The shoes ate my soul

Nearly every day, I come home from selling shoes to usually polite, but always oblivious people, look at my computer, and go to bed. All of the fatigue from my feet travels to my fingers and I simply can't be assed to blog or even to check my e-mail. Essentially, the shoe trade has destroyed any sort of online presence I may have had.

I really do have some great stories from my nearly one month at NDS, like customers that go from zero to crazy half a second after you tell them that a particular coupon doesn't work for a clearance shoe or the people who make me stay after the store closes because they need shoes just that badly. And good stories too, don't get me wrong. But I'm tired and I don't feel like writing them.

So, essentially, all this post can claim to be is an apology and a bad explanation for my absence. Sorry.

Some news:

• I'm thinking of joining an on-line writer's group so that I can get the sort of constructive criticism that can hone my crap into reasonably good work. Can anyone recommend a group or does anyone want to join with me? Just let me know.

• Went to Scranton today and found out that The Office's spin-off will be about the politics of the town-- and my uncle's cousin owns the deli that some scenes might be filmed in (the cousin has script approval-- he doesn't want to offend anybody). In real life, many of the local Republican committee meetings happen at the back table of the deli, so the show won't be far off. And, wouldn't you know, I just ate at that table today. So, when you tune in and see a deli called Catalano, you just remember that I enjoyed a turkey hoagie with pepper and olive oil there. I have pictures to prove it.

That's it really.

K.

I feel like a teenager again

You know, I'm 22 years old and should be over some of the emo bullshit that I sometimes get into-- including writing posts about said bullshit. But sometimes living at home with three other adults while looking for a career that's supposed to launch you into real life gets so stressful that I snap at small things.

I should be down in the basement with my parents, eating a family meal and watching The Heartbreak Kid (not my choice), but instead I'm sitting on the porch, eating cereal and watching Weeds. Not exactly a heartwarming alternative. I had a minor tiff with my father that got blown out of proportion and the tension got a little much for me. It's better that I don't mess up a meal for the two of them with my pride and bad mood.

What really got me wasn't the argument with my dad-- it was my mom's immediate reaction to it. I wasn't looking for her sympathy, just sitting on the couch with a scowl, and she just bursts out that she doesn't know what's going and on and she isn't getting involved. It just struck me as so attention-seeking; she made an announcement of not participating in the argument when she could have kept to that concept better if she had just not said anything at all.

I've been noticing this more and more with my mom, and I hate thinking about it. I know that she's proud of her business (and she should be-- she built it from the ground up), but hearing about how she sold a scarf that day once every hour makes me want to just cry. It's selfish of me to think that, but that's just how I'm feeling.

Maybe it's the fact that she's doing so well while I'm working in retail and not getting single response to the resumes I send out (not including the India job, which hasn't gotten back in contact with me, by the way). Or perhaps that attention-seeking is really there and I'm getting angry at myself for perceiving a fault in a parent that has often been my greatest supporter.

I'm also wondering whether I should tell her how I feel. It could end up with hurt feelings all around, so that wouldn't be good. On the upside, it would keep me from going postal on her after hearing about her business one too many times. I just don't want to break her spirit. She's paid her dues and deserves to be happy in what she does.

I'll talk to her. The worst that could happen is that I make her cry, then I cry, then I go sleep in the car. I hope that doesn't happen.

Let's all pray that I can stay away from dumb posts like this in the future.

K.

Ed. Talked to Dad instead. Feel a little better.

Red, white, and the blues

I surprised myself the other day by asking my dad if we could have a "real" 4th of July this year.

I'm not sure what I meant by that.

What I'm confused about is that the comment came out sounding like an impatient American child with immigrant parents. Could we save the hummus/chopsticks/beans and rice for another day? Can't we act like an American family just this once?

