Archive for June, 2006

The new movie, Superman Returns, is not without its good moments, but it’s really freakin’ long. I was also reminded of why I don’t see movies in the theater very often. Noisy children and questionable smells abounded, but at least no one’s cell phone was ringing this time.

I think moviegoers have gotten even stupider since the last time I saw a film on the silver screen. I know it’s normal for people to be milling around in the theater before the show starts… getting snacks, going to the bathroom, whatever. Hell, I do it myself. But now, it seems like folks are so captured by a moving picture that they feel the need to watch it as they walk all the way down the stairs to the exit, and once they reach the landing, pause to stare for just a few more seconds, just in case there’s the slightest chance that they’ll never get to watch that 20-foot Coke bottle dancing around again. Morons.

Anyway, the movie… Lois Lane was horribly miscast, and Kevin Spacey absolutely ROARED as Lex Luthor. The scenery was great, the special effects stunning. I was surprised to see Parker Posey in this one, and although I may have chosen someone else for Lex’s bitch, I think she’s a great actress and there’s really nothing she does that I don’t like. I thought the script was kind of loose sometimes and the motivations of the characters seemed unrealistic, but I suppose that’s my biggest gripe about most movies. Quoting Mr. Cranky, “I may not have a PhD in ‘feelm,’ but I know what I don’t like!”

Back to hating the theater. I sat still in a dark room for a very long time. I brought a Mountain Dew and a peanut butter sandwich, but those didn’t keep me from wishing I could get up and move around some. When the movie ended somewhat after 10pm, I was not in a super mood. So what happened when I went to the bathroom? I broke my goddamn thumbnail clean off. Shit!

After saying good-bye to my friends, I hit Wal-Mart on the way home. I needed (and still need) a new notebook for my journal (you didn’t think I wrote all my business in here, did ya?) and since I’m extremely anal retentive about certain things, I need to have the exact right notebook. It has to be a spiral Mead NON-PERFORATED college-ruled notebook with a normal cardboard cover, solid-colored and one-subject if possible. Walmart, like every other store so far, didn’t have it. Another trip to Wal-Mart made in vain. Fucking Wal-Mart.

I remembered at the last minute that I needed a big suitcase. My recently purchased ladybug suitcase is cute, but lacking in durability. Such is the nature of most cute things.

I found a big ugly suitcase to put all of my ugly clothes in so I can go to New York and Colorado without all my ugly crap spilling everywhere.

At the shortest checkout line, this disgusting excuse for a woman was trying to write a check for some of her shit and pay cash for some of her other shit, and she wasn’t being very quick about it. Some equally gross dude was behind her. I thought they were together, but it turns out they weren’t, so things took even longer. Miss Cashier wasn’t going anywhere, so I didn’t expect her to give a shit.

When I got out my wallet to prepare for my three seconds of customer service, I found that some Dew-resi-due had spilled on my nice wallet. Awesome. I played with my chiseled nail some more to pass the time.

As I approached the cashier, a man in dress pants and a leather jacket carrying a helmet asked my cashier for change for a dollar. Seemed to be an odd place to stop in and do that, but whatever. The dress pants and motorcycle getup was also odd. I noticed it, but perhaps only because he was the only thing standing in the way of my purchasing an ugly suitcase so I could get the hell outta there.

I know, I sound like a real bitch, but I was out late last night and still put in a full, productive day at work. My face was a big oil slick that had not seen soap or makeup in over 14 hours. I haven’t eaten anything healthy in days and I skipped my morning workout. I felt slimy and jolted. I have two days to get my shit together before I leave town for three weeks. I just know I’m forgetting something…

I walked to my car and opened the trunk. The trunk was full of Gus’s clothes, which I still haven’t taken to Goodwill because I forget to do anything once it’s out of my sight. (I just know I’m forgetting something else…) So I had to shove the suitcase into the back of my little Camaro.

I’d put the car in reverse when a man on a Harley rode up behind me. I figured he wanted the space, so I gave a quick nod and signaled as if to say, “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. The parking spot is all yours.” The man called out something as he turned off his bike and took off his helmet. When I turned again, I saw the medium-length dark hair and immediately recognized the clothing of the man I’d seen make change just moments ago.

I rolled down my window and asked what was up. He said he saw me in the store and thought I was very attractive. Having mastered the right combination of flattered and embarrassed, I thanked him. I didn’t have much else to say, but I thought about how ever since I was 15, I’ve always been a sucker for Harleys. I’d love one of my own someday, but not today.

“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. I think you look great. You have a great body.” (Etc.)

