So I've had a sinus infection for the last few... ever, and it's so crowded in my sinuses, it feels like a dead squirrel climbed up there and died. Again. I don't know whether it's the drugs (or the squirrel), but I've been collecting interesting thoughts and observations:
1. Have you heard the phrase "scarce as hens' teeth"? It kind of cracks me up. For some reason it makes me think of chickens chewing gum or flossing.
2. Heat is a good thing. No heat is a bad thing. No heat means sleeping in a ski cap, under a down comforter, with your wool socks on and the heating pad on your feet. Let's not even talk about waking up, or what that ski cap does to your hairdo.
3. In an article in the New Yorker two weeks ago, Obama said this about his relationship with Michelle:
And then what sustains our relationship is I'm extremely happy with her, and part of it has to do with the fact that she is at once completely familiar to me, so that I can be myself and she knows me very well and I trust her completely, but at the same time she is also a complete mystery to me in some ways. And there are times when we are lying in bed and I look over and sort of have a start. Because I realize here is this other person who is separate and different and has different memories and backgrounds and thoughts and feelings. It's that tension between familiarity and mystery that makes for something strong, because, even as you build a life of trust and comfort and mutual support, you retain some sense of surprise or wonder about the other person.
And now I love him even more.
4. I've been reading a book about corporate coaching and the author says that when you hire someone, you're not getting involved in their attitude or thoughts, you're merely renting his or her behavior. Kind of an interesting way to look at your co-workers, actually.
5. I love my crock pot. I usually make a new soup every week in it during the winter, but this week I made soup on the stove instead. Unfortunately, that soup was so good that I ran out of it two days ago. So I had to delve into my previously crock-potted store of Mystery Soups in the freezer. Even after eating it, I'm not entirely sure what it was. I'm not even sure I made it. I may, in fact, have had alien soup for lunch today. Someone call me tomorrow to make sure I'm still alive, ok?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
"when you care enough to hit send"
Until recently reminded of someecards, I had forgotten about their hilarity and general applicability to my life. Here are just a few I've been ever-so-tempted to send:
Go forth and select your own. Send them to me. Unless, of course, you're too busy, flaky or dead from a salad-induced stomach ailment that Airborne can't cure...
Go forth and select your own. Send them to me. Unless, of course, you're too busy, flaky or dead from a salad-induced stomach ailment that Airborne can't cure...Sunday, January 25, 2009
Francine
This is Francine.
She lives atop the mantle at Union Hall in Park Slope, supervising the indoor bocce courts. Previously buried under a thick layer of dust, she was recently released by a pair of creative geniuses (or genii, if you prefer) and given a new lease on life.
At first they thought Francine was single, ranging anywhere in age from 22 to 35. (He said 22, she said 35.) While Francine is actually married (you can see the rings on her finger), this photo might lead even a creative genius to think that it was her parents' last-ditch effort to get her a husband. You know, one of those portraits they could take around to potential suitors and show them how nice her hair was.* And then ply them with money to take her off their hands before she became a spinster.
It was dark in the bar. He thought she (Francine) wasn't wearing anything; she knew she (Francine) had on a gauzy number that very likely had a scalloped bodice underneath. Possibly in teal or turquoise. She thought Francine's father was in the mob ("Just look at those earrings"); he didn't disagree, but looked around the bar suspiciously, just in case.
Why Francine was wearing a gold bracelet while at the same time sporting diamonds, she would never understand, but that's because she doesn't wear gold herself. He nodded. It was warm in the bar.
The picture was taken in the 1930s? '40s? 50s. Sometime in there. They agreed, drank to that and then posed for a picture themselves.
The frame around Fracine was, to him, the most disturbing part. At the top, the border's frippery was split in two, parted like bangs or theatrical curtains. It frustrated her that Francine could only be displayed in one direction. And that the frame was even dustier than the picture.
Francine could have been Hawaiian. Or half-Asian (which would likely make it a different mafia all together). She could have been anybody.
In fact, she was somebody, and may, actually, still be somebody. That's the weirdest part.
When she put Francine back on the mantle, he looked at her, smiled and said, "You know, a lot of people couldn't do what we just did."
"I know," she said. That's why she liked doing it.
*"When a woman is ugly they always say she has beautiful hair or eyes" -- Sonya, Uncle Vanya (Chekhov)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
ah, new york
It was a night of crazy people on my commute.
First, there was the guy who camps out at the 51st Street station on the V and the E trains. The one who likes to make proclamations about Black People and Women and The Mayor. Tonight was all about Women, and what they're doing to Ruin Men.
"If you see a woman with out a man, it's because she IS a man," he proclaimed, as I headed down the escalator (not falling on my ass this time, thank you very much). "The only reason a woman needs a man is when she's looking for a heart TRAAAAAAAAAAANSPLAAAAAAAAAANT."
