I feel Turkish, because the Greeks have kicked my ass

I was talking about baby names with someone once and they mentioned the name Athena.

Them: You know, it's like every Greek girl you meet is named Athena. It's like come on already. Enough.

Me: Uh, I’m from Kentucky. I’ve yet to meet a real live Greek. Unless you're counting the "Toga! Toga!" kind.

Well, I can’t say that anymore!

I normally babysit one day per weekend for a couple who are somehow disinclined to parent on the weekends, so I come and sit with the baby while they take their toddler places (in the mom's case) or go to the gym and read the paper (in the dad's case.)

But instead of enjoying a quiet apartment today, I was thrown into Greek Easter festivities. It was me and 82 shouting people with gold jewelry and wavy, black Trumpesque pompadours. It’s exactly what you’re imagining.

How delightfully 19th century to have Irish hired help to hold your baby. I sat on the floor with Christina, Nico, Peter, George, Olympia and Athena as they played blocks. I wasn’t supposed to watch the older boy, but the dad told the mom, “He’s being really bad. Have Kate watch him.” On it!

They sent me out for a walk with the baby while they ate, I assume to avoid the awkward situation of asking if I was hungry. And with that, I was unleashed on the twee little Hummel village of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. It’s a delight, if tree-lined streets, charming historical brownstones and precious little shops are your thing. Meh.

The sidewalks are filled with adorable ragamuffins peddling their organic lead-free wooden scooters (sample overheard 7 year old’s conversation, “Did you save the picture as a PDF? You gotta.”) The businesses are all owned by shopkeeps who followed their chi and opened organic gluten-free bakeries, organic fair-trade coffee shops and organic French toy wonder emporiums. And instead of having their dogs poop on you, as in Manhattan, Cobble Hill pet owners doff their caps and step aside. It was a welcome vacation. One that ended the minute I got back to Manhattan. The mom paid me and the dad immediately pulled over to let me out.

“Is here good?” he asked. I laughed because I thought he was joking. But no, he seriously let me out in a housing project’s parking lot with a wad of $20s.

Saturday blahs

I know a lot of really rich kids. Private school kids, West Village townhouse kids, their-own-bathroom-with-marble-tub kids.

I have to say though, that I’m not jealous of their weekend homes or their full tuitions paid to the best college their little brains will get them into.

I’m jealous of this little girl, Charlotte, because of her hairbows. She has like 100 of them. All the colors! Polka dots! Stripes! I remember being in 1st grade and desperately wanting pretty, puffy ribbon bows like all my friends. I couldn’t have them though so I used to take my carrot bag from lunch and fashion it into a bow, knotting it into my hair for the afternoon, like a tiny accessories MacGyver. I thought I was really clever. I didn’t understand until years later why my mom made me stop.

And now I spend my Saturday nights scooping Charlotte’s hairbows off her vast floor and clipping them onto her special bulletin board. And she doesn’t care about them.

Amelia Bedelia works at Pinkberry?

At the risk of turning this blog into Postcards of Things I Ate Yesterday, I gotta talk about Pinkberry frozen yogurt.

Ever think to yourself, "I'm enjoying my fro yo experience, but I think I'd like it more if I could eat it in a $330 Philippe Starck Victoria Ghost Chair, available for purchase at Design Within Reach or any other major modern design store near you." ?

Yeah, me too. But there it was.

I finally caved to my curiosity after almost a year of seeing Columbia kids thunk on by with their flip-flops, American Apparel leggings, too-loud sentences that all seem to end with question marks and little Pinkberry cups. Plus Pinkberry settled their lawsuit this week for saying they had "all natural" ingredients. That sealed the deal. Preservatives and artificial flavorings? Sign me up.

The verdict? It tastes like frozen yogurt. I mean it literally tastes like yogurt that's been frozen, as though you asked someone who doesn't speak English as a first language to make you frozen yogurt and he translates it literally. Or Amelia Bedelia. I mean, she was the one who makes sponge cake by mixing the cake batter with real sponge.

That maid took things literally, man.

Viva la Arches!

I like to check in with tea once a year to make sure I still hate it. (Memo to tea: I still hate you. See you in Spring 2009!)

Likewise, I like to annually pop into a McDonalds ("Mickey D's" as the teens in commercials like to say right before I hit them) just to make sure it's still one step from chaos. You'll be delighted to know I can report back that the revolution is still a-brewin' there.

The least you need to know about my visit: A crackhead cut in front of me in line. I don't even mean that disparagingly. She was actually on the crack. Also, a hazelnut coffee with half-and-half could be substituted for a skim, sugar-free ice coffee.

I can only hope and pray none of my loved ones are inside the fateful day the homeless overthrow the minimum-wage government there and co-opt the fry machine in some sort of South American-style coup.

Facebook's Compare People function: A rebuttal

My Wednesday was going smashingly. The bus? On time. The weather? Seasonably warm. The coffee? Icy. Then I open my gmail and get cyber punched in the face.

