And another workweek comes to a painful end. Not painful because its been a bad week, per se, painful because it has been a very long very dull week. I hate dull weeks because they allow me WAY too much time to think. Thinking time is a good thing and an important thing. But when all you do is think all day, every day, you second-guess things and overanalyze things and look for meaning in things that don’t have any. Too much thinking is actually kind of destructive. So it’s been a long, semi-destructive week for me and I’m glad it is over. Not that I have this much going on this weekend, but it is a long weekend and I do have some good music to look forward to and maybe a movie or two to see (since I get paid today – woo hoo!), so maybe I won’t sit on my ass all weekend thinking about how big my ass has gotten. Ooo! And I’m having dinner with a friend of mine at the Chicago Diner tonight, so there will be good eats involved in this weekend, too.

But I’m feeling pretty good today. I’m ready to get out of this funk I’ve been in. I’m ready to go out and be social and productive and whatnot, which is good because I have an audition on Tuesday. Wish me luck and have a lovely weekend, everybody!

I've been meaning to say this for a couple of days now, but I keep forgetting.

I think Baba O'Reilly (sp?) is one of the greatest songs ever written. I get goosebumps every time I hear it. I love it that it was used in the previews for American Beauty. It pisses me off when it is used in a trailer for a less-than-worthy film. And it kind of bugs me that someone did a techno remix of it and called the remix Teenage Wasteland, but what are you going to do? If it means a new generation is exposed to this song, then that's a good thing, right? Here's hoping they go get a copy of the original song. Because it really is a great one.

Okay, I'm done now.

I really don’t have much to say today, so I thought I’d be kinda gross and talk about multivitamins. I know people who swear by multivitamins. There are people who wake up every morning and take about seventeen pills, none of which are prescription pills, but all of which provide the consumer with some sense of self-satisfaction, the feeling that they are doing something positive for themselves as they go off to get their triple mochachino from Starbucks. Hey, if it makes them happy, that’s their business.

I do have a couple of kind of gross tidbits to share with you, though, concerning multivitamins. My mother knew a man who worked for a port-a-potty type company and as part of his job, he had to clean out the used port-a-potties. Lucky guy, huh? Apparently, in the waste collection chamber of every port-a-potty is a screen to separate solid matter from liquid matter to facilitate in the cleaning process. This man said that more often than not, he would find whole vitamin tablets in this screen – dozens of them. Meaning these pills went through the entire digestive system of some unsuspecting consumer completely untouched. What good does a vitamin pill do you if you can’t even digest it? Exactly. None. Which inspired me to find vitamins and such that dissolve under your tongue or something, so I know that my body is actually getting what it needs from them.

But here is the other kind of gross part. The urine of a healthy human being is clear. Maybe it will have a slight yellowish tint to it, based on the urea content in the urine, but the urine of a healthy human being should be clear. Whenever I take a multivitamin in the morning, it is fluorescent yellow. Which makes me wonder what exactly is in these pills that my body is so anxious to get rid of? It is because you can’t find a vitamin out there that has 100% of the vitamins you need, only ones that have 667% of what you need? So that extra 567% comes out as fluorescent yellow dye? I dunno. But it makes me leery of multivitamins.

That being said, enjoy your lunch everybody!

I have one small beef with the person/persons who design office furniture. One small beef. What an odd phrase. I wonder where that one came from? And am I allowed to use it since I don’t use beef? I have one small tempeh with the person/persons who design office furniture. Why must they make a bit of office furniture for every imaginable purpose, but that when all put together make for the world’s most uncomfortable, inconvenient workstations?

I understand designing ergonomically correct furniture. If you’re going to sit in a chair all day, it is better to sit in a chair that encourages good posture, no matter how uncomfortable it is. By why are desks positioned at the height that they are? More often than not, people are either hitting their knees on the desks or their arms are positioned at a very unnatural angle so they can reach their keyboards. And then the office furniture people design keyboard holders and whatnot to be attached to the UNDERSIDE of the desks that are already too low. I am not a big person. I am a woman of average height. I should not be banging my knees into some bit of totally unnecessary office furniture every time I try to scooch my chair closer to my desk. And the built-in mouse pad that has been rendered completely immovable. Isn’t that causing unnecessary stress on my elbow?

I understand wanting to keep the surface of one’s workstation clear of equipment and such to make more space for clutter. But in this society that is working harder and harder every day to become paperless, do we really need to leave so much room available for bits of paper?

I’m just sayin’ is all.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled whining.

It's days like this that I most remember the immortal words of John Bender when he said, "Nothing to do when you're locked in a vacancy."

I’m going to visit my grandmother in a couple of weeks. My paternal grandmother. She is turning 90 this year. I can’t even imagine being 90 years old. Or close to 90. I feel old at 25.

But yeah, we’re trekking up to Minnesota to celebrate with her. I love my grandmother, I really do. She is a wonderful person. I feel for her, too, though, because hers has been the kind of old age everyone dreads – trips to the hospital, loss of motor function, loss of independence, etc, etc, etc. My grandfather was like that, too, and while it was very sad when he passed, it was kind of a relief to know he wouldn’t be suffering anymore, you know? And I’m looking forward to seeing my grandmother because I haven’t seen her in a long time, but I’m dreading it, too. You know how I’m always talking about wanting to be challenged? Yeah, that doesn’t happen in Minnesota. That side of my family really doesn’t know what to do with me because I’m 25, not married, have no kids, and I’m an artist. Conversations about thoughts and feelings and whatnot are few and far between. Don’t get me wrong, they are all good people. These people would give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it. They just live in a very different world from the one I live in and it is hard for me to visit their world.

So wish me luck up there. And a very happy 90th birthday to my grandmother.

I’ve been having some really strange dreams lately, some of them verging on disturbing. I’m not going to recount any of them for you here, but I’m wondering if maybe that’s why I’ve been so tired lately – my brain is working overtime when it should be resting. Maybe I need to have a drink before I go to bed tonight so I’ll have some good, un-satisfying, dreamless sleep. Or not.

A friend of mine asked me last night what the next big thing is. I was a little confused by the question as I have never considered myself a trendsetter, so why would she be asking me what the next big thing was going to be? But she clarified her question and asked what the next big thing we could look forward to was. I replied, “Dirty Vegas on Saturday,” which brought a smile to her face and elicited a high ten.

I was thinking about that this morning and the fact that, at least to some extent, I always need to have something to look forward to. I like having goals and aspirations and I dunno, things to look forward to, I guess. Things to get excited about. And while it is nice to live in anticipation of some really fun things, it is kind of sad to think that I might be living in the future so much of the time. So I thought I would take a moment today to name some of the things about today that are really nice and wonderful things.

It is sunny outside and the air has the feeling of autumn approaching.

I ran into a friend of mine on my way to my car this morning so my day started with a smile and a hug.

I listened to Sander on my way in to work.

It’s Tuesday so the Gilmore Girls will be on tonight.

I’m having a veggie turkey sammich for breakfast.

I’m wearing really comfortable, really cute shoes that make me feel like a badass.

I don’t have a headache.

That’s it. I just wanted to enjoy the present for a little while. I hope you all have a really lovely day.

I have a co-worker whose daughter is right about at that age where she is questioning the existence of Santa Claus. If any of you out there reading this are firm believers in Santa, I suggest you either skip this entry or take into account that these are MY OPINIONS ONLY. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I have no idea what is really going on in the world and am therefore open to being proven wrong at any time. It gives me more to think about.

