Yesterday, I reached an all time low. Or, more accurately, an all time high. I went skiing for the first time this season and couldn't button my ski pants. I also couldn't zip up my ski coat with any type of layer on underneath and it was 18 degrees out, so I had to borrow a coat from a friend. Just picture me skiing down Okemo mountain in a men's jacket and unbuttoned pants.
This is serious, you guys. I need help. For the past few months I've lived off of frozen foods, take-out, and beer. I'm like a 40-year-old bachelor. Something's gotta give.
I need to start cooking again, but I've lost all motivation and direction. Cooking-for-one blows. When I used to cook for myself, I'd end up eating the same thing for 6 days in a row or throwing away a lot of food. It became boring and wasteful. It also became really convenient to walk across the street and pick up falafel.
So here's what I'm looking for: a meal plan for single ladies. I did some Google searching and got disappointing results. Yet, I know this is something not only I, but many other people my age, want. So if you feel so inspired, you could make one and change the lives of a lot of single people who can't button their pants.
If you have any recommendations or plans, please put them in the comments here. Or, you can send me an email at imyourkatieque@gmail.com. Or, you can write your own blog post and I'll link to it or guest post it here.
This is a cry for help, people! I need you.
Oh, and here are some things to keep in mind: I don't want to eat the same thing every day. Obviously, I'm looking for something healthy, but if I see any mention of fat-free cheese, I'll cry. And please please please don't ever once mention the word "calories." Thank you!
This is by far the saddest way to be spending potentially my last day on earth: just sitting in my office, staring at a computer screen, reading Thought Catalog's "16 Ways to Do Nothing" or whatever. They really capitalized on Cosmo's whole "put a different number in front of the same article you wrote last month" idea.
For the first time in quite possibly my whole entire life, I have zero unread emails. ZERO. I truly do not know what to do with myself. So, I've been sitting here thinking about how I would feel if the world did actually end tomorrow. Accomplished? Regretful? Scared?
I've decided that I would most likely feel tired. Like, it would be nice if the apocalypse was quiet enough that I could at least sleep through it. I'm so tired that the idea of sleeping through my last day on earth is not even depressing to me.
I'm so tired because, before today, I actually had a lot to do at work and a lot of work to do for school. And also, I stayed up til 1:30 am last night reading testimonials from ex-Mormons.
Mormon underwear. Seriously. Look that shit up.
Not kidding. That shit is so interesting. I'm totally obsessed with Mormons. In like a terrified way. Like the way people are obsessed with the apocalypse! See, it all comes back together.
You guys, I'm so bored. This is the result of that.
Last night when I got home, I immediately picked up Boo as I always do. His little paws were wet so, naturally, I started yelling at him:
"You little asshole. I told you not to touch the water under the tree."
"I'm not doing anything wrong."
As I was saying this, I noticed that my socks were wet. I looked down and saw that my carpet was also wet. So, of course, I immediately assumed that Boo had knocked over a glass of water as per usual. I yelled at him again.
Then, I got on my hands and knees to try to find the alleged glass under the coffee table and started to notice that the wet spot was not just a spot. It was more like 12 feet of dampness. 12 feet. As much of an asshole Boo is, even he is not capable of that much damage. Turns out, my garden-level apartment is more like a sea-level apartment. What a wonderful surprise!
It's okay. I totally wanted to move every year in my 20s anyway.
In the meantime, I owe Boo the sincerest of apologies. So, Boo, I'm sorry I falsely accused you of spilling water. And I'm sorry I laughed at you that time you had diarrhea at Barnes & Noble.
Shortly after the shooting, I saw someone on Facebook write, "If only one of those teachers had a hand gun." And I felt even sadder than before.
It's so deeply troubling to me that some Americans truly believe the answer to gun violence is more gun violence. The killer's mother was an experienced rifle owner, yet she could not defend herself against her son. Do people really believe that a kindergarten teacher would have been able to stop the massacre had she possessed a hand gun? Would you really feel safe sending your kids to school where teachers are concealing weapons? If so, I think you have gone mad. And madness is one of the key problems here.
Perhaps if we lived in a society where young men and boys were taught how to express their emotions in non-violent ways, in a society where people had access to mental healthcare and weren't stigmatized for being ill, we would not have to heavily arm school teachers to protect themselves against angry, confused, and sick people.