Friends, casual acquaintances, former co-workers and elementary school classmates, I've been compared to you on Facebook. And I fall short:

lost 1 place, now #3 best to hang out with for a day
lost 2 places, now #7 best mother (potential)
lost 6 places, now #13 most athletic
lost 6 places, now #14 most useful
lost 5 places, now #15 best listener

Now, I personally don't play the Compare People game since the fateful day I was asked to choose if I'd rather date my brother or brother in law, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the sting of anonymous people dropping me six places in the useful category.

Who the hell is better to hang out with for a day than me? Nobody, that's who. Certainly there are not two other people in the known universe. I'll fight you both.

I may not have any kids (that I know of! Zing! Wait, that doesn't work.) But 7th best mother (potential division)? I'd like to think I could keep a kid alive to adulthood. I babysat a family of four kids not too long ago. Got there at 9:00, changed two diapers, fixed two snacks, fed a baby a bottle, assured child world wouldn't end before we found lost Dora doll/found a lost Dora. I may be exhausted, but I've got this under control, I thought hubrisly. I looked at the clock. I'd been there 11 minutes. Still, the basic idea is the same. Just for 18 years.

I'm actually OK with 13th most athletic. (Even though - not brag here - I almost did a push-up the other day.) It's still a spot on the soccer team. On the bench, I suppose, but allowed to suit up in case there are injuries. If you need me I'll be at the concession stand.

Fourteenth most useful? HA! Bitch, I'm vital. If you need to know where anything is on the Upper East Side, why - specifically, in excruciating detail - H&M is better than the Gap, what you should buy at Target, need someone to ask donde esta the library in Mexico, I'm your gal. What topping should I get on my pizza? Pepperoni. Why am I using "instantaneous" incorrectly? Because it means two things happening at the same time; it's not a synonym for "instantly." What's my sign? Gemini. What's the mystery lyric in the Good Times theme song after "scratching and surviving"? It's "Hanging in a chow line." You're welcome. Who's useful now?

And lastly...listening? Who are you people who think I don't listen? I listen, hear, mishear, overhear all day every day, son. See who doesn't pick up the phone the next time you have troubles.

It's gonna be a great movie

One thing I miss about being a reporter and copy editor is the insane crap I’d Google daily for stories. How to strangle someone, top 10 worst Mexican stereotypes, what are some positive things Hitler did, what state has the lowest age of consent, what are Magic Johnson’s kids’ names and where do they go to school.

And so on and so forth. There are days I’d be typing it in to Google and await the government's/Dateline's arrival.

That worry’s been given a rest for a while, until yesterday. I’m working on a short movie script for a friend of mine and I’m praying my computer makes it through the project without having to go to the Apple Genius Bar.

So far, I’ve searched:

STDs
STD tests
STD, waiting period to get tests back
Being sexually active with an STD
Calling partners to tell them you have an STD
STD horror stories
Herpes
How contagious is herpes?
How contagious are herpes?
Herpes itch?
Clamitia
Chalmita
Chalmidia
Chlamydia!
The happy people in the Valtrex ads
Having sex with herpes
Crabs
How do you kill crabs?
Can you see crabs?


It’s gonna be a comedy!

I'm a hustler, homie

It's come to my attention that I don't write on here as much as I thought. I need to shake things up! Make it dynamic! Represented visually, via puppies, I need to take it from Fig. 1 to Fig. 2.

Fig. 1

Fig. 2

So I'm going to try to write something every day for a week solid. This counts as today's post.

No? Fine. Here's a story. A few weeks ago I played poker and beat a beloved children's show host. (I won't say which one, but it's a show with a big blue cartoon dog. Use your crime-fighting skillz.)

But Kate, I didn't know you played poker, you're saying to yourself. And you're correct! It was my first time playing, which made the victory all the sweeter. I refused to learn for a long time in protest of poker being on every time I turned on the Travel Channel.

I figured I'd lose my chips early then sit and observe to learn the game. Out of eight people, I got second. Turns out you have a great poker face if you literally have no idea if your cards are decent or not.

My strategy, if you want to learn from me, was as follows:

1. Have a friend generously write out what each hand is.
2. Get cards.
3. Consult paper.
4. Hiss quietly "Is a 2 and a 9 of spades anything?"
5. Put all your chips in the middle.
6. Make sure beloved children's host keeps drinking.
7. Listen while everyone debates about high straight flushes or something.
8. Somehow win.

So I guess I've actually taken the blog from Fig. 1 to Fig. 3


Fig. 3

I love it when you call me Il Papa

Get out the good china! The pope’s one of two people in the world my mother would break out the good china for on a non-holiday. (The other correct answer is not me, her eldest daughter, but the queen of England for those of you playing at home.) And now he’s in my hood! Down the street, blessing up a storm and sprinkling holy water up the wazoo. (Fun fact: The Catholic Church will make you feel guilty for touching someone's wazoos.)

He was a mere four blocks away yesterday at a church seemingly pulled at random from a (tall pope's) hat. I was telling someone about my plans for the day and actually had to say the sentence, "I just hope the pope doesn't get in the way." In other news, I have absurd problems.

Even though I currently see Jesus as a distant relative to be obligingly visited on holidays, I'm all for seeing visiting dignitaries. I love me some pomp pope! and circumstance. I love parades too, and bogus holidays like Arbor Day. Anything that distingusishes one day from another really.

