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.)

know your blogger: a quiz for the dedicated reader

Directions: Using a number 2 pencil, mark the correct answers on the screen. (If you're blonde and make a mistake, feel free to liberally apply white out to the screen, but only if you've ever been to Disney and seen the sign "<-----Disney Left" and gone home.)


1. What has gotten your favorite blogger up onto the roof four times already this summer?
a) the regional tour of Riverdance
b) blocked gutters that, when they overflow, make a really loud splash against the fire escape and wake her up at four in the morning
c) a cadre of noisy squirrels having sex
d) how would you know, you're not my favorite blogger!


2. When recently hard boiling some eggs, what did your favorite blogger do?
a) join the regional tour of Riverdance
b) start juggling the raw eggs and not the hard boiled ones
c) not scorch, toast, or merely burn her potholder, but aim for more of a potholder flambee, requiring a festive dance while putting a flaming piece of fabric into the sink
d) See d, above


3. What did your favorite blogger's date say as he ascended the stairs to her apartment?
a) "Nice ass! Do you Riverdance?"
b) "Geez, this is the ugliest apartment building color scheme I've ever seen."
c) "Come here often?"
d) "Hi Jesus, Hi Tiger!"


4. What would you say if you saw this in the hallway of your date's apartment building?

a) "Nice ass! Do you Riverdance?"
b) "Geez, this is the ugliest apartment building color scheme I've ever seen."
c) "Come here often?"
d) "Hi Jesus, Hi Tiger!"

5. Your favorite blogger recently celebrated her half birthday. What did her date bring her?
a) half a birthday card, reading "You'll need it when you're swinging on the chandelier by your ass," prompting her to wonder what in the hell the other half said
b) half a book of Tom Robbins short stories and one organic cotton legwarmer
c) half a vegan cupcake that was shockingly delicious (and animal free!)
d) all of the above

6. How many runs did your favorite blogger score in her kickball game today?
a) 0
b) 1
c) 2!
d) she plays kickball? Isn't that kind of, well, athletic?

7. What was the highlight of the kickball game?
a) your favorite blogger's chocolate-coconut cupcakes
b) the way your favorite blogger caught the kickball and made the out, even though it may well have broken her left boob
c) when your favorite blogger did a cheerleading kick that took her foot over her head and somehow knocked her other foot off the ground, causing her to land on her ass and exclaim, "Ow! My pride!"
d) all of the above

8. Which words best describe the weather your favorite blogger has been living with?
a) summery, delightful & lovely
b) June-like, dry & breezy
c) clear skies, fresh & salubrious
d) none of the above (see question 1)

TO SCORE:
The best way to score is to be your favorite blogger's date! (Ba-dump! I'll be here all week; tip your waitress!)

Another way to score is to be on your favorite blogger's kickball team, as they beat the black team 10-6 today.

Or, you could just add up all the correct answers. (There should be 8 of them.)

who doesn't love steroids??

I am finally, FINALLY, after six whole weeks of dreck, starting to feel better. I've had a brick of snot the size of Tennessee shoved into my brain since about Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and yesterday I went to an otolarnygologist (say that three times fast) after two visits to (and two rounds of failed antibiotics from) my regular doctor.

I sat in the chair and she stuck a rubber hose up my nose, while chemicals flowed freely into my brain.

"Um, what was that?"

"A combination of Afrin and lidocaine."

"Oh. Ok."

(pause)

"Um, why'd you stick it up my nose?"

"So you won't feel it when I use the camera."

(GAH!)

Fifteen minutes later, she shoved a teeny-tiny camera up my nose and down my throat. Awesome.

(Luckily, five minutes after that, she gave me hardcore antibiotics, STEROIDS and a fancy schmancy nasal spray. Move over, saline!)

Today the fog is lifting and I can see the lights of the planes landing at LaGuardia. (They've been known to pass for stars in these parts.)

So now that I'm all hopped up on steroids, I'm thinking of taking up baseball. And changing my name to K-Rod!

(Actually, it's funny. I told the PT aide that I was on steroids and she asked what kind. I said, "I don't know, my cousin from the Dominican Republic came up and just shot them into my butt. I didn't ask what they were." She didn't get it.)

All of this leads me to what I meant to write tonight:

When you have a schnoz full of Afrin and lidocaine, the whole inside of your face gets numb, you get a little dizzy, and your top teeth feel like they're going to fall out. And, sadly, snot can be running down your face, and you won't know it until it reaches your lip.

Or so I've heard.

why I'm a good person, or Mulchfest 2009!

