the area of my expertise

I was feeling kind of useless today, and wanted to pick myself up a bit. I started thinking about all the things I'm really good at -- talking, listening, acting, laughing, reading, sleeping, baking... the list could go on (and did, in my head, thank you very much) But, in true gotta-find-the-crummy-brown-lining-of-every-cloud fashion, I realized there were very few areas in which I am an actual expert, which, as defined by the dictionary is "having, involving, or demonstrating great skill, dexterity, or knowledge as the result of experience or training... an authority"

So, with that in mind, I bring you a list of things at which I am an expert:

Letting Fruit Rot
I have scientifically calculated the perfect temperature/time/humidity concentration for fruit rot. (it's commonly known as "all day in my apartment") Clementines are the best for this experiment, as they are clumped together in true mold-developing honeycombs, but, oddly enough, I've managed to rot a potato in the crisper of my refrigerator.

Picking My Nails
Not usually considered an area in which to have expertise, I possess infinite cuticle-jabbing skill and hangnail-biting dexterity as the result of much dactyl activity.

Grazing
This oft-neglected form of eating, which involves a little bit of this, one of these, ooh, a couple of those, just one more of these and several of those (because they're small), while never in contention for Olympic status, really shouldn't be overlooked in one's own list of things in which one is an expert. Especially if you're me, and you somehow find a way to spend the entire day eating. I mean, I pack my lunch, so you'd think there would be more cow-in-a-pen type eating as opposed to oh-give-me-a-home-where-the-buffalo-roam-(and-eat-EVERYTHING-in-sigh) type eating. But I suppose that's what makes me an expert. (no, I won't give you my secrets!)

Looking Really Fat in my Coat
Luckily, I have the best coat in the whole wide world (and I do mean wide). It keeps me roasty-toasty on the cold-ass days of the nyc winter. However, it's not sexy. Not even near sexy. Like, if sexy were Florida, me in my coat would be the outer reaches of Alaska.

Here, this is the best I could do to approximate what I look like in my coat (which is from Land's End, and the bestest ever!):

She still looks sexier in it than I do, though. But then again, she doesn't have a Ph.D. in Looking Fat In My Coat. Not everybody can be an expert, after all.

Killing Time at Work by Posting Inanities Online
By now, I'm sure you're considering your own list of exceptional skills and abilities, and I hope that you'll consider yourselves experts at Reading the Drivel That Kate Writes. Hey, not everybody could stand something this exciting!

organizing florida

Now, I realize that when I say "organizing florida" you might think this is a political commentary. That I'm rallying the democrats of Florida to work together so that what has happened before there won't happen again. That I have secret insights for Hillary and Barak and, um, Vilsak (ha!). Sadly, no. What I tackled over the weekend was much more difficult -- I helped my friend Lois organize her apartment.

Many several moons ago, I hired myself out as an efficiency consultant, coming into executives' offices and telling them why their filing system stunk and helping them come up with something better. That was great, and landed me a terrific job with Lois, both in her office, and periodically in her home as well. She moved to Florida a while ago, and now I visit her there and systematically attack her closet. (in a very friendly way, of course)

Now, I love Lois, and have no desire to embarrass her with before pictures, so instead, I'll just show you the lovely, glowing results of our weekend together:

First, what we discarded and sent off to the Salvation Army (or what we call "Sally Ann"):

Now, this photo is deceptive, as we lined the bags up against a mirror, so there are twice as many of them in the pic as in real life. However, if you were looking for any of the following, you would likely be able to find them in one of these bags

• Stretchy Pants (several pair)
• Too Short T-Shirts (multiples)
• Shirts Lois Thought She Would Like But Then Had Second Thoughts About
• One pair of shoes, which, when brought home, was actually comprised of two different sized shoes
• And a variety of items which, when I asked her "do you really think you'll wear this" the answer ranged from a shrug of the shoulders to an emphatically lemon-faced "GAH!"
  

I'd like to take a brief pause here and say how proud I am of Lois for purging all this. "You are here for sortation and purgation!" (and apparently vocabularization) she said, and that's exactly what we did.

Yielding this:

and this:
and this
Without the before pictures, these just look like clean closets. But believe me when I tell you, knowing what was in there makes these PRISTINE closets.

Oh, and it was Florida, so I swam in the pool, sat in the jacuzzi, ate fresh seafood and took my life into my own hands by getting in the car with Michael, a New York driver transplanted to the one state where the drivers are consistently older and worse than actual New Yorkers.

The view from the front of Lois's apartment (taken with my somewhat crappy cameraphone on an overcast morning):
Oh, and the pool, of course...
We also cleaned out underneath Lois' bathroom sinks, and let me tell you, that pesky 3oz liquid rule for the airplanes probably saved my life. Otherwise, everything that Lois got rid of would have found its way into my suitcase. As it was I came home with:

• an electronic toothbrush (which unfortunately doesn't work anymore)
• sixteen new toothbrush heads
• a bath scrubby
• a lovely porcelain bootie for my brother in law
• Christmas cards
• dental floss (mint!)
• burt's bees avocado hair gooey yum yum stuff (technical term, I think)
• four TASTY tangerines, still attached to leaves
• and a lightweight cellphone charger
  

Oh, and a belly so full of food I thought I might die.


All in all: Fantastic!

in completely unrelated news...

And now for a collection of stuff that you're extremely unlikely to find even remotely utile:

1. It's 7:16 in the morning and the neighbors haven't slammed the door. I'm just awake for absolutely no good reason. I get up, pee, lay back down, toss and turn, think about the MOUNTAIN of laundry in my closet ready to swallow me whole, wonder if I have enough time to go buy groceries and then finally decide this whole pretending-to-fall-back-asleep charade isn't fooling anyone.

I get up, stumble into the kitchen and decide there's just enough time to bake banana bread (and just enough life left in those two bananas). Ten minutes later, it's in the oven. And I still have 24 minutes before I usually get up.

Inspriation strikes! Gingerbread! It's good for pregnant friends, after all.

Ten minutes later, that's in the oven and I'm in the shower.

