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“You smile too much.”

June 20, 2011 By Katie Barber 2 Comments

When I was in law school, I had a couple of mock interviews arranged by the career center. Neither was particularly successful. During the second, I was distracted by the interviewer’s amazing view from the Sears Tower. I knew I wasn’t giving the interview my full attention, but yet I was powerless to stop staring out the window. I consoled myself that it wasn’t a real interview.

The view wasn’t my problem during the first mock interview: that interview was conducted in a window-less, closet-sized room in the library. I actually had thought everything was going fairly well until, when the interview portion had concluded and the reviewing portion had begun, the interview set down her papers, crossed her arms, and said, “I’ve never had to tell anyone this, but you smile too much.”

I couldn’t even make sense of that. I was sure that I hadn’t been smiling cheesily or vapidly throughout the interview; I was sure that I hadn’t even been grinning nervously. I had been feeling relaxed, and so I had been smiling. I liked law school, and it was easy for me to smile when I talked about it. Didn’t that reflect positively on me? That I enjoyed what I was doing? Nevertheless, I nodded seriously and wrote smile less in my notes.

I thought about it for the next couple of weeks, making concerted efforts to put a serious expression on my face during class. (Unfortunately, I think my expression of “serious thought” with knitted eyebrows was awfully close to my expression of “now, wait, that doesn’t make sense.”) Then I promptly discarded my interview notes. I wasn’t going to smile less. That was ridiculous. If I’m pleased to meet someone or enjoying the conversation, I’m going to smile, even if I’m in a professional situation.

In fact, I would smile especially if I was in a professional situation. When I began having real interviews for jobs, it was my enthusiasm for bankruptcy law that led an excellent conversation with the interviewer from the firm that eventually hired me. I’m obviously not saying that I got that job just on a smile, but the smile certainly didn’t hurt anything.

Read Katie’s blog (the name of which came about from that mock interview) at Perky to a Fault!

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Opinion

What not to do in yoga

May 24, 2011 By Katie Barber 3 Comments

I was made an example of in yoga class last week – and not because my downward dog is so impressive.

My favorite instructor teaches a sixty minute class (which, because I’m not a super-strong yogi, I vastly prefer to the ninety minute classes) at 6 pm on Wednesdays. The small problem here is that, every other day of the week, I work out at 4 pm, and therefore I have my post-workout snack around 5:15 or 5:30. My body is used to having a snack at that time, and so it wants to have a snack before yoga starts.

Last week, I munched on a Luna bar while I waited for class to start and then, because I didn’t see any trash cans in that corner of the gym, tucked the wrapper under my towel when we went into the studio. Fast-forward about thirty-five minutes, and I’m sweating in a three-legged dog while our instructor, this fabulously nutty woman who sometimes breezes into class wearing this huge, outrageous floppy hat, walks around the room. She tapped me on the back and whispered, “Did you eat that before class?” I acknowledged that I had and apologized for bringing the wrapper into the studio.

“It’s okay,” she told me. “That just reminds me I should bring something up with everyone.”

Oh no. That sounded ominous.

We shifted to rest in child’s pose, and she began telling us that we shouldn’t eat for at least two hours before we practice yoga. It wasn’t just that we shouldn’t do it, she told us, it was that it was one of the basic principles of yoga not to do it. I was mortified. I felt only marginally better when she also (gently) reprimanded the students who had brought water bottles into the studio.

I was also slightly indignant. I mean, it was a Luna bar. It wasn’t as though I had eaten a Subway sandwich or something. Regardless, I made a point of not eating before class last night.

This was unquestionably the wrong decision. It was impossible for me to concentrate on my breathing or the poses because I kept thinking about when I would get to go home and have dinner. I bolted out of there when class was over, and I didn’t even make it all the way home. I had to stop at the Duane Reade on my way to the subway so I could buy a cup of grapes.

Consider my lesson learned: one shouldn’t eat before yoga, but one shouldn’t not eat before yoga either. It looks like I’m going to be having a 4 pm snack on Wednesdays from now on.

