Just Go to the Freakin’ Zoo.

I’ve been ranting about this issue to anyone that will listen for about a week now.  What surprised and irritated me was that it didn’t seem like anyone was as opinionated or concerned about it as me.  (Well, certain people know that a quick and easy way to get me fired up is to act indifferent…you know who you are…)  Anyway here we go:

Attention all delusional, lonely, attention-starved, needy, “unloved”, empty nest wackos.  Repeat after me:

NON-HUMAN PRIMATES ARE NOT PETS.

Call it what you want – monkeys, apes, chimps, lemurs, orangutans, gorillas, baby monkeys, “cute harmless animals that act just like toddlers.”  Here are a few things that the above-mentioned should not do:

1.  They should not live in your house. 

2.  They should not eat Ben and Jerry’s with you on the couch. 

3.  They should not be dressed in hoodies and jeans and pushed in a shopping cart at the grocery store. 

4.  They should not be at Sears posing for Christening photographs. 

5.  They should not sleep in bed with you. 

6.  They should not wear diapers.

7.  They should not take Zanax. 

And why not?  Because they are f*cking wild animals, that’s why.

A few months ago, there was a special on Dateline that showcased 3-4 different people who had been through a tramatic experience related to monkey children.  Whatever the sob story behind why each person chose to be mother or father or parents to a baby chimp, in every case, it ended HORRIBLY.  The gist of these scenarios went something like this:  Woman living alone raises her “son” the same way she would a human boy; feeding it at the table, putting clothes on it and changing its diaper, etc. etc.  Years down the road the thing remembers it’s an animal and scratches the living sh*t out of her face and arms and has to be killed by police.  Mangled woman sits in her living room convulsing and crying while the interviewer tries to form a dialogue with her for the story.  Come on lady, are you kidding me?  You’re making it impossible for me to feel bad for you – and I feel bad for everyone.

The situation that just happened in Stamford, CT made me wicked angry.  Believe me, I feel terrible for what happened to the woman who was brutally mauled by the chimp, whose name was Travis, by the way.  I do feel sorry for the owner only because she’s seriously pathetic and was interviewed saying how “he was all I had left” as her mother stands there in the background.  What makes this story even more ridiculous is that the woman was attacked not because she was provoking him or poking him with a stick…but because she cut her hair short and he didn’t recognize her.  That’s absolutely ridiculous and scary.

I don’t care that he was in an Old Navy commercial.  Just because a chimp is trained to jump around a set for a 20 second TV spot doesn’t mean he should be taking his own showers and logging onto a computer.  It’s dangerous. I’m no wildlife expert, but to me it seems like common sense.  At the end of the day, no matter how many pictures are taken of your baby monkey kissing and hugging you, the monkey is a wild animal, and he or she is going to turn on you.  Not only that, but since these animals are part of the same order as humans, to me it makes sense that the animal has such a keen ability to adapt and function as a human child because it’s being raised as such.  The exposure to daily human activity and learning paired with the fact that the species has similar physiological and psychological characteristics to that of a human could explain why it may seem like a perfect scenario for the nutbags who insist on raising them as children.

So please, for anyone out there who actually thinks this is a feasible idea, before you buy a one-way ticket to crazy town, let me buy you a ticket to your local zoo.

Nope, I don’t have heels on.

I have to address this one.  Although I feel it’s a bit of a cop-out this week, there are a few people who will appreciate this topic, so here it goes.

I’m 5’10.  There’s even a slight chance I may be 5’11.  It took me 22.5 years to accept my height.  Growing up, I tried my hardest to avoid anyone noticing that I was taller than everyone.  Rec Soccer in the first grade meant lining up by height to kick the ball.  I’d crouch down or hunch when the photographer lined everyone up for class pictures.  I’ll never ever forget the one time I escaped the back row.  I was in the 5th grade, and we were having pictures taken before a skating show.  Amidst all the chaos of hairspray and costume malfunctions, I was able to squeeze, unnoticed, onto the end of the bench in the first row.  I felt like I had won the lottery.  There I was, all dressed up in my sock hop outfit, boot covers and all, beaming smile through my braces.  It was a brilliant moment.