I suppose that I have been a stranger to July 4ths in a conventional sense. Up until last year, I spent most Independence Days at Jew Camp-- a dreamy bastion of foreignness in the middle of Confederate Flag-waving Maryland. Not that Jew Camp didn't celebrate the holiday. Far from it. That particular days was swarming with campers wearing redwhiteandblue, patriotic sing-alongs after a barbeque lunch (kosher, of course), and the invariable Americana kids show in the evenings. But beneath of all this star spangled fervor ran a faint sense of desperation, the sweaty scent of someone trying too hard. The lengths we went to celebrate the 4th the "correct" way made the celebration awkward in itself.*

After I left Jew Camp, I spent the next 4th in summer school in an effort to graduate college on time (you see how that worked out). Aside from a mountain of American-themed cupcakes in the dining hall, it was like the national holiday didn't exist.

All of this brings me up to this year and that squeezing feeling in my chest that I wasn't doing this "American" thing right. No fireworks, no party, and no thought of a barbeque until I practically begged my father to grill some hot dogs for me. Circumstances didn't help, either. My parents are self-employed, so even though it was a Friday, there was no sense of a long weekend. The sky remained stubbornly overcast and weather steamy, punctuated by occasional rain. My father insisted I make Israeli salad for our barbeque, which ruined the American theme I had been going for, and then promptly forgot to grill the hot dogs I had asked for.

It's stupid and ridiculous for me to complain about this. There are people in this country who legitimately have a right to feel left out of America and carry the air of "foreigner" around with them, no matter how hard they try to assimilate. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, unaccented me-- I can do pretty much anything in this country without being hassled or questioned. I have no right to feel like the 4th passed me by without me feeling that surge of warmth and belonging. Do I?

K.

*There was this one time (before I spent 4ths there as a camper) that things got a little weird. The director at the time, a gentile, was a Confederate Civil War re-enactor along with her husband. For some reason, they decided that July 4th would be a great time to have a "Confederate Day." A lot of weird things happened at Jew Camp, but that was one that only happened once.

Not So Revolutionary Thoughts on "John Adams"

I just finished watching the first episode of the new HBO ministry "John Adams"* and found myself pleasantly surprised. I'm not sure what I was expecting-- I grew up on the 1956 movie "Williamsburg: Story of a Patriot" from my multiple trips to the Colonial Williamsburg visitors center. It was from this film that I learned that men should not be trusted to choose ladies hats unattended, George Washington could crack a walnut between his thumb and forefinger, and the meaning of the word "pusillanimous" from that most brilliant orator, Patrick Henry**. My second Revolutionary film staple was "1776," in which I learned that Philadelphia was mighty warm that summer ("It's ninety degrees/Have mercy, John, please/'Cause it's hot as hell in Philadelphia!"), that John Adams was "obnoxious and disliked" ("Did you know that?" "I hadn't heard."), and that Mrs. Jefferson found ol' Tom's violin mighty sexy. Pretty unimportant stuff, over all.

Frankly, I'm ashamed to admit that when I picture John Adams, it's as William Daniels (aka Mr. Feeny from "Boy Meets World"). In reality, John Adams looked more like this. And between Paul Giamati and Daniels, I think Giamati has the look down a little better. Instead of the trim, nattily dressed little man from "1776," we see Adams as pudgy and with a receding hairline beneath his wig. Giamati plays him as a dispassionate man searching for justice, whether it be for his own New Englanders or representatives of the Crown. A man who refuses to choose a side until he feels that basic human dignities have been wronged. A man, in short, that we could sorely use in today's world.

The show doesn't present the Revolution we learned in elementary school. Instead of the murder of innocent Bostonians, the Boston Massacre is portrayed as instigated by a violent mob and the soldiers as scared boys who are far from home. Later, a customs officer is stripped naked, then tarred and feathered. I found this scene particularly horrific. I'm not sure what I expected-- how could I not realize that to be tarred means to having molten liquid poured on the bare skin and hardening to a shell? It seems to obvious to be now. I remember being back in elementary school learning about the practice and thinking how silly that sounded, like a bit of fun. Who wouldn't laugh at a guy covered in feathers being carried out on a log like some absurd parade float? But the agonized arch the man's body made as his skin sizzled beneath the tar has banished those airy thoughts altogether. I trust I will not be abused for admitting that I cried a little.

