Dude

Simple and inviting, if not particularly elegant, n'est pas?

FD and I have a few friends, what you might call a little micro-system, a social group in social science language. The guys meet once a week, the women like each other, and when one of our kids gets married, everyone chips in and helps out. Tonight someone drops off paper goods for a dinner party to be given in my home for a couple of newlyweds.

The guy at the doorstep is shlepping in the soda, showing off the paper goods.  His spouse is out of town so he's doing the shopping, or she certainly would.  We have roles in this particular club.

I glance at the offerings, raise an eyebrow, but don't say anything, smile, thank him.  I'm thinking,  There are no dinner plates. But hey!  Maybe I just didn't see them. They must be in the bottom of the bag.

But no. So as FD seasons chicken in the kitchen, a guy thing, he tells me, I'm setting the tables.  Finally unable to contain myself, I cry out:

"There's no way people can eat dinner on a lunch plate!"

FD doesn't quite get my meaning, but when I show him the eight-inchers, he reluctantly agrees. He shrugs me that je ne sais pas or Whatcha' gonna' do look.  It is 11 pm, there is no time to buy plates.  I'll be leaving on a jet plane, won't be at this party, have to get out of town.

"I'm using china," I tell him.  "Sorry to disappoint anyone.  If I were going to be here, there would have been no paper plates, no way.  Not here." 

He shouts from the kitchen. "Forget it! This is a party where we throw everything in the garbage at the end, wrap it up, throw it out.  No dishes.  Please."

I proceed to ignore him, to set the table with an assortment of nice plates, not our best stuff, but nice.  I use the plastic lunch plates our friend brought us as chargers for the soup.

Then I see the plastic cups. "We can't use these."

The cups are about six inches high and will tip with a glance or the first ounce of soda to hit off-center.

"We're going with glass," I tell him, "not crystal, but glass.  Wouldn't want to upset anyone."  Silence from the kitchen.

The napkins are fine, and they're recyclable. I love our friend's choice of napkins and there are enough to go around, which at first doesn't seem possible.  But they need reinforcement, seem lonely, so we add a second, this one white, tucked inside the first, for effect.

Now.  Do we use the Sam's Club plastic forks and knives? I have service for twenty-six, for sure, in silver-plate or even stainless. It doesn't all match, the silver-plate, but so what? At least when you cut your meat, the fork doesn't break.  The knife works as a knife, not a challenge.

He's asking Do we have any oregano?

I tell him to go outside and pick some fresh basil, he planted it.  I share the difficulty I am having with the plastic-ware.  Exasperated, he gives in.  "Whatever you want! You're the boss. I'm just going to tell them, it's your house."

I won't be around to empty the dishwasher, to sort the silverware, so it's one for the weak side.

"We're going with the plastic. To show respect. But everyone gets two forks, and we'll write a note, A third fork/knife is an option if you break either or both of these."

He smiles, tries to explain to me that most guys, at least the guys he knows, if they find themselves making a dinner party for a bride and groom, are going to be totally lost at table setting.


"You can't help it, dear. You're dudes."

FD does not know that I know this word. He laughs the laugh of surprised.  I respond to this.

"A dude can't be expected to buy stuff for a party and not get something wrong. It's how dudes are. They're just . . ." and I can't think of another word, want to say clueless, thick, but these don't apply at all to our friend who is sensitive, smart, with it. The shopper.   "You're just dudes, is all."

"When did you learn this word? Have you even seen the commercial?"  He speaks of a Pepsi commercial, and no, I have not seen it.

I reveal that years ago a patient insisted that his biggest problem was his dudeness. He needed me to take the guy in there, the male in his head, and cure the blindness, help him do/say the right things in relationships.

"And could you do that?"  FD is fascinated.

"Yes," I admit, a little embarrassed.

The only thing I forgot to tell him, I confess to FD later, is that you start . . . with the tablecloths.

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P.S. The tablecloths were fine, truth be known, matched the napkins.  Who would have thought brown would be just right?  A dude, obviously.

Women in Pink

This is the year of the cicada in Illinois. They're here en masse every 17 years, a noisy lot, much like crickets.

