“I Can’t Move My Arm!” and other things you say when having a nice adult time!

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A few Wednesdays ago, while sputtering through an afternoon at work like a car outta gas, I received one of my weekly invitation forwards from my friend Moe. Since we met six years ago, and maybe even a few months prior, my social life has been at least in part guided by the compass that is Moe’s infinite RSVP list. That is, when I’m trying to have a social life. With my just too typical full time job/full time relationship/full time couch potato combination, I’m pretty easily dissuaded from going out to bars and clubs, and have instead been drawn to daytime events that involve more of an activity, where I can (maybe) burn some calories, and give myself a new story to tell beyond “you wouldn’t believe the dumb thing I did when I was drunk!” (which, like me, is getting old). I often still end up drunk, but it’s usually now obscured by the exciting new Experience-With-A-Capital-E I’m having!

Some examples of this that you missed this summer include the following:
1. Visiting the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens
Remember flowers? I didn’t – not after this past New York winter. Cue the first warm weekend in NYC, and very crowded yet romantic outing was had for thousands.
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 Real person (not staged). Welcome to Fancy Brooklyn.

2. Showing my Mom Around New York
One great way to realize you’re not as old and lazy as you think you are is to try to take your out-of-town parents around the city. Very quickly, you realize other people don’t actually think it’s a “normal commute” to walk 6 miles every day, and before you know it you’re dragging your poor mother behind you because it would be “a shame” for her to not walk over the Williamsburg Bridge to your Greenpoint apartment, all the way from the West Village. She still knows how to have fun better than I do though. Can’t deny that.
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3. Roof Chilling
This is the point of summer in New York. Thankfully, I live in the cheapest (too expensive) apartment of a very tricked out building with rooftop views for days. In my world, this counts as doing something.

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4. A Very Martha’s Vineyard Memorial Day
My older brother has a cottage on Martha’s Vineyard where I like to go pretend to be fabulous sometimes. It’s fun to guzzle vodka cranberries all day, ride twenty miles on a bike down a busy narrow road, spend hundreds of dollars on lobster, and embarrass yourself in front of strangers you’ll never see again, all while getting to say words like “Aquinnah.” Plus there’s just something about not having money and pretending to have money that lets me feel like I’ve truly “made it.” If there were a school that taught twenty-something white kids how to be adults, they would have a class on this. Also, MV is just beautiful. One thing I don’t recommend, though, is driving up from NYC on a holiday weekend and returning 3 days later (like we did). But if you do, you simply must stop at The Lobster Pot in Wareham, MA on your way back.
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5. Attending My First Shabbat Dinner
Can you really call yourself a New Yorker until you go to one of these? I’m not a religious person, nor do I have any Jewish lineage, so the concept was pretty unfamiliar to me. James’ friend and coworker was kind enough to invite us to his weekly ritual, which involved some praying, some dank food, a lot of Kosher wine, and a lot of jokes about Billy Joel and Seinfeld. Oh, and really beautiful views of the Upper West Side. If it sounds like cliché, that’s because you’re jealous.
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6. Attempting to Adopt a Dog
This was a really sad week after Memorial Day when James and I attempted to adopt this one-eyed beagle from a shelter in Staten Island but didn’t get approved because our apartment was too small. Probably for the best – it wasn’t well thought out. But it was still a very sad experience so I’m not going to post a photo of him. I’m not ready.
7. Turnt-ing up in Wrightsville Beach, NC
The classic thing I do every year with my family. Again, just more chilling, lots and lots of food, and lots of Tito’s vodka. I easily gained 10 pounds in the week we were on vacation, and only got a little sunburned. The most memorable event of the evening was when (relatively sober, mind you) I had a margarita at Tower 7 Baja Mexican Grill that immediately caused all the color to drain from my face, sending me running through the restaurant to yarf uncontrollably in the bathroom. I didn’t even make it to the toilet. I spent about 15 minutes with my arm in a stopped-up sink scooping up the puke and throwing it in the garbage can. Then I washed my hands and went and ate a plate of enchiladas. If any of the employees from Tower 7 are reading this now, I’m sorry for hogging the bathroom and leaving such a nasty mess. The margaritas were really strong, so it’s kind of both our faults. Also thanks for reading my blog, I hope you like it.
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 An Adult Beach Party

