tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61160852012-01-08T21:41:07.243-05:00tales of a girl in the cityKathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comBlogger2511100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-72861003549445040132008-06-01T13:00:00.011-04:002008-06-01T19:24:53.034-04:00

Barcelona had put on her best for us. The evening light, still bright at nine p.m., was rich and gold. It touched breezy sixth-story windows and lingered on the brown arms of Spanish women as they crossed the boulevard. Gaudi’s La Pedrera was shining further down the street, beautiful and proud and odd. The Hotel Majestic’s rooftop sign was glowing too, writing its name across the skyline in

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-34151387937446262942007-12-20T22:41:00.000-05:002007-12-24T19:25:11.120-05:00

This year. This black, dark year.I moved to this city in love, part of a partnership. I remember walking through Rittenhouse Square in August of 2006 and feeling as though I was on the verge. At the crest. Exciting things were beginning. My father was alive. Harvard was all the things I thought I wanted him to be.Tonight, all I can do is shake my head, thinking back to all of the changes that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-82025351173029425262007-11-12T21:39:00.000-05:002007-11-12T23:14:20.886-05:00

Tonight I will let go of this memory. And this one. I will be a great, dark tree. I will let fall the days like leaves. Let fall each sad, dead moment. This one. This one. My father crying and crying. My mother laying across his body. The black bag they zipped closed in front of our Christmas tree.So many people in my life would say, "Shhhhh." Would ask me to keep the secret. "Shhhh,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-44015233726494642712007-11-08T11:12:00.000-05:002007-11-08T11:44:38.909-05:00

As the year marches forward, I track the days like this:What was happening last year? In the beginning of October I remembered the day we had to put my father's dog to sleep. And the anniversary of the day he called me, crying. Last year, around this time, he had pneumonia. And soon the harder days will come. The day before Thanksgiving when he sat in his chair by the fireplace and told me

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-90165170463650295742007-09-17T19:22:00.000-04:002007-09-20T12:49:21.826-04:00

The last thing my father said to me was, "I love you, Girl." He said it as I left my home in Wisconsin. Through the medication that by then had left him slumping in his chair, barely able to lift his head, he looked at me from the living room, clear and sharp and strong for one last second, and told me that he loved me.I wish I had my father's eyes.That night they were like razors.Soon after that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-79423164625475186992007-03-25T17:37:00.000-04:002007-03-25T19:05:06.165-04:00

I have done this thing before. If I want to remind myself of all the times I've said the words, asked the questions, made the phone calls and taken the walks, all I need to do is scroll down the list of dates next to this entry. There they will be:The night in Riverside Park. October and Dan. The end of my first relationship with a grown-up (read: someone who had more than ketchup and beer

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1166976022982625482006-12-24T10:56:00.000-05:002006-12-24T11:00:22.996-05:00

Daddy, I will think of you every time I see a bird. A goose, a red-wing blackbird, a mallard, a goldfinch: I will know the difference because of you. I will notice the colors of their wings--the blues or reds or greys or blacks and think of you at our kitchen table painting those colors with so much care. I will be the only girl in New York City who knows that you mount a wood-duck house at an

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1166125935861204362006-12-14T13:41:00.000-05:002006-12-14T23:00:01.233-05:00

Spreads like a cancer. I understand that now. It means speed. Real life clipping along like time-lapse photography. Watching the x-rays as the dark moths spread. As they flit from lung to rib. From rib to spine. And from there to kidney, to brain, to liver, leaving every recognizeable organ swarming with black shadows. Next, they rise to the surface, drinking deeply from the bruises that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1150665591067034262006-06-18T17:18:00.000-04:002006-06-18T17:19:51.083-04:00

Wisconsin still smells like cedar, even though my dad is sick.Mom still drives home slow from the airport. She still wants to hear every story told from the beginning, and prompts me--like she always does--by saying, "So, you got up. You got on the plane...." But she also says new things, like, "We are not telling Grandma." We are not telling anyone, I find out, because the cancer is Dad's

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1149194527778479152006-06-01T15:56:00.000-04:002006-06-01T17:06:54.056-04:00

"Well, your father and I just wanted you to know that we got the test results back, and it looks like cancer."That was how my mother told me, barely 24 hours ago. Her tone wasn't grave--it was more "We've decided to go with blue in the bathroom instead of red" than I would've anticipated. But, who could blame her? She was in shock. I was in shock. I am still in shock: My father is never sick

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1147635927675083172006-05-14T15:25:00.000-04:002006-05-14T16:39:34.436-04:00

The first thing I think is, I will have to throw out all of my old underwear.In my mind I do a quick overview of every item in my underwear drawer. The effect inside my head is not dissimilar to a sweeping aerial shot, like the ones they do in movies about Africa. In the films, the camera-attached-to-aeroplane swoops over a hillside and beams of light fall on the animals, illuminating hippos,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1145413281894953242006-04-18T22:10:00.000-04:002006-04-18T22:23:45.883-04:00

I think of you every time I pass by the tables outside of bookshops. Brown, black. Cardboard. Leather. They are all piled there, the smell of them was the smell of your room. You, like me, always loved to read a good story told well. And more than that, maybe, we shared a love of the preservation those stories bring. The idea of safety. Open a book to an outcome that is the same every time

