this is the story behind

this is the story behind the veritable black thundercloud of bad karma that i trudge along with everywhere.

after reading this, you will likely be offended by my lack of moral certitude. i am not proud of this, and for the most part i keep it hidden away in a drawer of poor behavior and unfortunate conduct, but i sometimes take it out to air and to tell so that good people like you can know the worst of me.

but you must believe me when i say this: i had to do it.

* * *

the summer that followed my freshman year of college was the first i spent away from home. i sublet an apartment and took a full-time job at a bookstore in a nearby mall to pay the bills. i was told upon being hired that i would probably be promoted to supervisor within a few weeks. this after an disastrous, tongue-tied interview that went something like this:

assistant manager: "why do you want to work here?"
kate: "um. i really love to read."
assistant manager: "what have you read recently?"
kate (thinks: "i haven't read anything for pleasure since this college thing started!" mind goes blank. wonders: "what have i ever read?! i have to say something, fast!"): um. the catcher in the rye?"
assistant manager: stares blankly.

apparently i made a good impression after i regained my wits. in any case, i became senior bookseller a few weeks later, which meant that i had the same basic floor duties as the two managers, but without the final say in store matters or the responsibility to keep close contact with our corporate superiors. this seemed cushy for a nineteen-year-old, and for the most part i liked it.

until i went back to school in the fall. our store manager, doug (not his real name), was transferred away and our store was going to close at the end of the year because of its inability to keep up with the rent. so i was left with the frenzied assistant manager, melanie (not her real name), and without doug's balancing influence. after he left, melanie spent approximately one-third of her time on the phone with him at his new store, one-third telling me what a huge "secret" crush she had on him, in spite of his marriage, and one-third being a walking, breathing exemplification of p.m.s.

to make things more difficult for me, i was compelled to keep a 30 hr/wk schedule because i was the only other keyholder, even after school had begun. this held through periods of personal emergency and trauma. finally, i was specifically asked not to quit until after the store had closed on new year's eve, solidifying my imprisonment for another three months. i was trapped.

after several weeks of trying to balance the demands exacted on me by classes and by the hell that was that bookstore, i decided i couldn't take it anymore. not another second. not. another. second.

but i didn't know how to quit. i'd been instructed not to, and furthermore, the new senior bookseller we'd just hired to work alongside me hadn't yet been fully trained, so even if i was allowed to quit, i'd be compelled to postpone leaving for at least a month. i didn't think i'd last a day.

i needed a reason to leave that would be fool-proof, air-tight. that would necessitate me leaving immediately, without questions and without much explanation. that management couldn't dispute. that would even exempt me from the two weeks' notice rule.

i never back away from my commitments or cower under lies, but this was torture. i abandoned my principles.

i told melanie i was pregnant.

i did it in the stock room, with a completely straight, sorrowful face and a breaking, halting voice. and then i began to cry.

i explained that my parents wanted me to fly home to washington right away for care and punishment, and that i might not be coming back for several weeks, if at all before the store's closing at the end of the year. and melanie became my biggest champion.

"what about your boyfriend?! does he know?! oh man, if he doesn't take good care of you i will smack him so hard..."

she even offered me a loan to help pay for the abortion.

and after much talk and sympathy and deep breathing to calm me down, melanie said:

"well, as long as we're telling secrets..."

i wanted to scream, "no! don't do it! don't reward my lies with juicy gossip! my conscience can't take any more!" but, of course, i couldn't. she continued:

"...doug and i have been sleeping together."

my mouth dropped open. i learned that doug and melanie had been lusting secretly after one another for years, but had only recently consecrated their sexual tension. i learned that melanie thought she was in love with him, and that, supposedly, he was in love with her and remained "with" his wife just out of "loyalty". i learned that he and melanie had showered together, but he and his wife had not. i learned that they had had sex on the chair i was sitting on. i learned, in short, far too much.

i worked one short shift after that and never came back. the store got along fine without me, and i got along brilliantly without it.

and this is how i was able to quit a job that i hated, secure impunity from my flighty last-minuteness and receive all the cooperation and sympathy the manager could muster, and come into the possession of very secret, delicate information that isn't by any stretch of the imagination rightfully mine. and this is why i live with the constant expectation that my bad karma will catch up to me and ruin my life. it's like being on death row, sort of.

i hope you all don't hate me now. i really do.

