one-way ticket

the earth, it is the shaking and the cracking

2005-10-07T16:12:00.000-10:00

Yes that's right, I got my act together, finally, and posted something new and sassy. Unfortunately, it's over at my new website (for which I am PAYING; what would Tyler Durden say!) on blogs.com.

HERE HERE HERE!

Please update as needed/wanted/desired/lusted after. I should mention that the new sitename is Aller Simple. Good grief, it's only a matter of time before I join the Académie Française.

unrequited

2005-09-21T08:34:00.000-10:00

I know what you're thinking - new post, finally. Pictures, where are they? Unfortunately, I spent most of Saturday and Sunday in a funky mix of depression and guilt. You know, the typical cocktail of emo.

So the Friday night I was soooo looking forward to - didn't go so well. I don't even know why; I think I was just so nervous about being with my parents and what they'd expect me to have accomplished in the time I've been in Paris... My own thoughts overwhelmed me, and succeeded in keeping me away from both a schmaltzy dinner and the ballet gala.

Saturday in Strasbourg? Hay-ellz no. More like, shivering on the platform of the RER A at Auber at 7:20 in the morning. Why was I there? Because I didn't feel up to a four-hour train ride; I was queasy enough on solid ground as it was. Although the flooring at Hotel Opal couldn't be something I'd easily refer to as 'solid ground'.

At least I had B. to come home to - oh wait, I didn't. Since my French loveur works also as an author of bandes-dessinées (as well as my on-call masseur), he was doing signings and interviews at the festival in Bercy Village. I spent the better parts of the day, afternoon, and evening listlessly roaming around our apartment, reading something when I was interested in it, then dropping it to the floor five minutes later.

Things didn't look so well, and a clash of the titans (read: my mother and I) was looming on the horizon if I didn't shape up my attitude and guilt-problems in a jiffy. Plus, I disliked my growing dependency on the constant availability of our toilet.

Tuesday evening to the rescue! Yesterday couldn't have gone any better - I had a scrumdiddlyumptious dinner with my parents at Au Bon Accueil - a cozy restaurant situated just a stone's throw from the Eiffel Tower. And when I say scrumdiddlyumptious, I mean it. I don't think my teeth have ever had the pleasure of sinking into veal that juicy and that perfectly roasted. I was even game enough to try the saucy mushrooms, and I was never a friend to fungi. Dinner for three persons, at around 30 euros a head? That's a deal and a half, especially when there's excellent French cuisine involved.

Previously, I had believed that serious discussions about "what's going on" between my mother and I would always end in either one of us laughing, the both of us laughing, or the both of us yelling at each other and then grumbling for a 24-hour period. Somehow, she (Mommy dearest) never ceases to surprise me - after voicing her concerns about my behavior on Friday and Saturday, she talked a lot of sense into me, and got some confessions out of me.

Was our discussion awkward? Yes. Did my father not have a clue what his wife and daughter were talking about? Certainly. Filial relationships survived parental visits unscathed and re-strengthened? Awwwwwww YEA!

Ja, Oui

2005-09-15T10:40:00.000-10:00

This weekend, I'll be heading up to Strasbourg with my parents, to get in touch with my non-existent German side. Yes, I know Strasbourg is not in Germany, but the fact that Alsacien is just French for "so close to German culture, we reek of the same sausage meats", I'm going to go ahead and stick with that.

Buuuuuut before Saturday, there is always a Friday. And this Friday will indeed be sassy and wonderful - the three of us (Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Ludivine Bear) have tickets to a ballet gala at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, an event so charged with starpower that it may just combust and turn into a supernova. I look forward to being the only idiot in the audience who can't contain her excitement and lets it slip by clapping furiously at awkward moments. Don't blame me; I was the one *on* stage for most of my childhood and teenagedom.

Anyway, DVDs of Messieurs Conan O'Brien and David Letterman call. Ciao!

for a good cause

2005-09-12T10:34:00.000-10:00

There is a project undergoing development now, called Voice of a City, consisting of guest-bloggers submitting bits and pieces of their lives for general review in the public blogosphere. The catch is... we (the bloggers) all live in Paris and write on life, here.

I was luckily selected for the test run, which will extend until the end of September. From there, eight "full-time" bloggers will be chosen to write for the official site. I don't know on what basis the head honchos at VoaC would want to keep me or dump me, so I'm really flying by the seat of my pants right now.

There is financial compensation involved for the eight chosen, but not of the Time to Cash that Check in at Louis Vuitton kind. More like, This Could Buy a Fancy Meal! And (a little sadly) I am genuinely excited by this. I'm not jibba-jabbing on VoaC so I can talk about my glaaaa-morous Parisian lifestyle (any literate person would realize this, since my last entry was about the phenomenon of self-performed bagging while grocery shoppping).

If I feel inclined and inspired, I write on this blog. And I love it here, with my cozy audience and delightful-to-read feedback, so my blogging needs have been covered for a while now. No, I write on VoaC because it means I could help B out with the cost for those darn cartes oranges, which run at 70 euros a pop.

For someone who's unemployed and a live-in girlfriend, being able to pay for something as important and necessary as a carte orange (métro/bus/train pass) would be very, very awesome. Finally, a concrete reason to not feel like a complete leech and/or useless person. Yes, B does well in letting me avoid thinking of myself in a completely negative light. But helping to cushion the monthly blow of bills and fees, from my own 'work' so to speak - that's cool. I'd know that I contributed. To a small degree, but nevertheless.

And with that, I'd better indulge my obsessive-compulsive side and spellcheck my last entry for the fourth time.

let me back into the loop!

2005-09-06T11:40:00.000-10:00

So I've been off American soil for around 6 weeks or so. A small amount of time for a girl my age. I could name plenty of 6-week-long periods in which I contributed nothing of import to the world without worrying for my future. In essence, 6 weeks is not the amount of time wherein I would expect to be surprised by the speed at which my contemporary knowledge has become irrelevant.

Juliana's comment to my last post, about the movie The Constant Gardener, did well in reminding me that the 'scene' in the U.S.A. waits for no one, especially not young girls who've abandoned it for (dare I say it?) better shores.

Many of my classmate friends have parted for college throughout the states but have stayed in very close contact; some of them talk to me on a twice-daily basis through e-mails, IMs, etc. when time zones allow. So imagine my surprise when every last one of them started off his or her respective conversation with a "OMG DID U SEE 40 Y/O VIRGIN? IT'S HILARIOUS LOL". I mean, I was literally blindsided by this news - what? who? Most importantly, WHEN?

I left 6 weeks ago for France. Could this supposed "gem of a comedy" have been carefully publicized and popularized throughout America in the short time of my absence? Didn't studios take a lot longer to craft a salivating pre-audience for their films, as in a couple of months or so? Or, with my coming of age (HAH!), did what seemed like a great deal of time, turn into a thimbleful of moments? Is this what the proverbial 'they' meant by years accelerating as we grow older?

