Kaitland

The Girl Who Knew Too Much

2011-12-05T19:47:00.003Z

On Saturday, I went to my friend Caroline's house to help her decorate (tis the season and all), where I discovered the joys of a show called Rude Tube. It consists of a host, a number of YouTube clips, and a few interviews with the stars of said clips. Now, for starters, this is a brilliant business model and must be even more cost-effective than reality TV, given that it reuses grainy-ass YouTube footage. However, that's not the point.

There was a section devoted to animal videos. This is where I shine, people. So, while my friends sat, enraptured by these alternately enchanting and amusing frolics, I was able to provide (probably unwanted) additional commentary. Debbie loves cats? "It's fake, but it's funny." Baby monkey rides pig? "It always bothers me that he's riding it backward." Nyan cat? "Yeah, that's what the whole song sounds like." Seagull stole camera? "Asshole bird. The guy had to climb a wall or something to get his camera back." I really hope this was a rerun, because I'd seen...well, pretty much all of the clips. By the conclusion of the show, my friends both looked rather alarmed that this is apparently how I spend my life.

Reflections on Glitter

2011-08-17T22:46:00.001+01:00

It's been driving me nuts—the smell of one of my face creams consistently reminds me of something, but I couldn't think of what. I've been using the cream for probably two months now, and I just this second realized what it reminded me of: It smells like the roll-on body glitter I had when I was about four years old. I had two kinds, gold and sort of generic iridescent, and I loved them to death. It seemed the height of elegance to cover oneself in glitter, especially when that involved extending the glitter theme to one's hair as well via silver glitter hairspray. Of course, the silver hairspray and the iridescent roll-on went together; one didn't use the silver with the gold. Heavens, no! I was a very particular kid.

So when did I reach the point where body glitter changed from being the ne plus ultra in fashion to something that seems rather tacky, best suited for college freshmen in tube tops and kids at raves? Perhaps I have grown boring....

Leia, Leeloo, and Me

2009-11-01T06:16:00.001Z

Aaand it's over. Unless you're on the west coast, in which case you have just under an hour till it's officially November 1st. So party hard in memory of those of us who are about to sleep. We salute you.

These year's most popular costumes (that I saw, at least) seemed to be the slutty bumblebee, slutty ladybug, hockey players, and the Joker. (Him? Still?) Pirates seem to still be de rigeur. Especially slutty pirates, of course. Unsurprisingly, I saw at least one slutty version of pretty much everything tonight...including slutty Belle from the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast. Huh.

I saw a number of themed-costume groups at the pub, including Doc Brown, Marty, and George McFly (Doc Brown invited me to the party), six Madonnas at different stages of her career (including the Like a Virgin and Material Girl videos, A League of Their Own, and the Gaultier cone bra ensemble), and a whole slew of Star Wars people. I think my girl card is on the verge of being revoked—I actually recognized Count Dooku. Also in attendance were Obi Wan (Alec Guinness Obi Wan, not Ewan MacGregor Obi Wan), Darth Vader, an excellent Anakin, and slave Leia. And slave Leia was amazing. Pretty girl, great costume, and the body necessary to rock it.

On the completely opposite end of the scale (pun semi-intended), was the girl dressed as Leeloo from The Fifth Element. Her costume was dreadful (looked like it was made of colored tape and she wore it over incongruous gold spandex pants), she was too heavy to get away with the ensemble, and she committed the cardinal sin of cutting the entire line for the ladies' room (and taking her sweet time once inside). And this was a long freaking line—I waited 40 minutes. I think the only reason nobody said anything to her was that she looked exceedingly drunk and had the approximate physique of a rhino. Still, if all the angry ladies in line had banded together, we totally could have taken her. I would gladly have landed some literal blows for the cause.

On that note, hope your Halloween was happy, full of slave Leias and minus rude Leeloos and long bathroom lines. Have taken off my ruby slippers* and am heading to bed.

*I wasn't Dorothy again (I did that in third grade)—I was the Wicked Witch of the Lower East Side.

'Twas Not So Brillig

2009-04-10T01:10:00.000+01:00

I was totally baffled by the headline from yesterday's NY Daily News (no, I don't read that rag, but there was a copy sitting on the kitchen table in my office). It said: Joba Wacky. Now, I eventually guessed that Joba was the name or nickname of some sports figure who was arrested for DUI. (He's evidently a Yankee named Joba Chamberlain.) And I guess he was acting wacky...? Seemed like a stretch. So I passed this apparently nonsensical headline every time I walked through the kitchen. Finally, it struck me—it's a play on Jabberwocky.

Now, maybe I was being a little dense to not have realized that before. But if I didn't realize that until the, say, tenth time I read the headline, is this a pun that the average Daily News reader will ever get? I'm not trying to sound pompous, but (in true lit-mag dork fashion), I had the whole damn poem memorized at one point. Seems like a rather stupid move for a paper known for its punny, painfully obvious headlines.

In case you're interested, here's a link to one of the few pics of yesterday's front page that I could find online.

Sleep Helmets for All!

2009-03-05T19:19:00.000Z

Okay, I don't sleep run, but in other respects this dog reminds me of myself when I'm asleep. Poor, poor doggie.

A Dream of Epic Proportions

2008-12-06T16:00:00.000Z

If you're one of those people who can't abide hearing about other people's dreams, I suggest you skip this post. Move along, nothing to see here.

Last night I dreamt a doozy. It started out unassumingly enough: I was spending Christmas with a fantasy version of my friend Caroline and her family. Caroline and a few of her girlfriends and I were sitting around a tree up in her bedroom, which seems like the sort of thing I'd usually love, except that some of the friends were really irritating. So I got all sorts of snippy and flatly insulted one (and, I believe, the Christmas holiday in general, which is something I, the queen of Christmas, would never do). So they were furious with me and I exiled myself downstairs with Caroline's parents.

This is where it gets creepy. While hanging out with Caroline's parents, a suitcase was delivered for me. It was my old suitcase that had been retrieved from a bus accident I'd been in previously. The bus had gone off a cliff and plunged into the sea. It was full of people, most of whom died. I was one of a few survivors. So I immediately began sorting the contents of the suitcase into piles ("ditch" and "clean/keep"). I somehow knew that not only was it gross to not clean things that had been underwater with corpses for months, but it was also dangerous. It became apparent that the more time you spent around contaminated items, the more likely you were to become obsessed with the wreck and the dead. Someone who looked like Keira Knightley was also one of the survivors, but her boyfriend died on the bus. She became so obsessed that she swam back to the bus to be with her boyfriend and drowned. (Yes, they retrieved our bags, but left the bus full of dead bodies underwater.) So all subsequent appearances in my dream were of ghost Keira.

Undoubtedly the person who became most deranged was Telman, a guy who looked like Kenneth from 30 Rock. First, my company fired him, which he discovered they were planning on doing by accident at a staff meeting—someone left a paper on the table about his firing and Telman noticed it. So he was bitter at the company and then, after spending more time around contaminated items from the bus, became utterly obsessed. The combination was not good. He started trying to infect other people with the obsession (somehow that was possible) and became quite the menace around town. Meanwhile, the company gave me some sort of sorry-you-were-in-a-major-accident stipend of $4,000. Evidently they felt guilty, because, by keeping the two daughters of the bus company owner on staff, they didn't have to get the buses inspected or something. (Yeah, I'm not entirely certain about the logistics here.) Essentially, it boiled down to the fact that my employer was at fault for the bus wreck. I was appalled and felt betrayed. They were trying to buy my silence about their negligence for $4,000. Unfortunately, I don't remember what I did about that. Maybe that part dropped out of my dream.

