I'mma Gross You Out!

Yep. It's that time. I have things I should be doing (script reviewin') so I'm blogging instead. Oh, procrastination, you're such a good friend. For some reason I was just reminded of my last round of finals at MU, the last one I took was my financial planning class. I hadn't slept in close to 2 days and I'm not very good at math to begin with... I think I studied the wrong formulas, or didn't study one that was really important, and that coupled with the lack of sleep equalled freak-out. The freak-out consisted of me looking over the pages thinking, "Oh. My. God. I don't know how to do any of these. I'm never going to graduate. I'm going to have to stay in Columbia another semester. I'm never going to get a job. I'm never going to survive. I'm going to have to live with my parents until I'm 25." and then I started to cry. I didn't mean to, I couldn't help it; I was scared - it was silent, but the tears were streaming down my face, I was in the front row (awesome, right?) and I didn't have a tissue, though one of the TAs brought me one which propelled my crying even more (I was tired! Give me a break or a piece of a cake! Err... sorry). I usually cry during math finals, or just don't show up (calculus - sophomore year was the year of baaaaaad decisions). The first time I cried was freshman year, Spring Quarter at DePaul. My math teacher was amazing, I forgot his name, but he was an older Greek man, and he just had such passion and zest for life that I almost started to love math because he was so wonderful. So, I'm taking the final and I'm freaking out because I'm a retard when it comes to math no matter how much I study, teach gives me his beads... a rosary? Greek thing? I don't know... and I'm clutching them, trying to figure out the problems and I start crying - embarrassing, right? Very delicately (because he knew he was dealing with a crazy fragile girl) he told me to go home, study and then take the test in a couple of days when he was conducting another final. I thanked him so much and went back to my dorm. When it came to take it again I flew through the questions, attempting, but knowing that it wasn't looking good for me. I took the test up to him, completed, but sad-faced. He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I didn't think I passed. Then he told me to write on the backs of the pages a reason as to why he should pass me. Oh! My heart sang a song and I happily went back to scribble out a rambling reasoning of my strengths lying elsewhere outside of applied numbers voodoo and how I attempted, but that part of my brain just doesn't want to grasp those concepts. I passed, got a C+ for the course. Sa-weeeeet! But, oh! how I've digressed from the initial subject, like what I just wrote has ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with what I want to talk about.

It's embarrassing story time. Eyah! You're excited, right? Are you nervous to read on for my lack of good taste and censoring abilities? You should be. Yes. Yes, you should be.

So, this is the story that I wrote for the reality show application, they asked, I wrote. (It was between the following story or the aftermath of my first marathon - in training I didn't run more than 12 miles [which is dumb because I've since trained better and that race is still my best time], so 26.2 came as a shock to my body and the next day I could barely walk and was so convinced that my feet were covered in hairline fractures and about to break that I went and got x-rays and crutches from the doc... those crutches lasted about 12 minutes until I was like, "Fuck this shit! I'm hobbling to class, I don't care!" yeah, more stupid than embarrassing.)

Here's how I began: Alright, the number one, honest to goodness, most humiliating, mortifying, awful experience of my life came one year at summer camp (oh! I loved this camp, best summers of my life!)... I'm 80% sure I had just turned 11; summer after 5th grade. Normally it was just day camp, but one week a year it would become sleepaway and either the older boys or girls would stay - obviously in my case it was the girls who stayed behind after all the buses departed and camp grounds were basically deserted. Each night held a different activity (movie, Sports World, campfire/midnight hike - first two were basically rainy day activities so they were kinda lame), and this particular night we were going to take a dinner cruise on the Hudson.

