The WHOOPS I Love You

My job consists of constant interaction with Excel and Outlook and limited interaction with people. Occasionally my phone rings and I answer it and speak for a few moments. I repeat this once or twice a day. Most often it’s Boss or Colleague. They call for two reasons: one, to cover daily tasks or two, to tell a joke at my expense. Other than that, I plug formulas into a tiny white cell and hope my answers are correct.

My office has no windows, so I have no idea what the weather is outside. On days where my cup is half-full, I assume it’s sunny and beautiful, and thus I mope accordingly because I’m stuck in a windowless office where my only light is the artificial twitting of a fluorescent bulb.

Because I have minimal socialization throughout the day it’s quite possible that I will flub up the conversations I do have. For various reasons, I am unable to multi-task while talking to people, especially on the phone. I can walk and chew gum, drive and apply lipgloss, write and watch Chuck. But I am completely incapable of chatting on the phone while on the internet, driving, or eating, the latter for obvious reasons. I have to devote my full attention to the person on the other line and who they actually are and what they’re saying, otherwise…something disastrous may happen.

There are a few people in my life I talk to on a daily+ basis; Sis and Mom, sometimes Bro and Dad. We ring each other at least 2-3 times throughout the day…sometimes more. The calls are usually no more than 5-10 minutes as we’re often busy doing three other things. Whenever I’m ready to hang up, I say “okay, love you, bye.” And click off quickly, without much thought.

A few Mondays ago, Colleague called me when I first came into the office. While he rattled off some tasks for the day, I turned on my computer, logged onto g-mail, read an email, im-ed some friends and produced affirmative grunts to whatever he was going on about. After a few minutes, we rapped up the chat. I spouted, “ok…loo..long day it’s gonna be right?”

Panic. Shit. I almost said Love You TO Colleague!  Did I cover it well enough?

“Yeah…what else is new?” he asked.

Whew. Covered. I think.

“Heh heh heh…yeah typical Monday.”

Ten minutes later. BInLaw calls ready to leave. Most of you know I work with BInLaw. He sent me the job description that set in motion my move South. We are now co-workers who commute together 2 days a week. Sis packs our lunches. It’s all very cute.

“Yo…it’s 10:30. Can we leave yet?”

“Haha…no. Let’s wait until after noon today?” I typed away at an email, updated a spreadsheet, etc. as we talked about Perez Hilton’s latest gossip until he announced,

“Okay…I have actual work to be doing KT.”

“Like I don’t…”

“HA. I mean real work…not that stuff you do. Talk to you later.”

I tapped at my keyboard and distractedly said…”K, lovv…lunch time. See you at lunch time. Bye”

Shit. I did it again.

…And so it goes until I’m so conscious of the fact that when distracted, I almost say I love you to ANYONE with whom I happen to be on the phone that I’ve been forced to actually contemplate not answering. Too bad Boss sits in the office next to me and can hear my clicking as I type this, so when he calls, he probably expects me to pick up the phone.

Have you ever over-thought a conversation in the midst of one? You weigh and measure every word.

A. It’s exhausting.

B. You end up making even less sense than normal.

3. You forget what you said 15 seconds before because you’re too busy trying to come up with the next line so that you don’t say something stupid or embarrassing like, I love you.

While this is mostly a problem for me via the telephone, I have almost made the same mistake through the written word…i.e. email. Occasionally during lunches, I’ve been known to watch an episode or three of whatever current TV show with which I happen to be slightly obsessed.

On this particular day, I was watching The Bachelor. As you know, I religiously followed Jason as he searched for true love on ABC. While watching Jason explain to a heart-broken Jillian (I think it was this episode), I was simultaneously drafting an email to Boss.

Jason- “I just think there’s something missing between us. That we’re better as best friends and aren’t able to make that leap to the next level.”  (or something like that…Jason was always way verbose)

Me- typing email to Boss – Hi, Attached is the draft for the March efforts. Would you mind taking a look over it before I send it off? I just want to make sure there’s nothing missing between us.

 

Yes. That’s what I wrote. Thankfully, I proof my emails before I hit send. In a panic of nervous energy that I had just almost sent that email, I called BInLaw.

“Dude…listen to the email I just drafted to Boss.” I read him the email, “I was watching the Bachelor and Jason had just said that line. Clearly my subconscious found what he said important enough to type out.” (BInLaw knows who Jason is…so luckily he got this story without much prompting.)

“Oh man KT. That would have been rough. Imagine if last week you had actually said I love you to Boss and then this week sent that email. He probably would have had to go to HR and been like…I think I have a problem on my hands. My direct report is in love with me.”

BInLaw laughed at this.

I did not.

Lesson Learned: Do not multi-task when on the phone or drafting emails to your employers, co-workers, relatives or anyone with whom you would not end a conversation with “ok, love you, bye.” Click.

Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms

Living with my sister, her husband and my 3 nephews (LittleMan, Cue-ball, and Pea) spells chaos but it’s probably the best part of my decision to leave NY for DC. I battle them with a Storm Trooper helmet balancing precariously on my head (the helmet is child’s size) while they beat me with their light-sabers. They run me over with their Lego spaceships. I’m forced to watch the same SpongeBob episode after dinner that we watched that morning, the day before, and last week. I’ve learned the words to Drake & Josh’s theme song and actually think ICarly is pretty good.

If you don’t have kids, especially boys, the above may not make much sense, but trust me when I say…being part of it all is a blast! So when Sis asked me to go with her to a birthday party last weekend for one of Cue-ball’s friends, I said sure.

The party was here, an hour twenty minutes away from where we live and we sped to get there on time. Pump It UP! sits on a stretch of business park buildings and looks like a warehouse from the outside. Inside, it’s color-coded in a basic Crayola scheme. We were hurriedly ushered down a hallway into the “romper room.” Five inflatable moon-bounces jiggled as 40+ four-year-olds hurled themselves up and down blown-up slides and against castle walls. Cue-ball dove over a little girl in pink to pound his way up the ramp. Survival of the fittest, and in this case, most agile. At the top, in a king-of-the-world stance, he propelled himself down the slide landing on his head before leaping off to do it again.

The social interaction of four-year-olds is an interesting dynamic to behold. There were kids everywhere while parents stood either with cameras flashing or arms crossed honing their radars solely on their own child. See, it’s their responsibility to make sure their kid and their kid only is having a fantastic time. But with all these children running in every direction, I was struck by how very little they actually interacted. For the most part, they did their own thing independent of one another. Watching Cue-ball, I quickly realized he was totally fine with playing alone. Grant it, he was surrounded by pre-school tots, but he bounded over and through the blow-up-obstacles without really paying attention to anyone around him. I leaned over to Sis, “You know…I was a lot like Cue-ball, wasn’t I?” She just smiled tolerantly at me…I took that as a “duh.”

Growing up, I was as content by myself as I was when playing with others. My response when asked why I didn’t want to go and play with them was just a simple shrug, “I’m okay over here.” “Over here” being alone by the blocks or with a coloring book. Mom tells me I used to say, “I don’t need friends.”

But occasionally for some, they need to feel accepted and know when they’re not even at that young an age. As Sis and I stood off from the group, we observed a little girl crumble, sobbing to her mother that “nobody at the party liked her.” She walked over to a little corner, bent her head to her knees, and cried. Then as we watched, she ran into her mom’s legs and glanced up at us. Her mom confided, “T (the birthday girl) didn’t say hi when Em (her daughter) and I got here. I told Em that everyone is here to see T and so she’s very busy today, but…”

I looked down at poor Em, “Hi Em, I’m KT. It’s nice to meet you…have you tried the slide yet? I hear it’s awesome.” She hesitantly smiled and nodded. “Can you show me?” She looked up at her mom and raced off. As she bobbed up the ramp, her mom leaned over, “Just because T didn’t say hi, Em thinks no one likes her. I don’t know what to say…what do you say? They don’t understand when you tell them it’s not their fault…You don’t want to make a big deal about it. But she’s so conscious of being liked and if she’s ignored, she assumes nobody likes her.” I waved up at Em, and with a gap-tooth grin, she catapulted down the slide. “I guess she’s fine now,” her mom announced. And that was it. A five minute spell and Em had completely recovered, grabbing the hand of another girl as they climbed up and over the bouncing apparatus.

Maybe it’s because I’m twelve years apart from my nearest sibling and so was kind-of an only child that I was satisfied when it was just my Barbies and me. Or maybe I had some serious social issues, but clearly as I’ve grown older, I realize the value of friendship. I love my friends and the support and camaraderie we share with each other. But in many ways, I’m still the same kid. I’m totally comfortable alone. And it always surprises me to hear people say they could never sit at a coffee shop or park by themselves, that they would most definitely need someone across from them. Because to me alone is okay and quiet is okay…so maybe, I haven’t changed that much after all.

Thunder Thumbs

Weighing the odds has never been my strong suit. When I try to rationalize, naturally I’m biased toward what I want the outcome to be whether or not I openly admit it. I find this attitude trickling down into all aspects of my life. Sometimes it’s a big deal like moving from NYC to DC while others, it’s something small and often ridiculous. This post covers the latter.

Technology occasionally drives me nuts. I hate being utterly accessible to all people at all times.  I want to shout, “What did you do before there were cell phones…you realize sometimes people would go DAYS even WEEKS without talking and that this was normal?”

