July 30, 2003
why saturday rocked the
beer, cigarettes, friends, sun, and laughter.
and moments like this.
[photo: shiv and i.]
i never had my
when exactly did this TWEEN bullshit start? when i was thirteen, i sat around depressed and wailed about how no one out there understood me, like every other self-respecting teenager. then i went to the mall and stuffed my skinny little body full of high-fat, high-sugar treats and complained to my friends about how totally un-cool my parents were.
when i was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, i WASN'T a tween. i didn't have pop stars only two years older than me whose biggest problems on their TV shows was when two cute boys both asked them out. i had claire danes and kurt cobain and SMASHING PUMPKINS for crying out loud. it's amazing our generation is as ... well ... ALIVE as we are.
my point is [insert grouchy old man voice here] these teens these days, they're just too PAMPERED and PANDERED to. excuse me, did i say teens? i meant TWEENS.
July 29, 2003
but i mean... ...
... you've only come so far when you hear a strain of this song at the deli and your throat gets tight.
July 28, 2003
a loss in five
first, there was Excited. he was arriving, something i'd been waiting for a long time. he was the highlight of my day from thousands of miles away. his was the face i saw at my side for baseball games, slow-cooked winter meals, studying for law school, riding on the subway. these were the things we'd discussed, the things we'd hoped for together, the affection we'd openly shared with each other. and so, for months, his was the face i saw. i told myself not to, i staved off Excitement, i told her to 'wait and see' but before i fell asleep, in that period where you know you can't fool yourself and midnight brings on the greatest truths in the deepest corners, i knew Excitement had me in its grasps. Excited was looking in the mirror and feeling flawless. it felt like cooking your first thanksgiving dinner. Excited was the butterflies in your stomach at the top of rollercoasters.
then there was Insecurity. i'd forgotten, through the days and weeks he'd been gone, how vulnerable i was to his every mood swing, to his every glance. as soon as he was home it seemed he was already shying away from me. i wanted to think i was imagining it, but i knew him too well not to know when he was backing away slowly, backing away from me. Insecurity was dropping a strawberry ice cream cone on the sidewalk. Insecurity felt like falling out of bed in the middle of the night. Insecurity meant walking on sinking rocks across a long river.
then there was Realization. the realization that he wasn't happy and it didn't have anything to do with me but it was in my path and i was going to run headlong into his unhappiness and it was going to hurt me whether he wanted it to or not. he kept telling me i was taking his life personally and it was all i could do not to yell out, what else would you have me do, after all the things you said?! but Realization stopped me from saying all the things i wanted to say. Realization told me, he's not going to listen to you. he's lashing out. better to let him be. Realization was cold water running down your back. Realization felt like waking up from a nightmare about giant cats to find a giant cat in your room.
then there was Fury. Fury felt good, after all the drowning helplessness of Insecurity and Realization. Fury came blasting through the saloon doors, guns firing. Fury whispered in my ear all the tiny, nearly-invisible ways he'd hurt me since his return, and Fury made it easy for me to stop crying. Fury was what it felt like to be a woman scorn'd. Fury took each little disappointment i'd experienced, each thing that hadn't gone as planned, and whipped me into a frenzy. Fury was the crack of a homerun baseball. Fury felt like finally ripping off a bandaid. Fury was the euphoria you feel when you've just run a red light and escaped death one more time.
then there was Honesty. Honesty was the hardest, honesty took the longest. Honesty required the most of me, for she's a demanding mistress. Honesty quietly strode into the room at the eleventh hour, when I'd exhausted every other means of expression. Honesty didn't have props or gimmicks. Honesty sat me down and said, you have too long allowed his behavior to make you a cringing wallflower or a furious neurotic. you are strong, and you have nothing more to use but this. and i did. i walked up to the final act, to that rushed and unfair goodbye, with clarity. it felt hard, being that honest, laying down that blame, and not being able to soothe him with tired and near-meaningless promises of how much i love him. it hurt to see in his eyes that he knew he'd disappointed me. it panged to hear him say he was sorry, because i so desperately wished it could have gone another way, that he wouldn't have had to apologize, that i never would have lost any faith in this love. but i said my part in a clear, loud voice. and in exchange, Honesty gave me a salve, a soothing balm, where i don't regret and i'm not angry. Honesty felt like a clean shower. Honesty was making eye contact with a proud horse and holding its gaze. Honesty felt just right.
