Cheese, Friends and Alcohol
December 14, 2008 at 7:36 pm | In Friendship | 1 CommentTags: album, boat, cheese, Cheuvre, Christmas, cigarettes, dancing, Double Gloucester, fat, friends, Jose Cuervo, memories, Muenster cheese, Music, Navy, party, shots, wine
My keys jiggled, mixing in a metallic noise to the quick, muted door knock. My other hand carried a chunk of sweet Muenster cheese along with a bottle of wine that were about to fall if the neighbors didn’t rush to open their door.
A raucus from inside. “Yeaaa, they’re here!” But when the door opened, it was only me.
“Sorry I’m late!” I smiled and apologized thoroughly as I hugged and kissed everyone’s cheeks. I felt like I was on the set for an ’80s TV show. I loved it.
They asked where my roommate was; I didn’t know. I had come straight from the city, without stopping downstairs at my apartment. But Lan is a wine and cheese connoisseur, so I wasn’t worried. As they over-say, good things come to those who wait.
So after the initial round of wine sampling and the reaffirmation that a good Rioja beats the $10 wine from down the block, Lan arrived. With him came cheers and good tidings, and a few of the best cheeses I’ve ever tasted — a French Cheuvre and a Double Gloucester from England.
I admit that I don’t know my cheeses well, but a refined cheese needs neither naming nor discussion. The Cheuvre was milder and creamy, but the English Gloucester had a bright, bold flavor that made fireworks on the palate. Definitely worth the wait — for Lan’s company, too.
The wine and cheese sampling continued with Lan in the bunch offering stories from his time in the Navy. (Apparently a strong chemical smell on the sub boat made men’s sense of smell infinitely stronger, and after they got out on land again, they could smell women’s perfumes from a mile away.) Then the conversation moved to old road trips around the States, and Yu bust out a flip-through album — you know, one of those things that predate the digital age of downloading pictures and never holding them on hand.
At 18, Yu looked really young and gorgeous, the kind of beauty that excludes itself from the others in the bunch. Dan on the other hand was fat. We were throughly entertained to see the boy with the puffy cheeks in oversized khakis and flip flops, shot after shot. “I’ve lost 80 pounds since then, if you must know,” he admitted in wounded pride. We saw right through it — not the figure, but the pride — and laughed and continued the jokes.
In the meantime, Jose was feeling lonely on the shelf, so he came down to join us. Tiny shots were distributed, and we toasted to more fun together and more themed parties.
Dancing ensued and scraps of incomplete conversations. At one point, I realized I was drunk. So I put my glass down, popped a piece of dark chocolate into my mouth, cut a thick slice of bread and covered it with the Cheuvre. In five minutes’ time, I was cured and able to balance myself on the ground again.
I felt so proud of myself, and to celebrate, I held my glass high, and drank some more wine.
The DJ (mainly, me and whoever jumped in to save themselves from my extraordinary ’80s selections) played some rocking tunes, and pretty soon, we were all dancing, the lights from the Christmas tree as our disco ball.
By 3:30 a.m., Yu was passing out on the couch, the boys were switching between Britney and Rihanna songs (both flops if you ask me), and others were dancing salsa.
A sickly wave of caramel washed over me, and I knew it was time to go. So we said good-bye, thanked our gracious hosts, hugged and made plans for the next year.
“Just a teeny walk,” I told my roomie and ran outside as we left. I needed a cigarette. The dam ATM machine didn’t work, and I wanted to kick it.
(Today, I woke up and remembered that I hadn’t been scanning my ATM card at all, but my credit card. Good thing, since that tiny mistake in details saved me a $13 investment into the horrible habit I quit long ago.)
Instead, I walked back home, listened to some songs and blemished this blog with a blip of my past. I debated deleting it today, but then I thought that a blog wouldn’t be a real blog if you kept going back and erasing the stuff you had changed your mind on later. I had a wonderful time last night, but it’s strange how sometimes, after the most fun, most innocent of times, the old feeling creeps in, and you compare your good friends to the old friends and you wonder how you ever got out of the claws of the beast and ended up here, with a fine life and people who love you.
I’m sure it has to do with the alcohol.
Thanks
December 14, 2008 at 9:47 am | In Dating | Leave a CommentTags: abuse, boyfriend, song
Wine, cheese, and caramel. Which one doesn’t go? Caramel.
Argh. It’s brought upsetting waves to my stomach, even though at tonight’s party with the neighbors, it seemed natural. Please tell me more so I can feel balanced.