That being said, I don’t think I ever believed in Santa Claus. My brother had it figured out at a pretty young age that Santa wasn’t real and he let me in on the secret, so I was even two years younger than him when I knew. I don’t remember being upset about it or anything. I do know that it can be really painful for small children to find out that there is no Santa, though. Kids yelling at their parents and crying and feeling like they’ve been lied to for however many years (which they have been). It’s really not pretty. So why do we do it? Why do we pass this story on from generation to generation, knowing that it will cause so much suffering down the road? (Yes, I know that on the scale of Great World Wide Traumas, finding out about Santa Claus is pretty low on the scale, but when you’re nine, these things are important.) Is it like a snipe hunt where you do it just to see how long it will take them to figure it out, or just because it was done to you? Or are we so wrapped up in the instant gratification of believing in a nice, old man who flies all around the world giving presents to kids that the immediate joy outweighs the painful future?

Yeah, I’m being over dramatic. Sue me. I do like the idea of a magical old man who gives gifts to kids on Christmas. In a world where one doesn’t have to worry about tainted candy or child molesters, it is a beautiful idea and I’m sure St. Nicholas was a wonderful man. But honestly, why do we knowingly lie to our kids about this one? So that they can earn the rite of passage associated with finding out the truth?

Again, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle this when I’m a parent. It will depend on the faith in which my kids are raised and how badly I want them to feel “normal” when compared to the rest of their friends versus how badly I want to be honest with my kids and treat them like individual people. I dunno. This is where the opinion of a husband would come in handy, but seeing as I have no husband nor any children in the foreseeable future, I can probably get away with not worrying about this today.

I walked about ten miles this weekend. This is, of course, a guess, because I don’t know the exact distance from the movie theater to my house, but I already calculated the distance of the route I took last night which is about six miles, so I’m guessing that yeah, I probably walked about ten miles this weekend. It sounds like a lot, but it really doesn’t feel like it when you’re in the middle of it. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other until you are where you want to be. What a beautiful life analogy, huh?

Okay, I just did some calculating and it was about 9.4 miles that I walked this weekend, but still. That ain’t too shabby. And I think I was averaging about 4 miles per hour. Which is at least enough to soak my back with sweat. Wait a second! I did another three miles on Friday night. So upwards of twelve miles this weekend. No wonder my hips hurt. They don’t seem to be getting any smaller, but they hurt nonetheless. And it is pain and soreness that means muscles that have lain dormant for a while are being used, right? So it’s a good thing, right?

I dunno. I’m kinda gimpy. But I really liked walking that much this weekend. It felt great. And on my Saturday afternoon walk, I walked past a cemetery whose gates were open. I stopped and looked at the cemetery for about five minutes, wanting very badly to go in and talk to some of the people who were there. Tell them that they are still thought about and loved and missed and that somebody hopes they are resting well. Let them know that they did touch someone’s life while they were here. But I had places to go (the suburbs to be with my family, people whose lives I have touched, people who love me and will miss me when I am gone), so I did not go into the cemetery. I might go back next weekend or something.

I went on a date to a cemetery once. In college. This guy picked me up on his motorcycle and we rode out to a really lovely cemetery for the afternoon. It sounds really morbid, but it was a lovely day. He is one of those guys who, in retrospect, I kind of wish I had dated. We talked about it, jokingly, from time to time and it probably would have been fun and the sex probably would have been great, but I guess I’ll never know now. Oh well.

I think my building is still infested with fumes that are making me goofy.

So yeah, I decided to change my template. I'm not sure yet if I like it or not, though I do kind of like the boxes. But yeah, lemme know what you think.

This? This is Kitty. This? This is Kitty on paint/varnish/tar remover/Lysol/bleach fumes.

My office building is a regular olfactory playground today. In the restroom, one is assaulted by the stench of Lysol and bleach, letting us know that the restroom was thoroughly cleaned the night before. In the lobby, one is surrounded by the stench of paint or varnish or tar remover or all three that is wafting down the steps from the third floor where they are remodeling. Opening a window invites the smell of mulch and humidity and dead wet bugs into the building. No matter where you go, there is an offensive aroma to meet you!

And kill your brain cells. I feel like my brain is bruised or swollen or something. I have already decided, I’m going home at noon. And thirty years from now when I’m suffering from brain damage as a result of prolonged exposure to toxic fumes, I’ll have the University pay for my medical bills.

The summer that I was, I believe, eleven years old, there was a horrible draught in the Midwest. All summer, no rain. Until about mid-August when we had a rainstorm to end all rainstorms. There was a torrential downpour all through the night with lightening that would light up the sky to look like the middle of the day. And my brother, my honorary sister and I were out playing in it. We all put on our bathing suits and I put on this pink T-Ball t-shirt on over my suit (because yes, I was even self-conscious of my body at eleven years old, and yes, when I was young, I only wore pink) and we played in my front yard in the rain. I don’t remember what we played, but we had a blast being out in a torrential downpour. My mom realized after the fact that it was probably pretty dangerous to have three soaking wet kids outside playing in a lightening storm, but nobody was injured and fun was had by all.

The next morning, our whole town was flooded. There was an intersection about three blocks from my house that had a nice little lake in it, so once again, my brother, honorary sister, and I put on our bathing suits, grabbed the inner tubes from my honorary sister’s pool, and we headed down to the intersection to float on inner tubes in the middle of the street. As much fun as that sounds, it was even more fun when cars would try to go through the intersection ‘cuz then we would get waves. So picture three young kids in bathing suits with inner tubes encouraging car after car to brave the flooded intersection so we would be tossed about in the wake of the vehicles. Yeah, a minivan got stuck so we went home. But it was fun.

I was thinking about this last night because it has been really dry in Chicago all summer and then we’ve had big, dark thunderstorms for the past two days. It’s kind of neat. I’d like to be able to go out and play in it.

And then my mind starts to wander towards the bigger picture and I start to appreciate just how amazing this planet is that we live on and how in the end, everything seems to balance out. When there is a draught, there will be a flood. When it is really hot, it will get really cold. When one species disappears, another is born. Granted, these things aren’t always as visible as an all summer draught being followed by torrential rains in August, but they do happen. There have been ice ages and times when the planet was a big ball of molten lava. There are million of species of plants and animals that are now extinct or that have been extinct for millions of years, but there are still new species being discovered every day. For every yin, there is a yang. It’s kind of neat how that works. And while I am going to do my best to not contribute to any more destruction than is absolutely necessary, there is a part of me that wants to tell the rest of the world to relax, that things will turn out okay in the end. Whenever that end may be. Because seriously, even if there was a nuclear war and life as we know it was wiped out, new things would survive and grow and life of some sort would continue on this planet. She’s resilient like that and that makes me unspeakably happy.

Though it will make me that much happier if there isn’t a nuclear war and life as we know it is not destroyed on this planet. I kind of like things the way they are now, what with the torrential downpours and everything.

I have a new question to ask Moby if I ever meet him again. "How does it feel to have been a part of one of the dumbest movies ever made?" By which I mean Joe's Apartment. Though he could probably then retort back at me, "Who is the dumber person -- the one who is part of a dumb movie, or the one who watches said dumb movie to see the first dumb person in it?" Or something like that. He'd probably phrase it better.

Oh! Random side note. Pleather is really good for my ego.

I just got an e-mail from my mom informing me that there is now another option of what to do with your body after you die. Cremation and burial will be things of the past once word gets out that a new procedure has been developed wherein all of the carbon in a dead person’s body can be extracted and formed into a diamond.

