return the 'tender (not chicken)

Last night was one of those evenings where upon leaving work I had no plans, but to go home, enjoy a pizza, drink my sorrows (and hatred) away, and enjoy an evening with the cast of Grey's. It didn't happen that way; however not to my dismay.

I got a text from "Hotender"...yeah, that's what I said. I haven't spoken with him since October (well I saw him about 2 weeks ago at a bar in the Mission). He informed me all the days he was working and concluded by saying, I should come by and say hi. Kim and I had some time to spare before Grey's and since The Ambassador is a new spot, we couldn't say no.

I think The Ambassador is my new favorite bar. Hanging from a black ceiling were about 20 crystal chandiliers in various sizes. A very sexy place to sip old school cocktails. I'll certainly be returning. So, I made my way up to the bar where he was working, to his surprise and proceeded to be coy, but sweet. I think he liked my outfit which was nice because so many people said weird things about it that day. Kim left, but I hung around for another drinkie--a madras (not fancy, but free). We chatted for a bit, managed to catch up, he complimented my physique, then he told me I should return the next night . Again I took on my calm and cool persona (so not me, huh?) and responded by saying I didn't know, I was planning for a mellow weekend. He thanked me for coming, I thanked him for the invite, he gave me kisses, and I said I would call him. To this he responded, "yeah, do that," with a smile, no less. Finally I turned my back on to hear him say again, "thanks for coming Candace." I didn't turn around I continued to walk. I'm such a movie star.

So, all that to say this...I think I'll be hanging out with Hotender again soon. But, this time I know he will not be my boyfriend.

love hello kitty love hello kitty love hello kitty

Don't you just love hello kitty? I cannot name one individual who does not enjoy hello kitty. Have you been to the website? I've added it to my list of favorite links, so check it out.

I love hello kitty. I've been in lust with her since 1985 and this is an affair that is not soon ending. In honour (intentional) of my love for ms. kitty, i now have a hello kitty email address. It's kind of a joke, but I enjoy it. I thought it would be a nice email address to give out when I'm in bars meeting guys since no one gives out their phone number anymore (ugh sooo y2k). I would just love to see someone's reaction upon telling them you have a hello kitty email address.


I love hello kitty. She makes me feel 16 year old Asian girl who spends her entire time writing notes on wide-ruled notebook paper! Email me at candit@hellokitty.com

hello kitty is such a hot ho...

so long no cuddle frog

I'm learning new things about myself everyday and today I learned that I hate dropping people off at the airport. I've always acknowledged that it brings a bit of saddness to my afternoon, but this time I realized taking friends or family to catch a flight is so sad. I feel very lonely afterward.

I guess I should tell you the who, what, when, where and why...

One of my long-time buddies, Noah came to visit me over the long weekend. I moved here four and a half years ago and since the day I arrived I've anticipated his visit. So, it finally happened. We had a great time. In fact, I think in the seven years that we've been friends, this was some of the best time we've ever spent. I always appreciate his company, his conversation, his insights, and his genuine friendship (he has good hair too). I felt like we got to know each other a little bit more. We partied on Friday and Saturday nights, we stayed up for late chats, watched cartoons and ordered pizza, "myspaced," shopped, had a great dinner at Delfina, brunched at Elite and even took a walk to Land's End (a cliff) to watch the sunset, but he never gave me a cuddle. I'm still trying to get get over not getting a morning cuddle.

At any rate, Noah is a great friend (cuddle or no cuddle)and it was refreshing to spend a weekend with him. Maybe that's why I got so sad about dropping him at SFO this afternoon. He got out of the car, we hugged and said farewell then, he headed inside. I instantly broke out my piece of shit cell phone to dial Ralph in order to achieve some sort of interaction. I was afraid of my car getting quiet. He didn't answer and neither did the other two friends I called. So I rode in my car--the same song playing as when Noah was got out--and tried to keep from getting emotional (not emo). A rush of saddness and loneliness came over me. Are you crying yet? Sheesh, I'm crying just typing this (not really). Perhaps I had a really meaningful weekend with one of my favorite people (I gave him a new nickname--frog) or I hate dropping people off at the airport, I haven't decided. I can be fickle, so I don't know what my excuse will be today. Wait I know why I got sad, no cuddle...

billie's jeans

It's another rainy day, but I'm ok with that.

