seven

I went to work today (you'll notice how I just went), so in order to keep myself occupied, I've been randomly posting on the hour, little tidbits of nonsense counting down to midnight.

As you can imagine, I have better things to do now that I'm home. Like take a bathtub bath, drink a glass of wine, read Bill Bryson, and wait for the boys to return home and show me what they (hopefully) (finally) managed to purchase.

Then I'm going to slip into a pretty black dress and a strand of pearls and go kiss all my friends a lot, and drink kir royales, and celebrate my first married new year's eve.

For you, yes you, wherever you are:

nine

For the past two days, Stuart and Dave and James have been meaning to shop for clothes and wallets.

For the past two days, I have offered suggestions of stores depending on the neighborhood they're in.

For the past two days, they have ALL UTTERLY FAILED TO MAKE A SINGLE FUCKING PURCHASE.

For the past two days, I've rued the fact that I'm sitting in my office, CONSPICUOUSLY NOT CONSUMING while three hopelessly lovely but easily distractable men wander the city, apparently pre-programmed to be unable to shop without a woman (ME) dragging them around and pointing out stuff for them to spend money on.

For the past two days, in other words, I've been seething with shop fever while the three of them refuse to buy shiny new things. I mean, we actually just had the following conversation:

"Have you bought anything yet?"
"Erm, no! But we just had hot dogs at grey's papaya!"
"But there's a Gap RIGHT NEXT DOOR with ENORMOUS SALES going on!"
"Where, right next door?"
"Well, three blocks DOWN, whatever."
"Three blocks down is not right next door."
"IT IS IF YOU HAVE GAP RADAR."

Someone's going to come in here and revoke my Woman Card soon, I just know it.

ten

Here's the thing about broccoli that I don't like: it feels like I'm eating small trees. And that disturbs the natural order of things, doesn't it, a human being eating a tree. It should be the other way around.

Lucky for us, trees are vegetarians. I respect that.

twelve

Once, last December? There was a coat I really wanted. But I knew if I bought it, I'd be eating ramen and borrowing $20 bucks off Biscuit for cigarette money.

So, in a move that stunned the peanut gallery and made most American financial institutions sit upright and take serious stock of their marketing techniques, I didn't buy the coat. AND GODDAMNIT WAS I PISSED.

That remains, until twelve days ago, the only time in the history of ever that I have denied myself something.

Twelve days ago, I started denying myself cigarettes. THIS IS THE HARDEST THING I HAVE EVER DONE, and it makes me really wish I'd bought that coat, just to balance out the universe.

Because, look, hedonists like me shouldn't make willpower a habit, okay?

thirteen

The bad thing about mornings is that (because Stuart and I spend most of the night sleeping unattached, only waking up briefly to re-blanket each other or grouse about our lack of blanket, depending on the mood) the first thing i do is snuggle into the crook of his arm and throw my leg over his, and that's precisely the time of day when I can't stay there for hours like I always want to because seriously (and you'll have to believe me because I won't let you try it, not for long anyway) it's the most comfortable place in the history of ever.

But the best thing about nights is when we're both really tired until we get into bed and then we somehow spend an hour laughing and talking and I usually try and do something crazy like lick my elbow and Stuart usually tries to blow a raspberry on my cheek, something he's not very good at but it's so charming when he tries anyway.

So it's a trade-off.

closet doors

There's a part of my life I'm not proud of. It was my junior year in college. I started smoking, listening to Radiohead, and taking lonesome drives up the Taconic Parkway. All at the same time, mind you. It was like I was having my sullen teenage years too late, and too close to alcohol and melancholic college music.

The thing was, I was really insecure for the first time in my life. I was in a lot of pain about myself and my goals. It suddenly occurred to me, with misguided but somewhat philosophically cold logic, that I had absolutely no proof that I was special or talented or worthy at all. So the simple solution was that if I had no proof of my brilliance and importance, the exact opposite must hold true. Flawed but emotionally deadly logic.

Apparently, some people call that depression. I had never really been so unsure of myself and so adrift, so I didn't know the symptoms, or the cures. I didn't reach out to the people I should have, and I looked for acceptance in all the wrong faces. Hell, I started smoking because being in a room with people I thought were better than me was painful, and smoking created a cool zone around me.

Beyond that, I was a pain in the ass. Always moping. Always questioning myself, rarely sticking up for my first instincts. Always bowing to other people's selfish needs as a sick way of becoming indispensable. In case you want to try it, it doesn't work. No one respects you, least of all you.

