She Says, Babe-ay, It's 11 p.m., I Must Be Lonely
Conversation I Had Moments Ago With The Man Sitting Next To Me At The Bar:
Me (typing away, sipping on Shiraz): ...
Him: So ...
Me: Hmm?
Him: So ... You drinking wine?
Me: Uhhh ... yep.
Him: Huh.
posted by Kate at 11:05 PM link/comments
Meetup
Right now, as I type this, I am sitting by myself in Cleveland's Town Fryer drinking wine and taking a break from dicking around with websites. "Georgia on My Mind" is playing on the jukebox, and that fact makes sitting here drinking while blogging seem quite poetic and cool and not at all pathetic.
Why am I sitting alone in a bar on a Wednesday night? Because the two other attendees at tonight's Cleveland Blogger Meetup have just departed, and I decided to hang around to take advantage of free WiFi in a bar.
Tonight I met Ken, who blogs political poetry and commentary (and who paid for my meal ... thanks, Ken! how lovely of you!), and Kevin, who, like me, stockpiles bad 80s pop lyrics in his memory and therefore totally got the joke when I told the story of the time Melinda called me from a bar screaming, "KATE!! WHO DID 'ONE NIGHT IN BANGKOK'??"
I am officially delighted in the knowledge that one other human being in Northeast Ohio knows that the answer to that question is Murray Head.
And hey? Six Other Cleveland Bloggers Who RSVPed For Tonight's Meetup But Didn't Show Up? You totally missed two orders of fried oreos. Nyah.
posted by Kate at 10:07 PM link/comments
Monday, November 13, 2006
Dear Cat Who Puked In My Underwear Drawer:
I have been living with you and your ilk for the past eight years of my life and have come to accept most aspects of your eccentric behavior. Sometimes you hork hairballs onto the dining room rug, and oh, I know how you enjoy it every time I spy them and freeze in horror in the split second I mistake the object for feces, eventually realizing that they are merely esophogus-shaped balls of the fur you have swallowed for reasons that cannot be comprehended by mortals.
And yes, you have gotten away with nudging large stereo speakers onto my head from atop shelves. You have also destroyed not one but two ceramic Cookie Monster cookie jars in the past three years. And, let us not forget that I have gone along with your bizarre rule that there cannot be more than three live plants in the house at any one time lest you mulch their innocent leaves in your greedy mouths, then projectile-vomit their poor, gnarled remains onto the side of the microwave.
But seriously ... my underpants? Don't think I didn't notice that approximately three seconds before finding the partially-digested Nutro-brand "indoor cat" food pooled neatly into the left cup of my $40 bra, the dresser drawer was closed. I can only deduce, then, that you used your furry little paw to slide the drawer open and, after emptying the contents of your stomach to your satisfaction, used the same paw to close the drawer, thereby exponentially multiplying my shock and disgust.
Am I not paying enough attention to you? Am I not spending enough time thinking about you and your needs? Because Saturday night, when I was out dancing with friends and excused myself to the restroom to figure out why, exactly, I kept feeling something hard and scratchy on my righ buttock, I found that small piece of kibble that I'd obviously missed during the cleanup process pasted firmly to the inside of my knickers, and I thought of you.
Happy now?
posted by Kate at 11:14 PM link/comments
Thursday, November 09, 2006
When Hippies Have Children
My friend's daughter got in trouble at school, so my friend decided to take the kid for a meeting with the school's counselor. An excerpt from her recap:
Counseleor: Why did you do what you did?
Kid: I don't know.
Counselor: What happens when we do things we're not supposed to? What happens to us? Do you know?
Kid: Yes. I know. We get bad karma.
posted by Kate at 11:23 PM link/comments
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Viva la Bacon
I've been trying lately to limit my intake of carbohydrates because my doctor says this is a good idea for people with PCOS. She's right, but I also think she's doing a little ass-covering because about eight months ago, when I first switched to her practice from another endocrinologist, she decided to conduct a merry little medication-switching experiment on me. "You don't need that aldactone," she said. "Here. Take these fancy new birth control pills instead. They'll keep those pesky androgens at bay."
