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."

------------------------

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.

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.

cookie party, 2009

How does a tradition start? By doing the same thing year after year, I guess, or at least doing it enough times that people start to say, "oh yeah, doesn't Kate throw a cookie party every year?"

So, since there was a party in 2006 (which I totally forgot about until I was writing this piece!), one in 2007, and one in 2008, I guess that by doing it in 2009, I'm actually on the path to a real-live tradition!

This year's cookie party was once again fabulous, with frosting flying every which way, and sprinkles (like pine needles or beach sand) ending up in the strangest places.

The attendees this year were both new and old. Andrea and Lisa (with the boys) repeated from years past, and Patricia and Ellyn joined up anew. (Keri and Avery didn't make it that day, but were with us in spirit.)

The improvements I made over previous years -- more actual food! more presents for the children! -- were tremendous. This year I served rosemary butternut squash lasagna, garlic mint potatoes, bean soup, sugared cranberries, and apple almond quinoa. The number of debilitating sugar headaches dropped dramatically!

The OCD factor was back, as Andrea had missed last year's party, and this year, her meticulous decorating skills inspired Ellyn and Patricia to reach new heights, in an effort to reach the winners' circle. Max -- who is now six and a half -- was also driven to "make a contender." So driven, in fact, that he created about sixty five thousand contenders (not realizing, of course, that he had his own category -- the Under Seven Cookies).

The boys, in fact, had some creative decorating techniques. Max's plan of attack was to wad a glob of frosting into the middle of the cookie (for best dispersal later) and then to dump a handful of sprinkles into the palm of his hand. With a somewhat slow rotation of his wrist, 70% of the sprinkles landed on the table or floor, 5% hit the dry part of the cookie and about 25% reached the glob of frosting. So, of course, to meet with satisfactory sprinkling results, the process had to be repeated four times for each cookie.

Having just swept and mopped my floor (and knowing full well I'd have to do it again after the party), Lisa and I made valiant attempts to curb this decorating method. To no avail, of course, because a child under 7 + sugar + lots more sugar + anyone saying "no" = Disaster, Pure and Simple.

Charlie, on the other hand, had a strangely more self-contained approach to frosting. Which is to say, he frosted himself. He got some on a cookie (probably by accident) and the rest of it on his pants, hair, shirt, brother, seat... He reached for sprinkles once, but that idea was quickly squashed by the entire apartment. And he seemed fairly pleased with the prospect of merely frosting himself. (And, the rim of a volcano, as you'll see below.)

But enough talk, already, Kate! Let's see the winners!

In the Under Seven Category, Max was the all around winner!

The best traditional cookies:
Clockwise from top: "Jew" cookie by Lisa, "Glove" by Ellyn, OCD Tree by Patricia, OCD Bear by Andrea, and Self-Strangulating Snowman by Yours Truly.
In the Best Non-Traditional Category:

Clockwise from top left: Awkward Teenage Bear (complete with acne and the ugly outfit his mother made him wear) by Andrea, Creepy French Manicure Hand by Kate, The Shitting Dove of Peace by Ellyn (note the poop in the crack of the cookie), Festive Lederhosen Guy with Big Package by Patricia, and Almond Coat Bear by Ellyn.
And everybody's favorite category... The Ugliest!!

Clockwise from top left: Cracky Bear by Lisa, Flickery-Vagina-y Lightbulb by Kate, Amoeba by Patricia, Plaguey Pig by Ellyn, Clean-the-Table CandyCane by Kate, and Max's contribution to the Ugly field, which really isn't all that ugly, actually...

I feel eternally grateful to these women for making my life, my home, and my kitchen all the friendlier and warmer. It is starting to feel like without the party, it might not be Christmas.

Fernando is still trying to kill me

I'm not paranoid, I swear! Here are five more ways in which my dear, sweet, wonderful officemate is trying to kill me. (Or at least drive me to take my own life.)

(You can see the first five ways in which he's trying to kill me here.)

6. He steals the garbage can
In an effort to be environmental, Fernando and I share a garbage can. One can, one bag, less plastic in the oceans... we're essentially good people. Except when Fernando HOGS the garbage can WAY over the halfway mark between our desks. He claims it's the cleaning lady who does this, but I know he's using some weird telekinetic voodoo to inch it over to his side while I'm not looking.

