pretty sneaky, mom

My mom is famous. Ok, not "famous," as in everyone knows who she is, but "famous," as in everyone knows something she's done.

(Something other than being my mom, of course.)

My mom wrote the Connect Four commercial in the 80s with the line, "Pretty sneaky, Sis!"
I was telling her last night just how famous she is -- how that line has been spoofed on Scrubs, on the Simpsons, within families (usually ones with sisters), in the Onion, and in myriad places on the web.

It's even a band.

It's on a t-shirt.

There are gamers petitioning to have a computer-based version (complete with a button that when you push it says "pretty sneaky, sis")

It's a huge part of the cultural identity of many of us not-quite-kids-anymore:

This site claims the ad was written in the 70s. Mom wasn't working at that agency in the 70s, so I think that site is wrong.

This site even has a script.

This site uses the phrase to sell cars.

On this site, a blogger uses it to talk about her free sneakers.

And on this site, the blogger claims that commercial is his favorite commercial ever.

And there are thousands more references to it (9,950 on google, actually)

I could spend days raving about my mom, but this should give you an idea -- my mom worked in children's advertising throughout my whole childhood. I was flush with My Little Ponies, Jem dolls, and a variety of other toys, many of which I never would have thought to get for myself. As a kid, my mom knew what I wanted more than I did -- and she never took us to a toy store to find out if she was right.

Pretty sneaky, mom

two entertaining photos

First, from my cousin Brian, for those of you who have time to slow down and actually read it all as you're walking past it:

And the second, from my cameraphone, proving that the stuff you get at the 99 cent store is sold there for a reason (the face is my addition):

miss christina hits the scene-a

I was gratefully blessed this weekend by a visit from one of my most favoritest people in the whole world: Christina.

She happens to be on a working tour for Holland America, and they sent her to Pennsylvania to pitch their cruise line to local travelers, and she and her tour partner decided against spending three days in Amish Country, and drove on up to the city to play.

Christina's been to the city before and didn't feel the need to play tourist, so we went to a very empty Coney Island:
"burgers, anyone?"

Christina, all dramatic and wispy at the beach.

This was supposed to be my dramatic picture, except that my hair kept getting in my face, so I had to just assume the moody pose and crack up instead.

She's just so full of wonder. Can't you see it?

After that, we ate some sushi (and experimented with taking flash-less pictures in an ill-lit restaurant:

She's got her purse out (to pay for dinner, yippee!) so you can't see the whole FANTASTIC effect of her cleavage, but let me tell you it was superb!

I'm not sure what this is, other than an advertisement for my rings.

After gorging ourselves on sushi (yum!) we were sorely tempted to just go home and watch Sports Night on DVD, but since we were all dudded up, we went out and hit some bars. And now I know for a fact, that I am the curse. Not a single chit chat all night. Other than my friend the bartender -- but he was highly entertaining, so that made up for a great deal of it.

Come on, Christina looked like a movie star:

And I looked like a fourteen year old:

But we had the best time together we've had in at least two years. Ok, it was the only time we've seen each other in two years. But it was still awesome.

I miss her already.

let out letty (now online!)

Three posts in one day? I know, I know, too much.

BUT, I found my very first short film online, and thought I'd link to it here, so everyone can revel in the cuteness that is Kate Four Years Ago.

The film is called Let Out Letty and can be found on the "Reel" page of Plywood Pictures, the production company.

It's 12 minutes long, so make sure you have that kind of time to spare. Our DP was an electrician on Law & Order, so the whole crew was L&O, and we even had their steadycam operater. Yeah, there's steadycam in my first student film. NYU rocks!

the death of l8y_k8

So I recently killed off a profile I was keeping at consumating.com, simply because I wasn't visiting the site anymore, and didn't want to encourage people to send me emails if I wasn't going to answer them.

The idea behind consumating was that you were involved, by your mere presence, in a popularity contest, and so you'd answer questions and then the dating public on the site could give you a thumbs up or a thumbs down on your answers. Not a bad idea, if you ask me, especially because so many other sites aren't interactive at all, and barely provide any opportunity to express your creativity. I wasn't really finding people I wanted to go out with on the site (except for Sean, the last guy I dated -- and he deleted his profile, too. I'm just doing what the cool kids are doing!) But I really liked the answers I gave to some of the questions they asked, so instead of killing l8y_k8 entirely, I'm reposting them here.

[For the record, at one point I was the 211th most popular person on the site. Can I put that on my resume?]

cake terrorist: enjoy!

