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i'm katekinks and i have a gmail account. feel free to contact me.
How I can, when I discover in the shower that the body wash is empty, crack open the shower door and toss the container perfectly into the trash, but then am unable to lift a spoonful of cereal to my mouth without depositing half its contents onto my lap, is something I will never fathom.
This is what I see several times per day. And I don't even regularly watch TV.
Update: Ahhnold's Official Website is up and slightly reorganized so that the link above is no longer active. To view the ad, visit the site and scroll down for viewing options.
There are times work isn't so bad. For example, I've been taking care of a dull, repetitive project for someone in the office, and she's been expressing her gratitude via email:
* * *
From: Grateful Co-Worker
To: Kate
Thanks for taking care of this, Kate. Not the most glamorous project.
* * *
From: Kate
To: GCW
That's what YOU think! I'm wearing a ballgown and stilettos this very moment! Not glamorous, my foot.
* * *
From: GCW
To: Kate
the work might not be glamorous, Kate, but that doesn't mean you aren't.
* * *
I was on the road recently, and turned my head to the right to see this:
That's right, it's a police Camaro.
What could possibly be the point of spending tax dollars on such a thing? So that cops can look badass instead of simply bad? Whatever the reason, I began to muse next over who gets to drive the Camaro. I decided that it must be driven in rotations, not by the same officer all the time, and came up with a few explanations:
Right. I'm finally finishing up work, and I owe a couple of people drinks so I'd better do that now before my evening gets underway. I hadn't expected to play hostess on my first day in the new place, but I received some transatlantic requests and I suppose a housewarming party is in order anyway. I did say this was a soirée, after all.
Sorry to bring your orders a bit late - okay, a day late - but did you really expect me to serve with a smile at 7 am? Sure, for you it's midafternoon and time for a (perhaps) much-deserved drink, but for me around then it's early morning and time for much-needed coffee. So bear with me. Also, I'm only a trainee, so give me a break, would ya? But I everything I know about hosting a cocktail hour online I learned from Karen, so this shan't be too poorly executed, I hope.
I looked everywhere for European lagers and came up with almost nothing. So, Stuart, can I offer you my
favorite favourite pint instead? If you don't accept, I'll be insulted and give you Rolling Rock. That'll teach you. Spengy, I present you with the same choice. And I presume you'll want two.
If you don't mind, Mark, I'll bring you both a Guinness (in a Speckled Hen glass, of course) and a vodka cranberry. But the vodka cran will essentially be mine, to sip from as I walk to and from the bar. When I'm through serving and ready to socialise, it had better still be there.
Karen, I'm not sure how hot you like it (no added innuendos required), so I'll make your bloody mary with just a smidge of Tabasco, and keep the bottle by the bar for easy access, should you want the extra spice for your drink or to play practical jokes. Or perhaps Pete would like to pour some onto his cocktail sausages?
I suspect that some of the Uborka readers I've seen around here would have asked for drinks, had they thought I'd follow through on their requests. I know how keen they are on cocktail hours. So I'll rummage through the cupboards and see what I can find for all the stragglers. I know for certain I've got a surplus of milk in the refrigerator, so I'll probably be offering white russians. And everyone's welcome to the Newcastle, as long as they mind the glassware. Those lovely pilsners are new. Other than that, don't bother trying to behave yourselves.
There you go. Sláinte.
In lieu of real content - because I've astronomically busy at the moment, but can't not post, because I want to add to my new site, wheee! - I've got a little challenge for anyone who'd like to participate.
Due to the redesign and to the move, I've spent a good deal of time in recent days looking at the fauxhemia template. Along with the jibberishy-looking letter combinations that make this page beautiful (thank you, Pete) and allow me to add my humble entries (thank you, Patricia), I've recorded all the phrases that have been used in the title bar since February, when this site opened for business.
It was fun for me to remember where each line was from, and I thought it could be interesting to see if other people could guess. For the person who gets them all correct (or comes the closest), I'll make a mix CD. I say "make", not "send", because I am a poor student, and I am still recovering from the FINANCIAL ATROCITY that is London - but you have my word that I'll send it in the nearish future.
Ready? Let's play.
Past title bar phrases for fauxhemia have included:
Where did I get each line? (Number 9 is a freebie; I just wanted to include it in the list.) Ideal answers should be as thorough as your memory allows. Now, guess away!
