Thursday, July 15, 2010

Sometimes I Wish I Was an Only Child

It's a two-fer day, ya'll. This is what resumes when my brother upgrades apartments and I get his hand-me-down couch (that he got for free from our parents) since he's richer than God and buying new furniture:

Sent at 1:59 PM on Wednesday
Charlemagne: Can you buy me this as a house warming gift and as an exchange for the couch

Kate: Ummm sure... I was just at Walmart though. Won't go again for a while.

Charlemagne: Yesssss. It says they are in the stores too. I think there are lots of colors, any of them are fine. Even pink if it is the last choice

Kate: ...

Charlemagne: I guess we will be ready to vacuum tomorrow, that's when Volo can move his shit out of main areas and into his room and we can begin living there

Kate: I'm not going to Walmart today.

Charlemagne: I guess I need to get that vacuum now then. Oh well.

Kate: You can borrow our vacuum if you want

Charlemagne: I have a big one but I want that little one so I don't scratch up all the floors

Sent at 3:01 PM on Wednesday
Charlemagne: I will just go to Walmart and you can pay me 15 dollars for the couch. DEAL. Thanks for the present

Kate: I don't think that's how it works. Plus, you never bought that couch.

Charlemagne: But I need it tomorrow.

Kate: I would not charge you for a couch.

Charlemagne: Would you charge me for a vacuum?

Kate: Did you give me a housewarming present?

Charlemagne: Fine. Take your lousy couch.

Kate: Jesus Christ I'll give you $15

Charlemagne: It is probably full of mouse feces. Mr. Mouse lived in there

Kate: Awesome.

Charlemagne: haha I really don't care, but now that I think about it, a mouse probably did live in it. Better than dying in it though

Kate: I hate you.

Emails From Messica

From: Miss Mess
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:43 AM
To: Kate

FYI Operation Alimony resumes on Friday. Isn't that exciting?

From: Kate
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:44 AM
To: Miss Mess


From: Miss Mess
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:46 AM
To: Kate

PS- I am assuming that the divorce reception will be probably mid to end of September. Leave your calendar open and decide what song you want the dj to play when you walk out as a divorcee maid.


From: Kate
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:50 AM
To: Miss Mess

Ooooh I'll start brainstorming. I think angry chick rock is appropriate. Or maybe metal.

From: Miss Mess
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:52 AM
To: Kate

Absolutely! Now, is it inappropriate for me to wear black and bring Jimbo as my guest?

From: Kate
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:54 AM
To: Miss Mess

Certainly not. You and Ex-Douchebag can have a last dance and whenever people clink glasses you get to punch him in the face.

From: Miss Mess
Sent: Wednesday, July 14, 2010 9:55 AM
To: Kate

Let's keep our eyes on the prize. Divorce reception... 9-25-10. I would do it on the 18th, but I don't want to interfere with Yom Kippur.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

I Want. I Need. I Must Have.

This. And of course, the Kindle to go along with it.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

One Ticket to Pound Town...Err...Forks

I just... I can't... You guys...

OK. I had resolved to myself to go easy on the Twilight rage in future posts because I fear I'm becoming a bit of a one trick pony. Is that the phrase? One hit wonder? The Proclaimers. I'm becoming The Proclaimers, you guys. So I was gonna ease up until I have my thoughts organized into a multi-chapter thesis paper detailing the evils of "the saga" and how we need to protect our innocent daughters from its awful, bubblegum, anti-feminist, pro-submissive message, but then, I saw this:


I just. I mean. I...

I can't not say anything. This is like dangling a hun cal fro yo in front of Bubba, but telling him he can't have any. It's cruel, and ultimately we know how it ends. He whines until he gets the Pinkberry.

At the same time, however, I'm speachless and stuttering. I mean, Twilight Barbie dolls? Of course. I've already trashed the perfume, and if Paris Hilton can bottle her stench, why not crappy teen lit? But the Manllow? Sad. Just so sad.

I mean, the condom, while ridiculous, at least had a good message, which shocked me actually, as in my mind that Mormon Meyer and Sarah Palin are actually the same ignorant fembot created by the male governmental elite to keep us ladies down. I mean, at this point, I reject that either is actually biologically female, because why oh why would you do these things you do to your own gender? Windex the glass ceiling, why don't you?

But really, as I'm sure you all suspected, it's the rubber vampire viberator that really leaves me choking on my words. Firstly, I'm surprised it's not sparkly. And secondly, I don't think the tween audience for whom these "novels" are intended are the ones buying this appliance. It's their awful divorcee mothers who are wearing the "Edward likes cougars" shirt and supporting terrible writing, abusive relationships, and throwing your life away at 17. I mean, clearly their marriages to their high school sweethearts didn't work out, hence the alimony check they're using to buy young adult themed sex toys, so why in the name of Neil Patrick Harris would you tell your daughters that opting for eternal life with their 17 year old boyfriends is a good idea?

