Jewish Buddhism

(Again, an old chestnut from my former work's inbox...)

Take only what is given.
Own nothing but your robes and an alms bowl.
Unless you have the closet space.

Let your mind be as a floating cloud.
Let your stillness be as the wooded glen.
And sit up straight. You'll never meet the Buddha with posture like that.

There is no escaping karma.
In a previous life you never called, you never wrote, you never visited.
And whose fault was that?

Wherever you go, there you are.
Your luggage is another story.

To practice Zen and the art of Jewish motorcycle maintenance, do the following:
Get rid of the motorcycle. What were you thinking?

Learn of the pine from the pine.
Learn of the bamboo from the bamboo.
Learn of the kugel from the kugel.

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Forget these simple things and attaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.

The Tao has no expectations.
The Tao demands nothing of others.
The Tao does not speak.
The Tao does not blame.
The Tao does not take sides.
The Tao is not Jewish.

Drink tea and nourish life.
With the first sip, joy.
With the second, satisfaction.
With the third, Danish.

The Buddha taught that one should practice loving-kindness to all sentient beings.
Still, would it kill you to find a nice sentient being who happens to be Jewish?

To Find the Buddha, look within.
Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers.
Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.
Each blossom has ten thousand petals.
You might want to see a specialist.

Be here now. Be someplace else later.
Is that so complicated?

Zen is not easy. It takes effort to attain nothingness.
.... And then what do you have? Bupkes.

the hilarity of my sister

I love my sister for sixty five million reasons, but one of my favorite reasons is because she laughs so easily. I can tell a joke, and before I'm even halfway done, she's in stitches. I can tell a story about my life and, even though I may be crying about the plot line, she'll find something in it that cracks her up. Sometimes, I can just look at her out of the corner of my eye and she'll snort. Now, I'm not saying that I'm actually hilarious. (In fact, it's likely just the opposite.) There's just something about our relationship that makes me funny. Whatever it is, I'd like to bottle it and hand it out to men worldwide.

Luckily, I feel much the same about her. I've heard stories of hers that make absolutely no sense, and I'm in hysterics before the end of them. So I'm not entirely sure that the inanity below is actually funny, but I certainly think it is.

Witness a poem she wrote me many moons ago:

Oh zit,

why do you have to be so prominent? yet dig to the heart of my soul.

you are so big and right under my eye, i can barely see.

and I am squinting every day.

Oh zit,

why couldn't you just go away, every day you get redder and redder

and I want to pick you. but you are one of those under ground zits.

and I can't.

So I'll just look at my computer, with a popeye stare

and look forward to the day when you are gone.

Or another message entitled "pee you," which she sent after having outlined for me the night before everything she had ordered from room service:

"since i described everything i ate yesterday, i bet you were wondering how that would all smell later.
the answer is not good."

Snort.

thoughts that only have my head in common

I received this message from my mother recently:

"This morning the Refrigerator Police invaded a home and arrested 43 items for loitering beyond their expiration date. 'We knew a new refrigerator was coming tomorrow and so we cleaned out this nest of dead bottles and cans in preparation.' The oldies are being held in the garbage can without bail. Some, police said, are old enough to collect social security."

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I overheard the following conversation on a rainy morning between two super-bedraggled-arguably-still-drunk-from-last-night women without umbrellas. Imagine, if you will, that both voices have recently smoked sixteen thousand cigarettes and are way louder than anyone should be at 9am:

Woman 1: I don't know why they were asking for it anyway.

Woman 2: Don't you have to carry it around?

Woman 1: No. That's your drivers license, not your marriage license.

Woman 2: You don't carry your marriage license with you?

Woman 1: No. I carry my drivers license.

Woman 2: Not your marriage license?

Woman 1: No. Why would I? When do you need your marriage license?

Woman 2: So you don't carry it?

Woman 1: No. I don't.

Woman 2: Would you carry it if you had it?

Woman 1: No. Why would I? When do you need your marriage license?

Woman 2: So you don't carry it?

Woman 1: No. I don't.

Woman 2: Would you carry it if you had it?

Woman 1: No. Why would I? When do you need your marriage license?

Woman 2: So you don't carry it?

(Repeat ad infinitum, or until your pace far outstrips theirs.)

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I participated in this conversation recently with my friends' seven year old son.

Him: You know what our soccer team's colors are?

Me: No, what are they?

Him: Gold, black, and alabaster.

(pause)

Me: Do you know what color alabaster is?

(pause)

Him: No.

(Now, I have always hated this kind of moment. When you wonder if the other person is going to tell you what it is they know, or if they're just going to lord it over you that they know something you don't. My mother scarred me on this when, as a kid, she didn't tell me what "dildo" meant.)

Me: It's a kind of white.

Him: Oh, I knew that.

(I said the same thing when confronted with the shocking truth of what a dildo was.)

Me: You know what color your face is?

(pause)

Him: Um, white?

Me: No. Dirty Alabaster.

And because we're both seven and dorky, we broke into hysterical laughter.

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Nerdy Word Thoughts:

1. I saw a typo in a job listing indicating that the job was at a top "coorporation." And the idea appealed to me -- a company where everyone really worked together. Kind of works, no?

2. Can you wear participants?

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I found this entertaining. It's an ad for lab equipment.

gratuitous blonde jokes

I was cleaning out my office email account and came across these gems in an email from 2006. They're not the best I've ever seen, but they are chuckleworthy...

LOGIC
Two blondes living in Oklahoma were sitting on a bench talking........ and one blonde says to the other, "Which do you think is farther away..........Florida or the moon?"
The other blonde turns and says "Helloooooooo, can you see Florida...???"

CAR TROUBLE
A blonde pushes her BMW into a gas station. She tells the mechanic it died.? After he works on it for a few minutes, it is idling smoothly. She says, "What's the story?"
He replies, "Just crap in the carburetor"
She asks, "How often do I have to do that?"

SPEEDING TICKET
A police officer stops a blonde for speeding and asks her very nicely if he could see her license.
She replied in a huff, "I wish you guys would get your act together. Just yesterday you take away my license and then today you expect me to show it to you!"

RIVER WALK
There's this blonde out for a walk. She comes to a river and sees another blonde? on the opposite bank. "Yoo-hoo!" she shouts, "How can I get to the other side?"
The second blonde looks up the river then down the river and shouts back, "You ARE on the other side."

AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE
A gorgeous young redhead goes into the doctor's office and said that her body hurt wherever she touched it.
"Impossible!" says the doctor. "Show me"
The redhead took her finger, pushed on her left breast and screamed, then she pushed her elbow and screamed in even more. She pushed her knee and screamed; likewise she pushed her ankle and screamed. Everywhere she touched made her scream.
The doctor said, "You're not really a redhead, are you?
"Well, no" she said, "I'm actually a blonde."
"I thought so," the doctor said. "Your finger is broken."

