31 October 2006

26 long-forgotten fairytale

once there was a lovely girl. your standard, average, lovely girl. we're going to call her penelope. because that's such an every(wo)man kind of name.

as a child, penelope was a commedienne. she was the queen of faces. a student of the lucille ball school of comedic facial distortion. her parents always admonished, someday your face will freeze like that. penelope did not believe them.

as a child, penelope was rather high-strung. she bit her nails nonstop. the warnings of her grandmother rang in her ears: there are worms under there. do you want to put worms in your mouth? penelope did not want to put worms in her mouth, but she didn't want to give up the biting either.

the habit would persist into adulthood, when penelope would begin painting her nails garish colours in an effort to cease the barbarism. penelope's mother frowned at the black lacquer. she said, you don't want to get black stuff all in your teeth. penelope didn't relish that idea, but she didn't give up her nails.

penelope continued making faces and painting her nails and biting them. until one day.

on this day, penelope bit a black lacquered nail. sensing immediately that something had gone horridly wrong, penelope raced to the bathroom mirror. there it was. a rogue flake of nail polish on the number 9 central incisor. a simple thing to remedy, yes. but no.

this rogue flake of black nail polish had not been content to simply rest upon penelope's number 9 central incisor. rather, it sought refuge within the gum tissue above. so that it was visible through the tissue yet entirely unreachable.

penelope promptly brushed her teeth. the rogue flake of black nail polish nestled within the gum tissue above her number 9 central incisor did not budge. she flossed as though her life depended upon it. if anything the rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor situtated itself more comfortably. penelope brushed her teeth six subsequent times to no effect.

she threw herself on the bed in exhaustion and frustration. and then it hit her.

penelope would go through the rest of her life with a rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor. as long as she lived, people would think she had something stuck in her teeth.

at all future christmases, penelope's family would harken back to the days before that rogue flake of black nail polish became situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor. the family photo albums would now be divided into the era before the rogue flake of black nail polish became situated within the gum tissue above penelope's number 9 incisor and the era after. if penelope were so lucky to find a man who could love a woman with a rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor, the rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor would inevitably dominate her wedding pictures. every dental visit for the remainder of penelope's life would prompt a gasp of what is that rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above your number 9 incisor? when her husband stared deeply into her teeth rather than her eyes, penelope would know- the rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor was driving a wedge between them. the adolescence of her children would be marred by the rumors that their mother never brushed her teeth. and penelope had no doubt that her future husband would leave her for a woman who did not have a rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor.

all this because penelope was a lovely girl who did not care whether her face froze or whether she put worms in her mouth.

lying on the bed in exhaustion and frustration, with the rogue flake of black nail polish still situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor, penelope ruminated upon this tragic turn her life had taken. she instinctively went to her nails for solace, then detoured and grabbed the bag of fritos instead. she wiped her tears and bravely returned to the bathroom mirror to make peace with the rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor. but the rogue flake of black nail polish situated within the gum tissue above her number 9 incisor was no longer there.

penelope pulled a face and put the worms in her mouth.

29 October 2006

10 the aforepromised impossibly fabulous photograph that proves we can wear hats and not look like fools

and, yes. yes, it did take an hour-long photoshoot with mr. lindear and an extreme aperture change that produced no less than 53 hellaciously blurred shots to come remotely close to anything that could be passed off as faux impossibly fabulous and atone for our very spangled past, but we are nothing if not determined. we're also apparently committed to the shrug- despite its spangled history of failure- as the ultimate photographic pose.

28 October 2006

8 "i mean, it's great if you actually have the time of your life, but we're sure as hell going to make it look like you did."

"scientists get together to discuss new ideas and results"
(and eat really crap food)

the witches of the brown bags

mr & mrs lindear


oline in mirrors

we're so hot right now

oh! the fritos
(after a midnight oline confession of a rarely indulged, fervent passion for fritos, mr. lindear collected 12,000 cool points for including them in the group bagged lunch)

"so... yeah... there went our train."

