also

Dustin Hoffman and Sean Penn SO played beer pong before the Oscars. My guess is Dustin won. But like, best of seven. 'Cause, wow.

these are two of my new favorite things

My newly minted second most favorite thing ever: calling Helen Keller "Hel-Kell."

My newly minted most favorite thing ever: saying, "or as Hel-Kell would say ... [silence]."

hey, whaddaya know

Oops!

hi, i'm still five

For no reason whatsoever this morning I decided that the next time someone said, "I have a right to my own opinion," I would say, "Yup, and I have a right to hate it so much I throw up on your face."

who needs drugs, anyway?

Or, Hi, I'm Five.

The snow last night was beautiful, and it did something to my head.

Things I apparently found really, really great:

• Kicking snow into the air
• Kicking snow into Conrad's legs
• Trying to make a snowball, failing, throwing loose snow at Conrad instead
• Writing AAAAAAAAAAAAA in the snow on someone's back windshield
• Jumping into an area of clean snow with my feet together so it left a single set of footprints surrounded by several feet of nothing
• Imagining someone encountering the solitary footprints and thinking, "What the fuck...?"
• Writing WTF?! in the snow beside the solitary footprints
• Writing WTF?! in the snow in other places
• Writing a fucking enormous WTF?! with my feet in a big clean white area of the sidewalk
• Being a total child

an open letter

To: Readers (hi Krissa! hi Heather!)
Cc: my boyfriend

I'm not a completely private person (hi, I have a blog), but there are some things I like kept secret: my PIN numbers and passwords. I've been known to become disproportionately miffed at people who look on while I use an ATM and then remark afterwards, "I know your PIN number." I never ever ever share passwords unless it's a generic password I only use for not-very-important sites. I always sign out of everything, including on my own computers, and I never check the "Remember Me" box.

Not everyone's like that, which is fine by me. It's not like my way of obsessively keeping passwords guarded is a values system I want to impose on the world. I know plenty of people who, when checking email at someone else's apartment, leave the computer without signing out. Not my style, but fine.

One person in particular does this at my apartment all the time. In fact, this Certain Person tends to be fairly casual about passwords as a rule. Any moderately observant individual could easily memorize his passwords for email, friendster, the nuclear launch system, what have you.

A very observant individual might even learn this Person's Diaryland password.

So hear this: I am a respectful person. But do not overestimate my sense of restraint when it comes to the combination of a password, a certain neglected blog, and a natural, irresistible urge to talk myself up to a targeted audience.

I think I'd do a pretty good impression of a certain someone's writing style, were I to put my mind to it.

No one quits blogging anymore. Quitting blogging is so passé. I think it's time for someone to get up off the mat. Or certain insinuations made herein might find their way into practice.

*looks pointedly*

WOO

LOVE THAT ONCE A MONTH ALL ENCOMPASSING AIMLESSLY ANGRY STAB YOURSELF IN THE EYE WITH YOUR OWN TOENAIL DEPRESSION. YEAH MAN.

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO TELL ME THAT POSTING ABOUT PMS IS UNORIGINAL. IT'S NOT LIKE I'M IN THE STATE OF MIND WHERE I WOULDN'T MIND CUTTING SOMEONE'S LIPS OFF OR ANYTHING.

co-habititating

Or Aw, Even the Loudest Alarm On the Face of the Earth Doesn't Keep Him Away.

Conrad is steadily invading my apartment. Suddenly there's Axe in my bathroom. Axe. I use Dove. And there's Axe in my bathroom. At least the cliches end mainly there; there are no his-and-her towels, or stacks of completing magazines - Cosmo! FHM! - or two bath poufy scrubber things hanging from the shower rack.

Oh fuck, no, there totally are two bath poufy scrubber things hanging from the shower rack.

The invasion is creeping.

It started a few weeks ago when I found a single strange sock in my clean laundry after retrieving it from the laundromat. At first I silently cursed the laundromat people for giving me a total stranger's sock again, and then I remembered that it wasn't the sock of a stranger at all, but of a man who apparently doesn't notice if one of his feet is naked when he leaves my place on any given morning after a night spent at mine which, these days, most nights are.

And it's not just socks anymore. Socks was small beans. I already told you about that antithesis to feminine scents, Axe. There are weird things turning up in my kitchen, too. (Anything that isn't cheese, crackers, orange juice, or liquor - the staples of my diet - qualifies as weird.) There's a corner by the closet devoted to Boy Things like a Boy Sweatshirt and a Boy T-Shirt and Boy Underwear. And of course, dangling over the bathroom sink, that most symbolic of things, a toothbrush.

