back in business

oh, huzzah, huzzah! i, little slave to technology girl, am back among the world of the en-cel phoned. it came in the mail today. it's the size of a brick in comparison to my last phone, but hey. such is life.

i am out of the woods of incommunicadoness!

yeeeeeeeeaaaaaah.

i've even already got it set up to play 'sweet child o'mine" when it rings.

spring loaded ghetto booty!

i've been undergoing a rather disturbing spate of neighborhood loyalty of late. really, it's getting kind of out of hand. in particular, i seem to have built up this kind of rivalry between williamsburg (home of the trendy and uber-hip) and the slope (home of myself and other similarly fabulous people).

what was once a mild annoyance with the former for its hipper-than-thou and largely pretentious population (as well as its thoroughly inconvenient location in relation to my apartment) has evolved into a full-blown...something. not distate, exactly, but i get a sick thrill of pleasure in the pit of my stomach when someone says that their favorite brooklyn bar or restaurant is in my hood, that they prefer seventh to bedford, all that good stuff.

and i have started taking serious offense when people say with such conviction "williamsburg is the coolest part of brooklyn, they've got all the culture. no question." no question? hm. actually, i've got a question: who's got the brooklyn museum, biz-nootch? the academy of music (okay, a little north but still more ours than theirs), the main branch of the brooklyn public library, prospect park, the botanical gardens? who? the slope, baby. that's who. not those williamsburg goons.

not that williamsburg doesn't have it's own lovely things going for it. i have several friends there whom i love dearly. there's planet thailand (japanese and asian food--home of this spicy peanut roll), verb cafe (good coffee, nice staff, more candy-colored mac i-books than you can shake a stick at), the artland (best open mic in the world tuesday nights, hosted by joey d.)....

but, as a true loyalist, i say that those places get their asses whooped by the gate, loki, sotto voce (home of the true and fabulous alcoholic brunch), the brooklyn botanical garden, bar 4, great lakes (best jukebox around), tea lounge, naidre's, not to mention biscuit, union worker, jebenezer, "the boy" (hee hee!) and the rest of the motley cast making their home in the slope and beyond. plus, in the slope (south slope, anyway), no matter where you are, you only have to walk about twenty-five feet to get one of those infamous ghetto-style manicures with the three-inch dragon lady claws. for 7 bucks.

and there's my little manifesto on the merits of park slope and its associated communities in comparison to williamsburg.

represent, baby! brooklyn style, yeah! (to be said with a very thick brooklyn accent, a little shuffle and probably topped off by spitting on the sidewalk while adjusting my tight-ass hoochie pants with my big-ass airbrushed acrylic nails. yeah!)

oh, and for those of you wondering where this suddenly came from, blame the new york times and its insistence on raving constantly about how motherfucking cool williamsburg is and how the slope is the upper west side (read: culturally barren area) of brooklyn. and i'm not quite this totally out of control about it in person. i just like my neighborhood a whole lot. and i like to vent.

yeeha!

gush rhetoric

mmm...delicious.

yes, indeed.

you know, dating (and all associated perks) is much more fun when you actually like the person you're doing it with.

though this particular piece of rhetoric is one that i've always known in theory...but i've rarely come to believe it in practice. i suppose that's because, in my quests and journeys to figure out what's going on in the whole world of "he-said" "she-said" living, i've just been relying on chutzpah and pure enthusiasm to carry me through. and suddenly i'm realizing it's much easier to rely on myself, stupid comments, sarcastic remarks, insecurity immaturity and all. because, frankly, if whoever i'm pursuing doesn't like those bits of me, they can go fuck themselves, because however long my dry spell may be, i don't want to give them any help that way.

which is why i'm pretty pleased with new boy. though knowing myself as i do, i should be either uncomfortable or indifferent...i'm not. i can be as goony as i wanna be. love it. fingers crossed and all...fulminous is right, i need to stop disparaging this whole thing. it may very well turn out nicely.

eh, whatever. at least it will be fun while it lasts, right?

another tirade

have you ever noticed how frequently and how casually we bring up where someone is from in our introductions? as though that knowledge will reveal some sort of fundamental truth about a person.

