved going to the Bay with my Mum (that’s the Hudson’s Bay Co. for those of you not from God’s country), dressed up in a red velvet dress with lace around the collar to get my picture taken with the Big Guy. The Bay was the best place to visit Santa because you also got a little white ceramic bell to tie onto the zipper of your jacket that made little tinkling sounds when you moved just so. Now that I am a teeny bit older & hopefully wiser (although there are those who may dispute that) I think Santa is a very existential dude. However, I really could live without seeing him in every retail outlet from Baby Gap to Midas Muffler, and certainly I would die happy if I never again saw him bobbing up and down in all of his 25 foot tall glory in the parking lot of just about any mall, grocery store, or car dealership you can name.
Not to be overly critical of the sacred, but I need to know: what’s with the over-the-top Vegas inspired manger scenes you see in front yards and some churches? Is it necessary to have quite so many multi-coloured spotlights poised on the crèche? Did the angels really wear tinsel on their heads? I know there were animals in the stable, but reindeer? In Bethlehem? And honestly! Do you really think it is appropriate for Bing Crosby to be crooning White Christmas to the Baby Jesus? I’m just sayin’ …
In all seriousness though, no one loves the holiday season and a festive décor more than I do. I adore sparkly twinkle lights on a real fir tree placed strategically in the front window so passers-by can admire it from the street (giving you an indoor-outdoor decorative action -- a nice two-fer as it were); underneath should be beautifully wrapped parcels (done by the nice church ladies at the mall) evoking memories of the 15 different unsolicited Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma catalogues received since Halloween; hand stitched, monogrammed stockings (at only $50 each) hanging from the fireplace mantle; and best of all, billions of cookies and gooey squares you couldn’t possibly eat but spent the last 4 weeks baking.
Any of this sounding familiar? I knew it! Santa told me you would understand. I saw him picking up a few things at Frager’s last week …
You know … when it comes to Holiday décor, lots and lots of people simply lose control and give in to their basest impulses. We’re talking people who usually have impeccable taste, beautifully appointed homes, manicured lawns, and colour coordinated flower beds, who will after Thanksgiving chuck all of their fine living decorum for a chance to have the biggest honkin’ festival of lights in all of Christendom right in their own front yard. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea but I will tell you that neither money, social position, nor proximity to power guarantees good taste at the Holidays. No matter what area you cruise through, whether it is majestic East Capitol, quaint Park Street, or funky H Street, you will see what I mean.
Like many Hill dwellers, I am not a native Washingtonian or even a Southerner so I don’t always “get” the local cultural folkways. I grew up in Saskatoon, a small mid-western city in the middle of nowhere, north of the 49th parallel, where 40 below zero on Christmas Day is not unknown and people buck up with the fact that “at least it is a dry cold.” (Second favourite local tag line: “at least the sun is shining.” Yeah, well it is so cold that your car battery is completely dead, the dog refuses to go outside, and everyone – male & female – looks like the Michelin man when they do go out, but at least the sun is shining…) When people decorated their houses for Christmas, it was pretty subdued. (And let’s be honest here, in my neighbourhood there were no menorahs and Kwanza was unheard of.) We thought it rather fancy when our parents put coloured lights along the roof line of our houses. Occasionally in a neighbour’s front yard you would see a plywood Santa that Dad made and the kids painted. You could only see this objet d’art in daylight or when the outside light at the front door was on. Some blocks were slightly more dramatic putting on a thematic display – Candy Cane Lane, Bell Crescent – but again these were uniform home-made cutouts, a little cheesy but definitely cute. Granted this was in the Stone Age but I’m willing to bet that many of you would agree that the ghosts of Christmas past were a lot less fussy than they are today.
Now, right after Halloween the stores start rolling out as much holiday kitsch as they have space for. Sure we complain to one another that it is way too early to be thinking about Christmas but then fall all over ourselves at the big box retailers to get the best “stuff” before anyone else can get it. Rational, sensible, conservative professionals we Washingtonians are, but when it comes to our Christmas décor rituals, it’s a slam dunk that good taste loses out to raw emotional sentiment every time.
Check this: $149 will get you a “4-pc. grapevine-style sleigh-set with motion” that is covered in little lights. You won’t want to forget the accompanying “grapevine-style buck and doe with motion” that has even more teeny lights for an additional $49. Throw in the “4-pc holographic indoor/outdoor train set with chasing lights” for a mere $29 and you are well on your way to having your own personal winter wonderland. But wait! You still need Old St. Nick or at least a snowman to complete your diorama. For a measly $49 you can have a “42-inch twinkling snowman” with a red bow, top hat, and scraggly arms that if you squint might look like real sticks that fell from your “6-foot downswept twig tree” (with more lights, of course), that too was just $49. Now you are all set having enough wattage in front of your house to light the entire Capitol dome, to say nothing of the dizzying array of perpetual motion animals that could, if harnessed, run an artificial snow machine if you could just get your hands on one!
I’m just asking, but what is the deal with Santa these days? I mean when I was little, Santa rocked; I loved going to the Bay with my Mum (that’s the Hudson’s Bay Co. for those of you not from God’s country), dressed up in a red velvet dress with lace around the collar to get my picture taken with the Big Guy. The Bay was the best place to visit Santa because you also got a little white ceramic bell to tie onto the zipper of your jacket that made little tinkling sounds when you moved just so. Now that I am a teeny bit older & hopefully wiser (although there are those who may dispute that) I think Santa is a very existential dude. However, I really could live without seeing him in every retail outlet from Baby Gap to Midas Muffler, and certainly I would die happy if I never again saw him bobbing up and down in all of his 25 foot tall glory in the parking lot of just about any mall, grocery store, or car dealership you can name.
