Pairings

Dialing, texting, emailing, blogging... there are many activities that can (but certainly not SHOULD) be paired with drinking.

But what about drinking and kissing?

In my now epic trashy novel (which I've been writing off and on for the last 7 years and which will NEVER see the light of day) I have documented dozens of Best First Kiss stories from anyone and everyone willing to share theirs. Not someone's FIRST kiss, but a BEST first kiss with a particular person. The stories range from comical to tragic, but there are two major thematic elements that emerge: alcohol and stairwells. Makes sense, yes? A lowering of inhibitions coupled with a sense of urgency to plant one on someone before he/she leaves.

SL in Beijing is very affectionate when she's had one or two or twelve too many. But on those occasions, she has her friends looking out for her, and while we don't necessarily prevent her from showering affection on the random guy sitting at the other end of the bar, we make sure that nothing TOO untoward happens. She just always looks so HAPPY when she hits that groove.

Of course, one doesn't always have the entourage along as a safety net. And often that pairing of drinking and kissing can be yucky, or just plain silly, or forgettable, or embarrassing, or worse.

And then sometimes, it can be lovely.

"With Bacchus and Venus we'll ever combine,
For drinking and kissing are pleasures divine."

-old English ballad

The Stomach, The Expressway To The Heart

I'm not exactly a foodie.

First of all, I'm a grazer. I don't often sit down for a meal; I'm all about interval snacking. And for me, food is primarily a socializing tool, not an end in itself.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good meal. But in the "eat to live" versus "live to eat" divide, I fall squarely in the former. Actually, more accurately, I eat to drink. 'Cause far more than a foodie, I am a girl who loves her wine.

Last night may have changed that.

Six of us went to Momofuku Ssam Bar last night, and immediately following the appetizers, our entire group proposed to the chef. He graciously accepted and sent over steamed pork belly buns to our table to celebrate the engagement.

Have you seen the movie, Ratatouille? About the rat that dreams of being a chef? In the movie, Anton Ego, the gaunt, bitter food critic who loves food so much that he only swallows when he LOVES it, sits down to a meal, prepared, unbenownst to him, by a rat.

And with his first bite, he is immediately transported to his childhood - a warm, glowing childhood with a mother who cooks lovingly for him.

Biting into those pork buns last night produced an emotional response of the same intensity.

It was love.

It was warm, comforting, delicious, decadent, sweet, salty, tangy, satisfying love. It was get-weak-in-the-knees, slide-off-your-seat, love.

We lingered at Momofuku long after our meal was finished, wondering if we could just spend the night there and have breakfast in the morning. We then considered following our new fiancee back to his place and gazing at him raptly, expectantly, hungrily, until he continued to feed us.

We did neither of those things, but we did stand outside the restaurant for a long while, doing our respective "happy tummy" dances out on the sidewalk.

And this morning?

I'm hungry. And fairly certain I dreamt of pork buns.

For those of you reading this post, the chef, Francis Derby, is OURS. So back off.

A Little Piece of Home

FC comes into town tomorrow!

I've arranged for a car to pick her up from the airport, my cleaning lady is coming this afternoon, and I am fully stocked with wine and snacks.

My Baby Taylor is excited as well - it will be going to a good home - hers. It just hasn't been getting enough attention since My Love (the 630-scale Alhambra Classical) moved in.

FC and I used to talk to each other for hours a day. Usually at a bar, with our respective cars and drivers cooling their heels outside.

Ah, the good old days.

I no longer have a car and driver in NYC, but I think I can replicate the sitting for hours over multiple bottles of wine in a bar.

Deliberate Flaws

CL and I did our usual wine bar thing last night - but this time we tried out one of FT's new places in the lower east side, Solex (1st avenue, between 6th and 7th).

My review of the joint: LOVELY and GORGEOUS and might even be a reason for me to trek to that part of town more frequently. I especially liked the gorgeous stools which were, admittedly, a bit high. But that made it an adventure to jump off and hop back on. It took several tries for me to do so gracefully, and to stop merely TUMBLING off the stool because the ground was farther away than I thought.

FT graciously left his brand spanking new Soho bar to join us at Solex. He told us that he's been getting "hate" mail because of the stools! But he believes strongly that every place should have a slight flaw built in, because perfection is sterile.

