Here's what happened today: I erased half of my hard drive.
It's a long story. But it happened to be the half with all of the writing I've done since February 2004 (the last time I backed up). When I say "writing," I'm referring to anything that doesn't fit under the heading, luckily, of "writing for school" (that's in the academic folder) or "writing for money" (that's in the journalism folder). Among the deleted folders was the nest egg folder, the book projects folder-- the folder with all the short stories I've written in the last year and a half, as well as the two major projects I was this close to sending off to my agent.
When I had given myself a sufficiently substantial headache by pounding my head on my desk and sobbed so long and loud my sister came running into my room, thinking I had been dumped or mugged, I called Mac tech support, just in case.
The guy informed me that the Mac operating system is "unforgiving" about deletions and that there was no hope of getting the folders back.
What really gets me is that since the hard drives of several friends (e.g. Lizzie, Nat) have crashed recently, I was actually planning to back up my files today.
I would be swearing up a storm but I reached my swearing quota this afternoon. Now all I can say is--
(did you get it? that's supposed to represent the big blank space on my hard drive where my literary career used to be)
8/30/2005
8/22/2005
8/15/2005
the day the lights went out
Today, all the green neon crosses have been extinguished.
I stalked the four corners of the ninth arrondissement in search of an open pharmacy, and had almost given up in despair until I finally found one with a list of "Pharmacies de garde"-- that is, pharmacies that will stay open while all the other ones shut so that those people so unfortunate as to still be in Paris on this, the deadest day of summer, can still get their life-saving ointments and pills.
I flung myself dramatically in the door of the pharmacy at 18, rue Saint-Georges. "J'ai un ordonnance à remplir," I declared semi-dramatically. The hotly, dark-haired man behind the counter looked at the sheet of paper I thrust in front of him and looked back at me with a raised eyebrow. Then he wordlessly fetched my three-month supply of birth control pills, surely wondering all the while what might be behind such an urgent need.
You see, I'm off to NY tonight! and I will use up the last of this month's supply while I'm there. And I needed to be able to start the next month's pack. And I of course left this to the last minute, not realizing that everything in Paris is closed on August 15th, even FNAC, Printemps, and Galeries Lafayette.
Why must I always learn these things the hard way?
And why do I find myself lately sharing all manner of details on my blog?
I stalked the four corners of the ninth arrondissement in search of an open pharmacy, and had almost given up in despair until I finally found one with a list of "Pharmacies de garde"-- that is, pharmacies that will stay open while all the other ones shut so that those people so unfortunate as to still be in Paris on this, the deadest day of summer, can still get their life-saving ointments and pills.
I flung myself dramatically in the door of the pharmacy at 18, rue Saint-Georges. "J'ai un ordonnance à remplir," I declared semi-dramatically. The hotly, dark-haired man behind the counter looked at the sheet of paper I thrust in front of him and looked back at me with a raised eyebrow. Then he wordlessly fetched my three-month supply of birth control pills, surely wondering all the while what might be behind such an urgent need.
You see, I'm off to NY tonight! and I will use up the last of this month's supply while I'm there. And I needed to be able to start the next month's pack. And I of course left this to the last minute, not realizing that everything in Paris is closed on August 15th, even FNAC, Printemps, and Galeries Lafayette.
Why must I always learn these things the hard way?
And why do I find myself lately sharing all manner of details on my blog?
8/13/2005
3 weeks to go
Last night, Gilles and I tried out a new Italian place that mysteriously opened at some point during the last week or so on Avenue Trudaine, near my apartment. It's incredible-- I never even noticed people working in there. I have no recollection of what occupied that corner before. But suddenly, yesterday, there it was: sleek, shiny, and enormous.
We discovered it while walking to the metro. I warily eyed the interloper. It didn't look like it belonged. It didn't fit in with the neighborhood. We're more bo than bo in this neighborhood, if you know what I mean. The area around rue de Rochecouart is great-- filled with funky, unexpected boutiques with a helping of hipster-type restaurants. There are a couple of more upscale dining establishments, such as La Table d'Anvers or A Tavola (neither of which I've been to for dinner-- they're that upscale). But we have nothing as far out as Sole. For that is the name of the new restaurant: Sole. It looks as if it would be more at home in London or New York. I could see it in the more moneyed quarters of Paris. But its glitter is certainly not appropriate to this corner of the 9th. We clean up nice, but we's humble folks.
Anyway. Gilles and I, ever adventurous, decided to check it out for dinner last night. In a nutshell: too loud (too many shiny, hard surfaces) with spotty (if well-intentioned) service. But the food was decent. The carpaccio all'arabbiata I ordered to begin was excellent, as was the bread that accompanied it. My tagliolini grana would have been better if they hadn't brought it out so early (while I was still eating my appetizer) that cooled off and stuck together in a way that made it a challenge to eat. Gilles's orrechiette baresi was yummy but I had the nagging feeling that I could have made it better. Never a feeling you enjoy getting when you're paying 11 euros for a pasta dish. The house red was fruity-- my verdict was positive, but Gilles swallowed with a grimace, pronounced it "trop sucré!" and ever so slyly added a pinch of salt to his glass. He took another sip and nodded, more satisfied.