Here is the lifecycle of a Brooklyn Christmas Tree:

A tree is planted.
A tree grows (but not in Brooklyn).
A tree is cut down and shipped to Brooklyn.
A tree is purchased, toted home, decorated and adored.
A tree-based holiday is celebrated.
A tree is thrown to the curb, sometimes from a window (or balcony).
A tree is peed on. Repeatedly.
A tree is schlepped to the park.
A tree is chopped up into mulch.
A tree is distributed into the garden-ish beds of Prospect Park.
A tree rots and eventually grows into part of another tree.
Which this time, grows in Brooklyn.

Mulchfest is an annual event (I'd say festival, but that would seriously be stretching it) where the Parks Department collects all the formerly-beloved Christmas trees for chopping, chipping and future use in the park in a mulch smaller form. (ha! mulch smaller!)

However, until someone can genetically engineer the trees to get up and walk to the park themselves, Mulchfest requires volunteers (like yours truly) to schlep the heavy, pee-soaked bastards to the park. Because the Parks Department can't drive around and pick up the tree -- no, no, that would impinge upon the Sanitation Department. They can only pick up the trees they happen to find in the park. You know, the ones I put there.

Have you ever seen a strong man competition? Where they compete to see who can pull a truck the farthest? Yeah, well, that was me on Saturday. Except the truck was made out of discarded christmas trees, and I was cute and svelt, not big and juiced. Thanks to an ingenious idea I'm sure I inherited genetically from my father, I took a piece of clothesline with me and tied one end to one tree and the other end to another one. Then I headed up Park Slope (which, by the end of the day, I renamed Park EnormousIncline) hauling anywhere between two and six trees.

I was kind of a machine.

People's reactions were interesting. Some offered to help, some ignored me all together (which was difficult, as I was taking up the entire sidewalk), some thanked me and some made jokes -- how I wouldn't have to go to the gym today, how I looked like a cavewoman, how I could be a lumberjack... (apparently hauling trees does not make one look sexy).

I was wearing so many layers that by the end of the day, I was drenched. Nothing smelled good, and everything was sore. But I felt like I had really served my neighborhood. The trees wouldn't go to waste, the park would spend less money on mulch, and I got a good workout.The only drawback is that now, when I see a christmas tree on the sidewalk -- and especially when I see a dog peeing on it -- I want to punch people.

I don't think that's quite the spirit of volunteerism I should be fostering...

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.

brokened, part II

I've been cracked!

(but regular readers already knew that about me.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm brokened

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

(They, incidentally, are not chiropractors.)

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

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

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

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

"My shoulder, mostly."

(he scribbles notes.)

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

(he scribbles more notes. I flip over.)

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

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

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

"Flex your leg."

I do, and it's fine.

He switches to my left leg.

"Flex this leg."

I do, and things are decidedly not right anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

Rude.

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

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

my own inner Statler and Waldorf

You know those muppets who sit on the balcony, kvetching about the show the whole way through? They're Statler and Waldorf. And I seem to have my own version of them in my head, endlessly muttering about what I'm doing, what I'm not doing, and whether or not I'm doing (or not doing) things I'm doing (or not doing) the right way.

It's annoying.

Anyway, over the weekend, I really socked it to them, and managed to shut them up for a whole afternoon!

I went for a hike this weekend with Outdoor Bound (which I'd totally recommend for anyone stranded in the city and desperate for some hiking action) and found myself in a group where not one, but TWO of the guides were really cute. I chatted with both as the hike began, and discovered that I'd have a really flirty, good time if, when the groups split, I went in their group. However, the non-cute-guide group was smaller and was going to go on a slightly more hard-core hike, and I was drawn to that.

When we were splitting up, Statler and Waldorf started to chatter.

Statler: What's she doing? Is she going on the easy hike just because the guides are CUTE?
Waldorf: I think so.
Statler: I thought she wasn't dating for a while.
Waldorf: She ISN'T!
Statler and Waldorf: Wah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

(Am I unfairly representing their style? I always thought they laughed awfully hard at things that were barely funny.)

Anyway, before the groups got too far apart, I changed my mind, and joined the hard-core group. I'm not focusing on dating right now, I'm focusing on me, and what I want, and who I am, and the choices I make that have to do with me, and not boys. And that meant I was doing the more hard-core hike.*

And boy, did Statler and Waldorf not know what to say to that!

(In the end we all reconvened and hiked back together as a group, and there was some charming chatter exchanged, but I did that with my self-regard rather high, thankyouverymuch. Nothing beats sticking to a promise I make myself.)


*Editor's note: as it is used in this post "hard-core" means "less wussy and more hikey" but in no way implies that I'm remotely a badass.

naan scents

I bit into a green pepper the other day (not my favorite salad veg) and I swear it tasted like homeless people smell.

I suffer from a new disease: Skirtus Rotatus. This is caused by wearing skirts one or two sizes too big and carrying a big, heavy bag. The friction between the two makes one's skirt turn around and around and by the time one is at the subway, one doesn't even know which end is up anymore.

