Gosh Darn

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A year ago this Wednesday I was hit by a car crossing the street near my office. I was in the crosswalk, and I thought I had the light. I also thought it was clear, but apparently it wasn't, because the car sent me flying the air, changing my life forever. I landed on the windshield, totaling the car, before bouncing across several lanes of traffic and landing in the middle lane in at the midpoint of two intersections.

I thought I had tripped and stumbled, and I was annoyed that I was caught in the kind of stumble where you can't stop or catch yourself, and I thought (and then said), I'd like to stop falling now. I worried that I wouldn't, and the light would change, and I'd be in the middle of the road against a green light, turning my body into a traffic target.

When I stopped, I had a severely fractured left leg and left arm. My bones were confetti. My iPod was still playing Rat Patrol from Fort Bragg, and the glasses I had clipped to my shirt was not broken. I lost my back pack in the tumble, at least one of my shoes, and at least one of my socks. They were later brought to the hospital.

They bypassed the hospital down the street for one with a "better" trauma center. When we arrived, the nurses asked how old I was and I panicked. Did I really just turn 23, suffer the worst birthday ever, just so I could get hit by a car, in a crosswalk? I was a transportation writer! I thought 23 would best the best year ever.

You'll notice my "statement" says the following:

Pedestrian Katherine Hill state that she was waiting for the pedestrian cross walk to signal to allow her to cross the street at Corporate Blvd and Shady Grove Road when she became impatient. Hill stated that she crossed the street, southbound on Corporate Blvd, against the do not walk cross signal and was struck by Unit One traveling west bound on Shady Grove Road.

I don't remember speaking to a police officer or representative of the law. If I did, he didn't identify himself. I don't remember making those statements, and quite frankly, I think much of the "statement" is fabricated, because I did not knowingly cross the street against the walk signal.

I blurred out everybody's information, but mine, and I want you to note that only one name is blurred under the witness section at the bottom left. It's the passenger. If the driver made a statement, it wasn't recorded. The drivers at the intersection that remained at the scene, the several commuters at my bus stop, and those who showed up to gawk weren't interviewed either. The Rockville police will not tell me why the driver isn't listed, why the officer didn't identify himself, or speak to me, or interview the driver. There's another, similar, official document somewhere that says I was hit where I was found, in the middle of the road, yet states that I was hit in the crosswalk.

Much has changed in a year, in ways I hadn't anticipated, and in ways I certainly haven't welcomed. I was dumped by my on-again but mostly off-again boyfriend (his new girlfriend didn't have a broken leg), and abandoned by the bulk of my friends at the loneliest part of my life. I was accused of ruining my family's Christmas, and they implied that I ruined their Christmas too (I didn't). I've also been accused of lying and making it up. (But I have pictures!)

But some of my friends and all of my family went above and beyond. They visited me—in not one, but two hospitals (I was transferred to National Rehabilitation Hospital after a one week stay in Suburban Hospital)—bringing Slurpees, activity books, and outside food. At home my family rallied around me, near and afar.

I had physical therapy at home from my release after Thanksgiving until the end of December. I went to an outpatient physical therapy from the beginning of January through the end of July. I talked my doctor into letting me go to the gym on my own when I convinced him I had trekked through Warped Tour for a full day without dying. (I think he was kind of annoyed, actually.)

Though I had far exceeded expectations, I'm not in the same physical condition I was a year ago. That is, my fatty deposits have been redistributed. I have subtle stretch marks on my upper arm, and my muscles are atrophied. I can not run, anywhere, for anything. I can not skip. I was accused of living a slovenly lifestyle by a co-worker, but the allegation was wildly unfair. While it was not untrue that I have a passion for lazing about in front of an episode of Real Housewives, or in front of a SNES controller, I was also a great runner, jumper, dasher, kicker, and cyclist.

But I'll eventually do all of that again too, and fingers crossed, year 24 will shine as an awesome year in comparison.

Why I Love DC

DC has always been my "home city", even in Baltimore, but lately I have held it in less regard than years past. My fair city has a reputation as a quiet, buttoned up town of stiff, unfeeling people.