Now, don’t get me wrong…while I feel this way in sporadic bursts, I remain unlikely to smash my phone into the side of a building. That said, I am often amazed that people can reach me through many different avenues, and thus get mad at me if I don’t reply in due time (aka 45 seconds).  While you all know how I feel about “He’s Just Not That Into You” (see here), I do think that the writers got a few things right.

Drew Barrymore plays the “techie romantic” in the movie (no I cannot believe I’m referencing this film again, but bear with me) and she says one line that clicks things into place perfectly for me, “I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It’s exhausting.”

It is exhausting Drew. And as I sat with my DC girls on Sunday morning, re-hashing the events of Saturday night, I felt that familiar weight of technology’s force and the events didn’t even happen to me. The night wasn’t spectacularly different from any other Saturday. We went out, had a good time, came home, passed out and of course Sunday brunch brought out eggs, smoothies, and a detailed account of everyone’s opinion of the previous evening’s events, no matter how small-seeming or trivial.

Enter: Cowbell* (she’ll probably hate me for this nickname, but I gave her fair warning…it’s not my fault she was too hungover to give me possible alternatives). I probably will not do justice to her story, but I’m going to try my best in her no-nonsense style.

Cowbell met a guy in a bar a few weeks ago. They went on a date and had a really good time and suddenly she found herself sucked into a cellphone’s keypad. She had to learn to master…textual relations.

When we’re single women, the early beginnings of a relationship are often the biggest hurdle. We (if this is just me, I’m going to be slightly embarrassed) over-analyze EVERYTHING. We try to out-play, out-think, out-smart the opposite sex. We crave the upper hand in communication, and think that to get it, we have to forfeit initial contact in favor of waiting…and waiting…and waiting…No matter what the self-assured feminist says about “old-school courting practices,” I believe that they still get the second-guess jitters when it comes to who makes the first move.

Do/Should I becomes a powerful mantra. Our friends say no when he hasn’t texted us or if he has, we have to wait at least 15 minutes before responding so he doesn’t think we’re too eager. Is 15 minutes the new cut-off point between over-zealous and aloof? These ponderings become our textualizations (pardon the play-on-words).

But there is a soft spot for many girls…a weakness, one point where all of our over-thinking can be erased, when we can no longer resist those urges to text on pure principle.

It begins with a vodkacran.

What earlier in the night was no I will not text him tonight suddenly seems far too harsh. It gradually fades into well maybe I’ll just see what he’s up to…no big deal.…so it goes.

Cowbell* had her Grad Program Formal on Saturday night. She may not have made the declarative statement to not text 3B (yes a double negative…do the math), but she is a pretty typical girl. And after a few drinks she found her phone in her hands and her thumbs tapping,

“SO I’m OUT.” (insert Long Island Mental-accent). She shared with us on Sunday that this was what she came up with after several failed attempts…all of which ended up in her drafts folder. I’m not really sure why she thought she would lead with this phrase.

“Cowbell, you realize that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. What’d you expect him to say? Congrats?” I asked.

She just shrugged sheepishly, “OH it gets better.”

Here flows the highlights of the typesation as I heard Cowbell tell it with her Sunday morning reactions inter-spliced as (*):

3B: haha yeah? Where?

Draft: Homn VA

CB (actual text): Yeah..i’m in YA. zip you were her.

3B:  ? zip

*Cowbell took this to mean zip code. As she told us Sunday, “How am I supposed to know the zip code for Arlington, Virginia? I live in DC.” And apparently she didn’t respond fast enough.

3B: Dónde Está? E va?

*JuniorMint interrupted, “Dude, did he actually text you in Spanish? He knows you don’t speak it, right?”

Cowbell answered, “Well yeah, I think it was a mix of both, but he knows I speak Italian…maybe that’s what he was going for?”

And I chimed in, “Yo, he probably thought it’d be funny for you to try to figure out what he was saying.”

“Yes, real funny KT,” Cowbell said.

CB: I’m in Clarendon.

*Sunday Morning CB declares, “I have no idea how I managed to get that out and spell it correctly at that.”

3B: I’m out too…in Baltimore.

…and so it went…ending suddenly a few texts later. No goodbye, good night, good riddance.

I concluded, “You know…since the texts ended so abruptly, for all he knows you could be dead in some alley in Y-A. You should text him….SO I made it back in one piece to the DC zip code.”

JuniorMint announced, “No…you should say Bitch, you know I don’t speak Spanish.”

Cowbell’s saving grace as she sees it is that he has to know she was extremely intoxicated and it was only casual texts. Thankfully, she didn’t declare her unwavering love for all things 3Be. She didn’t beg, plead, or profoundly utter that he had changed her life (none of these are actually the case by the way)

She hadn’t heard from him when we talked Sunday morning.

