Does It Bear Mentioning...?

That through an odd set of events I am attending a party with Ms. F, her fiance, and Mr. Renaissance tomorrow night? Maybe. Maybe not. But I did anyway.

You're a Non-box.


What box do you get put in?
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Dr. Zhivago

The Russian manager of the Starbucks near Gallery Place/Chinatown is seriously sexy. He is one of the two men to ever simply smile at me and make my bones go liquid as a direct result. It's understated, other world sexy. It's obvious he's been in the States for some time, but his accent shrouds all his words in a weird softness. His blue eyes are open and warm.

When my work schedule is not interrupted to cover jobs for other coworkers, I can usually bank on seeing him once a week when I go in for the requisite morning joe (or mocha or latte). I never think of him unless he is right in front of me. And in those moments of his right-in-front-of-me-ness, I think to myself 'right.'

This morning while waiting for my toffee nut beverage and my raspberry croissant (mmmm), I noticed a little placard with a picture of him beside the register. It was a professional photo of him with a seriously sexy look on his face, in his green work apron (wearing a grey turtleneck sweater--one of the best things a man can wear, in my opinion), and holding a cuppa. It was an advertisement for his "coffee seminars" held every third Wednesday of the month.

In a lovely twist of fate (and my schedule) I now go downtown on Wednesdays and Fridays. Oh, I am sooo there....

In a contemporary literature class in college, during a section on The Harlem Renaissance, it was posited that the perfect counterpart for a white man is a black woman. In terms of the roles they prototypically assume in their respective races, they are the most suited, it was suggested, to go toe to toe in a battle of wills. White culture [and I must heavily qualify this post by assuring everyone that I am speaking in generalities... that I am sharing a literary argument I once participated in, that I am feeling my way through, based on what has been observed in these two cultures], for the most part, is patriarchal. Black culture, for the most part, is matriarchal [perhaps, on some levels, detrimentally so, when you think about how black men report feeling emascualted by white men and black women].

During Slavery, you had two compelling figures, both intimately involved with the affairs of the household. The "master" and the "mammy." Between the two of them, the delicate balance of power teetered and tottered, never seeming to rest in one direction for very long. Obviously, it takes a kind of weird dignity to let someone else think that he is always in control, if it better serves your immediate purposes (i.e., escaping a beating, not getting sold, or causing someone else a beating,etc.). So while one would not readily look at a kerchief-clad slave mother with a heavy black skirt and white apron and think "power," she does bear a second look.

Power, you might say, is having your finger on the pulse of a situation, and knowing how to steer the course of events to effect a desired result. Whether you are simply trying to get dinner ready by 5:00, or if you are trying to save your life, it takes an unnamable intellect to make someone else think it's his idea to facilitate your efforts on your own behalf. In this sense, perhaps, an oppressed, disenfranchised black woman had some semblance of control over her surroundings.

The Mistress of the house, upheld as the standard of beauty and purity, operated as something of a figure head. Often, under her very nose, her husband, so openly hostile to his subjects and contemptuous of their purported inferiority, released his animal urges in the shacks around back with earthy, acceptably [temporarily acceptable] sexual African women, thereby adding another dimension to this intriguing relationship.

What does this years-old conversation from my class have to do with me now?

I have always been attracted to thin, bookish, white boys [now men] who wear glasses [okay. maybe the glasses are optional].

This image of masculinity that comforts me and attracts me could not be more divergent from the physicality and spirit of my birth father and my stepfather. Both of these men are of a medium brown complexion, motivated by rage, rule by intimidation, and are intimidated by my intellect. At some point in my youth, I made a conscious choice to reject, sexually, spiritually, and emotionally, what they represented to me.

Does my choice in men say anything about my concept of the power play in relationships?

At the same time, my attraction to what my mother calls "skinny white boys that look like Woody Allen" is effortless, visceral, real. Is it possible that I am at once acting out the old drama of "master vs. mammy," rejecting my bogus dads by picking an image at the other end of the spectrum, and flowing honestly toward my destiny--all these truths colliding, layering, and leading me to the heart of the man with whom I want to share my soul and my spirit?

Lately, I have seen some very beautiful men on the train. Most of them black. This is new for me--to be able to see beauty in a black man's face--where I have only previously seen their ability to induce terror, shame, and had only previously felt contempt.

