Happy Birthday Bits

I took a vacation from my blog this weekend. What? As you know from my posts, I have a tough life.  This weekend, for example, I had to go to see Spiderman on Broadway with my parents, as well as go out to two fancy dinners with them.  Austin dragged me to a flea market in Brooklyn.  Okay, I dragged him, but it was a difficult trip because I could feel his eyes piercing through the back of my head every time I got close to a rack of clothes. Plus, I was tired from having to think of new ways to try to explain what a “hipster” is to Austin (so that he would stop referring to everyone with glasses as a “hipster”).

Anyway, here I am, blogging on a Wednesday, and it just so happens that this Wednesday, February 22 is the birthday of the one and only, Jessica Bitsack.  I use the word “indescribable” sparingly, because as someone who writes and appreciates reading good writing (not by me, by others, of course), I don’t really believe that the term applies in many cases.  But if I could say that one person (and only person) in my life is indescribable, it would hands down be Jessica Bitsack.

I met Bitsack in August of 2006 during our freshmen year of preseason camp at Colgate.  It wasn’t really love at first sight.  Bitsack was a fitness psycho who enjoyed sprinting 120’s and went to the gym after soccer practice for an extra workout.  As two of the faster and fitter people on the team, we often finished one after the other in fitness tests and conditioning workouts.  For whatever reason (we played the same position, she was good, she was pretty, she could really run, etc.), I had an irrationally strong desire to never finish behind Bitsack.  I don’t remember wanting to beat someone so badly in a running contest since the “mile” race around the property of my elementary school, when I just had to finish ahead of all the boys in my third grade class.  I won’t even get into the actual soccer bit because it is actually kind of pathetic how my heart would drop whenever Bitsack scored during a preseason practice that summer.

I don’t think I ever told Bitsack this (i.e. how I loathed her) and although at the time, I was somewhat convinced that she had showed up at preseason just to torture me, I would bet that Bitsack didn’t even sense this intense rivalry that consumed so much of my own mind.  (In general, I would say that my world and Bitsack’s world often were not one in the same.  But that statement would really need a psychologist to go any further.)  In any case, it is safe to say that I did not imagine at the time that I would one day call Bitsack one of my closest friends, or worse yet, my roommate.  It is definitely safe to say that I did not imagine myself celebrating her personal victories on the soccer field nor her comforting me in my personal tragedies (imagined, real, minor, and somewhat major) off the soccer field.

In celebration of Bitsack’s birthday and her indescribable nature, I would like to remember some of my favorite “Bitsack” moments and qualities—in no particular order, random, just like the birthday gal herself.  Don’t worry, Bits, there are several moments that will remain sealed in Vera’s quote book and a few that will always stay close to my heart, for safekeeping.

1. How you used to incorrectly use the words “celibacy” and “underprivileged.
2. When you used to put cartons of soymilk and bottles of soy sauce from our college cafeteria in your backpack to bring home with you.
3. How you had an entire bin (big enough to fit a large child) filled with coffee materials in our townhouse junior year and I never saw you make a cup.
4. The way you used to call out our coach’s name in a screechy tone across the soccer field, “Kaaaathhh.”  Her name was Kathy.  No one called her Kath.
5. When you told us you needed to go on a liquid diet to fit into your formal dress and then proceeded to eat dairy for three weeks straight.  And when Carrie asked you why you buy dresses that are too small for you and you said, “Because I like a challenge.”  And then Carrie said, “You should try going to class.  That’s challenging for you.”
6. How you used to Clorox the entire apartment, naked.
7. The night you were sick with one of the plagues or epidemics that you came down with at Colgate (not Swine flu, but the other one) and we went to the hospital and you wouldn’t stop talking about how all the nurses were in a conspiracy theory against you.
8. The first time you told someone who was giving us a ride downtown to “just put me in the trunk,” even though there was an extra seat in the back of the sedan.
9. When you were the first person ever to be denied at the door of the Jug for being “too drunk.”
10. When you used to have “feeding time” and shove food down guys’ throats.
11. Everyday when you decided what outfit to wear.  And especially the days when it included animal prints.
12. When you dumped your large Mac laptop on one of our professor’s desk first semester, freshmen year and then rushed into a hurried explanation of how you couldn’t print your paper, but “HERE IT IS.”
13. The many text messages you sent to let me know that you were waiting for me to return to our apartment at the time, which sometimes truly did frighten me.
14. How mad the woman behind the sandwich counter got every time you asked, “May I please have some imitation crabmeat?”
15. When we came home from a night out in Aruba and you insisted on heading straight into the bathtub and not coming out.
16. “If you don’t have it now, you won’t have it tomorrow.”

Bits, I don’t miss watching you stir several different food groups in a bowl and then eat them all with a spoon.  I don’t miss seeing strands of hair in your mouth.  I don’t miss hearing you yell, “Manchester United” over and over again, when I am trying to fall asleep.  I don’t miss you setting the alarm for 3 a.m. to get up and “do homework.”  I do miss ordering Sushi Blues with you.  I miss the determined look on your face when you do my makeup.  I miss being able to count on you being in three places: your spot in the library, your cafeteria table at Frank, and your bedroom.  I miss being there to hear your daily descriptions of the world, which were always interesting or amusing, and sometimes both.  I miss you being there to literally cheer me on through all my small successes (and just small events), like class readings of stories that I had written.  I miss your delirious laughter and waking up to see thousands of throw pillows propped up on your bed.

Bits, sometimes I wonder what planet you beam in from everyday, but even if I never figure it out, I will be glad that you did beam in at all.  You have made the past five or so years of my life a little more indescribable than they would have been without you.  And I can honestly say that if I had to relive them again, I wouldn’t want to do it without you.

Post your favorite Bitsack moment here (provided that it is appropriate for this blog).

My Lucky Recap

Where to begin...? The Giants are world champions. Eli is a top-notch quarterback, certainly in Tom Brady's class. (Although, really people, Brady cannot throw AND catch the ball. Thanks for that insight Gisele. Loves.)  Victor Cruz has the best salsa moves around. And my friends could not have been much happier after the Super Bowl last Sunday night:

On Friday, I convinced my mom (no heavy lifting required) to come into the city to shop at one of my favorite stores, LF, which is currently having one of their semi-annual sales.  With the exception of a winter sale and a summer sale, nothing ever goes on sale in this store.  And let’s just say it is a bit of a budget buster.

Last week, when I received the email invitation to attend the exclusive opening of the winter sale, I panicked.  The invitation was for 2 p.m.  My mom (who is a principal in CT) gets out of school at 2:15 p.m.  I called the store on Thursday, hoping I would not have to explain my dilemma, to see how long the exclusive sale—which boasted an extra 10% off everything, which was already marked down by 60%—lasted on Friday.

When the LF employee told me that the store would be closed on Friday for a private event, I may have been a bit to eager to reply, “I KNOW, I GOT THE EMAIL. I’M INVITED.”

Anyway, I found out that the exclusive sale lasted until 8 p.m.  Plenty of time for Mom to get into the city.  And get into the city she did.  There is only one person who has more fun shopping for me than me and it’s definitely not my dad (“Whatever you say, don’t tell me that’s a pair of boots in that box), but most certainly is my mom.

The store was such madness, I really don’t even have the energy to explain it.  #WhiteGirlProblems.  In brief, the checkout line was about 25 yards long and stretched from the cashiers to the front door of the store.  Girls, or rather young women, were trying clothes on all over the store—checking out red, platform shoes; one-shoulder dresses, and leather pants in LF’s few mirrors.  I was hot, faint, sweating, but determined.  As we pushed our way through the store, my mom’s arms served as racks to hold all of the torn sweaters, black dresses, and corduroy pants that I wanted to try on, in an actual fitting room.  (I would try on more sweaters later, while we waited in line to pay.)

About two hours later, I felt very much like I just played an entire soccer match against a Patriot League rival.  In other words, I was very tired.  And my mom needed a drink.  We walked out of the store with two bags, quite literally stuffed with clothes, and off to dinner.  If we had met my dad, he would have asked like he always does, “Did you save me a lot of money?”  I won’t write here how much money we spent because if that didn’t cause my dad to have a heart attack it would cause Austin to pass out.  But, Dad, I will say that the total discount was large.

One of my purchases, coincidentally (or not), Austin's least favorite:

On Saturday, I saw The Vow with Austin and I’m not going to lie, I shed a tear or two.  Channing Tatum’s acting was actually much better than I expected, and he still looked as good as one would expect.  I really like to go the movies lately.  Austin thinks I like to go the movies because that is his thing, but I really just want to be more like my Grammy, who goes to the movies all the time.  One of the best parts about going to the movies is watching the previews.  If you haven’t seen Dane Cook’s skit on going to the movies, watch it now (i.e. see the link at the bottom of post, after you finish reading this blog).  As Dane says, the previews allow everyone to be a critic.  When I go to the movies with my cousin, Sam, I get excited to look toward her after every preview, so we can acknowledge what we think about the movies coming out.  With Sam, this normally just takes an enthusiastic nod of the head or an eye roll or the deadly headshake.  With Austin, we sometimes do thumbs up or thumbs down.  But, mostly I have to poke Austin in the thigh three times when I really like a preview because if I really like it, he probably has no interest in seeing it, which he makes known by refusing to look at me after the preview.  When a preview for a horror movie comes on, though, I swear the kid is right in my face.  I will never understand why people enjoy being scared shitless at the movies, but that is another story, I guess.

On Saturday night, I went to Hoboken with Liz and her friend, Matt.  The evening was shaping up just dandy—I had never been to Hoboken and was looking forward to checking out the scene—until I arrived at a Caribbean inspired bar in Hoboken to find that I did not have my license.  The (very large) bouncer at the door was not in the mood to make any exceptions for this blonde in an oversized sweater (from LF, of course)—who was asked not so long ago if she was old enough to sit in the exit row of the airplane, for which you have to be 16.  Suddenly the cobble stone sidewalk in Hoboken didn’t seem quite so quaint and the pizza places didn’t have such a nice aroma anymore.  And the distance from Hoboken to my apartment on the Upper East Side, current home to my license, seemed to multiply.

As I walked back to the Path train alone, I thought about crying.  But then I remembered that I was wearing mascara.  When I got back to my apartment, Austin was here with our friend (another Matt) and a pile of empty beer bottles, along with two shot glasses.  Austin was wearing one of his fraternity t-shirts from college and he started going on about how I was so lucky to date someone who had inspired not one, but two of the designs for his fraternity’s t-shirts.  One has a large illustration of his disfigured hand on the front—Austin bent one of his pinky fingers playing football years ago and he hasn’t been able to straighten it since.  The other showcases one of his favorite sayings: “Whatchu want?”

When Austin finally (did I just write “finally”?) left the apartment that night, I decided that he was right (in a way).  I was lucky—despite the fact that I had just completed a round trip to Hoboken in stilettos—even if not for the reason that he thought I was.

Dane Cook--going to the movies

Happy Birthday to two of my favorite people

Until a couple of years ago, I was the only person I knew who had anything to write down in the “alias” blank of various official documents that we so often sign, giving our lives to away to someone or something in fine print.  (Oh reader, you didn’t think my parents really named me “Kiki,” did you?)  That was until my friend Caitlin’s alter ego, Karen, surfaced.

I could not say for certain when or why Karen showed up, but I think her spirit was born around the time that Caitlin tried to convince a flight attendant to let her off a plane that had already boarded in Nassau, Bahamas and was shortly taking off for New York (see exhibit A below).

When asked by the flight attendant if she was okay and why she wanted to exit the plane, Caitlin said: “Oh yes, I am fine, I just don’t want to leave the Bahamas.”

After the flight attendant explained to Caitlin that because of security reasons, if she left the plane, airport staff would have to inspect all of the luggage onboard, delaying all the passengers who actually did want to leave the Bahamas (crazy people), she quietly took her seat.  My friend Jillian and I were enormously relieved.  One, because people sitting near us on the plane knew that the two of us were with Caitlin and had pieced together what she was up to.  (That would have made for an awkward flight.)  And two, because we had no idea what we would tell my parents when they came to pick us up at Kennedy airport and Caitlin wasn’t there.  But looking back on that day, I am most glad that Caitlin came back with us because if she had not, then Karen may never have risen to power in quite the same way that she did during the second semester of senior year.

So who exactly is Karen?  Karen is the name our friends coined for Caitlin’s alter ego.  Karen is funny without trying to be.  She likes to wear heels and straighten her hair.  She goes with the flow.  Sometimes she buys everyone she is with at 4 a.m. breakfast just because.  She likes vodka and themed parties.  She travels from Boston to New York to spend one night with her friends.  She stays up late.  She is always laughing.  She believes in the why not motto.  She loves to talk and is at ease making friends with strangers.  And she was often the talk of the parties held at the infamous 22 College Street house at Colgate, which became Karen’s beloved second home the spring of her senior year.  She is a funny dancer and a great friend.

But as much crap as we give Caitlin on Sunday mornings for Karen’s adventures the night before, the truth is that the alias doesn’t fall from the tree.  And in this case, that is a good thing.  Sure, Caitlin probably makes a more organized co-worker and a more diligent student than Karen—but I see a lot of Caitlin in Karen and vise versa.  When it comes down to it, they both have bad jokes and stunning blue eyes and they both go out of their way to be nice and make other people happy.  And at the end of the day, I feel lucky to call both my friends.

Happy Birthday to Caitlin/Karen, two of the best people I know.

Family Sound Bites

It only takes twenty-four hours with my family to gather some quality sound bites.  Without further ado, here are a few. Happy Sunday.

Sitting at the dinner table on Saturday night, my aunt explains to us an “angel reading” that she attended at a friend’s house:

“None of my angels were there.  I just had the standard angels.”

“Oh, what are the standard angels?” I ask.

“Um, Gabriel, Michael, you know the angel names.”

Later that night, watching TV with my parents and grandparents:

“I see double sometimes,” Grammy says.

“So, how many people do you see on the TV right now?” my dad asks.  (There is one skateboarder on the screen.)

“Two,” Grammy says.

(Another skateboarder comes on the screen.)

“What about now?” Dad asks.

“Four.”

(A commercial comes on, with three actors.)

“What about now?”

(And so on and so forth…)

Sunday, in a clothing store with my mom, cousin Sam, Aunt Val, and Grammy:

“Kiki, are you going to buy that hat?” Grammy asks, pointing at the black hat on my head.  “It’s really cute.”

“The hat I am wearing right now?” I ask.

“Yes, I like it a lot.”

“This is my hat, Grammy.  I’ve been wearing it all day.”

Later in the afternoon on Sunday, getting ready to go back into the city.

“Rob, is the chicken almost done?” Mom asks Dad.  Then, turning to me, “I made Austin a roast chicken since he wasn’t here for dinner last night.”

(An entire chicken in the oven for Austin.)

For Liam, one year later

One year ago today, the world lost a little boy who was brave and kind beyond his six years.  When I met Liam a few years ago I could tell that he was the kind of person who could make your glass feel half-full, even when it seemed to be three-quarters-empty.  I could tell this because three-quarters is exactly how empty my glass seemed the day I met Liam.  We were both in the overnight pediatric wing of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.  You could say we were both in pretty shitty situations.  But still, Liam had this light about him.  And I don’t mean that in a woo-woo way, but just simply that it was obvious that this kid made the place—which you could say was pretty drab—brighter.  People became noticeably happier when they were around Liam.  I always thought Liam made a much better hospital visitor—IV tubes and all trailing behind him—than any of the clowns, musicians, and comedians who passed through the hallways of Memorial Sloan-Kettering.  But I wish he had never had to walk down one of those hallways.

It has been a year since Liam passed and I still have many questions and doubts and a lot of heartache.  In the past year, sad things have happened to other people who I care about—the kind of sad things that can make you wonder how the sun could possibly still rise over certain homes.  I do not know what I believe about religion or faith or fairness anymore.  I definitely do not know why bad things happen to good people.  What I do know is that sometimes good things come out of bad things and that good people do good things even in bad (shitty) situations.  I do not know why some people die young while others live to be old.  But I do know that as long as I am here, I want to live like Liam did, or as his mom Gretchen says, “love like Liam.”  And here is how you can, too:

*Love and protect your siblings and best friends.

*Make sure the people who take care of you (and care about you) know how you feel about them.

*Do not worry about all the reasons why you cannot do something.  Think of something you can do and then do that.  Because you can.

*Make someone else feel better who is having a shitty day, on a day when you, too are having a shitty day.

*Do things that are important and special now, today. Be less concerned with later.

*Go about your day thinking that you could make a new friend at any time in any place. Then, make one.

*Support great causes, great people, eat cookies—and do all three at once, which is what Liam did almost everyday.  (Do not worry, this is the easiest one on the list.  Just go to: http://www.cookiesforkidscancer.org/)

*And of course, if you love something as much as Liam loved scootering, do not let the rules or anything else get in your way.  Just be open to scooter-walking when you absolutely have to.

For more on Liam, see these posts:
http://kikikoro.blogspot.com/2011/02/tips-i-learned-from-liam-plus-few-from.html
http://kikikoro.blogspot.com/2011/01/for-liam.html

And really, go to the Cookies for Kids' Cancer website. Much better than this blog.  And you have cookies, t-shirts, jewelry to buy before Valentine's Day.  Email me for my apartment and office addresses...Love Like Liam's Lemon cookies start shipping on February 6 (http://www.cookiesforkidscancer.org/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=LLL).

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A little too distracted by SportsCenter and a lot too excited for the Giants game to post right now.  So I am just saying "hi" to Grammy. (Promise to post later, Grams.) Off to Austin and Steve's neighborhood bar, where everybody knows their names...

Things that do not make sense

Some of the funniest stand-up comedy skits that I have seen have been instances when the comedians have joked about realities in our everyday life that simply do not make sense.  And there is a lot of material.  For instance, where are all the baby pigeons?  There is one comedian who performs regularly at The Comic Strip Live in Manhattan, who often bets the audience that no one will be able to locate a baby pigeon in the city before the show is over.  He also says that pigeons must be like Marines—they leave no wounded warriors—because he has never seen a dead pigeon in New York.

There are many different words that we use—in various situations—for things that do not make sense: “ironic,” “hypocritical,” “tongue-in-cheek,” “strange,” or as my mom sometimes says, “wack.”  Sometimes, it can be annoying or maddening when people are hypocritical.  Like when a friend—who spends 85% of all your conversations with her talking about herself—complains about how self absorbed all her other girl friends are.  But, on a good day, this might make you smile.  Because when you think about things that don’t make sense, sometimes they are just too darn wack not to smile.  Like these things:

*When a guy—who has been arrested for getting into a fight at a bar—criticizes a friend for getting into a fight at a bar that did not end in arrest (“A bar is not the place.”) in front of mutual friends who witnessed the guy’s arrest.

*When your boss tells you (at 5 p.m.) that you should “really go home early tonight,” as he hands you more work to do.

*When someone asks you for advice on whether she should do A or B, and after you tell her to do A, she gives you three reasons that explain why you are wrong and why she should actually do B.

*When it makes people happy to be miserable.

*When a cat survives getting hit by an 18-wheeler.  And when that same one-eyed cat outlives her great, great, great grandchildren.

*When you disconnect the battery of your car every time you turn your car off (and reconnect with a wrench every time you turn it on), in order to save power.

*When someone asks you to do him a favor and you realize that he could have done the task in the time it took him to explain it to you.

*When you pre-game an open bar.

*When you are out to dinner with a dozen or so friends and at the end of the meal, the same few people realize that they do not have any cash and that there is no money on their debit cards.  And those are the same people who planned the dinner and chose the expensive restaurant.

*When a visiting friend (who you gave a key to your apartment to) wakes you up at 5:15 a.m. to buzz him into the apartment.

*When you spend an entire evening dancing, flirting, and making out with a stranger at a bar, and you leave with only her friend’s number.

*When girls wear Uggs with mini-skirts.

*When the innkeeper at the bed and breakfast that you are staying at for the weekend tells you, “I’ve seen blood on the sheets.  I’m not worried about contracting AIDS, though; I’m worried about hepatitis B.”

What doesn’t make sense in your life?