Not to be overly critical of the sacred, but I need to know: what’s with the over-the-top Vegas inspired manger scenes you see in front yards and some churches? Is it necessary to have quite so many multi-coloured spotlights poised on the crèche? Did the angels really wear tinsel on their heads? I know there were animals in the stable, but reindeer? In Bethlehem? And honestly! Do you really think it is appropriate for Bing Crosby to be crooning White Christmas to the Baby Jesus? I’m just sayin’ …
In all seriousness though, no one loves the holiday season and a festive décor more than I do. I adore sparkly twinkle lights on a real fir tree placed strategically in the front window so passers-by can admire it from the street (giving you an indoor-outdoor decorative action -- a nice two-fer as it were); underneath should be beautifully wrapped parcels (done by the nice church ladies at the mall) evoking memories of the 15 different unsolicited Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma catalogues received since Halloween; hand stitched, monogrammed stockings (at only $50 each) hanging from the fireplace mantle; and best of all, billions of cookies and gooey squares you couldn’t possibly eat but spent the last 4 weeks baking.
Any of this sounding familiar? I knew it! Santa told me you would understand. I saw him picking up a few things at Frager’s last week …
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
DOG*matic
An earlier version of this story appeared in Voice of the Hill, April 2005.
You know, a few years ago I realized I was probably the only person on the Hill without a dog. Everywhere I looked there were pooches frolicking, wagging, slobbering, barking, meeting friends for lunch on Tunnicliffe’s patio. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs and really wished I had one myself until I discovered that owning a dog is a whole lot different now from when I was a kid. (You remember, back when dogs slept right on the floor and the pooper-scooper was your Dad’s lawnmower?) Today you need a diploma from the “right” obedience school, regular trips to the grooming salon (because god forbid your pup has guck in its teeth), hypo-allergenic doggie beds, and of course, low carb, vegetarian, or even kosher pet food. The same brand of Dr Ballard’s in a can every night just ain’t gonna cut it any more for today’s “well socialized” dog.
This whole thing started for me in March 2005 when I spent a weekend in New York celebrating my birthday with some urgently needed retail therapy. To my surprise, almost everywhere I went there were dogs – on the street, in coffee shops and hotel lobbies, and even in the Barney’s mother ship where some crazed woman was dragging around the teeniest dog-like critter (and that is being overly generous) as a fashion accessory. It was on a long pink leash and was trying to scurry around the very crowded aisle near the concierge desk, just like it was at home (and in hindsight, I think Barney’s may have been its second home.) I was horrified that someone was going to accidentally squash it with their $1,800 four- inch heeled, suede designer winter boots and no one would even notice. This got me wondering: did that go on in DC too? Had Capitol Hill become over-run with designer pets and child surrogates of the four legged kind and I hadn’t even noticed? On my return to DC, I decided to set up an independent, non-partisan research study to check out a dog’s life on the Hill.
My research officially began at Lincoln Park, the former 24 hour-a-day full service drug market. I lived in that ‘hood for five years in the late 1990s and let me tell you that back in the day, the local wildlife trended more to closer to the ground hungry little critters with long tails, if you catch my drift, than to frisky chocolate labs bounding after tennis balls. In spring 2005, the Park was already Dog Central, the place where many locals went to exercise Fido while making plans for Friday nite.
Dogs definitely were all over the Hill and in big numbers, but anyone who lives on the Hill today surely will testify to the shift in demographics both human and animal in and around Lincoln Park. On any given day now, you will find mostly mommies, daddies, or nannies pushing kids in baby strollers, and laughing at their happy waggy-tailed dogs. Frisbees are flying, dogs are rolling in the grass, and kids are squealing with total delight at the spectacle (well, the playground with the cool monkey bars and sandbox doesn’t hurt either.) It is the picture of the American Dream sans white picket fence. In the early evening the crowd changes slightly as the single working people come out to walk their dogs and catch up with the local gossip. Not so many toddlers at this time of day but plenty of joggers and pets jumping up and down as they greet their long lost pals they haven’t seen since at least the day before. There’s a very high energy level which ramps up as more dogs and people join the mix until near dusk when even the dogs want to go home and chill.
There are several of these so-called dog-friendly parks on the Hill now and people seem to be making good use of them. I talked to one woman who flat out told me that she got a dog to meet men. I’m willing to bet the farm (the kennel?) that she is not alone on that front.
As for the dogs, well you’ve just got to see these puppies yourself to believe it. I mean, some of them are better dressed than the human at the other end of the leash. There’s the fluffy little white dog with the Burberry sweater, and the shiny black lab with the matching Coach leash and collar, and once in a while, some really foofoo dog wearing teeny rubber boots. There are far more pit bull looking dogs than there used to be, but the labs and the shaggy tailed dogs definitely are in the majority.
As part of the original research study, I visited Doolittle’s Chateau Animaux at Eastern Market. Ashley and Judy were holding down the fort when I arrived one sunny, warm Saturday afternoon. The store was a tad over stuffed with giant bags of food, vitamins, toys, kennels, breath and gas relief tablets (!), and other unexpected things. Ashley quickly explained that demand for their services (retail and pet grooming) had grown so much over the past few years, they were about to move to their new space on Barracks Row which they have been in now for several years. I looked around and was particularly taken by the mini-couches for pets. Ashley told me they were a hot new item that was about to sell out. Now this was a nice couch. Looked rather plush to me. Immediately I could picture some nattily groomed dog curled up on it in front of a flat-screen TV watching Animal Planet and munching on “Grandma Lucy’s Freeze Dried Meatball Treats” or “Daisy Delight’s Baco Bit Bears.”