And then I think about Mr. Renaissance--the poster child of all the white men I've longed to have love me, to redeem me--and I realize that his beauty to me is not objective, and is separate from any concept I have of his "whiteness." He may be the first in a slew of girlhood crushes to be the very mold I decided to want, but who transcends that mold, and who has been able to be to me, simply who he is.

When you find the other half of your heart, it is not about social roles, or psycho-social phenomena, even if those implications exist, they do not supercede the higher truth involved. I am relieved to have made this discovery. How hollow to waste all this energy on a man who simply fit my idea of safety and escape. How imprisoning and myopic if that was all it was.

"She Was Right, Though; I Can't Lie..."

My annual review results:

I "meet" expectations. Hello Mediocrity. Is it really worth it to wake up at 4 a.m. to simply meet expectations? Gosh, for all that, I should be able to obliterate expectations, utterly destroying, with my superior performance, any scale by which expectations are measured. But alas, I do not. I'm just "okay" at a job I hate. I think this is me peering into the bottom of the barrel of my life.

What Pattern Are You?

My evening bookstore/coffee date with Sassafrass Teawrap did not disappoint. Thoughtful friend she is, she had a present for me! A Harley-Davidson [red] miniature motorcycle (and some Harley-Davidson stickers), a little book full of quotes about coffee, and some "pass-it-on" cards that have hopeful messages on them. You can stick them inside books as page markers, or you can tape them to the walls/mirrors at home or work... These were all wrapped in a new, red bandana.

Since we were at Borders and 'bina's parents gave me a giftcard for Valentine's day, I bought myself an exhaustive H-D motorcycle encyclopedia.

Before you get the wrong idea about me, let me state for the record, I am not a biker. I'm not even a poseur, in spite of how this post makes me look. No, I just happen to have, as one of the incongruent elements of my personality, a love for riding on them as a passenger. On the two occasions I've had the experience, I felt invigorated. Once when I was five our neighbor took me out. I remember the thrill of screaming, but having the wind usurp my air, so I couldn't even hear my own voice.

The second time was with Mr. Renaissance this past fall. Slightly different feeling than when I was five; I trust it is obvious why that was the case. And we were not on a Harley. He's a BMW man.

I guess in a way the motorcycle has become my emblem of things hoped for. Freedom. Risks. Adventure. And finally, Love.

I've begun reading Alice Walker's The Way Forward Is With A Broken Heart. I read her daughter's memoir, Black, White, and Jewish... not long ago, and find that having something of a commentary (a literary one, to be sure) from Alice on her first, young marriage, helps me to enter into the wonder and romance of that connection.

I had a hard time sleeping last night; I often do on Sunday evenings. I would attribute this to the fact that I tend to stay up later on Friday and Saturday nights than I would during the week, but in truth, I hit the hay by about 10:30 on both evenings. I still did not close my eyes before 2 a.m. this morning, which was torture when my alarm went off a mere two hours after that. There was one pleasant element to it, though.

Sarahbina and I talked about the men in our lives in the quiet dark of the room we share. Me in my bed, her in hers, it was like whispering with a sister on a school night. But there were no parents to hear our chatter and come in to shush us. It bolstered my hope to talk about Mr. Renaissance with her. I have not seen him in over a month. While this is not terribly uncommon, I smart from the absence.

I wonder what this week will hold. I just hope I manage to hold it all together.

Tonight, I cavort with Sassafrass Teawrap, my Sensei of Wonderment. I know this will cheer me up.

Room to Make Her Big Mistakes...

Last night was weird. 'bina and I watched two episodes of Star Dates (Kim Fields then Gary Coleman as the featured celebrities) while eating some subpar takeout. About half way through one half of her cheesesteak sub she realized the bread was molded, so she stopped eating and called the establishment to complain. To their credit they sent out a new one right away. To their discredit, they asked for the old sandwich back. We had gotten rid of it, since it was trash. We explained this to the driver, who then got on his cell phone with home base. At one point, he handed his cell to me, and I had "words" with the manager of the establishment letting him know that at that point, I felt that our integrity as customers was on the line. It wasn't as if this is some scam we pull once a month or something; in fact, it had never happened before. I even told him that no reputable take out/delivery establishment I know of would request the food back. But, if they wanted it back, why didn't they ask us to have it ready to give to their delivery person when he arrived with the replacement when we called?

It was unsettling. Sarahbina also had some other stuff on her mind, which was making her agitated. Since I had been in some state of suppressed agitation for weeks, we decided to have a few cocktails and listen to the Dixie Chicks's "Wide Open Spaces" to take the edge off the nonsense.