KNITTING
A highway patrolman pulled alongside a speeding car on the freeway. Glancing at the car, he was astounded to see that the blonde behind the wheel was knitting! Realizing that she was oblivious to his flashing lights and siren, the trooper cranked down his window, turned on his bullhorn and yelled, "PULL? OVER!"
"NO!" the blonde yelled back, "IT'S A SCARF!"

BLONDE ON THE SUN
A Russian, an American, and a Blonde were talking one day. The Russian said, "We were the first in space!" The American said, "We were the first on the moon!"
The Blonde said, "So what? We're going to be the first on the sun!"
The Russian and the American looked at each other and shook their heads. "You can't land on the sun, you idiot! You'll burn up!" said the Russian.
To which the Blonde replied, "We're not stupid, you know. We're going at night!"

IN A VACUUM
A blonde was playing Trivial Pursuit one night. It was her turn. She rolled the dice and she landed on Science &Nature. Her question was, "If you are in a vacuum and someone calls your name, can you hear it?"
She thought for a time and then asked, "Is it on or off?"

BLONDE PETS
A girl was visiting her blonde friend, who had acquired two new dogs, and asked her what their names were. The blonde responded by saying that one was named Rolex and one was named Timex.
Her friend said, "Whoever heard of someone naming dogs like that?""HELLLOOOOOOO......," answered the blond. "They're watch dogs!"

what should I be when I grow up?

I've been keeping something from you. For the last howevermany months, I've been looking for a new job. I didn't mention it before because, well, a couple of my coworkers know about this site, and on the off chance that one of them should visit before I found a new one... Well, it seemed safer to keep this from you.

I'm sorry. Please understand. I wasn't trying to mislead you...

The good news is that I have finally gotten a job doing what I think will be exactly what I want to be doing. (We'll see if it actually turns out that way, but at the moment, I'm so psyched I can't see straight.)

Over the course of looking for a job, I entered my resume and credentials into a number of search engines, and was continually entertained by some of the results I'd get. Mostly they were technological training jobs or programmer positions, but occasionally there were a couple of gems. Like these:

Executive Chef

(What on earth made them think I could cook? I don't even have "enjoys baking" at the end of my resume.)

Cardiopulmonary RN

(I have a circulatory system, but something tells me that's not their only criterion.)

Regulatory Attorney -- Corporate Governance

(Ok, so I work at a law firm (for five more days) and I could see how they would think that I might be all legal and stuff, but really? You're promoting me without the JD?)

Assistant Buyer, Kids

(I'm not really up on the going rate for kids these days.)

Bodily Injury Claims Specialist

(I do bruise easily.)

And my two favorites:

U.S. Army Band/Musician and U.S. Army Sewing Machine Operator.

(Are there dorkier positions available in the armed forces? I think not.)

Also, one of the things I saw listed as a job requirement for a job I was actually considering struck me as odd. Should I have worried that "use of box cutters" was required?

rejected facebook status updates

Facebook status updates I decided against recently:

Too provocative
Kate Surgeon showered this morning with a dirty Venetian. Oh, no wait. She showered with her dirty venetian blinds. Same thing, right?

Kate Surgeon took a pole dancing class last night and, though there were no mirrors in the studio, she's pretty sure she looked like a deranged cat in heat.

Too Much Information
Kate Surgeon has three zits she'd like to introduce you to: Snap, Crackle, and Pop!

Kate Surgeon wonders if you ever wonder, after looking at a poop, what you ate.

Too Sappy
Kate Surgeon misses him. Like crazy.

Kate Surgeon liked his imperfections best.

Kate Surgeon is pretty sure she was the only one crying at pole dancing class.

Kate Surgeon wants to shake him, and then smooch him, and then shake him, and then smooch him.

Too Vague
Kate Surgeon believes in avocados.

Kate Surgeon eats too much dried mango.

Kate Surgeon is crossing her fingers.

Too Work-Related
Kate Surgeon would like the receptionists at work to follow her around everywhere. They think she's HILARIOUS!

Kate Surgeon regrets to inform you that her office crush has found another job. Flowers may be sent to her at the office.

Kate Surgeon now has only two bottles of wine in her bottom drawer. The others have found their way home. (And by "home," she means her innards.)

a collection of no importance

In my neighborhood:

Did you know we had a tornado recently? We did! Right here in Brooklyn! I was walking home, surveying the damage to the neighborhood trees and whatnot, and there was a guy a few paces in front of me. We stopped in the middle of the block to look at what was clearly some kind of construction project.

"What do you figure this is supposed to be?" I asked.

"Somebody's roof," he said.

We looked around, but none of the houses looked topless, so we were baffled.

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I passed a free box* the other day that had only a Cheerio in it. Now, I've given away a lot of crap in my life, but that seemed like an awful lot of work for just one Cheerio.

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There are a large number of very attractive mommies in my neighborhood, and I'm always surprised when I see one with a really ugly kid. Because I think, "God, if this kid is so ugly, how funky must the dad be?"

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Regarding my Perfect Nephew:

My sister and I have coined a new word for those adorable sleepers made of fleece that look so cozy we wished they made them in grown-up sizes: Fleepers!

Recently she received one that was intended to make the baby look like an animal. We have dubbed it the Moose Fleeper.

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On the phone with my sister the other day, she reported that the baby was in a really ugly outfit. She only has seventy-five thousand outfits for the kid, so I asked her why this happened. She told me that her husband had dressed the baby, knowing full well he was going back to sleep.

"It's not like anybody will have to look at him wearing it" was his defense.

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Apropos of Absolutely Nothing:

Remember The Perfect Storm? How three or more weather patterns came together to really hose that one little ship out there in the ocean all alone? Well, a similar thing happened to me the other day at work.

How is it possible, I asked myself as I put on the aromatic equivalent of a life preserver, that at 5:15 pm, there were at least four different people pooping in the ladies' room?

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Can you, without looking it up, adequately define the word "peremptory"?

1) Me, neither

2) Liar liar pants on fire

3) Dork

In a conversation the other day that would take too long to even untangle, let alone write about, my friend Christina and I decided that, after my pole dancing class tomorrow night, when I go into stripping professionally, my stripper name will be "Peremptory Cinnamon."

Which, even now, as I write this, makes absolutely no sense.

(I hope you're happy, Christina.)

