Renaissance or Something

rawk
I fired my therapist. She deserved it. I had originally hired her to help me through some of the stresses of moving to a new city, spending most of my time by myself, deciding the next move in my career, coming to terms with the way my upbringing has affected my relationships, you know, the usual shit. Once a week I would show up and crack my knuckles, excited to plow through these issues and move on with my life. She’d greet me in the waiting room with a meek, insincere half-smile. “How are you?” I’d ask her casually, to which she’d always respond “I’m okay.” Then she’d sit in silence and bored disapproval while I frowned out the window at the Empire State Building and psychoanalyzed myself. Sometimes I’d pause and look her way, inviting participation. She’d lift her chin abruptly as if startled from sleep, raise her eyebrows and make some empty comment like “you should do something about that.” I always left feeling very annoyed and slightly sorry for her. Was I the only person who could manage to pick a therapist more depressed than I was?

You all know that since the beginning of August I have singlehandedly held down New York for Team Big Things, getting by on my own with the help of the internet and the 4 friends I’ve made since I moved here. Much of TBT will be moving to Brooklyn in as soon as two weeks, and I am overcome with relief. I don’t even think I will realize how much it sucked to be here without them until I finally have them back. It’s texts like these that prove I will one day be back to norm again.
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For a while I played with the idea of meeting some people on the internet, which was a bust for the most part. A few months back I made a fun OkCupid profile as a joke. I often make joke profiles on social networks I think might be dumb out of curiosity. This would explain how I got stuck with “ButtButt” as a foursquare name, “Catdookie” on instagram, and “Slutz[underscore]Taco” on OkCupid. Turns out people don’t think you are joking when you call yourself a Slutz_Taco on a dating website. They truly think you will sleep with them even if they look like a sea monster made of turds and use pick up lines like these:
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God bless these fools. Nevertheless, I could not shake my desire for new mans. And attention in general, really.

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In a dramatic turn of events, it was the dumbness of the internet that eventually brought me together with a boothang. Snapchat, specifically. Have you ever snapchatted your phone number to someone in the middle of the night? If you haven’t, it is a great way to start a romantic rendezvous with your celebrity crush. I give it 5 out of 5 stars.

If you live in New York (and maybe even if you don’t, but I can’t say for sure), you’ve probably realized that A LOT of people have been getting sick with colds and haven’t been able to shake them for up to two fucking months. I’m not saying it’s a government conspiracy (CHEMTRAILS) but it has definitely affected me quite a bit and that has definitely sucked.
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^Here is a picture of me with a 102 degree fever after I sleepwalked to the corner store and bought a shit ton of cereal.
I’ve been to the doctor 3 times in the last month and in the meantime I have been slacking on all my other appointments. My cats are due for a teeth cleaning (do other people do this?) and it’s been so long since I’ve gotten brazilian that I’m positive my Bikini Artist is going to laugh in my face the next time I hit the spa.

When I’m NOT texting my new boo and nursing an illness sometimes I go out to public locations and alter my mind. I’m not sure what actually happens at these functions besides taking selfies but what else am I trying to do really?
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It should also be mentioned that I quit my job at the salon to start working on a TV show. Before I started this new “gig” I had the privilege of dipping down to North Carolina for a bit of fun, the photos of which I will unload later. It’s too much glamour and beauty and suburbia for this particular post.

WHILE I WAS GONE it brightened up substantially around the city and I have been loving it. Honestly if you would just follow me on instagram @catdookie I wouldn’t have to repost these here and it would be far more convenient for me overall.
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Cute, right? Now that winter is officially over and life officially no longer sucks, I’ve rediscovered the fun of walking around the city aimlessly. Also I think Jadakiss lives in my neighborhood.
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My new job is fabulous and great and everything you’d expect. I even made a new BEST FRIEND to add to the collection. It really helps to have a person around for moral support while you’re ruining your manicure and eating far too much craft services. I’m not sure how long this particular job will last because the end of the season is near, so I gotta get in as much free food as possible before then. IMG_8121 IMG_7897
I actually think I may be physically addicted to terrible food at this point. My hours at work are so crazy that I don’t really have the time (or fucks) for grocery shopping, so GrubHub is essentially my livelihood. The other day I ate no less than four kinds of fried seafood out of a cardboard box, and last week I ordered Chinese THREE times, one of which was just after I had finished eating Chinese. I never regret it until I step out of bed the next morning into a pile of empty takeout boxes. Then I feel just a bit gross.

Late hours do work well, though, with the fact that I like to stay up until 5 am playing with my hair (or having sex). Hannah got a job at a new salon where she gave me a brand new cut and color, and helped me style my fun new clip-in extensions.
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If you live in the city you should definitely check out Foster Glorioso at 5 East 19th Street. It’s super gorgeous and beyond chill. Plus they have wine!
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^Here we are on our way to the FIRST bachelorette party I’d ever been to. Our friend Lisa celebrated the end of her freedom and I spent all of my fucking money on male strippers! It was fun, but they should have been tipping MY ass…like, do you even see this weave? (Truly I’m kidding, these extensions were cheap as hell and take forever to put in, so mostly I’ve been rocking my new REAL hair a la Uma in Pulp Fiction on a good day. Still though.)

