let me teach you how not to fly off the handle

Oh wait, I have no idea. Sorry.










Ok, ok, ok, since I teased you in here with that headline, let me at least offer you something that has to do with flying off the handle.

I was born in December of 1976 in New York City... oh, wait, nobody has time for my life story!

A brief semi-hypothetical situation then: this girl (we'll call her Kate so you have no idea if it's me or not) and this guy (we'll call him Frank, because that's just the way we roll around here) have had a couple of dates, and luckily have both felt that ever-elusive spark. Hurray! They have a third date planned for the weekend, and at last count, both were excited about it. Just over an hour before the date, however, Kate gets a message from Frank saying that he has to cancel, but that he'll call on Sunday to explain why.

And Kate flies off the handle. For about as long as it takes to shower.

Now, Old Kate would have taken to bed with a big box of raisins and a sense of worthlessness, waiting for someone to come along and rescue her. Luckily, New Kate has learned a thing or two about herself, and knows better than to engage in any kind of crap-o behavior previously associated with rapid-handle-departures, and spends a lovely evening with two very supportive friends and their very adorable child.

Saturday night, while a bummer, turns out not to be a total disaster, despite the fact that cancelling is an issue Kate already has major problems with in relation to a certain German... (but that's an entirely different handle).

Cut to the next day: Kate never receives the call that she was, well, I won't say promised, but that she was certainly expecting. Kate's mother sagaciously points out that because not calling when she said she would is something Kate would never do, she finds it hard to understand. A feeling of internal twistedness akin to sour stomach, a nostalgia for that little spark (now departing on track 3) and an early bedtime ensue. Old Kate at this point, would have cried her eyes dry and wailed "why meeeeeeeee?" into the darkest corners of the universe. (or at least the darkest corners of her closet.)

Finally, by late Monday afternoon, Frank drops the bomb that Kate already knows is coming: he has decided to pursue Another Kate. (Go with the metaphor -- we know that nobody could actually replace Kate.) (except maybe Kate Who Gets Her New Job Now Please...)

And Kate settles quietly back on her handle. Frank's email is sweet, filled with agony and self-flagellation for not having handled things the right way, and Kate can tell this was not an easy situation for him. She puts herself in his shoes, and can even see why he told her the way he did, even though she wishes he had done it in a way that showed her the respect she deserves.

I hear you all asking: so why the drama if this was only their third date? Valid question, friends. But you know what it's like to be out there meeting folks, and wanting to throw yourself in front of a semi more often than not, so when you meet someone you click with... well, that's a treat. And to feel that being taken from you, well, it sucks. (Add to that Kate's issues with cancellation and lack of respect, and bingo! We have runway clearance!) The beauty of this situation, though, is that Old Kate would have flown all the way to the moon, while New Kate ended somewhere around Little India. (Try the curry! Tastes like armpit!)

So how did Old Kate turn into New Kate? One step at a time, I guess. Partly it's finally believing some of the things I already know [let's face it, you knew this was me from the moment I took to bed with a box of raisins], and trusting myself that nothing can be taken from me if it was truly meant to be mine. Yeah, it's a little hooey-gooey. (she flexes her arms and looks at you menacingly) What's your point?

The other difference is that this time, I separated the issues into more bite-sized chunks. On one hand, there's the fact he's seeing someone else. Maybe it's all the years of acting, but that doesn't really hurt. It sucks, but it sucks about as much as not getting a part... albeit one you'd be really right for. On the other hand, there's feeling disrespected by him and the way he handled the situation. That, for me, was the trigger. When I finally started claiming my own worth (yeah, ok, his emailed explanation helped a lot), it was a lot easier to be forgiving (of both him and me), and a lot harder to unglue my butt from the handle.

Helpful story? Probably not. But if you're looking for advice, don't you think should look somewhere other than "kate's guide to just about nothing"?

oh, and p.s. I've conveniently made it sound like I thought all of this through by myself. We call that "dramatic license." (See also "big fat lie") Thanks to those of you who helped me out. You know who you are, and you rock!

me + absinthe = rock star!

Don't worry mom, I'm not actually drinking Absinthe. It happens to be a show, running in the Spiegeltent (by the South Street Seaport) for the summer. And it's absolutely one of the coolest experiences I've had in a long time!

First off, the Spiegeltent itself is a fantastic creation. It's half merry-go-round, half tent, half café and half church. (see? Already it's twice the fun!) It's got a boardwalk-y feel to it, being situated on Pier 16, and when the doors are open, you get that slight fishy/harbory funk. Around the edges of the tent are small mirrored panels, stained glass windows and wooden folding chairs for the audience. In the center, there's a small, round, raised platform, on which a majority of the acts take place.

I won't tell you about all the acts, because some of them are so amazing in part because you aren't expecting them. I will, however, tell you about a) the one that went wrong, b) the one that involved me and c) a vague outline of something that defies even the best of writing (let alone the excited ramblings of a chatty girl on a rainy day).

A) Oh Shit! (or the one that went wrong)
According to Justin, who has seen the show three times already (four, by the time this gets posted), and who got us free tickets, the acts change somewhat often. If any given performance of the show contains ten acts, I'd guess there are maybe thirteen acts in the whole repertoire, and they switch it up to give performers nights off. Anyway, the contortionist who started the show when I saw it, was apparently not the regular opening act.

She entered from the ceiling (which was totally cool) and descended on a wire until she came to rest on this bizarre jungle gym-type structure. It was cylindrical in shape, with climbing bars up either side, and a ring on top, where she balanced precariously while flinging her legs over her head and whatnot. (Where most humans have vertebrae, I think this woman has jell-o.) She descended one side of the cylinder, all slithery-like, and we (and by "we" I mean "those of us who are prone to see theatrical disasters coming") noticed a slight detachment of the legs of the right hand side of the cylinder from the ring at the top.

Luckily, a costumed stage hand also noticed that break, and stepped in, to hold the unit together. Which worked... for about a minute. But as soon as she started climbing on the other side of the cylinder, the whole left side (climbing bars and top ring) went tumbling down, and careening into the aisle in the audience. She knocked over a light, landed on her side, and had a small metal jungle-gym come tumbling after. We gasped, the lights went up a bit, and the next act rushed the stage, trying to get us to forget what had happened.

Amazingly, we did. Thanks primarily to the antics of the emcee, a guy called "The Gazillionaire," who was fictitiously footing the bill for the production of Absinthe. He was very funny, and took to harassing the audience -- fluffing up Justin's hair, calling it "Seventies Bush" and then humping his head. (He offered to hump my head, but I politely declined. Then he asked me to touch his crotch, and, well, I did (you had to be there to understand why). When he wanted to see my boobs in return, again, I politely declined. He then called me a pricktease and moved on to pick on someone else.)

