Happy quarter year!

It’s the end of March, which I thought would be the perfect time to update everyone on my new year’s resolutions. Those who were with me to ring in the new year heard my bold proclamation: I wouldn’t be setting just one resolution. Ho no. Any joker off the street can swear they’ll start taking their Centrum Silver every day. I was going for the decathlon of resoluteness. (Editor’s note: Kate, decathlon is 10. It says so right in the name. Read a book or something.) Dodecagon of resoluteness! (Editor’s note: Closer)

At one point I had them all written out, but then I realized that if I accomplished something every month, I could just say that was my resolution.

Nevertheless, here’s my original list, with updates:

JANUARY

Goal: To get a manicure.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I’d never had a manicure before, not even for prom. What can I say? I’m pure of heart and steady of hand enough to paint my own nails. Also, I’m not a lady of leisure, and the whole thing struck me as sort of imperial, sitting there while some (let’s face it) Korean woman tended to me.

Off to the salon! Hibernating Bear and I went after work one day where I paid $10 for a half hour of hand massaging, filing, undercoating, polishing, top-coating and shoulder massage while under the hand dryer. Also, she buttoned my coat for me when we left.

The nice Korean manicurist also told us she’d failed her driver’s test three times. Look kids, it’s a stereotype come to life! Take my picture with her.

Verdict: I am impatient because I kept trying to hop up because I thought I was done. Also I am clumsy because I managed to get wet nail polish in my friend’s hair.

FEBRUARY

Goal: To finish my I’m-a-giant-New-York-cliché screenplay.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: Originally started in 2002, and lost when it was 70% complete, the screenplay made a triumphant return, bigger and badder than ever. It was erased during a tragic memory-update attempt by an ex boyfriend, but I knew it was in good hands when the monitor went black and he told me, “Pack it in your suitcase and bring it home when you come for Christmas. Me and (friend) will get some beers, crack it open with a screwdriver and have it fixed in an hour.” (Sidenote: It was not a laptop, it was a 900 lb. Mac)

So I immediately knew it was gone forever, and got so mad every time I thought about it that I didn’t do anything with it for a few years. I started it up again around Thanksgiving, and typed the final “fade out” around the middle of February.

Verdict: Depending on who’s reading it, I should either be writing my Oscar speech now or not quitting my day job.

MARCH

Goal: Moving

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I realized that while I technically clung onto Manhattan by my fingertips (What are those bight lights outside my window? That’s the Bronx.) it was time to live in the city where my commute home didn’t involve Harlem. Also, after two years it was wearing thin to keep saying “North of there” when people asked if my neighborhood was near xyz. I also heard “The streets go up that high?!?!” a lot.

Verdict: Successful transition all around. Except for the 86th Street subway stop in the morning. Someone please tell me what is up with that post-apocalyptic clusterfuck. It’s six people deep on the platform, throwing elbows to strong-arm their way on to an already-packed train. There is an honest-to-Thor a police presence.


And looking ahead:

APRIL
Goal: Get a haircut.
Reason: It’s been a while.

MAY
Goal: Finish “Salt.” (The history of salt.)
Reason: I’ve started it thrice, and I’m really enjoying it, but I keep re-reading passages because I feel like I need to be cramming for a test. It’s chockablock full of facts, and I just need to accept I can’t take them all in.

JUNE
Goal: Skateboard.
Reason: Never have, always wanted to. Want to be able to sing “Sk8er Boi” with some authority. (Boy, spellcheck does not like that song.)

JULY
Goal: Get tan.
Reason: I’m currently so pale you can see my internal organs. I’d like to blend in with the other summertime people and not make kids cry.


AUGUST
Goal: Make something out of clay.
Reason: Clay is delightful, and I haven’t been artistic in a while. One can never have too many ashtrays.


SEPTEMBER
Goal: Have a birthday.
Reason: Outlook is good on this one.

OCTOBER
Goal: Play a dead body on “Law & Order”
Reason: The reruns are shown in perpetuity! Someday my grandkids will duck home from work to grab a tuna sandwich for lunch, and boom, there’s grandma, scaring an innocent jogger/arguing couple.

NOVEMBER
Goal: Learn some Italian.
Reason: I’m curious in nature, and I think learning Italian will help when I eventually go to Italy. Also at the Olive Garden.