*For those of you non-city-dwellers not familiar with the concept of a free box, it's a box that you put on the street with all the crap you no longer want, with the word "FREE" written across the top of it. Then your neighbors come and take stuff out of it. Not a bad way to get more stuff you neither need nor particularly want. But hey! It's free!

i have vanquished a mammoth cockroach

It was late night in the kitchen, when I heard him knock on the door.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm here because I'm a cockroach, and I'd like to terrorize you." He was easily six feet tall, and ugly. Really, really ugly. I mean, so ugly, even his mother probably didn't love him, and that's saying a lot because I've seen some pretty ugly babies coddled by their cooing, loved-crossed mamas.

"Well, come on in," I must have said, although I have absolutely no recollection of it.

When I turned the light on, he moved hastily, though dazedly, towards my stove. With no tool in hand with with to whack him, I made small talk with him, while I shuffled towards the wine rack, keeping a wary eye on him the whole time. Calling it a "wine rack," though, is kind of a euphemism because, really, it's where I store any and everything cylindrical. Like water bottles. And vodka bottles. And Lysol.

"What, um, so... how long have you been in the neighborhood?" I asked, lamely.

"My family's been here for eons," he said, wiggling his antennae at me disconcertingly, and searching my kitchen floor for a dropped morsel or twelve.

"Eons? Really?" I said, perhaps a little too fakely, as he picked up one of his six, hairy legs and made to pivot on it.

But I was faster than he was, and whipped out the Lysol and sprayed him right in the face.

The overwhelming scent of "Fresh" must have pissed him off, because he shoved me against the bookcase -- which is odd, since the bookcase is in the office, two rooms away -- and ran under the stove, which he lifted over his head with one leg.

"THAT. STUNG," he said, clearly miffed.

"Sorry!" I shouted, whined, and moaned all at the same time, while rapidly putting on shoes and searching for the sixteen year old can of Raid I thought for sure I had inherited when my roommate and I split five years ago. No dice. It was Lysol all the way tonight.

He stuck his head out from under the stove again, and this time he was wearing a U.S. Army-issued gas mask. "Fuck you!" he said, and blew past FloJo while sprinting to the fridge.

This wasn't happening to me. I mean, I'm no neat freak, but I do mop my floors.

"Hey!" he said from the safety of the fridge's underside, "Did you know there are some raisins under here?"

"Yeah," I said, chagrined. "I dropped a couple of grapes earlier in the summer. They tasty?"

"Not bad," he said, munching away. I stuck my head down to his level to see if he was nearby. As soon as I stood and backed away, though, he made his fatal error. He stuck his head out again to show me how light and fluffy the grapes-turned-raisins had become.

And I sprayed that fucker with all the Freshness I had.

He spun around in a circle and made a mad dash for the stove. But this time I was ready for him. I was wearing my clodhoppers.

BLAM!

My foot hit the floor and there was no roach underneath it.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

I slammed again, and this time, much to everyone's surprise, delight, and absolute utter horror, he was dead. With his guts hanging out.

And that was the gross part. He had guts. And they were hanging out. And that seemed so Not Right to me that I had to spray the whole affair with Lysol again, just to make sure that it was Fresh.

I'm not a paper towel user, as they're pretty unenvironmental, but there was no way I was going to use and wash a rag on this scumsucker, so I got a paper towel and prepped for the disposal. I was prepared to cover my tracks, and they'd never pin this one on me -- assuming anyone was missing this bastard in the first place.

But one paper towel just didn't seem enough. So I got another. You know, just in case.

And in one well-orchestrated move, the evidence was gone. The cops would never think to blame me. Because only the Freshness remained.

Oh, and this picture:

on typos and other mistakes

1) I was on the train the other day, held captive as we went over the bridge (which, for those of you who don't live in NYC is a really long time not to be able to get out of the car you're in -- say 11 minutes or so?*) when a normal-ish woman got out of her seat and started proselytizing. Except it wasn't for Jesus, it was for some new political party, one that I'd never heard of before. But apparently they have a candidate in an upcoming election and their woman on the street-slash-subway wanted us all to vote for him in the next "governerial" primary.

I don't mean to be a bitch, but if you've got a gubernatorial candidate, you should know the word "gubernatorial," don't you think?

2) I was at work the other day, typing up a blurb about myself and my coaching practice, and instead of saying that I specialize in self-esteem, I said that I specialize in "elf-esteem." I was then forced to spend the next ten minutes cracking up at the thought of my running a seminar for depressed elves on how to cheer themselves up. ("Think big!" "Be elfish!" "It's all about elf-gratification!")

3) If I were looking for a new job title, I'm not entirely sure that this would be the one I chose:

*ok, p.s. this was totally a guesstimate on the time, but when I consulted a train schedule, it turns out, I was completely right! Now you know I'm a reliable source!

fashionable and late, that's me.

I've been noticing some interesting fashion statements recently, and not just on teeny boppers, homeless people, or my father.

For example:

1) My boss wore the same shirt three days in a row. And if it had been a black shirt then I could have just pretended it was a different black shirt because-don't-we-all-have-a-million-of-them-anyway? But no, this one was lavender. And it made an appearance on Thursday with a repeat on Friday. (Secretly, I like to think she got lots of action and didn't make it home to change.) And this would have been fine. We've all had those days. But then it came back on Monday. I'm assuming it got laundered in between, but maybe it didn't. Who's to say? I felt almost compelled to introduce her to the concept of the Emergency Shirt that lives in a drawer in your office for just these occasions.

Not that I know anything about that.

2) What's with the pants onesies I've been seeing a lot lately? Like these:

Or these:

Nobody I see wearing them looks remotely good, and they remind me of being a senior in high school, which isn't really what I want to be reminded of on the subway. Please, everyone, STOP WEARING THEM.

3) A co-worker came into my office the other day and said, "You have a date, don't you?" I didn't, so I asked why he thought I did.

"You're wearing earrings."

Apparently I only look nice when I have an appointment for smooching. Note to self.

4) Going to the beach on a cold day (i.e., this past Saturday) is a good way to make sure you only see the most bikini-worthy bodies wearing bikinis. Those who should consider other beachwear were considering other activities all together.

So was I in mine? Yes. Yes I was. Under my hoodie.

5) Speaking of what I wear...

I was at my friends' house over the weekend doing my laundry when they came home. I, of course, was dressed to the nines in a fuscia circle skirt and a black and white striped top, all supported by a good-looking pair of "neutral" crocs.

"Could this be why I'm single?" I asked. My friend reminded me that, while this was a perfectly acceptable "weekend outfit," perhaps I shouldn't go anywhere but home after leaving.

sheer and utter perfection (my nephew)

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. So feast your eyes on this and consider it a 1,021 word post.

my house is on fire

My friend Rachel and I recently went to Bindlestiff's Open Stage Variety Show at Galapagos Art Space in Dumbo, and were extremely excited about it, because, well, we love a good circus act/variety show.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a good one.

