This Afternoon A BJ Saved My Life

I randomly took a vacation from the office on this fine day in order to relax and reboot at my Bed Stuy Chateau.

Instead of sleeping in, I ended up covering an advance press viewing of FIT museum's newest exhibit at 10am this morning (BS-ing my way through conversation with a super-fashion-savvy curator = NOT something I'd hoped to do sans sufficient caffeination, but a gal can't have it all).

It turns out that this would be the most highbrow point of my Thursday.

Around noon, I grabbed some lunch from Tiny Cup on the way back to my apartment. As I passed Clifton & Nostrand, brown bag swinging in my hand, a figure emerged from the shadows of a boarded-up construction site.

Standing before me was one huge hot mess of a woman wearing super-scuffed black stilettos, thigh-high white stockings, The World's Tiniest Pleather Leopard-Print Miniskirt, a sequined fuschia tube top, all crowned by a tangled blonde wig (complete with - yes - crumpled leaves stuck in it).

I moved to walk past her, assuming she was either a) a crack head, or b) really, really lost on her way home from a Halloween party walk of shame.

Of course, I was wrong.

She was a prostitute.

And I know this - how?

Because she hit on me.

Before I could continue on my path, she stepped in front of me and smiled. 

"Hey sexy. You looking for a date?"

(I shit you not - I will never watch Pretty Woman the same way again).

"Uhhh...no, thank you." I retorted, utterly flabbergasted.

She didn't move.

"What do you mean?" Her smile disappeared and her tone became menacing. "You don't like me?"

"No, it's not that..." I stumbled. "I...er...it's just that I have this sandwich here"...(I held up the bag lamely)..."and I'd like to go home and eat it before it gets cold."

"Why don't you EAT ME INSTEAD!!!" She screamed.

As I braced to completely lose my shit (and the contents of my bladder), miraculously, a hero appeared.

He was short, portly and very, very dirty looking.

He latched arms with the prostitute, looked winsomely into her face and said, "Darling, let's leave this nice girl to her lunch and you can come eat me."

And with that, the duo sauntered off, their silhouettes fading into the mid-day sun, and I went home and scarfed down my lukewarm sandwich.

On Sleeplessness, Phantoms, Spastic Bladders

Well hello, folks...welcome to Katie's Winter Of Despair.

Sit down, stay a while.

You see, for Yours Truly, November and December must be handled with kid gloves.

Especially this year.

November 28th marks the 5th anniversary of my father's passing.

Five. Freaking. Years.

I cannot believe it. It seems like just yesterday he was greeting me with, "Hi there, Funny Girl" when I called him at work.

(You have no idea what I'd do to hear him repeat my favorite nickname one more time. Holy lump-in-throat thought).

Along with his Death Day comes his would-be 60th birthday on December 14th. Throw the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays onto each end, and you can see why I'm currently bracing to choke down one gargantuan Suck Sandwich.

It's no surprise that thoughts of my dad are on overload around this time of year. I dream about him constantly, and silly reminders like rambunctious dogs (he loved 'em), Yankees games (he was a die-hard fan) and gin and tonics (his cocktail of choice) set me off.

But that's nothing compared to what happened last night.

A very unwelcome side effect of my recent personal and professional stress has been my inability to sleep through the night. For the past week, I've risen around 1 or 2am.

And so it was after much tossing and turning that I found myself drifting back to sleep around 3am this past evening. Right at the moment between lucidity and obscurity, I heard something in my room.

It was the very distinct sound of my father's slippered footsteps on the wood floors.

(Trust me, I know the noise well).

The steps walked around my bed and stopped behind me.

Then I felt someone sit on my bed.

At this point, I was completely awake, paralyzed with fear.

Because - let's be serious - even though he's my dad and I love him and I miss him like crazy, that didn't make the situation any less terrifying. I mean...WTF, Dad! You're dead! And you're in my room at 3am! That is creepy shit!!!

Out of some primal instinct (and without turning around, God Forbid), I mustered the strength to mock-whine, "Daaaaad! You woke me up! I need to sleep!"

And - get this - he freaking chuckled out loud. The depression immediately vanished from my bed, and - soundlessly - he was gone.

My father used to brag that I was a perfect toddler (just like him) because I never once wet the bed.

