Portraits

Apparently there's a book of Harry Benson photography coming out. It's got some gorgeous, entertaining, and really quite personal portraits of some of my favorite celebrities. Benson is able to capture some surprises and some soul in his shots, and that's really what the art form is all about, if you ask me.

So of course I can't resist posting them.

The Many Sides of My One True Love, Jack Nicholson

A really genuine smile from Jackie

James Brown being fabulous

Dolly Parton Primping

I can't quite pick a favorite, but the composition on this is stunning.

Can it be? The Clintons in a private moment after Bill announced his candicacy for Pres.

Who knew they could make such a romantic image? It's actually kind of hot.

The Beatles having a pillow fight. This is now my desktop background.

Brush with Greatness

Last night, Norabelle and I met one of this generation's heroes.

He truly is one of my favorite authors, especially out of those that are living.

He is Jonathan Safran Foer, and he has written two of the most beautiful books I have ever read.



And look -- here we are, in a picture, sitting behind his mother at his reading to promote his latest, Eating Animals.

Awk and Fail and Evolution

me: oh my life is filled w/ awk and fail

fail fail fail

i must start anew and build from scratch

Emma: o stop

we all have fails

trust

we all do

me: i mean, i guess i tried right?

thats what people do

it's called flirting

sometimes it's welcomed, sometimes rejected

Emma: exactly

all you can do is try

me: and that's the mating ritual

Emma: obvi

me: evolution baby

clearly i was not made to reproduce

New Fave Place

This glorious coffee shop:

. . . also happens to be right down the street from my new apartment.

Why I Tweet

As I told my friend via GChat:

Me: i think i love twittering

i've decided to use it as an outlet for my foot in mouth disease

when i have the impulse to say soemthing, i'll just tweet it

then i'll become known as a wit instead of a weirdo

Quite Dapper

i want these moustache earrings

ROME-ance

Whilst I slog away doing the nine to five commuting routine in the DC area, my friend is living the proverbial dream.

She moved to Rome right after graduation and eventually landed a steady teaching gig. When not instructing Romans in the intricacies of English grammar, she flits about the city drinking wine and hopping on the back of dashing Romans' vespas.

One such uomo, named, of course, Rrroberto, swept my belissima quite literally off her feet.

That is, after having whetted, he quite satisfied her appetite.

Here is how she recounted it:

Her: but he's the best lover i have ever had
Me: oooo, i need to find one of those i think
Her: he invited me over for dinner a few weeks ago so he could cook for me
(which you have to admit is hot--a man who cooks!)
so anyway, he came to pick me up and brought me back to his place, put on some music, put the water on the stove to boil
then he started kissing me in the kitchen, led me into the bedroom, and made love to me before he even put the pasta in the pot!
Me: oh que c'est sexy

Le Bill

The Health Reform bill came out of committee on Wednesday, and as a result, frantic constituents barraged interns and staff assistants Senate-wide with unceasing phone calls telling them to "STOP KILLING OUR FREEDOM!"

There were the rare pro-reform calls, of course, but it just goes to show that people are far more into negative criticism than positive reinforcement. Desperation breeds action; contentment, complacency.

For my part, I participated in making Social Legislation History by running to the Stationary Store to pick up "six of the largest binders you can find" to carry The Bill. I then hole-punched the beast while fielding calls.

Only to find at the end that I had done it backwards.

Me?

My friend just described me (via Facebook) in three words:

Awkward.
Intelligent.
Hilarious.


I'll take it.

Angst

Emma: your status is totes emo

(In reference to my gchat status "The Soul selects her own Society".)

Me: hahahahaha

i knowwwww

i'm a freeeak

it's emily dickinson

i've been reading EMILY DICKINSON

this is what happens when you're alone too much


Next thing you know, I'll be sticking my head in the oven.

Although that was Sylvia Plath.

Meow

I always liked cats.

I used to say if I were to be an animal, I would be a cat.

That was until I met these particular cats.

There are four of them.

They all follow me around everywhere I go as soon as I set foot inside the house. They're either slinking about right under my feet, staring at me with wide saucer eyes while I go to the bathroom or take a shower, or scratching at my door (which I've closed for protection) while I try to fall asleep or watch Hulu in peace.

They actually wait outside my door and are standing there when I open it.

It's like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. In fact, I'm not sure why he chose The Birds instead of The Cats.

Kit Kats and GaGa

[11:43:19 AM] Christina: the thing is i ate like 12 kit kats last night

[11:43:41 AM] Christina: ps best song ever = eh eh by lady gaga

[11:44:13 AM] Ali : really?

[11:44:20 AM] Ali : to the kit kats and gaga

[11:44:27 AM] Christina : yes



Also known as . . . my life continues to be pathetic.

But Ali did tell me I'm funny and that I should write a book. Not that I didn't already know this. She thinks I should title it:

"November Just Sucks."

And thinks that the first line should be "I always get fat in November."

Which were two sentences I uttered in a row during our conversation.

She's right. It sums up my current mood.

I'm Blushing

Miss Dickinson is a saucy lass.

You've read "Wild Nights -- Wild Nights!," right?

Derniere strophe:

Rowing in Eden --
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor -- Tonight --
In Thee!

Mais que je rougis. And que I love it.

Ew

That last post was so corny. What was I thinking?

Please ignore it.

The Sky is Green

It's hard to not be stupid about things.

Maybe it's a survival mechanism, but there is some really stubborn part of people that doesn't allow them to let go, no matter how much reason tells them they should.

Probably playing Dolly Parton on repeat isn't much help either.