DECEMBER
Goal: Have insurance
Reason: I’m clumsy (see January) and I love medical tests.

Hometown heroes, back for more: pro-smoking, anti-gay edition

As I read (hometown)'s newspaper online, I remember why I used to cry on the inside a lot. And the outside a few times a week. The letters to the editor come from parents of my former classmates, customers I’d have to wait on at the places I worked, your friends and neighbors.

Here’s one now! Remember, a real-live person sat down and composed this (possibly on a computer, possibly written in transmission fluid or possum blood) in regards to a survey on banning smoking in restaurants:

…I also asked (local person involved in smoking survey) if I could see who participated in the survey and she told me to go to (Web site) and click on the directory. Of the 1,200 partners, there are 28 restaurants; there were no bars or taverns. For (city) to make an accurate survey, it should include all bars and restaurants, not just a handful. These are the businesses that will suffer from a smoking ban.

Logical! Stop while you’re ahead! Whatever you do, don’t turn it into an anti-gay rant!

The (City) Tobacco Prevention Coalition seems to hold Lexington up as its role-model city. I read in yesterday's paper that Lexington is now ranked 10 as one the nation's most gay-friendly cities. Whoo hoo! Maybe (city) can become the 11th.

If gay recognition comes with these smoke bans, I think that most of the non-smokers would rather live with the cigarette smoke. This ain't gay bashing; it's just that the people of (state) have voted that marriage is between a man and a woman. Let's leave the smoking in the preachers' hands. God knows the Baptists give it to us on a regular basis.

Again, I’d like to emphasize that this was not generated by a big-shot Hollywood writer mocking Homestate. Thank you for your time.

Uh-oh Fred.

You’ve got competition. Your lack of dedication to the multiple parentheses tells me you’re just not ready for a real relationship, even if I supply full-body non-webcam pictures. You know who is ready for a relationship? Omid, that’s who. His lack of spelling skillz/coherency is more than made up for in his enthused punctuation.

*Hi,...IF U R 4 ((((REAL))))????...I am SINGLE man with strong family values, very haerd working, I love kids & sports,...soccer my (1), looking & very interested for a (real woman) to be in a serios relationship.. I do not like playing the games in todays dating.(((sick of games)))))... seeking nice, fun,((real woman )))...with strong family values .who can undrestand respect and believe honesty above all things, I would love to meet real woman with ((NO GAMES))??? to be my best friend & lover..to shaer the rest of my life with...?...pleaes if u feel the same...I am waiting for u ...with love,,,,,


P.S. Why is “1” there? And “real woman” is in parentheses? Has he been burned by she-males before? This note is even better if you read the parentheticals in a robotic voice, like they were dubbed in later.

An open letter to March

Aw, c’mon now baby, why you gotta do us like that? Remember all those good times we had together in the park on Tuesday and Wednesday? OK, we didn’t actually go to the park. We told you, we had to work late. Next week, baby, next week. Well excuuuuuuse us, but if you would do more than just….nevermind we’ll talk about it later.

It’s not like we didn’t compliment your warmth, and the way the sun brought out the color in your flowers. We didn’t fall in love with you for your hotshot 80-degree days. If we wanted that, we’d be with June. We love you for all the little things you do for us. You take away February, and promise us springtime.

You don’t have to be flashy to impress us, just be consistent so we know where we stand. We have new spring clothes to wear for you, but we’re not going to bother trying to look cute for you with our sundresses and tank tops if you keep pulling away.

And we know, we’ve talked about our drinking problem before, but it’s just we’ve had these plans for a year to drink green beer all day tomorrow. We’ve got friends coming into town, and when you get frigid, it hurts us.

Just when we think we’re making progress in our relationship, you go and get all cold on us. We’ve gone through so many ups and downs already, we can only take so much more of this. We give our relationship 15 more days.

Love,

New York

Fred in relationships

When you’re in a relationship you know isn’t working, you’ve got a few options: Dump them, start being an ass in the hopes that your former beloved will do the dirty work and dump you, flee to Reno in the night. Or you can just drag your feet, knowing that maybe life would be better without Cody fussin’ at you about dinner being cold and telling you to hush up when NASCAR is on. But on the other hand you’ve known Cody since before he got his GED, you’ve figured out how to get him to mow the lawn sometimes and he even lets you go to bingo once in a while. And he did get you that nice reindeer sweatshirt last Christmas. And he’s pretty close to remembering when your birthday is. (This is the year! The 18th, Cody!)

