Paik left a lasting impression in the world, showing people that sometimes art is not found in the tape that's shot, but rather the way the tape is played.
Nam June Paik, dead at 74.
Not so random, but I'm still musing.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
RIP - Nam June Paik
This guy does incredible artwork that combines video and sculpture media. I was lucky enough to catch an exhibit of his at the Guggenheim a few years ago.
Paik left a lasting impression in the world, showing people that sometimes art is not found in the tape that's shot, but rather the way the tape is played.
Nam June Paik, dead at 74.
Paik left a lasting impression in the world, showing people that sometimes art is not found in the tape that's shot, but rather the way the tape is played.
Nam June Paik, dead at 74.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Men I've Loved: Number Three
Somebody told me Number Three reads this blog with passing interest. This same person mentioned how they were wondering whether I was ever going to write about him at all.
Well, I guess now is as good as time as any.
*********************************************************
Our orbits zipped past each other long before our first kiss. We were in the same program at college but I had never spoken to you, and you pretty much didn't speak to anyone who hadn't already left an impression on our professors. You aspired to reach greatness and only wanted to surround yourself with the same. Years later you must have seen a similar flame burning within my eyes.
We spent a brief stint working at the same television station after school but it wasn't until you returned a few years later, when I had established myself at the competition as a wacky girl with blind, bullheaded drive.
The minute you returned, I knew I had to be near you. I wanted some of that passion, some of that cocky swagger to rub onto me.
It wasn't until a few months later. The breezy evenings of September had set in but I was still wearing sundresses with little hemlines. The laid back laughter of a Wednesday night bar crowd had called and so I dashed some perfume on my wrists, behind my knees, the nape of my neck and on my collarbones. I wanted my scent to mix in and waft your direction, luring you to my life.
It was the first time Number Three and I had spent some time together as a pair. Previously we had spent time as an odd little threesome. The Player, Three and Me. A mix of hard, glittery marbles, rolling in the same careless direction. As the days spun on I spent hours and hours with the two men, but never together. They grew to dislike each other, and I had a hard time juggling the differences. Juggling my feelings.
I wanted to impress Three. He liked gimmicks, whether that meant low cleavage or a smart use of a white flash spliced between frames of video. My gimmick was a cicada. I picked one off the gnarly, wooded bar and told him I'd down it for a small bet. It's wings were as thin as the colored, cellophane gels used with his light kits, thoughtfully throwing some color on a subject.
As those paper thin pieces fluttered down my esophagus, I had no idea I was getting lured into your own cheap trick.
You came home with me that night laying down the ground rules. Casual. Casual in an underscored, bold type way. I obliged wanting to just be close. I wanted to pry you open. I wanted to learn your secrets. Learn about your boyhood dreams and your manhood realities. I wanted to discover what made you tick. And I wanted to work my way inside you, too.
Three wanted things to be quiet. He had cleaned up a muddy, rumpled reputation and he said he wanted to maintain a positive impression with his coworkers. He didn't need the stress (or the talk) of a relationship that blurred the line cutting between his personal and professional lives. I gave it the good, college try but I got sick of being denied. Denied of the familiarities that come with the physical frequency we experienced. Denied of the intimacy that comes with anything that lasts beyond short term.
I tried to be quiet. I tried to suppress any acknowledgement you even had a virile side. We'd walk by each other, shoulder grazing shoulder and yet I'd stare straight out that window looking onto the surreal combination of satellite dishes and stallions. I thought if I gave you time and space you'd find your way to mine.
But I had to tell someone. I told my emotional confidant, the guy who could really break down the male pysche for me. I told my best female friend, the woman who ironically rode shotgun with you every day through Eastern Kentucky's rolling hills. She was able to provide some much needed inside baseball. Reasons why you'd unleash your bad mood on me. Reasons why you'd act like your mind was a million miles away from anywhere earthly.
But over time more and more people discovered. And it was actually something you seemed okay with. Showing up at parties with me. Leaving parties with me. Calling me to pick your drunk ass up from the bar because there were too many cops on Main Street. We had turned a corner and you started opening up. Showing me tape of basketball games you shot way back in high school. Ripping off my clothes at the flash of a teasing expression. I remember the washer in someone's basement. I remember you letting me drive your truck when my car was dead. Letting me stay at your house the weekend of the ice storm. Without you. I remember getting Shug's hair all over my clothes, crumpled up on the bottom of your floor. I remember Jenna Jameson.
Yeah, I remember. All of it.
Three and I went on and on like this. Back and forth like a hot sticky ping-pong match. Fast and fleeting but really of no consequence. He never really gave me a piece of his emotions and so I had to supplement the physics of our relationship with the personal intimacy of The Player. To this day I swear if God could have combined them I would have discovered the holy grail of the Perfect Man.
Then Three grew quiet. One month I was dressed to the nines, going to a wedding reception with him (I still can't believe you requested Pussy Control to get all the girls dancing), him showing up at my house later with a hard dick and a bag of sliders. The next month he was ignoring me, ushering into the bar some girl with awful, silver shoes and even worse eyebrows.
He had moved in with her without even really breaking up with me. Yeah. Breaking up. Something has to break when a man stops seeing a girl he'd been sleeping with for eight months.
In time, Silver Shoes got her own payback. That's somebody else's story to tell so I won't get into it here. In hindsight, everyone wrote him off as a man who was "young, dumb and full of cum." I wrote him off as someone who, just maybe, would someday realize the error of his ways. They all said I was better off. And he knew it, too.
I think you only started telling the truth towards the end. You said "Kate. You're a better person than me."
Three, you have no idea.
I still think of you. Not with the piss and vinegar I used to. Now it's kind of a fond recollection of my wild days. I am so thrilled I've discovered the warm spot my life has made for me, and I wish you the best in yours. Still, little things remind me of way back. The Chili Peppers are an instant round trip ticket to the memories of 2002 and 2003. So are the four little letters of N-P-P-A. And the old smell of cigarettes and Polo Blue.
And I'm sure you're reminded of me. At the very least, whenever you look at your long, strong arms and see that thick scar. The Teardrop, as you called it. Earned that wet, wild night you punched a fist through my door window during a party.
So. Kiss your Emmys for me. And your babies and your wife. I wish you the best as you crack open this next, optimistic chapter of your life. I've done some kissing of my own. Goodbye to the past. Goodbye to complacency. Goodbye to settling.
Well, I guess now is as good as time as any.
*********************************************************
Our orbits zipped past each other long before our first kiss. We were in the same program at college but I had never spoken to you, and you pretty much didn't speak to anyone who hadn't already left an impression on our professors. You aspired to reach greatness and only wanted to surround yourself with the same. Years later you must have seen a similar flame burning within my eyes.
We spent a brief stint working at the same television station after school but it wasn't until you returned a few years later, when I had established myself at the competition as a wacky girl with blind, bullheaded drive.
The minute you returned, I knew I had to be near you. I wanted some of that passion, some of that cocky swagger to rub onto me.
It wasn't until a few months later. The breezy evenings of September had set in but I was still wearing sundresses with little hemlines. The laid back laughter of a Wednesday night bar crowd had called and so I dashed some perfume on my wrists, behind my knees, the nape of my neck and on my collarbones. I wanted my scent to mix in and waft your direction, luring you to my life.
It was the first time Number Three and I had spent some time together as a pair. Previously we had spent time as an odd little threesome. The Player, Three and Me. A mix of hard, glittery marbles, rolling in the same careless direction. As the days spun on I spent hours and hours with the two men, but never together. They grew to dislike each other, and I had a hard time juggling the differences. Juggling my feelings.
I wanted to impress Three. He liked gimmicks, whether that meant low cleavage or a smart use of a white flash spliced between frames of video. My gimmick was a cicada. I picked one off the gnarly, wooded bar and told him I'd down it for a small bet. It's wings were as thin as the colored, cellophane gels used with his light kits, thoughtfully throwing some color on a subject.
As those paper thin pieces fluttered down my esophagus, I had no idea I was getting lured into your own cheap trick.
You came home with me that night laying down the ground rules. Casual. Casual in an underscored, bold type way. I obliged wanting to just be close. I wanted to pry you open. I wanted to learn your secrets. Learn about your boyhood dreams and your manhood realities. I wanted to discover what made you tick. And I wanted to work my way inside you, too.