Thursday night the streets around the U.N. were already blocked off, but the cops let me cut through (hello, security? Damn this honest face of mine.) It was completely silent and empty besides me and was by far the most room I've ever had on a sidewalk. I loved it for two blocks, swinging my arms with wild abandon. Three minutes later I got creeped out and started missing people. Related: I would not do well on any sort of wilderness trek.

But seriously, Ratzinger? You couldn't stay in the country a full week? I don't expect you to tour like Motley Crue or anything, but don't be stingy with America. I know you're 81 and mostly a palate-cleansing pope after JP the 2, but just think of all that great time you'll get in the Popemobile. And the holy waving! You practiced in the mirror for weeks to get the arms at just the right angle.

But no matter how long you stay, you'll still be one of my favorite popes.

Just behind Sergius III, the dude who strangled his prececessor.

Ode to a Guido

With hair looking all gelled up and spiky
Your name is probably Joey or Mikey

Or Cousin Paulie or Anthony
(Though you pronounce it Ant + Knee.)

Everyone else calls you a guido,
but you think you're all pretty neat-o.

Your tan's slathered on, your T is too tiny
and for some strange reason your jeans are all shiny.

And by the way, nobody believes the jacket's Armani
It's made in a sweatshop by an Azerbaijani.

You keep protein powder over your fridges
and come Friday, cross Manhattan's tunnels and bridges

to hit the clubs and Gallagher's 2000
before returning to your house and

ordering up some eggplant parm
you're a simple guy, you mean no harm.

Catcalling to every girl within earshot
telling her what she needs is what you've got

She's getting away! There's no time to be subtle!
Better yet, you're on to the next before you hear her rebuttal.

You're oblivious to the city's despise
and second person plural is always "Youse guys".

Wow oh wow, your friend has on a nifty striped shirt
and if someone spills beer on it, they're gonna get hurt.

Hey look at that! A fancy gold chain!
Does the 7-pound cross cause you neck strain?

Does it remind you of Jesus' cross?
Was it a gift from a Mafia boss?

Come summer you'll be at the Jersey Shore
causing a ruckus with girls dressed as whor...nevermind.

But you just want to meet a nice gal
to make her your wife. You'll find her! You shall!

She'll have bangs so high and nails like talons
and she'll spend half your paycheck at the local salons.

She’ll send four kids down her birth canal
Before leaving you for your cousin Sal.

But tonight is for partying, hell yeah muthafuckas
and inspiring jealousy in the rest of us suckas.

Don’t Tell Mom, the Babysitter’s Dead hits a bit close to home

When I started nannying as a stop-gap while my company un-hiring-freezes, I pictured it being more like so:


than like so:


Babysitting will kill me eventually. Not because of the kids, (my motto is “even a crying child will go to sleep eventually.”) who are by and large awesome little people. The neighborhood one little girl lives in however is going to get me murdered. Murdered!


Here’s a quick Q&A session:


When you turned on the news the other night, did anything catch your attention?

Yes, the story on the robbery victim who ran into traffic and got killed by a car.

And why did that stay with you?

Because it’s the exact location I’d been standing 24 hours earlier.

What noble pursuit puts you in such danger?

The noble pursuit of funding my Fabergé egg collection via reading bedtime stories.

Surely this must have been the first time you risked your life to babysit this child.

Funny you should mention that. This is the same apartment I emerged from a few months ago just in time to hear a man get shot. I stayed on the other side of the street, because we all know bullets can’t cross asphalt. That’s just basic physics.

Wow. Must’ve been a fluke.

I thought so too, until I emerged from their apartment a few weeks after the shooting in time to see the paramedics bringing up a restaurant dishwasher muttering “Miguel.”

And what tipped you off that he was the victim of a violent crime and not a, say, heart attack victim, Det. Stabler?

That would be the blood pouring from his side and the cop saying, “You keep saying Miguel. Is he the one who stabbed you?”

Pretty strong tipoff. But at least he probably lived.

Which is more than I can say for the man who was the subject of the candle memorial at the restaurant next door.

What the hell neighborhood is this?

It’s up and coming.

Is this making you rethink your job choices?

It’s starting to.

And did the mom just text you about babysitting Wednesday?

Sure did.


Bonus question: Know of any great blogs for people wanting to completely deconstruct the outfits of everyone’s favorite Baby-sitters Club hot tranny mess, Claudia Kishi?

Sure do!

Honk if you want Juliet to Mount-a-you

Naw, shawty, don't be drinking that.

Because I just pretty much copy whatever this girl does (I'm often referred to as the Red of the Upper East Side) here is my recent crop of Googlers. I hope you crazy kids all found what you were looking for when Google delivered my posts.


bumper stickers that the capulets and the montagues might put on their cars if the lived today

Co-dependants anonymous. Poison control hotline number: 1-800-hear-the-rest-of-the-story-before-you-drink-that (It’s long distance). My other car is a hearse. Follow me to the Globe Theater. Swords don’t kill people, poorly informed teens kill people. Honk if you want Juliet to Mount-a-you.


mtv sex in the 90's sin bin

the dog brothers from mtv

mtv dog brothers sin bin

the dog brothers mtv

See, I don’t kid when I say this is most of my Google traffic. The people cry out for a reunion show, Viacom. Make it happen!


daddy's on his hig

Boy does that bring back some childhood memories. A cool summer night, playing with my brother and sister in the yard, Dad in the background zipping around on his hig.


fox syxy

You know it, son! It’s the only way I know how to roll.


blogspot hubris bodacious

There are three words I use to describe myself. Those words are: Blogspot. Hubris. Bodacious.


name some kids hobbies

Wii, texting, shoplifting, hoop-and-stick




jonathan taylor Thomas

Still alive and kickin’!


redheads look alike

Word up.