7. He got me hooked on pitted dates
Once upon a time, Fernando came back from the 99 cent store with a container of pitted dates. They were cracky good. We ate them until that container was gone. Then we bought another one. And another one. And another one. We ate them like they were going out of style. He turned me into an ADDICT! I'm like a vegetarian zombie who roams around moaning "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATES"

8. He forces me to write songs
Fernando will take anything I say and turn it into the refrain of a song. For example, I'll say something like "it's time for a pitted date" and he'll spice it up and jazzify it, chanting "it's time for a pitted date (oh yeah!)/ it's time for a pitted date (you know it!)/ you asked for the time, and instead you got this rhyme / it's time for a pitted date!" and then I end up singing the pitted date song for the next two-to-three hours at least. My other coworkers think I'm crazy, but really, without Fernando I'd be totally sane. I swear. I'd never make up a song all by myself...

(Note to self: don't write about the pitted date song, or it will get re-stuck in your head.)

9. He stopped eating pitted dates!
After introducing me to the heroin-like fruit, Fernando stopped eating them. Because they had calories and nutritional value. See, Fernando has this strange obsession with the Eat-This-Not-That kind of news reporting that can be found on such reputable sites as Yahoo! Mail. He continually alerts me to which fast food joints have the worst grades in the fat/calories department, even though he knows I haven't eaten fast food since high school. He also thinks he's going to die of visceral fat. (I periodically remind him that he has to HAVE visceral fat to die from it.)

10. He drinks like a fish
Back in the day (around the time of the pitted dates), I vowed I would drink more water. You know, because it was good for me. I announced my intention to Fernando, making it more likely that I would actually follow through with it, and he joined in.

Now he drinks WAAAAAY more than I do, and he's got this weird clicky throat noise that makes me worried that water is going to come out his nose if he holds his head at the wrong angle. (I secretly want to test out this theory, but how could I subtly convince him to drink water while leaning over the arm of his chair?)



Now, I just want you all to know that I am NOT THREATENED by the fact that Fernando eats better than I do, drinks more water than I do, is generally more charming and attractive than I am, and that when he's out, fewer people come to visit.

Not threatened at all.

(Although, you should also probably know that one time he made me try to pop popcorn with my cellphone. I know, crazy, right??)

it would have been enough, DAYENU!

This year, I had the joy of attending another Seder with my favorite adoptive Jewish family. It was my first vegetarian Seder, and somehow, even without the turkey, pot roast, stuffing and chicken broth (you better believe I ate the Matzo ball!), I still managed to stretch myself beyond capacity.

To that end:

If they invited me but didn't give me wine
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me wine but it wasn't four glasses full
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me four glasses but they weren't from a local Brooklyn winery
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me local awesome wine but not gefilte fish
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me gefilte fish but not the fancy Israeli matzo
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the fancy Israeli matzo but not the matzo ball soup
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me matzo ball soup but not the Sannie Salad™
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the Sannie Salad™ but not the potato pie
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the potato pie but not the brussels sprouts
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the brussels sprouts but not the macaroons
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the macaroons but not the chocolate covered matzos
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the chocolate covered matzos and not Ladybird cupcakes
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me Ladybird cupcakes but didn't make me laugh
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they made me laugh but the baby didn't fling hard boiled egg at me
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If the baby flung hard boiled egg at me and they didn't make me feel loved
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

But boy did I feel loved.
And covered in egg.
And full.
And it was enough.

Fernando is trying to kill me

It's true. He's out to get me. (I don't know why, I'm nothing but charming, loving and adorable.)

Proof positive:

1. He gave me more death gum.
Last time he gave me death gum, I wrote it off. I mean, the guy has no taste buds. He won't eat chocolate, but he'll enjoy a stick of perfumed ass? This time, however, I'm convinced he's trying to poison me. Yesterday's flavor was a cross between toilet bowl cleaner, fruity fruit and a pine tree. Apparently there were some other lovely flavors that blossomed while munching on the gum. (I only know this from watching others chomp on this foul concoction. I spit the shit out before it killed me.)

