A few nights ago, I got stood up in the worst way.

Okay, not the worst way. The worst stood-me-up moments are dating ones, obviously. You show up to the pre-approved bar, you order a drink, you sip it nonchalantly through your perfectly rouged lips and sit self-consciously erect on the chair and, because you want the first he sees of you to be your disinterested, impeccable profile, you DO NOT look at the door. Until, of course, you do, and you do again. And then it becomes clear that he, whoever he is, is not coming, and you end up drunk and smeared and eventually wobble home to wonder why it is that nobody loves you.

Still, this – waiting impatiently for a writing client who, after over an hour, still had not arrived – pretty much sucked.

The thing about Starbucks, and this is particularly true for the one located on Union Square East, is that it’s like a vast, multi-cultural, cross-generational thoroughfare for the coffee-drinking citizens of the world. Also, and especially on weeknights right after work, they’re really busy. There were students with books and iPods, a group of older ladies having a book discussion, countless professionals with laptops, and, topping the list of “Things I Never Thought I’d See in Starbucks” two grizzled old men who were arguing animatedly in French over their coffees and one of whom, and I swear I am not making this up, was repeatedly thumping a copy of Freud’s The Ego and the Id on the table and shouting about his mother. (Attention, les francais: These two guys are ruining your street cred.)

So approximately half the population of New York got to see me as I sat endlessly, camped out at one of the hard-to-get tables in front, craning my neck and looking up with wide-eyed anticipation at every man who walked in alone. Of course, it wasn’t a date. But nobody else knew that, and as the minutes passed, other coffee-drinkers started to watch me watching the door. The college students looked curious. The french coots winked at me. The older ladies, possibly recognizing their own selves in my hopeful expression, smiled and clucked sympathetically.

I smiled back and tried to mouth, “Don’t worry, it’s not a date.”
One of the women raised her eyebrows and smiled in an It’s okay, everyone gets stood up sort of way.
“No, really,” I said, louder. “It’s not a date.”
A few people turned around. I flushed and recommenced looking out the window.

Twenty minutes later, I was beginning to get fed up. I imagined that my client, a man who (adding insult to injury) was named “Ramon”, was perhaps sitting in the immediate vicinity and just too dense to realize that I was already there.

I approached a guy sitting alone.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Uh… you’re not Ramon, by any chance?”
“Nope,” he said, “Sorry.” He gave me the “It’s okay” look.
“It’s ok, it’s not a date!” I said, a little too chirpily.
“Uh… okay, whatever,” the guy said.

I made my way from one end of Starbucks to the other, checking in with several men to see if they, perhaps, were my client. All of them gave me the “It’s okay” look.
I began to hate Ramon. I hated him for being late, for making me look foolish, and for forcing me to say his stupid, cabana-boy name ten times within 5 minutes. If you think I’m overreacting, try approaching several strangers in rapid succession and asking them, “Are you Ramon?” and see if you don’t completely creep yourself out.

I was about to give up, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ramon?” I said, cringing.
“No,” said the guy. “I just thought you should know, there’s another Starbucks in Union Square.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s across the park. So maybe your date got confused and he went there?”
“IT’S NOT A DATE.”
The guy stared at me.
“Um… I mean, thanks.” I grabbed my stuff and fled outside, running across the street toward Union Square. The sky, which had been threatening and dark all day, had finally opened and let loose. Raindrops pelted me as I ran breathlessly through the park and sprinted across 5th Avenue.
On the opposite corner, I saw the other Starbucks.
A man sat in the window, alone. He was dark, bearded, and studying a file on the table in front of him. Alright, he’s still there, I thought as I dashed up to the door and practically flung myself through it. The dark man looked up and nodded at me as I came in. I stood in front of him, out-of-breath and with water running down my face.

“Are you Ramon?” I said.
The man smiled but didn’t answer.
“Ramon?” I said again.
The man leaned toward me, a conspiratorial expression on his face.
“Baby,” he purred, in a voice that oozed with sex, “I would love to be Ramon.”