Six hours later, I'm a little sleepy, but full to the gills with tasty tasty gingerbread!

2. Christina was here this weekend and finally got to meet Thea! I felt like I was in the middle of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup -- two great ladies that got along great together. (I think I'm the wrapper in this metaphor.) The best part about Christina is how she can make me laugh for hours on end, and then when I sit down to recount what was so funny, all I can come up with is the fact that we barked at the Washington Square Park arch by saying "Arch! Archarcharcharch! ARCH!" Oh, and we took pictures of ourselves, first with her mouth closed and mine open, then with my mouth closed and hers open and then finally, with both our mouths sort of open.

Really funny, I know!

3. I've made some changes to my online dating profile, which really crack me up. Such as:

What I like - or dislike - about what I do for a living
Suffice it to say that this part of my life is under construction. So if you walked by this part of my life, it might whistle and hoot at you. Probably best to take of your shirt and shake it a little bit. I mean, that's what I do at construction sites. Don't you?

4. I'm reading a book that was recommended to me five years ago, and instead of just a recommendation, I wish I had been hit over the head with it and forced to read it. (Ok, this section might be mildly useful. But don't get your hopes up.) It's called Mars and Venus on a Date. Ok, ok, feel free to sit there and snicker, hiding behind your newspapers and pointing and laughing at me. But really, it's given me some great insights into just dating. Setting up a dynamic that, instead of being a great dynamic for right now, becomes a great dynamic for the long term.

See, some of you know this: I tend to rush into relationships. (Don't think I can't hear your audible gasps.) I like to start at the end, so that I can get there faster. And to facilitate that, I like to emotionally give give give give give, and somtimes, (as was the case with ugly cake), the guy I'm with likes to emotionally take take take take take. And a few months down the road, I can't figure out why he's not giving to me and why I'm unhappy with the relationship.

I don't want to spoil the book for you, but it deals with precisely this topic.

5. I have no groceries at home. As such, my lunches this week rely heavily on tangerines (of which there are nigh on hundreds) and, um, whatever else I can find. The occasional sweet potato. Frozen peas. Tofu-based imitation sausage (much tastier than it sounds). More tangerines. Yes, I could buy lunch. But have you been outside lately? It's very cold.

6. I saw a great movie in Florida called Mongolian Ping Pong. It's this quiet little movie about a boy in Bumfuck Mongolia who finds a ping pong ball floating down the river, and doesn't know what it is. I won't say more than that. It's just a beautiful film and worth netflixing.

7. I was told last night that there is a Burger King on MacDonald Avenue in Brooklyn, which to me was one of the funniest things I'd heard in a long time. However, in trying to find graphic proof of the loveliest of lovely paradoxes (paradoci?), I discovered that it's not quite true. It's on Fort Hamilton Parkway, right at the corner of MacDonald Avenue. Close enough for this blog, though!

8. I've finished my audiobook demo and will probably have it in hand in the next few weeks. Anyone with audiobook contacts is more than welcome to pass them along to me, in exchange for this scintillating writing that I pass off as entertainment. (Or maybe we could work something out near a construction site...)

everybody's got their something... kinda

Ladies, back me up on this: we all have issues about our looks and our bodies, but there's something (or, if we're lucky, somethings) that we stand firmly behind and can totally support (ah, if only mine was a firm behind...) These might include:

nice hair (even though my friend "Kate" says that when a man compliments your hair, he's only saying that because he has nothing else nice to say. That Kate is so Chekhovian...)

nice nails (certainly not me!)

perfect skin (albeit only on one cheek or on the back of one's knees or something)

nice boobs (be they big or little, soft or firm)

long eyelashes, cute toes, shapely wrists, hot elbows... the list goes on.

Now, you'll notice that these are not major body parts (except maybe the boobs, depending on who you are... ahem, Christina). They're small, simple things that we women can take comfort in. "Well, I'm all bloated today, my butt's too big and I hate my life, but at least my toes are still cute!"

I wouldn't go so far as to say these are our favorite parts, per se, but then again, I can't speak for anyone but myself. Maybe there are women out there who idolize their eyelashes. Troops of girl scouts fond of the curve of their noses. MADD: Mothers Against Damaged Derma. Regardless, I feel confident saying this: should anything happen to ruin one of our fall-back attributes, the world is likely to collapse like a drunken game of jenga. Just ask Thea about her mullet.

Which is why, when I was sitting in the dentit's chair yesterday and the dentist told me that, at thirty, I had finally achieved what many, many people had done years and years ago, I started to cry. Yes, I got my first cavities. (a pair of cavities, at that, not a mere single one!)

The worst was yet to come. I had to fess up to my sister, who was flabbergasted over Thanksgiving when I told her that I didn't brush my teeth twice a day. "Oh Kate," she said, appalled, "oh, that's just wrong!" (and her husband sat behind her, usually on my team, but this time looking smug, nodding in agreement like one of Roald Dahl's witches) "It's no big deal." I said, falsely buoyed up by years of fluoride treatment and the prospect of dental insurance.

But now (even though I could keep it a secret and none of you would be the wiser) I'm publicly admitting to the world that I have had sub-par oral hygiene. This is going down on my permanent record. And I only hope that this will remind me to brush both in the morning and at night.

[In my own defense, you wouldn't brush in my shower either. The water doesn't go down the drain, and then your cute toes are swimming in toothpastey water. Bleck!]

Sigh. My fingernails are disgusting, I have no career to speak of and now my teeth are full of cavities. At least my hair's still nice. (albeit in a post-mushroomy kind of way...)

being frank

So I had a date this weekend. With someone I'll call Frank. (actually, I've decided to call all my dates Frank, much in the same way I call all my friends Kate. Why Frank? I don't know. Probably because I only know one Frank (and we're not dating) and because it ends in a K as opposed to starting with a K... but you know, if you're looking for logic, go read someone else's blog!)

Frank and I went out several many years ago, and, actually, of the variety of long-term relationships I've had since then, ours was really lovely. Except that Frank lived out of town. In, um, Frankville. So we had to commute back and forth between NYC and F-town all the time. We made it work, sort of, and then broke up, then tried again, then broke up again, and then hit radio silence for the intervening four and a half years.

