More Than Donuts

MY DEAR OLD BLOG

2007-03-22T11:15:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog Friends,

I miss you.

If you hadn't guessed by now I won't be blogging here anymore. In short I've outgrown my blog. Yes - that's right. I've outgrown my blog like a pair of favorite jeans. You know the kind. The ones that once made your ass look sooo sooo good and now require you to bend into Gumby like positions to even get over one thigh.

I don't think this is dramatic or sad. Just a different phase in my life. I have been blogging here since November 18th, 2001. That is a long, long time.

In searching for other venues to blog the options still seem quite lame. Am I missing something? If you know of something other than Blogspot out there that you might suggest let me know. Blogspot has served me quite well for many years but still had me face some annoying technical challeges that I will not miss. Neither will my inhouse tech guy otherwise known as E - my husband.

For those of you that have followed More Than Donuts for a while now I am forever grateful to you. You changed my life with your faithful readership and your helpful feedback. I loved all of it. The good, the bad and the ugly.

I will be blogging on occasion elsewhere. If you are interested in knowing where please email me at kdunkcreative@gmail.com and I will tell you where to find me.

My new blogging venue might be pink and flashy and full of ads and sort of My Space looking but hey...my jeans might not fit but at least I'll look cute.

Missing you already.

B/F/F
xoxoxo
KDunk

SHE WANTS TO KNOW

2007-02-03T00:04:00.000-05:00

Recently I stumbled across a health fair. Due to my recent back pain I thought to myself, "Hey wow. Perfect timing." And what do you know? There was a guy there with a card table and a giant skeleton on a wire ready to solve all my problems. For free.

So I waited patiently. The line wasn't too long and I passed the time scanning the table with its plethora of health pamphlets that read like the opening lines to infomercials - "TIRED OF SEVERE BACK PAIN?", "PINCHED NERVE GOT YOU DOWN?", etc. I even spotted a pamphlet on Sciatica which I was tempted to pocket for Helen my senior citizen Brooklyn neighbor who I pass on a regular basis to which our exhange is always the following:

K: Hi Helen! How are you?
H: Not good. I got sciatica. In both butts.

The doc on call was a Chiropractor. Nice guy with a 'could be a friend of Tony Sopranos back in the day' look about him. His hair was neatly combed back and his gold chain gleamed in the the light.

He asked me some questions. Wheeled the skeleton over. Asked that I stand up so he could feel my spine. Just then his phone rang. It was on the table and went off to the unfortunate tune of La Cucaracha.

He yelled agressively at his assistant who was handing out pamphlets...

Tony Chiropractor: LISA!
Tony: LISA! GET THE PHONE!
Tony: (to me) Sorry about that...
Lisa: (picks up Tony' cell phone) Uh-huh-oh I don't know. Let me ask him.
Tony: (to me) So as I was saying...your back needs..
Lisa: Tony. Sorry to interrupt. Maria is on the phone.
Tony: Lisa...I'm with a client
Lisa: I know Tony but...
Tony: Lisa...what does she want?
Lisa: She wants to know what kind of (points to her head) you need...
Tony: What?
Lisa: She wants to know...what kind of (points to top of her head again) you need...
Tony: What the fu...what?
Lisa: MARIA WANTS TO KNOW WHAT KIND OF GEL YOU NEED!
Tony: Oh...Jesus Christ.
Tony: Tell her the same stuff I always get!!!
Tony: (to me) Sorry about that...as I was saying...

All I know is that I walked away more tense that when I arrived.
Glad it was free.

FIRST GUNS N' ROSES CONCERT WITH MOM

2007-01-29T22:17:00.000-05:00

DOUBLE DOORS

2007-01-29T18:31:00.000-05:00

Well...you haven't missed much. Let me tell ya.

First...I was holed up in an edit room since Thanksgiving working on a massive celebrity press packed project which I can not speak of so end of story there. I haven't had a day off since and let me tell you I am looking forward to vacation! We are no longer going to Portugal for various reasons - boo hoo - but we are going to the Yucatan so I'm excited about that! Please send any recommendations for food, drink, sights, etc. in such places as Merida or Chichen Itza or Tulum or anywhere in the area if you have them.

After that...despite being on such a good health run for a while there - have suffered from some annoying health issues repeating themselves. Worthy enough of me exploring the slightly expensive nutritionist I've had my eye on for a while.

Then...some somewhat depressing and sad family crap to deal with.

Then later...I got summoned for jury duty. I got my slip. It said call X phone number the night before to see if I needed to come in. Only problem - the phone number was busy. All the time. For like...hours. I thought I was crazy and then E called and same thing. So I was forced to go the next morning and line up in the cold with all the 300 plus angry pissed off Brooklyn people that couldn't get through the phone line the night before either. Once inside we had to sit there and listen to a stressed out clerk guy who said that the phone line AND the backup system has never gone down in the history of his time working there and they were sending a repair guy down from Albany (who cares!) to fix it immediately. Yeah...well that's nice. Now what since half the room wasn't even due to show up today? Angry outbursts, deep sighs, people throwing newspapers to the ground in outrage. Quite a scene.

But lucky for me I got out of it. How might you ask? Did I lie? No. I am the worst person to ever come up with or even attempt to tell a lie so no I didn't. Instead, I did something that came quite naturally to me. I did something dumb. That's right - dumb.

When it came time to collect the juror slips from the row I was sitting in I had to confess that I accidentally mailed in (which is true) portion A and C of my juror paperwork when really they only asked one to mail in C if I wanted to purpose a new date to serve should I have a conflict of any sort (LIKE A MUCH NEEDED UPCOMING VACATION TO MEXICO)

Angry Clerk: Where is your portion A?
Dummy: Uhhh...oops. Sorry I think I mailed it in with portion C
Angry Clerk: You MAILED portion A AND C - is that what you are telling me?
Dummy: Um. Yes. Apparently I did. Sorry about that.
Angry Clerk (deep sigh): Go through those double doors...tell them...what you did.

I wasn't sure who 'them' were awaiting me on the other side of the doors but if I had to guess it might include a panel of people from my past -

Mrs. Williamson my 3rd grade teacher, "She never read directions!"
My mother, "She over thinks everything!"
Hippie ex-boyfriend, "Dude. Just chill. Stop rushing through things in your life."

Instead it was a nice woman dressed in a black ribbed turtleneck chomping on gum. Said no problem! See you at the end of Feb!

And finally...today I woke up with a severe pain in my lower back that had been creeping up since Sunday. It was the kind where you have to roll over to one side and then slowly raise yourself up with your arms to push yourself up to get out of bed. Walking felt like knives into my lower back. And today while standing on the subway platform on my way to work I dropped my Metrocard. Unable to bend over I just stared at it. The best $4 I never spent.

See...you haven't missed much.

NOTE TO DUDE IPOD USER

2007-01-07T21:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Dude Listening To His Ipod On The Subway,

Just because YOU are wearing an iPod
doesn't mean I CAN'T hear you
when you fart.

Thanks

MISSING

2006-12-12T21:31:00.000-05:00

When you plan a wedding it is inevitable you will obsess about something. Some about the color of the napkins and others about the food. For me it was a photo slide show that I painstakingly put together featuring at least one photo of mostly everyone at the wedding that attended.

I gathered the photos from old college and family photo albums. I emailed relatives far away for photos even my parents hadn't seen. I called E's Aunt in Califoria for ones of him as a child he didn't know about. Needless to say I lost a lot of sleep over the project but the end result was over 200 amazing photos spanning all periods of our life with friends and family - the focus on them and not us.

The day of the wedding the slide show started. We had planned for it to run on a loop on a big screen that came down dramatically from the ceiling while people were finishing eating and walking around before dessert. Instead they sat glued in their seats laughing and watching each and every photo from all the various eras.

When the slideshow got to about 40 photos all of the sudden the loop began and started right back to the beginning. I panicked. It played the same 40 once more and than looped again. Where were the other 160 photos I had gathered?

I don't have many regrets from my wedding but that is the biggest one. Tonight while fishing through an old box from the basement I came across those CDs. It sounds super dramatic but my stomach drops each time I pop in the cds and remember which ones never made it to the big screen.

The bottom line is that people enjoyed the night and most importantly I married my husband. In the end people did get something from the slideshow and I guess when it comes down to it only I knew what they were missing.

IN THE NAME OF STOCKING STUFFERS

2006-12-12T13:22:00.000-05:00

I hate when you go into a store that has the potential for some silly Christmas stocking stuffer type gifts but it’s called something embarrassing like, “Bedazzled Jazzy Jams” or something of the like and you hope and pray you don’t run into anyone you know – and then when you enter the doors of BJJ they act like you’ve just walked through the doors of Bergdorf Goodman and ask you to please ‘check your bag’ which is the size of a 4x6 photo in fear you might steal something from the store which is no bigger than an ice cream truck. And worse - once you make it through high security the ‘bouncer’ of Bedazzled Jazzy Jams – a large man with a skull and dagger tattoo on his forearm - hands you a tiny wicker basket lined with blue and white gingham fabric and asks that you please put any merchandise you may want to buy in the basket as you walk around. And then you say all tough and annoyed,
“What if I don’t want to carry a basket?” which is overheard by the sourpuss cashier who flashes a stern glance to the Bedazzled Jazzy Jams bouncer who at this point looks like he might take you out back - so you are then forced to grab the stupid basket and walk around the store like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz without her Toto.

I hate that.

WHAT IT'S LIKE TO DATE ME

2006-11-29T00:12:00.000-05:00

You will come home after a long day of work and in the kitchen find me dressed in a spontaneous 'after work' outfit which consists of random clothes that I picked up from various folded clean laundry piles around the house including...

-a SCRABBLE sweatshirt with tiles that spell out 'NO SWEAT' - hood up
-a pair of your polka dot boxer shorts
-pink striped knee socks
-blue and red Red Socks slippers three sizes too big
-my glasses from 1996
-wild crazy hair half up/half down

and yet despite watching me in this garb frantically poke my head in and out of the oven to keep an eye on my roasting cauliflower while balancing a laptop in my left hand...you still manage to sound tender and sweet when saying,

"Wow. I'm so glad I married Steve Urkel."

PEPPERONI SWEATER

2006-11-21T18:00:00.000-05:00

My life is highly irritating at times in such lame, unimportant and surface oriented ways. Sigh.

For example:

On Saturday I found a new store near my house. It was amazing. A goldmine of sweaters. Sweaters and sweaters and more sweaters. Cool and stylish and affordable sweaters. I was so excited. All together I bought three.

Sunday night I couldn't decide which to put on. Finally did.

Then...

-packed new sweater in gym bag to change into later for dinner
-went to gym
-after gym put on new black sweater
-went to dinner at brick oven pizza place aka big smokefest of smells
-ordered pepperoni pizza

Then this happened...

-during dinner noticed giant hole in left hand part of sweater
-pissed sweater had hole so obsessed about it rest of night
-next day called store
-nice sweater lady said bring it back for store credit no problem!

But...today before leaving work to return sweater I...

-took sweater out of bag just to triple check hole before returning to store
-giant WAVE of pepperoni pizza smells came out of bag
-sat at desk for good 10 mins wondering if it was morally wrong to return sweater that smells of pepperoni pizza
-took poll in office making various officemates smell sweater - final tally: 3 "NO" it does not smell like pizza - 2 "YES"

Finally...

-Email husband E who is busy at work but takes time to respond to my 'sweater crisis'. He writes back supportively but yet somehow guyish:
"Wear a black shirt under it and you won't notice the hole."

One last finally...

-Call best friend in Vancouver who says after a moments thought quite girlishly:
"Return it. Tell the woman your whole pizza story. Also if you don't attempt to return it every time you put on the stupid sweater you will think about nothing else but the hole and how you wished you had attempted to at least return it."

Gotta love chicks.

CAMILLA'S CREPES

2006-11-13T18:42:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was full of culinary delights. The highlight was a celebratory feast cooked by my friend D and her French future husband to celebrate their recent engagement. Yes. That's right. They invited US over to celebrate THEIR engagement so who were we to complain!

For as long as I have known D she has cooked only Kraft dinners and on a fancy night maybe some Shake N' Bake. Since her new French boyfriend came into the picture they have celebrated food and cooking and eating together to the fullest extent. And luckily to our benefit.

The evening was rainy and windy. The meal was cozy and warm. D made an oustanding Beef Bourguignon with potatoes. JB had two - yes two cheese plates with some of the best cheeses I've ever had on them. E brought some bubbly to celebrate and I brought two bottles of nice wine. D played old romantic French accordion music and the lighting was just right.

People always ask me if I love to cook. No. I like what it represents. I like the meals and the sitting around and the laughing and the stories and the music. E on most occasions would rather be in the kitchen. I have a few things I like to make and our bookshelves are lined with some fantastic cookbooks. Claudia Fleming from The Gramercy Tavern has a great one. Madhur Jeffrey's Indian Cooking another great one. More often than not I'm looking at these cookbooks like coffee table books rather than sources of productive inspiration. I don't have the time nor attention span required for cooking. I'd rather entertain the guests or run around getting drinks instead. And I'm always good for clean up.

Tonight when digging around for take out menus for dinner I came across several loose pieces of paper with various recipies that I've carried around with me for most my life. Sue's Apple Crisp. Aly's chili. Carol from Switzerland's shrimp. BJ's spoonbread. Mary's lasagne. Reading through them - stained and crumpled on various size pieces of paper - they took me down memory lane.

Who were these women? Women I no longer talk to. Former boss. Co-worker. Mother-in-law. Friend. But each of them cooked me something delicious at some point in my life. A meal that was literally unforgettable and/or a meal that I associated with them in particular and found impossible to throw away.

When you ask someone to share their recipe what are you really asking? Are you attempting to recreate a night a moment the weather? The time the place the music the way your husband was looking at you that night? Or is it the food. Really and truly the food? Maybe it's the science of attempting to tackle the dish yourself or if you are lucky to make it even better. Regardless to me it's never the same when made again.

Who knows. All I know is that I kept staring at one recipe in particular. It was titled "Camilla's Crepes". For the life of me I couldn't recall the last time I had a crepe nor ever meeting a single Camilla.

WHERE WAS I?

2006-11-12T15:57:00.000-05:00

Hello. Woah. I have not been writing on my blog. Have you noticed? All two of you out there that dare check in still? Well here I am. More importantly - how have you been?

WHAT I HAVE BEEN DOING THAT IS KEEPING ME FROM BLOGGING:

WORK WORK WORK WORK WORK WORK AND MORE WORK
I do not blog about work so you'll have to dream up your own scenarios. Be sure to involve lots of images of me eating from the vending machine and lots of tossing and turning at night.

BELLY DANCING
Well...attemping to. The other day at the gym I decided to take a belly dancing class. The teacher was Caribbean and beautiful and had long dreadlocks and wore a fringe scarf around her waist. She asked the class of chicks to divide our bodies "in half" moving only the upper half of our body at times and then only the lower. For someone who has spent a lifetime totally and completely disconnected from my body - this was hard. Really hard. What do you mean I have a body? And wait - what? I can divide it in half? The teacher kept her eye on me throughout the class. I couldn't blame her. I was like a teenage guy trying to belly dance in a room full of soulful chicks. The teacher leaned over and just said, "Keep coming to class".

LAUNDRY
Today alone I have done five loads of laundry. Sheets. Towels. Blankets. Socks. Underwear. T-shirts. Sweatshirts. Cloth napkins. Tablecloths. I do not have kids. Why do I have so much laundry? So far I have also washed by mistake - 3 Metrocards, 1 $20 bill, a few coins, my gym schedule, shrunk E's new black wool sweater and somehow washed the fuse for his amp which was in the pocket of his jeans. Um. I need help.

POSTCARDS
I have been busy sending postcards. Nobody sends postcards anymore. Why? I love postcards. If you send me one I might send you one back. Then again I might not because the whole point of this blog is how I have no time at all for anything:

KDunk
P.O. Box 30106
New York, NY 10011

MY SUPER COOL PROJECT
I have been busy working on my super cool project which I will not tell you about unless you send me an email: kdunkcreative@gmail.com and say you want to be part of it.

KILLING MICE
Ok. Jane the cat has been killing mice. Gross I know. Last Sunday I found her positioned next to the sink staring directly into the gap between our stove and sink. Went out for 6 hours only to find her in the exact same position when I returned home. A mouse. In the middle of the night I heard EEK EEK SQUEAK EEK EEK and in the morning woke to a half chewed mouse on my kitchen floor. One of two - the second also caught by Jane later in the day. As I said. Gross.

LISTENING TO HIGHLY ANNOYING PEOPLE EVERYWHERE I GO
Sometimes I wonder if annoying people are only attracted to me. Must surround me and only me at all times. Like the group of nine standing outside of a the new Brooklyn eatery Palo Santo I ate at the other night. They were pissed that the restaurant couldn't seat all nine of them at prime time 8PM on a Friday night and as I patiently waited for my table like the others standing around I had to listen to the complaining group of nine say things like, "Well the least they can do is put the champagne I brought on ice for me. Let me go ask." or "The least they can do is bring us some appetizers outside while we wait." on and on and on and on. Why? Seriously. Why?

YOGA WITH GENE SIMMONS

2006-11-03T08:26:00.000-05:00

For all of you that believe that pigs can fly - well here's one for ya: I've been taking yoga. Yeah that's right. Hard to believe I know. Just when I was convinced I might be the only woman left in Brooklyn that didn't board the subway with a fruit roll-up style yoga mat - here I am.

The biggest bummer of the year is that I waited until my very best friend and most talented yoga teacher in the universe moved away until I decided to go for it. Whatever. As usual it took me a while to get my act together. And plus while she was here I had several on and off yoga experiences that I must confess were horrible. I found myself very angry in class the entire time and totally unable to relax. I'm talking full of rage. The insides of my body burning with fire as I sat there thinking horrible evil thoughts of the various teachers such as, "I hate this girl." or "How did this woman get this job?" Not sure what was going on with me exactly but I think it's safe to say I still find it hard to relinquish control much less pay someone to tell me to move this. Bend that. Sit like this. Turn like that. Pfft. No way.

But...things have changed slightly. What got me going again was my boss teaches a basic yoga class at our office once a week. This is good for people like me and the others in our office - stressed out overworked exhausted TV people that barely have time to run to the bathroom much less bend like Gumby next to a Hewlett Packard printer every Wednesday at 6PM. I've also taken several classes at the YMCA one with a very good teacher and one with a very anal annoying teacher with a horrible voice. But believe it or not it doesn't matter now. I am realizing the more I do yoga and can really let myself be bad at various poses in class - not know what comes next - trust someone else to take me where I need to go - the better it feels in the end. Gene Simmons could be teaching my yoga class and frankly if in the right state of mind I might not even notice.

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

2006-10-22T21:24:00.000-04:00

This weekend my father turns 60. It's a good age. Especially on him. He still runs a few times a week. Plays tennis. Is very handsome and fashionable. Comes into the city to hear the blues. Writes. Gives great advice. Is up on anything and everything pop culture related. Always calls and emails us to ask how we are doing. Plays practical jokes that keep us laughing. And yet still manages to annoy each and every one of us - Mom, my sister and I - with his inability to A.) Run a simple errand at the grocery store without returning with the exact opposite of what you asked for or B.) Shop like a normal person without dashing through the store at neck breaking speed as if on the game show Supermarket Sweep. Hey, the guy needs some flaws.

Finding a gift for his 60th has been difficult. My sister, Mother and I agree the guy is impossible to buy for. If he doesn't like it - it's all over his face. Not in a mean way but rather just in a very honest way like, "Why in God's name would I possibly want this?". You can't blame him. He's half Irish and to say he wears his emotions on his sleeve is a huge understatement.

I have bought only one gift in my lifetime that my father liked. It was for Christmas and it was an old vintage radio that he could put on the shelf in his office. He actually really liked it. I know because when I attempted in dire straits the next Christmas to recreate the same reaction with vintage radio number two - his face told me everuthing. One...was enough...thank you.

It doesn't help matters that my Dad is very good at giving gifts. But he's most known in our family for giving good practical joke gifts. The classic story was how one time when we were younger, my Aunt (his sister) and Uncle had a somewhat uptight engagement party in Westchester to celebrate their recent engagement. At the party my father was especially giddy and upbeat. Strange. Then...there was a knock at the door. The door was opened. And much to the surprise and horror of all the guests, my crying sister and his stunned newly engaged sister - standing before us was a three hundred pound white guy dressed as a Buddah in an orange loin cloth complete with mini-finger cymbals hired (by my father) to sing the party a few tunes. Um.......

Remembering this story recently I speed dialed my sister and we happily agreed in glee that for Dad's 60th it might be payback time. This week I placed a call to a Long Island singing telegram service. Someone to attend my father's 60th party this upcoming weekend.

K: Hello - I'm calling to find out more about your singing telegrams.

A man that sounded like Steve Buscemi said:

SB: Well...whadda you want? I got a Jew Grandma, a Bag Person (?), a Tony Soprano, a crazy Chinamen, an Islander Hockey playa and the California Raisin.

Weeding my way mentally through the first highly offensive part of the list I was intrigued by the California Raisins option. It seemed so strange and outdated and totally scary. I could see it now. A group of rainsins forcing my father to get up on the table and sing, "Heard It Through The Grapevine" - I loved it.

