the friday five we've

the friday five

we've got wanderlust today, kittens, and we've got it bad! so:

*****

all time top five weekend escapes!

bar harbor, maine! october - the cliffs of mountain desert island, the birch forest in acadia national park. the seaside restaurants, hearing the lobster boats go out at dawn, sundowners at sunset.

savannah, georgia! late spring - walks in the town squares, cicadas singing at night, piano bars, old cemeteries, southern hospitality. they call her hard hearted hannah, the vamp of savannah!

ocracoke island, outer banks, north carolina! late summer - windswept beaches, lobster shacks, fishing boats, beachfront cottage, no phones, no computers, just you and the wind and the beach.

mad river glen, vermont! winter - all fresh snow, skiing weekend, warm fireplaces, hot toddies, the glint of sun on snow, the feeling of swishing down a slope, the ancient silence of the mountains.

my parents' house, providence, rhode island! anytime - warm home-cooked meals, cozying up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea, morning sunlight streaming in through bedroom windows, the creaks of a ninety year old house, walks down hope street, night drives through downtown, walt's famous roast beef sandwiches, and warmth, warmth, warmth!

where do you want to go?

*****

all time top five road trip songs!

johnny cash, sunday morning coming down - for those stunningly bright road-trip mornings and waking up slowly while setting yourself to the pace of the highway and sipping that first cup of convenience store coffee.

janis joplin, me and bobby mcgee - for that moment where the sun breaks through clouds for the first time in hours, and the speed limit inches up to 65, and you just zip down the highway, hand out the window, singing along at the top of your lungs.

paul simon, me and julio, down by the schoolyard - for crossing the george washington bridge on a late afternoon in spring, for looking out over gleaming concrete and glass, perched on the gleaming slow hudson, and thinking, yeah! i'm home!

billy joel, we didn't start the fire - for those late nights when all you need is a million funny cultural references to sing aloud, laugh along to, and keep you awake.

tina turner, proud mary - for any time you need a jolt!

what are your favorite road trip songs?

****

but alas, since i won't be going to the beach this weekend, and my roadtrip buddy isn't here, i'm quite excited about trekking down to brooklyn tomorrow, to celebrate birthdays and summer with ful, shivery, jason, and a charming group of friends. ice cream, beer, and barbeque... here i come!

dear weathermen everywhere: this

dear weathermen everywhere:

and so i say, fellow peons, pay no attention to the man behind the little storm clouds!

i'm so sorry i didn't mean it please make it stop raining please please please! *sob*

that's some set of

that's some set of pipes she's got ....

tonight is exciting. tonight, the unstoppable shiverydelicious is playing tonight at 9pm at the orange bear (47 murray st. between w. broadway and church).

the fabulous shiv will be singing all my favorite songs, like 'right mistake' and 'reclamation' and 'mark on my finger' and she will generally amaze the audience with her catchy tunes and well-crafted smart lyrics and pretty, pretty voice.

and i'll be there, with my flouncy 50's housewife skirt and my slinky black heels*. and my delightful pal stephanie will be there, with our friend joe in tow, just like old times. and fulminous will be there, we hope, delightful and charming even when sick.

so you should come too! and bring your friends. and cheer very loudly for all shiv's songs.

*and i was informed today that "when you put on something slinky, you can charm the white out of glue", so be careful. i'm so charming i'm dangerous to harmless school supply products.

a horse, a horse,

a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a ... wait, i ain't got no kingdom!

sea and i were chatting, as usual, and we started daydreaming about lottery winnings, and all the silly things we'd do with the money. and i mentioned that i'd go to montana and spend a few months around horses. and sea, one of the people who knows me best in the world, said, 'huh, never figured you for the horsey type.'

i rode for six years. when we lived in africa, i was at the stables at least 3 times a week, for years. my mother first put me on a horse when i was three. she hoisted me up onto a regal arabian and i sat there with her, studiously holding the reins and grinning. i was hooked. from 5 or 6 until i was thirteen, i was always taking lessons, promenading through the neighboring plantations, scrubbing down the horses, and attaching myself to different mares. i was never much of a jumper - i still balk at the thought of driving a horse to a fence and giving him no option but to jump. i believe in the bond between human and rider, and i think there's only so far it should be tested. jumping for sport has always seemed to be overstepping the bounds of a horse's loyalties and training.

i was instead, quite good at dressage, which essentially is training with the horse to be able to coordinate its movements down to the very slightest command - it used to be use to better equip riders in battle, but now is mainly an aesthetic training of guidance and subtlety. it's quite beautiful, and for a ten year old, i was quite good at it.

i gave up when i got to houston because i'd become accustomed to feisty, regal arabians in africa, and the horses in houston were obedient nags that didn't spark my creative excitement at all. so i gave up.

talking to seastreet about it, explaining how much i'd loved it - makes me miss riding. it happens a couple times a year or so. i get this impetuous urge to be on horseback again, to see a field of grass stretching out before me. and lean forward. the minute i lift my seat up, when the horse feels that forward pitch, the horse's muscles send ripples through me, because he knows what's coming. and with a well trained horse, that's all i have to do to break into a gallop. from the awkward, controlled gait of a trot, into the full blown forward hurtle of a canter... there's nothing like it in the entire world. suddenly the ground just droppps away and there's only one thing in the universe - the back of that horse. and the more i lean forward, the more i urge him onwards.