I stared at him. The man winked and waggled his eyebrows at me. Other coffee-drinkers (and hey, Starbucks, is it so hard to mind your own friggin’ business every once in awhile?) sipped their caramel macchiatos and idly watched as I gathered my bag from where it had fallen.

“Fuck Ramon,” I said.
And I left.

Ladies and gentlemen, the face of dependability

This morning's NYT Sports section has an article about Mike Lowell, who apparently occupies the role of "Old Reliable" on the Red Sox roster. (Not being particularly into the Red Sox, I though he occupied the role of "Guy Who Looks Sorta Like Colin Farrell". My mistake.)

I'm not going to pretend I know anything about this; I watched the conclusion of the ALCS with a sort of disinterested bitterness and have been trying, for the sake of the Sox fan that I live with, to get excited about the World Series. (To be determined in the coming year: which of our opposing loyalties -- the Yankees/Red Sox thing, or the Democrat/Republican thing -- will ultimately lead my boyfriend and I to poke each other's eyes out with sticks.)

But in spite of my ignorance when it comes to the Red Sox, I did feel that there was something not totally apt about today's coverage of their third baseman. This is an article populated throughout with words like "steady", "modest", and "reliable". The headline reads, Lowell Quietly Puts Up Big Numbers for the Red Sox.

So, to illustrate Lowell's astonishing steadiness, his like-a-rock demeanor, journalistic standards dictate that the article be accompanied by the most appropriate possible photo. One that showcases his work-horse qualities. A portrait of impassivity. The face of staunchness. The... um...

Huh.

Things that make you go *squirm*

Back in the day, when pink india ink was shiny and new, I made an offhand comment to my mother that I'd started a blog. Which, at the time, was met with little-to-no reaction. Maybe because she didn't really know what a blog was, exactly, or maybe because she never really liked me and wished I could be a leggy blonde like my little brother. I don't know. (Note: ok, I do know, and yes, it's true. My brother is a leggy blonde, and I'm a pariah.)

But then, several months later, both she and my father suddenly did start reading. A lot! Which is fantastic, really -- there's nothing greater than being on the phone with your parents and having them be all, "Oh, we were reading your blog! We love it! You are so funny!" And even though you know that they're sort of required to say that, because they're your parents, you feel that maybe you've done something to make them proud. Something good for your relationship. Something to make up for the fact that you once peed on a rug in the hallway and then blamed it on the dog NOT THAT I HAVE EVER DONE THAT.

The other thing about it, though, is that it opens up some lines of dialogue that might be otherwise left, um, untouched.

Excerpts from yesterday's g-mail chatter:

From: Kat's mom
Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2007 11:09 AM
To: Kat
Subject: (no subject)

hi honey,

Re your Shenis blog post: I'm with the person who thought it was scary--I really don't think I'd want to look down and see that emerging from between my own legs. Maybe it's supposed to have alternate uses, which would explain its shape and size.
love, mom

* * *

From: Kat
Sent: Tuesday, October 23, 2007 11:30 AM
To: Kat's mom
Subject: Re: (no subject)

hi mom,

when you say "alternate uses", i hope you mean hitting people over the head with it or something because otherwise i don't think i'm comfortable having this conversation.
love kat

Apparently Monday is hump day, also

The subway sucks.

Readers, if any of you live near the Bedford stop on the L train, I know you know what I'm talking about.

For some reason (and I have my theories, NYU students, although I cannot prove them), ever since early September, the L train has become a total nightmare. As opposed to previously, when it was only 75% nightmare. A typical morning includes arriving at the station only to find that the entire Manhattan-bound subway platform is mobbed, crawling, throbbing with anxious hipsters. The train is delayed. You wait. After five minutes or so, a rowdy group of high school kids comes running through the station, screaming and jumping on things and generally causing unrest among the assembled mob. Another two minutes, and a train arrives. If you're lucky, you can squeeze your way on.

If you're unlucky, you'll jostle for position between two feral-looking girls in skinny jeans and then find yourself left out in the cold because, quite frankly, your ass is too big to fit into the available space.

Yesterday morning, I found myself in position #1 -- the lucky position, the one where one rushes into the train and finds oneself, miraculously, able to fit just beyond the unforgiving track of the closing doors.

