i heart commuting!

Um, did you hear that a tornado hit Brooklyn? I know, we're so cool! (and now wet and bedraggled, too, but that's another story) The thunder in the storm last night was so loud and so close that it set off car alarms. Don't even bother counting the Mississippis between the lightening and the clap -- they were practically simultaneous.

So this morning, after all hell had broken loose and the streets were littered with the cats and dogs it had rained, I got up to go to work. (Like you do when you have a job and live in Brooklyn.) But when I got to the station, there were no R trains running. None. I thought maybe I'd walk to the F train and try that. Nope, no such luck. No trains at all.

Well, gee, I thought to myself, I could walk to work, schlepping all my stuff and getting hot, sweaty and nasty, or I could go home and try again later.

You know you would have gone home, too. Don't lie.

I changed my outfit (it was too hot anyway) and mopped my kitchen floor. (you know, typical Wednesday morning activity...) I laid on the bed for about fifteen minutes and decided to try again (for the subway, not the mopping), and when I got to the station, I changed into my terrycloth bathrobe and enjoyed the sauna. (well, I should have. It would have been a real pore-cleanser.)

After about twenty minutes, a train came, and was fairly empty, so I got on it, got a seat and just sort of went with the flow. When we hit Atlantic Avenue (six years later), they said the train was going over the bridge to Canal Street. Sweet! [it's a shorter commute.] However, when we came off the bridge, we were at Grand Street... which wasn't Canal Street. No sweat really (well, no additional sweat) -- eventually the train would get to midtown and I would just walk to work.

People were friendly, chatty, hot, and someone near me was farty (which was unfortunate). And there was a REALLY cute guy on the train and I thought, as he sat down next to me, I'd chat him up and have him in love with me by the time we hit West 4th Street, but... he was married. So I silently punished him by reading my Instructional Design Manual and keeping my charm to myself. (But man oh man, he even sweat in a sexy way! No fair!)

People were actually excited to see me when I got to work, so that part was nice, and they're cranking the A/C here (surprise surprise) so it's not like the swamp my apartment would be.

Secretly, I kind of love days like this. It feels like a snow day, except much much hotter, and New Yorkers (at least the ones who decided to delay like I did) took it pretty much in stride.

What else can you really do? Swim to work?

think about direction (wonder why you haven’t before)

I'm famous! (Again.) I know, I know, it's getting old, isn't it? This time I'm famous because I talked to Michael Stipe on the phone! For almost a whole minute! I was very friendly (and he was in a tin can) and I transfered him to someone else.

The end.

by kate

So this weekend, I partied like a rockstar in her early twenties and by Sunday I had developed a fairly severe liver-ache (which manifest themselves by an intense desire to lay down and not go to work the next day).

Friday night Thea invited me to a going away party for a friend of hers who is moving to Hong Kong. She promised me "successful men in suits -- just your type!" which was just enough to twist my arm and get me to go to the UWS (yikes!) for this party.

She didn't, however, mention that they would be 1) of the International Men of Mystery variety, 2) short, or 3) Not In Their Suits Anymore. (Not her fault, she didn't know.)

The private part of the party was winding down by the time we got there -- we got a little hung up at Thea's work because there were waaaaaaay too many people who wanted to eat Mexican food that night. Which turned out ok, because I put my personal Talk-To-Strangers Challenge into action and chatted up the guy sitting next to me. His name was Efraim ("Eff") and he's a mechanical engineer who lives with his girlfriend of seven years in a deadzone in midtown east and they're probably going to move back to Texas -- or somewhere else -- in the not so distant future. He was nice, the margarita in front of me was as big as my head, and Thea was doing her best to get going as soon as possible.

Of course, the skies opened up the second we left, so we hopped in a cab and paddled uptown.
At the party, there was some very intense conversation, but I was not part of it. I hung back, drank more tequila and ate cheese cubes. I also discovered what I thought was going to be some sort of savory patty (probably with curry, I dreaded) which turned out to be little smores. So I ate a million of them.

Here are the best parts of the wind-down of the evening:
1) Someone played one of the video games at the bar long enough to get the guest of honor a pair of light up glasses, so we all tried them on. This was Thea's turn:

2) A thrower of the party was VERY VERY VERY drunk and dropped something from his pocket. Which, when I picked it up and put it back in there for him, turned out to be a few thousand dollars. In cash.

3) I chatted with a guy who, over the course of the conversation, I'm pretty sure I told I was single and dating. At the end of the night, however, when he asked me for my number, I told him I was seeing someone. (I was. I was seeing Margarita. She's hot!)

4) We had had too much to drink to get on the subway right away (and Thea's metrocard died two hours earlier) so we walked from 82nd to 42nd in hopes of clearing our minds (and systems) a bit before going home. I have no idea now what we talked about. It was very important, though, I'm sure.

