What Is Your Boyfriend *Really* Saying

Hey girls (no boys! oh okay, fine, boys are welcome, I guess) !!

Have you ever been having a serious and deep conversation with you boyfriend, crush, OR EVEN JUST YOUR DAD, and you have a funny feeling (because you're a woman and you have female intuition) that maybe you aren't getting the whole story? Maybe, just maybe, there is something else this boy is trying to say? Well, sisters, I'm here to help!

Readers have been writing in with this problem over and over and I thought it was time to bring this issue up on the internet!

Rachel B. from New Hampshire wrote in:
The other day my boyfriend Dan and I were eating at a diner dinner. It was two weeks before Homecoming and I asked him if he had any interest in attending. He took a big bite of his sandwich and said what sounded like "Yeah, totally let's go" but idk there was something DEFINITELY OFF in the way he said it. Like, it took him a second to respond, and idk KD Homewrecker, what gives?!

Hey Rachel B!
Sounds super weird but I wouldn't FREAK OUT. He probably said "Yeah, totally let's go" and just had some food in his mouth so it sounded weird. That is something guys are really prone to do---eat--and it often gets in the way of other important things in their life like girls and sports. Hope that helps!
KD Homewrecker

Ciara W. from Florida asked:
Hey KDHW! Huge fan! So this has been bothering me a TON! I have a crush on this boy who I'm on the chess team with. He is so super good at chess I'm pretty intimidated if you know what I mean!!!! He likes to do this weird cute thing that I think is kind of liek flirting where he puts a Queen chess piece in his mouth in a sort of playful way.  Then he kind of says "chock maht."What it was all about?? I can't decipher how mysterious he is!

Howdy Ciara W!?
First of all--a girl on the chess team!?!--SO COOL! Okay, but getting down to your issue. I'm obviously not totally sure because this seems like a unique situation, but I think we need to point out that this was a queen chess piece and not a pawn or knight or something that might indicate he is g*y. So I think he is probably a little bit into you. As for what he's saying? My guess is as good as yours but maybe either "check mate" or "chalk malt"? Good luck!
KD Homewrecker

Francesca T. from Hawaii commented:
I've never asked a question online before but here goes nothing! I keep both of my parents hostage in our family's basement. The whole thing started when they were super unfair about me killing the family dog. ANYWAYS, I keep a gag cloth tied around my father's mouth because he has a loud voice that neighbors would def be able to hear if he was able to scream. The other day I went down there to feed them and was like, "Dad you'll be super proud, I aced my geometry test and the teacher says I might qualify for a scholarship!" He then looked at me, tears welling in his eyes, and mumbled something incoherent before he passed out from dehydration. Boys are so dramatic sometimes, ugh. What would your guess be?

Aloha Francesa!
Congrats on the math test! That was always my worst subject. This one if tough, but if I had to take a gander, from the tears welling up in his eyes (aww) he's super proud. Statistically, science and math are subjects girls don't perform as high in and to get a scholarship for it is incredibly impressive. So he probably said something along the lines of "I can't believe my little girl is accomplishing so much." Honestly though, those tears probably said it all. <3
KD Homewrecker

Well, hope that helps! I'm not an expert but I am a girl! (SO pretty close right? LOL <3)


Ain't No Sunshine

The weather is changing so naturally, unlike this weather change, all I have to talk about with people who I've decided shouldn't know in full that I'm a hater, is the changing weather.

Here are different scenarios in which it is not only appropriate, but rather inappropriate to not, talk about the weather.

  • You're in the elevator with your office manager and while it'd be ideal to ride this elevator alone, it'd probably be a bad idea to pull your headphones on and turn to face the small corner of the lift. "Finally pulled out the scarf," you say tugging a bit too earnestly on the makeshift noose around your neck. 
  • It's pouring rain outside and you've spent the past two hours under blankets reaping the benefits of the $7/mo Hulu Plus you just "invested in." You've ordered take out and 30 minutes after calling in the doorbell rings, which is when you remember it's pouring rain and you feel like a horrible privileged shrew making someone bike in this weather. "Jeez, some nasty weather out there," you say shrugging your shoulders and making crab claw grabs at your Chicken Tikka Masala. As the door closes, the only thing you have in common with the delivery guy is you both hate you.
  • On the phone with your mother and you don't want to hang up and find yourself having to face the reality that you are very very alone in the big city you live in by yourself, so you grasp for anything to talk about. "I find that whatever weather you have down there we get two hours later." *Click* And you find your fears to be very true and discomforting.
  • It's mid-Autumn at this point, and a massive super-storm, similar to the one that wreaked havoc on the Eastern seaboard last year, is headed toward your small and fragile town. Before the government mandate to remain indoors goes into place, you run to the corner convenience store to pick up a six pack and a lighter so you can at least be stranded and high. As you are about to leave the clerk makes brief eye contact and says "Be careful out there." "You too" you reply, though you both know that even in the chance you do survive this freak storm predicted to destroy every physical memory you ever made, human politeness is futile in the grand scope of things. Also, last week he shorted you 2 dollars in change.
  • The world has been obliterated and all that remains are the several hundred people who were on the A train, under the Natural History Museum, which for whatever reason was completely preserved. As you embark onto the post-apocalyptic planet from the underground shuttle you were safeguarded in, the sky eerily serene and the sun shining bright as a newly wiped dry-erase board, you turn to the woman next to you and say, "Man, hope the weather stays like this!"


Layyydies! Thoughts on Street Harassment

[tw: street/sexual harassment]

The other weekend I was at the beach with friends which was super fun and general debauchery took place. But because we are retired college kids, the night ended curled up on couches talking while eating kettle corn and drinking whiskey ginger-ales. So maybe it wasn't debauchery and it was mine and Liz Lemon's dream weekend. Anyways, by the end of the evening it was all the girls sitting around chatting which turned into a much needed bitch session, reminiscent of high school sleepovers, about some of the wonderful and some of the tougher parts of being a woman. Oh there was one dude there too who kind of got trapped into this conversation but obviously and not-so-secretly loved it.

We all got to talking about being called out on the street, being approached on the train, being spied on by boyfriends in the NSA, and generally being reminded you are a sexual being first and foremost before any other part of your humanity is allowed to establish itself. One of the girls recalled a time she was on the train with her headphones in and a hood pulled over her head and a man found it totally reasonable to sit down next to her, yank at her hood, ask her to remove her headphones just so he could flirt with her and say, verbatim, "Whatsup?"

Like...what part of body language 101 did you not attend? Like that is a few bad manners away from waking a sleeping person to ask what their opinion on The White Album is*?

At one point dudemanguyfriend asked if there was any way someone could approach us on the street and it wouldn't be taken as street harassment or an unwelcomed advance. My initial reaction was, no, just don't approach me on the street, don't talk to me, I'm probably going to Duane Reade to buy nasal spray. But there was something about that reaction that made me feel curmudgeonly. And as much as I hate street harassment and the idea that women** are objectified in public spheres, I am also hesitant to be like these are the rules of feminism so sign the dotted line and don't ever make eye contact with someone on the street ever again. And that's when a really clear answer came to me, reminding me of another shitty situation I had been in a few months ago.

