I was going to write some sweet and poignant entry about the two couples I know who recently got engaged, but I think I'm too envious (or just bitter), so instead I direct your attention to:
Teen Girl Squad!
(which, since links aren't working for me today, can be found here: http://www.homestarrunner.com/tgsmenu.html)
I'm not kidding, this stuff is some of the funniest stuff I've seen on the internet. I hope it proposes to me!!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
flying when it's Code Orange out
Can you smell me from there? Sorry. I had to throw my deodorant out when I went through security at LaGuardia, on my way to Florida this weekend. (that was friday. I've been odorant ever since)
What's it like to fly when the nation's security warning is at the highest level it's been in for years? Read on, friends, read on.
So you know how all the newscasts were saying "get to the airport at least two hours early"? well, they were very, VERY wrong in my case. I got to LaGuardia at 2:05 for a 4:15 flight and, despite having to pitch my pitstick, got through security in a record-breaking 12 minutes. which left me with two hours and three minutes to sit in the overcrowded, ill-ventilated, unattractive and painfully outdated central terminal of LaGuardia airport for TWO AND A HALF HOURS. With my fellow JetBlue, ATA, AirTran, Spirit Air and CrapFlightsRUs patrons. Many of those hours I sat on the floor because there were too many people waiting around for there to be seats for all of us.
Fine. I can sit on the floor. I'm still a kid. Mostly.
I was, however, not a happy traveler.
When I got on my plane, I thought for sure things would get better. I mean, hell, at least I'd have a seat! Now, Jet Blue is a fun, friendly airline, and we each had TV screens at our seats. Having read EVERYTHING I brought (three plays, two magazines and a book) while I was in the terminal, I was looking forward to some tv -- at least moreso than I was looking forward to playing Elbow War for the Armrest with my teenage middle-seat neighbor. But no. Our plane was so new (i.e., 7 days old) that the direct TV hadn't been hooked up yet.
Fine. I worked on one of three New York Times Crossword puzzles I had brought with me.
Then the folks in the row behind me sat down, and the misery kicked up to level Orange. Two children, perhaps eight or ten at most, sat behind me and talked in voices so appallingly piercing that I thought I might go crazy.
Fine. I put on my mp3 player and wished them off the plane.
Then they started kicking my seat. I tried to grin and bear it. I stifled every urge that led me to believe that strangling a child in this situation would be seen as self-defense. Instead, I turned around, glared at both children, and tattled on them to mom.
Nothing changed. Except they started singing. It was a fine tune, really, one that went splitting through my brain and made my personality ache. As far as I could tell, it was called the Yum Yum Yum song, and consisted of four, perhaps five, different notes, sung at the top of your voice. The lyrics? You guessed it: Yum, Yum, and Yum.
And I doubt that they were singing about the fine cashews we were served.
I arrived in one piece (mostly), had a great time in Florida, and got to the airport to come back a mere hour in advance... and spent 35 minutes waiting to get through security. Figures. And as I was waiting, a family got in line behind me. I wouldn' t have paid them much mind, except there were NINE children (the family was Hassidic) and they all had pronounced NY accents. I knew they would be on my flight, and sit behind me, singing some modified version of the yum yum yum (kippur) song. When I got to my gate, they were lingering there. My heart sank. My nerves started to fray.
Luckily, they got on the flight to Newark!
Irritating children aside (they come when the alert level is any color), I had no notable problems traveling this weekend, other than my sheer lack of toiletries. I hate to check my bags, and if it means I have to smell bad, then I have to smell bad.
Hell, I probably smell better at my worst than the stinky terrorists do at their best. (no deodorant can hide the funk of evil. it's scientifically proven)
Fly on, travelers, fly on. Just bring ear plugs and a lot of reading material.
What's it like to fly when the nation's security warning is at the highest level it's been in for years? Read on, friends, read on.