And if you stay with status quo Cody (Quody?), you’ll never have to get Match e-mails like bachelor number 1:

*Subject: OK.... I'm here what are your other two wishes?

Hello God? It's me again, Oh God, is there a man out there who owns
his own business, has his priorities in order, is smart AND great in
bed, grew up not being a momma's boy, never lies-EVER-- about
anything!--Is he out there? Oh good, and God, could you make sure he
puts all of that pretentious bullshit info in the first email? Thanks.

I hope I got your attention. :-)

You got my attention like cartoon promotions get Boston police attention, darlin’. Let me just say I’m flattered frightened that you think my relationship with God is close enough that I’d pray for a man to be good in bed. And say “bullshit” to the Almighty. Also, you’re 38. There’s a moratorium on emoticons after 30 unless you’re the editor of Seventeen.

Or how about bachelor number 2?:


*Please, NO WINKS! Email me and I will respond. I am a paid member so i have the capabilities to respond to you directly. Have pictures on your page that are representative of how you look. I have updated pictures on my page so I expect others to do the same. We don't have the luxary of seeing each other face to face so pictures are important. Please no webcam face pics. Have full body pictures. Also please read my profile. I think it tells you a lot about who I am and what I am looking for. R.I.F LOL 

Now that we got that little unpleasantry out the way, let's get to know the man that is Fred. Let the journey begin..LOL

Fred in relationships? I believe you treat the woman in your life special and appreciate her. You make time for her and dont use priorities in your life as a crutch or a tool to prevent you from being with someone. I am someone that believes in quality time, cooking for someone, massages, wine, maybe a weekend getaway. Physical chemistry is very important to me. I need to be attracted to someone physically AND mentally. I want someone that will support and challenge me. I am aggressive, very easy going and easy to talk to.

Fred, Fred, Fred. I don’t think I need to tell you this is a man who has one of those thin lines of facial hair outlining his chin. LOL

What does R.I.F. stand for? LOL. I thought I was abbreviation savvy, but you’ve opened new doors to me already. LOL I can see some woman have done you wrong, that’s why there’s the strong need for multiple, full-body, non-Webcam pictures. LOL Did you date that woman from Norbit? LOL


Although I must say, I do like being treated special. LOL Even by the dichotomy that is Fred — aggressive AND very easy going. That’s more than Cody ever did for me.

Just call me Weezy

After weeding through the seedy dark side of humanity that is Craig’s List New York, I shall fox wit them no more.

I moved down the island this weekend, to my own little bedroom/cubbyhole on the Upper East Side, part of a two bedroom I’m sharing with Greatest Roommate Of All Time. I met her online, actually, but worlds away from guys looking for feet to tickle in exchange for free rent. ’Cause, you know, I keep it classy. Turns out we work in the same building, one floor apart, do the same job, I know one of her bosses, and we’re from the same state. A match in roommate heaven. Or famous last words. We’re off to a strong start though — GROAT even made me dinner Sunday night while I assembled my bed.

Added bonus: I no longer breathe in plumes of black mold from my wall (or as my super adorably called it “just humidity.”)

I actually had to put together my bed twice, as I realized the hard way that in the bed's original direction the final, uh, metal thing was about 3 inches longer than the room. So up against the other wall it went, and now it’s in a cool little nook exactly as wide as the bed that I’m calling “cozy” and “like being in a playhouse” to keep myself from feeling claustrophobic.

I had the offer of bed-assemblage assistance from Azerbaijani Mover, who wanted to come back off the clock to help me put it together, then take me for margaritas.
“I can think of no more awkward-at-best/terrifying-at-worst situation,” I did not say.
“No thanks, I’ve got it,” I said.

What I called “making conversation to fill the silence in the moving truck talking about caviar from the Caspian Sea” he saw as flirting. Likewise, when he said he could lift the box because he “made many of the push-ups today” I saw as a fun translation, like being near a real-life Borat. He saw it as bragging.