Then, all of a sudden, he calls me out of the blue and wants to have dinner. Of course, I'm thrilled to accept, since my memories of him are so fond. We go out a couple of times (including once dragging our freezing little popsicle asses to Brighton Beach to ballroom dance with old Russian people -- it was pretty fantastic, and fantastically cold!) But I knew, right off the bat, that things were different for us.

I was faced with a choice: I could (yet again) try to force it with someone who was really close (I mean really close) to what I want, or I could let it go, and trust the universe to bring me something just that much better. I chose to let it go, but every time I meet someone terrific who doesn't have the qualities I need (especially if they have some of the qualities that I really like) it gets harder and harder to believe there's someone out there who's got it all.

It's almost as if once I narrow it down to three things I need (i.e., smart, self-aware and emotionally available), I meet someone with all that (i.e., Frank) who then seems to be missing something else essential. I have visions of Cupid, arms filled to the brim with wonderfully smart, self-aware and emotionally available boys that he then has to go put back on the shelf, and refile based on my new criteria.

Only each time this happens, Cupid's armloads get smaller and smaller.

Maybe (just maybe) this is for the best.

things that are REALLY getting in my way today

I'm having one of the most annoying days I've had in a really long time.

First: I had to lug my father's heavy-ass suitcase into the office. He hired me to do all his filing, and instead of trekking out to him, he brought all his files to my house. And I took them to my office. On the subway. (Little annoyance, really, not much to complain about. But it was the first straw, and the camel barely blinked.)

Second: I keep getting summoned up to the conference room where my boss (and then after her, SOMEONE I DON'T EVEN WORK FOR (and I hate)) was having a meeting and they wanted copies made. Nothing says "slave" better than the can-you-come-up-here-and-make-some-copies phone call.

Third: Remember when I was doing the reading series in Connecticut, and how they replaced me without telling me? That was fun. Well, they gave me train tickets from GCT to Greenwich and GCT to Stamford. Since those aren't much use to me, I went to the ticket window at Grand Central to exchange them for roundtrips to my parents' house. At the beginning, the woman wouldn't do it because she had no idea what I was asking for (even though my English is quite good). Then she wouldn't do it because I didn't have the credit card they were purchased with. SHE WOULDN'T EVEN SELL ME TICKETS FROM GREENWICH TO ROCKETTOWN. I hate her.

Fourth: Here are two direct quotes from the cake terrorist who sits behind me. 1. "I just hope I don't throw up again." and 2. "Gee whizzums, I hope you don't think I'm intimidating." (no, I just hate you)

Fifth: (and this, I admit, is really dumb, but after the Grand Central Irritation, I knew the camel was going to snap) Around New Year's, Thea told me that all our duane reade reward points (which you get if you have a duane reade card, which we both do) (yes, we're grannies) were going to expire. And that was a bummer because I had 92 or something -- and it takes 100 points to get a $5 off coupon. So a few weeks ago (in 2007), I bought a soda at duane reade and got a receipt (which I have since thrown away) saying that I had 98 points. I texted Thea to show her that, in fact, we were not losing our points. I felt triumphant.

Today, though, I bought that last two dollars worth of merchandise and got a receipt saying that I had now 13 points. Yep, they have, in fact, trashed my points without telling me.
And go ahead, call the hotline -- 1-800-DR-LOYAL. My bet is that it'll STILL be busy.

Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

you don't need love, all you need is pants!

Lately I've been paying a lot of attention to relationships -- mine, yours, my friends', the neighbors' (which, with the way they yell at each other, is sometimes hard to miss) -- and they continually fascinate me. The things you need to hit to make a burgeoning relationship successful are almost endless (and, when looked at in the wrong light and without a glass of wine could make a single girl feel like it's never gonna happen...). There's attraction, availability (both emotionally and geographically), timing/the last guy/girl/alpaca you were with, your own internal bullshit (not to be confused with the last guy/girl/alpaca you were with), your family, the speed at which you're willing to progress the relationship, the politics of the stupid dating website you're on... (I could go on, but the lighting here is bad, and where the hell is my waiter??)

So to make everyone else feel as good as I do today, I'd like to share some Things I've Learned or Done Lately Which Have Made All Those Irritating Criteria Seem Not Quite So Daunting and Heck, Almost Ok.

1. My friend Lisa made a really good point when I was in the mucky, mucky throes of being dumped by the last alpaca I went out with -- if he were the right alpaca, she argued, none of the (myriad) mismatches would matter. I wanted to take things quickly, and he wanted to move as slow as... well, I was going to say a glacier, but even they seem to be kicking it up a notch these days, so maybe dirt? Dirt is pretty lazy. I wanted to be in a relationship and he wanted... hell, I have no idea what he wanted. So, see? Wrong alpaca.

[brief sidebar: when you date online, sometimes you don't want people to know off the bat that you're an actor. We have a reputation for being flaky and stupid. (Who knew?) So my profile online says that I'm an alpaca farmer. They're well known for being reliable, trustworthy and super-hot. Hence, alpacas.]

2. H&M is having a huge sale. I just bought two new pair of pants and two new sweaters. You can't think about boys and sales at the same time, it's neurophysically impossible! So if it gets too overwhelming, grab $14.90 and get yourself two new pair of pants!! (skip the underwear, though. The whole sale says "buy one get one free" but if you get, say, four pair of underwear for $2.90 apiece, and then four pair of underwear for $1.00 apiece, instead of charging you $7.80 (buy-one-get-one-free), they'll charge you for all four $2.90 pairs, and they'll give you the four $1 pairs for free ($11.60). I know, they bamboozle you with MATH, when you think it's just underwear!)

3. Thea and I went to this seminar the other night that told us some very useful information. For example, did you know men find you sexually attractive because you have shiny hair? According to their research, it's true! Ladies, you know what this means? NO MORE SHOWERING!

Ok, no, that's disgusting, but you can do it for a weekend and still get away with it. As long as you're around men who are (and I quote) "diggin' on your bottom," you'll always get some attention.