I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that somehow, this guy gets my hackles up. If I met him in a bar (and he smelled less crazy and wore actual shoes instead of paper ones) I might argue with him. He speaks with kind of a twinkle in his voice, like he knows he's going to piss people off, but he just kind of wants to see what he can get away with. Like a kid who pushes his boundaries, knowing he'll be punished and yet still found adorable. Sometimes when he rants about the city or the MTA, I agree with him. When he gets on Women, though, and how we're the Scourge of the Earth, it gets kind of tired.
The doors on the subway closed on his rant and I was greeted by the guy who always sings Ain't to Proud to Beg or Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. I didn't see him all Christmas this year, and was, in fact, a little worried about him. He's got this voice that comes directly out of his nose and aims straight into your brain like an enormous pipe cleaner. It's unpleasant, and yet, oddly enough, his presence on the train was reassuring. Like running into old classmates, only they've gone totally batshit and are always singing songs that get stuck in your head.
Unfortunately, once he was through the car with his blind man's cane (which he doesn't need, by the way), two stops later, a guy got on with a saxophone (or metallic oboe?) and played a beautiful song. Too bad most people were cashed out for the night on Chestnuts.
The last guy of the evening was the one who, I think, was secretly -- and yet deliberately -- peeing in his pants. I can't be sure (and, actually, don't want to know) but I think he hid in his coat in such a way that he undid his pants, got a bottle in there, peed in it, and then put it in a pocket, zipped up his pants and got on with his night. And as unpleasant as it was that this happened a mere three feet from me, it's better that than openly peeing in a corner, no?
Or maybe I've just lived in New York too long.
First, there was the guy who camps out at the 51st Street station on the V and the E trains. The one who likes to make proclamations about Black People and Women and The Mayor. Tonight was all about Women, and what they're doing to Ruin Men.
"If you see a woman with out a man, it's because she IS a man," he proclaimed, as I headed down the escalator (not falling on my ass this time, thank you very much). "The only reason a woman needs a man is when she's looking for a heart TRAAAAAAAAAAANSPLAAAAAAAAAANT."
I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that somehow, this guy gets my hackles up. If I met him in a bar (and he smelled less crazy and wore actual shoes instead of paper ones) I might argue with him. He speaks with kind of a twinkle in his voice, like he knows he's going to piss people off, but he just kind of wants to see what he can get away with. Like a kid who pushes his boundaries, knowing he'll be punished and yet still found adorable. Sometimes when he rants about the city or the MTA, I agree with him. When he gets on Women, though, and how we're the Scourge of the Earth, it gets kind of tired.
The doors on the subway closed on his rant and I was greeted by the guy who always sings Ain't to Proud to Beg or Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. I didn't see him all Christmas this year, and was, in fact, a little worried about him. He's got this voice that comes directly out of his nose and aims straight into your brain like an enormous pipe cleaner. It's unpleasant, and yet, oddly enough, his presence on the train was reassuring. Like running into old classmates, only they've gone totally batshit and are always singing songs that get stuck in your head.
Unfortunately, once he was through the car with his blind man's cane (which he doesn't need, by the way), two stops later, a guy got on with a saxophone (or metallic oboe?) and played a beautiful song. Too bad most people were cashed out for the night on Chestnuts.
The last guy of the evening was the one who, I think, was secretly -- and yet deliberately -- peeing in his pants. I can't be sure (and, actually, don't want to know) but I think he hid in his coat in such a way that he undid his pants, got a bottle in there, peed in it, and then put it in a pocket, zipped up his pants and got on with his night. And as unpleasant as it was that this happened a mere three feet from me, it's better that than openly peeing in a corner, no?
Or maybe I've just lived in New York too long.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
cloudbursts on curly pinks and goatees on lions
Here are just a few things in the world that delight me:
1. dogs that walk themselves
2. brioche
3. hipbones
4. raisins
5. hem
6. just making a train
7. plaid (the word, not the design)
8. story people
9. President Obama
10. the feeling of sudafed kicking in
11. the heffalumpish sound I made when I fell down on the escalator*
12. the dog this morning with legs barely longer than the two inches of accumulated snow that was bounding through the drift like he was a husky in the tundra
13. whatever they're cooking downstairs
14. clean sheets
15. moments of improvisational genius when the world just feels right
*I didn't enjoy falling down the escalator; that hurt. But the "oomphf" that escaped me (quite loudly, in fact) was entertaining. And not sexy.
1. dogs that walk themselves
2. brioche
3. hipbones
4. raisins
5. hem
6. just making a train
7. plaid (the word, not the design)
8. story people
9. President Obama
10. the feeling of sudafed kicking in
11. the heffalumpish sound I made when I fell down on the escalator*
12. the dog this morning with legs barely longer than the two inches of accumulated snow that was bounding through the drift like he was a husky in the tundra
13. whatever they're cooking downstairs
14. clean sheets
15. moments of improvisational genius when the world just feels right
*I didn't enjoy falling down the escalator; that hurt. But the "oomphf" that escaped me (quite loudly, in fact) was entertaining. And not sexy.