Now, I'm not a particularly competitive person. I learned in fourth grade how slippery a slope competition could be: vying with Jack Harris for the best math grade only meant that when he asked me to the May Fair in fifth grade, going wouldn't be any fun because I would hate him.
I played soccer, but not nearly as well as anyone else, so I couldn't really compete there -- although my one advantage was being as good with my left foot as my right (or maybe it was just that I was as bad with my right foot as I was with my left). I played piano, but quit after I realized that my peers were playing full symphonies and I was stuck on a nocturne they had all mastered in middle school.

Sure, I'm an actress, and I face competition at every single audition, but I can't look at all the other women as "competition," per se, because I'd spend my life stuffed with hatred like a double-stuffed oreo is stuffed with, um, stuff.

But there's this woman I work with, and I really can't stand her. Not because she's competitive. No, simply because she's too nice. I know, I know, that doesn't make a lot of sense, but this woman rubs me so intensely in the wrong way, every time I see her I want to punch her. (There's probably a lesson to be learned from the actress/competition thing that I can apply to this situation, but I digress...)

This woman has no spine. And I know that instead of berating her for it, I should find a way to help support her and lift her spirits and all that stuff that Jesus would want me to do. But you know what? I have no patience for it. The more she apologizes for interrupting, asking a question, needing help, or JUST BREATHING, the less I want to help or answer or share the air.

Now, I bake a lot. It's part of being single, I think. I like to fill my time, and baking gives me something tasty for my efforts, and tangible proof that I've spent the afternoon productively. Not to mention the praise and affection I get from my grateful coworkers. When I've baked something, I tell the people closest to me that "I have treats" and they come around whenever they get hungry to graze at my desk.

Here's the thing: this woman "bakes," too. And, while you are all probably thinking that this inspires competition in me, it doesn't. As a matter of fact, I was going to bake cupcakes last night, but I heard that she was going to bake, so I figured I'd give her her moment in the sun.

Little did I know it was going to come back and terrorize me.

When I bake, I usually make things from scratch, either winging it completely, or following a recipe that involves souping up a box of cake mix. (If you're not familiar with the Cake Doctor Cookbooks, get them. They're awesome!) In the past few months I've made mocha cheesecake, pistachio chocolate cakes, sprinkle cookies, orange rum cake, carrot cupcakes, kitchen sink cookies (now with 25% more kitchen sink!), and a variety of other goodies. Rarely will I duplicate a recipe, unless someone specifically asks me to, because there are so many amazing things to make in those books!

By contrast, when she bakes, to my untrained-but-very-aware-tongue, she just adds chocolate chips to tube cookie dough. They're too round, too identical, too Pillsbury-y to be homemade -- unless she has redefined "homemade" as the Pillsbury Corporation would like us to. Or, like today, she brings in what, to me, is OBVIOUSLY a supermarket cake (or at best, a box mix) and claims it's part of her "Death by Chocolate" series.

Fine. I quietly rest on my laurels as the winner of Iron Chef Law Firm. I am the Legal Ace of Cakes. Sure, someone else bakes, but we all know who bakes the best stuff. Ok, I see here that I may be competitive, but I don't feel threatened by the competition, so it's not an issue. But this is not my story.

I am here to talk about the Cake Terrorist.

Anytime this woman bakes anything, when you take some, she'll say, "Enjoy!" Which is sweet. At first. When you talk to her later in the hall, she'll say (even though you've already told her so), "I hope you enjoyed your cookie!" When she lends you an envelope, she'll say "Enjoy!" Somehow (and I can't figure out the physics on it yet) even when she takes baked goods from me, she says "Enjoy!" So my friends at work and I have started to call her Enjoy.

Today, Enjoy brought in her cake, and set it out at 11:45 am. "You better get some cake, Kate, it's already half gone!" she said over the partition at around 11:48. She made the rounds to the offices, "I'm sorry for interrupting, but I just wanted to let you know I've made a cake from scratch, and it's at my desk." And when they don't get up and follow her, "Sure you can have some cake I made from scratch later... IF IT'S STILL THERE." I'm not kidding, she was tracking us down and making sure we had crumbs in our laps.

The worst part is, sure, the cake is tasty, and it's better than the celery sticks on my desk. But did I really enjoy it? Not enough for the Code Orange Security Alert that she caused in the office.

I'm considering reporting her to the Office of Homebaked Security.

hmmm, I think I've figured it out...

Is this why Thea and I don't get picked up when we go out together?

(be patient, it's extremely slow to load, but worth the wait!)

the kitchen floor needs love, too

I hate doing dishes. I really do. I hate the way they pile up in the sink, their sauce-covered faces twisted in despair. They sit there, tangled up in one another, moaning and whining softly, "wash us, pleeeeeeeeease, kate, we're so dirrrrrrrrrty, and it just feeeeeeels so grooooooss." So I wash them. I do them every day, and if not every day, every other day. But I hate it. And they know I hate it. We've reached an understanding.