I mean, I liked my HS BF a lot. A whole lot. I almost threw away my college plans to run away to Canada with him. What a mistake THAT would have been, let alone letting him chomp on my jugular and then fill me up with sparkle juice so that I'd be stuck with his sorry ass for the rest of eternity. Holy shit. That truly would be Hell on Earth.

But dildos. Lets get back to dildos. It's the self-declared MILFs using the dildos, propped up against the Manllow, imagining taking a trip to pound town with some albino emo kid who's perpetually 17. Not only is it completely gross and depressing, it's statuatory rape.

OK. Deep breath. I can feel my blood pressure rising. I'm gonna go YouTube "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" because it's totes stuck in my head now.

da da da (da da da)
da da da (da da da)

Da Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Uh Da

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

It's Only Teenage Wasteland

Oh. Em. Gee. Tavi Gevinson. The Style Rookie. Too much awesomeness for complete sentences.

Girlfriend is 14 years old. She just graduated middle school, about which she wrote this:

As for me, I learned about a few financially secure men who wisely keep some of their money saved in the bank. I considered Jay Sean's inquiry of whether or not I was "down." But mostly I put away my unreasonable cynicism and insecurities -- that having fun with my peers would mean contradicting my "non-conformist" attitude, hairy legs, granny glasses, and big, fat, pimple. I danced and enjoyed myself and realized that not being the conductor of a grind train doesn't mean that I have to be a wallflower, and then realizing that any labels are stupid, and that I shouldn't make my dress look ugly because I didn't feel "different" enough, and that I shouldn't buy a Daniel Johnston record because Kurt Cobain wore the shirt to the VMA's, and that I can listen to him and enjoy a little Beyonce on the lunchroom dance floor, and that I would really rather everyone just be themselves. And then I was happy because it seemed like everyone was just being themselves. Normally passive-aggressive, catty types seemed sincere when they said they liked my eye makeup. The Dudeliest of Dudes grinded with the girls that hadn't considered a hair straightener or spritz of perfume for the night, maybe because...what's the big deal? I think everyone was just into the music, and into doing what they wanted, and was trying not be dramatic and shut other people out, and to appreciate one another, and to appreciate the small size and community qualities of our grade that we won't have when we enter high school in a few months. Holy shit, a FEW MONTHS. Anyway, that's that.

And about Gaga she wrote that. And her blag is filled with Freaks and Geeks references. Fucking incredible right? She's so ME at 14, but so much cooler and smarter and better dressed. I just want to go back in time and enter high school with her. Eat popcorn and watch Daria with her. Peruse thrift shops and support local bands and drink gallons of coffee at Denny's with her.

Uh oh. That sounds dangerously like "that girl." The one who wears thick framed glasses for the look of them and listens to bands that don't even exist yet. The hipster for the sake of hipness. I hate that girl. I pray to the blag gods that Miss Gevinson maintains her originality through her high school years and embraces the wasteland for what it can be, rather than what it's supposed to be. And then I hope she goes to a university that is way more diverse than mine, so she doesn't get called a hippie simply for having a Bob Dylan poster on the wall of her dorm room, but also that she doesn't get too sucked into the counter culture that she goes vegan or starts protesting football games.

Stay away from the theater majors, Tavi! And the boys who wear girl jeans! Go to keg parties! Listen to country! You can still listen to Dar Williams too, it's OK. Sometimes I paint while watching Jersey Shore. It's all good. Except for Twilight. Twilight is bad, but I have a feeling you already know this. I have faith in you, sistafriend. My So Called Life was totally pop in its prime, but now is neo-retro and awesome. It's all about balance, girl. Go get em.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Neo-Hippie Spa Monday

I'm having an existential crisis, friends. I fucking hate hipsters, but I'm finding myself curious about some new natural and home made beauty treatments I've been reading about. I really want to try sugaring, cuz it sounds cheap and awesome, but I've finally outlived the constant accusations of hippiedom I earned in college. (Note: I did not feel these were warranted. I think it was because I had a Dylan poster in my dorm room, and apparently that's reason enough.) No one wants to be a neo-hippie, guys, but I really like nag champa and sundresses.

I need to mull over this a bit more before I can take a stance. I'm hoping that my desire for hairless legs will outweigh the fact that I'm going DYI and rather green. Don't get me wrong, I like doing things and I enjoy not murdering the environment, but proclaiming to do so is so self-righteous and smug that it makes me want to buy a chalupa and then throw the wrapper out the window of my car.