Well, congratufrikkinlations, Tom C - you almost managed to make me do it for the first time last night.

About Last Night

I've always held the belief that one does not dress up for Halloween after the age of, say, 12.

As a woman of (almost) 30, though, I have - sadly - been coerced into the madness of costumed revelry on more than one occasion since aforementioned cut-off age. 

This year was no exception.

A few weeks ago, my friends announced that they were planning a Halloween party at their Astoria apartment. Dressing up was, of course, mandatory.

I decided almost immediately that I wanted to be The Bride from Kill Bill, so I searched every discount chain, department store and Salvation Army in the city for a yellow track suit, and when that yielded nothing, I took to scouring the Internet. I had intended on purchasing the sucker, then throwing some black electrical tape arm and leg detailing at the problem, buying a cheap plastic samurai sword and calling it a day.

Find me a relatively inexpensive yellow track suit. No, seriously - go ahead. I dare you.

My efforts resulted in zero, zip, zilch, nada.

I finally, begrudgingly, went to Ricky's, where I found the Tarantino-endorsed version for the bargain price of $70.

So I crossed that idea off my list.

This is where I kind of lost interest.

My ever-dwindling budget and increasingly stressful work situation kept me from concentrating on the subject until this past Wednesday.

It was then that - during my lunch hour - I hurriedly sketched out ideas on a notepad. I considered being a "Little White Lie" (all white clothes with lies taped about my person), a "Nudist On Strike" (wearing a normal outfit with a sign around my neck proclaiming just that fact), and - getting real desperate - "All That And A Bag Of Chips" (taping a small bag of chips to my chest) but expunged every idea knowing that the other party guests were going to be dressed to the nines and I'd suffer severe Halloween Shame in the presence of my darling friends.

So, on Halloween day, I ventured to Manhattan in search of The Outfit. I walked though SoHo in a pathetic attempt to spark some semblance of creativity. 

After an hour, I gave up and stewed over a latte and an oatmeal cookie.

I headed to Ricky's in a dismal funk, figuring that I could buy some dumb cat ears or a wig or something. My frustration at Impending Underwhelming Entrance to that evening's party was trumped only by the irony that I'd involved myself in the entire song 'n dance at my age.

Ricky's was a nightmare. 

I combed the messy aisles, circumventing the crowds of wanna-be slutty cheerleaders and douchey dudes laughing about faux-gynecologist jackets bearing the name "Seymour Bush." 

As I rounded a corner, something bright yellow caught my eye.

The Kill Bill outfit.

But it wasn't the same jacket-and-pant combo I'd nixed weeks before - it was a one-piece lycra suit. It cost only marginally more money than I figured it'd make me look (cheap, duh), so I grabbed it and picked up a plastic sword on my way to the register.

When I got home, I tried it on.

Let me first say this: skin-tight yellow lycra is exceedingly unflattering.

Also, the jumpsuit was cut in such a way that I was given both a front AND back wedgie.

I had an hour to get ready for the party.

Chaos.

I ended up drinking two glasses of wine, throwing on a pair of thick black tights as lining and attempting to hide the fact that the seaming and fabric bunching at my crotch combined to create a "Hey everybody, look at me, I'm a vagina!" effect with a large, low-slung belt. 

And - with resolve, coupled by an inordinate amount of gusto, I walked out the door.

When I got to the party, I was greeted with hugs and laughter at the cleverness of my Slutty Bride getup.

And then I walked in the living room, and my dear friend Kat jumped off the couch, pointed to my nether regions and yelled, "Oh my GOD you have camel toe!"

And so I got drunk. The End.

Bed Stuy Follies And The Semi-Infinite Sadness

I woke up this morning with a killer Halloween hangover, and an overwhelming, unyielding melancholy in the pit of my stomach.

The former, brought on by last night's drunken escapades in Astoria. The latter, a poisonous tonic concocted from several personal and professional mini-tragedies over the past few weeks.

In moments like this, when I'm completely ungrounded and can hardly even remember my own name, my dear friend Julia tells me to look for heralds and angels and love in everything.

And so I walked around The Stuy with my camera, The Swell Season's new album emanating from my headphones, and I found some:

What I adore most about my soundtracked walks is that my stubborn concentration on one task eventually wanes, and I notice a bunch of other great stuff:

Once I was within a few blocks of my street, I hadn't completely wrenched myself from the depths, but my meanderings past a new brunch spot on Nostrand gave me a great idea.