Of course, that isn't true, but I've reveled in the way this reputation has manifested itself in the audience at rock shows. DC-ers stand stoned-faced, arms folded, only occasionally providing a polite clap. They provide accolades post-show, but rarely during, hiding fervency under a facade. Even hardcore shows, in a city credited with inventing the genre, provide a similar atmosphere.

But last night's show was different! (For many reasons, actually, as a punk crowd is want to do, but this is where it started.) DC9 played Black Flag and Minor Threat as the house music for Gallows, a British band already known for covering Black Flag.

Suddenly men and women, young and old, began tapping their feet to the beat. They ceased mid-conversation to sing "Rise Above." We! Are tired! Of your! Abuse! Try! To stop us! It's! No use!

They looked around at other couples, perplexed by the natural, inexplicable urge to sing an anthem to disaffected youth and their home city. Laughing quietly, couples returned to conversation and beer swilling, but their feet continued to tap.

Where Are the Women on Late Night?

When I was in college my nightly routine ended with me under the covers watching The Daily Show. I don't have a TV in my bedroom now, and I go to bed well before 11 p.m., so I tend to watch the previous evening's episode of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on Hulu.Fallon's guests on Tuesday night were January Jones from Mad Men, Pittsburgh Steeler Troy Polamalu, animal expert Jeff Musiale, and Wale. Fallon wasn't particularly pleased with the animal segment, given the beasts' propensity for attacking humans, and I thought, "If I were hosting, I'd wear a helmet."

The problem with that—assuming I could just host a late night talk show—is that it's highly improbable that I'd ever get the chance as a woman. Because there aren't any women hosting late night shows on network television, and only three on cable: Chelsea Handler on Comedy Central, Mo'Nique on BET, and Wanda Sykes Fridays on Fox.

Three women total is absurd, and neither is on a major network, which is the primary interest of the media and American public. Moreover, Lately is allowed only thirty minutes, while the standard late night shows run for an hour at minimum. (And Alexa Chung was shortened from an hour in her first season to thirty minutes in her second season.) It's ridiculous that women are relegated to daytime television to gossip and bake brownies, leaving the men to make dirty jokes and have the real fun.

Just in case you're not familiar, here's a breakdown of hosts and their airtime. Please note that the exact hours may very based on your location (for example, Martha airs at a different time in Oregon, where my sister lives, versus her daily appearance in the DC area). You can be assured that no hosts vary in a way that would otherwise drastically affect the point I'm trying to make. I'm also qualifying these shows based on having a host and guests.

It's all dudes.

I don't think Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, or Maury count as talk shows, but let the record show that all three shows are hosted by men and air during the day. Let the record also show that I can't think of any other programs at this time and am welcome to shows I forgot in the comments.

As for the brief history of women in late night television, Joan Rivers famously filler in for Johnny Carson, before getting her own short-lived show. Joy Behar is an occasional fill-in for Larry King, and has her own news show. But historically speaking, late night shows find male comedians to take the seat when it's been abdicated: Carson's chair ultimately went to Leno, who passed the duties to Conan. Jimmy Fallon stepped in for Conan, and it seems unlikely that a woman will ever take Conan, Fallon, Stewart, or Letterman's position, never mind how successful Behar and Rachel Maddow are on their own news shows now. It's a shame, because I think some of us can agree that handing the index cards to the likes of Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Amy Sedaris, Sarah Silverman, Sheri Shepherd, or Ellen would be wildly successful. All women are celebrated as funny and dynamic, and would be great on late night television. For what it's worth, I'd alsolove to see Drew Barrymore, Kristen Wiig, Margaret Cho, or Meryl Streep.

I think it's time to do something about this, major networks. There's no dearth of brilliant, charming, intelligent, and funny women to draw from for a late night show. Hollywood is full of candidates more than capable of carrying a late night show. And because it doesn't look like Barbara Walters has noticed my open letters asking if I can replace Elisabeth Hasselbeck as the young single panelist, I nominate myself as your brilliant, charming, and funny host.