As the years progressed and I approached middle school, I was certainly in for it.  Now not only was I tall, but I hit the all too well-known awkward stage.  I convinced my mother to cut bangs, my braces were off and thought my teeth were too big, and I’d only leave the house wearing a t-shirt, Umbros and blue Gazelles. (for those that aren’t familiar, Gazelles were the ugly stepsister of the old-school Puma/Samba sneaker)  I looked like a telephone pole with feet. 

School dances.  Picture if you will the telephone pole with sparkly Lip Smacker and a dress on, dancing with the SHORTEST boys in my class.  I insisted on having heart-wrenching, tear-producing, over-exaggerated crushes on these shorties.  I wish I could say that it was because ALL the boys were short, but that wasn’t even the case!  What I would give to go back in time and snap a candid photo of myself swaying away to “Nobody” by Keith Sweat with a boy at least a foot shorter than me…priceless.

Fast forward to age 22.  Hi, welcome to the bar scene.  We hope you enjoy yourself.  Which I did, and I still do, despite the fact that the height thing comes to the bar with me whenever I go out.  It’s like all of a sudden I’m 13 again except I have a Bud Light in my left hand and a debit card in my right.  Most of the time I make it to at least a half hour before the first incident.  They typically happen in one of 3 ways:

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Idiot #1.  At the bar ordering drinks.  Leaning over 5 people who are sitting/standing/holding up the bar and unwilling to move, contorting your body to an unbalanced forward stance and pathetically grasping your cash or card in the air trying to be as polite as possible as you get bartender’s attention.  Because you’re not right up at the bar but still somewhat separated from your posse, you must seem approachable to idiot #1.  Out of the corner of your left eye you see the donkey is shorter than you. (shocking!)  Don’tmakeeyecontactdon’tmakeeyecontact.  That works for a few seconds. 

“Hey, you’re tall.  Did you play Basketball?” 

Nope.  haha.  (haha = shut the hell up before I palm your face)

“Yeah right.  You definitely played basketball.  I bet you were SICK.”

No, I didn’t.  I actually suck at basketball.  I played other sports though.

“For realss though.  I’m sure they have leagues you could play in around the city.”

You have a yourself good night now.

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Idiot #2.  You decide that since you love wearing heels, F it, you’re wearing heels tonight.  Up, up, 6ft.  The air is nice up here.  Right around Bud Light #5ish, you hit the dancefloor with your friendies.  Woot.  You’re having a great time, but your little Kevin Rudolph – Lil Wayne jam session is interrupted.   Idiot #2 walks by:

“Well ain’t you a tall drink of water.”

::insert fake, no teeth smile::

“And heels on too!  Whoa.  Good for you.”

::you consider joining the circus until you remember that guy is an IDIOT and he’s a foot shorter than you to boot::

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Idiot #3.  This is more of an action than a comment.  You get the idiot who does a slow little side bend and head tilt combo that looks like he’s auditioning for America’s Best Dance Crew, peering down at your feet.  Put the kabosh on this one, right away:

Nope, I don’t have heels on. 

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Though I may seem pretty bitter, I promise you that this is all laughable sh*t at this point.  I’ve finally embraced my height.  I’m okay with being a floating head in the back of pictures, and it’s actually really sweet to be able to see everything that’s going on in a crowded area or bar.  I also get to lead the way most of the time because I can easily scope out empty spots to post up at, keep a look out for shady characters and warn people of possible red bull vodka spillage.  It all works out in the end.

I’ll still never forget how amazing it felt to sit in front row of that skating picture.

editor’s note:  I’ve finally realized that getting angry when this happens to you doesn’t change the fact that it’s GOING to happen, especially when you encounter an outspoken male who happens to be shorter than you.  I used to get really angry and even reply “Yeah.  Well you’re short.”  Doesn’t help.  Laugh it off.

Walking 101

Much to my dismay, in the past 2 years of city life, I have become a certified pedestrian.  I walk everywhere.  EVERYwhere.  Work, friends’ houses, bars (don’t tell my parents) etc. etc.  I’ve even walked to and from Johnnie’s in Charlestown hauling groceries.  I hate it.  Walking sucks and it’s boring.  The only thing that saves me is my Ipod.  (Imagine the fury that comes with a dead battery…) Regardless, I walk.   

