a family trip

Once upon a time, Grandma and Grandpa Surgeon had two children, Dick and Janet.*

After finishing school near Chicago, Dick Surgeon left the midwest and settled in New York, where he met his wife, Lois, and they had two beautiful, brilliant, sweet, and phenomenal girls, Priscilla and Kate.**

Janet settled down outside of Chicago and met Dick Practitioner, and they had two children who were wonderful in their own rights, but nowhere near as awesome as Priscilla and Kate.***

Right after Kate was born, Grandpa Surgeon died. It was sad, but Kate was too small to know anything about it.

When Grandpa Al Surgeon died, Grandma Surgeon (whose name was Marian, but who (for some inexplicable reason) decided that "Mar-Mar" was a better name for the grandkids to call her) drove around with the ashes of Grandpa Al in a box in the trunk. Everyone thought this was a little odd, but when Mar-Mar said that she liked having him around, everyone agreed it was easier not to argue with Mar-Mar and let it drop.

Many years later, Mar-Mar also died. This was sad, too, but Kate was big enough to know things about it.

As a result, Dick and the East Coast Surgeons inherited the enormous powder blue boat that she had been driving in her last (incontinent) years. (Yum!) While the Surgeons were happy to have what amounted to a brand new car to replace the Shithole they had previously owned, the Oldsmobile was a lateral step (if not a backwards one), and definitely did not improve their good looks. (As if anything really could...)

When the car arrived on the East Coast, Dick put the ashes of his mother in the trunk with his father. Everyone thought this was a little odd, but when Dick said he didn't know what else to do with them, everyone agreed it was easier not to argue with Dick and let it drop. (Anyway, he was going to be the ONLY family member who would be driving that ass-ugly car, so who were the rest of them to argue, really? And the other choice was putting his parents in the garage, which seemed kind of hostile, so Grandpa Al and Mar-Mar moved into the trunk of the Olds.)

Waaaaaay too many years passed, and the Oldsmobile finally died. This was NOT sad.

However, Grandpa Al (whose box, incidentally read, "Melvin Surgeon," not "Alvin Surgeon") and Mar-Mar were once again without a home. So Dick transfered them into the trunk of his new (inexplicably powder blue) car.

Many more years passed, and Janet came to visit the East Coast Surgeons for Christmas. Dick picked her up in his powdery car, with their folks in the trunk. When she got to the house, Janet sat down, asked for a drink and said how nice it was "to take a nice ride with my whole family again." And that kicked off Christmas.

The End.

*This is actually true. It wasn't until I wrote it just now, however, that I realized how close they are to Dick and Jane.

** This is also true. Really!

*** This may be editorialized a bit.

Author's Note:
We tried to get Dick and Janet to make a plan for the relocation of their parents, but I feel compelled to point out that Al's been in the trunk for 32 years, and Mar-Mar for 10, so expecting forward movement on this is kind of like waiting for pigs to fly. (They might. You never know.)

In related news, I once managed to really freak out a boyfriend by asking him if he wanted to meet my grandparents and then opening the trunk of the car and introducing them to each other. Good times!

birthday thyme

I mentioned the aftermath of my birthday, but not the party itself. Which, in my opinion, was another raging success (ifIdosaysomyself).

Here, in no particular order, except for the order my computer has arbitrarily put them in, are a few of my favorite shots from that night:

Me and my dear friends Dan and Rhonda. I don't get to see them enough.

My book group ladies (and Bill). From left to right, Alli, me, Jen, Lauren & Larissa. I don't get to see them enough, either.

My good friend (and often sole comment-leaver), Jon. Looking dapper, I may add, thanks to an office holiday party. (Not that my birthday isn't an appropriate reason to dress up, mind you.)

You know those nature documentaries where the narrator gets really, really quiet when you're about to witness something completely fantastic and almost unbelievable? Well, read this paragraph that way because this is a photo of LISA OUT OF THE HOUSE AFTER DARK! Rarer than snow in Vegas, I was blessed with Lisa's presence at my birthday party for the first time ever, I think. (Or at least since she had kids.) A total honor.

Avery, another of my rocks of gibraltar. Without her, I'd be... well, I'd be me two years ago. (And nobody wants to go back there, do they??)

It seems kind of unfair to me that Jesus has to share his stocking with Jaime. I mean, come on, it's his BIRTHDAY...

And then there were the photo series.

Like the one I did with Rob where the photographer said, "Ok, Rob, you look drunk, and Kate, you look sober."

(not so good on my part)

And then we switched it:

(very convincing, no?)

And then, somehow Kiara and I got caught up in a photographic maelstrom. We started with cute, huggy pictures, and then devolved from there...

Were we trying to be sexy? I doubt it. Maybe. I just couldn't stop laughing.

And then, one for Where's Waldo champions around the world:

The Stripey Twins!

It was an excellent party, I got fantastic gifts, was given drinks all night and Avery brought cupcakes. I'd do it again any night of the week.

My only regret is that a girl can only turn 29 so many times...

(For shots from last year, go here)

brand new thoughts (I swear!)

I finally left the house. But somewhere in my two and a half days of moping around, whining about my gurbling innards and the severe lack of cleanliness in my apartment, I managed to have a few original thoughts I'd like to share.

(surprise, surprise, right?)

First: Fernando tried to kill me the other day. He gave me a piece of this new gum that tasted, I'm not kidding, like a perfumed ass. Sort of a cross between a bottle of hairspray or the cologne department of Macy's with a ne'er-mucked stable, this eighth inch cubed piece of death was supposed to be "Apple Raspberry" flavored. (More like "Ass-pull Rass-bury")

My advice? Stay away from any gum claiming to have this flavor. (Also: stay away from Fernando. He's evil.)

Second, suspicious of the cleanliness of my sponge and its potential responsibility for the onset of my plague (I'm seeing everything with new eyes, much like I did after reading The Stand), I started using a new one. A blue one. This is exciting, mostly because a new sponge gives off bubbles in the color of the sponge and I've never had a blue sponge (or, for that matter, blue bubbles) before.

Wheee!

(Help!)

Third: In my office, I can often be heard saying, while lacing up my shoes, "I don't want to go to the gym." I go, but I donwanna. I've stopped saying it, just to spare Fernando, but the other day I slipped on my sneaks and looked at him. "You know what I'm about to say, right?"

"Yes" he replied. "Something about the local gymnasium and your general reluctance to attend?"

Fourth, I think the Oxygen Network tried to kill me while I was sick. They showed me movies that tugged on my heartstrings, like Love, Actually or Laws of Attraction (listen, I had a fever of 102, and that makes your heartstrings very vulnerable to pulling) and then, in the commercial breaks, four out of five of the commercials showed lusty, half-naked couples running around well-appointed (enormous) bedrooms spraying perfume on each other, whispering things like "when intense is not enough" or "don't pretend, feel what's real." I'm NOT KIDDING. Innocently sitting there, rubbing my poor little tummy, I was completely happy with my singlehood. Two hours and sixty five commercials later, I'm scouring every online dating site looking for a man with a sexy neck and hoping I look good in a piece of string.

Meanwhile, I told the chiropractor that he wasn't like all the other guys I meet. Mostly, I said, because I rarely meet guys who will jab their thumbs just the right way into just the right places to make my back feel better. He told me I wasn't trying hard enough.

