some cool pictures from budapest

I'm too jet lagged to write more tonight (aren't you supposed to not get jet lag on your way home?) so instead, I'll show you what you might see if you were walking with your head down in Budapest:

Sometimes it pays to be a little shy.

what i did on my european vacation

Summing up the last nine days in one post would be almost impossible, so I'm going to try to encapsulate a few key moments, and stretch it out over a few posts to give you the gist of my trip to Budapest, Vienna, Saltzburg and Padua. I'll do my best to keep it chronological and entertaining, but if you start to get bored, go ahead and take a nap. I won't notice.

1. The Day of Departure, or Why I Hate Time Warner Almost as Much as Lufthansa
My flight left on Thursday at 5pm, so I woke up early on Thursday morning to tie up some loose ends -- turn on my out of office notice, make sure my shows would record while I was away, the usual stuff. But wouldn't you know it? My cable was out. No phone, no cable, NO INTERNET. So I couldn't check in for my flight and get a seat (ideally a window for the overnighter), I couldn't send the three emails I needed to send, I couldn't post a farewell blog, I couldn't do anything but sit in my house, stew and think of things to throw at the TWC truck parked on my block.

Eventually, I got some online help from an angel who works with my dad (thank you Judy!) who tried to check me in. But Lufthansa, contrary to EVERY AIRLINE IN THE WORLD EVER, won't let you check in online if your flight is within the next 24 hours.

Dear Lufthansa,
You're backwards.
Love,
Kate
p.s. I hate you.

I got to Newark around 3:15 for a 5:10 flight, and the maze near the check-in counter was totally filled. I went to the end, and saw there was an extension maze off to the side, so I went to the rear of that. When I got there, I was directed down the hall about half a football field to ANOTHER MAZE, six rows deep and FULL of people.

"My flight's at 5:10. Am I going to make it?"

"They say it shouldn't be a problem, but I don't know if I belive them. Ours is at 5:15. If we don't make it, though, that's fine, our connection in Frankfurt's not until 24 hours later."

"My connection is an hour later. And I'm meeting my parents there. If I don't make this flight..." (panic starts to set in for real.)

An hour an a half later (4:45) I was checked in. Ticket-for-a-middle-seat in hand, I rocketed towards security, only to find it jam packed with everyone I already met in the Lufthansa line. I took off my shoes, watch, sunglasses, and the metal plate in my head, and waited. The line was going nowhere fast. Finally, I just kind of plowed my way to the front, telling everyone my plane was about to leave, which, in theory, it was. But when I got to the front of the line, this old cranky couple was there and wouldn't let me go in front of them.

"My flight's about to leave, do you mind if I go ahead of you?"

"Yes. You should have gotten here earlier." (I'm not kidding, these old coots actually said this.)

"I got here two hours ahead."

"Well, you should have gotten here earlier."

They then proceeded to move AS SLOWLY AS POSSIBLE through security, directly in front of me.

Dear Old Coots at Security,
You suck, and should have let me go ahead. Then I would have lauded you as heroes. As it is, I am forced to tell the world you suck.
Love,
Kate
p.s. I hate you, too.

With a little smile from above (my flight was delayed about 15 minutes due to a late aircraft arrival), I made it. I found my way to my crap-ass middle seat and plunked down. Little did I know it, but I was right behind Baby Row.

Lufthansa has a very nice service for people traveling with lap infants. They hook up these bassinets to the front row of any section so the babies have somewhere to fall asleep. However, this concentrates the wailing, screeching and pooping into two rows: theirs and mine.

Two glasses of wine and three podcasts later, I finally fell asleep. The guy next to me was listening to Ace of Base (he was German) and the woman on my other side, even though she was nice, was Twitchy McGee. The babies, while cute, seemed to enjoy the flight about as much as I did. I think I slept about three hours.

I switched planes in Frankfurt (just barely making the connection) and slept all the way to Budapest. Completely deaf in my right ear, I landed, met up with my folks and sleptwalked my way into a cab.

Welcome to Vacation!

a good day!

Good Day Reason 1:
I'm going on vacation tomorrow! Budapest/Vienna/Salzburg/Alps/Padua, here I come!

Good Day Reason 2:
I took some paperwork to the shredder this morning, and I could swear I heard the motor saying "yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum-yum"I think it burped as I walked away.

Good Day Reason 3:
It's my VERY LAST DAY as a secretary! Sing choirs of angels! Sing in exultation! Sing all ye citizens of Buuuu-uuu-da-pest!