Three wanted things to be quiet. He had cleaned up a muddy, rumpled reputation and he said he wanted to maintain a positive impression with his coworkers. He didn't need the stress (or the talk) of a relationship that blurred the line cutting between his personal and professional lives. I gave it the good, college try but I got sick of being denied. Denied of the familiarities that come with the physical frequency we experienced. Denied of the intimacy that comes with anything that lasts beyond short term.
I tried to be quiet. I tried to suppress any acknowledgement you even had a virile side. We'd walk by each other, shoulder grazing shoulder and yet I'd stare straight out that window looking onto the surreal combination of satellite dishes and stallions. I thought if I gave you time and space you'd find your way to mine.
But I had to tell someone. I told my emotional confidant, the guy who could really break down the male pysche for me. I told my best female friend, the woman who ironically rode shotgun with you every day through Eastern Kentucky's rolling hills. She was able to provide some much needed inside baseball. Reasons why you'd unleash your bad mood on me. Reasons why you'd act like your mind was a million miles away from anywhere earthly.
But over time more and more people discovered. And it was actually something you seemed okay with. Showing up at parties with me. Leaving parties with me. Calling me to pick your drunk ass up from the bar because there were too many cops on Main Street. We had turned a corner and you started opening up. Showing me tape of basketball games you shot way back in high school. Ripping off my clothes at the flash of a teasing expression. I remember the washer in someone's basement. I remember you letting me drive your truck when my car was dead. Letting me stay at your house the weekend of the ice storm. Without you. I remember getting Shug's hair all over my clothes, crumpled up on the bottom of your floor. I remember Jenna Jameson.
Yeah, I remember. All of it.
Three and I went on and on like this. Back and forth like a hot sticky ping-pong match. Fast and fleeting but really of no consequence. He never really gave me a piece of his emotions and so I had to supplement the physics of our relationship with the personal intimacy of The Player. To this day I swear if God could have combined them I would have discovered the holy grail of the Perfect Man.
Then Three grew quiet. One month I was dressed to the nines, going to a wedding reception with him (I still can't believe you requested Pussy Control to get all the girls dancing), him showing up at my house later with a hard dick and a bag of sliders. The next month he was ignoring me, ushering into the bar some girl with awful, silver shoes and even worse eyebrows.
He had moved in with her without even really breaking up with me. Yeah. Breaking up. Something has to break when a man stops seeing a girl he'd been sleeping with for eight months.
In time, Silver Shoes got her own payback. That's somebody else's story to tell so I won't get into it here. In hindsight, everyone wrote him off as a man who was "young, dumb and full of cum." I wrote him off as someone who, just maybe, would someday realize the error of his ways. They all said I was better off. And he knew it, too.
I think you only started telling the truth towards the end. You said "Kate. You're a better person than me."
Three, you have no idea.
I still think of you. Not with the piss and vinegar I used to. Now it's kind of a fond recollection of my wild days. I am so thrilled I've discovered the warm spot my life has made for me, and I wish you the best in yours. Still, little things remind me of way back. The Chili Peppers are an instant round trip ticket to the memories of 2002 and 2003. So are the four little letters of N-P-P-A. And the old smell of cigarettes and Polo Blue.
And I'm sure you're reminded of me. At the very least, whenever you look at your long, strong arms and see that thick scar. The Teardrop, as you called it. Earned that wet, wild night you punched a fist through my door window during a party.
So. Kiss your Emmys for me. And your babies and your wife. I wish you the best as you crack open this next, optimistic chapter of your life. I've done some kissing of my own. Goodbye to the past. Goodbye to complacency. Goodbye to settling.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
I'm Intrigued
In today's Cincinnati Enquirer:
Sagittarius (Nov. 22 - Dec. 21): The one you love and the one who loves you is the same person. Wow. Thank your lucky stars.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22 - Dec. 21): The one you love and the one who loves you is the same person. Wow. Thank your lucky stars.
Winter Reading List
My pal D Money recently rattled off a list of books she's enjoyed recently.
My list goes as follows:
Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman (thanks to Micah for the birthday present). It's a great statement on pop culture and the media. Seeing as I'm a member of the latter, I enjoyed the essay.
We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates. She's the author in residence at Princeton University. The novel is about a loving, idylic family that is ripped to shreds by a rape. Good read, but JCO is a bit long winded where descriptions are concerned. I'd say that it would be a three hour movie that could have an hour edited out of it.
Right now:
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I'm only about 200 pages in, but so far this is a page turner. It's about a teenage girl who's raped, killed and dismembered. She describes her personal heaven and visits people (like family and friends) while the cops try to crack the case.
My list goes as follows:
Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman (thanks to Micah for the birthday present). It's a great statement on pop culture and the media. Seeing as I'm a member of the latter, I enjoyed the essay.
We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates. She's the author in residence at Princeton University. The novel is about a loving, idylic family that is ripped to shreds by a rape. Good read, but JCO is a bit long winded where descriptions are concerned. I'd say that it would be a three hour movie that could have an hour edited out of it.
Right now:
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I'm only about 200 pages in, but so far this is a page turner. It's about a teenage girl who's raped, killed and dismembered. She describes her personal heaven and visits people (like family and friends) while the cops try to crack the case.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
TomKat Talk
So... the talk is that Mister Scientologist had a super hot sex scene featuring the woman carrying his baby cut from a movie at Sundance. Others say Tom didn't have anything to do with it.
I think he's gone wacko, and wouldn't be surprised at all.
Speaking of TomKat, this blog apparently is keeping tabs on the strange, ever present bump on Katie's tummy.
Some people (perhaps for just the sake of celebrity controversy) say that TomKat is not really expecting at all.
I think he's gone wacko, and wouldn't be surprised at all.
Speaking of TomKat, this blog apparently is keeping tabs on the strange, ever present bump on Katie's tummy.
Some people (perhaps for just the sake of celebrity controversy) say that TomKat is not really expecting at all.
Help Wanted
Management reserves the right to make changes and alterations as she sees fit.
Man needed. Must fit following requirements. Preferably older than 28 although some concessions will be made depending on the applicant's qualities. No older than 45. Must have steady, somewhat professional job. People with careers in the arts or something else less "professional" also considered. Minimum wage earners need not apply. Preferably taller than 6' tall, and a special consideration will be made for those who are 6'3". Those with a kind heart who are 5'7" will also be considered but must be able to compensate in other areas. See below. Must be good with money. That does not necessarily mean applicant must have lots of money, rather, those interested must be responsible with their finances, as management is not in a position to be in charge of all financial enterprises. Must be funny. Not funny in a gross or immature way, more like quick with a witty joke or tale. Must have a gregarious streak, as management has a somewhat "big" personality and is not interested in an applicant who would be eclipsed, so to speak. Must also be insightful and retrospective, as management also has a streak of reflection and reservedness. Must love kids. Must want to have kids. Must also love already existing family members. Applicant must be interested in the arts. Theatre, museums, music and other genres included. Those interested in applying must also like sports. May or not currently play sports, but past experience is a bonus. Kentucky Wildcat fans may be offered immediate promotion. Must be faithful. Management has certain goals to attain and is seeking specific qualities, see above remarks regarding children and family. Must be religious, preferably Catholic. Connection to one's spirituality is a top requirement. Applicant must have a current Passport. Management will consider those coping with wanderlust and other ailments typical of those battling the travel bug. Those interested in said position must also like food. Good food. Management is quite experienced at both eating and cooking and requires an applicant who is the same. Skills at entertaining are also a top priority. Applicants must be successful at opening champagne bottles, grilling steaks and witty repartee. Candidate must have a soft touch both with hands and heart. Must be a good lover, both physically and otherwise. Must be adventurous. Must enjoy putting suntan lotion on Management during summer months and other occasions (see travel comments above). Those interested in applying must like fast cars, and must be able to drive a stick shift. Applicants must be smart. Not necessarily MENSA smart, but must have a four year degree from reputable college/university. Applicants must also have a passing interest in fashion. Familiarity with current seasonal lines not a requirement, but must at least know the directions and have some familiarity with the inside of a GAP and Banana Republic. Brooks Brothers a plus.