K: How much for the California Raisins?

Steve Buscemi: What do mean raisins? I got one
raisin.

K: But wait...it's the California RaiSINS - plural. What does the one raisin do?

SB: He comes in, he has a costume on like a big prune, he's got the white oversized hands and feet...

K:(laughing) ...oh I get it...and the sunglasses...haha

SB: (deadpan) There are no sunglasses.

K: No sunglasses? But that's like...the whole look of the raisin

SB: No sunglasses.

K: No sunglasses?

SB: Fifty. Extra.

K: (sigh) Ok well...I'll have to call you back thanks

After doing the Math my sister and I agreed the joke turned out to be more pricy than it was worth.

In other news - I am still working on my creative project. If you would like to be part of my project and have been too shy to contact me - please do. It's a cool project and I'd love you to be part of it. Email: KDunkcreative@gmail.com.

STUPID ANNOYING PEOPLE ON SUBWAY THAT WATCH TOO MUCH FOX NEWS

2006-09-27T20:48:00.000-04:00

Today after work I took a Yoga class. Actually it's taught at my work which sounds odd but it isn't. It's quite nice and also convenient. Alas...when it was over I took my nice Zen self to the subway where I proceeded to immediately lose any and all relaxation as I then had to wait close to 20 minutes for a stupid train to come in the 10,000 degree subway station.

Then I boarded the train. I headed to the only seat available next to a hipster girl with hair in her eyes with giant boobs who was acting so cool reading her cool book blah blah. But her bag was in the empty seat and as I hovered over her she SIGHED and slowly moved her bag from the empty seat. Um...

When I sat down I closed my eyes trying to regain anything at all learned and leftover from my Yoga class. But then a large man crushed my foot. I opened my eyes to a big Italian American guy around my age, gold chain around his neck, dark hair combed back neatly, a wild black and white shirt on with glitter and patterns and 'Euro' jeans with perfectly ripped holes in exactly all the right places. White shoes.

He said: (quite loudly) WOAHHHHHHH! SORRY!!!!!!

Which startled me and even the cool girl next to me.

Me: Um...it's fine. Really.

And then he tettered his way over to lean his back on the subway car doors. He was drunk.

How did I know he was drunk? He was hiccuping. Like a drunk person in a cartoon. And he was saying the occasional loud thing to no one in particular in a slurred speech like, "BACK OF THE SUBWAY CAR. THAT'S WHERE WE'RE STANDING" or "ALL THESE SIGNS AND POSTERS" and then pointing to an ad at the top of the subway car but not able to keep his arm up too long in the air before it fell down to his sides with a slap.

It's uncomfortable to watch a 'put together' person drunk. Something extra sad about it. Did his girlfriend dump him? Did he get fired from his job? Were the shiny silk pants at Club Monaco actually NOT on sale as he had hoped? He tettered some more when the doors opened. People started to move away.

Then a somewhat clueless pregnant woman holding what appeared to be take out Mexican food sat down in an empty seat right underneath where the drunk guy clung on for dear life to the subway pole above her. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He almost fell when the subway jerked out of the tunnel. I was afraid he was going to fall on her.

And then...some dry heaves and then...he puked. A subway chorus of "UGH!!!!!". People scattered like roaches. Luckily pregnant lady got up and out of there in time. I found myself saying something random and smartass out loud, "Saw that coming!" to no one in particular.

Worse - a crazy woman to my left (who had given her salad to a homeless man earlier on the train only after saying, "I hate salad. The dressing is horrible. Here take it.") stared at the puke and said in all seriousness to the woman next to her,

"I wonder if he has the E. Coli Virus from eating spinach? It's going around."

GENIUS

2006-09-22T22:34:00.001-04:00

This photo is genius and you must see it. Be sure to stare at it a moment to take it all in.

ONE WEB DAY

2006-09-20T14:02:00.000-04:00

OneWebDay is Earth Day for the Internet--a day to make sure that we
don't take the Internet for granted. I wrote something for it here.

LETTER OF THE WEEK: A BELATED HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MY HUSBAND

2006-09-20T13:17:00.000-04:00

Dearest Husband,

Happy One Year Anniversary to you...us. Like I say dramatically when our plane lands at any airport after a long flight, “We made it.”

There is a lot less drama now. More strength. Less beads of sweat. More hand holding. Less white knuckling through life although I’m not so sure any couple is totally free from it. More of me changing the roll of toilet paper when it’s empty and more of you folding the laundry. Hey - things are looking up.

On our recent trip to Oregon, we cracked open some watery beer and cheap champagne, sat out on our tiny motel porch and in the blinding sun overlooking a cliff of trees that lead down to the water - we re-read our vows. Things were different this time.

On our actual wedding day as you confessed – you were fairly choked up and you could barely read your vows. Surprisingly on our wedding day I remained calm, cool and collected cracking jokes like Jerry Seinfeld and reading my vows while reminding the audience of the two drink minimum.

Tables were turned this time. When you read vows you were the calm, cool and collected one. Your vows were so real and sweet and thoughtful and most of all - timeless. When I began to read mine - I was a blubbering mess. Partially because I realized my vows were not sweet and timeless but rather strange and already outdated. Nor were they promises just lists of reasons why I loved you. All I could think about was, “YOU LET ME READ THESE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE WE KNOW?” and “WHAT IS OUR FUTURE KID GOING TO THINK?” Dad’s timeless vows. Mom’s lame and outdated vows.

I love you for always remembering to change the ribbon in my typewriter…
I love you for exposing me to so many great musical eight tracks…
I love you for offering to help iron my denim pant suits…

Ugh. Regardless I do love you for so many reasons even if some are outdated.

I got one line right and may that never change.

All I want to be is your wife today.

And

I love you.

SHOP GIRL

2006-09-12T09:25:00.000-04:00

What is up with those stores that appear like they might possibly be in the price range in which you can afford - like hipster but nice - but then when you actually go in the store and pick up a tag everything from a pair of earrings to a jacket to a purse in no less than $498? Who shops there? I'm all for the occasional splurge but come on.

Last night I went to a fancy store in Brooklyn where my husband was kind and generous enough to get my a gift certificate for my birthday. Lucky for me I ended up with something beautiful and that I would never have treated myself to which is the whole point but still...this is how it went down.

Walk in shop. Browse through rack by front door. Everything 'cheap' is $998. Look at woman next to me who looks about my age, has my style with armful of clothes adding up to the amoung of $500,000. Wonder how on earth is this girl affording to shop here without eating for an entire month. Look at her waistline. Realize that is exactly what she does in order to shop here. Sigh.

Continue shopping. Look for something in price range of my certificate. Getting nervous seeing as shop is small and I am now almost half way through it. Shop gets a little more busy which takes pressure off me moving at a snails pace and under scrutiny of girl running shop.

Finally look in 50% off jewelry case. All of the necklaces are made of summer beads or plastic. There are all $348 - that is with the 50% off. Continue on and am relieved to actually see a Sales Rack. Thumb through sales rack but everything screams SUMMER and is either made of straw or grass or suntan lotion or hot dogs. Cannot wear through winter and most likely will not last until next summer. Continue on to home accessories.

Look at journals - $500. Tote bags - have too many. Candle in the shape of a bird - pick up to consider buying and girl says, "That is not for sale."

Hats - cannot justify leaving store with only a hat that could have bought at GAP for $23. Scarves - ok - there are two that I like. One beautiful, purple wrap type thing that is very me and nice but costs entire gift certificate and doesn't seem worth the price. Second scarf - black lace - and size of a tissue - for $45 (what a score!!!!) that fell on the ground and is hidden behind a wooden rack. Decide on the cheaper black scarf so can get rest of the cash back and spend the rest of my certificate money elsewhere.

Wait on line. Shop girl does not know how to ring in a gift certificate. Manager is called. 20 minutes go past which in New York time is an eternity. I hear Manager say to girl to give me store credit. I laugh and smile and say, "Actually - cash back would be great." And she says, "We only do store credit." My face drops.

A long pause and I say one second. I reach for the purple scarf using entire amount of my certificate. Despite hating these people and never wanting to come here again, I leave with my pretty purple scarf that I love and try to remember that frankly... that is what only matters.

THROW DOWN

2006-09-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

Do you ever wish celeb chef Bobby Flay would just...go away? Leave poor normal Annie's Mac N' Cheese eatin' people like us alone?

And what about his new show 'Throwdown With Bobby'? It is so totally sad and sometimes depressing. Have you seen it? I can barely watch it. Basically Bobby travels across America to find people in small towns that are famous for that ONE thing - their ribs or their pie or their pizza, etc. Bobby then surprises these innocent people at their home or family bbq or kid's birthday party or giant family reunion and challenges them to a showdown in making their signature dish. Yes. That dish. The only dish they are known for. In front of all of their family and friends.

Great. Thanks. That sounds fun.

First of all:

What family member signed their husband, sister, mother or whatever up for this horrible and severly stressful situation?

What if I were that poor husband guy who slaved away at the office all week and my only real 'down time' besides cleaning out the garage was making my 'signature' ribs for close family and friends. And then what if my wife called the Food Network and signed me up for this show where in the middle of my family bbq where I was happily cooking up a storm of ribs for the people I know and love - Bobby Flay arrives in a catering truck with 75 state of the art gas grills and fifty midgets to set everything up and veggies flown in from New York's Chelsea Market and an actual live animal from Texas to slaughter on camera for the fresh ribs to make...STEAL...take away my thunder by making MY RIBS but instead with HIS TOUCH - ribs smoked in hickory chips, dipped in an ancho chili rub with a side of Maple-Horseradish dipping sauce and a side of Jicama Slaw...UGH. NO.

And yet in the end does any of it matter?
No. Why?

Because Bobby is better than you. Yes you.

WIFE SWAP

2006-09-04T23:16:00.000-04:00

There is one show I'm not 'allowed' to watch in the house and it's called 'Wife Swap'. It drives E mad. If you don't know what the show is about the idea is that two families swap wives for a week and they film how things go down. And boy do they go down. The swaps are often between two polar opposites - a religious, conservative, stay at home wife swaps with a tattooed, green haired punk wife. Or a biker, meat eatin' wife swaps places with a hippie, raw food enthusiast wife. Not matter what they pair up - chaos ensues.

Despite not being 'allowed' to watch it I sneak it in like cigarettes when E is in the bathroom or takes calls on his cell phone. I can't help but get hooked each time I see a bit of it even if I can never quite believe how dumb the husbands are each episode. They are always 'surprised' and 'amazed' when the tables are turned and they are required to follow by the rules of their new wife. Shut up and eat your raw carrots buddy.

Tonight - E made two pizzas. He rolled out the dough, he prepared the various ingredients, he cooked the pizzas on the grill so they had the perfect smoked flavors, etc. The entire production took an hour or so and the pizzas came out looking like ultimate perfection.

As you know from my former post, it had been a hard day. The honest truth was the day didn't quite get any better from when I lost all my photographs from the month of August (read below) but the thought of a nice dinner of fresh pizza and wine sounded like it might make things better.

I set the table and we got ready to eat our yummy meal:

But then...like a total spaz...I set my water glass down too hard on the table and it knocked against my wine glass which then caused glass to shatter all over the two pizzas. Cut to E looking with a flashlight in desperate atempts to save our meal:

Bottom line is - today sucked. Big time. And thanks to a day of emotional ups and downs topped off with two shattered glass pizzas - I might now qualify for one of those stupid crazy women on Wife Swap. Sure. Go ahead. Swap me out for a week and replace me with a poised wife with several external hard drives that never loses a thing. Only please - just promise you'll take me back.

LOST

2006-09-04T16:08:00.000-04:00

Today in trying to be good and organized I downloaded all my photographs for the month of August off my new camera's memory card and put them in proper folders by date on my desktop. I then reformated my memory card. I then began to burn a CD of these photographs but it said 'not enough memory' on the CD and wouldn't allow me to burn. So... I then took some of the photos off the CD I was burning and put them back on to my desktop. In the process my computer asked me if I wanted to 'replace' all my files I was moving from the CD I was burning with the ones on my desktop - (aka make an alias of) and for whatever frickin' reason...I said yes. What I am trying to say in the most boring way possible is that basically I deleted all of the original files of my photographs for the entire month of August in the process. Gone. For good.

E worked for over an hour to retrieve them but he couldn't. This is a much bigger deal than I can possibly explain to you seeing how many of the photographs I took in August had the potential to earn me a little extra cash this month (a couple hundred bucks per photo) and now no longer exist. I have been crying on and off all day at what a dumb mistake it was. I haven't felt this bad since I left one of my digital cameras in the back of a taxi cab never to be seen again.

GONE AND MISSED

2006-08-31T16:07:00.000-04:00

About twenty minutes ago, I was randomly in a conversation at work with someone who I found out is a regular Hospice volunteer. We had a long talk about the program. I used to be a regular Hospice volunteer and even completed an official training program at Cabrini Medical Center. I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Part of the reason it was pushed to the back of my brain was because it was a tough and intense experience. When you are a Hospice Volunteer you are dealing with people that know they are going to die. None of us can possibly comprehend what it feels like to have this kind of information much less how we ourselves would process it. Then…there are the grieving family members. The people that are visiting a loved one at all hours of the night. Processing their own grief all the while having a total stranger in the room there to console them. You.

It seems foolish to me now. A wide eyed twenty-something given the task to befriend and comfort a dying individual and their extended family members. But I did it. Who knows if it helped anyone.

I remember a few patients from my experience – a man dying of AIDS. His cheeks sunken into his face that I would visit once a week. I’d hold his hand and we would read the newspaper and he’d tell me about New York ‘back in the day’. I recall one woman dying of Cancer that always complained there was no natural light in her hospital room but got mad every time I opened her hospital blinds.

And then there is my favorite. A sweet Irish woman dying of Cancer. She heard I played the flute and wanted me to play her some Irish tunes. I did my best to explain I hadn’t played the flute since High School and that maybe I could find someone else to come in and play for her. But no. She wanted me. And she wanted a particular song. I went to three music stores until I found the sheet music for the flute for this particular song. I dusted off my flute and when I got to the hospital I put my flute together in the nurse’s coat closet. My cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and I tooted my way through the piece as best as I could until I burst out crying in the end. The Irish woman, dying of Cancer had to console me. I felt guilty that I had somehow failed her. This was a bad sign. The emotions too much. I never went back.

After my conversation with my work mate I headed back to my desk. I went about my business and then I got an email from my mother. It wasn’t good. One of my sister’s good friends from High School – his younger sister that was only 24 lost her battle to Cancer today. She was in Hospice.

When you are old and accomplished if you are lucky you get an obituary in the paper. When you are young and you die you instead get floods of comments on your My Space. I know because I looked at hers. I remember her face well from walking around our small town and being in various school plays. I remember her always in the shadow of her older brother (my sister's friend) whom she adored and looked up to.

I couldn’t stop reading the entries on her page and found myself tearing up at my desk. A lot of them I found endearing and they read like yearbook entries, “I’ll always remember when we…” or “BFF”, etc. But what it boils down to despite the generation gap is that no matter how young a life is - when you are gone you are gone. And if you are lucky you will be missed.

FROM THE VAULT

2006-08-30T23:18:00.000-04:00

Funny Kid Days aka "Don't Take My Picture!":
(me on the right)

Scary College Days aka "Worlds Most Uptight Hippie":
(me on the right again)

Sigh. Some things never change.

REFRESHING

2006-08-30T22:23:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite bloggers is 81-year-old Floridora. If you haven't read his blog before you should. It's refreshing to read about someone's interesting past and take on life. A nice change from the usual blog themes of broken ipods, long work days and what we all had for lunch. Be sure to leave him a comment.

WINNING

2006-08-30T16:11:00.000-04:00

Remember winning stuff? As a kid? It was such a thrill. I don’t recall every being super competitive when I was little but then again that’s what people that are super competitive say. I hated those people in high school that would say, “Oh! I TOTALLY failed that test!” and then they would get 100%. Sadly - that was never me.

My sister on the other hand was a pretty competitive kid. One time our family went to her Science Fair. When the results were in, she stood there with a furrowed brow in her tiny little red dress and white shoes. She didn’t win.

When we got home she headed upstairs and refused to join us for dinner. Around dessert time she emerged walking down the steps still dressed in her little red dress but this time wearing every medal and ribbon she had ever won – everything from horseback riding to potato sack races.

Yesterday was my birthday. My sister is now a hair stylist and works at a salon near my office. She offered me a free wash and blow out as a birthday gift which as most women would agree is a total treat. It was nice because it was the first time I let her ‘work’ on my hair since the early days of her career which ended in minor hair disasters and stupid fights.

Working on people’s hair is annoying. It requires long hours and standing on your feet – in her case often in high heels. People are cranky and picky and talk your ear off. Your hands and wrists hurt. The shampoos and gels and creams and all that water can dry out your skin. On a rainy day you hardly get any walk ins and forget tips. In her case she is working in a new salon which is only just now starting to pick up business.

But it was fun to see her in action. When I arrived my sister was finishing up with a client and the lady was very pleased. Soon it was my turn and she showed me to the sink. Asked if the water was too hot. Gave my hair a good scrubbing and my head a nice scalp massage. She showed me to her chair and asked if I wanted the latest magazines. Got me something to drink. And when she was done my hair looked better than ever. I got compliments all night.

When I was in her chair I was reminded of her attention to detail even as a little kid. How she used to love to brush my hair and put clips in it. Back in the day there was nothing she loved more than putting my hair in a side ponytail. When I saw her yesterday I told her to please resist the urge.

I am so proud of her. For so long it seemed my sister had a dark cloud hanging over her head. Life was such a struggle. Now her struggles seem to be sacrifices well worth the positive outcomes. Business might be slow but she knows it will pick up. Regardless it was great to see her on such stable ground – still wearing high heels mind you – but finally winning.

33

2006-08-29T15:19:00.000-04:00

Today I am 33. I woke up a little sad but it soon disappeared with all the nice things that have come my way this morning:

flowers
gift certificate
heartfelt card with envelope reading "#1 wife"
beautiful necklace from parents
my office desk decorated with photos/balloons/rose petals/streamers
donuts in our staff meeting
tons of emails and calls from friends all over the world
soon to be yummy dinner at Babbo

Overall I feel so lucky. 33 has been an amazing year. I got married. Changed jobs. Put my writing out there on-air and on print. Traveled a ton. Boosted my confidence again. I think I felt a little sad this morning because it's in my nature to be a refelective dork when things change in my life. I need it. I need to feel the low before the high. It's the way I've always been.

Things I want to do in 34:

Learn how to sail
Write more
Be a better friend to some people
Keep laughing and try to be a little less serious
Mentor again
More mini-creative projects - things I can accomplish w/a full time job
Volunteer more
Read my new digital camera manual
Write more letters and/or postcards
Go to Portugal

There is more on the list that I'll keep private.
For now - why blog everything.

STUNNING

2006-08-28T22:06:00.000-04:00

In college one of my favorite art exhibitions - a guest artist that came to campus - someone I can't recall by name - did a painting a day on index card sized planks of wood for one entire year. She hung them in the gallery in order and by calendar month per wall. It was fascinating. Her moods changed. Her colors changed. The subjects of her pieces changed. It was an original concept for its time.

Flash forward to Noah Kalina. Noah took a photo a day for 6 years. He made a movie of it HERE

If you haven't seen this you should.
Thanks to Mexican for spotting it first.

MY OFF DAY

2006-08-24T00:14:00.000-04:00

It was an 'off' day. I awoke to Jane the cat clawing lightly at my face but in that 'get up now and feed me or I'll make your life hell' kind of way. My phone alarm rang but with a strange noise. And it felt like E was sleeping on 90% of the bed leaving me only a small portion but he wasn't. I was also sweaty. Everything was just wrong and off.

So I go to the shower. I am barely awake and immediately I have to deal with two of my most hated things - a roach and a spider. Both. In the tub. At the same time. This is a horrible combo on most days much less one that is pre-coffee.

I decide - barely awake - that I should hang a piece of toilet paper for the spider to crawl up on, let it scurry up the toilet paper and then run the dangling piece of toilet paper into the kitchen to let the spider loose. Why this is a good idea I'm not sure. But I did it.

When I returned to the bathroom, the roach had not magically disappeared as I had hoped. Instead it waited to be killed. I smushed up a piece of toilet paper into a ball and did my best to smother the roach with the balled up tissue which I pounded with a toilet plunger. It wasn't until a good 15 minutes went past until I then realized that I am a grown woman standing naked in her bathroom not able to take a shower and running late for work because I am afraid of bugs. I picked up the ball of toilet paper with the roach in it and threw it down the toilet with a loud flush.

On the subway I did not get a seat. People pushed me. The car has no AC. When I changed trains I boarded the local without noticing which took forever. When I got to work my normal coffee place had no skim milk for my ice coffee. I momentarily considered that it's possible I've gained ten pounds from all the skim milk I drink on a daily basis? I ran for the elevator looking like a fool. Anyone that runs for the elevator and dives in out of breath surrounded by co-workers looks like a fool.

