Cute hippie boys work at the Uprising Bakery on Seventh and Ninth. And if you go in after seven p.m. to get a peasant boule to accompany your fridge drawer of incredible cheese, they might say, “Would you like a second loaf for a dollar?” And if you then pick out the walnut sage, they might say, “Would you like a third loaf for free?” Of course, the answer is Yes, and you might pick the raisin, but only because they’re already out of dark chocolate cranberry. Cute hippie boys are cute with the chin-length hair and the wool beanies and the T-shirts that say things and the skinny hippie boy torsos. Some cute hippie boys have large brown smiling eyes, which is also nice. But when, in addition, cute hippie boys offer you free bread—well, then, you want to say, Here is my heart, cute hippie boy.

At my dinner party last night, Benjamin brought a chocolate layer cake where some layers were cake and some layers were icing. Thank you, nice boy, you chose wisely.

Mmm. . .paintsmell. I’m having people working on building bookshelves and painting a room in my apartment, so my place has been smelling like paint for the last week or so. I thought it’d be a problem, but it’s nice, actually. Or is that just the toxins in my brain talking? It’s just that the paint smell is making it feel like this place is new again, like I’ve just moved in or something. It’s kind of like new-car smell, I guess. Mmm. . .new-car smell. That reminds me—I have a Mini Cooper S on my wishlist, anyone want to grant a wish?

Also, two of the best things about living in New York are leaving New York and coming back to New York.

The thing I learned this past weekend is, If you have any chance at all to go to Hawaii—even for just two-and-a-half days; even if it entails a fourteen-hour flight from New York, which stops in Indianapolis and San Francisco on the way there and Phoenix and Chicago on the way back; even if you have to pack Aragon and Pascal and a dictionary so you can do homework; even if, once you get there, you find a dearth of Keanus and a surplus of Als and Nancys on the beach; even if your red-eye flight back means you have to go straight to a full day of school from the airport—you have to take it. Because from day one, slathered with SPF 50 and lying on a towel in the sun on Waikiki Beach, palm trees all around, the waves lapping languidly on the sand, skin tingly from the heat, you will realize that it’s all worth it.

By then, you will have discovered that during the transit in Indianapolis Beefy will keep you company on your cell phone, and during the stop in San Francisco Jon will. You will have had papaya, cold and sweet, for breakfast—a meal you will repeat twice more over the weekend, never tiring of it. You will soon be pleasantly surprised to find that Les cloches de Bâle actually makes great beach reading, ’specially ’cause the book opens on a summer vacation scene on the Normandy coast.

On the beach, you will see a Japanese guy walk up to his friends already sunning themselves. “Aroha,” he will say in cheery greeting. “Aroha,” they will respond. “Aroha.” “Aroha.”

Later, sitting on a bench by a koi pond, accompanied by a Details magazine with Jude Law on the cover, you will have zaru soba and a spam musubi for lunch, the cold noodles welcome on your tongue, the saltysweet musubi a perfect treat. You will have gotten this lunch from the miracle that is the ABC store, one of a chain on every Honolulu block, which carries postcards, and straw mats with pink piping, and Hawaii edition Hello Kitty pineapple-flavored lip balms, and Glico Pocky, and, oh, my word, so, so much more.

In the ocean, swimming in water clear enough to see the little fish, you will gleefully say, aloud, to the sun, to the wind, to the white tips of the waves, “Now this is what we’re talking about!” You will float on your back till a big wave splashes salty salt water up your nose. You will swim out as far as you dare until you start to scare yourself imagining what’s hiding in the dark liquid shadows. You will head back to shore, and then swim out toward the horizon again, going further each time.

At the end of the day, you will smile to smell the sun and salt on your skin.

You will rediscover that weddings truly are affairs of great fun, and can be gorgeously simple and elegant and quiet, the day’s joy carried in the bride’s candid grin. You will make friends with your friend’s friends, and dance and sing the night away with people you barely knew just the day before. And all of you will learn that if you band together and badger the deejay, he will quit playing R. Kelly and put on “Bye Bye Bye” and “Oops! I Did It Again.”

And after it all winds down and you’re standing on the patio of the bridal suite at the Moana Surfrider, breeze in your hair, looking out onto sand and water stretching into the soft black, it will be clear as the midnight stars that there was never really any other choice than to head out there.