My friends have been discussing the ethics of the diamond industry as of late because apparently diamond miners have been working in some absolutely horrid conditions and so on and so forth. I don’t know all of the logistics of it, but we’ve been talking diamonds. So I wonder how they would feel about turning their deceased loved ones into diamonds? “What a beautiful engagement ring!” “Thank you. It was my grandmother.” “Your grandmother gave you that ring?” “No, my grandmother WAS this ring.” Kind of neat, kind of creepy. But if it could save a miner’s life…

I don’t know. My first reaction is that this is something we shouldn’t be tampering with. Bury people without a casket and in a few million years, they will be diamonds anyway. And calling someone you really loved a “gem” would take on a whole new meaning. I don’t know that I would want to wear my ancestors like that. And if this really caught on, would it then become fashionable to be overweight because a higher body mass means more carbon, hence a bigger diamond that you can leave behind for your great grandchildren? And it would help out with the problem of over crowded graveyards and such. I don’t know. The whole thing just strikes me as odd. Then again, so do being put in a box six feet under the ground and/or being burned until you are nothing but ashes that are kept in a jar on somebody’s mantel piece. I guess being turned into a diamond would be more aesthetically pleasing. But then how would someone estimate the value of said diamond? “This stone is a little bit flawed, so I would estimate its value at $3,000.” “This stone used to be Elizabeth Taylor.” “This stone is worth $46,000,000.”

Eep. Now I have a case of the willies to accompany my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad headache. I should have stayed home.

I have a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad headache today. The kind of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad headache that makes me think I should have called in sick today. But get this – my bizarre sense of responsibility told me that the vast majority of my co-workers were probably flooded in or stuck in traffic somewhere and seeing as I had no problems whatsoever getting to work this morning, I should come in to make sure the office is covered. Which it is. And I now want very much to go home. The Advil I took this morning is doing nothing for me.

So I go to a club last night to try to combat this horrible case of the SELF-DOUBTS I’ve been having lately. I hate the SELF-DOUBTS. They are this strange, hairy, brown-eyed monster that sits in your chest, breeding all of your worst fears and making you feel like your heart is breaking. SD (for short) pays me semi-regular visits and has been hanging out quite a bit lately, what with the failed audition, the completion of filming, the lack of groovy concerts to look forward to now that summer is coming to a close. I have been getting some really nice e-mails from some of you lately and I want you to know that they are very much appreciated. Thank you. But the SELF-DOUBTS still like to hang out from time to time. So in an attempt to get rid of SD, I went for a two and a half mile walk last night, wherein I convinced myself that going to see Sasha would be a good thing. So I went. I called a couple of other friends to see if they were going and couldn’t get in touch with anyone, but I went anyway.

The guy who opened for Sasha was cute, thus enforcing my theory that one must be hot to spin records. He could scratch and had some really sweet tunes, but his transitions were ass and his song selection was really random. I kind of wish my techno friend had been there, partially to enjoy the tunes, and partially so I could say to him, “See? You’re better than this guy. Get a demo CD out there so you can spin for more people than your current circle of friends.” But he wasn’t. Or if he was there, I didn’t know about it. I staked out a place by the railing on the second floor for a while, then wandered around and moved in closer to the DJ booth. I love watching DJs who jump and get really into their tunes. I can’t help but smile at cute, blond, spiky-haired jumping boys. There is something so innocent and unabashed about it – I love it. But anyway, around 12:30, I’m trying to decide if I should stay or go because Sasha still hasn’t come on yet, but it is a school night, but I paid a lot of money to see Sasha and…you know. So I stick it out a little while longer, long enough to see him come on around one in the morning. I’m so glad I waited. He was on fire. Great tunes, great mixes. I ventured down to the dance floor to see if I could find my friend, but it was so packed I couldn’t see anything.

Now, keep in mind, this is not the sort of place that single women typically go alone. You see these packs of women walking around with hankies tied around their boobs as if it was a shirt, a cigarette in one hand, and a drink in the other. There is a lot of pastel lipstick and body glitter and so on and so forth. Or you see the guy who you’re pretty sure is gay because no straight man dresses like that being dragged around by some chick in a painted-on dress who is okay with dating the man in the closet because he’s oh so sexy with his tousled hair and sunglasses in a nightclub. And then there’s me. Wearing a bad orange polyester shirt I got for free from the costume studio where I used to work, men’s Gap jeans I bought with a gift certificate, and black shoes. I’m not there to pick anyone up. I’m not there to be picked up. I’m there to enjoy the loud, thumping bass. And usually I am successful at not being picked up, but as I am standing there behind the speakers, entranced in the wonderful sounds of Sasha, bargaining with myself for one more song (You did take a nap earlier. But you have to get up in four hours. Yeah, but it’s not like work really requires my full brain capacity. And so on and so forth), this random guy starts talking to me. Random guy is one of four people who spoke to me last night. One shot girl asked me if I needed a shot. One random dancing woman said something to me I didn’t understand and went back to dancing. One other random guy asked me why I wasn’t dancing. And now this guy. So when he said hello, I said hello. When he asked my name, I asked his. When he asked if I was enjoying the show, I said I was. When he shoved his tongue down my throat, I left. Pulled out the “my boyfriend is on the dance floor” line and went home.

Little tip for those of you who like to kiss strangers in clubs – make sure you’re good at it first. When kissing, lead with the lips. Not the teeth, not the tongue. The lips. There is no justification for you to trigger the other person’s gag reflex when kissing, except if the kiss was unwelcome in the first place or you are just plain repulsive and the gag reflex has more to do with the fact that you didn’t bathe that it has to do with the actual kiss itself.

So I enjoyed some really good music last night that helped a little bit with the SELF-DOUBTS and I am kind of proud of myself for going to a club because I wanted to go, regardless of whether or not my friends were going. Takes me back to my days when my own independence was my number one priority. But yeah, I’m going to have to either dress frumpier or not talk to anyone at all when I go to clubs by myself from now on. I think I can handle frumpy.

I would like to take a moment this morning to sing the praises of Jamie Lee Curtis. She posed for a magazine in her underwear, sans make-up, sans a hairdresser, sans airbrushing. Her motivation behind this photo shoot was to show the entire world that she does not have a perfect body because women in their 40’s should not be trying to make themselves look like all of the lollipop actresses and models out there. She has a little tummy roll. She has normal sized thighs. There is, of course, an “after” picture, too, that shows exactly what all of the lights and make-up and hair artists and whatnot can do to hide her imperfections, but I really have a lot of respect for her right now. To do that, as a woman who is so respected and admired by so many people really says something for her character. I’m glad that someone is stepping up and saying, “Check me out, I’m not perfect. It’s okay for you to not be perfect, too.” It’s about fuckin’ time.

So thank you to Jamie Lee Curtis. Had I a hat, I would doff it in your general direction.

I did have a really nice day yesterday, though. I know I've said it before and I'll probably say it again but I have some really wonderful friends. I hope that they know that I know that and I hope they know how happy I am that they are in my life.

I heard from the director of Mix Tape this weekend. According to him, the film should be done by the end of this calendar year. He has a rough cut that is shaping up nicely (apparently), and is aiming for the end of the year to have it done. And the fact that he called me unsolicited to tell me this makes me really want to believe it.

Wouldn't that be cool? If both Mix Tape and Leftover Voices were done and released around the same time? I'll just sit back over here and watch my hopes climb way up high...

