My Kind of Apathy

R.I.P. Oreo (1993-2009)

2009-05-08T19:17:00.006-05:00

Some of you may remember me talking about my cat Oreo in previous posts. We had to have him put down a week ago. Actually, my family put him down a week ago -- I was still in New York finishing up the semester. Oreo was in a lot of pain and was far beyond the point of saving. Our vet wanted to put him to sleep months ago, but my father stubbornly said no. Dad was so attached to Oreo that we had to start the cat on an IV regimen. Three times a week, we pumped saline into Oreo to keep his kidneys going. Last week, when Oreo stopped eating and started hallucinating, Dad realized that it was time.

Oreo was 16. He lived a long and good life. We miss you, bud.

Purple with Envy

2009-05-02T13:00:00.009-05:00

Well, it's wedding season. I have yet another cousin getting married (younger than me, of course). So naturally I needed to go out and buy another dress. I scored a really nice one on sale at Nordstrom. This is what I'm wearing to the wedding in a couple of weeks:

I'm not terribly excited about this wedding. In fact, my family members are taking bets on how long this marriage will last. But despite the foreboding cloud of doom that will hang over these star-crossed lovers on their big day, I'm super enthusiastic about my dress.

I'm even more pumped because I just finished my first year of grad school, and instead of stressing over 150-page papers and internships, my biggest problem for the foreseeable future is what color I should paint my toenails if I wear silver shoes with this dress. Thoughts?

R.I.P. Frankie

2009-04-27T15:55:00.004-05:00

Frankie Manning passed away this morning. He was 94. Don't know who that is? Allow me to refresh your memory. Also, this article probably explains him better than I did.

(Edited on 4/28: This nice tribute appeared in The New York Times Dance Section today.)

Now go hug somebody you love.

Boys Will Be Boys

2009-04-12T16:50:00.010-05:00

We found this in our mailbox yesterday morning:

Translation for those who can't read the handwriting:

Dear girls upstairs,
Last night some idiots were throwing bags of trash around, and one landed on your front porch. If you could, please kindly put that bag out on the curb with the trash on Monday. Thanks!
--Guys at 818

The "guys at 818" live in the house next door to ours. After we got this note, we looked out onto our second-story balcony, and sure enough there was a big bag of smelly trash sitting there all casual-like, as though it had been there forever.

How much money do you want to bet that the "idiots" who were "throwing bags of trash around" were actually the (very drunk) boys next door?

Their aim was impressive. It's not easy to heave a heavy bag of trash onto someone's second-floor balcony. They get major bonus points for doing it while intoxicated.

Oh, the joys of living next to frat boys...

You Know It's Going to Be a Rough Day When...

2009-04-08T15:58:00.010-05:00

...you set a loaf of bread on your stovetop on the exact same burner that one of your roommates accidentally left turned on.

Don't try this at home, kids. You know those plastic bags that bread comes packaged in? Those are flammable. I learned the hard way.

(In case you were wondering, I'm fine and the apartment is still standing. However, the loaf of bread and my dignity are not doing so well.)

Who Knew?

2009-04-04T13:52:00.006-05:00

This morning my roommates and I were talking about bugs, specifically which ones bother us the most/least. I mentioned that flies are least offensive to me, whereupon my roommates informed me that flies throw up every time they land on something. (And by "throw up," apparently that means "rub their legs together vigorously.")

First of all, eww. Second of all, am I the last person on earth to just find out about this? How come I am the only person in my apartment who did not know this fact? People, WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME THESE THINGS?!

A New Direction

2009-03-24T16:37:00.014-05:00

"If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you've got a problem. Everything else is inconvenience." --Robert Fulghum

This quote is a pretty accurate description of my life since August, when I moved to New York and started grad school. Everybody always asks me, "How are you? How is school? Do you like it?" and I can never think of anything more clever or succinct than "Good. Life is good."

