Saturday, March 01, 2003
two is a crowd
okay, this is getting crazy. i'm stepping in, here.
there are two gregs! and when i said greg was wicked cute, i meant this greg. there's another greg. this greg. being the fair, greg-accepting person that i am, i'm going to issue a decree:
greg #2, here at petit hiboux we really value your imput and your wit. we think you're undoubtedly a smashing guy, and entirely deserving of going by your name. but here at petit hiboux we're also a bit distracted and flighty, so we request that you slightly alter your name when posting here so that we can differentiate between the two gregs.
my rationale for this request? simple playground rules - greg #1 was here first.
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Friday, February 28, 2003
i smoke. fucking deal with it.
"smoking wards off muesli-eating,
yoga-practicing, body-hair wearing,
vegetarian bores. smokers are
inevitably more interesting people
than non-smokers. despite the odds,
it continues to be cool; we know
this because christy turlington, mayor
mike bloomberg and vin diesel's
character in XXX all condemn it."
- william georgiades, in the march/april
blackbook, on quitting quitting smoking.
i smoke, people. i do. sometimes up to a pack a day. i started smoking about two years ago. i smoke kamel red lights. i turn one cigarette around in my pack and that's my lucky cigarette. i pack my smokes - tight. i'm a left handed smoker. i like to smoke in the bathtub, with some sort of cocktail nearby. i smoke when i'm nervous. i smoke when i'm bored. i smoke when i play cards, or watch tv, or chat with my mom, or drive.
i'm a fiend. this has become a part of who i am. yes, it's a nasty habit. yes, non-smokers probably don't like kissing me or borrowing my clothes. yes, sometimes when i get lazy, my apartment smells like smoke [although i do a pretty good job with an army of smelly-plug-in thingys and vaccuuming all the time and washing the ashtrays out every night].
but you know what? i like smoking. when non-smokers find out i smoke, i always get the same probing look, followed by this horrifically leading, pointed question, "don't you want to quit?" as if somehow, it will make them feel better about the world if i nod, allow them to pat me on the back, and say, "yes, yes, i do! i repent!"
but the fact is, i don't want to quit any time soon. there are smokers in my life - great dear friends of mine - with whom it is an absolute treasure to sit down, look at each other, smile, and light up. we're a dying breed, we laugh to each other. i don't question too much why i smoke. what "societal" or "emotional" pressures and influences first led me to light up. what does it matter? i'm addicted now. and i don't bloody mind my addiction.
i'll quit when i damn well feel like it's time. like everything else in my life, i will do as i please. what do i say when people ask me why i smoke?
because it's awesome.
hey, can't argue with that.
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Wednesday, February 26, 2003
nobody expects the spanish inquisition. except me.
there's a certain question that always strikes fear in my heart. it's innocuous enough for other people. they get together at parties, they're introduced to other people, and the same question invevitably comes up:
"so, where are you from?"
the envy i feel for you people who can simply answer, without missing a beat - people from simple places like indiana or california. at worst, you have to explain, oh, i was born in ___ but i grew up in _____. the questioner will then nod, satisfied, and the conversation will move on. this is normal.
this is usually how it goes for me.
random person [saunters up to me at a party, leans against the wall and sips a beer]: so, le petit hiboux, where are you from?
le petit hiboux [flustered, spills a little wine, then looks around for nearest escape route. at this point, she's got two options. she sizes up the questioner - he/she doesn't look like they really want the whole story, so... ]: oh, rhode island.
rp: really? i'm from boston! where'd you go to school?
ph: well, actually, my parents just moved there two years ago. i didn't go to school there.
rp: oh, right. where'd you live before that.
ph [hoping against hope that this simple lie will hold water]: oh, texas.
rp: really? you don't have an accent.
ph [damn, damn, damn!]: okay, yeah, that's true. we didn't live there long enough, i guess.
rp [no matter how daft they are, at this point they realize i'm being evasive. it starts to get ugly...]: wait, so where did you actually grow up?
ph [slamming down drink, pushing random person up against the wall]: okay, buster. i tried to make this easy for you. you could have just nodded when i said "rhode island". clearly, we've got nothing else to talk about, so you've decided to hold on to this topic like a terrier with a chew toy. you want the real story? huh? you want the truth? you think you can handle it? huh?
rp: *gurgle, gasp*
ph: fine. you ready? my mother? she's the daughter of an irish man and a belgian girl who'd both immigrated to brasil during the great war. her and nine siblings were all raised in brasil, but they weren't brasilian. my father? his parents were greek immigrants to cairo, egypt, where he was born and raised until he was eighteen, then the whole family moved to brasil. he met my mother when they were in their thirties, after the messy dissolution of my mother's first marriage. my father then came to america to get an education and turned into the classic self-made man. he brought my mother and her two sons here to america. they were very poor. then they went overseas to brasil, on the first of many assignments for a big oil company.
so i was concieved in brasil and born in argentina. nine months later, we moved to aruba [4 yrs]. then morocco [1 yr]. then new jersey [2 yrs]. then cote d'ivoire [3 yrs]. then tunisia [1 yr]. then houston [3 yrs]. then kenya [2 yrs]. then houston again [1 yr]. then i went to college in new york and my parents went to the french congo [1 yr] and egypt [2 yrs] then houston again [6 mo.] and rhode island [retired].
okay? okay? smarty pants, how about you tell me where i'm bloody well from? hmm? the international-american daughter of an irish-belgian brasilian and an egyptian-greek? huh?
are you satisfied now?
rp [rubbing his neck and backing away slowly]: sheesh, lady, i was just trying to get laid.
one of these days i'm just going to make a tee shirt with all the possible answers, and wear it to parties. it'll be multiple choice:
1. rhode island.
2. inner mongolia*.
3. america, by way of brasil, ireland, belgium, greece, egypt, and argentina.
4. shut the fuck up and leave me alone unless you have something less asinine to discuss.
how does that sound?
* my father actually tells people "inner mongolia" when they ask. that, or "why, are you writing a book?". once, i told a friend "mongolia", completely kidding, and he believed me for months. sheesh.
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Monday, February 24, 2003
the many lives of petit hiboux
things to accomplish in the next six months:
* ween self off thursday night's must-see tv. * go to the opera. * play a sport in central park. * take the lsats. * learn patience. * lots of it. * bake muffins. * paint my dining room. * build a real webpage. * eat more veggies. * all-girl blogger weekend, 2003!
things to accomplish in the next six years
* learn to play jazz piano. * go to eastern europe. * graduate from law school. * grow five inches. * fall in love. * sing in a nightclub. * go to california. * have sex in public. * wear more pink. * own a labrador. * named caspian. * own a hasselblad. * ride more vespas. * rent a beach house. * build wall-to-wall bookshelves. * commence filling them. * have the nyt delivered. * learn to change. * but stay the same.
ed note: more pals have been added to the linky goodness... and descriptions! hover your mouse that-a-way, chums!
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