tales of a girl in the city

avril 30, 2004

In Which I Realize That People Are Freaky

WAAAAAAAAAAY too many people do google searches for "pictures of female torture."

I just want to put that out there.

Waaaaaaaaaaay too many.

I am a bit worried.

avril 25, 2004


A jumble of things:

His name is S. That's all you get.

S has a red blanket that is the softest, reddest blanket I've ever felt. It is only a matter of time before this red blanket belongs to me. We should all be clear about this.

When he walked into the restaurant last night I actually felt a flip. A shock. Something great. Like the view from the top of the ferris wheel.

I've known him for seven days, and he's already made me dessert four times.

When he heard me sing for the first time his eyes got all kid-at-Christmas big.

My mom thinks he sounds like he's got a good head on his shoulders. Isn't that such a mom thing to say? Moms are great. My mom has a good head on her shoulders.

I have told him that roughly three hundred people around the world are very excited that I met someone wonderful. I think he thinks I have way too many imaginary friends.

avril 24, 2004

Who's That Girl?

What is it with you men.

Since most of you have been reading for awhile, there's no need for me to remind you that it has been a long, lonely North Pole-caliber winter. I mean, we can be honest here. I don't know about you, but for me the real low point was when I got in a fight with my own breasts. Which were starting to speak to me in various dialects. That was bad. It was a cry for help. An odd (yet still, obviously, endearing and hot) cry for help.

In any case, we can all agree that when the only thing happening south of your neck, is that your boobs are having imaginary conversations with you in accented English, it is fair to say you've hit a low.

And it is also fair to say that the cast of male characters we've encountered during our adventures here in NYC has been entirely useless when it came to helping us get out of this slump. They have resisted The Fantastic Charlize Theron Make-Up Phase I went through in January. They've done nothing to aid my attempts to hook up with them meaninglessly (Unicorn, that means you). And the rest of the men I happen to have encountered in the recent past have proven themselves to be dishonest (M), or otherwise crazy.

SO that is why I find it fucking hilarious that, now that I've met someone and have no interest in meeting anyone else, every straight man in Manhattan suddenly wants to date me.

You know those shots in music videos where the hot star singer is walking down the street and all the men she passes stop, turn, take off their shades and shake their heads in a sort of mystified-at-how-hot-she-is way? I am now The Hot Star Singer.

Subway platforms are like nightclubs lately. I'm not kidding. I'm actually nervous to go to the grocery store because I think there might be some sort of riot.

Additional evidence: While getting my hair colored the other day, with my head covered in yellow glop and aluminum foil, and my neck bent at an awkward angle above a sink, one of the other (straight, cute) stylists actually made a beeline over to me to say, "You're really beautiful by the way. When you came in it was was like *makes popping noise accompanied by little flashy hand gesture*. I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

What. Is. Going. ON?

Boys. You're so weird. Why are you weird like this? Explain.

avril 23, 2004

Kiss (v.) 'kis 1. To touch with the lips especially as a mark of affection or greeting

Remember how, in high school, kissing was still an event?

You could go to a movie (which was really, you both knew, just an excuse to sit together in a dark room for a couple of hours and think about kissing). You could come over to his house to watch a movie (which was really, you both knew, just an excuse to sit together in a dark room for a couple of hours and kiss). You could go to a party (which was just an excuse to kiss in front of other people). You could drive (which meant, pretty much, just park somewhere and kiss). Or you could walk (stroll, think about kissing, find yourself up against a wall or a tree somewhere, kissing).

Kissing is an event again. On par with The Superbowl.

avril 20, 2004

Gallop apace you fiery steeds toward Phoebus' lodging. God. Look at me. PUKE

The only thing that could be even better than looking forward to a second date on Wednesday... not being able to wait 'til Wednesday to have a second date.

To that end, I will be sneaking out of work today at 3:30 so that he and I can take a subway ride together.

And the only thing better than that, is that it's now 1:30 and my heart is already racing a little.