And that reminded me of a quote (as most things do, apparently) that only things made by God are perfect. There is a class of gifted old Italian furniture makers - artisans in the true sense of the word - who deliberately add a single flaw to everything they create, in order to avoid hubris and to show appropriate respect.

On another note, CL reminded me that our first sex-ed class was in FIFTH grade, not third. And that Mr. D not only made us all say "penis" and "vagina," but also spent one class with a maxipad stuck to his shirt. Not sure about the rational for that.

I find it intensely amusing that CL and I are now friends. CL was one of the "cool" boys in school while I was a freak and refused to talk to anyone who wasn't studying classical music. I don't believe we exchanged a single word when we were growing up. But I do remember one time in fifth grade when I kicked CL hard in the shins (I have no recollection of WHY) and CL replied by punching me in the gut. He adamantly denies this however.

Yet More On Writing Sex

I've started yet another blog. But this new one is devoted to retelling all the best first kiss stories that I've been collecting for the last many years.

After enough cocktails, people are always very willing to root through their pasts, pull out a story, and share.

A couple years ago, I was in NYC for a month long stay - I needed to get out of Beijing. I had met WC at a bar near her office and we had lunch and multiple cocktails. At the time, we were both going through some serious man hell so we were alternating between hysterical laughter and equally hysterical tears. She stumbled back to her office for a conference call and I stayed behind to wait for her return.

Three off-duty fireman were sitting at the bar so I joined them. Many more cocktails later, we were all fast friends. They had seen us crying and once they realized that it was because of men, they got very upset and "heroic".

"Where do the assholes live? You tell us right now, and if we ever get a call from their apartments, we won't f*cking answer it! Let the f*ckers BURN!"

I was so touched that I teared up a little, but assured them it wasn't necessary.

By the time WC returned, I was sitting with three VERY DRUNK off-duty firemen who were all unabashedly weeping as they recounted to me their stories of their best first kisses.

Unfortunately, I don't exactly remember their stories, and my notes are completely illegible. But I DO remember that their stories were astonishingly sweet. The focus was on romance, not sex. Granted I haven't collected many stories from men, so statistically I can't draw any valid conclusions, but EVERY SINGLE story I've ever heard from a man about his best first kiss was romantic. With the women, the stories were significantly more varied. And many were highly sexual. So I'm trying to get it all down - not just notes scribbled into notebooks over the years, but all in a single place.

And while I remember the individual voices of the story tellers, and I'm trying to be faithful to that, it's proving to be difficult.

A big part of it is my own block when it comes to certain vocabulary.

The sex-ed program in my school was very... innovative. It started in third grade. The first day of sex-ed, our teacher went around the room and made each of us say two words: "penis" and "vagina."

Half the room giggled helplessly. The other half sobbed. I was in the latter category.

Lord, did I weep! But I finally squeaked out, in my most miserable voice, "penisvagina."

The class was successful however. As an adult, I have no problems saying or writing those words. Penis! Vagina! Even in all caps: PENIS! VAGINA!

Of course, now I wish our teacher had included additional useful vocabulary such as: "cock, "pussy", and "cunt." If he had, perhaps I would have finished my trashy novel long ago.

Rats, now I'm blushing and feeling the urge to apply anti bacterial gel.

New Year's Detox

I will be ushering in the New Year by fasting, in every possible way. Extreme detox.

No men, no booze, no smokes, no caffeine, no solid food.

SK and I will meet for yoga twice a week in the evenings so she can confirm I am still mobile. IC will weigh me every Friday to make sure I do not go below my lower weight limit. WC will check in on me once a week and hold a mirror to my nose and mouth to confirm I am still breathing and sprinkle water on me if I look dehydrated.

At boozy brunch yesterday, I asked WC what social activities exist that do not involve booze. I must have been speaking in Urdu because she just looked at me blankly.

My calendar for January looked so virginal that this morning I scheduled in things such as: "shower", "sit around", "be cranky", "crave something" just so I am not mocked by the absence of any real activities.

And while this may sound bleak, I am consumed by excitement. My focus will be inward. Work, yoga, piano and guitar, and dare I hope it? Sleep. The dance classes with IC and SK will wait until February after I have re-introduced myself to solid food. Evidently IC's jazz dance instructor is well worth staring at twice a week for an hour each time.