Good Day Reason 4:
Lunch with a good friend. Drinks with a good friend. Shenanigans. The end.

(I may post from the trip, but I may not. We'll see what the international internets are like. If not, auf weidersein and see you soon!)

the good, the bad and my apartment

Yeah, it's still ugly in my apartment building's hallways. In case you, like me, were hoping that over the weekend a low pressure system would build up around the walls and a high pressure system would wind its way up the sweet, maroon rubber covered stairs, and the two would meet and a hurri-paint or a paint-nado of intense severity would ensue and thusly recolor the entire interior in one fell weathersystem... well, you can stop hoping now. It didn't happen.

But, now that the ugly's out of the way, I bring you:

The Good:
I passed this place on my way home from the Brooklyn Book Fair this weekend. It seems somewhat optimistic to me:

The meanie in me wanted to see a small child pitching a fit on the way out the door, but alas, there were no customers at all, happy or otherwise.

And The Bad:
I'm a snob. We all know this. And if I'm going to be snobby about anything, it's definitely going to be smarts, and how those smarts are linked with achievement. (i.e., you getting a promotion because you're hot is going to steam me like a handful of Ollie's veggie dumplings. Yes, I'll be tasty, but I'll burn the shit out of your mouth, just to make a point!)

So when I saw a piece on NY1's show On Stage, about how Claire Danes is playing Eliza Doolittle in the Roundabout's Broadway production of Pygmalion, it steamed me almost enough to cause my own paint-nado. She said, and I viciously quote, "I hadn't read Shaw before this and he's so brilliant and so daring and I really like this gal that he's created."

Please tell me she didn't graduate from Yale.

why ms. jones, you’re lovely when you hack up a lung!

I like to think that, even though I've cut my hair and can no longer yank out a pen and send my locks cascading down my back, I can still rock the good old Sexy Librarian look. You know, the slightly dowdy, long-legged woman who, when focused on her work, bites a corner of her lip, talks to herself and twists a few strands of hair around her pen, until it gets stuck there and she has to actually focus on extracting the pen and not the thing she was working on, but this proves difficult because, being a slightly dowdy woman, she doesn't carry around a compact with a mirror in it, so she is forced to try to see out of the corner of her eye, which really just makes her crosseyed and headachey...

But perhaps I digress a little.

Maybe there is someone out there who can correct me if I've got the name wrong , but I call the super-sexy-hair-releasing-maneuver the "why, ms. jones, you're so lovely" move. (I have no name for the wad-up-your-hair-on-your-pen-until-it-gets-stuck move, except maybe The Kate or The Long Afternoons In The Library Studying For Your Biology Final.) Is it from a movie? An iconic film for the sexy nerds of the world, who don't feel they can compete with the Thin, Blonde and Stupid Regime that seems to be driving our culture to make more and more films about, well, not us.

All that said, there's another move I've been perfecting of late: Le Hackage du'Lung (or, for the non-Fronch among you, Coughing So That Sometimes I Pee In My Pants A Little). This is also an alluring move, one that drives men to my sides in flocks -- nay, gaggles -- offering me bouquets of kleenex and handfuls of sudafed.

I highly recommend this mixed approach, for it keeps the gentlemen on their toes (albeit, on their toes just outside the radius of your lung-span), and really shows those Thin Sexy Blondes who's boss.

Right?

what do you mean you didn’t order a side of nonsense? it comes with your meal!

1. A few phrases I've heard recently that have made me chuckle:
When one of my co-workers was describing another, she said, "He's so grumpy he's like the Anti-Mikey!"

When one of my friends was discussing the culture of the law firm where she works, she was worried they might have a "don't make pets out of livestock" attitude. (i.e., if you're a lawyer, don't befriend the secretaries.) I told her if the cows are really friendly, why not take them home??

My friend and I at work are always complaining about the garbagey stuff we have to do, and how each project seems to be worse than the next. When it gets too bad to bear anymore we "eat the frog" -- that is, we do the absolute worst project first, just to get it out of the way.

Which reminds me...

2. Three really gross things:
a) papercuts on your eyeballs
b) the severe Poo Smell my V train rolled through last night
c) stepping on a toad in your barefeet. (that one's courtesy of Lisa.)

3. Happy Holidays!
My mom and I are celebrating the Fake Jewish Holiday of Rosh Shopshanah tomorrow, and making the customary (and highly religious) pilgrimage to the outlets at Woodbury Commons. While there, we will tithe a portion of our income to the retailers, bow down to put things into our shopping bags and fast while we're in the stores. Now that's my kind of religion!

