Blogs are Taking Over the World

And not in a good way.*

This Ready Made magazine article talks about how an "indie-minded couple" created "nontraditional engagement photos."

Basically, they name all of the bloggers they admire and particular posts they found inspiring, and how they then proceeded to incorporate those into their engagement session.

(Let me note, that I read all of the blogs they mention. They're great. I enjoy them. Good stuff.)

But

1. Why are you putting THIS. MUCH. THOUGHT. into your "nontraditional engagement photos"? Seriously. If you were so "indie-minded" wouldn't you say HELLS NO to paying for super contrived engagement photos in the first place?

2. Why can't anyone make a move anymore without consulting a blog/blogger for acceptable inspiration? God forbid if anyone takes a photo - an ENGAGEMENT photo - without copying ideas they saw on the Internet.

Just goes to prove my point, which becomes more and more apparent with every passing day:

Blogs thrive on jealousy.

They twist their readers' minds into little vortexes of envy, throwing them (readers) into inane states of emotional/materialistic depression as we compare ourselves to complete strangers across the world whom we know NOTHING about.

Freaking Internet.

*I realize the complete irony of complaining about this topic on my own blog.

Dear White Honda with the ghetto black hood,

It was a delight to drive in front of you this morning for close to 30 minutes, as you hovered behind me 15 mph under the speed limit. It was comforting to look into my rearview mirror and see your eyes glued to your mobile phone/blackberry for that entire 30 minutes. Never did you put down your handheld device. And why should you? Driving shouldn't require one's full attention. Goodness no. It is a time in which to accomplish other things. Perhaps you were reading a news article. Or catching up with an old friend via text message. Perhaps you were watching an episode of Glee on your iPhone. Who cares that the winding twisting back roads on which we drove often include a surprise herd of deer or 90 degree right turns? By all means, I hope you accomplished what you needed to accomplish on your way to work this morning. I certainly feel safe on the roads of New Jersey.

Sincerely,
Kathryn

Hates

When ESPN continually feels the need to show the empire state building during Rutgers football games and say things like "Rutgers is a mere thirty minutes from New York City."  

Um, really?  How are YOU getting to New York ESPN?  Unless you're taking a private freaking jet, you will not be getting ANYWHERE near New York in a half hour.  

I think it's about time for New York to GET THEIR OWN SPORTS TEAMS!  

Giants - practice and play in New Jersey.  

Jets - practice and play in New Jersey.  

Rutgers - 100% New Jersey and in no way connected to New York so please stop taking credit for our recent success and stealing New Jersey's thunder!

I am done now.

A(nother) Train Story, or - A Tale About Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome Incurred on Today's Trip via NJ Transit

Today I spent much of the day thinking about The Lost Year.  

Or more specifically:

What on this green Earth could have possibly possessed me to commute FOUR HOURS every single day for almost a year on a completely horrendous train line filled with the most obnoxious specimens of human nature ever to breathe air?

Some highlights to incite pity from the masses:

9:05 a.m. - Board train.

9:10 a.m. - A bevy of six guffawing senior citizens sit behind me and proceed to screech and scream their way to Newark.  Apparently, their already-poor hearing must subsequently result in my hearing loss.  

10:25 a.m. - I transfer trains in Newark and stand in the vestibule between cars.  

10:27 a.m. - I am joined by a middle-aged tattooed couple that clearly had a bit too much experience with brain-altering substances in their youth.  (And probably in the present day.)  Hence their heavily delayed speech patterns.  They slur their way to Secaucus, peppering every other sentence with a drawn out "Maaaannnn," and then gallop off into a drug-addled sunrise.

10:57 a.m. - The conductor makes the following announcement:  "If you are traveling with small children, the elderly, or the intoxicated, please take them by the hand and watch the gap between the train and the platform."  Laughter ensues.  I'm grateful for this man's early morning train humor.  

  

11:00 a.m. - Arrive at New York Penn.  Walk 30 blocks.

12:00 p.m. - Interview (aka point of trip)

12:30 p.m. - Meet old coworkers for lunch.

1:30 p.m. - Subway back to Penn Station.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.

2:07 p.m. - Board train.

2:30 p.m. -  Arrive in Newark.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.  Read.  Read.  Wait.  Board train.  Wait.  Wait.

3:06 p.m. - Train leaves.

