praying for post-its and signing off. . .

me i'm taking a mini vacation to spend some time on the beach and near a pool. now to the OC i go- i might return with a various list of possible additions of plastic to my face or figure, a new found eating disorder, or a sugar daddy boyfriend (i haven't done that before). most likely i will just come back with a tan and some books read. just me.

last series of thoughts:


according to a very possibly brilliant 3rd grader, you are dating someone once you spend time alone and there is a buying of a soda.


according to a very funny quirky 1st grader, hiccups are in fact contagious. him: kate, i don't want to get near you. i just got rid of my hiccups and i don't want them again. me: i just hiccuped for another few minutes.


i am now relinquishing my lovely dinosaur of a computer to the wonderful computer healers- i have a virus that keeps popping up viagra commercials and porn. and then telling me my computer is infected by fake spyware. try daily writing under these considerations. no wonder i need the OC for a reprieve. if only these people who create such things would do something productive, world peace might be possible.


i'll be back blogging on tuesday. til then my deepest gratitude.

This is what happened after I decided I was old enough to start looking for rings. Rings on the ring finger, on the ring finger that meant more than the it doesn’t fit on any other finger, no the married type of ring. This is what happened after I saw his ring on his finger, his finger, after a night of dancing and drinking I hadn’t looked, looked because I never looked because no one around my age was married. Not in this city. Not in New York. Maybe somewhere else but not here. So after I saw the ring on his finger as we sat in the back of the cab, the cab traveling too fast for how many drinks I have had, the jerky back and forth that only an urban cabbie can get away with. This is what happened after I saw the ring on the man who I thought was sitting to close. I said pull this cab over. Pull this cab over here, now. What is going on? He exclaimed. You are married. I know. Well you should act like it. I didn’t hide my ring. Okay but you didn’t act like you were married. Slamming the door shut.



So now I look for rings, but don’t want to do it in obvious way, subtly of course. I respect the ring. Because the bottom line for me is not dating, but I like to know what I am dealing with up front. I kind of sort of want want people to wear signs: like just out of relationship, I cheat, I snort cocaine or drink too much, I don’t shower, I only know how to cook mac and cheese and very terribly, I hate my mother, I am selfish, I don’t know what a clitoris is, I might be crazy, You will have amazing sex with me but that is it. I wish there were invisible post-its that only I could see. See. So I can stay away from the projects. Stay away from those so set in their ways, their ways that there is no place for me. Place for me in their heart, in their lives.


I am done with projects. My only project should be myself. I am starting to realize my own projection of being helpful and stable only attracts men with post-its all over their body. Each one begins to appear, one by one and then I have decide the in and out. It always happens when I am sucked in, when I am invested. This is what happened after I decided I no longer wanted to wanted to give everything a chance as not miss the one. The opportunity. This is what happened after I looked for rings, I look for rings but the kicker is they don’t always wear rings, do they, do they? They most definitely don’t wear post its- not the kind I need to know about- need to know about. I need post-its that are visible to my eyes before my heart has blinded from my sight to see.

death of a name, revisited, part II

The death of a name, I knew it would be revisited. I just didn’t know how quickly. How quickly it would have to be reconsidered. So the night began simply as they often do-it was supposed to be a night of partaking in one of my favorite combos- beer and sausages. I have long list of others that warm my soul and make me smile but this was to be the one for the night. Me and R just figured it would be the typical, typical we order a beer or two and eat our sausages and end up just talking to ourselves with the random interruption by some doucher and maybe if we were lucky a hottie with a body-then we would roll out. It was Wednesday, we had work the next day. We were wrong of course.

Within moments of ordering our sausage, ordering our beer, I ran into, ran into a person I didn’t want to see. Not because I don’t like his face, I do. Or because he is an asshole. Because he isn’t. Just because how do you move on, move on when you have to see someone. Someone that used to mean so much. And still does. I feel a tap, a poke and see his face. His face. The face of a man I loved. The face of a man that I wished things could be different. The face of a man who means more than he probably should. So I say something very awkwardly like hello and then the hugging awkwardly of course. Then I’ll be back let’s talk after I get the sausage.

But I didn’t go back to talk to him. Him. Because I didn’t know what to say. What to say. Also, there was this thing happening. Happening inside of me. This thing I hate. When I run into someone, someone like this. This happens. This feeling of 0-1000 that was occurring inside of me. Inside of me. This wasn’t the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last. I am shaking like a leaf. I am scared I might pee my pants or throw up. This feeling, I fucking hate this feeling. How did it get to this point? All I wanted to do was change this reality.

Then the shaking of the hands, my heart, my head, my stomach- all pulsating in unison, all not in my control. Then the picking up of the sausages and using the wrong mustard. Then the popping of a quarter of a xanax- saved for planes and such emergencies such as this. All I wanted to do was change this feeling, feeling occurring in my body. All I wanted to do was change this situation. Make it easier for me to deal with, to breathe and drink my beer and eat my sausage and be normal.

