Tuesday, January 31, 2012

In-bread Cat

So earlier today, I discovered this "hot new internet meme," and then thought about it for the rest of the day. Really productive, obviously.


gchat


I couldn't wait to get home and bread my cat. The only problem was that I knew I didn't have any bread, nor do I ever buy it. Don't get me wrong, I love bread. Love. Carbs in general occupy a very big place in my heart (most of it, actually; sorry, boys).  I just don't buy it because then it would get involved in my nightly peanut butter binge* and things would get ugly. And by things, I mean me. And by ugly, I mean fat.

But today, I made an exception. Immediately upon leaving work, I went to the store and picked up a loaf of bread for the sole purpose of putting one (or two) slice(s) of it on my cat.


Got the good stuff, just in case.

Here are the results:


Carb collar.
This is fucked up.

Screamo emo.
Stage mom.

Artistic Shot
Perfection.

It turned out, Boo wasn't overly enthusiastic about the idea. I tried to explain to him that there are millions of cats out there who don't even have someone to put bread on them, but he wasn't impressed. I have no regrets.


Fuck it.


*Nightly peanut butter binges don't make you fat; only bread does. 

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Oh no, I figured out how to upload videos*


Boo is camera shy.


video


And also an asshole. 








*Yes, I realize I'm technologically inept and that uploading videos is probably not hard for most people. I also realize that uploading cat videos has taken me to the next level of crazy. Have I gone too far?

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Ski Lessons

I am finally going skiing this weekend and I cannot wait. I love to ski; it's a major reason why I like the winter more than a lot of people. 


I started skiing in middle school. The first time I went, I took an obligatory learn-to-ski lesson. I was better than most of the kids in my class. Not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty good at winter sports (see: me as a less-talented/less-Asian version of Michelle Kwan). I could basically slalom while the rest of the kids still needed tow ropes. I felt like a prodigy. So of course, I moved on from the bunny slope directly to a blue. This is what people call overconfidence.

Because it was absolutely vital for the Twittersphere to know
that someone was selling burritos on the chairlift.

I probably should have started with a green; but hey, I took one lesson and mastered the pizza stop, so I was essentially a professional. Unfortunately, the pizza stop can only do so much when you're barreling out of control down a mountain at 40 miles per hour (This is a made up number. I have no idea how to even exaggerate this accurately. Exaggerate accurately). I crashed almost immediately after getting off the chairlift and was consequently terrified. I said to myself, "Fuck this shit," took off my skis, and proceeded to walk down the mountain.


Now, walking down a mountain takes roughly 1-2 hours, give or take. And during this time, your friends and family will likely commission a search party because they're concerned that you may have actually died.

I got about half-way down the mountain when a red snow mobile (evidently a part of the ski patrol) pulled up next to me.

Ski Patroller: "Are you Katie?"
Me: "Yes."
Ski Patroller: "People are looking for you."
Me: "Tell them I'll be down in 30-40 minutes."

Apparently, that was not a sufficient answer. I guess it was protocol that if ski patrol has to come searching for you, then you are required to ride down with them on the back of a snow mobile. This was pretty embarrassing, especially because waiting for me at the base of the mountain was a literal crowd of people who wanted to know who the idiot was that had her name called out over the intercom for the last hour and a half.

It was me.


Said idiot.


Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I was forced to go to First Aid and take off my shirt.


I should clarify that. Even though I assured them I was fine, because I had mentioned falling on my back, they required me to take off my shirt so they could look at it. Or so they say. I mean, at this point in my life I basically have no problem taking my shirt off in front of strangers, but when I was 11, that was traumatizing. But as they say, out of tragedy comes triumph. Or something like that. Look, I don't know how to end this story.


Bye.

Friday, January 20, 2012

Sleepnever

There's something I need everyone to know: I hate sleepovers. Hate. H-A-T-E.  I have since I was a child. Slumber parties? Not for me. I also don't really like to watch movies, so I was a pretty shitty friend as a teenage girl. 


Third bitch in from the left.


The thing is, I don't care how much I like you; I never want to spend the night at your house. You could be my best friend. We could be related. I don't care; I still don't want to. I could want to sleep with you and still not want to sleep with you, you see what I'm saying?


The mere suggestion that I stay at your house makes me my heart beat at an irregular rate. And not in a like, I'm so excited, I have butterflies kind of way. More like, I'm so anxious about the thought of sleeping at your house that I'm going to throw up right here and right now.


