/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.

I AM

It's dark, it's loud, it's packed with over 100 girls. Some of them are naked, some are clothed, all of us are drunk. We're currently screaming at a classmate to do "Love It or Hate It" on stage while singles go flying every direction. I barely hear the guy behind me asking if he can sit in the adjacent stool.

So he asks again - only this time he taps my shoulder.

"Can I have this seat?"

I know that a lot of guys get upset when girls are sarcastic and/or bratty...but honestly...why do they make it so dang easy for me. Questions like the above are just screaming for a smart-ass response. Must-make-joke...must-tease...willpower-draining....

"Sure!"

Willpower restored. I am a nice girl...really.

"I'm Rich, who are you?"

"Katy" I blurt.

He shakes his head like he can't hear me, and he probably can't. He leans in closer.

"Julie" He leans in again, this time confused. His hand has suddenly found mine and is doing that strange half handshake, half caress thing. He looks like he can't decide if he want to kiss my hand or break my fingers. It's creepy. I yell into his ear "Mary".

"I can't hear you!" He yells back before leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath down my neck. I'm sure he's getting a good view of cleavage from that position. I'm getting a good whiff of too much beer. "My name is Lacy!"

And if you believe that I have a bridge I can sell you. I am a semi-nice girl...really.

"I'm from England. I don't really know how to talk to you American girls. I really want to tell you that you're hot...but I don't know how."

I can't really tell if he actually is English. He either has an accent or he's just really drunk and slurring his words oddly. English or not his hand is beginning to worm it's way up my thigh.

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually"

"I would really like to sleep with you."

See, you already have the hang of it.

"Aw, that's nice Rich, but I'm married so I'm not going to sleep with you."

"What if I was more aggressive. I could change your mind."

Change my mind? You have to be pretty aggressive to go back in time four years and tell an excited bride that in four years time some guy in a strip club is going to tell her she's hot and fuckable and that she'll be sad she was married so she should call the whole thing off.

"You couldn't change my mind even if you were attractive!"

I am an occasional-nice girl

"Why don't we go out tonight?" He grabs me by my hips and pulls me off my chair and into him. I quickly disengage myself from the drunk semi-British man and push him away. Vaguely I wonder if this will turn into a bar fight. I size him up...I'm less drunk than he is, but I'm also about 100 lbs less person than he is. Throwing a punch would not be a good idea.

But it'd be fun.

I am a slightly mean girl.

I walk away and re-join my group of girls. We automatically form the patented "Cock-block Circle" and everything is fine till I feel fingers scratching at my back.

"Why do your friends hate me?" It's Rich...duh.

"You're a man."

I am just a plain brat.

"I'm buying drinks for all of you. You'll come and talk to me now."

"No amount of alcohol will make me want to talk to you."

I'm a bitch.

"I can change your mind." His hand grabs my ass and the other slides down into my jeans. I move before his fingers find anything else to scratch.

Fortunately I move right into a bouncer. Who unfortunately for Rich grabs him by the collar.

"Did he touch any of you girls?"

"No no," Rich mumbles "We're just dancing."

"He touch you?" Says Rich's new friend.

Rich looks at me pleadingly. I feel kind bad cause he had a pretty tight collar on to begin with. Then I don't feel all that bad cause my jeans were pretty tight too.

"Yep. He stuck his hands down my pants."

And Rich was gone. In amongst admonitions of "You don't touch my girls and you don't touch these girls" I hear Rich with a real British type accent:

"You Bitch!"

No. I am an American Bitch.

Inconvenience

Living near the Capitol of my Country and the Residence of the Leader of the Free World, I expect a few kinks in the flow of transportation. I expect, when going down to D.C. and driving through the Diplomatic District that I may come across a few lags in traffic and possibly a closed road here or there. I am also used to finding the 95 has backed up the entrance to the 32 because our dear President decided to take his car out for a burger, or whatever it is he eats...puppies, small children, the dreams of small business owners...Oh wait - that's Dick Cheney.

Regardless, what I mean to say is I expect a little trouble to come into my life since I sometimes venture towards D.C. I can deal with this. Rather I be inconvenienced than have my country thrown into turmoil over a dead President. Take all the time you need to clear those streets boys...I'll wait.

However, I do not expect the President to muck up travel plans elsewhere. Like today. Today most of my supervisors were in some city in the Midwest somewhere. And all of them were headed home. Today, early. Operation Headed-Home was huge. Tons of people on different flights, all needing rides and tickets and directions and who knows what else. Everything was scheduled to the minute. From our command center on the East Coast we coordinated and moved 40+ whiny, picky, grouchy, timid little executives from hotels to cars to airports. And it was going swimmingly for a few hours.

When they closed the airports, and the freeways, and all the streets. And apparently Starbucks.

Why did they close all these very important things in a living, working, commercial city?

Because The President of the United States had come to town. He was gracing everyone with his prescence...and a speech on dining out.

I'd like to say that my company is important. I'd like to say that the work we do everyday helps people. I'd like to be able to say I'm a part of something important like feeding people around the world or distributing medicine. I would love to say that our company provides a service that is vital to the structure and economy of at least our country, if not the world. I'd like to say that, but it's not, I'm not and our goal is make money.

Or more to the point, spend it. On stupid things like meetings in Midwest Cities where everyone talks about dining out.

A luxury that a lot of people don't have.

And yet the President thought it'd be a good idea to disrupt commerce, airlines and my freaking Monday by talking about something that only effects the privileged few. Like he doesn't have anything better to do!

I got news for you jack...most of my bosses didn't vote last time...but I did...and I AM TAKING NOTES!

The irony of this whole thing is during the hub-bub and craziness of rearranging flights and hotels and cars I knew something that very few people get to know. Where the President is that day. Well I knew, and a couple thousand people who heard him speak. Yet, though I was privy to this special information, though I could say without a doubt what the Leader of the Free World, a man I have never met, was and what he was doing at that very moment....I lost my boss.

Poof.

Can't find him.

Left a few thousand messages, called his wife, called his dog, had a maid break-in his door. Still don't know where he is. And I bet he's screening my phone calls.

Bet the Secret Service doesn't have that problem.

Enter at Your Own Risk

Today I went to work in a pair of jeans and my sorta beat-up tennis shoes.

All so I could fulfill the "Other Duties" part of my job description. The "other duty" being packing all the files in all 90 of our file cabinets into little tiny boxes.

And it's not that I mind either. I like doing physical stuff. Every so often I want to climb into the recess hole near the attic and search for old easels and files marked "Beef Confirmation 1997". I don't mind filing thousands upon thousands of reports into boxes. As an organization fetishist I enjoy looking at large piles of brown boxes all in a row. It's like a garden, a garden of spreadsheets.

But for some reason my cube is always the basis of operations for things like this. And because all the boxes and lids and pens and copies and rulers and coffee ends up on my desk, so do all the mismatch things that can't fit or don't go in the pretty storage boxes.

My cube is where things come to spawn and die.

This morning I had a few expense reports, a couple of lunch trays, and a few contracts.

This afternoon I have a dry-erase board, a lamp-shade, four cups of cold coffee, three copies of "Introduction to Access 2002", photocopies of "Powerpoint Intermediate 2002", seven Employee Handbooks from five years back, a book of Company Profits - also from five years back, someone's jacket, a book on leadership, a broken printer, ten expired markers and a box full of foam peaches.

And a partridge in a pear tree!

Well hopefully not.

Yet, as I continue to work at this desk for the next 30 days I'll just leave all this crap in here. And gain more, accumulate this and that and the other until finally my boss will come barge in, trip over the kitchen sink and crack his skull open on the sharp edge of the page holder that has no pages in it.

One can hope.

New Trick

I discovered a new trick last night. I realized, quite spontaneously, that I can tap dance in knee-high, 6-inch heel boots. Not just tap dance, but do a traveling triple time-step AND a little soft shoe.

Sometimes life throws you a good surprise.

Flirt-Power!

As a young girl of hormonal-age I was surprisingly not boy crazy. I was so "not-boy-crazy" that my Father, of all people, would often throw his hands in the air and cry "I sure hope you get interested in boys soon!" I'd often get thrown by this comment. Was I supposed to be interested in boys already? What was there to be interested in? What was the whole boy draw? As far as I could tell they spent most of their time jumping off things and blowing stuff up. I was so worried that I wasn't into boys that for awhile I thought I may in fact be a complete and total lesbian.