I fucked up another audition this weekend. Yeah, the musical one? I get there and find out it is a musical written by one of my college professors and I am pretty sure that unless he begs and pleads with the directors of the show, I will not be called back. I choked big time on the song. Amazing Grace. Who can’t sing Amazing Grace? Apparently I can’t. It was bad. Really bad. I know this. And no, I’m not okay with it. I’m okay with not being in this show – the director also seemed to have issues with the fact that I’ve been doing more film work than theater. You know what? Screw him. Acting is acting. I’ve talked about that before – there are different challenges and advantages when doing both film and theater and I don’t think that either one is a less valid medium than the other. But anyway, no it doesn’t bother me that I won’t be in this play. It bothers me that my throat closed up and I sounded like a strangled frog while I was trying to sing. I was walking around my house all morning singing to warm up and I sounded good. I listened to my song on CD in my car while I was driving the other day (and it actually occurred to me that it could sound kind of pop-ish) and didn’t cringe. I’m getting used to my voice on my own. But put me in front of other people…

I do take some solace in the fact that Liz Phair had such crippling stage fright that she wouldn’t tour. And I do take some solace in the fact that I am not a musical theater person or an opera singer. But it still bothers me that I have problems singing in front of people. I think I need to go into a studio, no matter what it takes, and lay down a few tracks and listen to them over and over and over and over until I get used to the way I sound and start to really like the way I sound, not in my head, but through my ears, you know? But I still feel silly approaching one of my friends or my uncle or a total stranger and asking them to record me. But you know what? If I’m ever going to get over this whole singing thing, I have to do something about it. Join a band. Start a band. Do an open mic night. Make a record. Something. Because this is getting ridiculous.

On the up side, I brought my leftover tofu scramble to work with me for breakfast this morning. So no, I did not get to stay home on this icky day, but I did have a really yummy hot breakfast. Yummy hot breakfasts are good.

I’m tired and lethargic and really don’t want to be here today. How are you on this lovely, rainy, icky, gray Monday?

I don’t mind icky and rainy and gray, really. I like rainy days. The number one thing that drove me nuts the summer I was in LA was that it never rained. Two months, hardly a drizzle. So a good rainy day is nice every now and again, but add the tiredness and the lethargy to the icky rainy grayness and you get a perfect day to stay home, eat oatmeal, and watch really bad movies with your cat. I would say with my cat, but he’s not really up for rent, so you’d have to find your own cat if you wanted to watch movies with a cat. Or you could come over and we could both watch movies with my cat. Whatever. It’s just not a good day to be at work, you know? Is there such a thing as a good day to be at work?

So yeah, you can anticipate plenty of random Kitty complaining today. I’m expecting a slow day at the office and I had kind of an odd weekend. So let me begin by saying a very big HAPPY BIRTHDAY to a very dear friend of mine with great hair and I’ll bitch about the rest of it in a little bit. I’m going to schedule my meetings first. So give me about twenty minutes…

So as I said, tonight is the last night of shooting for me on this film I’m currently working on, if everything goes well. And this makes me happy because I can cut off my fingernails tonight after we’re done shooting. Long fingernails are pretty and all, but they get to a point where they are just annoying and make guitar playing difficult and whatnot, so I like keeping them short. Plus, I have really long fingers anyway, so long fingernails can look, I dunno, menacing or something. Not really.

But I digress. Tonight is the last night of shooting and it will contain my first on-screen kiss. I’ve done stage kisses before and they aren’t that big of a deal and this one shouldn’t be either, except I just ate a very large number of pickles. There is a very large group of very important people having a very long meeting in our office today, so they catered in lunch. And while my co-workers were scavenging the remaining cookies, I was scavenging the remaining pickles. And celery. And tomatoes. Yes, I’m odd. I know. You should be used to that by now. But yeah, I ate a lot of pickles and I’m sure my scene partner will love me for it. Ten years from now when I’m famous, someone will interview him and say, “You worked with Kitty on Missing the Sunrise. What was it like to kiss her?” And he’ll reply, “She’s a lovely girl and a very talented actress, but she tasted very strongly of pickle.” Ah well. I guess it could be worse.

Oh! And I thought of something else that I would call sexy. Nine Inch Nails’ music. Though this one has a qualifier on it. Nine Inch Nails is not sexy in the “Oh, you’re so wonderful, I want to spend the rest of my life with you and have your children” kind of way. It is sexy in the “I want you in me right now” kind of way. The rough, dirty kind of sexy.

I probably should have kept that to myself, huh?

I went to a new grocery store last night and man, was I like a kid in a candy store. It is a kind of health-food/organic/vegan friendly grocery store, so I’m running around reading the labels on everything, amazed at how much stuff I can eat there. Well, not literally running, but you know what I mean. I can’t go in to places like that with a shopping cart or I’ll buy the whole store. As it is, I bought a little more than I wanted to, but it all looked so tasty and healthy and comforting. But I did buy a couple of things I have never tried before like sprung wheat raisin bread. The ingredients are organic sprung wheat and organic raisins. That’s it. I have no idea how (or why) they make this bread, but I bought a loaf to try it. I wouldn’t call it “scrumptious” but it does kind of take care of that craving for something from the bakery in the morning. Put half of a half-dead banana with it and you get…a pretty unsatisfying breakfast that gives you a sense of self-righteousness that you can’t get from any bakery.

What am I talking about? I love eating like this. I really do feel good about the fact that I am subsisting on nothing but plant matter. I wish my basket at the grocery store last night hadn’t been so heavy so I could have invested some time in finding out what was in the make-up and bath products they were selling at this store. Though I have to admit that if I adopted the vegan lifestyle, I would have a really hard time giving up silk. The cruelest of all of the natural fibers. I’m a seamstress! I love the way that silk flows and feels and let’s face it, linen lingerie just isn’t as sexy as silky stuff. Not that I have much use for sexy lingerie right now, but still. The dress I’m wearing today is kind of silky and does this cute little twirly thing when I walk. Though I think its synthetic. I’ll have to check next time I’m in the restroom. I guess I could wear synthetics and cotton and linen. I dunno. I need to lay off the crack.

I wonder if my cat knows it is a sign of affection when I kiss him or if it is an annoyance that he can't figure out. The same way I don't understand why he feels it necessary to sleep on my photograph collection.

Hooray for inter-species relationships.

Man, I’m tired. I can’t seem to get enough sleep, no matter when I go to bed. And I keep having these dreams that I remember quite vividly when I wake up, to the point where I feel the need to ask people if that really happened or not. Last night’s dream involved American Idol and one of the contestants wearing this beautiful Middle Eastern gown with a veil on her head and one of the audience members yelled at her to take off the veil ‘cuz it made her look like Mother Teresa. I’m guessing it was a dream, anyway, because I doubt any of the female contestants on American Idol would wear something that covered up so much of her body.

But yeah, I’m tired. And I have another kind of long weekend ahead of me. My last day of shooting on this film is tomorrow night and then I have an audition on Saturday that I am pretty sure I am going to screw up really badly because there is singing involved. I’m getting this really bizarre sense of confidence in my voice where when I am at home or in my car, I have no problem belting out a song and I actually think it sounds great, but the thought of singing in front of people still scares the crap out of me. Even if they are people who have heard me sing in the past and say I sound good. So I guess on Saturday, I just have to go in there and pretend I am singing by myself at home. I would feel much better, though, if I could practice my song with an accompanist. Maybe I should just go in there and do Amazing Grace or something. I dunno.

Please forgive my tired ramblings. I’ll hopefully have something more interesting to talk about later.

They were talking about hats on the radio this morning. One of the DJs says he is thinking of getting into wearing hats and one of the other DJs suggested he wear one of those ski caps with the pom poms on top during the winter. May I take a moment to point out just how ugly those hats are? Those hats are one of those things that the fashion industry is pushing on the general populace just to illustrate how tightly they have us wound around their little fingers, like those socks with individual toes on them or thongs. Well I say nay! I will not wear one of those silly Sherpa hats this winter! I will not be ruled by a bunch of designers who refuse to make pants for women who actually have hips!

