adventures in midtown

A-Team member RuthAnn texted me recently – "Are we suit hunting on Friday?" displaying a powerful demonstration of one of the many A-Team core qualities: adventurousness. I responded with a hearty "You bet! See you at Bryant Park at 7"

Now, there are a variety of preferences among the A-Team members. RuthAnn, Keri and I prefer men in suits. Thea prefers them out of suits. Andrea hasn't yet voiced a preference (and is out of the country for a month, so she'll be like the pregnant version of Sidney Bristow – still on the show, but in an action-reduced role, and oddly carrying a cardigan sweater to hide her pregnant belly until the season is far enough along for her to actually be that pregnant. But I digress…) Keri likes them with a dark sense of humor. RuthAnn has a tendency towards the slightly angry ones. Thea prefers boyish-looking men to manly men. And me? Well, god knows what I like, but confidence and smarts are waaaaay up there.

With that in mind, the key to a successful adventure with the assembled team depends heavily on striking a balanced satisfaction of the needs of the team members. Luckily, RuthAnn could handle the angry suits, I could take the cocky suits and if there were boyish suits, we could give them Thea's number for later. (Sadly, we saw none.)

RuthAnn, knowing her limits, wisely started out the evening with a glass of seltzer. I met my bonne amee, Monsieur Grigio, and we girls started catching up, as we hadn't seen each other in a while. RuthAnn was telling me about a guy she had been seeing:

RuthAnn: oh, and he was such a great kisser!
k8: Really??
RuthAnn: You know, the kind who reaches up and holds the back of your head?
(both girls swoon a little)
k8: Go on!
RuthAnn: And he would do this (RuthAnn reaches her own hand out towards k8's face)
Frank 1: Oh my god, I think I'm going to barf!
RuthAnn & k8: What?
Frank 1: That's just such a syrupy story.
k8: (thinks for a second) Yeah it is. I might kind of barf, too.
(RuthAnn looks sheepish, but reluctantly agrees.)
Frank 1: So I'm here alone. Mind if I talk to you guys, provided we change the subject?

Smooth move, Frank 1. The A-Team could probably use you as a freelance tactician…

So we chatted with Frank 1 for a while, until a guy who could easily have been a 6'7" John Malkovitch-with-hair impersonator came along. And, not even having chatted with us longer than my saying "do you get John Malkovitch a lot?" and him saying "yeah, but I have hair," he offered to buy us drinks. I was still ok with Pinot Grigio 1, so I declined, but I was impressed by the offer. (I'm a sucker. Sue me.)

RuthAnn continued chatting with Frank 1 (and his friend, Frank 2) while I chatted with John Malkovitch With Hair (Frank 3). I knew, as I chatted with him, that Frank 3 was trying to work his mojo on me (and I knew just how much Thea would have hated him). Telling me I was a beautiful woman several times in a short conversation, telling me how bright I was and how smart. Telling me that I would, in fact call him (despite whatever skepticism was obviously displayed on my face at the moment). And I could see how this might work for him. He's an older guy (he said late 30s, I'm wiling to bet it's early 40s), he speaks with confidence and authority, and people probably do what he tells them to do. Especially when he's liberal with the compliments and Pinot Grigio.

By the time I was on PG-13 (I kid, it was just PG-2), Frank 3 was talking about how he had to meet up with George-from-out-of-town, (which explained the several hundred calls and texts he was taking during our conversation – a true social no-no) and how, when I called him and we went out another time, he would tell me all about George.

Smooth move, Frank 3.

He armed me with PG-3 and took his leave, giving me his card and taking my info. (I gave him my service number and strangers-only email address, so he couldn't cyber-stalk me, or, more importantly, actual-stalk me.) Will I call him? No. Will I call him back if he calls me? Maybe. It might be an interesting evening of Dinner That Will Not End With Me Sleeping With Him No Matter How Much He Works His Mojo. We'll see.

Soon after Frank 3 departed, Franks 1 and 2 departed as well, and RuthAnn and I were left to finish up the story about the good kisser. (Sadly, it doesn't end well. He never called her back!)

We hawkishly spotted an empty table, and pounced on it like cats on a cat dancer. (Yes, we picked the table up in our teeth and tried to walk away with it.) After we sat, Frank 4 came to the table and informed us we were at his table, as his bag was still underneath it – but I can't just call him Frank 4, as he was really Bergen County Mike, a distant relative of Staten Island Mike. He was not our type. Not in a suit, not tall, not cocky, not angry, not particularly funny. He was waiting for his friend (who also gets a real name, since his was Conrad), who, when he turned up, was Mr. Rasta, but engaging and passionate and no more our type than Bergen County Mike, but an excellent conversationalist. Monsieur Grigio didn't mind him one bit.

