i smoke. fucking deal

i smoke. fucking deal with it.

"smoking wards off muesli-eating,
yoga-practicing, body-hair wearing,
vegetarian bores. smokers are
inevitably more interesting people
than non-smokers. despite the odds,
it continues to be cool; we know
this because christy turlington, mayor
mike bloomberg and vin diesel's
character in XXX all condemn it."

- william georgiades, in the march/april
blackbook, on quitting quitting smoking.

i smoke, people. i do. sometimes up to a pack a day. i started smoking about two years ago. i smoke kamel red lights. i turn one cigarette around in my pack and that's my lucky cigarette. i pack my smokes - tight. i'm a left handed smoker. i like to smoke in the bathtub, with some sort of cocktail nearby. i smoke when i'm nervous. i smoke when i'm bored. i smoke when i play cards, or watch tv, or chat with my mom, or drive.

i'm a fiend. this has become a part of who i am. yes, it's a nasty habit. yes, non-smokers probably don't like kissing me or borrowing my clothes. yes, sometimes when i get lazy, my apartment smells like smoke [although i do a pretty good job with an army of smelly-plug-in thingys and vaccuuming all the time and washing the ashtrays out every night].

but you know what? i like smoking. when non-smokers find out i smoke, i always get the same probing look, followed by this horrifically leading, pointed question, "don't you want to quit?" as if somehow, it will make them feel better about the world if i nod, allow them to pat me on the back, and say, "yes, yes, i do! i repent!"

but the fact is, i don't want to quit any time soon. there are smokers in my life - great dear friends of mine - with whom it is an absolute treasure to sit down, look at each other, smile, and light up. we're a dying breed, we laugh to each other. i don't question too much why i smoke. what "societal" or "emotional" pressures and influences first led me to light up. what does it matter? i'm addicted now. and i don't bloody mind my addiction.

i'll quit when i damn well feel like it's time. like everything else in my life, i will do as i please. what do i say when people ask me why i smoke?
because it's awesome.

hey, can't argue with that.

nobody expects the spanish

nobody expects the spanish inquisition. except me.

there's a certain question that always strikes fear in my heart. it's innocuous enough for other people. they get together at parties, they're introduced to other people, and the same question invevitably comes up:

"so, where are you from?"

the envy i feel for you people who can simply answer, without missing a beat - people from simple places like indiana or california. at worst, you have to explain, oh, i was born in ___ but i grew up in _____. the questioner will then nod, satisfied, and the conversation will move on. this is normal.

this is usually how it goes for me.

random person [saunters up to me at a party, leans against the wall and sips a beer]: so, le petit hiboux, where are you from?

le petit hiboux [flustered, spills a little wine, then looks around for nearest escape route. at this point, she's got two options. she sizes up the questioner - he/she doesn't look like they really want the whole story, so... ]: oh, rhode island.

rp: really? i'm from boston! where'd you go to school?

ph: well, actually, my parents just moved there two years ago. i didn't go to school there.

rp: oh, right. where'd you live before that.

ph [hoping against hope that this simple lie will hold water]: oh, texas.

rp: really? you don't have an accent.

ph [damn, damn, damn!]: okay, yeah, that's true. we didn't live there long enough, i guess.

rp [no matter how daft they are, at this point they realize i'm being evasive. it starts to get ugly...]: wait, so where did you actually grow up?

ph [slamming down drink, pushing random person up against the wall]: okay, buster. i tried to make this easy for you. you could have just nodded when i said "rhode island". clearly, we've got nothing else to talk about, so you've decided to hold on to this topic like a terrier with a chew toy. you want the real story? huh? you want the truth? you think you can handle it? huh?

rp: *gurgle, gasp*

ph: fine. you ready? my mother? she's the daughter of an irish man and a belgian girl who'd both immigrated to brasil during the great war. her and nine siblings were all raised in brasil, but they weren't brasilian. my father? his parents were greek immigrants to cairo, egypt, where he was born and raised until he was eighteen, then the whole family moved to brasil. he met my mother when they were in their thirties, after the messy dissolution of my mother's first marriage. my father then came to america to get an education and turned into the classic self-made man. he brought my mother and her two sons here to america. they were very poor. then they went overseas to brasil, on the first of many assignments for a big oil company.