Normal. The quest for it is a long road. A long road sometimes to nowhere, nowhere at all. The ignoring of him is hard, the forced laughter and being funny and light difficult. So I do what anyone would. I didn’t run away. Although tempted. I drank my beer, tried to eat my sausage. And befriended the bartender Stan, who gave us shots of bitters- even though I never take shots. I figured given the situation. It was probably for the best. The best. And free beers. This is a feat given bartenders here are known for being assholes. Then we-me and R-begin the rotation of the many guys that come to say hello and some stay for awhile. A scientist with my same birthday same year as me. A coffee shop guy who pours my coffee- free coffee possibility in the future. A group of guys just moved here. Moved here. The ratio here is to our favor. The only other women here are in couples, lesbians, or 7 feet tall-so we are in. Keep them coming I think. It makes it all easier. It always does. Attention from someone else. Even if they don’t mean anything, anything at all. Distractions. Distractions how they can save and serve you sometimes. Well I guess this isn’t so bad. So bad. Then he, B, is now our neighbor at the bar. He sits not next to me but my friend. My dear friend in the middle. A middle of a mess. Our mess. Over. But still ours, still ours.

I still love that dog. His dog. He brought her over to talk to me. Talk to me again after the momentarily bar parking. All I wanted to do was change this moment- because although it feels good to hear the words I know nothing will change. Words are just words. All I wanted to do was change what he would do next. Because he is not the first man who has stood before me and said he has missed me, missed me and done nothing to change the reality. But I know that that is like believing in the tooth fairy and santa claus as an adult. I still dream of grand gestures- this is not one. Not one. I wanted to change-I couldn’t look him in the eye entirely. I didn’t want to be changed, changed, by his words. I couldn’t be. Because I knew, I knew it would be the same. The same. And the same wasn’t good enough anymore. Anymore. All I wanted to, could do was change. Change and not let his words melt my heart. Melt my heart to him again.

And I didn’t and he left. Left with his dog and his friend and said he would be back. But back did he not return. So I went on with my night, the death of the name, maybe I would add B to the list. I decided just to have fun. Have fun. Because that might be my only choice. Only choice. I walked out of the bar and stopped at the bouncer, the bouncer, he has kettle chips, kettle chips bbq, one of my many vices. He is sharing. He just might be my soul mate. Got to love a man with chips. Chips. Chips on his person. I am walking outside. And before I know it I am surrounded by a group of men. Shaking hands and talking and laughing. The awkwardness of drinks and greetings palpable but there is an easy movement. The bumming of a cigarette does help out with this process. I shake the hand of a man, a man, a man on my right with a well trimmed beard, warm brown eyes, and a stylish hat, not the baseball variety but something more sheek but not too much. As we shake he say, he says my name is John. Too bad for you. I say. I just wrote a piece, a piece about the death of your name, name, John. Well I’m only here til Sunday and I will change your mind, I’m one of the good John’s. And I pause and smile - and change, change, change my mind he did.

roller skating backwards

Going backwards. Going backwards on roller skates, the old type, the vintage ones and the swinging of the hips back and forth and maybe a bubble gum bubble in the mouth. Not one of the wimpy ones but a serious one, one that took the bubalcious 4 big squares to produce. Maybe watermelon, cotton candy, or just the regular bubble gum flavor. Going around a rink or out on the street. It just looks really fucking cool but I can’t do it. I can barely skate straight. Straight. Let alone going backwards.

Going backwards is something I do in my life. Going backwards into the same old habits or the same old people or the same old job. Same but different of course. But there is comfort to going backwards to the familiar of the past that isn’t like the risk of skating or walking backwards. So today I went backwards, I was going backwards to my old school, my first college, my undergraduate, for a graduate school interview. Going back, back but still moving forward is key. A peculiar familiar movement of going back and forward at the same time. The familiarity of the halls, the look into the classroom, the classroom where I took public speaking when I was just 19. 19. I am now 32. Applying for graduate school, again. School has always been my home base, my foundation, my return to freedom. Going backwards back into schools where I started my career. Going back where I felt most comfortable in the first place. Working with kids directly, not from the far distance of an office spewing rhetoric but looking into their real faces, their vibrant eyes and hearing their words and feeling their emotions not as statistics or policy decisions, but real students. I thought the policy world would gift me the ability to create real change, but in the office, in the meetings, in the conference upon conference I attended on how to fix public urban schools, but it didn’t, it didn’t, it didn’t. After a few of these conferences, I realized if all these highly intelligent, highly capable people all got up and walked to the closest, their closest public schools what a real difference it would make. The talking grew old, tired. A room full of talk so empty. So empty.

So going backwards to where I started in the classroom, in schools, now in counseling. Counseling. Going backwards to the school where I started. It was more about figuring out how to stand on my own feet then. Then it was. It was more about getting through. Through quickly. Probably too quickly. Now it’s more about knowing, knowing that there isn’t one way to get where you are going.

still dreaming

Next year it will be different. Next year will be different but I’m sure more of the same. We do it every year write down our wishes and desires and ways we want to be different- how things should be different. But how does change happen? How does a dream or goal become actualized? There is no linear path to happiness, that I am sure. But what I am sure of is the importance of dreams.

You can learn a lot by asking someone what they wanted to be when they grew up. It is funny because each thing a person might list is so telling. Every person says something like a teacher, or a marine biologist, or a doctor or, or, or. Always something interesting. Always something never boring. Always something that matters in our world. I used to want to be a lawyer or the first woman president-which is probably still telling of who I am today. I shoot high, really high even when I was still in the confines of my only domain of my childhood bedroom. The first woman president. It still hasn’t happened yet. I could still be her. But now I don’t want it like I once did. Because as a child, I didn’t understand how ugly politics could be and the price you will have to pay to be successful. So today, today I am a part time nanny, a literacy volunteer, and I blog. It wasn’t what I had planned. I thought I would be something prestigious, something important. But maybe this work is more important than the lawyering and politicking I can do.

