That's right, kids! Adventuretime is back! (see previous adventures here and here and here and here and here -- we had to put the adventures on hold during the winter -- snow + hot sexy chicks = steamy steamy action.)
(Well, ok, no, it doesn't. We just didn't go out a lot over the winter because it was too cold.)
But we went out last night -- to a filmmakers' party at Barcade in Brooklyn (which is an awesome bar, if I do say so myself).
The evening started out with an unfortunate backrub at a tiny basement salon run by folks we call the "Chinese Ladies" (for obvious reasons). Thea and I plopped down on the tables, ready to rid ourselves of tension, and I got a lovely Chinese Lady who tried to push her thumbs into my brain via the base of my skull (aaaaaaaaaah). Thea, on the other hand, got a very large Chinese Non-Lady who basically polished her back as if it were a stubborn piece of furniture, and cocked her arms and legs as if they were shotguns. (Her demonstration of his ineptness, when performed at the bar, drew interesting looks from all directions.) It was, sadly, the Worst Massage Ever.
Thea was MISERABLE. So we went to Brooklyn and ate dinner on the street like hobos, and that seemed to cheer her greatly. We admitted to someone later that we had eaten our dinner over a garbage can. "At least it wasn't on fire," I said.
"No! That would have been better! And then I could get those fingerless gloves like a real hobo!" Thea's eyes gleamed with aspirations of bumhood.
And here's where any guy we'd really want to talk to would have had a reaction of ANY SORT. A laugh. A double take. A demonstration of his own fingerless gloves. Anything. Instead, in what would become emblematic of the rest of the evening, we got one quizzical look, and then an almost uninterrupted continued stream of consciousness. About filmmaking. Or bike riding. Or composing. Or composing for films while riding your bike.
We each had an objective for the adventure (as we usually do). Mine was to talk to someone, and just try to connect with him, and Thea's was to hold eye contact with someone from across the room long enough for him to notice her. It was not on my to do list to practice the Straight Up Walk Away (where you just walk away from someone) but apparently I did it with panache on multiple occasions. Personally, I don't think it counts as a Straight Up Walk Away if the two men you were just talking to completely cut you out of the conversation, and you just left because you were bored.
The evening began to wear down, and the duo we had spent a great deal of time being talked at by (who never in the first hour or so bothered to mention their wife and girlfriend! Excuse me, Ref! Red card, please!) continued to talk at us. About the philosophy of filmmaking. And I'm not kidding, this conversation (or something dramatically licensedly close to it) happened:
Filmmaker Guy: I just think that it's important to know where your characters are coming from. What they believe. What they think about. I wrote this film once about this stripper and I went to stripper parties just to see what kind of things she would talk about. What kind of things she would think about.
Thea: I mostly think about laundry and nailpolish.
Filmmaker Guy: And I realized that by not being a stripper I was in the minority and it was a really powerful experience blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
No response. NO RESPONSE. "I mostly think about laundry and nailpolish?!??!" Puh-leez! I was falling down peeing in my pants.
Here's the thing. We're not asking for much. Talking to us is great. We'd just like you to listen a little.
At the end of the evening, I saw a cute guy across the room being harrangued by a bike-riding-film-making composer. I felt for him, I really did, (especially as he seemed to be listening a great deal) and I wanted to rescue him. But if I were to walk over to him (a complete stranger), the b-r-f-m-c might think I was coming to chat more with him. So I waited for Cute Guy to extricate himself, and then Thea shoved me in his general direction, and we started to talk about the b-r-f-m-c and how boring he was.
Cute Guy was a documentary filmmaker who had spent the last year in Kenya shooting footage for his film. Bright guy. Engaging guy. And we talked for a really long time -- I must have said "God, I really need to leave" about seventeen times. And round about 12:15, when all sick parents are asleep, when most high-strung friends have nodded off after their crisis (which they got through just fine without you), Cute Guy gets a phone call. And while I'm in the middle of a sentence, he takes it.
And then he says "excuse me."
And then he goes outside to take his call.
And he's gone for 15 minutes.
So I put on my coat (because "God I really need to leave") and Thea and I walk out the door. I give a small salute to Formerly-Cute-Now-No-Phone-Etiquette Guy and drag my what-do-you-mean-I'm-30-and-not-22-and-going-out-until-1:30-am-on-a-Wednesday ass home.
The Evening's Pros:
chocolate covered pretzels getting melty and linty in Thea's pocket
hard cider
awesome bar
nice weather
lots of friendly people
Mike Tyson's Punch Out (the only nintendo game Thea played as a child)
The Lovely Thea
The Evening's Cons:
Large Chinese Non-Woman essentially milking Thea like an upsidedown cow
general harranguification
geographic undesirability (I had to take the G train home)
getting up this morning (ow)
All in all, a welcome return to adventuring!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
a letter from the toilet fairy
Dear Kate,
Just wanted to drop you a note about the matzo ball you found in the toilet in the ladies' room this morning. I know it was kind of weird, but it was my little gift to you. My way to say, "hey, it's ok that you slept all day Sunday and that you watched so much Sports Night you're convinced Dan Rydell and Casey McCall are actually your friends."