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1143404538556187062006-03-26T10:36:00.000-05:002006-03-30T22:37:19.486-05:00

I have gone alone to the symphony dozens of times. I spend intermission strolling around Alice Tully Hall, picking up the bits of conversations people let fall. I like to watch the old women who come in pairs. They move together in clouds of perfume, silver-haired. Strange angels. Their husbands are dead maybe, or maybe unwilling: "You just go, Norma. Those damn seats kill my knees." I

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1142481142171051782006-03-15T22:05:00.000-05:002006-03-21T11:04:33.893-05:00

In case my friend reads my blog and discovers how conflicted I am about her husband, I am offering up the following old diary entries to prove that I, too, have had sex with (or wanted to have sex with) idiots. Hopefully this will make my friend feel better and remind her that I love her. Though it is worth mentioning that I did not marry any of my idiots. Ahem.Anyway. From April 30, 2003:

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1142018694968521002006-03-10T13:38:00.000-05:002006-03-13T18:33:40.206-05:00

Avoid. I see her number come up on my cell phone screen for the third time in as many weeks, and, once again, I don't pick up. Can't pick up. I hit the "Decline" button. When I see the "New Voice Message" symbol come up, I almost roll my eyes. But then I remember that she's got every right to leave a message--we are supposed to be friends. I dial into my voicemail and hear: "Hey,it's m--."

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120520577360088542006-03-04T19:29:00.000-05:002006-03-05T13:46:51.273-05:00

Wearing a Ducks Unlimited hat and one of my dad's huge flannel shirts--the excellent kind, the kind with the quilted lining--Dad and I paddle around the bog for nearly two hours. It's raining, but it doesn't matter. A bullfrog somewhere in the reeds does more talking than we do, except when my father calls out the Latin names of the plants we drift by. "Nymphaea odorata . Water lilies," he

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1137724707809486852006-03-02T09:23:00.000-05:002006-03-02T14:04:58.980-05:00

I believe in other people. I hand them my belief in bright, shiny boxes, wrapped up in paper as gold as the stars my first grade teacher used to put on homework. My belief is unconditional. It is absolute. I say: You are brilliant. You're gorgeous. Of course you can do this. I offer my friends--and even some of my acquaintances--these sentiments one after another. Like party favors: a bag of my

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1140972335182082932006-02-26T11:42:00.000-05:002006-02-27T10:28:31.890-05:00

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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1140666220167263482006-02-22T22:41:00.000-05:002006-02-22T22:48:01.190-05:00

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.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1139799329842269632006-02-12T21:03:00.000-05:002006-02-16T22:53:05.213-05:00

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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1138463089242626592006-01-28T10:42:00.000-05:002006-01-30T12:11:14.926-05:00

Thursday night was about breastfeeding. About sitting with six women in their thirty-somethings and hearing about newborns, bedrest, thwarted creative endeavors, stepchildren, and pre-school interviews. It was a baby brought along, to sleep in the corner, and could I "just check to see if he's breathing once and awhile?" It was about thinking, "Oh? Is that all?" but saying, "Ummm...ok," while

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1137264684604569262006-01-14T11:52:00.000-05:002006-01-14T15:16:30.990-05:00

It's raining; it's always raining when you're outside in line in January and trying to get into a crowded New York club. And it's high school all over again because suddenly there are Cool Kids and Not-Cool Kids, only--just like in high school--the difference seems arbitrary.A cab pulls up. A girl gets out. She's pretty. She's with a guy. Suit. Tie. A banker maybe. A millionaire maybe. They

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1136660913445538612006-01-07T13:46:00.000-05:002006-01-07T14:08:33.456-05:00

Christmas means bunking down in my parent's house in Wisconsin, watching, like, 80 hours or so of The West Wing on DVD. It means observing my parent's little dog Buster Bumbles as he stress-eats (my brother and I returning home for the Holidays scares him almost as much as thunder). It means my weird extended family (dad's side) and my fun extended family (mom's side). It means being reminded

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1135031932395873092005-12-21T17:18:00.000-05:002005-12-27T14:03:00.406-05:00

Guys do nicknames.They give them to one another at work, on sports teams, between friends. And they also give them to girls. I'm told they do this--at least partially--to keep track of one another's love lives. This is hilarious because the majority of guys I know only date one girl at a time, and I hardly see how remembering one additional name per friend could be difficult. But, they claim it

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1135094481246026712005-12-20T10:59:00.000-05:002005-12-20T11:01:21.260-05:00

No reading tonight after all.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1134510408588026012005-12-13T16:39:00.000-05:002005-12-13T16:47:44.570-05:00

For anyone who isn't a crazy stalker, please come hear me read my short story "Sexy" next Tuesday night.That's Tuesday December 20 at 7 Pm at the 92 St. Y (Lexington Ave. @ 92nd Street).For anyone who is a crazy stalker, are you also single? If so, let's talk. Harvard has a girl friend who I think you'd be perfect for....

