This Was An Honest-to-God Email* I Wrote This Morning**

Thanksgiving was awesome and it was all family-like with laughy stuff and really good food and then also my parents bought stuart and i a really nice futon for our office and then we went to the fabric store where stuart had NEVER been (to a fabric store at all, not THAT one) and we bought cool textually***-exciting fabrics for the cover and the pillow and also we put up our tree and took lots of pictures and i finally found the overlook-providence park that i'd been ranting about to stuart because it was on CONGDON not PROSPECT stupid me and then also we watched old videos from high school and i got to see a video of the day we brought kirby**** home back in 1996 and it was so cute i totally CRIED and then what else let me think oh yeah we saw HP3 with my parents and i talked to them about graduate school next year and they thought it was cool and we got two new frying pans and an awesome coffee maker from target (from our neighbors) only i was having growing pains from changing from the old one because this one has a small design flaw when you pour the water into the chamber and sometimes it spills and even THOUGH it's pretty and stainless steel and made us coffee at 8:10 this morning thanks to the timer (HOLY CRAP KATE A TIMER) i still almost cried when we sent the old one home to RI because i've had it for six years and i'm very attached to it and i cursed the name of the new one and told it i'd never love it as much as the old one but of course i do especially because it made me coffee this morning when i was so dog-tired because i absolutely HAD to stay up and watch A Few Good Men on TV until two AM because jack nicholson rocks my face off in that movie and also because i was knitting a new scarf that is GRAY and the woman at the fabric store taught me how to make them so that they DON'T ROLL which is pretty exciting and....

yeah. I think that's it.

*yes, i'm feeling just lazy enough to reprint an email instead of writing a separate blog post. yes, that's disgusting.

A Turkey's Greater Purpose

Every year, I like to think that turkeys look forward to today as much as we do. I like to believe that turkeys are born with the innate sense that they have a lofty goal ... to be deliciously browned, buttered, and stuffed for our pleasure. Perhaps turkeys have special workout routines they do, to make themselves the most delicious butterballs they can be. Maybe they have Turkey TV equivalents of our US Army commercials ... BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE.

Which makes me feel pretty bad for the turkey that gets pardoned by the president. I mean, that pardon has got to be a badge of shame in a community of turkeys that understand their purpose in life. What do the pardoned turkeys do, once all their fellow butterballs have shuffled off that mortal coil? Do they sit around, in the Playground for Presidentially Pardoned Pariahs, watch movies about their missed calling, and sob into their feathers? Do they give depressing bios of their fellow cast-offs to newcomers?

I can imagine one old geezer, his beak wrinkled with age, saying, "Nash was pardoned in '92. He figures that the fact that the humans didn't eat him is proof that he IS a human. Now he walks around in those ridiculous pants, trying to convince the keepers that there's been some horrible mix-up, and he's supposed to go with them."

Pointing (do turkeys point? or do they just nod in the right direction?), "Over there's Bubsy. He was pardoned back in '85. Now he just stares at that wall all day long. He sleeps facing the wall. He eats facing the wall. Delightful conversationalist, though!" and, "That's Bartleby. He's the oldest one here, pardoned in '79. Figures that he can't die. He used to try, dunking his head in the water trough, choking on corn. Now he thinks he's some kind of zen master. Trying to convince us all that we're eternal. Says the ones that do die just never believed in themselves."

Yes. It's a nice thought that turkeys are aware that they exist to please us. Except for the pardoned ones, poor suckers. Let's do them a service, troop over to their old folks' home, and eat them all today. We could have signs, outside the White House: "Eat a Pardoned Turkey, Save a Turkey's Dignity!" It'd be really moving. We could get Susan Sarandon to be our celebrity spokesperson - she's always looking for a cause.

But if you don't have time for Turkey Activism, just remember, as you suck on the skin of a delighted turkey while his gobbling little soul looks on above... you've made one turkey the kind of man he's always wanted to be.

And if this entry makes you want to vomit a little in your mouth, well, you're probably a vegan.

This entry brought to you courtesy of my sick mind, the powers of rationalization, a strange conversation with Jason, the Butterball Corporation, and the letter T.

Dear Stuart:

Last Thursday marked one month of our marriage (that 30-day risk-free trial period is over, buddy) and eight months of knowing each other. So, that's, what, seven months and 28 days of being in love? Not bad, so far, huh?