So you know how all the newscasts were saying "get to the airport at least two hours early"? well, they were very, VERY wrong in my case. I got to LaGuardia at 2:05 for a 4:15 flight and, despite having to pitch my pitstick, got through security in a record-breaking 12 minutes. which left me with two hours and three minutes to sit in the overcrowded, ill-ventilated, unattractive and painfully outdated central terminal of LaGuardia airport for TWO AND A HALF HOURS. With my fellow JetBlue, ATA, AirTran, Spirit Air and CrapFlightsRUs patrons. Many of those hours I sat on the floor because there were too many people waiting around for there to be seats for all of us.
Fine. I can sit on the floor. I'm still a kid. Mostly.
I was, however, not a happy traveler.
When I got on my plane, I thought for sure things would get better. I mean, hell, at least I'd have a seat! Now, Jet Blue is a fun, friendly airline, and we each had TV screens at our seats. Having read EVERYTHING I brought (three plays, two magazines and a book) while I was in the terminal, I was looking forward to some tv -- at least moreso than I was looking forward to playing Elbow War for the Armrest with my teenage middle-seat neighbor. But no. Our plane was so new (i.e., 7 days old) that the direct TV hadn't been hooked up yet.
Fine. I worked on one of three New York Times Crossword puzzles I had brought with me.
Then the folks in the row behind me sat down, and the misery kicked up to level Orange. Two children, perhaps eight or ten at most, sat behind me and talked in voices so appallingly piercing that I thought I might go crazy.
Fine. I put on my mp3 player and wished them off the plane.
Then they started kicking my seat. I tried to grin and bear it. I stifled every urge that led me to believe that strangling a child in this situation would be seen as self-defense. Instead, I turned around, glared at both children, and tattled on them to mom.
Nothing changed. Except they started singing. It was a fine tune, really, one that went splitting through my brain and made my personality ache. As far as I could tell, it was called the Yum Yum Yum song, and consisted of four, perhaps five, different notes, sung at the top of your voice. The lyrics? You guessed it: Yum, Yum, and Yum.
And I doubt that they were singing about the fine cashews we were served.
I arrived in one piece (mostly), had a great time in Florida, and got to the airport to come back a mere hour in advance... and spent 35 minutes waiting to get through security. Figures. And as I was waiting, a family got in line behind me. I wouldn' t have paid them much mind, except there were NINE children (the family was Hassidic) and they all had pronounced NY accents. I knew they would be on my flight, and sit behind me, singing some modified version of the yum yum yum (kippur) song. When I got to my gate, they were lingering there. My heart sank. My nerves started to fray.
Luckily, they got on the flight to Newark!
Irritating children aside (they come when the alert level is any color), I had no notable problems traveling this weekend, other than my sheer lack of toiletries. I hate to check my bags, and if it means I have to smell bad, then I have to smell bad.
Hell, I probably smell better at my worst than the stinky terrorists do at their best. (no deodorant can hide the funk of evil. it's scientifically proven)
Fly on, travelers, fly on. Just bring ear plugs and a lot of reading material.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
a letter to the stinky terrorists
Dear Stupid Terrorists,
You stink and I hate you.
Love,
Kate
p.s. did you have to do this now? I'm going to Florida tomorrow (well, technically today) and a girl this pale needs sunblock!
I've found some upsides to this travesty, however. First, I can use those Olay facial cloths I've had under the sink for six months now. don't want to risk having the expensive face soap thrown out at the airport! Second, I needed to change my flight so I could go to a commercial audition tomorrow (think good thoughts around 11 am, please) and what with there being more air-based plots, I had no problem switching to the 4:15 flight.
And last but not least, it's kind of funny to see the swivet my co-workers can get in when, on the morning of a heightened terror alert, the yahoos in the fire safety department of the Chrysler (i.e. Target) Building decide to test the alarm system, and let it go off sixteen times without making an announcement. "OH MY GOD, WHAT IF IT'S AN ATTACK?!!?!"
heh heh heh.