It was 3:30 by the time I got home. And I had been desperate all night (since about 1:45) for a piece of toast. (I don't know why, so don't ask.) At one point, I even asked thea if she had any toast in her bag. (she didn't.) When I got home, I couldn't be bothered to actually plug in the toaster, so I threw some bread in the microwave and ate it in bed as I fell asleep.

I am the poster child for glamor and the single life.
to be continued...

p.s. the link on Michael Stipe is for my mother. Hi mom!

hello bad kitty!

I have plenty of other important things to say, but I just found this and thought it was worth everyone else's time.

The jist of the story:

"BANGKOK, Thailand - Thai police officers who break rules will be forced to wear hot pink armbands featuring "Hello Kitty," the Japanese icon of cute, as a mark of shame, a senior officer said Monday."

me-ow!

let me teach you how not to fly off the handle

Oh wait, I have no idea. Sorry.










Ok, ok, ok, since I teased you in here with that headline, let me at least offer you something that has to do with flying off the handle.

I was born in December of 1976 in New York City... oh, wait, nobody has time for my life story!

A brief semi-hypothetical situation then: this girl (we'll call her Kate so you have no idea if it's me or not) and this guy (we'll call him Frank, because that's just the way we roll around here) have had a couple of dates, and luckily have both felt that ever-elusive spark. Hurray! They have a third date planned for the weekend, and at last count, both were excited about it. Just over an hour before the date, however, Kate gets a message from Frank saying that he has to cancel, but that he'll call on Sunday to explain why.

And Kate flies off the handle. For about as long as it takes to shower.

Now, Old Kate would have taken to bed with a big box of raisins and a sense of worthlessness, waiting for someone to come along and rescue her. Luckily, New Kate has learned a thing or two about herself, and knows better than to engage in any kind of crap-o behavior previously associated with rapid-handle-departures, and spends a lovely evening with two very supportive friends and their very adorable child.

Saturday night, while a bummer, turns out not to be a total disaster, despite the fact that cancelling is an issue Kate already has major problems with in relation to a certain German... (but that's an entirely different handle).

Cut to the next day: Kate never receives the call that she was, well, I won't say promised, but that she was certainly expecting. Kate's mother sagaciously points out that because not calling when she said she would is something Kate would never do, she finds it hard to understand. A feeling of internal twistedness akin to sour stomach, a nostalgia for that little spark (now departing on track 3) and an early bedtime ensue. Old Kate at this point, would have cried her eyes dry and wailed "why meeeeeeeee?" into the darkest corners of the universe. (or at least the darkest corners of her closet.)

Finally, by late Monday afternoon, Frank drops the bomb that Kate already knows is coming: he has decided to pursue Another Kate. (Go with the metaphor -- we know that nobody could actually replace Kate.) (except maybe Kate Who Gets Her New Job Now Please...)

And Kate settles quietly back on her handle. Frank's email is sweet, filled with agony and self-flagellation for not having handled things the right way, and Kate can tell this was not an easy situation for him. She puts herself in his shoes, and can even see why he told her the way he did, even though she wishes he had done it in a way that showed her the respect she deserves.

I hear you all asking: so why the drama if this was only their third date? Valid question, friends. But you know what it's like to be out there meeting folks, and wanting to throw yourself in front of a semi more often than not, so when you meet someone you click with... well, that's a treat. And to feel that being taken from you, well, it sucks. (Add to that Kate's issues with cancellation and lack of respect, and bingo! We have runway clearance!) The beauty of this situation, though, is that Old Kate would have flown all the way to the moon, while New Kate ended somewhere around Little India. (Try the curry! Tastes like armpit!)

So how did Old Kate turn into New Kate? One step at a time, I guess. Partly it's finally believing some of the things I already know [let's face it, you knew this was me from the moment I took to bed with a box of raisins], and trusting myself that nothing can be taken from me if it was truly meant to be mine. Yeah, it's a little hooey-gooey. (she flexes her arms and looks at you menacingly) What's your point?

The other difference is that this time, I separated the issues into more bite-sized chunks. On one hand, there's the fact he's seeing someone else. Maybe it's all the years of acting, but that doesn't really hurt. It sucks, but it sucks about as much as not getting a part... albeit one you'd be really right for. On the other hand, there's feeling disrespected by him and the way he handled the situation. That, for me, was the trigger. When I finally started claiming my own worth (yeah, ok, his emailed explanation helped a lot), it was a lot easier to be forgiving (of both him and me), and a lot harder to unglue my butt from the handle.

Helpful story? Probably not. But if you're looking for advice, don't you think should look somewhere other than "kate's guide to just about nothing"?

oh, and p.s. I've conveniently made it sound like I thought all of this through by myself. We call that "dramatic license." (See also "big fat lie") Thanks to those of you who helped me out. You know who you are, and you rock!

me + absinthe = rock star!

