Based on Real Life

One day you're in, the next you're out

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 04:55:00 +0000

One of the burdens I carry with me as a product of Catholic Schooling is a severe lack of fashion sense. When your sartorial selections were limited to: Blue Shirt or White Shirt (long sleeve or short sleeve!), tights or socks you don't get much chance to channel your inner Chanel. Shoes? "Brown or black." Makeup? "Muted and non-distracting." Earrings? "Nothing excessive or dangling below the collar." The restrictions on fashion choices not covered by the plaid skirt or plain oxford was surprisingly in-depth.

You'd have thought that upon arriving in college I might have rebelled horrendously a la Lynn Stone, but I was so paralyzed by the idea of choosing my own outfits that I often went to class in sweatpants. Surrounded suddenly by people wearing their own clothing, I started developing my own style. Or lack thereof, see item: red velvet pants.

Now that I've been dressing myself for almost half my life I'm still making discoveries about what shapes fit best (empire) and what colors on the spectrum flatter my natural coloring (purple). Life changing, I tell ya. Sometimes I even go out in my cuffed jeans, heels and fedora and some strangerman at Dunkin' Donuts says, "Ma'am, I like a lady that wears her own style." And then sometimes I think a dress looks amazing in the dressing room only to see the cashier folding it into my bag backwards, wait, why is the tag in the front, oh wait that's the back. And sometimes I get really lucky on Etsy. And sometimes the tunic looked A LOT more muted on the website. And sometimes "bracelet sleeves" really just look like you're wearing your older sister's old jacket.

Our 9-5 secret lives

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 02:13:00 +0000

Have you ever visited your significant other at work so that when you think of them during the day, you can picture exactly where they are, and maybe even how the pictures are arranged on their desk?

We went to his office once, years ago, on a weekend day to pick up a cord that he needed before flying out somewhere. It was a corporate complex next to a golf course, and had a security guard on duty even during the weekend. The ladies room bathroom was spacious and bright. His cube was depressing and boring, reflective of the transient schedule he had at the time. It's all I have to picture now.

I know the names of his bosses, that he prefers a special kind of notebook he discovered while working in the Netherlands, that he visits lots of different office locations and that his job requires the use of many different colored highlighter pens and lots of oddly-sized papers that get unfurled all over our coffee table. And sofa. And floor.

Once, many years ago, we went to a housewarming party for a coworker, and during the house tour someone referred to the living room as "big enough to fit four bioreactors". This weekend at the coffee shop, while waiting for our car to finish its plastic surgery appointment, he showed me a powerpoint presentation that included the word "Hydrogenation".

Please, please tell me I'm not the only one with only a layperson's understanding of their spouse's career? And please don't answer if your spouse is in the FBI or CIA.

For years I've somehow gotten away without being questioned beyond my capacity. Eight blissful years of "Oh he's working at a facility in Puerto Rico," or "Industrial-sized washing machines, but for pharmaceuticals" all came to a grinding halt this weekend, when, casually he commented that a coworker had asked how much I inquired my husband about his job.

He wasn't upset, nor did he ever feel that I didn't give his work enough attention and the topic was quickly closed. But still, I wondered if I had a deficit in this area; should I be asking about hydrogenation, instead of how everyone responded to the presentation? Even thinking about those words tumbling from my mouth sounded silly. As if understanding five-syllable words means you love them enough.

And may I just point out that my husband wouldn't know half of what he knows about my job if it wasn't for television and movies. So until someone thinks chemical engineering = ratings bonanza, we're working with slightly uneven playing fields, albeit one with a very generous consumer goods discount.

From the recipe box of: love

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 02:22:00 +0000

Friday is trash day on our street, which means that most Thursday evenings will find a couple neighbors stooping after placing the week's refuse by the curb. One evening, beer in hand, one of the husbands remarked "Look, there's Katie taking out the garbage." I don't recall if he was pointing it out to another husband about how they could be so lucky or to his wife in hopes she'd alleviate him of the responsibility. What I recall was that it was the first time I'd ever considered my doing an everyday (or rather, every week, as it goes) household task as noteworthy.

My response was simple: I'll take out the garbage every day when I have a man inside cooking dinner for me. Of course the neighbors also know this, having seen for themselves Jim hard at work in the kitchen any time we've left the curtains open for fresh air.

Like most of our household "chores" responsibility was never set in stone, rather picked up naturally. He's a stickler for a made-up bed; I love to vacuum. And somehow 5 years after the last time I hauled laundry down 5 flights of stairs and 3 blocks away, having it in the basement is still a novelty.

Cooking, however, was never in my wheelhouse. On one of my first Philadelphia weekends my new boyfriend cooked up a chicken parm, which we then ate at a real table, and not a coffee table in the living room. I returned the favor the following weekend by making a homemade bruschetta. Did you know how closely basil and mint resemble each other to an untrained eye? Bruschettamint: patent pending. And then there was the time I SWEAR the spaghetti sauce recipe called for cinnamon. Weird, right?