On to Pawticulars on 8th Street where I met Jennifer, the Top Dog (it says so on her business card.) This is when things really started to come together for me as I realized that the phrase “it’s a dog’s life” is based in truth. While visiting with Jennifer, I don’t know how many pooches and people came through the store. Not one of them left without buying a treat. On the counter were elaborately decorated doggie cookies shaped like baseballs, donuts, bon-bons, and of course, bones among other shapes. Pawticulars also seemed to do a good business in the doggie birthday field; there was a large cooler with cakes (carob-banana chip, for example) that you can order for Rover’s birthday party. Then again, for the more casual celebration, like for Allie who dropped in on her 5th birthday with “Mom” and “Dad”, there was the giant cookie bone with Happy Birthday written on it. I also met Coffee who came in to get a halter and Bessie who was in the market for a new T-shirt. Jennifer explained that some dogs come in every day for a treat. She suspects that Barney Bush (the former First Dog) had either been in the store or received a gift from there as one day out of the blue in the mail Jennifer received an autographed photo of Barney from the White House. Even in DC’s pet care market, it’s all about the political connections!
I wound up my research at Dog-Ma, DC’s first daycare for dogs. Honestly, I felt like I was in doggie paradise with Dog-Ma’s two huge yards, loads of toys, playhouse, and “swimming” pool. Years before, owner Rebecca was working 14 hour days and traveling often for work. She felt guilty about leaving her dog alone and frankly, was more than a little fed up with her job. In a total shifting of gears, she opened Dog-Ma on Virginia Avenue just past the Marine Barracks. Today this very busy doggie day-care caters to well-behaved, socialized (don’t you love that term?), healthy dogs. Some come every day, some once in a while, and some even vacation at Dog-Ma while their family hits the slopes or lounges at the beach. Since opening Dog-Ma, Rebecca and her staff have cared for thousands of dogs; only one decided that the grass really was greener on the other side of the freeway. That little pup was retrieved unharmed much to everyone’s relief.
While I agree that this is far from a comprehensive study (a moderate government grant or appropriation would have helped, I’m telling you), it does give a glimpse into some of the services and products available to Hill dwellers and their pampered pooches.
On a personal note, I’ve decided that the good news is that I want to come back in my next lifetime as a household pet of a senior Hill staffer whose spouse works at a non-profit, and they have one, maybe two young kids. The bad news is that they probably couldn’t afford a dog by then because pet care costs and expectations are rising rapidly. I’d likely end up in some West Virginia farm chasing cows all day. Charming. Let it be known that I am definitely not a cow pattie kinda gal, even if I were a dog.
You know, a few years ago I realized I was probably the only person on the Hill without a dog. Everywhere I looked there were pooches frolicking, wagging, slobbering, barking, meeting friends for lunch on Tunnicliffe’s patio. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs and really wished I had one myself until I discovered that owning a dog is a whole lot different now from when I was a kid. (You remember, back when dogs slept right on the floor and the pooper-scooper was your Dad’s lawnmower?) Today you need a diploma from the “right” obedience school, regular trips to the grooming salon (because god forbid your pup has guck in its teeth), hypo-allergenic doggie beds, and of course, low carb, vegetarian, or even kosher pet food. The same brand of Dr Ballard’s in a can every night just ain’t gonna cut it any more for today’s “well socialized” dog.
This whole thing started for me in March 2005 when I spent a weekend in New York celebrating my birthday with some urgently needed retail therapy. To my surprise, almost everywhere I went there were dogs – on the street, in coffee shops and hotel lobbies, and even in the Barney’s mother ship where some crazed woman was dragging around the teeniest dog-like critter (and that is being overly generous) as a fashion accessory. It was on a long pink leash and was trying to scurry around the very crowded aisle near the concierge desk, just like it was at home (and in hindsight, I think Barney’s may have been its second home.) I was horrified that someone was going to accidentally squash it with their $1,800 four- inch heeled, suede designer winter boots and no one would even notice. This got me wondering: did that go on in DC too? Had Capitol Hill become over-run with designer pets and child surrogates of the four legged kind and I hadn’t even noticed? On my return to DC, I decided to set up an independent, non-partisan research study to check out a dog’s life on the Hill.
My research officially began at Lincoln Park, the former 24 hour-a-day full service drug market. I lived in that ‘hood for five years in the late 1990s and let me tell you that back in the day, the local wildlife trended more to closer to the ground hungry little critters with long tails, if you catch my drift, than to frisky chocolate labs bounding after tennis balls. In spring 2005, the Park was already Dog Central, the place where many locals went to exercise Fido while making plans for Friday nite.
Dogs definitely were all over the Hill and in big numbers, but anyone who lives on the Hill today surely will testify to the shift in demographics both human and animal in and around Lincoln Park. On any given day now, you will find mostly mommies, daddies, or nannies pushing kids in baby strollers, and laughing at their happy waggy-tailed dogs. Frisbees are flying, dogs are rolling in the grass, and kids are squealing with total delight at the spectacle (well, the playground with the cool monkey bars and sandbox doesn’t hurt either.) It is the picture of the American Dream sans white picket fence. In the early evening the crowd changes slightly as the single working people come out to walk their dogs and catch up with the local gossip. Not so many toddlers at this time of day but plenty of joggers and pets jumping up and down as they greet their long lost pals they haven’t seen since at least the day before. There’s a very high energy level which ramps up as more dogs and people join the mix until near dusk when even the dogs want to go home and chill.
There are several of these so-called dog-friendly parks on the Hill now and people seem to be making good use of them. I talked to one woman who flat out told me that she got a dog to meet men. I’m willing to bet the farm (the kennel?) that she is not alone on that front.
As for the dogs, well you’ve just got to see these puppies yourself to believe it. I mean, some of them are better dressed than the human at the other end of the leash. There’s the fluffy little white dog with the Burberry sweater, and the shiny black lab with the matching Coach leash and collar, and once in a while, some really foofoo dog wearing teeny rubber boots. There are far more pit bull looking dogs than there used to be, but the labs and the shaggy tailed dogs definitely are in the majority.