By this point, Telman had infected tons of people, each of whom could infect more people. The obsessed were like zombies, roaming the streets, looking for more people to contaminate. I'm not sure whether they were alive or ghosts like Keira Knightley. More ghosts—those of the people who died on the bus—had since joined him, too. Noah Bennet from Heroes had been trying to recondition Telman, but I was shocked when I discovered by what means. He attached a pronged metal device (it looked like a very stylized scorpion) to Telman's spine right below the neck and would leave it there, doing its thing (whatever that was), sometimes for two hours at a whack. I don't know exactly what it was supposed to do, but it hurt like hell. I tried it for only a few seconds, and it was agonizing. I made the others who were trying to capture Telman try it, too. Big, burly men were spasming in pain. We were all left with a lot more sympathy for him. Things changed after that. Somehow I reached an accord with Telman and his ghosts: they stopped bothering us and we stopped chasing them, trying to recondition them. Eventually they became quite friendly to those of us who could see them (not everyone could). In fact, my boyfriend (not Afshin, some other random guy who looked a little like a former coworker) ate some crumbs that allowed him to see the ghosts. It seemed very sweet at the time that he wanted to be one of the few who could see and talk to the ghosts.

So it somehow worked out in the end, what with the friendly ghosts and all. There was also some digression about sandwiches and a personable old deli counter guy, but I don't remember where that fit in the arc. I was getting a couple of my friends and myself sandwiches at a rest stop during a bus trip. (In a bus, I should note, shaped like a giant loaf of wheat bread.) Considering my past experience with buses and, well, death, you'd think I'd skip the bus trip. Guess not.

Oh, and I finally apologized to Caroline and her friends for my prior bitchiness. They totally forgave me.

One Night, Two Near-Tumbles

2008-11-26T04:58:00.000Z

I had a very bad night, mishap-wise, last week. I'd gotten a large peppermint-mocha latte from Starbucks to combat the cold and was walking back to my apartment from the financial district. I was wearing my Dansko clogs, which are extremely comfortable but pose a slight difficulty for me (and, I should add, many others who aren't quite as clumsy as I): Because the sole of the shoe is one solid, inflexible piece, if you step on uneven ground, the shoe tends to roll over rather than bend to accommodate irregularities in the ground. So you basically wind up tripping a lot if you're not careful. Well, I guess I wasn't careful. I tripped in a pothole and wound up doing the please-let-me-catch-my-balance-without-falling-or-spilling-my-coffee dance. For what seemed like an eternity. It was epic. Not this epic, but close. However, I managed to stay upright and—amazingly—only spill some coffee on my coat sleeve.

Later the same night, I nearly rolled out of bed while asleep. Again, in a narrow save, I klonked my elbow on my dresser, which woke me up enough to right myself before I went ass-over-teakettle. The thunk was enough to wake up Afshin, who suggested that, instead of just a sleep helmet, I should really get sleep armor.

So maybe it wasn't such an unlucky night...two near-accidents are better than two actual accidents after all.

Today's Lunch Is...

2008-10-15T18:27:00.000+01:00

What do you think when you read the line "Any of our sandwiches can be served over organic greens" on a menu? I envisioned the sandwich plonked on top of some greens, much like getting a side salad but smaller and without any of the goodies like tomatoes. With this image in mind, I ordered a grilled mozzarella and fontina sandwich with tomato-olive preserves on country bread, served with the organic greens. Got back to the office, removed my lunch from the bag, and saw what looked like Chernobyl on a bed of spinach. It was my sandwich contents—the cheese and tomato-olive preserves—spread on top of the greens. Minus the bread. The things that would have kept the innards from getting out. The levees that should have protected the greens from the cheese-and-tomato-olive flood. And, because tomato-olive preserves are essentially marinara sauce, I basically ate a pizza salad for lunch. Don't misunderstand—it was delicious. Just not quite what I expected. And rather visually unappealing.

Partial Recall

2008-09-19T18:49:00.000+01:00

A snippet of last night's dream came back to me in a flash: Lindsay Lohan was dating Phyllis from The Office. ("Phyllis is like our Mrs. Butterworth. Kind of a less urban Aunt Jemima.") And I was shopping for shoes. Well, I never said my dreams were entirely unrealistic.

At-Home Waxing: A Cautionary Tale

2008-09-19T05:24:00.000+01:00

The last time I tried at-home waxing with muslin strips I was in high school. My mom helped me wax my legs in the kitchen, and we proceeded to get goopy, sticky wax all over the counters, floor, her, and me. Not worth it. Years later I tried the Poetic Waxing kit by Bliss—it's genius. It's also $45. So, in a stab at frugality, I decided to give a less expensive waxing kit a shot. I went to Ricky's, where I figured there'd be a good selection of decent-quality waxing products. And oh how there was. Great selection. I was a bit overwhelmed, so I went for something pretty basic: a jar of GiGi Creme Wax Microwave Formula and a package of 100 muslin strips. Total cost: about $20.

When I got home and took off the lid, I was nonplussed. The wax ("wax"?) was the color of Pepto-Bismol, the consistency of Marshmallow Fluff, and scented like plastic. I poked a finger into it. It stuck. I tried wiping off the bubblegummy goo with a paper towel. The paper towel stuck to my finger. I broke out some post-waxing oil (left over from my last Bliss kit) to remove both the goo and the paper towel. Not a promising start.

I nuked the wax for the recommended time...not warm enough. Following the directions, I kept it going in 15-second increments. Still not warm enough. Explicitly violating the directions, I heated it for a full minute. Seemed warm enough. Definitely not hot, but warm. I applied it to my underarm, pressed on a muslin strip, and waited for the wax to harden. It didn't. I got tired of waiting and pulled off the strip. Some of the wax came off with it. No hair.

I kept trying. Ultimately I wound up removing a minor amount of hair and a comparable amount of skin. Furthermore, I did the little test strip on my wrist to check the temperature and then got the goo that refused to come off my wrist stuck to the back of my hair. (The hair on my head, e.g., the hair I didn't want to remove.)

The final outcome? I capped the jar of bubblegum-pink goop and dropped it in the trash. I now need to buy a Bliss Poetic Waxing kit...for use after my armpits are no longer so sore.

The Dream Queen

2008-08-02T18:55:00.001+01:00

As you may have gathered, I'm notorious for my dreams, which tend to be lengthy, involved sagas that I recall in great detail. A week ago, for instance, I dreamt that you could send a dog through the U.S. postal service. Not in a box, but in a little pink snuggly suit with a handle on the back. Two nights ago Johnny Depp, Clive Owen, and Queen Elizabeth I (as portrayed by Cate Blanchett) were in my dream. Last night's dream, however, was a total whopper.

First, there was the Juno section, in which the father of Juno's baby wasn't Paulie, but Logan Echolls from Veronica Mars. Odd.

Then there was the segment where Disney was selling a one-of-a-kind Little Mermaid-themed children's bedroom, complete with audioanimatronics outside the huge windows. You'd think that the audioanimatronic scene outside the window would be something from the "Under the Sea" number or the like, right? Nope. It was a giant Ursula the sea witch, who loomed, glared, then died in agony like in the movie when Prince Eric stabbed her with a jagged ship's prow. Riiight. Just the scene every kid wants to see repeated outside his or her bedroom window every two minutes. So that was pretty weird, too.

The portion of my dream that really took the bizarro cake, however, was this one. There was a priest or cardinal called the Gooch; he had white hair and wore all white, including a long robe that was fashioned rather like a hospital gown, i.e., it allowed his bare ass to hang out in the back. He headed a church that worshiped Eve, the first woman. There were tons of enormous stone crosses with Eve standing against them instead of Jesus dangling from them. The nuns were really something else, though. These were world-famous nuns, evidently. They were young, really hot, and scantily clad in nothing resembling habits. They also gave lap dances. So other young, hot, scantily clad nuns from convents and sects all over the world would make pilgrimages to get holy lap dances. Tourists could do so, too. Only women, I think. I don't remember any men, possibly because the church was all about Eve. (Heh—All About Eve.) Yep. That was the strangest part. Lap-dancing nuns.

I don't know what my dreams say about me...and I don't think I want to know.

Mongolian Misunderstanding

2008-07-21T02:51:00.000+01:00

We went to see Mongol, a retelling of the life of Genghis Khan, a few weeks ago and were quite impressed. It was very well done, if a bit bloody. Although, as Afshin remarked, considering the subject matter, he's not sure why he was surprised at the gore. Aside from one particular scene (which simply didn't need to be shown in closeup—we knew what was going on without the helpful zoom on some poor bastard's mangled face), I didn't mind the blood: it was largely of the decoratively-splattering, balletically-arcing variety.

