Holy Moly, you guys. Are you sitting? You should be sitting. What I am about to tell you is pretty much the biggest thing that has happened anywhere ever. You're going to freak out . I mean, I don't even know how to tell you. Are you dying? You. Have. No. Idea. oh my gosh. OMG. Holy shit. Ready? OK.
I live with my boyfriend.
Let that sink in. Take a deep breath and just process that statement. Just breathe until you feel like you are able to deal with this. Ok? You feeling better? Good. Let's examine the statement I just made, because I, like you, am incredulous. Now, we all know that I've made many a shocking and brash statement in my life, like I'm Going To Be in a Beauty Pageant, or I'm Moving to Tampa. There is a shock value to my existence which is indeniable. But I shocked myself with this one.
Kate. Did you just say... boyfriend?
Yes. Yes, I did. I have a boyfriend. And I live with him.
You live with him. In the same place. Where your stuff is, his stuff is. You live with your boyfriend. Um, Kate... since when do you have a boyfriend?
Well, yesterday was one week since I'd moved in, and today is two weeks after we got together, so about two weeks. Yeah, two weeks exactly.
Kate, honestly, that's the most crack-addled thing you've ever said. You're being really weird right now, like all happy and smiling. It's freaking me out, man- are... are you baking?
What's so hard to believe? I am in a relationship. WIth a man. He wants to spend every second with me. Oh, I see your point. But when it's right, it's right.
That's such a fucking cliche, Kate. I thought you were a better writer than that. You probably just didn't want to move to Tampa and are using this guy for a free place to stay.
And sex. Don't forget using him for sex.
Wait, so who the hell is he? Who is the poor man whom you are subjecting to your madness?
Aaah, yes. The best part. Who is he indeed? He turned out to be the man I've been telling you all does not exist. He is Prince Nonexistent. Apparently, he's real.
Oh, my god, Kate. You've actually cracked, haven't you? I knew it was coming... but so soon? All right, let's take you to go see the nice doctors...
I'm perfectly sane. For now.
Kate, you just said that you moved in with your boyfriend after two weeks and now you're telling us that your boyfriend is a fictional character you created. Is this like the time you told us your boyfriend was Buddha? And by the way, aren't you supposed to be in Tampa?
Guys, listen and listen good. I have just proved the existence of true love. True love exists, and it's magical, absolutely magical. We can literally communicate telepathic ally. The Universe itself has blessed our union.
Doctor, so glad you're here. She's right over there.
No, really guys! It's amazing, I'm so happy, I've never been so happy!
Kate, come over here. I bought you a new jacket. It goes on backwards... Ooooh.
He really is my soul mate.
Bitch you are crazy.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
My Apartment, My Self
The big day is almost upon us. September 1st is always a momentous day. It signifies great change- change of address, change of roommates, change of season. That cool September breeze is blowing yet again, and it’s time for me to leave... yet again.
With great change comes great preparation. Those of you who know me well, know that I generally get off on a to-do list, however, being paralyzed by overwhelming anxiety and general lack of excitement and motivation, I’ve come down to the wire this year. I’m taking time out from packing to write an article- I think that pretty much speaks for itself.
It’s usually around this time that I realize several things about my surroundings. First, I don’t finish anything. I get about 97% there, but there is always a floorboard here or a corner there that I never got around to. I’ve painted practically every surface there is to paint in this apartment- 97% of them anyway. But I like things unfinished- I like things coming undone. The new tenant might not appreciate my artistic viewpoint when it comes to half-painted doorframes. To you, it might look messy, but to me, it’s intentionally half-assed. You can’t fully understand the artist if you can’t see his brush-strokes.
Secondly, I throw nails in the wall like it’s my job, and therefore my drywall looks like it has really bad acne. And I love how in the moment I have no concern at all. “Oh,” I think to myself, “I’ll just Spackle it when I leave,” and just leave all the work and the cover-up to some future Kate who will take care of everything. Well Future Kate is here, and she’s pissed. Past Kate is ridiculous- running around making messes and expecting me to clean them up. She’s such a selfish bitch. And why is Spackle reflective?!? It doesn’t help to cover the hole but then draw attention to it with shiny Spackle.
