argh.

I swear, some people are just put on the planet to make you feel like you've completely missed the point of "youth" and/or "potential." You know what I mean? The people you know who always seem to be doing something cooler than you, something just slightly more obscure or artistic or interesting. Sometimes you're welcomed into their hyper-active lives and it's a whirlwind and you love it but you never quite figure out where they come up with the idea to do all these things. How do you even hear about so many events?

Social capital, that's the answer. People who really take advantage of the "it's not what you know, but who you know" thing. Slash, schmoozers and networkers and hyper-friendly people. The more people you know, the more events you hear about, the cooler at least some of those events are bound to be. It's simple arithmetic.

My problem is that I much prefer the consistent company of a select few to the social butterfly lifestyle. I'm not a homebody or antisocial, it's just in my nature: I overindulge in everything, including people. I meet someone, I like them, I want to spend time with them and 4 times a week doesn't seem excessive to me. I fit my life around it.

Other people seem to be more abstemious (GRE word o' the day! slash, WordsThatDon'tDefineMe.com) -- they meet with a rotation of up to, what, like 50 acquaintances? something like once a month each. That's exhausting. That is a lot of scheduling and not ditching, first of all, and on top of that, it's a lot of coordination, memorization of personal details and showmanship. Those kinds of relationships require you to always be your Show Self -- always witty, always cool, always ahead of the trends, always showing off a little. It's not easy to entertain people all the time; it's actually kind of a pain in the *ss. And after all that, you know you can't actually call any of those people if you want to be your low-key self on a Sunday afternoon, or need a sympathetic ear when you've had a bad day. It's a lot of work for what I would consider a relatively small payoff. So maybe you hear about more concerts than you would have otherwise or you get invited to house parties where you meet more of these acquaintances. But mostly all you come away with at the end of the day is a false sense of social security and cirrhosis of the liver from all those parties. Lame.

Slash, I'm 24. Shouldn't that be what I want?

wave on wave

So it's Memorial Day Weekend -- 3 glorious office-free days marking the official kick-off to summer, my #1 favorite thing about DC. Am I at the beach, playing in the waves, soaking up the sun, building sand castles and reading my novel-du-jour? No. I'm home in DC, celebrating the start of the tourist season. Already the city is teeming with them! I went for a run by the White House today just to see them. Then I kept on going down to the Mall to see some more. I chatted with a few, but mostly I laid in the grass and watched. Sometimes I feel like I'm in an inverted zoo where I get to watch Americans, a rare and unfamiliar species. They think they're here to see the sights, but really they're my entertainment. I don't fully understand them, their politics or their fanny-packs, but I like them. They're so wholesome... or something. They at least make me feel better about my wardrobe.

Erol said that when he first moved here, he thought he'd be annoyed by the tourists, but instead he finds that he likes them. They confirm the value of the city he adopted. They remind him that he's "somewhere," doing "something."

It's funny with the Sex and the City movie coming out because there are SATC marathons on TV (watching one now!) glorifying New York and groups of girlfriends. Television confirms value in the same way that tourists do, only on a much larger scale and with better outfits. People don't necessarily think of DC as having the same glam-factor as NYC, but the way I see it, that's largely arbitrary. And besides, I feel the same way about this place as Carrie feels about New York.

At the end of the series, Carrie gives up the city she loves for a man. My life isn't quite like that (understatement of the century!), but something might take me away from here eventually. In starting to think about school, I inevitably have to think about a new "home" and although it's at least a year away (and not even certain that I'd go away), it makes me sad to think that someday I won't be here.

Last night Erol and I started talking about the future. With his career aspirations it's almost guaranteed that he'll move overseas, multiple times. In the end, though, he sees himself here. He sees me here too: "You'll leave, but you'll be back." What, am I the Terminator?

I wonder, though, if the city would have the same charm a second time. I'm inconsolable every time I leave Rhode Island, but every time I go back it's a pale shadow of the place I used to know. I know the roads by heart, but the drive is empty -- my life simply isn't there anymore, no matter how much I miss it. And my town in Freiburg (although just as beautiful and chock full of memories and charm), well, it just wasn't the same when I went back to visit. Will that happen to DC?

In the end, it's probably not the city but the lifestyle that I love. And it's shifting as we speak. The way I see the world has changed, continues to change. I'm not the same girl I was when I as 20 -- or 22, for that matter. Thank God. There's a line from a song that always made so much sense to me: "I want you to change, but still stay the same." Well, world? Can you handle that?