It was a rather long movie, but compelling. I found myself engrossed by the misadventures of Temudjin as he grew from a somewhat imperious little boy into a—let's face it—pretty badass man. His wife Borte was pretty awesome, too, as was the actor who played Jamukha (Honglei Sun). Actually, Sun came perilously close to stealing the whole show. Fantastic performance. Anyway, toward the end of the film, there was a scene in which Temudjin is all kitted out in armor, with his flowing hair and impressive helmet, at which point I thought, "Damn! He looks a lot like Genghis Khan!" And then I remembered what the movie was about—not some random Mongolian guy named Temudjin, some Mongolian guy named Temudjin who grows up to be Genghis Khan. Riiiight.

You can check out the trailer below; I promise the film was far better than the trailer would suggest. It's evidently the first of a trilogy.

Injury Report

2008-07-12T05:03:00.000+01:00

So Afshin bought a brand-spanking-new mandoline. (This one, in fact.) Very handy for slicing and dicing. Knowing my propensity for injuring myself, Afshin didn't want me to use it. But I needed to slice a large quantity of ginger (finely, I might add), so I requested permission to use it. (He got first slice.) All was going well, especially as I was using the helpfully included hand guard...except when I needed to reposition the ginger. And I slipped. And nearly lopped off a chunk of my thumb and thumbnail. Well, the sliver of nail is indeed gone; the skin is still marginally attached.

I'm finding things rather difficult to do without a fully functional right thumb. Oh, and I'm not allowed to use Afshin's mandoline anymore.

Panic! In the Dressing Room (I know, lame joke.)

2008-07-03T00:29:00.000+01:00

A couple of days ago I was in a shop, trying on a few dresses. Er, many dresses. And quite a few blouses. Basically I was trying to find something that fit and looked reasonably nice. (Since I've gained so much weight, my cleavage has become lethal.) Hence I found myself standing in one of my least favorite places in the world: a communal dressing room. Even worse, this communal dressing room was actually a tiny storeroom lined with mirrors. I managed to carve out a spot, hanging my dresses on the handle of a moving dolly.

At one point toward the end of this awkward process, I poked my head out of a shirt...and found myself staring at the ceiling, transfixed—by a giant effing roach. I considered screaming and running out into the store, half-clothed as I was. I reconsidered. I didn't want to start a panic in the dressing room. I stared at the roach. It was so big I thought, briefly, that it was a joke. It looked like one of those fake rubber cockroaches. But then I saw the feelers twitch just enough to confirm my fears. It was indeed real. I finished changing, barely taking my eyes off the roach long enough to check in the mirror to determine whether the shirt looked good or not. (It didn't.) I ducked my head and ran out, just in case the roach decided to choose that moment to go all Mission: Impossible and drop on me. (It didn't.)

Upon exiting, I found one of the employees and whispered to her, "Just so you know, there's a giant roach on the ceiling of the dressing room."
"A what?"
"A giant roach."

Her eyes widened. She grabbed another employee, and the two of them ventured into the dressing room. They both shrieked. Then they got caught in the curtain in the doorway and yanked down the curtain rod. Then they hollered for the one male employee in the store and made him dispatch with the roach.

All in all, it was a generally icky day.

News (And Lots of It)

2008-05-30T18:39:00.000+01:00

I have been noticeably absent from my blog for nearly three months. This is not due to sheer laziness, I assure you. Here's what I've been up to:

1. Getting over pneumonia. That was fun.
2. Packing and shipping thirty-odd boxes from California to New York.
3. Moving to New York.
4. Getting a really bad cold just prior to arriving in New York so that, once here, I spent the first week in bed.
5. Unpacking thirty-odd boxes.
6. Sending out a really long-overdue shirt order.
7. Applying for jobs.
8. And even occasionally seeing my friends.

Regular uninformative but amusing posting shall resume soon.

Amy Goes Car Bye-Bye

2008-03-07T00:27:00.001Z

Car?
We're going in the car?
We're going for a car ride?
Oh my god!
We're going in the car!
*pantpantpantpant*

Ew, Sir. Ew.

2008-02-27T19:58:00.000Z

Last night, on my evening walk home from work, I reached the corner and stopped for the light. A man was already waiting at the corner and, just as I approached, he let out the most enormous fart. Not at me, per se, but in my general direction. He acknowledged neither my presence nor the fart. I, meanwhile, had to suppress laughter.
He looked so respectable, otherwise. Of course, were I in his position, I might choose to willfully ignore what sounded perilously close to a shart, too.

Here. Have a relevant lolcat to cleanse your mind.

Waking Before Walking

2008-02-12T22:29:00.000Z

It's another day in Kaitland, and I, the Great Kait, am tired. (Yes, that's my official title. So there. Mnyah.) This shouldn't be surprising, as I'm always tired. I might have hit a new low today, though: I fell asleep while waiting for the light to change. Perhaps I should clarify. I wasn't riding in a vehicle of any sort. Nope, just standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. I closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes again, I had three seconds left to cross. I dashed. Felt mightily foolish, I tell ya what.

Wacky German Design to the Rescue!

2008-02-02T00:24:00.000Z

Know how I've previously mentioned that I need a sleep helmet? Well, they actually make one! Sign me up, baby. I just need to learn how to read German first. What they won't think of next.

New Year, No Memories

2008-01-11T22:12:00.000Z

I think it is time that I tell my most amusing (in retrospect) New Year's Eve story. Several years ago Afshin and I went to a New Year's Eve party at the apartment of a friend. I looked cute (a dress that I hadn't expected to fit did), one of my dearest friends was in town and present, and the Champagne flowed freely. Suffice it to say I overindulged. Feeling, as I did, pretty bloody wasted, I retreated to an unoccupied bedroom and inelegantly passed out on the bed. Eventually Afshin decided that it was time to go home and went to collect me. He succeeded in rousing me and told me it was time to go. I tried to push past him.

"I have to go tell Afshin we're leaving," I said.
"I am Afshin," he responded.
"No, I need to tell Afshin," I insisted.
He played along. "Okay, if I'm not Afshin, who am I?" he asked.
I looked at him blearily. "You're the bathtub."

Upon that delirious declaration, he opted to leave me unconscious a while longer. After recounting my predicament to our host, Afshin decided to check on me again, just in case.

"I'll be right back," he said. "I have to go make sure my girlfriend's not trying to have sex with your bathtub."

Beowulf: Epic Failure

2007-12-05T07:18:00.000Z

Last Saturday night I went to see Beowulf in 3D at the IMAX in San Francisco. I had more than a sneaking suspicion that it would be awful, but I thought that it could possibly be silly fun, especially in 3D. I was wrong. Let's put it this way: I had a nosebleed afterward on BART. I went home and coughed up blood. That was preferable to watching Beowulf. It was the worst movie I've ever seen.
Never before have I seriously considered walking out of a theatre. Certainly never less than five minutes into the movie. What was so wrong with it? Well, here's the shortlist:

WARNING: HERE THERE BE SPOILERS.

1. Hrothgar was a drunken, sometimes naked, lout. Oh, and Grendel's dad. And he kills himself.
2. Two words: uncanny valley. Especially the chicks. Wiglaf gets a pass, though, as he was remarkably lifelike, and the only likable character in the whole bloody movie.
3. Cockblocking. Literally. Apparently, when the poem said that Beowulf fought Grendel bare-handed, it meant bare-assed, too. You can tell when things get serious because Beowulf gets naked. Then you see the most ridiculous assortment of penis-blocking shots ever. Like in Austin Powers. But I don't think Beowulf was supposed to be a comedy. Maybe I misunderstood something.
4. Angelina Jolie as Grendel's mother. Yes, the "sea hag." Also absurd: her tentacle braid, the organic stilettos growing from her heels, and the fact that Beowulf sleeps with her instead of killing her.
5. Know the dragon that ultimately kills our hero? Well, remember how Grendel was Hrothgar's son? Yeah, you see where I'm going with this. The dragon's Beowulf's kid. Now, setting aside how asinine that concept is, here's my question: When Hrothgar and Angelina Jolie mate, they produce Grendel, gooey, misshapen, inside-out man. When Beowulf and Angie mate, they produce some perfectly-muscled golden (as in actually gold) boy who can transform into a dragon. So, um, how exactly does that work? I mean, Beowulf's better-looking than Hrothgar, but ol' Hrothie's not hideous or anything.