I arrived at work today and synced le pod into my machine as I always do. My listening taste varies. Some days I'm in the mood for Madge (no surprise, I'm sure), Mickey, or trance thumping, other days I want to listen to the solemn tunes of Death Cab, or those nostaligic beats of old from Billie, Frank, and Ella. But today I wanted nothing more than Michael Jackson. I think he's a total weirdo these days, but nothing gets me more amped than Billie Jean. I have to argue that this is the best song ever...yes EVER!

There's a lot of great music out there, but this song is timeless really. Have you ever met anyone who doesn't like Billie Jean? If ever I'm out, gettin' "crunk" someone plays this song and everyone gets so excited! If a party sucks, play MJ--you will get results. I once told Amanda (who is back in less than a week...yay) that whenever I get married (if I do) Billie Jean is going to be my wedding song. She said that's not a very appropriate for a wedding song. She's right, but I still love it.

Here's a little story: In July 1986, there was a little program called the Victory Tour. I was only two, but strangely MJ ignited a fire within me at a young age. He came on singing Billie Jean and broke into his famed moonwalk which caused this young child to jump up and down and scream, "whooo hoooo!" My mother told my aunt that MJ had a strange hold on children (future events revealed her clairvoyance). By three y.o. my bedroom walls had posters of Jacko, and my "Puff-a-lumps" record player blared the sounds of Thriller on vinyl.

I heart Billie Jean, eventhough she's not my lover...


MJ Moonwalks (click here)

scrub scrub

While I was certainly suffering from a case of the Monday blues yesterday, I managed to find some solace in the spa with a full body scrub and mask. As a result of my new freelancing gig, I've been awarded with lots of free product and tenement.

Upon my arrival I was delightful greeted by a nice woman who instantly offered me a glass of champagne. I gladly accepted the offer. I slithered out of my clothes and my skivvies and into a plush terry robe (haha..see previous post). I made my way to the ladies waiting room where there sat brie and crackers, sliced cucumbers, grapes, and brownies! After a few moments of noshing, Rhonda my specialist arrived. She greeted me and gave me a run down of how things would work...this is the exciting part...

Rhonda guided me into a room that was much like a cave. I positioned myself face up on a platform (draped, so my goods were covered--no Britney moments here). I was then slathered with a cranberry scrub from neck to toes. This was followed by a warm rinse and application of a pomegranate-honey mask. Rhonda then left the room and I sat alone as my cave filled with steam. So, knowing this treatment was all natural, I opened my eyes, looked around to make sure i was alone and had a taste of the mask..hahahaha. I felt a bit silly, but soon the ceiling began to rain (it lasted for 3 minutes) and rinsed me. After my rinse, I made my way to an alcove where warm towels, my robe and citrus shea butter waited for me. Rhonda arrived and offered up another glass of bubbles, I said, "yes, please." So, while most of Monday was dismal, it came to a pleasant end. I am now an even more firm believer in the power of a good scrub and a spa day.

FUTURE ADVICE: Invoke your inner "rich, white lady" and make your way to the nearest spa as soon as you feel your Monday blues approaching.

december excitement

For some odd reason I'm excited today. Maybe it's because it's Friday or maybe it's because I'm babysitting Leo tonight or maybe because Christmas is coming. I'm looking forward to exchanging gifts with friends, seeing the nutcracker, making Christmas breakfast, and all of the lights.