3:25 p.m. - I determine that the "woman" sitting across from me is almost assuredly a man in drag.

3:35 p.m. - I'm 98% percent sure that one of the many screaming children on the train experiences some gastrointestinal distress, the result of which wafts throughout the train car for innumerable minutes.

3:37 p.m. - Finish book.  Bored.  Jittery.  Anxious.  Bored.

3:45 p.m. - Mother:  Kids, quiet down or they're going to kick us off.

Kid:  How can they kick us off?  The window isn't even open!

...

Mother:  Honey, we don't need to see your underwear.

Kid:  But what's so wrong with it?  

3:48 p.m. - Conductor announces that we are being held at a stop signal.  We wait.  Again.

4:30 p.m. - Finally arrive home, twenty five minutes late.

Just another day in commuting hell.  

Farewell to Yankee Stadium

I am not a huge fan of baseball.  Americas pastime, blah blah blah.  To be completely honest, I think it's pretty boring.  I've been sucked in slightly over the past seasons against my will, only because I cannot complete with the Yankee crazies that surround me.  I'm outnumbered.  Papa, Mama, bf, sister's bf.  I have no choice but to surrender.

That said, despite my meager fandom, watching the pre-game ceremony on TV tonight even I was feeling influenced by the historical impact of closing the stadium.  

And really, I was getting kind of angered.  Then I became incensed.  Watching the footage of great plays and great players, switching from fuzzy black and white to color, makes you realize just how long this stadium has been around.  All the great players that have gone before.  The influence of the sport.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR SOCIETY!?  

Why can't we appreciate history!?  

Why do we need everything to be new new new?  

Newer does not always equal better.  

The sports gods should've saved their money, given a raise to the "CRACKKAAAA JACKSSSS" concession dude and called it a day.

Damn the influence of J and Scarlet

For making me verbally swoon over these puppy pictures.  

I want my cold cold heart back!

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

One of the things that I abhor most in life is eating something that I do not enjoy.  For someone who takes her food as seriously as I do, why waste the calories on something that doesn't make me swoon with delight?  If I don't like something, I don't eat it.  

Over the past few days, nothing I've eaten has satisfied me.  Nothing.  And I hate that.  I hate it because I love food and I want every little morsel that crosses my lips to send me into a food-induced haze of happiness.  

(Yes, it's weird.  I have a creepily intimate relationship with my food.  Leave me be.  I'm sure you have some idiosyncrasies of your own.)

I may just be in a foodie funk.  It may be period-related - for whatever reason, I think "that time of the month" affects my eating habits.  Maybe its the disgustingly hot weather.  Whatever it is, it needs to end.  I want to feel at peace with my meals again.

Example (plus many a digression):

Yesterday Mama and I went to Short Hills mall - my very favoritest NJ mall (and I consider myself a mall connoisseur).  Despite the fact that I can't afford to shop in approximately 80% of the stores there, it is beautiful and clean and filled with good-looking, wealthy eye candy (call me shallow, I don't even care - when you peoplewatch as much as I do, you want something nice to look at).  

Anyway, one of the main attractions of a trip to Short Hills is not only their absolutely huge and marvelous J.Crew, but also a delicious restaurant called Papa Razzi.  Honestly, I could be content with only their perfectly crunchy breadsticks, rosemary focaccia, and an iced tea, but they might not be too pleased if we ate their complimentary carbs without ordering a meal.  So I ordered the grilled shrimp with sauteed spinach appetizer.  I've had it before and it's delicious.  

A few bites in, and it tasted overwhelmingly salty.  So did the breadsticks.  I didn't even finish my focaccia!  Something was clearly awry.

On the way home we stopped at a little ice cream parlor in Chatham.  I took forever to make up my mind (surprise surprise), tasted at least three different kinds, and then foolishly ordered two scoops of flavors which I had NOT tasted.  FOOL.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Pistachio?  Disgusting.  Swiss Chocolate Fudge.  Horrid.  I took one bite and let it melt into a massive pool in its sad little cup that just about spilleth over onto Mama's leather seats on the way home.  

(Disclaimer:  The quality of the ice cream itself was truly not great, disregarding my out-of-whack tastebuds.  I have been spoiled by years of Polar Cub and Thomas Sweet, and the glorious ice cream experiences I've had there have transformed me into a major ice cream snob)

Conclusion:  I'm not really in the mood to eat anything, and THAT signifies a major problem.  For the sake of all that is good, let's hope that I'm back to my hungry, craving self as soon as humanly possible.

