Less is More

I am not one of those whiners who goes to a restaurant, orders pasta, looks at a sixteen inch bowl overflowing with linguine marinara and whimpers," why do they give you so much?" I'm delighted that the restaurant understands that having paid $26 for ingredients that cost them $1.87, I appreciate quantity. On those rare occasions, when, having eaten half a buffalo for lunch, I can't finish my entree, I'm glad to take it home, refrigerate it and toss it in the garbage two months later. Only under threat of torture will I return to an establishment that charges me $30 for three scallops artfully drizzled with truffle oil and festooned with parsley. I go to a museum for art. I go to a restaurant for food. An ancillary benefit of eating out is charming company and scintillating conversation,but, in all honesty, I could have a better conversational experience at the 104 bus stop on Broadway and 43rd Street where there's less ambient noise than at most NYC restaurants. I remember only once being in the whiners' camp. Having just roughed it on a five day white water rafting trip on the Rogue River in Oregon, my friend, Jeanne, and I treated ourselves to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Medford, Oregon. I ordered roast chicken. The waiter placed a gorgeous, fragrant eight pound emu before me. My eyes widened. In New York, where restaurant chickens could be mistaken for hummingbirds, the Oregon chicken would have fulfilled a culinary fantasy. Here, it was a nightmare. Even I could not eat more than five pounds of chicken at a sitting and, as I was staying in a motel without a refrigerator, I would have to leave over a good three pounds. It was a very upsetting dinner, the upset mitigated only by the fact that the entire chicken, with soup, salad and dessert cost $6.99. But Oregon is the exception that proves the rule, "less is less."
The rule for restaurants should not be confused with the rule that governs movies and plays. There, the rule is "less is more." No one except the film maker's mother wants to sit through a movie longer than 90 minutes and not even the playwright's grandmother wants to endure 3 hours and 20 minutes of brilliant theatre. "La Danse," a critically acclaimed documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet is a perfect example of a film made by a director who ignored the rule. At 90 minutes this work would have been a pleasant cultural experience. After two hours and 40 minutes, it was as appealing as an attack of kidney stones and infinitely more painful. "August Osage County," a Pulitzer prize winning play was, by the third hour, as enjoyable as receiving a tattoo on your nipple. You will note that the critics deemed both of the above, "brilliant," thereby confirming my theory that critics never actually sit through the productions they review. I'm not saying they don't attend performances. That would be fraud. No,they sit in the audience for 90 minutes, revel in the chef d'oeuvre, absorb the zeitgeist of the audience and depart to write the glowing review, unaware that after their departure, 3/4 of the audience will lapse into a defensive coma. Brilliance is simply impossible to sustain for more than 90 minutes. Isaac Newton was a genius, but how long did it take the apple to drop to the ground? Three seconds? And Albert Einstein? E=mc? How long could that have taken? An hour, max?
I am not naive. I know my rules will be ignored. I'd prefer my $14 glass of chardonnay to be filled to the top, but that won't happen. 4 ounces is the standard "pour," so I have to order two glasses and spend $28 for the equivalent of one normal glass whose cost to the restaurant was $1. I would like to go to a play or movie and walk out smiling, saying, "That was terrific. I enjoyed every minute of it." Instead, I will walk out, holding my head in hand, saying, "This movie evoked the three hours of agony immediately following the extraction of my wisdom teeth." But I'm optimistic that if you send this post to 10 of your closest friends and they send it to ten of their closest friends,ad infinitum, and nobody breaks the chain, we'll all have unbelievable luck, full wineglasses and short movies.

The New Leather

January 1, many people vow to improve themselves in the coming year. These resolutions are virtually never kept, but are extremely important to the financial well being of health clubs. Having joined a health club on January 1, 2001 in order to strengthen my abdominals, I attended one Pilates class, pulled a trapezius muscle while planking and never returned. That class cost me $860, not counting the co-pays on my subsequent physical therapy. Accordingly, I no longer make new years resolutions.
However, January 1 marks a new beginning. These first weeks of January, I decided to devote myself to considering the kind of person I am. I hate to think of myself as superficial, materialistic and acquisitive. I prefer to believe I am deep , contemplative and could be happy living in a yurt. I performed my self analysis exclusively in Lord and Taylor,Filene's Basement and Fabulous Footwear, three venues most conducive to introspection.
In the Lord and Taylor shoe department, I asked the salesman, Trevor, for a pair of Steve Madden black boots in size 6. He input my request into his handheld computer and disappeared. While he was gone, I congratulated myself on my choice. It demonstrated a clear victory of the contemplative over the materialistic. Steve Madden-contemplative. Donna Karan-materialistic. After ten minutes he returned with light brown boots in size 8. "Trevor," I said placidly, raising my voice only slightly, " These are not black boots in size 6." Trevor agreed reluctantly, but asked if I might not like to try them on anyway. "They run small." I declined and he retreated to the stock room returning some time later with black boots in size 9. I screamed profuse thanks for his trouble,wished him a nice day and departed the store, basking in my self denial. If I had harbored any doubts of my unacquisitive nature, they had been laid to rest.
While I could lead a rich life without the Steve Madden black knee-high boots, even Karl Marx would concede that brown leather ankle boots are de rigeur. Fabulous Footwear's ear-splitting techno music would be conducive to reflection and as I had previously purchased my black leather Sporto ankle boots there eight years before, it was a perfect destination.
I went up and down the aisles. There were plastic high boots, plastic ankle boots, fake suede high boots, fake suede low boots. Although there was no exculpatory sign, it was apparent that no animals had died in the making of these boots. I asked a salesperson if they carried leather Sporto ankle boots. "Leather?" she said as if I had asked if the Pope was Catholic. "We don't carry leather. Plastic is the new leather."
Although disappointed that my entire shoe wardrobe was at worst "passe" and at best "retro," I was secretly pleased that I had left two stores without a purchase. I was practically Amish.
Today, in my continued quest for self awareness and boots, I went to Filene's Basement. I found black knee high Anne Klein boots in size 6 on sale for forty percent off. I brought them to the check out line, stopping briefly to paw through two seventy-five percent off racks on the way. While standing on the line, my head aching from my laborious self examination, I brought my ruminations to a self satisfied close. I concluded I am not a vapid, greedy materialist. I am a profound intellectual with boots appropriate for any yurt.

