None of my personal possessions are as well-traveled as I am, but I need to give a shout out to December 2009 for probably being the most adventurous month of travel my Titleist Ultra Lightweight Stand Bag has ever seen.
On December 21, it boarded a semi trailer for Tempe, Arizona and was whisked to the desert with 600+ carefully-tagged friends. But less than two weeks earlier, there were moments of doubt that my clubs would even survive to see their morning of abuse at Papago Municipal Golf Course. Because in five minutes on an icy December morning, they took a lot more abuse than I could ever have inflicted upon them in 18 holes' worth of sandtrap hacks.
It was, well, the ride of their life.
Let me just point out that I am a person who has both vacuumed her face and hit herself in the mouth with the leg of an ottoman. I once lost my car key, um, on my person while out jogging. I have torn my earlobe in half falling onto a wrought iron chair, lost my prosthetic tooth in a steak sandwich, and slashed my own tire while parallel parking. I've had bread stolen from me by a goose and been knocked on my face by a grounder in beer league softball.
So is it really any surprise that, on Dec. 7, I backed over my golf bag and dragged it 3 1/2 blocks to a quickie mart, all the while littering my neighborhood with clubs that were shooting out from beneath my car like graphite-shafted primitive warfare projectiles?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
It's our new Blu-Ray player's fault, actually. Because I had purchased the device as a Christmas gift for my husband and hid it in the trunk of my car just a few days earlier, I didn't put my golf bag back in my trunk after a joint Sunday morning practice session at the golf dome. I didn't want Ben to see his gift and figured I'd just leave the bag sitting behind my car and stash it when I left for work the next morning.
But there was a problem: I was the first to leave for work the next morning. I slipped through the door on the side of the garage, pushed the button to raise the garage door, threw my shoulder bag on the passenger seat, and started out of my driveway for work.
Upon starting down the street, I immediately noticed that the roads were icy and that I was having quite a bit of trouble getting my car to accelerate down the road. My car drove almost like it was dragging something. Stupid ice, I thought. I need to fuel up my car, so maybe I should reassess my decision to commute to work this morning when I get around the corner to the gas station.
By the time I turned the corner, I became convinced that I actually was dragging something under my car. Stupid chunks of snow and ice that get stuck under your car, I thought. When I pull up to the pump, I'll just kick that stuff off my car and it should drive better.
So I pulled up to the pump, started the auto fueling process, and took an exploratory lap around my Honda. I found no attached chunks of snow and/or ice. But, dammit, I knew there was something dragging under there. Determined to solve the mystery, I moved to the front of the car and bent all the way down to the ground, almost placing my ear on the snowy ground as I looked underneath the car. That's when it jumped out at me, peeking out between blackened pipes in vivid white script embroidery: "Titleist." The previous day's events finally came flooding back.
Holy nerds. I ran over my golf bag.
There is only one thing a person can do in this situation: Start to cry; decide that crying would be pathetic and sort of stop crying but not really; stick your arm under the car and lunge at the bag, which you have no hope of retrieving because it's in the exact middle of your car, you're wearing heels, and it's snowing; pull only your golf towel and one catty-wompus club out as they are the only items you can reach; call your husband, because surely he will know what to do; and sit in the car and be a total pussy about the situation.
So that's what I did.
When my husband arrived at the gas station it was quickly apparent that he, too, would be unable to reach the bag without mechanical assistance. But he did make one discovery that for some reason had escaped me until then:
"Ummmmm... Kate... There aren't any more golf clubs in this bag!"
He threw me the keys to his Ford Escape. "Go. Find. Them," he said. I shuffled toward the car, panic-stricken.
"Wait," he stopped me. "I need to go home and get my jack so I can get your bag out from under the car. I'll come with you."