I've had to think up a way to survive
Since you said it's over
Told me good-bye
I just can't make it one day without you
Unless I pretend that the opposite's true
Rivers flow backwards
Valleys are high
Mountains are level
Truth is a lie
I'm perfectly fine
And I don't miss you
The sky is green
And the grass is blue

How much can a heart and a troubled mind take
Where is that fine line before it all breaks
Can one end their sorrow
Just cross over it
And into that realm of insanitive bliss

There's snow in the tropics
There's ice on the sun
It's hot in the Arctic
And crying is fun
And I'm happy now
And I'm glad we're through
And the sky is green
And the grass is blue

And the rivers flow backwards
And my tears are dry
Swans hate the water
And eagles can't fly
But I'm alright now
Now that I'm over you
And the sky is green
And the grass is blue
And I don't love you
And the grass is blue

Silly Swiss

[10/17/2009 5:29:12 PM] benjamin.mueller: then a house party in bethnal green, of all places
[10/17/2009 5:29:18 PM] benjamin.mueller: you too
[10/17/2009 5:29:19 PM] benjamin.mueller: speak soon
[10/17/2009 5:29:28 PM] benjamin.mueller: and in case i'm on skype but dont respond...
[10/17/2009 5:29:37 PM] benjamin.mueller: dont abuse me
[10/17/2009 5:29:42 PM] Christina Nyquist: i reserve that right
[10/17/2009 5:29:49 PM] benjamin.mueller: im probably terribly busy doing sth very important
[10/17/2009 5:29:59 PM] Christina Nyquist: probably not
[10/17/2009 5:30:00 PM] benjamin.mueller: i might ring you in the office at some point
[10/17/2009 5:30:06 PM] benjamin.mueller: and shout abuse
[10/17/2009 5:30:15 PM] benjamin.mueller: that would be hilarious
[10/17/2009 5:30:17 PM] Christina Nyquist: i'll put you on mute
[10/17/2009 5:30:22 PM] benjamin.mueller: rightyo, i must be off
[10/17/2009 5:30:28 PM] benjamin.mueller: how will you know its me
[10/17/2009 5:30:33 PM] benjamin.mueller: oh crap
[10/17/2009 5:30:35 PM] Christina Nyquist: your accent
[10/17/2009 5:30:36 PM] benjamin.mueller: do you get caller ID
[10/17/2009 5:30:39 PM] Christina Nyquist: yes
[10/17/2009 5:30:44 PM] benjamin.mueller: ha
[10/17/2009 5:30:45 PM] benjamin.mueller: i know a way around that
[10/17/2009 5:30:51 PM] Christina Nyquist: your accent?
[10/17/2009 5:30:52 PM] benjamin.mueller: if you call from skype its anonymous
[10/17/2009 5:31:00 PM] benjamin.mueller: the accent is the least of my problems
[10/17/2009 5:31:07 PM] benjamin.mueller: my american accent is PERFECT
[10/17/2009 5:31:12 PM] Christina Nyquist: mhm
[10/17/2009 5:31:18 PM] Christina Nyquist: sher
[10/17/2009 5:31:19 PM] benjamin.mueller: just you wait noiquist
[10/17/2009 5:31:26 PM] benjamin.mueller: aurevoir
[10/17/2009 5:31:27 PM] Christina Nyquist: rightyo benjamin

Quote from the Summer

Remember when I worked at a children's bookstore?

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.
-- G. K. Chesterton

A Lack of Logic

If anything, not that it's news, my one month sejour at the Senate has convinced me that people are hopelessly irrational.

WANT

Rant

There is a cluster of qualities that I cannot abide in people, and that I thought ended with high school, but apparently do not. These qualities include:

Rudeness, Superiority, Snobbery, and anything similar.

Did you know it's "random," for someone to contact someone or ask them to visit for no particular reason?

If that's the case, I guess I'll stop trying to be a decent, friendly human being.

Core Values

According to Marketing Genius:

A PR consultant from New York City taught me that there are really only five benefits that anyone can mention. According to him, it does not matter what the product is or what industry one inhabits, we have to present our case so effectively that we tell our audience within the first ten seconds which of the five possible benefits we are offering.
There are five, period.
F-I-V-E.
Are you ready for them? Here goes:
1. Make me wealthy
2. Improve my appearance
3. Help me to be more well-liked by my family or friends
4. Make me live longer
5. Get me laid more often

Money, looks, popularity, health and sex. That's it.


Well. Raffi sang that "All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family."

So I mean, that's close.

Facebook Chat and Gender: a Philosophical Debate

Christina

OH

today

at the bookstore

i went to wrap a present

and you have to ask if it's for a boy or a girl

bc they're heteronormative

and FINALLY

(i've been waiting for this to happen)

the woman was like, "she's gender-neutral"

9:05pmKaden

but she said "she"

9:05pmChristina

well yeah

it's the grandma

9:05pmKaden

oh

cute

9:05pmChristina

yeah i thought so

and then she was telling me how hard it is to shop for a gender-neutral grandchild

but she was really supportive of the whole thing

and i was like "i went to smith. so i understand"

9:06pmKaden

aw

9:06pmChristina

but then i told her i thought i should still be able to use pink or blue if i wanted bc it shouldn't matter -- like, why do colors have to be gendered?

i mean, i used purple and teal

i did red wrapping w/ purple ribbon and gold w/ teal

9:07pmKaden

good job

9:07pmChristina

but i was thinking, i also shouldn't be restricted from using blue or pink or ballerina or baseball stickers

i mean, just because they're gender neutral doesn't mean they can only have fish or tiger stickers

but i used fish and tigers anyway

just to be safe

9:08pmKaden

fish and tigers are way cooler than ballerinas and baseball anyway

9:09pmChristina

i suppose, seeing as it's "a girl," i could've put baseballs and trucks just to stir things up

omg

i just realized

the reason i suck at taking care of my car

is because no one ever put truck stickers on my presents

i have been taught to be scared of vehicles

Kaden

i dont think that's true

9:12pmChristina

i think it is

i have never been interested in cars

bc i was brainwashed

Soggy Zucchini

Today's verdict is that I am not very good at cooking.

But, I am very good at drinking red wine.