B) k8 the rock star (or the part where I'm involved):
One of the acts involved a pair of what can only be described as figure (roller) skaters. They were a couple (Justin says he's 48 and she's 50, but I'd have put them both somewhere in their mid-forties) who did amazing tricks on roller skates. Scarier stuff than you've seen on figure skating, too – he flung her around in circles, with her face mere centimeters from hitting the floor, or tucking one skate of her skates behind his neck, and flinging her around in circles with no hands, while she's doing a split. You know, the stuff we all normally do at home. (un-fucking-believable!)

Anyway, at one point, they were eyeing this nice, long haired short woman behind me, and wanting her to come up on stage as a volunteer. She flatly refused, and they eventually shifted their focus onto me. It took me all of one second to decide to get up there!

I climbed the stairs in the back, had a stage hand remove my sunglasses from the top of my head, and the two skaters wound their arms around mine, while the woman whispered in my ear "keep your arms the way they are and stay as straight as you possibly can." So I did that (which was not hard).

THEN THEY FLIPPED ME UPSIDE DOWN AND WE SPUN AROUND IN CIRCLES!!! It was the most awesome thing! Having had a glass of wine already, opening my eyes proved to be an upsetting idea, so I kept them squeezed shut, and tried to keep my smile from flying off my face into my ears. I can't tell you how many times we went around (ten? A hundred?) but when they put me down, I was very dizzy, and, well, they were on roller skates, so we almost had our own tumbling disaster, trying to keep our balance. (Mind you, I was also in heels!)

Intermission followed not long after, and I was stopped by a number of people, all saying what a trooper I was and what a good sport, and what was it like? One guy came up to me and said that they almost did get to see my boobs after all! I can understand refusing them (especially after a crash in the first act) but come on! How many times in your life have you been flipped upside down and swung around by a couple on roller skates???

Oh, me? Just once.

C) Indescribable beauty, grace and oh-my-godness (yeah, I don't know what else to say about it)
One of the most surprising acts was comprised of two (beautiful) women, who danced and swung and contorted on this square made from metal bars suspended from the ceiling on chains like a chandelier. The way they moved together, and supported each others' weight, and the things they could do… it was gorgeous, it was sexy, it was dangerous, it was jaw dropping. I swear I had to pick mine back up off the floor when it was over.

And, not surprisingly, it was still smiling!

inappropriate office-isms

There are two law firms on my floor, and we share a common ladies' room. Over the years we've come to recognize many of the faces of the folks from the other firm, but don't know any names. So we give them our own. My favorite? The Constipated Midget. [she's about 5'0" and has this look on her face that's just, well, uncomfortable... all the time.]

Today, The Constipated Midget was wearing what can only be described as a Micro-Mini-Mu-Mu. My boss called it a "Glamour Don't." I called it a "Oh My God Please Don't EVER!"
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I told a coworker that I made cookies and that they were on my desk, available to anyone who wanted them. "They're made from spit and toenails, which gives them that nice extra crunch!" I told her. The new guy next to her started to have second thoughts about me, I could smell it.
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Due to the strategic positioning of my desk, and the general inanity of my chatter, my boss, whose office is just down the hall, and who has to pass my desk to get there, often hears only snippets of what I've been saying. My favorites to date are:

"It's just no fun when someone talks to your armpit all night long."

and

"Yeah, it makes me want to put on pants and go to a football game and roll in the leaves."
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And now, for the game you've all been waiting for:

Which One is the Ugliest??

There have been three incarnations of the paper plates and cups here at La Firme du Lawe, and they're all fairly atrocious-looking. The way this game works is that I show you pictures of them, you lose your appetite, feel pity for those of us who have to eat off of them, and then vote for the ugliest. The one with the most votes wins -- or loses, depending on how you look at it..

(Which, I think, means it's the cheapest, and therefore we'll be stuck with it the longest.)

First up, Grey Leafy Number:

Up next, her cousin, Ha-Cha-Cha Coffee Cup:

Or, Orange Juliugly:

Cast your votes now! (It's almost like reality tv!!)

how dating is like frogger

Remember frogger? The videogame where you, the frog, had to jump through multiple lanes of traffic and get to the bushes on the other side of the freeway without getting run over? Well, I'd like to argue that's a lot like dating.

It takes a lot of work (planning, self-control, coordination, grace, good joystick maneuvering (ahem), cool-headedness, etc.) to get to a place you've heard is really rewarding, but may, in fact, not be anything more than bushes on the other side of the highway. (And, excuse me, but what is a frog doing in the bushes??)

Ok, so here's you, the friendly little frog:

That's a lot of traffic up ahead! How can you possibly navigate it?

Stay cool, little frog, you'll make it.

Here's me, on my date last night:

Oh no! Three minutes in and already I've thrown myself in front of a convertible full of joyriding teenagers!

The splatted-frog feeling is not uncommon among those of us who date online. Let's face it, a guy (or gal) can be really witty and funny when he has time to think out his responses and edit what he's written. But when you're face to face... well, that's got its own challenges -- attraction, expectations, enough things in common to carry on a conversation...

No matter what, I'd recommend facing those challenges head on, like a little frog about to jump in front of a police car. NOT like my date last night, who faced them by talking to my armpit all through dinner. (Periodically he'd check back in with my nose, but the majority of our conversation was shared with the fine contours of my axilla.) I was forced to flirt with the waiter.
Sometimes, when you're caught between a rock and a hard place (or a semi and a convertible), it's good to call in an expert to help you out. However, it's best if your expert is not in a bar where she can't hear her cellphone, and as such, when you text her with a dire need for her to play her role in your exit strategy, she can't hear you or help you.

In that case, just move backwards -- but don't get hit by that police car! Call a friend who knows you're on a date, but has no clue what your exit strategy is, and leave her a message that says, "Hey, it's me. Are you going to that thing tonight? (pause) You're there already? Where is it? (pause) In Brooklyn? Sweet! (pause) That's on Union and what? Fifth? (pause) Yeah, yeah, right next to the sushi place. (pause) All right, I'll see you in a bit! Ok (sound like you're cutting her off) ok, just tell me about it when I get there. Bye!"

(Be sure to text her from the subway saying "I know that message made no sense. I'll call you soon!")

With all these similarities, it would seem like a foregone conclusion that dating actually is a game of frogger. Here's the major difference though: when you sit down to a game of frogger, get a few minutes into the game and realize that a) it's not the game you thought it was, and b) you don't really want to play this game (not that it's not a great game and all, you just don't want to play it), you can turn off the computer and walk away. It's a lot harder to finagle your way out of a date.

Unless you throw yourself in front of a semi. Messy? Yes. But if you live near a hospital, it might just be the exit strategy you're looking for.

adventures in midtown

A-Team member RuthAnn texted me recently – "Are we suit hunting on Friday?" displaying a powerful demonstration of one of the many A-Team core qualities: adventurousness. I responded with a hearty "You bet! See you at Bryant Park at 7"

Now, there are a variety of preferences among the A-Team members. RuthAnn, Keri and I prefer men in suits. Thea prefers them out of suits. Andrea hasn't yet voiced a preference (and is out of the country for a month, so she'll be like the pregnant version of Sidney Bristow – still on the show, but in an action-reduced role, and oddly carrying a cardigan sweater to hide her pregnant belly until the season is far enough along for her to actually be that pregnant. But I digress…) Keri likes them with a dark sense of humor. RuthAnn has a tendency towards the slightly angry ones. Thea prefers boyish-looking men to manly men. And me? Well, god knows what I like, but confidence and smarts are waaaaay up there.