Actually, the seminar had some good advice. They said that men will fall in love with women who are a) self-confident, b) authentic, c) passionate and d) receptive. I've got all that down (she said, passionately, authentically and self-confidently) except for the receptive part -- and here's what's tricky. You can't just be receptive of the gifts you want to get. You have to see all of his attempts at giving you gifts (even if they're wildly off the mark) as something you want to receive. So when he's giving you advice about what to do with your stock portfolio, that's technically a gift. Not exactly what I asked for for Christmas, but...

However, the best part about the seminar is that the woman leading it didn't say "men will fall in love with you," she kept saying that men will be "charmed and enchanted by you." And she couldn't really pronounce her r's. So it was "chahmed and enchaaantid." You can imagine all the fun Thea and I had with that afterwards. "You're so chahmig and enchaantig, could I walk you to the subway?" "If you could tell me where to meet you tonight I'd be so chahmed and enchaaantid."

4. Read some Carrie Fisher -- preferably Postcards from the Edge. After just a few pages, you'll feel smarter, funnier, and gratefully blessed to not be Suzanne Vale (i.e., Carrie Fisher in the 80s).

5. I think nerve reads my blog. The day after I posted how stupid it was to list results backwards, they switched it, and now I can see in the blink of an eye (ok, the slowest-moving-tortise-eye-in-the-galapagos, but a blink nonetheless) who's been diggin' on my bottom. (Thank god!)

6. Completely unrelatedly (but it did contribute to the I-feel-good vibe of today: remember these guys? Extra points to whoever can remember the name of their show without looking it up!

more things I think should be rules

To add to the rules I posited last time:

1. If you are a "seedless tangerine," you really shouldn't have seeds in you.

2. If you are socially inept, and work with me (and I hate you) and I ask you a quick question out of sheer office formality (like, "how are you?") you shouldn't wait until I'm already around the corner from you to start harranguing me about how your workload is so heavy you'll probably have to be here both days this weekend. Frankly, I don't care. I've already walked away.

3. Nothing should ever taste like feet. Especially if it's fruit. But really, not even feet should taste like feet. But then again, if I'm making rules, nobody should be tasting feet. So my first statement holds.

4. Ok, if you're an internet dating website (I'm talking to you, nerve) and you show a list of people who have looked at my profile in the last 30 days, you SHOULD NOT START AT 30 DAYS AGO. Show me the guys who looked today, not December 26th! Duh.

5. If I bring my cute pink bag to the office, you should never come by my desk and say, "what is that, a diaper bag?" (this is especially true if you have no fashion sense whatsoever (and I hate you)).

6. If you're the Red Hot Chili Peppers and you have a new two disc album out, you should put all the noisy, guitar-riffy songs on one album, and all the not-irritating songs on the other, so I can listen to it at work.

7. If I do, in fact, have a fake laugh (and, yeah, I'm pretty sure I do) you should never know it's the fake laugh. (and if you do know it's the fake laugh, then you should never take it personally (unless I hate you))

the man with the gun

I was accosted last night by the Man with the Gun! It was just horrible! I was coming out of an appointment, feeling a little down in the dumps (come on, did you read yesterday's post? sad sad sad) when all of a sudden, the Man with the Gun (or TMWTG) pulled me aside.

TMWTG: Ma'am, I need you to cross the street to the south side.

Me: (trembling) The south side? But that's the side where (gasps) Bath and Body Works is... And they're having a... sale. I. Just. Couldn't.

TMWTG: Ma'am, have you seen my gun? I'm pointing it right at you.

Me: That's true. You are very menacing.

TMWTG: Just cross the street, and we'll see what happens. Oh, and by the way, I know you have that gift card in your wallet.

Me: Do you want it? Here, take my wallet.

TMWTG: No, lady, I don't want it. But I do want you to go in that store and spend until it hurts. There's some really good smelling stuff in there.

Me: I know! That "need a margarita" scrub is soooooo good.

TMWTG: (waggling his gun) GET MOVIN' LADY.

So I had no choice but to go into B&BW, the cocoon of good smells enveloping both me and TMWTG. He forced me into the back of the store, handed me a bag and when I protested and said I was done with just two products he said, "Yeah, but it's buy two get two free, so these are free. Take them or I'll shoot you!"

Then, as I was trying to get on line, without attracting any attention from security, for fear that all hell would break loose -- there was, in fact, a man with a gun in their store, afterall -- we ended up passing by the spraying-smelly-goodness aisle.

TMWTG: Hey! Lady! You need this. P.U. You stink!

And he threw some white tea and ginger spray into my bag. I mean, he was being honest, I don't think I smelled very good last night. Maybe he was just doing me a favor.

I went to check out and handed them my gift card which the (Psychic) Mand with a Gun knew I had. Only $11 left on that. So I had to put the rest on my credit card. And as soon as I had signed the receipt, the Man with the Gun was gone.

Really weird.

[The upside of this story is that I smell so fucking good today I'm having a hard time not actually licking my arms and legs at work. I guess I really did need a margarita! Thanks, Man with the Gun!]

who the hell am I, anyway?

I caught up this weekend with two friends from my distant past (or what passes for distant past at 30) -- one from five years ago, and one from high school. And what I'd say to anyone contemplating this is simply: don't do it in one weekend. Even if that weekend is long, it's bound to be an odd, strange, self-questioning weekend, after which you'll need much recuperation with friends who know you really well and can remind you of who the hell you are now. Not who you were then, but who you are now.

[Or maybe, if you don't feel like you're holding your life together with string, spit and the-best-you-can-do-at-a-prayer, you can get through a weekend like that on your own. If not, I highly recommend Christina, Lisa, Sarah and Thea (in alphabetical order).]

The heartbreaking difference that I see in myself between me now and me five years ago is that I've lost most of the unbridled joy that simply comes with being young and living without worrying about the future. I hadn't been a secretary for eight years at that point, and wasn't worried that I'd be one for the rest of my life. I hadn't gone out with [insert increasingly obscene large number here] men and had it not work out. I hadn't yet begun to worry that a) I wouldn't have babies before I'm too old, b) I'd never find a man who could meet all my criteria (simple as they may seem to me), c) I would somehow let down my parents, friends or myself by not ever making a decision about my life... god, the list of what I wasn't doing then goes on and on and on.