so don't be surprised if i'm gone for a few days. it means i flew to montana, rented a car, drove as far out into the wildnerness as i could still find farms, and drove up to one of these farms. i said to the guy, here's 200 bucks. can i borrow a horse for the day? and then i saddled up the horse, swung on, yelled 'hi-yahh!', clicked my tongue, dug in my heels, and cantered off into an endless field of green and sky. and i laughed, really loud, into the wind.

some people think this

some people think this blog is a narcissistic vanity mirror attended to by simpering dittohead sycophants. to those people i say, ppppffhhhhh.

when i was fourteen i broke my pelvis. no, i didn't break it having sex. i was fourteen, you sick fuck, get your mind out of the gutter.

being the spoiled little princess i was, my mom used to throw parties at our house in houston for all my friends. so we were at my valentine's day party. i was wearing a pretty pink skirt and espadrille sandals. my friends were all there - except erin. i don't think erin liked me very much at the time. so there we were, all dancing and having a good time, listening to the counting crows or something very similar, perhaps gin blossoms, and i since i was getting revved to join the drill team*, some friends and i were practicing our moves. by practicing moves i mean, dancing around like barbie-doll idiot-heads.

i decided to show off my jump splits. i decided to do this in socks. on a hardwood floor. without warming up. so there. i did them. i did my jump splits.

and when i landed, i couldn't get up. when i finally was hoisted out of this incredibly ignoble position and laid out on the couch, i realized i couldn't really walk, either. the back of my left leg, the front leg, was in ripping, searing pain. so i walked up and down the room a couple times, leaning on friends, being very dramatic indeed. i was, in my defense, in quite a lot of pain. i couldn't put any weight on my left leg at all. my mother was clucking and frantic, wanting to take me to the hospital. feeling like i'd made pretty much enough of a fool of myself over a pulled hamstring, i refused, and spent the rest of the night on the couch, attending to by the reigning brainless simpering boyfriend du jour, whoever he was.

two months later, i persisted in refusing any kind of medical evaluation, even though i was still somewhat limping. i was convinced it was a pulled hamstring. my friends started calling me a drama queen, which, while usually pretty accurate, didn't apply in this case. i was still limping because it still hurt to stretch my leg at all.

so finally my mother dragged me to the doctor. they did an x-ray. and this is how the conversation went:

doctor: you have a fractured pelvis.
mother: i knew it!
me: a what?
doctor: your pelvis. when you fell, the part of your pelvis that the hamstring is attached to, well, you pulled that muscle so hard you fractured the pelvis bone. there's a fissure split there, where a 2 inch piece dislodged.
me: a what?
mother: i knew it!
doctor: well, it healed back.
me: see? no harm, no foul.
doctor: but it healed back wrong.
mother: i knew it!
doctor: it's just - it's just not exactly in the right place. your hamstring is slightly twisted as a result.
mother: i knew it!
me: so what?
doctor: *shrugs* so nothing. nothing you can do now.
mother: i knew it!

that's how i fractured my pelvis. what's your most embarassing injury?

* i was on drill team. more on this later. there will be pictures, however. generally, the uniforms looked like this. seriously, folks. i'm laying it all out on the table here. the white lycra outfits, the stupid tiny skirts, the sequins, the red lipstick, the bouncing ponytail, the conformism, the fascist drill director, the shrieking hysterical girls ... i'm not saying i liked it all that much, but i was on drill team.

iwenttotexasthisweekendanditwentsomethinglikethisandisaid .. wheeeeee! basically,

iwenttotexasthisweekendanditwentsomethinglikethisandisaid .. wheeeeee!

basically, the entire weekend can be summed up by this:

squirrel goes weeee!

other highlights included:

* a giant rainstorm on saturday night with streaky lightning and crackling thunder.
* the rain storm starting the exact minute we closed our car doors after leaving the club.
* mexican food.
* my brother.
* erin.
* raychul.
* raychul's matt.
* hearing more adventures of chuckles, raychul's wayward yet charming little brother.
* my brother's apartment and his cats and his generosity and his all-around best-brother-ness.
* meeting the talented and funny jon floyd.
* staying up until 8 am watching the rain storm ebb and the sun rise with jon floyd.
* the Great Quiche-Off.
* J-Master E in the hizzouse.
* lounging around the pool.
* everything, everything, everything.

in summary?
i-went-to-dallas-and-saw-some-pretty-freaking-amazing-people-and-there-was-a-rainstorm-
but-we-were-all-cool-and-we-smoked-and-drank-and-ate-and-laughed-and-also-there-was-quiche-and-
it-totally-made-me-go... WHEEEEEE!

dall ... ass! i'm

dall ... ass!

i'm off to dallas for the weekend, kiddies, to see my dearest best gal pal and my dearest brother figure.

it doesn't get any better than that, peeps. for reals, yo.

i've got my mouth

i've got my mouth full of cookie-dough, but here's a distraction

i'm having a hard time thinking of things to say to you guys. if i had it in me, i would tell you to pull up a chair, offer you a cup of tea, and tell you all about what's going on lately. but right now i'm too wrapped up in the living of my life, in the biting-off-more-than-i-can-chew parts, so any explanation of what's been occupying my brain, well, i'd have to stop chewing, wouldn't i? i could clear my throat and tell you how terrified i am of the lsats, how i'm afraid i won't get into nyu law and i'll have to kiss these beloved streets - faces - moments - life goodbye, and go somewhere else. how very much the idea of not being in new york for the next four years, with the people i crave sharing life with, how very much this idea makes me weep.