With that in mind, the key to a successful adventure with the assembled team depends heavily on striking a balanced satisfaction of the needs of the team members. Luckily, RuthAnn could handle the angry suits, I could take the cocky suits and if there were boyish suits, we could give them Thea's number for later. (Sadly, we saw none.)

RuthAnn, knowing her limits, wisely started out the evening with a glass of seltzer. I met my bonne amee, Monsieur Grigio, and we girls started catching up, as we hadn't seen each other in a while. RuthAnn was telling me about a guy she had been seeing:

RuthAnn: oh, and he was such a great kisser!
k8: Really??
RuthAnn: You know, the kind who reaches up and holds the back of your head?
(both girls swoon a little)
k8: Go on!
RuthAnn: And he would do this (RuthAnn reaches her own hand out towards k8's face)
Frank 1: Oh my god, I think I'm going to barf!
RuthAnn & k8: What?
Frank 1: That's just such a syrupy story.
k8: (thinks for a second) Yeah it is. I might kind of barf, too.
(RuthAnn looks sheepish, but reluctantly agrees.)
Frank 1: So I'm here alone. Mind if I talk to you guys, provided we change the subject?

Smooth move, Frank 1. The A-Team could probably use you as a freelance tactician…

So we chatted with Frank 1 for a while, until a guy who could easily have been a 6'7" John Malkovitch-with-hair impersonator came along. And, not even having chatted with us longer than my saying "do you get John Malkovitch a lot?" and him saying "yeah, but I have hair," he offered to buy us drinks. I was still ok with Pinot Grigio 1, so I declined, but I was impressed by the offer. (I'm a sucker. Sue me.)

RuthAnn continued chatting with Frank 1 (and his friend, Frank 2) while I chatted with John Malkovitch With Hair (Frank 3). I knew, as I chatted with him, that Frank 3 was trying to work his mojo on me (and I knew just how much Thea would have hated him). Telling me I was a beautiful woman several times in a short conversation, telling me how bright I was and how smart. Telling me that I would, in fact call him (despite whatever skepticism was obviously displayed on my face at the moment). And I could see how this might work for him. He's an older guy (he said late 30s, I'm wiling to bet it's early 40s), he speaks with confidence and authority, and people probably do what he tells them to do. Especially when he's liberal with the compliments and Pinot Grigio.

By the time I was on PG-13 (I kid, it was just PG-2), Frank 3 was talking about how he had to meet up with George-from-out-of-town, (which explained the several hundred calls and texts he was taking during our conversation – a true social no-no) and how, when I called him and we went out another time, he would tell me all about George.

Smooth move, Frank 3.

He armed me with PG-3 and took his leave, giving me his card and taking my info. (I gave him my service number and strangers-only email address, so he couldn't cyber-stalk me, or, more importantly, actual-stalk me.) Will I call him? No. Will I call him back if he calls me? Maybe. It might be an interesting evening of Dinner That Will Not End With Me Sleeping With Him No Matter How Much He Works His Mojo. We'll see.

Soon after Frank 3 departed, Franks 1 and 2 departed as well, and RuthAnn and I were left to finish up the story about the good kisser. (Sadly, it doesn't end well. He never called her back!)

We hawkishly spotted an empty table, and pounced on it like cats on a cat dancer. (Yes, we picked the table up in our teeth and tried to walk away with it.) After we sat, Frank 4 came to the table and informed us we were at his table, as his bag was still underneath it – but I can't just call him Frank 4, as he was really Bergen County Mike, a distant relative of Staten Island Mike. He was not our type. Not in a suit, not tall, not cocky, not angry, not particularly funny. He was waiting for his friend (who also gets a real name, since his was Conrad), who, when he turned up, was Mr. Rasta, but engaging and passionate and no more our type than Bergen County Mike, but an excellent conversationalist. Monsieur Grigio didn't mind him one bit.

Sadly, Conrad Rupert Anthony (his full name (minus last name), I'm not kidding) departed rather quickly, and left us alone with Bergen County Mike again. And an interesting thing happened. Frank 5 walked by, noted two hot A-Team members sitting in discussion with Bergen County Mike, and made this what-the-fuck-is-going-on-there face. Which, while I found it totally rude, very much spoke to the situation. RuthAnn laughed. Bergen County Mike declared his unhappiness with Frank 5. And RuthAnn, with the improv skills of a ninja or five-star chef, explained to Bergen County Mike how Frank 5 (whose name actually is Frank!) had just executed a genius maneuver, by making himself distinctive to us so we would remember him later. (Where she came up with this idea is beyond me -- which is clearly why I have a team and do not operate as a solo-preneur.)

Anyway, the more RuthAnn explained how smart Actual Frank's tactics were (which, I would argue they weren't, but we were trapped and looking for any excuse for someone else to join our party), the more Bergen County Mike warmed up to the idea of Actual Frank. That was some fascinating shit to watch. The scorned man embracing his scorner. Suit Night Stockholm Syndrome.

Eventually, Actual Frank joined our party and turned out to be Cokey McSnortsalot, but he livened up a potentially dismal situation with Bergen County Mike, who, as it turned out, was about to make an expensive (and retarded) error.

Actual transcript of the conversation (as recorded by my photogenic memory*):
Bergen County Mike: So I park my car up by the last stop on the A train.
k8: All the way up at 207th Street?
Bergen County Mike: No, at Dyckman. That's the last stop on the A train.
k8: No, the last stop is 207th.
Bergen County Mike: No, it's Dyckman.
k8: I have a friend who used to live up there and I'd go all the time. I promise you, it's 207th Street.
Bergen County Mike. Do you want to bet?
(N.B. k8 is NOT a betting woman)
k8: Ok, sure.
Bergen County Mike: How much?(N.B. if k8 were a betting woman, she would bet a dollar or two, as she does not have major funds to fling around)
k8: Fifty bucks. This is retarded. I know I'm right.
Bergen County Mike: Ok. Fifty bucks. Let me just go get a subway map.
(Bergen County Mike exits to subway)
k8: (to RuthAnn) Would it be wrong of us to leave right now?
RuthAnn: Unfortunately, yes. And you're about to win fifty bucks.
k8: True…

(Bergen County Mike returns, places the subway map and fifty bucks on the table.)
Bergen County Mike: You were right. Here's fifty bucks.
k8: I'm not going to take your money. That was retarded. (k8's vocabulary is inversely proportional to the number of PG's she's had) I knew I was right.
(k8 pushes the money back to Bergen County Mike)
Bergen County Mike: I lost. You have to take it.
k8: I'm not taking your money.
Actual Frank: If you don't take it, I will.

