"You're doing it," Sandy said.
"Oops."
I was lapsing into my Katherine Hepburn voice again. It was getting easier as the evening progressed.
I used to handle these things effortlessly. I was playing a role and it was just another acting gig. Collect information from the other participants which I could use when appropriate.
Tonight I was in a leading role and I hadn't taken the time to prepare for it.
The shower was being given by a gaggle of women somehow associated with my father or mother or his business interests. I didn't know them and could barely remember their names. Sandy was helping me, feeding me names as women came up to me, like a brilliant aide to an unctuous politician.
The irony was: this was a skill I would need to master to succeed in my hoped-for business. It was bad business not to "remember" who somebody was or who they were related to or what they did or what they espoused. I didn't have to agree, but it was essential that I remember.
There was another amusing irony. There was one politician whose skills in these areas were legendary and those skills were an important part of what made him so charismatic: William Jefferson Clinton. Jeff wasn't named for him, but nobody could keep a straight face when they heard William Jefferson Goldberg for the first time.
Sandy was ostensibly taking down names and gifts associated with them so I could write thank-you notes. I couldn't begin to imagine how long that would take. She was also taking down information about the people so I could play my role more effectively.
I had a spare moment to unwind, but I couldn't manage it.
"Sandy, let me ask you a philosophical question."
She had a curious yet amused look. She was really getting to know the new me.
"What does one do with twenty-seven water pitchers, the least expensive of which costs about the same as a laptop computer?"
She almost broke into a snort, but it wasn't at my question.
"Whatever one wants."
I followed that with a snort laugh.
"Not all that helpful," I said.
"I don't have any experience with that."
"I caught the tail end of that," said Jen. "Didn't you have a registry? How do you get twenty-seven water pitchers?"
"Well, that may not be the exact count, but twenty-seven captures the essence of the situation. And the way you get that many pitchers is you fill out your registry on the assumption that no more than three hundred fifty people will be coming to your wedding; not the entire village."
"Even if you could return twenty-two or twenty-three, which ones do you keep?" asked Jen. "You need to have the pitchers you got from people who may come over your house. How do you explain you returned their lovely gift because you ran out of attic space to store it against the possibility they might visit?
"And do you have any idea how long it would take to return twenty-some pitchers?"
"Now there's an entrepreneurial opportunity," I joked. "Start a firm that returns shower, wedding and baby gifts for people so inundated it's beyond their capacity to do it themselves."
