The cold is in my bones/Said it's gone beyond the line this time

I want to say something smart. Something beautiful about the power of love and the transience of life and the best I can come up with is "don't need money. don't need fame. don't need no credit card to ride this train."

ah, Huey.

I want to believe that curling up next to someone is always comforting. That it doesn't have to lead to talking to two of your best friends while sitting in your bathroom, listening to aforementioned someone snore through your walls, your traitorous toy poodle choosing the wrong side.

I want to believe that I won't always take things so fucking literally. That someday I'll learn to relax into a relationship.

I want to believe that someday I'll meet Someone and I'll know that while not perfect, Someone will be right for me.

I sit here at work. Pick at my lips till they bleed. Field phonecalls from people I could care less about. I know I have to take a piss and that I should sit up straight and that I shouldn't have stolen canned soda (not even Diet) from the going-away pizza party.

I know after work, I must walk poodle, pack bag, take cab to Dad. How I wish I could talk to him about this. Maybe hearing my sad story would make him feel better. Knowing my dad, he might advise me to give guy the perma-boot or he might tell me, as he often does, that I'm over-dramatic, take things too seriously. And he wouldn't be the first.

My dad doesn't have a bloodclot in his lung. Or cancer. Just pneumonia that's switched sides that hopefully will be treatable within three weeks. I know I'm relieved. I know I'm happy. But hearing that news made me want to go screaming from the hilltops: "fuck you all!"

Happy Admin Rock Star Day!

That's right, folks. It's Administrative Assistant Day! Who rolled into work at least 10 minutes late to find some lovely gerbera (sp?) flowers on her chair? Yep. My boss gave me a hug and thanked me for doing such a great job.

In other news, my dad and I have reached the point in our relationship where we talk openly about his bowel movements or in today's instance, lack thereof. More to come on that front as I'm behind on relaying the following:

The man I'm seeing and I went out to dinner at the Delta Grill Monday night.

The bill came. He didn't reach for it. I went to get my share out of my wallet as splitting it seems to be our thing.

"I don't have enough cash"
"Huh. So, one of us is paying."
"Yeah."
"So, am I paying or are you?"
(horribly awkward pause)
"You get this one. I'll get you over the weekend."

So, on a night when I planned to spend 30 bucks max, I spent close to 60. Last night, we met for happy hour at ArtBar, which has two-for-one drinks. He knew I'd had a bad day with my dad. He got the drinks. I looked at his sunglasses. They were really nice.

"Wow, what kind of shades are these?"

He hands me the case.
Prada.

(beat)

"So, why did I get dinner last night?"
"Wow."

That boy who caused you pain/ That boy's got shit for brains

Okay, so my boss gets GQ and I'm so annoyed by some article titled some bullshit title like "the secret lives of men"or some such similar bullshit and how at an early age (like, 12), when boys are first caught with masturbatory materials by their moms and are forced to tell some poor excuse for a lie and thus are forever programmed to lie to women, especially about sex. how men with only one woman, one house, one car, one life are some sort of failure.

hello? dumbassbullshitdickinyourhanddouchebag! i love it so much when people who write for these bullshit dumbass magazines pretend that women don't have sexual impulses, sexual needs, unspoken of wants that they play in their brains like the private porno tape that runs while goodmeaning but poorly trained boys lick their pussies.

it's such bullshit. do people think married women don't get bored? that they don't notice when their husbands get fat, lose hair, lose erections . .. .it's not just guys that cheat, folks. and it's not just guys with wandering eyes and secret lusts, acted upon or no. it's bullshit.

this sort of archaic nonsense belongs in a magazine from the 1950s.

I dream to heal your wounds/ but I bleed myself

In order to write properly about my dad, I feel it necessary to divide both him and to some extent, my life and the life of my family, into three parts:

1)Dad/life before Mom died
2) Dad/life after Mom died
3) Dad/life after Dad got diagnosed with mystery lung disease

The story I'm about to tell is from Dad Part #2:

Shortly after I graduated from college, my dad bought and moved into a small house in Leesburg, Virginia. Farmland. He's an old man from the Bronx. He spruced up the old house, demonstrating interior decorating skills of which I wasn't aware. Hired outside contractors to fix up the land, the exterior, update appliances. Made friends with the redneck neighbors. They learned to understand each other's accents. It was an adorable house, a far cry from the gargantuan Colonial in which I'd grown up. He ultimately sold "da cottage" and made a ridiculous amount of money.