There is nothing I hate more...

than loud open-mouth chewing in addition to / accompanied by audible finger-licking

It's like nails on a chalkboard.
But worse.

Jenny

My sister has demanded that I post a picture of her, as younger sisters are wont to make demands.  

And yes, she IS younger.  I just want to get that out of the way now.  She is FOUR years younger.  SHE is just starting her sophomore year of college.  Not ME.  She is not 23.  She did not graduate in 2007.  Believe it or not, I am the older one.  

I am aware that I perhaps look young for my age.  I know I know I know - I'll appreciate it later on in life when everyone else my age is old and drooping and wrinkled and decrepit and, oh look!  I finally look like I'm in my twenties!  But for now, let it be said, that most twenty-three year olds will not take it as a compliment if you say "Oh my goodness!  You look like you're about sixteen!  But oh you are going to LOVE that when you get older..."

I'm just clearing that up - perhaps you've noticed it's a slightly touchy subject...

Introducing Kathy

A few years ago I acquired the nickname Kathy for my slightly sassier alter-ego that appears after half a glass of wine.  I am a hyper-observant twenty-three year old with ADD-esque thought patterns.

A mere billion years late, I am finally joining the blogosphere.

Honestly, I’m a bit self conscious about blogging and whether people will read this and think what I often think when I stumble upon a new blog:

• This person is a complete narcissist. Why do they think anyone cares about the trauma of their recent breakup?
• This is not well-written. This is not funny. This is a sad attempt at online entertainment.
• Again, who cares?

Despite my reservations, I clearly have enough narcissism stowed away somewhere to think that the rest of the online world would be better off if they had the opportunity to hear my ramblings on a daily basis.

I graduated from Rutgers University in 2007 after reading thousands of pages of English and Spanish literature and eating hundreds of dollars worth of cinnamon oreo ice cream.

I worked in Manhattan for a year doing healthcare PR. I commuted four hours a day to get there from central New Jersey. This can be referred to as "the lost year." I was miserable, quit, went to Spain, came home and spent a lot of time by the pool.

I am now trying to figure out what to do with my life. I am beginning to concoct increasingly bogus plans since I have eliminated virtually all full-time job options as horrible breeding grounds of boredom and torture. Whatever I decide to do, I would like to make obscene amounts of money that would allow me to live in a beautiful exposed-brick-laden penthouse somewhere in the Village in NYC. Suggestions are welcome, as long as you are willing to support my delusions.

Food consumes approximately 88% of my thoughts every day, including what I have eaten, what I am currently eating, and what I plan on eating next. If I am working in any kind of office, I have a designated snack drawer. On trips or any kind of extended travel, I bring a feedbag. I have the constant, fickle cravings of a pregnant woman. I think it’s a sin to skip breakfast. I want to love to cook, but really all I want to do is eat what someone else has already prepared for me.

The other 12% cannot even be categorized because it is a massive jumble of hyperactive, obsessive, random thoughts. Because I've started a blog, you are now privy to a small portion of this jumble. Lucky you.
I tend to peoplewatch more often and more intensely than the average person. I intend to share my thoughts on that quite often.

I am very politically incorrect. Prepare yourself. I seem to have gotten considerably less tolerant of the human race over the past five years. I also harbor a considerable degree of road rage.

I wish that the U.S. would ban SUVs and skyscrapers. We should also institute the whole European plazas-everywhere thing. And tapas.

I have trouble telling stories in a linear fashion. I’m warning you now.

I enjoy: the best time of day, wine so sweet it tastes like juice, oatmeal with chocolate chips, tapas, autumn, bread, bookstores, plazas, driving with the windows down and AC on, RU, Audrey Hepburn movies, ballet, "yikes," virtually every dress ever made by BCBG, la lengua española, Old Spice deodorant, yellow gold, roundabout stories, the beach (particularly at the BTOD) , recently vacuumed rooms, New Jersey

I have issues with: mayonnaise, people who like to hear themselves talk, heavy breathers, most dogs (and people who thinks their dogs are people), sniffling, remaining sedentary, loud public nose-blowing, long commutes, overtime