A quick note

So I'm sitting here, watching the fourth season of Weeds, and I can't get over Albert Brooks. Every time he opens his mouth, I hear the f-bomb coming out of a tiny animated clownfish. A tiny animated clownfish who is just looking for his son. Sigh.

Eye <3 U

It's strange when the highlight of my day is visiting my eye doctor-- something I only get around to once a year. I guess you would understand if you knew my doctor. My mother calls him an aging hippie, but I think he looks more like a benign Mel Gibson, more likely forget what he's doing during an eye exam than call some lady "Sugartits." He also never wears socks. Ever.


For most of my life, he called me "Kaitlyn," which is decidedly not my name. It didn't matter that my preferred moniker was on my chart; I was Kaitlyn for a good 18 years. Then, out of nowhere, my name became "Kathryn," which is technically correct, but a name I never go by publicly. I still don't know what changed his mind.


But what really sets him apart is how good he makes you feel about your eyes.


"Wow, beautiful. Your eye pressure is absolutely perfect."


"That's a nice thick rim of tissue around your ocular nerve."


"Your anterior chamber is deep and calm." (I've never figure this one out, but I picture a velvet blue with a humpback whale singing mournfully behind my pupils. Please, let that be what's actually back there.)


What do you say to these things? "Why, thank you! I've been working very hard to build up such thick tissue. It's wonderful when one's work is noticed."


I come out of that office with a smile every time.


K.

Losing it

I've been having the strangest sense of time just slipping by.

For example, I know that it's Wednesday evening. Not only that, but I know it's July 2, which is pretty incredible for a person who never remembers dates. But there have been periods during the day when I can't remember which month it is or what day it is or even how my life fits into the current season. The whole thing is scary and disorienting.

I realize that this comes from not having a routine that marks out the days in a week, like school or work, and that as soon as I start my part-time job things will get better. But it worries me that I feel the slightest bit insane during these periods. Not shooting up a Wal-Mart insane, just drooling on the street corner insane.

Anyone else have this issue?

K.

What do you do with a BA in English?

Find a part-time job until you actually get hired in some interesting career, obviously.

On my first day of my first ever time seriously looking into retail as employment, I stumbled into a position and got hired. In the shoe department.

I don't know anything about shoes, but I'll be getting medical insurance and a 20% discount while I figure it out.

K.

PS. I have to change the wording of my banner-- I'm barely a college student anymore. No degree until August, true, but what's a month or two?

I love the BBC...

...because they make the best period costume dramas. And they always have some random British actor that I know from somewhere, but can't place. I was watching North & South today and had that same deja vu feeling with Richard Armitage, which is odd because I usually have a keen memory for good-looking men. Anyway, here's a link to the video. Watch it-- it's romantic.

That's really all I had to say. Not really much of a post, is it?

K.

Scattered Thoughts: Stressful Times

-- Going to China on Monday. And holy crap, I am not ready.

-- "Graduation" today. Okay, so I don't technically graduate until August, but I do walk across that stage today, wearing tons of bling.

-- I'm worried about my grades. I didn't do so well this semester. :(

-- Stepped on my glasses yesterday. Feeling pretty shitty about that.

-- One bright stop-- that interview in New York went really well. I hesitate to mention what the exact company is for legal and jinx-ing reasons, but it's terribly exciting.

Boo-urns. Have a great few weeks, everybody!

K.

A List of Today's Observations

I can't wait until March 4, 2056.

All I want to do is write 3/4/56. Of course, if I'm in some other part of the world, I'll have to wait until April.

My professor smells like old books.

It's only today that I've identified the smell. I want to follow her around all day and just sniff her hair.

There are three police cruisers sitting outside of my house, lights flashing.

It looks like an Israeli security check point out there, all for a little fender bender.

Kind of a lame post, but it's March and I need to make some damn lists.

K.