Before we left, everyone went to their respective bunks, took out our overnight things from the shed, unrolled our sleeping bags, got ready, watched our counselors put on make-up and asked them about their boyfriends and giggled, and then we loaded the buses. I got my very first period the month before and was on my second go around during sleep week (talk about lame!). Come to think of it, I could've just turned 12, which makes this story unbearably embarrassing. Anyway, so we're on the bus, headed to the city and I feel the urge, sensation really of needing to go to the bathroom right away - you know the feeling, that, "Oh, shit! Toilet." and that's all you can think. We hit traffic. Are you fucking kidding me!?! (yeah, swear words were in full usage at this point in life, that same sleep week I was at breakfast with my two besties, Kat and Mishy [Kathleen and Michelle], and Mishy wasn't feeling or looking particularly well, so Kat and I asked her what was up over a breakfast of Frosted Flakes and bananas, her eloquent and shocking response was, "I'm fucking sick, damnit!" - yeah, we quoted that the rest of the summer.) So, I'm freaking out at this point, my stomach is in turmoil and I'm convinced that I'm dying. The traffic is horrendous, and we're at the point of the highway where you're basically in a tunnel, but not, because there are roads crossing above you - so aka, I'm feeling trapped like a rat in a cage, with digestive issues. There is nothing I can do at this point, but shuffle to the front, tell my counselor, go back to my seat, hold and pray.

By the time we reach the parking lot all counselors and staff are aware of my situation. I get off the bus first, with an entourage of 4-5 counselors and we haul ass to the boat as soon as the bus stops. I swear to God that bus parked at the furthest edge of the lot, away from the boat. OH, we are run-ning and I'm going to lose it - running like I have a stick up my ass. At this point I am crying and truly, truly convinced that I am dying, that this is the end of my life. We make it on the boat and are running down the narrow stairs to the bathroom - so close - when I lose it. My bowels explode and I sob. I now wish that I was dead. My bottom half is entirely covered and I'm standing in the middle of the smallest bathroom known to man with my entourage of counselors trying to calm me down and peeling the clothes off my body which is shaking with each sob. I think they poured pitchers of water on me to clean off my legs, but honestly, my memory has blocked some parts out to save face in my head.

I can remember very vividly sitting in the stall, still crying, and fashioning myself underwear out of toilet paper. By this point other girls need to use the bathroom and they're asking questions. The counselors respond that I got sick, but will be okay. I'm given an over-sized denim shirt (it was the 90s) to wrap around my waist, and I ascended the stairs, shoeless. Once on the main level, I learned that I pretty much had to stay put all night, because I had no shoes it would be a safety hazard for me to be on deck, or some BS like that. I sat, miserably, cramps twisting and turning my already torn insides, for the majority of the night. Friends and strangers stopped by to make sure everything was alright, and when I lied and sadly said yes, they would feel their duty done and run away to have fun. On the bus ride home I sat with Kat and laid my head in her lap, falling sleep trying to wish the evening away. My soiled clothes were put in a black trash bag and sat at the front of the bus. Ew.

So, that was that. It took me 10 years to tell some of my best friends that story (it happened one night, one the way to the bars, with my two Katies - all of us telling our traumatizing poop stories, one after another - oh! There's only one more for me, and it was a quiet shame, on a road in Maine... I was running, that'll be another post, I think you've had your fill today), and then I recounted it to Kat, and she said she had no idea that was the case! She thought I threw up! Everyone did! God bless those counselors and the children who didn't pry.

**Oh, yeah. And I told this story and the marathon story to my co-workers for input on which to use, obvi they said this one, and Erin said she wanted to start calling me: Kate "Shit Pants" - how sweet! I had to laugh.

Hmm. Hmm. Well, Alright.

Well, let's decompress here. Let's sort it all out. Because my mind is racing and second guessing itself right now.