This weekend I'm going out of town. So of course that means I got my Time Out delivered on Wednesday instead of Thursday, so I'll have one more day to read about all the stuff I'll be missing. Sigh.

My favorite players for the Brooklyn Cyclones, Lucas Duda (or "Duuuuuuuuuudaaaaaaaaaa" as we called him from the peanut gallery last year) and Albert Pujols (or "PooooooooooooHoooooooles" as we screamed and then giggled ourselves silly) have since left the team. I have a new favorite player, though: Kirk Niewenhuis. (Say that one three times fast.) He's turning 21 tomorrow (8/7/87) and he hit a double on Monday night when I was at the game. (Sadly, that's about the only actual play of the game I remember. Oh, that, and catsup beat mustard and relish in the race along the sidelines.)

I passed a guy today who was clearly trying to get away from the people he was with so he could pick his nose in private. Unfortunately, the place he chose to be private was right up against the window of the restaurant, where all the passers by could watch him dig for gold.

I'm not getting enough sleep. That has nothing to do with what I write, I'm just taking this opportunity to complain about it publicly.

i am corporately challenged... again!

It's an annual thing, getting corporately challenged. (Well, at least it is for all the cool kids.)

This year, I had a better idea about what I was in for, and I was psyched! I was going to run my little heart out and show the rest of my team how valuable I could be! (Aren't I cute when I think like a freshman?)

Yeah, ok, so it looked like rain. Whatever. It rained last year, and I survived. (Please god don't rain, please oh please oh pleaseohplease!)

Sidebar: I thought about bringing a backup pair of shoes (in case mine got soaked, like they did last year), and I had a sweater to put on in case it was really cold. But, looking back, once I started to get cold, I forgot about the sweater all together, and truly wished I had brought the extra shoes.

The team was much bigger this year. About 25 of us headed out of the office (we were like the corporate version of the Blob), took to the subway (much to the chagrin of regular 1 train riders everywhere) and arrived at the park en masse, all of us wearing our stunning "Talk to my Lawyer" t-shirts. (Sadly, the "funny" part of the shirt (if you're even that generous about it) was on the front. Which is not the part that ANYBODY ever saw. Next year they should give us shorts with that emblazoned across the ass!)

We forded our way into the crowd, ready to run, but found ourselves stuck together for another fifteen minutes or so (which was fine by me, because, once again, I had picked a cool group of people to be with). Once the race finally started, I fired up a little Elvis Presley and had a grand old time. Those first few minutes are my favorite -- bobbing and weaving through the people, narrowly avoiding stepping on someone's heels, and not yet feeling like the next burp might have a visitor tagging along with it. I have to be so present when I run in a pack like that, that a mile can go by without me even noticing it. I kept remembering something I had written earlier, about how running is much easier when you think of it in now-sized chunks.

Because, oh, did I mention it started to rain? Not just a little rain, either. A big soaker. The kind of rain commuters hate getting stuck in. A puddle-builder rain. A shirt-drencher rain. A raisiny-foot-maker rain.

Things were going well, but damply, until about mile two.

"Excuse me, Kate?"

"Yes?"

"We'd really like to stay here for a while."

"Um, no, macro-vegan thai dumplings that I had for lunch. You kind of need to cross the finish line with me."

"No, thanks. We like it here. We think we'll stay."

"NO! That's rude, and contributes to my overall fear of barf in public places. You, dumplings (and salad and cookie), will stay inside me even if it makes my tummy cramp and I smell worse than the guys from Google!"

(and p.s., maybe it was just something about the fabric of the Google shirts, or maybe it was because they had no sleeves, but those guys were STINKY! woof!)

Anyway, I (with the dumplings -- and, oddly, the Tattoo impersonator in the bright orange t-shirt and wildly yanked up knee socks who had been surging and retreating around me for the whole race) finished the race in Kate's Record Time (32:00 on the nose -- 29:00 if you subtract the three minutes of marching in place) and walked off the rest of the ominous digestive threat. They gave us water and the biggest stack of bananas I've ever seen in my life, and I watched as all the racers' heads steamed. (I'd have killed for a camera. Or dry socks. Or a litter.)

Oh, did I mention that it stopped raining? As soon as the race was over. Cute.

I met up with a co-worker and headed over to the after-party bar, where we were promptly plied with greasy foods and much to drink. I ended up in a corner, listening to a guy kvetch about his love life, playing with the toy alligator that came in the fishbowl drink, eating mashed potatoes with my fingers, and all in all, feeling like part of a team. A bedraggled, half-drunk, soggy, and far-too-soon-to-be-regretful team, but a team nonetheless.

I definitely should have stretched, though. That's gonna hurt.

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.)

aches and pains

I hurt my right thumb earlier this week, and since I'm right handed, doing a lot of things (ok, just about everything) has become very challenging (to say the least).

