UnFIT Clicky

This is the article produced from the press viewing I enjoyed prior to my unfortunate run-in with a bona fide Bed Stuy hooker.

I wrote it in 15 minutes and filed it with 5 minutes to spare.

I should also mention that I managed this while stupendously drunk, thanks to that particular day's mimosa-laden brunch-turned wine-a-thon at my friend Julia's apartment.

In fact, I actually had to send her the article before I turned it in. The body of the email said, simply, "Just tell me if this makes sense."

I am a consummate professional.

While I Was SUPPOSED To Be Running That Report...

...I was talking Art Nouveau with Paul while Ellen lovingly placed toppings on my wafel.

Y'see...I follow the Wafels & Dinges truck on Twitter (in case you're not hip to this traveling spread of splendiferous Belgian foodstuffs, check their website), and have suffered weeks of guilt for not popping by on Tuesdays when they're parked a half a block from my office.

So, this morning, after a particularly painful client-requested Reportus Ridiculous found its way into my hands, I decided I'd need motivation of the crunchy-fluffy-sugar-topped kind. I quickly memorized today's password for free Dinges (thank you, Twitter feed), grabbed co-worker Lisa, and we were off!

It's kind of tough not to get psyched when confronted with the bright yellow Wafels & Dinges truck. Throw in some sweet jams emanating from the open side hatch, the smell of warm wafels and the cheerful chatter of fellow foodies, and your bad mood can just suck it.

I settled on the classic Brussels Wafel with strawberries & whipped cream. Lisa got the Mini-Wafelini with dulce de leche, served adorably on a skewer (she later deemed it, "The perfect amount of wafel!") We both snagged the hot apple cider (mulled to perfection with some serious spice-age, I must confess).

Almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

Little Lisa and her Wafelini.

We're a happy-tastic duo right now, let me tell you.

Now, about that report...

Writing Off Into The Sunset

I've always been compelled to write.

My mom likes to recount one specific instance wherein 7-year-old moi boycotted being strapped into the family minivan for a Thanksgiving trip to grandma's until I had finished composing (and revising...and re-revising) my latest Epic Novella. I believe it was about a unicorn in peril. We were two hours late.

Since those early days, my inclination to dramatize and verbalize has taken many forms. One being: coping mechanism.

Without fail, when someone wrongs me, I follow these steps: Hurt. Sadness. Confusion. Anger. Dialogue.

Being an incredibly sensitive gal, I learned quickly that the best way to arm myself against the pain of asshole-induced fallout was to imagine my way into better circumstances.

For example: that third-grader who spit on my green suede Reebok hi-tops because he thought they were stupid and weird?

As scrawled in my diary, he showed up the next day with a spanking-new pair of shoes for me AND the same pair on his own feet.

(Actually, though, I just thanked him and told him I liked being unique).

How about the bully who pushed me against a locker and called me an ugly hag back in seventh grade?

As I wrote it in my head, days later, she apologized in front of all her friends, citing her actions as being based on fear and rage regarding her own feelings of inadequacy.

(In reality, she teased me relentlessly for the duration of the year, even making up a song about me, to be trilled loudly each time we crossed paths in the hall. To endure, I simply repeated our faux-conversation in my head - like some grandiose Mantra Of Denial - and smiled at her).

And what of the high school coach who axed me from the softball team with the articulate parting words, "Your batting average is shit"?

On paper, he realized he'd mixed my records with those of another girl, and that he simply couldn't pass up the chance to include such a rare talent on his roster.

(What really happened, though, is that I deigned to serve as the team's scorekeeper because I loved the game that much. I tolerated the man's daily tormenting and general rudeness with good-natured laughter).

And I think to myself now - how the HELL was I so strong? How did a little kid - a girl mid-puberty - an angsty teenager - see her way through all of that adversity and straight-up mean-spiritedness with such maturity and grace?

Because I wrote my own happy endings, and I believed them.