I think this show has something to say about our times-- that not everything is black and white. This may be the most obvious of observations, but it bears mentioning. We hear about events in far away places and it is easy to place sides in tidy boxes of right and wrong. Indeed, passion makes it even simpler to smudge the line between truth and fiction to fit a certain viewpoint. Perhaps we should be a bit more like John Adams and take the time to scrutinized both sides, witness both the beautiful and terrifying nature of each issue before making a choice. Some choices seem instinctual, but is there really a difference between instinct and primitive urges? Isn't rational thought the thing that makes us most human?

This is quite disjointed, but this blog was never meant to present precise arguments or coherent thoughts. I save those for graded assignments.

I look forward to the next episode when Adams ventures to Philadelphia. And I swear to G-d, if there is singing, someone is going to die.

K.

* This is not a review; I suck at that game.

* *The phrase "Are we so meek and pusillanimous?" became my favorite line for a period of about three years during my elementary school career. It made me very popular on the playground.

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.

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

My Travel Horror Story: Some Serious Schadenfreude

(The bloggers over at Sass Attack, And the Pursuit of Happiness, and The Hotfessional, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to sponsor a contest dealing with travel horror stories. Great, a chance to relive my nightmares.

Naw, it's awesome. Thanks guys!)

After five months studying abroad, I have racked up an unsettling amount of character-building travel stories. Whether it’s sinking calf-deep in a peat bog on the isle of Skye or spending eight hours dozing straight up in a hard seat in a Bucharest airport, my misadventures have not only given some talking points that none of my friends can match, but the confidence to know that nothing can break the girl that survived months of Scottish food. However, there is one experience that stands out, scenes of which still haunt my dreams. This is my story.

Spring was beginning to spread over Europe, its fingers just creeping into the University of Stirling, my home away from home. But I wasn’t there. No, I was roving the Continent. After a few days of reveling in the sunshine and giggling shyly at the strangely attractive young priest of Rome, my friends and I were wrapping up a rather lackluster visit to Berlin. Germany, while not possessing the manically happy national personality of Italy, had treated us well. Still, Scotland was calling us back—my two friends had finals to complete and I had lodgings to find before I was kicked out of my flat.

Our flight was leaving that evening from Frankfurt, which was a relatively short train ride from Berlin and a mere hop-skip-and-jump for three world travelers. Our confidence was such that we leisurely enjoyed our breakfast at our hostel, packed up, and wandered over to the local internet café to check on train times. J, who organized the trip, hopped on one of the computers and began tapping away as N and I lounged over our bags.

“Oh, [expletive]!” J breathed.

And that’s when we knew the [expletive] hit the fan.

It turns out that there are two Frankfurt airports in Germany—the close one and one that was seven driving hours away from Berlin. Guess which one our flight left from.

By now, it was eleven o’clock in the morning. The flight left at seven-thirty in the evening. We were, quite possibly, screwed.

We held a quick conference, J in tears over her airport mix-up. After assuring her that it was a mistake that any ignorant American could have made, we researched planes, trains, and automobiles. Finally, we figured that the surest way to reach the Frankfurt-Hahn airport was by renting a car and racing across the country. Germany had the autobahn, right? We were sure to fly.

Oh, the naiveté of youth.

We quickly reserved possibly the only automatic car in Berlin and ran about two miles into the city to claim it. After waiting for a painful half an hour for the rental office to process our order, we began our journey across a foreign country, our entire fate resting on a questionable paper map.