Sadly, Conrad Rupert Anthony (his full name (minus last name), I'm not kidding) departed rather quickly, and left us alone with Bergen County Mike again. And an interesting thing happened. Frank 5 walked by, noted two hot A-Team members sitting in discussion with Bergen County Mike, and made this what-the-fuck-is-going-on-there face. Which, while I found it totally rude, very much spoke to the situation. RuthAnn laughed. Bergen County Mike declared his unhappiness with Frank 5. And RuthAnn, with the improv skills of a ninja or five-star chef, explained to Bergen County Mike how Frank 5 (whose name actually is Frank!) had just executed a genius maneuver, by making himself distinctive to us so we would remember him later. (Where she came up with this idea is beyond me -- which is clearly why I have a team and do not operate as a solo-preneur.)

Anyway, the more RuthAnn explained how smart Actual Frank's tactics were (which, I would argue they weren't, but we were trapped and looking for any excuse for someone else to join our party), the more Bergen County Mike warmed up to the idea of Actual Frank. That was some fascinating shit to watch. The scorned man embracing his scorner. Suit Night Stockholm Syndrome.

Eventually, Actual Frank joined our party and turned out to be Cokey McSnortsalot, but he livened up a potentially dismal situation with Bergen County Mike, who, as it turned out, was about to make an expensive (and retarded) error.

Actual transcript of the conversation (as recorded by my photogenic memory*):
Bergen County Mike: So I park my car up by the last stop on the A train.
k8: All the way up at 207th Street?
Bergen County Mike: No, at Dyckman. That's the last stop on the A train.
k8: No, the last stop is 207th.
Bergen County Mike: No, it's Dyckman.
k8: I have a friend who used to live up there and I'd go all the time. I promise you, it's 207th Street.
Bergen County Mike. Do you want to bet?
(N.B. k8 is NOT a betting woman)
k8: Ok, sure.
Bergen County Mike: How much?(N.B. if k8 were a betting woman, she would bet a dollar or two, as she does not have major funds to fling around)
k8: Fifty bucks. This is retarded. I know I'm right.
Bergen County Mike: Ok. Fifty bucks. Let me just go get a subway map.
(Bergen County Mike exits to subway)
k8: (to RuthAnn) Would it be wrong of us to leave right now?
RuthAnn: Unfortunately, yes. And you're about to win fifty bucks.
k8: True…

(Bergen County Mike returns, places the subway map and fifty bucks on the table.)
Bergen County Mike: You were right. Here's fifty bucks.
k8: I'm not going to take your money. That was retarded. (k8's vocabulary is inversely proportional to the number of PG's she's had) I knew I was right.
(k8 pushes the money back to Bergen County Mike)
Bergen County Mike: I lost. You have to take it.
k8: I'm not taking your money.
Actual Frank: If you don't take it, I will.

So I took fifty bucks from Bergen County Mike. I'd say Poor Bergen County Mike, but I'd really mean Stupid Bergen County Mike if I did, so I'll refrain.

The bar closes early (11pm) so they called last call and herded us out the "door" by 11:30 – it's an outdoor bar on a patio. After too many free PGs, a fifty dollar bonus, and being a mere two stops from kitty-sitting-home, we called it a night.

The verdict? An excellent adventure night. High drama, high stakes, nice weather, some actually interesting conversation about what it means to be an artist (thank you Conrad) and a chance to hang with my girl.

I'm a lucky little A-Teamer!




*back in the day, my sister's boyfriend's grandma once said my sister's boyfriend had a "photogenic memory." And my sister, in her willingness to please an old lady, said that I had one, too.

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.

-----------------------------------
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.

explosion: con ed style!

As many of you know, I work in the Chyrsler Building. Which is a lovely, old, creaky-ass building that, whenver there's a high wind situation, sounds like we work in the hull of a ship. (Those are the days on which we play Pirates!) (but that's another story.)