Also, he warmed up by saying, “You might not really believe this, you might not hear this a lot, but you are actually quite pretty.” Did he just compliment me and insult me at the same time? And then there was this gem: “You will be a good mother some day.” Is this hitting on a girl Azerbaijani style?

Well that’s just great. Plus, he knows where I live. Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger! I’ve seen Law & Order: SVU, I know how this works.

Burying the lede

If you’re like me—and I’m going to go ahead and assume that you are—you wonder what kind of person would be friends with Mentally Unstable Monica. Wonder no more.

M.U. Monica had a party last Friday. Fine. Fair enough. It’s her apartment too.

I’d been up until midnight babysitting the night before (because the fun doesn’t stop with me.) and had to be up at 5 Friday morning for a meeting in Washington D.C. So when I walked in that night to 5,622 people (not an estimate) hanging out, listening to Thriller I was slightly dismayed. Determined to not be the shushing roommate, I said hey to M.U. Monica and went to my room where I tried to sleep for the next 6 hours with people coming into my room looking for the bathroom. Pretty funny stuff, right? They seemed to think so, judging from the giggles. My door doesn’t lock, so I had to ghetto it up with a garbage can in front of the door. They tipped it over.

I pulled M.U. Monica aside around 1 to ask her to make sure her friends knew where the bathroom was. The party went until 3, and friends kept coming in, waking me up and walking back out. They also kept blaring Thriller, which I was more confused than upset by. I was also pretty psyched to stick it to my reggaeton-blaring neighbors.

As her friends left, they were all sure to push open my door to remind me of all the good times we shared. The next day I discovered that someone had also thrown away my shampoo, juniper gel and exfoliating glove. Now how am I supposed to smell like juniper?

M.U. Monica’s reaction to that was, “That’s weird, maybe it was an accident.” Then she went back to reading because she doesn’t own a TV.

Oh, and unrelated: I’m moving this weekend.

I don't know what to say. This award comes as such a surprise

I read Red's blog today and was like “Hot damn that’s some banter! I want to be friends with them!” Then I realized it was because half of it was mine. So here I am, reclaiming – for you, the reader – the brilliance of last night’s liveblogging, Special Oscars Edition. (For the nine of you who don’t come here directly from The Tent)

Me: Do you have an Oscar speech?

Red: Yes, it's really dignified. Would you like to hear it?

Me: Yes, please. And tell me what you won for.

Red: First, you should know that I'm wearing extensions that are so real-looking that my hair simply looks like it suddenly became voluminous and wavy. I'm at my 18-year-old weight. The smile eye wrinkles have disappeared.

Me: In other words, you've gone all Hollywood on us. I assume you've forgotten the little people and we no longer speak.

Red: I glide onto the stage as if propelled by invisible wires and the love of the audience.

Me: Awesome. The blogosphere will be agog.

Red: The real Red would throw up and then die. But Oscar-winning Red tears up just enough to be genuine but not too much, so as to keep all make-up intact.

Me: And what witty comments will you make to be the buzz of the Oscars?

Red: I start with the adjectives... the incredible cast, amazing director, and (choke) my wonderful family and my friends who I love so much, and of course my doting husband Jason [Varitek].

Me: You are quite the accomplished couple! The toast of Boston.

Red: What color should my dress be?

Me: Deep navy with some sparkle. Duh.

Red: I already know that when I'm on the red carpet and they ask me what I'm wearing, I'll say blue.

Me: Gucci will take back their swag!

Red: Okay, now tell me... your award/speech/dress?

Me: Ahem, well, I'm assuming that I'll win for Best Screenplay.

Red: Yes.

Me: I'm going to jump on stuff, likely trip up the stairs, then say "I became a writer so I wouldn't have to speak in front of people, and it's backfired horribly..."

Red: I like that.

Me: Then shout out to friends, family, amazing cast, my husband John Krasinski. We met on set. How cute are we?

Red: Jason and John are in their seats with misty eyes, maybe a single tear. But I don't really want them to Chad Lowe out.

Me: From there it'll devolve into a bitter Constanza-like rant about the people I hate, and they'll drag me off, one security guard under each armpit.

Red: Totally! Pull a Fiona Apple at the MTV awards. "This world is bullshit!"


Me: You gotta make a name for yourself.

Red: From then on, anytime people throw fits it'll be called pulling a [my last name].