Aside from preparing soggy, over-oiled zucchini, I have sucked at life on multiple levels today.

At work I made just about every mistake it would've been possible to make. Never mind that I read a customer's mind and, when asked whether we sold adult books and told she was looking for something romantic, promptly picked out the exact book she'd been wanting. She was thrilled, and told Carol so, who seemed mainly unimpressed.

Still flitting about, supported by my victory wings, I then promptly mangled the next sale. I forgot to deduct the gift certificate amount when running a customer's card through the machine. Upon confessing to Cathy, the accountant, I then learned I had also rung up the sale as a gift card rather than a gift certificate.

"Well," said Cathy, "you've just got all kinds of crazy things going on here, Christina."

And when I apologized, in the most mortified of manners, she simply shrugged her shoulders, laughed drily, and said, "Well. Hmm." And shrugged again.

Later, during restock, I once again turned in a sheet on which I had forgotten to circle an item to note that I had indeed found all of the copies of said item.

Fail. On so many levels.

After work, whilst trying to achieve some level of Zen at the beach, I was pooped on by a seagull.

Probably the same seagull that bit my toe while I was sleeping last week.


So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly . . .

At least let me take some comfort by drawing parallels between my life and a classic work of literature . . .

Inspiration

Has been hovering about me lately, taking the diverse and perhaps unexpected forms of:

Julia Child (Smith Alum, mind you):




Edward Eager's Half Magic:

"Oh, there's never only one explanation," said the rather small gentleman. "It depends on what you want to believe! I believe in believing six impossible things before breakfast, myself. Not that I usually get the chance. The trouble with life is that not enough impossible things happen for us to believe in, don't you agree?"

And Garrison Keillor's answers to Vanity Fair's Proust Questionnaire in the September 2009 issue:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
To be wildly, desperately, carelessly, nakedly in love, of course. Crazy, obsessive love: brooding, baying at the moon, writing daily missives to the adored. Who wouldn't want this? Even though the crash is painful.

What is your greatest fear?
That this is all there is, and there is no more.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
High-spiritedness, wit, a love of repartee and wordplay and allusion and jokes -- in other words, an English major.

What is the greatest love of your life?
The simple act of putting pen to paper, even just to write a postcard.

What is your most marked characteristic?
I seem to have a distinctive voice, and if I ask strangers where the men's room is, they say, "Oh, it's you."

Who are your heroes in real life?
Old musicians who keep doing it even if it would be easy not to: Pete Seeger, Little Jimmy Dickens, Earl Scruggs, Placido Domingo, B.B. King, Ralph Stanley.

How would you like to die?
Eventually, but not yet.

What is your motto?
"Sumus quod sumus." [We are what we are].

Perfection in a Plastic Cup

I have done it.

I have discovered the perfect summer refreshment.

And by "discovered," I may or may not mean it in the same sense as those who say Christopher Columbus "discovered" America.

Let me tell you the story of my long journey towards this current state of Enlightenment.

A few weeks ago, I caved to marketing ploys and bought a copy of Skinny Bitch. I decided it was worth seeing what a former model and an ex-modeling agent turned health nuts had to say.

What they had to say, along with vilifying all animal products and extolling the virtues of Veganism, was that coffee and all caffeine-containing beverages are just as demonic as beef and dairy. I am not sure every item on their laundry list contributed to my deciding to cut down on my caffeine intake, but their words did provide an impetus for me to finally take the measures I've been meaning to take to kick what I know is really just an excessive (and expensive) habit.

Sometime during high school, I fell in love with both coffee and caffeine, and I fear that there has rarely been a day I've gone without it. Whether in the form of my morning cup o' joe (black), Diet Coke to quench my oral fixation throughout the day, or what has recently become a daily large latte habit, I always managed to get myself artificially fired up.

And now that I, who was always a little energizer bunny, find myself feeling groggy, grumpy and headachey until I've had a coffee, suffering energy drops throughout the day, and unable to fall asleep at night, I've decided that something had to change.

So get ready . . . I have not had one cup of coffee, not one drop, all week. Nor have I had Diet Coke, or any artificially-sweetened substance, as I also realized such products are slowly giving me cancer.

I switched first to chai lattes, and then, to green tea. And today, I made my masterpiece. Which is to say, I ordered the barista at Coffee Obsession in Falmouth to make one for me.

An iced Moroccan Mint green tea with soy milk.

It is summery, thirst-quenching, heavenly, zesty zinginess. The mint, on top of the ice, sends tingles all throughout your body, and tastes like those Evian water commercials look. Pure refreshment, made creamy with soy milk.

I highly, highly recommend. Plus, green tea has anti-oxidents and speeds up your metabolism. Allegedly.

I just watched Bette Davis in Jezebel, and I now know the true meaning of "expressive eyes." Vivian Leigh had some mighty stiff competition in the arena of stubborn Southern Belles.

(Also Henry Fonda's pretty studly.)

Tough Love

I was listening to more of my Woods Hole oral history tapes and I have a tidbit to share with all y'all.

This one woman's father, Captain So and So, decided that a great and necessary way to combat the plenitude of poison ivy growing in Woods Hole was to immunize his children using this creative tactic.

He forced them all to eat poison ivy sandwiches. Buttered, of course.

His daughter averred they tasted just like lettuce sandwiches and worked like a charm.

My dad was always pretty neurotic about poison ivy, but he never made us eat it.

Stuck in My Head

Well if you don't like my peaches,

Just let my orchard be.

-- Eilen Jewell, 'If You Catch Me Stealing'

Journal Entry January 3, 2009 — Ode to a Moleskine

This evening (I wanted to say ‘today’, but it is already dark, and especially so being midwinter) I stopped at Border’s in Concord on my way from Meredith to New Boston.

When I am idle and dissatisfied, bookstores and new journals have a lure for me that is less powerful in sunny days of content employment and companionship. As you can see, I bought a Moleskine, despite my aversion to anything potentially pretentious or cliche. “The notebook Hemingway wrote in!” the sticker boasts. As if one could leech genius through similarly-patterned paper.