there is a birth announcement

there is a birth announcement in the paper today. it reads:

"david, jennifer and big sister dominique are proud to announce the birth of their beautiful (according to grandma) daughter, sophia grace lawrence."

beautiful according to grandma? almost as though the family grudgingly included that compliment because wiry ole granny made 'em. i can just imagine the effect this will have on poor sophia during her adolescent body-image crises:

sophia: "i'm not beautiful!"
family (minus grandma): "well, we said so from the beginning."

i write emails when

i write emails when i am angry.
but i don't send them.
because i know that they are bitter and reactionary.
and were i to send them, i would regret it later, when i am rational.
but i do write them.
it's satisfying.
but, at the same time, so tempting.
because the communication of my anger is only a "ctrl-x" away...

i just stabbed myself in

i just stabbed myself in the eye with my own middle finger, if that gives you an idea of how my day is going.

*the abbreviation of "casual" to

*the abbreviation of "casual" to its first syllable causes a spelling crisis that intimidates even me, and my spelling bee history is almost unmarred.

having consumed one fruit roll-up

having consumed one fruit roll-up and been recognized by the pizza delivery man, am feeling considerably humored. having read some very welcome comments on yesterday's encouragment-fishing expedition, am feeling considerably cheered. my thoughts:

re the blogging world: i love it, too.

re monkeys: hee. hee. oh wait, no. hoo hoo hoo.

re the hippo at the san diego zoo: i've been, i've observed, and the most fascinating thing, i thought, was the massive amount of shit residue in the water.

anyway, thanks for the remarks!

two points for today:

one: when i got to work, the sticky-sweet-compliments woman swamped me with "oh, what a CUTE SHIRT!" AND "oh, and those CUTE SHOES, TOO!" before i even had a chance to say hello. this needs to stop. i barely thank her anymore because it's just out of hand. i'm not even wearing anything that cute! i've got a clem snide t-shirt that looks like an "i (heart) new york" shirt but actually says "i (heart) the unknown", and red sneakers.

i'm going to start logging all her superfluous compliments. also, i think i'll suggest giving me a quarter every time she wants to say something complimentary.

two: two years ago i was a supervisor at a bookstore. the assistant manager, a woman i'll call melanie, spent most of her time on the phone, if i was around to do actual work in her stead. one of the things i overheard her say during these conversations was her alias for an online journal.

yesterday, i was writing up something about bookstores and i thought of her. i wondered what she was up to and i remembered the alias. and i totally read through her diary. it's pretty juicy, so that was a good time.

it's going to be one

it's going to be one of those posts, and i'm sorry in advance...

i'm feeling down today. when i finally turned in last night, still jeans- and sweatshirt-clad, and set my alarm to go off two hours later, i knew it would be a down day. my eyelids feel stiff, my temples ache, my body is exhausted, my hair is unwashed, my work is unfinished, my money is gone, my bills are due, and i can't push past the shouting and cursing and fighting and hating that kept me up until the first wisps of dawn were visible.

(luckily, my eyelids actually look kind of cool when they're stiff. makes a crease. it's a novelty. on account of the half-asian-and-therefore-lacking-in-eyelid-crease thing.)

i don't feel the least bit lonely, but i do feel isolated, as though shrouded in an opaque layer of emotional cloudiness. it would be nice to know the world is still out there, beyond my fuzzy vision. could you leave a note? do you know any quick fixes or recipes for instant cheer? there are no devastated lovers here at fauxhemia right now, only the dazed and tired.

i like receiving emails from

i like receiving emails from my mother, because she does things like end them with "have fun with the eggplant."

on another note, am i

on another note, am i the only person not hooked on wil wheaton? (no, i will not provide a link.)

awhile ago, i posted a

awhile ago, i posted a long-winded complain about a woman in my office. writing that helped me to vent my small annoyance at her cheesy behavior. i felt cleared-out. refreshed.

then, on friday, she burst out with, "oh, rats." seriously, who says that?

in san diego, where i

in san diego, where i live, rent is a bit steep. in la jolla, where i more specifically live, rent is back-breaking. i do menial work for the university of california, gathering information about local rich people (which is analogous to a hungry person watching others eat all day long) so that the university can be in the know when it's trying to suck out money from the high and mighty of the area, like dr. seuss' late wife. anyway, my income can't support my living sans roommates, as i wish i could do because i've yet to find a set of roommates all open to my prancing around in skimpy underthings at all hours of the day.

