Friday, April 25, 2003
bringing it out on the playground, y'all.

here's the thing. i'm looking for a roomie. starting june 1st. and craigslist is just not getting my rocks off. so i'm turning to you, blogworld. you're all fabulous, except for the ones who are scary freaks and i'm sure none of those people are my readers. i'm looking for a roomie and i've posted the ad over
here, complete with pictures of my fab flat and the room you'd occupy. you already know i'm fun, and cool, and other positive adjectives. i don't have to sell myself to you. so if you're a workin' girl here in manhattan and you're looking for a place to live come june 1st, send me an email or leave a comment after the beep.

bring it on, kids. let's find me a roommate, blogger-style.

UPDATE: clearly, i need to be more specific. you have to follow the link to the ad. then you have to read it. after you've read it, you need to assess whether or not you fit any of the criteria. and n.b. guys, it's going to take a very special boy for me to pick a boy over a girl. you think you're that boy, alright, but i'm picky about living with guys. then you leave a comment with your contact info and any questions you have. seriously, folks, please don't just leave comments saying you want info just to be cute, yar?


love, krissa .... 11:15 PM ... link!

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friday five

i was going to write about oral sex. but in 24 hours i will be sitting in a greek church, for midnight easter mass. there will be a lot of chanting, that will sound like this: "ahhhblahblahblah BLAH blah" to my ears. there will be a lot of standing up and sitting down, and there will be the blood of the savior*. it seems a little scandalous to write about cunnilingus on the anniversary of JC's untimely crucifixion. on his birthday, sure, i mean that was a pretty happy day. but to honor the brutal whacking of a stand-up bloke, i think i'll steer clear of the sex talk for today.

*depending on your side of the transubstantiation fence, that is.

instead, five things about five friends:

erin. erin has an annoying habit of picking at her split ends when she's nervous or bored, and don't even mention to her how small her hands are, but the best things about erin are: she'll drive me to
magnolia's when we're stoned, she'll expertly parse clueless-guy-speak with me for hours over the phone, and she is still friends with me even though she knew me in eighth grade.

raychul. raychul is the most graceful lunatic i've ever met. she can talk you through an existential crisis as smoothly as helping you pick nail polish. i witnessed her ravenously inhaling two burritos ten minutes before her wedding. she's probably seen every simpsons episode ever, and her and her hubby like to prank call their friends on weeknights.

seastreet. if sea were an animal, he'd be a porcupine and i mean that in the most affectionate way possible. he has an incredibly infectious laugh and a habit of saying "nevermind" like a five year old when he gets frustrated. he carries a ratty black backpack with him everywhere and is capable of convincing me to do almost anything, including drive 10 miles to get food at three o'clock in the morning.

fulminous. ful is the biggest rock star i know without actually having any musical aspirations at all. he will call you from outside a mexican restaurant to chat about nothing for twenty minutes and he will let you stay on his couch and watch movies if you're feeling lonely. he looks suprisingly like mark-paul gosselaar with black hair and he leaves the funniest voice mail messages ever, most of which start with: "oh. my. god. so. okay..."

my mom. my mother rarely calls me by my name, usually resorting to pumpkin ["paamkeen"], zuzuca, or lovey-dovey [laahvey-daahvey]. her style and flair could kick martha stewart's ass into the ground and then turn the remains into a pleasing flower bed. she goes shopping for me and brings back stuff i'd never find, and gives me shoes all the time. she also gives out her best advice at two a.m. in the kitchen, chain-smoking with me and drinking tea. she's the strongest woman i've ever met.

what are five things you love about a friend?

love, krissa .... 5:55 PM ... link!

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Thursday, April 24, 2003
i'm not filling out another motherfucking spreadsheet until ...

somebody gets me some goddamned flowers. you know why? yesterday was administrative professionals day and in the name of all things holy, i motherfucking deserve some motherfucking flowers.

and some chocolates.

got it, motherfuckers?

love, krissa .... 5:44 PM ... link!