I was on a super crowded train, the type of crowded where you are getting to know every person's lunch preferences via their breath, when a man pushed up behind me. Now I've been on trains this crowded dozens (if not more) of times. I've had people graze my boob, hit me between the legs***, and generally be much much closer than I would ever like them to be. But that's what happens when  you're on public transportation and all of those incidents were quickly followed by a "oh gosh, so sorry", "excuse me", or wide eyed terror stares of embarrassment. And I forgave. But this dude this one time just kept pressing his crotch up against me. And I would shift, and move, and wiggle to stand a little bit closer to the doors and away from him, each time moving further from his crotch. And each time his crotch found it's way against my leg, my back, generally way too close. The whole time I'm trying to convince myself it wasn't intentional but in retrospect there was no way around what was happening: he was taking advantage of my space, my vulnerability in a closed location, perhaps my nervousness, sensing I wasn't going to kirk out on him in front of so many people.

Anyways, where I was going with this was that when my friend asked me if there were ways to approach us on the street, the answer is yes. When you are genuine and you mean it and you find something intriguing about us that isn't an attempt for us to hop in your car (does that work? ever? anyone? Bueller?) We are people who understand other people's behaviors and I'm not so out of touch that I think everyone on the street is a harasser. Just the same way I know everyone who grazes my boob on the subway isn't a creep. The snack vendor in my office building calls me baby every day and there is a sincerity to it that I know he isn't trying to sell himself along with the 8  bags of Cheez-Its I just bought. I don't have a ban on the word "baby",  it's about tone and intention and respect. And if I were to be uncomfortable about it, he is a nice enough man that I could hopefully ask him not to.

So yes and no. No, there is no "okay" way to street harass someone. And yes, there is an "okay" way to engage and interact with someone on the street or in public, and it's as if they were a human whose primary objective is not to go home with you.

Now exsqueeze me, I'm going to celebrate using "graze my boob" twice in a post with a glass of white wine.

*The Beatles album? The Joan Didion book? Guys, You should know by now that I'm a woman of sophisticated mystery....
**womyn, females, transwomen, effeminate people, etc
***that's where my vagina is


F*ck a Pumpkin

Fall is just around the corner and that means a ton of things. But the paramount symbol of Fall, the signifying cue that Autumn has arrived and the last hint of underbutt must retreat into the cradle of wool leggings, is that on every street corner, atop every dinner table, blended delicately into every food and beverage, is a pumpkin.

And the pumpkin isn't like nutmeg during Christmastime or flasks of whiskey during Little League Baseball season, which people use sparingly to spruce up the occasion. As soon as the weather turns just slight enough so that people can justify throwing on an Old Navy Performance Fleece vest or strangling themselves with an infinity scarf, they start fucking abusing pumpkins. Yeah, abusing. I said it. It's not a sprinkle here and an flavor shot there. It's like, glean every fucking field in North America that has something round and orange growing from it* and throw it directly into a churn that either dispenses Starbucks drinks, small handmade pies, or Yankee candles.**
Creepy ass fuckin' pumpkin town I hate it. 

You would think pumpkins were a BuzzFeed list the way people post about it on social media. Hell, pumpkins might as well be an edible Beyonce song. (Happy birthday Beyonce, I love you, call me, ok, great.)

People are trying to slip pumpkins into places pumpkins don't fuckin' belong, man! It's getting sick. Keep that shit in bagels, frothy lattes, and the occasional beer, but don't start pushing pumpkins in fuckin' Pringles. You might like your pumpkin but I assure you, your DOG DOESN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT A PUMPKIN unless there is a squirrel hiding in there. 

Man, I didn't want to have to go here but I'm just going to say it. Fuck a pumpkin. Happy Birthday Beyonce. Till next time... 

*plz skip over Jersey, don't want to behead tanners
** guilty. this is just a promotion for my blog turned Yankee candle turned blog again...


Am I Bad At This?

The other day I found myself at work because it was a Tuesday at 2:30 pm or something truly believable to start this story with. Anyways, we're all on board because here you are reading this. I was going through some legal documents because that is part of my job and it's probably the part of my job I'm worst at. Though, by 'worst', I really mean 'least confident in' because I don't ever have too much to do concerning the documents other than glean information from them. But I'm a Queen at second-guessing myself and a jester of exaggeration and I had one of those moments where I felt very defeated and had to ask myself, "Am I bad at this?"

And I think we all have those moments when you're 15 minutes late for a meeting that doesn't really matter because nothing at this point in our lives is (hopefully) so consequential that being 15 minutes late for it will have an Ashton-Kutcher-excuse-me-Chris-Kutcher-butterfly-effect, but you're still stuck in cellphone purgatory either 20 feet beneath the street in the subway or driving (and NOT texting) to wherever it is you're 15 minutes late for, and you have that heavy air in your lungs freak out, "Am I bad at this?"

Or maybe you've invited over new friends in the new big city you've moved to and finally have an apartment that isn't insulting to have people over in* and you decide to cook a big meal for everyone on the day the world is supposed to end, which you thought was 12-12-12 because that FUCKING makes sense, and no one feels the need to correct you that the Mayan's said the world would actually end on 12-21-12, so you're having a dinner party on an arbitrary fucking Wednesday and you make enchiladas for these new friends and the chicken you cooked at 2 am the night before to save time was never reheated and your new friends stand quietly in your kitchen eating frozen chicken in warm tortillas until one of them takes their first bite and is like "Kady, why the fuck is this enchilada cold?" and the question hits you again like a brick wall, "Am I bad at this?"

"This" can include, but is by no means limited to:
  • trying to garner what 'business casual' means
  • keeping a plant alive
  • keeping in touch with friends
  • not overdrawing your bank account
  • separating darks and whites in the laundry because supposedly that matters and people care?
Sometimes it can be really overwhelming to keep all these balls in the air, especially when we live in a world where people instagram their beautiful enchiladas they've cooked that I'm sure are one consistent fucking temperature. It's really easy to think everyone is doing more than you, and doing it better than you, and sometimes I have to remind myself that no one is uploading photos of the shit they don't do. 

To wrap this up, because one thing I am good at is not stopping talking and writing, there is this guy at 59th St--Columbus Circle, a subway station I frequent almost every day, who plays the piano on the downtown ABCD platform. He's been there for about 9 months at this point with this little keyboard and cardboard box playing some sort of freestyle jazzy music** And I used to stand there waiting for my transfer, every morning on my way to work, just watching this guy, who played the piano trying to decide if he was good or bad. Months. Is this guy a good piano player? Or a bad piano player? Months. Is he an improvised musical savant? Or a fraud? Last week he started wearing a little headphone microphone that he now sings into to accompany his piano playing and I've never seen someone look happier or more excited in a subway station (sober, I'm assuming.) And when he started wearing that little microphone, it hit me, like that lingering question, but more affirming, that it doesn't matter one bit if this dude is good or bad or brilliant or struggling. He is having a really great time and following something that excites him. The nuance of exact quality probably doesn't matter all that much because like it or not he now has a microphone accessory that he was able to buy because he stuck to something that made him happy and made enough people happy enough to throw him a dollar or two. 