I thanked him again, but started growing nervous. This guy was quite good-looking himself. Mid-thirties, smooth, articulate, tall, dark… Harley…

In so many words, he asked if I was interested… and I stammered, “You know… thank you so much… those are very nice compliments, but I…”

He asked, “Are you single?”

“No.”

“Are you married?”

(Clearly no ring on my finger.) “Yes!”

“Well, if you’re up for it, I’d still like to get to know you better.”

In man-language, that means, “I want to sleep with you.” This could only lead to something very bad.

And lead us not into temptation…

Our conversation needed to end, but the only way to do that quickly would have been to run him over and I’d be a real traitor to my gender for doing such a thing. I said that he seemed like a great guy, but I just didn’t think it would be a good idea. And I said, “Sorry.”

I feel bad for rejecting him because this incident is probably going to make him less likely to approach a girl he finds attractive in the future. But I also feel good for doing the right thing, and I feel weird simply because this happened at all. Facing rejection sucks, I know. I feel like I’ve been there a million times. It’s so easy to remember what a big blow it is to be the recipient of rejection that I forgot that doling it out can be even harder sometimes.

Isn’t this the kind of shit that happens in movies? I mean sure, dorky dudes with nothing to lose try to get my number with stupid pick-up lines all the time, but there was something totally different about this incident, other than the fact that this guy could have easily looked beyond a Wal-Mart for his next piece of ass.

So of course, I’m thinking about all the stuff I could have said to make the incident seem cooler and more moviesque, or at least to have kept me from feeling this weird right now. But what I regret the most is not asking what he was getting change for and why he was getting it there.

In other news, I wish I had a notebook.

I swear, there was a band of Mexican dudes with trumpets and accordions following me through the neighborhood while I was walking Zoey and I couldn’t escape!! They were following me! Aye aye aye!

I wrote this poem for a friend of mine so he could remember my simple advice for attaining a smashingly divine love life:

Sex is fun! Sex is great!
When she wants sex you cannot wait!

Am I right or what? If everyone followed this simple mantra, there were be a lot more satisfied people out there. I should probably add something about protection though, since it could lead to an increase in the world’s population of ankle-biters.

Wow… oh my God! Thank you, thank you so much. I am so, so grateful to be receiving such a distinguished award. I never thought I’d be at this podium celebrating my achievements for having the Totally Disgusting Kitchen of the Year.

Ha-ha! Wow, oh my God you guys, sit down! Well, of course, I’d first like to thank everyone at the Academy of Nasty Kitchens for even considering my humble little roach factory to be even slightly on par with all of the vile cesspools of thriving shit in the world today. I also want to thank Lesser Homes and Gardens for devoting 20 whole pages to a cover story and photo essay showing the years of hard work we’ve put into making our ramshackle dwelling into a true hovel.

I definitely want to thank all of my friends. No matter what you could be doing most weekend nights, you show up at my house time after time, usually careless and shit-faced, ready to eat up all my eatins and drink up all my drinkins. I especially want to thank whoever sneakily hid that banana peel so it could properly rot in my pantry for three weeks, and whoever spilled that beer on the inside of my fridge door, and whoever tried to throw that giant slab of meat into the sink, but missed the sink and gave my cabinets an impromptu staining instead. You guys are the best!

I’ve really gotta give it up for the makers of Ball Park Beef Franks for preserving hot dogs in some watery slime that eventually leaks out of the package causing it to stick to the shelf of my fridge and leaves a sticky residue once I’m finally able to jerk them loose. [There’s innuendo hidden here. Can you find it?] And thanks to the strawberry packers of Texas for always remembering to throw in a few overly ripe strawberries near the bottom of the multi-holed containers so the red goo can ooze through onto the rest of my fruit and vegetables.

A big hells-yeah goes out to Sam’s Club for selling chopped broccoli in three-pound bags, which a family of 18 paired with a pack of ravenous bunnies couldn’t even begin to finish. Usually I just buy broccoli and forget about it, but the smell this broccoli emitted after just a few short days of negligence ensured I would remember it forever!

Oh yeah, and thanks to Rubbermaid for making my garbage can too small so shit is always falling out of it or behind it. And thanks to my little dog Zoey for pulling shit out of it when something smells particularly foul.

Okay, okay, I swear I’m almost done. I told my agent that I wasn’t going to give a really long speech because I didn’t want to come off like one of those total jerks who acts like they’re so cool just because they won some great award even though everyone could easily forget about them before not even a year goes by and they’re living out of a trash can wearily reminscining about what could have been and what used to be. Whew! Oh, and I want to say thanks to my agent!! (What do you actually do anyway?) Seriously. I’m totally finishing right now. I’m just so… so… oh my God y’all… shut up!