?????ma

Are you there, Ma? I call out to you in the dark, anonymous hollows of cyberspace.


pilar bardem and her necklaces

Yes! Can we talk about those?!?!? Less is more, Pilar. Less is more.


the roaring 20 toilets

I like to imagine it as a set of 20 toilets.


Kate apartment hidden camera

Oh. My. God. I should probs follow up on this.

Shake your shamrock! (Kill me for that)

St. Patrick’s Day is a holiday I used to think I took seriously, until I moved to my neighborhood. Haha to me. Turns out I might as well be Polish for all the celebrating I’ve done over the years.

So, yeah, it’s almost a week later, but I thought my readers - more numerous than the stars in the heavens - (There are like 100 stars in the heavens, right? I’m bad at estimating.) deserved to know. Plus, I’ve been hungover lazy.

Nothing happened as wonderful as last year, when I watched a severely intoxicated 15 year old wander into the street. His drunkly heroic friend pulled him to safety and the kid rewarded the act of bravery by yelling at him and pulling them both into a knee-deep slush puddle. Erin go home.

You know there’s going to be ruckus, cavorting and ballyhoo going on when there’s a NYPD Mobile Command Unit stationed on your corner in the middle of the afternoon. This ain’t no Upper East Side, son, this a war zone!

On my way to the bar, I overheard probably the saddest pickup line of the night. “Yeah, it’s my last name and it’s also the town in Ireland where my family is from. Cool, right?” Um, you’re stretching it, even on SPD. Save it for the genealogy message boards.

The other great line of the night was a girl stumbling up to a guy smoking outside his apartment door, which she thought was a bar.
"Do you have a bathroom?"
"What, like in my apartment?"
"You're not a bar?"
"No, I'm not a bar."
"Oh."

The day was mild, the beer was flowing and NO ONE WAS GUARDING THE CITY! Arsonists and larceny-ists I’m looking in your direction: 3/17 is your day to strike, on account of every Irish cop and firefighter stumbling around and crashing into things. There aren’t enough Italians on the force to make up for their absence. The firefighters I met at the bar had grown special old-timey handlebar moustaches for the big day. Which led to someone asking me: “Hey Freckles, wanna help us shave them at the end of the night?” as he pulled out an electric Norelco. Say what you will, but homeboy thought ahead enough to A. Remember the razor. B. Know he and his friends would be too drunk to wield blades close to their faces.

Memo to the crane across the street

Look, I don't like you and you don't like me, but you're outside my apartment for the foreseeable future so we have to get along. I have my eye on you, bro. No falling-over-and-crushing-me-in-my-sleep funny business.

Obama, be the vice president of my heart

From the desk of Hillary Clinton

Hey Barack, it's me. You know, me.

I have a confession: Barack Obama, will you be the vice-president … of my heart?

If you called at 3 a.m. – be it on a red phone, purple phone, some sort of two-toned deal or a Paris Hilton pink Swarovski crystal bedazzled number – I would answer that call. Believe me, in my marriage I’ve gotten a lot of strange calls at 3 a.m.

We’ve known each other a long time and have spent 20 evenings together in the last few months. Just you, me, Tim Russert’s potato-head and Brian Williams’ perma-tan (Is it just me or does he look like he went face first into a bag of Cheetos backstage? LOL! Our first inside joke!)

All those nights with only our podiums between us has only made my feelings for you grow. All that talk of health care and campaign soft money has only made me love you more.

I keep trying to catch up to you, not only in delegates, but also on the campaign trail itself. You never wait for me! We’re both criss-crossing this crazy nation of ours, but never seem to be in the same place at the same time. We’re so star-crossed. I have a brainstorm: We should team up! We could save money and hold rallies together. And we could share a bus. All those hours together…

Michelle would have to ride on the press bus. I kicked Bill off my bus months ago.

I saw you dance on Ellen’s show, and let me just say, if smoothly waving your arms around in front of a lesbian could solve this whole superdelegate kerfluffle, I’d be all for it.

Those tears before Super Tuesday weren’t because I was frustrated with the voting process, they were for you, B.

I hope you’ve noticed I’ve started wearing my best yellow-and-black pantsuit all the time because I know how you love bumblebees. And I use my shrillest, no-nonsense, yelling-at-not-to-my-supporters voice because I know how you love a strict librarian.

Please see the attached 17 illustrations I drew of us.

Please check:

Cordially yours,

Hillary Rodham Clinton Obama????

How I learned to shut up and be a good little feminist

I went to the very swanky, very un-Kate Players Club this week. It’s some sort of old-timey New York actors' haunt and it’s all heavy 100-year-old doors and grand staircases and John Barrymore portraits. If I were writing an essay about it for freshman English comp I’d say the air was thick with decades of stories from men who knew the subtle nuances of fine storytelling. But it’s a blog, so there’s no need for me to say that.