Busy but productive day. Met E and friends after work for a Mets night game. My first summer game of the season. I was dressed in a very un-sporty outfit. I looked like I should be going to a PTA meeting or maybe just shopping at STAPLES. But there was a huge delay. 20 minutes. There was a fire on the track. I was surrounded by freaking out tourists dressed in METS baseball hats, T-shirts, etc. They were all speaking too loudly and saying, "FIRE? WHAT DID SHE SAY? FIRE? REALLY? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? OH MY GOD FIRE!" I did not feel the air on the subway all of the sudden. The conductor yelled to his fellow conductors via the crackling speakers, "Do NOT open the doors - DO YOU HEAR ME!" which made things worse. Finally the train began to move again.

E was slightly annoyed I am late when I arrive. He asks if I left work late even after I say THERE WAS A FIRE ON MY TRAIN TRACK which annoyed me but we move on. Fantastic seats. Great company. A perfect night for a ball game and a win. On the train ride home we packed into a car with all the hundreds of other METS fans. I am smushed between a man's armpit which smells ripe and another man's bad breath - a burp he is kind enough to let out that smells no joke like sausage and hot peppers and a hint of beer.

I'd say it was time to go home.

AFFAIR TO REMEMBER

2006-08-22T14:41:00.000-04:00

On August 29th I will turn 33. This is funny. I share a birthday with Michael Jackson. The age doesn’t bother me. My physical body could use some touch ups – more exercise, a little less coffee, etc. I’m not the biggest fan of the massive amounts of gray hair coming in along the rim of my face and I see lines that weren’t there before 30...but overall I am grateful, happy, content and wow...almost 33.

I don’t remember a lot of my birthdays as a kid which will most likely horrify my mother when she reads this. All I do remember is how creative my mother was with most things about our childhood. I do recall though one of my favorite birthdays. My parents hosted a Luau for what I think was my 8th bday party. My mother hollowed out over twenty coconuts to make drink holders. I wore a grass skirt despite being too shy to wear a bikini top. There were lots of bright colors and a long wooden table my mother made with pillows on the sides for us all to sit. There were a few adults there encouraged to wear Hawaiian shirts. There was Hawaiian music.

I do remember a few of my sister’s birthday parties more. Perhaps because I never liked that much attention drawn to myself and also I did well with the responsibility of remembering someone else’s life instead of mine. My sister once had a 'seasons' themed party. Everyone was encouraged to attend dressed for a season. Kids came in flippers and masks, others wool hats and winter coats. My mother took out our living room rug and filled the place with sand and beach toys.

A NYC friend was talking about her son’s first birthday recently. She ordered tons of food to be catered. Hired a party entertainer guy. Made her husband create a mixed CD of songs. They got a permit for the park. At the end they realized they had forgotten to take a single photo of the entire event.

To me – a photo geek by nature – this seemed like the worst possibly thing to ever happen to someone. Not ONE single photo of that particular much less VERY important event? The more I thought about it the more I was reminded of a conversation I had not long ago with Jake where he talked about not being present in mind and missing the events in his life because he was too busy photographing them.
It's a good reminder.

ALL THE RAGE

2006-08-17T23:14:00.000-04:00

New York fashion trends never fail to surprise and amaze me. Years ago I gave up trying to keep up with what is currently trendy and cool. Now I'm lucky if I can even motivate to take a shower in the morning.

On my lunch break today I walked around taking photos with my camera and spotted a truly...RIDICULOUS bag a woman was carrying. If only I'd captured the horrifed reactions of everyone around her as they too thought it was crazy.

First I spotted the women walking down the street with what appeared to be a very stiff dog in her arms. Then as she got closer and stepped in front of me did I realize...wait...this wasn't an actual dog but a spooky, strange, stiff, taxidermied looking dog shaped purse... Again - if you could only have seen the reactions of the UPS guy, the diners outside of Pastis, the kids walking by, the tourists, the meat market guys, etc. all taking in this spooky taxidermied purse.

And thanks to RION who found the photos of purses that looked like THIS and THIS

GHOST

2006-08-17T12:02:00.000-04:00

Monday or Tuesday night I can’t recall (despite it being only a few short days ago) I was headed home from work on the train when I spotted popular photographer/photoblogger Travis Ruse. For those of you that haven’t heard or read about Travis he is a photographer that has spent the past year plus taking photos of people on his commute to and from work. He posts one a day here on his web site.

Photographing people – especially New Yorkers – can be very difficult. Travis doesn’t hide anything. His camera hangs from his neck and it seems obvious he is taking your photograph. I can’t recall if he asks permission – some photographers do. Regardless it’s a tough thing to pull off. Take a look through some of his photos and you’ll see why.

I’m not sure he saw me but I decided not to disturb the man in action. I just watched him from afar as he listened to his headphones, focused on various people on the track and clicked away from the camera that hung from his neck. I could have sworn he was focusing on a woman in an orange dress but I wasn’t sure. I like to play this game sometimes. What is that person seeing that to them is photo worthy? And do I want a photo of it too?

When the subway came we all shuffled in. Travis was in the middle of the car and I was towards the back. I dug in my bag for my tiny Powershot camera which I use for spy shots. I was going to take a photo of him photographing others. But by the time I looked up again at the next station – like a ghost - he was gone.

DASHING

2006-08-17T10:33:00.000-04:00

Here's a tip...if you are straight guy – don’t come to my nail salon called DASHING DIVAS. If you hadn’t noticed...everything is pink inside and it’s full of chicks. Perhaps you missed the following things that might have ‘tipped you off’:

-giant pink satin cushions on every chair
-only chicks working there and only chicks coming there
-curtains made of dangling crystals dividing various areas of the room
-magazine selection - US Weekly, Vogue, Star, In Touch, etc.
-chick talk about guys, celebs, breakups, work, babies, clothes, hair
-chick flicks playing on the big flat screen TV
-names of spa treatments like “Girls Night Out Pedicure” or “Mango Manicure”

If you are a straight guy and choose to come in please don’t do the following:

-act ‘extra manly’ by wearing your sunglasses indoors and baseball cap sideways checking your sidekick all cool while you get a pedicure with your leg propped up on a pink satin pillow

-talk loudly on your cell phone about how hot the chick was you went on a date with last week while your hands are being wrapped in hot towels and lavender lotion

Exceptions:

-All the poor husbands or boyfriends or brothers or sons that have to run in and quickly talk to their wife, girlfriend, sister or mother meanwhile ashamed of even being in there more than five seconds. One time E was one of those dudes. He had to come because I forgot my wallet. He came in like a deer in headlights, threw down the money and ran.

WHAT TO KNOW

2006-08-17T10:15:00.000-04:00

When I was living on and off for a few years in Lucea, Jamaica doing a volunteer program through my college we were prepped on several aspects of what living there would be like for us and what specifically would be very, very different. That was many years ago. Since then I’m sure times have changed drastically but recently I came across some notes taken from that time period:

-When you answer the phone at night it is polite to say “Hello Goodnight – Who’s calling”

-Don’t feel bad if you are served dinner first and when you are done the children eat after you. Suggesting they eat first may insult your host

-If you see a cluster of Jamaicans wearing white it is not a wedding but a funeral

-Beware of stray rabid dogs

-You may be nicknamed ‘whitey’ or ‘spring breaker’ wherever you go but don’t be insulted

-No ganja smoking allowed in movie theaters

-Don’t be surprised if your Jamaican host mother sets an extra plate at the table for the angel on your shoulder

-Bob Marley is for your parents generation (aka respected but not cool)

-If you pick ackee from a tree – make sure the yellow pulp is ripe or it could cause vomiting or death. Ackee tastes and looks like scrambled eggs.

-The best fish to buy is from the children that come to your door in the early morning holding them from a string

-If you take a taxi don't be startled that you may have to sit on a strangers lap (male or female). Taxis are few and far between so are shared by several people.

-That chicken in the yard is not a pet. You may hear it being strangled later for your supper

-Don’t take photos of Rastas without asking first. Some fear it captures the soul

OREGON

2006-08-16T11:34:00.000-04:00

I will be in Portland on biz in September and the hubs is joining. It will be our one year anniversary. For those of you that might have recommendations for 2-3 day/night trips if we head to the coast - where to go, what to see, where to stay please let me know. We will have a car. And for the five of you readers that still come to this blog I promise to write more soon. Really.

DON'T MESS WITH THE KNIFE LADY

2006-08-11T11:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I packed my usual bag for work – wallet, cell phone, day planner, company ID and set of seven large knives wrapped in three dish towels. Another day another dollar.

Truth is I don’t usually carry large knives to work. Today was an exception. I was taking our kitchen knives to be professionally sharpened in the food mecca otherwise known as Chelsea Market.

I never thought much about knives until I met my culinary geek husband. Growing up in my household, knives were used for anything but food related tasks - opening impossible CD packaging, sawing through a cardboard box to make a fort or used to carve our Halloween pumpkins. It wasn’t until last Christmas did my childhood home receive it’s first real and sharp knife from E – the first knife in the history of our house that could potentially harm a toddler should they play with it.

When I first met E I was impressed by many things but one of them was his love for cooking. When he finally got over the embarrassment of the state of his bachelor pad and invited me over after MONTHS of dating (I started to be convinced he didn’t have a home) I used to love to watch him in the kitchen. The man didn’t have a shower curtain but boy could he chop like a mad man.

The other night when cooking diner E was complaining about our dull knives. Having passed a woman near work who had a little knife sharpening stand I thought as a surprise I’d bring our knives in and get them sharpened for him. For all you young cool people out there, this is what you have to look forward to when you are in your thirties. Sharpening each other’s knives.

So I brought the knives in and was terrified I’d be stopped on the subway or have my bags checked in the station. I couldn’t help but think as I was reading my New York Times – if I was packin’ seven steak knives and looked fairly ‘normal’ on the outside what were the others around me carrying? I didn’t want to know.

I made it to work and approached the lady at the knife stand who wore a little beret and was eating an avocado and cream cheese sandwich on whole grain bread at 9AM.

ME: Hello
Knife Lady: Hello. Do you have some knives?
Me: Yes

It sounded like a drug deal. She looked over my knives – a combo of E’s professional expensive ones and others I’d had from years before I knew him. She picked up E’s knives and made happy sounds while raising her eyebrows.

Knife Lady: Oh nice…one of my favs
Knife Lady: Also a good one yes…someone in the house likes to cook
Knife Lady: (picking up my two knives chuckling) Oh haha...these remind me of my college days...those meals I cringe about when I think back on...

I started to get slightly annoyed with the gypsy psychic reading knife lady. I was late for work and hoped she might move things along. We discussed a price and she said she would call me some time after lunch.

Later in the day I was trapped at my desk awaiting my call from the knife lady. A co-worker asked me to lunch and I couldn’t leave my desk merely saying, “I can’t. I’m waiting for my knives.”

Finally I decided to stop by her stand on the way out at the end of the day. There was a man not unlike the stereotype of a child molester standing at the knife stand talking to the gypsy knife sharpening lady. I approached the stand.

Me: Hello
Knife Lady: Oh there you are
Me: Why? Did you call me?
Knife Lady: No. But here are your knives
ME: (?) Thanks.

I gave her the cash. The creepy man beside me gave over his cash as well.

Knife Lady: Oh goody. Now everyone has their knives

Creepy Man: We sure do! Now let’s just hope the police don’t stop me on my way out like they did last time!

BRIDAL BROUHAHA

2006-07-29T10:32:00.000-04:00

My friend A is getting married this October. Today we host a bridal shower for her and tonight is a night on the town 'bachelorette style'.

These types of nights always amaze me. They are often full of strange traditions that I never understood and in some sense seem from another time or place or just entirely made up all together. Make your friend wear a penis crown and penis earrings. Make your friend wear lace underwear on top of her pants and a veil while dancing. Make your friend get one last kiss from a guy before she is married. Where did these traditions come from? I'm guessing New Jersey but I could be wrong.

For my bachelorette party I invited a bunch of women friends out to my parent's empty house for the weekend. My idea was to trick them all into thinking it was a mellow weekend away in the country and avoid any of the traditional and horrifying bachelorette madness I did my best to avoid. No such luck. As I returned from the train station to pick up another friend that had just arrived, I drove up to my parents house only to see a GIANT penis balloon complete with balls sticking out the front door of the house to greet me. The rest of the night went pretty much down hill after that - two words - Jello shots.

Yesterday I got a call from B - my friend who is a young Mom with twins under two living in Minneapolis. She is flying in without kids today to join in the bachelorette fun. B is in charge of getting all the embarassing penis themed crap that NONE of us like but the future bride does. The call went something like this:

B: K - It's B.
K: Hey! How's it going?
B: Good - I'm in a sex shop with the twins in a Minneapolis mall.
K: hahahha
B: Is a penis pinata too over the top?
K: Uh...
B: (whispering to kids) - Honey, Don't touch that - that's for adults.

SWEATING AT A REDUCED RATE

2006-07-27T16:59:00.000-04:00

Don’t ask me why but I’ve been to the YMCA four times this week – each time running for a full 15-20 minutes non-stop on the treadmill. 20 minutes may seem like nothing to you but for someone that just last night ate dinner with her hands so as not to backtrack to the kitchen – it’s a frickin’ marathon.

What’s not as bad as I thought is running. Don’t get me wrong – I hate it. It does not feel good at the time. My knees feel like they might explode. My hair sticks to the sweat on my forehead. My butt jiggles in a super bad and embarrassing way reminding me I’m not hot and twenty. I feel like Big Foot as my feet come pounding down one after another - left - right - left - right. But I keep running.

A few things I’ve found helpful in the running process: one is listening to my ipod on Volume 10 playing really really hard music. I need to be angry and pissed to run. Also – I need to focus on something outside the window helping me to get into a ‘zone’. This week it was a ladder attached to the roof of a Subway sandwich shop. I stared at the ladder. Stared and stared. I said something crazy and mean to myself I said, “If you stop staring at the ladder it will fall off the wall and hit someone and they will die.” A few times I diverted my eyes from ‘the zone’ and within minutes my inside voice took over saying, “Wait…you are running. This totally sucks. Stop this immediately. Go home and eat with your hands.” But I didn’t.

On my way out of the gym last week I overheard someone registering for the first time at the Brooklyn YMCA. This week I have been merely visiting the Brooklyn facility but am a member in Manhattan. As I listened I happened to hear what it costs to join this particular branch in Brooklyn and nearly had a cow:

(front desk – nice Jamaican man greeted me)

M: Yes miss.
K: Sir- did I overhear that it cost LESS to be registered here at this Brooklyn facility than the one in Manhattan where I am a member?
M: Yes miss.
K: How much less?
M: How much you been payin?
K: $80 a month
M: It’s $50 a month here
K: WHAT?!
M: Yes miss.
K: Can I switch gyms?
M: Yes miss.
K: I can’t believe that. What a rip off!
M: Yes miss. Haven’t you heard the saying: Don’t Dance With The First Girl You See?

COUPLES THAT BLOG TOGETHER STAY TOGETHER

2006-07-26T10:53:00.000-04:00

Link of the day and more writing soon once my shoot is over: Mike and Rion in Paris

LETTER OF THE WEEK: DEAR DAD

2006-07-14T20:54:00.000-04:00

Dear Dad,

Remember when I was 14 years old and you and Mom forced me to leave my skateboarding friends back in NYC during the middle of the summer to go on a family trip to all places...MAINE (ugh!)And we went to some random cabin on a lake to visit your friends we hardly knew and I seriously thought you guys were ruining my life?

Do you remember how I complained the lake water was 'dirty' and that the blueberries tasted like 'sand' and spent most of the time in the top bunk of my room ripping out pages from my Thrasher skater magazine and tacking them to the wall wondering when I'd ever get back to REAL LIFE? Well if you don't Mom does. And well...here I am in Maine 19 years later - by choice - and I am sorry for all the crap I put you guys through on that trip. Am thinking of you.

Today we took out the canoe at sunset and went around an island. An island that is for sale. You know how you and Mom sometimes talk about buying an apartment in New York City - pish - why not your very own island here in Maine?

Although...you may need to get a boat so Mom can run errands off your island or so that you can go get the New York Times in town but I think it's worth it. Why? Did I mention your island comes with an American Bald Eagle? I highlighted it here with a yellow arrow. Really. I saw it with my very own eyes.

Here is your island at sunset Papa. Talk to Mom and get back to me. If only I had enough cash I would buy it for you like when Britney Spears buys her parents a mansion in Louisiana. But I'm not Britney but at least I dress more appropriately.

Oh - since I forgot to mention the price: $320,000

xo Dunk

OUTDOOR GIRL AND THE BANKER

2006-07-13T22:01:00.000-04:00

For those of you that have read this blog before you are well aware of my personal hatrid for hiking -(see above photo). In past blogs I've gone into detail about my first hike - one that couldn't have been more challenging and included a couple that had just returned from the mountains of Ecuador, another couple that was training for the Boston triathlon and the third couple that just returned from a three month stint hiking the Appalachian trail - for their honeymoon. On that particular trip, I couldn't even scramble up the first rock convinced I'd twisted my ankle and the bugs were using my neck as a personal bug zapper. Yet still - despite begging my husband E to leave me behind - he wouldn't.

I grew up at the end of the North Fork on Long Island. There are no mountains there. Growing up the closest thing I came to hiking was hiking up my skirt after I'd left the house with my girlfriends to trek around the Smith Haven Mall scoping out hot guys with mullets.

Twice a year E and I go to Maine. Twice a year we have the same fight that ends with the same two sentences after he won't let it go that we should go for a hike, "Well than you should have married a Teva wearing outdoors girl!" and then he yells back completely unrelated, "And you should have married a banker!" And then we both go to bed angry. It's great.

This trip something changed. We've been married now for ten months. In these ten months we have climbed more mini-mountains in our relationship learning to meet each other half way than we ever did in our dating years. Discovering what works for us and what doesn't. What we can accept and let go about each other and what we can't. Who is really good about replacing the toilet paper roll when it's empty and who considers the fridge nothing more than a place for things to die. You know. The important stuff.

Not once in planning this trip did E hint, mention, force, scream, yell, get pissed off that we should go for a hike while I talked through clenched teeth, looked out the window pouting, yelled, wept and sulked in the hammock with a cold glass of white wine. In fact call it love is blind or what but we didn't even have to get to that point because on the ride up I blurted out "Honey! Let's go for a hike when we're up here!" I thought E might swerve off the road in shock.

So we went for a hike. We climbed Mount Zircon - 2240 feet (I can hear you real hikers snickering at the height but hey - we had to start small). And it was buggy - really bad - even E agreed - mid-July/Maine/right before it rained, etc. But we climbed and climbed and overall it wasn't too bad and it gave me more of a chance to reflect on why I hate hiking so much.

I don't like feeling a lack of control. I don't like not knowing how long it is to get to the top and even more so what if I am not prepared? Do I have everything I need? Then...when I am at the top how long do we plan to be there before we head down? So much thinking it's crippling at times and so relevant to how for so many years I've conducted everything in my life. When you are married to another person you are no longer hiking alone. Whatever it takes you need to find a way to meet in the middle and are responsible for taking care of your side of the street. On this hike I decided to look stone to stone, stick to stick, step to step when climbing instead of casting my eyes up at the mountain ahead. It helped.

When we nearly reached the top (about 20 minutes away) the conditions started to worsen - more bugs, slippery dark thick mud, larger rocks and very steep. I was getting more and more out of breath and finally looked up at E and said I'd reached my limit. He didn't press me to keep going. Instead he only asked that I let him continue on his own until he reached the top to see the view. Which I did and hope I always do.

CHECK PLEASE

2006-07-11T09:38:00.000-04:00

Yesterday after wandering around the small town here in Maine we decided to stop in to a place that looked like a diner despite the sign that read 'cocktail lounge'. There we enjoyed a cold iced tea and a grilled cheese cooked by the Dad guy featured in the above photo.

After the meal, Dad guy walked over and spoke to us for a while with his daughter by his side. There was a lot of information shared in the small amount of time we sat there: Dad plays the drums, Dad has two other kids, Dad collects gem stones, Dad is renovating an old house, Dad went to a rave the other night was the oldest one there and Dad is remarried - he showed us a photo of his lovely 16 yr old looking wife.

Before we left E inquired why the place said 'cocktail lounge' on the side:

Dad Guy: Because it is. Only a cocktail lounge two nights a week now
E: Oh yeah? Which nights? Maybe we can come down.
Dad Guy: Tuesday and Thursdays
K: Yes we should totally come down
Dad Guy: Sure. Yeah...we got dancing girls
E: Dancing what?
Little Daughter: Dancing GIRLS
E: Dancing girls. Huh. Ok.
Dad Guy: (raising eyebrows up and down)
K:(looking at smiling little girl) Oh... wow...ok
Little Daughter: (laughs and looks at Dad)
E: Huh
K: Huh

Check please.

CHURCH FRIENDS

2006-07-09T19:04:00.000-04:00

On Sunday we woke up early and E said, "Let's go to church." Then pigs flew past the window and frogs fell from the sky. It's the truth I swear. At least the first part.

Why church? I asked him. Why not? was the answer. Duh. A chance to get to know the community? A peek inside a world unfamiliar to us? A beautiful sunny Sunday morning? All I know is that there was a lot of camera equipment being packed into the car.