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1134338431414436932005-12-11T14:57:00.000-05:002005-12-11T17:05:33.263-05:00

We sat on the floor of the Post Office, reading through the big, round scrawls--the i's dotted with hearts and the Santa Clauses colored into the corners (with belly-buttons of course, and one wearing Nike's). Dear Santa. They all began with that: Dear Santa.Dear Santa,I promise I will put cookie and milk under the Christmas tree. I don't have a chimney, but I leave my window open....There were

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1133203295282089792005-11-28T12:53:00.000-05:002006-01-07T14:20:42.626-05:00

Of course there is the point in any new relationship where you see a mark on his chin, a white line across one of his fingers, a queer, circle of pale on his shoulderblade. What happened there? you ask. And out comes the memory. A race downhill on bikes that ended up with skinned knees and 12 stitches. A game of Star Wars on his uncle's lawn that included sticks instead of lightsabers. An angry

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1132690759981109392005-11-22T14:50:00.000-05:002005-11-23T12:17:43.476-05:00

Yesterday was a red letter day for me, big time. Red. Letter. In fact, I had hours to think about what those red letters would spell out while I sat on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn with a 30 lb bag of laundry, 20 lbs of quarters, not a single dollar bill, no cell phone and only the dim MEMORY of the house keys I'd left locked inside my apartment.Oh, and did I mention it was raining?I think we can all

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1132512713616215082005-11-20T13:28:00.000-05:002005-11-20T14:58:28.146-05:00

"Find your earrings," Harvard says as he heads to the kitchen to make himself some Theraflu. And I'm thinking, "God, what is it with men and earrings? They see them atop a dresser, and they can't just leave them there. They can never put them in a safe place." As I begin to examine the things stashed on top of Harvard's dresser, searching for a familiar glint of silver, I flash to thoughts of M:

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1131735691548135912005-11-11T13:18:00.000-05:002005-11-11T14:05:34.243-05:00

I've got a bug problem.Now, let's be clear. In other apartments that I've had since moving to New York, there have been bug "issues." "Problem," at that time, would've been overstating it a tad. Rather, in the past, there has been the occasional roach (one, single) sitting in the middle of my floor. They've popped by to try the dinner I've cooked, or to say "Hi" when my parents come to visit.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1131130597238401042005-11-04T13:36:00.000-05:002005-11-10T16:49:44.750-05:00

I am across the table from him, telling some of my secrets."First kiss?""Matt Tiettemahn. Ninth Grade. Sloppy. Tongue-filled. His mom kept yelling down the stairs, offering me soda. You?"I don't describe myself at that age, in my brother's Batman t-shirts, writing extra-credit poems for English class. Or the fact that, 'til that kiss and 'til that summer, the only thing I'd ever done with boys

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1130621344871467212005-10-29T13:34:00.000-04:002005-11-08T17:05:06.870-05:00

Leroy and HudsonI wore the blue sweater, the one I had been wearing when I conquered my fear of heights. I did it on purpose. I knew leaving you would be harder.I could never remember your apartment number.I sat up in bed while you were still sleeping and watched the moment go. I looked around your room, and felt you there, and counted your books, and stared at your ceiling, and saw you, them

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1130177678723829412005-10-24T12:29:00.000-04:002005-10-24T14:19:17.163-04:00

I am at my desk, and I can hardly see because I'm crying so hard. Over IM comes the message from one of his best friends: It will just take time. I know he's right. It will take time. Or, rather, time will take it. Chip at it little by little, carry it off to be dumped into the quarry along with all the other fossils.But we all know there are some faces you'll always look for.Even having moved on

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1130082215007267002005-10-23T10:48:00.000-04:002005-11-04T16:42:36.206-05:00

When he walked out on stage last night this is what his body language said:In about forty-five minutes, every single person here is going to want to fuck me. I didn't have anyone there to snort with--who is this Simon Trpceski person? Can you believe that strut? Instead, I looked around at all the old people next to me, all of whom were taking the moment to refasten their large rhinestone pins,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1129913194628406342005-10-21T12:15:00.000-04:002005-10-21T12:46:34.696-04:00

I have begun the day by dancing naked around my house to Billy Idol. Well, scratch that. I really began the day at 6:30 this morning when Mom and Dad called to sing the traditional, "Happy Birthday to you," over the phone. And then I fell back asleep and began the day again when my brother called to sing from his house in Minnesota. And then again, and again when my phone beeped with text

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1127758295420786232005-10-10T13:45:00.000-04:002005-10-10T17:16:28.193-04:00

Suddenly, I am nineteen again."He's where?" I ask my mother."In New York. On the Upper Westside. Waitering, I guess. Auditioning. I didn't ask his mom too much--I hate to ask too much."Right. My mother. Hates to ask too much. Hates it. Right.And because of this newly discovered hatred for nosiness, my mom failed to find out the details of what exactly my high school boyfriend is doing in New York

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1128203399714118862005-10-01T16:26:00.000-04:002005-10-02T12:12:41.483-04:00

I'm hiding.A boy text messaged me today to with a (dim, poorly worded, but honest) proposition:Horny? He was hoping I'd duck out of work for a half-hour quickie. So easy to arrange: a flimsy excuse to my co-worker. A short trip to his penthouse down the block, sly smiles exchanged with his doorman, who hasn't seen me since we were dating. His apartment door would've been cracked open for me, and

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1125685510730365972005-09-11T13:00:00.000-04:002005-09-17T18:22:57.816-04:00