Interestingly enough, my girlfriends did the same things my boyfriends did - meaning they all jumped off things and blew stuff up - I'm not sure if that means I'm naturally attracted to pyromaniacs or that my significant others were naturally attracted to girls who had a morbid sense of entertainment.

Now, however, at the age where I should have a handle on my hormones I am decidedly boy-crazy. Not just boys, but men, older, younger, tall, short, dark hair, light hair...if it moves...I'm interested.

I'm not sure where this came from. I'd like to think I found myself. Tapped into that inner female-ness that makes men want to crawl through the mud. To get to me - of course. I'd like to think that my self-confidence has allowed me to open up, be brazen and guilt-free about my attraction. Through my growth as an individual I have accepted all facets of my personality, both intellectually and physically. I am woman, I am sexual, hear me roar!!!

I'd like to say all these things - but I'm probably just a narcissistic flirt.

Not that I'm going to apologize. Because it's fun. And honestly I've gone too many years being quiet and shy and reserved. Unsexual and undemanding. If I think you have a cute butt...I'm inclined to make my preference known. Probably by pinching it.

Deal with it.

This is all by way of an announcement to the participants of the Spring Micro-Brew Festival this Saturday. To the men with the Honey Beer who thought I was a stripper, to the boys selling t-shirts who were overly interested in the pockets of my jeans, to the guy who thought I should be buying an xtra-small pair of panties (yes, that's what I said!) rather than small, and most importantly to the pirate who liked my smile and had a very nice...dagger:

It wasn't the beer, it was all for you. You go ahead and keep looking at my boobs boys, I'll keep looking at you!

New Rules for Work

Dawn Marie posted about some story involving mice and cheese. I really like that story - thanks Dawn.

But that reminds me of a place my husband hatched the other day. From here on in all office should have mandatory naptimes. Preferably on those bamboo mats we had in Hawaii. (I like those mats.) But regardless of sleeping arrangements naps must be had.

Followed by juice.

Apple juice.

And cookies.

And now cheese too.

Today at a very serious interview when I was finally stumped for a question to ask like "So what would my expense account be?" or some such crap I was tempted to ask:

"Do you have nap time? And is there anywhere to keep my Shera Thermos of apple juice cold?"

I am two hands, two feet, one nose, and two ears old. I am alllll grown-up!!!

Transient

What are you going to do?

That's the question that invariably slips past every persons lips now a days. As we start to count down the days till we are officially all "Laid-off" or "Asked to Leave" the nail-biting is starting. My co-workers come and whisper at me trying to find out my plan. Someone them just want to gloat because they found something, some of them want to know if I have any leads but can't bring themselves to ask. Can't bring themselves to beg. And some of them are just glad that there is someone else out there as miserable as they are.

What am I doing? Same as always. Pack up my stuff (a F1 Poster, a model of a Mini Cooper and a peach shaped stress-ball my boss gave me last month) and move on to my next job. It's not like I haven't done it before. This is the way it's always been. At least to me. Find a job, make some money, then leave. Whether it be a company decision, or your own, nothing is going to last.

But here, on the East Coast, in this company - everything is different. No one leaves, whole families live in the same town. No one leaves the state. And they work for the same company for years, for lifetimes. My cube mate is ending a career of 22 years with our company. He thought he'd be here forever. Some people have been here longer. I can't imagine living in the same state for 5 years, much less with the same company.

Who is the naive one here? I don't believe anything will last, I don't think that the companies I work for will be around for very long. Or if they do they won't need me for long. They're sand-castles paid with seashells. I want to grab up as many shells as I can before the exchange rates go down. But here, the steadfast Marylanders believe that a Corporation is a thing of stone, a mountain that will not be moved.

Is it because my generation is used to change? We grew up using virtual tools. Everything we had was ethereal, intangible. Friends were made of text and relationships were lightening quick - and fleeting. Even in the real world we grew up knowing that marriage wasn't forever, parents didn't have to take care of their kids if they didn't want too, and home wasn't safe. Nothing inside or outside of technology was lasting, so of course as adults we can't trust that our livelihood's would be guaranteed.

Or maybe it's because my generation is used to surplus? Yes this company is growing smaller, is replacing me with lower-wage workers in India and an intelligent software that can talk. But no matter, there is work elsewhere. I'll get a job. It will never be a good job, I'll never be able to hold a good salary, but I'll have work, and money and proceed to spend it on my car payments. For every business that fails there are five more willing to take their place. And when they fail more will come in. There is always more.

And yet, maybe it would be nice to have less, but have it for longer.

So then I might know what I was going to do.

Our Chinese Lady

I don't know why this is but for some reason when life is getting to that super crazy point fate has to give you that one little thing that is so utterly disturbing and absurd that you can only just stand there and think "Why me".

Our life has reached one of those points.

A few weeks ago my husband, spending sometime at home while he was recuperating from such and such thing and currently between jobs came downstairs in his boxers to get himself a soda.

Instead of finding a beverage he found a small chinese woman sitting on our couch eating cookies.

The call I got at work went something like "There is someone in our house." "Like one of "Roomates" friends?" "No." "Well did you call the police." "No." "Who is it?" "She doesn't speak."

In fact she did speak, she spoke three words of english and a lot of chinese. But yeah, she didn't actually say anything, no matter how nicely my husband and my roommate entreated her.

Then she picked up some shopping bags she had brought with her and left.

The cops, typically, showed up two minutes later.

It was a tense and rather absurd day that broke up the rest of our tense and not-so-absurd life. And we puzzled over it a little while till life popped back up and started to bury us again. My looming unemployment, my husbands new job, taxes, bills, health. All the things that you end up doing while life is happening elsewhere. Like laundry.

Till today, tired and grouchy from a long day at work I drive into my garage and see someone standing in my front door.

It doesn't look like anyone I know. And it's not.

It's a small chinese woman walking out of my house with a bunch of groceries.

I had a brief moment of ridiculousness as I jogged alongside her down our driveway trying to get an answer from her.

"Hey, hey, wait, do you need help? Want me to call someone? Need a ride somewhere? Hello? Can you hear me?" I'm panting and realizing that she hasn't even looked at me. It's as if I wasn't even there. I'm not sure I could simply ignore a woman running in heels and yelling at me like that. Especially if it was a woman who happened to live in the house that I had just invaded.

Regardless we got the end of the driveway and she walked past me. I could really justify chasing her down the street.

When I returned to the house I asked my roommate who the woman was.

"What woman?"

I was going to answer him, but really can I be certain there was a woman? I doubt she could be certain there was a Katy.

Instead I just showed my roommate how to lock the door...again.

Sheesh - Why me?

Vague

When I was ten years old my friend Ellie who was very tall and had very long, very red hair showed me a strip in a comic book.

It was a big, coffeetable sized anthology of some Japanese graphic novel partially translated to english and there was a boy antagonist who was doing strange Japanese type heroic stuff that antagonists do in Japanese graphic novels.

Anyway he and his cohorts of unknown species found an egg. A big egg. And it hatched and this dragon-y thing came out and said "Zilla!"

So they asked it a bunch of questions like what is your name and how many fingers am I holding up and it kept answering "Zilla!". So the boy hero, who now that I think about it had blue hair, asked the monster:

"Are you a god, Zilla?"

And then there was something about directing the monster to a big Tokyo-like city to get some food.

I don't know why I thought of that...

(As a side note when I spellchecked this post the checker suggested I enter "Silly" instead of "Zilla". Not really sure what that means either.)

Empty Coffeetable

Today I had to pick up boring wife stuff at the store. And instead of picking up the razors and toothpaste that we need I turn 360 and grab - The DaVinci Code.

In the supermarket. Between diapers and condoms.

And herein lies the real problem. People I know, people I work with, don't know I'm a reader. They seem surprised that I have read every single Jane Austen novel three times, and almost have all of Shakespeares tragedies memorized - and half of the comedies. They about drop dead when I mention articles I've read in the newspaper.

