sue

I never miss a Hollywood awards show. It’s a great excuse to watch TV at 5pm and start drinking champagne at 4pm because I have a cheese board to prepare that has to sustain me through a ceremony they always try to make shorter, and never do.  I also get to comment on everyone’s clothes in my sweatpants, which obviously makes me highly qualified, and the more the ceremony drags on and the champagne drains down, the more qualified I become. I also get to plan what I’ll wear one day when I’m nominated for best original screenplay.  (BTW at this rate I’m probably going to wear something with a sleeve so when I wave my Golden Globe the skin on my arms doesn’t wave back.) Of course I also love the rousing speeches that get me dewy-eyed and clear any backlogged emotions that won’t be useful at work on Monday.

This Sunday night at the Golden Globes, the Queen gave a such a speech. Not Claire Foy, not Judi Dench, not Helen Mirren. Queen Oprah. She gave the most rousing of all speeches, clearing a lifetime of Monday emotions. If you’re reading this from Earth you’ll certainly have seen the final moments, I’d paraphrase for you but one don’t paraphrase the Queen, so here it is:

“So I want all the girls watching here, now, to know that a new day is on the horizon! And when that new day finally dawns, it will be because of a lot of magnificent women, many of whom are right here in this room tonight, and some pretty phenomenal men, fighting hard to make sure that they become the leaders who take us to the time when nobody ever has to say “Me too” again.”  

While we gave her a standing sweatpants ovation in my home, hoping the sound of our clapping would make it to the Beverly Hilton, I suddenly felt compelled to write about the magnificent women who fought hard as leaders as I grew up in advertising. Women who, in a comparatively small agency in Johannesburg, South Africa, created a kind of Wonder Woman-esque island for me to learn in, and where any lack of power never even occurred to me, because they were in power. I was the shorter, less cool-accented, actually nothing physically similar to Gal Gardot of advertising, and they made me think I am the man who can. (Yes that’s a line from Wonder Woman).

They were a trifecta whose words and actions still influence decisions I make today.  Stefania Ianigro Johnson. Sandy de Witt.  And Guia Iacomin.  These three women were stacking up Cannes Lions before there was a Glass Lion, before they even thought to balance the juries with women, when the offers to go home with male creative directors were no doubt laid out on platters with as much normality as the cheap beachside buffets.  Let me tell you a little about them.  And I should caveat this all with – this is my perception of them. I have no doubt they faced mountains of challenges and fought battles I’m not aware of, but my point, Oprah’s point, is they were magnificent women who set an example.  

Stefania was a writer. Meticulous. Demanding. Her red pen going over your script was brutal. Each red mark on paper a kind of symbolic paper cut for shoddy grammar, spelling mistakes, conceptual flaws which of course should not have been there. In a room full of half-baked concepts from young people who had barely slept, she could pull a campaign thread through ideas like a master tailor turning scraps of fabric into an expensive suit.  And speaking of expensive suits, while I scraped together a wardrobe on a starting salary, to me she was the epitome of glamor, not afraid to be a woman. She wore clothes that emphasized her shape, she had a mirror on the back of her door where she reapplied red lipstick before presentations while she and Sandy rehearsed what they would say. Everything with them was thought through. Everything was dialed.  

Guia was head of production. A female head of production was not even close to common at the time, but it was all I knew. Guia always spoke in the same soft measured voice that could tell you to take an umbrella and stick it up your arse while making it sound like a compliment.  Not that Guia ever said things like that. Her instructions were simple and unwavering. And kept everyone calm at all times. Think about a lullaby where the words are, “No we don’t care for that, so let’s get it together and do it the way we are supposed to, alright?”. That’s what Guia sounded like. And she did this all in beautiful shoes and perfectly fitted clothing that made me understand that feminism and taking care of how I present myself need not be at odds.  

Sandy was plain fierce. Actually she was many kinds of fierce. Fierce about what the idea was. Fierce about art direction and craft.  Give her a doctor’s note and she’d probably comment on the kerning of the letterhead, nothing slipped by her.  She was fierce with any director or photographer who thought they knew more about how her idea would be made. She knew how to do it herself, and she was never intimidated by them. She storyboarded before they did.  She looked into their cameras. She armed herself with a wealth of knowledge that made her more powerful. She made decisions and was unapologetic about what she liked.  She threw noisy stereos and phones out of windows when she’d explicitly requested quiet. She didn’t care what you thought, she was working. If something was created on her watch, it was crafted, and perfect. Everything I learned from Sandy allowed me to pack my bags and head overseas, to go and work for another magnificent woman, the amazing Susan Hoffman.