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Wednesday, April 23, 2003
crawling back under the Stupid Rock from whence i came.

i know you think my life is all pretty handbags and witty soirees and torrid love affairs and tra la la.

you're right. it is.

but then every now and then, little elves come in the middle of the night and beat me over the head with the idiot stick. and i do something really dumb. so, to make you feel better that you rarely partake in my witty soirees [except you,
ful, because you are my witty soiree.] ... i will regale you with stories of all the stupid things i've done while under the curse of elfin idiot magic:

when i was one, i was tottering around my aunt's house, buck nekkid except for a diaper. i happened upon some mosquito-warding device that consisted of hot citronella paste in some sort of little electric pot. the details are hazy. suffice it to say, i stuck my curious little finger in it. it was predictably, very hot. so what did baby christina do? she wiped the steamy bad hotness on her bare little chest, of course. the little burn scar remains, under my right breast. no, i won't show it to you.

once, i made a pot of coffee. only, i didn't put in the filter. so, really, i made a pot of mud. it was all kinds of foul.

up until i was sixteen, i thought you made pasta by putting the pasta in a pot of cold water and setting it to boil. keep in mind, i had maids growing up. but still. no wonder my mac'n'cheese was always soggy.

in high school, erin and raychul once made a joke about someone named "phil ashio". i didn't get it. until much, much later. around the same time, a british tv sketch comedy show did a "rock song" called "kinda lingers". didn't get that one, either.

erin and raychul again, 1996, in the car, singing along to the police's 'don't stand so close to me'. krissa: "what book by nabakov?" yeah. i was naive. which necessarily leads to the fact that i didn't know why they called amy fisher "the long island lolita". i know now, okay?

i used to pronounce feng shui, well, like it looks. then some pompous asshole told me it was fun shway. i stopped discussing the matter all together and have never said the word outloud since then.

most of my boyfriends. yeah. they count. specifically, the one who drunkenly carved my name in his arm with a pen knife but spelt it wrong. oh, and spending two years with a parrothead.

putting my foot into my docs in the nairobi national park without checking for siafu - fire ants. and then lacing them all the way up before realizing it.

fracturing my pelvis. shut up, you pervies, not like that. worse - doing the jump splits on a hardwood floor in socks without warming up.

that's about it. well, no - erin, raychul, and sea could probably regale you with more idiotic things i've said or done. and no doubt, they will. with friends like that, honestly ...

what's your catalogue of idiocy?

love, krissa .... 8:17 PM ... link!

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Tuesday, April 22, 2003
the revolution will not be rent-controlled.

let me tell you something about something. let me tell you something about the revolution. it starts with
this, my friends. and here is how events will unfold.

the upper-crust, the creme-de-la-creme, they are going to lose their doormen. poor little rich people, you say. poor little rich people indeed! do you know what will happen? can you see it?

these poor little rich people! pity them. they do not kill their own scampering cockroaches. they do not sort through yards of junk mail. they do not jimmyrig toilet handles. they do not take out their own trash, oh no. in fact, they don't even know where to take the trash. they do not hail their own taxis. they do not jiggle their own fuse boxes. no, no. they don't do any of these things. their doormen do.

do you know what will happen to the streets of manhattan gentle readers? oh yes. the change will be subtle at first. a gentleman in an armani suit with a banana peel stuck to his heel. a woman wearing manolos, standing in a hardware store, asking what in the sam hell a wrench does. whole cocktail parties of swanky folk, standing in the darkness of an upper east side loft while two or three "men" discuss the mythology of the location of the mysterious fuse box. women getting sprayed by rainwater as they pathetically hail their own taxis, dainty limp wrists dangling desperately.

for, of course, this breed of beautiful people - porcelain, bejeweled people with haunty, uniformed doormen - they are not like us savvy street people. oh no. they do not know to jump back from a rainy curb when your coveted taxi cab screeches up to you! they are the glamorous, the flawless, the wads of cold green cash sashaying down fifth avenue. but this is their little secret, isn't it - they cannot find their fuse box. they do not know the proper double-bagging technique that will save them the ignomy of trash breaking over their feet like an army of infection storming a beach. they do not know, these beautiful people, what to do in that horrible moment when the toilet will not flush. why? because of the doormen, of course!

