The Other Ball

Our Reverend had been announcing it for the last few Sundays. "If you don't want to be alone on inauguration day," she said, "come down and join us in the Parish Hall as we watch the Obamas go from ball to ball on our own 170 inch video screen." I fluttered inside. I love a party invitation. Even the non-exclusive, multi-generational, church-y kind because, alas, beggars can't be choosers, you know what I'm sayin'? The Good Reverend continued, "That's right, we're gonna have ourselves our own ball. You're welcome to dress up and we'll have a nice hot meal for you, plus a DJ for dancing. Admission is a bottle of wine or sparkling cider and a non-perishable food item for the food bank." So, that's what I had planned for myself, babysitter in place. Yes, there were many inaugural balls that night, and I was going to one of them.

The day arrived and I couldn't stop crying. How could I be so over the moon with hope and love, excitement and respect for this exquisite man, this kind and brilliant leader who had come to save us-- and, yet, so sad? I suppose it was a mix of wistful sentimentality, incredulous joy, and an insidious undercurrent of, inconceivably, self-pity. It was An Historic Moment, NPR kept reminding us, (lest we somehow forgot), and we were experiencing the full blush of a new administration with a devoted husband and father at it's helm and I was sans exactly that. This chapter in our nation's history seemed a harbinger of things to come for mine in every way that is right and good except for the everyone-rallying-around-the-nuclear-family part, that element was missing from my decidedly non-historic moment as I lay on my couch alone and cried.

Obama's inauguration would be yet another in a string of single, unadorned beads marking life's grandest milestones that I would heretofore experience solo. Our country's hopeful new administration was bringing with it the counter point of my seemingly hopeless and unavoidable future by myself. There may have been millions of shivering dreams being fulfilled on this day on The Mall, and to be sure, I shared in their glee, but just as any milestone is capable of evoking as much afterthought as fore, I was also experiencing a nagging malaise from the dreams I'd let go of, the ones stamped out and ground into the dirt. My hopes unfulfilled, lost and gone.

Was Obama really meant to rescue us, all of us, from ourselves, by jump-starting us into service to each other? Could I get my head out of my ass long enough to appreciate what was happening in the grand scheme for one day? I had to finally admit to myself, as the fanfare began, that he had arrived at this moment to help our nation help ourselves, not be my boyfriend, you ninny. And the self-pity bit, on this day of all days, was playing a little thin, even to me. Our country's problems are so very big and mine are so ridiculously small but I was one weepy stepsister, swathed in pathos and grief, who might have to miss the ball after all.

I channeled the waterworks into tears-of-joy. Obama hadn't even gotten out of the car and I was already a bleary-eyed mess. I cried thinking of so many weary, forgiving hearts, bursting with pride and redemption. I cried thinking about what must be going through Michelle's mother's mind. ("My baby girl, First Lady. Get outta town!") I cried at close-ups of old black men, wide shots of the masses and even crazy old Cisely Tyson, rantin' and ravin'-- you name it and I was in tears. I momentarily pulled it together as I watched Obama move like a crowned emperor, trailed by an invisible cloak of ermine and velvet, down the long and winding corridor towards his rightful place in history, and then I saw Aretha's hat and totally came undone. Oh, Aretha. I didn't think it was possible for me to love you any more than I did at that moment, and then you had to go and wear that hat. And then you had to go ahead and sing that song, wearing that hat-- I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

I laughed as I cried thinking at 12:01pm, "Crazy old Joe Bieden is officially President." It was inconceivable to me, and anyone who's even tangentially followed his career, that Loose Cannon Joe had made it this far. And now he was President, until Obama was sworn in a few mellow minutes later. I pictured the panicked production crew on headsets, being screamed at by strict Constitutionalists to move things along, Skippy, and swear Barak in, for petessake, because it would only take one wily hang glider to take us all down.

Yo-yo and Issac took it in stride.