Touche, doctor, touche.

what I didn't ask for for my birthday

It was a great party; people came in shifts from six in the evening to well after midnight. People I see every day and people I haven't seen for years. I couldn't have asked for more! I had a huge lunch so my lack of dinner didn't hurt me too much, and I stuck to one alcohol all night, so I didn't cross the streams, so to speak.

At the end of the night I headed home with presents, pictures and happy memories in tow, and flopped on my bed as soon as I got there.

The next morning, though, I woke up and felt like ass. "You had too much wine," I argued, "and not enough dinner. And too much sugar. That's all this is. Drink some water and you'll be fine."

Yeah... not so much.

All day I moaned and wallowed, not leaving the house and barely making my way into the shower. And at around 5:30 the day after my birthday, I got the full brute force of my beastly little roto virus kicking me in the stomach.

It was NOT pretty.

I don't do sick well. I cry and whimper and think I'm going to die. I worry that I'll get dehydrated and that my feet will never warm up again. With a fever of 102, I felt every hair in every follicle on my skin. (That's VERY distracting.) And my bathroom is way too small for extended visits.

The upshot is that I'm wikkid skinny now, starting to feel better, and know that at some point in my thirty second year I'll have to leave the house. I just hope it's out of the twenties (and not snowing) by the time I do.

Now go wash your hands.

baby, it's snurshy outside

Snurshy [sner-shee] –adjective, snursh⋅i⋅er, snursh⋅i⋅est. Of or pertaining to the rainy, slushy, snowy, sleety mix falling from the sky today. At one point the snowflakes were so big we thought it was raining meatballs with alfredo sauce.

In an effort of self-diversion (I recently ended a nascent relationship and I feel, well, snurshy) I bring you the following:

1. The foley artists for Titanic, Poseidon Adventure and The Abyss have forsaken those movies and taken up residence in my microwave. For some reason, when the rotating plate goes around and around, the creaking/whining/creepy soundtrack it emits causes the rats and roaches to all head for the hills and my neighbors start lowering liferafts.

It's odd.

2. I've seen too much homeless butt today. More in numbers and square footage than I care to discuss.

3. I did my first improv show in about eight years tonight and I have to say, it felt pretty good! Unfortunately, I asked too much of my deodorant (having gone to the gym beforehand) so perhaps it didn't smell quite as good as it looked.

4. So, after a whole day of eating mostly cookies and rosemary squash lasagna, I had pretty much sworn off the cookies we frosted this weekend, but tonight, I played right into the devil's hands. I ate a cookie. By tomorrow, I'll be about forty pounds heavier and missing a cookie or twelve. (Don't worry, I'll take pictures.)

5. At my office holiday party last night, I thought I might have to call the EMTs. A big mucky-muck partner was on the dance floor flailing about so wildly that I was sure he was in coronary distress. Thank goodness for the female associate drunk enough to practially perform CPR on him while his wife looked on from the sidelines! (Yay, Office Politics!)

6. Also at my holiday party, I discussed the fact that the number of fuckable coworkers at my firm are somewhere between none and zero. As a torture device, my friend made me come up with a list of five partners I'd sleep with. On that list are a couple of decent human beings, but there's also this one partner who thinks he's hot shit on the dancefloor. At the holiday parties, he likes to work it -- especially with all the hot ladies of color at our firm. (Fine by me, as it spares me the fun of dancing with him myself.)

A couple of glasses of wine into the party, I pridefully added him to my list, "just to show him what a white girl could do."

Which, I'll add, is (in my case) NOT DANCE.

No! Frosting! 'Till Brooklyn!

Third time's a charm, they always say, and after Saturday's Third Annual Cookie Party, I have to agree! (See 2006 and 2007)

This year's festivities kicked off with the corresponding arrival of Lisa R. (with her elves Max and Charlie) and the completion of the Rosemary Butternut Squash Lasagna. Which was more delightful? Hard to say. Which made me happier? Hard to say. Which smelled better? Um, no comment.

Max went straight to the tree and found his favorite non-breakable ornaments, and put them on. "Fabulous," I crooned, "just fabulous!" He then proceeded to create presents for everyone by hiding magnets from my fridge inside of two stocking ornaments on the tree. (Very creative!)

The next froster to arrive was Kiara, who had experienced some extraordinary train karma and made the trip from Washington Heights to the southern reaches of Park Slope in forty-five minutes. Yes you heard me right -- FORTY FIVE MINUTES. On a weekend. Uphill. Barefoot. (This is truly unheard of in my many years of traveling to the great northern wilds.)

Next came Lisa B. and Avery For them, I have written a song to be sung to the tune of "Ebony and Ivory":

Lisa B. and Avery

Frosting cookies for kids like you and me

Side by side at my kitchen table...

They won't look at meeeeeee

The frosting was flowing freely, and the cookies started looking great. After a couple of hours, though, we realized that Keri wasn't there. When I texted her to find out if she had been waylaid by her boyfriend in the park (see last year's adventure here), she told me that she had the flu and strep throat and a variety of other forms of potential death, and so I told her to stay home and get better, that we would frost some cookies in her honor.

So we did.

We frosted lots of cookies. (Please note the ghost in there -- that's the Ghost of Christmas Past.)

Max did a great job frosting cookies. Charlie wanted to contribute too, so he tossed his cookies. Twice. (Your favorite puke-o-phobe stayed cool as a cucumber, though!)

Here he is, handing out cottage cheese lids. With a face like this, you want twelve, don't you?

After several hours of frosting, garlic-mint potatoes and fish soup (in addition to lasagna), we were finally done. It was time to choose a winner.

DRUM ROLL, PLEASE!

Ladies and Gentlemen, the winners in the Best Non-Traditional category:

Glove (by Kate), Loving Max and Loving Kate (by Lisa R.), OCD Boot (by Avery) and Menorah Star (by Lisa R.)

The winners in the Best People Category:

I Heart NY Guy (by Avery), Old Guy in Pajamas (by Kate), Red Guy (by Kate), Lisa and Charlie (by Lisa R.), Guy in Tie (by Kate)

The best Traditional Cookies:

Christmas Tree (by Kate), Candy Cane (by Kate), Sparkly Lightbulb (by Kiara), Little Tree (by Kate) and Amazing Angel (by Kiara).

A new category was added this year to accomodate our up-and-coming frosters, which caused a little bit of confusion and a lot of asking, "Max, did you frost this one?"

The Best Cookies in the Six-and-Under Category:

White Blobby Guy (by Max), Y B Stripey (by Max), Bootload of Frosting (by Max) and Oops My Dress Fell Off and Now I'm Embarrassed (by Max).

And the winners in everybody's favorite category: The Ugliest!

Candy Cane (by Kiara), Glove with Bloody Nails (by Kate), Creepy Glove (by Lisa R.) and Clean-Up-The-Sprinkles-On-The-Table Boot (by Kate).

I have to say, these do not quite live up to the uglies of years past.

No longer a novice at this Shitload of Sugar thing, I paced myself considerably better this year and shoved more lasagna into my mouth than really should be legal. All of which is to say: No Headache!

Having no headache, of course, allowed me to get all trashied up and head out to a White Trash Christmas Party that night. Witness:

(You'll notice I'm pointing to some cookies that were freshly frosted that day!)