People who read this blog are pretty sick of this stuff by now (or they can't get enough, the sappy freaks) but the thing is, I'm not. Last night, we were coming home from celebrating Jen's birthday, and I was flipping through the evening's pictures, and you were playing snooker on my cell phone. And I remember you asked me what I was thinking. I said something about printing photographs, but moments later I started thinking about what kind of photograph we'd make, right there, playing with our toys.

See, I remember riding the subway and seeing couples doing their own thing and thinking, "man, they've got nothing to talk about, together?" and I think I get it now. We've got plenty to talk about. On Saturday night, we tried to sit on our respective arm chairs and read our books but you ended up explaining that gravity funnel to me. I learned it, remember? And a few weeks ago, we stayed up laughing for about an hour because you innocently mentioned something about people not being able to lick their elbows and I spent ten minutes in the bed, contorting myself and getting cramps from laughing, but I finally managed to get my tongue within an inch of my elbow. We scared people at the perimeter of the Central Park Zoo because we were laughing so loud about God making animals when he was soused ("How's the sea lion going to get AROUND, God?" "TAXI").

We've got so much to talk about, sometimes I get frustrated that the hours of the day are limited. But last night, coming home after an evening with friends, after kissing a lot on the extra-wide sidewalks (made for kissing), we were quite happy to flip through pictures or beat cellphones at inane games.

Because when we got home, like we've done for so many other nights in the past two months, I ended up sitting in your lap with my arms around your neck, talking odds and sods until past midnight.

And of all the great things about marriage - cool extra money on my paycheck every month being the least of them - I think that's what I've liked the best, so far. That we've talked about how we both get soppy at angel-movies, even though we're strict atheists. That I can say a boy's name and you know that I'm referring to the fact that we can't think of one we both like (cmon, what is WRONG with SIRIUS?!). That I know all the places you want to go before you die, and you know mine (um, but I'm telling you, you're doing Ethiopia on your own).

We've talked. That's the absolute greatest thing we've done for these eight months. And the more we talk, the more it all makes sense, the more that intuition I had back in March proves itself true. You've honored me by being my husband, Stuart, but the most amazing thing you've been this first month of marriage ... is my best friend.

I love you with all my schmoopy, squealy, thing-I-do-with-my-voice-when-I-really-need-to-hug-you-super-hard heart,

Krissa

This is the Tribe...

... just in case your night was somehow lacking in smiling friendly faces.

wherein all color names get capital letter treatment because it's just that kind of day

I think it was at some point in the paint store when we were deciding between THE RAPTURE and FLAMING SWORD that I realized the Baby Jesus was NOT going to be supportive of our office paint job.

We went with THE RAPTURE (which I will now refer to as WHORE OF BABYLON RED just to carry on the apocalyptic theme) after a muted but urgent discussion where words like "looks like a tomato" and "is that hooker red?" were bandied about.

But the real kicker of the evening was having to prime the walls with COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK, because my prior roommate (NOT the Kate) had chosen to paint that room ELECTRIC ACID LILAC. Now people, you know I love pink. I love all shades of pink. I'm particularly fond of BALLET SLIPPER PINK, as well as NEON WATERMELON PINK, without forgetting SUNSET CLOUDS PINK. But from now on, there's a shade of pink roaming the secret world under my bright red walls known as COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK, and people, that is so not cool with me.

And there was a moment, when half the walls in our office were ELECTRIC ACID LILAC and the other half were already painted COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK and we had two buckets of WHORE OF BABYLON RED at our feet and I seriously started to question our sanity.

Luckily, my Roller-ific husband covered the COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK* before all the eggs in my ovaries died of mortification at the thought of ever being clad in that color, and soon enough, the only memory of that vomitously girly experience was the one dab of paint still on his cheek.

* Here's the thing about that COLOR. The Seemingly Helpful And Trustworthy But Really Evil Guy at the Paint Counter at Home Depot told us we'd need TWO GALLONS of the COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK to prime our 10x20x9 ft room with ONE COAT which is obviously completely CRAP and now we have a completely unopened gallon can of COTTON CANDY VOMIT PINK which in case you're wondering looks a lot like THIS.

give me a call, man. Have I got the CAN OF PAINT FOR YOU.