... to the new digs. Kick off your shoes, stick your toes into the carpet (it's new), grab an ice cold drink and enjoy the soirée. You're just on time.
What are the world's most quotable films? I'll start with two.
Pulp Fiction. Would you give a guy a foot massage?
The Princess Bride. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father; prepare to die.
Someone will likely mention The Godfather, but I haven't actually seen it. What others am I missing?
One of the girls I live with just returned from Japan. In Japan, she had a friend named "I" and an acquaintance named "You", heard stories about You's cousin "Me", and met someone named "Sucasa" who was from "Micasa".
No, they're not spelled like that, but they sure are pronounced like that.
She also brought back presents and trinkets that would put some of the entries on Engrish to shame. No Rock Star shirt, but she did buy this very plate, of Engrish fame.
What I like the best of what she's brought back to California is her perspective on Americans. She made the mistake of going to Costco the day she returned to the States:
"Americans are fat and lazy! What are you doing? You don't need six pounds of Velveeta!"
She posits that the Japanese have even found a way to make "American" food taste better than it does here. Furthermore, she says, they take all of our ideas and so vastly improve them that they are barely recognizable.
"Case in point: Ford invented the Model-T but you don't see Toyotas driving around with flaming tires."
The lie was Number Three. That could be because I'm not actually that hot, or because cops aren't actually that pigheaded, or because it really is going to happen but simply hasn't yet.
(Update)
Oh, yes, the results! There were 6 votes for story the first, 3 for the second and 2 for the third. Congratulations to the small minority of you who got it right, though from the look of it you were guessing at random. To the rest of you - you don't have much faith in off-duty police behavior, do you? No, me neither.
"When you make it back to London, come up to Glasgow and give me us a shout. We'll take you out."
- Chris Geddes, keyboards, Belle and Sebastian
I'd have posted earlier; unfortunately there was the matter of the MISSING ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL to be looked into first. I wish I could tell you it had been positively resolved.
Obfuscation
Brushes with the Law
Cops can save your butt, right? I'd never have been surprised to hear that, but it didn't really hit me for many years.
I grew up in a town whose size could be described by "smallish- to medium-sized city". It was home to a few hundred thousand people, had a discernible (though tiny) downtown area, yet was close enough to middle-of-nowhereness, evidenced by two-lane highways and thickly wooded areas, that it was possible, every year, for each high school's junior and senior classes to hold keggers in the woods come June.
I know. It's classy. High school tends to be.
My junior year of high school happened to end in the spring when area cops decided to crack down on underage drinking, and on large keg parties especially. The local paper printed stories that detailed police plans to patrol surrounding areas with methods that included circling helicopters in search of illegal teenage debauchery. Rumors of extensive arrests of minors made kids nervous, but the planners had no fear. No caution, at least.
I went to the junior keg in a two-door coupe with six other people and three tents. We drove to the designated map pick-up, where we were given barely and purposefully incomplete directions, which took us nearly there. At the last labeled spot on the map, we found the point person for final direction to the party site, a clearing about half an hour's drive into the woods one and a half hours north of town. It was a semi-well-oiled machine. Since it was the middle of June and the sun didn't set until late, the festivities kicked into full gear around 10:30, when the only illumination came from a bonfire, a few headlights and the gleams of adolescent mischief in 150 sets of eyes.
I woke in a tent the next morning not long after dawn when a friend called to me from the outside, saying the cops were there and that I needed to come out. "Yeah, right," I responded, "you're not getting me out of bed that way." Naturally, she'd been telling the truth.
The next six hours were spent being systematically sorted and questioned by the police. After determining age and BAC the cops separted the kids into two groups: those to receive MIP (minor in possession) charges, and those who would go free thanks to the generosity of the justice system. By the time it was my turn to speak with a cop, I'd swallowed a breathmint, sucked on a penny, and chewed a stick of gum, even though I knew perfectly well those mythical breathdisguisers would fail.
The cop asked for my license and examined it. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.
Strangely, I did something right: "Yes," I responded without hesitation.
He nodded, and asked whether my parents were aware of my whereabouts. I equivocated - just as I'd done when I told my mother my plans the previous day - and he picked up the breathalyzer. I blew, and waited a few seconds for a miracle to happen.