Those interested in applying may email Kate directly.
Man needed. Must fit following requirements. Preferably older than 28 although some concessions will be made depending on the applicant's qualities. No older than 45. Must have steady, somewhat professional job. People with careers in the arts or something else less "professional" also considered. Minimum wage earners need not apply. Preferably taller than 6' tall, and a special consideration will be made for those who are 6'3". Those with a kind heart who are 5'7" will also be considered but must be able to compensate in other areas. See below. Must be good with money. That does not necessarily mean applicant must have lots of money, rather, those interested must be responsible with their finances, as management is not in a position to be in charge of all financial enterprises. Must be funny. Not funny in a gross or immature way, more like quick with a witty joke or tale. Must have a gregarious streak, as management has a somewhat "big" personality and is not interested in an applicant who would be eclipsed, so to speak. Must also be insightful and retrospective, as management also has a streak of reflection and reservedness. Must love kids. Must want to have kids. Must also love already existing family members. Applicant must be interested in the arts. Theatre, museums, music and other genres included. Those interested in applying must also like sports. May or not currently play sports, but past experience is a bonus. Kentucky Wildcat fans may be offered immediate promotion. Must be faithful. Management has certain goals to attain and is seeking specific qualities, see above remarks regarding children and family. Must be religious, preferably Catholic. Connection to one's spirituality is a top requirement. Applicant must have a current Passport. Management will consider those coping with wanderlust and other ailments typical of those battling the travel bug. Those interested in said position must also like food. Good food. Management is quite experienced at both eating and cooking and requires an applicant who is the same. Skills at entertaining are also a top priority. Applicants must be successful at opening champagne bottles, grilling steaks and witty repartee. Candidate must have a soft touch both with hands and heart. Must be a good lover, both physically and otherwise. Must be adventurous. Must enjoy putting suntan lotion on Management during summer months and other occasions (see travel comments above). Those interested in applying must like fast cars, and must be able to drive a stick shift. Applicants must be smart. Not necessarily MENSA smart, but must have a four year degree from reputable college/university. Applicants must also have a passing interest in fashion. Familiarity with current seasonal lines not a requirement, but must at least know the directions and have some familiarity with the inside of a GAP and Banana Republic. Brooks Brothers a plus.
Those interested in applying may email Kate directly.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Good Morning Bluegrass
Hello to all my readers in Lexington (new and old). I hope you're somewhat entertained by my little mental playground, as I like to call it.
If you find yourself described somewhere in the archives, I hope you find it a) entertaining and b) less than insulting. I really don't say too many bad things. In fact, I mostly say just lots of bad things about myself.
Anyway.
As my good friend D Money says, "Kate, you're not hateful, you just tell the truth. And that can hurt just as bad."
Anyway.
To my #1 Gal Pal, Honorary Big Sis and GOP Big Wig, looking forward to hopefully seeing each and every one of you when I return to Lex this weekend.
If you find yourself described somewhere in the archives, I hope you find it a) entertaining and b) less than insulting. I really don't say too many bad things. In fact, I mostly say just lots of bad things about myself.
Anyway.
As my good friend D Money says, "Kate, you're not hateful, you just tell the truth. And that can hurt just as bad."
Anyway.
To my #1 Gal Pal, Honorary Big Sis and GOP Big Wig, looking forward to hopefully seeing each and every one of you when I return to Lex this weekend.
Theatre For One
So, I have tickets to the theatre tonight, and no one to go with.
My date cancelled on me, so I am left hanging with a pair of tickets to see Golda's Balcony (about Golda Meir, if you didn't know) starring Valerie Harper. Should be great, so I am considering going it alone.
I'm a big girl, and big girls do things like that - go the the theatre alone, that is.
I also have tickets to see Thom Pain:Based on Nothing for tomorrow night. It's also in monologue format and was a 2005 Pulitzer Prize finalist.
Not too shabby.
Anyway, don't know if anyone will go with me to that.
Thursday my standard sidekick (or should I say henchwoman? Ha ha!! that's a post for another day) and I are going to the Bacchanalian Society's seasonal wine tasting. This time it's all about chianti, and I am thinking this is going to open us to a completely different set of rarified air, at least where men are concerned.
It's nice, working some things into the weekly social calendar, but honestly. I don't know when I'm going to find time to sleep...
My date cancelled on me, so I am left hanging with a pair of tickets to see Golda's Balcony (about Golda Meir, if you didn't know) starring Valerie Harper. Should be great, so I am considering going it alone.
I'm a big girl, and big girls do things like that - go the the theatre alone, that is.
I also have tickets to see Thom Pain:Based on Nothing for tomorrow night. It's also in monologue format and was a 2005 Pulitzer Prize finalist.
Not too shabby.
Anyway, don't know if anyone will go with me to that.
Thursday my standard sidekick (or should I say henchwoman? Ha ha!! that's a post for another day) and I are going to the Bacchanalian Society's seasonal wine tasting. This time it's all about chianti, and I am thinking this is going to open us to a completely different set of rarified air, at least where men are concerned.
It's nice, working some things into the weekly social calendar, but honestly. I don't know when I'm going to find time to sleep...
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Nourishment from The Queen
Shopping malls and
Starbucks calls
And yet they leave me
Wanting more
Comercialism
A primal schism
From my senses
My inspiration
My thought
High on the hill
Emotions sought
And found
Thanks to Mondrian
Color, creation of others,
Images of sound
Down the way a
Warmer day inside glass
Green grass and
Kumquats. Flowers bought
And trees of old.
I'm hungry no more the
Queen of lore lives up
To Stories said beyond
The riverbed.
Starbucks calls
And yet they leave me
Wanting more
Comercialism
A primal schism
From my senses
My inspiration
My thought
High on the hill
Emotions sought
And found
Thanks to Mondrian
Color, creation of others,
Images of sound
Down the way a
Warmer day inside glass
Green grass and
Kumquats. Flowers bought
And trees of old.
I'm hungry no more the
Queen of lore lives up
To Stories said beyond
The riverbed.
Friday, January 20, 2006
I Finally Get A Wedding To Plan
Okay, so it's not my own. But that's okay with me.
I am in love with the idea of marriage. Unfortunately, I'm not jumping at the chance to tie the knot right now, seeing as Mister Prince Charming is either in hiding or hasn't made his way to my area code yet.
In the meantime though, I am happy to live vicariously through my friends.
I've been married a couple times. Once on the beach, once in one of Cincinnati's most historic churches. Once in my hometown church with the most stunning seaside reception. I've had tons of kids. I've got one little boy who just learned how to walk when holding on to the couch. I had two little girls in the calendar year of 2005, and I also have a little four year old boy who is learning his sounds and how they form words on the page. And get this: I am even expecting a little boy in May.
Well, now I just got engaged.
This stunning image brought to you by Tiffany
I'm speaking facetiously, of course.
A wonderful friend of mine just got proposed to by this great guy, another friend of mine. They are the cutest couple and they have an amazing love for each other. This man is successful and I think a bit used to his ways, so to speak, so some of us wondered whether he'd muster the strength (or perhaps cojones) to pop the question. One thing's for sure: we knew he'd be a fool to let this gem of a girl get away.
Anyway.
My friend just asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, and I am thrilled. It's going to be a Catholic wedding (read: lots of drinking and dancing) and I am always up for a great party, but more importantly I have a huge respect and admiration for a union I completely believe in.
Best wishes to the happy couple. I'll be there with bells on (and if the bride has her way, some tap shoes, too) in September!
I am in love with the idea of marriage. Unfortunately, I'm not jumping at the chance to tie the knot right now, seeing as Mister Prince Charming is either in hiding or hasn't made his way to my area code yet.
In the meantime though, I am happy to live vicariously through my friends.
I've been married a couple times. Once on the beach, once in one of Cincinnati's most historic churches. Once in my hometown church with the most stunning seaside reception. I've had tons of kids. I've got one little boy who just learned how to walk when holding on to the couch. I had two little girls in the calendar year of 2005, and I also have a little four year old boy who is learning his sounds and how they form words on the page. And get this: I am even expecting a little boy in May.
Well, now I just got engaged.
This stunning image brought to you by TiffanyI'm speaking facetiously, of course.