Me: I'll parlay that into a book deal: "This world is bullshit!: Saying what you feel in a messed up world."

Her life on the G-list

The day is young yet, and I don’t want to get cocky, but I think I’ve got the winner for Most Comical Juxtaposition Involving Work Ethic and Gay Porn:



Gold medal to Kathy Griffin and The New York Post, and condolences to Kathy’s dad, who is now forever linked to the GAYVN Awards in my mind. Just hope there isn't an article written today about Martha Stewart's famous work ethic driving everyone to tears on the set of her jailhouse gay porno "A Good Thing (and by Thing I Mean Gay Sex)"

This space is MySpace

Ok, so I can’t start a sentence that says “You'll never guess what happened on MySpace…” without feeling like a total 11 year old (or like I should be on “To Catch a Predator.” Whatevs.)

Sure, I know, it’s totally legit for someone in his or her 20s to have a page – most of my friends do too – but I can’t shake the feeling that if you’re too old for Tiger Beat, you’re too old for MySpace, with it’s innocuous motto of “A place for friends” totally belying the volume of amateur porn stars who ask if I want to join their ranks.

Mostly though, I just get poetry in the form of comments like so:

*Tuesday baby Tuesday Do u know where ur kids r??? Home Sleep,??? Wrong we at the club shaken dat ass Shaken dat ass, Shaken dat Ass,,
Baby Tuesdays@MARQUEE 27th street & 10th ave Let me know if u want to come???

*Whats up KateIts Friday finally I thought it was never gonna get here but now its right on time.. Its kinda like money, orgazims and drug dealers. If some one owes u money and they r suppose to pay u on Monday but now its Wednsday u get angry, gotta pay bills, ur stressed out then they show up with the money and its right on time u forget all about it being late. Or have u ever had an orgazim that came to late or too early as soon as it cums its right on time... I dont think I need to elaborate on the last u get the idea.. The moral of the story is that all the before metion things only r good for a short time so make the best of it while its here... Come to STEREO tonight and make the best of ur Friday night P Diddy and the Fam. was there last Friday so u know its official.. STEREO 29th btw 10th and 11th ave I will be walking in at 12am if u want to meet me infront u can walk in with me or just talk to TIM at the door and tell him ur on Ellingtons guest list. txt or call me when u get there.
Ellington

Oh Ellington, you had me in the first line of your sonnet: "Do u know where ur kids r??? Home Sleep,???"

Lyrical. And my kids thank you for your concern.

That said, you’ll never guess what happened on MySpace! Someone stole my “Who I’d like to meet…” line. Ahem… “Other people, is that a trick question?” It’s not all that clever, but it’s in lieu of just a list of people nobody cares about. And I’m betting most people don’t know who David Cross is, and John Krasinski still has that restraining order out, sooooo…

Anyway Thiefy McPlagerizer then tried to MySpace friend me. Oh no you did-n! So I emailed him.

Me: Huh, um, did you steal my “Who I’d like to meet” line?
Him: Why yes I did, sorry it was just so witty and original....lol....would u like me to erase it?

Guess what pal? Look at my face. I’m not LOLing over here. It negates the originality if you (sorry, “u”) copy it, don’tcha think? The mind reels.

I’m sulky!

Valentine’s Day pop quiz.

Let’s say it’s Valentine’s Day. On your way to work maybe your face got exfoliated with ice pellets. (Yeah, that’s not snow, Sam Champion. Put away your snowflake graphic.) Perhaps you're feeling a wee bit cold and unloved. What’s the last thing you’d want a random stranger to put on your desk?:

A. Candy
B. A valentine
C. A copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition with Beyonce on a tropical beach looking happy, healthy and, most importantly, warm.

Hibernating Bear: There could not be a more perfect contrast between the day I'm having and the day pictured on the front of the magazine.
Me: The only thing worse would be if she were holding a sign like the Roadrunner saying, “I’m loved and you’re not!”
Hibernating Bear: “My boyfriend's a billionaire and yours doesn't exist.”
Me: Beep beep!

Answer: C. (We also would have accepted mystery answer D: A stuffed frog holding a heart.)

