Three entire weeks of non-work. How is it that I consider my three weeks of built-in time to write non work? I suppose one answer could be that I'm not writing. I am instead sitting on the sofa in my underpants watching Deadwood and MTV reality series marathons.
Could someone please come over here and shake me until a 200 page graduate thesis falls out of my head into my laptop?
I think this summer during my time of non work I shall tackle peach pies. I did apple last summer and, really, to repeat fruits is very boring.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Rugby Season
Today is my first practice. I feel so nervous about my fitness. Even though I've been rowing all summer, this past weekend I couldn't make it through 80 minutes of rugby. I eked out 60, just barely, on Saturday, but was lucky to bumble through 40 on Sunday.
My main concerns for this evening are as follows:
1. The blisters on my feet will make me miserable. Damn high heels!!!
2. The fat on the upper thighs will rub together in the humidity and I will get real bad chub rub from all the sprinting like last season and I'll be miserable.
3. I won't bring enough water along and I'll be thirsty and miserable in addition to dead and tired and drained of energy.
At least I'm not nervous about contact. The 53 year old grandmas knocked that timidity right on out of me this weekend. Lactic ladders here I come!
My main concerns for this evening are as follows:
1. The blisters on my feet will make me miserable. Damn high heels!!!
2. The fat on the upper thighs will rub together in the humidity and I will get real bad chub rub from all the sprinting like last season and I'll be miserable.
3. I won't bring enough water along and I'll be thirsty and miserable in addition to dead and tired and drained of energy.
At least I'm not nervous about contact. The 53 year old grandmas knocked that timidity right on out of me this weekend. Lactic ladders here I come!
Monday, August 07, 2006
My Achin' Back
This weekend, the Lost Lady Lions of Penn State attempted to win the Saranac rugby tournament in the beautiful Adirondacks (with no humidity and temperatures in the low seventies). It was so amazing to play for Penn State again! With Lions on our shirts, we fought our way to the championship round Sunday morning. After a rousing "We ARE!!!" cheer, we piled into the stadium where the rest of the 112 teams were watching. (Ok, they were mostly waiting for the men's final...but at least they were there while we played...)
The TV crews (!!!!) asked for our roster, we got good and nervous, and then contemplated our opposition: The Olde Girls. These ladies, many of whom are 50+, freaking rock. I hate playing them because it is dreadfully humiliating when someone your grandmother's age throws a huge dummy pass, sidesteps your tackle, and sprints forty meters to score with her gray ponytail flapping in the breeze behind her scarily muscled legs. I love playing them because I see things I've never seen before on the rugby field. They are the Harlem Globetrotters of women's rugby.
These broads know all the tricks. They have all the skills. They are amazing. They beat us like 70 to 0. Now the Lost Lady Lions feature a number of current and former select side players, U19 and U23 national team players, and All Americans, all of whom are still playing competitively. We are a force to be reckoned with. We have NOTHING against these old ladies. These grandmas. These fabulous women with Soloflex bodies and rugby skills honed over 30+ years of playing.
As terrifying as it is to be humiliated in a loss like that (on tv...in front of spectators) it is equally thrilling to be on the field with them. You would think the crowd would laugh at you as your grandma dump tackles you and then rips the ball from your aching hands, but they do not. They just want to watch them pass the ball behind their backs and twirl around and play the most beautiful rugby in the entire world.
When I am 53 years old, I want to have muscles like K.O. I want 2 long, white Willie Nelson braids, and I want to fool people into further thinking I am a weak grandma by wearing a knee brace. When I win the game, I want to stand in my sports bra flexing my washboard stomach muscles and dance in a circle with my teammates to the "Ring of Fire" song, hand in the air, head back, eyes closed, rugby ball in my left arm.
Then, I want to drop over dead because life does not get any better than that.
The TV crews (!!!!) asked for our roster, we got good and nervous, and then contemplated our opposition: The Olde Girls. These ladies, many of whom are 50+, freaking rock. I hate playing them because it is dreadfully humiliating when someone your grandmother's age throws a huge dummy pass, sidesteps your tackle, and sprints forty meters to score with her gray ponytail flapping in the breeze behind her scarily muscled legs. I love playing them because I see things I've never seen before on the rugby field. They are the Harlem Globetrotters of women's rugby.