Let me put it to you this way: as an experiment, try brushing your teeth or wiping your behind with your non-dominant hand.

[Luckily, I've been disabused of the notion that I'm suffering from an early onset of "the arthur-itis."]

Unrelatedly...
I was at TJ Maxx the other day, and just after I had given up trying on bolted together bikinis, I decided to purchase some new underwear. Not being allowed (thankfully) to try on fannypants, I wanted to make sure I was getting the right size. In a move created by Satan's own personal yoga instructor, I twisted myself around and yanked on the tag of my undies, to discover that they were, in fact, sevens.

In the process, I pulled a muscle in my side.

I immediately called everyone I knew and told them that I had pulled a muscle checking the size of my underwear, which, of course, only worsened things by making me laugh my ass off and tense a muscle already in spasm.

Private lessons are available at $50 an hour. (BYO Underwear)

Also unrelatedly,
I took a trip in the Murder Van this weekend. Details will follow, when my thumb hurts less.

k8 and Castro sittin’ in a tree...

You know I've had this thing for Castro for a long time now. And to read today that he's stepping down, well, honestly, I'm baffled.

The man is fine! I see him weekly at the gym!

"My wishes have always been to discharge my duties to my last breath," Castro wrote in a letter published Tuesday in the online edition of the Communist Party daily Granma. But "it would be a betrayal to my conscience to accept a responsibility requiring more mobility and dedication than I am physically able to offer."

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Castro, I know what you're physically able to offer -- 3.5 mph on a 2.0 incline. Quit your whining and get back to leading the last notable communist holdout within howevermany miles of our borders.

irina, the pool nazi

Belonging to a gym in New York City is like belonging to a country club in the suburbs -- it costs a ton, and you can never really be sure of the company you keep. However, if you're lucky like me, for a mere $9 a month (probably a computer glitch I'm in no hurry to fix) you can belong to Bally's Total Shitness, and access their string of crappy clubs around the city. (To get to the top-tier Bally's you have to shell out at least $40 more a month.) It's essentially like having Coney Island as your country club.

If you want to swim, that's a whole nother story. Swim clubs cost top dollar, unless you're fortunate enough to live near one of the city's rec centers. Or belong to Bally's. (In which case you have to hop on the F train and trek out to King's Highway. And you have to deal with Irina, the Pool Nazi.)

The setup at King's Highway is this: three lanes of swimming, each one five full crawl strokes long. (So, what? Maybe 35 feet?) The first lane is labeled as the "Loafers Lane" and that's where the really fat people go to bob or float or, most likely, pee. The second lane is, technically, not labled, and the third lane has this confusing sign with two arrows that says something like "Medium Lap Swim." Basically, if there are two people swimming laps, they each get their own lane, and if there's a third added on (and Irina's around), then the three of you have to rotate through two lanes.

It's lame, if you ask me.

But it's what Irina believes in, with her whole heart and soul. (Note: Irina may not actually be named Irina. I have named her that because 1) King's Highway is very Russian, 2) she looks very Eastern European and 3) she barks at other members in an Eastern tongue. And it suits her.)

(Get it? Suits?! ha!)

Anyway, Irina was there, barking at everyone on Saturday. And it was irritating, especially because when there were only the two of us, she plunked herself in the better lane (yes, there is one) and left me to deal with turning around on an angled wall. So today, I went at a different time, intentionally, and Irina was there again! I muttered to myself (just like everyone else there) and seriously considered putting my workout clothes on and running on a treadmill instead. But I had already showered, so I figured I could at least outlast Irina and get a few laps in without her.

I developed a new respect for Irina, however, because there was someone there who just kept bucking the system the other three of us had agreed to.

All it took was "bark bark bark!" from Irina and that woman was doing her own slow laps with the Peeing Loafers. Not bad, Irina.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what bothers me about other people -- there's a theory that whatever you don't like in other people is something you are unsettled about in your own personality, and that really resonates with me -- so investigating what I didn't like about Irina shone an interesting light on my desire to be a regular somewhere. You know, to belong, to be familiar and have a sense of ownership. I wanted to be the one who knew what the rules were. (And I wanted to know how to bark in Russian.)

The other highlights of the King's Highway swimming pool (aside from the bandaids on the pool floor, the men I'm pretty sure were watching my bathing suit in case anything fell out, or the creepy guy with his shorts pressed up against a bubbler in the whirlpool)? The fire alarm in the ladies' locker room goes off every time someone opens the door to the steam room (and won't stop for three whole minutes); the other occupants of the pool are so old you have to wonder how much unintentional pee you're swimming in; there is a low-level of Ben Gay saturated into the pool water, so you come out without an ache or pain; and, if you leave your bathing suit hanging on a hook in the locker room on Saturday, there's a pretty good chance it'll still be there the next day. (Although that may only be if your bathing suit is all worn out and semi-see through like mine is.)