26 October 2006

26 lindear

my dearest dear friend lindear, a friend so dear it's in her nickname, is coming to town this weekend. we've known each other over half our lives (though it took twenty minutes of ardent mathematics and mr. lindear's wandering into the room and providing numerical assistance for us to figure that out). the dearness of our friendship is best captured by three things:

1) the fabled 10 ways to get kissed note, passed to partner during senior year homeroom then handed down to me, the keeper of the sacred documents.

2) the infamous page periodical, our subversive 6th grade newspaper, in which we indignantly lambasted the oppressive hall policies of our teachers and for which, after it was intercepted by said teachers, lindear was severely admonished as i awaited the verdict in the cafeteria, paralyzed by fear.

3) feburary 1993, when spangled hats seemed like a good idea.

DISCLAIMER: permission to publish this photograph has been granted only on the condition that a parade of look how hot we are now! photos follow in its stead.

24 October 2006

16 i've got a gun... give me your razors!

we live in dangerous times. dangerous and silly times. an era where one must remove flip flops for airport security. an age when spinach is quarantined. an epoch in which jessica simpson's hairstylist is a household name. a time when razors are not an over-the-counter commodity.

in my little world, razors are in a glass case. as though gillette were a status symbol. as though the venus were on par with an ipod and wasn't just a 50 cent piece of plastic with a $2 blade and a $5 mark-up. thus, the simple task of buying a razor or blades involves a salesperson, an intercom, a key-carrying salesperson, a lock, and a blushing oline. the blushing oline resents this.

consequently, i demand my blades be all they can be. i've pushed the latest one to the very brink of its livelihood. the strip of lotion has long since worn away, the razor head has irrevocably warped, the grippy thing has molted off, somewhere along the way a blade fell out, and the bath has been the scene of a near-daily blood-letting ever since. today, it became obvious that i would either have to buy an entirely new razor or try to make do with a butter knife. at last, i gave in.

i asked margarita for assistance and stood in aisle 3 as the page went out for "ASSistance in razors." i calculated the odds that the key-carrying salesperson would be named martini. when marco came to give me ASSistance, it took all my willpower to keep from shouting POLO! clearly, i am not meant to be in public alone.

marco reverently removed the razor toward which i had gestured. he touched it gingerly, as though we were standing in elizabeth taylor's jewelry box and he was handing over the krupp diamond. he seemed mildly embarrassed that he hadn't thought to don kid gloves.

at the checkout, margarita handled my razor as though it were a loaded gun. she bagged it separately, lest it contaminate the conditioner and Our Gum. a tense pause followed. a moment in which there was a 48% chance i would be carded.

i wanted to wave my razor in the air and scream.

this is a razor, not illicit drugs. i am not after crack or antihistamines. i just want to shave my legs and that really shouldn't be so hard. the condoms are just sitting there for the taking. they're practically shouting at people to pocket them. steal me and go have safe sex, they say. i just want a damn razor. i just want to shave my damn legs. in these dangerous and silly times, no one has asked that most pressing of questions: what of a woman's right to a razor?

23 October 2006

5 la bombsybox

la bombshell avec le comte d'ruckus

the royal family

le comte d'ruckus

le dauphin

la oline de leibovitz & d'ruckus

21 October 2006

35 la reine

after no less than thirteen lifetimes of waiting, marie antoinette finally arrived. so the bombshell and i tarted ourselves up and trotted downtown to greet her. we were not disappointed.

but our adoration for and enjoyment of this film won't prevent my exploiting it's few discrepencies and omissions to make my the whole truth is so much more interesting point.

as people who have people, bombsy and i are unspeakably thrilled whenever any person opts to cinematically/theatrically/televisionally/ biographically depict any of our people. but the thing about having people is that your people are invariably different from the people of others- even when they're the same people.