Suffice to say, if they had served me oysters, I’d have sent them flying across the room Pretty Woman style.

The writer of the adaptation of Bridge to Terabithia (a book that I reacted to not unlike when I watched Atonement last month) was speaking about getting movies made. As a bonus, he brought along a funny five-minute short about three cavemen becoming enlightened and sensitive. (“Oog need send smoke signal to wife, let her know Oog be home late.” Because we all know cavemen could speak English, but verb conjugation slowed them down.)

That’s when things took a turn for the racist. You see, the three cavemen were all white, although two had medium brown hair and one had darker brown hair. One woman in the front row hopped up and started yelling at the director that he picked the whitest one to become enlightened.

Director: I don’t get it. They were all white

Mad woman in the front row: But the dark-haired one, he’s the last one to become sensitive. The whitest one was the first.

Director: That was John. He’s Irish, so yeah, he was pale.

MWITFR: But you see my point about the subtle racism.

Director: I’m sorry, but I really don’t. It was me, my brother and our friend and we’re all white.

MWITFR: I lived through the Civil Rights movement! There’s still racism everywhere we look!

The audience shifted nervously in our seats. Were we all so racist that we didn’t even see racism in front of us?

Moderator: I don’t think we’re going to settle this tonight.

Black actor taking the stage for the next bit: Ma’am, I don’t doubt you saw racism in the film, but that doesn’t mean it was racist.

MWITFR sits back down, until the play starts and it has the formerly-funny-now-racist-for-reasons-we’re-not-quite-clear-on bit about an old Chinese woman speaking Chinese and working at a dry cleaners. That’s when MWITFR stomped out.

There is racism everywhere, except possibly in a play about three white cavemen. I can only imagine what the teacher of the feminism class I accidentally took in college would've said about the gender stereotypes in the film.

Having been raised by a dad who made his motto the simple yet brilliant "Don't go looking for hurt" I tend to save my righteous indignation of things for when it's warranted.

But oh that semester I got an earful about how women are kept down by men (and I suppose The Man). The teacher would show us a clip from a news story about how science is discovering how male and female babies learn language differently based on what parts of their little brains light up. Then we’d spend the rest of the class telling each other what the reporter was really trying to say about how men learned better, were smarter, etc.

I failed the first two tests because I (like any good young aspiring journalist) would say things in my essay like, “Some people say… while others interpret the data as a sign of….” I finally learned to just parrot back exactly her line of thinking on the tests and my final grade was miraculously (and mathematically impossibly) raised to a B. The guy behind me, with nearly identical test grades, got a D.

Cause us women have to stick together, ya know?

This will all be included in my upcoming memoirs “How I learned to shut up and be a good little feminist.”

"Ma, I’m a BIG STAR! I bought you a security system!"

The Oscar™ image I’ve been searching for is Javier Bardem’s mom. (I’m timely!) When he won, they cut away to Pilar Bardem wearing literally every piece of jewelry she owns. Half dozen necklaces! Both arms full of bangles! A ring on each and every finger, like brass knuckles! She looked like an insecure pirate. What led up to that image?

Scene:

Place: Bardem household
Time: Oscar night. Just before the limo arrives.

Mrs. Bardem: One more necklace is really gonna make this outfit sing, Jav.

Javier: I think you’ve got enough, Ma. Your jewelry box is empty.

Mrs. Bardem: Not quite. Pass me that macaroni necklace you made in the Spanish equivalent of pre-school.

Javier: We can just call it pre-school, Ma.

Mrs. Bardem: Macaroni necklace!

Javier: Here you go. And the rings? Do you really need one for each finger?

Mrs. Bardem: Remember last year I had to punch Nicole Kidman when she stole your seat? I’m not taking that chance again.

Javier: I know, she still has that ruby imprint from the uppercut. Ma, I told you, I’m a big star now. You gotta stop punching people.

Mrs. Bardem: Anyway, I told all the girls at canasta and the salon that my son, Javier, is taking me to the Oscars™ tonight. Everyone knows we’re there. What if they break in?

Javier: What kind of crowd are you running with? And I told you: Ma, I’m a BIG STAR! I bought you a security system!

Mrs. Bardem: Besides, I don’t trust your maid. She only speaks Spanish.

Javier: Maaaaaaa… we’re gonna be late. Wait, you’re Spanish. We’re having this conversation in Spanish.

Mrs. Bardem: You know what? I’m just going to take the jewelry box with me. I’ll just carry it like a purse.

Javier: You can’t do that, Ma. Ellen Page will laugh at us. What are you doing?

Mrs. Bardem: Help me load up the good silver.

I stopped voluntarily learning new things like eight years ago

Is there a word for when you repeat a word and emphasize the first one. Like, “I like Neil Patrick Harris but I don’t like him like him.” Or “I need a job job.” I used to wonder, then - like all things I can't answer - I ignored it until it went away. But the question has again risen, like Jesus ... or bread dough.

