Queen Of The Cul De Sac

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I went to a neighborhood party the other night. Even though I have stopped attending the monthly book club meetings I figured the annual Christmas party would be fun, I also felt much better prepared than in previous years. You see, at the Christmas party they do a gift grab or gift swap. If you are not familiar with this it is a tradition that is half fun, half blood sport. Everyone brings a gift, in this case a book or reading related, and then gets a number. When it is time for the exchange the person with one picks a gift from the pile, and then the person with 2, can either pick a gift from the pile or “steal” person number 1’s gift. If your gift is “stolen”, you may steal a gift or take a new one- after three steals the gift is “dead” and belongs to you. The requirement of so many quotation marks to explain this game maybe should say something about its value. Nevertheless, I was eager to make a good impression and bring a steal-worthy gift.

At my first book club Christmas swap I misjudged the crowd miserably. I had bought some books that I love- one by Michael Frayn- a British comedic and satiric writer who has won many awards. I find his writing hilarious and thought it would make a great gift. After the person who received it got stuck with it after no one wanted to steal it, I figured I would tell her about what she “won.” I went up to her and said “That’s what I brought- it’s a hilarious satire of college academics.” She looked at me and said “Oh- that’s OK, I don’t mind.” I hadn’t realized that I was apologizing.

This time was going to be different. It is a new day, a new year, a new me. I was going to dazzle the crowd with my selection and then they would see how much fun I really was. It didn’t go as well as I had thought. First of all, I had thought my appetizer (of course I brought something) would be a big hit. My choice was also borne out of previous experience. At the last get together I brought cucumbers spread with olive tapenade. At the end of the evening I watched the hostess toss the entire platter in the garbage- not a big hit. Meanwhile, the buffalo chicken dip had people asking for the recipe and cooing over what an excellent cook the woman was. So- I figured go mainstream. I brought a port wine and nut cheese log with mixed crackers and bread. Who doesn’t love the port wine cheese spread? It turns out not many people. The hit of the night? Cheeseburger dip and appetizer cups made with sausage and wonton wrappers (they were lovely actually).

OK- well the appetizer tanked. I was not discouraged because I was very confident with me book. No more British authors, no more Pulitzer prize winners- no. I selected the Chelsea Handler book Are You There Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea.” First of all, the book could be entirely blank and still be worth the price thanks to that title. I could only wish to think of something so brilliant and funny. It had vodka in the title. What was not to like about that? Get ready to be stolen!

Well, I hadn’t counted on the Southern Living Annual Recipe Book. Turns out the zeitgeist is more egg strata than jokes about vodka. Two people brought that book and it got passed around more than, well, more than a bottle of vodka. The woman who ultimately got stuck with my book looked glum. She had to take it after losing the cookbook. I told her not to worry- the book was so funny she would have a great time reading it. She put on a sad smile and said “Well, I guess I can borrow the cookbook from Tracey.”

So, I’ve learned that trying to predict the zeitgeist of this suburban crowd is not easy. First I overshoot, and then I undershoot— at least I think I did—either that or I just pick lousy stuff.

Ahh- Christmas. It makes me nostalgic for this one neighborhood woman who moved. Not because we were friends or friendly, but she used to host an annual Christmas party at her house. I went once and it was an OK time was had by all- everyone pretty much just talked to whoever they came with, but that’s not the point. The point is that the invitation that I received the first year was my initiation to suburban socializing and how the invitation system works. I’ll cut to the chase- everything is pot luck. Every party you will ever be invited to will indeed be pot luck. In my previous life, if I received a party invitation the information on it included the time, place, and an RSVP phone number.

If you are unfamiliar with suburban entertaining, do not be surprised when you receive your first cul-de-sac invite. I was not prepared when I received Ginny’s invitation. It was a printed flyer placed in my mailbox- and after the requisite rhyming verse (something like It’s the Christmas time of year/Join Us for lots of cheer/If you don’t we’ll be sad we fear/) I have yet to receive some sort of invite without a rhyme—I will try to start keeping them and share them with you, and please all readers (both of you) if you receive one, please share.

Anyway….after the verse and at the bottom in bold were our instructions “ A-L appetizer, M-Z dessert” Hmm, I was being invited to a party and then told what to bring. Now, maybe it’s true what I have suspected all along, that city folk are much more polite than country folk (deep down) but usually when I am invited to a party, I call the hostess and offer to bring something, she will say oh no, just bring yourself and then I will bring something light. Then, when I host a party the same dance will begin. I guess out here nobody ever offered to bring anything and the hostesses got tired of their rude guests and then just decided to put it clearly on the invite: BRING SOMETHING YOU LOSERS-I’M NOT HOSTING THIS FOR MY HEALTH.