-oh, so-and-so's from maine/california/colorado/lebanon.

-well, that explains it!

what?

granted, i know there are certain attributes that are shaped by the culture in which one grows up. but really! just because someone's from maine/california/colorado/lebanon doesn't mean anything about who they are.

i suppose i'm a bit sensitive about this, because, being from california, many people automatically assume i'm vapid and new age and "talk like this so everybody can see my gummmmmmmms." not so, thank you. except when i'm very excited. the thing is, though, i find that in certain ways, people use this information against me, as they frequently do when they learn my age. all of a sudden some credibility gets lost because of what people assume i am supposed to be by virtue of my background.

i was never bothered by the facts of foundation that i cannot change, until someone used them against me. and i've been very sensitive about them ever since.

example:last night, out with boy. boy says something along the lines of "so, the last girl i dated seriously was a lot younger than i am, and it ended really badly..." at which point i came up with something like "tell me now that i'm too young for you to see again and i will break your face." (we have serious abandoment issues and very sensitive scars left by the last one who pulled that on me) probably not really good first date material. to his credit, though, this was his response: a kiss, a giggle, and then "no, i just wanted to warn you that i'm kind of scared of girls right now."

okay, weird, yes. i found it sweet. but then, i'm stupidly smitten, aren't i.

kindly keep all fingers crossed for this not to go to hell.

oh, and he's from maine.

i feel it in my fingers

okay.

i am thoroughly charmed.

i might go so far as to say mildly smitten.

very smitten.

how can you not be utterly charmed by someone who, when announcing they're going to kiss you, stops you under a tree and says "i'm afraid i'm going to have to waylay you here for a minute"?

i really hope this one doesn't turn out to be the disaster that so many other recent possibilities have been. this strange, fuzzy glow has been gone so long it feels almost foreign. but so nice, oh so nice. i don't really want it to go away.

though i do wish i could get rid of this big stupid grin on my face, because everyone here is looking at me like they know i've done something bad. it's incriminating me for a crime that i've not committed.

yet.

soon, all will be as cheese...melty, melty!

upAUTHOR: shivery
DATE: open mic date night is go!

huzzah!

wow. even if nothing happens with this guy ever, i'm really enjoying the fact that i'm excited. it's been a while.

so good riddance, winter hibernation! get the gone and bite me sideways!

let me see that...

alright. this entry may skim perilously close to the arena of too much information. consider yourself warned.

okay. so, as i was at the laundromat yesterday, i managed to make that wasted time go away by pondering how my taste in underwear has changed over the years.

age 17: cotton brief things, very fruit-of-the-loom, thanks mom. varying shades of pastels.

age 18: still mostly in cotton things, only now they're almost all black.

age 19: slightly festive things from marks and spencer. some have mesh. some are made of silky nylon stuff. still mostly of the brief shape.

age 20: i discover victoria's secret. suddenly, my underwear drawer is the candy colored antithesis of the bits of my wardrobe that the world actually gets to see. and i move on to bikinis and feel like such a sexy bitch.

age 21: discover string bikinis. swear i'll never need to wear a thong, and that i never will. still feeling like a sexy bitch.

age 22: it happened. i tried a thong, i may never go back. i realized this as i wore a pair of normal bikini underwear under these moderately tight pants i was wearing. for the first time, i was incredibly aware of the horrors of vpl, and how the thong is the world's best weapon to combat it. feeling now like the sexiest strawberry bitch cake in the world.

so, sad but true. it took five years, but i've become a convert. i officially rescind all strange and unkind statements i've made in the past about thong wearers. we're people too, dammit!

and there is your infusion of too much information for the day.

maybe i'll write more later, either after what i hope will be a very nice date, or after he calls to cancel it.

keep your fingers crossed for the former, eh?

the flutter

so, i'm getting rather excited about something, and i'm really quite disturbed by this fact.

i met this boy the other night...i admired him from the garden as he walked into the bar, and once i got up the chutzpah to speak to him discovered he's a really nice guy. very interesting.

