baby did a bad, bad thing.
i’m a good person. seriously. just sometimes, my competitive edge overwhelms me.
it was some winter evening, probably a weeknight, back at sarah lawrence, senior year. seastreet and i had settled in my living room for a round of scrabble. we were in the middle of a grueling 4,000 point tournament. he’d been holding the lead by about fifty points, for weeks now. i was doing everything i could to stay on his tail.
now, my venerable partner had this intensely obnoxious habit of spending about twenty minutes each turn. he’d stare – brow furrowed – at the board. i’d wander off, listen to music, attempt conversation, drink myself stupid. and then he’d smile that grin and put down a fifty-point whopper of a word and blazzzam!, there’d go my shot at winning.
so one night, i had a motley assortment of interesting letters …. B, M, E, H, C, A, and a J. there was this .. this … sweet little piece of board at the bottom right hand corner. you know the one. with the triple word score. so i was itchin’ for it, kids. i was gunning for that spot. i needed it. i would have traded my firstborn child for a shot to cream sea. but what could i do with those letters?
chemabj?
jamcheb?
bechamj?
and there it was. bechamel. the french cream sauce. the space directly to the left of the 3W score was, inexplicably, miraculously, the extra E i needed. all i needed was a motherfucking L.
well, you can guess the gory details. sea, that sweetly unsuspecting darling, got up to go to the bathroom [he can't ever sit still, so i knew he'd get up eventually]. there it was, that tantalizing little cloth pouch that just screamed at me – ‘dig. dig! you’ll find that pesky L! trade the useless J for that coveted, desperately-needed L! do it!’
and i did. shamefully i face you, jury of my peers, and tell you i did. i dug desperately until i found that L, and threw my J back into the cloth pouch. that guileless, trusting creature came back, and with the right amount of dramatic bravado, i pretended to simply stumble across such scrabbling perfection known as the 3W Bingo.
yes, folks. because not only did i score that 3W. oh, no. that wasn’t enough for my greedy, competitive soul. it was also a bingo …. all seven letters used. one of them being that treacherous, deceitful L. so there it was. bechamel. seven letters used, some of them quite valuable, on a 3W score.
i think the total damage was about 150 points. and sea, of course, he challenged the use of the word. and looked it up in our trusty scrabble dictionary [which, for the record, i did not do while he was in the bathroom, probably because it simply didn't occur to me. if it had, i would have]. and of course, the word was there, in all its obscure french glory, and my scrabble partner took a humbling hit to his winning streak. he looked at me with profound respect for creaming him so. and you ask, did i feel guilty that i had won such a dear friend’s respect with such wicked, wicked ways?
no. i didn’t. i was riding the high of humbling him, of success against the only person who is ever a real scrabble challenger. why? because i’m pure evil.
months, months later, when sea left for estonia, i decided to tell him. i built it up quite a bit, during a very tender ‘we’re really going to miss each other’ moment. i told him i had something very serious to tell him. he was full of concern. i built it up a little more [wicked. wicked.]. he was even more concerned. i told him i hoped it wouldn’t ruin our friendship. he assured me that would be near-impossible.
“sea, i…. cheated on ‘bechamel’.”
and friends? i wouldn’t trade the look on his face for all the money in the world. it was absolute shock, betrayal, anger … in short, it was absolutely hilarious. he was so upset, so terrifyingly traumatized that i would have snatched my only victory from the hands of deceit … i think a little part of him died.
but he’s forgiven me since then, right sea? i’d never cheat him again.
that doesn’t go for the rest of you, however. be en guarde. bechamel may rise again.
your sunny, funny face!
in a highly uncharacteristic move, i’ve posted this rather unflattering picture of myself here at the holy stomping ground of my vanity, petit hiboux.
see? it’s a silly, wholly unflattering picture. why do i post it, you ask? why cause such a shock to the masses? why even risk breaking some hearts who were living in a fantasy world where people are always pretty, all the time?
because i like this picture. i do! it was taken the morning i moved from my dorm room to my apartment. i was graduating college in a few days. i had a job. i was surrounded by friends [this wonderful friend took the picture]. i was utterly happy. and as i stood out on the fire escape to my gorgeous dorm room and smoked my morning cigarette with matthieu and watched the sun warm up a glorious day … i was really happy.
so i turned to the camera and made a silly, silly face.
because i could.
we’re talking about cars here. cars.
think about a porsche. it’s sleek. it screams style, and danger, and live-in-the-moment gorgeous. it says to you, get in. don’t think about your insurance, don’t think about your family, don’t think about the future. live a little. it’s not the right car. it’s the right now car. even if you have it for twenty years [which you probably won't because if you can actually afford it without selling your firstborn child, you'll probably get bored of it in two years, and if you can't afford it, like most people can't, you'll lose it eventually], you never refer to it as ‘my car’. it’s ‘my porsche’. because it’s not like other cars, is it.
it’s nothing like a honda, for instance. what is a honda? a honda is, quintessentially, a car. you don’t take tight corners on it and feel the seratonin flood your brain. you don’t check out your reflection when driving by a shiny building. you drive a honda, for chrissakes. now, it’s a good car, isn’t it? you sing its praises to your friends. you say, look at the mileage! look at the maintenance! man, i’ve driven this car a million miles and she looks exactly the same as the day i bought her! you are intensely happy with your sound purchase. you make fun of guys with porsches.
