quotable, part deux

a man who gives a wrong twist to your mind, meddles with you just as truly as if he hit you in the eye; the mark may be less painful, but it's more lasting.
~~ santayana

quotable

john: i should never forgive you for teaching me to love life.

lizzie: if i taught you that, then our account is settled.

~~john wilmot and lizzie barry, "the libertine", 2005

conventional avoidance

over the years i've remained in contact with a very few high school friends. i attended our 5-year reunion, to discover most of the guys, but none of the women, were still living at home. in those scant years, none of us had done much growing up (although some had had kids--not counting the smatter of white trash girls who'd popped out a few before graduating), so it just felt like our old keggers at the gorge, except with dresses and ties. and no mud.

i skipped the 10th, there was no 15th and no 20th. apparently the woman who seems to steward these things was too high or something.

collective itchy feet wanted to stroll down memory lane, so a date was selected, then the venue. i lobbied selfishly and briefly for nyc. they picked a crap hotel right near our home town. in the damn boonies. the e-mail loops began, then widened and folks started chiming in from all over. well, not so many from so far. plenty stayed close to home, and it seemed that a good number moved to similar boonies, just in other states. the constant theme in the e-mails: how to entertain their hapless husbands while the biddies all caught up and clucked about their kids. links to soporific blogs featuring pix of progeny and cruise vacations. the mens' notes, of course didn't mention spouses, lol.

every single woman in this electronic circle is married and has kids. except for me. in theory, i'm accustomed to my statistically curious singleness, but realized instantly that being besieged by its opposite, trapped in some badly lit banquet room, force-fed rubber chicken, and held hostage to whomever carpooled with me would be a nightmare of epic proportions. add the horror of my current emotional state, unwavering devotion to a man whom i have no business loving, as well as my uncertain future, and i felt too freakish by ten. in my mind i saw the only thing i'd likely manage would be to fuck somebody's husband, and then fuck somebody else's the next night, to prove the first one didn't mean anything. a tacky hotel full of suburban moms and me: koo-koo the bird girl.. so despite being pleaded with and implored by many, i wisely opted for my usual weekend routine.

now the visual circle begins. pix are trickling on-line, the first round of which were untitled. i was shocked at how few women i recognized. four. i recognized only four out of about thirty. i wanted to start a botox pool, but nobody took me up on it. two of them i predicted, one, i didn't know was going, and another, i'd forgotten about entirely. other than looking unecessarily startled, these women looked great. the rest? i had no clue who they were, till a later link came with names. even then, i couldn't believe how terribly most of them had aged. fifty- or 100-plus pounds, terrible strip-mall haircuts and all those glamour-don'ts were just sad. french women are notorious for dying their hair ash blond as the gray gains majority, so i can only presume well-intentioned hayseed hairdressers are accountable for all those brackish dye jobs. as for the guys? i recognized two. some guy now has a goddamn comb-over!! how could that be? (i still haven't found out who he is...)

so yup, cocktails mixed with my not-so-inner snob would have been a very bad mix, lol. for once, i made a prudent decision.

if i'd been in the room, felt their presence, heard their voice while our high school soundtrack of squeeze's "tempted" and meatloaf's opus "paradise by the dashboard light" blared, would i have *known* them more? would i still want to know them? i still have very good and vivid memories of those years. i'm not one of those pantsed and whirlied saps for whom high school was a trauma anxiously left behind. the girls and guys in my circle were popular, smart, funny and we were the nexus in our relatively small community of upper-middle-class privilege.

we were touted as movers and shakers; g.p.a's were stratospheric, academic honor societies' certificates piled up, "who's who" tracked us down, and universities clamored for us. the girls with whom i remained friends are still some of the smartest people i know. so although it shouldn't, it always surprises me how many opted for lives just like the ones they had growing up. the safety of the known.

i'll never know their truth, and i wonder how many of them actually do--did they choose this life of mini-vans and mommy-n-me, or just let it happen because it was *expected*? the logical adult next step. i have a friend who once said, " i like my kids, i just don't like being their mom." um, ok...

does the fence around their yard keep them safely within, or keep the big world out and at bay? which do they fear more? do they daydream a life with no fence, no limits? do they still dream for themselves, or only their children?

the fascism of cake

no, not as dudley-do-dastardly a predicament as eddie izzard's colonialist's smarmy and duplicitous offer of "cake or death?", but a regularly occuring peril for me. (me, me, me, that's why i have a blog. nyah.)

one of the perks/trials of my position is that i get taken out to eat. often, and to stupidly nice places. we get the royal treatment, the best tables and the best service. special morsels "just for us" from the chef, compliments. (illegally procured scottish woodcock for 10, anybody? yes, please; we'll all take that tiny fork to scoop out the brains, too. contraband ortolan liver? of course!!) cloistered in a private dining room at the four seasons, and buoyed by bolly, i still catch my breath. not once do i forget how infrequent a dinner *out* is for most, never mind that the flowers alone cost more than a high-summer week on nantucket. rareified air indeed, sitting next to a discreetly charming french count while savoring glass after glass of astounding beauty most humans will never know. we few can look around and rightly, quietly say, "right now, life is very good."

there is the downside of knowing the bottomless bread-basket at the olive garden will never sate me, but that's a cross i willingly bear.

courses proceed seamlessly. we ooh and aah, and marvel at the delicious parade.

then..

it comes. fallen chocolate, espresso-mascarpone cheese, some towering confection of layers -- it matters not. it's sweet, it's sticky, and i know i don't want any.

sometimes, more casually, i'm out with equally glucose-averse friends (always men) and we get sent a dessert. the owner graciously acknowledging our complicity in this hell industry and recognizing our patronage. he's being a lovely host, and we appreciate the gesture. but it's oozing and it's chocolate and we want none of it. we've gone through elaborate napkin ruses, but typically each force down a bite, mush the rest around and then wave the serviette of stuffed surrender.

but in the more contrived setting there are the fascists:

"you have to try this."