Well… I also want to thank Jesus and God and the Virgin Mary and St. Thomas Aquinas and Moses and that one dude with that ark and the animals on it and all dem other holy mutha fucks up there for making all my dreams come true. No matter how much fame, money, and power comes my way, I’ll always be a soldier of the Lord. I will always keep the Lord in my heart, for he is the true creator of all that is ostentatiously sloppy, confusingly gross, and deservedly award-winning.

*sigh* And of course, I want to thank the fans… All of you folks who show up at my house who don’t really know me that well but can feel comfortable enough to go through my fridge and pantry, eat my food, and leave the remains wherever they land… It’s really all about you tonight. Because if you didn’t exist, well, my kitchen would be just another half-unkempt room in the house instead of the raving shithole it deserves to be!

Thank you so much! Good night, everyone!

*crescendo reaches climax*

*Kat is escorted offstage by an unusually large cane*

*Kat reaches climax… somewhere else… minus the cane… really*

Having braces at 25 has shown me just how many people around the office have a school-girl fetish. I’ve been given all kinds of great tips on what cute attire I can wear to make everyone’s fantasies come true, but I believe even pretending to consider such things would lead to much discomfort among my superiors as well as my eventual dishonorable discharge.

Only 282 more days till I become a woman again.

Why do I like to take pictures of myself outside right after I wake up?

Because I’m moving to New York, that’s why!! Ack, I can’t wait!

Last night I stepped inside a parallel dimension: The Canary Hut Pub. The Burnet Road karaoke bar is almost exactly like my neighborhood cocktail bar on Metric, the Canary Roost (also a karaoke bar), except it’s… different.

The entrance has a little wall in front of the door, but when you go inside, the large, centralized bar area is right there, but instead of standing next to the stage, you’re behind all the tables watching the stage. The bar area is the same size, the stage is the same size, and the chairs and tables are exactly the same.

Typical Roost-style, there’s a pool table in the back, some crusty old people around the bar, and some kids trying to tear up the dance floor. The bartenders are pretty similar in appearance and attitude to the bartenders my Canary, but in a strange, less friendly way. And they still allow smoking unlike the Roost, which I think got in trouble.

Still, the place looked the same, but the vibe was totally different. And instead of getting shitfaced, writing “FART” on the bathroom chalkboard, heckling the singers, acquiring a posse, and hollering into the intercom about an after-party at my house, I stayed for a few songs, chatted civilly with Thomas and Trevor for a bit, and went home well before two.

This Canary Roost doppelganger was not the cause of my unusually polished weekend behavior, but was also not a good enough reason to break it. When I wake up tomorrow morning, I will have been completely sober for an entire week. That hasn’t happened in a long time, and it had been so long since I gave it enough thought to see if it could happen. But now that it’s about to, I couldn’t be more excited!

I can’t explain it, but I’m really feeling Christmas right now. The big pine-scented trees, themed window displays, carolers at my front door singing “Silent Night,” red and green M&Ms;, sitting by the fire with the family while the snow swirls outside the window, something about chestnuts and all that… For some reason, there’s a strangely wonderful warm ‘n fuzzy Christmas spirit out there and it’s got me in the mood for candy canes and playful snowball fights. Anyone else feeling that?

Anyone?

No?

Okay.

But even if it’s just me, it’s a nice feeling that brightened my day. I may not believe that Jesus is the son of God, but I can enjoy the month of December with the best of them! I enjoy it so well in fact, that I can do it in June.

Is this gay apparel that I’m donning actually a straight jacket?

All hail Joe Hershberger, who is cooler than Jesus, who is the hardware tech of all hardware techs, whose last name I probably spelled wrong, but most importantly, who fixed my REAL mp3 player, a 30G Zen Creative Nomad. Now that I have ALL of my favorite workout mixes back at my fingertips and blowing up my ear drums, I need to think of something fun to do with this iPod.

iPod Status: Not Yet Destroyed.

Dinner ended early and I was out of stuff to do. So I opened my sidekick and looked at my To Do List.

“Buy running shorts at Academy”

Okay, I can do that. To Academy I went. I returned home empty-handed, but learned some things:

1. My right breast sags lower than my left. Thanks, cute-but-slightly-large pink Adidas top!

2. I have armpit fat.

3. All the short shorts that I guess people are wearing now make me look freakish overall and show off every dimple in my legs at best. They apparently stopped making normal shorts for normal people like me.

In conclusion, I need to work out some more before I go shopping for more workout clothes.