At the end of that year, I went home to my family, and to the friends I'd known for years, and I remember feeling like I'd just sobered up from a nightmare drug trip with heartache instead of dancing bears.

But not before I'd formed an ill-thought-out friendship with someone much farther down the path of destruction that I was dallying with. And while her emotional problems are not my blog-fodder, the closeness I created with her impacted my own insecurities and shakiness. And when I cut that friendship off, after waking up from my idiocy, I knew that while none of my angst was her fault, the lies and manipulation certainly hadn't helped.

I don't think about that period of my life more than I have to. As far as depression and self-destruction go, I'll admit it was a toe dipped in the pond of what other people have gone through. But for me, it was hard. For me, it was out of character and saddening. It doesn't mesh with the person I was before, and the person I am. It was something I needed to go through, but not something I trot out at parties. It's a closet, if you will. There, but closed.

So last night, when I saw her face for the first time at a mutual friend's concert, a lot of unwelcome little pieces tumbled out of that closet door. I saw her sitting at the end of the bar as I left, husband and friends in tow. None of them, of course, knew her. None of them saw us lock eyes, none of them saw what caught in my throat, or knew why I dashed out the front doors without waiting for them to pick their way through the crowd.

But when I said her name to Stuart, when he saw my face, I think he understood where I went. How far back in time my mind traveled, and how hard it was to see that version of myself crop up unbidden. I felt a little shaky, like I'd seen a ghost. I needed something to pull me back into this life I have now, that I work for and protect and cherish.

So he took my hand and held it a little more firmly than usual as we walked to the subway, to go home together.

goobye mister briscoe

I wanted to write something profound about the end of the year, about having Stuart's best mates visiting, about the sex of the angels, about cabbages and kings and pigs and their wings.

But I can't, because Jerry Orbach died and it's really depressing. Not depressing in the way that your parent dying is, or the earthquakes and floods in Asia, or even cat cancer. Just depressing in the way that every time I watch his awesome craggy face on TV, I'll think, "Goodbye, Lennie."

So goodbye, Lennie. May God be your patient bartender and may you never be hungover in heaven. And may you always wear that trenchcoat.

how to be an idiot in ten easy steps

1. Go to Bank #1, withdraw Large Sum of Money, leaving Small Sum of Money (X) in the account. Proceed three blocks to Bank #2, to deposit large sum of money.

2. Throw first class hissy fit at Bank #2 when it is revealed that you've been overcharged because Bank #2's website doesn't update fast enough. Get nice frightened teller to recompensate the fee. Fume a little more, know deep down that if account was balanced and spending monitored, it wouldn't happen.

3. Go back to office, have lunch, consider doing work.

4. Freak out to biblical proportions when you remember that a Very Important Check you sent last Thursday to the Powers That Be at the INS was from Bank #1, in the amount of X + 10. Bank Account #1 is TEN DOLLARS SHORT. PTB/INS will be cashing that check any minute now. Yell a lot of curse words in head and run out of office.

5. Run to Bank #1, go to ATM to withdraw All Important Cash Blanket from Bank #2. Realize Bank #2 ATM card is sitting pretty on office desk. CURSE A LOT MORE.

6. Run three blocks to Bank #2 and withdraw money from teller.

7. Run BACK to Bank #1, fall on ice, CURSE ENOUGH TO FRIGHTEN SMALL CHILDREN AND OTHER FRAIL PASSERSBY.

7a. Desperately crave cigarette.

8. Get to Bank #1, run to counter, fill out deposit form. Nearly slaughter clerk with counter pen when he explains that for the first time in six years with Bank #1, they want an update of customer information and it must be done BEFORE any more teller transactions. Realize slaughtering pen is attached to counter. Get very red in face. VERY RED INDEED.

9. Get saved by nice bank manager who sees telltale homicidal signs and walks you through the update process, offers to personally switch your home bank from Westchester to NYC, and deposits All Important Cash Blanket into Bank Account #1, thus saving self and husband from the embarassment of having a check bounce at the INS.

10. Walk slowly back to office, out of breath, and sit down at desk, wondering what it is you DO here when you're not averting personal crises by running all over midtown. Eat chocolate. LOTS OF CHOCOLATE.

may your hearts be light

I think my least favourite moment this Christmas actually was on Christmas Eve, when Stuart and I were at the mall and I was frantically searching for a decent black skirt and Stuart managed to leave the department store we were in and go to Lenscrafters and return to me without me even noticing he was missing, so dark and deep is my depravity and mindlessness when it comes to shopping. I mean, LENSCRAFTERS. That's like, four stores away. And I didn't even NOTICE.