In the end, I guess I have no choice but to embrace the tidal wave of tomorrows that are staring me down. It's a tsunami, betches. You can't avoid it. All you can do is head for higher ground -- which I suppose could mean higher education. ... Or a playground jungle gym. MY YOUTH IS NOT YET DEAD!!!

boys are stupid

I've been saying it and saying it and now we have proof -- boys have absolutely nothing going on upstairs.


UPDATE -- Boys overcompensate for their stupidity by using obtuse and awkwardly formal language:

Dear Betch,

As an avid reader of your blog, I had to sit down and pen this letter to you this morning. I watched the NBC SNL clip you linked at your website, and I must propose that it, rather than its target, is the stupidest thing since the 9th sequel to the Land Before Time. (Seriously, the series totally peaked at Land Before Time VI: The Secret of Saurus Rock.)

That 3 minute tax on my free time this morning conclusively proves that Saturday Night Live is the United Nations of comedy shows: an official brand that is tragically impotent in its field. Compared with that sketch, there is deeper and more meaningful satire of today's society in a 20-second GEICO spot featuring faux cavemen.

That is not to say there is not merit to your central thesis regarding Y chromosomes and crippling obtuseness. Quite the contrary; however, unless we could show that this SNL skit was inspired by a room full of male writers fueled by beef jerky washed down with Pabst Blue Ribbon, I do not believe it tells your story convincingly.

Sincerely,
An Armchair Blogger

well that's a load off!

Last night I shared with Erol the most recent in a series of good, hard mind-f*ckings now known as A Typical Week in Kato's Social Life.

"You know, Kate, I forgive you for not having realistic expectations about the world," said Erol, after I finished my story. "It's really not your fault. The most ridiculous things happen to you -- I could see where your expectations would be skewed toward the insane."

Thank you, Erol. Finally. After two years, you finally lifted the burden of blame from my shoulders by forgiving me for the craziness that finds its way to me. Hallelujah! ;-)

the counter offer

I've lived my entire adult life in DC. On these streets, I've laughed until I cried, then cried until I laughed again. I love it here. I'll stay as long as I still get goosebumps running by the monuments in the sweltering summer heat, as long as the vibe of the city jives with my own, as long as I'm still happy here.

The only problem is, it's very small. Frankly, the city is becoming a little crowded with men I no longer have any use for. A lack of resources makes people especially territorial, as evidenced last night, when I was presented with a less-than-gentlemanly offer -- I've been asked rather forcefully never to attend a certain restaurant. In return, I would not incur the mild irritation of someone who seems to have forgotten that he dropped me. While the offer to slink around the city fearful of upsetting this person is tempting, something about it seems unfair. This is my home. I've been here longer; I've invested more into it; if only due to seniority, I should get first dibs on the city hot-spots.

Thus, today, I present my counter offer:

The following places have been declared a Safe Kato Zone (Betches Only):

• The Whole Foods and Trader Joe's chains;
• The U St Corridor;
• All dining and/or dancing establishments in NW unless cleared in advance by a Betch-designated third party (Note: Adams Morgan is exempt, and Lauriol Plaza is not defined as "dining.");
• Metrorail, except for every 5th Tuesday between 10am and 3pm;
• Circles, including, but not limited to, Dupont, Logan, Sheridan, Washington, and Scott;
  
• The National Mall on the 4th of July and during the National Tree display;
  
• DCA; also, the Southwest Airlines gates at IAD and BWI; and
  
• the Kennedy Center.
  

The following areas are free for your uninhibited, Kato-free enjoyment:

• Museum exhibits visited on dates that are even-numbered primes;
• Zip codes found in the Fibonacci sequence; and
• Anacostia.

So there you have it. I've drawn my lines in the sand. Or on the streets of the city I've called home for over half a decade. I sincerely hope this arrangement is amenable to all parties involved.

the way they were ... drunk

My European grandparents were partiers. Every weekend they hosted fabulous parties for all their fabulous Eastern European friends -- doctors, nuns and eccentrics, mostly, and they all terrified me equally -- where everyone spoke their third common language and talked about "the old country." Baba (Grandma) dressed like Jackie O on safari -- she was the kind of woman whose alligator shoes matched her alligator coat and purse, who held her cigarette nonchalantly while she chatted soberly with Sister So-and-So about what a shame it was that her son married a Protestant. Grandpa was the life of the party -- in my memories he's always sporting an old-school white tennis outfit and a cardigan, passing trays of delicate hors dourves, full of warmth and joy and jokes, making whomsoever he chose to speak with feel like the center of the universe. I'd love to go to one of those parties as an adult. Those days were long over by the time I was old enough to have a decent conversation with an adult, though. It remains for me a fantasy-land in my mind, a spectacular little world contained in the tiny town in RI my grandparents came to call home -- made in the exact image of the world they left behind. It was a tiny piece of glamorous Europe in the countryside of New England.

