spamela hamderson

oh my god, have you seen this? It's the Muppet Wiki -- more specifically their page of parody muppets.

Among my favorites:

Billy Idle. He sang "Rebel L" about, well, I'll let you guess.

Bruce Stringbean. Rockin' the leather jacket era.
Donald Grump. Sporting a nice 'do in the hood.
Meryl Sheep. Apparently her audition script there reads "Baa baaa baaa baa baaa baa."
Sally Messy Yuckyael. Love it!
Placido Flamingo. Apparently he sings at the "Nestopolitan Opera."
and my favorite (who also looks an AWFUL LOT like Miss Piggy...) Spamela Hamderson.

Excellent!

emotional white picket fences

There are times in my life (usually when I've just made a huge, earth-shattering discovery) when I wish someone had beaten me about the head years ago. (No, I'm not taking volunteers, but thanks!)

I've learned a thing or two recently about boundaries.

For the longest time, I didn't think about boundaries. I thought, hey, I'm pretty cool, and I like feeling close to people, so I'm going to show you everything I've got, and you can go shopping in my soul to fill up your basket. That way, you'll like me better... so I can like me better!

It really never occurred to me to keep anything back. I thought that if a relationship was "real," it was meant to handle the mess and the ugly and the misery of a drowning person (me). That was its point, right? I never really knew the benefit of handling something on your own, and then approaching your friend/lover/parent/etc. as a person.

(Insert blanket apology to all my ex-boyfriends, ever.)

(Oh, and my family.)

(Yeah, ok, my friends, too.)

(Random reader? You want in? Fine. My apologies for all those years.)

Having been single for a while now, and recently going through something best described as "tricky" with one of my closest friends (which means we haven't spoken on a daily basis like we're used to), I've begun to see the benefits of handling emotional things on my own, and having boundaries.

Turns out: boundaries aren't just about what you let in from other people, but what you let out from yourself. (hmmmmm.)

As an actor, it is valuable to have access to a lot of emotion. (I think this holds true for human beings in general, but I'm just me.) However, there is a difference between "being emotional" and acting on that emotion. For example, a few years ago, I was so dismally unhappy with myself, I started to cry in front of my boyfriend who, bless his soul, didn't judge or walk away or anything. He just stayed with me and supported me. A total hero. The more I cried, the more wretched I felt. That sinking, spiraling feeling overwhelmed me and I got angry, sick, sad, miserable... a million crappy feelings at once. (I forget how it ended. Maybe my hero boyfriend rallied me. I only remember how awful it was.)

The problem was that the more I shared this with him, the crappier I felt about it. I wanted him to rescue me, but he couldn't.

If I had had a sense of my boundaries back then, I would have told him that I was having a crappy night, that he should go home and that I would take care of myself and either come by later or not. It's easy to succumb to the idea that someone else can take care of you better than you, and while someone can be supportive and help you out, you're the one changing your mind. You're the one doing the work.

Tom Kenyon (a random guy I found on the internet, who I happen to like) said in an article about boundaries, "To say 'no' to ourselves or another can sometimes be the most courageous and powerful act imaginable. And sometimes, saying 'no' to someone is more 'loving' (i.e., caring) than saying 'yes.'"

Of course I'll continue to be an open, trusting person. That's just my nature. And I'm sure I'll overstep and understep my boundaries in the future. But I finally know about them, and what they feel like. I'm willing to work on them and keep them in my awareness.

So go ahead, try and mess with me. I'm Boundary Girl now!

(um, no, please don't.)
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In writing this, I looked around online for some framing ideas, and came across some thoughts that didn't incorporate themselves neatly into what I was writing. I share them with you in a half-hearted attempt to smack any of you over the head who want it (or will want it further down the road).

This site talks about how unhealthy boundaries may appear in a relationship, mainly in six different ways:

• Lack of a Sense of Identity
• Settling for Second Best
• Over-Responsibility and Guilt (for someone else's well-being)
• The Difference Between Love and Rescue
• Fantasy vs. Reality

This site talks about how the way we let people treat us delineates our own boundaries. (Yeah, duh, it's obvious, but, give me a break here, I just figured this out!)