I don’t believe that’s true any more than I believe buying an overpriced cappuccino at Cafe de Flore makes you anything like Sartre. Or that walking in the New Hampshire woods on a snowy evening brings you closer to Robert Frost. If anything, such copycat behavior simply displays your unoriginality and desperation.

I bought a Moleskine because it’s sleek and smells good. The paper is a pleasing shade of papyrus (not blindingly white), and it has a nice, soft, velvety feel. It’s flexible, too, and unostentatious. No fruity quotes, no distracting illustrations. It manages to be both feminine and masculine at the same time, and possesses the capacity to take on the spirit of whoever is scribbling in it.

(something I once wrote in my "real" diary)

Just now I do not see why anybody should ever write anything. The world just as it is is so big; it exists and needs no words.

-- Simone de Beauvoir, in a letter to Nelson Algren

The Sound and the Fury

The other day, maybe just yesterday, but time exists on such a weird continuum for me at the moment, I was working in the bookstore. It was a quiet moment, so I had ducked behind one of the shelves and was happily reading an essay out of David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames, when I heard a very loud and utterly disembodied burst of flatulence. I have not heard a fart of such volume and trumpet-like proportions since the days I spent every other moment with Cliff and the Lewis twins when they were eleven and did such things on purpose.

I half-expected Rodney Dangerfield to materialize in front of our row of Touch-and-Feel books and say "Hey hey, did somebody step on a duck?"

"Wasn't me!" the Kindergartner inside of me wanted to yelp.

But the funny thing about being a grown-up is that you can fart as much as you want and no one's allowed to make fun of you. At least not to your face. At what age, exactly, does that shift happen?

I identified the culprit lurking in the shadows of the "Native American" section, buried guiltily in Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha, which you know he only picked up to look like he was too busy reading to be the responsible party. Or to pretend he wasn't really more interested in the "Contemporary Teen Series" shelf directly under it that contains Twilight, and Gossip Girl.

I wonder just how much of a breach of customer-service etiquette it would have been to squeal "EEEEWWWW that man FARTED!"

Carol would've probably run me out on a pole.

Traventures

Travel Adventures -- the funny ones

I knew my trip would be interesting from the get-go when, as soon as I arrived at the bus station in Falmouth, I was invited to join a makeshift cab carp00l (cab-pool?) made up mostly of Brits who had learned the bus from Boston was tied up in 4th of July traffic.

Next, while at South Station in Boston, a crazy old lady asked me if I had any extra pants in my suitcase. Not once, but twice. When I told her no for the second time, she shrugged and announced that I was still a nice person because I had let her use my phone. I guess you never know who's going to judge your manners these days.

Next . . . We all went to the Jersey Shore. That's funny enough in itself, right?

Finally, on the way home, I sat next to a man that pulled out tweezers and proceeded to pluck his stray hairs for the duration of the ride.

I do love traveling, especially via public transportation, and I'm not saying that facetiously. You see so much.

Oh Ce-CEEEE-lia

you're breakin' my heart . . .

you know the rest.

A Funny Email

Christina N.

---

INVITATION OF A LIFETIME
2 messages

---

Emma B.	Tue, Jun 30, 2009 at 11:52 AM
To: cn********@gmail.com
Dearest Lady Christina N., Esq., , You are formally invited to accompany Ms. Anne Colleen S. and Ms. Emma Pauline B. for a weekend of fun in New York City. This weekend shall commence on Thursday evening and continue through Sunday, preferably with a 'sex and the city' style brunch on the Lord's day. It is imperative that you join these women for this time, as their happiness depends on your participation. Futhermore, we will be sending a vehicle to pick you up and bring you to us on Thursday evening, in the form of a greyhound bus, departing from the Rhode Island. I repeat: YOU MUST ATTEND THIS WEEKEND, IT IS CRUCIAL TO BOTH YOUR LIFE AND THEIR SANITY. Finally, we shall be providing entertainment in the form of hot men on Friday, at the beach. Sincerely, faithfully, and ever-truly yours, The President

---

Christina N.	Tue, Jun 30, 2009 at 6:54 PM
To: Emma B.
My Dear Honorable Esteemed President B., I would be delighted and humbled to join the fair Ms. S. and yourself on the extended weekend of our country's birth. However, it pains me to say that I must work to earn my small pittance until 6 p.m. on Thursday, and thus I may not arrive in time to meet the Greyhound vehicle you are sending on my behalf. I will work to see if there are other options available for my transportation to the beach of hot men. If not, I shall joyously rendez-vous with you in the City upon your return. With fondest regards, Your humble servant, Sir Lady Christina N. N., Esq. of the Cape of Codfish [Quoted text hidden]

A Real-Life (Love?) Letter (Email)

is not half as romantic as the ones in the books I took out from the library. But maybe slightly poetic nonetheless.



Darling,

there's no way you're not home by now. unless something dreadful happened. and i hope that's not the case because i don't think i could take much more after losing michael.

do you think we jinxed him? i mean, we have that conversation, andthen bam. mort. i think i'm cursed.

anyway, the purpose of this email is to say:

write to me dammit!

or at least write to me to tell me that you're not going to write to me so that then i can at least stop caring and go back to thinking you're a douche.

Reply Forward

Billets-doux

Whenever I'm feeling particularly giddy-in-love, or as is more generally the case, desperately lovelorn, I find a lot of solace in poetry and novels about love.

Today, while browsing about the Falmouth Public Library instead of working on my radio project, I found a new outlet: collections of love letters.

Before I knew it, I'd piled up an enormous stack, and managed only to put one down. So for the remainder of this drizzly, and, as Robin says, "blustery", day, I've been holed up in my cozy room reading love letters, written by everyone from Henry IV and Kafka to Simone de Beauvoir and John Keats.