and in theory, we're going to get together on wednesday night. i say "in theory" because there is a possibility of cancellation (As there always is. he just gets points for telling me about it up front, and having a legitimate excuse--he's a recent transplant from maine, and his cousin has agreed to drive some of his stuff down to brooklyn for him. said cousin may appear on wednesday night)(shut up, i believe him). but, i remain frighteningly excited nonetheless.

this is distressing. i have learned from experience, both my own and that of others, that getting excited about such things tends to blaze the trail to abject tragedy. so, i'm trying very hard to curb my enthusiasm here. because this boy...this boy plays the bass and cooks and has sideburns AND big geeky glasses and he returns phone calls when he says he's going to...oh, it's horrible. horrible. nothing has even happened except for a really nice conversation, which i find to be more and more rare in the new york bar scene. i swear, tragedy is coming, i can hear the violins already.

i've got the flutter and as such i fear i'm totally fucked.

but oh, i've got the flutter(recall my whinging about not feeling the flutter forever and a day?), and there's a long and dying winter between me and the last flutter i felt. here's hoping that this new one doesn't turn out to be quite the fuckwit that last flutter-bringer turned out to be.

corporate landscape

current contents of my desk:

1 computer

1 external modem

1 bottle cough medicine leftover from february

1 straw sombrero

1 utterly useless guide to using flash

7 pieces of company propaganda (three brochures, a pamphlet regarding our new division, two bits of paraphernalia designed for children and the announcement card we put together for last week's conference. joy!)

2 dirty mugs

10 cds (pixies, rem, catatonia, soul coughing, david gray, pete yorn, a mix called basso profundo, jim crofut, soundtrack to batman forever and bettie serveert)

2 legal pads

7 sharpie markers

1 blue and white porcelain urn.

bit of a sticky wicket, eh wot?

ah, monday monday monday.

i know i'm not alone in my massive loathing of mondays. and i knew that this one was off to a bad start when the first thing i encountered upon booting up my computer at the office is that we'd been locked out of EVERY SITE on the internet.

very distressing, particularly hot on the heels of the last site access culling session, wherein we lost rights to such spaces as the onion and various sites belonging to foreign embassies (!). now, i was unhappy then. i was spitting kittens this morning.

unhappy monkey.

now, it's not so much that i'm mourning the loss of these sites, as i can access them from the trusty computer at home. but, i absolutely resent the fact that we are not only being monitored, but that we cannot be trusted with the information contained in those sites, the implication that we are not emotionally advanced enough to put the completion of our assigned tasks before our desire to surf the net. it infuriates me. i hate being policed like that. i hate the fact that all the sites i visit get logged and my surfin habits tracked. and while i recognize that i am doing these things on company time (as i am doing now, thanks to the miracle of dial-up network aversion), and so they have every right to take this course of action, i don't have to like it, not at all.

it's all about trust, much like virtually every sort of relationship. i loathe the notion that my employer doesn't trust me. how am i supposed to trust them, respect them, if they clearly don't return the favor.

now, before anyone jumps down my throat about this, let me reiterate: i respect that this course of action is well within their rights, and in some cases probably moderately appropriate.

i still feel like i'm being sent to the corner with the dunce's cap on by the mighty overlords who i'm supposed to esteem outside the hierarchy (yes, we're supposed to address them by their first names and be friendly, but they still have no compunction about dealing out a slap on the wrist like a disgruntled nun).

welcome to corporate america.

runnin down that hill, goin' 90 miles an hour

i made my semi-triumphant return to my reviled alma mater last night. i was there to open for a band that i really like (the letdowns), while ideally avoiding either falling flat on my ass or making a complete fool of myself.

well, no one is dead, and there are no bruises on my butt, and i realized that there are people in this world who actually know my songs well enough to sing along.

weird!

but it went well, despite a handful of dropped chords and botched lyrics. not too many, enough for me to notice, but not enough for me to fail to notice that i have, in fact, come a long way as a performer since ben (the singer for the letdowns) first saw me play in december. so, all in all, i was pleased.