It honestly never occurred to me at the time just how powerful these women were in my life.  Yes, I noticed that in our big TBWA network they were a speck of femininity in a sea of macho. But the sheer fact that they were there in positions of power made it seem normal, and that nothing was impossible for me.  Probably an even greater achievement was they made just a few us, a lot more of us.  They turned the tide on “we need a woman in the room” to women who were in the room already because they were the best people for the job.  When I look at how many women who came under their influence fill the departments of businesses across the world now, it’s amazing.

Just as Oprah mentioned, this also takes some pretty phenomenal men –  John Hunt who founded the agency, and smart motley crew I worked with – all allowed this good to happen. I didn’t know it at the time, but in spite of the role models the world was churning out, they all chose to behave differently.

In Oprah style I’m handing virtual champagne to as many of the magnificent women who came under their influence as I can remember. Maybe some of you will repost this as a thank you to them for dragging us kicking and screaming until our work was on point, passed those who even thought of harassing us, of abusing their power, or messing with our power in any way at all. Here’s to Stef, Guia, Sandy and you and you and you Kirsten Hohls, Robyn Bergmann, Cindy Lee, Camilla Heberstein, Minky Stapleton, Leigh Bullock, Paige Nick, Clare McNally, Avi Pinchevsky, Fran Luckin, Jenny Glover, Bibi Lotter, Marianna O’Kelley, Cathy Ireland, Sue Stewart, Helena Woodfine, Jo Barber, Jacqui Teasdale, Roanna Williams, Candy Waddell, Karin Barry, Juliette Honey, Kerry Friend, Diana Prince, Nicole Binikos, Nicola Bower, Janine Wittrowski, Jenny Groenewald,  Lisa Wides, Margie Backhouse, Petra, Zoe, Colleen Anderson, Tessa Thompson, Lisa Vermaak, Joyce, Kim Hunt, Carol Soames,  Sally Walland, Lorraine Smit, Debbie Dannheiser, Caz Friedman, Hazel Neuhaus, Melanie, Nicola Berry, Beth Erasmus, Lynn Joffe, Wendy Moorcroft…the list goes on, names have no doubt been left off and misspelled…add and change in the comments!

Dear Will Shakespeare

I have a bone to pick with you on the subject of aging. I am aware you are, um, no longer with us, and your bones are beyond picking but hear me out.

I have always been a fan of your Seven Ages of Man monologue from As You Like It. This is because when I first read it I was at the ‘creeping unwillingly to school’ stage and thought this speech rang beautifully true. Also, once I understood ‘sans’ meant ‘without’ I found it easier to read than some of the ‘all hail/ye/thee’ type stuff you so oft used.

But, now that I’m headed towards the shrill voice stage of my life at the speed of a ping-pong ball down a San Francisco hill, I am seeing you left quite a lot of stuff out – things we have to go ‘sans’ – as we head back to the beginning of the circle of life. (And it’s not pretty, Pumba).

You never mention that slowly but surely we have to go sans alcohol. Otherwise we wake up with raging hangovers that last two long mewling and puking filled days.

You never mention that we have to go sans cigarettes. No more cheeky smokes over said alcoholic drinks, or we wake up sighing like a furnace that a woeful Santa got stuck in with size 16 boots.

You conveniently leave out that we have to go sans pizza, doughnuts, burgers, fries and a lot of other delightful junk because, unlike in our youth, they stick around the belly in the kind of consecutively layered rings that look cute on a baby but not on a grown woman.

You failed to note we have to go sans late nights. Now, if I have one late night, or even mistakenly pull an all-nighter because I’m old but I’m still a pro, the next day I’m as crabby as an infant on a plane that is given Shakespeare to read instead of an iPhone and a spoon of NyQuil.

You also skip over things like going sans long runs because the knees just can’t do it anymore. And that you can’t go sans looking after your skin anymore, you actually have to buy the expensive eye creams, because the face finds more ways to wrinkle than a shar pei puppy.

It seems to me that we get to revel in wine and doughnuts, work hard and play hard, and then we have to wean ourselves off it all because we just can’t take it anymore. I guess I’ve always known I’d have to deal with losing my teeth, my hair and my mind, but damnit William, I didn’t expect to have to become so disciplined in my forties. Harumph! Mewling! Wah!