But anyway, I wanted to talk about hats for a minute and share with you a wonderful little tidbit of fashion history. Because as we all know, prior to about the early nineteen-sixties, people wore hats all of the time. It was considered unthinkable to leave the house without a hat on (please pardon my Chicagoan dangling preposition there). And if you take a look around today as you are walking the streets, you will see that very few people are wearing hats and most of the hats that are being worn are ratty old baseball caps on guys who were too lazy to shower before they left the house. You will see the occasional cabby hat or girl in a really cute hat and those people are interesting to me, but I digress. Not many people wear hats anymore and you want to know why? Would you like to know what fabulous incident made hats unfashionable? Would you like to know what moment in history can be pointed at and blamed for the lack of hats in general American society today? Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway. You need look no further than the presidency of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The smartest president this country has ever had would go outside without a hat. Look back at footage of his speeches or photographs of him. There is nary a hat in sight. Well, not on his head, anyway. Jackie O still wore hers and cute little things they were, too. But after a while, even she stopped wearing hats in public. So the general American public stopped wearing hats.

I sometimes wonder if it had been one of the lesser known/lesser loved presidents who had not worn a hat in public, if the trend would have caught on the way it did. Or if he would have even been able to get away with it. Would he have been scorned by the general American public and shamed into wearing hats again, or are we such a bunch of mindless sheep that we’ll follow anyone’s fashion trends?

I like hats. I collect hats. I’ve made a few hats in my day, some of them quite hideous. I don’t always look good in hats because I have a particularly large head (have to put all of that brain somewhere, right?), but when I find a good hat, I like to wear it. I do not like those stores in the mall that call themselves Hat World or Every Hat Under the Sun or something silly like that and then only carry baseball caps with every conceivable major sports team logo on them. I want to go into those places and ask for a bowler or a cloche hat or something and watch the clerks panic because they have no idea what I’m talking about. But once again, I digress. I say we need another president to wear hats again. A president we can all love and admire and who does wonderful things for this country. Okay, maybe we need a president like that anyway and maybe it will be a while before one comes along, but wouldn’t it be nice if he/she was wearing a hat when he/she did come along?

I would like to take a brief moment to sing the praises of the Chicago Diner. And that is singing in the figurative sense only as I need to save my voice for an audition on Saturday. I’m auditioning for a musical, can you believe it?

Anyway, the Chicago Diner. I went there for the first time on Saturday for dinner and had the no meat fajitas. I told myself I was going to eat something with seitan in it because the one and only time I tried cooking seitan for myself at home, it was so disgusting the mere mention of the word would trigger my gag reflex. But these fajitas were excellent. I scarfed down the whole plate, along with a strawberry-blueberry smoothie to start with and a blueberry muffin to go. Everything was fantastic and entirely vegan friendly. Even my non-vegan friends who went with me for dinner enjoyed their meals. So last night, I returned to use a gift certificate I had received as a thank you from my house guests from this past weekend. I had the tempeh burger with home fries, a strawberry-peach-orange juice smoothie, and a cherry chocolate chip muffin to go (which I just had for breakfast this morning). And again, the food was fabulous and even the omnivores at the table were satisfied with their meals. And the waitstaff is friendly, eclectic and efficient. So to make a long story short (too late), I think the Chicago Diner is my new favorite restaurant. I need to take everyone I know there and if I have to do it one at a time, so be it. It will give me a chance to try everything on the menu.

I must say it was really neat to go there for the first time and see an entire menu full of things that I can eat. It’s been a while since I experienced that and it was kind of nice. I love being an herbivore but it certainly isn’t easy. And while most restaurants and such are nice and accommodating, it was nice to fit in somewhere again. I did lots of little happy dances while I was eating. The strawberry-peach-oj smoothie was divine. I highly recommend picking one up if you have the means.

Oh, and for right now, anyway, I think I am going to refer to myself as an herbivore as opposed to a vegan since I have not yet fully adopted the vegan lifestyle. Though the longer I go without eating animal products, the guiltier I feel about the fact that my watchband is leather and there is wool in my couch and such. I’m thinking that if I decided at the end of a year to keep this up, then I will make it a goal to adopt the vegan lifestyle as well. Of course, this may be contingent on my financial situation at the time, but if I have the means, I will probably go for it. I like being an herbivore.

Oh, and the Chicago Diner rocks.

I’m in one of those “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again” kind of moods today, can you tell?

It was re-illustrated to me this weekend just exactly how much I love watching people do what they love to do. Watching David Bowie and Busta Rhymes and Moby and Sander each making their own variety of music. Watching my friends dance in ungodly heat. The grins on my vegan friend’s faces as they ate the cake I baked for them and then offered me vegan mint Oreo-type cookies in return. Seeing these things makes me smile so big I feel like my mouth is going to overtake my entire face so I am just one giant cheesy grin like that smiley face that is so popular on the message boards nowadays. Except not green. ‘Cuz I’m not green. Yet. One day, I could be green. I’ve heard it’s not easy, though, so maybe I should be happy I’m not green.

But anyway, it makes me insanely happy to see people doing what they love to do. It warms my heart and makes me smile and fills my eyes with tears of joy. And you all think I’m being silly, but it’s true. Watch me next time I’m watching my techno friends spin or I’m watching the Oscars or something. I like to see happy people doing what they love to do and are passionate about. It is a truly beautiful thing.

On a happier note, I know I've said it before, and I'll probably say it again, but if you have the means, you really must see Sander Kleinenberg live. He is phenomenal. And REALLY NICE to look at.

That is all.

I had a snobbish actor moment this weekend, too. It was mildly irritating at the time, but kind of funny in retrospect.

I’m working on a film right now with some first time filmmakers. I’ve already told you that I like working with new filmmakers. It’s fun, it’s relaxed, and I feel like I am doing something to perpetuate an industry I really love. These particular filmmakers, however, probably should have done a smidge more research before deciding to shoot. For example, I was told that my call time for Friday night was 7:30pm. Me, being the overeager actor that I am, showed up about 7:25 so I could be ready to shoot at 7:30 if need be. I was the first person there. Another actor showed up about ten minutes later. Phone calls were placed to the director and production manager and messages were left. A half an hour after I was told to be there, the director called me back to tell me they were running late.

Now, I’ve already told you (I believe) that I am perpetually early. For everything. And it drives me nuts that I am friends with people who are perpetually late. For everything. But when it comes to lateness, there is a critical point that you get to when you know for an absolute concrete fact that you will not be there on time and it is at that point that one usually exercises common courtesy and places a telephone call to alert the party waiting on the other end that one will be late for said engagement. If you’re going to be late for work or a date or a dentist appointment, you call and let them know. Beforehand. Even if you oversleep and have to call work and tell them you will be late, you call them immediately, just to let them know. It is proper lateness etiquette. Seeing as this etiquette was ignored this past weekend, I was a smidge annoyed when the director and entire production crew showed up to the location an hour late.

So I’m sitting there, annoyed that things are running late, annoyed that the director now doesn’t seem to care about the quality of the shots so much as he cares about cranking them out, and I’m thinking to myself, “Don’t you people know who I am?” It was such a snooty actor moment. Like I deserve different/better treatment on set because I’m one of the actors. Because I’m an actor who had been in a bunch of as-of-yet unedited independent films. I’m a supporting character in this film. And then it occurs to me that no, these people don’t know who I am because I’m not anybody. Yet. But even when I become somebody (by which I mean a well-known actor), I don’t ever want to yell at someone, “Don’t you know who I am?” That is such a horrible thing to say to people. Such a horrible way to go about getting what you want.