*Read: "Oh, you're more than welcome to come over but you'll have to stand in the sink while we watch TV. Oh, and I hope it isn't weird, I technically don't pay rent for the sink so please jump out this 5 story window if my scary craigslist roommate walks in and there is a possibility she will see you standing in her sink, kthanks. 

**guys, I know a lot about music.


Three's Company

Ugh, hi guys. I've been a little lackadaisical about updating this blog and I could go on with a myriad of reasons why but if it isn't blatantly obvious I'm taking an SAT vocab class that's taking up all my time just shoot me now.

No actually, top secret news!! I'm developing this blog into a web series!
jk! I'm developing this blog into a themed restaurant!
One of my published instagram photographs.
jk again! I'm turning this blog into a Yankee scented candle that burns back down into an okay blog of a twenty something New Yorker.

Guys, I'm being a total jokester. But there is something I've been thinking about a ton, and it's actually a little embarrassing because I'm almost a grown woman and should know this by now. Like, not only should I be aware of this but it should be ingrained in my membrane to protect my well being and it..it isn't.

Okay, here it goes. I, I don't know, I don't know WHICH rail is the third rail. Okay?

And I'm going to argue that you can't blame me. Because there isn't a natural pairing of two of the rails that clearly indicates one is the 'third.' Like one isn't painted bright red saying ALERT ALERT third rail. All you get is a scratchy pre-recorded warning from some guy probably named Jeff who lives in Yonkers saying "Beware of the Third Rail" and I just wish it were publicly acceptable to respond and be like "JEFF, WHICH RAIL IS THE THIRD?? JEFF? JEFF!!"

At this point, the third rail is such a part of the larger zeitgeist* that I know to be afraid of it even though I don't really know how to prepare myself against it. It's like a myth. Like, holding your keys between your fist to punch a potential mugger. Does that happen? Does it work? How do I punch?

Ok, well if y'all have any thoughts, advice, SAT words you want to share, please leave them in the comments. I'll let you know where you can buy the candles once they come out.

Peace & Love

*what did I tell you about that vocab class. Ladies? Gentleman?


Pride & Prejudice & Standard Text Messaging Rates

This is the first in a series of posts combining classic literature with modern day technological habits and advancements.

Pride & Prejudice

``I dare say you will find him very agreeable.''

``Heaven forbid! -- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! -- To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! -- Do not wish me such an evil.''

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, quickly Elizabeth slipped her cellular into the side-seamed pocket, and Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, whose countenance she had studied for hours late into the night on his Facebook profile page, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word,  only the faint buzz-buzzz-buzzz of her phone vibrating against her hip made a muffled disturbance; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. Perhaps he was more talkative on online chatrooms? Elizabeth tended to stray from those online congregations, but she was unable to deny that many evenings in her youth were spent conversing with lonely older men from Iowa, binded by their mutual fascination of Manga and similarly fashioned late 19th century Japanese cartoons. He replied, and was again silent. Though she was enjoying the routine, it occurred to her that the consistent caller on her phone was perhaps the cute doorman she made slutty eyes at the week before, and the buzzing of her phone only heightened that fluttering remembrance. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:

``It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.''


What It's Like To Read BuzzFeed Articles

"I can relate to that topic!"

"I remember that pop culture reference from my childhood!"

"So funny! All about it!"

"Oh man! Guilty of that one!"

"Hm, that one is a little off, I don't know if I get it!"

"But still better than work! Lolz, office jobs! Lolz, millenials!"

"This is not an "article" this is a series of photos!"

"Lol picture of dog!"



#Verizongate as told by...

#Verizongate as told by two lovely older women in my office:

Three days ago, the public became privy to the NSA court order for Verizon to hand over all customers' phone records. NSA's acquisition went into effect April 25th, though "they've probably been writing notes on us since the day we were born." 

"As far as we know, this order from the FISA court is the broadest surveillance order to ever have been issued," the Center for Constitutional Rights said in a statement. "Yeah, exactly. As far as we frickin' know. Think about all that crap they're able to hide from us. Next thing we know they're going to put microphones in our sandwiches" said the two ladies in my office.

Although the records are not allowed to go public and all the government is able to glean are call lengths and locations, "I'll still just randomly shout Arabic phrases in the middle of my conversations to get them worked up. Hell, they better come arrest me!" one office lady declared at the coffee machine. 

Reportedly, this news has not affected Verizon's stock value, which remains fairly high. It has come in though that the two women in my office are, "switching back to Nextel because [they] are not puppets to this delirious frickin' government."

When asked if this would change their texting habits, one of the ladies responded, "My what?" 


I Have A Dream

I have a simple dream that one day I will be riding the subway and a group of three to four dancers will enter on one end of the car. Attainable, no?
They will shout at the top of their lungs, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WHAT TIME IS IT?
While I am aware that it is 5:45 in the afternoon on a Thursday, I know they are deriving at a greater point, that it is in fact, SHOWTIME.

In case the significance of this event is lost on anyone, they will repeat this utterance over and over, until a go-go Michael Jackson remix is conjured out of a boombox.

I know some of you are naysayers, thinking, "But Kady Ruth, this happens all the time, why does this excite you?" to which I respond, "All ye who doubt, read on..."

Because once the first dance crew begins to dance, right before Lord MTA chimes in "Stand Clear of The Closing Doors" ANOTHER, NAY TWO OTHER DANCE CREWS jump in the remaining two entrances and at the same time, as rare as lightning striking twice, they scream out triumphantly WHAT TIME IS IT and the innocent passengers are confused and feel betrayed because they were just asked this question and they were told SHOWTIME but that was two minutes ago so it may be HALF PAST SHOWTIME or perhaps SHOWTIME is folding into itself creating a blackhole of SHOWTIME to which no one can escape and our realities are inverted completely. And time freezes and the train doors close, trapping these three dance crews on a single subway car, until one can prove itself the lord of the D Train Dance and that my fellow Americans is the plot line to the next Step Up Movie. 

{Also vote for my blog on INDIECHICKS funniest blog, the category all the way at the bottom by clicking here) (kthnxbye)


I Say Yes, You Say No

There comes a point in every woman's life, one they've probably been anticipating for years, a particular moment that involves gaiety, excess, family, and a very special white dress...
In fact, some women may even argue that this 'moment' extends itself even longer, imprinting a joyous memory to last a life time.
Of course, it is clear, I am referring to the occasion in a woman's life when she sits on a couch for an entire weekend streaming TLC's Say yes To The Dress, Seasons 1-6 on Netflix.

What's that? You haven't indulged in the cinematic masterpiece that is SYTTD, airing Fridays 9/PM Central? You've deprived yourself from the narrative drama happening AS WE SPEAK* at Kleinfeld Bridal in Manhattan?
Well, all these sins are forgiven and you are forever a perfect bride in the church of Randy Fenoli. Let me try to encapsulate the glory that is this show.
Randy is here to HELP!