i could tell you about my heart, and how it feels ready to burst with happiness these days, pushing my typical doubts and fears into a neglected corner. i could tell you how amazing it feels to have blood rushing through that organ again, to finally trust it to do its job right. i could talk about love, and how it means that someone is in your brain as well as your heart, and how effing cool that is. i could tell you that for the first time in my whole, carefully planned life, i really don't give a shit if i'm right or wrong, but only that i totally love the ride.

i could talk about my family, and tell you how i worry about my father, i worry about his will to hold on, i worry about how he's lonely, i worry about how my mother is tired, i worry about my brother letting life pass him by sometimes.

i could talk about my job, and how stifling it feels, and the weight my feet suddenly gain when they trudge closer and closer to this office. about how every morning i have to remind myself it's just another year, c'mon, krissa, you can do this. i could complain to you that this isn't what i was meant to do, that i know in my bursting soul that i'm capable of so much more.

i truly love you guys. but i don't want to pour my heart out like this. so instead, i'm going to tell you to do something. go to shiverydelicious, and listen to those two songs. not just because they're beautiful. but also because it's nice to hear someone put it into words. so that i don't have to explain it.

puttin' on the glitz!

puttin' on the glitz!

this little owl doesn't like winter. notatall. but tra la! what does she see around the corner? spring and summer's joyous siren songs, calling her out of her little nest and giving her cause to shake out her tailfeathers and pop around the corner for some fun!

this weekend, for instance, was the colorful spring cleaning, aided by the faithful lioncub fulminous, where the walls were painted bright cheery colors. this chirpy marigold for the dining room, lovely minty pistachio green for the hallways, and calming new england ocean blue for the bedroom.

le petit hiboux's spring/summer.03 must-have collection!

*skirts, skirts, skirts! flouncy flowered in bold colors for cocktail parties, dainty black slim for work, lacy white cotton for brunches, and flowing linen for tromping around the park.
*big glammy sunglasses, and spoiled-rotten clutch purses, tucked under the arm just so for graceful hailing-of-cabs.
*pink, pink, pink! lipstick, flower-pins, ribbons, shoes!
*daddy's little girl gold earrings.
*forget the belts! tie a colorful sash around your waist, swivel your hips comme ca.. tres boheme, n'est ce pas?
*lavender sparkly eye shadow ... smudge a little into the corner of your eye, highlighting your usual browns or charcoals, and the come-hither look just got a little saucier!
*did i mention pink?
*dainty little shoes ... baby-heels, open-toed sling backs, beachy slides.
*all things striped and polka dotted ... so very retro-chic, doll!
*bobs! tousled and curly, a la parisien, or sleek and femme fatale, a la cabaret dancer, or flippy and flounced, a la sunshine california girl.
*short nails, in light pinks. squeaky-clean, no fuss, and how well they look with your tans!
*thin gold chains with eye-catching little charms.
*your absolute brightest smile.

but le petit hiboux's favorite spring/summer.03 must-have? well, brooklyn's two finest, most devilishiously, rakishly handsome lads ... one on each arm!

so now you're armed and ready. so bring it, summer!

cacklephony i think i

cacklephony

i think i was privy to some pretty important goings-on last night. as i lay in bed, trying to go to sleep, the details of a heated meeting reached my ears through my breezy open window. birds. birds were talking. perhaps they were plotting the downfall of the odious new york pigeon contingency, a rebel army of rag-tag bird relatives shunned by respectable bird communities everywhere. perhaps it was a meeting of the city's bird environmentalists, expressing concern on subjects as varied as appropriate waste-disposal facilities and tree-branch conservation projects. or maybe it was the Queens Bird City Council. perhaps, it was a local PTA meeting, where the bird-teachers reminded area parents of the importance of nest safety and at-home enforcement of their flying classes. whatever it was, it was loud.

and as i listened in, a silent observer in a meeting of seemingly tantamount importance and endless discussion, i started to notice some patterns. perhaps the bird-members sat in a circle, and the order of discussion was clockwise in nature. perhaps there was an esoteric seniority system - older birds took the 'floor', followed by their younger, sprightlier counterparts. perhaps bird-society is heavily male-chauvinistic, and women-birds haven't earned the right to vote or engage in community discussions. or perhaps, bird-communities even follow Robert's Rules of Parliamentary Procedure. isn't that a nice thought? i wonder what they use for a gavel. maybe a twig?

i started to identify some of the different heated voices. there was the grumpy octegenarian - hoooot hooooot caw caw, he mumbled in response to his birdfellows. there was the shrill, adrianna-huffington woman, you know the one, who always elaborates on her points as if the enemy was breaking down the back door tree. she was always interjecting too, with no respect for order - keeeee kee kee kee! keeeeee kee kee kee!. she was probably an incredibly over-protective mother and always shrill with her husband. i discerned the moderate, calm academic type, who probably wore spectacle-markings around his eyes, and expressed discomfort by becoming incredibly flustered - cawwwwww cawwwwwwww *cough* cawwwwww. him and the shrill mother rarely saw beak to beak.

and in every community gathering, there's always the loonybird. you know the type, incredibly chattery, always standing up and ruffling her feathers and talking a mile a minute about frivolous nonsense while her birdfellows roll their beady eyes at each other and cluck their beaks. there she went last night - meep meep meep peeeeeeeep! meep meep! - and i could almost hear the mocking silence from the bird-gatherings. you could tell some of them used her chatterboxing to mentally take stock of their pantries and plan their hunting routes for the following morning. who was the somber, lawyer-type that managed to silence the rowdy feathered crowds with his long trilling words, and what was he expounding on? did he command such respect in the bird-community, or did they simply not understand all the college-educated words he'd learned when perched at the most prestigious branch in the country - Harvard?

what were they discussing, i wondered, with such heated passions? was it a secret society to promote the annihilation of the pigeon community, a sort of aviary ethnic cleansing? perhaps. so late at night, for birds to be convening and discussing, let me to believe there was ill-intent afoot. and seriously. what did they use as a gavel?

but alas. my illtrained ears were useless at fully understanding the purpose of such a strange and varied gathering. i contented myself with silently mocking the chatterbox and wondering if the birds knew i'd been eavesdropping. and should i warn the pigeons?