So I took fifty bucks from Bergen County Mike. I'd say Poor Bergen County Mike, but I'd really mean Stupid Bergen County Mike if I did, so I'll refrain.

The bar closes early (11pm) so they called last call and herded us out the "door" by 11:30 – it's an outdoor bar on a patio. After too many free PGs, a fifty dollar bonus, and being a mere two stops from kitty-sitting-home, we called it a night.

The verdict? An excellent adventure night. High drama, high stakes, nice weather, some actually interesting conversation about what it means to be an artist (thank you Conrad) and a chance to hang with my girl.

I'm a lucky little A-Teamer!




*back in the day, my sister's boyfriend's grandma once said my sister's boyfriend had a "photogenic memory." And my sister, in her willingness to please an old lady, said that I had one, too.

stuff and nonsense

The phrase "stuff and nonsense" always reminds me of fluffernutters. Because those are, in my mind, "fluff and nut-sense."

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Remember that new job I got? Yeah, I still don't have it. Now, in fairness to the HR Gods (Hyraton and Quittilo), they said I wouldn't be starting until they could find an adequate replacement for me, which they said could take "anywhere from two weeks to two months."
I just found out that one of my bosses is on vacation for the next two weeks, and another one is on vacation for a week after that. So the utmost earliest I'd be getting this job is September 1st. Which would be six weeks into the two month scenario. Mrrrrrrr.


However, I also just found out that, starting mid-August, I get my raise! YAY! Who wants to come over and watch my new cable???

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I saw a profile online where a guy was looking for his "counter part." I would like the whole counter, please, not just a part. (I have none in my kitchen.)

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A woman at work this morning -- it was Free Bagel Breakfast Friday -- sawed the top off of a muffin and put the bottom back in the basket. In a loud, accusing voice, I said, "Wait a second! You're putting the muffin bottom back in the basket? Nobody's going to want that!"


Her: But I feel bad throwing it out! I didn't even touch it. It's a perfectly acceptable muffin.


Me: But that's the crappy part of the muffin! Nobody actually likes that part!


Her: Yeah, but you know, some people will settle for it if they have no other muffin options.


Me: Muffin Bottom? I don't know.


Her: We'll do an experiment. I'll leave it there, and I bet it'll be gone by this afternoon.


Me: Someone might throw it out...


Her: We'll see.


She was right. She came by this afternoon (while my mouth was full of iced tea, which almost took a vacation to my sinuses) and told me that, in fact, Muffin Bottom was gone.
Clearly I forgot that I work in an office full of vultures. A whole passel of muffin-bottom-scarfing-vultures.

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My friend recently had a baby (i.e., two months ago) and has already shifted into using Mommy Speak. She told me, when I visited the other day, that her daughter "hadn't poopied for 36 hours." Now, I can understand that kind of phraseology when the kids are old enough to hear and understand "shit" or "poop" or "dump a hot one" but not to know better than to use them loudly in public. But at that age? I don't know. It kind of made me want to poopie in my panties.

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I think I may have scared a guy at the gym today.


I left the house this morning with the intention of being nice to people and striking up conversations with as many (non-creepy-looking) strangers as I could stomach. So I complimented a couple of people on the subway and asked a guy in the elevator if anything fun ever happened on the fifth floor, where UN Ops has its headquarters. ("Not really," he said. "What's on 11?" "Law firms," I said, and we both rolled our eyes together and laughed. See? Talking to strangers can be fun!)


Anyway, at the gym, there are three or four of us who get there at about the same time, work out for about as long as each other, and periodically stare at each other in the mirror unintentionally, while thinking of other things. (Sadly, Fidel Castro has disbanded from our merry crew.)


Today, however, none of my gym peeps were there. About ten minutes before I was done, one of them showed up. I looked at him, took of my earphones and said, "where ya been?" He looked like a deer in the headlights of a very sweaty SUV, so I looked at my watch and back and him and said "it's about time, you know."


I'm not sure he was amused.


I'm not sure I care.

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I saw Bergen County Mike at Chipotle yesterday. He joked that I could pay for his lunch if I wanted to.


Oh Bergen County Mike, if only you were cuter. And taller. And younger. Then I'd totally buy your lunch.


Instead, I think I might buy you a counter part.

explosion: con ed style!

As many of you know, I work in the Chyrsler Building. Which is a lovely, old, creaky-ass building that, whenver there's a high wind situation, sounds like we work in the hull of a ship. (Those are the days on which we play Pirates!) (but that's another story.)

Last night, there was Ye Goode Olde Explosion of a steam pipe (which, apparently dated back to ye goode olde days of yore... i.e., 1924) just down the street from us. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it), I had spent the day worring that I had left my laptop near an open window during a downpour, so I left the office at 5:30 on the nose, to make sure my 'puter hadn't died. (It hadn't.) So I didn't even know about the steam pipe explosion until I got to Lisa & RJ's house and RJ said, "Hey, look, your building's exploding."

Aghast, I ran to his computer screen. And sure enough, a big chunk of Lexington Avenue was exploding. It apparently looked like this (not my photos: thanks, AP!)

My phone rang. I was out with friends so I ignored it.

It rang again. I realized there were probably a few people who might think I was dead. So I started answering calls and texts. It seemed only the polite thing to do, considering I had even been spared the transit nightmare of trying to leave the scene of a Possible Terrorist Explosion.
My bosses, however, weren't worried about their computers, so they were here when the rumbling began.

"It sounded like a series of bombs," Boss 1 said. "I thought, for sure, with our location, this was terror-related."

"Well, terrorists with bad aim, maybe," non-boss lawyer said. "I mean, it was a couple blocks south..."

"I looked out my window [on Lexington Avenue] and the windows of the building across the street were shaking, like that building was going to explode next. And after that? Maybe us. So I picked up my purse, left everything else, and just ran. I really thought it was my time to die. As I ran down the stairs, I thought 'ok, I have enough life insurance, the girls are going to be ok, and my husband's going to be ok...' I haven't been that scared since my hotel was taken hostage in the '70s." And Boss 1 looked visibly rattled.

Boss 2 didn't have as bad a time. "We just got into the stairwell and everyone was moving along at a pretty fast pace. But by the time we got to the third floor, it was crowded and people were really panicking. Shouting, pushing and sobbing. I mean, we didn't know what was going on out there -- if there was some sort of nuclear explosion or fire or what, and we didn't know where this stairwell was going to put us out, and I wasn't in a big rush to be the first one to find out, you know?"

You can see why they might have freaked -- the steam and shitstorm was racing up the sides of buildings (ours is the one behind the cloud):

As a result, the office was closed yesterday. It was part of the "Frozen Zone" where they claimed they weren't letting pedestrians go. Apparently that wasn't true at all, as several industrious (and nerdy) folks found their way to the office. I found my way to DSW and bought a new pair of shoes. Then I found my way to the hair salon and got a hair cut! (No mushroom head this time, thank god!)

