Family time!

Here’s a fun game. Let’s guess my ethnicity! Here are some clues:

1. I have freckles.
2. I was raised Catholic
3. I don’t get hangovers
4. I have about 47 first cousins

Five of those cousins will be married by the year’s end. (Not to each other. Although maybe to each other. I live far away.)

We have a half day at work today (whee!) which is great, since I have a cousin’s wedding to go to this weekend (yay!) in Dubuque (wtf?) and I’ve yet to buy a gift. Nothing says “you were in my top three favorite cousins growing up” like waiting until the day before leaving to make a housewares purchase.

My problem stems from her not having a registry. I can see where a bride would want to maybe worry about not coming off looking greedy or something, but please future brides, always do a registry. Also, I'd buy something when I get there, but I literally have no idea if there's a mall in Dubuque. I don't mean that is a snotty way either. I just simply don't know.

I’m going to assume (I know, it makes an ass) that someone else will cover your coffeemaker/toaster needs this weekend, Michelle and Michelle’s fiancé whose name is slipping my mind. (We’re a close family, I swear, though you’d never know it by how often we see each other. At my sister’s wedding, someone who hadn’t seen my brother in years asked if he was the groom. I still vomit about that sometimes.)

I’d love to find Michelle something with a horse on it, to remind her that her drawing of horses was so good it made me give up doing any artwork for about a year, which I think is like the third grade equivalent of cutting your ear off. (Seriously though, she made the back legs bendy and everything! So talented.) What are weddings for if not to dig up childhood grudges?

Maybe I could get her a throw pillow with a horse on it and place it in their hotel bed Godfather style. I think that would get me out of the next few family weddings at least. (I kid because I love, any Healys who might get drunkenly told about my blog in the next 48 hours.)

Like Christmas in May

Every once in a while something comes along that truly brightens your life in a way you never expected. A great book, a free cookie, THE US WEEKLY PARIS HILTON COUNTDOWN TO JAIL CLOCK.



I never liked US Weekly much, but this could change everything. Y’all, they mean business, it counts the time down to the second. You only have 11 days left, so visit early and visit often. Gifts like this don't last long.

Meet my new husband.

Thanks Match!

JEALOUS?!?!?!?!?!

Our eyes met across a crowded room. He walked over to me, smiling and
leaned in and whispered:

wuauu you looks like a very funn woman,hard to find in this days believe me.I think you are a kind of person than I were looking for a
long time!!!!.
what`s your name? I`m (name). nice to meet you!!!!

Then he felt comfortable enough with me to share his deepest thoughts
on life and love:

Bored with the same thing over and over? So am I..No games. Just someone who's sincere.Not trying to impress.That's who I am! Who Are
you?

He's knows what he wants in life, a real go-getter, a renaissance man:

I am a bee specialist. But I earn my pay as a car tech. I am alsostudying to become a realtor. I want to learn how to buy houses right
away.

He's a man of complex tastes, and seems oddly prone to randomly
shouting (passionate? Methinks so!):

Has to be funny or have a good sense of hummor. Decisive. My perfect match , HAS TO BE A VERY ROMANTIC PERSON. I love rollercoasters and quiet times. I am flexible and able to blend into anything. I like
people but yet I'm shy. I don't talk a whole lot but, I'm an awesome
listener.

He's literate, but also busy. His reading list:

Newsday, and a menu. I have no time to read. I run and ride bike.

Postcards From Kate: Road to '08. Meet the voters.

Hi there, all you shiny presidential candidates! (And Kucinich)

So you’re a son of a goat hearder, a shrill lady senator, a wee little leprecaun, a Mormon who didn’t make the Olympics a disaster, a former occupant of a Vietnamese jail or a cousin-marrying ex-mayor.

And you’ve looked in the mirror and thought, “I have what it takes to be president.” First off, know that—despite what your second-grade teacher may have told you—you’re probably wrong. Second, it’s slowly dawning on you that you can’t cherry pick who you want to be president of. It won’t just be the people shelling out $1,000 for some chicken and a chance to meet you. It’ll be the everyday people. The ones who rush home to watch “Deal or No Deal” and the ones buying those terrifying KFC “all our menu items in a bowl topped with three kinds of cheese.”

What’s on their minds (besides the theme song to “Three-and-a-Half Men”?) What issues matter to them? Could there be a better way to find out than by reading the local letters to the editor? I think not.

Let’s do this.

