Ninth Sunday of Pentecost, 2018
I've always said that to understand Sunday morning in America, you have to understand what went on Saturday night. Back when I was an honorary member of the Twenties/Thirties Group that often meant recovering from a night spent drinking. We were dutifully contrite the morning after and tried our best not to show the signs of wear and tear as we approached the Communion rail. But, as I have grown older and the nights end rather unceremoniously with me sitting propped up in bed with several pillows, awakened only by the soft music of the SNL band and the sight of much back-slapping and fond farewells onstage as the credits begin to roll, it's really what happens much earlier in the afternoon that sets the mood for the rest of the weekend.
One big difference is that I am now retired, probably the only member of that 20s30s crew to do so. And as pleasant as it may seem (and more often than not - really is) it means that I live for the weekends just as much as any working stiff does. Why? Because that is when the great majority of my friends and acquaintances have the time to get out and about.
Sometimes, it's a matter of Sam and I making room for a "session". And, as I have written elsewhere, the hardest thing about that is going without caffeine (or, with only a small fraction of one's usual intake) for the rest of the day. Not a lot gets checked off my "To Do" list as a result and Sundays become a day for regaining my resolve to finish cleaning up the apartment or finish Bing's wedding present or whatever else needs a bit of motivation to complete.
At other times, it may be an early morning movie with FH. These are quirky events that often entail a cup of strong coffee and popcorn, followed by as much conversation with a single other person as I am used to for an entire week. I am strangely sated by it. In fact, and in stark contrast to an RC session, I could barely look at food when I left her by the City Point food court last week. I had a slice of key lime pie that lasted me from lunchtime until approximately 7-7:30 that evening.
And, finally, there are the mornings I come into The City for Altar Guild duty which ultimately winds up as a kind of excuse to hang around the Saturday Kitchen folks without actually getting drawn into the busy-ness of it all. Almost as a matter of guilt, I feel I owe it to Pale Male and Marilyn to go out for a beer or two afterward. Lately, it has taken on the added twist of Juanita coming along, too, as she has made herself virtually indispensable to both activities, it would be impolite not to invite her.
But, the socio-economic - not to mention, the sexual - dynamics of dining after church have never been easy. Pale Male and I were perfectly comfortable splitting Marilyn's tab when it was just the three or sometimes four (more about that later) of us. We've known her a long time and we felt she deserved a little break. But, I could tell from the beginning that it sowed more than a little confusion among the other ladies who sometimes came with us. For example, it seemed to infuriate Judy, my Altar Guild partner who - alternately - 1) didn't seem to understand why Marilyn was being treated so specially or 2) didn't understand why I was acting so flamboyantly. I guess it was some combination of both.
Juanita, OTOH, doesn't drink and comes along just to be part of the "gang", as it were. She will order a serving of sweet potato fries and content herself with that for the better part of the hour and a half that we spend at Dive Bar. Two weeks ago, there were four of us including Marilyn and Juanita and CJ the musician who sometimes comes by on Saturdays to practice for a performance. CJ, I know from having long conversations with him, has been on a tight budget for many years. So at the end of our allotted hour and a half when the waitress came close by our table, I offered my credit card.
I did it mainly to expedite our departure. I hate the current practice of everybody heaving their credit cards at the same time and the waitress having to divvy up everyone's portion separately on each card. I figured people know what they ordered; they can just give me what they think they can afford. But, I realized very quickly that "putting everything on my card" means different things to different generations. If you say that in a group of people under the age of forty, it clearly means everyone is responsible for digging into their wallets for enough cash to pay the cardholder for what they ate.
OTOH, if you say the same thing to a group of sixty year-olds, it means something very different. It means, you are "reaching for the check" which means you are offering to pay for the whole thing. It is supposed to be a rotating gesture, but, is often parodied as a form of one-up-manship or social competition, in the popular culture of the 1950s and early 60s.
So, flash forward to yesterday when poor Pale Male offered to pay for a portion of the meal with his credit card, there was a bit of consternation when he realized that he was paying for two extra bowls of fries and a Heineken that somehow were not being accounted for by cash donations. Neither of the three other gentlemen present (Trini, John O'Clock and myself) were really aware of what was going on until I did the math in my head. The two older women were clearly waiting for the guys to pay.
With the memory of two weeks ago still fresh in my mind and the ribbing I took from CJ at the time, I steadfastly demurred putting any more money into the pile, plus what I thought was my share of the tip.
As a result, I left Dive Bar feeling guilty for Pale Male and flustered by how complicated a thing that started out so simply had become with the addition of more players.
