These are the sorts of things we do on weekends to amuse ourselves:

Zig.

Zig zag.

Zig zag ZOOM!

Kamran’s flailing arms aside, my favourite part of the video is the beginning where I have to tell that woman she can walk in front of the camera. I swear New Yorkers are only polite when they’re being filmed.

Also, I should mention that this is from months ago, just in case you get freaked out by my short hair and the fact that we’re wearing coats in the midst of summer. Because I know our every move affects your emotional health.

My boyfriend, Kamran, recently moved from a regular, old associate office into a partner office at the law firm where he does patent whatnot, and late Saturday afternoon, he took me to work to show me how far he’s come.

The glory! The majesty! Looking out upon the Empire State Building as you write patents and litigate the hell out of anyone who so much as coughs in your direction–that’s how you know you’ve made it!

But even now that he’s sittin’ pretty on top, Kamran will always be a physics-experiments-in-the-lab-lovin’ kind of nerd:

Congratulations, hotstuff.

Tuesday night, in an attempt to get me to spend time with him before he goes home to The O.C. this weekend to see his family, Boyfriend Kamran invited me to dine with him at Serendipity, the restaurant I convinced him to take me to on our third date right before we went to the Empire State Building for the most cinematic first kiss in history. There was a twenty-minute wait–the shortest amount of wait we’ve ever encountered there, I think–so we sat outside on the green concave benches and discussed the uses of bundle theory and substance theory, which is the sort of thing Kamran’s really good for at crowded restaurants.

As we sat mindlessly staring at the fake cake in the display window, a man in a blue-and-white-striped polo shirt with a shaved head and a very tan body approached the door and attempted to open it from the outside. It didn’t budge, so he pushed harder as an Asian woman with long, frizzy hair approached from the inside, but still nothing happened. We figured that it was a joke, that the two knew each other and that he was trying to keep her from coming outside. But the woman’s face moved from a look of confusion to one of anger as the man leaned on the door with all of his body weight, and we realised he seriously didn’t understand that the door pulls out rather than pushes in. When he finally figured it out, he turned around and looked at us, saw that we were smiling to ourselves about how ridiculous he was, and started laughing, saying, “You knew all along, didn’t you?! You were laughing at me!!!” And that’s when we realised he was drunk.

He came waltzing over to Kamran and–it’s hard for me to use this phrase–bumped fists with him, patted him on the back, and slurred something about a wife and kids while the frizzy-haired lady rushed past us and into her waiting SUV. The guy noticed and motioned for her to roll down her window so he could talk to her, and I was like, No, lady! No!, but she did it, and the guy blew his alcoholy breath all over her, and she chattered on nervously about how she thought he had been holding the door shut just to be mean to her. Kamran and I took his distraction as an opportunity to run for cover in the restaurant, but the guy followed us in a moment later. He shook hands with the man at the host stand, so I thought that maybe he was a regular who was meeting his family there or something, but the host watched him uncomfortably for a few minutes as he touched all of the kitschy items for sale in the waiting area and then quietly asked him to leave.

It’s important here to note that Kamran isn’t the sort of person who tries to get close to casual acquaintances or needs friendships of convenience; he gets combative when participants in reality television shows talk about how much they “love” each other after one episode, and he generally dislikes all other human beings (which is naturally the reason we get along so well). So I could see the “what the hell?!” sweating from his pores when the drunk guy stopped on his way out and full-on wrapped his arms around Kamran’s neck and pushed his body against Kamran’s for a hug. Kamran just smiled out of politeness while the guy buried his face in Kamran’s shoulder and whispered things like, “I’m with you. I belong here.” He stopped on the other side of me and said all surly-like, “That guy’s name is Josh. He looks like a Josh, right?” And I said, “He’s the Joshiest,” because you don’t argue with shaved-headed drunks.