I just had an interview for a reality television show to compete for a position as a personal assistant to a very powerful business mogul. I really would like this opportunity and I think I expressed that very clearly, mostly in the application I wrote (that turned out to be about book length - who'd've guessed, I'm a rambler). I fear I wasn't sassy enough. Some sassiness was needed when the interviewer told me that I was the whitest girl, ever, and wouldn't be able to hold my own in a VIP club setting, brushing elbows with big wigs and celebrities. I take offense, sir! I was also very taken aback and don't think I responded as I should've. I should've (look at me, shoulda, coulda, woulda - shit!) said, "Hey! Fuck you, dude. I had to fight my way into school in fifth grade, because I was the minority. And you're really white! And wearing sunglasses, inside." But I didn't. I didn't tell him about the time I had to fight Nicole Hicks behind the music room during recess because girl wouldn't stop talking shit. She slapped me, and I flared my nostrils and took off my glasses, giving them to Tisheya to hold, thereafter proceeding to push, kick and hit Nicky into the fence. Man. Bitch didn't bother me after that. Also, I watched "Friday" when I was 10, with Cherrelle, and I made Mac and Cheese and she brought over funyons. Yo. My first boyfriend was black, and apparently the only reason he dated me was because I was the only girl in sixth grade with boobs. Too bad they stopped growing after that, and then I found out he cheated on me with Kerri G. (who later turned out to get preggers in seventh grade, and got in a cat fight on the staircase with the other preggers 7th grader, Sarah) -- goodbye! That sucked. Maybe I should've told dude that I always wished I was black and beautiful. I loved how on "30 Rock" this week Tina and Jack discussed how they can't tell the age of black people. What?! Samuel L. Jackson isn't 27? 61!! Whoa! Yeah. Beautiful people, aging so gracefully. White people just get all wrinkley and liver spotty and shit. FUCK! Man! I'm so good on paper and I fail in person is how I'm feeling right now. And I hate how everyone I know is like, "OH MY GOD! You are the only one of my friends who I would love to watch on TV." And it's not like I have boring friends, I'm just crazy. And shit! Just give me a fucking chance. I was only trying to keep myself composed for the "job interview" aspect, but they probably wanted somebody crazier. Damnit, I'm so crazy. And... oh well, nothing to lose and everything to gain, right? I didn't walk in there already having something, so whatever. Things are supposed to happen for a reason, right? I'm not sure if I actually believe that, but a lot of people say it... and so far, life's turned out alright-ish. I shoulda shook him like Adam Sandler's Billy Madison did to that fat third grader, telling him to never grow up. I shoulda said, "Give me this fucking job, motherfucker!" But, guess what? I didn't. Alright, so we pick up, we move on. We put this experience in our pocket as experience gained. And now I've got to go put a band-aid on my heel because I wore stupid pumps for nothin'. And shit, I shared with 'em my most embarrassing experience ever! Like, ever ever. Terrible. I might write about that later.

Man, how to convey to strangers that I rock? Dude was dissing me the whole time, and I think I gave boring answers. SHIT! I'm done thinking about this online, with you. It's just a waste of time.

In other news: Diego Luna came into my pub last Friday, probs in town for the Latino Film Festival. I didn't really know it was him until after, and it turns out I've never seen anything he was in and I just thought he was some dirty, handsome hipster with a lot of Mexican male friends - totally his entourage. But we made eye contact and it was sultry. Then, my coworker, the sassiest tranny of them all, Rubes (I call him), said, "Oh girl, he is married to one of the most beautiful women in the world." (I guess she's cute - whatever.)

MOOOOOLE MAN!!

Okay, so Thursday morning my alarm went off a little after 6am and I hit the 'snooze' button. The next thing I know it's quarter after and I'm still in bed. Shit! I pop out, throw on clothes, don't even bother to re-up my hair, hop on my bike and groggily pedal towards the gym and yoga class.

As I'm approaching Wicker Park, there is a man walking across the street in the same direction I am going. He calls out to me, "Stuart is no longer a mole man!" At first my brain didn't recognize what he said because he said it with such confidence and enthusiasm, as if a street were finally re-opened, or this was the happiest day of his life because a friend finally re-surfaced. Then he wished me a great day and I pedaled onward, very confused. It could have been Simon or Sherman, but I think it was Stuart because it sounds more like a street than the other two. And it also could have been "merman." (Sherman, merman?) Regardless, I sure do love the crazy homeless people in Chicago.

Later that day I was recounting the story to my roommate on a walk up to DQ and we just happened to be passing the same area when a homeless woman jokingly said, "Oooh! I'm gonna tell him! I'm gonna tell him you were talking about him!" and I turned around, laughing, and said, "You better not!" Her and her pals loved that.

We got dipped cones; I got twist dipped in chocolate. It was delicious.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

You might (or might not) be familiar with my rational fear of robots... they are out to destroy, therefore my fear is rational. Yes, rational. Judge me not, sir or madam! Judge me not. Recently I had the opportunity to work on lessening this fear of mine by attending a prom full of robots, myself included. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. Seeing as how we were all a bunch of people in robots' clothing, my fear came to a hold for the night. Here are pictures to show how much fun robot-people are. I suppose robot-people would be otherwise known as cyborgs, which may actually be worse than real robots because they think they are humans (I believe this is the premise to the new Terminator movie with Hottie McHotstein Christian Bale) and duh(!) they're not! Potentially the reason I did not enjoy AI, in addition to the unnecessary length, was because of all the cyborgs.