CUE: breathe sigh of

CUE: breathe sigh of relief as sidestep fallen tree. or
Lesson #241 from The Bowels of Corporate America

situation: promotional page goes horribly horribly wrong for some unexplained reason, three days after deadline. possible weird esoteric photographers' rights infringement, screw-up on production department side, or similar. details not important. reader will note sole fact of import is Magazine Page SNAFU [Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.]

person[s] possibly at fault: Editors A, B, D, or E. Production Persons A, C, or E [alphabetic assignations by level of command/importance/salary.]

person[s] not remotely at fault: Editor F. that's the heroine of our story. me.

Editor F's reaction on assessing the above facts as a whole: phheewwwwww.

conclusion to be derived from above lesson: the corporate world sucks out your soul with a bendy straw and then burps it up later.

back when it was

back when it was just a twinkle in a genius mind ...

in my post on friday, i mentioned one of my favorite phrases: you're going to be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. and mark noted in the comments that it reminded him of a radiohead lyric - "when i am king, you will be first against the wall." and as much as i love radiohead, i don't think they coined the phrase.

so in my usual curious way, i started wondering who did. and from all my five minutes of google-searching and phrase-origin-searching, i came up with this:

**
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy defines the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as "a bunch of mindless jerks who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes," with a footnote to the effect that the editors would welcome applications from anyone interested in taking over the post of robotics correspondent.

Curiously enough, an edition of the Encyclopedia Galactica that had the good fortune to fall through a time warp from a thousand years in the future defined the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as "a bunch of mindless jerks who were the first against the wall when the revolution came."
**

as usual, douglas adams wins again. and so, to celebrate, i will now quote my top three favorite lines from the HGG:

3. "so, we're all mad then."
"yes."
"nice day for it!" said a passing lunatic.

2. "you may sing to my cat if you like."

1. "there's an infinite number of monkeys outside, and they wanted to chat about a bit of hamlet they've worked out."

we love you, douglas adams.

gracious thank yous all

gracious thank yous

all hail jason for his gorgeous expertise with the new banner. a designer and a gentleman, methinks. baked goods will be made in humble offering. think this is gorgeous? check out shiverydelicious for more eye candy.

my blood boils i'm

my blood boils

i'm a really tolerant person. really. but there are certain things that make my skin crawl and my blood boil and make me ashamed to call myself human. like people who think homosexuality is a flaw and can be trained away. preferably through christianity. and people who think homosexuality is a one-way ticket to hell. and people who think homosexuality is a vast, evil conspiracy and they are the last bastions of morality. and worst of all, worst of all - congressional laws that set us back 20 years in the civil rights battle for sexual freedom.

i'm going to be a lawyer one day, you bigots. and no, i can't do anything about your beliefs. and no, i can't eradicate you from the face of the planet. nor should i. but i'm going to spend my life making damn sure that the only thing you're entitled to is your opinion. which are like assholes. everyone has one.

to wit: you're going to be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. and i'll be there to tell you how much society will continue to put up with asshole bigots like you. because you're allowed to be a bigot, you self-righteous morons, but you're not allowed to tell me or anyone else how to be a good person. and then i'll shake your hand and tell you to have a nice day. because that's the kind of tolerant revolutionary i am.

there are places i

there are places i remember ...

reading aj's catalogue of houston homesickness made me remember all the places i've lived, and how many cherished little tidbits they hold. since i'm rather bored, tired, and have nothing going on in my life that's worth writing about right now [if you couldn't tell from the two or three days worth of garbage i've posted], i'll do this for you. perhaps you've lived in some of these places, and these memories will trigger your own. or perhaps you've never been to some of them, and it'll inspire you. perhaps you'll just indulge me because you know i have a million-watt smile and/or you've slept with me in the past. at this point, i really don't care. here you go, folks. a trip down my incredibly well-preserved memory lane.

abidjan, cote d'ivoire, 1986-1989:

the brown-tiled swimming pool in our backyard.
the smell of citronella plants.
clay dirt between my toes.
marchee de cocody - the local sell-all market where surprisingly accurate cartier-knockoffs could be purchased.
girl scouts, with my mum as troop leader.
the stale smell of african money.
the angry winds and tides at grand bassam beach.
running screaming out of the water because we thought we saw the head of the father who'd drowned there three years back, saving his son.
the clatter of tiles under little kids' feet, at the brand-new international school.

being bullied for the first time in my life, by the american ambassador's daughter, pinky, who was a mixed-raced adoptee from south africa. my mother telling me to be compassionate to her, because her life was hard and would only get harder. understanding, then, what compassion meant, and always thinking of pinky when i find myself faced with people that are perpetually angry at their lot in life.