Thank god for chlorine and goggles.

thoughts on the gym

1. Castro was at the gym again today. He looked taller, greyer and less dead. Perhpas he is getting better?

2. I have no patience for aerobics instructors who use their classes as an exercise in humiliation. I also have no patience for instructors whose classes are boring, repetitive and involve kicks that could easily blow out one's knees. I've discovered, however, that I have no patience for having no patience, so when the instructor gets too annoying, I leave. (Tonight's lasted about 45 minutes)

3. I might be becoming a gym junkie. I don't want this to happen, because I think those people are weird, but it might just be happening anyway. That, or I'm eating too much sugar and just feel like the only way to get back to normal is to run for 30 minutes.
sidebar: maybe postal workers should run more.

4. If you're someone who doesn't poo very often, you probably shouldn't poo at the gym.

5. A while ago I was in a kickboxing class with a guy who looked like ugly cake's boyflan (ahem, I mean, a guy I used to go out with) and I spent half the class trying to impress him with how strong I had become since we broke up and the other half of the class trying to punch him in the head. He left thoroughly confused, and hasn't been back to class since. (it's ok, though, because he was kind of smelly.)

6. There's a woman I've taken class with at the gym for probably three years now and she looks like my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife. Which, by now, is no big deal. But when I met her, I was in the middle of some Severe Ugly with the ex, and I couldn't really stand to look at the woman at the gym. One day I finally told her that she resembled my boyfriend's ex and she smiled and gave a knowing sigh. (We've been friendly ever since.)

7. Eating less is always key to losing weight, but sometimes it's just impossible. (Like when people walk into your office and say "hey, Kate, I made these cookies just for you. Do you want one?" How exactly are you supposed to say no??) I think that's why god invented the guy who invented the treadmill. That, or he just thinks it's funny to have grown people run around like hamsters...

8. I have now officially overthought the gym.

stuff and nonsense

The phrase "stuff and nonsense" always reminds me of fluffernutters. Because those are, in my mind, "fluff and nut-sense."

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Remember that new job I got? Yeah, I still don't have it. Now, in fairness to the HR Gods (Hyraton and Quittilo), they said I wouldn't be starting until they could find an adequate replacement for me, which they said could take "anywhere from two weeks to two months."
I just found out that one of my bosses is on vacation for the next two weeks, and another one is on vacation for a week after that. So the utmost earliest I'd be getting this job is September 1st. Which would be six weeks into the two month scenario. Mrrrrrrr.


However, I also just found out that, starting mid-August, I get my raise! YAY! Who wants to come over and watch my new cable???

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I saw a profile online where a guy was looking for his "counter part." I would like the whole counter, please, not just a part. (I have none in my kitchen.)

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A woman at work this morning -- it was Free Bagel Breakfast Friday -- sawed the top off of a muffin and put the bottom back in the basket. In a loud, accusing voice, I said, "Wait a second! You're putting the muffin bottom back in the basket? Nobody's going to want that!"


Her: But I feel bad throwing it out! I didn't even touch it. It's a perfectly acceptable muffin.


Me: But that's the crappy part of the muffin! Nobody actually likes that part!


Her: Yeah, but you know, some people will settle for it if they have no other muffin options.


Me: Muffin Bottom? I don't know.


Her: We'll do an experiment. I'll leave it there, and I bet it'll be gone by this afternoon.


Me: Someone might throw it out...


Her: We'll see.


She was right. She came by this afternoon (while my mouth was full of iced tea, which almost took a vacation to my sinuses) and told me that, in fact, Muffin Bottom was gone.
Clearly I forgot that I work in an office full of vultures. A whole passel of muffin-bottom-scarfing-vultures.

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My friend recently had a baby (i.e., two months ago) and has already shifted into using Mommy Speak. She told me, when I visited the other day, that her daughter "hadn't poopied for 36 hours." Now, I can understand that kind of phraseology when the kids are old enough to hear and understand "shit" or "poop" or "dump a hot one" but not to know better than to use them loudly in public. But at that age? I don't know. It kind of made me want to poopie in my panties.

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I think I may have scared a guy at the gym today.


I left the house this morning with the intention of being nice to people and striking up conversations with as many (non-creepy-looking) strangers as I could stomach. So I complimented a couple of people on the subway and asked a guy in the elevator if anything fun ever happened on the fifth floor, where UN Ops has its headquarters. ("Not really," he said. "What's on 11?" "Law firms," I said, and we both rolled our eyes together and laughed. See? Talking to strangers can be fun!)


Anyway, at the gym, there are three or four of us who get there at about the same time, work out for about as long as each other, and periodically stare at each other in the mirror unintentionally, while thinking of other things. (Sadly, Fidel Castro has disbanded from our merry crew.)


