it's what happens when

it's what happens when you set impossibly high standards.

here's how i was planning on finding out my lsat scores: at home tonight, with seastreet cooking dinner and a bottle of wine to either celebrate or commiserate with.

here's how i actually found out my lsat score: rudely interrupted while writing an email, my outlook program automatically opened the email, bursting onto the quiet morning landscape with it's brevity and impersonal jab of a mediocre score. a mediocre score. a percentile in the seventies. the requisite 1, followed by two other numbers that felt like two tiny times new roman stab wounds. mediocre.

i'm not going to tell you my score, really, because different scores have different meanings for different people. suffice it to say that i did alright by some, and not enough for me. not enough for where i want to go to school. desperately want to go to school. 10 points shy of the impossibly high standard i set for myself. feeling like i let everyone down who was convinced i would do well, who told me over beers and over the telephone and on IM that i would ace it. so much faith, and the result, three mediocre little numbers! followed by realizing how ridiculous that sentiment is. followed by realizing the person i most let down was myself - my blind half-full faith that lulls me into carelessly believing i always get what i want. seeing those three letters on my harsh computer screen, feeling ready to burst into tears at what i foolishly have interpreted as my own failing. it's just a test, all my superfriends say, all my heroes. you'll do better in october, you'll be much more prepared, we know you can do it because you rock. not believing them but glad they said it anyway. this is what i feel this morning.

so i'll take my usual twenty four hours, kids. tonight, i will drink wine and i will be moody and fatalistic about it. i will try and take my mind off of what feels like stupid disaster, but it will be hard to fall asleep tonight. but my optimism has regenerative powers - and tomorrow i will dust off, shake away the negative energy, prop my chin up by force if need be.... and i'll be fine.

just give me tonight to brood.

when your brain's already

when your brain's already on vacation ...

the thing that made me laugh the hardest today: realizing that if i rub my #2 pencil's eraser against my upper-left canine tooth, it makes an uproariously funny squeaking noise that will keep me entertained for at least 45 seconds.

i really need friday to get here a little quicker.

delirium! optimistic side of

delirium!

optimistic side of brain: "i know! when we leave work, krissa, we're going to swing cheerily by the food market, and buy ingredients for yummy but complicated shepherd's pie! then we're going to go home, change into comfy clean clothes, cook while singing old jazz standards, take a bathtub bath, and drink some wine!"

realistic side of brain: "you stupid twat. we got TWO HOURS OF SLEEP LAST NIGHT. we saw the SUN come up over BROOKLYN. we haven't SHOWERED. ten minutes ago, we contemplated SLUMPING INTO THE ELEVATOR and not pressing any buttons just to SLEEP in between FLOORS. what are you running your mouth off on, SHEPHERD'S PIE?! have you turned stark raving MAD? we're going to go home, fool. it will take every ounce of dignity not to slump onto the sidewalk and CRY until we're carried to our door. we will walk into our lonely, sad apartment, curl up on the couch and EAT SOME KIND OF CHEESE until we're too tired to hold our eyes open anymore. then we will SLINK OFF TO BED and fall asleep fully clothed. GOT THAT? so shut UP about the shepherd's sodding PIE."

optimistic side of brain: ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

what happy looks like

what happy looks like

check, mate. there is

check, mate.

there is a curious phenomenon near my building. every afternoon, a lad comes along and sets up a small card table next to the fruit stand. he is scruffy, mid to late twenties, with a wire-hanger frame and a defeatist's slouch, but there is something charming about our glimpse into his life. every afternoon, he plays chess.

and we, the toilers of midtown, the homeless, the tourists - we, who either have a hurried path or are somewhat lost - we watch him play. we watch this silent, measured homage to the divergence between him and us, between his life, and ours. between a girl who works on the 40-something floor of a giant ubiquitous midtown high rise, and a young man who plays chess in the afternoons for small change.

but today, our chessman was a part of something new, something fresh, a new slice of life. as he set up his game, with the usual suspects standing around [the homeless guy that looks like morgan freeman, a smattering of tourists, two bulgy business men], a couple walked up to the plate. they nearly passed the little cluster, but the wife's mutterings in her husband's ears stopped them, and they turned slowly to the table.

it was obvious, from the minute they walked up, that everyone would stay and watch the whole game. the man held onto his wife's arm - she let him down slowly into the chair. his hand shook a little, and it hovered over the chess pieces, stretching out to his opponent. the young man, somewhat baffled, placed his small dirty hand in the wrinkled paw of the old man. the wife leaned down and whispered something to her husband, and then sought the questioning eyes of the chess player.