Except, as it turns out, the lucky position didn't belong to me.
Rather, it belonged to the short Hispanic man immediately to my right, whose weight was suddenly pressing against me as the train began moving.

Hmmm.

Well. Obviously, the subway is a place where the concept of Personal Space must be sacrificed for the good of all. Rule #1: Ignore. So I did. I ignored the crowd. I ignored my neighbor. Specifically, I ignored the fact that, as the train rushed through the tunnel and we all bumped against each other, the only part of my neighbor's body that made contact with mine was his crotch.

As previously demonstrated by my encounter with the Asian Waxing Lady, my brain happily started to argue with itself.
"Ew," it said. "This is sexual harassment."
"No, no," said Kat's Pollyanna Brain That Wants To Think The Best About People, "It's just an accident. We're just having a bumpy ride."
"Bumpy, my ass," said Realist Brain.

But then, as we passed the 1st Avenue stop and I shifted my weight into the newly-available space to my left, I began to feel truly suspicious. In spite of my having moved several inches away, a single bump in the ride brought the crotch of my neighbor right back to its previous place against my thigh.

"You feel that?" said Realist Brain.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Pollyanna Brain replied, albeit weakly.
"C'mon."
"No, really, I have no idea."
"He has a boner."
"No he doesn't!"
Bump, bump, went something hard against my leg.
"Okay," said Realist Brain. "That? Was a boner."

I shifted again, and again. And again, in spite of my twisting and turning, I found only neighbor-crotch.
Finally, with my face burning and skin crawling, I looked desperately toward my reflection in the window and almost shrieked out loud.
Crotchy Neighbor wasn't oblivious to all this. Oh, no. Instead, by way of the window, he was staring at me, trying to make eye contact.

"Okay," said Pollyanna Brain. "You're right. That's disgusting."

Here, however, is the dilemma. In situations like this one, you can never be 100% sure that the crotch-to-thigh contact is intentional. You can suspect. You can presume. You can note, with cold calculation, that the man in question has a boner and that his rubbing it against you is unlikely to be an accident. And yet, on a crowded subway car where everyone is in accidental physical contact with a piece of someone, is it wise to speak up?

Maybe, maybe not. But, having found myself in a much worse version of this situation a couple years ago, and having said nothing at the time, I could only think that I was overdue for an angry demonstration against subway humping.

"Hey," I said, loudly.
People around me looked up. Crotchy Neighbor did not.
"Hey!" I said, even louder, and nudged Crotchy with my elbow, causing his crotch to break its contact with my thigh for the first time in five minutes. "Knock it off!"
Crotchy Neighbor stuttered something about the train being crowded, but also turned bright red and backed off. Other, Non-Crotchy Neighbors looked at me in confusion.

I have no regrets.

* * *

Note: Below, the above-linked, 2005 Craigslist posting in which I addressed the first Crotchy offender I encountered while living in NYC. Just because I like it, and I've always wanted to share.

Date: 2005-07-22, 12:01PM EDT
Dear sir,

You might remember me from yesterday's ride uptown-- I was the petite brunette wearing a red dress and flip flops, you were the short, grizzled Hispanic man who leapt into the too-crowded car just as the doors were closing, pressing yourself full-length against my back.

Sir, I realize that the rush hour trains are crowded, and that everyone has moments on the subway where they feel like a sardine. But please, don't fool yourself into thinking that a girl won't notice the difference between the unpleasant-but-necessary contact that occurs between commuters on a daily basis... and the contact that occurs when a NASTY, SWEATY LITTLE MAN PRESSES HIS DISGUSTING HARD-ON AGAINST THE ASS OF A STRANGER. For Christ's sake!!!

I understand that some erections are a force of nature not to be denied or avoided. But you certainly had several options at your disposal, none of which involved rubbing your denim-covered trouser-trash against my behind. For instance, knowing that you tend to pop a boner when crushed up against other human beings, you might want to avoid shoving your way onto crowded subway cars. Commuters throughout-- not just the ones you bump with your lump-- will be grateful. And, if you really MUST catch that particular train, then have the decency not to nestle your genitals against the buttocks of an unknown. Turn to the side, turn toward the door, put your hands over it, I don't care.