8. Trying to Grow My Own Vegetables

This is the story of how for two months, I had two beautiful baby plants named Kale and Cilantro. The cilantro died quickly because it doesn’t like rain, but the kale grew huge and beautiful like elephant ears and produced delicious salads until the evil Building Managers made us move it so they could do “landscaping” (a nicer way of saying they mowed down all the trees and greenery in the courtyard to put in a concrete patio that serves no purpose whatsoever). I put the kale in the backyard of the church next door and haven’t gone to check on it since. I have to climb a fence to get there and I’m afraid the catholics will look at me weird. Clearly, being a cool hipster grown up is super fun and I’m great at it.
9. A Very Martha’s Vineyard Fourth of July
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The Vineyard again, you say? But of course! Except this time we took a 5 hour Megabus to Boston after work, “slept” over at my brother Nate’s insanely clean apartment, and left the house at 6 the next morning to meet a group of Boston’s drunkest medical professionals and take a BOAT to the vineyard. It was beautiful ride, for the part of it that I wasn’t entirely seasick and exhausted. But we were livin’ large, so I can’t complain. Of course, on the way back, we took the $200-a-ticket Seastreak Ferry, which takes you directly from the island of Martha’s Vineyard to the island of Manhattan. What they don’t tell you is that it bounces almost the entire 4 hour ride, leaving all the noob passengers panicked and buckled over with nausea. That is, unless they were smart enough to take dramamine and fall asleep. I was not. I spent the majority of the ride escorting barfing strangers to the bathroom and listening to the Pirate’s of the Caribbean soundtrack in my headphones, laughing at what I’d gotten myself into.
10. Hitting Up Broadway
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Another thing adults do together is attend “Broadway Shows.” You see, Broadway is a long avenue in Manhattan, the middle section of which is home to giant screens with advertisements on them, every chain restaurant you could ever imagine, and lots and lots of tourists. There are also these big rooms called “theaters” where people wear costumes and dance and sing at you. Sometimes the dancing and singing is rather funny, and in rare cases the dancing and singing is funny and super offensive. One of these rare cases was Book of Mormon, the Tony Award-sweeping musical my boyfriend took me to see. A “Tony” Award is when legendary Broadway actor Tony Danza decides that your play is super good and he gives you a sticker.
11. Taking a Sober Month
Sometimes you gotta take a month to remember who you are – the less ridiculous, more real you  – so you can put your best self forward and figure out how to find strength from within. And that’s what I did, for most of July and the beginning of August, by taking a break from my summer booze binge. I guess I partly succeeded? I remembered who I was, I think, but I didn’t exactly find the strength so much as find out where I needed it. Ever tried going to a work party where everyone’s tipsy except you? To call it “unbearably awkward” would be an understatement, at least for me. More about this another time.
12. Buying a Bike
One thing I did learn from my sober month was that I, like many people, use alcohol as a way to face certain fears…and then other fears I mostly just try and avoid. Who wants be like that? One of the biggest categories of fear in my life – an umbrella of fears, if you will – is the fear that I’ll be bad at something, which has stopped me from boldly pursuing a lot of shit I’ve wanted to do. Like ride a bike in the city, for example. Hannah has an awesome bike and no one to ride it with, and I was determined by the end of the summer to accompany her out to Jacob Riis Park – on two wheels. Luckily, I happened to find the perfect bike right when I had the guts to buy one, and I rode out there with her the next day. As you can see, it was a little overwhelming for us in the heat. We took the train home, but we felt totally great about ourselves anyway.
13. Going to Cat Camp
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Remember in Clueless when Cher and Ty wore shortatards, did Buns of Steal together in Cher’s living room, and talked about the self-help books they wanted to read? And then Cher was like “we should probably do something good for mankind or the planet for a couple of hours.” Well, I think we can all agree the best stuff to do is stuff that’s fun, but that also benefits society. Which is why I felt like it was a perfect idea to go to Purina’s Cat Camp by myself during my lunch hour. I got to play with kittens while standing around and encouraging people to adopt them! It was a really beautiful experience. I never did understand why Cher didn’t care about Marky Mark planting that celebrity tree. It totally aligns with her values.
14. Making an Attempt at Climbing
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I accepted the invite (from Moe, of course) to go to Brooklyn Boulders as another attempt at fear-facing. I’ve never been a huge fan of heights, as pretty well explained in this post from last year. But I keep hearing from EVERYONE how much fun this climbing thing is, and what a great workout it is and how great it makes you feel in your body and mind. Even though I walked into BB a little nervous, I can still say that I was far too confident in my climbing ability. It’s waay harder than it looks, and there are rules that really force you to be strategic (like, each time you climb you can only use holds of the same color). I think I made it to the top…twice. And we were there for about two hours. But it was only my first time, and I did feel how gratifying the achievement was. I also got to witness my self-fulfilling anxiety in full action: the more nervous I was, the sweatier my hands became, making it even more difficult to hold on, which, of course, made me even more nervous. But it all worked out in the end. If I wasn’t on the ground watching Moe “Six-Workouts-A-Week” Dabbagh completely school me, who would have taken a picture for his Instagram?
15. Catching up With Old Friends Over Home-Cooked Meals
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I had my three-year anniversary of living in New York back in May, but no matter how used to the city life I become, I still feel my happiest when I’m in an intimate setting with a few of my closest friends. Bonus happy points if they’re from out of town. I happened to be having a tough and stressful week when I heard that my long time BFF Sarah Cousler was visiting Brooklyn from Asheville, NC. So we spent 3 days eating the delicious food she cooked, chilling out and catching up. Whatever the question in life, food and friends are the answer. Someone cross-stitch that on a pillow for me.
16. Taking My First Trip Upstate
I think the only way I can deal with living in the city is if I can get out on a semi-regular basis. On Labor Day weekend, James and I were due for a romantic outing, so we rented an upstate cottage on airbnb. Every time I reserve an airbnb I’m blown away, almost unsettled, by how easy it all is and how trusting and generous the hosts are. This effect was doubled by the fact that we had traveled to Woodstock, which is all about ~Organic/Sharing/Group/Love/Handmade/Peace/Giving~ vibes. I hiked a mountain and ate local meat and swam in a swimming hole and watched scary movies and went to bed early and slept late and was sad when I returned. I think that’s why the real Fabulous New York Adults who have houses in the Catskills drive 100 miles an hour up the interstate in order to maximize their vacay time, but we’re not quite that intense yet. Someday.
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So, I had no shortage of adult misadventures this summer, but easily the best (and dumbest) of them happened on August 22nd, at Prospect Park’s Lefrak Center. The event I was drawn to was Wolf + Lamb’s Roller Disco party, which was the invite I received from Moe that week. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to continue my pattern of accidentally exercising while having fun. I didn’t realize when I bought the ticket, however, that Moe had been merely suggesting the event and not confirming his attendance. That is to say, he was going to be in Mexico that weekend, and I had just bought a ticket to go roller skating for the first time in 15 years, by myself.
Luckily, I was able to convince Bradford to come along for what ended up being a very exciting and hilarious attempt at remembering how to skate – well, really, learning for the first time since I was more of a blades kid. I slalomed through tiny children while bopping to 80s music and at a certain point I started really feeling myself. I was fierce, like one of those roller derby girls. I could totally do this.
At that exact moment I was cut off by an adorable five-year-old, and when I leaned back to dodge out of the way, my legs swung up in front of me into the air, Tiny Toon Adventures style, and I caught myself with my arm outstretched. I could feel tears welling up, but I wasn’t going to actually cry. What was I, a baby? I had to keep grooving and get over myself. So I did, for another couple of hours.
It wasn’t until later that night that I realized I couldn’t bend my arm (or unbend it, for that matter) past 90 degrees. Still, I figured I was just being a weenie about it. But on the advice of my brother Nate who fear-mongers me into seeking medical attention on a regular basis, I went out and got some x-rays the following Monday.
I was examined by a young-ish orthopedist on the Upper East Side.
“Where were you roller skating?” he asked.
“Prospect Park.”
“Oh, was it the Wolf + Lamb party?”
“Uh, yeah.” I responded, somewhat surprised.
“Nice. I almost went to that party. Those guys are my friends.”
I don’t know what it was about it, but there was something that felt very off about all this. I was an adult, getting examined by another adult, because of an incident at a roller skating party he also wanted to attend. I had felt pretty ashamed for getting injured in the first place. A kid would have just dusted herself off and gotten back up, and I’d somehow landed myself in the radiography room. But could I have been too old for this behavior if a guy well out of med school was cosigning it?
I was told to wear a sling for a week, which led to some hilarious T-rex-like attempts at completing tasks around the office and some elaborate lies about how I got the injury (you didn’t know I’m into ultimate fighting?!) But it didn’t stop me from going out into the world to find the next rooftop, enjoy the rest of my summer, and continue my pattern of laughing in the face of dumb decisions.
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Could it be, then, that this is what adulthood looks like?
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Freeze No More