I am anti-gun; that cannot come as a surprise to anyone. But there are a lot of conversations we, as a nation, need to be having in addition to questioning gun laws (or lack thereof). And it seems like finally, finally, we are starting to have these conversations. While I'm on the one hand disturbed by some people's reactions to the shooting, I am on the other hand hopeful that we are moving toward positive change.
Eating is my favorite hobby. I don't care how fat that makes me sound. I like food more than I like a lot of my friends, to be honest. (Sorry you had to find out this way.) I'm just saying, what's better: biting into the most perfectly cooked burger with VERMONT SHARP CHEDDAR and caramelized onions and BACON on top, or listening to your friend tell you for the 100th time how much he hates his job? Hint: it's the burger.
The problem with food is that it makes you fat. And people don't like fat, I guess. Well, unless you're super trashy and on TLC and then they will literally pay money to look at how fat you are.
Then again, apparently your friends can make you fat, too. At least that's what the media tells me, which is like so incredibly helpful and kind of them. But it's like no matter how many times Women's HEALTH Magazine emails me to yell at me about how fat I am ("Get rid of your bra fat!" "Look thinner!" "MELT THAT FAT"), I still definitely want to order cheesy bread at 3 am.
What is wrong with me? How, as a human being, could I like to eat so much? Oh well. I don't think I'll be stopping anytime soon. Eating is probably my greatest talent. In fact, some people would call me an expert. For example, Klout.com says I'm influential about cheese. And you thought you had a lot going for you.
Anyway, I've heard rumors that it's possible to eat and not be fat. I know that's a far-fetched idea, but I'm thinking about testing it out. And, if that doesn't work, I'm blaming my friends.
Let's talk about all the times I cried as a child. Or at least some of them, since I apparently cried a lot. I actually wonder why my parents like me so much.
1. Any time there was a thunderstorm. I used to get scared to the point I would pee my pants and/or throw up. Cute. I used to run around the house asking everyone, "Is it gonna hit?!" Not sure what that means, but I'm guessing it had to do with the potential for death. I also used to write letters to god asking him to stop thunderstorms. Who knew I was so devout?
2. At Belcourt Castle. Apparently, the man who welcomes you into the mansion is not very attractive or something because I screamed at the sight of him and made my dad sit with me in the car until the rest of our family was done with the tour. That must have been a fun day for him.
3. The first time I went to the movie theater. My dad thought it was appropriate to take a 2 year old to see The Bear. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take little girls to see The Little Mermaid or some other Disney shit, not a story about a fucking terrifying grizzly bear. This one I totally blame on my dad. Maybe the mansion thing was revenge.
4. Whenever the trash had to be taken out. I used to have nightmares every night that the garbage man was coming to kidnap me. Every night, I found a new hiding place, but somehow he'd find me. Such an asshole. Finally, after literal years of this, I faced my fears in my dream and ultimately befriended the garbage man. I never had the nightmare again. But I still don't know why I was ever afraid of the garbage man in the first place. Pretty sure my parents brought our trash to the dump themselves.
5. At a Chinese food restaurant. My parents told me we were going to order a pu-pu platter. I interpreted this to mean that we were going to have eat actual poo, as in human feces. I proceeded to cry hysterically, and instead of reassuring me that I would not have to eat shit, my parents kept egging me on because they thought it was funny. I experienced utter turmoil that day. And, as a result, for many many years, I refused to eat Chinese food.
Actually, now that I think about it, maybe my parents don't like me so much.
I am finally, FINALLY, getting over some disgusting virus I've had for the past 10 days. I feel like I'm slowly being resurrected from the dead. This is my easter.
Being sick brings out the most pathetic side of people (or maybe it just brings out the most pathetic side of me, but I'd like to assume I'm not alone here). I actually called my mom crying at one point. I felt helpless. It's not like I couldn't move. It's not like I broke a leg and couldn't get up off the couch. I just didn't want to. And I felt VICTIMIZED. Why isn't anyone bringing me soup? Why hasn't someone volunteered to wash my M-F dishes for me? Why god, why?!
I reached an ultimate low while texting my nurse friend, Ashley:
Me: I seriously need a boyfriend.
Ashley: What?! Why?