I ask people both young and old regularly what do you want to/or did you want to be when you growing up. I think it says a lot about who we are. What are dreams are. The dreams of our childhood were much simpler, more real, less influenced by the outside world. I dream of the freedom of childhood. The freedom to dream my dreams without the judgment of others or myself blurring the lines of importance. Dreaming, I still do it. That might be why I also believe in others, I dream in the possibilities of what we can all do. Even if it means I will be disappointed. Disappointed because my dreams look different now. Letting go and holding onto the childhood dreams for simplicity and happiness and real true success. So next year it will be different and it is. I have a new life of freedom, freedom from the office, freedom from the 9-5, freedom from the sounds of judgment in my own head, freedom from the anxiety, freedom to roam and write and laugh for that I keep dreaming.

i can't sleep

so good news is i am sleeping again. i took a screen vacay yesterday. my wednesday night of sausages and beer became more of an adventure than i had planned.

final notes for the week-
dear giants: please win this one tonight since i will be there.
dear la haze that has landed on my city: please go back where you belong.
and have an amazing & great weekend! thanks for reading!

The knocking, I hear the knocking outside the door. Below my room. It keeps happening. I am not sure where it is coming from and if I should look, look and see what it is. The mystery of the noise keeps me from moving, I am stuck unable to do anything, anything at all. Except wonder what this is knocking and why it won’t stop. It has paralyzed me so I am not sure what to do.

The knocking at night or in the middle of the night scares me the most until I realize it’s either the neighbors or one of my roommates. I hate waking up in the middle of the night. Sleep has become my nemesis. I can’t make it through a whole night of complete sleep. It started a few weeks ago. I would wake up every am at 3:30 am.. What to do at 3:30 am except drink tea, read, take a sleep aid herbal or otherwise, or just will myself back to sleep. The knocking, that keeps me up is in my own mind. My mind racing, traveling at speeds that I am not comfortable with. I think, I think, I think too damn much. Now my thoughts have penetrated my sleep, my dreams, my now nightmares. I dream for restful sleep. Dream, dream, dream. The nightmares are so vivid and unlike anything I have experienced. All traumatic almost involving life and death, almost all things out of my control. My friend said I should take them to my therapist. After studying psych, Freud might have a field day with me.

So the good news in these nightmares, I always make it, I always survive. Shot five times in the shoulder, pleading for my life, no 911 working, no one to pick me up, I drive to the hospital myself. Myself and still leave with those 5 bullets, 5 bullets in my shoulder. Or when I was caught in a flood, calling my family to say goodbye and the water reached, the top, the top, only to rescind. Only for me to be okay. Okay. Okay. Or maybe when I thought my friends was avoiding me and my calls just to realize I had forgotten she had died. Forgotten she had died. I was scared to tell her, tell her what I had dreamt. But when I did she laughed. Laughed because how could you ever forget someone died. In my dream so guilty, I watched videos of her. Or how about when I saw a man a man get beat so terribly I called 911. Or how about when I left left the then guy’s house I was involved with to run an errand an errand for him. To find out he had slept with someone else while I was gone for 5 minutes.

What is the knocking? Why does it keep coming? I want the knocking to stop. The knocking inside my head that keeps me up, keeps me up, keeps me up, wondering what the knocking can really mean. What am I supposed to do? I want to get up and answer the door. But I am scared, scared to see what is on the other side.

be careful with the lasso of truth

We all have to make decisions. Some important, others not so much. But when it comes to Halloween- the choice of what to be, what to be, what to be is an important one and shouldn’t be taken lightly. It doesn’t matter if you are beyond the years of trick or treating- because the costume will make all the difference. So this past year, I went back and forth and I decided to be wonder woman. Now anyone who knows me probably wouldn’t be entirely surprised because I have been know to participate in some wondrous maneuvers over the years. I have been known to balance, balance a lot. I have been known to have my own type of lasso of truth. I have always thought wonder woman was kick ass but truth be told I wanted to make out with someone and the best way to make out with someone is wear little to no clothes and being a super hero just was a bonus. And it being Halloween and all I stepped it up.

I got almost all of my gear at american apparel not in a costume section-but the regular one- because you might need gold spankies to have on hand for everyday use. Don’t you? Don’t get me wrong I like american apparel but when I looked at those gold spankies and the red body suit I thought I needed an extra-extra large. The woman at the store reassured me that no,no I was of course a medium, a solid medium at american apparel. She was of course was an extra-extra small- they all are at that store- meaning she hadn’t eaten in months and just had her breakfast of a line of cocaine in the back room. It’s hard to be skinny. It’s hard to starve yourself. It’s actually much harder to do it the right way. Much harder. Starving yourself and cocaine is the easy way out. Easy way out.

Back to Halloween, there is a thing about the big night celebrations like Halloween and New Year’s- it’s either going to be life altering or suck ass. So that being said I always keep the bar low as not to be disappointed. Some of my favorite nights have never been nights where anything great was supposed to happen. You end up at the beach swimming in your party dress and ask a guy who is walking a dog to join you and voila- a man has stripped his clothes off and is running fully nude to join you. Not a pretty sight. But definitely fun, definitely.