It did. I blew a 0.000.
"Let's call your home and let your parents know where you are," the officer said, friendly enough now that my sobriety had been established. I gave him the number and he called; he informed my mother that I'd been at a party in the woods, and he assured her that I hadn't been drinking.
He assured her that I hadn't been drinking.
I held my tongue. Had he forgotten my answer to his very first query? Was he just trying to give a girl a break? I'll never know.
Two: Po Po Creepin
Cops can be dimwitted fools, right? I'd never have been surprised to hear that, but it didn't really hit me for many years.
The first two years of college had two constants for me: a roommate, and a boyfriend. The former varied; the latter didn't. The problem with having both was that #1 afforded little time to be alone with #2. So whenever we wanted to talk without being overheard, my beau and I would take to one of our cars and park someplace quiet and pleasant.
Almost without fail, we would be approached by the fuzz while parked. Over the course of two years this became a running joke: apart, we were harmless, but together we emitted a signal that cops latched onto. At times, it seemed that we spent more time in threes - the two of us plus a police officer - than alone together.
Typically, the officer would approach the vehicle and shine his or her flashlight into our faces. Then our IDs were checked, and the car's registration. Then the questions.
"What are you doing here?" (talking)
"This late?" (yeah)
"Why?" (we both have roommates)
"You're sunk down awfully low in that seat." (excuse me?)
"Are you sure he's not harassing you, miss?" (this is getting ridiculous)
It was harmless, though an annoyance.
Our most irritating run-in with the police happened when we actually were driving. He'd been pulled over for failing to come to a complete stop at a four-way stop sign. (It was a deserted area in the middle of the night.) Officer 1 had taken his identification, registration and insurance card back to her car when I was startled by a tap on my window. I turned and was blinded by a second policeman's flashlight. After regaining my wits, I rolled down the window.
"What's that in the back?" officer 2 asked suspiciously. We glanced back. Several Corona boxes sat on the floor of the van. We were underage. "Oh, those are empty," my driver said. "I use them to store plastic bags."
Officer 2 narrowed his eyes. "Open it up," he said after a moment. Inconvenienced but understanding, we opened the side door and displayed the boxes of bags. The officer picked up a few, eyeing them under his bright light, and asked with deep suspicion, "Why are they tied up?" With frustration that was obvious to me, my boyfriend answered, "Because otherwise it would be a big mess."
After toying with the bags for a minute more, the cop sighed and muttered, "I suppose that's acceptable." He switched off the light and left.
Three: Picked Up
Cops can be just regular assholes in bars, right? I'd never have been surprised to hear that, but it didn't really hit me for many years.
Cop: Come here often?
Kate: Actually, I just turned 21 a few minutes ago.
Cop: Ahhh. I might have to turn my watch back and arrest you for underage drinking, just to get you into my patrol car.
Which one's the LIE?
Because I'm a poser anyway (see above), telling lies is really just more of the same. Yeah, I know you think I'm some kind of beautiful, intelligent sexpot, but that's just part of my cunning plan to, well, get you to think I'm some kind of beautiful, intelligent sexpot. Deception is all in a day's work here on the blog.
It's this truth bit that worries me, quite frankly. That requires me actually to be interesting, not just to sound interesting - and I have enough trouble with the latter.
So when the obfuscatory post is published in a couple of hours (because I didn't plan ahead, or rather I did but instead of thinking of stories last night I went out and danced harder than I have in ages and came home at 3 a.m. completely knackered, so I've got to come up with ideas now), try to be a little forgiving. I'm not one of those who can say, "I've climbed K-2, I once escaped prison, and I faked a pregnancy to get out of a job; which one is true?"
Oh wait. Yes I can. Well, be forgiving anyway.
I just love...
When you see an item you like in a clothing store that also happens to have a sale tag, but upon being rung up at the register it turns out the item was erroneously marked down, it's policy for many companies to give you the sale price anyway.
When I went to the bank to sort out my accounts and the teller told me I had a credit card I'd never known about with a balance of $0, but then much later I was informed by another banker that the card was in fact one I'd reported stolen last winter, not actually usable, well ... I think I should have gotten the card and its unused credit anyway.
