"Appy cucking."

I like watching Jacques Pepin on PBS. I like the way he talks in a reassuring country Frenchy way. I like the way he signs off: “Happy Cooking” with no special inflection. “Appy cucking “ I like the reruns of old episodes of Jacques cooking while Julia Child, who was in her nineties, makes little moaning sounds in appreciation. She digs into the food and starts eating it as if they were alone. I love their familiarity - two distinguished veterans no longer caring how they appear to the audience but appearing perfect.

Today Jacques made Braised Sweetbreads and Tongue with Lentils. In the early preparation of the sweetbreads he identified one piece as the pancreas. He instructed that sweetbreads had to be blanched before the real cooking began. The wrinkled pale pieces of organs looked like the stuff Dr. Oz dangles when he wants us to change our diets and get more exercise. When Jacques prepared the tongue, he had to peel off the tough brown outer skin before the “tender inner part” was revealed.

Despite my respect, loyalty and affection for Jacques and the clever garnishes and soft lighting, these two dishes were revolting.

small talk for dummies (txs to NCB)

Small talk is a necessary part of life. It’s a price we pay for civilized human interaction with an emphasis on “civil.” Small talk is dumb, boring, excruciating, insincere, banal and crucial unless you want people to point and say: There goes that hermetically sealed, introverted scary person who never gives you the “time of day” (which isn’t bad either.)

Speaking of “giving you the time of day” this phrase used to denote the least speck of civility one could expect from his fellow man.

“All right, you annoying dunce, it’s twelve-thirty five.”
“Thank you. You’ve achieved the threshold of civility.”

Small talk has strict rules. If you are careless and break them, you go to “small talk” purgatory- a place where the conversation spins out of control and you are suddenly talking about your childhood tonsillectomy or your Uncle Fred’s arrest or your persistent rash. It will take an earthquake, or a twister or some other dramatic disaster to pluck you from the senseless pile-up of words exchanged.

Here are some useful hand gestures to put in your small talk arsenal that bypass talking but do the job when you see an acquaintance at the supermarket, post office, your front steps, elevator, cocktail party (if you still go to cocktail parties you deserve to be in small talk hell.)

The military salute and release. (from a few feet away.) Hey, captain. You’re the man (but I will be on my way.) Women can do this, too. It will confuse the other person but won’t insult them.

Right palm out, shoulder height:: new way of saying hi and bye at once. I’m acknowledging that I recognize you but don’t come any closer.

Tap your watch:: I’m running late. Got to pick up the kids. (mouthed from across the room) Use this even if you don’t have kids. Nobody can stand the image of two toddlers waiting by the side of the road.

Tap your head: This can mean a bunch of things. I’m a loony and can do what I want. I’m losing it and left the oven on and have to rush home. You probably are losing it so this can fall into the “truth” barrel.

Tap your throat: Implies laryngitis or worse.

Palms up and at an angle, shoulder height, wry smile, eyebrows up: “What are you going to do? That’s life.” This is a great gesture, appropriate to almost any news. It’s friendly, empathetic and you can just walk away. Remember, no words. Pat the person on the shoulder on your way out.

Thumbs up: Everything is coming up roses for me and that’s all you need to know at this time.

Wiggling fingers wave: Dangerous. A wave could result in at least 15 minutes of your life that you will never get back.

When all else fails, we have “Same old, same old.” This means: Relax. I’m still at the same dull job at the same old salary with the same old wife/husband and the same old kids and the same old car. Even if this isn’t true, it will set you free to skip down the road. Don’t succumb to false pride and disclose any personal triumphs unless you want to dive into a swamp and get stuck in banality hell.

“That’s great news.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You must be so happy.”
“I am.”
“Your wife must be happy, too.”
“She is. Very happy.”
“And your mother and father?”
“They’re happy, too.”
“How are we going to end this conversation?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think we’ll be here forever?”
“Yes we will.”

The conversational death match. There’s a person who wants to continue and one who wants to get away. The small talk bombardier (picture a kamikaze pilot) will fire away until he hits. "Wait'll you hear this!" is their battle cry. You’re a grown up. Don’t falter.