but the three chicks with whom i share a pleasant, three-story townhouse make not living alone not only bearable, but awesome. granted, i spend a fair amount of my time at home shut into my own bedroom with the lights dimmed and the music turned up, doing my own thing, but i can count on laughs and rants and american idol debates being on the other side of the door if i choose to open it.

two of my housemates have birthdays next month, sandwiching my own, which is on the 8th (national outdoor sex day, for those of you who missed that bit of trivia the first time around). for the past few months, we've been throwing around suggestions for a celebratory shindig to be held at our underused hot spot of a home. but as the time has approached, i've gotten skeptical about the party idea. part of this is because i'm absolutely uptight about keeping the damn place CLEAN at ALL TIMES, but there's also my spotted history of bash-throwing to be taken into account:

• when i turned ten years old, i had a birthday party that my ever-supportive mother referred to euphemistically as "intimate." meaning, i had no friends. actually, that's not quite true. i had about one and a half friends, and one and a half friendly acquaintances. (the halves are accounted for in a girl who certainly felt close to me -- example: she once invited me to her house and proceeded to enthusiastically and instructively make out with her pillow -- but who made me feel a tad uncomfortable -- example: she once invited me to her house and proceeded to enthusiastically and instructively make out with her pillow .) party highlights included: bad presents (thanks, heather, i really wanted your used clear telephone), awkward silences, and late attendees (remember, each guest made up one-third of the invite pool); and my relationships with those girls dissolved within the next month.
• i organized a fifteenth birthday party for a girlfriend of mine, to be held at another girlfriend's house, at the end of our ninth grade year. the hostess was a drama queen who was named sarah at birth, decided to change her name to grace about a year after entering college ("no really, guys. it's grace now. no exceptions."), and then, after finding out that "sarah" means something like "princess" or "enchanting" or another vague positive trait, changed her name back. sarah's boyfriend broke up with her at that party, so she naturally wandered down her street a ways, in a fog of despair i'm sure, and eventually collapsed in a sobbing heap on the sidewalk and wailed (i'm not kidding) for so long that neighbors came to us and asked if they should contact emergency personnel.
• my mother's parents flew in to attend my high school graduation and, as their gift, offered to fund a graduation party. this was another "intimate" gathering, but this time at my own will. rather than inviting a crowd of friends to my backyard for a long, messy, hectic event, i opted in favor of lunching with a dozen or so of my nearest and dearest. the only problem was that many of my nearest and dearest were unacquainted. the result of that kind of mingling is almost always a frantic effort made by the center of attention (me) to make introductions and ensure that everyone becomes best friends, all in a matter of minutes, which is exhausting and difficult.
• i helped to organize a bash for co-workers when i was 18 or 19. the idea was that one of the gals had a second job at a local posh hotel, and she'd book us the royal suite for a night of debauchery. which it was, to a most unfortunate degree. what began as a rare evening of just plain fun among people who usually had to socialize over folding tables and cash registers turned into positively scandalous night of way too much wine and gossip and immaturity and shamelessness. it was horrid.

there are more. the point is, as a result i've cultivated a fear of parties that are thrown for me or by me. plus there's the anal-about-house-cleanliness thing i mentioned before. i can make a dashing hostess and i love a good time with people who are required by the nature of the event to give me their best wishes and possibly even presents, but for now this is still a dilemma.

i'd like to introduce everyone

i'd like to introduce everyone to my real-life friend, stan.

stan is my only real-life friend to read this page. i told stan about fauxhemia because of the pivotal role he's had in the development of my own wit. without him, i might not be so constantly on my guard against achingly bad (awesome) puns and humor that is somehow both self-depracating and self-exalting. and always self-referential, as you'll see below. here's a sample -- you can call it silly and snobby, but we call it genius ingenius. it's an instant message conversation from a year ago:

