Relocation rigamarole, it's a Friggin' Fiesta! (TM Herrera)

Reader! So much, so very, very much...

New York Cares: So many ironic mustaches, so many finance dorks trying so hard to get laid, so many crazies at the Starbucks, so much odor! Molly goes to H&H, mystifying Tata, and Dan is the welcome committee, obviously, to Thai lunch on the UWS. Aspirational living among the brownstones in the "Burlingame of Brooklyn," Brooklyn Heights, perilous pink ladders to the unsanctioned rooftop in Greenpoint (are you thinking of a PJ Harvey song? me too!). Strange formations of hipsters surrounding our neighborhood park (they're, uh, flocking this way), later revealed to be a line-up for free tickets to Yo La Tengo at the pool (obvs). [Next week it's an outdoor screening of Rushmore (double obvs).] Listening to the YLT concert later, on aforementioned rooftop. Welcome to Williamsburg night = Sex Panthers on the DUMBO waterfront, followed by bar Connect 4 with a dude I'm fairly sure just finished his stint with the IDF. The Israelis, man, they always find me.

Bed shopping, bed hopping around the boroughs until the lease starts. Getting things homey for Xin, waiting til he returns from Burning Man. Online window shopping for "deals" on Danish mid-century pieces. Resting up way out on Lon Gisland, looking forward to a Labor Day weekend in West Egg, all while I blog from my beloved green-trimmed college apartment desk, where I did work on my computer before Facebook existed. Oh, that heady time.

Frakkin-a, Reader, I haven't even moved in yet! Best. Life. Ever.*


*Yes, I'm slightly nauseated at myself, too.

Please don't do shots at frat parties

Fuuuuuuuck! It's actually here. My sister is leaving for college tomorrow! Is it weird that I feel a mixture of sadness, vicarious excitement, and jealousy? I want so much for her, and want so much that she be spared the mishaps/tragedies I went through. I can't enunciate it - the right advice - to protect her and embolden her and pass down whatever wisdom I have acquired. I think there's a part of me that sees her life as an opportunity for a do-over of my own.

I remember this night for me. My closest friends came over to watch me pack into the wee hours. The last one to leave lingered in the front hall, but I wanted him out so I could run back to my room and cry. I felt lonely instantly. 36 hours later I was on the train to New Haven, in the same car as Xin, who, 8 years later, is soon to be my roommate. That's a lovely little continuity arc, eh?

Now all that's left is to burn the ubiquitous farewell mix CD (which started as a woe-is-me mix and is heavy on The Magnetic Fields) before Mom and Caroline head to the airport. Then back to packing up boxes for my own imminent departure. It's just like I'm going off to school, too! Except instead of picking classes I'll be job-hunting in a recession! And instead of battling over dorm suite space with a sullen Turk and an artsy Texan, I'll be negotiating the placement of mid-century furniture with a librarian and a lawyer in a "cozy" apartment in Greenpoint. Sheeeeeeeeyit!

Honorable Mention

Also, because he is yet another hot swimmer and also Arabi, I must add Ous Mellouli, winner of Tunisia's first ever swimming gold medal (1500m free).

Given that Kristin has facebook friended mini man-gymnast Jon Horton, who are my Olympic ogling objects?

Unsurprisingly, my little sister thinks monkey-face swim champ Michael Phelps is hot. I get that the swimmer body can make any average dude hotter. But still, the ears, the bad teeth? Eh. There's better.

My Olympic crushes are as follows:

1. Ryan Lochte, who is no longer a secret I must admit, is a stone fox. Look at how happy he is next to Monkey Face!
Need more proof?

Now that's a hot torso.

2. My girl crush, Chinese diving megastar Guo Jing Jing. She's so pretty! She's so friggin' dominant! Apparently the government gave her a hard time for her "commercial activity," and she had to stop lending her face to ad campaigns or risk getting kicked out of practice. Imagine if American athletes were made to tone down the endorsements. How would NBC sell all that ad space to Visa?


3. And, of course, because I am the very epitome of a female sports fan, I LOVE Nastia Liukin.


I joined in her teariness during the All-Around medal ceremony. Also, she looks a whole lot like my girl Kristen Bell:


Alright, Phelps finally broke. He cried for NBC after wrapping up the hunt for 8 gold medals. He's a little adorable. Still very simian.

Your busted heart will be fine

I'm still trying to work out the true story of my last relationship, to explain definitively the how and why, like there is a logic game in there I can solve. Many times over many months (years? since the beginning?) I've come up with theories that were later abandoned, had faith that was proven naïve, or despaired over angst I can't even remember. The one thing I know for sure is that my feelings are mixed. That's where I am with all the therapy, folks, "my feelings are mixed." Marvel at the mastery of personal insight.

And I'm right on schedule, according to the strategy I developed circa 1995. My adolescent plan for a lifetime free of divorce (with my parents as cautionary tale) called for the failure of a serious relationship in my early 20s. I figured if I did away with romantic naïveté before getting married, and then I'd never leave my husband for greener grass, or because things were hard. Check and check. At 13, it sounded simple enough.

Then there is the glass-half-full analysis, supplied by Molly, which says if you can love somebody, then you can do it again. Let the truth be about potential and growth, not loss or failure.

Better to go with that then obsess over all my asshole behavior. I am exhausted.

There's something in the air in Hollywood

I think Nicole had a pretty good time.

As did I.

Highlights of bachelorette debauchery:

1. Quizzing Hollywood horsetop cops on the differences between horses and cruisers, arresting the drunk & disorderly v. prostitutes, and the reality of their lives v. The Wire.
2. The guys who approached us at the Mondrian to ask if we'd like to accompany them on their party bus to the "best karaoke bar in Santa Monica." They tried to sweeten the pot by name-dropping LeBeef and insisting there were "many kegs" on board. I 'm almost sad we missed out on The Shia LeBeouf Memorial Bus Tour of 08. Get well soon!
3. Molly recognizing the bad guy from 10 Things I Hate About You (Andrew Keegan). He was short and wearing a manheadband.
4. The love, the laughs, the togetherness. The whole Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants thing.

The Lost Year

We've passed the one year anniversary here at HiC, which means... clip show!

When we started out we felt a little silly, but then we got comfortable complaining. There was Cambodia story time and kibbutzim. There was more complaining and nostalgia. Then, DENGUE. We got a little judgy, and tried to make the weirdness funny, and succumbed to dramatics. Which infamously led to quitting, followed by planning!

Before the end of Asia, we learned something about evil, and loved Vietnam, and maybe felt some regret. We knew we'd miss Lara and the cats, Bri, Fi, Al, Suz, Luke and dearest Rabia.

Once home, we retreated into The Cave, flirted with career angst, sports (by the way, fuck you Baron) and politics, went off the deep end, and then: radio silence.

Six months and many untold stories later, we checked in and things were not so cheery. In the midst of the brain scramble we were disappointed, and a little pissed. Maybe we overshared, and tried to explain depression without sounding like some sad teenager's livejournal. Magically, thrillingly, life became good again, despite tragedy, and we felt joy. The sad-sackery receded and we looked forward.

So much of the last year has felt like passing through fire, a chemical peel of the soul, if you will. What's the right metaphor for this experience - a test, a rebirth, an excavation? I feel new. Once again, all the clichés are true!

There are so many mistakes I'll never make again. So much I didn't know, but now have proven. Pain and shittiness that is so crushing, once it recedes, feels a weird kind of good. Relief is euphoric, the best feeling, as regret is the worst. I said in Cambodia that I had jumped off a bridge, and maybe I jumped off the wrong one. But of course now I know that failure is freeing, and the leap is not scary.