Because who doesn't love the Irish?

I'm and huge fan of Barack Hussein Obama. He's so MLK and Kennedyesque! Gonna unite us all! Red and blue states together in purple harmony! He's so committed, even his lips are purple!

Worried the name is too scary for flyover country? Change his name to Barack Hussein O'Bama. Punctuation saves the day!

Yes, I'll probably take this post down when Brit Brit dies

Journey back with me to the year 1999, when we were all partying like the year that it actually was. Did I just blow your mind? It was a simpler time when Dallas beat Buffalo for the Stanley Cup (what?) Rev. Jerry Falwell outed a purple Teletubby named Tinky Winky (the?) and Concerto for Flute, Strings and Percussion by Melinda Wagner won the music Pulitzer (fuck?).

It was also when a young redneck named Patrick in my newspaper class took a shine to fresh-faced popstar Britney Spears. You have to stretch your imagination and remember she used to be ohmigah the hottest girl ever



instead of a bloated mentally unbalanced cat woman.



Patrick would go around shouting to whoever would listen that, “Britney Spears will be my wife. Oh yes, she will be my wife.” Which would have sounded creepy if not for it being so far-fetched. Let the scrawny, pimply boy dream his dreams in peace!

I was thinking about Patrick the other day. Someone should really let him know that now would be the time to make his move.

Tom Cruise and his caps should convert

Random thought for the day: What's up with Mormons and their big white families teeth? Something in the salt water? It's like God's love for his people is being beamed directly through their mouths.

They should seriously make a little money for their church selling Mormon brand teeth whitening strips, like Kabbalah water.

Hop on my Rascal, let’s go for a spin

My new boyfriend and me.

I think I’m breaking up with you, Match. I'll just make Clancy Wiggum my new boyfriend.

It was all fun and games and online shopping for boys in the beginning, but a few recent setbacks have shown me the light.(I winked at a guy I’d already gone on a date with, and hated, and totally forgotten about. It took a lot for me to admit that.) Apparently I’m a huge wink slut. It’s also come to my attention that I’m actually out of single guys in the nation’s biggest city.

But the nail in the coffin has to be this tale of woe and bewilderment (and anger! Lots of anger!)

A year ago this guy and I had been emailing back and forth and had agreed to meet up for coffee. He seemed totally normal. But then he got concerned that my fat ass was going to not be worth 15 minutes of his life. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Him: You only have face pics, no body. That's not fair. What does your body look like?

Ah romance.

Me: (My hackles raised with ten kinds of indignation): I’m 800 pounds and ride around on a Rascal. Didn’t you see me on Maury last week?

Him: This obviously isn’t going to work. You’re the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met in my life.


So after a few days of retelling the story - my outrage and arm gestures getting more out of control with each telling - I went on to date someone else. After the breakup when I started up with Match again guess who was waiting for me, I assume not remembering our little exchange?

He winked at me four times in the span of a few weeks so I finally wrote:

Funny story {recount story here}. So how’s this for direct: Never contact at me again.

So then he like totes passed a note to Sarah in study hall and Mrs. Hamilton intercepted it and made him read it in front of the whole cla…zzzzzzzzzzz. What?

He sent me Match’s form rejection letter, which says something condescending like, “I’m sure you’re great for someone, just not me. We don’t match based on (fill in the blanks) physical attraction. Good luck in your search!”

Aw hells naw, son.

I blocked him, but he’s back with a new screenname! And he winked at me again today.

Me: I’m still 800 pounds, but you clearly want me. Let's do this.

i would say millions things to you that we can be a good match,the question is;how long is it gonna to find out am i the one for you or are you that

Realization of the day: There's no polite way to ask someone if English is their first language. There's just not.

I do wish it were an Alf skateboard though

As we all learned last March (I'm timely!) I tried a thing last year where I set a resolution for each month.

I achieved them all except playing a dead body on Law & Order (I'm still coming for you, Dick Wolf!) and getting insurance, which seems to just be eternally out of my grasp.

And what's the number one thing a girl without insurance should do? That would be skateboard, of course! Journey back with me as I explained my goal for June:

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.)

Why did I set this goal? Who knows! I'm not really clear if I thought I had a friend with a skateboard or if I was going to take lessons from someone or what. Plus, there's nowhere in Manhattan to learn without some 11-year-old pro laughing at you while he does a 360 over your head. Whatevs. All I knew is that I'd wanted to do it ever since I asked for a hot-pink Alf skateboard when I was 8. (Sensing a theme of weird gift requests?)

Because I didn't do it in June, I'm only giving myself partial credit. It was a photo finish. On New Year's Eve afternoon I was talking to my sister about next year's goals and I mentioned skateboarding was the only one from this year that I was bummed about. She - with her supernatural sense of logic - pointed out that we had a few hours to kill, a flat surface for a driveway and a Wal-Mart within a mile of us. Dunzo.

The total endeavor cost $12. Sure, it would have been more if I'd gotten a helmet, but the way I see it, I didn't plan to use it anyway. (Wal-Mart cashier: "You need a helmet, girl?" Me: "Nope, I got this, thanks. I don't plan to fall.") Boom, $20 saved.

Sure, I was a bit rickety at first, but I soon found my center of gravity and was gliding elegantly and tentatively grinding ferociously down the driveway.