He laughed, he lived. He married me despite my complete and utter non-interest in donning an apron and whipping out a cookbook. Which, according to Erin Meanley in the September issue of Glamour Magazine, I am lucky. Oh, oh how I wish "12 Things I Wish I'd Known About Love When I Was 21" had stopped at 11 items; or better yet, I wish Domino Magazine hadn't folded two issues into my two-year subscription causing the powers-that-be at Conde Nast subscription marketing to "gift" me the rest in Glamour.

21 is that weird age where you're entering a new stage thinking you know it all, but will soon realize how much more you have to learn. Relationships, career, life. Some of Meanley's Knowledge Wishes are truly ones that could have helped me at that transition stage, especially #6, which is called out below the picture of the woman in bra making out with the man wearing a Native American feather headdress:
You will probably never fully understand men. So just try to understand yourself.

For me, this is understanding that I do not enjoy trying new recipes, and still do not know which oven burner corresponds to which knob, five years after moving into this house. This is in direct conflict with tip #4, Knowing how to cook: helpful. Now, I was actually on board with Meanley's list up until I read sneaky #4.

Lists like this are exactly why this self-described makeup and hair product junkie stopped reading these magazines. Why do I want to be told at the same time -- sometimes on the very same page -- to understand myself, but oh I should also make sure I'm doing xyz to attract Mr. Right.

Fortunately for me, Thing #6 also means not understanding why my husband needs to line up the sofa pillows like a Pottery Barn catalog. But as long as he keeps making that delicious chicken parm, still a signature dish eight years later, I'm happy to take out the garbage. And a certain something in the paper recycling.

And before you know it, you own a drawer of lycrathings

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 03:05:00 +0000

"You should totally do a triathlon" he says, and the next thing I know, he's typing in the URL of a website. He's hunting and pecking so he doesn't see, as I do, that the address bar has correctly identified the site he wants, an underline punctuating the efficiency with each additional keystroke. I exhale silently as he punches the return key with an authoritative index finger.

I'm in his office meeting about a freelance project, which is why I've let the URL thing slide, and which is why I'm very curious to know why he thinks I 'should totally do a triathlon.' He knows nothing about me aside from my past writing samples, per-project rate, and that I'm training for a 10-mile road race. (Unless he has the same google capability as my mother-in-law, in which case he has managed to dig up some athletic information from my college years.)

And now he's the first person ever in my life to suggest that I could – and should – do a triathlon. And as I look at the site, I think that the distances don't sound too bad. Now granted, I haven't swum laps regularly in a pool since 2000ish, but I always enjoyed a good swim. The race distance: 1/2 mile. And while I didn't own a bike, isn't Craigslist teeming with them? 15 miles on a bike seemed like a breeze compared to the 13-mile run I hated so much last year. And after all that, I could surely gut out a 5k run.

So I signed up for my first Sprint Triathlon with the women's-only SheRox series. Downloaded a training program. Joined a gym with a pool. Bought a $50 bike off Craigslist. Sold the $50 bike back on Craigslist and bought a $500 bike from a store. Spent a lot of minutes in the gym trying to put on a sports bra after taking off a wet swimsuit. Bought a tri suit. (If this was a movie montage, things would start to blur and you'd hear and old-timey cash register ringing.)

For 12 weeks I swam, I rode, I ran. I even lifted (real) weights! My arms started getting stronger and my tummy started going back in. I had more energy, and the pain in my leg from all those big miles earlier this year all but disappeared. I wondered if I'd found my "Thing," because I certainly never felt this good physically, or got this excited, while running long distances. I hoped this might be it.

Training also had a nice side benefit – it created a habit. Something I've never been able to do in my writing life, probably, I tell myself, because it's hard to come home and writing for myself after writing all day for someone else. Hard like training for a triathlon probably; so now what's my excuse?

I crossed the finish line just 36 hours ago and am already thinking about how I need to build strength and speed on the bike, get faster in my transitions. And where I'll do my next race. But maybe what I should focus on is creating a new training program – one with word counts instead of minutes and miles. Sunrise is already getting later anyway.

Sunny Mourning

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 02:24:00 +0000

We were uninvited guests; worse, we were unprepared. We didn't even know we would be attending until our car pulled up in front of the ceremony. First, we saw the balloons: two solid colors and one mylar bouncing and bobbing with oblivious joy. As our procession of cars slowly snaked its way toward the green awning, I stared out at the organized rows speckled with tiny American flags and thought about the things we do to stay connected to our loved ones.

The limousine stopped before reaching its destination, causing a chain reaction. We ended up aside a minivan slightly pulled off the path and whose sliding door and trunk were agape, as if the occupants couldn't wait to exit. Nearby young girl sipped a juice box while running around the balloon strings. A woman in a breezy sundress sat on her knees, another woman sitting crossed-legged to her right; a man stood, keeping an eye on all three kids. I watched the woman in the sundress's lips moving as she read something from a piece of paper in her hands. She stopped and began sobbing. He came over and put his hand on her shoulder. The children hadn't noticed.

Up ahead, the limousine carrying another grieving widow began moving forward again, leading each car, one by one to do the same. If it was only that easy for our hearts.