I wasn't sure why people didn't know I didn't read. A quick look in my car will reveal a pile of books for "on the go emergencies" and a bunch of papers with lists of books I need to find and read. Likewise my side of the bed looks like a bookcase threw up. So why don't people know I read?

Because you can't lay a copy of a pretentious, fad-y, smug, semi-religious novel on a coffee table when it's in paperback form and has a big $2.99 with Safeway Club Card" sticker covering the title.

Well you can't unless your thong is drapped over it...and then you're not the "book girl" anymore.

Fifteen Minutes with a Pornstar

"So, at the concert people kept coming up to these women, who you know, were very very - nice to look at. They were hot. Real hard bodies. But people kept taking pictures with them..."

My boss is on minute three of his story about something that happened on his last trip south. So far he's talking about some random concert and describing every single person there. Well every single woman. And honestly I think I should feel flattered. Finally he's comfortable enough with me to talk about women in front of me, almost as if I was one of the boys. The thing is I'm not one of the boys, I'm a girl, a girl still wearing her wool coat and holding a bag full of melting cheesecake. And still the story goes on.

"So I like to play, you know I like to play, so I go down to the casino and start me off with a Ketel One..."

I always wonder why people need to give me a run down of every drink they have had. Even when the story has nothing to do with the alcohol, they still insist on telling me at what point they ordered a Irish Car Bomb and when they switched from rum to vodka. My boss especially, now knowing that I happen to be something of a micro-brew connoisseur, will tell me exactly what he had at each party, each bar, each club. Is this something people do to embellish the story? Or is it the equivalent of dropping names? Status isn't implied by who you know, or what you're wearing? Now it's all about what kind of vodka is in your martini?

"And then this really tall Jamaican woman comes up. And she's wearing these boots that make her tall too. Just high heels and the front has a few inches added..."

He continues to describe the boots and I toy with the idea of telling him I know what kind he's talking about because I have a pair of black patent leather platform boots and clear plastic platform heels in my trunk right now. I bet it would shorten the story, but it'd probably shorten my employment status too - so I bite my tongue and watch the strawberry on his cheesecake melt onto his desk. It's getting hot in this office...

"...and the bartender isn't paying attention so I help her order a..."

Here we go again...

"...we're talking and her friend comes over, another real tall beautiful girl, she comes and sits on the other side of me. And the first girl her name is Kia and her friends name is Mercedes..."

My head snaps up. Did it just get five times hotter in this office? Kia and Mercedes? Kia and Mercedes two girls in platform shoes and scanty outfits? Is my boss about to tell me about how two, not one but two, hookers tried to pick him up over a glass of Ketel One?

"...and I say 'I feel like I'm in a used car dealership'. They thought that was hilarious..."

Oh I bet they did.

"Then Kia says 'You don't know who I am? I'm a pornstar.'"

Yep, it's definitely hotter in this office. Suddenly I don't care about the cheesecake or my coat, my boss has a story filled with mistaken identities and embarrassing situations. He also has a lot of information on the latest Hustler shoot. I get the whole skinny.

"That is the coolest thing I've ever heard." I finally exclaim at the end.

"It's not cool. It was horrible. Can you imagine if you found out your husband spent the night with pornstars?"

I think about all the pictures of naked ladies from my husbands last deployment and the late night call he made to me after he had accidentally stumbled into an Australian Sex Club "Katy...you'll never believe what they did on stage!"...

I think I'd be okay with it.

In fact I think it'd be pretty cool. I would love to spend the evening talking to someone with an interesting job like that. Especially since they were so forthcoming with the particulars. I could come up with a hundred questions. I toyed with the idea of asking my boss some of them...but I think that might have gone over worse than the stripper shoes in my car.

But nonetheless I'd still like to know.

Are their fluffers for girls as well as guys?

Is kissing better than sex?

Do you ever actually feel truly sexy when you're having sex? On camera? Off camera?

When you're off camera do you feel the need to perform like a pornstar?

How do you keep your nipples erect if you're not turned on?

How many takes per scene do you do?

Do you ever yell out the wrong name?

What's the most fun part of being in a porn?

Does fore-play really matter?

Come to think of it does size?

Do you ever get sick doing it upside down?

and finally...

Why did you choose to sit next to my boss?

You know we're right

Seattle is gray and overcast, like always, and we're driving through another random neighborhood listening to the radio and searching for something out of my boyfriend's past.

The radio is playing Nirvana's "You Know You're Right" for the first time ever. The next day headlines will be about Courtney Love's anger at the song being released before she wanted it too. And how independent radio stations are filled with delinquent, criminal, losers. Of course they're right, but as the spot in between each consecutive playing of "You Know You're Right" says:

"Fuck you Courtney Love, we have the new Nirvana song!"

My boyfriend is giddy over the fact that they are playing the song ten times in a row. Then choosing the song for the "Top of the Day" and playing it ten times more. After Number 17 I'm getting a little sick of Kurt's whining. But my guy is busy railing against the machine that is ClearChannel and revelling in the big middle finger "the man" just got.

Weeks later, when we have finally tied the knot he buys the CD and plays the song over and over again. Since Seattle I've had my fill of both Nirvana and Salmon. I look over at him and wonder if we are matched as well as we think we are.

A little over three years later and Maryland is sunny and chilly. We're driving through fields and farms, looking at cows and searching for a winery out amongst dairy-land.

I have a Broadway Show soundtrack in my CD changer that I spent a good portion of the week prior wearing out. Driving to and from work, switching between two songs I really liked, replaying them over and over. Bothering no one but myself. My husband found the CD when he was taking my car for a spin.

Now as I count the number of horses and look out for bare grapevines my husband is playing one song over and over again, listening to it, then flipping it to the beginning before the next song changes.

It's the same song I was listening to the week before.

I may have had my fill of Nirvana's missing song and Broadway's leading man belting out hell-fire, but I'm not annoyed. I'm happy. I'm floating. My head feels a little disconnected, the same way I felt the first day I met him.

We really are a good match. We really do belong together. It's a nice feeling.

Somebody Else's Story

We're in the pole class again. The cute blonde in front of us is talking about the Level 1 class and showing off her fancy spins. I'm wearing stripper shoes and she's taller than me without them. Her clothes look adorable on her and her hair, after an hour lesson, looks perfect. When we stretch me and my girlfriend look like pretzels folding the wrong way on the pole. She looks like some exotic rainforest animal just hanging out for a nap. I'm a little surprised that I'm not harboring fantasies of kicking her mid-spin. Must be the calming effect of the disco ball.

We break and as I and another woman start laughing about vacuuming in our platform shoes the cute blonde bounces over to my girlfriend.

"Do you remember me?!" She chirps.

I watch the group for a while. My "girlfriend" is actually a lot older than me. Her oldest son is only two years younger than me. The cute blonde is more my age. I'm trying to place where they may have met. Apparently so is my girlfriend because her face is a puzzle for a few moments before her eyes light up in shock and she remember.

"Well of course I do!" she babbles, they hug, then my attention is pulled away again by my fellow shoe wearer. We talk about San Diego, the army base, the teacher and before I know it, it's time to get going. I've missed all of the cute blondes conversation with my girlfriend, but I'm not in the dark long.

"I can't believe I met her here."

"Who was that?" I ask as we roll up our mats and get our coats.

"That was my son's ex-girlfriend!"

I look around at the room filled with gold poles, red walls, and a fancy disco ball at the top and can't help but start laughing.

"The IM's are going to go crazy tonight!" She says as she starts giggling with me. "Guess where I saw so-and-so's mom last night!"

"He's gonna be mortified." I say, thinking aloud of the boy going to college and giving his mother no end of trouble as he does.

Sure enough the next morning my girlfriend gets an email and announces it to all of us in her area. It's from her son.

"Mom...you're not really taking a....that class. Are you?"

In a surprisingly sassy moment my very reserved, very sweet co-worker zaps back the email:

"Well you knew I was looking for a new job!"

------

I wonder if her kids will stop letting her play with me cause I'm a bad influence on their Mom.

Women's Lib

My girlfriend and I are taking "stripper" classes for fun. A little lapdance, a little crawling on the floor and few spins on the pole. Once again I find I am a natural at the ultra difficult moves on the pole. I can swing and hook and swivel in 6 inch heels with the best of them...yet still can't put a car into shift fast enough to go up a hill (rather than down and backwards).