Even though I didn't fall once, my parents were alarmed:



It also led to a great quote from my sister. She and I were fighting about how old that wee little skater Rob Dyrdek on Rob & Big.

Me: There's no way he's older than 25!
Annie: Nope, he's like 33.

(Hair-pulling, name-calling interlude.)
Me: (*Clacking away on Wikipedia*)

Me: Annie, I owe you an apology. He's 33. But he's so short though!
Annie: Well, Kate, short people age too.

A wise lesson for all of us going into the new year. Short people age indeed. Short people age indeed.

It's a major award!

Just wanted to let you know I got an honor from this dude, confirming my suspicions that I am - as I suspected - awesome. Here's what Jacob had to say about yours truly:

Funniest Blogger I don't Know Personally: I have no idea who Kate is. I do know that she doesn't post enough though. However, despite the slow pace of content addition, her posts are comedy gold. She's got a great way of making the mundane sound hilarious. Kudos. Just read her dining room floor glitter post or this to see for yourself. She also gets the award for Best Use of Labels.

Go me.

Suck it, old ladies.

My mom told me the other day how glad she was I don’t censor my blog even though I know my parents read it. To that I say: Let me tell you about the gingerbread house contest I entered, muthafuckas!

I’m going to level with you. When I was home, I made a gingerbread house. (Don’t judge me. I had no access to a car, so I was trapped at my parents’ house for almost three solid weeks. It was like “Alive”. You do what you have to to survive.)

My sister and I had been talking about making one for the past dozen years or so. This was going to be our year. We got supplies! I printed out pictures of churches! We batted ideas around! My sister made exactly three holly berries for a mini wreath and bailed!

I channeled my gingerbread rage and refocused it squarely where it belonged: little old ladies. I found out about a Hometown gingerbread house contest, entered the hell out of it and immediately started trash talking at the little old ladies and assorted gays I imagined my competition to be.

It turned into the most badass gingerbread house on the block, straight outta Compton wit its fly lil’ cobblestones, fuckin’ sparkily sugar snow on the roof and one kickass Holy Family.



Awwwww yeaaaah.

No gumdrops here. I went batshit with fondant, making every roof tile, chimney stone and row of siding. I cannot tell you how damn fly my Baby Jesus’ manger was.

After a few weeks of going around the house yelling “Suck it, old ladies!” at random times/objects, I was finished mere hours before I had to leave for the airport.

Not only did I enter a gingerbread house contest, and not only did I take it way too seriously, it came to my attention I may have cheated: I reinforced my walls with cardboard, lest the house collapse like DJ Tanner on a treadmill. (That’s my new favorite metaphor.)

Turns out I WON THE FUCKER! I know. I was more shocked than anyone. Despite the trash talking, I really thought there was some little old lady/gay who would know what they were actually doing and take my rightful prize from me.

Oh, and what was the prize? That would be a $200 savings bond. You may laugh now, but in 5 to 10 years, I’ll be sitting pretty.

Sadly, I did not win fan favorite (an additional $100 savings bond.) That went to some snot-nose homeschooler whose friends and family stuffed the ballot box. Like I need another reason to hate homeschooled kids? Go back to your spelling bees, nerd.

So in conclusion, I’d like to say: “Suck it, homeschoolers.”

The Magic of Christmas™

You know how in every hack Christmas movie (where you’re shouting at the screen, “Can we just fast-forward to the end to learn a Very Important Lesson about how the real meaning of Christmas is spending time with our families?”) there’s that moment where some adult character learns to believe in the Magic of Christmas™ because Santa leaves them the toy they wanted as a kid? (That or it’s how the girl knows the guy is the one for her when he comes through with an Easy Bake Oven that her sister got instead of her. Really? Thanks, you mean you want me to cook us one brownie at a time? Like I don’t have better things to do as an adult? Or maybe you only see me as the little woman who cooks for you? Is that it, you ungrateful bastard? Cause I slave and I slave in this kitchen to make dinner and now you want me to cook with an infantilizing pink oven in my free time too? You know what? We’re breaking up.)

Ahem.

I had some awesome Christmases as a kid. Cabbage Patch Kids with their funny names (Nora Emmaline? Why the hell not.) and tattooed butts. A doll swing that I’d later dismantle and use as Nora Emmaline’s wheelchair when I wanted her to have cerebral palsy like my classmate Crystal. Art supplies enough to tickle my fancy all year. Board games I would immediately lose all the pieces to. A purple toothbrush! A stable’s worth of My Little Ponies.

I was just telling my sister the other day about how one year we were done opening gifts (probably at 6 a.m.) and I forgot it was a weekday – because Christmas exists in its own time-space continuum, not beholden to a mere day of the week – and my dad turned Sesame Street on. I immediately passed into a happiness-overload coma.

Amidst all these Christmas memories, I was reminded of the gift I never got…glitter for our dining room floor. Sure, it was a nice enough floor, but it lacked that certain oomph that sets good dining room floors apart from the great, uh, discotheques. I distinctly remember in Christmas 1984 writing: Care Bears, books, Play-Doh, glitter for the dining room floor. What can I say? I’ve always had an eye for interior design.

I’ll never know if it was the newborn twins in my house or my parents’ general aversion to awesome things, but Santa did not deliver. Well excuse me for wanting to pep up the joint, Old Saint Nick. I sang songs to and about you, I’ve created art in your likeness, I corresponded with you for a decade.