Bonus question:

If you were Crazy Monica and you burned your dinner last night to the point of filling the hall with smoke and setting off the smoke detector, would you:

A. Let your roommates know there is no cause for evacuation/fire department calling.
B. Wait until your roommates had their shoes on and were coming to get you to say, “Oh, yeah, I burned my rice. It’s fine.”

Answer: If you don't know the answer, you still win a copy of SI. Come get your prize.

Metaphor?

Starbucks is – as I’ve said before – where I tithe. Sure, any two-bit financial magazine can point out how much you spend a year on coffee and that if you just invested it at a healthy 8% a year and reinvested the dividends…zzzz…sorry, what’s that? I need some coffee before I listen to your lecture. Know what? Sometimes they have free newspapers, so that’s like a crip $1 bill I’ve saved right there. Besides, the first place I’d go if I had skaty-bajillion dollars would be Starbucks. Also, if I didn’t have coffee, I’d never get out of bed, so I’d lose my job. And the circle of life continues.

Some people think Starbucks is burned tasting. To them I say: shut up. No it doesn’t. Then there are the people who are more on the brick-through-the-window spectrum of fans, either because big corporations aren’t cool or because they put your cousin’s coffee bean farm out of business. I’m sure you’ll be very happy at Gimme! Coffee in Williamsburg. It’s right over the bridge there. Subway’s $2.

Starbucks is my first stop of the day, a clean well-lighted place where I pay five times more than needed in exchange for a skim peppermint mocha. I love my Baristas. (Except for the Special Olympian they have working the bagel orders who toasts the bagels upside down, so the insides stay untoasted. We’ve talked about it. He refuses to see it my way.)

They smile when they see me, know my order before I can pay and call me “sweetheart” and “mi amor.” Last week I got a free cupcake. Basically they treat me better than my last boyfriend.

In our post-modern world (que?) it says a lot that people lead such busy lives that they reach out to Baristas for human interaction. Or not, since just about every culture on the planet discovered cafes before us.

The peppermint mocha is simple enough – coffee, milk, chocolate and peppermint. Christmas in a glass. Today I took a big ol’ swig and discovered they left out the coffee. I don’t know what it means, in the big picture of Life, but it has to mean something, right?

Not now Lisa, Daddy's on his high horse.

I think history will remember Jerry Seinfeld as the father of the blog. Without him, nobody would know how funny “someone cut in front of me on line today” could be. Of course blogs – blogs! – are killing newspapers, so I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.

(I’m feeling a bit pontifical today…bear with me.)

I started reading the newspaper in third grade, and the stacks of them have made my room a fire hazard ever since. Precocious brat that I was, I wanted to do a sixth grade report on Butros Butros Gali and my teacher (hi Mrs. Guterriez!) wouldn’t let me because she didn’t know who he was.

Newspapers are on hard times. Readership is down, they’re in the Bush administration’s pocket, uh, YouTube fits in there somewhere. There’s no time for Iraq when there’s a dick in a box. They aren’t a media stepchild. They’re more like the oldest sibling who gets shoved out of the way in favor of a flashier younger sibling who offers brighter colors and sound effects. And dicks in boxes.

When I worked at a newspaper, the immanent demise of our industry was not well received, for some reason. Sure, nobody wants newsprint on their hands, but without newspapers we’re back to nailing notices on church doors. Or finding the nearest town crier and gathering at his feet as he shouts at us. I get enough of that on the subway, thanks.

In a small media market, there’s predominantly slovenly newspaper reporters and don’t-you-know-who-I-am pompous TV personalities. Our reporters would come back from house fires and car accidents shaking their heads that someone would actually tell a police officer, “Excuse me, but I'm allowed to stand here. I’m Stephanie (redacted).”

I shouldn’t laugh too hard at that, because my dad was in TV news, and they really are treated at local celebrities. One year, at the county fair a local entrepreneur made marionette puppets of my father to sell at his booth. (Go ahead, let that sentence sink in.)

But there’s no such glory for a newspaper reporter. I did run across an Ernie Pyle doll once, complete with it’s own typewriter, but I imagine it wasn’t a hot seller come Christmas. I’m holding out for Tickle Me Ernie.

Back in Hometown, if a high school basketball game ran long, the sports anchor would show first-half highlights and then ask viewers to call in with the score. We can get an astronaut to drive 900 miles in adult diapers but we can’t find a better way to get the people their sports scores?