Hoarders in training

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 03:24:00 +0000

For Father's Day this year, my father loaded up his minivan with assorted potted plants, 12 fresh grape tomatoes from his garden and the one piece of furniture I've coveted from my parents home for my whole entire life. Prize daughter!

The beauty of the piece is that it's a straight-up covet. I never used it for fear I'd slam the door and shatter the glass, or lean too hard on the unsupported desk area. But oh how I'd open the front and play with the little pigeonholes. Organizing and rearranging the front-only holiday and birthday cards my mother had saved for a second recipient. And how I imagined my Nancy Drew books replacing her nursing books that lined the shelves inside the glass door.

And earlier this year when the Pod arrived at my parents house and the carpet left forever to be replaced by beautiful reclaimed wood, I got the call about the secretary desk. Would I still like it?

We had just the right spot, and not an hour after they arrived this secretary got a whole new job description. And Great Aunt Margie (god rest her patient soul) will be happy to know that her china is no longer sitting in boxes in our basement.

As with many diminutive residences there is a struggle of form and function, and so we have to decide what to do with the Ikeaish bar piece that this one has replaced.

And while I let this slide during the Father's Day brunch prep for both sets of parents, I am NOT okay with my dear husband's new valet.

First it's a bar on wheels used as a kitchen island and the next thing you know you can't even enter the kitchen. Intreeeeeguing.

The adventure that chooses you

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 23:51:00 +0000

First, you replay the incident over and over again, looking for things you could have done differently as if life was a Choose Your Own Adventure Novel. What if I'd gone to a different grocery store? What if I'd taken another way home? What if I'd dropped off my groceries before parking?

But all those What Ifs only serve to keep your mind from replaying the actual event over and over.

The part where you watch one of the two boys walking toward you nudge the other. The part where they approach you and split up so they're on either side of you. And then the part where immediately as you know this isn't right, you feel your handbag being yanked from your hand.

The story has a happy ending thanks to my oversize lungs, neighbors who hang out on the stoop and a perfect stranger who came running out of his house to see what the commotion was about, instead of running back inside it.

I know the risks of living in a city. And I have known, immediately since being the only juror who hadn't been the victim of a Philadelphia crime, that it was only a matter of time. I just didn't expect to become a statistic at 7pm on a June (re: still light out) evening. With other people walking on the other side of the street. Knowing that I can be considered a target under these circumstances is what I can't shake.

I WISH when I replay the incident in my head, instead of screaming I throw down my grocery and gym bags and take off (in my flip flops) after the teens. I grab the (chunky!) one running with my pink handbag by the back of his blue collared shirt and tell him that I can do this for 13.1 miles if he'd like to and he looks at me in utter fear. I sense the opening and wrestle him to the ground.

If only.

And since there are no Ifs or instant replays in life, I did the next best thing. I took to the airwaves to let neighbors know what happened and that we neighbors can make a difference in helping to stop crime in our neighborhood. And also, I'm definitely talking a LOT about my new favorite neighborhood bar.

Be safe out there. Wherever you are, ladies.

So what'd you invent while you were in college?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 13 May 2010 19:27:00 +0000

I've hidden the statuses of everyone who plays Farmjeweled and Mafia Cafe. Of the people who share breaking news multiple times per day about what their adorable, precious kiddos have done. And definitely the status of the one who I haven't spoken to in years and who LIKES this atrocity.

I have a stack of unanswered requests to become a Fan of services I've never used. And of course every time Zuckerberg & Co make another announcement about 'enhancing my Facebook experience' I know to go in and tighten up my security settings.

I hear that privacy issues are starting to turn some people off Facebook, though I have yet to meet one of these people myself. I do, however, know a few who never joined in the first place, and they don't seem to lack for social options. (Although talking to one of these virgins does make you intensely aware of how often Facebook is part of everyday conversation.)

Despite all this aggravation, I won't quit. Because it's handy to find out what's on sale at my local Whole Foods, and I don't mind telling the world that I LIKE Dove soap or Annapolis, Maryland.

But my real reason is the photos. Oh the photos. Facebook is the largest photo sharing site, and with good reason. I don't care that my girlfriend from high school is out of milk (again!), but I absolutely love seeing her kids take their first trip to Disneyworld. And when we only get the chance to talk on the phone every so often - these little snippets of connection mean everything. I get to see my nephew in his school play and my niece dive off the edge of the pool. I get to see friends of college friends enjoy their wedding days and another friend's trip to Cabo, practically in real time. And it's so much better to click through at my own pace than in someone's darkened living room as they narrate all the details of their trip, AMIRITE?

And I can't lie - I didn't mind clicking through an ex-boyfriend's wedding album at all. (He friended me, I swear.)

Girl detective

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 10:20:00 +0000

I hope you'll join me in wishing a very happy 80th birthday to my pal, Nancy Drew!

