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mallorys_cameraThe hors d'oeuvres did not turn out well. Italian bread doesn't loan itself to crostinis, the chicken and stuffed mushrooms were greasy. Nonetheless, it was a fun party. I find Deborah, C's Israeli neighbor, the trophy widow of a dour industrialist, vastly entertaining, and incredibly gorgeous too at 65, with her silver bangles and her enormous Sephardic eyes. As far as I can tell she has three hobbies: (1) hypochondria, (2) spending money at Lord & Taylor's, and (3) marching round and round the little suburban enclave, briskly swinging arm weights. First two don't interest me particularly, but maybe I can power walk with her if I can persuade her to go to a park or something. There must be parks in Long Gisland, right?
I danced.
I used to love dancing, and at one time, I was an extraordinarily good dancer.
I don't play an instrument (despite coming from an intensely musical family); I'm athletic, but I've never played team sports on account of if I see a ball flying anywhere near by head, the better part of valor, it seems to me, is to duck. So dancing was really the only time I got to experience what one might call communication without talking. (I suppose one might argue that good sex is communication without talking, except I generally talk a lot during sex.) I mean, just watching the way one's partner's body moves and mirroring those moves, riffing off those moves, channeling Mick Jagger, channeling Gloria Gaynor. I spent a great deal of the 70s in gay nightclubs, dancing my heart out.
Don't have nearly the stamina or the knees to really dance anymore.
Sigh.
###
Deborah was 27 years old, a single mother living in Israel, working in a bank, when the dour industrialist first descended upon her. Deborah's first husband was a Romanian swindler. (Abe was Romanian, so I have experienced firsthand myself how devastatingly attractive those Romanian Jews can be.) One pictures her as a kind of Rose Mortmain, determined to save her eccentric, exotic family from poverty, at any price. One does not know, of course, whether that picture is a truth or a projection…
Anyway, she developed this habit of singing and waving her red shawl about dramatically, no doubt because this is how she first succeeded in charming the dour industrialist. I gotta say, she has a really beautiful singing voice so I find the behavior charming myself, although there is also that sense you get of someone frozen inappropriately in time, a little old lady on the bus whose lipstick is too red and whose spit curls are state-of-the-coiffure 1949.
Anyway…
Adventures planned for this week, so the next three days I've got to gear up into high revenue generation mode. The Venezuelan insurance industry anyone?
I danced.
I used to love dancing, and at one time, I was an extraordinarily good dancer.
I don't play an instrument (despite coming from an intensely musical family); I'm athletic, but I've never played team sports on account of if I see a ball flying anywhere near by head, the better part of valor, it seems to me, is to duck. So dancing was really the only time I got to experience what one might call communication without talking. (I suppose one might argue that good sex is communication without talking, except I generally talk a lot during sex.) I mean, just watching the way one's partner's body moves and mirroring those moves, riffing off those moves, channeling Mick Jagger, channeling Gloria Gaynor. I spent a great deal of the 70s in gay nightclubs, dancing my heart out.
Don't have nearly the stamina or the knees to really dance anymore.
Sigh.
Deborah was 27 years old, a single mother living in Israel, working in a bank, when the dour industrialist first descended upon her. Deborah's first husband was a Romanian swindler. (Abe was Romanian, so I have experienced firsthand myself how devastatingly attractive those Romanian Jews can be.) One pictures her as a kind of Rose Mortmain, determined to save her eccentric, exotic family from poverty, at any price. One does not know, of course, whether that picture is a truth or a projection…
Anyway, she developed this habit of singing and waving her red shawl about dramatically, no doubt because this is how she first succeeded in charming the dour industrialist. I gotta say, she has a really beautiful singing voice so I find the behavior charming myself, although there is also that sense you get of someone frozen inappropriately in time, a little old lady on the bus whose lipstick is too red and whose spit curls are state-of-the-coiffure 1949.
Anyway…
Adventures planned for this week, so the next three days I've got to gear up into high revenue generation mode. The Venezuelan insurance industry anyone?
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