Dizzy With Jazz

Having lived in NYC my whole life, I’m amazed when I’m asked to do something that doesn’t solicit an automatic “Been there, done that” response from my lips. This holds especially true being the other half of a city-dwelling couple. So on Monday night when J. suggested hitting up some jazz at Lincoln Center, I didn’t shrug him off. I’ve never been particularly fond of jazz, to me it’s music reminiscent of a time past, way past…a score playing in a movie…or an elevator.

But Dizzy’s  Club Coca-Cola (nice naming rights, Coke!) is intimate, with a stunning view that looks out on to Columbus Circle and Central Park. As I had predicted, J. and I were the youngest in the room, and I caught more than a few pairs of eyes dart our way, wondering if we had stumbled by accident into this venue, thinking some world-class DJ was spinning. Instead, just a few feet away, the saxophones, trombones and trumpets came to life. And damn, does that sax bring sexy back!  When the notes of the musical instruments collided, it was pure magic. I recommend to all — even my hardcore, hip hop loving friends. And if you can, pull out the student ID, there’s no shame in taking advantage of a discount. Mo’ money for some cocktails!

Next Up: An opera where we don’t understand a word except “Ti Amo”.

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Real Intimacy is Wearing Face Masks Together

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Before J. and I lived together and he used to crash at my studio, I would fall asleep with full makeup on. I might’ve even retouched my lipstick before prancing into bed. I never really slept for fear of a migrant snore. Did I snore? Who knows? But I wasn’t taking any chances. As he stirred next to me, I’d arrange my hair on the pillow so I looked like a princess when he awoke.

Fast forward to 18 months of cohabitation and I’m super-shiny when I come to bed now. Super-shiny as in slathered in an array of oils to moisturize, preserve and rejuvenate me during a night’s slumber. At first, I would wait until he fell asleep and tiptoe to the bathroom and smear some of the greasy stuff on to my face. Now he knows — if I ain’t shiny at 11pm, I may still be going out.  To make myself less self-conscious, I’ve begun to slather his face, too. Straight men never moisturize as much as they should!

On special nights, we’ll both expertly apply SK-II whitening/oxygenating face masks and breathe like Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th while the miracle cream, Pitera, soaks in. While this may not sound super-sexy, neither are wrinkles or dry, flaky skin.

My mother taught me well, she has the skin of an 18-year-old. When I was a little girl, she used to tuck me in, and I’d be engulfed in waves of her perfume. Leaning over  in her nightie, she’d whisper in my ear, “Always go to bed smelling sweet.” So I continue her tradition and always dab some perfume or J.’s cologne on my neck before crawling under the sheets. I may be shiny, but I smell good — and you’ll never catch me in sweatpants or flannel granny PJs! Shiny is the new sexy.