So we left the Honda and golf bag parked at the gas pump and started up the icy road toward home. When we turned onto our street, that's when we saw it: Our neighborhood looked like a Dick's Sporting Goods. A cluster of irons lay in the middle of the road, and my other clubs were scattered randomly about. Brightly-colored head covers dotted snowy front yards on both sides of the street. I drove the car slowly with the window rolled down, pointing out clubs as we crawled toward home. "There's my driver next to that person's lampost!" "There's my 7 iron next to that dumpster!" My husband picked them up and filed them in the back of the car. I can only imagine what was going through the heads of the motorists who passed us, what with me driving three miles per hour in the Escape while my husband walked alongside the car clutching a handful of golf clubs, barely able to get traction on the ice-covered road. At 8 o'clock on a Monday morning.
We found all but four of the clubs. Remarkably, none of the ones I found were damaged. Ben was able to pull the bag out from under the car after he jacked it up, and even the bag still works! (It just has a couple of new dirt stains. I'm planning to send my story to the Titleist Corporation.) I figure there is a chance those four missing clubs might turn up when the snow melts this spring, so I decided to leave notes in my neighbors' doors. A normal person might simply have written, "I had an accident with my car and lost some golf clubs. If found, please return to Kate." But that's just not my style, so I left a note for my neighbors that told the whole story, ending with a statement of absolute and humiliating fact:
"I'm sorry to say this is probably not even the stupidest thing I have ever done. But it's at least in the top five."
Some day I may have to put this up to vote.
Showing posts with label classic klutz moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classic klutz moments. Show all posts
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Clueless, toothless, and bagless is no way to go through life.
On my 16th birthday, I vacuumed my face.
Fifteen years later, vacuuming remains the household chore most threatening to my personal safety.
It would be simple enough to chalk the 1994 incident up to a freak accident. Girl grabs Dirt Devil hand vac to clean stairs. Girl fails to tie back super-long locks. Girl's locks get wound up in aforementioned Dirt Devil, causing forehead welt at point of impact and eventual black eye. Girl attends high school and endures resultant mockery/questioning. Girl eternally remembered for vacuuming up own hair on Sweet 16. Girl at least has excellent story for rest of life.
But girl, if we can still use that term, could not leave it at that.
You see, it was a few weeks ago that I found myself once again vacuuming -- this time with a Panasonic upright and an actual floor. It was in the same room where I had once ripped off half my toenail vacuuming when I stupidly tried to slide a heavy ottoman across the floor without wearing shoes. (No "Dancing with Tom DeLay" appearance for me.) Same room, same vacuum. Same girl, of course.
Different ottoman.
Our new ottoman is much lighter than the old one. It's so light, in fact, that I can just pick it up quickly, turn it upside down, and rest it on the couch to create an easy vacuuming path. In fact, that's precisely what I was trying to do when...
I clobbered myself in the face with an ottoman leg.
I'm not sure what happened, though I had just gotten done lifting weights when this incident occurred. Perhaps I did not know my own pumped-up arm strength or had lost some of my small muscle control. What I do know is that I hoisted the object with such force that I nearly knocked loose one of my remaining teeth and seriously suspected for a moment that I had cut my lower lip. My husband just happened to call within seconds after this incident occurred.
"Hey," he said. "Just wanted to let you know I was on my way home."
"Okay, great," I replied, gently patting at my lower lip. "I, um...you're not going to believe this. I just hit myself in the face with an ottoman. Really hard. It hurts."
"You did WHAT? How on earth..."
"Well, I was vacuuming..."
And that's all I needed to say.
Some people have nagging mountain-climbing injuries. Others hurt themselves playing sports. Not many people can find creative ways of hurting themselves like I can. Perhaps I need a vacuuming injury awareness bracelet to go with my hard hat and hockey mask.
Or maybe I'll never learn.
Fifteen years later, vacuuming remains the household chore most threatening to my personal safety.
It would be simple enough to chalk the 1994 incident up to a freak accident. Girl grabs Dirt Devil hand vac to clean stairs. Girl fails to tie back super-long locks. Girl's locks get wound up in aforementioned Dirt Devil, causing forehead welt at point of impact and eventual black eye. Girl attends high school and endures resultant mockery/questioning. Girl eternally remembered for vacuuming up own hair on Sweet 16. Girl at least has excellent story for rest of life.
But girl, if we can still use that term, could not leave it at that.