I'm not even going to quibble about all the general ickiness (all the eyeball-stabbing, eardrum-punching, arm-hacking, body-ripping-in-half, gut-slicing, head-crunching, and bare-handed heart-grabbing gore and such). I guess my main complaint is that it was already an epic poem. Epic, people. It's not called epic because it's dull and needs a bit of sexing up; it's called epic because it's full of adventure and action and larger-than-life deeds. Hence when you decide to make a film about said epic, you don't need to toss in unnecessary subplots and extra carnage and Angelina Jolie's nude gold-dripping body. Yet this is the second horrible film version of Beowulf that I've seen. The other, Beowulf & Grendel, was a 2005 film that gave Grendel a son with the local witch. What's wrong with the original story? Nothing!

Ugh. Am full of disgust and righteous anger. I think I'll go look at lolcats.

Follow That Falafel!

2007-11-07T21:56:00.000Z

Apparently the FBI is so desperate to find evidence of Iranian terror plots in the U.S. that they've been tracking the sale of certain grocery items like falafel. The logic (yeah, I'm using the term loosely) is that, if you follow the sale of Middle Eastern foods, you might find Middle Easterners, who might be Iranians, who might be terrorists. Is this seriously what passes for government intelligence these days?

Naturally, I sent a link to the article to Afshin, who contributed several salient points.

Afshin: falafel is not an iranian dish
Afshin: iranians don't really eat it
Afshin: or hummus
Afshin: also, there's no such thing as an iranian terrorist
Afshin: they would know this if they had even a single iranian working for them
Me: yeah, the whole thing is pretty retarded
Afshin: iranians don't eat those "typical" middle eastern foods
Me: well, you know--the iranians might have been gay or something
Me: can't get the gays involved
Afshin: you want to find them? follow the pistachios and the pomegranates
Me: true
Me: and then what'll they find?
Me: not terrorists
Me: your mom.
Afshin: a bunch of persians sitting around eating fruit, drinking tea, on a persian rug, watching soccer

The Boy With the Arab Hat

2007-10-29T06:12:00.000Z

Afshin made plum vodka months ago using very cheap vodka (filtered through a Brita multiple times) and a bunch of plums from a tree in our friend Lucinda's backyard. He finally decided it was time to remove the plums, filter the vodka, and switch it from one bottle to another. He called for my attention; the filtration process was going remarkably well and he was justifiably pleased with himself. I looked up and saw that he'd taken several thicknesses of cheesecloth, covered the mouth of one bottle with it, and secured the cheesecloth filter in place with a rubber band.

"Nice work," I said.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said. He gestured to the cheesecloth capping the bottle. "It's called an Arab hat."

I couldn't imagine who, except maybe Afshin, called it that. Skeptical, I asked, "Do they really call it that?"

He burst out laughing.

"I should know better than to believe anything you say any more," I shrieked indignantly. "You jerk!"

My Night as a Zombie

2007-10-15T22:41:00.000+01:00

For those of you who are interested (which means everybody—who wouldn't be interested?), I participated in the most recent zombie flash mob in San Francisco this past Thursday. As I was not among the first of the undead to arrive, I didn't manage to crash the mayoral debate, but I arrived in time to see the cops and security people lowering the gate. Party poopers. At least no zombies got tased.

After massing near Civic Center (and engaging in an impromptu zombie conga line), we progressed via BART to the Mission. Following drinks at Beauty Bar, we boarded the zombie bus, whereupon newly undead mayoral candidate Chicken John Rinaldi chauffeured us around the city. On the bus, we were treated to juice, snacks, and Fun-Dip, along with some rousing zombie karaoke. We made some stops to generally wreak (good-natured) havoc, pick up food and/or drinks, attack Cupid's Span (apparently Chicken John has a deep-seated hatred for this "artwork"), and feast on Stephen Colbert's brain.

You can see my photos of the evening's festivities here, and my charming coworker/makeup artist Jenn also posted photos of me. Here are more photos. And here. And here. And here. And I'm on the phone with my grandmother in this one. For more info about zombie flash mobs in San Francisco, see this site.

Oh, and the lesson of the night? Never put a tube of fake blood in your pocket. If you do, be prepared to soak your jeans in scalding hot water and pray.

Umbrella Chronicles

2007-10-12T21:45:00.000+01:00

Oh god. I've clearly been at this job too long: I just made a bad video game pun. Anyway, I have a complaint. When it comes to rain, the citizens of the Bay Area are morons. You'd think that San Franciscans would comprehend the concept of rain, what with their constant fog and all. No. Apparently, once the water vapor that forms fog starts dripping on people instead of rolling across the top of buildings, San Franciscans go into panic mode. I counted no less than three of those massive golf umbrellas in a two-block stretch this morning. I'm sorry, but people who carry sidewalk-hogging golf umbrellas (and generally use them like battering rams) deserve to be sodomized with said umbrellas. Jerks. Unless they're on an actual golf course, naturally. Rain also seems to engender confusion in drivers and pedestrians—I watched the same idiot nearly get hit by a car twice in about one minute. It's just water and it happens every winter, people. Deal.

Semi-Intentional Witticism of the Day

2007-10-10T23:53:00.000+01:00

Genie: when I was talking to Afshin the other day, he said that you guys were considering a move-
Me: we are?
Genie: out of the studio-
Me: i mean, yeah, we're considering it
Genie: that sounds like a really good idea.
Me: much in the way we're considering world peace
Me: we'd like to do it
Genie: ha!
Me: or see it happen, rather
Me: but it's unlikely to happen soon

Sleep? Snack? Or Both?

2007-10-10T07:46:00.000+01:00

I have a tendency to eat at night. As in I'll wake up from a sound sleep, get up to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, and decide that I really need a cookie or some cereal or an apple or something. I think it runs in the family—my mom used to do the same thing. Of course, she also took Ambien for a time and would do and eat all sorts of bizarre things in the middle of the night, but that's another story.

When I was really little (maybe two?), I apparently woke up one night and told my mom I was hungry. She asked what I wanted to eat, and I told her ham and mashed potatoes. So she heated up some for me, thinking it was weird but that I must have just been really hungry for some reason. (My grandfather's an excellent and rather prolific cook, so of course we had leftover ham and mashed potatoes.) The next night I did it again. My mom was a good sport and went along with it. When I did it the third night in a row, my mom had had enough. She decided that I was not going to be a ham-and-mashed-potatoes-at-midnight junkie for the rest of my life. So that was that.

During the intervening two-odd decades, I've periodically gone on sleep-eating jags, but only one has been particularly noteworthy. A couple of years ago, I kept raiding the kitchen. I'd take cereal to bed with me. When I woke up in the morning I'd have an apple core on a napkin on the bedside table. Once I woke up with a spoonful of peanut butter stuck to the sheet. For a particularly abnormal week or so I'd eat brown sugar straight from the box, spilling very sweet, hard sand in the bed.

I am no longer allowed to eat in bed. Afshin passed the decree before I moved in with him. I think what prompted his decision was the time he woke up in my bed with a Lucky Charm stuck to his back.

Thus concludes (hopefully) the tale of my sleep-eating.

Nocturnal Injuries

2007-10-09T07:43:00.000+01:00

Last night I woke up (as I often do) because I needed to use the bathroom. This is not unusual, as I drink lots of water and apparently have the world's smallest bladder. Upon waking, I lifted my head off the pillow—and bonked into Afshin's elbow. (It was totally encroaching on my side of the bed.) I rose, carefully picked my way across the bed, narrowly avoiding Afshin's feet and legs...and slammed my knee into the coffee table, waking Afshin in the process. Amazingly, I have but a single tiny bruise on my right knee. And Afshin has no recollection of the incident. But that's not unusual, as, after he's asleep, he's dead to the world until morning. So I apparently need not only a sleep helmet, but sleep kneepads as well.