staaaaaaan (1:18:11 AM): hey. take and kate are anagrams.
staaaaaaan (1:18:15 AM): TAKE THAT.
staaaaaaan (1:20:04 AM): upon seeing that anagram
staaaaaaan (1:20:24 AM): i considered spending time not writing my paper to try to come up with a palindromic sentence that would incorporate your name
katekinks (1:20:30 AM): hahaha.
staaaaaaan (1:20:47 AM): but i had second thoughts about the fruitfulness of such an effort.
staaaaaaan (1:21:01 AM): perhaps for another time.
staaaaaaan (1:21:39 AM): i'm starting my com essay with this quote
staaaaaaan (1:21:41 AM): from the west wing
staaaaaaan (1:21:55 AM): President Josiah Bartlett: Sweden has a 100 percent literacy rate. 100 percent! How do they do that?
Chief of Staff Leo McGarry: Well maybe they don't and they also can't count.
katekinks (1:21:59 AM): hahaha. yeah, i read about that statistic.
staaaaaaan (1:22:05 AM): yeah
katekinks (1:22:05 AM): pretty funny, and quite suited!
katekinks (1:22:19 AM): "quite" and "suited" both have "uite"
katekinks (1:22:22 AM): !!!!!!!!
staaaaaaan (1:22:26 AM): indeed.
staaaaaaan (1:22:32 AM): AND YET THEY'RE PRONOUNCED IN DIFFERENT WAYS.
staaaaaaan (1:22:47 AM): we should send some of our chat logs to someone for immediate publishing.
katekinks (1:23:00 AM): i agree
staaaaaaan (1:23:10 AM): CrappyBooksThatYouWouldNeverBuy, Inc.
staaaaaaan (1:23:11 AM): perhaps
katekinks (1:23:37 AM): i thought for a moment about trying to come up with others
katekinks (1:23:47 AM): staaaaaaan (1:20:47 AM): but i had second thoughts about the fruitfulness of such an effort.
staaaaaaan (1:23:58 AM): witty re-direction.
staaaaaaan (1:24:05 AM): or perhaps i meant
staaaaaaan (1:24:11 AM): katekinks (1:14:07 AM): pretty funny, and quite suited!
katekinks (1:24:23 AM): hoo hoooo, we're so clever.
staaaaaaan (1:24:22 AM): hey
staaaaaaan (1:24:29 AM): katekinks (1:14:20 AM): "quite" and "suited" both have "uite"
staaaaaaan (1:24:32 AM): i just noticed.
katekinks (1:25:22 AM): ingenius observation, if you ask me.
staaaaaaan (1:25:34 AM): ingenius and genius both have "genius" in them
katekinks (1:25:49 AM): staaaaaaan (1:22:32 AM): AND YET THEY'RE PRONOUNCED IN DIFFERENT WAYS.
katekinks (1:25:55 AM): oh wait.
staaaaaaan (1:25:57 AM): oh stop. we're too funny.

the post about sex here,

the post about sex here, by meredith at red synapse, is one of the funniest things i've found on the internet in a long time.

on another note, i was all over the "i raq" thing months ago, but apparently clint black has stolen my idea and put a new and confoundingly disturbed twist to it. he does not raq, in my opinion.

i just caught a glimpse

i just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror while changing out of work clothes.

i'm not really that amazing to look at, but when this happened i suddenly totally, totally understood the self-indulgent self-love that inspires 17-year-old girls everywhere to wear skimpy next-to-nothings and tease their male peers with their bodies and dabble in the adventure that is skinny dipping. i've been 17 and i've done it, but this persective, from a greater distance, is refreshing. ah, all that skin!

krissa, i so feel you.

i remember the first time

i remember the first time you brought me to the airport.

it was new then. new and thrilling and riddled with possibilities for delving into something neither of us knew anything about.

i wrote you a short letter. it was honest. i wrote that i really liked you and i was truly happy with you, but most of all, i wanted to know you better. i wanted to know every inch of you, every facet of your personality, every interest, pet peeve, beautiful memory, facial expression, and idealistic goal.

i put the letter in an altoids case. in january and february, altoids makes heart-shaped cases and you'd given me one. with the mints still in it, of course. and you'd given me a valentine. it was the only valentine i'd ever gotten that meant anything. you told me i could read your mind like a book, that i could capture your thoughts with a singular look. i can still do that. there's a sluggishness in your smile when i know it's false, a bitter stiffness to your brow when i know you're hurt and angry. i think you forget how well i do know your face now. better than you know it. i understand what each tense muscle means. i know when you're not telling me something.

the first time you brought me to the airport was only a month and a half after you gave me that valentine. i left the note in the altoids case under the seat in your car -- back when your '66 mustang was still running -- and you saw it, and took it out for me. you thought i'd simply forgotten it, and i was gigglingly embarrassed to say that, no, i was trying to be cute and it was actually intended for you.