houston, texas, 1991-1994:

spring forest middle school - those blue doors.
memorial drive.
napoli's pizza.
the feeling of setting my foot on stage for the first time in my life.
the crunch of acorns under my bike wheels in fall.
learning what it means to be considered unpopular (seventh grade).
learning how to become popular (eighth grade).
learning how little it really matters what other people think (twelfth grade).

subdivisions.
tennis courts.
the bayou.
lupe's tortilla.
wide open freeways.
memorial city mall.
first kisses.
fighting with my mother.
saved by the bell.
spanish moss in the trees.
toobing in new braunfels.
jazz dance class.
hoop earrings.
meeting erin.

going to church.
being boy crazy.
liking country music.
feeling like an american teen for the first time in my life.

kenya, 1994-1997:

red dirt.
blue skies.
coffee fields.
warmth.
remembering what it meant to be the kid i'd been raised to be, shedding the trappings of american teendom.
kenyans.
the pizza at the downtown hilton.
the cars zipping around donkey carts on waiyaki way.
the prostitutes on moi avenue.
going clubbing.

the flagstones leading to the chem lab.
making out in the student center.
the lockers - red letters on gray metal.
the samosas at the cafeteria.
5 shilling deposits on your coke bottles.
"jobless" meaning "lame".
"getting off" meaning "making out".

village market on the weekends.
siegfried and his white button-downs and his piercing stare.
gelatos at 'arrleccinos.
tiramisu at cafe latino.
saturdays at marnix's - the smell of his bed, learning how to shoot, eating his mother's pasta.
seigfried's house - the tinge of mothballs, the dark paneled rooms, making out in his sister's guest house.

trips to the coast.
villas on the beach.
rooms open to the ocean.
pineapple juice in the mornings and mangoes for lunch.
walking kirby [then, only six weeks old and the bounciest jack russell ever] down the beach, watching him chase crabs.
wearing the same ratty budweiser tee-shirt and the same red-and-white kikoi for 2 weeks straight.
watching the sun rise at 5 am with a 102 degree fever.
beach bonfires with friends.

sarah lawrence, 1998-2004:

beth. always, always beth. first roomie, last friend standing, beth.
hubba hubba chili dogs, port chester, ny.
slave to the grind coffee shop - specifically, their hot chocolate.
womrath book store - and cwl.
the musty smell of the phoenix offices.
late nights at the phoenix offices.
autumn foliage for the first time.
wool sweaters.
pea coats.
hiking boots.
feeling invisible.
hating the faerie queene.
stone buildings.
fucked-up friends.
tuckahoe.
weekend trips to vermont.
sicilian pizza.
sitting on the roof.
meeting cwl.
heart break.
egypt on christmas breaks.
late nights.
messy kitchens.
snow.
down comforters.
insecurities.
disaster.
drama.
small moments of crazy joy.
going to the beach in new rochelle at six am.
late night drives to macdonald's and raceway diner.
rhonda the honda.
starting smoking.
driving up the taconic at breakneck speeds.
drinking.
photography.
new york city.
finally being happy, senior year.

this has been a long memory yearbook, i know. perhaps i didn't write it down for you, my readers, at all. perhaps i wrote it down so that i would remember, because time is passing so very quickly these days, and all the places i've been and all the people i've loved and all the moments i've owned - i want them to last in my memory. i want to file them in the right place, i want to earmark them for future reference. they are my nostalgia, they are how i fill in the private story of my life. not the one that goes, "and then i moved here and here and here", but the one that goes, "and that house smelled like jasmines in the afternoons, and there's the fence that the dog got stuck, and this city always shimmered in summer, and this room is inextricable from the smell of this boy".

when i return to these places, and take curves down the same roads, and walk on the same flagstones, i want those memories to come flooding back to me. nostalgia and the five senses blend together to create a powerful moment - i never want to lose those. i always want to stop in the middle of the street because a smell has wafted that jerks open the file cabinets of memory and pages come flying out, reminding me of x, when living in y, and feeling z.

after all, what else was my childhood for if not to create such a catalogue of moments?

quem sabe, sabe, conheçe

quem sabe, sabe, conheçe bem,
como e gostoso, gostar d'alguem!

my little heart is all a-flutter.

tra la la!

you only *think* i'm

you only *think* i'm glamorous.

i wake up around 7:45 every morning. usually, this means i actually get up at eight. if i've slept au naturel, i usually grab something off the floor, throw it on, and pad out to the kitchen. i make my tea and toast [prince of wales black tea, one equal, one icecube. whole wheat toast, buttered and jellied]. i take my tea and toast to the living room and watch katie couric bounce around on the today show. i smoke my first cigarette[s] of the day. with about ten minutes before i have to leave for work, i go back into my room and get dressed. usually, some sort of pants/shirt/low heels combination. this takes roughly seven minutes, and i spend about five more minutes in the bathroom, putting on contacts, messing with my hair, and staring into the mirror, thinking, go. go to work now.

then i make sure the necessary objects are in the appropriate purse, and i leave. i smoke one more cigarette on the way to the subway, a five minute walk. then i read my book on the train. i prefer the yellow-seated trains because they have those front-facing seats right next to the window - i'm quite partial to those. it takes about 25 minutes to reach my stop - the 49th street NW station. as i come out of the subway car, i do a time-check on my cell phone. it's usually about 9:22 at this point. i walk up to the street, and light another cigarette. i stroll the two blocks to my building. sometimes i stop and get an apple turnover from the street pastry vendor.