July 25, 2003
"is she walking that
"is she walking that log, or is the log walking her?"
this picture may clarify my park activities to you. or, it may confound you further. is she chasing that log? has the evil log creature evaded our superheroine's grasp, yet again? if so, why is she smiling? there are many questions i'm sure that still puzzle you.
but for now, suffice it to say that daisy was the first person to approximate what the bloody flying hell was going on ... i was, in fact, moving a log, in a park. sharp eye, daisy. stay tuned for an email from me. you will be recieving a SUPER TOP SECRET [as yet undetermined but you know it'll be cool] NINJAMONKEY PRIZE*.
and i think we all snorted coffee through our office-drone noses this morning when we read sherlock holmes' careful, meticulous and thoroughly outlandish deduction concerning my double-life as a babe for hire, a mysterious agency referred to as the Federal Office of Dirt Security, and an underground market in rolling loam. and some ATVs. congratulations, mr. holmes. you have also won the SUPER TOP SECRET NINJAMONKEY PRIZE*. however, since you seem to be on the lam from FODS and are thus anonymously posting such raving genius, you're going to have to email me to recieve your prize in the mail. i promise not to turn you over to the authorities if you promise not to reveal my identity to the Feds.
congrats, daisy and "holmes".
*prize is valid in every state except idaho. for no good reason. rules and regulations: you may not recieve the prize if you are with the authorities, trying to steal my identity, or crazy in any certifiable way. you may not recieve the prize if you've ever had a beer with a rhino and a penguin on a tuesday afternoon in boise. in fact, you might not even recieve the prize if you live in boise. pH doesn't trust boise. prize is not guaranteed to be top secret, super, or in any way involving ninjamonkeys. please address all concerns and disputes over prize in writing and notarized. pH takes no responsibility if you're not cool enough to recognize the cool factor of the afore-mentioned prize. pH generally takes no responsibility for anything you think, do, or say.
July 24, 2003
i never cease to
i never cease to puzzle and amaze!
the first person who answers correctly WHAT i am doing in this picture gets first prize, a naked picture of me a surprise in the mail.
and just for fun, the most creatively elaborate answer will get something too.
July 23, 2003
life's little cliches, the
life's little cliches, the epilogue
**dedicated to fulminous, on his 26th birthday. thanks for being a warrior.**
love hurts. sometimes we wish we didn't love as hard as we do - we'd hurt less, wouldn't we. sometimes we barely know when to walk away, to let go, and even when we do, we keep looking over our shoulders at the thing we love, at the thing we're letting go. love bloody stinks. we'll all keep coming back for more, but there's that last moment when it just stings and pulls and tugs and drags and you yell, that's IT! ENOUGH! i will resign myself to catladydom. you know it isn't true. but if feels nice to say it.
things never go as planned. you can hope and believe and trust and have faith and count chickens and it won't really matter on the battlefield. and things you'd hoped for, little pieces of feathered hope, they float slowly down until they're unrecognizable on the ground. but like a recent amputee, you keep grasping for them - here was a road trip we'd talked about, here was a weekend we'd spend together, here was a meal i wanted to cook, here were my cutest underwear, tucked in a drawer for a special night, here was a bed, here was a towel, here were little dreams nestled all over new york. and you have to remind yourself the arm isn't there, the plans are smudged and unreadable.
you'll always have your friends. people who take days off work with you, to sit in the park and mull over romances and heartaches while tugging at springy green grass and watching children play. people who call you twice as often as they usually do, because they know it's rough out there. people who buy you drinks and know when to change the subject to something ridiculously funny. people who let you cry - in public, on the phone, on their favorite shirt. people who make you 'wallowing in misery' mix CDs but know when to come to your apartment and wallow with you. people who let you crash on their couch because you don't want to be alone. people who rally for you and sing your praises. people that love you when you don't feel like loving yourself. and people who'll offer to fight your battles, knowing full well you have the strength to fight them yourself. friends.
new york's getting hotter
new york's getting hotter by the minute.
i knew it. lifelong karmic validation. sarah b. is moving to the big apple.
you know what that means, right?