Me: To take care of me.
Ashley: This is the fever talking. You are an independent woman! Go to sleep.
And so I did. I nearly slept through Thanksgiving, but decided that if I spent the day alone in my basement garden-level apartment, I might end up in therapy. So instead, I took the bus home on Thanksgiving morning, probably infected at least 100 people on my way there (Happy Holidays!), and barely tasted dinner. So sad. Normally, my binge eating capabilities shine on Thanksgiving. In fact, one year in college, my friends and I competed to see who could eat the most. We used to call ourselves "The Eating Team" and our slogan was, "Try to eat us out." That's disgusting. But also hilarious. It also explains my former obesity.
Anyway, I'm hoping to make up for my disappointing performance on Thanksgiving during the rest of the holiday season. If not only for myself, but for Jesus.
I hate Bud Light. And pretty much all light beers. You can call me a hipster, but I prefer to drink only craft. Whatever. Anyway, despite my distaste (pun intended) for Bud Light, I'm totally loving their superstition commercials lately.
Why? Because I am also a total mental case when it comes to sports. Specifically, football, and specifically the Patriots. I have convinced myself that the only time the Pats do well is when I'm standing in the kitchen (is that anti-feminist?). So, anytime they are approaching the end zone, I jump up off my couch and run to the kitchen. Just standing on the tile makes a difference. Sometimes, I plan to cook for the duration of the game just to ensure a blowout. I also keep my fingers crossed at all times and put my shirt over my mouth at critical moments. These things have proven to be successful.
This Sunday, I am going to brunch at a fancy hotel to celebrate a friend's birthday and will consequently miss the game (I should be rewarded for this). I'm deeply concerned that if I'm not wearing Pats attire, something bad will happen. But, I'm also not sure a bright red jersey is appropriate for ladies brunch at an elite hotel. What to do? What to do?! I'm actually considering keeping a jersey in my bag just so I have it on hand. Does that count?
I think one of the reasons I don't want children today is because the only doll I had growing up was fucking Baby Alive. This is the doll that poops and pees and you have to clean up after it. And that is supposed to be a fun activity for girls.
Meanwhile, little boys get to build spaceships out of Legos and blow up shit. I'd like to consider myself a non-violent person, but I assure you, I'd still rather play with toy guns than wipe a plastic doll's ass.
Anime has taken over the world.
When I was little, I much preferred stuffed animals and Littlest Pet Shop to Barbies and pooping dolls, which could possibly explain my affinity for cats. (Apparently, I have no problem cleaning up animal poop. But, in my defense, my cat has never shit his pants, which I think is a lot more disgusting than a litter box.) Anyway, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: animals are better than babies.
So, perhaps Baby Alive could be used as a new form of birth control. You know, the kind of birth control you give to children. Not only will it make them not want to have babies of their own, but it might also give them the self-awareness to know when to shut the fuck up. Does Baby Alive cry? I forget. But if it does, you should make your child carry it around a grocery store while it's crying and apologize to everyone on its behalf. Talk about hands-on learning.
All I'm saying as that I think Baby Alive could really help slow the teen pregnancy rate.
Then again, I do really love Teen Mom. Ugh, such a conflict.
Today also happens to be Boo's official (except not really because he was FOUND ON THE TRACKS and I have no idea when he was actually born) birthday! His name is no coincidence. Anyway, he was so excited that he was up all night running around my bedroom and jumping on my head every 30 seconds - I slept great!!!
Unfortunately, due to his recent "diagnosis," Boo will not be allowed anymore birthday treats this year. His party a couple weeks ago (which he loved so so much) was enough celebration. I, on the other hand, will be spending the day trolling other offices for Halloween candy and/or eating the bag of PayDays I will inevitably buy at CVS on my lunch break.
Mm PayDays, what an underrated candy. So good.
See what I did there?
How are you spending your Halloween? Or, more importantly, what are you eating?
I am very grateful to say that I made it through Sandy with little to no problems. Even my family and friends on the Cape fared pretty well. Massachusetts was fortunate enough to have avoided major damage. However, New York and New Jersey weren't so lucky. The damage to both of these states has been called "incalculable" and "devastating." Recovery is going to be a massive task and these areas need all the help they can get.