I look back and I totally miss it -- even if, sure, a great deal of it was stupidity, ignorance and naivetee. I had no idea where I stood in the world (not that I really do now) and that didn't bother me.

I remember my roommate's favorite mantra at the time (which I both loathed her for, and secretly chanted to myself late at night in the dark): "It's ok, it's not happening." (Now it's more of a "Oh shit. It's probably going to happen.") And as I looked at these people from my past, I wondered if they think I've completely turned to shit. Where is the Kate they used to know? (And who the hell is this sitting across from me drinking all that red wine??? Her hair looks like a mushroom!)

I know (as it was reassuringly reflected to me by one friend) that most of the changes that I've made over time have been for the best. I've ditched evil, evil "friends" and found myself some truly wonderful women who are worthy of my love. I've moved out on my own, into a terrific little apartment that I adore. I've stood up for myself, questioned myself, found (and then lost again, but found for a fleeting moment) myself, and I know this is all fantastic.

But where is that old Kate? The one who believed in Capital T Theatre. Who felt like she just needed the right opportunity to make some Great Art. The Kate who took solace from the idea that she had plenty of time to make things happen. Who believed that they would, in fact, happen. Where is she? Because I feel like I've been sanded down, and that shiny, smooth, sparkly varnish that was so lovely to look at is gone. I'm just the table/bookcase/bedpost underneath.

Maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe I'm meant to be just the table, and not the shiny shiny object d'arte.

I've got both an oddly mixed metaphor and a case of really bad feng shui. Either way, it's not ok. It's still happening.

don't play with your food

Last week, I actually was a working actor! (Just when you're ready to say farewell, the fat lady gets a hairball and can't sing…)

I was cast in a project in Connecticut called Play with Your Food, which is a monthly series where the audience is given lunch and then watches anywhere between one and three short readings. (Cute idea, no?) The woman in charge of casting (who I will call Kate, simply because that's what I seem to do when I don't want to reveal someone's real name) worked as an actor for a friend of mine, who recommended me for this project.

The first week was fine. I wasn't in love with the play we were doing (My Cup Ranneth Over, by a playwright whose name I've already forgotten), but I was working with a woman I had seen audition when I was a reader for Tara Rubin Casting -- Natalia Payne. (I highly recommend her. Fellow Yalie and quite excellent!) We'd take the train to CT, do the reading, and take the train back to NYC (and then I'd go to work and stay there until all ungodly nighttime hours).

At the end of the first week, we were handed our checks and next week's train tickets, and Kate told me that we'd be having rehearsal on Monday (since it's a holiday). "No problem," I said, "any time is fine for me that day."

Friday and Saturday passed, and I got a message from Kate. "We'll be at Chelsea Studios from 11-1 on Monday. See you there." I filed that information away and thought that I was all set – I had already told her I'd be there.

Sunday afternoon, while at the Museum of Natural History with Lisa and Max (a NYC museum with a toddler is a fascinating experience… especially on a holiday weekend! But you'll have to wait on that story.) I got a message from Kate saying that she didn't know if I had gotten her message, and would I please confirm? So I called her later that night (on the phone number she called me from) and left a message that, yes, as I had said before, I was still good and planning to be there.

I stayed up very late on Sunday night (winning at cards… mostly) and got up earlier than I really wanted to on Monday, just to get to rehearsal on time. I got hosed by the F train (surprise, surprise) and I got to rehearsal ten minutes late: only to find someone else rehearsing my part!

Kate pulled me aside and said that since she never heard back from me, she had panicked. She had called and called, she said, and since I hadn't called back she had to replace me. But then she didn't bother to call me to tell me so!!

I was so flabbergasted and appalled (and Kate was appropriately mortified) that I told her I understood what she had done, and that I probably would have done the same thing in her situation. (Except I probably would have left eighteen messages, each one progressively more threatening and irritated, and I definitely would have given someone a warning -- "if I don't hear from you by 10 tonight I'm replacing you...") I left the building crying, furious, and offended that someone who had actually worked with me for a week would think I was that flaky or irresponsible.

I cooled off and managed to compose an email to Kate later, which I think was actually pretty good, so I share it here with you:

Hi Kate [obviously not the name I actually typed],

While I understand the straits you felt yourself in, and told you that I'd have done the same thing, I'm not sure I would have handled it the same way; I'd like to give you a few things to consider the next time you find yourself in this situation.

First, I never gave you any indication that I couldn't come to rehearsal or to the shows next week. I acknowledge that not all actors are good at sticking to something they've committed themselves to, but I consider myself an extremely reliable person, and am hurt that you would think otherwise of me. I know you don't know me beyond our brief interaction, but I didn't miss a beat last week, was always committed to this project, and would hope that would speak to my responsibility.

Second, I only ever got two phone messages from you. The first told me where to be and when, and the second said you hadn't heard from me. Not that you were excessively worried, not that you were going to replace me if you didn't hear from me, simply that you had not heard from me and would like to. I know that you called me at home, but you left no message there, either. I had no indication (other than the email that I didn't get until now, as I have crappy email service at home) that you were not going to be using me. Which is a professional courtesy I would have appreciated so as not to waste my time this morning coming to a rehearsal at which I was not needed.

This kind of misunderstanding and miscommunication is exactly why actors have unions and contracts. These formalities create security for producers as well, as you have some recourse to the union if an actor breaks his or her contract and leaves you in the lurch. I would strongly recommend using them in the future, if you feel you are working with actors who are less than fully committed to your work, which I was not.

I am very sad that things happened this way, and wish you the best with your series.
Kate [me, the real Kate]

In the end, I'm a little relieved to be free from the reading series, but since I consider myself such an atypical actor (especially in relation to responsibility, maturity and communication) it was just so stunning to be lumped in with the stereotype.