IMG_5732Everyone has their limits. As you know, I reached mine with winter about a month ago. Shortly after, from eating nothing but pasta and living off couch cushion change for weeks, I surpassed my limit with the “between job” lifestyle. Three sentences in, I am already pushing my limit for this blog post, because I’d rather be watching House of Cards. Seriously, am I the only person on earth who didn’t watch the second season in a single day? To be fair, there have been a few other things (and a few other shows) on my plate.
IMG_5561When I last Blobbed (I sometimes affectionately refer to this thing you’re reading as my Blob), I was sunning in the frozen tundra that is Martha’s Vineyard. That is, lying prostrate on a sofa and delighting my older brother with this year’s version of My Plans to Change My Life as he administered vodka cranberries into my system via central line. What in the summer is a bustling a tourist community is for all intents and purposes shut down this time of year, although we did hit up a bar on the first night complete with live island jams and some seriously drunk moms and dads. Since I majored in Drunk Senior Citizens in college they are a bit of my expertise, and I felt right at home, closing my eyes and vibing to the serious saxophone tunage. Truthfully, I was just wasted, and a weekend with a bunch of old irrelevant beach strangers was just what I’d needed after being trapped in my house for the whole month of January. That, and unlimited hot baths and sandwiches and sexting and episodes of Forensic Files. And that’s exactly what I got, plus six inches of snow, House Hunters on demand, solicited and unsolicited relationship advice, endless shit talk, and 10 hours of sleep a night. We even got a nice hike in there, which for Nate means literally running uphill through the woods. But hey, I had some calories to kill. Plus, winter in the vineyard might be the most beautifully spooky thing I’ve ever seen.
IMG_5522 IMG_5513 IMG_5540 IMG_5527 Venus went direct just in time for Mercury to slide into retrograde, so after I rode the megabus back to New York and successfully repressed the entire experience, I was prepared for things to be a little fucked up. And I was right. My computer was suddenly on the fritz, not holding a charge, shutting off in the middle of things. I was terrified and frantically backing things up when I could, certain that this was the end for my best friend. Meanwhile, servers were down all over the place. I couldn’t get burritos on Grubhub when I wanted them. The people at Chipotle were forgetting to add cheese. Okay, so most of my problems were Mexican food related, but I’m sure Susan Miller will tell you it was all fucking Mercury’s fault.

The day after I returned, I met up with Reid and a few others for a “night on the town,” which according my version of Winter Nightlife meant drinking at my apartment until 1, stumbling and grumbling over snow piles on the way to the bar where I’d nurse a cocktail for 2 hours and do a bunch of poppers, before hopping in a cab home that was clearly out of my budget. On this particular night, I calculated that I would need four 24 ounce Coronas to get the party started, so by the end I was a complete and total mess in the head a la 2011-2012 (without the assaults, arrests or afterhours). I was asleep by 3:30 and spent the rest of the next 24 hours shivering and shitting and feeling sorry for myself. Was nearly 100 ounces of beer, two double gin and tonics and a bottle of poppers suddenly TOO MUCH for me to handle? Had I gone soft in my old age? Or had I simply been putting up with hangovers of this magnitude for the last five-plus years of my life and could no longer choose to accept it? This is why I can really only fuck with Tito’s vodka. I don’t even think it gets you drunk I mean it’s basically Evian. 5 out of 5 doctor’s recommend it! Or was that judges and rehab? Gotcha.


In a spectacularly romantic gesture a few weeks prior, my significant other had bought me a plane ticket to come spend Valentine’s weekend with him before I started my new job. Because I hadn’t quite been sufficiently depressed and sex deprived enough in the frigid weeks since I’d last seen him, mother nature decided to bring another fuckface of a blizzard our way just before my departure. What would I do if this flight was cancelled? I missed him so much. And I thought about it and I’d tried but I just could not masturbate anymore. I called JetBlue to take proactive measures at switching to better flight times, asking all kinds of questions and begging for advice and using words like “tarmac.” Ultimately I decided to take a gamble and keep my original flight for the morning after the last day of snow, and somehow managed to depart and arrive on time. 