And in honor of the fact that there are only two days left to shop on Amazon.com and still get free super-saver shipping, I bring you my tree:

Feel free to send me lots and lots of presents to put in the empty space underneath it.

the online equivalent of dumping out the vacuum cleaner

Here, for your entertainment, but in no particular order are some thoughts I've collected in my brain (which doesn't lose suction!) over the last few days/weeks/eternities:

1. I used to think the Dyson vacuum commercials said "doesn't USE suction" instead of "doesn't LOSE suction." If it didn't use suction, I wondered, how did it get the dirt and crumbs into the vacuum? Gentle persuasion? Excessive compliments? Two-for-one drink offers?

2. One of the things I really like in life is being the first one to step on the freshly laid bathmat. Luckily, this is much more easily accomplished when single. Another benefit of being single? When your office won't let you bring a date to the holiday party, you can say, "Well screw you, I didn't have a date to bring, anyway!" (My company, however, is using reverse psychology on me and allowing me to bring a date, which, in a posture of strength, I am refusing! Respect my singlehood!) Although... I could bring the chiropractor. (And his girlfriend.)

3. Speaking of the chiropractor, I'm suffering from a little role reversal. Just last visit, the physical therapist (who was close to being cast off of Survivor: Chiropractic) told me that I was showing some improvement, and the chiropractor (who had previously been the sweetheart of the series) told me that I was "too far along to be showing this little progress."

Mixed messages. Hurt. My. Brain.

4. I pass a co-worker's desk at least ten times a day, and for the last month, she's had a bottle of "Chestal" on her desk. I swear to you that the first time I saw that bottle, I thought she was involved in some bizarre mammarian experiment. Apparently she just has a cold.

5. Someone at work recently threw out four quarts of milk. Full quarts. Right into the trash. With loose lids. Like that's not going to cause a mess. Don't these people throw things out at home?

6. Places where skin is acceptable: bodies, soups, butternut squash lasagna filling
Places where skin is not acceptable: jell-o, eyeballs, milk

7. There is a higher power, and I think it might be a Norse god. What's my proof, you ask? I tried to get a piece of furniture from Ikea twice, and was thwarted both times. Fool me once, etc., but after getting to Ikea and them being SOLD OUT of the piece of furniture I wanted? Well, we won't be fooled again.

(Editor's note: when I discovered that the Red Hook Ikea was out of the Hemnes Wardrobe (in white), I broke down in tears. There I was, just shy of 32 years old, weeping my little brains out in the boxed furniture department because I couldn't give the Swedes (who are my people, I'll have you know) an extra $400. It was sad. Three hours and a little rearranging later, I decided I didn't need the piece anyway. Take that, Thor!)

8. You've heard that joke, right? Thor, the Norse god, goes out to a bar one night and picks up this girl. They hit it off and head back to her apartment. After a wild night of knocking boots, he starts to feel bad and decides to tell his date of the evening who he really is. So he rolls over, gently strokes the woman's face and says, "There's something I haven't told you: I'm Thor."

"You're Thor?!?" she retorts. "I'm tho thore I can barely thee thtraight!"

And... that's a wrap.

a new wrinkle

There's a new wrinkle in my future marriage to the chiropractor.

Well, a couple, actually.

In fact, that relationship is so wrinkled, it's like a chain-smoking granny on a tanning bed wearing the blouse I ironed last weekend upsidedown and drunk. With a baby in my arms and one hand tied behind my back. Riverdancing.

Wrinkle Number 1: Meta-Relationship Goes De-Meta
My chiropractor knows about this blog. In fact, the whole office knows about it. (Well, except for the physical therapist, but that's because I've said less than flattering and fake-falling-in-love-with things about him.)

Does my imaginary love affair have to crumble when he knows I know he knows about it?

I vote no.

(Come on, the man still jabs his thumbs in some very important places and I am NOT willing to give that up yet.)

Wrinkle Number 2: What My Future Holds
Every Thanksgiving, when we go to Boston, we go to see the psychic. There's a whole tea room full of them near my sister's house, and we make it a practice to see what our future holds whenever we eat turkey. (Or non-turkey, as the case may be.) In the past, the psychics I've seen have told me that my current relationships wouldn't work out (which, surprise, surprise, they didn't), that I should stay away from "the man in uniform" (which I heard twice and found more than slightly creepy the second time around), and one, when I told her that I teach adults, asked me if the adults I teach are retarded. (I had a hard time saying no.)

Anyway, this year the psychic told my mother that I'd be marrying a doctor. (I was too busy asking my psychic about what to do with my job to think about who I was going to marry.) She also said "the family would be growing" which I think my mother hopefully interpreted as my sister having kids. (I had to remind her that it might just be my doctor...)

Now, I wonder this: was the psychic a) telling my mom something guaranteed to make 90% of mothers in this country happy, b) picking up on the vibes I've been putting out on my blog, or c) telling me something... special?

I'm voting somewhere between b and c, but that's just because I'm the author of the whole imaginary romantic kerfuffle to begin with, and I pretty much get to determine how it goes.

Wrinkle Number 3: The Prescribing Doctor
There's a new doctor in the office. Well, he's not new, but he's new to me. (He's the one who legally has to write my prescription for physical therapy.) And boy is he pretty (for a not particularly tall guy)! I'm thinking he's probably at home alone right now, despondently moping around his apartment, wishing I was there with him to warm up this clammy winter's night. A bottle of wine, a crackling fire in the fireplace, and me in my sexiest outfit -- a big, bulky sweater that makes me look like I weigh three hundred pounds, some truly sexy medical shorts that I'm pretty sure will be released on the Victoria's Secret runway next season, and my barefeet in my shoes.

Oh, no, wait, that's the outfit I was wearing when I met him. (Awesome.)

He, too, says really romantic things like the chiropractor used to. Like "I'm going to push on your head now. Tell me if it hurts." (Sadly, I found this exceptionally funny.) (I blame the shorts.) Ever the epitome of lashing wit, when he rubbed my brainstem and asked how it felt, I replied, "You could do that all day and I wouldn't mind a bit." (Great.) He pulled on my knees, yanked my legs over my head, poked me in the hip and didn't even break a sweat. I, of course, was spouting out charming witticisms the whole time like a fucking idiot.

He did mention my boobs and how luscious they were. (Well, ok, he told me to move my bra strap out of the x-ray so the metal wouldn't show up, but that's kind of close, right?)

*sigh*

With my luck, he's probably gay and only wants me... to shop for less ugly clothes.

the dirty license plate game

The Bronco in front of us was trying to turn left from the right hand lane, and Mom and I were having none of it. We were tired, hungry, and teetering on that dangerous precipice between hilarity and disaster.

“Come on,” I moaned, sorely tempted to lean on the horn. “We just want to go home.”

“Yeah,” said mom, reading the license plate in front of us, “get out of the way 3-4-7-P-D-T. You… poddy… doodoo… turd!”

And silence descended on the car for precisely 2.5 seconds (the exact timing used by famously hilarious Norwegian comedians) before mom and I broke into laughter that eventually brought tears to our eyes (and pee almost to our pants).

“That’s the worst you could do?!?” I gasped.

“Well, it’s what came to mind.”

And thus, the Dirty License Plate Game was born. Obviously, the point of the game is to come up with the dirtiest, foulest, most offensive combo that can be made from the license plates of those around you in traffic. You can warm up, as mom did, with some “offensive” language and then work your way up to the more obscene, lewd, and generally reprehensible combinations we’ve created over the years.