The opening act was Bindlestiff, himself, and he was less than whelming. He did some diablo tricks (that big spool-thing on a rope) that were pretty cool and told some jokes that were flatter than an open coke in the backseat of your car on a summer day. If this was the peak of entertainment, we were in for a long night.

(Silly girls. They had no idea how long.)

The first act was a juggler (yay!) who did old man schtick for about seven hours before starting to juggle (boo!). Key moves included: walking-really-slowly-with-a-walker, taking-six-minutes-to-pick-up-something-he-dropped, making-cheesy-faces-like-the-guy-in-the-six-flags-commercial, and striking-a-really-LAME-pose-when-he-finished-a-trick-so-we-knew-to-applaud-uproariously.

mrph.

The next act was nearly indescribable. I think she was clowning, but it wasn't funny. All I can tell you is that there was a bathing suit, an audience volunteer in a full-body safety suit, some oil, a "dance," some cutout cardboard waves, and Rachel and I exchanging looks of utter bewilderment.

Did I mention we weren't drinking?

But it was the next two acts that put us over the edge.

If I were naming Act Three, I would call it:
-- Some People Call It Pouting, I Call It "Bellydancing"
-- Pull Your Pants Up So Your Belly(dancing) Doesn't Flop Over Your Panties
-- Winkin', Blinkin', Shakin', and Digestin'
-- Please Stop. Please.

Luckily, Act Four came with its own name -- Le Gateau Chocolat -- and finally I was excited! Hooray! A chocolate cake! This has to be fun! When the curtains opened, however, at center stage stood a big, fat, black man in a neck-to-knees leopard print unitard, yellow socks, lots of make up, and a floofy yellow hat made out of papier mache.

Definitely not the dessert I had in mind.

Then the music started, and this operatic baritone belted out Radiohead's "Creep." In keeping with the theme, I asked myself, what the hell AM I doing here?

"I think my house is on fire," I said to Rachel, who looked as if she were watching a traffic accident involving a busload of crippled orphans.

"Do you -- should you -- call someone? Or should we just go?"

"I think we should just go. You know, just to be safe."

So we left. Never to return again.

Ever.

that ain't right!

At work the other day, I pulled a jug of milk out of the fridge and it wasn't one of the regular kinds we use at work. This one, for some reason, said "Juicy Taste" on it. So I thought maybe it was the store brand and they had accidentally bottled it in an orange juice container or something. But no. This milk brand's jeenyus marketing idea was to sell "juicy" tasting milk.

Pass the cream, please.

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On my way to the theatre the other night, I was traversing 42nd street with the hoardes and masses when there was a traffic bottleneck. Looking to find the source of the problem (and avoid it like the plague), I identified the "Traffic Enforcement" van from the police department blocking the box.

Nice move, guys!

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The theatre I was trying to get to was the Delacorte theatre in Central Park, for a production of the Winter's Tale. It was a strong production of an iffy play, but I have something I think anyone headed to outdoor theatre should know:

If you fart in an open air theatre, it still smells bad.

Don't do it.

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I sent an email out the other day, trying to clarify a point, and when I asked the recipient if he understood it, he wrote back simply, "presactly."

fat and skinny

FAT
On the way to work the other day, I was on the subway with a fat man, and he was wearing Fat Man Pants. I knew they were Fat Man Pants because he was really rather round, and he had them jacked up over his belly, and only Fat Man Pants will accommodate that kind of behavior.

But what I want to know is this: why don't Fat Man Pants Manufacturers understand that the pockets of Fat Man Pants should not be lined in white? Nothing says Fat Man Pants louder than the gaping white linings of pockets stretched over rather round bellies.

Just sayin'.

SKINNY
I was recently at Rockaway beach, discussing the fact that this year I've actually developed tan lines. (Ok, they're really like Malevich's White on White, but that's neither here nor there.) My friend shared his beliefs on the topic, saying that tan lines "are like a highlighter for the fun parts."

Not a bad point.

a season of farewells

I still miss the M train. The seats, the space, the convenient access to the east side, all of it. I'm making do with the R or the D or the N, but it's not the same.

You know what else isn't the same?

A Fernando-less office.

Yes, dear readers, a dark day will descend on me tomorrow: it will be my first day without Fernando.

"What?!" I hear you shouting at the screen. "What do you mean, 'without Fernando'? You didn't tell us he was leaving!"

I know. I didn't want to face it myself. The thought of going to the office and not having his goofy antics to report, his smiling, accepting face to look at, his advice, and his shenanigans... it was all too much for me, so I kept it from you.

I'm sorry, readers, it's true. I'm a truth-hiding blogger who doesn't deserve your trust. (Would it change anything if I told you I thought it was in your best interest?)

Fernando got a job in Texas and will be moving to Austin next Saturday. I miss him already, in a shockingly profound way. I have never met someone like him before, and probably never will again. He is charming, impish, childlike (without a trace of being childish). He is hilarious in his unintentional moments, and lovable in his intentional ones. I felt grateful every day that we worked together that he was the one chosen to be in my office.

I've never lost a friend like this -- and of course I know he's not lost. He's simply relocated. But I've never had a friend move away if I wasn't moving away, too. To deal with it, I'm doing something drastic. They will replace him, and someone else will move in with me, but that person should know one thing: I WILL NO LONGER BE SITTING AT THE SHITTY DESK!

And I might reconsider sharing the garbage can.

a farewell to (ar)M(s)

To my dear, sweet, wonderfully poo-brown M train,

I miss you already. You've only been gone a day, and I am bereft with grief. Now what train will I ride when I want to see nobody but twelve Hasidm? How will I know what's going on with the tattooed FedEx guy I see every single morning, hungover or not? (You know how I secretly think he's hot, even though we probably have absolutely nothing in common but a tracking numer.)

What will become of my friendship with Robert My Train Friend? (Ok, ok, in all fairness, that's a moot point, as I haven't seen this total stranger since he gave me $175 in gift cards and a Movado watch.) But if I changed my mind and wanted to find Robert of the M Train, how would that be possible?

And my other train friends, like Orange Backpack Guy, Sleeps With Mouth Open, and Big Fat Snorguling* Guy? What about them?

I know you think this is for the best, that you want to "explore new territory," and "have a more fulfilling life," but I refuse to accept this change. I was happy with you, even though you only came at 8:15, 8:35 and 8:45, and if I missed the 8:35, I was pretty much screwed. True love isn't because, it's despite.