This is your year to make it right! Maybe it’s enough to start believing in the Magic of Christmas™ again. But God help you if you give me an Easy Bake Oven.

Dysfunction Junction: The accurate version

I’m nothing if not committed to the utter and complete truth in every entry. (If I say I saw Al Roker, you'd best believe I saw him. And that he's really a wee 3' 7".) So it excites and pains me to report we have our first correction here at Postcards. (Unrelated sidenote: I was always jealous Red could call her old blog The Tent. Mine doesn’t shorten into anything cool. The Po’? Meh. Moving on.)

My fabulous sister, Annie, has been good enough to email me and add info to the Dysfunction Junction family story. (Although it sheds little light on how these people got to be how they are.)

Please to enjoy…

First of all, the mother is only missing her two front teeth so I suppose around this time of year she might have issues saying "sister Susie sitting on a thistle" but she does have 2 fake teeth but chooses not to wear them most of the time.

There was an incident during the first deployment when some other neighbors and I were standing outside talking one chilly October evening and the younger son (not the one evicted) stormed out of the house only wearing shorts and was kicking their truck as he is yelling curse words about his mother. About 30 seconds later we hear the door open thinking the mom would try to get her son to come back inside out of the cold but instead threw a wife beater and track pants and I think shoes outside and slammed and locked the door. He put those on and then proceeded to walk down the street. I peeked out my blinds that night before I went to bed and there he was, sitting on their porch.

Now to correct the car story....I think he was 17 or 18 at the time he was evicted and he was going to buy an old purple Saturn that our neighbor was selling and live somewhere with it, definitely not in the driveway considering that he was ordered to not come on their property after the 30-day notice of eviction. She threatened that she was going to buy the car and give it to her daughter, his younger sister but she ended up not doing that and I don't think he bought the car either. He now has a baby momma (that's right someone decided to sleep with him) and I think he's in some Job Corps school somewhere.

The last story I will share is when (friend) came down for Valentine's Day of 2006. We ordered a pizza and were waiting for it to arrive when we noticed lights flashing outside and cops were at the house I think breaking up a fight. When the pizza arrived, the delivery guy said "Man they're fighting again? They were fighting last week when I delivered a pizza on this street." I think it's a bad sign when Papa Johns knows you have issues.



So there you have it. I'll see you at Maury Povich.

I continue to recommend shows you’re already over

I have some sort of super insomnia where sometimes my body just refuses to sleep. I remedy this with the Food Network or HGTV until they wimp out at 4 a.m. and switch to infomercials (p.s. Lindsey Wagner is really, really concerned about the mattress I’m sleeping on.) That is, until I discovered my new love: The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

If you like Full House (and you do!) you’ll love black Full House! If you like Webster, you’ll love gangly Webster! If you like The Cosby Show, you’ll love Cosby updated for your early-‘90s lifestyle!

Finally, there’s no more hanging my head in shame when everyone else does The Carlton. I can join in! Check out Will Smith in neon overalls. Do you know he works that sideways hat and neon-striped shirt from the opening song throughout the pilot too? I forget, G, what West Philly gang wears bright yellow and green stripes. Crips? It’s the Crips, right?

I wasn’t allowed to watch Fresh Prince during its original airing (1990-1996) because it was too risqué. I think the rapping at the beginning threw my parents. (True story: America’s Funniest Home Videos and Full House were occasionally turned off too. God, I was a lonely kid.)

Speaking of the opening rap, I have a few questions, Will:

Is five verses really necessary to catch us up on the backstory?

Why is your mother 85?

Was it really the most efficient mode of transportation to take a cab from West Philadelphia to Bel Air?

What did you and the cabbie talk about the whole time? Did you rap for him?

Did you ever, in fact, “smell (him) later”?

Why is the Banks’ house so huge, but they didn’t even have a formal dining room?

And finally, your mom got scared after “one little fight” yet you get to Bel Air and you’ve been shot, unjustly jailed for stealing a car and taken hostage by an insane clown in your uncle’s courtroom (really!)? And those are just the few episodes I watched this week.

I’m starting to think that you shouldn’t be blaming those guys who were up to no good for your troubles.

Holiday wisdom

Scene:

Basement of the Astor Place Kmart

Me: perusing Martha Stewart’s big shiny balls for my Jewish roommate’s and my pan-religious winter holiday decorations.

Other players: Assorted unenthused Kmart team members shuffling around ribbons, trying to look busy, shouting back and forth to each other.

Guy: I hate this department! The merchandise sucks. The customers suck.

I tip my hat to him. He’s remarkably unembarrassed.

Girl: You just gotta man up and do it, Trevon.

Guy: (Heavy sigh) You can’t man up in seasonal.

Next time on "As the Tenessee turns"

Blogging from the homefront continues...

I spent the first week of my vacation with my sister, Marianne, in Tennessee, where I can’t be awed enough by the amount of space she has for just her husband, her and their two comically oversized cats: three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a freakin’ bonus room. Are you kidding me? Bitch, your whole house is a bonus room. Basically, she’s living the life known as How The Rest of The Country Lives.

But in her otherwise lovely Wisteria Lane-like neighborhood, I’ve named the house across the street Dysfunction Junction. Why? Stellar question. It all started when the (toothless) mother and (probably un-toothed) 16-year-old son got in a fight. In fact, I’ve been on the phone with Annie a few times when she’d be stealthily watching the police arrive as the shirtless teen punched walls and stuff outside the house.