Turns out, I'm not the only crazy person, and most people find themselves suffering through just the same level of obsession. That, or they're just really good at B.S.

I especially like this one by Kafka to Felice Bauer, with all of its defiance and sarcasm:

October 31st, 1912.

When at last a letter arrives -- after the door to my room has opened a thousand times to admit, not the man with the letter, but innumerable people whose calm expressions torment me because they feel themselves to be in the right place, whereas only the man with the letter, and no one else, has the right to appear -- when at last the letter arrives, then I think for a while I can be calm, that I shall be satisfied by it and that the day will go well. But then I have read it, there is more in it than I might ever have expected to learn . . . I read the letter once, put it aside, and read it again; I pick up a file but am really only reading your letter; I am with the typist, to whom I am supposed to dictate, and again your letter slowly slides through my fingers and I have begun to draw it out of my pocket when people ask me something and I know perfectly well I should not be thinking of your letter now, yet that thought is all that occurs to me -- but after all that I am as hungry as before, as restless as before, and once again the door starts swinging merrily, as though the man with the letter were about to appear again. That is what you call the 'little pleasure' your letters give me.

In another letter, Franz repeats his one-track train of thought:

But then I simply cannot do without your letters. I am obsessed by the need for news of you. It is only through your letters that I become capable of even the most insignificant daily task. I need your letter to move my little finger properly.


(photo taken of a Smith College student in the forties)

Say It's Only a Paper Sun

. . . Held in place by some velcro . . .

I think there's something wrong when the rain becomes so unceasing that the bank is handing out little paper smiling suns to stick on your dashboard.

Song in Spite of Myself

by Countee Cullen

Never love with all your heart,
It only ends in aching;
And bit by bit to the smallest part
That organ will be breaking.

Never love with all your mind,
It only ends in fretting;
In musing on sweet joys behind,
too poignant for forgetting.

Never love with all your soul,
for such there is no ending;
though a mind that frets may find control,
and a shattered heart find mending.

Give but a grain of the heart's rich seed,
Confine some undercover,
And when love goes, bid him God-speed,
and find another lover.



. . . Okay, so I'm working on it.

I Do Believe in Fairies!

Yesterday, after a two-day break from Bookstore Land, I returned -- just in time for the long-anticipated Fairy Dancing Party.

A sort of expectant air had hovered about the bookstore all day. Carol was fluttering around planning and constructing little fairies out of left-over pipe cleaner, silk flowers and ribbon that she'd dredged up from somewhere about the store. I was amazed with the end result. She'd just made it up as she went along, and the final fairies were absolutely charming.

My very important duty was to draw the fairy-dancing circle out of pavement chalk, which was done, upon Carol's instruction, by tying string to one end of the chalk and having Tasha serve as the compass point by holding it while standing still as I squatted and scuttled around her in a circle.

It was a workout -- my legs haven't squatted for so long since I stopped playing field hockey.

Anyway, around 3, the store began to fill with tutu-clad, wing-wearing girls and their parents, and I myself donned a pair of wings and a fluffy tulle skirt.

Then Carol summoned the fairies to the parking lot, where members of a local dance school lead them in tap, jazz, salsa, ballet, rock and "disco" dancing. After, Carol lead them on a "fairy hunt," inspired by the book "The Tiptoe Guide to Tracking Fairies," and served them tiny fairy treats.

I can't wait to see what this job asks me to do next . . .

Another Label for Love

"Is it -- I'm not certain -- possible to love someone if your first interest is the use you can make of him? Doesn't the gainful motive, and the guilt accruing to it, alt the progression of other emotions? It can be argued that even the most decently coupled people were initially magnetized by the mutual-exploitation principle -- sex, shelter, appeased ego; but still that is trivial, human: the difference between that and truly using another person is the difference between edible mushrooms and the kind that kill: Unspoiled Monsters."
-- Truman Capote, Answered Prayers


I've always wondered just how much of love is selfless and how much is, as Capote calls it, "The Mutual-Exploitation Principle." Maybe a lot of it is the latter, but maybe that isn't a bad thing. Maybe it's just life.

Impressed

My friend Nick shows me up all the time.

He told me he started writing for a fashion website, which I found incredibly hard to believe, never having heard him say a word about fashion. So I challenged him to write me a blurb about this randomly-selected Chanel bag -- the first that popped up when I opened their website.

Here is the bag, with Nick's caption, as one might expect it to appear in an edition of Vogue or Elle:

"Imagine a Stalin-era Faberge egg. Now imagine it turned inside out. This purse presents a delicate bed of quilted fabric scintillating with Soviet icons. Enough bling to make Trotsky jealous."
Nick Nardini

Devilish Impulses

I keep wanting to eat ice cream instead of dinner.

What oh what will become of my figger?

Some Things that I Want

The mask from Breakfast at Tiffany's, bien sur.
It's Dior, apparently. Making it far trop cher, ma chere.

Something to Ponder

"Would most Type A, professional women have dated Barack when he was a broke, big-eared organizer with a funny name?"

from, 'What Single Women Can Learn from Michelle,' by Jenee Desmond-Harris for The Root

Ducks May Like Rain . . .

. . . according to Raffi, but Xtina sure doesn't.

I decided to live on the Cape again this summer to recreate last summer's months of biking around and wearing my bathing suit under my work clothes so that I could go to the beach and tan.

But I think there has perhaps been one day of sun since I've been here. This is three weeks now of drizzly, clammy dreariness, and it is very draining to my morale. If I'd known the summer was going to be like this, I'd have moved to Boston or New York to wear black all the time and enjoy the nightlife.

I'm starting to doubt that I'll ever see sun again . . .

Cape Cod -- Then and Now

I got my hands on the first CD of archives from the Woods Hole Historical Society! This means my project is truly underway . . . and I've realized that it means a lot of, well, listening. Duh, right?