i walk into my building, smiling at the security guard, and i get in the appropriate elevator. i try not to stare at my elevator-mates, because, as seastreet said, elevators are all about the fucking. i exit at my floor, say as cheery a hello as manageable to our receptionist, and walk the 200 paces to my little office.

then my day happens. i work. i push papers around. i talk to my friends online. i eat lunch. i take one smoke break. i chat with my bosses. i try not to look at the clock. sometimes, i leave at 5. sometimes, 5:30. sometimes, 6. then, i walk back to the subway, smoking a cigarette. i go home the same way i came, only more tired. the last half-a-block to my house, i stare at the pavement and avoid the cracks, giving myself something to occupy myself for those last few paces.

when i come up the stairs to my apartment, i'm usually so happy to see my living room that i'd hug it if that was possible. if the roommate is home, i say hello, but there's no one there who's thrilled to see me. so i go into my room, stare out the window for a minute, and change out of work clothes into comfy clothes. then i have my welcome-home cigarette, and think about things like: dinner, television, what the sun looks like setting over queens, whether or not the orange in the fruit basket has taken a wrong turn to funky-town ...

my day is so boring, i can't actually be arsed to write it all down for you.

in joyous news, our prodigal darling is returning home to many open arms and cheery hugs and fabulous summer fun. a collective sigh of happiness has been breathed. now i'll have someone to go through the freakish hell of NYU graduate school applications with ... as well as many other adventures.

this is how to

this is how to settle things.

petithiboux: face it. prince wills is mine.
petithiboux: you can have harry.
fulminous: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
fulminous: That's HORRIBLE to even SAY!!!
petithiboux: NO. i simply will never concede that you get wills.
petithiboux: ever.
petithiboux: you can have every other sexy, rakishly charming, boyish devil of a british man alive.
petithiboux: you can have ewan, and rupert, and orlando, and... and ... whoever else you want.
petithiboux: but give me wills.
fulminous: I get all of them.
petithiboux: you selfish greedy bastard.
fulminous: Yes!
fulminous: Muahhahahahah!
petithiboux: wills is MINE.
fulminous: Here's what we do.
fulminous: When he gets here,
fulminous: you stand on one end of the street, I stand on the other. We both call to him, and see who he goes to.
fulminous: And no sneaky-sneaky, going and hiding a steak in your pocket or something.
petithiboux: .... fair enough.

i crush you with

i crush you with my internet-love and then let you up for air.

as much as i loathe to let this charming british lad go, it's round about that time of month again - the pH internet crush declaration. be assured that once a crush, always a crush. unless you let your blog get fat and lazy and you stop bringing me flowers. then you're screwed.

here's where i wax poetic, since this month's internet crush is a boy, and pH is nothing if not boy crazy. what does a girl seek in an internet crush? well, what she seeks in a normal boy, of course, except less with the sex. funny! charming! smart! a gentleman and a scholar!

there are some necessary distinctions, of course, between crush and internet crush. in real life, the right crush knows when you're dressed up enough to open the door to the restaurant for you, but also knows when to let you use power tools without getting patronizing. he knows how to answer the phone when your mother calls. he doesn't leave your bathroom messy. and so on and so forth.

the internet crush reels you in with subtly different tactics. he leaves exactly the correct comments on the exact right amount of posts. not too much, as to resemble crazy internet-stalker, horny fifty year old weirdo, or similar. the internet crush is witty, but is profound and respectful when you post on a serious matter. he appreciates the good naughty post without leading the comment board someplace creepy and perverse. perhaps he emails you, in that quiet aside kind of way, to tell you he likes your blog. perhaps he doesn't, and thus remains more mysterious. the internet crush's own blog has to be fascinating, of course, because we're not complete meglomaniacs just seeking effusive flattery. he should write wittily but honestly about his own life. also, the internet crush can not be a fourteen year old boy in tuscaloosa. sorry.

without further pompous ramblings, i present a gentleman that, in the short while i've internet-known him, has convinced me of possessing all the traits of the honorable line of internet-crushes that go before him. he may not be the most well-known bryan adams out there, but he's certainly become my favorite of the two. he's wicked smaht, in that i-play-with-robotics-for-a-living-but-can-still-joke-about-it way. he makes me laugh out loud, like matt and greg aplenty. and he plays golf! which, as we know, is a secret fantasy of mine.

in short, the better of two bryan adams, i've got a crush, my baby, on youuuu.

and no, you can't

and no, you can't join me

three facts need to be examined:

1. i'm still at work, and probably will be for another 30 minutes.
2. this week woke up on monday and decided to kill me. i survived.
3. tonight's my first night alone in the apartment.

as a result of these three things, this is the plan for tonight:

go home. strip. run bathtub bath. select calming music [perhaps dave brubeck album, perhaps mingus, perhaps bossanova]. pop open bottle of bubbly chilled prosecco. pour in glass. walk to bathroom. turn off lights. light one candle. add girly bath ingredients to piping hot water. slide in. take sip of bubbly drink. slide in further. take one long deep breath. light cigarette. take deep drag. sip bubbly.

reeellaaaaaaax.

baby did a bad,

baby did a bad, bad thing.

i'm a good person. seriously. just sometimes, my competitive edge overwhelms me.

it was some winter evening, probably a weeknight, back at sarah lawrence, senior year. seastreet and i had settled in my living room for a round of scrabble. we were in the middle of a grueling 4,000 point tournament. he'd been holding the lead by about fifty points, for weeks now. i was doing everything i could to stay on his tail.

