friends

thankful for a good birthday weekend…

After last year’s birthday debacle, most anything was an improvement…but I had a good birthday and I had a good birthday weekend, too.

There were Jager shots with “Van Helsing” and “From Dusk Till Dawn” and conversation about anything and everything…and that’s just the best. Time spent laughing and goofing off can’t be bought, and it’s the best stuff ever.

This coming weekend will hopefully bring more of the same because there can never be enough. The “Where My Girls At” ladies only 40th bday celebration this Saturday should be awesome. Cheers!

I had dinner last night with someone who has known me since I was 4 years old, just a clueless kindergartner at Venable Elementary. Our elementary school no longer stands, a grocery store sits where we learned our ABCs…but it’s amazing how the spider web connections of friendship pick up right where they left off. She read my book, she really read it, so that made me feel goofily happy in addition to the great company.

Even though I have reclusive hermit tendencies, I do love these connections. My introverted spirit doesn’t like the stress of a lot of people I don’t know well, so I don’t like to go out to networking events or parties. I like to host parties where I know and love everyone on the list; control over the guest list is ok by my brand of weirdness, but I find a room full of strangers to be an overwhelming energy that sets me on edge and I’d rather skip it than be rattled. Sitting down one on one with a beer (or three) is perfect. One on one conversations where the topics fly around the range of randomness from lip balm to botox to pets and every strangeness in between are the times that make me happy and feed my soul for days.

I was extra blessed yesterday in addition to last night’s dinner. Another friend came for lunch AND brought me a book: double happiness. And conversations from school work to Star Wars toys to douche baggy former coworkers had me laughing so hard I’m glad I retained bladder control.

Cheers to friends, new and vintage, who don’t give a crap that I don’t do Bele Chere or cocktail parties or any of that. You’re the best, and to know you is a gift.

Well, here’s a lie!

Stupid Pinterest and all the handy dandy hints and tips. Read a list over the weekend of different uses for household stuff, like “put chap stick on a paper cut to stop bleeding and pain.” So I had one of those itty bitty paper cuts today that is so small but feels like flaming gasoline is being poured under your skin…alrighty, I know just what to do, right? Whip out that chap stick and swipe some on…and 3, 2, 1…pretty sure my flesh is going to boil off it hurt so bad. Went running down the hall to the sink, oh god, it’s blocked in by a maintenance cart…run the other way…omg, the bathroom door is locked…I am waving my hand in the air, positive that this tiny inferno is a gateway for demons to enter this dimension and that they are squeezing their way out of this centimeter of open skin on my thumb. Keys in hand I finally make it to soap and water to wash the damned chap stick off, which is only slightly a relief since it still hurts as bad as it did to start with…but I’ve learned my Pinterest lesson: always make your friend try it first.

I still miss them

When Chris was murdered, it took me weeks to stop crying. Every song we’d ever talked about since middle school made me choke up, and there were so many songs because music was one of our biggest common bonds that I would find myself crying in the grocery store to the songs playing through the aisles. With time, it got easier. Time didn’t make me understand the “why” of it, his sudden death, but it hurt less often. I could think of happy memories and not fall apart, but I still miss him. This morning on the way to work, I heard one of the last songs we talked about before he was killed, a cover song done by Agent Orange, and I had to stop the car. I was just seized with this huge sudden wave of grief out of nowhere. I miss Chris. I miss my friend and his humor and his photography and his brilliance, one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.

When Kevin died in his 30s from colon cancer, I was furious with the universe. Cancer is for old people and we weren’t old. He was just a year older than me. By the time I got my motorcycle endorsement on my driver’s license, he was too sick to ride with me, so we never got to do that. I remember when we were dating, just kids, and he couldn’t afford to send me flowers for Valentine’s Day because the florists jacked the price way up for delivery…but cash and carry flowers were affordable, so he had one of his friends bring the flowers to me like a delivery. That level of kindness and effort set a bar that I don’t think anyone else has ever matched. Kevin told me I was important, unique, special and worthwhile at a time in my life when I didn’t believe I was any of those things…and many years later, before he passed away, we got to talk and he told me that sparkle in my eye, my energy, was one of a kind and that he was so blessed to know me, and I wept and wept and wept on the spot. Sincerity and honesty, saying things from the heart uncensored, so rare, but that was his gift; there was no BS, just a purity in the things he would say. Any song from Cinderella’s “Night Songs” album reminds me of him, makes me smile. I saw someone on a black Hayabusa the other day, and there was that grief, popping up like a damn jack in the box out of nowhere, and filling my eyes with tears. I am a better person for the time I knew him.