So I'll get back to you on this one. I just wanted to share my inner turmoil. I made couscous yesterday. And gazpacho. I accidentally ate vegan. And it was delicious. But then this morning during my interwebs perusing I see that not only does the Pitchfork Music Festival list directions to the site by vehicle starting with bicycle, they actually encourage biking to the fesival. Oy. This is why, friends. This is why.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


Oh geez, two post day. This is just a quickie cuz I found the awesomest website ever. Behold! thxthxthx

At first I was like,"this is pretty sweet." And then I saw this:


And P.S. I love using words that aren't really words. Like "irrendundantless."


I'm not so sure about this 1000 Awesome Things website, guys. Should be right up my alley because I love awesome things and I love making lists, but... something about it feels... forced. Or stale...

Maybe that's because it is. Back in 2000, my HS BFF bought me the book 14,000 Things to be Happy About on a whim, because, well, that's what HS BFFs do. This book, much like the site, lists awesome things. The book, however, does not explain why said things are awesome, or in its case, things to be happy about. It's just a really long list. And I think I like it better that way.

I mean, sure, there were things in there that none of us could identify. Those things are often labeled with handwritten question marks or the occasional, "WTF?". Yes, The Happy Book, as we call it, is annotated. We passed it around the school hallways for weeks. We loaned it to friends and acquaintances who were having especially bad days. We added to it. And we crossed out things that were deemed not awesome.

The Book, which now sits immediately to my right on the lowest shelf in my office, is still present for reference. And though it probably only gets use on the rare occasion when somebody asks, "What the fuck is 14,000 Things to be Happy About?" or when I'm having a really rough day, like when Corey Haim died.

I can still recognize the handwriting of each contributor. Sometimes this is because he added his own name as something to be happy about. Yes, AJ, that means you. Other times it's because she felt the need to make a special section in the back to chronicle exactly the date and time of the additions, as well as what she was wearing, and the fact that she was listening to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," by Cyndi Lauper. And clearly, Durden is identifiable by the excessive number of "your mom" jokes and references to Fight Club.

So, good try Neil of 1000 Awesome Things website, if that is your real name. Mine certainly isn't Kate... Anyway, "Neil" and his site can suck it. It's been done before and my personilized book is better.

Why do all my conclusions need to be laced with blatent hostility? Seems I need me a little Happy Book right now.

Oh, boy. Seems I published this post too soon, and that hostility I was feeling was completely justified. I had read through the latest couple of posts by this "Neil" fellow, and was pretty meh about them, cuz duh, everyone likes driving with the windows down on a hot summer night, you don't really have to explain it, but then I just decided to peruse the top 1000 things, just for funsies. I was not pleasantly surprised. In the first 30 or so I read, I was actually kind of appalled.

"Fat Baseball Players?" Ummm, no. Half the fun of watching baseball is knowing that I'd probably bang everyone on the Yankees roster. Cecil Fielder, back in the day, was certainly an exception. I don't like exceptions.

"The Gas Arrow?" Seriously, dude? You can't remember what side of your car your gas tank is on? Are you high? The little light up arrow that indicates which side that you like so much is handy THE FIRST TIME YOU'RE PUTTING GAS IN A NEW CAR. And then, it is obsolete. I'm never driving with you, buddy. You seem to have demensia.

Other items from this a-hole's list include: "Really, Really Old Tupperware." Ick. "Eating Things Past the Expiry Date." Barf. "Yellow Teeth?" "Rain Hair?" What are you smoking, guy? These things are terrible.

I mean, props for including "Picking Your Nose," cuz I think we all know how I feel on that subject, but again, this is an exception. And I think we all know how I feel about that subject too.

Awful. Take a Lap.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Cougar Scare

Close call, ya'll. I just had a total college-graduates-who-are-into-Twilight-which-is-just-wrong-because-it-was-written-for-13-year-olds-so-just-read-a-real-book-already-here-I'll-lend-you-my-copy-of-Beloved moment. I realized while tearing up through the season finale of Glee at my desk during lunch break that I have a total hard-on for Finn Hudson. He's like a junior in high school. I then equated myself to the twenty-somethings who are into RPatz or "Patsy" as I think I'll call him from now on, and I threw up in my mouth a little. I was seriously about to turn myself in as a pedophile, when I decided to do a little investigative reporting (AKA celebrity stalking).

Guess what I learned? Cory Monteith, who plays the frankenteen is actually a couple years older than I am. I'm in the clear. I'm definitely gonna start sending him my underpants and some haikus about how we are totally soulmates.