That being said, my experience has led me to want to share with you my suggested Rules of Walking.  (Most) People try to be a good citizen.  I think that involves being a good pedestrian. 

1.  Meandering

Okay, so let me be Marc Summers for a minute.  What Would You Do if one evening you were walking down the sidewalk of a busy, bustling neighborhood with your significant other…no particular destination, just sort of “taking it all in.”  He or she is walking next to you and reaches for your hand.  You start walking slowly down the street, deciding which restaurant you want to eat at, thinking about how much you love ____ and can’t believe that this Tuesday marks the ___ anniversary of the day you first _____.  (Get your heads out of the gutter)  Now, the street is BUSY.  There’s even a good amount of construction going on which causes you to encounter occasional scaffolding.  Do you a.) continue down your personal Lovers’ Lane while people try to shuffle, weave and dodge around you?  or do you b.) abandon your interlocked fingers and slide either in front of or behind your loved one to allow for traffic to flow freely?  You know where I’m going with this, so let’s move on. 

2.  Burn About Reading.

I’m going to get kind of serious on this one.  Here’s something you absolutely should never do.  I’ve seen it done more than once, if you can believe it.  In the middle of after-work, steady, I-gotta-make-my-train-or-Billy’s-going-to-miss-hockey-practice pedestrian traffic, is the person READING A BOOK while walking.  Are you kidding?  So you’re walking along, head completely down, unable to maintain any sort of straight-line footsteps because you can’t wait to read until you get to the train station, or home, or stop at Starbucks?  No excuse.  Plus, chances are you’re probably going to crash into the hockey dad, his briefcase then goes flying and the poor guy misses his train.  Trust me, I know it’s almost impossible to effectively read anything located below shoulder level for more than a few seconds.  I’ve tried…I looked like I was drunk.  It really cannot be done.  Try it.

3.  Red Rover, Red Rover 

I think many people can relate to this one.  You’re walking along, usually alone, when suddenly you look up and see it…like a scene from Braveheart…4-5 people, all friends, all talking/laughing/carrying on, in a perfectly straight line across.  A fortress.  Doesn’t look like they’ll be making any sort of moves or clearing a path, so you’re forced to do a Mission Impossible slide to the end of the line, make yourself as skinny as possible, and hope you dont hit them, the scaffolding, or a snow bank.  Hey, I guess it helps improve your agility.

 

editor’s note:  one time I was trying to text someone while walking and I almost got sideswiped by a bicyclist.  Not just someone pedaling around the city, but an actual speeding bicyclist.  That would have left a mark…

Shaking a Nickname

When I graduated college in 2006 (tear…) it didn’t really cross my mind that I was leaving with more than just a marketing degree and a high tolerance for alcohol. Around my sophomore year, my 10-letter Armenian last name yielded several variations of nicknames used by my friends and teammates to identify me. Much to my dismay, the spitball that stuck was Shark. Shark. I love my friends, but guys, really?

1. First of all, begin to read this sentence out loud and tell me this doesn’t scream feminine: “So this girl Shark I played lacrosse with…” Okay. So there’s that part. If you don’t know me, immediately you picture Goldberg the Goalie with a wig on…right?

2. The superglue effect. I went to a small school. Everyone knows everyone….etc. etc. And nicknames that are adopted and spread by more than a handful of people stick. I can confidently say that by the time I graduated, 4 people that I regularly hung out with called me by my first name. I may sound a bit overreactive…but at 24 when your best friend’s uncle wants to know “how’s Shark doin?” that’s where I start to consider drawing the line…

3. Lastly…collegiate sports are over for me. I can no longer pretend that the nickname had something to do with my ferocity on the field. Instead, I’m now 24 and at times find myself in a meet and greet situation that might involve a semi good-looking guy and goes something like “this is my friend Shark…well, Kate.” or, this is Kate, we call her Shark.” And that leads me to stutter out some sort of pieced together explanation…all the while the guy is thinking “okayyy I need to abort mission and see about another Sam Adams…” You get the idea.