The American Red Cross is looking for as many donations as possible to help with Hurricane Sandy relief. Please consider donating to local Red Cross chapters in regions directly affected by the storm, such as the South Central New York chapter (here):
Of course, other states in the Northeast have also been affected by the hurricane, but (so far) New York and New Jersey have had it the worst. If you wish, you can also make a general donation to the American Red Cross through its website.
As President Obama said yesterday, "The great thing about America is that when we go through tough times like this, we all pull together."
After centuries of debate, I think I can put an end to the argument that is Nature vs. Nurture.
Last week, I took Boo to the vet for a check up and was told that he had gained over a pound in less than 9 months. Over a pound! That's like if you gained 10 lbs in 9 months. It's pretty drastic. At this point, the vet wants Boo to lose 1-2 lbs, which means he is now on a strict diet.
I blame myself.
Weight watching.
When I'm hungry, it's scary times for everyone around me. I am hostile and emotional. I once cried because a bouncer at a bar told me that the kitchen was closed. This food panic is apparently something that runs in my family as my sister has told me the only real fight she's ever had with her boyfriend was about when and where to eat.
The thing is, I'm apparently not rational enough to remember I am a middle-income American who is surrounded by food at all times. Even at 3 am, I can go to CVS and get a box of Cheez-Its if need be. Yet, when I'm hungry, I act like I am most definitely going to starve to death. Immediately.
Likewise, sometimes, if I'm gone for more than 24 hours, I come home to Boo's food bowl flipped over (presumably in fury), water all over the floor, and a chewed up sweet potato that he stole off the counter. It is the image of desperation.
Starvation.
Every time he eats, he acts like it's his last. He rarely breathes between breaths. His ass is getting huge.
It's a mystery to me why anyone would ever want to be the President of the United States. That basically sounds like the worst job ever. Let me tell you, as someone who has experience in politics (Junior Class President '02-'03), representing a group of people BLOWS. Someone hates you at all times. No matter what you do.
For example, say you try to be all diplomatic and shit and let people vote on your Powder Puff team name, even though you already had an awesome one in mind (Whopper Juniors): somehow you'll end up with the name JUVENILE JUNIORS (as in the rapper) and a SMOKING BABY on your jersey. And then people will all be like, "I don't want to wear that!" And then you'll be like, "Don't tell me, tell the rest of the class who voted for it!" And they'll all be like, "Whatever, I'm not really into politics anyway," or something.
But seriously, how was this allowed in school?
People will also call you Stalin when you walk down the hall. Because, you know, somehow your Spirit Week plans are relative to those of a RUSSIAN DICTATOR.
In summary, you will be slandered all day, 'er day. And you will hate your life and you will have no free time and relatively few friends. And you will spend prom crying because the guitarist in the band you hired had to go to the hospital after a freak accident caused a guitar string to lodge itself into his hand. And then your term will end and you won't run again because that shit fucking sucked and why do you care about group of people who legitimately want to wear a smoking baby on their shirt anyway?
What I'm trying to say is that it's astonishing to me that either of the current presidential candidates actually wants the job they're campaigning for. And also, I can't fucking wait for this election to be over.
If you thought I was a crazy cat lady before, get ready for this one...
Since Boo's birthday is this month, I threw him a party this weekend. Of course, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill cat party; this was the cat party of the year!
"Eat, drink, and be meowy."
Not only were there cake, streamers, party hats, and noise makers, there were also Make-Your-Own Boo-ritos and Pin the Tail on the Babis.
One of my friends kept saying, "This is the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened," which might be true. However, since approximately 20 people showed up, I have to think it was also pretty fucking awesome.
As it turns out, Boo isn't actually much of a partier. He spent most of the time hiding in my bedroom, and he also slapped my friend Mike across the face. But, to be fair, a lot of people slap people across the face at parties. Granted, those people are usually drunk, but still. Anyway, I did manage to drag Boo out of my room to blow out the candles on his birthday cake, but he didn't last long:
Despite the fact that the party was probably Boo's worst nightmare, I'd say it was a roaring success. Especially for me.
This morning, I went to the doctor to have a couple moles checked out because one of them was itchy. Of course, WebMD had told me that an itchy mole is a symptom of MELANOMA, so I freaked the fuck out.