On the way home, we hopped in a cab with a driver whose name was Shiv (awesome!), and he immediately began coughing stuff up from his lungs and spitting it out the window repeatedly. His face was sagging, and his nose was crooked, and the constantly flying phlegm didn’t help matters. Kamran’s stomach was feeling a bit queasy to begin with, so I kept glancing at him with a horrified look on my face, just waiting for him to puke up our Cinnamon Fun Sundae right there in the back seat amidst all those hacking sounds. And then the guy’s cell phone rang. It was this really cheesy MIDI (though it’s decidedly better than this one that I recorded for Kamran and happen to keep on my work computer–what?), and I was like, Jesus Christ, who’s still using that sort of crap as their ringtone? And then I thought, Wait, don’t I know that song? And then I realized that it was the YEAH YEAH YEAHS.

What a frightening, frightening world we live in.

Last night, Boyfriend Kamran and I had a leisurely yakitori dinner complete with watermelon sorbet in his neighborhood to celebrate a law school A that he didn’t expect but wholly deserved. As we walked back up the hill to his apartment, I looked expectantly at my feet like I do every time I wear flip-flops in NYC, waiting for a cockroach to crawl over my bare toes. I told Kam that I saw a cockroach in our gym that morning, and he wondered aloud when cockroach season is. I said it seems to be at the start of summer and the start of winter and concluded that cockroaches must be adverse to extreme weather changes, but he sarcastically derided me and said that surely they’ve evolved enough to handle a little temperature fluxuation what with their ability to withstand nuclear attacks and all. We started talking about how ridiculous it is that instead of adapting, humans just do things like move to Florida when the going gets too rough, and I argued that things would be so much better if we were pigs; our pores wouldn’t leak, so we’d just have to recognise when we were overheating and find a way to cool ourselves down. We talked about redesigning the human body to have an internal coolant system with a refrigeration pump and selling our upgraded version of man at a steep price.

While we were having this discussion, we passed one of the hand-carved Italian stone buildings next to his, where four women were leaning against a low wall and chatting. They were all in their 30s and wore their long, highlighted hair down despite the heat. They had on atrocious heels and clingy dresses, and they sipped from martini glasses in between laughs. They were the exact opposite of us. When our conversation finished, I asked Kamran, “Did you see that?”, and he said, “What, those women trying to reenact ‘Sex and the City’?” And we laughed and laughed about how superior we are.

The thing is–I’m pretty sure this sort of business is going on every night in Manhattan. Kamran and I know that we’re weird, but isn’t everyone else weirded out by how normal they are?

Comment Here

me: What’s for dinner?
Boyfriend Kamran: I was planning to reheat the remaining chicken and make some more rice and vegetables, but we can do anything else. I’m not 100% sure when I’ll get out of work.
me: Umm . . .
Kamran: Don’t want that? I understand if that’s the case. We could pick up Subway instead, or even go out somewhere.
me: Oh, no, that sounds great. I’m just wondering if I should get something snacky.
Kamran: You should… um… eat some grapes.
me: Do we have some?
Kamran: No.
me: Tease!
Kamran: http://www.mccullagh.org/db9/1ds2-4/red-grapes.jpg
me: Boobies! Dewy, dripping boobies!
Kamran: dot com
me: YES.

Comment Here

I don’t like seafood. I don’t like that it’s been swimming around in a cesspool of its own feces, and I don’t like that it tastes like it. But when your boyfriend wants to gulp an entire plate of raw ocean animalia, you don’t argue; you make him take you to the Grand Central Oyster Bar.

The restaurant is underground, cavernous, monstrous, with huge arced ceilings tiled and lined with lights. It feels more like you’re at an expensive wedding reception than on a private date. It’s not really dim enough to be romantic, the tablecloths are a very small-town-diner red-checker, you can hear the slurps of the couple dining right next to you, and the clatter of silverware echoes off the walls. But for some reason, you feel really great being there. Really 1920s flapper-girl-in-a-string-of-pearls. You expect fat cats in suits and top hats to walk through the door any moment. But the unpretentious, jolly kind of fat cats.

The menu is amazing. If you like seafood. In a different life, I would’ve dove right into that caviar sandwich (because what isn’t good on bread?), and a jumbo lump crabmeat cocktail sounds like an alcoholic’s delight. Kamran was intent on our trying the bloody mary oyster shooter and splitting the bivalve platter, but since I can barely stomach the word “bivalve”, we settled on some New England clam chowder. Which was totally delicious, even before I added three bags of oyster crackers to it. It wasn’t fishy at all, and the clam didn’t have the rubbery consistency I expected.