A wonderful friend of mine just got proposed to by this great guy, another friend of mine. They are the cutest couple and they have an amazing love for each other. This man is successful and I think a bit used to his ways, so to speak, so some of us wondered whether he'd muster the strength (or perhaps cojones) to pop the question. One thing's for sure: we knew he'd be a fool to let this gem of a girl get away.
Anyway.
My friend just asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, and I am thrilled. It's going to be a Catholic wedding (read: lots of drinking and dancing) and I am always up for a great party, but more importantly I have a huge respect and admiration for a union I completely believe in.
Best wishes to the happy couple. I'll be there with bells on (and if the bride has her way, some tap shoes, too) in September!
The Pretty Pitts
Catheter Queen
So, I forgot what it was like to have to really use the bathroom. You know, the sudden urge that forces you to squeeze your legs together and focus on nothing but making it to the toilet with dry pants.
Mind the Puddle:
Trocadero Subway Station, Paris.
I've peed my pants in some pretty uncomfortable places before. It always involves a full bladder and lots of laughing.
Off the top of my head, I can recall a time I was changing a lightbulb before I had a college party with some friends. We wanted a red glow to warm up the front porch on Limestone Street, so I hopped on a particleboard bookcase to change the bulb. A friend of mine was trying to hold me up, but I think she was a bit too tipsy for the task. I lost my balance, she dropped me and I wet my pants... all in one fell swoop.
Another time, I was running with some high school friends through a Paris subway station. We were overseas to sing at various spots in honor of the 50th anniversary of D-Day, and it was 4th of July. Five of us were running through the Trocadero station, all trying to get through the turnstile on one ticket, and I just about lost it. Fear, excitement and urgency were rushing through my brains, and somehow I just let go of everything in my bladder. I was wearing a skirt for the occasion, so everything just ran down my legs, making for a puddle on the train platform. One of my friends grabbed the big Evian bottle in my hand (I don't think all the sloshing around helped me when we were running through the station) and just started dousing my legs.
So, maybe that's why Paris smells so bad.
Anyway.
This new diet is bringing some changes to my routine. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating, between all the water and the extra fluid in all the fruit I'm eating. I went to the bathroom three times within my first five hours at work. Pre-diet, I'd only go maybe one visit a shift.
I guess it's good, flushing out all these impurities. I'm just glad I don't pay the water bill at home.
Mind the Puddle:Trocadero Subway Station, Paris.
I've peed my pants in some pretty uncomfortable places before. It always involves a full bladder and lots of laughing.
Off the top of my head, I can recall a time I was changing a lightbulb before I had a college party with some friends. We wanted a red glow to warm up the front porch on Limestone Street, so I hopped on a particleboard bookcase to change the bulb. A friend of mine was trying to hold me up, but I think she was a bit too tipsy for the task. I lost my balance, she dropped me and I wet my pants... all in one fell swoop.
Another time, I was running with some high school friends through a Paris subway station. We were overseas to sing at various spots in honor of the 50th anniversary of D-Day, and it was 4th of July. Five of us were running through the Trocadero station, all trying to get through the turnstile on one ticket, and I just about lost it. Fear, excitement and urgency were rushing through my brains, and somehow I just let go of everything in my bladder. I was wearing a skirt for the occasion, so everything just ran down my legs, making for a puddle on the train platform. One of my friends grabbed the big Evian bottle in my hand (I don't think all the sloshing around helped me when we were running through the station) and just started dousing my legs.
So, maybe that's why Paris smells so bad.
Anyway.
This new diet is bringing some changes to my routine. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating, between all the water and the extra fluid in all the fruit I'm eating. I went to the bathroom three times within my first five hours at work. Pre-diet, I'd only go maybe one visit a shift.
I guess it's good, flushing out all these impurities. I'm just glad I don't pay the water bill at home.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
If You Do One Thing This Week, Buy This Book
I read this book by Elie Weisel (pronounced like Eli, not like Miss Ellie from Dallas) oh, at least ten years ago and it left a vivid imprint on my brain.
The story is Weisel's account of the Holocaust. I've been passionately interested in the topic ever since I was in high school (even visiting a concentration camp in Germany) and this is one of the better books I've read on the period, aside from Anne Frank's journal.
The book just became Oprah's book club choice, trumping the recent controversy of A Million Little Pieces.
Right now you can get Night at Barnes and Noble for I think about 12 bucks.
Well worth the price.
The story is Weisel's account of the Holocaust. I've been passionately interested in the topic ever since I was in high school (even visiting a concentration camp in Germany) and this is one of the better books I've read on the period, aside from Anne Frank's journal.
The book just became Oprah's book club choice, trumping the recent controversy of A Million Little Pieces.
Right now you can get Night at Barnes and Noble for I think about 12 bucks.
Well worth the price.
The Curtains Match The Carpet
I've always been a blonde, even when I wasn't.
You see, I am the oldest of three girls, and we all had different colors of hair when we were little.
I practically lived at the pool as a kid, and so between all that chlorine and my time on the soccer field (I played for seven years) my hair had a way of getting really blonde. Like, towhead blonde.
My middle sister is the brunette. Dark, thick hair that matches her darker complexion, big brown eyes and that wicked streak she has that led to so many fights (as well as scars on my arms). It's funny. We have the same parents and I'm guessing very similar genetic make-up, and yet we couldn't look more different.
The baby is the redhead. She's ten years younger than I, and has always had the fiery spirit you'd expect from someone with those red streaks in their mane. Playful and yet quick to be argumentative, I kind of think of her as a little lap dog. Her hair has gotten darker over time, but it still has a burnt crimson glow.
Hundreds of thousands of heartbeats have passed since my towhead, slinking-in-the-deep-end years, and yet still I cannot let go of blonde. It's my persona. It's my family identity. It's my fantasy.
Last summer I went platinum for the first time. An old roommate of mine had urged me light years ago to go Marilyn, and yet for some reason (read: Christina Aguilera) I was hesitant. I had seen examples that had gone terribly wrong, and well, seeing as I don't exactly have a personal stylist on stand-by, I wasn't really willing to take any chances.
I eased into it, month by month going a little lighter, until around July I found myself looking like a representative for the Aryan race. Boy, did it need upkeep. Soon enough my monthly cut and highlight addiction wasn't enough. I found myself calling up to see if they could fit me in for a touchup around day nineteen, "Just to do the roots, hon."
Until this fall I said Enough is enough.
I was afraid to go dark. I'm not a dark girl. My personality (once you get over the prickly apprehension and shy insecurities) is not dark. I'm actually a bright, sparkly girl inside who quite fits the blonde persona. Unfortunately, the blonde persona doesn't really fit in with the dark, drab mood of autumn. So I started adding lowlights. Bit by bit until my hair was maybe a flaxen blonde.
Tuesday I went in for my monthly fix and decided to press the envelope. I still have a few of the platinum highlights skewed about, but I decided to add the darkest lowlight I've ever had thus far. I'm guessing my hair is the closest to natural it's ever been.
And I don't know how I feel about that.
It doesn't look sexy in my book. It looks reliable, serious, bookish or even tame, perhaps. I don't know that I would use the more comfortable adjectives of flirty, vibrant, racy or teasing to describe my new 'do. I have gravitated to an edge of the pool I've never swam in, and I don't know how comfortable I feel doing breaststroke.
Oh well. What with yesterday's 60 degree weather, I know one thing: springtime isn't that far away, and neither is my whole head of blonde hair.
You see, I am the oldest of three girls, and we all had different colors of hair when we were little.
I practically lived at the pool as a kid, and so between all that chlorine and my time on the soccer field (I played for seven years) my hair had a way of getting really blonde. Like, towhead blonde.
My middle sister is the brunette. Dark, thick hair that matches her darker complexion, big brown eyes and that wicked streak she has that led to so many fights (as well as scars on my arms). It's funny. We have the same parents and I'm guessing very similar genetic make-up, and yet we couldn't look more different.
The baby is the redhead. She's ten years younger than I, and has always had the fiery spirit you'd expect from someone with those red streaks in their mane. Playful and yet quick to be argumentative, I kind of think of her as a little lap dog. Her hair has gotten darker over time, but it still has a burnt crimson glow.