Yesterday afternoon, during the subway leg of my commute home, I came to the conclusion that I had left my cell phone at work. I figured that in my day's end ritual of gathering up my discman, headphones, hat, gloves, etc., I had simply left it on my desk. The repercussions of this oversight would be minimal, I knew (i.e., my family wouldn't be able to call me without paying long distance charges, which would dissuade them from calling, which would be okay, actually), but it still felt like a crushing failure that sealed my tragic fate. It wasn't like me to be so unmindful.

I adjusted to the idea of a weekend without this modern day security blanket. And then today, in a frantic search for my burgundy lipstick, I came across it, misplaced and wedged in one of the two zippered compartments of my purse. I considered, last night, that I might have put it away in the wrong place. I called it thinking I would feel my knapsack vibrate if I did indeed have it. I didn't feel or hear that sign of life, so in my mind, it was settled. No cell phone. I didn't even look deeply, I realize now. I just made a proclamation based on a superficial examination of circumstantial evidence.

Extrapolating from this minor incident a larger principle of life, I guess I should be comforted that "just because you can't find it immediately doesn't mean it's not there." Sometimes when it seems that nothing is happening, that's when the stage is being set for greatness. Or something like that.

I know a book has gotten inside me when I dream in its voice. Yesterday evening on the train, after rereading several passages from 'The Monk' I let my head rest against the rainy window and tried to settle the internal tempest it had raised; I fathomed passages that do not exist in the book's actuality, but that were so congruous with the story it was somewhat disconcerting. I awoke feeling that I had still been reading, when in fact the book was safely tucked in my knapsack.

In Solomon's 'Song of Songs' the beloved charges the Daughters of Jerusalem not to arouse or awaken love until it so desires. I began to understand the wisdom of that with gravity. I had to force myself to a quiet place back inside Plato's cave of unenlightenment now that I knew what the tenderness of a man's love could feel like, viscerally.
I feel a weird sense of grief now that this book is over; I continued to hold it for a while after I was finished with the last page because I did not want to lose its warmth.

Clearly there is a need in me that can't be self-satisfied by food, or sublimated by any of the usual means I have at my disposal. In the story, the love between Rebecca and Michael Christopher (the former monk) is a subtle but engrossing surprise to them both, born in a time of weariness, on an ordinary day when neither of them felt they could be surprised or blessed any more, so they weren't looking.

It's raining here today. It's melting the snow. I'm going to put some coffee on and try to be content.

Friday's Five Questions

1. What is your most prized material possession?

I own two of Mr. Renaissance's original paintings; they mean the world to me.

2. What item, that you currently own, have you had the longest?

I have a blue dress that I wore as a one-year-old; it has two pockets on the front. One is red gingham, the other, blue.

3. Are you a packrat?

No. I have made a real effort not to be even a de facto pack rat. I have duplications of some papers, but significant paring down has occurred. I don't have a ton of "possessions."

4. Do you prefer a spic-and-span clean house? Or is some clutter necessary to avoid the appearance of a museum?

I like a home to look lived in, but be neat. Clutter, I despise. When I'm out of sorts, sometimes I let things go. I feel ill-at-ease, however, and don't find that I can just happily abide in a house that is impersonating a trash heap.

5. Do the rooms in your house have a theme? Or is it a mixture of knick-knacks here and there?

I do not have the money or the means, yet, to indulge my desire for [understated] theme rooms. I don't have a lot of knick-knacks. I am contemptuous of bric-a-brac in general.

The Monk Downstairs

Reading this book was perfect peace. It was eating mangoes in the kitchen on a sunny saturday morning; the poignant kiss I have yet to feel on my lips; it was everything operating on schedule and with ease; grace on pages; courage understated; the last and best thing, saved just for me.

Tim Farrington's gift of subtlety in rendering this delicate story, remarkably and refreshingly uncomplicated, but still generous in its beckoning, slayed me with hope. Odd to find hope upon discovering fault lines in your own heart. So staggeringly simple to understand, again, that true love is bravery in the mundane. That God's gifts to us are the barely perceptible moments something changes and you can hardly say what it is, but the trajectory of your intentions and you desires are in synch with the truest version of who you are. And suddenly there is no argument. The necessary but dreaded push-and-pull of your existence, the mechanism given you to ensure eventual and effortlessly firing synapses, gives way to rightness. There you are.