Life is not perfect, though. If you followed my status updates on Facebook from January to early March, or if you called me on the phone a month and a half ago, I probably would not have described my life as "good." I just barely survived the insane winter up here in the continental United States' fourth-snowiest city. As if the 150 inches of snow weren't bad enough, they brought all kinds of fun complications like:

Squirrels in the attic
Ice damming
Endless shoveling of an endlessly long driveway
Absolutely un-driveable scary white-out conditions
Wearing three shirts and three pairs of socks every day
Killer icicles on my house (and my neighbors' houses) that looked like this:

(This is actually my next-door neighbor's house, but mine was just as bad.)

I'm still alive, though. And content even! I don't know if it's age, maturity, or what, but I have somehow learned to compartmentalize events into the controllable and the uncontrollable, and I have been adjusting my level of anxiety accordingly.

It also helps that I really do like my classes. I mean, come on, if I hated my classes, there is no way I would have put up with the kind of extreme weather that we got this winter. Even by local standards, this winter was really, really, REALLY bad. Also, if I hated my classes, there is no way I would be paying astronomical sums of money for this degree.

For one of the first times in my life, I believe in what I am doing. It's not that I didn't believe in getting a college education or working for a living, but the college and the job that I picked were not right for me. I spent a lot of time being miserable. I spent even more time making myself even more miserable because I couldn't figure out why I was unhappier than everybody else.

I don't know exactly where I'm headed, but I like the direction that I'm heading in much better than the path I was following before. (Also, it doesn't hurt that our basketball team is kicking major butt in the tournament this year.)

I'm sorry that I haven't been posting more, but I need time to myself. I need to keep living in the moment and learning more about what makes me happy. I hope that you have already found what makes you happy and that you are savoring it to the fullest.

Until later,
Kay

Guess What? I'm Not Dead!

2008-12-11T00:18:00.007-05:00

The title of this post pretty much says it all. Sorry it has been so long, friends. I had some things that I needed to do. Like change my life. That particular activity has occupied a lot of my time over the past year.

I quit my job and enrolled in grad school. This necessitated a little move of, umm, 350 miles. I live in central New York now. And you know what? I'm a lot happier than I used to be. I finished my first semester today, and I'm probably driving back to D.C. later this week for winter break. I think I might actually miss my new home over the holidays. (I will most definitely NOT miss the weather here, though.)

I haven't updated this blog because I struggle with how much to share or not share on the Internet. Some people who read this should really just pick up the phone and call me, while others don't know me and don't deserve to know every detail of my life. (Don't take this the wrong way -- some of you are lovely people and I'm glad I met you via blogging. It's the lurkers that creep me out.)

I just don't feel comfortable sharing everything with everybody. I realize that sharing is kind of the whole point of blogging, so I've been keeping things to myself lately. Maybe I will change my mind and come back to blogging. Maybe I won't. But for now I just wanted to pop in to say hello, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and all that jazz. I hope you had a terrific 2008, and I wish you the very best for 2009.

Greatest Hits of 2007

2007-12-17T21:10:00.000-05:00

Since 2008 is rapidly approaching, I thought I'd take a look back at 2007 before it completely leaves me in the dust. It's been a good year, and I managed to travel to more places than I realized. Also, it was the first full year in which I owned a digital camera (yeah, I know, I was probably the last person on earth to jump on that bandwagon. So I'm a slow tech adapter, so what?). Thus, I present to you (*deep booming announcer voice*) "Places Kay Has Been This Year."

Okay, so the title of my photo essay needs work, but you get the idea.

January: The Deep South

This was taken in the tiny town where my grandmother lives. In case you're confused, allow me to explain: This is a Baptist church that sells fireworks. I love the cross behind the sign, don't you? It implies that pyrotechnics don't just illuminate the night sky -- they illuminate the darkness of your very soul, too.

February: Barcelona Vacation

Park de la Ciudadella

Park Guell

Park Guell again

The gardens of Teatro Grec at Montjuic

La Sagrada Familia

March: Home Sweet Home

The Jefferson Memorial

The Washington Monument

The Smithsonian Kite Festival at the Washington Monument

May: Business Trip to Las Vegas

The Strip as seen from my room on the 29th floor of the Mandalay Bay

Nighttime

October: My Cousin's Wedding in Seattle

View from the ferry

Pike Place Market

And because I couldn't resist...