Tme most recent adventure was the son was kicked out so he hatched a plan to buy a used car and live in the driveway. So far so good, right? But then the mom put her teeth in, went to the car dealership and bought the car out from under him.

Stay tuned tomorrow when I get a haircut at Wal-Mart. Really.

P.S. I love you mom! Don't be mad!

I've been home for two weeks now, reverting to a younger Kate, in my old bedroom, not driving, rolling my eyes at my parents. My mom lives for her kids. She doesn't yell or raise her voice or share unkind opinions. (No, I'm not sure I'm her real daughter either.) Unfortunately, she says things that only 80% make sense.

Example:
Me: Mom? Can I finish the broccoli?
Mom: It's all about you!

I've held off blogging about it as long as I could, but dammit I've reached my limit. This whole exchange started innocently enough. I mentioned I was one of the few people who had blogs whose parents knew about it.

Me: Wouldn't it be weird if I came home and told you I'd had a blog for three years and you didn't know it?
Mom: I still think it'll happen for you someday.
Me: What????? You already know about my blog.
Mom: I think it'll happen for you someday. You'll be on the Today Show.
Me: (More concerned) WHAT?!?! No, I mean if I told you, "I have a blog" and you didn't know about it.
Mom: Oh. I still think you'll be on the Today Show someday.
Me: Of course, but not for my blog.

I have like a half a cold, which basically means I’m living my life but staying away from the gym. Too sick for that!

But it also means that two or three times a day, I think I’m going to choke to death on a clot of my own mucus that’s gotten stuck.

My thoughts for the day...

Wake up.

Not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, CHOKING I’M GONNA DIE OH MY GOD IT’S STUCK, IT’S NOT GOING DOWN I CAN’T HACK IT UP!!!!!!!! not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, OH GOD HERE WE GO AGAIN. I ALWAYS KINDA FIGURED I'D DIE DRINKING COFFEE, I REGRET NOTHING, EXCEPT THE STUPID MANNER IN WHICH I’M DYING!!!!!!!!!!! not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, not choking, WALK TOWARD THE LIGHT KATE!!!!!!!! not choking, not choking.

Sleep.

"He had no eyeballs, Officer. Does that help?"

Oh no! It's Halloween and you have no costume! Never fear. I've got one for you that's sure to scare strangers and loved ones alike: Go as a police sketch.

Everyone knows it's the scariest part of any crime. I have PTSD from just Googling these. So print out your favorite photo from below and make a mask. Add a hoodie. Wa-la.

The mutant people the sketch "artists" churn out look barely human. I loathe jumping to conclusions, but obviously these guys are all guilty.


This sketch artist is called the "Sketch artist Pacasso" for willfully ignoring of all sense of proportion.


Jayden James Spears-Federline in 22 years.


Yep, that's him. Second from the left. Yes, the eyeball-less one.


He's as surprised as you are that he knocked over that liquor store.


The Missing Link rapist


I'm not really sure how my African-American garden gnome came to life, but we'll never forget the trouble he caused.


So cute! He's like a baby with a gray beard!


"Hmmm, that's closer but needs a liiiiiiittle more forehead.”


Devo hat? Check. Manscaped eyebrows? Check. Face full o' makeup? Check. Let's go a-robbin'.


He kills his victims just by looking at them.


Someone called him "Angry Roseanne" one too many times.


Every serial killer ever.

"I like to relax!"

Another Match candidate comes so close, yet blows it. I think the extra special oomph in this attempt comes from the exclamation points. It feels like he's shouting to me at a club!


WELL 1ST OFF I LOVE TO BE OUTDOORS! I LIKE TO RELAX!

You seem very relaxed. What else do you love?

I LOVE LONG DRIVES, VACATIONS, SUNRISES AND SUNSETS! I LOVE TO GO CAMPING AND BE IN NATURE I ALS LIKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SMILE AS WELL! IM VERY EASY GOING REALLY WHATEVER "WE" DO TOGETHER WILL BE FUN

Why does “we” in quotes creep me out so much? What are your thoughts on race relations?

WERE ALL THE SAME IN GODS EYES...TRUE LOVE HAS NO ETHNICITIES!!

I’m sure Gods agree.

I DONT GO TO CHURCH BUT I DO WATCH JOEL OSTEEN EVERY WEEK!!! HE IS AWSOME!! JUST GETS TO THE POINT!!

Really?!?!?! The megachurch minister who preaches that God (sorry “Gods”) wants us to be rich? The one whose wife got kicked off a plane for being such a bitch and ended up chartering a flight to their ski trip instead? That one? His impending to-be-determined scandal will be the greatest show ever.

DESCRIBE MYSELF???

Does this offend you somehow?

WELL...IM ABOUT 6 FT. BLONDE HAIR BLUE EYES!! VERY CONFIDENT!! WELL DRESSED!! WELL GROOMED!! AND WELL MANNERED!!

Fan of short thoughts!!

(I WAS RAISED IN THE SOUTH FOR A WHILE, TEXAS, WHERE THEY KNOW HOW TO TREAT A LADY)

Editor’s note: untrue.

SOME GOOD OLD FASHION R & R!!! I LOVE TO TRAVEL AND CULTURALLY DIFFUSE MYSELF!!!