There are hours upon hours of tapes, on all sorts of subjects, and it's my job to select thirty of the most interesting minutes. I guess I've got my work cut out for me after all.

Today, after bumming about in Woods Hole for a bit, getting an iced latte at Coffee Obsession, and sitting on a wall to read some more Chabon and people-watch, I met with Shirley and obtained the CD.

Then, I listened to Loretta Doucette talk about the amazing adventures of her father the fisherman, from hand-lining, to trawling, to dragging, to looking out for Nazi ships during WWII and being blown up in an accident in New York Harbor. Well, he was lucky enough to be only minimally blown up. He spent two years in the hospital, but then lived till he was a very spry and sharp eighty.

I think my favorite part, however, was Loretta talking about the time she bought twenty-two lobstahs for twenty dollahs from Sam Calhoun. I have no idea whether that is how the name is spelled -- such are the problems with audio as opposed to text research -- but apparently he was le fish-seller in Falmouth/Woods Hole a l'epoque.

After I couldn't take it anymore, I left, and did some grocery shopping at Windfall. I'm a terrible shopper -- I cannot plan meals/ingredients for the life of me, and am quite erratic and eclectic in my choices. I also realized that Loretta Doucette's fisherman father probably never ate any of the following. Interesting how two people can live in the same place and have entirely different lives.

The contents of my basket, after much picking up and putting back, included, comprehensively:
pre-made sushi for tonight's dinner
1 box of this new kind of Kashi cereal
1 box of vanilla soymilk (no, I'm not vegan) -- thought it would go nicely in my morning coffee
1 tub of roasted red pepper hummus
1 tub of tabouli
1 package of spinach wraps -- the above three might make good lunches?
1 bar of dark mint chocolate
1 pint of HONEY-LAVENDER GELATO, which I am SO excited about

We're going to see if I can actually manage to spread these things out and NOT eat all the gelato and chocolate tonight. That would be very bad, for many reasons, but all too sadly, it's happened before.

Please can the weather get nice so that I can go to the beach and be warm?

P.S.

I can hear the ferry horn from my new room.

I think it's the ferry horn. Maybe it's the foghorn? Do those still exist?

Also, I'm still reading Michael Chabon's The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and I found another quote I like:

"'Never say love is like anything, said Cleveland. 'It isn't.'"

Not that I really know anything about love. But I think this must be true nonetheless.

I'm all moved into my "new digs," as Carol called them.

My room is not quite as big as it was last summer, and (horror!) it has no closet! Well, that is to say, no closet with hanging room. Only shelves. Rather inconvenient for a girl like myself who likes dresses and skirts and cute little jackets. And what on earth will become of my first official suit that I bought to go on important interviews with?

Then again, I've only had one opportunity so far to wear that suit -- and more do not seem to be forthcoming. Though I did just apply for another Paralegal job, so fingers crossed.

Otherwise, things in Bookstoreland are proceeding smoothly and uneventfully. I've realized that the routine doesn't vary much from puttering about reading the books ("familiarizing myself with the stock," as I call it when I want to sound impressive) and assisting the occasional customer, putting stickers on and shelving the new arrivals, and going around to check that one of each item is displayed and that all are accounted for. Until the next promotional event -- fairy dancing -- nothing else tres original is going to be required of me.

But I am getting good at what I do. I was able to direct a couple looking for Fancy Nancy for their two year old granddaughter to both the picture books and the sticker sets. I also helped a little girl find "Cinderella stories from other countries." The coup de grace -- I am now in the position of explaining things to "junior staffers" -- ie, Sam, a literate football player from Bates, who just arrived yesterday. Too bad I have greater ambitions and the hopes of someday earning more than $8 an hour and affording my own apartment -- otherwise I'd be very satisfied with life as a book seller.

Tomorrow, however, I have the day off from Eight Cousins and

AWWBamas

I admit I have an ugly fondness for generalizations, so perhaps I may be forgiven when I declare that there is always something weird about a girl who majors in French. She has entered into her course of study, first of all, knowing full well that it can oly lead to her becoming a French teacher, a very grim affair, the least of whose evils is poor pay, and the prospect of which should have been sufficient to send her straight into business or public relations. She has been betrayed into the study of French, heedless of the terrible consequences, by her enchantment with this language, which has ruined more young American women than any other foreign tongue.
Second, if her studies were confined simply to grammar and vocabulary, then perhaps the French major would develop no differently from those who study Spanish or German, but the unlucky girl who pursues her studies past the second year comes inevitably and headlong into contact with French Literature, potentially one of the most destructive forces known to mankind; and she begins to relish such previously unglamorous elements of her vocabulary as langueur and funeste, and, speaking English, inverts her adjectives, to let one know that she sometimes even thinks in French. The writers she comes to appreciate -- Breton, Baudelaire, Sartre, de Sade, Cocteau -- have an alienating effect, especially on her attitude toward love, and her manner of expressing her emotions becomes difficult and theatrical; while those French writers whose influence might be healthy, such as Stendhal or Flaubert, she dislikes nad takes to reading in translation, where their effect on her thought and speech is negligible; or she willfully misreads Madame Bovary and La Chartreuse, making dark romancs of them. I gathered that Phlox, in particular, considered herself 'linked by destiny' (liee par le destin) both to Nadja and to O. That is how a female French major thinks.

-- Michael Chabon, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

And Then He Blew Up My Front Lawn

(Title to the tune of, "And Then He Kissed Me")

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/30/world/middleeast/30devices.html

I read this article in the New York Times today: "Lovelorn Iraqi Men Call on a Wartime Skill," by Rod Nordland.

Says Nordland, "It goes like this: Boy meets girl. They exchange glances and text messages, the limit of respectable courting here. Then boy asks girl’s father for her hand. Dad turns him down. Boy goes to girl’s house and plants a bomb out front."

Apparently, it's become so frequent that it even has an official name -- "Love I.E.D." (Improvised Explosive Device).