(Swing) Dancing Fool

2007-12-12T20:54:00.000-05:00

I could probably write an entire book on why I love to swing dance. And believe me, I know that not everybody feels the same way I do. “You swing dance?” people ask me, with one eyebrow raised politely. It's as if they were to say, “You churn butter in a wooden barrel? How quaint!”

Call it quaint, call it weird, call it whatever you want; I don’t care. I love swing dancing mostly because the dance floor, to me, is life’s great equalizer. I’ve met so many interesting people through dancing whom I never would have met otherwise -- lawyers, doctors, elevator repair technicians, freshmen in high school. They each have a story to tell. And we create new stories together on the dance floor.

Two years ago I didn’t know how to swing dance. And if someone had suggested to me that I try it, I would have said, “Why? I think I’ll stick to writing, thankyouverymuch.” Even though I had been dancing for years and years, the idea of swing dancing didn’t appeal to me at all. It was... antiquated. And I’d have to touch strange men. Definitely not for me.

But then I read this article in the Washington Post Magazine, and the idea of swing started to percolate in the back of my brain. I was touched by the story of Steve and his partner F.G., and I had a lot of spare time to kill with nothing to do. (I had recently started working, and I was having problems adjusting to post-college life.) Instead of wondering why anybody would want to swing dance in the first place, I thought why not give it a try? What's the worst that could happen?

It took me six months to work up the courage to give it a shot. And once I tried it, I was hooked. The WaPo Magazine article makes more sense to me now -- every anecdote in the story resonates with a deeper meaning. I actually have something to look forward to in my life, which is a big contrast to the days when I would come home from work and watch Friends reruns until bedtime. Now I get cranky during weeks when I’m too busy to dance.

Two years ago, I didn’t even know who the legendary Frankie Manning was. Now I’ve met him, taken a class from him, and had him sign his autobiography for me. I’ve also met Steve. He knows my name. We dance together occasionally. He likes to make silly faces while we’re dancing to get me to laugh. I’ve never told him that I read the WaPo story about him and that it inspired me to learn swing dancing -- I'm too shy to admit it. I think it would just embarrass him anyway.

Steve is one of many people I dance with. In fact, I’ve danced with so many men that sometimes one will come up to me and greet me by name even though he doesn’t look familiar at all. I’m pretty good with names and faces, so it’s always slightly troubling (and embarrassing) when that happens.

And then there are the people I can’t forget even if I tried. There’s T. the mechanical engineer whose mother just passed away from cancer. And A. the struggling grad student who is finally ABD (all but dissertation). There’s B. who is annoyed that his youngest has moved back in with him. And C. who works as a fancy scientist and is studying the use of laser beams on the moon -- or is it the use of lasers at the speed of light? There’s also a deaf gentleman, whose name I unfortunately do not know. He has taught me how to say a few things in American Sign Language, and he’s a better dancer than most hearing people.

Last week, I got to see the Jive Aces perform -- they're the U.K.’s number-one jive and swing band. They attracted a sell-out crowd of more than 800 people to the ballroom. Old people, young people, all kinds of people came, and it was so crowded that it was difficult to dance. The band looked sharp in their matching yellow zoot suits. At one point, the trumpet player jumped off the stage into the crowd of dancers, grabbed a woman, and danced with her while he continued to play the trumpet. He didn’t miss a note. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen on the dance floor. Everyone went nuts.

I danced until the bitter end, and after the show I got to meet the band. Y’all, they KISSED ME. And they signed a CD for me, too. I’m still reeling from that...

...and I don’t ever want this feeling to go away.

A List of Things that are Frunny*

2007-12-04T19:23:00.000-05:00

*Frunny = funny + frightening

1. There is a huge void in my life now that season 5 of Dancing With the Stars is over. The new season of Project Runway doesn't even make up completely for the emptiness that I'm feeling.

2. This week, our office held its annual holiday party. Except that it was not called a holiday party. The Powers That Be decided that our celebration shall henceforth be known as a "thank you luncheon" because the word "holiday" is too politically incorrect and offensive to those who do not celebrate the holidays. During the event, everybody knew deep down that we were celebrating the holidays.