As such, we have no clue if she will…but we still sat around a dining room table reenacting the entire line of textual communication because that’s what WE do.  When we measure whether it’s a good or bad idea, when we agonize over to send, what we sent, how we sent it, we think we’re being rational because we took the time to weigh through all of the outcomes. We’re not. Sometimes we just need to let go and loosen up like good ol’ Cowbell. Her declarative, “So I’m OUT” put her out there and she’s totally okay with that. Meanwhile, the rest of us like Drew are exhausted. But all in all, my bet is he will text her again…maybe not until a few days from now, but he will. And at some point after that, there may even be some time for make-up texts.

*A best friend from college who hails from CT via her Long-Island accent. She’s blunt, loyal and dedicated. And one time she learned the proper way to punch. She’s never forgotten it.

After the Final Rose: Rotted

vs.

Lunch time yesterday I spent my hour in a reserved close-door meeting room with two co-workers. We scheduled this time to discuss the events of the 3 hour Bachelor Finale that aired on Monday night. We are part of the “closet watchers,” who don’t openly admit that they would willingly cancel plans on any night to watch The Bachelor.

I stared at the TV the entire 3 hours alone; my sister refuses to be sucked into the “will you accept this” trap. But I decided to wait to post about it until Tuesday’s 4^th hour finale follow-up. And yes, as I watched the first ¾ by myself, I ranted, raved, texted Slim, Neever, my mom as Jason Mooseneck spouted about his “change of heart.” My fingers deliberately tapped each angry “ARGH” as he professed his torment in front of an awkward host, Chris.

And I must say, I felt a little betrayed by Jason. Here he is this great single father, burned first by his ex-wife (I’m STILL trying to find dirt on her…anyone else have any luck?) and then by fickle Deanna and all he wants is to find “the one.” Then, he comes on the finale and cries almost every scene as he soapboxes every single thought in his head. His stream-of-consciousness ultimately leads him to “the position” where he is “in love with two women.” Because that can happen, and we wouldn’t understand as we aren’t in the same position he is.

So to recap…In his “real life” journey to find “the love of his life” with whom he “could share the rest of his life,” he “takes down his walls” and discovers rather “shockingly” that it is possible “to be in love with two women at the same time.” Vom Jason, vom.

But still, as disgusted as I was with Monday night, I dove for the remote at 10 pm last night to tune into the final installment of the Rose Saga. And for what?

The first 15 minutes recapped the 3 hour finale. The next 5 were spent with Jason Muppetnick, then 2 with Molly where Jason talked over her, 3 re-capping their burgeoning love story, 1.5 on Melissa and her “high-road” response, 3.5 on Jillian being the next Bachelorette (the HIGHLIGHT of the evening), and 30 on commercials in between. It’s during times like these I would kill for DVR.

The only thing good that came out of this whole “real life experience” was Jason’s interview with Jimmy Kimmel (see here).

So instead of continuing with my REAL and TRUE feelings about the finale and spouting phrases I never want to hear uttered again (aka. “a life with no regrets,” “those eyes, ” “I never thought I would fall in love with two people at the same time”),  I have instead produced a Top 10 List of favorite quotes from the Jimmy/Jason interview, “It’s Like The Bachelor Meets Punked”:

*All quotes are from Jimmy unless otherwise specified.

1. “Earlier tonight our next guest proposed on National television to the love of his life and then an hour later dumped her to go out with the other love of his life.”

2. “He’s a fickle pickle if ever there was one”

3. “Is your arm sore from giving and taking back roses?”

4. Jason was on the show in January and he and Melissa were still together. Jimmy asks, “Did I do anything? Was it me?”

5. “Do you have the numbers of the other contestants in case you change your mind? The staff list? It is real life after all.”

6. “Look at Flavor Flav. He’s heart-broken every year and then he goes and puts on the crown. Have you talked to him? Maybe he can guide you through it. That would be a great twist…if Melissa hooked up with Flavor Flav. That’s ratings gold.”

7.      Jimmy: “If there is ever is a wedding will Melissa be invited to it?”

Jason: “If she wants to come…I think at some point her and I will be friends.”

Jimmy: “Oh no you will not. You and Melissa and Israel and Iraq.”

8.  “You’re going to get slapped a lot probably.”

9.  “Is there any chance you will dump him [Ty] for a blond child?”

10.  “I hope it all works out for you and the girls and the production staff.”

Let me just say if Jimmy Kimmel were to go on the Bachelor, I would audition. And Jason you may want to focus next on your grammar. It’s not “her and I.”

Thankfully The Thorn is gone and come May, I’ll have brushed off my currently strong feelings towards Jason in time for the season premiere of The Bachelorette with Jillian. So…there is a silver-lining to this “experience.”

Here’s To Hoping For a Snow Day…

slash a follow-up to why zumba should remain an important part of my life until winter is over. 