These broads know all the tricks. They have all the skills. They are amazing. They beat us like 70 to 0. Now the Lost Lady Lions feature a number of current and former select side players, U19 and U23 national team players, and All Americans, all of whom are still playing competitively. We are a force to be reckoned with. We have NOTHING against these old ladies. These grandmas. These fabulous women with Soloflex bodies and rugby skills honed over 30+ years of playing.
As terrifying as it is to be humiliated in a loss like that (on tv...in front of spectators) it is equally thrilling to be on the field with them. You would think the crowd would laugh at you as your grandma dump tackles you and then rips the ball from your aching hands, but they do not. They just want to watch them pass the ball behind their backs and twirl around and play the most beautiful rugby in the entire world.
When I am 53 years old, I want to have muscles like K.O. I want 2 long, white Willie Nelson braids, and I want to fool people into further thinking I am a weak grandma by wearing a knee brace. When I win the game, I want to stand in my sports bra flexing my washboard stomach muscles and dance in a circle with my teammates to the "Ring of Fire" song, hand in the air, head back, eyes closed, rugby ball in my left arm.
Then, I want to drop over dead because life does not get any better than that.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Q&A With the Hygiene Queen
Inquiring Minds: So, Katy, how is it that a cleanly girl like yourself has such a terrible odor in her kitchen?
Katy: You know, I've been wondering that for weeks! But I finally discovered the source of the stench as I squatted to retrieve a bag of taco mix from the pantry. It seems I had forgotten the bag of red skinned potatoes purchased several months ago. As you all know, Corey doesn't eat those starchy beauties. It's hard for a girl to eat a whole bag alone!
IM: So the potatoes sat there unattended in this heat? They must have been rotten!
K: Oh yes they were! And boy, did they stink. In fact, when I went to lift and dispose of the stinky bag, I then discovered the true source of all the putrescence.
IM: Surely you don't mean....
K: Yes. Maggots.
IM: They weren't really maggots! How on earth could you recognize maggots if you never saw them before? I'm sure you are mistaken.
K: Trust me. When you see what I saw and smell what I smelled, you know. You know.
IM: So what did you do at this point? Move out?
K: I called my cookie-pie at work to force him to return home and clean the maggot den like a man should. He, of course, was not interested in this proposition, despite multiple promises of ice cream sandwiches.
IM: Did you hire help? Obviously you weren't forced to touch the maggots???
K: I dumped a bottle of Clorox disenfectant bathroom cleaner on the colony and rubber-banded paper towels and lunch baggies on my hand to form a barrier. I then dropped paper towels on the pile and gingerly applied downward pressure. I slid the dustpan under the heap, held my breath, and dumped it all into the trash can, ran through the apartment screaming and climbed down the fire escape with the foul bag so I could throw it in the dumpster.
IM: Was this bag difficult for you to touch or be near?
K: I believe that bag and everything in it represents the worst thing that has ever happened to me, including the fungus.
IM: What was your sanitization process for your body and the evil zone?
K: I of course had to mop with Mr. Clean and scalding water and dunk the dustpan in the same mixture (though I would have liked to just fill the kitchen with bleach). My person was slightly more difficult to cleanse. Despite repeated washings, my hands retained the foul stench of death. I soaked in various types of vinegar and lemon juice but still felt the presence of maggot on my skin.
IM: So what did you do about it? Drink Miller Light?
K: I left for the boathouse certain I would row furiously. My blistered, ruined feet carried me down the river and the stinky Allegheny replaced the odor in my nose. Also, we rowed by a garbage barge. That helped get rid of the maggot smell.
IM: You are simultaneously brave and repulsive.
K: I know. I don't deserve to live around normal people.
Katy: You know, I've been wondering that for weeks! But I finally discovered the source of the stench as I squatted to retrieve a bag of taco mix from the pantry. It seems I had forgotten the bag of red skinned potatoes purchased several months ago. As you all know, Corey doesn't eat those starchy beauties. It's hard for a girl to eat a whole bag alone!
IM: So the potatoes sat there unattended in this heat? They must have been rotten!