Getting the waitress to wait on us was exhausting, so we threw in the towel and skipped dessert (though the dessert list was tempting). I was disappointed, overall, in my experience at Sole-- particularly because this night was not just any night. It was the last night we had together before the winds of fate part us for three weeks. He left for Croatia this morning; I wing my way to New York on Monday. We reconvene in Paris when I return on the 3rd. So-- you know-- when you're having a special goodbye-I'll-miss-you dinner, you want it to be amazing, impeccable. Alas. The company was impeccable, but Sole has a lot to learn.
One good thing about dating a French boy: when you have to say goodbye to them, you are guaranteed a laugh to break up the pathos of your parting. They will try to express to you in your native language that they will miss you. But because of the cruelty of French reflexive pronouns, when they try to translate literally, they will end up stammering things like "You will miss me-- I mean-- I you missing will be-- I mean-- oh, putain, tu me manqueras, chérie!"
We discovered it while walking to the metro. I warily eyed the interloper. It didn't look like it belonged. It didn't fit in with the neighborhood. We're more bo than bo in this neighborhood, if you know what I mean. The area around rue de Rochecouart is great-- filled with funky, unexpected boutiques with a helping of hipster-type restaurants. There are a couple of more upscale dining establishments, such as La Table d'Anvers or A Tavola (neither of which I've been to for dinner-- they're that upscale). But we have nothing as far out as Sole. For that is the name of the new restaurant: Sole. It looks as if it would be more at home in London or New York. I could see it in the more moneyed quarters of Paris. But its glitter is certainly not appropriate to this corner of the 9th. We clean up nice, but we's humble folks.
Anyway. Gilles and I, ever adventurous, decided to check it out for dinner last night. In a nutshell: too loud (too many shiny, hard surfaces) with spotty (if well-intentioned) service. But the food was decent. The carpaccio all'arabbiata I ordered to begin was excellent, as was the bread that accompanied it. My tagliolini grana would have been better if they hadn't brought it out so early (while I was still eating my appetizer) that cooled off and stuck together in a way that made it a challenge to eat. Gilles's orrechiette baresi was yummy but I had the nagging feeling that I could have made it better. Never a feeling you enjoy getting when you're paying 11 euros for a pasta dish. The house red was fruity-- my verdict was positive, but Gilles swallowed with a grimace, pronounced it "trop sucré!" and ever so slyly added a pinch of salt to his glass. He took another sip and nodded, more satisfied.
Getting the waitress to wait on us was exhausting, so we threw in the towel and skipped dessert (though the dessert list was tempting). I was disappointed, overall, in my experience at Sole-- particularly because this night was not just any night. It was the last night we had together before the winds of fate part us for three weeks. He left for Croatia this morning; I wing my way to New York on Monday. We reconvene in Paris when I return on the 3rd. So-- you know-- when you're having a special goodbye-I'll-miss-you dinner, you want it to be amazing, impeccable. Alas. The company was impeccable, but Sole has a lot to learn.
One good thing about dating a French boy: when you have to say goodbye to them, you are guaranteed a laugh to break up the pathos of your parting. They will try to express to you in your native language that they will miss you. But because of the cruelty of French reflexive pronouns, when they try to translate literally, they will end up stammering things like "You will miss me-- I mean-- I you missing will be-- I mean-- oh, putain, tu me manqueras, chérie!"
8/10/2005
Hagiography
Ahoy! Just back from five days in Pornic, a cute little coastal town on an inlet of the Atlantic, with its feet in the Vendée and its heart in Bretagne. As I've mentioned in passing, French families, or at least those who are based in Paris, frequently also maintain a residence outside of Paris, rather modestly referred to as their "country house." I stayed at G's family's country house (minus the family) in Pornic-- a town whose patron saint is, oddly enough, Saint Gilles.
[Ok, cat out of bag, enough with the initials, G = Gilles, everybody happy? pronounced Jeel, except with a little extra tongue thing at the end. oh stop.]
Apparantly, this particular Gilles had a pet that he was particularly found of: a doe [une biche] who never left his side. And so, I give you, from the tympanum of the église de Saint Gilles, Gilles and his biche:
and, ahem, Gilles and his biche:
photo suppressed (repressed) because Gilles is the biche and I don't want to have to look at his face if I don't need to
The town itself was very sweet; it had all the requisites for a charming French town. Medieval castle? check. Ruined ramparts? check. 19th century church rebuilt on ruins of original twelfth century cathedral? check. The perfect backdrop for our domestic vacation together. This time, no visiting, no touring, no guidebooks. Just the two of us playing house, BBQing, food shopping, hanging out at the beach and the bookstore. The only reason I willingly climbed back into the front seat of Gilles's maroon Twingo instead of throwing myself in front of it? This:
My own little bichon maltais.
[Ok, cat out of bag, enough with the initials, G = Gilles, everybody happy? pronounced Jeel, except with a little extra tongue thing at the end. oh stop.]