Sitting with my hunny and eating chicken I'm thinking about how much fun it was to swing around that golden pole and snake all over the place.

"What would you think if I stripped for awhile after I lose my job?"

"Huh?"

Clearly my husband hasn't been sharing in my pole day-dream. Pity.

"Just for a little while. My friend in San Diego did it after she bought her boobs, to pay them off, and she said is was the most fun she's ever had." (Well it was a friend of a friend, but she did buy boobs, and she did strip to pay for them.)

"Have I ever told you no?" My husband says a tad more seriously than fits a conversation like this.

"You've never said no, you've just likened what I wanted to do to the act of someone really stupid."

"No I haven't." sigh Sometimes I wish I had tape recordings of all the conversations we've had so I could point out what he thought of my University of Phoenix idea, I believe the word asinine and incompetent were applied. Not to me, but to those who had the same idea as me. That is till he decided he wanted to try it too...then it was a good idea.

Men.

"Don't strip, bad stuff happens and I don't want you with that crowd."

"But the girls I know are pretty down to earth."

"I've never said no to anything, but this is as close as I'll get to saying no."

And he says I'm passive-aggressive.

"You don't really want to strip anyway right? You're just trolling."

I think about this. I really do like dancing and I loved performing, but then it lacks a certain something that real dance and drama had. It lacks a certain type of theatrics.

"Well I'd like burlesque."

"Yeah that was cool, you could do that. But not a strip club...besides the ones here are sleazy."

That's true, strip clubs on the east coast have a kind of boys in the back room/these are my cousins' panties kind of a vibe.

"So not stripping, but burlesque, if someone started a burlesque."

"Yeah, you could do that. You'd be good at it."

Later, after chicken, he's getting ready for a haircut or something as I play with the kitty. He looks at me worriedly.

"You're not really gonna strip are you?"

"No," I say while I rub the kitty's tummy, "I'm not going to strip."

However, I think, I do reserve the right to remove my clothes in public!

Delusions of Grandeur

"We are setting it all to you!" ,two of my co-workers cry gaily as they barge into my hallway of a cubicle.

"What do you need?" I ask, my standard response to everything including "Good Morning" and "How ya doing?" I just know they want something.

"We found a room at the conference!" My third tier boss almost crows at how adept he is in procuring rooms in hotels. I bite my tongue before I mention that one, hotels are made for renting rooms and two, we already had a room booked.

"It's free!" He crows again. I smile and look over at his accomplice. He's smirking - there's a catch.

"Well the room is free. But we have to pay for the furniture." Ah, that's why he's smirking.

"And how big is it? How many people?" My head is already calculating the price of chairs, tables, dry erase boards. I have a brief fantasy of giving my bosses a few deer skins and some poles and letting them set up tee-pees but it's rudely crushed with a different fantasy.

"It's ***** sq. ft. My idea," my boss says, "is that all we really need is a really tall chair at the back of the room. Then I could just sit on it and when our vendors came in they could kneel in a long line."

"You want to hold court? In a convention center?"

"Exactly. All we need is a chair, and a red carpet."

I'm going to Burger King later, I think, I'll be sure to get you a crown too.

Honestly...now he's a King? Give them a window office and they'll take a whole country.

Bad Calls

No one could call me a football fan. Last year was the first time I ever actually watched the Super Bowl with any interest. I lived in San Diego when the show blew through there...and I had no idea what was going on.

However, this year I watched. This year I paid quite a bit of attention.

I never knew the referees were supposed to be playing for a team.

Next year I don't think I'll watch. Baseball has drugs, Football has politics. The new American Past Time? Yugiyo Tournaments.

Don't pitch the...psycho

For a trailer it's very nice. Bouncy sales people with spiked hair run around offering people water and coffee. The couch is leather and the t.v. is currently projecting a picture of Nemo large enough to give me nightmares about guppies for the rest of my life.

C. is filling out the requisite form. As is the case with most of these business things my name has gone from Katy So-and-So to Mrs. So-and-So and we are collectively (though not inclusively) 30 yrs. old and male. That's the way I like it.

The forms are filled out. What level of fitness are you? Where do you live? What are you looking for? Apparently we're looking for a salesman because the bubbly little girl with our clipboard lost the first one. Finally we sit down with someone I think is named Robin. I cross my legs demurely, fold my coat over my lap and get comfy for the pitch.

"So, what are you here for C. and Kathy?" asks the questionably named Robin. We're both stumped.

Uh...aren't you supposed to tell us? I think. I ignore the fact that he got my name wrong...for now.

"We're looking for a gym." C. says. Maybe it's a guy thing. Maybe Robin is playing the snake in the grass, pretending to be guided before easily pushing us towards the plan that'll get him the best commission.

"So, have you been to our website?" Robin asks cheerfully.

"Yes." Mr. So-and-So answers for both of us.

"Okay, so what do you want to sign up for?"

Uh, I think again aren't you supposed to tell us that part too?

"Well, we had some confusion about the different plans." C. says - clearly cueing Robin in to give us the schpeel.

"Do either of you do yoga?" Apparently it's not a guy thing. Robin is thick as a post.

"I do." I pipe up.

"Do you have a 'I love yoga' bumper sticker?"

"No."

"Get the sports plan." Robin says.

That was it? That's your pitch?

"Let's sign you up then!" Robin says cheerfully, beginning to type in the name Kathy...whoever the hell she is.

"Well I'd like to know what we're getting." I say, I think rather diplomatically.

"If you saw the website you saw it all. Basically if you don't want one on one yoga then you don't need the Premium package. So, sign you guys up?"

"Okay." my husband says.

My head snaps around and I think Robin can hear my hair whizzing past him dismissively. I know why C. said yes, and I agree with it and am ready to sign up, but I am not ready to just hand this spiky-haired-name-messing-up bozo my credit card with a smile.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Robin says, giving my husband a smile that says 'Dude, tough wife you have there'. I'm pissed off. I'm not mad at my husband, I'm mad at Robin. You must be single I think to myself.

"No. This is fine. What do we get with this membership?" I say, folding my hands on the table and leaning forward.

"Uh, if you read the website...."

"What machines do you have? What classes can I take? Do I have to pay extra? How many machines do you have? What are the peak hours? When do you open? When do you close? How many teachers are there? How many bikes do you have? How big is the pool?" I look at him and he smirks. We back and forth, he answers derisively. It's ironic because I can tell he doesn't know the answers to any of it, but he's acting as if he's in with a big joke with my husband. Isn't it cute how she's pretending to play hardball. The way she pretends she can mix with the men. Isn't the little Kathy silly?

My name is Katy - Jackass!

Finally he calls in reinforcements. A lady comes over and gives me the entire class schedule, rattled off by heart.

"I should be careful what I ask her," Robin oozes "she gives too much information." He's laughing as she walks away.

"It was just what I wanted. I was asking for information." I say smoothly. If my pen was sharper I'd tear out his eye.

We sign up, we fill out the forms and take our receipt. It takes three more tries but Robin finally types in the name Katy for Kathy.

Before I walk out the door I ask the girls at the receptionist desk for a copy of their rules and regulations. Dress code, behavior, etc. Just so I know what to do when I come in for my first workout. No surprises. She rushes back to a manager to get it for me. As they walk up the paper, with all the information I asked for laid out in pretty, well worded efficiency I hear Robin's voice waft over to me.

"Who wants what? Oh I remember her...the psycho one."

Psycho indeed...wait till I see your sorry butt in kickboxing class "Robin".

Go somewhere else

Believe it or not I am actually a published author. So, no, I don't have a book out there or anything, but I do have a few stories that wound up here and there.

When I was sixteen I won a trip to the Maui Writers Conference. Which is - huge. Big. Really big. The conference at least. The trip was thirty minutes.

Anyway, I heard a lot of crap when I was there, a lot of people who were trying to be self-important. But there were a few people who really said something amazing. Something that smacked sense into even the stupidest wannabe writers. It was a rare thing at a conference filled with thousands of writers.

It's been non-existant in a world filled with people who think books are a low-tech version of blogs.