I've decided that I'm going to avoid the insanity of shopping. I'm going to do most of it online...and I won't be doing that much anyway. When I really start thinking about Christmas shopping, I wonder how the hell my mother did it. As most of you know, I was an only child for ten years (and sometimes I'm still treated like one). I like to describe my younger self as my mother's living doll. This is not to discredit her parenting by any means, but she indulged me.

While most children ran to their trees to find a few great packages with their name on it. I think all but 6 packages under our Christmas tree were for me. I vivdly remember two Christmas's in particular--1989 and 1991. I'll dedicate today to 1989.

I was 5 yrs. old and a sassy kindergartener. On Christmas morning, 1989, our Christmas tree was filled with gifts. Most of which were mine. My mother put on the Christmas music as I tore into my loot. I received a new bike, a vcr, a race car, dolls, a doll house, stuffed animals, a tea set, a hot pink punk wig, clothes, jammies, shoes, undies, a mug for hot chocolate, new ballet slippers, new leotards, tights, a Minnie Mouse pillow with arms and legs...oh my god the list goes on. So when thinking about this insane/obsurd list, I wonder how my mother had time to enjoy the holiday season. It seemed she was constantly primping me, putting me in ruffled socks and dresses, shopping for me, and baking cakes. Wouldn't she have rather said forget it and just sent out Christmas cards??

show your cards

While my twenties have at times seemed to turn me into a rigid, negative, selffish, cynic, I have a lot of soft spots (want to try me--wink wink). I get great joy from sending (and receiving) letters, cards, thank you notes, and so forth. So, I'm awful exciting that it's time to pull out my fancy Holiday card spreadsheet!

Before meeting up with a friend last night, I took a trip to the MoMA store. I browsed for a good half hour before I came across the holiday card section. Two display fixtures sat toward the back of the store gleeming (i'm serious). It was perfect. There were so many interesting cards to choose from. One box featured hot pink reindeer on a silver backdrop. Another opened up into this cut out "enchanted forest." I decided this year, that I would search for a holiday card that simple, yet poignant. There at that MoMA I found my 2006 holiday card! If you are lucky and on my list you shall receive one. And you're going to love it...it's so "domino."

I also found a card that had me "in stitches." It was a vintage photo of a young boy, possibly from the 60's. It seemed as though the photo had been maniuplated (photoshopped, y'all), so the child wore lipstick and blush. He sat in front of a Christmas tree and the above caption read: Everyone Loves A Little Fruitcake During the Holidays.

I hope someone sends me that card.

I'm excited to send out my cards this year. More excited than I was last year. My list has grown and I'm much more savvy about this activity. I'd love to believe that people will be enchanted by my card, but it will sit with the others from family, distant relatives, and friends--which is ok. I will be pleased and the holidays are about giving, so give me joy and get on my Holiday card list, pronto!

back and ready to blog

Your beloved "chuntress" has returned from the depths of Southern California. It wasn't that bad, in fact, it wasn't bad at all. In the week I was there I purchased a pair of red shoes, had the most delicious burger from Father's Office (Santa Monica), hung out with old friends, and participated in some much needed laughter!!!

shhhh, it's sleepy time

I'm in Riverside and it's not to my surprise that I had a difficult time falling asleep last night. I usually can't fall asleep in unfamiliar places right away. So as I was dosing off, I began thinking about a conversation that I had had earlier that evening with my very good friend (and new mommy), Emalee. We were speaking about her sweet baby (he was 10lbs. at birth) and how often he sleeps. I began to tell her that one of my most rewarding activities is putting my little ones (the children I babysit) to bed.

It goes something like this...

There's been chaos or near chaos all evening, but once the kids finish dinner and have baths they're good to go. I lather them with sweet smelling cremes, give them fresh diapers, and select the cutest "jammies" in the drawer (I like to pick the ones with feet). Once they are in "jammies" I hug them and tell them they are so cute! By now I have a warm bottle ready --mind you these are my kids age 2 and under--so I grab the "baba," "bobbie," "bubby," whatever and a cozy blankie. I usually dim the bedroom light (one of the children likes a lullaby cd), swaddle the baby, settle into a large chair, give the baby his/her bottle and rock back & forth, back & forth, back & forth.