The church was a modest church on the other side of the pond that I've passed several times on walks in the Maine woods. A long, white building with tall windows and a tiny point with a bell on top. It was a Catholic service. The Father - a funny and direct guy - conducted the ceremony to a small, intimate sea of friendly looking, mostly elderly faces. Like most Mainers I've met, the Father used only words that were necessary to make his point. For example, if a real Mainer were writing this blog it would have been over three paragraphs ago.

The subject of the brief sermon was rejection. He reminded everyone that at some point we all face rejection so why take it too seriously? Get on with it so to speak and if you know someone who faces rejection show a little compassion. A friendly soccer Mom type woman with a kind smile came up to the podium and reminded us all of the more serious forms of rejection to consider. The small town kid that got rejected for scholarship money and will not be able to attend college. Someone gets rejected for a kidney. Then because it's church there was some body of Christ bits. Some ringing of bells. And sooner than expected it was all over. Afterwards we thanked the Father for the sermon. There were a few photos taken and we were on our way.

Later in the day we drove twenty minutes outside of town to watch the World Cup finals in a small hole in the wall in the basement bar in rural Maine. It was quite a turnaround from the morning's events seeing as before we knew it we were chomping on chicken wings, drinking beers in the afternoon and cursing at the TV over the soccer play by plays.

After the game E said he'd meet me outside. I emerged from the darkness of the pub only to notice people had gathered in the middle of the town square on the big green lawn next to the fountain and gazebo. People sat on red and white picnic blankets, kids were dressed in floral and khaki, dogs had bandanas tied around their necks and practically everyone came equipped with collapsible camping chairs. It was like a LL Bean catalog come to life. For musical entertainment there was a bearded man in lederhosen who strummed on an acoustic guitar and a woman in desperate need of a haircut that played a harp. The music was folk music and the tunes sounded like the soundtrack of the spoof movie, "A Mighty Wind."

A sudden tug on my left sleeve distracted me from the entertainment. To my surprise it was the soccer Mom woman who gave the reading from church this morning now wearing sunglasses and a tie-died Florida Gators tank top.

Woman: Hello. You were in church this morning!
Me: Ah...yes! Yes I was.
Woman: Good to see you.
Me: You too!
Woman: Father's quite a character isn't he?
Me: Sure is
Woman: Well have a nice day
Me: You too
Woman: Enjoy the music!

E finally emerged from the bathroom.

K: Honey, it's time to get out of here.
E: Why?
K: And do you have a mint?
E: Why?
K: I have beer breath and worse...I'm starting to run into our church friends

OFF TO MAINE

2006-07-07T09:44:00.000-04:00

Off to Maine for our annual vacation. We will be staying in our usual spot at Camp Clark - a beautiful, simple camp in the Maine woods where we got engaged. Thanks to the generous Clark family that is kind enough to share it with us. And thanks to SC for the above photo.

I hope our biggest worries in the next few days are what they often are:

Should I bring a sweatshirt down to the beach to watch the sunset?
I think the lawn needs mowing
Do we have enough wiffle balls?
Maybe we should gather some kindling for tonight's fire
Which baseball game is on the radio tonight?
Is there enough wine and beer?
How cold is the water for my morning swim?
Which book should I read?
Should we buy another puzzle when we go into town?

And then there is always...where will we watch the World Cup game on Sunday?

INDEPENDENCE DAY

2006-07-06T14:47:00.000-04:00

For the 4th of July – I was standing next to two Canadians in a private, $200,000 roof top ‘cabana’ at 70 Washington – a renovated building located in DUMBO, Brooklyn. The infamous Real Estate developer David Walentas and his wife were standing to my right. The sky truly lit up with red, whites and blues from the fireworks and the views of lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge were stunning. Afterwards, we were asked to join the group downstairs for Veuve Clicquoit and blueberry pie. If you hadn’t guessed by now – this wasn’t our usual scene.

10 years ago I lived in DUMBO. There are not many things I can associate being ‘cool’ with before it was ‘cool’ but living in DUMBO Brooklyn 10 years ago before all of it’s development is one of them.

DUMBO was introduced to me by a guy I was dating at the time. He and his roommate invited me and my roommate for a visit. I remember the night well. We boarded the ‘mysterious’ F train to York Street and emerged in the middle of nowhere Brooklyn. It was dark and empty and we thought we were going to die. Frightened - we wussy Manhattanites called the guys from a sticky, dirty payphone. Our shoes were inappropriately high for the cobble stone streets. We waited impatiently for the guys to arrive while standing next to a homeless man with one leg tipped over and passed out in a wheelchair.

The guys took us back to their apartment. In comparison to our East Village hell hole it looked like the size of a skating rink. Worse – the guys paid something like $1000 a month for close to 3000 square feet.

Two months later an apartment opened up in the same building we had visited on Water Street between Bridge and Gold. We packed up our twenty-something furniture in a U-Haul van and drove both unknowingly and illegally over the Brooklyn Bridge in our commercial vehicle. It was smaller than the guy’s apartment but the 2500 square foot of outdoor space we shared with the lesbian artist couple next door made up for it.

Granted - the lifestyle was rough around the edges. The only grocery store for miles was a 15 minute walk to Brooklyn Heights. The only option to do laundry was in the basement of a Baptist church in the nearby projects. Most nights we walked alone in the dark streets with broken street lamps. There were prostitutes, crack heads but mostly a combination of prostitutes and crack heads that would have sex in the daylight on our front stoop. Mail didn’t always get to us and forget about packages. If you wanted to reach us or come over for a visit- we didn’t have a door bell but rather a makeshift rig consisting of a large string of empty Café Bustelo coffee cans that ran off the roof and down the side of the building. No lie. It was amazing. Like living in an abandoned tree house with plenty of room to party.

Flash forward. It’s Independence Day. On my left - our Canadian friends that in less than two weeks move back to Canada in order to be able to afford to live and have a kid. To our right - David Walentas with a bird’s eye view of his number of Brooklyn projects in development. And there we were standing in the middle on the roof of a $200,000 cabana just blocks from where I used to live.

So what - you say… it’s an old and familiar tale. The rich get richer (yawn) and the poor are getting pushed out (what else is new?). Regardless, it sucks. We are not just losing space anymore over our non-real estate independence but now friends too that can’t afford to live here anymore. I still hope for the best even if it is somewhat childish and unrealistic. A tree house big enough for us all to play in. Somewhere between a working doorbell and the sound of rattling coffee cans.

PICKLE

2006-06-28T15:48:00.000-04:00

I got my college bulletin in the mail recently. It's just such a funny thing to catch up and read about all of these people that you used to go to college with. In college you don't have families you have these people. These people are your tiny town, your small world and in some cases your family. And then you graduate and where do they all go? They stuff themselves into the form of short little paragraphs in the college bulletin living in worlds no longer familiar to you.

The updates - so and so is a Christian novelist. So and so lives in Germany as a ski teacher. So and so spends her time 'volunteering for the Junior League' when she is not 'scrap booking in her free time'. And how is it possible that Lulu - that redhead known for partying with the best is a mother of a 5 yr old and has two more children to boot? All I can say is now that I am older - it's possible.

The best news perhaps a web site address for a long lost friend - a friendly, real person in a tipsy four years away that kept me stable with her friendship and laughter and realness. I always wondered what came of her. Now a mother. A photo of her on the website. There she is in a pretty shirt with her sweet happy looking baby boy that is reaching out to a full plate of pickles.

Life has passed me at odd speeds as of late. Dad sick. Dad better. Zoom. No control. Things falling through the cracks. Then SLOW. Time not moving. The expiration date on the milk further than it was yesterday. I swear.

CRACKERJACKS

2006-06-03T21:59:00.000-04:00

So. I joined the YMCA. Technically I rejoined since I used to be a member. When I did the lady at the reception desk said, "WOW! The last time you joined was 2004!" I felt like she was saying, "You haven't exercised in 2 years!" and I felt ashamed. The sad part was she was right. I hadn't.

I decided to start slow with a class called 'Aquasize". The name brought to mind senior citizens bobbing around in a pool and you know? I wasn't half wrong. Here is how it went down.

6PM
Got to gym and purchased swimming cap and lock. Freaked out on way to locker room as I remembered that I was that kid in high school always late to class because I could never get my lock open. Ever.

6:15PM
In locker room. Grabbed two scratchy towels the size of washcloths. Pretended I didn't notice several fully naked women of all body types walking around me. Picked long locker, changed into bathing suit and swimming cap and proceeded to try fifteen times to open my lock until finally a woman took pity on me and opened it. She did her best to explain to me how to use my lock - talking to me like I was a foreign exchange student. I sort of was. My brain froze over as it often did in Math or Science class.

6:20PM
Stuffed last minute items in locker and closed lock knowing there was no way in hell I'd ever be able to get it open again after class. Put lock combo in work shoe (forgot flip flops) and shuffled in work shoes in bathing suit and swimming cap to showers - took shower and headed out to pool. Asked teen lifeguard with dreadlocks where Aquasize class was. A long pause and he said, "Um...the slow lane." (bad sign)

6:25PM
Waited patiently for teacher and students to arrive when all of the sudden the doors to the women's locker room opened and a huge outpouring of large, round, happy and chatty older women with Bronx accents waddled their way over to the slow lane. Teacher was beind them.

6:30pm
When all the women got in the water two things rose - the water level in the pool (I'm not kidding) and the decibal of noise due to the women chatting all at once and apparently catching up from last week's class. They were like a sea of chatty blowfish in floral bathing caps.

"Marie! Haven't seen ya...how was ya bbq?"
"Thanks for askin'! The grandkids were happy"
"I made a pot roast the other night. Cooked it in the crockpot. To die for!"
"Really!"
"Awww...ya add potatoes?"
"My back's been hurtin' me."
"Look there's Joanne! JOANNE!!!! OVER HEREEEE! JOANNE!!!!"

The women continued to bob along until the teacher blew her whistle and told everyone to pick a spot in the pool (2 lanes worth of space) to claim as their own.

6:35pm
The women despite their age and size scrambled into place like agressive Tetris pieces - apparently their regular spots in the pool. It all happened so fast that I was left with no option but to be stuck in the shallow end in about four feet of water despite being the tallest person in the group. I had to crouch down in order to keep my shoulders under water. Ow.

6:40pm
Class proceeds with an overly enthusastic but genuine female teacher who when she yells, "How we doin'?" in a thick Brooklyn accent really wants you to yell back, "Great!" and she is not kidding. When she asked us to do this I caught a side glance of some young hipsters doing laps in the lane over from us staring at me. I also noticed at the deep end of the pool on the other side of the women was one guy around my age. What the hell? He had a wedding ring on. Does his wife knows he does Aquasize when he says, "Honey, I think I'm going to hit the gym after work." Or was it his wife's suggestion?

6:45pm
We begin with some slow warms ups. Ridiculous crazy moves with silly titles like 'The Electric Frog' and 'Churn The Butter'. Teacher, "OK LADIES!!!! HOW WE DOING?! EVERYONE READY TO CHURN THE BUTTER? CHURN THE BUTTER. CHURN THE BUTTER." I've never made butter underwater but all I know is that it can't look or taste too good.

6:55pm
Mini crisis. Lorraine - the woman closest to me in the shallow end needs her styrofoam noodle. Her buddy who is like the tough Aquasize lady who will now be known as 'the screamer' yells for Lorraine to the teacher, "TEACHA! LORRAINE NEEDS HER NOODLE! LORRAINE NEEDS HER NOODLE!? The teacher runs over the styrofoam noodle to Lorraine who apparently is a little fearful of drowning. In two feet of water.

7:00pm
I'm actually starting to enjoy the class. Because I can do 13 times the amount of Churn The Butters than everyone else does in one round I realize I can make this class my own. Married guy at the end of the pool seems to also be taking a similar philosophy. He has now added the heavy underwater styrofoam weights to his excercise regime.

7:15PM
All of the sudden I feel really good about my body. I feel my stomach muscles. My legs are moving. I feel muscles in my arms I never knew I had. This is why people excercise! I look down and the halter dress bathing suit I'm wearing accents my boobs. My boobs are floating. Oh my god I'm like Lindsay Lohan pre-anorexia. This is great.

7:30pm
To wrap up class the teacher decides to my mortification that it would be fun if we sing, "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" while swinging our fake bats from side to side under the water. Then something happens. Lorraine - the fear of drowning noodle hugger - gets totally into the song. Something about this song brings out the best of Lorraine. Reminds her of her childhood in the Bronx - I don't know but when the part of the song that requires the phrase "Buy me some peanuts and..." and specifically the word "CRACKERJACKS..." Lorraine scream/sings "CRACKERJACKS" in a tone not unlike Edith Bunker. Her voice shatters off the tiled pool walls and it makes me truly laugh out loud and in a good way. I was tempted to turn around to see how the hipster swimmers behind me were judging this final encore but for a moment I didn't even care. I was proud of Lorraine. I wanted her to hit a home run.

FROM THE VAULT

2006-05-26T15:36:00.000-04:00

also this beautiful photo from alfr3do (link fixed)

Early courting, Montreal 2002

LOST NOW FOUND

2006-05-25T22:37:00.000-04:00

Have I told you about Gabriel?

Gabriel and his grandmother, mother and sister own an Argentinian bakery near our house. We go there for fresh pastries, coffee, the occasional cake for a party, holiday themed cookies, fresh bagels and on a good day - sugar donuts still warm from the oven.

Gabriel and his family are the hardest working people on the planet. Most mornings Garbriel asks how I am. Because this is usually pre-caffeine I say something careless and self-absorbed like, "WOO! Boy am I SOOOO TIRED! I just can't WAKE UP. What a week! Boy am I EXHAUSTED!" as he hands me my large coffee and my still warm fresh pastry he most likely rolled out in the bakery out back around 4AM that morning.

Asking Gabriel how HE is can have two results:

A.) A fast and furious aka "lets hurry this along I have deliveries to make" exchange
B.) A story about anything at all that lasts 20 minutes long and not a minute less

Because I enjoy listening to people and their stories (most times - Ire) I often like these long winded stories with Gabriel unless they...

A.) Involve detailed accounts of European football (zzz)
B.) Don't involve my coffee being handed to me prior to 20 minute story

Yesterday's story went like this (grab a coffee):

Gabriel was good. In fact he was very good - happy and excited even. Why? A few days ago he moved a couch in his living room and came across a very important notebook he thought he had lost over a year ago.

The notebook was special because it contained several home addresses of many of his closest friends back in Argentina. Over the period of the lost notebook, Gabriel received a ton of letters from his friends back home yet none of them included a return address. Most of his friends didn't have phones much less own computers and many of them lived in remote/rural places - impossible to reach. For example, Gabriel recalled the time his uncle got a phone - he had waited - get ready for this (Gabriel's words not mine) - 30 years for a phone to be installed in his home. When it finally came Gabriel said his uncle was so excited he had a party with friends and family. Everyone took a photo with the phone. There was tons of food. Gabriel said his uncle was so excited he made business cards to hand out to random people with just his phone number on it and said, "Call me."

Over the year of the lost notebook Gabriel grew desperate. He finally asked a favor of a friend of his still living back in Argentina. A friend with a phone. He asked the friend to make flyers and pass them out in the neighborhoods where Garbriel's other friends lived. The guy agreed but did not know any of these people. It was a shot in the dark.

This plan had several flaws. The first - Gabriel is horrible with directions. He tells the friend passing out flyers vague directions such as "leave a flyer at the blue house where the old man with the guitar sits every day". Predictably no one contacted Gabriel.

It didn't matter. Gabriel found the notebook. Finally. Now he had letters to write. Friends to catch up with. He may have looked tired but none of that seemed to matter now.

AND ANOTHER THING

2006-05-19T13:35:00.000-04:00

Dear Hale and Hearty Soups:

1.) Please don't sell soups at the temperature of 1,000 degrees. That sucks. It's already bad enough that I wait to an unreasonable hour to finally grab lunch so then to wait several hours for my soup to finally cool off is not a good thing. Trust me.

2.) Please do not have employees get sassy with customers. When we say, "I'll have the spinach soup" and not "The spinach and mushroom barley soup with rigatoni" I do not need the sassy employee to say, "You mean...the spinach and mushroom barley soup with rigatoni?" while rolling their eyes because frankly it wastes time and I think we both know what soup are talking about here.

3.) Please wipe off the bottom of my soup so my soup container doesn't look like a cat vomited on it.

4.) Please put a spoon in the bag. Don't know about you but I like to EAT MY SOUP WITH A SPOON.

5.) And finally...please give me bread that I can sink my teeth into without having to make an appointment at the dentist to replace my two front teeth that broke off when I took only one bite.

Thank you.

THE PHOTOS YOU MISS

2006-04-27T21:11:00.000-04:00

So many photographers I admire often talk about the photographic moments they miss in a day. Some keep records of them. I can see why. If you can't capture them you can at least write about them. Here were mine today:

- A velvet painting like cake with an exact replica of a woman's face on it given to the woman featured on the cake

- A man carrying the body of a tuba in one hand (no case) and the giant bell of the tuba in the other in the subway

- A woman with pearl white hair in the exact shape of a basketball

- A young guy carrying a brown paper bag with a pot plant in it (I know because I thought I was seeing things and then ran into him again moments later in the deli where he caused quite a flurry of giggles)

- An old man with a sad face sitting in front of a window featuring vintage Marilyn Monroe posters

- A man resembling the stereotype of a 'mobster' chewing on a toothpick with aviator shades on and a white T-shirt that read "I'm a Psychic"

- A man dressed in a blazer with many buttons on it eating a tiny pink donut with sprinkles

Sometimes I think to myself, "Only in New York!" but then again I'm not so sure.

MY 10TH GRADE BOYFRIEND

2006-04-26T22:19:00.000-04:00

E is in San Fran. I miss him. Our home seems darker. Less light. Quiet. I sleep with a pillow on its side flush against my back. A pretend man. I lock the front door from the inside. I leave the dining room table a mess. Jane the cat and I walk from room to room. She gives a long "Meow" looking around and I say, "Yes Jane. I know."

We look at E's things around the apartment - a shirt still on it's hanger from the dry cleaner, a pile of papers, his bulletin board of random photographs, a photo of him on the fridge, things that we see every day when he is here but now seem in a different light.

The phone rings. E calls. I tell him he got a package. This is our exchange:

E: Oh it's probably some shirts I ordered.
K: Shirts? Wow. Big spender. This is a big package.
E: American Apparel was having a sale.
K: I like American Apparel. Good shirts.
E: Yeah
K: What colors did you get?
E: All kinds of colors.
K: Wow. Cool.
E: Yeah.

We proceed to talk like this for a while. It's like a Seinfeld episode. A lot about nothing - but definitely something.

K: You know what this conversation reminds me of?
E: What?
K: Being in 10th grade - two teens talking on the phone about nothing...
E: (laughs)
K: They like each other but neither will admit to it...
K: Ok well bye. Have a good night.
E: Ok you too.

When we hang up I do something I never do. I check the call timer on my phone. We talked for 18 minutes and 56 seconds. I loved and already miss every minute of it.

TALENTED FRIENDS

2006-04-23T11:02:00.000-04:00

I am lucky to have so many talented friends. I was reminded of this last night when we attended the annual bday party of F who not only served as the bday girl but also the chef at her own party. Lucky for us she is a great cook and the food was better than if it were a catered party.

Also my pal A made the cake. She has made many cakes and each is a creation of it's own. One of my favorite bday cakes from the past:

and our wedding cake:

Enjoying A's set of cake photos on her Flickr here.

SKY

2006-04-16T20:29:00.000-04:00

In Maine on our honeymoon E and I rediscovered puzzles. I'm not sure I ever liked puzzles or even had a memory of doing them as a kid. E and I spent nights sitting by the campfire, listening to the ball game on the radio, drinking beer - our bellies full from a warm meal - doing puzzles. E said we were practicing for our retirement. On some level I think he was right.

In the week we were at the cabin we put together countless puzzles. Kittens in baskets. Cornucopias of fruits and nuts. A coastal Maine scene complete with a mama and baby moose. A red barn on a lake surrounded by trees in their autumn peak. No matter what the theme was for the puzzle it had the same results. Relaxing.

Putting together a puzzle says a lot about a couple although I'm not sure what exactly. E often holds the box, likes to find the core bits - the red barn, the orange kitten, the green grapes or the cornucopia basket. His results are crucial when it comes to bringing our whole puzzle together. Without his solid core our puzzle has no direction. Lucky for me his core compliments my edge. I always start with the edges. I don't like them but they have to be done. Yet despite my love of boundries I never look at the box. I like to dive right in and start matching shapes with other shapes with a casual but positive outlook that everything will come together eventually. Neither of us have the patience for the broad, boring and less inspiring sky.

This week something pieced together for me. It was a flashback of sorts. A moment of clarity about a time when I didn't have clarity. Oddly enough it was related to our wedding invitations.

At the time of getting together our wedding invites we had the great fortune of having them designed by a super talented friend of ours Khoi. Having recently done wedding invites for other good friends Khoi suggested we use the same printer this other couple did. They were cheap. They were in New Orleans. They went to art school with so and so. Give them a call. Ask for Jenny and Kyle. We did.