"no, thanks, i'm so full."
"you'll love it, it's to die for."
"no, really, i couldn't have another bite."
"you'll have a bite if i get one, won't you?"
"go ahead, get what you like."
"oh, good, ok, we can share."
~~ plate arrives, forkful hovers menacingly in the air, and you've got the adult equivalent of "open up the tunnel, here comes the choo-choo"~~
"if you try it you'll love it, it's the best (<>) i've ever had."
"really, i'm so full and i don't like sweets."
"you've never had this, it's too die for."
"it's all for you."
~~ the stare-down ~~

do i cave ? with a straight man, almost always. (thankfully, now, most of my professional friends know not to bother, more for them!) but with a woman, never. the man means well, and is merely offering a delicious tidbit, no real strings. the woman is trying to share her cellulite and guilt. ack.

i can always appreciate the play of hot vs. cold, crisp vs. soft and the visual affair. the lovely plates, the colors, the inside gastronomic jokes. i *know* how it tastes. by now i know how i wish to complete my meal, and it's not with a creamy-sweet lactic coating of goo. the disconnect reminds me all too starkly of when my mom would finish dinner and light up a tareyton. why have something so foul, after something fine? as a teen i recall asking in that patently obnoxious way, breed-specific to adolescent girls (you'll see), "do you eat to smoke, or smoke to eat?"she still smokes after every dinner.

i still never want dessert.

funny. how some things don't change.

k.i.s.s.

in legend, seville was founded by hercules. it was the launching point for magellan, home both to don juan and the tragic seductress carmen. bullfighting and flamenco were born here. as with any ancient port city it was often invaded and frequently besieged. the moors, however, ruled it successfully for 800 years, and their distinctive architectural language is everywhere. the place struck my heart immediately -- its romance, its layers of history, its ancient crumbling beauty. the air was heady with orange blossoms. i loved it.

decimated by plague in the 1600s, seville gradually sank from swaggering grandeur to dire poverty. economics, its moorish occupation and its place on the guadalquavir shaped its modern cuisine. one of the main reasons i travel is to eat like a native. every place had legs of jamon hanging in various stages of dry-cure. too poor to eat their chickens, so much focus on sublimely local eggs. the day-catch seafood, so simply prepared yet impeccably delicious. i'll never forget these little fried sardine-type guys, plated curled, with their tails between their teeth. i don't recall ever tasting any butter while there, and i'm fairly certain i ate gambas every day. further north, i enjoyed a sublimely grilled partridge, recently shot and dressed by the waiter (who proved to be son of the owner). (when did i start to write for fodor's?)

back home, our first impulse was to order-in pad thai and maki rolls. the food was such a cacophony on my tongue, i couldn't eat it. my palate had been so cleansed by 12 days of simply prepared perfection, the noodles were a jangly onslaught.

memory lane in andalucia has been lovely, but what brought this around is the current state of my mind and body in k.i.s.s. mode.

• afternoon movies are viable, but venturing alone for a cocktail is too fraught with peril. even when seemingly protected by the forcefield of a book, i attract too much attention and it's exhausting.
• i've always been able to meet a man's look with an equally forceful stare-back, but that's not currently possible.
• at home, i'm usually in silence. certain artists and lyrics reduce me to tears, so it's rare to hear anything other than npr. even with that, the weight of the world can be crushing.
• making my infrequent dinner at home, it's never more than 4 simple ingredients. something like sausage or cumin is out of the question. even chicken is more than i want.
  
• dinner at work is the simplest protein possible, usually raw tuna.
• red wine is too complicated. alsatian whites, lean as a knife's edge, are about as far as i can go.
• magazines, trade rags and short stories are the extent of my reading.
• contemplating the potential complications of intercourse with someone new is too terrifying and makes me weep.

ascetics typically hold the arrogance that renunciation of worldly pleasures will bring them spiritual ascendance. i know a few crunchy types who believe that fasting will somehow rearrange their karma more favorably. (lol, what? 14 days of consuming only hot lemon water will prevent your car from being stolen again? how about a little crack with your barley tea?)

so what now? all my life i've happily and effortlessly pursued sensuality. for heaven's sake, look at my career! but now, the mental and emotional roiling is a deluge, leaving little room, even at the shallow end, for the simplest former pleasures. i can't possibly push back the ocean with my bare hands, can i?

the one who most easily and confidentally swam with me and controlled the tides, has put me in the closet and closed the door. i'm like a swimsuit after labor day. can i get off the hook and out of the dark by myself? i keep hoping it won't come to that.

long view, grasshopper.

are foie gras, fellatio and flogging still in my future? or am i changed forever?

wonder how i would look in a habit?

dorothy, are you a good nun?

or a bad nun?

poesy

in the early dark, i floated awake from the most comforting dream...

he was leaning over me, close. his face fixed with that expression of intensity i know so well. he was tattooing me. since it was a dream, there was no sound from the needle, no smell of ink or flesh and no pain. his indelible inscription flowed as effortlessly as with a calligraphy brush. his slender hands moved slowly and surely. he wasn't marking me with his thoughts, but giving an external and permanent expression to what lies within me. over my left breast, over my heart, he languidly engraved the french poesy i brought him long ago: "vous et nul autre". (you and no other.) that 15th-century "nul", from the latin "nullus", meaning "none, not any", to me infers more decisive negation of any possibility of another than the more common modern word of "non" which simply means "no". the connotation strangely brings me much solace. strange, i say, because of where i now find myself. those strong hands that mean so much and still hold my heart are reaching elsewhere of late...