you still have it, somewhere. i've asked if you kept it, and you've said yes. you have a file, too, dedicated to me. notes i wrote to you. drafts of poems you wrote for me. i know you still have all this because of the time you said you'd had thoughts of systematically ridding yourself of all evidence of me, so that you could get over me. all these sentimental trinkets were the evidence. i have some too, littered around my bedroom in places i can easily both find and avoid. i'm so bad at deciding when to throw things away.

i have been using domainforte.com

i have been using domainforte.com for the site statistics, but they're discontinuing their free service. how do you other cheaplings find out who's been visiting you, and in how many droves, exactly?

a story of girl meets soda.

first, girl meets coke.

girl and coke have a long affair. girl is young but voracious, and develops a passion for coke. girl and coke do it upwards of six times a day, sometimes ritualistically. girl and a friend of girl's meet every day before third-period english. either girl or girl's friend stops at a pop machine on the way. (they were called pop machines, there, even by those -- like girl -- who called the beverage "soda," and when girl goes to college in a different place, with a different beverage vocabulary, she finds it difficult to kick the habit of calling them pop machines, much to the bewilderment and wonder of locals who would ask, "a machine that sells weed?") so girl and her friend would pop the top of coke and take turns chugging until the head ached, passing coke to the other, back and forth, chugging and recovering, and always finishing in under a minute.

it was triumphant.

one day, someone told girl that her teeth were remarkably not-yellow for someone with such a close relationship to coke. girl started to question that relationship. was six times a day too many? was she becoming dependent on coke? were those headaches she got when coke wasn't around a bad sign? should she reevaluate her commitment to coke?

girl started curbing her coke habit.

girl usually spent her afternoons at another friend's house. girl's friend always offered pepsi when girl was over. pepsi wasn't coke, but it was okay. it reminded girl of coke, and girl missed coke. then, suddenly, girl's friend's parents stopped buying pepsi, and started buying diet coke.

girl hated diet coke. she knew it could be worse, because she'd had diet caffeine-free coke, but she was more acutely aware of how much it could be better. diet coke cheapened coke. girl remembered vividly the taste of coke in her mouth, and considered this diet crap a vile replacement. girl turned up her nose at diet coke, and refused to drink.

but sometimes girl wanted something to drink at her friend's house. sometimes, after the bus ride and brief walk to her friend's house, while her friend was happily sipping her diet coke, girl got wistful. envious. thirsty.

diet coke was her only choice.

and so girl started to drink diet coke. slowly at first -- haltingly, weaning herself onto the taste, forgetting her initial disgust, learning always to have it cold, learning how to love it.

like an arranged marriage.

and she did. she learned to love it. she began to crave it. it became girl's one true soda.

and she stopped thinking about coke. girl no longer craved coke, or spent her time with diet coke just wishing it was coke. in fact, the opposite happened.

girl no longer liked coke.

girl became very aware of all of coke's flaws. how could she not have noticed before? coke was so sweet, so thick and syrupy. it was so much heavier and darker and so much less cool and refreshing and light and bubbly. girl never cared a bit about caloric intake. girl once spent three months eating nothing but salad with thick, creamy caesar dressing for breakfast, lunch and dinner. girl won't touch most of diet coke's diet relatives. no, diet coke was never something girl had to do to achieve a goal, or to uphold a dietary value. she simply loved diet coke for diet coke.

girl never came to hate coke. coke still has a special place in girl's heart, along with the dog-eared novels and broken cassettes and folded-up notes and forgotten crushes of adolescence.

but she doesn't drink it. her loyalties are elsewhere.

this is shortly before we

this is

shortly before we were instructed to go out, get drunk and make each other pregnant.

break out the tissue and

break out the tissue and the condoms.

i've got a triple date with conor oberst, aidan moffat and malcom middleton.