I was going to blog more about the dog show yesterday, but then I had to stop ’cause I had to (a) try and make my sore throat go away, and (b) read Michel Leiris for class. And am I glad I did both, because (a) after five glasses of orange juice, three echinacea tablets, and two honey-lemon-echinacea Ricola herb throat drops, the sore throat has been banished and the potential cold that may have accompanied it has, I think, been packed away, too; and (b) Michel Leiris is incredible, and sure knows his way around words.

Meanwhile, today: dishes done, laundry done, floor mopped, still need to pack. Hawaii tomorrow for Cheryl’s wedding. It’s gonna be 82 degrees Farenheit. I’m gonna have a pink ice cream cone and sit in the sun, doggamit.

There’s this Saturday Night Live sketch where Molly Shannon and Will Ferrell have a show on cable about dogs, where one of the dogs is Mr. Bojangles, and to open this show Molly Shannon and Will Ferrell do this thing that goes, “Pum pum pum-pum-pum pum-pum-pum-pum DOGSHOW!”

That was the rhythmic ditty running through my head all day yesterday, especially during my class on Cyrano de Bergerac and epidictic discourse. . . because the dog show’s in town!!!

Braving midtown during rush hour, Tom and I went to Madison Square Garden for day one of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Thirty-six dollars (each, what are they feeding these dogs?) later, we were in. Up and up and up, and then we entered the stadium. . .where there were no dogs to be seen. “Um,” we said to the ushers in their regal purple, “where are the dogs?” “The show’s at eight.” “Oh.” “. . .You want to go backstage and see the dogs?” Wild-eyed: “Yes!!!”

And, boy, were there dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, white dogs, really big dogs, crazy-ass dogs, space-age-looking dogs, ugly dogs, soft dogs, smooth dogs, cute dogs, quiet dogs, nice dogs. Dogs that were a cross between dalmation and bigger dog. Dogs that came in threes. (Break for a four-dollar Haagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream bar.) Dogs that were happy to see you, and dogs that were asleep, and dogs that were just hanging out with their tongues just hanging out, and this one dog who didn’t look very pleased to be there—we figured he was going through his rebellious phase: “Jeez, this is lame, why do I have to be here?”, eyes rolling, pissed off.

And then there were the dog people. Big-haired, small-bodied, large-bottomed, sequin-suited dog people. Dog people wearing dog vests, dog sweaters, dog earrings. Maybe the real show was backstage. . .

Heading away from the park, I was walking several steps behind this guy on Ninth Street—mud on his cleats and pants cuffs, clean shoes hanging by their laces from his backpack, itself slung over one shoulder—and, mind wandering, I thought, Huh, a soccer player, I like a soccer player, wonder if he’s cute. And then he turned around and smiled. Wait, did I say that out loud?

Some days all you get in the mail is cards announcing new! low! rates! in car insurance! And some days, you get one new massive Lucky, one new massive Vanity Fair, and a record by the Catalysts. Woo hoo!

I was putting together some muesli and strawberries and yoghurt for breakfast, listening to Rilo Kiley’s “With Arms Outstretched,” when all of a sudden there was a feeling in me, in my throat and in my tummy and in my toes, that I wished I could be going to breakfast instead in Tiong Bahru Market with CC and Mowmy.

It’s grey outside, and cold-looking.

Sweet ambiguity.

Slippin’ and slidin’ the three-and-a-half blocks to the gym this morning, arms flailing, ’cause the rain from the night before froze on the sidewalk in such a way that the ice was masquerading as innocent puddles of water. Treacherous!

Happily, by the time I emerged an hour and a half later, the ice was a-melting and it was easy street all the way home. And then there was a hot shower; and then there was coffee over Gide; and then there was leftovers dressed up as new lunch; and then there was me dressed up in not-jeans-and-three-goddamn-sweaters because today, after weeks of crap weather, we had a heatwave of 4 degrees Celsius, which meant I could wear a cardigan and a skirt and heels; and then there was school, where the kids were all enjoying the sun outside on the steps of Low Library; and then there was a shopping expedition in SoHo which resulted in pink skirt, black skirt, green T-shirt, and pink underwear; and then there was a front-row seat to see Adrian Tomine at Housing Works Used Book Café, and he was cute and smart and funny, and his Optic Nerve #9 is gorgeous, and I would’ve gotten in line to get his autograph after, except I just don’t know what the point is, really, of getting someone’s autograph; and there was meeting this guy sitting next to me, who was also funny and who—yay—said, “Maybe we could get some coffee sometime?” before I left; and then there was dinner with Nicole and Bill at Nyonya, which meant the table was soon full of prawn mee and roti canai and kang kong belacan and char kway teow and crispy squids; and then there was the F train miraculously coming into the East Broadway station same time as me; and then there was home, which is now, and which is nice.