In Chapel Hill I encountered the expected level of collective dismay when my crop of local bff’s all realized my time was spoken for by the boy who’d brought me there, and every moment that I was not [insert disgusting sex act here] I felt really bad about not being able to see them. That being said, I also had delicious meals, intimate moments, eye contact and body contact with the person I love, so I wasn’t exactly overcome with sadness. That Saturday, in accordance with my NormCore boyfriend’s plans, I got to see a side of Chapel Hill I’d never seen before, one that is familiar to almost all of its other students and alumn: Frat Life. I even saw a sport on TV. I won’t say they were the highlights of my weekend, but they certainly made me feel one with the people. I was like Frank Underwood at that Civil War reenactment. I wasn’t really about it, but I admired their conviction.
IMG_5913By Sunday the bae and I had to say our goodbyes. I was headed back to Brooklyn once again, this time to do actual “work” and make “money” so I could “live.” What a total drag. Before my flight my mother met us at the Starbucks in the lobby of the airport to say hello and goodbye to me and be introduced to my new partner for the first time. First we had the pleasure of telling her we met on fucking Twitter. Then she asked him how he was doing handling “all of this,” and pointed at me. “She can be kind of a lot.” I would have been upset had I not known her for 24 years and thus been absolutely certain she was complimenting me in her own way.

As I walked through security in mismatched socks covered in my boyfriend’s roommate’s dog’s hair, I dreaded going back to New York. I knew I’d miss my boyfriend, but was it more than that? I hadn’t wanted to be there for a while, but I didn’t know what I was running from either. Responsibility? Chasing the dream? Watching Forensic Files alone?

As I stepped into my snow-stained uggs at the end of the TSA line, I was not a sorority girl, not yet a woman. But I was glad that, at the very least, I had someone to eat burritos with on Skype.

January Rewind

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Ok, so January kinda sucked. Everyone was hungover from the holidays until about two weeks in, the freelance tv job market was bone dry, and no one wanted to party through their seasonal affective blues. But people, we’ve got at least a month left of this shit, so let’s get it together.

I say that half-jokingly, of course, because I am just as guilty as any of being a stoner/homebody in the winter months…the following photo shows the highlight of one of my more exciting recent Saturdays, wherein I matched my snacks to to my 1980s ski jacket. The state of my face and hair in that photo should give you an idea of how much I haven’t given much of a shit about my appearance (or anything) for most of the past month. My priorities have been mostly TV shows and various deli foods.

IMG_4859As evident in my previous post, I have been fairly active on the internet in my hibernation, but it hasn’t all been bad. Sometimes I get so bored I make fun little art things. My boo had a birthday early in the month so I made a little twitter avi art for him as a gift. I’m thinking of doing others by commission. Summing up people’s essences with google image searching and crude photoshop can be a fun substitute for having a life.

IMG_4764With queer rights doing so well these days, soon I’ll be able to marry this dog!

Let’s see, what else did I do in January? Well, I basically had a month long bad hair day! I’m trying to grow my bangs out, as in, trying not to let impatience get the better of me and chop them into a caesar cut just to make my ‘do a little more interesting. For most of January, that is, the 2.5 weeks of it that I was employed, I was doing some freelance video editing. As you can imagine, the standard for beauty in that niche of the industry is pretty low. The following are the before and after pictures of my most recent trim [by Hannah] that I received after a long day at the office. I figure only about a year to go before I’m at my desired length! *laughs for an awkwardly long time while side-eying kitchen scissors*
hairWhen I say all I’ve cared about in 2014 is TV (that includes skype sex, right?) and food, I mean it 100%. I’ve eaten more red meat in the last 30 days than in the last 4 years of my life (life hack: most delis will let you add bacon to a meatball sub), and thanks to Reid’s Apple TV I’ve gotten caught up on such boobtube classics as Toddlers & Tiaras and American Horror Story: Asylum. I have a hard time watching that season of AHS while eating ground meat products, but I make do.

IMG_5034 IMG_5083Let’s see, what else…Oh yeah, there was that time I thought I had a violent stalker because someone left this butcher knife wrapped in a towel at the ledge of my apartment door 🙂

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I knew I recognized it from somewhere, but still, I PANICKED…someone could have broken into my house, stolen a knife, and left it outside to send the message “hey, I know how to get into your house, and I’m probably going to stab you later just FYI.” Didn’t seem that farfetched to me. Turns out it was just my old roommate’s dad returning it to us.

I have gone out to a few good parties recently. There was F.R.A.T (FUCK RAGE ALWAYS TURNT) a few weekends ago at Steel Drums, which I don’t remember whatsoever aside from looking great and then chatrouletting/watching Mulan in my bed afterwards at 7 am with Reid (my only friend, apparently). Then there was Anna’s birthday party, which was supposed to be a karaoke party but was mostly just people screaming with poppers bottles up their noses.

IMG_5240That night I also did a little something special for my fans, reenacted on snapchat all the best scenes from my favorite web series of all time: Got 2b Real. If you haven’t seen Got 2b Real, you a loser baby. It’s ok, you just a loser! Patti, if you ever want to turn this into a live sketch show, I do a great Mariah/Christina/Fantasia Barrino. You can find me on snapchat at: katstkat.

Anyway, I’m off to get day drunk alone in Martha’s Vineyard. Cause that’s what you’re supposed to do on a snow day, right?

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da fam disaster

Happy Holidays Yall copy

Happy holidays n shit, folks! Allow me to ring in the season with this jpeg of my festive card (photo by Sass), which, now that I’ve stabbed every fed ex/kinkos employee into a bloody pulp to have prints made on time, figured out exactly how to buy stamps and then spent an entire night addressing and personalizing 100 of them…have now probably arrived at your door (if you did not receive a card I suggest you become BETTER FRIENDS WITH ME. This was the first card in what is sure to be a tradition for years to come. I’d love for you to be included). These pictures were so hard to take. I wish I had some behind the scenes footage of Sass trying to make the Chokey (my apartment) presentable and then trying to keep Kos n Gon’s attention for long enough to snap this pose. It was near impossible. Maybe I’ll post the outtakes sometime!

OBViously the reason I haven’t posted anything in so long is because of the job I had (or so that’s my excuse) the last few weeks of which I spent delirious, looking like this
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and of course, answering emails like this

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Welp.