[side note: I asked the woman at Jet Blue if they were banning deodorant from carry on luggage. She wasn't sure, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least. It shouldn't be too bad on the way down, but coming back, nobody'll have had deodorant all weekend. I'll be flying Jet Phew!]
You stink and I hate you.
Love,
Kate
p.s. did you have to do this now? I'm going to Florida tomorrow (well, technically today) and a girl this pale needs sunblock!
I've found some upsides to this travesty, however. First, I can use those Olay facial cloths I've had under the sink for six months now. don't want to risk having the expensive face soap thrown out at the airport! Second, I needed to change my flight so I could go to a commercial audition tomorrow (think good thoughts around 11 am, please) and what with there being more air-based plots, I had no problem switching to the 4:15 flight.
And last but not least, it's kind of funny to see the swivet my co-workers can get in when, on the morning of a heightened terror alert, the yahoos in the fire safety department of the Chrysler (i.e. Target) Building decide to test the alarm system, and let it go off sixteen times without making an announcement. "OH MY GOD, WHAT IF IT'S AN ATTACK?!!?!"
heh heh heh.
[side note: I asked the woman at Jet Blue if they were banning deodorant from carry on luggage. She wasn't sure, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least. It shouldn't be too bad on the way down, but coming back, nobody'll have had deodorant all weekend. I'll be flying Jet Phew!]
my sister's amazing discovery in the basement
I asked my sister if her tenants downstairs had moved out this weekend like they were supposed to (turns out they were a door-slamming bunch as well) and she said (in her own words... as a guest columnist!):
Yes they did, and funny story . Jake and Jill left a lot of stuff in the basement and claimed that it "was there when we got here" but strangely enough, I found Victoria Secret boxes that said "Congratulations on your Wedding Jill" and about fifty boxes from LLBean, which is where Jake's mom worked.
So needless to say I'm annoyed, and upstairs meanwhile, Scott's taking down the ceiling in their old apartment. There was a big hole and so naturally, I asked "is there any secret treasure up there?" The house was built in 1920 so I KNOW that somewhere in there, there is something valuable and/or interesting. But alas, nothing in the ceiling per usual (the same thing happened with the upstairs floor, we got a fake wig and a old broken wooden box -- I left a quarter down there for the next guy).
More proof that all the crap was theirs was the discovery of a phone. Jake was from Maine and the phone has a 207 area code on it. Scott's giving me this report while I'm at work.
So at my office, I have those old school phones that you had in the 80s, no caller ID, regular push pad buttons, mine is grey but they make them in off white too. There isn't even a little red light for when you get voicemail and there are two settings for the ringer-on and off. You control it on the bottom of the phone with this dial type thingie. They make my neck hurt so I got a stick-on shoulder booster uppper. But that fell off. I tried to glue it back on with a hot glue gun. It worked for a while and then it fell off again but I couldn't get the hot glue off the receiver so I had to covertly swap out my phone after hours with some unsuspecting new guy.
But I digress...Later that day when I arrive home, I walk into their old apartment and there it is.
It is the most amazing thing I have seen in a long time and I am in love.
It is a perfect, red, rotary phone.
I take it out of the filth and mire of the junk pile and bring it over to my chair for thorough washing. It's mesmerizing. It's so old that on the bottom of the phone it says "property of New England Bell." Mr. What Are You 100 (aka Scott) tells me that back in the proverbial day, you couldn't buy phones, you had to lease them from the phone company, just like a cable box.
It's covered with dust but other than that, not a scratch on it. It's like there was an ice age in my basement in 1973 and the phone was perfectly preserved. I gingerly rub it with a rag, sticking the corner of the towel into the zero and spinning it just like I was dialing. I notice there is no Z and on the 0, it says operator.
