A Voice from the Past

Okay, so I'm having lunch this Friday with my high school honor's English teacher from junior and senior years.

Last Saturday, the phone rang. A woman said, "Tina? This is a voice out of your past. Do you recognize it?" Ummmm, no. "It's G. V." "Omigod, Mrs. V.!" At this, Greg, in the living room, makes "symbolism" hands.

The long and short:

My mom ran into her a couple of weeks ago at the Gilded Lily (now under the sole proprietorship of Marilyn) and the chit-chatting commenced. Gladys was deLIGHTed that I live in New York, and wondered if she might have my number. My mother reached into her bag and pulled out my business card. (I'm a bit flummoxed by the fact that my mom carries around my business cards--I don't carry my business cards.)

She's in town for a week starting Thursday for Maris' 50th birthday. She'll be meeting me at "Steak Frites" for lunch on Friday. "Old age has been good to [her] except for [her] back; so it's better if [she] can just walk in to the restaurant." I chose the place: moderately priced, good wine list (I'm gonna need some wine), good classic and modern bistro fare, interesting architectural design, close to my office and best of all, the pretention of an entire menu in French (and we know how much she dislikes the French) even when describing the "Union Square Farmers Market salad of the day".

I must say I'm a bit nervous about all this--it took two hours to compose the email about the reservation and then I had Gillespie review it. It's rather difficult writing in a professional and grownup manner to someone who knew you before you were either. I chickened out and invited both Susy and Jennifer to join us. They both declined.

To be sure I don't run out of subject matter, I've been printing out copies of key writings in my life lately: 1) the revised vision statement of derision; 2) Greg's Face for Richard Grasso in which he alluded to Julius Caesar so he could slam the guy without getting in trouble; perhaps David's description of his landlord's father killing caterpillars. Hey, she's going to tell me all about Debbie Yates' journal from India and I was never even friends with her--I'm hoping beyond hope that Mrs. V. got it wrong and it's Anne's journal or it's going to be excruciating.

Alas Maris and his wife will not be joining us although they live in Chelsea only 8 blocks from us, but dare I dream of accompanying Mrs. V to Steuben glass to pick up his present?