So what, by tomorrow France will have a new president and everyone gets a free car?

p.s. Any idea as to when Constant Gardener makes its debut here? I want to see it. Not just to be back in the loop, but because the premise and execution sounds like it justifies the inflated price to see a movie.

prone to feel

2005-09-02T12:30:00.000-10:00

I've rewritten this entry five times over, in a futile effort to express how I'd love it if movies wrapped themselves snakelike around my throat more often. I'll just pretend everyone understands.

Les Choristes was such a movie, certainly. I am never ashamed to be the obnoxious sniffler in the dark of the theater, wiping her wet eyes and keeping her mouth tightly drawn. And I certainly behaved this way upon seeing this movie in the privacy of my apartment.

It seemed that every occasion wherein the boys of the film let their rapturous voices fly into song was a cue for tears to swim at the rims of my eyes and befog my vision. But the mild filmic angoisse doesn't end in my ocular region. It spreads hotly and viscously down my spinal cord to my throat, and then constricts, feeling not unlike an elegant silk scarf tied a bit too tightly.

And yet, things don't stop there. While it's not practical to stay at home all day, replaying the movie to savor the temperate and theatrical faint despair, I accomplish the latter by hearing alone. No more than a quarter of an hour had passed between the end of Les Choristes and the downloading of its soundtrack onto my iPod, so I could remain (paradoxically) delightfully forlorn and transported by what I had just seen.

Vois sur ton chemin
Paroles et Musique: Bruno Coulais et Christophe Barratier

Vois sur ton chemin
Gamins oubliés égarés
Donne leur la main
Pour les mener
Vers d'autres lendemains

Sens au coeur de la nuit
L'onde d'espoir
Ardeur de la vie
Sentier de gloire

Bonheurs enfantins
Trop vite oubliés effacés
Une lumière dorée brille sans fin
Tout au bout du chemin

Sens au coeur de la nuit
L'onde d'espoir
Ardeur de la vie
Sentier de la gloire

a faucet, but an expensive one

2005-08-31T11:15:00.000-10:00

Oh blog, my darling blog, why does it seem like every other week I find a way to avoid your calls, your SMS, your hands squeezing around my throat. That last one was strictly for fleshing out the metaphor. The day my laptop grows hands, that's the day I call off my allegiance to the good folks at Apple, Inc.

So, what have I been doing in the space of seven days? Savoring these last fleeting days of summer, and dutifully swashbuckling at stores with the help of the good ship MasterCard. I think that's why I have not felt impelled to blog. I mean, what's uniquely Parisian and French about shopping for clothes, in preparation for winter? Readers in Minnesota would laugh at my folly if I said I had loaded up on henley sweaters not much thicker than my thinnest T-Shirt. Which I haven't. Yet.

The point is that I dislike the notion of turning my blog into a spreadsheet of my weekly expenses. I mean, the occasional adventure to Franprix wherein I encounter some old dude who tells me my future (forecast: heaps of misfortune) is cool. Telling the Interweb where I bought the coolest Admiral-style jacket in the world is bof (H&M, but I didn't write that).

In more important and less-bitchy news, the kitten I have been kitten-sitting for 3 weeks now is going home tomorrow. I expect that some tears will be shed after her departure, but only when my ~~racking sobs~~ sniffles cannot be overheard. That kitten has endearingly but rather savagely clawed her way into my heart, God bless her.

Speaking of being overheard - there appears to be a very bright kid in my apartment building, a kid who's picked up on the fact that I parle anglais. It's not like I run around the common yard singing the Star-Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs, nor subscribe to any Anglophone magazines. Nah, this kid has the hearing of a bat (bats do hear well, right? They're just blind?), as apparently he's overheard me speaking to B as we head out the parking lot to the bus stop. I've named him "onetwothreefourfive" because every time he sees me, he begins to count in English. He's actually pretty good for his age, it's only past the number seven that he starts to get a little franglais-y.

Anywho, so if you'll excuse me, it's time I go blow my nose. I have a runny nose that's headed I-don't-know-where at 170 km/h. Which is to say, things are getting pretty bad.

unintentional policeMAN

2005-08-23T12:09:00.000-10:00

Many of you may have found yourself in the delightfully rare situation of preventing/stopping a criminal act. Perhaps you brought unwanted attention to a shoplifter's actions in a store, maybe you were the human obstacle a running thief smacked into while on a now-failed heist. Whatever the circumstances, being an unintentional ~~policeperson~~ policeMAN (this is France, I can be un-PC si je veux) is a satisfying surprise for most of us.

So here's where I share my story of unintended police business. I was in the unsexy and dingy public transportation hub of La Défense two days ago, fumbling for my carte orange and looking decidedly un-Parisian (for la vraie française is never out of sorts, nor harried-looking, nor indeed wearing a white eyelet skirt that has grayed and bears many signs of disrepair and bad storage). I fished it out, wiped my dewy forehead while cursing the indoor mugginess, and made my way to the ticketing machines just before the entrance. B passed through first, and I intended to follow right after.

Except, I didn't. My ticket flew through the machine, but the latter spat the former out with a resolute BRAAAAP! and the snobby flicker of a red light. No sooner than two milliseconds after I stubbed my foot on the doors I expected to open for me à la open-fricking-sesame, a shady-looking dude bumped into my rear. Without so much as a pardon, he strode backwards for a couple of paces then glanced around. B gestured for me to join him (sans déconner; what the hell ELSE was I doing, playing red-light pattycake with the malfunctioning machines of La Défense?) and I told him that my ticket didn't seem to be able to get me through. Shady Dude hung around and tailed me very closely for a second time, when I retried getting through the barrier. I cursed flagrantly from l'injustice of it all (at this moment I felt very French, what with the vocalizing and articulating of my heated passion) and tried a third, fourth, fifth time. And to my surprise, seeing as I had higher standards for Parisian ticket barrier-hoppers, Shady Dude continued his fruitless mission to get past the unbudging doors, with me.

After my fifth failed try, B insisted I just follow Shady Dude's example and tail someone closely. So after a backward glance to catch the face of Shady Dude, since we had just shared a very intimate experience of being miserable stuck ducks in a ticket barrier, I tagged along in the wake of a very tall and distinguished coat-wearing gentleman and was finally reunited with my boyfriend on the speedier side of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. But not before seeing Shady Dude's horribly-done, cut-and-paste fake carte orange. And his crestfallen face. Fait not accompli. I can rub this in without feeling too bad because at least I bear a legal carte orange and therefore have the twisted right to follow tall and distinguished coat-wearing gentlemen when the c.o. gives me a hard time.

Ok, so I didn't kick his ass and send him crying to his maman for a pain au chocolat. But I did unintentionally halt his progress. Oh, wait, I ended up doing the very same illegal thing he had sought to achieve. Merde! Scratch that whole thing about being a policepersonmanwoman. Don't report me, or I'll ... I'll spam your blog!

it's been a while

2005-08-18T06:32:00.000-10:00

8 days already? Ahem.

