tales of a girl in the city

février 26, 2006

Fur Hat

I am feeling a little guilty about wearing my fur hat. Perhaps because my roommate--who is training to be a yoga instructor--has covered our kitchen table with stickers declaring "Fur Is Dead."

And she's right. Fur is dead. But it is also soft and warm and very soothing when you put it on your head and name it Vlad and pet it sometimes when you're on the subway.

This morning in particular I was feeling a little guilty about Vlad, which made me convinced that people were giving me and my Enormous Brown Headful of Animal Death mean looks. Which started me thinking about what I would say if some PETA Person ever actually came up and shouted at me for wearing fur.

I decided on the following scenario:

PETA Person: Do you know how many animals died to make that hat!?


And then I would cry and the PETA Person would feel just terrible.

février 22, 2006

I cannot love you in a small way. Having tried to carve it down to a palatable size, to pair it into only what is essential, I conclude that there is no option but to leave it as it is, grandly unwanted, and awkwardly looming. A misplaced giant, with its feet in a field of tiny bluebells.

This love I have cannot tiptoe. Cannot sprinkle or speck or drizzle. It can only stomp. Can only flood. Can only lumber around and bellow noisily in large deep syllables, like "AWWH" and "UGH." If it were invited at all (and it isn't!) it would be kicked out of parties. It would slosh its soup and gulp down whiskey until it climbed on top of the piano and frightened the cat. It would have a terrible face, with an enormous long nose, and nothing could be done with its cowlick.

My love does not have a green thumb. It swears in church. It loses at cards and stinks at puzzles. Its handwriting is huge and unwieldy--it is lucky to get one letter per page.

février 12, 2006

In Which I Am Inspired By The Olympics

The only unit in gym that I was ever any good at was square dancing.

I couldn't run, or aim, or catch, or throw, but I could do-si-do with the best of 'em, which placed me pretty solidly with the fat kids and the asthmatics when it came time to pick teams.

In fact, were it possible for the gym captains to choose the PTA-purchased kiddie-keg of McDonald's Orange Drink to be on their kickball team instead of me, I think they would have.

Though I'd like to think it would've been a tough call:

The kiddie-keg had a bellyful of orange-drink goodness, but no feet.

I had opposable thumbs, but an embarrasing penchant for farting whenever I did sit-ups.

Hmmm. Keg or Kathryn? I don't know.

I could go back and forth on this all day.


Thoughts While Watching The Figure Skaters

So the speed skaters were just on TV looking like super alien-tadpole-fetuses because of their hi-tech aerodynamic sunglasses and their frictionless spandex body suits.

And this afternoon I caught a glimpse of the snowboarders who, because of the efforts of a forward-looking sports clothier somewhere, can now jam to their iPods while maneuvering down the half-pipe. Which may not seem like much of a technological accomplishment until you factor in the upside-downness, the icy-tubeness, the 24-cm-wide boardness, and the fact that I can't keep those earbud things inside my ears while I sip a latte.

And, finally, I'm pretty sure I saw a cross-country skier just now pull some sort of Go-Go-Gadget arm thing mid-competition and steal a beer from an onlooker.

So bottom line: people have been working 'round the clock to make sure that every blade, every latch, every jumpsuit, every button, every ski pole and every gym sock, is the most frictionless, aerodynamic, warmest, spandexiest, fastest, coolest, sweat minimizingest piece of winter sports gear the world has ever seen.

And yet.



We've got the female figure skaters holding their hair back with fifty-million Duane Reade hair barrettes.

Like this:

My mind is boggled. It boggles the mind.

I mean, hairwise, we can perm. We can straighten. We have gels and goos and sprays and extensions. This guy got his hair to do this:

So there is no WAY that girl up there had exercised all her hair-options when she chose to go with four 99-cent plastic barrettes and a drugstore scrunchy.

And as far as sports gear is concerned, someone in Norway figured out how to get this guy's sunglasses to stay on, and he doesn't even have any ears!

Find that guy! Put him on the job! Please! In time for the Summer Olympics and the female gymnasts:

Thank you.


To my credit, there's no way that the McDonald's Orange Drink keg could've done more pull-ups than me without arms, so I've got him beat in that category. (I, at least, could get up there in front of everyone and dangle uselessly.)

BUT, the keg could definitely run a faster mile.... Damn him and his unfair, round wheel-shaped advantage.