Now, I shouldn’t pin this all on my suburban friends. In all fairness, my sister-in-law maintains that a “city party” is one in which the host invites all their friends to a bar and then expects them to pay for everything. She is correct- in instances where the party is at the bar, although I have been to several bar parties where everything was on the host- I digress. The blatant way a guest was told to bring something, as if they would never think to do so on their own is just a bit less subtle than I was used to. This is not to say that I am a hot house flower that stands on Emily Post etiquette. I am a big fan of the come as you are party and the ‘hey let’s all get together and have a pot luck party.’ It’s just that they’re called pot luck parties decided in concert and not called “My Annual Holiday Party Catered by My Guests.” I have lots of pot luck parties- before our friends in the neighborhood moved away (a sad story but not entirely unexpected considering the trajectory of my narrative out here) we would have “let’s grill” parties all the time. It consisted of “Are you grilling? So are we! Let’s bring our meat over and grill together!” Now, in all fairness, my sister-in-law would call that an all together different party and people share their meat- but I digress again.

I have made my peace with the fact that I do not live in New York any longer- sort of. What I have not made my peace with and doubt it will happen anytime soon is that I am no longer from New York.

Let me explain. When you are on vacation or at a national event, it is a common question to ask people where they are from. While it is a simple ice-breaker or small talk device, I believe it is also a way of finding out some deeper truth about that person. It’s kind of like asking what sorority are you in or what do you do for a living. If I am chatting with someone at the airport or poolside I am able to get some insight on that person based on where they live. For instance, “I’m from Los Angeles”- so, those aren’t real; “We’re from Long Island”– start moving away slowly; “We are New Yorkers”– I think you mean you’re from Nyack, but that can be our little secret;  “We’re from Iowa”– poor dears, do you think they’ll be able to find the restrooms?; “Just going back to Wyoming”– oh right, that is a state.

I’m sure everyone else does this type of quick assesment, which is why I cannot bear to say where I am from any more. Not just because of what people will think of me, but what I think of myself. Hearing me say it out loud and the answer not being Upper East Side messes my whole sense of identity. Because, really, aren’t I still Upper East Side? I’m not suburban cul de sac- am I? Maybe everyone else doesn’t do this type of judgement (a more honest word that assesment). Perhaps I am the only one twisted up in this existential crisis of mine. And that is exactly what it turns into when I am put on the spot. At first I used a stranger’s attempt at chit-chat as an opportunity to justify and explain myself. I would launch into “Well, we currently live in Nondescript Suburb, but really we’re originally from New York and we moved just for a while….” At this point, the “assessment” people are going through in the heads I’m pretty sure was ‘oh no, I am dealing with a lunatic.’  I wanted all the New Yorkers to know I was in solidarity with them- that I was one of them. In an airport once, the man opposite me was making plans for a Town Car to pick him up at LaGuardia and take him home to East 62nd Street. I had to restrain myself from running up to him and declaring “Yes, yes, I know town cars, and apartment buildings!! I’m just like you- I’m not one of them Take me With You!!!!” But I have to realize that not everything is about me and try to remember what a former co-worker once advised me: “Where you live is not who you are.” Now, I think that is a load of crap, especially coming from someone who goes home to a classic six on the Upper West side. But, it does save you from airport security being called.

As time went by it seemed to me no longer be an innocent question or even an opportunity to once again dissect my life choices, but rather an accusation. As if the kindly old lady from Columbus wanted to point out to me that I can’t say I’m in from New York anymore. The problem is, I’m not very good at lying so I couldn’t just say “New York.” It was either long crazy story or…what I wound up with, which was nothing. I would be struck dumb and unable to say anything. I would (and to be perfectly honest, still do) struggle with the answer. It’s like waiting for a stroke victim to try and remember their address. I’m sure I look confused and quite strange. Then, this summer on a cab ride on vacation with my husband, he did the sweetest nicest thing in the world for me. When the cab driver asked us where we were from, my husband (who usually does not talk to anyone) jumped in right away for me and simply said “New York”  and gave our old address for the follow-up questions. Seeing him do that, something I’m sure he thinks is ridiculous and irrelevant, but knows makes me happy made me realize that I have another identity besides Upper East Side. It’s the girl married to the guy who does the crazy unneccesary thing just to make me happy.