What have I been doing recently, hmm. Doing my part as kitten-sitter and law-abiding capitalist, that's for sure. Evidence for the former: fifty (at least!) scratches on my left and right hands and forearms. Evidence for the latter: slightly improved undergarments wardrobe, burgeoning number of make-up trucs.

Today's heat has made me regret not dragging B on a swimsuit-purchasing mission earlier. It was/is perfect Paris Plage weather, replete with an almost tropical assortment of light breezes. To be along the Seine in my anti-Puritan, hooray-for-psychedelic-stripes swimsuit RIGHT NOW would be too satisfying to call it satisfying. But I lack wordmaking powers, so for now that'll have to do.

Instead I'm indoors and bemoaning the heat every 20 minutes with a "IT'S FRICKING HOT, DUDES" stoutly stated. While scratching my belly and clenching my sausage-like fingers around the sexy body of an ice-cold 40. Ok, that last part was made-up.

Cheers!

*gulp*

*scratch*

rub me the wrong way

2005-08-10T09:36:00.000-10:00

Here's something that pisses me off more than Nutella's table surface magnetivity.

There's a person (male) I have stayed in contact with for a good two and a half years now, a person who entertained the thankless task of watching out for me, dispensing advice that always fell on deaf ears, etc. I've really appreciated his input... until now.

Yesterday he had the grand idea of trying to deter me from any sort of plans that deviated from 4 years in Stanford, followed by 4 more in grad school, followed by a boring faceless working life in America, followed by the creation of my super-American family with a super-American male.

I never knew he was so retardedly anti-French. I mean, he was anti-French to the point that he insisted that I remember where I was, and what risks I was taking by speaking to Frenchmen. I wouldn't be surprised if he were one of those têtes-nulles who guffawed when someone referred to the French as 'cheese-eating surrender monkeys'. I never, ever thought he'd be so close-minded, but well, he is.

Anyway, so I've decided to feed him sour notes in my return-emails; if his head isn't too clogged with the thick cottony American flag, he'll hopefully pick up on my irateness and ask after it. I intend to answer très franchement and if he doesn't wise up and stop predicting absolute ruin unless I move back to America, he can bid adieu to any chance of future correspondance.

I don't have the time nor effort to deal with idiots.

eating

2005-08-08T12:35:00.000-10:00

It's come to my attention (and B's as well) that I bear the same level of dexterity as a five-year-old child when eating Nutella with des morceaux d'une baguette.

I blame it on the fact that we lack a dining table, but I do acknowledge that Nutella is a powerful adversary. It is magnetically attracted to bedsheets and carpets, I SWEAR.

>__>

pique-nique

2005-08-08T00:22:00.000-10:00

Yesterday I attended a rather windy picnic on the Champs de Mars, braving below-freezing temperatures (for a Hawaiian) and a particularly volatile intestinal tract with unpredictable but always derelict behavior.

Here's a short documentary posted while my innards bear me momentary mercy.

magical sandwiches made from my own two hands!

the cutest little puppy this side of the seine!

magnificent. really, truly.

tag, i'm it!

2005-08-07T01:39:00.000-10:00

Merci à Taupe (sexily good writer and fellow Parisian [how cool that concept is, now]) for zis meme/taggeroo thing. I needed something to think over as I lolled around in the bedcovers.

1. Ten years ago. I was eight, and I was in the third grade. Er, I was going on to the fourth grade. I remember this being the summer I realized I needed glasses, and soon, because the daily headaches from myopia were reaching astronomically OW!!! levels. I spent my lazier days perched atop a 1.5m tall wooden box in my grandmother's yard, cloudgazing and occasionally spraying the guard-dog with water. I was a tomboy, in essence. I liked trees.

2. Five years ago. I was thirteen, and finally discovering what it was like for a boy to like you. I remember that during this fateful summer, I received a trial issue of Seventeen in the mail and flipped through it daily, desperate to catch up on what it meant to be a girly girl. They had me until the scandalous column on how to kiss (with your tongue involved, EWW). I returned to peaceful tomboyhood, disturbed by the world of girliness.

3. One year ago. I was seventeen, and suffering from the first real mental breakdown I've ever experienced. All the stress of junior year had culminated in one sleepless night of pure, adrenaline-fueled anxiety. Did I mention I was living all alone in a creepy, haunted dorm room in the "bad" side of Washington, D.C.? Well, I was. And the day before had been a disgustingly awful series of ballet and modern dance classes, shared with girls who had no sense of self-worth and were quick to reduce happier girls to equally miserable piles of rubbish.

4. Yesterday. I was eighteen, living in a suburb of Paris with my boyfriend, and thinking about sandwiches while gripping my incredibly sore stomach. Oh, and bemoaning the non-eagerly awaited onset of the menses fairy's cruelty.

5. Today. Menses fairy's cruelty begins. Toilet and I grow close, as partners and friends. I will make the aforementioned Sandwiches of Sexy (SoS) later tonight, for the purposes of a grand pique-nique on the Champs de Mars.

6. Tomorrow. With luck I'll be going out somewhere on the town to meet my French teacher for a café or something along those lines. You know, typically European afternoon-fare. The kind I've dreamt about for years. Unless my intestines keep lurching and flopping around like a hundred-meter long spiny worm with a taste for vengeance and pain. Then I will be locked up with my good friend, Toilet.

7. Five snacks I enjoy. In order of preference: ice-cold Diet Coke; miniature crunchy pickled plums; Boursin garlic/herb cheese spread; morsels of baguette; Slurpees (strawberry, please).

8. Five bands. Easy: Franz Ferdinand; The White Stripes; Thomas Fersen; Coldplay; stereolab (complete with artistically non-capitalized band name [I think?]).

9. Five things I would do with $100,000,000. Not so easy, but here I go: buy a ridiculously gorgeous flat in Paris (in the arrondissement of my bf's choice, bien sûr); purchase a vintage Vespa in that predictably classy wintergreen color; nab the two-floor apartment my parents have wanted in downtown Honolulu, for them to use at their leisure; get a couple of plane tickets for B. and I to go to Japan, to any city he desires to visit; throw half into a trust-fund for my future children, and blow the other half on n'importe quoi.

10. Five locations I'd like to run away to. Er... what if I'm already in the location to which I would do said running-away? OK OK FINE I CONCEDE TO THE MEME POWERS: Florence; Aix-en-Provence; Rio-de-Janeiro; ... I'm out.

11. Five bad habits. Nail-biting; disregard for the person using the bathtub after me; anti-sandwich breadcrust tendencies; knuckle/hip/spine/wrist/toe/ankle-cracking; forgetting to take out a new roll of TP after I've abused the last of the most recent.

12. Five things I like doing. Answers of 11 can be re-used here. JUST KIDDING... for the second and last ones. Please replace them with the following: blogging; speaking nonsense ... en français (i.e., En ce moment, je pète!)