2. He sits in his chair and does the peepee dance.
We sit facing each other all day, and the guy drinks more water than a great whale. But for some reason, he likes to push it with his bladder. He makes rules about how much water he must drink before allowing himself to pee, and meanwhile, I sit across from him and develop agita, just waiting for him to pee in his pants.

3. He scoffs at my chocolate baked goods.
In the last year and a half, I have baked a lot of goods. And since Fernando won't eat chocolate, I have bent myself into a pretzel to bake non-chocolate options. Peach cakes, peanut butter cookies, white chocolate tarts (he'll eat those, since white chocolate really isn't chocolate afterall, duh)... I've spanned the gamut. And yesterday I brought in chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting and what did I get?

"YECHHHHH! And good morning, Kate!"

4. He still has the good desk.
After all this time together, he still has the good desk, and I still have the crappy one. No amount of whining, cajoling, non-chocolate-baking or other chicanery I have used have led him to relinquish his hold over the desk that faces the door, and to move into my crap-ass desk that backs up to the door, allowing everyone I work with to know I'm writing this. (Luckily, it's 6:03 and nobody should care.)

5. He's gotten me addicted to green tea mints.
And these puppies are expensive. We had to order them in bulk from Amazon, just so we could afford them. I'm worried now that he might actually kill me, just to inherit my share of the mints.

birthday thyme

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there were the photo series.

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

(not so good on my part)

And then we switched it:

(very convincing, no?)

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

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

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

The Stripey Twins!

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

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

(For shots from last year, go here)

No! Frosting! 'Till Brooklyn!

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

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

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

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

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

Lisa B. and Avery

Frosting cookies for kids like you and me

Side by side at my kitchen table...

They won't look at meeeeeee

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

So we did.

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

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

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

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

DRUM ROLL, PLEASE!

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

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

The winners in the Best People Category:

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

The best Traditional Cookies:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

watch out! I'm athletic!

Is there such a thing as beginner's luck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jeenyus jabber

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

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

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

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

It almost worked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It got weird when I googled "vomiting phobia."

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

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

a theory on dating serially

Yesterday a friend of mine asked herself this (by asking me):  do I take a break from boys for a little while and just clear my mind? Or do I start dating and do it right -- not just date one boy or put all my eggs in one basket?

I learned a lot while serially dating (by which I mean ending one relationship and then instantaneously starting another), but the key theory that I developed (after stopping) was that wherever my first relationship was at when it ended (my last serious was about a 8.5 out of 10, on a completely random and self-generated scale), my next relationship STARTED somewhere pretty close by. (The following guy and I started at about a 6.5 or 7.) That really didn't work for me, because we hadn't earned that intimacy. It wasn't until I had taken some time completely alone (I did six weeks) that my internal intimacy-meter reset to zero.

And now I operate at a fairly consistent zero.  It's made it easier for me to really reassess, and to be On My Own. It's taken me out of "we" mode and back into "me" mode.  Zero has allowed me space to tackle some other demons, instead of always being focused on boys boys boys and what was going wrong (or right).

It took a lot of effort, a lot of nights at Lisa's house, a lot of girls' nights out (to non-guyish events) and even some turning down of dates until my sabbatical was over.  

And it was totally worth it. 

But that was my experience. Since I know my friend and I are pretty similar (at least in this regard), I recommended it to her.  And if it's not what she needs/wants or it doesn't help, it's only six weeks.  And if she doesn't do it, it's no skin off my nose.  All I really care is that she's asking the questions.

I try to look at being single this way -- today might be my only chance to be completely single. The next guy I meet could be Mr. Right, and then what?  I might have to stop sleeping diagonally. 

Gasp.

such stuff as dreams are made on

I had lunch with an old friend recently and we hadn't seen each other in a long time -- essentially since I had gotten my new job as a trainer. I told him all about what I do, how I love teaching, I love being with my students, and I love trying out new techniques in my classes. And how I mostly hate tech, could give a flying leap about computers, and think that there is little on this earth as unsexy as Microsoft Office. (Except maybe ugly goats.)

As I kept talking about the stuff I love about my job, he got this cloudy look on his face and said, "Yeah, but Kate, those are just the processes and procedures of your job. You don't really care about the stuff of your job."

"What do you mean, the 'stuff of my job'?"

"You know, the ideas and energies behind what you do."