How’s everything?
Fine.
And the kids?
Fine.
How’s that closet system working out?
Fine
How’s your back?”
It’s..... fiiinnne. (whew, close.)
Wait'll you hear this.
I really have to run.
John's septic tank backed up. You know John, his father-in-law owns the deli.
No.
He had the cesspool guys there three times and they couldn't find the problem.
(What fresh hell is this? I'm mortally wounded. I've got a septic tank. He got me.) "What was the problem?"
"Wait'll you hear this."


If you’re like me, you have a crazy gene that makes you try to bond with an obnoxious boss or co-worker every so often through small talk.

“Awfully cold today.”
“It’s February in New York. What do you expect?”
(F you, creep. I’m going inside.)

Sometimes no matter how well you small talk, some insufferable French person will insert an opinion and ruin everything.
Why don’t you do ziss?
Why don’t you do ziss?

I used to have an au pair helper who was dumb (as in mute). I was thrilled anticipating a small talk free zone. She would do her work. I would do my work. A shared smile would assure us that all was well. Wrong! She had a tablet to write her thoughts. Spoken small talk is irritating; written small talk is true torture. I like your dress. Thank you. Where did you get it? Gap. Do you mind if I get one just like it? No. I used to have a dress like that but my sister ruined it in the wash. That’s too bad. Do you have a sister? No. What do you want me to do next? Just shoot me.

One of the happiest years of my life!

Here it is the year’s end. Thank you to everyone who bought my books, read my blog or reviewed my books during the past year. Some of the reviews were angry but they did not make me angry. Many readers were disappointed about one thing or another in Best Friends and could not forgive me. One woman, a reviewer on Goodreads. liked the book so much she made a list of quotable lines that I found astonishing. The reviews for Daughters and Nothing To Lose were thoughtful and favorable and made me happy because I knew I had provided the readers with a book they loved.

Two marketing ideas that brought a tsunami of downloads and increased sales were the “make it free” maneuver and the Kindle Single Program. I did a post on the “free maneuver” in November if you care to try it. Being accepted in the Kindle Singles Program definitely boosted my presence on Amazon and brought increased sales. My appearance in Fast Company Magazine where they identified me as one of the new “kings of content” was a non-event as far as sales or recognition.

Amazon is making many changes in the Kindle Publishing Program and also getting into the traditional publishing business with several imprints for different genres. The good old days of independent publishing for the Kindle are gone and competition is already stronger.

There are two areas that please me immensely. I am surprised and very satisfied that my blog is read and sometimes enjoyed by others. Blogging is the best present I’ve ever received. The other satisfaction has to do with my title, One Hundred Open Houses. I wrote this book at a time when I didn’t think I could write anymore. While the book doesn’t sell as well as Best Friends or Nothing To Lose, the readers are passionate in their enjoyment of it.

I love hearing from readers so feel free to leave comments or e-mail me. The very best comment I received said: “Is it rude of me to ask you to write faster?” To answer: I have two books at the half-way mark and will publish in 2012.

I can assess 2011 as one of the happiest years of my life full of sustainable purposeful activity that makes me feel useful. Happy New Year everybody!

“Pop, I know he’s an awful schmo but I love him.” Mr. Hobbs Takes a Vacation.

The other day I was hating the bank but today I was in love with the bank. It seemed more like the bank of yore we used to trust as a competent institution. I met a teller named Elisa today. The sign in front of her window said, “Ask Courtney how you can quadruple your rewards.” So while I was waiting for my cash, I said, “Courtney, How can I quadruple my rewards?”
“I’m not Courtney,” she said, “I work here part time on Saturdays. My regular branch is in Amagansett.” Then she told me how to quadruple my rewards but after explaining it all, we decided I was better off staying with what I had.
“The sign should have your name on it. You explained everything in a couple of minutes and sized up my situation.” This hasn’t always been the case with my bank. Last summer I saw a sign in the bank window that said: "Get five times the national interest rate." Oh, boy, five times the national interest rate. I’ve got a bunch of dollars just sitting there and they could be making me some serious cash.
When I went in to inquire about this offer no one could figure out what the offer meant including the manager of the branch. I told this to Elise. “They were clueless,” I said, “but I let it go. I’m often clueless, myself.” “I doubt that,” said Elise. “I was just clueless a few minutes ago at the supermarket,” I insisted. “I don’t think you could ever be clueless,” said Elise and I left it at that.