But you know, sir, I think you knew your options. I don't think this WAS an accident; It was the humping that gave it away. Don't kid yourself-- two nudges was all it took. I know deliberate crotch-to-ass contact when I feel it, and you're certainly not taking the Subtlety Prize. I know it, and you know it, and I know that you know that I knew it, because when I whirled, crowded subway car and all, to both elbow you as hard as possible in the sternum and deliver my best "You've got to be fucking kidding me" glare, you turned an absolutely mind-boggling shade of crimson. You were SO BUSTED, sir.

I hope I broke something with my elbow punch, because I think I may have heard a cracking sound. Or maybe that was the sound of your junk, deflating? My only regret is that I didn't follow you when you exited at 42nd Street (I think you left 'cause you couldn't take anymore of my glare), pointing at you and shrieking, "That man touched me inappropriately! He touched meeeeeeee! AAAAAAAGH!" But trust me, if I ever see you again, that's what I'll do. In the meantime, I only hope that some gay man who has a thing for sweaty little sleazebags jumps onto the train behind you, and rubs his rock-hard johnson against your slimy ass all the way to wherever you live. And I hope you cry.

Sincerely,
The girl in the red dress

This one's for the girls.

If, by some chance, the internets have not yet clued you in to the presence of the "She-nis" -- a big, plastic, penis-esque apparatus specifically designed to allow women to pee standing up -- I'm about to do you the favor. Because really, and be honest, haven't you (you, girls, that is) ever just hated how guys can just pound a bunch of beers, and then 30 minutes later, unload it all against a brick wall somewhere without a care in the world?

Sometimes I think of the spontanaeity with which I might have been able to live my life, had I been able to simply drink fluids without ever having to worry about finding a private place to excrete them afterward, and I cry. So many drunken camping trips/concerts/walks along the Harlem River at sunset that I've missed out on... so many long car rides I never took... I weep.

Anyway, the girls over at Jezebel (each and every one of whom I want to be BFF with, but especially Moe -- Moe, I love you!) got together and tried out the She-nis. Together. On a rooftop in Brooklyn. Just watch it, already -- the video is probably the funniest thing I've ever seen in at least a month.

However, and I know I'm not alone in this, I've noticed at least a few tragic flaws that may limit the usability of the Shenis to drunken rooftop sessions with friends.

1) It looks like a penis.

Seriously, literally, looks like a penis. It has a head, for chrissakes, as though the form of the damn thing were somehow more pivotal to its acceptability for use than its function.

2) But, the penis is olive green.

So it's not so much "oh this looks like a penis", as "damn, did this thing spend a night in the trenches or WHAT?" Off the top of my head, maybe it needs to be green so that drunken club-girls don't mistake it for an Actual Penis and start grabbing at it/trying to pull on it in the hopes that doing so will get them some free coke, which brings me to point #3:

3) Also, it's huge.

This is the kind of penis that would, if it were real, and if one were to begin swinging it around in a bar bathroom, cause a great deal of excitement for the assembled populace of sex-crazed city girls. It's just gigantic. Which is great, if you only acquired the Shenis for the purpose of pulling it conspicuously out of your purse and waving it around for attention.

Not so great, however, if you want to quietly carry it in your purse for emergencies.

So... comment poll. The Shenis -- Awful? Useful? Genius Idea in Desperate Need of Redesign? Let me hear you.

“Hey, it’s the girl from Dawson’s Creek!”

This is what was shouted at me by a vagrant on a bench at 9 o’clock this morning, as I passed him on my way to work.

A former DC cast-member does live ‘round these parts, but given my brown hair and round face, I’m pretty sure that Bench Guy was calling me out as a Katie Holmes look-alike.

Also, given the current state of affairs, I’m not sure whether the remark was
1) a compliment, or
2) a really, really celebrity gossip culture-savvy insult.



Eh, whatever. It’s, like, the weekend.