"Um, could you be slightly less vague, please?"

"Well, I love politics and policymaking." (He's a lawyer from DC.) "I love the athleticism of the arguments, the negotiations, the science and art of it. I just love it." (And hearing him say this, I am both surprised (since he never talked about it before) and not the least bit surprised, as it suits what I do know about him to a a tee.)

(By the way, what the hell does that saying really mean? I haven't the slightest clue.)

"So the stuff of your job is politics, and lawyering [and by that I mean negotiating deals, arguing points, writing papers, researching statutes, etc.] -- that's the process and procedures of your job?"

"Pretty much."

"Hmmh." I said as contentedly as I could, considering he had just opened a major can of Job Related Worms and there were no fish in sight.

I got to thinking... what is the stuff of my life? What things/ideas/concepts do I really care about, and how would I go about finding a job that addressed those things? My friend encouraged me to pay attention to topics I find interesting -- outside the regular fluff and idiocy that we all enjoy.

("What?" I said, "I can't get a job dating cute guys for the rest of my life??")

So far, what I've managed to come up with is personal -- not personal to me, necessarily, but people-related. Self-esteem, self-regard, confidence, nutrition, lifestyle, attitude and mental state -- these are all things I care about greatly. And I think my friend is right -- while I love teaching, it really is a process or a procedure through which I can pursue something I truly care about.

And I promise I'll do that... right after I get back from vacation!

rally for a worthy cause

ok, so I lied. no worthy causes here. just wildly important, ego-boosting, life-changing and absurdly middle-schoolish internet competitions. (Hey, it's myspace. Isn't that why they built this site?)


I have a friend who plays rugby in Colorado. His team has an online roster. He and a teammate* have this ongoing feud about who's being looked at more often online. I told him that my readership was a dedicated bunch and would help him pull ahead in the polls. (and ladies, he's a good looking guy so you might just enjoy having a gander at him.)
Can you possibly prove me wrong? (the right answer there is, "no, Kate, never! You're such an intriguing blogger and err on the side of truth most of the time that we've come to respect your judgment and wisdom")


(another right answer would be simply "no.")


So go ahead. See Andrew in all his glory. Make his day. (I'ts ok, he deserves it.) Oh, and if you live in Denver and want to meet him (and, of course, are popular enough yourself) let me know.


http://www.denverbarbarians.com//index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=149&Itemid=30


*I can't tell you the name of his teammate, as you'll want to know what's so special about him, and you'll check him out, too. I know, I know, you say you won't, but you will. Just trust me. For reasons I can't explain, his teammate goes by the name "Pipes" and has Festive Hair. You don't need to see him.**


** now you want to see him all the more, don't you? ok, ok, here he is:


(I told you it was festive.)

some things i learned at my ten year reunion

1. There were a few classmates I spoke to who firmly believed that what they're doing with their lives is the right thing, but they were few and far between. The rest of us were wonderfully vulnerable, honest, lost little sheep, slowly finding our way to the great meadow. (Or, really, the bar.) I heard the phrases "transition period," "I just started," and "oh, I don't know" often enough to feel welcome.

2. I didn't go out nearly enough in college.

3. The guy in my high school math class that I thought was popular because he played sports and was good looking? Apparently he wasn't. (But doesn't my thinking him so make him so? Or would I have had to be cooler at the time to merit an opinion?)

4. My heart has an amazing capacity to stretch. I had no intention of cramming all those people in there, and yet, here I am, three days later, toting them around with me and wanting to find a way to have brunch with every single one of them. Every day.

Grad school, anyone?

5. Sometimes, trying something new can be incredibly rewarding. (Sometimes, revelations can be incredibly vague.)

6. There are some good looking guys in our class. There are also some VERY pregnant women.

7. Sleeping in a dorm room in New Haven is like sleeping in a washing machine full of toddlers and marbles.

8. If you have nothing to do for the afternoon there's a pretty good chance there are a number of other people in the same boat. Find some and chat them up. They might turn out to be awesome. (And set you up with their co-workers! Hooray!)

9. As done as I say I am with acting, when a classmate of mine (whose opinion I really respect) told me he thought I was "one of the good ones," I seriously (albeit briefly) considered going back to it.

