Friday, March 11, 2005


I wouldn't classify myself as someone particularly sensitive to strange aromas, but the smorgasboard of odors that assault my defenseless proboscis on a daily basis is beginning to get to me.

I think the problem is that the buffet of weird smells I encounter is exactly the same each day. In the six months I've been commuting, working, and commuting again, I've been able to pretty nauseatingly match each strange odor with what it smells like, regardless of whether or not the smell is actually eminating from that source.

The train in the morning smells like a mouth.

Depending on its riders, the train in the evening alternately smells like a sneaker or the floor of a bar.

My car smells like wet newspaper.

My office smells like under-the-bed, with patches of vacuum cleaner.

The Spring Street subway station smells like a urine sample under a heat lamp, which is curious, because all suspicious puddles I've spied are sitting on freezing concrete.

My boss's office smells like a hair-dryer.

There are a few highlights, though, which include the Hot Dad, who smells like detergent and car exhaust--a hotter combination than one would imagine. There's also my house, which smells like a kerosene heater, dog, and garlic--a more comforting combination that one would imagine.

Brad (soap and slightly spicy deodorant)is coming tonight, I think. This a piece of information so great it will singlehandedly get me through my remaining five hours of permission requsting. Andrea (who I always associate with pineapple, after a long fruit-hat engineering session) gets here tomorrow. I'm taking three paid vacation days starting Monday, which--lemme break this down old school--means that my company gives me money not to be here.

If the equation Kathy + Work = Money is true, then it should be mathematically impossible for the equation Kathy - Work = Money to also be true. This means that paid vacation trumps logic, reason, and the general laws of nature, proving that there is a God, and He wants me not to go to work.

Last night Kai (hospital and flowers) and I went to Friendly's (onion rings, Pledge, vinyl) to celebrate the beginning of her spring break with six scoops of ice cream. It was no kegger in Cancun (I've never been, but I'm going to imagine it's something like Corona and balls), but I takes my kicks wheres I can git 'em. With the vacation time and the visiting friends, I feel like I'm on my own spring break, which means it's time for KATHY GONE WILD, motherfuckers, BREAK OUT THE VIDEO CAMERA BECAUSE HERE COME THE BOOBS.

Or, you know, I might go to the Guggenheim.


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