It's kind of horrible, but very romantic at the same time. Star-crossed lovers and knights fighting for the fair maiden, etc.

Today was really productive. I'm trying to shake off my college-student sleeping schedule, and am so far managing to wake up a little before 7:30. Tomorrow I might make it by 7. I need to if I want to hit the gym before driving into Woods Hold for the "Blogstorming" meeting at WCAI.

Steve explained that it's like brainstorming, only about blogging.

I might get to write my very own official broadcast organization-sponsored blog! All about my archival discoveries at the Woods Hole Historical Center.

And, I'll give it my own little Xtina-twist, of course.

I only worked in the bookstore from about 10-2, but that was enough time for Carol to give me her personal, overly in-depth tour of each shelf and its contents and potential audiences. I am getting to be an expert on just what the perfect present for someone turning twelve who liked the Lemony Snicket series but has read them all might be.

What has really been hammered into my head is that three year old boys like truck books. And that the trend of the moment is fairies. Scholastic put out this fairy series, and now we have a whole shelf devoted to the winged folk.

Once two o'clock rolled around, I bid everyone adieu and headed to my favorite sandwich shop. I think the lady's starting to recognize me. What she doesn't realize is that I'll soon be cut off the parental credit card and will no longer be in the market for $8 specialty sandwiches. But I'm getting my fill for now.

When it turned out that the archives weren't actually open at the time we'd thought, I realized I couldn't accomplish much at the station, so scooted back to Falmouth to perform various errands. I'm looking for a bike and a solution to my engine problems. For now all I acquired was a library card. That's useful, right?

Then, I went to a crazy Pilates class. It was very intense, but I'm not quite sure it was Pilates. The instructor is hilarious though. She has this really high-pitched voice, and an accent that sounds like a Massachusetts accent, but almost has a Southern twang.

"Now it's time for the backstroke. Ladies, it's just like you're at Old Silvah."

Old Silver is one of the beaches in town.

So, abs kicked into gear, I'm back at home, puttering, and trying to decide between reading Michael Chabon's "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh," which Katherine was reading this weekend and is advertised about being about the summer after graduation and thus seems apropos, or watching The Jane Austen Bookclub, a sappy romance I christened my library card with.

The Birding House

So, it turns out I couldn't stay away from Smith for very long. As I said previously, when I found out I would have two days off from the bookstore, I could not face doing absolutely nothing all by myself on the Cape, so I decided to descend upon Natalie and Katherine at their apartment in Northampton.

It was tres lovely -- the apartment (also known as "The Birding House", named by Noelle, a former inhabitant), is this adorable little abode that is just perfect for housing three 20-something girls who love all things lived-in and homey and having to do with flowers and wine and cooking. Apparently it's not quite ideal if those girls have active sex lives, as the walls are paper-thin, but I think they'll learn to ignore each other . . .

I got there around 1 yesterday, just before Nat had to leave to go gardening for this woman in town, so I left to wander about town and the campus and read The Burn Journals while I waited for her to get done. When she did, Katherine, their roommate Rachel, and Rachel's friend Emily were all home, and it was time for more gardening. They've planted the cutest, neatest little veggie garden out back, with rows of tomatoes, green beans, basil and lettuce all standing up. I've never noticed how much personality plants can have -- these are a little droopy and lazy-looking at the moment, but I'm sure the girls will have them standing straight up in no time at all. They're Smithies, after all.

After planting and showering were done, we had a delicious dinner of fritatta, pasta, and spanikopita from Trader Joe's, as well as a goodly amount of red wine. You can't hang out with us and not drink something, and if you're with me, it will probably be wine, and if you're with Katherine, it will definitely be wine. She spent last year and then some in Italy, and her father has been a connoisseur and Italophile (is that a word?) for years. Grace a lui, we had an amazing bottle of 2006 Argentinian wine called La Posta, that was so, so good. And I contributed a $9.99 shiraz from State Street Wines & Spirits that wasn't terrible and did the job.

Today we hit the tag sales and had a picnic at Puffer's Pond. I ogled the UMass frat boys while the other girls floated in the inner tubes they'd purchased from Target while we picked up picnic supplies (I'd forgotten my suit). The frat boys would most likely be terrible conversationalists for someone like myself, but they were nice eye candy and entertainment just the same. Even the boys I do interact with tend to be bookish and small, so I'm a bit testosterone-starved, and these ones were full of it.

All in all, it was idyllic.

Left-Over Pizza

Friday evening, Eight Cousins hosted an event called "AMP -- Authors, Music, Pizza," to promote three young adult authors who had agreed to come for a signing. Brent Runyon, who wrote The Burn Journals, Peter Abrahams, whose latest is Reality Check, and Pat Lowery Collins with Hidden Voices.

Carol had decided to get the teens to come by promising free pizza and a concert from local garage bands. Six businesses had each promised six pizzas, and guests were instructed to vote for their favorite cheese, pepperoni, and topping.

My job was to pick up the three sets of pizzas that were within driving distance. Can I add pizza delivery to my resume now?

The party was certainly a hit, but the authors didn't get much action and we only sold one book. The kids were more interested in the death metal band and the mosh pit.

Who'd a thunk a children's bookstore would host a mosh pit?

Anyway, we got rid of most of the pizza, but so far I've been indulging in it in moments of weakness, despite my resolution to take off the twenty winter pounds that I always seem to gain. Argh.

I get today and tomorrow off, so I'm going to visit Nat and Katherine in NoHo.

Oh Dear

I just replied to two Craigslist posts.

Here is the first:

We Can Tell People We Met at Starbucks -- 28 (cape, where else)
This is hard trying to basically sell your self, I am not sure what to write but here goes a little self-promotion. I am funny, honest, smart, nice, sweet, and kind. I am looking to find that person to laugh with, to watch movies with. I am looking for somebody who likes to talk till the cell phone dies and it would be great if you like to be a little romantic but mostly that you live to laugh and have a great sense of humor. My type of girl is like Pam from the Office, I love that show. Isn't It weird how easy it is to meet people in college but once you get out in the "real world" its like where the heck did everybody go? That's all for now, hope to hear from well somebody.