They've both passed away by now -- Baba when I was in 6th grade, Grandpa when I was a senior in college. It's been over 2 years and their house is still full of the things they collected across the world. And they had great taste: lush Persian rugs, hand-painted china, hand-carved furniture, silk tapestries from China, a baby-grand Steinway, leather-bound books in 6 different languages -- even their ashtrays were gorgeous. Slowly we're getting rid of it all. I'm not a sentimental person, per se, and I'm not particularly attached to "things." But it's hard to imagine throwing away all the things that I identify so strongly with my grandparents and half of my heritage.

My mother's of the same mindset, even though they aren't her parents. Keep it in the family, is her thing. Hold on to memories. My dad was driving down to DC this weekend anyway, so she packed up a bunch of their things that she thought I might be able to use and sent them down. She told me she was sending me useful things, things for the kitchen.

Oh great, I thought. Kitchen stuff. Not like I cook, but I'm sure I could find someone who can put it to good use.

My dad showed up with boxes and boxes of stuff.

Oh great, I thought. Can't wait to carry all this sh*t with me the next time I move.

The rest of the story... well. I'll just give you a list of the things my mother sent me.

• A food processor.
  
• A cheese grater -- well, that's what I think it is. I can't think of what else it might be. My kitchen item vocab is shaky.
• A blender.
  
• A pitcher.
  
• Beer glasses.
• Really awesome champagne-flute-look-alike shooter glasses.
  
• Port glasses.
  
• Cognac glasses.
• Silver lobster utensils.

Uh. I remember parties, and these people were all from Slavic countries (translation: vodka was their breastmilk), but I don't remember the old folks doing shooters. Clearly I'm going to have to re-evaluate some of the trinkets found in my memory bank.

Maybe I'll do that on the way to the liquor store, where I'll be buying all sorts of old man alcohol I don't care for so I'll have something to serve in my ridiculous new glasses.

what are you looking at?

My dad's in town this weekend. He's not here to see me -- no, my parents don't visit me. There happens to be a conference in town, and I happen to live here, so he called to take me out to awkward "Um I can't talk to you about this, this or that... so weather it is!" dinner. I needed a silent activity to fill the rest of the evening, so I took him to the NSO at the Kennedy Center.

Now, I'm very tall -- you see that chart? I'm hanging out somewhere between Uma Therman and Tyra Banks. Except there's no studio adjusting the camera angles so I don't seem so much taller than everyone. Just cold, stark reality. Normally I don't accentuate my height, mostly because the air's thin enough up where I am anyway, but partly because I tend to like shorter guys. Mama always said shorter boys were more fun because they actually have to work to get girls' attention, and I think she's right. She didn't follow her own advice, though: my dad's 6'2". It's a rare treat for me to stand near someone else as vertically gifted as me -- it means I can stand next to him in heels and look like a normal person instead of an Amazon freak of nature. So I shimmied into something that showed off my silhouette, threw on those heels I wear once a year and pranced off to the symphony.

As a general rule, people stare at me. I catch a lot of strangers gawking. I'm not really sure why. I think it's my height. I think it makes people uncomfortable. The Kennedy Center is the worst. It seems to be the epicenter of short wealthy women who are horrified by the idea of a tall blonde woman. I probably look like the woman their husbands screwed around with over the years. Girls like me give girls like me a bad name, I suppose. Whatever the reason, I soaked up a lot of dirty looks last night.

Maybe I should suck it up and move somewhere that everyone looks like me. Scandinavia or something. Colorado. Texas. **shudder** Maybe not. That seems like a recipe for an unhealthy lack of genetic diversity. And anyway, it's ridiculous that the villagers still chase away giants with pitchforks. I could crush you, people!!!

sooo lovins

Before I even start, I want to make something very clear -- my dog Molly (left) is the best dog in the entire world. Period. I'm sure your dog is very nice, but he/she doesn't hold a candle to Molly. And, as you can tell from the accompanying photo, she clearly feels the same way about me. (For those of you who missed the sarcasm, that picture shows Molly haaaaaating me while I crawl around on the ground trying to give her attention.)