But I hate mopping the floor worse. And it shows.


Last weekend, I had a small baking catastrophe that involved some very chocolatey batter splattering onto my white (well, at the time, somewhat grey) linoleum floor. I got on the floor, Formula 409 in hand, and cleaned everything up. Then that one square of my floor was sparkling white and the rest of the floor was actively redefining the word dingy.


So I did another square.


And another. And another. Until I had a gleaming L on my floor. Then I ran out of paper towels.


This weekend, I decided it was too disgusting for words, and since I didn't have any plans on Sunday (see failed attempts to garner said plans here and here and here... sigh) I tackled the floor, while the dishes sat quietly humming to themselves in the drying rack (yes, I did them first. that's how little I wanted to do the floor.)


I had recently read in Real Simple Solutions (a good book for someone else to spend their money on and for you to leaf through at their house while your co-star is two and a half hours late) that you can clean linoleum with baking soda. And I'm into trying earth-friendly solutions.
So I hauled out the bucket and the mop (neither of which even recognized me anymore) and got myself some hot water and dumped in some baking soda. I dragged it out to the corner of the kitchen that was the least dirty, and got to work.


Let me just say this: Baking Soda beats the pants off of ANY floor cleaner I've ever used.


Let me say this, too: only use it if you have at least an hour to clean your floor. While it grabs the grime like that's its only purpose in life, it also likes to linger. On the floor, on the baseboard, on the mop, in the bucket, on your hands... on your knees, when you get down on the floor to scrub at it with a sponge to just Make. It. Go. Away.


My floor is more spic and span than it ever was with spic and span, but I mopped and glo'ed more than I ever had to with mop and glo. Yes, I saved the earth a little, and got the white floor back that I had assumed was gone forever, but I think I'd rather have a social life.


Or at least something good from netflix.

it's september fifteenth!

So, for most, if not all of you, I would assume that September 15th is a non-red-letter day. Sure, it's Friday, sure it's Estimated Tax Day, sure it's Declaration of Independence Day (according to my fine desk calendar). But what else is it?

It's the day Kate gets back on the horse.

After having been in serious relationships for the last, um, fifteen years, almost non-stop, I decided after my last break up to Intentionally Not Date. To Take A Break From Being With Someone Else. To Be (Gasp) Alone. The plan was to just focus on being single and seeing what my life was like that way. Becuase, seriously, I haven't been on my own since the summer of 2003. And that was only long enough to go on six internet dates, all of which were less than stellar. It almost doesn't count as being alone becuase I wasn't focused on just hanging out with the mistress of cool (that's me), I was looking for what was next.

This time? I set myself a date, fairly arbitrarily. I picked September 15th because it felt long enough away (from the end of July when things ended), but close enough that it was actually achievable, and not some self-imposed long-term punishment. Turned out to be about 7 weeks -- although I didn't really make the plan until a week after things were over, so consciously it was 6 weeks. I allowed myself the space to randomly hook up with someone if I needed to, but I never did.

What have I learned? God, so much.

First off? I really don't like sharing my bed. I much prefer going to sleep alone and waking up alone. That way the day belongs to me, and I can do whatever I want with it. (I know, I know, the next thing I need to learn is that that doesn't have to change when someone's in your bed, but let's do this one step at a time, please.)

I've learned there's a calm and release to being alone. I have always felt that I needed someone to know my intimate details and my day to day life or I didn't matter. But I've realized that I know them, and even if someone else knows them, too, they will never know them as well as I do. So this frees me up from feeling the need to call someone late at night when I'm exhausted and defeated by my life -- or, if I do, I call Christina, because she lives in California and always has more energy at 12:30 than I do. I don't have to check in with anyone, make plans with anyone, cook breakfast for anyone.

Now, that said, I also don't get to make plans, check in or cook. I see the downside as well as the upside. I am much more independent, which, if you know me, you may have assumed I already was. But I wasn't. I feel like by taking even this little amount of time alone, I've wiped the slate clean and can start over.

Here's a little relationship theory ala Kate: I think that when you bounce from one long-term relationship to the next the way I have (and many of the men I've gone out with have), you carry over more than a little of your past relationship with you. For example, when I started going out with Ian, I had just broken up with Colin (and Ian was in the process of a divorce). Let's say (for the sake of argument) that Colin and I had achieved a Level 5 relationship. So when Ian and I started our relationship, the base level was a 5, not a 0. We stayed together and took our relationship to Level 8 (these are not scores from the Russian judge, they're arbitrary numbers that reflect my perception of our levels of intimacy, openness, understanding, compatibility, blah blah blah). Then I met Sean (yes, I've dated someone with every variation of that name), and we started out at an 8, and took it to 8.5 or whatever. And one of the reasons that fell apart so quickly was because we never took the time to go back to zero. I assumed there was more there than there was (I can't speak for Sean, because I know he feels differently); I assumed that because we acted like we were at Level 8, that we were, in fact, there. But we weren't.