It's a thank you, also, for not flushing that mouse corpse down your own toilet the other night. (An idea which I'm not surprised didn't occur to you, due to the No Flush Hex on your toilet. Sorry about that, by the way, the Higher Toilet Powers say it keeps you on your toes. I say whatever.)
If you think of the alternatives I could have left you, I'm sure you'll find my gift generous and entertaining.
And the fact that it won't flush away? Kind of a bonus, I guess.
Sure, it looks kind of like a chicken meatball, or a crab cake. Maybe even a bolus of stuffing. But trust me, it's a matzo ball. A Duchamp-ian representation of Passover.
Stay well, and I'll see what I can do about your own dysfunctional toilet,
The Toilet Fairy
Just wanted to drop you a note about the matzo ball you found in the toilet in the ladies' room this morning. I know it was kind of weird, but it was my little gift to you. My way to say, "hey, it's ok that you slept all day Sunday and that you watched so much Sports Night you're convinced Dan Rydell and Casey McCall are actually your friends."
It's a thank you, also, for not flushing that mouse corpse down your own toilet the other night. (An idea which I'm not surprised didn't occur to you, due to the No Flush Hex on your toilet. Sorry about that, by the way, the Higher Toilet Powers say it keeps you on your toes. I say whatever.)
If you think of the alternatives I could have left you, I'm sure you'll find my gift generous and entertaining.
And the fact that it won't flush away? Kind of a bonus, I guess.
Sure, it looks kind of like a chicken meatball, or a crab cake. Maybe even a bolus of stuffing. But trust me, it's a matzo ball. A Duchamp-ian representation of Passover.
Stay well, and I'll see what I can do about your own dysfunctional toilet,
The Toilet Fairy
Friday, March 23, 2007
kat(e) and mouse
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch watching a movie when I heard this funny sound coming from my radiator.
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch
"Oh great," I thought, "I've got a mouse."
So I check out the radiator, the curtains, the little draft dodger I made out of fabric and rice (to keep the cold weather out when I need to stick my wireless receiver out the window to use the internet... ahem, thanks neighbors!) and I see nothing. But the sound persists.
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch
I take to acting like the Clapper. Everytime I hear the sound, I clap, and it stops. (Mind you, this is a very disruptive way to watch a movie, but whatever, it's just me.)
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch(CLAP!)
That night, I go to bed, and leave a Test Piece of Cheese out, to see if it walks away the next day. (I'm pretty sure it ran.)
"Which of your cats is the best mouser?" I ask my friend Lisa, who has four cats, the next day.
"Oh, Bjorn, definitely. One day I came into the apartment to find all four cats [who don't get along] sitting next to each other at the radiator, and I just knew we had a mouse. Bjorn caught it, and tormented it for hours before it finally died. So, yeah, he's the best mouser."
"Can I borrow him?"
"Oh sure, yeah, he'd love that!"
So a few more days pass catlessly, and I go to put my receiver out the window again, and I notice that somone (and I'm not naming names) has munched a hole through the fabric of the draft dodger and has eaten a good two inches worth of rice. I immediately close up shop and shift the smorgasboard to a container in the kitchen.
No more munching. No more mouse.
Or so I thought.
I got home last night around 12:30 and really had to pee. So I doffed my coat, kicked off my shoes, ran straight for the bathroom and let out the girliest shriek I've heard in weeks.
There, in the middle of my bathroom floor, like an errant turd or cat-less hairball was my mouse. He looked like one of those scruffy cartoon guys who crawls through the desert on his hands and knees, croaking out, "agua" before he just collapses and dies. Or maybe, I thought, he's just sleeping. I stomped on the floor and said "HEY MOUSEY MOUSEY!" really loud near his ears just to make sure he wasn't going to wake up and charge me.
After a round of "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod" and "where's my imaginary boyfriend!?" I realized I had two choices -- I could wake up my landlord at 12:30 and wait half an hour for him to put some clothes on and wake up enough to deal with the problem, or I could handle it myself.
I'm a strong, independent gal, I can do this, I thought. (But boy, do I wish I didn't have to, the girly-shrieker in me added.)
I turned on the light in the bathroom to better assess the situation, and the bulb blew. So now I had to clean up a DMC (dead mouse corpse) in the dark. Awesome. I got my little emergency light and hung it over the towel rack. That just created weird, spectre-like shadows that didn't help the situation.
I was really tempted to use my new spatula, but I didn't want death to linger on my pancakes, so I opted instead for my dustpan. I covered it in a layer of saran wrap, and grabbed an empty Luna Bar box from the recycling. With one deft swoop (which, in my mind, took forever) I flung the DMC into the box, and covered it with the lid.