"he'll play," she said. "i'll help him."

the man shrugged - hey, a dollar is a dollar more than no dollar, right? so he made his first move. the wife leaned down and whispered what it was to her husband. he sat there, tongue moving ceaselessly over his dry lips. his hands lay stiffly on his knees, in the rickety chair. his head nodded, nearly imperceptibly. had he fallen asleep behind those dark glasses?

he leaned forward and his hand hovered uncertainly over the board, waiting for his wife's surer guidance. he told her what pieces to move. she moved them. the motley gang around the little table watched, looking from the young master to the unlikely challenger and his lined, quiet wife.

the game went on. there's no need for me to explain where castles and bishops and pawns wandered over the neat squares, or how many people stood there with chips poised half way from bag to mouth, or magazines opened but ignored, as they watched the old man play his way quietly yet surely through to the end. the young chess master lost. the old man and his wife's guiding, seeing hands were the victors, as any one standing in that unscripted human moment understood he would from the minute he sat down, feeling the table in front of him for balance.

the young man also won, as told by the look on his face as he shook hands with his opponent. no doubt, it was a look that the old man couldn't see. i hoped his wife would relay it to him, as they picked their way gingerly away from the scene of quiet battle and slipped seamlessly back into the void of a sunny midtown day.

three rain slickers and

three rain slickers and baseball

it was raining on fishers island. three colorful rain slickers were traipsing down the hill from the musty old house to the main road. this is the scene.

an ambling little blue slicker with a seven year old girl named katherine inside. an intuitive seven year old. a little girl with calm blue eyes. slow to smile. patient. a bouncy pink rain slicker with a five year old named annie inside. anniebeans - the classic middle child. boisterous. quick temper. flashing green eyes. annie had a hard time dealing with baby james. sometimes, she'd want to hold him, and then she'd nearly drop him. her first instinct of anger was to pinch. but when she threw her arms around my neck and pretended to be my "necklace", and when she curled up in my lap after dinner and twisted my hair around her little fingers, i secretly knew she was my favorite.

and me, in my grown-up yellow rain slicker. holding two little hands in mine. listening to annie prattle on about forest animals,and watching kat's eyes linger on the grey, frothing ocean in the distance. me, in my yellow rain slicker, nearly twenty years old. on fishers, any college angst or doubts or fears didn't matter. what mattered was, it was a rainy day, we'd been cooped up inside for hours, and i was taking the girls on a rainy walk. three rain slickers, bobbing down the hill.

we stopped at the baseball diamond. annie ran onto the field because she saw a bunny rabbit, and she wasn't old enough to realize that when you chase the rabbit, it'll run away. kat and i watched annie slip and slide across the field, chasing the bunny, calling with a hint of desperation in her voice, demanding that it come play with her. kat turned to me with a squinty thoughtful look in her eyes. "annie's silly, huh." i laughed. "yeah," i answered, "but you should enjoy being silly too, while you're young." she shrugged. "like," i said, "we should play baseball." now kat laughed. "we don't have a baseball, or a bat." i looked at the muddy, rained-out diamond. "so?" i asked. "we'll play imaginary baseball."

"imaginary what?" annie panted as she trudged back to where we stood. "imaginary baseball," i said, the idea catching on. i instructed annie to stand at the plate. she stuck her bottom out and scuffed her shoe and pretended to practice a couple swings. i dragged kat to the pitcher's mound. "why do i have to pitch?" because, i said. "you're the best pitcher in the league." she shook her head. "no, i'm not." i solemnly handed her the imaginary baseball. "in this league, you are." she squinted and smiled.

i walked back to the plate, watching annie wave to her fans. i pulled my imaginary mask over my face. i slid on my imaginary glove. and i crouched down behind annie, and winked at kat through the rain. she wound up an incredibly hot ball. her tiny arm rotated in its socket about six times, while annie crouched, shifting from foot to foot. crack! play ball!

i don't remember how the game went, or who won. i remember calling all the plays ... and mackey-mccall catches that mid-air, and stackpole-mccall is OUT! ... oooh, close one as mackey-mccall slides into third with stackpole-mccall hot on her traces, and it's SAFE! ... foul, and mackey is NOT happy about it!

i remember we played imaginary baseball for thirty minutes. i remember the sound of my voice booming over the empty, muddy diamond, while everyone else was inside their homes, avoiding the rain. i remember watching a blue slicker tackle a pink slicker, and i remember catching my breath until i saw both little girls jump up, screaming with muddy joy. i remember blocking a home slide from kat that landed us both face down in the mud, shrieking with joy.

but most of all, i remember ending the game in a muddy, colorful heap, on the pitchers mound, going over the plays and laughing at the tops of our lungs, three voices getting lost in the density of the rain on fishers island. blue, pink, yellow. pitcher, batter, catcher. five, seven, and twenty. and i remember looking into the sky and thinking - remember this day.

it's not you, it's

it's not you, it's me. baby, i'm sorry.

internet, we need to talk. i know you've been a little confused lately, maybe you've felt a little shut out. i didn't mean to. internet, i love what we have. i love that there's a little place for me here, that i have a little corner where i get to fuss with fonts and waste paid working hours and dabble in the color wheel. i love everything about you, internet, even the haters. i love all my webby friends, and how witty and charming and supportive you all are. internet, this past year has been awesome. you're great. seriously, baby.

but i've been seeing a bunch of other people, internet. i've been thinking about you less and less these days. i gotta be honest with you, internet, because i think you deserve it. i've been all around town behind your back. i've had fun, and there have been whole days where i haven't thought about you. i think its important i tell you, internet, who and what i've been seeing behind your back. maybe, you'll understand.