So now, I feel officially back to about a 2 or 3. And I don't know if I'll ever get back down to zero. I may be too loving and too generous with the benefit of the doubt to ever get back to zero. And that's fine. All I have to remember is not to jump back to level 8 on my first date. (which can happen any time now...)

To add something interesting to the mix: I'm not really looking for Mr. Right just yet. Were I to meet him tonight, I might actually freak out. I think I have more to learn from being single, still. After all, it's only been seven weeks. I just want to go out, meet some people, have a good time, and maybe make out a little. But that begs the question: should I really start dating if I'm not necessarily ready to meet the right person for me?

On September 15th, I declare the answer is yes.

The management reserves any and all rights to change their declarations at any time

a reflection on 9/11

A simple fact: I do not consider myself a 9/11 mourner.

I, blissfully, lost nobody I knew in the tragedy, and was barely involved in it myself. Yes, I lived in the city, and yes, I felt all the aftershocks as they came, but I am not big on mourning public tragedies. It reminds me too much of middle school, when an unpopular girl would get terribly sick and suddenly EVERYONE in the school would claim to be best friends with her. Me? I'll bawl over a lost earring or cry my eyes out at the theatre, but my tragedies are generally personal.

To be more specific (I am realizing things as I write them): If I am going to respond emotionally to a public tragedy, it will be because of the small bits of humanity within the huge cloud of the disaster. September 11th as a concept doesn't make me cry, but personal stories from within that day will break me down for hours.

I never intended to post anything about 9/11, to avoid the issue completely, but then I read RJ's blog.

it's outstanding.

the between boyfriends book by cindy chupak

In the ever-lingering search for material for my audiobook demo (which I hope to start actually working on in the not-too-distant future, if the gods are sympathetic), I stumbled across a pepto-bismol pink book that had me chuckling all the way to work this morning. It's called "The Between Boyfriends Book: A Collection of Cautiously Hopeful Essays" by Cindy Chupak.
A few excerpts, which I will keep brief, as I do work for copyright lawyers and have no idea what the rules are here.

[Dear Cindy, I love your book, I want people to read it, please don't yell at me when I post your hilarity. I am only trying to boost your sales!! Love, Kate]

"So what's the right way for a man to break up? I suggest the following steps:

Step One: Chose a reason. Inevitably your girlfriend will ask why you're leaving, and you should be prepared to explain. If you know that your reason is petty and immature (I know a woman who broke up with a man because his nose looked like a penis), make up a nicer reason.

Step Two: Select a date that doesn't conflict with birthdays or major holidays. 'I didn't plan to break up with her on Valentine's Day,' a male friend once explained. 'It just happened to coincide.'

Step Three: Talk to her. You're both adults. It might go over surprisingly smoothly.

Step Four: Hide your baseball cards."
------------------------------------------------------------------
"You can spot a woman whose relationship is disintegrating because her answering machine gives hourly updates of her whereabouts. 'I'm at work now, but I'll be home by seven.' 'I'm at aerobics.' 'I'm in the shower.' Meanwhile, his machine has the same message as always: 'I'm not home. Later.'"
------------------------------------------------------------------
"Sexual Sorbet: The first person you sleep with after a breakup; a palate cleanser to remove the taste of a failed relationship... I say sleep with someone else. Sexual sorbet cleanses the palate and prepares you for your next course. After all, you don't want your ex to be the last guy you slept with. You need to put some distance between the two of you, and five to seven inches ought to do it."
------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some men admit they avoid confrontation because they're afraid we'll cry. Of course we'll cry: we cry at Hallmark commercials. What they don't understand is that we're not crying because of them, we're crying because now we have to get naked in front of someone else. It's enough already."

Men, you can probably skip this one, but women, pick it up. Especially if you happen to be between boyfriends.



p.s. if anyone has suggestions for comical non-fiction for my demo, please feel free to let me know!

a letter to my co-star

dear stupid actors,

Stop acting like fucking lunatics, you're giving the rest of us a bad name!

your pal,
kate

So last night I shot a short film called Distance, about a cellphone conversation between two friends who want different things from their relationship. It's actually a solid script, and I'm not playing some off-the-wall goofball, so we'll see how it turns out.

The crew had been shooting another short all day, one involving children, so they were really looking forward to working with adults and not facing all the talent problems they had already had that morning.

I don't think they knew what they were up against.