Anyway, with all that in mind I made a few suggestions to revise your piece to be more truthful (see notes in red italics inline below – it’s what we do these days. If you were on Google docs I’d have just added comments). I’d make these revisions myself, but it’s nearly 9pm and if I don’t go sleep now, I’ll wake up so grumpy I will kill the first teenager I see with a doughnut.

The Seven Ages of Man
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women* merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
(*Sidenote: It’s nice you mention women, very progressive for your time actually, but you might think about writing it all from the female POV considering the year we have had? Just a thought…)
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face*, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
(*Good you note the “morning face” – I’d bring it back at the end. Mention that this ‘morning face’ slips slowly down the neck, like a candle melted in the evening.)
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
(Move this to the end. As a woman, bearding really gets aggressive as you get older. I’m waxing my upper lip and finding all manner of dark and long hairs that never existed at this stage of my life.)
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. (Move the quarrel bit to later too. The older I get the more forthright and argumentative I become because I’m not getting younger so I hate people who waste my time.)
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined, (I like the use of belly here. Accurate.)
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, (See lip wax note above, maybe add here.)
Full of wise saws and modern instances; (Nice, like that you’re avoiding saying as we get older modern things like phones get harder to figure out, and it’s embarrassing that an infant can send a text faster.)
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, (The word “lean” doesn’t ring true. Because of the belly you really aren’t wearing anything lean here. Everything is kinda baggy to cover up all manner of eating sins. Slippers are true though. We look for comfort here. Heels all night feel like a young woman’s game. I’m personally celebrating sneakers having their fashion moment at the same time as I’m heading into the woods of 40.)
With spectacles on nose (You need to be more specific. Say reading glasses on nose because suddenly at this stage lights in restaurants all seem to be too dim. Also mention that reading glasses are humiliating because so many of them are designed like you’ve lost your sense of taste not your 20/20 vision) and pouch on side; (Is it just me or does “pouch” sound like a colostomy bag? Damn. This circle is depressing, eh,Will? )
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide (In my experience ‘hose’ or leggings are not too wide, but rather too tight…Also, consider saying “leggings” or “Lululemons” because the word hose denotes something getting ruined.)
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, (Mention we go also go back to listening to old music like Depeche Mode and Billy Idol…) pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, (Oblivion might be a tad dramatic, delete.)
Sans more than one glass of wine, sans late night partying, sans burgers, doughnuts etc….sans anything fun really….then lead into sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. (Maybe mention we can only hope for oblivion here?)

Yours, sans humor
Sue

No matter where you go you hear it. Trum-trump. Trum-trump. Open your Facebook page. Trum-trump. Trum-trump.  Go to Twitter.  Trum-trump! Trum-trump! BBC news alert. First the signature tune, then a cross-fade to Trum-trump. Trum-trump. In the line at Starbucks, over the sound of machines whipping up your mochaccino, talk of his actions mock louder,  Trum-trump. Trum-trump.  In restaurants the dull rumble of “I have a gluten allergy can you do the burger with no bread…” have been replaced by the nauseating drone of Trum-trump. Trum-trump. Pick up the newspaper and, like the 90’s line of birthday cards that sang ‘Happy Birthday’ when you opened them, he is there screeching Trum-trump. Trum-trump.  Even in my guilty escape-the-day fashion and beauty media between “How to prevent dry lizard skin,” and what Alexa Chung wore in a blizzard to NY fashion week (a cape, naturally), the lizard himself parades his line of tyranny, with his white supermodels of elitism, Bannon, DeVos, Spicer… All to the sound of Trum-trump. Trum-trump.

He has all at once become that one song they play on every radio station over and over again, the taxi TV you cannot mute, the baby who cries for the full duration of a 7-hour flight, the neighbors who have really loud sex and now you know their names as Yes-David-Yes and Don’t-Stop-Baby-Oh-No-Baby-Don’t and you wish you didn’t, the dog that howls persistently when its owners leave home and that jingle with a phone number that gets stuck in your head but you’ll never use because as much as you’d like to give a car to 1877-Kars-4-Kids you kinda need yours to drive somewhere, anywhere to escape the Trump noise.

Trum-trump. Trum-trump.  It is everywhere and it cannot be muted. And we are all to blame. Between my obsession, your obsession, our well-intended vigilance and the media’s necessary – and brilliant – reporting, this 45^th president has become the 45-inch record we cannot get enough of.  He is officially the white noise of the nation. The obligatory muzak everywhere we go.

