Monday, November 29, 2010

Top 10 Reasons…

Top 10 Reasons Vajazzling has me concerned:

  1. I originally heard about this process from an ER doc. One word: extraction.

  2. I've heard women say that they do this to feel better about their vaginas. Far be it from me to take away something that makes you feel better about your body, but it didn't occur to me to feel bad about that specific part. Should I? Have I missed something? Was there a memo? All this time I've been obsessing about every other part of me, but I felt reasonably sure that this one was good on its own, and now I find out I should have been paying more attention to whether or not it sparkles in sunlight? And why exactly is it seeing sunlight?

  3. Ever have cause to stand in front of colleagues in a business meeting? Picture yourself standing up there wearing a skirt. Perhaps public speaking, even in limited capacities, makes you nervous. You feel a little trickle when you shift your weight. You chalk it up to sweat. You turn to point out the alarming downward trend of business this quarter, when you begin to feel another alarming downward trend. Something hits your shoe, bounces up and not only arcs toward the conference table but lands in your boss's morning cup of coffee. And if that isn't bad enough, the rogue "jazzle" is followed closely by another ping… and another…and another. Before you know it, you are standing in a pool of sparkly appliqués and wondering how this won't end up on youtube.

  4. If you are tempted this holiday season to add a brightly colored bow to your box, take a moment to reflect on adhesive. I know you have a craft room, but the hot glue gun should not be pointed toward your previously unadorned nethers. Although, I will give you a pass if you choose to aim the glue gun at the guy who suggested the crystals might stay on longer that way.

  5. I now have a vision of a man seeing me naked and seeing disappointment in his eyes—but for entirely different reasons than I'm used to.

  6. Presumably, one of the reasons to adhere crystals to the southern zone is to inspire some sort of lusty response in your mate (or whomever you happen to be flashing crystals at in the subway). I have a vague memory that on occasion sex could involve some weight transfer. Yeah, nothing sounds more fun than having crystals digging into the pubic region while you are trying to put it to better use. However, I do believe that if we add spikes to the appliqués, we have just invented the modern equivalent of the chastity belt (strong).

  7. Instead of crystals, can I cement on some fun house mirror tiles instead? Because I'm pretty sure the sexiest thing possible is to add real distortion into the mix.

  8. The websites all indicate that this process usually follows complete hair removal. So, what you are telling me is that in order for a man to want to have sex with me, I have to rip out all my pubic hair with hot wax and then follow that up with gluing tiles in intricate, yet pleasing designs. Huh. Ok. What if I pick the wrong design? Say I go for a butterfly, and he was really hoping for something with an Andy Warhol effect? Also, if I choose an arrow, is that still a turn on, or have I found a way to make something that should be sexy, insulting instead?

  9. What if he swallows one of them?

  10. While I'm waxing, plucking, gluing and recreating his likeness across my pubis, he's doing what exactly? Yeah. Showing up. That's what I thought.



Saturday, November 13, 2010


I’m not even sure how to start this blog, and this might be a bit bumpy, but.. uh… here we go.

As you have probably guessed by my “Letters to NYC” earlier, I am in New York. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you are probably thinking that something must be very, very wrong. And normally, I would agree with you.

It’s no secret that I didn’t love my time in New York. I spent 4 years working here, and during that time, my life fell spectacularly to shit. You can argue that it was my life here rather than the city that I hated. Well, it might be a tough argument. It’s not that I never enjoyed a moment when I was here—I did. I met my friend Mich here, and we did have an adventure or two (that resulted in zero convictions and only one court appearance). But even friends of mine who love the city will admit that it isn’t always the easiest place to be.

I have a stress-related illness. Ok, technically, two. They aren’t anything tragic—they do not impact my ability to work in most cases, and I just avoid situations where I can’t make an exit if I have to. In New York, both became worse. Naturally, I blame the job I was doing here and my rapidly declining love life—but the city gets it share of blame.

I used to travel—I used to travel a lot. I traveled all around Europe on less than a shoe-string budget (but I can tell you the absolutely best train station restaurants to wash your hair in). Twenty-one year old Kate never wanted to get married, never wanted a house and never wanted to settle in one place for long.

Lately, I’ve been wondering where that Kate went. Obviously, the illness impacted some of that. At twenty-one, I rarely thought about what would happen if I got sick while traveling. Now it’s always in the back of my mind—and not just traveling, but any time I’m in unfamiliar territory on any given day.

In June, I found out that Duchovny was doing “The Break of Noon” in New York. My immediate reaction was to curse him for not doing the play in LA instead. But once that passed, that whisper of the “Kate that Was” started to get louder. Afterall, the random flight of fancy up to San Francisco a couple of years ago ended well. This flight would just be slightly longer (OK,a hell of a lot longer).