I didn't dump my old endocrinologist because he was a bad doctor. He was actually quite good. Unfortunately, he's also one of those cameo docs who appears in a poof of smoke for a 45-second consult only after you've spent 30 minutes giving an oral dissertation on your medical history to the resident whom you've never met, and whom you will never see again, because said resident is specializing in emergency medicine and is only on an endocrinology rotation because the hospital said he had to.
Then, of course, came the part where the doctor would come in and immediately excuse himself only to return to the room flanked by 9 or so medical students in freshly-pressed white coats. "You don't mind if I show these folks a few things, do you?" the doctor would say, then lift my shirt to point out the abundance of PCOS-induced stretch mark scars that exist on my torso. "Note the healed striae," he'd say, "and after that, have a feel of her neck. Notice the goiter?" And although I fundamentally understood that, yes, this is a teaching hospital, and yes, these kids are going to learn a lot more from prodding my living, erratically-hormonal body than they will from a withered cadaver, it was hard to shake the feeling that I was a medical anomaly featured in some sort of freakshow science museum, especially when all the female students gave me looks that said, I know this is embarrassing for you, and I'm sorry, and thank god my stomach doesn't look like yours, because that would totally offset the sexiness of my naval piercing.
I'd heard a lot of good things about my new endocrinologist, not the least of which was that she performed examinations without an entourage, and although I had serious doubts about her decision to change my medication, I went along with her recommendation.
What she failed to realize is that taking medications out of my body is like offering a smack addict a shiny new quarter if only he promises to stop taking smack. Sure, he'll tell you he'll never touch the stuff again, but as soon as you're out of sight, his ass is making a beeline for the local smack store.
Where was I going with that metaphor? Oh, right. Anyway, my body resists pharmaceutical change, and in this case, as soon as I took away its aldactone and gave it some shiny new birth control pills, it reacted by causing me to gain 25 pounds. A few weeks ago, I called her office to request that okay, we tried this, and that's all very nice, but you need to give me back my fucking pills now. She complied, and I decided to couple the meds with a diet to combat the extra weight, which resides only in my midsection, which when combined with my skinny arms and legs, yields a comically incongruent apple-on-toothpicks appearance.
Cutting carbs is no small feat, especially when you realize that most of the food you on which you live is made up primarily of carbohydrates and sugar. After a week or so of eating not much more than lettuce, broccoli, cheese, eggs, and cold-cut slices, I realized I had to start getting creative with my meals lest I snap and dive headfirst into an industrial-sized vat of bread dough.
Here, then, for the benefit of fellow low-carbers, and for the amusement of those currently stuffing their faces with Wonder Bread and pure cane sugar, is the recipe I developed this evening.
Mediterranean-ish Portobello Mushrooms
1. Go to Costco. Become so amazed by the prospect of buying in bulk that you go slightly overboard. Buy toilet paper in quantities that will likely sustain you through 2009. Upon arriving home, unload goods and wonder whether you really needed eight cans of pitted black olives. Toss package containing eight huge portobello mushroom heads into the crisper drawer.
2. Forget all about mushrooms for 1 week.
3. Decide to find use for mushrooms. Opt to marinate them, then grill or bake them in some fashion. Toss slimy mushroom heads into bowl. Search kitchen for marinade ingredients. Arrive at combination of chicken broth, italian dressing, garlic, and onion powder. And oh yes, might as well toss handful of garam masala in there, too, because you have it in the pantry, and honestly, did you really think you were ever going to get around to making Indian food anyway?
3. Put mushrooms in Tupperware container in refrigerator. Forget about them for 5 days.
4. Open Tupperware container and sniff contents. Notice that smell is somewhat vinegary, but not weird enough to suspect bacterial contamination. Dump out marinade.
5. Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
5. Arrange mushroom heads in shallow baking dish and place dish in oven. Set timer for 25 minutes.
6. Notice that pet cockatiel is making screeching noises indicating that pet cockatiel wishes to come out of her cage. Remove bird from cage and place her on windowsill in office.
7. Hear timer go off. Open oven and inspect mushrooms, which appear to need more oven time. Return mushrooms to oven and set timer for 10 minutes.
8. Go to bathroom. Flush toilet. Address toilet using loud, scathing invectives when water begins pouring from lid.
9. Remove Hoover FloorMate vacuum from hall closet and set machine to "wet pickup," as toilet water has now made its way out of bathroom into entryway. Turn on vacuum.
10. Over sound of vacuum, fail to hear timer go off. Leave mushrooms in oven additional 6 minutes.
11. Finish toilet water cleanup. Put vacuum away, then change socks.
12. Notice lack of bird on office windowsill. Where is bird?
13. Bird, vexed by sound of vacuum cleaner, has at some point flown from the office window to the kitchen's greenhouse window, where she is perched happily and relieving herself on lip of flower pot.
14. Extract bird from kitchen window. Return bird to office.
15. Oh, crap. The mushrooms.
16. Open oven and realize mushrooms are now shrively and black.
17. Decide not to waste, despite unappetizing look of mushrooms. Cover mushrooms with hummus, feta cheese, and sliced black olives.
18. Eat half of mushrooms.
19. Throw away rest of mushrooms.
20. Dine on eggs and cheese.
posted by Kate at 5:26 PM link/comments
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Election 2006
Did we win? Holy shit!
*crosses fingers*
posted by Kate at 11:42 PM link/comments
Monday, November 06, 2006
Ow.
I've talked here before about my battle with my miscreant jaw. After two years of relative peace, my jaw has resumed its habit of inducing headaches that make me want to curl up under adjacent furniture and shoot missles out my eye sockets.
I went to the doctor the other day. He poked around at my head for a while, then ran for a pen and paper, whereupon he produced the name and number of the head of oral surgery at the Cleveland Clinic, under which he wrote "ASAP." Apparently, he believes that the meniscus (the little cushy bit that keeps the jaw joint from participating in naughty bone-on-bone action) on both sides of my head is not where it's supposed to be. To wit:
Normal Jaw:
My Jaw:
Next up: Surgical consult, which will no doubt necessitate more radiology. Mental note: Ask for Open MRI this time.
posted by Kate at 8:02 PM link/comments
Sunday, November 05, 2006
And I Still Wear Doc Martens, Too.
I'm certainly no expert in the arena of television marketing, but it seems to me that while it might be a swell idea to pump lots of advertising onto the TV during shows and events that lots of people watch (like football, for instance, which I enjoy), it might occur to someone sitting in a boardroom somewhere that it perhaps falls within the realm of "best practices" to avoid annoying the shit out of consumers.
This is all just to say that I am being made physically uncomfortable by the frequency with which Chevrolet is playing its newest pickup truck ad. If you've not seen this commercial, you either do not own a television or live in a country that is not the United States of America. It features the music of John "What's-His-Nuts" MellenCougarCamp singing a tremendously insipid ditty that goes like this:
"From the east cost!
To the west coast!
From the dirty something something something
To the blardee blardee land ...
This is ourrrr Cunnnn-traayyyy
This is ourrrr Cunnnn-traayyyy
This is ourrrr Cunnnn-traayyyy."
I seriously doubt that anyone is shocked that Mr. MellenDoodle would pen a tune saturated with nationalistic cliches, but when that the commercial is played during every single commercial break, on every major television network, every day between the hours of 4 and 10 p.m., it seems to me a bit ... I don't know ... excessive? Add to this the imagery chosen for the commercial -- it's Americana! it's trucks! and people laughing around a lawn sprinkler! and more trucks! that make dust when the tires spin! and some kids! and, oh good holy jesus on a fuckstick, no, they did not just show us a truck bed filled with Golden Retriever puppies -- and I want nothing more than to retreat to my living room to watch independent documentaries while rocking back and forth, muttering, "I am not in the Chevy truck demographic, I am not in the Chevy truck demographic ..."