DRUNKEN MAHJONG LADIES' NIGHTS.
July 22, 2003
wish list sonata in
wish list sonata in four notes and six swishing fabrics
i want a demure scoop-neck white dotted swiss lace dress (empire waist, a-line, knee-length) with a baby-blue satin sash. to be worn with pearl drop earrings and a simple diamond ring. for moonlit summer walks in vienna.
i want a ruby-red plunging neckline halter dress (curve-hugging knee-length) that shows off my shoulders and my legs. to be worn with black onyx chandelier earrings, hair up, flashingly smoky eye make-up. for gloriously humid evenings, dancing the tango on the cobblestoned streets of buenos aires.
i want a cherry-blossom pink organza number (knee-length, strapless and bodiced) with a flouncy crinoline underskirt and a black velvet sash . to be worn with bee-stung pink lipstick and a black flower-corsage choker. for wild spring nights carousing the streets of paris.
and i want a black-with-creme-polka dot dress (plunging v-neck, a-line) with creme tulle underneath and a cinched waist. to be worn with a simple pearl necklace and hair curled and bouncy. for swell cocktail parties and those magically cozy dinner-and-a-movie nights, strolling the shimmering sidewalks of new york, arm-in-arm.
come now, is this too much to ask?
Dear Cashier at Supermarket
Dear Cashier at Supermarket who was Totally, Like, Sixteen, but still Felt it was Her Duty to Tell Me, as I was Buying Cigarettes, "You know, that's really really bad for you, you should quit smoking, I have this friend who blah blah blah" and Continued to Talk at me Even After I Said, "I don't need your advice" and Stormed out of the Store:
Honey, there's no nice way to say this, but ... you're FAT. you're downright OBESE for a sixteen year old. SERIOUSLY. and you were munching on cheezeypoofs. and you're talking to ME about bad habits?
Love, Krissa
Dear Guy Who Stood in a Phone Booth at 50th and 7th and Unabashedly Stared at Me Crying on the Cell Phone to my Friend While Standing in Front of a Starbucks, Because If That's Not Humiliating ENOUGH, It Helps to get Stared at Like You're a Fucking LEPER:
CRYING ISN'T CONTAGIOUS, you ASSMUNCHING DILLHOLE.
Love, Krissa
July 21, 2003
the pH tea and
the pH tea and sympathy cocktail hour
thirsty?
mint julep, cosmopolitan, french martini, sidecar, manhattan, gin rickey, or a stiff bloody mary.
got a sweet tooth?
pink frosted cupcake, key lime pie, banana pudding, hummingbird cake, or a glazed raspberry torte.
the jukebox will be crooning -
black coffee [ella]
these foolish things [etta]
all of me [sarah]
cry me a river [dinah]
them there eyes [billie]
i'll get by [dinah]
they can't take that away from me [ella]
unforgettable [nat king cole]
so what'll it be, folks?
July 17, 2003
life's little cliches if
if you really love someone, you know when it's time to let them go.
and if you let someone go, you know when it's time for a shot of vodka.
or five.
BARTENDER!
in related news: being incredibly angry and stomach-knottingly furious is a lot easier than running to the bathroom from your desk because you're blinking back brimming tears every 20 minutes. just so you know.
July 14, 2003
disgusting last night, as
last night, as i sat on the couch wrapped in a towel, a fly flew into my ear.
INTO MY EAR.
of course i took another shower.
July 11, 2003
... and it's got
... and it's got nothing to do with victoria's secret
i recently asked a guy friend, jason - what is sexy?
this is what he told me.
"sexy is how you look, sure. it's also how you move. how you carry yourself. the way you look around or pick up a cup. sexy isn't just your legs, it's how you walk, or turn around. sexy is how you smile, and when and why. sexy is what you say, to whom, and who you look at when you say it. sexy is what you do, and what you do TO and WHO you do it to.
clothes can be sexy, but not always nessissarily sexy clothes. sexy is looking good for weeks, then meeting someone for something special and bowling them over. sexy isn't about looking good, it's about letting someone know that you want to look good for them.
sexy is, essentially, unpredictable. people can set up ideals, sure, but every now and then a guy will meet a girl who's completely against everything he thought was hot, and knock him over, and he won't be able to figure out why. Now THAT's sexy."