3. My 60-year-old father received a coupon for Victoria's Secret in the mail recently. He has never once set foot in a Victoria's Secret store, nor does he plan to in the future.

4. I can't think of a single thing that I want for Christmas. I was asked to come up with a list, but my mind is actually drawing a complete blank. This is a first for me, and I don't think I like it.

5. Some bitch in a Jeep Cherokee rear-ended my new car at a red light. We pulled over, and as we were inspecting the damage to my bumper, she said, "I think those scratches were there before I hit you." And she would know because...?

6. I received a spam message the other day from "Lt. Holloway" of the U.S. Army. He wanted me to safeguard a hoard of cash that he found in an abandoned building in Iraq. "This may sound illegal to you," he wrote, "but I have suffered so much to protect your freedom that I thought you might be willing to help me."

7. As my mother and her coworker were leaving their office building to go on their lunch break, they saw two people having sex in the parking garage. It was 40 degrees outside, yet the man had his pants around his ankles and the woman had no pants whatsoever. My mother's coworker took a picture on her camera phone, and the couple was completely oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. This story is even better if only you knew where my mother works -- let's just say she works at a county-run organization for children.

As you can see, the trite phrase "there's never a dull moment" doesn't even BEGIN to sum up my life over the past few weeks.

Clearing Away the Cobwebs

2007-11-16T21:18:00.000-05:00

I'm alive! I know, I know -- it's been a while. Okay, it's been more than a while -- it's been a very long while. But I'm here.

My absence has been intentional. I'm actually working on some things that I can't discuss on this blog. Big personal changes are in the works, and sadly, I can't share them with you... at least not yet. If you're patient, I'll be able to tell you everything in, oh, I don't know, six months? Maybe seven or eight. We'll see. Stay tuned for details.

While I've been gone, a lot has happened. And also nothing much has happened. Life is funny like that. Here is what has been going down in my little corner of the world:

I turned 24. And for the first time ever, there was no celebration. I didn't go out. Nobody came to me. It was just a regular old day. In fact, I don't even think I left the house. I wasn't expecting the clouds to part and heaven to shine on me or anything, but a phone call would have been nice. This was just another in a string of unsatisfactory birthdays -- I spent my 21st weeping about a broken engagement, and my 22nd was celebrated in the emergency room with my mother, who was passing gallbladder stones in excruciating pain.

Tay turned 21. It makes you feel very old when a younger sibling reaches a milestone that seems like a lifetime ago in your own memory.

I went to Seattle to see my ex-seminarian cousin marry an ex-nun. They met on the Internet (a Catholic dating site, of course). It was love at first digital picture exchange. Truth really is stranger than fiction, isn't it? In case you were curious, I wore the red dress to the wedding. And I was thoroughly freaked out by the bride's immediate family. There were 29,034,856 of them (okay, not really -- there were only 15 of them, but still. I was overwhelmed). By the time the whole thing was over, I was tired of hearing about how Jesus can change my life if only I'd let Him. Also, Seattle was the most miserably dark and damp place that I've ever been -- and I've lived in Ireland, people. That's really saying something. I felt like I was visiting the clammy armpit of Christ. I'm glad to be home, and I don't plan to return.

My father found a rabid baby bat in our backyard. It fell from the roof of our garden shed. We put it in a cookie container and called Animal Control. Our next-door neighbor was alarmed that Animal Control came to our house, so she knocked on the door and demanded to know what happened. I think she was disappointed in our less-than-sensational story.

Oreo was attacked. We're not sure what got him. At first the vet thought it was cancer, but now we suspect a snake. It's a very long story with gross details that's not worth going into fully. In the end, the vet had to insert a hollow rigid tube through the skin on his forehead, and he had to wear one of those funny Elizabethan-looking cone-shaped collars to prevent him from dislodging the tube. It looked like someone pierced his forehead with a drinking straw. This gave him the appearance of some kind of tribal cat from Fiji. It sounds way funnier than he really looked -- he was in a lot of pain and he had fluid oozing out of his head. I couldn't look at him for a week. He's healing now, though, and he looks a lot better. See?