I'm here to end the

I'm here to end the suspense about traffic school.

firstly, there was indeed a dashing young man in my class. a dashing young frenchman. sure, he was at times an irritant, and he had a vastly overblown perception of his own sense of humor, and he asked the instructor if one could be ticketed for "having the sex in the car," but he was fine-featured with an enticing smile and a charming way of saying, "you sound so very smart when you speak." though, admittedly, i'm generous with my affections when it comes to people who compliment me on my intellect.

secondly, and perhaps most importantly, traffic school really wasn't so bad. the class (officially called "cheap weeknights comedy," interestingly, because i could see five movies for the same price, and unless one of them was rat race it would be funnier) was about what i expected: drivers' ed, but with older students. there were other major differences: no real curriculum per se, but simply a tendency to direct the conversation toward matters of the road; the instructor was much younger (looked about 70, whereas my drivers' ed instructor had to be wheeled in on a contraption marked "DEATH BED"); and the most surprising distinction -- more cooperative students.

i went to traffic school armed with notepad and pen, prepared to write down every single thing i could poke fun at later in conversations or web log entries. this i did, and don't even get me started on the mumbling truck driver, but i found that in a class attended by people only there to clear their records so that they could go back to their speeding ways, the conversation was remarkably courteous, at times interesting, and quite often very funny.

a man named bill was a sub-contractor who drove blood and body parts between here and LA every day. he regaled us with stories of his last four rear accidents (all within the past year) and with tales of traffic law breakage to which the rest of us could merely aspire. "back in '70 i was merging onto the freeway at a cool 120 mph, swerving around the corner and into the arms of the highway patrol -- and when they'd gotten me to the shoulder and come around to the side of the car, the hitchhiker i'd picked up said, 'i don't want to get you in trouble,' opened his trenchcoat, and pulled out a bag of pot!"

the mumbling truck driver (i said i wouldn't get started, but it's impossible to leave him out) gave us about three hundred and fifty tips for driving in front of, behind or near 18-wheelers, and i don't doubt that my newfound bible of knowledge is but a drop in the ocean of near-truck driving etiquette.

the instructor told terrible, terrible jokes, which i won't recant -- suffice to say that one involved dead chickens, their orphan chicks and foster farms.

there were the usual pitfalls to any 20-odd group of adults. there was the man (unfortunately seated beside me) whom i'd clearly bewitched and transformed into an oogling, drooling mess with eyes permanently affixed to my body. there was some very dull discussion of previous traffic offenses committed by students who were apparently proud of the bench warrants for their arrests in other states. most frustratingly, there was the group in the last row -- eerily reminiscent of the too-cool clowns of teendom -- which used the entirety of each four-hour class to bitch and bemoan the awful, horrid, really TORTUROUS punishment the class inflicted upon them. this was more than a bit bewildering to me, given that not only is the option of traffic school, the option to clear one's record of one's traffic offensives, something ultimately to be thankful for, but furthermore, since these juvenile excuses for grown people were ticketed in san diego county, they had at their disposal the option of taking the course by video or on the internet and thereby avoiding the PAIN and GNASHING OF TEETH they were caused here.

not that i was so annoyed that i wanted to turn around and tell them to shut up and stop behaving like spoiled children. or that i did. no.

but on the whole, it was harmless. on the whole, it gave me more to laugh about than complain about. the worst i can say of traffic school is that it took eight of my hours away. better that than my insurance dollars.

katekinks: ah, the burden of

katekinks: ah, the burden of intellect
staaaaaaan: yeah.
staaaaaaan: if only i didn't win every time i had an argument with myself.

things i wanted to yell

things i wanted to yell yesterday in my frantic rush to get to traffic school on time:

• to the SUV with all the UK and england stickers: they can read in england, yes? are you not even from england but simply so obsessed with the image that you haven't bothered to become a literate driver? to the point, are you then aware that the speed limit is 45, not 25?
• to the man in the miata: i could pick up your car and throw it. get out of my way. don't look pointedly at me in the mirror like that, asshole. your car looks like minnie mouse's foot.
• to the woman walking her dog in my neighborhood: i understand that my careening around that corner at 12 miles per hour might have been frightening for you, because you were only going about 3 miles per hour and because my car is so much bigger than you, and that must be scary. but you have to understand that my car is able to go much faster than your legs, so 12 is actually a bit slow for me. the "whoa, slow down" motion from you is therefore TOTALLY FUCKING UNWARRANTED.
• to the city of san diego: wow, thanks for designing the traffic lights at busy intersections to be ultra-sensitive to the presence of cars in the left turn lane, so that it's possible for a girl to drive down the street and hit every single light when it's red because cars facing the opposite direction want to turn. also, thanks for making the exception to that the design of very busy intersections such that the light is completely insensitive to drivers in the left-turn lane, even in the total and utter absence of ongoing traffic for over a minute, so that it's possible for a girl to sit in the left-turn lane for a good two or three iraq updates.
• to the designers of atm envelopes, or just envelopes in general: had to use paper, eh? just had to use material thin enough to give little cuts on things its edge swipes too quickly, like the lips of a girl in a hurry? yeah.