Happy or sad tears notwithstanding, I had started to think that it wouldn't be fair to foist my Hallmark-ad-weepin' puffy red face at a group of unsuspecting revelers later on that night. But President Obama's speech brought the room down and took the sentimentality out of my sails. I pulled it together and had some toast-- the one thing that soothes me, with out fail. Later on, after a brief inaugural nap, I put on some fancy pants and a glittery sweater over a plain turtleneck top. I would go to the ball, after all, if only just for a while.

I met Trudy in the parking lot. She was slowly getting out of her Lincoln resplendent in gold and pearls. I was struck by how beautiful this woman of a certain age looked, her hair all done up, make-up: perfection, and I told her so as I introduced myself. I asked if I could escort her into through the church side door and she said, yes as she took my arm. I helped her off with her matching wrap, the same coppery gold fabric as her long dress, detailed with delicate little pearls in a cross stitched pattern, and hung it up for her. Then I stood there for a little bit longer and helped hang up a few more.

With each coat handed to me, I returned a compliment. It wasn't hard to do. I truly felt surrounded by the world's most beautiful women in that moment and my heart was bursting with community and thankfulness that I had gotten myself off that sad sack couch and gone out into the world on this night of nights. It was only then that I realized I was sorely under dressed. Women of all ages had mined their closets for that special outfit they keep way off to the side. The one for weddings and bar mitzvahs, anniversaries and cruises, graduations, sweet sixteens and proms. Hair dos were up, earrings were dropped and I was in a turtleneck. Ah, well. Note to self, I thought, and headed towards the music.

Walking into that large basement-y room, the folding chairs and chewed up linoleum disappeared under tables topped with tablecloths and candles. Real flowers and lit candles graced each end and up above, and the chandeliers-- which I had never noticed until now-- were dimmed. It was a magical transformation, Brigadoon-like in scope, and I recalled a long ago memory of decorating the high school cafeteria beyond recognition for a dance. And then having the room ignite and lift off with the combined energy of all those dresses, tuxedos and possibilities.

Tonight's men wore suits and carried a bottle in one hand, their date's waist in another. I felt giddy now, a complete 180 from earlier in the day and even though I had no date to this ball, I didn't care. I was right here, right now. I looked around and thought, what can I do? I'm free to be of service. Free to be, you and me. So I planted myself at the bar, which was right next to the main entrance, and started accepting whatever was handed to me. Red wine, white wine, zinfandel and sparkling cider. I'd waited tables for ten years and knew the right end of a cork screw if I knew anything. So I started uncorking bottles and upturning glasses. Before long, I was a one-woman welcome wagon.

I introduced myself, greeting everyone who walked in the door, and with each new glass I handed out a compliment. Like a dressing room attendant with turrets, I couldn't help it. Reverend Sandye stopped by and asked that I help some of the older parishioners and the sisters with drinks, so during a lull, I went over to the tables and took orders. I wasn't sure exactly of whom she meant by the sisters until my eyes fell on identical twin sisters, in their mid-twenties, wearing identical party dresses with Peter Pan collars and bows in their Shirley Temple hair. Their outfits and demeanor suggested that they might have been wearing black patent leather mary janes and ankle socks as well, but I didn't peek under the table to see. Real live identical twins, still dressing identically after all these years. Like extras in an Elvis vehicle or a Bette Davis movie times two.

Sparkling cider was the drink of choice for the sisters as well as the bevy of grand dames and I relished setting their clear cups down gently before them. It was the least I could do. I hadn't helped an iota with this campaign save for wearing my buttons every day. And I wasn't there for the first eighty some odd years of their struggle but I was there for them right now, in this moment. I know it wasn't much. But it was something. Barak was right. I was here, tonight, to be of service to my community, and it felt good. Even if all I was doing was uncorking wine with hope. Bartending for America.

