ON THE LAST DAY OF MAY, my younger son was flipping through the movie section of the newspaper when he looked up with sad eyes. "All month, we had good movies--'Iron Man,' 'Speed Racer,' 'Prince Caspian,' 'Indiana Jones'--but then ... this," he intoned, unable to bring himself to utter the words "Sex and the City." "What happened?"

 Indeed, across America, countless guys felt that the manly month of May, when the biggest explosion-laden blockbusters are unveiled at the multiplex, was being tainted by the long lines of ladies attending the film version of the 1998-2004 HBO sitcom. "Sex and the City" updates us on the coven of skanky spinsters who long ago moved to Manhattan to fine “label and love” (there apparently being no stores or men in Minnesota, or wherever). 

 Inside the theater, the palpable affection toward the characters was reminiscent of a 1980s “Star Trek” movie, whose fans couldn’t wait to hear Scotty exclaim one more time, “She cannae take any more!” Granted, the movie version of “sex and the City” isn’t as witty as “Star Trek IV.” It’s also grindingly long at 148 minutes – the DVD ought to include a “Couples’ cut” with an hour edited out and aa few dozen more jokes tossed in. Still, it’s certainly no worse than the “Matrix” sequels and “Star Wars” prequels that males turned out to see by the tens of millions.

 The stars aren’t getting any younger, so site in the back row. Hollywood has generations of experience lighting actresses of a certain age, though, the three supporting women look passable, even Cynthia Nixon (who plays the prickly red-headed Miranda), whom I pointed out to my wife in 1998 was an obvious lesbian. (It took Nixon until 2003 to figure it out for herself.)

 In contrast, “Sex and the City’s” leading lady, prpoted fashion icon Sarah Jessica Parker, who portrays columnist Carrie Bradshaw, looks like a bulimic bodybuilder. Evidently fearing maronly upper arms, the 43-year-old with zero percent body fact appears to have spent the last four years bench pressing and not eating, giving the grotesquely defined arm musculature of Rambo after the Bataan Death March. Her hore chin and witch nose have become even more prominent, making me wonder whether, like Sylvester Stallone, who was recently arrested smuggling Human Growth Hormone into Australia, she’s on some muscle-building medicine with head-enlarging side effects.

 In the climactic scene in which bow-legged Carrie reunited with her true love, the financier Mr. Big (played by an embalmed-looking Chris Noth from “Law & Order”), Parker’s cheesy fur coat and stick insect legs jutting out of her tiny skirt make her resemble a streetwalking crack addict. The sequence is a masterpiece of the memento mori genre, a terrifying depiction of the skull beneath the skin. Unfortunately, it’s supposed to be a romantic comedy.

 As hideous as Parker looks, the “Sex and the City” movie is actually less repugnant than the TV series. Each of the four women is monogamous throughout the year covered in the film. That’s typical for rom-com movies these days, which are about living happily ever after. In contrast, the TV show just went on and on for six years, with the body counts (and, presumably, STD’s) piling up.

 The 1998 TV series was to Helen Fielding’s 1996 novel Bridget Jones’s Diary as Dick Wolf’s 1990 TV show Law & Order was to Tom Wolfe’s 1987 novel Bonfire of the Vanities. Wolf made a fortune by taking Wolfe’s sardonic story of New York cops and prosecutors hunting for “the Great White Defendant” and stripping out all the satire. Similarly, the gay male writers Sex and the City started with Fielding’s spoof of “urban families” of stylish singer women who undermine each other’s chances of landing a husband by constantly gathering over drinks to nitpick their boyfriends, and turned these mutually destructive circles into a fantasy about friendship. 

 It was never actually about female solidarity but about female competition for alpha males like Mr. Big. Nevertheless, women hate to be seen as competitive, so “Sex and the City” displayed the nice side of cliquishness, minus the nasty side: these social X-rays wouldn’t be seen dead in the company of 99 percent of their fans.

 The trick was to make women viewers feel less awful about the big mistakes they’ve made in their lives by making their bad decisions feel fashionable. Misery loves company.

Year 1895, in Spain, Basque Region, Guetaria – a small fishing village, Cristabol Balenciaga was born. His father, a sea captain, died when Balenciaga was very young. He spent many hours of his childhood aside his mother while she was making dresses to support the family.