In 21 minutes you are given the riveting opus of a young woman who needs to go shopping for the dress that is 100% more important than the person she is marrying. Possible scenarios include:
  • No mom
  • No dad
  • Both parents
  • Angry mom
  • Sassy gay friend
  • Sister with attitude
  • Low budget
  • No budget 
  • No mom, no budget
  • No fiance
  • Two fiances
  • Hates dresses
  • Loves dresses
  • Allergic to cats
  • Has never cried or felt an emotion
  • Is from Long Island

Helping make that decision are the bridal consultants. These consultants, the Deus Ex Machina of the production, NO matter what, Keasha Rigsby, Randy Fenoli, Joan Roberts, Camille Coffey, Camille Coffey's lipliner, or Sarah Valasquez are able to steer the impending tragedy of not finding a dress onto a path headed in the direction of...finding a dress.**

At the end of the two act epic play, which as I mentioned is actually and unbelievably only 21 minutes, the brides are ready to make a decision. Aided by the consultants BUT also provoked by the masterful symphony of mood music, the brides either decide to say YES to the dress...or NO to the dress. There are no maybes in this world.

There are of course many spin offs of this masterwork, all of which are inspiring and critically acclaimed. However, I have bombarded you with a lot of ART already today and I don't want to bog you down as you are surely reevaluating your purpose in this world, in the presence of ingenuity.

*I type? You read? IT IS NEVER ENDING!
**Unless of course, these bridal psychics understand that this bride is JUST NOT READY to commit. In which case, they hand them a business card and are like K BYE DON'T WASTE MY FUCKING TIME.


To The Class of 2013

Ah yes, it is now the month of May. If you're a senior in college, that means but one thing. You are about to graduate. You are about to embark upon the big bad world of jobs, loans, new friendships, your own cellphone bill....

You've spent four whole years* gathering the knowledge to contribute and succeed in a troubled but persistent and sometimes hopeful society. You have the vigor of a student and have recently acquired the knowledge of our world's most learned scholars. You know it'll be a challenge, but in that ascent comes strength. I'm sure your uncles and professors (who are somebody else's uncles) are giving you beautiful parting wisdom, and I'm sure you will have a Commencement speaker who did something sort of important in 2003 whose words will stay with you forever.** But I have one piece of advice that I would like to throw into the ring and that is just.do.not.fucking.graduate.

Oh my jesus christ on a hot cross bun. Do you know after college you don't get to nap? There are no fucking  gaps in your day for you to conveniently curl up and take a little snooze. Perhaps you are one of the soulless people who doesn't nap or "doesn't know how to nap" to which I say, "you are no college student in my eyes if you have not tried to nap between a 15 minute class gap."

Meal plans don't fucking exist. My college had great food. And so does the real world. But I'll be damned if you think there will be cereal options in the morning. Jesus christ just eat Lucky Charms or whatever off brand Lucky Charms your college offers because you will never see it again. Stuff the fucking marshmallow charms in your pockets or tape them into your memory journal because when you try to buy Lucky Charms after college people will assume you are bringing them home to your child.

Ohhhh mmmyyyyyy hoollllyyy mother of swiss cheeese do.not.graduate. Find a way to fail your last class. Punch a dean. Expose yourself in the campus center. Torch all the Lucky Charms in the dining halls. Do.not.fucking.graduate.

Free gym. There was a free gym at my school. I would walk into the gym at 1 pm on a Tuesday, do a single crunch, and then roll around on my stomach to the best of Ciara. It was free. Hell, they even had classes they TRIED to get me to take. Do you know that after fucking college there are WAITLISTS TO GET INTO GYMS? I don't even want to go BUT I HATE BEING EXCLUDED. It's like TAKE MY MONEY MAKE ME BEAUTIFUL. But you won't be beautiful, you'll be like this. 

But seriously, best of luck to all of you graduating. It will be fine. But if you have any self respect, just do not fucking graduate.

*plus 3 or 4 extra semesters
** forever= until you are wasted that evening with your grandmother.


Experiments in Calling my Improv Team a "Band" Pt. 2

Bartender: Hey there, what can I get ya?
Me: Oh, nothing for right now. I'm with the band.
Bartender: Band? We aren't a music venue..we have--
Me: --no no, don't worry it's cool. You might not recognize me.
Bartender: To the left is the door to the basement stage if that's what you mean...
Me: You read my mind, brotha. 

Me: So I want my band's name tattooed on my lowers ribs.
Tattoo artist: Ok, great. What kind of music do you guys play?
Me: Go fuck yourself. *runs away*

Me: Hey, so what'd you think of my band's demo tape?
Friend: You just linked me to a comedy podcast.
Me: Hahha...yeah...Good, right?

Me: What would you say was the funniest lyric I said last night?
Therapist: You are completely disillusioned. 



How To Get A Bikini Body

Hey y'all! Excuse the mini hiatus, I've been doing absolutely nothing. * As ol' T.S. Eliot wrote, 'April is the cruelest month.' And while he goes on about flowers and the futility of our existence, there truly is no doubt in any of our minds that what he means is: April is the cruelest month because everyone is TRYNA GET THAT BIKINI BODY!**

Also, just hide your disgusting body in a innertube and pray you sink.
Everyone's beach time will be ruined by the sight
of you enjoying yourself in a less than perfect body.
It's that time of year when every magazine, promoted Facebook Ad, and really annoying friend won't stop using that phrase. But let's face it. Getting a bikini body is difficult AND expensive. (Hours at the gym, paying for the gym, paying for vegetables, hours figuring out what to do with the vegetables...)

However, I like to think that I shine in the face of adversity, plus I am very hip***, so putting those together I present you a the foolproof
  • Head over to a local beach/shore/pool/watering hole and you'll see dozens of women lounging in bikinis. More likely than not, one or two of them will have their heads covered by a towel or a large hat. Simply pull out a large machete, slice off their head, and there you have a ready to go bikini body,
  • Depending on the time of year, you might not be able to find bodies readily outfitted in a bikini. Luckily stores start pushing these tantalizing two-pieces in February. Target is a great store to find a cheap and fun bikini. It is also often heavily populated. Bring along that handy machete and just chop off a head, get in the check-out line, grab a Frapp from the Starbucks, and you're good as gold. Just make sure you get the right size.
  • Oh, another easy place to find ready to go bodies are tanning salons.
  • Don't be afraid to visit a local morgue, if you're weird about decapitating live humans! It's messy, but it's fun!
  • The important part is not to let someone else to the decapitating for you--it's D.I.Y not D.I.Someone else!
  • After you've assembled your bikini body, flaunt it! Bring it to the beach! Rock it on casual Friday (scandalous!) Or just lounge on your roof with that chiseled corpse!
  • In conclusion, what you'll need is 1) A machete 2) a sense of whimsy.
Finally, don't hesitate to constantly remind everyone it was D.I.Y. Hopefully the sheer impressiveness of your craftiness will overrun the horrendous charges of manslaughter you face. Plus, we live in an image obsessed society, so there is a good chance the jury will understand the need to KILL FOR PERFECTION. ;-)

*jk, I can't even tell you how many band practices I've had.
**I don't mean to brag, but I was a poetry major in college. I was also a major BABE.
***When in conversation about bikini bodies, be sure to mention sexy parts of the human body like 'hip' or 'throat' or 'slim ankles'.