and that was just on the way to traffic school. to be continued...

i'm about to leave work,

i'm about to leave work, drop by my apartment to pick up a book, and head to (ominous timpani roll, please) traffic school. in november i was doing 90 on the 73 passing newport beach, and a chp officer pulled me over.

side note: i totally passed an integrity test when this happened, something i'm way too proud of because, really, it shouldn't be exceptional to be honest. he asked where i was going and why. i told him the truth: "i'm driving to hermosa beach to get away." that week, my life had fallen apart in a few ways, and i needed distance. the officer inquired: "did someone hurt you?" i paused. (yes, i thought to myself, but not the way you're thinking, officer d. bradshaw. i wondered how much an innocent, whimpering "yes" would save me in fines.) i replied, crestfallen: "no."

so i got a ticket. officer bradshaw reminded me, repeatedly and condescendingly, "you were going 89, but i only cited you for 85." gee. thanks, pal. and now i'm going to traffic school so that the ticket won't mar my otherwise spotless record. (there are more stories to detail how that record shouldn't really be spotless, but that's for another time, at another campfire.)

in washington, where i grew up, traffic school doesn't exist. once a ticketed driver, always a ticketed driver. so in that sense, i'm grateful that the option exists for me. but i can't help feeling bitter. one reason for this stems from some bureaucratic chaos -- their fault -- that i had to deal with. for another reason, the 73, where i was driving, is a toll road. that means i paid $3 to drive on a wide, roomy highway, empty of the traffic i would have found on the interstate any old bugger can drive on for free. the way i see it, i paid for the ability to cruise up the coast as fast as i damn well please. and i'm punished for the exercise of my freedom by being charged $135 for bail (like i was arrested or something. hmph), $30 for the ability to use the traffic school option (again: thank you *so* much), and $30 to actually attend the damn thing (though i was assured that "it's done in a fun way!")?! that's like "liberating" a country and then letting anarchy make its fearful grip! (oh, wait.)

i want to keep a cheeful face, though. this class will be full of speeders like myself. hot guys speed, right? only the bone-headed, macho ones? shucks.

try this on for size.

try this on for size.

sweet of heart and of tooth. just the way you like it.

two things.

• i'm not the hurt-myself-for-beauty type to begin with, but i nonetheless have a profound appreciation for the following: a lazily comfortable outfit that happens also to be a smashingly stylish one; and a zero-work-involved hair-do that happens also to be a flatteringly cute one. when the two coincide, like today, i'm ecstatic (except that my skin has become quite dry in places, and severely dry skin on the tip of the nose is about as aesthetically pleasing as a large red pimple).
• krissa (whom i've a newfound affection for, having now chatted with her a bit rather than just admiring from afar) called the picture at left a "lovely strange jeans-image." that's it, on the button. a lovely strange jeans-image. i don't recall, now, how i decided to use it; i do remember finding it and thinking, "that's enjoyable. a bit kitschy, perhaps, because let's face facts, it mostly says 'I LIKE MEN' and 'I AM TRENDY,' but enjoyable."
  
  those subtle subtexts are what prompt some occasional consideration, on my part, of a new image. okay, a lot of consideration. the problem is, i have very little talent in the way of pictures, images, logos, and the like. i thought of self-portraits. but i couldn't stand to see a humongous picture of myself every time i viewed the page (sickeningly often). i thought of scenic panoramics. duh: boring. i thought of... all right, that's it. see? no creativity!
  
  so hitherto i've simply ignored what to me has become less lovely and more strange -- almost an eyesore on what is otherwise an increasingly precious little kate-fingerprint on the web.
  
  but all that is about to change! no, i haven't found some hidden well of artistic thought. i was just thinking, "yum, i like strawberries. they're so sweet and good," and that became the brilliant idea behind the new image. i emphasize: there is no imagination involved here, only my taste for fresh fruit. hope you like it. if not, well, it probably won't last longer than those denim-clad lads.*
  
  but if you've any ideas for something better, please do share!
  