As part of the original research study, I visited Doolittle’s Chateau Animaux at Eastern Market. Ashley and Judy were holding down the fort when I arrived one sunny, warm Saturday afternoon. The store was a tad over stuffed with giant bags of food, vitamins, toys, kennels, breath and gas relief tablets (!), and other unexpected things. Ashley quickly explained that demand for their services (retail and pet grooming) had grown so much over the past few years, they were about to move to their new space on Barracks Row which they have been in now for several years. I looked around and was particularly taken by the mini-couches for pets. Ashley told me they were a hot new item that was about to sell out. Now this was a nice couch. Looked rather plush to me. Immediately I could picture some nattily groomed dog curled up on it in front of a flat-screen TV watching Animal Planet and munching on “Grandma Lucy’s Freeze Dried Meatball Treats” or “Daisy Delight’s Baco Bit Bears.”
On to Pawticulars on 8th Street where I met Jennifer, the Top Dog (it says so on her business card.) This is when things really started to come together for me as I realized that the phrase “it’s a dog’s life” is based in truth. While visiting with Jennifer, I don’t know how many pooches and people came through the store. Not one of them left without buying a treat. On the counter were elaborately decorated doggie cookies shaped like baseballs, donuts, bon-bons, and of course, bones among other shapes. Pawticulars also seemed to do a good business in the doggie birthday field; there was a large cooler with cakes (carob-banana chip, for example) that you can order for Rover’s birthday party. Then again, for the more casual celebration, like for Allie who dropped in on her 5th birthday with “Mom” and “Dad”, there was the giant cookie bone with Happy Birthday written on it. I also met Coffee who came in to get a halter and Bessie who was in the market for a new T-shirt. Jennifer explained that some dogs come in every day for a treat. She suspects that Barney Bush (the former First Dog) had either been in the store or received a gift from there as one day out of the blue in the mail Jennifer received an autographed photo of Barney from the White House. Even in DC’s pet care market, it’s all about the political connections!
I wound up my research at Dog-Ma, DC’s first daycare for dogs. Honestly, I felt like I was in doggie paradise with Dog-Ma’s two huge yards, loads of toys, playhouse, and “swimming” pool. Years before, owner Rebecca was working 14 hour days and traveling often for work. She felt guilty about leaving her dog alone and frankly, was more than a little fed up with her job. In a total shifting of gears, she opened Dog-Ma on Virginia Avenue just past the Marine Barracks. Today this very busy doggie day-care caters to well-behaved, socialized (don’t you love that term?), healthy dogs. Some come every day, some once in a while, and some even vacation at Dog-Ma while their family hits the slopes or lounges at the beach. Since opening Dog-Ma, Rebecca and her staff have cared for thousands of dogs; only one decided that the grass really was greener on the other side of the freeway. That little pup was retrieved unharmed much to everyone’s relief.
While I agree that this is far from a comprehensive study (a moderate government grant or appropriation would have helped, I’m telling you), it does give a glimpse into some of the services and products available to Hill dwellers and their pampered pooches.
On a personal note, I’ve decided that the good news is that I want to come back in my next lifetime as a household pet of a senior Hill staffer whose spouse works at a non-profit, and they have one, maybe two young kids. The bad news is that they probably couldn’t afford a dog by then because pet care costs and expectations are rising rapidly. I’d likely end up in some West Virginia farm chasing cows all day. Charming. Let it be known that I am definitely not a cow pattie kinda gal, even if I were a dog.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Greetings ... again
A version of this story originally appeared in the Voice of the Hill, January 2005
You know, when you meet people these days, and I don’t only mean total strangers but also those near and dear to your heart (like your family, the next door neighbour’s athletic looking pool boy [sigh], or your favourite bartender at your favourite watering hole), there is an instinctual moment of panic that ensues. Just how do you know what you are supposed to do next now that you are face to face with this person? Should you shake hands? Hug? Kiss one cheek? Kiss both cheeks? Double back on the first cheek for a total of three kisses? Hug and kiss? Run in the other direction? What is the proper greeting these days? And just who is deciding anyway?
This is one of those universal dilemmas that I hear people discuss with great regularity. Meeting people has become so messy and touchy-feely that it almost makes me want to stay home for fear of insulting someone because I am either: A) too gregarious, or B) not gregarious enough with my greeting. Sometimes I just want cross the street or hide behind my menu to avoid contact because I’m not sure of the protocol of the situation. For example, how do you greet someone from your office when you surprisingly run into them at Eastern Market on the weekend? This is a particularly tough case because at work you wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to hug or kiss a colleague. Yet, this is definitely an informal encounter so is it expected you would be more familiar? A no-brainer you would think, but in reality this common situation has the potential to derail your entire career if you are not careful. I know it feels like a casual social situation because it is Saturday morning, you are puttering around the Hill wearing your favourite jeans and old runners, the dog is in tow, and you may or may not have showered or brushed your teeth. But honestly. Do you want to be known as the guy who groped the woman three cubes down? In public? In front of her daughter?
Now, I’m all for a little self expression and it can be rather flattering when someone actually wants to buss you on the cheek, but I am telling you life was a lot simpler when we followed rules and more or less kept our hands (and lips) to ourselves. For example, time was that no matter what you needed to know about meeting and greeting (among other potential social landmines) you could find it out by skimming Etiquette; the Blue Book of Social Usage by Emily Post. Oh yeah baby, it was all there in black and white. Pages and pages and pages of how to greet anyone on the planet in any situation at any time of year. OK so maybe there was a lot of memory work involved but I promise you that no where in the entire 917 pages of my volume (published in 1942 by Funk & Wagnall’s – yes of the dictionary fame) is there mention of kissing or hugging when greeting anyone. Mrs. Post would have fainted dead away at the suggestion of such intimacy. The basic rules, I surmise, were that when gentlemen met they always shook hands. When a lady met a gentleman it was her option to offer her hand or not. There was no lip locking, no slobbering on someone’s cheek any number of times, certainly no bear hugs, and positively no “Hey babe. What up?” Mrs. Post recommended a simple “How do you do?”