Speaking of cyborgs, this weekend I was talking with my bartender (boss at my work, not like my alcohol supplier who I pretend is my 'friend') about technology and how our society is becoming grossly attached. Talk soon went from children who are constantly plugged into their PS player-thingies and will grow up having horrible interpersonal skills outside of their 'IDK's and 'LOL's (with pale skin and poor eyes) to becoming cyborgs ourselves by inserting chips and disks and other sorts of devices into ourselves to make life a little bit easier... I was all about the intellectual debate until he went into chip insertion. Yeah, the idea of knowing and understanding the language of a foreign country is really awesome, but the icky-weirdness of machine parts in our bodies is not. Then, dude patron at the bar brought up the good point of that taking away the joy of learning and life experience. Bartender commented that dude was in the minority and that made me sad to hear and hoped/wished that bartender was wrong about that. I don't want to be a robot, ever. Even partially. No thanks. So I'll probably be one of the first to die in the robot v. human war. Oh God! I'm scaring myself! Hopefully this won't happen in my lifetime, and my children will be technologically equipped enough to successfully deal with the problem themselves.

PS - in terms of the pictures, proof that I like dancing; look terrible in really bright lighting; need to not attend open bar functions for a while (I was convinced I wasn't going to make it through Sunday and have not touched, nor felt the urge to consume, alcohol since... new goal: see how long I can make this last as Mother says alcoholism runs in the fam, guess some ancestor literally lost the farm due to a alcoholic-gambling binge way back when. Week 1 = success! I win!); look really great in leggings; can only wear high heels for a limited amount of time; am sassy.

It's a Musical Thing

"If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED

FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD

WAS MUSIC"

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Kurt Vonnegut knew what was up. Apparently he would always mail things like that to his son, Kurt Jr., and in response his son would call and make sure everything was alright, which it usually was, until the last time - as always seems to be the case in life. I read about that in KV's "Armageddon in Retrospect," which was absolutely fantastic. But, as usual, I digress.

The reason I write tonight is to share a little food for thought from Alan Watts. Gave you chills, right? It should've. If it didn't, well then, I'm sorry for you, and think maybe you have a little more life lovin' to do.

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I love dancing, and singing.

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Thank God for music. Seriously. I love all forms of art and creative expression, but I think music is the most accessible for day-to-day situations. For example: without music, last week would've been hell in a file room. I had a temp gig, filing. I have the paper cuts to prove it - they're gnarly. My iPod helped me keep my sanity, and improved my efficiency. I often found myself dancing/bopping and singing or humming along, then realized that since I could hear the people on the outside of the 8x10 windowless room, they could probably hear me too. Oops! Work, running, driving, writing (only classical - usually), showering (with or without the help of the radio DJ), other things, all activity results improve tenfold with the assistance of rhythm and bass... it helps dancing too, duh!

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This song makes my heart swell. And Sufjan Stevens' "Chicago", and Alan Silvestri's "Forrest Gump Suite" -- all three are good songs to run to, to really run - to just let go and fly and let your heart pump blood through your veins and capillaries; to help in the realization of the fact that life is a musical thing the whole way through, with dynamic and dramatic crescendos and decrescendos before the final note. And also, this one (it's "Sitting Still Moving Still Staring Outlooking" by His Name is Alive in case the link doesn't work; fun time flashback: over Christmas break-ish, I was at one of my bestie's, Lauren's, in Kansas City, and she had this video on her computer that she filmed with her digital camera from the back seat of my car in which I'm forcing her, and our other HS besties Lisa and Alli, to listen to the beauty of the song while I'm driving up to the highest point in St. Joe one summer night way back when we were collegian babies and being nostalgic about our HS years that were months in the past... the video is just the song and mostly blackness with the occasional blue glow of dashboard light, until about 3/4 the way through when I say something like, "Oh crap!" and we all scream or yell because I swerved, and someone says, "Was that a raccoon?" or something, and the silence was lost, but the perfection of our friendship was captured. That made me happy... that specific moment itself, and then that Ms. L had captured it, though it was blind on film, it played brilliantly in my memory... PS: Tobes, if you're reading this, I do remember a-one specific promise to send that from your fancy Mac, hmmm!? Hmm!?) is pretty great, too. Totally unrelated (but what isn't here?) is that how you're supposed to write "too" with the statement then "," then "too"? Is that right; sometimes; all the time; none of the time? I'm not good with grammar (duh)! I use it like glitter. What? That didn't even make sense.