I got to the set (in NJ) at 5:00 (an hour early for our call at 6:00, but apparently someone goofed in giving me the train schedule), and sat around reading a book while they finished up the other film and ate dinner. The AD put a call in to the other actor who said he was 20 minutes away but stuck in traffic. Then, at 6:30, he still hadn't shown up, so they started setting up the most complicated lighting shot in the back yard -- one that involved both actors, not just the one who was there.

At 7:00, he still hadn't shown, or called, so folks were getting nervous. But a good old fuse problem left the backyard in the dark, so they had something to keep them busy.

7:30. Still no call from the actor. Not returning messages. Calls going straight to voicemail.

8:00. People getting nervous. Kate getting frustrated, worrying that they're going to have to use Joe The Lighting Guy as the other actor.

By 8:20, the AD and the director had to have the "Do you think he's still coming?" conversation, and the consensus was a halfhearted No. Five minutes later this asshole knocks on the door and says he's been stuck in traffic for the last three hours. AND HE DOESN'T EVEN APOLOGIZE AT ALL, let alone profusely.

The reason he didn't call? His cellphone was dying. Not dead, dying. I'm sorry, that's precisely when you DO call and say "hey, my cellphone is dying, AND SINCE MY GIRLFRIEND IS IN THE CAR WITH ME, here's her number. You can reach me on that." But he didn't do that.

Now, the film is about a cellphone conversation. So the director asks if we can use our own cellphones. I say that mine is dying and makes an irritating booping noise every 16 seconds. He says his is dead. But as soon as the director is out of the room, he leans over to his girlfriend, while I am THREE FEET AWAY and whispers in her ear.

She, like me, is appalled at his behavior, and we both watch as he PULLS OUT HIS CELLPHONE AND PROCEEDS TO TEXT MESSAGE HER.

I sit there like Madeline Kahn in Clue: "flames... on the side of my face... heaving... breathless..."
Then, when she doesn't respond, and he clearly wants to discuss the situation with her, I politely get up, glare at them both and say, "Excuse me, I think I'll go get a drink and get out of your hair."

He was no great talent, he was fine to work with on set. I wouldn't ever recommend him to anyone else, though. Or, if I did, I would say the call time was four hours earlier than it really was (that way either he shows up on time, or he shows up early and learns what it's like when other people waste your time).

What bothered me most was that nobody gave him even the remotest of hard times for showing up late. If everyone is just going to sit around and fume, behavior like this is going to continue. Because I have discovered that Bad Actors will do the absolute least they can to get by. They're lazy, flakey, inconsiderate and childish victims of their crazy crazy life.

And they have absolutely no place in this profession.

[sidebar: on the way home, I caught a ride with Mr. and Mrs. Late-a-lot, and 1) fourteen minutes into the trip home, he realized he's forgotten his cellphone on the set, so we TURNED AROUND to go back for it, 2) she had the heat turned up to RETARDEDLY HOT, recycling the air within the car (I almost barfed) and 3) he had one of those navigation systems in his car that recharts your course every time you make a wrong turn. So when you veer off the right path and go COMPLETELY IN THE WRONG DIRECTION, it never tells you so. It just keeps mapping your course for you. It takes Kate in the backseat to say "didn't we just pass this?" for him to realize that we're going back the way we just came, and the system is plotting our U-Turn up ahead. I just kept my mouth shut when SOMEHOW we ended up at the Port of Newark at 1:50 in the morning.]

adventures in midtown

Three hot ladies.

One buffet table.

And a hangover so bad my feelings hurt.

It must be friday!!

Last night, at my mother's behest, I took my dear friends Thea (see last week's adventure here) and Sarah to a cocktail party at the Yale Club. I had visions of all the cute guys I went to college with circling us like hungry sharks, feeding us witty conversation to match the dim sum and crudite. And I won't say that we didn't meet smart guys who offered to buy us drinks. We did.

And there's even a chance Sarah made a valuable business contact. But it was not quite the scene I had imagined (i.e., one not involving a semi-sober yalie who bore a striking resemblance to Gilbert Godfried... had he been from the Ukraine).

So we left, bellies full of cheese and raspberries and squid, and found our way to the bar at the Bryant Park Grill. Now, for those of you not familiar with this location, let's just say that the last time I went there I woke up on the upper east side. Yes, it was a long, long time ago, but no, not a whole lot had changed about the clientele of the bar. Two words: Meat. Market.

Suits! Suits! Everywhere suits! For Sarah, who already has a marvelous boyfriend, this was nothing great. For Thea, who likes them poor and skinny, well, the bar staff was poor... But for yours truly? I dig a boy in a suit. So you'd think I would be in paradise.

You'd be wrong, of course.

We did some very important sociological research that night and put a going-out theory to test in true Carrie Bradshaw fasion: Can three hot women pick up guys? The answer: a resounding no. While the three of us were at the bar, the only guy who approached us was Thea's sweet, short, foreign lover in a bright orange shirt who said something like "he [the guy behind him that he was pointing to] has never see such a beautiful women all his life."