Note: I once saw a billboard that said: "Do you have lupus?' and reacted by shouting "DO I?!" in public and then immediately googling the symptoms.
I do not have lupus.
I also do not have melanoma.
As it turns out, the moles on my stomach are not even moles, and I actually have a skin fungus. A fungus! Gross, right? But better than the big C, that's for sure.
My doctor sent me away with some topical cream and also some sage advice:
Yesterday, I posted the following video on my Facebook page:
Watch it because I'm not going to explain it to you. But I will point out that the anchor calls this incident bullying. Some people have disagreed with her. Some people agree with the writer. Some people think it doesn't fit the technical definition of bullying. I'm not sure if anyone who has ever been bullied would agree with them.
"Bully" is such a juvenile term. It's something that invokes images of playgrounds and wedgies. Or at least it used to. It's become so much more than that. People bully and get bullied throughout their entire lives. They sit behind their computers in the comfort of their bedroom and write terrible things about people they don't know. They eat lunch alone because their coworkers won't invite them out with them. I read an article recently about how people, adults, legitimately worry about what people think of them because of the brand of coffee they are carrying. We have become so judgmental of and awful to each other that grown adults are scared that people will think negatively of them because of what their fucking coffee cup looks like. That is bull shit. We should be better than that.
In 6th grade, I almost never went to school because kids were so mean to me. Luckily, I overcame that. I made many many genuinely good friends. And more importantly, I realized that what I think about myself is more important than what anyone else thinks of me. Yet, sometimes when I cross the street, I still have an innate fear that someone will lean out their window and scream "You're fat!" at me (based on true events). Bullying has lifelong effects. Some people manage them better than others. Some people don't manage them at all.
So, perhaps instead of judging other people, we should focus on ourselves. You think obesity is a problem? Then promote a healthy lifestyle. You think Dunkin' Donuts is unclassy? Don't drink it. You can't believe that girl would wear that? Ask yourself, "How the fuck does her outfit affect me?" Self-awareness could cure a lot of our nation's problems. Let's all get some.
I'm about to offend a lot of people, but I'm not sorry about it. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to teach you that carbs are OK. All of them. Even the ones in Oreos. They're OK! So just eat them and be thankful that you live in America in the year 2012 and have running water and a working toilet and grocery stores full of food in all of its glorious forms.
My point is: the Paleo Diet is stupid. Why do people do it? To live like the cavemen? It's like, I am so white and privileged that I'm going to deprive myself. For fun! For my health! Because every nutritionist will tell you that you should absolutely eliminate entire food groups from your diet.
But, just FYI, it's very doubtful that cavemen made pickled eggs in all of those mason jars they had lying around. It's also pretty unlikely that they ground up almonds to make MAGIC COOKIE BARS. And they definitely did not shop at Whole Foods. They scavenged and hunted. So if you really want to be cavemen, I suggest you take off all of your clothes and go kill squirrels in the park near your apartment. Otherwise, you can just live like it's 2012. And that's OK! It doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you an EVOLVED person, a person who walks on pavement and uses an electric stove to cook. And it's fucking fine!
Do you want to look like this?
My main issue with the Paleo Diet, and any fad diet, is the pomposity that comes along with it. Oh, you're eating flour? (Insert disgusted look here.) I don't eat that. Well, actually you do. You know how I know that? Because I see you post pictures of the ice cream and cake and bread bowls that you eat on your "cheat days" on Facebook. Which brings me to my next point: the Paleo Diet, like any diet, is not sustainable. And in a year or two when everyone forgets about it, and it gets filed away in your memories next to the Atkins Diet, you'll be happily eating processed meat at a McDonald's on your road trip to Las Vegas. And I will know that because you'll post it on Facebook.
I thought I had made it. I really had. I got an email from a producer at NBC who said she had read my blog. I immediately thought to myself: They want me to write for SNL! I should quit my job! I need to get an apartment in New York! This is all happening so fast!
He knows what women want.
In reality, the only thing that was happening so fast was my thought process. She was actually writing on behalf of the Steve Harvey Show, which is apparently a new piece of daytime television, and "doing extremely well!" Whatever that means. According to its website, it's been on air for approximately two weeks.