The Miracle of Flight

I know people who are terrified of flying. They spend seven days puking over the railing of the Queen Mary to see Big Ben. "The buffets were phenomenal," they rave. They drive 30 hours straight on Highway 1 to Miami to escape the cold. They pee into a cup, eat at drive- thrus for fear someone will steal the luggage and sleep sitting up because hotels are pricey. Having seen nothing but billboards advertising the University of Phoenix, they advise you, "That's the way to really see the country." They fork over their life savings to ride the rails to San Francisco. After sleeping in the top bunk of a cubicle with a toilet in the center and watching corn grow for four days,they lie through their teeth, "It was so interesting."
I was never scared of flying, but I never particularly liked the experience either. I always disliked being forced to sit for six hours next to someone with ebola. I hated not being able to open a window. And I particularly detested being prevented from peeing at will by the seat belt sign, the comatose passenger in the aisle seat and the food trolleys. However, I love to travel and the quickest way of getting to my destination was by plane.
Now,I'm reconsidering my travel options. Before I go on a plane trip, I have nightmares for a week. They're never about the plane crashing or a terrorist attack. That would be crazy. Instead, I wake up in a sweat, terrified that I won't have enough room in my one quart clear plastic resealable bag for all my 3 ounce liquid containers. Should I take my special hypoallergenic shampoo or should I use the hotel shampoo and risk terminal eczema. Is toothpaste a liquid that has to go in the baggie or can I pack it with my toothbrush and tweezer? Is contact lens solution for medical use and, if so, can I take more than three ounces? What if the TSA makes me open the bag and I can't reseal it? Will they confiscate my $50 Laura Mercier makeup? If I'm luck enough to fall back to sleep, I'm startled awake by the terrifying thought that I booked the flight for 8 p.m. rather than 8 a.m. I'd made that mistake before, missed my flight, felt like a moron and had to pay an additional $250 for a flight which originally cost $125.
The night before my flight, I'm frantic. My flight's at 8 a.m. If I am supposed to be there two hours prior to take off, I have to get there at 6 a.m. That means I have to get a taxi at 5 a.m. If I want to economize and take Supershuttle, I have to leave at 3 a.m. Does it pay to go to bed? Maybe I should just repack my baggie.
I spring for a taxi and worry all the way to the airport that they'll make me check my bag. Since American Airlines lost my friend E..'s luggage when she was on her way to a Caribbean cruise and she had to wear her underwear as a bathing suit in San Juan, I never check my luggage. I have a problem even if they don't make me check my luggage. My carry on weighs 35 pounds and, despite my numerous aerobics classes, I am incapable of hoisting it into the overhead bin. I've been lucky in the past. I stand in the aisle, look at my bag, look up at the bin and look at the bag again. I do this until someone offers to place it in the bin for me. I learned this technique from my cat. When he wants me to open the closet door, he stares at it, looks at me, stares back at the door and magically, the door opens.
Once on board, baggage stowed by someone else, I finally relax. I have fewer complaints than I did in the past. The flight attendants used to be solicitous and gorgeous, making me feel like a nasty, mutant Tasmanian devil. Now the airlines have recruited nasty, mutant Tasmanian devils as flight attendants. I no longer feel inferior. The food used to be gelatinous, tasteless and fattening. Now it's non-existent. I can stick to my diet. If there's any food to be had, it's because I brought it myself. I can't complain about my own p,b and j sandwich.(Although once the bread was stale.) And now that there's no food service, I don't have to worry about the food trolleys in the aisle. I can pee at will.
So, I probably will continue to fly. But if the airlines implement a no pee zone for the last hour of a flight, I am so taking driving lessons.
Happy New Year to all.