There was a bomb in the garbage can outside my office this morning.

Well, to be specific, the police called it a "practice bomb." Meaning that, though it apparently contained enough explosives to blow up our entire building, it lacked that special something that would elevate it from "just trying this out for fun" bomb status to "totally fucking serious about blowing shit up" bomb status. Interestingly enough, the police were unable--or unwilling--to enlighten us as to what that special something might be. The right handbag? A certain joie de vivre? We will never know.

In any case, the space-age ROBOT that they sent via remote control to approach the garbage can, spill its contents, and retrieve the envelope-sized item, ascertained that it was, indeed, a bomb.

Afterwards, when one of my co-workers sidled up to a nearby officer and said, lightly, "Fucking New York City. I bet you guys find shit like this all the time." The officer looked him dead in the eye and said, "No, Sir. We do not."

Sadly, what he should've said was, "We didn't used to."

Strong

David says that I am strong.

In an effort to understand what this means, I am compiling a list of strong things.

Things That Are Strong, A List:

Gorillas
Hefty Cinch Sacks
Sumo Wrestlers
Sigourney Weaver in Alien
That kind of glue that can instantly stick your fingers together
Tanks
The Gorgeous Ladies of Women's Wrestling
The drink I had that one time in college that the bartender lit on fire
The headache I had the next morning
Pillars
Popeye
Russians
The girls in gym class who could do actually do pull-ups for Presidential Physical Fitness Testing
Women whose babies are in danger
Altoids

Give or take a few items on this list, I'd say being strong isn't so bad.

But, I'd rather be loved.

Even Though You Don't Know Me There Are Things You Need To Make Sure I Never Do

Friday night I hosted a pumpkin carving party.

Certain women who were deathly ill, decided to come and cough on their hands, and cough on the pumpkins, and then cough on the hands and pumpkins of the other people who were at the party. Which, I think, was a pretty awesome way to wish me a happy birthday.

Anyway. Today I feel that on-the-verge-of-sickness feeling. Kind of stuffy. Kind of hot. Overly sleepy. And I'm having boring dreams, which is always a sure sign that I'm getting sick. Normal dreams: action-packed, me as Indiana Jones, get the money, kiss the boy, win the award. Sick dreams: generals sitting around a table, moving small game pieces over maps, saying, "And then we will move troops here. And then we will move troops here." Over and over, for hours on end. Gah.

Well, bottom line, today I chose what I--and nine out of ten doctors--think is the surest route to recovery. I spent the afternoon talking on the phone to M about love gone wrong (we do this often lately), drinking leftover party beer, and eating Snickers pumpkin-shaped candy while watching shitty TV.

And the shitty TV I've been watching is the reason behind the subject of this post: things you guys need to promise you'll stop me from doing.

Not that you'd necessarily know that I was thinking of doing these things, because you do only know what I post here (bet you're all a little surprised re: M, huh?).

And also, not that you'd have many "stopping me" options, considering that you don't know where I live, what I look like, or my last name.

But, I guess you could fill my email box with really pissed off e-cards or spam.

Which might do it.

Depends.

Ok.

Things you guys can't let me do. Finally.

As per the episode of The Knot that starred that annoying girl who sang with Celine Dion and cried like ALL the time during her entire wedding to a man from Wisconsin who won Fear Factor twice:

Don't let me release butterflies at my wedding. Like 90% of the butterflies just fall out, dead. And I don't want to commemorate my wedding day with butterfly death. I find butterfly death to be mega depressing.

Don't let me marry anyone dumb enough or desperate enough for attention to go on Fear Factor. Not even if I really, really like him. Got that? You guys are total strangers, who know basically nothing about me, and I'm currently slightly delirious and running a fever, but I'm serious about this. If he ate live tarantulas and drank blood on national television in order to win a paltry $50,000*, I don't want our genetic materials to mix.

*I actually didn't know how much prize money contestants won, and, since I had nothing else to do with my day today but sit on my couch and feel gross, I looked it up on the Fear Factor website. While on the site, I discovered a note assuring readers concerned for the wellbeing of various creatures used in the program, that handlers are present to "advise the producers how to humanely and safely interact with the animals." Which I thought was interesting, considering that some of the animals get EATEN ALIVE. But, apparently, there is a humane and safe way to eat a live spider. Good to know.

Anyway, back to things you can't let me do.

As per the episode of The Knot where the woman in DC gets married in an outdoor ceremony when all the cicadas were out last May, to that man who doesn't get along with her daughter:

Don't let me marry someone who's already been married FOUR TIMES. Because, come on.

And, if I DO marry someone who's already been married four times, don't let me lose sight of the humor involved in him sending me a note right before the ceremony that reads, "My love is forever."

As per the episode of The Knot with the cute blonde girl who got married in Jamaica right after Hurricane Charlie:

Don't let me write my wedding vows in the car on the way to the ceremony.

As per the brief portion of E!'s Britney Spears biography that I watched before napping:

If I'm ever famous, don't let me chew gum on the red carpet of any major awards ceremonies.

Also, don't ever let me make out with Colin Farrell. Because his love is forever in that "married four times" kind of way.

Ok. Totally let me make out with Colin Farrel. But, if he and I have a daughter, don't let me name her Farrah. Because Farrah Farrel would be a really stupid name.

Attention

It is so obnoxious when people tell everyone they know that it's their birthday.

That's why it's good that my boobs talk.

Southern Belle Boob: Today is Kathryn's birthday. She wants an i-Pod.

Minding My Own

This weekend--while waiting in David's hotel room to meet up with him in Philadelphia--I once again read his journal.

