Green Is the New Blue

I bought two things recently: a dress for my cousin's upcoming wedding, and a car. Coincidentally, both of them are green. That's odd since my favorite color is blue. If anybody asks, I'll just tell them that I planned it that way because I wanted both to match my eyes.

The dress

The car

Très chic, no?

Of Coaches and Cars

Hey, remember that time I signed up for eBay so that I could buy a Coach handbag? That was dumb of me. Sometimes I can be so naïve.

I didn’t win my auction. I didn’t win any of the other auctions that I bid on, either. I will probably never win an auction for a Coach bag. Why, you ask? Because the bags seem to be selling at (or darn near) the prices they went for when they were new. I’m not willing to pay that kind of money for something that’s several seasons old, so it looks like I’m doomed to lead a Coachless existence.

Maybe this is destiny’s way of telling me that I should be putting that money to better use. Like, say, buying a new car. Actually, I know that’s the big-ticket purchase that all of my money should be going towards.

You see, my current set of wheels has one teensy weensy insignificant flaw. It doesn’t have functional air conditioning.

OK, it’s actually a colossal problem. In Washington, D.C.’s fetid and swamplike humid summer climate, sometimes I feel like I’m about to pass out from heat exhaustion while driving someplace mundane, like the dentist, whose office is about half an hour from my house.

(Before you ask, yes, I looked into having the air conditioner fixed. The cost of repair, however, would be far more than the car’s Kelley Blue Book value.)

I’ve been managing by carrying around lots of bottled water and extra shirts in my trunk. This arrangement is getting kind of old, though, so I figured it’s time to do the adult thing and get myself a decent, temperature-controlled vehicle.

I test drove cars at two different dealerships last weekend, and was completely overwhelmed. I went into the experience thinking that I knew what I wanted (something mid-sized, with automatic transmission and a cloth interior), and discovered that I have no freaking clue what’s practical or best for me.

A sun-roof? Uhh... maybe -- I don’t care one way or the other. Tinted windows are nice, but not too tinted. And then there’s the question of color. I didn’t think I was picky until I discovered that I have a passionate dislike of anything that’s white, black, gray, or gold.

The salesmen kept pointing out different kinds of tires, as though that’s a major selling point that I should care deeply about. (Side note: Am I supposed to care about tires? Why are they so important? I can always have them replaced, right?) I suspect that what they were REALLY doing was trying to distract me from looking at the super-expensive sticker prices.

I also test drove some used vehicles, because let’s face it, that’s definitely the more economical way to go. But often I found myself disgusted by the condition of their interiors -- many of them had conspicuous stains and marks that are never going to come clean. If I’m going to put down a hefty chunk of cash, I don’t want to be driving around in other people’s filth, even if the car handles well and is the most reliable vehicle on the planet.

I came home discouraged and tired. And to add insult to injury, the salesmen from the dealerships I visited have been calling my cell phone nonstop all week -- some of them twice in one day. Their aggressive determination is incredibly off-putting. I’m so annoyed by their calls that it’s going to take me a while before I work up the patience to go car shopping again.

Next time one of them calls, I think I’m going to tell him that I bought a brand new Ferrari Enzo.

Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Long Live Oscar, the Harbinger of Death

Are there any other cat lovers out there? If so, you'll probably enjoy this article. It's awesome (OK, not the death part -- just the uncanny premonition bit).

I wish I had a cat that would curl up with me whenever I was dating an asshole who was about to screw me over. That would save me a lot of time and heartbreak.

Hopefully (Not) Coming Soon to a TV Near You

I had a nice weekend. I got a lot accomplished: I did laundry, ran errands, paid some bills, painted my toenails, test drove a couple of cars, was filmed by a television crew -- you know, the usual.

OK, so that last thing is kind of unusual -- I'll grant you that. But unfortunately it's not a very exciting story. However, since this is my blog, I feel like subjecting you to the details anyway.

On Saturday night, I was standing in line at Glen Echo, waiting to pay the admission fee for their weekly swing dance. I glanced up ahead through the open doors and into the ballroom, and immediately I knew that something was different. I could clearly see the top of a very large boom microphone bopping up and down in sync with the head of a man, who was toting the cumbersome thing across the dance floor.