Giuliani's At It Again—For Real This Time

2007-09-27T05:23:00.001+01:00

So, you know how I allowed myself to be completely taken in by that Onion article about Giuliani? Remember how Afshin laughed heartily at my naïveté?

Well, it turns out I'm not so gullible after all. For while Giuliani has not launched an official campaign for president of 9/11, he's still exploiting it for all it's worth. And then some. For instance, how about that fundraising party where participants were urged to donate $9.11 each? Classy.

As nauseating as that is, check out this Village Voice article for some insight into good ol' Rudy's role in the 9/11 incident and its aftermath. Ugh. No, it's not a conspiracy-theory piece; it's not even what you'd call an exposé, exactly, as it discusses things many people—particularly New Yorkers—already know. It's more of a refutation of Giuliani's incessant grandstanding.

A Story About My Dad

2007-09-22T08:05:00.000+01:00

Once in a while I think I shall tell stories about people other than myself. I'm not the only idiot in the world, after all. And some of my friends and relatives have had some pretty amusing incidents—I should share those, right? Right. So this time it's a story about my dad.

Last winter, Afshin and I flew back east to visit our parents for the holidays. (Our respective parents, of course—this is California, not Kentucky. If you got that, pat yourself on the back: You're a dork.) Anyway, Afshin and his family came over to visit my family and me. Before they arrived, there was a spot of confusion. See, his mom's name is Mahboubeh. It's a difficult name for English-speakers to pronounce. Hell, I have trouble pronouncing it. It's close to MAH-boo-beh. Except that you pronounce the h at the end of the Mah. So it's kinda tricky. Of course, when Afshin and his clan arrived, my parents were just enchanted by his mom and managed to work around the name issue. To be honest, my dad has thought she's the most adorable thing ever since she force-fed him fruit and tea. (She has a big thing about fruit and tea, particularly the fruit. When my dad and I stopped at their apartment once to drop off some CDs for Afshin's brother, his mom broke out the fruit and tea and, after we'd accepted the tea but declined the fruit, offered to peel it for us. Apparently, as she later explained to Afshin, some people don't want to eat the skin and will only eat fruit once it's peeled.) Anyway, we had a very nice visit with Afshin and co. At the end of which, my parents said goodbye and shut the door.

"What did you just say?" I asked Dad.
"I said, 'Goodbye, Mahbaybay."
"Did you say Mahbaybay?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "That's her name, isn't it?"
"No," I laughed. "It's Mahboubeh."
My mom laughed hysterically. "You just called her your baby!"
"Oh shit."
"It's okay, Dad. I'm sure she appreciated the effort."

My dad isn't always so good with introductions. And names and such. Like when he met a neighbor couple. My mom really liked them, but my dad wasn't so impressed.
"I liked him," Dad said. "But she was sorta weird."
"What do you mean 'weird'?" my mom asked. "I thought they were both nice."
"Well, she was actually kinda rude."
"Really?" my mom asked. "How?"
"Well, it was the weirdest thing," my dad said. "She walked up to me and said, 'Hi man.' She called me man. That's sort of strange, don't you think?"
My mom stared at him, confused. "Michael. She said, 'Hi. I'm Anne.' Her name is Anne."
"Oh shit."

After that, my dad got along perfectly well with Anne.

Camel Crossing

2007-09-12T08:42:00.000+01:00

A few months ago Afshin and I accompanied some friends to the de Young Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco. I wanted to see the Vivienne Westwood exhibit (which was excellent, by the by), and we figured the boys could run around on their own while the ladies checked out the insane fashion. Afterward, we'd all have tea in the Hagiwara Japanese Tea Garden. I hadn't realized it until I was there, but I'd been to the tea garden before, as part of a tour I took while vacationing in San Francisco in 2001. I remembered this one bridge immediately—it's kinda hard to forget a bridge with such tiny, vertical little steps. Not steps, really. More like ridges. It's like climbing an inverted U–shaped ladder, as you can see from the picture below. But Afshin had never crossed the bridge before, so we got in line.

While we're standing in line, we pass a plaque bearing some sort of description of the bridge. Afshin glances at it and then tells me, "You know, this bridge was built specifically for camels."

I looked at him, agape. "What?"

"Yeah, they're particularly suited to this type of bridge."

"But how...?"

He burst out laughing. "You seriously believed that this was built for camels?"

"Well, I saw you look at the plaque, and then you said it all authoritatively...but I was going to ask you how that was possible that camels could get a foothold on this. And why they'd have camels in Japan to begin with."

Camels are the new jackalopes.

Vocab Lessons

2007-09-07T22:49:00.000+01:00

So I work on the copydesk at a video game magazine publishing company (about which you will not hear me complain, as I would rather not get dooced, thank you very much). In this capacity I contribute to and help keep updated the game group style guide. When I first started here, I expected that I'd be learning some new vocabulary, as my previous knowledge of the intricacies of video gaming was pretty bloody limited. Let's put it this way: I didn't know what a cut-scene was. Or a port. But, naturally, I learned. Now I know all about cel shading and chocobos and rag-doll physics and rochambeau gameplay and how the Soul Calibur game titles used to be two separate words but are now (intentionally and illogically) squished together into one, e.g., Soulcalibur Legends.

What I didn't expect was that we'd have an official spelling for douchebag. (One word, closed up, not hyphenated.) Or that I'd participate in a heated debate about the proper plural of ho. (We ultimately decided on hos, a verdict with which I heartily concur.) Hell, I'm even responsible for some of the stranger entries in our style guide. Muahaha, for instance. To summarize, you can add as many "ha"s as you want, as long as the word starts with a "mua" and ends with a "ha."

And what are some of the recent standouts (which have not been added to the guide as yet)? Moose knuckles, moneyhat, and catassery (the last of which is synonymous with poopsocking).

I'm not sure if my newly expanded vocabulary is a good thing or not.

Rosemary’s Baby = Scientology?

2007-08-29T08:02:00.000+01:00

While washing dishes the other day, I absentmindedly began contemplating the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes/Baby Suri crazy train and was struck with a sudden (compelling) thought: What if Rosemary's Baby was just an allegory for Scientology? I mean, think about it. In the book, characters (notably Guy, an actor) worship the devil in exchange for personal success. In real life, Scientologists (many of whom seem to be wealthy and prominent actors) believe in Xenu and follow the teachings of second-rate sci-fi author L. Ron Hubbard. And many of these Hubtards seems suspiciously successful to me. Hm. It's just a theory, but it is worth considering.

Although Suri Cruise is an awfully beautiful baby to be the Chosen One of Scientology.

A Harry Potter Tidbit

2007-08-20T23:41:00.000+01:00

I'm currently listening to the audiobook of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and have found myself frustrated by one thing in particular, as I explained in a brief AIM exchange with Afshin:

me: yeah, so this is pissing me off
me: harry and hermione are unable to find out what a horcrux is
me: i have one word: google.
me: dumbass wizards.
Afshin: haha

There may be an impending Harry Potter–related rant coming. Depends on how soon I can get the venom out of my system. To put it mildly, I saw the fifth movie last night and didn't like it one little bit.

A Public Service Announcement

2007-08-16T07:47:00.000+01:00

If you are a peeping tom in the Berkeley area, this message may be for you. First, let's get something clear: Just because a bathroom happens to be at ground level doesn't mean that users of that bathroom are fair game for unsolicited photography sessions. So, if you're the weasel who was attempting to take/taking pictures of me in the shower last Sunday night, I'd better not see my wet, naked ass on the internet. I have friends in 1337 places—they'll go all haXor on you.

Don't Drink and Skate

2007-08-09T06:01:00.000+01:00

I suppose it's been a while since I've proffered any truly embarrassing stories about my frequent bungling—I guess one's due.

So this one happened a while back when I lived in New York. I have always been a sucker for ice skating—watching it, that is. I can skip, oh, the entire rest of the Winter Olympics, but I make a point of watching the ice skating. (I can do without the Summer Olympics entirely.) Anyway, I had been flipping channels and stumbled across some ice skating competition. As I was alone in the apartment, I was free to watch the skating free from ridicule. I made myself a drink and settled in.