I still talk to them sometimes. Call me crazy; I don’t give a damn. In the car, alone, sometimes I’ll tell Chris and Kevin I miss them, I love them and that I think of them often, because I do, it’s all true.

I miss Clay, too, and wonder if there was anything I could have said or done…I saw him the night before he took his life and I never had a single worry that he’d do such a thing. Was I blind or did he just hide it well? And Gracie and the drugs…damn it, life doesn’t have to be a drugged up haze and chasing that escape took you from us too soon.

Gone too quickly, all of you. You are missed. You are not forgotten. You are alive every time I remember you, every moment recalled. Thank you for every laugh, every song, every story.

the mole of doom: what, universe, what?!? i’m listening!

As an alarmingly pale person, I see the dermatologist once a year to check any little moles and whatevers, make sure all is right in the world. I’ve been reasonably good to my skin as an adult, but as a kid who played soccer three seasons a year every year from age six or so into my twenties, starting back in the days when no one used sunscreen…well hell, back then people slathered themselves with a weird concoction of baby oil and iodine and would lay out on aluminum foil like salmon fillets on the grill. In those days that lacked sunblock, I remember getting a burn on the tops of my feet one year at the beach that was so bad I couldn’t walk for two days without bursting into tears. I remember burning so bad I blistered all over my chest and shoulders every single summer.

Nowadays, I sunscreen the hell out of myself and I wear a hat of some kind if I’m gonna be out in the sun for any substantial length of time. Some of you have mocked me for my uncool random baseball hats (these are also known primarily as “hats I stole from my Dad”), but who was whining about their sunburn a few hours later? Not me and my scary hat hair, nope.

But still I go to the dermatologist each year and generally all’s well…except just ahead of this scheduled visit, I noticed a little teeeeeeeeeeenytiny mole was different, it was changing. Suddenly it was darker. And then it was spreading. And then it wasn’t flat anymore. And in the span of just a couple weeks tripled in size from being a tiny speck to being a topographic map of Florida. It is still fairly small, but the changes in it were rapid and obvious.

So I pointed the mole of doom out to the dermatologist first thing at my appointment today and he squinted at the spot (smack between my boobs) and said, “Oh that’s gotta go. We’ll want to test it for skin cancer and we should just go ahead and remove it. We’ll punch that out for a biopsy and stitch you up. Sign a surgical consent form and we’ll get you scheduled ASAP.”

His friendly nurse then explained how they’d use a “cookie cutter” tool to remove the mole and depending how deep they had to go to “get it all out” would determine if the stitches involved would dissolve on their own or if they’d have to be removed at a later appointment. She went on to say that they would call me with biopsy results whether they were good or bad, then she shooed me off to get on the appointment book for this procedure.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Biopsy. That’s a scary word, a word they use on a lot of really sick patients on episodes of House. I know it’s routine for every questionable anomaly that’s removed from your skin, they wanna test it and know all about it, and I’m sure this will be fine, especially since I’m on top of it so quickly. But still. Yikes.

There’s been a lot of pondering and reflecting on mortality and the fragility of life and seizing the day in the last 18 months or so for me. A dear friend was murdered, my best friend flatlined a couple times in the hospital and my first serious high school beau has colon cancer. I’ve made many changes in my life since early 2007, purging toxic people from my social circle who were causing me more harm than good…I’ve said no more often to things that drain me (no, we’re not selling cookie dough door to door) and said yes to more of the things that I love (a hot bubble bath and a glass of wine are good medicine). I’m not perfect, but I’m doing better on giving more attention to the real life meaningful things and letting the rest of the nonsense of the world go on by. So…….what, Universe? What? What do I need to know? What are you trying to tell me? Have I not pondered my own mortality enough that you have to throw a biopsy my way to shake things up? I feel like I’ve seized the hell out of some days in 2008, that I’ve lived and loved and so what now? What am I supposed to learn from this exercise? It remains to be seen, I suppose.