Except today one of those trendy ones came out with something profound. Maybe it's because it has hints of the things I heard at the Writer's Retreat. Maybe it's because it has more hints of that passion that drives the really good writers. But I really like this guys post. He nailed it.

More Book Thoughts

Doldrums

This Saturday I went from being a dark, sallow, tired looking brunette to a bright, glowing, still tired looking red head. With highlights...like blonde highlights.

It looks good.

However, it didn't exactly perk me up as much as I thought. I grew up hearing those little gems like "blondes have more fun" and "redheads have spark" not to mention "change your hair, change your life" (variations include "change your dress, change your life" "change your shoes, change your life" and more recently "change your lipstick, change your life"). But even though I was now a sparky-redhead with a change life, I felt depressed.

School is back on the back burner. Though it's beginning to simmer at least. Work is still drudgery, made more druge-like by the fact that friends are getting let go left and right and everyone is either scared or sad. And my house, has white walls. Lots and lots of white walls.

It's been a long winter.

I'm now longing to take my peppy, springtime hair-do into the sunshine. I wanna go jogging. Jogging in the warm sunlight, not the cold and scary darkness along a road where you know you're gonna get run over by the moron going 55mph in a residential area. (By the way, what is it with joggers who have to jog on the side of the road even though there is a wide and smooth sidewalk not two feet to the right of them? Unless you can run faster than my turbo charged silver audi...MOVE OVER!) I wanna go play! I wanna go do something fun. I want to go out and dance, or listen to music. Or go skating! Or biking! I want to do something. I'm tired of talking to my mother on the phone and saying "Well I go to work, then I come home, I read."

I want to have some purpose, some direction. I want, in short, something to completely concentrate on obsessively until people start thinking I'm a little scary for being so into it.

And beer just isn't going to cut it.

I got the hair thing down, now I just need to work on the life thing.

Why I Argue

It was Chinese New Year in second grade. We had all made our pretty red envelopes ready. Each of us had a piece of the creamy hard candy and now we were learning about the Chinese New Year Calendar and how some people are roosters and some people are dogs and some people are dragons.

"What year were you born in?" My teacher, a large Hawaiian woman who always wore truly horrible muu-muu's, asked my classmate Kyle.

"Uh...82?" Kyle squeaked out.

"Right, so according to this chart you were born in the year of the dog. The dog is known to be very honest and attentive. They listen more than talk and they make the best friends. Dog people are very hard-workers."

I listened to the whole thing about the dog, I read the paragraph, I thought it sounded a lot like me.

"Now, all of you need to research which sign you are. Look up the year you were born and then find out if you are a rooster or a dog or a rat. Then write a paragraph about the year you were born in."

There was a scramble and pile of kids in front of the big Chinese Sign with the Calendar and years printed on it. I hung back for a second, slowed by a need to not be crushed and a nagging thought in the back of my brain. The whole class was in second grade.

I looked over at one of my best friends who was also sitting and waiting. Mahealani was the same age I was.

Kyle was the same age Mahealani was.

If we were all in the second grade, and we were all the same age...

A couple kids bounced back to our table:

"I'm a dog too!"

"So am I. We're the same."

"Cool. Mazelle is a dog too."

None of the kids at my table save Mahealani were hard workers. I knew that for a fact. And Mazelle was definitely not a good friend. She lived down the street from me and was my first friend when we moved to Hawaii. She was now regarded as both dumb and the cruelest girl to ever live. She never listened and was really mean. She was definitely not like a dog person.

"What are you?" my table-mate asked.

I looked at the mess of kids still clambering at the sign. I finally figured out that nagging feeling that was in the back of my brain. "I'm a dog." I replied.

"No you're not, you don't even know, you didn't even go look."

"I'm a dog." I said again and then looked at the floor knowing I was about to get all the attention of the class very soon. I concentrated on getting my pencil out and my note book so I could write my paragraph.

"Mrs. Salazar!!!! {Katy} didn't go look at the board but she's writing her paper already!" The typical little traitor yelled.

"{Katy} what lunar year are you?" The monster in the muu-muu asked.

"I'm a dog." I repeated, fully aware that she was yelling across the room at me and now everyone was very interested.

"Did you look at the sign to find out?" She boomed?

"No, I'm the same as Kyle." I said matter-of-fact.

"Just because Kyle is a dog doesn't mean you are. You have to look on the sign."

"We're the same age. I was born in 1982 too." I hadn't argued with a teacher before. This was new and scary territory.

"{Katy} go up to the sign and look up your year."

The territory was too scary. I walked up to the sign, looked at the year 1982 and saw a picture of a dog. Everyone's eyes were following me and the laughs weren't even hidden.

"I'm a dog." I told her.

"Good. Now why don't you write about what it means to be a dog."

What it means to be a dog? After that day it meant arguing for your point, if only to get the idea out there. Even if it's wrong...at least there is discussion of information over censorship. At least there is another way to look at things. After that day being a dog meant chewing on the hand that fed you till you got the food.

Kung Hee Fat Choy!

Whatcha Reading?

Books in the pile on my bedside table right now:

Emma - Jane Austen
The Good Earth - Pearl S. Buck
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
Body Art: A History - Unknown
Rue Morgue Magazine
Shakespeare: A Biography - Peter Akroyd
Moliere - Collected Works - Moliere (duh)
The Chronicles of Narnia Completed Set - C.S. Lewis
Anthem - Ayn Rand
Jonathan Livingston Seagull - Richard Bach

Spooky

We have a large door that is made of glass. It looks out onto our deck and the huge lawn beyond. During the day when it's sunny and pretty you can sit in the den and watch deer splash around in the "crik" and eat our glass.

At night the doors are pitch black and mostly reflect what's inside the house. This is disconcerting, especially when I'm sitting on the floor watching something like "Masters of Horror" at midnight on a Friday. During these times I have to turn my back to the door and focus on the t.v. completely. Sometimes throwing a blanket over my head scarf style so I won't look at the large gapping holes of black opening out into the abyss. Maybe it's the scary movies, or the freaky music, or the fact I'm sitting downstairs, alone in an empty house while the "men" are upstairs and wouldn't care even if they could hear me scream but my mind goes wild over the glass doors.

I am always frightened that some night or other I will look at the slate of shiny black and suddenly see a disembodied head come out of the gloom. I'm sure this head won't actually be disembodied. In fact I'm sure it's very bodied, complete with a fully bodied, bloody knife ready to hack me into several tiny pieces.

Last night we weren't watching "Masters of Horror". People on the television weren't screaming and the nice warm fire accompanied by the nice warm husband allowed me to let me glass-door-guard down. Instead I was settling in to hear my husband tell about another plan to relive his boyhood. (A horror story in and of itself.)

"It'd be cool. I can get some black powder and a bunch of pipe..."

GASP!

Suddenly, something at the bottom of the glass door caught my attention. Rising up from the ground, outside in the cold, wintery, dark was something round. Something white. From far into the reaches beyond human sight it moved close to the glass. Features came into view, a nose, a mouth - both small. Surrounded by a dingy sort of white halo making a face. Inches away from a door that lead straight into my home. And finally, two large, glowing eyes. It peered into our house through the thin glass, fog came from it's breath. It heard me gasp...

My hand flew to my mouth. My heart jumped into my throat and pounded away. I sat straight as an arrow and trembled as it's red, firey eyes turned towards me. We met one another's gaze. I could feel my breath come back and warm the hand covering my lips, I could see the face turn just slightly to get a better look at me. It's features were placid, but the eyes showed a look of equal surprise to my own. Then...

"Kitty!!!"

My husband finally turned his head to look at the specter haunting our doorway. The white fluffy cat looked at us both in confusion as if it were surprised there were people in the big house. His hair was damp but fluffed up from the wind and the storm. It's ears were barely visible through all the fur and it's white face looked ghostly and pale surrounded by the dark night.

It looked between us a few more times, it's big glowing eyes growing larger and larger - then it took off into the yard.

So much for burly, tough axe murderers. They're all a bunch of pussy cats.

The Cars Who Lunch

I work in an area with lots of large office buildings. The economy being what is it (whatever that means) there are a lot of office buildings that are not filled and even more parking lots that remain empty.

Well mostly empty. From the periods of 8am to 12pm and again at 1pm and 5pm the parking lots look desolate and sad.