I'm not swayed by her disinterest in me. I know she has a soft spot in her heart for me -- due in no small part to the fact that I give her significantly more cookies than anyone else -- I'm a lot to handle, I understand this. She can only take me in small doses. That's fine, because I know that when I wake up, she'll be curled up behind my knees.

She's always liked my older sister better than me, which drives me crazy because Jean doesn't even like dogs that much. She resented Molly for years because we bought the dog to replace her when she left for college. Somehow this caused her emotional damage while it brought the rest of us closer together. It's amazing what a dog will do to a family dynamic. Molly changed our lives. If you think I'm cold and awkward now, you should have seen me before Molly!

Lately I find myself pining for a puppy. Everyone on my street seems to have a 9-week bulldog. I would also like to own a very young dog. Erol won't let me. The rugs from Turkey are worth more than my happiness. And Shiloh doesn't think I could have my own dog, citing evidence such as "you can't even cook yourself dinner," and "there's no way you'd ever pick up its poop." While I'm not sure how that first part is relevant as I wouldn't have to bake the dog's food myself, that second point is an excellent one. There's just no way I'm following a dog around, carrying its sh*t in a plastic baggie. That's disgusting. Love has its limits.

Still, I can't help but feel overwhelmed with envy that my sister just got a new puppy. I guess that makes me an aunt. This'll be interesting -- it's the first time any of my sisters has been solely responsible for the life of a living creature. I guess this is a new way to find out her true colors. As for me, I'm going to Philadelphia in 2 weeks with a bag full of cookies for the baby. I doubt I'll ever love the puppy as much as Molly, but I'll try -- I mean, isn't there enough room in the human heart for more love?

Update: Check out the bubby!!! Could ya just die?? I already love this dog more than Erol's stupid rugs.

#11

A few weeks ago I found myself in an unnaturally intimate (sober!) conversation with a girl I met for the first (and probably last) time that night. For whatever reason she started talking to me about this guy she's been "dating," although they had never really said it. And their relationship had absolutely zero physical component. That last part blew my mind -- why was this guy hanging around until 4am, taking her on dates, calling her all the time if there wasn't even friendly brushing of a hand against a thigh or something? Do people do that?

Then she told me she only has sex with men she's in love with. My jaw's on the floor at this point, I mean I'm not even trying to be accepting of alternative lifestyle choices. I've got mixed views on sex, and I try not to take it too lightly, but completely abstaining until you're in a committed relationship is not something I can wrap my head around. First of all, what boys wait around that long?? Second, how do you hold yourself back from putting the moves on someone you have feelings for? Slash, met at a bar .

I don't know that I could say that I was ever genuinely in love with anyone. I'm not really sure what that means. I've had passion. I've had fun. I've had something that seemed like love at the time. But ultimately, if I was to live by this girl's rule, I'd definitely still be sporting my V-card.

I know this has been a random thought, but as I rack up notches on my bedpost, I can't help but ask myself whether my eagerness to please (and be pleased) is what holds me back from having the kind of self-assuredness that this girl had. She wasn't anything special; she just held herself in high regard and demanded that others do the same. This is somewhat foreign to me. Erol tells me I don't demand enough respect, and maybe he's right. But maybe she needs to loosen up a bit and just allow herself to get tangled into emotional and physical messes. We're 24, for Christ's sake. Being young is a Get Out of Jail Free card for almost any mistake I can think of.

Sometimes I think that barring STD-transmission, children you didn't mean to conceive and that one hormone that makes you believe you're in love, sex is pretty mild -- and, really, it's a dangerous thing to put on a pedestal. It's just not what virgins believe it to be. Let's all take a moment and blame the media for that. And our parents -- God forgive them for their good intentions, but look where it got me. I have no idea what to think about men and sex and potentially fictitious concepts like "love."

But then other times I wonder what those notches represent -- what kind of innocence I've lost in carving them, what kind of cynicism they've brought me, whether they're not actually scars on my bedpost but scars on my heart.

Maybe she's on to something. Maybe there's no place for that kind of confusion in male-female relationships until you're in a place where you can expect the other person to call you just to say hi. Maybe I should try that -- maybe I should demand respect instead of chemistry.

...

I mean, there's no way I'm going to do that. But in a perfect world, maybe I'd be better at this game.

there's been a horrible mistake

I met the man of my dreams last night. Tall, gorgeous, well-dressed -- he laughed at my jokes and offered to cook me dinner. He's politically like-minded, shares my taste in music, and he even lives in my neighborhood! He's perfect. I love him.