the bombshell's marilyn and jackie are not mine. we latch on to different details, different characteristics, different witty one-liners. the bombshell's jackie is an aristocrat smoking a cigarette through a long, thin filter in givenchy's atelier. my jackie is a bohemian artist walking barefoot in greece with paint flakes on her jeans. the same jackie, but totally different. this is to be expected.

a surprising lot of how you view your people has to with your introduction to them. i met my marie in stephen zewig's an average woman, a 1932 biography that tenderly danced around the royal sex life and abounded with rogue exclamations ("louis gestured for d'artois to bring the dinner rolls!"). zewig cast marie as an ordinary person of limited education whose sense of duty enabled her to handle the shit in her life with extraordinary courage. in essence, the woman was a master of the emotional kaboom.

sophia coppola's marie antoinette is coppola's marie (which we know is, in part, based heavily on biographer antonia fraser's marie)- a charming, flirty, dutiful vixen who held her head high in a palace echoing with cruel whispers. coppola's louis was awesome. her marie was lovely and was far better than no marie at all, but she was not my marie.

coppola's marie was not my marie largely, i think, because she was uncomfortably confined within one hour and fifty-eight minutes. and while she very adeptly captured the marriage's sexual dysfunctions and the stifling pressures to produce an heir, in such confines, coppola cut from her marie's story the details that most matter to mine.

count fersen appears in three scenes. he would seem little more than a hot one-night stand, which quite possibly resulted in the birth of the dauphin, and whose departure sent marie spinning into a depression manifested by long baths, tamer hairstyles and undereye circles. in reality, he was the queen's faithful lover and friend for over a decade. he masterminded the royal family's unsuccessful escape from imprisonment and risked his life repeatedly venturing into revolutionary paris to see her. he was entirely discrete. he never spoke of her.

there's also a reduction of the royal brood- three children appear rather than four. the death of princess sophie is depicted while the birth of the duc de normandie is not. the birth of the highly anticipated dauphin is portrayed while his death shortly before the revolution is entirely ignored. it was, in fact, the petulant duc de normandie- who does not appear in coppola's film- who would become the dauphin, who would be caught masturbating by his guards, and who would make the molestation charges that sent his mother to the guillotine.

film is a convenient medium in that it allows for easily accessible expression. you don't have to write twenty sentences to adequately convey the wryly disapproving arch of a royal brow. and i know things must be condensed. stories must fit into boxes. plots must flow quickly. we must not make people in theaters yawn over small details. this would probably be why i stick to writing. the movie of my marie would last at least four hours. the movie of my jackie would be ten days long.

because i think you can't know jackie if you don't know that she was keenly aware of her husband's pathological philandering. that her premature daughter died while her husband was sailing in france and that he continued sailing in france for a week before he returned home. that she lost a three-day-old son, a son she never saw, three months before her husband was murdered. that she was leaning in six inches from her husband's face when the final shot hit. that, at parkland hospital, she nudged a doctor and handed him a sizeable chunk of her husband's brain. and that four days later, the day she buried her husband, she threw a birthday party for her three-year-old son.

you have to know that because, to an extent, it is the shit in our lives and how we cope that makes us who we are. admitedly, marie antoinette is a hip film attempting to resuscitate a distorted icon and make her applicable to a new generation. i am wanting it to mean entirely more than it was meant to. but too much is assumed when we deal with icons. most people know nothing about marie beyond the fact that she was decadent and lost her head. if this is the one chance we have to introduce a new generation to her, this is not enough for my marie. coppola verifies the decadence while only skimming the steeliness beneath the surface.

bombsy and i sat through the entire movie watching the princess de lamballe, knowing that we would later be seeing her head on a pike. we didn't. coppola spared us that. but i doubt many people in the crowd knew the lamballe was butchered, her head put on a stake and raised before the prison windows of marie, whom the crowd asked to kiss the lips of her beheaded, beloved best friend. and that's a pretty important smallish detail. you know marie more by knowing that.