But when noon rolls around the parking lots look populated but no less sad. Noon is when the cubicle dwellers become the car dwellers, again, for an hour.

It's no different than the bench lunchers you find in more urban settings but we suburban/industrial-lites have taken the requisite twelve-inch-barrier minimum to the next level.

When we lunch we have to be at least one parking space and a few easy-listening stations away from eachother.

When I worked in New York you'd hit a deli or a street stand for your gastric monstrosities. (I particularly liked the grumpy italian sandwich man in SoHo because he loved pretty girls and hated pretty men. Which meant free italian cookies for me and sharp words for GQ grinding his crotch against my ass. The fact that grumpy italian sandwich guy was probably just jealous because he wanted to be the one grinding against the girls didn't escape me...but hey...free cookies!) After braving your mostly disgruntled lunchman you'd sit on a bench, either on a traffic island or in a park and stare straight ahead. Eat, wipe your mouth, throw your stuff away and go. And under no circumstances do you ever make eye contact. Sometimes you'd take a magazine, newspaper or book with you, to aide you in the anti-social thing.

It never did work for me. Even in other large cities. People always came up to me and talked. I supposed when you think of scary, potential serial-killer scenarios that arise from talking with complete stranger you don't picture me and my tuna fish sandwich on wheat.

But I bet you will from now on, won't you?

In anycase now that I work in a less walking-friendly area I take my precious lunch hours in my car. Along with 15 other people who share my particular favorite parking area. (A parking lot that is covered in a lot of trees and was built for a mostly-empty business park.) Today I spent my lunch hour cleaning out my car and managed to take a quick look around at all the people I was spending this hour with.

Three large trucks were parking in the lot. They each had two men in them and all looked severely ticked that they had to truck around the place in the rain. None of them were speaking to one another, but I think one was talking to his chicken sandwich.

Four little silver cars. All of them silver. My car is also silver. We could have been a school of fish. Two of them had their front drivers seats "missing" which means that the drivers had pushed them back in order to take a nice 60 minute nap before going back to their cubes. The other two were eating McDonalds and Taco Bell. The woman left her headlights on, both of them were getting steamy windows from the heat inside.

Then there was the ambulance that is always parked there. No one is ever in it. I like to think the EMT's are taking naps in the back too. At least they have comfy cots.

Lastly there is a black jeep that always pulls in around 12:45pm. He always has a girl with him, sometimes a few. The music is loud and the food always looks yummier in there.

That's 13-15 people I have lunch with every time I get out of the office. They're regulars. I recognize their cars and trucks. I could quote their license plates. But I am certain that if asked I could tell you what the drivers looked like.

The thing about the car lunchers is that we take that whole "no eye contact" thing to the extreme. We've created cubicles in our parking lots to mirror the ones in our offices. We all sit and look straight ahead at a windshield instead of a computer screen. We listen to the same crappy radio music that plays on our headphones in the office. We all just mindless eat whatever grey fast-food we found that day. And we never, ever need to acknowledge that outside those steel doors, someone else is there.

I have to admit, it feels safe. I like that I can get a cheeseburger and not worry that the other ladies at the office will comment on the fact I'm eating something with so much fat. The guy napping two cars down from me doesn't care if I eat something fattening. He would never say "I can't imagine how you keep your girlish figure with that food." He would never tell me about the latest article on Diabetes in the Washington Post. He doesn't bother me, I don't bother him.

And more importantly my car-cube allows me the chance to close a door. A real door. Heck I can lock it. No one can barge into my car the way they barge into my cubicle. No one can relax and rest their butt on my dashboard while they play with my air-freshner. Sure, my cellphone may ring, but I am not required to answer that one.

That's what the car lunch is, it's really true solitude in a box. I can imagine that those people who stretch out in their drivers seat can look up at the sky and actually, for one hour in the whole day, feel completely alone.

And somehow I think that this might not be such a bad thing.

This is my rubberband

There is this odd phenomena that once my life starts getting really interesting - I have no desire to write about it. Those moments when my life is plodding step after plodding step is much more conducive to observation and fiction that makes for good blogging. Or psuedo-fiction. Or dramatic non-fiction. Okay - histrionics.

The fact is that 2006 came rushing in far faster than anyone would have expected. By anyone I mean me. Especially considering that 2005 sat in neutral for a full 365 days. Here we are not even one month into it and suddenly I'm staring down huge life changes for not just me but the most important person in my life. This is good. Being able to actually move forward, discover things and change is good.

But I don't want to blog about it.

The fact is around this time of year is when you read other blogs start talking about "re-focusing" their "blog design" and how they're going to get back on the "topic". Quite frankly this blog never had a topic. It was just an excuse for me to sit and write because I like to sit and write. And more-over I have enough "re-focusing of structure" right now to do me for...well...the next six months.

So instead of the quirky "state of the blogs" and the "this is what I plan" stuff you find at the "better" blogs I'm doing the opposite.

I refuse to get focused or planned or structured with this blog. In fact, if I can manage it I'm gonna get even more messy and confusing and crazy. Remember when you were a teenager and had that journal that was literally stuffed with a bunch of scraps of paper and tidbits and pictures and those napkins from the cafeteria that you put doodles on during lunch and really wanted to keep? The one that was so packed and so full that the binding came apart and you had to hold the cover on with a rubber band?

Well that's what this blog is to me. Like my purse and my car - crap is going to come in - but it won't come out. (By the way, thank my husband for that analogy.)

Color Coordination

Among my other duties about my office I am also called to procure "office things" for new employees and associates who are either being moved in a bigger office or (less prestigious) into a smaller cubicle.

Usually it's not that big of a deal. Gather a few folders, paperclips, staples and other sundry then a couple of things to put them in. Most of the time my hunting techniques entail crawling through dirty, spidery crawlspaces and closets that have been attacked by the clutter monster. On "lucky" days I will get the chance to scavenge in the remnants of a cubicle whose inhabitant has recently left. During the last employee purge people would literally circle cubes like vultures circle an animal about to cross the road. If you're gonna get his by a Mack Truck eventually couldn't we just have a small taste now? As soon as the employee had taken their last piece of "personal decoration" the cube would be swarmed with people sinking their teeth into the nice, unsqueaky stapler and the keyboard that doesn't have a sticky "k".

And usually that's about the extent of the complaints when it comes to office supplies. Nothing works like new and no one gets anything that is new. The shiny new boxes from Office Max and Staples contain toys for the people coming to replace us, rather than the people doing the work now. So we squeak and stick a little longer, till I can find that golden Swingline that's been hiding in the pantry of the third floor kitchen.

Complaints about poorly working equipment I can understand. I will go out of my way to look for something that works a little better or doesn't smell so funny, but lately I've been working with someone who had a much more annoying request.

Everything has to be the same color.

This particular person is a little higher on the food chain than most so one would assume that my job would be a little easier. For him I can fill out a supply request form and actually buy him stuff. But stuff within reason, the stuff on our contract, the stuff that's cheap. For two months now I've been scouting out inboxes and staplers for him. I even went so far as to surrender (after being pointedly told asked) my own inboxes in his search for something black.

Today though I thought my searching would finally come to an end. After having brought him all he supplies he needed three times, and having been sent away in search of something "Similar, but different" three times each I finally had procured him a black stapler 4 inches rather than the normal 6, a black staple remover that was sufficiently sharpened, a black inbox that held legal paper rather than letter, a black paper clip holder that had a tinted box rather than clear, and a black tape dispenser that didn't say "Scotch". Finally after all that I had receive the last piece of the puzzle. I victoriously carried to his office a brand-spanking-new pair of scissors - fresh out of the Staples box, in their original packaging. Normally our scissors are small, dull, and have the name of some other company printed on them. I swear, it was like carrying the Olympic torch - same amount of stares, less flame.

"Katy, this handle is dark blue, is it possible for me to get a black handled scissors...or is that too much?"

Blink, Blink, Blink.

Typical

You scored as English. You should be an English major! Your passion lies in writing and expressing yourself creatively, and you hate it when you are inhibited from doing so. Pursue that interest of yours! Dance 100% English 100% Theater 92% Sociology 92% Engineering 83% Journalism 83% Linguistics 75% Philosophy 67% Psychology 67% Anthropology 67% Biology 67% Art 58% Chemistry 58% Mathematics 58% What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3) created with QuizFarm.com

Captain! It's an Iceberg!