I was more than a little taken with the heroine's ex-monk lover, so frank and unpretentious. So wise about God and His tendency toward deafening silence in our crises-- engineered to help those who want to, hear Him more distinctly. So earthy and basic. Uncompromising. Intolerant of falsity and nicety, but utterly diplomatic. Sexual, contemplative. Wanting, but unneedy in that want.

I loved that Farrington understood that his story did not need the seemingly requisite plot twists to endear his characters to a reader's intellect and instinct. He understood that making the decision to not be false and posture at the hollow ascetism of refusal is engaging and complete in itself. Once these characters knew they wanted each other, there was no need to suffer that want. And when they hit snags, there was acknowledgment, and the warmth of deeper intimacy that can accompany acknowledgment if it is allowed.

I know it wasn't the point, but it made the story I'm living seem anemic and wan, but that is my story. Who am I to despise small seeds? From the book I learned that ripening fruit that is born of silence takes time. Patience, Kate. Who knows what will be unearthed if you are willing to wait?

A Tale of Two Cities

The train straddled the snow-packed track halfway between where I live and where I work, and held this position for nearly an hour this morning. As I sat there, uncharacteristically, not feeling impatient, I realized this scenario I was in was the metaphor of my life. I am always between two worlds, and I have a growing sense of apathy toward them both–the way you eventually stop wondering when a negligent friend is going to call you–because you know he isn't. The kind of detachment that has its root in being let down repeatedly.

I have never been at peace, internally, and my external situations always reflect that restlessness.

I made it into my place of business about an hour and a half later than I should have, but I'm leaving on time, because I'm not paying back time I'd just have to spend idling on metal rails in the bitter dark cold of a February evening, hoping everything holds out a bit longer.

'Bina, if you're reading this, do you think you could have a Beam-n-Coke w/ two cherries ready for me when I get home?

The Aftermath

I find myself a little cagey, a bit depressed, in a manageable sort of way, and irritable, too. I haven't been outside since Friday night (though I have been out of my apartment) and I am starting to miss the world. I am lacking beneficial interaction with someone other than literary characters, none of whom have truly won my heart (though I am pleased to say the girl does get the guy in In the Drink). My sister is still here because the trains just haven't been running. If you read these pages with any regularity, you have no doubt deduced that the rails are my sole means of travel. Oh. And my own two feet.

The one obvious benefit to all of this is that my work week will be beginning in the middle, and will be over before I know it. And on Thursday I have a therapy session to look forward to--the one indication that progress is being made in my life.

Well, I'm out of half and half so I guess I'll go down to old faithful and get some coffee...

How Republican Are You?
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Your Heart is Red


What Color is Your Heart?
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Watching the local news during the "Wintery Blast" (as one station settled on as a term for the current precipitation phenomenon) is pointless. Seeing the roving reporter shoving her microphone in the face of patrons at a diner (yesterday morning), and asking them if their drive in had been difficult, and how they were feeling about "all this snow!" was the height of amateurish broadcasting. You know what? When it's snowing a lot, there isn't much more you can say. All together now. "It sure is snowing!" End of story. But, no. My local NBC affiliate station found a way to lower the standard. I would say that would be holding up the front page of newspapers and reading off the headlines since most people hadn't been able to get their papers that morning was laughable.

Well, the girls and I are snug as bugs in rugs inside my little city apartment. We had an all-house cleanup yesterday. My sister and I were talking about my mother and her issues at some point yesterday afternoon, and this propelled me to take any action in my own life. At that point, my depressingly untidy flat seemed like a sure sign that I was becoming the older Ms. Krupnik.

Having it neat has fung-shui-ed my mind. Thoughts moving freely like silver fish in a clear stream.

My sister is staying with me and Sarahbina for the weekend; It is supposed to blizzard beginning tomorrow night. Originally Caryl was to stay with me through Monday, but now the plan is to try and get her home tomorrow before the big show. Today we went to the library to return a text, and so I could check out some diverting fiction. I checked out about 7 books, including a murder mystery by P.D. James.

Afterward we walked several blocks up Charles Street to the Sylvan Beach Cafe, which was unexpectedly closed (probably in anticipation of bad weather). So Caryl and I made the trek back to my apartment to have cocoa and to take a nap. I started reading In the Drink by Kate Christensen. I think it has promise based upon the 5 pages I've gotten in so far.

We've just finished playing a rousing round of the 'Friends' trivia game. 'bina won.

