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.

adventures at the home despot

When we got of the car in the parking lot of the home depot, Scott was carrying the mysterious red bucket, and Polly and I were each carrying an overhead fan. It was time for my sister and brother-in-law's annual Return Crap We Didn't Use in the Project Day.

I figured they'd be getting back at least a hundred bucks, what with the fans and whatever was in the bucket. Not bad, considering how many people just throw out the 79 cent items they don't use in a project. But Polly and Scott are consummate savers (and mortgage holders in a risky economy). Money is money, whether it's in your pocket or in a red bucket in the basement.

We got in the return line inside the orange-aproned mecca and within five minutes, Scott was plunking the bucket down on the counter. Plumbing joint after plumbing joint appeared, like clowns out of a car. Except considerably more slowly. And less excitingly. Each item had to be scanned and placed in the appropriate departmental tub before we could progress. The line grew and grew behind us.

At first, it was funny how much stuff was coming out of the bucket. Eventually Scott started pulling out pairs, trios and sextets, and the clerk would ring it in once, three times, six times. And Scott would run to the plumbing bin and toss them in. The system was smooth and as efficient as things in a home depot are ever going to be.

But the returns line was six people long, and we hadn't even gotten to the screws or linoleum tiles yet.

"Gee," I said to Polly, really loudly, "I'm sure glad we got in line before that jerk with all the stuff." She fell down laughing, but the rest of the line didn't even crack a smile. I gave them a break, though, because it was Home Depot, and, honestly, I hate that place.

Too much orange.

Anyway, at the end of the deal, all because of one piece of stair nosing (found in the flooring department, I believe) that was older than the 90 days you're allowed to return things without a receipt, the computer wouldn't return the balance to Scott's credit card. He had to take it as a store credit.

Oh, did I mention how much? $535.

We walked out to the parking lot with an empty bucket, a REALLY long paper receipt, and a bounce in Scott's step. After closer examination, however, he discovered that they had only received $50 apiece for the fans, not the $90 they paid for them originally. (I blame the stair nosing.)

Scott headed back into the store, and because the manager was twelve years old (and desperate to go to the sale at Old Navy next door -- which she really shouldn't have been so excited about because I saw it the day before and it was just full of crap), she just reissued the credit for the fans onto Scott's credit card. In full. All over again.

Scott walked out with another $180.

The despot, all of a sudden, seemed considerably less tyrannical. No less orange, no more helpful, but it may have just moved up one (teensy tiny) notch in my opinion. Now it hangs out in the same place as root canal and Sarah Palin.

Barack Steve Obama

I love this guy. And to find out that he has an amazing ability to not only poke fun at himself, but to do it with exceptional timing warms my heart.

I wanted to find a transcript of the dinner speech last night, but so far have only managed to find this clip, so I'll share the clip and keep scouring the intar-webs for more coverage.

Part One


Part Two

more than nothing but less than a lot

as if you need more reasons to read this blog:

1. My Pantene shampoo promises to deliver 12 hours of anti-frizz control, but only 12 hours. So watch out! Around 8pm every night, my hair goes nuts! I turn into a pumpkin with very, very, frizzy hair.

2. Did I mention the part where, the other day, I missed a couple of phone calls? Because I was SITTING ON MY PHONE AND COULDN'T HEAR IT RING.

Shoot me.

3. Many people will call their sisters and say, "Hey, can you come up to Boston and help me organize my house?" Fewer people will answer, "Sure! That sounds like fun!" Even fewer will actually follow through and do it, and of those slim pickins, only one will manage to fling paint stripper into her eyeball while stripping the paint off of a radiator with a toothbrush.

Do I need to name names here, people?

4. I've decided to take a job where all I have to do is fly the Delta shuttle back and forth between Boston and New York. Three reasons: 1. Complimentary snacks and wine, 2. Free NY Times in the Marine Air Terminal, and 3. I was the ONLY WOMAN on the flight (who wasn't paid to be there). Hello! Lots of men in suits and only one me. What's a girl to do?

5. Speaking of suits, my self-imposed moratorium on dating draws to an end on Friday. Seeing as I've had so many men pounding down my door in the last six weeks, I'll probably just keep it up. My dad, however, is making a valiant effort in this direction, setting me up with the son of his college girlfriend. It is, at the time of press, unclear as to whether or not this particular guy already has a girlfriend or not. According to facebook, he does. According to his mother, he doesn't... Is it too late to back out now?

6. Did I mention the overwhelming success of my clothing swap last weekend? If so, did I mention the fact that I have six enormous bags of clothing in my office? It's getting so bad that I'm foisting it off on people, including the cleaning lady. I even took some to Boston this weekend! Is it a crime to transport ill-fitting clothing over state lines? (In the case of some of these items, it should be.)

stimulating stultiloquence

(Stul*til"o*quence\, n. [L. stultiloquentia; stultus foolish + loquentia a talking, fr. loquens, p. pr. of loqui to talk.] Silly talk; babbling.)

1. If I had a mariachi band, I would call them the Magic Juans.

2. The other day, Fernando answered the help desk phone to discuss one of our programs, "Hot Dicks." After I picked my jaw up off the floor, and snorted audibly, he made a point of emphatically re-pronouncing "Hot Docs" four or five times in the remaining two minutes of the call.

3. My pantyhose were so tight today, I felt like a sausage about to bust out of its casings. I'll admit to having to cut the waistband just so I could breathe.

4. There is no ghost in the Chrylser Building bathroom, as I had previously thought. Turns out, we have some magical, automatic, aromatic air freshener that just squirts perfume into the air at random, ghost-whispering-like intervals.

5. If there is beforehand and afterwards, why is there no afterhand or beforewards?

6. A quote from the beginning of the book I'm reading, Working Identity:
Then indecision brings its own delays,
And days are lost lamenting o'er lost days.
Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute;
What you can do, or dream you can, begin it;
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

the scientific method

I tried to embed this video, but blogger won't let me. (Bastards!)

Instead, you'll have to travel here to see our popcorn rebuttal video. Fernando and I are nothing if not scientific, methodical, and freaked out by that whole popcorn/cellphone thing.

(Click here to view the previous post.)

who's to blame for the economy?

I've figured out who's to blame for the economy: Me!

You'll notice things started to take a downturn when I stopped dating. Coincidence? I don't think so.

My dating was a major source of revenue for the city of New York. And it all went down the toilet. No more drinks, no more coffees, ice creams, dinners, movies... none of it! And with the amount I was dating, I'm pretty sure I was keeping this city afloat, not silly old Wall Street...

Which is to say, of course, that I'm sorry, but I'm still not ready to date yet.

while I'm on hold with Time Warner...

here are some sticky little thoughts that have been clinging to my brain recently:

1. If there are antelopes, are there prolopes? Postlopes?

2. I used to think that the street signs that say "Do Not Pass" meant that you couldn't go past them, and that each and every time we did, we were breaking the law.

3. If you had an affair with your foot doctor, you could have a podiatryst!

4. It's really sexy when a hot, young thing is rolling her laundry around in her granny cart and then the cart hits a rut and the cart, laundry, girl and the cake (for Rosh Hashannah dinner) go sprawling across the sidewalk, right?

RIGHT??

And, surprisingly, I'm not on hold anymore. But the hold music's stuck in my head. Rude.