On most days the summer after I graduated, Dad woke me up, as per usual, by throwing Mr. Brown (his toy poodle) on top of me:

"Good mohr-ning!"
(Groan.)
"Rise and shine. Make some noise, Kad!"
"For the love. No licking, Mr. Brown!"
"It's a beautiful day. Da birds are singing, da sun is shining."
"Coffee."
"Ya coffee is downstehs. Look at dat sun, Kad. Take a pictshuh."
"Urgh."
"You could write a poem, Kad: "Da sun rises in Leesbug.""
"Mr. Brown! no licking!"
"Kad, huh-ry! I have someting to show you."

I stumble downstairs. Mr. Brown hops on a box of old taxes that my dad kept near the side door so he could see out the window. I pour a cup of coffee, rub my eyes. My dad points outside. On the freshly completed stone walkway to our sidedoor stands a gleaming white pigeon.

"Look, Kad."
"It's a pigeon."
"It's a dove."
"It's a white pigeon."
"It's ya mudder."
"It's a pigeon."
"It's been coming every day for the last week."
"The pigeon?"
"It's da spirit of ya mudder, Kad."
"In a pigeon?"
"It's a dove, Kad."
"Huh."
"I bet if I took a pictshuh, it wouldn't show up."
"Because it's a spirit?"
"Yes, Kad."

I hoped, for my dad's sake, that the supposed dove wouldn't appear in the pictures I took. But it did. A few days later, the dove stopped coming. Even when the picture developed and the dove was present, my dad swore up and down that it was Mom coming to tell us something but "what was it, Kad?"

To this day, seven years later, my dad has a picture of the Leesburg dove propped up against a framed photo of my mom on his dresser.

Tired of living in a cloud/ if you're gonna say shit now you'll do it out loud

I sang an obscene amount of karaoke last night, inc the following:
These Boots Were Made for Walkin
Proud Mary
Summer of '69
Bust a Move (the folks LOVED this)
Islands in the Stream (I hated this, much like I hate all the music from Grease)

I met someone of interest, though. A guy with two girls. Somehow we got on the subject of spray tanning. And he made some very valid points:

"Don't worry about being pasty. Every guy, regardless of society bullshit, has very specific tastes. There's someone for everyone. You being cool with being pasty, being cool with your body . . that's what matters. Being insecure is gonna drive a guy off long before being pasty is."

Well put, no?

After much karaoke, (highly recommend Winnie's in Chinatown, btw. Dive bar, cheap karaoke, kind people)I got in a cab. On the floor of the cab was a Blackberry. I attempted during the ride home to find the owner, let him know I had it. I was still doing this after I paid the cabbie and got out of the cab.

crunch

Unbeknownst to me, as I opened the door, a shiny expensive silver car pulled up. The cab driver screamed at me. I got out. Didn't see any damage done to any car except what appeared to be a chip of the top of a travel coffee mug under the cab. The light turned to green. The cab and the silver car pulled away.

Walked into my building, got my mail, got on the elevator. Two guys stood inside.

Some thing with the cab driver, huh?
Oh, yeah - you overheard that huh? (I'd called Tim immediately after the incident. I assumed the guy had heard me talking to Tim)
You could've stuck around, helped the cab driver out.
I'm sorry? (inside my head: the guy was screaming at me, douchebag)
You chipped her mirror. Poor cab is stuck at the corner figuring out insurance.

I don't know what part of this to believe. Here I am thinking I'm doing a good deed. I chip part of the case of the mirror (hence what appeared to be part of a travel coffee mug) of an incredibly expensive car and both cars went driving into the night and the cab driver screamed at me after I gave him a generous tip. Sounds like a case for the NY Times Ethicist.

The happy footnote: gave the Blackberry owner his PDA a couple hours ago. A very attractive, very gay man named Benedict. Perhaps he was the Pope in the guise of a ripped Asian man with a French accent who spoke little English.