I talked to Kyle and Jenny at different times and both of them were humble, helpful and realistic in their ability to deliver the goods to me - the occasionally hysterical bride. For the most part things went pretty smoothly despite a small delay due to disorganization on our part. During the brief delay of wedding invites I wrote an email to E that I just recently found. Looking back on the weeks that came afterwards it seemed so foolish of me. The email said something like this,

"Having some troubles with New Orleans printers. There may be some delays. Will look into NYC printing companies as back up should we come across any further printing troubles. These invites need to get out."

The invites arrived from New Orleans on 8/8/05 in PLENTY of time before the wedding. Not only that but they were the most beautiful things E and I could have ever hoped for and exactly what we wanted if not better.

Two weeks later hurricane Katrina obliterated most of New Orleans including Kyle and Jenny's entire printing press. Five and a half feet of water destroyed all of their artwork and their personal belongings. They were forced to evacuate their home and begin again. While E and I were starting our lives together on some level so were Kyle and Jenny to a more severe degree.

We followed their story through their company web site and still to this day get updates on how they are doing. Recently their company Hot Iron Press, was featured in an audio slideshow on CNN.com which also included an interview with Jenny about their experiences as both artists and Katrina survivors. It also featured images of their recent work, “A.R.M. (Art, Ready-to-Make),” and its installation at Colby Sawyer College in New Hampshire.

Click HERE:

This link was a reminder that life and material things as Jenny says in the interview - are fleeting. A reminder that as couples you sometimes have to dive back in to rebuild what once was. Piece together the sky.

LETTER OF THE WEEK: URBAN RAGE

2006-04-15T04:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Selfish Man On Crowded Early Morning Subway,

Call me crazy - but I'm pretty sure your toasted poppy seed bagel with cream cheese doesn't need a subway seat of it's own while you read the paper.

I'm guessing your bagel didn't work a double shift last night like the very tired looking woman dressed in a nurse's uniform to my right leaning against the pole as if it is truly holding her up.

I'm guessing your bagel...didn't have to stay up late after coming home from a full day of work to bake three trays of cupcakes for your young son's bday like the woman to my left who is doing her best to balance the cupcake trays while also holding on to her young son's hand, his jacket and his tiny backpack.

Shot in the dark here - but I'm pretty sure your bagel...isn't wearing high, uncomfortable heels and carrying a heavy looking black portfolio on it's way to what appears to be a job interview like the woman directy in front of you.

And oh look. A pregnant woman has just come aboard. If I had a seat I would give it to her but no. Whatever you do don't let your bagel step in. In fact let the woman wearing a baby Bjorn carrier on her chest complete with newborn - offer her seat to the pregnant woman and you poppy seed bagel...you have a nice ride.

BEING HELEN

2006-04-12T19:47:00.000-04:00

You've heard me talk about Helen the older but spry woman who lives next door to us in Brooklyn. She was the one that asked me on our first meeting, "You two Catholic?".

Helen has a thick Brooklyn accent. She has lived on this block her entire life. She tells me stories about how we currently live in what used to be her Aunt's house. How all the kids - her cousins used to run from yard to yard by going through doors in the fences their uncles cut out just for them. Those were good times. She misses them.

Helen has lots to say. Sometimes she tells me stories from when she was a 'working girl' for Merrill Lynch. "We didn't used to dress in denim" she once said and looked down at the pair of old jeans I'd thrown on to go to work. Some days she tells us about her knees hurting or how she has Sciatica in 'both butts'. Helen has a lot of advice to share. Especially when hanging laundry, "I'd be careful about leavin' matches out by the grill. The little boys upstairs might get 'em."

Perhaps you recall the story how Helen has created her own story of what she thinks E and I do for a living. She thinks I'm a teacher and that E 'works in computas'. E and I can't quite pinpoint how she came to thinking this. One time E went on a photography adventure in Texas. When he returned she asked me in a low tone, "Did he get the computa job in Texas? Market's hard right now."

Most mornings Helen is out in a nightgown sweeping the entire block's sidewalk. She often wears slippers and picks up cigarette butts and pulls weeds from the cracks. Her grandson lives with her. He works at the airport. I know because she told me how many washings she does a day so he has clean uniforms.

In the winter I hardly see Helen. A sure sign of spring happened this week as I spotted her on my way home from the subway. She was wearing a bright red jacket, had on a little lipstick and her hair was brushed back. She was coming out of her gate middle of the block and just stopped and stared my way squinting until I approached closer.

K: Hello Helen! How are you?
H: Oh hello! Hows things with you?
K: Good. Haven't seen you in a while.
H: I know it's been foreva!
K: Where you off to.
H: Church. You going home for Easta?
K: Yes I'll be going home for Easter.
H: That's nice. My grandson wants to bring his girfriend to dinner.
K: Oh he has a girlfriend! That's nice.
H: I told her a girl should be with her motha on Easta!
K: Yes well...

With that she kept it brief. Before departing she pointed to three Key Food grocery store flyers sitting in a puddle outside my house and said,

H: Here...hand me those...

She stuffed them in the garbage can, put the lid on firmly and was on her way.

UR-OK

2006-04-08T09:56:00.000-04:00

Last week my OBGYN sent me for a trip to the Urologist. She was at a loss. Not able to treat my 3 week UTI symptoms and thought it best I get a further exam.

If you don't know what a cystoscopy is it's a test that allows your doctor to examine the interior lining of your bladder and urethra by sticking a cystoscope (thin, lighted viewing instrument) into your urethra which is then advanced into your bladder. Good times.

The Urologist's office was an odd place. Nothing about it was modern or new. It's decor was stuck somewhere between 1979 and 1980. There was a lot of mauve. Plants hanging in crocheted holders. Mauve pleather seats with faux wooden handles. A carpet that had seen a lot of traffic.

The oddest part was it's small interior. When I was buzzed into the office I crouched down so as not to hit my head on the door frame. And when I checked in at reception I had to bend down to peek in the window and give my name to the receptionist who was no bigger than an Ompa Lumpa. Was this the only Manhattan real estate the doctor could afford?

When my name was called I was reading a Yankee magazine article on the secrets to making a hearty beef stew. The nurse who looked my size and like the only other amazon in the place pointed to a sign on a door that read, "Exam Room #2" and said, "Please remove everything from the waist down, wrap yourself in the robe provided for you and the doctor will be in shortly."

When I got into the room I kid you not - it was slightly bigger than a Starbucks bathroom. Starbucks bathrooms are quite big so close your eyes, imagine the bathroom at your local Starbucks, add some square footage and welcome to my Urology exam room. As I removed everything from the waist down I kept saying strange things to myself like, "You are not naked from the waist down in a Starbucks bathroom - relax." and "You should remember that beef stew recipe."

The longer I waited for the doctor the quicker I launched into my usual panic routine. This happens to me each and every time I go to a doctor's office. I start thinking things like, "Wait...am I in the right room? Did she say Exam Room #1 or #2?" and then "Wait...did she say take EVERYTHING off from the waist down including underwear or did she just mean my pants?" What if I had it wrong. The doctor would think I was a creepy perv. This reminded of an experience my American girlfriend had in London when getting a massage. The London masseuse gave her a few minutes to get ready for the massage. My girlfriend took everything off from the waist up including her bra. When the massuese entered the room she gasped, "Oh my gosh! We don't do THAT here!" Note: bras with massages in London. Or at least that place.

I did my best to distract myself from my silly fears and took in the decor of the examination room. I wished I hadn't as everything white around me seemed to have a slight yellowish tinge to it. The tiny white stool had yellow stains. The white tubes had yellow stains. The white tiled floor had yellow stains. I know she was a pee doctor but come on. Couldn't she afford a little Soft Scrub with her salary? I decided instead to focus on the glass shelf of various knick knacks I assumed the doctor collected on her travels around what appeared to be all of Latin America.

The doctor soon came in. She was tiny - no surprise really. She fit perfectly in the room like a tiny little doll in a white coat with a friendly smile. The minute she walked in I freaked out and said, "Doc - you said everything off from the waist down. Underwear too right?" She didn't even flinch and nodded yes. She also seemed a tad hippie - her hair grown to an inappropriate length for a woman her age. A beaded necklace I imagined she'd picked up from a road side stand in Mexico. Some silver earrings and a multi-colored woven bracelet. Her husband - maybe a pan flute player at puppet shows for chidren.

When she gave me my exam - her head under my paper robe - we talked about every single good restaurant in Brooklyn even down to their menus. It was a strange out of body experience as these exams often are. The mere fact that such lines like "when I stick my finger in there you will feel pressure on your bladder as if you have to urinate" mixed in with "if you ever get the chance to eat at Chestnut I really recommend the duck salad with pomegranate seeds".

What can I say? Being a woman is a surreal experience. Sometimes painful.

CEREMONY

2006-03-26T10:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a busy day full of ceremony and celebration. In the morning my best friend J and her husband M had their kid Christened in a church in Brooklyn Heights. You can tell J and I are best friends by the mere fact she was able to get me into a church pew wearing a pair of control top panty hose before 11am on a Saturday morning.

I can't recall ever going to a Christening and if I have it's been a long time. It was nice catching up with her parents who I possibly hadn't seen since J's wedding and before that our college graduation. Here we were in church, J's father reminding me of the time they visited J and I at college our senior year. The time her dad reached for a glass out of our dorm cupboard and 10,000 empty beer cans and vodka bottles came pouring out. Good times. As J's father told the story, I watched J's face as he let her son crawl around in his Christening whites on the dirty church floor pre-ceremony. I could tell J was thinking something like, "Um Dad. Don't do that." And then the ceremony soon began.

The ceremony went well considering they had to appeal to both sides of grandparents which were both Catholic and Episcopalian. The Catholic part was along the lines of 'Help this child not to be a sinner nor believe in Satan' mixed with the Episcopalian side of 'Help this child be willing to love all of God's people that may be different than him'. An interesting mix to say the least.

When I got home E and I prepared to go to the wedding of our pals/internet legends Jason and Meg. They asked E to shoot the wedding and I backed him up as his assistant. This is our third wedding doing this and it's an interesting experience for us. It's always stressful trying to capture the most important day of someone's life much less people you know and like. But hopefully it turned out well and they will be pleased. I was pleased.

I love weddings and even more a wedding where I get to be a fly on the wall to observe what is going on around me. The official ceremony parts of weddings are often always moving but it's when people hit the dance floor that I really feel the celebration and sentiment. I love how people move their bodies - the snapper, the clapper, the crazy moves guy and the frisky girl. I love the parents dancing to 'Hey Ya!' and the grandparents slow dancing to 'Time After Time'.

In the end it was a full day of celebrating. Perhaps the most exciting thing to celebrate - a full 14 hours of control top panty hose wearing and not a single complaint.

CHASING AWAY THE WINTER GRAYS

2006-03-19T17:39:00.000-05:00

Today E had the great idea of heading to the Phagwah parade in Richmond Hill, Queens. Phagwah, or Holi, is the Indo-Caribbean Hindu celebration of the new year. Every spring, Phagwah celebrators literally paint the streets as kids and families "color" one another with dye (abrac) and powder (baby powder) and chase away the winter grays.

THREE CHEERS FOR PEE

2006-03-15T19:55:00.000-05:00

Today my OB had me come in for a urine test. I've been suffering the lovely symtoms of a UTI for close to 12 days now. 12. For any chick out there that has ever had the pleasure of experiencing one of these you know that suffering through a single day with a UTI is bad enough much less close to two weeks. There are only so many over the counter drugs to take much less gallons of cranberry juice to drink. For any guy out there that doesn't know what a UTI feels like - try tying 4 cinderblocks to your kidneys and then walk around with a smile on your face as you to attend work, meetings, social engagements with friends and then cry yourself to sleep like a baby curled up in a ball while clutching a pillow.

Why did I wait that long to go to a doctor? Well. I am between health insurance. Before my mother in law or mother reads this and sends a check - I can honestly say I'm fine. On the upswing - I think. Two or so more weeks and I will be back on health insurance again and so thankful for that. Oh yes.

So my doc says come in. I won't charge for you a visit but I want you to take a urine test. She asks that I come at 8:30am. Yikes. To be in midtown by 8:30am means leaving Brooklyn at the crack of dawn. E is nervous (rightly so) that I won't be able to make this appointment and as I am setting my alarm clock comes into the bedroom, sits on the end of the bed and offers various ways to expedite my morning routine:

E: Seriously, have you thought of ways to save time in the morning?
K: Ah...yeah.
E: Like sometimes you don't have to wash your hair. Just run a comb through it.
K: Honey. I'm not Vinnie Barbarino but thank you.

The conversation was very adorable and cute. And now that I've put it on the world wide web he may never speak to me again.

Fast forward. I make it to the doctor's office. With fully washed AND combed hair. The doctor shows me to the bathroom where my little cup is waiting. I shut the door. Finally. The hours and hours and day and days of frequent urination to no end has some use.

And then I wait. And wait. And wait. Oh my god. I can't pee.

I start to sweat and feel guilty. Like the doctor thinks I am trying to screw up my urine sample. Replacing my urine with someone else's. And then I remember I am not taking a drug test. So I try to calm down but I can't. No pee. Wait and wait. Finally close to five minutes go past and I have no choice but to emerge from the bathroom.

Me: Doc? Sorry to bother you. I'm kind of freezing up in there.
Doc: (laughs) No worries. Let me get you some water.

Doc returned with a giant mug of water with 4 ice cubes. I thought the ice cubes were an interesting choice. As I drank my water I wondered the significance of the ice cubes. Do ice cubes make people pee faster? Ok. Stop thinking of that. Pee PEE.

I sat on the chair outside the doctor's office for another 10 minutes reading my Highlights magazine. Not a single person was around. We exchanged awkward smiles at one another from time to time through the tiny crack of her open office door. She was flipping through some files. Watered her plants.

I soon headed back into the bathroom. I felt the urge to pee but only for a moment. Two tiny drops later and that was it. Nothing. Nothing at all. Ten more minutes of waiting I emerged from the bathroom again.

Me: Doc? No go.
Doc: Huh. Would coffee help?
Me: I don't...think so. Maybe. I think I just need more water.

Doc brought me more water. And then said 'maybe this will help' and turned on several faucets in various examination rooms that surrounded me. This made me laugh. But also made me super hyper aware that IT WAS TIME TO PEE NOW. What more could this poor woman do for me here? The doctor not only hand delivered me water with ice cubes, offered to make me a fresh pot of coffee, watered her plants but also turned her office into a zen rock garden complete with water falls so I could just PEE and she could go deliver some god damn babies.

Finally I excused myself to go grab a coffee from a deli downstairs. I returned shortly and this time hid in the examination room reading more magazines hoping the receptionist wouldn't ask me who I was or what I was doing there. Finally 10 magazines, 4 glasses of water and 1 large coffee later I got up and went around to the back. No one was around so I grabbed my cup off the shelf with my name on it. It took a moment but I was able to pee a bit - not much but it seemed like enough. When I opened the door with my urine sample in hand the nurse and doctor were standing still like deers in headlights. They glanced at my cup full of pee. They broke out into an actual cheer. An actual cheer.

SURFACE REPORT

2006-03-15T19:36:00.000-05:00

Last night I was trying to get a cab in the worst place known to man to get a cab. 17th Street and 5th Avenue at 7pm. Despite living here most my life I still waited in the freezing cold as if one might appear.

Then...who runs out in front of me but a model looking woman. Her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck and long hair. A tiny thin jacket, tight jeans carrying close to 5 Victoria Secret bags. She was standing next to a large Victoria Secret employee who looked like a security guard also carrying 5 or so Victoria Secret bags. After some staring I realized that it was in fact Victoria Secret's super model - Gisele.

Gisele: (getting increasingly annoyed) There are no cabs here... (duh)
VS Security Guard: I know. You gotta wait and something will come.
Gisele: I just... I need to get home.
VS Security Guard: I hear you. Wait is that one?
Gisele: No it's not. Where did my friend go? I lost my friend.

I was going to take a photo of the two of them from behind. But then I didn't. I couldn't get over the fact she was still wearing Ugg boots.

FUNNY

2006-03-04T12:53:00.000-05:00

David Sedaris is an obvious humor god. I told E that if I were ever on my death bed to please just read chapters from "Me Talk Pretty One Day" until I passed. I've REALLY enjoyed Jonathan Ames most recent book which I found brilliant. Anthony Bourdain. David Rakoff. James Thurber. EB White. All have inspired me.

I love the female humor writers or writers that make me laugh - Sarah Vowell. Sarah Hepola. Fran Lebowitz. Dorothy Parker. Tama Janowitz. Anka Radakovich. Katherine Dunn. Anne Lamott. Annie Dilliard. Nora Ephron. I've been lucky to meet Sarah Vowell in person after attending a humor writing seminar where she spoke about being called 'The female David Sedaris'. It made me think about how so many female writers have pink book covers and are compared to male humor writers instead of just being funny themselves. I once wrote Sarah Hepola a letter (I told you I was a geek) to which she responded with funny, insightful thoughts on humor writing which I will share with you if I can dig it up. If you can suggest more humor writers for me to read please let me know.

I recently was doing some self-exploration on my history with humor and wrote the following email to my parents:

Dear Mom & Dad,

Was I a funny kid? Did I make you laugh - if so how? I know I used to like to write ever since I was little - right? What did my teachers say?

xo K

Response From Dad:

Dear K,

You were more the type of kid who soaked it all up rather than the class clown, although you did show an early fondness for practical jokes and the occasional limerick. I think you're so funny now because you were absorbing it for later, putting your take on it.

You always wrote -- and well. That talent was recognized by teachers early. You may not remember it, but you could also yodel very well, too. However, you gave that up when you started flute lessons.

Love, Dad

NEW GIRL

2006-03-02T23:39:00.000-05:00

When you are the new person at the office you do the following:

-Randomly blurt out in the elevator – despite not being an early morning talker yourself - “Hi! I’m new here!” and extend your hand to a nice smiling man that probably didn’t even know he was smiling and was really just half asleep

-say when introduced to the 2nd person in line to the CEO – ‘oh do you work here?’ not knowing that um…yeah they work here having been introduced to them only as, ‘This is Joe Smith…’ and nothing else

-make many trips to the water cooler hoping someone will talk to you about anything at all – sports even

-spend lots of time with the supply order catalogue and then carefully flip the pages doing some price comparison shopping to be sure you order a three hole punch that isn’t the $31.99 one and rather the $9.99 one so people don’t think you are trying to be a big supply ordering snob

-despite being hired to do what you do, ask three people to help you figure out why your tape deck has no audio and then realize um…you need to rewind the tape and say sorry you aren’t used to this machine (which is true)

-go to make yourself a cup of tea in the kitchenette but when arrive become overwhelmed by super deluxe Flavia machine and unbelievable amount of choices of beverages so just sort of pretend to grab a napkin and run off

-in the late afternoon REALLY hoping to make some tea swing back through the kitchenette – empty now – get a cup for hot liquids, choose a tea bag and walk to machine. Machine has close to 27 buttons on it none of them simply HOT WATER which is what you hoped for all along.
Several people gather behind you so you grab your cup of half decaf/green tea/half chocolate and blow on it likes it's hot pretending you like it that way only to dump the concoction moments later in the ladies room

-when riding elevator after grabbing lunch (alone) recognize co-worker in elevator. Make some friendly small talk. But you get off one floor before co-worker and think to yourself – ‘Huh. Guess they aren't going to that floor.’ Realize as you exit moments later and run into very same co-worker that elevator in fact gets off on your floor (and his) and you don’t have to hoof it up that giant flight of steps to reach the floor you both work on as you have been doing each and every time this entire week

BEST TRIP EVER

2006-02-27T23:37:00.000-05:00

Click photo above .

Sometimes couples go on trips. They think 'Hey, let's go to Miami! That sounds awesome! Cheap and warm! Hassle free!'. They pack their summer clothes and sunscreen and beach towels. On the first cloudy day they think, "This will pass! Let's head to Little Havana!"

And then the minute they get off the bus in the middle of nowhere Little Havana the sky opens up and 'sheets of rain' does not even begin to describe this palm tree bending monsoon of an experience. They run to the nearest roof to hide under but it is no use. They are soaked to the bone. Rain hitting them at all angles. No umbrellas, puddles up to their ankles, wife girl wearing bad shoes (shocking). Gravel getting inbetween her toes while she runs. They run from store to store trying to hide from the rain but each store is forty below zero in AC tempatures thus practically FREEZING them to death.

Husband guy sees a Home Depot. They run in puddles and mud and dirt and gravel. Wife girl's shoes literally falling off and twisting her ankle. Hopefully Home Depot will sell some umbrellas. Home Depot does not sell umbrellas. They sell ponchos. Wife girl is FREEZING. Huband guy is GRUMPY. They are both STARVING. They buy ponchos (one blue, one green) On the way out of the store they ask a man to take their picture. He says, "Y'all quite a site!"

Husband and wife are now momentarily happy. Ponchos. Who knew! We're so bringing back the poncho! To New York! It has pockets and a hood and snaps up the side! What else does one need? Wife feels as if it's like wearing a down comforter. Husband feels like he wants to stop into a souvenir store to get out of the rain some more. They try on hats. Husband rummages through Cuban baseball team shirts. Girl kicks shoes off and wipes feet on carpet in back of store hoping no one will see. 45 minutes later they brave the rain again.