It’s March 1st and we are expecting 6-8 inches of snow in the metropolitan area.

Awesome.

So naturally I used the cold weather and threat of imminent snow as a reason not to go to the gym this afternoon. Yes, I realize this action  goes against my typical work it out mentality. Rather, I curled up under a wool blanket and in complete contentment napped for 3 hours. I was nakered…what can I say. As proper guilty punishment, I may tape the four corners of the below card to my cupboard anytime I have a hankering for a chocolate chip cookie.  

Though…in all fairness, one can use the excuse of an excessively large winter coat and multiple layers beneath as an excuse for the large snowy imprint. Come Summer, this excuse will no longer apply. Keep that in mind folks.

Thank you to someecards.com for knowing how to say “it” exactly right.

Shake Ya Ass, Don’t Watch Yourself

Somedays, I have Workout A.D.D. I’ll go to the gym and spend ten minutes on the treadmill before my eyes go crossed with boredom, ten on the elliptical, 15 on the bike, 15 on stairs…and I’ll leave the gym feeling like I didn’t even work out.  

So I like to mix it up a little by participating in the classes offered. In NYC, I spinned 3 days a week at 6:45 a.m which meant I was up at 5. I’m still not sure how I did that because down here I am absolutely unable to lift my head from the pillow before 6. My eyelids flutter open in mild surprise if the alarm beeps at 5:45 before flapping down like window blinds in an adamant refusal that it’s time to wake up. With the stagnant gym circuit and the inability to get moving in the morning, I knew I needed a shakedown.

Slim suggested I try zumba. She’d been going for awhile with a few friends and said it was a great workout that didn’t actually seem like one….my kind of exercise!

 Zumba (for those of you who don’t know) is a fusion of Latin and International music that incorporates dance moves with a fast-paced cardio workout. Now…I’ll be the first to admit while I love to dance, I know I’m not the most coordinated person on the dance floor. You’re unlikely to see me bust a move in the middle of the circle; I’m more likely to lead the clapping for whatever brave soul jumps in with their version of the lawnmower.  So, clearly I was skeptical when Slim told me it was a “get low” type of class, but I gave it a try.

Lili is the instructor; she’s a spirited chica who bounces all around the room to her Latin mix of songs. I stood next to Slim in the back while the Latin Mafia* filed into their positions in the front row. They’re all Latin divas who are 40, but look 30 and wear only Zumba tanks and wind-pants. As the music started, we salsa-ed through a warm-up and I quickly realized I was out of my element. These women were shaking parts of their bodies that I didn’t know could move independent of other parts.

A mirror ran the length of the front wall and I watched my awkward “white girl” body struggle to catch the groove and rhythm of the beat. Lili yelled, “Alright ladies, squat down and SHAKE IT,” the “it” being your butt. I tried, really I did…but Slim looked over at me and busted out laughing.

“KT, you’re supposed to shake your ass, not your head.”

Apparently in trying to wiggle my rump, I’d also been bobbing my head and jiggling my arms, but my butt was going nowhere. So I got lower and really concentrated on bouncing it.

But I ended up feeling more  like Homer Simpson in Homer’s Triple Bypass when Dr. Hibbert says,

“Now I’m going to do a fat analysis test.  I’ll start your jiggling and measure how long it takes to stop.

[starts it jiggling]

[jiggles for five seconds]

Homer: Woo hoo!  Look at that blubber fly!

Dr. Hibbert: Yes.  [to intercom] Nurse, cancel my 1:00.

 

than a vogue dancer from some movie like Step Up (yes I saw it and yes I liked it enough to reference it here).

“I don’t get it,” I frowned.

“You just shake….move it around…that’s it.”

Well, that was easy for her to say…she’d been doing the class for awhile. We sashayed across the room….meringue-d and cross-stepped through a few more songs. Then a song came on that caused everyone to groan…I looked around apprehensively.

Groaning is never a good sign.

Lili laughed, looking only slightly sadistic, as she hollered “Trabájelo!”

I recognized the song as “Apple Bottom Jeans” only here, instead of bopping my head to the song like I typically do, anytime she hit the floor came on we had to swing down to the floor and do push-ups, pop back to stand then, crunch our abs up eight times. I have come to negatively associate that song with pain 

By the end of the hour, I was drenched, but it was fast, furious, and fun. Slim and I’ve been going to Lili’s for a few months now. She did a Turkey Burn around Thanksgiving and a Holiday Boot Camp at Christmas; both were an hour and a half of high-intensity zumba.

I still have trouble bending and shaking in some of the ways she asks us too, but I’ve managed to at least learn the routines pretty well.  Slim and her other friends in the class joke about taking their moves to the bars. But I think I’ll wait a little longer til I show you what I’m workin’ with…

 

*10 of Lili’s “original” dancers who’ve perfected the booty-jiggle lifestyle with zumba and margaritas on the weekends.