Maybe that’s what’s bugging me about this weekend – I had some very humbling moments that made me see that I could become the person I least want to be. I’ll have to try harder to avoid becoming her. It takes too much effort to be mean.

I’m tired and sad today. I can’t help it. I’m tired and sad. It was a long weekend that was emotionally exhausting and now I’m back at work and my left eye hurts and I just got a tidbit of news that makes me unbelievably sad. I really want to take a moment and just cry and get it out of my system but it’s hard to do that at work, you know?

I am a sad and pathetic person. I spend a lot of time in this little fantasy world that I have created wherein things go the way I want them to go. Wherein I never have to worry about showing up to a film set on time and having the director and entire production crew be an hour late and then get annoyed with me for asking if someone could have told me prior to their being a half an hour late that they were running late in the first place (yes, that actually happened). Wherein dinner plans don’t have to be rearranged eighteen times before I can sit down and eat with people whose company I enjoy( yes, that actually happened). Wherein Moby is a part of my life.

I went to Area2 on Thursday and had a really good time. I would have had a better time if I had been closer to the stage because, let’s face it, the energy of the crowd in the pit and on the lawn are two very different beasts. I was in limbo land between the pit and the lawn. But I still had a lovely time and almost managed to get high off of other people’s pot fumes. I have to say that David Bowie playing “Heroes” was probably the highlight of the night for me. To see such an incredible performer play such an incredible song live…I get teary-eyed thinking about it. He was playing tunes that are as old as me. There aren’t many acts on the radio today who I expect will be around 25 years from now – Brittany Spears? The Backstreet Boys lasted for what, three years or so? Its almost like married couples – the instance of a steadfast, long lasting career musician seems to be getting more and more scarce, the same way it seems almost strange now to have friends whose parents are still married. So to see David Bowie live, to be in the same vicinity as him, while he played music that is just as vital and valid today as it was when he wrote it so long ago…I’m not going to forget that. Ever.

But after the show, I waited outside to once again see if I could meet Moby. I had a copy of the picture I took with him in Columbus that I was going to try to get him to sign and a copy of my techno friend’s CD to give Moby ‘cuz I think he would like it and I think my techno friend is really talented and should be heard. But I waited and waited with a bunch of other people from Moby’s message boards, some coming from other states in the hopes of meeting their idol. And Moby did not come out. None of the people working at the venue was very helpful; most weren’t even very nice, and none seemed to have the same story about what was going on, i.e. where his bus was, had he left yet, etc., etc., etc. So I put my faith in the medical staff that was working the venue when the told us that they had to be there as long as Moby was there – when they were dismissed, that meant he was gone. It makes sense, right? At about half past midnight, they were dismissed and we had not seen so much as one speck of stubble on his cute bald head, but I took their word for it and left. I was sad. I was disillusioned. He seemed so accessible in Columbus, like a normal person, you know? Someone who loves meeting his fans and interacting with people in general. And you add to that the fact that people keep telling me how great he and I look in the picture of the two of us, or how we look like we’re married and stuff (yes, I've actually heard that), and I start to get my hopes up that one day, he might know my name, remember me, and start a conversation with me, as opposed to going the other way around. I let my fantasy world build this little retreat wherein I can call him up on the phone whenever and just chat. Wherein we are friends. So it was disheartening to get that slap in the face from reality. That reminder that Moby is Super-Ultra-Mega-Rock Star and I am Kitty the Peon sitting at my desk in an office pushing pieces of paper around on a desk so my co-worker can get reimbursed for the ninety-five cents in tolls he paid on a business trip. I’m not blaming anyone and I’m not going to turn into some stalker who insists that Moby has to know I’m alive or anything like that. It was just a wake up call to tell me how sad and pathetic my little fantasy world is and it hasn’t been so much fun hanging out there since then. It is a very sad thing to have to say good bye to a dream, no matter how silly the dream is.

So the next day I went to brunch with a friend who I met in person for the first time that morning. We had been communicating electronically for a while and it was so lovely to finally meet her. She is just as wonderful in person as she is online and I can see our friendship growing and strengthening in the future which makes me happy. Good girl friends are hard to come by and an absolute treasure when you find them (and I hope I’m not making her feel funny by saying that). But Moby came on in the restaurant where we were eating and it hit me that even though I did not get to see him again, even though the part he will play in my life will be a role played from a distance, oblivious to this adoring audience member, I am still glad that he is in the world and making music. Moby really is a credit to the human race. There need to be more people like him out there and I will continue to enjoy is music for years to come. A small piece of my fantasy world was restored.

And this morning, I logged onto Moby’s message boards to say how nice it was to meet some of the other boardies and how fun the concert was and I find out that had I waited ten minutes longer than I had, I could have met him. I gave up too soon. Other people got to see him, hug him, have him sign things. And I went home sad.

So today I feel crappy. I’m sorry, but I do. I hate that I do. I hate that I am so starved for intellectual stimulation that I get my hopes up so high about meeting a man who I won't even really get to converse with. I hate that it means so much to me to see a man I don’t know, have no chance with, and who is only mildly aware of my existence for all of thirty seconds but it does. It goes back to that “I am only invisible to the people I want to see me” thing. I wish it didn’t matter that I didn’t see Moby again. I wish I could be content with meeting him in Columbus and listening to his records. I am insanely jealous of the people who waited that extra ten minutes. And I don’t like it that I feel that way. It’s not healthy. I need to get over it.

For the record, I still will not stalk Moby. I will not make it my mission in life to find him and make him like me. That is ridiculous and contrary to everything he stands for. It just hurts to know that had I waited just a little bit longer, my fantasy world would still be in tact. This feels like another little reminder that my fantasy world is not supposed to be. So I’m going to go do a travel voucher now and try not to cry.

There are days when I think I should get cable simply so that I can watch Gilmore Girls without squinting. It would be nice to be able to tell if Jess is cuter than Dean.

*sigh*

You won’t be reading any new blogs from me for a couple of days because I have a whirlwind weekend ahead of me that I am really excited about.

Tomorrow, I go to Area2 to see Moby again. With David Bowie. And Blue Man Group. And Digweed. And Busta Rhymes. And a couple good friends of mine. And it is supposed to be absolutely gorgeous outside. I’m so excited. It is going to be an amazing show. I would really really love it if I could meet Moby again, or run into him again or something (you can’t really meet someone more than once, now, can you?), though I need to start preparing myself for that to not happen. It’s really starting to hit me just how sad it is that I am this big of a fan of Moby. It probably isn’t healthy to like someone so much who you don’t even really know. I should work on that. Friday. For now, I’m geeking about the show tomorrow.

And the Windy City Lindy Exchange is happening again this weekend. I’m expecting a lot of behind the scenes disasters, but that in general, fun will be had by all. I’m really glad I’m not organizing it this year. It will be good to see my out of town friends, though. There are a couple of vegans coming to town and I can’t wait to go out to eat with them! I felt horrible at the wedding over the weekend for requesting a special meal and I still thank the wonderful people at Maggiano’s for accommodating me. But how nice it will be to eat with people who don’t find my eating habits strange and who I won’t feel like I am inconveniencing them with my special requests and who won’t find it necessary to point out the vegetarian meals on the menu for me. In many ways, I am looking forward to that moreso than I am looking forward to all of the dancing that will be happening this weekend. Particularly considering I won’t be at most of the dancing because…

I’m filming this weekend. And…

Sander Kleinenberg is spinning on Friday night. I’m so excited for that show, too. I read an interview with Sander this morning from his website and he said he has a lot of respect for Moby and his career and wouldn’t mind remixing a Moby song. I knew I liked Sander.