Say what?

LIKE WILL AND JADA OR JAY-Z AND BEYONCE ...BONNIE AND CLYDE...IM LOOKING FOR MY "BESTFRIEND" SO TO SAY...LIKE BAD BOYS WE RIDE TOGETHER WE DIE TOGETHER...

Oh my God, he’s got a bank heist planned for our date and he’s going to use me as a human shield. Could you now just type out the next few nonsense thoughts/rap phrases you’ve heard somewhere? Just whatever comes into your head?

BAD BOYS FOR LIFE!!! JUST REALLY A COOL GIRL!!! A DOWN ASS CHICK!!! YA.FIGURE.DEAL.ME!!! I MEAN I LIKE A SWEET GIRL A PRINCESS SO-TO-SAY OR AT LEAST SOMEONE I CAN MAKE MY PRINCESS!!

Thanks. This would be a good time to call your potential date a bitch and allude to domestic problems.

AT THE SAME TIME I LIKE A BITCH PARDON MY FRENCH BUT A GIRL WHO KNOWS WHAT SHE WANT AND HOW TO GET IT!!! A GIRL WHO WONT TAKE ANY B.S. WELL EXEPT FOR ME...JUST KIDDING, INCLUDING ME!!! WHEN IM RIGHT I WANT TO KNOW IT AND WHEN IM WRONG PUT ME IN MY PLACE!!

I DONT REALLY DO THE BAR THING ALMOST NEVER DO THE CLUB THING...

Really?(!!!) then why have I met you in every bar I’ve ever been in? But I’m sure a great guy like you has no problem meeting someone.

I GUESS IN MY MIND THOSE PLACES ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE TROUBLE MEETING SOMEONE...ME IVE NEVER HAD THAT PROBLEM, MY PROBLEM IS MEETING THE RIGHT GIRL, MY PRINCESS, AND I KNOW FOR DAMN SURE SHE ISNT IN A BAR OR CLUB.

Editor’s note: Yes, she is. She’s the one with the lower back tattoo and the even lower self-esteem.

I RUN A CONSTRUCTION COMPANY IN MANHATTEN Editor’s note: Manhattan AND THE 5 BOROS Editor’s note: Boroughs SOMETIMES ON LONG ISLAND Editor’s note: one out of three ain’t bad.

I AM VERY AFFECTIONATE IN A WAY???

Are you asking or telling?

THAT I LOVE KISSING...KISSING IS SO AWSOME TO ME!! ITS VERY SENSUAL AND SEXUAL...

Yup, you’re the first one to make the link between kissing and sex. Science should look into it.

(YOU CAN TELL ALOT ABOUT A KISS)

Go on, finish the thought. No? OK. Now babble about sex for a bit…

AND OBVIOUSLY WITH THAT ALSO IS SEX, WELL I LIKE TO MAKE LOVE PERSONALLY BUT GOOD SEX WITH THE RIGHT PERSON IS VERY IMPORTANT!!! ALOT OF IT TOO!!! MAYBE THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU ALL AT ONCE BUT I DONT BEAT AROUND THE BUSH AND I DONT WANT TO MISLEAD ANYONE...I MEAN I AM LOOKING FOR THE RIGHT ONE AND THE RIGHT ONE WILL UNDERSTAND EXACTLY WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT!!!

To clarify, you’re talking about sex?

JESUS CLOWNFACE CHRIST! WHAT IS THAT? Oh, hey, Pete.

When you're a middle-aged man who's been corralled into going to some sort of Halloween function with your child the weekend before Halloween and you're walking on the dark street and you have a painted freakin' clown face but your black trenchcoat is covering your costume so everyone around you just sees a looming clownface when they look at you, it would be awesome to keep your kid attached to your hip so your neighbors at least stand a fighting chance of not pulling out their Mace when they see you. K?

I made it my whole life without being scared by clowns. That streak is over now. Good job, buddy.

Get with the program, New York Times, Burma's gone

Lawsuits are pretty awesome. Everyone knows this.

Last year, as the result of some legal settlement, (about what, I don't know. Who can keep up with them all!) my company made literally every last employee in this multi-national media conglomerate watch a video of our ethics policy. Over the course of a month we were herded by the thousands into this “1984”-style situation of a man projected on a giant screen reading … God knows what. Half of us fell asleep immediately. The other half waited to confirm it was the most boring thing they’d ever heard before falling asleep.

I was in the second group. I fought the good fight before nodding off, only to be woken up to the sound the man saying “Burma” followed by laughter. Say what? Burma humor? I asked my friend what I missed and she said it was this guy talking about something in Myanmar. Then he threw up huge air quotes and said, dripping with sarcasm “Burma”. Look, I’m sorry you don’t recognize the nation’s sovereignty from England with ….oh look at that. I’m asleep again.

So this country “Myanmar-formerly-known-as-Burma” as we’re all legally bound to call it. What up wit dat? (For these and questions re: airline peanuts and observations about white people dancing, don’t miss my one-woman show next week!)

What the? Where’d Burma go on my map? Myanmar must be a pretty new country for everyone to still be confused!

Oh well you better check your atlas’ year of publication (oh snap!), because (I just learned) it’s been Myanmar since 1948. That’s right. The year your grandparents got married. We’ve spent (counting on fingers, hold on) years calling it Myanmar-formerly-known-as-Burma.