Now I find myself genuinely missing your selfies in fabulous places while I’m standing in the check out line at Ralphs buying tampons and a screw top wine.  I miss your food posts.  What are you eating these days?  Are you starving?  I think you might be starving.  Send taco pictures dammit.  How is your cat?  And your baby?  I miss reading about just about everything without it somehow being attached to him.  Is ‘La La Land’ good because we are in need of cheering up in a Trump presidency? No it’s just a wonderful modern musical that gets a little sloppy in the middle. Go see ‘Moonlight’ and ‘I’m not your Negro’ first, they are perfect films no matter who the hell is president. I miss (mis)quoting NPR stories about coffee consumption in Rwanda and the woman who got her PhD in pastrami. I miss your gossip over dinner. I might even miss your talk of gluten allergies. Maybe.

Am I advocating we be less vigilant in talking about his actions and what actions we should take to counter him?  Never.  The vigilance must continue.  It’s working.   Am I advocating the media report less on him and more on Alexa Chung’s capes?  Absolutely not.  The one good thing Trump has inspired is what I believe is the golden age of journalism.  They are doing a brilliant job.  And we certainly don’t need more cape coverage unless it’s about a superhero who can change this mess. All I am saying is he cannot be the only record. He cannot steal all the limelight, all the airwaves, smothering anything else that is interesting, creative, inspiring or even pithy.  Or cape-y.

So here’s what I’m going to be doing.   For every Trump article I read I promising myself I will read an unrelated Trump article.  For every comedy central or SNL skit I watch about Trump, I’m going to make myself watch something else. Or maybe I’ll just sneak in an episode of This is Us. Or a Youtube tutorial on how to prevent dry lizard skin.  Something else.  For every dinner I go to, I will go armed with stories of action being taken to counter the ills of this administration, not just my whining.  I’m not going to ignore the record.  I’m going to turn this 45-inch single into a compilation. Or at least make sure there’s a B side.  Black keys amongst the white.  Because I genuinely worry  that the more voice we give him, the more his is the only voice. And I can’t have dry lizard skin and worry lines.

Should we try it? I’ll start.  Did you read about Trump saying he will simply issue another executive order?  It’s here. Did you know you can get a PhD in pastrami? Did you hear about Seattle and the city of Davis taking their money out of Wells Fargo because of its association with the  Dakota Access line, to hurt where it counts on the instead of just whining over dinner?  It’s here.  Did you know you can prevent dry lizard skin?  You can, here’s the article.  Have you seen Trevor Noah go off about Nordstrom and Ivanka Trump?  Really, did you see ‘I am not your Negro’? If you don’t believe me it’s good believe A.O. Scott. See? Sounds better to me already  It’s not perfectly balanced.  Nor should it be in these times.  But it sounds better. It sounds like there is space for the rest of us. And our voices.  I’m just a part-time blogger, but hopefully you hear me. Also, I’m craving a pastrami sandwich now.  Yes,  I will post a selfie when I find one.

In March I wrote about my quite irrational dislike of the exclamation mark. And those who abuse it. Even I admitted then, and I quote myself here, “Surely there are greater things to expend hatred on – like the idea of Donald Trump as POTUS.” Well, here we all are, staring at Donald Trump as the actual POTUS and I find my distaste for this punctuation mark at an all time high.   You see when it comes to the exclamation mark Donald Trump is surely the greatest abuser I have ever seen.  And so I’m back begging us all not to use it. Unless of course you’re passing this along saying, “This is a great read! Must repost! What an awesome blog!”

I know what you’re thinking. Really, Sue? In the face of potential basic constitutional violations are you going to call Donald Trump out for punctuation abuse? You’re actually an awful punctuator. And can’t you see we’re all reading post election press on each other’s Facebook pages, no one needs you to add to the pile with such pithiness. As it is there are so many real celebrities like Aaron Sorkin writing beautiful things about how horrid this election was we’ll be two years into a Donald Trump presidency before we’ve read and reposted it all.

Well, yes I am still going to do this, and you just have to scan Donald Trump’s Twitter to see why my dislike is back with such great vengeance.

That dirty little punctuation mark breathes disingenuousness into everything.

‘Jeb Bush, George W and George H.W. all called to express their best wishes on the win. Very nice!’