  *don't think that krissa's comment provoked this change. as i explained, it was long in coming. i'm flattered by krissa's, um, flattery, and the timing is simply a coincidence.

now that a magnanimous steve

now that a magnanimous steve w. has taken the time to pry more deeply into this blog's source than even i, clearly, was willing to do, and as a result you can see each and every precious post i've ever published, i am able to say something i've been wanting to say all weekend.

which i totally forgot.

but i was called "alluring and irascible" and compared to annie oakley, so that rocks and all. also, a child in the neighborhood has obviously discovered a piano, and that amuses too, until the point at which it makes me want to stomp and scream and weep. but that comes much later.

i occupy the most insignificant

i occupy the most insignificant position in our office. i am not only everybody's bitch, but that is a major part of my job. and the rest doesn't exactly rock my socks off.

but despite my low ranking in the food (and pay, and respect) chain around here, i still have seniority over a couple of people. one is my assistant, and come to think of it, she probably occupies the most truly insignificant position, because she is everybody's bitch's bitch, plus she doesn't even have the other stuff to fall back on. and i don't mean that in a disparaging way - she's great, but we are the slaves around here. the other is a woman who was hired earlier this spring not to replace someone, as is usually the case with new personnel around here, but to inhabit a whole new role. part of this role involved what was, until her hiring, my cubicle.

cubicles can be notoriously small, nondescript, boring, maybe even cell-like, and mine was little different, but it was a top-story corner office compared with the place they've got me now, which is to say, crammed into the corner of a counter space designed for buffet-style dessert selections, not computers. it's so narrow that i have to turn my head forty-five degrees to my right in order to look at the computer monitor, which had to be placed at that angle because it is longer than the depth of the "desk." my shelves', cabinets' and desk's worth of material had to be fit into its new home, a single drawer. worst of all, the screen is clearly visible from the entrace to the office suite as well as from all the way down the hall, making my usual guilty internet pleasures frustratingly difficult to access with any sort of discreetness or privacy.

so by the time this new woman had set foot in this office suite, she already faced a disadvantage -- my slight grudge at losing my little cube-shaped home. (okay, substantial grudge, but in fact it was directed more at the major decision-makers of the department than the new hire herself.) she may have known about this, or at least about the grudge-warranting fact that she'd cruelly displaced me, because from the beginning her demeanor was something resembling honey, sap or some other thick, ultrasweet sticky substance. she was kind, certainly -- excruciatingly so. and i do like her, because she seems cooperative, efficient, not overdemanding, and generally a good team player (detest as i do that term and its suggestions of motivational speeches and junior high school p.e. teachers).

but there is a line, i think, between "sweet" and "the kind of sweet that kills." it's somewhere after saying "your [hair/outfit/face] is so cute!" once a week, but before saying it ten times a week. it's after "hey, we're both wearing pink today! that's fun," but before "but you look way, way better in it." it's after the exchange that goes, "do you have plans for the weekend?"  "yes, i'm driving to anaheim to visit my sister, who is there for the weekend."  "ohhh, fun!" but it's before the exchange continues into, "why is she there?"  "band trip."  "ohhh, fun! what kind of band trip?"  "high school band."  "ohhh, fun! what does she play?"  "flute."  "ohhh, fun!"

i realize that i'm giving away my offensive, inconsiderate colors by expressing less than appreciative feelings toward someone's kindness. i am grateful, and i'm not really criticizing so much as saying that exercising discernment in the dispensation of compliments is a worthy practice that, from now on, will afford more respectful acknowledgment from me.

except on the internet, of course. flatter away!*

*greg, the "you're so cute when you're irate and sarcastic" comment would be overwhelmingly appropriate here.

you know that riddle? it

you know that riddle? it gets circulated via email and it goes, what is greater than God, more evil than the devil, the poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you'll die? and accompanying the riddle is always this foreboding preamble that goes, when asked this riddle, 80% of kindergarten kids got the answer, compared to 17% of stanford university seniors.

well i asked 10 kindergarten students this riddle and not a-one got the right answer. what a freaking load of crap.

next you're going to tell me to stop dancing like nobody's watching.

they say that if it's

they say that if it's love, you can't describe it, but simply know it. you can't explain it away or refuse it any more than you can justify it or convince others of its truth, its depth, the fact that it has captured a little piece of your heart.

and that is why, my friends, i'd appreciate some understanding on the issue of my recording american idol.