Ramblings - Practice Roadtrip

This weekend, for the first time since we've lived in Maryland (almost 2.5 years), my husband and I had Maryland crabs that were not in "cake" form.

And we only had to drive to Virginia to do it.

Well okay, we weren't in Virginia. But we were pretty darn close. We were in that strange Bermuda-triangle-esque area called "Delmarva". A wrong turn in any direction would have taken us to either Delaware or Virginia. Through the 12 gallons of gas and over 300 miles of driving I wondered how they came up with the name Delmarva. Why that order? Why not Mardelva? Vadelmar? Delvamar? Mary Delva? Vir Delma? Why Delmarva? And why is Virginia recognized by it's two letter code but Delaware and Maryland have to have three letters? Why couldn't we just use one letter for each and keep it far.

"Yo. What's up? I'm hailing from the DMV yo."

Ooooooh....that's why it's called Delmarva...

Regardless. We went there. We went in search of ponies. Which we found on Assategue Island. We saw five ponies, seven deer, one bunny and three doves. As well a hawk that I saw while were driving there. It's a comfort to know that there is someone else in the world who goes as crazy happy over seeing bunnies and ponies as I do. Or he's good at pretending he does. While other people will simply shrug when they see a squirrel climbing up the tree, I can feel comfortable knowing that not only will my husband not think I'm nuts for pointing out the little boing-boing squirrel.

We're a good match. And now I have proof that we are a good match in the form of our new digital camera - with 12 pictures of ducks being ducky, 7 pictures of bunnies hopping away, 4 pictures of squirrels, 7 more of a swan and a whopping 27 pictures of a flock of Geese eating sunflower seeds. All coupled with 2 pictures of me looking at squirrels, 2 of me looking at the swan, 3 of me talking to the bunny.

This is what we are preserving for our posterity. "And this little C. and little K. is when your Father and I stood in the park and quacked at the ducks. Here you can see your Father doing the duck-dance."

Yes, as far as mini-roadtrips go this one was fairly successful. A few animals, a tank of gas, and only one semi-temper tantrum halfway through. (His, not mine.) Which all ended in the elusive Maryland steamed crabs.

I made my crabs talk and do a cure puppet show. Then proceeded to split their head open and scoop out their guts. We both got very good at making lots of noise with the mallets. Any food that comes with a hammer is good food.

Giggle

Right now I'm reading "A Popular Schoolgirl" by Angela Brazil. It's fun, I can't help but burst into a fit of schoolgirl giggles myself when I read it. It's so bubbly and cute and british.

It's topping - oops - there I go again *insert giggles here*

But on top of all the giggle-inducing phrases like 'right-o', 'topping', 'chuffed' and the like there are also a few situations that you can't help but smile at. For instance:

"You ought to help me with my exercises, though, Ingred," she wheedled. "Remember, it's for the benefit of the form. If you let me make mistakes, well--it's the form that will suffer. You can't call it _my_fault, it's on your own head. You know as well as I do that I simply can't spell, and it takes me hours to hunt up words in the dictionary. I'm looking for 'phenomenon' now."

"You certainly won't find it in the F's," laughed Ingred. "What an infant in arms you are! Here, then, go ahead, and I'll act as dictionary. You've only written half a page yet. You'll be a week of
Sundays at this rate."

"And I haven't touched my Latin or French!" sighed Fil dismally. "I wish I could go to a school where there isn't any homework, and that somebody would invent a typewriter that would just spell the words ready-made when you press a button."

"There's a fortune waiting for the man who does!" agreed Ingred. "'The Royal-Road-to-Learning Typewriter: spells of itself.' It would sell by the million, I should think."

Indeed!

The Ladies Who Lunch

Yesterday we said goodbye to a fellow assistant in our department. She's going on with the company, the two of us are being left behind. As a semi-celebration (I'm not sure of what) we all three went to lunch.

Being assistants we never leave for lunch. Our bosses will leave for hours on "business" lunches to all sorts of restaurants and bars. We make the reservations but we never go. Instead you'll usually find us slurping up iced tea and diet coke while nibbling on local deli fare. Going outside for lunch is a special thing - and rare.

So it was a surprise when the three of us piled out of the car and into an incredibly packed parking lot. It was even more a surprise to walk into the restaurant and find it near full with people. Mostly people is suits or "business casual" attire. All sitting down at a table with full plates of hot food...and no computers in site. I wasn't sure if I could eat a whole lunch without a keyboard in front of me. What would I do between bites? How would I occupy the time?

Then I remembered I wouldn't have to worry about that. Three women going out to lunch...don't worry...very little lunch would be had.

We started off right away with talking about diets. We oooh'd and ahhh'd over the appetizers, then promptly ordered waters all around and changed the topic to the conventional wisdom of not drinking liquid with meals.

