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. 

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{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.