I picked up some champagne and orange juice, and toasted myself on my couch.

A college poetry professor once read me a line from her thesis - she told me to think about it any time I was desperately searching within for an answer.

I found love in a cracked shell.

I never really got it (though I pretended, at the time, that it was the most profound thing I'd ever heard).

It makes perfect sense to me now.

Urban Cowgirls

I love my friend Kezi. I really, really do. When we hang out, we hang out. Nothing is half-assed in the world of Kez 'n Kat.

But here's the thing: our winning combination gets us into some crazy-tastic situations, which often culminate with placing my...er..."personal effects" in grave danger.

Take my ring for example.

I've worn a tiny gold Claddagh ring on my right ring finger since my mom gave it to me when I was five years old. It's sized at 3 and 3/4, and it fit me perfectly then. Still does. Seeing as I'm not a midget, I consider this a phenomenon. It's become a humorous game to take off the ring and watch people attempt to push it beyond the tip of their fingers.

My stupid party trick, if you will.

Anyway. After an epic evening of dining, drinking and belly laughing, Kez and I found ourselves on the Third Ave L train platform, chatting and flitting about in a drunken stupor.

It was then that I decided to recount my freakish right-hand ring tale.

And Kez - appropriately - squealed, "Give it to me - I want to try it on!"

So I took it off and placed it in her hand.

As she lifted it from her palm - quick like lightning - it fell from her fingers.

And it bounced.

Two.

Times.

Before landing silently in the bowels below the subway platform, nestled right next to the tracks.

We gaped in horror. There were no words.

And then a train came.

Enter: Standard Coping Mechanism (I began laughing hysterically). Tears rolled silently down Kezi's cheeks.

Once the car pulled out, we scanned the tracks and - miraculously - the ring was still there.

Kezi immediately ran to the operator station.

She returned moments later with two large, wholly unenthused-looking dudes. One of them was carrying a ladder.

"Where is it?" Dude Number One asked in a thick Jersey accent.

I pointed.

"I don't see it." Dude Number Two snorted.

"Who asked you, anyway?" Kezi scoffed.

Admit this much: you've always wondered what happens when a person drops something into the depths of the subway tracks, right? Am I right?!

I know I have.

And so I was enjoying the ordeal immensely.

Dude Number One situated the ladder against the wall below the platform, making a big show of the inconvenience of it all as he leaned down.

After climbing onto the tracks, he rooted around a bit as we pointed and verbally coaxed him in the right direction.

Once he'd picked it up, he returned to ground level and handed me the ring.

Kezi started crying again.

I broke into a fit of giggles, but managed to squeeze out an audible, "Thanks."

As Dude Number One sauntered off - ladder slung over his shoulder - Dude Number Two left us with these parting words of wisdom: "You girls need to cool it with the alcohol."

Which brings me to last night.

I hadn't seen Kezi in over a month, and decided our gathering was the perfect time to take my brand-spanking-new bright red suede slouch boots on their maiden voyage.

After another dinner and yet another 2 bottles of red wine, Kezi and I walked together on Second Ave toward the subway.

This is when Kezi stopped in the middle of the street to turn around and show me her ass (as all respectable ladies are known to do, from time to time).

As she leaned over (she was really getting into it), her bag swung around and landed hard on the sidewalk.

I heard glass shatter.

The extra bottle of wine she'd been lugging seeped through the cloth, dripping onto the ground.

In a fit of inebriated stupor, Kezi flailed her arms, causing the liquid to fly about in every direction.

A bunch of it happened to land on my left shoe.

Re-enter: Standard Coping Mechanism.

Though what I really wanted to do was smash something Hulk-style in a fit of rage, I guffawed loud and hard, as per usual.

And Kezi freaked out, as per usual.

She ran into the nearest bar and emerged with a giant glass of club soda and a towel, then proceeded to blot my shoe until it was fully soaked.

These boots are suede, mind you.

The best part of the ordeal is that a completely intoxicated guy hovered close the entire time, smoking a cigarette and spewing to us his woes (something about his parents being inside the bar getting wasted and making out even though they'd been divorced for 20 years and how it was really traumatizing for him blahblahblahblahblah...)