We’re going to start with this scathing look at a sheriff named Peanuts. This is a great example in how to not campaign, all under a prepositionally challenged header:

Our sheriff isn't fitting of his office

• (Losing sheriff candidate) would have been the honest sheriff, had it not been for bad voting machines and national Democrat voting. (First name) “Peanuts” (actual nickname) (last name) is as sorry as he can be. Peanuts said I was going to tear down his campaign signs. I told Peanuts I wouldn't touch his signs or tear them down. His signs were nasty looking, the yellow part of his signs showing Peanuts was and is a coward. Peanuts rehired a deputy after he was caught driving under the influence. Peanuts has some bad deputies.

Ok, ok, no nasty-ass yellow signs (I’m looking in your direction, McCain.) Got it. See, learning is fun!

But now, on to more pressing matters. When debate time comes, the questions will fly fast and furiously about immigration, jobs, abortion. Now imagine you’re at your little podium, listening to Hillary be all PMSy and start crying (girls can’t be president!) or admiring the gleam off John Edwards’ hair and then it’s your turn. Potato headed Chris Matthews, potato shaped Tim Russert or potato colored Brian Williams is saying this:

• What a sad excuse for a Christmas parade (town) has. What happened to the real parades (town) use to have, with lots of music and lots of marching bands and all the beautiful decorated floats; something to actually listen to and watch! We have several problems that I see with our parade here in (town).
The parade has become so tedious and boring. The floats are half-mile apart that it drags on and on. The categories are a joke. A Christmas theme should be a Christmas theme. How in the world does a reindeer represent a Blue (state) Christmas or (state) Christmas, either one? We should have a theme and win by that, not categories.

I am also annoyed by the patriotic displays. Can we leave all of that for Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Veterans Day, Flag Day. Even the people that are the announcers every year seem to only point out their friends and the rest of the displays are talked about in a shallow way. (Next town over) makes (town) look like a first-grade parade.

Subtext: This is my suicide note, because I have nothing to live for. Oh, and I hate America.

Sometimes the issues can get rather personal, such as when you have your inevitable affair, or when the bathroom of a local museum doesn’t meet some old lady’s standards:

• I’ve never written before, but I am so angry about the letter from (crabby old lady) of (town) about the (local) Museum and the ladies bathroom. I have been going there for many years and have yet to find anything but clean restrooms. They have large groups of school children visit, and it must have been after one of those visits.

What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO???

Things can get rather heated out there, such as when one voter challenges another, You Got Served style.:

• So, (other letter writer) if you think you know everything there is to know about our training before checking out all the details, get the license to drive that bus! Furthermore, we have two of the best school systems in the state.

• Why is the (Town-County) Bar Association trying to persuade children they live in a democracy?

• I may not be as concerned as many citizens about the cost of city services, but for goodness sake, can't we have blooming flowers instead of noxious thistles to welcome people into our city?

So yes, our nation is in terrible shape, what with unclean restrooms, slow parades and questionable bus drivers. And it’s up to you to clean it up. What’s your next move?

Next time, on a very special Postcards From Kate: Road to ’08, we’ll take on the very special topic of gang violence at the mall. Very special.

An open letter to VH1

Hey VH1!

What’s cracking wit da kids these days?

Remember how you use to like only show Behind the Music? What was up with that? But now you’re with the program (pun!) and have embraced my generation’s snark-and-C-list-celebrity-loving ways. Also, the graphics on Best Week Ever are really colorful, which keeps me enraptured like a parakeet with a mirror.

I fear you may soon paint yourself into a corner though with all the CelebReality going on. You’re making CelebJambalaya by not dangling just one has-been at a time. (The correct order should be: Gary Colman, either of the Coreys, Rob Van Winkle, any Hogan, Carney Wilson, Vern Troyer, any member of NKOTB.) Pace yourselves! Eventually every last ounce of CelebFat will have been sweat off, every CelebMarriage will have been broken up and every CelebSizemore/Bonaduce self-destructed.

That concern aside, I have the next great reality show for you. They’re tried and tested, they’re sexy, they could use the cash and they have a huge built-in fan base judging from the number of people who find my blog by searching for them. It’s seriously like half of my Googled traffic.

That’s right, I’m talking about the Dog Brothers from Sex in the ’90s.

Let’s fire up the ol’ Sin Bin! You’d start, of course, with just a straight reunion show. What’s the old gang up to? Are they still living in their parents’ attic? Are they still doing the “That one’s all me…that one’s all you. She’s beggin’. Beggin.” routine with their hand signals? Are they still sort of orange? America needs answers.