but, satiating my inner show off aside, the true highlight of the evening was the dancing. oh, the dancing! both at the show (nothing says loving like the wreck of the old 97) and after at pyramid...i'm a dancing girl. i find it a bit strange to note how my dancing has changed since i started belly dancing. i also find it a bit strange to note how, even at a gay club, i seem to be the prime target for the heat-seeking missile known as the "horrid straight player." ergh. i cringe to analyze what it is about me that makes them think i'm there--a straight girl at a GAY CLUB--for anything but dancing, or why i'd want them to fondle me in any way.

i had one rub my knees. while i was dancing. fortunately for me, i was there with the two best boyfriends in the world, and they defended my honor beautifully.

i have the best boyfriends-who-would-really-rather-be-dating-each-other in the world.

mwah!

we all scream for...

mmm...ice cream...mmm...no airconditioning in office building...mmm...98 degrees in the shade.

yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's the first ridiculously hot snap of the season, and i've just returned from an office field trip to get some ice cream. mine is pistachio and it's the most beautiful, bilious shade of green. so welcome on this day of madness.

it's been truly horrendous--weeks and weeks of having NOTHING TO DO, i am given a huge project today that absolutely positively has to be done by tomorrow. today, of all days, as my brains ooze out my ears from the heat and the hangover and the overwhelming evidence that i have a bright and shining future as a homewrecker...it's a mess. but, i got as much of it done today as i can reasonably manage, and i think i'm going to run home and buy my ass an air conditioner. yeah!

mmmm....freon...pistachio...brain...banker...

i am the (wo)man from zanzibar

today is so beautiful that it almost cancels out the fact that i have to spend the next two days in the bloody midtown hilton attending a human resources conference. which would be fine if i weren't in marketing.

joy!

you came in with the breeze

i have come to love sundays almost as much as i love impromptu saturday nights.

weird.

sundays have such a different meaning to me at this point in my life. i used to hate sundays--all they meant was horrible school the next morning and unfinished homework. now, though sundays still mean horrible work in the morning (well, not that horrible, but work), they're...much better.

sunday is:

-recovery day

-sleeping reeeaaaalllllly late day

-apartment cleaning day (in a good way, really)

-video day (generally part and parcel of "recovery day," but i felt it deserved its own mention, just because the good, old-fashioned vidfest is just such an important part of the day)

and, my favorite,

-brunch day.

i love brunch. it's such a marvelous institution. i mean, what better way to cure a hangover than to wake up late, drag yourself in pajamas and sunglasses to eat greasy food (good for hangovers), have a little more alcohol (also good for hangovers), smoke lots of cigarettes and shoot the breeze with your friends (best of all for a hangover)? afterwards, you go to a flea market or the bookstore and then go home for a nap, or something.

it's part of my ongoing mission of conquering new york that i catalogue and rate the best brunch places in the boroughs that matter (that's manhattan and brooklyn, to y'all non-locals). it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it.

today i took a local place for a test-drive with a few of my friends.

in its favor:

bottomless mimosas

outdoor seating

wicked peoplewatching

not-so-in-its favor:

the food, except for the french toast, was not nearly as exciting as we had hoped. ah well.

it was a good time. we discussed eye color and the general aesthetic standard of our circle of friends (very high, thank you. i tend to surround myself with the exceptionally cute. it's part of my mission to appear cuter than i am, simply by default and the company i keep), had a few comic sigh moments and a running commentary about the excruciating hipness of several people who walked by ("okay, he's wearing nike sandals, capri pants, has a soul patch and gucci sunglasses, and he's talking to someone about vespas on his tiny blinking phone. good god, man! aren't you worried about the fact that you've piled on so much hip that you ar no longer so? aaaaaahhh!"). we saw someone with absolutely no ass. that was exciting. so, good stuff...except for the fact that poor biscuit remains in seething agony. it just rolled off him in waves. and, when i encounter that in my friends, all i want to do is scoop them up in my arms and make everything better. i wanted (i want) to do this for him.

but sometimes, you just can't.

you can't do it until you're asked.

i just hope he will ask if he needs it.

viva artifice!

my office building is going to be famous, it seems. the infamous they are filming a movie outside it right now. apparently, it's called "two weeks notice" and stars sandra bullock and hugh grant.