Hundreds of thousands of heartbeats have passed since my towhead, slinking-in-the-deep-end years, and yet still I cannot let go of blonde. It's my persona. It's my family identity. It's my fantasy.
Last summer I went platinum for the first time. An old roommate of mine had urged me light years ago to go Marilyn, and yet for some reason (read: Christina Aguilera) I was hesitant. I had seen examples that had gone terribly wrong, and well, seeing as I don't exactly have a personal stylist on stand-by, I wasn't really willing to take any chances.
I eased into it, month by month going a little lighter, until around July I found myself looking like a representative for the Aryan race. Boy, did it need upkeep. Soon enough my monthly cut and highlight addiction wasn't enough. I found myself calling up to see if they could fit me in for a touchup around day nineteen, "Just to do the roots, hon."
Until this fall I said Enough is enough.
I was afraid to go dark. I'm not a dark girl. My personality (once you get over the prickly apprehension and shy insecurities) is not dark. I'm actually a bright, sparkly girl inside who quite fits the blonde persona. Unfortunately, the blonde persona doesn't really fit in with the dark, drab mood of autumn. So I started adding lowlights. Bit by bit until my hair was maybe a flaxen blonde.
Tuesday I went in for my monthly fix and decided to press the envelope. I still have a few of the platinum highlights skewed about, but I decided to add the darkest lowlight I've ever had thus far. I'm guessing my hair is the closest to natural it's ever been.
And I don't know how I feel about that.
It doesn't look sexy in my book. It looks reliable, serious, bookish or even tame, perhaps. I don't know that I would use the more comfortable adjectives of flirty, vibrant, racy or teasing to describe my new 'do. I have gravitated to an edge of the pool I've never swam in, and I don't know how comfortable I feel doing breaststroke.
Oh well. What with yesterday's 60 degree weather, I know one thing: springtime isn't that far away, and neither is my whole head of blonde hair.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Good Morning My Precious
Random Sunday Mornings:
---Don't you love it when someone uses terms of endearment with you? It's like a little verbal code that no one else knows, and it basically screams I'm on your side.
---It's about 9:30 in the morning and already I can tell it's going to be a glorious day. Time to flip up the sunroof. Don't you just love it when Mother Nature (which, I am proud to say, is a concept I eradicated from my professional writing over a year ago. Mother Nature is such a cheap journalism crutch. It's something people rely on when they're not creative enough to say anything better about the weather) forgets her seasons? I think she's jumping the gun a bit on this whole Springtime thing, but I'm not complaining.
---I think I'm going to be heading to a museum today. I joined one of Cincinnati's meccas of culture a zillion months ago (okay, more like nine) and haven't been getting any use out of it this winter. This town has so much to offer.
---Speaking of, I've said it earlier: I'm a Catholic girl who's in love with Jewish food. Oy vey, what's a shiksa to do? The best matzo ball soup in Cincinnati can be found at Blue Ash's Decent Deli, And let me just tell you, the food is light years away from just being decent.
I used to eat there when I was a little girl, way back before the health department started cracking down on things like big containers of Kosher dill pickles and sauerkraut on each table. Gosh, I remember eating those pickles like it was my job.
Anyway.
At 11, I'd get a can of Dr. Brown's root beer, a bowl of matzo bowl soup (back in the day you could only get the soup on Fridays, now you can get it five days a week) and either a potato pancake or a blueberry bagel. Well, I've been back several times since I moved back to Cincinnati and there are only a few changes to report: No pickles on the table and no blueberry bagels. But the potato cakes are still crispy on the outside and smooth like mashed potatoes inside. They're just incredible. Can you tell I'm hungry?
---I worked on Saturday and quite liked it. I don't really need to wax poetic on how much I love writing, and the chance to do a different show gives me the opportunity to work more on how I write and the kind of stories I write. Plus, the weekend crew is really nice and we all have the opportunity to do pretty much what we want and make the big girl calls on our own.
Anyway, I have Monday off to give me an extra day to decompress, and you won't see hide nor hair of me.
Cheers.
---Don't you love it when someone uses terms of endearment with you? It's like a little verbal code that no one else knows, and it basically screams I'm on your side.
---It's about 9:30 in the morning and already I can tell it's going to be a glorious day. Time to flip up the sunroof. Don't you just love it when Mother Nature (which, I am proud to say, is a concept I eradicated from my professional writing over a year ago. Mother Nature is such a cheap journalism crutch. It's something people rely on when they're not creative enough to say anything better about the weather) forgets her seasons? I think she's jumping the gun a bit on this whole Springtime thing, but I'm not complaining.
---I think I'm going to be heading to a museum today. I joined one of Cincinnati's meccas of culture a zillion months ago (okay, more like nine) and haven't been getting any use out of it this winter. This town has so much to offer.
---Speaking of, I've said it earlier: I'm a Catholic girl who's in love with Jewish food. Oy vey, what's a shiksa to do? The best matzo ball soup in Cincinnati can be found at Blue Ash's Decent Deli, And let me just tell you, the food is light years away from just being decent.
I used to eat there when I was a little girl, way back before the health department started cracking down on things like big containers of Kosher dill pickles and sauerkraut on each table. Gosh, I remember eating those pickles like it was my job.
Anyway.
At 11, I'd get a can of Dr. Brown's root beer, a bowl of matzo bowl soup (back in the day you could only get the soup on Fridays, now you can get it five days a week) and either a potato pancake or a blueberry bagel. Well, I've been back several times since I moved back to Cincinnati and there are only a few changes to report: No pickles on the table and no blueberry bagels. But the potato cakes are still crispy on the outside and smooth like mashed potatoes inside. They're just incredible. Can you tell I'm hungry?
---I worked on Saturday and quite liked it. I don't really need to wax poetic on how much I love writing, and the chance to do a different show gives me the opportunity to work more on how I write and the kind of stories I write. Plus, the weekend crew is really nice and we all have the opportunity to do pretty much what we want and make the big girl calls on our own.
Anyway, I have Monday off to give me an extra day to decompress, and you won't see hide nor hair of me.
Cheers.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Brown Baggin' It
Friday was payday, and so that meant a trip to the grocery was in order so as to make sure the pantry and refrigerator got stocked before I spent all my cash at the mall or bar.
I've heard of liquid diet before, but I'd have to say the FDA has yet to come out with a Barley and Hops food pyramid. I'd guess two weeks of living on beer (or liquor or wine for that matter) would do nothing but wreak havoc on my latest challenge.
Anyway.
Friday morning I tooled around Cincinnati's best grocery store for singles in a cart with an effed up wheel. I had just wrapped up a week on my regularly scheduled graveyard shift, so it's safe to admit I was probably looking like anything but fresh as a daisy. The town's ladies who lunch were starting their mornings in their Burberry barncoats and Chanel handbags looking for organic cheeses and fresh artisan bread. Me? I just wanted some Campbell's Soup at Hand and Handi Snacks puddings.
I checked out with my, oh, hundred dollars in groceries and was a bit bewildered when asked the requisite "Paper or plastic?"
I don't get that question asked when I scan my groceries myself. Usually I just dump whatever schlocky magazine and few perishables I have in one of those plastic bag carousels.
I made it home with my five full paper bags of stuff and was instantly lured back to memories of my childhood.
We were a paper family growing up. I don't even think plastic was an option back in the late 70s and 80s. My mom is one of those tight fisted chicks who would rather save a buck on garbage bags and spend it Talbots, so we always used those paper bags as the liners in our kitchen trash can. Whomever nabbed the undesirable task of moving it to the garage usually encountered a greasy, smelly stained bag with little remnants of egg white, olive oil or cooking grease seeping through the sack like a badge of honor.
As I got older, I relied on those brown paper bags to cover my junior high and high school text books. It was a task I loathed, covering those damn books. And in typical Kate fashion, I'd always be in a mad dash late Sunday night, scurrying around to take care of business before school the next morning. My mom normally tucked these bags between the refrigerator and the wall, nevermind that it was probably the greatest fire hazard in the house.
Sometimes we'd run out of bags, and so good old Dad would make a trip to the store to buy some gratuitous groceries just so I'd have some bags on hand.