I even have some ideas ready! I'd like to propose the Guerilla Girls, Jane Campion, Edwarde Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, MIA, Yo La Tengo, Grover Monster, Tarah Gieger, Danny Way, Kyle Grieger, and Travis Pastrana as guests. I can provide a list of additional suggestions. I'd like to wear a helmet and/or protective mask for animal segments containing large mammals (wild cats, grizzly bears, alligators), and I'd like to integrate Wii bowling, POGs, and spontaneous dance parties (admittedly pioneered by my soon-to-be peers) as part of my regular "bits". I'd like to add I have a degree in journalism, and have held my own against brokeNCYDE, and I'd like to think that will help in interviewing the guests. I look forward to hearing from you networks.

I know my ideas are boring, so you're forced to find someone, right? I'll hold out hope for a woman on late night ASAP.


Note: After I wrote this post I was directed to this New York Times article regarding women writers. There are hardly any. This is also a matter of frustration for me, so I'll happily "work my way up" if necessary. Starting hiring more women! They're capable, and they're out there.

Final Chapter of the Coat Saga

Macy's
7 West Seventh Street
Cincinnati, OH 45202

Tommy Hilfiger
25 W 39th Street
New York, NY 10018

Dear Macy's and Mr. Hilfiger,

I want to follow up on my previous letter to you regarding the Tommy Hilfiger Golden Crown pea coat I returned last month.

First, I want to emphatically clarify that my letter dated October 20 was drafted and published immediately following my tragic discovery. I also want to vigorously declare that I returned the Golden Crown pea coat on October 21. A $192.91 return was posted to my bank account on October 22 at a personal loss of $18.95 for shipping. (It seems rather unfair that I'm at an almost $20 loss at the hands of your incompetence.)

On the night of October 20 I found a new coat. To be fair with both of you, Macy's and Mr. Hilfiger, I found the coat at the behest of my raging ego. My mother, a technologically savvy and empathetic woman, took to the Internet in search of a coat that would meet my requirements. As a young woman who has paid her rent, purchased groceries, and is now paying loans on her ability to research and fact check, I was not to be outdone by a woman who sometimes calls me at work for help with her iTunes account and insists the only color palette worth considering is plum. I have my pride, and while you may have both severely damaged my pride, I was resilient to find My Dream Coat with the last remaining shred of my dignity.

It was not long before I did. I found my coat on Eddie Bauer's Web site. If you think of your competitor as the go-to source for water-resistant camping supplies and mountain hiking apparel, you are not alone. In fact, I responded to the suggestion to look at Eddie Bauer with more than one squawk of disbelief. But we're wrong, because I found a heather grey, knee-length, pea coat online.

I have attached a screenshot from eddiebauer.com for reference:

The coat does not have a hood. It does not have a zipper, and it is not a bright, beautiful yellow. In fact, there is little about this coat that will assuage the winter blahs, save for its very large oversized pockets.

But the coat isn't from Macy's or Tommy Hilfiger, its price did not fluctuate over the twelve hours I debated the steep $267.12 cost for purchase and shipping. I imagine Eddie Bauer is happy to keep my $267.12 permanently.

The coat is currently hanging in the hall closet of my current residence. It fits, without problem. It is professional and stylish. I'll be wearing a hooded sweatshirt under the coat on days I require a hood, and I'll have a zipper added to the coat if necessary. I've purchased matching mittens, and commissioned for a yellow scarf. I'm very pleased with my coat. I only wish I had needed to ordered a more expensive coat.

Cheers!
Katherine M. Hill

This is awesome. That is all.

This Would Have Been Funnier If She Said, Yes, I DID Find You a Puppy!

This is an irrelevant story that seemed funny at the time, but includes so many explanatory provisions that it probably isn't. I'm going to type, pretend to copy edit, and post it anyway. (Suckers!)

First, I should explain that one day, last November, I left work around my average time, crossed the parking lot, got to the crosswalk, hit the button several times (as that is my habit), and crossed the street in the crosswalk. I no sooner stepped off the curb when I was hit by a car, a car that I didn't see, and a car that didn't see me. I thought I had the light, my body totaled the car and broke into several tiny pieces and I eventually learned to use my left leg and arm again after months of physical therapy and repeated viewings of Rock of Love (seasons one and two) and attempts to beat any number of SNES games.