As many of you, I’m sure are aware, Thanksgiving Day traffic provides ample dirty license plate opportunities, and we were not ones to miss out on that. However, we grew weary of flinging swears willy-nilly, and mom and I found ourselves much more successful when we limited ourselves to a theme – you know, poop, sex, butts, bestiality, whatever.

And that’s when we came across a pickup truck with the simple license plate “CCSS.” Before our new themed version of the game, that could have been any variety of things – C*nty Clit Shit Sauce, for example, or Creamy Crappy Scrotum Squirt.

With the theme, however, it was merely “CRAP CRAP SHIT SHIT!”

Which, I’ll argue, is considerably funnier. (Especially when shouted out of context and apropos of nothing at the dinner table.)

Ah, family...

the panic alarm

I found this in the restroom at a theatre recently and had a hard time not pulling it off the wall and carrying it around with me, you know, just in case. I'm not really a panicker, but it seemed like a good idea. You never know when the tables might turn and a good old-fashioned panic might set in. In general, (as long as there's no barf) I'm cool-headed, strong, independent, confident, you name it, I am it (if "it" in this instance doesn't equal "panicky").

But, to be honest, things seem to have changed a bit recently.

Maybe it's because I still haven't decided what to do with my life, and it's been months now that I've been examining it.* Maybe it's because it's almost my 32nd birthday and I feel like a fourteen year old. Maybe it's because I've met someone who seems to care a great deal about me.** Maybe it's because I'm constantly afraid of losing my job, even though I have no indication that would even be a possibility.*** Maybe it's because I feel lost, confused, unsheltered and numb. Maybe it's because my peers all seem to be married, and not just married, but happily married. Maybe it's because my sister owns a second house and I still rent a lopsided one bedroom.**** Maybe it's because it's almost December, and December kicks me in the groin every year, even though my birthday and Christmas are two of the best holidays ever.

* "Now with 50% more ambiguity!"

** Eek! Run for the hills!

*** A communal knocking on wood now, if you will.

**** in which a marble placed on the living room floor would roll through the office, the bedroom and the kitchen before lodging itself in the bathroom

If I could, I'd like to move to the other side of that alarm. Just nestle down at the Panic Command Center, where the elite members of the Life Service Team solve my life's little problems (or at least make them go away). Where things are warm and soft, and everyone's given a protective spirit tiger to watch over them. (I've always wanted one.) Where I don't have to make any money, break any hearts, buy any houses, or deal with any physical therapists who, after a MONTH of working on the way I walk, tell me that my walk's "no good." (Yeah, I love the chiropractor but the PT can kiss my ass -- more on this later.)

One of the hardest parts about the holidays is that when I'm at home with my parents, I feel like I already am on the other side of the alarm. And it makes going home (to my uneven little home in Brooklyn) all that much harder.

I do it, though. I just sometimes wish I didn't have to.

what I ate on thanksgiving

Turkey Day (or Non-Turkey Day for the aspiring vegetarian among us) began virtuously, and then slipped and slid into the level of hell reserved for hand-holding-four-across-pedestrians-in-times-square and people who bash baby seals over the head with baseball bats. (I only know because I saw them there in the middle of the night when I thought I was actually going to die from overeating.)

This is how it went:
Breakfast -- Fiber One english muffin with almond butter. (See? Virtue!)

Lunch -- Chex Mix, half a banana, cheese and crackers, vegetables and dip and a small child

Dinner -- Two teeeny tiny pieces of turkey (just to see if the free range, organic, non-anti-biotic, mansion-dwelling, bon-bon eating turkey was any different than the fat-assed, lazy one we usually get), eighteen pounds of stuffing (which we, in my family, affectionately call "Wet Bread"), some roasted vegetables (which were supposed to have tofu on them for the aspiring vegetarian among us, but said tofu was left behind), six tons of mashed potatoes, fourteen pounds Grandma Green Beans ("now with 100% more Grandma!") and about six pumpkin pies.

I'm never eating again.

Except, I have to go have a snack now.

wedding bells are gonna' chime

The chiropractor and I are moving in together!* Maybe to one of those beautiful new high-rise buildings on the water in Long Island City. You know, the ones with a gym and a Healthy Foods Store at the bottom of the building, and lots and lots of babies. It’ll be perfect!

Proof that we’re in love:

1) We discuss some very important stuff. Like sandwiches. And logosophy.

2) We’re pretty romantic. We hug a lot, and he rubs my back. And as you know, we talk about farts and fat people. Today he even said to me, “Suck me, beautiful.” (I’m not actually making this one up. He really did say it.)**

I am, however, getting some mixed signals. He always wants to talk about the men I’m dating. And he’s willing to share me with the physical therapist. And he keeps mentioning his “girlfriend” (even though I know he’s really talking about his cleaning lady). Is that supposed to be funny? Maybe it just means he’s an understanding guy…

*Ok, ok, he and his girlfriend are thinking of moving out of my neighborhood and into a nice new condo of their own. But that’s hardly an important detail.

**But before you go get all riled up and weirded out by this, apparently it’s a quote from American Pie (a movie I loved myself enough to avoid) that applied somewhat obliquely to the conversation we were actually having.

instructions for the under-assed

How to Make Your Butt Feel Bigger in Three Easy Steps

Feeling too trim? Butt not wiggly enough for you? Never Fear! K8's Three-Step Butt Increasing Regimen can help!

1. Wake up in the morning and put on a pair of pants, preferably lined, that fit just perfectly fine last year. (If you can, select a pair given to you by your sister, so you can be sure that HER ass would fit in them, even if yours doesn't.)

2. Sit down in said pants. Make sure the lining stretches like sausage casings over your bee-hind and thighs. This step is crucial because it indicates to you the fabulous increase in fannitude without actually communicating that increase to the good people around you (namely the head of HR or anybody you might be dating).

3. Walk around and feel the lining stick to your things. This is essential to at least the perception that your butt is growing.

If these steps don't make you feel like you've stuffed a down coat into your trousers, here's an additional step -- pinch the flesh of your left hip when zipping them up. Nothing says "Un-Slim" like zipper wounds on the hip!

you now owe me six cents

1. Lemmings and Lemurs are not the same thing. If you are wondering what the differences are, Lemmings look cute and small and furry and like perennially pregnant hamsters, and they periodically, accidentally run off cliffs in droves.

Lemurs don't.

2. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, at two o'clock in the morning, that my daily vitamins have caffeine in them. Fun! FUN! FUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUN!!!!!!!!

3. I recently went to a very interesting set of sales meetings, but due to a confidentiality agreement that I signed, this is all I can tell you. I got to the ___________________. I sat down in the back and listened to _______ say, "Thanks for coming! ____________________ and _________________, but the ______________ is ______________ and I think ________________ should _______________ with the ____________. Additionally, I think ___________________ is a good __________________ while _________ probably ________________. Afterwards _________________________ will do _________________ on the _________ with a _____________ and the__________ should start __________________. Otherwise, _______________ and feel free to __________ with the _________ on the ___________."

4. If you are wearing pants the button up the side, I highly recommend not wearing a belt that fastens in the front. If you do, however, it's advisable not to wait until the very last second to pee.

5. "Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh,' he whispered.
'Yes, Piglet.'
'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, 'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"

6. Here's an interesting list of characteristics, taken from the book Secrets of Six Figure Women, by Barbara Stanny. She says you should try to whittle the list down to five values you couldn't live without. I managed to get it down to about 11, but had a hard time after that. Go ahead, you try it.