Then I trotted down the stairs, holding this mousey coffin as far away from me as possible, chanting "gross, gross, gross, gross, gross" with every step. I deposited the box (and the mouse, and, adeptly, the saran wrap!) into the trash, put the lid on the can and walked away.
Then I peed. But only after I put on slippers. There was no way I was going to step in Death in my bare feet!
I'd like to say I feel like a stronger person for having had to do this, but really, I just feel kind of creeped out. The mouse was cute, I didn't want it to die necessarily, or if I did want it to die, I wanted it to be in a nice field somewhere, not in my bathroom. But more than anything else, I really hope this mouse was a HE mouse and that he was an orphan, a rebel, a solo-flyer.
Otherwise, I'm calling Bjorn.
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch
"Oh great," I thought, "I've got a mouse."
So I check out the radiator, the curtains, the little draft dodger I made out of fabric and rice (to keep the cold weather out when I need to stick my wireless receiver out the window to use the internet... ahem, thanks neighbors!) and I see nothing. But the sound persists.
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch
I take to acting like the Clapper. Everytime I hear the sound, I clap, and it stops. (Mind you, this is a very disruptive way to watch a movie, but whatever, it's just me.)
munchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunchmunch(CLAP!)
That night, I go to bed, and leave a Test Piece of Cheese out, to see if it walks away the next day. (I'm pretty sure it ran.)
"Which of your cats is the best mouser?" I ask my friend Lisa, who has four cats, the next day.
"Oh, Bjorn, definitely. One day I came into the apartment to find all four cats [who don't get along] sitting next to each other at the radiator, and I just knew we had a mouse. Bjorn caught it, and tormented it for hours before it finally died. So, yeah, he's the best mouser."
"Can I borrow him?"
"Oh sure, yeah, he'd love that!"
So a few more days pass catlessly, and I go to put my receiver out the window again, and I notice that somone (and I'm not naming names) has munched a hole through the fabric of the draft dodger and has eaten a good two inches worth of rice. I immediately close up shop and shift the smorgasboard to a container in the kitchen.
No more munching. No more mouse.
Or so I thought.
I got home last night around 12:30 and really had to pee. So I doffed my coat, kicked off my shoes, ran straight for the bathroom and let out the girliest shriek I've heard in weeks.
There, in the middle of my bathroom floor, like an errant turd or cat-less hairball was my mouse. He looked like one of those scruffy cartoon guys who crawls through the desert on his hands and knees, croaking out, "agua" before he just collapses and dies. Or maybe, I thought, he's just sleeping. I stomped on the floor and said "HEY MOUSEY MOUSEY!" really loud near his ears just to make sure he wasn't going to wake up and charge me.
After a round of "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod" and "where's my imaginary boyfriend!?" I realized I had two choices -- I could wake up my landlord at 12:30 and wait half an hour for him to put some clothes on and wake up enough to deal with the problem, or I could handle it myself.
I'm a strong, independent gal, I can do this, I thought. (But boy, do I wish I didn't have to, the girly-shrieker in me added.)
I turned on the light in the bathroom to better assess the situation, and the bulb blew. So now I had to clean up a DMC (dead mouse corpse) in the dark. Awesome. I got my little emergency light and hung it over the towel rack. That just created weird, spectre-like shadows that didn't help the situation.
I was really tempted to use my new spatula, but I didn't want death to linger on my pancakes, so I opted instead for my dustpan. I covered it in a layer of saran wrap, and grabbed an empty Luna Bar box from the recycling. With one deft swoop (which, in my mind, took forever) I flung the DMC into the box, and covered it with the lid.
Then I trotted down the stairs, holding this mousey coffin as far away from me as possible, chanting "gross, gross, gross, gross, gross" with every step. I deposited the box (and the mouse, and, adeptly, the saran wrap!) into the trash, put the lid on the can and walked away.
Then I peed. But only after I put on slippers. There was no way I was going to step in Death in my bare feet!
I'd like to say I feel like a stronger person for having had to do this, but really, I just feel kind of creeped out. The mouse was cute, I didn't want it to die necessarily, or if I did want it to die, I wanted it to be in a nice field somewhere, not in my bathroom. But more than anything else, I really hope this mouse was a HE mouse and that he was an orphan, a rebel, a solo-flyer.
Otherwise, I'm calling Bjorn.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
nicknames
My friends and I have been dating a lot lately. A lot. (Some of us more than others... ahem, Thea.) But the problem is, when you're meeting a ton of guys, it's hard to keep them straight.
The solution, of course, is nicknames. Just a little something so you can distinguish one guy from the next. I think most people do this. But not everyone comes up with such good ones.
For your entertainment, a selection of the nicknames we've adopted lately (some real names have been switched to "Frank" just to keep the innocent actually innocent).
Have you dated...?
-- Frank From High School (as opposed to Frank From Work)
-- Ben the Biologist (whose real name stayed in only because it's super-alliterative)
-- Fratboy (which is funny mostly because Fratboy was a Yalie and his frat at Yale was, well, mostly hicks and dorks.)