It’s Ash Wednesday and Thus I Feel Compelled to Confess…

This is probably the closest I’ll get to the 25 things fad I’ve previously discussed. As mentioned, I’m not likely to ever do it, but do enjoy learning the occasional tid-bit about a friend/acquaintance. The aforementioned “This” is my Ash Wednesday confession. No I’m not Catholic, but…recognizing this day on the religious calendar gives me an excuse to share a little known fact about me.

While not life-altering or jaw-dropping, it would probably surprise some of you who know me. So here goes…

Whenever I go to a pub or pub-like bar, I’m compelled to snatch a pint glass, especially if it’s one I have never seen before. I know I know…who cares? But whew…not many people know this about me and it feels good to get it off my chest. Grant it, I don’t do this every time I step into a bar. It’s only when I see a glass I like that the little voice starts rationalizing…

Is my purse big enough to hold the glass?

Should I really take it?

Are the bartenders going to actually miss it or even notice?

How many steps are there to the door?

I lifted my first pint glass in 2006 from a small pub in Oxford when I was a student studying abroad in England, where pints are obviously served in abundance. It was a Guinness glass, traditional and simple. I’m pretty sure I took a couple of coasters with it.

Now…believe me, I had a moment of regret, a quick pang where I thought I should remove the glass from my purse and return it to the empty water-ring on the table. But I didn’t.

And pretty soon, I had a Magners, then Foster’s, then I went on a jaunt to Ireland and came back with a Bulmers pint.  At this point, I did share my propensity towards “borrowing and not returning” barware with an advisor in my program. He actually laughed at my conflicted state and the words of wisdom he shared with me have been the sole reason I still occasionally pinch glasses at pubs.

“KT, how much do you think it costs the Queen to produce those glasses?”

“I dunno,” I replied.

“About 3 pence. That’s it. Don’t worry about it. They make so many that they’re practically begging you to take them. Think about it either you snag ’em or they just end up broken in a bar fight.”

This made perfect sense to me. And so I justified my kleptomanic tendency.

He then additionally advised, “Now that doesn’t mean you should go waving around the glass before you put it in your pocket, but I think you’re safe if you keep it on the down-low.” Yes, he said down-low. He also informed us at our orientation that we shouldn’t walk up to a bartender and say “I’d like some head with my beer.”

So if it only costs manufacturers 5 cents (exchange rates may fluctuate) to make the glass, and bar managers order extra because they expect party-fouls, then obviously they won’t care/notice if little old me takes one teeny glass for her expanding collection. Right?

The dictionary defines kleptomania as “an obsessive impulse to steal regardless of economic need, usually arising from an unconscious symbolic value associated with the stolen item.” How to see if this applies to my situation? Well, I do have an economic need for a glass from which to get my daily allowance of water and other favored beverages. And I guess I do associate that these particular glasses are actually breakable and thus have value as opposed to plastic or paper cups. But I wouldn’t say I’m obsessive….

My latest pilfer was an American Beer glass with an NHL team logo on it. It was 3 weeks ago that I took this glass.

My name is KT and I may have a slight problem.

New Yorker Cartoon: Leo Cullum: ID: 122801, Published in The New Yorker September 4, 2006

Anyone have any confessions they’d like to share?…I’m all ears.

FAT Tuesday Munchings

So today is FAT (yes all caps) Tuesday….

Personally I love the donut any day, but it’s on days like these where I feel it’s especially important to do my part and eat at least 2, possibly 3, and if it’s a stressful day…4. It’s perfectly normal to eat 4 donuts.

On any other day, I would be judged as I’d sit in the dark-windowless confines of my office and munch away, guiltily shoving the powdered delights into my mouth. But today, oh glorious Fastnacht Day, I can do what I want and proudly display the confectionery remnants in the corners of my mouth.

Today is the day before Lent starts. I’ve never been a big follower of fasting during this time. When I was younger, I used to negotiate my way through the fast…and would forgo only things I either knew I could do without or didn’t really like in the first place (often it would be something from the vegetable family or some obscure fruit like kiwi). I think one time I managed to give up soda. And another coffee, but at 15 I didn’t drink it anyway. One year, I tried to give up sugar and made my mom by only sugar free cookies and crackers (this was before the whole “healthy lifestyle fad” so that section in the supermarket was about ½ an aisle long). But I’m pretty sure I didn’t last all 40 days.

Yesterday my friend, Slim* called me from her office (same company, 1 floor down) and announced she was giving up meat for Lent; that she was making her grocery list that second and that her lunches would from now on either be egg salad or avocado based. Then she realized that she’d be having dinner at her parents this weekend and apparently her mom makes a killer roast. So that idea went out the window.

