December 31, 2002
an exercise in imaginative
an exercise in imaginative futility.
20 useless, impossible, or completely facetious resolutions for 2003:
1. i will lose 15 pounds by adhering strictly to a diet of celery and crab juice.
2. i will collapse from malnutrition.
3. i will then lose 15 pounds on a more sensible plan of diet and exercise.
4. i will write an entire novel from the perspective of a broken 60 watt lightbulb.
5. i will fall in love with the right guy.
6. barring that, i will have flippant casual sex with many anonymous partners.
7. or, i will dabble in the cult of sappho*.
8. i will go to bed early, wake up early, and eat healthy.
9. but secretly, i will go mad.
10. i will apply to law school.
11. i will wear more red lipstick.
12. i will get a pet. i will love it. this will alleviate momentarily the resounding chimes of my biological clock.
13. i will become known as a femme fatale. mainly by killing people.
14. or just batting my eyelashes murderously at them, causing them to drop dead from unknown causes.
15. i will be given a sack of money by a complete stranger one day.
16. i will watch less television. especially friends. friends is evil.
17. i will take better care of my CDs. i.e., not using them as coasters for my beer.
18. i will finishing knitting this goddamned scarf.
19. never mind the casual sex, i will find the right guy if i have to buy him.
20. i will make a comprehensive list of all those little things i always say i'm going to do. like, go to the whitney, or ride the roosevelt island cable car, or explore the north end of central park, or buy dinner for a total stranger, or learn to paint, or organize my bookshelves. and this year will do them. one a week. until i'm done.
what are your useless, impossible, or facetious new years resolutions?
*cult of sappho: lesbians, you ignoramus.
December 30, 2002
and the crushworthy award
and the crushworthy award goes to...
okay, i've decided to turn things up a notch around here. if jason "moustache" royal has a monthly crush, so will i*.
to make up for the past few months where i have suffered my crushes alone, i will reveal not only january's internet crush-of-the-moment, but also november and december crush objects-of-internet-desire.
november: monkey. known to the rest of the world as matt, he's my monkey.
december: the fantastic sarah brown. you know why? because she's sarah brown and you're not.
january 2003: jack saturn. even though he's a complete internet pop star and all the little kiddies are screaming for a piece, something about that whole west-coast-lanky-boy bleeding-heart-romantic thing really revs this engine. plus, the moustache.
*n.b. if you are now, or in the future, ever listed as my internet crush, heed the following: i will not sleep with you, i will not even cyber with you, and i will not have your babies, internet or otherwise. except sarah b. because then we could, like, charge admission to broadcast it on the internet and get filthy, filthy rich. oh yes.
ghosts of innocence past.
rifling through some old hi-8 tapes at the house, i made a little discovery. i found a memory, coded onto shiny film, only two minutes long, but i watched it about seven times. it's dated august 31st, 1996, and it's my sweet sixteen party. nairobi, kenya. the living room is dim, with young kids dancing cheek to cheek. whoever is holding the camcorder (perry? tanja?) sweeps the room and then settles on me, dancing with s, my boyfriend at the time. the song is wet wet wet's 'love is all around'. it was our song, oh yes. it was the mid-nineties, and i was a teenager in love.
s was my first everything, really. he was slender, and handsome in a very italian way. his lilting accent and his loping walk broke my heart. we were crazy about each other, and s was just crazy. we were two beautiful kids who thought we knew what love was. we thought love meant three hour phone calls, ice cream shared at the cafe, lying on grassy fields staring into each other's eyes, being jealous of everyone else's advances. you know what kind of couple we were.
a week after that charming slow dance together, i broke up with him. our breakup was, necessarily, messy. i was angry at all his theatrics, and had feelings for someone else - someone even more emotionally disastrous. i was tired of s's all-encompassing drama. his tears, his tirades, his bi-polar cries for attention. i tried to break up with him face-to-face. it didn't work. his flashing blue eyes went from angry to teary to contemptuous and back again. i relented, kissing those kissable italian lips. then i got home, and called to say i'd been right the first time. there were harsh words, letters sent back, picture frames smashed. different nightclubs became territorial, "his" or "hers". friends caught in the divide were lost, to one side or another. it was all very high school.
but as i watch the grainy video footage of us dancing, i start to cry. how perfectly his arm slipped around my waist - how coordinated were our heights that my cheek rested on his shoulder, how my eyes turned to look into his and smile. how s used to tilt his head to look at me, the mysterious charming madness that was blessing and bane combined. how i loved him!
i hear he lives in dublin. i hear he's as charismatic and impetuous as ever. i hear he hasn't changed one bit. and then i look at my life, and how much i've changed. how innocent was that girl, at her sweet sixteen party. i am no longer innocent, really. i am also no longer naive - there's that pesky trade-off. i don't fall in love at the drop of a hat anymore, although i still want to. i don't trust pretty boys blindly anymore. i don't tell all my little secrets to anyone who asks - they have to earn them.
so i'm tough. so i'm strong. so i'm a little wary. bully for me. but i'll tell you what i'll never be again - that smiling, care-free girl with long curly hair and a button nose, celebrating her sweet sixteen. the prettiest girl in the room, dancing cheek-to-cheek with the prettiest boy.
so much for fairy tales.