I'm sure none of this sounds like riveting information on child-rearing, but I get such joy out of these moments. It's quiet time and the babies always look so peaceful. It usually takes the little ones about 10-20 minutes to knock out, and once they do, it's to their crib they go. I'm not typically a sentimental girl (emotional, but not sentimental), but it's this moment that makes me realize why people fall in love with their babies. They're great when they're awake yes, but they're so trusting & peaceful at sleepy time.

poopy diaper party

Quite a few of my girlfriends have babies, but none of them have had baby showers. I'm thankful for this because I've never been a fan of le baby shower--I find that they're boring and the games always suck. The last baby shower that I had the "pleasure" of attending was clad with floral frocks, soccer mom haircuts, carrots & ranch dip, punch w/ sherbert in the center, dry costco cake, plastic baby hangers (someone gave this and this alone as a gift--a pack of 99 cent hangers), and prayers. I think it goes without saying, I was miserable. I stood out like a sore thumb in a big white skirt, gold hoop earrings, and cowboy boots.

I must say that I do respect the purpose of shower's. I love a good party and I love a preciuos little baby, but seriously someone has got to come up with a better way to celebrate a woman's big day. I was watching "Girls Next Door" yesterday and there was a baby shower for some blonde gal and her (very homo looking) guy. What do you think Hef's main girl, Holly did? She pulled out the classic babyshower game--guess what's in the diaper. I HATE THIS GAME. I think it's sick. What is exciting about pretending to smell shit? I say nothing, but that's just one black girl's opinion. Another game that I think is ridiculous, how many squares of toilet paper is mommy's tummy? I don't want to be swaddled in toilet paper, do you?

I think the ideal baby shower involves Billie Holiday tunes, canapes, cupcakes (in lieu of a sheet cake), a sit down meal, "cocktails" (non-alcoholic dranks for the pregnant lady), champs (because one glass is ok), lots of gerber daisies (in bright colors), & candles with an early evening backdrop. None of those stupid games will be played. Someone is going to be smart and use the sense God gave them to come up with some original stuff that doesn't involve poop, toilet paper, or "when I was a baby I..."

I haven't figured out what activities will be appropriate. But I do know that if I'm invited to a baby shower in the next few months and someone pulls out those newborn sized diapers filled with mushed candy bar (by the way, why does the organizer always giggle), I just might be the single, childless, city bitch who says, "I'm not into scat!"

wishing & hoping no longer

I knew that if I wished hard enough this day would come. Britney Spears is finally on the right track, bidding K-Federjerk "popozao," a slvete figure, and donning a sassy new cut she is back to her old ways. I think everyone is going to forget about her whitetrash ways in about 3 months. Everyone will love her again. And Ralph & I will be spending our last pennies to see her perform in Vegas--this you can count on. How long must we wait for the full circle of our #2 Pop Icon???

(did i really just blog about this...as Amanda would say, "you [candace] are very lame")

Read Perez

that's an action item for you

(omg, it's 6:28am and I'm up blogging....loyalty)

In the past few years that I've spent in the working world I've been subject to meetings. Meetings aren't always fun, and I'm sure you would agree. They can often be long, boring, misdirected, a "my way is the best way" battle, or short and unaccomplished. Taking all those things into consideration, I've figured out what would make department meetings more enjoyable....cocktails!