The idea took hold. In August I got tickets. I still wasn’t completely convinced that I was going to do it, but I didn’t want to give up the idea that I could do this. Naturally, I couldn’t just let this be fun. I had to create a situation where there was at least some work element involved.

Unfortunately, that new element added to the stress. So, last night instead of gleeful anticipation, I was sick. Very sick. Sick to the point of the “why me” whining and planning on ways to not go and yet still get the work aspects handled.

But here I am.

Now I’m sure you’re thinking, “Damn, that Duchovny is a powerful draw”. And while I was intrigued to see how his work would translate in his new way, I think this was really more about me. I needed to do this. I’ve spent too much time lately feeling trapped in a life I wasn’t paying much attention to.

I’m certainly paying attention now.

I got off a plane a few hours ago. Two hours later I saw “The Break of Noon” (that’s right—at night, after flying). The play is a stark examination of life, death and salvation in a way that only Neil LaBute can really make work. It’s haunting. It’s disturbing. It’s funny. It’s human.

I left the theater thinking, “Thank God, I didn’t cancel the trip”.

My friend Pen was initially planning to come see the play with me. Work and life conspired to make that impossible, but I made a new friend tonight because of it. The show was sold out, but there was a line of people hoping for returns. I went back to the box office, and the guy told me that they couldn’t resell it that close to the show, but if I wanted to be a good samaritan… So, I was. I gave Pen’s ticket to the first guy in line who wanted a single ticket.

It turns out this guy was a theater buff. He had just seen “A Little Night Music”, and wanted to take a chance on this play because he had seen a lot of Neil LaBute’s work produced and was curious. When the play ended, we were both a little shell-shocked. We turned to each other and said “Wow”. Then I told him the truth—that I had only seen Duchovny on TV/films, and hadn’t known what to expect. His response, “I was completely dazzled by him. He was wonderful.”

David was a revelation (which is oddly fitting given the play). I don’t expect that my opinion (or my seat mate’s) will have much weight. Many will roll their eyes because they’ve formed an opinion of the man’s abilities without actually seeing the play. On a normal day, that would make me annoyed. But tonight, I think I’m just going to land on “your loss” because he’s terrific and the play, like it’s leading man, leaves the audience with much to ponder.

What I would have missed…


Letters to NYC

Dear NYC,

I sat next to a small child on the flight from LAX to JFK. That’s a long, long flight. You have much to make up for. I have a list of ways you can accomplish this, and most of it is PG-13. What? I said most.


Dear NYC,
Oh, well played, NYC. Well played, indeed.


Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Bra

I just found out that I've been buying the wrong sized bra for the last 25 years. And not just a little wrong—WAY wrong.

Now don't worry, this isn't going to be a public service announcement telling you all to burn your bras and go out and get fitted—because really, I don't care that much about what you do. J

I honestly just assumed that because I'm old and gravity has been playing a cruel joke on me for a while that this is just the way things were meant to be. I joke about using a complicated pulley system to keep them north of the floor, but I've been at all out war with my bras for years.

Here I've been cursing the universe when really I should have been cursing my own stupidity. Also, I apparently have some sort of fun-house mirror concept of my back because I've been under the misapprehension that my back is HUGE.

I almost want to emulate the "I feel pretty" girls and show off my underwear to people because I am actually that excited about this new discovery. And by people, I mean my imaginary friends because I would never, ever subject anyone to me in my underwear no matter how awesomely functional it now is.


Friday, November 05, 2010

And the Devil Will…

I come to you for a little dream analysis.

I was backstage—felt like people were singing on stage (no idea what, I couldn't hear them), while we were hanging out in back waiting to perform. I was really wildly calm which is very unlike me because before performances, I am actually terrified. No one seemed to be particularly concerned that we didn't know the music, but instead I was painting my toenails. Well, you have to look good if you are a star, I guess.

Then a man I know in real life (not really KNOW, but recognize and have chatted with, etc) is on his cell phone wandering through backstage. I think he's attractive—at very least, interesting. I take notice.

Suddenly I hear an actual line of music, "And the devil will drag you under…" from the song "Sit Down You're Rockin' the Boat" from Guys and Dolls.

And then I woke up.

I can't stop hearing that one line – it just keeps circling my brain.

What the hell? Most women would insert a little Bolero or R&B-inspired musical interlude when they see a good looking man in a dream. Nope. Not me. I insert warnings with religious overtones from a musical I haven't seen in years (and a Glee episode I haven't seen since it aired).

Alrighty then.