So what if your stations were disgusting, plague-filled, rat-infested, pigeon-housing hell holes? They were my disgusting, plague-filled, rat-infested, pigeon-housing hell holes.

Go on. Live your new life. See what Sixth Avenue is like. Find out how the hipsters treat you in upper Brooklyn. I promise you, it won't be the same.

I will survive. But I'll be really crowded and unhappy about it.

Formerly yours,
Kate

p.s. if you ever decide to come back, I'll be here with open arms. And an unlimited metrocard.


*Snorguling = Snoring + Gurgling = Not Delicious

what are the odds of that?

So I'm taking an undergraduate statistics course, and boy do I feel old. The cute guy sitting next to me? Born in 1988. You know, when I was twelve. And already smooching boys. (And he's not the youngest one in there.)

We have an exam tonight -- the first of three, one of which will be DROPPED in calculating our final grade, a concept with which, as a Fancy Schmancy College Grad, I am extremely unfamiliar. Dropping an exam? I thought that was something you could only (ruefully) do into a puddle. Oh, I have much to learn!

But instead of studying -- because it's an open notes exam (see shock and astonishment, above), I thought I would share with you some of the brilliant things that have crossed my brainpan while in said idea-factory. However, in looking back over my notes, the things I thought were funny in the classroom of boredom, death, and despair, aren't actually funny.

Well, except this: there was one example where the professor, a native Japanese speaker, was talking about the probability related to tossing a coin. For several minutes, we were all listening to her go on about "receiving heads," "having tails," and "measuring spread."

Even the twelve year olds were embarrassed.

can you hear the drums, Fernando?

Highlights from my office:

The other day, there was a food tasting in one of the conference rooms, and they had fancy schmancy stuff like salmon and eggplant roulades and chocolate covered strawberries and grilled veggies. I loaded up a plate of non-walking goods, and when I got back to the office, Fernando noticed that I had asparagus, which he had neglected to choose.

He looked at my plate, looked at me, and said, "Can I have one asparagus? I want the pee."

---------

Have you heard of a thumb drive? It's one of those portable memory devices, also known as a jump drive, a memory stick, a flash drive... you know what I'm talking about.

In Fernando's world, though, a thumb drive is more like a coat drive, where everyone brings the thumbs they're not using to the office and then they get collected by charity workers. Because thumblessness is a huge problem in this world.

---------

Fernando and I took a trip out to the wilds of Bushwick recently to see a friend's show, and on the way there, we saw the most ghetto, hand-written ad for Herbalife that we've ever seen. It might as well have been advertising The Quitter's Version of Herbalife. Or Herbadeath.

After pantomiming what someone on Pathetic Herbalife would be like for a while, we then started rewriting the ad. No longer would you be purchasing Herbalife if you called the hand-scrawled number -- you could get GERBILIFE! A life filled with gerbils! All for $29.95 a month! Or better yet, you could get BURBALIFE! Turn your life into a burbling brook for only $29.95 a month! Call now!

---------

On the way home from that same trip, we saw a woman on the subway who was, to be polite, NOT petite. Fernando leaned over to me and whispered, "That woman has some serious potty mask."

I sat for a second, wondering what in god's green earth he was talking about. The woman was fat, but her face looked fine.

"Potty mask?" I asked him.

He closed his eyes, rolled them back into his head with laughter, and said, "No, BODY MASS."

Oh, yeah. Body mass.

I can barely make sense of this myself, so good luck!

I collect delightful experiences like some people collect bellybutton lint -- unintentionally, unexpectedly, and seemingly unendingly. But, unlike bellybutton lint, I don't have the metaphorical belly hair to force those experiences to stay with me, so I rely on postcards and my own chicken scratch.

Unfortunately, this occasionally leads to carrying around a list of things that makes no sense. Which, also unfortunately, leads me to sharing them with you without a hint of compunction.

Like this one. The note says simply, "Tastes like ass control."

Now, I remember it being funny at the time -- I mean, REALLY funny at the time -- but I no longer have any recollection why.

I mean, inherently, it's kind of a funny idea. What exactly is ass control, and what would it taste like? Can't be good. (I'm thinking it probably tastes like rotten spinach.)

So in an effort to track down the source of this mysterious phrase, I asked Fernando if he had said it, as I remember it being a guy who spoke it. My office mate denies any knowledge of it, and given that he's not big on swearing, I'm choosing to believe him on this.

Which leaves it as something a date must have said. I've run into these verbal doggie bags before, and they're tricky, because lord knows why I wrote it down. Could be: a) because I really liked him and found him funnier than perhaps I should have, b) because I really DIDN'T like him, and was trying not to look him in the face, or c) I was indifferent and wanted something to do, and this note was the dating equivalent of doodling.

Having dragged this poor phrase through the mud (and not being any the better off for it), I will now cross it off the list and consign it to the lint-and-booger pile of history.

(that exists, right?)

like free cookies in the office pantry

I figure this blog is a bit like free cookies in the office pantry -- sometimes they're there, sometimes they're not. Sometimes they're tasty, sometimes they're not. And sometimes, whether they're tasty or not, you eat them anyway, even if you know they've been there for a week and your coworkers have all touched them and rejected them because it's four o'clock in the afternoon and you're so bored you just want SOMETHING to perk you up, even if it is nothing but empty calories, your coworkers' fingerprints, and the grace of The Goddess of Staleness.

Or is that just me?

Anyway, I have for you today some useful bathroom tips and observations:

1. A good place for Listerine? NOT up your nose.

2. An easy way to cut down on your electricity and water bill? Use a mentholated face wash in your shower. That way, when you're done, your face smells all eucalyptus-y and you can't tell that your bathroom towels desperately need to be washed, because the koala-food smell overpowers the funk that an old bath towel usually gives off. Extends the time between towel-washings almost infinitely!

3. When you put egg yolks into the toilet and then pee on them, they turn hard-boiled colored. (I'm not entirely sure when this nugget of information will come in handy, but I figured I'd share it anyway. Thank me later.)

I'm doing too much

This is a sign from the universe that I'm working too hard. I found it on the lid of my garbage can this weekend:

such wrongness as has never graced my inbox

I woke on Saturday to a situation that yielded three major complaints.

First, I checked my email, only to find a message from a stranger criticizing my resume. Rude! Not only did I not ask for this person's opinion, I didn't do anything to solicit it. Take note, readers: just because someone has a LinkedIn profile does not mean that someone wants your critique of it. (Especially if that someone is me!)

Peg Crits (sounds like a pseudonym to me!) told me that my vocabulary was boring, I had a spelling or grammar mistake (but she wouldn't tell me where), and that I would never ever get anywhere in life... without spending $399 to have a professionally designed LinkedIn profile!