Well, it was a strong drink. Maybe even two strong drinks. I started wondering exactly how these skaters executed jumps, anyway. I mean, what's the difference between a triple lutz and a triple salchow? I know there is a difference, but I can't see it. Now I know that, theoretically, you have to build up speed to jump properly, but you see skaters performing small jumps from a standing position all the time. You know, on the practice mats before they're scheduled to take the ice.

You know what the difference is between a professional ice skater and me? For starters, the ice skater's an athlete, not a sports-phobe. And, generally at least, said ice skater isn't inebriated at the time of competition. Moreover, I doubt many skaters attempt jumps in the middle of their kitchens. And I'll bet money that they don't complete their jumps by landing smack in the recycling pile.

Gender, Boobs, and Vocab (In That Order)

2007-08-02T01:16:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, as I was walking home from the BART station, I passed a trio of...people. All three had the same body type (short and fat), similar haircuts (very short, boyish), and wore the same sort of clothes (loose jeans/pants and tees). For the life of me, I couldn't tell you whether they were male or female. They were either very butch girls or sort of squashily feminine guys. There was evidence of boobs, but they could easily have just been man boobs. Two of the three were holding hands, which might have been a clue, but wasn't in this case. They could have been a gay couple of either sex or a mixed-gender couple that was extraordinarily well-matched in terms of attractiveness (i.e., totally lacking).

So I couldn't determine the sex of three random people—I'm apparently excellent at distinguishing between real and surgically enhanced breasts. I took The Real Breasts/Fake Breasts Test yesterday (totally NSFW, but I really don't think they'd care in my office) and scored an 18 out of 20. Not bad. If you need to waste about five minutes, check it out.

While I'm on the topic of all things chestal, I might mention a conversation I had recently with my grandmother, who was lamenting how coarse my aunt can sound sometimes. (I, for the record, don't think my aunt sounds coarse, but my grandmother is...particular.) It went something like this:

Grandmother: I hate it when she calls them her "bubs" or "bubbies."

Me: First of all, she doesn't call them her "bubs" or "bubbies." She calls them boobs or boobies—she's not an old Jewish grandmother.

Grandmother: Well, why can's she just call them breasts like any normal person?

I should point out that my grandmother is a retired nurse. When the dog craps on the carpet, it is not poop; it is feces. When you throw up, the expelled matter is not called puke or even vomit; it is vomitus. And, as I learned early in life, that thing that's used to take your blood pressure—you know, the one that everyone, even most medical professionals, call a cuff?—it's a sphygmomanometer.

Conquering My Deepest, Weirdest Fears

2007-07-24T06:19:00.000+01:00

I have big news. And it's not, as my mother guessed, that I'm pregnant. This is much better: I watched the original full-length music video for Michael Jackson's "Thriller."

Surely, you say, this is not the first time you've watched the Thriller video? It debuted over 20 years ago! Well, no. I watched it when it first premiered on MTV in 1983. It was a huge event; there'd been such hype about it. My whole family gathered around the living room TV. I think the lights were off and we had popcorn, but my memory's a little fuzzy on those points. Because the video came on and I was all excited—for whatever reason, I had a total Michael Jackson crush as a child. I had a Michael Jackson calendar, multiple Michael Jackson dolls, hell, my mother even made me my own glittery glove. Just one. I wore it to preschool and got peanut butter on it at snack time. Without exaggeration, I can say that I wanted to be Madonna and marry Michael Jackson. I was a weird little kid.

Anyway, the Thriller video started. Car runs out of gas. Michael's girl thinks it's a sleazeball trick, but it's not. All is well, except that they have to walk home now. At this point he decides to tell her that he's "not like other guys." Understatement of the century. The full moon comes out and sweet, girly-sounding, still-black Michael Jackson turns into a werewolf, complete with fangs and glaring yellow eyes.

Scared. Me. Shitless.

I was only coaxed back into the room after the opening sequence ended and werewolf Michael was replaced by the significantly less threatening zombie Michael. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I began having Thriller nightmares. I was three then...so that means I've been having Thriller nightmares for 23 years. Twenty-three years. I tried watching it again when I was in sixth grade, but I freaked out again and never even made it to the zombie dance sequence. Nope, the werewolf transformation had me simultaneously trying to shut my eyes, plug my ears, grope for the remote, and scream for my mom.

Needless to say, I avoided Thriller and, by and large, Michael Jackson in all forms. (Which was probably a sound idea, considering the ensuing train wreck he'd become.) Every time a "best of the '80s" clip show came on MTV or VH1 or whatnot, my palms would get clammy and my heart would beat faster. Oh, I wanted to be a material girl with Madonna and just have fun with Cyndi Lauper, but there was always that nagging fear that they'd sneak in a clip from Thriller. I'd still have Thriller nightmares every so often, sometimes not for months at a time, sometimes several nights in a row.

Fast-forward to last week. This past Friday night, I went out for fondue with some friends. It was a veritable food orgy, with six different kinds of fondue, unlimited wine, and cheesecake. When we returned to my apartment, the topic of conversation turned to the video of Filipino prison inmates doing a Thriller dance routine that had been circulating online. Pretty nifty. Then I mentioned that I'd heard of a Bollywood South Indian version that I sort of wanted to see, but was worried that the makeup would scare me. We chanced it though, and it was pretty ridiculous. Then Afshin said that he'd never actually seen the original version. Of course, I instinctively shouted, "No!" But my friend Kara wisely (though tipsily) said, "Kaitlen, you're 26. I think it's time to get over it."

And so, dear friends, I stood as far back from the screen as possible (which isn't far in my apartment), squinted my eyes, and nearly broke my friend Daniel's ribs from squeezing him so hard. But I watched it and got over it. The zombies? Piece of cake. The werewolf? Sorta silly. The Michael-to-werewolf transformation scene? Um, still creepy. But not terrifying by a long shot. I don't think I'll have Thriller nightmares anymore.

I told my mom of the recent development and she said that was great news. Just not as good as if I'd been pregnant. Sheesh. I just conquer my Thriller fear and all she can think of is grandkids. Some people....

PS: If you're up to it, here's the full-length version of the Thriller video. For the love of god, don't let your three-year-old watch it, though.

Escalator Escapades

2007-07-20T23:33:00.000+01:00

Not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what is the deal with Californians and escalators? This morning I nearly smacked right into the guy in front of me, and just a few days ago I saw yet another woman trip over the end of the escalator...because she didn't see it? Was distracted? Was being a total space cadet? Maybe all of the above. I just do not get it. I've seen more people absentmindedly trip at the ends of escalators during my year in California than I saw in the entire seven years I spent in New York. New Yorkers get on the escalator, walk/stand, periodically block your path, and get off the damn thing. Californians mosey. And, apparently, forget that the escalator does, in fact, end.

I Loathe the US Post Office

2007-07-04T00:03:00.001+01:00

I have a long, sordid history with the USPS. Today was their latest coup in their ongoing battle to keep my mail from me.

For a change, I won something in a contest: an autographed copy of the Tord Boontje book that CoolHunting was giving away. Yay me! Was very excited, and asked Afshin every day upon getting home, "Did my book come today?" Until yesterday, the answer was no. Yesterday we'd gotten a little card saying that we'd missed a package and would have to pick it up from the post office. Naturally, while our mail is usually delivered late in the day, packages can show up at any and all times, generally while I'm at work and Afshin is at the gym (or, in the past, in class, or at lunch, or in the shower...any time he wasn't available, basically). So they tried to deliver the book while he was at the gym this time. I asked him if he'd pick it up at the post office for me today, as I had to go to work today, the post office will be closed tomorrow, and I'll actually be out of town from tomorrow night through next Wednesday. Being an obliging fellow, he said yes.

So Afshin takes the little "sorry we missed you—sucker" tag and trundles off to the post office. They won't give him the package because it's for me. He shows the woman that the address on his driver's license matches that on the package tag, so he and I clearly live at the same address. No. He explains that I asked him to pick it up and offers to call me and have me speak to the woman at the post office. No. He asks if he should have had me sign the tag first. No. It apparently wouldn't matter if I'd signed it, because I still wouldn't be there in person. He points out that, had he been home when it had been delivered, he would have been able to sign for it. Yes. But he can't do that at the post office? No. So (he offers this hypothetical situation), a thief could break into our apartment, show no ID, and sign for a package, but he, with ID that states he lives at the address listed on the package, cannot pick it up from the post office. No. ("And I actually presented that exact situation to her," he told me.)