pom-poms and teardrops

recently i received a prestigious award from an industry source. of several thousand eligible restaurants in our greater metropolitan area, and hundreds of applicants, only sixty program directors won. this accomplishment was something my chef badly wanted me to achieve, and within the hiring process i assured him i would do so. it confers a certain aura of seriousness, truly complements the execution of his vision and brings the place to "the next level". i knew i could do it easily, but he seemed to perceive it as akin to juggling kittens while log-rolling.

the certificate has arrived and awaits framing. the awards issue of the magazine has been released, so his business and my name both appear in an international publication with half-a-million readers. many of these readers travel specifically to dine, so possess precisely the sort of disposable income that's the life-blood of fine dining joints.

investors, guests and co-workers all have congratulated me. yet he's said nothing. not a "thank-you", not a "well-done". silence. like it hasn't even happened.

this is how he is. this behavior is consistent within his breed. why does it still bother me so?

i've never had much of an inner cheerleader. she was always on the outside, shaking her pom-poms, leading the charge, regaling others with witty repartee and snappy come-backs, then feeding off the applause. is this consistent with only children, or just the outcome of my family's stinginess with approval? my mother is also an only, and usually the life of the party. but does this prove the former or the latter part of my question?

my current personal situation is one of zero emotional validation and miserly professional approbation. the person who'd be very proud of this achievement is incommunicado and wholly otherwise occupado. through him, i found i didn't need a room full of admirers. just one who was sincere. affirmation always flowed easily between us. there was no false building of esteem, nor empty praise. but now that dam is blocked on the one side. my canoe keeps bumping agaist it; my oars useless guides in the tides -- more like the wings on a stephens island wren.

what's an inner pat on the back feel like? am i limber enough to give myself one? and can you live a lifetime on them?

quotable

"solitudine non e essere soli, e amare gli altri inutilmente"

"loneliness is not being alone; it's loving others to no avail."

~~mario stefani

venus, indeed

one of the things i've always enjoyed in my profession is the opportunity for aural voyeurism. the snippets often are out of context, so likely are more amusing to me than the dinner partners enduring them.

but night after night, all these years, i'm always struck at how differently men and women communicate with each other. a table of guys will glide over their work, the red sox, their portfolios, their cars, their lawns, recent or upcoming vacations and their kids. all the while, they will easily decide what to order; they'll consume courses in a relatively quick fashion, be done with the dinner and be on their on their ways back home or to the hotel.

a gaggle of women is a whole 'nother story. most of them will be late. they all will have to tell each how great she looks. they all will say they're not hungry, and fuss about what to have and negotiations about how much and whether to share will be intense. menu selections will fall by the wayside when the subject of so-and-so's wedding arises. and again screech to halt while everybody admires mary's new ring. the decision on whether to order *a bottle* of wine (GASP!!!) will make the kyoto agreement pale in comparison. to most of them the committment is far too daunting. the server and sommelier will hover discreetly, trying to get a flicker of acknowledgement that progress is being made. days later, at last, they order. somehow, someone will manage to cut 4 wontons into 9 servings. dinner progresses at a myopic snail's pace. they will cluck about their kids, their shoes, their neighbors, possibly work and their husbands. oh, the husband. his foolishness, his foibles, his failings. why do they bond over spousal haplessness instead of donning a cheerleader outfit and rah-rahing all night long? they pretend their kids are smarter, taller, prettier than everybody else's (percentiles, my ass) and yet their mates are hopeless. well, without her and her guiding hand, of course.

here is where i get lost in my gender. i was raised strictly that dirty laundry never is to be aired in public. facing bankruptcy or widowhood? "i'm fine," and he "has a terrible cold," were the appropriate responses. anything more, reveals business not to be shared.

why do the majority of women take pleasure in making their mates look like dufuses? do they need that niggling to bolster their inner scaredy-cat? why do they need others to think they reign supreme over the neanderthal on the lazy-boy? and if the guy is such a cretin, why did she marry him anyway? that they spend hours dawdling over fallen chocolate cake and not going home does speak to me. every time.

the women here live a squalid life suffocated by absence of choice.

but she with the hefty ira and hybrid car has the luxury of many emotional options.

oh, and me? i'm fine.

sit. stay. roll over.

i've owned a fair number of dogs and cats in my life. some i've chosen, some have chosen me, and others i've rescued from an unnecessary end at the glue factory. you can lobby all day about how affectionate your hermit crab is, but i prefer my 4-legged friends furry. (ironic, since i like my 2-legged friends to be a bit prickly, but i digress...)part of your responsibility as an owner is to create a pet that is well-socialized and doesn't exhibit behavior you find objectionable. i find it disgusting to visit friends and have their cats winding through the place settings on the dinner table, or for dogs to be fed scraps from plates during meals. i don't think dogs, no matter how small, should be allowed to jump on visitors. like parents, pet-owners have a wide-range of variance when it comes to permissable behavior in their charges.

so how do you get rover to lay quietly in his bed while you have your chicken and asparagus, rather than drooling noisiy all over your lap? long ago, i unexpectedly became the foster owner of a pit bull. they'd suddenly become both trendy and vilified at once. this one was wildly affectionate, very smart and so strong and muscled it was like walking a determined dragon. thankfully a book called "no bad dogs" somehow found its way to me. woodhouse's theory being your dog is a pack animal and he wants you to accept him, but you must be the one setting the limits. especially with one so alpha as my guy who loved swinging from tree branches by his jaws for fun. reward good behavior -- even the tiniest step in the right direction-- and shun the bad. it worked brilliantly and other than wanting to eat any other dog he met, he was a very "good dog".