Anyway, she asked if I would like to be on the show for one of their new segments called, "United Dates of America." I'd be set up on three dates and they'd be filmed and then Steve Harvey would critique them. I'm assuming she thought I might be a good fit for this segment considering much of my blog consists of dating and also not dating and also what it's like to have a cat.
The problem is, she left out something really important, something I discovered when I went to the website for more information. What Steve really wanted was to feature me as ONE OF THE WORST DATERS IN AMERICA.
Apparently Steve is a relationship guru, and he wants to HEAL me. Cheese and crepes! I mean I know I'm single and whatever, but like, worst dater in America? I don't think I would go that far.
So, after much deliberation, I decided that I didn't really want to be humiliated on national television, especially by someone, who I can only assume is a sexist asshole:
(Spoiler alert: gay men aren't real.)
Anyway, I imagine his advice on dating would be something along the lines of "keep your mouth shut and look pretty." We would have gotten along really well.
(Note: A few weeks ago I also thought I made it because someone at a Jewish online newspaper also found my blog and asked me to write for them. As it turns out, they thought I was Jewish. So that didn't work out...)
Today is I'm Your Katie Qué's 1st birthday! I can't believe it has already been a year since I started writing this blog (technically, it's been longer than that: I wrote a few posts in 2008, but no one cared about them). After years of saying I'd start a blog, I'm so happy that I finally did. Sharing my life with you all has been pretty fun for me, and hopefully for you as well. If nothing else, you now have a cache of STUNNING CAT PHOTOS at your disposal.
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I've put together a list of some of my, and some of your, favorite posts from the past year:
As always, thank you for reading and sharing my blog, and also for not shitting on me in your comments (this does not pertain to anyone on Reddit, most of whom hate me). It means so much to me that you like what I write (or at least that you click the link; Google Analytics determines my self-worth). I hope you stay tuned for more. Hearts and stars!
[Special thanks to Friends for help with this post.]
In an ironic turn of events, I went to the gym this morning and then couldn't button my pants in the locker room. This made me panic for 2 reasons:
I did not have time go back to my apartment to get a different pair of pants before work, and
I worked out and then got fatter.
Then again, I did just buy a Reese's pumpkin for an afternoon snack, so that could explain number 2.
Anyway, I know I've talked about this before, but women do the most ridiculous shit at the gym. For example:
Holding onto the treadmill while they run. This is dangerous and dumb. If you need to hold on to something to be able to run, you're not doing it right.
Looking at my RPMs during spin class. Bitch, eyes on your own paper. Am I right?
Bringing their entire life with them and spreading it all over the locker room. This will never cease to annoy me. First of all, half the reason I pay to go to my gym is because the locker room is not only nice and clean, but also equipped with everything you'd ever need: towels, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, lotion, Q-Tips, hair dryers, etc. etc. Yet, so many members pack up their whole fucking bathroom and bring it to the gym with them. No, I'm sorry you cannot use this counter because it's occupied by my wet loofah and every other toiletry I've ever purchased. This morning I watched a pair of girl friends try on MULTIPLE outfits for each other and then pick out necklaces from the JEWELRY BOX one of them brought with her. JEWELRY BOX.
This type of crap drives me crazy. Obviously, when I go to the gym, I do it perfectly in every way. That is why I have this perfect body. And why I can judge everyone else's behavior.
I'm pretty obsessed with Alice in Wonderland. I own multiple copies of the book and took a class in college mostly because it was on the syllabus (and because I was not so secretly in love with the professor). When I was little, I watched the Disney movie almost every day and can still recite the whole thing. I also used to spend hours alone in the woods looking for a white rabbit. I was an interesting little girl. Sadly, my childhood was DESTROYED when Tim Burton made that atrocity in 2010. That movie was notAlice in Wonderland, my friends. It was more like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe meets the Mad Hatter. I think Tim Burton got Lewis Carroll and C.S. Lewis confused. I know they have similar names but they're pretty different, Tim.
Showing how much I care about the Sox this season
by wearing an Alice shirt to Fenway.
I had a very Alice in Wonderland time when I was in New York last week. Patrick had to work for a few hours one of the days I was there, so I had time to explore the city on my own. My primary objective was to find the famous Alice statue in Central Park and instagram the shit out of it. Luckily, I also found a British girl with the coolest hair ever and asked her to take a picture of me. She had an awesome camera, so I assumed she would do a good job. And she did:
I also went to Alice's Tea Cup, where I met up with my internet friends, Kim and Katie. Let me just say that I love telling people I have internet friends. They usually give me concerned and shameful looks when I do so, but that's only because they don't understand how cool it is to have internet friends.