This site delineates the range of boundaries, including healthy boundaries, unhealthy boundaries, walls and no boundaries.

It also shows the signs of healthy boundaries, for those of you who are now worried:

• Appropriate trust
• Revealing a little of yourself at a time, then checking to see how the other person responds to your sharing
• Moving step by step into intimacy
• Putting a new acquaintanceship on hold until you check for compatibility
• Deciding whether a potential relationship will be good for you
• Staying focused on your own growth and recovery
  Weighing the consequence before acting on sexual impulse
• Being sexual when you want to be sexual--concentrating largely on your own pleasure rather than monitoring reactions of partner
• Maintaining personal values despite what others want
  Noticing when someone else displays inappropriate boundaries
• Noticing when someone invades your boundaries
• Saying "NO" to food, gifts, touch, sex you don't want
• Asking a person before touching them
• Respect for others--not taking advantage of someone's generosity
• Self-respect--not giving too much in hope that someone will like you
• Not allowing someone to take advantage of your generosity
• Trusting your own decisions
• Defining your truth, as you see it
• Knowing who you are and what you want
• Recognizing that friends and partners are not mind-readers
• Clearly communicating your wants and needs (and recognizing that you may be turned down, but you can ask)
• Becoming your own loving parent
• Talking to yourself with gentleness, humor, love and respect

iphone hacker

If you've turned your computer on today, you've probably seen a picture or two of the iPhone hacker, the guy who managed to free up the new Apple iPhone for use on networks other than AT&T. If you haven't, well, there, I've just told you the news. (You can read it here, though.)
(the hero of the story)

Is it just me, or does it look like the news story should read more like this:
SAN FRANCISCO - The teenage hacker who managed to unlock the iPhone so that it can be used with cellular networks other than AT&T is now suing the company over the iPhone's unfortunate and shocking ability to get out of his pocket and kill all his friends, neighbors and, well, actually, anyone he's ever met.

George Hotz, of Glen Rock, N.J., said of the newly liberated iPhone, "This thing sucks. Once I had a life, and now this little piece of crap, which I have to hold in my hand very firmly for fear that it will escape and kill someone else, has taken that from me. I've never before been so angry and sad at the same time."

Shunned before by jocks and hotties alike, Hotz is suffering a new level of loneliness, having been kicked out of even the AV Club. "We're not his friends," said one geek bent over a disemboweled iPhone, quickly shoveling pieces into the trash, "and we had nothing to do with this." He added quickly, "We're not jealous, either."

Hotz is reportedly putting the new phone on eBay, and the opening bid is one date. Said a prospective buyer, "Ooh, that's a steep price. But my ex-husband really sucks, and I was thinking of maybe giving him a call…"

i heart mike rowe

As you all know (because I haven't spoken to any of you since it happened), I got cable! Which delightfully means I can now hang out with my favorite pretend boyfriend: Mike Rowe, of the Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs.

This guy cracks me up. His delivery is genius, he merges fearlessness with utter stupidity and he says "poo" more than any seven year old I've ever met. And did I mention he's gorgeous?
The show's website is a little cheesy, but check out some of his outtakes here -- I especially recommend the one with the pig.

The guy does smelly, nasty, outrageous things with little hesitation and few complaints. Come on, what's not to love??

i’ve fallen! and i can’t get up!

My family has this thing about falling down. I think it started when I was born, and my grandmother fell in the grocery store (or was it the driveway? the kitchen?) and, my mother thinks, cracked her hip. She got very sore -- practically immobile -- and spent the next three weeks in the rocking chair on the third floor (back in the 70s, when we had a third floor), with me standing up in her lap. My poor mother, post-pregnancy, would trundle food up to my grandma (and me), toting my (at the time) almost three-year-old sister around the house with her. Sure, she didn't have to take care of screaming little me, but I'm pretty sure she would have preferred being the one in the rocking chair.