Dishing the dirt, dirtying the dish

My apartment, like most in this obnoxious city, doesn’t have a dishwasher. This isn’t exactly news – I’ve been dishwasher-less for over four years, and in spite of its inherent annoyances, hand-washing the dishes is pretty unremarkable. Or rather, it was unremarkable. Now, in the context of cohabitation, it has become the source of a Relationship Issue which, and I am not exaggerating, is NEVER GOING TO END until WE ARE BOTH DEAD.

Here’s the thing – say what you will about equality and gender roles and whatnot, but everyone goddamn knows that men do not experience dirt in the same way as women. A generalization, maybe, but one that is bolstered by extensive evidence. For instance: On our floor, under every piece of furniture and in every corner, there are uniformly grapefruit-sized dust bunnies made out of dog hair and dirt. (And yes, that’s disgusting, and yes, I’m a complete failure at keeping house, but that is neither here nor there.) Brad had walked past these monster hair clumps for months on end with no comment, until one day, he tried to iron a shirt on the low table outside of our bedroom. One of the sleeves tumbled from the ironing board and trailed on the ground amongst the bunnies, at which point he bent over, picked up the shirt, and —with total and un-ironic surprise— exclaimed, “This is disgusting! There’s all kinds of shit on the floor over here!”

My point being that, until it forcibly attaches itself to something he wants to wear to work, a guy will remain completely oblivious to the fact that his apartment is being slowly coated with a patina of dog hair.

So, back to the dishes – while the hair can be ignored so long as it lies in dormant clumps under the furniture, the dishes can only be ignored until the next time one of us wants to make a grilled cheese only to find that every single pan is buried in the sink.

Which is not to say that we don’t try to ignore them. Most of the time, the dishes simply sit there, stacked in the basin like a highly breakable house of cards while the bottom-most ones develop their own self-sufficient, mold-based ecosystems. Trying to negotiate the pile is an adventure. If one wants to locate, say, a spatula, one must leverage said spatula slowly out of the morass, while glassware and plates slide around and make ominous clinking sounds and the mold whispers, “Jenga! Jenga!”

Once a week or so, I get inspired and just roll up my sleeves and do the dishes. All of them. And much more occasionally (and, I suspect, usually motivated by guilt at my having just cooked dinner while he lounged in front of the television) Brad will cast a glance at the china pile and say, “I’m going to wash those tomorrow when I get home from work.”

The first time this happened, I felt a wonderful rush of relief. I looked gleefully forward to the following afternoon, when I would come home and discover that the sink was, miraculously, dish-less.
Except, of course, that the dishes were still there when I came home.
And the next morning.
And for the next several days. Until finally, five days later, I broke down and washed them.

As I stood at the sink, Brad walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, hey!” he said. “I was gonna do those!”

I know you will understand, dear reader, when I tell you that I looked down at the mold-covered butcher knife I was about to wash and felt the sincere urge to bury it, up to the handle, in his thigh.

“You said that five days ago,” I said.
“So?”
“So there’s a statute of limitations on dish-washing promises.”
“You should be more patient,” he said.
“I waited five days!” I protested.
“You could have waited one more.”
“One more day, and the mold would have become self-aware and staged a coup.”
We glared at each other.
“Well, whatever. I was still gonna do them,” he said. “Alright? God. Next time, just let me do them.”

So on Sunday, when Brad gestured to the dishes and said, pointedly, “I’m going to do those,” I did not say anything except “okay”.

Several days passed.

Last night, I stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for lasagna. My back was turned determinedly on the sink. Behind me, the mold groaned and sighed.

Brad walked in.
“Hey,” he said, “You need any help with that?”
“No, not with this,” I said. But… um.”
“What?”
“Well, maybe you could do the dishes? The ones you promised to wash three days ago?”

Brad stared at me with utter confusion and said, with the indignant fury that only a nagged man can muster, “What?!”