With the bread was the discussion of Atkins and South Beach. When we ordered, which took forever, we all prefaced with "Mmm, a steak sounds good" and ended with "I'd like the rabbit food please. Dressing on the side." (Actually I had grilled chicken with asparagus.)

Then we talked about pills and diseases. I was certain it was because we were trying to ruin our appetite. Thyroid conditions, cancer, obesity, senility. One woman decided she must have thyroid cancer since her memory was slowly slipping away and her metabolism "wasn't working".

Then we ooh'd and ahh'd over desserts. We all thought cheesecake was the best thing. And just when our mouths started to water one of us brought up the story about the cheesecake filled with botulism or something.

Food's up!

I was given a little respite over the meal when the two older ladies discussed their children. As they gabbed about schools and clothes and soccer games I looked around at our suited co-diners. A lot of them had beers or hard drinks next to their steaks and burgers. Most of them had fries (I love fries). I wondered if their conversations revolved around the latest diet craze or who's best friend has a yeast infection. Did the regular restaurant lunchers sabotage their meals with talk of fat and death? Was the man with the bow-tie going to tuck into his porterhouse then commence a discussion of diabetes?

I finished my chicken just in time to get the grill over when I would have babies. We moved on to the hardships of work while our waiter tried to tempt us into dessert. He should have known it was a lost cause. I did.

We piled back into our car, indulging in peppermints and exclaiming how full we were and how we couldn't believe we ate so much food.

You always hear about those Matrons of Society who do nothing but lunch. Or about the Housewives of Rich Men who spend their mornings in the gym and their afternoons getting plastered on the decks of fancy restaurants.

I don't believe it. I don't believe that a group of women could get together and really enjoy a meal. I'm no exception. I could have gone to that restaurant at any other time and ordered potato skins loaded with cheese, a thick yummy steak and a big potato on the side. I'd have tipped back a nice cold drink and followed it with a big sundae. And I'd have loved every second of it. But surrounded by my female counter-parts I felt the need to fit the mold. Share my food-eating secrets, try theirs. I easily rattled off all the facts I know about this exercise and that, about these calorie counters and those. I know all about them. So do they. And we know that they know. And they know we know they know.

And we still have to compete. We compete over useless knowledge and who can eat the least and who can suffer the most. Who sacrifices the most? Who is on the path to being the skinniest?

Who is the lady who can lunch the least the most?

Tattoo

I'm approaching my 24th Birthday. And as I do my common birthday wish is beginning to creep back into my head. The idea is always there, it floats to the surface every so often, but around my birthday, around that personal milestone, the idea gets stronger, more compelling.

I want a tattoo.

I've wanted one for years. I want something small, simple, elegant. I want something pretty, something feminine. Something elusive. I don't want a big shamrock on my arm or some dumb butterfly on my ankle. I want something soft and dainty along my back...right in that space between the two dimples my hips make.

"Why," my friend said as his hand circled around my waist playfully, "would such a beautiful girl like you want ruin that by mutilating herself?"

"You sound like my Mother." I replied, rolling my eyes. We dropped it and went on to other topics.

But what I should have replied is that I want a tattoo because I am beautiful. I wear lipstick so my lips standout. I wear rouge so my round cheeks are noticeable. I line my eyes in black so my brown eyes will pop out. I brush my hair so my natural curl and wave will bounce as I walk. I wear a bra to make my breasts round and full. My clothes follow the line of my body. My make-up accentuates the shape of my face. My jewelry sparkles and draws attention to my neck which has a nice curve, my fingers with are small and delicate

It's all a game. A game I play very well. My friend probably wouldn't have thought I was "such a beautiful girl" if I didn't do a little primping. Dirty and messy I can sometimes come off as pretty, but not really. Dressed and dolled up I can attract a few stares.

And when I do it right I can attract those stares to the right parts. I look at adornment as a roadsign. A little sparkle to catch ones eye the right direction. Something flashy to make them look left rather than left.

I have a navel piercing. I like my stomach. It's not a six-pack or anything like that. But it's nice. I creates a flow. My sparkly piercing catches the light a lot. It pulls attention away from the fact that my abs aren't rock hard and more towards the fact that my stomach has a nice soft curve, and flow that, if you happen to be lucky, could be followed all the way down to a pair of nice full hips and a sloping waist. The nice dark blue gem in the middle on my navel is a nice contrast to my pale white skin, and it looks pretty.

In fact, it may be one of the reasons why I am "such a beautiful girl".

And my tattoo could do the same thing. I'm getting to point now where I really like my butt. It's a good butt. It's not that round, but it has a little fullness, and it moves nicely to my legs...which are very nice. And I love that dimpled area. I like it on me, I like it on other girls. I like looking at naked girls from behind because of it. I like the fact that pants ride so low simply for the fact that I can see that little swoop from the back to the butt.