other than conforming to my codes, did it change "him"? other than him being less anxious because his days were now filled with far more incantations of "good boy!!", he remained the same goofy lovable loyal dog.my cat knows he's not allowed on eating surfaces and countertops. however, with my new black stove, i see ample evidence he's simply smart enough not to stroll across the range when i'm at home. so, when i'm not around, he still does what he wants. much like a man watching the game in his boxers while his wife is out of town, i suppose.

wild animal trainers use a technique they call "approximation". all those circus stunts like hyenas on skateboards
and elephants pirouetting aren't something they do on their time off. the article, which appeared weeks ago in the ny times, has been hotly e-mailed back and forth by anxious wives dying to "retrain" their sloppy/lazy/unaffectionate mates. but here's the thing: 99% of this training is in how the owner responds to behavior, both the "good" and the "bad". how many wives take it as a personal affront when he leaves his dirty socks on the floor, after nagging him for years that the "hamper is right there"? it's not an issue for him, and yet for her it's a constantly simmering vesuvius. so the wives who've sent me the article (why on earth? lol) seem mostly to be a mile-wide of the mark. it's all about their reaction. it's their responsibility, not his. walk right over the argyles, but give him a kiss and a thanks if a pair happens to land in the laundry.

in my own self, i've corrected numerous unpleasant behaviors. many years ago, i gave up smoking and i've also stopped a lazy immature conversational habit of prodigious, albeit colorful, swearing. but this is where i've been heading, because i no longer smoke, am i different? nope. not a bit. i still enjoy instant gratification as much as always, but i now narrow the outlets. now i avail myself more regularly of my large vocabulary, but it doesn't mean i'm not thinking cartoon-style blasphemy about some adversary. (**$$##@@!!~~~~****!!!)

just because he sometimes picks up his socks, has he changed? more importantly, do you really want a different man than the one you married? why did you marry him then? when did marriage become an arrangement of behavior modification and micro-managing?

smarty-pants

in 6th grade, i was pulled aside by my english teacher who told me to ask fewer questions in class. he said i made the other kids feel dumb, and "just because i knew i was smarter than he was, i didn't have to prove it all the time." it had never entered my mind i might be smarter than my teacher, ffs, and what kind of burden is that to give to a 10-year old? when i began dating, my mother warned me to tone it down, because "guys don't like girls who are smarter than they are." i chalked it up to my mother being a child of the 50s, but many of my eventual experiences proved her right.

nonetheless, i never dimmed the bulb; pretense never was part of my arsenal.

freshman year of college i became enmeshed in a group of guys who were engineering majors. i began dating one of them who proved lightning quick and an excellent foil. one of his closest friends, whom we both thought brilliant, was often a third wheel, and the whole lot of us (usually me the only female) did the things college kids do: plenty of partying, clubbing, lots of sex and staying up till all hours solving the problems of the world. other girlfriends were held apart from the clique, but somehow i was allowed into the panic squad.

sophomore year, b/f decides to live on nantucket for the summer and heads to the island. 3rd-wheel confesses he's always loved me, b/f didn't deserve me, blah, blah. even then a pragmatic whore, i agreed to have an affair, but as soon as school was back in sesssion, we'd all resume our previous positions. poor thing agreed, even taking a backseat when b/f would visit. he was fascinating, inquisitive, adventurous and crazy about me. when i wasn't working, he wanted to spend every second with me. it remains one of the best summers of my life.

september rolls around, and he tearfully confesses he'd hoped to win me over. he breaks code, and confides things b/f did undercover while away, but i'm not moved. hell, i cheated on him all summer with his best friend!! who was i to judge? he mooned many months, writing, phoning, following me. looking back i'm shocked at my cavalier usage of him and my lack of remorse.

m.i.t. and stanford court him for graduate school. he tries again to make me see the light. b/f was heading off to d.c. we'd had many ups, downs and separations, and both were ready to be done with it. but i had no intention of going backwards. he accepts the west coast offer and i receive a truly sad letter that he only did it because he couldn't bear to be in the same city and not have me.

life goes on and we all stay in contact. b/f marries, but dies before he turns 30. the other occasionally comes east to visit family and makes stabs at seeing me. and to get me back. invariably when he turns up, i'm involved with someone. when i try to imagine myself with him, i just can't. he's too kind, too good. i'm used to being held at arm's length, and seem only to function emotionally when there's distance involved.

finally, he relents and marries. apparently, to a woman who looks very much like me. he drunk-dials more than once to tell me he will always love me. i feel sad for her and the secret in her husband's heart.

it's many many years before i again become involved with a man who seriously challenges my intellect.

well, who should call this morning? these days people are easily found, and of course he's been tracking me all along anyway. he's divorced. he's here. can he see me?

i absolutely cannot. and i absolutely cannot determine if this is the smart thing to do, or possibly the dumbest ever in my life.

could the cosmic cats of fate please find another ball of yarn with whom to play for awhile?

them or me

today i ran into a former co-worker. it's one of the pleasures, and perils, lol, of living in a mayberry rfd that masquerades as a big city. we both had a weird bit of sunday time to fill so went for a drink.

he's a guy i've always liked. funny, attractive, well-traveled, well-read, intelligent in a very linear way (as opposed to my zig-zaggy cat's brain), and into extreme sports. bikes, boards, lots of concussions and flesh wounds. he's recently married to a lovely woman who shares many of his same passions, but leaves the off-road stuff to the guys.

no kids and just hitched at 40, he's a bit behind his friends' curve, and having a harder and harder time getting guys unleashed for a day on the trail. his fave partner is in a bit of a wicket. even though he was into all this muddy guy bonding stuff before they met, somehow now his wife sees it as a threat.

why on earth would he want to do something that doesn't involve her?

long-delayed lightning struck, and i remembered how my mother systematically withered my stepdad. she convinced him the flying lessons were too dangerous. (he'd gotten soooooo much cred from me for the helicopter airtime!!!) she hated the guys with whom he golfed, couldn't grasp the networking potential, and so pried him away from that too. eventually, except for the million hours he spent building his thriving business, he was always at home. her hobby was shopping; she occasionally dragged him along since he was paying, but preferred me as a shoe-collecting accomplice. (i never ever asked how much anything cost... a difficult life lesson later on, lol)

i've never understood the standard female equation of negation: you must cease caring about your softball/hockey/golf/flying/soccer because i should be enough. if he liked that stuff before, how on earth does it negate you? how does occasional independence infer disregard? shouldn't it be the opposite? that you trust and cherish your s/o enough to give them personal latitude?

where on earth did my brain come from?

quotable

two men look out a window. one sees mud. the other sees stars.

~~oscar wilde

sense and scents

people presume my job involves mostly tasting. indeed whenever i'm meeting with a maker or rep, or go to an event, we call it *tasting*. the human palate is capable of discerning a few hundred distinct flavors. but the nose is where it's at. the nose can process thousands of aromas. those savants who become perfumiers can distinguish perhaps as many as 10,000 different smells. my colleagues and i can parse cork-dork all day about whether a particular chassagne-montrachet recalls more of a spring or summer meadow...

my brain has a very large file of how people and rooms and oceans and all manner of things in my life smelled. my grandparents (well, not that one grandmother because she never allowed us close enough physical contact like hugging or anything grannies are supposed to do), my mother's car, my pets, the streets in sienna vs. the streets in heidelberg. different lovers before, during and after sex. countless and very retrievable recollections for me.

there's a nifty group of nerds doing research on taste and smells. they recently conducted a study on how people of each gender and different sexual orientations responded to the body odor of others. (which hapless intern got stuck with the task of collecting swab samples of armpit sweat? ack.) heterosexual men were asked to sniff samples and then rank them most pleasant down to most unpleasant. obviously they weren't told what was from whom. predictably their top choice was from heterosexual women, and their last was that from homosexual men. the results corresponded accordingly with straight women, homosexuals and lesbians.

lab mice can smell cancer in other mice. wild animals scent mark territory and scientists believe the next lion pissing on that same tree can tell how old, how healthy, his last meal and all sorts of things about his urinary predecessor. we see dogs sniffing each other's hind ends and have no problem accepting this is how they collect and process all sorts of vital doggie info. ever seen rover go from his nose in a strange dog's butt to snapping and growling at him in a flash?

before we got all bogged down with the complications of language and personal autonomy, did oog the caveman simply drag off the nearest chick who smelled yummy to him? alas, now we humans with our big brains and social codes of acceptable behavior can't walk up to a stranger and sniff their nether regions now can we? lol, imagine the snub if one literally turned up one's nose? oh, i'll crack myself up all day with that image!

a scientist would never be so loosey-goosey, but i'll take the leap and say our brains are wired to prefer the scent of a certain someone over another someone, and that's part of the whole chemical reaction of lust. a particular someone often inhaled his hands after having his way with me. i can recall many times lying in a man's arms (not all of them mind you--only a few were allowed coital repose) and breathing him in. to me his scent was so bonding and soothing. it was calming to me because it was so simple and primal.

and right now, it's the simpler things in which i find the most comfort. even in memory.

quotable

the song dream happened and the cloven hoofed piper
played in that holy ground where they felt the awe and wonder
and they all were unafraid of the great god pan

and the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn

when the vision vanished they heard a choir of birds singing
in the heavenly silence between the trance and the reeds
and they stood upon the lawn and listened to the silence

of the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn...

~~van morrison

rcgs

there are homes on beacon hill that have lavender windowpanes. the glass was manufactured in england, shipped to the colonies, then when installed and exposed to the sun, turned unexpectedly purple. it was deduced that too much magnesium had been added to the mix. many efforts were made, but the accident could never be reproduced. how does the world down below look to those behind that rare plummy view? is this brusque chilly city a better warmer place?

a dear friend proudly proclaimed to wear "rose-colored glasses" more often than not. unlike the more simple reference of having an almost irrationally optimistic view of the world, i came to realize he believed he could manifest desired outcomes. no cock-eyed optimist he, he liked to think himself pragmatic and purposeful of mind. so through perception, perserverence, patience or just the right turn of phrase, he'd get what he wanted. i never discovered his true odds of success, but obviously high enough in his mind that he kept the rcgs as part of his arsenal in life.

he did bequeath me a pair, for which i'm very grateful. but he always wore them as an author/actor in the play, while i'm wearing them as a spectator in the nose-bleed seats. do they work the same way up here?

pass the popcorn...

quotable

it’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here,
and i’m most obliged to you for making it clear
that i'm not here

--syd barret (r.i.p.)

more glass (but please, not phillip)

sunlight from the sky is reflected in through a window, onto the wall, then from the wall onto a mirror, and from the mirror onto a glass.

which is the real sunlight? which is the real reflection?

which is true?

affirmation and crystal balls

one of the stranger and more intuitive parts of my job is knowing how, when and/or if to *insert* myself at a table. sometimes it's simply a discreet consultation with the host, other times it's a full-blown song-and-dance act. ultimately, the one who ordered has to feel validated, and i'm responsible for making that happen too.

tonight, a 4-top -- 2 married couples, late 20s. the energy was great, they were having fun. clearly there was a good-natured debate about something. the guy with the wine list looks at me and says, "she (his wife) never tells me i'm right. she never thinks i'm right. tell her "x", and that i'm right." he was right, so i rolled the dice and agreed. "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! MAN!!! she never tells me i'm right!!!" guys back-slapping, women tittering, lots of laughs all around. (score for me, of course... ) at that moment, i could have made him buy anything. but my conscience wouldn't allow me to choke his wallet on the vino, because i knew what the divorce lawyer would cost him eventually. i guided him gently within a comfortable dollar and flavor zone, all the while wishing for my crystal ball instead of my wine key.

i was thunderstruck by how easy it was to make his day, and made terribly wistful by my noodle-vision of his future.

epicaricacy

always curious why some words don't really catch on, and some fall out of fashion. a book called "the word museum", offers delightfully archaic equivalents to some more current words -- often more colorful and simply more evocative, stuff that matters to a word dork like me. "runcy," a coarse woman of low morals, became a particular favorite of a dear friend.

"epicaricacy" never seemed to find a home. it's dwarfed in the shadow of "schadenfreud", a word on the lips of everyone from albert speer to lisa simpson. the japanese have a lovely confection:
他人の不幸は蜜の味, tanin no fukou wa mitsu no aji, which translates literally as "others' misfortunes taste of honey".

someone i know was bitten recently by a poisonous spider. he's a man whose character i find questionable, and temper i know to be both venomous and festering. i already got my cosmic smack this week, so feel karmically safe in taking pleasure pondering his painful recovery.

toques and terror

to paraphrase f. scott fitzgerald: "celebrity chefs are not like you and me."
over the course of my restaurant career, i've had the curious experience, *some* might say privilege, of working for 3 chefs who have won the james beard award, and i'm currently working for another who is deservedly well on his way to earning that medal. having been drafted to work many special events, i've had episodic relations with at least 25 other winners. rareified air indeed, i suppose. the beard award is essentially considered the pulitzer for those in a toque--the american penultimate recognition of culinary achievement-- and it's always preceded and followed by countless other plaques and honors. make no mistake, these people all are incredibly talented.

first let's frame this by understanding these people all were drawn to knives and stoves long before there was a tv food network. food wasn't trendy, nobody knew (or cared about) the name of the guy who cooked your steak, where the clams were dug, or what the cows ate. "american cuisine" had not yet been born. green bean casserole, anybody? men, and certainly pre-pubescent boys, didn't know a quenelle from a quiche. there was no *next big thing*, because there was no *big thing*, from which to start. arugula? HELLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOO!!

yet these guys (male pronouns now for simplicity's sake) somehow knew their calling while freakishly young. at tender ages they talked their ways into elite kitchens all over the world. is this where the break happened? like phenoms in any other arena, they sacrificed normal socialization for their passion. i've not met him, but somebody convince me tiger woods, who had golf clubs in his hands before kindergarten, is an engaging conversationalist?

i've worked with julia child, the most gentle of women, who would never call herself a chef. she brought french cuisine and technique to america, and many consider her the godmother of genuises like alice waters and lydia shire. well into her 80s she could tuck into a 12-course tasting menu with matching wines. i've witnessed other patrons in the room literally break into tears merely from being in her presence. that's how loved she was. i never once heard a harsh word from her lips. (no doubt they fell someplace; she didn't become the american ambassador of food by being a patsy. i guess she chose her moments judiciously.)

on the flip side, i was nearly brought to tears by a barrage of offensively filthy language from a beard winner. we did not carry the particular spirit he desired, and when i offered alternatives, he exploded. i was a "stupid girl" and a "philistine" and "this place (a 4-star joint owned and operated by another beard winner) is a toilet!!" he literally was spitting in my face. drew nierporent, beard winner and genius nyc restauranteur (and my hero that night), along with susan spicer, and one of the "two hot tamales" (blonde...) rescued me from that overstuffed gallic ogre.

grueling and peculiar hours, drinking, drugs and sycophants take their toll. a certain and bizarre amount of energy must be spent on self-promotion. by nature and necessity, they are driven focused perfectionists. were these people always warped weirdos? or did the business morph them somehow?

• no matter how many hours you work, they work harder and more.
• they have a huge issue with eye contact.
• they lack social skills. a few cocktails may warm them up, but only in a strange way. they still must remain the center of attention.
• they cannot offer affirmation because it somehow diminishes their due.
• they cannot give credit for ideas hatched or grafted from elsewhere--see above^^
• no matter what, they were doing "it" before anybody else.
• they are a better cook than anybody else. ever.
• when dining out, they usually eat for free, by virtue of their fame. they have no concerns about keeping the place open till well past closing, and often "forget" to tip the server.
• they think everybody except for themselves is an utter jackass.
• they cannot be told no. "that size plate does not exist in our line." "make it." it gets made with the sweat and tears of many japanese artisans. "forget it. i've changed ideas."
• they are convinced everyone who works for them is stealing them blind. even those they've paid for 20 years.
• they cannot say "goodnight, i'm going home," because somehow, if you "know" they've gone everything will immediately go to shit.
• they will erupt into volcanic fits of rage and never apologize. OR they will subject you to stony silence, and you have no idea why. but often are glad they can't be bothered with you.
• in their employ, you are now a personal minion. b.o.h, you may well be drafted to work a christening or wedding without extra compensation. f.o.h, you will stay, wait table, mix and serve drinks till they and their buddies all pass out. you might be sent to chinatown at 3:00 a.m. because the cleaning crew is in the kitchen. your owner will comp all those checks, and none of his friends will tip you either.

i love my business, and i'm good at it. i'm nice to my staff and i'm congenial to the guests. even the dumbasses. i learned long ago you catch more bees with honey.

i've met many people who are extraordinarily successful in lots of fields. pro athletes. musicians. actors. writers and artists. mayors, governors, senators. captains of industry. do they all behave like monsters when they're on the clock or did i long ago serendipitously find an outlet for my masochism?

we see in a glass, darkly

this was paul, speaking as a christian, to christians. many credit this as the beginning of the origin of thought behind the scientific method. doubt and self-doubt are allied with truth, yet truth as we know it always remains partial and provisional. it's an admission of inescapable fallibility. for our purposes here, we'll put aside the petri dishes and examine human foibles.

when paul said "glass", he meant mirror, and how many have the inclination and the courage for honest introspection? as long as life is humming along essentially bump-free from day-to-day any sort of probing doesn't seem necessary. let's face it, from national health coverage to why anybody should care about branjolina, not many of us want to face the big questions.

years ago, an on-line suitor asked me to describe myself, mentally and emotionally. after i'd done so, he asked "is that how you are, or how you want me to see you?" can you parse the difference? at first, we're selective in what we allow others to view of our inner works. don't wanna scare away the natives, and for most the inherent need to pair off trumps a willingness to share the raw uncut version of ourselves. unpleasant aspects like selfishness or a martyr-complex aren't anything we like to admit even in our darkest of times alone, so it's not going on the table the first or even tenth time you meet for drinks. besides, is there anybody that hasn't secretly hoped that the right partner would cure their selfish prickness? (<--insert relevant personal flaw here.)

when relationships begin, we put our best foot forward. we want our colorful peacock plumes to be the thing seen, not the horned scraggly claws with which we daily sustain ourselves through grubbing in the sand. to be fair, the starry-eyed lover across the candle-lit table has done her own amount of projecting, envisioning how best to incorporate into her life this man she's coming to love. he's described how he *is*, what he *wants*, of course edited for the audience, and honed after many years of this same talk in this same flattering dim light. he's described himself as a good listener. does she see his focus wandering when she's talking about her 5th-grade dance recital? she's told him she's always loved to travel. he longs to see new zealand, so how does he integrate that with the truth of the sum of her trips being to nyc and florida? disconnects might get a flicker of recognition, but they easily get brushed aside with the flush of lust and hope washing over them both.

so each partner takes that original 8x10 glossy and puts in on the mantle. those snapshots remain and friends and relations see them too. marriage, mortgages, mini-mes ensue. where then is there room for ugly truths to raise their heads? we struggle to preserve the whole, protect the other, yet not lose ourselves. it can be a struggle of mammoth proportions. time goes by, and sometimes, we can no longer bear to look because we no longer see a mirror, but our personal equivalent of the portrait of dorian gray. a storm comes. a deafening thunderclap shatters the glass. suddenly, we are faced with a partner who's no longer just seeing our image, but is looking through the glass lens on a microscope's end. every flaw and misstep magnified so that the tiniest wiggliest amoeba looks like godzilla. two monsters in a room. now what?

can we find it in our hearts to keep the love big enough to accept our partner as he is, even as he wanted to be, to accept that his intentions were good? can we understand that we are a party to perspective as well? can we reconcile in ourselves that all along, we looked only in our own glass, and at photos taken long ago that still rest over the fireplace, not through the heart's window glass and into him? how can we honestly fault him for being what he is, and not what we wanted him to be?

quotable, part deux

this defaults as "deux", since i think this'll post for wednesday; but since i've not yet gone to bed, it's still *tuesday* in this house. :)

mrs. grose: love? i s'pose that's what she called it. it was more like a ... sickness. a fever that left the body burned out and dry.

there was no cruelty she wouldn't suffer.

if he struck her -- oh, yes, i'd seen him knock her to the floor...

she'd look at him as if she wanted the weight of his hand...
no pride...
no shame...
crawl to him on her hands and knees...

~~"the innocents", 1961

quotable

(cue the twangy gittars...)

DOGHOUSE

why you married me remains a mystery
nothin' i do is ever good enough fer you

but i never hit on your sister
broke up the china with a pistol
i just do what all men like to do...

i like to go a-huntin' and fishin'
drive fast in an automobile
i like to get laid at least twice a day
and sit down to three hot meals

i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear this doghouse down!

i won't be so eager to please
get up off my hands and knees

i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear this doghouse down!
and walk like a man
while i still can...

why you married me remains a mystery
nothin' i do is ever good enough fer you

i wanna sleep in the big white house
watch tv on yer clean white couch
yer not gonna tell me what to do

all next week i'm gonna go fishin'
and i don't wanna hear any bitchin'

i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear this doghouse down!

i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear
i'm gonna tear this doghouse down

i'm gonna tear this doghouse down
beyond what remains...

--props to dave champagne and katie alcott -- you guys rock. ;)
www.heygoods.com

pushmepullyou

one of my most fondly remembered childhood movies is "dr. dolittle". as an adult, i've never seen it, although i've since discovered it was a nightmare to make, a critical flop and a disaster at the box office. like plenty of other selectively dewy bits that float happily in my brain's repository of 20th-century musicals, rex harrison and anthony newley in their towering hats and daffy plaid suits, the communicative menagerie and that late-60s hallucinogenic technicolor all still make me smile.

although the doctor could understand them, the critters weren't doing anything strangely off-species, so for an only child who whispered a lot to her dog, the whole thing seemed perfectly feasible. dolittle's preference for engaging with animals rather than humans was not lost on me, even at such a tender age.

we shall leave aside any ponderance of the elusive giant pink sea snail (which might send me straight to a sex therapist's couch) because these last few weeks have brought to mind the pushmi-pullyu that dolittle receives as a gift. a curious llama-like bit of wooliness, with two heads facing opposite directions. it's connected in the middle, but one end never knows quite what the other is up to. it manages to fend for itself as a whole because of the central bond. in the movie, it's the object of a song called "i've never seen anything like it in my life!", but i think most of us have seen something quite similar, albeit less furry. successful partners, whether in business or romance, instinctively know how to manage give-and-take to the benefit of each and of both. there may be stumbles, but one pulls the other up, and then each pushes along the other. together.

or...

a relationship hits a rock, one half responds as more of a pushyou-pullme. the one who first pulls the trump card of "you hurt me!", pushes the other away. out of the bed, out of the room, even out of the house. that pusher then pulls inward and slams the door. is it just a self-defense measure to prevent immediate further hurt? a vindictive shove to perhaps inflict some of the same? is it a moral judgment? "i'm good, you're bad, don't smear me with your filth." so the one who's "done wrong," is severed from the mainland and forced to float alone on his own sadder version of starsea island. (he longs briefly for scantily-clad native girls, but realizes it's a punitive island, not an idyll... sigh...)

my family is filled with pushers. every time my actions or words were met with that horrible j'accuse, i reeled in confusion. the onslaught always was deafeningly fierce, and i was no match. i would burst into tears, sob, "i'm sorry," and yet another card in my suit of missteps would be added to my mother's or grandmother's deck. the chill could last for days, months. sometimes years. vindictive actions of asset reallocation or disinheritance often ensued. surrounded by such volatility, resolution was always impossible. there never came a moment when i could explain *it* had nothing to do with *her*. it was about *me*. perhaps neither of them can conceive of such personal autonomy, or perhaps the horrible truth is really closer to absolute egocentricity, and *everything* is about them. in moments of heat, my mother still brings up things i did twenty years ago. some episodes i can barely recall, yet she clings to them like a borgia with a treasured vial of poison.

as i charted my own adult waters of personal relationships, instinctively i knew i wanted a different map. but having been raised in a spike-ridden compound of spite, i was truly adrift. no compass, no sextant, just me under the stars. gradually though, i realized my boat wasn't as rickety as i'd thought, and my navigational skills were better than i'd been led to believe. not every bit of the sea was infested with sharks.

not having yet read any calvin (plenty of "... and hobbes" at that point, though i digress) i still came to a philosophy of inclusion for those whom i loved. no matter how much my heart ached, i kept open my arms and became a pullme-pullyou. contrary to my personal history, i realized the true rarity of someone intentionally inflicting emotional damage. my response, my processing, was my responsibility. so the door and my heart remained open. whether we continued to sail together or not, i always knew i'd never needlessly or mistakenly sent someone out of my life. that's one realization that prevents regret, ne c'est pas?

so rather than finish here with piaf and "non, je ne regrette rien", (which some of you might expect, but in truth the story in those lyrics is very sad,) we'll let mama rose bring it on home:

"Through thick and through thin,
all out or all in.
And whether it's win, place or show.
With you for me and me for you,
we'll muddle through whatever we do.
Together, wherever we go."

keeping the wonder

a co-worker has recently relocated to our fair city, from the gulf coast of florida -- hardly a bastion of culture, beauty or historical significance. supposedly he spent the 2005 crush in bordeaux, yet cannot properly pronounce st-estephe or cos d'etournal. so that bit i suspect as the resume-padding of a pup. c'est la vie.

he claims to be passionate about both food and wine, yet i've never once seen his eyes light up at the memory of a scent or a description of a taste. friends and i could cross-talk till we're blue in the face (or at least till we finish the wine!) about whether a particular garnacha is more redolent of july or august raspberries, or hazelnuts nuts roasted or raw... truly, i want to give this kid the benefit of the doubt, but disappointingly more and more see a vaccuum, rather than a cipher.

here in the hub of the universe, we have spectacular fireworks displays for the 4th of july. all-day festivities, capped by a concert, cannons and a 45-minute feat of pyrotechnics not seen anywhere else in the country. since i knew he wasn't leaving town for the holiday, i asked if he'd be going. i figured him being new here, he'd think it a fun way to integrate into this city's life. "ah, ya seen one fireworks, ya seen 'em all, " he replied. and that was that. how could a 25-year-old be so lacking in curiousity?

instantly, i was reminded of old people whose faces are maps of their lives. (putting aside the bizarrely disfiguring results of botox freeze and plastic surgery...) the woman whose visage is permanently creased into a bitter scowl and thus shows a life filled only with disappointment and despair; or the woman whose crinkly crows' feet and smiley laugh lines are the outward signs of a joyful heart and a mind still agile with wonder.

when my aarp card comes, i know which old broad i'd rather be.

empress action

my blogging has led me to the previously (personally) uncharted waters of the many blogs herein... hence, due notice:

when at last i become empress of the universe, all those who type "anyways" will instantly see their offending left ring finger go poof. (the verbal abuse of this abomination is so rampant, i fear creating a planet of mutes with commensurate punishment. fear not, that's a project under consideration...)

i foresee a vast city, stretching for miles. the buildings all will be of digit construction.