-- British Australian Doctor Guy
-- British Australian Doctor Non-Doctor (who was not Australian, either)
-- Boobie McGrabber (for inappropriate behavior on a first date)
-- Government Guy (who also doubled as Non-Profit Guy until I understood better what he did for a living)
-- Chip (which is funny mostly because that's a real name, but not his real name)
-- Nerve Guy (from way back in the day when there was only one)
-- Greasy (also, McGreasy) (who turned out not to be greasy at all)
-- Lawyer Guy (original, I know)
-- Frank From Five Years Ago
-- Librarian Guy
-- I Found My Keys (also known briefly (and mistakenly) as The Shoplifter)
-- Actor Boy (story of my life)
-- The Playwright (the other story of my life)
-- The 40 Year Old Actor (story of somebody else's life)
-- The 40 Year Old Playwright (at least one of us is consistent...)
-- Instant Boyfriend (how many stories of her life can one girl have?)
-- The Psychotic Emailer (This guy sent something like 16 emails in one day. We went from first date to break up before we ever met!)
-- HockeyLawGuy (it was his handle on match. No he's not there anymore, he was actually the only keeper of the bunch!)
-- Rocket Scientist (yes, he really was)
-- Baby's Arm (yikes!)
-- Steely Dan Fan (may I never go through that phase again...)
-- Bad Sex Guy (poor guy. Nobody wants that nickname.)
-- Calculus Flashcard Man (imagine how fun that date was.)
And my all time favorite: Handsy McGee. Handsy got his nickname because he was, well, a little handsy on the first date (as opposed to Boobie McGrabber who just plunged right in there for all he was worth). But we liked him, and he stuck around. Unfortunately, he turned out to be absolutely fucking nuts. So now we call him CrazyTown. He's got a song and everything.
The solution, of course, is nicknames. Just a little something so you can distinguish one guy from the next. I think most people do this. But not everyone comes up with such good ones.
For your entertainment, a selection of the nicknames we've adopted lately (some real names have been switched to "Frank" just to keep the innocent actually innocent).
Have you dated...?
-- Frank From High School (as opposed to Frank From Work)
-- Ben the Biologist (whose real name stayed in only because it's super-alliterative)
-- Fratboy (which is funny mostly because Fratboy was a Yalie and his frat at Yale was, well, mostly hicks and dorks.)
-- British Australian Doctor Guy
-- British Australian Doctor Non-Doctor (who was not Australian, either)
-- Boobie McGrabber (for inappropriate behavior on a first date)
-- Government Guy (who also doubled as Non-Profit Guy until I understood better what he did for a living)
-- Chip (which is funny mostly because that's a real name, but not his real name)
-- Nerve Guy (from way back in the day when there was only one)
-- Greasy (also, McGreasy) (who turned out not to be greasy at all)
-- Lawyer Guy (original, I know)
-- Frank From Five Years Ago
-- Librarian Guy
-- I Found My Keys (also known briefly (and mistakenly) as The Shoplifter)
-- Actor Boy (story of my life)
-- The Playwright (the other story of my life)
-- The 40 Year Old Actor (story of somebody else's life)
-- The 40 Year Old Playwright (at least one of us is consistent...)
-- Instant Boyfriend (how many stories of her life can one girl have?)
-- The Psychotic Emailer (This guy sent something like 16 emails in one day. We went from first date to break up before we ever met!)
-- HockeyLawGuy (it was his handle on match. No he's not there anymore, he was actually the only keeper of the bunch!)
-- Rocket Scientist (yes, he really was)
-- Baby's Arm (yikes!)
-- Steely Dan Fan (may I never go through that phase again...)
-- Bad Sex Guy (poor guy. Nobody wants that nickname.)
-- Calculus Flashcard Man (imagine how fun that date was.)
And my all time favorite: Handsy McGee. Handsy got his nickname because he was, well, a little handsy on the first date (as opposed to Boobie McGrabber who just plunged right in there for all he was worth). But we liked him, and he stuck around. Unfortunately, he turned out to be absolutely fucking nuts. So now we call him CrazyTown. He's got a song and everything.
i'm soooooooooooooooooo hungry!
Oh friends, it's Restaurant (Two) Week(s) in Brooklyn! Three courses for $21.12! What better time to take me on a date?!?!?
(Ok, fine, I'll take myself.)
Thirty four restaurants in my neighborhood are serving up these cheap-o meals for the next ten days, and while there are a bunch I've never been to, I can give you recommendations from the list.
12th Street Bar & Grill (D) #
1123 8th Avenue
718-965-9526
Fancy, quiet, posh-ish. There's also a bar room in the back, which is nice, too, except maybe a little loud for dinner with your parents. (which, obviously, is what I did)
applewood (D)
501 11th Street
718-768-2044
Home of the famous rock shrimp risotto. Lots of organic food, local food, FABULOUS food. Go. Go now! This will be worth it. (Good luck getting a reservation, though. Try for Tuesday or Wednesday.)
