By The Way Betch...

wow.

2008-12-05T09:45:00.002-05:00

I've mentioned this before, and while I hate to be redundant, this is something that deeply concerns me:

My internal dialogue is completely asinine.

Sometimes I start looking for an escape route when I'm left to my own thoughts. Right now, for instance, I made myself a bagel for breakfast. I always eat bagels the same way -- chewy delicious bottom piece first, then the crispy delicious top part. So good.

Hey Kate, I asked myself. What side would you say you like more? Bagel top or bagel bottom?

It's an interesting question Kato, I answered. The bottom is chewy and satisfying, but the top has all the delicious crispiness I've come to really appreciate about bagels. Especially Everything Bagels, with the salt and the garlic and the Heaven In Your Mouth.

Yeah, Everything Bagels are awesome, I said. So, then, bagel top?

I stopped to consider, and finally responded: Well I think it depends on the type of bagel! I mean, the bottom of a Raisin Bagel is clearly the better half. You know -- oh, for the love of christ, Kato, shut up and eat your damn breakfast.

Maybe I should invest in a radio, block out my own prattle.

yes we can

2008-11-06T11:13:00.006-05:00

Not to be too much of the cliche "Obamatard," but I can say, completely unembarrassed, that every time I watch this video I cry -- I think I've earned that right. And I think you might agree why:

The thing is, whether or not Obama "has the qualifications," whatever that means, Obama's vision is the America I was taught about in grammar school. It's the great American myth, the city on a hill, the idea that we are a special nation unlike any nation that has ever existed.

And why is that?

Because we have striven for more than what was given to us. We believe that we can make our lives whatever we want them to be -- we've made mistakes, but we're willing to correct them. We fought for civil rights and equal justice. We reject the idea of oppression. More than anything in my childhood, I remember hearing over and over:

"What do you mean, no?"

As John McCain said in his (quite moving) concession speech, nothing in our history was inevitable. But there is no "no" for Americans. There's just another way to getting what we want. We value this above all else. And because that kind of boundless optimism was fed to us from our mothers' milk, we can do so much more.

I'm 24. That means I was 17 years old the day the Twin Towers fell. My entire adult life has been post-911 -- I've had a president who mongered fear to coerce my countrymen into distrusting the outside world, into feeling trapped and scared of the government; he used it to usurp our rights as citizens, to spy on us and make us feel distrusted (and, in turn, distrusting), and on top of all that, to shame us out of using our Constitutionally guaranteed rights as Americans to openly dissent with the government's decisions. We were called "unpatriotic" if we didn't support a war that maimed and murdered our friends and put our nation into 14 DIGITS of debt, deprioritizing things like social security and the quality of our public schools, which is the very cornerstone of democracy -- after all, a population that cannot read, cannot possibly dictate the future of its government. We watched the government deregulate for corporations and allow jobs to be sent overseas never to return. The rich got richer, the poor got poorer. The president of the past 8 years has alternately overlooked and trampled on Americans.

For 8 years, Americans have embraced a reckless "leader" who encouraged Americans to abandon education, not to try to be smart -- because somehow, intelligence equals "elitist." Because somehow, decorum equals "elitist." Because somehow, excellence equals "elitist." Apparently, you're only a "real" American if you have a limited vocabulary and a ranch. This, from a nation that shouts to the world that we are exceptional. How does that make sense? As Aaron Sorkin said to a fictional Barack Obama,

The idea of American exceptionalism doesn’t extend to Americans being exceptional. If you excelled academically and are able to casually use 690 SAT words then you might as well have the press shoot video of you giving the finger to the Statue of Liberty while the Dixie Chicks sing the University of the Taliban fight song. The people who want English to be the official language of the United States are uncomfortable with their leaders being fluent in it.

Well, that doesn't represent me. That doesn't represent what I've been taught about my nation, my home. That doesn't represent what I want for my life.

And then suddenly along comes some guy saying, "Hey, this is a great country -- we are exceptional. Americans don't settle, we strive. Work for your country, work for your community -- we can make America the place it is in our hearts, minds and memories. Yes we can! Yes we can! Yes we can!"

And suddenly the beacon is illuminated once again, and we remember things about ourselves we had nearly forgotten. It's the world I want to live in -- the only world I would ever feel comfortable bringing children into. And I just have to say that I am immensely proud to be a part of this moment in history. Who knows what the future will bring? Clearly, one election does not represent an instant panacea. We've got a lot of work ahead of us. But for the first time in nearly a decade, I feel really good about tomorrow. Slash, democracy.

As Adam said, my generation is the class of 9/12, defined by the impact of an event that changed the course of our nation. For a while, it seemed that the force of the impact of those planes into our tallest skyscrapers would reverberate from sea to shining sea for all eternity. Well, I think we've stopped feeling the tremors of terror. Panic is passe -- we want our lives back.

In time, we can excel again -- even without American flag lapel pins.

And, clearly, my fellow Americans agree: Yes, we can!

i guarantee this will happen to me someday

2008-09-10T16:23:00.001-04:00

yeah, that's uncomfortable for everyone.

2008-09-09T11:24:00.002-04:00

Okay so I'm still water, but I'm not this crazy pollutant water! I mean, what the heck is in our water? What the heck is in our air that's causing these rainbows in the sprinkler? That didn't happen 20 years ago. We need to wake up, people, and ask ourselves what kind of poisons we're taking into our bodies!

Slash, holy balls, lady. Really??

normalcy fail

2008-09-08T18:46:00.005-04:00

The other night I went out with someone I thought I had pegged -- Samsonite, friends. I was way off. Two beers in, I wasn't sure who was crazier, me or everyone else. For the sake of self-preservation, I've decided it's "everyone else."

Erol says that in the time he's known me, I've become much more aware of how insane I actually am.

"Yeah, you're weird," he said. "But at least now you're starting to recognize it."

Great.

There's a kernel of truth to it -- maybe a whole 10lb bag of kernels of truth, but I'm only admitting to the one. Over the years I've gotten the distinct impression that I'm a little "off" -- my marbles are arranged a little differently than those of most.

For instance, I arrange my marbles according to color, size, opaqueness and sentimental value. Marbles infused with sparkles are kept separate, and held up to various light sources to find the best angle for sparkling.

But that makes perfect sense to me. It's like when I eat my M&Ms in order (brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, duh!).

I'm reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest -- I've been meaning to read it for years. The interesting thing is how my book-du-jour somehow suddenly exposes patterns and realizations about my day-to-day life. Maybe it's not that interesting. Maybe that's just called "reading." But I mean, to be fair, it's not like I ever have a conversation and think, "Omigosh, this is exactly like that time on Tila Tequila!!"