Apparantly, this particular Gilles had a pet that he was particularly found of: a doe [une biche] who never left his side. And so, I give you, from the tympanum of the église de Saint Gilles, Gilles and his biche:
and, ahem, Gilles and his biche:
photo suppressed (repressed) because Gilles is the biche and I don't want to have to look at his face if I don't need to
The town itself was very sweet; it had all the requisites for a charming French town. Medieval castle? check. Ruined ramparts? check. 19th century church rebuilt on ruins of original twelfth century cathedral? check. The perfect backdrop for our domestic vacation together. This time, no visiting, no touring, no guidebooks. Just the two of us playing house, BBQing, food shopping, hanging out at the beach and the bookstore. The only reason I willingly climbed back into the front seat of Gilles's maroon Twingo instead of throwing myself in front of it? This:
My own little bichon maltais.
8/03/2005
how novel!
OH my god, here I am going on and on about my internet and my bikini line when KRISTIN'S NOVEL HAS JUST GONE ON SALE ON AMAZON!!! Buy it here!
As I live and breathe, Kristin's a real live writer now!
As I live and breathe, Kristin's a real live writer now!
the internet is my domain once again!
Due to roommate activity beyond my control, I haven't had internet in my apartment since Saturday. For a gal like myself, equal parts freelance journalist, 21st century academic, and slacker, Wifi is an imperative component of the everyday conduction of business. Without internet, I could not:
a) scope out stories
b) research said stories
c) email stories to my editor(s) once written
d) promptly receive email from said editors with questions/comments on aforementioned stories
e) resend revised stories and/or answers to questions in timely fashion
f) look up little bits of information related to my mémoire de DEA (what is an apocryphal book of the Bible, what's the deal with Judith, who is Goethe's Marguerite, what films would Erich von Stroheim have made in the 1920s that Claude Cahun would have been referencing, etc.)
g) read, write and answer email
h) look up the weather
i) write on my blog
j) download stuff
k) look up addresses, phone numbers
l) waste time
I think that just about covers the degree to which I was inconvenienced this week. Anyway-- my new and computer-savvy-- no, better than savvy, he is BRiLLiANT-- roommate made the Wifi work and now I don't have to hang out in sketchy cafes with 30 minute bouts of Wifi free with the purchase of one cup of coffee and the patience to put up with the inevitable onslaught of "Bonjour Mademoiselle"s and "Qu'est-ce que vous ecrivez là?"s from the oh-so-charming clientele when they pass my table on the way to the bathroom.
So. I will be branchée until tomorrow evening; Friday morning I'm off to Pornic and G's country house, where I'll be hiding out for just under a week before I catch a plane to NY to further laze about til September. August in Paris? pshaw. No one else is here, why should I be? Although I have to say, I visited my local friendly Yves Rocher today for a little, ahem, grooming, and was informed that you can't just drop in, you have to make an appointment several days in advance! Apparently there are still women left in Paris, and apparently they too, are in need of a waxing. Nevertheless-- I managed to snag an appointment for tomorrow morning at a place near my apartment called Nature du Monde. It seems odd that I'm going to have a procedure done which goes decidedly contrary to the way Nature made women at a place called "Nature of the World."
Anyway. Too much information? Sorry. I guess this is one of those blogs that will keep me from ever getting hired in [American] academe. Tant pis.
a) scope out stories
b) research said stories
c) email stories to my editor(s) once written
d) promptly receive email from said editors with questions/comments on aforementioned stories
e) resend revised stories and/or answers to questions in timely fashion
f) look up little bits of information related to my mémoire de DEA (what is an apocryphal book of the Bible, what's the deal with Judith, who is Goethe's Marguerite, what films would Erich von Stroheim have made in the 1920s that Claude Cahun would have been referencing, etc.)
g) read, write and answer email
h) look up the weather
i) write on my blog
j) download stuff
k) look up addresses, phone numbers
l) waste time
I think that just about covers the degree to which I was inconvenienced this week. Anyway-- my new and computer-savvy-- no, better than savvy, he is BRiLLiANT-- roommate made the Wifi work and now I don't have to hang out in sketchy cafes with 30 minute bouts of Wifi free with the purchase of one cup of coffee and the patience to put up with the inevitable onslaught of "Bonjour Mademoiselle"s and "Qu'est-ce que vous ecrivez là?"s from the oh-so-charming clientele when they pass my table on the way to the bathroom.
So. I will be branchée until tomorrow evening; Friday morning I'm off to Pornic and G's country house, where I'll be hiding out for just under a week before I catch a plane to NY to further laze about til September. August in Paris? pshaw. No one else is here, why should I be? Although I have to say, I visited my local friendly Yves Rocher today for a little, ahem, grooming, and was informed that you can't just drop in, you have to make an appointment several days in advance! Apparently there are still women left in Paris, and apparently they too, are in need of a waxing. Nevertheless-- I managed to snag an appointment for tomorrow morning at a place near my apartment called Nature du Monde. It seems odd that I'm going to have a procedure done which goes decidedly contrary to the way Nature made women at a place called "Nature of the World."
Anyway. Too much information? Sorry. I guess this is one of those blogs that will keep me from ever getting hired in [American] academe. Tant pis.
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