When I finally moved into a home of my own, one of the first things I wanted from ~~storage~~ my parents house was my set of Nancy Drew books. An incomplete, mismatched set of books that were first my mother's and then my older sister's. I don't have a crystal moment of discovering Nancy for the first time, but I devoured her fearlessness and moxie, her ability to impress her successful attorney father and even outsmart the Chief of Police! I looked for hidden staircases and dreamt about having auburn tresses and a blue roadster. I also wished for a little more salacious action with good old reliable Ned, but alas.

I am still on the lookout for my first mystery to solve, but until then, the Guide To Life that arrived in my stocking one year has provided an invaluable resource. I also have the stylish stationery with which I'm sure Philadelphia's Chief of Police would love to receive my thoughts on helping to curb the neighborhood's recent surge in graffiti (administer a spelling test in order to purchase spraypaint).

My affinity toward strong female characters certainly didn't stop with Nancy, but I never had any interest in holding on to Babysitters Club or American Girl books like I did with my Nancy Drews. Maybe they made more of an impression because at the time I discovered them they somehow managed to be outdated, yet still relatable? There was definitely little or no time between transitioning from those yellow-bound hardcovers to the slim, paperback, sexified Nancy Drew Files that sat on the same spindle shelf as the (banned from our house) Sweet Valley Highs.

Given that Nancy was recently in theaters (saw it) and can be played on computers (confession: I've definitely had this in my hand at Target), I'm happy to see that today's young girls are still discovering and enjoying Nancy's world. Even happier to spy a row of yellow spines on Clare's shelf.

Recently on a rainy day, I plucked one of the books off my shelf and settled into the sofa next to an open window. The story was so trite, I couldn't make it through the first chapter.

Some things should always stay as we remember.

Look who's coming to dinner

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 20:54:00 +0000

You are. All of you are invited in fact, and I can say that I don't feel strange about inviting the readers of my blog over for dinner, because at this point I think the only people who visit are my family members. So come on over!

We're having pork. All summer.

Sometime recently when I was not supervising, one of the neighbors asked Jim if he'd/we'd be interested in going in on a 240-pound pig with a few other couples on the block. She extolled the merits of supporting local farmers and how much better grass-fed meat tastes. Jim, whose favorite food is Large Servings, likely heard none of this and burst into immediate tears and cheers.

Just for funsies, I'll share with you our "portion":

20 1lb packages of ground pork
~5-6 3-4lb ham roasts
1 8lb shoulder roast (for the block party)
~ 7-8 3lb shoulder roasts
~12 1lb packs of bacon (smoked and cured nitrate free)
4 packs of 6-8 spare ribs per pack
country style ribs (unsure of the quantity) 2per pack
baby back ribs (unsure of the quantity)
~3lb tenderloin
~12 1" inch boneless pork chops (2 per pack)
~24 1/2" inch boneless pork chops (4 per pack)
~12-15lbs of hot italian sausage
~12-15lbs of mild italian sausage
2 fresh ham hocks (~2.5lbs each)
~4-5 lbs of leaf lard
fat back in 2lb packs

So. Yeah.

Coincidentally one of my 2010 resolutions was to "Get a Signature Dish", and as of this publishing date the lead contender is what I like to call "Macaroni and Cheese with Tuna Fish."

What I'm saying is, there's a pretty good chance that this 2010 resolution will likely be accomplished with pork. And in a stroke of Serendipity, my friends at Nintendo just sent me along a copy of America's Test Kitchen: Let's Get Cooking.

And you know what else besides gadgets and adorable apronage makes cooking more palatable? CONTESTS. The pig hasn't even arrived and I've already sent out an email suggesting dates for the mystery recipe contest - and I promise mine will not be the Pork a la Captain Crunch.

And in the short term, I've got a lot of ice cream eating/freezer emptying to do.

Marriage fact

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 12:50:00 +0000

Despite your best efforts, no significant other will ever find as uproariously hilarious the inside jokes you and your siblings have exchanged since childhood. They promised to love you for better or for worse, but they did not promise to understand you and your sibling's curious obsession with Theo Huxtable's pearls of wisdom.

I could ride a motorbike!

And you?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 01:48:00 +0000

"I'd really like to hear your opinion on..."
"What a unique __ you're wearing."
"You are the most interesting person I've ever met"
"Are you in a hair commercial?"

Any of these may be deemed acceptable, but pedaling up next to a woman who is working on her fitness one mile at a time and asking if you can ride your bicycle next to her is definitely not. Because now all I can think about is how long you've been zeroing in on my pear and how I never ever got hit on this often before I was married. So thanks for that actually, because that last mile really flew by.

And who is the woman who is reinforcing this approach? Make him work for it, woman!

And yet I have the mortgage payment to prove I don't live under a rock

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 02:19:00 +0000

Off the top of my head, a list of long-running programs of which I have never once viewed a full episode:

1. Scrubs
2. Grey's Anatomy (Gray's?)
3. American Idol
4. Everything about Raymond
5. Jay Leno anything
6. Law & Order everything/CSI: all, etc.
7. South Park

Yet the Kardashian krew? Totally up to speed.