So yeah, I should have plenty to talk about next week when I am back at my post here. Or plenty of stuff to allude to but not talk about, depending on how the weekend goes. Needless to say, I will be surrounded by wonderful people and wonderful music and beautiful weather, so I am anticipating having a really great time. Here’s hoping!

I have been told many a time that I have this energy about me that attracts people. One of those things that people can’t quite put their finger on but they know its there and it inspires them to be around me. I don’t know. I know I’m a pretty unique individual and I’m pretty easy to get along with, but I feel weird talking about my aura like that. Like I’m being egotistical or something. So just go with me when I say that other people have told me they have experienced it and believe me, I blush every time they tell me that.

I do have these occasional moments, though, when I can tell that someone is feeling it, particularly for the first time. Usually because they keep trying to steal glances at me without me noticing. And the glances turn into stares until I catch them, at which point they make brief eye contact and get this flash of an excited look in their eyes before they turn into a deer in headlights and look away. It’s kind of cute. And as soon as I look away, they are looking at me again.

I know, I sound horrible. I had one of these encounters last night and I really wanted to just talk to the guy, let him know that I’m a normal person. But I know that there are times when you really want to just look at someone. Notice the way they move. See how their hand connects to their wrist to their arm up to their shoulder. Take note of how their mouth moves when they are smiling and when they are still. I know because I have had those moments when I want to just look at someone and I find myself being caught staring and I look away. Its kind of flattering that someone would want to study my physicality like that. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, though – I don’t think I deserve to be studied. I’m not that extraordinary. Just talk to me.

I went to a meeting/rehearsal last night to learn Esperanto. Well, how to say my lines in Esperanto, anyway. Vi estas cxarma kiel stelo. Mi amas vin. And so on and so forth. Useful stuff. Kind of. It was fun to listen to the Esperanto expert speaking in full sentences and stuff. It really is a nice sounding language. All of the research I had been doing on the net said that there is no accent associated with the language, but the guy last night (who was VERY ATTRACTIVE, by the way) said that it has a cadence similar to Italian. So it sounds like a beautiful romance language with the occasional Germanic sound in it. It’s fun.

I’m thinking, though, that Esperanto is one of those things that is a wonderful idea but will probably not catch on. At least not in my lifetime. For those of you who don’t know, Esperanto is a language that was made up in 1887, I believe, by a man who wanted to make a universal language that everyone could learn really easily and that was easy to speak and to write. It’s a nice idea, but there is so much tradition associated with language and dialects and stuff and in a way, I would hate to homogenize the world like that. I love the sound of German. I love talking to people from other English speaking countries who have different accents and vernacular phrases than I do and so on and so forth. I can understand that the Euro makes things easier between cultures, but I’d hate to lose the history of all of the existing languages on the planet. Though I wouldn’t mind learning Esperanto just to know it. Kind of like Latin. But I really want to learn German, first. I need to stop working so I can just go learn stuff.

I would like (you would, would you?), if I may (you may NOT), to take a moment (where ya gonna take it?) to pay tribute to corduroy.

I know, all you Rocky Horror fans out there are either cringing and trying to not reach over here and punch me in the face for my slaughter of such a wonderful/horrible film or you're laughing your asses off at my brilliant wit right now. I'm guessing the former. But just go with me for a minute on this. Think about how wonderful corduroy is. So soft. So cottony. So comfortable. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer (if you're talking about big, baggy corduroy pants, that is, which I happen to be, thank you very much). Corduroy is a wonderful fabric that can be used for any number of garments -- pants, coats, dresses, underpants. "No man is ever going to wear corduroy underpants." Okay, maybe not underpants, but plenty of other things. It can be used as upholstery or in accessories. It's so versatile. They even named a cartoon bear after the stuff. I, myself, made a frog puppet (the Frog formerly known as Prince) out of purple corduroy and I very nearly melted when a little boy, probably no more than four years old, came up to the Frog after a performance, threw his arms around the Frog's neck and hugged and kissed him. Hooray for corduroy! I have a pair of dark green corduroy pants that I plan on wearing until they disintegrate in front of my eyes. I will take them off to wash them and occasionally wear other things and such, but I love my dark green corduroy pants. I think everyone should have a pair of dark green corduroy pants. They make the world that much more comfy. If we could all just take a moment to say, "Yay corduroy!" I would very much appreciate it. "Yay corduroy!" Thank you. That was lovely. Corduroy appreciates it, too.

We now return you from this ramble to your regularly scheduled rambling.

Thank you.

I was re-reading some old journal entries of mine last night, old, hand written ones. I was laughing at myself for my temporary crushes and minor obsessions and thought patterns that seem so familiar, yet so ancient somehow. I found one line, though, in one of the entries that I think was the beginnings of a story that struck me. “I’m only invisible to the people I want to see me.”

I feel like I should expound on that, but I’m not sure how. Yes, I still feel that way sometimes. Like with that dance instructor from a couple of months ago or the really cute guy on the train or the dancer who is in from out of town for two days or the film and theater directors I really admire or the guy in orange. These are the people I want to really see me – to take note of not only my existence, but of my aura and energy and all of that nifty esoteric stuff. Yet it is a rare occurrence that they do see me. It usually turns out to be the person I least want to talk to who sits down next to me at the bar. Granted, the conversation is usually better than I had anticipated, so by all means, please keep coming up to me and talking to me. My god, that sounds snobbish, doesn’t it? Okay, you all have the right to never speak to me again for my elitist attitude. Which will knock me off my pedestal and maybe people will talk to me again someday.

That took a turn that I really wasn’t expecting it to take. Getting back on track…

“I’m only invisible to the people I want to see me.” I wonder how I could go about changing that. I wonder if I want to go about changing it. I bet I shouldn’t even worry about it. And by not worrying about it, I bet the people I want to see me will. Isn’t life strange like that?

Oh, technology, why must you hate me so?

Everyone else in the world can download pictures from a digital camera to his or her computer. So you would think that if you handed me a digital camera and enough software and hardware to choke a small-ish whale that I, too, would be able to download pictures from a digital camera onto my computer. But alas, I cannot. Woe is me.

Hey, if I'm going to live in the dark ages, unable to download pictures from a digital camera onto my computer, I may as well talk as if I lived in the dark ages, mayn't I?

I went to another wedding this weekend and you all know what that means. It’s time for another installment of “Kitty Waxes Poetic About What She Wants, Thereby Scaring Away Any and All Possible Suitors.” Because yes, I am that picky.

It really was a lovely wedding. The bride looked like a bride out of a fashion magazine or something – she was gorgeous. And the groom looked great, too. Granted, I know him well enough to know that he has never nor probably will ever own a tuxedo, so he looked a little bit not himself in one, but it was a nice tux and he looked good, so all was well. And I have to give a very special thanks to the lovely staff at Maggiano’s for accommodating me and my strange eating habits. They provided me a lovely meal of dressing-less salad, pasta with just plain marinara sauce, and cooked veggies at a moment’s notice with no complaints. It was delicious. And it really did my heart good that other people at my table wanted to partake in my vegan fare. See? It really is good food. I’m not completely insane. So thank you to the staff at Maggiano’s.

And thank you also to the bartenders for getting me nice and toasty drunk. And to my friends who drove me home in my own car. That I didn’t realize was my own car until they told me it was my own car and we were about halfway home. Yes, I was that drunk. But thank you to them nonetheless for getting me home safely and saving me a horrible trip back downtown in the morning to retrieve my car. Surprisingly enough, I really wasn’t hungover the next morning, just kind of dehydrated. I guess my body likes hard liquor.