 In his teens, he was formally trained as a tailor in Madrid and traveled to Paris to learn the designs of Doucet, Worth among others. At the age of sixteen, he set up his first couture workshop in San Sebastian, where he adapted the Parisian Style for Spanish women. In 1914, he opened boutique Elsa in San Sebastian and later branched in Madrid, Barcelona. Most of his clients were Spanish royal families and aristocrats.

Fame in Paris

Praised as revolutionary and innovative by the French press, Balenciaga was forward thinking but always able to draw upon and interpret historical styles. His first runway show in Paris in 1937 was heavily influenced by the Spanish Renaissance. Another example was his “infanta” gown, which was inspired by Diego Velazquez’s portraits of 17^th century Spanish court costume yet anticipated Christian Dior's celebrated post-war "New Look." Goya’s art as well as flamenco dress were also his muse.

A new silhouette for women

Balenciaga reached full scale of inventiveness after World War II. His design became linear and streamlined. He played with the waistlines by raising it, dropping it, quite independent of the natural waistline. In 1957 came the Baby Doll look. He applied this name to a group of short flounced lace dresses. The loose lace overdress showed a more adult slinky crepe-de-chine fitted sheath underneath. In 1958 he re-introduced chemise which would be the sleeveless sheath of the 1960s. Balenciaga made the most important contribution to the world of fashion: a new silhouette for women. 

Other contributions of Balenciaga were tunic and empire waist dress. The discreet yet important touches in his design were his trademark: collars that stood away from the collarbone to give a swanlike appearance ad the shorten bracelet sleeves to better show off the jewelry.

End of legacy, enduring style

Despite his continuous success, the house of Balenciaga was severely challenged in the 1960s, as fashionable young people bought ready-to-wear clothing instead of couture. Symbolically, Balenciaga closed down his fashion house in 1968, a year of violent political protests in Paris. 

 BALENCIAGA himself sums it as the following: a Couturier must be an architect for design, a sculptor for shape, a painter for color, a musician for harmony, and a philosopher for temperance. 

晶在上海着实逍遥了十来天，据说长了不少见识，回来便急急汇报了新学的中文词汇。

“知道谁是白骨精吗？”伊问，很自得的样子。

“妖怪。不是聊斋，就是西游记，再不然就是封神榜，不会是镜花缘吧？”我把凡是跟神怪有点牵连的小说都报上。 小学五年级看的一堆书，谁记得清楚谁是谁。红楼梦除外，因看了无数遍。

“都错。白骨精者，白领骨干精英也。”伊摇头晃脑地纠正我。

旧典故，新定义，有点意思。

“哎，那你们通通是白骨精。” 我掩嘴而笑，“除了我，金盆洗手久矣。”

“怎麽跟她们比？一个个都是人精。不要命似的加班熬夜。”伊摆摆手，指的是母国的青年才俊们。

有友回归，常赶通宵，每天兜着黑眼圈，回到蜗居只会嚷累，除倒头而睡外别无他愿。看着只觉可怜可惜。可怜徒然白了少年头，可惜无限芳华弹指老。

八九十年代女强人一词害惨许多女人。为了这虚名，女人们赔了家庭和自己，成为大机构的摇钱树。这世纪的女人学乖了，懂得悠着点过，不过一份工作尔，何必搏命？中国发展稍慢一步，白骨精一词恐怕又拖不少女人下水。

“有公司游说我主持上海分公司呢。或许该试试第二次心跳的感觉”晶接着说。果然不出我所料，聪明如她也被上海的万花筒绮惑。　

 “有这份心思，不会找个美男子试试第二次心跳。何必为个把职位，十几二十万年薪为难自己？你想证明什麽？”我给她老大的白眼。我是贾宝玉的脾气，喜聚不喜散，身边朋友结婚了，生子了，回国了，外调了，都伤神。有才华在哪里不能出头，一窝蜂涌回去没意思。早几年抢得到先机又做别论。

 “那要怎样？都学你，无事忙一个。”她还瞪我一眼。

“不好学呢。不然你试试。”我扮个鬼脸。

这一代人被训练得像机器般，不上班似丢了魂似的，完全失去存在价值。一女友步我后尘，辞了职，不到半年喊受不了，心不甘情不愿地上班去了。

“是不好学。我还做白骨精算了。”晶悻悻然。

Therefore, on a hot sunny day of May, I was lured by the nature into helping mom in her garden. Delighted at my enthusiasm, she gave a piece of three feet by three feet land, handed me a bottle of flower food and about twenty little plants of three varieties. 