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Also, unrelated: when I opened up the Silvestri song, Castaway music was also suggested and it triggered a neuron from a dream the other night in which I was watching the movie and then all of a sudden in it, and I was like, "Shit! Seriously! Of all the Tom Hanks movies I have to get stuck in, it has to be this one?! Why not 'The Money Pit'!?!?" because I was on the island... y'know, it sucked. And speaking of dreams, I've been having some seriously messed up ones lately. Like super duper messed up. A bird flew, and got stuck, in my hair in one. I spoke Spanish, or something in another one while hiding in some basement of a desert house-mansion with other people hiding from Saddam Hussein, like Anne Frank-ish style. Seriously? What's that about!? It makes going to bed kind of exciting and scary all at once.

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Speaking of which, I need to... So yeah, music. It's good. Life. It's wonderful. Sing. Dance. Smell the flowers. If this isn't nice, I don't know what is. I'm gonna make my Momma's lasagna recipe this week and listen to Yves Montand's "Bella Ciao!" on repeat.

FROOOOO HAT!!

I woke up to the Beatles this morning, yoga'd, ran and am applying for jobs all across the board - so it's going to be a good day, I have to say. I've decided. That much we're trying for (apologies for the previous post as I was drunk and feeling downtrodden). Annnnnnnnyway, I just wanted to share this awesome image with you because it always makes me smile, and I hope it will do the same for you.Did it do the trick; are you smiling? You should be if you aren't. Just sayin'. Y'know, just so y'know?

Alllllllllllllllso(!), Tuesday night I went to the Yann Tiersen/Asobi Seksu concert with my good buddy, Ty. And it was very French and very rocking. Asobi wasn't so French, but wow! They were great, like I want to put them in my pocket great. Lady has a set of chords on her, that's for sure. I got excited when they played "Thursday" cause that's about the only so I recognized, but I really enjoyed their performance. Yann and crew came out and immediately blew everyone away, though after every song I wanted him/someone to pick up an accordion and bust into some Amelie-inspired tunes, sadly this didn't happen until the encore (La Valse... something or other, I'll check with Ty as the wine had a firm grasp on me by then), buuuuut when it did - wow, I can't even - wow. Dude ripped the shit out of his violin bow, I'll say that much. There was some song with "sinking" in it that made tears fall into my wine, but I can't seem to find any YT songs online... so it was good, and the bassist was hot to trot. Mmm mmm mmm. French.

To top off the night, as if it wasn't already awesome enough, Ty and I went over to his friend's apartment and we played a few hands of Strip Old Maid - hahaha. I know, I know! This was the first time I ever played a strip game and I was happy to share it with a bunch of fine, gay men. I thought I was going to win my last hand at 3am and announced that I would be clothing myself and departing... good thing I did that because I didn't win and the intimates were next in line to go - oh no! So yes, one thing always leads to another and it always starts with a fro hat. What? I was just trying to come full circle on the post... I gotta get outta here and go walking in the sunshine.

Drip, drip Drop little April Shower...

Listen/watch this song/video. Perhaps, if I were able to embed this video I wouldn't be unemployed.

Oh yes, I am unemployed. Hence my being up at, oh wait - it's not that late, on a Sunday night. But mayhaps, if I were gainfully employed I would be getting ready for bed as I would most likely be rising at 6am. I miss that. But I don't necessarily miss the mundanity (is that a word?) of my previous workplace... no, no, no, mundane-ness wasn't it, but rather the lack of human interaction. I wish I were still getting paid to write. Oh woe. Woe is me. Berh, berh, berh.