I suppose it was the bitterness of being shoved aside that led our sports department to call the TV station almost every week with made up scores. And with the sure-there-are-weapons-of-mass-destruction school of fact checking, almost every week they’d get on the air.

The saddest thing to me is when newspapers try to hip themselves up. Like your grandfather saying “waaaaaaazup” eight years too late, it’s just embarrassing for everyone involved. Case in point, the survey. TV and newspapers both offer pointless questions because you, the audience, is so important. I do not understand why someone would read this and think, “They NEED my opinion on this matter!”

(It’s like my favorite Simpsons moment of the last few years. The doorbell rings, and Homer leaps up like a puppy, going “I’m needed at the door!” )

My favorite local TV one I ever saw was, "Have you had a flu shot this year?" and the choices were yes, no and I don't know. Almost 10% of the respondents who called in weren’t sure if they’d had a flu shot, but still had a compulsion to share their thoughts.

Here’s the latest cringe-worthy one I saw:

Where were you on 2/8?

What’s that word for when famous people die and you aren’t really sad or surprised? (Maybe they had an – I don’t know, just spitballing here – lifelong history of drug use.)

I’m coining it Schadenfraud.

Where were you when our generation’s Kennedy assassination happened? I was in the concourse under my building and there was a TV tuned to CNN for the Anna Nicole Smith coverage. Strangers bonded together, wondering what killed her – Trim Spa, her husband/lawyer/baby daddy (for the inheritance. Der. He was also there when the son died), or just plain old 25-plus years of uppers and downers, quaaludes and horse tranquilizers. Someone lit a candle and sang a hymn. In the distance a woman cried out “Dear God!” and fell to her knees.

I even got to hear Wolf Blitzer say “buxom Playboy playmate” in his Wolf Blitzer-y voice, which made my day. Larry King must be wetting himself (more than usual) about his show tonight. So much old footage! And the Supreme Court angle makes it totally legit to cover.

All I know is that there’s one happy diaper-wearing astronaut with adultery and malice in her heart and a smile on her face because she’s not the lede story tonight.

I await the inevitable pile of roses and teddy bears in tribute from people who don’t at all want to be on TV, but just need to express their grief for a stranger/train wreck and if a camera happens to be there, so be it. I assume these people, who posted online in the comments section of a Midwestern newspaper, will be the first there with their homemade (poorly punctuated) signs. Please oh please let them misspell her name.

Uh, Mom?

My mother, generally known more for her concern about the pope's health and her ongoing quest to make sure we all eat balanced meals, forwarded me this little gem with the subject line “Seen these? Cute!”

Mixed in with pictures like this:


And this calendar-worthy entry:


Was this:


If you're unclear what that is, it's a wolf biting — possibly eating — another wolf's face. I don’t think she’s taking this whole empty nest thing well. I’m pretty sure she didn’t find it adorable when my brother and I scrapped over the remote, or my family’s one and only Christmas mancala tournament that culminated with me pinning my sister down by stepping on her ponytail.

How would you feel, Mom, if there was a wolf mother (ha!) sending out email forwards of these golden moments? Wolf on wolf violence? Not cute, Mom, not cute.

A public service

Me: Ooh, crack open your People magazine and smell the Kenneth Cole men’s scent. Yes, I would date a guy who smelled like that.

The Hibernating Bear: I’m actually dating this magazine.

Me: That’s hot. Watch out for papercuts.

Hibernating Bear: Well worth the trouble

Hillary Clinton, Jumanji and other worries

Top five concerns for the day:

* I’m wearing a wide headband, which I’m afraid makes me look like Hillary Clinton circa ’92.

* I accidentally didn’t give my seat up on the subway today for a pregnant woman. My usual rule is that you have to take a pre-natal vitamin in front of me so I know you’re not just carrying some pudge in the middle, but this woman was obviously about to give birth at any moment. She was pretty much doing Lamaze breathing, but I somehow didn’t see her, even though when I looked up to get off, her fetus might as well have been making eye contact with me. I feel sheepish. I know I do a lot of horrible things everyday, but I try to redeem myself by giving up my seat for the worthy cases.

* I am disproportionately attached to my Sharpie Ultra pens. I’m not loyal to very many brands (besides Starbucks, JetBlue and Apple) but I get a little twitchy if my S.U. go missing. They make my handwriting so good! And they’re really nice colors too. Go – as the kids say – cop some posthaste.

