At Least It's Friday

Thank you to everyone who answered my questions below. I must say that you all do some pretty interesting things. You're also an unusual bunch because you love (or -- at the very least -- you like) your jobs. If you haven't answered the questions yet, please feel free to do so. There's no time limit on this informal survey -- I'm not going to close the comments or anything like that. I'd love to hear what you do and how much you like/dislike it. And don't forget to say why you love/hate your job. That's the most important question -- and the one that interests me the most.

In case you hadn't figured it out from the poll, I'm a bit lost. Your feedback helps me think about things that I hadn't thought about before.

But enough soul searching! Let's talk about something lighter, shall we? Yes. Let's talk about...

The Stupid Things Kay Did This Week

1. I didn't get to bed until after midnight every night.

2. I completely ran out of checks, and I forgot to order more last month when I knew I was running low.

3. I also ran out of tissues in my office. I didn't go out and buy more, even though I've been suffering from bad allergies all week. (Hmm, I think there's a theme developing here.)

4. I took a jacket to the cleaners and then promptly decided that was a bad move because I knew I was going to want to wear it the next day.

5. I signed up for a really long and expensive test that I don't want to take.

6. I'm seriously considering staying home on Saturday night, despite receiving a billion text messages from my friends inviting me to go out and do something fun.

And that's been my week in a nutshell. I think I just need to give my sleep-deprived brain a rest, and then maybe I'll be more coherent next week.

Did you do anything stupid this week? If so, please share. We're all friends here, and I could use a story or two that doesn't make me feel quite so bad about what I've been doing over the last seven days.

A Burning Question or Three

I'm taking a poll, and I'd like everyone who reads this to respond (even if you respond anonymously).

1. What do you do for a living? (You don't have to be super-specific if you don't want to. I don't need your job title and company's name -- just a general idea of your responsibilities.)
2. Do you like your job?
3. Why or why not?

Ready, set, go!

A Crappy Day

I believe I've told you about my cat Orla. Now it's time to introduce Oreo, my other cat. Oreo is really old (14-and-a-half, to be exact), but he's a chill dude. He quietly does his thing, which involves lots of eating and sleeping. And sometimes going outside to sit underneath a tree.

Everybody say hi to Oreo:

On Saturday, Oreo had some digestive problems. That's a very polite way of saying that he had diarrhea. My mother and I were eating breakfast in the kitchen when she noticed that Oreo was walking funny.

"I wonder what's wrong with him," she said. "I hope he didn't hurt one of his legs."

Then he took a dump on the stairway leading up to the second floor.

My mother started yelling at Oreo, which frightened him and caused him to run all the way up the stairs and into our guest bedroom. I rushed to get the carpet cleaner that we keep on hand for just such an occasion while my mother got up and chased after the guilty party. After she discovered that he was hiding under the guestroom bed, she came back and helped me clean up the mess on the stairs.

Then we went into the guest room, got down on our hands and knees, and looked under the bed. Oreo was sitting there calmly next to another pile of crap.

My mother started yelling again, which caused Oreo to make a mad dash into my brother's bedroom, where he hid under THAT bed. Since he was clearly not going to come out any time soon, we decided to clean up the mess in the guest room and take care of him later.

This task was much easier said than done. Have you ever had a pet make a mess under the bed? The only way to get it clean is to move the entire bed. My mom and I spent a good 15 minutes tugging at the antique bed, trying to pry it out from the wall without giving ourselves hernias.

After that was finished, I had to climb over the bed, sit on the floor, and attack the mess with the carpet cleaner. But once I started, I began to sneeze every 30 seconds. I discovered that I was basically sitting in a large pile of cat hair. Hiding under the guestroom bed is a favorite activity of Oreo's, and the carpet was covered with his hair. Our large vacuum cleaner doesn't fit under that particular bed, either, so who knows when that section of carpet was last cleaned.

Mom had to go and get the vacuum cleaner and pass it over the bed to me. It took a while to clean up the mess, vacuum the carpet, and then put the bed back into place. After we were all through, we chased Oreo from under my brother's bed and threw him outside. We were both relieved to find that there was no mess under the second bed.

Naturally I took a shower because I felt like I was covered in cat fur and feces. After I was clean, I decided to run some errands. I went out to my car and stopped dead in my tracks -- a bird had crapped all over my driver's-side door. This was the LAST straw. I marched back to the house, threw open the front door and screamed "Only humans should be allowed to populate the planet because animals shit all over everything!"

I heard a delicate cough behind me, so I turned around. Standing in the middle of our front yard was a salesman in an Oxford shirt and tie. He had heard my spontaneous outburst, and he was trying very hard not to laugh at me.

We stared at each other for half a second and then we both started cracking up. Still laughing, he walked up and handed me a flyer, which I could barely accept because I was laughing so hard myself. Then he walked down the driveway and went to the next house.