I almost died, and all I have to show for it are these lousy forehead scabs.

And that's the past couple of months in a nutshell -- or at least the parts that I can remember. I'll try to check in every so often, but I can't make any promises.

Until next time,

Kay

At Least It's Friday

2007-09-21T09:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-19T21:04:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-17T19:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-11T18:58:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-09-07T14:33:00.000-05:00

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?

My Sink Runs Dry

2007-08-31T15:02:00.000-05:00

The gasoline thief is so last week. Wanna know what's bugging me this week?

My bathroom sink.

My brother went to take a shower the other night, and when he turned the faucets to start the water, a strange thing happened. The entire house shuddered and groaned. A deafeningly loud clunk-clunk-grrrr-bang-thunk-rrrrRRRR noise erupted from the plumbing system. It sounded like there was a garbage disposal in our bathtub that was literally grinding up Tay.

"What the hell was that?!" my mother said.

I ran to the bathroom and pounded on the door. "Tay? What happened?"

He had no idea what was wrong -- he simply tried to turn on the water but got that awful noise instead. The second attempt went better and Tay was able to shower without incident.

We decided that the whole thing had been a fluke. Our house is approaching 50 years old, so we figured that the plumbing was probably just letting some air out. Kind of like a fart.

But the next day the sink stopped working properly. It was as though the sink got jealous of the attention bestowed upon the bathtub and decided to steal the limelight. Or maybe the plumbing in our house is just going to crap -- that could be a possibility, too.

Now when I turn the faucets on, instead of getting a stream of running water, I get a pathetic trickle -- if even that. This has been a crisis of sorts because I'm a medium- to high-maintenance kind of girl. The sad little drippings that come out of my sink barely provide the water I need to brush my teeth, let alone do snazzy optional bonus grooming like apply eyeliner.

Today is my father's day off, and he has promised to take a look at the ailing sink (translation: take sink apart and then determine that nothing is wrong).

Pop quiz: On this long holiday weekend, will Kay get all dolled up to go out on the town?

(Hint: The answer rhymes with the word "blow," as in "my sink can blow me.")

Happy Labor Day weekend, everyone! Have fun and be safe. See ya'll next week!

Red Is the New Green

2007-08-29T20:57:00.000-05:00

I just bought myself a dress for my cousin's wedding.

But Kay, you're probably thinking, didn't you already buy yourself a dress for your cousin's wedding?

Yes. Yes, I did.

But that dress, even though it was lovely, was missing something. It was lacking a certain je ne sais quoi, if you will.

I found the missing element -- it was red. My green dress was definitely not red enough. Behold dress #2:

So now I have two dresses. I'm keeping both, but I can't decide which one to wear to the wedding. This has suddenly become a decision of monumental significance since I can't plan my shoes, handbag, jewelry or accessories until I determine what color dress I'm wearing.

Why is being a girl so difficult?

A Dirty Rotten -- and Gassy -- Thief

2007-08-27T12:11:00.000-05:00

You know what’s not cool? When the check engine light comes on in your new car.

On Friday, I was driving home from work with the windows down, thinking about all of the wonderful things I planned to do over the weekend. A butterfly flew past my windshield and I smiled. Then I looked down at the dash and -- BAM! -- the check engine light came on.

I was upset. Hysterical, actually, would be a more accurate description. I just bought the car three weeks ago. True, it was a slightly used vehicle, but I have paperwork that states that the car has never been to the dealer for problems or repairs. That’s why I bought it -- it was in great condition.

When I got home, I must have had a look on my face. “What’s wrong?” my mother asked.

“New car. Check engine light?! GAH!” I sputtered.

“Maybe your gas cap is loose,” my mother said.

“Gas cap? Huh? No.” (As you can tell, I’m very articulate when I’m distraught.)

I knew for a fact that there was no way my gas cap could be loose. The last time I had pumped gas was a week-and-a-half ago. I was running errands with my father, and he was sitting in the passenger seat with the window down while I was working the pump. After the tank was full, I screwed in the cap. It clicked several times, and my father stuck his head out the window and yelled “Kay, it’s tight. Don’t screw it anymore.” I think I yelled something back about how I was still getting used to the car.