Later on I got creative with my book coverings, trying everything from wall paper to aluminum foil, but in those early days, it was all about brown paper bags and it's vast canvas for writing and drawing little hearts, rainbows and other things typical of a girl in grade school.
I piled up my brown paper bags after my big Friday shopping trip, and even put one in the trash can for old times sake.
But nothing smelly or greasy is going in there.
I don't take out my trash as often as Mom and Dad did, and I don't want to stink the place up.
I've heard of liquid diet before, but I'd have to say the FDA has yet to come out with a Barley and Hops food pyramid. I'd guess two weeks of living on beer (or liquor or wine for that matter) would do nothing but wreak havoc on my latest challenge.
Anyway.
Friday morning I tooled around Cincinnati's best grocery store for singles in a cart with an effed up wheel. I had just wrapped up a week on my regularly scheduled graveyard shift, so it's safe to admit I was probably looking like anything but fresh as a daisy. The town's ladies who lunch were starting their mornings in their Burberry barncoats and Chanel handbags looking for organic cheeses and fresh artisan bread. Me? I just wanted some Campbell's Soup at Hand and Handi Snacks puddings.
I checked out with my, oh, hundred dollars in groceries and was a bit bewildered when asked the requisite "Paper or plastic?"
I don't get that question asked when I scan my groceries myself. Usually I just dump whatever schlocky magazine and few perishables I have in one of those plastic bag carousels.
I made it home with my five full paper bags of stuff and was instantly lured back to memories of my childhood.
We were a paper family growing up. I don't even think plastic was an option back in the late 70s and 80s. My mom is one of those tight fisted chicks who would rather save a buck on garbage bags and spend it Talbots, so we always used those paper bags as the liners in our kitchen trash can. Whomever nabbed the undesirable task of moving it to the garage usually encountered a greasy, smelly stained bag with little remnants of egg white, olive oil or cooking grease seeping through the sack like a badge of honor.
As I got older, I relied on those brown paper bags to cover my junior high and high school text books. It was a task I loathed, covering those damn books. And in typical Kate fashion, I'd always be in a mad dash late Sunday night, scurrying around to take care of business before school the next morning. My mom normally tucked these bags between the refrigerator and the wall, nevermind that it was probably the greatest fire hazard in the house.
Sometimes we'd run out of bags, and so good old Dad would make a trip to the store to buy some gratuitous groceries just so I'd have some bags on hand.
Later on I got creative with my book coverings, trying everything from wall paper to aluminum foil, but in those early days, it was all about brown paper bags and it's vast canvas for writing and drawing little hearts, rainbows and other things typical of a girl in grade school.
I piled up my brown paper bags after my big Friday shopping trip, and even put one in the trash can for old times sake.
But nothing smelly or greasy is going in there.
I don't take out my trash as often as Mom and Dad did, and I don't want to stink the place up.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
A Million Little Pieces
This book is the center of a firestorm of controversy after the Smoking Gun has come out saying it's not all true.
The book is supposed to be a reflective piece on a man's recovery from drug addiction. It's sitting on my living room floor, waiting until I finish my current read, but having read the first five pages I can tell you it's descriptive, raw and very personal.
I saw it on a shelf in a bookstore probably a year and a half ago while I was struggling with my own issues of responsibility, and I was intrigued by the front cover's creative use of sugar cookie decorations. I guess I steered clear of the read though because I was afraid it would make me confront some issues or feelings I wasn't ready to deal with.
Now that I've sorted out my own personal drama (you can read about it here, here and here), I look forward to read this man's own journey through the darker times in his life.
The trouble is TSG says it's not all truth. The website says James Frey embellished the facts of his arrest, abuse and recovery. Frey has come out saying the book is 90 percent truth, with the rest close accounts of what happened.
Oprah has come out to defend the memoir, which is currently the feature of her book club.
The publishing company Double Day is making an offer unheard of in the publishing world: refunds for people who want their money back. The catch is you had to directly purchase the book from Double Day or it's parent Random House.
Kate sez: If this book offers an inspirational story that can help give perspective to people in recovery, then does it really matter whether 90 percent of this book is fiction?
I love a good story, fact or fiction.
The book is supposed to be a reflective piece on a man's recovery from drug addiction. It's sitting on my living room floor, waiting until I finish my current read, but having read the first five pages I can tell you it's descriptive, raw and very personal.
I saw it on a shelf in a bookstore probably a year and a half ago while I was struggling with my own issues of responsibility, and I was intrigued by the front cover's creative use of sugar cookie decorations. I guess I steered clear of the read though because I was afraid it would make me confront some issues or feelings I wasn't ready to deal with.
Now that I've sorted out my own personal drama (you can read about it here, here and here), I look forward to read this man's own journey through the darker times in his life.
The trouble is TSG says it's not all truth. The website says James Frey embellished the facts of his arrest, abuse and recovery. Frey has come out saying the book is 90 percent truth, with the rest close accounts of what happened.
Oprah has come out to defend the memoir, which is currently the feature of her book club.
The publishing company Double Day is making an offer unheard of in the publishing world: refunds for people who want their money back. The catch is you had to directly purchase the book from Double Day or it's parent Random House.
Kate sez: If this book offers an inspirational story that can help give perspective to people in recovery, then does it really matter whether 90 percent of this book is fiction?
I love a good story, fact or fiction.
Two for Two
I'd like to just point out that I called this Brangelina baby on January 3rd. The publicist confirmed it only Wednesday, but c'mon. The pictures spoke volumes.
It followed my first prediction of Gwen Stefani's little Love Angel Music Baby on December 10th.
MSN is showing this photo as a computer generated image of what the Pretty Armpit baby could look like.
Who's next... Jennifer and Vince?
It followed my first prediction of Gwen Stefani's little Love Angel Music Baby on December 10th.
MSN is showing this photo as a computer generated image of what the Pretty Armpit baby could look like.Who's next... Jennifer and Vince?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
My Name Is Kate, And I am a Quirkyalone
It sounds like an ailment befitting of a 12 step program, but it's actually not an ailment at all.
It's a philosophy about love, life and singlehood vs. togetherness.
I ran across this revolution while at the book store Tuesday.
Quirkyalone: noun/adj. A person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a sensibility that transcends relationship status. See also quirkytogether, perkytogether, quirkyslut.
Well, hot damn, Jethro. I think we just found us an explanation for the last 29 years of my life.
The website offers a quiz to see if you're quirkyalone. I scored a 102, placing me in the Very quirkyalone catagory: Relatives may give you quizzical looks, and so may friends, but you know in your heart of hearts that you are following your inner voice. Though you may not be romancing a single person, you are romancing the world. Celebrate your freedom on National Quirkyalone Day, February 14th!
True, I do not rack up relationships like those new state quarters you've been saving in your piggy bank. The fact is I am quite choosy because, well, I quite enjoy my time alone and will only take a chance on my happiness with a possibility that appears to have lots of potential.
And well, folks, those relationships are few and far between these days.
Take a look at the divorce rate. The number of failed engagements you know. And really, how happy is that dude you know who always has a girlfriend? Is he basking in the bliss of relationshiphood with Kelly/Donna/Brenda whatshername? Or is it more a relationship out of the need to be in a relationship?
Like the book/website says: quirkyalone is not -against- the idea of love. The fact is, I am enraptured with the idea of love. Can't wait until I can dedicate my life to someone and a relationship that just exudes eternal happiness. But until that guy comes along, I'm not going to tie myself down (and lose all the freedoms/experiences I've come to enjoy as a free-bird chick) with some Joe Everyman just so I have someone for whom I can buy Valentines Day presents and take home to the Fourth of July clambake.
"For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.
Better to be untethered and open to possibility: living for the exhilaration of meeting someone new, of not knowing what the night will bring. We quirkyalones seek momentous meetings."
It feels kind of wonderful to read about a theory that completely justifies something you've been questioning for at least the past ten years.
It's a philosophy about love, life and singlehood vs. togetherness.
I ran across this revolution while at the book store Tuesday.
Quirkyalone: noun/adj. A person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a sensibility that transcends relationship status. See also quirkytogether, perkytogether, quirkyslut.
Well, hot damn, Jethro. I think we just found us an explanation for the last 29 years of my life.