13. Five T.V. shows I like. Everybody Loves Raymond; Friends; VH1's Best Week Ever; those cool documentaries on Channel Five that deal with animals and the animal kingdom in general; The Surreal Life.

14. Famous people I'd like to meet. No one comes to mind. I'm pretty content dealing with the normal people. They're the coolest, and the most interesting.

15. Biggest joys at the moment. My boyfriend; living in Paris (I'm just gonna call this place Paris from hereonin because technically it is part of the umbrella-name of Paris; take THAT, purists); just about everything except my digestive tract.

16. Favorite toys. My iBook. It is of the unpluggedness (which is to say, trop cool).

17. Five people to tag. I nominate Juliana, my rocktastic situation-twin. If anyone else would like to give it a try, please go ahead under the false assumption that I nominated you. *whistle*

smell that RER

2005-08-04T04:48:00.000-10:00

Tout va bien. I have been successfully accomplishing nothing and doing diddlysquat. It's been very gratifying; one should consider emulating me. Especially if one is but a 40 minute journey away from the heart of one of the world's more famous cities.

Speaking of journeys, yesterday's rare adventure into Paris by bus/RER/métro was thrilling and short enough to pass without a fuss. Except the mild one I made on the journey back to Rueil. You see, the thing I forgot about Parisian public transport is that unlike the sterilized Volvo-buses chugging around Honolulu, the RER is a squeaky-creaky urine-infused metal box. An efficient and timely one, at that, but unpleasant to ze olfactory senses quand même.

So it was to my displeasure that upon boarding the RER A to head back to headquarters in the west, a wave of what-the-fuck-is-that assailed my nose. B. said offhandedly that the smell was "quite ok" for that day; I guess non-vacances/rush-hour trips can be alarmingly more putrid. I look forward to the day when I can take my friend from Hawaii around the city and sniff the train cabin air approvingly, giving it a satisfactory rating. I'll feel so parisian.

Til then, I am a gentle weenie-Americaine.

while on the plane...

2005-08-01T03:33:00.000-10:00

« Boss, ze plane ! » Somehow I remember this from a game, a movie, a something-or-another that has obviously been outlived by memories thereof. And how appropriate, at a time like this, that it should be remembered – during a flight to Paris, from whence (I suppose) the quote originates.

It is not my pleasure to announce that this flight will last for a total of 10 hours and 34 minutes. Add this to my already awkward-feeling biological clock and lack of sleep from the night before (could you sleep knowing that the next day would bring alarming amounts of newness to your life ?), and… well, it’s a surprise I got myself on this plane at all. Really, a true marvel.

Wardrobe issues have been wonderfully plentiful and continue to be. I made the mistake of not wearing an undershirt with my un peu trop sexy shirt and I’m paying for it with every downward shift of the eyes, every nervous glance around to meet the gaze of husbands and their disapproving wives.

A bilingual flight is a rather good assessment of my French skills (as if there were any to boast of), since the vocabulary used is atypical but deductible through careful reasoning and listening. I’ll be the first to admit that I had no idea what the hell was going on for most of the sound bites about duty-free gifts and a mini-bottle of champagne costing five dollars/four euros. But what is important, I suppose, is the effort. Fais un effort. At least it shows my want to learn, if anything at all. That, and my want to live in France. Yeah, that sounds about right.

LATERS TATERS

2005-07-25T23:16:00.000-10:00

Something something jetplane....

Something something don't know when I'll be back again!

My next post will be from the comfort of a flat in (technically near) Paris! Bisou!

200% Daily Recommended Value of SWEETNESS

2005-07-24T14:01:00.000-10:00

ARRRRRRRGH, MY EYES, THEY ARE ROTTING FROM THE CUTENESS.

what!

2005-07-23T17:45:00.000-10:00

You know those moments that seem so incredible when you replay them in your mind?

I had one of those today.

I was running around with my friend Spencer at (conveniently named) Sans-Souci beach, passing a football laterally between the both of us as we charged down the grass-tufted sand. And then, it hit me.

Or rather, I hit IT. Yes, a coconut tree. No, coconuts didn't come tumbling down onto me, thank GOD. I wavered around for a second, unsure and unstable, then collapsed into a heap.

When I came to, Spencer told me I had apologized to the tree right after I collided. What crueller cackling from a friend, the world hath not known.

BRAZILIANS

2005-07-22T01:08:00.000-10:00

You've heard about it. The Brazilian. No, not a Brazilian. THE. As in, waxing (ou bien, l'épilation). For the Internet-savvy, you'll know that there's a silly video of the reactions of young women to that first YANK of hair. The savage separation of follicle and fallow field. Heinous, n'est-ce pas?

So I opted for one today. My first time setting foot in an aesthetician's workspace, and I wanted to go all out (literally). I insisted on it. I deserved at least 75% of the blinding pain, what with my cockiness about it all.

Right so, the entire procedure (which involved not-so-bizarre leg positions but a definite feeling of DEAR LORD I AM ON DISPLAY... AND I'M PAYING FOR IT!) lasted 30-35 minutes. It was great, you know, especially that one part when my waxing-lady got a little overzealous and decided to tackle a wide expanse of crotch instead of sneaking around, little by little.

Somehow I remained modest, as best as one can when one's LADYPARTS are a foot away from a stranger's face, and didn't let fly any profanity or belligerent curses. Just run-of-the-mill gasping and index-finger biting. You know, the usual.

I recommend it, strangely enough.

the very best send-off

2005-07-18T21:17:00.000-10:00

Yesterday, a close handful of my friends threw me a surprise teaparty, French-themed of course, and I do believe it was the singlemost fantastic event I've ever experienced in their company. And that's a pretty fucking impressive feat, seeing as I have shared some incredible moments with those girls.

Anyway, so here's the swag - two photo albums chock full of ~~evidence~~ photos of our drunken/cheery/glorious times; two lei (tuberose and paper-flower); one book of ponderable dilemmas (Why Do Cats Hate Water?); one party-pack of condoms; one bottle of anti-hangover pills; one address book; one seashell necklace; a great deal of love.

I couldn't help but crying as I read aloud their cards and little notes at the table. Evading the always-melancholic thought of never seeing most (if not all) of these girls again, ever, only made this final *thud* in my mind unbelievably painful. I didn't experience an intolerable pain, I suppose, since I have indeed been working on my notorious separation anxiety and overall depression. But at the moment I read the opening lines of my absolute-absolute-bestest-best friend's card to my smiling audience, I just lost it and had to sniffle a couple of times before I was ready to plow through the rest of the card, eyes swimming with hot tears. I think a few cards following hers were splotched embarrassingly by said tears, ensuring that I'll remember my exact reaction when I (inevitably) reread these cards in my new Parisian home.

harry potter?