I want people to look at my swoop. I want to adorn it and accentuate it. It's a nice swoop, it deserves a little color.

So I'm narsicistic. But I don't apologize. I like me. And someone has too...

/signed

"It is not bigotry to define marriage as a union of a man and a woman," said Senator Sam Brownback, Republican of Kansas.
New York Times June 6, 2006

Okay it's no secret that I find the idea of defining marriage by gender is illogical. I just don't see why these two people can be in love and want to get married and that's okay with everyone, but these two other people over here can be in love and want to get married and suddenly a whole institution is being threatened.
Will my marriage be voided out and worthless because Mark married someone named Greg?

No.

But regardless where you come in on this issue this woman had a good point. If a Senator is going to attempt to define marriage perhaps he should know the standard definitions for other nouns as well. Like bigotry.

So I'm with Kathy. We should make sure our Senators know what they're talking about before they talk...or for that matter vote.

I've sent Senator Brownback the copy of Dictionary.com's definition for bigotry along with a copy of the article the quote is from (so he doesn't get more confused). And added a little of my own flare in the form of a large post-it note on the importance of vocabulary.

And I signed it Mrs. Katy ________.

Go here for more information about how to contact Senator Brownback. And remember to contact your own Senators and let them know what you think. Because I happen to know for a fact that Washington D.C. is far from any reality.

American Dream

I grew up in America where, from an early age, I was told that if I was willing to work hard I could be whatever I wanted to be. "You can be anything you want when you grow up, even The President of the United States." That's what they told me. My parents told me that, my teachers told me that, girl scouts told me that. Heck, the Muppets told me that! All I had to do was work hard.

So I have. I started with the good grades, with the ambitious projects and the extracurriculars. I volunteered too, trusting that the people I helped then would be just as successful as I would be if they just got an extra hand up. A little extra help and hard work and we'd all roll right along. We could do anything, be anyone.

Then I moved on to working. Come in early, go home late. Get everything done on-time. Finish it all early. Anticipate problems, fix them before hand. Be reliable, dependable, responsible and organized. Work hard and don't complain. Be honest, Be trustworthy. Keep your nose to the grindstone and you'll be okay.

I didn't just think these things. I didn't just hear the catch phrases "Apply yourself" and "Work hard" and think "Hey, there's something to try." No. I believed it. I knew deep in my soul that the secret to life was working hard. I trusted in my grindstone the way people trust in God. Just apply more of yourself and you'll be okay. I was more than a good soldier - I was a devout soldier.

Which is why when I come to my office in the morning - turning on the lights as I do - I feel a crushing weight lying in my chest. When I turn on my computer and see all the things that have been left for me to do as my bosses frolic in Las Vegas or Paris or the beaches of Thailand, the weight grows heavier. As I toil on reports and presentations at lunch, the weight crushes my ribs. When I find myself suddenly alone in an office creating a new contract when moments before I was simply showing someone how to use a program...my back threatens to break.

But worst of all is knowing that no matter how hard I work. No matter what I do at my job now, no matter how great my resume is, how wonderful my references are - there will soon be no work. No work because after all the big salaries and the big airplane tickets and the price of food and gas there is no money for me.

And as I train five people to take over my one position - the weight crushes my faith. And that makes me mad.

Maybe it's because I was naive as a girl. Maybe I just needed to open my eyes more and realize that those people who were down on their luck didn't need a helping hand - they needed a regime change.

It makes me mad that I can work my ass off as hard as I want and still get laid-off...TWICE. I can have the best resume ever, and I can send it to everyone and their brother. But I will never be called.

Because hard work doesn't work. Applying yourself just means getting caught in the sticky mess other people make. Being honest means being expendable. Being helpful means being weak.

I'm 23. I'm smart, pretty, jaded, out-of-luck, in debt, educated, worn out, faithless and pissed off.

Just a thought

It seems to me that you can watch the news every single day and every single day there will be a new story about the "Obesity Epidemic" in America. And invariably with every story there will be a little montage of people walking on the sidewalk who are overweight. Actually it's usually a montage of people's asses, and stomach, and legs, and usually one rotund woman stuffing her mouth with fries. Or some large man eating a burger in one gulp.

Ever wonder what it's like to be the guy shooting this stuff?

"Hey Mick! Go outside and film fat people."

"Again?!?!"

"Yeah, and make sure you get lots of butts. And a couple of people in shorts and tank-tops. The story is about cellulite - so remember - cankles sell!"