Well, I’m thinking that this kind of formality and crystal clear clarity might be a good thing. I get so darned confused – no make that intimidated -- by all of this loosey goosey kissing thing that I’m almost paralyzed, and I like kissing! I guess it is more that I really don’t know who expects what, how often, and how close. Does anyone know anymore?
DC folks have become pretty amorous in their greetings as I am sure you have noticed. We’ve all seen it: women kissing men, women kissing women, men kissing men, weirdoes kissing pets, everyone kissing babies and small children. Jeez. It’s one big rambunctious group hug out there. No wonder there are so many baby strollers in Lincoln Park these days!
Seriously though, it really is a dilemma. I have a very good Persian friend who is a two cheek kisser. I am a one cheek kisser. Both of us are huggers too. On more than one occasion when we are together and have come upon a mutual acquaintance, we have set in motion a cosmic collision of huggy/kissy affection versus head-spinning mayhem. Witness: she approaches our mutual friend and greets them warmly with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. A standard has been set for this encounter. But I am only a one cheek kisser so when I plant my one and only, the recipient more often than not has already turned their head in expectation of a second buss that doesn’t materialize. Yikes! Noses are bonked, lipstick is smeared, and invariably someone begins to blush and feel awkward. Imaging this scene if a French three cheek kisser entered the picture. We’re talking major chaos here. Sure, it’s all fun until someone loses an eye.
And just when does all of this hugging business cross the line to groping? Is the hug you give your grandma the same as the hug you give someone for whom you have lust in your heart (understanding that lust isn’t necessarily always a bad thing even if you are Jimmy Carter)? Is your partner justified in reading you the riot act when you’ve never been one for any kind of public show of affection and suddenly you become a two cheek kisser and close hugger when introduced to the Perfect Ten who just moved in next door? Talk about the potential for the mother of all relationship dramas.
So what is the answer? Or in a city as cosmopolitan and eclectic as DC can there be a solution? I think that we should take a cue from our friends to the far north and throw a little Eskimo kissing into the mix, just for shits and giggles. You know, the rubbing of noses thing. If you think we have confusion now, just wait until that catches on. Too bad we didn’t start this sooner cuz we sure had loads of time to practice Eskimo kisses last winter during the ongoing Snowpocalypse.
You know, when you meet people these days, and I don’t only mean total strangers but also those near and dear to your heart (like your family, the next door neighbour’s athletic looking pool boy [sigh], or your favourite bartender at your favourite watering hole), there is an instinctual moment of panic that ensues. Just how do you know what you are supposed to do next now that you are face to face with this person? Should you shake hands? Hug? Kiss one cheek? Kiss both cheeks? Double back on the first cheek for a total of three kisses? Hug and kiss? Run in the other direction? What is the proper greeting these days? And just who is deciding anyway?
This is one of those universal dilemmas that I hear people discuss with great regularity. Meeting people has become so messy and touchy-feely that it almost makes me want to stay home for fear of insulting someone because I am either: A) too gregarious, or B) not gregarious enough with my greeting. Sometimes I just want cross the street or hide behind my menu to avoid contact because I’m not sure of the protocol of the situation. For example, how do you greet someone from your office when you surprisingly run into them at Eastern Market on the weekend? This is a particularly tough case because at work you wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to hug or kiss a colleague. Yet, this is definitely an informal encounter so is it expected you would be more familiar? A no-brainer you would think, but in reality this common situation has the potential to derail your entire career if you are not careful. I know it feels like a casual social situation because it is Saturday morning, you are puttering around the Hill wearing your favourite jeans and old runners, the dog is in tow, and you may or may not have showered or brushed your teeth. But honestly. Do you want to be known as the guy who groped the woman three cubes down? In public? In front of her daughter?
Now, I’m all for a little self expression and it can be rather flattering when someone actually wants to buss you on the cheek, but I am telling you life was a lot simpler when we followed rules and more or less kept our hands (and lips) to ourselves. For example, time was that no matter what you needed to know about meeting and greeting (among other potential social landmines) you could find it out by skimming Etiquette; the Blue Book of Social Usage by Emily Post. Oh yeah baby, it was all there in black and white. Pages and pages and pages of how to greet anyone on the planet in any situation at any time of year. OK so maybe there was a lot of memory work involved but I promise you that no where in the entire 917 pages of my volume (published in 1942 by Funk & Wagnall’s – yes of the dictionary fame) is there mention of kissing or hugging when greeting anyone. Mrs. Post would have fainted dead away at the suggestion of such intimacy. The basic rules, I surmise, were that when gentlemen met they always shook hands. When a lady met a gentleman it was her option to offer her hand or not. There was no lip locking, no slobbering on someone’s cheek any number of times, certainly no bear hugs, and positively no “Hey babe. What up?” Mrs. Post recommended a simple “How do you do?”
Well, I’m thinking that this kind of formality and crystal clear clarity might be a good thing. I get so darned confused – no make that intimidated -- by all of this loosey goosey kissing thing that I’m almost paralyzed, and I like kissing! I guess it is more that I really don’t know who expects what, how often, and how close. Does anyone know anymore?
DC folks have become pretty amorous in their greetings as I am sure you have noticed. We’ve all seen it: women kissing men, women kissing women, men kissing men, weirdoes kissing pets, everyone kissing babies and small children. Jeez. It’s one big rambunctious group hug out there. No wonder there are so many baby strollers in Lincoln Park these days!