And if it gets better than that, then it'll be just gross.

Yes, Folks. I'm now that girl.

Wait a minute.

YAY! *does dance featuring a high kick and a "Walk Like An Egyptian" hand gesture* I'm now that girl.

avril 19, 2004

I'll Never Tell

Not Edward. Not Woody. He's made a couple of films, but I'm going to keep his identity secret--
he doesn't know about you guys yet, and I don't want to raise his suspicions when he finds out that there was a huge, unexplained spike in rentals of his movies the day he started dating me.

Besides, it's not about that, anyway.

What it is about is:

The fact that I've had a silly grin on my face since about the moment he sat next to me on the subway, till....let's see...yep, it's still there.

Meeting him in front of The Plaza Hotel and strolling through Central Park, with the trees and the sun and the trees and the sun. The whole impossible scene of it. Minus cherubs.

At eleven this morning he called to say that he woke up with still so many questions about me that we hadn't answered last night. To which I responded, "It's a good thing the world didn't end then, so we still have some time to cover things."

So we shall see what we shall see.

On Wednesday, for date number two.

avril 18, 2004

How Kathryn Got Her Groove Back

This is what has happened so far:

It's Spring in New York, and last night I was feeling absolutely lovely. New Marc Jacob's dress (peach and very feminine). Bright, bright City.

But even so, I wasn't sure I wanted to go out. For a good half hour, I thought I would just stay around my neighborhood. Take a walk. Call the people whose parties I was supposed to go to and say "Too tired."

But the new dress is gorgeous. So.

Half an hour later, on my way into the City, I was running very late. At 14th Street I got off the Local to transfer to the Q Express. I waited and waited, but no trains came on the Express. Until, finally, a Q arrived, but came by way of the local track. Trains in New York are often traveling on different tracks, so I thought nothing of it, and boarded.

That's when it happened.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man sit next to me. I knew instantly who it was. No names (yet), but he wrote and directed and acted in a movie that I have LOVED for years. The kind of movie that I've seen half a dozen times, and still consider renting, because the characters are quirky and odd and smart. Because I'd want them to be my friends--they could even be me.

But, I wasn't star struck. I wouldn't have said anything to him at all. Would've just told Emily about it later because she knows the film, and knows I adore it.

Only then I saw that the train was, in fact, running local. Meaning that I would be even later for my friend's show than I had anticipated.

"Shit," I said.

"Why did you say shit?" he said.

And I promise to tell you the rest of the story.

If our date tonight goes well.

avril 17, 2004

Bad Dream

"Yeah, he got really burned by some girl once. In college, I guess. So now he's pretty cautious about women in general."

"That's so stupid," I start to say, and then stop. Because.

In the dream I had last night, I was at a company picnic--maybe a baseball game--that was sponsored by the bank M works for. I was there with a girl in my acting class who is a former model, and who has all of the personality quirks and carelessness of someone who has been paid only because she's beautiful.

She was holding my hand, walking around the bleachers with me when suddenly M arrived with a new girlfriend.

I was Trying Not To Look. So, of course, I was looking.

What I saw came like images from one of those photo booths in train stations. First frame: His arm around her shoulders. Second frame: Her head in his lap. Third frame: Fourth frame.

He was surrounded by his work colleagues, some of whom I'd met, some of whom he would never introduce me to. All these men in suits, and M and this woman in the midst of them lounging on one another in a way that was simultaneously affectionate and cold (a dream thing, I guess).

After awhile, I felt I had to go over. We had seen each other, and there were people who I had known when we dated... I put on my most congenial smile (think Southern hostess at the top of her game)...

...and went over.

M didn't say anything at first. The man next to him--a suit-clad business man who is probably just someone who I saw once on the subway or something--did all of the talking initially.

M always said I was charming, and I wanted so much to prove that while talking to this stranger. But every joke I made, every smile I flashed, just met disdain and disapproval.