Thirdly, more than once I’ve been taking things down and have had to put a hand to my forehead and say to myself, “Stocks, please tell me you did not put double-sided tape on this wall.” Naturally, I had. The double-sided tape was not as bad as the time I decided my bathroom should be wallpapered in newspaper, and being the impetuous little artist asshole that I am, I had to put it up right that moment and used the tools at hand. Months later while cleaning out that apartment, I realized that I had put them up with a glue stick.
Not to mention that my grand plan of “getting rid of everything” resulted in sending more than 30 boxes to Florida. I keep trying to say to myself, “Stocks, if the cops came for you right now, what would you put in your getaway bag?” (And yes, I do address myself internally as Stocks. I also mentally slap my wrist whenever I see something I want to buy, or a cute boy I want to talk to. For the same reason- it gets things done and keeps me in line.) But there are things that would be stupid and wasteful to throw away. I want to live a simple life, but if that means throwing out the three cloth-bound binders of alphabetized fonts organized by style that I spent two months making, then forget it. A life without organized font books is not a life for me.
Since I am a great believer in reflection (except when it comes to Spackle), let’s reflect on the lessons I’ve learned about apartments:
1. Don’t pay retail. Paying retail for furniture and furnishings is like putting cash into a shredder. Such a waste of money.
2. Use a drop cloth when you paint. Make a plan when you paint. Don’t just grab a paintbrush and go to town (no matter how wonderful it feels).
3. Don’t put glue or any other adhesive on the walls. Ever.
4. Don’t move into a big apartment- you’ll buy more things to fill the space and things will spiral from there.
5. Use those sticky hooks to hang things on the wall. Put the hammer away.
6. Try to save enough money for a mover so you don’t have to schlep boxes to the post office and drive cross-country twice.
7. When in doubt, a Magic Eraser can do anything. They really are magic.
8. It’s always nice to have a big strong handy man to help you out, but if none of them are available (or tolerable) figure out how to repair the floorboards yourself.
9. It takes five coats of white paint to cover a black chalkboard.
10. Whatever you do must eventually be undone.
I also realized that I am just like my apartment. Sure, I need a lot of work. Sure, I’ve got a lot of baggage. Sure, I’m just a big old mess right now. All I need to do is get all the clutter out, Spackle over my mistakes, bleach everything in sight, and work until I collapse to make myself habitable. And although there are certainly doubters, like my landlord, I know I can get it done. I have to.
But I am sad to leave. I have not yet had my breakdown, but it’s a comin’. In honor of my beautiful little nest here, I’ve written a haiku. (I wanted to write a poem, but seriously, I need to get on with my day…)
I will miss you so…
Parquet floors and stunning views
but rent can eat me.
In the spirit of moving on with my life, I’ve made myself a promise. Just as Scarlett O’Hara vowed to herself that she’d never go hungry again, I have made a very important promise to myself: No More Roommates. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, as God as my witness, I’ll never live with a roommate again. But then that’s another article entirely…
With great change comes great preparation. Those of you who know me well, know that I generally get off on a to-do list, however, being paralyzed by overwhelming anxiety and general lack of excitement and motivation, I’ve come down to the wire this year. I’m taking time out from packing to write an article- I think that pretty much speaks for itself.
It’s usually around this time that I realize several things about my surroundings. First, I don’t finish anything. I get about 97% there, but there is always a floorboard here or a corner there that I never got around to. I’ve painted practically every surface there is to paint in this apartment- 97% of them anyway. But I like things unfinished- I like things coming undone. The new tenant might not appreciate my artistic viewpoint when it comes to half-painted doorframes. To you, it might look messy, but to me, it’s intentionally half-assed. You can’t fully understand the artist if you can’t see his brush-strokes.
Secondly, I throw nails in the wall like it’s my job, and therefore my drywall looks like it has really bad acne. And I love how in the moment I have no concern at all. “Oh,” I think to myself, “I’ll just Spackle it when I leave,” and just leave all the work and the cover-up to some future Kate who will take care of everything. Well Future Kate is here, and she’s pissed. Past Kate is ridiculous- running around making messes and expecting me to clean them up. She’s such a selfish bitch. And why is Spackle reflective?!? It doesn’t help to cover the hole but then draw attention to it with shiny Spackle.