coppola left her marie in a carriage with our louis, bidding farewell to their versailles. this was half-assed. i wanted her to either leave them on the eve of revolution or see them through the end. to show the king bidding his family farewell the night before what he knows will be the day of his death. to show marie hearing the accusations her own son made against her, accusations so trumped up that even the revolutionaries were ashamed.

maybe i just want everything to be schindler's list- to be visceral and epic. because these are my people and they deserve to be shown in their full glory. ribbons, feathers, sweets, champagne, and flirtations make for a pretty movie. but they are not a life. these people, my people, have lives of incredible complexity, unbelieveable glamor and harrowing tragedy. it's so much more than a matter of clothes and manners. it's grace under pressure. and we could use more of that these days.

19 October 2006

10 bling

i have an incredible fondness for incredibly flashy costume jewelry- as recently modeled by our boy brutè. my mum- who has a QVC addiction that isn't discussed outside The Family- calls it a desire for "large stone presence." that's not to say i like walnut-sized diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. those are entirely too grownup and it's the grownup things that always go missing.

we're talking a knuckle-high fire-engine red cocktail ring or a plum-sized rhinestone broach or an enormous fakely dazzling pendant, usually all missing a gem or two. because it's the imperfect pleasures that are the best. things sparkle harder when they're cheap.

my name has always been notoriously difficult to find. for some reason clara- a name whose popularity peaked in 1940s nebraska- is always present but i, timeless and classy, never am. anyone who's ever been in a souvenir shop in my presence has heard this complaint and apparently a good majority spend the rest of their lives checking out keychain/zipper pull/necklace/magnet carousels looking for me.

some while ago some guy found me on a necklace in the st. louis zoo and sent it my way. and it's tacky. really tacky. so tacky that it made me question my own ability to pull off tacky things.

it has my eight letters in blue rhinestones and it's about three inches wide. and that's almost more bling than my collarbone can handle. but it was the chain that did me in. it was like someone took left-over wire from a dollhouse fence and said hmmm. this would be perfect for a necklace. in other words, um... no.

fortuitously, during one of the necklace's many almost-wears, the chain broke. despite the ugly, my name was involved, which instantly made the thing a bit of a treasure, so i recruited my mum. she was to QVC the perfect, elegant, understated chain for my rather tacky bit of bling. i carefully explained the plan. i made it quite clear: this was a heinous necklace and it needed some classing up.

i entrusted this mission to my mum because i thought it beyond my own capabilities. it required a mother's touch. knowing me so well, she would know what was best. she would know the bejeweled boundaries that i should not cross. i now know that she did not know.

the lynchpin of my plan was that the chain would have to be simple, unnoticeable, invisible even. a chain that would in no way stick out. the chain my mum found looks as though it brought its drunk ass, slutted up self straight from a bar on bourbon. i would've had to have lived a whole different life to pull off this chain. it is not unlike the visor of geordi la forge. it has brilliants. strands of shimmering silver brilliants. they glow in the dark. they keep me awake.

my mum said, i saw it and thought of you. i can't imagine how she had the wherewithal to think of me. i saw it and went blind.

so the necklace was tacky before and it's hella tackee now. it debuted at the white trash party, smothered under it's sixteen friends. but i've been feeling rather guilty. my mum went to some lengths to produce such a precious and her vision probably sustained irrepairable damage from its' blinding lights (which don't even begin to be conveyed in the photograph above. croftie captured the universal response when she saw it and went WuhOOOOA).

so i'm going to wear the damn thing. i'm going to be CAROLINE, in blue rhinestones and gaudy brilliants and with a tacky as all get out front clasp. it's a bit more CAROLINE than i ever thought i'd be, but i'm going to do it. for a week at least. for my mum, who has pushed me toward this unexpected precipice of stone presence. my mum, who has now taught me, sometimes the imperfect pleasures sparkle a bit too hard.