Who is this helping? Isn’t this like saying “Abraham Lincoln, who is dead, was a tall man.”

Wake up, newspapers of America, with your mandatory Myanmar-formerly-known-as-Burma country. You've been in the pocket of Big Burma long enough. I know you all had winter homes there, but, like your stepfather Bill, it's gone and not coming back. Time to move on and forget it (and Bill) was ever in your life.

This terrible irreverence goes out to you, KayTeeGee

This post is brought to you by the number 3 and the letters "Musketeers."

Know how babies get that shocked look on their faces when you disappear behind your hands, only to mind-blowingly reappear seconds later? It’s a look like, “Never in my 9 months on Earth have I seen something so incredible!”

It’s heartwarming, really.

Sadly, as you get older it takes more and more to blow your mind. Randomly disappearing faces won’t cut it anymore. We need helicopters and the lottery and Michael Bay ‘splosions.

And Mint 3 Musketeers. (Fun fact: You can't misspell "Muskateers" without "Kate." Wow your friends this Halloween.) HAHA, you're old news York Peppermint Patties and Junior Mints and Chocoalte Altoids and mint chocolate chip ice cream!

Boy howdy will these blow your mind. I’ve had mint, I’ve had chocolate, I’ve even had them in combinations that have been pleasing to my palate. But never has anything rocked my world like these suckas. First of all, they’re bringing dark chocolate to the party – always a welcome treat. And there’s a detectable amount of salt to it. Sounds bad, but it’s awesome. Slightly salty, but awesome. And the mint! It’s softer than York Peppermint Patties, harder than Junior Mints and sweet and really great. (I know, I know, I should be a judge on Top Chef. People always say that.)

Apologies to anyone who wants these at my Halloween party this Saturday, because I'm going to eat the rest of them for dinner tonight.

Now how does this blogging endorsement thing work? CHECK PLEASE, 3 MUSKETEERS.

Shouldbefall

I’ll be remembered by history for many reasons.

One was my creation of the fifth season: Slush. Anyone in a Northern climate will tell you it’s a special sort of hell on sunny frigid days when you plummet mid-calf into a puddle of grey, icy water that should by all laws of physics still be frozen. Everything around you is dead and muddy. It ruins Christmas knowing this is around the corner.

Like those wacky Caesars (Julius and Augustus) before me who named July and August after themselves (only to screw up the whole rest of the calendar, since ancient timey people apparently ran out of steam with giving actual names for the months and just started calling them "seventh month" etc. But now September is the ninth month! Confusing? Yes, we also would have accepted boring.)

I'll win you back with my next idea. I'd like to create a sixth season: Shouldbefall.

It’s October! Why am I all pit-stainy still? Is it because I’m refusing to wear short sleeves? Probably. Is that because not ready to accept that it’s 80 degrees and I can’t will it to be cooler with my super powerful mind? That could also be the case.

Each and every day, I leave my house bundled up, convinced that today will be the day I’m glad I put on a sweater and have a scarf. It should be sweater weather (swether?) and sooner or later – with the power of my super mind – it will be. But the past few weeks it’s not been. Each and every day I crawl back home on the verge of heatstroke, encased in a patina of sweat like I’ve been oiled up for the Miss Hawaiian Tropics pageant.

Thanks to global warming, trick-or-treaters this year probably won’t even have to obscure their Halloween costumes under parkas, like we always had to. Every year I was a clown, bobby soxer or geisha from the waist down, but pure Eskimo from the waist up. It’s hard to demand candy from strangers, then eat said candy in said stranger’s driveway with the double obstacles of gloves and your stupid hood stings pulled so tight it blocks everything but your nose.

You kids today with your melty glaciers and text messaging. The only thing I can console myself with is that every kid ever now is allergic to peanuts, so people probably don’t pass out Snickers – the holy grail of tick or treat loot – all willy nilly the way they used to in the good old days (by which I obviously mean the late 80s/early 90s.)

Mr. F

So I was babysitting last week (because why wouldn’t I?) and I’m at the playground with this 6-year-old boy. The jungle gym is totally empty aside from us, which is great, because the precious little snowflake says he wants to play tiger and jungle hunter. (Because why wouldn’t he?)

Oh kill me now, Jesus.

So there I am, trying to climb out of harm’s way on some sort of spider-web apparatus, when the tiger decides he’s tired and curls up (because why wouldn’t he?) in this enclosed slide, hidden from sight.

That leaves me, an adult just sort of standing there looking like I’m ready to finally conquer my fear of the top of the jungle gym.

I was briefly filled with glee at the silence, hoping I could milk this into a five-minute break. But then it dawned on me: I’ve suddenly become the adult at the playground with no kid. Awesome. Am I mentally challenged or a pedophile or just sort of a generally sadult trying to recapture her childhood? Is there a best option in that scenario?

“At least nobody can see me at the new low I’ve reached,” I console myself, just as this nosy old lady spots me sans child and scopes me out suspiciously. Then the 6-year-old wakes up from his self-imposed nap and slides down the slide.

“It’s ok, Ruth, she has a kid with her,” she calls to Ruth. BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T SHE.

I’ve never felt more like a MR. F. Ever. Not even the time last year when I dropped my can of soda at the deli, then whacked my head on the counter picking it up, then hit my elbow on the same counter when I went to grab my new forehead egg.

Please, seriously, strike me dead.