Achievement
Adventure
Beauty
Being free
Being generous
Brother/Sisterhood
Charity
Comfort
Community
Creativity
Dignity
Discovery
Family
God
Growth
Happiness
Health
Honesty
Honor
Humility
Independence
Individuality
Influence
Integrity
Intimacy
Justice
Kindness
Knowledge
Leadership
Learning
Leaving a legacy
Leisure
Life partner
Love
Making a difference
Parenting
Patriotism
Peace
Physical activity
Power
Retirement
Security
Seeing the world
Self-discipline
Self-esteem
Service
Simplicity
Spirituality
Strength
Success
Time alone
Truth
Using my talents

If you show me yours, I'll show you mine...

tricks and treats

It may no longer be Halloween (and, please, Park Nope, take note that it's NOT Christmas, either), but that doesn't mean we have to be done with all the tricking and treating.

Treat:

I collect photos of geriatric pumpkins. You can see the last few years' worth here. This year, I thought it was only fair to also include exuberantly joyous pumpkins.

So, for your delight, this year's inhabitants of the Old Folks' Pumpkin Home:

And some adorable little candy stripers:

Trick:

The physical therapist is killing me. And, my right thigh is getting thinner and more cut than my left. This is NOT good. I'll have to walk more arduously with my left leg to make up for it. Or only wear skirts on my right leg.

Treat:

A fun link for those of us who have a small crush on the future commander in chief. (Thanks, Sarah!)

Treat:

Further juicy details involving my love affair with my chiropractor.

1. He hugged me today.*
2. In so doing, he somehow managed to unhook my brassiere.**
3. We're getting married.***

*when I say "hugged" it's really a layman's term for some sort of fancy back cracking. It was, honestly, the most physical I've been with a man in a long time, but, alas, utterly non-romantic.

** it's one of those annoying, racerback-optional bras in which the straps can come out of their loops so you can cross them in the back. I have never done this. I have, however, unhooked myself as many as 14 times in one day. Note to self: buy more non-racerback-optional bras.

*** this is an out and out fabrication.

Trick:

The heat came on in my apartment today and the whole place now smells like hot dust.

Trick:

I had a dream last night in which I was relegated to sleeping in a sewage drain with mouse poos and rat poos and Indeterminate Vermin Poos (which were long, greenish, and scary). In the same dream, I had one of those odd substitutions that make perfect sense (but only in dream-world) -- a gentleman caller (from my real life) was replaced with Owen Wilson. And we were grocery shopping with his father, who wanted to wait until the cashier he "knew" showed up so we could get all the good grocery "deals." I'm sure there's a message there, but I'm too tired from dreaming it to suss it out.

some things that don't make sense

I went to a lecture with my mother recently whose title was "Thirteen Things that Don't Make Sense." (The lecture, not my mom.) Here, in my opinion are some of those thirteen things (and I think my mother would likely agree):

-- Why my mother and I thought we could understand a lecture about astronomical anomalies
-- How you can possibly be expected to stay awake in the Hayden Planetarium in dusky lighting after a cocktail
-- Why the website said the lecture was at 6:30 on Tuesday when the guy at the box office said it was at 6:30 on Monday when, in fact, it was at 7:30 on Monday
-- The way my dad dresses (but this has no bearing on the lecture whatsoever)
-- Why, in a lecture entitled THIRTEEN things that don't make sense, you'd only cover four of them
-- Why British accents are so much cuter than American ones
-- The difference between WIMPS and CHAMPS (I'm not kidding, this was actually covered in the section on Dark Matter. Or Dark Energy. I forget.)

Another thing we learned was that way back in the day there was a physicist named Fritz Zwicky who came up with an explanation for dark matter (or dark energy, I forget) that was, according to our understanding of the situation now, not far from the mark. However, in Fritz's day, he was maligned and basically kicked out of the establishment. He responded to this by calling his fellow physicists "Spherical Bastards" -- because any way you looked that them, they were bastards.

Now THAT made sense.

sidewalk chicken

[The idea for this article that I wrote in my company newsletter really came from RJ. Just want to give credit where credit is due.]


The other night I made a stir-fry for dinner. I carefully selected my vegetables, washed them, cut them up, and put them in the pan. After a few spices, seasonings and soy sauce, I was ready to add my chicken.

Now, I had two choices about where I could get my chicken. I could go to the grocery store, where the chicken was clean, organic and free-range, or I could go to the sidewalk right outside my apartment and pick up some of the chicken I had seen lying around.


The choice is obvious, isn’t it? Would you ever consider using sidewalk chicken? Absolutely not! There’s no telling what kind of germs, diseases or bugs are lingering around, unseen, in that readily accessible piece of poultry. It’s worth it to take the few extra steps and go to the grocery store.


Well, taking a few extra steps when cutting and pasting text is also worth it. When you use Edit Paste Special Unformatted Text to add text to your document, you’re the smart chef going to the grocery store. When you just plop that text into your document… well, you’re essentially eating sidewalk chicken. And if you’ve picked it up from the Internet, that’s roadkill chicken from the information superhighway! Sure, it didn’t hurt you last Tuesday in your chicken cacciatore, and it didn’t kill you the week before in your pot pie, but are you really willing to continually risk it?


I’ve heard more than one story about a firm document that was rapidly approaching a filing deadline when it just stopped working. The TOC wouldn’t update. MacPac malfunctioned and the numbers got out of whack. Styles went haywire. Page numbers turned into hieroglyphics. Basically, anything that could go wrong, did. All of that could have been avoided if all the editors had just used Paste Special.

further thoughts on chiropracty

I can't imagine that any of you are even remotely interested in my continuing chiropractic woes and jubliations (except maybe Lisa -- hi, Lisa!), but they're going to continue until my spine is shaped the way it's supposed to be. So take in a deep breath... now let it out... (CRUNCH!)

Today I got Activated! (I feel like a sleeper cell or something.) I went to the chiropractor with a painful muscle below my right shoulderblade. When I told the doctor about it, he poked it and said, "Oh, yeah, it feels like you twisted a rib."

I TWISTED A RIB? How does one even do that?? (Probably while gasping for breath near Patchouli Man -- who was back again today, Iamnotkidding.)

He poked it some more and then he left to go get his "Activator" from the other room.

In a mild panic, I considered bolting from the room. The Activator?? Visions of my sister danced through my head -- Polly in her flannel nightgown, shuffling her wool-sock-clad feet across the carpeting, hair sticking straight up and outstretched finger aimed right for my nose. That had to somehow be involved in "Activation," didn't it? That, or cattle prods. I wasn't sure I wanted to stick around to find out.

When he came back, I was still face down on the table (suffocating on my own bad breath) so I didn't see the activator until he told me to stick out my finger. (For a second, I swore I saw flannel pajamas sticking out of his pants.) He activated my finger and it felt like nothing. He activated my rib and it felt like a million bucks. I don't know how this little door-stopper-like device could fix my twisted rib, but I like it. Activate me all you want, My True Love Chiropractor!

Unrelatedly, while he was working on me, he apologized for having mints in his mouth.

"I went to the dentist today," he said, "and I got my teeth cleaned. But Dr. Chow said that my breath smelled like Dr. Golden's Fart, so I'm trying to fix that."

"That's ok, I can barely breathe in here, what with my face jammed into this table."
(pause)
"He said your breath smelled like fart?"

"Yeah."

"What'd they do to you at the dentist??"

The visit wrapped up with him telling me about how the other doctors in his practice will often sneak into a room when he's with a patient, fart, and then leave, ensuring that the patient thinks that he, Dr. Chiro, was the one who farted. I am secretly tempted now to fart, and blame it on the other doctors...

no title for old men (or blog posts)

Have I mentioned the chiropractor recently? No? Hmmm, that's odd. I should have. I love him. The first time I ever went to a chiropractor (two years ago) it was so much fun to go and get Did-It-Hair without actually doing it. Now? Well, it's getting to the point where it's only fair that we actually do it, Did-It-Hair or no. I mean, I see him three times a week. That's a lot of commitment for no sex and bad hair!
---------------------------------------------------
The other night, on my way home, I was on a train with a slightly tired-looking woman. No problem, really, so I started reading my book. Her friend, though, engaged my Barf-dar by rapidly cleaning out a big, plastic shopping bag, passing it to Ms. Sleepy and saying, "here, you can use this."

I shot out of my seat so quickly it was like I had been stabbed in the bum. I ran towards the furthest end of the car, frantically jabbed my earplugs into my ears and PRAYED that I could leave that car before anything happened in that shopping bag.

Luckily, I escaped, but (like a car wreck you can't ignore) I looked back between the cars and until the next stop, she had her head in the bag.

I dreamt of barf all night. (Bleck.)
---------------------------------------------------
He's baaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Yes, that's right, Patchouli Man returned today. Thank God! I was just about to have an extra cup of coffee, but when I walked into the copier room/pantry, I was smacked in the face by a wall of Earthy Tree Smell! I retreated weakly to my office to nurse my wounds.

(I don't know which is worse -- the way he smells or how frequently our copier falls to bits.)
---------------------------------------------------
Here's a cool link, courtesy of my friend Bill. (Thanks, Bill!)
---------------------------------------------------
That's all.

watch out! I'm athletic!

Is there such a thing as beginner's luck?

A valid question, one that ranks in the upper eschelon of important questions, like "why do bad things happen to good people" and "since cats land on their feet and buttered toast lands buttered side down, what would happen if you tied buttered toast to a cat?"

Well, I'm here to tell you that this particular question has been definitively answered. To wit: I played touch football today and didn't suck too badly!

My friends Neil and Michelle, who have a swank-ass apartment near Prospect Park, put together a touch-football-and-pancakes affair this morning, which meant that I hauled my ass out of bed far earlier than I wanted to, and dragged it parkwards before ten. I coerced my dear, sweet (single) friend Jimmy (ladies?? he's lovely!) to go with me, and Neil's friends Matt and Deb rounded out our sextet.

Now, I'd like to point out one possible reason for my fantastic prowess at football: among those assembled to play were an actor, a director, a composer, a conductor, a singer and, well, me. We may not have been the studliest crowd in the park (there were some budding three-year-old soccer stars), but we were definitely the smartest, most creative and possibly least good smelling one!

We set up a field and started playing, with mismatched teams and a field strewn with leaves, poo and a stray pair of underwear. (We covered the poo with leaves, which, much to our chagrin, didn't really solve the problem.) I got a little confused and started playing a sort of basketball-like defense, with my arms all akimbo, waving wildly, hooting madly and generally looking like a spastic lunatic. That worked to freak out Neil more than once, so I kept it in my playbook. Another popular move of mine was kicking the leaves into the wind and shouting "LEAF DISPLAY! LEAF DISPLAY!"

Jimmy was the real athlete on the field (gals, I'm telling you, he's terrific!) designing plays like "you run down the field and I'll throw it to you" and "ok, just go and we'll see what happens." Matt was about nine feet tall, which often interfered with any intended plans (yeah, without Matt they'd have gone off without a hitch), and Michelle was all kinds of sassy, which made me fall on my ass laughing more than once.

Deb had a GREAT interception... and proceeded to run in the wrong direction with it.

The halftime show was provided by the cutest Australian sheepdog this side of fluffiness, and the eau de merde that followed us home was provided by Jimmy's Poo Shoes.

After a morning of sheer athleticism (and belly laughs that winded me more than the game ever could), we retired to the swanky apartment for pancakes. Jimmy told me that if I wasn't the MVP (I did score more than a couple of touchdowns, but that was really mostly luck), I was at least the most improved player.

My strategy? Suck so badly when you begin that there's nowhere to go but up.

thought fritters

For the deep fat fryer in your brain:

1. Do these come with real sauce, or some philosophical mix of ideas relating to the nature of sauce itself? And can I get a side of Maditation Tea?
2. There's this nice trap on the way into the Chrysler Building from the subway. All the really tall guys have to duck under a dropped ceiling, and it's interesting to watch them unconsciously decide which way to duck. Some tip their heads forward, some to the right, and some duck at the knees. And while I love tall men, that's one of the many times I'm glad I am not actually one myself.

3. I visited Lisa and her kids recently and there was a vague threat of getting pink eye. Three itchy-eyed days later, and I'm pretty sure I caught it in my nose, if that's even possible. Fun fact? If you put mentholated chap stick up your nose, it may make your symptoms feel better, but you may also sneeze no fewer than fourteen times in a row.

4. I've invented a new set of Not-So-Super Heroes. They truly mean to do good, but they end up ruining it for everybody else.

The newest member? Patchouli Man! His superpowers are fixing copy machines and stinking up an entire corner of the office. People call on him when they want to quit drinking coffee because he shows up, fixes your copier, funks up the coffee room and sucks anything resembling fresh air out of the office. Hard to drink coffee when you're gasping for air!

Thanks, Patchouli Man!

5. It's too late to be topical, but it's still funny nonetheless: My friend Noah's post Little Blue State Riding Hood.

6. Somehow I managed to return my library book with my American Express statement firmly lodged in the back pages. The best part? The book was The Secrets of Six Figure Women. It's open to debate whether I learned anything or not.

did you even notice there was an election?

In an effort to retain my originality, I have foregone writing about the election, because really, what can I say that anyone else hasn’t said?

Nothing.

Well, ok, nothing except this: Until a few days ago I was always flummoxed by the idea that my mom (or anyone, really) would have cried when Kennedy got shot. I get it now.

Oh, and this: I made red velvet cupcakes to commemorate the election. I sent an email around to my cake mailing list (the people at work I actually like) and that engendered the following email exchange between me and my former boss:

From: Kate Surgeon
Sent: Wednesday, November
05, 2008 9:40 AM
To: cake list
Subject: Patriotic Cupcakes

Celebration or consolation?

Either way, there are red
(velvet) white and blue cupcakes in my office, and they have your name on
them.

Come on by!
----------------------------------------------------------------------

From: E.P. Bossy
To: Kate
Surgeon
Subject: RE: Patriotic Cupcakes

i think "celebration" should be in blue (for the blue staters) and consolation in red (for the red faced crybaby losers who might as well move back to their real america because there's now a socialist,
antiamerican, black man in office).
----------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Kate Surgeon
To: E. P. Bossy
Subject: RE: Patriotic Cupcakes

I did that on purpose, just in case there were any red faced crybaby losers who still wanted a cupcake, but might be worried that I'd make them pray to Allah before eating one.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

From: E.P. Bossy
To: Kate Surgeon
Subject: RE: Patriotic Cupcakes

oh. that was nice of you.