He's even getting used to using my Mac. (Useful skill to have in advance of, god-willing, the Macification of the world.) 'Cause, you know. If you can wean a man onto Safari, you have all a girl could ever ask for.

I don't have anything at His Place besides a toothbrush and some conditioner, mainly, I think, because my place is closer to the city and closer to the subway and more reliably warm and has internet access and some other conveniences not to say his place is inconvenient by any stretch but just relatively difficult in some small ways and also, let it be said, because I am spoiled.

So for now it's not cross-colonization so much as invasion, which is ok, which is great, really, because honestly, like I wanted him using my Dove deodorant and smelling like a woman any longer. (Just kidding, baby!) No, it's great because it's practical, and also because when he's not there it's not likely I'll sleep better or wake happier so it's not many nights I don't want him there. And as long as he's there he might as well be clean and have his own clothes and especially his own underwear because I think he was getting sick of wearing my thongs.

I'M KIDDING. Sheesh.

a conversation, or, why i love him

Fulminous: How are you?
Kate: Doing ok. Keep meaning to go out for food. You?
Fulminous: I'm ok. Martha Stewart is getting out of jail in a week, but I'm a little disappointed in my smoothie.

bets

I'm not a betting gal, usually, but I made a bet three months ago with my ex-boyfriend Josh and this weekend I got to collect. Very, very graciously, he held up his end up the deal and paid for some of New York's finest filet mignon, complete with delicious sides, a nice bottle of petite sirah, and a waiter who simply could not take a joke.

Then, perhaps because it wouldn't be karmically appropriate for me not to give equally what I have taken, I dropped a little more money than originally planned yesterday, on what so far has been the Best Appetizer of 2005, the Best Dessert of 2005, and the Fucking Weirdest Party of 2005 which had a tab minimum about five times what I'd consider normal.

It was worth it, of course, and I got to buy Jo drinks in a belated birthday gesture, and she even came out to Brooklyn with me earlier in the day to see the studio, meet Conrad, meet Chris, drink coffee, etc., and now she's gone and I miss her so it's a good thing I'm buying a ticket to California soon.

That's all folks, I'm sick and tired and off for coffee, sustenance and maybe even a DVD I haven't watched to death.

oh! my god! i miss you.

When I moved, one of the girls I'd lived with for two years gave me a postcard set so that I could write to her. The cover of the box pictured a surly looking girl and said OH! MY GOD! I MISS YOU. across the top. She also gave me three Chinese-manufactured condoms, wrapped in a piece of notebook paper I wish I still had because she'd written something like "your people want you to have safe sex!" on it.

Jolene gives good gifts. For my last birthday, it was a t-shirt printed with a picture of a gun and the truism, "Guns Don't Kill People. People With Mustaches Kill People." When she went abroad a couple years ago, she came back with a SEX IN PROGRESS sign. It lit up. Often.

This is all on top of the day-to-day awesomeness of Jolene. I saw my first Decemberists show with her, and Cat Power both times, and Bright Eyes when the only thing he was known for was being a whiny baby, and The Flaming Lips even though I was sick as a dog, and Liz Phair even though she sucked ass, and the Starlight Mints and Elliott Smith and Arab Strap and all the others, and she introduced me to Adams Morgan pizza and showed me that you can be cool and still like karaoke and came up with the best Tolkien porn title ever, which is Legolas Shoots His Wad.

All of which makes the fact that I completely totally missed her 23rd birthday a week and a half ago an exceptional shame. Didn't even write. Didn't even call. Didn't. Even. TEXT. And here you thought I was a good person (or maybe not).

Luckily for me, though, Jolene is coming to New York this weekend. Which means, along with Meeting The Boy and Seeing The Apartment and Catching Up I.E. Trash-Talking All Our Mutual Acquaintances (Ha Ha Just Kidding, Anyone Who Reads This), I can attempt to make up to her my vast oversight by emptying copious amounts of liquor down her throat. Which is pretty much how we'd be reuniting anyway, but hey, hopefully the drunkenness being on my dime will take the edge off my failing so horribly.

Happy birthday Jo, and oh! my god! I miss you.

i love cleaning

I just found an old list I made for myself. It's called "Things I should have done," and it's very short:

• Make out with Alesandro

in re: the bright side, and the looking thereupon

I've spent the past day saying, "I found out I'm not getting a permanent job, but to soften the blow my boss gave me a big raise," and feeling bad about complaining at all. Once I actually was told, half-jokingly, that I should feel bad for complaining at all. So I've been tiptoeing (or trying to) around the bad news, conscious of how awesome the good news is and how that takes away my justification for being upset.