Yeah.... so, I definitely thought this unemployedness would be a miracle in my life, giving me the ability to reassess my situation and what exactly it is that I want to do with myself, but that hasn't really been the case. I've been looking for work since November as I was told on the second day of training for my previous job that the company was going under (and would most likely not make it past the end of August - that was in May... I got let go 4/3 and was asked to stay on as long as possible, so I guess I was doing something right) and I haven't had much success, as I'm unemployed. I would very much rather not be unemployed, and I feel like this is the case for most Americans, perhaps even world citizens... things are really bleak for a lot of people right now, or so it seems; so the media tells me; so I see on the street; so my friend's mother reports of the decreasing traffic on her commute. Sigh, sigh. I'm scared. Terrified is the better word, as I have over $450 in student loan repayments a month and unemployment is only offering me $250 a week (but, since I'm part-timely employed if I make more than $125 in a month, they start taking out dollar for dollar)... oh, maybe I shouldn't be writing about this as the panic is rising in my chest. I never had panic attacks before I moved to Chicago - thought they were silly and unrealistic, but really, it feels like drowning, like drowning and you're freaking out and you know it's happening and you want to stop it, but the water is filling your lungs and you're trying as hard as you can to rush to the surface to gasp for air and it's exhausting, and thus the overwhelming feeling of panic takes hold. --My first panic attack was early in March, with the realization of my first year in Chicago completed and me being nowhere where I wanted. The gasping for air, the unstoppable sobs - it was painful and felt unnecessary so I scolded myself throughout. The second time came with the first day of unemployment when I realized that I couldn't file for unemployment online because I worked the first two months of last year in Missouri and therefore needed to go into the office [to fill out extra paperwork] that was BFE outta my way uptown - no thanks. The reality of the situation hit me like a serious trip over a concrete curb and the lack of my ability to change the situation immediately took hold. I tried to calm myself and not freak out, but that only worsened it, hence the drowning metaphor - the first time I let the panic wash over me in terror, the second time I felt it coming and didn't want it to happen hence the stifling of my sobs and the lack of air going into my lungs, which obviously made things worse. I sat on my couch, alone, April 6, gasping for air and shaking my head, saying "stop it", seeing myself someplace else... wishing that I were someplace else. Are the rest of my twenties going to be filled with the same terror? Oh, this isn't the time to be writing, and I know that after the showers the green will be brilliant and beautiful, but right now there doesn't seem to be an end in sight and I'm scared and I want better things for myself. I didn't get a college degree to work in dead-end jobs, and while I did get a degree in Theatre (emphasis in Writing for Performance) and a minor in Sociology I didn't expect myself to be working in restaurants well after the fact of that... it was Rollo May who once said that "What if imagination and art are not frosting at all, but the fountainhead of human experience?" and, well, I'm rambling now... and I'm just confused and, well, as many times as I remind myself I'm lucky for not having a mortgage or children, it's still hard to cope, and to not wish things were different than they are now, but this too shall pass (I hope).

I'm a good person, or at least I try to be. I wish[/think] the same for[/of] the people that surround me. I wish someone would give me a chance, and I used to think maybe I wasn't taking enough chances, but I have been, and I'm starting to get exhausted of putting myself out there and getting let down by the results. Oh, it's just been a long two weeks and I'm feeling so unsure of everything, but perhaps tomorrow will be different. I hope, but I also doubt... this sucks. Later I'll tell you everything I've always wanted to be in life - there's a lot on that list.

This post was probably too personal to be sharing with an online community, but maybe it made you feel better about your situation, which I hope is better than mine, and I wish you all the best in everything that you do, and hope that everything you wish comes true.

PS - I used to watch this (with my Grandma Dot) when I was a kid, and sometimes I still sing it to my friends when they're sad (I shoulda sang it to the little girl in my sock puppet workshop this weekend when we put her in a different group than her older sister and she got so upset that she started crying and it almost made me cry - I don't like when people around me are sad; it reminded me of the end of camp when you tell yourself that you're gonna keep it together, and not cry, and then someone else starts to cry, and you end up crying - oh! to be a sensitive girl!), and it usually makes them smile... it's okay.

I don't like playing this game of pretending to be an adult.

PPS - that last video's corniness just made me feel a lot better... now I'm watching this one. And also the one about "Ladies first, Ladies first!" -- eat that bitch, tigers, eat her up!!