Before you disregard this, seriously (haha) consider it. Your department is scheduled for a 3 o'clock meeting, but at 2:30 some "hotender" (hot bartender) shows up and takes everyone's order prior to commencement of the meeting. This is perfect already. All of your drinks are paid for by your department, unless you're ordering top shelf liquor (oh btw, the conference room is now complete with a fully stocked bar). I'm sure you're thinking that this would be ridiculous because everyone would get shitfaced. But c'mon this is work and there must be some sort of order. The rules:

1) two drink MAXIMUM
2) absolutely no shots
3) the bartender cannot concoct any drinks with tequila (sorry no 'ritas)
4) if you seem drunk after your first drink, you cannot have a second
5) it doesn't matter how good the drinks have you feeling, you cannot, by any means take off clothing or dance on tables (grounds for termination)
6) beer is only offered during friday meetings to coincide with weekend sporting events. otherwise no beer, it's cocktail meeting hour, not an afternoon at the "Brewco"

The beauty of alcohol is that in small doses it gets things accomplished. One drink will loosen everyone up, they will say what they have to say and all attendees get out within a reasonable time frame. I just think this would be great. I'd love to begin discussion projects and asking questions after taking a good sip of a campri and soda (with orange juice), a raspberry mojito, a kir royal, grey goose and pineapple, or just a flute of veuve. How effective. Mmm make mine a double. I want to hear your thoughts on this...

let me eat cake...

i had a chance to take in a sunday matinee of marie antoinette. i read
the new yorker review prior to attendance, so i knew i was in for.
despite the anthony lane's scathing (and hilarious) review, i still
trumped over to the amc van ness with nicholas for an afternoon treat.

i have to begin by saying that it was very difficult to get into this
film. it had a very slow beginning with a number of scenes that seemed
either too long or not crucial to the story development. don't you
hate that? i do. immediately i start looking at my cell to see what
time it is, thus trying to calculate how long this pitty of a film
will be. this happened when i went to see "the lake house" (yes, i saw
it). so roughly 20 minutes into the film i began to get somewhat
comfortable. i never really got into the dialogue (because there
wasn't much). i didn't enjoy the jason schwartzman as the dauphin--i
didn't believe him and i kept seeing "weird ethan" in his eyes,
kristen dunst reminded me of sour, retarded milk--can milk be
retarded--and all in all the movie missed its mark.

coppala's intent was clear. she was hoping do skillfully intertwine
eighteenth century france with modern day. fair enough, right? but it
was off on so many accounts. the converse, the language, the behavior
of the characters, the music, the overall indulgence somehow didn't
gel in the way one would have expected. somehow there manages to be a
great disconnect in the film. perhaps it isn't cohesive due to her
choice of actors? or maybe she's trying too hard? i can tell she's
trying to tap into some greater meaning. nicholas suggested that
perhaps the 80s tunes (i.e.bow wow wow, siouxsie and the banshees)
where a failed attempt at coppala creating a comparison between
over-the-top way of the 80's to that of revolutionary france.

anthony lane suggests that paris hilton directed the film. i found
this hilarious, but i do feel that the redeeming quality of the flick
was it's decadence. being the sort of gal that i am i can't shy away
from luxurious fabrics, unforgiving colors, ornate design, perfect
curls, cupcakes, candy, pastel poker chips, ribbons, porcelain tea
cups, champers (champagne), luscious bedding, dramatic dress, and a
delicate french backdrop, so for those things alone, i enjoyed the
film. it made me want to lie around and relish in dainty eats all day,
dress wale-bone corsets, pick out shoes, and bitch about who's who's
in the french social scene. oh and make "nice" with sexy soldiers.

i did however walk away with a sparked interest for marie antoinette
and i'm interested in picking up a copy of antonia fraser's book, upon
which this film is based. i guess any girl who supposedly tells a
bunch of starving people to "eat cake," is a no nonsense darling after
my own heart. the movie wasn't great, but i'm glad i saw it. and to be
honest, because it was so pretty, i'd see it again.

dining in fantasyland

New methods are always welcomed if you ask me and that is why I took Bart to work (that and I can't afford gas). Taking Bart isn't exactly new for me, but it never ceases to refresh. Over the weekend my October issue of Elle arrived so I toted it along today for riding reading material.