Haters

If I see one more person using their blog to personally attack Heather and then mask it under "critical analysis" of "The New York Times" or "female bloggers" - I AM TURNING THIS INTERNET AROUND AND GOING HOME.

To put it more succinctly, I'm starting to think my mother was wrong. She said, "If you can't think of something kind to say, don't say anything at all," a policy I've tried to observe (except for the infamous RNC rant) here on this site. Apparently, it's much hipper as, "If you can't think of something kind to say, blog about it."

What a shame.

Beating a Dead Horse with Apostrophes

I could barely contain myself from running inside and ripping the sign off the wall, and then poking the man in the face with his excess punctuation.

It Always Comes Down To..

... The Troika. I'm sure you're all sick of our arms-length pictures. God knows I have more than I know what to do with and have to maintain a very organized Pictures file, with myriad sub-folders, to account for all the images titled the-troika.jpg.

But I never get sick of this. "These are my girls, yo", as Shiv would say. And last night, at her engagement party, we were still her girls. We may be drifting, two-thirds-like, to married life... but these are still my girls. YO.

In Case You're Worried It's All Puppies and Nosegays

My marriage to Stuart has caused one blistering area of pain in my life: I was forced to read the Television Without Pity recap of last week's The O.C. because I just cannot bring myself to watch that festering tripe* in front of my sensitive, intelligent, newly-minted husband.

Yet.

*For the record, I fucking love that festering tripe with every cubic inch of my disgusting little heart.

Too Little, Too Late

Leave it to Metro to publish a small AP article on page 3 about Arafat's failing health.

The day after he died.

Ah, Journalism.

Odds, meet Sods

Doing: Korean dumplings and The Incredibles (tonight), joining the Tribe to help a friend move (tomorrow morning), cheering at the Marathon's oft-neglected Queens section and celebrating Stuart's one-month-in-NYC by going up the Empire State Building (Sunday).

Reading: Paul Theroux's Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town, as well as Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events: Books the First, Second, and Third, and New York Magazine.

Planning to: clean the house this weekend, learn how to make hot cocoa from scratch, paint our office a cheery bright red, knit a hat, throw a Christmas party, and figure out how to make a toga look sexy for someone's upcoming Fall of the Empire Party.

What are you up to, dearlings?

Giving the Smile

I walked out of my building at 6:30, two hours earlier than yesterday's departure, and it must have shown on my face.

"Hey, lady, don't frown! You got that nice marriage to go home to!"

That was Leslie. He's the friendliest guard in my building and a few weeks ago, he saw the new glint of gold on my left hand. I smiled, a little buoyed.

But the niggling rain between the office and the subway dragged the corners of my mouth down, like it dipped my head nearly to my collarbone to avoid the umbrella warfare and the cold. I ran down into the station, thinking I'd picked a bad day to wear three inch stiletto boots. I stopped to get chocolate from my subway vendor because I firmly agree with Lupin - chocolate solves almost everything.

The vendor, he knows I only buy chocolate at the end of very long days. "Hey," he says in that great Indian accent, "you gotta smile. I saw you with husband, that's good thing! You got lots to smile about!" I laughed and smiled - and I meant it.

As I trudged home through the shining droplets now coating the hairs on my wool coat, I saw Vibert, outside Dominic's Liquors, having a smoke break. I said, "Hi, Vibert," like I always do, because Vibert knows which wines I like and he always finds me the least expensive bottle of whatever is grabbing my fancy.

"Hey, there, girl. Rushing home to that husband?" And again. I smiled. I laughed, even. Because rain can be pretty annoying. And spending overtime in the office can really get a girl down. But I got a warm hug, a couch rundown of the day, a lot of kisses, and a Trivial Pursuit game to look forward to. Suddenly the rain is cozy.

And whoever said New Yorkers are rude, unfriendly strangers ... well, they never walked a few rainy blocks in these three-inch stilettos.

Cupcakes and Cosmos for Consolations or Congratulations

Here at petit hiboux, in this hour of Concession, we offer to our Comrades, the Consolation of a Cupcake. And we offer, with Class, to our Competitors, the Congratulations of a Cosmopolitan.