These days, it all comes a bit more naturally. I still haven't figured out how to avoid being hurt, and I find myself dwelling on the sting longer than most usually do, but then a moment comes along when I'm walking down the street, and the internal conversation with the latest wrongdoer begins. It's usually tres Woody Allen-esque, and I showcase my resilience and wit and smarts in such a light that - after careful practicing, reading and re-reading the lines in my brain - I am HILARIOUS and NO ONE CAN HURT ME.

At that point, as Regina Spektor so eloquently said, "I'm the hero of the story - I don't need to be saved."

Some might call this an unhealthy obsession (even - perhaps - a psychological disorder) but I consider it an alarmingly effortless way to wade through the shit and neuroses and thoughtlessness slung at me from every direction and reassert my love for (and faith in) myself.

Plus - honestly - it's kind of fun.

But if you haven't quite swallowed the method to my madness just yet, check out the email I received via Facebook yesterday:

Katie,

You look absolutely beautiful. I see you're a writer - and a damn good one, at that. I always knew you were destined for amazing things, even back in middle school. I know I used to tease you, and I always felt bad about it. I hope you know how sorry I am - it was all based on jealousy.

Very sincerely,
******

Remember Little Miss Locker-Pusher-Song-Maker-Upper?

It was from her.

Chive Turkey

It was only a matter of time until I got sick.

Unlike my coworkers, I eat healthy, get plenty of rest, drink tons of water, and take my allotted sick days when I'm ill so as not to selfishly spread my disease to innocent bystanders.

But I'm not bitter.

I armed myself as best I could amid the cacophony of coughs and sneezes that filled my office over the past few weeks, but the disease finally caught up with me - today, I am suffering full-on flu symptom action, and my patience for everything (everything!) has worn completely thin.

After drinking my weight (and daily calorie allotment) in orange juice, I stopped by Blue Ribbon's to-go market in the hopes of scoring some soup to satiate my righteously discomfort-induced 'tude.

I was hella pleased to find cream of tomato under today's offerings.

"Do you want 'the works' on it?" asked the cook.

I recalled a previous incarnation of said soup, which included a particularly distatsteful green topping.

"Sure - everything but the onion." I said.

He snuffed haughtily, "Well, that is not possible - this soup is made with onion in it!"

"Oh - no," I backpeddled. "I don't care about that, I just don't want it on top."

He gave me a blank stare.

I realized, with extreme displeasure, that I was about to enter a semantic argument about soup toppings with a 5-foot-tall dude wearing a big white chef hat.

(And, for the record: toppings on soup? Really? REALLY?)

I took a deep breath and said, "You know - that green stuff that tastes like onions. I. Just. Don't. Want. That. On. Top."

"Oh." He snickered. "You mean, chives."

For the love of all that is good and pure, it took every ounce of the barely-there strength in my tiny, cold-ridden being not to jump over the counter and shove his goofy head piece into his pretentious, Gourmet-reading, Top Chef-watching mouth.

But instead, I calmly retorted, "Yes. Chives. Also known as: BABY ONIONS."

I'm pretty sure he spit in my soup.

Party Fowl

While walking to lunch today, I took in this beauteous scene on Leroy St, and decided right then and there that I'd actively shake off all the unnecessary stress and annoyance I'd endured since this morning.


As I passed under the canopy of yellow leaves, I looked up into the glorious blue sky, listened to the birds singing, inhaled deeply and just breathed.

And then something wet hit my face.

Bird shit.

Thankfully, I had a mirror, tissues and antibacterial sanitizer in my bag.

And so did the three bystanders who hurriedly approached me after the fact, ogling my shatted exterior and stifling guffaws with their mock-empathy and an army of Handi Wipes.

Even though I've long since cleaned up and disinfected, the warm, moist, gooey feeling of pigeon excrement-on-mouth has lingered. Oh, has it lingered.

Whoever claimed that this is a sign of good luck can just go straight to hell.

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.