Category: funny

Would someone tell him already? Send him a link.

You seek refuge this night in Black Mountain, the company of friends and Will Smith on DVD because…

…oh my gawd you married a shrew she’s evil there’s a 666 on her scalp check it while she sleeps she’s unfriendly and evil but not even in a fun way and she makes that face like she’s smelling poop when she meets your friends and oh we don’t like her and we never liked her and it’s ok if you just want to run away and write it off as a big booboo you can say it was all for the nookie it’s fine just be free run away before you spawn and are tethered to beelzebub herself for all eternity it’s not too late it’s not too late it’s not too late save yourselfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff and your ridiculously round butt before there’s no escape.

Love,

Kat

More vintage box, I’m having a nostalgia kick…

This vintage Kat Box post was posted on FreakinAsheville.com in 2001.  My secret high school crush is getting married this year, and I’m so pleased for him–he grew up to be a really nice guy in love with a really super girl.

Reunited and It Feels So Good:

A True Story

Kat O.

The letter came in the mail a few months ago announcing my ten-year high school reunion. I stared at it for a long time, and then tossed it in the trash.  In the middle of the night, I jumped out of bed, dug the envelope out of the trash and decided to attend the class picnic.  I would not attend the semi-formal evening affair, nope-no way-forget it.

Thinking about my reunion as the date approached gave me the creeps.  I knew no one would talk to me.  Everyone would be wealthy and fabulous.  I was late to start my chosen career, so I knew everyone would be much more successful than me, probably all CEOs and chairpersons who do power lunches with other fabulous people.

Another reunion reminder came in the mail.  I marked the picnic on my calendar.  I thought about the semi-formal dinner and dance; the perfect dress beckoned me from my closet while I considered attending.  I could make heads turn with my black PVC witchy dress; no one else would dare wear such a thing.  Nope, I didn’t want to make my head-turning entrance to the land of the fabulous people all alone; no date, no dance, no way.  My daughter and I would make an appearance at the picnic, then disappear quietly.

I wondered if my secret high school crush would be at the picnic.  I had a “Pretty in Pink” crush: I was a weirdo freak chick and he was part of the in-crowd.  The movie had a happy ending, but in real life, I never told anyone about my crush.  If I’d confessed to my skater-goth-artsy-freaky friends that I had butterflies in my stomach for one of the in-crowd, they would have revoked my black leather jacket and beaten me senseless with my Chuck Taylors, then scrawled my secret across the bathroom walls with my red lipstick.  I had an obligation to my high school peers to date weirdos, so I did.

On the day of the picnic, I wondered what to wear.  I wanted to look casual yet powerful, relaxed yet stunning.  With my newly broken arm in a full cast, it was hard to get any clothes on at all, forget about looking powerful and stunning.  I ended up in jeans and sneakers, but I think I exuded confidence and charisma…well, maybe.

We gathered at Lake Julian, many classmates with their kids and spouse in tow.  I put on my nametag and hovered on the fringes. 
Bryan brought his daughter over while my daughter and I were feeding the ducks, and that was the icebreaker for me.  I had great conversations with people that I hadn’t seen in a decade, not since our graduation ceremony.  Hairlines had receded, tummies were softer here and there, but we were radiant in the afternoon sun, every single one of us was fabulous.I was surprised at how friendly everyone was to me.  I was a little freaked out by how happy we were to see each other.  I gave hugs to members of the high school in-crowd and listened to their stories, met wives, husbands and tons of kids.  My classmate Jimmy talked me into attending the dance that evening just so I could get drunk and mock the big-haired chicks.  My secret crush appeared and I blushed scarlet, but played it cool all the same.

In getting ready for the dinner and dance, I wondered what the hell I was doing.  Were they going to dump a bucket of blood on my head during my happiest moment like in that Stephen King story?  I was ready to forget the whole idea, but then decided to go just to have one beer with Jimmy and his wife…but what to wear?  The PVC dress wouldn’t go over the cast on my arm, and neither would my eight other choices.  Just when I was ready to wear a Hefty cinch sack, I found a plain black dress that fit over my purple cast and away I went.  I left my nametag off because I grew tired of telling people at the picnic I was divorced; without the tag bearing my last name, they’d be none the wiser.

I was nervous coming into the room alone, but the jitters dissolved when I saw familiar faces from the past.  There were so many people there to hug and catch up with, many who weren’t at the picnic earlier in the day.  It took several beers to endure watching adults do the electric slide on the dance floor. After several more beers, I was unofficially nominated “Most Likely To Kick Someone’s Ass.”   I kept glancing up to make sure there was no bucket of blood over my head.

We talked and drank and laughed.  We confessed and conspired.  We knew all the lyrics to Tone Loc’s songs.  I told a crowd about my secret crush and swore them to secrecy; they were all so intoxicated that I am pretty sure my secret is safe for eternity.  I stole the occasional glance at my crush and determined him to be just as handsome as always.

It was time to go home too soon.  Classmates had planes to catch or long drives ahead of them the next day.  We were tired, the hour was late and the ball was over at the stroke of midnight, everyone returning to his or her normal lives in a blink.

On my drive home, I considered the ten years ahead of me.  At our twenty-year reunion, I will have a teenage daughter.  I will be nearing forty years old next time we gather as a class.  The most important thing on my mind as I pulled into my driveway: I hope my PVC dress still fits me in a decade.