You're welcome to sleep at my house. You're welcome to sleep in my bed, even. [That's a lie and not an open invitation. And also, if you do sleep in my bed, be prepared to wake up to my cat lying on your stomach and/or staring you down (not sure if that's either terrifying or hilarious, but it's definitely the reason why I'm single).] But just be prepared that I am not sleeping at yours. If in the off-chance I do, I will not actually sleep at any point. I will roll around. I'll go and sit in your living room. I'll leave in the middle of the night. I'll sit and wonder for hours and hours why you only have a sheet on your bed. What the fuck is that all about anyway? Don't you ever get cold? Don't you ever want to be comforted by a comforter? Don't you ever think to yourself: If I ever want a girlfriend I have to stop living like a frat boy? Because you should. You should think about those things. 


Sorry, I got off topic. This is not about boys (though I do truly wonder why they all have such shitty bedding). Like I said, I don't even want to sleep at my sister's house. I have a problem, and I'm sorry. But I'd feel a lot better if you all took this to heart and never presented me with such a dreadful idea as sleeping at your house.


Thank you.


Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Line up

A few posts back, I taught you all some very valuable lessons on dating that I've learned over the years. Now, I'd like to share with you some of the best pick up lines I've ever heard:
  • I like your glasses. You must be smart. Actually, contrary to popular belief, this is not true. Just because you wear glasses does not mean you are smart. Exhibit A:

SHE WROTE A BOOK. 

  • I like your glasses. You look like a sexy librarian. Librarians barely exist, so basically you're saying that I look unemployed. Though, you did say sexy, and ideally I would be unemployed if you could financially support me, so maybe this one isn't so bad.
  • I like your glasses. You look like a lesbian. Okay, maybe this is not a pick up line, but I seem to get it a lot.  That's concerning.
  • I like your glasses. They're Anne Klein. You can get them at your local Lens Crafters.
  • What kind of sports did you play in high school?  This is actually a pretty common one, and I don't understand how it could ever be an interesting conversation starter, but that's probably because I didn't play any sports in high school. The last time I told a guy that, he said: "Well, you look like you did." I look like I played sports 8 years ago? What does that even mean?
  • Brown eyes are amazing. Someone I was dating said this to me. My eyes are green. 
  • I want to give you a hair cut right now. I don't even have an explanation for this one except that it's fucking weird. 

And finally, my personal favorite:

  • You look like you could fit into kids' clothes... just, like, a larger size. Oo, yeah, I'm pretty sure you  just called me a fat little girl, so...

Alright guys, I know it's hard to come up with something interesting to say to a stranger, especially if you're super awkward like me, but even I have some impressive lines, such as this one:

  • So... do you want to come over and meet my cat? Yep. Works all the time, every time.*



*Note: has worked one out of one times.


Thursday, January 12, 2012

Footbawl

I have to wonder why I like sports so much. They cause me incredible anxiety.  My mood drastically fluctuates depending on what's happening in a game. One minute I might be screaming and clapping and the next minute I'm crying.  It's an emotional roller coaster ride and possibly the most emotion I show about anything (other than my cat, of course). 




People often invite me to watch sports with them, but I don't think they understand what they're getting themselves into. Last year, I had people over to watch the playoffs and ended up sobbing in the bathroom for 10 minutes. My roommate doesn't even like to be around me when a game is on. 


So, needless to say, I'm feeling stressed about Saturday. Here are my two major concerns:


1) If the Pats lose, not only will I sink into a deep, dark depression, but I will also have to reevaluate atheism. That's a lot to deal with, mentally.


2) It's my good friend's birthday, and I'm slightly worried we won't be such good friends after I skip her celebration to watch the playoffs. (Sorry, Ker.)


Hey, I never claimed to be a good friend. In fact, I've mostly claimed to be a hypochondriac, a cat lady, and a pessimist, which explains why I'm worried and not excited. I don't believe in making optimistic projections about sports. I'm superstitious like that. For example, remember when ESPN predicted that the Red Sox would win the World Series in 2011? Yeah, I blame them for everything.  

So, for now, I'm keeping my fingers crossed tightly, hoping I don't cry or lose any of my friends this weekend.

Monday, January 9, 2012

It's-a-match-dot-com

I found the man of my dreams online. Not on Craiglist or MySpace or anything weird like that. It was way more legitimate. I found him here: www.itsnotamatch.com


The guy who writes this blog is pretty much my soul-mate and here are a few reasons why:


1) He uses proper grammar and spelling.  
2) He wrote, "The last weight I lifted was my cat."
3)  He tweeted, "I have no idea what my theoretical girlfriend would eat for dinner, but it seems my cat likes avocado."
4) He wrote, “I do front load a lot of my dates with hardcore racial humor.” 
5) He tweeted, "Pretty sure my date lost interest when I told her I had a cat. I didn't even mention that I dress her up."


Note the Jewish bear sitting next to the TV that has been unplugged and unused for 2 years because I don't care about television. Also, note how stunning this photo is. Also, note how long this caption is.