The good news is that I should be a really cheap date for my birthday. By 6:45PM, with half a glass of wine in me, I should be completely out and my exceedingly tolerant friends can haul my unconscious body to my bed and then continue my birthday celebration without me.

How FUN!

Gesture Dramatically

With JN in town from Austria, I have a handy resource if I need reminders of things I had said and done as a child. Which is about as fun as one might imagine.

We were in my apartment working, and, as I am wont to do, I was dancing to Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart. JN pointed out that this isn't a good song to dance to... that it's better suited to sitting to, while gesturing dramatically from the waist up - which is what she was doing.

As I ignored her, she asked me, "Remember when you didn't like to dance? When did that change?"

It wasn't so much about things changing as it was about blocks suddenly, mysteriously vanishing.

Once I danced only to Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive and Men at Work's Down Under. And one day, to my surprise, I found myself dancing to Crowded House and Duran Duran. A block removed. And as the years progressed, blocks kept disappearing.

The final block was removed this weekend. And this time, I can point to the precise moment of block removal: dancing to that Techno crap at that club on Friday night. Apparently, after that experience, I can now dance to ANYTHING.

SK and I had boozy sushi last night, and we found ourselves sitting at our table, eating sushi and drinking pomegranate martinis, listening to the musak that was piped in, and shimmying happily away.

Off now to gesture dramatically to the Bangles' Eternal Flame.

Someone Like That

After WC and I got thoroughly rubbed and moisturized, we trekked over to the east side for dinner at her favorite sushi place, which has now become my favorite as well. Think art deco diner turned sushi bar.

Not only is the sushi lovely, the two-for-one happy hour drinks can't be beat. (SK, we are so going there for our post-Christmas dinner together!)

We decided to see a horror movie (big surprise), and the natural choice was I Am Legend. But we did cruise around Fandango on WC's blackberry to see what the rest of our options were, and this led to a perfectly ridiculous conversation. Ridiculous mostly because our post-spa glow was accompanied by a sudden descent to room temperature IQs and 6 pomegranate martinis didn't help.

"Atonement is playing, but that's sort of serious. Don't think you want anything serious right now that doesn't involve the spilling of lots of blood."

"Need blood-spill."

"Wasn't that a book?"

"Blood-Spill?"

"No, Atonement."

"Yup."

"Who wrote it? "Mc"-something. Like that guy, "Mc"-something. The cute one."

"From Moulin Rouge?"

"And Star Wars."

""McEw"-something. Very cute. Can sing, too. Lovely tenor."

"Wasn't he the one who wrote Angela's Ashes?"

"The guy from Moulin Rouge?"

"No, the guy who wrote Atonement"

"Huh. Maybe. It's definitely a "Mc"-something name."

"McKellan?"

"Wasn't he Gandalf?"

"What are the chances Gandalf the Grey wrote books?"

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Another round?"

"Yes, please."

So on the way to the theatre, we ducked into the Borders and the information kiosk clarified all:

Author of Atonement: Ian McEwan
Author of Angela's Ashes: Frank McCourt
Actor in Moulin Rouge: Ewan McGregor
Actor who played Gandalf: Ian McKellan

We bought our movie tickets then went to a bar across the street, stole glassware, threw back another cocktail, and returned to the theatre. As we found seats, WC told me, "I knew it wasn't Gandalf the Grey who wrote Atonement, just someone like that."

Suksan Wan Christmas!

With the holiday season upon us, I have had the following conversation multiple times with various people:

"You're not getting me a present, are you?"
"Nope, wasn't planning on it."
"Oh thank goodness. Not getting you anything either."
"Phew."

This is my new interpretation of the Christmas spirit.

MG texted me the other night; she wanted to drop off a "small giftie to tuck under the tree." This immediately elicited a flood of panic as I tore through my closets, looking for something to re-gift. I did pause briefly to consider my apartment - can a dying jade plant count as a Christmas tree? Maybe if I attach my tiara to it.

WC and I negotiated Christmas this year. After 20 years of diligently buying each other Christmas and birthday presents, we've run out of ideas. So for this Christmas (later this afternoon, actually), we will be spending equal amounts of money on ourselves at a spa, during which we won't actually see each other. But we will, afterwards, all limp-limbed and drooling after 3 hours of being pummeled and rubbed, have an early dinner together.