There is blog called Opinionistas that is one of those trendy blogs. The New York Times has written about it, everyone reads it, if you read and of the other trendy blogs then you'll be directed to it at some point. It's a "hip" blog.

There is also another blog that only recently popped up and is not so widely read. It's called Opinionistas Sucks.

Yes, that's right. There is a blog that is purely for picking apart another blog. I think this smells like those websites people made to tout their own friends websites. "I'm like, so in love with Jennifer and her website. This all about Jennifer." and then Jennifer would have a website that was "All about how much I totally love Kyle 4EVA. Stay Sweet! And look at his website!"

Isn't the fact that there is a blog about another blog just the beginning of the end. And since the first blog mentioned the second hasn't the beast been unleashed? Won't blog1 post about blog2 who is posting about blog1 posting about blog2 which is posting about blog1 posting about...

The mirror-on-mirror action is just too much for me to take. Surely this new development signals the demise of the blogosphere. Doesn't this mean that the blog thing is on the way out. I mean honestly. A few people will get a book deal, some might even make a movie but by the time it's really ready the trend will be gone. The books will go straight to the bargin bin with the other garbage that publishers use to fill between the last Harry Potter and the next. The movie is straight to t.v. Probably Lifetime.

Not that I still won't hold on. It's like watching Titanic...you know the ship is going down...you know someone is gonna die...yet you just can't look away. Not till the last lip has turned purple and limbs start breaking off.

Yes, my bloggy heart will go on and on!

Panda's don't eat with chopsticks either

Me (to the chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter): Can I get a pair of chopsticks please?

Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: We don't have chopsticks.

Me (looking at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food logo): Seriously?

Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: No one knows how to use them in Maryland.

Touche

Me (now stuck with a plastic fork): I'm gonna need another fortune cookie...

Double Entendre

I often wonder at what point do you move from "young person who's head lives in the gutter" to "old person who misses blantantly obvious sexual references". Is this phenomena like the "Beautiful 24 year old"? Do you suddenly turn 40, or 50 and fail to see the phallic nature of a hotdog anymore? Is it indicative of a low sex life? Or a ultra high one?

And when will I get to the point where I can tell my boss about the meeting being held tomorrow (with a bunch of middle-aged men in suits) that is titled:

Disputes - "Double-Dipping"


without breaking up into a bunch of giggles?

The day I had Oysters Rockerfeller at Bloomingdales

I never read "A Million Little Pieces". I did think of buying it for a friend for a brief moment, but I opted to get her a good smelling candle instead. That's about where I rate the "Oprah Winfrey Suggestions". They're no better or worse than good smelling candles. A light snack, the kind of book you pick up in the store to feel it's heft and read the back cover before heading to real tomes of prose and poetry. It's a warm up to stuff you should actually read.

That being said I find myself trudging through the feeling of apathy as I drive to and from work listening to people express outrage to the DJ's over the supposed betrayal by one Mr. Frey.

Honestly if the book was as good as people say then it wouldn't matter if Mr. Frey turned out to be a girl who grew up in Sweden. In fact, if the book was any good, in my opinion, no one would remember whats-his-face's name.

That's how it is with me.

Last night we had dinner at Nordstrom's cafe. Of all the places in Nordstrom the one that still has that charm and unique elegance of Macy's or Bloomingdales in the 1940's is their cafeteria. Sure they have a piano player on the floor, but he sits in front of the women's fitness area and his other-wordliness is destroyed by the glaring orange spandex. Likewise, the lowcut, too-tight pants on the clerks never reminds me of those shop women with the nice french twists and gentle handling of fabric.

But stepping into their cafeteria doesn't take me just back in time, it takes me into my favorite short story.

I don't remember the name of it, I don't know who wrote it. I'm certain I read it in a text book, but I can't remember what grade I was in or which class it was for. I can't remember what the real underlying theme of it was, or what the name of the main character was. I don't even remember the basic exposition of the piece. But I remember the way it made me feel. I can remember the story like I remember a memory of my very own. I know what it felt like, I know what it smelled like. I can close my eyes and feel the electric buzz the character felt.

And I don't even know if the story is real or if I dreamt it. It's memory hits me like a ton of bricks everytime I step into this particular establishment, and it may not even exist.

Like anything that is so vague - it is the perfect story.

It's about a woman who doesn't have much money. She goes out for a day to get something cheap. Along the way, somehow, she comes in possession of five dollars. I have no idea how. I like to think she found it. I like to think that as all these people who were rich and busy and used to the excitement and charm of the city passed by without looking, she looked. I like to think of her alone on the sidewalk, glancing all around and just so happening to see a muddy, footprinted five dollar bill on the ground. I like the poetry in that. I have no idea if it's actually part of the story.

She has five dollars and she spends it on herself. With those five surprise dollars she goes to a department store. Or maybe she was already at the store? I can't tell, I don't know, the important part is that she goes to a cafeteria - the kind I walked into last night. Bustling, yet with a reserved kind of noise. Comfy, warm semi-private booths. Tables with inlay, or tables with cloths. Glowing dark lamps, enough to make you feel happy and sleepy. I pick my food in a line. Pasta and a coke, made fancy and special by a slice of lemon bobbing with the ice. I sit a little straighter when I'm in my booth, watching all the ladies with blue hair and expensive casual clothes. I can't help my cross my ankles daintly...the way you're supposed to, but never do. I hide my hands under the table, only using one to carefully pick through the pasta. Sitting alone, waiting for my husband to get back, I feel just like the woman from my story. Sitting alone at this table I remember what it was like to be her.

She sat alone, wearing wool and cotton that smelled of grimy city and fresh air - not perfume. She sat straighter, hide her hands, fixed the way her hat sat on her head. For five dollars she ordered soup, potatoes, pie with ice cream. Most of all she had oysters rockerfeller. I've never had oysters rockerfeller. I don't think she had either. But she savored every bite. Every sip and taste. Soft, warm, over-cooked, delicious food. One day, one lucky day, when she sat down in a place that she would never sit in and had oysters rockerfeller - and maybe - just maybe a slice of lemon in her water.

I don't know if the story is real, if some woman one day actually found five dollars and treated herself to lunch. I don't know if the story was written by a man or a woman. I'm not sure if the story was actually about the lunch, or about find the money. I'm not entirely sure it was five dollars. All I know is I remember sitting in a department store cafeteria in 1905 and having oysters and pie with ice cream. I was there, I know I was. And I can remember the way the seat felt under my wool skirt and the way my shoes dug into my ankles after walking. I can remember the people I saw and the voices I heard and the face of the man who brought me my plate.

Did an author write the story? Did he want me to feel like I had been there when he did? Did he care whether I knew it was his mother, or his sister, or a woman he made up?

Does it matter?

No. The fact that I can't remember anything but what happened to the characters is what makes this my favorite story. It's the perfect story because it wasn't a story.

It was an experience.

Taking it too far

When you work in an office where everyone is about to get fired, nerves can get a little strained.

When you work in an office where all those people have just been subject to 20 minutes of "personal time" with an HR rep...you overhear things that are not normally acceptable in mixed company.

But I never expected this overheard coming from my bosses office this afternoon:

"If you stab a pencil into your...no listen, if you stab a pencil in your thigh you...."

"IF YOU STAB A PENCIL INTO THE SKIN OF YOUR THIGH!!!!!!!"

Twenty-four

The other day I heard a review of Jaguar's T.V. commercial on NPR. (National Public Radio). Now I'm not sure why the person was reviewing a commercial, or if his job is actually to pick some form of advertising and hate on it every week, but nevertheless there it was: 7 minutes of hating on a Jaguar commercial.

This post, typically, has nothing to do with the commercial or the review.

What it does have to do with is this particular reviewers obsession with other people's obsessions with 24 year old women.

For the entire 7 minutes of Jaguar-picking this reviewer mentioned the existence of 24 year old women in the commercial maybe 20 times. He made even more references to the fact that in real life there are also 24 year old women. (In case we forgot that people live as long as 24 years and some of those people are female.)