Oh My Gosh, and this IS my favourite DMB song!


#41


What Dave Matthews Song Are You?
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My Funny Valentine

Yearned For,

I have counted the beats in the interim of your breaths, have learned to listen for your footfalls on crowded streets or in lonely corridors; I know the feel of the weight of your palm resting on my forearm (the blood coursing there is quickened by the slightest brush of your fingers). I know what it means for your belly to rise and fall beneath my hands, clasped around your waist--what it is to cradle you--to keep the scent of your clothes with me on mine for days after seeing you.

I have collected your idiosyncrasies, know all your jokes, but to me you are not predictable. I am still delighted by how much has not yet been revealed.

I gave you my heart at once,yet I am giving it to you in stages; peeling off layers to entreat you to follow me deeper; you will find yourself waiting there.

With the kisses of my mouth,

Kate

Confirmation of What I Already Knew Deep Down

I have been conflicted for weeks about Ms. F's wedding. I nearly sent her an e-mail yesterday telling her I wouldn't be there, as though this would make it final. a done deal. But I felt my heart hardening and morphing into a bitter brittle rock heap. I did not feel God in this decision. I asked Him to speak to me, but even as I asked I knew my inquiry was half-hearted, and that I was too unyielding to receive an answer.

It was this morning, as I resumed my work at a downtown government agency, that I began to sense His reply rising to the surface of my now more flesh-like heart. I realized that all of my reasons for not wanting to go are fear-based, and if I am truthful, are also malicious. In a de facto kind of way, I feel that I have been forced to the outskirts of Ms. F's life, and my way of finding dignity in this situation, was to refuse her my presence on the most important day of her life. I realized that I am angry at her, however much I understand, intellectually, that "things change."

There are many other reasons--complex, multi-faceted ones that, in the end, don't stand up when I lay down one simple truth. To not go would be wrong. In this case, it would be wrong for me. And I know there will be moments when I still won't want to go, when I will want to escape from this right choice, but I have a conviction that I will be the one I hurt if I stay away.

When I got home form work yesterday I had a valentine waiting from me. It was from Ms. F.

But Not For Me

I keep thinking of a line from PM Dawn's 'Set Adrift on Memory Bliss' (heavily sampled bits of Spandau Ballet's 'True') which goes:
"Bet you're probably gonna say I look lovely, but you probably don't think nothin' of me..."

I always loved the candor of that statement. Somewhat random. On to other things.

I am reading a novel by brit Jane Green that is utter schlock, but I am hooked on the plot of a once-fat writer/editor who drops the weight and begins having passionate sex soon after. It's a good train novel; I've foregone sleep on the last two rides to keep up with the story. I felt so motivated by the protagonist's resolve, I only had one helping of Sarahbina's meatloaf last night, I drank water with dinner, and was in bed by 9. If someday this will all lead to good sex, bring on a lifestyle of delayed gratification!

I wish I could go away for a while. alone. Mr. Renaissance once suggested that I rent a cabin in New England for three or four months and just write to my heart's content. That does sound nice right about now.

But I can't because I have no leave time and a new crap assigment.The only thing good about it is that it will take oodles of time and I have a failsafe code to charge to on my effort reports which are often exercises in creative writing.

I've been asking myself what I think would be a perfect way to spend Valentine's Day. Here's my take on it:

Cards from friends in the mail (e-greetings in the inbox, or whatever)... flowers sent to me at work and at home (anything but lillies)by "the man" w/cleverly worded cards attached, and evening plans that include a pit stop at a hip, indie coffee house, an indie film viewing (subtitles a plus) with some hand fondling, killer eye contact at pivotal moments, and sensual vibes flowing freely, going back to his place for takeout from an Indian restaurant (with more of the aforementioned nuances), and then being dropped back off at my apartment, the evening punctuated with a soft kiss on my forehead.

What's yours?

My 1st Valentine of the week came...

From the avante garde, sultry Devika... Yay! And now for the blog entry:

Dear Lover,

You are so luscious-wuscious.

The art of writing a love letter is lost on many, so I hope this resource helps. Just for fun (or for real) why don't you try your hand at it? Think of the person you adore, and write him/her an epistle. Get into a good mood, light some candles, put on your favourite cd (or the cd that makes you think of this person), turn off the television, and let the words come to the page. Feel free to share your attempts with me at Katekrupnik@yahoo.com. On Friday, I will post my own effort in this very space....