Thirdly, more than once I’ve been taking things down and have had to put a hand to my forehead and say to myself, “Stocks, please tell me you did not put double-sided tape on this wall.” Naturally, I had. The double-sided tape was not as bad as the time I decided my bathroom should be wallpapered in newspaper, and being the impetuous little artist asshole that I am, I had to put it up right that moment and used the tools at hand. Months later while cleaning out that apartment, I realized that I had put them up with a glue stick.
Not to mention that my grand plan of “getting rid of everything” resulted in sending more than 30 boxes to Florida. I keep trying to say to myself, “Stocks, if the cops came for you right now, what would you put in your getaway bag?” (And yes, I do address myself internally as Stocks. I also mentally slap my wrist whenever I see something I want to buy, or a cute boy I want to talk to. For the same reason- it gets things done and keeps me in line.) But there are things that would be stupid and wasteful to throw away. I want to live a simple life, but if that means throwing out the three cloth-bound binders of alphabetized fonts organized by style that I spent two months making, then forget it. A life without organized font books is not a life for me.
Since I am a great believer in reflection (except when it comes to Spackle), let’s reflect on the lessons I’ve learned about apartments:
1. Don’t pay retail. Paying retail for furniture and furnishings is like putting cash into a shredder. Such a waste of money.
2. Use a drop cloth when you paint. Make a plan when you paint. Don’t just grab a paintbrush and go to town (no matter how wonderful it feels).
3. Don’t put glue or any other adhesive on the walls. Ever.
4. Don’t move into a big apartment- you’ll buy more things to fill the space and things will spiral from there.
5. Use those sticky hooks to hang things on the wall. Put the hammer away.
6. Try to save enough money for a mover so you don’t have to schlep boxes to the post office and drive cross-country twice.
7. When in doubt, a Magic Eraser can do anything. They really are magic.
8. It’s always nice to have a big strong handy man to help you out, but if none of them are available (or tolerable) figure out how to repair the floorboards yourself.
9. It takes five coats of white paint to cover a black chalkboard.
10. Whatever you do must eventually be undone.
I also realized that I am just like my apartment. Sure, I need a lot of work. Sure, I’ve got a lot of baggage. Sure, I’m just a big old mess right now. All I need to do is get all the clutter out, Spackle over my mistakes, bleach everything in sight, and work until I collapse to make myself habitable. And although there are certainly doubters, like my landlord, I know I can get it done. I have to.
But I am sad to leave. I have not yet had my breakdown, but it’s a comin’. In honor of my beautiful little nest here, I’ve written a haiku. (I wanted to write a poem, but seriously, I need to get on with my day…)
I will miss you so…
Parquet floors and stunning views
but rent can eat me.
In the spirit of moving on with my life, I’ve made myself a promise. Just as Scarlett O’Hara vowed to herself that she’d never go hungry again, I have made a very important promise to myself: No More Roommates. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, as God as my witness, I’ll never live with a roommate again. But then that’s another article entirely…
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Gypsys, Tramps, and Me
We are in the middle of Move:2009. Please forgive the rawness of this article. My internet got shut off this morning and am flying without a net on the public computers at the library. Let the fun of moving begin.
I have moved quite a bit. So it isn't that I'm in any way unprepared or unable to deal with this move. I'm just rusty and out of resources. There was Move:2004, when I first came to Boston in an over-stuffed mini-van. Store:2005-2006 when I moved to U-Haul for a while which was a move with all the problems and none of the benefits. Then Move:2006 when I moved to Connecticut (which was the worst decision of my life). On the coat-tails of the Connecticut debacle came the big Move/Store/Break-up:2007 which lasted 5 months. Then Move:2007, Parts 3,4, and 5 where I finally landed in my current aparment, vowing to myself not to move again for two years, because I had been literally living out of a suitcase from September 1, 2005 to September 1, 2007.
So here we are. Move:2009. I decided to move a few months ago, because a gypsy like me has to uproot frequently to avoid insanity. In an ideal world, I would buy a camper van, put all my stuff in it, and rove the country like a free woman. However... I don't have a camper van. I have a twenty year old car that needs a great deal of engine overhaul. But she made the trip down to Tampa and back last week just fine. The old girl loves the highway. So does the car.