But this is not the story. It is merely the beginning.

My sister was sleepwalking one night when we were on vacation in Door County Wisconsin (she was probably trying to walk back to something that resembled civilization), and she fell down the stairs, waking up only when she had hit the bottom.

My mom once took a fairly serious header off a curb in NYC and hit her head on a truck and then the gutter. (We had to laugh about that a lot later.)

My mother, sister and I did a three car pile up in Florence when mom tripped over her shoe, Polly tripped over my mom, and I tripped over Polly. (My dad continued on down the street, completely oblivious). (This gets reenacted during Dinner Plate Theatre, and often involves the noisy clanking of a spoon on top of a fork on top of a spoon.)

My aunt fell off her shoe. My mom fell on her computer. I fell up the stairs. Any time gravity over-exerts itself on a member of my family, we tend to report it to one another. And then laugh.

Which is why, when I fell off my shoe AND fell down the stairs in the front of the bar I was at last night, I had to report back to my family. "Just fell off my shoe and down the stairs. Thought you should know."

I landed partially on my 99 cent bottle of Faux Drano and partially on my knee (both emerged mostly unharmed, if not a little leaky). I got a small scrape on my left knee and an even smaller one on my right ankle. But the best part of it all was when my friend Andrea (who is recently returned from south america -- yippee!) said, "do you want to walk down the street a little bit and then cry?"

"No," I said, smiling at her logic, "I don't think I actually need to cry. But I would like to walk away a bit so I can inspect the damage without a whole bar full of people staring at my clumsy ass!"

Feel free to call me Grace.

read this. it will change your life.

Would you like fries with your drivel today? (If so, please go out and purchase them. This is not a charity operation, you know.)

A few things I'd like to comment on, in no particular order:

1. I am not one to say "never," but I believe this firmly: Cantaloupe should NEVER be green and furry.

2. A friend from high school was in town recently and asked me if I had had a breast reduction. I turned to him and said, "I've had a whole ME reduction!" and then proceeded to call him a boob-looker for the rest of the night.

3. Have I mentioned that I finally joined the human race and got cable? Yes, yes, I did! I also got high speed internet and phone, too. Except, (surprise, surprise) the phone doesn't work. I called Time Warner to report it and they said I have to call them from my home. Excellent.

3a. I got cable on Wednesday and was out late Wednesday night, so I couldn't watch it or play with it at all. And then, on Thursday I went my parents' house straight after work. So Thursday morning, slightly hung-over, I stood naked in my living room, towel turban on my head, trying to program my DVR and pack my suitcase at the same time, periodically running into the other room to put clothes on. It was a sight.

(an approximation of my inner monologue: "Ok, CSI.... "press select"... ok, select! .... brrr, I need some pants.... oh! Pants! good idea, pack those!... Ooh, Mythbusters! Yeah, I like that!.... man, I'm thirsty.... hmmm, what shirt should I wear?")

4. I believe that, in mid-August, I should not be sleeping in long pants and a long sleeve shirt under my heavy blanket. Unless I'm feeling especially profligate and am sleeping directly under the air conditioner. (which is almost never the case)

I also believe, unrelatedly, that you should not wake up to August temperatures that correlate to the hour of the day (e.g., it should not be 55 degrees at 7:55, like it was today). And (also unrelatedly) I believe that you should never have to wake up at airplane o'clock (7:47).

5. I sent this email to my friend Keri today, who I'm sure now thinks I'm insane:

Dear Library,
Keri recommended this book. can I have it please?
Love,
Kate
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Dear Kate,
Yes, you can have it, after 179 other people read it.
Love,
NYPL
-----------------------
Dear NYPL,
You kind of stink. But only a little. By the way, here's my $1.75 for five books overdue a day. My bad.
Love you!
k8
---------------------------
Dear Kate,
We love you, too. Would you like to send us $20 as part of our fundraising event? Please?Pretty please?
Your BEST FRIEND,
NYPL
-------------------------
Dear NYPL,
Here's $20, but please stop calling me and hanging up. It's getting awkward.
Regards,
Kate
-----------------------
Dearest, sweetest, most lovable Kate,
Where have you gone?I MISS YOU SO DESPERATELY!I am holding all your holds until you come in and I can hold you again.
Your hot lover,
NYPL
-------------------------
To the New York Public Library,
You are hereby ordered to stay 50 feet away from Ms. Katherine Surgeon at all times. Failure to do so may result in a fine and/or prison sentence.
THE NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT

At least I crack myself up.

thwarted good samaritanism

Thursday night I got on a train and headed out to my parents' house for a weekend of sitting around, eating and generally doing nothing. (Which was excellent, by the way, thanks for asking.)

However, when I got off the train at the end of the line, I noticed that someone had left a purse on the rack over the seats, and, not really trusting the MTA's Lost & Found, I took the purse with me to my parents' house, ready to call the owner and let her know her purse was safe and sound, and in the hands of a sane, friendly person.

Except there was absolutely nothing with identification in the purse. No wallet, no ID, no mail. Nothing. Not even a library card. The only thing in there was a pair of shoes (not my style) and a huge WAD of keys. There must have been ten keys and fifteen keychains on that thing. And easily ten quick tags -- the little cards you can get from places like (oh, say for example) CVS, AAA, Sam Goody, Shop Rite, etc.

My first thought was to call AAA, of course. I dialed the number on the tag, and they asked for the ID number... which had been partially scratched off the tag by endless rubbing against sixty five keychains. I then called the car dealership that was printed on one of the keychains. Nobody answered. I started to give up hope.

My father championed the cause, and called CVS and Shop Rite (who did not treat him well, so he called the CEO to complain), with no luck.

My mother championed the cause, and took a picture of the purse, and made a poster for us to take back to the train station and hang up. Except, whenever my mother and the computer are involved, things get a little haywire.

The first poster was very simple, and looked like this:
(Except the 555-5555 was replaced with my parents' phone number. You don't need to know that. If I gave it out they'd be inundated with calls about how much time their daughter wastes. Don't bother, they already know.)

Well, we got a little giddy about the poster, and the second version looked a little more like this: I, of course, had to get my own two cents in, and reworked the poster myself (at this point, mind you, my mother and I are in such hysterics that we can't breathe, and tears are running down our cheeks. There's something about my mother's laugh that just cuts me up inside. When she gets going, it's really hard for me to stop.)
The purse sat on the countertop all weekend, staring us in the face, announcing its inappropriate presence at all hours. We sometimes carried it around, pretending it was ours. It became the butt of ugly jokes. We talked about all the things we should be doing to find its owner. (My dad mentioned posting it on my blog and I said "pshaw, Dad, I only write about intersting stuff there!") In the end, we just agreed that I would take it back to Grand Central Station on Monday, on my way to work.

Except that my sister eventually got sick of looking at it, and put it somewhere less obtrusive on Sunday night. So I forgot to grab it this morning on my way out the door.

Sheesh! Who knew it was so hard to be a good samaritan?

how NOT to woo me. (seriously.)

Dear gentlefolk of the single variety,

Under no circumstances will this ever win you a night in my charming company:

would you approve your own profile? If I had written it and presented
it to you would you have given it the go-ahead? would you? you
deserve better let me rewrite it for you?

In fact, in will earn you this response:

Wow, you are painfully rude.

At which point, I would not recommend responding with:

read my profile and learn

Because you just might get this response:

kiss my ass and learn.*

Your pal, and devoted k8-d8ing guru,
k8


*I might not have actually written this. But I'll tell you what, I thought it very hard!

more entertaining utter uselessness

I was recently complaining to a coworker about how stupid some other coworkers were and I said to him, "I mean, come on, it's not like it's rocket surgery!"

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I think it's sad when the only action you're getting is from your dental floss:
(and when the screen on your camera phone is so small you can't tell when something is in or out of focus...)

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Remember my animal crackers? They've been in the bag together too long, and I think they're getting randy!