Seriously though, it really is a dilemma. I have a very good Persian friend who is a two cheek kisser. I am a one cheek kisser. Both of us are huggers too. On more than one occasion when we are together and have come upon a mutual acquaintance, we have set in motion a cosmic collision of huggy/kissy affection versus head-spinning mayhem. Witness: she approaches our mutual friend and greets them warmly with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. A standard has been set for this encounter. But I am only a one cheek kisser so when I plant my one and only, the recipient more often than not has already turned their head in expectation of a second buss that doesn’t materialize. Yikes! Noses are bonked, lipstick is smeared, and invariably someone begins to blush and feel awkward. Imaging this scene if a French three cheek kisser entered the picture. We’re talking major chaos here. Sure, it’s all fun until someone loses an eye.
And just when does all of this hugging business cross the line to groping? Is the hug you give your grandma the same as the hug you give someone for whom you have lust in your heart (understanding that lust isn’t necessarily always a bad thing even if you are Jimmy Carter)? Is your partner justified in reading you the riot act when you’ve never been one for any kind of public show of affection and suddenly you become a two cheek kisser and close hugger when introduced to the Perfect Ten who just moved in next door? Talk about the potential for the mother of all relationship dramas.
So what is the answer? Or in a city as cosmopolitan and eclectic as DC can there be a solution? I think that we should take a cue from our friends to the far north and throw a little Eskimo kissing into the mix, just for shits and giggles. You know, the rubbing of noses thing. If you think we have confusion now, just wait until that catches on. Too bad we didn’t start this sooner cuz we sure had loads of time to practice Eskimo kisses last winter during the ongoing Snowpocalypse.
Observing BAG*GAGE a la 2010
The original story appeared in the Voice of the Hill, October 2004.
You know … almost everyone in DC carries a bag. Lots of people carry two or more. Look around and you will see what I mean, particularly on Metro in the morning, my favourite people watching venue.
Young professional women carry the most bags. An early twenty-something woman leaves her apartment Monday morning with a handbag draped on one shoulder (it may or may not coordinate with today’s outfit because she can’t yet afford a fleet of different coloured bags), a slightly beat up gym bag also hung over one shoulder and looped across her chest (because she is determined to hit the gym today since she needs to lose 5 pounds by Saturday evening when she wants to wear her tight jeans when she goes out for drinks with the girls), a mini pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag with her lunch tucked inside is clutched in one hand. On the menu is either leftover pizza from Sunday evening’s card game, or a salad made with the intention that “this week for sure I will stick to my diet.” More likely lunch is a power bar, an interchangeable banana/apple depending on what was left from the grocery run last week, and a fat free yoghurt. An umbrella might be poking out of one of the bags. There’s a good possibility she also is carrying the free Express handed to her as she entered the Metro at Tenley, and maybe a novel.
This is a lot of baggage to maneuver especially when searching for the illusive Metro card that inevitably has wormed its way to the bottom of one of her bags. By the way, is there anyone out there who hasn’t crashed into the back of some woman as she stops cold right in front of the exit turnstile because she can’t locate her Metro card in all of her bags? You know what I am talking about ...
Finally exiting the Metro, she stuffs the newspaper and novel into one of the open bags because god knows there are only so many hands and she still needs to run through Starbucks on the way to the office for coffee and yes, another little bag with a scone.
Even on weekends young women seem to cart around a lot of bags. Check out the scene at Eastern Market any Saturday or Sunday afternoon. The typical young woman will have a shoulder bag (a purse or maybe a faux designer backpack or heaven forbid, a Hello Kitty backpack!). In one hand she has a cotton grocery-type bag with tomatoes, peaches, and salsa, or perhaps yet another newly purchased handbag from one of the Market vendors (a bag within a bag). Throw a curious dog on a leash into the mix and this truly is an impressive juggling act.
Young Washington-area men too carry a lot of bags but theirs are very different from those of their female counterparts. Men in their twenties seem to carry more college-looking paraphernalia such as backpacks with alma mater logos, long-strapped book bags (again with school logo), and occasionally plastic grocery bags stuffed with dress shoes or runners (the opposite of what he currently has on his feet). Bags are not coordinated with his outfit; in fact, they aggressively bear no relationship to what he is wearing. Whether he is a graduate student, works at one of the gazillions of non-profits in the region, or is a freshly minted law associate, this is a Washington truism. You know I’m right.
Thirty-something DC women and men are more stylish in their choice of bags. This is a function of age, earning power, or the desire to portray a polished professional image. (“I have Arrived!”) As Washingtonians stride confidently into their thirties, their bags take on more cosmic meanings. The right bag becomes a public marker of one’s place in the all-important DC food chain. Indeed, who doesn’t look twice at the Louis Vuitton handbag on the arm of the attractive woman in the black suit and matching pumps preparing to get off at Farragut North to see if she is carrying a “real” Louis? Chances are that this status savvy gal-about-town also has with her a trim leather briefcase, shut up as tight as Homeland Security. Her coordinated and self assured public persona is rounded out with a tidy looking workout bag supposedly containing her athletic gear. Indeed this bag is a far cry from the gym bag she carried just a few years ago. The current incarnation has a designer label or trendy pattern that implies she is serious about her fitness commitment, whether this is true or not. Her bag may simply contain the Washington Post or Financial Times, her Burberry umbrella, her niece’s artwork to be hung in her cubicle, and oh, quite incidentally, her yoga clothes and mat. What difference does it make? Right now, at this moment in her life it’s all about the bag itself more than the baggage in it.
Even men at this stage are noticeably more aware of their bags. Gone are the sloppy backpacks and crinkly grocery bags, replaced with a medium sized briefcase. Please note that a male owned briefcase often is larger than one carried by a female. Why? Because it holds more “stuff.” Women tend to compartmentalize their bags into specific functions. Men will pitch everything into one bag and hope like hell they can get away with it. Furthermore, it is important that the male owned bag be innocuous. No man in DC wants to be known as “the guy with the really great bag.” I don’t care if he is straight or gay. In DC, most men are religiously conservative in how they present themselves. You will not see a lot of European man-bags around this town.