Yyyyeah, I’m still broke, I’m still crazy, and I still have a dead rat in my backyard (in case you were wondering). But I have a new job and new look so like, move over. ‘Cause this is a competition, and I am here 2 win.

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reading the signs

I have officially been wearing the same clothes for two days and I smell like chicken noodle soup. I just got home, carrying hair products, birth control and a burrito in the same paper bag. I’m googling “sad diva” and looking at the images. I haven’t done much today and it hasn’t felt like much either, which is good. Sometimes nothing feels a lot like everything.

Last week I had big plans. That is, relatively. I was going to get my first massage on Monday, go to yoga on Tuesday and then to meet my new therapist. On Friday I’d have a job interview. Of course all the time in between I’d be at my current job, but I was excited for all of these new opportunities to relax and reflect. I’d been feeling more and more anxious lately which I thought might have been a symptom of PMS, or the general stress of not knowing what to do next with my life. Or, you know, both.

The massage was awkward. I had a man’s hands all over me. I hadn’t had sex in a month. The entire time I was horny and trying not to fart. How was I supposed to relax? I left with a stomach ache, my shoulders still sore.

On Tuesday I was so whacked out and paranoid during yoga I spent the whole meditation worried the class was running over and I was going to be late for therapy. The class ran over. I was 20 minutes late for the meeting with my new therapist where I was greeted with one of those “I’m disappointed in you” smiles you get from a parent when you fake sick, only it was especially awkward since we had never met. I had forgotten to print out the paperwork and bring it with me to the session. This was starting off on the wrong foot already. What if she thinks I’m crazy? What if I am crazy? Fuck, am I crazy? We talked about my “life” as much as we could in the 20 minutes we had. I found out later there is a problem with my insurance, so my copay for that session was $115. Afterwards I changed out of my yoga clothes and did my hair and makeup in the bathroom at work.

On Thursday I went out. Winston was djing at Cocktail Bodega where there was an open bar, so I had about 5 vodka grapefruits and we left. On the way home we found a cardboard box filled with no less than 1000 Lifestyles ultra lubricated condoms and some children’s books. I decided to carry it all home with me just in case.

The following afternoon I had my interview, which I’ve now overanalyzed it to the point that I have absolutely no idea if it went well or not. But the best thing that happened to me all week was when the founder of the company came over, stared at my resume with a lifeless expression and said, “It looks like you’re a writer.”

Saturday night I bought a $20 dress from Necessary Clothing and went out to Dizzyland by myself, piss drunk. Aside from the train ride to the Spectrum and taking shots of Wild Turkey all I have is the hazy memory of dancing with some guy and then making a run for it. And apparently taking this selfie on the street.
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I think I was going for “violently adorable.”

What happened after that remains unclear, so the next morning I looked for signs of what might have transpired. I woke up with wet hair. I was in my pajamas. Lars and the Real Girl was paused on my computer ten minutes in. There was an empty cereal bowl and a bag of chips in bed with me. On the floor, my new dress was wet from the waist down. A red electric blanket I didn’t recognize was laying next to my condom box. I suddenly had a few frames of memory. Something about shivering in an alley, my legs curled up in my dress, and looking up at the Montrose L station mere steps away and thinking “there’s no way I can make it there.” Something about a yellow cab. Something about a blanket. I don’t remember paying a cab driver. Maybe I didn’t.

I spent the day hungover and laughing it off.

That night was the moment some had been waiting for! And the one I had kind of forgotten about. The Oscars are never really a huge deal to me because I suck at seeing movies the year that they actually come out. The only movie I saw in theaters in 2012 was Pitch Perfect. Not that I’m proud of that, it’s just true.

“But why?” you ask. “For the price of a burrito and some chips you could go see a movie.”
to which I say, conversely, for the price of seeing a movie I could have a burrito. And some chips. 

Of course there is always illegally streaming which I looove to do. The only TV I have is this tiny 90s Panasonic that I use for N64, and cable is just so not in my budget right now. I was able to find a live stream of the Oscars just in time for the tail end of the red carpet. The Seth MacFarlane thing was somewhat painful but most of it was funny/chill and needed to be said, so I’m not mad at him. I suppose it is necessary for award shows to evolve like everything else to that level of extreme self reference.

My stream was abruptly taken down right before the good part and the only replacement I could find was a video mostly covered by ads. So I listened to the rest of the ceremony while imagining what Jennifer Lawrence’s butt looked like when she fell and what facial expressions complimented Ben Affleck’s shrieking falsetto.Since I was really high by that point, and since feeling sad is a sport, I decided at 12:30 to watch Silver Linings Playbook, a love story where crazy people do crazy things and sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it’s not but maybe we can all stop being crappy if we want and find love, or at least help each other, or at least not feel so stuck.