I’ll tell you some:
- I’m listening to Rabbit to the Moon, a very good song I used to listed to while being abused by my ex-boyfriend.
- My ex-boyfriend’s name is Julian.
Your turn.
Talk about it
December 12, 2008 at 2:46 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a CommentTags: brown, crackers, curves, eyes, jaws, lip, locks, makeup, mascara, olive oil, shapes, talk
I was going to wash my makeup off tonight before sleep. Dab a sheet with olive oil maybe and wipe it under my eyes. (That’s best for your eyes, I’ve heard.)
But I didn’t. Instead, I played some music, reread old writing a hundred times, ate some crackers, thought of my old teachers.
Then, as I flipped through a recent photo album on my laptop, I peered up, beyond the screen. There was my reflection.
I noticed a little frown. Brown locks framed my face. My lip tilted upward. My face has shapes. My jaws are more defined than last time I saw. My eyes are big, especially when they well up.
It might be because it’s blurry, and I can’t see clearly, that I perceive them this way. Or it may be that they really are big, those windows to the soul, big, earnest, slow-blinking, taking in everything that comes upon them.
I never knew there was a way more natural to cleanse mascara off than olive oil.
Love
December 10, 2008 at 5:48 am | In Dating, My Time | 1 CommentTags: angels, beautiful, bedroom, book, bookstore, crush, cute, deserve, drink, fairies, feeling, feminine, girls, healthy, home, human spirit, hurt, January, late, love, lunch, New York, office, overtime, queens, resilience, streak, strong, survivors, tracks, train, work, year
On Sunday, I walked to my best friend’s house, and then I ran to get there faster. I had something to say, something beautiful, a feeling and a thought that had bubbled inside me as naturally as the train carried me on its tracks, just a few minutes earlier. “I love New York.”
It feels good to be in love with home. Healthy, heartwarming love.
***
Monday, an old crush asked me out. I said OK, gave him my card and walked back into the office. It’s been since January; I almost made it to a year. “That’s a good streak to break!” said Maddy at my news. “He’s cute, and getting a drink with someone never hurt anybody.”
So you think, I thought, as I nodded in agreement.
***
Today, I left work late, earlier than yesterday. “You especially deserve it,” bossman said. “Go rest. See you tomorrow.” Tomorrow, for more overtime.
I didn’t go home after I walked out of the building. I turned the corner instead, walked to the bookstore, where I descended the twisting stairs, navigated around rows of shelves and reached for the familiar book. I deposited myself on a half-hidden chair and continued where I had left off at lunch the day before.
I read about survivors. Strong, brilliant girls. Girls who sang silently, counted numbers, painted mental pictures, identified themselves as queens and fairies and angels like the ones staring down at them from the yellow bedroom wallpaper. Girls who checked out momentarily to ensure they’d still be there tomorrow.
It’s amazing, the intuitive resilience of the human spirit. Especially the feminine kind.
Horror
December 8, 2008 at 4:49 am | In Uncategorized | 6 CommentsTags: bastards, boys, capitalize, checkers, chocolate, concentration camp, dad, directors, fence, German, holocaust, horror, human spirit, Jewish, Jews, life is beautiful, movie, pain, Passion of the Christ, sandwiches, shower, tear, terror, the boy in the striped pyjamas
I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. Wiped my tears, raged to keep my body firm, not crippling in pain.
It was a bad movie. The kind of experience that aims for dumbstruck but leaves you numbstruck instead. Throughout the whole 1.5 hours, I considered leaving. “You have to give it a chance, love,” I told myself and continued watching, blinking a tear away. “What if the ending makes it the best movie of your life?”
The ending didn’t. The screen went black and the cast names appeared, sealing off the all too well known fate of the Jews.
I hate movies that shamelessly tug at your heartstrings. That use a terrible reality, a shameful part of history, manipulate it, and make money off the public’s distraught exhaustion. It was just like that other doozie a few years ago The Passion of the Christ. Yes, we know what happened to Jesus; it’s a personal matter that doesn’t need to be visually spelled out. Nor disrespected by some greedy bastard who’s discovered a way to capitalize off it.
Just like that, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas killed off a young German boy who confused a concentration camp for a farm. Made friends with a Jewish 8-year-old across the fence, brought his new pal chocolate and sandwiches when he remembered, and played hours of checkers with him. When the Jewish boy lost his dad in the camp, the German boy decided to dig under the fence and help him find him. They didn’t have enough time, though, because suddenly they were all rushed off for a “shower.”