18 October 2006

11 waiting for mongo

growing up in memphis, i was enamoured of prince mongo, an eccentric local who drives a pink graffitied station wagon and claims to be a 333 year-old royal from the planet zambodia (hence the "prince"). he once showed up to his own trial wearing a green cape and carrying a rubber chicken. search for him online. you won't be disappointed.

as a kid, i would often sit on our door stoop- usually in a pink swim suit, because that's all i wore between the ages of 2 and 6- waiting for mongo. he must have done nothing in the early 80s but canvas the midtown streets because he cruised harbert surprisingly often. i would invariably run to the sidewalk for a better view as he slowly drove past. it was like seeing santa. santa in a pink station wagon.

oddly, i don't know that i ever actually saw mongo. i obviously saw his car, but its magical aura was such that i remember nothing about the person behind the wheel. "mongo for mayor" posters pop up randomly across town. there's the pink visage of what used to be prince mongo's planet, a bar best known for underage drinking and regular police raids. and, of course, there are his yards- where rotted vintage lawn ornaments go to die. but i don't remember mongo himself.

which is funny because i think most of my early conceptions of adult cool were defined by him.

since an usually high percentage of the people who read this will be in my apartment in the coming months, i must confess my latest, most mongo thing: last night, october 17th, the christmas tree went up.

this was largely inspired by a train ride. not wanting to risk eye contact with a car of people who looked like they had bird flu, i rested my chin on a sleevie of the yellow coat and stared out the window. on the deck of an apartment that blurred past was a strand of christmas lights twinkling in the blustery night. that was all it took. after five full days of staving off the urge- so the eccentricity would be slightly lessened by its having occurred in "late" october as opposed to mid- i gave in.

i did this, in part, because the last two christmases have been curtailed by family dramedies and emotional kabooms, so i'm owed some tree time. but also because i am tired of the tree box falling on my head every time the closet door opens. it's bad enough that the door refuses to stay closed. that i should be subjected to falling trees every time it opens is simply intolerable. clearly, the tree wanted out. and the tree always gets its way.

my parents are, of course, appalled. we've long adhered to a strict tree policy of Only After Thanksgiving Lunch. when i confessed to the premature treeing, my mum whispered, but it's not yet thanksgiving. how generous of her to ignore the fact that it's not yet halloween.

but i've pretty much decided, after a childhood of waiting for mongo, that maybe i'm a little mongo. (maybe we're all a little mongo!) blogger lists my age as 250. i have no idea why; it just happened. but obviously, if i'm 250 years old, i am a royal princess of the planet zambodia- where christmas is a three-month-long affair, capes of all mismatched colours are welcome and rubber chickens are the state bird. because really, if there must be a bird, it best be rubber.

17 October 2006

8 c'est la vieve

proof that i don't have a perverse interest in photographing the cats of others and in times of creative boredom will subject the vieve-- ridiculously challenging as her colour scheme is-- to the same rigors.

15 October 2006

22 the ides of october

tee hee, brutus.
mwaaaaaaaah.... the fun that can be found in thrift stores.

14 October 2006

7 *sigh*

i love france, marie, and swashbuckling. thus, am rather ashamed to admit it took me twenty-five years to discover a french novel about swashbucklers rescuing marie.

for weeks i've wanted to articulate the terrible beauty that is alexandre dumas' the knight of maison-rouge, but there are no words. so i loaned it to the bombshell in the hope that she would be able to express it. the damn words failed her as well. we were reduced to swapping emails of *sigh* and oh! the lovely.