While I was at it, I investigated further, and learned that Patsy was in fact born in '86. Huh. He can legally drink and stuff. Whatever. It's still icky cuz Twilight is lame-o.

And unlike that Brit Patsy, thankfully my new TV star boyfriend Cory Monteith is Canadian, so we wouldn't have to fly over an ocean when I go to meet his mother for the first time. That would totally give me more anxiety than the actual mother meeting, which I'm totes gonna need a Xanax for. Man. I hope she's cool. I hope she understands my type of humor and she doesn't mind that I can't belt out Journey songs like her son can. I wonder if she'll want to go out to dinner or stay in. I hope she's not upset that I'm not Catholic.

Holy crap. This is a lot of pressure. I could use that Xanax right about now.

Monday, June 14, 2010



So, in a fit of job politics induced rage, I registered myself for fall classes last week. I'll not delve into the details, but the circumstantial evidence that competency and ass-busting does not pay off, while who you blow actually does really peeved a heaping handful of coworkers of late. In response I decided to board the Cartman train and just say, "Screw you guys, I'm goin home." Or to class rather.

Apparently just the simple act of registering makes me more academically minded, as I've been completely drawn to thesis based essays filled with linked resources lately instead of my typical FUG Girls fashion slams. This is not to speak out against the FUG Girls at all; I love those bitches, but I think what it comes down to, is I sorta ready to write research papers again.

Two and a half years of straight slacking and watching reality TV seems to have percolated enough that it actually began to take on the opposite effects, and I just wanna analyze some books, you guys. I'm for real considering swiping the third Twilight from Awesome A's tween daughter just so I can prove through literary analysis that Emo Edward and his lame-ass excuse for a heroine are actually in an abusive relationship and should be a warning to young girls. I'll cite that shit, ya'll.

Thus, I linked the above article because it is totally bad-ass. And the proof that there are non-retarded female writers in the world is definitely a bonus. Seriously. Stephanie Myer should be monitored as a sex offender, and Candace Bushnell should be stripped of her laptop privileges. That shit's insulting. I'm gonna start a collection to send both women back to school for some women studies classes and hope that the feminism sinks in, because if either woman continues to produce the McDonald's-ized pop-lit that they've previously published, then the terrorists have won.

Monday, June 7, 2010

You Know You've Missed Us

Kate: I think my eyelids are sweating.

Charlemagne: Weird. Maybe you're crying?

Kate: I don't think so. It's on the tops. Unless my tears defy gravity.

Charlemagne: Helium tears. Seen it a million times.

Kate: They'd have to defy barriers to flesh too.

Charlemagne: I don't like that word.

Kate: Fleeeeeeeessssssssh.

Charlemagne: That's the one.

Kate: Muahaha.

Charlemagne: It's not that bad, I just don't like it. Like "moist."

Kate: No one likes "moist"

Charlemagne: Moist people don't like it.

Kate: Touche.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Zombies and Stalking and Candy, Oh My!

Fuck yeah! Another person who's on Team Fuck Twilight!

I'm completely and utterly hooked on A Softer World. Marry me, Joey?

Monday, May 17, 2010

Emails From Messica

This could easily be a new CoL feature. Monday through Friday between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm, I get approximately 95 thousand emails from my hetero life partner Messica. They often include Bubba bashing and creative ways to spell swear words so that The Man won't flag them as inappropriate. The one I received first thing this morning was especially delightful:

Umm.... First and foremost though... Did Bubba tell you that he got pooped on by a bird?
Not only did he get crapped on.. But it was in Matt's car... Through the sunroof... While they were driving.

I told him that it was good luck, and probably even better luck because the odds of that happening are so slim, and his response was...

"Well Messica... I don't feel very lucky with bird $hit on my new jeans"

What's not to love? I mean, there's laughing at others' misfortunes (bonus points cuz it's Bubs) AND poop jokes! For a second there I forgot that it's Monday. Sigh...

Thursday, May 13, 2010

You're a Stupid Bitch

This is the best thing ever. I am sitting alone in my office with the door wide open, laughing like a crazy person and blaring this homoblabber like it's not at all offensive to the possible gay passerby or more likely the boring conservatives I work with. This is why I'm a professional, guys.