You win again, Interwebs

There's really nowhere I can go with this Match email. I'm totally outwitted. And also curious about this trip to moon I've been hearing so much about.


well, i want to go out and paint the town red!!!!!
i dont want to fall in love kind relations!!
JUST have FUN!!! party!!!
unless the the girl of my dream appears in my way to get??????
married!!
yes i said marriage!!
but i dont think i can find my dreams in the earth. i am trying to buy on of this trips to moon, hope to find her!!!

Putting the rath in Rathbones

Food inspires a lot of emotions in me. The emotion of hunger mostly. But also happiness! It’s all smiles times when there’s dinner afoot.

It takes a lot for food to inspire rage. This is the girl who once went on a first date and was completely happy eating a bowl of leeks because it was the only non-meat item on the menu.

As I’ve covered, white chocolate, raisins, licorice and cooked green peppers make me feel all punch-y. Sandwiches were not on that list until yesterday.

I went to a bar with friends for a two-for-one drink deal, and I know that when it’s beer that gets you in the door you shouldn’t complain the lack of gourmet cuisine BUT that’s not going to stop me from pointing out that two slices of unbuttered toast with melted Kraft singles (presented open-faced) does not constitute a grilled cheese sandwich on this or any other planet. When I order a grilled cheese, I expect to see Jesus' - or at least Mother Teresa's - mug all up in there.

And when you charge $8 for the plastic-cheese toast and notice the customer has only eaten one bite, you – the waitress – shouldn’t bother to argue that it was, in fact grilled cheese because the bread was grilled and had cheese on it.

Argh, foiled by semantics again.

Can I just point out that you can’t just start breaking down foods into their literal meanings? If I ordered Grape Nuts and got a bowl of gapes and walnuts, or if I wanted to snack on some tasty peanuts and got a bowl of snap peas and cashews IT WOULDN’T BE THE SAME THING.

Not smiles times. Not smiles times at all.

What the hell is wrong with me? Vol. 2 (James Blunt edition)*

*Bring on the lawsuit, Jacob.


Welcome to my nightmare.

Know how everyone is all like “Why doesn’t MTV ever play music?” Look, I’m as enraged as everyone by Spencer and the scary plastic face he’s got going on, but I don’t need more music videos in my life. Why? Because this was my day after hearing the James Blunt song “1973” or as I venture to guess the original title was, “Beautiful 1973.”

It’s been not just a pleasant soundtrack in my head, it’s been getting in the way of me functioning.

Bus driver: Good morning.
Me: …Wish I was sober, so I could see clearly now, the rain has gone.
Bus driver: It’s 9 a.m. I’m not sober either.

Friend: Hey, Kate, wanna meet up for dinner later?
Me: Simona, You're getting older. Your journey's been etched on your skin.
Friend: Excuse me? You’ll have crow’s feet too someday.

Grocery store girl: Here’s your change, miss.
Me: … And we sang, "Here we go again". And though time goes by I will always be in a club with you in 1973 Singing, "Here we go again."
GSG: Do I know you?

James Blunt, you and your falsetto are ruining my life. And I don't even need to go into the logic of you being like a fetus in 1973.

Communist boys

Communist Boy (noun): 1. He's smart, funny, just your type, but somehow it's not clicking. 2. A relationship that should, by all logic, work. It looks flawless on paper, like communism.

An open letter to the FCC about the old ladies at my gym

Hey there, old ladies! I'm not clear how your mother, Vogue, religion or society in general dropped the ball in filling you with a healthy self-loathing about your body, but where did we go wrong here?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m really excited about being as old as you someday and no longer giving a flying crap about who I insult or whose toes I crush with my Rascal. But here’s a rule of thumb: If your body looks like you spend your days writing letters to the FCC about the foul mouth on the little boy from Two and a Half Men, perhaps you ought to not frolic about the gym locker room .

I know I should be applauding you for being all active at your advanced ages, but I promise, there’s NO NEED for you to parade around naked. It seriously challenges my ability to keep my food down when I turn from getting stuff from my locker and I’m face to droopy boob with you. Call Dr. 90210, become a recluse or just take a page from the rest of us and put a damn towel around your offensive self.

In honor of what I presume you do all day, here’s my letter about you to the FCC about you:

Dear FCC,

As a concerned citizen, I applaud the many censoring moves you’ve made to improve airwaves. America’s children do not need to see breasts before their wedding night. (This goes for young men and young women.) Likewise, they do not need to be saying the F word, the S word, the R word or h-e-double-hockey-sticks. It’s best to ensure they never hear these words at all.

Can we have another Depression please to teach them about life?

And also, can you please start using your powers in real life as well? It’s all fine and well if primetime is cleaned up, but what good does that do if we just hear these words and see offensive images in our daily lives?

Please start with the old ladies at my gym who walk around naked. They are offensive on many levels. That form of nudity should not – must not – be celebrated or encouraged. It diminishes my quality of live and concerns me for my own future when I look at all that appalling sagging.

American flags!

Sincerely,

Kate
P.S. These colors don’t run!

P.P.S. Good job with the whole Janet Jackson thing. Truly your finest hour. I was disgusted when I saw her flash us the first time, but when I relived it on cable the next 9,000 times, I got progressively less appalled each time.

Jiminy Carter!

I saw Jimmy Carter last night. Or as the girl behind me kept calling him "Jiminy Carter." Like the cricket.