Even though it was an MTV show, you’re all one happy Viacom family, and if we’re keeping it real, most of the My Super Sweet 16 fans weren’t exactly around for the ’90s.

After we’re all reacquainted, think of the endless angles to go with this:

Average Dog Brother: Women must decide which overly tanned meathead is a D.B. and which is a fake. Guess right and she gets a million dollars and a date, guess wrong and she gets spared from STDs more numerous than the stars in the heavens.

Beauty and the Dog Brothers: Nerds compete with the D.B. for dates with simpleton women.

Newlyweds: Dog Brothers: The D.B. move to Massachusetts, where they settle down as man and man. (They aren’t really brothers, are they? Oh gross, they are. Nevertheless. Forging on.) Neither of them knows what Chicken of the Sea is because they live on protein powder and their Nona’s Greek food.

The Simple Dog Brother: The Sin Bin hits the road to disrupt small-town America.

Apprentice: Dog Brother: Trump takes on the D.B. Challenges include a bump ’n’ grind off, shirt-ironing competition, testing the constraints of spandex boxer-briefs and hair-gel application (for both speed and thoroughness). The winner oversees building a nightclub in Hohokus. Bonus points for whichever D.B. restrains from hitting on Melania longer.

America’s Next Top Dog Brother: Each week they work in a variety of locales and poses. Their fortitude is tested by overcoming their fear of heights, water and snakes. Miss J has a lot to work to do. One is contractually obligated to become bulimic.

Dog Brother Runway: Using only mesh, denim and leather, they must create new clubbing outfits each week.

Extreme Home Dog Brother: You only need to know one sentence. “Bus driver, move that Sin Bin!”

I'm am Queens Boulevard (With bonus Theory of Life!)

I’ve just passed the two-year mark in New York, and every time I think I’ve gotten immune to being surprised, I’ll suddenly realize I just paid $9 for movie snacks or that I can say I walked past a giraffe on my way to work (thanks Today show producers!) and I feel like New York and I are back to square one.

And then there are the inexplicable nights you find yourself in Queens at 2 a.m. helping actors run lines for an indie short film. Yeah.

Queens and I have a relationship second only to Staten Island in “boroughs I keep my distance from.” Still though, congrats Queens for coming in fourth! (For the record: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens, Staten Island. In case you need to prioritize where to search when I inevitably go missing.)

Some guys in my screenwriting group were shooting their 30-page script in the back room of a diner under some heavily graffitied train tracks. Oh the glamour. I’m so there.

When instructed I moved props from one table to another, only to be told they should go to a third, then a fourth table. I bought a fish at a 99-cent store. I spelled things with clay. I was an extra reading Variety. (Bonus: Did you know the guy who did “Teeny Little Super Guy” from Sesame Street died? I’m sad, and working through my grief by singing the theme song. Everybody! “Teeny little super guy pops right up before your eyes. He’s no bigger than your thumb. “Watch out (something I can’t remember because I last heard the song in 1987). Here I come!”)

Yes, in short I was vital.

I also spent a fair bit o’ time helping run lines with two actors who were doing a hilarious scene about, uh…racial relations? Let’s just say that renting black people out sounds completely different coming from the mouth of a black guy v. a white girl. Happily I was not shot and didn’t even lose my edgy morning radio show with Wally & Slim Jim (plus Kip Springer with weather and traffic updates on the half hour!) (When did this blog turn into Family Guy?)

Where was I? Oh yeah, me not getting shot. Success all around. Plus, the two authors of the script are English, which makes them sound like they know what they’re doing. Even if one of them was leaving to go back to London about five hours after shooting wrapped and hadn’t finished packing.

Also, consider this my second installment of Theories on Life: I’m not going to like you if you're an American who says “cheers” when it’s not followed by clinking glasses and chugging. I’ve seen this in action enough times to know when an American uses cheers for “Thanks” or “Take care” nine times out of ten they are self-loathing posers who are unpleasant to be around.

Sure, we’d all like to run around saying chuff and snog and spelling realize all crazy-like with an “s”, but we shouldn’t.

I spent a whopping three months in London about five years ago, and while I was charmed by saying “gormless” for a stupid person, etc., I left it at the duty-free shop.

“Cheers” doesn’t make you sound charmingly, exotically jet-setting, it makes you sound like you’re imagining yourself as a mysterious guy with a black turtleneck and B.O. or you’ve read one too many Harry Potters.