Kim is only sort of an internet friend, though. I've known her for a long time but hadn't seen her in years until last weekend. However, if it weren't for Facebook and our mutual interest in Game of Thrones and cats, we may have never met up again. Katie, on the other hand, is a legit internet friend. We read each other's blogs and sometimes tweet at each other, but had never seen each other in person until our brunch date at Alice's Tea Cup. I have to say, after countless internet dates, meeting a blog friend in real life felt totally normal. In fact, it was much better than an internet date, since I didn't have to worry that either of the girls would try to have sex with me. I generally spend the majority of any date worrying that the guy is going to try to touch me at some point. So, that's something.
Internet friends!
But yeah, my platonic internet brunch date with Kim and Katie was fantastic. Alice's Tea Cup is adorable (although not as well-decorated as Upstairs on the Square) and makes a damn fine scone. I chose the pumpkin scone in honor of September 1st and my love for all things pumpkin and fall. We also drank approximately 4 pots of tea and got kicked out of the restaurant because we were there too long. See how much fun internet friends are? You should get one.
Tea!
After brunch, Kim took me to ride the "tram" over to Roosevelt Island. Now, when Kim said "tram," I thought cute little trolley thing that might drive over a bridge but is always, always on the ground. Had I known that I would be traveling THROUGH THE AIR over a body of water, I probably would have said, "no thank you." Instead, I spent the ride trying not to cry and holding on to one of the poles in the middle of the tram just in case it broke off the cable and we plummeted into the ocean, since, of course, holding onto the pole would protect me.
Terror!
Tram ride and hundreds of dollars later, I said goodbye to my friends and got on a bus to go back to Boston, where I am currently living like a peasant in hopes of rejuvenating my bank account. At least when Alice got back from her adventure, she wasn't poor. I should go back to playing in the woods. That shit is free.
Last week, I went to NYC to visit my dear friend, Patrick. Whenever I'm with Pat, we eat (and drink) the most delectable things, including, but not limited to:
In fact, that's pretty much all we did while I was there -- eat and drink. I think I gained 10 pounds in 3 days. I also blew hundreds of dollars during that time. (Please note, that I in no way can afford the lifestyle I forgot I couldn't afford while on vacation and in NYC. My bank account is crying.)
In a rare moment when we weren't consuming something, we took a walk along the High Line in Chelsea where we met a New Orleans native named DISCAUX (pronounced "disco") who told us his life story and then took photos of us. Weird. What made it even weirder was the fact that Pat wasn't fully dressed. Please keep a look out for us on the World Wide Web.
Thanks, Discaux.
After that, we came across an Asian man playing harmonica next to a small table on top of which sat an adorable little bunny. Again, pretty fucking weird. Of course, since I have no self-control, I HAD to pet the bunny, and, while doing so, the Asian man picked it up by its scruff and thrust it into my hands. I then held the bunny like a baby. It all happened so quickly. And it was awesome.
This.
It was also sort of sad -- this man pimping out his bunny for spare change. I felt bad leaving him there, but I also felt a dire need to wash my hands. We were also on our way to get zucchini fries and beer. Priorities. So, I gave the man all the change I had in my wallet and told him to "please buy him some nice lettuce." I sure hope he did.
me: Boo round house kicked me in the face once. I had a fat lip. True story. Kathleen: That's kind of amazing me: If you're wondering how that would happen... it was the result of me trying to BLOW RASPBERRIES ON MY CAT'S STOMACH
I've been noticing a lot of people struggling with math on Facebook. These are professional adults who I'd like to assume have a fairly good grasp on algebra, but they're getting it all wrong. Publicly. For example:
"Glass of wine + sushi + The Notebook = best night ever"
"Sandy feet + ocean = bliss"
"Day off + long run + dog + sun = toned and tan pet owner"
Some equations are even more complicated, such as:
Now, I'm no mathematician, but I think what these people are trying to say, in a very convoluted, not-so-cryptic ways is:
"Simple things bring me joy!"
