Should I use my power for good or evil?

I was getting off the subway yesterday cursing the little 14-year-old twerp in front of me with his pastel polo's popped collar. Did your date-rapey older brother at Yale teach you that at family weekend? Did you pick that nasty little habit up at the yacht club? Does your cold anorexic mother force you to do that?

And then, mid menal tirade, a miracle on 77th street happened...he FLIPPED HIS COLLAR BACK DOWN!

We have three choices here: 1.) He parted ways with his friends and realized what a young douche he looked like. 2.) It popped up accidentally. 3.) I did it with mind control. Obviously, that's a trick question. Of course I did it with my mind.

The Kateie Awards: Saddest hippo edition

Most embarrassing moment (musical category):
When the first notes of “Under Pressure” came on and for a second I got excited it was Rob Van Winkle’s “Ice Ice Baby.” Second place contender: “I’ll Be Watching You” came on at Starbucks, and I was all jazzed thinking “Man, I haven’t heard this P. Diddy song if forever!” (Pouring some iced coffee out for you, Biggie.)

Most infuriating Barista:
The one at 86th and Lex who refuses to only put just a little ice in my coffee. It’s like she’s an evangelical Wal-Mart pharmacist morally opposed to selling Plan B.

Most excitingly confusing email subject line:
“Re: Birthday medicine.” Clearly, this is an awesome invention, one that is long overdue. Does it make me forget my birthday? Remember other people’s birthdays? Make Sept. 8th generally more awesome? (Like it could possibly get better!) I don't care what it is! I'll take it! Luckily “Krystian Jacobs ” has sent me answers. Sidenote: I can’t be the only person who falls for all these spams, can I? I know in my heart that I know no one named Krystian, but I still open it to double check. Every time.

Saddest hippo:
The one on the side of the Pink Hippo Party knockoff van. It looks like it had Down syndrome.

Most likely my future husband:
The Match guy who sent me an e-mail headlined “I used to live in Queens!” When I wrote back saying “While I’m excited for you about you formerly living in Queens, I’m not sure why you told me.” And he admitted the headline was leftover from him writing to someone else. Ah love.

Mer-maid in heaven, you mean!

A year has hardly been enough time to get over my trauma from last year’s Coney Island Mermaid Parade. Hell, it’s barely been long enough to get the boardwalk smell out of my hair. And yet-like someone who forgets what it feels like to have food poisoning and reaches for the room-temperature clam dip yet again–I’m thinking about going back.

What’s not to love about people who willingly get dressed up like mermaids and take pictures with strangers? Well, a lot actually. It’s like a less bearded Renaissance fair. Or in some cases, more bearded. This is Coney Island after all. Disfunction and daddy issues abound.

The FAQ part of their Web site tipped the balance in favor of going back. So sassy! Makes me want to paint my body aqua, speak some Russian and eat a chilli dog.

To wit:

I'm going to stand in the street in front of the reviewing stand and take pictures because I'm very important and I don't care what anyone says. I might also satnd in the middle of the route and take pictures and hold up the Parade. What do you think about that?

It's a free country and you can do what you want. But if you obstruct the Parade or the view from the reviewing stand, we will bodily remove you. We're running a parade and don't have time to think about your portfolio, your video project or how expensive your camera is. Many of our security guards are poorly paid neighborhood guys who have no problem shoving someone face down onto the pavement when they don't listen. if you're nose, or camera, are broken in the process don't come crying to us when you were standing someplace that you shouldn't have.

Not dead, just not part of the workforce

So there have been some, ah, adjustments in my life lately. Adjustments like "not having a job." That sort of thing. I was considered a temp, even though I'd been there for a year, so the company kicks you out for a few months (exactly how long, nobody can tell me. It involves an algorithm to figure out.) So after a year without vacation, I'm getting a few months off paid for by Uncle Sam.

There are worse things in this world. But I'm a worker bee. I wasn't put on Earth to loaf about and have three-martini lunches in my Juicy velour sweats. I realized within my first day of being away from work that having no job is one of those things that sounds so much better in theory. So far, I've been to the Met, the MoMA, the freakin' U.N. and all up and down this crazy island. Then I got this sexy barking cough, so that's taking up most of my day today.

So far, my goals for my time off are:

Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Walk the 13-mile length of Manhattan.
Learn to skateboard.
Go to the mysterious land I keep hearing about called "Staten Island."
Finish second screenplay.

To that end, I'm writing this at Starbucks to use their wi-fi, and this older man (I'd later learn he was from Puerto Rico and named Joseph) just cornered me and talked my ear off for about 20 minutes. He was teaching English to this woman, and when their session was up, he apparently just couldn't stop imparting wisdom, so he started teaching me English. I learned all about the value of flashcards, mnemonic devices and was instructed to go to Amazon "right now!" and buy a book called "1,000 English words you need to know."

Sounds pretty awesome, since I'll finally be able to understand this code my friends and family have been speaking in all these years.

All suggestions are welcome about how I can occupy my time between Regis & Kelly, and Oprah.

Kate can't math

The last time I voluntarily did math was 1987 when I was trying to calculate how many more teeth I’d have to lose before I could afford that sweet My Little Pony I had my eye on. (Answer: At a quarter a tooth, I’d have to start knocking teeth out of my sister’s mouth. But she could look at Butterscotch all she wanted while I braided her mane!)

The last time I did math under duress was an unfortunate run-in with an 8 a.m. math class my freshman year of college. I think I was thinking it'd be better to get it out of the way early? Who knows. College was a crazy time!

In short, I don’t think the restaurant is being patronizing when they offer tip amounts in various percentages. I will pretty much accept any number that Chase says is in my account. I’d still count on my fingers if it were socially acceptable.

So it almost pains me that I never came up with any of these math test answers. I mean, seriously. It's like they say that when you go blind your hearing gets better. I think when you're math-tarded this happens:

Well, we know she can do night surveillance

I'm feeling like the New York Post's site might be over promising things here...

It's not such a bad day with Ziggy!

Know how when you’re a temp and you come into work on a Friday and you think you have one more week of work, but then your boss says today is your last day, and then you’re all like “wha…?” and you tell everyone that it’s your last day and your friends go and get you a cupcake, but then your boss checks with HR again and it turns out that next Friday is your last day after all, and you’re like “Do I still eat my cupcake?”

I’m having one of those days. If you can find the Ziggy (or in a pinch Cathy) that addresses my particular issue, I’d be most appreciative.