Friday, January 16, 2009
like grains of sand through the hourglass...
These are the thoughts of my life.
1. Kate's attempt at something newsworthy: the guy behind a massive ponzi scheme was named Madoff. What, I wonder, were his co-conspirators' names? Ms. CutAndRun and Mr. Vamoose?
2. Fernando was out fixing computers today when the Printer Guy came to get some paperwork signed. I initialed his form, and then sent the following message to Fernando:
Printer guy came.
Fuser part not in stock. Will come back Tuesday.
He smells like urinal cake.
3. Semi-topical option 2, my dear sweet boyfriend, Eddie:
1. Kate's attempt at something newsworthy: the guy behind a massive ponzi scheme was named Madoff. What, I wonder, were his co-conspirators' names? Ms. CutAndRun and Mr. Vamoose?
2. Fernando was out fixing computers today when the Printer Guy came to get some paperwork signed. I initialed his form, and then sent the following message to Fernando:
Printer guy came.
Fuser part not in stock. Will come back Tuesday.
He smells like urinal cake.
3. Semi-topical option 2, my dear sweet boyfriend, Eddie:
Monday, January 12, 2009
why I'm a good person, or Mulchfest 2009!
Here is the lifecycle of a Brooklyn Christmas Tree:
A tree is planted.
A tree grows (but not in Brooklyn).
A tree is cut down and shipped to Brooklyn.
A tree is purchased, toted home, decorated and adored.
A tree-based holiday is celebrated.
A tree is thrown to the curb, sometimes from a window (or balcony).
A tree is peed on. Repeatedly.
A tree is schlepped to the park.
A tree is chopped up into mulch.
A tree is distributed into the garden-ish beds of Prospect Park.
A tree rots and eventually grows into part of another tree.
Which this time, grows in Brooklyn.
Mulchfest is an annual event (I'd say festival, but that would seriously be stretching it) where the Parks Department collects all the formerly-beloved Christmas trees for chopping, chipping and future use in the park in a mulch smaller form. (ha! mulch smaller!)
However, until someone can genetically engineer the trees to get up and walk to the park themselves, Mulchfest requires volunteers (like yours truly) to schlep the heavy, pee-soaked bastards to the park. Because the Parks Department can't drive around and pick up the tree -- no, no, that would impinge upon the Sanitation Department. They can only pick up the trees they happen to find in the park. You know, the ones I put there.
Have you ever seen a strong man competition? Where they compete to see who can pull a truck the farthest? Yeah, well, that was me on Saturday. Except the truck was made out of discarded christmas trees, and I was cute and svelt, not big and juiced. Thanks to an ingenious idea I'm sure I inherited genetically from my father, I took a piece of clothesline with me and tied one end to one tree and the other end to another one. Then I headed up Park Slope (which, by the end of the day, I renamed Park EnormousIncline) hauling anywhere between two and six trees.
I was kind of a machine.
People's reactions were interesting. Some offered to help, some ignored me all together (which was difficult, as I was taking up the entire sidewalk), some thanked me and some made jokes -- how I wouldn't have to go to the gym today, how I looked like a cavewoman, how I could be a lumberjack... (apparently hauling trees does not make one look sexy).
I was wearing so many layers that by the end of the day, I was drenched. Nothing smelled good, and everything was sore. But I felt like I had really served my neighborhood. The trees wouldn't go to waste, the park would spend less money on mulch, and I got a good workout.The only drawback is that now, when I see a christmas tree on the sidewalk -- and especially when I see a dog peeing on it -- I want to punch people.
I don't think that's quite the spirit of volunteerism I should be fostering...
A tree is planted.
A tree grows (but not in Brooklyn).
A tree is cut down and shipped to Brooklyn.
A tree is purchased, toted home, decorated and adored.
A tree-based holiday is celebrated.
A tree is thrown to the curb, sometimes from a window (or balcony).
A tree is peed on. Repeatedly.
A tree is schlepped to the park.
A tree is chopped up into mulch.
A tree is distributed into the garden-ish beds of Prospect Park.
A tree rots and eventually grows into part of another tree.
Which this time, grows in Brooklyn.
Mulchfest is an annual event (I'd say festival, but that would seriously be stretching it) where the Parks Department collects all the formerly-beloved Christmas trees for chopping, chipping and future use in the park in a mulch smaller form. (ha! mulch smaller!)
However, until someone can genetically engineer the trees to get up and walk to the park themselves, Mulchfest requires volunteers (like yours truly) to schlep the heavy, pee-soaked bastards to the park. Because the Parks Department can't drive around and pick up the tree -- no, no, that would impinge upon the Sanitation Department. They can only pick up the trees they happen to find in the park. You know, the ones I put there.