There will always be folks out there who carry bags from last year’s conference on global warming and energy policy with the long list of sponsor logos plastered all over the front, or use the freebie canvas bag they got when they contributed to WETA four years ago (because “damn it, it’s still a good bag. My wife just needs to wash it”). But especially in the Capitol Hill and Downtown sectors of DC, people tend to be slightly more polished. Or think they are more polished.
As Washingtonians age, the bags they carry often are more expensive and industry specific than what they sported earlier in their career. For example, lawyers of a certain stature use large leather, briefing bags with locks and buckles; junior associates generally schlep these bags for their mentors. These lawyerly bags are curious looking and can give the owner an air of importance. You will, however, wait a long time to see any of these bags on Metro. Workout bags virtually disappear on most of the over forties crowd. Those people who do maintain a gym membership use the facilities at their Club where their workout gear is laundered daily on-site thus negating the need for a bag. Rarely do you see anyone from this set carrying their things in a grocery or shopping bag! That said, however, I have a friend who owns several quite nice bags in which to transport his papers between office and home, but uses a plastic bag or no bag at all. I don’t get it but it makes him happy.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, I know. What about the many bags parents carry, especially mothers of toddlers? Colourful diaper bags, bags of toys and/or snacks, maybe even a bag for covering the stroller are all de rigueur. And, what’s the deal with the hierarchy of shopping bags we all use from time to time? How come we are OK being seen holding a bag from Neiman Marcus or Brooks Brothers but a bag from Walmart or Target can cause heart palpitations? Talk about bag*gage.
I’m not sure but I think that’s an entrée to another story …
You know … almost everyone in DC carries a bag. Lots of people carry two or more. Look around and you will see what I mean, particularly on Metro in the morning, my favourite people watching venue.
Young professional women carry the most bags. An early twenty-something woman leaves her apartment Monday morning with a handbag draped on one shoulder (it may or may not coordinate with today’s outfit because she can’t yet afford a fleet of different coloured bags), a slightly beat up gym bag also hung over one shoulder and looped across her chest (because she is determined to hit the gym today since she needs to lose 5 pounds by Saturday evening when she wants to wear her tight jeans when she goes out for drinks with the girls), a mini pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag with her lunch tucked inside is clutched in one hand. On the menu is either leftover pizza from Sunday evening’s card game, or a salad made with the intention that “this week for sure I will stick to my diet.” More likely lunch is a power bar, an interchangeable banana/apple depending on what was left from the grocery run last week, and a fat free yoghurt. An umbrella might be poking out of one of the bags. There’s a good possibility she also is carrying the free Express handed to her as she entered the Metro at Tenley, and maybe a novel.
This is a lot of baggage to maneuver especially when searching for the illusive Metro card that inevitably has wormed its way to the bottom of one of her bags. By the way, is there anyone out there who hasn’t crashed into the back of some woman as she stops cold right in front of the exit turnstile because she can’t locate her Metro card in all of her bags? You know what I am talking about ...
Finally exiting the Metro, she stuffs the newspaper and novel into one of the open bags because god knows there are only so many hands and she still needs to run through Starbucks on the way to the office for coffee and yes, another little bag with a scone.
Even on weekends young women seem to cart around a lot of bags. Check out the scene at Eastern Market any Saturday or Sunday afternoon. The typical young woman will have a shoulder bag (a purse or maybe a faux designer backpack or heaven forbid, a Hello Kitty backpack!). In one hand she has a cotton grocery-type bag with tomatoes, peaches, and salsa, or perhaps yet another newly purchased handbag from one of the Market vendors (a bag within a bag). Throw a curious dog on a leash into the mix and this truly is an impressive juggling act.
Young Washington-area men too carry a lot of bags but theirs are very different from those of their female counterparts. Men in their twenties seem to carry more college-looking paraphernalia such as backpacks with alma mater logos, long-strapped book bags (again with school logo), and occasionally plastic grocery bags stuffed with dress shoes or runners (the opposite of what he currently has on his feet). Bags are not coordinated with his outfit; in fact, they aggressively bear no relationship to what he is wearing. Whether he is a graduate student, works at one of the gazillions of non-profits in the region, or is a freshly minted law associate, this is a Washington truism. You know I’m right.
Thirty-something DC women and men are more stylish in their choice of bags. This is a function of age, earning power, or the desire to portray a polished professional image. (“I have Arrived!”) As Washingtonians stride confidently into their thirties, their bags take on more cosmic meanings. The right bag becomes a public marker of one’s place in the all-important DC food chain. Indeed, who doesn’t look twice at the Louis Vuitton handbag on the arm of the attractive woman in the black suit and matching pumps preparing to get off at Farragut North to see if she is carrying a “real” Louis? Chances are that this status savvy gal-about-town also has with her a trim leather briefcase, shut up as tight as Homeland Security. Her coordinated and self assured public persona is rounded out with a tidy looking workout bag supposedly containing her athletic gear. Indeed this bag is a far cry from the gym bag she carried just a few years ago. The current incarnation has a designer label or trendy pattern that implies she is serious about her fitness commitment, whether this is true or not. Her bag may simply contain the Washington Post or Financial Times, her Burberry umbrella, her niece’s artwork to be hung in her cubicle, and oh, quite incidentally, her yoga clothes and mat. What difference does it make? Right now, at this moment in her life it’s all about the bag itself more than the baggage in it.