I had planned to play it legit and order the half chicken, but Kamran convinced me that if anyone was going to do fish right, it was “America’s most historic and celebrated seafood restaurant”. So I ordered one of the specials, a sturgeon splashed with rum sauce and golden raisins, hoping that the rum would get me drunk enough that I’d forget I was eating the ocean. It came with some nice buttery vegetables to help clear my palate between bites to keep me from freaking out and this REALLY AWESOME RICE. I don’t have any idea what was in it, but it was a cheesy little ball of hearty warm nothing-else-I’ve-ever-tasted. And hey, the fish wasn’t bad, either. When I asked the waiter if he thought sturgeon was okay for a seafood-hater, he told me that it’s so mild there’s a dish called sturgeon cordon bleu. And he was right for the most part; the ends of the hunk were much thinner and were a little bit browned, and they were actually what I might call “delicious”. The middle was thick and moist, and although it didn’t really taste any different from the ends, the fact that I could see all of the meaty layers freaked me out, so I had to leave a bit of it behind. Still, I was obviously proud of myself:

When I finished, Kamran said that

a) it’s good I have no idea what a sturgeon looks like, or I would’ve been too scared to eat it, and

b) he, a seafood fanatic, wasn’t sure he would’ve had the guts to try it. YES!

And speaking of guts, Kamran ordered the medley of shellfish and ended up being a little overwhelmed by the huge plate of oysters and clams arranged from smallest to largest, mussels, and giant shrimp.

He had been really excited about eating clams after having stealing a really good one from his sister’s plate the last time we were at Balthazar, but the clams on this plate weren’t cooked, and his stomach wasn’t quite prepared for that after a childhood incident involving bad clams that made him sick. The oysters were a suckin’

slurplin’

swishin’ good time, though, and he liked everything else on the plate so much that he had a hard time deciding what to save for last. Although he did spend the rest of the night feeling like slimy things were swimming around in his stomach, so I felt vindicated.

Overall, I’d say the food must be pretty great if the anti-seafood-est person alive was able to handle it with a smile, and the atmosphere was neat if not dark and romantic, and it was the sort of experience that you feel like you can only get in New York. And that’s what it’s all about.

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No, seriously, I swear that I actually find this sexy:

February 1st, 11 a.m.

Kamran: oh god katie
my worst nightmare just came true
my phone fell in the toilet
:’(
I feel woozy
i seriously feel nauseous. i might cry.
please don’t tell anybody
me: WHAT THE HELL?!
It’s still working?
Kamran: i dont think so
it’s wrapped in paper towels in my drawer right now
it’s making funny colors. i dont think it’s working
me: Ahh, geez.
What happened?
Kamran: it was in my pocket, apparently not deep enough. when i stood up to zip up, it fell out and into the toilet
i fished it out (dear god) and dried it off with toilet paper. then i washed my hands fifty times
me: I feel so bad!
Kamran: me too
i cant even get my numbers and stuff off of it. they’re all lost
my life has been rebooted
the pics you sent, my chess record
me: Wow.
Kamran: Give me your phone number
i quite literally feel like throwing up …
me: I know just how you feel.
Kamran: oh yea?
me: When a story I’ve been working on gets deleted, when my hard drive has crashed, etc.
Kamran: yea. when you’ve had to fish your phone out of a bowl of your own shit
do you think i can get a new phone with service and everything over my lunch break, or is that too ambitious?
me: I think you can. Easily.
Kamran: so i’d have a working phone this afternoon?
me: Yes.
Kamran: and i wouldnt need to take my old one in
right?
me: Why not?
Kamran: because it was in a bowl of my shit
and i’d rather not carry it around
me: Well, I’d say you might want to bring it in case there’s a warranty.
Kamran: i’m too embarrassed to explain it
why it’s wrapped in paper towels
i should just suck it up and consider it a $300 lesson
that fucking sucks
What a dumbass i am
me: Don’t feel that way. Could’ve happened to anyone.
Kamran: besides, i doubt the warranty covers this
me: If there’s a warranty, it covers anything that you might do to it.
I know people who have run over their phones with their cars just to get a new one.
Kamran: wouldn’t i need to go home and check the box and stuff?
or would they do it just based on the phone itself
even though it doesnt turn on
me: Yep, if it won’t turn on, that’s probably grounds for getting a new one.
Kamran: what a fucking hassle
me: Just tell them that you dropped it in water.
Kamran: yea, i will
meantime, i’ll cringe every time they or I have to touch it