December 20, 2002
12 things for christmas.
1. although i'm not big on internet crushes (but i am totally going to be an internet bridesmaid for these two), i will admit that the delectable yet totally spoken-for jack saturn is at the top of my hottt list.
2. the song "i'll be home for christmas" incites in me a pavlovian reaction of wailing tears, thanks to my mother.
3. note to self: the next time that someone's aggressive walking tactics force you into an ankle-deep puddle, call him an insipid moronic dillhole with donkeys for parents. don't just mutter an apology and then smack your own forehead later while wringing out your socks.
4. further note to self: don't wear wool pants in pouring rain. you will smell like wet sheep for the rest of the day.
5. realizing you love someone is the easiest thing in the world. realizing you love someone right before they skip town indefinitely is not.
6. try to prepare your coffee machine at night, before you go to bed. if not, you may find yourself putting the coffee grinds into the machine without the paper filter. this will be disasterous and should be avoided at all costs.
7. this week i decided, after months/years of toying with the idea, that i'm going to law school in september 2004. don't tell me i'm selling out because i will totally cut you.
8. the tickets have been purchased: from march 7-16 2003, while the rest of you are toiling away in pathetic frozen winters, erin and i will be eating fresh coconut on the beach in rio de janeiro, watching gorgeous tanned men in skimpy speedos playing beach volleyball. so, nyah nyah nyah.
9. lord of the rings rocked my face. but feeling my knees weaken every time legolas drew his arrow ... that rocked my face even harder.
10. i've never been a screaming fan of elvis, or his pelvis - but something about the holidays and my wounded heart have made it suddenly acceptable to curl up on the couch and listen to "can't help falling in love" on repeat, and cry.
11. things i want for christmas that i might find underneath the tree: a new pair of suede house moccasins. thomas friedman's new book. zadie smith's new book [shut up fools, i'll judge it for myself]. a medium format TLR [hey, a girl can ask her daddy, right?]. that elusive red-and-white gap scarf that i lost on the train, that is now sold out from every store in north america. money. a bodum tea pot. a new dress.
12. things i want for christmas that will not be under the tree: a dog. to become a morning person. finer cheekbones. 176 on the LSATs. seastreet back in new york. peace in the middle east. a 2nd avenue subway line. to be 5'7" instead of 5'2". owen wilson. to get drunk with sarah b. to either get, or get over, this guy. dinner at babbo, for two. maybe a cat. warm weather.
13 - just to be contrarian: today, after roughly a month of counting, petit hiboux topped 2,000 hits. this may not seem like a lot to you, but i'm pretty tickled. now if i could just figure out who at kentlaw.com visits my site every day ...
merry christmas to all.
December 18, 2002
de profundis my roommate
my roommate genevieve, in an effort to make some more cash, started walking dogs in our neighborhood. she met with mild success - intermittently walking different people's dogs. her one steady client was a gay couple, nicole and cynthia. nicole had back problems and cynthia was asthmatic, but they had three dogs. two small bits of fluff named ginger and pepper, and a hulking labrador named, aptly, cerberus. when i met the lab, i understood his name - he looked like a demonically stupid cross between a dog, a grizzlybear, and the fabled three-headed guard of the underworld for whom he was unfortunately named. genevieve didn't exactly walk the beast, it was more an elaborate operation involving staying on her feet while testily cajoling the dog to remain on the barest civil terms with gravity, lampposts, and animate beings. it was a battle, walking that dog.
nicole had a whinging, grating voice every time she called, and cynthia always sounded like she'd just run a marathon and was worse for the wear. sometime in early fall, the two broke up. for unfathomable reasons, nicole kept cerberus while cynthia took the fluffies. this meant that genevieve was always walking cerberus when nicole simply couldn't get out of bed because of her back. we made casual fun of nicole, and her whining, and her ridiculous dog, and her habit of talking about absolutely anything and everything, to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. genevieve felt sorry for her, i think, but genevieve is a patient soul who likes listening and talking, no matter with whom. i, sadly, am less patient.