After one drink, Sarah gave up the fight, and surrendered to the voices in her apartment calling her away to do "important stuff." And Thea and I toughed it out, because as you learned last week, we're troopers.

And that's when things got weird. Weird. WEIRD.

First of all, this very odd, off-center guy approached us, telling us he-was-Eduardo-he-was-a-law-student-at-nyu-and-an-interpreter-for-the-UN-and-for-the-supreme-court-and-did-he-know-us-from-somewhere-we-looked-very-familiar. And he stared directly at Thea, like she was on fire. We start slowly backing away from him. He asks where-she-works-and-what-she-does-for-a-living and she tells him the Cadillac Grille on the west side. (I ask her later if this restaurant even exists. She says no.) He asks me where-I-work-and-what-I-do, but I can see from the way he's still staring at Thea that's I'm a fly on his windscreen, and won't even have to make something up.

Then Thea and I just stop answering questions. He finally gets the hint. "Are-you-having-a-private-conversation-I-don't-want-to-interrupt" and I jump through that open door and say "Yes! Yes we were! A very private conversation! Sorry!"

He wanders off, I fall into a fit of hysterics, and Thea just stands there stunned. Turns out, she's met him before. He's followed her around before. She is more than just a little uncomfortable.
So I position Thea betweeen myself and Oddy McOddball, so her back is always to him -- a tricky task for a girl who a) has had two drinks on nothing but calamari and b) is trying very hard to pay attention to what Thea is saying.

And then Weird Part Two happened. This guy standing in a group right next to us turns around and says, "I need your help." And we jump at the opportunity, saying in unison "We need your help!" Apparently we have to rescue him from a pack of cackling long island chippies, and he is to protect us from Senor McOdball. Turns out he's pretty much what you'd expect at Bryant Park: a jerk in a suit. He flirts with Thea -- and to me, it's clear that Thea is the one he picked out, and I'm the extra baggage. (Not that I mind at all. To me, Thea is so gorgeous she's the obvious choice. I like to be pretty, and then sneak in with wit and a disarming smile. But I digress...) So I joke about making myself scarce and being a third wheel and ha ha ha. But as the night wears on (and I have more to drink) it seems more and more likely that he's trying to work his lack-of-magic on me. Thea is completely repulsed by him and all his jerkiness.

I, on the othe hand? Let me just say that I love a challenge. If someone's going to be a dick to me, he'll take it as good as he gives it (or I'll walk away). And there was something to this guy -- I could give a shit about him. Hell, I even called him by the wrong name at one point (oops!). I didn't ask him about what he did for a living, I didn't tell him how impressive I thought he was, being a big bond trader and all. I didn't swoon over him at all. In fact, he said something annoying more than once, so I pushed his head.

But I did give him my number. (Ok, it was my service number, so he won't reach me directly, but he'll be able to leave a message. And then I can decide if I want to call him back or not.)

We left when the bar closed (yeah, that's right, first time I closed a bar on a weeknight!), turning down offers of "free sex in the back of the bar" that this guy and his clan were going to next.

("Free sex?" a girl next to me said, "What, like we're paying for it here?") Thea got a handshake, I got a kiss on the cheek, he got a smack on the ass.

And then I got into the most expensive cab I've ever taken home. The driver was my neighbor, and yet he still took me the longest way possible -- across 42nd street and down the FDR to the Brooklyn Bridge. If it weren't already 1:00 in the morning, I would have made a stink.

But at least I was going home, and not to the upper east side.

back in the saddle again

So you know what Steve Tyler sounds like when he screeches out that line? That's how I feel today.

I re-posted my profile on Nerve yesterday, and have finally had my first bad internet dating experience. Wheeee!

I had been window shopping for a few days, as nerve (the crappiest dating site in town these days, unless you upgrade to a silver or gold membership, as they are constantly encouraging you to do) allows you to keep your profile hidden from the public. There were a couple of cute guys, some funny ones, some exes (with good profiles), but nothing I wanted to bust out of hiding for.

And then I found this guy. He was hilarious. The answers to his questions made me snort out loud:

The best or worst lie I've ever told
My friend Scott and I told our mutual friend Lisa -- who was about to finalize the purchase of her first car -- that the make, model and year of the car she was buying (1989 Nissan Sentra, or whatever) had a known problem with the "frammis." (Important note: there is no such thing as a "frammis.") Lisa is very strong-willed, very smart, very independent and not the type to be easily duped, so I think that watching her scream at the surprised and confused (and, probably, honest) car dealer that "I know there's a problem with the frammis on this model, and you'd better either replace mine or give me a discount on the purchase price!" might have been the closest I've come in a while to peeing in my pants. So, that was a cool lie.