2005-07-18T18:08:00.000-10:00

I just finished Book 6. SO GOOD. I read it in two sizeable chunks, one on yesterday and the other today.

Following are some scenes from the nerd-filled Midnight Magic party some friends and I attended at Barnes & Noble. Am I going to play the cool kid and say I was reluctant to go? HELL NO! It was awesome. I felt a kinship with my fellow Potterfans. And, since most everyone was somehow festively adorned, they were far less jumpy and suspicious around my ubiquitous camera's eye. Just how I like it.

Then I sneaked off to do a bit of canoodling with Monsieur Johnny. >_>

bastille day!

2005-07-14T21:47:00.000-10:00

For your listening pleasure -

Allons, enfants de la Patriiiiiie
Le jour de gloire eeeeest arrivééééé
Contre nous de la tyrannieeeee
L'étendard sanglant est levééééé

(L'étendaaaa-ard sanglant est levééé)

Entendez-vooouuuus dans les campaaaagnes
Muuugir ces feroces soldaaaats
Ils viennent jusque dans nos braaaas
Égorger nos filsssss, nos compaaaagnes

AUX AAAAARMES CITOYENS
FORMEEEEEZ VOS BATAILLONNNNS
MARCHONNNNNS, MARCHOOOONNNNS
QU'UNNNNN SANG IMPUUUUR
ABREUUUUVE NOS SILLONNNNNS

AUX AAAAARMES CITOYENS
FORMEEEEEZ VOS BATAILLONNNNS
MARCHONNNNNS, MARCHOOOONNNNS
QU'UNNNNN SANG IMPUUUUR
ABREUUUUVE NOS SILLONNNNNS

Happy Bastille Day, frenchies! <3

thinking ahead

2005-07-12T18:46:00.000-10:00

I wonder if I'll keep this blog the way it is, once I arrive in Paris. I'm growing attached to the idea of arriving with tabula rasa (that phrase is about all I remember of John Locke, if indeed that is his name). Blogula rasa? ... No. I should've just stopped with the former. Funnymaking is a learning process.

It just seems fitting, you know. What with the whole starting from scratch, etcetera. I haven't written anything particularly noteworthy and profound in this blog's past, at least to my knowledge, so it won't be a huge loss. Not that I plan to do so in the future, mind. You probably will not find many introspective, pensive-head-nod inducing, praiseworthy entries at this domain. I'll keep the task of their creation to more able writers, such as those within the BLOGS column to your right.

Bon. You will find out my final decision come July 28th, the day I disembark from my holding cell (read: 17 hour plane ride) and in turn, embark on a new adventure pour l'aventurière courageuse.

dispel

2005-07-12T12:26:00.000-10:00

I swear that post below Jean Reno's magnificent portrait had no intentions of hinting to a wedding. It was just a topic of discussion. HONEST! :-p

Although, a registry at Amazon.com wouldn't have been 'exploiting' the misconception... would it?

the professional

2005-07-11T13:10:00.000-10:00

celebrating, quiet-style

2005-07-11T08:27:00.000-10:00

What's the point of wedding receptions, if the bride and groom only really know their respective halves of those present? Attendants of past receptions complain about the awkwardness presented by swimming in a sea of unfamiliar, made-up faces. Others feel betrayed when they remember that at that one wedding, that one time, they ran into an embittered ex. Guest lists are exquisitely flawed at best, and flat-out retarded at worst. Apples and oranges can cohabit peacefully, but certainly not lions and polar bears.

So, what's the point? There are many. But one, perhaps a guilty one, is the gift registry. Don't lie, brides-to-be, you know you want a free grill. Another? Expedient notification of not-terribly-close acquaintances of your loving intentions and affections (quicker than by phone). And another, I suppose - basking in the attention of a hundred or more people, knowing the entire time that it still couldn't equate to the attention your loved one gives to you (for the time being).

pecan pirating

2005-07-08T16:11:00.000-10:00

Two hours ago, I gobbled my way through seven little pecan-and-toffee cups...

I feel like any sudden movement could unleash a series of convulsions and hurling motions most un-ladylike. Then again, stuffing my face with snackfoods in a fit of hormonal madness was pretty fucking unattractive, too.

the jaywalking hour

2005-07-07T06:55:00.000-10:00

My nocturnal tendencies have firmly entrenched themselves into the petite boîte of patterns and routines I follow daily. No longer content to pause life at 2 A.M., I slog through the underlit hours and can now say that Hawaii isn't where sunrise-lovers should honeymoon.

What's that? I'm wrong? Well, it's been close to a week now that I have been truly nocturnal, and I have not a single magnificent sunrise witnessing to report. I turn my back for about 5 minutes to put the kettle on the stove and scoop withered tea leaves into an empty cloth teabag, and hop! - the sky has shifted dramatically from muddy gray to a resplendent summer blue. Where the hell did the slow, fiery ascent of the sun chariot go? My oceanview's been jipped.

The things that I have been lucky enough to bear witness to, are nothing you should write home and recount to Mommy. They usually involve crystal methamphetamine addicts confidently, assertively jaywalking across the highway just outside of my window. Perhaps at 9 A.M. they would be deterred by the morning rush-traffic. But five hours before, still basking in their chemical brain-rot high, these kings of morons do swagger across two of the four lanes, only to be honked and beeped into a standstill on the third by a lone aZn racer and his souped-up Honda, flying down the fourth.

How do I know these jaywalkers are on ice? Who else but a meth addict would try to kick the honky-beepy Honda as it zoomed past, only to fail (duh), then launch into a screaming fit while still on the highway that lasts long enough to scar the memory of three more passing racers? A drunk would tell off the first offender with a lurch, a fist-shake, and choice words pumped with vitrol - and then stagger off the highway. But the meth addict, ah. He is not prisoner to his former train of thought and intent; he can do what he damn well pleases when the fancy strikes him.

And that's why being nocturnal isn't as lonely as it was, anymore.

**Note: I will leave the Paris 2012 banner on my blog because that's where the games should be.

late-night love

2005-07-05T06:34:00.000-10:00

Sans toi, les emotions d'aujourd'hui ne seraient que la peau morte des emotions d'autrefois.

-- Hipolito.

... what?

2005-07-03T21:29:00.000-10:00

put your hands in the air

2005-06-30T19:16:00.000-10:00

Tomorrow marks the first time in a longtemps that I will be allowed - nay, expected - to eat with my hands. (Oh, how I miss thee, sweet toddlerhood).

Long live Moroccan restaurants, and may the couscous be mouthcrumblingly delicious!

nocturnal

2005-06-26T17:57:00.000-10:00

I've slept through about five grad parties I'd promised I would attend.

I am losing friends faster than a skanky little 15-year-old could lose her virginity in an alleyway of Rome.

snack food for ex-dictators

2005-06-24T21:31:00.000-10:00

Doritos.
I'm hooked. ;_;

cold feet

2005-06-24T20:52:00.000-10:00

It's not a symptom of PMS. At least, I hope not.