I think my most favourite moment this Christmas was actually on St. Stephen's Day, or Boxing Day, or Jesus Christ Let's Return All These Presents Day. We had to postpone our return trip to New York because we tried to head south on I-95 and we only traveled about twenty miles in an hour thanks to the snow, and my knuckles were white on the steering wheel. So we turned back and our spirits lifted and my father went out for groceries for dinner and then Stuart and I bundled up like pillbugs and tried to make a snowman on the front lawn, but the snow was too powdery. So instead, I made a snow angel and Stuart pegged me square in the back with a snowball but it was okay because I'd pegged him in the butt first. Dad took a picture of us, and it looks like we're inside a snowglobe. And then we went inside, down to the basement, where we hung out in our underwear while our jeans tumbled round in the dryer. And then we went back upstairs, snuggled into warm clothes, and my mother had just finished making her famous bolognese sauce and we drank hot chocolate and ate two plates each of warming pasta. And then we played cards with my parents and almost beat them but their combined fifty years of experience triumphed so we lost, but it was alright because that night we fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms, swaddled in new comfy pyjamas.

And even though we forgot to sing "GOOD KING WENCESLAS" (it's so much fun to make "FUEL" three entire syllables long, I can barely contain myself from doing it all the time), and even though Christmas itself was over, it was one of the best nights of our lives.

today is the shortest day of the year

Year end is a time for gathering thoughts, for wrapping up plot lines and summing up themes. Unfortunately, at this blog, year end is a time for slowly fizzling your way to vacation days without saying anything of merit or summation. Here at pH, instead of giving you thoughtful insight on 2004 (what more do you want, anyway, it rocked the face right off my face), we post stupid pictures of growing plants and crow about our lovely home life.

Well, I'm not going to pretend that I'm about to post anything of merit, but I WILL post a picture that is neither my plant nor my home life. I like to call it:

Rash Decision Bangs

How do you know if you, too, have Rash Decision Bangs?

1. You take a pair of scissors to your hair sometime in between the last episode of Blackadder Goes Forth and the Richard Curtis interview in the Special Features.

2. You have to ask your husband/partner/roommate/pet halfway DURING the Rash Decision Bang Cutting Process if they agreed, because you asked so en passant that you can't even remember what they said.

3. Your husband/partner/roommate/pet simply agrees and says they're sure it looks great, mostly because you're holding scissors and doing something rash.

4. Your cutting method goes something like this: "HMMM... THIS one. And.... THIS one. Oooh, I missed THAT - woops, shouldn't have cut that one ... well..." and so on and so forth.

and the last indicator that you have given yourself Rash Decision Bangs* ....

5. You spend ten ENTIRE minutes at your desk with a digital camera, trying to SIMULTANEOUSLY a. take a picture of yourself that makes the R.D.B. look MUCH COOLER than they really are which isn't easy seeing as how they look like crap on a stick most of the day except for in this picture when they look cool, and b. convince yourself that you're not one of Those People that takes too many arms-length self portraits and puts them all over your website. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

*which originally were named "Cool, Edgy, Longish Sweeping, Meant To Distract Me From Giving Up Old Terrible But Delicious Habits Which I Will Not Discuss Here Yet Because I Don't Want To Jinx Anything But If You Notice The Bangs And The Habit-Quitting Happened On The Same Day Because Without My Habit I Feel Really Square and Vanilla So I Had To Cut Myself Some Bangs Because Bangs Equal Edgy Bangs" but had to be renamed for they are neither Cool Nor Edgy.)

week two

Just in case you care.

merry christmas, baby

By the time Stuart reads this, he will have had his Christmas surprise. But for now, he's on a train speeding home under the city, and he doesn't yet know that I've made him a criss-cross-topped mincemeat pie and poured out two glasses of Bristol Cream sherry, all waiting for him on a red candlelit table next to Margo, our Christmas tree. I'm even wearing my snowflake underroos. It's all waiting for him, as a gift for his first Christmas away from old Blighty.