You see, it was a few weeks ago that I found myself once again vacuuming -- this time with a Panasonic upright and an actual floor. It was in the same room where I had once ripped off half my toenail vacuuming when I stupidly tried to slide a heavy ottoman across the floor without wearing shoes. (No "Dancing with Tom DeLay" appearance for me.) Same room, same vacuum. Same girl, of course.
Different ottoman.
Our new ottoman is much lighter than the old one. It's so light, in fact, that I can just pick it up quickly, turn it upside down, and rest it on the couch to create an easy vacuuming path. In fact, that's precisely what I was trying to do when...
I clobbered myself in the face with an ottoman leg.
I'm not sure what happened, though I had just gotten done lifting weights when this incident occurred. Perhaps I did not know my own pumped-up arm strength or had lost some of my small muscle control. What I do know is that I hoisted the object with such force that I nearly knocked loose one of my remaining teeth and seriously suspected for a moment that I had cut my lower lip. My husband just happened to call within seconds after this incident occurred.
"Hey," he said. "Just wanted to let you know I was on my way home."
"Okay, great," I replied, gently patting at my lower lip. "I, um...you're not going to believe this. I just hit myself in the face with an ottoman. Really hard. It hurts."
"You did WHAT? How on earth..."
"Well, I was vacuuming..."
And that's all I needed to say.
Some people have nagging mountain-climbing injuries. Others hurt themselves playing sports. Not many people can find creative ways of hurting themselves like I can. Perhaps I need a vacuuming injury awareness bracelet to go with my hard hat and hockey mask.
Or maybe I'll never learn.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Please, someone: Seal my mouth shut with a big roll of federal packing tape.
In my attempts to not look stupid, I often say things that make me look even stupider.
"Sorry, I don't really know anything about mail," was today's gem -- uttered in response to a nice but not terribly understanding official at my local post office branch.
Look, I don't mail parcels very often and generally try to avoid the post office. But on this particular occasion I had a box of eco-friendly toys to send my friends in Kansas, who just welcomed a baby boy into the world -- a baby boy I desperately need to spoil immediately.
After cluelessly grabbing at packaging supplies for about 15 minutes, I settled on a very large box and placed the gift inside. I folded the corners to form a box shape but had no tape with which to seal it. But I assumed they would make it look right at the checkout counter, so I decided the time was right to jump into the fancy, roped-off "Confident? Final answer?" line.
After listening to the man in front of me relay the tale of the "little fat boy" who had stopped his mail two months ago and to the woman who unexpectedly turned around to give me a very detailed and uninteresting account of what was inside the package she was mailing, I finally got my chance to attempt to mail something.
I set the box on the counter, along with the completed but not-yet-affixed label. "Can you mail this?" I asked.
"If you tape it up and get it ready to go, I will," the man in the very snazzy polo shirt replied.
"Oh. Well, where do I get the tape?"
"You have to supply your own if you use that kind of box. If you use XYZ box (Sorry, I don't remember what the box was called), you can use this." He waved a roll of colorful federal packing tape in my face.
"Oh, okay; that's fine. I'll use the other kind of box," I said. "I don't really know anything about mail." He pointed me toward the correct vessel, and I brought it back up to the counter.
"Um," he said, "can I please get you to put it together over there out of the line so that I can help other customers?
"Oh, yes, sorry," I replied. "I don't really know anything about mail."
And thus on a Monday afternoon when the post office customers included a nutcase wearing a bait shop T-shirt that said "House of Hookers" and a woman mailing $250 worth of Crest WhiteStrips to China, I was the crazy one, the stupid one, AND the annoying one.
It's not my fault. I don't really know anything about mail.
"Sorry, I don't really know anything about mail," was today's gem -- uttered in response to a nice but not terribly understanding official at my local post office branch.
Look, I don't mail parcels very often and generally try to avoid the post office. But on this particular occasion I had a box of eco-friendly toys to send my friends in Kansas, who just welcomed a baby boy into the world -- a baby boy I desperately need to spoil immediately.