What Your Profile Pic Says About You

On The Beach: You are a fun and down to earth person that enjoys the simple pleasures in life.

At A Bar: You are a fun and active person who enjoys being social. You are the life of the party!

Professional Headshot: Look out, everyone! Up and coming movie star! But seriously, everyone is excited you are making promising steps to furthering your career!

Your Face is Obscured: Very artsy! In a way, you are refusing objection, denying the viewer's gaze which ultimately is their ownership over you.

With Black Face: You are a racist bigot with little understanding or compassion for other humans!

A Selfie: You looked good! Ain't no shame in doin' your thang! But don't have TOO many!

Re-enacting a Famous Look: Also very artsy! You're a modern day Cindy Sherman!

Holding An Animal: Make sure to caption it something like "With my cute puppy!" because I will definitely think you have morphed into an animal and have a big human friend!

Your Favorite Cartoon: Similar to the animal profile pic, I will assume you are living in an animated reality and I will also resolve to stop regularly consuming acid tabs!

Candid Shot of You Doing a Sport: Sports!

Lighting the Hair of World Leaders on Fire as You Laugh Maniacally Behind Them: Sense of wonder and whimsy! Also, your account will probably be deleted soon as you will be retained by the FBI!

From a Halloween Party: Bitch, it is April, get your social media skills back on track!


Experiments in Calling My Improv Team a "Band"

To literally no ones surprise* and to a few people's enjoyment I do improv comedy. To me, improv is one of the most fascinating and viscerally satisfying types of performance. On the surface it engages the immediacy and importance of emotional behavior and if you dig further into improv theory (HELLO IMPROV TUMBLRS!) it really speaks to productive communication and honest/shared experiences of humanity.**

But I think one of the most important parts of doing improv/identifying as an improvisor is that you MUST understand that a huge part of the population has zero to negative interest in what you find so fulfilling. In fact, they will often just ask if you've heard of Improv Everywhere of if Drew Carey is your idol (yes, both, duh.) If they don 't ask those questions they will try and immediately change the subject or look at their sneakers or wonder aloud if you are financially stable (no, duh, whatever.)

So in this installment of my blogspot (which TexEdit** will autocorrect to say 'bloodspot', cool…) in an attempt to please more people and come across as hopefully a little less not cool, I will call my improv habit "band practice" and refer to my teams as "this band that I've started" because for god knows what reason the public isn't pissing themselves to download my hilarious improvised one womyn podcast but are getting themselves into legal binds torrenting entire albums. What gives?!?!

The following are trials in which the first occurrence exists in a reality that I have musical talent/am in a band and the latter is my reality. 

Trial 1:
Can't make it to your birthday dinner, I have practice. We're gearing up for a show that could really launch us.

Can't make it to your birthday dinner, I have practice. We're gearing up for a show that might allow me to perform somewhere that would give me a free beer afterwards. 

 Trial 2:
 ~just like hardcore jammin with disco lights swirling above me and I'm wearing a leather mini skirt and I make eye contact with the cutie I invited to my performance and wink/bite lip/be overall super sexy~

~just like hardcore playing a sad dentist who can't finish a routine exam because his wife just left him and I'm wearing a Hey Arnold get-up because it is conducive to sweaty theater, doesn't make eye contact with cutie I invited to my performance because that would be breaking the fourth wall/I am nervous~

Trial 3
Hey mom, come see my band play this weekend. I've been practicing a ton so I know this show will probably go great. Yeah, I'm a little low on cash, but picking up some dollars performing on the subway. Luckily people appreciate my art.

Hey mom, I'm a little low on cash. I've spent obscene amounts of money on sitting in bar basements pretending to be a firefighter reliving his dream to be Prom King and the coaches that are helping me do this are sort of expensive. Any way you could lend me some money? Will I be able to pay you back? Actually, funny story. The theater that I've formed a cult like following towards has just announced, to my delight, that they will absolutely continue to not pay people for performing there. No, no, this is actually a good thing and something I fully support.

Trial 4
Hey, I'm in a band

Hey, I'm in an improv comedy troupe.  

*aaannnnd SCENE!*

*except my mom's friend who when she learned I dabbled in comedy, said, "Kady? But she is so somber."
** yeah, fuck you, whatever.
** yeah, fuck you, whatever.



Today, a bunch of old nerds are making a big decision on what shouldn't be a big decision.

In doing a little bit of research* I came across the above picture. It looks like a fourth grade class photo. All they are missing is the little letter board that the person in front holds and gets to feel like a king for the day. But upon closer inspection, there is something else sort of funny going on and that is I'm about 97% sure both Anthony Kennedy and Ruth Bader Ginsburg are dead in this photo. That or they were interrupted half way through an episode of Bad Girls Club and totally ticked off.**

Continuing under the assumption that they are indeed taxidermied puppets of their former selves, I'm going to go ahead and blame Roberts (front row, center.) You can tell from his smug grin that he has successfully eliminated one definite and one possible left leaning vote through his creepy maniacal taxidermy hobby (it came in handy, ma!) Also, Scalia (front row, second from left) knows he is next despite being politically aligned. Look at the horror on his face.*** (Fun Fact: Roberts is more passionate about decorating his walls with the mounted trophy heads of others than SCOTUS brotherhood.)

So, if Roberts has committed unprecedented manslaughter of three Justices, that, by law, should eliminate him, leaving Thomas (jury is still out if he is in fact alive), Kagan, Alito, Breyer, and Sotomayor.

With this standing, Prop 8 should be overturned and Sonya Sotomayor will have more reason to smile like the beauty queen that she is.

*searched the hashtag #scotus
** Other possibilities include: reading through Amanda Bynes' twitter, reading through the arguments for Prop 8...
*** could be farting?



I am not the wisest owl on the owl farm, but one thing I've come to realize about being a social twenty-something (Thought Catalog, hire me! Please!)* is that the difference between leaving a party at midnight and staying until 4 is if you're 'tryna.'

tryna [trahy-nuh]verb- like, you wanna, you gonna

God bless the US of Tryna because it makes us all do very silly things like stay up until 4 in the morning watching a boy play video games (I have since realized this might be an indication he is NOT tryna) or casually mention you play a musical instrument that you do not even own/are able to pronounce. Sometimes I believe that the world is simply being held together by the sheer energy of people tryna at any given time.

Not tryna.
Not tryna.
On the train the other day I heard a girl pretend to not know what French Toast was and then the dude pretended to believe that this girl he was romantically interested in truly did not know what French Toast was. He then proceeded to explain what French Toast was and she giggled and giggled and I'm sure they went home and put their mouths on each other and I sat there with my jaw on the floor thinking, vhat. ze. fug. (jk I was like, OH! THAAAAT'S what French toast is!)

Of course there is nothing wrong with tryna, but perhaps we have all taken it a little too far, to the point we are sacrificing what is actually unique, interesting, and charming about us. Sometimes all we wear are giant tags of MADE IN TRYNA, and we can afford to buy local.** I'm sure we have instruments we can actually play. I'm sure there is more to talk about on a 7 minute train ride than how cute your gluten allergy is. And for goodness sake, the other person is also probably tryna so go watch Netflix and fall asleep together at 11:00 pm because that is truly the happiest you can ever be,

*I imagine Thought Catalog paying people in those free Itunes samples from Starbucks. 
**That is by far the worst pun/metaphor/sentence  I have ever written. Feel free to trip me next time you see me...