Five times the national interest rate it turned out was 0 .80%. How did we come to this? In the old America, interest and dividends used to be touted as a reliable way to build your nest egg. They would show you how $20. if left alone in a savings account for about eighty years would grow to $1,000,000 thanks to the miracle of compounded interest. I liked everything about the “old America.” I miss Jimmy Stewart. I wish Jimmy Stewart was running for president. I recently saw him in a film called “Mr. Hobbs Takes A Vacation.” Roger and Peggy Hobbs, nice plain names. His children called Mr. Hobbs “Pop.” On one occasion, his daughter says about her fiancée “Pop, I know he’s an awful schmo but I love him and that’s all that matters.” If any of my children said that about their spouses, I would fall down with apprehension but Mr. Hobbs just hugged his daughter in understanding. He liked the schmo, too. It was the same with Spencer Tracy in “Father Of The Bride.” He thought his future son-in-law was a schmo, too, but tolerated him. I miss all that.

#SampleSunday: "It looked like it hurt when she widened her mouth to make vowel sounds."

(This is chapter 2 from a new novel-in-progress titled “Tough As Nails.” I had hoped to have this book finished by year’s end but it’s not going to happen. Sometimes when I read what I have written I fall in love with the voice. I need to finish this novel in order to feel good about myself in 2012.)

My first client, Charlene Gibbons, was a pretty woman with stunning red hair that made you want to look at her. Imagine a sculpted, fragile face with tough eyes - everyone else in the room blended into the woodwork. Charlene, who lived across the street and four houses over, had done all right for herself - two eight cylinder cars, professional lawn care.
Three weeks after my arrival, she gave a welcome tea and served a sheet cake iced with blue roses. When I caught sight of all those safely married suburban women waiting to meet me, I put a lock on anything resembling my true self. “If you’re smart,” Charlene whispered, “you’ll use the occasion to establish your credentials with these vultures.” Besides money, Charlene had a take-charge quotient. In a women’s commune, hers would be the menstrual cycle to follow.
After the second cup of coffee, I mentioned my profession. “What do you mean?” asked Janine Tobias. She was a patrician looking blonde, the kind that wears a barrette in her hair until she’s about eighty. “You spy on cheating husbands?”
“That’s one aspect of it,” I hedged. I could see them trying to decide whether I was weird or interesting when Charlene broke the tie. “This is great,” she said. “I want to hire you to find out who poisoned my dog.”
Selma McNeil, a buxom brunette saved from beauty by a too round nose, said, “Charlene, Tiffany was hit by a car.”
“She was poisoned first,” muttered Charlene.
I thought that would be the end of it but the next morning, I was putting Retin-A under my eyes when the doorbell rang. Charlene was at my door. It was only eleven but she had on high heels and a dress I would have saved for a wedding. She strode into the room as if she’d been there many times. “Tiffany was hit by a car because she was fed something that made her go nuts,” she said. “I need to know who poisoned her.”
Charlene sat down on my down-filled couch and rewarded me with an appreciative nod. I pulled up a chair. My instinct was to chat about the neighborhood but by some miracle, I had the sense to squelch anything personal and stick to business. “Was your dog a nuisance? Dig up yards? That sort of thing?”
Charlene’s face, so angular and tight it looked like it hurt when she widened her mouth to make vowel sounds, stretched in amazement at my stupidity. “Tiffany was an expensive pedigreed dog. I never let her out free.”
“Do you know why anyone would want to harm your dog?”
“The women in this neighborhood are jealous. Charlie’s in a cash business and makes money to burn which kills a lot of people. I can drop big bucks without thinking and the women hate me for it. Not to my face of course.”
There was no rancor in her voice. She was just letting me in on some facts of life. The idea that someone else makes gobs of money easily while they struggle sends some people through the roof. Someone as rough around the edges as Charlie Gibbons would piss people off if he flaunted his wealth. “But why take it out on the dog?” I asked. “That seems needlessly cruel.” That last statement was misleading. I’m ashamed to say I’m indifferent to most animals. We had a cat, Fred, that I fed grudgingly and I always bought the cheap birdseed with like three sunflower seeds per pound of gravel that the birds refused to eat.
“You tell me,” said Charlene reasonably. “How much do you charge?” She was already expanding one of those Gucci drawstring pouch bags.
I had never said my fee out loud so it took some control. “Fifty an hour plus expenses. Fifteen percent more for weekend surveillance.
She looked disappointed, then suspicious. “You new at this?” I shook my head. “You don’t charge enough. It’s a dead giveaway. It’s okay with me. You’re the earnest type which means you’ll work hard. And you live in the neighborhood. She paused. “Charge seventy-five. My allergist charges ninety for a two-minute shot. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re going to need the money to fix up this house.”
I wasn’t offended. I was thinking about the allergy shots. I guess that’s the price she paid for that gorgeous red hair. “Thanks for your confidence Charlene, but fifty will do it.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a fool,” she said. “If you’re going to work for me, you have to be one hundred percent on my side. I’m your client and that’s sacred. I looked into her eyes and was surprised by how much intelligence showed through the toughness.
“I know that, Charlene, but I don’t mind you spelling it out.” I found her statement too dramatic for the crime at hand and that should have tipped me off that there was more to this than a dead dog. Her conversation was studded with violent imagery: “money to burn,” “kills a lot of people,” “dead giveaway.” Otherwise, she appeared to be up front. She said what was on her mind and most of it made sense. The people I had lived among for twenty years, just ten miles north, never said what was on their mind. It was culture reversal. Here, in Roxbury Commons, people talked openly about money. They talked about the housewives on reality shows as if they were best friends. In this neighborhood, I could be dull and slow. No one even wanted snappy talk.
Charlene extricated five one hundred dollar bills from a slim alligator wallet, a material I thought had been outlawed. I would have bet she had a mink or two in cold storage. “Here’s something on account. Tell me when you use it up.” She snapped the drawstrings of her handbag as if it were a dog she wanted to behave. “You’ll probably want to know whom I suspect.” Someone had taught Charlene English usage.