After cluelessly grabbing at packaging supplies for about 15 minutes, I settled on a very large box and placed the gift inside. I folded the corners to form a box shape but had no tape with which to seal it. But I assumed they would make it look right at the checkout counter, so I decided the time was right to jump into the fancy, roped-off "Confident? Final answer?" line.
After listening to the man in front of me relay the tale of the "little fat boy" who had stopped his mail two months ago and to the woman who unexpectedly turned around to give me a very detailed and uninteresting account of what was inside the package she was mailing, I finally got my chance to attempt to mail something.
I set the box on the counter, along with the completed but not-yet-affixed label. "Can you mail this?" I asked.
"If you tape it up and get it ready to go, I will," the man in the very snazzy polo shirt replied.
"Oh. Well, where do I get the tape?"
"You have to supply your own if you use that kind of box. If you use XYZ box (Sorry, I don't remember what the box was called), you can use this." He waved a roll of colorful federal packing tape in my face.
"Oh, okay; that's fine. I'll use the other kind of box," I said. "I don't really know anything about mail." He pointed me toward the correct vessel, and I brought it back up to the counter.
"Um," he said, "can I please get you to put it together over there out of the line so that I can help other customers?
"Oh, yes, sorry," I replied. "I don't really know anything about mail."
And thus on a Monday afternoon when the post office customers included a nutcase wearing a bait shop T-shirt that said "House of Hookers" and a woman mailing $250 worth of Crest WhiteStrips to China, I was the crazy one, the stupid one, AND the annoying one.
It's not my fault. I don't really know anything about mail.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I'm too stupid for daylight savings time
I am driving myself crazy.
It all started this morning when I sent an e-mail announcement that an event would be held at 8 p.m. CST on Saturday. Then came the inevitable response:
"Shouldn't it be 8 p.m. CDT?"
I never have and probably never will understand this distinction. I understand the concept of "daylight savings time" in the sense that we get an extra hour of light during the spring/summer months through the processes of "springing forward" and "falling back."
Beyond that, I am clueless. In fact, it was just this morning that I realized I don't even know what the term "daylight savings time" means. I always thought "daylight savings time" was the time in which you were "saving" daylight -- meaning the dark time when you aren't getting much and saving it up for a happier, warmer time. Even though you are not actually "saving" anything, this at least made some logical sense in my admittedly twisted mind.
But now my admittedly twisted mind is blown. Apparently it is daylight savings time NOW, as in the time period in which we are using up daylight like George Hamilton on a bender. Does this make any sense? What daylight are we saving now? It seems like we're USING daylight now, not saving it. Does the D just stand for "daylight," or does it stand for "daylight savings?" Help!
I would feel incredibly stupid if it weren't for the fact that it seems like no one else can keep this straight, either. An unscientific survey of the innernets leads me to conclude that nearly half of people are getting this wrong right now. How is this helpful to anyone? The good news is, people know what you mean no matter what you write. No one is going to show up an hour early (Or would it be an hour late? Dammit!) for your event because you "S'd" when you should have "D'd."
David Prerau, author of "Seize the Daylight: The Contentious Story of Daylight Savings Time," says daylight savings time has been confusing people for years. In the 1950s and '60s, he told NPR in March, there was no national law about daylight savings time. So any city or town could decide to have daylight savings time and could also decide when to start it and when to end it. This resulted in utterly bizarre situations like the bus trip along Route 2 from Moundsville, W.V., to Steubenville, Ohio, which was only 35 miles but required riders to change their watches seven times in order to keep the correct time as they passed through cities with different laws. The sheer idea of it makes my brain bleed.
I'm sure some really smart people like astrophysicists or something will disagree with me, but I'd like to propose, at least for journalism's sake, that we drop the middle letter and just say "CT," "ET," etc., year-round and scrap all this nonsense about D and S and whatnot.
Because I am dumb.
It all started this morning when I sent an e-mail announcement that an event would be held at 8 p.m. CST on Saturday. Then came the inevitable response:
"Shouldn't it be 8 p.m. CDT?"
I never have and probably never will understand this distinction. I understand the concept of "daylight savings time" in the sense that we get an extra hour of light during the spring/summer months through the processes of "springing forward" and "falling back."