I stared back, feeling a) guilty, for nagging, b) annoyed, because the dishes were still unwashed, and c) suddenly flooded with self-doubt. What did he mean, “what?” Hadn’t he said he was going to do the dishes? He had, I was sure of it, but he was now fixing me with a look that clearly said, You are completely insane.
Not wanting to start what was bound to be a very ugly argument on Lasagna Night, I shrugged.
“Nevermind,” I said.
“Yeah,” Brad said, as though something had been resolved to his infinite satisfaction.

You don’t need me to tell you what happened next, do you?
The dishes are still there.
Inside the apartment, the air is electric with tension.
And last night, as I turned out the lights in the kitchen, a guttural voice whispered from the direction of the sink.

It said, “Soon.”

Proof of alien life on planet Earth

January 27, 2008: update for googling readers of Such Great Heights: Yes, this is it. If you want an update on all the blog drama, please feel free to read this.



Recently, I’ve gotten obsessed with a blog belonging to a New York City girl named “Clink”. (Or rather, that's her pseudonym. She's afraid to reveal her true identity. Aww!)

Clink is a recently-engaged, somewhat neurotic 26 year-old who works in television and pours her unfiltered thoughts into near-daily posts about whatever’s going on in her life. The "unfiltered" thing sounds cooler than it really is -- Clink's most intimate bloggings sound like the internal monologue of Charlotte from Sex & the City, pre-Jewish conversion, so it's not exactly tawdry stuff. So on the one hand, she's interesting because her blog reads like a diary. There is no snark. On the other, well… it reads like a diary. Need I say more? The girl has garnered an incredible following of readers who are completely, totally in love with her earnestness: about losing weight, or her omigod-like-so-totally-incredible fiancé, or having a job, or –recently—about how her stomach hurt. Because Clink is honest about everything, and that includes tummy trouble, and seriously, it is really sort of precious.

But yesterday, a post went up which convinced me without a doubt, though I had always suspected it, that Clink is actually occupying a parallel universe to which I and everyone I know have been somehow denied entry:

“On Saturday morning, a few of my bridesmaids, my mother, my sister and I ventured into the garment district to try on bridesmaids dresses,” she writes. “Initially I thought that I wanted the girls to wear an array of dresses in the same color and fabric but different styles. That is until everyone tried on the sweetheart neckline dress in chocolate brown with a light pink sash and be still my heart, all of them looked breathtaking in it. Seriously, little known secret: a sweetheart neckline looks amazing on everyone.”

Aww, Clink. This is all so nice – I don’t even know what a sweetheart neckline is, but I admit to being vicariously pleased that she found a nice dress for her bridesmaids. And how she’s genuinely excited that they all look great in it. And how she has so many ‘maids that she could go shopping with several of them and still not have achieved bridesmaid critical mass.

But then…

“Though - gah - is $270 entirely too much to ask? My bridesmaids seem okay with it but part of me feels a bit guilty, even though it’s over $100 less than I was asked to pay for the wedding I was in.”

I would not be lying if I said that I spit out a drink when I hit that question mark.

Of course, I was sure that the comments would erupt, Greek-Chorus-style, with something along the lines of, “$270 is too much to be asked to pay for a dress which one will never wear again, so say we all.” (And really, if you think that the chocolate brown/pink color combination doesn’t scream, BRIDESMAID, then you, my friend, are not keeping up with your wedding trends.)

But as the comments flooded in, they all flooded in the totally other direction. “That’s not bad if it’s a really great dress!” and “It’s fine as long as you pay for their shoes!” and “I would totally pay that much if I really loved the bride!”

Um. Not to be over-dramatic, here, but has the world gone mad? I’m supposed to be in a wedding next year. Bride-to-be-friend-of-mine, if you’re reading this… DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. I’m not kidding. We do not live in the world of Clink.


P.S. I am not direct-linking to Clink, because she seems to be a sensitive sort of girl and I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings (“Hey, I’m getting traffic from pink india ink… oh my God, why? Why is this girl so mean?!”). But if you feel like indulging in some voyeurism with a Manhattan Wedding-Planning Princess, it’s:

http (colon)(double slash) clinkny (dot) wordpress (dot) com

Adulthood? Oh, no, thank you, no.