Though I spent most of the drive asleep (bladder issues force me either to sleep or stop every half an hour), I woke up every few hours to observe our progress. We had indeed made it to the autobahn and it was beautiful. I don’t think I had ever pictured Germany like this: rolling green hills and wee villages stapled to the countryside by a steepled church. Gray clouds brought a delicate mist and fat droplets of rain to blanket the highway. It was all beautiful in its own way—but it was less beautiful for J, the only one of us who brought her driver’s license on this trip. Every so often, I would open my eyes in response an anguished cry as J reached the upper limits of her willingness to speed down the highway, perturbed German motorists sullenly sitting on her tail. Her cries would subside to a whimper and, harmonizing with the dulcet sounds of the Phil Collins songs that seemed to be eternally on the radio, I would slumber on.

My friends decided that I might like a picture
of me sleeping. What you aren't seeing is the drool.

When we pulled into a gas station/diner a few hours later, we admitted to ourselves that we would never be able to make our flight. Discussing it over subpar pasta, we decided that we would continue our drive, then spend the night in the airport. Most airlines are required to put you on the next flight if you miss your scheduled take-off. Surely it would work the same here.

We arrived at Frankfurt-Hahn around 11 PM and returned the rental car, now affectionately referred to as “Otto.” A quick check at the airline desk proved that the entire airport was beginning to shut down for the night.

N and me, loaded down with luggage, standing in front of Otto
in the Frankfurt-Hahn Airport.

And it wasn’t a pretty picture.

For those of you who have never had the privilege of spending any time in this airport, please, let me give you a brief description. Picture, if you will, possibly the hardest, coldest floor known to man. Also, please brace yourself for the most exorbitant prices for food and entertainment (I bought a coloring book for $8 dollars) you can imagine. Finally, imagine a nice draft blasting around floor level as you try to get some sleep. Put it all together, it creates one hellish night.

About 4:30 AM, I was shaken awake from my doze by J, tears streaming down her face. The airline (let’s call it Flyin’ Air) desk had just opened and J, planner that she is, decided that she was going to get a head start on organizing our flight home. The first slap in the face was the ticket lady, the only rude German we met on our trip. At J’s inquiry, the Ticket Bitch (TB from now on—it’s only right that I nickname her after a disgusting disease) snapped that Flyin’ Air does not replace tickets on missed flights. Not only that, a ticket to Glasgow was €200, about €193 more than we had previously paid and way above our budget. Finally, TB proceeded to metaphorically kick J in the ovaries by inferring that the three of us were complete asshats for missing our flight. J slunk away, broken, bleeding, and humiliated.

It took me a few minutes to understand what was going on, but once I understood, I immediately became enraged. Who the hell did TB think she was anyway? N, J, and I all stomped over to the ticket booth, ready to unleash the full fury of three girls who had just driven cross country and had slept on the cold ground.

Lucky for her (and maybe for me), another ticket lady had joined TB and that is who I confronted. This woman was totally unlike her compatriot. With a quiet and pitying smile, she confirmed that we did in fact have to pay €200 for a ticket, but also broke it to us that there were only two tickets for the only Glasgow flight that day. Stunned and quiet, we shuffled away to regroup.

A few calls to neighboring airports proved fruitless. Any other flight would cost a hardy €600 and an interminable bus ride. Finally, with much internal wailing, I offered to potentially stay behind, hoping and praying that a ticket would become available before the flight left. After all, my friends had a final the next day; I didn't.

So let’s step back and look at what we had gone through in less than 24 hours:

• A leisurely breakfast in sweet, sweet innocence of what was to come
• An overwhelming panic when that innocence was shattered
• The renting of a car and a harrowing ride on the autobahn
• Getting fleeced out of $8 for a damn coloring book
• A less than peaceful night’s doze on a drafty floor
• Being reamed by TB
• The reemergence of that old familiar panic courtesy of the nice ticket lady
• Surrendering to possibly another hellish night in the Airport That Civilization Forgot
  
  

A pretty bleak day. For the next 15 hours, I sweated it out, quietly crying in the women’s bathroom. These were the most painful 15 hours of my life, but I was ultimately given a ticket for €240, which I snapped up immediately. I finally made it home, stomping past my confused flatmates and collapse, unconscious, for a full 24 hours.