I want to take it to work. It matches my work phone exactly. I want to make it the fake emergency line at my desk. But I can't. I leave it on the counter and look at it some more. Scott picks it up and carries it around by the handle that's meant to carry it around by. "You do this while you twirl the cord around," he mimics himself when he was 16 talking on the phone. I pick it up and put it to my ear, like I'm going to hear something. It's not even plugged in. I don't even know if it would work on our phone line what with all the new fangled digital subscriber line stuff. But there is something about it that I can't even describe. I put it back on the counter.
"You're not really taking that to work are you," he asks. I said,"No, I'll leave it here so we can play with it for a little while."
Yes they did, and funny story . Jake and Jill left a lot of stuff in the basement and claimed that it "was there when we got here" but strangely enough, I found Victoria Secret boxes that said "Congratulations on your Wedding Jill" and about fifty boxes from LLBean, which is where Jake's mom worked.
So needless to say I'm annoyed, and upstairs meanwhile, Scott's taking down the ceiling in their old apartment. There was a big hole and so naturally, I asked "is there any secret treasure up there?" The house was built in 1920 so I KNOW that somewhere in there, there is something valuable and/or interesting. But alas, nothing in the ceiling per usual (the same thing happened with the upstairs floor, we got a fake wig and a old broken wooden box -- I left a quarter down there for the next guy).
More proof that all the crap was theirs was the discovery of a phone. Jake was from Maine and the phone has a 207 area code on it. Scott's giving me this report while I'm at work.
So at my office, I have those old school phones that you had in the 80s, no caller ID, regular push pad buttons, mine is grey but they make them in off white too. There isn't even a little red light for when you get voicemail and there are two settings for the ringer-on and off. You control it on the bottom of the phone with this dial type thingie. They make my neck hurt so I got a stick-on shoulder booster uppper. But that fell off. I tried to glue it back on with a hot glue gun. It worked for a while and then it fell off again but I couldn't get the hot glue off the receiver so I had to covertly swap out my phone after hours with some unsuspecting new guy.
But I digress...Later that day when I arrive home, I walk into their old apartment and there it is.
It is the most amazing thing I have seen in a long time and I am in love.
It is a perfect, red, rotary phone.
I take it out of the filth and mire of the junk pile and bring it over to my chair for thorough washing. It's mesmerizing. It's so old that on the bottom of the phone it says "property of New England Bell." Mr. What Are You 100 (aka Scott) tells me that back in the proverbial day, you couldn't buy phones, you had to lease them from the phone company, just like a cable box.
It's covered with dust but other than that, not a scratch on it. It's like there was an ice age in my basement in 1973 and the phone was perfectly preserved. I gingerly rub it with a rag, sticking the corner of the towel into the zero and spinning it just like I was dialing. I notice there is no Z and on the 0, it says operator.
I want to take it to work. It matches my work phone exactly. I want to make it the fake emergency line at my desk. But I can't. I leave it on the counter and look at it some more. Scott picks it up and carries it around by the handle that's meant to carry it around by. "You do this while you twirl the cord around," he mimics himself when he was 16 talking on the phone. I pick it up and put it to my ear, like I'm going to hear something. It's not even plugged in. I don't even know if it would work on our phone line what with all the new fangled digital subscriber line stuff. But there is something about it that I can't even describe. I put it back on the counter.
"You're not really taking that to work are you," he asks. I said,"No, I'll leave it here so we can play with it for a little while."
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
i was a high school hottie... er, no i wasn't.
My guess is that most of you didn't know me in high school. It's probably better that you didn't. Although one of my subscribers (bless your heart, Jamie) actually dated me in high school.
Turns out that my high school is doing some sort of "retrospective" on their drama program, and they're looking for posters, programs, photos and other stuff to put in the lobby of the high school. Especially valuable, they said, was anything before 1995.
Turns out that my high school is doing some sort of "retrospective" on their drama program, and they're looking for posters, programs, photos and other stuff to put in the lobby of the high school. Especially valuable, they said, was anything before 1995.
Ouch.