“Design it anyway you like. It is your garden.” She said, encouraging and inspiring.

I stared at the land, the plants and contemplated on what to do with them. After a while, I decided to draw a diamond shape on the land and picturing which plants went where based on the color and the height. After all was thought out, I took a first dig on the ground but stopped immediately.

“How deep should I dig the holer?” I asked mom who was working on the tomato section not far from me.

“oh, about eight inches.” She replied casually, without looking up.

I continued digging until I reached eight inches under the groud. I sprinkled some flower food and placed one of the plants in the hole. I gazed at the plant and was deeply troubled.

“What is the matter?” Mom asked, sensing that something went wrong.

“Well, a hole of eight inches deep will burry the plant entirely.” I frowned.

She laughed when looking at the pathetic plant sitting unhappily in the hole.

“Sorry, I thought you were asking how far apart from each other the plants need to be. The hole should be just deep enough to cover the roots of the plant.” She said.

Realized how silly I was, I laughed too, corrected the error and a moment later, there  was  my  first  flower.

“Hey you, you are the first flower I ever planted. I hope you grow healthy and bloom beautifully.” I murmured to the flower.

“I am sure that would help the growing.” Mom heard my baby talking to the plant and couldn’t help making fun of me.

That night at dinner, mom reported proudly to everyone about my little garden.

“Should we put a sign with your name on it?” Dad teased me with a serious tone.

I thought for a second, smiled for a second, then put on a grave face and said,

“No. But I will consider putting up a sign of ‘no trespassing’.”

Everyone laughed at my childish idea. Dad, especially, was attracting attention from the whole dinning room.

“Poor city girl! So proud to own a piece of land.” He responded.

The truth is I don’t want to own anything at all if possible. Ownership of any sort translates into responsibility, commitment and opportunity cost. It seems to me that many people buy acres of land just to be able to put a sign of “no trespassing” to gain a sense of authority.

After two glasses of Dolcetto, in the Blue Ribbon wine bar, with my eyes half closed, in a mellow voice, my thought sank deep into the velvet seat of Jazz.

“Unbelievable! An immigrant of this country, you cultivated yourself in literature, wine and music more than any American women I have ever known.”

Tom, a decedent of British settlers of seventeenth century, obviously ignoring the fact that he is also an immigrant of this country, stared at me without concealing his admiration. I smiled, shyly, for getting carried away in the stream of consciousness and for showing off my limited knowledge of the music.

Before the conversation switched to music, we were exchanging bits and parts of wines we know and love. Working in the wine import and distribution business, Tom was totally thrown off when I meretriciously identified the five kinds of grapes in a Bordeaux blend, including the less known Cabernet Franc.

“Wait until we get into baseball and football, you will probably be in tears.” I thought to myself and was quite amused by the idea. I decided that the culture shock was too overwhelming for him in one day and should leave baseball jargons such as "screeze suicide" for the next round.

As different types of grapes require different types of terroir, various types of personalities find their matches in various cultures. For my free spirit and craving of individuality, I embrace this country.  It has its flaws and downturns, but nevertheless a lovely land for anyone who tries to make the best of it.

约了母亲饮茶，走出门口，一阵热浪卷来，才想起今天气温超九十度，昨晚锦衣夜行还披着小外套，现在看着满街短裤小背心觉得突兀，远处传来冰琪淋车的音乐，夏天到了，阳光，沙滩，海浪，绿草坪，棒球赛，户外摇摆舞。。。我找不出不快乐的理由。

母亲一贯地唠叨，看不过眼我的掉儿郎当，见面不到三秒钟家训连连，“嫁人也没个嫁人的样子，有事没事绕着地球跑，小心哪天被休了！”对着老妈痛心疾首的模样，口里唯唯喏喏，保证痛改前非，心里想着北极的光圈，南极的企鹅。阴逢阳违的本事早十年八载前练就。

究竟嫁人后该什麽样子，母亲也说不出个所以然来，反正不是我这般嬉皮笑脸，随心所欲的样子。 想做饭时先到上一杯红酒，放上一段爵士乐， 边踩拍子边喝酒边切菜，象画画般配好颜色，轻描淡写地端出头台再捧上主菜。 看别人战战兢兢地维持一段婚姻，再看自身扮家家的游戏态度，也觉好笑。但或许太严肃太认真的人反而对婚姻容易失望，因期望太多，付出太大。 到不如大而化之，轻松自在。 

