Patience is a Virtue, People!

Two stories:

Jessica. As I've mentioned before, my friend Jessica and I periodically get together for dinner just to catch up and chat. Usually, arranging this gathering consists of one of us sending an email saying "When are we getting together?" which begets a one-line email response of "I dunno. Next week?" This continues back and forth until we finally pin down a date.

I initiated the emails this time around with the following (non-one-line) email: "When are we getting together again? I have a funny story, and stuff I should probably give you." The "stuff I should probably give you" is a reference to the fact that, having just developed my film from my trip to Madrid -- yes, I am a troglodyte who still uses 35 mm film as opposed to a digital camera -- I realized that that beginning part of the first roll contained pictures from Jessica's wedding -- which took place on Memorial Day weekend 2004. Yeah, that's what happens with me and rolls of film in my camera. So I was going to share some of the pictures with her.

Her response: "What stuff? What story? How's next week?"

See, doesn't it defeat the purpose to tell you the stuff and the story now, over email, when I'm presently making plans to meet up with you so that I can share this stuff in person in due course?

Ignoring her questions, then, I write back to her: "Next week is good - Weds or Thurs?"

Her response to me doesn't pick either one of those two days. Instead it just says: "What stuff?"

There's something to be said for delayed gratification, people. It's what separates us adults from the six-year-old-and-under set.

*****

My Sister-in-Law (hereinafter, "SIL"). We return to my trip to New York for this anecdote:

SIL, Brother, and I were walking through Soho on my last day there, having just eaten in Little Italy. We were making our way back to the subway so that I could return to my B&B, pick up my stuff and hit the bus, and they could head back to their hotel for another few days. As we were walking along the streets of Soho, where I had lived for three months the summer after my 2L year, I remembered this noodle shop I had seen around there somewhere. I had never eaten there, but I remember that it featured in their window prominent pictures of Mel Gibson dining on their food. I remember it distinctly because there were literally something like ten shots of Mel with his bowl of food -- each time with various employees posing with him. It reminded me of those wedding shots the photographer always dictates ("Okay, now just the bride and bridesmaids! Now just the groom and groomsmen! Now the couple with his side of the family! Now the couple with her side! And the couple with the kids! And the couple with the crazy old aunts they will never see again!....") Mel looked exceedingly uncomfortable with having all these pictures taken of him. I felt kinda bad for him. He was just kinda looking for some food, and instead his soup probably got cold because of all these damn pictures being taken. Seriously, he wasn't even smiling.

Now keep in mind, the point of the story is not just that Mel Gibson was there, but that those photos looked retarded and made the owners look more like fucktards (thanks, Steve) than anything else. And they probably made it for damn sure no celebrity was ever going to set foot in that restaurant ever again.

Anyway, I decide I want to relate this story to SIL and Bro, so I say, "There was this noodle shop somewhere around here, and it was so funny, 'cause they had these pictures of Mel Gibson...."

I had forgotten that the instant you drop a big-time celebrity's name in SIL's presence, she becomes deaf to all else. Her brain experiences a tunnel-like lockdown, and she will hear of nothing else.

"Where?" she asked.

I made the mistake of ignoring this interruption. "... and it was all retarded, 'cause..."

"Where?" SIL piped in again, this time more urgent. It was like she was thinking, If we run over there now, maybe we'll see him! Despite the fact that I saw the photos some nine years before.

"... 'cause he looked so annoyed...."

"WHE-E-E-ERE?" she interrupted yet again. Man, her voice can get whiny. But really now. I mean seriously. Who the fuck cares where? It's a noodle shop with a horribly inappropriate display of a celebrity eating there in the window. It's not all that important. And besides, it's fucking rude to interrupt so much!

"I! DON'T! RE! MEM! BER!" I finally respond, exasperated. The story never got finished. By that point, all desire to share the pitiful "get-me-the-heck-out-of-here" look on Mel's face had evaporated. I was annoyed.

I felt bad for my outburst; really I did. Particularly since this was literally the last hour I would be seeing my brother (and his wife) for a while, since I have no current plans to go back and visit home again for a while. But that really did work my last gay nerve.

All I'm saying is, most people would have waited until the end of the story to politely ask, "Oh, so this shop around here? Where?" which would not have involved interrupting the story, and could have facilitated a more polite, "Oh, somewhere around there-ish; I really don't remember since it's been so long."

The moral of this post: Sometimes, you can wait for just a little bit before you get the answers to all your questions. It's more fun that way. And a lot less annoying.

Now, patience when it comes to BLOGGER not loading correctly or quickly, that's a whole different story... though I might blog about that as well in a soon-to-come post.