And the second:

Someone interesting -- 27 (mid cape)
self employed, work a lot, read a lot. not really into bar scene. lookin for someone interesting who can hold a conversation. thanks:)

I am dying to see what they write back. I was very anonymous, of course.

Day One

As the title suggests, today was my first day on the job at Eight Cousins. Carol introduced me to Cathy, Cathy, Mary Fran and Tasha. She then gravely explained the store's mission statement, reading each line to me slowly and seriously, and detailing why each word was important to the store's success and to the overall happiness of her heart. She really is someone who chooses each word carefully, in any statement that she makes, pausing briefly and gazing into the distance with her heavy-lidded blue eyes. It's funny to see her out of the store, trying to interact with "Joe Six-Packs," as Sarah Palin calls them, and talking like a character out of Jane Austen.

But the success of the store really reflects the benefits of such deliberate, thought-out decision-making patterns. Little details are present everywhere, whether it is the wrought-iron alphabet chair she commissioned from a local artist that sits out front, to the tiny little stickers she places in each book that bear the Eight Cousins logo she designed herself. The chair is her pride and joy -- she purposely had it made over-sized so that any adult sitting in it would feel like a child with their feet dangling above the ground. To her credit, a well-dressed businessman who walked in just before closing told Cathy and I just how much he liked the chair.

Carol, at the moment, is all excited, as she is hosting a big event this Friday in the lot outside the store. AMP, or "Authors, Music, and Pizza," is a book-signing featuring three authors, a couple garage bands, and pizza-judging. Six local businesses have promised six pizzas each, and attendees will sample and then vote for their favorites.

So my main job was being Carol's right-hand woman as she whizzed about town distributing fliers and searching for soda, paper napkins, table-cloths and containers. We forgot, however, about the latter two. Luckily, the event's not till Friday.

So that was the extent of my first day back in Falmouth. I did take a little drive into Woods Hole to see if I could find any cute boys at Pie in the Sky. None so far, but I'll keep looking.

Last night, around 7 p.m., TEENY (my beat-up '96 Volvo) and I clunked into downtown Falmouth, where everything looked the same way I had left it late last August.

It was election night, so about fifteen citizens were milling about, brandishing signs to elect "So-and-so for Selectman." Thankfully, my New Hampshire plate informed them that I would be a waste of last-minute convincing, and they left me in peace to walk to the back door of Eight Cousins to meet Carol.

Carol, a former librarian with all the traits to match, is the owner of Eight Cousins, which she started with her parents several years ago. I will be living with her until June, when I can move back in with Robin and Jimmy, where I lived last summer. For the time being, I have ownership of her side living room/library, where I am sleeping on a pull-out couch surrounded by shelves stocked with children's literature and about ten copies of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins -- a book I didn't even know existed, despite having read both Little Women and Jo's Boys. I started reading one copy last night; it is about a thirteen year old girl named Rose, who, as is the case with so many protagonists of the genre, recently lost her father, is now parentless, and must go live with her aunts and Uncle Alec, and be driven crazy by her seven rowdy boy cousins.

As you can tell, last night was rather uneventful, and involved unpacking, talking to Carol, and tasting her freshly-made Swedish Rye.

Because, as coincidence would have it, Carol's maiden name is Borg, and she too is a half-Swede. Oddly enough, she looks eerily like my nana.

But, as I lay in my bed in the complete silence and darkness, I realized that drastic steps must be taken to save me from becoming the crazy cat lady long before my time. This summer will be nice, but I need to make plans to get to the city and meet some people my own age . . .

A Song About Smith

In Old Northampton, small and proud

We attend a college well-endowed

balancing class and sports and clubs and choir

the women of Smith are much admired.

Within our ancient ivied halls

Smith women show they've got some... poise.

Though other schools boast lots of men,

Smith rugby could beat all of them.

Those Wellesley women think they're grand

but on fridays they're off to Harvard land

Mount Holyoke thinks they were founded first

but Sophia built our college while they went to church.

At Smith we know we're number one.

Our Alma Mater's second to none

and you should know we'll never stop

Smith women always land on top,

Smith women always land on top!

I Miss College Already

Yesterday I graduated from Smith College, and now I am lying in my childhood bed, feeling as though my life has come to a stop.

For the first time since forever, I am not on a dictated path, acknowledged by others as one that is leading to progress and success.

For the first time since forever, I am no longer an official "Student." There are no more milestones to knock off on the beaten track, no more natural progressions from First Grade to Second, from Middle School to High School, and so forth. For the time being, there will be no more classrooms, no more term papers, no more syllabi. Now, whatever learning I do will have to be self-driven. I will have to forge the path myself. Now there is no one to tell me what books I should read, no one to validate that what I am doing is significant.

No one but myself.

I can't wait around any longer -- the little girl who dreamed about beating everyone else and proving herself and becoming known in some way is begging me to "get on it." But she set some pretty hefty goals:

1. Be famous.
2. Do something important.
3. Do something "cool."
4. (Hardest part) Love what you do.
5. Be happy and fall in love. And be loved.

What if I settle on something that blocks off what I'm really meant to be doing? Am I supposed to get a Masters in Political Science? Or be a Journalist? Am I supposed to be Ann M. Martin or Hillary Clinton?

Do I need to make a plan? Or do I just take it a day at a time?

Either way, I can no longer go back to Smith. I packed up my paraphernalia, wiped down my desk with Lemon Pledge, turned in my keys, had a last sushi platter with Lakshami, and drove back to New Hampshire.

Tomorrow, I leave for Cape Cod, where I will be a part-time public radio reporter and part-time bookstore gal.

Things will fall into place, right?