(Did I mention RUDE?)

Second, I got a new message in my dating profile, so I logged in there to check it, and what did I get? A fifty-something guy in Florida who has a need to show me something INCREDIBLY WRONG:

Yeah, that's right. I got a schlong picture. (Or, as my mother pointed out later, it could be a "schlort" picture.) Please note the festive location, the looking-like-black-business-socks effect of the water, and the PIECES OF TAPE ON THE EDGE OF THE PICTURE, INDICATING THAT THIS WAS TAPED TO SOMETHING!

So wrong.

So very, very wrong.

The other picture he sent me had balloons tied to his schlort, and a kitty cat who was very confused.

And, what, dear god, was the third wrong thing? Nobody was awake or around for me to complain to!

p.s. Normally I would be kind enough to censor the face of someone posing in a photo like that, but my theory is that if you're sending around schlort pictures, you should expect them to end up on the internet.

a hodgepodge of gobbeldygook

Heard recently in my office:

1. Fernando was calling the Japanese Rail Association the other day (he's going to Tokyo) and the woman came on the line to tell him to hold. Then the music came on, and he waited. Then the woman came back on the line and said simply, "Hold on more."

2. "Those pants don't fit you very well. They look like a small Mexican family moved out of your butt." -- Rachel

3. "The woman who poured my soup had a large rear." (Clearly it wasn't me!)

Unrelatedly, if you recall, the first two nights of Passover this year were incredibly rainy. Lisa was out of town and asked me to visit her cats, and, of course, her basement, which has been known to flood when her two year old drools heavily. Luckily, the work they've done kept the basement safe and dry, but I was complaining about being soggy. Lisa pointed out that I had someone nearby to keep me warm and dry, and I pointed out that he was busy with an Orthodox Passover. Lisa then texted me to say that she was such a bad Jew that she had forgotten it was even Passover. Her following text said, "No, wait, I ate a macaroon today. That counts."

Also unrelatedly, I learned a great game recently. It's a cross between a magic 8 ball and a tea party. Basically, when you drink yogi tea, ask the box a question, and then pull out a tea bag and read the quotation on its string to get your answer. It's nice, because it never lies. It just says inscrutable things that you can't parse.

I saw a great t-shirt recently that said "I Can't Afford to NY."

I also met three wildly bizarre home-schooled children who, I fear, may never get laid. Ever.

happy easter, or why do we get asparagus pee?

(I know it's a delayed reaction, but forgive me, I was busy having mushy feelings.)

You know how you can't smell your house? Or, if you can, it's only for that first second you walk through the door, or after you've been away from home for a long time?

Well, for me, at Easter, my parents' house smells like asparagus pee. Because every year, Easter is the first family get together where asparagus is in season, and every year, I eat my body weight in it. And I'm not the only Surgeon who does so. Both my mother and my aunt provided long, green, crunchy-to-mushy stalks of buttery, salty luxury* at family gatherings last weekend.

As far as I'm concerned, the Easter bunny could hide blanched asparagus around the house and I'd be just as excited to find it as I would peanut butter chocolate eggs. (As long as it wasn't covered in cat hair, which, at my parents' house, would be a feat to pull off.) (No offense, Mom.)

But back to the pee.

My sister and I wondered for the longest time if it was just us (meaning just our family) that got asparagus pee. Feared that we were smelly-peed freaks. Then she got married, and found out that her husband got it, too. I asked my friends and dates, and sure enough, they all had it, too. (I found out one boyfriend got it when he peed in the shower -- p.u.!) We began to wonder if asparagus pee was the opposite of that weirdo science experiment in fifth grade, where you either tasted the nasty, bitter, icky, putrid chemical (me) or not (far too many others for me to feel comfortable).

To quell our worried minds, I did a little research, and found this:

"This question has baffled scientists for over half a century. In 1956, British researchers divided the population into two categories: excretors (those whose urine smells after they eat asparagus) and nonexcretors (asparagus eaters who remain odor free). Since there’s no documentation of the asparagus-pee phenomenon before the 1700s, about the time farmers began using sulfur to fertilize soil, this and subsequent studies hypothesized that a particular gene allows people to process a sulfur-containing compound in asparagus (most likely asparagusic acid). The theory was that if you have that gene, your pee won’t stink. However, they were relying on the test subjects’ own reports and weren’t considering the subjects’ ability to smell.

In 1980, Israeli researchers performed a similar experiment but asked the nonexcretors to smell the excretors’ urine. Shockingly, they found that everyone’s urine smells after eating asparagus; it’s just that some people can’t smell it. So they, too, divided the world into two camps: perceivers and nonperceivers." (from http://www.chow.com/stories/10415)

So there you have it, folks. Hap-pee Easter!

*Asparagus is a little too expensive for my regular budget, especially at Steve's C-Town (Town Town).

crumbled cookies and spilt milk

So I met somone, as you may or may not have guessed. And in three weeks, I learned more about beauty and value than I may have ever learned before.

The man I met, who, in keeping with tradition, I'll call Frank*, was one of the sweetest, most thoughtful guys I've ever met. He was present, grounded, generous, and ninja-funny -- quiet most of the times, his jokes would sneak up on me from a dark corner and karate chop my funny bone. He made me smile with my heart. And my liver. And my tummy.

Frank and I met online, and he emailed me a couple of times, but, in truth, I kind of blew him off. Something about his messages didn't quite catch me -- and he didn't get around to asking me out for way too long -- so I let it go. But two weeks later, he was back again, following up on our conversation, and I decided to meet him.

The first time we talked on the phone, I had been working on the outline for the next seminar I'm teaching (about eliminating negative self-talk), and my conversation with Frank, from no effort on my part, went straight to the topic I had last been writing, about how you have the choice to believe whatever interpretation of what other people are thinking pleases you, since you'll never really know the truth of what's on their minds anyway. I saw that as a sign.

We agreed to meet that week, and on Saturday he was waiting for me near the Marquis de Lafayette at Prospect Park.

Did I mention that he's gorgeous?? Dark fluffy hair, tall, thin, beautiful blue eyes, muscluar... in a word, Yum.

We spent the day together, telling stories, laughing at jokes, wildly flinging frisbees, and eating some tasty fish on Flatbush Avenue. I had plans that evening, so we parted company early. There was a little bit of smooching, after which he looked kind of funny. I asked if he was ok, and he said, "I'm fine. I'm just a little breathless."

(Swoon.)

Anyway, several more wonderful dates ensued, and I was treated to a man who was patient, affectionate, gentle, and who taught me how to juggle! ("No!" I hear you saying, "It's too good to be true!" And alas, you're right.)