Today, however, none of my gym peeps were there. About ten minutes before I was done, one of them showed up. I looked at him, took of my earphones and said, "where ya been?" He looked like a deer in the headlights of a very sweaty SUV, so I looked at my watch and back and him and said "it's about time, you know."


I'm not sure he was amused.


I'm not sure I care.

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I saw Bergen County Mike at Chipotle yesterday. He joked that I could pay for his lunch if I wanted to.


Oh Bergen County Mike, if only you were cuter. And taller. And younger. Then I'd totally buy your lunch.


Instead, I think I might buy you a counter part.

skwaaaaaaaaantz paaaaaaaaand

I'm not going to say Connecticut is a mountainous state. It's not. It's hilly at best. But when you've got three hot chicks from the city who just want a day of nature... well, the Constitution State will do.

Thea ("TAY-a"), Andrea ("On-DRAY-a") and I (mournfully robbed of the monicker "KAY-a") headed out to my parents' house (in East Snootyville) for a weekend in the country. We met up at the train station, trundled into my parents' car, and drove out into the wilds of CT... (ahem, just outside of Danbury).

Squantz Pond State Park (much better when you don the midwestern accent and call it "Skwaaaaantz Paaaaaand") is this gorgeous pond (which looks a lot like a lake to those of us with no ecological background) with a small beach and some hiking trails. We figured we'd hike until we got hot, sweaty and hungry, and then we'd picnic and hit the water.

We slathered on the sunblock (have you seen three paler chicks?) and headed out into the woods.

("I'm tired," says the rock, "I think I'll just rest my several tons against this tree...")


We followed the map from the unblazed trail along the water (that just means it wasn't labled -- blaze = trail marker) to the red trail that intersected it. Up the hill we went, up and up, until we ran out of trail. Red Trail dead-ended into this gravel road, which, according to the map, didn't exist.


We figured we were probably in Canada by now, and no longer on the map.


"Guys, I have no idea where we are."


"Oh, ok."


"So let's just go this way for a while and see if we see anything resembling a blaze."


"Ok."


They were remarkably calm about being lost in the woods. But that's probably because Andrea had packed us three granola bars, just in case we got lost in the woods on a gravel road that didn't exist. Hmmm...

We headed out in one direction and didn't find anything, so we turned around and went the other direction. In which we found... more nothing.

Luckily, we were atop the hill, and knew there were two paths between us and the water, if we wanted to bushwhack. So we bushwhacked. And bushwhacked. You know, hiking is much easier when you stay on the trail.

We had to stop for some wildlife (a hopping baby bird, two deer and a snake -- nothing like the snake from the last hiking trip) and for some photo ops. Like the picnic table floating in the water:

And Andrea taking a picture of the "I heart Lobster" pin Thea was wearing on her hat, as part of a photo meme:
When the hike was over, we had to have a picnic. And it was a hell of a picnic, if I do say so myself. Now, why was it so fantastic, you ask? Well... on Friday (the day I got my new job), I happened to have been served two cups of regular coffee in the morning. No big deal, except that, well, I don't drink caffeine. So at 1 am, when I laid down to go to bed, there was a lot of tossing and turning, but no actual sleeping.

I got up. And from 1:30 until about 3:15, I made pasta salad, egg salad, fruit salad and sandwiches. (From 3:15 to 4:15 I watched CSI.) So our picnic rocked! And we had an ENORMOUS bag of "Sensible Portion" pita chips:
(the photo reveals nowhere near enough of the irony)

After our feast, we didn't feel much like hitting the water (let alone getting into a bathing suit), but felt sort of obligated to at least explore the beach. When we grumbled a bit about taking off our shoes, Andrea said, "I'll just keep mine on, I'm only going to touch the water with my hands..."

But we ended up wading in and found the water really warm and lovely. And crowded. [With Connecticut's less tony inhabitants (as all the hoity-toities have somewhere private to go). I felt paler than pale.]

(The picture is not representative of the crowds!)

Stuffed, warm and happy, we headed back to my parents' house, where we stuffed ourselves even more. Can you say "hello grilled vegetables?!?!?" YUM! And, we grilled peaches. I highly recommend that!

I do not, however, recommend Frutezia "wine." It was made from one grape and sixteen bags of sugar, and Thea kept renaming it every time a glass was poured.

"Want some Fructissima?"

"How about some more Fruit Teaser?"

"Fruit Fusion for you?"

"Nasty Crap Ass Wine, anyone?"

With the addition of my high school friend Rachel, the veggies, the wine (we had another, real bottle in the fridge), the boy talk, the sex talk, the girl talk... we went to bed that night happier than the proverbial pigs.

Thanks, Skwaaaaaaantz Paaaaaaand! (and maaaaaam and daaaaaad, for giving us the house!!)

i am corporately challenged!