Despite the story (which my father verified), my mother sent me outside to check the gas cap. It wasn’t as tight as I had remembered, but it wasn’t exactly falling off, either. I screwed it tighter and then drove the car around the block. The check engine light was still on.

I got out the owners manual and flipped to the section on the check engine light. It was useless. So was the section called “Troubleshooting.”

Then my mother reminded me that the same thing happened to her car several weeks ago. The check engine light came on for no apparent reason. She noticed a slight decline on her fuel gauge, so she checked her gas cap. It was suspiciously loose. She was convinced that someone had tried to siphon gas out of her tank.

But at the time, my father’s car was in the shop for some repairs, so that took up all of our vehicular anxiety. We couldn’t afford to spend precious brainpower worrying about my mother’s car when we were already concerned about how to get all four of us to work with only three sets of wheels. After several days, my mother’s check engine light went off all by itself.

“I bet someone tried to siphon gas out of your tank, too!” my mother said.

“That’s for the dealership to determine,” I announced.

The next morning, I drove my car to the dealer. They hooked my baby up to some kind of diagnostic computer. An hour-and-a-half later, the computer determined the problem: I had been driving around at some point with a loose gas cap.

I’m relieved that my car didn’t need any repairs. But I’m hopping mad that someone would walk up my driveway and mess with my family’s property. Not just once, but twice.

My mother and I are going out to buy locking gas caps this weekend. It’s a sad state of affairs when you can’t even trust people to leave the gasoline in your car alone.

The Write Stuff

2007-08-24T11:42:00.000-05:00

I'm tired. And I think I have a head cold. Also, hi! Sorry for my absence. It's been a very long week.

I don't have much to say. It seems that I have writer's block -- again. But unlike some people who just don't have anything to write about, I have tons of thoughts knocking around in my brain. I just don't know how to express them right now.

So I'll leave you with two quotes that describe exactly how I feel. The first is by Tom Shroder, the editor of the Washington Post Magazine. In his column ("Editor's Note") on Sunday, he tried to describe the relationship he has with writing:

"I'm sure there are writers who don't find writing to be a bone-crushing, nausea-inducing festival of self-loathing. I just don't happen to be one of them. Faced with a blank screen and a deadline for even the shortest, simplest piece, I am seized with the overwhelming desire to clean out my garage. Or do anything other than writing (up to and including root canal).

The problem seems to be standards. I have some. And I'm terrified I can't live up to them. I've found that to make myself write anything at all, I have to begin by lowering my sights, and simply try to write something bad. Don't even write, I tell myself, just type.

But, in the end, nothing works except a deadline. As my deadline approaches, the pain caused by the fear of missing it steadily increases until it exceeds the pain of writing."

This also explains why I don't update my blog every day. Sometimes I psyche myself out with my impossibly high standards, and sometimes I write things that are not worth sharing with all of you. Other times I do so much writing at work that I don't feel like coming home and writing even more for this blog.

My other favorite quote about writing comes from an author whose work I don't like very much. Toni Morrison, who has won both the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes, once had a reader say to her that he found her novels difficult to read.

"Honey," she answered, "they aren't easy to write, either."

Amen to that.

Maybe I'm Craaaaazy (With Apologies to Gnarls Barkley)

2007-08-20T19:16:00.000-05:00

I might be a little bit crazy. Here's why:

On Saturday, I got out the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed my car for the second time in three weeks. This whole getting-a-new-car thing has clearly had a negative effect on my common sense.

You'll be happy to hear that I backed the car down the driveway before vacuuming this time so that I could avoid the non-poisonous ivy that I'm allergic to. I thought I was being clever, but somehow I managed to get 11 bug bites on my shins. Awesome.

Then I took a hair dryer and a can of WD-40 and removed the ugly white vinyl dealership sticker that the dealer slapped on my trunk. This was quite possibly the highlight of my entire weekend. I hate hate hate HATE advertisements. My hatred of advertising is so great that I avoid buying clothes/shoes/accessories/personal objects with prominent logos. I spend money to look good, not to advertise specific brands. If a company wants me to be a walking or -- in the case of my car -- a rolling advertisement, then they have to compensate me accordingly.