Bar ToTo Italian Bistro (L/D) #
411 11th Street
718-768-4698
My favorite spot in the hood. Seriously. I think they actually have a table with my name on it. However, Bar Toto is usually pretty cheap to start with, so this is not the mega-deal of the century.
Sotto Voce Restaurant (L/D) #
225 7th Avenue
718-369-9322
Oh, this place is great. Pasta out the wazoo! One of my dad's favorite spots in the hood.
There are some really great other options, as well. Come to Brooklyn! I swear it's worth it! And if you want a date, I can totally hook you up!
(p.s. if you go to one of the other places and it's really great, will you let me know?)
(Ok, fine, I'll take myself.)
Thirty four restaurants in my neighborhood are serving up these cheap-o meals for the next ten days, and while there are a bunch I've never been to, I can give you recommendations from the list.
12th Street Bar & Grill (D) #
1123 8th Avenue
718-965-9526
Fancy, quiet, posh-ish. There's also a bar room in the back, which is nice, too, except maybe a little loud for dinner with your parents. (which, obviously, is what I did)
applewood (D)
501 11th Street
718-768-2044
Home of the famous rock shrimp risotto. Lots of organic food, local food, FABULOUS food. Go. Go now! This will be worth it. (Good luck getting a reservation, though. Try for Tuesday or Wednesday.)
Bar ToTo Italian Bistro (L/D) #
411 11th Street
718-768-4698
My favorite spot in the hood. Seriously. I think they actually have a table with my name on it. However, Bar Toto is usually pretty cheap to start with, so this is not the mega-deal of the century.
Sotto Voce Restaurant (L/D) #
225 7th Avenue
718-369-9322
Oh, this place is great. Pasta out the wazoo! One of my dad's favorite spots in the hood.
There are some really great other options, as well. Come to Brooklyn! I swear it's worth it! And if you want a date, I can totally hook you up!
(p.s. if you go to one of the other places and it's really great, will you let me know?)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
k8 the scofflaw: part deux
I still hate the MTA. In case you think I've forgotten, or enough time has passed, I haven't and it hasn't.
I went to contest my ticket this morning, armed with The Shoelaces Defense, which I thought would certainly be strong enough, especially when combined with my harmless demeanor and twinkley smile.
Um, no.
I showed up at 505 Fulton Street at 8:15 this morning and had my life searched before entering the building. ("Is that a cake? There's no eating in here." Ok, I won't eat this whole cake at 8:17.) Then I got on line and waited.
Did I mention I waited?
Oh, and I waited.
Then my name was called, I was escorted into a freezing back room with an adjudicator, who read a great deal of information into the record, and I was asked to give testimony in my own defense.
Then I faltered. I hedged my bets. And I lost myself the case. Instead of going over the top, telling them how the cop had told me to contest the ticket, how the ticket cites the platform as the scene of the incident (when, in fact, I was pulled off the train), how there was NOBODY else on the train (and hence, how could I be obstructing seating?)... no, instead, I just told her that at the time the officer spotted me, I had pulled my right foot onto the seat (and I didn't emphasize the edge of the seat) to tie my shoelaces.
And then I was dismissed. I felt confident, like I was a cute, Connecticut-bred white chick who clearly deserved to be let off.
Um, no.
Needless to say, I had to pay my fine -- although it was noticeably reduced to $50 from $60.
Whatever. At least I tried. And next time this happens (which it won't), I'll mount a hell of a defense for myself.
Until then, would you like to come over for a slice of cake?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
cat and mouse
I don't know if I mentioned this yet, but I recently started working with Gotham City Kitties, hosting their myspace page (where you should all go and instantly befriend us), their blog and hopefully some more writing and helping where I can.
GCK is composed of a number of people, but I'd venture to say that there are far more cats involved than people. The key player is this fabulous woman named Elizabeth, who is both the rescuer and the shelter in one. I visited her apartment this weekend, and it was awash with kitties. I mean, kitties, kitties EVERYWHERE. And I want them all.
Or, at the very least, I want them all to have good loving homes.
This is where you come in.
Please, PLEASE tell your friends, families, coworkers (unless they're dumb), neighbors, or anybody you know who needs a cat -- please tell them to contact Gotham City Kitties. You can visit us online at www.gothamcitykitties.org, at myspace (once you all become our friend), or you can call Elizabeth at 917.653.9033, or email us for adoptions at adopt@gothamcitykitties.org
Not sure you want to commit to a cat long term? Become a foster home! Keep as many as you want for as long as you want, or until someone else wants them!
Can't even do that? That's cool. Just tell your friends. And if you can't remember any of the info for GCK, just point them to me. I'll get them in the right direction.
