Kate is a Crazy Person Dot Com

At least once a day I am reminded that I am without a doubt completely insane. There are the small things- panic attacks that result from walking past the crystal kiosk at the mall, or the full conversations that I have with myself, my cat, and sometimes inanimate objects, as if I will get some reply.

There are those special occasions, however, that my natural instincts are so bizarre that I seriously consider hiring a life coach. Yesterday evening, for example, I had a knee jerk reaction that even I can't play off as normal.

I was leaving work for the day, packing up my things, and trading in the pumps for boots. When I put on the boots that morning, I had coupled them with a pair of thick Penn State slipper socks that I had stolen from my father that could possibly pass for boots themselves. That evening, in my haste to leave the office, I decided the nix the socks, and pulled on the boots without. I zipped up my coat and got to steppin.

Halfway down the stairs to the parking lot, I realized that there was something sorta lumpy, kinda squishy invading my right boot. My immediate thought was oh shit, my little fucker of a cat killed a mouse and left it in my shoe as a surprise. Normal? Nope. A thought that a normal person might maybe have and then easily dismiss? Sure. Me? Completely convinced there was a rotting animal carcass under my right foot.

The one minute walk across the parking lot to my car was an eternity. I'm sure in my attempt not to step fully down on my right foot, while trying desperately not to slip on snow, and choke down the vomit that kept rising as the thought that I was crushing animal guts between my toes made me look a little like Gary Busey after a meth and Red Bull cocktail. This, coupled with the fact that my boots were actually hot pink galoshes that I pretended could pass for snow boots, just completed the picture.

I lunged myself into my car, tore the boot from my foot completely terrified of what I'd find. I anticipated just using the soiled boot as a barf bag and leaving it in the parking lot, as finding a squashed dead mouse in my shoe would most likely make me yak, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna make any effort to salvage the boot by cleaning it out of there.

I hesitantly looked inside. There, crumpled heavily in the toe of my pink rubber boot, was a Chewy granola bar wrapper. S'mores flavored. I probably missed my trash can during the day and it floated innocently into my shoe, which was sitting under my desk right beside it.

My relief was immediate, yet temporary. The panic quickly subsided, replaced with the thought that a sane person doesn't jump to the conclusion that a lump in her shoe is animal entrails. Huh. There's another year on the couch.

Awful. Take a Lap.

I think this speaks for itself.

They Traded You to Humble Pie for 50 Bucks and a Case of Beer

Who would have thought that there would be a day that I would wake up and regret the very emotionally stable big girl decision I made the night before? Well, kids, today is that day.

Ya'll might not wanna come in close proximity to me unless you come baring mass quantities of alcohol or a time machine.

Snappish

I am troubled.

I had a perfectly lovely morning perusing Urban Outfitters and daydreaming about all the the knitware that I've got a fashion hard on for. There's this Aretha inauguration-esque beret that I sorta want to wear indoors:

and there's this slouchy hobo bag that I might forgo my new apartment for and move into:













and last but certainly not least is what I've immediately come to the conclusion was knitting's gift to me specifically:


Yep. It's a scarf. With a hood. And pockets. I want one in every color, and to possibly continue wearing a different color a day all the way through the summer with my sundresses and sandals.





I was pleased and a little glossy-eyed, and even considering wearing them all together in a riot of knitware and even though that's a total fashion no-no, and then I stumbled upon this:
I was immediately intrigued, as I am one pale mother fucker, and those are certainly some very pale and sheer looking tights. Well played, Urban Outfitters, I'm thinking... until:
Really? A backseam on perhaps the most perfectly realistic looking tights I've ever seen? Why? Why would you do this? I was even singing the praises of the toe situation and then you purposely go and make it look like the wearer is baring the scars of some full-leg bionic transplant? I mean, that might be kinda cool... but you don't really wanna walk around with a sign on the back of your calves advertising it, right? Am I right?



My confusion and despair only continued:











I give up.