I had a conniption when I discovered the sticker on the back of my car. I've been obsessing about removing it for a couple of weeks now, and this weekend's lovely weather gave me the perfect opportunity to do it. The decal came off flawlessly, and all is right with the world again.

After that I got a little carried away and decided to wash and wax my car. The washing part was no big deal, but the waxing was a nightmare. We were out of wax, so I had to go to the local auto body shop to get more. I ended up splurging on the super expensive, heavy duty, professional-grade wax because nothing is too good for my baby (and also buying a car has robbed me of my common sense, remember?). Rubbing that crap on my car and wiping it all off took hours and resulted in a very sore right arm. But at least my car looks good.

...Or it did look good until several hours ago when it started to rain. What's up with that, God? Did you send the rain because you knew I just washed and waxed my car? I don't think I like your sense of humor very much.

Then on Saturday night I went up to Baltimore with my girls. I must love my friends very deeply because it takes a lot to convince me to go to Baltimore. As movie director John Waters (of Hairspray fame) once said, "You can look far and wide, but you'll never discover a stranger city with such extreme style. It's as if every eccentric in the South decided to move North, ran out of gas in Baltimore, and decided to stay."

Naturally we got lost downtown because of all the one-way streets and wacky traffic patterns. We finally found our destination and proceeded to celebrate our un-lostness by drinking several bottles of White Zinfandel. Needless to say, we had to spend the night there. (Mad props to V. for letting us crash at her place!)

The next day we brunched in the Baltimore area and headed home. My friends had the luxury of napping off their hangovers, but I had to go to the dance studio for three hours of ass-kicking lindy hop practice. This is further proof that my common sense has totally vanished.

So that was my weekend. How was yours?

Six -- No, Err, Three Degrees of Separation

2007-08-15T19:53:00.000-05:00

So there's this boy I used to date. He's originally from Arkansas, but he moved here to go to grad school at the big state university in my area. Today I took the liberty of checking out his Facebook profile. (I know, I know, it's never a good idea to use the Internet to spy on your exes. But I'm a glutton for punishment.)

Through him, I found the profile of a girl he went to high school with. Coincidentally, she also moved here from Arkansas to go to grad school. (They're studying different subjects, though.)

Turns out she's the housemate of a guy who asks me to dance every so often at local swing events.

WEIRD. Next time this guy asks me to dance, maybe I should ask him if he has connections to Kevin Bacon.

To Amy

2007-08-14T18:37:00.000-05:00

I love how Facebook reminds me of my friend's birthdays. I'll sign in, and the homepage will conveniently tell me everyone who has a birthday over the course of the next few days. According to Facebook, yesterday was my second cousin's birthday.

Also according to Facebook, tomorrow is Amy's birthday. It's a milestone birthday of sorts -- 25 years old.

I met Amy through my sorority. I was instantly struck by how deeply she cared about the organization. Once, on her blog, I remember reading a meme that she had filled out. One of the questions was something along the lines of "what's your biggest regret?" Her answer was "that I didn't meet my sorority sisters sooner." Coming from anybody else, that would sound like a cliché, but Amy really meant it. To her, every one of us was special. She loved us all unconditionally.

On a weekend retreat once, Amy and two other sisters sat down and drew caricatures of all the new initiates. Most catty sorority girls would have drawn mean cartoons that exaggerated the worst features of their victims, but Amy and her group drew playfully entertaining pictures that made us all laugh for half an hour. I don't remember all of the cartoons, but I was drawn with a large belt that I had bought earlier that day. The picture was so funny because I couldn't stop talking about how much I loved the friggin' belt.

She made an effort to always be around. She was at every single gosh darned meeting and fraternity mixer. She helped put on the male beauty pageant that we did for charity. And she loved every minute of it, too.

Amy died suddenly on January 9, 2005, of a heart attack. She was 22.