I looked around for him during Mass the next morning and even thought seriously about proffering some additional money to even out the costs. But, Pale Male was a no-show. Despite a rousing sermon from the Assistant Rector (the topic was "retreats"), I entered Coffee Hour feeling down.
It would get worse.
One big difference is that I am now retired, probably the only member of that 20s30s crew to do so. And as pleasant as it may seem (and more often than not - really is) it means that I live for the weekends just as much as any working stiff does. Why? Because that is when the great majority of my friends and acquaintances have the time to get out and about.
Sometimes, it's a matter of Sam and I making room for a "session". And, as I have written elsewhere, the hardest thing about that is going without caffeine (or, with only a small fraction of one's usual intake) for the rest of the day. Not a lot gets checked off my "To Do" list as a result and Sundays become a day for regaining my resolve to finish cleaning up the apartment or finish Bing's wedding present or whatever else needs a bit of motivation to complete.
At other times, it may be an early morning movie with FH. These are quirky events that often entail a cup of strong coffee and popcorn, followed by as much conversation with a single other person as I am used to for an entire week. I am strangely sated by it. In fact, and in stark contrast to an RC session, I could barely look at food when I left her by the City Point food court last week. I had a slice of key lime pie that lasted me from lunchtime until approximately 7-7:30 that evening.
And, finally, there are the mornings I come into The City for Altar Guild duty which ultimately winds up as a kind of excuse to hang around the Saturday Kitchen folks without actually getting drawn into the busy-ness of it all. Almost as a matter of guilt, I feel I owe it to Pale Male and Marilyn to go out for a beer or two afterward. Lately, it has taken on the added twist of Juanita coming along, too, as she has made herself virtually indispensable to both activities, it would be impolite not to invite her.
But, the socio-economic - not to mention, the sexual - dynamics of dining after church have never been easy. Pale Male and I were perfectly comfortable splitting Marilyn's tab when it was just the three or sometimes four (more about that later) of us. We've known her a long time and we felt she deserved a little break. But, I could tell from the beginning that it sowed more than a little confusion among the other ladies who sometimes came with us. For example, it seemed to infuriate Judy, my Altar Guild partner who - alternately - 1) didn't seem to understand why Marilyn was being treated so specially or 2) didn't understand why I was acting so flamboyantly. I guess it was some combination of both.
Juanita, OTOH, doesn't drink and comes along just to be part of the "gang", as it were. She will order a serving of sweet potato fries and content herself with that for the better part of the hour and a half that we spend at Dive Bar. Two weeks ago, there were four of us including Marilyn and Juanita and CJ the musician who sometimes comes by on Saturdays to practice for a performance. CJ, I know from having long conversations with him, has been on a tight budget for many years. So at the end of our allotted hour and a half when the waitress came close by our table, I offered my credit card.
I did it mainly to expedite our departure. I hate the current practice of everybody heaving their credit cards at the same time and the waitress having to divvy up everyone's portion separately on each card. I figured people know what they ordered; they can just give me what they think they can afford. But, I realized very quickly that "putting everything on my card" means different things to different generations. If you say that in a group of people under the age of forty, it clearly means everyone is responsible for digging into their wallets for enough cash to pay the cardholder for what they ate.
OTOH, if you say the same thing to a group of sixty year-olds, it means something very different. It means, you are "reaching for the check" which means you are offering to pay for the whole thing. It is supposed to be a rotating gesture, but, is often parodied as a form of one-up-manship or social competition, in the popular culture of the 1950s and early 60s.
So, flash forward to yesterday when poor Pale Male offered to pay for a portion of the meal with his credit card, there was a bit of consternation when he realized that he was paying for two extra bowls of fries and a Heineken that somehow were not being accounted for by cash donations. Neither of the three other gentlemen present (Trini, John O'Clock and myself) were really aware of what was going on until I did the math in my head. The two older women were clearly waiting for the guys to pay.
With the memory of two weeks ago still fresh in my mind and the ribbing I took from CJ at the time, I steadfastly demurred putting any more money into the pile, plus what I thought was my share of the tip.
As a result, I left Dive Bar feeling guilty for Pale Male and flustered by how complicated a thing that started out so simply had become with the addition of more players.
I looked around for him during Mass the next morning and even thought seriously about proffering some additional money to even out the costs. But, Pale Male was a no-show. Despite a rousing sermon from the Assistant Rector (the topic was "retreats"), I entered Coffee Hour feeling down.
It would get worse.