Frank is Jewish (raised-Orthodox Jewish) so my not being Jewish, in the end, was causing him trouble. It's not that he is religious, it's just that he's so committed to the Jewish community and culture that there are things he wants for his future, he told me, that I'm not in a position to give him. (You know, like Jewish babies.) And while it's too bad that I won't be spending any more quality, intimate time with him, I am so grateful to have met him, to have learned that there are men out there who are this amazing -- and who are still single! -- that I had to share my story with you.

So if you are sick of douchebags, think you are asking for too much, wish you didn't have to work so hard, or generally settling for less than you deserve, knock it off! Guys like Frank are out there, and are just as unhappy that they haven't met you as you are about not having met them.

And if you're Jewish, I know the perfect man for you!


*the funny thing about calling this guy Frank is the joke my family was making over Easter about how my brother in law wanted a hot dog with a natural casing, like the ones made by Hebrew National, which then morphed into jokes about him not being the only one eating a Hebrew National these days.

facebook statuses I opted against this week

Kate Surgeon...

... pretty much thinks tonight's cab driver was not, in fact, the man in the picture on the license

... would like you to see the bruise on her foot that she got by jamming a big metal sign into the open part of her shoe this morning

... secretly likes the way Trader Joe's soy sausage makes her farts smell

... is scared to open her heart

... could eat dried mango forever

... wants to be on the Biggest Loser, just to see how hard it is

... knows a secret and hasn't told anyone -- not even people who wouldn't care one way or the other!

... is worried that she makes it too easy to date her

... has easily consumed 3,000 empty calories since Friday

... hasn't picked her face since she got that new soap

... sometimes hates selling green energy

... felt like a sherpa today and now has a better appreciation for her brother-in-law

... vetoed the names Henrika and Fredrika for her potential niece, citing child abuse laws in the state of Massachusetts that would make it illegal

... is convinced that the IT department at her office is turning into the Jackson family -- you only ever see two of them at any one time

... knows that George Michaels was right, but she's having a hard time developing that faith-a-faith-a-faith-a-faith-faith

dating suggestions (no, really!)

Attention single ladies! I have a great place for us to move to: Manville, NJ! (Come on, how much fun would it be to say "I'm a single girl from Manville!")

Actually, no, what I do have is two great suggestions for a date: first, go to Chelsea and wander around looking at galleries (especially the Agora Gallery* which is showing work from Nathan Sawaya, a guy who depicts human conditions in Legos). You'll get a sense of what your date thinks about art and what his relationship to it is, and, if you play your cards right, you can stumble into a gallery serving wine and cheese, and get a free snack! (What I don't recommend is selecting the celery and pretzels, as chomping on those while meandering through other galleries is, well, noisy.) Yeah, ok, some of the art is ugly crap that looks like a shellacked version of forgotten goods from my vegetable drawer, but the Chelsea galleries are all free and have some amazing natural light and wood floors, too... if you're into that kind of thing. And, if need be, there are lots of nooks and crannies that I imagine you can smooch in, as long as you're fairly decent about it.

The second place to go was suggested to me by my Saturday date (or, "Saturdate," as I like to call him), and when he said it, I was worried that he was a little bit gay: Crate and Barrel! It's a great place to go sit on some comfortable sofas (not the wicker ones, they're ugly) and to just hang out. The staff encourages you to sit around -- thinking, of course, that you're there to register for your wedding when, in fact, you're on your fourth date -- and you don't have to buy anything or even look at anything. And it's a great place to see how into home stuff your date is. If you're me, and looking for a new spatula (to replace the one that broke its neck) and he's looking for an apple peeler/corer or excited about the mini salt and pepper grinders, you might just have a match.

(Sidenote -- there's a funny piece of furniture for sale in Crate and Barrel. It's smaller than a love seat, but bigger than a chair. It seated me and my date quite comfortably, but we're two slim people. Crate and Barrel calls it a "Chair and a Half"; we call it a "Like Seat.")

*don't follow the link if you're going to the exhibit. It'll ruin the surprise.

how to schedule a good date

If you've got a date planned for one in the afternoon, you'll need a schedule to prepare for it. Here's what I did on Saturday. Given the outcome of the date, I'd highly recommend it. However, you might want to try it yourself before advocating it to others:

9:30 Wake up, eat toast, hang out. (You'll want this time to start doing dishes, since you have about sixteen million in your sink.)

10:15 Meet your neighbor, Jimmy, for kickboxing from 10:30 to 11:30. Wear your new tennis skirt, because, well, it's cute.

10:23 Swing some laundry by Lisa's house, which is across the street from the gym. (Two birds, one stone.)

10:30 Sweat your ass off in your new tennis skirt and wonder how cute it is when you're doing push ups and your butt hangs out. Reconsider future use of tennis skirts.

11:30 Drinking copious amounts of fluid, swing by Lisa's again on the way home. Realize, sadly, that all your good clothes are dirty (or currently in the washer) and wonder what the hell you're going to wear today.

11:47 Get home, sweaty and disgusting, and resume doing dishes.

11:57 Wonder how the hell you used so many dishes this week and managed to not do ANY of them.

12:01 Try to think like Thich Nhat Hanh and be present to your dishes. Instead, daydream about your date and how cute he is.

12:14 Add the tupperware that breaks the camel's back to the pile next to your sink. Start piling clean dishes up on the stove.

12:27 Finish the dishes and take your pruny-assed hands into the shower. Your date is meeting you (at one) on 10th street, so it should only take you five minutes to get there, even though "there" is easily ten to twelve minutes away.

12:31 Decide to shave your legs. You know, just in case.

12:35 Add special conditioner to your hair that, unbeknownst to you, will make it look all flat and lame.

12:38 Dry off, and put on outfit numbers 1-6. Answer your phone. (Your date is calling.)

12:43 Renegotiate the 1pm meeting time, while putting on outfits number 7-12, deciding on outfit number 13, drying your hair, putting on makeup and packing snacks for your date, all at the very same time.

12:53 Head back to Lisa's to make sure that the clothes in the washer don't sit there all day and get funkified. ( It's ok, her house is on the way.) Consider switching outfits to that cute, plunging-neckline sweater you're throwing into the dryer, but realize that you're already late and it just won't dry in time for you to look like anything other than a wet cat.

1:01 Feed Lisa's cats.

1:05 Head out the door. Call your date and tell him you're on your way. Hear him smile over the phone.

1:15 Arrive at 10th Street with a big, fat smile on your face. Have an amazing date.

(To fully follow this schedule, be sure to schedule a 3:30 am return home. Wheeeee!)

it's noisy in here...