推点心车的阿姨们每周末见的，很熟，都过来打招呼，对母亲也热情，一个个对伊说，“好福气，女儿漂亮，又能干，又孝顺。” 母亲来不及地谦逊，来不及地数落我的劣迹，我顾着吃，也不管伊说些什麽，时不时点头赞同，阿姨们看着我笑，道我好脾气。

早几年还计较别人的看法，如今是懒得理论。在别人眼里好也罢，不好也罢，于我何忧哉？母亲一生精明能干，聪慧利落，自然不喜我的闲散疏懒，然而也逐渐明白人各有志，不愿在大机构里勾心斗角的女儿自有一番洒脱优然，也就做罢，只是常心有不甘地说可惜。

我看着母亲鬓边的银丝，心戚戚然。 儿时身子瀛弱，母亲三天两日带着我求医，又寻遍偏方，挖空心思调理，不是不辛苦。少年时期的叛逆则让母亲措手不及，记得十一二岁时愤怒地跟伊理论，“你把我带到这世上，可有征求过我的意见？假如有选择，我不要当你女儿。”受旧式女子无才便是德教育的母亲震惊心酸的神情，想起歉疚，后来母亲再唠叨也忍耐十分。

在这突然而至的夏日里，我在母亲的衣袂间捕捉到一丝清凉。

And, there she was, as if summoned by my memory of past, hugging me, smiling at me, telling me that my black dress was too sexy and that she was being shown short as always. I hugged her, smiled at her, told her that her heart print silk tunic dress is very in and that she should stop bitching about everything.

In our twenties, we were both ambitious, aggressive and bitchy like any other corporate rats. Now, with the rough edge fine tuned, we ease into a controlled and relaxed mode.

We both laughed at the reminiscence of our first encounter. At a company cocktail party, in the middle of a conversation, some girl charged straight at me from the other end of the room. Before I could extend her the routine courtesy of a handshake and offer my name, she went on and on,

“I know you. You are the one who passed the exam in one shot. That is amazing! I have never met anyone who did that. I saw you in school before and always think of you as a bimbo, that you only care about your look…”

I almost choked by the Cosmopolitan I was sipping when I heard the word “bimbo” was used to describe me in the year when most perceived me as an overachiever - being at the top of the class, running a business, leading an honor society, dating the hottest man in school, passing one of the hardest exam that many fail many times, dining and wining with recruiters of top firms, getting competing job offers. But there and then, a stranger made a judgment on me and decided to call me a bimbo. It was too ironic that I couldn’t even take offense. I glanced at her and sensed that I was dealing with some different species, possibly more alien than Martians. I decided to play cool and responded causally, “Maybe I am a bimbo but just got lucky. Life isn’t fair after all.”

Strange as it sounded, we became good friends after that. She was an only child, very spoiled and self centered, but her longing for friendship made her cave in to my strict demand of punctuality and endure my from time to time sarcasm while I was often amused by her outspokenness and intrigued by her simplicity. 

“I guess you are not a bimbo after all” She vindicated her judgment, after our trip on the time machine to visit the past. 

“I am greatly obliged, your honor.” I said with a mocking solemnity.

Maybe the world would be a better place and we would all be happier if we stop making judgment on each other. Rather, we should think of ourselves as a new soul at the start of everyday, fresh and curious, never take anything for granted and never stop learning.

宽乍正好，但嫌稍长，拿到相熟干洗店里修改。 店主是一对老夫妇，香港人，大概在我出生前就已来了纽约，靠一片小店谋生，现今儿女各自成家立业，两老早可退休却依然守着，想也是些许寄托吧。

女主人正在对着送来干洗的一件婚纱皱眉头，见我进门，忙不及招我过去看，说，“信不信有这麽难看的婚纱？腰上居然系黑色瑚蝶结。”我看着也较怪诞，然人各有好，不便作评，笑笑不语。

“你的婚纱是我见过最靓。旗袍亦是。我一直以为你是搞设计的。还有呀，你是婚纱干洗装盒后拿走的最快的。你知不知道有些人一放一年，打极电话都不拿。。。” 老人家把每回见到我必说的话又重复一遍。