So my question is, with 25 and what I hope is a growing career on the horizon…how do you go about shaking that nickname? I guess the answer is, you don’t. You just thank God you have friends that stick as close by you as that damn name.

Editor’s note: ironically enough, sharks are my biggest fear and I can’t and won’t watch Jaws. In fact it was really hard for me to have to Google Image “Shark” for the post photo.

Seasonal Depression…

Trust me, I’m not a hypochondriac. I grew up in a household where for the most part, if you weren’t bleeding, you got up, put your cleat back on, and walked it off. I can speak for both my brother and myself when I say that we wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The only “medicine” I take is Advil, which probably doesn’t even affect me any more since I pop those like clockwork on Sunday mornings. Summer of 2006 I refused to see a doctor after symptoms of strep throat for so many days that I landed myself in the hospital. Point is, I try not to complain TOO much about stuffy noses and injuries. But I will say, without reservation, that I suffer from Seasonal Depression.

Every year, first week in January, my entire demeanor changes. Things start bothering me that shouldn’t. Instant bad moods triggered by the fact that there aren’t any more Spicy Egg Nog K-Cups left at work, or because someone put a read receipt on an email that was not only so unimportant, but had nothing to do with me or my department. Last week, I moved a colleague to the bottom of my to-do list because he marked an email to me as High Importance when it really WASN’T. (Sidenote: this action actually happens year-round. I think anyone that marks their emails High Importance simply because they are panic-stricken, stressed, or want an immediate answer for peace of mind should be moved to the bottom of the queue. Just sayin.)

I also lose my will to go out. Which is so unlike me being that if I spend too much time by myself or ‘waste’ a weekend sitting on my couch I want to pull my hair out. In the past month I’ve re-watched online at least one episode of Friday Night Lights a night before going to bed. This has led me to become obsessed with the show to the point where I’m considering moving to Dillon, TX. (reasons include tracking down Coach Taylor and asking him to marry me.) I’ve also found 5 new and fantastic songs from the show by using my sh*tty LG flip-phone for the one thing it’s good for: V-Cast SongID.
Then there’s the January-March battle with the gym. This is a personal favorite of mine. I have to preface this by explaining my commute to you. I work about 2 miles away from my apartment. Since the bus/T schedule and route is so ridiculous and inconsistent, it makes more sense in my mind to walk. That’s 4 miles a day. 4 miles, headphones blaring, inner monologue playing out all the reasons why I should go/don’t need to go to the gym. What usually happens is I rest on the 4 miles of walking and the starvation mode that I commit myself to for 5 days during the work-week and go home to my sweatpants. I’m really trying though…last night I ran two miles bundled in underarmour. Not fun. How that’s better than walking up to Boston Sports Club is beyond me…maybe because I’d rather the cold run than fighting peak hours and settling for a stairmaster, I don’t know. Regardless of my exercise choices, once 5pm on Friday hits, I dive into a plate of nachos and the weekend is a wash. Back to square one on Monday.
I honestly believe that these gripes are directly related to lack of sun. Isn’t it true that Vitamin D is essential nutrient? The new guy who sits across from me overheard me talking about buying one of those sun lamps and he’s been making fun of me for 2 weeks. Which makes zero sense since he’s from Arizona and should understand where I’m coming from. But whatever. Not only that, but it’s way too cold to even open the door and walk outside. Once that air hits your face the last thing you want to do (especially if you’re a city dweller like me who leaves their car at work and walks everywhere) is meet someone for dinner, or stop at the store, or go out and hail a cab. And if it’s snowing, forget it. Unless I’m on a ski-slope or it’s Christmas morning, I’m all set with the snow.
I guess I just really need a dose of Peggoty Beach or Cape Cod, beer koozie in one hand, hot dog no relish in the other. I promise I won’t complain about carrying the cooler…it sure beats winter’s wet Uggs and unexpected slip-and falls.

Editor’s note: I want to make it clear that I do sympathize with those who actually suffer from depression. Ask anyone, the Cymbalta commercial “Where does depression hurt?” really makes feel bad.