What was left, after the steam stopped?

A big, fat hole. And a few dead and injured people. In many of the ways I look at it, that's a huge blessing, especially considering how much worse it could have been. In many of the other ways I look at it, it's a disaster that ConEd, the city's perpetual ass-monkey, should have foreseen. I know, I know, you can't prepare for a disaster, but that's a steam hole that's been covered by metal and poked at periodically by guys in hardhats for MONTHS now. (I know, because it's part of my regular route to the library.) It was not news to ConEd that something was going on down there. They apologize up and down, for one catastrophe after another, but they're a utility that's got the city by the balls. And constantly pinches them.

While my mother worked in the city (and terror alerts were higher), I always thought, if something's going to happen, I hope it happens to me and not to her, because I always thought I could get away from danger faster, I could handle the stress better. And I didn't want my mother to be scared. Hearing my bosses' stories makes me really glad she doesn't work in the city anymore. Because no one can control where things like this happen.

I'm grateful not only to be alive, but to be loved, worried over and completely unaffected (except for my new shoes and hair) by the whole encounter. And who doesn't love a free, bonus day off??

mrrrrrrrrrrow! mrrrrow! murp! murp! murp!

Wondering about the subject of this post? That's what everything I'm writing here would sound like if Sebastian, the cat I'm kitty-sitting, were to tell you about it.

To say he's a chatty kitty is to say that vanilla softserve with sprinkles is the best thing since vanilla softserve plain. (duh.) He's a champ conversationalist. An outstanding orator. A prodigious prolocutor, if you will. (And I won't blame you if you won't.)

Here's what it's like to come home:

"Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow? Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow! MURRRRRRRRROW! mruw! murp! Mrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooow!"

"Really?"

"Mrrrow."

"Seriously?"

"Mrrow."

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Mrrow!"

"Yes?"

"Mrrow!?!"

"No!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

The end.
-------------------------------------------
I got this over email and found it funny and charming.

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now men.... men are like a fine wine.

They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.
-------------------------------------------

If this blog could have a corporate sponsor, I'd like it to be the Shick Intuition Razor. Holy crap, I'm in love with mine!

Now, I am one of the She-who-has-difficulty-getting-a-close-shave-in-her-pitty-pits clan (we have our own tartan) and this razor has changed my armpits' life forever! Yeah, it's expensive (which is why I want it to be my corporate sponsor), but it's TOTALLY worth it. (I got my first one free in the mail, anyway!)

Really, go out there and boldy purchase yourself one. Even if you don't need a razor yet (because yours hasn't RUSTED sufficiently.... guilty!), this will be a worthwhile purchase. Because you know why? No need to purchase shaving cream, either!

I know, this shit's incredible!
-------------------------------------------

Date Alert!!

I have two dates coming up with new gentlemen in the next week or so. And they're both FUNNY!

Maybe not as funny as this, but I'm hoping they're better looking that that, too.

skwaaaaaaaaantz paaaaaaaaand

I'm not going to say Connecticut is a mountainous state. It's not. It's hilly at best. But when you've got three hot chicks from the city who just want a day of nature... well, the Constitution State will do.

Thea ("TAY-a"), Andrea ("On-DRAY-a") and I (mournfully robbed of the monicker "KAY-a") headed out to my parents' house (in East Snootyville) for a weekend in the country. We met up at the train station, trundled into my parents' car, and drove out into the wilds of CT... (ahem, just outside of Danbury).

Squantz Pond State Park (much better when you don the midwestern accent and call it "Skwaaaaantz Paaaaaand") is this gorgeous pond (which looks a lot like a lake to those of us with no ecological background) with a small beach and some hiking trails. We figured we'd hike until we got hot, sweaty and hungry, and then we'd picnic and hit the water.

We slathered on the sunblock (have you seen three paler chicks?) and headed out into the woods.

("I'm tired," says the rock, "I think I'll just rest my several tons against this tree...")


We followed the map from the unblazed trail along the water (that just means it wasn't labled -- blaze = trail marker) to the red trail that intersected it. Up the hill we went, up and up, until we ran out of trail. Red Trail dead-ended into this gravel road, which, according to the map, didn't exist.


We figured we were probably in Canada by now, and no longer on the map.


"Guys, I have no idea where we are."


"Oh, ok."


"So let's just go this way for a while and see if we see anything resembling a blaze."


"Ok."


They were remarkably calm about being lost in the woods. But that's probably because Andrea had packed us three granola bars, just in case we got lost in the woods on a gravel road that didn't exist. Hmmm...

We headed out in one direction and didn't find anything, so we turned around and went the other direction. In which we found... more nothing.

Luckily, we were atop the hill, and knew there were two paths between us and the water, if we wanted to bushwhack. So we bushwhacked. And bushwhacked. You know, hiking is much easier when you stay on the trail.

We had to stop for some wildlife (a hopping baby bird, two deer and a snake -- nothing like the snake from the last hiking trip) and for some photo ops. Like the picnic table floating in the water:

And Andrea taking a picture of the "I heart Lobster" pin Thea was wearing on her hat, as part of a photo meme:
When the hike was over, we had to have a picnic. And it was a hell of a picnic, if I do say so myself. Now, why was it so fantastic, you ask? Well... on Friday (the day I got my new job), I happened to have been served two cups of regular coffee in the morning. No big deal, except that, well, I don't drink caffeine. So at 1 am, when I laid down to go to bed, there was a lot of tossing and turning, but no actual sleeping.

I got up. And from 1:30 until about 3:15, I made pasta salad, egg salad, fruit salad and sandwiches. (From 3:15 to 4:15 I watched CSI.) So our picnic rocked! And we had an ENORMOUS bag of "Sensible Portion" pita chips:
(the photo reveals nowhere near enough of the irony)

After our feast, we didn't feel much like hitting the water (let alone getting into a bathing suit), but felt sort of obligated to at least explore the beach. When we grumbled a bit about taking off our shoes, Andrea said, "I'll just keep mine on, I'm only going to touch the water with my hands..."

But we ended up wading in and found the water really warm and lovely. And crowded. [With Connecticut's less tony inhabitants (as all the hoity-toities have somewhere private to go). I felt paler than pale.]

(The picture is not representative of the crowds!)

Stuffed, warm and happy, we headed back to my parents' house, where we stuffed ourselves even more. Can you say "hello grilled vegetables?!?!?" YUM! And, we grilled peaches. I highly recommend that!

I do not, however, recommend Frutezia "wine." It was made from one grape and sixteen bags of sugar, and Thea kept renaming it every time a glass was poured.

"Want some Fructissima?"

"How about some more Fruit Teaser?"

"Fruit Fusion for you?"

"Nasty Crap Ass Wine, anyone?"

With the addition of my high school friend Rachel, the veggies, the wine (we had another, real bottle in the fridge), the boy talk, the sex talk, the girl talk... we went to bed that night happier than the proverbial pigs.