KMR is the literary equivalent of Our Gum. try it. it will blow you away. but unlike Our Gum, its charms are subtle. this is not the greatest novel in the world. there's some plodding. some really, alexandre, where are we going here? moments. and since it involves the french revolution and miss marie, there's a nagging sense that the majority of the characters are going to lose their heads. but the final pages. The Final Pages.

the first time a book made me cry was the third grade. sweet valley high #40, ON THE EDGE. regina (the deaf one, no less) got mad at her jock boyfriend, went to a crazy party, took a line of cocaine and died. at sweet valley high, we had battled steroid addiction with regina's jock boyfriend and covered reckless partying with jessica wakefield, but no one had died. the moral "deaf girls gone wild wind up dead" did not escape me. it was shocking. nightmarish. i wept for three days.

i can't remember the last time a novel has affected me quite so much as #40. where i put it down and was left in a funk by fictional characters. biography bowls me over almost without fail, and KMR is historical fiction so perhaps the history lent it some added emotional thrust. but whatever it was, KMR is the new #40.

regina died in a coked-out haze of juvenile prose that had me sobbing about the unfairness of mortality. KMR left me wide awake, repeatedly turning on the light, wiping away the tears, and taking in the terrible beauty again. reading them again. The Final Pages. words- i have none.

13 October 2006

12 "ready, art brut?"

two pairs of socks.
leg warmers.
three long-sleevied t-shirts.
a sweater.
a jacket.
a coat.
a scarf.
a hat.
five blocks.
and i'm frozen.

11 October 2006

37 heaven tonight

tonight- the night on which the winter of our freezicating discontent officially commenced- the project TNOWCBRATT took us where we inevitably knew it would. but this does not mean we were prepared. that we weren't both rather stunned when the bombshell dunked her chocolate chip cookie, leaned back and declared, so i guess at this point we must ask ourselves how marilyn would greet jackie in heaven.

blindsided by the fact that we would have to ask ourselves such a thing- though i must have always known we would- i abruptly leaned forward, my hair sweeping up the pile of pumpkin bread crumbs that i would spend the remainder of the evening shaking from it. i was a mess. i wasn't ready. had i known we were going to heaven, would've at least shaved my legs.

by now, we're pretty certain the project TNOWCBRATT is unspeakably awesome. we read it and we laugh and cry. as though this weren't actually our project TNOWCBRATT. as though elves were writing furiously in the night to produce theatrical brilliance for us. this project TNOWCBRATT- sometimes the nature of it can't even be revealed to us at this time.

our ladies are surprising. these ladies we know so well. we read that jackie ashed her cigarette on marilyn's carpet and we jumped back in shock. jackie! we gasped. what a bitch! as though we hadn't been sitting in panera a month ago cackling about how hysterical it would be for jackie to do precisely that. as though she were no longer our jackie. as though she had become her own.

so tonight the project TNOWCBRATT made it to heaven. and we sat in starbucks trying to figure out what jackie and marilyn would say in heaven. we, of course, knew what they would be wearing, but what would they be like? would they be funny in heaven? or serious? would smoking be allowed? we had no idea. we didn't know where to begin. we were lost. we could not go on.

until the intrepid bombsy dunked her chocolate chip cookie, leaned back and astutely observed, we've got to assume they'd have all sorts of wisdom and shit because they're, like, dead. and with that we have our motivation and our subtitle.

the project TNOWCBRATT: jackie, marilyn, & all sorts of wisdom & shit.

09 October 2006

34 so you said you was high classed, but that was just a lie

the mère and père cupcake have departed, leaving in their wake the latest in southern white trash coffee table technology.

08 October 2006

2 we're at Now, Now

out of absolutely nowhere, since i saw them last my parents have become completely zen. the father cupcake most especially. i think this is the result of overlistening to the shins. he's so mello that he literally came to town to eat and relax. nothing more. it's a limited plan that befuddled my mum and i to no end. there are ferris wheels and stained glass museums and shops and kitties here. we wondered, how can eating ever be enough?

my attempts to make plans, to craft routes, to plot a strategy for showing the wonders of my city were unilaterally met with fatherly reproaches. his let's enjoy the Now came into stark conflict with my let's enjoy the Now in a way that will get us within walking distance of the There.

at the zoo, as i tried to figure how we could best wind up in the right neighborhood for lunch, father cupcake lectured on the importance of Now as opposed to There. that we were to be blithely enjoying the rhinos Now and not wondering when or where we would be There. i countered with the fact that we can better enjoy Now when we are actively on the way There. he said, that is There. this is Now. i responded, this is Now, but we're heading There.