Kath's Top Pet Peeves

No indie rock quote can cover what I'm about to list. So here goes:

I hate the following things:

1) When I tell people I know nothing more than what I've told them and they continue asking me questions, por ejemplo, a conversation between good friend Gabe and myself:

Wow, Renata has birds? Cool! What kind?
I have no idea.
Are they exotic?
I don't know.
I mean, are they like big or small?
I've never actually seen them.
How many does she have?
She doesn't really talk about them.
What are their names?
For the love of god.
Do they talk?
I hate you.

2) When I offer to help someone, they deny my help and then are pissed later that I didn't help them. See any post referring to my father. He's convinced that I possess some sort of mindreading skill that I simply do not have.

3) When people mince words. For example, a cell conversation between a boy and me last night:

I can't escape.
What do you mean?
I have to finish at least one more beer.
Okay.
I can't get away. We're going to go get food. I can't escape.
Bullshit.
I'm sorry?
Baby, your night's not over yet. You're with your friends. That's totally legit. It has nothing to do with escaping.
You're right. Is that ok?
Yes, silly.
Are you sure? I really wanted to see you before I left town.
I wanted to see you, too but it's not gonna happen. No worries. Have a great night.

See how much easier that is? I've been called a straight-shooter on multiple occasions and I find it's simply more direct. In the above example, said boy and I both had our respective plans for the night and agreed to stay in touch, play things by ear. Thus, he was in no way in the wrong for continuing to stay out but yet made it out like someone was holding a gun to his head saying "you must drink beer with us." He gets points for keeping me posted. Loses points for behaving like a spineless pussy.

4) Elevator/subway conduct: goes without saying. Let people off before getting on. Let the pregnant, elderly and tarded have the seats.

That's all for now. Oh!

5) People fucking up my name. It's not Kathleen. It's not Kathy. And if you've worked with me for over 4 months, please know my last name and don't shout in the middle of the office: "Hey, Katherine! I'll forward you that email from Payroll. What's your last name?"

The moment that I step outside/So many reasons/For me to run and hide

So I've gained about 10 lbs since starting my new job in December. That's just swell.

Although I work out 4-5x a week and eat pretty healthily (hold on, I do drink A LOT of beer these days ... it's practically summer. A girl cannot survive on Cabernet alone. Not to mention it's baseball season and I don't have cable and am thus forced to go to a bar and drink beer. Surely you understand. And baseball games run about 3 hours sometimes), I can't get into three pairs of pants and I may have to say goodbye to my favorite jeans for good. What the eff?

Speaking of my pasty ass and thighs, my skirt blew up as I raced up the stairs from the a/c/e stop at 14th street this morning. The poor Hispanic children behind me . . . Thankfully I'm wearing underwear again. (Hear that, Ron?)

And! WhenI switched to an A train at 42nd Street, I practically bumped into a guy I dated a couple years ago. See link above. He was shorter and less attractive than when I dated him. 'Course, I'm wearing two inch heels today but still . . . Sadly I cannot find a proper pic of him but he is directing a rather popular show that's getting some acclaim.

I'm a psychosomatic sister/Running around without a leash

I often wonder what folks at drugstores and such think of the various items consumers buy together, for example:

In my running days now long gone, it was not unusual for me to buy the following:
3 powerbars, 2 bottles lemon/lime Gatorade, one box of condoms

In my mind, it was:
I'm training for a marathon and I have a boyfriend.

In Duane Reade employee's mind:
She must have A LOT of sex.

And thus I've begun to put together other possible combinations ( I invite you all to respond in kind):

1) kitty litter, Elmer's glue, tampons, stainstick
2) Weed b Gone, cigarettes, tic tacs, vagistrips
3) travel size chinese checkers, Pepperoni Combos, Astroglide, makeup bag
4) rubber bands, shoe polish, One-A-Day Vitamins for women, Q tips, sunglasses
5) travel coffee mug that says #1 Dad, aging Cadbury Creme Egg, stapler

Wow, that was harder than I thought.

You build me up, you break me down again and I take it.