Let's talk about the weather.It is, after all, what we all do when we are at a loss for other, more meaningful words. I've done it a million times, as I wait in elevators that race up the stories of huge metal buildings, speaking about sun or rain to the people next to me. I walk down the avenues of my city, bumping into an old friend or a new acquaintance, and I stand there awkwardly amidst the

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1125980240749638752005-09-05T23:51:00.000-04:002005-10-14T14:30:00.353-04:00

I sat for a long time tonight at the fountain in Lincoln Center, daring myself to run through it. Wishing I had the excuse of a movie set and some cameras to make such a wet dash appropriate. Action! And I could slosh right through to the middle; stand there til my clothes hung sopping, my hair was plastered, and I was newly baptized as the kind of girl who Does Such Things.Instead, my actions

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1125423598194477972005-08-30T12:49:00.000-04:002005-10-14T14:30:16.103-04:00

The light is changing again. I come out of the office, and it's a little darker already. Obnoxious store windows are already screaming "FALL!!" and displaying scarves and tweed in colors like rust and eggplant. No more linen, no more lemon yellow and soon it will be too cool to let my legs show.The wind will come soon, along with all of that noise. The crinkly descent. My crunching walk home.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1124863506931269992005-08-24T00:29:00.000-04:002005-08-24T02:09:10.966-04:00

I'm drunk now, and when I'm drunk everything is the swelling of the orchestra, the rise and fall of an enormous string section. If I'm alone in a cab on my way home from too many martinis, I'm thinking big. I'm feeling big. No doubt about it. It's all the final movement of Mozart's Jupiter Symphony and some poor underpaid guy in the back row banging his heart out on the timpani. Alcohol drills

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1124550335635327402005-08-20T10:45:00.000-04:002005-08-20T14:05:29.173-04:00

For my first singing competiton, I sang a song about shepherds. It was what voice teachers and singers call an "art song." The kind where the vowels last for pages, running up and down on the notes like flights of stairs. Oh had I Jubyl's lyre and Miriam's tuneful voice. (Who is Jubyl? If I don't have a tuneful voice like Miriam's, why am I singing this stupid song?) And after all of that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1124474217924210342005-08-19T13:32:00.000-04:002005-08-20T10:45:11.863-04:00

All the doors look exactly the same.Only behind one is The View, where Star and Meredith are chatting about the latest in teeth whiteners, while Barbara Walters sits across from them and adds in her two cents.Behind the other is Pine Valley, the version without the smoke and mirrors. It's the set I'm expected to report to, only I can't get there like this, standing as I am in a white nurse's

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1124397800714967582005-08-18T16:08:00.000-04:002005-08-19T12:54:21.380-04:00

Maybe I'll always do it.Maybe I'll be forty or fifty years old, walking down the street, and I'll still reach down and do it. When I see someone skinnier--someone whose body I envy.I'll put my hand on my side, and pinch what there is to pinch. Fat. A little shelf of it. For the rest of my life, maybe, this will be my reflex.It's a habit created, I'm fairly certain, from a series of traceable

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1124315748654764852005-08-17T16:44:00.000-04:002005-08-18T16:06:25.806-04:00

The thing I hate most about myself is my need for approval. It juts out from my (mostly) smooth facade in all sorts of ways, the way the ugly corners of coat hangers do when you're trying to stuff them into garbage bags. I sense that I'm on unsteady ground with someone and I start to feel frantic. Take this current silly dilemma. I borrowed my roommate's earrings without asking; she's in

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1123779579503162582005-08-11T12:24:00.000-04:002005-08-11T14:11:09.850-04:00

She's wearing a t-shirt with a tiny purple duck on it that looks out from behind a large daisy. "Peeking Duck," it says across the top. A grown woman with a purple cartoon duck on her chest. I'm finding it hard to be mad.But, still.She's handing me back my white suit, wrapped up in plastic. Even through the covering, however, I can see the coffee drops still on the lapel.The coffee drops that

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1123587942006637262005-08-09T07:40:00.000-04:002005-08-09T07:46:30.246-04:00

I'm off to "All My Children" this morning to be a "Canadian Nurse." Because people who aren't my parents have offered to stay home from work to watch for me, let me remind you that I am only filming today. Never fear, however, I will let you all know when the episode airs. And, you'll have another chance to see me next week when I return to shoot another episode on Monday. Canadian Nurses,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1121111597333108812005-08-07T10:08:00.000-04:002005-08-07T12:55:39.386-04:00

Sonya carried pocket-books, not purses, and whatever pocket-book she carried, you could be certain that it matched her shoes. This, her PhD, and the fact that she was planning her wedding, made her my first adult friend. She was twenty-eight to my twenty-one.Sonya told me two very important things.The first one, I didn't want to believe."There is such a thing as timing," she told me. I protested,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1123272157487374582005-08-05T12:21:00.000-04:002005-08-05T16:02:37.536-04:00

I made my debut last night on national television. In a manner of speaking.There was a grotesque version of me tromping around my tv screen last night--pathetic, simpering, desperate, dumb. S's new show premiered and there he was, inside my tv, sitting next to Bizarro Kathryn on the subway, asking her out on a first date. He had his wardrobe department outfit this poor, half-woman

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1122568354842299042005-07-28T10:52:00.000-04:002005-08-20T14:08:13.406-04:00