Kezi told him to fuck off.

I woke up this morning with a hardcore hangover and immediately ran to look at my boots, terrified for the inevitable confirmation of their one-day shelf life.

Alas - no huge crimson smear or giant water stain greeted me.

They're spotless. I'm baffled. Kezi is, clearly, a wizard.

Honestly, though, I might've been willing to sacrifice a righteous pair of shoes to the Party Gods for one reason only: when I'm with that girl, I forget about every other stupid, ridiculous, stressful thing wreaking havoc on my weird little world and I concentrate on the finer points in life.

Like rescuing rings from being flattened. And saving suede from a lifetime of scarlet stainage.

Would You Like Fries With Your SHUT THE HELL UP?

An unflattering side effect of Manhattan living is that it exacerbates any phobia or pet peeve one carries deep within the confines of one's character.

Blame it on the lack of personal space, the proximity to plentiful amounts of bonafide crazies, or the constant exposure to freakish strains of germs - whatever the reason, this town is guaranteed to extract your inner Larry David faster than you can say Vehicular Fellatio.

Hence, my most recently-acquired perturbation.

Why the hell does everyone have to comment about my lunch?

Excuse me, Guy Behind Falafel Counter, NO - I don't think it tastes better with tahini.

And, ehem, Dude In Elevator Next To Me, I'm carrying a freaking pizza box. So, yeah, that kind of renders your, "What've ya got there?" null.

And for the love of all that is good and pure, Annoying Coworker - please do not hover over me while I'm mid-messy-obnoxious-unladylike-sized-bite to ask what I picked up today. Clearly, it is a sub, I'm not a zoo animal, and LAY OFF ME I'M STARVING.

There's got to be a better way to spark conversation. Seriously.

The security guard at the front desk of my office building is the worst.

He's this overly-tanned, hokey, perpetua-pervily-grinning dude who constantly tries to catch my eye by staring at me and jumping up and down.

Yes, jumping. Up and down.

(In place. Like a kid who desperately has to pee but needs help unzipping his fly).

I've ignored him like a champ for the past few months.

So, recently, he's taken to shouting at me.

(Again with the zoo animal thing!)

Because he works the mid-day shift, the grunts and chortles catapulted in my general direction fixate around - you guessed it - whatever I happen to be carrying back for lunch.

Today I decided it was about time to go all out and freaking lose my shit.

As I entered the front doors carrying a clearly-labeled Phil's container, I braced myself for the usual cacophony of noises. And when they began, I walked right up to the counter and made eye contact.

He was completely startled.

"Do you need something?" I asked curtly.

"Uhhh..." he stammered. "Something good?" He nodded toward the food in my hand.

"Yes. It's two pieces of cheese pizza." I said. "Normally I only get one slice, but I'm PMS-ing hardcore and my uterus is about to explode, so I had to appease it with an extra helping."

He turned three shades of scarlet.

I smiled sweetly and spun toward the elevators, basking in my post-stick-it-to-the-man revelry, when - suddenly - he called, "Miss? Miss!!!"

I turned toward him. He was holding something up, waving it at me.

A tampon.

"Take this," he snickered. "It seems like you'll need it real soon."

And that, my friends, is how the man stuck it to me.

Book My Little Blonde Yoda!

My friend Kezi takes beautiful pictures.

Even, miraculously, of me (which is how you know she's damn good):


Lest you think me biased, go ahead and see for yourself.

Hire her!

Cocktails, Puddles, Heralds

The gals and I tried out a new bar in Long Island City last night.

It turned out to be the most fabulously (and thankfully, as of yet, undiscovered) vintage speakeasy-style spot I've ever had the pleasure of getting besotted at. It also happens to be owned by the folks who brought Little Branch and Milk & Honey to the ever-extravagantly-imbibing Manhattanite masses.

Dutch Kills is way cheaper and far less pretentious. They serve Big Girl drinks in an old-school environment. Need I say more?

Good. The point is, I caught this little nugget of wisdom in a tucked-away corner near the bar and it super-struck my fancy (although, perhaps by then the sentiment was nudged along by the gin buzzing through my bloodstream):

So when I woke up this morning and it was raining, I figured: why not? Must be FATE.