So I rifled through my parents' attic, and came up with a buttload of attractive pictures of me and all my friends at the time -- most of whom were in theatre with me. I've got scads and scads of pictures, but I'm not in most of them; I took them. But if you're interested in seeing others, let me know and I'll send some your way. Other than that, take a peek, laugh your fill, and thank god I grew out of it.
Our Town. I was fourteen. Fourteen! 
More Our Town. On the left is my friend Dave Kuhr, who is now an actor and calligrapher out in Los Angeles. Should you ever need calligraphy, contact him here (he did some of my sister's wedding invitations), or if you're interested in his theatre company, Theatre Junkies, go here: http://www.theatrejunkies.com/ 
The best part of doing Our Town was when my dad came backstage afterwards, with tears in his eyes and told me that I could do whatever I want in life, but would I please never die in front of him again?
The best part of doing Our Town was when my dad came backstage afterwards, with tears in his eyes and told me that I could do whatever I want in life, but would I please never die in front of him again?
Heartmelting.
Hello Dolly! (I'm the round-ish one, with braces) 
And this was easily one of my most favorite costumes EVER. I'm not sure I could polka at all, but I sure looked nice trying!
And this was easily one of my most favorite costumes EVER. I'm not sure I could polka at all, but I sure looked nice trying!
I grew out of high school (luckily) but I still had some really attractive theatre experiences. Like playing Susie Needlethread in The Emperor's New Clothes at Summer Theatre at Mount Holyoke: 
And most recently, Regan in King Lear in Central Park. (my mother captioned this picture "Kate Throws Up and Dies" which is pretty much what was going on...) 
I guess bad pictures are just a risk you run when you're super famous like I am.
I guess bad pictures are just a risk you run when you're super famous like I am.Right?
Monday, August 7, 2006
a series of firsts
I've been out of my office a lot recently (THANK GOD) so I haven't had the time or wherewithal to navigate the internet via dial-up at home, but I'm back now, and have a lot to say. (Sadly, I also have a lot of work to catch up on, so I will post things sporadically.)
I was in Vermont this past weekend, at my sister and brother-in-law's cabin, with no running water or electricity, and I had a blast. But more than that, I accomplished a series of things I've never done before. Among them:
1. I rode in the "back seat" of a pickup truck (you know, that shelf where you're supposed to store your toddler), wearing a safety helmet (just because) and trying not to watch the cat barf (for the second time that trip).
2. I mowed a lawn. A big-ass lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn in high heel sandals. I rock!
3. I chopped wood. Nuff said.
3a. Although while chopping said wood, I did wonder, however, who would take me to the hospital if I chopped my leg off, and how far away would said hospital be... turns out it would be a good 45 minute drive. Luckily, I didn't chop off my leg.
4. I lost all feeling in my feet. I'm not saying how this happened, but let's just say it was VERY late and it was Vermont and I might have been doing something that often gets done in Vermont (and I don't mean cheese-eating, cow-tipping or skiing).
5. I stayed up until 4:45 in the morning (which was not a first) and was not grouchy the next day (which was).
6. I did dishes with no running water. No stream, no taps, just bottled water. Very festive.
7. I played frisbee in the dark. Luckily, we had a glow-in-the-dark frisbee, so that was sort of cheating. But by that point, the odds were against my ability to catch anything at all, so I'd say I did very well.
Here are some other valuable pearls of wisdom I picked up over the weekend:
Popcorn does not pop when thrown directly into a monstrously large fire. It should, but it doesn't.
You can tip over in a chair-in-a-bag, but you can do it in such a way as to not injure yourself at all, and end up sideways in a chair being very, very comfortable, actually. (takes an advanced degree, though, to get you back up)
A hybrid engine that does not use a gas motor to recharge the electric motor, isn't really a hybrid. (I didn't learn what it was, but I did learn that).
I'm better at frisbee in the dark.
People are more likely to tell you secrets while sitting near a campfire. They'll also tell you what's wrong with themselves, why being an elitist is better than being a liar, or recount to you the merits of Steely Dan... which is a very hard sale to yours truly.