But my lambkins, I couldn't help telling you. Now, can you keep a secret? Shh...

brown thumb no more

You may not think the following picture looks like much, but to me, it's provided at least eight minutes of joy:

See, two weeks ago, when moving one cubicle over (now with 70% more window!), I found a little package that someone in the company had sent over as a new job gift, two years ago. It was a tiny clay pot, a packet of seeds, and three soil pods. I've been feeling nurturing lately - winter and marriage seem a lethally domestic combination - so all misgivings to the contrary vis a vis my accidentally genocidal nature when it comes to plants, I decided to plant the little guys and see what happened.

And here we are, two weeks later. I've been watering the pot every few days or so from an Evian bottle (only the best) and cooing to my little seedlings. Okay, fine, I didn't coo, and it's Poland Springs. But my half-assed attempt at giving life has succeeded! For you see above you, malgre tous ma genocidal tendencies to the contrary, I have MADE PLANT.

But, um, before anyone goes and enrolls me in the Responsible Horticulturalist of the Month club, please keep in mind that the above picture is roughly TWICE the size of the actual clay pot and, well, Christmas is coming up. I'll leave for a week and it'll have plunged from the 43rd floor leaving behind a note scrawled in soil and tears. I'm just sayin', is all.

you'd better not pout, you'd better not cry

I'm more excited about Christmas this year than I've ever been. Obviously, because of Stuart. Last year, I didn't even put up a tree (even after all that). But this year, I'm going all out. I brought home some of my favourite childhood decorations from my parents' tree, which would have been a solemn, meaningful occasion except my parents don't really hold with that crap so it was more like, "mom, can I take this one?" "sure!".

Tonight, Stuart and I will decorate our first tree together. We'll hang the stockings, we'll drink hot cocoa, and we'll probably break a few baubles. We might even watch Bill Murray as the Best Ebeneezer Ever, in Scrooged. We'll wrap the tree with twinkly white lights, we'll decide what centerpiece to use for the dining room table, we'll light candles and simply stare at our tree for a few hours.

Along the same lines of Christmas Joy, I've done all my shopping for the year. It's so exciting that I've managed to do well this year, to get everyone lovely gifts, that I can barely contain myself from telling you, and I can't tell you, because half the people that read this site are the recepients. But it's so exciting! I'm getting Stuart a salfjadlskfjf and then a hppgnskjdef, which I know he'll like. I'm also making a sakjfq2weioq for him, on wspetowietwnkd. For my mom and dad, it's akjdasdhla and I managed to find skjfnsdf og aksjd aldkal, which they may not even realize they want but when they see it, they will. For my brother, skfjnsdf aj akdjsahds.

For the People Who Sleep With Men, it's a round of slkjdnhfs in really nice skejtrsfdmk, when they come over for spiced wine and the original claymation of Rudolph. For Erin, far away in Texas, as a Festivus gift, I'm sending ksajfsfasda, which she's positively going to flip over. All in all, I'm really happy with what I've giving - it's the best part of the holiday, isn't it? Knowing that one small trinket, no matter how inexpensive, that your loved one wants or needs? Seeing that smile? Merry Christmas, indeed.

So today, my Christmas officially begins. Homewards I go, dear friends. To lights! To pine! To sparkle and stars! To childhood ornaments ... and new ones! To marriage, to christmas, to you.

Hurrah!

comfort

If you can think of a better way to spend your evening than coming home to a warm loving husband and a warm filling stew pot of baked potato soup, watching the Peanuts Christmas Special, playing a rousing hint-heavy game of Trivial Pursuit and tuning in to an all new Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, well,

I'll eat my hat.

But not the nice green one, please. It was a present.

the pr machine (and other unrelated news)

I rarely say anything about my job here, because I'm wary of that. But this isn't about my job. This is about people from PR companies that call, because of my job. And they call alot. Because they want to know if they can pitch us their stuff.

I don't begrudge them this. It is their job to pitch us stuff and see if we catch it. What drives me absolutely batshit insane, though, is when, for the sake of politeness and possibly even a PIQUE of interest, I say, "sure, we might be interested in that for our next project", and for the following two months, I get a weekly call from the same person at the same PR agency just trying to "sort of touch base with you" and "get a feel for" whether "you're still interested in our ________ and whether you want maybe to meet the _________ and can I possibly sort of send you _________ for the __________ and basically, yeah, touch base!" and the only polite thing to do in this situation is nod, say, "OK, yeah, I'm not sure yet, but thanks for the update!"

When what I really want to say is "STOP TOUCHING MY BASE AND FEELING ME OUT."