Sugar and spice, do something nice

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 00:02:00 +0000

Confession: sometimes I think about what it would be like to raise a daughter. Some call this Worrying About Things We Can't Control, but some (one out there, surely) would call this being pragmatic. Thinking things through. Becoming ready. Being a Virgo.

Granted some of my thoughts are of the more gender generic topics - like teaching a child to be kind, honest and trustworthy. I think about the experiences that have shaped me, and what I want to pass along to her and what I certainly would not. I want her to know she can be anything she wants, and instill her the confidence not to cower in the locker room corner and to friend the new kid in the cafeteria. To make sure she feels beautiful on prom night and pick her up when she doesn't get picked for varsity.

Cause being a girl can be hard, man.

The female relationship is part of the reason I became involved with my < a href="http://pinklemonadediva.blogspot.com/2010/02/suitcases-and-equipment.html">mentoring program," but I obviously was also drawn to the opportunity to help a student get into college. My mentee is an absolutely amazing woman who continues to teach me, and I'm so happy she's part of my life. We already talk about how we can't believe we only have two more years together before she packs her bags for a university.

The incredible people at Nintendo also agree in the power of a mentor's possibility to change a young woman's life. As a Nintendo Brand Enthusiast, it is truly my pleasure to share an open call to you, kind readers, to nominate an organization that inspires young woman to dream and build their careers, by fostering ideas and ingenuity.

Are you involved with one such organization or do you know of one benefitting young women in your area? Share the name in the comments (before Friday at Midnight!) and if Nintendo chooses your mentor program to highlight you could be flown out to the luncheon in the organization's honor. And if Nintendo hasn't already been generous enough - they would also let me go with you! How about THAT! (I haven't flown in a while, and promise to read up on all the latest FAA rules so as not to embarrass you with an oversize deoderant or somesuch.)

Alternately, you may submit your nomination via Twitter, using either the #NintendoEnthused hashtag or mine, #k8iedid, so the folks at Nintendo can track the submissions. I bet you can think of one organization in a shorter amount of time than it takes to count the number of bridesmaid dresses in your closet right now.

Go!

And thanks!

P.S., I looked and there's no organization that helps young women become sassy auburn-tressed girl detectives who drive blue roadsters. Yet.

Informationoverlord

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 02:51:00 +0000

What's the word for a last name that describes a person's job?

Last name and occupation description

Blacksmith that's a blacksmith

Dixon Ticonderoga and writer's alias

Katie Sweeney

*^*

Google may just be the best thing to have happened to this library-school dropout. It's the sympathetic friend that never laughs at your silly questions, the cinemaniac that always knows the next showtime, the musicholic that is there to make sure you don't sing the wrong words.

And it's the doctor with an immediate appointment opening and a fresh pad of prescription paper.

During my Half Marathon Phase last year I picked up an adorable little pain in my hamstring that everyone insisted was an IT Band issue because that's So Normal in Badass Athletes. So I foam rolled and The Stick rolled up and down, back and forth, down and up, forth and back. And then the pain moved to behind my knee and felt sort of like the back of my knee had a rubberband someone was pulling taut and taut-er. Someone who really hated me.

So I went to lots of doctors (#healthcare reform. please) who had lots of opinions and I did lots of physical therapy, which helped a little bit but never made the pain go away entirely. The only thing that did that was the steroid my (not very much older than me) doctor shot into my rear end, and never before have I been so glad I had on The Good Underwear.

I announced* my retirement after the September race assuming the pain would disappear as quickly as my endurance. I was wrong. "Sciatica" someone suggested, while recommending yoga stretches. I learned a lot about Sciatica during those Google sessions. I also learned a lot about anatomy. I definitely would have been a more interested science student if Le Google was around while I was in school.

My Sciatica (welcome new readers who have googled #Sciatica!) searches introduced me to another possible identity of my injury. "Piriformis Syndrome." And the more I learned about it, the more it sounded exactly what I was experiencing. So I started googling stretches that might help ~~eradicate~~ alleviate the pain and get me back on the streets**.

Which is how I happened upon this guy.

And this is why I love The Internet.

No introduction of qualifications. No austere setting with perhaps a skeleton or posters of the human body flanking the background. Instead, we get a hotel room and cargo shorts. That more than 100,000 people have watched.

I have GOT to get a web cam.

*To Jim
**Running

Suitcases and equipment

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 02:54:00 +0000

Last year I started mentoring a Philadelphia public school high school student. It's a big-brother/sister type of program, but with the singular goal of helping your student get into college. Most will be the first in their family to do so. Students are identified as potential candidates by their teachers and guidance counselors and have to go through an application process to be accepted into the program. In addition to the mentor relationship, the program offers academic support as well as social groups that the students can join for open discussion topics.

She wants to be a photographer. Great, I say, and we spend hours cutting pictures from magazines to create an inspiration board. We go to an exhibit at the University of the Arts. We start a blog where we upload her pictures every month when we get together. I tell her that this blog will be a great addendum to her college application when the time comes. As we get more comfortable with each other she asks me more questions: what was my college like (ewww, rural!), and what do I do at work. What is my husband like, and what is his job. Her open-mindedness astounds me. She laughs when I tell her about broken umbrellas, and then sends me a photo of one a few weeks later. She remarks as we're in line for popcorn at the Ritz that she has never heard of any of these movies, and then whispers to ask why anyone would ever work for That Lady as Anna Wintour throws half of Grace Coddington's work for the September issue into the garbahhge.