Originally published on Katie’s blog, Perky to a Fault

Filed Under: Humor, MISC

A virgin in the world of veganism: Just be gentle with her

May 20, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 5 Comments

I never shied away from a challenge. Well, that is not exactly true. I did turn down participating in the Iditarod. Even though I keep better in the cold, frostbitten is not my color. I sited religious reasons for not going out with a man who had a third nipple and I stopped eating a whole pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni at one sitting when I realized that going to work in one’s bathrobe was not acceptable business attire. But neither were trousers that you could not zip up.

About three weeks ago, I foolishly posted on Facebook that I could probably go vegan for a week. When the pressure from others commenting on my declaration became too great, so I convinced a blogging friend to go vegan with me for a week. I doubt I could go into the world of veganism by myself. So veggie burgers and beans, here we come.

Vegans do not eat meat, fish, or poultry nor do they use other animal products and by-products such as eggs, dairy products, honey, leather, fur, silk, wool, cosmetics, and soaps derived from animal products.

Okay, I am already in trouble. I can do all of that (I might be wearing plastic bags as sandals) but the elimination of my cosmetics might scare an organic bunch of carrots to death. I think I am going “lean into veganism” with a little eye shadow and lip gloss. But I will investigate cosmetics and soaps that are not derived from our four legged friends. I think I already use some items that would make a vegan proud.

One thing that did surprise me is that going vegan does not mean you have to fill up on sprouts and seaweed. You could, but you can add peanut butter, pasta, fruit, good old beans, popcorn and a lot more. And the dishes don’t look like all brown and nasty. Spices can go a long way to make it look, smell and taste great – repeat after me.

Tofu takes on the taste of anything you cook it with so I am going to try chocolate tofu with broccoli and cashews. First I got to find some vegan chocolate. And I will be searching high and low for vegan-friendly wine that compliments seitan, quinoa, or tempeh.

On a serious note, I have been reading up on the subject of veganism and although I have heard about the horrors the animals go through just to make it to our dinner tables, reading it again with a slightly different mindset just breaks my heart. I look at my animals (six rescued cats and a yellow lab) and think if anyone ever hurt them they would have deal with me before I would call the authorities. So how can I care so deeply for my little furry family and keep this form of animal torture and killing going?

I don’t think I can.

Now will I change completely in a week? Doubt it, but I am going to try my best to end the slaughter and torture of animals that would have ended up in my grocery cart.

And I just found out that there is vegan Nutella!

Filed Under: Eco, Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

Is Romance dead or is it just sleeping it off in a twin bed?

May 10, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 2 Comments

Is Romance in danger of joining the Tyrannosaurus? Is romance becoming something else we can live without?

A good friend of mine had just seen the musical “South Pacific.” I saw it on PBS about 6 months ago. We both talked about how much it made us cry. Not because there was a war going on or that Nellie thought Emile might be taken from her. It was the lyrics and the melodies that pulled at our emotions and made us both feel like we live in a world where romance is on life support.

How did that happen?

People say we can’t maintain that level of romantic love. So it just morphs into something else –is Apathy the new Romance of the 21^st Century?

If people can maintain angry and craziness without missing a beat, then why can’t they hold romance up there with all those other moods?

How come a bad mood trumps a good mood?

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughin’,
You may hear her laughin’
Across a crowded room
And night after night,
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Some Enchanting Evening by Rodgers and Hammerstein

Words can change us. And a little melody behind it can transport us back in time to when we could not catch our breaths.

Where did you first meet him? Me – a bar.

What did he say to you? Me – who knows. It was loud and I was drinking.

How did he make you feel? Me – superior because I had great tickets to see the Rolling Stones and he didn’t.

Okay I may not be the best case study in the romance category. And this isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us.

I am all for feeling my knees weakening, my pulse racing (and not because of too much dark chocolate) and feeling a tad secretive because I have just the right amount of romance in my life.

I love watching Dancing with the Stars (and I do read the Republic of Plato during the commercial breaks) because there is something so romantic about 2 people playing a dance of seduction. Now if the husband showed up in sequins, I might not be able to maintain a straight face. But I would give him credit for trying. Okay, I am lying. He does not have the body for sequins.