When I reached the head of the line and the table of friendly volunteers who collect the entrance fee, I noticed a handwritten paper sign taped next to the cash box. It said, "WETA is filming tonight. If you don't want to be on camera, please tell the crew."

Hmm, I thought. This is going to be an interesting night.

I was running a bit late and the lesson had started about five minutes before my arrival. I quickly changed shoes and approached the dance floor.

"We have an extra lady!" boomed a thunderous voice over the ballroom's speakers. "There's a free lady over there in the red shirt! Quick, gentlemen, one of you go and claim her as your partner!"

Shit. That was me. One of the teachers was calling attention to me in front of hundreds of people -- and a camera crew. I guess I should smile for my close-up, I thought. I mustered a grin and lamely waved in the general direction of the teachers, the camera, and the pack of extra men, all of whom were standing in the center of the room and staring at me.

A guy in a black t-shirt broke away from the group and ran up to claim me. I gradually relaxed as the lesson got underway and the two of us concentrated on following the teachers' directions.

The camera crew hovered oppressively close to the instructors. One of them asked the crew to back off a couple of times because they weren't giving the couple enough space to demonstrate the steps. Then, mysteriously, the crew disappeared.

Good, I thought. I've been embarrassed enough for one night.

But then I looked up and realized the crew had gone upstairs to the balcony level and was filming us from above. Not just anybody, mind you, but the exact section of the ballroom where I happened to be standing with my partner. It could be worse, I realized. At least this isn't my first attempt at swing dancing.

After the lesson, the crew came back downstairs and walked around the floor to get some footage of people dancing to the band. For the most part, I managed to steer clear of their lens.

I asked several people at the dance on Saturday night, and I came home and checked the WETA website, but I can't figure out why they were filming. I don't know if they were just getting stock footage of community events, or if they're doing some kind of special on local nightlife, swing dancing, or the history of Glen Echo.

In any case, if you happen to be watching WETA and you see an awkward-looking skinny girl in a red fitted t-shirt with a ponytail -- that's me. Please tell me all about it -- just don't expect me to actually watch.

Not-So-Ancient History

As a senior in college, I took a university-sponsored trip to Greece. This was a huge deal to me because I was minoring in Ancient Studies (or what some schools call Classics). I was going to see the Parthenon! I was going to see the Palace at Knossos! I was going to see ancient Corinth! I was going to see Mycenae! I was going to see Delphi! I was going to see everything, and I was excited.

Naturally, the highlight of the trip was the Acropolis in Athens. The Acropolis is iconic, legendary -- even magical. As a landmark, the Acropolis has miraculously maintained its enormous appeal over the centuries despite its ailing condition. The monument's structures are now mostly covered in scaffolding, and much of their original glory has been robbed under the guise of preservation. (Lord Elgin famously spirited the Parthenon's friezes away to London, and the Porch of the Maidens on the Erechtheion has been rebuilt with replicas.)

But I didn't care. Nobody cares. Most people travel staggering distances just to stand in the rubble of the majesty that Pericles commissioned way back during the Golden Age of Athens from 460 to 430 BC.

The day that my tour group went to the Acropolis, the sky was ominously overcast because the weather is always crappy on important outdoor occasions. I remember poking around aimlessly near the Erechtheion as our tour guide droned on in her impossibly thick Greek accent. She was recounting historical facts that I had already read several times in various textbooks, so I didn't feel the need to listen. After a while, we moved further back past the Parthenon, and something the guide said suddenly snapped me back to reality.

"And thees," she said, gesturing to a large walled circular clearing behind her, "ees the Nazi bunker."

Say what? That was definitely not in my textbooks.

But as she tried to explain, a horde of noisy Japanese tourists descended upon us. Some of them blundered obliviously right through our tour group as though we were invisible. I couldn't hear our guide above the din of their laughter and chatter, and I completely missed what she said.

I made a point of checking out the bunker, though, because I was so confused by its presence. I was mildly unsettled by the fact that such an important and magnificent landmark contained such a nasty symbol of malevolence. It was an extreme incongruity -- kind of like seeing a bunion on a beauty queen.

The bunker was situated at the very edge of the Acropolis. It was a large, round-shaped area that was open to the air. In the center was a flagpole, which was flying the Greek flag. If you walked up to the stone retaining wall, you could look out over the vast city of Athens. The view was stunning. I managed to take a couple of pictures of the city before my group was shepherded off to the Acropolis Museum.