Meanwhile, M just sat back, watching. His face was so clear in my dream, which was painful, because I don't really remember what he looks like in real life. I don't have any pictures, and my memories (thankfully) have faded to leave just impressions of a certain way he had of smiling or turning his head--but the images aren't clear, really. Just tracing paper and peripheral vision.

In my dream, though, every detail was laser-precise. The sharp, definite lines of his cheeks and his forehead, all the planes and angles that I thought had been pushed underneath and away, came up to the surface now like shark fins. It had been such a long time since I'd seen his face.

She started talking then.

She was plain and wearing a long skirt--which he loves. She was obviously on the attack. Right away she launched into a story about how they'd met. She'd gone to Harvard Law School and Yale Medical School. Both. (That sure says something about my subconcious.) They'd met in a parking lot or something--she made him tell the story, which he did, speaking now for the first time. How he'd driven by her and turned around, taken by something about her.

He spoke to me as though I weren't even there. Literally. Almost the way a blind person would look, with their gaze ever so slightly misdirected and out of focus. It was like he barely remembered me; I was a woman he'd passed once in an elevator, or stood in line with at a store.

Meanwhile, he was so clear to me. And I tried very hard to listen and to smile, but I felt so overwhelmed. I felt love for him, but also so much sadness. And then this tremendous ANGER.

She interrupted him suddenly and turned to me.

My anger--this overwhelming weight of it--was practically breaking out of me now.

She started to ask me all of these questions about my background and my life, making it so clear that I was foolish to her. All the while she exchanged glances with the other strange businessman while M--silent again--just watched.

I stood up then, sick of the pretense, and starting screaming. God. Screaming and crying and so much horrible anger. To all three of them: How dare you ask me that. You just want to know so that you can decide that you're better than me. How dare you.

How dare you.

How dare you.

I could write it a thousand times and it would never be enough.

What It All Means

That clearly I have bizarre inferiority complex about Ivy League Universities.

That, though I am moving forward, I cannot ignore the fact that I am a different person now. In many ways. Some good.

And bad.

avril 13, 2004

Cleaning House

Things people have emailed about that I'll address:

1) I'm not a gay man. I sometimes wish I were, but that's another entry.

2) There was a link to one of my headshots here before, and for anybody who read this between about 4:30 and 9:30 EST, you most likely clicked on it and now know what I look like.

But, then I got an email that confirmed what I was already thinking on the subway on my way home which is, that it's more fun for me to have you all imagine what I look like. So I reconsidered. Too bad for you.

Besides, I didn't want any weirdos wacking off to my photo in their dingy bedrooms later. Or Photo-Shopping my head onto the body of some woman enduring the cruel female torture of having her nether holes fucked by a horse...for example. (There you go, Sir. Thanks for reading.)

3) I didn't misspell "Below"; I meant to call this blog "Bellow". Also, having never heard a bull, I guess I mostly meant Definition Number 2.

4) I think it's pretty much gonna continue to be "90 Things. Re: Moi." unless I get inspired in the near future. So everyone chill out. And, to be fair, you'll notice that "consistency" and "follow through" were nowhere to be seen on the list.

5) I love all the people who send me nice emails. I think you're mostly just my mom using various pseudonyms, but it still makes my day.

avril 08, 2004

The Toll

It is not the cab driver's fault...

...that when he recommended we take the West Side Highway, it ended up taking us ten extra minutes to even get over to where the Highway begins...

...and when he said he'd take the Brooklyn Bridge, and I said that the Manhattan Bridge would be better, he couldn't really have predicted that--when he took the Brooklyn Bridge anyway--there'd be a flat tire...

...and an accident...

...and a closed lane.

Sometimes, life is just like that.

Traffic is unpredictable.

So, when I got all pissy and said, I've lived in Brooklyn for two years, and it's never cost me this much to get home before, it was really pretty unnecessary.

In fact, it was pretty much the equivalent of yelling at a receptionist when it's actually her boss that you want to murder.