Thanks, Skwaaaaaaantz Paaaaaaand! (and maaaaaam and daaaaaad, for giving us the house!!)

o kate, where art thou?

Sorry I haven't written in a while -- as you can imagine, it's been kind of busy, what with my NEW JOB AND ALL! (who's the coolest? Oh, yeah, that'd be me!)

So, those of you who know me know that for the last eight years or so I've been an actor in the city, and, as such, have had a need for Ye Olde Dreaded Dayjob. I landed in a really good one, with good pay, good bosses, good flexibility and overall general goodness. Of late, however, I've grown weary of Said Olde Dayjob, because I'm not acting anymore. So I started the process of looking inside myself to see what new career path I wanted to follow. (I recommend the book Finding Your Own North Star to anyone who is undergoing the same process.) I put a ton of pressure on myself to do Something Perfect (sheesh!) and hated everything anyone else suggested. I even once had a job-searching conversation with Christina in which I said "we have to change the subject now, or I'm going to have to hate you."

Somehow I found the courage to give myself a break, and take the summer off. I was going to focus on the things that made me happy (like Tuvan throat singers, for example) and let the job find me. Secretly, though, I knew I was just postponing the inevitable disaster that awaited me in September, when the summer was over and I still hadn't figured out what to do with my life.

I listened, smiling, while people suggested a variety of options to me. "You should be a dentist!" said one of my co-workers, whose husband is in dental school.

"Yeah," I said, "except that I don't really like mouths very much. Or teeth."

"Well, how about a physical therapist?"

"Yeah, I'm not so much with the broken parts of people."

"Oh! I've got it! You should be a vet!"

"Yeah, ok, except for that's the broken parts of animals..."

I had a vague sense that what I wanted to do would incorporate the parts of acting that meant the most to me -- analysis, communication, teaching... but how to combine them? How to execute that? At one point, my mother sent me a job posting for a computer trainer at another law firm. And it really grabbed me, since I have a solid background in computer programs used by legal secretaries. But... something was wrong. I wasn't ready to uproot my life like that just yet. or something.

And anyway, it was summer. I didn't HAVE to.

So a few weeks went by, and I asked for a trademark paralegal position at the firm. I didn't get it (for a variety of reasons) and I went back to not paying attention to the job search. Until last week -- Friday the 13th, to be exact.

I was in the word processing department (which makes it sound like more than a guy in an office, which it's not), and the head of WP (that's legal sec'y slang for word processing, yo!) said, when I told him I wasn't acting anymore, that the firm was looking for a trainer.

Kismet! Karma! Kate!

I heard about the job at 11 and by 3:30, I had it.So I'm really excited! I don't think that legal computer training is my end goal or destination, but making this switch right now feels really right. And I'm really proud of myself. It's not Perfect, and I'm doing it anyway!

On top of it all, I came up with a salary that I thought would be appropriate for the position. Now, as a sidebar, I didn't actually realize what I was currently making. I thought my net was my gross, and, well, duh, it's not. So based on my erroneous math, I came up with this number (which was, eek!, less than what I currently make), and worked up the courage to make my salary pitch $5,000 more than that. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, went to HR and said "this is what I want." And he said, "um, ok, we're actually going to give you more than that." But the most important part (to me) is that I found the self-worth to ask for the money.

Around Christmas, we'll talk about the raise.

So, that's the story, pretty much. Down the road, I'm going to need some guinea pigs to run my training on, so stay tuned. And if anyone has any background in training and wants to give me advice, or book suggestions, I'm totally open to that.

And I'm not too proud to take any congratulations that find their way to me...

news flash!

deet de deet deet de deet deet! (that's the sound of the news machine)

A brief note, but five words long:

I got a new job!!!!!

More news to come, but I thought I'd share that with everyone at once.

For details, if you know me, feel free to call.

a plague, a cake, a hero, panama!

I have the plague!

It's true! I went to the doctor today and she said, "No More Monkeys Jumpin' on the Bed!"

No, wait, that's not what she said. She said (without touching me once), "why are you here?"

"Potential sinus infection."

"How long have you been sick?"

"About five days."

"What color is your mucus?"

"Mostly clear, kind of yellow."

"Facial pain?"

"Yes. Here." I pointed to my face, in a vain dumbshow, as she wasn't even looking in my direction.

"Ok, well, it's viral. Nothing we can do about that. But I will write you a prescription in case your mucus starts turning green."

"Don't you want to touch me?"

"No."

"Has all that we've shared together meant so little to you?"

"No. I just don't want to touch you. I'm actually a robot, and not a doctor at all. But shut up and leave or you'll have taken longer than your lunch hour."
-----------------------------------------------
Ugly Cake's Twin Sister.

Last night I didn't go see Spoon in the rain (because it would be at Stuyvesant High School and I'd have to have a ticket and we all remember what happened last time...) (if you don't remember, "last time" was when I went to see John Pizzarelli and I actually had a really good time, but I liked the way "we all remember what happened last time" sounded as I wrote it.)
So I went home. And I baked. And I baked and baked and baked. And I brought the cake in to work this morning (kind of like Bring Your Daughter To Work Day, except it was Bring Your Ugly Cake to Work Day), and sent out the following email to my coworkers about the cake:

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK -- Last night, disaster struck a small apartment in the South Park Slope section of Brooklyn. An isolated incident, the unspecified and mysterious disaster was restricted to the oven and cooling rack of a recovering actress/baker named Kate Surgeon.

"When I put the cake in, I thought, well, ok, I altered the recipe a little," said Ms. Surgeon, covered head to toe in flour, "but I didn't think THIS would happen!"

Authorities reported to the scene to find what could only be described as the Ugliest Cake Kate's Baked Yet.

"That cake has no head!" shouted one EMT, as he swooned with disbelief.

"Yeah, but it's filled with pineapple and cocount goodness!" responded the hottest firefighter in Kate's Imagination, as he clutched the young woman in his arms and whisked her away to --
Oh, sorry. Got carried away there.

I have (ugly) cake.
kate

Don't believe me?
Original Ugly Cake:

Ugly Cake's (Fraternal) Twin Sister:
(I find it particularly appealing in this bizarro color scheme)
--------------------------------
My Newest Hero
This morning, on my way to work, I realized I had not turned my cellphone on all day yesterday. So when I did, in fact, turn it on, I was mid-walk to the subway. And in yanking it out of my bag, I also managed to yank out the little holder that has my metrocard, ID, library card, building pass and gym membership card. Except I didn't realize I had done this.

When I got to the subway and found myself bereft of said items, I tore ass back up the stairs and headed focusedly towards the spot where I got my phone out. My panic was building with each step -- my identity could be stolen, someone could pretend to be me and take hundreds of books out of the library, work out until she was sore and ride the subway for free for the next 16 days -- until I ran into an angel.

"Are you Katherine?" she asked, floating about two inches off the ground, swathed in the most beautiful light and accompanied by choirs of small angels on the harp.