4. I Hate Sore Throats.
The only things I hate more than sore throats are:

• maggots in my trashcan
• walking on eggshells
• barf
• rude people
• last-minute cancellations for no good reason
• paint fumes (especially if the paint is an ugly color)
• door slamming neighbors
• ill-flushing toilets
• and people who don't pick up their dogs' poos in front of my house.
  

(There are more, but why indulge this side of me? It will only give my sore throat more power...)

5. I love days off.

Things I love as much as days off:

• funny looking dogs
• blueberries
• the breeze that smells like autumn (but only if I have a jacket)
• my dad
• cash-back bonuses
• good smells
• that light in someone's eyes when they really seem to understand you
• hilarious emails
• sleeping late

the garbage can debacle

There are many words I would use to describe myself, but "neat freak" is not one of them. (it's not two of them, either, thank you, grammar police). I am clean, fairly well organized and Actively Not Disgusting, but there are times when my chores (mainly doing the dishes or washing the floor) take a backseat to, um, anything.

Seemingly unrelatedly (but trust me, it will all work out in the end), I eat a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables. Which means I throw out a lot of decomposable goodies. (Brooklyn + composting = RATS, alas.)

(You see where this is going now, don't you?)

The other night I had a date coming to pick me up at 8:30. Around 8:15, I opened the lid of my can to toss out a paper towel, and out of my trash can flew a frightening phalanx of fruit flies.
I slammed the lid down in all expedient haste, but not before seeing the ecosystem I had created in there... and the small drosophila birthing center my garbage can had become.

Swallowing a lot more than my pride, I carried the can down to the curb, opened it up, and encouraged the flies (and their maggoty offspring) to go ahead and Do Their Own Thing now that we weren't in my house anymore. They pretty much refused, sticking silently and disgustingly to the can.

Mind you, my date was scheduled to arrive any minute.

I ran back into the building, grabbed my bottle of Fabulous (a.k.a. 99 Cent Store Fantastic) and started squirting. Half a bottle later, 80% of the maggots were sloshing around in an orange-scented bath in the bottom of the can, which I promptly dumped in the street. The other 20% were just begging for a meeting with some paper towels.

I swiped. I wiped. I grossed myself out hardcore. And finally, when it was just the bottom layer of ick left in the can, I propped it against the wall so it could collect the water falling from my neighbors' air conditioner. (yes, I'm a genius.)

It's now 8:32. My date showed up, and I was slightly harried, toting a bottle of Fabulous, nine disgusting paper towels and a look in my eye that says "please ask me about ANYTHING but the garbage can."

Being a gentleman, he didn't, thank god. But, man oh man, do I bet he wondered what the hell I was doing out there!

i’m getting uglied out of house and home!

The Mylanta Green in the hallway was bad enough:*

But thank god! We're getting walls that are a more festive shade of baby shit yellow (and not painted particularly well, either):
Whyyyyyy, god, whyyyyyyy?

*note the awesome lack of doorknob on my door.

the dangers of the second date

Beware the perils of the first date!

If it's blind (or semi-blind), there are tons of pitfalls just waiting to sabotage a first date -- he could be too short/ugly/boring/hairy/stupid/smelly/alcoholic/etc. You could have nothing to talk about. He could chew with his mouth open. He could have several inches of earhair. He could be a psycho killer and murder you. (These are but a few. There are, unfortunately, thousands more, some so bad you might wish he were a psycho killer so the date could just be over.)

But let's assume you pass through that hurdle, unscathed and earhair-free. A good first date can be a fluke, leading you to an optimistic-yet-casually-reserved second date, which may or may not suck, depending on how wrong your first impression was.

You're an intrepid dater, though, so you and your expectations-free self go on your second date and one of two things happen: you either realize you were completely right in having hesitations (or referring to your date as "Second-Chance Frank"), or the unthinkable occurs: you actually start to like him.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Just the thought of it sends shivers down your spine and makes you grab all your toys and head for the faraway hills of NC (Non-Commitment). And while your inner wuss is shoving Barbie, her Camaro and six pair of underwear into a knapsack, the rest of you is incessantly (but secretly) checking email and more-often-than-could-possibly-be-necessary making sure your phone battery isn't dead. (Trust me, it isn't.)