Last Wednesday, I somehow came across an invite an “industry” party – you know, the kind where you show up at some magazine-sponsored location and they give you free booze, and there are waiters walking around with trays of shrimp, and the whole thing is being inexplicably hosted at some kind of men’s dress clothing retail store where it seems like someone is bound to end the night by accidentally spilling cocktail sauce on a $3,000 suit. That sort of thing.

In spite of a problematic history with industry events (as in, I’d get insanely drunk and then wake up the next morning with a ridiculous hangover and about 70 business cards stuffed in my bra), I thought I’d be safe from harm if I brought Brad along. My logic was as follows:

1) People are less likely to throw business cards at you if you’re attached to the arm of a big dude.

2) The presence of someone with whom you expect to (one day) have children is a good deterrent to acting like a complete, inebriated asshole.

And so, I put on a little dress and some very high heels, and ventured out for a Wednesday of Fun and Free Drinks.

Looking at the above, all I can say is, it made sense at the time.

But regardless of whatever infallible logic had brought me to the party, I hadn’t counted on one problem: that the drinks involved, instead of the nasty/unpalatable Sparkz that usually abounds, would be something very old-New-York that relied heavily on rye whiskey and was served in a little stemmed glass. Tasty.

After two hours and… some, um, number of drinks, Brad and I both stumbled down Madison Avenue toward Grand Central Station. Or perhaps only one of us was stumbling. Perhaps it was me. Whatever. We were ostensibly heading for the subway, but once we’d gotten into Grand Central, the intoxicatingly high ceilings and beaux arts décor and the feeling of being Out On The Town got the better of us both.

Also, I had to pee.

“I have to pee,” I said.
“Let’s go to the Oyster Bar and have one drink, then go home,” said Brad. “But first, I have to buy cigarettes.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you in there.”

Still feeling very Old-New-York and grown-up – I was out! In a committed relationship! About to have a nightcap! – I tottered along the marbled hall, grasped the heavy brass handle of a dark door that said “Oyster Bar”, opened it, and immediately fell down the stairs.

* * *

I’m posting this, not because I had some kind of epiphany about the dangers of drinking/ wearing stilettos/ drinking while wearing stilettos, but because I’d like to warn anybody who was thinking of inviting me to an industry party that they may want to reconsider as I clearly have no self-control.

Although for the next week at least, I do have some awesome bruises.

From Russia with prudery

MOSCOW—A photograph of two policemen kissing and caressing each other's buttocks, slated to be part of France's "A Year of Russia" exhibition, will not be traveling to the Maison Rouge exhibition hall in Paris, the Moscow Times reports.

Oh, Russia. Russia, Russia, Russia. You do realize, don’t you, that you’re doing yourself no favors by keeping this from the world? Consider your reputation, Russia – when people think of you, they don’t think “fun”. You’re predominantly associated with bread lines, furry hats, heavily-accented hitmen named Boris, that pesky “iron curtain” thing, and books about failed marriages/train track suicide/clubbing someone to death with an axe. This is your chance to change all that. To make a difference in the lives of your citizens. To reinvent yourself, not as a country of cold corruption and failed governmental regimes, but as the country of kissing, ass-fondling cops!

Just think about it, Russia.

Related: what is it with Eastern European police officers?

Nature walk of shame

It is very early, and I am leaving ASAP for a long weekend in the lovely, lovely town of Coxsackie. (Consider this a sort of forewarning that next week’s posts will be populated with stories about my family, which I know you all love.)

We had decided last night, albeit while somewhat drunk, that we had to be out at the crack of dawn in order to beat the rest of the upstate-going Leaf Peepers. Not that I would ever discourage someone from taking joy in the riot of color that overtakes upstate forests in the fall—I mean, hey man, it’s cool to love nature—but I don’t dig the LPs. They’re always getting in the way. They tool around in their rented cars, navigating the winding country roads at roughly 2.5 miles per hour and peering out their windows in paroxysms of delight while a line of frustrated local drivers continues to grow behind them.