Top Ten Things That Could Be Causing My Illness

10. A mix-up in medications (which is probably the correct diagnosis)

9. An overdose of toast and English muffins.

8. Too much emo over a lack of interesting television.

7. The stress of thinking of new lists to post for the month of March (notice how late this one is?)

6. An acute lack of parakeet playtime

5. Sitting in front of the microwave for a full hour while my matzah ball soup thawed (radiation!)

4. Blood clot from worrying whether I got published

3. Poisoning from the make-up I used to become an awesome Bowie-esque glam rocker on Friday

2. The price of fresh fruit these days

1. Inhalation of Febreze fumes

K.

How Many Times Do You Get to Post on Leap Day?

Once every four years, I suppose.

K.

Well, That Was Different

While I should be doing other things, I thought I would stop by and share some of the interesting happenings of the week. Normally, I try not to be so absent, but it was unavoidable. So here's a short catch up.

• You already heard about my A. Nothing makes your day like an A. They need to bottle it and sell it as an anti-depressant.

• I had an interview with an initiate yesterday that turned into a two-hour religious discussion. The kid was a Born Again and, by definition, they like to talk about their experiences in religion. I, by definition, like to listen. So I leaned my chin on my knuckles and looked pensive for a good long time. It's not that I wasn't paying attention-- it's just that I had heard it all before. I then shared my philosophy-- that I wasn't arrogant enough to say that there is no G-d (though I kept that I wasn't arrogant enough to say that there definitely was, either. Some things you just keep to yourself) and that, frankly, I have no idea about anything. And I'm happy with that. The initiate then asked me a startling question:

"But aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Of what happens after you die."

That pulled me up short. I guess I had never been asked that. I know that I've never
been asked that. So I was honest. I told him that no, I was not afraid. What I didn't tell him was that he just said a lot about himself in that single question. He had just told me that, while he had been expounding the joys of G-d and Christ, he believed because he was afraid. And that made me sad.

For the record, I used to be afraid when I was younger. But I now figure that everyone I love will be wherever I am, be that Hell, blackness, or something I can't comprehend. Nobody in my life that I absolutely couldn't live without believe the same thing as this initiate, so it seems to me that whatever happens couldn't be that bad.

• In Tai Chi class, my instructor brought up "filling the well," which immediately brought to mind Chelsea Talks Smack's wonderful post about her playdate with herself. Some things are just meant to be, I suppose. Of course, my friend ruined the moment by saying that having our own playdate equaled the phrase "playing with ourselves." Real cute.

• Finally, my father was dropping a van-load of Israelis off at the Philly airport tonight and decided to drop in on me at our campus Starbucks. I knew that he was coming, but I was looking in the totally wrong direction, which meant I made that awkward squealing noise when he surprised me. Being the awesome dad that he is, he bought everyone I was with overpriced coffee drinks. I love him.

Yeah, that was my week.

K.

Well, Bugger

A sight truly indicative of the day I am having:

Me, sitting alone in the student union, reading a Holocaust textbook and eating a piece of pizza.

Dear G-d, when will it end?

K.

Feeling the Blues on a Snow Day

After watching The Blue Brothers with my neighbor today, I've decided that if I ever go for my doctorate I would write my dissertation about said movie and our society's ability to ignore the extraordinary things that happen everyday. There are seventy billion explosions and wild car chases in that occur in that movie and nobody comments on them. After I mentioned it to my neighbor, she agreed that it would make a bitchin' dissertation. Now I just have to find a program that would accept it.

And now, one of my favorite clips from one of my favorite "bands":



Dance, blues man, dance!

K.

PS. Yay, snow days!

Running Without the Benefit

Last night, I had a dream where my family and I were staying on some island that was suddenly taken over by Nazis. I know that I spent most of my dream screaming at my family, trying to get them to escape, though they insisted on staying the rest of the night and fleeing in the morning. I believe that we did actually get out alive, which is nice, I guess.