That's right. I said Tampa, aka Trampa. When I decided to move, naturally, I had no idea where the hell I would go. The world is my oyster, you know. But this pearl is broke. So my options at the moment are homelessness or moving home. It came down to the flip of a coin.
Since I cannot afford to hire movers and since my trunk only large enough to fit two bags of golf clubs, I have to sell everything I went broke for nesting in my big girl apartment. There are certain things that I refuse to part with and they are already safe and sound in Tampa. Again, the battle of burn the magazines or save the magazines rages on in my head. But I'm sure the magazines will triumph... yet again.
Dorthy clicked her fab red heels and found herself back in Kansas instantly. I have to drive cross-country alone three times over the course of a month, and my fab red heels are being boxed and sent in the mail. I guess Tampa's not as bad as Kansas. I mean, I've never been to Kansas. If I had that camper van, I could go and do a comparitive study. But I must stop thinking about that camper van. It's not like I can afford gas, anyways. But I could always predict people's futures.
Let's start by predicting my future: I will scramble til the last minute to get everything painted, cleaned, shipped, and sold. My car will break down on the way to Tampa- on an off-road, in the middle of the country, at night. I will piss myself when I remember that I forgot to pack my lead pipe. When I finally get to Tampa, I will be forced to resume working at the same jobs I held in high school- teaching swim lessons and filing orders at a carpet installation company. I will immediately regret my decision to move to Tampa and all previous decisions that led to said decision. I will enter a severe depression that leads to either an unwanted pregnancy, or an amazing novel.
Keep your fingers crossed I park my tush in front of the typewriter, and not on a bar stool. Or that I can teach enough swim lessons to buy that camper van.
I have moved quite a bit. So it isn't that I'm in any way unprepared or unable to deal with this move. I'm just rusty and out of resources. There was Move:2004, when I first came to Boston in an over-stuffed mini-van. Store:2005-2006 when I moved to U-Haul for a while which was a move with all the problems and none of the benefits. Then Move:2006 when I moved to Connecticut (which was the worst decision of my life). On the coat-tails of the Connecticut debacle came the big Move/Store/Break-up:2007 which lasted 5 months. Then Move:2007, Parts 3,4, and 5 where I finally landed in my current aparment, vowing to myself not to move again for two years, because I had been literally living out of a suitcase from September 1, 2005 to September 1, 2007.
So here we are. Move:2009. I decided to move a few months ago, because a gypsy like me has to uproot frequently to avoid insanity. In an ideal world, I would buy a camper van, put all my stuff in it, and rove the country like a free woman. However... I don't have a camper van. I have a twenty year old car that needs a great deal of engine overhaul. But she made the trip down to Tampa and back last week just fine. The old girl loves the highway. So does the car.
That's right. I said Tampa, aka Trampa. When I decided to move, naturally, I had no idea where the hell I would go. The world is my oyster, you know. But this pearl is broke. So my options at the moment are homelessness or moving home. It came down to the flip of a coin.
Since I cannot afford to hire movers and since my trunk only large enough to fit two bags of golf clubs, I have to sell everything I went broke for nesting in my big girl apartment. There are certain things that I refuse to part with and they are already safe and sound in Tampa. Again, the battle of burn the magazines or save the magazines rages on in my head. But I'm sure the magazines will triumph... yet again.
Dorthy clicked her fab red heels and found herself back in Kansas instantly. I have to drive cross-country alone three times over the course of a month, and my fab red heels are being boxed and sent in the mail. I guess Tampa's not as bad as Kansas. I mean, I've never been to Kansas. If I had that camper van, I could go and do a comparitive study. But I must stop thinking about that camper van. It's not like I can afford gas, anyways. But I could always predict people's futures.
Let's start by predicting my future: I will scramble til the last minute to get everything painted, cleaned, shipped, and sold. My car will break down on the way to Tampa- on an off-road, in the middle of the country, at night. I will piss myself when I remember that I forgot to pack my lead pipe. When I finally get to Tampa, I will be forced to resume working at the same jobs I held in high school- teaching swim lessons and filing orders at a carpet installation company. I will immediately regret my decision to move to Tampa and all previous decisions that led to said decision. I will enter a severe depression that leads to either an unwanted pregnancy, or an amazing novel.