Monsters and Angels

Welcome to my 1st annual 'Vestiges' theme-week. I will be ruminating over, observing, and poetically justifying my reactions to the calendar event that gets blown out of proportion by millions, especially me.

I remember giving out the small, assorted Valentines to classmates in grade school. I always took great pride in selecting which of the limited variety I had at my disposal came the closest to how I actually felt about each of my classmates. One year I was in turmoil because I thought the messages on my cards were too effusive and I didn't think they matched the friendly but distant relationships I had that year. I thought the kids in my class would think I was stupid for giving them such gushy cards, and would laugh at me.

I also remember putting a rain-soaked valentine (also from an assortment box [I told myself it was kitschy]) underneath the windshield wiper of my high school crush's car. And the agonizing humiliation I felt when he didn't acknowledge it.

More to come....

Pet Peeve

One of the social gaffes that particularly gets under my skin is when someone insinuates him/herself into a situation (conversation, meal, outing, moment) where they have not been invited, and interrupts the flow between the preexisting parties. In some cases, simply asking if the other people would mind being joined would gain the outsider very ready access. In other cases, it would give the other parties the opportunity to say that they are discussing something of a sensitive nature, or are talking about something specific, and regret that they need to resume without the addition of the new person. It would all be so civil.

I was eating lunch with a friend (who also happens to be a coworker) in the cafeteria on the 1st floor of our office building. We were just getting into the groove our our lunch-time chat when another coworker plops herself right down and starts talking. I mean her joining us cut me off mid-sentence! At first I thought she would go about her business after a minute or two, get her lunch, and hightail it back upstairs. Nooooooo. She sat down for the duration of our meal and reoriented the conversation entirely.

In the scheme of things, it was not the worst or rudest thing someone has ever done to me, but as someone who holds propriety in high esteem, it chafed and rankled my sensibilities.

Freezer. You feel nothing and wish to feel nothing
so you find peace in the way you think,
however, your emotions are more neutral than
balanced. Coldness and tolerance can be the
ways of a passive heart.


How Emotional Are You?
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Listening to one of my favourite bands' new cd, and drinking a substandard cup of coffee (am out of half and half and have had to use 2% milk instead). Sarahbina is in the shower. After she gets out we will watch the last of three 2-day movie rentals. I got all my laundry done last night, so I feel pretty good about the state of things.

Speaking of my laundry. You should have seen me doing it in an old shirt Ms. F. gave me and some blue and green plaid boxer shorts. I looked pretty sexy.... In all seriousness, it was that desperate phase of the laundry cycle where you simply MUST do it, or go naked. Even in light of the desperation, I almost didn't begin this arduous task. I couldn't find the motivation at first.

What more can I say? It's a sunny day; I'm in a pretty good mood (subpar java aside), and feel like it's all just a matter of time.

I have not been dreaming lately, but I made up for it this morning in spades. I woke up at about 7:23 a.m., cold. I decided to move into the living room where it was warmer and finish out my sleep there. I must have had 3 or 4 dreams, and what they have revealed to me, I cannot ignore. Mr. Renaissance figured prominently in all of them, and in these vaporous images I found him to be just as disengaged with me and my life as he is in actuality.

In one scene we were together, and a man came upon us, with seeming threatening intentions toward me. Mr. Renaissance disappeared. I knew I had to face down what I feared alone. At some point another man came to help me. After I was no longer in danger, I went to find him. He had gone to the bathroom.

In another vignette I was with him in some room. I was on the phone with my mother telling her that the best way to know what was up with me was to read my online journal because it was "up-to-the-minute" as far as my life was concerned. Mr. R. was sketching me while this was going on. When I hung up, he said to me "I've been sketching you; I hope you like it." He showed me a very elementary drawing of me with a large gap between my front teeth. I didn't say anything.

In the final scene I can remember that I called him on his cell phone and told him that since my roommate was no longer going to be home, it was okay for him to come over. And I mentioned something about him being able to eat some left over shrimp fried rice, and he intimated that he might not want that, so I said he could have some wonton soup if he liked. Then he changed the subject. He said we could talk about what painting me was going to entail when he got there. After hanging up with him I banished Mr. T., who had apparently been in the apartment for some time, to the spare bedroom.

You are the typical feminist, depressed, artist.
You go against the crowd and do everything you
can to be different. Too bad noone notices.
Try communicating with people, not just looking
down on them.