so i was concieved in brasil and born in argentina. nine months later, we moved to aruba [4 yrs]. then morocco [1 yr]. then new jersey [2 yrs]. then cote d'ivoire [3 yrs]. then tunisia [1 yr]. then houston [3 yrs]. then kenya [2 yrs]. then houston again [1 yr]. then i went to college in new york and my parents went to the french congo [1 yr] and egypt [2 yrs] then houston again [6 mo.] and rhode island [retired].

okay? okay? smarty pants, how about you tell me where i'm bloody well from? hmm? the international-american daughter of an irish-belgian brasilian and an egyptian-greek? huh?

are you satisfied now?

rp [rubbing his neck and backing away slowly]: sheesh, lady, i was just trying to get laid.

.....

one of these days i'm just going to make a tee shirt with all the possible answers, and wear it to parties. it'll be multiple choice:

1. rhode island.

2. inner mongolia*.

3. america, by way of brasil, ireland, belgium, greece, egypt, and argentina.

4. shut the fuck up and leave me alone unless you have something less asinine to discuss.

how does that sound?

* my father actually tells people "inner mongolia" when they ask. that, or "why, are you writing a book?". once, i told a friend "mongolia", completely kidding, and he believed me for months. sheesh.

the many lives of

the many lives of petit hiboux

things to accomplish in the next six months:

* ween self off thursday night's must-see tv. * go to the opera. * play a sport in central park. * take the lsats. * learn patience. * lots of it. * bake muffins. * paint my dining room. * build a real webpage. * eat more veggies. * all-girl blogger weekend, 2003!

things to accomplish in the next six years

* learn to play jazz piano. * go to eastern europe. * graduate from law school. * grow five inches. * fall in love. * sing in a nightclub. * go to california. * have sex in public. * wear more pink. * own a labrador. * named caspian. * own a hasselblad. * ride more vespas. * rent a beach house. * build wall-to-wall bookshelves. * commence filling them. * have the nyt delivered. * learn to change. * but stay the same.

ed note: more pals have been added to the linky goodness... and descriptions! hover your mouse that-a-way, chums!

fuck all. it's friday.

fuck all.

it's friday. i've got f u c k - a l l to say.

instead, i'll tell you a riddle. [i distinctly remember this one driving seastreet crazy one night - sitting in my car in his driveway.... remember, sea?]

a woman is in her home. it's nighttime. she's reading a book. she starts to get tired, and decides to go to bed. she puts down the book, walks to the door of the room she's in, shuts off the light, goes downstairs, and goes to sleep.

when she wakes up in the morning, she goes to pick up the newspaper outside her door. she reads the headline, goes inside, and commits suicide.

warning: use your brain - don't put the answer in the comment box. and i'm sure the answer is somewhere on the internet ... but if you cheat, you're karmically dooming yourself to a future life as a short-lived cockroach. and you will be crushed by my future-self's manolo blahniks. believe you me.

public: what are we

public: what are we doing tonight, petit hiboux?
petit hiboux: what we do every night, public. getting published in columns and attempting to take over the world ...

a while ago, i wrote this.

after it traipsed around the internet a couple times, a columnist in michigan got a look at it.

the result?

this.

wicked cool.

various and sundries you

various and sundries

you know you're sex-starved when:

you're riding the subway, thinking some very explicit thoughts about recent sexual encounters, and some guy winks at you. probably because you're wearing your irresistibly cute pink wool hat. but you immediately think, he can read my mind! and blush furiously.

you know you're love-starved when:

the sight of a boy picking up his girlfriend, prince charming style, to carry her over a snowbank makes you want to plop down and cry.

and finally, you know you've been spending too much time on the internet when:

you have a dream where you and sarah b. are performing a snazzy jazz dance routine to george michael's faith in an auditorium full of high schoolers.

huzzah!

wherein i ... ...

wherein i ...