My mother came to the front door to see why I was screaming about excrement. She found me standing in the doorway giggling maniacally and clutching a flyer about vinyl siding.

"Bird poop!" I gasped, trying to explain myself.

My mother cocked her head, clearly puzzled.

"Salesman!" I continued. "Didn't know... the cat..." I started waving the flyer, as though that would help clarify things.

Mom shook her head and went back upstairs.

One Hip Cat

I swing danced my butt off this weekend. I took two classes on Saturday, went dancing on Saturday night, and had classes on Sunday as well. When I woke up yesterday morning, every inch of my body was sore.

But for once, I wasn't complaining. I got far more than my money's worth out of the weekend. Why? Because I got to take workshops taught by Frankie Manning.

I know what you're thinking. You're probably sitting in front of your computer going, "Frankie who?"

Frankie is THE king of swing. There's just no comparison. Taking lessons from him is the equivalent of a baseball fan getting pointers from Babe Ruth.

It's hard to understate Frankie's importance to swing dancing. He was one of the originals -- he began dancing in the 1920s. (He's 93 now, but he's still got that swing.) He was there when the Charleston swept the nation. He learned the Charleston -- and so much more -- from dancing at ballrooms in Harlem in the '30s. He has appeared in movies, toured the world, choreographed for Broadway, and has seen swing dancing go from popular to dead and back again.

He did the first air step (which we now call an "aerial") in swing. Because he's so humble, I know Frankie would argue that if he hadn't done an air step, someone else would have come along and done one eventually. But it's still awfully cool that he was the first. Being the first one to do anything is innovative and inspiring.

Without Frankie and his buddies, we might never have had this:


I was more excited to meet Frankie than a little kid waiting for Santa Claus on Christmas Day. And he didn't disappoint. I was impressed from the moment that he walked into the classroom and said "hi."

He looked so happy to see all of us. His joy was sincere, too. The glee on his face reminded me of the innocence and earnestness of a small child. It was obvious that he was both thrilled to be there and excited that we wanted to dance with him.

I have to give him mad props -- for a 93-year-old, he's shockingly nimble. He taught us some fancy footwork. After the dance lesson, he reminisced about the long and rich life that he's led.

My favorite story was about Ella Fitzgerald. Frankie said that she had always wanted to be a dancer. She entered a talent contest intending to dance, but the act before her was a couple of accomplished tap dancers. Ella was intimidated by them, and Frankie remembers her worrying that she couldn't go on after them because she wasn't as good. Someone suggested that she go out and sing instead. The rest, as they say, is history. And Frankie was there to witness it.

He wrote a book about his life, which was published a couple of months ago. I bought a copy, and he graciously signed it.

The piece of paper is purposely obscuring my name. Sorry, folks. I value my privacy.

Frankie also posed for a picture with me. I said "thank you" to him, but I wish I had said more. At least I said the most important thing.

Thanks again, Frankie, on behalf of dancers everywhere.

Photo by Flying Feet Enterprises

Oh, umm, hi!

I am a bad blogger. I haven’t been around in what? A week? More? Less? I don’t know. At least I’m here now. That counts for something, right?

So... let’s see... what’s been happening in my life lately? That’s a very good question, to which the short answer is I don’t know.

The most exciting developments in the life of Kay over the past seven days have been tragically mundane. In case you were wondering, yes, my father fixed my bathroom sink. (I’m sure you were all on pins and needles waiting to hear how that situation turned out.)

And I was (finally) able to purchase a locking gas cap for my car, but only after a very strange argument with my car dealership that went something like this:

Me: Hi, I’d like to purchase a locking gas cap for my car. It’s a [insert make and model of car here].

Dealership: Okay. Let us check and see if we have one available.

......

Dealership: I’m sorry, we don’t have one.

Me: Can you order one for me?

Dealership: No. That part doesn’t exist. We don’t make locking gas caps for your particular model.

Me: Are you sure?

Dealership: No. I couldn’t find one in our catalogue or in the back room, so I just made up an answer.

Me: Check again.

Dealership: Oh, you’re right, we do make one for your car. My bad.

Me: Can I get a discount on the locking gas cap because of your incompetence?

Dealership: No, unfortunately. We wouldn’t be a car dealership if we didn’t try to screw you over.

Me: At least I tried. Now give me the damn gas cap already.

So now I can sleep better at night knowing that the gasoline in my tank is properly secured under lock and key. Take THAT, stupid gas burglar!

I also found out that my car radio is compatible with my iPod. After I discovered this, I did a little happy dance. Then I went to Radio Shack and bought a $4 cable to connect the iPod to the car.

Let me tell you, folks, my car is pimpin’ with its locking gas cap and $4 stereo cable. You won’t find a ride that’s more pimp than mine.

In non-car-related news, I got my hair cut. And... umm... yeah. I got nothin’.

So what’s new with you?