During my free time I was spending all my money on BRUNCHES and not giving a single fuck cause, I mean, ya gotta eat. One must eat. Also, I was involuntarily waking up at 9:30 am and starting to feel weak around midnight. Sometimes my friends would convince me to come out to things and I’d show my lazy face. My fav night was one where Moe, Lamonday, Emma and I went to SHADE: DETROPIA and it was shut down for some unknown reason (they have since had their ‘redux’ but I didn’t feel like going. I’m not kiddin bout this lazy thing, and also it was raining so like, nah). Afterwards we sauntered over to Wreck Room where I fended off randos who kept striking up convos about the teeny tiny Eli Manning jersey I was wearing. I don’t know anything about sports! I bought this cause it made my boobs look big and the guy I have a crush on is a huge giants fan! What are you talking about, sahn!  Moe met some dude he kept calling DJ Khaled who was most definitely not, and we ended up jumping in the back of his jeep(?) and going to Bossa Nova, where his aggro muscleman entourage wouldn’t let me talk to any boys or walk home alone. I was like, mane, I just needed a ride. I’m a free woman! The fuck is this shit! It was so much fun.

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two idiots & their cartoon counterparts

Oh, and once I went to a house show to see my friends Junior Astronomers play. Reid kept yelling stuff like “TWITTER POLL: WHO HAS A BLUNT?” and “FAM! FAM! TWITTER POLL: DO I GIVE A FACK?” and then he pulled his wiener out. It was one of the more eventful nights of the last month.
IMG_3104twitter poll: is u crazy?

I guess I have to admit something that is a bit suspect, which is I’ve probably only visually absorbed about 30% of my life over the last 2 months because I’ve been texting someone I refer to as “Teen Boo” (he’s 21). I’ve sent about a nude a day, which is out of control, and have gotten pretty much nothing else done. Meanwhile, he lives far away and I only get to see him like once a month or less (it’s the perfect relationship!). The first of those times was just before I left for Thanksgiving when he was in town visiting family. The night before he came over, I tried to tweet this
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I def did not. When we finally met IRL I did not fuck it up. We actually had a fabulous time that looked a little something like this:
IMG_3459The next day I packed up and left for a Martha’s Vineyard Skanksgiving Extravaganza, which was to take place at my brother Nate’s, and included the couple affectionately termed Winnah, a lot of vodka cran and TONS of food. As Nate prepared the turkey in his surgical gloves and we quoted got2b real and talked shit about everyone we know, I got drunker and drunker and drunker. By the end of the meal, we were apparently listening to old Daft Punk and I was apparently doing this…

and then I took this selfie on nate’s couch
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The next day I didn’t even have a hangover, but I did poop enough to make room for a MASSIVE seafood dinner that was basically a giant bowl filled with lobster and potatoes and mussels and sausage and I ate it ALL because…I don’t fuck around. This booty didn’t just appear out of nowhere, ok? Before I left we did an offroading trip around Chappy, and I instagrammed this pic that my friend Cassie called my “alter-ego who wears clothes!” which basically sums up the family-friendly side of my persona. I was still drunk, though! I mean…let’s be real.
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Since I’ve been back, I’ve been BRUNCHING MY LIFE SAVINGS AWAY with friends (Stacey visited last weekend! The look on her face when I told her I asked for Uggs for christmas was just priceless) and feeling sorry for myself because the company I work for just elects not to pay its employees whenever it’s in the mood. I’m not great at budgeting as it is, so when you’re living paycheck to paycheck, not getting one can reeeally hurt. That’s why I always eat for two, in case I have to skip a meal.
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NOW I’M IN NC and waiting for all my best homies to arrive. This year’s holiday party theme is well under construction and about to pop the fuck off. This Saturday…at 3801…they are coming.
xxxmasaliens
BE THERE.

Maui Me (lol i suck)

Oh. Valentine’s day happened? I guess one of my favorite things about being a depressed, pathetic single person is the freedom to make your own holidays and never buy gifts for anyone but yourself. This should explain why I spent my Valentines listening to Bootylicious in my kitchen while downing a personal bottle of pink champagne and devouring a large hunk of brie…and ice cream (if you were wondering yes I am still lactose intolerant.) To add self-inflicted insult to self-inflicted injury, last year I decreed that February 14th would be forever celebrated as my cats’ birthday, in case I ever decide to be in a relationship and need to be reminded that–SIKE–I am doomed to be a spinster .

At one point I ran out of crackers and literally took hunks of brie and used them to scoop boysenberry preserves out of the jar like they were fucking chips and salsa. I can do whatever I want! I’m single!

In addition to letting my cats lick the crumbs from my disgusting display of gluttony I also got up extra early that morning (noon) and made them a heart shaped tuna cake that the three of us ate in my bed.

At least one good thing about February 14th is it means the month is half over. The snow from the recent blizzard has almost completely melted which I appreciate even if it has allowed the rat corpse on my back patio to finally decompose and populate the house with a swarm of impressively massive flies and I mean seriously, Bushwick, come ON. I was just glad to feel the warmth of the sun for the first time since I returned from Maui.

Oh yeeeeah MAUI. I’d sunken so far into my mattress after my return I’d almost forgotten we were ever there.

Talk about a makeshift holiday. The story on Maui is, one miserable icy evening my similarly afflicted (single, drunk) older brother called me and asked me if I wanted to accompany him to the island for his 30-ish-ith birthday. So I said “doy,” made contingency plans for my dumb job, and 4 days later I was on a plane.

I cannot stress how much I needed this quick island “sampling,” as Nate called it. I had managed to get so over-caffeinated and anxious in the days before I departed that I was acting like Gimme from United States of Tara while doing something as simple as shopping for beach supplies. Sometimes I get so wigged out and isolated in my routine that I forget there is a world outside the individual postal districts of my house and workplace. As much as I love New York and as much as I always wanted to live here, there is really no better feeling than leaving my house at sunrise to catch the train to JFK. Even if I am just going to spend all my money at the airport Chili’s and cram myself into a coach seat for 12 hours while trying to ignore the terrible in-flight movie about a guy who dies in a surfing accident.
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^Being fancy in row 300.