I was at Lerner today ordering a chicken sandwich for lunch when the cafeterialady gestured toward a guy and a girl in the queue, and said, “Will you do me a favor and go help that Chinese guy out? He’s trying to order something, but we don’t know what he wants because he can’t speak English.” So I go over to the dude and say, in Mandarin, “The woman said she doesn’t know what you want? Can I help you?” and he looks at me and doesn’t say anything, and then his lady friend says, in perfectly good English, “We speak Korean.” Um. Oh.

It was grey when I woke up today, but it’s winter, y’know, so I didn’t automatically think that, tut-tut, it looked like rain. Sans rubber boots, sans raincoat, sans umbrella, I’ve discovered that running about campus in the cold rain is quite nice, actually.

Yesterday Greg gave me a sample of American Idol Idol Moments for Women perfume. The package reads: “Have you got what it takes to be an American Idol? Now you can, with Idol Moments from American Idol. The brand new fragrance that makes you an instant idol.” Awww yeah.

American Idol Idol Moments for Women is pink and smells of nail polish remover.

Also: Idol Moments for Women is made in the UAE.

Tee hee.

I know it looks like it is, but it’s really not all about the food.

No, really!

Still. . . I was at the City Bakery today, the first day of the Annual Hot Chocolate Festival, where, had it been tomorrow, I could have tried the Vanilla Bean Hot Chocolate, or had it been next Monday, I could’ve tried the Darkest Dark Chocolate Hot Chocolate, but where, instead, today’s special hot chocolate was Beer Hot Chocolate. Eh. At one point this guy two tables away from us really earnestly said to his date, “No, he’s not a playa, but he’s a player.” Wait, what?

In, reading. Yeah, this is nice.

Is it possible for your life to be too, too faaabulous? There’ve been too many late nights out recently, involving me coming home no earlier than two. Blurgh. What am I running from? What am I running to? Eh, there’s probably not so much running going on—sometimes a girl just likes a glass and a giggle.

Thursday night, the plan for a movie at the Maison Française was derailed by Maud’s invitation to burgers at the Ear Inn, where I swear I saw Tom Hanks looking much better than I’ve seen him look in pictures. No one else thinks it was Tom Hanks, though, so maybe that’s why he looked way better than I’ve seen him look in pictures. Following which, the Sweet Action launch party, where no sweet action was had, then Café Noir, where I cradled first a cappuccino thick with perfect foam and then a too-sweet hot chocolate, tuning in and out of the conversation at our table while the large, loud woman at the table next to us seeped into my head. Friday night, dinner at Maud’s, way the hell uptown. ’Safunny thing about Maud’s place—the guy who lived in it before did martial arts and put mirrored walls up, which makes for very self-conscious sitting, ’cause I keep feeling like I need to make sure my pants aren’t ridin’ too low in the back, ’cause who wants that look mirrored around the room? Still, it’s hard to be conscious too long, ’cause soon you’re busy being engaged in an incredible quince paste and Manchego; collard greens, cous cous, and a succulent chicken stew; gingerbread, and an orange and cinnamon salad; and so, so much hilarity. Saturday, a bridal tea for Cheryl in her West Village apartment, the table laden with six or seven kinds of finger sandwiches (crusts cut off, of course, dahling), and six or seven kinds of scones with cream and jam, and six or seven kinds of teas. Mmmm. Booked it across town for more tea and a slice of homemade almond and pear tart at Vio’s, before hopping a cab to MeKong, a Vietnamese place in the Slope with great globe lamps hanging from the ceiling in sleepy orbs and—if you order right—so, so much food on the table: shrimp and papaya salad, nems galore, grilled squid in a mango sauce, beef pho, pork chops, fried calamari with pepper and salt, sticky rice. Belly full, I excused myself from further partying and walked home in the cool night, red heels clipping along, smiling up at the stars.

Now: Sitting here warming my hands on a cup of passionfruit tea and reading the Times. In front of me, the park is quiet, covered in snow. The CD’s stopped spinning, the only sound the subway occasionally rumbling by.