Consume whatever you need to get through today. And remember we love you.

Dictionary of Disappointment

It seems ____________ turned out to mean:

mirth·less (adj): a. lacking mirth b. devoid of gladness and gaiety. "Around midnight, Democrats all over the country were rapt with mirthless attention, watching the once-near tally slide further and further apart like so many continental drifts."

de·ject·ed (adj): cast down in spirits, see: depressed. "Even the litter on the streets of Brooklyn looked dejected, lazily sliding under the wheels of passing traffic as the wind kicked it around. "

in·con·sol·able (adj): incapable of being consoled. "It was with an inconsolable heart that I finally dragged myself to bed at two AM."

asjdhf·iwurfn·lzdkfd·sdjkfdf (adj): used to describe anything that is too painful or complicated to enunciate into words, see: babbling incoherency. "After last night's asjdhfiwurfnlzdkfdsdjkfdf election and this asjdhfiwurfnlzdkfdsdjkfdf day, i'm going home to have some asjdhfiwurfnlzdkfdsdjkfdf hot cocoa and asjdhfiwurfnlzdkfdsdjkfdf* my husband." *slang: anything else you want it to mean.

The Perfect Palliative for Politics,

or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Election Night

Take:

3 (three) good friends
+
1 relative newcomer to the process

Gather in same room. Mix with:

1 bottle of Vodka + 1 bottle of Jameson's + 1 bottle of red wine + several packs of cigarettes + 1 huge TV showing Jon Stewart + 1 couch named Klaus + 1 cat named Nellie

When sufficiently stirred and baked, send to:

1 bar to watch California roll in.

Top with: held hands, buried faces in necks, shrieks of joy/sorrow, suggested drinking games involving Hated CNN Anchors And Their Hideous Ties/Hairdos, and/or celebratory/condolence kisses.

Send home to bed, drunk and ____________.

Get Out and ...

Everyone's blogging about the vote. So, since I'm apparently SO contrarian (thanks, Seastreet) I'm not going to. I will say, however, that for every ten blogs that simply (albeit somewhat justifiably) rails against Bush for being 1. evil 2. made of robot parts and/or 3. actually missing a frontal lobe, there will always be a few that carefully dissect, level-headedly, the choice presented to us, and pen their opinions with the kind of straightforward integrity I often find lacking in "real" journalism.

I've said it before - it's the majority of political rants that stop me from reading political blogs. But it's small minority of bloggers like Bryan Adams that remind me how well-crafted the written opinion can be. So for your Vote Day kicks...

Go read Why You Cannot Vote for Bush*. And then go vote. For whichever candidate you think most fit to run this country.

And I mean that. Whichever. Just vote.

*I link to Bryan's entry because I think for all the Bush-bashing going around the web (of which there is a fair amount), it's one of the better-written endeavors. This doesn't mean that there isn't Kerry-bashing going around the web. I just don't regularly read it (again, due to my usual lack of interest in political blogs) so I don't have anything to show you. This appreciation of Bryan's writing is strictly my personal opinion and in no way indicates that you should vote for Kerry or thus be condemned by me. I give this caveat because I am sick to the back teeth of getting slammed in my own comment box for expressing political views so please read this as merely a nod to a fellow writer, and if you hate it, and me, don't bloody fucking read it. Thanks!

Calling All Geeks

Look, I took the Geek Test, okay? And I scored a meagre 18.9%. I realize that I was very proud of having redesigned this site all on my own.

But there comes a time in every girl's life when she admits... I don't understand why Safari hates me. When the redesign first went up, Safari didn't recognize a change in the text-body template. Now, it doesn't recognize a background block of white. Simply put, all my text is twice the normal size, on a striped background, and aligned left. Simply put, it's making me crazy.

Biscuit and I keep meaning to take a good, hard look at why. It works in Mozilla. It works in IE. But it won't work in Safari. Until we have the chance, in our busy social schedules, to gather around the warming glow of a Mac screen and tinker with Safari...

any of you super-smart eggheads have a good idea why? If you're in Safari and you know your 1s from your 0s, please have a squint at my source code. If you can solve it before Biscuit and I do, I'll enlist the aide of my Newly Minted Husband to make a splendiferously indie-geek mix for you, and drop it in the mail.

Thanks, peaches!