Month: September 2010

A Very Bridget Morning

My morning: wake up (without alarm!) at 5:30.  Feel so proud of self for getting up so early (body obviously getting used to early morning productivity as result of new job and efforts to cultivate sculpted abdominals) that decide to award self an extra five minutes.  Five turn into ten.  Ten into twenty, and suddenly 6:10 gives way to 6:30 and—DAT dat dah dah dat DAH!—alarm sounds. Scratch plans to head up to roof deck for edifying, enlightening, ab sculpting sunrise yoga.  Yoga (and sculpted abs) will have to wait. Decide against reading paper also, as paper is still downstairs (three flights) and dogs are still asleep.  Do not want to wake dogs.  Dogs nice; love dogs, but dogs not terribly understanding about neighbors still sleeping.  Also self not very understanding about dogs demanding food before self has been fed. Check email.  Utter several expletives (and quite possibly slam things) upon receiving request from conference proceedings guru of the Society of Dance History Scholars; paper must be reformatted.  Again (as in “again” for third time; …

To Tone or Not to Tone?

Well here’s a disappointing discovery: you can’t crunch your way to a six pack in 24 hours (nor 24 years for that matter, and yes, I have been trying for almost that long).  It’s not that I want an actual six-pack, especially because as I’ve said before, it’s just dinner with Date #9 on Thursday so unless I buy myself some sexy underwear between now and then and arrive at the restaurant clad in nothing else, he’s not even going to see my rock hard abs. (And even if he did—which would require me acquiring both the abs and the “outfit” to display them— what would he say?  “Hey Kat, lovely to see you, and I must say, great six-pack!”) It’s just that I’d like to be a little more toned in certain areas.  Like my arms, for instance, my stomach, my inner thighs, my outer thighs, my posterior thighs (oh wait—I think there’s a word for that.  Hmm… derriere. Good thing I like to pretend I can speak French) and I’d love it if …

Yummy Things

Just in case you were wondering—okay, you probably weren’t wondering, not about this specific fact at least, but I’m going to tell you anyway—reading novels set in London is not the greatest way to embrace your new surroundings and live in the here and now. This is why I am going to stop reading novels set in London, at least after Sophie Kinsella’s latest comes out (and I’m only planning to read Mini-Shopoholic because Ms. Kinsella went to New College, which practically makes us colleagues seeing as I spent my entire junior year studying— and learning the definition of the word “snogging”— at New College.  And since we’re obviously such well connected, kindred spirits, I should support her work, right?  Right.) Anyway, as I was saying, I know that storylines set in My Favorite City aren’t going to help me to adjust to living in My Other Favorite City but what was I supposed to do when I stumbled upon a used copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary at the public library?  Especially since it was …

Seriously, You’re Cancelling?

Date #9, quite clearly, has no idea who he’s dealing with.  Doesn’t he realize that if he cancels our Monday evening date night that I’ll just call one of the other 13 eligible bachelors I have on speed dial?  Doesn’t he know that I’ve got men lined up around the block, just dying to take me out?  Doesn’t he realize that all I need to do is snap my fingers and— If only it were that easy. I’m going to let you in on a little secret (but you have to promise not to tell anyone, unless of course you think your co-workers might be in the need of a pick-me-up, say something along the lines of “Look [insert your disgruntled co-worker’s name here], her love life is even more of a MESS than yours!”  In that case I invite you to avail yourself of the “share” buttons at the bottom of this page because it took me nearly half an hour to figure out how to get my widgets in order and I’m rather …

A Good Time for a Sick Day

As far as I’m concerned, there are four and only four times when it is fun to be sick: 1) when you’re a student and being sick gives you an excuse to cut class; 2) when you’re salaried and entitled to a certain number of sick days; 3) when you need to get caught up on last season’s episodes of Glee (and by getting “caught up,” I mean debating whether I’d rather go out with Matthew Morrison or Cory Monteith) and finally 4) when you have a boyfriend. Being sick when you have a boyfriend is great.  The last time I found myself so lucky was when I lived in London.  My then-boyfriend and I worked a few doors down from each other and he skipped his lunch break just so he could go trekking up the High Street to buy me a cup of miso soup from Pret A Manger.  Unfortunately, his little trek took place in November and he didn’t take the time to slip into his jacket before confronting the pneumonia-inducing climate …

Biological Warfare

Last night, I ate an entire serving of Spanish rice from its microwavable envelope, in bed, whilst wearing pjs at the wild and crazy hour of 8:30pm.  Why?  Because I kissed Date #9 on Sunday, that’s why. Let’s talk about kissing, shall we?  I think part of the reason I’ve taken my three month Match.com subscription so seriously is because I’m making up for lost time.  I was seventeen before I had my first kiss, and whenever I tell people this, they seem rather shocked.  I guess this is because my current project would suggest that I have always been this fabulous but nothing could be further from the truth. My first kiss took place at Not Back to School Camp, the annual end-of-summer retreat for homeschoolers, unschoolers and other self-proclaimed high school “rise outs.”  Having recently celebrated my 17th birthday, dyed my hair black and decided to spend my would-be senior year taking classes at the community college while teaching dance to save for my first solo-backpacking trip through Europe, I was feeling pretty …

A Liaison in the Library

Today, something brilliant happened.  I ran into a friend at the library.  Now before you get all excited, I should confess that this friend happens to be happily married, and she was there with her new baby so if you were hoping for another titillating “We went for a stroll along the river and then we…” I’m sorry to disappoint.  (You’ll have to wait until the next time I see Date #9 for that.) Anyway, running into a friend in Philadelphia marks a huge turning point for me, especially because it’s happened twice within the past three days.  I should confess that I’m not terribly close to either of these friends; today’s was an old co-worker from The Shop and Saturday afternoon’s was a Turkish acquaintance from the New-to-Philadelphia-Social-Misfits-Support-Group that I joined a few months ago, but still: I’m making progress. (The group’s real name, by the way, was slightly cooler and its members were actually a lot more fun than my little nickname would suggest but I have issues with authority.  Whenever the Meet …

Date #9, the Sequel

Number of blocks I walk to meet Date #9 at Sabrina’s for lunch in the Italian Market: 12 Number of parties ahead of us by the time I arrive: 0 (This time, Date #9 has gotten there early and his name is already on the list.  We bypass the hipsters of South Philadelphia and once I’m done debating whether I should give him a kiss on the lips or play it safe and go for the cheek, we head straight for a table by the window.) Entrees I want to order: 6 (I’ve been up since 6:30 thanks to my Sunday School duties, I haven’t eaten and  somehow, for all the time I’ve spent in Philadelphia, I’ve missed out on the mouth watering ecstasy of Sabrina’s Brunch menu.  Teacher’s Pet PB&J Stuffed French Toast?  Cafeteria Carrot and Cookie Cakes?  How did I not know about this place?) Entrees I do order: 1 (Spinach and pair salad.  The cream cheese, roasted walnuts and Nutter Butter cookie crunch slathered in apple-berry compote seemed a bit much for …