10. Jumping on an empty water bottle with the cap loosely fitted to it is a bad activity in a crowd. However, if you're going to engage in it, be sure to hit a guy in the military and make super-nice with his wife. Then everything will turn out fine.

11. I can run farther than I did in college. (Even hungover at 8:45 am!)

12. There are bathtubs in the basements of some of the freshman dorms. Do freshmen really
take baths? Believing that they couldn't possibly, I clambered into one for a rest. I felt like beer.

13. While identity is completely fluid, some element of character persists. What I liked in people ten years ago is still present, and in some cases, has grown brighter and more precious. What I didn't like has either faded away, or I've made peace with it inside of myself. Seeing everyone as innocent and every encounter as new made the weekend really vibrant, and I wish that was a skill I'd had in college.

Then surely, I'd have gone out more.

my vegas wedding

So I went to a wedding in Vegas over Memorial Day, and there are waaaaay too many stories to tell them all, so I'll just give you some photos and some highlights. And, because I'm me, maybe one or two lowlights as well.

First, the bride:

Christina was a picture-perfect bride, and I know, because I watched her be in about six thousand photos. My job during those photos? To make fun of the weird-ass poses the photographer was putting her in. (At one point, he had her on the bed in her wedding dress, with it yanked up over her knees. I said to him, "What is this? The Dirty Dirty Bride Collection?") He would say things like, "Look a little towards me" and I would say, "Is that a BUG?" and she would crack up. I hope she actually got some good photos out of it, but I worry that she didn't.

Oops.

So before there was a bride, there was a rehearsal. It looked a lot like this:

The wedding was supposed to be outside, but soon after these pictures were taken, a light rain started to fall (which turned into a pelting, bed-rattling thunderstorm overnight).

[Sidebar: it was warmer in NYC over Memorial Day weekend than it was in Vegas. I had to mutter a great number of obscenities while shaking my fist at the sky. I don't think Mother Nature gave a shit.]

We headed inside for the rehearsal dinner, and the bartender told me, appropos of absolutely nothing, "I used to be an elephant in a past life." I said, "Wow... Could I have a Jack & Ginger, please?"

There were some toasts:

And some secrets:

And some general happy-bridey-ness:

At one point, the father of the groom got up to give a speech, which may or may not have been on the longish-side, depending on who you ask... And he said, as he was closing, that there were some extra guests at the party tonight. Guests, he said, that the groom (Joe, or Joey, as his family called him) didn't necessarily want at the party, but here they were anyway...

The Blues Brothers:

Adding a truly Vegas element to the event, the bride and groom were asked to get up and shake their tail feathers. Oh, and did they!

The next morning we woke up and the bride had lost her voice. When we went to the front desk to ask about the steam room in the hotel, they told us it wasn't part of the complimentary gym, it was part of the $25 spa... a fee they wouldn't be waiving for the bride, even though she brought them all this business. (Rude.)

We headed out to the nearest 24 Hour Fitness, and had a discussion of how the bride and other bridesmaid looked so great in their bikinis. "Kate, it's simple," said Dayna, "Tan fat is cuter than white fat." (I have since purchased some self-tanner!)

After lunch, I got a message from the girls that the wedding program wasn't coming out right, and would I take a look at it? Being a computer trainer, I heartily agreed, and knocked the program into shape in no time. However, as I was wrapping that up, I got a call from Dayna telling me that Joe had sent a text saying that he had cut himself shaving and was at the hospital getting stitches. Nobody had heard from him for the last half hour, and Christina was getting really worried.

I left the program assembly line and joined the bride... where we got the text, "It was a joke. Hehe." Our response? "The wedding's off. Hehe."

Fast forward through a lot of stuff, and now we're in the bridal suite, with the photographer taking artistic photos of her shoes (why do they all do that??) and the hair and makeup folks turning Christina into a princess. We go for the wedding, and despite her best intentions, Christina's nerves get the better of her.

I walked her up and down the hallway, saying things like, "In Tahiti, there are warm beaches, and coconuts and everybody takes deep, relaxing breaths."

(Don't ask me how, but it kind of worked.)

The ceremony was gorgeous. Short, sweet, full of love. I'm sure the photographer got a lot of great contorted-face pictures of me, as I fought back my tears. (I suppose it would be only fair, since I made him work for his money.)