He had no picutre, but I emailed him anyway. We had a very witty back and forth, and then, at 5:15, I left work, and logged off. I didn't bother to tell him I was leaving (perhaps that was my bad) but when I got to my friend's house later that night there were SIX emails from him waiting for me. One laughingly exhorting me for leaving the conversation in mid-stream (as if I had put the phone receiver down and walked away while he was still talking). And five wondering where the hell I had gone.

Hello, read my profile. I'm a legal secretary. We leave as close as humanly possible to the end of the work day, which for us is 5:30.

So then I send a reassuring email saying that I'm still interested, but I addressed it to Pestery McPesterpants, and asked him to relax a little, that I'm at a friend's house and not at liberty to write all that much.

He then sends another, which ends with:
"Ah, well. Luckily for you, you're gorgeous, smart and funny. Otherwise, I might not have given you the benefit of the doubt.
Oh, and, by the way...Could ya send a photo of your friend?"

"Ha ha ha," I think. So I write back:

"A: You're fired.
b: are you related to playwright {names changed to protect the innocent}?
3. My friend is married. And has a toddler. And makes a mean mac and cheese! (yum)"

He actually thinks I'm serious, that I'm no longer interested in corresponding with him because I've fired him.

Hello, is anyone serious when they fire someone anymore? I mean, if I were serious, I would say something like "this is inappropriate" or "goodbye, loser." But he then sends me no fewer than six additional emails, wondering if it was his picture that turned me off. Or maybe we could get coffee as friends. Why was I so cool at 3 pm and not now? He wanted to know where he went wrong.

So this was what he got back. I think it's adequately harsh enough to make him go away, but self-empowering enough to share:

"Wow.

You want to know where you went wrong? By making assumptions about where I was and what I was doing. Don't assume that the "online now" feature [on nerve] is working. I had logged off and left when I said I had. And if you have a problem with me looking at other guys (on a dating site, for crying out loud) then you might just be a little too pushy and insecure for me.

You are a good looking guy, trust me, it's not your picutre. It's the 16 emails I've gotten since yesterday. Email to me is more like mail than conversation. Sure, I like getting a reply, but if I don't, I assume that person will get back to me in due time.

This is a pity, as you're the funniest person I've run into on this site, but your inability in the first DAY of our interaction to give me any space in which to live my own life, when I say specifically that that is what I'm doing, is outrageous.

Had you relaxed, taken things slowly, and assumed that I was into you (remember I sent *you* the first email), I would have been interested in getting together with you.

But now, I think that's not a good idea.

Best of luck to you,
kate

EDITOR'S NOTE: Since posting this, I have received word from said gentleman, saying that he thought I had seen his picture (when in fact I had not) and wasn't into him, and he was trying to offer me the opportunity to tell him he wasn't my type. Six times, I guess.

my family

It's Saturday night, 3 o'clock in the morning. I'm sleeping. The rest of my family, though, is standing out in the street in their nightgowns watching a downed power line arc around in the darkness. (I think it pays to have windows that face the front of the house.)

Hurricane Ernesto (or Estenardo, as Scott called it for no apparently good reason) barreled into Connecticut this weekend and took down a ton of trees, branches, and with them, power lines. We were without power all day Sunday, and well into the morning Monday. Which actually turned out to be a good thing.

My parents have city water, so there was no problem with running water. They have a gas stove, so we could heat things up. The only thing that we couldn't do was sit around and watch tv (alas), so we all headed out to the beach in Stamford and drank cocktails and watched as the maintenance crew cleaned up the beach (which was pretty impressive). Apparently the water had been all the way up to the doors of the clubhouse -- the building probably felt like it had sand in all the wrong parts of its bathing suit. We ate greasy food, talked with some friends who came by, did the NY Times crossword and just sat together and watched my sister burn in the sun.

When we got home, there was still no power, but we cooked up our dinner in the dark (eating whatever was starting to melt in the freezer, which turned out to be all the ice cream!) and ate it on the back porch, while Scott filled up the fire pot (this metal contraption specifically designed for building fires where you probably shouldn't be having fires) with all the downed branches from the yard.

And my family, in this very twenty first century setting, sat down together and watched a bonfire. We talked and laughed and watched stuff burn. We didn't fight, we didn't engage in family politics. We just sat there, together, and watched the fire.

Which, of course, prompted the lights to come back on immediately.

Luckily, though, after five minutes, the power went off again, and my parents went off to bed, and Priscilla, Scott and I sat around and burned off the rest of the wood.