Beyond that, I am clueless. In fact, it was just this morning that I realized I don't even know what the term "daylight savings time" means. I always thought "daylight savings time" was the time in which you were "saving" daylight -- meaning the dark time when you aren't getting much and saving it up for a happier, warmer time. Even though you are not actually "saving" anything, this at least made some logical sense in my admittedly twisted mind.
But now my admittedly twisted mind is blown. Apparently it is daylight savings time NOW, as in the time period in which we are using up daylight like George Hamilton on a bender. Does this make any sense? What daylight are we saving now? It seems like we're USING daylight now, not saving it. Does the D just stand for "daylight," or does it stand for "daylight savings?" Help!
I would feel incredibly stupid if it weren't for the fact that it seems like no one else can keep this straight, either. An unscientific survey of the innernets leads me to conclude that nearly half of people are getting this wrong right now. How is this helpful to anyone? The good news is, people know what you mean no matter what you write. No one is going to show up an hour early (Or would it be an hour late? Dammit!) for your event because you "S'd" when you should have "D'd."
David Prerau, author of "Seize the Daylight: The Contentious Story of Daylight Savings Time," says daylight savings time has been confusing people for years. In the 1950s and '60s, he told NPR in March, there was no national law about daylight savings time. So any city or town could decide to have daylight savings time and could also decide when to start it and when to end it. This resulted in utterly bizarre situations like the bus trip along Route 2 from Moundsville, W.V., to Steubenville, Ohio, which was only 35 miles but required riders to change their watches seven times in order to keep the correct time as they passed through cities with different laws. The sheer idea of it makes my brain bleed.
I'm sure some really smart people like astrophysicists or something will disagree with me, but I'd like to propose, at least for journalism's sake, that we drop the middle letter and just say "CT," "ET," etc., year-round and scrap all this nonsense about D and S and whatnot.
Because I am dumb.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Why drinking and being "single" for the weekend don't mix
And no, it's not the reason you're thinking. So stop it!
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sacrificial Gams
Call me a cynic, but "Kate! YOU have nice legs!" is a suspicious beginning to a conversation. Yet, so began the crackly cell phone conversation I had with my co-worker this afternoon.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
So I got mugged by some geese. What?
One of the things I like most about my job is that I never know what to expect. So this week, when I was asked to participate in the "we love Iowa State's campus swans, Lancelot and Elaine" video shoot for the university's sesquicentennial traditions video, I didn't know what to expect.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Merry Christmas. Yes, I am an idiot.
Today was just a typical day of sitting in lovely Ames noon hour traffic and checking off my list of holiday essentials:
My punishment for this act of sheer idiocy, of course, is twofold. One: I have to take my car to an auto body shop and pay for a bumper replacement -- and, I can only hope, drive another lovely loaner car for an unnecessary length of time. Two: Whilst driving around town in the Cherry-Red Hair Pick of Doom, I get to have people stare in disbelief at my car with expressions of sheer terror, gripping their steering wheels all the more tightly as they fear the death wagon that passes them.
But other than that, it's great.
Merry Christmas. Santa's putting a new bumper in my stocking this year. Oy.
- Gaudy yet Surprisingly Also Charming Christmas tree skirt -- CHECK!
- Packaging tape -- CHECK!
- Front bumper that could also be used to rake one's lawn -- CHECK-UGH
My punishment for this act of sheer idiocy, of course, is twofold. One: I have to take my car to an auto body shop and pay for a bumper replacement -- and, I can only hope, drive another lovely loaner car for an unnecessary length of time. Two: Whilst driving around town in the Cherry-Red Hair Pick of Doom, I get to have people stare in disbelief at my car with expressions of sheer terror, gripping their steering wheels all the more tightly as they fear the death wagon that passes them.
But other than that, it's great.
Merry Christmas. Santa's putting a new bumper in my stocking this year. Oy.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Finger-Shrinkin' Bad
I believe I have mentioned that I am an alternate on a slowpitch softball B-league team. Alternate is the correct position for me, since I have never played softball before in my life like ever. As an alternate, my job is to come to all the games and be available should anyone fail to show up, get injured, suffer alien abduction, etc.
