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?