Have you ever seen a strong man competition? Where they compete to see who can pull a truck the farthest? Yeah, well, that was me on Saturday. Except the truck was made out of discarded christmas trees, and I was cute and svelt, not big and juiced. Thanks to an ingenious idea I'm sure I inherited genetically from my father, I took a piece of clothesline with me and tied one end to one tree and the other end to another one. Then I headed up Park Slope (which, by the end of the day, I renamed Park EnormousIncline) hauling anywhere between two and six trees.
I was kind of a machine.
People's reactions were interesting. Some offered to help, some ignored me all together (which was difficult, as I was taking up the entire sidewalk), some thanked me and some made jokes -- how I wouldn't have to go to the gym today, how I looked like a cavewoman, how I could be a lumberjack... (apparently hauling trees does not make one look sexy).
I was wearing so many layers that by the end of the day, I was drenched. Nothing smelled good, and everything was sore. But I felt like I had really served my neighborhood. The trees wouldn't go to waste, the park would spend less money on mulch, and I got a good workout.The only drawback is that now, when I see a christmas tree on the sidewalk -- and especially when I see a dog peeing on it -- I want to punch people.
I don't think that's quite the spirit of volunteerism I should be fostering...
Sunday, January 11, 2009
my brain runneth over
The collected (recent) thoughts of one Katherine Surgeon:
1. Are you familiar with the phrase "Angel's Share"? I know it's a bar in NYC, but a friend explained it to me as a drinking tradition whereby you set aside a small amount for the angels to drink. (Kind of like Elijah's plate at Passover.) On further exploration, I discovered that traditionally, the Angel's share is the amount of alcohol that evaporates in the oak barrel aging process. So it's kind of like the angels get in there and drink their bit before you can even pour it out for them.
Sneaky little angels.
2. If you're going to hang a sign from your rearview mirror that says "I heart My Penis" are you really going to drive a Subaru Forrester? I think you might want to rethink that one, neighbor.
3. The new, Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not bathe in cologne and then ride the MTA, especially when thou art covered in a prime vintage eau de diarrhea. (Have you no nosehairs, man?)
4. I found out that if your clementine has seeds (as I have made rules that it shouldn't) that means the bees have been at work cross pollenating your clementine with someting else. Which is to say, your clementine is all sexed out!
(stupid lucky fruit.)
5. I was recently at a meeting in the brand new New York Times building (the one the guy climbed up the outside of) and it's a gorgeous building. Lots of stunning views, enormous windows and ample sunshine. The toilets, however, scared the shit out of me. They are those automatic flush toilets, which we have in the Chrysler building, and which I've gotten used to over time. However, the NYT toilets do something ours don't: they sound like an angry cat lives under the seat and barkingly meows at you before it flushes. Like a catty toilet troll.
Which is just creepy.
6. My friend, Robbie Gil, has some amazing new songs you can download for free on his MySpace page. I totally recommend doing so. They're really great.
7. A while ago, I was seeing a guy who was very supportive of me and all the craziness I have to go through while trying to change my life. He wanted to be there for me and take care of me, which was very generous and lovely of him. He put it this way (paraphrased, of course):
Him: Did you know that they often stable racehorses with cats?
Me: No. Why?
Him: Because the cats keep the horses calm. They get rid of all the mice and rats and things that would otherwise spook the horse. I want to be the cat to your racehorse.
(Beautiful, no? We split up, though, because I felt like the relationship was unbalanced.)
What, I asked, did the racehorse do for the cat?
1. Are you familiar with the phrase "Angel's Share"? I know it's a bar in NYC, but a friend explained it to me as a drinking tradition whereby you set aside a small amount for the angels to drink. (Kind of like Elijah's plate at Passover.) On further exploration, I discovered that traditionally, the Angel's share is the amount of alcohol that evaporates in the oak barrel aging process. So it's kind of like the angels get in there and drink their bit before you can even pour it out for them.
Sneaky little angels.
2. If you're going to hang a sign from your rearview mirror that says "I heart My Penis" are you really going to drive a Subaru Forrester? I think you might want to rethink that one, neighbor.
3. The new, Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not bathe in cologne and then ride the MTA, especially when thou art covered in a prime vintage eau de diarrhea. (Have you no nosehairs, man?)
4. I found out that if your clementine has seeds (as I have made rules that it shouldn't) that means the bees have been at work cross pollenating your clementine with someting else. Which is to say, your clementine is all sexed out!
(stupid lucky fruit.)
5. I was recently at a meeting in the brand new New York Times building (the one the guy climbed up the outside of) and it's a gorgeous building. Lots of stunning views, enormous windows and ample sunshine. The toilets, however, scared the shit out of me. They are those automatic flush toilets, which we have in the Chrysler building, and which I've gotten used to over time. However, the NYT toilets do something ours don't: they sound like an angry cat lives under the seat and barkingly meows at you before it flushes. Like a catty toilet troll.