The ironic part is that I actually DO have a sassy gay friend, but when I get all Ophelia on him, he's like, "Can you just call Messica? I have a rainbowball game in like an hour and I have to shave my junk." And then Mess and I end up cursing his existence and chasing an entire pizza with a case of Miller Lite. The next morning, after Bubba learns that I have not, in fact, killed myself, he usually shows up with one of these three things: 1. a pack of Marb Lights, 2. a Diet Pepsi, or 3. a medium raspberry coffee with cream and sugar from Dunkin Donuts. If it was a particularly bad night and he blew it off to go watch the latest Twilight on DVD with his man-child roommate, then I get all three. Typically they are delivered to my work, where I can't ream him out with as colorful of language as I'd like, but have to keep smiling through clenched teeth while swearing to him that I'm never going to pick up his destitute ass in Brooklyn ever again and then let him borrow my car for a week because he totaled his truck on the New Jersey Turnpike but didn't care because he thought his new life was going to be like Sex in the City but instead turned out to be totally stupid and lame because awesome people like me and Messica did not move to New York with him and that I can totally see his hair receding as I speak...

Man. I could use a cigarette/DP/Dunkin delivery right now, it seems. Latent hostility I guess.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Color Me Fucking Awesome

Oh hey, guys. It's hump day. Get pumped.

So a while back I participated in XKCD's Color Survey, and the results are finally in! If you're a huge loser dork like me, you find this all totally awesome and fascinating.

The thing is, though, it makes me compare my usage of my time to how Randall Munroe uses his. Randall creates super cool color surveys and analyzes the data in a totally term paper kinda way. I color while watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother. Both are creative uses of color, I suppose, but Mr. XKCD has named over five million colors. I draw pictures of Disney princesses smoking cigarettes with my 30 pack of Sharpie markers. I feel like such a slacker.

In the interest of making myself feel like my efforts are justified, I sought to do what Mr. Munroe has done on a much smaller scale. A survey of one, if you will. I initially compared the official names of my Sharpies to the colors named by XKCD. They're pretty much online with the identifications of the general populous, but also totally boring. The most interesting name was "boysenberry," which I only liked because it's kinda a cool looking word, and also because I love Loganberry drinkstuff and it's so hard to find in the city I live in. Lucky for me, the pop machine at work has it, but I try to limit myself, because unlike my beloved DP, it's full fat. And revealing this information I had given you important clues as to my location. Or I just totally threw you off track. Tricky, aren't I? I digress.

My conclusion was that I second Randall's findings, and also that I am a way better color namer than both Sharpie and the general public. Thus, I will name the colors in my own sacred Sharpie collection. Ahem. Starting from the top left and moving horizontally across the rows:

1. Ninja Black, obvi
2. Wicked Dark Blue, Like a Little Darker Than Yankee Blue (or Thinking of Blue, If you're a CoL follower)
3. Brue!
4. That Light Blue One That Has Run Out of Ink (I need to replace it, but Sharpies ain't cheap.)
5. Cotton Candy Bubble Yum Bubblegum Blue
6. That's Teal, Bitches
7. Olive Another Martini Green (See what I did there?)
8. Ex-BF Hoodie Green
9. Lyrca Shorts Cerca 1991 Green
10. My 6th Grade Bedroom Seafoam Green
11. Asian Envy Yellow
12. Baby Shit Brown
13. Peach! (Said like how Princess Peach squeals it on Mario Kart)
14. Fuckin Give Me a Towel, Mr. Tangerine Speedo
15. Arnge
16. Ballet Pink (This is super official. I worked in dance retail for almost ten years. I know my pinks.)
17. Once a Raider, Always a Tool Red
18. Boo, You Whore Pink
19. Magneta (Yes. I spelled it that way on purpose as a result of the dyslexia of my friend Steve, who insisted that magenta was in fact magneta. So it shall be.)
20. Period Slushie
21. My 2nd Grade Bedroom Lavender
22. Gay Pride Purple/ Nazty Purple
23. The Sharpie I Steal From Work All The Time Purple
And finally,
24. The Brown Note

Phew! I feel accomplished. It's ALMOST like I collected thousands of responses from all over the world and used statistical analysis on the data. I mean, my opinions hold the same value at least. Clearly.

K, I'm off to continue perusing the Sharpie website. It's pretty sweet, you guys. Smell ya later.

Friday, April 30, 2010

I Had Some Dreams, They Were Clouds in My Coffee

Oh crap, you guys. I hope I'm in some kind of weekend withdrawal delirium, and that I haven't actually gone soft in my old age, cuz that would be totally terrible and lame. I have just spent the last half an hour perusing the Epicute website.

That's right, it's a website devoted to cute food. It's freakin pink and heart adorned and absolutely, soul-suckingly, nausea inducingly, adorable. I want to make some goddamned cupcakes with little birds on them or some shit. And I don't bake. I don't even especially crave sweet foods.

What the fuck, guys? I'm not sweet! I'm savory, dammit! This has got to be a sign of looming schizophrenia or of the apocalypse or something.