Brooke Shields is definitely not a half midget

Is it possible to be a half midget?

I went out with this guy Tuesday night who was about 5’6”-5’7”, and he would have just been considered what I like to call “short” except that somehow his head was proportional to a guy in the 5’11” range. The whole effect was less hydrosephalic and more like he’d just been poorly Photoshopped together. Also his arms were somehow abbreviated. Which didn’t slow him down trying to hug me. Whatevs. Glad your disability isn’t slowing you down.

So I thought surely I’d win the informal weirdest night contest with my roommate.

Not so much. I walk in and she’s blasting music. She comes out of the bathroom and says, “I was just at a Tupperware party for charity and Brooke Shields kept giving me Champagne and I am druuuuuuunk.”

Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. You win this time.

Screw the little people

Oh my God, I’m going to be insufferable.

I can feel it happening, but I can’t stop it. I was going to write about how I think I might have landed Dream Magazine Job today. While I was trying to remember if I'd read The Secret and thought my job into existence (with the power of my mind! And positive thought! Yeah!), I logged on to check my email and lo and behold my friend had emailed me asking if it was ok to give my screenplay (see New Year’s resolution for February) to his agent friend looking for new writers.

So I think I might accidentally get an agent, which—let’s face facts—is really the only way it’ll ever happen for me.

I’ve forgotten your name already. I need a latte.

Stay tuned tomorrow for when my little house of cards all comes crashing down.

Kateie Awards: Conga mode edition

You’re with us for a momentus, uh, moment. It’s the first installment of the Kateie Awards. It’s not the Katies, because I leave that name to the peppier girls, but since it’s the law that all awards have to end in –y or –ie, this what you’re getting. Here are my winners for the following categories, which all fall under the larger category of Things That Happened Yesterday.

Most adorably worrysome grandmotherly discovery: The woman on the phone next to me who said to her friend: “Well I was going to send him a telegram, but apparently they don’t exist anymore….they said since like last year…I sent him an email written like a telegram.”

Most interesting second half of a sentence: From a man in the cafeteria saying to a friend “…sometimes it’s just hard to switch from conga mode to work mode, ya know?”

Most regrettable moment: Realizing I don’t have a personal “conga mode.”

(Pause for montage to items I’ve lost recently.) Cue Boyz II Men “How Do I Say Goodbye to Yesterday?”: My aqua pen, the pad of Post-Its someone walked away with, my dime that rolled under a vending machine.

And we’re back!

Rudest punctuation: ?!?!?! (Narrowly beating out the simpler ?????? or !!!!!!!!) Nothing says “you’re a jackass” like an impressive row of ?!?!?!?. Also, be sure to send this email marked “High priority.”

Most awkward way to change the channel when your remote stops working: My umbrella.

Best sign your room is too small: See above.


Send me your nominees and we’ll do it again some time. Everyone drive home safely.

Monday Morning Dance Party: "Make your own scrapbook" edition

Back by popular demand, it's the triumphant return of MMDP! And who better to kick it off than our fearless leader, seen in action here fighting the scourge of malaria with his bare hands and a drum. Those evil-doing mosquitoes don’t stand a chance. That’s the power of a dance party.

Where the hell is my ticker-tape parade?

Last night was kind of a big deal for me: I finished the last of a medium size container of fat-free sour cream. Huzzahs all around. Not all in one sitting, though I suppose that would have made me even more impressed with myself. No, the celebration here is that I powered through a single kind of food before it got moldy.

That’s the bad thing about grocery shopping for one: You have to commit to eating enough of one kind of food before it goes bad. Am I in the mood for a dozen eggs? Can I commit to a container of milk? The economical size yogurt tub? A bag of apples might work out to be cheaper per apple than picking up just a few. But it’s not wise. Or healthy.

Sour cream and I didn’t get off on the best foot, what with it having that “sour” misnomer. (It’s like the Greenland of food!) I gazed at it warily on many a taco night at Casa de Little Kate. But I’ve become a convert in recent years. Eating dry baked potatoes is no way to live your life.

I’ve yet to beat the mold spore clock with a loaf of bread. I’m ok until about two-thirds into the loaf, and I hit the wall. I don’t want toast, French toast, a sandwich of any form or egg in a hole. And I refuse to buy the short-bus loaves that they pawn off to shopper-for-ones. Hell no. I’ll go feed bread to ducks before that happens.