After reading this article about "not-so-perfect" wifery, I came across a really cool Q&A with CFDA Womenswear Designer of the year, Costa del Soul. They asked him "Who are your fantasy dinner party guests?" What a great question. I marveled at this. His answer: Picaso, Maplethorpe, Diana Vreeland, Elizabeth Taylor, Harry Potter, Louis Armstrong, and Diana, Princess of Wales.

All day I've been thinking of my fantasy dinner party guests...I think I have an idea of who I would invite.

-Truman Capote (that's a given--damn he was a partygoer & he could hold his liquor)
-Audrey Hepburn
-Mary Shelley
-Billie Holiday (for sassy entertainment)
-Diane von Furstenburg
-Johnny Depp (he's nice to look at)
-Coco Chanel
-Andre Leon Talley
-Humbert Humbert
-Yves Klein (i love blue)
and
-a few of my refined friends (but that's not fantasy)

Before meeting in a grand dining room--the one with 12 ft. ceilings, brocade dining chairs and a table fit for a queen--we'd lounge around the sitting room on decade sitting poufs, drinking Campari, sidecars & manhattans--maybe even Veuve Rose, while enjoying canapes for hors d'overs, and talk about two of my favorite things--literature and fashion! Tres magnific...Can I move to fantasy land?

happy potato salad of july

Sadly, I haven't been keeping a documented diary of my trip like I had hoped, but that would probably bore the pants off of you anyway. Althought, I am here to give updates. I didn't purchase Bitter is the New Black, instead I opted for Capote's Summer Crossings (his first novel). Also, on Sunday I made my way north to the Santa Monica shore and spent a day with Chris. We hung out at the beach, enjoyed lunch, and an evening of t.v. movies. I had lots of fun (despite his odd disposition I think Chris did too) and almost cried when I returned to Riverside on Monday afternoon.

In other news, it's the fourth of July!!! This is my favorite holiday--I love the food, the weather, the ambiance, everything. However, it's 12:03 and I still don't have solid plans. Oh well, as long as I'm sufficed with a hot dog, potato salad, and a evening of glittering sky I'm happy.

Today is also my brother's birthday. He's 13 today. I can't believe that ten years ago my mom and I welcomed a new memeber to our duet. And while I didn't actually meet him until July 5th, I predicted his "independence day" birth. I remember him a good sized baby 8lbs, 1 oz. with a head full of dark hair and large goofy eyes. The doctors thought perhaps he was cross eyed, but it turns out he had more skin on his left eye (he's fine now). Whatever the case, he was such a treat. When he would cry in his play pen I would dutifully bring him popsicles, crank up radio, put on one of my dance costumes, and entertain him with sisterly delight. Now he's thirteen and before I know it he'll be eighteen. It almost brings a tear to my eye (which I'm always good for) to think about that. He's not a sweet as he was ten years ago. In fact, he's moody, gets tense easily, and his body doesn't respond well to hot cheetos, but he'll grow out of this I'm sure. I look forward to our finally coming together and creating a bond. It's difficult with ten years in between us, and in all honesty, I don't believe that we'll create that bond for at least another five years. I can deal with that. So for now, Happy Birthday Joseph--may your new Xbox be everything you hoped for and may your potato salad be lumpy!

tag, i'm it

I've been tagged by Amanda to, "name 10 of life's simple pleasures that you enjoy the most." So, here goes:

1. an evening at the ballet
2. clean sheets
3. learning French
4. morning coffee chats that spill into the afternoon
5. a good book
6. day light savings
7. citizen cake for cheering up
8. the smell of gardenias and honeysuckle
9. pebble beaches
10. sunday brunch

*I really wanted to mention how much I love adding to my card collection, but the number was 10 not 11.

Now as instructed, I must pick ten people (or less to do the same).