The original plan was to meet Nate at SFO and fly to Kahului but due to a ferry delay back in Martha’s Vineyard, he ended up having to spend a night in LA. This meant that when I arrived in Maui at 10 pm that Thursday, I took my the $80 cab ride back to our RIDICULOUS Fairmont resort alone where I spent my first night ordering room service and sending naked snapchats. Our room was upgraded to an ocean view, so the next morning I woke up to watch the sunrise over the water.


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It’s whale season in Maui so while I was eating eggs benedict and tanning my crotch on the lanai I could see them breach above the surface of the water. Essentially the exact opposite of a typical morning for me, unless you count guzzling cups of coffee in my windowsill and talking to the feral cats in my backyard a similar experience.

Let’s not talk about it.

When my brother finally did arrive it was about 2 in the afternoon and I had been waiting ALL DAY for a cocktail. So we spent the hours before sunset “sipping” island beverages poolside and scamming on all the sexy guys who had brought their disparately unattractive wives to the resort.

“When I die,” Nate said swallowing his third Mai Tai, “I’m coming back as an ugly white woman.”

We swam in the ocean at sunset, disregarding it as prime shark feeding time.

That night we ate our weight in fresh caught fish at the infamous Mama’s Fish House (which we affectionately referred to as Mama’s Fish Hole). We continued getting drunk and rapping ad nauseam on our history of shit relationships before crashing against our will. Maui is five hours behind east coast time, so my late night nudes met their recipients just in time to start the New York work day before I poured myself into bed.

Nate wasn’t kidding about staying busy on this trip. There wasn’t a moment that we weren’t swimming or diving or hiking or power sipping our cocktails, beginning at dawn every morning. The next day we ventured to Black Rock and Hololua bay to snorkel with sea turtles and hear the whales chit chatting under water.
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“I don’t give a damn about anybody’s coconuts…unless they’re my coconuts. Saddi!”

Idk why I look bummed. Probably all the exercise.

Later we drove out to our drive to West Maui, a gorgeous labyrinth of one lane roads that weave through the mountains. This shit was seriously off the map. No cell service and miles away from actual civilization. The closest things to  commerce on this part of the island are the fruit stands and the meth dealers. Our destination was something called 13 Crossings, which is a somewhat treacherous makeshift trail across Makamakaole stream leading to a waterfall. Unfortunately we got started so late that the sun started dropping before we made it to the end, and we barely made it out before dark. This was not a place you wanted to get stuck in the middle of the night. I mean, it’s a damn rainforest. Luckily there are no poisonous snakes in Maui, but they do have wild boars. I almost cracked my moneymaker on a rock like three times. Do they even have plastic surgeons on this island? I wasn’t about to chance it.







^^no pants allowed on the hike.
That night we took a disco nap before getting up at 5 am to drive the 10,000 feet up Haleakala, a massive volcano on East Maui. This took forever, but the 15 year difference between us gave us plenty of catching up to do. Coming out stories, psycho boyfriend stories, the works. It was essentially a therapy session, and one I desperately needed. I was still digesting this piece of wisdom as we approached the summit:

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time” (that’s ya girl Maya Angelou)

Damn. Was it time to make a change in my life?

When we finally got to the top of that volcano the sight was so breathtaking it was impossible to feel like the center of the universe. That kind of perspective is freeing and necessary, and something I don’t get often.


^Rare photo of me tired and happy. Here’s why:










We spent the rest of the day by the pool while crowds of rowdy straight men gathered around the tiki bar to scream about something called a “superbowl.” Taking in one last sunset over the ocean, we spotted two distant whale tales, a mom and a baby, flipping out of the water in succession.

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We made time for a quick sushi dinner before catching our flight home. Nate departed in first class of course, and I crammed myself into the corner of three coach flights. I didn’t get home until 10 the next night and immediately slept for 12 hours.

When I awoke for work the next day, Maui felt like little more than a dream. My dreary routine was back in full swing and lo and behold I was alone again.

But at least now I have a tan.

Martha Fuckers


Last time we spoke I was at the airport waiting for a plane to Boston where I then met Kedrin and my mother, took the Peter Pan bus 1.5 hours to Wood’s Hole and then a ferry to our final destination of Martha’s Vineyard. I was pretty sure we were headed for some innocent family fun. I mostly packed silk and oversized sweaters. You see, my brother is a full-fledged adult about 14 years my senior with a legitimate/demanding job in the medical field, and I have always admired him for this and other reasons. My mom has always compared the two of us because we have similar attitudes and similar taste in men. I see him about once a year, so I always try to make a solid impression.

When we first got on the island it was child’s play. A lot of “this is this” and “that is that” touring around town, photo-oping and hiding my tattoos. I figured I should try to pretend to be a “respectable adult” (I use that term a lot even though I don’t really know what it means) at least until we popped our first champagne. It was kind of working? I hadn’t seen my mom in a while and she had yet to mention anything about the fact that I have no money or how am I going to survive in New York if I just keep taking unpaid internships or have I been having unprotected sex. Things were going well so far.

My brother (his name is Nathan although everyone was calling him “Nate” in an official capacity, which I at first thought was weird but then attributed to his likely desire to simplify his Starbucks orders, which is originally why I started introducing myself as “Kat”), along with his friends whose names I have already forgotten, took us to the west side of the island to see the sunset. It was sort of unbelievable, partly because I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun set over the ocean, and partly because I hadn’t been outside without smelling feces and rat guts for the past five months. It may as well have been Aruba. Or Bermuda. Or anywhere else they sing about in that Beach Boys song where white girls frequently watch the sunset and then get mysteriously abducted. I realized that my brother and I are both single, which is probably the first time this has happened since he was in the closet and I was five. We both love to drink and talk shit. And we both do this thing pretty frequently:

Which is cool. We also both believe in decadence and overeating, so that night we all went to a seafood restaurant and ordered four tiers of oysters and shrimp cocktail and endless bowls of chowder. Our “unconventional” method of dining made everyone in the restaurant inexplicably angry and confused, and they looked at us as if we had just dived face-first into their personal lobster bisque. Now, understand that the end of September is unanimously believed to be the best time of year in Martha’s Vineyard. Mostly because the weather is perfect and there are no tourists, and they always say you should only eat shellfish in months that have an “r” in them. The restaurant was comparatively uncrowded, so I was told. But in a town like Martha’s Vineyard where the point is kind of to be a tourist, the social makeup in the autumn months is sort of questionable. Everyone is a local (so everyone knows everyone, and yes, they are talking about you right now), everyone works about four months out of the year, and everyone is an alcoholic. But at the same time they’re all decked out in Vineyard Vines (it is entirely possible that the phrase “all decked out” actually originated in Martha’s Vineyard but I could completely be making that up). Also there are a lot of weird gingerbread-looking houses and references to the movie Jaws. It’s pretty much what I imagine Disney World would be like if after all the patrons went home the workers took off their plush costumes and sat around drinking and shucking clams. You’d think it’d be cool, but it’s mostly just strange. It’s the kind of place where your neighbors will openly wonder why your blinds are shut all the time, and then mention it to someone who then mentions it to someone else who will then come to you legitimately concerned. You could try to “do you” in Martha’s Vineyard, but I bet it’d be pretty tough. 

Despite that fact, I have to say that Martha’s Vineyard is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen and I totally get why people love it. I also get why so many political figures have gotten DUIs there, but we’ll get to that.

The next day I did some outdoorsy stuff like swim in a lake and jump off of Jaws Bridge, just so I could be one of those people on facebook who posts a picture of themselves jumping off a bridge where my body is all tiny and everyone’s like “oh cool!” but it doesn’t actually look like a big jump and is not super interesting for anyone who wasn’t there.
I still felt pretty cool. For those of you who don’t know, this is called Jaws Bridge because it, like many other parts of the island, appears in the movie Jaws multiple times. Despite having taken something like 42 credits worth of film classes in college I had never seen more than a few scenes in that movie until that weekend. It’s pretty funny; when you watch the movie after touring the island, you realize most of it was filmed just a few hundred feet off shore.

On Saturday we brought more shrimp cocktail and white wine on the 2-car “ferry” to a cook-out on Chappy (aka Chappaquiddick, a word whose google search yields a wiki page for something known as the “Chappaquiddick Incident” when Ted Kennedy basically drunk-drove his mistress off a bridge, left her for dead and ruined his political career. Saturday night was about to do something similar to my reputation). The cook out (or ‘barbecue’ as I refuse to call it) was made up mostly of well-to-do white people in their late 30s to mid 40s and their well-to-do children. Nestled nicely in the middle of that age gap I became the only person silently chugging wine and eating all the food. To this day I am so ashamed of how much food was left when the sun went down that night. I could have done better.

Later that evening was a fashion show for this thing called “Martha’s Vineyard Fashion Week” which I have a hard time typing without feeling deeply embarrassed for that entire island. Thankfully we missed the show itself and made it just in time to drink 7 cocktails and stomp up and down the empty runway to Rihanna and 2010 disco house. I was doing high-kicks and splits and pirouettes in the corner, swing dancing with Nate and head banging with Kedrin. Family bonding at its finest, but you see how this could get you in trouble on an island of 15,000 people.

Downstairs at the bar, probably one of three places people actually hang out in Martha’s Vineyard, I met this sexy Serbian dude that could barely speak any English, so naturally we hit it off. But that’s when the bullshit started. I walked back to his house where he stayed with a bunch of other Serbians who appeared to be around my age. We were in the middle of casually doing our thing when he told me, in so many words, that he didn’t want to ~go down~ because I had some pubes. Sometimes I like to be really chill about it, dude. What gives? I told him to fuck off and didn’t say anything about him being uncircumcised because I am a lady.

When I got back to the bar my friends and family were gone, and I proceeded to dump my woes on the cute gay bartender. I asked him for a drink which I’m sure I incorrectly assumed was free, when some puny late-thirties guy from Boston started talking to me. I think I said a paragraph or two about my life before he told me I sounded full of myself. Drunk guys regularly get a false sense of intellectual superiority around me and try to Psych 101 me into confessing that deep down I’m really insecure and I’m just looking for a white knight. I told the guy I felt bad that he has such a lack of confidence that he has to project it onto strangers he meets in bars. Then I told him the reason I act like I’m better than him is because I am, threw my jacket over my drink and walked out of the bar. It wasn’t really my night.

Thanks to google maps we now know that when I left the bar I wasn’t more than ten minute walk from my brother’s house. But at the time my phone was dead and I had been drinking since 4 o clock and I wasn’t really sure what I was doing. I think an old man picked me up in his car, took me to his house and I drank his liquor and thought about robbing him before taking off running out his front door and into the woods. I know this sounds fake. It’s not. Martha’s Vineyard is just a super fake place. I spent what must have been the next two hours walking the perimeter of the island looking for familiar surroundings, diving into the bushes every time a truck drove by. I passed the hospital where my brother works on three different occasions. I think I peed in someone’s front yard.

When I got to the bridge for Vineyard Haven, I knew I’d gone too far. I was exhausted. I was fucked. My feet hurt because I was wearing these Keds-style shoes I’d gotten at H&M five years ago and had worn small holes in each sole. I remember laying down on the ground in a patch of dirt on the bank, looking up at the stars and sort of laugh-crying. It didn’t really matter that this was happening. It didn’t really count anyway because I’d be gone by Monday. I was just getting really hungry.

Just then an Aerostar van full of Brazilian teenagers pulled up and offered me a ride. I borrowed one of their cell phones and got directions from my mom (I seriously think it was only about 12:30 at this point). Everyone was yelling at me in Portugese and laughing. I thanked them in the most appropriate fashion I could muster and got out of the van, where I met Nathan’s friends in the kitchen and assisted them in eating something that I know was well outside my dietary restrictions. My mother was wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Kedrin was nowhere to be found. My brother was screaming at everyone from his bed to shut the fuck up, and that we were adults, and that his friends should fucking leave so he could get some sleep. One of them later puked in my mother’s Brooks Brothers flats. It was pretty hilarious.