Bonus “I love New York” debauchery

I really can’t believe I forgot to mention this part yesterday. One of the finalists for New York’s heart was sent to get cleaned up at a salon. They waxed his eyebrows, or as he called them, his unibreezy.

There’s nothing you can’t thug out! Excess facial hair gets the Snoop treatment now, a mere 3 years after the D-o-double-gizzle stopped with his patented suffix treatment.

I don’t care though, it’s still the best sentence I’ve ever heard. Seriously, if I were on Pee Wee’s Playhouse, this would be my word of the day. As it is, I’m considering changing my IM name and email password. I’m definitely working it into my life as much as possible.

Flavor of perfection

My favorite word in the English language—next to “alacrity” (obviously!)—is “begat.” It’s more of a honking noise than a word, made doubly fun by the fact that the only time I heard it was as a kid in that Holy Week reading about Ezekiel begatting Shlomo et al. Apparently in biblical days there was begatting going on all over town, because it’s “begat” like 38 times, followed by the silliest names you’ve ever heard. Followed by Cadbury Eggs. Easter is truly magical.

Oh but there’s a new sheriff in town, a new messiah if you will: Flavor Flav.

The Surreal Life begatted Strange Love, which begatted two seasons of Flavor of Love, which begatted I Love New York, which I think we all agree is the best, most debaucherous half hour on TV today.

Fact: Jesus associated with untouchables and prostitutes.
Fact: Flav hangs with New York.

Fact: Jesus had many enemies.
Fact: Flav had Public Enemy.

Fact: Jesus carried a heavy cross.
Fact: Flav carries a heavy clock.

Fact: Jesus preached that the greatest gift of all is love.
Fact: Flav gave us the greatest gift of all: Flavor of Love.

Fact: Vying for Jesus’ attention caused Mary Magdalene and someone else. (Martha? I forgot my Bible today, oddly enough) to argue.
Fact: Vying for Flav’s attention caused otherwise reputable young women to hock loogies, thrown stilettos and pull out each other’s weaves.

I could go on, but I think you get the picture. And while Jesus might have had Jehosiphat and Jebiddiah, the Bible is far from a lock on winning the having-people-with-funny-names battle. In fact, Jesus was sorely—and mysteriously—lacking in the “hanging out with people named Deelishis and Hoopz” department.

I watched the I Love New York reunion show last night at the gym, and it is awesome. Imagine a woman, or “woman” as the case may be (I remain unconvinced, VH1. Why? See right. That's why.) who was raised in some sort of highway toll booth, sustained on only sass, push-up bras and toxic levels of eyeshadow. At the age of 24 (yes, she claims to be 24) she was let out of her booth long enough to attempt to mate with several young men who have facial hair that says “I’m not now—nor in the foreseeable future will I be—gainfully employed.” Also there’s a random accountant from Boston who wandered in. He literally got knocked out in on earlier show, which got him kicked off. New York needs a fighter in case she runs out of shoes to hurl in the club. Bitch is hardcore

The woman who unleashed New York on the world goes by the name Sister Patterson, presumably to avoid being associated with her daughter. Clearly, though, she’d schooled her youngster in the ways of Disco Ball Eyelids. (Trademarked)

There was a dispute from a gentleman caller about how genuine her faith was, questioning if it was just for the cameras. (A legit question, given her daughter’s general demeanor and STD to IQ ratio. Then they cut to a clip of Sister Patterson praising Jesus like she was at a revival. Case closed. “I will praise him wherever and whenever I want to!” she bellowed, missing the Jesus forest for the trees.

Next up were two meatheads who rode the crest of their fame to start some knockoff Chippendales company. They are suspiciously like the Dog Brothers from that MTV show “Sex in the ’90s.” (Please, MTV and Viacom, if you never do anything else for me, find out what the Dog Brothers and their sin bin are up to now. It’ll make up for “Date my Mom.”) I don’t need to tell you their dancing involved a Greek flag.

Then! They played a clip where the Greek guy said he’d feed his Mom and Ya-ya before New York in some sort of imagined buffet scenario. Unacceptable to Sister Patterson. Then they played a clip of Mom and 80-year-old Ya-ya smoking and saying how they’d kick New York’s ass because their son/grandson was much classier than her.