The ponchos don't seem so cool anymore. The wind has picked up. Husband and wife are now yelling at one another in front of a graveyard in the POURING rain because wife wants to walk 79 blocks to the Chowhound reviewed Cuban place she read about while husband wants to eat at bar/prison den looking place full of only men right there across the street. A possible strip bar. They compromise and get drinks at different bar watching inside the entire 2.5 hour Shakira DVD playing on volume 10 hoping the rain will stop. It doesn't. Both agree thanks to Shakira DVD place is in fact sort of a strip bar.

Rain seems to finally slightly lighten up enough to go outside and right before giving up two seconds before the miracle - wife spots Chowhound reviewed Cuban place across street. Both beyond hungry, starving, wet, soaked to the bone, ankles twisted they go inside the place causing a scene. They look like two garbage bags that blew in through the front door.

Eat greasy bad food in about 75 seconds. Wife starts to cry while eating food at what a shitty day it is and how the whole stupid thing was her idea. Husband feels bad he made wife take 93 buses to get here. Says they should call a cab. Get taxi number from cashier but then on way out spot bus stop across street. Wait there for 45 minutes wife now shivering and freezing. Huddled together at the bust stop in his and her ponchos like two puppies in a pet store waiting for adoption.

Bus finally comes. Board bus and ride it forever until eternity in freezing cold blasting AC. Wife has chills. Husband sniffles. And then it's time to change buses once again. Wife now wishing she hadn't drank both Cafe Au Laits in one sitting. While waiting for second bus of 25 more they need to take wife pops into dime store and considers buying men's XXXL sweatpants and socks which she will put on then and there but husband rightly so talks her out of.

Rest of trip home a blur. Make it despite all odds. Most importantly still married. Maybe no tan but two ponchos to bring home as souvenirs.

RETRO BLOGGER

2006-02-27T18:51:00.000-05:00

I was at a loft party recently. It was full of cool, serious blogger types. You know...people that spend most of their time or their living for the most part writing blogs with a purpose. With consistency. At the party the best comment came from one of these blogger types after our lovely host introduced me (cringe) as someone that also has a blog.

After hearing my blog had no user sign in, no ads, no following, no traffic, no point, no nothing at all in fact and is merely rants and raves of my so called boring life he said, (and really meant it) "Oh my god! That's so cool! You're like...a retro old school blogger!" I'm so not cool that I'm cool. Awesome.

LETTER OF THE WEEK: MY BREAKUP WITH MIDTOWN

2006-02-24T00:07:00.000-05:00

Dear Midtown,

I hate to do this in a letter but I must. After Friday you will no longer be part of my life.

As you may or may not know, I have accepted another job elsewhere and will no longer be wasting 45 minutes of my life each day commuting to and from Brooklyn to deal with the repugnant bowels of your hellhole.

I’m sick and tired of all the lies I tell my family and friends that our relationship is ‘not that bad’ and that I can ‘read the whole paper’ by the time I reach you. Frankly, it’s not enough. Sorry to be so blunt but I will not miss a single thing about you. Your smell. Your lack of style. The way you present yourself like a hip, in the know, cultural mecca. Blech. I’m practically vomiting in my own mouth as I type this. You may try and argue that you are better than my former work relationship – Times Square (pre Toys-R-Us) but at the rate it’s been going over the past year and nine months the differences seem one in the same.

I will not miss…

1.) MACY’S: in general and the people that visit it. Senior citizens, packs of orange colored tanned cheerleaders, school field trips, etc.

2.) STREET PERFORMERS: Mimes spray painted silver, paint your name on rice, chalk portraits, your name in calligraphy, etc.

3.) MSG: each and every crowd it brings – FLOCKS of Islander fans and various face painters, dog show freaks, Black Eyed Peas fans, Republicans, etc.

4.) CULINARY HELL: Any of the following culinary wasteland establishments: Ranch 1, Dunkin’ Donuts, Subway, McDonalds, Mustang Harry’s, Mustang Sally’s, (as if the male one wasn’t enough) Chipolte, Guy & Gallard, etc.

5.) VAGUE WORK ADDRESS: Giving my work address out to messengers, etc.– one of those vague Manhattan addresses like “Gracie Square” or “Union Square West” My old work one being 11 Penn Plaza – which to everyone else sounded like - 1110 Plaza, 11 TEN Plaza, 11 Pen Playa, THE BUILDING WITH 3 FLAGS HANGING OFF IT, FORGET IT I’LL JUST COME DOWNSTAIRS AND MEET YOU…(phone slam)

Two words: Hello Chelsea.

LEAVING MY MARK

2006-02-18T12:39:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of challenges with my body. One of them is my frequent canker sores. Have you ever had one? They are painful and annoying and in my case last weeks on end. I've had them since the age of fourteen and when I get them they often grow to the size of a dime.

One time when I was in high school I ate an entire bag of Reese's peanut butter cups - the special Halloween bag size - all in one sitting. The next morning I woke up and I couldn't speak I was in so much pain. My entire mouth was swollen with over 20 canker sores. I couldn't got to school. My mother took me to the doctor. I confessed about my chocolate overdose and he told me it was related. Putting the pieces together my father realized he too got canker sores when he ate chocolate.

Does this stop me from eating it? Sadly no. But I know what I am in for when I do. I have one currently at the tip of my tongue and it's KILLING me. All for the price of licking the chocolate frosting off a stale cupcake at an office party last week.

Yesterday I had my exit interview at work. I sat with the woman from HR and due to the canker sore at the tip of my tongue slurred my words the entire time. I felt like I should say something like, "I swear I'm not drinking on the job. I just licked some chocolate off an office party cupcake." But then I realized I've quit my job. Who cares. My records and her copious notes in blue ink as to my reasons for leaving will disappear into a dusty file cabinet somewhere. Never to be seen again.

GRANDMOTHERS

2006-02-17T22:13:00.000-05:00

Women love their grandmothers. Men too. In fact the stories I hear of E's grandmother Birdie are so cute and adorable I feel like I was once lucky enough to meet her although didn't. I think women especially love their grandmothers. Why? Because they aren't their mothers. Mom, if you are reading this I think you'd agree.

Almost every woman I know has in her possession an old photo or two of her grandmother. I am lucky enough to have many. In each photo my grandmother is such a stylish woman. Her jewelry, her clothes. The way she carried herself in the photographs. Thinking very much of her today.

LI OR BUST

2006-02-17T21:59:00.000-05:00

Some more photos from my famous past - teen model for a WBLI Long Island radio station ad. Truly scary...but I look so natural talking on the phone...

HELLO GOODBYE

2006-02-17T08:11:00.000-05:00

While I'm sure it is no surprise to the followers of Curbed here is what happened....the other night after work I got off the train. I headed to my local grocery store in Brooklyn just blocks from my house. It looked pretty packed inside which was odd. It was a week night not a weekend. I plunged forth anyway.

About two steps in the door I froze in my tracks. Everyone around me was hysterical. Yelling. Grabbing things off the shelves. The place was a complete mess. Bread and Tampax were stuffed next to the faces of Brad and Angelina on the magazine rack. Half the entire produce aisle was totally gone. Oranges rolled on the floor. What the hell was going on?

For a moment I considered the fact that in my brief walk from the subway to the store that I'd missed some kind of global warning, some kind of announcement on TV that we were being bombed. Run. Grab all the cat food you can. It may sound dramatic of me that this was my first thought but it was. Why? Because it has happened to me before.

The morning of 9/11. I woke to the sound of a plane rumbling, flying VERY low over my apartment and then dead silence and then a huge loud explosion. People screamed. I looked out my window and saw a group of kids on a field trip laughing and screaming right outside of my window on the ground floor. But screaming like kids screaming not panic. Thought nothing of it. I got dressed. Didn't turn on the TV. Didn't see a newspaper. I decided to head to the grocery store around the corner. It was sunny out. The streets were a combo of eery silent with sirens and police cars flying down Second Avenue. Strange I guess but this is New York. Thought nothing of it. I walked into the grocery store. It was packed. Chaotic. People yelling. A man with a strong Indian accent and a hysterical manner on the intercom yelling, "PLEASE DONATE BLOOD! CABRINI HOSPITAL NEEDS YOUR BLOOD!!!" What the HELL was going on? I was so freaked out I just spun around and ran back to my apartment. Before I turned the corner to my street I passed a flood of zombie like people walking up Second Avenue covered in white dust and blood. It was horrible and scary. A man in an expensive business suit tattered to shreads caught my eye.

Luckily my discovery this time was far less traumatic.

K: What is going on here?
Woman: Store's closin'! Everything is 75% off!
K: You are kidding! What is moving in here?
Woman: Another drug store. Like we need it!

A normal person might have turned around and walked out taking one look at the mess. Not me. Being drawn to unusual situations like a deer in headlights, I walked down each and every aisle despite having to push my way past people which on any normal day would drive me insane. I grabbed my camera and took crappy blurry shots because the whole thing was surreal. I walked around and filled up my basket with random stuff hardly paying attention to what I was getting.

By the time I got to the checkout line, I had my first good look at what was in my basket. Things I never eat or have eaten before. It was like a stoner's last trip to the grocery store:

Peanut butter, pistachio nuts, hot dogs, Annie's Mac N' Cheese (family size), Windex, Chex cereal, Brownie mix, 1 onion, swiss cheese, 2 cans of Spanish peanuts, etc.

A muzak version of Hello Goodbye by the Beatles was on the radio.

Why, why, why, why, why, why
Do you say good bye
Goodbye, bye, bye, bye, bye

I left the doors of my grocery store for the last time. The muzak Beatles song stuck in my head.

CANDY

2006-02-16T15:55:00.000-05:00

Last weekend I had the good fortune of flying down to Minneapolis with my two college friends - 1 friend with her son (11 months) and the other engaged. We were on our way to visit our OTHER friend from college currently living in MN with her husband and twins (a little over 1 yrs old). It was an eye opening experience on many levels.

First of all...these three women are my buds. No matter what I do I can't seem to get the image out of my head of two of them chanting, "CHUG IT! CHUG IT! CHUG IT!" at a college frat party while the other was being held upside down in a skirt doing a beer funnel from a keg. And now...we total seven and are curled up in our pajamas watching the "Baby Einstein" DVD in the living room with glasses of champagne. Surreal.

Second of all....kids - even good happy kids with cool laid back parents are so much frickin' work. From early morning until night all three of them required a level of attention I was not used to as a time selfish, married lady with no kids. The crazy part of this is I am a woman who has been exposed to kids my ENTIRE life. I was THE babysitter of all babysitters sometimes watching kids way into my 20's even close to 4 or 5 days a week. I just loved it. And yet the 24hrs a day observation and participation was so crazy tiring I was stunned. My girlfriends were like powerhorses. Feeding. Changing. Dressing. Playing. Kissing. Hugging. Reading. Chasing. Putting to bed. Getting up. Bathing. Wiping. Repeat pattern from 6:30am until 7pm. THEN - while I was just tired watching them and helping out as best as I could - they put on lipstick and cute outfits and prepared to go out for drinks and adult conversation until late hours of the night. HUH?

Kids are funny. One likes turkey. The other spits it out. Another liked oatmeal yesterday but today pushes out his lips in protest. One likes the DVD. The other not. One wants that toy. The other the same toy. One wants to climb on something dangerous. The other has a piece of plastic wrap in it's mouth. Quick get it. One can't go to sleep without being read the Quack Quack book. Tonight it hates the Quack Quack book. Bubbles. No bubbles. More cream. Dry skin. Neverending and none of it in your control.

Thirdly...outings with three kids are outings like never before. Having been somewhat housebound for most the weekend due to naps, colds and weather conditions, we decided to go on an adventure to a vintage clothing store. Just like the good old days. Here is how it went. Not like the old days:

1.) WRANGLE: 3 kids into various snowsuits, scarves, boots they kick off = 7 minutes
2.) PACK: bottles, bibs, cheerios, baby carrots, rags to wipe drool, pacifiers, toys to keep kids entertained,etc. = 9 minutes
3.) GEAR: Pack car with 3 strollers, 3 car seats = 11 minutes
4.) DRIVE: Drive to vintage clothing store while singing, shaking rattles trying to keep kids entertained= 20 minutes
5.) PARK: try to find parking near vintage clothing store park 3 blocks away = 10 minutes
6.) UNLOAD: (see everything above) = 11 minutes
7.) WALK: 3 blocks to vintage clothing store stopping along way to feed various kids cheerios and biscuits to stop them from fussing = 7 minutes
8.) SITUATE: Walk into vintage clothing store. Take off kids hats, coats, parking strollers in corner, putting away cheerios, bottles, etc. = 7 minutes
9.) SHOP: chasing twins and keeping 3 kids entertained instead of shopping with, "LOOK! LOOK! FUNNY HAT!!! FUNNY HAT! MOMMY IN FUNNY HAT! ISN'T THAT FUNNY!. Kids laugh for 4 seconds and then have complete and total meltdown and want to leave have to leave. Actual shopping time = 7 minutes
10.) PACK: Pack up bags and put kids jackets on load into strollers = 9 mintues
11.) WALK: Walk 3 blocks to car. = 7 minutes
12.) LOAD: (see above of everything to load) = 11 minutes
14.) DRIVE: drive home, more singing, more shaking rattles nothing working = 20 minutes

Total: A 1 hour and 35 minute adventure to the 7 minutes of shopping in the vintage clothing store.

These are just funny stories I am sharing but then there is all the crazy amazing stuff that makes your eyes tear when you see these little innocent ones. Sweet as candy. Smelling so fresh and clean and tucked into little pjs that hardly require any fabric. They are extensions of your best friends. The same women that you already admired just different. Their babies calling them Mama.

PATTERNS

2006-02-16T10:50:00.000-05:00

Yesterday...I enjoyed reading an interview conducted with our friend
Mark Powell. Mark is a talented photographer and fantastic writer with a lot of good stories to share. Mark is originally from Detroit and is now living in Mexico City with his beautiful/talented wife and adorable son. I met Mark for the first time in Mexico City where he invited E down to give a lecture on his work. I hope you enjoy the read as much as I did.

***

Today a friend's blog sparked a memory for me I hadn't thought of in a while. I was reminded of a time - the summer before my sophomore year of college. I was living at home with my parents and once again working in my small town on Long Island. My boyfriend of four years and I had just broken up. I felt unsettled and creatively numb. Lucky for me, before summer kicked off things changed. I befriended a group of transplant hippies from Michigan, California, North Carolina, etc. that had rented a small house not far from mine.

Despite the hippie cliche - complete with VW vans and dreadlocks - they were a happy, freckled, super talented group. They sewed their own clothing, took amazing photographs, cooked amazing meals, wrote and played music and did just about everything I was interested in but always afraid to fail at. I made great friends with a girl in the group named Cypress. The summer was full of beach bonfires, playing music, making fantastic meals and taking long drives in VW vans to skinny dip in local swimming areas I'd lived near my entire life but never knew of. It was an amazing summer. I was able to rediscover a place I'd lived my entire life only with fresh eyes.

By the end of summer the dream ended. The new easy going, care free me packed up my belongings and headed back to my small liberal arts college in Virginia. The adjustment was tough and the reminders of my new fake 'reality' were simple - a college quad without a single leaf on it's pristine surface despite it being Fall.

As promised, Cypress came through Virginia on a visit following the Phish tour. She stayed an entire month with me in my sterile college dorm. She scored some free meals from the college cafeteria and then decided to move on to her next adventure. When Cypress left I felt a combination of loss and some relief. I admired her carefree lifestyle but came clean with myself that I wasn't exactly cut out for it. I wanted some of it in my life but not all. Cypress was out seeking the next adventure in life while in some respects I waited for it to come visit.

My life has continued to have these funny patterns. Control. Lack of...wandering. Control. Lack of...wandering. The past few months have felt a little too stifling and in control for my taste. To break things up I've accepted a new job this week. It's less money but involves the possibility of following a dream. It's a start.

CHIPPED

2006-02-02T15:48:00.000-05:00

So...here I am on my work trip lucky enough to stay at this amazing fancy hotel. A fancy hotel is AMAZING for about...three days. The throne bath. The beautiful stionary with gold embossed logos. The TV that swivels so you can watch in bed. The gazillion thread count robes and matching slippers - those two items alone the equivalent to paradise. The HUGE cozy bed with best sheets ever. The yummy food. Someone to tidy your room every day. The private patio overlooking the sea. And then after a while the lifestyle of living like Paris Hilton fades away - the sitting in the THRONE of a tub eating french fries, drinking Prosecco and watching American Idol all at once - and the craving to see a Duane Reade or 'real' people or go to a diner hits you and it's like...if I click my heels twice will you bring me back to reality? Please?

Part of living my three day fake Paris Hilton lifestyle involved a trip to the hotel spa. It sounds great but let me explain. The menu of spa services was INSANE in both what they had to offer and the price. I scanned the menu for the cheapest thing I could possibly afford to treat myself to and off I went.

The pedicure...here was the problem....

A.) WORK - I am on a business trip with a bunch of high end executives. I am not an executive. I happened to know that today was a "leisure activity day" for the executives which meant I was bound to run into many of them at the spa. Nothing is more creepy (no offense to these nice people) than sitting around half naked in robes and towels with your bosses and their bosses. It's like seeing your grade school teacher duck in to use the teacher's bathroom. Ewwwwww.

B.) MONEY - Another problem was while I would be paying for my fancy pedicure I happened to know that the executives had a spa package deal already paid for them on the company and if they SAW me down there in the spa..would they think I was trying to scam a free day at the spa? Yes I am uptight and nervous and always worried about things. The more I type this I realize I should have perhaps sprung for the 'chill the f*&#$ out massage' or the 'stop worrying so much about what other people think' foot rub. But those cost $360 for 110 minutes.

So I picked the pedicure. A price which in the end was too horrific to admit to and would require any future child of mine to apply for financial aid to college because of mom's pedicure 'back in the day'. So I get there. There is a fountain with water running and little hot black circle stones you rest your feet on while you are waiting. They offer you two kinds of hot tea. They ask you if you want to wait in the "relaxation" area before Mayuki is ready for me. And then eventually Mayuki pulls back a paper screen and I am encouraged to come inside the private pedicure room. The private pedicure room is ok not great. Sadly, it is me, Mayuki, another woman that works there and an ENORMOUS, unshowered, disheveled, overweight, wheezing and when I say wheezing I mean truly gasping for breath man with a HACKING COUGH - the kind someone with Emphysema has that is on their last leg. Ugh.

I did my best to relax. But despite the calming spa music and this lovely foot massage happening there was no hiding the fact that a giant man - literaly sounding like he was gasping for his last breath (oh and spitting mucus into a tissue) - it was impossible to relax.

All I kept thinking was:

-"oh my god this guy is going to die."
-"why is this man getting a pedicure anyway"
-"this is this man's last pedicure."
-"why are men allowed in this spa they should have private rooms for women."
-"i can't believe i'm paying this kind of money."
-"i can't believe i have to listen to this man about to die for 50 more minutes"

Had I known I'd be sitting next to Darth Vader and be forced to watch the poor woman assigned to him pick at his yellowed overgrown toenails...I kept telling myself not to look but I couldn't help myself...I wouldn't have signed up. Not only that but when it was over and I left more stressed than I came in, I tripped on the cement steps going back into the hotel and left a giant chip in my big toe red polish.

ROOKIE MISTAKE

2006-02-01T16:56:00.000-05:00

Leaving your walkie on when taking a whiz in the ladies room only to come out to a handful of snickering cameraman making fun of you having heard ever dribble. Hey...it's been a while since I'd be on set ok?

HIS WIFE THE BASS GUITAR

2006-01-30T11:47:00.000-05:00

In the middle of the night on occasion I feel E - my computer programming husband 'typing' on my leg or arm in his sleep as if I am his computer. This is funny. The first time it startled me and resulted in me waking him up to ask, "What are you doing?!?" Then I got used to it and it made me laugh. Last night in the middle of the night I felt the same thing. Tap tap tap tap on my arm. But these taps were more like plucks. It had been a while. I woke up and shook him, "Honey...you are typing on me again." to which he responded without even opening his eyes or missing a beat, "Actually no. I think I'm playing you like a bass."

DEEP THOUGHTS

2006-01-25T09:59:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty sure that Kirstie Alley would shed about 7lbs alone on her Jenny Craig diet if she only got a haircut.

THE POWER OF EDITING - OR NOT

2006-01-22T17:25:00.000-05:00

This weekend I took my friend B out to Long Island with me to visit my family and remember what fresh air smells like. Ok...that and to also hit the outlet malls where Mom waited in the car for us while we ran in and out of stores like teenagers and even shopped in stores MADE for teenagers such as 'Delia's' where the only sizes that fit us was XXXL.

It was so nice to get out of the city and while I've missed E being gone in Mexico for 9 days I've selfishly enjoyed much needed time with my girlfriends. Each night he has been gone I've made a plan to visit with various important women in my life that I never get to see enough. The amazing thing is I still have more on the list I couldn't get to in time but luckily they aren't going anywhere for the moment and I look forward to our reunions.