This Halloween I was rallying to go, go and once I got there I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. Last Halloween, the Halloween before I had drunken myself into oblivion and got into a fight over chips and after a few discussions and much reflection I realized had to slow down the alcohol down the throat and soon. Since then I have been drunk times I can count on one hand, I used to do that monthly and then it got to weekly. Hence the chips fight and how I got to now. The night had a slow start and I wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure until someone caught my attention. As I walked through the crowd to go, to go to the bathroom, I am blessed with a small bladder. No, it really sucks. The moment he looked at me again I knew he was interested. Interested. Then there was the touching on my arm and lower back and I knew for sure. If it was only this easy I would wear this costume all the time. Note to remember later- if you need to make out either wear wonder woman outfit or little to no clothes. Got it.

So the night had a series of unfortunate/fortunate events. We- the rather large group we were with- ended up at a yacht club-my name tag read kathy or candy. They pretended to close and promptly kicked us out and the median age was 45 and hotness factor on the scale was pretty low on the scale. Until we got there and then the kicking out. Then we walked, walked for a while to a houseboat. A houseboat with tons of alcohol and left over food. I was hungry but didn’t know when this food had been birthed so. I ate the standby you guessed it- chips. And then all of sudden I think due to a time change it was 3 or 4 and everyone was leaving. Leaving

I ran inside to catch up with the man of the night, he was in the bathroom, soon I am too. The cab is already here so I have to talk him while I go the bathroom. The bodysuit is coming down and the gold spankies- I ask him to look away- while we decide our next move. It’s not everyday you meet someone and pee in front of them. One usually works up to such closeness. We had a time crunch so. . . Multitasking at it’s best. I am running to the cab- and either have to let my roommate go, go with me, or without me. With him or without him. I am going back and forth. Because he has this friend. This friend he supposedly can’t leave, who is really drunk and passing out. Passing out. Then he is falling down and there is screaming of the friend. I finally tell her to go. That I will stay with him. The lights of the cab pulls away rapidly. The gate in is locked. Locked. I am standing alone on the dock in a wonder woman outfit. It’s cold. Shit did I make a mistake. I see him.

So now it’s time for triage- his friend- well really we aren’t that close. He is on the ground screaming something about his knee. A grown man reigning from Oakland screaming on the pier and now the tears. Holy shit. He really is hurt. But he won’t take help from anyone. Trying to calm him down. Breath I say. Why the fuck did I stay? Is the price of kissing and possibly more worth it really? Probably, probably. Now neighbors are complaining. We are calling cabs. Calling for help. A guy on a bike shows up to help. Help. A coke dealer on a bike can’t really help. I thought coke dealers had a lot nicer rides. The coke dealer is useless-shocker. Everyone is crowded around the injured one- who is still yelling and now walking- adrenaline now his best friend has kicked in it would seem. I can’t get a cab to come, we are somewhere near the giants stadium pretty much death cab for me, for him, for us.

Then, then because it can always get worse, my roommate calls and is locked out. Locked out. And I am the only one with keys. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why can’t my super powers kick in now, the invisible device she rode around in would really help us right about now. I could block some bullets- something. We are totally screwed and not in the good way. We resolve, resolve after to figure out what to do that we will walk to his house, get his car, and save my roommate. We keep laughing sporadically. Laughing about this situation. Because it is funny. Very funny. And really we just wanted to be with each other not in this mess. But there is something about someone who laughs through the trauma-something really attractive. His “friend” we will figure out that later.

Will you promise to protect me if someone tries to hurt me. Because I am still partially clothed as wonder woman. Of course. So we walk. It’s not as close as I hoped. I have to pee. I am hungry. We are still laughing. Rats take over this city in the wee hours. I had no idea. Rats groups of rats almost touch my red toms. I scream. We laugh. A family of rats lives near his house. A mini city within a city.

We are driving- we are saving my roommate. She feel asleep, feel asleep on the back porch. She tried to pick the lock and almost climbed her way up, to the roof. Making pasta at 6- holy fuck what a night. It was a night that other people when I ran into them would say we talked about that night for awhile. It was a night we talked about for awhile too. It is strange, strange, to have choices like getting in a cab, or a friend getting stuck in an elevator which can change your night. Change your night. Change. Changing. Changing. We all get to change sometimes. I was given a new love for dark beer- porters and imperial stouts- I had always stuck to the light. I gave him, him although fearful of germs the new addiction of second hand shops and thrift stores. Immediately washed of course. I was given 2 new places to roam, roam away from it all and still in the city. I gave him him kombucha that didn’t make him hurl and homeopathic medicine to fight off colds. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. During the chaos. During the quiet. Still the same. Be careful with the lasso of truth, you don’t know what ways it might change you.

3 o’clock jameson or I heart democracy t-shirt

Worker bees around the honey of power, listen to me, what I need, what I am being paid to tell you is important, because I am in fact more important, pausing, but I am. The cockiness and vanity spewing from their mouth and pores like the alcohol they had the night before-only those around can actually smell it but you in fact reek. The forced smile, the insincere laughter, shoulders tense, folders on the top of the table with the correct marketing information- we are in the business of manipulation- my ba is actually a bs. The scheming, pleading, the dance of wants and desires, have you been bought or are you selling? Welcome to politics, capitalism has crashed, collided, landed, united into our invention of democracy, it was so perfect, until. . . . it became more than an idea transformed into reality. Our forefathers never envisioned this- not that all people no matter the descriptor could participate no matter what the highly edited textbooks say- not that all could be bought for the right price. The price is in fact wrong at least for me. I can’t be the only one.