Keep your fingers crossed I park my tush in front of the typewriter, and not on a bar stool. Or that I can teach enough swim lessons to buy that camper van.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Dear Publisher,
Dear Publisher,
I am tired of being a victim of your incompetence, and the incompetence of your employees. I wish someone had made it clear to me in the beginning that the copies of my "book" you told me were to be produced, would not, in fact, be produced, so as to save me the two months I wasted working on this book for no money.
At this point, can we even call it a book since it does not exist in book form? I had been referring to it as my Downs Syndrome baby. Then I realized that I was only a surrogate for your Downs Syndrome baby, and I am saddened to hear that after cultivating, gestating, and nurturing your mentally handicapped offspring that you put it to sleep on its belly and it suffocated. I am, however, happy for the baby.
When I originally spoke with your editor, he told me the book would be in University bookstores and orientation packets, and the reason I had to produce it in three weeks was because you were going to get the book into students' hands for the fall semester. Apparently I was smoking crack that night, because nothing you've done since then has supported that goal.
I had then counted on receiving income from University sales, especially since my contract says "hard copies." I created a book out of thin air in three weeks, while eating spaghetti and moldy bread because I'm dead broke and was not doing this for love. I was doing this because you promised to put money in my pocket. Money so that I could buy things like fresh bread.
I was told that we had a deadline to meet. A deadline that has now come and gone. Orientations are over. Kids are in school. Way to go. I am astounded by your professionalism. My next book will be entitled, "How to Succeed in Business by Suing Your Publisher for Breech of Contract."
At this point, it's very difficult for me to trust your "tried and true process," since I've been deliberately misled through every step of this process. I took two months off work to dedicate myself to the creation of this book for your company. I'm a little perturbed. It's my fault really. I assumed I'd be working with people who had an IQ higher than 85.
I suppose that deadline is a foreign word to you. It's no big deal, really, you only run a publishing house. The final draft was supposed to have been due July 10, but since no one was there to edit the first draft because "all" your "editors" (i.e. The high school student whom you taught to use Track Changes) were on vacation, that "deadline" got pushed back. I wish I had been informed of that so I didn't forgo sleep for three weeks to finish a book that then sat on your "desks" untouched for two weeks while you were at the beach. The extra month I spent re-editing when I should have been working was exceptionally enjoyable.
In addition, I don't even know where this book is being marketed or distributed. I have been in contact with S (who is lovingly referred to in my circles as "Fucktard") from your marketing department. While I applaud your endeavor to hire the mentally challenged, can someone else please be assigned to my account? It took a week for her to respond to a question I had about the subject and word count of the articles you requested from me and she responded that she had to ask her manager.
I can't imagine why it takes one of your employees a week with help to answer a question about word count. I've asked her about the marketing plan because I planned to supplement your marketing with marketing on my end, but again, she has yet to respond to me. I can't do what you're asking me to do if your employees are unable to communicate with me.
I have found the experience of working with your company to be extraordinarily frustrating. If given the choice again, I would rather have been gang-banged by a group of silver-back gorillas while someone videotaped it. I would have made a lot more money and had a much better time.
Thank you,
Kate Stocks.
p.s. I would tell you where to stick your book, but you can't shove an e-book up your ass.
I am tired of being a victim of your incompetence, and the incompetence of your employees. I wish someone had made it clear to me in the beginning that the copies of my "book" you told me were to be produced, would not, in fact, be produced, so as to save me the two months I wasted working on this book for no money.
At this point, can we even call it a book since it does not exist in book form? I had been referring to it as my Downs Syndrome baby. Then I realized that I was only a surrogate for your Downs Syndrome baby, and I am saddened to hear that after cultivating, gestating, and nurturing your mentally handicapped offspring that you put it to sleep on its belly and it suffocated. I am, however, happy for the baby.
When I originally spoke with your editor, he told me the book would be in University bookstores and orientation packets, and the reason I had to produce it in three weeks was because you were going to get the book into students' hands for the fall semester. Apparently I was smoking crack that night, because nothing you've done since then has supported that goal.
I had then counted on receiving income from University sales, especially since my contract says "hard copies." I created a book out of thin air in three weeks, while eating spaghetti and moldy bread because I'm dead broke and was not doing this for love. I was doing this because you promised to put money in my pocket. Money so that I could buy things like fresh bread.