And that was the last thought I gave to the Nazi bunker for two-and-a-half years.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the library and checked out this book for some light summer reading. It's far better than The Da Vinci Code -- it's actually based on facts (umm hello, Dan Brown? The Priory of Sion is total bunk). Plus, the main female character was a lot stronger than Sophie what's-her-name, who needed Robert Langdon's help to solve her own family's mystery.

Not only did the book have solid facts and a compelling heroine, but it was also loaded with suspense. I couldn't put it down. In fact, I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning to finish it because I couldn't bring myself to stop reading.

I've always been dimly aware of the Third Reich's obsession with Ancient Greece, but this book made the connection clearer to me. It also got me thinking about the Nazi bunker that I saw on the Acropolis.

It turns out that my tour guide was wrong. (Either that, or her limited grasp of English caused her to grossly oversimplify.) The "bunker" behind the Parthenon existed long before Hitler's army marched into Athens. It's actually called the Belvedere Terrace.

When the Nazis arrived in Athens in 1941, they climbed the Acropolis and decided to fly their flag from the Belvedere Terrace's flagpole. They ordered a Greek soldier, Konstantinos Koukidis, to lower the Greek flag and replace it with their swastika banner. Koukidis took down his country's flag, wrapped himself in it, and jumped off the edge of the terrace to his death. One month later, two Greek teenagers snuck up to the Belvedere Terrace at night and tore down the Nazi flag, which started a countrywide resistance movement against Nazi oppression.

I like that story a lot better than my tour guide's version. I liked The Mask of Atreus, too. If you're looking for a good beach read, I highly recommend it.

My view of Athens from the Belvedere Terrace on the Acropolis.

I'm Back

Well, I'm back. I wish I could complete the cliché by saying "and I'm better than ever," but I don't think that's the case. But I'm in a slightly better frame of mind, which is good news for my family, friends, and employer, so I suppose that's all that matters.

Here's what you've missed in the life of Kay over the past week:

• Plane tickets to Seattle have finally been booked after much bickering and many headaches.


• My new crisis du jour is figuring out what the hell one wears to a mid-morning autumn Saturday Catholic mass/wedding in Seattle. (Ideas, anybody?)


• I finally caved and created an eBay account. Yes, I know -- I'm a tech-savvy member of Gen Y, so it's mildly scandalous that I've never used the online auction site before. If all goes according to plan, by this time next week I'll be the proud owner of a Coach Holiday Patchwork Demi Bag #7071 (*NEW* with tags, or "NWT" as all the cool eBayers would say).


• I spent too much money on clothes that will never see the light of day because I can't wear them to the office.


• I'm starting the process of searching for a new car. I say "starting" because that makes me feel like I'm proactively hunting for bargains, except that I'm not -- I'm just pretending for now. Searching for real gives me the hives because I don't like the idea of price haggling with strange men.


• And I "cleaned my room," which means that I threw away a bunch of stuff and swept the rest of it under my bed. (Shhh, don't tell my mother. Some things never change.)

And... that's it. Yeah. So, to recap: in the comments section, please suggest appropriate wedding attire, give me insider eBay tips, and tell me about some good cars/dealerships.

Oh, and you're welcome to give me donations, too, so I don't end up homeless. Between the plane tickets, wedding ensemble, Coach purse, new clothes, and a new car, I fully expect to be living out of a box by early August. No, I take that back -- I'll be living out of my new car. And I'll probably have to put my purse back up for sale on eBay so that I can afford to eat.

Sinking

Hi, Internet, how are you? What’s that? You said you’re fine? That’s good to hear. No really -- I’m glad you’re doing well.

Me? Oh, umm... I’m not so well. No, I’m not sick. I’m just... run down? Frustrated? Disillusioned? Overwhelmed? If you combine all of the above and multiply them to the tenth power, that’s about how I feel at the moment.

Instead of boring cyberspace with the self-indulgent details of my crankiness, I’ve opted to lie low. (Or is it lay low? I was an English major, so I should probably know that, but I always had trouble with lie vs. lay.)

Also, I haven’t had a single witty thought or interesting coincidence happen to me this week. Honestly, I have nothing to share.

Maybe inspiration will visit me soon. Maybe it won’t. Until it does, I’m taking a break. Catch you later, Internet -- however later that might be.

asl;difjasl;dk

This pretty much sums up how I feel right now.