I can't say that I blame them, though. I've always been a big fan of hot monkey on hippo action. (lion on guinea pig action? squirrel on cow action?)

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I was on a date the other night, telling one of my favorite stories of all time, and the Frank I was on the date with cut me off halfway through. And I'm all for chiming in when you're excited about what you're hearing, but I also believe there needs to be some circling back to where the original story was left off. Otherwise it feels like you're not listening to me.

So, in honor of interrupting cows -- I mean, boys -- everywhere, I bring you the full story:
I used to live one block further south than I do now, and on my way home, I used to pass a small produce store, run by an overly friendly Korean woman who spoke both English and Spanish (and, of course, Korean). I was a very regular customer, and she often plied me with chocolate bars, compliments or other niceties you might share with your top shoppers.

Our conversation was always very mundane -- the weather, the neighborhood, the price of cantaloupes. It was a formality that was comfortable. I knew her well enough to greet her in passing, but not well enough that I actually knew anything about her. One day, however, she crossed some imaginary line and took up residence at the corner of Don't Go There Lane and No She Didn't Avenue.

I happened to walk out of the house one morning sporting the largest Mt. Vesuvius my forehead had ever seen. I mean, this zit was so big, it throbbed. It impinged my line of sight. It was colossal. I did my best to cover it up, but there was really no hiding it, so I just pretended it wasn't there and went on with my day.

Until I got to the produce store. The first thing the shopkeeper said to me was, "You have beeg peempill on your foh-head!"

I stared at her, shocked. After twenty seconds, I picked my jaw up off the floor and said, "You don't tell people that! They already know!" I paid for my goods, stormed out the door and contemplated never going back.

Of course I went back (her fruit was so much cheaper than anyone else's) but from that point on, I dubbed her Inappropriate Vegetable Lady, and was braced for whatever was going to fall out of her mouth next.

"You very beeg," she said, making the hubba-hubba-big-tits gesture with her hands. "I no think so 'cause you so skeeeeny!"

I made the mistake of telling her I was single. "You no maddied? You preeeety girl. You should be maddied. Make man buy food for you to cook."

I made the mistake of telling her I had a date. "Where he take you? 'Spensive dinner? They no pay, they no good."

I made the mistake of taking a boyfriend in with me to shop. "You maddy her? You very lucky. She very beautiful." And in the same visit, "You two look like brother-sister."

Eventually I took to lying to her. Yes, I lied, he buys me things. Yes, I told her, he's moving in. Yes, I dug the hole deeper, I'm engaged.

Finally, I moved up the street. No longer passing her store on a daily basis, I found it much easier to just never go back. And although the folks at Steve's C-Town (Town Town) are efficient, cheap and non-intrusive, occasionally I suffer a wave of nostalgia for Inappropriate Vegetable Lady, and wonder what on earth she would come up with if I strolled into her store today.

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My sister is turning into my mother. Last night I talked to her on the phone and she told me three different times that her wig had arrived from Hong Kong just that very day. (which was funny enough just hearing it once.) My mother would say my sister has a case of "youngsheimers."

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How's this for an awesome quote?

"One thing is certain: To the person with an unshakable faith that something wonderful is going to happen, something wonderful is happening." -- Eric Butterworth

the party update

Being the social butterfly that I am, I was invited to two (count 'em, TWO) parties this weekend!

Party Number 1: Meat Party!
Yes, "Meat Party" does sound like something out of a porn movie, but it's not. It's this party that friends of friends of mine do every year, where there are several hundred courses of meat served throughout the day, with swimming, drinking, lazing around and hanging out to break up the eating monotony.

I have heard the lore of Meat Party for years now (which usually goes something like this... "oooooh, I ate waaaaaay too much at Meat Party yesterday.... ohhhhhhh"), but luckily, this Saturday, I was invited to partake of the joy that is Meat Party first hand.