My “procedure” is Monday. Ouch in advance–I’m poking the spot right now where they’ll punch a hole and put stitches, right on my breastbone, not a squishy soft spot with lots of cushion, nope. So on Monday, send flowers and money and a pony and jewelry, I like jewelry, and dark chocolate from The Chocolate Fetish…but in true Kat form, I will point out that sending me “feel better” gifts on Monday does not excuse you from buying me a Christmas gift.

Hanging My Head Out the Car Window

Generally speaking, I can drink vast, huge, ridiculous amounts of alcohol without getting sick or hungover. This is not bragging, it just is one of those things. Consider what I drank for my birthday this year for example–wasn’t sick the next day, was up and at ’em quite bright and early in fact. Was chatting with someone today and the subject of drinking copious amounts came up…and I said I seldom get sick or anything like that…but that reminded me of hanging my head out Chiquita’s car window!!!

Travel back in time with me to that fateful night! You know what, Chiquita? It’s been more than TEN years! REALLY! Because I was getting my computer programming degree and Minime was just a speck, so like TEN WHOLE FREAKIN YEARS! Anyhoooooooo, so Chiquita and I were out and about doing what we do with the Ninja and Some Guy, and someone decides (probably me, I have been known to be a total dumbass) that we should be drinking Everclear and Tang. I believe the venue we were frequenting called that little number an OrangaTang.

Tang is probably super if you’re in outer space. I really don’t want to encourage anyone to mix their alcoholic drinks with it, even if they are orbiting our planet and are fresh out of sensible mixers.

Anyhoo, I drank this concoction in quantity quickly; my companions gave up on it (smart, smart people!). And then, here’s the part that made the world go blurry, we decide to all start swapping drinks. Drink, swap, drink, swap, the four of us sliding drinks around and around the table until they were all empty. That was a very, very bad idea on top of the Tang and Everclear.

But I distinctly recall being absolutely 100% fine…until I stood up and really there was no solid floor under my feet, I was walking an imaginary tightrope, all wobbly and out of my mind. Fast forward to the part where we need to leave because I’m convinced death is eminent. My stomach was agitating like a Maytag, my head was swirling.

You ever felt so sick to your stomach, whether from drinking or stomach flu or whatever, that you find yourself praying you’ll throw up soon? Because you know if you can get the evil out of your body, you will feel better. I was in that zone. I wanted the vile mix of I-don’t-even-know-what-everyone-else-was-drinking and Tang out of me and anywhere else. I got hot, so freakin’ hot, and swimmy. Chiquita was driving me home, and I was so hot I thought I was going to melt courtesy of the bubbling cauldron in my gut, so the only thing that made sense to do was hang my head out the car window most of the way home. It made sense at the time. I don’t think I barfed, but I remember that I wanted to very much, and the only thing holding me together was hanging my head out that car window like a dog…a drunk on Tang and who know’s what the hell else dog.

I’m older and wiser now, and I steer away from Tang at all costs these days. Because I stay away from the Tang, I don’t have to stick my head out of a moving vehicle anymore. So that’s the morale, maybe, I dunno: if you’re going to drink, don’t drink Tang unless you’re an astronaut. Which I am not. Amen.

I hate…

…that you can so readily relate to my tales of disagreement because it means you’ve walked a mile in my shoes, and you in fact continue to walk more than that mile, but I am thankful you understand where I’m coming from when I’m completely exasperated with myself over the whole stupid mess. Thanks for being you.

The things we come up with…

Chiquita and I have been friends a longass time now, to the point that sometimes our conversations make no sense at all…but this evening, our conversation took a deep, meaningful turn, like a public service announcement or an ABC Afterschool Special starring Scott Baio and Kristy McNichol. Here’s what Chiquita and I need you to know:

Ladies, be good to your poonanny. If you abuse your poonanny by behaving like a trollop, jezebel and/or common roadwhore, your poonanny will just fall out. One day, I’ll be driving down the road, and Chiquita will point out the smushed shape on the asphalt and say, Ooooo poor possum. I’ll have to shake my head and say No, Chiquita, I’m afraid that’s no possum. That’s Lolita’s poonanny. It fell out. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen, and her poonanny up and fell out her drawers. What a sad day that would be, ladies! So please, treat yourself and your poonanny with respect, and try to avoid behaviors that would land you on Maury or Jerry Springer as a repeat guest. We, and your poonanny, thank you.

TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF ALREADY!!!!!!!

Over lunch with some anonymous awesome divas today, a conversation came up about body image. I have a friend who will not be seen in a swimsuit at the beach or the pool, ever. The conversation went even further into strange territory when it was stated that the preference was to even stay partially dressed (long tshirt, whatever) whilst in, ahem, intimate moments.

This is not a gender specific issue, body image, so I wanted to get out here on my blog and talk to everyone about it. Put on your freakin’ swimsuit and enjoy the ocean! There will always be someone thinner than you, there will always be someone heavier than you, who the hell cares, go have fun! And as for those intimate moments, ummm, you’ve gotten far enough with someone that clothing is optional and probably just in the way, so just remove it all!

I don’t care if I wear a swimsuit at the beach, geez. The only peril to that is blinding innocent bystanders when the sunlight reflects off my whiter than white skin. If I waited until I had some “perfect” body, whatever that is, I’d never freakin’ get to go swimming! I don’t want to miss out on a thing, and why would you? In fact, I have more than one swimsuit in case one’s wet and I wanna go swim again! Why would you want to skip the trip to the lake or the pool party and miss out on fun with friends and family? They really don’t give a snot what you look like in your swimwear, I promise; they just wanna goof off and spend time with you. I can’t imagine missing out on playing “mermaid” with Minime in the pool or not wave jumping out in the ocean with because I was self-conscious about my butt in a swimsuit.

As for your special getting freaky moments, strip! In a fit of far TMI, I will tell you that I HATEHATEHATE to get cold, so in the summer with the A/C blowing, I like a little coverup if it’s time to get down, but if we can get it warm in here, it’s a free for all of paleness and tangled limbs. Why? Because this is it, folks, this is all there is. Today is all we have, right this minute, so you gotta accept who you are inside and out today. Sure, you can wish your abs were less sticky outy, but today, they are what they are…do some crunches and get your freak on! I hate to think that people are skipping intimacy with their loves because they feel funny about whether their boobs are too small or their ass is too big or their stomach is too round or their elbows are too pointy or I don’t even know what else. We’re all human, we come in different shapes and shades and sizes, and who you are today, right this second, is completely strip-worthy to the one you love that loves you, too.

It’s not a beauty pageant, it’s real life. I work with a guy who has such a way with the ladies, but on the surface, he’s just an average fellow—no movie star looks, no bling. There’s never a shortage of women in his life. It’s not about his looks or his physique, though, it’s about confidence in himself. He believes he’s a hottie from Hottieville, he projects this with ease and grace, and thus he is. Believe, people, believe! I know I can’t make you see what you don’t want to see in yourselves, but dang! This life we get is too short to be thinking you’re anything less than Da Bomb!

Take your clothes off already…in broad daylight, even! (disclaimer: please strip only in the privacy of your own home and not, say, at Waffle House or the office) All you have is today…enjoy the hell out of it!

Your Nose

I can’t believe you had a nose job. Do you know what a regular person could do with that kind of money? Good gawd, I could go on a week’s vacation, pay off a credit card, get a massage and throw one hell of a party, and I’d still have money to spare for what you’ve spent on something that didn’t freakin’ need fixing!

I was looking at our high school yearbook photos just last week at Scootster’s house when I was drinking all his beers…you were cute then, dorky cute, hadn’t quite grown into your calm, confident sense of self yet. And as an adult, 4 out of 4 people that I surveyed told me they thought your nose was just fine and that you were a good lookin’ guy.

Ah, but now it’s your old nose. Your old nose was fine. We must talk about it in the past tense. Your old nose. Now you have a nice new nose. I wonder if I’d still recognize you…I’ve known you since we were Minime’s age, I wonder if my brain can wrap itself around the idea of your new feature–I have the photo you took of yourself on the plane last year, such a good photo, but would I know you today?

It’s just weird for me to think about. I like to see the familiar angles of my friends’ faces as the years pass. I take comfort in that familiarity. And you chose to change that, your choice of course, your call to make and really not my business, but it’s so strange to me, hard for me to understand it. I don’t choose my friends because of their appearances or their checkbooks or the cars they drive, so in that light, you are my friend no matter how old or new your nose…I send my love, I wish you a speedy recovery and when all’s well, I want to see. I hope the change brings you confidence and peace.