The website offers a quiz to see if you're quirkyalone. I scored a 102, placing me in the Very quirkyalone catagory: Relatives may give you quizzical looks, and so may friends, but you know in your heart of hearts that you are following your inner voice. Though you may not be romancing a single person, you are romancing the world. Celebrate your freedom on National Quirkyalone Day, February 14th!
True, I do not rack up relationships like those new state quarters you've been saving in your piggy bank. The fact is I am quite choosy because, well, I quite enjoy my time alone and will only take a chance on my happiness with a possibility that appears to have lots of potential.
And well, folks, those relationships are few and far between these days.
Take a look at the divorce rate. The number of failed engagements you know. And really, how happy is that dude you know who always has a girlfriend? Is he basking in the bliss of relationshiphood with Kelly/Donna/Brenda whatshername? Or is it more a relationship out of the need to be in a relationship?
Like the book/website says: quirkyalone is not -against- the idea of love. The fact is, I am enraptured with the idea of love. Can't wait until I can dedicate my life to someone and a relationship that just exudes eternal happiness. But until that guy comes along, I'm not going to tie myself down (and lose all the freedoms/experiences I've come to enjoy as a free-bird chick) with some Joe Everyman just so I have someone for whom I can buy Valentines Day presents and take home to the Fourth of July clambake.
"For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.
Better to be untethered and open to possibility: living for the exhilaration of meeting someone new, of not knowing what the night will bring. We quirkyalones seek momentous meetings."
It feels kind of wonderful to read about a theory that completely justifies something you've been questioning for at least the past ten years.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
We Can Do It Together
Here's a new blog you might be interested in checking out if you are trying to tackle that tire around your waistline for your New Year's resolution.
The chick might look kind of familiar to you.
The chick might look kind of familiar to you.
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Look of Paris
It appears the elder Hilton only knows how to make one facial expression.
Click here to see a photo essay on the Paris Glaze. Be sure to turn the volume up a bit (or put the headphones on if you're at work).
Kisses to BryanBoy for cluing me in on his blog.
Click here to see a photo essay on the Paris Glaze. Be sure to turn the volume up a bit (or put the headphones on if you're at work).Kisses to BryanBoy for cluing me in on his blog.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
T-Minus 60 Minutes and Counting
On the way to the bar.
Who Dey!!
01/09 update:
Well, my verbal outbursts betrayed my ladylike appearance, what with my big, burnt orange sunhat. Still, the game was captivating and adrenaline inducing until about the latter part of the third quarter.
Even with the hit on Carson in the second play.
Nonetheless, props to the boys in stripes for a great season. Kitna deserves a pat on the back for stepping up to the plate for a nervewracking, impossible challenge. For a guy that saw little time on the field during regular season, he did alright.
My fingers are crossed that surgeons are successful in repairing CP's ACL. In the meantime, he needs to go buy himself one of those hot tubs that he got each member of his O line.
Here's to next year...
Who dey!
Who Dey!!
01/09 update:
Well, my verbal outbursts betrayed my ladylike appearance, what with my big, burnt orange sunhat. Still, the game was captivating and adrenaline inducing until about the latter part of the third quarter.Even with the hit on Carson in the second play.
Nonetheless, props to the boys in stripes for a great season. Kitna deserves a pat on the back for stepping up to the plate for a nervewracking, impossible challenge. For a guy that saw little time on the field during regular season, he did alright.
My fingers are crossed that surgeons are successful in repairing CP's ACL. In the meantime, he needs to go buy himself one of those hot tubs that he got each member of his O line.
Here's to next year...
Who dey!
Friday, January 06, 2006
Funny Money
It's quite hilarious when you have a lunch date with someone of the same age, and she shows up on your doorstep in a full length, black mink coat.
Even funnier when you're wearing jeans and your hair is dirty.
Even funnier when you're wearing jeans and your hair is dirty.
Light Bites
Appetizer
Have you ever seen a ghost or an angel?
Haven't seen one. But the family house in Connecticut has a ghost who does laundry and turns off/on the lights. I think she left a while ago when us kids all started moving out... I think she liked the family atmosphere.
Soup
What is your favorite board game?
I am the High Priestess of Trivial Pursuit. Family members fight to have me on their team when we play during the holidays.
Salad
What was the last movie you saw that made you cry?
Oh gosh. I think it was Ray. What a great flick. Crash is a recently watched contender, too.
Main Course
What would you do if you had 3 months off from your job?
Hmm. Do I have an unlimited source of cash, too? If that's the case, then I would so some major traveling here, here, here and here.
If I am still getting my regular paycheck with all my time off, then I would spend more time at the gym, in my kitchen and more time at the Cincinnati Art Museum. I joined the museum nine months ago but don't go nearly as often as I should.
Dessert
What kind of shoes are you wearing today?
Some old standbys. They're black loafers made by Nine West. Great looking, feeling shoes that I've had for about six or seven years now.
You can't go wrong with a classic.
Have you ever seen a ghost or an angel?
Haven't seen one. But the family house in Connecticut has a ghost who does laundry and turns off/on the lights. I think she left a while ago when us kids all started moving out... I think she liked the family atmosphere.
Soup
What is your favorite board game?
I am the High Priestess of Trivial Pursuit. Family members fight to have me on their team when we play during the holidays.
Salad
What was the last movie you saw that made you cry?
Oh gosh. I think it was Ray. What a great flick. Crash is a recently watched contender, too.
Main Course
What would you do if you had 3 months off from your job?
Hmm. Do I have an unlimited source of cash, too? If that's the case, then I would so some major traveling here, here, here and here.
If I am still getting my regular paycheck with all my time off, then I would spend more time at the gym, in my kitchen and more time at the Cincinnati Art Museum. I joined the museum nine months ago but don't go nearly as often as I should.
Dessert
What kind of shoes are you wearing today?
Some old standbys. They're black loafers made by Nine West. Great looking, feeling shoes that I've had for about six or seven years now.
You can't go wrong with a classic.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Sweeping Out The Corner Of My Brain
Random Crumbs:
- I feel like Sleeping Beauty. After I had my requisite two hour map yesterday, I decided to down two melatonin pills and literally sleep the day away. I had a couple hours of vertical time in the afternoon, but decided to hunker down after I realized the sleeping pill hangover just wasn't going away.
So that's what hibernation must feel like.
- I am waiting for my test results on my ultrasound. Hopefully one of my major internal organs is okay. In the meantime I am going to plot how I'd like to spend my life should the doctors tell me I have, like, six weeks to live. I'm thinking nothing but Cristal and ice, baby. Seriously, I think everything is okay, but I am taking a proactive step today to help make my life a little more healthy. No day like today to think about tomorrow...
- My apartment looks pretty damn clean, and I had no idea how happy that would make me. Pillows fluffed in all the appropriate places, dishes neatly stacked away and aprons hung by the pantry. Martha would be so proud. Well, except for my bedroom, which looks pretty much like a laundromat threw up in a big ass walk-in closet.
- Having lunch with that chick from my childhood. Should be alright, but I know it's going to be rough moment. That conversation train is going to be riding hard on one track with no diversions. Unfortunately I don't have the information she wants. La de da, la de da...
- I feel like Sleeping Beauty. After I had my requisite two hour map yesterday, I decided to down two melatonin pills and literally sleep the day away. I had a couple hours of vertical time in the afternoon, but decided to hunker down after I realized the sleeping pill hangover just wasn't going away.
So that's what hibernation must feel like.
- I am waiting for my test results on my ultrasound. Hopefully one of my major internal organs is okay. In the meantime I am going to plot how I'd like to spend my life should the doctors tell me I have, like, six weeks to live. I'm thinking nothing but Cristal and ice, baby. Seriously, I think everything is okay, but I am taking a proactive step today to help make my life a little more healthy. No day like today to think about tomorrow...
- My apartment looks pretty damn clean, and I had no idea how happy that would make me. Pillows fluffed in all the appropriate places, dishes neatly stacked away and aprons hung by the pantry. Martha would be so proud. Well, except for my bedroom, which looks pretty much like a laundromat threw up in a big ass walk-in closet.
- Having lunch with that chick from my childhood. Should be alright, but I know it's going to be rough moment. That conversation train is going to be riding hard on one track with no diversions. Unfortunately I don't have the information she wants. La de da, la de da...