He's telling me to check my heart-rate and that we've got 15 seconds until we start another hill. I find this very confusing because what he used to say is, "You came into this room like a bomb..... I wanna lick you."Yes, it's true.My Wednesday morning spin instructor has the exact same voice as a boy I slept with in college. The boy. Luis. The one who was unforgettable.My instructor's name is

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1122141655056586552005-07-21T12:11:00.000-04:002005-07-23T14:40:22.640-04:00

My life goes from multi-millionaire to deli-guy in under 60 seconds.Take my day on Tuesday, for example. We had a meeting at work to discuss our $7.5 million dollar penthouses. I'm the only woman present at the table, and the only person there--aside from the reporter we're speaking with--who doesn't have two comma's in her bank account. All the men are barraging the poor journalist with manly

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1121715639753106992005-07-18T13:32:00.000-04:002005-07-23T12:10:30.456-04:00

"You've really done a lot for someone your age," Pink Tie looks at me over his drink, and though he's cuter by the minute, my heart sinks a little.He doesn't get me."Yeah, I guess I have," I twirl the olives in my dirty martini and then try to change the subject.I have just taken him through the story of how I ended up studying at Juilliard:...My first crazy opera teacher in Manhattan, "Singing

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1121274669659227702005-07-13T12:53:00.000-04:002005-07-13T13:41:37.350-04:00

I came to Central Park having made myself two promises. The first was that I would risk. That I would say to you, "I will go. Let's go together to London. Let's try. I want to take this leap."We started our walk, our conversation about "The Hard Stuff," I held your hand in my left one and my first promise to myself in my right. Through the Park, as we began, that first promise felt easy, like

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1121030837663474432005-07-10T14:44:00.000-04:002005-07-13T11:54:28.443-04:00

"Sixteen more, Ladies. Count them down."16....15...There is a 15-pound rubbery bar in my hands, and a pool of fire in both of my shoulders. I'm not sure I have 14 more repetitions in me, but I know with a certainty that I have seldom experienced in life, that I do still have the strength to cleave the instructor's head in half with this body bar. He is a dirty liar who is currently making us do

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120769790903352932005-07-07T16:52:00.000-04:002005-07-07T17:20:08.723-04:00

Yesterday, the saga continued.PinkTie: How about grabbing some dinner tomorrow night? Whaleboy, Batman or me (your choice, but only one)?Me: So far, knowing you guys has been like being a contestant on a game show.Me: How about whoever wants to take me to dinner, calls me and asks.Call me old fashioned, but please.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120769186823838052005-07-07T16:18:00.000-04:002005-07-07T16:46:26.843-04:00

It is amazing how cool you can be with members of the opposite sex when you truly don't care about them.Em and I head home, nixing French fries, but I don't reveal that info to the Pink Tie, Whaleboy, Batman Triumvirate.Text from a random number that I assume is Whaleboy's: "Why'd you leave?"Me: "We'd a craving for junk food."WB: "Home at 11?"Me, two hours later, as I'd no urgent need to respond:

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120763140817698232005-07-07T13:55:00.000-04:002005-07-07T16:17:51.953-04:00

The one with the pink tie was first to approach.Leaving his friend alone with the girl who'd made the unfortunate black-underwear-with-white-pants choice, Pink Tie sauntered over. Before he opened his mouth I guessed, "Banker." After he opened his mouth I guessed, "California." I was semi-right on both counts. Salesman at bank. California by way of Wisconsin.Guessing again, I thought, "Pink tie

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120614507883492642005-07-06T21:13:00.000-04:002005-07-05T21:48:27.893-04:00

"The dog just ate a nest of baby bunnies."My dad wakes me up with this news, and I know I'm back in Wisconsin, in the little log house in the country. Where I grew up.I don't let the dog lick me for the next three days, because it's gross, thinking about what he wolfed down, all in one great, slobbery gulp. But, I realize, he is a dog, unlike the pampered, puffed up kind that trots up Fifth

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120612038292783862005-07-05T20:57:00.000-04:002005-07-05T21:10:54.716-04:00

"I'll call you," he says.He doesn't.He doesn't call Monday. Tuesday, when I am Staying Out To Have Fun Without Him, he doesn't call. I know because I have my cell phone on vibrate in my pocket. Even during the movie.Wednesday he doesn't call.Thursday.The week is marked by his non-calls."You're not calling him either," my friend A reminds me. But that's not the point, and we both know it.Finally,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1120072061489575922005-06-29T14:28:00.000-04:002005-06-29T17:10:35.013-04:00

What happens is that Jason tells me he has blue balls.I don't know what that means, but the way he talks about it makes it sound awful, and it seems to be my fault. I add it to my growing list of unpardonable sins.He stands and looks at me for a moment. I begin to stand up too."I'm gonna go," he tells me."Ok."Rewind. I want to rewind. Let's start over. My favorite movie is "Last of the Mohicans."