He also pointed out that he's picked up packages for me before, to which the woman countered that whoever let him do so "must not have been paying attention." "Could you not pay attention?" he asked. No. (She wasn't nasty, apparently. Just firm as hell.)

So he had to reschedule delivery. For next Tuesday, since I'll definitely be gone, he may be out of town for a few days, and he has a dentist appointment on Monday. Tuesday he can stay home all bloody day waiting for the package, though. I would have had it redirected to my office address, but the post office doesn't do anything that convenient. That's just UPS (which is inconvenient for a host of other reasons, but not that one).

I detest, despise, and loathe the post office.

I am Surprised by My Own Strength

2007-06-27T23:23:00.000+01:00

So about a month ago I went to empty the incense holder we keep in the bathroom. It's marble or something similar; we bought it at an Indian store on University Ave. some time last year. Anyway, it was full of ash, so I carried it over to the trashcan, tipped it upside down, and tapped the back of it with my finger. Not, as it was later alleged, against the edge of the trashcan. Just with my finger. It broke in half.

Naturally, this greatly amused my friends, a bunch of whom were in the apartment at the time. When Afshin and our friend Daniel and I hopped a bus to go on a joint grocery-store run a day or two later, they again began ribbing me about the broken incense holder. I explained once again that I emphatically did not smack the marble against the metal trashcan, as that's an obvious no-brainer. I went to demonstrate, using my nail file as a stand-in incense holder. But, since I was sitting close to one of the metal poles on the bus—and my file was of the reusable glass variety—Afshin foresaw danger and laughingly warned me, "Hey, don't break that, too."
I got cranky. (Oh, why must bad things happen when I get cranky?) "I won't break it," I snapped. "I'm not going to hit it on the pole. I'm showing you what I did with the incense holder." I tapped the file with my finger—again, without using great force, firmly but not violently. The file broke in two.

Daniel and Afshin burst out laughing. I let loose with a stream of obscenities. Most of the other passengers noticeably suppressed laughter. I think I threatened to stab Afshin with the pointy part of the file, but I can't swear to it. Possibly Daniel, too.
However, I ultimately repressed my homicidal urges and, later, once back at home, surveyed the damage I'd wrought.

My, but that's a lot of destruction for one so small.

Oh, I did buy a new file, in case you were wondering. I have yet to replace the incense holder.

My Left Foot

2007-06-26T23:30:00.000+01:00

I had completely forgotten about the second chapter of the infamous Tasti D-Lite incident. About a month after I was brutally attacked by a metal and glass door, I was attacked by a box fan. Also in the vicinity of my left foot. The specifics aren't nearly as entertaining: I had a very warm bedroom in summertime, put a box fan in doorway to promote circulation, tripped over said box fan, which fell to the floor. In falling, it scraped down the back of my leg, on the skin right over my Achilles tendon. In short, in the span of about a month, I had acquired a gash on my foot and a slash down the back of my leg. I looked so gimpy.

By the by, in case you're curious as to what prompted this recollection, it was something that happened just this past weekend.
I tripped over:
a) a wire,
b) a sock,
c) a loose tieback on the couch, and/or
d) the leg of my pajama bottoms.
...at which point I kicked the corner of the glass tabletop. With my left foot. Fortunately, the glass tabletop has rounded corners. So I'm now sporting a hefty bruise, but managed to avoid blood loss. So it was a good weekend.

Don't Mess With Texas. Or Ask for Help.

2007-06-20T20:16:00.000+01:00

What the hell is wrong with Texas? While reading the news this morning, I stumbled across not one but two stories about crazy happenings in Texas.

First, there's the story about an angry crowd beating someone to death. Here's the headline: Texas Crowd Kills Man After Car Hit Girl. So it sounds like mob justice got out of control, right? Well, here's the catch. The guy who was beaten to death wasn't even the driver involved in the (non-fatal) accident. He was the passenger. He and the driver had gotten out of the car to check on the little girl who'd been struck, and the crowd turned on him. He was beaten to death by possibly 20 men and left lying in a parking lot. The little girl who'd been hit by the car was taken to the hospital with non-life-threatening injuries.

Next up is this story of how the cops tasered Allen Nelms, a man who was having a diabetic seizure. His girlfriend had called the paramedics. The cops showed up, burst through the bedroom door, and ordered the man to get on the floor. Then they tasered him. Shortly afterward, the paramedics intervened and removed the taser barbs and handcuffs. When Nelms registered a complaint with the local police department, this was the reply:

"A review regarding your written complaint dated May 3, 2007, was conducted. After careful consideration of your allegations we have found that the officers were within our departmental policies regarding the use of a less than lethal force option (TASER) on you during an event at your residence on April 28, 2007."

Unsurprisingly, Nelms has lawyered up. Not a bad idea. But it might be a better idea to just leave the damn state.

The Relative Resilience of Fishnet vs. Denim

2007-06-20T07:34:00.000+01:00

Lovely. I now have matching dinged-up knees. On Friday, while wearing perfectly normal ballet flats, I slipped on the (level, dry) sidewalk, scraping my left knee and the top of my left foot and landing thuddily on my right ass cheek. Amazingly, my fishnets remained intact, even though the skin under them suffered bruising and scratches.

Contrast this incident to one that happened a few months earlier. I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, fell forward onto my knees, and majorly tore up both my right knee and my jeans. At the time I was returning from doing some grocery shopping and had a backpack full of juice bottles; I was just glad that I didn't fall on it and wind up with broken glass and juice everywhere. Unfortunately, in trying to prevent that from happening, I did sort of catch the backpack with my head...but, hey, I already get chronic headaches, so what's a little more head trauma?

These two incidents have led me to formulate several significant conclusions:
1) I should really walk a few steps in front of Afshin so he has a better chance of catching me.
2) My life is possibly some sort of great cosmic joke, in which I am now getting the scraped knees I should have suffered as a child had I ever been allowed outdoors. (Seriously. My mom yelled at me the only time I ever attempted to climb a tree.)
3) Danskin fishnets are totally the way to go.

A Typical Day in Kaitland

2007-06-15T08:11:00.000+01:00

Yeah, you know you've lived in Kaitland for too long when you no longer respond to my cries of pain. I got home from work, bent down to pick something up (or put something down? I don't remember), and whacked the area above my right eyebrow on the edge of the bookcase.

Me: Ow!
Afshin: ...

The Agony and the Ecstasy of Tasti D

2007-06-14T03:45:00.000+01:00

It's unseasonably warm here. Well, warm for the Bay Area, at least. It's definitely ice cream weather...or gelato weather. If I were in New York still, I'd say it's Tasti D-Lite weather. If you've never had Tasti D, it's essentially a low-fat, low-cal soft serve. But tastes a helluva lot better than that description suggests. In the hot summer months, it's a solid alternative to gorging oneself on Ben & Jerry's.

See, in my last apartment, I lived two doors down from a candy store that sold Tasti D. Naturally, I was fond of going on Tasti D runs at any and all hours; much to my irritation, the shop closed at a mere 11 p.m. (I often found myself dashing in at 10:50.)

It was in early August 2005 that I had my Tasti D–related disaster. I tootled down the three flights of stairs in my building (yeah, it was a walk-up), walked two doors down, and opened the door—the heavy glass door, edged in metal around the bottom—into my foot. Did I mention I was wearing sandals? Oh, and the metal edging around the bottom of the door? It had been bent up at the corner. My foot thus gashed open, I moved out of the way so the woman behind me who never once ceased yammering on her cell phone could get past. I asked the guys behind the counter for some napkins. They helpfully pointed. I stuffed the napkins into my sandal to keep from bleeding all over the floor, ordered my Tasti D, and schlepped back up the three flights to my apartment.