Even men at this stage are noticeably more aware of their bags. Gone are the sloppy backpacks and crinkly grocery bags, replaced with a medium sized briefcase. Please note that a male owned briefcase often is larger than one carried by a female. Why? Because it holds more “stuff.” Women tend to compartmentalize their bags into specific functions. Men will pitch everything into one bag and hope like hell they can get away with it. Furthermore, it is important that the male owned bag be innocuous. No man in DC wants to be known as “the guy with the really great bag.” I don’t care if he is straight or gay. In DC, most men are religiously conservative in how they present themselves. You will not see a lot of European man-bags around this town.
There will always be folks out there who carry bags from last year’s conference on global warming and energy policy with the long list of sponsor logos plastered all over the front, or use the freebie canvas bag they got when they contributed to WETA four years ago (because “damn it, it’s still a good bag. My wife just needs to wash it”). But especially in the Capitol Hill and Downtown sectors of DC, people tend to be slightly more polished. Or think they are more polished.
As Washingtonians age, the bags they carry often are more expensive and industry specific than what they sported earlier in their career. For example, lawyers of a certain stature use large leather, briefing bags with locks and buckles; junior associates generally schlep these bags for their mentors. These lawyerly bags are curious looking and can give the owner an air of importance. You will, however, wait a long time to see any of these bags on Metro. Workout bags virtually disappear on most of the over forties crowd. Those people who do maintain a gym membership use the facilities at their Club where their workout gear is laundered daily on-site thus negating the need for a bag. Rarely do you see anyone from this set carrying their things in a grocery or shopping bag! That said, however, I have a friend who owns several quite nice bags in which to transport his papers between office and home, but uses a plastic bag or no bag at all. I don’t get it but it makes him happy.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, I know. What about the many bags parents carry, especially mothers of toddlers? Colourful diaper bags, bags of toys and/or snacks, maybe even a bag for covering the stroller are all de rigueur. And, what’s the deal with the hierarchy of shopping bags we all use from time to time? How come we are OK being seen holding a bag from Neiman Marcus or Brooks Brothers but a bag from Walmart or Target can cause heart palpitations? Talk about bag*gage.
I’m not sure but I think that’s an entrée to another story …
Monday, June 21, 2010
Life in the South - The Late Nite Bug Episode
June 17, 2010; 4:15 am
Jesus H. Christ on a Popscicle stick! My heart is still pounding. There was just a HUGE bug in my bathroom! Ginormous! With antennae as long as my fingers! I, of course, was half asleep (all this at 3:45 am) and not wearing my glasses but as I was turning out the light, I spotted him on the white shower curtain. Couldn't miss him on that bright background. Panic ensued. I dashed downstairs and put on rubber boots and ski gloves, got bug spray and the Swifter (it has a long handle like a broom most usually used for dusting floors as opposed to combat maneuvres) expecting to knock him off the curtain into the tub and PRESTO! he would be history when I washed him down the drain. Only by the time I got back upstairs the bastard had relocated and was half way up the bathroom door. I NUKED him with bug spray and let me tell you, he certainly didn't go down without a fight. Sucker struggled all the way to the middle of the rug in the guest bedroom, me in tow spraying him with bug junk before he finally slowed down and I began whacking him with the Swifter. Now that had to be a sight-- me in blue and green cotton jammies, tall black rubber boots, beige ski gloves beating the hell out of this damn bug, covered in half a bottle of silvery-white bug spray, with my Swifter. There's a whole new marketing strategy for Swifter! Finally when I was sure he was a goner, I lifted the Swifter to peek and damn, if he didn't move so I pounded the crap out of him some more. When the carnage was over, I stomped downstairs to get paper towel (at least 10 sheets), stomped back up the stairs in case he was resurrected and was on the move again, scooped him up, and stomped back downstairs again to flush him in the powder room cuz no way in hell he was going to come floating back upstream into my toilet bowl. I was already traumatized enough to have that thought bounce around in my head for the next week. I cleaned up the river of bug spray cascading all over the floor in the hall (why do they make that stuff smell like flowers?), wiped off the bottom of the Swifter, and got myself a Popscicle to calm myself down. I may never sleep again. And so how was your nite?
Jesus H. Christ on a Popscicle stick! My heart is still pounding. There was just a HUGE bug in my bathroom! Ginormous! With antennae as long as my fingers! I, of course, was half asleep (all this at 3:45 am) and not wearing my glasses but as I was turning out the light, I spotted him on the white shower curtain. Couldn't miss him on that bright background. Panic ensued. I dashed downstairs and put on rubber boots and ski gloves, got bug spray and the Swifter (it has a long handle like a broom most usually used for dusting floors as opposed to combat maneuvres) expecting to knock him off the curtain into the tub and PRESTO! he would be history when I washed him down the drain. Only by the time I got back upstairs the bastard had relocated and was half way up the bathroom door. I NUKED him with bug spray and let me tell you, he certainly didn't go down without a fight. Sucker struggled all the way to the middle of the rug in the guest bedroom, me in tow spraying him with bug junk before he finally slowed down and I began whacking him with the Swifter. Now that had to be a sight-- me in blue and green cotton jammies, tall black rubber boots, beige ski gloves beating the hell out of this damn bug, covered in half a bottle of silvery-white bug spray, with my Swifter. There's a whole new marketing strategy for Swifter! Finally when I was sure he was a goner, I lifted the Swifter to peek and damn, if he didn't move so I pounded the crap out of him some more. When the carnage was over, I stomped downstairs to get paper towel (at least 10 sheets), stomped back up the stairs in case he was resurrected and was on the move again, scooped him up, and stomped back downstairs again to flush him in the powder room cuz no way in hell he was going to come floating back upstream into my toilet bowl. I was already traumatized enough to have that thought bounce around in my head for the next week. I cleaned up the river of bug spray cascading all over the floor in the hall (why do they make that stuff smell like flowers?), wiped off the bottom of the Swifter, and got myself a Popscicle to calm myself down. I may never sleep again. And so how was your nite?
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