Someone like me who doesn't carry around spare killer blog templates in her back pocket shouldn't start messing around with her blog's little visual details when she is already tired to begin with, because that little bit of tweaking will turn into a fullscale overhaul which will NOT GO SMOOTHLY and which will not only leave her even more braindead than before but also without even a new look to show for all the work, because after awhile such a thing just has to be given up on.
Anyone want to redesign me?
In other news, this
is a fun idea.
I woke up this morning to discover that I am apparently a shameless, exhibitionist hussy. Why hasn't Drunken BlogGuard™ been developed yet?
I doubt I'll ever find an accessory I like more than the ID/money pouch held to the thigh by a garter belt.
I'm not trying to be cute. It's honestly one of the best combinations of useful and fun that I've ever seen. Why is it such innovations seem only acquirable in the gift sets handed out by Clinique when customers spend over $15?
If I'm not allowed to joke about guns and bombs in airports or on airplanes, is it too much to ask that airline staff not kid about plane food? Honestly, when a flight attendant says, "Here's your meal, and if you survive that I'll be impressed," I am not amused.
"All comments regarding the questionable quality of airline food are taken seriously. Please, no jokes."
This is an exercise in memory and I don't really expect it to interest anyone except me. But it's more readable than many of the other thoughts darting through my mind recently, most of which have to do with how much I currently loathe San Diego.
Most weekdays around nine o'clock, I left the flat with the day's gear packed into my handbag and trotted down Barker Drive with midmorning enthusiasm in the direction of Camden Town. I passed one cat lazing in the garden by the flat and another in the shade of some shrubbery across the street. As I approached the nearest cross street I sometimes saw a postman's vehicle parked between the Constitution, a local pub, and the red BT telephone booth with the advert that read, "But 9 of 10 BT telephones are always working."
I crossed the street and skipped down the steps to the canal, dodging the workers tearing up the pavement (until they disappeared and left a sparkling new stone surface in their place). There was a bench a few paces from the steps and usually it was occupied. Several more yards on were often perched a pair or threesome of hopeful fishers, already looking weary in the sun, which by this time had begun to heat concrete, wooden and watery surfaces everywhere and coax out a gleam of moisture from every forehead I could see.
Water squirted from the cracks between some of the cement planks that formed the walkway by the canal, so I tried awkwardly to avoid the small crevices, while at the same time skirting around puddles, ducking under the curved ceilings created by bridges over the canal at Royal College Street and Kentish Town Road, and dashing to the path's edge at the sound of a bike's tinkling bell or a jogger's thudding footsteps.
Sometimes people were maneuvering boats through the lock just before the excellently situated MTV studios. Across from MTV's picnic table-bedecked deck was a grassy spot where lay several sunsoaked nappers, invariably clothed by the long-sleeved and black, something I never understood.
The path widened and took a slightly upward slant at this point, and Camden Market came into view. There were the stalls and stores, the pubs and restaurants, the bridge that was Chalk Farm Road, the continuance of the canal as it wound toward Primrose Hill, the London Zoo, and eventually Little Venice.
I took the cobblestone path up to the bridge and crossed in the direction of the canalside Starbucks. When I wanted coffee, I sometimes bought it; other times, I got it free. As I walked down the crowded street I always heard "Waiting for Tonight" by Jennifer Lopez coming from Blueberry. I passed the racks of Union Jack thongs, the goth store, and the stall selling football jerseys, including that of Newcastle United in a boys' large, the one I have now.
I sometimes stopped at a cash point on the corner of Parkway. I picked the one with the shortest queue, either Barclay's, HSBC or Lloyd's, and made a stop at the internet cafe a short way down Camden High Street. It smelled like bad food unless I was hungry, and then it smelled fantastic. I paid £1 for an hour and spent it checking email, reading weblogs and investigating the potential destinations of the day before prancing out and across the road to the Camden Town tube station, where I bought a Day Travelcard for zones 1 and 2, made my way to the soonest Charing Cross branch arrival and disappeared through the train doors before it sped away to Central London.
there's going to be a paucity of posts over the next several days. i have goodbyes to say in london, flights to take over the atlantic and across the states, and a wedding to attend which should be interesting, as the father of the groom -- and my father also -- will be announcing his engagement at the affair, the guests at which will include his two most recent wives and the five children he's had with them.
