tales of a girl in the city

mai 19, 2005

The Quest For A Baby Daddy

"Oh my GOD, Kathryn. He so needs to be my baby' daddy."

C screams this as she hangs out of the open taxi window, still reaching for the European-looking stranger she has just kissed.

"Be my baby' daddy!"

"I have no number to call you," he says, trying to thrust his business card at her.

He's still holding the card out to the air as our cab speeds 'round the corner, off to Marquis where C's actual boyfriend awaits.

C falls into the backseat, laughing and hiking up her fuschia top.

All I can think is, "I can't believe I'm friends with a foot model."

mai 17, 2005

Calling Out Around The World

I need your help.

I'm applying for a television job that, according to the director, is "more of a writing job than an acting job." They'll be receiving my reel, but I'd also like to send along some of my writing. I need opinions from you guys. Favorite entries? What has moved you? Made you laugh?

Remember, these are future employers (hopefully) so anything orgasm-related is off limits. For now.

But please leave comments, send emails. Let me know your suggestions.

Thank you. We'll return to our regularly scheduled programming soon. Promise.

mai 06, 2005

Choir Nerd

A radio broadcast I listened to recently featured people bragging about the valuable life lessons they learned from being in high school band. They talked about how band instilled in them a feeling of community and belonging, blah, blah, blah.

I was never in band. I played violin briefly for a few years. But violin, as all of you community-oriented, well-adjusted former band members know, is not a band instrument. And try as I might, I could never think of an appropriate string part to incorporate into Louie, Louie. So, no band for me.

What I had, instead, was chorus.

Choir, and singing in general, defined me. Which is to say, I was a total dork. Other kids tracked the passing of the year according to sports season or school vacations; I navigated time according to medley.

Our limited choir budget required that we recycle the same song medleys year after year. Thus, the sixth graders always did the Disney Medley, the seventh graders did a medley of famous commercial jingles over time, and the eighth graders lucked out with the medley of music through the ages, featuring such just-right-for-four-part-harmony 80's tunes as Every Breath You Take and Maniac by Michael Sembello. "I can't wait 'til I'm in eighth grade," I would think. "Surely Andrew Morter will love me when he sees me rocking out onstage to Flashdance."

Little did I know that Andrew Morter would leave Choir for Tech Ed as soon as we could choose our Electives. And that Jodi Supenovich would ultimately be given the Flashdance number, while my efforts to "rock out" on my measly four measures of Maniac, were systematically relegated to obscurity by one Jennifer Schwengall's sultry coinciding dance solo.

BUT, in the blissful years before the Flashdance debacle and Andrew's sad rejection of all things musical, I lived out my entire unrequited love-life during each precious choir period. In fact, that I got to slow dance on-stage with Andrew for the duration of When You Wish Upon A Star, was, to me, the defining moment of my adolescence. Partnered with him because of height, I thanked God for each and every matching inch of us.

It was the best three eight-counts of my life.

Anyway, as I sat listening to this radio program touting the wonders of band, I began to think about choir, and about what--if any--lessons it had taught me. Mostly, I have concluded, it was just fun. It was an outlet for my own intensity, my own drama. Standing with my feet shoulder-width apart, and my hands in sharp jazz position, I could be strong and bold and beautiful--all the things that a chunky twelve year-old who stunk at sports and carried around Victor Hugo's Les Miserables on her book pile could never be in regular life....

mai 05, 2005

The Boys Are Back In Town

Remember that scene in one of the early Star Trek movies, where there's that little worm-slug thing that some evil guy--Khan maybe?--puts into the ear of some good guy?

And it was so totally disgusting to see the worm-slug go into the guy's ear that you still, twenty-something years later, need your ears to be covered when you sleep to keep any worm-slugs that happen by, out?

And how when the unfortunate recipient of the ear worm-slug finally died, you weren't totally sure that the worm-slug even did it, until the slug actually crawled out of the dead guy's other ear, having gnawed its way through his entire brain using God knows what since it didn't even seemed to have any TEETH?

Well, I think that, to men, that little deadly ear worm-slug is a metaphor for intimacy. I think that they think, that if they listen to us, and get to know us, we will worm our little way into their minds and gnaw through their brains with our hideous non-teeth. So, they keep us from getting in too deep, by covering their metaphorical ears--by working too much, not calling when they should, etc. This could also explain why they like to wear hats.

It's just a theory.

I have tried very hard to figure out what scares men--fine, not all men, just the ones I encounter--so much about being close to someone. I wonder if it dates back to early childhood? Those days on the playground when we used to play "Boy Chase Girl?" It occurs to me now that we never actually played anything after the boys got the girls. We just kind of stopped and started chasing after one another again.

Could it be, then, that because of this deficient gameplaying during prime developmental years, some men have never actually learned what to do with women once the chase is over? And, similarly, some women do not know how to be in a relationship, and can only ever handle being chased? I suppose to test this theory, I would have to find Joey Krajeski, Christy Bradburn, Josh Guidelle, and Allison Haugstaad and examine the state of their personal lives now.

Hmm. Though it occurs to me that I actually do know the current state of most of their personal lives.

They are all married to one another.

Is my problem, then, that I didn't snatch Jeff Baule up at age six, when I had the chance? But he would never have felt intellectually comfortable in the relationship--I was a green-level reader, and he was down there in lowly brown! Also, our marriage would've been plagued with my complaints that his collection of Star Wars figures was taking up the whole living room!

I don't think it would've worked out.

I guess the only thing to do now is make sure that any of my future offspring are more well-adjusted. If I ever have a boy-child, I will save him years of therapy and troubled relationships by having the following dialogue:

My six-year-old son: Mommy! Mommy! We're outside playing Boy Chase Girl and I just caught Heather!

Me: Good job, Vercingetorix! I'm so proud of you. Now go ask Heather out to dinner.

Vercingetorix: But, Mo-om! We're not done playing yet!

Me: Yes you are. You've just said yourself that you've caught her. Now that you've caught her, we'll all three of us play a new game, called "Make Heather Feel Special."

V: But I don't wanna play that game. Heather's gross.

Me: Then why did you run after her?

V: I don't know. That's what the game is.

Me: Well, you really should've clarified your feelings for Heather before you started chasing her. It's your job to think ahead and figure out what you'll do when you win the game and actually catch the girl. Now go get Heather so we can start making her feel special.

V: Mo-om! I hate you. It's bad enough you gave me a stupid name that no one can spell. Now I have to be nice to girls. You're the worst mom ever.

Me: That may well be. Now take this box of chocolates and these flowers and ask Heather nicely to come in from the yard.

V: Fine.

Me: And on your way back into the house, tell Heather that you think she's a very pretty young lady, but more than that, that she's intelligent and independent. That you're thrilled that you caught her, and that you're very interested in knowing more about her, and all of her interests, including her horse, Snowbell.

V: Ugh.

Me: And later we'll work on making her a mix tape.