Which is just creepy.
6. My friend, Robbie Gil, has some amazing new songs you can download for free on his MySpace page. I totally recommend doing so. They're really great.
7. A while ago, I was seeing a guy who was very supportive of me and all the craziness I have to go through while trying to change my life. He wanted to be there for me and take care of me, which was very generous and lovely of him. He put it this way (paraphrased, of course):
Him: Did you know that they often stable racehorses with cats?
Me: No. Why?
Him: Because the cats keep the horses calm. They get rid of all the mice and rats and things that would otherwise spook the horse. I want to be the cat to your racehorse.
(Beautiful, no? We split up, though, because I felt like the relationship was unbalanced.)
What, I asked, did the racehorse do for the cat?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
some valid questions
1. If I gave it something to burrow into, do you think that an arctic mouse could live in my freezer?
2. Can you expect to be disappointed?
3. Ok, this isn't a question, but... with help from my friend, I came up with a name for the stomach bug that seems to have hit everyone I know: the sqashed cannoli flu. Because bascially, when you get it, you're a squashed cannoli.
4. What do you get if you mix pear cobbler (in your hair), red velvet cake (on your body), and hot cocoa (on your face)?
[Hint: Me, after my shower this morning!]
5. If I don't feel like dating anymore, do I have to?
2. Can you expect to be disappointed?
3. Ok, this isn't a question, but... with help from my friend, I came up with a name for the stomach bug that seems to have hit everyone I know: the sqashed cannoli flu. Because bascially, when you get it, you're a squashed cannoli.
4. What do you get if you mix pear cobbler (in your hair), red velvet cake (on your body), and hot cocoa (on your face)?
[Hint: Me, after my shower this morning!]
5. If I don't feel like dating anymore, do I have to?
Sunday, January 4, 2009
the date that shouldn't have been
It's been almost six months since I met somebody online. And after my date Friday night, I wish I were still headed for seven.
Our second date started off well. He was calmer, more reassured, and quoting fewer movies. We ate dinner, and he told me about the sci-fi books he was reading, the Twilight Zone marathon he watched on New Year's Eve and the distinctions between different ways of playing D&D. (Didn't know there were any, did you? Well, there are. LOTS.)
My dinner, however, didn't sit terribly well with me, and after we were finished, I turned down his (now second) offer to go back to his place to get high and play videogames, and instead we walked around the block. When I realized that the only way I was apt to feel better was by getting horizontal (alone, thank you very much), he offered to walk me home. Twelve blocks later, we were both freezing and it would have been inhumane to send him back in the other direction without at least letting him thaw out a bit.
"I'm letting you come into my apartment to warm up, but I have to warn you, it's not clean, and it's not that kind of invitation," I said, as we headed up the stairs. "I wasn't expecting company tonight."
I gave him a brief tour. (My house is so small, any tour is brief.) He plopped down on the couch.
"It's kind of gritty on the couch."
"I know," I said, "I was eating popcorn there last night and it had sugar on it, so that's probably sugar on the couch."
"And this is a pretty picture," he said, leaning towards a shot of me in my graduation gown. "But it's kinda dusty."
"I told you, my house isn't clean. You're not really here."
I sat down on the couch and he rubbed my back. Yes, yes, I'm a whoooore... I let him. Then there was a little bit of smooching. When he tried to cop a feel, I deftly maneuvered his hand out of the way with my forearm.
"Did you notice that?" he asked.
"Um, what?"
"That I felt your boob."
"Yeah, I noticed that. Did you notice that I pushed your hand away?"
"Yeah, but it's only fair. Second date; second base."
Seriously?
Do guys actually think this kind of thing? And, of the percentage who think it (over age 14) how many of them say it out loud?
He got up to go home, and I followed him to the door. Watch out, Kate! Sneak Attack!
Now, you should know that there are women in the world who, if you pull the right maneuver, something in their neural pathways snaps and they're no longer able to think above the waist. I am, sadly, one of those women. Of the myriad things that will do this, one of them is backing me up against a wall. So when that happened, all bets were off.
After a shocking (and, I'll admit, surprisingly good make out session), Frank said, "You know, dinner, and getting to know you, and walking around and talking to you have all been really good, but the last five minutes, where I had kind of a hard on and was rubbing up against you? Those were the best five minutes yet! Just say the word and I'll take my profile down."
"Oh, and did you see my Star Trek belt buckle?"
Dear god, whatever the word is, please please PLEASE don't let it slip from my lips. My mind was racing. End this. Save yourself. No matter how good the smooching, there is no way you can continue to see this guy. Ever!
As bad as it was, he somehow managed to continue to sink even lower. "You know, it's sad that I have to go home alone, but the good thing is, those last five minutes? At least they've given me something to jerk off to."