"I love sitting on my couch and eating!"
"I work out!"
"I went on vacation!!!!!!"
And,
"Even though I don't know how to add or subtract, my life is awesome!"
Here's the thing, I'm really happy that you're happy and I'm sure your life is way better than mine, but I'm also incredibly bored. These algebra problems are becoming way too prevalent on my newsfeed. I'd be more interested in your mundane life if you had a new way to talk about it. Maybe try a foreign language. Do you know calculus? How about a haiku!
Sitting on a couch
Watch TV in pajamas
Wine, cat, beautiful
I urge you to consider a different format. And, most importantly, please always remember that coffee + a muffin does not equal anything except coffee + a muffin. Somewhere, your high school math teachers are crying for you.
By now, we've all heard about Todd Akin's asinine thoughts on rape and reproduction, and I think we all agree that they were outrageous, uneducated, and wrong. But, on the very small bright side, they have at least invigorated the discussion about women's reproductive rights in America.
Why is it so important to the government to control women's reproductive systems? Please seriously think about that. I understand that it takes two to tango (that's slang for SEX), but legislation around contraception and abortion is used to control, very specifically, women's bodies and choices. In a country whose female representation in government is abysmal, it's incredibly important for voters to understand this.
If this is something that is as important to you as it clearly is to me, I hope you vocalize it. If you need some ideas on how to start, check out this list from Women's Health Magazine's website. Or, you can just make a sign using a box of Crayola crayons and computer paper and then instagram the shit out of it (see above).
Whenever I tell a girl that I'm going on a date with someone, her immediate reaction is to ask me what I'm going to wear. I don't ever know the answer to that. I rarely ever worry about what I'm going to wear to anything (maybe that's why I often look like a M-F Quaker). But, when someone asks me that question, I start to feel self-conscious, like I'm supposed to worry about what I'm wearing. Like I'm supposed to wear a cocktail dress to get a beer at 6 p.m. on a Tuesday. I don't want to do that.
I read this "article" the other day about why women shouldn't change their style for a guy. Although the introduction was all about Taylor Swift, whom I could do without entirely, I thought it made some valid points, mainly that no one should really change anything for anyone. I once had a "friend" tell me that I needed to "tone down my personality" because I'm "abrasive" and guys don't like that. (So many quotation marks.) But, if someone doesn't like my personality, why would I ever want to date them, and vice versa? This "friend" also recommended that I "reveal myself over time." So, apparently, I should pretend to be someone I'm not to get a guy to like me and then a few weeks down the line be like, "Surprise, this is who I really am!" That sounds like it would work out well.
People give shitty advice, which brings me to Reason #5 on the list: "Listening to yourself is better in the long run." This doesn't only apply to what you wear -- this applies to everything. For example, the next time you're texting a love interest, just fucking do it! Say what you want to say. Say it in your own words. Don't consult six friends to find out whether it's clingy or cute or witty. If you need six people to help you say something witty, then you're not witty, and you never will be. Don't go trying to fool someone.
JUST BEE YOURSELF.
Unless of course you're an asshole, in which case, you should probably change.
The other day, I read an article entitled "15 Perks to Being Single." Apparently, I needed a reminder. Or 15 reminders. Unfortunately, though, I didn't find the article particularly helpful. A number of the "perks" involve the opportunity for casual sex, which I don't think is a compelling argument for being single. Has anyone ever had good casual sex? Sorry, let me rephrase that: Has any straight female ever had good casual sex? Doubtful.
Also, number 11 couldn't be less accurate. Eat whatever, whenever? Okay, I might do that, but do I feel good about it? No. What single person is like, "You know what will make me attractive to the opposite sex? Blowing up like a balloon after eating a block of cheese by myself with my cat on a Wednesday night." (Purely hypothetical situation.)
In fact, I think I am always more concerned about what I am eating when I'm single (see: the last 26 years of my life). I have to keep this svelte body to get the boys' attention, you know. SVELTE BODY. I look forward to the day when I'm comfortable enough in a relationship to gain 10 pounds and not have a mental breakdown. In other words, I want to trap someone so that when I do blow up like a balloon after eating a block of cheese with my cat (he's not going anywhere), it's too late for them to run away.
That's what I look forward to. So, line up, fellas.
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