I tag: Nicholas, Paul, Hannah, Artemis, Christina & Ralph...(and anyone else reading this)

baggage claim

I've just finished packing for my weekend "get away." It's not much of a get away, but another one of my listless trips down south. It seems that lately I have had some trouble with packing. What was once my favorite part of trip preparation, I now dread.

I've packed the essentials: bras, panties, p.j.'s, tolietries--shorts, a few tops, and some dresses, and sandals. I've also packed an option for going out, accessories, heels, jeans. And despite what I see in the mirror, I mustered up the courage to pick a swimsuit and my big floppy hat. When I placed those two items in my bag, I sort of wished that's all I was bringing. I would have loved to fill a carry-on canvas bag with tunics, swimsuits, sunscreen, a dress, the essentials, a floppy hat, my journal and two good books.

It's not news that whats in your bag sort of determines where you are headed. But I think if my bag included the latter (and just that), I'd be in for a much more relaxed weekend. I guess this isn't much about what's in my bag, but my hopes that my weekend is not an on-going party, or 4 days of get togethers. I really hate that. Then I come back just as I left, tense. So here's hoping that by startegically placing the swimsuit, tunic, and floppy hat into my bag, I've won favor with the get away gods and I can enjoy a few days at their altar of nothingness.

removing me--belly button saga

There comes a time in a girl's life where she must bid farewell to her old ways--whatever they may be. In light of nearing my mid-twenties, I have given up making dates and not following through, driving fast, staying up late, over compensation, and as of Sunday, I gave up my belly button ring.

This was a notable accomplishment. I've been wanting to pluck that piece of metal from my body for about a year, but clung tight to it's symbolisms of freedom, rebelion, sexual liberation/prowess and the fact that it enlongated my belly button, which, in turn made me feel thinner. I was pierced on my 18th birthday with Ralph by my side muttering some nonesense about soroities and how when I went off to college, I should join one. In an instant and a painful breaking of my skin I stood up to find a barbell curved in what was eighteen years prior my lifeline.

I was proud for having gone through with the whole experience. I paraded around campus the following day eager to show off my new jewlery (as well as my flat stomach). I managed to only get infected once and rarely did my ring catch on clothes. However, at twenty-three I feel like I need to let go. That ring no longer symbolizes freedom, rebelion, or sexual liberation at all. Rather it represents that last year of high school, rebelion that I'm not longer interested in, a show, being eighteen and all the things that I no longer am. I certainly grappled with letting go. But I'm learning that's central to my character. I have a hard time letting go of things that make up my former person.

I took out the ring and now it sits on my dresser in two pieces. I wonder if the aligned holes in my stomach will close. Perhaps they won't, which is fine. It can symbolize personal growth and moving on. There are better things when you remove the garbage from the past...you may find that you simply have a belly button.

not a chameleon

Whenever I finish a book I get this sad feeling. Over the weekend I completed a book of short stories, Capote's Music for Chameleons. It was fantastic...the man is truly a literary genius. I furiously turned the pages anxious to see what sort of adroitness lie on the subsequent page. As of late, I've had a difficult time completing books--Amanda puts me up to a book finishing challenge everytime I begin something new. I'm a little dissappointed in my inability to read the way I once did, but I guess that comes with life changes.

I was down to four pages, but I couldn't finish the book due to a burning desire to go through and mark all of his ingenuity. My favorite line, "...she sounded the way bananas taste." I don't know why, but that line resonated within. Granted anyone could say it, however the attempt to wrap my mind around the juxtaposition of sound and taste was great. Two completely different senses, made to be synonomus shows just how fabulous Truman really was. Also, he addresses the issue of conversation, and how one can question the whole notion of whether conversation truly exists in a stunning dialouge with himself (or his alter ego). He discusses his dealings with Marilyn Monoroe (whom I don't have much affection for) with the same charm and affection he disscusses an inmate at San Quentin (participant in the Manson Family).

I've now begun Simone de Beauvoir's She's Comes To Stay.