We do a search on Collegeboard.com (gone is the big, fat Barron's!) to find what schools fit her academic interests and personal wishes. I gently point out the SAT scores and broach the subject of how important these are and what we can do together to work on improving the score. We save her profile on the website for later reference.

And in between these activities we talk each week about what's happening in school and how tests are going. The week that JD Salinger died, I ask if her English teacher talked about him in class. "Who?" she says and I think that maybe it's part of the junior year curriculum, not sophomore. For Christmas I buy her To Kill a Mockingbird, which she has never heard of, and a few others to whet her appetite for reading and discovery. The program assigns us to read A Hope In The Unseen, which teaches me something new on practically every page, but which she abandons after five chapters.

And here is where reality hits that I thought I was just helping someone to get the opportunity to pack her suitcases for college, but what her support team really needs is to make sure she has the right equipment to succeed once she gets there. And that's, wow.

J-j-jammin' on the Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 03:12:00 +0000

As in, wearing my pajamas all day today because I could not tear my eyes away from our current book club selection, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.

And that was just today; yesterday we spent a few hours with some 3-week-old twins, and then caught The Wrestler 2, I mean Crazy Heart. And Friday night we rented Hurt Locker, which I will very much be rooting for to win Best Picture, because Wow. That's a movie that had me biting my nails and twisting my toes from the opening to closing credits, and, no, I'm not going to see Avatar. Also, I really really liked that the principal actors aren't household names and I hope that cuckoo IED diffuser guy gets a nod. Because I really didn't see anything extraordinarily outstanding with George's performance in Up In The Air. Never once did I forget I was watching George Clooney on the screen. Never once did I think they cast the only person capable of playing that character. Oscar buzz - I did not have it.

And this is where I throw my hands up and say I don't understand how Hollywood works anyway and wow I can't believe these Junior Mints were only $2.25 at the theater.

Next up: Inglorious Basterds.

Tick tock and ya don't stop

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 01:54:00 +0000

Guess what I just finished doing?
A. Eating dinner (can I get a time stamp, pls)

Guess what I'll be doing when I finish blathering?
B. Writing more nouns and verbs, but in a very (lower your voice to a baritone) Professional Manner And A Fancy Different Grown-Person Voice.*

Guess what I wish I was doing? (answer must be in the realm of possibility.)
C. Playing Zelda. (I might be humming the song right now!)

Increasingly, the hubs and I have been challenged (all relative, yes) with tipping the scales ever so slightly in the favor of the Life portion. NB: losing scratch-offs aren't that heavy. For him, it's time spent on the road shuttling around to offices for his new job that take him away from .

Oh what? We must've had a bad connection and you missed reading my explanation of the very captivating nuances of my husband's engineering job. For everyone who hated chapter 2 of every Babysitters-club series, how about I just tell you he uses an IBM.

For me, there's always a project waiting in the wings that could be addressed now. There's always hunting for the next, or doing, a freelance job. And there's always It. That one-dimensional project that's begging for plot developed, characters revealed and more of my attention. Last week, it was all three of these things; me at the dining room table facing him at the sofa, schematics and highlighters spread across the coffee table like a game of Clue. Mr. Scientist in the lah-bore-a-toree with the beta test!

So finally, Friday came, and with it the promise of a few free hours. And thanks to my lovely friends at Nintendo, the timing couldn't have been better. We unboxed our new Wii, poured some cocktails and spent the next two hours tipping the scales in a heated He and She Wii-lympics.

Tennis: Jim
Bowling: Katie
Baseball: decision
Golf: Jim
Boxing: Katie (!)

Saturday, I couldn't lift my arms.
Sunday, Jim worked all day; and as you can read - here we are again on Monday. Speaking of, I have a goal of 2k words before bed.

I can't wait for Valentine's Day – I already have my eye on Karaoke Revolution, and my husband never met a microphone he didn't like. Let's hope that's not the next time we play. Classic Zelda: downloaded!

Parentheticals brought to you by Diet Dr Pepper(s), and my 2010 resolution to read Infinite Jest.
Special thanks to Brand About Town for sending me a Wii!
*Some restrictions may apply.

Mr. Safire, Mr. Safire

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 00:23:00 +0000

The article is about how technology is changing so quickly that even siblings with only the years of college and high school to separate them are experiencing the divide. So if you (like me) feel like you're learning something new every day (Format + Font + Strikethrough!), fear not.

Naturally, the lede resonated; because as fascinated as I am with learning about this genre of, um, lifestyle technology (spaceships and robots: eh.) I'm truly awed by the developments in language prompted by technology. (Excluding text speak, omg.)

I threw out the observation to my Tweeps, and contributed the one that impacts my daily life: telling someone that I read an item ON instead of IN. I don't even think twice about saying it this way now.