It’s gotta make you feel like a pimp to be (I assume) 94 and still get security detail and decoy cars. All I want in life is a string of decoy cars.

He might look like he stuffs his pockets with Werthers Originals, but clearly people are out to assassinate him at a moment’s notice. People who hate humanity being habitated. Even if they aren’t exactly sure how to pronounce his name.

Getting to know your friendly neighborhood blogger

1. Name
Kate

2. Birthday
Sept. 8. Yeah, you missed it. Feel bad?

3. Do you have tattoos & how many
No and none. Kinda want a shamrock.

4. Do you have piercings & how many
Yes, three in my ears. I was a super rebellious teen. Ovbs.

5. Ethninc background
My “ethninc” background? I freckle.

6. Do you have any phobias
No, but I get violently angry when people chew loudly. I also have an aversion to lots of holes in things, like mesh. Makes me queasy.

7. Do you like thunderstorms
Yes! I hate sunshine. Also flowers and the sound of children's laughter.

8. Do you dance in the rain
No, because I'm not mentally ill or in love in a musical.

9. What is your weakness
Am I a supervillian!? My weakness is flan.

10. Do you dye your hair
No, not after I accidentally dyed it black for my sister's wedding so I looked like a long-lost Ramone. That was following my (intentionally) dying it blonde in college as a feature story to see if people treated me differently. Verdict: I got a few marriage proposals, but I think it's because it was such an obvious dye job it looked like I had low self-esteem. I looked like an Eastern European hooker.

11. Who do you think is the most intelligent person that ever lived
Clearly the person who put these questions together.

12. Do you get along with your parents
Yes, but I'm several states away, so it makes it different.

13. Have you ever made a wish on a shooting star
Again, no. Not mentally ill or in a Disney movie.

14. Name one person you miss more then anything (that's still alive)
My sister! Mostly because she forgave me for looking like a Ramone at her wedding. Also, she lets me call her like 14 times a day even when I have nothing to say.

15. How do you want to die
Same way I want to give birth: Heavily drugged.

16. Ford, Dodge, or Chevy
Metro Card. Rephrase the question? Here's a story: When we moved to Kentucky when I was 14, I knew I wasn't at the right high school for me because there was a fight in the hallway between a guy who was drawing Ford logos in the margins of his history notebook and a guy drawing Chevy logos. An honest-to-God fight! It was a long four years.

17. Country or City
I suffer from an acute case of reverse claustrophobia where I get antsy and uneasy in wide-open spaces. I like to be hugged by tall buildings.

My perfect Guy:

18. Hair color
Grey and thinning

19. Eye color
Does anyone dismiss someone because of eye color? You do have to bring the 20/20 though. My kids won't wear glasses.

20. Tattoos
So many

21. Piercings
Yes, infected if possible. I like to tend to the infirmed.

22. Clothing style
Straight up sk8er boi or gold prospector

23. Older or younger then you
Near death

24. Smoker
See above

25. Can you take them home to Mom
I'd love to meet a guy who'll embarrass me by burping a lot at the table, maybe even yelling at my parents, someone who'll really drive a wedge between me and my whole family. That would be hot.

26. Are they funny
Oh Christ no.

27. Are they like you or your opposite
To sum up: I'd like an elderly smoking skater/prospector near death who hates my family and is the opposite of me in every way. They do have to like Fords though. That's non-negotiable. Dear Diary, will I ever meet such a man?

28. Has anyone ever wrote a song about you
Actually, yes, someone "has wrote" a ditty about the blog. It was like 8 bars. One of my life goals is to have someone write a real song about me. Kate rhymes with so much stuff! Get on this, you guys.

29. Have you ever been on stage
Oh God, here we go. I was in a pageant named after a cake mix in high school. I wore a blue sparkly dress. I did not win, which means I didn't get to cut the ribbon at the next day's world's largest brownie attempt. Oy, what a girl will do for a chance at a scholarship.

30. Have you ever done anything you saw on Jackass
No, you know why? Because of MyDeathSpace.com. Half the deaths on there are because kids attached rope to the back of their trucks and spun their friend on a merry go round until they flew off. Half the deaths!

31. Have you ever snorted a pixie stix
Pixie stix, no. Altoids, yes. Is that what the kids are doing now?

32. Have you ever done stupid things in a shopping cart
How vague and random.

What the hell is wrong with me? Vol. 1

Time for my new favorite game: What the hell is wrong with me?

In future issues, we’ll examine why other people drinking tea makes me so angry, why I suspect I might have weekend diabetes, why I sometimes wake up with curly hair, and why I think things are purpleish when everyone else in the room says it’s blue or pink.

But first, let’s tackle why I constantly think my phone is ringing. I probably reach for it 20 times a day because I think I hear those first few “dee DE dodolee deee” trilling out of it. But, just like in a horror movie, nobody’s there. (I guess, strictly speaking, in a horror movie, the caller would be inside my purse, but there’s no time for logic when I have problems like this going on.)

It’s not tinnitus because it’s not constant. It strikes when a note similar to the first “dee” of my ringtone is struck somewhere in the vicinity. From experience, I’ve learned these include most, if not all, songs; children’s tiny voices; laughter; espresso machines; horns and squealing breaks.

Next time we’ll tackle why I could watch people push on “pull” doors (and vice versa) all day.