How To Find Your Boyfriend

There is nothing worse than being in a crowded place and trying to figure out where your boyfriend went. Even worse, is when you don't even have a boyfriend and you are in the crowded place aimlessly asking people if they are your boyfriend or not. 

You're on the subway. This is your view.
1) This woman is probably not your boyfriend. 
2) This woman is actively looking through her purse to avoid being your boyfriend.
3) This empty space can be used to imagine what your boyfriend looks like. Keep this one in your pocket.
4) Also a good candidate, though is sitting suspiciously too far away to be your boyfriend.
5) This is a foot.

Okay, so once you've focused in on who you think your boyfriend is. These are the important questions you need to ask to really make sure. 
  • How much money do you make?
  • Can I sit next to you?
  • Cats or dogs?
  • What are your feelings on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?
  • Oh wow, I don't mean to come across as rude, I just didn't think a foot had so many feelings on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

How to make sure you don't lose your boyfriend who doesn't exist again.
Put a shoe on that foot.



Scenario: You're at the club.
Scenario: The music is BUMPING!
Scenario: You're a white girl. Okay, jk I'm not going to racially profile, but in my humble experience, after years of being a white girl, we tend to be the most guilty.

Okay, so you've had a few vodka sodas in you or whatever the fuck it is you need to just BREAK LOOSE and LIVE.IT.UP on that dance floor, girl. It is the freaking weekend and in the name of R.Kelly may he REST IN PEACE (loljk still alive) you are just tryna have you some fun (bounce bounce bounce.)

You graciously slurp up the rest of your drink, side eye and nod toward your best girl friends, and BOOM all of you are on the dance floor ready to lure in future ex boyfriends. And you look phenom, B-T-DUBS.

  • Your butt: Toned to perfection thanks to all those pilates DVDs.
  • Your hair: Perfect volume, perfect length, ready to just twirl around as you bust crazy moves all night.
  • Your make up:Belongs in the FUCKING Louvre.
  • Your confidence: Literally through the roof. Like "Ex-squeeze me, Hilary Clinton, but I think I am solely responsible for shattering that glass ceiling. Glad you took advantage of following in my courageous footsteps."
Save The Last Dance is an excellent documentary about WGLB.
Only one thing left to do, and that is danceBegin. Raise one arm in the air, wrap the other arm around your body, twist your hip, shimmy shimmy, bite your lip.bite.your.lip.bite.your.lip.bite.your.lip.
Ladies and gentleman, what I like to call, 'The White* Girl Lip Bite.' In one simple move, bottom lip tucked neatly under your top set of teeth, you can seriously convey the subtlety of your sensuality and the vigor of your sex drive. In the single gesture, a suitor can see just HOW fun, HOW sexy and maybe HOW beautifully shy you are. Like, you aren't always at the club busting moves you are also studying to be an organic chemist and by the way this is the first time you've worn contact lenses. Most importantly, the WGLB solves the age old issue of what to do with your mouth while dancing.**

*Disclaimer: All races and genders eligible to use WHITE GIRL LIP BITE, the name is simply derived from the species first witnessed using this mating ritual.

**  Note: Don't put your fingers in your mouth.


A Guide to Canceling Plans

Don’t be the person to initiate the canceling. Hold off on all contact until the other party reaches out, wondering why you have been avoiding “cementing the details.” If you are lucky, they have also read this guide, and are also sitting on their couch not calling you. If that’s the case, read no further.

If they do call, act surprised at the mention of the plans. Perhaps it may guilt them into thinking they’ve invested too much into your friendship and that they should reconsider their eagerness. Hopefully, they will be shamed into retreat. If that’s the case, read no further.

Though, it is likely they will remind you, “Kady, we’ve had these dinner plans for weeks” to which you enthusiastically respond, “Of course, I’ve been looking forward to it so much!” Allow for a three second linger. Feel free to add in a slight cough or wheeze. Hopefully they will get the immediate hint that you might be coming down with a cold and for fear of their sacred health, cancel the plans themselves. If that’s the case, read no further.

 Post-linger and still no relinquishment from the other party? Verbalize the state of your health and reenact the exact moment of your day when you started to feel ill. “Right after lunch, I was riding the elevator back up.” Press further.  “And I passed the most acute gas.” Elaborate. “I usually pass a little gas after lunch, but this was more severe.  I definitely noticed this pass of gas.” Back down a little, allow them to show concern. “Oh no, don’t worry, I don’t think I’m dying.” Bring up possibility of dying. “But I don’t want to aggravate anything. There is always a chance of dying.” Surely, at this stage, they will understand that this dinner date is not worth risking the possibility of death. If that’s the case, read no further.

Of course, the other party is your friend and they are concerned for you. They might concede to canceling dinner, only to offer showing up at your residence and taking care of you. And of course you are not avoiding the actual dining part of the plans. In fact, you have already microwaved an Amy’s Pot Pie and are standing in the kitchen devouring it in your underwear, rifling through the freezer to find that half eaten Ben and Jerry’s pint. You are avoiding the social part of the plans. In what is hopefully the last attempt to tell your goodhearted leach of a friend you just want to indulge in a solo Say Yes to the Dress marathon and not discuss Hilary Clinton or that creepy dude at your office, just pretend to die on the phone. Ideally, link it to the back story of being sick earlier, but don’t hesitate to pretend to trip over your cat and fracture your spine. Whisper your final wishes into the receiver.

Let the matter rest a day or two, and send a courteous follow up text, “Not dead, feeling better. Drinks Friday?”


You Can't Instagram Everything, But You Should Try

What a week? Am I right? First we celebrate some dead white guys and an alive half white guy, and then it's Smokey Robinson AND Jeff Daniel's birthday, and it's like seriously, how am I supposed to keep up with how exciting this week is?! Do I even OWN enough Aderall?!?!

So, like everyone, I've spent more time than usual on the computer trolling my high school classmates' new boyfriends and the food they've instagrammed. (Both look delicious--get it, girl!) Feeling super up to date on people I don't care about's lives makes me feel both accomplished and creepy. But here is the thing, y'all, I don't deny it. I have a Facebook and I use it. Not a lot of things bother me (loljk, I have a blog, clearly a TON of things irk me) but something that really gets on my nerves is when people* pretend like they 1) don't Facebook stalk people when they clearly do and 2) that their participation in social media is somehow accidental. (No one is that whimsical!)

Example: I ran into a friend the other day who I hadn't seen in a few months. Really nice guy. Okay face. Soul of Gold. Body of soft maleable lumpy gold. Anyways, here is an excerpt of our conversation.
Me: Glad things are going well for you. I've been doing great, too!
Him: Yeah? Awesome. Oh man, I heard you didn't have heat in your apartment...
Me: Heard? Oh you mean--
Him: No, someone told me you didn't have heat in your apartment. Ok, gotta go, haha, BYE. 
And just like *that* he tripped down an entire flight of subway stairs. But I knew that no one had told him I didn't have heat because 1) we have very few mutual friends and 2) I highly doubt anyone cared past raising their eyebrows about me not having heat. He read it on my blog. And he found my blog because I purposely post it on every social media platform my work computer let's me access. (Still working on linking from my YouPorn account.) (just joking) (I'll never link from there.)