Then two of the guys, Chance and I forget, so I’m calling him Herpes Simplex discovered they were both from Florida. This is an unacceptable fact in this parallel universe so they were going to get in a fight about it. Here’s my re-creation of the events as they unfolded:

Chance: He know he ain’t be from there. He don’t rep Florida.
Herpes Simplex: I’m what’s really hood. Know how we solve this in Florida?
(Chance begins to take off his glittery sweatshirt, and Herpes Simplex knows this is the international sign for a fight.)
Herpes Simplex: You don’t want none! Go on, hit me.
Chance, however, comes to his senses and puts his clothes back on.

He realizes he’s won the fight of a lifetime: The love of a “woman” called New York.

Pick me, choose me, love me

Feeling too shy to leave a comment?

Email me! postcardsfromkate@gmail.com



Think of me as that little boy with cancer who needed 10,000 get-well cards to be cured.

I'm the white devil, or: Why I can never go back to the 51st street stop

When I was but a little Kate, I remember an old white man getting out of his car and screaming at my brother, sister and me for playing with our black friends across the street. It’s something a 26 year old can’t absorb, let alone a five year old.

Our town in North Carolina was almost evenly divided between black and white kids. (I assume this was before Hispanics and Asians were invented). After some initial confusion early on, I discovered I wouldn’t turn black if I colored my hands. When I lived in Iowa, I was confused why my class’ entire black population was named Marcus Hester.

Race relations continued rather swimmingly through high school, where I happily studied with, befriended and played soccer with whoever was around. Vakessha and I were going to get rich off our “expanded skin tones” line of Band-Aids.

I’ve learned about the many uses for a peanut and the miracle of the cotton gin, appreciate rap and wholeheartedly apologize for slavery.

In short, I’m the white devil.

It’s been a big week for race relations, what with Don “nappy headed ho” Imus, and the racially charged Duke lacrosse case coming to a close with the charges being dropped. For me personally, the highlight was having “fucking white bitch” screamed in my face for about 20 minutes on the subway platform.

I blame myself. I’d been home for a few days, where people are friendly. The biggest challenge I’d faced was fending off the onslaught of food from my mom. (She would be in her optimum state of happiness shoveling potatoes into our open mouths the entire time.)

So after work yesterday, when I couldn’t find my MetroCard and a pleasant voice calls out “I got you miss” and swiped me through (as people do for each other from time to time) I said thanks and gave him a wave.

“That’ll be $2.”
“I don’t have $2, that’s why I was going to the machine with my debit card.”

I went back through the turnstile up to the booth, and he followed me, yelling about what a spiteful white thief I was, how I stole $2 from him just like I stole this country. It will shock you to know the MTA guy who sold me my ticket watched this man scream at me and just brushed him off with, “You can’t sell swipes here.”

Again I go through the turnstile, assuming my new friend will want to stay at his post and let the matter die down.

He followed me, yelling in my face, less than a foot away. Flipping me off. Shaking his fists. Yelling racial slurs worse than any I could imagine. After my initial protests that I never owned slaves, you’re breaking the law and you didn’t lose money because you have an unlimited MetroCard I did something unusual and just shut up. He kept yelling, like an underground drill sergeant, and I stood there and took it, trying to figure out how to avoid the third rail when he inevitably pushed me onto the tracks.

People around me were looking concerned, no doubt trying to figure out why—and more importantly how—I’d personally enslaved and stolen from this man.

Then the train came, and he got on with me, still shouting in my face. I was impressed to no end how the young business guys around me handled the matter. There wasn’t a big confrontational, “Stay away from the lady or I’ll punch you” show of machismo. One guy took my elbow when the subway doors opened and put himself between me and the guy, then two other guys stood between us too, so there was a barrier around me that Angry Guy could continue to shout through.

I don’t know what made him decide to get off a few stops later, but thank God he did, because I had no plan of action. Start to finish it was about 20 minutes of unhinged screaming in my face. And I didn’t cry until he got off. Then I went to the gym and called the police.


P.S. This is the second time in as many months that I've been called a "Fucking white bitch." The other time was a guy collecting for that bogus homeless charity with the water bottles. Apparently he was new, because the guy training him had to point out "No, no, we don't say that to people." I think this officially upgrades being racially harassed to "On a fairly regular basis."

Stupid liberal media

At some point CNN.com gave up on reporting human news and became CADUT.com Cute Animals Doing Unlikely Things site. When I become an elderly shut-in, this will be the source for all my pet updates. You heard me Animalplanet.com

I’ll click on a few times a day to be greeted with this delightful vision of sound news judgment:



Be with you in a minute, tsunami-ravaged villagers!