Anyway, on to what Kitty wants and doesn’t want. This was a lovely wedding, don’t get me wrong. The thing that really struck me about it, though, was that it was a Catholic wedding (minus the mass) and the groom is an adamant atheist. I understand that for her sake he was willing to get married in a church and I applaud him for that. But every time the preacher said something about sharing their love in front of their friends and family and God, I knew the groom was tuning out. How much of that ceremony is he going to remember? How much did that ceremony mean to him? I could be totally wrong in my estimation, but I know that had it been me, I would have been scoffing under my breath every time the preacher said that God thought this was a good thing we were doing here, you know? That could just be me.

So once again, take a walk down fantasy lane with me for a minute and let’s pretend that I will get married one day. Actually, according to this online test, I’ll be married by July 30, 2005. Kind of scary considering my limited prospects, but whatever, it’s an online test. But anyway, assuming I get married, I want the ceremony to mean something to both my husband and I. If he is adamant about getting married in a church, I’ll probably go along with that. But maybe our readings could come from sources other than the Bible or we could write our own vows or something so that we can both remember the ceremony fondly and as being an event of significance in our lives. Or, if he is not a particularly religious sort, we can perhaps work out a ceremony of our own to include all of the people and things that are important to us and the joining of our lives.

Either that, or we’ll elope in Vegas and come home and party with everyone for a week afterwards or something. “I get married in a Chapel ‘O Love?!” Hey, when the moment’s right, the moment’s right.

I have, in the past, received some e-mails from you, my faithful readers, offering to help me out with whatever problem it was that I was having and blogged about that particular day. I can’t even tell you how many air conditioners were offered up and how grateful I was for each and every offer. I love getting e-mails inspired by my blogs. I actually just like e-mailing people and it can be helpful when there is a built in topic of conversation. It’s great and I’ve met some people because of my blog who I may not have met otherwise who are really wonderful people.

So then I go and read the blogs and live journals that belong to these people who I haven’t met before and some that I have met before. There are probably seven or eight online journals that I check daily to see what my friends are thinking about and how they are doing. Its not the most effective mode of communication, but I can then go and congratulate my friends or offer a shoulder to cry on or whatever in a situation where they may not have wanted to or been able to ask for that kind of support, you know? I don’t know. All I know is I read my friend’s blogs and journals and I want to fix everything that is wrong for them. I want them all to know that they are beautiful and loved and very special people even if they didn’t work out today or took a mental day or yelled at a stranger for some unknown reason. Maybe it’s the mother in me, I don’t know. But I wish I could make my friend’s lives as fantastic as they should be.

That being said, I know that sometimes someone will offer to “fix” something that I have blogged about that I may not feel needs fixing. Often times, my blog is purely observational. I’m just pointing things out or thinking out loud, as it were. And my own twisted sense of independence wants to be able to handle everything myself, meaning I want to fix my own problems. So I should extend my friends the same courtesy. So to all of my wonderful, beautiful friends out there who are kind of sad or lethargic or just kind of spacy, please bear with me as I give you an electronic hug and tell you that I love you and if I’m really annoying, its okay to tell me to piss off. ‘Cuz I’ll probably say the same to you one day.

As a follow up to an earlier blog, I did find something that I would define as sexy.

Don't you just love the smell of lighter fluid in the morning?

Yeah, me neither. There are people barbequing their lunches in the courtyard outside my window and while I cannot bear to close the windows on such a lovely day, I fear I might in the forseeable future because the stench of lighter fluid is making me REALLY HAPPY. But not in the good way, you know?

I thought you were supposed to barbeque food, not lighter fluid. What do I know? I eat tofu.

I love rainstorms. I love being in rainstorms. I love watching the lightening and hearing the occasional crash of thunder ripping through the sky. I have a bunch of friends who are petrified by lightening – even when they are in a house or car or the lightening is very far away. I love watching it. Watching the light clouds against a dark sky become dark clouds against a light sky for a second while lightening flashes behind them, like a positive and a negative photograph. Watching the sky cut in half by a burst of light. I know, it’s so elementary, but it is so beautiful. And I got to watch a phenomenal lightening storm from up on my friend’s roof last night while I drank yummy cocktails he mixed up himself. One day soon, I’ll be able to refer to him as “my bartending friend” and I’ll be able to ask him why there are those kind of men and so on and so forth. Sorry, Liz Phair moment. I bet she likes lightening. But yeah, it was lovely. And the drinks were good. And the company was…interesting. But I shouldn’t talk about that on the net. That’s how nasty rumors start.

I would like to propose that while people are traveling, they use the phrase, "Kitty says hi" as frequently as possible. When you accidentally bump into someone walking down the street, "Kitty says hi" can be used in the place of "Pardon me." It can similarly be used in place of "Bless you" when someone sneezes or "Nice to meet you" when shaking hands with a friend or brand new aquaintance. "Kitty says hi" is a wonderful, multi-purpose traveling phrase as well as a great conversation starter as those using it will invariably be asked, "Who's Kitty?" See? Then you have the beginnings of a conversation. And consequently, when I then go traveling, I'll already know everybody. Or at least they will know me and I'll be comfortable everywhere I go. And maybe someone will buy me a drink. Who knows. If that happens, I'll buy a drink for whoever it was that said "Kitty says hi" to that person. If you remember that person and/or that person remembers you.

In conclusion, "Kitty says hi" is a convenient, multi-purpose phrase designed to bring travelers just a little bit closer to one another and maybe get some free drinks. So use it with a smile!

Kitty says hi!

I keep trying to watch the news. There is so much going on in the world right now that I feel like I should be paying attention to. Important stuff like the impending war in the Middle East and whatnot. Who cares that one of our Board members had to phone in to the Board of Trustees meeting last month? Somebody in Chicago must because there was an article in the paper about it. But I feel like I should be aware of what is going on in the world around me. I should pay attention when the show the highlights/lowlights from some congressional committee’s meeting on such and such a day. I should watch presidential speeches and stuff. I should care about the stock market. I was, admittedly, happy to hear it went up a bit the other day. That’s good news. I like good news. But it seems that every time I try to pay attention to the news, I can’t do it. I saw about three minutes of a news broadcast last night wherein they were talking about the bomb that went off in a cafeteria in Israel the day before. One of the women killed was an American student who arrived in Israel the day before to begin a summer study program there. She never got to take one class. She will never take another class. All of the new clothes and books and fun travel gadgets she bought to take with her on her “once in a lifetime” trip to study in Israel will now remain unused or will be carted away as part of the rubble from the explosion. And her parents who were excited and nervous for her, traveling halfway around the world by herself are now experiencing their worst nightmare. And for what? What was gained from that bombing? It was in retaliation for a previous bombing and will probably be greeted with another bombing. It’s a vicious circle that does not end and only produces countless dead bodies, each with a name and a face and a whole life attached to it. A life robbed of its potential, its chance to maybe do something good like stop the fighting, find a cure for some disease, or be a friend to someone who needs one.

So I have problems watching the news. Every time I think I have become too desensitized to violence because I can watch Evil Dead or Saving Private Ryan with barely a flinch, all I have to do is watch the news to rediscover my humanity. I couldn’t even change the channel last night to get away from that report. I got cold shivers all over my body and I watched it, frozen on my couch. I don’t get it. I don’t. So please forgive me if I don’t watch the news every day. I can only handle so much bad news at once.

So my boss is going on vacation for the rest of this week and next and as I was leaving work yesterday, he jokingly said to me, “You’re in charge.” I found myself wishing as I walked out of the office and to my car to go home that instead of replying, “Woo hoo! Nobody is coming in on Friday,” I had said, “Polka dots! Polka dots for everyone!”

But I didn’t. *sigh* Woe is me.