What did I learn from this? Well, I don’t think I came away with a true lesson. I did realize a few things about myself, however. I realized that I would shell out any amount of money for childish entertainment if pushed hard enough. I realized that I would sacrifice myself to another night of agony for friends. I realized that sometimes I just need a good cry, but am too embarrassed to do so in front of a bunch of German tourists.

Good for me.

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.)

??????? in '08!

It seems that the only thing that NPR can talk about these days is the New Hampshire primary results, which results in a bad headache for me. All this does is rub in that my vote in Pennsylvania primaries might actually matter this time around and that I have to re-register.

Because PA can't have open primaries, oh no. No, they make us choose a party, guaranteeing another few years of propaganda and door-to-door visits from local candidates with that particular frozen perma-smile. I'm still getting slick campaign ads from the time I turned Republican for a primary, even though I was trying to make sure a candidate that I don't mind was going to get the nomination over a royal douchebag. The Santorum mail was unbelievable.

But it's not just that I have to pick a party-- I have to pick a candidate. My uterus is telling me to vote for Clinton, my heart for Obama, and my brain for McCain. It's unfortunate that to have my body parts take sides, especially since my crush John Edwards is trying to elbow in on Obama territory. Obama/Edwards-- what a delicious ticket that would be.

Sometimes it's hard to be more moderately inclined. Here I am, the pro-choice, anti-war, pro-gay marriage feminist liberal, awkwardly trying to balance my hawkish pro-Israel stance, plus the uneasy feeling about pulling out of Iraq too soon and leaving a vacuum of power. When I travel, I easily express my disappointment in the current government, but fly into a quiet and private rage when a non-American puts down my country too vigorously. All I want to do is to fit in somewhere-- and the proposed visions of American coming from the candidates don't seem to come complete with a Kate-shaped hole.

As much as I'm tired of hearing about the New Hampshire primaries, I am gratified to hear that McCain won the on the Republican side; his victory knocks Huckabee from the top-runner slot. If the GOP nominates Huckabee, then I will be forced to vote for whoever the Democrats put up, even if it's someone who I'm not particularly comfortable with. A salted slug for president would be better than an uber-religious politician.

The primaries would be so much easier if someone put out a version of the Star Wars Guide to the Candidates, which would be language I can understand. Oh, wait. Somebody has. The Ron Paul entry is particularly apt.

K.

PS. Well, at least The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are back. Sort of.

Doom on Earth

Again, not a lot of time. But I'm sitting here watching the TV while typing my paper and Fearless Planet comes on. Here's a bit of my interpretation of the beginning narration.

"The Earth is breeding the most massive thing ever created. It is a master of reincarnation. Built out of destruction. A world of danger, violence, and fear. It is...

...

...

... The Great Barrier Reeeeeeeeeeef!!!!"

Remind me never to visit the Great Barrier Reef-- it sounds like it might bite off my foot and revel the resulting gore, uttering a great, reef-like roar of primal fury.

I wonder what a reef roar sounds like.

K.

Fruit Fly Fever

I came back to my apartment and immediately became the proud owner of a flock of fruit flies. I'm not sure how they got here and I'm not sure why they stay, but this is a pet-free apartment complex, so they must go.

I've set up fruit fly traps all over, using a tempting mix of honey and strawberry jam. While I'll be sad to kill them (they're kind of cute, in a irritating sort of way), they are making a habit of landing on my nose and shoulders. A few are even settling on my ear as I write this, offering some "helpful" suggestions in grammar and wording.

So, I must get back to real life and rid myself of these busybodies. I'll be back.

K.

Ring, Ring

I need a vacation and I need it now.

I don't know how it happens, but everything seems to pile up-- which is mostly my fault, I know.

As much as it galls me to phone it in, that's what I have to do today. There is too much of a chance of me writing a post that isn't entirely thought out (see yesterday for a prime example). Stress and anxiety doesn't make for good reading anyway.

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.

A Broom-Burning Feminist

I am a feminist.