This Sunday someone failed to show up. So I was going to have to hit. "Whatever," I thought, "I'll take a few swipes at it and see how it goes." Then, in the first inning, one of our players got injured. So I was not only hitting but also playing right field. Against a pretty good team, mind you, that can pretty much hit the ball where it wants -- which means it will gladly rip a few deep ones toward that Slow Alternate in Right Who Clearly Knows Jack Squat About How to Play Softball.
Despite what I had told myself to the contrary, I was a little embarrassed stepping up to the plate after having basically no idea what I was doing. I swung on the first pitch. Foul. Actually, I barely hit it, so it just sort of bounced up and hit me. Sort of embarrassing, but okay. I get another chance. The second ball came in looking good, so I took another swing. Dink. It dribbled across the infield. "Now I have to run," I thought, tossing the bat to the ground and realizing it was time to take those Slow Norwegian genes for a stroll around the block. I find myself running hard, clad in New Balance walking shoes and Old Navy track pants that restrict my stride, but with a small burst of confidence coursing through me. Oy. First base is farther away than it looks. I see the throw coming to first, and I know I might have a chance if I can just lengthen my strides. I lean forward, touch the base, and hit the brakes, not having seen the throw come in. I turn back to survey the situation. E3! Victory is mine! The first baseman bobbled it. I am on base. Holy shit.
"Good job, honey," Ben encourages me. "You're on base! Holy shit."
I see he was expecting that about as much as I was.
"Now you know you have to tag up here," he said.
"Um, right," I said. "Right."
"If he hits it in the air, you have to wait to run until someone catches it," another teammate clarifies. "If it's on the ground, RUN!"
"If it's on the ground, run; if it's on the ground, run," I repeat to myself, taking a not-really professional position on the base. The first baseman looks at me like I have seven eyes, and I wonder if I should explain to her that this is my first time playing softball. Not much time for scholarship or chit chat, though; Justin smacks a line drive on his first pitch.
"It's on the ground!" I think. "I have to run."
So I take off running. New Balance walking shoes are not softball cleats. My balance is getting a tish wobbly, but I think I can make it there. I will advance to second! I will advance to second! I will...fall forward into the gravel.
I stagger up, the opponent's shortstop coming toward me to make sure I was not also injured. "No, I'm totally fine," I say, dusting off my bloody hands. "Am I out?" Somehow I thought there was a possibility that I could keep running for second.
Turns out I was out. It seems I actually didn't fall down because I was Master Klutz of the Universe. Justin's shot hit me in the foot. Directly. In. The. Foot. "You totally got sniped," Steffen said as I returned to the dugout. "Tough break; what are the odds?"
While I appreciate my teammates' comforting tone, I have to think that I wasn't just unlucky. A faster or more adroit athlete probably would have been able to dodge the bullet. But they're nice to me, and after all: I know it's not my fault. Last weekend, I learned that individuals with ring fingers that are longer than their index fingers are the most athletic sorts...and if your index finger is actually longer than your ring finger, well...
Anyway, this guy on TV predicted the exact finish of people in a foot race just by looking at their fingers.
AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY FINGERS.
I am, like, the only person in my immediate family whose index fingers are longer. And mine are not just a little longer. They are way hella longer.
It's not always easy loving sports and being oh-so-awful at them. But at least I know the deck was stacked against me in the finger length and athleticism departments. Can I also add: Ow, my thighs and butt? I am a runner, not a sprinter. I had no idea how much of a difference in muscle use the latter involved. So I am walking around like a jock the last two days. A jock who is an alternate in slowpitch B-league softball.|
All I can say is this: Stubby Ring Fingerites, unite! And just keep on running, even if you don't know what you're doing. It's just a game, after all. And they give you beer when you're done.
This Sunday someone failed to show up. So I was going to have to hit. "Whatever," I thought, "I'll take a few swipes at it and see how it goes." Then, in the first inning, one of our players got injured. So I was not only hitting but also playing right field. Against a pretty good team, mind you, that can pretty much hit the ball where it wants -- which means it will gladly rip a few deep ones toward that Slow Alternate in Right Who Clearly Knows Jack Squat About How to Play Softball.