Basically, he had me at cat. And you know how I feel about good punctuation and a well-timed [politically incorrect] joke. I just wish he knew how I felt. Maybe I need to email this to him as a testimony of my love. If only I could virtually spray my email with some perfume so he could know how serious I am. I think he'd be both flattered and a little terrified. But that might work in my favor. I know many girls who have scared men into dating them. This is a tactic I have not yet tried, so it's worth a shot.


So, "B" of itsnotamatch.com, if you're reading this, I think there is a real future for us. Though, I believe you live in LA so you're going to have to relocate to the east coast. Unless you have a lot of frequent flyer miles--that could work, too. Also, I don't know if you have another job in addition to blogging, but I hope you can financially support me because I'm looking forward to not having to work. We can discuss all of this in more detail on our first date.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Dating 101

People often ask me for dating advice, and usually I want to say, "Why the fuck are you asking me? I don't know shit." I'd like to think that if I did know shit about relationships, I might actually be in one. Alas, that is not the case. Still, I have learned some very valuable lessons over the years:

1) Russians cannot be trusted. Men who like Russians cannot be trusted.
2) Just because someone watches Tim & Eric doesn't mean you should sleep with them.
3) You may think someone likes you and then he will disappear from your life without any notice. You may later bump into him at a beer festival where he will literally run away from you. Literally. Run.
4) Shoes say a lot about a person. For example, stay away from anyone who is still wearing Etnies at age 27.
5) Don't date someone just because they have good taste in music. That person may or may not still be married. You can find out on Facebook.
6) If a guy tells you he is bi-sexual and then says, "just kidding!" assume that he is not just kidding.




There are plenty more lessons I could teach you, but I think I might have to start charging a fee. 

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Faneuil Hell

Faneuil Hall is my personal nightmare. I rarely go there willingly, but something happened recently that caused me to have a change in heart. I think what happened was that it was the middle of the day and I was really drunk. Unfortunately, this led me to believe I didn't totally loathe Faneuil Hall. And then I went to Sissy Ks on Sunday.

The night started out okay, mostly because I just laughed at everyone around me. For example, the girl who wore a bra to the bar. (I tweeted about this and never have I ever gotten more mentions. Every guy who follows me tweeted back, "Pics?!" You guys are sick.)

There was also the cougar who whistled and growled at every guy who did karaoke. She took the feline reference to the next level by making a man rub her stomach. Seriously.

Possibly my favorite part of the night, though, was eavesdropping on a conversation between two women from Michigan and a 40-year-old "personal trainer" (which I think might have been slang for "unemployed"). Since the music was so loud, no one could really hear anyone talk. One of the women asked the man what the rubber bracelet he was wearing meant. He said, "It's for my friend who passed away." At which point, the ladies started cracking up, like cackling and howling, and then yelled, "What are the colors for? The Red Sox? Are those Red Sox colors?" No, like his friend died, so. 


I could barely breathe.

Rock bottom.


I ended up meeting a Jewish musician, which was exciting since that's essentially the perfect combination of character traits, in my opinion. However, while he initially seemed interesting and charming, it soon became very evident that he was crazy. Like certifiably. Let me just say that if someone wants to know if you're "sane," that is a clear indication that they are mentally unstable and you should run away immediately.


Which is what I did. I spent 15 minutes hiding in the bathroom sending cries for help to my friend.


Exhibit A.


Finally, we were able to flee the bar, but not before some kid yelled "Hey Daria!" at me. Although I do love that show, and my guy friends have also called me Daria on occasion (thanks, assholes), I was absolutely livid when I heard this. I have never given anyone a dirtier look in my life. I overheard his friend say, "Dude, I think she's going to hit you." I wish I did. That would have really rounded out the night.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Inconsequential

For the past week, it has felt like my ovary is bursting inside of me. It's a really fantastic feeling. So on New Year's Eve, I spent a good portion of the night in the fetal position on my friend's bed while everyone partied upstairs. Various people would come down to deliver me goods like tums and chamomile tea. I was by far the coolest person at the party.  Still, at midnight, I did manage to kiss one straight guy, two gays, and a couple girls. Do with that information what you will. 


Cats.


Anyway, when I got home that night, I knew I should go to bed immediately, but, in typical fashion, I ended up spending 1-2 hours watching YouTube videos and brainstorming my favorite albums from 2011. 

I know you all sit and wonder about what kind of music I like, so here are my top eight (no, not ten) albums of 2011 [in no particular order (except not really)]:

1) Fleet Foxes - Helplessness Blues
2) tUnE-YarDs - Whokill
3) Feist - Metals
4) The Strokes - Angles
5) The Head and the Heart - The Head and the Heart
6) Bon Iver - Bon Iver
7) Fitz & the Tantrums - Pickin' Up the Pieces
8) Radiohead - King of Limbs

I would love nothing more than to have been able to put Fiona Apple on this list, but she was supposed to release an album in the spring of 2011, and it's now 2012. I cry.