now, my venerable partner had this intensely obnoxious habit of spending about twenty minutes each turn. he'd stare - brow furrowed - at the board. i'd wander off, listen to music, attempt conversation, drink myself stupid. and then he'd smile that grin and put down a fifty-point whopper of a word and blazzzam!, there'd go my shot at winning.

so one night, i had a motley assortment of interesting letters .... B, M, E, H, C, A, and a J. there was this .. this ... sweet little piece of board at the bottom right hand corner. you know the one. with the triple word score. so i was itchin' for it, kids. i was gunning for that spot. i needed it. i would have traded my firstborn child for a shot to cream sea. but what could i do with those letters?

chemabj?

jamcheb?

bechamj?

and there it was. bechamel. the french cream sauce. the space directly to the left of the 3W score was, inexplicably, miraculously, the extra E i needed. all i needed was a motherfucking L.

well, you can guess the gory details. sea, that sweetly unsuspecting darling, got up to go to the bathroom [he can't ever sit still, so i knew he'd get up eventually]. there it was, that tantalizing little cloth pouch that just screamed at me - 'dig. dig! you'll find that pesky L! trade the useless J for that coveted, desperately-needed L! do it!'

and i did. shamefully i face you, jury of my peers, and tell you i did. i dug desperately until i found that L, and threw my J back into the cloth pouch. that guileless, trusting creature came back, and with the right amount of dramatic bravado, i pretended to simply stumble across such scrabbling perfection known as the 3W Bingo.

yes, folks. because not only did i score that 3W. oh, no. that wasn't enough for my greedy, competitive soul. it was also a bingo .... all seven letters used. one of them being that treacherous, deceitful L. so there it was. bechamel. seven letters used, some of them quite valuable, on a 3W score.

i think the total damage was about 150 points. and sea, of course, he challenged the use of the word. and looked it up in our trusty scrabble dictionary [which, for the record, i did not do while he was in the bathroom, probably because it simply didn't occur to me. if it had, i would have]. and of course, the word was there, in all its obscure french glory, and my scrabble partner took a humbling hit to his winning streak. he looked at me with profound respect for creaming him so. and you ask, did i feel guilty that i had won such a dear friend's respect with such wicked, wicked ways?

no. i didn't. i was riding the high of humbling him, of success against the only person who is ever a real scrabble challenger. why? because i'm pure evil.

months, months later, when sea left for estonia, i decided to tell him. i built it up quite a bit, during a very tender 'we're really going to miss each other' moment. i told him i had something very serious to tell him. he was full of concern. i built it up a little more [wicked. wicked.]. he was even more concerned. i told him i hoped it wouldn't ruin our friendship. he assured me that would be near-impossible.

"sea, i.... cheated on 'bechamel'."

and friends? i wouldn't trade the look on his face for all the money in the world. it was absolute shock, betrayal, anger ... in short, it was absolutely hilarious. he was so upset, so terrifyingly traumatized that i would have snatched my only victory from the hands of deceit ... i think a little part of him died.

but he's forgiven me since then, right sea? i'd never cheat him again.

that doesn't go for the rest of you, however. be en guarde. bechamel may rise again.

the greatest joke ever

the greatest joke ever played.

Harry Potter 5: literature's most-guarded secret. true/false?

false. literature's most-guarded secret is, and always will be, "Why Did James Joyce Write Finnegan's Wake, and has Anyone Actually Finished It."

while it's a close

while it's a close race ...

the only thing better than talking about sex for hours is having sex for hours.

just trust me on this.

your sunny, funny face!

your sunny, funny face!

in a highly uncharacteristic move, i've posted this rather unflattering picture of myself here at the holy stomping ground of my vanity, petit hiboux.

see? it's a silly, wholly unflattering picture. why do i post it, you ask? why cause such a shock to the masses? why even risk breaking some hearts who were living in a fantasy world where people are always pretty, all the time?

because i like this picture. i do! it was taken the morning i moved from my dorm room to my apartment. i was graduating college in a few days. i had a job. i was surrounded by friends [this wonderful friend took the picture]. i was utterly happy. and as i stood out on the fire escape to my gorgeous dorm room and smoked my morning cigarette with matthieu and watched the sun warm up a glorious day ... i was really happy.

so i turned to the camera and made a silly, silly face.

because i could.

we're talking about cars

we're talking about cars here. cars.

think about a porsche. it's sleek. it screams style, and danger, and live-in-the-moment gorgeous. it says to you, get in. don't think about your insurance, don't think about your family, don't think about the future. live a little. it's not the right car. it's the right now car. even if you have it for twenty years [which you probably won't because if you can actually afford it without selling your firstborn child, you'll probably get bored of it in two years, and if you can't afford it, like most people can't, you'll lose it eventually], you never refer to it as 'my car'. it's 'my porsche'. because it's not like other cars, is it.

it's nothing like a honda, for instance. what is a honda? a honda is, quintessentially, a car. you don't take tight corners on it and feel the seratonin flood your brain. you don't check out your reflection when driving by a shiny building. you drive a honda, for chrissakes. now, it's a good car, isn't it? you sing its praises to your friends. you say, look at the mileage! look at the maintenance! man, i've driven this car a million miles and she looks exactly the same as the day i bought her! you are intensely happy with your sound purchase. you make fun of guys with porsches.