I Read About it on the Interblag

My new favorite thing: cubecraft.com


There is little to no question what I'll be spending my morning doing.

Homeboy Wore Combat Boots to the Beach

Oh hey, creepy gargoyle monkey with no arms. Yes. Please do grin at me menacingly as I walk into my building each day. If you could look a little more like you're either about to throw feces at me, or dangerously close to toppling forcefully into my skull, that would be great too.

You're a Mean Girl. You're a Bitch.

[Edit: I reread my rant about how fugly Rumer Willis is, and thought that perhaps I was being unnecessarily mean spirited and well, bitchy. Maybe I was more hungover than normal that day, causing her to look like Lord Voldemort and turn my stomach a little bit. Maybe I just haven't been reading enough Harry Potter and I'm looking for my fix where ever I can get it. Maybe I'm just a mean spirited bitch. Who knows. Anyway, I've decided to go easy on her. Rumer is a person too, even if her chin is the size of a Buick. She has yet to date either John Krasinski or Zack Braff, so I can't blindly hate her. Yet. The second she goes near any of my men, the earrings are coming off and I'll get all suburban gangsta on her ass. Watch it Rumer, this is your one and only second chance. Start getting cuter damn quick, or just go away already.

Damn. Even when I'm trying to be nice I'm mean.]

Stop Looking at Me, Swan

What are you talking about? Grown-ups do so make paper snowflakes at work.

For Me it's the Mad Ones

New imaginary friend:

Little people.

From Ennui to Blind Rage

For months I resisted jumping aboard the Twilight train, because, well, I really had no interest. The movie looked dumb, and I'm horribly addicted to True Blood, so I figured there was a not chance in hell that it would even come close to measuring up.

However, I'd finished reading Chelsea Handler's latest, as well as Michael Ian Black's riveting masterpiece, My Custom Van, within two days, and was desperate. Stepmom had gotten Twilight for Christmas and there it was, sitting on the coffee table, taunting me. StepMom-lady finished it Christmas day, so I figured it'd be just as short a read for me, getting me through until Cosmo arrived on my doorstep.

So I read it. As expected, it was crap. I finished the last page with as enthusiastic a "huh" as I could muster, and then did some channel surfing.

Then today I come across this bullshit:Yep. That's it. Twilight perfume. For $50 you, too, can smell like a vampire... or vampire bait. I'm not entirely sure what its intent is. And you're not even gonna attract a cool vampire either. You're going to to draw a totally bogus and shitty vampire. Twilight vampires are vegetarians, for Christ's sake. Even human vegetarians suck. Also, these assholes turn sparkly in sunlight. Bad-ass vampires burn the fuck up if they even think about UV rays. They would certainly be disgusted that Stephenie Meyer is talking about their resemblance to a Lisa Frank glitter sticker in the sunlight like it's a good thing. It's not. It's gay.

While I'm bitching, I must add that the pathetic excuse for a heroine sets the Women's Rights Movement back a century or two. She faints once a chapter and is constantly getting rescued, and then when her emo vampire boyfriend dumps her ass, she gets suicidal. Fantastic role model for its young adult audience. Gah.

Looking back at that little rant, I suppose the horrifically mind-numbing shittiness of the book just needed a little time to sink in and little more of that oh so American parasitic merchandising, to turn my "huh" into a "aww hells no." I will as a result be spending the rest of my afternoon planning the picket signs I will be sporting at the approaching Teen Book Festival, and while I'm at it, I'm gonna write Anne Rice some hate mail, because her stupid vampire books suck too.

Comic Sans is for Whores

It's cold and flu season, folks. And shockingly, I am not sick. Or maybe I am, and just too used to it to notice. Sometime around Christmas I stopped feeling the effects of the four month plague I acquired from hooking up repeatedly with a special ed teacher in an especially hickish district in the area. The second I stopped that shit, miraculously I ceased to be sick. Apparently he was a carrier monkey for whatever diseases those little window lickers brought to class from their trailer parks. Wow, am I PC or what?

