WAXING POETIC-NOT!

"A bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world." - Louis Pasteur

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” –Ann Piccirillo

I was invited by my friend Kathy to dine with Lettie Teague, the former Executive Wine Editor of Food & Wine Magazine; presently the wine guru at the Wall Street Journal. I was thrilled! Not only would I meet an award-winning writer, but I would be dining with people over three-feet tall who wouldn’t ask me to cut their meat. How refreshing to sup with people willing to guide me to drink, rather than drive me to drink.

My love affair with wine began with a bottle of Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine, and a boy named Michael who cut himself on the twist-off cap. I wondered if that story would amuse Lettie; or perhaps she’d be amused to learn that in my family it’s just not a party without a good box of wine on the table. With her pedigreed palate, her love affair with wine is akin to diamond-gifted trysts with a fabulously wealthy man at The Pierre Hotel; my love affair with wine is akin to waking up in a cardboard box next to a wino, whom I possibly dated in high school.

          I forced myself to push aside these oenophile musings to think about more immediate concerns—like looking my best. In this disastrous economy I’ve expertly learned how to cut corners.  I’ve gone from Lancôme to Avon, and, truth be told, my skin has never looked better. Anyway, while in the middle of ordering face cream the other night a screen popped-up screaming, “SKIN SO SOFT FRESH & SMOOTH HAIR REMOVAL MICROWAVE WAX KIT --A BARE NECESSITY!”  I decided to check the customer reviews; they were all five stars. It was on-sale for $10.99; what could I possibly lose except unwanted hair?  

          The box of wax arrived just in time for my dinner with Kathy and Lettie. I mean literally, just in time; it was delivered at 4:30 p.m., and dinner was at 7 p.m. I excitedly tore open the box and got to work. What happened next is best expressed by haiku:

“Wax goes on like fire.

Upper lip is siz-zle-ing.

Eau de burning flesh!”

          I positioned the linen strips atop the wax and ripped it off my upper lip. Screaming in pain, I looked to see if my lip was attached to the strip. However, when I looked into the mirror, NOTHING HAD COME OFF! Not even the wax. I scrubbed my lip with a washcloth, but all that did was turn my second-degree burn into a third-degree burn. Then I remembered I forgot to pull the strips off my eyebrows. Guess what? The wax worked on the eyebrows. The wax not only removed the unwanted eyebrow hair, but it took half of my left eyebrow off while leaving a thick residue of wax behind.

Frantically, I took a cotton ball dipped in oil and began to rub my lip and eyebrows. Disaster! The cotton was sticking to the wax leaving behind festive garlands of stringy white fuzz. I looked like an ancient Hasidic Rastafarian Rabbi. I continued to rub, and rub until I managed to remove most of the cotton fuzz, but there was no way to get rid of the thick mucus mustache I was sporting over my lip and above my eyes.

          Oh, no! Kathy was beeping outside. Quickly, I grabbed scissors from the cabinet and cut my hair to create bangs to camouflage my missing eyebrow. After the first cut I realized I had grabbed toe-nail scissors. I now sported bangs in the shape of Barney Rubble’s big-toe. To draw attention away from the flaws I applied lipstick, but the tube slid across my cheek and did a perfect figure-eight right into my ear. I looked like a Madame Tussaud’s Wax museum reject.  

          I’m happy to say that dinner was amazing, and the wine that Lettie chose for us to drink was spectacular. She even wrote about our dinner for the Wall Street Journal. However, she kindly left out my wax-encrusted upper lip and absent half-eyebrow. I don’t think the Wall Street Journal is ready to wax my kind of poetic…yet.

LOST IN TRANSLATION (AND TOO MUCH WINE)

The other day when I was shopping for wine I came across a crate that advertised “The Best Argentinean Wine You’ll Ever Taste.” I love wine, but I’m particularly fond of Argentinean wine. Bold, red, and audacious—not so much the wine, but my behavior whenever I drink it.

That crate of wine reminded me of a conversation I had with a young girl many years ago, long before I had children of my own. I was at a cocktail party hosted by a dear friend, and after quite a few large goblets of Argentinean wine, found myself conversing with the host’s niece who was about eight-years old and visiting from Israel. I’ll call her Rebecca. I found her fascinating—her father was a scholar on the Torah and her mother was a sexual psychologist. Rebecca was fluent in four languages, and had the most interesting and appealing accent.

Feeling the narcotic effects of the wine, I unexpectedly discovered myself seated beside Rebecca on the oversized Pottery Barn sofa in the far corner of this cavernous pre-war Upper West Side apartment. She told me all about her life as a young expatriate living in Israel; the culture, the people, the food, and the beauty of the land.

          This little girl also told me that her mother was different from all the other mommies because she was very open about talking to her about sex. At 28, I was still waiting for my mother to talk to me about sex, so I sidled up to this little girl thinking she might impart some of her wisdom upon me. As I poured myself another glass of wine she said, “You know, my mommy has a vulva.”

I replied, “Yes, I have one too.”

Rebecca: “Do you like it?”

Me: “I’m fond of it.”

Rebecca: “Have you had any accidents with it?”

Me: “Some close calls, but no, no accidents, thanks be to God!”

Rebecca: “God is good.”

Me: “Yes, he certainly is.”

Rebecca: “And all knowing.”

Me: “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Rebecca: “Did you order any add-ons for your vulva?”

Me: (Looking around at the lesbian couples.) “No, I married my add-on.”

Rebecca: (confused) “Oh.”

Me: “I’m not a…I mean…I married a man…never mind.”

Rebecca: “Mommy said that dummies rode in her vulva.”

Me: “Yes, we’ve all suffered through a few dummies in our vulva.”

Rebecca: “But it’s good they lived.”

Me: “Well…that’s mommy’s opinion. I’m not as passionate about the dummies who rode in mine.”

Rebecca: “Mommy’s vulva is great on mileage. Is yours?”

Me: (taking long gulp of wine) “Honey, I’m Catholic—I’ll never know.”

Rebecca: “Is there such a thing as a Catholic vulva?”

Me: (another swig of wine) “It’s one of our most sacred mysteries.”

Rebecca: “Do you lease or own your vulva?”

Me: “Neither; I’m Catholic—my husband holds the title to it.”

Rebecca: “Oh. Do you have an automatic or a manual?”

Me: “Again, Catholic. We’re not allowed.”

Rebecca: “My mommy’s mechanic takes good care of her vulva. After Daddy dented it she said Judah is the only man she’ll ever let touch it.”

Me: “The mechanic? Really? Most women I know prefer the UPS man.”

Rebecca: “What does a UPS man know about taking care of a vulva?”

Me: (Lifting my glass of wine up as if giving a toast) “Exactly!”

Rebecca: “Mommy never let any animals in her vulva.”

Me: “I wish I was as smart as your Mommy.”

Rebecca: “Are you drunk?”

Me: “I certainly hope so.”

Rebecca: “You shouldn’t use your vulva when you’re drunk.”

Me: “Lessons my mother never taught me.”

Rebecca: “Really, never use your vulva when you’re drunk. You’ll regret it.”

Me: “Ah, you’ll never know the regrets I have…”

Rebecca: “Are we talking about the same thing?”

Me: Silence.

Rebecca: “I’m talking about a Vol-Voh. You know, the car.”

Me: (Big gulp of wine with a trunk-full of embarrassment.)

          

And here’s the lesson: When an eight-year old Israeli girl has to phonetically get your mind out of the confessional gutter, it’s either time to call a cab, become a Presbyterian, or hit a bar and order a Presbyterian.