this made me think back, to a few months ago. it was winter. i was chatting with a guy close to my heart, and we were having somewhat of a similar conversation - on sexiness, and how women present themselves versus how men see them. he told me what he found most sexy about me - and it was surprising. it wasn't my clingy dresses or sexkitten heels, or my lipstick, or perfume. it was my smile, and the way i walked, he said. that i was sophisticated without even realizing it, he said. it was when i lounged around in sweatpants and glasses, he said.
ten minutes later, flush with sweetness, i went to get lunch. in line, at the deli, stood the kind of girl i always cringe to stand next to. tall, blonde, with an appropriately bored look on her face. her butt was tiny, her arms were long and tan and freckled, her body looked like it had been gracefully poured into her trendy clothes. i took a mental check of myself - and started to feel the usual pang of frumpy dullness. when suddenly i remembered what my guy had said, the easy way he'd rattled off his favorite parts of me, and i realized something. all those things he said - they couldn't be found in a dress size, or a perfume, or the right accessories or hairstyle. everything he'd said, that had meant so much to me, was so intrinsically about me.
and so i stood behind the twig in line, and stared at her picture-perfect form and thought, if she's lucky, she's got more than a perfect ass. if she's lucky, some guy sees her whole true soul and beauty the way someone sees mine, instead of just seeing her as a sum of perfectly shaped parts.
so that's what sexy is.
stroke my fame, and
stroke my fame, and i'll stroke yours!
i always wonder what famous people talk about when they're surrounded by other famous people. think about this: a photograph of Anna Wintour [Vogue Magazine] talking to Baz Luhrmann [romeo + juliet, moulin rouge], while Baz had his arm around Nicole Kidman, who was talking to Ingrid Sischy [Interview Magazine]. Donald Trump and his ever-present toupee hovered in the background. i can only IMAGINE what this conversation was like.
Anna, to Baz: "you must be so proud of yourself. your movies manage to please the art house elites while still catering to vapid average joes!"
Baz, to Anna: "well, i mean, look at you! you're absurdly skinny, you snort cocaine off the backs of your overworked assistants, you've got the reputation of a snarling cheetah-dragon, and you STILL make a bazillion dollars a year! that's not bad."
[Baz and Anna share a snarky laugh over their accomplishments, meanwhile...]
Nicole, to Ingrid: "Honestly, Ingrid, you're so ugly it's unbelievable anyone ever photographs you!"
Ingrid, snarling at Nicole: "Nic, darling, you're only famous because you're impossibly tall and when you pull your hair back you look like an albino alien byproduct. And oh, your movies? they SUCK."
[Sensing the presence of the cameras, Nic and Ingy throw their arms around each other and smile impossibly large smiles.]
Donald Trump, to no one in particular: "Man, i'd BETTER get laid tonight or I'm trading in for a better toupe."
July 10, 2003
mortal coil, shuffled. we're
we're rapidly hemmorhaging our best artists. gregory peck, katharine hepburn, barry white! and robert mccloskey, who wrote make way for ducklings.
so many sad deaths! of course, there's always a delicate balance, isn't there.
i must have left
i must have left my ball and chain at home today.
what consummate horseshit. what absolute preposterous dung. the very idea that "After a man settles down, the testosterone level falls, as does his creative output," is offensive to men, women, and love.
to the fools who spent money, time and manpower to write such a snivelling pile of completely ludicrous crap, i allow a great mind to answer -
"let me not to the marriage of true minds
admit impediments. love is not love
which alters when it alternation finds
or bends with the remover to remove:
o no! it is an ever-fixed mark
that looks on tempests and is never shaken[!]"
indeed, bard, indeed!
oh wait, shakespeare was never really married either, huh.
To: The Universe/Powers That
To: The Universe/Powers That Be/Various and Sundry Deities
Re: Request
Hi. I want to go home now, Universe. And when I get home, this is what i want. i want my apartment to be warm, but not hot. i want my bed to be clean, but not too clean - i like my rumpled sheets. in the refridgerator, universe, i would like there to be things like cherries, pound cake, apple sauce, sangria, peach juice, etc etc. i would like there to be a stack of unread books on my nighttable and a new set of silk pjs waiting on the bed for me. i would like tomorrow to be converted to saturday, and have two saturdays in a row. but most of all, universe, i want my bed buddy back. you can understand that, right, universe? i want to give back scratches in exchange for spoonings. i want to laugh in bed and i want to wake up being snuggled within an inch of my life.
i realize i can have all of this in due time, universe. i realize all you're asking is patience, really. but the thing is ...