The next morning Kedrin was still missing and her phone was dead. Should we call the police? “It hasn’t been 24 hours,” Nathan said, “Let’s go to the beach.” This is the kind of guy he is. Efficient, impatient, and mostly right. We went up-island where all the property is owned by the whole of Jewish Hollywood and I got THE best lobster roll I’ve ever had in my life, saw some seriously eroding dunes and drank tons of beer. Nate and I shared stories about our magnetic attraction to dysfunctional men and he told me his secrets on how to become a self-made world-traveling property owner, which I will never reveal to anyone. That afternoon Kedrin took a cab back to the house and slept until her flight back to North Carolina. I never found out what the hell happened to her, but at least she didn’t get Chappaquiddicked.
That night I made myself a vodka cranberry and decided to finally watch Jaws for the first time.

I fell asleep before the end.

The Jordan Year

excuse the tardiness as this was written friday at 7 am and I forgot to post it bc they don’t teach you anything in college

GOOD MORNING EVERYONE from the warm, welcoming gates of JFK airport. I’m leaving New York for the weekend to meet my mom and sister in Martha’s Vineyard where we’ll stay with my brother until Monday. I have about 40 minutes until my plane starts boarding to scarf down this disgustingly spot-hitting egg and cheese bagel from Au Bon Pain, chug a cup of hazelnut flavored coffee (ugh I know) and tell you all about my 23rd birthday…all while trying/failing to not get too much grease all over my laptop. I feel like a real blogger! A writer on the go! Except I think if I were a real blogger I’d have like an iPad or something and I probably would have written this earlier.

So anyway, I turned 23 on Saturday. I was trying not to give it much thought because for whatever reason nearly everyone I’ve witnessed leave 22 behind has had some sort of mental breakdown. Something about not having achieved anything in their lives, with some guilt mixed in about continuing to let themselves have as much fun as they did when they were in college. This affects them in one of two ways: it either motivates them to leave town and pursue their ~wildest dreams~ or they suddenly fall into a 9 to 5 job and disappear forever. And I guess there is a third way, where the person just chills and becomes a bigger and bigger alcoholic (It’s okay if that’s you. Who am I to judge?)

Since this past year I’ve somehow traveled from the depths of the prolapsed anus known as “My Twenties” to an exciting world of endless possibility known as “My Twenties!” and in doing so I realized that…things don’t really get worse as you get older. They sometimes get way the fuck better. In my case, it wouldn’t take much to make 23 the best year yet.

(I recently saw my first New York doctor and after I answered a series of questions about my “personal history” she quietly asked if I wanted to see a list of therapists. I burst out laughing and then said, sure.)

I’m talking about turning neg vibes into pos vibes. I’m talking about embracing life no matter what age you are, and not letting people shame you into being someone you don’t want to be. This isn’t the fifties. This isn’t even the nineties. 23 means something totally different than it ever has. Just because you weren’t a prodigy doesn’t mean you won’t be successful. Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you have to make the leap straight from Biff to Willy Loman. Just because you like to have fun doesn’t make you an alcoholic. Look at your life! Look at your choices! Evaluate accordingly. If there’s something there you don’t like, change it. If you’re truly upset about something it’s probably more than just your age, and there is probably something you can do about it.

Upon realizing this I decided I had the right to celebrate the survival of another tumultuous year exactly as I normally would. No guilt. No shame. Just a Burger King crown and a lot of body glitter. We started the night off with a reservation for six at an Indian restaurant in the East Village called Milon. It’s part of a cluster of similarly themed locales one after another, any of which I could have been sucked into by their parade of street advertising were it not for my informed companions. This place is ridiculous. They pretty much give you a 1×4’ table to share with all the members of your party in a space about the size of a sleeper on the Darjeeling Limited* which you share with six or seven parties of the same size. The ceiling is made up completely of low hanging chilly pepper holiday lights and they play loud Bangladeshi music you can barely speak over. It’s amazing, and apparently it’s a popular birthday celebration spot because about every five or so minutes they’d flash the lights and bring out cake for someone. Of course I acted as though it was for me every single time. I ate enough food for about 16 people and forced everyone I saw to take a picture with me. Did I mention this place is BYOB?
*ignorant pop culture reference

When we got back to the apartment we proceeded to drink what was left of our spiced rum and champagne, and having already had a few bottles myself, I started making creations out of Elmer’s glue and glitter on my body while playing The-Dream videos and drawing all over my laptop with a paint pen. Um, surprise. I ended up covering the entire kitchen floor in glitter for days, which led to weeks, and now pretty much every item of clothing I own is covered in red and silver specks (an homage to The [original] Glitter Party of ’09 when I turned 20, after which people were found glitter on their dicks every day until Thanksgiving. You’re welcome).

After that I changed into some pants and we went to some party for Mexican Independence Day which apparently is NOT Cinco de Mayo? I really didn’t know much of what was going on at this point. All I remember is throwing confetti in the face of everyone I saw and Winston attempting to drink PBR out of three cans at once. By 2 am I was texting a crush explicit things such as (to paraphrase) that I wanted to eat him like Billy Madison eats a snack pack. I never heard back from him. He’s probably voting for Romney. Later I fell asleep in my clothes eating a can of lukewarm kidney beans and watching Seinfeld. The night had pretty much gone as planned.

Despite my stubborn attempts to cling to immaturity, I am making strides towards adulthood. I have a job with a decent wage now. I’m buying a Dustbuster for daily kitty litter and glitter clean-up (hello, spinster). I have decided to no longer travel long distances by bus (Pretty lofty. We’ll see.) And I am CONSIDERING paying for cable. I’ve also tossed around the idea of ~investing~ in non-bottom shelf liquors and ~keeping~ them in the house for more than 5 hours at a time. You know, practicing casual adult drinking instead of just chugging Four Loko and Andre all the time.

But you know. Baby steps.