So yesterday (and a little bit of the day before that) a lot of doubts about hauling ass to France surfaced in my mind. Things like...

will I make friends? Not just acquaintances, but good friends?The kind with whom I could discuss subject matter unapproved by George W. Bush?
will we (he and I) ever live in Paris? When?
will I be forced to return to the states for any reason other than being extradited as a murderer of hapless young American children?
why am I so moody these days?

Alright, that last one isn't a doubt. Or maybe it is.

Anyway, the cloud's passed and I'm ready for some lactose-free, sugar-free, taste-free imitation ice cream. Who's with me?

not seeing things

2005-06-22T19:44:00.000-10:00

This is an undoctored photograph (alright, I admit I pumped up the contrast a little) of what happened to my dinner tonight. You are not imagining things; it is in fact a rice-pancake, held together by an unseen microwave-borne glue. Intentional? No. Dry and brittle as the bones of a septuagenarian lizard? Yes. Tasty? Rather!

Sigh...

*crunch crunch*

you know you're growing up...

2005-06-22T19:29:00.000-10:00

... when it becomes commonplace to discuss constipation issues. Without giggling.

I have never had a more serious talk on the wonders of Benefiber than I did today, with my dear friend Laura (the heterosexual one). Seriously. Miniskirts not fitting too well? Benefiber. Never in the mood around your boyfriend anymore? Benefiber. Queasy beach lounging?

You guessed it. Benefiber.

Théophile Gautier : Etude de main - Emeaux et Camées

2005-06-21T18:50:00.000-10:00

Chez un sculpteur, moulée en plâtre,
J'ai vu l'autre jour une main
D'Aspasie ou de Cléopâtre,
Pur fragment d'un chef-d'oeuvre humain ;

Dans l'éclat de sa pâleur mate
Elle étalait sur le velours
Son élégance délicate
Et ses doigts fins aux anneaux lourds.

Une cambrure florentine,
Avec un bel air de fierté,
Faisait, en ligne serpentine,
Onduler son pouce écarté.

A-t-elle joué dans les boucles
Des cheveux lustrés de don Juan,
Ou sur son caftan d'escarboucles
Peigné la barbe du sultan,

Et tenu, courtisane ou reine,
Entre ses doigts si bien sculptés,
Le sceptre de la souveraine
Ou le sceptre des voluptés ?

Impériales fantaisies,
Amour des somptuosités ;
Voluptueuses frénésies,
Rêves d'impossibilités,

Romans extravagants, poèmes
De haschisch et de vin du Rhin.
Courses folles dans les bohènes
Sur le dos des coursiers sans frein ;

On voit tout cela dans les lignes
De cette paume, livre blanc
Où Vénus a tracé des signes
Que l'amour ne lit qu'en tremblant.

the lone wanderer

2005-06-19T19:01:00.000-10:00

Here.

Loads slow. Worth it.

evolution

2005-06-18T15:56:00.000-10:00

Old English (c. 1000 AD)

Faeder ur pu pe eart on heofonum, si pin nama gehalgod. To becume pin rice. Gewurpe pin willa on eorcan swa swa on heofonum. Urne gedaeghwamlican hlaf syle us to daeg. And forgyf us ure gyltas, swa swa we forgyfae urum gyltedum. And ne gelaed pu us on costnungen ac alys us of yfele. Sodlice.

Middle English (c. 1400 AD)

Oure fadir that art in heuenes halowid be thi name, thi kyngdom come to, be thi wille don in erthe es in heuene, yeue to us this day oure bread ouir other substance, & foryeue to us oure dettis, as we forgeuen to oure dettouris, & lede us not in to temptacion: but delyuer us from yuel, amen.

Early Modern English (c. 1500 AD)

Our father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdome come. Thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven. Giue vs this day our dayly bread. And forgiue vs our debts, as we forgiue our debters. And leade vs not into temptation, but deliuer vs from euill: for thine is the kingdome, and the power, and the glory, for euer, Amen.

Contemporary English (c. 1700-present)

Our Father, who is in heaven, may your name be kept holy. May your kingdom come into being. May your will be followed on earth, just as it is in heaven. Give us this day our food for the day. And forgive us our offenses, just as we forgive those who have offended us. And do not bring us to the test. But free us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours forever. Amen.

x & y

2005-06-17T17:03:00.000-10:00

I don't have much to say today, but I will mention the face that the new Coldplay album has allowed me to ignore phone calls and read poorly-written tabloid mags sans guilt. WHILE CONSUMING MY BODY WEIGHT IN SOURDOUGH BREAD.

quite lovely

2005-06-15T19:24:00.000-10:00

Cool is when your skirt flies up over your head, as it's a floor-length skirt, but you've got a slip on and so you just let the wind die down, then tamp your clothing back into place, not rushing in the least. All this while managing a groceries trolley that looks like an artifact from the '50s.

My god, that Filipino grandma was so cool.

In other news, I now regret wearing that microskirt to the neighborhood 7-11. That is a FAMILY STORE. Have I no morals?

smells like desperation

2005-06-15T00:31:00.000-10:00

Ever been so crazy and in need of someone that you'd be willing to play an entire team of Brazilian men in a game of soccer, just you against them, for 5 hours just so you could have time with your lover at the end of the day?

Aerrrgh.

une leçon valable

2005-06-13T03:36:00.000-10:00

l'épreuve de philosophie (du bac 2005)

2005-06-12T22:31:00.000-10:00

- troisième question -

Expliquer le texte suivant :

Si le cours naturel des choses était parfaitement bon et satisfaisant, toute action serait une ingérence inutile qui, ne pouvant améliorer les choses, ne pourrait que les rendre pires. Ou, si tant est qu'une action puisse être justifiée, ce serait uniquement quand elle obéit directement aux instincts, puisqu'on pourrait éventuellement considérer qu'ils font partie de l'ordre spontané de la nature ; mais tout ce qu'on ferait de façon préméditée et intentionnelle serait une violation de cet ordre parfait. Si l'artificiel ne vaut pas mieux que le naturel, à quoi servent les arts de la vie ? Bêcher, labourer, bâtir, porter des vêtements sont des infractions directes au commandement de suivre la nature.

[...] Tout le monde déclare approuver et admirer nombre de grandes victoires de l'art sur la nature : joindre par des ponts des rives que la nature avait séparées, assécher des marais naturels, creuser des puits, amener à la lumière du jour ce que la nature avait enfoui à des profondeurs immenses dans la terre, détourner sa foudre par des paratonnerres, ses inondations par des digues, son océan par des jetées. Mais louer ces exploits et d'autres similaires, c'est admettre qu'il faut soumettre les voies de la nature et non pas leur obéir ; c'est reconnaître que les puissances de la nature sont souvent en position d'ennemi face à l'homme, qui doit user de force et d'ingéniosité afin de lui arracher pour son propre usage le peu dont il est capable, et c'est avouer que l'homme mérite d'être applaudi quand ce peu qu'il obtient dépasse ce qu'on pouvait espérer de sa faiblesse physique comparée à ces forces gigantesques. Tout éloge de la civilisation, de l'art ou de l'invention revient à critiquer la nature, à admettre qu'elle comporte des imperfections, et que la tâche et le mérite de l'homme sont de chercher en permanence à les corriger ou les atténuer.