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE MY HERO!!!"

I fell prostrate in front of her, pledged my neverending love and gratitude to her and thanked her until I was sure she was going to push me in front of the next oncoming train (but not without grabbing my ID holder back before doing so -- underneath all the angel there was the gleam of a feindish reader-but-not-returner). I totally would have offered her my cake, but, well, it was ugly, and somehow didn't seem worthy of her.

Of the many things I am grateful for today (including the break in the weather, not having to take antibiotics and having delicous cake for breakfast), I am most grateful for her.

Whoever you are, I love you! (And I'm pretty sure the NYPL does, too!)

watch out for flying merde

In an order that makes sense only to me and my drug-addled brain:

1. Summer colds suck. And summer colds that have no concomitant pain suck worse. (It sounds counterintuitive, but it's not.) Without pain (sore throat, headache, whatever), you don't know how sick you are, and you do silly things like stay out late on Friday and Saturday and by the time you're draggin' ass and ready to recover on Sunday, the weekend is already over and you've missed your chance. So then you have to stay home alone, all day, on one of the hottest days of the year so far, armed with neither netflix nor cable, (uphill both ways), grateful that The Stand (which you are now reading after having looked at it on the shelf for over a year and a half) is 1134 pages long because you've already read 200 of them today.

The defense rests, your honor.

2. I got this email recently:
"please allow me to open up this friendly line of communication with you...first and foremost my name is dee,i read ur profile and i respect how u feel about people and life itself. you couldnt epressed urself any better then that. now as for myself,i admire realness,honesty,loyalty. im very business minded,mentally intuned with the almighty and im very clost with my family. fars some of the things i like and dislikes lol. i like making money thats why im self employed. love to travell,work out,read,dance,bowl and net-work with good hearted strong minded people. my dis-likes are,i cant stand being around fake people,racist,nastyness and disloyal people. other then that im just a down to earth guy thats focus. after i read ur profile i said she sounds like a woman of sustance let me drop her a line or two. if by chance ur interested in geting to no a rarefind gentleman i guess ill be hearing from you.lol"

I'm especially fond of how he likes how I feel about "people and life itself." Um, have y'all read my profile here? While I'm fond of it, and won't be changing it any time soon, I think perhaps I could have epressed myself better.

Oh, and did I mention I got it twice? Excellent.

3. Along a similar line, I finally got Yahoo personals to accept my profile without saying it had "too much personal information in it," and then, once it was posted, promptly took the profile down. Because in addition to a bevy of gents who don't know the difference between "your" and "you're," I got this email (abridged, of course, because the original was about five pages long). Now, I have to admit, it's well written and charming (and makes references to things in my profile, so some of it may not make any sense). But enough! Read:

Oh come on Kate! That last picture [the one I've now posted as my main photo here] is just not fair. I might have passed your profile, but that last shot of you is just so sexy and alluring. Now you might be asking yourself, why?! Why would someone want to pass by your profile?

Gee, I don't know, Mike from Staten Island. Why don't you tell me what's wrong with my profile.

Your Height - Some guys might want to pass you by because they would be intimidated by your vertical superiority. I have no such issues with you, as I am taller than you. That's not my concern.

You're Liberal - OH no, is political debate taboo in a relationship? I don't think so... do you? I'm somewhat conservative, but I've shifted to not-political. ... I don't think you're the type to get crazy over political discusion, so this is not my concern either.

Batman T-Shirt - Most girls would not present themselves in a Batman T-shirt. There is a small percentage of men that might pass you by, just because of your t-shirt. These are the same people that have their brains eaten in zombie movies.

OK... OK... OK...

I'll get to it. Religion is my concern. I'm not a church goer, but I am Christian / Catholic. Normally, I don't push my ideals on people. ... So, this wouldn't be an issue in the beginning. Yet, I'm forward thinking and I can be serious minded. What happens if we're together in bed. You're wearing nothing my blue button-down shirt and I'm wearing a big smile. Then, you tell me the news. "Mike, I'm pregnant!"

What would we tell our child when they ask, "Where did I come from? Why am I here?" Yes, I have a big imagination. I can see us having a lot of fun together. Nothing says we have to have children, but "What if" is a game I play. I think we'd have a lot of fun together, but what if?!


You mean, what if I never email you and we never meet and we never end up in bed together and we never have children? What will you tell them then?

4. Have you seen the fainting goats? I heart them.

5. Has anyone been to Austria? I'm taking suggestions for my family's trip in September.

6. I went to White Castle on Friday night. At 11:30. I ate a chicken ring and I was assured it was cut right from the chicken's ring. Why was I there? Hmmm, short answer: birthday party. Long answer: did you know White Castle burgers (called "Slyders") have five holes in them? So not only are they tiny, they're Swiss! And, um, I'm on a trek to explore all things Swiss in NYC. (I'm pretty sure the long answer is a lie.)

adventures in long island city

It was 5:30 at night. I had just woken up from two separate naps – the one before picking up my absolutely-favorite-and-now-resoled shoes from the cobbler, and the one after. Still groggy, I reached for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey," croaked a voice on the other end of the line, sniffling, "what are you doing?"

"Hey Thea, I just woke up. What are you doing?"

"Well, it's Saturday and it's summer, and I think we should take advantage of that," she said, and broke off into a hacking cough. "Sorry."

"No, I totally agree." And having just woken up after sleeping for four hours, I did totally agree, despite having the same exact plague as Thea's.

The plan was simple. We'd get dressed, and head to P.S. 1 for their courtyard dance party, and then afterwards head to the Water Taxi Beach, where neither of us had ever been before. Dancing, dancing, and beach. What else could be better?

"Meet you at 7:30," I said, and dragged my lazy bones into the shower.

I might have a little optimistic about 7:30. Realistically there was no way I could get showered, dressed and get from Brooklyn to LIC in two hours – especially not on a Saturday. I was determined to try, however.

I set off towards the F train, mercifully catching a bus along the way. Once I passed Bergen Street, though, I realized I had run out of stops where I could switch from the F to the G train, so I figured I'd take the F to the V. I got off at 42nd Street to change to the V, but only then realized that the V doesn't run on the weekend. Great. Horace, God of the MTA, was smiling on me that night – the 7 train stops at 42nd Street, and I took that out to Queens. I was only seven minutes late. (Thanks, Horace. I'll burn your offering this weekend.)

Thea, on the other hand, despite living on the 7 train, had a much harder time getting there. Suffice it to say there was a little confusion as to which stop to get off, and we ended up going straight to the beach.

And of course, when I say beach, I really mean "beach." It's a pier, right next to where the water taxi docks, that somebody (the owner?) has covered with sand and picnic tables and a little shanty-like bar and hotdog stand. There are porta-potties and a dance floor (plywood under a tent), and one spectacular view of Manhattan.