"NO." I said firmly, now thoroughly disgusted with myself for getting anywhere near a wall with my back. "That will not be your parting thought. Try again."
He laughed. "When we're married and have grandkids, we'll look back on this and smile."
"Really? You jump from jerking off to marriage in one step? That's impossible!"
He left, I locked my door behind him, and made myself a solemn vow.
I would never, ever, ignore a freight train full of shit steaming down the tracks at me at a million miles an hour.
In fact, I'm seriously considering giving up dating (if not living) all together.
CAVEAT: I hesitate to write about this date because, well, there were a number of signs that came barreling down the tracks at me like a freight train full of shit, and, being out of practice, I willfully neglected to see them. For my part in the ensuing tragedy, I sincerely apologize, and hope that your opinions of me are not (too terribly) diminished.
Sign number one: my date, who we'll call Frank, admitted to playing Dungeons and Dragons over email with his friends. (He's 35, not 14.)
Sign number two: Frank has a Yoda collection. A very LARGE Yoda collection.
Sign number three: Frank has videos on youtube where he's dancing with a light saber.
On my first date with Frank, he started out very overwhelming -- loud, garrulous, inconfident; I could tell that I was making him nervous. By the end of our date, though, he calmed down and really talked from the heart about something, and it seemed like there was someone on the inside who was worth meeting. So I took a second date with him. (And, for the record, he was cute. Tall, nice eyes, slim build, I can't argue.)Our second date started off well. He was calmer, more reassured, and quoting fewer movies. We ate dinner, and he told me about the sci-fi books he was reading, the Twilight Zone marathon he watched on New Year's Eve and the distinctions between different ways of playing D&D. (Didn't know there were any, did you? Well, there are. LOTS.)
My dinner, however, didn't sit terribly well with me, and after we were finished, I turned down his (now second) offer to go back to his place to get high and play videogames, and instead we walked around the block. When I realized that the only way I was apt to feel better was by getting horizontal (alone, thank you very much), he offered to walk me home. Twelve blocks later, we were both freezing and it would have been inhumane to send him back in the other direction without at least letting him thaw out a bit.
"I'm letting you come into my apartment to warm up, but I have to warn you, it's not clean, and it's not that kind of invitation," I said, as we headed up the stairs. "I wasn't expecting company tonight."
I gave him a brief tour. (My house is so small, any tour is brief.) He plopped down on the couch.
"It's kind of gritty on the couch."
"I know," I said, "I was eating popcorn there last night and it had sugar on it, so that's probably sugar on the couch."
"And this is a pretty picture," he said, leaning towards a shot of me in my graduation gown. "But it's kinda dusty."
"I told you, my house isn't clean. You're not really here."
I sat down on the couch and he rubbed my back. Yes, yes, I'm a whoooore... I let him. Then there was a little bit of smooching. When he tried to cop a feel, I deftly maneuvered his hand out of the way with my forearm.
"Did you notice that?" he asked.
"Um, what?"
"That I felt your boob."
"Yeah, I noticed that. Did you notice that I pushed your hand away?"
"Yeah, but it's only fair. Second date; second base."
Seriously?
Do guys actually think this kind of thing? And, of the percentage who think it (over age 14) how many of them say it out loud?
He got up to go home, and I followed him to the door. Watch out, Kate! Sneak Attack!
Now, you should know that there are women in the world who, if you pull the right maneuver, something in their neural pathways snaps and they're no longer able to think above the waist. I am, sadly, one of those women. Of the myriad things that will do this, one of them is backing me up against a wall. So when that happened, all bets were off.
After a shocking (and, I'll admit, surprisingly good make out session), Frank said, "You know, dinner, and getting to know you, and walking around and talking to you have all been really good, but the last five minutes, where I had kind of a hard on and was rubbing up against you? Those were the best five minutes yet! Just say the word and I'll take my profile down."
"Oh, and did you see my Star Trek belt buckle?"
Dear god, whatever the word is, please please PLEASE don't let it slip from my lips. My mind was racing. End this. Save yourself. No matter how good the smooching, there is no way you can continue to see this guy. Ever!
As bad as it was, he somehow managed to continue to sink even lower. "You know, it's sad that I have to go home alone, but the good thing is, those last five minutes? At least they've given me something to jerk off to."
"NO." I said firmly, now thoroughly disgusted with myself for getting anywhere near a wall with my back. "That will not be your parting thought. Try again."
He laughed. "When we're married and have grandkids, we'll look back on this and smile."
"Really? You jump from jerking off to marriage in one step? That's impossible!"
He left, I locked my door behind him, and made myself a solemn vow.
I would never, ever, ignore a freight train full of shit steaming down the tracks at me at a million miles an hour.
In fact, I'm seriously considering giving up dating (if not living) all together.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
how pine needles are like sand in your bathing suit
Several frightening ways pine needles shed by a christmas tree are like sand in your bathing suit:
1. In the moment, neither are annoying. However, after stripping off your suit or chucking your tree, you're shocked to see just how much has accumulated.