Don't worry mom, I'm not actually drinking Absinthe. It happens to be a show, running in the Spiegeltent (by the South Street Seaport) for the summer. And it's absolutely one of the coolest experiences I've had in a long time!

First off, the Spiegeltent itself is a fantastic creation. It's half merry-go-round, half tent, half café and half church. (see? Already it's twice the fun!) It's got a boardwalk-y feel to it, being situated on Pier 16, and when the doors are open, you get that slight fishy/harbory funk. Around the edges of the tent are small mirrored panels, stained glass windows and wooden folding chairs for the audience. In the center, there's a small, round, raised platform, on which a majority of the acts take place.

I won't tell you about all the acts, because some of them are so amazing in part because you aren't expecting them. I will, however, tell you about a) the one that went wrong, b) the one that involved me and c) a vague outline of something that defies even the best of writing (let alone the excited ramblings of a chatty girl on a rainy day).

A) Oh Shit! (or the one that went wrong)
According to Justin, who has seen the show three times already (four, by the time this gets posted), and who got us free tickets, the acts change somewhat often. If any given performance of the show contains ten acts, I'd guess there are maybe thirteen acts in the whole repertoire, and they switch it up to give performers nights off. Anyway, the contortionist who started the show when I saw it, was apparently not the regular opening act.

She entered from the ceiling (which was totally cool) and descended on a wire until she came to rest on this bizarre jungle gym-type structure. It was cylindrical in shape, with climbing bars up either side, and a ring on top, where she balanced precariously while flinging her legs over her head and whatnot. (Where most humans have vertebrae, I think this woman has jell-o.) She descended one side of the cylinder, all slithery-like, and we (and by "we" I mean "those of us who are prone to see theatrical disasters coming") noticed a slight detachment of the legs of the right hand side of the cylinder from the ring at the top.

Luckily, a costumed stage hand also noticed that break, and stepped in, to hold the unit together. Which worked... for about a minute. But as soon as she started climbing on the other side of the cylinder, the whole left side (climbing bars and top ring) went tumbling down, and careening into the aisle in the audience. She knocked over a light, landed on her side, and had a small metal jungle-gym come tumbling after. We gasped, the lights went up a bit, and the next act rushed the stage, trying to get us to forget what had happened.

Amazingly, we did. Thanks primarily to the antics of the emcee, a guy called "The Gazillionaire," who was fictitiously footing the bill for the production of Absinthe. He was very funny, and took to harassing the audience -- fluffing up Justin's hair, calling it "Seventies Bush" and then humping his head. (He offered to hump my head, but I politely declined. Then he asked me to touch his crotch, and, well, I did (you had to be there to understand why). When he wanted to see my boobs in return, again, I politely declined. He then called me a pricktease and moved on to pick on someone else.)

B) k8 the rock star (or the part where I'm involved):
One of the acts involved a pair of what can only be described as figure (roller) skaters. They were a couple (Justin says he's 48 and she's 50, but I'd have put them both somewhere in their mid-forties) who did amazing tricks on roller skates. Scarier stuff than you've seen on figure skating, too – he flung her around in circles, with her face mere centimeters from hitting the floor, or tucking one skate of her skates behind his neck, and flinging her around in circles with no hands, while she's doing a split. You know, the stuff we all normally do at home. (un-fucking-believable!)

Anyway, at one point, they were eyeing this nice, long haired short woman behind me, and wanting her to come up on stage as a volunteer. She flatly refused, and they eventually shifted their focus onto me. It took me all of one second to decide to get up there!

I climbed the stairs in the back, had a stage hand remove my sunglasses from the top of my head, and the two skaters wound their arms around mine, while the woman whispered in my ear "keep your arms the way they are and stay as straight as you possibly can." So I did that (which was not hard).

THEN THEY FLIPPED ME UPSIDE DOWN AND WE SPUN AROUND IN CIRCLES!!! It was the most awesome thing! Having had a glass of wine already, opening my eyes proved to be an upsetting idea, so I kept them squeezed shut, and tried to keep my smile from flying off my face into my ears. I can't tell you how many times we went around (ten? A hundred?) but when they put me down, I was very dizzy, and, well, they were on roller skates, so we almost had our own tumbling disaster, trying to keep our balance. (Mind you, I was also in heels!)

Intermission followed not long after, and I was stopped by a number of people, all saying what a trooper I was and what a good sport, and what was it like? One guy came up to me and said that they almost did get to see my boobs after all! I can understand refusing them (especially after a crash in the first act) but come on! How many times in your life have you been flipped upside down and swung around by a couple on roller skates???

Oh, me? Just once.