I’m gonna take my time, she gon get hers before I
I’m gonna take it slow (woah woahh), I’m not gonna rush the stroke
If you don’t know by now, Doggy Dogg is a freak freak freeeeaak
I keep a bad bitch with me, 7 days out the week
And all that we ever do is play in the sheets sheet sheeeeettss
Smoke us a cigarette and go back to sleep

Sexual Eruption by Snoop Dogg

I don’t know. Is it me? I will admit I wore latex gloves when I typed in Snoop’s lyrics, but could this be causing the death of romance? I think if I ever woke up and found the Snoop in my bed, I’d take up smoking again.

What’s the solution? Maybe a little of Rodgers and Hammerstein and a pinch of Dogg.

Send a card, make the bed (better yet, change the sheets when they start standing up by themselves), go for a walk, hold hands, remember something cool about each other and don’t keep it to yourself.

Turn off you ipod, iphone, ipad, laptop, computer, bluetooth, blackberry and hold onto someone you like or even love.

We were meant to be touched and not texted.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

On eating insects

May 5, 2011 By Katie Barber 1 Comment

In order to fulfill my life science requirement in college, I took a class called “Bugs and People.” The title was misleadingly simple, and it was taught by an energetic, if slightly kooky, woman who was clearly quite passionate about entomology. The class strove to teach me much more science than I had bargained for, but, to this day, the thing that I most recall was the lesson on eating insects. We learned that people in other parts of the world routinely eat insects, and the accompanying lab offered the chance to taste some of these insects. I politely declined, explaining that I was a vegetarian.

At the time, it was true. I was a vegetarian throughout my early to mid-twenties, and, although I was never militant about it, it kept me insulated from having to eat undesirable foodstuffs like insects. My vegetarianism arose my distrust of the cook in our sorority house and my fear of food-born illness, and, once I had stopped eating meat on a daily basis, I lost the taste for it. I stuck with it throughout the rest of college and through a traveling consultant job that found me relying on peanut butter and carrot sandwiches as a main source of sustenance. I was still a vegetarian during a trip to Egypt, in which I struggled patiently to explain to a server that I didn’t eat any shrimp, so just giving me “little shrimps” was not satisfactory; similarly, telling me that there were “no shrimps” in my meal was not acceptable when I could clearly see legs of something emerging from it.

China was what finally broke me. I was able to maintain my diet in Beijing, our first stop, and pleaded vegetarian when faced with the street market of skewered scorpions, starfish, and, yes, insects. Once we were out of the capital city, however, finding meat-free food became more of a challenge. Armed with only a tiny phrase book and a laughable attempt at a Mandarin accent, I was rarely able to explain that I didn’t eat meat. My guidebook suggested I tell servers that I was Buddhist, but I was reluctant to appropriate an entire belief system just to accommodate my entirely voluntary dietary restrictions. I did my best, but meat showed up in the strangest places, including inside my tofu once. I finally gave up. Let me tell you, once you’ve gotten sick from reintroducing meat into your diet, it’s not an experience you want to repeat in this lifetime.

Since I started eating meat again, I’ve eaten all kinds: ostrich, alligator, and even snake. I had never again been presented with insects, though … until today. We were strolling along innocently through the Lower East Side, enjoying the spring day, when we stumbled across a promotion for a certain beer company. They were giving away free street tacos, but the catch was that the tacos all contained non-mainstream proteins. We ended up with one filled with brains and one stuffed with crickets. The brains were not particularly enjoyable. They were wet and lumpy, and it was similar to what I imagine it is like to eat paper mâché. The crickets, on the other hand, were crunchy and salty and not bad at all.

These crickets also had the benefit of being presented with avocado. Somehow, I doubt that the science lab’s edible insects came with such accoutrements.

Visit Katie’s blog at Perky to a Fault.

Image credit: Flickr

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Opinion

Getting the Royal Rush from Will and Kate?

April 28, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 7 Comments

As a young girl, the world of royalty fascinated me. So much so, that I actually told people that I had been kidnapped and was actually a member of Britain’s royal family. Hard to believe, but no one bought into that idea. So I continued to live with this very proper American family. In my heart, I thought it would just a matter of time before the truth came out – that I don’t dabble in reality all that much.

I, for one, love all the pomp and circumstance when it comes to the upcoming nuptial between Will and Kate. You know, that couple from two good gene pools (if you don’t include Charles’ side) who reside across the pond are getting married on Friday, April 29^th. That’s right. 4 AM EST. I’ll be up. If I got up for Diana and Charles, I can get up for Will and Kate. I am looking forward to it because my invite is still lost in the mail.

This young couple, who met at university, dated and sampled life on their own finally realized that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. And then the Queen informed them that they would have to do it front of millions of people who are sitting in front of their TVs attired only in their underwear. How cheeky is that?

You know how you can look at a couple and proclaim that, “they will be suing each other for divorce in six months?” I am rooting for them to make it to their golden anniversary. And then they can date other people. I’ll be dead. I won’t care.

Quite the love story for our time. No drug arrests, no hookers, no “winning,” and no tweets from either of them.

It’s not to say that being royal (or becoming one) does not come with it’s share of embarrassments – there’s a queen who doesn’t realize that clothes from the 1940s belong in a museum and not in her closet and then there are those wonderful, wacky and witless group of royal ancestors who should get their own show on Bravo: “Real Housewives of New Jersey Lose their Heads over Henry the Eighth.” Please God, I won’t ask for anything ever again.

But Kate and Will have risen above it all and are going to get married. In front of their family and friends and about a billion people. If a billion people are watching the nuptials, then one billion people are not fighting, killing or blowing up anything. How bloody good is that?

So if you don’t like all the coverage – rent a heart. You can return it on the 30^th and the world can go back to being a slightly horrible place again. Bah! Humbug!

But for one day, I’d like to believe that love can push hate into the background. Where is belongs.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia

Beating writer’s block

April 21, 2011 By Jessica Safran 10 Comments

As a writer, it’s natural to have writer’s block at one time or another.

Now is one of those times.

After starting this piece about five different times with five completely different topic ideas, I decided to go with the only thing that I could write about: not writing.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about. I have much to write about. What I don’t have is a good writing practice — a committed discipline — and without that, my writing is subject to my moods and the unscheduled time slots in my calendar (between the hours of 12am and 6am). I need to cultivate the practice of placing butt in chair to write whether I feel like it or not — rain or shine, inspired or stymied, happy or cranky.

My most developed writing ritual is procrastination. I tend to find ways to procrastinate until the pressure I put myself under gets really unpleasant. I do a lot of web “research.” I think about the logistics of my writing rather than the content. I fret about the fact that I didn’t schedule writing time in my calendar, or if I did, I used the time for something else. I go grocery shopping. I do laundry. I even pay bills — another activity I procrastinate religiously, unless of course I end up doing it as a way to procrastinate the writing.

How long can I write about not writing? Isn’t that an act of procrastination?

I could write about how I brought my laptop with me to the couch with the intention of sitting comfortably and writing but fell asleep instead. This is what happens when you start a writing session after midnight, after a fabulous dinner with friends that included a couple of bottles of wine. I could write about how much bill-paying I completed, or how many new photos of my baby nephew I added to my growing digital collection. I could write about how I learned that actor Ed Norton dated singer Courtney Love from 1996 to 1999. Finally, I could write about how I viewed the online galleries of all the photographers I used to work for in the 1980’s after compulsively Googling them for the first time ever… when I was supposed to be writing. I guess I thought I might write about them. I guess I just did, so in retrospect it was web research.

Did you know that “ok” first showed up in 1839 as an abbreviation for a deliberate misspelling, “oll korrect?” It was the vestige of a slang fad in New York and Boston. Should you care to question the source of this random piece of information, according to the Chicago Manual Style (CMS), the proper way to cite it is:

o. k.. Dictionary.com. Online Etymology Dictionary. Douglas Harper, Historian. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/o. k. (accessed: April 18, 2011)

I think I just have to accept that this piece will not be what I had originally intended. It will end without me writing about anything substantive that I experienced before this bout of writer’s block. It will be disjointed and self-indulgent. It will end without much logic or warning.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Opinion Tagged With: writer's block, writing, writing practice

What I will miss when the world comes to an end

April 12, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 8 Comments

A few weeks ago I wrote about what I wouldn’t miss when the world comes to an end. That Glenn Beck’s Fox show got dropped leads me to believe that I have some power. And I won’t abuse it … Sean Hannity – you are getting very tired.

Someone suggested (thanks DB) I write about what I will miss when the world comes to an end. Good point. I have to say this list might be harder to fill since I am not always feeling the love. And I mean that about myself and the world. OMG – I am a coach and I just admitted to being human. Hot damn. I just might be able to fill up this list.

1.) Not getting to spend time with my long list of interesting men. And by spending time, I don’t necessarily mean reading by the fireplace. Javier – call me. I hear the end is near.

2.) The possibility of …

3.) Watching kittens get their walking papers. And puppies who ice stake down the hall with wobbly legs.

4.) Putting words in a certain order that makes people laugh or think. Or think about laughing.

5.) Real passionate kisses from men who know how to kiss and don’t look at kissing as a way to wipe off a feature or two off your face. Call me old-fashioned.

6.) The chance to get back into that crocheted dress from the 1970s that I used to be able to wear without a bra. TMI? Perhaps.

7.) Being able to talk to my darling friend David who left us in 1997. I just think about him and he is all around me – messing with my hair. Hmmmm … maybe we will see each other again? That would be just lovely. Remember David – Karma means never having to miss you ever again.

8.) Linguine and clam sauce.

9.) The ocean. One of the few places where people aren’t staring at me and wondering how I forgot to exercise over the last few years. It happened, people, it just happened.

10.) Yelling at the Tea Party members. Who needs therapy with this crowd around?

11.) The chance to own a closet full Christian Louboutin heels.

12.) Seeing the people of the world living in peace. We didn’t even get close.

13.) Friends who keep secrets. On second thought, they will have to go with me. I don’t think I can trust anyone that much.

14.) My VHS and DVD copy of ‘The Way We Were.” Robert Redford in bed.

15.) Good wine. Bad wine. Any kind of wine.

16.) Giving Donald Trump a Mohawk and telling him “You’re fired.”

17.) Manhattan. You can keep the Bronx and Staten Island, too.

18.) Hearing the late Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

19.) Concealer. Not that I ever needed it.

20.) Laughing so hard.

So what are you going to miss?

Visit Elizabeth’s site, My Views from the Edge at: My Views from the Edge

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

Baby’s first oral surgery

April 8, 2011 By Jessica Safran 9 Comments

One Friday not long ago, I noticed that my six-year-old daughter’s adult tooth was erupting before one of her bottom front baby teeth had fallen out. The baby tooth was loose but not going anywhere. I thought of a shark’s mouth, with rows of multiple sets of teeth. I called my daughter’s pediatric dentist, Dr. Ray, who’d given me explicit instructions to call her the moment I noticed a big tooth growing in too early.

“You need to come in Monday,” she instructed. “That tooth has to go. And very important: your daughter must go to school after.”

I fretted about Monday morning’s impending violence and decided not to tell Monkey what would happen, or else I would never get her to go. I said instead that Dr. Ray needed to check her loose tooth. Until now, she’d only had favorable checkups that included cleanings and x-rays. The child hadn’t even gotten a cavity yet. She would never forgive me for subjecting her to this. She’d see it as a betrayal. In twenty years, she’d discuss it in therapy.

When we got there, Dr. Ray said plaintively after examining Monkey’s mouth, “Oh, how I wish that she wouldn’t do this! Why must she make me prove myself?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Mother Nature! She wants me to prove that I know what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?” Monkey asked Dr. Ray.

“I am helping Mother Nature by making some room for your tooth to grow in.” She swabbed the lower gum to numb it. Then she expertly hid from view the comically large syringe full of Novocain.

The dentist’s assistant pulled back Monkey’s lower lip, and Dr. Ray stuck the needle into the gum and slowly pressed the plunger. Monkey was crying with her eyes shut tightly, tears streaming. I sighed with misery.

“I’m going to do both, since I don’t want you back here in a week,” Dr. Ray explained.

“I understand,” I said with resignation.

Monkey felt around for her numb lower lip and chin. She unsuccessfully tried to purse her lips together and drooled. She cried. I held her hand, caressing it.

This time, Dr. Ray hid from Monkey’s view a set of shiny silver pliers. On one side, the dentist’s assistant held down her lip. I stood over her looking into her face, her eyes squeezed shut, and held down her arms. From the other side, Dr. Ray quickly pulled out Monkey’s right bottom front baby tooth and then the left bottom front baby tooth in a continuous graceful motion. The blood was efficiently suctioned away through a tube held to the site of the wounds by the assistant. Monkey was instructed to bite on a wad of rolled up gauze that was stuffed into the gap where her two teeth used to be.

I was given a tiny pink plastic treasure test. Inside it were her two baby teeth.

When she came home that day from school, she said, “How come I had to have my teeth out?” She’d figured it out once the Novocaine wore off. It was a good thing that it was a status symbol in school to have your teeth fall out.

“Because the big teeth needed room to grow in straight.”

I showed her the treasure chest and she marveled at the two perfect baby teeth.

That night I stuck the tiny plastic treasure chest under her pillow. “For the tooth fairy,” I explained.

“The tooth fairy isn’t real. You’re the tooth fairy!”

“You think so? Should we just skip it then?”

“No! Leave it there… just in case.”

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting

Adventures in foreign pharmacies

April 4, 2011 By Katie Barber 4 Comments

If you travel with me, chances are good that we’ll need to visit a pharmacy. I’ll probably hurt myself or develop a headache, and, even though I should have known better, I probably will have left my bandages and acetaminophen at home.

On a recent trip to Italy, I was struck with a sinus headache. I had packed acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and a whole host of vitamins, but I had nothing for my sinuses. We were in Venice – near the Rialto Bridge, no less, an area crawling with English-speaking tourists – and so I had no problems getting something for my head. I walked into a nearby pharmacy and trotted out my best attempt at explaining my ailment in Italian: “il mal di testa … but sinus.” The pharmacist immediately produced some pseudoephredrine and explained the dosage to me in English.

It’s not always that easy. In fact, it’s usually not. My cobbled-together language skills weren’t enough to get me sinus medication in Guatemala, where I moaned “dolor de cabeza” while pointing at my eyes, my nose, and my temples. I even mimed a vise-like grip on my head. I had been pretty pleased with my miming … until the pharmacist handed me some eyedrops. Luckily, my Spanish-speaking boyfriend was just behind me and was able to communicate what I needed.

Armed with phrasebooks, I can usually at least get my basic ailment across to the pharmacist. This wasn’t the case in China, where I had a foot injury and needed a bandage. I did my best to sound out the Mandarin word for “bandage,” but the pharmacist clearly had no idea what I was saying. I tried once more before leaning over the counter to show her what I was trying to say. This caused her to erupt in laughter at my pronunciation, but she did produce a bandage. Unfortunately, it was an Ace bandage. With a bit more effort, I found the word for “adhesive” and walked out with a box of Chinese band-aids.

It was only marginally easier to get a bandage in Paris than in Xi’an, China, even though I had a phrasebook and was traveling with my mother, who speaks French moderately well. The situation was slightly compounded because I needed antibiotic ointment as well. We were unsuccessful in obtaining the goods until I sucked up my pride and showed the chic Parisian pharmacist my fairly embarrassing foot wound. She quickly gave me a bandage with antibiotic ointment inside.

At some point, one would think I would learn to travel with my first aid kit. Of course, that would make healing myself easier, but I think I would miss my interactions with foreign pharmacists.

Visit Katie’s personal blog here.