@LenDamico presented a nice converse - when the technology works, but the accompanying word kind of blows. Hey, thanks for the playlist.

And speaking of music, when was the last time you "bought a single" as opposed to "downloading the mp3."

Remember when working together was called teamwork? Now it's called "crowdsourcing".

Of course, as with any developing language, there will always be factions. Is it text or texted? And who can forget the whole Twittering or Tweeting debate?

Isn't it exciting that in this realm of gadget geek and techno-speak there's a place for we word lovers? And if you counterpoint, I'll present the Zi8. Never heard of it? That's because Kodak wisely heeded a Boston journalist's early observation that this perfectly competent Flip competitor wouldn't stand a chance with such a clunky name. Coming soon to a big box store or URL near you, the Kodak Playsport.

By the end of 2010, we can only guess how many new terms will have entered our lexicon. But we can guarantee that every proponent dreams of hitting upon the magic formula, where brand name becomes verb. Not sure what I mean? Google it.

Philes and Phobes

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 23:26:00 +0000

Our cell phone contracts are up, and since we're already filing joint taxes we figure we might as well take the plunge and get a family plan. Under one circumstance: I will not give up my 917 area code. Because you know, that paid-for-by-Powerball Greenwich Village pied a terre still awaits.

I want the Droid.

My husband doesn't have a clue what this means, except that it will add $30 to our monthly bill. And then before I can lobby $30, it doubles to $60; happy family plans are all alike, because apparently each member must have the same smartphone.

I explain that the surcharge is for mobile internet and data.

"Mobile Internet?" he asks, his voice raising to a Mariah Carey soundsphere. "You're. Not. Mobile." And because this is a hilarious truth I laugh. And when I laugh we both know I've lost*.

I can't offer the Use It For Work pitch, and even the GPS feature is a feeble lobby. The app that lets you access all your store loyalty cards does intrigue him, but it's not strong enough. I break down and tell him that I'd probably mostly use it to update the umbrella blog in real time and so I can share in fewer than 140 characters what is flitting through my brain at any given second of the day to the 900+ people who have never met me in real life. (It makes me a better writer?)

My Facebookless husband laughs. I want. I don't need. I also don't like to be reasoned with. I do like getting my way.

An associate sees our consternation (or notes how long we've been in the store) and wanders over. My husband, asserting his technology knowledgry asks what makes the Droid superior to, say, that phone over there. The associate, starts strong with "The Droid is the most superior phone on the market. I can't imagine my life without it." I like where he's going with this. The associate observes the 30-something male prospect and dives into his finely tuned sales pitch.

"Let's say your phone gets stolen or you lost it; there's a chip inside..." If my husband loses this phone he'll never get another one. MOVE ON, I will the man.

"You're outside and you don't know where you are. Just take a picture of something nearby, and..." Ok, even I didn't understand that one, but wow, broken umbrellas.

"I like trivia, let's say you're out with your friends and you are arguing over something." He presses a few buttons and enunciates at the screen. "Who. Is. The. President. Of. France." I envision lots of great date nights, cheating at Quizzo.

"Let's say you want to watch TV. Let's see, what was someone watching earlier today." The Young And The Restless pops up on screen. Oh my god.

*

Does anyone know how to lower the ringtone on this here LG EnV Touch?

*This is why I went into marketing not lawyering.

Counting forward

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 03:47:00 +0000

Ten years ago I greeted the new decade staring up into a mess of neon stars. As I lay in my childhood bed, suffocated by the quiet house, I wondered if this was how life was going to play out for me. A new millennium of solitude.

I was home over the holiday break, hundreds of miles from any of the college buddies who knew me best, and somehow even the high school friends I'd managed to stay connected with had all made separate plans with their, closer, college friends.

3, 2, 1, nothing. No lights went out, no nuclear power plants exploded, and after we all stopped counting down, we resumed counting forward. In five months I'd be thrust out into the world with a marketing degree and without a clue what do make of it.

The ten years since have been a truly wild and unpredictable experience. If it keeps getting better, than please sign me up for a couple more of these decade tickets. I've come to realize that while I'm a social person, it's my alone time that really recharges my batteries. Sitting, thinking, observing, reading, writing. Where else but in the middle of a city can you be completely surrounded by energy, fracas and frenzy, but be totally outside it at the same time?

This year, though, was one of my favorites. I made a list, in the beginning, and I'm pretty proud to have accomplished all that I did. (See? I can't even muster enough interest in kitchenish things to Hang.A.Shelf.) But I'm most proud of the two things that weren't on the list that probably best define this year for me. I'll remember 2009 as the year I ran a 1/2 marathon (What's 3 more?), and the year I became a mentor with Philadelphia Futures.

Tomorrow we'll reveal our 2010 lists with another couple as we've all done for three years now. (Wine helps the men talk about goal-y things.) Mine has but four items, but one that's not going to be on the list that I hope to accomplish: Less counting down, more making now count.

Getting back on the bike

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 13:14:00 +0000

Should we try this again? See if we still know how? See if we still enjoy the rush of wind to the face, watching the stones disappear below us into a blur as we pick up speed?