* My company’s bookstore is closing. They were supposed to be done with inventory and open up Monday for this big out-of-business sale, but there was a sign yesterday postponing the opening until today. Then today I got there and the sign said “The bookstore is not open. (Thanks ‘cause I couldn’t see the gate was closed, the lights were off and it was empty.) The bookstore will be open when the gates are open.”
Meow! Like they’re having to fend off a torch-wielding mob? We just want some reasonably priced CDs and discount cards.

* My sister is substitute teaching this week and had a kid named Safari (a girl of course) in her class. And then there was Jumanji. Also a girl, which is weird because this is clearly a boy’s name. Also the name of a 1995 movie that is not necessarily a great namesake for a child. Also a silly word. And if we’re going to just start naming kids after Robin Williams movies, I’m naming my firstborn either RV or Good Morning Vietnam. Or if I have twins, Patch and Adams.

All I know is all y'all gettin' served

It's a big week! I've beaten my previous record for most eclectic sentence pertaining to New York activities.

A Certain Someone: What are you up to today?
Me: Well, I just saw a Chihuahua get hit by a taxi, now I’m eating a sno-cone at a Ukrainian street festival. What are you up to?

New sentence:
Last night I went to Norman Mailer’s book signing, tomorrow I’m going to hip-hop class.

Yes, really. I made the mistake of doing “beginner” ballet a few months ago and while it wasn’t advanced in the toe-shoe-and-anorexia sense, the teacher and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on what beginner entailed. I thought it meant a little barre work and some simple combinations. I shone on the barre, sandwiched between some NYU girls and a 70-year-old woman, but the next thing I knew I was trying to simultaneously translate French terms and figure out how to do them. I flailed like a fish who had pirouetted out of her fishbowl while the teacher called out “Battement! Arabesque! Fouetté! Rond de Jambe!” I Jetéd the hell on out the door.

I have higher hopes for hip-hop. My friend knows the teacher, and she keeps stressing how easy it is, how much fun it is, how the teacher just choreographed a Nike ad. I keep stressing how very very white I am. I gave her a sample of my spastic arm-and-feet-jerking that I call dance. She said the teacher can work with me.

Theories on life: The Essence Sentence

I have theories. And a blog. Which means if you’re reading this you’re gonna listen to my theories. On your company’s dime.

The first theory I discovered by accident one night at work a few years ago. There was a reporter I worked with who was constantly eating. Like plate-o’-pasta-at-10-a.m. kind of eating. I'm not sure if it was all the food, but she was also really flighty.

My work friend and I were trying to figure out how to sum her up and explain her to someone when she actually did it herself up quite nicely one night after she got back from covering a ribbon-cutting ceremony:

Me: {Reporter} this is a good quote, but you didn’t get the person’s name.
Her: Oops! I got distracted; there was cake.

Her very essence summed up into one little sentence. (P.S. She accidentally got pregnant a year or so later and we changed her sentence to “I got distracted; there was cock.”)

I’ve think everyone will do this once. It can’t be forced and nobody else can do it for you. It just falls out of your mouth one day.

Know-it-all esteemed and beloved former co-worker: “I’m never wrong and I’m right again this time.”
HB (my friend the Hibernating Bear, called that for her ability to sleep 13 hours a night): “Sometimes I get confused, wait, was I telling you that or Lauren?”

And then there’s another co-worker. (I’ll call him Vest for his insistence on wearing sweater vests on casual Friday.) He’s really nice, but I was trying to explain to someone why (besides the sweater vests) I couldn’t see myself dating him. Enter The Essence Sentence: “I just can’t wait to move to the suburbs.”

Now I have nothing against the burbs. It’s perfectly fine if you end up there. It’s possible I could be happy there myself someday, with all my little Kate Juniors running around, but it just doesn’t seem like a proper aspiration for a 26 year old guy.

Ohhhh...there's my wig and passport.

My friend Lauren came by my desk the other day and asked if I had a plastic bag. I did. In the bag were the following:

a pair of shoes
some money
a blonde wig and ...
my passport.

WTF? Was I going to rob a bank? Did I rob a bank? Am I a flight risk?