The boys squeezed hands before the screen went black.
Inventive? Not so much. Bastard directors. I know what this is: Cheap tricks to cover up an age-old theme. What’s cheaper and cuter than seeing the horror from the precious eyes of an innocent child? Who (oh, my God, how clever!) digs under the fence!!! My, oh, my, why hadn’t anyone else thought of digging before…
You want a good holocaust movie? Take a look at Life Is Beautiful. That’s a wonderful movie, poignant, entertaining, presenting what happened and flawlessly touting the human spirit for its beauty and resilience. That movie has a point and a unique angle.
I used to have concentration camp dreams. Traumatizing, bloody scenes. I don’t have them anymore, because I’ve worked through my own terrors. I’m calm now. Calm enough to use my own imagination when I need to dig up the horror of the overtaught, over-reminded holocaust.
A message for the directors: We know what happened. Respect it and just let it rest, will you?
Roommate
December 7, 2008 at 8:45 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a CommentTags: cool, couch, dark, girl, kiss, make out, married, May, roomate, roommate
I made out with my roommate.
It was a quick five-second kiss, and I knew it would happen as I lay on the couch and he crouched above me in the dark. In fact, I had turned off the light on purpose, knowing that he’d come if he couldn’t see my form as well outlined on the couch.
It only lasted five seconds because I stopped at five and almost a half. “Wait…what are you doing?”
“Probably something I shouldn’t be,” he said.
Then we didn’t talk for a while. If I could, I would have liked to take his clothes off and have him right there on the couch.
But I thought about his girlfriend, and that killed it. He’s going to Thailand to get married in May.
We stayed there for a while, studying each other in the dark. Then, I said that we should go to bed. He agreed.
“How come you never show what’s in your heart?” I asked, thinking not of romantic moments I’ve seen in movies, but really of times where he’s been pissed and never really quite let it out. Or when his brother died over summer and he never let me know until months later, when he mentioned it by accident in passing.
“I think it’s hard to get in here,” he said, pointing to his heart. He was still smirking.
I nodded. “Goodnight,” I said. I hugged him. “I think you’re a pretty cool person.” He thought I was, too, he said.
And then we stood up and went to bed.
Melodies
December 6, 2008 at 4:04 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a CommentTags: boy, breeze, cheese, chill, date, editorsnow, email, emotion, flirt, glove, guilty pleasure, guitar, hot dogs, humor, Ibanez, inbox, laugh, melodies, Moonlight Sonata, New York, onions, relish, shawl, techie, tomatoes, winter, work, year
Today, I watched time creep in nine perfect circles, and then I left my desk for home.
Some Friday nights, I like to stay at home. Today was a busy day. Lots of work. Deleting words, rearranging sentences. Throwing a comma here and there for clarity. And flirting unremittingly — through email.
I don’t know him. He works with us remotely. His company helps us with tech stuff. But as we teased each other without mercy, something awakened in me.
“It’s getting close to year for me, too,” I replied to Maddy over IM at around noon. She is setting up her roommate with a boy. “I haven’t been on a date since January.”
Behind the computer screen, it was a nice thing to talk about my lost glove and ninjas and snow, the difference between techies and copy editors. His sentences made me laugh every time I clicked into my inbox in search of a reply. “I need a man with humor,” I thought to myself at 4. Then I caught myself thinking. So I put on some quiet music, looked down at my papers, and continued to work.
I was so tired by 5 that I planned to plop down on my bed and sleep for two days when I got home. Instead, I turned on the TV when I got home, then went to the kitchen. I boiled hot dogs, chopped up red onions and sweet grape tomatoes, and covered my hot dogs in cheese, relish, and mustard. My favorite guilty pleasure.
When I was done eating, I brought my Ibanez to the living room, and sat on the couch to watch a movie, strumming the guitar during commercials. I thought again, continued playing well after commercials, and then I turned off the TV, walked into my bedroom, and closed the door.
I pulled my window upward, and the chilly New York breeze emitted itself into the tiny room. I sat on my bed and played, feeling the chill like a shawl around my shoulders. I broke and strung together melodies for two and a half hours (picked a few chords from Moonlight Sonata, too).
How the sweet sound of my classical guitar explodes with emotion and complements the breeze.