Anyway, in the Cuckoo's Nest the whole story is told by the Indian Chief. He's the "silent observer" -- and, as Randle surmises right off the bat, definitely not deaf or dumb. He is crazy, which you don't get from the movie. The guy is tapped. I'm not sure if you're supposed to notice that. It's kind of strange having such an unreliable narrator. But he's not a part of the struggle, and really, he's more normal than most of the other guys. At least, from what you can tell. The story is coming from his point of view, to be fair -- I'm sure no one thinks they're a complete nutjob, or realizes that they are consumed by what are to others senseless fascinations and insecurities.

Well, I was walking home from work today thinking a thought I've had a million times: I'm like water. I don't perceive in myself any particular flavor, nor any noticeable texture. I don't intoxicate, I don't serve any cultural role, I'm not comforting or refreshing. I'm just a basic, transparent liquid that takes the shape of the container I find myself in. Don't you see?? I'm the Indian Chief!

Okay, so that sounds weird. Work with me while I mix my metaphors, and think about it -- when you think about someone else, they're a somewhat static character in your mind. My friends each have a distinct trait that I have pinpointed as the strongest -- a certain flavor and/or texture -- and that's how I portray them when they appear in my stories. People are sometimes Malbec (smooth and calming); some are pineapple juice (the perfect additive to almost any concoction -- un poco de pina!); some are a milkshake (delicious in small doses, but too decadent for the everyday).

I'm sure everyone thinks they're water. But I don't think they're right, I think there can only be one glass of water and I'm the water, I'm the normal one. There's just the one narrator, the Indian Chief, and that's me. HOW!

...

I mean, I don't think it's crazy to be slightly neurotic about the things you eat. Just like I don't think it's crazy to feel nervous on a flight. And I don't think it's crazy to dislike strong flavors or have 9 different sets of shampoo and conditioner in the shower or invite myself on other people's dates. And if a song is really making my day, why wouldn't I play it non-stop for an entire week? Honestly, how is it weird to use ground turkey rather than ground beef?

I personally think that most people are too dismissive of things that should concern them. Smoking causes cancer: that's been proved over and over again, just don't do it. A lifetime of systematic neglect of your body causes heart disease, diabetes, obesity, chronic depression, joint pain, fertility problems: this comes as no surprise to anyone, especially people my age, and yet have you seen the obesity rates in this country? How come no one else is freaking out about it?? Why does no one floss?? Do you not know how disgusting that is?? ALKJALFL!!

Whew.

Blech, forget the Chief, I'm like that Cathy cartoon. Hang me.

No, scratch that, I'm still the Indian Chief -- perhaps not normal, but certainly not as crazy as the others. Not the constant fighter of the ultimate (although ultimately unwinnable) fight, nor the constant submissive; not the paranoid, not the catatonic, not the pompous, not the cripplingly insecure. Just an off-color character with certain irrational fears I can't beat.

Plus, I've got a blog to tell my tale. I'm the narrator, betches, so enjoy your stay in my reality. Slash, the mental ward.

(Get it? 'Cause I'm the Indian Chief! So we're in the mental ward... Oh, nevermind.)

erol eats babies

2008-09-04T17:15:00.005-04:00

It's funny how it was always an unspoken fact that someday I'd grow up and everyone would be married and everyone would have babies of their own, and when that phase shows up I'm caught completely off-guard. What'd I think was going to happen? There'd be a Coming of Age ritual, some sort of formal commencement ceremony that would release my peers and I into "the world" to begin our adult lives?

...

Oh, wait, you mean that commencement ceremony? Sh*t. Yeah, looking back on it, I guess that makes sense. Seems I missed the boat on that one. Bigtime.

Erol, the horrible baby-eating ogre I live with, is expecting his first nephew in about 3 months. Normally I'm not much of a baby-cooer, but I am so freaking excited for this one to show up. I think it's because it'll be the first baby to whose family I've had any relationship whatsoever in over a decade.

Seriously, who has babies?

I find it difficult to imagine ever being ready for a kid of my own (or of a close friend), but I'm really excited that I'll know someone with a baby. I'm told I can babysit it if I want to, but I'm more into "Oh, this is noisy/wet/stinky/heavy, you can take it back now" than "Why, certainly, noisy/wet/stinky/heavy baby, I would be honored and delighted to wipe your *ss. But you should know that it's payback time when I meet your first girlfriend."

Frankly, though, I feel like I'd do a better job babysitting than Erol, who'd probably prop up the kid on the couch with some old socks and then start asking what he thought about such-and-such an article in last week's Economist.

"WHOA WHOA, Baby!! Did you just poop on the carpet?!?"

Haha I would pay so much money to see that.

Oh, which leads me to a hilarious gem from the Interweb:

I'm the oldest 24-year-old who ever was

2008-08-22T13:10:00.003-04:00

My big birthday present this year was the Blackberry Pearl -- a completely frivolous and over-the-top piece of technology that only has perceived value in major metropolitan areas, and even there it's kind of absurd. It's at least not the iPhone, which makes my brain bleed just thinking about it.

Anyway, I'm a sucker for the tail end of a trend so I got one. For the first week I was afraid to touch it -- somehow I convinced myself that the keycode for "Unlock" also meant "Call Europe." Then one night I found myself in a room full of dorky phone boys who I persuaded (read: begged) to set it up with Google and GMail and Facebook and whatever else. It was awesome, and then awkward, which is a pretty persistent pattern for much of the things that have happened in my life.

I never figured out how to add GoogleChat. That was too complicated, somehow. Recently I decided that I'm competent enough now with my phone to install GoogleChat on my own, so now I have that going for me. And on the one hand, it's pretty baller, but on the other hand, I want to die.

There are times, usually when a great scientific or technological advance has been achieved, when those annoying philosophical-types sit back and wonder, "Yes, yes, we see that you could do it -- but should you?" Well no one listens to them even then because they're annoying and everyone's all frustrated by what a stupid question that is, and why would you ask that question after it's already happened, anyway? Where the devil were you before I became consumed with the dream for constant availability?

Seriously, where? 'Cause I immediately regret my decision.

There's no more playing "hard-to-get" when you're on GoogleChat 24/7 -- everyone knows where to find you. And you aren't going to ignore the tell-tale call of the new chat. You're too curious. You need to know who said something, and what they said. It's non-negotiable, you need to f*cking know.

I never thought I'd get tired of talking, but it's overwhelming. There's no time off from socializing! In college this would have been the coolest thing ever.

Youthful Enthusiasm for Communication Technology FAIL.

the other white meat

2008-08-01T09:58:00.002-04:00

Something happened. My first instinct is to blame Erol, who has replaced my mother as the reason for everything that is wrong with my life. Truth be told I have a pretty direct connection for why what happened is his fault, but, seeing as how he's never up in my corner of the blogosphere anymore, it hardly seems worth the passive-aggression required to click "Publish Post." I can't quite muster the motivation. I've lost my will to irritate. The situation is bleak.