First I cried a little. Then I was OK.

Winter Bummerland

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After I died from a sinus infection and came back to life just like Jesus herself, I decided to put my clean bill of health to use by moping. Every year around this time the whole world starts shitting themselves over ~*SNOW DAYS*~ most of which I spend wrapped in my snuggie complaining that it’s too cold and that people aren’t paying enough attention to me. Which is true. Winter totally blows my butthole and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.

Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t actually own a proper coat. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t really have that many friends in New York yet (cue “Home” by Michael Bublé and also me eating a whole cake). Or maybe it’s the different piles of frozen vomit I’ve been finding outside of my apartment every morning and–ahem–the massive dead rat on my back patio that is covered in snow. I just don’t really find it that cute.

The only things that have gotten me through these past few weeks have been

a) the yoga class I just started (I’m a mom!)
b) drunk dancing to Gloria Estefan on the M train, and
c) my new haircut

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I got bangs, and then of course Michelle Obama did too because she’s like obsessed with me or something. I’ve also become especially fond of these (second hand!) fur earmuffs I’ve been wearing every day.

So okay, I know I don’t even go here, but I just have a lot of feelings. And for whatever reason that’s only between the months of November and March. In the summer I’m always the first person to buy a round of DGAF for the crowd and start the party. I want that to be my winter look! I really do! But strong hoes also cry.

Strong hoes. Also cry.

When I’m not wallowing my social life basically consists of getting drunk way too early and making intimate winter gatherings as awkward as possible. Here I am around 11pm at Beth’s birthday potluck last weekend.

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Since I’m not going to move to LA tomorrow and I probably shouldn’t take any more of that Xanax that was prescribed for my cat, my plan is to stay so busy that I don’t have time to be a psychopath! Buying breakfast for the people I’ve drunkenly abused is getting expensive, so I should probably find a more productive outlet for my nervous energy.

Uh, I’ll let you know when I think of one.

Meanwhile, the Identity Crisis Diet has made my body 100% beach ready. So when I received the call to be +1 on a SECRET ISLAND VACATION this weekend with hands so frostbitten I could barely even answer the phone, I clearly said yes.

Miss Jesus works in mysterious ways, y’all.

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Bye Bitches. I’m Outie.

Admit it. Every year around the time that the leaves turn yellow and humidity’s strangle finally starts to loosen, you find yourself giddy with anticipation for the pumpkin spice lattes, the rosy cheeks and noses, all the amazing clothing items you will layer over other clothing items. You’re overcome with romance at the thought of snuggling up by the fire, kissing someone in the snow or just that feeling you get shopping for a new pair of boots. You skip joyously on those one or two days where all you need to stay warm is a denim jacket, thinking about how merry the holiday times are going to be this year. “Oh happy day! Santa is coming and he’s bringing snow!” you scream prematurely into the October air like an overzealous child in denial.

And then it happens. Without skipping a beat, the most bleak and resilient layer of stratus mother nature herself has ever begotten (it gets worse every year, I’m sure of it) collapses all your hopes and dreams, teetering instead between snow-less arctic temperatures and weather that can only be described as “fucking alright.” Thanksgiving rolls around, you gain the first five of that ten pounds you will undoubtedly accrue before New Year’s, and before you know it…the holidays are over. You had one pumpkin spice latte before you realized it was 400 calories and you burned off all your taste-buds on what you swear was not non-fat milk. You can barely afford your heating bill, let alone even dream of a working fireplace (pre-war doesn’t mean the same thing real estate-wise outside of Upper Manhattan). It’s mid-January. The last person who snuggled up to you was your cat, and that was only because your ten day New Year’s hangover turned into the full-fledged flu and the fever was keeping him warm. And even on the brightest, sunniest fluke of a 60 degree day you can’t help but know in your heart of hearts that the proverbial groundhog is giving you the proverbial finger, and there will be an ice storm in March.

So why do I do it? Why do I continue to insist that there exists a “winter wonderland” beyond Tumblr jpegs of some Norwegian girl in a poncho? I suppose it can be done. I remember being 8 and praying to god (shows what I knew) for a snow day so I could bask in the carpeted, centrally heated palace that was my suburban home. And with the right motivation and a good savings account I may have been able to spread some of those conveniences into my early twenties. But with my unfortunate inability to save a dime and what appears to be a solar-powered immune system, all this cloud cover makes me want to melt Klonopin in my cocoa.

That being said, my visit from the plague over the last couple of weeks left me with a lot of down time to handle some personal things that really matter. For example, I spent a few days contemplating my relationship with Gossip Girl’s Dan Humphrey and decided that while I do like his haircut, he is too pretentious for me. I attached studs to the back pockets of my jeans, cleaned out my computer and updated my flickr account. Oh, and I downloaded some music to help take the edge off that Seasonal Affective Self-Loathing. Enjoy dancing to this track by Newtimers. Now that I’m on antibiotics and pretending it’s April, I’ll be dancing with you.