If I were a nice normal person with nice normal expectations for my life, someone more like Lauren #2 perhaps, I could expect things to work out for me and my new sexpot. As it happens, there's just no way this will work out for me. I will, in all likelihood, spend my entire life alone. Or at least not with this man, my dream man, the man I always knew I'd find since I was a little girl. How can I be so sure, you ask? Because he's gay. That's right: the man of my dreams is a gay man.

This makes perfect sense. As Lauren #2 astutely noted, I am also a gay man. Let's consider:

1. I love house music.
2. I think football is stupid.
   
3. I really enjoy stupid celebrity gossip, superlatives and the nonsensical slang used by teenagers (and gay men).
   
4. I'm outspoken and loud and always clamoring to be the center of attention.
   
5. I've got opinions like Lauren #2's got jokes.
6. I create faux drama and present it to friends/acquaintances/strangers as the actual state of affairs in my life (see: this blog).
7. My "relationships" are fleeting, highly sexual affairs void of commitment and strong feelings.

In the straight world, a person of this description is considered an incurable failure. In the gay world, this is standard operating procedure. So I'm either the hollow shell of a straight female or the queen of the male gay community.

It would make a lot of sense for me to be a "fruit fly," but I am not, generally speaking. I try not to identify myself as a man's pathetic cling-on, especially a man who can never learn to love me (give up the dream, girls). But I can still have crushes on gay men.

Argh! Clearly there's been a mistake. My friend's new boy-toy really should be straight.

Apparently the Universe got jokes, too.

robert redford defies reason

Robert Redford is walking sex, and I don't care that my grandmother has a better chance with him than I do. He's a sexy old man.

I just watched some movie I didn't even know he recently made -- something about lions and lambs? It was sort of in that Babel/Crash genre, where there are 3 vaguely connected storylines that come together to "really say something, man." This time the statement was about the war and constituent passivism and media compliance and the confluence of personal and political and professional factors that result in bodybags. It was good. It was thought-provoking, anyway, and I was glad Hollywood bothered to take on a complicated subject and allow it to remain complicated.

The movie did kind of make me hate myself without really knowing how to remedy that, though. The message was "do something" -- it didn't really come with any advice on what specifically to do, but for my part, I hooked up with a Marine last night, which I think definitely counts as serving my country. Or servicing my country, anyway.

In related news, I hate partying in Virginia. Every time I go there I wind up with another name I have to list on PeopleIWontBeCalling.com. Note to self: Learn your lessons, already, Kato!

pre-jection

I'm well acquainted with the concept of "guilt by association," so in college I made the savvy decision to cozy up to the dorks/prodigies in my major. Besides the fact that it was a brilliant strategic move that resulted in a much better GPA than I probably deserved, I love dorky people: I perform best on the tennis court when I compete with people who are better than me, and, similarly, I learn more when I hang out with people who are smarter than me.

The only problem is that I have difficulty navigating the fine, fine line between "flirtation" and "friendliness." It can be a problem: even smart boys are stupid, and when you throw in alcohol and boobs they interpret "She wants me to set up her Blackberry" as "I'm gettin' laid tonight!"

One such instance happened in college when a male friend of mine called me out of the blue and told me he had heard I was interested in him romantically. I laughed out loud; perhaps not the most political response, but it was my honest reaction to his question. The truth was that he was in my major and he was considerably more intelligent than I was -- we spent a lot of time together but I was never even remotely attracted to him. Not even in the "well I'm really hot for his personality but I just don't have that sexual draw" way, either, and I'm big into "personality trumps looks." I mean, nothin'. So I finished laughing and said no. And he proceeded to say, "Well, that's good, because I was just calling to say that I don't think it's a good idea for us to date. We're in all the same classes and we have a lot of the same friends and I just don't think it's a good idea."

Wha-wha-whaaat?? Haha that's right, guys. I had been prejected -- that's rejection that comes prior to any offers. Rejection from someone I didn't even want. I had been blindsided by rejection! How was I supposed to know that's what I was up against when I answered the phone?? Unfair! There are rules to these things; that's gotta be a yellow flag, at least.

Anyway, I thought of that story because I was ditched for my happy hour plans tonight. The kicker is that I had made these specific plans hoping to fit that person's schedule, lifestyle and location. I mean, I offered to go to Georgetown. That is not something I "do." And you know what? My social services are not even wanted. And now I'm torn.

Do I go anyway (alone) and pretend I was making choices based on what I want in life rather than constantly compromising myself to make other people happy, or do I just suck it up and play Super Mario World alone on my couch until the "wii" hours of the morning?