The Right Reverend had spent all Sunday cooking for us and dinner was delicious. Over a hundred of us sat and ate chicken cordon blue, string beans and sweet potatoes, and watched Barak and Michelle slow dance their way even further, if it's possible, into our hearts. There was an odd moment when someone changed the channel on the big screen to a broadcast of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? and I flinched. I am white and the congregation is mostly black and although I had always loved that movie growing up, I had never asked myself what blacks must think of it. A patronizing fantasy exercise in white guilt or an earnest attempt at breaking barriers and challenging social mores? A little of both perhaps, but the channel switched back to Beyonce after only second or two and all was right with the room once again.

Later there was dancing, but I had to get going. Stevie Wonder and The Gap Band cranked up the levels of pride and jubilee as long skirts and high heels clicked and swayed to the music that wasn't too loud. I managed to sneak in a few dances, craning my neck to see if the sisters would be joining us to tear it up on the dance floor, (Oh, please, oh, please) but they had gone. It was time for me to go, too. Back to my cozy home, trusty babysitter and sleeping child. Back to my hometown with its neighbors keeping watch over each other's kids. Back to a new America and my new family full of hope and promise. A different kind of family and smaller, sure, but a family just the same. Full of hope and promise and, from now on, much more service to community. Beginning with getting off the couch.

Dream House

In one of my many dreams of public acknowledgment, Domino Magazine (RIP January 2009) asks to do a photo layout of my house.

Ever since my first dorm room, my various shares, pads and apartments have been little more than a string of repositories for an unfulfilled creative exuberance and obsessive compulsion for composition. One could always find me limp from paint fumes, shuffling through take-out containers with a cordless drill at my hip. I had a maniacal look in my eye, like the seven dwarfs' evil cousin Shirley-- but no whistling, just raw, pent-up design hostility.

Many moons later, I live in a house which is so stuffed to the gills with accumulated nostalgia and rummage sale treasures that I should have visitors sign a waiver releasing me from indemnity should the offended guest have a seizure.

There's so much internal baggage that I've either shed or shelved in the last nine months that now all I can see when I look around is what everyone else has always seen-- a cozy little house over-laden with too much crap. It's all I can do not to jetison the stuff out the window like the brooding, lithe model in that moody lame jeans ad-- an Italian opera blaring in the background. And there it would be in a pile on the damp lawn; the popsicle stick lamp from my rummage sale wedding shower; all the art I bought off the sidewalk from homeless guys in the east village in the eighties who dumpster dived for unclaimed portfolios in front of Cooper Union and SVA during locker clean out week; the stack of vintage suitcases I used by default as a media stand and never upgraded and every other piece of shit that I see and think either:

1. Oh my gawd. Someone maaaade that! Look at that color combination/wild design/insane person's vision realized! Some sweet little old lady in a crafts class, way beyond her prime and silently seething for giving up her dreams of being a graphic designer so that she could raise seven kids, made that. Look at all the work that went into that! So many teeny googly eyes and so many fuzzy pipe cleaners. It's enchanting!

or

2. Oh my gawd, it's how much? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what this is worth in Nolita/Tribeca/Williamsburg/on Antiques Roadshow?

So I buy. I have a collection of strange wire trees with shells or pebbles for leaves and angel food cake cutters with Bakelite handles. I have a set of dinner plates comprised of souvenir US state plates from the 1950s. (But they're only two bucks each!) And at least five paperclip and contact paper necklaces from the seventies. I have paint-by-numbers, Chinese silk fans and calling card rulers from the last hundred years. And I. Can't. Stop. Because I can't stop appreciating the work or the artistry or the trouble that the person went through to create this incredible thing that has ended up at some rummage sale for six bucks. Or seventy five cents. So I buy.

Which I guess is a good thing, because I'll never get my home in a magazine and even if I did, it would go a little something like this:

I glide effortlessly towards the front door in a robin's egg blue cinch-belted day dress with rustling crinoline and black pumps. (collar smartly turned up) My hair was set the night before and I kept my curlers in an extra two hours after I awoke so as to keep my natural curl (wink) for as long as possible. The pillows are pouffed, the dishes are done and the magazine folks have arrived to a clear, cloudless day. The garden's in bloom, the photographer's ready and his reporter's pencil is poised on a little spiral ring palm-sized notepad. I clear my throat and begin.