Let's give it a try.

One block at dinner time

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 02:28:00 +0000

Their television faces the window, teasing me with a Daily Double but never letting me know if I'm the only one paying attention.

Mothballs.

She's not our here to smoke or talk on the phone, but I've passed her so many times that she asked my name so we can say hello. Hers is Donna, and I think of that Car Talk episode and know that I'll never mistakenly call Donna Brenda or somesuch. I smile the rest of the way.

The car with the flat tire.

The one with the gorgeous flowers. Not sure what they are. They're fuchsia. Sometimes I pluck one.

Cats. Lots of them.

Pasta sauce!

Yelling. Oh dear.

The yellow walls that look so good, but came out oh so terrible in my bedroom. Grr.

God Bless America, indeed.

Still for sale. What in the world are they asking?

Brass house numbers. Nickel mail slot. The horror.

Grilled something. Mmm. Music I don't recognize.

Stop sign. Wait for traffic. Turn left.

2.0

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 01:17:00 +0000

The internet has changed by leaps and bounds since I first started typing here ...(checking)... OMG exactly five years ago! (Did OMG even exist in 200-dinoFOUR?) Back then blogs were more or less an outlet for feelings, a place where you were always only a few clicks away from discovering that the things bouncing around in your head were often shared by others.

I dove in, enthusiastically at first, seeing this format as an opportunity to test my chops stringing the nouns and verbs together. While other bloggers were getting book deals, I considered success not receiving hateful comments. Months, then years passed and I'd written about my transition to PA, missing NY, my love, my family, my friends, but what for? I was neither a 'bare it all' or 'woe is me' writer, but after all that time I didn't really know what kind of writer I was. Give me 3 pieces of copy written by my coworkers and chance are I'll correctly identify the authors, but me? Stories, words. Where was I?

And while I was blabbing my stories along came youtube, flickr, etsy, iphones, facebook, tumblr, twitter, and who knows what is being developed somewhere right now. Suddenly we were all just a few clicks away from discovering things we didn't even know were bouncing around in our head. Like how taking pictures of broken umbrellas could lead to seeing the world in a whole new way. And that a lot of people will never get it, but chances are, even just one absolutely will. And maybe one day you'll be that One Person who gets it for someone else.

I decided that I was finally in a place where I could help someone else, not through sharing my life stories on the internet, but through a real, personal, 1-on-1 relationship. The only thing I knew when signing up to be a mentor with Philadelphia Futures was that I was committing myself to a 4-year relationship with a city high school student who showed college potential but may not have the means or motivation to pursue education past high school. My career is tangible proof of a mentor's capability, and I filled out the profile thinking I'd be matched up with a budding writer. I got, a photographer. And she's amazing. She wants to move to Paris and loves fashion. She asks questions eagerly. And she teaches me something new every time we're together.

Of lazy mornings and perfect sunsets

noreply@blogger.com (Katie) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 15:20:00 +0000

When I was but a wee lass fashioning trash cans from toothpaste caps for my dollhouses, I also made sure the doll family had a Root Beer fountain and an indoor pool. Where budget was no option and dreams only limited by imagination these were the height of interior design, and it bothered me tremendously that the house had no staircase. Because a root beer fountain was completely plausible, but how could anyone reach the second floor? Fly? And thank goodness my tastes have changed.

Right now, I can't imagine living anywhere that affords me ample space and nature's kisses. I like keeping things simple and don't mind growing vegetables on the roof. I'm a city girl these years, and a recession-conscious one at that, but... someday. And that someday I wouldn't mind having these five items to come home to, a much healthier outlet than filling my current 1,200 square foot home with any of them. I sure hope Stumphouse is listening/watching/reading.

Special thanks to Note to Self for starting the theme.

1. Built-in bookshelves.
Big ones, wall-to-wall since we're dreaming here, where my right-brain and Jim's left-brain tomes can mingle peaceably by color, naturally.

Image via Zokk Furniture Design & Craftsmanship.

2. A second staircase that leads into the kitchen
My grandmother's house had one, and it was at the same time scary and thrilling. Part Nancy Drew and part horror movie. And apparently she may've been the only house in the history of the world to have such a thing because it took me about three years to find another photo.

Image via Flickr user didurkes

3. An awesome impractical storage unit
Apothecary, printer's shelves, baker's rack, card catalog, I don't care which, and I have no idea what I'd put in one, I simply want. It will be my one nouveau riche tell-tale, but at least I will come into it under my own searching and not because I had it written into my game-show-host contract.

Image via decor8

4. A second-story porch, accessed through windows or French doors.
Perfect for sipping cocktails, gossip, board games and spying on neighbors.

Image via Apartment Therapy

5. A magical peony tree that blooms all year round. Since we're dreaming.

Image via Design*Sponge

That was fun! And while I spend the next few years figuring out the locale that can give me a Southern, Victorian, Arts & Crafts-style home in an urban setting, please do take 5 minutes to ignore your 401k and share your 5 dream items?