Afternoon Delights

Let’s discuss how awesome it is when you approach a vending machine and see someone has abandoned a sweet little afternoon snack because it got stuck somewhere on its way down. Hah. Sucker.

Today I received word from a very kind coworker that a bag of peanut M&Ms had recently been abandoned in our office vending machine due to the aforementioned.

This news came directly after I found out I would not make rent (small heart attack) and had no cash, not even a quarter, in my tin can where I stash coins for such afternoons like this one—when chocolate beckons me. So….I proceeded to walk, and by walk I mean sprint (in heels, thank you very much) to the vending machine.

I spotted the dangling yellow bag, with those cute little talking M&Ms on it and I let out a mini yelp of glee. Maybe my post-grad bad luck has changed? Maybe Oprah will call tomorrow with an editorial position for me? Maybe my student loans will pay themselves? Maybe? Or maybe it’s just free candy. Ooooooh-Lordy, free peanut M&Ms!

The question wasn’t, could I actually knock it free. It was more like who was going to walk by while I’m body slamming the vending machine? The way my luck is going these days, it would be the editor-in-chief himself. This my friend, was very risky business.

There was only one other person in the kitchen. An editor. While we did bond for a nanosecond last Friday, (does a conversation about guacamole count as bonding?) I doubted she would still consider me a cool intern if she saw me hurl my body at the Plexiglas all in the name of free candy. So I diddle-daddled, as my mother would say. I pretended to check the fridge like I was looking for my lunch despite the fact that I had eaten it two hours prior. I checked people’s mailboxes as if I had lost a pet gerbil and was frantically watching it climb from one box to the next. I drank a glass of water despite having to pee so badly I could feel it in my eyeballs.

Alas, what seemed like 72 hours later, Ms. Editor was gone and I was free to capture my freebie. Full bladder and all.

I started with a nonchalant hip bump. A good box-out, if any of you are familiar with basketball. No luck. Not even a budge. A few more hip checks and I started to feel like my pelvis was accruing some permanent damage and while I love free chocolate, I would also like to conceive a child or two someday. So I switched it up.

I crouched down, so if someone were to walk by it would only look like I was retrieving returned coins, not wedging my hand into the bottom trap door like I was Stretch Armstrong. Oh-yes, I was playing it cool. Until my hand got stuck of course. I could see it now, there I’d be, caught red-handed as the editor-in-chief came for his afternoon snack. So I panicked.

After amputating my hand from the wrist down—well it felt like that anyway—I tried an entirely different approach. The wiggle. Yeah, you know…like I was erasing an Etch A Sketch as if my life depended on it. I latched on with a giant bear hug and let that vending machine have it.

Just when I figured it couldn’t be done, I watched with sheer enthusiasm as the little yellow bag slid from its captor and made its final decent into the trap door area that still housed the rest of my wrist.

As if someone had possessed my body, I threw both arms up with balled fists. Tilted my head back and let out a quiet, drawn out, “Yeeeeeeesssss!”

Life, my friends, was all good. The amputated wrists, the bruised hips, the missing pride—all worth it.

It’s the little things.

Pra-pra-pra-prayer Time Playa!

Okay, if I see one more “Visit California” commercial on T.V. I’m going to start crying. And I hate crying. I never cry. Honestly. All right fine…Extreme Makeover Home Edition get’s me from time to time, but still….that doesn’t count. Because I said so…that’s why.

On a way-more-serious-than-usual note…let’s talk religion.

There are few things in life I know for sure. And here’s one:

My life is always better when God is a part of it.

Now sometimes I totally neglect him like I would a pet hamster who's cage I don't feel like cleaning. Sometimes I get so aggravated with him (because I'm not getting my way of course) that I tell him to take a hike. Sometimes I get caught up in life and forget to drop him a line, like a long lost relative....but in complete honesty... life is better when he's in the picture. Of this I am sure.

I know my devoted little Readers, that God comes in many different forms for all of you. I know this and I love this about you guys. I know some of you are Christians, Jews, Catholics, Taoists, Agnostics, Buddhists, or anything in between. I love the diversity. So I hope this comes across in a way that all of you can relate to.

First, I know what religion should not be. It’s shouldn’t be painful. It’s shouldn’t be a burden. It’s shouldn’t be judgmental. It shouldn’t stand to divide people. It shouldn’t put up walls that allow some in while denying others. No, my God wouldn’t want any of this.

I can only speak to what I know for sure and that is, that my God is a comfort. He is a safe place to land when the day has been too much to handle. He is a rock, steady, and unwavering, even in the most tumultuous times. He offers a comfort that no human is capable of. He is the best listener, the wisest advice giver, the most forgiving of mistakes and the most sincere in loving. And for all of this, I am truly thankful.

The details of religion matter less to me than the overall message, which is love God and love people. Do as much a good to as many as possible. Live in honesty, humility and grace. Treat others how you want to be treated and be kind.

BE KIND! Life is so full of heartbreak. It’s full of hurt and full of suffering and when we can extend even the simplest generosities, like a smile, or hug….or if we can open our homes to one another, share a meal, share a laugh…that’s religion at its finest. That’s what my God wants for us. Not suicide bombings in his name or judgments thrown around like we ourselves are blameless. God is a god of peace. He is less about the fire and brimstone message and more about a good conversation that leads us to feel truly blessed to know such grace.

We needn’t wrestle with the details if they are only going to divide us more. God would rather you befriend the sinner, than love only the holy.

Now, religion for me is about a relationship with God. A friendship. An intimate partnership that comes first and foremost in everything I do. And when I put that relationship on the back burner, life gets tough. Things start to crumble. Just ask my mother, who gets the 2 a.m. phone calls and says nothing more than ...how's you're relationship with God? As if I'm on the verge of getting a divorce from the big Guy and I need to clean up my act or he's going to leave me for a more spiritual follower. If you know what I'm saying.

I’m not an extremist. I truly believe that God wants religion to be comfortable. He wants it to be a relationship not a dictatorship. He never said the tougher we make religion the closer to him we get. No. We don’t have to scale mountains or jump through hoops. We don’t need to put up walls to keep people out. Religion should not be something we do out of obligation or because our parents sent us to private school. Religion should be a personal decision. A free flowing conversation that allows for mistakes because hey—we’re human. And trust me, I’ve made some mistakes lately myself. (Cue curiosity--like whaaaaat Kate? Like the sushi I ate at 1 a.m. yesterday. BIG mistake.)

So whether I believe in all the fine details of organized religion or not is not the point. The point is that I believe in a God who is my friend. Scratch that--best friend. Who walks beside me. Who is my true companion in life. Who, without, I cannot seem to find my way.

What a beautiful God indeed.

My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.

Dalai Lama

Coming soon...

I promise. A full blog is coming. I currently have writer's block. It's such a big block in fact, that it feels like a wall. Scratch that. A mountain. So I'm off scaling mountains. Be back soon.

"We all die.The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will."

- Chuck Palahniuk

What I live by....

“The truth is the kindest thing we can give...”

— Harriet Beecher Stowe

...

“If you knew what I know about the power of giving, you would not let a single meal pass without sharing it in some way.”

— Buddha

Last time I swear.

Really? Do munchkins come any cuter?

Joelle is so full of personality. A girl after my own heart.

This isn't even my kid. All right, I'm done obsessing.

xoxo

Bolt Bus Bronchitis. Yay.

So here I am, on the Bolt Bus again, headed back to the concrete jungle. It’s quarter to 7 p.m. and I’m riding standby. So that means I got last pick for seats. It also means I’m sitting next to the bathroom as well as the one guy no one and I repeat, NO ONE, wanted to sit next to. Now the bathroom thing, eh—not as bad as you may expect. No one really uses it and if anyone is going to, it’s probably going to be me with my size-of-a-third-grader-bladder. No, the bathroom is not the problem. The problem is sitting to my immediate left.

Before I even sat down I heard his phlegmy, crackle of a cough and I thought to myself…sweet Moses, this man is very ill. Bronchitis, maybe? Tuberculosis? Where are those little masks my mom sent me when California was going up in wildfire flames and it was raining ash? Today’s not a good day for me to contract TB. I didn't pencil it in.

Every 30 seconds since I sat down, without fail, he’s coughed without covering his mouth or done that squeaky throat noise that you accidently make when your trying too hard to force a ball of phlegm up and out. Now, I’m not opposed to bodily noises or the occasional phlegm spit when it’s needed. I know there’s nothing worse than a giant lugy (how do you spell lugy?) when you’re trying to get air to your lungs. Also, if someone’s sick, I get it, it’s not their fault. But shouldn’t you cover your mouth on a bus? Really? And he keeps burping loudly and the burps gurgle. Yes, a gurgle burp. Mur.

All I wanted was to dive into the second half of my book, a book that I thought I liked at first but may have made a premature judgment on. It’s called The Bachelor Chronicles by Ron Geraci (COUGH COUGH! Dear Lord Man, COVER YOUR MOUTH!) While some of the book is hilarious, a lot of it reminds me of listening to a ranting woman who somehow seems to breathe without taking a breath. Long-winded meets over caffeinated banter. Regardless, I just wanted to read but after hearing the disgusting phlegm noises beside me, I thought—HEADPHONES! So now I’m rocking out to my music in an effort to block out Mr. McGross. Unfortunately, I can’t read and listen to music at the same time. Not well anyways. (He just growled. Not joking and now he’s combing his hair for the second time in the 25 minutes since we sat down. Not just like oh—let me run a brush through my hair, but deliberately brushing his hair/flakes off his head. I’m gonna gag. I’m gagging. HELP ME!) What was I saying? Oh-yes. I can write while listening to music but no such luck with reading and listening. So here I am, avoiding phlegm noises, dandruff, tuberculosis and God knows what else, with yet another Bolt Bus blog.

Siiiiiiiigh.

Disclaimer about the book: I’ll get back to you with the final consensus but I actually had to skip a chapter because it was like dragging my feet through quicksand. I think he’s back on track now but I’ll keep you posted.

More on the book: It’s making me want to rip my hair out. It’s utterly exhausting. He has a few good points about dating here and there but those insightful moments do not make up for the drudgery that I’m going through right now. I’m tired. He’s so long-winded and negative. I definitely don’t need one man’s pessimistic take on love, dating and relationships. I have my own thank you very much. By the way, the guy next to me just made the squeaky throat noise again.

Sunday Funday

Tomorrow I get to nibble on, err--I mean, visit with--this dunkable, edible, absolutely adorable, little girl. Super excited to nom nom nom on those cheeks. Oh-goodness.

...My Mother.

One of my all-time, favorite memories took place the summer before I left for college in California. Yep. I was headed 3,000 miles from home. My mom and I were out running errands and on the car stereo the Dixie Chicks sang Wide Open Spaces. A personal favorite.

Many precede and many will follow

A young girl's dream no longer hollow

It takes the shape of a place out west

But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed

The music filled the car. I thought about what my new life in California would be like…next thing I knew my mom was pulling the car over. It took me a minute to realize we had stopped. When I turned and asked what we were doing, I realized she was crying. Silently sobbing. Her baby girl was leaving. Just like she did when she left for college in California. Apple doesn’t fall too far now does it?

Just thought I’d share. I happen to have the best mother in the world.

As her folks drive away, her dad yells, "Check the oil!"

Mom stares out the window and says, "I'm leaving my girl"

She said, "It didn't seem like that long ago"

When she stood there and let her own folks know

She needed wide open spaces...

Emily

Free Link Find

Sweet Moses I’m having a weird moment. Just wondering where all the answers to life are? Anybody seen ‘em? Answers? Anyone?

“Be willing to take a leap.”

— Rudolph A. Marcus, Ph.D.

Somebody once told me you don’t always have to make the right decision. Just make one. Move forward. (Or in the words of Jay Z, on to the next one.)

Secret confession. Right here. Right now. Just between me and you Reader….I’m terrified of making the wrong decision. But I guess if I’m going to make a bad decision I should do it now, while I’m young, single and still have my jaw-dropping good looks to help me rebound. Riiiiiiight? That’s when you’re suppose to say, “Yes Kate—jaw-dropping good looks.”

So tonight Emily and I are venturing to Brooklyn to pick up four hand blown margarita glasses that I found under the FREE link on Craigslist (pictures to follow.) Boooyaaa. Free is my middle name. Actually it’s Elizabeth. With a Z. Not an S. Make a note.

Sorry for all the sass tonight. It’s the quarter-life crisis thing.

Happy 92 degree—holy mother of pearl it’s hot—Wednesday.