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.

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.