Despite what I had told myself to the contrary, I was a little embarrassed stepping up to the plate after having basically no idea what I was doing. I swung on the first pitch. Foul. Actually, I barely hit it, so it just sort of bounced up and hit me. Sort of embarrassing, but okay. I get another chance. The second ball came in looking good, so I took another swing. Dink. It dribbled across the infield. "Now I have to run," I thought, tossing the bat to the ground and realizing it was time to take those Slow Norwegian genes for a stroll around the block. I find myself running hard, clad in New Balance walking shoes and Old Navy track pants that restrict my stride, but with a small burst of confidence coursing through me. Oy. First base is farther away than it looks. I see the throw coming to first, and I know I might have a chance if I can just lengthen my strides. I lean forward, touch the base, and hit the brakes, not having seen the throw come in. I turn back to survey the situation. E3! Victory is mine! The first baseman bobbled it. I am on base. Holy shit.
"Good job, honey," Ben encourages me. "You're on base! Holy shit."
I see he was expecting that about as much as I was.
"Now you know you have to tag up here," he said.
"Um, right," I said. "Right."
"If he hits it in the air, you have to wait to run until someone catches it," another teammate clarifies. "If it's on the ground, RUN!"
"If it's on the ground, run; if it's on the ground, run," I repeat to myself, taking a not-really professional position on the base. The first baseman looks at me like I have seven eyes, and I wonder if I should explain to her that this is my first time playing softball. Not much time for scholarship or chit chat, though; Justin smacks a line drive on his first pitch.
"It's on the ground!" I think. "I have to run."
So I take off running. New Balance walking shoes are not softball cleats. My balance is getting a tish wobbly, but I think I can make it there. I will advance to second! I will advance to second! I will...fall forward into the gravel.
I stagger up, the opponent's shortstop coming toward me to make sure I was not also injured. "No, I'm totally fine," I say, dusting off my bloody hands. "Am I out?" Somehow I thought there was a possibility that I could keep running for second.
Turns out I was out. It seems I actually didn't fall down because I was Master Klutz of the Universe. Justin's shot hit me in the foot. Directly. In. The. Foot. "You totally got sniped," Steffen said as I returned to the dugout. "Tough break; what are the odds?"
While I appreciate my teammates' comforting tone, I have to think that I wasn't just unlucky. A faster or more adroit athlete probably would have been able to dodge the bullet. But they're nice to me, and after all: I know it's not my fault. Last weekend, I learned that individuals with ring fingers that are longer than their index fingers are the most athletic sorts...and if your index finger is actually longer than your ring finger, well...
Anyway, this guy on TV predicted the exact finish of people in a foot race just by looking at their fingers.
AND OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY FINGERS.
I am, like, the only person in my immediate family whose index fingers are longer. And mine are not just a little longer. They are way hella longer.
It's not always easy loving sports and being oh-so-awful at them. But at least I know the deck was stacked against me in the finger length and athleticism departments. Can I also add: Ow, my thighs and butt? I am a runner, not a sprinter. I had no idea how much of a difference in muscle use the latter involved. So I am walking around like a jock the last two days. A jock who is an alternate in slowpitch B-league softball.|
All I can say is this: Stubby Ring Fingerites, unite! And just keep on running, even if you don't know what you're doing. It's just a game, after all. And they give you beer when you're done.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Just skip that house with the purse gum, you'll only scrape your knee
Last year, at my old house in Ames, I don't think I had more than 20 trick-or-treaters on Halloween. It was sort of a down year, but not too far off the average for the four Halloweens we lived there. It wasn't a neighborhood with a lot of kids, but it was fairly residential. Twenty seemed about right.
Now I live in a much more family-oriented neighborhood in Des Moines. So I knew that I would probably have more trick-or-treaters this year. I loaded up last week, figuring we could always just eat the leftover candy. "We've got plenty of candy over here," I bragged to my neighbors yesterday afternoon as we discussed football and chased my neighbor Joe's rambunctious cats out of my garage. "You can send them over here; we'll get it covered."