I'm sure when Mick was training to become a camera-man for a major news station his goal was to film endless b-roll of cankles. Miles and miles of cankles. Do they shell this stuff out to the interns? To the probby? Is it a hazing thing among the crew. You shoot good rolls of, well, rolls and you get move up to second position or something? And who edits this stuff? Whose job is it to sit in a dark room and pick just which cankle is scary enough to get the "Epidemic" message across, but not so scary that people turn off the t.v. during dinner?

Just wondering...

Look at all the people

I have statcounter on this blog, so occasionally I can check to see if anyone comes here for longer than a minute.

Don't worry...no one does.

However on May 27th I saw this weird huge spike in new comers. Spike being 108 people rather than the two returning.

Where did these people come from? Did 108 people collectively realize that kitties are awesome? Did some horrible world event happen to them to make 108 people depressed and incapable of wallowing in the pit of despair that this blog lives in?

No. Something even more incredible. A rather accomplished blogger linked to me. Under a listing of D/s blogs. Which fills me with guilt that 108 people clicked on the link and were collectively...disappointed.

So to them - I'm sorry.

And to the accomplished blogger, thank you. No really, thank you. I'm too chicken to post on your blog, but I've always liked it. And always will.

And to the rest of you suckers who wound up here first...go to A Creative Spanko Wench instead. Because it's more fun.

Anyway, that's where all the people came from. And probably where they went back to.

Shoe Santa

When one is in a class full of women who are wearing hard, plastic six-inch heels and rolling around on the floor, or climbing up poles, one is soon aware that eventually one is going to get a shoe to the face.

Especially is one is names Katy and has a history of getting kicked in the face.

One, well Katy-One, does not expect the shoe hitting her face to be her own.

But it was. A few weeks ago I was doing a particularly tricky tumble that ended up with me balanced on my right shoulder, arms out, head tucked and leg spread-eagle directly above me. It's a fun tumble and I highly recommend it for anyone who doesn't have a broken back...yet.

But just as my legs were swinging up and out I hear a great big SNAP. No, it wasn't my back. It was my shoe:

Which after going SNAP decided to fly off my foot and head directly for my face.

The worst part was not the shoe-shape bruise I sported for two days. The worst part was have to use my pole boots:

for chair dancing class. Why is this the worst part? You wear knee high pvc boots in a small windowless room with no a/c or fan and twenty other women...then do five hundred squats.

So I've been upset. I like my pole boots:

for pole class, but I want my stripper shoes:

for floor and chair class.

What's a girl to do?

Buy more shoes of course. And I did. And they came in the mail today. It's like Christmas in July in June!

I just wonder if I can wear these:

to work?

Now that's a clear connection...

"Oh my god Katy, I'm 32 and I have tonsillitis!"

"Aww, Poor Jim! You're sick and you got stuck with me."

Jim is one of my favorite travel counselors. I am one of his most hated customers. Boss#2 does a lot of traveling and it's always complicated. The big joke is that the counselors screen for my name and avoid me like the plague. But apparently not like tonsillitis because Jim and I had just spent an hour hashing out three weeks worth of travel and now we're chatting about his penicillin dose.

"I know...I should have just jumped out the window instead." Jim says - probably jokingly.

We hang-up. I rub my throat sympathetically; glad I'm not the one working sick. But I've been really healthy, no flus, no colds, no near death emergencies. Generally I've been bright eyed and bushy tailed. I hate working sick, especially having to talk on the phone a lot. And I really hate being sick in the summer. Having a fever when it's cold outside is one thing, but having a fever when the heat has gone up to 80 and all you want to do is take a nap in the sunshine is just a cruel joke.

An hour after the call my throat feels funny. Sorta ticklish and tight. I attribute it to the Caesar dressing I had on my salad. I thought it tasted a bit more tangy that it should have.

Half and hour later I'm trying to force ice cubes down my throat before chewing them...just to numb the area. It feels good, but I keep choking. I have visions of lying dead in my cubicle and not being discovered till Boss#2 decided he needed another letter dictated. It both makes me sad that I'll die in a cubicle and happy that my Boss's lucky-bastard-gets-whatever-he-wants-cloud would burst.

I make it home anyway.

"You sound sick." My husband says helpfully.

"I'm not. I refuse to be sick. I will not be sick. Nothing and no one can make me sick 20 days before vacation. No!" Ah, hubris.

An hour later I'm curled under the blankets with a cat warming my chest and my head hidden under a pillow.

"Guess what!" My husband says cheerily.

"Mmmmmppphh." I respond.

"You're sick!"

But I was so healthy. I was surrounded by healthy people. I don't know anyone who has been sick or was getting sick. No one!

Except Jim. Jim with tonsillitis. Jim who I spoke to on the phone for two hours.

I have this memory of those commercials for a phone company: Reach out and touch someone.

But wash your hands first.