The (un)Real World

I never understand people who claim they have never cried while reading a book. I mean, I believe that they're telling me the truth, I just don't relate to that idea. I'm a notorious crier at movies (I started crying in the opening credits of The Notebook just because I knew what was coming) but when I read books, I get completely lost in them, so absorbed that I laugh and cry right along with the characters, going right into what is commonly known among family as "The Kate Zone," emerging days later a little confused at what year it is and where I am.

Last night Casey decided to watch a man movie so I crawled into bed with my latest book about the French court at Versailles under one of the King Louis (side note: France, there are male names other than Louis. Try a 1,001 Baby Names. Honestly.) It was starting out fantastically, my little peasant heroine fell in love with a courtier who in turn fell in love with her and built her this beautiful chateau and was going to marry her and it was going oh so well. Until Augustine the courtier decided to not only cheat on her but leave my lovely heroine destitute and heartbroken. The fact that I was sobbing during the heart-wrenching scene is a given but I was truly mad at him as well. I crawled out of the bed to grab more tissues, muttering to Augustine about what a genuine d-bag he was, how could you do that Marguerite, was it because she was a peasant? DON'T YOU KNOW THAT TRUE LOVE ONLY COMES AROUND ONCE IN A WHILE YOU IDIOT ? Casey, momentarily distracted from Max Payne, called out to me as I went back to bed, "Did you just mutter something about someone being a bastard???"

I woke up this morning genuinely mad at the entire male race (probably a good thing that my husband was still asleep or my wrath might have landed on an unsuspecting victim) and only after about 12 hours away from the book have I been able to calm down enough to not send death glares at every man that crosses my path.

TMI

Sometimes it really doesn't pay to be friendly.

When strangers at coffee shops or on the phone at work ask me how I am, I always say, "Great. And how are you?" It's always surprising to me how many baristas and check-out people look totally shocked that someone would ask them this question (which might say something about our self-absorbed society, but that is a whole other post) and I admit I always feel cheerier after having a pleasant little exchange on the wonder that is Friday with my barista at Ladro.

This morning I was ready earlier than usual and decided to pop over the Fremont bridge for a change of pace and stop in PCC to grab a latte, sandwich and salad. The sun was shining, the water was beautiful, did I mention it was Friday? I was in an extra-special friendly mood, so as I waltzed up to the espresso counter and smiled at the gal behind it. "Hi," she said flatly. "How are you today?" I shot back a "Wonderful, how are you?"

"You don't want to know," she said, walking slowly over to me. A bit thrown off, I stammered, "I'm sorry."

"I really have to pee."

I just looked at her trying to think of what to say. I'm sorry? Do you want to go now and I'll wait? I don't think was really the answer I was going for?

"And its starting to burn."

Um, yeh.

How does one respond to that kind of statement? I began to seriously regret not only starting a conversation with this woman but also have her prepare my precious morning latte. I sputtered out another, "I'm sorry, that's no fun" while pretending to be throughly involved with searching through my purse for some mythical object that was apparently, very, very important to me because I spent the next few minutes with my head in my bag trying to find it.

She finally, after what felt like 2 years, handed me my latte, and I backed away slowly with a feeble, "Well hope you have a great day" and practically sprinted out to my car.

The dreaded D-E-N-T-I-S-T

From: Mom
To: Kate and Kelsey
Subject: I'm cranky


"I'm cranky because.....I did one of those things we are supposed to do as a responsible adult. I went to the dentist-who by the way is not who makes me cranky, it's his lovely hygienist who by Webster's definition is an expert in hygiene.

Well, I beg to differ. First of all this one is a LOUD mouth breather and I can get a whiff of the garlic french fries she had for lunch even through her mask. And so help me, I understand what "turn toward me and turn away from me" means, I do not need hand signals and a congratulatory "VERY GOOD" every time I get it right. I was so tempted to clamp down on those annoying gesturing fingers it was all I could do to conform to the expected behavior.

And really, doesn't someone look at the size of ones giant hands and decide that they will not fit into the average sized persons mouth? I mean jockeys have to be a certain size as do astronauts, elevator operators, race car drivers, and cubicle workers-OK maybe I've gone too far but I'm telling you all I could think of was the Seinfeld episode where he dated the pretty blond with ginormous digits. And did anyone explain to her that the little vibrating wand was meant to polish the teeth-not the gums, lips and sides of the inner cheeks and the little suction apparatus was meant to remove the excess saliva not spray it all over my face and neck. Thank you Lord she had given me sunglasses or I'd have spit in my eyes as well.

And quite honestly I go to the dentist to update my lying abilities. "Yes I floss everyday and ALWAYS wear my night guard and would NEVER dream of eating a lemon or ice cubes with my pearly whites. I am so glad you think my oral hygiene is much improved over last time because I've made a serious lifestyle change in that department so I can get another VERY GOOD from you every 6 months," not so I can try to answer the same personal questions you ask me every time I come here while your ginormous hands are in my mouth and my jaw is aching. Now I know Kelsey my darling has experienced this same routine so will have sympathy for me - and by the way she wanted to know how your architect studies were going?

Okay now I feel much better having aired my displeasure and have another 6 months before I have to endure it again or try to explain to our very nice dentist why I want my records transferred.

Love to you -I'm off to take some advil and have pudding for dinner. MOM"



This is precisely why I haven't been to a dentist in two years. My teeth can just rot.

MIA Katie Bug

Oh bloggy people, I miss you. I have been a terrible, no good, very bad blogger lately. I'm very tempted to whine for several paragraphs about how busy I have been, but you've all heard that one before, right? About how the job takes over all your waking hours, your apartment hasn't been cleaned in weeks, you find a piece of cracker stuck in your hair after spending the evening working on the couch only to realize that it was a cracker you ate yesterday and it possibly could have been lodged in there all day? No, not that one?...well this is awkward. I better be going then.



(Promise to get caught up soon, really.)