I would look it up, but my Google search would be, “Words that you repeat and emphasize the first one to give phrase new meaning. Wut iz term, internetz?” The whole thing is way too LOL Cats and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the Google.

I'm not saying all redheads look alike but...

I know what you're thinking: "Kate, why did you spend all those hours Photoshopping a dress onto Conan O'Brien?"

Oscar fever, my friends. Some people practice their speeches in the mirror with a hairbrush, some enter Oscar pools, some play fashion police. This is my thing.

Excerpts from Kate! the musical

Some real-life moments I'll use in a play or allegory or something someday.


Scene:

A boy and girl, mid-20s, sit at a bar on a first date.

Boy: My friend was in that NBC page program, like on 30 Rock.
Girl: Oh yeah? I knew a girl doing that, like a year ago.
Boy: What does she do for NBC now?
Girl: I dunno. Last time I saw her she was getting her hair cut on the Today Show.


Scene:

New mom talks to her babysitter before leaving for work.

Mom: Our doorman asked me yesterday if you were Russian.
Girl: Uhhh…I like vodka, but nope.
Mom: I didn’t think so. I mean your last name and everything. And you don’t look Russian.
Girl: Yeah, that’s odd.
Mom: I thought so too, but he’s Russian and I realized he can’t think of a better compliment.

Valentine's merriment

Tonight, on the way to meet some friends to drink away the emotional parfait that is Valentine's Day, I passed the park of the Notorious Breakup. It was one of my finest hours.

Seriously, there should be a plaque to me.

The Newly Ex and I met up for a lunch that day, and I'd written one of those fuck you/I'll always care for you/go to hell/best of luck with everything notes that tackles everything you want to say to someone you might see for the final time, sealed it and went to meet him.

He ripped it up dramatically without opening it, saying I should say whatever I have to say in person. Instead I handed him an identical handwritten copy of the note.

"What's this?"
"A copy of the same note."
"What? Why?"
"Because I know you well enough that I knew you'd want to make a dramatic statement by ripping it up, but you also want to know what it says, so now you can have it both ways."

And in the middle of the breakup, we both smiled.

Stupid WW II ruined my weekend

My best friend in high school made the mistake of watching My Dog Skip the week before we left for college and it made her sob for hours (and then made the mistake of telling me about it).

I always think about that when someone tells me they're shocked I haven't seen The Notebook. Look, I love me some Ryan Gosling as much as any girl with eyes, (even once dated a guy for pretty much the sole reason that he would get mistaken for RG) but I don't like crying in my free time, thanks.

This all leads me to a warning: Don't see Atonement unless you need to cry. A lot. In fact, don't see any movie getting "Oscar buzz," as the kids call it. It's getting awards so you know it doesn't end well.

I was suckered by the beautiful ads. James McAvoy's accent. That kickass green dress Keira Knightly wears in that one scene. I should have just saved my pennies for The Hottie or the Nottie, starring Paris Hilton (as the ... hottie? Wait, that can't be. My monocle fell off in surprise so I can't quite tell from the poster.)

I just kind of looked blankly at my friends after we were done and said, “Well, looks like I’m off for a fun Saturday night cry.” And spent the rest of the weekend (until the Super Bowl) just sort of staring off into the distance and sighing.

18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1! 18-1!

Oh my God the Super Bowl, y’all!

That should really be the New York Times headline today. They had a typo with: “Making Most of 2nd Chance, Giants Seize Patriots’ Day.”

Oops. When it’s the Kate Times I’ll fix it in the archives.

After the GREATEST GAME EVER ended, I called my dad and congratulated him like he was Eli Manning. Actually, he was a great unsung hero of the game, having stayed up until the 9 p.m. finish despite having to work at 4 a.m. And the good listeners of NPR are very lucky the Giants won or today’s morning show would have just been An Hour of Stony Silence with Joe.

Also, after the last touchdown, someone at the bar yelled out "Tom Brady needs to be a better father!"

The Yankees haven’t delivered in the three years I’ve lived in New York (ahem, Derek Jeter) and the war hasn’t been wrapped up yet (ahem, George Bush) so I haven’t been able to publicly celebrate with people. It was like V-J Day in Times Square out there. People were honking and hugging in the street and I quickly reached my high-five quota for the year (8). (Don't try to high five me for the rest of the year.)

Then I overturned a car for no reason. I was just that happy.

Latkes for everyone!

There used to be this massive J-Date billboard
in Times Square with a group of super phyched looking Jewish couples. They're just so happy and Semitic! I felt really left out and wanted to be a part of the fun.

Then I got an idea for a show: A group of non-Jewish girls join J-Date to meet Jewish guys. I'm calling it "Goldstein Diggers." Hilarity and whatever's going on in the photo at right ensue. Stay tuned when she accidentally cooks a non-Kosher meal for his boss! Will his mother like her? (Hint: No) And, of course a Very Special Episode™ with a mohel. (Tentatively entitled "The mohel you know.")

You're getting two puns for the price of one today. You're welcome.

Oversized novelty check please, Hollywood. Better yet, quarters so I can dive into them like Scrooge McDuck.

Know what would be really funny? Make the dad a widower.

Hey guess what? It turns out I don’t really know any lullabies. (Don't trouble your pretty little head about why I need to know them.)