That's right, I'm athletic!

Last Thursday night I ran in the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge with, oh, about 14,999 other people! It was absolutely the coolest thing I've done in a while. Bobbing and weaving through a sea of all sorts of people, I finished the 5k (3.5 mile) race in 35:36 (which was really more like 31:36, given our extended march in place at the start).

Team M&S headed out from our offices around 6pm, a ragtag bunch of non-matching-shirt-wearing competitors (which was kind of sad, when you looked around and saw all these cool, matching-shirt-wearing teams... but whatever). And to add to the fun of walking across town with a number pinned to your shirt, with a bunch of co-workers you might not otherwise choose to hang out with (although mine were all really cool, actually), it started to rain. A nice little drenching rain, the kind that hits you with big, fat, ice-cold drops in the middle of your head.
As we neared the starting line, the rain abated, and two of our team split off (because they actually cared about their finishing times) and placed themselves in the "six minute mile" starting area. The rest of us lingered near the border of "ten minute mile" and "non-competitive start" (which really felt like a euphemism of sorts -- "hey, are you going to the gym today?" "Naw, I'm going to the non-competitive sports arena.")

The race started, and we marched in place for a while. Four minutes, actually. My crowd-o-phobia (technically agoraphobia, but I don't want you to think I'm some stuck-indoors-weirdie) started to kick in... precisely when we started running. (Thank god.) And with that, Team M&S dispersed itself into the winds.

I started passing people. Walking people, running people, old people, young people -- clients! That was fun. "Hey, Company XYZ! We represent them! Oh, and there's Stinky & Winky LLP! They were on the opposite side of our deal!"

And as I passed walkers -- who had clearly started in the wrong section, thank you very much -- I thought about how proud I was to be running. Not running to represent my company (because for all anyone knew I worked at Old Navy -- and I was running under someone else's name, since I hadn't actually signed up to do the Corporate Challenge in the first place), but just how awesome it was to be able to move that way, that fast, that consistently, with that much power and without throwing up.

Just looking ahead and seeing this sea of bouncing bodies, packed almost elbow to elbow, navigating a way around them, through them... it was the neatest thing. Less than neat, however, were the waves of jiggling thighs. And I don't just mean one or two. Thousands of thighs jiggled. Which, while moderately horrifying, was also secretly cool. My thighs either blended in with Jiggle Fest 2007, or they didn't. I gave them the benefit of the doubt and didn't even think about them.

A mile or two in, I was still passing people (and granted, people were still passing me), and I found a cute guy from a law firm (I think Anderson & Olick?) and paced myself on him. Did he notice? Probably not, since I was mostly behind him. Realizing this, I surged ahead. But then I didn't have him to pace myself on. So I retreated. (Surge, rinse, retreat... try to internet stalk, fail.)

Anyway, the race ended and the runners were stuck in this penned-in area, feeling a strange urge to moo or baa. And the race organizers were handing out bottles of water, and (I'm not kidding here) PARFAIT. Just about the last thing I want to put in my body after running three and a half miles in the New York humidity has anything to do with Jell-o or cream. Barf central.

When the crowds thinned out (and all the cool teams went to their Post Run Tents, which we, alas, did not have), Team M&S was supposed to meet at Bethesda Fountain and head over to Brother Jimmy's, a BBQ restaurant on 91st and 2nd (or 1st, I forget). Which would have been fine, except that only one member of the team met me at the fountain, and by the time she got there, it was starting to rain again. And this time it wasn't going to let up so easy.

On our post-run-jog-in-the-rain-to-the-restaurant, we met up with some more of our folks and made as mad a dash to the bar as we could. I have to say, the race was way cooler (and waaaaay less smelly) than the after party. Talk about corporately challenged!

I had a really excellent time and would totally do this again. (Especially now that I have my M&S shirt... ahem, six days late.) I'm psyched, too that the run was for charity, and next year, if I'm still working here (please god, no!), I'm totally taking resumes and just handing them out along the way.

Although, now that I think about it... I have a bunch of headshot postcards left over, with my phone number on them... maybe I'd take them too. (Or should I just send them over to Anderson & Olick and ask if anyone recognizes me??)

mood enhancement... I hope.

I am in a shitbag mood today, due in part to the fact that my feet are SOAKING WET and in part to the fact that the last 18 hours have gone in no way as I had hoped. (Many thanks to those of you who talked me off the ledge, though. You rock!)

So while I sit under my desk, brooding, wringing out my socks and biting people in the ankles, I offer you these treats that I've collected over the last week or so.

1. I saw a sign for the Watch Outlet the other day and it struck me as a very alarmist place to shop.

2. Nobody told me that the movie Sybil (which I watched instead of doing psychology homework) was three hours long. I didn't like her. I really really didn't like her.