this climaxed in a coffee bar when we sat discussing the conflict of individual Nows. a man had abandoned his table when we came in. he forfeited his Now for us. that became our Now. as we sat in our Now, slowing savoring a pudding-filled cupcake the size of a grapefruit, my mum- seeing the people congregating at the door and awaiting a table- became concerned that our Now was thwarting the Nows around us.

father cupcake leaned back and in suspiciously segal tones said, this is our Now. it's only their Then. we'll get There and Then their Now will come. so, you may ask, what happened to Then? we passed Then. when? just Now. we're at Now, Now. Now? Now!

05 October 2006

7 those girls...

things happen in chicago. that sounds illogical because things happen elsewhere too, but things really happen here. big things. the best bands come to town twice a year, there is a seemingly endless bounty of free tickets to incredibly cool stuff, far away friends want and pay to come visit, and a random remark about a baseball team can lead to a life of sugary crime. if we were in mantachie, mississippi, somehow i think things wouldn't happen quite so much.

back when we were all in maph, i vividly remember how the chicago international film festival sounded so glam, so exotic, so someplace i'd like to be one long, far off day. i'd forgotten all about that until i was on my way to the chicago international film festival tonight. the chicago international film festival was supposed to be tonight's thing.

the funny bit is, the evening's funnest thing wasn't the being in a room with dustin hoffman and 2,999 other people and watching a really good movie. the funnest thing- the thing that happened in chicago tonight- was the train ride home, when the bombshell and i sat laughing hysterically at that thing that happened on another night when we sat laughing hysterically.

this is probably very much a "you had to be there," but last may, squeezed together on an afghan-covered couch and surrounded by 20-year-old hipster boys, bombsy and i watched a group of incredibly drunk, obscenely off-key guys launch into some cliched song that we can no longer remember. but what we do remember- which somehow slips our minds and resurfaces with renewed hilarity every now and again- is that one of the guys, not more than three feet opposite us and looking straight into our laughing eyes, shouted at the top of his voice to the friends flanking him: those fucking girls are laughing at us. which made us laugh even more hysterically. and, in turn, prompted him to pause for a beat and continue: those fucking girls are STILL laughing at us. if he only knew. those girls. they'll be laughing all year long.

03 October 2006

15 vievery

the vieve, queen of the bibliotheque, would like to express her sincerest gratitude to mère and père cupcake, whose impending chicago spend-the-night necessitated the long-delayed purchase of her imperial throne.

02 October 2006

5 brrrrrrr

today, i froze. not necessarily because it's that cold but because i'm a tiny little woman and-- despite the presence of sweaters, hoodies, and blankets-- we do get cold. at long last, a complete and thorough exhaustion from shivering finally conquered my pride in $13 utility bills and i turned on the heat. because i like to fun up the banal, i put on some glitter and a little black dress and prepared for the solemn task at hand: The Ceremonial First Turning On.

much like hanging up on someone on a cordless phone, The Ceremonial First Turning On Of The Heater is way anti-climactic. the heater itself is part of a window unit so unlike a radiator, there's no sizzle or steam or crackle or bang. there's simply the beep of a button, a haggard rumble and a slow breeze of not nearly hot enough air.

even more anti-climactic in the Ceremonial First Turning On Of The Heater '06, was the fact that when i hit the button nothing happened. repeated hittings of the button yielded nothing either. so i leaned forward and peered intently into the darkness- trying to will the heater to life. apparently my persuasive powers work wonders with appliances, because the heater returned from the dead with a sudden, silent but mighty cough of dirt and lint and leaves and nasty. a cough directed right at me.

with that, i've concluded that la petit maison- weary of the incessent rearrangements and the suicidal plants and the murdered bug life and the vievery- must have it in for its oh!'lighn.