I’ve got the Twinkle Twinkle down, which flows smoothly into the ABCs (same tune, yo!) but I flounder after that, singing a few French and German songs I learned in middle and high school. Then I stretched my brain and came up with the chorus to Hakuna Matata and about six other random Disney verses melded together into one pan-Disney all-star review.

From there, I went patriotic with “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and a singing recitation of the 50 states. After we were amped up to march in the 4th of July parade I threw in the towel and started singing pop songs.

I drew a blank after a few of those and just resorted to singing commercial jingles and TV theme songs, which is why a nannycam would have caught me late last night in a rocking chair in the dark singing, “Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman, the paperboy and evenin’ TV…”

Jonathan Taylor Thomas should maybe chew carefully this week, is all I’m saying

Oh my God guys? My ’90s crushes? They’re all dying?

Brad Renfro was sad enough, but then death kindly stopped for Ledger too? It’s just too much to process. I really am upset about their deaths in a way I didn't expect to be.

And just the other day at lunch, my friend Lauren was re-enacting meeting Heath Ledger last year.

She’d been the one of my friends who always just missed seeing a celebrity with us, be it Carmen Electra at Vitamin World or a random NBC reporter at 30 Rock.

Then! One day she was at lunch when Heath walked past with some guy. Not wanting to miss her first real celeb, she drops her lunch on the bench, yells to watch her bag and goes sprinting down the street in her skirt and sensible shoes.

She wooshes past HL and the male companion then stops dead a few feet later at the corner, trying to casually look at her watch and catch her breath as though she didn’t just almost knock them over.

One thing about Lauren. She’s 5 foot nothing but her boobs are more proportional to a girl about maybe 6’ 8” so none of us were totally shocked to hear that she looked at Heath and said hi and he checked out her rack. How fun for everyone!

And now he’s in that big Tiger Beat in the sky. RIP Heath.

Because who doesn't love the Irish?

I'm and huge fan of Barack Hussein Obama. He's so MLK and Kennedyesque! Gonna unite us all! Red and blue states together in purple harmony! He's so committed, even his lips are purple!

Worried the name is too scary for flyover country? Change his name to Barack Hussein O'Bama. Punctuation saves the day!

Yes, I'll probably take this post down when Brit Brit dies

Journey back with me to the year 1999, when we were all partying like the year that it actually was. Did I just blow your mind? It was a simpler time when Dallas beat Buffalo for the Stanley Cup (what?) Rev. Jerry Falwell outed a purple Teletubby named Tinky Winky (the?) and Concerto for Flute, Strings and Percussion by Melinda Wagner won the music Pulitzer (fuck?).

It was also when a young redneck named Patrick in my newspaper class took a shine to fresh-faced popstar Britney Spears. You have to stretch your imagination and remember she used to be ohmigah the hottest girl ever



instead of a bloated mentally unbalanced cat woman.



Patrick would go around shouting to whoever would listen that, “Britney Spears will be my wife. Oh yes, she will be my wife.” Which would have sounded creepy if not for it being so far-fetched. Let the scrawny, pimply boy dream his dreams in peace!

I was thinking about Patrick the other day. Someone should really let him know that now would be the time to make his move.

Tom Cruise and his caps should convert

Random thought for the day: What's up with Mormons and their big white families teeth? Something in the salt water? It's like God's love for his people is being beamed directly through their mouths.

They should seriously make a little money for their church selling Mormon brand teeth whitening strips, like Kabbalah water.

Hop on my Rascal, let’s go for a spin

My new boyfriend and me.

I think I’m breaking up with you, Match. I'll just make Clancy Wiggum my new boyfriend.

It was all fun and games and online shopping for boys in the beginning, but a few recent setbacks have shown me the light.(I winked at a guy I’d already gone on a date with, and hated, and totally forgotten about. It took a lot for me to admit that.) Apparently I’m a huge wink slut. It’s also come to my attention that I’m actually out of single guys in the nation’s biggest city.

But the nail in the coffin has to be this tale of woe and bewilderment (and anger! Lots of anger!)

A year ago this guy and I had been emailing back and forth and had agreed to meet up for coffee. He seemed totally normal. But then he got concerned that my fat ass was going to not be worth 15 minutes of his life. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Him: You only have face pics, no body. That's not fair. What does your body look like?

Ah romance.

Me: (My hackles raised with ten kinds of indignation): I’m 800 pounds and ride around on a Rascal. Didn’t you see me on Maury last week?

Him: This obviously isn’t going to work. You’re the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met in my life.


So after a few days of retelling the story - my outrage and arm gestures getting more out of control with each telling - I went on to date someone else. After the breakup when I started up with Match again guess who was waiting for me, I assume not remembering our little exchange?

He winked at me four times in the span of a few weeks so I finally wrote:

Funny story {recount story here}. So how’s this for direct: Never contact at me again.

So then he like totes passed a note to Sarah in study hall and Mrs. Hamilton intercepted it and made him read it in front of the whole cla…zzzzzzzzzzz. What?

He sent me Match’s form rejection letter, which says something condescending like, “I’m sure you’re great for someone, just not me. We don’t match based on (fill in the blanks) physical attraction. Good luck in your search!”