Wendy

When Steve Jobs died in his fifties, it made me think of Wendy Wasserstein, the playwright, who also died in her fifties. I started reading both biographies that had just been published.

When Wendy died it was like What? No! It was in January, 2006. She died in the bleak dead of winter. They never say the “dead” of summer. A lot of people I know have died in winter. It’s as if they think I’m going to die anyway why go through another freeze ass winter. At the time I was so against Wendy’s death I read everything thinking I would ultimately find her still alive. The internet is macabre about death. There’s the Blog of Death where they catalogue obituaries. There’s “Dead or Alive” and if the subject is gone, the page just reads: Dead. There’s a skull in the corner. Or it screams Alive! with a smiley face. Most accounts on Wendy said simply “…dead at 55.” Gawker.com added …”died this morning of cancer. She was 55.” Lots of people posted comments on Gawker including Firebrand who had a beef with the idea that 55 was a ”tragically young age” since Pfc Brian J. Schoff had died on the same day in Iraq at the age of 22. The Daily News had a lot of the soft news on Wendy including her will and a round-up story on the special challenges of single moms finding a guardian for their child. It mentioned that Wendy’s billionaire brother, Bruce, was raising Lucy after “dismissing the girl’s live-in nanny.” This was the same Bruce who would go on to divorce his third wife and marry his fourth and would now spring his orphaned niece on their new household. For all I know, Lucy Jane captured everyone’s heart but something tells me this household was not a warm fuzzy place. Fast forward three years later. Bruce dies mysteriously and Lucy Jane is once again in need of a new household.