But back to "something."

Erin's in town. Wednesday morning we decided to play tennis. Short story shorter, we watched like 4 hours of Project Runway on the couch. I know, I know, I'm a vapid, mindless girl and an indiscriminate consumer of almost literally any crap someone dreams up, tapes and airs on Bravo. Project Runway is one of those programs that reminds me that I'm Every Girl Ever. Shut up, though, 'cause I frieking love that show and, if you're reading my blog, chances are extremely high that I know where you sleep. I will eat your babies, b*tch!

Again with the digressing. Sorry.

There are essentially only 2 commercials that air during Project Runway: (1) BlueFly.com and (2) eHarmony/Match.com/Chemistry.com. Two words, one thought: hang me. The BlueFly thing doesn't offend me as much as the dating sites. Mostly it just makes me sad that I fit into that demographic.

Only single women are home on Wednesday nights watching this show, said some faceless advertising whiz. I know they're single women because the only 13 men watching it are watching with their girlfriends... or boyfriends. We're going to make a fortune selling advertising space to online dating sites. B*tchin'!

That's fine. I get it. Make your money, *ssholes.

Erin thought it would be fun to review my matches for free on Match.com. I didn't. I thought it would be fun to watch Project Runway and maybe, I don't know, Google the obscure cultural references Michael Kors makes when he describes the outfits. She got the computer first and filled out a profile under my name.

What color are your eyes? What do you like better, cats or dogs? Who's your ultimate celebrity dreamboat date??

I don't know, Erin. I'm not doing this. Hey, who the hell is Carmen Miranda?

She figures it out. 20 pages of questions later, she's all done. We check out the site which is a little bit fun in the way Facebook was when it first started. I mean, it's kind of like you get to walk through everyone's houses. Except they're really lonely, socially awkward houses. It gets kind of creepy after a while. We lose interest. We move on with our lives.

The next night we see Cat. The Match.com thing comes up in conversation.

Oh, Kato, I forgot to tell you! said Erin. You were rejected from Match.com! Yeah, I got an email today. They don't want you.

... Pre-jected. Again. But this time, by the entire online dating community. You have got to be kidding me. I mean, not even "You have no matches" -- "You're not invited to even look for matches... Date-ability FAIL." And again, I didn't even want you guys! Rejection, completely out of nowhere, from someone I didn't even want! You know what, I don't need this. You guys can go off and have your super-special dates and meet people based on interests instead of by common levels of alcohol consumption and then you have creepy Internet-based babies and lie and tell all your friends you met through your college's alumni network. I'll be at the SPCA, picking up more cats. Jerks.

So I guess it's official -- nobody wants me. Everybody hates me. ... Guess I'll go eat worms. On the upside, when my friends get married they don't have to worry about a Plus One for me. Although they should probably still count on having enough booze for two.

I've just seen a face, I can't forget the time or place where we just met

2008-07-24T14:47:00.007-04:00

Two people meet. They share an intense, inexplicable but undeniable chemistry. They explore the cosmic bond for as long as reason will allow, then they part ways. They're young, they figure. There will be more intense, inexplicable but undeniable chemistry. It's okay to let it go. Right?

I guess that depends on how much you value happiness.

I had that kind of instant bond once. It was pure magic, every second we spent together was paramount. As a mega-b*tch, I'd never experienced such pure joy from the company of another before then -- and nothing since has come close.

So who is this amazing "one who got away"?

My puppy Lucy. She was a 6-week old baby Basset Hound when my dad and kid sister and I wandered into the pet store. We saw her through the window and her soft brown eyes spoke to my soul. We asked to see her in the pen, something we had never done before in my entire life. As soon as they put her in my arms, it was all over. I had to have her. She belonged to me already, we were inextricably linked by some cosmic force -- to leave her behind would have been to leave a piece of myself behind. Ly knew it. Dad knew it. The only person who didn't know it was mom, but that's just because she hadn't joined us in our aimless rambling through the mall. We didn't bother to call home and warn -- instead, I carried my baby out of the store and into our home, placing her on the bed where my mom was napping.

Mom, wake up! Look who's here!
... Is that a rabbit?

She was so sweet, my little Lucy. Her ears were so awkward and long and her little legs were so short and stubby that when she was little, she would trip on them when she walked. They fell into the water bowl as she drank, and afterwards you could follow her path through the house because there were two parallel watermarks. Climbing the stairs was the cutest -- she'd trip and fall on those Dumbo ears all the way upstairs. I wanted to call her Margo or Sadie, but we chose Ly's name, Lucy, because of her ridiculous loose skin, to represent both the sweet and the misbehaved sides of her (Lucifer? no?), and because of the diamond-shaped freckle in her eye. Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

Oh, what a baby. I was about to start college, but my parents said they'd keep her until I graduated, when I could have her to myself, wherever I ended up.

Three days before the end of my freshman year of college I was laid up in my room with mono. I tried to study, but there was no point -- I was on the brink of death (curse you, Anonymous!). My phone rang. My parents and my younger sister were on the line. Something was wrong. Lucy had been hit by a neighbor's car, and killed instantly. She didn't feel any pain. There was nothing they could do. She was gone.

There are no words for the sorrow that caused me. Nothing has ever hit me that hard. Devastated, I took the car my sister and I shared and drove the 8 hours home. When I got to my house it was past midnight, but I couldn't muster the strength to go inside for at least an hour. I collapsed, sobbing, on my driveway. My baby wasn't there to jump up against the door to greet me; I couldn't kiss her ears; she couldn't run into my lap. She was gone.

Fast-forward 5 years.

For no apparent reason, I open CraigsList. For the first time, I see a "Pets" link. I click; I peruse. I pass over puppy after puppy. Cute, I think. It's what I always think when I see a dog. I love dogs.

But then...

And there he is. Crash. A 4-month-old Beagle/Basset mix. He has Lucy's face. He has all of her coloring, actually. He's like a taller, sensible-eared version of my baby. And I love him. His eyes speak to me the same way hers did. Bubby is burned in my brain and I can't forget him.

Erol punched me in the face when I showed him.

Go f*ck yourself, Kate. Everyone knows my rugs are worth more than your happiness. Now, please excuse me while I trip old women and steal candy from small children.

Heartless b*stard.

Sure, maybe sometimes I forget to feed myself. And sometimes I go out and don't come home. And yeah, I leave for work in the morning and don't get back to the apartment 'til like 8 or 9 at night 5 days a week. I may or may not be the world's worst potential pet owner.