The local news people show us how to fry them up as appetizers and marinade them as side dishes, but it's not something we would actually do. Even though they're supposedly here every 17 years, I see a few annually and send them to my grandsons via USPS. That makes them 41 cent cicadas.

Today was HOT and there wasn't a cicada in sight. But we looked, took a little walk in the neighborhood. We were working off lunch, stopping to admire the weird things people leave on their front lawns, and admiring flowers. Chicagoans put a lot of effort into beautifying their yards.

That's why Chicago is called the garden city.

I let FD do the beautification thing and mainly concentrate on the task of removing tricycles and Razors (scooters), courtesy of the neighborhood kids, from our sidewalk. I'm assuming that when somebody trips and breaks a hip in front of my house on one of these things that it will be me that the personal injury lawyers will hunt down.

Lady, is this your scooter?

No.

Prove it.

It's not, honest.

Then why was it in front of your house. I have a client in traction and it's your fault.

Sorry.

Anyway, we were walking the neighborhood and we looked up and there they were! No, not the cicadas, the women in pink!You can't actually register here. I copied the picture from the official Avon Walk for Breast Cancer website. If you're not already aware, Avon holds the weekend fund raiser in various cities across the nation at different times of the year.

Every June Chicago Avon walkers limp through our neighborhood on Saturday in cute pink tee-shirts (sleeveless this year), jogger shorts, and cool pink or green baseball caps.

FD and I never miss them. He's a little embarrassed to be staring, but they're impossible to miss. Last year, or maybe it was the year before that, I think we caught up with them on a walk in Skokie. We're in awe, of course that people are dedicated to a cause and actually go out and do something for it.

It's always hot as blazes in the summer and our walkers gather in groups of 2-5, looking tired and dehydrated, but happy.

I said to FD, I should blog about this.

Go talk to them!

No, what would I say?

I don't know. You talk to people every day! Go talk to them.

Okay. But you have to wait for me. Don't walk ahead. Wait for me.

Okay.

What will I say?

I don't know. But you're already wearing a pink shirt. You'll fit right in!

Right.

I was wearing a pink blouse so I approached two attractive women and asked if I could walk with them, ask them some questions. "I'd like to put this in my blog," I said.

Sure! (huff puff)

You two are amazing! How far have you walked?

26.2 miles today, 13.1 tomorrow. We're almost finished for today. Only another half mile to go.

What? Did you say 26.2 miles and what? Why the weird numbers?

There are 26.2 miles in a marathon, so we did that today. And 13.1 in the half marathon we do tomorrow.

Wow! That's a lot of walking! Why are you two personally doing this? Uh, I mean, why do you think most of the women are here, I mean, uh. . .

Now I'm freaked. So insensitive! For all I know, one of these women has just lost someone she loves to breast cancer and I'm asking her to tell me about it?! I'm beginning to feel nauseated.

Well, my mother had breast cancer (OH NO! I was right!)

Did she survive, I hope?

Oh yes, she's doing just fine!

(Phew) Thank G-d. So is that the case with most of these women? Do you think most of the women who volunteer for the walk are related to or know someone who's had breast cancer?

For sure. Who doesn't know someone who's had breast cancer?

Right. Of course! That's true, isn't it? Listen, thanks so much. I've got to go. Tell me your names!

I'm Anne and she's Kim. (Or was it, I'm Kim and she's Anne).

Thanks so much. You're wonderful. Google the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer-Blogs tomorrow and you'll see your names in my blog.

Great.

Okay, bye now. Good luck.

I spotted FD and crossed the street to meet him.

That went well, I said. (I told over my two minute conversation). He asked why I ended the interview so quickly. I told him that I'm not a journalist and it felt very much like I was invading their privacy to meet my own selfish ends and that my line of questioning could have gone badly.

He totally understood.

He told me that 1 in 11 women are diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes. We went over the names of people we knew personally. Some survivors, some not, some surviving.

So I thought that you should know:

The Avon Foundation is busy supporting:

breast cancer education and awareness
screening and diagnosis
access to treatment
support services
and scientific research into the possible cause, prevention, treatment and cure.

The walk that takes place in different cities from coast-to-coast raised more than $100 million between 2003-2005.

Sounds like a very good cause to me.

LaBriyut walkers!

(rhymes with La-Tree-Loot)

or To Your Health,

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