There were Chicken Spiedies (a Binghamton delicacy), brats, burgers and dogs, hawaiian ribs, deep fried chicken wings and a variety of salads, pastas and desserts to go along with them.
My contribution? Dessert hamburgers. (A better picture will follow. This is just a placeholder.)
(They're yellow cake buns (with real sesame seeds!) and brownie burgers. The ketchup and mustard are frosting and the lettuce is green coconut. I know, they're cute!)

It was such a treat just to get out of the city, hang out in a real live backyard, eat grilled food and meet some excellent friends of friends.

Party Number 2: Goooooooo Cyclones!
On Sunday, the lovely Sarah had her birthday party at a Brooklyn Cyclones game -- which was so much fun, and I don't even really like baseball!

We sat in the boondockiest bleachers, and Sarah's friend hooked us up with multiple sets of "thundersticks" (basically these inflatable plastic tubes that, when you hit them together in the right way, make an irritating (yet addictive) noise), so any time there was a good play, (or a bad play) or, really, any opportunity for us to make noise, we did.

My new favorite player (since Albert Pujols) is Lucas Duda. I have no idea why, but something about his name has a really fun ring to it, so I spent a great deal of the afternoon shouting "DoooooooooooooooDaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah" for absolutely no good reason.

Me: Camptown Ladies sing this songEveryone else: Duda! Duda!Me: Camptown track is five miles long

Everyone else: Kate!! Stop!!!

The Cyclones won, incidentally, beating the Auburn (GA) Doubledays something like 4-1. In the Condiments Race Down the Baseline, Relish beat out Ketchup and Mustard, and in the backwards flipper race, the short fat kid won over the short skinny one. (Ah, minor leagues!)

The Cyclones' stadium is right on the beach, so the sun was shining, the sea air was blowing and, for the most part, you didn't have to see any of the nastiness that is Coney Island. (Although one friend did have the incredible misfortune of seeing an old man in a "speedo with windows." When we asked her if he was naked, she said, no, he was wearing a bathing suit, but somehow, it was entirely see through. Then she shuddered and a tear slid down her cheek.)

At the end of the game, the Cyclones have a traditional Children Run the Bases, and kids of all ages take a turn around the diamond. Well, it being Sarah's birthday, she wanted to run, and was in no position to take no for an answer. So out there, among the kids, after about fifteen seconds of cajoling, was one very tall kid, with braids in her hair, hoisting a birthday balloon over her head, and the biggest smile on her face.

Now that's a party!

i heart commuting!

Um, did you hear that a tornado hit Brooklyn? I know, we're so cool! (and now wet and bedraggled, too, but that's another story) The thunder in the storm last night was so loud and so close that it set off car alarms. Don't even bother counting the Mississippis between the lightening and the clap -- they were practically simultaneous.

So this morning, after all hell had broken loose and the streets were littered with the cats and dogs it had rained, I got up to go to work. (Like you do when you have a job and live in Brooklyn.) But when I got to the station, there were no R trains running. None. I thought maybe I'd walk to the F train and try that. Nope, no such luck. No trains at all.

Well, gee, I thought to myself, I could walk to work, schlepping all my stuff and getting hot, sweaty and nasty, or I could go home and try again later.

You know you would have gone home, too. Don't lie.

I changed my outfit (it was too hot anyway) and mopped my kitchen floor. (you know, typical Wednesday morning activity...) I laid on the bed for about fifteen minutes and decided to try again (for the subway, not the mopping), and when I got to the station, I changed into my terrycloth bathrobe and enjoyed the sauna. (well, I should have. It would have been a real pore-cleanser.)

After about twenty minutes, a train came, and was fairly empty, so I got on it, got a seat and just sort of went with the flow. When we hit Atlantic Avenue (six years later), they said the train was going over the bridge to Canal Street. Sweet! [it's a shorter commute.] However, when we came off the bridge, we were at Grand Street... which wasn't Canal Street. No sweat really (well, no additional sweat) -- eventually the train would get to midtown and I would just walk to work.