but there's always that moment, isn't there. when you're out with your honda. you're cruising. you're happy. you and the honda, you understand each other. you're on the same page. and here he comes, that guy. with his porsche. he pulls up next to you and bam. ten years with your honda suddenly slips into meaninglessness. look at that porsche. wouldn't you grovel on your knees on your best suit all the way across the continent just for a chance to run your hands over that sleek body? you would. of course you would. you'd forego food, water, society for a chance to take her for a spin. doesn't matter if the fling only lasts two days before you realize what you've left behind, the solid affection you have for your wise, quiet honda. in that moment, in that disco-ball, flashing moment ... all you see is the racy danger of that porsche.

and you know what? the honda knows it. she always, always knows it. she comforts herself that ultimately, she is the wisest choice. that she's in for the long-haul. that she's dependable, fun, and smart. she likes being a honda. she doesn't want to be a porsche. she's met the porsches - they're empty inside.

but she knows. she knows you'd never crawl on your knees for thirty miles to adore a honda the way you'd gladly grovel for a chance with that porsche.

fraggle-mented readers, i need

fraggle-mented

readers, i need your help. i cannot seem to post about anything, and the dentist post wasn't funny enough to be up there for three days. so, i provide you all with some choices, in the classic american tradition of have-it-all-ism.

1. How I Survived a Staring Contest ... with a Hippo.
2. Why I'm going to Law School.
3. My All-Time Top Ten Favorite Places in New York City and Why.
4. Ways I've Been Really, Really Bad.
or
5. A Rant About The Topic of Your Choice (please provide Subject of Rant. and it can't be dominick dunne, since i've ... dunne ... him already.)

none of these are very exciting. nonetheless, in the spirit of democracy, you decide, and i'll oblige.

freud would have gotten

freud would have gotten his rocks off

there's something very sexual about going to the dentist. all this talk of drilling and filling holes, that sterile little room with inexplicable instruments hanging everywhere, the supine position you're placed in, the fact that you've got your mouth wide open and several people have distinct advantage over you...

or maybe it's just that yesterday, i found my head nestled against my dentist's generous cleavage as she manuvered the inside of my mouth with a hand and a metal object.

but maybe it's not all dentists. maybe it's just my dentist. i'm not sure about her. the whole being-pressed-to-her-bosom thing was a bit much. i mean, photos of that situation could be sold to dental fetishists.

SOS! if anyone has

SOS!

if anyone has any earthly clue as to why my webpage refuses to show up on my computer, even though it's currently showing up on yours, send me an email: petithiboux@yahoo.com

because i'm at a complete loss. i'm getting this "Under Construction" page instead and its driving me bananas.

and of course, blogger is never any help.

lightning strikes it was

lightning strikes

it was one of those summer afternoons that makes you want to peel your skin off, hang it on the nearest branch and go throw yourself into the east river. i had gotten too little sleep the night before, because the bed had trapped the heat from my bedroom window and was using its stored humidity to slowly suffocate me. all day at work, i had tottered around on my heels, pushing my brain through the fog.

as i walked home at six, the fading day's heat was a wet towel i struggled to get out from underneath. i trudged up my apartment stairs, knowing he'd be hanging out, as he'd been all day. when i got to the top landing, the door swung open. he was standing there, grinning a little at my exhaustion. seeing him there was like being greeted an affectionate cat who's been home alone all day. he handed me the phone. it was a friend of mine, who'd just called.

he led me to my favorite arm chair, near the window. he lit me a cigarette, and padding into the kitchen, returned with a glass of chilled white wine. then he sat down on the couch, quietly reading until i finished my phone conversation. when i hung up the phone, he came and sat closer, asking me how my exhausting day had been. we didn't talk much. dinner plans were half-heartedly made. it was a friday night, we were young, friends, and we couldn't think of anything better to do than just sit on the couch. we were exhausted.

out of nowhere, a breeze started to lift the curtains. night was falling, and a storm was rolling in from the west. as we sat in the window chairs, the sky shifted lazily from somber purple to a glowing green, with streaks of wild pink. he wandered over to the stereo, and surprised me by putting on a nat king cole record. the storm was starting to bare its teeth on our neighborhood, and all the lights in the living room were out except for one candle. i sat on the window ledge, watching the storm. he sat on the couch, watching me and the storm, waiting for rain.

unforgettable ... that's what you are.
unforgettable ... though near or far.
like a song of love that clings to me
how the thought of you does things to me...

i don't remember what we spoke about. or if we spoke at all. i know we watched the lightning. at some point, he came over and sat nearer to me, and looked out the window. the electricity i felt at his nearness felt like it would attract a bolt of zeus's errant flame and we'd both just explode into hot dust. we stared at the candle, at the kaleidescope of the stormy summer sky, at almost anything but each other. the lightning streaked through the colorful palette and thunder shook the ground enough to set off car alarms, but still no rain.

that's why darling, it's incredible
that someone so unforgettable
thinks that i'm unforgettable too.

the moment passed. the skies let loose their swaying, pendulous clouds and torrential rains smacked the hot new york streets. plants sucked it up. children ran outside to feel the pelting raindrops sizzle on sunbaked skin. the record ended. we decided on a dinner cafe and blew out the candle, only stopping in the middle of the dark room to smile at each other, perhaps to acknowledge the unspoken heaviness. then we went to dinner, and left our storm for another day.

that's why, darling, it's incredible ...

and there will be

and there will be much gnashing of teeth

it seems my nay-sayers will be pleased. according to an online quiz, i belong in the maleboge ... the eighth circle of hell. a sunny little place, reserved for the likes of, oh, the malicious, the fraudulent, and the panderers.

seems like i'd be in good company - hell, the entire mafia would be there and we know those boys are always a good time.