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119983067499219572005-06-28T14:04:00.000-04:002005-06-29T14:04:52.170-04:00

In middle school, my friend Beth and I snuck into her older sister's room and read her diary. Beth's sister was in eighth grade then, and we read about how she had felt Mark Krojeski's erection when they slow danced.This, coupled with my breathless romance-novel reading, is all the experience I have with boys Down There.Jason is right now rubbing his against me, and it's making his jeans feel

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119979286894211752005-06-28T12:57:00.000-04:002005-06-29T12:32:17.236-04:00

His hand is in my dress somehow, and it feels like a really warm starfish is stuck to my back. The skin of his palms and his fingers is kind of rough, but in a nice way. I can't explain how. I can't even think about it, really, because there's so much going on."Lie down," he whispers into my ear, and then puts his tongue inside it, which makes me flex my head away. It's too wet. It's too loud.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119977481369293392005-06-28T12:21:00.000-04:002005-06-28T13:46:37.496-04:00

It's beautiful when we get there. It's a flat area overlooking all of Big Lake. There are two moons; one in the sky and one in the water. It makes me feel like the world is dividing itself in halves. Like the reflection is my old life--my life before this night--and the sky is my new one. I don't know how to tell him this, so instead, I just say stupid things."Wow.""Yeah. Cool right?" he sits

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119904624193352872005-06-28T08:20:00.000-04:002005-06-28T12:52:07.923-04:00

Jason raises his head.The kiss has happened. A kiss to end all kisses. Soccer-Playing Matthew who? This was The Kiss. Kissing. Kiss me. Kiss kiss kiss. We've kissed. I kissed him. It was a kiss.I feel drowsy and beamy and ready to leap.If nothing lucky ever happens to me again, God, it's fine. This was worth it. "There's a really cool spot up ahead. Let's go there." Don't say it. Don't be

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119896336536284312005-06-27T13:58:00.000-04:002005-06-27T16:42:26.400-04:00

All I can think about is lips. I'm talking with my lips. He's talking with his lips. It's my lips that are listening, not my ears."So you're an alto?" he asks."Yeah."We're going to kiss."That's cool.""Do you like the guitar?" I ask.We're going to kiss."It's ok. I wish I was better sometimes. I don't really practice.""Me neither.""Can you even practice singing?""Yeah. My mom thinks you can."He

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119893793431586552005-06-27T13:13:00.000-04:002005-06-27T13:58:04.210-04:00

"Ok, guys. Half hour and then the ladies go home."A couple of the guys groan, "Joe. You suck!""Let's go somewhere," Jason leans in.I feel every one of his consonants on my neck, my cheek, my earlobe. The vowels, I feel on my lips."Who wants more S'mores?" Meredith is getting up to grab another package of marshmallows from the picnic table. Some other boys move away from the fire as well."Let's go

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119890729783003812005-06-27T12:02:00.000-04:002005-06-27T13:08:37.866-04:00

I can feel the log I'm sitting on through my dress, and it's starting to make the backs of my legs hurt. The pain is worth it, though, because Jason is holding my hand, and that's pretty much all that matters. I am here, in these woods, in my lucky first-kiss dress, in front of this huge bonfire, and Jason is holding my hand. In front of everyone.We're all talking about our auditions. How we got

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119828788796473142005-06-26T19:05:00.000-04:002005-06-26T23:49:25.513-04:00

I'm in line to get a hot dog at the bonfire when Jason approaches me for the first time."Hey," he says."Hey.""You actually heard me this time," he smiles as he says it.Marry me, I think."No blue," I say instead, looking down at my dress."Way cool. Feels great to be out of uniform, right?""Yeah.""Looks great too."I suddenly feel what I imagine drunk feels like, and it makes me giddy, and because

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119826607126326412005-06-26T18:17:00.000-04:002005-06-26T23:51:19.180-04:00

"Cute dress," Meredith says, eyeing me appraisingly. This is about the fourth compliment she's given me today, and it reminds me again how strange it is that my gazebo talk with Jason has made my status change. She and Gillian both notice things about me now. As though I have become more real.I reach to grab another, warmer shirt to bring along for later. It gets chilly at night, and even though

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119818619023890782005-06-26T16:21:00.000-04:002005-06-26T23:42:48.056-04:00

"Hey," Jason From The Jazz Group is standing in the distance at the top of the gazebo steps."What?" I can't hear him. I'm only about halfway across the lawn, walking towards him.Then I realize what he's said.Of course, I think, he said, "Hey," so we don't have to just look at each other the whole time I'm walking over there. He's avoiding the awkward silence. Seventeen year-olds know about these

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119816130651464322005-06-26T15:14:00.000-04:002005-06-26T23:39:41.653-04:00

"Jason from the Jazz Group totally wants you," Gillian slides into the seat next to me and takes the music from my lap.We are supposed to be studying the French pronunciation for Beau Soir, our Debussy piece. The song is about pink rivers at sunset and the smell of flowers; I know this because I've just finished that part of the translation.Gillian's news brings a mental image of Jason From The

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119726971919192492005-06-25T13:00:00.000-04:002005-06-26T23:37:03.353-04:00

"I just can't be attracted to any boy wearing smurf-blue," Meredith says as she pulls a Tic-Tac case from her pocket. She pops several into her mouth and then chews thoughtfully. This is her trademark move.Meredith stands next to me in the Alto section at rehearsals every day. She and Gillian, a soprano from Ann Arbor, are already best friends. I've been noticing them all winter, envying how

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119646007245295962005-06-24T16:18:00.000-04:002005-06-25T12:57:20.796-04:00