People were friendly, chatty, hot, and someone near me was farty (which was unfortunate). And there was a REALLY cute guy on the train and I thought, as he sat down next to me, I'd chat him up and have him in love with me by the time we hit West 4th Street, but... he was married. So I silently punished him by reading my Instructional Design Manual and keeping my charm to myself. (But man oh man, he even sweat in a sexy way! No fair!)

People were actually excited to see me when I got to work, so that part was nice, and they're cranking the A/C here (surprise surprise) so it's not like the swamp my apartment would be.

Secretly, I kind of love days like this. It feels like a snow day, except much much hotter, and New Yorkers (at least the ones who decided to delay like I did) took it pretty much in stride.

What else can you really do? Swim to work?

think about direction (wonder why you haven’t before)

I'm famous! (Again.) I know, I know, it's getting old, isn't it? This time I'm famous because I talked to Michael Stipe on the phone! For almost a whole minute! I was very friendly (and he was in a tin can) and I transfered him to someone else.

The end.

by kate

So this weekend, I partied like a rockstar in her early twenties and by Sunday I had developed a fairly severe liver-ache (which manifest themselves by an intense desire to lay down and not go to work the next day).

Friday night Thea invited me to a going away party for a friend of hers who is moving to Hong Kong. She promised me "successful men in suits -- just your type!" which was just enough to twist my arm and get me to go to the UWS (yikes!) for this party.

She didn't, however, mention that they would be 1) of the International Men of Mystery variety, 2) short, or 3) Not In Their Suits Anymore. (Not her fault, she didn't know.)

The private part of the party was winding down by the time we got there -- we got a little hung up at Thea's work because there were waaaaaaay too many people who wanted to eat Mexican food that night. Which turned out ok, because I put my personal Talk-To-Strangers Challenge into action and chatted up the guy sitting next to me. His name was Efraim ("Eff") and he's a mechanical engineer who lives with his girlfriend of seven years in a deadzone in midtown east and they're probably going to move back to Texas -- or somewhere else -- in the not so distant future. He was nice, the margarita in front of me was as big as my head, and Thea was doing her best to get going as soon as possible.

Of course, the skies opened up the second we left, so we hopped in a cab and paddled uptown.
At the party, there was some very intense conversation, but I was not part of it. I hung back, drank more tequila and ate cheese cubes. I also discovered what I thought was going to be some sort of savory patty (probably with curry, I dreaded) which turned out to be little smores. So I ate a million of them.

Here are the best parts of the wind-down of the evening:
1) Someone played one of the video games at the bar long enough to get the guest of honor a pair of light up glasses, so we all tried them on. This was Thea's turn:

2) A thrower of the party was VERY VERY VERY drunk and dropped something from his pocket. Which, when I picked it up and put it back in there for him, turned out to be a few thousand dollars. In cash.

3) I chatted with a guy who, over the course of the conversation, I'm pretty sure I told I was single and dating. At the end of the night, however, when he asked me for my number, I told him I was seeing someone. (I was. I was seeing Margarita. She's hot!)

4) We had had too much to drink to get on the subway right away (and Thea's metrocard died two hours earlier) so we walked from 82nd to 42nd in hopes of clearing our minds (and systems) a bit before going home. I have no idea now what we talked about. It was very important, though, I'm sure.

It was 3:30 by the time I got home. And I had been desperate all night (since about 1:45) for a piece of toast. (I don't know why, so don't ask.) At one point, I even asked thea if she had any toast in her bag. (she didn't.) When I got home, I couldn't be bothered to actually plug in the toaster, so I threw some bread in the microwave and ate it in bed as I fell asleep.

I am the poster child for glamor and the single life.
to be continued...

p.s. the link on Michael Stipe is for my mother. Hi mom!

hello bad kitty!

I have plenty of other important things to say, but I just found this and thought it was worth everyone else's time.

The jist of the story:

"BANGKOK, Thailand - Thai police officers who break rules will be forced to wear hot pink armbands featuring "Hello Kitty," the Japanese icon of cute, as a mark of shame, a senior officer said Monday."

me-ow!