My reason for posting this dream isn't really the dream itself, but the aftermath. I often have these strange, almost violent dreams where I'm running or screaming or getting out of breath in some way. When I wake up, the covers are on the floor and I'm usually missing a pillow or two. And very, very tired.

I sometimes wonder if I've been running in my sleep, much like a hyperactive dog does while he dreams. My father has told me that once, during a vacation, I sat up in bed and screeched, "No! Stop! STOP!" (I still remember that dream, incidentally. It involved George W. Bush shooting at a bunch of us executioner-style. I even recall shouting. I don't think that this dream has any symbolic meaning-- Bush was probably on the TV right before I went to sleep. It could just have easily have been Anderson Cooper taking aim at me, which would have been much sexier.) So it seems to me that if I could have used enough muscles to sit up and scream, then I very possibly be running while horizontal.

I find this really irritating. I dislike the idea of waking up more tired than when I went to sleep. It seems like a waste of time and, frankly, counterproductive. And how exactly can I tell my professors that I've been vigorously exercising in my dreams, therefore, I can't pay attention to the implications of propaganda on our society? Nobody's going to buy it.

If you have any ideas short of drugging me to help me get a restful night's sleep, please let me know. I would hate to have a dream about running the marathon, only to find myself unable to get out bed for days because my body has run 26 miles through the bed sheets.

K.

PS. Posts until 200: 5

To Podcast or Not to Podcast

When I should have been doing work, I was browsing the 'net in my favorite place on my futon and my favorite mode of dress-- no pants (and by no pants, I mean no trousers). The laptop warms my legs, you wanna make something of it?

Anyway, I came across MyPodcast.com, a hosting service for, well, podcasts. As it happens whenever I discover new things, I got exceptionally excited. My mouse was just hovering over "Create Account" button when I thought, "What the hell would I say?"

And what would I say? Here is the transcript of one possible podcast:

"Hey there! It's Kate again. And... uhm... how are you, I guess? I know you can't answer me personally, but ah I guess if you just say it out loud, it's like talking to me. I guess. Um, so... uh, it's rainy outside. Or at least it was this morning. But I slept through it, I think. I walked outside and the ground was wet and the sun was out, but there rain in the air, you know how that is? Uhm, ooooookaaaaaay. What else? Whatelesewhatelsewhatelse..."

Yep, that would be me.

See, the thing is that typing out a blog post gives me time to think. There may be some run-on sentences or random pauses, but those are mostly intentional. I don't a podcast for me would be a very good idea.

Anyone else thought about it?

K.

PS. Countdown to 200 posts: 10

Boys, Boys, Boys

When I watch television at night, I watch the Discovery Channel.

When I watch television in the morning, I watch the Maury Show.

I suppose this channel dichotomy is because I just have more synapses firing when the sun goes down. It's when I write all my best papers, my favorite blog posts (this is being written at 11AM, so it's not looking good for this one), and most creative ideas. I'm lucky to put two words together in the morning.

So I watch something mindless-- hence, the Maury Show.

Anyone who is familiar with this show knows that it's most famous segments are DNA testing and "Who's the Daddy" controversies. Frankly, I find those rather boring. My favorite episodes involve out of control teen girls and their sexcapades. It makes me feel better when I look around my messy apartment and my swindling bank account to know that I really don't have it that bad.

But something has always interested me about these segments. There are never out of control teen boys. Now, certainly there are guys sleeping around, doing drugs, and beating people up. So where are they?

I suppose that it's the traditional player vs. slut mindset that keeps the girls in the harsh spotlight and the boys still on the streets. And that's sad, really. Sure, the baby-daddy episodes casts some light into the shadows, but it isn't proactive. There's already a baby and a teenage girl's childhood is over. The man may have to pay child support, but there's nothing to stop him running around, spreading the goods around.

In reality, these out of control boys participate in the same behaviors as the girls-- promiscuous sex, gangs, and general violence towards family and others. They will end up suffering the same consequences-- STDs, jail, and death. So why don't we have guys on the show?