Here are some of the kitties I met this weekend (and no, not all the GCK cats are tuxedos. Just these guys. The rest come in all colors, shapes and sizes):
GCK is composed of a number of people, but I'd venture to say that there are far more cats involved than people. The key player is this fabulous woman named Elizabeth, who is both the rescuer and the shelter in one. I visited her apartment this weekend, and it was awash with kitties. I mean, kitties, kitties EVERYWHERE. And I want them all.
Or, at the very least, I want them all to have good loving homes.
This is where you come in.
Please, PLEASE tell your friends, families, coworkers (unless they're dumb), neighbors, or anybody you know who needs a cat -- please tell them to contact Gotham City Kitties. You can visit us online at www.gothamcitykitties.org, at myspace (once you all become our friend), or you can call Elizabeth at 917.653.9033, or email us for adoptions at adopt@gothamcitykitties.org
Not sure you want to commit to a cat long term? Become a foster home! Keep as many as you want for as long as you want, or until someone else wants them!
Can't even do that? That's cool. Just tell your friends. And if you can't remember any of the info for GCK, just point them to me. I'll get them in the right direction.
Here are some of the kitties I met this weekend (and no, not all the GCK cats are tuxedos. Just these guys. The rest come in all colors, shapes and sizes):
AJ, who would very much like a house without all these other irritating cats in it.
Theodore, who would love nothing more than to kiss you all day long. He will actually run up the front of your body, just so he can nestle in the nook of your neck. Extremely adorable. (until your neck smells like cat nose)
Theodore's sister, Eleanor (no, not his cousin, but close enough), who was uncharacteristically shy this weekend, until the other couple who were browsing for a kitty left. (maybe she was having a bad hair day and didn't want to be in pictures)
There's another beautiful cat who is a diluted calico -- most calicos are white, black and orange, the diluted ones are (as I artistically like to put it) cream, smoke and honey. But I told Thea that the cat was a diluted calico and she thought I said a "deluded calico," which made us laugh, thinking about deulded tabbies walking around talking about themselves as calicos. (yes, we went to the cat show together! so what?!)
One last urgent plea:Would anyone want to foster a 3 year old mommy cat and her 2 year old daughter? Mommy is solid orange, (which is odd for a female) and the girl is a tabbie/tortie combo. If so, please contact Elizabeth at 917.653.9033.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
i heart my bucket, or food poisoning sucks
Friday night I did something of a world tour. I met a friend in Mexico (Maryanne's on the west side) for nachos and a margarita. Then I went on a date in Japan (Kiku Sushi in Park Slope), with a stop in Australia (a glass of Shiraz at Total Wine Bar in Park Slope) to top it off.
I fully acknowledge this was stupid.
However, several hours later, the evening ended with a long, cold, lonely walk home (past the projects alone -- thanks, Awesome Date!) and I felt so garbagey that I had to call Thea, who (blissfully) is up at all hours.
"I feel like ass."
"Maybe you should go home and have a nice vomit and go to sleep."
"That might work, if I were anyone but me." (I have a SEVERE aversion to barf.) "And I don't really feel like I have to barf."
"Well, just see how you feel when you get home."
"Ok, I will. I'm getting in this cab now, I'll call you tomorrow."
I hang up, stash the phone in my purse, and notice that my teeth are still chattering, despite the fierce Indian heat of the cab.
"Have you ever been to my home country?" asks my oh-my-god-is-he-inebriated? cab driver.
"No, no," I sigh, "never really had the money for a trip to India." (Please shut up. My tummy hurts.)
"It's very beautiful," he says, turned around so he (and his elbow) are pointing at me through the bulletproof window. "You should go sometime."
"The light's green." I point out.
Don't make me go to India, pleeeeeeeeeease, says my tummy.
He turns around and drives, silently, until we hit the next red light, at which point, he asks me out. "Maybe we could talk more about it and I could show you some good places."
I don't have the heart to tell him that a) I feel like death on a stick right now and b) curry smells like armpit to me, and the thought of eating armpit at this point in time might actually be enough to make me ralph in his cab.
"I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much," I say, thanking god for the sweet, lovable, imaginary man at home who is going to hold my hair, if I do end up yakking up the planet I've consumed.
I get out of the cab, still shaking with cold, and get into my house. Before stripping into pajamas, I try drinking some water, brushing my teeth and washing my face. I set up the obligatory bucket (which is like a leprechaun of the tummy -- just enough good luck to keep you safe) and finally put on my pjs.
But it's still really fucking cold. And there is a monster in my intestines, starting to kick.
I put the heating pad on my feet. Still cold.
I take the bucket with me to the bathroom for a festive interlude.
Still cold.
I put on my fleece housecoat (very sexy!) get back into bed with the heating pad and try to fall asleep. It would have been much easier if I were able to stay still instead of thrashing about wildly with cold.
And I'm terribly dehydrated. (Just ask my pruney fingers)
So I cross my kitchen floor as if it's a game of hot lava -- except it's more like a game of frigid ice floe. Who knew my kitchen was in the Yukon? I grab a bottle of water and my bottle of root beer and bring them both into bed with me, with hopes of warming them up. Where the hell is my imaginary boyfriend??