Last night, there was Ye Goode Olde Explosion of a steam pipe (which, apparently dated back to ye goode olde days of yore... i.e., 1924) just down the street from us. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it), I had spent the day worring that I had left my laptop near an open window during a downpour, so I left the office at 5:30 on the nose, to make sure my 'puter hadn't died. (It hadn't.) So I didn't even know about the steam pipe explosion until I got to Lisa & RJ's house and RJ said, "Hey, look, your building's exploding."

Aghast, I ran to his computer screen. And sure enough, a big chunk of Lexington Avenue was exploding. It apparently looked like this (not my photos: thanks, AP!)

My phone rang. I was out with friends so I ignored it.

It rang again. I realized there were probably a few people who might think I was dead. So I started answering calls and texts. It seemed only the polite thing to do, considering I had even been spared the transit nightmare of trying to leave the scene of a Possible Terrorist Explosion.
My bosses, however, weren't worried about their computers, so they were here when the rumbling began.

"It sounded like a series of bombs," Boss 1 said. "I thought, for sure, with our location, this was terror-related."

"Well, terrorists with bad aim, maybe," non-boss lawyer said. "I mean, it was a couple blocks south..."

"I looked out my window [on Lexington Avenue] and the windows of the building across the street were shaking, like that building was going to explode next. And after that? Maybe us. So I picked up my purse, left everything else, and just ran. I really thought it was my time to die. As I ran down the stairs, I thought 'ok, I have enough life insurance, the girls are going to be ok, and my husband's going to be ok...' I haven't been that scared since my hotel was taken hostage in the '70s." And Boss 1 looked visibly rattled.

Boss 2 didn't have as bad a time. "We just got into the stairwell and everyone was moving along at a pretty fast pace. But by the time we got to the third floor, it was crowded and people were really panicking. Shouting, pushing and sobbing. I mean, we didn't know what was going on out there -- if there was some sort of nuclear explosion or fire or what, and we didn't know where this stairwell was going to put us out, and I wasn't in a big rush to be the first one to find out, you know?"

You can see why they might have freaked -- the steam and shitstorm was racing up the sides of buildings (ours is the one behind the cloud):

As a result, the office was closed yesterday. It was part of the "Frozen Zone" where they claimed they weren't letting pedestrians go. Apparently that wasn't true at all, as several industrious (and nerdy) folks found their way to the office. I found my way to DSW and bought a new pair of shoes. Then I found my way to the hair salon and got a hair cut! (No mushroom head this time, thank god!)

What was left, after the steam stopped?

A big, fat hole. And a few dead and injured people. In many of the ways I look at it, that's a huge blessing, especially considering how much worse it could have been. In many of the other ways I look at it, it's a disaster that ConEd, the city's perpetual ass-monkey, should have foreseen. I know, I know, you can't prepare for a disaster, but that's a steam hole that's been covered by metal and poked at periodically by guys in hardhats for MONTHS now. (I know, because it's part of my regular route to the library.) It was not news to ConEd that something was going on down there. They apologize up and down, for one catastrophe after another, but they're a utility that's got the city by the balls. And constantly pinches them.

While my mother worked in the city (and terror alerts were higher), I always thought, if something's going to happen, I hope it happens to me and not to her, because I always thought I could get away from danger faster, I could handle the stress better. And I didn't want my mother to be scared. Hearing my bosses' stories makes me really glad she doesn't work in the city anymore. Because no one can control where things like this happen.

I'm grateful not only to be alive, but to be loved, worried over and completely unaffected (except for my new shoes and hair) by the whole encounter. And who doesn't love a free, bonus day off??

mrrrrrrrrrrow! mrrrrow! murp! murp! murp!

Wondering about the subject of this post? That's what everything I'm writing here would sound like if Sebastian, the cat I'm kitty-sitting, were to tell you about it.

To say he's a chatty kitty is to say that vanilla softserve with sprinkles is the best thing since vanilla softserve plain. (duh.) He's a champ conversationalist. An outstanding orator. A prodigious prolocutor, if you will. (And I won't blame you if you won't.)

Here's what it's like to come home:

"Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow? Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow! MURRRRRRRRROW! mruw! murp! Mrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooow!"

"Really?"

"Mrrrow."

"Seriously?"

"Mrrow."

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Mrrow!"

"Yes?"

"Mrrow!?!"

"No!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

"Mrrow!"

The end.
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I got this over email and found it funny and charming.

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Now men.... men are like a fine wine.

They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.
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If this blog could have a corporate sponsor, I'd like it to be the Shick Intuition Razor. Holy crap, I'm in love with mine!