John Stuart Mill, La nature

La connaissance de la doctrine de l'auteur n'est pas requise. II faut et il suffît que l'explication rende compte, par la compréhension précise du texte, du problème dont il est question.

OK kids, B. has taken the time to write a nice response that touches upon the main points of this passage. But let me say for the record that I am beyond glad that national-level Philosophy exams do not exist in the States. Why?

Because I'd be überfucked.

aspirant

2005-06-10T22:23:00.000-10:00

If I had to emulate someone once I grew older, and reached my forties, I'd want to be like Isabelle Huppert. Under her sober exterior, there's an impassioned flame of scathing wit and arched-eyebrow maturity.

She is so ... womanly.

guilted into glee

2005-06-08T19:51:00.000-10:00

Have any of you ever attended a social function or three because the person hosting sort of 'guilted' you into it? Because I have.

I've known C for about 4 years now. We are 'good' friends, but I'm quite sure we both have some quibbles with the other in the backs of our minds. It's easy to get into an argument with C; she's very assertive and almost entirely nonaccepting of alternate solutions/suggestions/explanantions to situations to which she believes she has THE answer. I usually back down; if there's one thing I've accrued over the past 4 years, it's to cede some (most) polemics to her. Otherwise, I find myself mired in a 2 week long battle of self-righteousness. It's tiring and wears on our strained friendship. I dislike it, so I just let her get away with thinking she's completely right.

Anyway, so C is VERY adamant about me attending whatever party/soirée/get-together she's hosting at her house. I offer extremely valid excuses, but they are unacceptable to her, I guess. So, I grudgingly make my way to the event, sort of quasi-enjoy myself, then gripe to my chauffeur (mommy dearest) about the injustices I face, on the way home. I didn't WANT to go to her abysmal post-Prom "party", yet I did. I didn't WANT to go to her birthday BBQ (I hate the smell of meat cooking), yet I did. I'm sick and tired of going to these things, and being disappointed.

But every single fucking time, she finds a way to TOTALLY throttle me with the guilt-gun when I voice my hesitancy. "You always ditch me." "You're never there." "That's what FRIENDS do, what are YOU, then?" Etcetera, etcetera, et fucking cetera.

So tonight was her graduation shindig but I opted to not go. C sent me a rather curt "invite" in the mail but it was accidentally disposed of before I could commit the details to memory. She hasn't mentioned it to me EVER, this party, so one would think one could get away with not going. But no, she'll probably call sometime tonight or tomorrow, wondering why the fuck I wasn't at her house, when she "told" me THOUSANDS upon THOUSANDS of times about the party (when in fact, she hasn't EVER EVER EVER talked about it, like I said above).

How do I deal with this? We'll be separated once the end of July comes about and I flee to Paris... but until then, I'm at C's mercy.

son of a !

2005-06-08T13:02:00.000-10:00

I bought an epilator from Braun today on that mecca for shopaholics, Amazon.com. It has 4.5 stars after 30-odd reviews so it can't be all too shabby, unless these reviewers in question are in fact Braun employees. In which case, my paranoia is FINALLY VINDICATED.

Ahem. In other news, burping levels in my household are at an all time high. One needs only to gently push my soft tummy with the force of an infant child, to trigger a three-burp sequence.

...

Belch.

transcript

2005-06-05T17:50:00.000-10:00

"So what's in store for you next, guys?"

1: "I'm going to Europe in two days, for tourist shit and clubbing fun. I also really want to get laid with some foreign guy."

2: "Nothing. Summer sucks."

3: "I'm going to Paris in July to go and live with my bf."

All: "..."

4: "I'm going to boot camp in Maryland."

All: "When?"

4: "Two weeks from now. It's gonna be intense."

5: "I don't know. Grad parties, beach, cruising... then college, I guess."

All: "Yep. College."

2: "You guys, I don't have a fucking clue how it's going to be out there."

4: "I'm not too scared, though."

1: "Hope it's crazy fun!"

3: "It's not going to be. It's going to be hell for all you guys. But a hell with a nice reward. Unless you're going to grad school. In which case, this shit won't even matter."

4: "Keep in touch?"

2: "Yeah. Gonna have your windsurfing stuff before you leave?"

4: "Hope so."

5: "Guys, I think I love you."

All: "..."

5: "I'm not stoned. I swear."

All: :-)

cream of WTF

2005-06-03T13:04:00.000-10:00

I had my first adventure with condensed soup today - Cream of Celery. I have never been more turned on by gloppy white goo. Thanks, anti-porn upbringing!

The directions say, Add 1 cup of water for every 1/2 cup of shit-from-the-can (note: not verbatim). So I did, and the mixture looked more like what I'd thrown up at a gas station in Bear Lake, California. Not a good lunch prospect by any means.

I poured the bowl's contents into the drain, washed up, and grabbed four Keebler's Rainbow Cookies as a substitute. And wouldn't you know, I feel sick as a dog.

recording session

2005-05-30T12:14:00.000-10:00

le roi says:
SOOOOOOOOOOOOO TELLMEWACHAWANT
WHACHAREALLYREALLYWANT
la reine says:
I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT
le roi says:
AH WANNA AH WANNA AH WANNA REALLYREALLYREALLYREALLY WNANANANANANANAAAA
la reine says:
ZIG A ZIG AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH
la reine says:
we have brilliant chemistry
le roi says:
oui
le roi says:
i think we should record ourselves

baccalaureate

2005-05-30T10:44:00.000-10:00

Mmm, yesterday I spent a good hour and a half inside of Central Union Church, experiencing a proverbial slew of pats-on-the-back and self-extolling. And I loved every moment of it, certainly. I worked hard (sometimes) to get to that point; I deserved more than a couple of kissyfaces and lei.

What I really dug, though, was the menacing classical music emanating from the organ during the processional and recessional. I looked upwards on my way out, arm hooked around Beau's and eyes roving the vaulted ceiling and ironworked, giant lamps. Am I the only one who marveled at the existence of such European architecture smack in the middle of Honolulu? Architecture accompanied by thundering music from the pulpit?

If I closed my eyes briefly (which I did) I could almost imagine myself making the same recessional out of a giant cathedral... somewhere in Paris.

<3

2005-05-27T21:16:00.000-10:00

i'm done! <3

pure love

2005-05-24T22:33:00.000-10:00

PLEASE, WON'T SOMEONE HEAR MY FEEBLE CRIES!?!?

hobo bobo

2005-05-22T22:19:00.000-10:00

It's creepy and inadvisable to enter the grungy 7-11 in Pearl City. Reason? Ok. But only because I like dispensing tales of my life for the price of nothing.