What kind of typical high school character from a movie are you?
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One Monkey Don't Stop No Show...

Okay, so it did snow, but it didn't really get started full on until I was already at my counseling session. Well, I didn't have a session, per se. I took a 175-question test, all "True/False," that from what I can tell was designed to see if one is abusing controlled substances/is paranoid delusional. The Psy D. and I will discuss my results next week.

I walked home in the snow feeling the wonder of the weather. Seeing some people bundled up, others completely unprepared in thin jackets with no hats or gloves trying to hail taxis, made me feel like everything was going to be okay. It was still snowing when I woke up this morning and the trudge to the train station took some effort since the accumulation on the walkways was significant. The train was noticebly less populated, no doubt many people deciding to keep sleeping and use their right to take unscheduled days off, so I had no seatmate today. I slept better than I have in a while.

I did a massive tidying of my cubicle a couple of days ago and I am still riding the empowerment high that gave me. I don't anticipate having much of interest to do today, so in some ways I wish I'd saved the undertaking for this afternoon. Hopefully something will surface.

The Friday Five

1. What did you have for breakfast this morning? If you didn't have breakfast, why not?

I did not eat breakfast; I leave the house at 4:20 in the morning.

2. What's your favorite cereal?

Cornflakes, Golden Grahams, Life

3. How often do you eat out? Do you want that to change?

I love eating out. I don't have the money to do it as often as I would like.

4. What do you plan on having for dinner tonight? Got a recipe for that?

If I had my druthers, I would like to eat a delmonico steak with roasted potatoes and butter sauteed green beans

5. What's your favorite restaurant? Why?

It's all over the map; Baja Fresh, The City Cafe (cause of its fun atmosphere and proximity to my place), I love Diners (conceptually and the food options). I also love places like this.

Catchka's e-mails have been my work-day sustenance for the last 3 or so weeks. So, Lady C, consider this a shout-out. You are appreciated.

In other news the regular PSR lady is back in the office and promptly reassumed responsibility for her precious document. I'd actually grown quite attached to it. It gave my days here at the office a shape and rhythm; I had a sense of accomplishment knowing that I was leaving it as up-to-the-minute as possible at the close of every business day.

You know what I could go for right now? A slice of pumpkin bread, or a piece of apple pie, with flaky crust, warmed, served with a cup of English Breakfast tea (cream and sugar, not lemon).

Loose ends: Based on my name, Kate Krupnik, I have heard from someone that she/he expects that I am "quite attractive" (dark-haired). I think the description also carried connotations of being tall and thin. Perhaps not. Dear anonymous reader, what do you think?

"I Got This Killer Up Inside Of Me; I Can't Talk To My Mother So I Talk To My Diary..."

A significant number of the people on my team at work are on off-site assignments today. I like the people with whom I interact here at the office, but something about the absence of the norm (i.e., them being here) is a relief. My boss is in all-day meetings today and tomorrow. As much as I like her, and for as peaceful as things have been for the last few weeks, I am relieved by her inaccessibility now, too.

On Tuesday we are all going out for lunch. There are no team birthdays in February so we planned to have a time to "get together." There you have it. Lunch at Nick's Chop House.

Honestly, though, I feel like dead weight. I am by far the weakest link among us. My time is oddly split between home base and off-site assignments; I'm the least in command, editorially speaking, and my heart has not been here for about a year and counting. I've been looking for another job since before my last annual review. If you had asked me if I would be here for another peformance appraisal, I would have thought that to be as likely as the least likely thing you can imagine. Is it even possible for me to get a good review in light of the fact that the workload has been so uneven that I've not been able to contribute anything of importance this year?

In other news, the East coast is expecting snow. again. It's supposed to start tonight. I am sure my doctor will cancel my appointment in anticipation of the wintry blast since she and her husband live significantly outside the city. I gave a lot of thought to my "homework" from last week, and feel that I have isolated a few of the key driving forces behind my anger.

I think I've decided I need to move back to be closer to my job. Moving an hour away, as it turns out, was not very wise.

Krupnik's 11

If I were going to pull off a heist for love it would be something to do with the upper echelon of the art world and would take place in a swanky gallery where Mr. Renaissance's pieces were being shown.

In all seriousness, I've been listening to the Ocean's 11 sountrack for the past couple of days and I can highly recommend it.

The Soundtrack for the cinematic interpretation of my love heist?