We continued chatting about what she could give up with minimal withdraws. And she finally suggested chocolate only to come to the conclusion she couldn’t possibly do that because she and her boyfriend might be going to the Melting Pot on Friday and the chocolate fondue is clearly the only reason she’d go.  At this point in our conversation, I interjected (as piously as possible),

“Slim, Lent is typically recognized as a time of sacrifice, i.e. giving something up that you really enjoy.”

She scoffed.

Today, she told me she made reservations at the Melting Pot. I asked, “What are you giving up for Lent then?”

“Chocolate. But this is the one and only exception. The rest of Lent, no chocolate, I promise.”

So I’m not quite sure how all this half-sacrifice translates into Jesus’ story of 40 days of complete fasting. What if he’d negotiated his way to be able to eat a couple bugs or maybe a small animal? Would then our whole perception be altered? Probably. But I’m not writing a philosophical analysis of religion or Lent.

I’m just celebrating that today is the one day a year where it’s socially acceptable to be a glutton.

Take that Weight Watchers!

STACY CURTIS, “Freelance” – Indiana

*My MD best friend and co-worker who owns her own motorcycle and shares a love of cheesy Reality TV (Biggest Loser, The Bachelor) and salads with dressing on the side.

Not Sure What I Ate, But I Liked It

On Friday night, I went out to dinner with two friends in DC. Dodge* and Boot** (nicknames, obv.) met me at Etete, an Ethiopian restaurant on U and 9^th Street which stands out against other fluorescently lit storefronts on the street.

This was my first experience with Ethiopian culture and cuisine.  I did have a friend in college who was Ethiopian, but he never cooked for me and I don’t think he’s your typical Ethiopian anyway. He’d always make dry comments about growing up eating only rice and running barefoot on dirt roads to the schoolhouse. I’m pretty sure they were sarcastic as he ended up going to a small, private Liberal Arts school in the middle of rural PA. So I doubt he grew up the way most Americans traditionally view the Ethiopian childhood, but one can never be sure. And I digress as all that’s beside the point…the point being, I enjoyed the food. A lot.

If you’ve never been to an Ethiopian restaurant before, you’re in for a bit of a culture shock. You’ve got to throw conventional eating etiquette out and get cozy with the idea that your right hand is your fork and your left, the knife (or vice versa if you’re a lefty-as is my case). After reading through the menu, we asked the advice of our waitress for what she’d recommend to order. She, being a transplant from the country, had a little trouble understanding our questions. But once we overcame the language hiccup, we figured out she wanted to know if we liked our food spicy. The three of us aren’t huge on extremely hot foods (i.e. Thai hot), but we decided we’d get at least one dish a little on the smoking side. Dodge also ordered a glass of tej, their honey wine. Ethiopians believe tej was the wine used for a toast between the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. It’s extremely sweet, but is supposed to cut the food’s spicy edge pretty well.

Our food came out on a huge round platter. All together we chose 4 entrée’s and all were arranged on this one plate overtop of a special bread, injera. It looks kind of like a bubbled-stretchy crêpe and tastes slightly sour. You are to use it as the primary eating utensil, stretching it over your food and scooping it into your mouth. The sponginess of injera allows all the juices from the stews and meat to be sopped up. We were given an extra basket of the flatbread in which each individual piece was rolled like a napkin.

The waitress also brought out a plate with a whole fish on it (it was part of a veggie combo and only a dollar more!). I’m pretty sure the fish was rubbed with spices and then fried. Our faces were probably priceless as we eyed with calculated wariness how exactly to eat the fish. I broke off the tail and plucked what I think was the spine from the meat and cautiously took a bite. It tasted like fish…not quite sure what I expected it to taste like, but fish it was.

My first bite of one of the stews on our tray burnt my mouth with flavored heat. It stuck in that back niche in my throat. So naturally, I spasmed with suppressed coughs, trying to inconspicuously muffle the tickle out. When that didn’t work, I leaned to the side in favor of a more pleading cough (one that crosses between laughter and embarrassment). My eyes teared and my nose ran until I had slurped a sufficient enough amount of water to dislodge the offending spice from its comfortable nook. People quieted and stared. I reddened. Then the lights went out, literally. And everyone forgot about my hacking. We sat in candlelight for about 10 minutes before power came back on. But the lack of electricity didn’t keep us from munching away. When we finally sat back, we surveyed our progress. Our platter had been suitably demolished.

 Boot commented, “Well, I guess we like Ethiopian.”

 You’ll probably be seeing Dodge and Boots more in future posts. We’ve decided to make dinner nights a common occurrence, and have formed a sort of dinner club to try out different restaurants around DC. You know…so we aren’t like those people who constantly say oh I’ve heard of that place and always wanted to try it.