And then, laying there in the dark, unable to sleep, the thoughts of food and barfing flood over me. You know how it is, you can only think about what you've eaten. Or food in general. Or barf. Or just awful nasty stuff. It's like a horror movie -- all you can remember afterwards are the scenes you most want to forget.
I turn on the radio, and listen to them talk. Until 8am. At which point, I'm finally warm enough to fall asleep. Luckily, my plans for Saturday don't start until 1pm.
I never actually barfed, but that bucket traveled around my apartment with me all night like it was my best friend. (Or my imaginary boyfriend.)
I have no idea what I ate (hell, it could have been any variety of things), but whatever it was, I hope Awesome Date ate it, too.
I mean, imaginary boyfriend would at least have walked me to the subway.
I fully acknowledge this was stupid.
However, several hours later, the evening ended with a long, cold, lonely walk home (past the projects alone -- thanks, Awesome Date!) and I felt so garbagey that I had to call Thea, who (blissfully) is up at all hours.
"I feel like ass."
"Maybe you should go home and have a nice vomit and go to sleep."
"That might work, if I were anyone but me." (I have a SEVERE aversion to barf.) "And I don't really feel like I have to barf."
"Well, just see how you feel when you get home."
"Ok, I will. I'm getting in this cab now, I'll call you tomorrow."
I hang up, stash the phone in my purse, and notice that my teeth are still chattering, despite the fierce Indian heat of the cab.
"Have you ever been to my home country?" asks my oh-my-god-is-he-inebriated? cab driver.
"No, no," I sigh, "never really had the money for a trip to India." (Please shut up. My tummy hurts.)
"It's very beautiful," he says, turned around so he (and his elbow) are pointing at me through the bulletproof window. "You should go sometime."
"The light's green." I point out.
Don't make me go to India, pleeeeeeeeeease, says my tummy.
He turns around and drives, silently, until we hit the next red light, at which point, he asks me out. "Maybe we could talk more about it and I could show you some good places."
I don't have the heart to tell him that a) I feel like death on a stick right now and b) curry smells like armpit to me, and the thought of eating armpit at this point in time might actually be enough to make me ralph in his cab.
"I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much," I say, thanking god for the sweet, lovable, imaginary man at home who is going to hold my hair, if I do end up yakking up the planet I've consumed.
I get out of the cab, still shaking with cold, and get into my house. Before stripping into pajamas, I try drinking some water, brushing my teeth and washing my face. I set up the obligatory bucket (which is like a leprechaun of the tummy -- just enough good luck to keep you safe) and finally put on my pjs.
But it's still really fucking cold. And there is a monster in my intestines, starting to kick.
I put the heating pad on my feet. Still cold.
I take the bucket with me to the bathroom for a festive interlude.
Still cold.
I put on my fleece housecoat (very sexy!) get back into bed with the heating pad and try to fall asleep. It would have been much easier if I were able to stay still instead of thrashing about wildly with cold.
And I'm terribly dehydrated. (Just ask my pruney fingers)
So I cross my kitchen floor as if it's a game of hot lava -- except it's more like a game of frigid ice floe. Who knew my kitchen was in the Yukon? I grab a bottle of water and my bottle of root beer and bring them both into bed with me, with hopes of warming them up. Where the hell is my imaginary boyfriend??
And then, laying there in the dark, unable to sleep, the thoughts of food and barfing flood over me. You know how it is, you can only think about what you've eaten. Or food in general. Or barf. Or just awful nasty stuff. It's like a horror movie -- all you can remember afterwards are the scenes you most want to forget.
I turn on the radio, and listen to them talk. Until 8am. At which point, I'm finally warm enough to fall asleep. Luckily, my plans for Saturday don't start until 1pm.
I never actually barfed, but that bucket traveled around my apartment with me all night like it was my best friend. (Or my imaginary boyfriend.)
I have no idea what I ate (hell, it could have been any variety of things), but whatever it was, I hope Awesome Date ate it, too.
I mean, imaginary boyfriend would at least have walked me to the subway.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
too exciting to print
I was just sitting here, listening to my coworkers blather away about how a fellow coworker resembles Worf from Star Trek (who, without makeup, is actually fairly attractive) (the actor, not the coworker), and I was ridiculing them in my head for having such a boring conversation.
Then I looked down and realized I was cleaning dustballs out of my keyboard with a paperclip.
Sigh.
Unrelatedly, I find myself in an interesting situation. (Only partly as interesting as what's coming out of my keyboard, however.) I've come across an open bar party that I'm 99% sure someone I know (but am no longer speaking to) would love. Said person was never an avid reader of my blog, though, so just putting it here does nothing. I'm certainly not going to email him ("um, hi, remember how you dumped me? Yeah, that part was fun, but here's a party you might like..."), and I no longer have a subscription to AnonymousSmokeSignals.com, so that's out.
What to do? (god, I need a job that actually makes me use my brain.)
Option Number 1:Absolutely nothing. (I've been doing that for the last hour and a half.)
Option Number 2:Something low-key and unobtrusive. Like putting a link here and just getting the info out so it accidentally gets to him. (And if it does, you can assure him I won't be there -- I hate beer!)
Side benefit? It will likely make my cousin Brian very, very jealous. (he doesn't hate beer.)
And hey, you might like beer, you should go! (Not you, mom.)
Is it possible to die from boredom?
Then I looked down and realized I was cleaning dustballs out of my keyboard with a paperclip.
Sigh.
Unrelatedly, I find myself in an interesting situation. (Only partly as interesting as what's coming out of my keyboard, however.) I've come across an open bar party that I'm 99% sure someone I know (but am no longer speaking to) would love. Said person was never an avid reader of my blog, though, so just putting it here does nothing. I'm certainly not going to email him ("um, hi, remember how you dumped me? Yeah, that part was fun, but here's a party you might like..."), and I no longer have a subscription to AnonymousSmokeSignals.com, so that's out.
What to do? (god, I need a job that actually makes me use my brain.)
Option Number 1:Absolutely nothing. (I've been doing that for the last hour and a half.)
Option Number 2:Something low-key and unobtrusive. Like putting a link here and just getting the info out so it accidentally gets to him. (And if it does, you can assure him I won't be there -- I hate beer!)
Side benefit? It will likely make my cousin Brian very, very jealous. (he doesn't hate beer.)
And hey, you might like beer, you should go! (Not you, mom.)
Is it possible to die from boredom?
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
a letter to the management
Dear Mother Nature,
You're kidding, right?
According to Staten Island Chuck, we were supposed to be getting an early spring. And I put a lot of faith into that wee, furry meteorologist. But here we are, March 7th (which, may I remind you, is really close to spring) and it's snowing. Oh, and FREEZING.
If I baked you some brownies would you stop?
Love,
Kate
p.s. Is it wrong that, secretly, I really want to go do this?
You're kidding, right?
According to Staten Island Chuck, we were supposed to be getting an early spring. And I put a lot of faith into that wee, furry meteorologist. But here we are, March 7th (which, may I remind you, is really close to spring) and it's snowing. Oh, and FREEZING.
If I baked you some brownies would you stop?
Love,
Kate
p.s. Is it wrong that, secretly, I really want to go do this?
Monday, March 5, 2007
you can actually learn things on a date -- did you know this?
It's true! Given the right circumstance, you, too, can learn something on a date.
For example:
Did you know that heaven could actually be made out of shrimp?
(For proof, go to Applewood in Park Slope and order the Rock Shrimp
Risotto. No, really, drop what you're doing and go eat there.
Now! You'll thank me later.)
Do you know how many drinks is perilously close to too many?
(I'm afraid I might not be able to discern the gap between close-to-too-many and
actually-too-many. I pushed the envelope as valiantly as I could,
though.)
Wine with dirty words in its title can be surprisingly tasty.
(As an appropriate follow up to Lengs & Cooter Shiraz, I would suggest a
nice Schlong Cabernet or a light Hoohaa Chianti)
I also found out that This American Life, the NPR program, offers streaming versions of their archives online. Who knew??
There's much more, but you don't need to know all of it. All I'm saying is that I highly recommend going on a good date. It'll do wonders for your education!
Friday, March 2, 2007
hey kate, tell me a story!
Well, kiddo, I can't right now, I'm too busy to tell you a story. But if you go here, you can listen to me telling a few minutes of a few different stories.
And then perhaps you'll hire me...
And then perhaps you'll hire me...
one cake I wouldn't eat
You know I have an affinity for talking cakes. I think they're insightful, quirky, and downright tasty! However, New Mexico has recently purchased some talking cakes that you couldn't pay me to eat -- or even chat with.
That's right: Talking Urinal Cakes.
The purchase was made, obviously, as part of an anti-drunk driving campaign, to get men to think about whether or not they've had a few too many drinks. Apparently, when you step up to pee, these special talking cakes say, in a flirty female voice, things like "Hey, big guy. Having a few drinks?" and "Remember, your future is in your hand."
Now, aside from the complete and utter oddness of the whole story, I was hoping the error in the last statement was just a typo in the article I read, but on further inspection, that's the line that was fed to all the news outlets: your future is in your hand.
Perhaps this is an anti-drunken hookup measure as well...
That's right: Talking Urinal Cakes.
The purchase was made, obviously, as part of an anti-drunk driving campaign, to get men to think about whether or not they've had a few too many drinks. Apparently, when you step up to pee, these special talking cakes say, in a flirty female voice, things like "Hey, big guy. Having a few drinks?" and "Remember, your future is in your hand."
Now, aside from the complete and utter oddness of the whole story, I was hoping the error in the last statement was just a typo in the article I read, but on further inspection, that's the line that was fed to all the news outlets: your future is in your hand.
Perhaps this is an anti-drunken hookup measure as well...
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