It infuses bravado and machismo where they don’t belong.

 General James “Mad Dog” Mattis, who is being considered for Secretary of Defense, was very impressive yesterday. A true General’s General!

It makes what could so easily be a request, into a condescending barked order.

The Theater must always be a safe and special place. The cast of Hamilton was very rude last night to a very good man, Mike Pence. Apologize!

It turns what could be a well-meaning statement in the hands of those less abusive into vacuously yelled nonsense.

Numerous patriots will be coming to Bedminster today as I continue to fill out the various positions necessary to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

It allows mean spiritedness to be sugarcoated.

I have always had a good relationship with Chuck Schumer. He is far smarter than Harry R and has the ability to get things done. Good news!

It quickly and lightly dismisses serious issues like stealing large amounts of money from senior citizens.

The ONLY bad thing about winning the Presidency is that I did not have the time to go through a long but winning trial on Trump U. Too bad!

And it makes it seem like you see everything as a beauty pageant or a TV show.

Very organized process taking place as I decide on Cabinet and many other positions. I am the only one who knows who the finalists are!

It also allows you to appear to sound humble when you are actually on a TV show, as the what? Oh the President. Blush, blush.

I will be interviewed on @60Minutes tonight after the NFL game – 7:00 P.M. Enjoy!

See? The evidence is higher than a Trump hotel built with steel from China.

Now, Obama’s campaign – and Hillary’s – did not come with exclamations marks. Obama simply offered ‘HOPE’, not ‘HOPE!’ Hillary spoke of ‘experience’ not ‘experience!’ They both exercised restraint.

Even when really good things happened like seeing a team that had not won in 108 years win, Obama was restrained. His Twitter read as folows:

I’ll say it: Holy Cow, @Cubs fans. Even this White Sox fan was happy to see Wrigley rocking last night.

Even his ‘Holy Cow’ came exclamation mark free. Because being a leader takes restraint. Being a leader is serious business. As Donald Trump reluctantly packs his overnight bag for the White House (because the Trump Tower is well, nicer, so don’t have them pack up everything honey!) he shows no signs of restraint. His brand of “You’re Fired!” drama, power-mongering and alarmism appears to be so much easier for him.

To his credit his campaign did stop at embroidering the exclamation mark on the emergency red ‘MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN’ baseball caps his white guys wore, but I’m going with the assumption it was a mistake. Probably some immigrants who should not be working here in the first place who screwed up. Or a woman…

So, once again I’m proposing we hold back on the exclamation marks. Because I still think nothing is that ‘CUTE!’ or that ‘Urgent!!!’ but mainly because if we lose calm and yell back we are no different. If we lose hope we will only have despair. If every Holy Cow is exclaimed we will not see when the real Holy Cows – like respect for one another no matter what our race, sex or economic standing, or our feeling of safety not just in theaters watching Hamilton – are being slaughtered. Continue to read everything you can. Repost it on all your social media. And of course protest as you see fit. It’s important. But when you do, think before you exclaim.  Or risk sounding like Donald Trump. Yikes!

Why, no matter what I order from room service, does it always take twenty minutes?  Without fail, around the world, it seems to me someone on the other end of the line will say, “That’ll be twenty minutes”. If it’s a burger or bottle of water.  Twenty minutes. A roast chicken for four with stuffing.  Twenty minutes. A latté. Go ahead and have uncaffeinated sex, unless you’re Sting or a character from a Jackie Collins novel that has sex for hours, because you’ve got twenty minutes. If it’s eggs Benedict, you guessed it, twenty minutes.  Just FYI eggs Benedict were listed by GQ and David Chang as the best breakfast to have after sex so maybe order it with the latté or you’ll have to wait another twenty. And if you think you’ll need water…if it’s all those things together. The foods I mean. Twenty minutes.

Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes, but my point is a latté takes as long as a roast chicken. Water as long as eggs Benedict. Why is that?

Okay it may not actually be twenty minutes for every hotel, but every hotel has an arbitrary time that doesn’t think a latté and a roast chicken are any different.  Or water and eggs Benedict. Why is that?

I have ordered a latté at the fanciest of coffee shops and they manage to intimidate me, introduce me to hazelnut milk, and do pretentious cocoa art all in less than ten minutes. So as the room service department there would still be enough time to grab a tray and a silver dome thingy to cover the latté, walk to the elevator, Google the real word for “silver dome thingy”, learn that the word is “cloche” which is French for bell, contemplate how much the thingy looks like a bell, get to the room, gently tap on the door and say, “Room Service!”