Name tags of every type of constituencies, walking in herds- moving as one with the marching band toward the common goal of whatever that has been decided by them-for them. Underground the place were they keep the food in all the buildings no matter if it is Dirksen or the maze of Rayburn- the folks come together to pretend to break bread together we are brothers and sisters of course. A direct route to someone’s stomach detouring to their heart-oh I am sorry I meant their pocket or their vote. I hear them humming or mumbling “I scratch your back, if you” – they come in masses to not really eat but to play, take in a round. I have a membership you know, my card is in my pocket.

The older people, grayer, suits more boxy, mostly men and overweight still believing they are young in years. Telling the young and mostly saturated in privileged-it is dripping off them as we speak-white skins hanging only out with the with white skins, white clothes at the right time, God bring me some color- I am drowning in a sea in whiteness- blinding me into this darkness. Dating the right person from the right caste, abercombire in the beginning maturing money marketing to brooks brothers. Flipped collars, I want to flip you off make me nauseated. Georgetown this, nose job smith point that, town hall pearls, really? Glover park my ass. A token brown or poor hard worker sometimes pushes/pulls/jumps/sleeps/climbs through their label confined by social order to join this circle- a mockery of our system- the American dream is alive and well it would seem. The elders tell the young, their young essentially the legacies their offspring their clones- bush is pissed off by the misuse of life but not the legacies role in our world, his world seems to be just fyne. The olds tell the youngs what to think about changing the world or let’s be honest maintaining the quo, their status. The young ones run to tell the old, the supposed decision makers- the representatives, the senators- white skins as well those youngs run with a coffee in hand, scotch in their flask, coke in their pocket.

Those elected ones multitasking into numbness, thinking for yourself does hurt, my itinerary did not say that, your synopsis of all media was missing this. Some still banging high priced hookers, sometimes a page or intern if they get lucky- they can spend the left over money on buying someone else’s time, soul, their ideas, their votes- everyone seems to have a price in this town, this place, this district, state, this world. Don’t meet them in the bathroom- they might have a wide stance, as do I. These interns, newbies, LAs(legislative assistants), greens in their uniform of privilege run, run faster, your treo, I phone exploding to tell the boss usually boss man who are you kidding- who they work for what to think- how to think- how to vote- how to be. No one stops to look the mirror of conscience, karma, or does the 2^nd or 3^rd grade gut check- no one asks how to play this role like a real man or women would if given an ounce of the power, prestige, fame, or respect. No one asks, no asking, no one asked, but I continue to. Alone again in my thoughts and feelings trying my best to push against these norms of negotiation. I heart democracy my t-shirt reads. My song inside my head is so lonely- I see everything as it is. Midas might have touched our system- it is gold- glimmering- a monet of sorts but it is in fact hollow empty like a chocolate Easter bunny with the shitty chocolate waxy taste. The aftertaste is a killer and you dream of the real stuff.

Before sitting in the security line, a younger women- just out of girlhood, telling me I am not allowed to call a senator directly. I become a cocky bastard like the rest, I am above this girl thanks for the advice, but I'm not you, I'm not green like you, its a personal meeting- this is place has fucked with me too. Here is my power and my importance she isn’t hungry, not even time for lunch yet- trying to pretend that I am in fact not green.

Green i will always be. I don't play these games, buy into this way of living being, no handshakes, no promises, or words of commitment can stand against this wave of government. Run not for its people, but for the few-the many-the proud-the privileged-the power of this way of "relating", "compromising", or "conversing", the show most people dream of being part of- i despise. Alcohol soaked conversations about who knows who and who is the most important, here look at my credentials, my blue book, my cv, my bank account, my drug dealer can me here in 5. You want some coke, or maybe a xanax, here is my business card collection, did I tell you I was published. I actually am related to the Kennedy’s or the Bush's or the Hoffa's or the Rockefeller's or I am daughter of liberty, I am rich, I am a bitch, I went to Harvard or Yale or Columbia. I am smarter than you, stop, stop, stop, stop, the arrogance quiz show that never comes to commercial.

it’s too late to apologize and the results are in. . .

Alright I get it, I get it I pissed you off or made you sad or shared too much or too little but before I creep back to the corner and say sorry, sorry I wrote what I did, wrote what I did and put it on the internet for the world to read. I might not be on google yet, or maybe I am, but who knows what the future might hold? But people saw it, people saw it and read it and it wasn’t left for me to tell my friend(s) over the bar but I told a few hundred people. Okay I get it. I get what this is about. So all I can say is what I wrote, what I write, reflected a moment in time, might not even be how I feel right now in this very moment. It was my perspective of what happened and although it might not be your truth-it’s mine. It's mine. Let me do tell you- I edit, sparingly of course. Of course. Because it would be less interesting-Disneyfied. I didn’t tell everyone everything but I told what I had to say for myself. If others can share in my pain or joy or honesty or make fun of it-so be it. I am not going to stop. It’s too late to apologize so all I can do is keep going and say, say if only, if only I could write fiction, I would. You gave me the stories so now they are mine. Mine to share if I so choose. And dear family member who will remain nameless of course-I love you so but anything is fair game after your antics. Your quote in the paper made it possible for me to say anything. Anything at all.

now for the good stuff. . .

i am humbled beyond belief. after one month and one week of 5 days a week blogging-here are the results: hits in 6 countries (other than the good old u.s.a)-one that is just on the equator in the ocean (who are you? where you?)- some military hits (possible bf material?)- hits from half the states (both land locked and coastal and both blue and red-yes!).