And yes, tsk tsk, I was working outside union jurisdiction. Since it was only a reading (and everyone else was Equity, too), I didn't feel too badly about it, but my fingers are burnt, and I won't reach for that hot pot again anytime soon. The union seems to do so little for us (in terms of actually enabling us to work) that sometimes I forget the good things it does do.

Additionally, I'd ilke to take this opportunity to thank every producer who has not replaced me. It's an appalling situation, and one I HIGHLY recommend avoiding at all costs.

Now somebody get the fat lady something to drink. I'm pretty sure I want this to be over.

my pumpkin told me so

So how did I know it was time to stop seeing that guy, you ask?

1. He told me he didn't want to see me anymore; and

2. (More importantly) the pumpkin I got when we started going out is now giving up the ghost:

I wonder what the yam on my desk will tell me. (I have a leftover from lunch the other day.)

ho ho WHOA!

(I couldn't decide where to put this post -- Sports? Nightlife? Animals? I finally ended up with Travel and Places. You'll see why.)

Remember Christmas? Yeah, me, too, it was fun! I had a tree and everything. And last weekend (yes, before New Year's) I took it down and put it in the Christmas Tree Bus Stop (so it could go on its adventure after a brief stay at my house). Some people call it the trash, but I think those people are closed minded about Where Christmas Trees Go (Eventually).

Anyway, it's been wikkid windy around here lately. X marks the spot where I first put my tree (along with two other little trees nearby).

Tree number two took off like it was a bat out of hell:
And my tree actually was a bat out of hell: Mind you, I live in Park SLOPE, and these trees rolled uphill.

That's one hell of an adventure they're getting ready for!

things I think should be rules

1. If you're shopping online, you should be able to shop for items using the search term "not ugly."

2. If you're going to follow me around in the library, you should not fart the whole time.

3. If you're going to stop seeing me, and you don't have a really good reason why (or you can't explain the reason you do have), you should at least apologize for it and try to make me not feel bad.

4. If you sit near me and I don't work for you, you should leave me alone, unless I say friendly things to you without a fake face on.

5. If you make a very alarming movie about global warming (Al, I'm talking to you), you should put at least two or three useful things individual consumers can do, instead of whipping us into a panic and then leaving us to check your website for suggestions.

6. If you're my hair, and I put product in you and try to make you go all in the same direction, you should go all in the same direction.

Thank you,
The Management

Tiger(s) of Wrath at the Brooklyn Museum

I've been to the Brooklyn Museum three times now since Thanksgiving, and I have to say, there's some really great stuff there.

The first time I went, I explored with cousin Brian, and we ran out of steam before we saw the whole museum (it is quite large, and not necessarily efficiently laid out -- to get from the fifth floor to the fourth floor, I'm pretty sure you have to go via the first floor). Next time I went with Sean, and we caught more of the works, including parts of Egypt and what I like to call the Closet-Where-the-Misbehaving-Art-Work-Has-To-Sit-And-Think-About-What-It's-Done. (I think it's actually called the Luce Art Something-or-other, and it's where they house all the pieces not currently on display. You can find the piano-bed there, which is one of the coolest things in the whole museum, if you ask me!) This last time, Thea, Ruthann and I went for Target First Saturday, which is where the museum opens to the public for free at night. And everybody and their dog goes there. (I think it redefined the word crowded for me.) They have movie screenings, talks, and (best of all) DANCE LESSONS! We learned how to polka! ("heel, toe, heel, toe, shuffle off to Buffalo!")

I am wild about the Ron Mueck exhibit, which is this terrific, very realistic sculpture... with a very skewed perspective. (if you haven't seen it, and want to, don't do research! It's better if it takes you by surprise!) The detail and specificity of the sculpture is awesome.

I'm less crazy about the Annie Liebowitz exhibit, but it's mostly because I think she's too popular a name in modern culture for it not to be waaaaaaay overcrowded. Some interesting photos there, sure, because she's got a terrific eye, but it was too obvious for me to get lost in it.

But the Tigers of Wrath exhibit is absolutely the coolest thing I've seen in a long time. The walls are covered by these huge, vibrantly colored watercolors, done (on the surface) in the style of Audobon, which also means done life-sized. But they're more subversive than your regular paintings, with thought-provoking notes scribbled in the margins and excerpts from the motivating stories printed on the placards nearby.

Thea said, and I totally agree with her, that so much of it went over her head that she wished she could talk to someone who knew more about his work. So in her honor, I did a little more digging.

"Part of the reason I got interested in using watercolor is that I was interested in painting things that looked like Audubons. They were like fake Audubons, but I twisted the subject matter a bit and got inside his head and tried to paint as if it was really his tortured soul portrayed, as if his hand betrayed him and he painted what he didn't want to expose about himself. And it was very important to me to make them look like Audubons, to make them look like they were a hundred years old. Like he painted them, but that they escaped out of him. Almost like "A Picture of Dorian Gray," but a natural history image."

"An enthusiast of the watercolors of John James Audubon, Ford celebrates the myth surrounding the renowned naturalist-painter while simultaneously repositioning him as an infamous anti-hero who, in reality, killed more animals than he ever painted. Each of Ford's animal portraits doubles as a complex, symbolic system, which the artist layers with clues, jokes, and erudite lessons in colonial literature and folktales." (source)

One of the things I missed the first time I saw the exhibit was on the Tiger of Wrath himself -- yeah, there's only one tiger painting in the entire series. He's being stung by bees, has some bald spots in his fur and looks like he just escaped from a rope binding which is on the ground beneath him. His stripes (which Ruthann pointed out to me) are images of all the different kinds of people who have invaded and waged war on the Vietnamese people over the years. Here, according to http://www.artseensoho.com/, is what's scribbled on the canvas:

Within hours after the embargo was abolished a cold war broke out between Pepsi and Coke. Both giants were busy laying the groundwork for the eventual opening long before the trade sanctions were finally lifted. American Express also struck fast, signing an agreement with...
"Do you understand it now?" The tiger, straining with all his might and main, burst his bonds and fled away into the forest. But not before the part of his fur between the ropes had been burnt black. Ever since he has worn...