I have also tried to make a roast chicken in twenty minutes. I spent fifteen searching for “Twenty minute chicken” recipes and then got distracted by “Four unexpected nail colors for all types of bride” which I had to read because I really needed to know just how “unexpected” nail colors can actually get considering the rainbow is somewhat set.

And what about those post-sex eggs Benedict? I have pouched an egg in three minutes. Toasted an English muffin in three. But a Béarnaise sauce? The New York Times lists just the sauce as a twenty-minute affair. That’s twenty-six minutes in even before there’s a cloche, or a throat clearing to say “Room Service!”

Needless to say a bottle of water is easy enough to secure in way under twenty minutes unless you feel the need to go to Evian itself. Or have to go to a well in which case you might want to rethink spending your money on room service.

So why can hotels not commit to a food appropriate time? Did they all just get together and start to white board out the standard times of every dish and it just got overwhelming? Coffee – two minutes, burgers – twenty minutes, roast chicken – really long, water – really quick, eggs Benedict…oh what they hell let’s just average this out. Then they all high-fived, made silly hats with cloches and went back to their rooms and ordered room service? I do wonder how long they were told it would take.

Recently while waiting for my twenty-minute room service I was curious to see what else could be done in this time, and to see how wildly those activities varied. I found an article from USA Today that listed “Try not think about penguins”. bemorewithless.com suggested “Defining fun” which sounded decidedly unfun, even for a minute. I also found a Woman’s Day article, which suggested, “Write your own obituary” and “Envision yourself reaching a fitness goal”. I liked this one because it didn’t involve actual exercise. So I imagined myself as an Olympic champion javelin thrower with a steroid problem but Madonna-like arms and great neon pink athleisure gear until I heard someone clear their throat, gently knock on the door and say, “Room Service!”

How exactly hotels landed on their time allotments we might never know. Just the same way we might never know why they all fold the end of the toilet paper into points like an arrow aimed at the shittiest target, why they all make the tissues look like flowers so you always feel bad blowing snot into them, or why the minibar is so expensive you have to drink to comprehend why 50ml of vodka costs that much, how check-in time came to be 3pm so you never actually even spend twenty-four hours there, or why we/I always feel compelled to steal all the mini shampoos like hotels might stop doing this one day.

All that said I would never stop ordering room service. Because despite all the things we can do in twenty minutes – “exercise”, obituarize, avoid penguins – there’s still nothing that beats the sheer joy of eating eggs Benedict in a robe someone else will wash, in a bed someone else will make while you watch Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, or read a Jackie Collins novel, all washed down with a latté. Exactly why that is, is a beautiful mystery to me that will never be solved. No matter how much time I’m given.

Every time a server in a restaurant says, “Our dishes are small plates that are made to share family style,” all I hear is, “Our dishes are made to share famine style, ” and while they run through their favorite small plates I’m either mapping out where the closest In-N-Out Burger is on the way home and panicking that we might not be done before they close, or I’m wondering when the UN will have to start doing food parcel drops over the gentrified neighborhoods that have too many of these “family style” restaurants we are all going to, and all quietly starving in because of this share plate craze. And then I wonder if we’ll even recognize the food parcels if they are not wrapped in phyllo with a sweet tamarind dipping sauce.

“Family style” really is just proxy for lots of small plates, usually with things rolled into very small balls, very small stacks, on small kebab sticks or in a pâté dish with four half slices of bread even when there are six of you at the table. All these small plates come with big plate prices though – the little plate that could! – which means you will always leave with an empty wallet, and an empty stomach, with the exception of a few tiny balls of something rolling around like some sort of abandoned game of digestive pinball.

If you have not experienced any of this, let me lay out the course of events of eating “family style”. There are usually at least six of you dining, family style.  You are usually seated at a long table, family style.  At your servers recommendation you will usually order, “A couple of dishes per person,” so everyone can have a taste, family style.

If you live in LA half of this family will be vegetarian, vegan, or only eating animals who are organic grass fed vegetarians.  Obviously you’ll all be allergic to wheat.

The dishes will be ordered accordingly.  Everyone will look to the server who will then count how many dishes you’ve ordered to ensure you’ve ordered enough.  Well, they will appear to count dishes but really they are counting how many homes in Malibu with ocean views and good martini glasses the restaurant owner will have after you all leave.  They will then smile and suggest you maybe add one or two greens on the side, like the Brussels sprouts which are delicious.