Two years ago, I spent Christmas by myself at the Banyan Tree Resort in Bangkok. It was a contemplative Christmas. Spent 8 hours in the spa, then ate mangosteens and drank wine with the bell boys in the lobby who tried their best to teach me dirty words in Thai. Well, that part of it wasn't so contemplative. But it was a test for myself, and one I think I passed. If you can keep laughing, then all is calm, all is bright. Wine and mangosteens don't hurt.

Mixology

I stayed in today. Far too cold and wet and dreary outside to get me out of my apartment, not even for the inducement of boozy brunch.

So I turned on my newly acquired electric heater that looks like a wood-burning stove, curled up on the sofa and re-read Hemingway's Garden of Eden this afternoon. From the back cover:

"Set on the Cote d'Azure in the 1920s, it is the story of a young American writer, David Bourne, his glamorous wife, Catherine, and the dangerous, erotic game they play when they fall in love with the same woman."

Well, that pretty much sums it up. Catherine decides to bring another woman, a gorgeous young vibrant woman, into the marriage. That seems singularly ill-advised, if you ask me. And it ends as much as you'd expect it would.

Hemingway was exploring the dynamic between two damaged people, and what better than the addition of a destabilizing third party to forcibly reveal what might be strange and confusing or even ugly. Add destabilizing ingredient, throw in some Bollinger Brut 1915, stir, serve very very cold.

But I can't help but think that there must have been an element of self-indulgent prurience on Hemingway's part as well. Don't ALL boys fantasize about having more than one beautiful woman in their lives?

But then again, there is nothing wrong with a little self-indulgent prurience.

There is a scene I particularly like: David (the husband) is drinking cocktails with Marita (the "other" woman). David, having finished his own drink, reaches for Marita's and drinks from it. As he sets the glass back down, he realizes that his lips touched the glass at the exact place where Marita's had touched. And that thought gives him pleasure. That is the moment he realizes he's falling in love with her.

I must remember to try that one day.

Intimations of Childhood

A few years ago, The Girls went out for dinner at a terribly posh karaoke sushi restaurant. We didn't exactly endear ourselves to the waitress. All bare shoulders and expensive heels, we were dressed to be seen - and we wanted to sit in the center of the room, closest to the microphone.

"Sorry," the waitress explained, "those tables are all reserved. But the corner table is free." We looked back at the corner table (it was actually quite lovely and appealing) and discussed the issue among ourselves. But unwilling to be so readily appeased, we asked what we imagined to be a very pertinent question, "Are the microphones wireless?"

"Wireless?" Not quite sighing, she shifted her weight, the heavy cardstock menus cradled in one arm. "Sorry, no."

Our rapport with our waitress did not improve after we sat down. Did we know what we wanted to drink? No. Were we ready to order? No. What were the specialty cocktails? Did they have grey goose citron? The wasabi, was it fresh, or reconstituted?

But upon remembering some advice from WC - regarding the wisdom of not alienating the waitstaff until AFTER you have received your food - I attempted to make amends. An elegant design of seagulls tattooed across her collar bones and down one arm provided me with the opportunity. "Those tattoos are great. Are they your own design?" I smiled warmly.

With a slightly surprised expression on her face, she said, "Yes, my own design." She looked at me a moment, as if gauging my sincerity, then added, "thanks." And she smiled back at me.

It was her smile I recognized.

When we were children, we were inseparable. We bought our training bras together. We imagined ourselves on Broadway, singing showtunes. When I got my period first, she was inconsolable. Then, when we were 12 years old, her family moved away and we quickly lost contact. And 20 years later, I recognized her smile.

We sat at the bar, ignoring friends and customers, and caught up over specialty cocktails and cigarettes. The conversation went mostly as follows:

"OMG, you DRINK?!?"
"OMG, you SMOKE?!?"
"OMG, you have SEX?!?"
"OMG, you finally got your period?!?"

I have yet to really learn about the woman she is now, but I have thought often of the children we once were. And to this day, my most vivid memory of childhood is of the two us, lying next to each other on piles of leaves, staring up at the sky, and truly believing that we could make it rain just by wishing hard enough.