It may seem unbelievable in this day and age of the information superhighway and 24 hour news cycles for someone to be unaware of a new trend or product. It is highly unlikely to have never heard of something that is a common occurence, but it is possible and it happened to me.  Early on in our tenure in the suburbs, another mom told me she was thinking of having a social event for the others moms in our nursery school class. That sounded fine to me but then she threw me for a loop. “Have you done Pampered Chef recently?” Now, to my mind that was a) a complete non sequitor and b) a question I considered highly personal considering I hardly knew her- I wasn’t about to tell her who I have or have not done recently. I wasn’t sure how to proceed so after mulling it quickly I formulated a careful response: “Hunh?”

Moving along quickly she said well have you already been to a Pampered Chef party this year? I had to honestly say not only had I NOT been to a Pampered Chef party I had no idea what a Pampered Chef was. After explaining that she was hosting a friend who sold this product line and all of us could come for snacks, a presentation and buying opportunities. In an effort to clarify, I asked “So…it’s like the old Tupperware parties?” I think this woman thought I was either slow, or lying in an attempt to get out of buying stuff. She said a bit stiffly “Well…yes, but there’s no Tupperware, only Pampered Chef stuff there.”

This was how I was initiated into the social phenomenon of suburban parties. Very few women will invite you over for drinks or for a dinner party. No- nearly all social events held in the home are essentially shopping events. I would later learn that there are an endless amount of “parties” you can attend to buy stuff. Assuming that the Chef products were the only ones, I was once again thrown off when I began to learn of others. At playdates or school pick-ups people were discussing whether they were into “Creative Memories” or not. I could only assume at first that they were discussing indulging in some fantasies regarding Brad Pitt or Tom Brady and an bubble bath. Sadly, they were not. Creative Memories is a party in which you buy stuff to decorate your photo albums. It goes on and on- make-up, home decor, and jewelry to name a few. But, why am I telling you- you probably already know. It seems as if I was the only person left who were not aware of this “parties.” I hope you are taking note of the quotations marks around “party” as I do not consider as a party any event that groups people together with the sole purpose of buying stuff and populated with attendees who there only out of a desire to get out of the house at any cost.

I would like to say that I did not attend these “parties. ” I would like to say that I was secure enough with myself and my life to be able to say no and pursue other events and entertainment. I cannot say that. In an effort to meet people and “get out there,” not to mention hopefully ingratiate myself with the hostess by upping her gift credits, I not only have attended many of these events, but I have the useless crap to prove it.

I have been pretty good lately and have not attended one of these in at least a year. But, the other day I got an email invite for a jewelry party from a new neighbor who recently moved into the area.  I’m thinking I should go. I could maybe get to know her and make a new friend, or at least find out how she already knows enough people to host one of those things.

It’s officially Christmas time- my favorite time of the year. I love to decorate and I love all the fun and festive celebrations. When we searched for a house to move into out here in the suburbs I carefully considered each one for it’s potential to be decorated for Christmas. Where would the tree go? Could lights be hung easily? I was very excited to have my very own exterior to decorate- being limited to an apartment door for so long. What I didn’t realize then was that, like most everything else in the suburbs, Christmas decorating is a competitive sport. And we were so out of our league it wasn’t even funny.

The first weekend of December on our first December in the house we dug out the packed up Christmas boxes. First off, I realized that we were going to need more light strings- a lot more light strings. We plugged together our strings that had seemed excessive in our old convertible two bedroom and realized we would not even cover the first bush. Back from Target and armed with enough crap and glitter to make Santa weep we began in earnest to try and get the house ready. As I looked around the other neighbors were out as well. They were on their roofs dangling icicle lights, they were on the second floor hanging wreaths and they were in the front yard dragging portable generators for blow-ups and projected lights. We had a couple of lights and a chair (remember we don’t own a ladder?) for hanging them. Reading the directions, I realized that you can’t string more than 3 sets or it is a fire hazard. We only had two plugs outside so we proceeded to fill up our side bushes with a maximum of 6 strings.  It looked a little paltry but we moved on the evergreen garland that I had purchased for our entrance columns and light post. The only problem is we had no way of hanging them- every time we tried to tie them around the top and wrap downwards, they kept slipping. We realized this was going to need tools and nails. If you were watching this, it would look a little bit like a challenge on survivor where all the other teams have made a shelter and a fire and then one team is sitting under a palm frond. To put it in perspective, in our neighborhood even the house owned by the Steinbergs have lit wreaths in every second floor window. We grew up with Christmas and we couldn’t even get a couple of garlands to stay up. Once again, we were on public display as inadequate suburbanites.