But I've just seen a face I can't forget. This is my second great love and I just can't have him.

So, to sum up 2008 thus far:

I was forced to flee from what became a terrifying housing situation -- that one came with a 50% rent increase (oof);
I was dumped unceremoniously by the most skilled mind-f*cker who ever lived;
I have been victimized all over my hood by pretend muggings, verbal assault of a sexual nature and Beverly Hills Chihuaha previews;
I fainted 3 times in a bar;
I was labeled a spinster by my peers; and
the Universe dangled the dog of my dreams in front of me years before I've achieved the emotional maturity or responsibility to get it.

On the bright side, I learned how to grill fish and I discovered the glory that is Chaka at Boundless Yoga.

Anyway, Crash needs somebody to love so I'm giving him what publicity I can:

Learn more about Crash here!

Crash is a great puppy looking for a new home. Friendly and playful towards, people, kids and other dogs, Crash is a medium energy, calm guy. He loves long walks, a good car ride and cuddle time with his people! Sound like a fit for your home?
Breed Estimate: Beagle hound mix
Gender: male
Approximate weight: 26 pounds
Approximate age: 16 weeks
Location: Williamsburg
Cratetrained: yes
Coat Type: short
Personality: calm and easy going, medium energy

How can you resist that face??

beverly hills chi-kill-me

2008-07-21T17:01:00.002-04:00

I went to see Wall-e the other day -- as a female, I find it nearly impossible not to see the latest Disney movie -- and I'm watching the previews when someone threw a huge pile of dog sh*t in my face. Seriously, it was putrid.

Look, I got it on film:

Disgusting, right?

Okay but then the greatest thing in the entire world happened, something that makes me feel more connected to my fellow web-Americans than anything since the 2Girls1Cup reaction videos: Beverly Hills Chihuahua reaction videos.

Behold, and enjoy:

aaaaaaand...

aaaaaaand...

Love it. Love it!

things I couldn't have made up

2008-07-21T14:23:00.010-04:00

This morning a guy I know told me about his intentions to get married.

That's great! You know, I didn't even know you were in a relationship.

Oh, I'm not. I'm getting married to myself.

I spent the next 20 minutes learning all about the benefits of self-marriage.

Oh, you can still get married to someone else after you marry yourself. It's just about loving and accepting the life you already have. I mean, how can you commit to someone else unless you've committed to yourself first?

I don't know, man, but I think I can spare myself the embarrassment of standing alone at an altar before all my friends and family dressed up as the saddest bride who ever was. Think: The Joker goes bridal.

*Shudder*

He then presented me with a book called QuirkyAlone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics. Flipping through (which, incidentally, was full of quizzes he filled out and passages he had highlighted -- TMI, buddy), I couldn't help but think about how misguided the whole concept is. Once the author lands a man, she'll be writing QuirkyClingy: Why Relationships With Others (Including, But No Longer Limited To, My Cats Fluffy and Tinkerbell) Are The Most Important Thing In The World.

As I returned the book I commented that the book, although super fun due to its occasional use of handwriting-fonts and celebrity quotes (bullet... through... brain...), gave me more of a feeling of depression than empowerment.

Kate, it's okay to be single! It's great! Just think about how many great, attractive single people there are out there -- in the world, and just in this city alone! You have to commit to yourself and accept that you're here on your own.

Eek, I guess I've made one too many self-deprecating jokes around this guy. I might whine a little, but that's more my sense of humor than anything -- I fully understand that the reason I'm alone is because I don't want that kind of intensity in my life just yet. I'm cool with the status quo, but apparently I've been labeled the bitter spinster, which is interesting because I'm twenty-f*cking-four. How has this guy already sorted me into his "Hopeless" file?

We spinsters-in-training don't give up on everyone else's dream of romantic bliss until we hit 35. Then we throw a huge I Give Up party officially taking ourselves off Der Laden of Liebe and resign ourselves to a one-bedroom apartment in a building without limits on how many cats we can have. I'm gonna get whole litters at a time, and then join a book club. Cats... books... life is good. Anyway, look out for that invitation sometime in 2019. Oh, and your bratty kids aren't invited. Get a sitter.

Or maybe it doesn't have to be an I Give Up party, it could just be a wedding... to myself. Or a cat wedding, I could get little tuxedos and veils and put them on Wiggles and Kitty-Face and have mini gay and lesbian cat weddings. Yay, social justice! Man, I can't wait for my 30s.

U Street Blues.

2008-07-21T12:09:00.004-04:00

I live sort of in the "hood," right. I mean, not really, but U Street is no Foggy Bottom. I've lived in this city for half a decade without ever running into any problems and suddenly I've found myself in situation after situation to the point where I don't feel comfortable walking the one block to my local liquor store, sometimes even in broad daylight. Good news for my liver, bad news for my state of mind. It sucks to be afraid of your neighbors. It sucks to be afraid of strangers on the street. It sucks to feel like you have to change your route because you see a man further down the block. It sucks to call 9-1-1 on a teenager outside your house. It sucks to put serious thought into buying mace.

Mace, as it turns out, is very confusing: much like I'm not sure what situation warrants someone harassing and assaulting me, I'm not sure what situation warrants me spraying mace in their eyes. And how useful is a tiny can of mace when faced with that group of 5-10 huge teenage boys who loiter outside my apartment every day? If something happens in that environment, I'm sh*t out of luck. I'd need to be Bruce f*cking Wayne to get out of trouble. Save me, Batman! Maybe there's something to that -- an alter-ego that involves a body-hugging bullet-proof costume. Or maybe that's just schizophrenia.

I was telling my mom about how I had to call the cops on a guy who had purposely scared me, then laughed about it with his friends. Erol came home 10 minutes after I did, all upset because he had witnessed them doing what they had done to me to some other girls on the corner. I got away okay, but the guy actually touched this other girl. Not okay, dude.

"You know what bothers me?" I mused to my mother. "When I first got home, I felt bad about my reaction. When that boy turned around and came towards me I was scared to death, and I showed it. I gave him this look of sheer hatred, total contempt -- I hated him before he even had a chance to say anything lewd to me, before he could touch me, before anything more could happen. It must be so damaging to that kid. He's what, 17? 18? And white women are terrified of him. We hate him. And yet, he was assaulting me. He was trying to upset me and potentially, trying to hurt me physically. He could have stolen from me or hit me or raped me. Anything. He knew he had that power to make me fearful, and he was exploiting it. That's wrong, and yet my reaction was to feel bad about what a racially insensitive *sshole I am. It makes no sense."

"Imagine how victims of rape must feel," she said. "Hold on to that empathy."