I digress. The purpose of this rambling post is to once again share my brilliance with the world. Presenting Kate's Fucking Kick Ass Flu Cocktail:A double shot of vodka (go big or go home, bitches)
Muchos icecubes
Tomato juice or V-8
Dashes of Tabasco, Worcestershire, and pepper (as much as your running nose inspires)
2 T Day Quil

Garnish with a celery stock, or a Get Better Bear lollypop if you're feeling crazy. Mmm. Goes down smooth. Sit back and just feel the germs running for cover.

He Said, Marie, Marie, Hold on Tight.

What the fuck is this, Nine West? It's a boot. It's a flip flop. It's completely nonsensical, and I am personally offended.

Just Like Angelina

Of course, I'm always partial to cigarette themed things, but I found this hilarious all the same:

Whoever (or is it "whomever"?) has called me racially insensitive is surely mistaken. I plan on adopting several Korean babies one day. I hear they sell girls two for one.

Flux Capacitor

I am quite perplexed as to why that last post showed up as "Tuesday, January 6, 2009" when in fact it is Friday, January 9, 2009. Strange days indeed. Oh well. All perplexities should be taken with a bit of whimsy, thus I will use this opportunity to introduce my new favorite imaginary friend: glass_orthodoxy. I shlub your creepy, wonderland-y, Science of Sleep-y art.

Ugg. It's a New Year.

I've decided to forgo all the "What I did over my Christmas Vacation" nonsense, and nixt discussing the list of resolutions that I will only loosely adhere to (the one in which I resolve to act more like a grown up was actually thwarted pre-New Years when I received a life-size Hannah Montana cut out for Christmas, as well as a 2009 Hello Kitty calendar, which is now hanging in my office).

Instead, I'll talk about whatever the fuck I want. The headline event in my life at the moment is:

Kate Searches for the Perfect Pair of Boots.

It's been an epic search thus far, extending certainly back to when the snow started falling in November, and perhaps before that. The last truly satisfying pair of boots I purchased was in the 10th grade. I still have them. They're shot to shit, and horribly out of style, but I just can't part with them. I think I'll have them bronzed and display them on the coffee table.

I have purchased at least 3 pairs of boots since it came time to pack up my flip flops for the winter, all of which left something to be desired. Ideally, I'd like two perfect pairs: one to make me look trendy and professional at work, and one to make me look trendy yet won't add to my drunken stumbling the rest of the time.

My dilemma is two fold: First of all, I love long pants (a result of being too tall and too thin growing up and always having pant length issues), but hate hate hate hate when they get wet at the bottom due to this clusterfuck that we call winter. My boots must somehow magically solve this problem, that is until the day I carelessly cast them aside to bask in the glory of my beloved flip flops once more.

Secondly, I have a moral problem with Ugg boots, yet a secret desire to wear them. They're so fuzzy inside. They protect my pant bottoms from the evils of the weather. They're flat, and thus save me from turning an ankle on my long, drunken walks home from the bar.

But they're also so fucking trendy. Not even new trendy either. They're three years past their day in the sun within the fashion world, yet the "it" thing in this depressing city in which I live. They call to mind all those girls in high school that I hated. They're ugly, yet not ugly enough to fulfill my lust for truly ugly boots.

Thus, I am at somewhat of a standstill. And my experimentation is getting costly. With student loans knocking at my door, I am thrown yet another obstacle on my quest. I'm almost ready to toss this one into the Fuck It Bucket and move to Mexico. Then I can wear flip flops all year round.

Not the most exciting of stories, I know, but all the same, important. You can't imagine the amount of footwear related bitching I've been doing lately. In closing all I have to say is:

Dear Dakota Fanning,

I don't care if you're starting to look sorta like a normal person. You'll always be a creepy little girl to me.

Love,
Kate