Aw hells naw, son.

I blocked him, but he’s back with a new screenname! And he winked at me again today.

Me: I’m still 800 pounds, but you clearly want me. Let's do this.

i would say millions things to you that we can be a good match,the question is;how long is it gonna to find out am i the one for you or are you that

Realization of the day: There's no polite way to ask someone if English is their first language. There's just not.

I do wish it were an Alf skateboard though

As we all learned last March (I'm timely!) I tried a thing last year where I set a resolution for each month.

I achieved them all except playing a dead body on Law & Order (I'm still coming for you, Dick Wolf!) and getting insurance, which seems to just be eternally out of my grasp.

And what's the number one thing a girl without insurance should do? That would be skateboard, of course! Journey back with me as I explained my goal for June:

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.)

Why did I set this goal? Who knows! I'm not really clear if I thought I had a friend with a skateboard or if I was going to take lessons from someone or what. Plus, there's nowhere in Manhattan to learn without some 11-year-old pro laughing at you while he does a 360 over your head. Whatevs. All I knew is that I'd wanted to do it ever since I asked for a hot-pink Alf skateboard when I was 8. (Sensing a theme of weird gift requests?)

Because I didn't do it in June, I'm only giving myself partial credit. It was a photo finish. On New Year's Eve afternoon I was talking to my sister about next year's goals and I mentioned skateboarding was the only one from this year that I was bummed about. She - with her supernatural sense of logic - pointed out that we had a few hours to kill, a flat surface for a driveway and a Wal-Mart within a mile of us. Dunzo.

The total endeavor cost $12. Sure, it would have been more if I'd gotten a helmet, but the way I see it, I didn't plan to use it anyway. (Wal-Mart cashier: "You need a helmet, girl?" Me: "Nope, I got this, thanks. I don't plan to fall.") Boom, $20 saved.

Sure, I was a bit rickety at first, but I soon found my center of gravity and was gliding elegantly and tentatively grinding ferociously down the driveway.

Even though I didn't fall once, my parents were alarmed:



It also led to a great quote from my sister. She and I were fighting about how old that wee little skater Rob Dyrdek on Rob & Big.

Me: There's no way he's older than 25!
Annie: Nope, he's like 33.

(Hair-pulling, name-calling interlude.)
Me: (*Clacking away on Wikipedia*)

Me: Annie, I owe you an apology. He's 33. But he's so short though!
Annie: Well, Kate, short people age too.

A wise lesson for all of us going into the new year. Short people age indeed. Short people age indeed.

It's a major award!

Just wanted to let you know I got an honor from this dude, confirming my suspicions that I am - as I suspected - awesome. Here's what Jacob had to say about yours truly:

Funniest Blogger I don't Know Personally: I have no idea who Kate is. I do know that she doesn't post enough though. However, despite the slow pace of content addition, her posts are comedy gold. She's got a great way of making the mundane sound hilarious. Kudos. Just read her dining room floor glitter post or this to see for yourself. She also gets the award for Best Use of Labels.

Go me.

Suck it, old ladies.

My mom told me the other day how glad she was I don’t censor my blog even though I know my parents read it. To that I say: Let me tell you about the gingerbread house contest I entered, muthafuckas!

I’m going to level with you. When I was home, I made a gingerbread house. (Don’t judge me. I had no access to a car, so I was trapped at my parents’ house for almost three solid weeks. It was like “Alive”. You do what you have to to survive.)

My sister and I had been talking about making one for the past dozen years or so. This was going to be our year. We got supplies! I printed out pictures of churches! We batted ideas around! My sister made exactly three holly berries for a mini wreath and bailed!

I channeled my gingerbread rage and refocused it squarely where it belonged: little old ladies. I found out about a Hometown gingerbread house contest, entered the hell out of it and immediately started trash talking at the little old ladies and assorted gays I imagined my competition to be.

It turned into the most badass gingerbread house on the block, straight outta Compton wit its fly lil’ cobblestones, fuckin’ sparkily sugar snow on the roof and one kickass Holy Family.



Awwwww yeaaaah.

No gumdrops here. I went batshit with fondant, making every roof tile, chimney stone and row of siding. I cannot tell you how damn fly my Baby Jesus’ manger was.

After a few weeks of going around the house yelling “Suck it, old ladies!” at random times/objects, I was finished mere hours before I had to leave for the airport.

Not only did I enter a gingerbread house contest, and not only did I take it way too seriously, it came to my attention I may have cheated: I reinforced my walls with cardboard, lest the house collapse like DJ Tanner on a treadmill. (That’s my new favorite metaphor.)

Turns out I WON THE FUCKER! I know. I was more shocked than anyone. Despite the trash talking, I really thought there was some little old lady/gay who would know what they were actually doing and take my rightful prize from me.

Oh, and what was the prize? That would be a $200 savings bond. You may laugh now, but in 5 to 10 years, I’ll be sitting pretty.

Sadly, I did not win fan favorite (an additional $100 savings bond.) That went to some snot-nose homeschooler whose friends and family stuffed the ballot box. Like I need another reason to hate homeschooled kids? Go back to your spelling bees, nerd.

So in conclusion, I’d like to say: “Suck it, homeschoolers.”