How I miss working for him.

adventures in the salon

Because we get this extra hour for free tonight, I figured you'd want to know all about this:

I went back to Studio 97 to get my hair cut today. You may remember one of the previous times I'd been there, when I got potentially eastern European lesbian boob in my face. Today, to ratchet the service up a notch, I showed up for a 2:30 appointment and wasn't seen until 3. (Which would have been fine if I hadn't left a date to get there on time.) The coup de grace, piece de resistance or croissant du jour (whatever you prefer) was that this time, the receptionist washed my hair. She sat me in the broken chair, tipped my head into the coldest porcelain this side of a witch's tit and after freezing my scalp, accumulating half of it under her fingernails and then scorching the rest of it off, she told me all about my name.

"Katya is big name in Russia."

"Really? I think I've heard that somewhere."

After getting shampoo in my eye, water in both ears (followed by wet fingers trying to get said water out of my ears) and another round of freezing and flaying, she led me to the cutting floor... where I stood for a good five minutes without anyone telling me which chair to sit in.

Finally Ambiguously Gay Alex came in, plopped me down in a chair and then left for another five minutes to put coins in the meter. Now, the lighting in this salon is tinted with a fine layer of ugly so the extra five minutes of examining my pallid complexion was doing nothing for my self-esteem. I was toying with going short again, but then I remembered what Ambiguously Gay Alex did to it last time he got his shears near my head (mushroom head anyone?) So I opted for half long, half short. (His brother is the better stylist.)

Anyway, long story short, I got a nice haircut. See?

(I also thought that the flavor of the soap in the bathroom was Fresh Pickled Peach, but that's neither here nor there.)

Donut Girl does Halloween

I got off the train at Grand Central and wended my way out of the station, keeping my jacket more than slightly open, just in case anybody happened to notice my sexy fuscia apron. It was still early, and, granted, I was stuck in throngs of commuters, but I thought for sure someone would notice my gorgeous polyester uniform and get a chuckle.

But nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they thought I was just on my way to work, or recently finished with a shift.

(I, of course, knew better.)

I headed towards my friend's house for her non-costume birthday party, to which I was obviously* wearing a costume. I stopped at the bank and nobody blinked. Well, of course not, I thought, it's only an ATM. These people are busy making withdrawls. I knew, though, that the laugh of the evening was on its way.

Within mere blocks of the Dunkin Donuts, my pace quickened, my smile muscles were twitching and I was feeling the beginnings of giddiness in my tummy. How funny was this going to be? I was going to walk in there, and the retro uniform I was sporting would just jump off of me and head towards the shelves of donuts. The cashiers were going to laugh the most meta-laughs of their lives. They were going to make jokes about me "helping myself." We were going to emerge as best friends and all because of my costume, which was, in fact, an actual Dunkin Donuts uniform from the late 80s/early 90s (provided by my sister's brief stint in the donut-service industry.)

Ok, maybe my hopes were too high. But would cracking a smile have killed this guy? Possibly. I walked into the store and he didn't even bat an eyelash. And neither did the two Texan girls oohing and aahing over the calorie counts in chain restaurants. I almost shouted. I mean, HELLO, how often do you see this?

Look, if I saw someone dressed as a computer trainer** coming into my office on Halloween I would think that was the funniest thing since sliced donuts. I would take pictures of myself with that person and invite him or her over for a drink. We'd be BFF.

Not so at the chain stores, apparently.

I hung my head, brushed off my "Career Apparrel"*** and put my munchkins into the plastic-bag-that-I-usually-don't-take-because-it's-wasteful-unless-it's-a-prop. One wistful look over my shoulder later, I was headed away from the biggest Halloween let down since my sister swindled me out of everything good in my pumpkin.

Later revelers soothed my aching (and itching) ego by asking me for a series of lattes. ("Why is nobody asking me for donuts or if it's time to make them?" "Donuts? They have too many calories," said a pirate, popping a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup into his mouth...) One guy on the subway platform liked me so much he shouted with joy. (I gave him a hilarious meta-munchkin.****)

I will report, however, that despite being not even remotely sluttishly dressed, I was approached by a pimp and offered a job. (I gave him a munchkin, too.) I also won second place in a costume contest, and won myself a spooky Mr. Potato Head.

Aside from the Dumb old Dunkin Donuts Downer, it was a pretty terrific Halloween.

*obvious to me, of course.

** what exactly this would look like is a little beyond me, but let's pretend it's not.

*** the tag reads "Career Apparrel, 100% Polyester"

**** I'm not sure what this means.

link-a-palooza

Good things to look at, listen to, or play with:

First, a really interesting treat from my good friend Ira Glass, especially the first story.

Second, the puppy cam, sent to me by my aunt, which is way too cute for my own good.

Third, a glimpse at the fictionalized children of my friend and fellow blogger, Earl. (The second half is a continuation of a longer, running post, which you may not understand. Focus on the first, adorable half.)

Fourth, something I clearly need.

Fifth, the story of my childhood, cattified.

Sixth, crazy super cheap makeup!

Seventh, lord only knows where I found this.

And lastly, Maisy, my sister's new kitty, who is too cute for words:

back from the swing state

I spent the weekend in Florida, organizing a friend's closet, and I didn't realize, until I got there, how different the advertising is in a swing state. NY is pretty much a foregone conclusion, so the ads that run here are of the "I am the candidate and I approved this message" variety. In Florida, however, they're those partisan interest group ones that really sling mud and hurl epithets. Kind of fascinating.

Also fascinating? Sharing dinner with a table full of Republicans over the age of 65. Very different set of values there. Luckily, we also shared several bottles of wine, so after a while, politics ceased to matter.

Less fascinating, but more odd:

1. I burned my belly on the coffee pot. (And I don't even drink caffeine, so I can't blame it on the I-wasn't-awake-yet phenomenon. I just somehow managed to do it.)

2. I've been suckered by the National Dairy Farmers into thinking that not only does eating dairy burn calories (like they say it does) but that somehow, dairy has NEGATIVE calories. I think this may explain how my belly had a run-in with the coffee pot...

Not remotely fascinating, but amusing:
I accidentally referred to Fort Lauderdale as "Fart Lauderdale."

And an interesting game I played with myself this weekend:
One of my Floridian friends is a button pusher. And he likes to make generalizations, claiming that they're not generalizations and I generally get pretty annoyed at what he's saying and, in the past, have gotten upset about it.This time, however, I played a game with myself. Every time I was triggered by something he said, I would note down the association I had that I felt he was attacking. To recap the weekend, apparently I identify myself with: women, democrats, leftists, women drivers, planners, amateur writers, "chicks," and, for good measure, blacks and guatemalans.

(But at least I didn't get pissed off!)

brokened, part II

I've been cracked!

(but regular readers already knew that about me.)

The chiropractor is my new best friend. We're gonna get those necklace charms where we each get half -- mine'll say "BE FRI" and his'll say "ST ENDS." It'll be great!

(The scary part is that he's half Long Island and half South Florida -- you know, shaves his chest and unbuttons too many buttons -- so he might actually wear his half.)

Anyway, I got in there, he pushed on all the hurty muscles in all the right ways, lined me up on the table and practically yanked my head off its stalk. It was awesome. I came out standing taller, more easily and with less pain in my shoulder already! I almost asked him out it was that good.

Prepared to tackle the world, I headed to the physical therapist. Who reduced me to tears without even touching me!

Now, here's the thing. I cry easily and frequently. All that means is that I get to the other side of difficult things more readily if I shed a tear or two. So when the physical therapist told me I couldn't go to the gym for three weeks, I cried. (And no, they weren't tears of joy. I need me that gym to keep the crazies at bay!)