Curiouser and curiouser.

K.

Just a "Tweet" Transvestite

As some of you know, I am the proud owner of a parakeet. Tookie holds a firm place in my heart, if only because of his incredibly skilled attempts at taking apart his cage. If he had been born a human, he would have easily achieved a Master's in Engineering.

Having said that, I ask you to take a look at the picture above. After a good long study, read over the paragraph below. Notice the discrepancies?

Anyone with the least amount of parakeet experience can tell that I've been using the wrong pronoun here. Judging by Tookie's cere (the bit of flesh right above the beak), "he" is actually a "she."

However, I just can't change the pronoun so quickly. Tookie has been a "he" for about six months now and just because he decided to change "his" cere color now doesn't mean I can suddenly get comfortable with a lady bird.

Mom, in some part to humor me, has termed the bird a transvestite.

And that I can live with.

K.

PS. The Simpsons had a wonderful episode about the idiocy of the primaries. Geez, if Ralph was really in the race, he would totally have my vote. (Keep an eye out for a Jon Stewart cameo. Sigh.)

It's Science!

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

K.

Chevy Dreams

(Oh, wonderful, wonderful internet!)

I don't know why I was thinking about this last night, but I spent time before I went to sleep thinking about a kid I knew in elementary school. My grade school experience was unique-- I spent third through fifth grade with the same teacher and the same kids. We were "gifted," apparently. Anyway, I spent three years with this kid, but never really knew much about him other than he really liked Chevrolet.

I mean, really liked Chevrolet.

I've never seen someone so obsessed over a brand of car. His binder would be slathered with Chevy pickups and Chevy muscle cars with a sprinkling of the Chevy logo for a bit of spice. Ford, of course, was the archenemy.

There was only one way to get on this guy's nerves-- present him with a print ad for any Ford motor product and step back to watch the fireworks. Spittle would fly, dotting the brilliantly colored ad and spraying all with a fine mist. His eyes would burn with the feverish desperation of a man fighting for his life. In a strangled voice, he would begin enumerating the numerous faults of Ford and all products associated with the brand. Chevrolet would emerge as the messiah of motorized vehicles, deliverer of the American auto industry. Then he would turn back to his math book as the rest of us slunk away.

I wonder where that kid is now and I wonder how he's handling the current auto market. How can someone so dedicated to a failing American market survive the influx of reliable foreign cars? These days, if I had a choice between a Chevy and a Toyota, it would be Toyota all the way. I don't want to get into the economics of automobiles, but every time I see a commercial for Kias or Subarus or Hondas, I think about my former classmate.

I hope he owns a Chevy, waxes it daily, and kisses it goodnight. That would make me smile.

K.

See, Now I'm All Confused

Hey, to the anonymous person who posted on the Drunk post. It would be helpful if you let me know exactly which photo is yours. Because the one on that post came from another blog... one without copyright info at the bottom of the page.

In the future, before you go leveling accusations, please at least take the time to put the URL of your site in the comment so that I can actually do something about it. I respect that you spent 12 years and thousands of dollars on your site, but there is absolutely no way I can do anything about if you don't give me a bit of a clue.

And it's not my intention to start on internet war with you, so I am perfectly willing to fix a mistake out of internet-ignorance. Lend respect to me so I can lend respect to you.

kthankbye

K.

Dry Season

I hate this time of year. I've always been very sensitive to the change of moisture in the air-- or at least my throat and lips are. The back of my throat feels like I've been chugging a sandpaper cocktail and it kept me away most of the night. I swallowed several spoonfuls of honey and two cups of milk, but no luck. It was about 3 am until I was able to get to sleep.

Lips... the lips I can handle most of the time. During the day, I swear by Chapstick Moisture (or, as I call it, "the blue one"). At night I slather on the Vaseline maybe three or four times.

Boo on fall/winter.

K.