2. Neither ever really leaves. You can rinse your suit for days or vacuum your apartment seventeen times, and yet a trace of both still linger.
3. Both are very useful and necessary -- but NOT in their current location. Pine needles are great firestarters, and sand is great for sandcastle building, but I want no fires in my apartment or castles in my vagina.
4. Both have an individual smell. (That's all I'm going to say about that.)
5. And no matter how I get rid of my tree, whether throwing it out the window, carrying it down the stairs in pieces or wrapping it up in a sheet and lugging it down to the street, I always end up with three or four errant pine needles... in my fannypants.
These are always less fun than sand.
1. In the moment, neither are annoying. However, after stripping off your suit or chucking your tree, you're shocked to see just how much has accumulated.
2. Neither ever really leaves. You can rinse your suit for days or vacuum your apartment seventeen times, and yet a trace of both still linger.
3. Both are very useful and necessary -- but NOT in their current location. Pine needles are great firestarters, and sand is great for sandcastle building, but I want no fires in my apartment or castles in my vagina.
4. Both have an individual smell. (That's all I'm going to say about that.)
5. And no matter how I get rid of my tree, whether throwing it out the window, carrying it down the stairs in pieces or wrapping it up in a sheet and lugging it down to the street, I always end up with three or four errant pine needles... in my fannypants.
These are always less fun than sand.
Friday, January 2, 2009
bad postal karma
I'm not big on new year's resolutions. I like the feeling of turning over a new leaf at the beginning of the year, and the low-level psychic support of thousands (if not millions) of others also trying to better themselves helps to do that, but January first feels so arbitrary. Why should this Thursday be any different from last Thursday? I try to remember that each new day is another opportunity to make a new plan and to change things about my life that make me unhappy.
Like my relationship with the postal service...
I've been having some bad postal karma lately. A birthday present arrived for me after I had left town for the holidays, and UPS declared that the driver "MET CUST MAN." When I called UPS, they told me that meant the driver had "met the customer's man." I, being the customer, wanted to know who that man was, as I have yet to meet him myself. (A new dating service! Let UPS pick your date!) I told the customer service agent that there were a number of men who lived in the building, but none of them lived with me. Yet. (She didn't find that as amusing as I did.)
Long story short, I sorted things out with the company this morning, and would HIGHLY recommend Philosophy if you're interested in ordering bath and body products. Their customer service was OUTSTANDING. Needless to say, I had the new package shipped to my office, to avoid the black hole vortex that my lobby has apparently become.
Similarly, I ordered presents for a friend of mine from Amazon and the mailman delivered a "We Seemed To Have Missed You" slip to her mailbox when she wasn't home to receive it. She signed the slip to indicate they could leave the package for her, and then either put it in the mail or returned it to her mailbox. (I'm not sure which.) Regardless, the package is now sitting at her local post office and since she's no longer in possession of the slip (but does have the tracking number) she can't get the package.
This is my imagined version of the exchange at the post office:
Friend: Hi, I'm here to pick up my package.
Postal Worker: Your slip.
F: I don't have it. But I have the tracking number.
PW: I don't need the tracking number, I need the slip.
F: But I don't have it. I have ID with my address on it, and the tracking number. Wouldn't those indicate I am who I say I am?
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do.
F: But I mailed the slip back to you. (Or put it in my mailbox -- whichever she did.)
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do.
F: So the package, which is sitting right there where I can see it, which is addressed to me, at the address that is right here on my state-issued ID, which, in most states, counts as proof that I am who I say I am, will be sent back to the shipper because I lost a lousy piece of paper?
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do. (read: "It's beyond my control.")
F: I'M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN HERE AND THEN SHIMMY THROUGH THE FOUR INCH WINDOW SO I CAN GET TO MY PACKAGE, BITCHES!
PW: That'll be fine, as long as you give me the slip first.
I have no idea how that's going to work out.
And then, as a kicker, I'm having this problem with my Time Out New York subscription. I've subscribed to this magazine for a hundred years and have never had a problem. Then, in September, my subscription runs out. So I try to renew it. But nothing happens. So my subscription runs out, and in November, I renew it for three years. My credit card is charged, and I settle down, waiting for the Thanksgiving issue.
Nothing.
So I call them the first week of December and say "hey, where's my magazine?" and they say "what magazine?" and I say, "um, yours?" and they say "yeah, you're not a subscriber" and I say "yeah, I am" and they say "um, ok, please hold." Then they sort it out, and the 12/11 issue should be on its way to me.
December 30th comes and I call them again because I still haven't received an issue. I say "hey, where's my magazine?" and they say "what magazine?" and I say, "um, yours?" and they say "yeah, it's at your house" and I say "um, no, it's not. I'm at my house, magazineless" and they say "well, it should be there, call the post office" and I say "ok, I'll call the post office, but why do I have this notice threatening to send me to collections when I've already paid for a three year subscription?"