No, I'm not ashamed to say it. Feminism, at its core, is the concept that men and women are equal beings. Neither one is smarter than the other, but there are some physical differences. I accept that-- but I don't accept that men are better than women because they are stronger. Perhaps, at one time, there were jobs that only they could accomplish through brute strength, but the technological advances of the last few decades have made it easier for women to participate in traditionally males jobs. And I think that's wonderful.

It bothers me that feminism has such a bad rep these days, that I have to punctuate my declaration of feminism to explain that I am not a bra-burner or a man-hater. To be honest, it is both sexes's faults for this negative casting. There are men out there who, uncomfortable with being challenged, throw aspersions at feminism and cause it to seem unnatural. Equally, there are women who lack a sense of humor and can't seem to smile at themselves-- they cast feminism in a bad light as well.

And would you believe that the above paragraphs were just an explanation for what I am now going to say? Isn't that sad?

Anyway, I've been watching television lately and have begun to notice just how many cleaning commercials there are that solely feature women. Women vacuuming, women scrubbing, women cleaning toilets-- all while smiling cheerfully at the camera. Where are the men? Why isn't there a man with his arm half-way in a toilet, a man unloading the dishwasher, a man scrubbing the soap scum from the bathtub? Just one measly man, that's all I ask!

Don't get me wrong, there are some commercials that seem a little more enlightened. One broom/vac commercial shows a whole party of people rocking out while cleaning up messes, which is awesome. There is even a carpet scrubber that shows an entire family cleaning spots off the rug.

When I have a house of my own, I will do housework as long as I live alone and can't afford a once-every-two-weeks cleaner. If I get married, honey, you know I am not going to be scouring pots and pans. If there are things to be cleaned, we are both cleaning it. I hate housework. I hate the way my knees ache when I clean the tub. I hate that I am all itchy from the bleach. I. hate. washing. dishes.

And if I'm made to do housework for the rest of my breathing days, someone is going to die. Die slowly and painfully.

Because why should I do it just because I'm a XX? I'd rather be slaving away at a desk than don the rubber gloves and dally in the fumes of cleaning solution.

And that's what I have to say about that.

K.

Sky High

In reality, I probably should be in bed, healing before I have to work at the Eagles game later today, but such is my determination to do this NaBloPoMo thing right that I am dizzily sitting up typing this post.

Because my brain cells are currently firing at a very low level, I decided that I needed to find a prompt. So, here it is:

If I Had a Super Power-- from 55 More Blog Posts I Hope You Write

Okay, so mine is a pretty common one: I'd like to fly.

I think one of the reasons that I took up swimming when I was a kid was because it was the closest thing I thought I would ever get to actually soaring through the air. When you sink to about a foot off the bottom of the pool and just glide, it's easy to pretend that you're looking down at the ground. The lane markers become remarkably straight rivers, the tiles city grid maps. You can hang on to this fantasy for as long as you hold your breath. Then you need to surrender to your burning lungs and burst through the surface. The freezing air on your skin and the shouts of a public pool remind you that you aren't flying after all.

Sometimes I dream of flying. It's fun for a while, but then I suffer from what I call the Hitchhiker's Guide Syndrome-- namely, if you think about it too much, you start to plummet. I glide for a while, but then I begin wondering exactly how I am moving. Do I have some sort of jet propulsion in the soles of my feet? Am I being pushed by air currents? If I move my arms breaststroke-style, can I go faster? All the while I am steadily losing altitude.

It bothers me sometimes. Why can't I just enjoy flight and give up on the science of the whole thing?

Maybe next time I have this dream, I will concentrate on how fluffy the clouds look from this angle or count the number of bald heads I see from above. Anything to keep flying.

K.

Oh, For the Love of G-D!

Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with my body this week. Wednesday night was spent heaving over a toilet bowl; last night I managed to sleep for about half an hour sideways on my twin bed, feet dangling off one end and head hanging in a trashcan off the other. I got to see the sun rise, a privilege I would have immediately given up for just three more hours of sleep.