My driver couldn't have known.

He didn't blow out their tire.

Or close that lane.

What he did do was say, Sorry my prediction was wrong.

But I was so mad by then that I grumbled the whole way and barely tipped him a dollar.

Though I realize he had no way of knowing that, though the honking was driving me crazy, my real anger lay with someone else.

Someone who--after weeks of absence--had written this morning... email to say he had thought of me.

And the smoothest, quickest cab ride in the world wouldn't have assuaged my anger.

So I got mad at the cab driver instead.

The two of us in a car.

Hitting unexpected obstacles just where we thought the way was going to be easy.


I guess,

life is just like that.

avril 05, 2004

A Public Service Announcement

This is a very important thing that people should understand:

The person who answers the phone at an office most likely makes the least amount of money. As such, they are also a) least willing to go out of their way to assist you and b) least able to help you with anything important.


The lesson, then, is this:

Being mean to the person who answers the phone is not only a waste of time, but it is cruel. It can, I think, be equated with taunting the handicapped. There is a special circle of hell reserved for people who do such things.

There is an even more special circle of hell reserved for the man who was just so mean that he made this particular Guest Relations Associate cry.

avril 03, 2004

You're all going to think I'm on-line dating obsessed. I am not on-line dating obsessed. I swear it. Promise.


What I was again today was bored at work. And, thinking back on a conversation I recently had with my dear brother, I remembered a particular on-line dating site that he had mentioned which is known for its complex and scientific methods of match-making.

Again: not obsessed. BORED.

So I went to this site and spent a very long time filling out the pages and pages of information about myself. For free, mind you. I'm not paying for any of this crap ever again.

So the test goes like this:

Which four words would my friends most likely use to describe me? (I said something like, "Articulate," "Creative," "Intelligent," and "Funny.")

Take the following four adjectives and tell us which best describes you and which least describes you: 1) Neat 2) Controlling 3) Open-minded 4) Passionate, etc., etc. (For those who are curious: Most = "Passionate", least = "Neat.")

Kind of like a really narcissistic version of the SAT.

Anyway, I found out I'm pretty awesome. That's right. And I was feeling kind of good about it. Hopeful. I mean, an on-line dating website told me I am awesome, and that made me feel pretty damn optimistic.

Until I asked the On-Line Dating Website Brain to start searching for men who would be compatible for me. Men, say, within NYC.

And the On-Line Dating Website Brain thought about it for awhile...

...went out to have a cigarette...

...came back...

...thought about it some more.

And then told me it couldn't find me anybody.

But, the On-Line Dating Website brain told me, I shouldn't be discouraged. This site only matched people who were truly compatible in the most important senses of the word, meaning that there was just nobody FOR THE MOMENT. Not forever.


Fine. *shrugs*

But, I told the On-Line Dating Website Brain, I would just like to have a little hope here. So, I asked it, how about, instead of just looking in the NYC-area, you go and take a look in my region. You know--in the Eastern part of the United States.

So, the OLDWB went back to its big file cabinet in the sky and looked around a little. And made some calls. Had a few more cigs. And finally got back to me.

Once again, no luck.


How 'bout that.

Maybe it's broken.

Well, not to be discouraged, I once again adjusted the range of my search. I mean, come on. *laughs a little crazily* This is love--a soul mate we're looking for here. Ravishing, overwhelming, chaotic, wonderful LOVE. On an internet dating site, yes. But still. STILL. There must at least be someone that the internet dating site can find for me. I mean, that's what internet dating sites fucking DO.

*calms down*

So, I asked the Clearly Less Smart Than I Had Previously Thought On-Line Dating Website Brain to leave no stone unturned, and look IN THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA for just one stinking person with whom I might be compatible.

The stupid thing gave me nothing. Seriously. Zip.

And, I'm trying to be a optimistic here, Folks, but I'm a little concerned.

I mean, they don't fire people for throwing computers out of office windows, do they?