Then this “family style” meal will be placed across this long table.  And the one dish you actually wanted will be at the other end of the table, a mini meatball mirage simmering in the far distance, while you share the gem lettuce salad with no lardon and no cheese – so the real gems are missing – because you’re sat next to the vegan.

Seeing the actual size of the plates all of you realize you are about to be starved to death, and all overcome your wheat allergy enough to eat the only substantial thing on the table – the four half slices of bread. It’s Lord of Flies, but with the wild pig on Barbie plates with sourdough bread.

Directly after this moment of suburban savagery the Politeness Meatball Phenomenon  – or PMP as I call it in my circle of me – will kick in.  PMP is not limited to actual meatballs but is an overarching term that stretches across all of the last foodstuffs left on the plates that everyone is suddenly too polite to eat.  The Politeness Meatballs will stay on the table, all night.  Too small to be divided amongst you, but just big enough to make you hungrier even as they congeal in their own cold gravy.

Of course there will be plenty of the server recommended Brussels sprouts. They will come in a proper grown-up sized bowl and there will always be more than one Brussels sprout left. Brussels sprouts are never Politeness Meatballs.  This is because they are not delicious. No one ever ordered them as their last meal on earth.  I checked Google.  At first it laughed at me and said, “You know the answer to this,” and then it double checked, and it turns out one Gregory Resnover did order Brussels sprouts as his last meal. Sentenced to death in Indiana Resnover ordered fried chicken, whipped potatoes, giblet gravy, Brussels sprouts, salad with French dressing, cranberry sauce, ice cream with chilled peaches, buttered dinner rolls, milk, sugar and coffee. He then declined the meal.  Okay, he swore he was innocent so this was likely his last act of defiance against the system, or, it was because he realized too late Brussels sprouts are not a good last meal.

Google also told me about the white people who seldom get wrongfully sentenced to death coffee table book called ‘My Last Supper, The Next Course’ by Melanie Dunea. Chefs David McMillan and April Bloom both list Brussels sprouts in their death rider.  It should be noted Bloom has been photographed with a whole pig on her back, and McMillan owns a restaurant called Joe Beef. Brussel sprouts are a conduit for pork gravy, and a crunch with a forkful of roast beef, but they are not a bowl of deliciousness any family is going to dig into.

Wow.  Big diversion.  Anyway. I looked into where this whole family style thing came from. It does have benefits.  None of them are listed as “feeling satisfied and full” but mommy bloggers like Jill Castle do rave about the benefits in children.  It helps fine tune motor skills as they pass dishes around. It also teaches politeness, and sharing.  And I buy that, because in most homes dishes are full dishes, big dishes.  Meatballs are not the same size as your peas. And Brussels sprouts are reserved for Thanksgiving.

So, I’m giving the restaurant version of family style the finger. I’m doing this largely because after years of eating family style at home my motor skills are pretty finely tuned now, in fact they are spectacular. And I’m doing this because I’m tired of being polite. I want to go out to dinner with good friends, eat my own meatballs, off my own big plate while I share the things that are actually worth sharing; conversation, opinions, gossip and really good wine. Isn’t that why we all go for dinner together in the first place? I think it is. If you agree, share this post. I’m not opposed to that.

I’m not listening to you.  Not because I’m a very famous in my own mind blogger and I don’t have to listen to you, or because this is obviously not a real conversation, I mean when we are together in person I’m not listening to you.  You see I have my phone in front of me – placed just so I can pretend I’m listening to you and still see the screen – and when my eyes widen as you speak I’m actually reading this very funny text that says “Make America Great Britain Again!” and what you’re saying is less funny, though I’m sure no less important.  Oh, and JJ Redick just tweeted about something to do with basketball. For some reason I subscribed to his twitter account and now I love seeing his name come up in my alerts.  And I’ve just got four mails. oh and it’s 5.52pm and I had planned to be at a yoga class by 6.30. The class is led by Kyle…no Louise, or maybe Jenn….wait, do you mind I’m going to check the app real quick under the pretense it’s work related so it seems really important to actually not listen to you rather than pretend I’m listening and not listen to you. 