I WANT IT RIGHT BLOODY SODDING NOW, UNIVERSE.
and if you say the word "patience" to me one more time, I WILL TEAR YOUR ARMS OUT AND BEAT YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH THEM.
that is all.
sincerely, krissa
July 08, 2003
what in an elevator?
what is it about the elevator? seastreet once posited that the elevator is all about the fucking. i think elevators are all about the self-deprecation. case in point:
my magazine is housed in the same building as a popular fashion mag, one of those uber-glossies you hate to admit you read. as i went downstairs for my midday smoke today, three twigs were on the elevator, doing what twigs do - standing there holding their impossibly large tote bags (as contrast to their impossibly tiny breasts/hips/legs?) and staring at their nails. these girls couldn't have been more than a year younger than me, and yet suddenly, in my little black dress and tan heels, i felt like their forty-year-old dumpy chaperone.
flash to five minutes later - i'm sitting outside having a cigarette and the twigs come twigging out of the building, staring desperately at some sort of new york city map. they're ... they're ... they're ... not from here, i think! and look at them! they look underdeveloped and sixteen! they have flat, sexless butts, skinny arms, no tans, no breasts, even their hair is straight and limp and so very midwestern! in the elevator, they looked like amazonian goddesses, people who hung on the arms of famous photographers, people who knew all the best DJs. and here, in the bright summer sunshine, i realized they were desperate struggling models, with twig bodies and no femininity to speak of. as i sat there, three feet from them, i almost laughed out loud at my elevator-self. look at me! i'm tan, i have curves, i have a simple yet elegant look and shimmery curly hair and i smell nice and i know my way around manhattan blindfolded and i've never wanted to be a model. i want to be a lawyer! so i laughed at elevator-self.
and then karma walked in, right on cue. a guy wandered up to me. one of the hip mtv kids that works in my building and wears the right converse and the right deisels and knew when trucker hats were in, and when to hide his at the back of the closet. i've seen him around - our smoke breaks tended to coincide. so there he is, suddenly, sauntering right past the twig farm, to ask me for a light. and he flirts a little. and while i couldn't care less about the flirting (i've got so much better going on, kids), i take the moment to point this out to elevator-self. on a giant post-it, i stick it to elevator-self's forehead. see?
if only i could just take the stairs.
it's where the cool
it's where the cool kids hang out
it's official. everyone and their pet neurosis is on friendster. i wasn't really going to say anything about friendster since, well, i've been sort of blase about the entire experience. but the more i flit through the never-ending daisychains of mutual friends, the more flabbergasted i become.
more importantly, every blogger is on friendster. the irrepressible greg, the ultimate sarah b., kate, even some of the web-glitterati like bazima and choire, people who've been written about in the new york fucking times for crying out loud. and lo! look who else is on friendster! my newest webcrush, the renaissance man for the new milennium, joshua newman.
that's a lot of people, especially when i'm still unsure what exactly i'm supposed to do on friendster. anyone know?
July 05, 2003
here's to you, jason
Krissa,
Like I said in my last, all too brusque, email, thank you for your writing. I'm a Marine stationed in Iraq. I won't go into details about my life out here, but as a guy who grew up on LI, Iraq, as a country, sucks. The heat, the dust, the worrying about getting shot...it all sucks (except the people, the people who don't shoot at you are great). Now imagine how it would be to be living through a hot, sucky day only to come across a vivid account of
three people in new york playing imaginary baseball in the rain. Your account took me out of Iraq and into the rain, to witness children laughing, mud flying from rainsoaked sneakers and multicolored ponchos moving against a background of wet green trees. It was relief. It was escape. It was a reminder of why I am out here and what I have to look forward to when I get back. Thanks again.
Jason
i don't get a lot of emails. and i'm always thrilled when i do, but this one especially touched me, so i wanted to share it with you guys. jason, man, i'm so very, very glad that one of my little snippets of life could bring a little bit of east coast sunshine to your desert life. bon courage out there. keep me updated of your life, and stay safe. you stay safe and i'll keep writing, how's that?
