The Lady's Week of Celebration

Meg declared this week her birth-week of celebration and, with tonight being the pinnacle event, we rode the bus into the central city, got off a few stops too early, and walked about 20 blocks through the rain to the Oregon Culinary Institute, a place Meg says she has longed to visit for many years. Upon arrival, an older woman opened the locked door for us, even though we were 30 minutes early. She was with a group of 20 other older women, reminding me of the I Love Lucy bus scene from the movie Rat Race. Meg and I mingled with them for a few brief moments, eliciting much laughter from our sharp sense of humor and ability to play off the audience surrounding us.

Meg had forwarded me the menu a few days prior and, even though I didn't understand what the fancy dishes were, I set my expectations pretty low because I have been known to be picky. But I think we both enjoyed our four-course meal, although I donated my appetizer to Meg, but I made up for it by devouring the extra basket of bread Meg persuaded one of the students to bring us. We exited the building with full stomachs and relief that the fresh, night air was mostly devoid of rain, and walked back downtown to the bus mall to catch the 19 back to our beloved Westmoreland neighborhood to cap the night at The Woods, a former funeral parlour turned nightclub.

We arrived around 9:15, I think, which is somewhat late for my miserly ways. We had to walk around the building a bit before finding the entrance to the club. Even though I didn't have my ID, the attendant clearly discerned my aged ways and let me pass. I was a bit perplexed--in a good way--to find we were sharing the place with but a small group of young ladies, and they left soon thereafter, giving us a very intimate venue to do as we pleased, which was spent listening to what I thought a masterful DJ spinning and mixing obscure punk, new wave, and the occasional pop song from records of the 80's. We may have danced a bit, Meg more so than me, as that was the purpose of our visit (sorry, owners, we don't drink and were still plenty full from dinner).

With every passing minute, more and more people showed up, crowding the dance floor, and causing my interest to wane, at least in terms of moving my dance-retarded body. It didn't help that when the DJ changed hands (from a very Portland-hipster woman wearing period threads, to a David Bowie look-a-like), he started playing 80's pop songs exclusively, which seemed to please and excite the young crowd. I lamented to Meg on the eventual walk home that I thought the second DJ failed to perform his job, which was to piece together the music in an artful way, but Meg felt it was his/her job to bring people to the dance floor. Regardless, we didn't need our coats on the short walk home, despite being the coldest night of the season to date.



Ten years ago, if we had gone on this same date, I think Meg would have come home unhappy, confused and distraught at why her husband doesn't like--nor can he ever seem to learn--the activity of dancing. But I think she genuinely enjoyed her time--and probably would have preferred to dance the night away if we hadn't promised the sitter we'd be home before the witching hour befell us.