Okay the 6.30 class on Thursday’s is Kyle’s class, go on. The other thing I should tell you is I’m not the only one not listening to you.  At any given moment someone else you’re talking to is watching that video where the rabbit is being cleaned by a cat.  Someone else is getting BBC News alerts – Rolling Stones say no to Donald Trump, shocking – and someone else just got a bunch of hearts on their Instagram and they probably want to see if it’s for the yummy pork wonton picture or the palm tree sunset.

Is it because you’re boring?  Is it because you don’t have a rabbit getting a cat cleaning worthy piece of conversation? I mean maybe we should all try to have cat and rabbit level conversation every now and then, but no it’s not really that either.  Is it because what you’re saying is taking quite long and you should try to condense the emotions you have right now into 15 seconds, like an Instagram video? Not at all. 

I’m not listening because I’m on my phone, or laptop, or tablet, mailing, chatting or texting someone who is also mailing, chatting, texting or looking at a sad ad about moms which she’ll send to someone who is also mailing, chatting, texting, reading or looking for the pizza emoticon, so none of us in the whole wide world are listening.  To you, or one another.

Why?  Chances are you’ve already forgotten what I’m even talking about right now because you aren’t listening to me either.  None of us are listening, because everyone one of us is doing something else.

It’s the greatest elephant in boardrooms today, that no one even knows is there because we aren’t listening to its loud and incessant trumpeting, we are typing emails.  Or we are leaving the room mentally to go to Facebook because – I don’t know – maybe someone just posted something so important that the person who was up all night and is presenting now really won’t mind if you look at it really quickly.  Oh yes look.  Magnus is growing new daffodils on his verandah.  So pretty!!!!

At dinner we aren’t listening because, look JJ Redick tweeted again!  It’s a video with him and Melissa McCarthy in The Boss.  He should see the cat rabbit cleaning, even funnier. I know we got together so we could all have dinner and catch up but maybe we can all just get on our phones and sit in silence together?

At night we aren’t even listening to the shows we got all the texts about to watch because maybe there’s a mail from one of the people who wasn’t listening in the boardroom meeting earlier, looking for clarification.

As humans we now shift between the online world and the offline world every forty-five seconds. I heard that from Gloria Mark  who was interviewed on the radio station KCRW while I was driving.

 I should probably tell you that I’m also not really paying attention while I’m driving, and I’m quickly going to see if I can Google who the hell JJ Redick actually is, and Gloria Mark.  And don’t honk to make me go faster or tell me it’s dangerous – haven’t you already heard?  I’m not listening damnit! Quiet your sirens.

While I’m coming clean – at the grocery store where I shop – I’m going to use the moment while someone nice rings up my groceries to see if there’s any new news anywhere, oh look now Magnus is having cocktails by the daffodils. This means I’ll probably hold up the whole line because when the cashier asks me if I need bags, or if I want cash back I’ll be, you know….I feel like you’re starting to hear me now.  

And let’s talk about sidewalks quickly. I’m going to treat them more as side stops and I’m going to stand right in the middle looking to see where I am on my phone because even though this is a very busy city with people all around me, I’m deaf to you all because I’m in my own universe where the soundtrack is me, me, me and JJ Redick.

If by chance you’ve not clicked away from this riveting post I’ve taken my hours of my time to write and even spell check (Redick’s name doesn’t come up in autocorrect) then I have one thought to impart.  Should we go back to listening?

As we strive to get more done at work by working on everything else in every meeting, I think we could get even more done if we hear one another.  Or if we just say, “I get it, are we done?” and we can be done pretending to listen because we’ve both got it. 

As we struggle to find time to all hang out together at one dinner I think we  should we actually have dinner, and not be the Silent Bobs in the corner all looking phones. 

And how about we start saying hi to the Wholefoods cashier, make eye contact. None of us want hear how much we’re paying there, but the people who put the sixty dollar blueberries in a bag might want to hear you say, thank you. 

Maybe let’s also all stop texting on highways going sixty miles an hour and just listen to the radio too. We might hear someone like Gloria Mark saying that if we do one thing at a time, it is scientifically better for us. We burn through less glucose, exhausting ourselves less with decisions as we jump from one thing to another.  We crash less, literally and figuratively. Technology is amazing, it brings us together.  It’s how you get to read this amazing blog and retweet it and repost it and say how much you love it. But, as Gloria says, it’s built to suck you back in again and again.  Is that the sound of Mark Zuckerberg’s bank account filling I hear? 

So, how about today we all try looking up, and listening.

Thanks for listening. Look, JJ Redick just tweeted.