You can kill ten of my men for every one of yours I kill, but even at those odds you will lose and I will win.

If you can't lie, you'll never go anywhere.

I have tried to do my duty. I want to know what duty and good sense require. I believe in duty above all.

She is only plying her trade, I am the real whore.

I feel like a hitchhiker caught in a hailstorm on a Texas highway. I can't run. I can't hide. And I can't make it stop.

Let them burn and we shall clap our hands.

You can see this picture better here, but here's a clip of it:

I highly recommend this exhibit, especially if you're interested in drawing some pretty abstract comparisons from his work. He says:

There's this guy, Anthony Alexander Kingslake, who wrote a book called "Eothen" which is about his travels in Egypt. And he talks about crossing into the Ottoman empire and suddenly becoming compromised—which meant that you were in contact with people that were carrying the plague. And you were in quarantine the minute you entered the Ottoman Empire. And so before you did it, you had to make all your preparations or else you would be stuck in quarantine for fourteen days. If you'd left one thing behind you'd have to wait fourteen days to go back. So it was like this way of leaving Christendom, as he put it, and entering the Ottoman Empire was compromising yourself, compromising your own health. And I felt it was just like John Ashcroft and the rest of those guys—it seemed like what's going on in the U.S. today. There's this idea that either you're for us or against us. Either you're compromised or you're not. Either you're infected or you're not. There's no room for middle ground now. It's like getting the plague—you can't have sympathy. You can't try to understand the other side's point of view at all, otherwise you're compromised. "You will be carefully shot and carelessly buried if you break the rules of quarantine"—that was what Anthony Alexander Kingslake wrote about crossing those lines of contamination back then. And it increasingly feels like that would happen now with the new plague, which is just basically our complete terror and fear of what we don't understand.

I totally recommend heading to Brooklyn and checking this out -- hell, call me if you want some help getting from the fifth floor to the fourth!

this is way too cool for school!

Ok, I'm trying both. The embedded one doesn't want to work for me at all (my benefits package sucks), so if you can't see that one, go here and see this one.

Thanks art history!

my sister rocks

When I told my sister I hated absolutely everything today and I couldn't figure out a good reason why, she offered up the following options:

because its friday
because the holidays are over
because you're tired
because its winter but not cold so its confusing
because there is a full moon
because boys suck
because traffic lights in new york city are four seconds too long
because george bush embarrasses you as an american
because you can't dowload aol IM
because you miss your old cold sores
because one boob is bigger than the other
because scott's new iron doesn't get hot enough
because my sweater has a hole in the elbow
because produce is not on sale at the grocery store
because that one pair of pants doesn't fit anymore
because lawyers are creepy
because you miss the flower thing you used to hang in the honda
because that stranger on the subway smelled funny
because that stranger on the subway didn't smell funny
because you can't wait for 05/06/07 since that will be so cool
because you eat lean cuisines but are still hungry afterwards
because zephyr has an eye booger
because your apartment has a slope

I love her.

the dumb report

Today is being kind of dumb. Not in an irritating way, though. In a fairly entertaining one. So, please, enjoy the dumb:

1. Dumb breakfast cereal
I eat cream of wheat for breakfast, and I usually put it in the microwave for 2 minutes, and then walk around the office kitchen, bored. Around one minute in, I'll go back and stir it, and around a minute thirty, I'll keep an eye on it, to make sure it doesn't overflow the cup. This is an exact science that took many embarrassing overflows to perfect. And my friend Andrea, who has since moved to Texas, was witness to the farina-covered walk of shame on multiple occasions, as she sits between me and the kitchen.

Today is Andrea's birthday. (Happy birthday, Andrea!!) So, while I was shuffling around the kitchen, I thought to myself, "wouldn't it be funny if I told Andrea that, in honor of her birthday, my cereal overflowed? It wouldn't have to actually overflow, I could just say it did and it would be funny." And then it did. And it wasn't funny. It was just dumb.

1.a. Dumb Cereal Part Two
Go ahead and visit www.creamofwheat.com. You'll notice that it's Kraft Foods. If I were Kraft, and someone wrote "creamofwheat.com," I'd send them right to the Cream of Wheat page, not the Recipes-That-Don't-Contain-Cream-Of-Wheat Page. (this section was dumber when I thought that Kraft didn't even make cream of wheat. Alas, they do. Sigh. Fifteen all.)

2. Dumb Frogs
My old roommate Erin used to have frogs. I hated them. I mean, they were cute, but she would leave for a week and ask me to take care of them, which meant feeding them crickets. "If they're big crickets," she'd say, "you have to pull their hind legs off, or the frogs will choke." Um, no thanks.

Well, it's January 2007, which means it's time for a new calendar. The only one they had at the store that had any character to it at all (other than the George Bush Out of Office Countdown Calendar -- and who wants to look at him all year?) was full of frogs. Yeah, I bought it. Yeah, I'm dumb. I'm taking it back over lunch to see if they have any adorable kittens goofy cows or, I don't know, NYFD hotties. Anything but frogs!

3. Dumb boys
Mr. Overseas finally called Kate, and when she said that she felt funny about their not communicating much recently, he said (and I quote as directly as I can) "oh, I don't feel funny about it at all."

Can you get much dumber than that? Reminds me of a guy I semi-dated waaaaaaay back in the day (he was 18 and I was... ahem... older). I told him "we've got a problem here," and he said, "no we don't." Oh, ok. Guess we don't then.

4. Dumb co-workers
My friend at work is going on vacation. She sent an out of office memo, saying clearly that she'd be out all next week. I get the Out of Office memo (that's circulated daily, showing who is not in today), and she's listed. And she's been listed out all week. Which wouldn't be so dumb, except that she's walked past reception (where the list is compiled) multiple times.

I may be the only person (besides my friend) who thinks this is dumb enough to be on this list. But if you don't think so too, then you might be dumb!

5. Other Dumb Coworkers
Dumb Coworker 1: You know that Celine Dion song?
Dumb Coworker 2: [names song, which I don't know]? Yeah.
Dumb Coworker 1: That song is really good to work out to.
Kate (to herself): WHAT PLANET ARE YOU FROM?