You play it cool, though, because you're not 14 anymore (and haven't been for months), and you realize that jumping into anything would be stoopider than stoopid. You take dates with other guys, in hopes that maybe they might actually be cooler than Mr. Good Second Date, while at the same time praying that they're not. You shove a million activities onto your plate so that you don't have to just pretend to be busy. And meanwhile, you talk about him at every opportunity, telling your friends all the cute-ass things he did on your good second date, sounding more and more like the popular cheerleader in the teen novel series that you never would admit to reading in public, especially not on a blog.

(ahem.)

What you forget is that now is the time to observe his behavior, gauge if he is really as funny/thoughtful/smart/considerate as you think he is, and generally keep your cards close to your chest. Confine the fluttering to your heart and don't let it show in your hands. Avoid leaving the retarded voicemail messages that go on for sixteen minutes and accomplish absolutely nothing.

Let the natural hunter do what he does best: pursue.

Now, this is hard. Some people have to fight this inner fight this right off the bat, and some people have to wait for a (good) second date. Some don't get there until six months have passed. The self-control part is not easy, especially if you think you're exceptionally cool and there couldn't possibly be a reason he wouldn't want to hear from you several thousand times a day. However, it helps if you have a sister who consistently reminds you to stay "cool as a cucumber" (and a friend to whom you have told the "cucumber story" while her four year old was listening, so every time you call your friend, the four year old asks, "who's a cucumber?")

It's easy as pie to go on a million first dates. The hard part is getting past the second and going on a third, fourth or fifth one.

whispering sweet nothings to myself

There're a number of theories out there dealing with how people talk to themselves. One of them says that if you say something outloud, it means you've thought it to yourself something like 20,000 times (or some other outrageous number. I'm kind of making that one up). So if you're saying things like "god, I suck" or "I'm so stupid" or "I hate everything" it means you're spending a LOT of your time thinking negatively. Not sure you're doing this? Simply monitor what you say outloud and you can get a barometer of what's going on inside your head.

I've been working on this for a long time, and have really cut back on the number of horrible, judgemental things I say to myself. (It used to be mostly "Ugh! You're so stupid!" or "Too fat!") Now, for the most part, me, myself and I are just chat buddies, striking up conversations whenever we feel like it. (Generally, not on a crowded subway car or in the supermarket or anything. We're discreet.) For the sake of entertainment, I spent a day making mental notes about the outstanding things I say outloud to myself. Here are but a few. (Mind you, these are all things I said outloud, to nobody.):
"Ooh, that does NOT taste right." (and then I drank again.)
"Let's go then, shall we?" (apparently I am the queen)
"She's so awesome!" (as I hung up the phone with a friend)
"Toilet, please flush. I'm getting sick of this." (arguably, I said this to the toilet.)
"Couldn't you just do yourselves?" (again, I was talking to the dishes.)
"It helps to take your keys, Kate, if you want them." (I do use my own name.)
"Ok, we're done here." (I said this as I walked away from a cake.)
"Poison meat!!!" (My landlord's dog started barking at 6am today, and it made me think of the time my dad suggested throwing poisoned meat out the back window. I still consider it a viable option.)
"Phew! You are stinky!" (I can't help it. I just went running!)
I'm sure there are more, but these are the ones I remember -- or at least the ones I caught myself saying and then actually remembered when I sat down to write.

ten things that make me happy

A few things that make me happy and for which I am grateful in my life:

1. Naan bread.

2. When someone stronger than I am is in the revolving door with me.

3. Attractive men who run in the park -- in the opposite direction, so I can see how pretty they are!

4. Hurting yourself in a stupid way and actually having a sweet bruise afterwards. (You know, like when you've crammed your semi-drunken self between a table and iron chair on a rooftop bar full of people and ending up with a 1"x3" bruise on your leg, instead of just gimping around, saying "ow, it hurts!" and having nothing to show for it.)

5. Friendly strangers, like the woman in the park who set a really good running pace today. I passed her on the hill (which, if you know Prospect Park, you know the Hill of Death) and then she caught up with me again around the Tot Lot. I saw her in the corner of my eye and said, "Yay! You're back! You set a really good pace!" and she said, "I was about to say the same to you!" We're best friends now.

6. Funny looking dogs.

7. Perfect weather. Which for me means today. (High 70s, low 80s, strong sunshine, brisk breeze, cool in the shade, hot in the sun.)

8. Long weekends. (Yay Labor!)

9. Farts that make your tummy feel better.

10. How awesome and smooth my legs feel after shaving them. (I'd like to include on this one the Still Amazing Schick Intuition Razor, dream sponsor of this blog.)