You didn't know me when (HCJr.)
Ms. Fat Booty (Mos Def)
Loving Me for Me (CA) (scroll down)
It Never Entered My Mind (Rodgers/Hart)
Possibly Maybe (Bjork)
[Some haunting cello dirge]
Come Away With Me (NJ)
Adore (Prince)
If I Was Your Girlfriend (Prince)

A dreamer is your type. Seen as "not quite
there", you see things that few do. You
make people think, and your friends turn to you
for insight.


A different quiz, what strange type of person are you?
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Funny Asian Man


What's Your Personality Type?
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which art movement are you?

this quiz was made by Caitlin

You should know something about this, it's the Renaissance! As for style, "...artists studied the natural world, perfecting their understanding of such subjects as anatomy and perspective." (artcyclopedia.com.) They loved science-y things and labored for perfection and harmonious beauty, a goal with which you sympathize. You're probably pretty smart, too. Anal-retentive much? Famous Renaissancers (lots!): Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, Raphael, and You.

I Am A Judgmental Prick

First of all, I do want to get married. That was just so much blog posturing for the sake of appeasing my knee jerk need for cynicism when I am faced with a longing I can't handle.

Second of all, while people may or may not be suspicious of whimsy, the truth is that I only indulge in fancy when it suits me. Other times, I mentally accuse people who are engaged with the "wonder of it all " of being looney birds.

In my heart, I had begun to compile a list of things and people who were "missing the boat," and just "daft" to the truly important things (i.e, things I deem important). This was a warning sign. I am alienating people in my heart in anticipation of being pissed off. And on what grounds? Shaky ones, to be sure. It's unfair and it's just ass-ish.

Who, exactly, do I think I am?

Devika, I sent you a letter. Be on the look out.

With that said, I would like to report that I had a fabulous time with Ms. Teawrap last evening. If it weren't for this girl, I'd have no whimsy in my life. People, in general, are very suspicious of whimsy, I've noticed. This woman, when I told her I had the privilege of seeing a single, intact snow flake last week when one landed on the index finger of my glove--she, with all of the authentic wonder of a child, said "Wow!" I had never seen the infrastructure of one of these miraculous flakes before. She got that. She thought it was neat.

I am getting really wearied of most people's intolerance of what they don't understand or haven't experienced. In my opinon, people don't entertain fancy enough. And the result? A lot of sublimating through overeating and the watching of "reality" television. I know that's my guilt and shame. Talk about pedantic.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Do Not Want To Get Married:

1. I am not actually interested in compromising.
2. I do not want to share.
3. I can barely handle my own issues, let alone someone else's.
4. A rolling stone gathers no moss.
5. I need to stay on the cutting edge for my art.
6. No place to hide.
7. I don't want to have to buy orange juice with pulp (I hate pulp. Most people like orange juice with at least SOME pulp. See number 1.).
8. My anger is way too out of control to let another person bear the burden of it.
9. Unmet expectations looming large over the horizon and countless "discussions" about those unmet expectations.
10. I snore. A deal breaker for many people.

Shutterbugs Spotted!

My good friend from college days, Ms. Pedantic, and I had a lovely afternoon repast at the City Cafe. This time I had a cup of their Chicken Florentine soup and the roast beef sandwich w/horseradish mayo. I had not seen my newlywed pal since mid-fall at least, and we were long overdue for a catch-up session. I had the idea that we could have a makeshift photo shoot along Charles street, using the statues in the dog parks as posing inspiration. She took pictures of me with her Nikon, I took photos of her with mine, and after they've been developed we'll share the doubles.

Saturday night I went with Sarahbina to the home of one of her college friends and his wife where we played some pretty low key board games. I drank a couple of beers and relaxed with ease to the back drop of music supplied by Ella, Louie, Dave Matthews, and the Drifters while I shouted out answers to trivia questions and brain teasers.

This morning, I'm just trying to stay ahead of the work game. Have some reports to run, and then later a meeting... but tonight I will cavort with Sassafrass Teawrap in her suburban region. I think it will be a good week.

Oh, and Devika, I love that your template is always changing!

Demure Flirt


What Kind of FLIRT are you?
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So Sue Me! I Am ADDICTED To Quizzes...


-Perfect- You're the perfect girlfriend. Which
means you're rare or that you cheated :P You're
the kind of chick that can hang out with your
boyfriend's friends and be silly. You don't
care about presents or about going to fancy
places. You're just happy
being around your boyfriend.


What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
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