There used to be a time when my sick days were often spent like those Victorian ladies with the vapors-- in bed with toast and plenty of parental sympathy. As I get older, I get sick in far more disgusting ways. To top it off, I'm alone.

While it's no fun revisiting your dinner, it's even less fun to do it when there is no one to stroke your back and keep your hair from a horrible fate. It just makes you feel worse.

Luckily for me, I do have a chance to go home this weekend, but I'm a little scared to do it in my condition. The last time I was on a train while ill, an entire carriage-load of Glasgow-bound commuters thought that I was an irresponsible drunk with a hangover. I sacrificed my favorite sweatshirt to hide the evidence. So it's fair to say that I'm slightly worried.

So now, to sleep-- hopefully. We'll see if my poor body can handle the train ride later.

K.

PS. Oh, that picture that I put up is disgusting, but strangely apt.

Kate is a Liar (again!)

Right, so I mentioned that I had joined NaNoWriMo the other day. The more I think about it, the more I believe that there is no way I can possibly get this done this year. I have papers out the wahzoo and I have Thanksgiving vacation on Chincoteague Island, VA. Whether I'll have internet at that point, I don't know, but I know that I won't have time to write 2,000 words a day during my vacation. I mean, I'll try it, but I honestly don't think that it will happen.

So I've decided I'll at least keep myself writing in a second way with NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. Why this month should be different from all other months, I don't know, but I think that having two different types of impetus to keep writing.

Or maybe I'm just a serial website joiner. Hey, could be.

K.

Just Say No to Braveheart

Lost Worlds - The History Channel - History.com

Instead of watching my usual brain-rotting shows, I flipped to the always awesome History Channel. A flash of the familiar Stirling Castle, the sound of melodic Scottish accents, and I'm suddenly sitting flush to the TV, happily identifying landmarks of the city I lived in for five months. It would be harder to find a happier person at that point.

Until I saw the title of the episode...

"The Scotland of Braveheart"

"Oooooh, no," I breathed, pressing the heels of my hands to my mouth. "No, History Channel, no!"

But yes. Braveheart. Referring to William Wallace. Dear G-d.

For anyone that has ever spent time in Scotland, you know that only peddlers of tourist trinkets relate the Mel Gibson William Wallace to the true William Wallace. You'll find shot glasses with a be-kilted and be-woaded Wallace, which only those who came to Scotland after seeing "Braveheart" buy. As any tour guide or historian will tell you, Wallace was actually a lowland Scot (represent, woot!)-- an aristocrat, in fact-- who probably never wore a kilt a day in his life.

And he was not called Braveheart.

In fact, it's said that the term arose in reference to Robert the Bruce. It was Bruce's dream to go on crusade, but he never got the chance. Instead, after his death, his heart was cut out of his body and taken on the next trip south to the Holy Lady. It is said that during one pitched battle, the man carrying Bruce's heart threw it into the midst of the fight, inspiring the men to victory. It was then that Robert the Bruce was referred to as "Braveheart."

Not Wallace. Bruce.

So it's really getting on my nerves that this show constantly refers to Wallace by that erroneous name. Not only that, they showed the wooden sculpture that sits in front of the Wallace Memorial. The artist gave Wallace the face of Mel Gibson and the kilt and mace that appeared in the movie. Stirling residents were not pleased and someone even went so far as to knock off the statue's nose. The statue now sits behind a ten-foot high fence. "Frrrrreedom" indeed.

All of this rage is not to say that I have a lack of respect for Wallace. I actually am rather impressed by his fighting prowess and height (judging by his sword, people believe that he must have been about 6 foot something, huge for that time period... Gibson is a wee person compared to him). However, I am realistic. I know that he was no highland hero, I know that he wasn't that much of a strategist (Andrew Murray, anyone?), and I certainly know that "Braveheart" is merely entertainment and nothing more.

But seriously, History Channel? Stop calling him Braveheart. I mean it.

K.

Accidentally X-posted to The Write Links.

Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.