and it also means that it's a sad and weeping day to be a smoker. we've been sold out by the owners of this building and stripped of our right to the front stoop.

apparently these joyous stars are on the ground right now. i didn't see them when i slunk outside for my morning smoke. all i saw was the army of extras crossing the street. and crossing the street. and crossing the street. repeatedly and over again. it was kind of surreal, watching a horde of people who have been carefully coiffured to look like they belong down here, to seem as though the financial district is their natural habitat. and then it turns out that they're all unionized actors, and none of them have anything to do with what goes on down here on a daily basis.

knowing that makes me feel strange.

i mean, i recognize that "the magic of hollywood" is designed to create these illusions, and that i have seen and accepted similar things thousands of times. but seeing it here, now, today and tiptoeing through the patch of world i call "familiar," well,it's more than a little bit bizarre. it makes me very aware of the fact that artifice is pervasisve and insidious in the movies--only the buildings are real, and sometimes not even those.

i realize this particularly when when watching the extras between takes. when they have their purpose, when they're crossing that street, they're CROSSING THAT STREET. it's the most natural thing in the world, they cross that street every day.

then you catch them off-camera, and they're all shuffling their feet and looking nervously at the row of skyscrapers that looms around them, wondering if there's a good place to grab a sandwich close by...this is not their territory. these are not their briefcases. these are not their hairdos. and it shows.

i wonder if i looked that out of place down here when i first started.

i wonder how long it took me to rub that shiny patina of foreignness off.

i wonder how long i'd be able to fool people if i had an army of costumers, makeup artists and directors truss me up to look like i belong somewhere else?

i wonder if hugh grant is short in person. i suspect he is.

submitted for your approval.

brand spankin' new idiom of the day:

Spitting Kittens: to be incredibly furious. as in, "joe bob's gonna spit kittens when he sees what you gone dun 't hiz truck."

an amalgamation of "spitting nails" and "having kittens," both of which sort of cover the same territory.

i just think that "spitting kittens" has a wonderful ring of the absurd to it.

ghostly/ghastly

it seems that the houston chronicle has just seen fit to publish the suicide note of j.clifford baxter, the enron guy who killed himself shortly after the waste hit the ventilator.

not only did they publish the text, but a scan. an actual fucking scan of the guy's suicide note, written to his wife, in its full, horrid glory.

does anyone else have a problem with this?

it really concerns me that we seem to be building up a severe culture of ghoulishness in the world. it slaps me in the face every day as i go foraging for my lunch in the financial district--to this day, people flock in droves to get those amazing tickets to the platforms surrounding ground zero. *shudder,* the united states' favorite mass grave.

my parents went to ground zero when they came to town. they stood on the platforms and invited me to join them. i had to remind them that not only was i still sweeping the remains of the wtc out of my apartment, but that i had been there that day, cowering for my life in battery park with the rest of us schlubs who had the misfortune to pay attention to our alarm clocks and show up for work that day. i was there, i remember looking up after the ash cleared and seeing this sudden void in the skyline...well, frankly, that's the last i need to see of the corporeal remains of those towers.

they didn't quite understand why i was so emphatic in my refusal, even after i'd explained myself.

i guess i just don't understand why we hold such fascination with the catastrophes of others. are we preparing ourselves for our own, or are we just trying to get ever closer to mastering the mystery of death, by sifting through the clues left behind, voluntarily or otherwise, by those who made it to the gate first?

oh, and before anyone accuses me of being a holier-than-thou killjoy, keep this in mind: i'm not condemning this behaviour, i just don't understand it. even in myself.

i mean, i read the enron guy's suicide note.

here be monsters

sometimes i really love living in brooklyn.

yesterday i got to see the first stirrings of an endlessly perpetuating stereotype--i.e. "ghetto life." (a charming thing to see, considering we're about as far from the ghetto as you can get in my borough)

the scene: 6th ave and 15th street.

the cast: four kids who really couldn't have been any older than eleven.

the prop: a huge boombox stereo (what is frequently referred to as a "ghetto blaster," for reasons that now seem crashingly obvious to me).