(Get Up Kids, fyi)

Last night I left a voicemail for my dad. He called me back around 8:30pm, breathing heavily:

I think you should think about taking Mr. Brown, Kad
Dad, I've been offering that for over a week.
Kadrin, I'm really not in the mood for rhetoric, ok?
When do you want me to come get him?
At ya convenience.
I'll come get him right now.
No, not now. I don't want to be disturbed. Come get him after work.
I have a meeting after work. I won't be done till after 8,is that ok?
I need you to go to Dr. Sukamaran's office and pick up my CT scan.
Dad, I told you last week that was the only way -
Look, Kad, I really don't want to get into this with you right now. Will you give me a break?
(pause)
I'm seeing a surgeon on Monday.
What kind of surgeon?
Da surgeon who'd be performing the biopsy.
Then when are we going to Richmond? Next week?
I don't know.

My dad's behavior smacks of manipulation. The sort he, when healthy is famous for. It's my turn to be whipping boy it seems. Takes the old phrase "biting the hand that feeds you" to a whole other plane.

Secretly I want to bury in the yard/the grey remains of a friendship scarred

Yep, it's Kath quoting indie rock week.

Someone who kinda hurt me bad sent me this email yesterday:

"Unfortunately, my mom lost her battle on Thursday. I know you know what this is like. Nothing's ever going to be the same."

And I was left wondering what the etiquette is. Someone who kinda hurt me bad lost her mom last week. I remember, when we were friends and innately smitten with each other as new friends can be, when she initially asked me about my mom's death and I told her and she gave me the standard "I can't imagine what that would be like."

I sent her flowers. Dropped her a voicemail. Tragedy equalizes everything, it would seem. Transcends professional/personal differences. Lets unanswered questions remain unanswered.

What I didn't expect was how much of that I was carrying around. I hadn't spoken to this girl since August of last year. We'd only recently begun trading emails. I only felt sympathy for her and something like relief and grief started to give me the shakes that come right before the tears.

I'm trying to drink away the part of the day I cannot sleep away

I recently revisited this album by Modest Mouse. I'm glad I did.

I find myself incredibly angry these days. In a I-wanna-beat-the-shit-out-of-someone-till-they-bleed-way.

Then, other times, I'm amazed by the quiet that sometimes comes. Sipping shockingly strong coffee made in a French press while grating cheese, cutting vegetables, whisking eggs. The man just behind me fries ham, bakes potatoes with rosemary. Clad in his blue tshirt and pajama pants, I sit next to him while the Yankees lose horribly to Baltimore. We load his dishwasher, kick the cat off the bed.

"A little over a month, huh?" he says to me.
"Something like that," I reply.
"Huh."
"Yeah."

Last night's horror

Of all the Yankees to potentially fuck with, Fenway fans pick GARY SHEFFIELD? Whose at-bat song is "Move, bitch! Get out the way!" And who does that scary keep-bat-in-motion-while-waiting-for-pitch thing? Always freaks me out. Wanna say Soriano does it too.
Dumbass Boston fan.
So of course Sheffield gets a double later. Bases get loaded. And my beloved Yankees fuck up again. Can't blame it on 'Mo this time. (Who gets a standing ovation at Fenway now).
I just can't believe we let Johnny Longhair get on base. That was the beginning of the end.
Bubba Crosby (pinch runner) . .. is there a better name ever?

Oh, saw Helen Hunt last night. She looked OLD and tired with great hair and clothes.

The latest from Dad

I talk to my dad about 4x a day. Today he went to an orthopedist. I called him around 4:30pm.

Hello?
What's up?
I have tendinitis. In my calf. Above my knee.
That's your thigh.
I have tendinitis in my thigh. Going up to my buttocks.
Geez. Do they know what caused it?
It's yet anudda mystery.
Huh.
The doctor prescribed codeine and a anti-flammatory.
Ok.
I have to go see my Jewish girlfriend at the pharmacy.
That nice woman at Duane Reade?
What does vasculah mean?
Vascular?
Si.
I think it has to do with the heart, veins, blood.
She was wondering why I wasn't seeing a vasculah specialist.
I have no idea. Were you asleep?
Mr. Brown and I just woke up from a siesta.
How're you doing with food? Do you need anything?
I'm out of garlic bread, Kad.
Do you still have lasagna?
How can I eat lasanga without garlic bread?
(sigh)
I feel like a hot dog, Kad. Wid sauercraut.
You have those things, right?
Yes.