And Afshin and my roommate, Matt, called me an idiot for getting Tasti D after slicing my food open. But come on—I was already down there and time and Tasti D stop for no one.

In retrospect, maybe I should have sued. I mean, sure, I'm a klutz. But the metal on the door was bent upward and, even worse, the employees were totally unhelpful. I mean, I asked for napkins so I wouldn't bleed all over their floor and they just pointed. That's kinda toolish, don't you think?

Why I Need a Sleep Helmet

2007-06-11T21:43:00.000+01:00

Afshin has long said that I need a sleep helmet, initially because I require such specific conditions in order to sleep. Light—even just the little blips on a cable box or laptop—bothers me. Typing and mouse-clicking noises infuriate me. You get the picture. Since we live in a studio but don't always want to keep the same hours, we put up curtains around the bed, and I'll strap on my iPod (to block clickety-clack key noises), and affix one, sometimes two, of my three sleep masks to my head. Afshin started teasing me by saying that what I really need is a sleep helmet, some sort of sensory-deprivation gear to isolate me from all the sounds and lights I find so irksome at bedtime.

Then he decided that I really need it for protection.

He was up, typing away at his desk. I had gone to bed several hours earlier. Suddenly there's a CTHUNK, followed by an "Owww!"

"Babe, what happened?" He ran over to check on me.

"I hit my head on the wall!" I wailed, still three-quarters asleep.

Yes, I had slammed my head into the wall while asleep.

The Joy of Siestas

2007-06-06T00:15:00.000+01:00

It has been a long, long day. There was a fire at Embarcadero, so BART wasn't running into or out of San Francisco. I got off the train, waited for a bus that didn't come, got back on the train when they started running again, and kept dozing off while standing up. This is on top of the very long week I had last week, as we spent practically all of last month in production. We just wrapped the last of the mags today (yay!) and won't be in production again until June 18.

All of that is a way of saying that I'm very, very tired.

Now that today's work is pretty much (maybe entirely) done, I'm sitting at my computer, reading a webcomic. And I keep starting to drift off....

It is in situations like this that I find myself missing my last workplace. Don't misunderstand—it wasn't fun. You know that phrase about the inmates running the asylum? I'm convinced it was inspired by my last job. No, what I miss about my old job was my desk. Specifically the space beneath my desk. It was just nice and warm and dark under there, and the desk/chair height ratio was just right so that, when I pulled the chair up to the desk, you couldn't really see under it. So, after strategically placing my desk chair and wastebasket (and maybe a folder or magazine hanging off the desk for good measure), I had the perfect little hidey-hole for midday naps. Especially after I started keeping a spare sheet in one of my drawers. My work-time naps began out of necessity—I get migraines and, when one hits, I need to take a pill and lie down someplace dark. Immediately.

However, once I decided I was leaving my job and moving across the country, I...shall we say...checked out. That's how I discovered the joy (and efficacy) of daily siestas. And, because I was hidden under my desk (and, fortunately, nowhere near my boss' office), my napping went pretty much unnoticed. A few of my coworkers knew, but thought it was funny and had no interest in informing on me. They knew to retrieve me in case of an emergency. Worked for me.

Interestingly—despite my dis- and reappearances from under my desk, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a tie-dyed sheet—I was by far one of the more normal employees.

Tiny Animals Will Melt Your Heart (And Brain)

2007-05-31T23:58:00.000+01:00

Maybe nobody's ever noticed, but I turn into a complete moron when presented with cute animals. (Even if they're stuffed animals, as anyone who's ever seen me with Nigel, my otter hand puppet, can affirm.) This photo set of tiny animals on fingers is so cute your brain will turn to mush. Except the bugs. Bugs are icky. But some of the other teensy little animals are unbelievably precious. Just look at the baby sugar gliders. And this little lizard, who's all, "Ehn! Ehn! Trying to hang on...." I also love this slender loris, who's clearly contemplating how he will destroy us all. Note the evil hand clasping. Eeexcellent. And then of course there's the bitty hummingbird. In his best Stewie voice, he's saying, "I don't have to fucking impress you."

Yes, if it's small and cute, I provide a monologue for it.

I Know It Sounds Like a Joke. It's Not.

2007-05-27T02:27:00.000+01:00

When I was about 13, my parents and I took a day trip to Sugar Loaf, NY, an arts and crafts village full of artsy-fartsy shops run by aging hippies. After a long day, we headed back to the car. The setting sun was in my eyes, and I was squinting behind my sunglasses.

Suddenly, my mom said, "Kaitlen, duck."

I kept walking.

"Kaitlen, duck!"

I kept walking.

"Kaitlen, duck!"

I walked smack into a low-hanging sign.

"What is wrong with you?" my mom hollered.

"I was looking for the duck!"

Fred and Dino Go to the Museum

2007-05-24T22:55:00.000+01:00

There's a right way and a wrong way to do things, I've noticed. Case in point: the new $27 million Creation Museum in Kentucky. This shining monument to scientific knowledge boasts features such as dioramas depicting humans and dinosaurs intermingling, a life-size reproduction of Noah's Ark (which apparently accommodated dinosaurs in its menagerie), and a "giant wrecking ball, labeled 'Millions of Years' [as in the age of the Earth, according to adherents of evolution], that is shown smashing the ground at the foundation of a church, the cracks reaching across the gallery to a model of a home in which videos demonstrate the imminence of moral dissolution. A teenager is shown sitting at a computer; he is, we are told, looking at pornography." But of course.

On the other hand, the Skirball Cultural Center (note that's cultural center, not sham science museum) has opened an interactive Noah's Ark exhibit that looks really cool (especially for kids). It's creative, it's artistic (just check out the little kiwis made from boxing gloves, shuttlecocks, and oil cans!), and offers visitors the chance to immerse themselves in "a favorite childhood tale," according to the website. That's right—a tale, not a bona fide historical account of our past.

Now do you want to hazard a guess as to which of these institutions I'd be more likely to take my (hypothetical) children to?

Giuliani: Now With Explicit Pandering!

2007-05-24T00:35:00.000+01:00

Last Thursday night, as I was getting ready for bed, Afshin called me over to look at his screen. On it there was an article about how Rudy Giuliani was campaigning even more aggressively based on his experience dealing with the 9/11 debacle. This did not surprise me. I had just finished reading the headline when Afshin pointed to the picture:

In case it's not immediately obvious, yes, that's a little plane about to fly into the two towers that represent the digits in the number 11. As soon as I saw it, I gasped.

"That's so tasteless!" I was genuinely horrified. I mean, Giuliani already exploits 9/11 for all it's worth, but I didn't think he'd make it quite that explicit.

Afshin stared at me. "You know it's in the Onion, right?"

No, I did not. The page, as I tried to explain through the, oh, three straight minutes of laughter, had looked like the New York Times or something comparable. And I hadn't checked the URL.

Once again, I have made a mockery of myself.

The Infamous Jackalope Incident

2007-05-22T21:46:00.000+01:00

Let's kick off with a bang.

Several years ago I was in a butcher shop in Brooklyn, buying ham for a dinner party. Afshin was there to be my meat mule (which sounds a lot filthier than it was—he was helping me carry the ham and other assorted supplies). While we waited to be served, Afshin pointed to an animal head mounted on the wall and said to me, "Look, a jackalope."

I stared at the head—it was a rabbit head with antlers, by golly, mounted on a plaque. "They're real?!" I squealed.

Afshin's expression was a mixture of bemusement and contempt. "No, of course they're not real."

Is it my fault he sounded so authoritative?

Not long after the incident, Afshin was telling his friend Simon the story. He got to the part about the jackalope head on the wall when Simon interrupted him with:

"Wait, you mean they're real?"

I told you he sounded authoritative.

Welcome to Kaitland!

2007-05-22T21:23:00.000+01:00

This is a bit of a departure for me—Kaitland is going to be a more personal, less product- and design-oriented blog than I'm used to writing. Having said that, I will now promise to refrain from whining about my feelings. Or posting crappy poetry. Instead this will most likely be a chronicle of my misadventures. But we'll see how it goes, shall we?

Anyway, welcome to Kaitland. Make sure your seatbelt is firmly fastened and please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle.