One would think that after so much activity and depriving my brain of oxygen with bubbles and cigarette smoke, I would stay in on Monday night. Still feeling queasy from a week (or two) of socializing and fearing withdrawal- I agree to meet Blind Date at another movie party. I arrive and wait 10 minutes in the snow before he tramples down 6 flights of stairs to greet me. He's cute but it's a bit strange that our first meeting is at one of the most crowded parties of the season. Speaking of the crowd, it's desperately collegiate with script supervisors and DOPs throwing their hands in the air like they don't know how much longer they can remain vertical.
If I'm describing the scene to you, it's because my date at this point is pretty much ignoring me. It's hard to break ice when the room is sweltering with an international crowd. I run into a writer friend whom I adore, initially because of his really cool glasses and eventually because he's so kind to me. I talk to him for quite some time and suddenly my new friend (he's already decidedly a friend) perks up and takes notice. Now it's finally time to make sure I have a drink and ask me where I'm from... enough. This goes on for some time, Cool Glasses Friend leaves, and eventually New Friend wants to leave. I agree and we walk down the 6 flights whilst he tells me about how he narrowly avoided losing his lunch last night in his own stairway.
I step out into the cold and my mind wanders over to the Swede. My pocket buzzes. It's him. He says he's in Mitte- where most people assume that I am, most of the time. I tell him to meet me at the bar I'm standing across the street from. He tells me to join his friends a bit up the street. You buy, I fly, I say. I get there and he seems all too cheery, I'm still feeling a bit woozy so I divert my attention to his brother and best friend- both hilarious and aware that the Swede's and I's situation just got a bit strange. The night before we had wound up sticking to cake and I missed the second to last bus and was offered a corner in the best friend's cold and bad water pressured apartment. I caught the last bus,planting a firm kiss on his mouth and hopping on, Mary Tyler Moore style. Perfect, clear ending and now here I was, waiting for a drink and chatting with all his friends. The best friend starts to leave, the brother too, and the Swede starts to go as well. I'm not accustomed to such abandonement and make it subtley clear. He stays, though I now have my coat on (oh, the awkward back and forth- why, why did I walk up the street when just several hours prior I had solemnly sworn with my heavenly friend NN that I would never be so obliging {Don't Chase Boys, Let Them Chase You said the Valentine's Card my friend D from NYC had sent me}). And now we are staying and I realize how attractive he is for the first time, despite everyone saying so, and also how drunk. He goes on a thinly vieled tirade about the difference between his hometown and this town and how he wishes he could stay. Not for me of course but seemingly to gain control over his life again. At this point I should remind you that he has a girlfriend, a fact I found out the Saturday morning after meeting him Friday for coffee. The therapist in me tugs at my sleeves and I remember my friend NN and I's appeal to not get so invested. So I wait until he's done and then ask him why he's telling me all this. We get a falafel and then I want to go home- the trains have stopped running and it's clear he's too drunk for a taxi. I offer him my spare room and tells me not to treat him like a child. We spend the night together, I try to wrangle out of his embrace but settle for avoiding any real contact- no kissing, no nether-reaching. The morning arrives and the both of us touch ourselves and climax together. I clean my apartment, my intern is coming over today while he tells me about the last time he cheated on someone. We grab a burrito and he walks me to the grocery store. I kiss him on both cheeks and he holds me for too long. I'm smarter than a few days ago and decide to avoid his beestung mouth and avoid putting any alcohol in mine tonight. I'm staying in.
I have to go- I've just gotten an email from a friend who says she dated HA (Handsome Architect) and that he was weird with her. I have to reply as soon as I address the Skype message from a blonde who wants to talk about how awkward our last meeting was- I want to say that awkwardness is normal when you invite someone to "talk" after sleeping with them, after waiting a year to do so and then emotionally skeedaddling to rudely passive agressive territory- I digress- he invited me to talk in a small, crowded office with a flatulating dog.
"Don't worry about it. I'll get back to you about the Swedish band, they're really good- you should book them."
mercredi 17 février 2010
lundi 15 février 2010
my mother's favorite holiday
This is the story of Champagne and chômage. For those of you who don't speak the Francais- chômage is fancy for unemployment. Both words more or less summarize my current state. I'm living in Berlin after having bounced between Berlin for a year, lived in Paris alone for 3/4, after having left New York.
Valentine's Day at the stroke of midnight looks like this to me: working through last night's hangover at a private dinner for a film premiere sandwiched between my new friend The Novelist and my latest super ex Mr. Mister. Both are in a well deserved financial security that I don't seem to have reached but an attitude towards amusement that I easily accept. This easiness is interrupted by Mr. Mister's kind but untimely return of a very valuable piece of solid gold jewelry. For a moment, I'm overjoyed with relief- the bling belonged to my grandmother until the day she died and I would likely join her should anything happen to it. I may be broke but I'm still from a good family. The moment that follows is commandeered by the sprite young woman next to Mr. Mister who cheerily pitches in "I saw that at his house, by the bed". Right, miss, thanks for clearing the Who's That Girl? mystery of the evening. To drive the point home- she rubs his shoulder sensually and I turn towards my platonic savior, who just looks bored. I smile and look around at a row of young germanic actresses, sitting chicks in a row. They feel great until Mr. Mister bets me 20 euros that one of them is Jewish. Being Jew-ish myself, this is kind of gross but I accept his generosity as a clever gesture that doesn't make me feel like a loser. She isn't and I win. I have to get out of here. But first I buy MM and his permagrin date drinks, which leaves me with enough change for a kurztrecke (a short trip in a taxi that costs 4 euros) and a glass of prosecco (ok, so no champagne in Berlin tonight) at my next destination.
I have a hard time explaining to The Novelist that I don't want to go to an agency party in Kreuzberg, hell, I have a hard time explaining it to myself. I make it on my way and into the arms of my stunning friend who is leaving for New York in the morning. She understands the complications of having too many complicated relationships and I am grateful to her for meeting me. Especially when, on my way to the toilettes, I spy the handsome french architect I had met at the Haunch of Venison opening a couple of nights before. I tell him to run to the boy's room and meet me at the bar, which he does. I give him my sincerest apologies, I had promised to attend a guided tour of his private photography collection that afternoon but had bailed after finding out that it was in German and my bed had a very cute and smitt inducing Swede in it. He apologizes for not having any recollection whatsoever of meeting or inviting me. Natch. My Stunning NY friend takes her place next to a clean and fresh IT guy, Friend of French Architect (hereby known as Handsome Architect). HA and I have a more intimate tour of his collection bouche a bouche (just talking, gutterheads) and he offers to drive me home. I sigh because I practically live across the street but am relieved because I'm enjoying the traditionalism that's being served to me with delicate aristocratic hands. I excuse myself, claiming the need for a tete a tete with my dear SF and we exchange information. I already have his card in my Chanel reproduction (also grandma's) but please don't tell him.
It's 4 am and we slip and slide home through the snow. I wake up with my cat, semi adopted from a short lived but pivotal ex, purring enouraging and warm thoughts into my belly. I wake up, shower, do a bit of work and rush to meet Mister Mister to accompany him on a studio visit (yes, folks, that's right... I'm an artist, surprise!). I'm an hour late but he's already well in with a mutual friend of ours, who happened to introduce me to both the Swede and HA. The studio tour is good, I'm simply auditing to get a grasp on how this whole come over to my messy place and look at my stuff thing works, professionally. The artists are bright business things 2 years my junior and already light years more successful. We leave in a taxi, my Introduction Friend (a talented curator) suggests dinner at the Grill Royale, a notorious ground for creative expense accounts. I grumble mumble sputter something to MM about financial ahem proclivity ahem and he says a bit too loudly not to worry, he invites me. I feel ok for now, teary eyed at how lucky I am to be eating oysters on a Sunday, and suggest a movie before dinner. He used to be gently handicapped and still has a card that allows someone to accompany him to cultural things and movies for free. He suggests a movie at his house and I begin to doubt the probability of going to the Grill. I remember his collection of cereals fondly and look into his lovely face and accept. We go to his and have a very tender moment half watching the movie, half bonding over our new closeness as friends until he asks me to accompany him to the sauna. This has been my dream for weeks now, massages and steam, but it's already 8 and this seems like something lovers do. To add insult to injury the lover from last night does call and he asks her, in German, whether she wants to join him at the sauna. Right. I'm already a little tired and emotional, this is too much for me and I start to put my boots back on. I calm down and he invites his childhood friend, who may have been his former babysitter but now works in PR. They take me for dumplings and then he hops in a taxi for the sauna.
I text the guy I'm supposed to have a blind non date with and realize that I really should check in with the Swede. We had a truly rare and magical 24 hours on the nose that included meeting his brother and a Saturday morning lie in (the details in between are non of your business and far more puritanical than you think). He crushingly has a girlfriend and this announcement soured things for me, terminally. I wanted to re-establish a friendly connection with he and his hilarious brother- over karaoke or cake. Being in your Mid to almost late twenties is all about fighting the bitterness that so many people in their mid to late 30s, no matter what situation, try to dump on you. So here's to being positive and light. I'm on my way to meet him so that we can all decide and suddenly, it's a quarter past 12, I walk right past HA's house and onto a small bar tucked next to the railway, I've dodged another Valentine's Day.
That's all for now, tune in soon, I've got lots of projects in the air- including my intern's first day and my preparation of a Haiti benefit exhibition. Which apparently both exist to cover up the 2000 euros debt in my bank account.
C'est ridicule mais rigolo, non?
Valentine's Day at the stroke of midnight looks like this to me: working through last night's hangover at a private dinner for a film premiere sandwiched between my new friend The Novelist and my latest super ex Mr. Mister. Both are in a well deserved financial security that I don't seem to have reached but an attitude towards amusement that I easily accept. This easiness is interrupted by Mr. Mister's kind but untimely return of a very valuable piece of solid gold jewelry. For a moment, I'm overjoyed with relief- the bling belonged to my grandmother until the day she died and I would likely join her should anything happen to it. I may be broke but I'm still from a good family. The moment that follows is commandeered by the sprite young woman next to Mr. Mister who cheerily pitches in "I saw that at his house, by the bed". Right, miss, thanks for clearing the Who's That Girl? mystery of the evening. To drive the point home- she rubs his shoulder sensually and I turn towards my platonic savior, who just looks bored. I smile and look around at a row of young germanic actresses, sitting chicks in a row. They feel great until Mr. Mister bets me 20 euros that one of them is Jewish. Being Jew-ish myself, this is kind of gross but I accept his generosity as a clever gesture that doesn't make me feel like a loser. She isn't and I win. I have to get out of here. But first I buy MM and his permagrin date drinks, which leaves me with enough change for a kurztrecke (a short trip in a taxi that costs 4 euros) and a glass of prosecco (ok, so no champagne in Berlin tonight) at my next destination.
I have a hard time explaining to The Novelist that I don't want to go to an agency party in Kreuzberg, hell, I have a hard time explaining it to myself. I make it on my way and into the arms of my stunning friend who is leaving for New York in the morning. She understands the complications of having too many complicated relationships and I am grateful to her for meeting me. Especially when, on my way to the toilettes, I spy the handsome french architect I had met at the Haunch of Venison opening a couple of nights before. I tell him to run to the boy's room and meet me at the bar, which he does. I give him my sincerest apologies, I had promised to attend a guided tour of his private photography collection that afternoon but had bailed after finding out that it was in German and my bed had a very cute and smitt inducing Swede in it. He apologizes for not having any recollection whatsoever of meeting or inviting me. Natch. My Stunning NY friend takes her place next to a clean and fresh IT guy, Friend of French Architect (hereby known as Handsome Architect). HA and I have a more intimate tour of his collection bouche a bouche (just talking, gutterheads) and he offers to drive me home. I sigh because I practically live across the street but am relieved because I'm enjoying the traditionalism that's being served to me with delicate aristocratic hands. I excuse myself, claiming the need for a tete a tete with my dear SF and we exchange information. I already have his card in my Chanel reproduction (also grandma's) but please don't tell him.
It's 4 am and we slip and slide home through the snow. I wake up with my cat, semi adopted from a short lived but pivotal ex, purring enouraging and warm thoughts into my belly. I wake up, shower, do a bit of work and rush to meet Mister Mister to accompany him on a studio visit (yes, folks, that's right... I'm an artist, surprise!). I'm an hour late but he's already well in with a mutual friend of ours, who happened to introduce me to both the Swede and HA. The studio tour is good, I'm simply auditing to get a grasp on how this whole come over to my messy place and look at my stuff thing works, professionally. The artists are bright business things 2 years my junior and already light years more successful. We leave in a taxi, my Introduction Friend (a talented curator) suggests dinner at the Grill Royale, a notorious ground for creative expense accounts. I grumble mumble sputter something to MM about financial ahem proclivity ahem and he says a bit too loudly not to worry, he invites me. I feel ok for now, teary eyed at how lucky I am to be eating oysters on a Sunday, and suggest a movie before dinner. He used to be gently handicapped and still has a card that allows someone to accompany him to cultural things and movies for free. He suggests a movie at his house and I begin to doubt the probability of going to the Grill. I remember his collection of cereals fondly and look into his lovely face and accept. We go to his and have a very tender moment half watching the movie, half bonding over our new closeness as friends until he asks me to accompany him to the sauna. This has been my dream for weeks now, massages and steam, but it's already 8 and this seems like something lovers do. To add insult to injury the lover from last night does call and he asks her, in German, whether she wants to join him at the sauna. Right. I'm already a little tired and emotional, this is too much for me and I start to put my boots back on. I calm down and he invites his childhood friend, who may have been his former babysitter but now works in PR. They take me for dumplings and then he hops in a taxi for the sauna.
I text the guy I'm supposed to have a blind non date with and realize that I really should check in with the Swede. We had a truly rare and magical 24 hours on the nose that included meeting his brother and a Saturday morning lie in (the details in between are non of your business and far more puritanical than you think). He crushingly has a girlfriend and this announcement soured things for me, terminally. I wanted to re-establish a friendly connection with he and his hilarious brother- over karaoke or cake. Being in your Mid to almost late twenties is all about fighting the bitterness that so many people in their mid to late 30s, no matter what situation, try to dump on you. So here's to being positive and light. I'm on my way to meet him so that we can all decide and suddenly, it's a quarter past 12, I walk right past HA's house and onto a small bar tucked next to the railway, I've dodged another Valentine's Day.
That's all for now, tune in soon, I've got lots of projects in the air- including my intern's first day and my preparation of a Haiti benefit exhibition. Which apparently both exist to cover up the 2000 euros debt in my bank account.
C'est ridicule mais rigolo, non?
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