(pause)
"ok, NOW you should get a magazine, and your subscription ends in September of 2009" and I say "yeah, except that I paid for a three year subscription" and they say, "ok, yeah, you're right" and blah blah blah blah blah. Six years later, they tell me that I'm all set, that I'll get the January 11th issue and that my subscription will be four issues short. I say, "So basically, since you guys claim to be sending me four weeks of a magazine that I haven't gotten, I have to suck it up and get four fewer issues in my subscription." Their response, "Um, yeah."
Note to TONY: if I don't get the January 11th issue, I'm calling my credit card company and stopping payment on that charge. (Take that!)
I hope everyone is having a lovely new year, and if you need help sticking to any non-postal related resolutions, feel free to contact me. I can be a great motivator if you need one!
Like my relationship with the postal service...
I've been having some bad postal karma lately. A birthday present arrived for me after I had left town for the holidays, and UPS declared that the driver "MET CUST MAN." When I called UPS, they told me that meant the driver had "met the customer's man." I, being the customer, wanted to know who that man was, as I have yet to meet him myself. (A new dating service! Let UPS pick your date!) I told the customer service agent that there were a number of men who lived in the building, but none of them lived with me. Yet. (She didn't find that as amusing as I did.)
Long story short, I sorted things out with the company this morning, and would HIGHLY recommend Philosophy if you're interested in ordering bath and body products. Their customer service was OUTSTANDING. Needless to say, I had the new package shipped to my office, to avoid the black hole vortex that my lobby has apparently become.
Similarly, I ordered presents for a friend of mine from Amazon and the mailman delivered a "We Seemed To Have Missed You" slip to her mailbox when she wasn't home to receive it. She signed the slip to indicate they could leave the package for her, and then either put it in the mail or returned it to her mailbox. (I'm not sure which.) Regardless, the package is now sitting at her local post office and since she's no longer in possession of the slip (but does have the tracking number) she can't get the package.
This is my imagined version of the exchange at the post office:
Friend: Hi, I'm here to pick up my package.
Postal Worker: Your slip.
F: I don't have it. But I have the tracking number.
PW: I don't need the tracking number, I need the slip.
F: But I don't have it. I have ID with my address on it, and the tracking number. Wouldn't those indicate I am who I say I am?
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do.
F: But I mailed the slip back to you. (Or put it in my mailbox -- whichever she did.)
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do.
F: So the package, which is sitting right there where I can see it, which is addressed to me, at the address that is right here on my state-issued ID, which, in most states, counts as proof that I am who I say I am, will be sent back to the shipper because I lost a lousy piece of paper?
PW: Without the slip there's nothing I can do. (read: "It's beyond my control.")
F: I'M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN HERE AND THEN SHIMMY THROUGH THE FOUR INCH WINDOW SO I CAN GET TO MY PACKAGE, BITCHES!
PW: That'll be fine, as long as you give me the slip first.
I have no idea how that's going to work out.
And then, as a kicker, I'm having this problem with my Time Out New York subscription. I've subscribed to this magazine for a hundred years and have never had a problem. Then, in September, my subscription runs out. So I try to renew it. But nothing happens. So my subscription runs out, and in November, I renew it for three years. My credit card is charged, and I settle down, waiting for the Thanksgiving issue.
Nothing.
So I call them the first week of December and say "hey, where's my magazine?" and they say "what magazine?" and I say, "um, yours?" and they say "yeah, you're not a subscriber" and I say "yeah, I am" and they say "um, ok, please hold." Then they sort it out, and the 12/11 issue should be on its way to me.
December 30th comes and I call them again because I still haven't received an issue. I say "hey, where's my magazine?" and they say "what magazine?" and I say, "um, yours?" and they say "yeah, it's at your house" and I say "um, no, it's not. I'm at my house, magazineless" and they say "well, it should be there, call the post office" and I say "ok, I'll call the post office, but why do I have this notice threatening to send me to collections when I've already paid for a three year subscription?"
(pause)
"ok, NOW you should get a magazine, and your subscription ends in September of 2009" and I say "yeah, except that I paid for a three year subscription" and they say, "ok, yeah, you're right" and blah blah blah blah blah. Six years later, they tell me that I'm all set, that I'll get the January 11th issue and that my subscription will be four issues short. I say, "So basically, since you guys claim to be sending me four weeks of a magazine that I haven't gotten, I have to suck it up and get four fewer issues in my subscription." Their response, "Um, yeah."
Note to TONY: if I don't get the January 11th issue, I'm calling my credit card company and stopping payment on that charge. (Take that!)
I hope everyone is having a lovely new year, and if you need help sticking to any non-postal related resolutions, feel free to contact me. I can be a great motivator if you need one!
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