800 folks have read- and a tad more than a quarter of you have came back for seconds or thirds or fourths+. please keep reading and sharing! feel free to tell me your thoughts. hope you like the addition of pics and new labels. hope you enjoyed this sunshine this past weekend if you had it where you are!

coming soon to a blog near you:

let’s play a game- what’s in your uhaul?

3 o’clock jameson

i don’t want to sit in front a computer for the rest of my life

why I-sometimes-boycott whole foods (maybe)

dirty laundry

champagne hands

i can’t sleep

swimming to angel island

i unheart the o’reilly factor

bill cosby had a point

rejection: harvard and san francisco state

sorry i forgot my tats

the death of a name

This name, the name I can’t write. Write on this computer screen. If I write the name- the following might happen: a) I will jinx myself and a wonderful man bearing his name would appear b) I might piss some folks off c) one of them will promptly return, oh shit one just did. I will opt to play it safe. So the name, the name that died for me is common, it most likely was the in the top ten popular names in the mid to late 70’s to early 80’s. Everyone knows one. Everyone has dated one. Everyone has one on their ball team of the soft or kick or their team at work. You probably have one in your family.

Well, I have, I have dated 4 guys bearing this name. 4 guys with the name, John (pseudonym- to protect me and protect you). I opted to stop at three but the fourth time wasn’t the charm and most definitely killed the name for me, for good, forever. I guess I thought if I stuck with the same name eventually, eventually it would work out. Work out. I made the rule to stop dating Johns and then guess what happened I broke my rule. Duh, rules are made to be broken especially if you make them up yourself. Just like the time I wouldn’t date someone just out of the relationship. Broke that one too, more than once. Silly Kate breaking patterns is really fucking hard to do. Good thing for my current and future therapists. Know what you dragging or driving in your uhaul. One day I will get it. One day.

So back to John. The infamous dear john letter of my life. So every time now a man reaches his hand to mine and says hi my name is John- I know in that moment I will most definitely fall in love with him, he will most definitely break my heart so I stop it at the handshake. I get tempted. But I know better, now. They each held a different type of love for me- a young one, an unrequited one, and one where I fell in love with who I thought he was. Still the heartbreak felt the same. It was devastating. It only took 3 Johns to break my heart for the name to die for me. Dead to me. It only took eleven years to figure out that Johns and Kates just don’t work. I just realized TLC and the antics of reality television shows have proven this without a doubt.

What was wrong with these Johns beyond the typical venus v. mars, bad timing, we met too young, he didn’t know what he wanted, she didn’t know want she wanted, the x-girlfriend came back bs. They all were unemotionally available which as an overemotional female suited me just fine. Like too many emotions + not enough = pure happiness and bliss. Math failure, I think. I think they might have a fatal flaw of sorts. Well 2 were certifiably crazy. Yes, loony tunes. Both had mental breaks, one when I knew them, one when our love affair was distant in the rearview. Another was scared of failure so much he never tried. Never tried. Really. Not just with me but in life. Which actually might have made him much more heartbreaking than the crazy two. He had a brush with death, he might not live a long life. But he remained unchanged and let life pass him by. Me too. I gave him too many tries. The last time I saw him he was in a hospital bed. The time before that I made out with him at his sister’s house. And I haven’t seen him since except the hospital of course. That is no way to say goodbye. No way to say goodbye. The confines of the hospital bed saved us from a conversation of what would happen next. But what would happen next? Next. Nothing. Nothing. Something again. Not so sure.

So every time I hear the name, John, I feel a twinge, I feel my heart pound, I feel repulsed and nostalgic all at once. I hear John and I stop, I stop and think and a smile may begin on my face. Because although John never worked out for me it didn’t mean I couldn’t love the John’s from afar. That might be the only way. Dear John, please don’t write me a letter. Please just stay, stay far away, far away. Except if you are different than these Johns before. Maybe I can resurrect the name, for the right John of course. The right John- rules are meant to be broken. Rules of love, rules of love especially.

sorry sir but this is a library card

I went to the big wheel race, now you might be wondering what a big wheel race is- it’s an quintessential SF event where grownups, adults dress up and go down one of our most crooked streets on a big wheel, or a recycling bin, or a cooler, or a cool bike that they got from their kid-one of their own or one in their family- or a Mexican dude in the mission for $25. Long story short-it is entertainment at it’s best- there is the risk of getting in trouble because of the permit, because of the rules- but to see your favorite heroes dressed up going down a hill and possibly eat shit- it’s definitely worth it. For the last two years I have been a spectator- I haven’t got the courage up to actually join in the parade.

So last year as I walked home full of laughter and full of the beginning of beers I had hoped to consume, little did I know sobriety would be mine. I saw a man, I saw man, I saw a man repeatedly hit a car. Now it took me a second to realize, realize in fact it was mine, my nanny mobile, my Toyota of reliability. Oh shit. I couldn’t do anything but watch for a moment, until, until I sprung into action. Action. I tried to get him to stop. But he kept turning his car in the parking space directly, directly into the side of my car. The same dent, in and out, in and out. Shit this isn’t even my car. What is wrong this dude? He finally stops and is now at a diagonal, his oversized lincoln aka an old person car is horizontally in the space. For a moment. A reprieve. A pause. So I am freaking out because this isn’t even my car but my employer’s. My employer’s. It doesn’t take long to figure out there is something wrong with this guy more, more than the usual, more than the inability to park without running into things. He couldn’t park the car without direction, or with it for that matter. So he allowed for one of my friends, the host of the party to put his hands on the wheel to direct him into the spot. No more dents. Thank God.