We accepted our small, yet elegant we hoped, display. In the week that followed, we came to see the lights as our dog. Every morning we would have to go out and plug in the lights and each night, venture out to unplug the lights. It was getting to be a real pain as the days grew colder. At a playdate drop off, I told the mom,  a woman I was friendly with, how annoying it was to have to put the lights on and off and how impressed I was at her number of lights- had she found extra-long strings? She did not understand my question. Why are unplugging your lights and why are limited to six strings? This conversation opened a window of understanding to me. She showed me that there are these fabulous things called timers and multiple plug extension cords. She took me outside and showed me these devices and I was astonished. So, you just program it and plug them all in and that’s that? I realized then that there was so much to learn and we were so far behind the curve. While I am grateful to her for informing of this technology, we never were able to pull it all together and do the programming and multiple plugging. But, it’s OK- now I make the kids do the unplugging and now everyone else just knows we don’t really belong here anyway. And, when I look at my window, it’s not like I see my house anyway- I get to enjoy the snow globes, the Christmas carousels and the illuminated projected snowflakes on the other houses. Best of all, Santa still stops at our house- even though we don’t have a large wooden sign imploring him to do so.

As a reluctant driver (sort of like a reluctant reader, take note if you have a boy,  but less socially acceptable) I at least can pride myself on knowing the rules of driving. A paramount restriction being that a red light means stop-no going, no inching forward, and no turning. At least that is what I believed were the rules inside the five borough borders of New York City. As an adolescent I learned that the rest of the country had a strange phenomenon known as right on red, but I valued this piece of information the way you might consider knowing that crossing your legs sideways in Tongo signals you are a transvesite or some other cultural oddity. I have a vague memory that the rule regarding right turns on red was changed in New York City as part of Guiliani’s policies to improve life for drivers in New York City but again, was viewed as useless information to my life- particularly as the situations in which make right on red possible, i.e. no oncoming traffic, are usually not present in New York. Long story short- I do not have a lot of experience with turning right on red.

This lack of expertise used to not be a problem but since I relocating to the suburbs and needing to drive everywhere it has become a bit more pressing to master the skill of determining when to turn right. Suffice it to say that I do not like this policy. I am getting better, but there is a certain degree of anxiety in being responsible for determining if it is safe or not to fly onto a road that traffic engineers determined that a stoplight was necessary. A side road with virtually no cars is pretty easy to decide but it is the major intersections and busy side streets that give me trouble. Take for instance a very large intersection near my home- it has several left turn signals and multiple moving parts. To make it worse, there are no crosswalk signs for which I could use to gauge whether the other side has a red light or a yellow light. I don’t know if they are about to turn green or have just stopped. Several times I have ascertained that there is no oncoming traffic and pull out, only to have a near crash with the left turn people coming at me from the other side.

Now, I am very happy to just stay put and wait my turn but there is the matter of the people behind me. Many “polite” people in the suburbs seem to think this traffic rule is an imperative to merge onto oncoming traffic similar to an on ramp, rather than an option to undertake after stopping and considering if there is anyone coming.  Soon after my arrival and after having trouble judging the veolicty and trajectory distance of the other side of traffic I told my Dad that I had simply decided to just stop turning right on red- I would act as if we were still in New York and wait until it was green. My father, who is the most cautious and slow footed driver in the universe, said that would be the stupidest, most irresponsible thing in the world. The people behind you will just plow on through you- that’s what I would do- how doesn’t turn right on red?  So, even Mr. Magoo wasn’t on my side. Then, I thought I would get a bumper sticker that said- I DON”T TURN RIGHT ON RED. That would explain it and stop people from honking at me when they thought I should be jumping in. After consideration, I realized that might ostracize me even further than my Obama bumper sticker- why add fuel to the fire? So, I have resolved to plod along and I am getting better. I accept that even in the suburbs a minute of rest and reflection is hardly ever permitted.

As a follow-up to all this, I was recently talking to a girl I grew up with who recently went to get her driver’s license for the first time. She told me the road test didn’t go so well. After being used to no right on red her whole life, she had to try and remember that New York now has right on red. Right on red, right on red she kept reminding herself and indeed, had confirmed with the tester that the rule was still in place. At the completion of the exam the woman told my friend to stop the car and turn if off- she had failed. She had turned right on red at an intersection that had a sign- No Right Turn on Red.