The weekend was funny and relaxing and great. The first night we arrived, we enjoyed a dinner with Mom and Dad and then soon everyone clustered around the TV in the living room with pjs on and a glass of wine in hand. Out of boredorm - ok B made me - we popped in a VHS tape from my high school years which was the 'making of' of a 'music video' I made for a class assignment featuring me, my high school boyfriend and his twin sister my best friend at the time.

It was painful to watch. Partially because it was completely and totally lame on several levels and partially because throughout the entire thing Mom, Dad and B screamed STOP FAST FORWARDING!!!!!!! every five minutes despite the fact the entire first part of the tape was only 'b-roll' or extra footage such as - me zooming in on a fire hydrant (ZZZ), me going from a zoom to wide shot of a dark alley (ZZZ), me filming a neighbor and his daughter (now 18) standing in their garden (ZZZ) and literally a shot of me filling my parent's bathroom tub up with water and then draining it out again. At that point, silence in the room, the image of water slowly dribbling down the bathtub drain my father finally said, "Ok you can fast forward now."

What seemed like 7 hours later, the actual 'music video' came on. I don't know if it is because I work in TV or what but it was the biggest piece of crap I've ever seen. The editing was horrible. In fact, there was no editing at all. But boy - was it deep.

The video finally ended. There were a few trailing off laughs as the screen went to black and white fuzz. Silence again and then, "What else do we have?" said Dad. After some rummaging through the living room cabinet and some assurance from B she was actually enjoying this, I came up with a number of VHS tapes all of which we assumed to be powerfully important documented moments of our lives such as perhaps the birth of my sister or my 16th birthday party. Thanks to my mother's maticulous labeling system it was anyone's guess: 'Family Tape', 'Family Tape II' and 'Family Tape, etc."

The first tape "Family Tape" contained an entire small town parade. The entire parade. Fire engines, waving officals and finally two seconds of me speedwalking past my mother while dressed in a horrible purple and gold band uniform with my hand to the camera. The second tape "Family Tape II" featured my sister (we think) at a young age - from behind - squatting in the grass with her back to us. She was at a sing-a-long at the public library hosted by a thirty-something couple dressed in bee uniforms with acoustic guitars singing lyrics like, "WE ARE A BEE FAM-A-LEE! WE ARE ANN-IE AND BOB-BY!" At that point we all hoped tape three "Family Tape, etc." would be more promising. It was.

"Family Tape, etc." actually contained fantastic footage such as my grandfather that recently passed away, my cousins and I riding our bikes with pimples and braces, lobster races on the back porch, a birthday party, sparklers being lit on the fourth of July, etc. This footage threw Dad for a loop. He spent the entire time yelling out things like, "Who is that guy?" and "Who's baby is that?" to which my mother and I screamed back 'THAT GUY IS YOUR FATHER!' and 'THAT BABY IS YOUR OTHER DAUGHTER DAD'.

Sadly or perhaps not - the "Family Tape, etc." tape came to an abrupt end. Programming was interrupted by a marathon taping of back to back episodes of the 80's TV sitcom 'Family Ties'. Since my sister was not around to defend herself we blamed her and Mom and Dad soon headed to bed. After our fourth episode in a row and who knows how many glasses of wine later, B and I turned to one another and said, "Perhaps we best call it a night."

It did get me thinking however about the power of editing - or not. How we choose to document those things in life that at that time seem most important to us. The TV minded Writer/Producer in me wanted to collect these family tapes, combine all the footage keeping only the most crucial shots and maybe even throw in a song or two to set the mood. But really what qualified as 'most important' in the way of childhood memories?

As the train pulled out of our small town station today, coincidentally I spotted one of our local fireman featured in last night's parade video. He was waving this time not to my mother's camera but rather to someone on the train from his position on the station's platform. I studied his face. Twice now in 48 hours. Someone I hadn't thought about in years.

MY FAMOUS PAST

2006-01-05T22:02:00.000-05:00

So you thought I was just a regular blogger, huh? Someone with just a normal, boring past. Well...(snort) hold on to your hats people because here is a little tale about my famous past:

Me at age 3 or 4 in a bank ad for one of my dad's clients for a LI newspaper. I didn't get to keep the doll. Mean, cruel bank people:

Me as kid appearing in a PSA or something with Lorne Greene of Bonanza TV show fame. I didn't get to keep the notebook although I may have gotten to keep Loren Green's hand seeing as it appears to be permanently attached to mine:

Me as Alice in Alice in Wonderland - 3rd grade play. As you can see I did the entire play with my eyes tightly shut. That takes serious talent people:

My whole family in a batting cage with famous Red Sox people none of whom I can name until my husband gets home and does so for me because I know nothing about sports:

My first MTV ID out of 6 or 7 that I eventually gathered and lost on and off at some point in my life. Anyone that works at MTV is COOL MAN:

A scary 'headshot' taken for me for my column in my college newspaper. I look small and meek and not unlike whats her face from 'Everyday Italian' on The Food Network. Also apparently wearing a cone bra and never heard of this thing we call 'plucking eyebrows':

A personal and sweet letter from Antonio Ordonez - star bullfighter of Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises' who wanted me to marry his grandson who is now a good friend:

Me and Artimus Pyle - former drummer of Lynyrd Skynyrd and his son who I was dating at the time and some midget wearing a spooky hat (my hat's cool...ya dig?):

The 'Stuff the Turkey' game that I designed for Nickelodeon's show "Double Dare" that was actually played on air. Game involved - Mom and Dad stand at one end of room holding giant turkey. Kid catapults fake stuffing balls dipped in gravy towards Mom and Dad. Most in hole wins. Um yeah Dad. I promise I'm using my college degree I swear! :

Stay tuned for more exciting updates from KDunk's famous past!!!

HOOKED ON HOOP

2006-01-01T20:02:00.000-05:00

Nothing screams BRING ON 2006 like...

(1) putting on your $11 Strawberry's black and gold lace shirt that either screams 'cool' or suburban mom dressed up in 'something wild' for New Years Eve

(2) attending a pot luck dinner in Brooklyn

(3) drunk hula hooping to ipod tunes in a friend's living room into the wee hours of 2006! And I'm not kidding!

KDunk rocks the hoop!

*photo by slower.net

KEYS TO A GOOD PARTY

2005-12-30T10:57:00.000-05:00

Nothing screams AWESOME PARTY (E and S's bday) like...LOTS OF DRINKS...

an amazing cake from A...

and duh...a Banana Guard

Yes it fits all shapes. So don't ask.

TRANSIT NIGHTMARE

2005-12-22T07:50:00.000-05:00

I almost don't want to write about the stupid transit strike because secretly I think it will give the whole situation more power somehow but what...a complete bummer.

Yesterday I left our house around 8:30am. Luckily E was able to drive me in a friend's car to the Flatbush LIRR station in Brooklyn which took up 30-40 minutes (normally 15 mins). From there I ran into my old co-worker who had waited on the ticket line three people away from reaching the machine and I cut in. (Horrible I know) Right before we were about to get tickets the train pulled in and we overhead a cop telling people that you don't need a ticket afterall and to just get on the train. So we did. We got on the LIRR train to Jamaica Queens (20 mins). When we got out we had to cross over several platforms, go down several steps and come out into the street where we were cattle driven into a S shaped line about seven rows deep. A man with a megaphone yelled, "TICKET HOLDERS THIS WAY. EVERYONE ELSE NEEDS TO WAIT ON THAT LINE!!!" We turned our head to see what 'that line' was and it was grim. Super grim. This photo doesn't even do it justice. It was MILES long.

It was FREEZING. Not just cold but the kind of cold where it's possible all of your ten toes have snapped off inside your shoe but you won't find out until later when you take your shoe off and they spill out like marbles. Awful. We waited on this line for 45 minutes and kept punching ourselves that we listened to that stupid cop guy at the last station about not getting a ticket in advance.

After finally weaving our way through we boarded a train from Jamaica to Penn Station which CRAWLED along. We were going so slow it's possible we could have walked to Manhattan and gotten there faster.

Once we arrived at Penn Station we had to hoof it up 15 blocks to an edit and then I had to hoof it back another 15 blocks back to my office.

Luckily a co-worker was able to give me a ride home in his car although a normal 1/2hr ride back to Brooklyn instead took 2.5 hours.

My normal commute in a day is a bit over an hour and back. Today took 5.5 hours.

I look forward to doing it all again today, tomorrow and possibly all next week when I return back to work until this thing ends.

Happy holidays!

JANE

2005-12-19T16:54:00.000-05:00

If Jane our orange tabby cat came with a tag this is what it would say:

Hello. My name is Jane. I like to eat cobwebs and sit in empty laundry baskets. I like to wake up my owner two seconds before the alarm goes off each and every morning. If my owner pushes snooze then I will jump on their pillow and yell MEOW at volume ten in one of their ears until they get up. If that doesn't work I will then stick my paw in the plastic cup full of water on the bedside table and knock it to the floor each and every time until they sit up and yell JANE!!!!!!!!!!!. I love to lick photographs especially precious old ones that should not be in my reach and can never be recovered. I will know when you are sad or sick and curl up in a ball next to you. When you are eating ice cream I will try and stick my head in the bowl or if you are eating pasta with cheese sprinkled on top I will try and lick the cheese. I like to sit in suitcases that are open and currently being packed but only after they are full of black clothing I can leave my orange fur on. I like to sit on magazines and then run like I am on a treadmill scratching as I run in place until the magazine cover is full of white scratch lines and torn to shreds. I like to cuddle with you on the couch but only when you are turned on your side and I can go under your arm otherwise I will meow until you turn over. I love visitors especially women. I love parties and will be sure to hang out in plain site so as to get attention rather than hide from the noise and the crowd like most cats. I like to drink water out of the Christmas tree stand. I like to chew on the ribbons of all the gifts. I will let you know when it's time for bed before you do. I will stand by you giving you three sharp MEOWS that linger a bit at the end and then I will walk and stand by the bed looking at you with a cold stare. In other words I am Jane. I run this house.

EVEN

2005-12-18T09:04:00.000-05:00

Some of you may recall from a previous post that recently I went to look at an apartment for one of my best friends J moving back from London with her husband and baby. The apartment is in the neighborhood and only a ten minute walk from my place. They ended up getting it and will be living there as of Monday. Still seems too good to be true.

On Friday I offered my services to take a personal day from work and receive her shipment of stuff coming from storage. Her place is gigantic - five rooms, great light with a backyard and a basement with washer/dryer. It wasn't the shipment coming from England but rather stuff she had put into storage before going to England there over a year and a half ago. It would be easy. The boxes would be clearly marked with what room they should go in. I was to just to oversee that the movers put them in the right rooms for the most part. The moving service they hired would actually open the clearly marked boxes and put things away in the proper rooms. No worries! Have a coffee and relax. Read the paper. Everything will be simple and great. Heck, I'll even wear a long clean white sweater since I won't be getting dirty.

UM.......

Three moving guys arrived and the main guy immediately gave me a clipboard of several pages - an Excel sheet of 99 boxed items over half of labeled MISCELLANEOUS or something vague like TABLE. What kind of table??? Dining room? Living room? Bedside? I frowned and scanned the document on the clipboard with a look of concern. The main moving guy looked at my long white sweater and me holding the clipboard and said - dead serious...

M: You look like a docta.
K: Huh. (scanning through all the pages)
M: Are u a docta?
K: No I am not a doctor.
M: Are you sure? Cause you really look like one.
K: Sigh. I didn't realize how many boxes there were...
M: You a nurse?
K: No I am not a nurse.
M: ...you sure?
K: (now looking up) YES I am sure
M: Ok sorry. You just reeally look like you work in the medical proffesion.

He shrugged and walked off.

Moments later the real stress began. One by one each moving guy would come in the room and yell out a number BINGO style "SEVENTY FIVE!!!"...."NINETEEN!"....TWO!!!!" and I had to quickly scan the clipboard, check off that the proper item had arrived and perhaps the most stressful part of all - make an immediate decision which of the five rooms the 99 boxes of MISCELLANEOUS crap would go in. In close to every situation the box was labeled wrong. Out of the corner of my eye I would see one guy uwrapping a set of champagne glasses in the bedroom, the other setting up a blender in the living room and the other coming in the door yelling with the gusto of a hotdog seller at a ballpark, "NUMBA FIFTEEN...I GOTTA NUMBA FIFTEEN!"

As things quickly started to spin out of control, perhaps it was the doctor instinct in me that decided I needed to find a remedy for this nightmare situation and I mean FAST.

I told the main moving guy that moving forward they could call out a number but I needed them to open each box, unwrap one item and then I would determine what was in it and what room it should go in. As a result to save time once the box was in the right room I would rapidly unwrap the 30 items per box and quickly start to put things away, gather the newspaper and throw the one moving guy an empty box as the other yelled out the next number.

By the end my back was KILLING me. I was FILTHY. I was EXHAUSTED. I guzzled the Snapple Ice Tea I brought with me, a large water and a coffee as I went along and at one point quickly went to use the bathroom and opened the door to see THERE WAS NO TOILET. Or SINK. Or BATHTUB. Apparently they were to be installed the next day. Great...I went back to unpacking.

My friend J has done many things for me in my life. And despite the 50 gallons of liquids putting pressure on my bladder as I unpacked each and every posession she ever owned over the course of her lifetime, I was able to still be sentimental as I came across those reminders of our friendship in the form of photographs, college yearbooks, clothes once shared and even household items.

Over five years ago, I arrived unannounced at the doorstep of J's tiny apartment having just left my husband, my home, all my posessions, my cat and my marriage. I was devestated, lost and confused. Her now husband was there the night I arrived and hauled my suitcase full of random crap up five flights. They made me tea. I slept on the couch that night but moving forward the nights she was home and he wasn't there, we often slept side by side like sisters in her tiny, tiny bed. Months went by and not a question asked. No rent asked for until I began to rebuild my life, get a new job and thanks to the support and love of other close friends and family I got up and going again.

When the movers finally left, I did one last sweep of the place and rearranged a few items. I placed a tiny live Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the corner of the living room with a gift under it for the baby from E and I. I put on my jacket and turned off the lights. As I walked down the steps I realized that despite my bladder about to burst, my cell phone dead, my white sweater covered in filth, my body in utter pain, that perhaps I was finally able to give a little something back. A cozy place in Brooklyn all set up and waiting for them to come home to.

MOVE (click on me)

2005-12-17T22:44:00.000-05:00

Originally uploaded by KDUNK.

LETTER OF THE WEEK: MR. S

2005-12-13T15:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. S My Male Flute Teacher From When I Was A Kid:

I'm sorry I was always ALWAYS late for flute lessons. I'm sorry for all the times I would show up for flute lessons...without my flute and would have to use your spare often right after eating a sticky Jolly Rancher or something equally as horrible.

I'm sorry I was a child spaz. I'm sorry that sometimes I would ride my bike to your house with my flute and a loose check (sorry Mom) in the basket of my bike, the weight of my flute holding down the check but then the check would blow away out of the basket without my noticing by the time I got to your house and then you would be nice and say 'Just bring it next time'. Sorry I would never remember to bring it next time. Ever.

Sorry for never practicing my scales and pretending that I did. Sorry for faking it in musical competitions and recitals - some of them quite highly competitive and just barely making it by the skin of my teeth. Sorry for making second chair and not first even though I didn't deserve either.

Sorry for when I got to high school (still playing the flute god knows why) I would cancel last minute on you to go make out with my boyfriend instead. Sorry for never giving you any of my medals much less my John Phillips Sousa Award - the premier award given out to one high school kid a year. Sorry for not inviting you to the John Phillip Sousa Awards dinner with my parents so you could clap and saw into your very own rubbery piece of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Sorry for the time you invited me over one weekend to watch an opera with you and your lover B - your favorite one of all times - me and two gay men sharing a bowl of popcorn and I yawned and sighed through the whole thing and felt like I was about to die when all you were trying to do was show a small town girl a thing or two outside her very, very tiny Long Island world.

Sorry for never reading the book you wrote and gave me a signed copy of. Sorry for the year B your lover died. A kind man with a lovely soul and a beautiful garden. Sorry I never wrote you a card or came by to tell you in person how much I would miss him.

Sorry I didn't invite you to my first wedding and then you found out from a friend of a friend that I got married and told my mother on the street downtown that it hurt you not to be included but you did wish me a happy, happy life. Sorry for the thoughtful Christmas cards you wrote me every year on cards featuring an ink drawing you did that was so creative and amazingly talented and I never wrote you back.

Sorry for not stopping when I drive past your quiet dark house when I am home for the holidays. The gardens overgrown. The occasional shadow of you shuffling past the windows while I put the pedal to the metal and pretend I don't see.

So many sorries yet also so many thank yous. Thank you for your patience for all of those strange years. For your ability to make my heart swell with love and creativity and powerful, passionate feelings for music as I sit in a midtown office during the middle of the workday listening to Debussy's Claire De Lune and thinking of no one but you.

THE HUNT

2005-12-10T11:36:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we had our company holiday party. Part one started off with a day of volunteering at the Food Bank For New York City warehouse in the Bronx. A bus carted us out there and seventeen of us packed boxes of food in a cold warehouse for close to 5 hours. It was actually quite tiring and straining on the back but in the best possible way.

This is how it worked...a beep beep beep forklift would wheel in 8 refrigerator size bozes full of cans of all kinds of canned food possible every 15 minutes or so. Within these boxes were various Duane Reade bags, Old Navy Bags, Macy's bags full of canned goods. These are the bags that people like you bring to work to donate to that one giant box at the end of the hall at your office or local mall. We then take this giant box and break it down into categories:

Meats - lots of canned clams (ugh), canned salmon, tuna.
Breakfast - cereals hot and cold
Complete meals - Ravioli, canned soups, chili - oh my so many cans of chili
Beans - black beans, pinto, etc.
Baby Food - formula, baby food, etc.
Snacks - cookies, crakers, candy, etc.
Vegtables - corn, peas, etc.
Fruit - canned pears, applesauce, oh so many pineapple rings
Other - really random crap that was from another country or things we never heard of

The first group of people made boxes. The second group of people were handed seven different empty boxes for the above categories and then would take from the giant forklifted fridge boxes and start dividing out the goods. The third group would then pack and seal and label them. I was in the middle group, unloading cans and putting them in the right category. This was a fast paced job. It was no unlike working in a supermarket flying through inventory. The pace was fast and hard. Exhausting. Occasionally your brain would freeze despite having been in a rhythm for a while. Beans...beans...what category are beans...oh yeah. Beans.

In the end these boxes get delivered to various shelters and soup kitchens where volunteer staff unload the goods and make a 'mini-supermarket' where homeless families and the working poor can pick up food from each category to bring to their families. It makes you think...when you put something in that food bank box...try to remember that the food is actually going to human beings that will serve it to their families. Would you want to eat a can of clams? A can of evaporated milk?

At the end of the day, dirty and sweating...as a group of 17 we repacked 6,600 pounds of food, enough to provide 4,400 meals for the hungry in New York City.

Part Two - the bus headed to Central Park in the snow where we had a heated tent and wine and beer and food and hot chocolate and skated around Wolman Rink. I got a call from E,

K: Hi
E: Hi
E: So I got a photo gig for a magazine. I'm traveling to NJ around 3:45am to photograph bear hunters. Bear hunting is now legal in NJ.
K: Huh...
E: Yeah...
(silence)
K: Um. I don't know how I feel about this one. You know I try to be supportive cool wife but...you in the woods...in the dark...crazy people with guns...hunting bears. Will you be wearing orange?
E: I know...I know. I will wear orange

A DAY

2005-12-08T18:53:00.000-05:00

A day can be many things. Mine started with a seaching hand looking for my husband who is usually next to me when I open my eyes. A momentary scare. He was only on the couch reading. Not the usual early bird so I was worried. A stomach ache brought him out there. Didn't want to wake me while he tossed and turned.

A pretty normal shower although the tiled floor felt extra cold. A kitty meowed for morning grub. Nothing new there. Got dressed. Went back to talk to husband now back in bed. Most mornings I'm groping along in the dark and don't get to see him. Kitty pissed. What's with all this talking and attention towards someone else.

I opened the blinds and the front door. Husband laughed at my morning rituals he is never privy to. Told him that most mornings I feel suffocated by the heat in the apartment. Need to breath fresh cold air. Feed kitty.

Say goodbye. Husband says have a good day and that he likes my outfit. It's prob a good outfit because I finally had the light on for once getting dressed. Ha. It's hard to leave a warm home. A husband. A kitty. Cozy home.

Police car waves me across the street. I cross. Too cold to buy a paper and take my hand out of jacket. Jacket needs a cleaning. Pass guys that are in the middle of a drug exchange. $2 left on my Metrocard. Behind a dad who was concerned his daughter was bundled up enough and asks her, "Where did you get that piece of candy?"

On the train. Look out window for a while at the snow covered rooftops. See animal prints on one. A dog? A cat? How the hell did they get all the way up there? Their trail makes a giant L. Whatever happened to Laverne & Shirley? Same guy and girl on the train every morning. Guy has a cold today. I am just getting over mine.

Morning oatmeal and an OJ. To go? Yes. Every day but feel free to keep on asking.