Going Nowhere Fast

I'm really good with Internet search engines. Give me the name of any person, and I bet I could come up with some dirt about him/her (provided it has been posted online). Sometimes this only amounts to the name of a long-deceased ancestor, but still. My odds of digging up something -- anything -- are pretty good. I once did a search and found solid evidence that my friend's boyfriend was sleeping with someone else.

This is mostly a useless talent, which I use only to amuse myself, and on rare occasions, my friends. It also enables me to easily look up anything that I'm curious about, like, say, the population of Seoul, South Korea, or the number of companies going public on the stock market in 2007.

So somebody please tell me why I can't find myself reasonably priced plane tickets to Seattle in October. What's up with that, Internet? Why has searching become so difficult all of the sudden, huh?

I mean, it's not like I'm being picky or anything. I'll fly on any airline. It's just that I kind of NEED to leave on October 11th and come back on the 14th -- that's non-negotiable. I also want to depart and return at a decent hour -- I hate red eyes and ass-early flights. Oh, and I really want something non-stop. It's so annoying to have a random three-hour layover in Cleveland, you know? Plus, I don't want to spend a lot of money. I'm in the market for a new car, so this ticket can't cost me an arm and a leg. And whoops, I almost forgot, my mother is coming with me, and we'd really like to sit next to each other. My mother prefers to sit by the window, so we need one window seat. And if the plane is configured such that there are rows on the sides that only have two seats, I'd like to sit there so that my mom is by the window and I'm by the aisle. I like aisles because this one time I had to sit in the middle, stuck between a window seat and a very large man who broke his arm and was on painkillers that made him fall asleep, so I couldn't get past him to pee during the entire eight-hour flight from Athens to London. That sucked.

That's not asking too much, is it?

Trying to Capture Sunshine

Have you ever had one of those days where you got super frustrated about something that's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things?

I've been having those days a lot lately. In fact, I had one on Tuesday. I got so angry that I had to stop what I was doing and go outside. I sat in the sunshine for about 10 minutes, hoping that I would absorb some of the positivity and happiness that's generally associated with the sun's rays.

With all that's happening in the world today -- war in the Middle East, the humanitarian crisis in Darfur, AIDS in Africa, terrorism threats popping up daily, starving people in impoverished countries -- I realized that I don't have any reasons to complain. I have a roof over my head, food aplenty, and a family who loves me.

And my health -- that's a big one. Have you ever stopped to think about all of the things that become impossible if you're not healthy?

On Saturday, I went swing dancing like I always do. I was especially jazzed to go that night because the lesson was scheduled to be taught by two of my favorite teachers, M & E.

I've taken a lot of dance classes in the 20 years that I've been dancing, some of which were bad and some of which were good. The four classes that I took from M & E last fall were not just good -- they were great. Not only are M & E talented dancers and friendly people, but they're able to teach you steps in such a way that you won't forget them. That's a very rare gift.

When I arrived at the dance on Saturday, I noticed that E was teaching the lesson all by herself -- M wasn't anywhere to be found. I was disappointed, but not that worried. After all, there was probably a simple explanation. Maybe M had a cold, or maybe he was on vacation (it was the weekend before the Fourth of July, so a vacation was not only probable, but highly likely).

But at the end of the lesson, E mentioned ever so casually that M had been diagnosed with lymphoma.

Oh. So that would explain it, then.

According to the American Cancer Society, since the early 1970s, the incidence rates of non-Hodgkin lymphoma have nearly doubled, and "for the most part, the rise is unexplained."

From what I understand, M's prognosis is good. The disease was caught early, and chemo is underway. But still.

The war in the Middle East will eventually come to an end (though not as soon as we would like). People can step in and stop the crisis in Darfur. Educating the African public can mitigate the spread of AIDS. Starvation can be helped through relief and aid projects. I'm not saying that these scenarios are likely, but at least they're possible.

But the cure for cancer? Especially a version that's spreading for "unexplained" reasons? That's different. Who knows when that will happen, if ever. Which is why, my friends, we should be grateful for our health.

I once heard M say that he learned to dance as a young boy in Europe. I'm not sure how long he's been dancing total, but I do know that he's been dancing with E for 18 years now. I'm not sure when he'll dance again, but until he does, I'll be making up for his lost time. I signed up for a dance class yesterday -- I have to take advantage of my health somehow.