"Kate? We're here."This is our final car ride for the year; all the other trips have led up to this. No more weekend-only rehearsals. I'll be spending the next ten days in eight-hour long practice sessions with the rest of the choir, and then it'll be off to spend the summer touring Europe. Eighty-some teenagers on a bus, traveling to Germany, Denmark, Sweden, France. Like a Molly Ringwald movie,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1119209201374898212005-06-20T15:21:00.000-04:002005-06-26T19:00:08.520-04:00

My mom and grandma are in the front seat, and I am in the back with a green blanket over my head, reading as fast as my eyes can go. I pray they don't notice that my breathing has gotten heavier, but, it can't be helped; the beautiful Thora Pennington has just brushed against Count Ian Blackwell's throbbing man-staff.I have stolen this sordid tale of innocence lost from my mother's purse, and I

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118947797144333242005-06-16T13:37:00.000-04:002005-06-17T15:31:58.100-04:00

Yesterday I was shopping for work clothes. This means that I didn't want to spend a lot of money.Why did I not want to spend a lot of money?Because work clothes are not fun, and therefore not worthy of frivolous spending.For example, at no point in my life, when I am sad or in need of something to do, will I ever go over to my closet, pick out my best "work outfit" and traipse around my apartment

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118772702877539742005-06-14T14:06:00.001-04:002008-02-20T21:47:54.886-05:00

Is what I called one Maggie B. in my fifth grade diary because, apparently, I could not even write a swear word when I was eleven. Even in my own journal.I think of this now because I just got my first rejection email from a literary site, in which they said my piece was filled with too much foul language and, as a result, "too angry to be really funny."Fuckinges that.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118673077704629962005-06-13T10:04:00.000-04:002005-06-13T14:49:24.756-04:00

I learned to play violin on a cardboard box with a ruler taped to it. Because I was very little, the box had a yellow sponge rubberbanded to its underside so I could fit it underneath my chin. I bowed with a stick and there were big, purple footprints laid out on the floor that told me where my feet went. During lessons with my teacher, whose name I can't recall, I stood with my chin on the box

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118610292967661312005-06-12T15:33:00.000-04:002005-06-30T15:55:44.610-04:00

Emily and I spent yesterday on Coney Island, in the company of Eak the Geek, a man who lets tourists from Florida crunch a bed of nails into his tattooed belly for a living, and about four hundred fat women with "Caliente" written across their bathing suit's ass.Well, truthfully, only I met Eak. Though Em and I both forked up the five dollars to get into the Coney Island Sideshow, about thirty

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118459178761102312005-06-10T21:52:00.000-04:002005-06-10T23:10:00.643-04:00

I'm currently having a very complicated relationship with love songs. At the nail salon today, up to my calves in lavender-bubbled water, I found myself having an overly dramatic interior dialogue about every one of the lyrics. "Yes," I told Roxette, "Yes. I will listen to my heart!" "God," I conspired with Ms. Benetar, overcome by her simple profundity, "Love really is a battlefield."Believe me,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1118255548510961542005-06-08T12:55:00.000-04:002005-06-08T18:07:23.253-04:00

At the conference, the Authors sat behind a long table, wearing neutral colors. They had nondescript haircuts and ordinary shoes. Five men and one woman. The man farthest left stared off into the air while he listened to his fellow panelists, as if reading a written version of their comments off of some invisible computer screen. He squinted a lot while he did this, and it made him seem smart and

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1117812346811969482005-06-03T10:48:00.000-04:002005-06-03T16:31:15.670-04:00

They're in the middle of the subway car. His hands are above hers, wrapped around the metal pole. They've shared a night. It's possible they share an apartment.She is long, smooth hair to his baggy jeans. She is dressed; a crisp purple shirt, a tiny handbag and careful make-up. He is rumpled; light blue, untucked. Their hands are close, but not touching. She stares up at him as he looks out the

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1112547218667389492005-06-02T12:12:00.000-04:002005-06-05T12:42:32.086-04:00

If I could stand apart from my morning--look into it from outside, as if through a window--how familiar the scene would be. True, the room is different, but the bed is the same. The books. You reading aloud. And us. Different, certainly; older, but also still there and together, legs vined around one another, growing toward either shelter or erosion.I love you.And I even say it.But, I say other

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1091123301737928042005-05-19T11:07:00.000-04:002005-05-19T14:08:00.896-04:00

"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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1116386549313133162005-05-17T23:14:00.000-04:002005-05-17T23:22:29.320-04:00

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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1115411081254333322005-05-06T14:54:00.000-04:002005-05-12T16:47:08.423-04:00

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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1115318726585477412005-05-05T14:16:00.000-04:002005-05-06T14:44:48.496-04:00

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

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1113675580534839932005-04-15T13:59:00.000-04:002005-04-19T16:04:39.286-04:00

I was on the subway this weekend, watching two deaf people have a conversation in sign language."To learn," I thought to myself, watching the girl bring one hand to her forehead, as though pulling knowledge from the air and putting it into her head. "That means 'to learn'.'"I suddenly felt very excited as I watched to see if I recognized any other words.I didn't.Considering that the extent of my

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1112981598551846332005-04-08T13:30:00.000-04:002005-04-08T13:33:18.553-04:00

I need inspiration. Someone ask me some questions in the comment box. Or tell me what you've always wanted to read about here on Bellow. Anything. It's beautiful outside and I'm in a huge office, still traumatized by the swimsuit shopping I did yesterday. Help is needed.