i basically caught this gaggle of children, dressed to the nines in their finest baggy pants and skate shirts, strutting down the sidewalk like they owned the place, while their stereo (carried on one of the boys' shoulders) screamed and rocked the neighborhood with the latest groovin' installment from those heroes of the outer boroughs, *nsync.

okay, so they didn't quite get the formula right--their musical tastes are going to need to mature before they can do the proper white boy/girl interpretation of ghetto fabulous. it was still the best thing i've seen in weeks.

the ice queen cometh

one of my legs is three inches longer than the other today. just today. just now, since i've peeled off one of my massive spice-girl shoes because i had a leg cramp. as such, i've had a good deal of fun parading back and forth past the cubicles of my coworkers and confusing them royally. they cannot see my feet! they do not understand the truth!

ergh.

so, i had this date last night. and while fun, i somehow suspect i will not be seeing him again. he simply did not flip the proverbial bucket. and, though i do get a sick and sadistic thrill occasionally out of spending time with boys who like me more than i like them (yeah, so i'm a bitch. sorry.), i recognize that it is a bad behavioral pattern that must cease. as it is ceasing here.

i don't understand myself sometimes. i wish i did. i wish i could find the trigger snap that shuttered up my heart in an iron cage. i wish i could find a way to reverse its damage and bring myself back online (so to speak). i wish i could find some magical person who would spark the slightest amount of interest on my part. however much i may wish i were agent scully, i don't think i'm cut out to play the part of the ice queen.

oh, but that part about the mystery trigger snap? i take that back. i'm fairly certain i know exactly why i'm shuttered right now. emotional apathy comes to me courtesy of *that boy*, that boy who i liked so much who led me on and fucked with my heart and stroked my feet and hid with me under the blanket and broke my heart ever so gently by declaring himself too old for my immature charms. that whole scenario took a lot of energy. and a lot of time. and a lot of headache/heartache. ridiculous.

that boy is the only human being on the face of the planet to get more than one song out of me about him.

anyway. my suspicion is that when i finally came to terms with the whole fol-de-rol, my heart basically just decided to pack itself up for the winter and take a little trip while it put itself back together again.

i suspect that if i looked hard enough i would find that it sent me a postcard from england, or hong kong or wherever it is.

perhaps it is the travels of my heart in its quest for healing that leads me to only have even the vaguest interest in boys who are leaving town. it's really quite obscene, the number of boys i've flirted with/kissed/generally enjoyed who hail from some place distant from me: seattle, washington dc, new orleans, hong kong (oh, hong kong boy. you'd never believe it if anyone told you how much you cross my mind.)...i think this is the romance center's way of telling me that i would be an absolute asshole to get involved with anyone right now.

and i suppose that's true.

but that doesn't mean i wouldn't give all the tea in china and my desk drawer to just feel that flutter for someone, just for a few days.

i seem to remember this whole romance thing being so much more fun while i was in school. i'd develop a crush, and then if by some miracle it got reciprocated, i'd be over the moon! i'd have gotten what i wanted so badly...it was a triumph, it was a joy, it was the best thing since hostess cupcakes. and if it didn't work out (as was typically the case), i'd get to work up a serious, satifying, cleansing funk about it. now the game is too easy, and the players not nearly as intriguing, and the taste of victory vaguely reminiscent of prunes. and frankly, i just can't be bothered about it all.

at least until i meet another one i like.

or who's at least leaving town.

i scream.

it seems that spring is well and truly on its way. i know this for two reasons:

1. the con ed workers have resumed their catcalling to girls passing by in the mornings

2. the ice cream truck has returned.

bloody ice cream truck. it shows up in april, leaves in october, and in the months inbetween circles my block like a hungry shark, peddling crack to the local kids and blaring its hideous tune long into the night.

it is a song i hear in my nightmares.