This also works vice versa when people try to make you feel creepy because you reference/remember their tweets. But don't act coy! Those tweets didn't mistakenly make it from your secret diary to your twitter/Facebook/whatever. You were clearly sitting on the toilet drafting the most clever way to let everyone know something funny happened at work and when you hit send being like, "BINGO! Bring on the retweets!" We're living in a share-share-share world. That's why we watch Catfishing Housewives of LA. That is why I don't unfriend people's ex boyfriends who now have face tattoos.

Take pride in all those grilled cheeses you instagram, the selfies you post, or the song lyrics you tweet. Or don't. Whatever. But don't pretend like anything you post on the internet is ultra-personal, secret, and not being checked out by some creepy dude at 3 in the morning.

* 'people' here being people who are active on the internet/social media. This might not necessarily be you, and if that's the case I probably think you are mysterious and have a super huge crush on you.


Girls, please

Did you watch the Super Bowl? And if you didn’t, did you come up with a witty Facebook status about not watching the Super Bowl? Did you Beyonce yourself while watching Beyonce?

Personally, last night’s footsy kick and brawl and Michelle Williams’ Make-A-Wish foundation to sing along with Bey one more time, was all a grand Illuminati extravaganza to distract us from what was really going on last night: Episode 4 of Girls HBO, written/directed/produced/and tweeted about by Lena Dunham.

That’s right. There was an episode of Girls that had to be aired EARLIER THAN NORMAL because of the Super Bowl. Though, to be fair, both spectacles involve wardrobe malfunctions, angry feminists, and boys in tight pants, so I couldn’t really tell a difference.  I understand Girls is a controversial show, and by that I mean, it is actually a very tame show whose cultural importance has been exponentially blown out of proportion, which in itself has become a controversy. Everyone from Kareem Abdul Jabbar to your high school US History teacher has a really intense opinion about the merit or lack thereof of the show. Also, on a side note, wouldn’t it be cool if Kareem Abdul Jabbar WAS your high school US History teacher? I digress…

What really matters is not how you feel about Girls, but just that you feel something about it. So for those who have yet to assemble an opinion on the show, I provide you with a handy 6 step guide to taking a side to the greatest debate that has happened in the past year (Mitt Romney, once again, defeated.)

Exclusive pic of me in a bed in Bushwick
(AKA the set of Girls)
  • First off, it is completely unnecessary to actually watch the show. The show is pretty boring and the articles being written about it definitely steal the spotlight. Feel free to base your opinion solely to oppose your annoying cousin’s feelings on the show.
  • Throughout the show, while the people on the screen are moving their mouths and putting food in their mouths, the girls take their shirts off and you see their boobs. Think long and hard how you feel about boobs. 
  • Though technically noted as being a realistic and grounded representation of the post-grad abyss, I’ve found the second season’s sudden and forced introduction of black people AND Republicans (two birds, one Donald Glover) to resemble a bizarre Sci-fi movie. There is vague explanation of how he came about, but like the white liberal heroes of the genre, Dunham’s character Hannah successfully gets him to retreat. As she continues her peaceful existence, she can conveniently bring up their relationship as bragging rights. So, do you like sci-fi? Do you like my bad metaphor trying to explore Dunham’s problematic ‘color splash’ in her second season?
  • If your favorite activity is “bathing with your friends” then this is the show for you.
  • The one thing I really relate to is complaining about my rent. So if you pay rent, you can definitely relate to the characters. But don’t worry—if you don’t pay rent/aren’t ever stressed about rent*, you can definitely relate to the actors.
  • There is an old belief that everyone is at least six degrees separated from whoever’s HBO Go account they use. So in my humble opinion, if you ignore my first step and decide to watch the show, find an ex’s cousin’s freshman year roommate, steal their HBO Go info, and watch the entirety of either The Sopranos or The Wire. Those are really good shows.

*go die.


Judging OkCupid First Dates Based Solely on Usernames (pt. 2)

Mhm, yah, ok, I am wine drunk and am not listening.
This guy went to Syracuse and majored in American Studies. You might have thought he would be a Finance or Business major, but you'd be mistaken. He didn't really get his shit together to impress his dad, plus he clearly has a knack for word play and nostalgic cheeky humor. We would go to a nice dinner with table cloths. One that maybe had two or three $'s next to it in NYMag.

He wears a fedora 6 days a week. Bowler cap on his day off.

If you were at a party with this dude, he would know at exactly at what point to start playing 90's nostalgia music. Which is cool, but he prides himself on it too much. And our date would consist of watching Youtube videos of sports bloopers.

Genuinely nice dude, and not like the 'nice guy' that the internet is suddenly hating on. OkCupid is still incredibly overwhelming to him and it is 85% luck, 15% slapstick humor that he managed to show up to the right place at the right time for your date (5pm, Happy Hour Nachos.) It'll be a fun date, but for some reason you won't be able to stop humming the Rocket Power theme song for a few days after.

Oh man, what is one thing this dude likes? Sports! Okay, okay, lets try hard to think of ONE MORE THING thing dude likes. Aw, fuck it, he just LOVES sports. You'll go to a pre-season baseball game which is super dope, but he won't notice when he spills an entire beer on your head from jumping up and down with excitement. Also, when he courteously asks you what you're interested in, and you mention liking Joni Mitchell and folk music, he'll just blurt out BOB DYLAN and smugly return his attention to the game.

See "PureIntentionsX"

*as always, I did not actually go on dates with any of these bachelors. 


Emergency Boyfriend

In case you haven't checked any social media in the last week, you might not know that the mid-atlantic and northeast regions of the United States are going through a full blown Day After Tomorrow deep freeze. But honestly, if you aren't going outside AND you aren't living under your blankets live-tweeting your Netflix marathon, I 1) have no idea what you do and 2) we probably have nothing in common.

While the whole world is thinking up hilarious weather related puns for their Facebook statuses, I am living in a bedroom that currently does not have any heat. Now I am a Girl Scout Veteran so I have some experience in subzero (CELSIUS!) weather but in this case I'm not able to satiate my woes with pounds upon pounds of trail mix until I pass out from gluttonous exhaustion. On top of having to sleep in a full suit of underarmour (when I wear it I count it as a trip to the gym) our kitchen pipes have frozen and we have no running water in half of the apartment.

Where is Ty Pennington when you need him?! Fix that heat, get new pipes, AND MOVE THAT BUS!

Here is a little snow bunny who is trained in the ways of staying warm.
Alas, our building's Ty Pennington is this dude named Max*, who other than making prolonged eye contact with you while nodding his head, has nothing else in common with the bronzed god of Extreme Home Makeovers. (Also, I think Max might be just dozing off and thinking about nachos...)(but who can blame him??)