Now, I am one of the She-who-has-difficulty-getting-a-close-shave-in-her-pitty-pits clan (we have our own tartan) and this razor has changed my armpits' life forever! Yeah, it's expensive (which is why I want it to be my corporate sponsor), but it's TOTALLY worth it. (I got my first one free in the mail, anyway!)

Really, go out there and boldy purchase yourself one. Even if you don't need a razor yet (because yours hasn't RUSTED sufficiently.... guilty!), this will be a worthwhile purchase. Because you know why? No need to purchase shaving cream, either!

I know, this shit's incredible!
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Date Alert!!

I have two dates coming up with new gentlemen in the next week or so. And they're both FUNNY!

Maybe not as funny as this, but I'm hoping they're better looking that that, too.

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!!)

o kate, where art thou?

Sorry I haven't written in a while -- as you can imagine, it's been kind of busy, what with my NEW JOB AND ALL! (who's the coolest? Oh, yeah, that'd be me!)

So, those of you who know me know that for the last eight years or so I've been an actor in the city, and, as such, have had a need for Ye Olde Dreaded Dayjob. I landed in a really good one, with good pay, good bosses, good flexibility and overall general goodness. Of late, however, I've grown weary of Said Olde Dayjob, because I'm not acting anymore. So I started the process of looking inside myself to see what new career path I wanted to follow. (I recommend the book Finding Your Own North Star to anyone who is undergoing the same process.) I put a ton of pressure on myself to do Something Perfect (sheesh!) and hated everything anyone else suggested. I even once had a job-searching conversation with Christina in which I said "we have to change the subject now, or I'm going to have to hate you."

Somehow I found the courage to give myself a break, and take the summer off. I was going to focus on the things that made me happy (like Tuvan throat singers, for example) and let the job find me. Secretly, though, I knew I was just postponing the inevitable disaster that awaited me in September, when the summer was over and I still hadn't figured out what to do with my life.

I listened, smiling, while people suggested a variety of options to me. "You should be a dentist!" said one of my co-workers, whose husband is in dental school.

"Yeah," I said, "except that I don't really like mouths very much. Or teeth."

"Well, how about a physical therapist?"

"Yeah, I'm not so much with the broken parts of people."

"Oh! I've got it! You should be a vet!"

"Yeah, ok, except for that's the broken parts of animals..."

I had a vague sense that what I wanted to do would incorporate the parts of acting that meant the most to me -- analysis, communication, teaching... but how to combine them? How to execute that? At one point, my mother sent me a job posting for a computer trainer at another law firm. And it really grabbed me, since I have a solid background in computer programs used by legal secretaries. But... something was wrong. I wasn't ready to uproot my life like that just yet. or something.

And anyway, it was summer. I didn't HAVE to.

So a few weeks went by, and I asked for a trademark paralegal position at the firm. I didn't get it (for a variety of reasons) and I went back to not paying attention to the job search. Until last week -- Friday the 13th, to be exact.

I was in the word processing department (which makes it sound like more than a guy in an office, which it's not), and the head of WP (that's legal sec'y slang for word processing, yo!) said, when I told him I wasn't acting anymore, that the firm was looking for a trainer.

Kismet! Karma! Kate!

I heard about the job at 11 and by 3:30, I had it.So I'm really excited! I don't think that legal computer training is my end goal or destination, but making this switch right now feels really right. And I'm really proud of myself. It's not Perfect, and I'm doing it anyway!

On top of it all, I came up with a salary that I thought would be appropriate for the position. Now, as a sidebar, I didn't actually realize what I was currently making. I thought my net was my gross, and, well, duh, it's not. So based on my erroneous math, I came up with this number (which was, eek!, less than what I currently make), and worked up the courage to make my salary pitch $5,000 more than that. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, went to HR and said "this is what I want." And he said, "um, ok, we're actually going to give you more than that." But the most important part (to me) is that I found the self-worth to ask for the money.

Around Christmas, we'll talk about the raise.

So, that's the story, pretty much. Down the road, I'm going to need some guinea pigs to run my training on, so stay tuned. And if anyone has any background in training and wants to give me advice, or book suggestions, I'm totally open to that.

And I'm not too proud to take any congratulations that find their way to me...

news flash!

deet de deet deet de deet deet! (that's the sound of the news machine)

A brief note, but five words long:

I got a new job!!!!!

More news to come, but I thought I'd share that with everyone at once.

For details, if you know me, feel free to call.