Happy birthday, Amy. We miss your smile, but your spirit will be with us always.

Golden Queen

2007-08-13T20:04:00.000-05:00

I have two cats. I mention this fact because it often comes as a surprise to many people. I only ever talk about one of my cats, so most people just assume that I only have one. And I did only have one -- until three years ago.

We were a one-cat family for many, many years. Eleven years, to be exact. When I was 9, we adopted a kitten from a neighbor cat's litter, and we've had him ever since. He's 14 now, which is ancient by animal standards. In human years, he's 72. I love Oreo, but he's a bit dull.

Our other cat is anything but boring. She's been entertaining us ever since we found her.

Several summers ago, my younger brother Tay (yes, our names rhyme. No, we're not twins.) worked the night shift in the back room of a big retail store. He didn't have a car, which meant that every night someone in our family had to stay awake and go pick him up when his shift was over. This task usually fell to my mother.

One night she went to get him as usual. When the two of them returned home, my mother called me. "Kay! Come see what we found!"

I came down the stairs (dressed for bed in my pajamas) and saw my brother clutching a very small animal to his chest. Or rather, the animal was clinging to his shirt for dear life with its claws.

"You brought home a squirrel? What are you, crazy?" I asked. "They're wild animals -- don' t they carry rabies?"

"No, it's a cat," Tay said.

I was not convinced. "Seriously, what's with the squirrel?"

"Kay, it's a cat," my mother insisted impatiently.

I got closer to Tay and examined the tiny creature. It was indeed a cat. A kitten, actually. And an incredibly young one at that. I mistook it for a squirrel because it was so mind-bogglingly small. It was also a dingy gray color and its tail was all fluffed up -- a sign of fear.

"So what are we going to do with it?" I asked.

"I don't know," my mother shrugged. "But we couldn't leave it there in the parking garage -- look how young and defenseless it is!"

It took a great deal of effort to pry the thing off Tay. The poor little animal was probably in shock -- it was silent and trembling. And we noticed that its fur felt slightly slick and yet vaguely gritty. We put it on a dish towel in the middle of the kitchen counter, and Tay held it down while my mother tried to dab at it with a damp cloth. A miraculous thing happened -- we discovered that the kitten wasn't gray at all. It was actually orange.

All three of us stared at the baby animal. It shook the excess water from its coat and it blinked back at us. "Hi there," I whispered, reaching out my hand slowly, palm up, towards the kitten. Without hesitation, it put its paw in my hand. My mother and Tay laughed.

The next day we called the local SPCA, but they told us they didn't have enough space to take the kitten. They said that if we were willing to keep it for a few days, a spot might open up if one of their existing cats was adopted. They left us with no choice but to agree. The kitten was ours -- temporarily.

We waited for the SPCA to call us, but after a week we had heard nothing. I silently prayed that they'd never call -- the kitten was so wee and adorable that I didn't want to give it up. I was thoroughly charmed by the way it sat in one of my mother's empty sneakers and played with the laces. No one else in the family wanted to admit it, but they were charmed, too.

After two weeks, my mother called the SPCA. "Don't bother calling us if a spot opens up," she told them. "We're keeping the kitten."

We took it to the vet, who determined that it was six weeks old at most. She also told us something that we had been curious about for a while -- the kitten was female. Even the vet, who probably sees 20 kittens a day, seemed smitten by the creature. "Aren't you a sweetheart," she said to it. "I can tell that you're going to be spoiled rotten."

It took us a long time to name the kitten because we couldn't agree on what to call her. I had recently returned from a semester abroad in Ireland, so one day I decided to look through Irish female names.

"How about 'Orla'?" I suggested. "It means 'golden lady' or 'golden queen' in Gaelic." Everyone nodded in agreement -- that was it. The name fit our orange kitten perfectly.

Three years later, Orla is still queen of the house. Even my father and brother are enamored of her, and they'd kill me if they knew I told you this, but they talk to her in a high-pitched voice, as though they were talking to a baby.

My mother and I are even worse with the baby talk. But with a face like that, who can really blame us?

She's such a pretty girl. Yes, she's so pretty, isn't she?