Instead of just passing me a tissue and telling me it was my choice -- going to the gym and taking longer with PT, or scaling back on the gym and taking less time in PT -- this guy was so scared, he practically called homeland security. He must have told me 100 times why not going was good for me and then clarifying for me 120 times what was wrong with me, and then VERIFYING 150 times that I understood the information. It was all very edifying. And annoying.

What's wrong, Kate? I hear you clamoring. Well, one leg is longer than the other, both legs turn to the right at the hip, my hips tilt up and backwards (wheee!) and my trunk sits on the left side of my legs. (or is it my right???) This is putting strain on my knees, ankles and hips. And, apparently, scaring the crap out of my physical therapist.

The best part? I went to get a massage today and my massage therapist told me that one leg was longer than the other and that my shoulder was really tense. So it might actually be true and not just a ploy to get me to bend myself into quasi-compromising positions while wearing burlap shorts!

I'm brokened

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

(They, incidentally, are not chiropractors.)

On a free-toothbrush-and-free-but-shitty-backrub induced high, I left the health fair at work with one of those little appointment cards. "__Kate Surgeon__ has an appointment with __Dr. Goldberg___ at __2pm__ on __October 21__ at Murray Hill Chiropractic," it read, in inocuous little green letters. This man, this Dr. Goldberg, in my mind, was the Prince Charming of Shoulders, here to rescue me from the gobbling maw of Malfunctional Seratus Doom (a.k.a. wikkid chickeny-winged shoulder blades).

Little did I know what additional horrors lay in store for me.

I showed up for my consultation and x-rays wearing a dress. (Oops.) Apparently it's not so much with the legal to do exams on women with no pants, so they put me in this pair of really ugly surgical gown shorts. (Yes, I said "surgical gown shorts.") Imagine, if you will, everything awful about those gowns they give you at the gynecologist (or, if you prefer, the proctologist), and then sew them into a pair of shorts. And then put them on.

So I'm in my burlap shorts and Prince Goldberg asks me what hurts.

"My shoulder, mostly."

(he scribbles notes.)

"Oh, and my hip. I forgot about my hip."

(he scribbles more notes. I flip over.)

"Oh, and my Achille's tendon. I forgot to mention that, because I thought it wasn't relevant."

After I list the three things I think are wrong with me (and really start to feel like an octogenarian), he starts testing me. Poking me here and then there, asking if I felt the difference (usually no), and then moving on to poke me somewhere else. Then he starts warning me that he is going to poke me in some of my more personal areas -- like the outside of my hip! (Please, hasn't he met ex-actors before?)

So just as I think all the tests are over and I can take off these nasty-ass shorts, he puts his hands around my right knee.

"Flex your leg."

I do, and it's fine.

He switches to my left leg.

"Flex this leg."

I do, and things are decidedly not right anymore.

"OW!" I shout, surprised, since my knees haven't hurt since I was 13 and growing faster than they could keep up.

He repositions his hands and says, "Ok, flex again."

"Um, no." I say. "Not if it's going to feel like that again!"

"It won't," he claims, but I'm wary, and very slowly and gingerly flex my leg.

That's when he tells me I have femural-patellar shift. And I didn't even come in here with knee problems! While I was innocently and uncomfortably sitting there in shorts made out of the back side of industrial carpeting, he's given me Runner's Knee.

Rude.

The moral of the story is: Just when you think the chiropractor is a prince who will save you from Pathetically Droopy Shoulder Syndrome, watch out! He will actually give you problems, most likley femoral-patellar shift, a strain in the ligaments around your sartorius muscle (or the "tailor's muscle") and thickened ligaments in your Achille's tendon. Oh, and because he's such a prince, he'll let you keep the retarded shoulder you came in with.

(In his defense, he hasn't cracked a single bone in my body yet, and I think that when he does, I'll forgive him for giving me other old lady diseases.)

jeenyus jabber

A few of the pearls I have cast before the swine of my mind of late:

1. If we didn't have nosehairs, would bad smells stick around as long? Perhaps there's a fella out there who's trimmed his nostrillicles* and can weigh in on this?

2. I was at the gym recently and a staff guy I haven't seen in months was working the front desk. He said, "Hey sweetie! I haven't seen you in so long I almost forgot how almost pretty you almost are!"

I almost replied with "thanks, jerkface!" but instead gave him the look that people frequently give me -- one meant to convey disdain, insanity and superiority all in one glance.

It almost worked.

3. Fernando and I were discussing the age of one of our million-year-old secretaries lately and he guessed blithely, "oh, probably late fifties."

I said, "Nando, my mom is over sixty. This woman HAS to be in her early seventies."

Nando started to nod, and then a bomb dropped on his head. "I've met your mom! She's over sixty?" he said. "Your mama's saucy. That no-neck man** should thank his lucky stars!"

4. Ave's birthday was yesterday and she had an awesome party last night (from which I didn't return home until 3am. Incidentally, when I told a married friend that I was at a birthday party at 3am, she was very surprised. "It started at 3 am?" she asked, fascinated. "No, no, that's when I got home." "Oh," she said, relieved, "I thought this was a new thing that single people were doing. You miss so much when you have kids...") Anyway, I made Ave this cake, because I love her very much.

She showed it around the bar, and when she got to the bachelorette party in the corner, when she tipped the box for them to see, both boobs fell off. "Give her a boob job!" one of the bridesmaids shouted. So Avery ate a boob cupcake. (I don't think that's quite what they had in mind.)

5. Ok, this section just got shockingly weird as I wrote it. Many of you know of my vom-a-phobia, which is just my fear of people barfing. Well, it turns out that there's a real fear of barfing ("emetophobia") and there's a website devoted to sufferers of that fear.

They have a list of strange behaviors people with this fear engage in. I have, in my life, demonstrated more than a few of them. (Oddly enough, I'm not afraid of my own barf, just other people's barf.) Some of these include:

• avoiding ANY KIND of eating/drinking contest, even if you're just watching them
• becoming very nervous whenever someone has a coughing fit...
• Closing my eyes and covering my ears during movies with scences where someone is ill.
• When I brave a public restroom, I check the stalls to see if they are empty. I also check to see which direction the feet are pointed in. Towards the toilet, see you later, I am out of there.
• Doing anything to avoid places where someone may be sick or faint

And then there are the others, which even I can't understand:

• When out at restraunts you order your food and take one bite but can't finish because you might get sick and then you go to the bathroom and calm yourself because if you do throw up you are already there.
• Airing out out apartment everyday rain, snow, sleet or hail. Even if it is 20 below I have all the windows open to kill the germs that may make one sick.
• NEVER drying my hands or wiping wet utensils etc on a TEA TOWEL, but using kitchen towel instead. TEA TOWELs are full of germs.
• Never smiling before I go to sleep.
• Memorizing the exact date that I've vomited and then considering the number of that day to be bad luck.

It's nice to know I'm crazy, but not as far off the deep end as I thought I was.

This section simply started off with a funny photo sent to me by earl.

It got weird when I googled "vomiting phobia."

*not actually a word. but it's what you'd get if you crossed nostrils and follicles.

** there's a running joke in my family that my father has no neck. this is born from the fact that he takes a shocking number of pictures in which it looks like it's actually true. it's an odd phenomenon, and one that I desperately hope isn't genetic.