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Time Tripping
So. The Bengals are in the Playoffs, Steve Martin is missing out on showcasing his epic talent (and huge physical comedy) by playing a dad in a movie, and a President Bush is cranking up the AC because he feels the heat in the White House.
What is this, 2006 or 1991?
It's strange how the more things change, the more they stay the same. Ever since I moved back to the town where I spent my childhood, I've had different moments crop up to remind me of my humble beginnings.
Last week brought one of those weird moments.
I was standing in one of the cute shops of Hyde Park when I immediately noticed a chick I was in Girl Scouts with. It was one of those troops with like 25 different little girls (the dork, the over-achieving cookie seller, the teacher's pet, and the beauty queen... to describe a few of the characters) who had sleepovers, went on camping trips (I was always the troublemaker who pulled the stakes out of the ground so all the troop moms had to pop the pup tents back up) and did other various things to earn those damn patches. Patches: I needed those stinkin' patches. They were like little talismans of status to the 10 year old set.
Anyway.
This girl I ran into. She and I were friends way back in the day, way back before I knew her grandparents sold a little baseball team to a crazy woman who hated mens' earrings and loved St. Bernards. Back in the day when I didn't know the city's university football stadium shared her last name. Yeah. Way back. I just thought she was a fun, silly girl who was a bit overbearing and yet loved singing the musical score to the movie La Bamba (which pretty much consisted of Richie Valens' classic hit).
It was odd seeing this chick, talking to her about the last 15 years since I saw her last and how we are pretty much grown up versions of our smaller selves. Instead of cottilions, she is jetsetting around the world (and doesn't have to work. Gosh, lucky! as Napoleon Dynamite would say) while I am hoofing it in the middle of the night (as opposed to all that hoofing I did to sell the Thin Mints and Do-Si-Dos in my Chuck Taylors).
Another trip in time:
I had to go to the doctor's office today. Something to do with that gastroenterology thingy I talked about a while back. I won't really go in depth about what's going on (all those HIPAA laws and all), but I will say this: a night at the office without as much as a sip of water and the cold jelly courtesy of an ultrasound led me to treat myself to one of my favorite dining spots as a kid.
For lunch: Dr. Brown's Diet Cream Soda, a big ass bowl of matzo ball soup and a terribly fattening but wonderful tasting potato pancake.
Who knew an Irish Catholic girl would love Jewish deli food so much?
I sat there in Blue Ash (can you tell I'm an Eastsider?) with my Cin Weekly and my soup, just kind of savoring the noises and flavors I enjoyed with my dad when I was a kid. He'd toss me in the passenger side of whatever company car he was driving at the time (everything from a landshark Caprice Classic to the vroom-vroom-vroom of a Chevy Lumina) and my sisters and I would help him run his Saturday errands. Mostly it was a chance to give my mom a break from the melee of three girls, but all these years later I feel like we're gonna swing by for a bowl of matzo ball whenever I ride in his car.
And so, whether it's the soup or a trip to a Reds game (I swear to god, Marge used to make me chocolate chip cookies), thinking about the past isn't a bad thing. While I do not claim to be any mental professional, I tend to believe that thinking about the past can help you work on where you want to go in the future.
Just ask the Bengals.
Who dey.
What is this, 2006 or 1991?
It's strange how the more things change, the more they stay the same. Ever since I moved back to the town where I spent my childhood, I've had different moments crop up to remind me of my humble beginnings.
Last week brought one of those weird moments.
I was standing in one of the cute shops of Hyde Park when I immediately noticed a chick I was in Girl Scouts with. It was one of those troops with like 25 different little girls (the dork, the over-achieving cookie seller, the teacher's pet, and the beauty queen... to describe a few of the characters) who had sleepovers, went on camping trips (I was always the troublemaker who pulled the stakes out of the ground so all the troop moms had to pop the pup tents back up) and did other various things to earn those damn patches. Patches: I needed those stinkin' patches. They were like little talismans of status to the 10 year old set.
Anyway.
This girl I ran into. She and I were friends way back in the day, way back before I knew her grandparents sold a little baseball team to a crazy woman who hated mens' earrings and loved St. Bernards. Back in the day when I didn't know the city's university football stadium shared her last name. Yeah. Way back. I just thought she was a fun, silly girl who was a bit overbearing and yet loved singing the musical score to the movie La Bamba (which pretty much consisted of Richie Valens' classic hit).
It was odd seeing this chick, talking to her about the last 15 years since I saw her last and how we are pretty much grown up versions of our smaller selves. Instead of cottilions, she is jetsetting around the world (and doesn't have to work. Gosh, lucky! as Napoleon Dynamite would say) while I am hoofing it in the middle of the night (as opposed to all that hoofing I did to sell the Thin Mints and Do-Si-Dos in my Chuck Taylors).
Another trip in time:
I had to go to the doctor's office today. Something to do with that gastroenterology thingy I talked about a while back. I won't really go in depth about what's going on (all those HIPAA laws and all), but I will say this: a night at the office without as much as a sip of water and the cold jelly courtesy of an ultrasound led me to treat myself to one of my favorite dining spots as a kid.
For lunch: Dr. Brown's Diet Cream Soda, a big ass bowl of matzo ball soup and a terribly fattening but wonderful tasting potato pancake.
Who knew an Irish Catholic girl would love Jewish deli food so much?
I sat there in Blue Ash (can you tell I'm an Eastsider?) with my Cin Weekly and my soup, just kind of savoring the noises and flavors I enjoyed with my dad when I was a kid. He'd toss me in the passenger side of whatever company car he was driving at the time (everything from a landshark Caprice Classic to the vroom-vroom-vroom of a Chevy Lumina) and my sisters and I would help him run his Saturday errands. Mostly it was a chance to give my mom a break from the melee of three girls, but all these years later I feel like we're gonna swing by for a bowl of matzo ball whenever I ride in his car.
And so, whether it's the soup or a trip to a Reds game (I swear to god, Marge used to make me chocolate chip cookies), thinking about the past isn't a bad thing. While I do not claim to be any mental professional, I tend to believe that thinking about the past can help you work on where you want to go in the future.
Just ask the Bengals.
Who dey.
Prediction #2 - Is Angelina Having A Baby?
Photo courtesy of The BoshI was several days ahead of the announcement of Gwen's coming arrival. The Bosh and several other gossip sites are calling a Jolie Pitt baby.
You can't deny it, this picture speaks volumes.
Other sites are saying Jolie turned down the coming Bond Girl role because, well, 007 has yet to have a conquest who was with child.
Only time will tell whether I am 2 for 2.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Resolutions: 2006
So many goals, only 365 days, here's to hoping I can accomplish a few of them.
-Only The Good Die Young. The rest of us have to go to Church. I've been making it to mass at St. Mary's in Hyde Park every other week, but I'd like to make it a weekly occurance. And I might as well be a big girl and become a member while I'm at it.
-Push It Good. Doesn't everybody pick weight loss? I am paying a pretty penny to be a member at Cincinnati's best gym and I don't think I've been there once in the past month. I had a good week in November, but unfortunately this whacked out schedule has made me more of a passive member.
-Money Makes the World Go Round. Now that I'm paying my bills on time, I would like to work on putting some extra cash in the bank. I think it's smart to have a little cash tucked away in case my Saab has a hiccup or I decide to give in and buy those Coach galoshes I heart.
-Only The Good Die Young. The rest of us have to go to Church. I've been making it to mass at St. Mary's in Hyde Park every other week, but I'd like to make it a weekly occurance. And I might as well be a big girl and become a member while I'm at it.
-Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I need to work on keeping a clean house. Sometimes playing Bachelorette Pad can totally defeat the purpose when wanting to invite people over. Especially special people.
-Push It Good. Doesn't everybody pick weight loss? I am paying a pretty penny to be a member at Cincinnati's best gym and I don't think I've been there once in the past month. I had a good week in November, but unfortunately this whacked out schedule has made me more of a passive member.
-Money Makes the World Go Round. Now that I'm paying my bills on time, I would like to work on putting some extra cash in the bank. I think it's smart to have a little cash tucked away in case my Saab has a hiccup or I decide to give in and buy those Coach galoshes I heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)