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.

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.

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


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


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

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??