I sat there and thought about what life used to be like, when it was too dark to read alone in your room, too cold to be anywhere but within the glow of the firelight. When music came from singing together. When the only opinions you got on a regular basis were those of your family. When connections with your family were so constant, so important and so regular... what did it mean to be a family then? Was it just taken for granted? Could you truly be friends with your parents or your siblings? Have family politics always been a part of life? Have they gotten better or worse, with the advent of open communication?

I don't know, and I truly can't fathom. All I do know is that I'm glad to be a part of mine, and hope I can one day find someone who can fit in as well as Scott does. Even if he can't get hurricane names right.

adventures in the east village... sort of

It was a simple plan, and the two, single, hot young ladies were up for its execution.

Thea, the tall, sultry blonde known around the world as The Vixen with a Self-Effacing Facade, plunked down her smallish bag (which, unbeknownst to most patrons at the bar contained four headshots, a pair sneakers, a roll of Ricolas, a bottle of water, several small children and a farm in upstate New York) and waited for her partner in crime to show up. She surveyed the Beauty Bar. A woman was getting a $10 Manicure With a Free Drink. Three obviously Artistic guys were chatting with the DJ. The bartender was eating a Clif bar. Thea considered the manicure, but felt that liquor was a better way to spend her ten dollars.

She ordered a drink, drummed her unlaquered fingernails on the bar and waited.

She would have called Kate (or anyone, for that matter), but she'd left her phone at home that day. And only through a series of convoluted messages left for one another did the two ever connect in the first place.

She sighed. Which set off the oh-so-ladylike death rattle in her lungs, and she coughed up a loogie so disgusting it would make any thirteen-year-old step-brother proud.

It was hard to execute the plan this way.

Just then, Kate crashed through the front door, sandals clacking, skirt aswish, backpack taking out anyone within a four foot radius.

"I just got totally screwed by the L train," she began by way of apology.

"I just coughed up a lung," Thea responded, and the girls knew they were ready for phase two of the plan.

Drinks in hand, they surveyed the bar. Nothing had changed since Thea first looked at it. The Artistic types were still there, still kind of greasy, cute in their I'm-so-poor-you'll-have-to-buy-the-next-round-if-you-want-me-to-keep-talking-to-you way. Knowing Thea had a weakness for anyone who couldn't pay the rent, Kate knew they had to move on.

"Drink up, sexy. We're off to meet some guys!"

The two girls paid up (well, Thea did, actually, since she was rolling in cash that night) and out they went into the evening. Long legs strutting, smiles wide across their faces, they were two ideals to behold -- Thea, her long, blonde goddess-hair flowing out behind her like a brook, in an emerald green top that brought out her eyes, hip-hugging jeans and a low-cut shirt that showed just enough of the merchandise to entice the buyer to keep looking. And Kate, long bare legs stretching up to her cute white skirt, black cowl neck sweater and eyeglasses. The Librarian and the Amazon, side by side.

Strolling down the street, the two encountered a variety of gentlemen, one so chivalrous that instead of stepping aside and letting the two women through first, he plowed down a construction-constricted sidewalk, arms akimbo, taking up whatever room there was.

Thea very generously allowed him to be Kate's boyfriend.

Next they met with a young, drunken, college-in-New-Jersy type. "Excuse me, miss," he said to Thea, "but I need a woman like you in my life." Kate burst out laughing, the guy joined in, and so did Thea. And as the sweet youth staggered away, "don't need me enough to stick around, do you?" could be heard muttered under a goddess' breath.

Phase Two: Go Where the Guys Are.

As bar after bar they passed was empty or quiet or full of old men, the two were at a loss for an acceptable destination, and entered the ACE bar on East 5th Street. Their plan, which had been moving in a lateral direction for the last ten minutes took a sharp turn right and headed for the border. The bar, while packed, was jammed up with twelve year olds. NYU was back in session. Teenagers were hogging up the skee-ball, taking pictures with the holographic werewolf, and generally mucking up the evening for the two twentysomethings.

"NEXT!" they shouted in unison, and traipsed off into the night.

But there was no next. Every bar they passed was either full of children or devoid of human activity. Couples were everywhere, like wet gremlins after midnight. But single guys? None.
The analgesic effect of their first drinks were beginning to wear off, and Thea began to cough more, while Kate began to limp in her clacking sandals. "Are we too old for this?" asked Thea.
"No! God, no! It's just Thursday night before Labor Day. Everyone's out of town. I mean, come on, wouldn't you be out of town right now if you could be?"

As the two parted ways at the Second Avenue F stop, Kate secretly worried all the way downstairs. Was she too old for the east village? Was there something wrong with the two of them, that they couldn't find somewhere to go? Did they need to be with someone more assertive than both of them combined? Would they ever be noticed? Or would the rest of their Girls' Nights Out be plagued with a dearth of guys capable of fulfilling the plan? And would the F train come before her feet fell off?