nicole would call for genevieve, and when gen was unavailable, would plead with me to walk the beast. i didn't, ever, because it was gen's entanglement and besides, i have a healthy appreciation for the joints in my arms and don't want them violently ripped from their functional sockets. so i always said no, quickly, before my kindness could get the better of me. two weeks ago, nicole's mother died - they had a tumultuous relationship that nicole didn't hesitate to tell genevieve about in painful detail. anyone's mother dying is tragic - announcing it to your dog-walker on her answering machine, every time she called, was a little strange.
last week i walking down my street on heels, with two bags and a bottle of wine in my hands, returning from work. ahead of me i saw a laborious affair - a hefty woman being dragged mercilessly along by a clomping giant dog, muttering angrily at her burden. she was weaving - she almost looked drunk. by the time i came up behind them, i realized too late that it was nicole - and cerberus recognized me. so i said hello, kindly, because i am a kind person, and civil. cerberus nearly knocked me to the pavement with his version of hello. nicole looked winded, beaten, and angry. we stood there for a minute while she complained, and since i was only a block from my house, i offered to take cerberus to my door, to ease the back pains she was heartily complaining of. the force of holding the beast, tottering on heels with three things in my hands, almost dragged me straight into a tree. i "walked" him for half a block or so, trying to stay alive, while nicole launched into wheezily-told tales of her youth as a young punkrock chick in manhattan. at my door, i politely returned the animal to her, patted him on the head affectionately (he is a dog, after all, and only living his life to the standards his instinct provides) and said goodbye to nicole, extricating myself as quickly and civilly as possible. i told genevieve later, and we chuckled over it.
this morning, genevieve told me that nicole died in her sleep a few days ago, from an enlarged heart and bad living habits - too much eating, not enough exercise (even with the burden of cerberus) - she was a medical disaster. i thought about seeing her, and how beaten she looked, and how little i really cared, beyond the realm of nonchalant concern for another human being's life that is present in all decent humans. i felt a twinge in the recesses of my conscience. do i feel guilty because i didn't make an effort to get to know her, even though we had the marginality of life experience in common? can one feel guilty about every departed soul one didn't know well enough? can i honestly feel guilty about quickly rejecting her pleas for help walking cerberus? no - had she not died, i may never have felt pricked by my conscience. but knowing as i did the immediacy of her need, of her physical shortcomings, the extent of her loneliness - would a better person have walked the damn beast anyway?
guilt is never a pretty thing - especially when it seems so peripheral to the trials of your intimate life that take up inordinate amounts of space in the filing cabinets of your mind, soul and conscience. i am more moved and concerned about my father's health, my brother's happiness, my mother's love, than i am about any residual guilt formed by not walking a near stranger's dog, even though she desperately needed the help. i shuffled my obligations to nicole on sound reasons - genevieve walked her dogs, she didn't have to be in possession of such an obstinate burden, blah blah blah.
but the truth is, for today, i will think about nicole. i will apologize to her, for minor travesties i committed, as a fellow human being bred with innate human selfishness. i will not forget the tiny sliver of time she spent as a fringe player in my life. i will wish she'd gotten rid of the damn dog, taken care of her health, hadn't had such a traumatizing last few months of life. i will feel bad for her siblings, losing a sister and a mother in such a tragically short period of time.
i will thumb through my memory and rectify my mental notes on nicole from an irritating bit player with a ridiculous dog to a person who deserved the help she got and found it lacking in me. i will accept this as a fault, and i will try to be more considerate to people, to strangers. because death is the great equalizer - it makes everyone painfully human.
sorry, nicole.
December 16, 2002
when life gets in
when life gets in the way of regular bloggage ...
all you can do is present the most memorable misunderstanding, from the entire wild weekend:
"you want a baby jesus butt plug? ... because they make those, you know." - the fantastic wang.
a cookie if you can guess what was actually said.
December 13, 2002
only in dreams... no,
so, last night i dreamt i was making out with willow, from buffy. not willow the character, but alyson hannigan, the actress.
yeah. it was hottt. i would wait on set for her to finish her scenes and then we'd make out. that was my first lesbian dream. rock on.
December 11, 2002
things i don't want
things i don't want to talk/think/read about:
1. the strike.
2. the weather.
3. what i'm going to do if they strike.
4. what the weather will be like if/when they strike.
5. why they're striking.
6. my life.
7. your life.
8. iraq.
9. dave eggers.
things i want to be doing instead:
1. basking in sunshine.
2. eating cheesecake.
3. having someone cook me dinner.