I need a cheeseburger and a pub crawl like NOW. Good thing the Halfway to Halloween Pub Crawl starts tomorrow promptly at noon. I think dressing like Madonna and chugging some Blue Lights will cure me of this ungodly cuteness fetish. Pray for me, blagosphere. I'm like two clicks away from subscribing to Good Housekeeping.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Kate Explains It All

What what ya'll! I seem to have a whole lot of things to say about these top ten lists lately, eh? Whatever I'm rolling with it.

K, so I came across this "10 Men Sexier Than Johnny Depp" list, and clearly my first thought was, "Umm, I'll be the judge of that," and as per usual, my first thought won out, and thus, I WILL be the judge of that. Here goes:

1. Mario Lopez. Hmm. Even back in his Slater days he lost out to Mark Paul Gosselar. I will qualify Mario Lopez's hotness with the following equation:

A.C. Slater < Zack Morris < Johnny Depp

I will admit that although Senior Lopez was quite the hottie hot in those couple episodes of Nip/Tuck, he now is the host of EVERYTHING, and that annoys the shit outta me. Depp, for the win.

2. Alexander Skarsgard.
Nice pick! Eric Northman trumps boring old Bill Compton any day. Sookie needs to get on that shit ASAP. But... he's blonde. Gross. Johnny wins.

3. Charlie Day. That greenman suit IS sexy, but I'm a sucker for the D.E.N.N.I.S. system, myself. And Glen Howerton vs. Johnny Depp? Yeah, Johnny's still on top.

4. Taylor Kitsch. Ok I've only seen like 2.5 episodes of Friday Night Lights, but my long term love affair with Kyle Chandler makes it ok in my book. From what I saw, however, I wasn't too terribly impressed with Kitsch's Tim Riggins character. He's your typical long haired bad boy, right? Like Sean Hunter on Boy Meets World... or say, Johnny Depp in like 1/3 of the things he's done. Sorry, Kitsch. JD FTW.

5. Mark Salling. Mmm. Mohawk. I'd bang most of the dudes on Glee, so Puck's definitely up there on my crush list, but until I have a three-foot tall black and white poster of him, tattooed, smoking a cigarette, and playing the piano hung on my wall, Johnny-boy's got me covered.

6. Ed Westwick. Oh no, top ten writer, no. Chuck Bass? Really? I mean, props for tackling straight on the fact that "he sometimes dresses like a dandy," but if you add in his native accent (what is he? British, right?) you've got a total queer eye. Foriegn people come off sounding gay as a general rule, so topping that off with a purple velvet jacket with a pink paisley collar sticking out is not the way into my pants. I can just picture him and Nate Whatshisnuts (Archibald? Is that it? I'm pretty much over Gossip Girl in case you couldn't tell) sucking face off screen. Sorry, Westwick. If you hadn't ruined yourself by playing the most *fabulous* (wrist snap) angsty teen bad boy that the WB has to offer, you might be a sex pot. But, alas, I'd take Johnny Depp's clean cut cop on 21 Jump Street any day.

7. Gael Garcia Bernal. Ut oh... I've got quite the soft spot for Gael. He could give Depp a run for his money... Wait, what? He's only 5'6"? Why'd ya have to go and tell me that? That totally ruins things for me. Dammit. Time to find me a new latin lovah. Shit. I think Diego Luna's only like 5'6" too. Johnny takes it.

8. John Cho. Another excellent pick! I love me some Harold Li AND some White Castle. And I've totally wanted Asian babies since I was like 12. I think it had something to do with being the only tall, white girl playing violin in the orchestra. I had Asian envy, big time. I was planning on adopting a little Korean girl and being a total stage mom, but with Asian-ness. Little Kim was sure as hell gonna be first-chair viola (violin's too competitive) and be super awesome at math and gymnastics. Sigh. What happens to a dream deferred?

Ok, wow. That came out totally racist. I wouldn't name her Kim, guys. I don't even like that name. Anyway, John Cho is adorable, but hotter than Johnny Depp? Yeah, no.

9. Cheyenne Jackson. Ok, I've never seen this guy before in my life and I totally had to google him. I guess he does broadway and he's on 30 Rock? I know, I know, I totally need to watch 30 Rock. I'm getting to it, OK? Maybe this handsome young fellow will push me to do so. He does have lovely blue eyes... But Johnny Depp is Captain Jack fucking Sparrow. Nough said.

10. John Hamm. What Would Don Draper Do? He's a chain smoking, narcissistic, shovanistic stud, and Mad Men is fucking great, but would I pass up some Depptastic goodness for Don Draper? I think not.

11. Robert Pattinson. First of all- No. Second of all- 11? WTF? And there are like two more guys after him. What botard wrote this list? I'm stopping at 11.