3. If you wear drawstring pants, let me offer you a quick bit of advice: don't postpone peeing until the very last moment. It might have disasterous results.

4. Finally, a candidate I can really get behind!

5. I saw a show on Friday night and at one point one of the characters mentioned something about not wanting to contribute to the "mass lobotomy." That (among a slew of other things in that show) really hit me.

6. I'm keeping track of how far I've traveled by foot (either running or walking) for the month of June. I think it would be funny to get to Louisiana or something. So far I've gone 13 miles. It's not Louisiana, but it is New Jersey.

7. Walking home from the grocery store yesterday, I was pushing my granny cart, and this older guy shouts out to me, "Now that's what I call a good housewife!" I was so appalled, and really wanted to teach this guy a thing or two about modern life, but all I managed to squawk out was, "I'M NOT MARRIED!" Sure showed him.

8. And last, but not least, care of Christina: a work-related treat.

adventures on Breakneck Ridge!

In an effort to make Memorial day truly memorial, Thea and I joined forces with a team of folks and hiked up Breakneck Ridge (I'm not kidding, it's really called Breakneck Ridge) :

It was AWESOME! Thea was a bit unprepared for the sheer pitch of the mountain (at one point I heard her grumbling something about "where are all the squirrels and paths and shade? All I see is rocks, rocks everywhere!") and I have to say, there were three or four passes where I thought there was no chance in hell my cute (pink) sneakers were going to get me up that rock. But they did. (Mostly thanks to Thea's fabulous new hiking technique, which involved assesing a rock, planting her butt firmly on it and then swinging her legs up to meet it. We, her devout followers, all call it the Aztechnique (to avoid having to call it the Ass Technique))

Thea taking a break:

Also in the photo are Andrea, who we absolutely fell in love with, and who, as she was leaving, got swarmed by Thea and me saying, "Can we have you? I mean, not in a creepy way or anything, but... will you be our friend?" and Hanno (the spelling of whose name I am most likely butchering, due to my sheer lack of Germanic heritage)

After three peaks, forty five gallons of sweat and a dive-bomb attack by a herd of gnats, we stopped for lunch. And luckily, it was mostly down hill from there (topographically, not metaphorically). In the shade of the forest, the boys had to stop and throw rocks at trees, while we girls had our own episode of Animal Planet, starring this multipede (no idea if it's a centi- or a millipede, but it was pretty honking big and definitely wore a lot of socks.)
Now, we were not alone on these trails. There were a variety of other hikers, and two folks who called themselves "Trail Patrol," covering up graffiti on the rocks, telling us which paths to take (and which ones not to take), and reorganizing fallen trees to encourage hikers like us to stay on the path (they also employed yelling, which I didn't really like so much, but, on the off chance I got really hurt on the trail, I'd want them to have my back, so I endured the yelling) One of the things they told us about was the snakes, down by the ruins (which were totally cool, but exploring them got vetoed so the boys could throw rocks at trees. Go figure).

So when the hike was over, and we were heading back to the car, it wasn't so surprising to see a squashed snake in the road (even if Carsten and Thea didn't really kill it, the way they like to think they did)

It was, however, surprising (on a number of levels) to see one half of the Trail Patrol weilding another snake we found (which I gave a wide, WIDE berth):

(I find the French manicure a nice touch, personally)

Did I mention the hike was exhausting?

But awesome! (And full of falling rocks, apparently)

After the hike, we headed out to this pond for a swim. Since nobody had told Thea or me to bring a swimsuit (although Thea was told to bring an extra pair of pants... and she didn't think to ask why... or tell me to bring another pair of pants...) we had to do some interesting clothes-reorganizing to enable us to both swim and not sit in wet clothes for the rest of the day. Needless to say, my ability to change clothes in the middle of a soccer field came in really handy.

I wish I had some pictures of the pond to show you. It was just GORGEOUS! Secluded, warm (well, warm in the top two feet), algae-tastic and excellent! Afterwards, we ate Mexican food, and headed to a playground to play some frisbee.

It was all fun and games until someone lost an eye. (Kind of.)

The boys had created a frisbee game that very much resembled their throw-rocks-at-the-tree game: Dodge Frisbee. The rules were a little fluid, and the objective a little unclear, and all we girls knew was that a) we sucked at it, b) the guys sucked at it, and c) it was a laugh riot. I was rocked with laughing spasms. It was excellent. Until Carsten got hit in the eye with a frisbee and couldn't really see out of it anymore.

Yikes!

Through a variety of high-tech new fangled means (mostly mobile internet research and calling a personal trainer/boxer... in the middle of the woods), we decided against taking Carsten to the hospital, and instead bundled him up with ice and a couple of t-shirts to strap the ice to his head:
And then, of course, he bought an eye patch, and, well, that was that.

All in all, a truly memorial beginning to an excellent weekend!