4. sleeping.
what i'm really thinking right now:
"blah blah blah blah *sniffle* arrgghhhh."
December 09, 2002
you know you're depraved
you know you're depraved when:
you read a newsweek article about teens choosing abstinence, and you see a particularly cute 18-year old "renewed" virgin who lives in canada and you think,
damn, that's too far away for me to change his mind.
it's almost a sprint
it's almost a sprint commercial
mom [telling me what kind of ice cream she wants]: bring me if you can find it, cherry garcia on a stick!
george: you want her to bring you jerry garcia's dick?!
luiz: it's the cellular.
December 07, 2002
the subject just came
i'd like to make something crystal clear. there is a fine point of linguistic distinction that i think many of you are not fully aware of. and since my clarification is so brilliant, ryan c. suggested i tell all you good people. so i will:
there is a subtle, yet vital, difference between the words naked and nekkid. while you may never have realized it, you have been making a grave colloquial error which may have led to some sticky misunderstandings.
let me rescue you from this quagmire of verbal inadequacy:
naked is where you are simply in a state of undress - you have no actual clothes on. i.e.: "i took a shower, i was naked."
whereas: nekkid is being in a state of undress due to some naughtiness, some hanky-panky, some nudge-nudge-wink-wink, some 'hop on the good foot and do that baddd thing, yeah!' nekkid is being naked with the naughty. i.e.: "i took a shower with the whole football team, nekkid."
i know you are all smart enough to pick up the distinction. i hope this has enlightened your day.
this word fact was brought to you by the letter N.
December 06, 2002
the idiot would like
the idiot would like to clarify:
realizing my incredibly shameful and totally unintended sexual innuendo - OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD [blush].
deciding to take it in stride and point my finger and say, "i did not have sexual snowball relations with that man." - priceless.
for those of you smarter than me, i meant engage in snowball fight with, not this completely other snowballing activity. for everyone else, there's mastercard.
to the victor go
to the victor go the chapped hands.
what's the best way to top off a snowy new york city day?
eating fabulous cupcakes at magnolia bakery, and an impromptu snowball fight in an empty park.
for the record, i managed to snowball ryan c. in the face twice, and he's still talking to me. now that's a southern gentleman.
cheers!
December 05, 2002
blanketing the transgressions ...
blanketing the transgressions ...
snow in new york is like no where else in the world. when it's bitterly cold, and you're battling your path against the wind and everyone's face looks harsh and edgy, it's easy to curse winter with all your might, shake your puny fist at the unrepentant heavens ...
but then, in a fit of unpredictable kindness, the skies open and down comes the redeeming fluff of snow. go outside. catch a few in your hand and smile. look around - you'll see everything blanketed with a downy inch of frost. suddenly, new york is transformed. the trashy grey gutters are pillows of snow. abandoned bicycles become frozen sculptures. offensive neon signs are somehow charmingly muted by the little formations of white glitter that diffuse the glow of times square through the cascading flakes.
just stand there. notice that your exhaled cigarette smoke isn't any different than the puffs of breath you make when you breathe. watch the currents of lazy snowflakes descend, whirling and twirling in between the cavernous trenches of manhattan's skyline. watch the people scurry by, more aware of their feet than usual. everyone suddenly becomes less threatening, coated in this sheen of purity. everyone is cleansed, everyone is equal. our sin city has a brief respite from its harshness, its brutal honesty, its blazing signature of glitz and filth. it's forgiveness, this snow.
the snow even mutes the sound, giving cars a cushion to drive by silently. sound becomes deep, muffled through a pillow. you can stand on the street corner, and people can rush by you, trying not to fall. and you can sing to yourself:
i love the winter weather,
because the two of us can get together.
there's nothing sweeter, finer,
when it's nice and warm
i can hold my baby closer to me,
and collect the kisses that are due me,
i love the winter weather,
because i've got your love to keep me warm.
and for a few minutes, standing in the shimmering snow, you think how nice that would be.
or at least, i do.
take that, gods of
i stayed home yesterday, riddled with a stuffy nose and a volatile stomach. i slept until 1 [okay, 1:30]. i watched a movie in the middle of the day. i baked a spice cake, and then i frosted it. all of this made me feel a lot better.
but that's not the most exciting news in my life right now. since erin and i decided to go on holiday together in march, a few months ago, we've been bouncing around the contingent united states trying to decide where to spend our precious days of freedom. san francisco? between the hotels, the expensive food and transport, and fending off neo-hippies, we'd spend about 700 dollars each. florida? during spring break? hell no. we settled on the remote dream of someplace warm, inexpensive, where we wouldn't have to stay in a hotel, where we'd be a five-minute walk from the beach, and where we could drink coconut juice outta the coconut with fun-loving people in an atmosphere of paradise.
but where? where was this place?
and then it hit me, and i realized what genius must feel like.
brasil. land of my mother tongue, land of my crazy serpentine engulfing family, land of dear friends with flats on copacabana beach, land of two dollar steak sandwiches at cervantes, land of caipirinhas and feijoada, land of black-and-white sidewalks and all-night dance clubs .... brasil.
so here's the new plan: forget san francisco. in march, you will find erin and i spending our holiday in an apartment in bustling copacabana - we'll wake up in the mornings, drink coffee on the balcony, head down to the beach. lunch will be little sandwiches and pasteis from the beach hut. we'll smoke cigarettes and wear little bikinis and watch the gorgeous brasilian men play beach volleyball. in the afternoon, we'll stroll the streets, looking for trinkets or trouble, whichever comes first. nights will be spent in cozy little bars, or strolling on the beach, or wandering through the evening fairs, or hitting it up at the clubs. rinse, repeat.
*sigh* it's like i'm going home.
December 03, 2002
alert: the brass monkey
alert: the brass monkey balls have frozen right off.
do you know where that expression comes from? my father told me this, because he read it on the internet. he told me that back in The Day [you know. a long time ago. don't bug me.], ships used to have cannons on them, with cannonballs stacked next to the cannon for speedy demolition of neighboring war ships and/or small vessels with hungry orphans, whatever it was the british armada was attacking that day. so, the most efficient way to stack the cannonballs was in a pyramidal formation, with a triangular base of grooves to hold the bottom-most tier of cannonballs, on which the others were stacked.
with me so far?
well, the most effective material to build these cannonballs was brass, so the supports that held the cannonballs were called brass monkeys. and brass is an element that shrinks in incredibly cold weather, so when the temperature would drop below freezing, the cannonballs would contract, and the pyramid they were stacked into usually fell down because the balls had slipped out of formation.
they called this kind of weather 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.'
and none of this is true. at all. according to these people, this lovely little tale [pun intended] is pure spun fiction.
now, it has come to pass that my father has told me an un-truth. what this means is: you are all not real. the world has become an antithesis, a figment of some sick imagination. the universe as i know it has ceased to exist. you are all simply little bits of space-dust with expressive faces and internet access.
do you see why the brass monkey story has to be true? forget the internet .... my father is never wrong.
in related news: in new york city, it is, in fact, cold enough to freeze brass monkey balls off, literally or figuratively. that means it's below zero.
and please don't go telling me how you survived for five years living in minsk wearing nothing but a polar bear-skin loincloth, and that i should count myself lucky. at last count, i was wearing four layers of wool and three pairs of socks. i'm crabby, cold, and i can't have a cigarette because parts of my hand would break off if i exposed them to the elements. i don't care how cold it is where you are - screw you, people in alaska, norway, and the baltic states.
December 02, 2002
you think it's like
you think it's like this but really it's like this.
waking up this morning was especially hard. it took me a minute to comprehend my surroundings - by process of elimination. no, this room does not have the piney smell of my bedroom in providence. it smells instead like incense and cigarettes. no, this bed is not surrounded by copacetic beige walls and a few childhood paintings. instead, the bed is tucked into the corner of a low-slung, cluttered room, underneath a window streaming with murky diffused winter sunlight.
i struggled free of bedsheets only to curl up in the dining room, wrapped in a blanket to preserve my body heat against the stiffening cold. i stared at my cigarette until i had grown an inch-thick head of ash. i gulped down my coffee and told the little girl in my head to shut up because we were going to work whether she liked it or not. padding to the bathroom, she launched her unreasonable campaign:
upon successfully arriving at my subway stop without throwing a temper tantrum or turning around, i treated myself to a large tea and madeleine cookies at starbucks. i smiled at being the first one to arrive at our office, despite the earlier desperate pleas from my inner child to invent catastrophe rather than go to work.
so, i am here. it's finally lunch time. i've opened mail, chatted about thanksgiving, made phone calls, finished time sheets, signed for packages - all without kicking and screaming and pleading to be let go. it doesn't matter that by three o'clock, i love my job. it doesn't matter that when i get home from work, i feel the satisfaction of deserving my relaxation, of having Accomplished Something today. it is only the mornings that i fight the selfish little child inside who only wants to stay in bed, eat cookies, and be pampered.
paying your bills may be adult. living alone may be mature. saving money may be responsible. but this: getting up in the morning and doing it whether you want to or not - this, finally, is what it must mean to be a grownup.