The first dance was terrific, too. They were so happy and so cute, and performing in front of the most adoring crowd ever. (And the song they picked was so sweet. While I don't know the name of it, I've now got it stuck back in my head.)

The toasts... well, they were perhaps one of the lowlights.

The best man started out by saying, "Joey's a nervous guy. Always has been. But this morning he was completely calm. When I went into his bathroom, though, I found these." And he pulled out two bricks.Silence prevailed.A cricket chirped.Seven people got it. (He was shitting bricks.)

Then my table cracked up at the sheer absurdity of the whole thing.

The maid of honor didn't necessarily pick up the slack. "Chrissy called and told me she had met someone. 'But,' she said, 'he's a laywer!' I said, 'I'm a lawyer, and you like me.' 'Yeah,' she said, 'but it gets worse... he's a conservative!' I laughed and said, 'But I'm a conservative and you like me!'"

(Aren't there rules about weddings that include things like not talking about politics???)

Later in the evening, Christina tossed her bouquet... into the swag decoration over her head. Joe also tossed the garter... to three single guys. That's it! Three single guys! (And one of them was 7.)Two old men fell down. (Unrelated to the garter, we think, but there's no proof.)

The wedding ended, the couple left for their honeymoon, and Dayna and I were left to wander the strip at a cafe in the Paris Casino, where they have a Bloody Mary Bar. I recommend it. We dubbed this one The Bloody Mary That Saved The Day.
(If you're wondering, yes, that is a pepperoni stick in there!)

I caught a redeye back to New York and was so tired that I cried tears of joy upon arriving at my apartment and sleeping for the next five hours.

It was beautiful to see Christina in her wedding... and to meet Joe, finally! I realized how odd it is to have friends who live all the way across the country, and how little I get to see them. Thank god for weddings, or I might never have met this guy!

I mean, what?

my trip in the murder van

So my friend is running this small business, and part of that business involves picking up free furniture from craigslist and then refurbishing it and reselling... with delivery. (Very valuable in Brooklyn, don't forget!)

However, his wife was not terribly pleased by the idea of him mucking up her lovely station wagon, so he went to a vehicle auction and purchased the murder van.

Now, it's never actually been used for murder (as far as we know), but that's totally what it was designed for. I mean look at it. It's nicely decomissioned from the parks department, with that potentially pedophilic bent, it's a stunning shade of green, with half-hearted tags and a nice dent along the side, just to prove what it's made of.

(And in case you're wondering what it's actually made of, I think the answer is metal, rubber, string, tape, a coffee cup lid, two paper towels, a carpet (for style) and magic. Oh, and oil. Lots of oil.)

Anyway, my parents were getting rid of an armoire, and they offered it to my friend, so I rode with him in the murder van to pick it up all the way out to CT. Which, in retrospect, was something of a miracle, considering that, unbeknownst to us, the good old murder van was down two quarts of transmission fluid.

Let me give you an impression of riding in the murder van. First, go to a seedy hotel room. Throw all sorts of things around, including a buckeye, three computer speakers, some tools, dust and whatever else suits your fancy. Start up your Magic Fingers bed and then swap the bed for a race-car seat. Pump in some carbon monoxide, hire sixteen toddlers to rattle pots and pans and get an angry, lone cricket to play incessantly for two hours. Multiply that by a hundred, and you're close.

On the ride up, I think I might have been high. I'm pretty sure the following things were said:

friend: Murder Van loves Tom Waits.

me: Totally understandable.

friend: Murder Van loves Madonna.

me: Can we open the windows a little more?

me: How much did this cost you?

friend: $600. And I didn't even have to pay extra to get the entire cast of Stomp into the back!
me: Why is that thing so long?

friend: Well, it has to reach all the way inside.

(You dirty birds! I was talking about the oil dipstick and he was talking about the engine. Maybe you've had too many fumes!)

Anyway, there's not much of a plot to this story, except that we got in the van, drove into a time warp, were plied with an armoire, dried fruit, a kitchen table and a bag of artichokes, and then we drove home.