Wow, this story isn't going to be funny at all. Sorry about that, everyone.

I was at my desk today when my mom called. I had just finish a project, and was rather giddy. I answer, and my mom says, "I'm walking back from the bank and I wanted to tell you—" when I interject, "That you got me a puppy?!"

I say this because it was most certainly not appreciated from a co-worker, who, for what it's worth, did not appreciate any of my outbursts today. It happens that offline, in the workplace, I am without outbursts, expletives, and general commentary.

My mother laughed, and told me that she was walking back to work—at the candy store—when she saw a girl, "about 25", trying to cross the street against the light. "Cars were coming in every direction," when my mom reached out and grabbed the woman by her elbow.

When my mom gets to this part of the story she sounds embarrassed but I was wildly excited. By the elbow! Like when I'm in a crowd and have gone too far ahead! Or when I've said something dreadfully embarrassing in a public place! Or I haven't done anything really, but maybe I could walk at the same pace at her? Maybe I could do that for my mother of a certain age? There, now that she has me by the elbow, that is much better.

The woman looked over her shoulder and down at my mother. For what it's worth, they were both shocked to see each other like this. My mother, by the way, is just five feet tall. I like to explain she could pass for Mrs. Clause, not because she is old, but because she is an extremely pleasant woman with great cheeks and dangerously charming dimples. (She also has a perm and glasses.) She will charm your pants off, until of course, you say something misogynistic, at which point she charmingly shames you into a life of hermitude.

The woman said something, and my mother said, "My 23-year-old daughter was hit by a car." And then she explains how I twittered my days away—literally and figuratively—watching Rock of Love at 3 a.m., re-watching the E! True Hollywod Story featuring the Kardashians, and memorizing the fights on The Hills and Real Housewives.

The woman is appropriately horrified, or I guess she was, because she says she thought she could make it, and my mother says something like, "This traffic is whizzing by," and then the girl says sorry and my mom goes back to work.

Wow, not funny at all. In the middle of this I'm thanking my mom, and explaining to her that my pal and yours, Martin Friday, posted promotional posters for a new superhero movie, which is based on a comic. I was totally ready to see it, because apparently the star—well you know, the breakout star, she's just a side character—is this twelve year old wielding a katana. (It's more like a samurai sword, but it's all the same to me.) And my mom says, Wow, a girl and a katana! earnestly. And I say, Mom, how great is it to be twelve and cast as a superhero with a samurai sword?! And then I said, But I Wikipedia'd the plot of the comic, and I'm disinterested now, because the guy gets hit by a car and then has rehab and I'm just not signing up for that, and she hmms knowingly, and I add, And I'm sure at this party coming up I'm going to have to explain that, and then we'll fight and it will be totally lame. And my mom said, You don't really want to go to that party anyway. And then I said, "It has Nicolas Cage, so it's not like I'm that thrilled anyway," and my mom said, "Ew, Nicolas Cage," and I said, "Totally! So, what happened after you got the lady's elbow? Is the old?"

Wow. Still not funny. I should have written it right then. Sorry about that, Internet.

Now at least when I say something about I Wanna Work for Diddy II I'll have a reference point (in addition to this).

(This whole thing reminded me I still haven't seen The Spirit. Shoot.) Anyway, I have posts to share that are better than this. It's been a busy week, but I promise to at least provide a follow up about the coat.

Gonna go hug my sisters now

Melissa Silverstein at Women and Hollywood interviewed Sandra Laing, the real life subject of Skin, the story of a woman born to white parents in apartheid Africa, with dark skin, and faces exile. The movie is now open in Los Angeles and New York.
The interview is, of course, pretty great. (I'm a huge fan of Silverstein's work.) But the very end is where I burst in to tears:

W&H: Anything else you would like to add?

SL: Ask people to pray for me so that my brothers will one day come and see me.

And it's not like I didn't know. But it certainly touched a nerve.