So this is where it gets interesting. Because it wasn’t interesting enough. I approach the car. And begin. Begin to talk to him. He is slurring. His eyes are rolling back in his head. He is a serious lump on a log. He is drunk, he is on drugs, he is on something. He is not my favorite person. This is not my lucky day. Or is it? I begin to ask for his insurance. He is mumbling. I think he is saying sorry. I think he might be falling asleep while I talk talk to him. I need his insurance, I say. He slowly drags his body through the one seat, the one seat in the front seat, first his torso then his heavy legs, his head collapses forward. Then springs forward again, then the mumbling. He is mumbling still and trying to find the insurance in his glove box. Trying to. He eventually hands me his insurance card. I look down to see one of the colorful library cards of our great city of san francisco. Without skipping a beat, without yelling, without losing my shit I said, sir, this is your library card, now I am not sure what you want me to do with this, but I need your insurance card. Oh this takes the cake. I guess he needed some books. I need some books too. How to deal with a man under the influence of many things when he has hit your scratch that I mean your employer’s car multiple times. Someone needs to write this. Also a book on how this might be funny if it wasn’t my life. Okay it is funny. It is my life.

He never produced his insurance, he never produced a check of sobriety, he never left the car. I gave up and found myself back at the party. I wanted to get drunk but refrained. My new friend he was wiped out, he took a nap in his car. I repeat he took a nap in his car. I had no other choice then turn him in- part of me felt bad- but I needed the info, I needed to know he wouldn’t drive again any time soon. So after vacillating between the right and wrong. I called the cops. They knocked on his car window and woke him up. He took the test and failed.

I did get the insurance information, I did find out he was on medication- thanks SFPD but that is more than just medication- they did take him away- the dent did pop out. I did find out there was a video. A video of the whole thing. The whole thing of me freaking out. I haven’t seen it- but when it releases at a local apartment near you- I promise to invite you. Okay maybe not. A private viewing might make more sense.

cafe slut i call friend

hello friends, family, randoms, colleagues, former loves, and potential lovers-

i want to share with you some wit, some humor, and some baring of the soul and luckily for me it's not mine. so i can stop turning red, i can stop pissing people off, i can stop for a moment. please check out my dear friend's commentary on her experience as a "cafe slut" or more like a barista in your local coffee shop or one in an urban mecca she lived/lives in including SF, NYC, and Boston. Anthropology and humor meets coffee and maybe just maybe one of the customers. . .

http://www.anthroaster.com/

the mending of the heart, again

What mended her heart was that they were able to talk, talk aloud, to each others faces one last time, at least for now. What mended her heart was that it could be so civil the saying of things such as I need to be alone, I am scared of being alone, and the saying of I need more, I need consistency and it all being true. True for then. True for now. True.

Because endings don’t always happen so simply. So simply they do not occur. But maybe, maybe this time, the back and forth, the dances of desires, the limbo of companionship had finally reached its epilogue. It’s easier to let go, let go when you are ready. If if you don’t want to. Even if you too are scared of being alone. Fear of being alone. Is why I stayed. I was willing to except the inconsistency, the warmth, the coldness enveloped in smiles and looks and funny looks or winks or the food network planning or food concoctions or dancing to nothing and everything all at once. Because it was warm enough. But it would get cold too quickly. This was new for her, the not being alone, the having a man in her life, for this long. Bad timing her mo, her story. Bad timing again it would seem. For him, being alone, him being alone, he didn’t know how to do it. So he held onto her as she filled the void of what complete loneliness could bring. These two held onto together as long as they could until, until, until mending their own hearts, their hearts, meant the connection between the two could not be. Could not be.

I hate saying goodbye. But sometimes you have to. When you know that the loneliness is the glue that sticks you together. When you know the person can only be there sometimes. What mended my heart was it felt okay the goodbye, the day I met him, the day we just left, and all the days in between. I have dated many men but not all leave you with a mark, a mark that you don’t want to let go of. What mended her heart was the honesty, the words of honesty finally spoken. What would mend his heart, she wasn’t sure. But she knew, she knew it wasn’t meant for her mending. Her mending. His heart must be mended on his own. On his own. What mended her heart was she knew it was real, real enough to walk away. Because settling for once awhile could never be enough.

What mended her heart was she knew it would be mended by the resolution, peace of mind, the constant worry of where they stood now no longer. What mended her heart surprised her. It surprised her because it was the ending she feared all along. It had never been enough. But she had been honest enough to see it. See it. Friends. I will see you again. Mending meant ending. Ending always felt awful but this time it felt more like it would be okay. I would be okay. And being lonely, what would mend her heart, what would mend his heart, was the end for them, for now, forever. No one knew. But she did know this. Mending, the mending of the heart was beginning at least today, at least for today. Today. Or tomorrow. What mends her heart was that he finally admitted he too needed the mending. Alone. We weren’t alone.

don’t call me baby, call me snowflake

The first time as I walked home, walked home when I was in 6^th grade down the curvy bike path towards my F section home, in my suburb of Rohnert Park, someone started to honk, someone started to yell. And I was startled. I didn’t know was going on. But little did I know as I begun the brink of adolescence, through my teenage years, and into adulthood, that this thing would never change. The catcalls never have stopped. It didn’t matter if I was a kid, if I didn’t even have boobs or a period. Men began to yell at me. Fucking perverts, I thought. Still do. I used to get really angry. In my head saying is that how you would talk to your mother, your sister, your aunt? Your female in your life that might matter. Matter to you. I remember the first time because I didn’t know what was going on.

Now I’m prepared for it to happen. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t showered in days. It doesn’t matter if I am in my PJs. Awfully matched PJs. It doesn’t matter if I am riding my bike and sweaty with my dorky pink helmet, actually the sweat might help with the calling. It doesn’t matter if I’m crying, baby just smile, baby don’t cry your beautiful. Excuse me as I barf. Am I beautiful while I hurl? It doesn’t matter if I walked backwards and did a jig. Okay maybe that might matter. It doesn’t matter what I look like, not really. It’s more about power. It’s more about it working one out of million times. I sometimes wonder who would be drawn to the hey baby, hey sexy, hey beautiful, so much they hail over the car, or the construction worker or the guy and provide their number, their address, or much more. I think it might be fun to play along and call their bluff but truthfully I’m just too fearful to do it. Part of me thinks it must work or why would they keep trying, trying again and again to no avail. But is it about working or just doing it? Doing it.

So here are some of the highlights over the years:

Until last year the only place a man had made an animal noise at me was in Marin County. That made it more interesting that in living in 4 urban cities the only place an animal noise was directed to me was in Marin County. Who would have thought that such harassment would ensue in one of the wealthiest counties in the country? While I was walking my aunt and uncle’s dog, the middle aged man with grayish hair pulled over his bike and said roof, roof, roof, slowly and seductively. Seductively. I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. That being said I told him if he had pegs, I’d be down for a ride. No I wish, I just laughed and walked away. Later I told my aunt who was outraged- that someone in her neighborhood- in her neighborhood would do that. Take notes- there is more.

So then the animal noise happened again. Years later, I was walking down the street in the Mission (SF). The cat calls, the snickers, the clicking noises are pretty frequent in this hood probably because the dudes are actually as taller than me. Probably because of. As I walked by a man who sat in the storefront window, he said meow, meow, while mimicking a cat's mannerisms and blowing kisses. I felt special. I felt pretty. I felt important. I skipped the rest of the way down Valencia.

While living near Harlem, I got a lot of attention when walking to work probably because I was the only white girl in the 10-block radius. My whole life I wanted to be exotic growing up in a predominately white suburb I was the norm and guess what finally I was. Little did I know what it would entail. Hey snowflake, hey panda, can you be my white panda bear, can you be my snowflake. Hey snowflake, the first time it happened, I looked around, I guess since I was the only white girl it must be me. Me, snowflake. At least it was creative. At least it was more creative than the animal noises or grunts or the sexy baby bullshit.

No, I am not here for a modeling convention. No, I can’t smile for you. No, I am not moved by the trivial attempts at your prehistoric noises coming from your mouth. Yes, I have a boyfriend. Yes, I have a husband. Yes, I have an overprotective father and brother. Anything to make you go away. Go away.

My own cat calling. I got so fed up with being cat called, I started to do it. I had a stint with cat calling. It didn’t really work out as I had planned. Guys either don’t know you are talking to them because why would they ever, ever think a woman would be yelling from her friends car at him because because that never happens of course. Or they liked it. They like it. So essentially it backfired, but every once in a while I do feel liberated and yell at a guy or a group of guys. Only for them not to realize or care at all or just care too much.

What happened to hello and a smile? So here’s my advice men, men of the world, either make it witty or stick to the standard hello and smile. Don’t’ call me baby, call me snowflake or don’t bother at all. You will go a lot further with that one. Mark my words.

fear of flying

A twist of rope. A twist of rope intertwined around her hands as she braided together the rope to make the swing. She had tried to do this over and over to no avail. For some reason he was so much better at these things. He had always been. She hadn’t asked for help. Help out loud or quietly to herself. She held the pieces in her hand and wondered how should I figure it out. Should I google it, find a book, call someone? For some reason the braids won’t come together in the same way. The weight of a child or an adult would make the swing buckle, the rope twist and turn and make it impossible to swing.

What was it about this swing she kept coming back to. She had spent hours on this swing, hours. Closing her eyes and seeing patterns of light inside in her eyes for only her to see. She never got dizzy, never disoriented, she just kept flying and swinging. She tried to go on a swing when she was an adult. Not the tree swing type but the public park make. She swung with the children, up and down, and it wasn’t like before. She felt ill, she wasn’t sure if she could keep going. She felt she might lose her lunch. Or lose something. She wasn’t sure what. Wasn’t sure what. But the up and down felt strange not the solace and peace of her childhood but an adult trying to relive something that should be left behind. Maybe this piece, this piece that once was was gone. Gone. Or had to be felt in another way. It’s funny because hide and seek and grass fights and pretending and imagining great and strange things felt the same. It felt freeing.

Something about the swinging, the controlled movement the freedom of her childhood was lost in the rites of passage. Maybe it was something about equilibrium. Maybe it was something about fear. Maybe it was something about flying. Flying too high. Higher, higher, again, again the kids yell to her to push them. She runs back and forth between the swings, between the swings. Freeing them from the limits of the ground. Up and down they go. They must enjoy it now for being a kid adult is hard work. They might not be able to do it later. So I push them too long, too long as I push myself to feel that feeling again and not be afraid. Not be afraid of what will be next. When I fly. Flying above. The freedom I once had will be mine again. It will be mine again. Fear of flying forgotten.