I wasn’t a fan of Wendy’s plays although I liked her non-fiction articles and I particularly liked her New Yorker piece on the heart wrenching birth of Lucy Jane, her in-vitro created child.
Here’s this Pulitzer Prize winning playwright who decides to inject herself with a fertilized egg at age forty-eight. Who was the father? No one knows. The baby is born premature and barely survives. The mother names her Lucy Jane, a fanciful name but just right for a single famous mother named Wendy. When Lucy is seven her mother, who has been in decline since the birth, dies. Uncle Bruce who, among other things, has commandeered the venerable firm of Lazard Freres and sent all it’s old world founders into near cardiac arrest by getting rid of all things Frenchy and Roccoco and taking the very private firm public, adopts his sister’s child.
Fast forward three years and Bruce dies mysteriously. I say mysteriously because one of the common traits of the Wasserstein family was to withhold important information and to this day the cause of Bruce’s death, the name of Lucy’s father, where Bruce is buried and a myriad other details of the Wasserstein family are not known. By the time he died, Bruce had already fathered another extra-marital child and also divorced wife number three and married number four. Hey, where does that leave Lucy Jane? Lucy is being raised by Bruce’s third wife and enjoys the company of her two boy cousins in what appears to be a stable and happy household.

I ask myself, why are you so obsessed with Wendy Wasserstein especially since you don’t particularly admire her skill as a playwright or the importance of the central themes of her plays? I am obsessed with Wendy because she was someone with limited creative skills who willed herself a place of huge importance in a creative field and worked hard to stay at the white hot center of the action and remain relevant for more than thirty years. Wendy had to work against an overbearing, almost cruel mother who didn’t clap for Wendy even when she won the Pulitzer. Lola Wasserstein might have been the first Tiger Mother, relentless in her demands of excellence and overachievement from her brood. Wendy also had to work against her obesity and lack of fashion grace.

Like Steve Jobs with his no bathing, no shoes fetish, she often appeared at rehearsal or meetings in her nightgown, hair disheveled. Wendy was certain (and her experience confirmed it) she could “will” anything into existence. She tried several times to convince talented gay colleagues to marry her and father her children. One of them may be Lucy’s father. No one knows.

All of the children in the Wasserstein family were very successful. Lola extracted all of the fame and fortune she could have hoped for out of her brood. The lone disappointment was a first-born son that was “challenged.” Lola put him away early on and never brought his name up again until Wendy accidentally discovered him at one of her public appearances. The tragic outcome is that all of the cast members in the original Family Wasserstein have died, many prematurely. The sole survivor is Georgette who runs an inn in Vermont.

I’m rooting for Lucy Jane.

"Did we solve your problem?" Yes? No?

Yesterday I felt crazy. I felt I had mentally gone off a cliff and there was no way of climbing back up. It started out with trying to explain a problem on my Author’s Page to Amazon. Their response was so inappropriate that where the e-mail message asked “Did we solve your problem?,” I wanted to hit the “no” prompt with a sledgehammer. When they sweetly allowed me to re-state the problem, everything I wrote sounded crazy and needlessly complicated.

I thought, Ooooh they’re never going to understand this in Calcutta. What’s more they’re going to think I’m a big whiny baby for wanting my book cover re-instated when they have starving children living in metal shacks. They will purposely write back a bizarre unrelated message to teach me Zen patience and acceptance and ask again hopefully, “Did we solve your problem?” meaning “Have we taught you the meaning of life and living in the now instead of grasping greedily for nonsense outcomes that will not translate into happiness?”

I felt crazy for another reason. I bought something on Amazon on a gift card and when the order went through, they asked “Do you want to apply the balance in your account to this order?” This message didn’t make sense unless Amazon was trying to prey on my dim wittedness and get me to pay twice. When I clicked on the help button and talked to a very nice person, I felt crazy asking her “Why is that message there? Why would I want to pay more money for the same item?”

I felt crazy for another reason. The prescription eye drops I put in my eyes every day usually sting like crazy but the new batch doesn’t sting at all. How was I going to tell that to the pharmacist? It sounded crazy. “Hello, my eye drops don’t sting do you thing big Pharma has bungled the formula and now I am going to go blind? There’s no good way of saying that.

Talking to the phone company used to be a reliable way of feeling not only crazy but in need of anger management. One of my children had a telephone problem for two years that the phone company refused to acknowledge. She would lose phone service every time it rained. Try telling that to the repair dept. For two years she pleaded with Verizon to fix the problem. She would go through the menu and they would ask her to “speak” her problem. “Did I hear you say you want to order the premium package?” was Verizon’s response.

Today, I am only engaging in activities that I can control. I’m writing my blog and sending out Christmas checks.