July 03, 2003
everyday's an endless stream
everyday's an endless stream of cigarettes and magazines ...
back to rhode island.
back to sunlit bedrooms.
back to couches i've known since i wasn't much taller than the cushions.
back to white tiled bathrooms.
back to musty sweet basements full of tools and chairs.
back to dad's english old-fashioned roses.
back to mom's rhodedendrons.
back to dad's ferns. and mom's daffodils.
back to barbeques, with sausages and sirloin and potatoes.
back to a garage refridgerator full of beers my dad knows i like.
back to staring out the front door at the park.
back to long drives in rhonda the honda.
back to late night runs to shell for more cigarettes.
back to sitting at the kitchen table, chain-smoking and catching up with mom.
back to clean laundry.
back to not new york.
back to my inheiritance, that little yellow house.
back to getting a little weepy when we drive up, because -
back to the first place in twenty years that we've laid down our hats and said "that's it! we're not moving!"
back to hope street.
back to providence.
back to home.
July 02, 2003
girl ... you'll be
girl ... you'll be a woman, soon.
i've noticed an emerging trend in the cabaret that is my life. something new, some fascinating new pattern, has fluttered to my shoulder and settled. back in college, this is how my social calendar usually read:
come home from class. fall asleep. at 11:30 pm, have someone knock at your door. friend enters. friend suggests off-the-cuff entertainment idea, like going to irish pub down the street, or driving around and drinking beer, or watching a movie.
this is how things WENT in college, see. there was no forethought. there was no e-vites to things, no standing traditions, no monthly fetes. it was just chaos, your social life. it fell into your lap, pawed at you to come along on some sort of last-minute adventure, and when you woke up the next day with a thudding head you had a hard time remembering where you'd been.
but that's changing.
if you (or you, or you) were to call me right now and ask me out to coffee at some point soon, i'd have to tell you, "sorry, i'm actually booked through to next saturday." and i wouldn't be saying it because i'm, say, part of new york's cadre of well-dressed social elite. i don't have a whitney opening and then a chloe sevigny party to attend. but nonetheless, this is how the conversation would go:
you: when can you meet, in the near future? how about tonight?
me: ooh, tonight's no good. going to see legally blonde with some girls and a handful of more courageous males.
you: tomorrow?
me: going to rhode island for sun and sand and barbeque, til sunday!
you: monday?
me: possibly girly-night with steph and shivery, drinking sangria, doing our toenails and smoking cigaretttes.
you: tuesday?
me: either getting pizza at The Gate with the brooklyn tribe, or at a stupid chi-chi party for my magazine.
you: *getting frustrated* wednesday?
me: wednesday is dinner and beers at the bohemian with vix and pennilicious.
you: i'm afraid to ask about thursday?
me: oh! that might be pizza night. but if pizza night ends up being tuesday, then i'll probably be free thursday.
you: great!
me: only, i'd need to stay home and rest and clean house and catch up on bills that night. how about friday then?
you: friday was the only night next week that i have plans.
*awkward silence*
me: right. sorry.
when did this happen, kids? this is not an exercise to prove how many friends i have. au contraire - these are plans with all the same people. nor is it proof that my friends are more friendly than most. the point of this is - when did i start making social plans a week in advance? when did it occur to me that i really could use a palm pilot because it's getting kind of confusing trying to remember exactly when and where i'm meeting with whom. nor is it a matter of being filthy stinking rich - all of next week has to be done on less that $50, methinks.
it's that ... i'm growing up! i remember my mother doing this stuff, y'all. i remember listening to her conversations as i played at her feet, or waited for permission to go outside. perfumed, liltingly musical conversations she had with her ubiquitous circle of woman friends, conversations like oh, well, i know janettommichaelcarolsydney are coming over to my place thursday, and then the oliveiras are having a cocktail party on friday, but let's do saturday brunch!
and now, as i traverse wires of communication with my various clusters of friends - email, IM, telephones, texting - i realize i'm doing it to. i no longer rely on stumbling out of bed and finding someone to play with. in this big city, with our harried lives, we have all started doing this without really realizing what's happening. college kids don't have social calendars. adults do.
we're all turning into.... adults.