Neighborhood Groceries
December 3, 2008 at 3:55 am | In My Time, Pets | 2 CommentsTags: apples, Brazilian, bread, buffet, Christmas tree, dentist, eyebrow, falafel, feta, flowers, friendly, grocery store, joy, Mexican, neighborhood, Netflix, pears, peppers, smells, sounds, Stella, street, supermarket
Today’s grocery list was rather short and healthy:
- 1/2 pound of Bulgarian feta
- 1 red bell pepper
- 2 red pears
- 3 red apples
- 4 organic bananas
All for the price of $10.48. Going 48 cents over the ten-dollar bill I offered myself as I walked in the store was well worth it. I didn’t even notice that the quantity of what I got increased precisely by one (if you don’t count the feta), and that for some reason, 60 percent of my groceries were red.
The color of my local supermarket.
Am I on crack? You’d think so. But I notice these things at times in a very comfortable, cozy-in-the-back-of-my-essence way. I am an observant copy editor, and I love my neighborhood. On my way home, I twisted the handle of my plastic bag and thought about the reasons: the warm buzz in the supermarket, the familiarity of its aisles, the comfort of knowing the little streets that make a 90-degree angle to lead from subway to store to home.
The series of entities as I greet them when I walk out of the subway towards home: First the guys that, no matter how cold outside, stand at the bottom of the subway stairs and hand you gym membership cards, then the Brazilian buffet with the crazy Friday night ethnic karaoke parties, the newspaper stand with the sleazy Indian guy, the eyebrow-threading place, the digital image store, the T-mobile store, the three sisters’ nail salon, the random ophthalmologist. The street (cross it), the big (in New York standards) parking lot, the supermarket, the friendly falafel guys outside it whipping up award-winning delicacies and bubbling my name out in their exuberant greeting as I pass. The intoxicating smell of the Christmas trees lying on the pavement these days, waiting to be ushered into homes. The more homely smells as I turn the corner to walk along my own street: flower shop, bread, laundry, homemade cuisines.
A sharp, sugary smell hit me when I walked into my buliding tonight. I stopped to check my mail, and I could hear the illegal Mexican families of the first-floor apartment laughing, bonding over dessert. I fiddled with the envelopes stuffed into the little box and smiled as I recognized the distinct crimson of the Netflix envelope. My own private joy.
My other joys of weekday evenings are walking up the stairs to my apartment. I arrive at around 7 if I get out of work on time, or later if I’m sipping on Stellas somewhere across town or meeting friends for movies. If I go grocery shopping, then 7:30 is right about the time I open my front door, and then I pet my cat Freddy, plop down on the couch and join him for dinner.
Ibanez
December 2, 2008 at 4:59 am | In Music, My Time | 1 CommentTags: break, epoxy, guitar, Ibanez, Music, Thanksgiving
After Thanksgiving dinner, I washed the dishes and he, belly full, plopped on the couch. The sudden movement of the air in the room pushed my guitar — which was leaning ever so slightly on the wall — and gracefully knocked it face down on the floor.
“I broke it!” I heard him cry. I didn’t turn around. Kept washing the dishes.
I could hear him trying to fix it. How can you fix a broken guitar without epoxy?
He fiddled with the strings and the wood, wishing to turn the moment around. He was upset. But what’s done is done. It’s over. In my head, it was dead long ago, even before I sent it to the guitar store to fix the first time.
Today, I sat on the stool, like an acrobat, balancing my own weight against the glossy Fender. “It’s nice,” I said and looked at him. But my gaze faltered as my elbow slipped off abruptly, and when I changed chords, the guitar neck tilted. My fingers pressed strings faster to hold on to the instrument, and they hit the wrong notes. “Well, at least I have an excuse for playing bad,” I thought to myself.
The light in the store was yellow, unyielding, and the notes in the air made me want to run.
I tried a child’s guitar. A three-quarter sized Yamaha, a half-sized Taylor later. It was nice, but it felt like a cop-out. Too easy. I would learn too soon, and then I would feel handicapped. I’d never be a rock star.
Finally, I grabbed a longish guitar off the wall. It was hanging up high and it was out of my price range, I figured, since the tag was blank. In fact, it was all wrong: The neck was too wide for my fingers, the strings were nylon, tied in complicated knots at the bottom. And then I played. The sound wasn’t gorgeous like the Fender’s, but it was sweeter. And the neck was shorter than the Fender’s: It only seemed long because the body was narrower — a perfect fit for my short elbows.
It was love, at third sight. Almost as cheap as the Fender.
-
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