but there’s always that moment, isn’t there. when you’re out with your honda. you’re cruising. you’re happy. you and the honda, you understand each other. you’re on the same page. and here he comes, that guy. with his porsche. he pulls up next to you and bam. ten years with your honda suddenly slips into meaninglessness. look at that porsche. wouldn’t you grovel on your knees on your best suit all the way across the continent just for a chance to run your hands over that sleek body? you would. of course you would. you’d forego food, water, society for a chance to take her for a spin. doesn’t matter if the fling only lasts two days before you realize what you’ve left behind, the solid affection you have for your wise, quiet honda. in that moment, in that disco-ball, flashing moment … all you see is the racy danger of that porsche.
and you know what? the honda knows it. she always, always knows it. she comforts herself that ultimately, she is the wisest choice. that she’s in for the long-haul. that she’s dependable, fun, and smart. she likes being a honda. she doesn’t want to be a porsche. she’s met the porsches – they’re empty inside.
but she knows. she knows you’d never crawl on your knees for thirty miles to adore a honda the way you’d gladly grovel for a chance with that porsche.
fraggle-mented
readers, i need your help. i cannot seem to post about anything, and the dentist post wasn’t funny enough to be up there for three days. so, i provide you all with some choices, in the classic american tradition of have-it-all-ism.
1. How I Survived a Staring Contest … with a Hippo.
2. Why I’m going to Law School.
3. My All-Time Top Ten Favorite Places in New York City and Why.
4. Ways I’ve Been Really, Really Bad.
or
5. A Rant About The Topic of Your Choice (please provide Subject of Rant. and it can’t be dominick dunne, since i’ve … dunne … him already.)
none of these are very exciting. nonetheless, in the spirit of democracy, you decide, and i’ll oblige.
freud would have gotten his rocks off
there’s something very sexual about going to the dentist. all this talk of drilling and filling holes, that sterile little room with inexplicable instruments hanging everywhere, the supine position you’re placed in, the fact that you’ve got your mouth wide open and several people have distinct advantage over you…
or maybe it’s just that yesterday, i found my head nestled against my dentist’s generous cleavage as she manuvered the inside of my mouth with a hand and a metal object.
but maybe it’s not all dentists. maybe it’s just my dentist. i’m not sure about her. the whole being-pressed-to-her-bosom thing was a bit much. i mean, photos of that situation could be sold to dental fetishists.
SOS!
if anyone has any earthly clue as to why my webpage refuses to show up on my computer, even though it’s currently showing up on yours, send me an email: petithiboux@yahoo.com
because i’m at a complete loss. i’m getting this “Under Construction” page instead and its driving me bananas.
and of course, blogger is never any help.
lightning strikes
it was one of those summer afternoons that makes you want to peel your skin off, hang it on the nearest branch and go throw yourself into the east river. i had gotten too little sleep the night before, because the bed had trapped the heat from my bedroom window and was using its stored humidity to slowly suffocate me. all day at work, i had tottered around on my heels, pushing my brain through the fog.
as i walked home at six, the fading day’s heat was a wet towel i struggled to get out from underneath. i trudged up my apartment stairs, knowing he’d be hanging out, as he’d been all day. when i got to the top landing, the door swung open. he was standing there, grinning a little at my exhaustion. seeing him there was like being greeted an affectionate cat who’s been home alone all day. he handed me the phone. it was a friend of mine, who’d just called.
he led me to my favorite arm chair, near the window. he lit me a cigarette, and padding into the kitchen, returned with a glass of chilled white wine. then he sat down on the couch, quietly reading until i finished my phone conversation. when i hung up the phone, he came and sat closer, asking me how my exhausting day had been. we didn’t talk much. dinner plans were half-heartedly made. it was a friday night, we were young, friends, and we couldn’t think of anything better to do than just sit on the couch. we were exhausted.
out of nowhere, a breeze started to lift the curtains. night was falling, and a storm was rolling in from the west. as we sat in the window chairs, the sky shifted lazily from somber purple to a glowing green, with streaks of wild pink. he wandered over to the stereo, and surprised me by putting on a nat king cole record. the storm was starting to bare its teeth on our neighborhood, and all the lights in the living room were out except for one candle. i sat on the window ledge, watching the storm. he sat on the couch, watching me and the storm, waiting for rain.
unforgettable … that’s what you are.
unforgettable … though near or far.
like a song of love that clings to me
how the thought of you does things to me…
i don’t remember what we spoke about. or if we spoke at all. i know we watched the lightning. at some point, he came over and sat nearer to me, and looked out the window. the electricity i felt at his nearness felt like it would attract a bolt of zeus’s errant flame and we’d both just explode into hot dust. we stared at the candle, at the kaleidescope of the stormy summer sky, at almost anything but each other. the lightning streaked through the colorful palette and thunder shook the ground enough to set off car alarms, but still no rain.
that’s why darling, it’s incredible
that someone so unforgettable
thinks that i’m unforgettable too.
the moment passed. the skies let loose their swaying, pendulous clouds and torrential rains smacked the hot new york streets. plants sucked it up. children ran outside to feel the pelting raindrops sizzle on sunbaked skin. the record ended. we decided on a dinner cafe and blew out the candle, only stopping in the middle of the dark room to smile at each other, perhaps to acknowledge the unspoken heaviness. then we went to dinner, and left our storm for another day.
that’s why, darling, it’s incredible …
and there will be much gnashing of teeth
it seems my nay-sayers will be pleased. according to an online quiz, i belong in the maleboge … the eighth circle of hell. a sunny little place, reserved for the likes of, oh, the malicious, the fraudulent, and the panderers.
seems like i’d be in good company – hell, the entire mafia would be there and we know those boys are always a good time.