I think this makes me an Awesome Super-Sleuthing Genius. Kind of like a modern-day Nancy Drew. Only far hotter.

You may disagree. But, if so, whatever you do, don't tell me about it in an e-mail. Just stop reading this now and go devour a different stranger's on-line journal. And don't read tomorrow either, when I'll be writing about how I used to unwrap the Christmas presents that my mom hid in her closet, and then re-wrap them, but tell her I'd unwrapped them anyway, so she'd feel guilty about not being able to surprise me, and then go out and buy me more stuff.

Because I did that too.

For all of those left reading, let's just state the obvious, and move on: I am a Journal Reader.

Put a journal in your carry-on baggage, underneath a pile of papers and some boxer shorts, and I will find that sucker and read the shit out of it--not once, but several times--and then put it back underneath the pile of papers and the boxer shorts, being careful to make sure that the papers remain in the exact order they did when I first rifled through them AND that the corner of your purple elephant boxers peeps out of the zipper in just the way it did when I first saw your suitcase and decided to dive into it face-first like a Hollywood reporter rummaging furiously through JLo's rotten, day-old garbage.

It ain't pretty, but it's true.

And you know what?

Thank. God.

Thank God I'm a Journal Reader. Because if I wasn't, I'd have gotten off the phone with David after telling him I wanted to end things, and felt so sad about losing someone who cared about me so much.

If I hadn't read his journal, when he called to ask if I'd meet up with him in Philly just nine days after we'd broken up, I might've sat in his hotel room, planning how to tell him that I thought I'd ended things too quickly. Might've waited anxiously, rehearsing the speech in which I asked if we could try to work things out.

In the months ahead, I might've read and re-read the postcards he wrote me, the letters, the notes. I would've thought of the trip. Our Thanksgiving plans. I would've felt such bewilderment--would've wondered over and over what I had done to make his affections change so drastically.

But since I did read his journal, I now know that he had doubted his feelings about me for weeks, but that he kept stringing me along, biding his time, even deciding--in a remarkable show of bravery and maturity for a 31 year-old male--to avoid talking to me directly about any of it and to just let things "peter out."

Because I read that thing from cover to cover, I know that the letters, the postcards, the trip, the invitations, the words--the whole relationship--every fucking minute of it--he described as "an impulse." Berated himself for, once again, being so impulsive. Like I'm some too-expensive pair of shoes.

I read it and now I know that, TWO DAYS after we broke up he hooked up with some woman at a conference in Chicago. And then went on a date with a new woman who just started at his office. And, still later, catalogued yet another encounter with a woman who approached him on the street and "did all the work." All in the first week--the first WEEK--after we stopped seeing each other.

I also know that I'm a fucking MUCH better writer than he'll ever be.

And I know that my anger made making out with him later. That. Much. Hotter.

Pesky impulses.

Saying and Doing

A person can say anything. This is a lesson I have learned.

A person can say that I'm important to them. And then make plans to be away the weekend of my birthday.

A person can say that they want to be wherever I am on Thanksgiving. And then, as time passes, stop bringing up the fact that they ever invited me in the first place.

He can offer repeatedly to come to my house for New Year's, to meet my family. But then, later, as if he thinks I won't notice, he can tell me several times how excited he is that his friend will be in DC for New Year's Eve.

He can tell me he wrote a list of all the things he likes about me. And then, when I find that list, it can read only, "Things I Like About Kathryn" and be otherwise completely blank.

He can say that he loves having me as such a centralizing force in his life. But then mention, off-handedly, that his ex is in town and staying over. Hope you don't mind--she totally wasn't a big deal. We only dated for a couple of months.

He can invite me on a trip with him, making me feel so special. Until he mentions that when the ex stayed over--the one who didn't matter much--they watched the video of the trip that they took together. And suddenly I can feel like I'm just a videotape and a couple of photos to file with the rest in a closet somewhere.

Over and over, he can tell me that his friends are all asking, "When's the wedding?" But I can read later that he knows he doesn't love me, and that he's been unhappy for weeks.

He can know these things, about how he's feeling, and still say that he misses me. Still rent a car and drive three extra hours to see me. Still grab me and tickle me and kiss me. Still play act his emotions day after day.

And when I try to talk to him about it, he can insist that everything is fine.

Everything is fine, he can say.

Because he can say anything.

Halfhearted and dishonest and cowardly as it is, a person--I have learned--can say anything.

Briefly

Number of nostrils I can currently breathe out of: None

Number of hours we filmed for the show today: 11

Number of times I loaded a shotgun on camera yesterday: 17

Number of times I've used the word "charming" to describe towns that aren't: At least 30.

On a scale of one to ten, how socially awkward is our new sound guy: 57

Number of days it took for me to get a zit after stopping birth control: 1/2

On a scale of one to ten, how depressing is it to stop taking birth control because your relationship is over and you'll probably never have sex again: What comes after a zillion?

Number of alpacas I hung out with today for our shoot: 12

Judging on cuteness alone: Alpaca vs. Ewok? Alpaca

Judging on strange ability to fold a large thing into a much smaller thing: Seated Alpaca vs. Travel Size Umbrella? Seated Alpaca

Number of Alpacas--seated or otherwise--that I wanted to bring home with me to love me forever and comfort me in my sorrow: All

Number of times this week I felt so lonely that my teeth actually hurt: Lost count.

We Broke Up

All I can do is play Jewel Quest and worry that moths are going to eat all of my sweaters.

That is literally all I am capable of doing.

I can't write right now. I just want to be mindless.