But since dogs can’t be saving their choking owners all day every day, CNN sometimes does people news too. Especially if it's literally within their building.

I'm assuming that's why we're going into day two of Breaking News! about a run-of-the-mill shooting in the CNN complex. Sometimes you gotta bring the news to the journalists. They also like free food. Just sayin.

But! I'm nothing if not one to see the positive in this tragedy. Rarely does a silver lining contain the word “Pimpin”:



Aaaawwww yeeeeah.

I think the killer actually came out looking better than this writer/witness. Note to self: Never ask a journalist for a quote. It will come out sounding like this:



After years of seeking quotes from others, Brad, you knew just how to phrase the emotion and drama of the situation without actually sounding like how a real human being would speak.

Well played.

Happy quarter year!

It’s the end of March, which I thought would be the perfect time to update everyone on my new year’s resolutions. Those who were with me to ring in the new year heard my bold proclamation: I wouldn’t be setting just one resolution. Ho no. Any joker off the street can swear they’ll start taking their Centrum Silver every day. I was going for the decathlon of resoluteness. (Editor’s note: Kate, decathlon is 10. It says so right in the name. Read a book or something.) Dodecagon of resoluteness! (Editor’s note: Closer)

At one point I had them all written out, but then I realized that if I accomplished something every month, I could just say that was my resolution.

Nevertheless, here’s my original list, with updates:

JANUARY

Goal: To get a manicure.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I’d never had a manicure before, not even for prom. What can I say? I’m pure of heart and steady of hand enough to paint my own nails. Also, I’m not a lady of leisure, and the whole thing struck me as sort of imperial, sitting there while some (let’s face it) Korean woman tended to me.

Off to the salon! Hibernating Bear and I went after work one day where I paid $10 for a half hour of hand massaging, filing, undercoating, polishing, top-coating and shoulder massage while under the hand dryer. Also, she buttoned my coat for me when we left.

The nice Korean manicurist also told us she’d failed her driver’s test three times. Look kids, it’s a stereotype come to life! Take my picture with her.

Verdict: I am impatient because I kept trying to hop up because I thought I was done. Also I am clumsy because I managed to get wet nail polish in my friend’s hair.

FEBRUARY

Goal: To finish my I’m-a-giant-New-York-cliché screenplay.

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: Originally started in 2002, and lost when it was 70% complete, the screenplay made a triumphant return, bigger and badder than ever. It was erased during a tragic memory-update attempt by an ex boyfriend, but I knew it was in good hands when the monitor went black and he told me, “Pack it in your suitcase and bring it home when you come for Christmas. Me and (friend) will get some beers, crack it open with a screwdriver and have it fixed in an hour.” (Sidenote: It was not a laptop, it was a 900 lb. Mac)

So I immediately knew it was gone forever, and got so mad every time I thought about it that I didn’t do anything with it for a few years. I started it up again around Thanksgiving, and typed the final “fade out” around the middle of February.

Verdict: Depending on who’s reading it, I should either be writing my Oscar speech now or not quitting my day job.

MARCH

Goal: Moving

Accomplished: Yes!

Story: I realized that while I technically clung onto Manhattan by my fingertips (What are those bight lights outside my window? That’s the Bronx.) it was time to live in the city where my commute home didn’t involve Harlem. Also, after two years it was wearing thin to keep saying “North of there” when people asked if my neighborhood was near xyz. I also heard “The streets go up that high?!?!” a lot.

Verdict: Successful transition all around. Except for the 86th Street subway stop in the morning. Someone please tell me what is up with that post-apocalyptic clusterfuck. It’s six people deep on the platform, throwing elbows to strong-arm their way on to an already-packed train. There is an honest-to-Thor a police presence.


And looking ahead:

APRIL
Goal: Get a haircut.
Reason: It’s been a while.

MAY
Goal: Finish “Salt.” (The history of salt.)
Reason: I’ve started it thrice, and I’m really enjoying it, but I keep re-reading passages because I feel like I need to be cramming for a test. It’s chockablock full of facts, and I just need to accept I can’t take them all in.

JUNE
Goal: Skateboard.
Reason: Never have, always wanted to. Want to be able to sing “Sk8er Boi” with some authority. (Boy, spellcheck does not like that song.)

JULY
Goal: Get tan.
Reason: I’m currently so pale you can see my internal organs. I’d like to blend in with the other summertime people and not make kids cry.