I was told that we had a deadline to meet. A deadline that has now come and gone. Orientations are over. Kids are in school. Way to go. I am astounded by your professionalism. My next book will be entitled, "How to Succeed in Business by Suing Your Publisher for Breech of Contract."
At this point, it's very difficult for me to trust your "tried and true process," since I've been deliberately misled through every step of this process. I took two months off work to dedicate myself to the creation of this book for your company. I'm a little perturbed. It's my fault really. I assumed I'd be working with people who had an IQ higher than 85.
I suppose that deadline is a foreign word to you. It's no big deal, really, you only run a publishing house. The final draft was supposed to have been due July 10, but since no one was there to edit the first draft because "all" your "editors" (i.e. The high school student whom you taught to use Track Changes) were on vacation, that "deadline" got pushed back. I wish I had been informed of that so I didn't forgo sleep for three weeks to finish a book that then sat on your "desks" untouched for two weeks while you were at the beach. The extra month I spent re-editing when I should have been working was exceptionally enjoyable.
In addition, I don't even know where this book is being marketed or distributed. I have been in contact with S (who is lovingly referred to in my circles as "Fucktard") from your marketing department. While I applaud your endeavor to hire the mentally challenged, can someone else please be assigned to my account? It took a week for her to respond to a question I had about the subject and word count of the articles you requested from me and she responded that she had to ask her manager.
I can't imagine why it takes one of your employees a week with help to answer a question about word count. I've asked her about the marketing plan because I planned to supplement your marketing with marketing on my end, but again, she has yet to respond to me. I can't do what you're asking me to do if your employees are unable to communicate with me.
I have found the experience of working with your company to be extraordinarily frustrating. If given the choice again, I would rather have been gang-banged by a group of silver-back gorillas while someone videotaped it. I would have made a lot more money and had a much better time.
Thank you,
Kate Stocks.
p.s. I would tell you where to stick your book, but you can't shove an e-book up your ass.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Killer Tan
This weather is not doing a lot for my complexion. Usually by this time of year I’m poolside at least two hours a day. Summer is the time of year I get to wear my short shorts, but how am I supposed to do that if my legs are translucent?
I’ll have to look in to other options, since the sun is not cooperating. I could buy self tanner. There are a lot of products on the market that will darken your skin gradually without making you look orange. I could spray tan. Spray tans are instantaneous and pretty natural looking, although a week or two later you look like a leper when you start to peel. Not sexy.
One thing I will not resort to is tanning beds. I have never been in a tanning bed, and I will never go into a tanning bed. As far as I’m concerned tanning beds are little hotbox hell-coffins of death, and I’d rather walk around blinding people before I willingly get into one. Seriously, if medieval torture chambers had electricity, they would have used tanning beds.
And I’m not wrong. Legislation has started to pass outlawing tanning booth use for minors. Unlike lotions or spray tans, tanning booths have those nasty UV rays that give you cancer. So, in reality, they are hotbox hell-coffins of death. Beauty is pain, but beauty should not be fatal.
Most of the damage you can do to your skin that leads to melanoma is inflicted before you’re 18. So these girls that are running off to the tanning booths every other day are giving themselves cancer. Twenty states have legislation pending, and Arkansas and Mississippi of all places have restricted tanning booth use to minors under 14.
Melanoma is no joke. Of course we all want to look bronzed and sun-kissed like we just spent two weeks in Jamaica, but like everything else in life, it can be faked. You’re not going to be looking that cute after chemo when your hair falls out. But you will be tan in your coffin. Which you should be used to… we’ll just wire some sun lamps in there and you’ll feel right at home.
Please visit http://www.dermanetwork.org for more information. And if you haven’t been to the dermatologist by now, you need to go. I went to the dermatologist last week, and I had a great time, except apparently cute dermatologists are not allowed to date their patients. Now that should be outlawed.
I’ll have to look in to other options, since the sun is not cooperating. I could buy self tanner. There are a lot of products on the market that will darken your skin gradually without making you look orange. I could spray tan. Spray tans are instantaneous and pretty natural looking, although a week or two later you look like a leper when you start to peel. Not sexy.