On a completely different note, you don't have to tell me that I'm reading too much Lemony Snicket. I know. Do you know how I know? Because I totally saw this dude outside my building,

smoking a cigar, and I thought to myself, "That's totally a PHASE TWO DISGUISE." Then I took a picture of him for the file entitled "Trenchcoat Wearing Associates comma Olaf's".

See? I know.

what this world is coming to

Sitting at my computer, my eyes were growing very dry indeed from staring at the screen shopping for christmas gifts hard at work. So I opened my side drawer, took out a bottle of rewetting drops, and effortlessly plopped them into my upturned unblinking eyes.

And then I nearly had a heart attack.

Not because a spider fell out of the bottle, which would certainly be heart-attack-inducing, but simply because I'D JUST PUT DROPS IN MY EYE WITHOUT THROWING A FIRST-CLASS HISSY FIT. Since when am I this grown up? Since when do I not shrink and scream at the sight of any single thing eyeball-related except my own finger plucking in my contacts?

What else is this newly-grown-up side of me going to start doing? Patiently wait in lines? Keep in touch with faraway old relatives? Heavens forfend, will I start FLOSSING? Or possibly EATING BROCCOLI (or at least having a valid excuse for not liking broccoli and "they look like little trees" isn't valid)? Having SAVINGS!?

I mean, I realize that I have a JOB and I actually GO to it, which counts towards grown-up-hood, but this has gone too far.

I'm going to go stand in the freezing cold without my MITTENS, THANKS.

And in closing,

PPHHBTBTBTBTB.

lazy sundays

I don't think I've had so much fun doing sweet fuck-all in a long time. And sweet fuck-all is exactly what we did today after a hectic week and a hectic Saturday in which Stuart and I set up our new office, thanks to my stellar parents and their early Christmas gift of a shiny new futon.

Now, it's important to note that this lazy Sunday was spent predominantly in our new office (JEN IF YOU SO MUCH AS THINK THE WORD NURSERY I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU I DON'T CARE IF YOU ARE IN FRANCE). It may seem odd for this office-working girl to spend all day in an office, but not if your office looks like this. All afternoon and well into the night, Stuart and I contented ourselves writing our wedding-gift thank-you notes, wrapping Christmas presents, playing around with iTunes, knitting (me, not Stuart) and other such sundry. All in our lovely new office.

Oh, and by "sundry", I mean, making an absolute photographic mess of the floor and also,
playing the Stack New Pillows On Your Head Game.

A Sunday well spent, I think.

how quoting buffy will get you laid

Stuart: "One of the jobs I just applied for requested 305 years experience. GOD I hate vamp towns."

YEAH BABY. And he's ALL MINE.

and GUAM!

This morning I realized that for three days now, I've walked to my office listening to The Decemberists, The Divine Comedy, and Snow Patrol respectively. This makes me an INDIE TOOL.

Luckily, along with all the INDIE TOOLALITY on my ipod, I also have Yakko Warner singing the Nations of the World. Some of my dignity has been restored.

Speaking of music, I'm making a holiday mix CD because I'm a sappy pile of cheez. What's your favourite holiday song?

oh, the weather outside is frightful...

... but in here, it's so delightful.

As you can tell, there's a slightly new look about the place. I threw it up because while I loved my pink banner, I was starting to feel like the Pink Panther's Hideout. So I've gone red and green on you.

Of course, those of you with Safari are still in visual pain. I'm sure you can't even read this. Rest assured, I'm planning on dealing with it soon. If not soon, then when dave is in town. Conveniently. Heh.

Lastly, the gallery I pointed you to weeks ago has been slightly revamped, and exists as a general petit Hiboux gallery now. Or, as it's known in only the best of circles, L'Hibouxography. Enjoy.

And for now, I'm about to rush downstairs, hug Stuart a lot, and traipse off to Atlantic Avenue to meet up with the Tribe for hot cocoa, a Christmas Tree Lighting, and lots of hugs and laughter.

O, Winter! How well you're treating me this year!

Dear Gang of Pigeons:

You thought you could ruin my lunch break by clustering around a lamppole and remaining VERY STILL INDEED so that I didn't notice you until I was 4 feet away from the feathery mass of you, and then you'd fly up into my face.

Because you KNEW I'd shriek like myself-ten-years-ago and run backwards down the sidewalk flapping my arms in fear.

What you DIDN'T predict is that I'd have a husband, armed with an enormous black umbrella which he deftly OPENED AND CLOSED in your disgusting beaky faces until you all flew away.

Plan thwarted this time, Pigeons. This time.... I WIN.

Sincerely,

Krissa