Meme Madness

The lovely Lorelai has tagged me to do a meme! This is exciting stuff, people. I've never been tagged to do a meme before. Now I can say that I've truly arrived in the blogosphere.

I'm supposed to tell you eight things about myself. So here you go. (Just promise me that you won't make fun of how weird I am.)

1. Hi, my name is Kay, and I'm a lip gloss addict. My addiction is getting a bit out of control. Right now there are six containers of lip gloss on my dresser, one on my nightstand, one in my purse, and at least three others that I've lost somewhere in my bedroom. (That's 11 for those of you who have lost count.) My goal is to one day stumble across the world's greatest lip gloss so that I can stop buying other crappy brands of lip gloss. So far I seem to be failing, and the lip gloss just keeps piling up.

2. I have a passionate hatred of sneakers. And by sneakers I mean everything in the athletic shoe family (Nike, Reebok, Asics, New Balance, etc.). Athletic shoes, as their name suggests, are perfect for exercizing and playing sports, but that's it.

I firmly believe that sneakers are not appropriate footwear for everyday life (unless, of course, you are under the age of 12, or you have badly sprained your ankle). I can't stand seeing people wear athletic shoes to the mall, out to dinner, to the grocery store, or to the movies. No! For goodness sake, go out and get some Keds, Doc Martens, Airwalks, Pumas, Chuck Taylors, or ANYTHING ELSE for the love of God.

You will never catch me wearing athletic shoes. And I usually don't date people who wear sneakers, either.

3. Because of my great disdain for sneakers, you'd think I'm a shoe snob, right? I probably sound like one of those high-maintenance shoe freaks who gets all hot and bothered about a pair of Christian Louboutin heels. But guess what? That's not true. In fact, my taste in shoes is painfully mundane. To me, Nine West is pretty high-end.

I don't like spending a lot of money on shoes because I have freakishly narrow feet and the world's most sensitive skin. That means almost every pair of shoes I buy a.) doesn't fit properly, b.) rubs my skin something fierce, or c.) both. Most shoes give me crippling blisters, so with each year that passes my taste in shoes grows more orthopedic and boring. I can't wear high heels, slingbacks, wedges, strappy sandals, or anything cute. In the winter, I'm limited to Doc Martens and Vans, and in the summer I'm restricted to my Tevas flip flops. That sums up my casual shoe collection in a nutshell. (When it comes to work or formal occasions, I always wear mules or slides with low heels because that's all my feet can tolerate.)

4. I don't eat cereal. In fact, I refuse to eat cereal. Cereal is disgusting. Is it a solid or a liquid? It's neither, and yet it's both. The ambiguous texture is repulsive to me. (I have similar issues with porridge, oatmeal, gazpacho, and many types of thick soup.)

5. I'm a fainter. I have fainted more times than I'm willing to admit. Sometimes I've fainted for a really good reason (e.g., I just had blood taken), and sometimes I haven't had a reason at all ( e.g., I once passed out while saying goodbye to my dad, who was leaving for a business trip). It's something I can't control, which makes it kind of scary. Fortunately it has been more than 14 months since my last fainting episode.

6. I'm 23 years old and I've never been stung by a bee. I've also never had a cavity. And come to think of it, I've never had poison ivy. (How impressive is that? Can I get a gold star or something?)

7. I'm one of the only females on planet earth who does not have pierced ears. When I was 7, I wanted my ears pierced more than anything. My parents agreed -- under the condition that I learned how to swim first. I took an ass-kicking swim class that summer, and by the time it was over I could swim laps. But my father reneged on the promise at the last minute because he thought pierced ears would lead to other piercings later in life. Now that I'm older, I guess I could go out and have my ears done, but it seems like a hassle at this point.

8. When I was a child/teenager, I had braces three times. I'll say that again: THREE times. As if once wasn't bad enough. This scarred me for life. I'm being very serious when I say that my self-confidence has never been the same since. (Incidentally, now I get a lot of compliments on my smile. I'm not sure how many of them are sincere, though.)

The end! This is the part where I'm supposed to tag other people to do this meme, but I'm going to be badass and ignore that rule. (Mostly because I think all of ya'll have done some version of this before.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and reapply my lip gloss.