if you'd like to read something of mine in the meantime, i invite you to pop over to mark's place, where i had my guest blogging gig last week, and browse through our "senses" series.
see: kate | mark
hear: kate | mark
smell: kate | mark
taste: kate | mark
touch: kate | mark
i'm going to miss posting in this time zone.
posted tue. 2:19 pm
oh yeah, this blog turned six months old on saturday. i'll use that as an excuse to eat cake.
mmm, cake.
posted mon. 11:31 am
scenario: i pass three druggies sitting canalside. i stare.
misconception: druggies think i'm watching them prepare lines.
clarification: i'm fixated on one man's shoes: slim-fitting, heeled, clear jellies. it's the fashion, not the lifestyle.
scenario: i see my landlord/flatmate at the flat. he says, "kate, was a strange man sleeping in your bed when you came home this morning?"
miconception: i think my landlord/flatmate has been allowing vagrants to sleep in my bed.
clarification: one of the mixer bar staff needed to crash. a friendly. no harm.
scenario: i am slightly emotional and substantially out of sorts.
misconception: those around me begin continue to question my mental stability; people probably start thinking words like "issues".
clarification: i was unexpectedly reminded that families are fallible, and needed time to work things out. fabulously fun kate is back in business.
friday, baby.
posted fri. 2:47 pm
when someone asks whether it would be better to be a zombie or a vampire, and your very first thought is that vampires are sexier, and then it turns out that that was someone else's first thought as well, i think it's safe to say that such a person is on the same wavelength you are, and moreover, that it's a very, very important wavelength.
posted fri. 10:43 am
if easy internet cafe didn't charge one pound eighty per hour i'd have time to compose a po
i don't have anything to contribute right now, so check out the drama incited by Her Deliciousness, Ms. Hiboux:
it's worth following.
posted wed. 12:43 pm
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forecast courtesy of (stolen from) CNN.com
idea to put the two side by side courtesy of (stolen from) correspondence with a loved (and funny) one
posted tue. 12:16 pm
does this sound familiar? there's option A and there's option B. and within option B there are several other alternatives, say, choices 1 through 4. all the people you don't really like much want option B, choice 1 or 2. but the people you do like can't decide whether they want option A, option B choice 3, or option B choice 4. option A is probably the least desirable of those three, but at the same time, the simplest. all you personally know is that you don't want to end up with what the people you don't like want. it's pretty critical that you and the people you like work together on making your selection, because if you splinter off then the people you don't like will win out and ruin everything. you need some clear direction so that you can be confident that you and the people you like are voting choosing as a cohesive group, not as a fractious gathering of individuals who don't know what one another is doing or supposed to do. you're worried that you aren't going to get any clear direction and that you're going to have to deal with an unwanted outcome for, say, three and one-half years until the next election choice rolls around. sigh. sound familiar?
i mean, just hypothetically.
posted tue. 11:00 am
i just left the british museum and there were lots of tourists there taking pictures of all the exhibits and artifacts and mostly not reading the little explanations off to the side. people were posing their children in front of the rosetta stone and telling their spouses to give the thumbs-up sign next to the remains of a greek statue and taking close-ups of the larger explanatory prints -- presumably so that they could save time by reading them later.
i, on the other hand, was very intellectual throughout my visit. i kept thinking, as i walked through the Mummified Egyptians Room, "if i stand in front of the glass and get just the right lighting so that my reflection is somewhat clear, i can take a picture where it looks like i'm lying inside that sarcophagus."
posted fri. 4:13 pm
there are some things for which losing them and then remembering where they've gone is actually a good thing. "where's my film? oh, it's at the developer's! wonderful, i'll have pictures soon." "where are my glasses? oh, i got rid of them after my laser eye surgery, because i have perfect vision now!" "where did all those condoms go? oh!"
but money is not one of those things. never, ever, after wondering where the devil all your money went, will you feel better looking at your account history. recalling that you've paid $3 for every ATM withdrawal (and god knows there were a few) and realising that everything you've bought on holiday has cost twice as much as it would at home and that's why you've got to start eliminating meals from your budget -- this is less than comforting.
now if you'll excuse me, i'm going to go do a lot things for free.
posted fri. 10:21 am
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