I proceeded to walk West, and halted in my tracks when I saw this on Fulton St:

Obviously, because it's amazing. 

But moreso, because I wrote about it after my very first visit to Fort Greene.

A darling elderly man stopped to admire the quote with me, and informed me that the truest love is that which we carry within. He also said, "You'd better snap that picture fast - they're about to tear this building down."

Well, hello again, Fate.

By the time I rounded onto Gates via St James Place, I was even more hyper-aware of my surroundings. So this didn't completely surprise me:

Smile - the Universe loves you!

Did You Know The Sun Is Dying?

October 16th.

I'd been counting down the days since March.

So when I received an invite last week to attend an advanced press viewing of Where the Wild Things Are on October 14th, I could barely contain myself.

Two whole days shaved off the countdown!

Yesterday, I shrugged off any apprehension based on previously disastrous screening experiences and readied myself for the awesometasticness that was seeing my very favorite childhood book adapted into a film by one of the best directors in the biz.

It was all I could do to concentrate at the office, what with all the tightly-wound joyous anticipation.

And then, at 3:45, my team received an email from upper management regarding a manditory last-minute meeting at 4:15.

We all, appropriately, freakedthefuckout. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life.

And, so, we were told that our beloved boss had been "excused" and we were all under review during a "restructuring" process (I gave the Bad News Bear-er a bitch, don't play me look - I've been laid off once already this year - I'm no fool).

I returned to my desk in time to watch HR escort our fearless leader out of the building.

Suffice it to say, I didn't get much else done.

And all of this is, somehow, pertinent - why?

Because goddamn did I need to watch that movie.

And I did. I watched the hell out of it. I'm pretty sure my heart fucking sang.

It is chaotic and free and gorgeously-shot and whimsical and dark and beautifully-scored and meaningful and scary and in every way one of the most perfect things I've ever seen.

Go, immediately. Return to the days when you were an imaginative, weird, naive, misunderstood, carefree, crazy, honest kid who just wanted to build forts and entertain an audience of teddy bears.

Chisel off a piece of those memories and pocket it.

This will be your armor.

The Finish Line

I spent this past weekend in a funk.

(I ain't too proud to say it).

Chalk it up to planetary interference or hormonal imbalance or straight-up post-hellish workweek burnout - any way you slice or dice it, I barely got out of bed yesterday. 

I woke up at noon today, wholly disgusted with myself.

And so I decided to take a field trip.

I showered, threw on jeans, an old beat up pair of Uggs, a sweatshirt and a wool sweater. 

One short walk to the S train at Franklin Ave, a quick jaunt across Prospect Park to the Q train and a 30-min ride through suburban Brooklyn (peering into other people's backyards and wondering about the strange, separate lives they lead = my new favorite hobby) and I was there.

Brighton Beach.

Home to the most astoundingly polarized, predominantly Russian populous I've ever encountered - one part cheerful, slightly overweight, hobbling elderly folk (the women dressed to the nines in polyester and smattered in neon pink lipstick), to one part sun-tanned, long-legged, steroid-pumped and lipo-sucked youth. 

Sauntering next to the shops under the B & Q train overpass, one witnesses a mind-bending display of Father Time's gallery of before-and-after's.

So you can see why it's an amusing place to be when you're feeling really, really down. Especially considering the fact that everyone there is un-freaking-believably happy. It's like walking on the street with your super-jolly, ultra-ethnic grandparents and entire extended clan of really, really ridiculously good-looking cousins. 

Yeah, Moodus Droopyus - you got nothin' on that.

Entertainment-factor aside, my main goal of the outing was to head to the beach. Summertime's hot white sand, blazing sun and uncomfortable bikinis can suck it. The ocean in the fall and winter is where it's at, in my opinion.

So when I stepped off the boardwalk and saw this...

...Moodus Droopyus mumbled a pathetically half-assed excusemeverymuch and hit the highway.

I walked on the sand parallel to the surf toward Coney Island and the pier. For an hour, my only goal was to put one foot in front of the other and take it all in. 

Damn, it was fantastic.

I took a ton of photos, as per usual. 

Life can get overwhelming. Every so often, it's nice to leave it all at one end of a beach, stand on a pier, look back and say, "I made it."