Big Fish and Pleated Pants

Big Fish is a fantastic film. It's a Tim Burton and although I'm not an official fan (Beetlejuice and Edward Scissorhands are in the queue), I will quickly declare myself one if the bulk of his films are anything like Big Fish. Wow. It's absolutely beautiful to look at (as is Billy Crudup, quite frankly), the plot is lovely and the acting is fantastic.

While watching Fox News last night (forgive me, I like to surf the news for my commercial because it's my 30 seconds of fame), I heard a disturbing statistic about cell phones in the boudoir:
17% of Americans have stopped sex to answer their cell phones
7% of Italians
22% of Germans
Thank you, Fox News! Now I'm no stranger to bad sex and Fat Daly used to stop sex with me to field calls from his roommate ("She might be on her way home!') but really . . . ! Then again, if the person placing the call was talking dirty sexy things to the person receiving the sex, good or bad .. I don't know.

Lots of fat guys with pleated pants and bad hair on the train this morning. One chick was holding a silver bag that read "Will work for shoes" but was wearing some of the ugliest I'm-trying-to-be-hip shoes I've ever seen. What the eff.

Mr. Brighteyes

My dad calls me after "24" last night:

"Didn't you watch 24?" (We rarely say "hello")
"I did."
"You didn't call." (I'd been drinking)
"What'd you think?"
"Good stuff, Kad."
"I thought so."
"Got bad news, Kad."
"Oh dear."
"I've got a fevuh. 100."
"Dear god."
"I'm gonna pop some Tylenol. Call me tomorrow morning to make sure I'm still here."
"Not funny, Dad."
"And Mr. Brown vomited."
"Great."
"You've got a lot to worry about, Kad."

I got off the phone. Started sobbing. Sat in front of my computer. Wanted to write something smart. Something that spoke to the suffering of humanity. Something that gave voice to the conflicting feelings within.

Instead, I finished a bottle of wine, ate half a bag of chocolate chips and passed out.

Thirteen

It wasn’t until watching “Secretary” that I realized that self-mutilation wasn’t something I alone had done as a young teen. My eighth grade homeroom teacher, Mr. Hennessy, Georgetown law school dropout and ultimate Frisbee player, saw the scratches on my wrist and called my parents. It was the night of their 25th wedding anniversary, the last one they would spend together. My mom would die suddenly of a mystery illness eight months later.

My parents mistook the scratches, made with a steak knife I kept under my mattress, for a suicide attempt. That’s when they found Cuban psychologist Dr.A” (see above link). The license plate on his car read "BIG HUG."
One of our initial sessions went like this:

“Your parents say you are very good at soccer. Is that right?”
“I guess.”
“You like playing soccer?”
“Yeah.”
“You realize you have to be alive to play soccer, don’t you?”

Watching “Thirteen” Saturday night, I again was reminded that I was not alone in this seemingly bizarre behavior. When outside forces well beyond your control are causing you pain, it’s awfully comforting to be able to inflict your own. You choose when and where and how much damage should be done. You watch the blood come out. You watch the cut heal. It’s a dirty little ritual. This too shall pass.

My dad screamed at me. My mom cried. The next morning I pretended to stay asleep as my dad stroked my hair. He gave me homework assignments after that. Made me read Readers Digested Condensed books and write book reports. I wasn’t allowed to close the door to my bedroom. Ever.

When I graduated from junior high school, my mom bought Mr. Hennessy the most expensive Frisbee she could find. Upon attending my mom’s wake the following January, Mr. Hennessy approached my dad:

“Please go easy on Katherine. You were always so tough on her.”

My dad was furious with me, what had I told Mr. Hennessy, what could he possibly be talking about. Practicing for a piano lesson, I was reminded of my mom’s 50-year-old hands, the oval finger nails, Estee Lauder lotion in the big pale green bottle, Chopin’s Waltz in a Minor, sponge painting on a rainy afternoon, rolling potica dough, the time she accidentally dyed her hair (and nails) pink in an attempt to cover her gray.

I couldn’t look at my dad. I looked down at my own hands, speechless.

Somewhere between Tim and Gabe

The commercial I starred in last summer is up and running again on the TV. I'm getting back in shape. Just got an amazing pedicure. Am cooking regularly. Met a nice guy of who(m)* my friends approve.