Fernando's on vacation. And before he left, he was trying to figure out the most annoying song he could sing during karaoke. Unfortunately, he found one:


So I had to learn it, too.

("Movin' my hips like yeah"? What does that even mean?)

Meanwhile, I've been taking a mantra and meditation class, and have learned a really cool mantra:


For fun, press play on both of them. Because that's what's been happening in my head all week.

Wheeeee!

I share because I care

1. My friends' kids crack me up. Witness why here.

2. I was typing an email the other day and instead of saying that I would process someone's orders, I said I would "process their odors." I am fascinated by what that would entail, much the same way I am fascinated by that experiment they tell you about in college, where people who are related to one another smell the same. It involves ziplock bags and button down shirts worn continuously for six days or something. Stinky!

3. I told a co-worker recently that I was losing my mind. That my sanity was slowly leaking out through my freckles.

4. I know I've mentioned getting a sponsor for my blog -- ideally these guys (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease!), but after seeing this, I'd take Pedigree as a second choice...

treats for the tricksters

(I'm not sure what I'm saying about you by calling you "tricksters" but I think you can handle it.)

First: Did you know you can turn your favorite youtube videos into ringtones? I know! Quickly, before they get shut down, go here! I'm currently rocking "Cat, I'm a kitty cat" as my ringer and "it's just like a mini... mall!" as my text notification.

Second: From Dorothy Parker:

I like to have a Martini,
two at the very most;
three, I'm under the table,
four I'm under my host!

Third: Apparently it's going to snow again AND WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! Actually, we're supposedly getting a snow hurricane, a truly odd natural phenomenon my friend Lisa has re-dubbed a "SNURRICANE!"

Fourth: Little Miss Monkey Mind (that's me) has signed up for a six week mantra and meditation class. In truth, I'm terribly afraid it will turn me into someone mellow and weird, and that I'll completely lose my sense of humor in a great upswelling of peace and understanding. In the meantime, I'm hoping that it will teach me how to not feel so panicky when I sit still with my thoughts. But all of this thinking about meditation... well, it's kind of ironic, isn't it?

Fifth: I think Aksel Lund Svindahl is ADORABLE. And he totally should marry me so I could be Katherine Lindahl-Svindahl. That would be super-adorable.

(Actually, there's also a Catherine Lindahl on the Swedish curling team. Here I thought I had such a unique name...)

my thoughts on men's figure skating

I know I'm not a sportscaster. In fact, I'm barely even sporty. But I do have some opinions.

Like this one: I don't think "he rocked that tassle" should be a legitimate thing to say as a response to someone's short program. But then again, these comentators say a lot of stupid stuff (and I don't know ANYONE who says stupid stuff).

Also, this guy is the cutest skater around. However, how is it that the photo taken of him looks so much like it's from a sci-fi movie? (Extra points if you can name the movie the guy on the right looks like he's from!)

And who dressed this guy? I feel like straw should be falling out of his pockets:

And last, but not least... I have nightmares that this is what I look like stretching at the gym:

Somewhat relatedly, does anybody know why this year every program is full of people holding onto their skates? I'm guessing that was a newly imposed rule, but man, it's annoying to see the same grab-my-skate-over-my-head move being done by everyone. (I mean, seriously, that one's reserved for me to use... as I flail to my death.)

from the department of what you don't need to know

From the department of WTF, Yahoo:

Really? You think I'm a codgy old guy who looks like he's faced with a choice between a poke in the eye and a poke in the fannyhole? And what, exactly, does this have to do with my going back to school? You need better ad servers.

From the department of good quotes:

"In the end, I'm only really looking for a one life stand." -- Hot Chip

From the department of fictional characters that should exist:

Fernando wants to create a Roman epic based on everyone's favorite hero, Neosporin! He could slay lions and infidels, and then come home and make everything heal without scarring!

From the department of online dating:

I've noticed that the quality of a guy's profile and looks are inversely proportional to his height. Guys over five eleven have profiles that say things like "I want to meet you if your smart," and "And Jay Kay from Jamiroqaui...I would definitely do him. But I'm not gay, or anything." Guys under five seven want to discuss fine literature while giving me backrubs and flashing their adorable smiles at me.

Tall guys send me emails that say "OMG!! u r so CUTE. I want to take u fold u up and put u in my back pocket and take u home to my mom," while short guys say "Every few years I'll add a new word to my repertoire of 'how I want to live my life.' In the past I chose Taoist influences like 'simplicity,' 'compassion,' and 'patience.' My newest contribution is 'authenticity,' which is a way for me to live honestly through my core beliefs..."

It is just painfully too bad that I would TOWER over these sweet, thoughtful, authentic guys, making me feel awkward and doofy, likely leading me to write in text speak and say stupid things.

ah, delight!

A collection of wonderful things I've read recently:

1. It's not how you look, it's how you look at the world. (This was an online dater's headline, which I found absolutely charming.)

2. From the NY Times (in a great article on aphrodisiacs):
"[C]hocolate’s reputation as an aphrodisiac is highly exaggerated, food researchers say. Romantic and deeply pleasurable, yes, especially because of its tendency to melt in the mouth at body temperature. And yes, it does contain some chemicals like phenylethylamine, which produce feelings of euphoria. Yet one widely cited study showed that a 130-pound person would have to eat 25 pounds of chocolate in one sitting to significantly alter the mood. But who would be in the mood after eating 19.2 percent of her weight in chocolate?"

and later, it says:

"In one small experiment on sexual response to food scents, vaginal and penile blood flow was measured in 31 men and women who wore masks emitting various food aromas. This was the study that found men susceptible to the scent of doughnuts mingled with licorice. For women, first place for most arousing was a tie between baby powder and the combination of Good & Plenty candy with cucumber. Coming in second was a combination of Good & Plenty and banana nut bread."

[First off, who but destitute college students would volunteer for these kinds of measurements? And second, wouldn't it be embarrassing if you had an abnormal response to something like the smell of, say, egg salad?]

3. From Amy Bloom's book, Where the God of Love Hangs Out,
"[S]he told him that she'd heard that young men shaved their balls now. Ray lifted his head and asked her if she would like that. I guess I would, she said. Is it unpleasant otherwise? Ray said. Oh, I don't know, Ellie said. It's like a mouthful of wet mitten -- what do you think?"

on snow

OH MY GOD! THERE'S A BLIZZARD! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!

So far, the only remotely dramatic thing to happen because of the snow is that I actually got a seat on the express train. When I got to the office, all twelve of us (out of 250) looked a little soggy, but cute, in our bundledupedness.

In honor of the PENDING HORROR THAT CAN ONLY BE AROUND THE CORNER, I offer you my thoughts on snow.

Stay warm!