and then the change will be noticeable, on the streets. who will be sashaying down the bowery with a sense of style? who will own manhattan? why, the stylishly downtrodden masses, of course! the savvy street people who have long taken out their own trash. and jimmied our own toilets. the wired peons, who have always trudged ten blocks through five feet of snow to get to the subway because hailing a cab is reserved for drunken nights and mad hospital dashes. we will saunter past their cafes on the west side, where they sit. and instead of discussing whether or not Geoffrey Zackarian's new restaurant is as delish as his old one ... they will be discussing toilets! and trash! and sorting your mail from your vicious neighbors! and taking in your own dry cleaning!

and the savvy masses, on our way to grey's papaya, we will chuckle a little at their rumpled demeanor and their shocked, rude awakenings. we will say to each other, "well, i've always known where my fuse box is."

and we will have won a tiny, tiny victory in the revolution that is new york.

this should be taken lightly. if you have a doorman and you're outraged at either me, or your doorman, you're not paying attention.

love, krissa .... 11:28 PM ... link!

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Monday, April 21, 2003
Becoming Responsible Woman of Iron Will, or Similar

this morning, i accomplished the following:

1. Made appointment for dentist, thus relieving Father-Worrier of daily irritating phone calls on subject of Teeth Repair/Maintenance.
2. Made appointment for obgyn, reasons obvious.*
3. Refunded Father-Bank for trip to brasil, also cheering him up considerably.
4. Filled out Complicated-Looking Flexible-Spending-Account** Withdrawal Request to pay for Also-V.-Responsible purchase of new contact lenses***.
5. Paid both phone bills. v.v.good, as actually paid this month before long-overdue.
6. Paid off a third of Nagging Credit Card Debt.

In Addition, complete transformation into Responsible Creature of Adult Substance will necessitate the following minor changes, effective immediately:

1. No more than one hour of Soul Sucking Television a night.
2. Will power-walk around neighborhood [with hand-weights to smack Insolent-Attackers on head with] in order to shed few pounds and live up to friends' effusive compliments concerning self's loveliness.
3. Same goes for dieting. Will resist ordering Domino's. This will be easier, as will no longer be spending Hours On Deadly End sitting on couch in front of Soul Sucking Television. Ergo, less Fatty Pizza****.
4. Save money by bringing lunches from home more often.
which will require:
5. Waking up at 7am more often and eating hearty whole-wheat toast breakfast and anti-oxidizing teas, dressing with leisure and preparing lunch as well as taking-out-of-garbage and dish-washing.*****

*must keep equipment in smoothly running condition for future happiness and Mini-Hiboux-Production someday.
**Account whose concept i have yet to fully comprehend but was told to use by Father-CPA.
***in order to keep eyes in relatively working condition so as to be able to actually see future mini-hiboux.
****will complementarily stop fooling self that Thin Crust Pizza is, in any way, less fattening.
*****This method will be infinitely preferable to waking up at 8:30, throwing back a cup of ulcer-giving coffee, smoking cigarette while getting ready and running out the door with panty-hose on backwards.

hurrah! in order to celebrate New-Found Responsible Inner Goddess, i think i'll have ... cheesy potato skins for lunch.

shut up, Inner Goddess!

much thanks to bridget jones for being funny enough and fictional enough that i can unabashedly rip off her style for this entry.

love, krissa .... 9:16 PM ... link!

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isn't she lovely?

stephanie, looking every inch the million-dollar-gal she is.

and with that pretty face gracing the introduction, the beginnings of a photo album are stirring over at
le deuxieme hiboux ... go check it out!

love, krissa .... 6:44 PM ... link!

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what was that story about the guy, and the lake, and the flower?

love, krissa .... 1:31 AM ... link!

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