My friend Tim is very happy these days and rightfully so. My friend Gabe is pissed as usual. I think I'm somewhere in between. Hopeful, wary, scared, self-protective, at times both giddy and quiet, my feet alternately clapping or stamping while I blush into a handsome man's shoulders.

And the poetry I will attempt to cite verbatim here . . . is both a tinge sad but incredibly hopeful and comes from the silly talented Van Gogh ("Dear Theo," a collection of letters to his brother, given to me by one Tim Heevez):

So you must not think that I disavow things; I am rather faithful in my unfaithfulness, and, though changed, I am the same, and my only anxiety is: How can I be of use in the world? Cannot I serve some purpose and be of any good? How can I learn more? You see, these things preoccupy me constantly, and then I feel myself imprisoned by poverty, excluded from participating in certain work, and certain necessary things are beyond my reach. That is one reason for not being without melancholy, and then one feels an emptiness where there might be friendship and strong and serious affections; one feels a terrible discouragement gnawing at one’s very moral energy; fate seems to put a barrier to the instincts of affection, and a flood of disgust rises to choke one. And one exclaims, “How long, my God!”
Well, what shall I say? Our inward thoughts, do they ever show outwardly? There may be a great fire in our soul, and no one ever comes to warm himself at it; the passers-by see only a little bit of smoke coming through the chimney, and pass on their way. Now, look you, what must be done? Must one tend that inward fire, have salt in oneself, wait patiently yet with how much impatience for the hour when somebody will come and sit down near it – to stay there maybe?

My favorite chef

Click on link above (which I think is also the title) for a really interesting Q&A with Giada di Laurentiis, granddaughter of movie producer Dino di Laurentiis. In this interview, she cites her favorite dried pasta (Barilla), lists the ingredients any Italian food fan should have in his/her pantry (including capers, Italian canned tuna and olive oil) and explains how she stays so thin (portion control, roller blading and good genes). Well worth a read.

I recently bought her book, "Everyday Italian," a glossy, pretty, simple book with fantastic recipes inside . . .most things can be made in a half hour or less and use stuff that you probably have laying around. Love it.

He's no Jerry Orbach.

I dated the guy in the above link. The one on the right with the shockingly huge forehead. He was an asshole. That hair you see? Fake. It fell out when he slept, leaving a blue glaze on said forehead.

I saw the forehead on a Law & Order repeat a few nights ago. It can't act for shit and speaks with a surprisingly effeminate voice. Then again, it does belong to a musical theater actor. Used to tap dance while waiting for the subway.

Open mouth insert beer

So, last night some pals and I go to my favorite local watering hole to watch the Sox/Yankees game. My new and rather attractive gentleman caller and I pop outside to have a smoke. (I know the following things are true: Yankees are overpaid and smoking is bad for you. Yes, thanks.)

Who goes walking by? My ex's best friend and fellow standup comic of the same first name. He looks rather like Skeletor and is thus impossible to miss. Apparently his car is parked on 48th St., the street the bar stands upon.

The smart thing to do would have been to keep my mouth shut and simply gaze longingly into gentleman caller's eyes, thus subtly avoiding any possibility of recognition. But, the filter was off and the beer was in and I basically am like:

KW: "Sorry, I know that guy. He's a friend of my ex's. Must not be recognized."
GC: "Huh. How recently was this ex? Recent? Recentish?"
KW: "Uh, like August."
GC: "Recentish."
KW: "Not really. We haven't spoken since."

But it's like . . .can I please, FOR ONCE, enter a relationship and keep my backstory to myself?

My friend Leila said that she and her now-husband, when dating, didn't discuss past relationships. Thus, they belonged to each other. (or so it seemed). So, unless they feel to bring something up that will help them grow as a couple, they don't talk about it.

I like this idea. Who wants to hear my sad stories anyway? And to bring up someone who ultimately didn't treat you or your friends so great . . . it sort of gives that person a kind of weight and relevance that they simply shouldn't be allowed.

I'm not gonna sit and ruminate about this but rather kind in mind that mysteries are okay. And allowing things to slowly come out is all right but choosing the moment rather than having a fit of neurotic silliness is probably in everyone's best interests.