常半玩笑说是看到婚纱后才下定决心结婚的，订婚钻戒不作数。当时新娘杂志上泛滥着裸肩露臂的直筒或A字型现代简约主义婚纱，总不合意。寻觅多时后对一款古色古香的宫廷式设计倾心，奶油白，船型领口开至肩部，蕾丝袖子由乍而宽成菏叶状，束腰蓬裙，把人带回到几个世纪前的奢靡。 站在中央公园古老餐厅里的水晶吊灯下，波斯湾红地毯上，接受着每一位客人的赞美和祝福，我知道我的婚纱是完美的。Flo 在婚礼很久后还念念不忘，“整个婚礼中，我老想着一部电影 - 茜茜公主。”

自干洗店里回来，收到敏的婚贴，酒红色烫金的请贴沉甸甸的，连邮票都是专门定做，梅花设计并印有两家姓氏，不由叫好。 虽说婚礼只是形式，丰俭由人，隆重的婚礼不保证两人白头偕老，旅行结婚牵手一生的大有人在，还是喜欢计划周全，面面俱到的礼节。 最理想的是交往一年，太短嫌草率，太长则梦多，然后定婚，一年后举行婚礼。一年时间筹划婚礼，考验两人的能力，耐性，磨练相互间的妥协和包容。如果准新郎没被诸多鸡毛蒜皮的细节烦死，或准新娘没在受不了压力后三番五次除下订婚戒，两人才有望在婚礼当天接受亲友们的祝福，然后继续受炼。

除了组织捐款和请愿红十字会外，我不知道我还能做什麽. 逝者已矣，生者不过尽人事而已。我是这麽地渴望阳光，风雨后的阳光。 阳光下的悲剧显得温柔些，阳光下的我会笑得灿烂些。我想念处女群岛如绸的白沙，彩色的鱼群， 想念地中海无声的柔情，不渝的浪漫。

去年到云南某小城时，已是六月底，一下火车，便见路边卖杨梅的三几摊子，一颗颗硕大熟透红得发黑，未入口已知其酸甜美味。捧着一别十五年的果子，欣喜恐要比重逢经年未见的初恋情人多些。一路吃一路走到旅馆，才觉得有些怪，六月底怎麽会有杨梅，不会是想得太多后的幻觉吧。再想想可能是云南气候自成一格，水果成熟季节也不同于江南闽南岭南等地，益发珍惜这段机缘。

晶打算五月中回中国，坐在一家古巴小饭馆里，伊牢骚不少。两个月前才经受种种烦琐手续入了美籍拿了护照，如今办中国签证又连连受气。只给一次往返一月期限，还要做背景调查，还要中国亲友的邀请信做担保，费用吓人。

“背景调查？” 我不解，智利的红酒显然无助于分析复杂的政治问题。

“怕我们是藏独分子呢。”伊无奈。

我一口酒哽在喉里，半晌无言，胸口隐隐作疼。美籍华人时不时被扣上中国间谍的罪名，还可以喊喊冤，官司一路打到高级法院出一口闷气，讨一声公道。被母国怀疑是藏独分子的委屈如何从何说起？

一个政权如果治国有方，用人得法，理财有道，何至于千千万万子民飘洋过海，唯异国鼻息是仰？ 我们既来之，则安之，抛却对故土的牵挂， 割断对亲情的不舍，把在陌生的国度默默飘泊着挣扎着的孤独和痛楚埋葬在时间的残酷里。很多人在很久前便可以入籍却宁愿拿着绿卡跑遍纽约欧洲各国领事馆办签证，只为一份对生我养我的国度的依恋。入美国籍是一个无奈的抉择，但我们明白多年后发展中白热化的中国已变得很陌生，人人向钱看的价值观更是不敢不愿苟同，于是退而求其次，决定归附养我教我的国家。又如果中美外交如欧美关系，持双重护照不应是件难事，又何必闹得鸡犬不宁？

“这回可以吃到杨梅了。季节刚好。一起去吧？”晶见我低头落落寡欢，逗我开怀。

我抬起头，窗外一片漆黑，远处却似有一片晴空，一树繁盛茂密的杨梅随风摇曳，童年玩伴们三三两两， 有的跳绳，有的绣花，有的读书，然而人堆里找不到自己。

我再低下头，转动着酒杯，看着紫红色液体缓缓摆动，良久，再抬起头，笑笑说，

“明年吧。等风平浪静时，我们去摘杨梅。”