Later That Afternoon

Kamran: i should probably take the battery out of my old phone before i throw it away, right?
i dont really want to touch it though
not to keep the battery or anything, but just in case it’s a fire hazard or something
meh, i guess if it was going to blow up, it probably would have by now
me: Well, keeping the battery isn’t a bad idea, anyway.
Kamran: but it has poo in it
me: Clean it!
WITH YOUR MOUTH.
Kamran: –puke–
Listen, it hasn’t been that long since I reached bare-handed into a pool of my own lukewarm feces. I’m still a little sensitive.
me: Man up.
Bear Grylls does this sort of thing every day.
Kamran: I’m SO gonna poo on you in your sleep tonight
maybe i’ll poo in a bag, slip it up over your hand, and affix it with a rubber band, so as to avoid getting the bed dirty

Later That Night

We stopped by his office after dinner, and he revealed that he was keeping the poo-stained BlackBerry in his desk drawer:

When he threw it in the trash a moment later, the little red message light at the top stayed on, and we imagined some poor cleaning lady fishing it out, thinking that it was still working and that she’d made a real find. Mwahahahaha.

In honor of Kanye’s enviable luminescent suit at the Grammys last night

I bring you this forgotten gem from my 2006 birthday dinner:

(Now I ain’t sayin’ I’ma golddigger
But I ain’t messin’ with no broke niggaz)

Neverminding the fact that it’s mostly ones he’s holding, I love that Kamran was doing stuff like this in our first month of dating.

As you may remember, Kamran’s landlady installed a murphy bed in his apartment over Christmas break, and we’ve been heartily enjoying it ever since. The landlady’s last name is Dicker, which makes for lots of hi-LAR-ious “Dicker? I hardly know ‘er!” jokes. And we’re also strangely amused by a sticker on the frame of the bed that says, “ST DICKER,” which we interpret to mean “St. Dicker” and can repeat to each other for minutes at a time.

But even better is that the murphy bed has allowed us what we call The Pillow Corner. The bed frame has a panel that runs parallel to the sleeper, and since the head of the mattress is against a wall, there’s this lovely place where the wall meets the panel and forms a corner, which we pile high with pillows and snuggle into. Kamran says that he sleeps in The Pillow Corner when I’m not there.

Of course, he also says that he fits pillows with my pajamas and cuddles them when I’m not there. Creepy or romantic? You decide.

And while we’re on the subject of beds, you can vote creepy or romantic on this, which is the photo that resulted from my wrapping Kamran in a papoose made of blankets on his birthday:

I seriously don’t think this relationship is abnormal at all.

One of my main functions in our office is to generate license keys for the software we make. This requires absolutely no technical knowledge nor any sort of awareness of the product, which is why they let a girl do it. My co-worker Jack IMed me today and reminded me why I’m so pleased to have surrounded myself with geeks:

Co-Worker Jack: Jian just called you “our license key generator” to a client.
Me: Sexy!
Co-Worker Jack: Haha. I thought you’d like that.
Me: I enjoy that I sound like a robot.
Co-Worker Jack: Yeah, you are KATIE–Key Autonomous Turbine Initiative Engine.
Me: Wow! I’m going to start signing my e-mails that way.
Co-Worker Jack: That would be awesome, especially since it took me a while to figure out what to use for the i in your name.
Me: I appreciate the effort. I’ll make all of my e-mails look like automated replies.

Excited about my new title, I IMed my patent lawyer boyfriend to brag:

Kamran: Sounds like the title of a patent.
me: Indeed.
Kamran: We should patent you!
me: I’m useful.
Kamran: And inventive. Totally non-obvious.
me: You’re so sweet.

It’s okay if this is only clever to me.