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to deal with the constant cat-calling, or how I'm supposed to feel comfortable walking through that group of teenagers who get drunk and high every day and loiter in the street. I resent that I'm afraid to leave my yard by myself, even to walk to the metro or to a good place to catch a cab. But I can't hold on to this fear of strangers forever. And I don't want to contribute to the already pervasive racial tension that dominates the mood of my neighborhood. I shouldn't have to feel afraid; likewise, my neighbors shouldn't have to feel like second-class citizens "allowed" to live where they do by the generosity of state assistance.

Ah, the politics of home. Who knew it'd come to be so complicated?

oh hai universe

2008-07-13T19:09:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I worry that I spend too much time on introspection. It's completely involuntary, is the thing. Or maybe I just drink too much red wine. I do tend to search for my soul at the bottoms of Malbec bottles. But I find that when I'm not conscious of it, I'm a drifter, that I tend to let things happen to me and react instead of looking for what it is that I want. And crazy sh*t happens to me, so a typical Thursday afternoon finds me covered in saliva and cursing at strangers in the street. My apartment filled almost exclusively with Erol's things is the only thing that really distinguishes me from a homeless person. ... Nice.

I won't dish the deets, but I found myself curled up in my front stoop this afternoon, watching the rain with my favorite friends: Red Wine and My Thoughts. At one point My Thoughts deserted me (Red Wine and My Thoughts have an ongoing fued, usually resulting in the total obliteration of My Thoughts) and a song I haven't heard in years started playing in my head.

I came inside to search for it on YouTube. Behold, the fruits of my labor:

No big deal, but this is probably the most deliciously depressing song ever written -- it seems a little cruel to give people a blackscreen to stare at. It's basically a mirror. You've got this depressing music, you're staring at your own image... you're searching for more Red Wine...

waca waca waca?

2008-07-01T09:20:00.004-04:00

I got pretend mugged this morning. Pretend mugged. You get that? Someone violated my personal space, threatened me with physical violence and demanded my money -- but they "was just playin'," so it's all good. Hilarious, *sshole.

It's 8:40 am, I'm coming up on 16th St on T. I'm gabbing away to my mom about how yoga is the new "not having a TV" when this guy a few feet away starts walking towards me and saying something I can't understand.

"Great, another drug-addled mind," I'm thinking. "This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs."

More jibberish. I'm not understanding him -- I'm a little distracted:

"Jesus, this man only has two teeth!! Oh, that is unfortunate. And disgusting. How does that come to be? And how the devil does he eat?"

Outwardly: "Excuse me?"

"B*tch, give me all your money before I slap the sh*t out of you!" He starts walking directly at me, faster than before, raising his right arm above his head as if to hit me.

Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing at this point. I just remember staring at this toothless man thinking "Tuesdays are the worst. God, seriously, how do you live with only your incisors? This guy probably lives on milkshakes and apple sauce singles. Less crack, more flossing, dude."

"Aaaaaaaaaah, I'm just playin'!" he says, breaking out into laughter. At this point I notice his girlfriend a few feet away; her teeth are also bad, she may/may not be homeless. She's laughing hysterically. He's laughing hysterically. Everyone is laughing hysterically. Except me. Maybe it's the stick up my *ss, but I don't think threatening strangers with physical violence is all that funny.

"DUDE! List of things that are not funny!" I yell at him angrily and return to my phone conversation with my mother.

Mom: "What's going on, did someone throw a tomato at you?"

...

I can't even begin to consider the reasons she might have heard an altercation on my end of the line and thought that someone threw a tomato at me. Frankly, I don't want to. It's disturbing.

At least as disturbing as someone pretending to mug me. What's the joke there?

Hi, I'd like to play off existing racial and socioeconomic stereotypes, make light of physical violence and street crime, and scare the sh*t out of you first thing in the morning!

Right, well, with all due respect, sir, I'd like you not to.

a phone call from andrew

2008-06-30T10:19:00.006-04:00

My douchebag friend Andrew (above) left this, the douchiest phone message in history, on my phone this weekend. Lame. Slash, hilarious.

Oh, hey, Andrew? I'm not sorry. Show us your tits!!!

http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos

i can't get no satisfaction

2008-06-29T14:30:00.003-04:00

"Kato, I'm upset with myself," blurted Kathleen as she refilled our twice-emptied margarita glasses last night. "I think I'm 'in like'!"

She met this boy a few weeks ago who's been pulling all sorts of typical "fratboys dating in DC" crap with her. You know what I mean. It's the kind of bullsh*t that newbies like my girl might not notice yet, but to veterans of the DC dating scene it just isn't cute anymore. Date me or don't, but spare me the play-it-safe middle-of-the-line nonsense -- I don't need to get sh*tty and exchange witty quips with you at a dirty bar in Adams Morgan 4 weekends in a row without so much as a single sober one-on-one rendezvous. You're wasting my precious "flirting with that other boy" time. I've already told her to drop his *ss -- this city is teeming with men -- but she's holding out hope that he'll come around and invite her out to dinner, already! Or at least that she'll get a little satisfaction from all the blue-balling they've been doing to each other. I totally get that -- you gotta seal the deal or else he's unfinished business. A ghost of fruitless flings past.

Only in DC, right? Out in the Flyover States girls our age are dying to find Mr. Right, but here 24-year-olds recoil at the idea of coupledo(o)m. Where some find fulfillment, others find their worst nightmare.

Lately I've been hearing a lot of buzz about this elusive "fulfillment." It's the new Livestrong armband -- everybody's gotta have it but no one has any idea where to get it. Everyone seems to think you get it from someone else (fulfillment=STD?), which is interesting since being "someone" would qualify me to pass it along and yet I don't feel like I'm a carrier.

Tony Robbins -- the super-sized womanizer and general sleazeball slash "life coach" -- is a big proponent of the idea that you find fulfillment in your interactions with others. He gave this whole long blahblahblah spiel on something-or-other that you can watch on TED.com where he examines the things that lead to fulfillment, eventually landing on "interpersonal connection and love." Which is kind of his area of expertise, as Lainey found out in her extensive research -- he made what I am sure was an agonizing decision to drop his wife of 15 years like sh*t-streaked underwear and then marry a woman 22 years her junior within 12 months. An upgraded model to match his obscene new money -- another classy move by the financial elite. Clearly, Mr. Robbins knows all about the sacred bonds of love money can buy; maybe I should buy his tapes and learn how to love, like him! Or I could just get them for Lainey and watch with her. Happy birthday! ... Unrelated but entertaining note: When they got married, his second wife not only took his last name, but also changed her first name. I'm not entirely sure what that says about her, but it causes an involuntary head-tilt and brow-wrinkle that usually indicates I think it's massively stupid.

But I digress. As usual.

I, for one, would say that I am generally unfulfilled in life. Yep, I'm still lookin' for my bliss. It's like the Universe's huge scavenger hunt with the ultimate prize -- God, I hope it's worth it in the end. Not that I'd consider giving up on the hunt. I think it's a genetic flaw that causes me to ache for whatever part it is that's missing in me, and then a sign of insanity that I keep trying to same things over and over to try to make myself whole. But I'm ready to consider that there are other ways to achieve fulfillment than constantly being busy and hyper-social. I know -- how very un-DC of me!

Fear not, lone reader, for your brave heroine still carries the city's vibe -- if not the innate human ability to bring meaning into the lives of others -- in certain ways. My general reluctance, like Kathleen's, to being "in like," for instance. Huh. I wonder if the two concepts are somehow related...

not hot

2008-06-29T09:53:00.003-04:00

WTF, NKOTB. This video freaks me the f*ck out.

I don't know that I've ever seen men age so gracelessly. What were they thinking?? I'm sure they blew through all of the money they made 2 decades ago (you know, back when they weren't disgusting) but a Backstreet Boys-style comeback is straight-up wrong. If you can't be bothered to dab a little concealer on your liver spots, then at least button your shirts and find some women who are a little more age-appropriate (read: legal).

Don't get me wrong, I'm not hating on older men. George Clooney, anyone? But the Cloon is totes down with his 47-year-old-ness. Plus he's not white trash like the Old Kids -- you'd never catch him wearing a poorly tailored white suit that he clearly bought on group shopping trip with his 4 BFFs. This is not the "anything goes" '90s, people.

"Hey guys, let's all wear that same outfit to the beach later and try to pick off the insecure girls at the TRL Beach House! Man, we are so hot."

Yeah... you're idiots.

Update: Lainey's friend Stephen's take on the song/video/album:

To be perfectly honest, the fact that this song/video/album was made is proof of God's existence. Because only the most vile, infested, bottom-feeding record mogul who UNDOUBTEDLY has a contract with the spawn of Hell could have thought this was a good idea. Ergo, God has to exist.

y = mx + dork

2008-06-26T23:03:00.003-04:00

It doesn't take a genius to count up all the women this guy has slept with.

I find him particularly offensive as I study for the GREs and find myself completely unable to find the longest possible diagonal of a non-existent 3D rectangle. I think part of the problem is that I really couldn't give a flying f*ck what that distance is. I hate you, Math. I do. I have no use for you. And people like Numerical Design Cumber Bun up there are frankly not filling the void that would otherwise be satiated by calculating the squares of 5-digit numbers in my head.

I may or may not hire him as entertainment for my I Give Up party. Worse comes to worst, at least I won't go home alone that night.

a collection of things that belong to me

2008-06-14T17:49:00.011-04:00

Je suis une femme, right? Which means, among other things, that I am endlessly fascinated by shiny things. When I was a little girl my favorite thing to do was to go through my Baba's jewelry. Baba's legacy is a bit mixed, but I prefer to think of her as I'm sure she must have thought of herself: a devout, erudite woman and a world-traveler. A Polish survivor of World War II, Baba valued three things above all: Catholicism (faith = important?), her M.D. ("No one can ever take away your education, and with an education you will always be able to feed yourself") and gold (because you can always sell it if you need money -- a la, WW2 movies where they smuggled valuables by swallowing them). So, outdated and somewhat bizarre as it may seem to someone living in 21st century U.S., as she and my grandfather traveled the world she bought herself a piece of gold jewelry in every city they visited. By the time I was old enough to appreciate it she had amassed quite the collection. I inherited my favorite pieces when she passed; it's part of my personal collection of things that belonged to her.

Oh, the things we own. I love those heirlooms -- I love to imagine the history that surrounds them. Where did she wear them? Who was there? What did they talk about? Was it an event worth the real estate in the brain, or has everyone quite forgotten it?

Okay, my mindless ramblings sind endlich vorbei -- I'll get to the point: I went to see the Afghan treasures exhibit currently on display at the National Gallery of Art. The collection -- a handful of artifacts saved from Soviet destruction previously on display in the major art museum in Kabul -- was absolutely spectacular. Afghanistan was once a rich center of art and culture. Hello, Silk Road? They had traders coming through all the time with stuff from India and China and Mesopotamia and Europe -- there are ancient Greek cities hiding underground! Their art is influenced by a myriad of cultures and styles and it is gorgeous. But Soviet tanks obliterated countless artifacts and historical landmarks and killed and maimed and beat down the Afghanis. And today, Afghanistan is known as a crazy country full of caves hiding religious radicals and terrorists. Its people live in penury, there's sh*t for infrastructure -- seriously, it might as well be Biblical times over there. We'll probably never see Afghanistan restored to its former glory in our lifetime. It's sad. I'd love to go to there. You know -- minus the bombs.

The thing is, I can only stay gunned up about history for so long, and then my mind wanders. This exhibit was no different. I don't know how my thoughts get where they go, but there seem to be patterns. Example: every time I see really ancient pottery -- cups, glasses, plates and bowls intricately carved or glass-blown or welded or whatever they did back in 1000 B.C. -- I think about the cups, glasses, plates and bowls in my cabinet and how uninspired and flat-out sh*tty they are. Forget the Silk Road -- say hello to Generic City! It has happened many more times than once or twice that I'll be at a perfect stranger's apartment and find that they have the exact same dish set I have. Or the same shelving unit. Or, for the love of Christ, that same Gustav Klimt print -- you know it. Der Kuess. It's in every college girl's bedroom, hung sideways. How absurd would it be to see a collection of all my things in a museum?? And then this is what flashes involuntarily through my mind:

A Collection of Things that Belong to Me

Completely nondescript blue plate, circa 2007; mass-produced by Ikea. Dishwasher safety unknown, but unlikely. Sort of depressing, but holds food in a convenient position as I prepare to consume it, so I guess I can't complain.

Mascara container, circa 2008; mass-produced by Maybelline. I'll save you some time -- she's not born with it, it's the Maybelline.

iPod unabashedly coated in rhinestones, circa 2006; mass-produced by Apple. Has potential to hold at least 10 times as many files as it does, a point made moot by the fact that I really only ever listen to my Top 25 Most Played playlist. Interestingly, I seem to strongly prefer those songs and listen to them on repeat. Handy that they've been grouped in such an accessible way.

Moose bobblehead, circa 2007; origin unknown. Not exactly "art;" serves no practical function. Not entirely sure how it got here, but bobbling head provides countless hours of entertainment and who doesn't love a moose?

Magnet reading "Jesus would slap the sh*t out of you," date of creation unknown; origin unknown (although Urban Outfitters seems like a good guess). Pictures man (supposedly Jesus) holding hand as though to slap the sh*t out of (and/or bless) another man. Hilarious. Found in apartment upon move-in. Holds up card from my mother. Love it. Keeping it when I leave. Still not forgetting that affection for something does not make it museum-worthy.

It's not just me who lives like this, either. Everyone I know has this kind of crap, even my grandparents. I kind of wonder if wills will become a thing of the past as it becomes more and more pointless to bequeath your survivors things like "low-quality set of knives from Target" or "stupid rooster statuette from Home Goods."

Anyway. After the mental slideshow of the world-famous Kato Collection comes to a close, I can't help but wonder whether the jewelry cases and the makeup containers and the painted vases and the fish-shaped flasks came from the ancient Afghani version of Target. And maybe there are all these dead people laughing hysterically as they watch us fussing over their cheap china sets that they never even liked, and certainly never dreamed would be a protected "artifact." So I figure if it could happen to them, it could happen to me, and I should probably start labeling all my things so museum curators 500 years down the line won't have to add those miserable little question marks at the end of the item captions they can't figure out.

Thus, through generic and thoughtless consumer goods, my legacy shall live on forever... Huzzah!

hello, lawsuit!

2008-06-10T11:52:00.001-04:00

Nary a truer word has been spoken...

Let us never forget the rules to avoiding a sexual harassment lawsuit:

(1) Be handsome.
(2) Be attractive.
(3) Don't be unattractive.

sex and the crazy

2008-06-08T11:20:00.003-04:00

Women are dominating in the news category lately, thus answering the age-old feminist question, "Where are the women?" They're sipping cosmos and gabbing about how that one scene in the Sex and the City movie is exactly what happened to them that one time with so-and-so... and not caring that the U.S. just missed out (again) on a serious female presidential candidate. We're preoccupied with "Big"-ger issues -- such as, does over-the-top romantic love exist? And, if so, do you think I might have it with that cute guy at the bar?

I cried alternating tears of joy and heartbreak throughout the entire movie -- thanks for the hormones, Yaz, it's a real laugh-a-minute! -- but at the end I had to restrain myself from throwing my cell phone through the screen. How could she? And the movie completely trivialized what is probably the most important reason people get married: to protect yourself legally and financially in the event that the life you build with someone falls apart and you need to go your separate ways. It's not really a romantic decision, it's a rational business decision to not get f*cked over by someone you've f*cked over and over again.

And Big, that *sshole. So she wanted a fancy wedding. So what? That man could never just do something for her, he could never just give her the things that were clearly important to her. I guess to a thrice-married sociopath like him, weddings are old hat -- or just another opportunity to show her that she wants him more than he wants her. What a f*ck. Stupid Carrie, she's getting a lifetime of disappointment with that man.

Further, what's the moral of the story? You need to maintain close relationships with your friends, and they'll help you through every ordeal you face? That's fine -- except that already at 24, I find that my coupled friends are already completely disinterested in working on any relationship that isn't with their significant other. People in couples tend to create their own universe together and systematically exclude the rest of us (at least until they need a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear to b*tch to), which is stupid and short-sighted and obnoxious. I can't imagine that will improve with children and advancing careers. So while the 4 women in the Sex series might have some superhuman ability to be and stay BFF despite their romantic lives, I'm not counting on my life looking like that. Instead, I'll be patiently waiting for everyone to leave the "wedding" phase and enter the "divorce" phase, which will certainly perk up my social life.

...

Sometimes I catch myself expending mental energy on things like Sex and the City and wish I could will myself to die. Honestly. It's ridiculous -- I'm a smart girl, I graduated cum laude from a prestigious university, I have a legitimate job and there are probably a million other things I could spend my time thinking about. It's downright eerie to me how much of my brain activity is involuntarily dedicated to relationships -- not only romantic relationships, but relationships with friends and family members and the world around me. Lauren #1 says it's just science; women are nurturers, full of hormones and advanced linguistic ability and so on. I could blame science but I'm more of the school of thought that I've chosen to be vapid, and if I really wanted to suppress these thoughts I could. Harsh.

It's not easy to ignore the thoughts though. Yesterday there was no escaping the useless inner dialogue about the connections between people; the ones I have, the ones I lack. It was more than just the movie and my crazy, crazy brain -- the night before I had come face-to-face with my own physical vulnerability and then, in my empty apartment at 2am, the fact that when it comes down to it, I'm all alone. So I roamed the streets downtown, making a half-hearted attempt to find the perfect summer sexy outfit and then wondering why I was even bothering -- how much of working on my appearance is for me, and how much is for the men who eye-f*ck me on the street? And what do I really want from men, anyway -- another hit of oxytocin to feed my addiction? That's healthy.

Oh, wasted hours considering questions without answers. I should add that to my list of interests on the Facebook.com.

this is why I don't go out on weekends

2008-06-07T10:39:00.003-04:00

It's always sort of unnerving to be reminded of the lessons learned in BabyBio at socially inopportune times. What it comes down to is that we are not the masters of our own destiny -- we are slaves to biology, and science is a cruel master.

Let's take a step back. We live in a country hyper-saturated with cheap, convenient, high-caloric food that delivers very little nutrition -- but malnutrition is much more difficult to detect than starvation. The garbage food pushed as impulse purchases or with carefully choreographed advertisement pervades the diets of even the most stringent health fanatics, and we frequently finish eating thinking we've satisfied our body's need for fuel and nutrients, when, in truth, we've just consumed empty calories. We're full, but we haven't really given our bodies what they need. In the semblance of an autonomous adult life I've carved for myself, I've shrugged off many of the unhealthy eating habits of my childhood. I'm generally pretty good, and I indulge when I can't ignore a craving. Yeah there are occasional fast food and candy binges, but they're few and far between -- and I always regret them as soon as it happens. I've grown to crave things like fresh cherries rather than Sour Patch Kids. I watch what I eat because I care about my body and my health; plus, it's a helluva lot easier to maintain good health than to restore it once you've lost it.

But I make mistakes. In fact it happens a few times a week that I'll altogether forget to eat a meal. Boys never understand this, they have this uncanny ability to make sure they get all their meals in. But sometimes there's no time. Sometimes you're not hungry because your previous meal was X-hundred calories and really, how many of those are you using behind your desk? And sometimes you just plain forget -- there's a point in the hunger cycle where your body says "Oh, f*ck it, I don't even care if you feed me anymore." Example: It's 11am, I've been up since 7 and I still haven't eaten. Maybe I should get on that...

Outright not eating can be disastrous, especially when your body hasn't been nourished with quite the right combination of salts and sugars and liquids and assorted chemical compounds required for the most basic bodily functions. Functions like maintaining consciousness.

Last night I came home from work and snacked absent-mindedly on candy while studying vocabulary for the GREs. By 9:30 I was en-route to Adam's Morgan to socialize and meet some friends of a friend -- no, I hadn't eaten an actual dinner, but I wasn't really hungry because I'd noshed a little, and didn't really think much of it. I wasn't planning on going nuts -- we weren't gearing up for one of my famously bacchanalian soirees, I just wanted to nurse a cocktail and sing the praises of Ralph Nader with some fellow progressives until the clock hit 01:23:45 06/07/08. Instead, I ended up sitting in an ambulance with a device monitoring my heartrate and blood oxygen levels on my finger.

I fainted. Right there in the middle of a bar in Adam's Morgan. Fainted, not passed out drunk. I wasn't drunk. No; malnutrition and dehydration got the best of me and I went down, hard. Three times. Once I started shaking -- not quite a seizure, but it's not a good sign, either. It means there's something very, very wrong. What that "something" is, I'm not entirely sure. Maybe if I knew, this wouldn't have been happening to me intermittently since I was 4 years old. What I am sure about is that it was the most embarrassing thing that's happened since the night that... well, frankly, I don't want to talk about that night.

The human body blows my mind. It's simultaneously resilient beyond even the most unreasonable expectations (see: people who survive 90 days in a life raft after being shipwrecked, etc.), and the most fragile thing on earth (see: fainting because the thermometer hits 85+). I've subjected my body to much more strenuous abuse, and yet it's a little dirty dancing in a crowded club that lands me unconscious on the ground?? And now I'm nervous to push my body and explore my physical limits. If I can't dance for an hour in 90-degree heat, how am I supposed run 7 miles in the middle of August? What if I fainted during the road race? How would my parents find me? What would happen? Fainting during an organized road race heavily monitored by ambulances and trained professionals is much less unnerving than fainting in the middle of downtown DC on one of my runs.

I usually love the summer heat -- the humidity you practically have to swim through, the weight of the temperature, the perceived permanence, the inevitable thunderstorms to release the tension pushing down on everyone in the city -- it's usually my favorite thing about living here. But now I'm nervous.

I'm mad at my body for being just as much of a pawn of mortality as the fetal pig I dissected in high school. But more than that, I'm mad at myself for not taking better care of my body. I'm mad at myself for not owning the situation. I'm mad at myself for having been in Adam's Morgan in the first place. And I'm definitely mad that I missed 01:23:45 06/07/08.

I guess I'll go eat now so I don't end up with another seizure-fit and miss the second go-around.

stop light, neon light

2008-06-06T10:19:00.007-04:00

I've made very compelling plans with myself to spend my Saturday learning obscure vocabulary and playing tennis in the sweltering heat. I was going to round off the day with that Bob Dylan movie I've been meaning to see for 6 months, but then I was invited to a Traffic Light party. For those of you who don't know what that is (although I don't know how you could get through college without at least hearing about one), it's sort of like a "wear your heart on your sleeve" costume party. Singles wear green (and drink heavily, because that's what they have to live for), coupled people wear red (and a look of smug satisfaction) and people whose marital status is more complicated wear orange (although frankly I think they should probably just wear green shirts that say "whore" and be done with it).

I like the idea of these traffic parties mostly because I revel in the potential for extreme, painful, palpable awkwardness. Not your obvious garden variety "awkward turtle" awkwardness -- no, I mean the kind between two people that extends beyond what would otherwise be their private world together and imposes itself on total strangers. I'm hoping harder than I've ever hoped for anything before that some girl shows up in red and her boy shows up in green and there's that moment of silence before she storms up to him and throws sangria in his face. I know that if it was me throwing that party, I would stage that scene for the benefit of my guests. Glory!

I, for one, will be wearing black -- I've taken myself off the market indefinitely for the benefit of mankind. No one needs to listen to me b*tch about the reasons I will most assuredly die alone with my cats.

Update: Actually, I don't have any cats. I don't even have any plants. I'll just die alone; it's probably better that way, then I'm not leaving behind an apartment full of unfed kitties and dessicated vegetation.

the big O

2008-06-04T09:43:00.005-04:00

Alternate title option: Ding dong, the witch is dead. Can't decide.

What I am clear on, however, is that I absolutely adore that Michelle Obama. Adore, slash idolize. She's wearing a belted purple dress, and now it's the only thing I ever want to wear. She went to law school, so I think I will, too, just to be more like her. Look at this woman -- her husband becomes the first black candidate on a major party ticket and she's all "Pound it, baby!" Jesus, schmesus, we should all aim to be a little more like Michelle.

Love it. LOVE IT!

P.S. Who else is excited for more of those speeches? With any luck, I'll be spending a lot of time on my couch in a very physical (albeit imaginary) four-to-eight-year relationship with Barack Obama.

argh.

2008-05-27T12:07:00.003-04:00

I swear, some people are just put on the planet to make you feel like you've completely missed the point of "youth" and/or "potential." You know what I mean? The people you know who always seem to be doing something cooler than you, something just slightly more obscure or artistic or interesting. Sometimes you're welcomed into their hyper-active lives and it's a whirlwind and you love it but you never quite figure out where they come up with the idea to do all these things. How do you even hear about so many events?

Social capital, that's the answer. People who really take advantage of the "it's not what you know, but who you know" thing. Slash, schmoozers and networkers and hyper-friendly people. The more people you know, the more events you hear about, the cooler at least some of those events are bound to be. It's simple arithmetic.

My problem is that I much prefer the consistent company of a select few to the social butterfly lifestyle. I'm not a homebody or antisocial, it's just in my nature: I overindulge in everything, including people. I meet someone, I like them, I want to spend time with them and 4 times a week doesn't seem excessive to me. I fit my life around it.

Other people seem to be more abstemious (GRE word o' the day! slash, WordsThatDon'tDefineMe.com) -- they meet with a rotation of up to, what, like 50 acquaintances? something like once a month each. That's exhausting. That is a lot of scheduling and not ditching, first of all, and on top of that, it's a lot of coordination, memorization of personal details and showmanship. Those kinds of relationships require you to always be your Show Self -- always witty, always cool, always ahead of the trends, always showing off a little. It's not easy to entertain people all the time; it's actually kind of a pain in the *ss. And after all that, you know you can't actually call any of those people if you want to be your low-key self on a Sunday afternoon, or need a sympathetic ear when you've had a bad day. It's a lot of work for what I would consider a relatively small payoff. So maybe you hear about more concerts than you would have otherwise or you get invited to house parties where you meet more of these acquaintances. But mostly all you come away with at the end of the day is a false sense of social security and cirrhosis of the liver from all those parties. Lame.

Slash, I'm 24. Shouldn't that be what I want?