C) Indescribable beauty, grace and oh-my-godness (yeah, I don't know what else to say about it)
One of the most surprising acts was comprised of two (beautiful) women, who danced and swung and contorted on this square made from metal bars suspended from the ceiling on chains like a chandelier. The way they moved together, and supported each others' weight, and the things they could do… it was gorgeous, it was sexy, it was dangerous, it was jaw dropping. I swear I had to pick mine back up off the floor when it was over.

And, not surprisingly, it was still smiling!

inappropriate office-isms

There are two law firms on my floor, and we share a common ladies' room. Over the years we've come to recognize many of the faces of the folks from the other firm, but don't know any names. So we give them our own. My favorite? The Constipated Midget. [she's about 5'0" and has this look on her face that's just, well, uncomfortable... all the time.]

Today, The Constipated Midget was wearing what can only be described as a Micro-Mini-Mu-Mu. My boss called it a "Glamour Don't." I called it a "Oh My God Please Don't EVER!"
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I told a coworker that I made cookies and that they were on my desk, available to anyone who wanted them. "They're made from spit and toenails, which gives them that nice extra crunch!" I told her. The new guy next to her started to have second thoughts about me, I could smell it.
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Due to the strategic positioning of my desk, and the general inanity of my chatter, my boss, whose office is just down the hall, and who has to pass my desk to get there, often hears only snippets of what I've been saying. My favorites to date are:

"It's just no fun when someone talks to your armpit all night long."

and

"Yeah, it makes me want to put on pants and go to a football game and roll in the leaves."
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And now, for the game you've all been waiting for:

Which One is the Ugliest??

There have been three incarnations of the paper plates and cups here at La Firme du Lawe, and they're all fairly atrocious-looking. The way this game works is that I show you pictures of them, you lose your appetite, feel pity for those of us who have to eat off of them, and then vote for the ugliest. The one with the most votes wins -- or loses, depending on how you look at it..

(Which, I think, means it's the cheapest, and therefore we'll be stuck with it the longest.)

First up, Grey Leafy Number:

Up next, her cousin, Ha-Cha-Cha Coffee Cup:

Or, Orange Juliugly:

Cast your votes now! (It's almost like reality tv!!)

how dating is like frogger

Remember frogger? The videogame where you, the frog, had to jump through multiple lanes of traffic and get to the bushes on the other side of the freeway without getting run over? Well, I'd like to argue that's a lot like dating.

It takes a lot of work (planning, self-control, coordination, grace, good joystick maneuvering (ahem), cool-headedness, etc.) to get to a place you've heard is really rewarding, but may, in fact, not be anything more than bushes on the other side of the highway. (And, excuse me, but what is a frog doing in the bushes??)

Ok, so here's you, the friendly little frog:

That's a lot of traffic up ahead! How can you possibly navigate it?

Stay cool, little frog, you'll make it.

Here's me, on my date last night:

Oh no! Three minutes in and already I've thrown myself in front of a convertible full of joyriding teenagers!

The splatted-frog feeling is not uncommon among those of us who date online. Let's face it, a guy (or gal) can be really witty and funny when he has time to think out his responses and edit what he's written. But when you're face to face... well, that's got its own challenges -- attraction, expectations, enough things in common to carry on a conversation...

No matter what, I'd recommend facing those challenges head on, like a little frog about to jump in front of a police car. NOT like my date last night, who faced them by talking to my armpit all through dinner. (Periodically he'd check back in with my nose, but the majority of our conversation was shared with the fine contours of my axilla.) I was forced to flirt with the waiter.
Sometimes, when you're caught between a rock and a hard place (or a semi and a convertible), it's good to call in an expert to help you out. However, it's best if your expert is not in a bar where she can't hear her cellphone, and as such, when you text her with a dire need for her to play her role in your exit strategy, she can't hear you or help you.

In that case, just move backwards -- but don't get hit by that police car! Call a friend who knows you're on a date, but has no clue what your exit strategy is, and leave her a message that says, "Hey, it's me. Are you going to that thing tonight? (pause) You're there already? Where is it? (pause) In Brooklyn? Sweet! (pause) That's on Union and what? Fifth? (pause) Yeah, yeah, right next to the sushi place. (pause) All right, I'll see you in a bit! Ok (sound like you're cutting her off) ok, just tell me about it when I get there. Bye!"

(Be sure to text her from the subway saying "I know that message made no sense. I'll call you soon!")

With all these similarities, it would seem like a foregone conclusion that dating actually is a game of frogger. Here's the major difference though: when you sit down to a game of frogger, get a few minutes into the game and realize that a) it's not the game you thought it was, and b) you don't really want to play this game (not that it's not a great game and all, you just don't want to play it), you can turn off the computer and walk away. It's a lot harder to finagle your way out of a date.

Unless you throw yourself in front of a semi. Messy? Yes. But if you live near a hospital, it might just be the exit strategy you're looking for.