Friday, August 06, 2004
Happy Anniversary
Through the good graces of a friend, I am invited to a pool party this weekend.
One of this blog's first entries involved last year's pool party and I realize that I have reached, or perhaps already passed, its first year anniversary. Have I changed this past year? Maybe a little. Those thoughts were on my mind when writing yesterday's entry.
The pool party is hosted by a socially-prominent Cincinnati couple. Their house is luxurious, immaculate; well-tended landscaping surrounds an in-ground pool and hot-tub. A baby blue Lincoln -- the classic 1960s model with suicide doors -- sits in the drive. The party is catered "by good friends" and can sometimes be "clothing optional."
I know this couple only through my good friend: She is their neighbor. At last year's party, I had hoped to meet some people and was disappointed; this year, I couldn't care less. I'm not entirely certain I'll even show this year.
The best of these folks would, I'm sure, describe themselves as ambitious and goal-oriented. Feeling ambitious, at least about a career, is something that has eluded me. But I don't know if I feel so awful about that; there is something fulfilling that comes with rewiring old lamps, after all. Or stripping and restaining furniture (next on the project list). And listening to music.
During this summer's brief stint at the opera, I played a peasant followed by a quick-change into a soldier enamored of the Soprano followed by a scene as a party guest. I had two free passes, and my friend used the second ticket to bring one from the socially-prominent couple.
I went to the final opera of the season by myself, sitting in the cheapest gallery. To one side, an elderly couple sat. ("These are horrible seats!" exclaimed the woman. We all laughed.) To the other side, three woman came in wearing strapless, floor-length gowns and carrying beaded bags, revealed that not only did they have full body tattoos but that they did not believe in shaving. (And perhaps not in deodorant, as there was a distinct odor.) But to each their own, and I talked a bit to the one next to me. ("We've never been to the opera before.")
To my horror, I spot the socially-prominent couple moving to their seats -- one row ahead. By the look on their faces, not only do they agree that these are terrible seats, but they may well have caught a whiff. And here I am, wearing an untucked shirt, jeans and red converse hi-tops. (I turn away and eagerly engage the elderly couple in conversation. "Wow, so your granddaughter is applying to medical school?")
After the performance starts, I surreptitiously check them out. They are dressed to the nines: Navy blazers with glinting buttons and yellow power ties. They sit unmoving, their mouths set in disapproval. They do not clap, and leave before the curtain falls. ("The performance didn't get such great reviews," someone told me later.)
Two weeks ago, a group of us volunteered to weed a local park. It was part of a working nineteenth-century farm and I hiked some of it afterwards, talking to the pigs and the sheep. (The pigs especially seemed to appreciate it, but maybe they just wanted to be fed.)
After a week's incubation, most of us have come down with poison ivy. I've never had it before and didn't correlate it with the outing until we sat in a meeting collectively scratching. The rashes are ugly, oozing things; they could make quite an impression at a socially-prominent pool party.
One of this blog's first entries involved last year's pool party and I realize that I have reached, or perhaps already passed, its first year anniversary. Have I changed this past year? Maybe a little. Those thoughts were on my mind when writing yesterday's entry.
The pool party is hosted by a socially-prominent Cincinnati couple. Their house is luxurious, immaculate; well-tended landscaping surrounds an in-ground pool and hot-tub. A baby blue Lincoln -- the classic 1960s model with suicide doors -- sits in the drive. The party is catered "by good friends" and can sometimes be "clothing optional."
I know this couple only through my good friend: She is their neighbor. At last year's party, I had hoped to meet some people and was disappointed; this year, I couldn't care less. I'm not entirely certain I'll even show this year.
The best of these folks would, I'm sure, describe themselves as ambitious and goal-oriented. Feeling ambitious, at least about a career, is something that has eluded me. But I don't know if I feel so awful about that; there is something fulfilling that comes with rewiring old lamps, after all. Or stripping and restaining furniture (next on the project list). And listening to music.
During this summer's brief stint at the opera, I played a peasant followed by a quick-change into a soldier enamored of the Soprano followed by a scene as a party guest. I had two free passes, and my friend used the second ticket to bring one from the socially-prominent couple.
- "I'm so frustrated at the sloppy fashions these days," the man whined. "I hate that look where men no longer tuck in their shirts."
I went to the final opera of the season by myself, sitting in the cheapest gallery. To one side, an elderly couple sat. ("These are horrible seats!" exclaimed the woman. We all laughed.) To the other side, three woman came in wearing strapless, floor-length gowns and carrying beaded bags, revealed that not only did they have full body tattoos but that they did not believe in shaving. (And perhaps not in deodorant, as there was a distinct odor.) But to each their own, and I talked a bit to the one next to me. ("We've never been to the opera before.")
To my horror, I spot the socially-prominent couple moving to their seats -- one row ahead. By the look on their faces, not only do they agree that these are terrible seats, but they may well have caught a whiff. And here I am, wearing an untucked shirt, jeans and red converse hi-tops. (I turn away and eagerly engage the elderly couple in conversation. "Wow, so your granddaughter is applying to medical school?")
After the performance starts, I surreptitiously check them out. They are dressed to the nines: Navy blazers with glinting buttons and yellow power ties. They sit unmoving, their mouths set in disapproval. They do not clap, and leave before the curtain falls. ("The performance didn't get such great reviews," someone told me later.)
- "What does Hugshyhermit do?"
"He's a lawyer."
"Oh? Really?"
Two weeks ago, a group of us volunteered to weed a local park. It was part of a working nineteenth-century farm and I hiked some of it afterwards, talking to the pigs and the sheep. (The pigs especially seemed to appreciate it, but maybe they just wanted to be fed.)
After a week's incubation, most of us have come down with poison ivy. I've never had it before and didn't correlate it with the outing until we sat in a meeting collectively scratching. The rashes are ugly, oozing things; they could make quite an impression at a socially-prominent pool party.