Anynoodles, my heat isn't working which has turned into an unsuccessful attempt to quickly find an emergency boyfriend who has heat and will let me sleep over. So far, these are the following things that will definitively not get you a quick boyfriend:

  • Ask if he has temporary room in his bathroom cabinet to store your meds.
  • Call him up and chatter your teeth menacingly into the phone, never explaining who you are.
  • Call him up and sob into the phone, never explaining who you are.
  • Get pregnant with his baby.
  • Stand outside his window with a boombox, because even if he thinks it is cute, in this weather you will freeze and die. And we don't have room in our hearts for another Manti Teo situation.
  • Send him this song, mostly because he will be disappointed when you turn out to not be Aaliyah.
  • Tell him you will literally die without him. 
  • Ring his doorbell and while waiting for him, start a small fire outside to keep warm. Sing traditional hobo tunes. Start living the hobo lifestyle. Never look back.
Welp, hopefully you weren't trying to actually trying to get an emergency boyfriend, because those were the opposite of tips. In the meantime, I am going to go complain to Max and make him scream MOVE THAT BUS until I am satisfied. 

Stay warm, stay strangers!

*one time Max drunkenly knocked on our door and just bellowed "I KNOW I SMELL CHEESE IN THERE."


And All That Vajazzle

I'm going to forgo a cute expository anecdote and just jump into this one.

Upon researching Vajazzling, I found a simple and sweet power point presentation that mostly answered all of the questions I had about the art form. What was foremost on my mind was where had this practice originated. And, luckily for me, the presentation answered that question.

But, unluckily for me, this just brought up more questions. Please indulge me as I try to make sense of the beauty and wonder that is The Vajazzle.

  • First of all, concerning Jennifer Love Hewitt, this slide makes it seem like she brought a invasive species into the country. Like, along with gypsy moths, Love Hewitt introduced a way to put rhinestones around your labia. Both are dangerous and should be cause for alarm.
  • That wasn't a question, however, but more of a tangent. My question is did Jennifer Love Hewitt get bored at Michael's Craft Supply one day and was like "fuck it, i'm gonna hot glue jewels to my cooch?" And then instead of shamefully covering up her failed craft project, she openly discussed it with this man on Broadcast Television: 

  • When was Vajazzling on the news? You could maybe stretch "news" to mean "Entertainment Tonight" but that sentence really evokes images of a woman standing in front of a WalMart or a crime scene at a WalMart explaining in a grave, but detached tone the severity of Vajazzling. Like, "We've seen an onslaught of bedazzled vaginas recently, but nothing could have prepared us for this," or "Late last night in the 1600 block of St. James Place, a young woman came home to surprise her lover with a blingy bush." 
  • My biggest "huh" moment with the phrase "community leadership." What does it entail to lead a community to the ways of Vajazzling? Is there like a Rev. Martin Luther King of Vajazzling? Does that person have a dream that one day people won't be judged by the color of their skin but rather by the jazzle on their va-jay? Perhaps there is a support group for Vajazzlers, almost like a knitting circle. But instead of patchwork, it's snatchwork.
I guess there are somethings that are meant to be unclear. Like the Holy Trinity and the genesis of Vajazzling. Just those two things. That's it. But I have a feeling both have George Lopez in common, so that's a start.


Pilatte' with Extra Whip Cream

I wouldn't go so far to say I am a Pilates freak, but I do love Pilates and I am a freak, so for the sake of this post, we will assume that I am.

There is a repose and vigor to the exercise. Plus you can casually give people helpful stretches or poses to do if they say their shoulder or sit bones hurt. But no matter what, there is a mental journey I go on during every Pilates or Yoga class. Please join me in this recreation.

You first arrive and are a little skeptical of your flexibility. Also of what you ate for lunch. Why must you always have hot wings pre-Pilates. Does everyone know? Are you allowed to eat meat and take these sorts of classes? What if I don't know what the newest kind of almond milk is? Who will love me in this small studio space?

Getting a little further into the class, you're more in the groove. Who cares if your form isn't perfect? You are a unique human being with a harmonious body and no one can tell you differently! Except maybe the super toned, beautiful, racially ambiguous class instructor who keeps correcting your downward dog. But maybe she just wants to touch my body. Yeah, that is definitely it. I practically am a downward dog.

Oh hell yeah, girl. You should be teaching this class. Quit your day job and just become a Pilates instructor who feasts on berries and tempeh protein shakes. Get rid of your cell phone and solely communicate through fuchsia energy waves. You could easily fall off the grid into a hammock on a Costa Rican coffee bean plantation and just live your life with a purpose only those who do Pilates can understand. Can you believe some people eat processed foods? It makes me so sad for humanity. 

Okay, wait, shit. This is really hard. You have tipped over the crest of that good-vibe wave and it is a serious wipeout. Pilates is not fun. The fear mongering liberal media has infiltrated your sweet baby brain to make you afraid of things that don't even exist like cellphone waves and osteoporosis. You are just a pawn in their long term plan to run this country on patchouli oil.

Fuck this noise. I'm gonna go home and watch some porn after this. That'll be more enlightening.



Supermodel (You Better Work!)

Ladies! Put your hands up! Put your hands down! Put them up again! Down! Up! Down! Okay, you can count that as going to the gym.

This morning I was walking back from a really great coffee shop, feeling jazzed, mostly caffeinated, and a little sweaty and I saw this VERY attractive guy. And he was rocking those like, hip, urban, ear plugs, and strolling his beautiful, slim, bike along with him. He probably ran the coffee shop I had been at, or like, works in an urban garden, or stretches leather for saddle bags for underprivileged kids.

Anyways, my immediate reaction when I saw him was to somehow walk more attractively and overall just emote my interest towards him through an intense stare/affectionate amble. But as soon as you start thinking about how you walk or try to actively make your walk sexier, it turns into the exact opposite of that. Also, it should be said, that there isn't really a way to walk incredibly sexy. It usually has to do with the mood, or the lack of clothes you have on, or the dim lit candles you've strategically placed around you.

So, because I had run out of my on-the-go candles, and because it was 34° outside and I will never love anyone enough to be cold and uncomfortable by my own will, I decided to just try and walk sexy.

But as it was mentioned, that is impossible. So what it really was, was me kind of rolling my shoulders and and angling my torso in his general direction. I'm sure NatGeo could do a whole half hour special on Kady Ruth's failed flirty body language, complete with narration by David Attenborough.

It probably looked like a slow motion, sensuous, electric slide. Yeah, and I guess that wasn't really his thing. Because he didn't stop his walk to come over and start dancing with me. He did however, notice me. But that was because I sort of shimmied into oncoming traffic and a car honked at me. (Though, I think this was my subconscious way of creating a Damsel-in-Distress situation.)

Hopefully I'll see this mysteriouso maestro again, and this time I'll have my candles or something seductively foolproof like rollerskates (jk those actually fall on my list of unacceptable accessories: along with neck braces and toe socks.)

If anyone has advice for sexy walking or how to instantly attract a stranger who is standing approx. 5yds aways, 1) let a sister know, and 2) patent those moves and write a book like this.

Bonus video: