Before I went to the Oscars, I was a bike racer. I took it so seriously. I remember this. From the year 2004 until last year, I never trained without the advice of a personal coach, and I worked with two of the best in the business.
Now I’m coaching myself. Here, I’ll share with you my schedule. It is fascinatingly scientific. It goes like this:
I alternate swimming days with biking days because I love swimming and I love riding my bike. When I feel good, I go hard. When I’m tired, I don’t go hard. Sometimes, I’ll go many days in a row, trying to become more fatigued. And when I reach a near breaking point, I slow back down. Sometimes, I go many days going slow. It all depends.
I do lots of fartleks or intervals or whatever you want to call them. Sometimes, I use a watch, and sometimes, I’ll pick a landmark up the road to try to race to. It is 100% dependent upon my mood in that given moment, save for a spin class on Tuesdays at my gym with Alan Atha. There, I just do what he says.
See? It’s very scientific.
I don’t write any of this down. I did, but kept losing the notebook.
You may be asking, what about that all important scheduled week of rest? This is so simple, but I am reluctant to share this information, because it might qualify as too much, but what the heck: when I’m about to get my period, and I cry over every silly little thing, and I want to sleep for twelve hours a day, then I back down during the week.
Can I say this is helping me as a bike racer? Aw, heck no. There is a high possibility that I am in for my slowest season ever, but my arms look incredible, and I cannot recall ever having this much fun riding my bike.
Why did it take me so long to figure this out?
Posted in Cycling, Random Ramblings | 5 Comments »
This is me, before the transformation.
Due to reader requests, I offer you now the photo documentation of my amazing transformation from regular, rather youngish looking, nearly natural blond “me,” to whatever you would call this creature (see below), leaving out the parts where I had a round brush stuck in the top of my head for 45 minutes. You can read more about my salon experience here, and if that description is not good enough for you, wait a few more days, because there are more details that I want to add, probably.
You will also find at the bottom of that post a photo of Chuck and me standing on the actual red carpet. We had just walked there from the hotel, only one block away, and it was only then that I wondered if maybe I should have worn the flip-flops after all.
If I could do it all over again, I would at a minimum get practice walking in high-heeled shoes, especially downhill, not that anyone noticed me grabbing onto the cement wall for support.
I would also not wear a dress quite as long, as people kept standing on it. It was clear that they just wanted to stand close to me — believe me, this happens to me all the time — but given the ambience of the festivities, which were almost spiritual, I felt it would not be in my best interest to yell, as I am wont to do most other times, “Just give me my space! Stop following me!”
This is because this exclamation normally gets me kicked out of places, and that was not a risk I was willing to take, not now. I learned to just hike up my dress with my hands. It’s not nearly as unattractive as you might think.
Well, as you might notice in these amazing before and after photos, that this transformation was quite the undertaking.
The transformation is complete! And it only took one hour.
Something that I thought was funny was that when I posted the “before” shot to my friends on facebook, I purposely waited several minutes before posting the “after” shot, to build up the anticipation. Apparently, not everyone understood that there was more coming, and thought that my “before” shot was actually what I was going to wear to the Oscars. And yet, showing blind love, they still left encouraging comments.
This was a shocker, and caused me to reflect upon myself thusly: Is this what you really think of me? D0 you really think I’d wear a tank top to the Oscars? Can’t you give me some credit? Do you really believe that’s all I got?
I did not let this moment of paranoia impact my emotional well being, as Chuck and I had a red carpet to walk down, with a thousand other people.
Chuck said it reminded him a lot of a triathlon. You’ve got your spectator areas, athlete areas, all demarked with cyclone fences, and volunteers pointing you to go in the right direction.
The big question in my mind was, Do I wear my Rudy Project sunglasses?
I leave this as a tip, should you ever find yourself in this Oscar condundrum: when in doubt, just tune into the Oscars pre-show on the tv. Copy what you see them doing.
Nobody wears sunglasses. Isn’t that interesting? I never thought about that before.
Coming up sooner or later: Jennifer Lopez and her booty that I did not notice, but Chuck did; Matt Damon, whom Chuck saw and I did not; and Oscar appetizers: better than chicken wings? Stay tuned for more!
Posted in Beauty, My Life, Random Ramblings | 1 Comment »
She’s telling us her life story, reaching out to the Thai girl doing her hair, to say, Look, I’ve been an immigrant, too. I’ve been in your shoes.
“It was hard being a model there,” she says. “First of all, it wasn’t even real Germany, but Eastern Germany. They don’t even speak German there, but this slang. They’re not even fluent in German.”
“But you like it there?”
“It was so great, it really taught me about appreciating other cultures. Which party are you going to?”
I don’t answer right away, ’til I realize she’s talking to me. “Whoa. What?”
“You’re not going to the Vanity Fair party?” she says.
I turn my head to tell her no, no party, and to glance, briefly, at her perfect porcelain skin. She avoids sunlight, she says, because she is Egyptian. She can look black if she wants. There is a brush stuck in the top of my head.
I’m sitting in a chair in a beauty salon on the corner of Franklin and Highland in Hollywood, just a couple of hours before Chuck and I are going to walk from the Renaissance Hotel to the 82nd Academy Awards. The pressure of too many good friends, some who called, texted, and sent registered mail, to not take my beauty into my own hands for such a momentous occasion, was too much.
“We just gonna put this lip gloss on you,” says Alak. He is wearing a tight purple shirt and orange tinted sunglasses, even though we are indoors. “This gonna make your lips look like you use Botox.”
——–
Twenty-four hours later, Chuck is at the gym. I’ve just cleaned Mila’s cat box. My belly is content, filled with Taco Bell on the long drive home.
Twenty-four hours ago, Chuck and I were watching the Academy Awards from Row D, seats 9 and 10, on the highest level of the Kodak Theater.
Bear with me as it may take me some time to find the words. It probably won’t happen today.
Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin sent us all home, and Chuck and I took our time walking back out down the red carpet on Hollywood Boulevard. The crowds had thinned out. They were serving coffee and hot cocoa. We stood under one of the many heat lamps now lining the red carpet, before meandering towards Highland Avenue, before we’d take that left turn and step off the carpet, never to return again.
Passing us by was Mo’Nique and her husband, clutching an Oscar for her performance in Precious. We ended up standing near them near the limo pick up zone at the end of the red carpet.
A young man with a camera asked if he could take her picture, but he was interrupted when a friend of hers ran to her and hugged her. They screamed.
Well, when the hug was over, she looked at me and I looked at her, and we smiled. She will never remember this, but I will. She got into her limo, and Chuck and I turned left off the red carpet, heading in totally opposite directions, in every way possible, but sharing this one thought, I’m sure of it: did any of this really happen?
It’s not because Chuck jaywalked. It’s not because he or I tried to do the “right thing.” Grigory and Marsha Higgenbottom didn’t have to invite us to the Oscars, but they did, because they’re nice people.
Marc Anthony is much shorter than I expected.
Katie and Chuck stand in this undoctored photo on the actual red carpet at the Academy Awards
Posted in Random Ramblings | 6 Comments »
In our last installment, we left off with that age-old question, just how do you broach the subject of a dress for the Oscars when you walk into the Gap?
This was a trick question. You would never do that, because even on the tightest of budgets, you should not look for a dress for the Oscars at the Gap. Just take that as Katie’s Fashion Tip Number One.
Another question you might have is how do you shop when you do not enjoy driving and you hate malls anyway?
The answer to that is you walk out of your apartment, jaywalk to the same location where the aforementioned wallet was found, and proceed across the street to the Duarteau Boutique.
It is here that how you phrase your desires is most crucial.
Clueless Shopper: Hello. I am looking for a dress for the Oscars. (There is no need to beat around the bush. Get straight to it. Let them know you mean business.)
Sales Man: Wonderful. Oscar who? Oscar Meyer?
Nervous bantar such as this standard fare when gown shopping for the Oscars, as most whom you encounter are now so intimidated by you, to release tension they turn to humor.
As you try on gowns in the back changing room, the conversation might go like this.
Sales Man: Which event are you going to?
CS: Excuse me?
SM: Which Oscar event? The one in Mill Valley? San Rafael?
CS: Oh. No, the one in Hollywood.
It is at this point that you will be showered by attention, as now the entire staff, who had barely said hello when you made your first announcement, assuming you were just a Regular Clueless Shopper, like all the others going to Oscar parties around Marin, helps you find a gown that fits you flawlessly.
I’ll post pictures later, but this technique was so useful for getting undivided attention, I don’t see why you can’t play the Oscars card in every shop you might visit, all year long.
Then it’s a question of figuring out hair and make up. That’s when you stroll a little farther down the street, the Neverland Beauty Supply.
Sales Girl: Oh my God, that’s so cool that you’re going to the Oscars!
Other Sales Girl: Who is Oscar?
Sales Girl: Okay, so quick tip: just get your make up done there. Because if you do it, you’ll screw it up. I can tell.
Clueless Shopper: But what if I can’t? Can’t you just show me what to do?
SG: Like, I know, but you don’t want to end up on the Worst Dressed list.
CS: Don’t you have to be known already to get on that list?
SG: I know, but like there’s always a first?
CS: Couldn’t you just show me what to do? It couldn’t be that hard.
SG: Well, okay, well. (She may study your face intently, and you find yourself not knowing where to look. Do you look back at her? At the ceiling? These situations are not for the meek!) Well, we can give you smokey eyes, and then all you need is a little bronzer.
CS: What’s a bronzer?
SG: Oh my God.
Coming up next: What to talk about sitting on Marsha Harley Higgenbottom’s couch in her high rise apartment witih a view of Malibu, and then, possibly, a true Russian Make Up Experience, and then, most likely, as your friently author will not be on this blog until tomorrow, just what it’s like walking down the red carpet.
Posted in Life in Marin, My Life, Random Ramblings, This is nutso | 1 Comment »
A week ago last Sunday afternoon, in the pouring rain, Chuck jaywalked to expedite his journey to Starbucks to read on one of their comfy chairs, but returned back to my studio abode in downtown San Rafael within two minutes, frantically tearing apart systematiclly searching through what appeared to be a woman’s wallet, while I was intently studying my Spanish flashcards.
“Dude, what are you doing with that wallet,” I said, but he did not answer, because he was hyperventilating, and sweating.
“Dude, what are you doing holding all that cash,” I said, as he was counting up a stack of hundred dollar bills.
He finally let it escape that he had found this wallet, laying on the sidewalk. “I can’t find a phone number.” he said.
It contained one brand new passport, one brand new visa to India, and one very large stack of cash, and no other contact information, save for some receipts, check carbon copies, and some kind of proof of insurance, possibly expired, now that I think about it.
It looked like its owner, one Marsha Harley Higgenbottom (that is not really her name) was about to take a big trip.
The checkbook showed a Santa Monica address, with no phone number. “She’s smart,” said Chuck.
“Not to fear, Chuckarooni,” I said. “In case you did not know, I am an expert at stalking people. It is very easy to do.”
Google quickly indicated to me that the reason why her phone number was not readily available to the public is because she is a movie producer, philanthropist, and, in other words, a wealthy, generous, kind heared celebrity and impossible to find.
Chuck continued digging through the wallet, hoping for any possible contact, while I used my noggin again and called the San Rafael Police.
“No, we can’t find any phone listing for Marsha Harley Higgenbottom,” said the San Rafael Police Operator. “What you need to do is drop it off here, and she can come pick it up.”
“But how is she going to know–”
“Can you hold on a second?” She put me on hold. “Right. Just bring it by the station.”
“But how is it it going– “
“I’m sorry, can you hold?” She put me on hold again. “Right. Well, drop it off, okay?”
“How will she get it back?”
“Look. If she doesn’t pick it up, we’ll mail it to her to the address listed here in Santa Monica.”
“Listen lady,” I said, kind of, maybe not using my mouth, but my mind. “Don’t you understand? She could be headed to the airport right now. It is mission critical that she get her wallet back. Can’t you imagine the state of panic she is in? Have you no empathy? Good God, woman!”
“Oh, okay, thanks for your help,” I said.
I hung up, and I could hear Chuck in the dining room on his cell phone. He had made some kind of contact with an insurance company.
“Look, I don’t know the lady,” he said. “I just need to –. Right. Right. I know that you can’t give me her–. Right. I know that. Right. Can you just call her?”
“I think her insurance company is going to call her,” he said, when he hung up the phone. “I”m going to go read at Starbucks.”
“What about the police, Chuck? They said to drop the wallet off. Wouldn’t that be the right thing to do?”
“Eff the police! Did you see this wad of cash? She’ll never get her money back!”
Chuck went to Starbucks, and I continued my Google stalking. I found and called every organization she ever donated to in Marin County or San Francisco. I e-mailed a place that she had written a check to where I thought she had her blinds done, but whoopsie, that was in Ontario, Canada. In facebook, I sent out an all points bulliten as my status update.
Katie Kelly Does anyone know Marsha Harley Higgenbottom? Chuck just found her wallet.
George Jenkins Just throw it in the mailbox.
Molly Middlbury Can’t you just take it to the police?
Rhonda Rhondstadt Finder’s fee!
The next morning, at our weekly meeting in Berkeley, I explained the gravity of the situation to my co-workers, and my boss Steve began Internet stalking her, too.
Everybody was stalking Marsha Harley Higgenbottom. It was a team effort.
Ten minutes into the meeting, I got a call back on my cell phone from the receptionist at the San Francisco Film Society. I ran out into the hallway to intercept the call with the middle man. My hands shook.
I texted Chuck to tell him my good fortune.
“I already talked to Marsha,” he texted back. “Will pick up tonight.”
Okay, so there is a possibility that maybe my stalking was not entirely necessary, but I’m telling you, celebrities are hard to find. I understand that this is for their own safety, but what are they supposed to do when they drop their wallets by accident on the sidewalk? Trust that the next guy to pick it up is going to find them? It doesn’t seem fair.
Later that night, after Chuck made the hand off at an undisclosed location in front of an outdoor Italian restaurant on 4th Street, we met up for burritos.
“I feel good,” he said.
“Me, too. I”m so glad.”
We watched some Mexican game show on the tv in the taquería, where the wives were supposed to push their husbands down a slide on a long table across the stage, in a drag race formation, and whoever’s husband got closer to the pair of chachas waiting for him at the other end would win extra points. And I learned a new verb, “cuchiplanchar,” which could be useful, I guess, in certain situations. “Planchar” means to iron. Maybe you can figure out the rest.
Chuck received a text message. It was from Marsha Harley Higgenbottom.
Here is a general synopsis of that message: “Dear Katie and Chuck. I would really like to compensate you for finding my wallet. I offer you three choices: a dinner at your favorite restaurant; a cash reward; or how about two tickets to the Oscars?”
That was probably the best grilled steak burrito I’ve ever had.
Coming up next: Just what does one wear to the Oscars? What do you say to the sales girl when you walk into the Gap?
Posted in Life in Marin, This is nutso, Very Cool People | 4 Comments »
I remember this one week in high school, my senior year, in Pleasanton, at Foothill High, maybe it was two weeks, when all the teachers in the union went on strike because all the people working in the administration got big ol’ raises, but the teachers didn’t so they said, That’s it, we’ll show them, we’ll go on strike.
Many, devoted to their teachers, supported the cause and went to the movies and got drunk and stuff. But for those who felt they needed an education — and this is when I started to question what an education really was — they brought in teachers or professors or something from U.C. Berkeley.
This sounded exciting on paper, and so I never missed a day of school. I believe this might have been the worst mistake of my life, and I might have learned more going ot the movies. I thought after two weeks I would be a whole lot smarter, but it was only maybe three days into it that I came to learn that geometry now had nothing to do with geometry, but debating Civil Rights.
“I want you to think,” our professor said. He was a large man, with an Afro. He wore glasses, and polyester pants, and brown leather shoes with zippers on the sides and aside from not teachig us anything about geometry, he did seem smart.
“Challenge yourselves,” he said. “Here is your topic.”
He wanted us to form groups, and over the course of the next couple of weeks, while our teachers were striking so they might be able to afford rent, we were to write a paper defending or arguing against mandatory drug tests in professional sports.
But in the days leading up to this paper’s composition, we were to debate with him. He wanted it to learn how to think critically. Get those ideas out. ”Come on, spar with me, ” he said.
“Okay, like, does this have anything to do with geometry?” someone was bold enough to ask.
“Good for you! Challenge authority! Always!”
He still didn’t answer the question.
This other guy, I think his name was Cyrus, said that he felt that professional athletes should be held up to a higher standard, that they are role models for the youth, and so he felt drug testing seemed perfectly fine by him.
“Good,” said Mr. Big Hair. “But what if he eats a poppy seed bagel?”
“I don’t know, Marge (not her real name), this whole going to school stuff seems like a waste of time to me,” I said after school, hanging out at Marge’s house. Her room was pink. “I think I’d rather just go to the library and read or something. I’m tired of all this critical thinking. It is exhausting”
“Katie, as American citizens, it is our duty to get an education. I feel honored to have such highly esteemed professors in our midst. Let us take advantage of this. Seize the day!”
On the third day of our debates, with no end to this strike in sight, we had moved from a regular classroom with regular desks, to the library, and we sat at large tables in the front of the room.
“So, let’s say these two are on a date,” said Mr. Big Hair, pointing to me and another girl. There was nervous laughter.
I said, “Who, me?”
“Come on, you know you’d love to go out on a date with her. I know how you boys think!”
This was one of those awkward conversations I hated. I had issues with feathered hair and make up. That started my freshman year. It really bothered me that to be feminine, you’d have to wake up extra early and damage your hair with a curling iron and then paint your face with one shade of brown, to hide all your natural coloring, and then add new color to it, so your face would glow in the dark.
I wanted to ask everyone, “Is not having boobs and a vagina enough? Is not being frightened by spiders enough? What about crying at commercials? What about harboring secret crushes on football players. Just how far do we have to go to prove we are feminine?”
Unfortunately, my peers at Foothill High School were not ready for such extreme thinking, and neither was this professor.
“I’m a girl,” I said.
“What’s that? Speak up, boy!”
“I said, I’m a girl!”
“Whoa-hoa, I see it now, why yes, yes you are a girl! Terribly sorry about that, whooohee!” he said. The damage was done. I cried.
Boy was I glad when that strike and all that critical thinking crap was over.
Posted in Fashion, My Life, Random Ramblings | 3 Comments »
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