I figure I started the evening with 200 treats. Trick-or-treating began at 6, and I didn' t have a knock at the door until 6:15. We've got plenty of candy, I thought, kicking back in my chair with the Opinion pages of the Sunday Register. A few more kids started coming...okay, we'll go through a good chunk of it...and before I knew it I was listening to a nonstop barrage of jokes (a Des Moines tradition -- you must tell a joke to receive candy on "Beggar's Night") and watching the candy bowl drain down to the least desirable items. My husband, who was in the family room watching Dogma on Comedy Central while swearing in the general direction of a do-it-yourself project, was no help. He just watched me dart from the front door back to the kitchen, using every possible 10-second lull in the action to scan our cupboards for candy or candy-type food products. "Could I hand out marshmallows?" I asked him as he spilled rubber cement in the carpet. "How about granola bars? Do kids like granola bars?" I thought I had some gum in my purse.
Sadly, at 7:20 p.m., I threw in the towel and turned off the front-stoop light of surrender. The kids had eaten me, and my Kit-Kat bars, alive. I had no trick-or-treating game at all. I'd better start my next year's trick-or-treat candy savings fund now.
I did, however, enjoy seeing the costumes and hearing the jokes. My very first trick-or-treater was a three-foot-tall black boy dressed as Napoleon Dynamite, which I found hilarious. And by far the most popular joke of the year was: "Why didn't the skeleton cross the road? -- Because he didn't have the guts." I did not enjoy the snotty 10-year-old who chewed me out because "our steps were too steep" and caused her sister to fall and scrape her knee. All I could do was offer the sister a Band-Aid while her older sib proceeded to berate me. Gee, I hope I didn't act like that when I was 10.
Oh yeah, and I still want to know what a 2-year-old is going to do with Hot Tamales.
Now I live in a much more family-oriented neighborhood in Des Moines. So I knew that I would probably have more trick-or-treaters this year. I loaded up last week, figuring we could always just eat the leftover candy. "We've got plenty of candy over here," I bragged to my neighbors yesterday afternoon as we discussed football and chased my neighbor Joe's rambunctious cats out of my garage. "You can send them over here; we'll get it covered."
I figure I started the evening with 200 treats. Trick-or-treating began at 6, and I didn' t have a knock at the door until 6:15. We've got plenty of candy, I thought, kicking back in my chair with the Opinion pages of the Sunday Register. A few more kids started coming...okay, we'll go through a good chunk of it...and before I knew it I was listening to a nonstop barrage of jokes (a Des Moines tradition -- you must tell a joke to receive candy on "Beggar's Night") and watching the candy bowl drain down to the least desirable items. My husband, who was in the family room watching Dogma on Comedy Central while swearing in the general direction of a do-it-yourself project, was no help. He just watched me dart from the front door back to the kitchen, using every possible 10-second lull in the action to scan our cupboards for candy or candy-type food products. "Could I hand out marshmallows?" I asked him as he spilled rubber cement in the carpet. "How about granola bars? Do kids like granola bars?" I thought I had some gum in my purse.
Sadly, at 7:20 p.m., I threw in the towel and turned off the front-stoop light of surrender. The kids had eaten me, and my Kit-Kat bars, alive. I had no trick-or-treating game at all. I'd better start my next year's trick-or-treat candy savings fund now.
I did, however, enjoy seeing the costumes and hearing the jokes. My very first trick-or-treater was a three-foot-tall black boy dressed as Napoleon Dynamite, which I found hilarious. And by far the most popular joke of the year was: "Why didn't the skeleton cross the road? -- Because he didn't have the guts." I did not enjoy the snotty 10-year-old who chewed me out because "our steps were too steep" and caused her sister to fall and scrape her knee. All I could do was offer the sister a Band-Aid while her older sib proceeded to berate me. Gee, I hope I didn't act like that when I was 10.
Oh yeah, and I still want to know what a 2-year-old is going to do with Hot Tamales.
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