I was standing in line at the cashier, pitiful excuse of a dinner in hand, when I look over to my left at the candy aisle. Not because I like candy, but because my nose detected a very raunchy, ripe smell from that general direction. A very scruffy man was in the midst of shoplifting several choco-wafers (and stinking up the entire place) when the eagle-eyed stockperson reprimanded him firmly. Deterred from his activities, he then shuffled into line, behind me.

At this point, my nose had begun its slow death, and the smells killing it were not unlike raw garlic bulbs along with last week's garbage. I sucked in a sour mouthful of air and held it until the man in front of me had departed, and I could zip into his spot. Unfortunately, Smelly Shoplifter followed me closely and I continued to wish I had no olfactory senses.

The nice cashier rings me up and I maintain a tight-lipped smile. Behind me, SS begins explaining to (presumably) me why he had tried to shoplift.

SS: "I've had such a hard day... no, such a hard life. I have kids you know, and a house..."
Me: "You don't need to bag this; I'm in a bit of a rush."

I bid adieu to the cashier, then hightailed it out of there, into the NONSMELLY family car. Just as I'm inhaling for the first time in 3 minutes and fastening my seat belt, SS comes stumbling out of the 7-11 and begins shouting at me.

SS: "YOUFUCKINGBITCHIFUCKINGHATEPEOPLELIKEYOUDON'T
EVENFUCKINGLISTENYEAHWELLIHOPEYOUHAVEAGREATTIME
FUCKINGTHATMANNEXTTOYOUYOUFUCKINGWHOREAND
LOOSECUNTBITCH"

Note: Person next to me is the driver. My father. Weirdness of the situation: +INFINITE.

After threatening to bash SS's "ice-snorting motherfucking Chernobyl" of a head in, my father burns rubber and vrooms out of the parking lot.

I'm never going back there, even if the cashier was really one of the nicest people with whom I've had the pleasure of doing business.

ribbon gazing

2005-05-21T16:40:00.000-10:00

Tonight, I'm going to see my first and last Ballet Hawaii show. I started there right around Nutcracker 1999, and it was an upwards-headed surge until Nutcracker 2004. Essentially put, I was treated like a piece of insolent dirt by a "choreographer". She had no qualms in dismantling what little confidence I had in that dance. Which is to say, very little - if you saw the steps her warped artistic vision entailed, you'd both laugh and feel sorry for me. Anyway, so I hated her. And she hated me more. So, after turning in a sub-par performance at the Nutcracker on Maui, I called it quits with that dance.

And then my interest in ballet, in general, waned to the point where I resented every day I had to step foot in that studio. I mean, there was nothing wrong with the teaching staff, and absolutely nothing wrong with my classmates. It was me, and I had attached a sort of stigma to the studio, because of how very nauseous and vile I felt when I was rehearsing there, with Evil Lady. So I hung up my tea towel/sweat wicker and left with nary a good-bye.

I think I'll cry tonight, certainly. I'll remember how much I loved ballet - more than anyone or anything that I love now, in fact. I know it's impossible to think of anything that I love more than Ben, right now... but that was how I felt about ballet. I breathed it, I sweated for it, I lost friends so I could continue it. And where did that get me? Maybe it's how I got into Stanford. I'm not a genius; I know there are hundreds of kids more academically qualified than I for that institution. I'm there, I think, because I brought something unique to the table - something in which I no longer participate. It's too painful, mentally speaking. It wore me down, it consumed me, it chewed me up and spat me spitefully out when I grew doubts. I suffer from body dysmorphia even today, and they say anorexia nervosa never really leaves you. I'll attest to that.

So what's next for me? I think I'm going to take up running. I know, I know. I'm supposed to hate running, right? Well... with the right music, it's actually not that bad. Plus, the summer sun is always a nice reason to go out.

I miss ballet, more than I think I'd miss anyone in my life, if they died at this very moment. But for all the weird, one-sided love I have for it, I don't think I'd ever want a daughter of mine to participate in it. And she might hate her mother for weeks, months, just because the latter didn't let her don a tutu every Wednesday and go to the école de danse. She'll thank me later, when the friends who were allowed are bemoaning the stringent body-image requirements, and she's a healthy, athletic young lady.

I hope.

the stomach

2005-05-20T10:16:00.000-10:00

No matter how many crunches, twists or curl-ups that I do, I can't seem to get rid of a slender crescent of soft flesh on my lower abs.

Oh well, at least it's womanly. And it's about time I started looking like a woman, and not an androgynous boy-girl.

69 days til liftoff!

spring cleaning

2005-05-17T18:05:00.000-10:00

Ah, refreshed!

Today, I clicked around on the TGV site and pretended to book tickets to destinations all throughout France. Among them, Aix-en-Provence is an eventual destination (preferably this year) since Monsieur does hail from there and acknowledges it as a lovely place for leisure. I do plan on sashaying through all the major destinations by the time I turn 21; I'll have plenty of time left over to do the land equivalent of deep-sea exploration after that. Hooray!

In other news: a family of goose-like pigeons have set up shop in the funky eucalyptus tree down the street. Their calls are a nice change of pace from the usual "BRRRAAAAK!" of the mynah bird. And as an aside - my Irish grandfather once grew so agitated by an incessant mynah bird, that he bit the poor bird's head off right then and there, after collecting it with a swift grab.

... I'm hungry for bird now. :-p

christmas 2010

2005-05-15T22:33:00.000-10:00

Je la veux. ;_;

a pat on the back

2005-05-12T14:52:00.000-10:00

Today in Chapel, there was a brief presentation performed by a dozen of my classmates, on their trip to Vietnam this past March. They shared what any group of eighteen-year-olds would share in an ultra-PC environment; "I met so many wonderful people and I miss every single one, terribly!" "The smiles on the orphans' faces filled me with joy!" "Vietnam is really humid!".

Later, a friend and I were discussing what had just happened. She turned to me and said,

"I'm sick of these presentations. First a group goes to Trinidad. Now another goes to Vietnam. All just to realize what lucky fucks we are. Oh, and to make the rest of us non-philanthropes feel bad."

She's so right. That group of 12 légionnaires americains didn't do much except bring stuffed toys and 500 pounds of rice (not to mention, 12 sweaty teens) to a cramped, run-down orphanage outside of Ho Chi Minh City. Did they rescue the 30-odd orphans from a life of squalor? No. Did they permanently relieve the burden of childcare borne by the two resident Buddhist monks? No. Hell, my classmates probably added to an intensified atmosphere, now that they had introduced the concept of possessions and belongings to formerly unselfish children.

About all they really did manage to accomplish was to give themselves a knowing pat on the back and the gift of knowledge, knowledge that theirs is a life cushy and secure and morbidly stable.

Ah, youth.