One thing I will not resort to is tanning beds. I have never been in a tanning bed, and I will never go into a tanning bed. As far as I’m concerned tanning beds are little hotbox hell-coffins of death, and I’d rather walk around blinding people before I willingly get into one. Seriously, if medieval torture chambers had electricity, they would have used tanning beds.
And I’m not wrong. Legislation has started to pass outlawing tanning booth use for minors. Unlike lotions or spray tans, tanning booths have those nasty UV rays that give you cancer. So, in reality, they are hotbox hell-coffins of death. Beauty is pain, but beauty should not be fatal.
Most of the damage you can do to your skin that leads to melanoma is inflicted before you’re 18. So these girls that are running off to the tanning booths every other day are giving themselves cancer. Twenty states have legislation pending, and Arkansas and Mississippi of all places have restricted tanning booth use to minors under 14.
Melanoma is no joke. Of course we all want to look bronzed and sun-kissed like we just spent two weeks in Jamaica, but like everything else in life, it can be faked. You’re not going to be looking that cute after chemo when your hair falls out. But you will be tan in your coffin. Which you should be used to… we’ll just wire some sun lamps in there and you’ll feel right at home.
Please visit http://www.dermanetwork.org for more information. And if you haven’t been to the dermatologist by now, you need to go. I went to the dermatologist last week, and I had a great time, except apparently cute dermatologists are not allowed to date their patients. Now that should be outlawed.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tantrums Are Part of My Process
I love writing. I love the art of sitting down and thinking very deeply and carefully about how best you can express an idea, or a feeling, or an experience. The act of writing is very rational. It turns out after all that I am a rational being. It’s just that my hormones are totally out of control, so most of the time I can’t hear myself think. Fucking hormones. But now that my metabolism has deserted me (I knew there was something bad about turning 25), my hormones have slowed down a bit, and now I can think.
So perhaps you’ve heard that recently I’ve gotten hired to write a book. Seriously, if you haven’t heard, you must live under the rock under which I live. Once hired, I was given a deadline of 3 weeks to put together the first draft, and 2 additional weeks to edit it for print. So, that’s 3 + 2. Which = 5. That’s 5 weeks. 5 whole weeks to write a book. My first book. S’no big deal. It’s not like I’m an incredible perfectionist or anything.
But two of those weeks are for editing. So that’s really 3 weeks to write a book. What topic am I writing my book about? Making Friends. Laugh now. Not really my topic. How to Alienate People? How to Disengage Yourself From Society? The Budding Agoraphobic’s Guide to Working From Home? Much more my speed. So I’m doing the best I can with limited resources and a lot of imagination.
Inevitably, the enormous weight of the task I’d so eagerly and ignorantly taken on began to quickly wear on me which each passing of the second. And of course the stars have aligned to make this as difficult as they possibly can for me. The Universe, basically has sent me to my room to think about what I’ve done. Seriously. My roommate isn’t even here to distract me. This is the karmic punishment I get for being anti-social all my life. I have to write an essay on how to make friends. Did I mention I’m not even smoking right now? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write without cigarettes?!?!??
But I’ve been making good progress. If I haven’t learned to grit my teeth and get through it by now… (That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to, but I have a point.) Until last week. Things were good. I had survived PRIDE week, and had gotten the book started. (Mostly by singing “Let’s Start At the Very Beginning” every time I got overwhelmed.) I’d handed in the first three chapters. I had a week to go, but I could do it. Then one of my cats had to be put down. Then, after I’d been babysitting at an amusement park fearing my imminent and violent death all day (and hadn’t eaten anything but raw sugar), I got a letter from my NEW editor telling me I was doing great, but I had to completely re-write my perspective. Oh, did I mention I was on my period?
What followed was a two-day long tantrum. There was crying. There was sobbing, actually. There may have been thrown objects. There was vodka. If you learn nothing else from me, remember: Vodka Helps. Needless to say, it was not cute. And unfortunately for the few friends I do have, Day Two included a party, and these poor bitches had to listen to me whine all day. (I showed a lot of cleavage to make up for it.)