Apparently all 24 year old women are beautiful and desirable - as a commodity - and as art.

What I can't figure out is where 24 came from. I'm sure in the commercial it's a bunch of leggy, beautiful women, all young and firm and supple with pert breasts and glowing tans. But when looking at a woman of this description why is it automatically thought that she is 24? Why can't she be 26? Or 21? Or, more probably given the model market, 16? Why is the magic number 24?

And it never changed. The woman wasn't labelled as "possibly 24" or later "around 25" she was always the beautiful, desirable 24 year old...which a man who buys a Jaguar will never get. Ever. 24 was the number, the age for all things gorgeous, all things consumable. 24 is the age to be in order to be gifted with expensive jewels and fancy cars. 24 is the age where a woman can attract a man with a simple look of the eye. 24 is sex. 24 is beauty. 24 is power.

Listening to all the merits of being a 24 year old made my 23 year old self feel woefully unprepared.


My birthday is in less that six months. In less than six months I will cross that line between gawky, self-conscious, ungraceful 23 to the primed, sexy, and confident 24. Apparently 24 is the year when I can use all these "womanly" charms that, heretofore, haven't done me a lick of good (besides mess up my equilibrium) to bait and hook my sugar daddy. In little less than half a year I will be able to get into any door, receive any gift and sleep with any tall, dark and handsome Cabana boy I want - or don't want. This is coming up! 24 is almost here...I'm almost to the point where all these hips and boobs and hormones pay off. I'm almost about to be enveloped in the leathery arms of my pretty new Jaguar...

So why don't I feel any different? Is this 24 thing gradual? Does it just happen all at once on the stroke of midnight? Poof! I'm no longer a pumpkin? Do I have to gear up for it? Should I be wearing anything special or do the fancy dresses and the matching purse come along with the new poise and je nais se quoi?

More importantly do I need to wash my hair?

What really frightens me about this whole ugly duckling thing about to take place is that it's not actually a spontaneous thing. Instead of being like year 20 to year 21 where at the stroke of midnight you were allowed to walk into bars and clubs previously barred and really belong there; year 23 to year 24 is more like April 15th.

It's a deadline. More than that...it's an exam. And one that I wasn't prepared for...shoot...I don't even have a Number 2 pencil anymore!

I must have missed a memo. I missed that day in class. I didn't know I was supposed to be so perfect so soon. I thought the milestones were finally behind me. 13, 16, 18, 21...I finished them all. I could sneak up on July 11 without any pressure. Slip quietly from 21 to 22. Coast my way through my 20's and save all my anxiety for when I turned 30 and realized I'm old, childless and my boobs sag.

I'm ready for the sagging boobs.

I'm not ready for the perky ones. Why wasn't I told that I had to do this whole "Wow she's gorgeous" thing? How am I supposed to show people I'm 24 now and not 23? Am I gonna have to walk down the stairs in a ball gown and gloves while I smile just right to make everyone gasp? Am I gonna have to go down the stairs in heels? Am I going to have to do it without falling?

If so I'm gonna need a little training. Six months is not enough time to prepare myself. I walk into things! I fall down! Sometimes I even line my eyes crooked! How am I supposed to turn 24 if my eyeliner is crooked? Will anyone notice?

Is this some dirty little secret that older women don't tell? Like when they say childbirth is the most beautiful experience in life. Yeah - like I believe that one. Is this a conspiracy to see if us youngins' are really ready for womanhood? Oh sure we have the periods, the cramps, the fluctuating emotions. We got all that now...but are we ready to have all of it in slinky gold dresses and razor thing three inch heels?

I'M NOT!!! And frankly I resent being told that I have to be.

I dunno where Mr. NPR reviewer guy got the idea that 24 is the ideal age...but consider this my official request for an extension. I refuse to be perfect until at least age 25.

And that's final!

Snip, Snip, Snip

When I was 16 my mother finally allowed me to cut my hair...for the first time in my entire life. (Except that one time I set my hair on fire and they had to cut the singed part off.)

I went wild. From hair that tickled my thighs to hair that bounced above my shoulders. It was great, except I couldn't tie it up properly, and it didn't curl right anymore, and braids were impossible...

I decided I'd grow it out again to which a friend of mine shook her head and replied: "Once a cutter, always a cutter."

It's a saying that should have stuck with me. It was a warning I should have heeded.

However, despite the fact that I had been warned years ago to be wary of cutters I was off my guard.

Twelve days before Christmas our company was called to an "All Hands" meeting. As I was setting up chair after chair after chair and untangling the extended polycom (worse that Christmas lights honestly) I amused myself with the idea that everyone would in fact send their hands to the meeting. I had a picture of thousands of Things running around the conference room...grabbing coffee and hopping from the Cafeteria to the room. I imagined them shaking fingers with one another...because shaking hands would be like groping, and that's inappropriate for a meeting...all hands or not.

Suffice it to say, I was pretty giddy and giggly when we all crammed into the room, surrounding the polycom like you'd surround a warm fire and listening to the chestnut song as we waited for the big-wigs (who are ironically mostly hairless...especially the women) to say whatever they wanted to say.

What they said took me back to the year before. As a temp I was called into a department that was working on relocating. While they moved the work to a headquarters across the country, I and a few hangers on bullied away at databases and codes till Thanksgiving. The week of Thanksgiving in fact. When my boss pulled me in said she adored me and that I shouldn't bother coming back in on Monday after the holidays.

Cut.

Oh...and Happy Thanksgiving.

Now I was sitting in a room not but a floor away from the one from last year getting an rare look at the elusive "VP of Human Resources" who never emerges from her protective cave of an office telling us that once again the department is being moved somewhere else.

"Remember," she said all too cheerfully, "you're not being laid off...your being relocated...to another company..."

Cut.

The cheerful warm from a room full of people about to start holiday vacations on cruise ships, the happy go-lucky attitude from people who have just finished their Christmas shopping quickly fell away. Everyone shifted in their seats. Everyone sucked their breath in. Everyone glared.

Didn't they just tell us a few weeks ago that The Washington Post was wrong...the reorg is just a reorg...not a lay-off. Didn't they just say that we were looking good, that we shouldn't worry about the new announcements. Didn't they just tell me that they wanted me to stay for a long, long time this time? Didn't they beg me to come back and promise that I had a "home" here at **********?

No, it's the Holidays and we are once again staring in the face of unemployment, uncertainty, and a HR VP who is really one of the meanest, snarkiest, stuck-up bitches I've ever known, and that was what I thought before she fired us. Yep, once a cutter...always a cutter.

While dumbfounded silence fell over the room a voice crackled through over the whitenoise of the polycom. A deep voice of a man clearly entrenched in our more southern divisions broke through and summed it all up:

"I think I just got my ass fired."

I love that man if only for the brief moment of glee I had while I watched the HR VP rush over to the polycom and panic at all the little buttons.

"How do we silence this?" she asked the air around her.

We'd tell you, I thought, but you just fired the admins.

The years to come

Sitting at a bar enjoying one too many cosmopolitans complete with sugared rims and fried banana egg rolls covered in caramel sauce (I'm sorry, what weight loss resolution was that...?) a couple with a few decades on us siddles in.

He gives up the chair for her and she orders his drink without blinking (Manhattan on the sweet side).

"Do I like that chinese beer?" she asks.

"Which?" the bartender asks back.

"That one...with the K."

"Oh, Kirin Ichiban?" (The fact this is a Japanese beer, not a Chinese beer doesn't come up, but we notice.)

"Should I get that?" the lady asks her partner.

"Whatever you want kid." He answers, snuggling in close behind her chair.

I look over at my own snuggler, currently chomping on a ridiculously large piece of cake and a glass of Guiness.

"When I'm fifty will you still call me kid?"

"Mmmm...yep."

And as I look at him I know that no matter how old we are, he will call me kid. And kitty. And hon. He'll still tease me. He'll still sit by and let me get silly drunk, crazy drunk, stupid drunk on girly drinks that are pink and come surrounded by sugar...and he'll always take me home. And just like last night, when we crawled into the car and he turned the key, he'll check to make sure my seat is warm.

And I don't think that I could think up any wish or resolution that would beat the fact that I get to spend the rest of my life with him.

I just wish I could be as much to him as he is to me.