Nope, not me. Look at me, sitting here subverting the dominant paradigm, typing away on my Mac with its hard-drive all ready to program moody singer-songwriter music into my iPod so that every afternoon, when I leave the house dressed in an outfit invariably involving an ironic t-shirt and knee socks, I can toggle between NPR and Elliott Smith on my way to work, where I go to make money so I can buy things at Target and IKEA.
Nope. No demographics here.
posted by Kate at 9:03 PM link/comments
Friday, November 03, 2006
Dear Person Who Found My Website After Googling "were is the layer we can find whether a lady is virgin":
The answer is "hymen." And it's not an accurate indicator. And you're creepy. Now go away.
Love,
Kate
posted by Kate at 1:55 PM link/comments
Thursday, November 02, 2006
In Defense
When I visit other cities, people tend to have two reactions when I tell them I live, voluntarily, in Cleveland. The first is this: "Oh. Cleveland. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, right? And you must really like Drew Carey."
Oh, yes. Drew Carey. That's why I'm here.
The second reaction is recoiled horror, followed by a statement along the lines of, "Isn't that where they caught the river on fire?" to which I must respond, "Yes. About five times. But it's not like that anymore. Now, the pollution levels have dropped to the point where the worst side effect is a preponderance of hermaphroditic fish."
The real answer to the question of why I choose to live here is fairly simple. I went to college near here and many of my friends stuck around after we graduated, so I stuck around, too. Not the most romantic way to choose a place to call home for the past 12 years or so, but meh.
I've been hearing a lot on the radio lately about how Northeast Ohio is developing strategies to attract Young People to move here and to keep the existing Young People from leaving. Frankly, I'd just as soon you non-Cleveland Young People stay put, because the cost of living is cheap and I like it that way. However, should you be considering a change of pace -- tired of temperate climes? bored with countless cultural attractions? weary of convenient access to highways? -- and considering a move to Cleveland, I will give you five reasons to turn that consideration into a reality.
1. New Yorkers: For the price of a co-op 400-square-foot studio located squarely in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, you can buy a 1500-square-foot house. With surrounding grass. That you actually own. For the price of townhouse in Greenwich Village, you can own the whole damn City of Cleveland. Seriously. Call Mayor Frank Jackson and make him an offer.
2. Yes, it snows for six months out of every year, and July and August temperatures often approach that of thermite, but June? And September? They make you thankful. They are the guilt-tripping months of all of Monthdom. "You think you have it so bad?" They say. "You'll appreciate us yet. No, you'd better not spend all day on the couch, all ungrateful like that, because you'll see. You'll see. In February, you'll be thinking, 'why did i spend june inside playing 'guitar hero' when i could have been enjoying june?' That's what you'll think. And then where will you be? On the couch, playing Guitar Hero, watching the snow fall, that's where."
3. The fact that Cleveland has one of the highest obesity rates in the country will make you feel quite svelte, even if your ass, like mine, could stand a bit of a narrowing.
4. Pierogies. The city's lousy with Poles, which means you are always within spitting distance of a decent pierogi and four or five people who want to join you in vodka shots with pickle chasers. It's fantastic. I swear.
5. Perspective. Yes, it's a bit cruddy around here, but that makes it all the more magnificent when you visit, say, Chicago, and are so marveled by its efficiency that you turn to your traveling partner and sputter, "Holy shit, look. Cabs! That you can just hail on the street, and not ones for which you have to phone ahead 30 minutes in advance! And a downtown area that is not completely desolate past 8 p.m. each night! Who knew such a place existed?"
Convinced yet?
posted by Kate at 11:56 PM link/comments
There had better be a special place in heaven for this.
Would you believe me if I said that the reason I posted so late tonight was that I spent the evening both triaging the foot of a 12-year-old girl and mopping up vomit produced by a 39-year-old woman?
You can't invent this kind of comedy.
*cough*
posted by Kate at 12:05 AM link/comments