If you have any recommendations, let us know…also if you have any suggestions for our club name, we’ll take those too! Keep an eye out for their reviews as well…I’m going to let them guest post as we explore the various neighborhoods of DC cuisine. Our next outing is on Thursday for a night of fine Indian flavors and tastes at Rusika. I’ll let you all know how that goes.

Below is a list of what I think we ordered…I was able to find the menu online. Check it out if you’re in the area or mood for something a tad more obscure than Chipotle or The Olive Garden.  

• Yefem Tibs:: (*Etete’s Special) Charcoal broiled sliced prime tender beef marinated in white wine and rosemary, with a touch of garlic and black pepper
• Special Etete’s Kitfo:: Minced meat seasoned with herbed butter and hot red pepper, served with special seasoned cottage cheese
• Fasteing Food:: Combination of veggie dishes with fish
  • The veggie dishes were a mixture of: Yemisir Wat– Slit red lintel cooked in Ethiopian red pepper sauce, meten shiro, oil, onion sauteed together; Yeataklit Wat–Fresh green, carrot, potato, green pepper and onion sauteed with garlic, ginger and tomato and Gomen-Fresh green, carrot, potato, green pepper and onion sautéed with garlic, ginger and tomato.

 

*Dodge—so nicknamed because she works for a similar sounding department-of-government acronym and because occasionally…well, she’s just a bit dodge.

 **Boot—she literally walks around with a boot on her foot. You may have seen her on the Metro. Her name may change when doctors say she can finally forgo the boot in favor of a regular shoe.

Acute Viral Rhinopharyngitis

Yeah…I’ve got that.

One thing you should know about me is that I rarely get sick, but when I do, my whole body ceases to function as a coherent unit. My brain takes leave, my ears pop out for a break, my legs race in opposing directions…you get the point.

People notice. “Wow, you don’t look so hot,” becomes their signature greeting. Thank you folks. As if I already didn’t know that it looks like I have two rotting prunes beneath my eyes.

I become sort of manic. I don’t want to be touched, and then want nothing more than to be coddled by my mom. I’m hot, then shivering cold. The sight of food makes me nauseas before starvation (and throat aches) forces me to eat a gallon of ice cream.

I fixate on one thing. Ginger Ale. Sleep. Maury. And I lose the ability to multi-task, thus if I’m watching a marathon about how your man slept with my baby’s daddy, I’m likely not to eat for hours, and so on and so forth.

I descend into insomnia. If I try to lie down to sleep, I start coughing. I cough until I pass out. I wake up because I can’t breathe. I sit up, focused on the fact that I can’t breathe. I worry; wonder when I’ll fall back asleep; wonder what time it is; wonder if Grey’s will be good this week. I get frustrated that I’m thinking about stupid things when I could be sleeping. I have to blow my nose. I blow my nose. And so it goes…

Since I’m normally a healthy 24-year-old, I don’t often take sick days, so I’m usually in the office when various bugs begin to hover outside people’s cubicles. I hate nothing more than listening to other people cough. And I’m not talking about the dry hack; I’m talking about the prolonged “productive” cough, the one that starts in the throat before working its way down to the deep recesses of your lungs where it rattles around trying to get something loose when after some additional rigorous breaths, it finally shoots free and up the esophagus and into your mouth. Yeah. That cough. The Shrek-green-eugh cough.

Well, that’s what I have. I’ve spent the last several nights inhaling vicks and sucking down ricola’s. This cold has sucked the color out of my face and the life from my body. I’m totally drained. It’s not even fun to yodel Ricola anymore.

I’m listless and dirty. Did you ever notice how you don’t really feel clean when you’re sick? Or is that just me? I mean, I’m literally covered with cold remedies. My mouth is thick with cough syrup, drops and phlegm. My hands are dried out from numerous squirts of antibacterial gel. I’m only comfortable in the same ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants that are clearly starting to show vicks, soup, and decongestant stains because I always seem to miss my mouth (I think it’s an equilibrium thing; I swear I’m off-balance when I have a cold).

And this absolute misery lasts for almost 9 days. Three days where I start to think oh I think I’m coming down with something. Three days where I’m saturated with whatever virus has weakened my body. Three days where I’m still sniveling, but am slowly beginning to see the light. But by this point, what does it matter? I’ve been out of commission for over a week. Too much has happened. It’ll be exhausting to catch-up.

And I’ll bet all of this came about because I shook hands with that man in the meeting.

So sickness also apparently makes me paranoid, among the many other neurosis listed above. I can totally sympathize with people who are hypochondriacs. Luckily, I’ll be “well” soon enough and this will have been nothing more than a short-lived feverous rant. But I may or may not keep the antibacterial on my desk permanently.

*Cartoon: ID: 121840, Published in The New Yorker February 6, 2006