Want to learn more? Make friends with my sister and get your ass invited up there! Definitely a good time!
I was in Vermont this past weekend, at my sister and brother-in-law's cabin, with no running water or electricity, and I had a blast. But more than that, I accomplished a series of things I've never done before. Among them:
1. I rode in the "back seat" of a pickup truck (you know, that shelf where you're supposed to store your toddler), wearing a safety helmet (just because) and trying not to watch the cat barf (for the second time that trip).
2. I mowed a lawn. A big-ass lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn. A big-ass hilly lawn in high heel sandals. I rock!
3. I chopped wood. Nuff said.
3a. Although while chopping said wood, I did wonder, however, who would take me to the hospital if I chopped my leg off, and how far away would said hospital be... turns out it would be a good 45 minute drive. Luckily, I didn't chop off my leg.
4. I lost all feeling in my feet. I'm not saying how this happened, but let's just say it was VERY late and it was Vermont and I might have been doing something that often gets done in Vermont (and I don't mean cheese-eating, cow-tipping or skiing).
5. I stayed up until 4:45 in the morning (which was not a first) and was not grouchy the next day (which was).
6. I did dishes with no running water. No stream, no taps, just bottled water. Very festive.
7. I played frisbee in the dark. Luckily, we had a glow-in-the-dark frisbee, so that was sort of cheating. But by that point, the odds were against my ability to catch anything at all, so I'd say I did very well.
Here are some other valuable pearls of wisdom I picked up over the weekend:
Popcorn does not pop when thrown directly into a monstrously large fire. It should, but it doesn't.
You can tip over in a chair-in-a-bag, but you can do it in such a way as to not injure yourself at all, and end up sideways in a chair being very, very comfortable, actually. (takes an advanced degree, though, to get you back up)
A hybrid engine that does not use a gas motor to recharge the electric motor, isn't really a hybrid. (I didn't learn what it was, but I did learn that).
I'm better at frisbee in the dark.
People are more likely to tell you secrets while sitting near a campfire. They'll also tell you what's wrong with themselves, why being an elitist is better than being a liar, or recount to you the merits of Steely Dan... which is a very hard sale to yours truly.
Want to learn more? Make friends with my sister and get your ass invited up there! Definitely a good time!
a prescription for wasting time
Tired of slacking off in the same old ways?
Well no more xeroxing your butt! No more prank phone calls to Managing Partners! Here's a new at-work pasttime that can keep you busy for at least a couple of hours!!
It's Fake Prescription Labels! (no, this is not illegal, and no, I'm not a drug dealer. Just shut up and keep reading...)
The guy I had been dating (his name and work address appear on the labels, but that is NOT an invitation to stalk him... please don't, he's good people!!) was about to go into tech for Mother Courage at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park (starring Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline (previously, Christopher Walken, but he quit)) and I knew he was going to have a rough time of it, so I filled prescription bottles with candy and smacked these labels on them. There are a bunch of inside jokes that may not be readily available to everyone, but I'm pretty sure they're funny to anyone who knows what theatre is.
Maybe not.
Either way, here they are:
Well no more xeroxing your butt! No more prank phone calls to Managing Partners! Here's a new at-work pasttime that can keep you busy for at least a couple of hours!!
It's Fake Prescription Labels! (no, this is not illegal, and no, I'm not a drug dealer. Just shut up and keep reading...)
The guy I had been dating (his name and work address appear on the labels, but that is NOT an invitation to stalk him... please don't, he's good people!!) was about to go into tech for Mother Courage at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park (starring Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline (previously, Christopher Walken, but he quit)) and I knew he was going to have a rough time of it, so I filled prescription bottles with candy and smacked these labels on them. There are a bunch of inside jokes that may not be readily available to everyone, but I'm pretty sure they're funny to anyone who knows what theatre is.
Maybe not.
Either way, here they are:
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