... am quite glad i don't own a car.

... topped my own personal record for Best Quiche Ever at brunch this sunday.

... missed the nada surf concert last night due to extreme pissy weather conditions.

... am leaving for brasil in less than three weeks.

... quite tired of being a cog in the corporate machine.

... have had the cockles of my heart appropriate warmed by these two and their valentine's day antics.

... have come to the realization that one particular boy i know makes absolutely no sense at all.

... have also tried to leave a corner of my heart cynicism-and-fear-free for the one boy out there who might actually deserve that space. he knows who he is.

... have decided to grow out my hair.

... have given up sugar.

... have talked to erin every day this week.

... love you all very much but simply too wiped out to say anything else remotely witty.

[update 4.37pm:]... just broke the 10K mark, since november 2002. huzzzah! drinks all around.

happy fucking valentine's day,

happy fucking valentine's day, or "the power of positive thinking".

i'm in a despondentgood mood. i've got my tragichappy face on. today is valentine's day, goddamnit. tonight, after a frustratingproductive day at work where everyone including the janitor got a flower delivery and i almost inhaled paint chips to put myself out of my misery, i will go home and curl up with my televisionboyfriend, and stuff my face with nachos and ice creammake sexy chocolate fondue, then later on my lonesome selfwe will go to sleep wearing my flannel pajamas, crying into my pillowhave crazy animal sex until dawn.

stupid goddamned holiday what a nice day.

mommy, uncle sam is

mommy, uncle sam is rambling about terrorism again ...

listen, i'm a smart cookie, and i'm getting a little confused. does any of this sound contradictory?

the government tells me that bin laden just linked himself to iraq.
but
bin laden has, in the past, flogged saddam hussein and his tyrannical hold on iraq, and called him an "infidel".

the government released this tape, hook line and sinker, to "Fox News", otherwise known as GOPTV. Fox aired every last minute of bin laden's purported audio tape.
but
condi rice, in the past, has been incredibly wary about airing bin laden's "messages" for fear that they will contain coded messages that alert "sleeper cells" to "upcoming activity".

the government tells me that there might be a new "attack", possibly in new york, anything from "chemical" or "biological" warfare deployed during my day tomorrow. the government tells me it might be a good idea to "tape up my windows" or "stock up on a few days' worth of food".
but
tom ridge, our new director of homeland security, tells me to "go about my business".

what am i supposed to take away from this? bin laden believes iraq is evil. now bin laden is giving us motive to fight iraq. we don't support bin laden's terrorist messages, thus we don't broadcast them. that is, unless they further our cause. at which point - here's the tape, go to town. we believe in maintaining a free, open society, and yet every time i turn on the news in new york, i'm getting yet another vague, rambling and entirely unhelpful message from the government i'm supposed to rely upon. they're not helping me, they're just covering their asses.

i'm sick and tired of the new york times. i'm sick and tired of george bush never saying the right thing when his role in this world is so goddamned vital. i'm sick and tired of the israelis and palestinians stuck in a vicious cycle of distrust and destruction. i'm sick of watching the dismantling global coalition, which has held the keys to peace in the past fifty years. i'm sick of france. i'm sick of totalitarian arab states, blessed with resources, and yet not working towards progressive modernity for their people. i'm sick of the world treating the middle east like a giant, illiterate gas station, and then reeling from the repurcussions of ignoring such a volatile, influx area of the world. i'm sick and tired of knowing world war three is coming, and feeling like we're moving ass-backwards when it comes to stopping it. i'm sick and tired of this.

listen, government. there's a war out there. but uncle sam, you're not going to do it by sitting at the head of the table, talking out of both sides of your mouth, slurring your words, and randomly pulling aside family members to share different, vital, yet entirely vague pieces of information. you've got to get your ass in gear.

