Tales from a Female Tongue

So now I know the first rule of Fight Club.

And only because they said it so many times because I gotta admit, my eyes were closed for a fair amount of such a violent movie.

But at least now I can say I've seen the cult classic (thanks VMFA and your 60 films in 60 days) and have some context for the quotes and references I've been hearing for fifteen years.

My favorite? "I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect."

Every day in every way.

Cultural homework accomplished, check. As a serene counterpoint to the film, I got to see Chihuly's "Red Reeds" coming out of a frozen reflecting pool, a very different yet beautiful look for them.

After watching men beat each other to a bloody pulp, I needed a little something for the soul, finding it at a reading at the Library of Virginia.

Literary types are apparently a cautious bunch since only a dozen people showed up, far fewer than LVA's usual readings attract.

Mingling at the reception beforehand, I struck up a conversation with a woman only to find we had lots to talk about, including her recent trip to Philly to go to the Barnes, a notable post-Impressionist and early modern art collection recently moved into the city to the consternation of many traditionalists, and one currently on my short list of museums to visit.

When she raved about the hotel she'd stayed in there, I wasn't surprised to hear it was a Kimpton Hotel which delighted her no end to find someone else who'd become one of their devotees.

Turns out I go to readings to discuss the merits of certain hotel bars with strangers.

Getting off on travel topics, she regaled me with her multiple trips to Italy, even two weeks alone in Florence last year, bragging a little about a visit to a church open only one hour a week to see its frescoes.

"It's great to share that with somebody who can appreciate it!" she enthused.

We gabbed right up until Renaissance literature scholar Sarah Kennedy was introduced to read from her new historical novel, "The Altarpiece," set in Henry VIII's time.

Unexpectedly, she began by reading from one of her many books of poetry, saying she'd begun as a poet and had thought she'd be a poet forever, not surprising given lines like, "Watching the moon skid through clouds," from "Revelation 1373."

A fine reader (not all poets are, I've found), we heard "The Changeling" about faeries and "The Visions of Marjorie Kemp," about the second woman to write (well, dictate) her autobiography, with the line, "A female tongue is best silent."

Good thing we got beyond that nonsense.

The reading ended with the first chapter of "The Altarpiece," a book about what happened to nuns in convents after Henry broke with the Pope and started the Church of England.

Let's just say if you didn't come from money or have connections, you were set adrift, not an easy place for a woman of the era to find herself, but a ripe starting point for conjecturing what might have happened to one of them.

When our little reading group broke up, it was time for me to eat, so I started up the slippery slope to Church Hill and the Roosevelt.

My barstool was occupied by a guy complaining about gym membership payments being taken out of his account automatically when he hadn't been to the gym in five months (did you read the small print, buddy?), so I ended up on the long side of the bar, a good thing actually, on a night when every crack of the door delivered an icy blast to my tights-clad legs.

Seeking a glass of blood-thickening red wine, the barkeep recommended the easy-drinking Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend with lots of fruit and soft tannins.

It was nice to see Evrim of Sub Rosa come in and sit down for dinner, a welcome reminder that his bakery is finally up and running across the street again.

I'd ordered one of tonight's specials, chicken liver slathered on toasted, thickly-sliced bread with cucumber slices on top, an earthy and welcome start to my evening when suddenly a friend arrived, spotted me and sat down next to me.

Now things were getting good. We hadn't gotten together in ages, so an unexpected meeting felt like a gift to us both.

She ordered a glass of Abbinato and we let go the conversational floodgates with talk of past, present and futures, hers and mine.

Our non-stop chatter was interrupted repeatedly as one friend after another - the poet, the traveling baker, the curator- came in and over to say hello.

During one particularly funny exchange with some of those friends, we were talking about breakups where one or the other of the ex-partners ends up suddenly engaged or married within record time after the relationship ends.

The poet's brother had a phrase for women guilty of dating men purely as marriage potential -"Bitches be shopping!" - that cracked everyone up.

As someone who avoids shopping (except for food) at all costs, the idea of having to shop for a husband is about as appealing as kissing a snake. But props for the clever description, sir.

Seeing an order of white bean hummus with crudites go by, the veggies on it looked so good I immediately ordered one without breaking stride in conversation with my long-lost girlfriend, who didn't seem to mind me crunching carrots and radishes in her face.

Absence makes the heart grow more tolerant perhaps.

During another conversation, a friend shared a killer story, immediately insisting that I not include it in my post.

No need to worry, my friend.

The first rule of "I Can Go On and On" is that I keep the really juicy stuff to myself.

In other words, never be complete.