stop blubbering for a second here, baby.

law school: look, i won't deny it, law school's a lot slicker than you. he's got all the right moves, he's promising me all kinds of dreams. law schools can keep me entertained for hours just thinking about his heady title courses and his elite cadre of fellow movers and shakers. to be honest, i talk about law school to all my other friends, internet. he's part of my future, baby, y'know what i'm saying? i mean, law school has got the goods, baby, the goods.

the brooklyn gang: i'm sorry, internet. when you and me got together, honey, there wasn't a whole lot going on in my social life, y'know? i mean, how many nights did we just stay home together, me lovingly tweaking your template, you showing me all these other peoples' lives? c'mon, internet, we had some good times, eh? but now there are so many people out there! and we do stuff! internet, you never take me out anymore. well, you never did. i know staying home was your thing. but baby, i gotta see the world! i gotta talk to people! you don't want to hold me back from that, do you?

okay, internet. i know, up until now, these have been some pretty meagre excuses. but you know, there's another man. no, not law school, internet, he's a silly intangible thing just like you. no, there's actually a flesh-and-blood guy. and i'm grappling, baby, i'm seriously grappling, because i don't think i know how to be honest with you about it, i don't know if i want to get that personal with you, but i also won't know what to say to you a lot of the times. because of this guy. and because, well, see? now i don't know what to tell you, and i'm trying to explain it, you know, baby? i could tell you all kinds of things about it. i could tell you how he always asks how i'm doing, even though we talk every day. i could tell you how the thought of seeing him again and getting to laugh out loud in the same room with him again makes me all melty, and that's not even sex. i could tell you how much i trust him, and how knock-kneed amazed i am that he trusts me too. see, but that would be spilling my guts out about love. and i don't think i'm ready, internet.

for all these reasons and more, internet, i think i need to slow down our relationship. i know you love hearing from me everyday, and i used to love talking to you every day. but lately, it's been feeling like a chore. and you don't want that, right?

so here's the thing. i know how you love my little stories, and my rants, and my little blips of life. so how's this, internet - when i have something to say, i'm totally gonna tell you first. i swear. but let me spread these here arms out a little for a while. let me hug life a little, instead of hugging you. let me let summer, be summer. with all its ups and downs. with new love. with law school plans. with foolish dreams and hot sweaty nights. with friends, and brunches, and baseball games. chances are, internet, you'll hear about all this. just ... in a different way. and perhaps... not as often.

is that okay, internet? can we still be friends, sugarhoneypie? because baby, you are still one fine little internet.

i just need a little stretching room.

this is all i

this is all i have to say for right now:

i guarantee you my morning was better than yours. why?

i'll be your crush

i'll be your crush with eyeliner ...

i've never been a menage a trois kind of girl. always seemed a little distracting to me. but let me state for the record, folks - if michael stipe and thom yorke wanted me, i'd so be That Girl.

because, seriously, you know ... rawwwwrrrrrrrr *scratch*.

it's the monopoly, stupid!

it's the monopoly, stupid!

so, the FCC has just delivered a wigged-out bitchslap to the diversification of media and anti-trust laws. since most towns in america only have one newspaper these days anyway, it'll be refreshing to cut out all that, you know, media competition and just buy out the radio stations and the television stations as well! because, i mean, the FCC wasn't created to regulate and protect the public airwaves or anything. at least, not according to chairperson michael powell*. no, no. they like to help major media conglomerates like Newscorp and AOL/Time Warner become the media monopolies we all think they're capable of being. see, you had it wrong - the FCC clearly now stands for "Fornicating with Cable Companies".

what was that loonybin hillary clinton talking about when she said 'vast right-wing conspiracy'? oh, and honey? turn on the news. i think we may have a sequel to the spanish-american war this summer! as a reality show!

* coincidentally, michael powell is, in fact, son to our Secretary of State colin powell. apparently, there's another word george bush has trouble understanding ... nepotism.

seriously. i was in

seriously. i was in africa. or not born. or just oblivious.

things i never knew about until recently:

who the stepford wives were.
who JR was, or why anyone cared who'd shot him.

now that i know these key pieces of information, i feel so much closer to middle-aged americana. hold me, wisconsin. i understand you now.

ain't nobaby like this

ain't nobaby like this baby

reason that seastreet rocks, #540: because even drunk on a monday afternoon, he can still eloquently explain the difference between the alter ego and the super ego.

you haven't had your

you haven't had your share of fabulousness today. the situation is dangerous. as your spiritual advisor i insist...

that you trek across the bridge[s] to brooklyn tonight and go directly to galapagos. go there at eight. because there will be the cure to your fabulousness blues. the remedy to your monday misanthrope. the panacea to your workweek doldrums.

that's right, kittens. it's another night for shivery delicious. oh, and stick around for the letdowns, too. they strum a nice guitar, those boys, and they're easy on the eyes.

so go to brooklyn. listen to some damn fine musical stylin's. i can't be there, but you can make me very very happy and cheer in my stead.

deal?