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1112215532242479242005-03-30T15:27:00.000-05:002005-03-31T17:51:14.230-05:00

I was seventeen when I moved to New York, but I had already been saving pieces of this city in my pockets for years. A "B" on the George-Washington side of a dollar bill marks it as "minted in New York," and growing up, I kept as many of those bills as possible. I navigated my days in Wisconsin by that letter--if it showed up on the face of a crumpled dollar, I would have good luck.Interesting,

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1111159608449784692005-03-18T10:12:00.000-05:002005-03-19T16:28:26.633-05:00

I hung up the phone with the nurse from my doctor's office, having just heard the loveliest three words: "Everything," the kind nurse-lady had said, "was normal."Normal.Healthy.It was the diagnosis that I knew was coming.Sort of.Because--I can admit this now that it's over--there was always that tiny, doubting voice. Afterall, I'm the girl who thinks that the Pentagon may have played a role in

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1110920381104691072005-03-15T15:12:00.000-05:002005-03-15T16:05:26.546-05:00

First things first.Though the little viruses currently making my throat hurt and my head spin, may think that they've won by ruining my DAY OFF, what they don't know is that I'm totally calling in sick on Thursday, even if I'm feeling great. So bottom line is that I win, little viruses. Not only because I won't let you ruin my day off, but also because I have opposable thumbs.Secondly, so here I

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1109972736026849002005-03-09T16:27:00.000-05:002006-03-04T12:04:16.220-05:00

The man on the phone was very clear. "We'll send you a box," he said, "and you'll send us back your iPod--""You mean Lenny," I said."Whatever. Sure. Yeah. So, you'll send us back your iPod. And then we'll fix it and send it back to you. It'll take somewhere between two to three weeks. But if you're fine with that, then I think that'll be the best option.""Well, I think I'm fine with that. As long

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1110213151639616982005-03-07T11:15:00.000-05:002005-03-08T09:46:06.473-05:00

W is thirty-six, and so are his friends. Stacey and Gary. They are not the same thirty-six as he is. They are thirty-just-moved-in-together-and-furniture-shopping-for-the-first-time-six. W is thirty-starting-a-hedge-fund-and-buying-himself-a-penthouse-six. W's thirty-six is not so easily divided by two.We all got together for dinner this weekend. W. Me. Stacey and Gary....Stacey holds onto her

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1104636399200028812005-03-03T10:12:00.000-05:002005-03-03T17:39:56.303-05:00

Someone across the street is practicing their electric guitar, and suddenly Brooklyn sounds like I always thought it would. Any moment all of us struggling artists will pirouette onto the stoops of our respective brownstones and begin the musical number where we sing about our big, artsy dreams.Only, having just paid some bills and checked my bank account balance, I think it's official. I'm no

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1109690332568725752005-03-01T10:05:00.000-05:002005-03-01T10:18:52.570-05:00

I am down to bone. I've worked my tv job, and my real estate job nearly every single day this month. My "days off" have been spent traveling for the show--five a.m. wake-up calls to get aboard Amtrak's 6:50 train. We filmed the final episodes of the show last week, finishing on Saturday with a five hour trip back to the production office. And then it was on to a last-minute bus bound for

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1109284841710351912005-02-24T17:23:00.000-05:002005-02-24T17:40:41.713-05:00

A Motel 6. An upcoming 4 a.m. bus ride.Quadriplegic planetarium attendants who believe the moonlanding was faked.TGI Friday's Potato Skin chips for dinner.A Stradivarius cello."Miss you" text messages that make me half-smile.Trans-Atlantic phone calls that make me full-cry.My first siting by a fan.Too much styrofoam.Nokia's Carribean ring-tone interrupting every take.Waiting for the beautiful

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1108618590133986202005-02-16T23:57:00.000-05:002005-02-17T00:36:30.136-05:00

A person who is very important to me, and who figures very prominently into the beginnings of this blog, likes to tease me for my journal reading. He and I have argued, and laughed, and finally reached a standstill, in our debate over whether or not me reading his journal (once upon a time) is the same as him reading my blog. I say it is the same, and I am always right. However, recently--

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1108620084022766632005-02-16T23:53:00.000-05:002005-02-17T01:03:03.576-05:00

Saturday night we went out to dance. I always love to watch people having so much fun together, waving their arms around in the dark. I wondered about how A is in settings like that. I wish, sometimes, that he and I could meet all over again.When I go out I mostly dance alone. I find my way onto the middle of the floor, surround myself on all sides with a throng of strangers, and raise my arms in

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6116085.post-1108619128224608912005-02-16T23:50:00.000-05:002005-02-17T00:53:29.903-05:00

I am sitting in the hallway of a Comfort Suites Hotel somewhere outside of Chicago, surrounded by the burgundy and forest green wall paper that seems to decorate every hotel, be it Holiday Inn, Ramada, or Motel 6.I've been undertaking a study of hotel décor, and have been fascinated to realize that the world seems to be under the impression that burgundy and forest green make all of us sleep a

Kathryn Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10117011254865492974noreply@blogger.com