"Let's start in the foyer (pronounced foy-yay), as you can see, we chose floor colors that would enhance the mud that would be tracked in daily in both states of wet and dried. The mud, I'm proud to say, was dislodged by foot and has been tracked in from as near as the back yard and as far as the local playground, with up to thirty-two exotic locations in between. In the winter, the salt from the snow on our boots dries to makes particularly darling Rorschach-esque lily pad designs all over the floor. On some days, when my son or I forget to take off our boots at the back door, the little salt designs look like the paths of pixies have graced our dull wooden floors to our sheer delight."

"Speaking of our wooden floors, we've chosen not to re-varnish the gaping cracks between its slats so as to showcase our impressive collection of organic cookie and cracker crumbs. We believe it pays homage to similar crumbs on Native American tee-pee floor coverings that may have been erected on this very plot of land before they were driven away or slaughtered. Right this way to the kitchen." I turn on a heel and clack my way through the dining room, glancing once at the photographer in a surreptitiously flirty way.

"Notice the dried oatmeal stuck on the kitchen table." (I run my long, lacquered fingernails over the table's charmingly bumpy surface.) "We think this gives the table a nice topography evoking the quotidian warmth of use and wear. We're glad you like it, as we can't seem to clean it off, no mater how many sponges we soak in piping hot water." I smile and wink at the photographer again. His name is Gus. He's looking at my floor under the kitchen table. "These pizza crust and grilled cheese crumbs have been left on the floor purposely to evoke a sort of olde towne corner pub peanut-shells-on-the-floor feeling. We like it. And until we get a dog someday, which will, quite frankly, never happen, the crumbs stay." I smile and twirl one perfect twirl to the other side of the kitchen.

Opening a cabinet I say, "I put the shelf paper down myself when we moved in, and, although we've only been in the house a mere eight years, I like the smooth patina of olive oil, worcestershire and soy sauce that has masked the original paper's design. The sticky swath of dark, murky guck at shelf's bottom helps to keep the peanut butter and vinegar from slipping off the shelf although I do wish it didn't seem to glue down the Morton's salt shaker in it's wake, but what's a girl to do? A couple tugs and presto!" I tug at my Morton's salt canister and it doesn't budge. Gus leans over me, reaching up with his strong, manly arm and with one yank, also can't get it to budge. I close the cabinet and chirp, "On to the living room!"

"The Sofa? Why is it so soft? I thought you'd never ask. Once a season, I harvest the dust bunnies from all over the house and wad them into little balls creating a cotton candy-like puff of spun silk and nestle them in the cracks of my sofa. It's so much more time effective that plugging in the vacuum cleaner. And it makes the couch bouncier, see?" I bounce a little, giving Gus one more come hither look to seal the deal.

I stand and gesture out the picture window, "The garden, we've left in a state of permanent need to weed because we think that it says to our neighbors, 'We're too busy living life to its fullest to pull out last fall's annuals and the tangled net of weeds you see before you! Come join us in our lust for life!' Or so I think it says." I look out the window. The garden is pathetic. "I guess that just about does it," I say, "the rest you can see for yourselves. I'll leave you alone to do what it is that you do do." And with that I toddle off.

They leave soon thereafter and I immediately take off my pumps and rub my calloused feet. I realize, too late, that I've been saying, "We" this whole time, as if speaking for my husband or my staff, both of which I have none. I guess that means I've blown my chances with Gus. No matter, he looked a little sweaty anyway. And besides, I have things to do! I'm a very busy woman, busy, busy, busy! There are still rooms to paint and pictures to hang, furniture to upholster and curtains to sew because, when I get right down to it, I do love my house. It's my sanctuary, my steady boyfriend, my one constant companion. It's my dearest true love and I wouldn't change it for the world! Not a spec, not an inch. La di da.