How the hell am I not only supposed to write this damn book, but do it without being able to talk about myself? I don’t know how to not talk about myself. It’s how I communicate. Not only did I stomp my foot and refuse to not acknowledge my presence for one moment, but I literally doubted I would be able to do it. During this time, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t think, I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit real bad. I almost quit. I passed out instead.
Then I woke up, and I was all better. Fuck this noise, is basically what I said to myself that morning. The hormone tidal wave had passed, and I could think clearly again. So I looked at my first three chapters are realized that not only was the editor’s suggestion easy to make, but it made the book a lot better.
I lost a week to my period. So that’s two weeks. Two weeks to pull this bullshit together. Actually, right now I have 3 days. Three days and 6 chapters. 6 chapters / 3 days = 2 chapters a day. Oh. That’s not bad, actually. I can do that. See what happens when I am able to think!
So perhaps you’ve heard that recently I’ve gotten hired to write a book. Seriously, if you haven’t heard, you must live under the rock under which I live. Once hired, I was given a deadline of 3 weeks to put together the first draft, and 2 additional weeks to edit it for print. So, that’s 3 + 2. Which = 5. That’s 5 weeks. 5 whole weeks to write a book. My first book. S’no big deal. It’s not like I’m an incredible perfectionist or anything.
But two of those weeks are for editing. So that’s really 3 weeks to write a book. What topic am I writing my book about? Making Friends. Laugh now. Not really my topic. How to Alienate People? How to Disengage Yourself From Society? The Budding Agoraphobic’s Guide to Working From Home? Much more my speed. So I’m doing the best I can with limited resources and a lot of imagination.
Inevitably, the enormous weight of the task I’d so eagerly and ignorantly taken on began to quickly wear on me which each passing of the second. And of course the stars have aligned to make this as difficult as they possibly can for me. The Universe, basically has sent me to my room to think about what I’ve done. Seriously. My roommate isn’t even here to distract me. This is the karmic punishment I get for being anti-social all my life. I have to write an essay on how to make friends. Did I mention I’m not even smoking right now? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write without cigarettes?!?!??
But I’ve been making good progress. If I haven’t learned to grit my teeth and get through it by now… (That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to, but I have a point.) Until last week. Things were good. I had survived PRIDE week, and had gotten the book started. (Mostly by singing “Let’s Start At the Very Beginning” every time I got overwhelmed.) I’d handed in the first three chapters. I had a week to go, but I could do it. Then one of my cats had to be put down. Then, after I’d been babysitting at an amusement park fearing my imminent and violent death all day (and hadn’t eaten anything but raw sugar), I got a letter from my NEW editor telling me I was doing great, but I had to completely re-write my perspective. Oh, did I mention I was on my period?
What followed was a two-day long tantrum. There was crying. There was sobbing, actually. There may have been thrown objects. There was vodka. If you learn nothing else from me, remember: Vodka Helps. Needless to say, it was not cute. And unfortunately for the few friends I do have, Day Two included a party, and these poor bitches had to listen to me whine all day. (I showed a lot of cleavage to make up for it.)
How the hell am I not only supposed to write this damn book, but do it without being able to talk about myself? I don’t know how to not talk about myself. It’s how I communicate. Not only did I stomp my foot and refuse to not acknowledge my presence for one moment, but I literally doubted I would be able to do it. During this time, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t think, I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit real bad. I almost quit. I passed out instead.
Then I woke up, and I was all better. Fuck this noise, is basically what I said to myself that morning. The hormone tidal wave had passed, and I could think clearly again. So I looked at my first three chapters are realized that not only was the editor’s suggestion easy to make, but it made the book a lot better.
I lost a week to my period. So that’s two weeks. Two weeks to pull this bullshit together. Actually, right now I have 3 days. Three days and 6 chapters. 6 chapters / 3 days = 2 chapters a day. Oh. That’s not bad, actually. I can do that. See what happens when I am able to think!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Good Men with Bad Taste in Women
While chatting with my friend Alex, I came up with this week’s article idea. He says not to forget the gays. As if. The reason I love gay men so much (can I write one article without mentioning this? Yeeesh…) is because they have fabulous taste in women. The gays only approve the coolest chicks. That’s because to them, we’re not necessary, so they don’t need to keep us around. They choose to keep company with us. And the best of all the gays, drag queens and trannies, emulate us directly. And by us, I mean fabulous women.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
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