AUGUST
Goal: Make something out of clay.
Reason: Clay is delightful, and I haven’t been artistic in a while. One can never have too many ashtrays.


SEPTEMBER
Goal: Have a birthday.
Reason: Outlook is good on this one.

OCTOBER
Goal: Play a dead body on “Law & Order”
Reason: The reruns are shown in perpetuity! Someday my grandkids will duck home from work to grab a tuna sandwich for lunch, and boom, there’s grandma, scaring an innocent jogger/arguing couple.

NOVEMBER
Goal: Learn some Italian.
Reason: I’m curious in nature, and I think learning Italian will help when I eventually go to Italy. Also at the Olive Garden.


DECEMBER
Goal: Have insurance
Reason: I’m clumsy (see January) and I love medical tests.

Hometown heroes, back for more: pro-smoking, anti-gay edition

As I read (hometown)'s newspaper online, I remember why I used to cry on the inside a lot. And the outside a few times a week. The letters to the editor come from parents of my former classmates, customers I’d have to wait on at the places I worked, your friends and neighbors.

Here’s one now! Remember, a real-live person sat down and composed this (possibly on a computer, possibly written in transmission fluid or possum blood) in regards to a survey on banning smoking in restaurants:

…I also asked (local person involved in smoking survey) if I could see who participated in the survey and she told me to go to (Web site) and click on the directory. Of the 1,200 partners, there are 28 restaurants; there were no bars or taverns. For (city) to make an accurate survey, it should include all bars and restaurants, not just a handful. These are the businesses that will suffer from a smoking ban.

Logical! Stop while you’re ahead! Whatever you do, don’t turn it into an anti-gay rant!

The (City) Tobacco Prevention Coalition seems to hold Lexington up as its role-model city. I read in yesterday's paper that Lexington is now ranked 10 as one the nation's most gay-friendly cities. Whoo hoo! Maybe (city) can become the 11th.

If gay recognition comes with these smoke bans, I think that most of the non-smokers would rather live with the cigarette smoke. This ain't gay bashing; it's just that the people of (state) have voted that marriage is between a man and a woman. Let's leave the smoking in the preachers' hands. God knows the Baptists give it to us on a regular basis.

Again, I’d like to emphasize that this was not generated by a big-shot Hollywood writer mocking Homestate. Thank you for your time.

Uh-oh Fred.

You’ve got competition. Your lack of dedication to the multiple parentheses tells me you’re just not ready for a real relationship, even if I supply full-body non-webcam pictures. You know who is ready for a relationship? Omid, that’s who. His lack of spelling skillz/coherency is more than made up for in his enthused punctuation.

*Hi,...IF U R 4 ((((REAL))))????...I am SINGLE man with strong family values, very haerd working, I love kids & sports,...soccer my (1), looking & very interested for a (real woman) to be in a serios relationship.. I do not like playing the games in todays dating.(((sick of games)))))... seeking nice, fun,((real woman )))...with strong family values .who can undrestand respect and believe honesty above all things, I would love to meet real woman with ((NO GAMES))??? to be my best friend & lover..to shaer the rest of my life with...?...pleaes if u feel the same...I am waiting for u ...with love,,,,,


P.S. Why is “1” there? And “real woman” is in parentheses? Has he been burned by she-males before? This note is even better if you read the parentheticals in a robotic voice, like they were dubbed in later.

An open letter to March

Aw, c’mon now baby, why you gotta do us like that? Remember all those good times we had together in the park on Tuesday and Wednesday? OK, we didn’t actually go to the park. We told you, we had to work late. Next week, baby, next week. Well excuuuuuuse us, but if you would do more than just….nevermind we’ll talk about it later.

It’s not like we didn’t compliment your warmth, and the way the sun brought out the color in your flowers. We didn’t fall in love with you for your hotshot 80-degree days. If we wanted that, we’d be with June. We love you for all the little things you do for us. You take away February, and promise us springtime.

You don’t have to be flashy to impress us, just be consistent so we know where we stand. We have new spring clothes to wear for you, but we’re not going to bother trying to look cute for you with our sundresses and tank tops if you keep pulling away.

And we know, we’ve talked about our drinking problem before, but it’s just we’ve had these plans for a year to drink green beer all day tomorrow. We’ve got friends coming into town, and when you get frigid, it hurts us.

Just when we think we’re making progress in our relationship, you go and get all cold on us. We’ve gone through so many ups and downs already, we can only take so much more of this. We give our relationship 15 more days.

Love,

New York