The punchline: the door on my side opened really well, but only shut when my friend wiggled something and stood on his left foot singing Madonna songs. Needless to say, any time I wanted to get out, I had to clamber out of my race-car seat, hop over the driver's seat, and tumble out into the driveway or parking space. The maneuver alone was enough to send me into hysterics, but landing next to the murder van? Icing on the cake.

Murder van loves transmission fluid:

conversational metadata (or how to sound so dorky you’ll never get a date)

First things first: what the hell is metadata, right?

Metadata is the stuff that sort of hangs out with a document, but isn't actually part of what you see on the screen or the page. It's things like the document name, the name of the author or last person who worked on it, or the date it was last revised. Metadata is also stuff in the document, like hidden text, comments or track changes -- features that require extra coding, extra effort to get rid of, and, in the worst cases, lead to corruption.

I work at a law firm (as a computer trainer, which, if it isn't apparent yet, will only become more clear as I blather on about this), and we conscientiously strip our documents of metadata -- no client needs to know that Bigwig Attorney copied this document from another one on the system and just renamed it for this client... and then billed six hours for that. I've recently been revising the instructional information on how to do this, so metadata's been, well, front of mind.

Anyway, I was out with a friend last night who is about ten years younger than I am, and a total delight. I love her like a sister. And she moved to LA, so I miss her like hell. But as we were having one of several conversations, I had all these thoughts running through my head, like, "I'm not at all fun like her other friends" and "I hope she doesn't hate me for not being able to stay out all night drinking" and "god, I'm old."These thoughts were not a part of our conversation, but they were lingering around the fringes of it, just waiting to corrupt it. I required extra energy to get rid of them, and, like identifying information, they kept trying to remind me of who I was. (Not necessarily who I am NOW, but like Bigwig Attorney's metadata, they wanted to reveal who the last author was.)

Metadata can sometimes be helpful, especially if you're trying to figure out where a document originated. But conversational metadata is only useful in reflection, to see how far you've come, and to realize that you're not old, you're just not 22.

what i couldn't say two years ago

I had dinner with an old friend tonight (our friendship is old... we, ourselves, are quite young, thankyouverymuch), which was a date we rescheduled from last week, which she cancelled because she wasn't feeling very well. As we sat at dinner I very offhandedly and calmly said the following, which I never would have been able to say to her two years ago:

So, last week was no big deal, it sucks that you were feeling barfy, and you can totally cancel on me anytime for anything, but next time, could you give me a little advanced warning if you aren't feeling well? You didn't know this, but I was in New Jersey at a party which I had to leave early to meet you for dinner, and I was already on the train back to the city when I got your message to cancel.

Her response? Totally calm, agreeing, nodding, and saying, "Oh yeah, that's cool. I'll totally give you advance warning next time. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Two years ago I was so afraid of myself (and of the threat of her rejecting me) that instead of saying something this simple, I would just sit on it. And stew. And brood. And every time she cancelled or was late or did anything that I could interpret as inconsiderate, I chose to see it as her being malicious or thoughtless instead of living her own life (with its own complications).

Now it's just so much cleaner. It feels fresh. It feels like we're miles closer, even though we see each other less. It feels like we're both covered in magnets and when we choose to live responsibly, the polarity brings us together instead of forcing us apart.

I'm immensely grateful, both for her and for the changes in my life. (And for the image of me being covered in magnets and accidentally getting myself stuck to my fridge.)

i'm a grand-neighbor

I am blessed with an extended family that I've chosen for myself, and tonight we had a baby! My friends Lisa and RJ called me this afternoon to tell me that the doctor was thinning Lisa's membrane (a visual I'd rather not have, of a procedure that apparently can be kind of painful), when the following ensued (cribbed from RJ at www.procrastinet.com) :

Lisa: Are you doing it?
Dr.: Yep! You're very ready.
Lisa: Wow I heard it was really painful!
Dr.: Well, for some women it--oops.
Lisa: ... Did you just break my water?
Dr.: ... So let's get you to the hospital!

With the fam in the hospital, I came to the house to relieve grandma of her babysitting duties (and send her off to the hospital to do her motherly duties) and, of course, to bake cookies. Because what baby shouldn't be celebrated by a big batch of kitchen sink cookies?

It is with much glee that I welcome Charles Owen into the world tonight. (And slightly more glee that I got Max to finally fall asleep.)