But fuck that. If I had to choose between a raise and a job, I'd obviously choose the job. Lot of good that raise'll do me when I'm out of work. When I'm trying to find a new apartment, I'll bet a potential landlord will be real happy upon calling to verify my employment to learn that it's going to run out in a couple of months. At least, since I'm making more, I can save up more easily, so that when I take time off or miss work due to illness, I'll have a financial buffer for all the hours I can't log since I have no paid vacation or sick days. And with the extra cash I'll also be better able to afford things like urgent care appointments, which run $85-ish since I'm not insured. I'll just forego things like fillings, glasses, exams and prescription pills.

It's not that I'm not grateful for the raise - I am. It's an amazing raise and it really demonstrates my boss's feeling that I'm valuable, even though he couldn't get the approval to hire me. It definitely will help me pay down my debt more quickly, and it means money will be that much less of a stress factor in my life, at least for the time being. And not getting a job right now is like infinity plus one miles from actual problems.

But fucking fuck anyway.

jeebus, the joke just makes itself

I read this twice and thought, "You HAVE to be kidding me."

"It's a budget that reduces and eliminates redundancy. It's a budget that's a lean budget."
- President Bush

dumb

So I figure this is a pretty simple question, right?

I want to open a Citibank account.

They have this thing called the Citibank Access checking account, which has no minimum balance and no fee if you have direct deposit.

But it doesn't come with checks, which is fine since I pay everything online, except that usually you need a voided check to give to your payroll department in order to set up direct deposit.

Right?

So I figured there was a way to accommodate that, but wanted to know what it was. I called Citibank. First the girl was unfamiliar with the account itself.

"You're thinking of the EZ Account."
"No I'm not. It's right here on the website. 'Access Account.'"
"Is it a promotion?"
"Uh ... it's on the 'types of Citibank checking accounts' page, so I think no."
"Let me put you on hold."
"..."
"You're right, there is an 'Access Account.'"
"How bout that."

I reiterated the terms of the account and asked again, "So with this account, how would I go about setting up direct deposit?" And she said, "Oh. Let me put you in touch with a specialist."

Do I expect too much of people?

and on a note that couldn't be less related to the previous post...

...it's really nice to go to sleep next to someone who brings me a glass of water on his way to bed because he knows I'll want it in the middle of the night. I guess it makes sense that even though in the past I've been a keep-to-my-side sleeper, I'm now happiest in the morning when I wake up still held tightly by such a person.

Even if the waking is at 6:00 in an unheated apartment >:o

foul

Sorry: this is gross, but I have to, uh, vent. Ahem. Anyway, if you're the type of person who thinks no one poops, move along.

Last night I took a car to Conrad's place. The car reeked. It didn't take more than 15 seconds to guess what might have caused the air inside to be so foul. My theory: the driver smoked some weed, got really hungry, and ate something with a lot of beans. A couple windows were cracked, indicating he had a faint idea that his vehicle smelled of marijuana and farts. Fine. I can deal. But when I settled in and prepared myself for ten minutes of mildly filthy air, I had no idea what kind of wind he'd be passing. Honestly, if I'd known he was going for an award in making a small confined space smell as much like diarrhea as possible, I'd just as soon have walked. Really, of all the taxis...

overheard (or, "one cube over: the saga continues")

"Hello?"

(pause)

"Double D."

(pause)

"Ok, bye."

milestones

Yesterday, on a date with my former roommate and co-director of the Alliance for the Uncaring (Just Say No To Care Bears), she said, "You know what today is? It's your six month anniversary of moving to New York." I think I'll have an extra drink tonight to celebrate. (I know, twist my arm.) Hi, New York. Thanks for having me. Do you like bread? Bye, I love you!

Speaking of drinking and milestones: it's a big deal when a man says "I love you." So imagine my dismay at finding out this happened to me without my having a clue. Apparently my boss told me he loved me last Friday night and though Jen swears to it, I haven't the faintest recollection. I wonder how much more interesting I'd think my life was if I remembered more of it.

quote of the day

The main problem with this "quote of the day" thing that The New York Times does is that about 40% of the time, it leaves me asking, "What does that even mean? No, seriously."

"I can play hardball as well as anybody. That's what I did, cut people's hearts out. On the other hand, I do it to cure them, to heal them, to make them better."
- BILL FRIST, the Senate majority leader and a transplant surgeon.