This ends the dumb report. But that's not to say that the day won't get dumber. It very well may. In fact, I almost hope it does.

yam-ipidia

I love the wikipedia. Especially for the particularly random entries, like the one for yams.

I was merely looking for some nutritional information about my lunch when I discovered that "Yam tubers can grow up to 2.5 metres in length ... and weigh up to 70 kg (150 pounds)," and that "Yams of African species must be cooked to be safely eaten because various natural substances in raw yams can cause illness if consumed." I wonder how many people had to get sick and die from eating African yams before this conversation:

African Yam Eater 1: Oh, I have a great idea! Let's pound it and leach it and boil it before we eat it.
African Yam Eater 2: No way, man, I'm hungry for some yam now! Just pound it and leach it. Screw boiling it.

(next day)

African Yam Eater 1: Sorry about your husband, African Yam Eater 3. I told him we should have boiled it, but he was just too hungry.

And on the yam-ipidia, you can see pictures of big-ass yams! (which looked like a big pile of turds to me, until closer inspection proved me wrong. Thankfully)

Perhaps, though, I should have read this entry before eating lunch:

"In a 100g serving of yams, there are 30.5g of carbohydrates so they are ideal for weight gain." Oops.

But come on! I want to find me some purple yams so I can make this cake:

And the different types of yams? Abundant:

the white yam

the water yam, winged yam, and purple yam (all same yam)

the Chinese yam

the air potato (very different from air guitar)

the lesser yam (lesser than whom, I wonder)

the cush-cush yam

the bitter yam ("she is not prettier than I yam!")

And, surprisingly? Sweet potatos are not yams. (But they are what I had for lunch.)

communication breakdown (it's always the same)

So, I have this friend who's in the middle of a crisis. And, because she's not me, and this is not her blog, I'm going to call her Kate. She is not this Kate, and she is not ugly cake (who, if you haven't guessed by now, is actually me, surpirse, surprise, I know, I know, I'm awfully clever).
Kate is very emotionally involved with a man overseas. I won't say she's in love, but she has said things like "I want to marry him and have babies with him," so it's your call on how you think she feels. Recently, however, he's been really distant. As in, I-used-to-email/text/call-you-once-a-day-(at-least)-and-now-I've-let-five-days-go-by-without-any-kind-of-real-contact-whatsoever. Which, if he hadn't already established the precedent of being in touch everyday, might not be so bad.

But what's hurting Kate is something that resounds quite heartily with me: a communication breakdown. Which can happen between any two people at any time, and invariably leaves both feeling crappy, but can really hurt the one who's being shut out. It's fascinating (and frightening), and I can't figure out what drives a man (like Mr. Overseas) to pull back in such a way that poor Kate feels completely dismissed, ignored and heartbroken.

I have a few ideas, but I think they're incomplete. The first (and, to me, cop-outiest) answer is The Holidays. People behave differently over Christmas and New Year's. Christmas brings up huge issues for a lot of people -- religion, family, childhood regressions, alienation, anger, bad parents, good parents, dead parents... whatever it is, any kind of tradition (and Christmas is the traditioniest of all holidays, I'd say) can smack us back into patterns we thought we were good and done. (Like the time this year when my sister was hanging a wreath over the mantle, and even though her husband and I both said it was a bad idea to put it over the picture frame, she did it anyway. Trivial, I know, but instead of being angry at her for completely ignoring me, like I have in the past, I intentionally let it go. And ate more candied pecans. Not everyone's Christmas crises are quite so simple, though.)

And then, once you get over Christmas, BAM!, it's new year's and people feel an obligation to behave differently once again. To make resolutions to change. To start fresh. To disrupt whatever order may or may not have been established before.

I get the holidays excuse. I understand that this happens, even if I don't always understand why. And I think the best way to navigate the holidays is to be in communication with your partner/date/crush(/family/friends/blog readers) about what's going on. "I need some space right now to get through the holidays" is a far better message than the "fuck you" a girl hears when you don't call her on new year's. "I don't understand why you need this" is much easier to navigate than "no, I won't" (whatever is at stake).

But let's say it's not the holidays. Let's say it's another woman making him distant, as Kate fears. How do you handle that -- especially if it's not something serious? I don't think you can say "oh, I need a little space right now to make out with someone else." But I do think something needs to be said. Whatever the cause (e.g., work, stress, illness, family, whatever), the drop off in communication needs to be addressed. Ignorance is not bliss, at least not in a relationship.

So why doesn't Kate step up and ask him about this, you're asking? Good point. And I think she will (or may even be in the process of it now). But there's a very delicate balance set up between a loving woman and the emotionally skittish man she cares about. We women feel the need to play it "cool as a cucumber" (as my sister advised me in the posh country club bathroom) and let our men make their decisions, but at some point (I've decided), it's important to step up and say "less communication than this is not ok, and I'm prepared to leave if that's all I get," or something similar.

What's odd is that the more you focus on communicating clearly, the more you sound like a psychology textbook. Sometimes, though, sounding like an therapy-quoting emotional nerd actually helps the situation.

Kate is angry and hurt and bereft. I told her that everything she feels is completely valid, but that in confronting Mr. Overseas, she needs to remember what she wants out of all of this -- resumed communication, not an end to the relationship. Her impulse is to say (and I quote) "what the fuck, [insert last name only]?" I told her that maybe an approach more along the lines of "I have something I'd like to talk to you about because I'm feeling angry and frustrated and would like your help in trying to resolve it" might actually lead her nearer to where she wants to be.

I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking all of this. Maybe there is no such thing as a communication breakdown, and it's just one person pulling back because he doesn't care as much anymore. Maybe, as the evil evil book says, he really is just not that into you, and no matter what you do, you won't be able to change his mind or behavior.

I have no answers. Really, all I care about is Kate. Both Kates. All Kates.

vo ho ho!

For any of you involved in voiceover (vo), you'll get a kick out of this.

Or maybe not.

I did.

Vo ho ho!