And tons of people. Who were all a little random. There were the artistic-types (Thea was briefly besotted by a guy she called "Graffiti Pants"), the financial types (two guys we chatted with both worked with lots and lots of money), the clubby types (ah, dear sweet White Shirt Guy, why didn't you talk to me?? I console myself with thoughts that you were dumb…) and the pot-smoking types (they were everywhere, because nobody else was out in the middle of nowhere to tell them not to).

Now, I love walking on the beach, especially at night. So if Thea and I had been the only ones out there, that would have been fine with me. Well, a little odd, lonely and dangerous perhaps, but you get my point. So to add tasty (albeit absurdly expensive) drinks, cute guys, dancing and perfect weather to the mix… awesome.

A highlight? Mike the Brit.

At one point, Thea and I were dancing and this guy came on the dance floor looking a bit like a chicken on fire. Now, I'm no Martha Graham, but he was super-flailey, super-sweaty and tons of fun! Thea new instantaneously that he was British (she has a sensor for those things) and I only found out after we started playing a game: Who Can Make Dancing with Your [insert body part] Look Best? Let's just say no one, British or American, male or female, looks good dancing with an elbow.

The night wore on, our decongestants wore off and we packed it in. (But not before a guy said to Thea, "Hey, you're GORGEOUS!" Her response? "And I rock the Casbah!" Sadly, he didn't get it.) Instead of a reversal of the trip I had taken that afternoon, I crashed at Thea's house (a mere twenty minutes away), and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was drowning in my own snot. I relocated to the couch and a 45 degree angle, only to scare the shit out of Thea by going missing.

"I felt like a guy whose lady has up and left him in the night." (Direct quote)

All in all, a repeat-worthy adventure!

i'm not eighty six! i'm thirty!

My New York age is 30

Here's a fun quiz from Time Out New York that will tell you how old you are in New York years. Despite my granny cart, cat show attendance and generally questionable social life, I'm not 86 like I thought I'd be.

As a 30 New-York-year old, these are my results:

This New York age puts you into a middle category between young and old (but not "middle age" per se). Be proud. You've got a nice balance between going out hard-core and staying in. You care about culture but also like some quiet nights. Keep it up, but think about expanding your horizons in the other directions.

What's your New York age? Take the Time Out New York quiz and find out!

tee hee hee

Because I have absolutely nothing to say, I will let this little gift from Christina say it all for me:

the sufferance of fools

Fools can now vote!

(Oh, wait, that's suffrage, not sufferance.)

[And, Kate, fools have been voting a lot in the past few years, you say. Totally different topic, my friends, totally different.]

So I was out the other night with my excellent friend Keri, and we were talking about how two such attractive figures as ourselves could spend a whole night at a bar or an event or just out, and not be chatted up or hit on or even ogled once -- not that we necessarily want to be ogled, but you know what I mean.

And I was reminded of something another friend once told me about why nobody's talking to me. "Kate," he said, looking at me with a big sweet smile on his face, "you look like you don't suffer fools gladly. I mean, you're gorgeous, but if I didn't already know you, there's no way I'd risk coming over to talk to you."

That's really stuck with me. (I may have added the "you're gorgeous," just to make my memory feel better, but that's not the point, either.) The challenge for me is that I don't suffer fools well, and I'd rather stay home and watch a movie than spend a night out chatting with someone boring, dumb or boorish.

So I focus on the girlfriend(s) I'm with. And I have a great time. But I do worry sometimes that I could spend the rest of my life this way, going out with girlfriends, connecting with people I already know, and not meeting anyone new.

I think it might be... Time for an Internet Advice Intervention!

Luckily for me, there are tons of advice columns about how to be more approachable in a social setting. I've picked a few of my favorites (and will be putting them all into action... maybe.)

This video warns me away from "blocking behaviors" like holding your wine glass in front of your face, or talking from behind a bush. (Ok, I'm lying about the bush.) Hmmm, can't say I'm doing either of those.

This page wants me to (and I quote) "have fun at a party." Now, see, I knew I was doing something wrong.

I like this page because it's completely irrelavant to my situation, and yet chock-a-block with good advice. (It's about how to be an Approachable Girl at School.) Things like "Always maintain good hygiene" and "Have fresh breath"; "Don't stress out too much about your body image; you have the rest of your life to do that." And my most favorite... "Be polite. No burping, spitting, swearing, etc. Say please, thank you, and sorry, even when it isn't your fault." Clearly, I should stop expecting to meet people when I'm running, as I rarely have good hygiene or fresh breath and I'm constantly spitting (and not at all sorry for it.)

This is a good resource for those of you who want to be more approachable while fly fishing. (I know I do.) Luckily, while fly fishing (as opposed to being an approachable girl at school (above)) what you wear is not important. (Phew!)

I'm fond of this article, because it says, "If you are a guy and you are wondering how to be approachable, you should probably go see a shrink because it is your job to be the one who approaches, not the one who is approached. So you fellas need to stop being lazy and put in work." Thanks, Sun Dixie, for letting me entirely off the hook!

This one's got some interesting advice: "Go to places where a guy can talk to you without a lot of spectators. Guys don't like to strike out, especially if there are a lot of witnesses. I don't mean for you to hang out in a dark alley. Maybe a park, the beach, an empty swing set." Hmm, that's actually good info. (Also on this site? "Make eye contact n smile ...not in a hooker way" Damn! I knew I was doing something wrong!)
I like this site because it's called "How to Stop Being a Social Outcast and Take Some Initiative (for Her)" Awesome. It's especially good because it's mostly advice on what not to do, for example, "Your smile. Don't do a hideous smile that shows all of your teeth or an ear-to-ear grin." Aw crap, I think my hideous smile is way better than my Mouthful of Rotten Fish smile...

And finally, a site that I found both entertaining and secretly kind of helpful. (Make sure you watch the Flirting Video.) It doesn't hurt that I know one of the actresses in the film, but the advice the woman gives out is actually kind of useful. She says that if you've got a group of women and you see a group of men just kind of hanging around at a bar, it's not a bad idea to approach them and say "hey, we're over here if you're interested." I'm not sure I'd ever have the guts to do it, but whatever.

So now that I'm armed with all this good advice, I expect to see you all at the bar this weekend, smiling, being approachable, and most of all, leaving your shrubs at home!

canoe racing schmanoe racing

Dear Universe,

Thank you so much for sending the canoe race my way. Man, it was boring as all get out, but if I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have caught up with a friend from my improv group in college, and had a really great afternoon in the sun.

I'm starting to get your point.

Love,
Kate

p.s. HOWEVER, I haven't quite gotten your point in giving me those guys on the beach who said (and I'm quoting) "the Japanese are an inferior race, because of their morals. And it's genetic." Seriously, Universe, WTF? And did they have to say it loud enough to incense me so much I had to leave the beach? And did they have to say it in front of their kids? I was seriously tempted to tell them I was Japanese. Not that they'd buy it, because I'm so SUPER-SWEDISH, but really. Universe, can we work on this??

p.p.s. Happy 20,000th view, blog-readers!