I'm sure we all know how I feel about those sparkly vampire loving Twihards, and sorry to say, Rob Pattinson gets mixed up in this. It's a shame, really, because he's not a bad looking fellow, but I have to hate him on principle. I'm having a tough enough time not hating Kristen Stewart, who I've liked for years. You can't just throw some new teenie-bopper Twilight star in front of me and expect me to do the work to not hate them before I even know them. That's crazy-talk! AND THEN, you expect me to compare said teenie-bopper to the likes of Johnny Depp? Are you high? There's no comparison.

And so my judgment is this: No one is hotter than Johnny Depp. Ever. And while the writer of this top ten list has good tastes in many regards, she clearly should return to elementary school to repeat basic math, and while there perhaps she'll assimilate into the culture and we'll see a brand new top ten list: 10 pre-pubescent boys who are cuter than Justin Bieber.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Thinking of Blue

OK, so, I wrote this whole long entry about nail polish, right? Yeah. Like 2 minutes after I posted I get the following message from Durden: "No fucking way! I went to the store for clear polish and got Sally Hansen Complete Manicure Thinking of Blue. That shit is tard proof."

Thinking of Blue is in fact the color that my whole schpeal was based off of. That bitch bought the same shit as me at the same time thousands of miles across the country! This clearly only solidifies the fact that Ms. Katelyn is in fact my soulsista 4 life.

And does anybody really know how to spell "schpeal?" This is important information, as I use it quite often. I'm an excellent schpealer.

Fun Fact: "Schpealer" apparently acctually is a word. I hope it's dirty.

Friday, April 23, 2010

I'm in Love I'm in Love and I Don't Care Who Knows it

OK, maybe I should back up. Here's a little Kate History. Pre-teen Kate was obsessed with nail polish. I hit middle school in the mid-nineties right when it became hip to wear funky colors like blue and purple instead of those boring old pinks and reds. (Note: it was also hip to wear floral velvet shirts and overalls. Just sayin.) Being without income, except for my measly allowance and whatever I earned from babysitting gigs, $3 bottles of nail polish were kind of all that was in my budget. Places like Claire's and Limited Too turned me into a nail painting monster.

I used to change the color nightly to match my outfit for the next day. How I had time to do this is beyond me. I must have fit it in between reading Seventeen magazine and busying my parents' phone line talking to boys or talking to my friends about boys. Man. 12 was tough.

Anyway, throughout the years my love affair with nail polish soured some. Possibly because I no longer had time to paint three coats and then fan my fingers out in front of me while chatting up some pre-pubescent on the land line. In the later years I spent my time actually seeing boys, and then going to college. And drinking beers. It's pretty tough to open a can of Keystone with wet nails.

Which brings me to my second point. I'm apparently too A.D.D. to sit down for 15 minutes and let those bitches dry. They're smudged before I can even apply the clear coat. Perhaps part of my problem is that I have less disposible income then I did at 12, and I'm still using the same bottles of purple passion and denim blue that I bought in the 6th grade. That is, until last night.

I had some time, and some really heinously plain toenails, so I gave myself a nice french pedi. But alas, about the same time I ran out of chardonnay, I realized I was completely without clear coat. A trip to the store was necessary.

So I roamed the aisles, searching for some quick dry clear polish that I could slap on my toes before I had time to fuck those suckers up. And then I saw it. A deep blue that was calling to me with the voices of angels. It glowed before me like the holy grail. It was dark and matte (which Cosmo tells me is very in these days. That may have been a few issues back though. I lose track.) and once applied, I'd learn was the perfect New York Yankees navy. And it was on sale. Snag.

Now, usually I pick up whatever cheap crap Rimmel or Wet and Wild is throwing at me on impulse. Sure, I know the value of OPI, but I'm not spending 12 bucks on a bottle of nail polish, no matter how chip proof and bad ass it may be. But this shit was only like four dollars. Four dollars of perfection.

It's a new creation from Sally Hansen- Complete Salon Manicure- and the name is accurate. The brush was a thing of wonder, large enough to paint a nail in two swipes, and somewhat flat and curved and structured to go on straight and smooth. And guess what! That shit dried hard and tough before I even had time to destroy my handiwork (ha, handiwork, get it?). Love love love.

Needless to say, I will be returning to the store to pick up some more, even if it means I'm eating Ramen for the next week to pay for my newest addiction. I'm even gonna grab some for SML, who has been using the same shade and style of Mabelline for the last 20 years. If I can persuade her to switch, we know we have a winner.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Ten Things Every Woman Should Have in Her Car

Sigh. I know. I lied to you guys. Big time. I was all, "Yeah I'm totes mcgoats gonna blag tons more for reals." It's been nearly six months. Can we just pretend it never happened and move on?