These people do not belong! The interlopers, the fakes. The big phonies. They probably don’t even know an oak from a maple, and they’re slowing things down, and meanwhile I have a legitimate reason for upstate visiting that has absolutely nothing to do with peeping at leaves. God, the very idea. Even the name, “Leaf Peepers”, smacks of voyeurism and filth.

Scene: A mother bursts into the bedroom of her teenaged son, who looks up with wild-eyed guilt and attempts to quickly hide something under the mattress.

Mother: Billy? Billy! What are you doing?!

Billy: N-n-nothing Mom, I was just… uh… I was...

Mother: Don’t lie to me, Billy!

She crosses the room and, before Billy can react, snatches the hidden item from beneath his clutching hands.

Mother: (eyes widen in shock) The Audubon Society Guide to Fall Foliage?! Oh, Billy! How could you?!!!

Billy: (begins to cry) I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Mother: (also crying) My own son! A Leaf Peeper! A filthy, horrible, Leaf Peeper!

-end scene-

* * *

That said, be prepared to ooh and aah at some lovely photographs of… well, y’know. leaves. Leaves which, in my local capacity, I have every right to peep at.

Yes, it’s true. I have absolutely no self-respect.

In an ironic followup to last night's post...

... this is me, ten minutes ago.

WORD.

Instant fat-ification

So, back in the day, after I realized that living in sin was causing the augmentation of my ass, I promptly went out and bought a scale.

I considered this to be a good idea, because historically, I tend not to notice that I’m gaining weight simply by looks alone. They say that you can, but it’s a talent that I apparently lack. There are a couple reasons for this—first, since I’m shaped like a guitar (or a viola, merci beaucoup to Man Ray), I tend to gain weight in places where I can’t see it right away. With a job to go to and bills to pay, it’s hard to remember that one must also diligently check one’s rear view in the mirror EVERY SINGLE DAY to make sure that one’s ass is maintaining a homeostatic size.

Hey, what's going on back there?!

The other reason, of course, is that I have no real concept of how large I am. To myself, I always look kinda fat, or at least, fatter than I’d like. (Issues? Well, sure they are!) I know I’m not the only one with this problem – maybe some of you have it, too? Don’t be shy! —but when your self-appraisal has been accompanied by thoughts of “God, I look like a pig” since age 12 or so, it’s hard to discern between the usual self-loathing and the actual, physical manifestation of extra weight… at least, until that physical manifestation is +10 lbs and an extra jeans size.

Thus, the scale. I considered it a cautionary measure – one that would let me catch any problems before they, y’know, ballooned.

Instead, the scale has overtaken my life. It is 1) haunted, and 2) my new favorite toy.

First, the haunting. As a longtime student of caloric math, I know that one must eat an additional 3,500 calories to gain one pound of fat. Therefore, gaining 3 pounds of fat overnight is a physical impossibility (unless one is to consume, say, an entire CAKE). Still, I continue to experience the following scenario:

1. I spend Monday thru Saturday being a careful eater, drinking black coffee for breakfast and taking tiny little bites of everything.

2. On Sunday morning, I weigh myself, and it is good.

3. On Sunday afternoon, I determine that I’ve been cautious enough to splurge on some beer and a few chicken wings.

4. On Monday morning, I weigh myself, and it is not good. It is 3 GODDAMN POUNDS of not good. Overnight, I have become the unwitting victim of some sort of psychotic, instant fat-ificiation.

I know that some of you are thinking, “It’s water weight, the sodium, blah blah blah”, but I’ll tell you what –fuck that. The scale is haunted. It is possessed by a malevolent force, or possibly, but the ghost of Edith Piaf, who was very thin and French and who would likely be amused by this sort of thing.

I’d throw it out, but for the other thing – the scale is fun.

So. Much. Fun. In a mad science-y way!

I’m not even kidding. I have been doing experiments. And without the haunted scale, I would never know have known that a hardbound copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows weighs 2.5 pounds. Or that you eliminate a full pound of water about 60 minutes after drinking two beers.

Seriously, if you guys ever want to see actual, physical proof of your excretory system in action, I highly recommend this. Though of course, this is advice coming from someone whose high school bio teacher thought that she’d never go to college.