Non-stop working and working and problems and tapes wrong and calls and things to be Fed-Ex'd overnight and calls and meetings and work stuff and work stuff. Was responsible for bringing a girl to a surprise bday gathering of cupcakes in a conference room. Brought her to the wrong place at first. Surprise. Everyone at work asking how I am feeling? People I never talk to. Must have been annoying them all this week with my non-stop hacking away.

Mom calls. Crying. Our family dog is sick. Disoriented and going blind. Tumor? Hope not. Not sure. The conversation seems surreal and unsupportive on my part as phones ring off the hook and the sound of the copier blares into my ear. People anxiously awaiting for me in a meeting.

Meeting. I am the writer. Of a script. There are revisions.

Phone call: husband calling from a meat locker in Brooklyn. Yes a meatlocker. He is shooting a photo of a comedian for a project. In a meatlocker.

E: Great news!
K: What is that?
E: A baby has been born

Welcome to the world Henry Rogers Carter to two very wonderful and loving parents.

DEEP THOUGHTS

2005-12-07T17:18:00.000-05:00

Why do people blow their nose in a tissue and then look in the tissue? What do they think came out? A set of steak knives?

MARRIED PERSON'S SNOOPY SNOW CONE MACHINE

2005-12-05T20:15:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend E and I received in the mail my dream come true and his personal nightmare....a red Cuisinart Ice Cream Maker off our wedding registry. There weren't many things we fought over in regards to the wedding registry but let me tell you...this was one of them.

After attempting to make lemon sorbet - (for the record - the thing makes frozen yogurt, ice cream, sherbert, sorbet and frozen drinks...come on!!!! how great is that!!!) in the '20-30 minutes' as advertised in the directions it became quite clear quite fast that well...this was SO not going to happen.

First of all the freezer bowl that actually is the crucial element in making the sorbet had to be in the freezer for '6 to 22 hours' prior to making anything. Huh?! Having already put the freezer bowl in there overnight I thought it would be enough but it wasn't. I turned it on and waited...and waited...and waited.... What was meant for a nice relaxing night at home, reading and watching TV as I waited for our fresh lemon sorbet to gel in the kitchen turned into a head bashing continuous grinding sound that was not unlike the rhythm of a child's toy train looping around a Christmas tree on a track at full volume. Ugh. At least I can blame my childhood.

As a kid, there were two items I longed for in life. The first was for my family to own a 70's style van of Scooby Doo/Don't Come A Knockin' type origin. The second...a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine.

After a string of diasappointing, wood-paneled vehicles parked themselves in front of our family home, I soon realized the van dream was no longer in the cards if it ever was. Same with the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. My mother wouldn't let us eat sugar cereals much less grind ice cubes for hours in an usafe device not unlike a garbage disposal to then smother in blue food coloring.

It didn't help matters that I lived next door to Laura Luke - my next door neighbor who had just about everything. A constant reminder of things I didn't have nor knew I wanted. You know Laura Luke. There is a Laura Luke in every neighborhood. She had the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, The Easy Bake Oven, The Barbie Dream House. Her brother Larry Luke had the Green Machine, that mini-car with an actual engine that kids could drive and even the Knight Rider remote control car that was IMPOSSIBLE to get one Christmas in the 80's. Larry's parents were only able to score him the Spanish version. I'd hear the Knight Rider car revving up their gravel driveway, KITT screaming, "Hola! El Coche Fantastico! Que Pasa?!"

I never got a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. And Laura Luke got pregnant right out of high school. I'm pretty sure my life long quest for a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine manifested itself in the form of our new, red, loud, so not relaxing sounding, 6 to 22 hours to any form of satisfaction ice cream maker. It just proved once again to me that material things don't always live up to the dream. And most of them just end up on eBay.

JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL... LIVING IN A LONELY WORLD

2005-11-26T21:07:00.000-05:00

You know...it's blogs like this I never know how to begin when a picture such as the one above speaks a thousand words. While home for the holidays my sister and I took part in our favorite holiday tradition - weeding through old family photos and finding the most horrible one of each other. It works like this:

1.) Take trip up to the attic (glasses of wine optional)
2.) Toss off shoes
3.) Kneel and silently rummage through stacks of old photos in boxes
4.) Burst out in hysterical laughing when come across horrible one of sibling
5.) Hand over said photo to sibling who then also bursts out laughing
6.) Make each other laugh to brink of urinating in ones own pants
7.) Laughter draws other family members demanding to know what is so funny
8.) Share photo with family members resulting in them sitting down to dig in box hoping to unearth own horrific gem from the past

No matter what it is always hard to pick our favorite- Dad a la David Cassidy in a skin tight printed shirt and skin tight kelly green polyester pants, Mom in 80's octagon sunglasses and permed hair, Sis a big brace face wearing a Full House sweatshirt...this one - hands down - won this round.

All I have to say is many people are counting down the days to the Christmas holiday. I am too. Can you say payback?

WE MET ON THE INTERNET

2005-11-18T12:36:00.000-05:00

photo by overshadowed

This is a photo of me and my pal S, fellow blogger otherwise known as Two-Minute Happiness. We met three years ago - three? - on the internet. Yes. On the internet. She is from Australia. Moved to Tokyo and now lives in London. Talk about a world traveler. I kept hoping to visit her in these various places but she moves so fast it's hard to catch up.

She was breezing through New York recently - her second visit here. Her first visit we walked over the Brooklyn bridge and had pizza. This second visit I told her I'd meet her and a group of pals at Congee village for a round table meal of yummy Cantonese cuisine complete with tasty pina coladas. Typical us - on my way down to meet her I had a feeling that we might run into one another. Sure enough as I boarded the subway down to Congee village I did. Out of all the cars and times and trains to get on New York City there was my little internet pal S from Australia who just lived in Tokyo and now lives in London wearing her cool scarf that she made featuring a happy snake head on it. There are so many reasons to like such a person as S. And this is just one of them.

*On a side note apparently I have the longest arm in the world based on this photo

FAT SUIT

2005-11-17T11:00:00.000-05:00

You know what is annoying? The media. Specifically morning talk shows that I tune in to only for the purpose of distracting me from my boring morning excercises. I hate how they always get stuck on one subject and all of the sudden it's all the rage on every network.

The subject this week seems to 'fat suits'. Yes. That's right people. Out of all the important things going on in the world currently the news media feels they need to focus on 'behind the scenes' experiences of various pretty girls and models wearing 'fat suits' and how people treated them. Badly. Gasp.

Have you ever watched something so annoying that you just physcially want to scream in frustration? That is how it felt this morning as I watched Katie Couric wearing a blazer apparently made out some NBC CEO's former office drapes, scrunch up her well plucked brow in deep concern as a model shared her story about wearing a fat suit and asking Katie to please repeat the question.

NOW

2005-11-16T07:30:00.000-05:00

Last night I left work early and headed to the middle of Brooklyn to volunteer tutoring high school teens on writing their college essays. Finally a chance to tell kids the real reason to go to college: get wasted and hook up.

After I emerged from the subway, I asked some local cops to point me in the direction of where I was headed. One cop that sounded like The Terminator suggested cutting through the Brooklyn college campus. I signed in to get a visitor's pass from a surly cop resembling Janine Garofalo, and grabbed my visitor's badge and headed for the main quad. College is so funny. No matter what campus you are on some things stay the same. Kids smoking outside the 'mess hall'. Guys playing guitar for a group of girls on the grass. Little nerd kids with stacks of books so high they can hardly see their way to the lab. The accents I heard on campus were quite a mix - Russian, Polish, Israeli, Jamaican, Pakistani, etc.

When I arrived at my destination, the small group of tutors and I waited a while before a handful of kids showed up. We were told not to worry about spelling mistakes which made me happy because I can't spell. We were only to focus on the content of what the kids were trying to write. I was lucky enough to work with a young woman for close to 45 minutes who was feeling stumped on her essay. She had attempted several times to start but couldn't begin. I shared with her my experience in writing for television and how I often worked backwards starting with my punchline and then working my way back up to the start. She seemed relieved that this was an option for her and quickly we started to toss around ideas.

Her college application asked to define who she was due to her heritage and her interests. She loved photography and her family's history was an interesting mix of Dominican, Black and Cherokee Indian. Her past was a rich mix of hardship and loss as well as stuggles to achieve. She was the child we all read about that is constantly swimming upstream doing her best to tune out the bad influences. Towards the end of our session we had grown comfortable with one another and yet still struggled to write her first line.

There was a pause and then she turned to me and said, "You know...I don't know how to say this but...if there was one moment in time that I could capture in a photograph...it would be now." Now as not in our tutoring session. Now as in being on the brink of opportunity. Going to college and changing her life. I smiled and congratulated her. She finally had her first sentence.

DONORSCHOOSE.ORG

2005-11-14T10:12:00.000-05:00

Important in today's New York Times:

"Americans are a generous people, but the sad truth is that charitable giving is just not keeping pace with income... Why? For many potential donors, the biggest obstacle is lack of faith... They just aren't confident that the money they give will actually end up helping people... DonorsChoose.org, is not just helping — directly helping — New York City kids, it may eventually change the face of philanthropy."—Newsweek

Please sign up. It is amazing, easy and so worth it.

Examples of how you can help schools in your area (not just New York)
with small donations:

A Brooklyn school that wants to start a
Digital Photography Program

A Brooklyn art classroom looking to buy
Paper Cutter

CLAMTASTIC

2005-11-13T18:22:00.000-05:00

This weekend our good friends invited us out to Long Island. Another friend joined and it made for a fun group of people to hang out and relax with.

One of the main activities planned for the weekend was a clamming trip. I was excited when I heard the news. As kids we grew up clamming in the bay near our house but only in the summer, in fairly deep water and with our toes. The clamming scheduled for this trip was with rakes (similar to a three-pronged garden tool) and in ankle deep, low tide water.

Overall I found the whole process quiet and relaxing. Much like the bay at home the mud was thick, smelly and rich with oysters, mussels, clams of all kinds, snails, hermit crabs and beautiful red brain-like sea coral. I was able to rake in 1 oyster, 4 regular bleach white clams and 2 razors. While it wasn't a huge bounty by any means it was sitll fun and challenging. The most challenging part was how often my boots got stuck in the mud. Most of the time I had to claw each boot out individually. If I didn't work fast enough before I knew it the first boot I'd clawed out moments before would already be sinking back into the mud. When you are stuck in the mud you are literally...stuck in the mud. Don't panic. Breath and determine your next move rationally without moving two quickly. Twice I lost my balance while trying to rush and set myself free. Both times I nearly fell face forward only catching myself moments before I got a taste of nature's very own mud mask.

And as a side note, guys may like fishing and clamming because of the gear. So do girls but I must confess I was also in it for the boots. Who needs Uggs when you can have $10 white shrimper boots?

I found the rake I used quite helpful although I still liked using my hand despite the water being cold. I used my rake to clear away the layer of floating seaweed, I listened for a 'clink' and if I hit something I would then reach my hand in the smelly, murky mud and hope for the best.

By the time we waded our way back to the car, the sun was setting, a chill was in the air and we could hardly believe we had been out there for a few hours.

When we got home, we made a fire, opened some wine and everyone helped prepare the fresh seafood feast which combined lot made a huge meal.

This weekend made me nostalgic. Memories of my parents, sister and my many cousins clamming in our local bay together in the summers. How we liked to surprise our city house guests by pulling up clams with our toes mid-swim. How my mother was able to convince even the biggest city dwelling skeptic that they too could catch their very own clam. And how the whole lot of us complete with scraped toes, chipped toenail polish and handfuls of clams stuffed in our bathing suits would swim proudly back to shore.

Most of us spend our lives trying to forget where we come from. As I get older I struggle to find the balance between living my life independently of my past while still holding on to some of the better memories. For me many of those memories are often quite simple and lovely. Candles on the backyard picnic table. Fresh clams on the bbq. Good local wine. The sounds of happy houseguests as they try to recall the last time they caught their very own meal.

CHAMPAGNE WISHES AND BAKERY DREAMS

2005-11-11T17:44:00.000-05:00

For the past few years I've had a dream of wanting to work in a bakery in Brooklyn. It's one of those silly dreams that pops in my head now and again when my day to day office routine gets the best of me. My vision is a hard working one. Long hours but with a purpose. After all, nothing screams success like a fresh tray of hot cross buns.

Like most dreams however I'm aware the vision is not the reality. I know from experience. In junior high at the age of fourteen, I had plans to spend my summer eating popsicles, listening to Milli Vanilli, watching MTV and working on my tan. Instead my parents 'ruined my life' by telling me I had to get a summer job.

I grew up in a small Long Island town. My choices for employment were limited. The gas station. 7-11. The video store. The Shirt Shack. The bakery. I opted for the bakery owned by a French man who was known to take in ex-carnies that passed through town for employment. The summer was spent sweeping and mopping up floors full of flour and dealing with annoying weekenders that said things to me like, "Miss...can you speed it up? We need to drive back to the New York city. That's far from here."

I ended up writing my college essay about my experience working there. The material is so rich and the characters I couldn't have made up if I tried.

REALITY CHECK PLEASE

2005-11-09T13:00:00.000-05:00

Why are people so annoying when they go to restaurants? I don't care if you are cool or nice or considerate in the real, non-restaurant world chances are even you, YOU are annoying when you go to a restaurant.

I went out to lunch recently and was reminded of the horror that is people that go to restaurants. I was a waitress. I know what it's like. People come in, you show them to their seat. You say something polite like, "It will just be a moment. Let me wipe down your table. I'll be right back." And then without fail, EVERY time...the customer says the same thing,

"Excuse me miss? Can you bring back some utensils? Thanks."

Utensils. Huh. U...t..e..nsils...OH UTENSILS! Thank you for reminding me. Utensils. Totally slipped my mind. Totally.

WHAT IT'S LIKE TO DATE ME

2005-11-09T08:26:00.000-05:00

You'll come home after a long day of work with two bags in your hand containing beer and wheat bread. I'll jump up from the couch and say, "I'll make you dinner!" and grab the crunchy peanut butter, blackberry jam (PBJ), some pickles from the fridge, heat up some lentil soup take out from the other night and crack open one of your beers and say, "Dinner is ready!" pretending to be a good wife.

GOT MILK?

2005-11-07T17:04:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend I wasn't feeling 100%. I felt on the verge of a cold and just overall pretty run down. I went to bed Saturday night and literally slept 12 hours. When I awoke on Sunday I was still half asleep and stumbled my way into the kitchen followed by a meowing Jane the orange tabby cat at my heels.

BTW-What is the deal with cats? They act like they are DYING of starvation the minute you wake up. Jane followed me meowing MEOWING crying and jumping up on the fridge door as in 'why do you never feeeeeeeeed me' and then rolled on her back - left to right and left to right until I stepped over her to make myself a bowl of cereal.

I poured the cereal in a bowl and then went to reach for the milk from the fridge when all of the sudden the carton slipped out of my hand. Instead of letting it fall to the ground I made a desperate spaz move to grab it making the carton instead fly up in the air -literally fly into the air as if I had tossed it - and five giant GLUG GLUG GLUGs later milk was EVERYWHERE. What the...

Milk was in my hair, on my face, my eyelashes, on my T-shirt, all over the fridge, toaster oven, the kitchen wall, the floor etc. I heard a sad little meow and looked down to see that Jane was covered with white milk from head to toe.

Cats are not kids. You don't throw a cat in a bath and wash them off or do you? I didn't know so I took her in the bathroom, put her in the tub and then wet a towel and wiped her off. She looked far from pleased. I only wish I thought to get out my camera.

Then what? I don't know. I've only had two cats in my life. Let her dry off on her own? What if she gets a cold? Do cats get colds? I took out the hair dryer and put it on low. She actually didn't seem to mind it especially with a handful of treats to keep her busy. I couldn't quite get her 'style' back to normal. Her head still felt crusty with milk and it was a little spiky looking. I decided to see if she could clean it off herself later and take it from there.

Then...as if this blog entry wasn't exciting enough...

Our washing machine is broken. I've been stuffing our dirty laundry into rolling suitcases to take them over to the laundromat because we only have one duffle bag big enough. Plus I just like to pretend E is a sailor coming home from sea when he walks through the door with that bag over his shoulder.

Instead I get a call:

E: Hi
K: Hi honey. Where are ya? (middle of the day)
E: BUBBLES laundromat
K: Oh dear
E: Yeah. Remember that TOWEL you used to wipe up the milk
K: Ah...yeah
E: And then stuffed in the wheeling suitcase with everything else
K: Ah...yeah
E: Well I had to literally REMOVE it from the premises of Bubbles laundromat
K: Oops
E: It smelled like farts
K: Sorry
E: I went home to wash it in the tub and then brought it back to wash it
K: Husband of the year
E: Yeah
K: How can I pay you back?
E: How about some beer

Men and beer. Sometimes it is that simple.

DORM LIFE

2005-11-05T21:24:00.000-05:00

Today one of my best friends from England wrote an email,

"Hey...there is an open house in your neighborhood today from 12-1:30pm. I thought instead of calling you at 8am on a Saturday morning I'd write you an email. Let me know if you can check it out for us and/or take some digital pix. If not no worries. Wasn't meant to be."

My friend, her husband and child hope to relocate back to the states by December. They are trying to find an apartment while in England and finding it a very hard process despite their resonable price range. True friendship is not calling your non-kid having friend any time before 11 on a Saturday. True friendship is also hauling your non-kid having ass over on a Saturday morning to take digital pix of a place you can only one day dream of living in. But truth be told who doesn't enjoy a little open house now and again?

So what does $3,500 a month buy you in Brooklyn these days?

E and I hopped on our bikes and went to find out. When we got there E said, 'I'm not going in just so you know.' partially because he was dressed like an unshaven burglar and partially because he... well I don't know. I was just happy he watched the bikes.

The guy had a point. Perhaps I could have taken a moment to consider what I was wearing seeing as I was representing my friend, her husband and her baby. I was dressed in a moss green sweater, jeans, green clogs and my hair was in braids. I felt like an idiot when I entered the room surrounded by well dressed couples wondering who invited Joni Mitchell to the open house.

The place was HUGE. GIANT. ENORMOUS and yet still not great. Welcome to New York real estate people. It had three main rooms, a pink crappy small bath and one skinny kitchen leading to two more rooms off the back. There was also outdoor space.

Have you ever looked at an apartment for someone else? It seems a lot easier than it is. I mean my friend and I have lived on and off with one another for years but did this still qualify me to house hunt for her and her entire family? I mean it's one thing to live with your girlfriend in a five story walk up roach infested place in the East Village but times have changed. What do I know as far as how much room a baby needs? Just because I don't mind things somewhat rough around the edges doesn't mean they will. I snapped a number of digital photos and prayed for the best.

After the tour I called my friend in England and gave her the low down. She asked, "Would you live there?" I paused and truly considered my answer, "I think I would."

E and I soon hopped on our bikes again and peered in the windows of the brownstones we passed on our way home. We considered biking more but instead decided to head back to our dorm room, throw some Ramen noodles on the hot plate and call it lunch.

TV THERAPY

2005-11-02T08:02:00.000-05:00

Shows I watched last night because I was depressed after a long day:

Dog The Bounty Hunter-quite fascinating. It's a real family affair. Especially when Dog's recently knocked up younger daughter Dog hasn't seen in six years 'Baby Lisa' comes to town. Lisa goes on a bust with dad and it was quite a bonding moment. Dog has plenty of wisdom on life to share and I found it really lifted my spirits. Therapy: Like when Dog said, "If there is one lesson I've learned in life it's that if you want something real bad you gotta work your BLEEP off for it."

Random 1 - the new series on A&E about two annoying dudes that ride around in a truck and try and do good things for people. The concept of the show seemed great and the promos got me hooked to watch it but the guys are so unbearable and annoying to watch I don't know that I'll be going back. Therapy: You don't have to be annoying to help people. And it did remind me that my life is pretty good and I should maybe put a cork on that bottle of wine I brought with me to the couch and shut the hell up.

America's Next Top Model - you know...sometimes you really have to not only want something in life but really REALLY act like you do so that it is visible on the outside too. Therapy: Plus it doesn't matter if you are fat or thin or black or white it's your inner beauty and self-love that will carry you through life. (yeah right)

My Fair Brady - Adrienne from an old America's Next Top Model season (who speaks like her jaw is wired shut) is shacking up with Bobby from the Brady Brunch. Therapy: If you at any point in your relationship thought it was going REALLY badly...it wasn't and you will know this after watching these people.

Hogan Knows Best - I am slightly addicted to this show I will admit it. I am fascinated how Hulk and his wife Linda raise two kids and try and keep them being good kids despite their celeb status. I am also fascinated that they have their very own tanning booth in the upstairs bathroom. Therapy: You thought your dad was tough on you as a teenager, at least he didn't have a one on one with a kid you wanted to go to Busch Gardens with and grill him on his sex life.

To be honest...I must confess...I watched three episodes back to back of Hogan Knows Best. And just so you know, when a bunch of Research and Programming people sit in a conference room in Times Square speaking of ways to 'hook the viewer' with various 'programming blocks' they are speaking of me. Hooking me. Hook line and sinker. Tired, bad mood, wine bottle and chips in hand, wearing husband's sweats and sweatshirt - hood up trying to make the world go away for a while - even if only in short, half hour blocks.