you've got to start lining up your ducks, uncle sam. you've got to start talking, because when the talking stops, the bombing starts. you've got to talk to moderate leaders in the middle east, people that are tired of seeing their countries torn between religious intolerance and oligarchical tyranny. you've got to work with your allied nations, because you don't want to be the destructors, and taking iraq apart is going to be a piece of cake - but putting it together again so that it gives birth to progression, modernity, and pluralism, and democracy - that's a global task. you've got to stop solely berating arafat and start talking to our friends in israel about what they can do to work towards a two-state solution.

you've got to have vision, uncle sam, unless you really want to start seeing all those "orange" level terrorist attacks you're constantly warning me about. you can stand up right now, and be the best global citizen you can be. you can encourage americans to start conserving energy. you can encourage moderate arab leaders to stop being your secret friend, and tell their people who the real bad guys are. you can stop shaking hands with two-faced moneybags like saudi and start looking and iran, and become a part of the solution there. you need to pay attention, uncle sam.

so throw some cold water on your face, have a cup of coffee, and get to work.

and here's my end of the deal - i'm coming to work tomorrow. in midtown manhattan. without a gas mask. and maybe, just to make you laugh, i'll wear orange.

The Best of Petithiboux

The Best of Petithiboux 1987-1989

check it out, yo. i combed through the archives to find some of the more memorable, witty moments in our time together. they're down there, under the linky goodness.

enjoy. and tell me if there's something i'm missing.

*ed note: too much real world stuff going on for me to really say anything here. suffice it to say, happy happy happy. the people involved know who they are. the rest of you can just guess.*

i think i'm in

i think i'm in love

we met yesterday. it was a shockingly sunny day, and we spent three hours together, riding in the backseat of a honda civic from rhode island to new york. i listened intently to every word. i stared out the window and saw stars. today, i woke up in the first blush of romance. i couldn't stop thinking about yesterday, and those three magical hours together. all day today, my heart races at the thought, my mind tumbles over the words ...

i'm in love with nada surf. specifically, their new album, let go. i've never felt this way about a band before - not this quickly. it's all happening so fast. i mean, we just met yesterday and in a week, i'll be at the concert. and in the meanwhile, i'm running to virgin megastore as fast as my little legs can carry me to buy their CD.

i'm being swept off my feet by melodious, heart-wrenching vocals and an effortless, original sound. and i love it.

it helps that the lead singer is such a doll.

it'll be like a

it'll be like a AA meeting... only with booze.

googling during my morning coffee [doesn't that sound naughty?], i noticed something strange when i googled le petit hiboux. Aside from the usual suspects who've linked to me, made fun of me, or sang my praises .. there seemed to be quite a few of you who didn't.

i'm shading my eyes and peering into cyber space, trying to see your pretty faces. but help me help you. if you take time out of your day to read my piddling words, i'd like to return the favor. leave a comment if you jaunt over here frequently ... tell me your webpage and, just for laughs, tell me something crazy. it'll go something like this:

hi, i'm krissa c., i'm over at petit hiboux and i like to dip pickles in ketchup.

see?

now your turn. let's start talking.

it's five thirty, do

it's five thirty, do you know where your editrix is?

i wish my last name was jones.

then i could be mrs. jones.

and someone could have a thing going on with me.

like father like son,

like father like son, thank god.

frankly, there were a lot of different things i could have written about today. for instance, "the complicated twists of sex and friendship". or, "recent inventions that i've come up with that have probably already been test-piloted at brookstone's". or even, "why PR people are like elmo ... sweet and still vicious."

but no. today i became aware of a certain piece of information that will change my life.

i didn't know it was possible for anyone to be better looking than alain delon in his heyday.

turns out, he has a son.

heavens be praised, there is a god.

Q: how much of

Q: how much of a class act am i?

A: i sent a delicate little thank-you note on creme paper to seastreet's dad for treating me to a lovely dinner at lupa last night. and i wrote the note in fountain pen.

how very chic.