“可以借用这椅子吗？”一个男子身音问。

“请便。”我做着笔记，头也不抬说。

“你在读什麽？”那人又问。

“书.”我答，依旧埋着头。

那人干脆在我对面椅子坐下。我终于抬起头来，打量着面前的陌生人。 常言道，“太丑的不能去洛城，太笨的请绕道纽约。”在俊男美女渺渺的纽约，这位可以拿个甲。 四十上下，身段高而挺秀，浅色太阳棕，两鬓隐约银丝，简单半新白衬衫黑色牛仔裤穿得服贴潇洒，眼里一点挑衅，一副百无聊奈的模样。

“一个年青女人周日下午在公园里看书作笔记，是为工作，还是为学业？”他好奇。

“都不是，只为我高兴。你很闷吗？我有多一本书，可以借给你看。”我好心肠地说，很想他让我继续看书。

“我的天。你这女人，难道看不出我对你有兴趣吗？”他既尴尬又无奈。

“谢谢。但我已嫁人。就算单身也对花花公子没兴趣。”我不客气地损他。

“凭什麽说我是花花公子？ ”他委屈。

“不凭什麽。我说是就是。”我笑，自觉无理。

“我玩累了。”他终于招认自己是。

我又笑，我知道个中辛苦。夜夜笙歌表面风光，里子空虚。相似的脸庞，耳熟的调情，空洞的话题，再华丽的宴席不过多了黑色鱼子酱，勃鲁克香槟和托地长裙，曲终人散后徒增孤单。

“找个人结婚吧。”我劝他。

“我想呀。但我约会的女人虽美丽却不够聪明。”男人永恒的梦永恒的苦恼。

“美丽的女人不靠聪明生存，所以不聪明。”我很客观地说。

“哪为什麽你既美丽又聪明？”他反驳。

“我既不美丽，也不聪明。我最大的好处不过是有自知之明。”我回道。

“你真有意思。娱乐了我沉闷的下午。”他笑笑，终于站起身。

“彼此彼此。继续努力吧。”我略带讽刺地挥手道别，看着他孤单背影离去。

远处传来Beatles的歌，“All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

枫面容秀美，长长睫毛下褐色大眼睛引人入胜。伊家世显赫，加上自身颇有野心才干，在城里很有点知名度，追求者众多。 年初和一男子已论及婚嫁，却发生了一桩不大不小的事。

某天深夜，枫黑莓电话响起，一看是男友话码，正欲出声问好，却听到电话里有女子声音。女子说，“这麽晚了还让我过来。再说你不是和某某好事将近了吗？” 男友声音接话，振振有词，“没错我很喜欢她，会娶她，但此刻我还是自由身。”原来男友不留神按了电话会议的键，又不小心拨了枫的号码，整个像二十一世纪新版王尔德的情节。

枫当时的心情很难用言语形容，此后该何去何从也是难题。可以选择如甘乃迪夫人，装聋做哑，当一切没发生过。可以大哭大吵大闹，势必让男友道歉改过。

枫想过又想，终于一字不提此事，几天后找了其他理由和男友分手，分手后第二天城里一家知名报纸即登出枫写的文章“给黑莓上锁”。文章说，如果前男友谨慎些，和其他女人通话时，把黑莓锁住，她也就嫁了。科技进步带来更多的困扰。

八岁的蜜娅悄悄对我说，“你带我们逛街买衣服好不好？你的衣服都好美。”妯娌法律行业出身，衣着方面略嫌古板。经不起小人儿的甜言密语，得伊们母亲应允，便答应陪她们挑衣服。

蜜娅喜欢浅紫，妹妹艾莉喜欢橙色，一进童装店便各奔自己的区域，捧着一堆衣服到试衣间，动作麻利地试身。

我看着艾莉橙色短裙配橙色体恤再套橙色小外套，不禁笑了，伸手把伊揽在怀里，狠狠亲一口伊橙扑扑的小脸，说，“好甜的橘子，让我咬一口。”

小人儿听出伯母话里的揶揄，蜜娅也扑上来说要咬一口，艾莉跺跺脚，撅起嘴，对我挥挥小拳头，但也忍不住笑了。

我给艾莉两件上衣，一纯白，一碧蓝，说，“试试用橙色裙子搭配这两件上衣。白色可以平衡橙色的明亮，碧蓝则让橙色艳上加艳。”

我对小儿说话亦如对大人。最看不得大人和小孩对话时用词语气非要降低一级不可，忒地低估小孩聪慧。艾莉听懂了，换上，说都喜欢。又教两人如何从三几行头中配出各种花样。

买完衣服到餐厅午膳，精力过剩的她们还未坐定就已打翻了盐罐子。 我随手抄起桌上两份小餐单，往两人头顶各搁一份，说，“来，比赛平衡能力，看谁顶得最久。”

两人顿时凝住，大气不敢透地端坐着。 我偷笑，趁机点菜，又要了杯 Pinor Noir 解乏. 伺者要求看驾照，找出来，还没递上， 蜜娅和艾莉两人约麽知道大人被查驾照是很丢脸的事，齐刷刷笑出声来，顶着的餐单都掉到地上。

“你们通通输了，我赢了。” 我得意。

“你没赢。” 两人抗议。

“比赛总有人赢，你们都输了，当然我就赢了。” 我坚持。

两人明知道我的逻辑混淆，却不知如何反驳，交头接耳了一阵，指着我,鄙视地说，"Aunt May, you are a baby!”

问她如何辨别两人， 她说有时也认错，一个洗了两回澡，一个脏兮兮了两天。问两人性格相不相似，她说才几个月就很明显了，一个抢东西一次两次三次不得要领便乖乖放弃，另一个轻易不肯罢休，想要的非到手不可，三岁看三十这句古话还是有道理。

逃难般离开她家，到美容院里透透气。

美容师黛西倚熟卖熟地数落我 “死哪儿去了？晒得像非洲人一样。”

“处女群岛七天九十五度的太阳，不黑才怪。你也该晒晒去。”我想拖伊下水。

伊横了我一眼，懒得睬我，自顾查我的帐户，叫了起来，“你帐户付的是周一到周五的时间段。你说不想在周末和别人挤热闹，记得吗？今天是礼拜天，要补差价噢。”

我愣一愣，想起是有这分别，被双胞胎姐妹闹昏了头，记得自家姓什麽就不错了。

我转转眼珠子，双手托着腮帮，靠在柜台上，斯条慢里说，“这是长周末，礼拜五等于礼拜六，礼拜天等于礼拜一。你不觉得下个周末已经快到了吗？”还没说完，头上挨了一榧子。

“还狡辩。我长这麽大还没见过这麽耍赖的人。你小时候一定是个小泼皮。”伊恨恨地说，但终于屈服在我指鹿为马的专制之下，不加钱。

回到家打电话向母亲求证我儿时脾气，母亲说, “泼皮倒还不至于，就是不理人。才五个月，抱到花园里坐下，自顾自玩，大人假装走开也不在乎，很有信心别人会舍不下你回来抱你走。”我大乐–原来自信是先天的，那赖皮的本事呢？是后天跟韦小宝学的吧。

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 behind 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。