Guess what? Since I am the Queen Shit Head Blagstress Extraordinaire, you don't really get a say in the matter. I do. Me and only me. And I say we're over it. If you're still sulking like a pissy bitch because I neglected you for so long, quit it. You're only hurting yourself.

Anyvay... inspiration has struck. Partly because today has been a sloooooooow day. I caught myself up on work by about 10 am. That slow. This has given me time to read and reread every website that I frequent on this abyss we call the internet, and I've exhausted them all. All except this one. Yep. I've read every site of interest in the vast expanse of the internet and it's brought me back to you guys.

What really sealed the deal in me opening up the old bliggety blag was an article I came across (while reading the entire internet) entitled "10 Things Every Woman Should Have in Her Car" and comparing my own little engine that could and it's every day luggage to the list. The results simply needed to be shared. Ahem. So here we are:

1. Standard emergency kit items. This was accompanied by a video. A three minute long video. How much shit is in this kit? Clearly, I didn't watch it, and will base my comparisons on speculation. This isn't uncommon. I used Wikipedia while writing college papers a time or two. Don't tell Dr. Whatshisface.

I figured this means flashlight (check. Mine is a "kittylite" in which the beams come out his eyes). Ok, really all I could guess was in this kit was a flashlight. What the hell else should I have? Road flares? Some of those dehydrated moon icecream packs that were super awesome for about three days in second grade? Oooh maybe a jack. I think I do have one of those. Jumper cables? I dunno about that. I have a AAA card. That's good right?

The frozen video lady was standing with the trunk of her car open, displaying her glorious emergency kit. If you looked in my trunk right now, my emergency kit would contain: a sterio and two speakers that I have yet to lug up to my aparment, a box containing a children's plastic swimming pool, a pair of angel wings and matching halo (real feathers), at least one loose legwarmer, and probably a hole that will transport you to some magical land, like Narnia, or Oz, or wherever those Wild Things were.


2. Personal paper products. Not a bad idea- at first glance. Reading on, the author makes mention of seeing all those highway nose pickers and blah blah blah. Picking my nose in my car is one of my favorite things. It's my right as a New York State Driver's Licenesee and the owner of a crappy used car. I don't want no box of tissues staring at me while I'm doing it, judging me. Plus, the more loose paper in my vehical, the more likely it will catch flame from a renegade cigarette ash. This is one of my biggest fears.

Also, she mentioned tampons. A good call. I had some in the glove box for a while. GBF Bubba (you remember him right?) was totally disgusted, and then intrigued, and wasted them by opening them up and dipping them into my Diet Pepsi. I was not pleased.

3. Umbrella. Yes. I've got one of those. Guess how many times I've used it. Zero. Umbrellas are mad annoying. I'd rather be wet. Or I'll just stay inside, thanks.

4. Cell phone charger. Nope. Well, there was the one that Katelyn left in the back seat which I discovered several months after she moved to Colorado. It turned out to be broken, and ended up back in the back seat.

5. Reusable shopping bags. Screw you, hippies!

6. Dog treats and a spare leash. What? I don't have a dog. Isn't petting those little furry strangers that I do come across enough? Wouldn't handing out dog treats be like luring children into your big white van with candy? Apparently for this author, it would, as she's keeping a leash in there as well. She is obviously a dognapper. I'm calling Sara McGlaughlin ASAP.

7. Snacks with a good long shelf life. Aha! They did want the freeze dried icecream. These I do not have. I very rarely have groceries in my fridge, though, either. I guess I could throw a granola bar in the glove box or something. Those last a while, right? If this lady's hinting at dried fruit or some shit, she can suck it. That shit's nasty.

8. Money. I have enough bottles in the backseat that I have thrown over my shoulder like salt for luck as soon as they've been depleated of their Diet Pepsi-y goodness to return for change and then order an entire pizza. I'm sure Pizza Hut will deliver to my 1999 Escort.

9. A good book. There's usually one in my purse, and various stragglers bumping around in the back seat. Check.

10. A GPS unit. Nope. Messica and I were aided by one of these on our trip to rescue Bubba from Brooklyn. We named her Gloria early in the trip, but apparently that long stretch through PA and on to Jersey bored the shit outta her, because she apparently decided to drop some acid and then start telling us whatever the fuck she wanted. By the time she got us lost somewhere in Newark in a locale that I'm pretty sure Tony Soprano has frequented for body dumps, we were both cursing Gloria at the top of our lungs. For 20 minutes that bitch took us on a tour around Rapesville, NJ until we ripped her suction cupped grip from the dash and tossed her into the black hole that is the back section of Messica's truck. And I don't think there's an emergency kit back there.