Okay, so I can’t pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time . . .
That doesn’t mean I’m a ditz, just ambidextrously challenged. I may be a dreamer, but I’m a pragmatist, too, as I only dream in black and white. That would explain why my life is like a Fellini movie.
Take today for instance. I simply called what I thought was a Japanese restaurant to make a reservation, leaving a detailed message on the answer machine. After I hung up, I sensed something was not quite right. The recorded voice didn’t mention the name of the restaurant and sounded more shrill-nasal New York suburban (where I grew up) than soft-lilting Far Eastern cosmopolitan.
I thought about it a moment, had lunch, and then sent my mind off on a mini-vacation to Tahiti.
Ten minutes later, after my mind landed, retrieved the luggage, and was able to get a cab, I received a call from a woman, who proceeded to tell me that I had left a reservation on her home answering machine.
“So, 7p.m. Tuesday, for five, correct?” I said.
“I need directions.”
“What are the specials?”
More silence and no detectable click or dial tone indicating a hang up.
“Oh, and it’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” she muttered.
“But please don’t sing happy birthday or make a fuss.”
“At my age, birthdays are more like headstones than milestones.”
“And the funny thing. My birthday falls three weeks after my anniversary. This year was our twenty-fifth.”
“We went to Jamaica to celebrate.”
“Which resort?” she asked.
I took a moment to recover from the stun of her response. “Couples Sans Souci.”
“Maki Sushi. I highly recommend it. Will there be any thing else? I have to take another call.”
“What are the directions?”
“Hang up the phone and never call back again.”
Maybe French cuisine would be a better choice. After all Fellini and I do share a strange symbiotic relationship. I picked up the receiver, hesitated, and then hung up the phone. Damn. I don’t speak French.