adventures in the salon

Because we get this extra hour for free tonight, I figured you'd want to know all about this:

I went back to Studio 97 to get my hair cut today. You may remember one of the previous times I'd been there, when I got potentially eastern European lesbian boob in my face. Today, to ratchet the service up a notch, I showed up for a 2:30 appointment and wasn't seen until 3. (Which would have been fine if I hadn't left a date to get there on time.) The coup de grace, piece de resistance or croissant du jour (whatever you prefer) was that this time, the receptionist washed my hair. She sat me in the broken chair, tipped my head into the coldest porcelain this side of a witch's tit and after freezing my scalp, accumulating half of it under her fingernails and then scorching the rest of it off, she told me all about my name.

"Katya is big name in Russia."

"Really? I think I've heard that somewhere."

After getting shampoo in my eye, water in both ears (followed by wet fingers trying to get said water out of my ears) and another round of freezing and flaying, she led me to the cutting floor... where I stood for a good five minutes without anyone telling me which chair to sit in.

Finally Ambiguously Gay Alex came in, plopped me down in a chair and then left for another five minutes to put coins in the meter. Now, the lighting in this salon is tinted with a fine layer of ugly so the extra five minutes of examining my pallid complexion was doing nothing for my self-esteem. I was toying with going short again, but then I remembered what Ambiguously Gay Alex did to it last time he got his shears near my head (mushroom head anyone?) So I opted for half long, half short. (His brother is the better stylist.)

Anyway, long story short, I got a nice haircut. See?

(I also thought that the flavor of the soap in the bathroom was Fresh Pickled Peach, but that's neither here nor there.)

Donut Girl does Halloween

I got off the train at Grand Central and wended my way out of the station, keeping my jacket more than slightly open, just in case anybody happened to notice my sexy fuscia apron. It was still early, and, granted, I was stuck in throngs of commuters, but I thought for sure someone would notice my gorgeous polyester uniform and get a chuckle.

But nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they thought I was just on my way to work, or recently finished with a shift.

(I, of course, knew better.)

I headed towards my friend's house for her non-costume birthday party, to which I was obviously* wearing a costume. I stopped at the bank and nobody blinked. Well, of course not, I thought, it's only an ATM. These people are busy making withdrawls. I knew, though, that the laugh of the evening was on its way.

Within mere blocks of the Dunkin Donuts, my pace quickened, my smile muscles were twitching and I was feeling the beginnings of giddiness in my tummy. How funny was this going to be? I was going to walk in there, and the retro uniform I was sporting would just jump off of me and head towards the shelves of donuts. The cashiers were going to laugh the most meta-laughs of their lives. They were going to make jokes about me "helping myself." We were going to emerge as best friends and all because of my costume, which was, in fact, an actual Dunkin Donuts uniform from the late 80s/early 90s (provided by my sister's brief stint in the donut-service industry.)

Ok, maybe my hopes were too high. But would cracking a smile have killed this guy? Possibly. I walked into the store and he didn't even bat an eyelash. And neither did the two Texan girls oohing and aahing over the calorie counts in chain restaurants. I almost shouted. I mean, HELLO, how often do you see this?

Look, if I saw someone dressed as a computer trainer** coming into my office on Halloween I would think that was the funniest thing since sliced donuts. I would take pictures of myself with that person and invite him or her over for a drink. We'd be BFF.

Not so at the chain stores, apparently.

I hung my head, brushed off my "Career Apparrel"*** and put my munchkins into the plastic-bag-that-I-usually-don't-take-because-it's-wasteful-unless-it's-a-prop. One wistful look over my shoulder later, I was headed away from the biggest Halloween let down since my sister swindled me out of everything good in my pumpkin.

Later revelers soothed my aching (and itching) ego by asking me for a series of lattes. ("Why is nobody asking me for donuts or if it's time to make them?" "Donuts? They have too many calories," said a pirate, popping a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup into his mouth...) One guy on the subway platform liked me so much he shouted with joy. (I gave him a hilarious meta-munchkin.****)

I will report, however, that despite being not even remotely sluttishly dressed, I was approached by a pimp and offered a job. (I gave him a munchkin, too.) I also won second place in a costume contest, and won myself a spooky Mr. Potato Head.

Aside from the Dumb old Dunkin Donuts Downer, it was a pretty terrific Halloween.

*obvious to me, of course.

** what exactly this would look like is a little beyond me, but let's pretend it's not.

*** the tag reads "Career Apparrel, 100% Polyester"

**** I'm not sure what this means.

link-a-palooza

Good things to look at, listen to, or play with:

First, a really interesting treat from my good friend Ira Glass, especially the first story.

Second, the puppy cam, sent to me by my aunt, which is way too cute for my own good.

Third, a glimpse at the fictionalized children of my friend and fellow blogger, Earl. (The second half is a continuation of a longer, running post, which you may not understand. Focus on the first, adorable half.)

Fourth, something I clearly need.

Fifth, the story of my childhood, cattified.

Sixth, crazy super cheap makeup!

Seventh, lord only knows where I found this.

And lastly, Maisy, my sister's new kitty, who is too cute for words:

back from the swing state

I spent the weekend in Florida, organizing a friend's closet, and I didn't realize, until I got there, how different the advertising is in a swing state. NY is pretty much a foregone conclusion, so the ads that run here are of the "I am the candidate and I approved this message" variety. In Florida, however, they're those partisan interest group ones that really sling mud and hurl epithets. Kind of fascinating.

Also fascinating? Sharing dinner with a table full of Republicans over the age of 65. Very different set of values there. Luckily, we also shared several bottles of wine, so after a while, politics ceased to matter.

Less fascinating, but more odd:

1. I burned my belly on the coffee pot. (And I don't even drink caffeine, so I can't blame it on the I-wasn't-awake-yet phenomenon. I just somehow managed to do it.)

2. I've been suckered by the National Dairy Farmers into thinking that not only does eating dairy burn calories (like they say it does) but that somehow, dairy has NEGATIVE calories. I think this may explain how my belly had a run-in with the coffee pot...

Not remotely fascinating, but amusing:
I accidentally referred to Fort Lauderdale as "Fart Lauderdale."

And an interesting game I played with myself this weekend:
One of my Floridian friends is a button pusher. And he likes to make generalizations, claiming that they're not generalizations and I generally get pretty annoyed at what he's saying and, in the past, have gotten upset about it.This time, however, I played a game with myself. Every time I was triggered by something he said, I would note down the association I had that I felt he was attacking. To recap the weekend, apparently I identify myself with: women, democrats, leftists, women drivers, planners, amateur writers, "chicks," and, for good measure, blacks and guatemalans.

(But at least I didn't get pissed off!)

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.)

jeenyus jabber

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

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

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

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

It almost worked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It got weird when I googled "vomiting phobia."

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

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