K: Oh yes they were! And boy, did they stink. In fact, when I went to lift and dispose of the stinky bag, I then discovered the true source of all the putrescence.
IM: Surely you don't mean....
K: Yes. Maggots.
IM: They weren't really maggots! How on earth could you recognize maggots if you never saw them before? I'm sure you are mistaken.
K: Trust me. When you see what I saw and smell what I smelled, you know. You know.
IM: So what did you do at this point? Move out?
K: I called my cookie-pie at work to force him to return home and clean the maggot den like a man should. He, of course, was not interested in this proposition, despite multiple promises of ice cream sandwiches.
IM: Did you hire help? Obviously you weren't forced to touch the maggots???
K: I dumped a bottle of Clorox disenfectant bathroom cleaner on the colony and rubber-banded paper towels and lunch baggies on my hand to form a barrier. I then dropped paper towels on the pile and gingerly applied downward pressure. I slid the dustpan under the heap, held my breath, and dumped it all into the trash can, ran through the apartment screaming and climbed down the fire escape with the foul bag so I could throw it in the dumpster.
IM: Was this bag difficult for you to touch or be near?
K: I believe that bag and everything in it represents the worst thing that has ever happened to me, including the fungus.
IM: What was your sanitization process for your body and the evil zone?
K: I of course had to mop with Mr. Clean and scalding water and dunk the dustpan in the same mixture (though I would have liked to just fill the kitchen with bleach). My person was slightly more difficult to cleanse. Despite repeated washings, my hands retained the foul stench of death. I soaked in various types of vinegar and lemon juice but still felt the presence of maggot on my skin.
IM: So what did you do about it? Drink Miller Light?
K: I left for the boathouse certain I would row furiously. My blistered, ruined feet carried me down the river and the stinky Allegheny replaced the odor in my nose. Also, we rowed by a garbage barge. That helped get rid of the maggot smell.
IM: You are simultaneously brave and repulsive.
K: I know. I don't deserve to live around normal people.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Raw Feet
Today is my second-last day at my internship. To celebrate my leaving, the editors are taking me out to lunch. Hurrah! I wore my cute black skirt with a light, summery white top for this wretched 95 degree smarmy day and decided to wear cute shoes instead of rubber flip-flops. I felt so classy, walking to the bus stop and trekking along 5th Avenue...until I realized the cute little strappy straps were digging gouges into my foot flesh.
It took me a half hour to walk from the post office to my office on Craig Street four blocks away. Each step sent knives of pain through my now-bleeding feet and, to top it all off, I kept falling out of the shoes because I was walking weird to try and ease the pain. People were staring!!!! And not because I looked dashing with my updo and classy business casual clothes. Because I was staggering down the street moaning and pumping my arms to propel me along.
All I wanted to do was leave a lasting impression of me as a together, professional diva in addition to being a top-notch writer. Instead, I hobbled out of the elevator almost crying and rushed to the medicine chest to slap four Band-Aid brand bandages on each foot. And since everyone was in the fridge room getting cream, I told them all about it. So now they know.
Alas, try as I might to seem calm and collected, I am always that girl things happen to...strange things involving crazy people and stalkers and toothless rednecks. If only my desk would collapse again this week, I could be the intern who broke all the computers and furniture instead of the girl who can't walk in fancy shoes.
It took me a half hour to walk from the post office to my office on Craig Street four blocks away. Each step sent knives of pain through my now-bleeding feet and, to top it all off, I kept falling out of the shoes because I was walking weird to try and ease the pain. People were staring!!!! And not because I looked dashing with my updo and classy business casual clothes. Because I was staggering down the street moaning and pumping my arms to propel me along.
All I wanted to do was leave a lasting impression of me as a together, professional diva in addition to being a top-notch writer. Instead, I hobbled out of the elevator almost crying and rushed to the medicine chest to slap four Band-Aid brand bandages on each foot. And since everyone was in the fridge room getting cream, I told them all about it. So now they know.
Alas, try as I might to seem calm and collected, I am always that girl things happen to...strange things involving crazy people and stalkers and toothless rednecks. If only my desk would collapse again this week, I could be the intern who broke all the computers and furniture instead of the girl who can't walk in fancy shoes.
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