when ice cream truck season is upon us, i find myself spending far too many hours plotting its demise. or, at least the demise of its damn singing mechanism. a bb gun figures frequently. a molotov cocktail. a bomb made out of froot loops and batshit. perhaps a bit of exploration with some wire cutters. of course, getting in there with the wire cutters would entail getting within spitting distance of the actual ice cream guy who is, and i know this from personal experience, a right wanker. call me crazy, but i have real problems with getting honked at and propositioned (hey baby, there's lots of room in the back of this truck here. wanna come join me?) by someone who peddles sweeties to the kidlings. i feel it's somehow obscene. ach. a whole summer of joy to look forward to!

and spring has only just begun.

bliss!

other people's newspapers

i think i'm developing an unhealthy obsession with the weekly newspapers of other cities. i couldn't care less about the village bloody voice, which actually has some bearing upon my life, or the fact that i live in what is arguably one of the most entertaining cities in the world...no, i instead choose to filter part of my life through the words coming out of seattle (the stranger) and athens, ga (flagpole), austin, tx (the chronicle). i get a sick thrill of excitement over shows i will never see, planning trips to bars and coffee houses i won't get to for years...(ooh! yo la tengo is going to be playing near pike place! ooh! spiderhouse is having a 2-for-1 pounds of coffee special! booyaka!)

i can safely say that i have spent entire days reading back issues of the stranger. i'm not sure what that says about me or my work ethic.

i think it's all borne of a combination of masochism and travel lust, which i'm feeling with particular poignancy right now. currently bottled into my very first long-term job as a desk jockey, i'm suddenly very, very aware of the amount of time and energy i spent moving around when i had more free time. i miss it. a lot. i've had, as they say in the trade, itchy feet as a result. i suddenly find myself wanting to be anywhere but here. not for a prolonged period of time or anything, just for a week or so. especially now that the weather's warming up. i want to jump on a bus and go to austin, to athens, chicago, boston, berlin, hong kong, seattle, prague, istanbul, rotterdam, brussels, tokyo...i just want to get the hell out of new york now. and this is not helped by the fact that i work for an international relocations company. i write about foreign countries for a living. it really doesn't help the wanderlust. ah well, this too shall pass. someday, i'll have vacation time, someday i'll have some sort of moderate travel budget, someday i'll have my damned british passport and then i will decamp to australia. or scotland. or anywhere else in the eu. yeah!

i will, however, probably be avoiding the middle east. call me puss, but whatever.

this, however, is not the case for my friend raski. she's just joined the peace corps, and as such is shipping out to kazakhstan on june 10. now, i'm pleased as punch and proud as hell that she got the assignment...but a little concerned at the same time. and a little jealous, if for no other reason than that she'll get to live in a yurt.

yurt!

collection #1

favorite titles for those near and dear to me:

ninja--as in "what up, ninja," or "yo, ninjalicious!"

monkey--generally accompanies a statement of concern, as in "poor little monkey." there's generally an office pool as to how long i have to know somebody before i start calling them monkey. the general estimation is about three hours. not so. i am much maligned by such accusations--i usually make it to at least four.

biscuit--actually my unofficial nickname for one of my friends. nothing says loving like screaming "biscuit!" from across a crowded room. but, you know. in a pinch it works in a whole variety of situations. like answering the phone. or hailing a cab. very useful indeed!

other words i use far too often: bloody, brilliant, fabulous, absolutely, nice, right, indeed, bitch-ass.

other words i simply cannot live without (yet rarely use): luscious, lepidoptera, rapscallion, diaspora, apoplectic, asphyxiate, aesthetic, aardvark, eskimo, salad (pronounced "saalaaaaaaaaahhd").

just a taste.

binary smalltalk

it's been a hard winter, and spring is not coming anywhere near quickly enough. i sometimes wonder if my inner capacity for clarity is tied up in the changing of the seasons...i invariably feel so dead by the end of the winter, just a husk of what i'm capable of when the sun warms my hands. i wonder if that's because simply making it through the winter (even one as completely puss as this one) takes so much bloody _energy_ that we just run out towards the end. that would certainly make sense for my life--as a transplanted california girl, i suspect that i am, by and large, solar powered. the darkness of winter is not good for me...i frequently think that the bears and basselopes have the right idea with hibernation.

thank heavens the sun is on its way. all it needs to do is grow tall enough to peek over the buildings of lower manhattan and give me a kiss.