VINTAGE KAT BOX: Sweaty Palms!

Let’s travel way back in the Kat Box time machine with some vintage Katness from years ago.  The main character in this little tale, a super cute sales guy is now happily married (not to me!) with offspring and owns his own company…but even still, he still flirts shamelessly (and harmlessly, Mrs. Salesman, harmlessly) with me in that salesman-y way and I still act like a doofus extraordinaire.

Sweaty Palms and Failing Deodorant:

Meeting An Attractive Male

Kat O.

Recently, a friend told me she was envious of my confident demeanor in the presence of eligible men.  I laughed until I snorted, and then admitted that I never feel particularly confident in those situations; in fact, I usually feel like a contender for the Doofus of the Year Award.  My friend seemed skeptical, so I thought I’d take you inside my head for a recent meeting with an attractive gentleman.

It all began with a phone call.  He is a sales rep for a local company, and he wanted to meet with me to tout the wonders of his business.  We had a nice rapport over the phone and I really enjoyed talking to him, so I decided I would allot some time to hear what his company was all about.  Normally, I refuse to see sales reps, as I don’t have time for such in my busy day, but he swayed me with good conversation.

I came off the elevator at the appointed time to find him in our lobby, waiting patiently for me and my lack of punctuality.  First thought, “Great googly moogly, he’s handsome in that suit.”  Second thought, “I wish I had a Tic Tac.”  As he followed me to a conference room, I wished I’d been more dedicated to my Buns of Steel video.

We talked.  He told me about their company.  When I moved my hands off the table to look at the brochure he offered, I noticed my hands had left gross moist prints from my nervous sweaty palms.  “Oh gawd, I hope he didn’t notice,” I thought as I hid the sweat with my elbows.  He explained a little about the company’s history, and I sort of blanked out, admiring his smile.  I really enjoy a man who looks at ease, and this fellow looked mighty comfortable across from me in that suit. 

I shifted in my chair to scratch an itch and felt a trickle of sweat run down my side; what a day to skip antiperspirant and go for the cruelty free save the whales won’t clog your pores deodorant that is notorious for allowing my armpits to smell funky at this hour of the day.  I clamped my arms down at my sides and tried to look casual.  His hair reminded me of wheat fields in summertime, though I’m not even sure what that means; my brain was very foggy in the presence of this man.

It was soon my turn to do some talking, and I am good at that part, I know.  I was in my element, talking about the network that I tend to and the PCs that I keep functional.  I was determined to get some personal information out of him, so I threw a couple comments out to see if he would admit anything personal.  Sales reps usually won’t yield any personal info; they want to sell, sell, sell.  This handsome gentleman did throw out a little info, straying from the sales pitch and demonstrating a good use of vocabulary. “Wow, good looking and he knows big words!”  My stomach did little cartwheels.

I didn’t want him to leave.  I wanted to sit in the conference room for hours to study his shoulders backlit by the afternoon sun.  I worried that he was only talking to me because he wanted me to sign a contract with his company.  I imagined that if we’d met anywhere else, he’d probably snub me for his girlfriend, and I envisioned her as a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys or a Penthouse Pet.  I convinced myself he was out of my league.

The next day, he stopped by unannounced.  I wished I was wearing my I-am-a-powerful-IT-diva dress instead of my casual Friday attire.  Just to see him as I rounded the corner made me blush.  He smiled and I put myself back in his league.

So…on the inside, I’m not all that confident, folks.  I’m sweaty and silly and bewildered by the opposite sex.  I haven’t figured out how to suggest hanging out with him outside the realm of business to see if he’s interested; frankly, I’m sort of embarrassed to suggest anything.  If I suggest coffee/cocoa, and he’s creeped out by the notion, how will we avoid awkwardness in future meetings?  My hands are damp on the keyboard just thinking about it.  A recent article in a women’s magazine suggested I shouldn’t pursue men I’m interested in; instead I should wait for them, but that’s just not my style, no matter if my armpits are stinky and my hands sopping wet.

oooo thanks for the ideas!

So many great ideas on what to do with my engagement ring! I think the best ring idea came from a gal pal that I lunched with this week: she thinks I should save my bling-y engagement ring for a while and later melt it down, take the stones out and have it made into earrings or something special for a milestone in Minime’s life, like high school or college graduation.  That’s a nice way to put it to use, so high five to Annie Oakley for that.

Annie Oakley is also to thank for the idea of tying said heavy ring to fishing line and twirling it around like a ninja weapon next time Mr. Kat 2.0 gets too flippin’ rude and mouthy again.   That idea makes me happy, too.

Botox makes me laugh until I snort

On Saturday, I was up in the gym just workin’ on my fitness, and since I was the only brave soul in the cardio room at the time, I flipped the channel on the tv to a marathon of “Real Housewives of Orange County.”  There’s nothing like a dose of this unreal reality show to help get you through the grueling “Alpine” workout on the elliptical machine.

If you’ve not seen it before, the show focuses on these ridiculously wealthy women who reside in a gated community in Orange County.  Their lives are full of drama like which million dollar home should they live in, which million dollar home should they give to their kids and which million dollar home should they put on the market for a multi million dollar profit.  They have Botox parties.  Someone’s always marrying or divorcing to upgrade to a wealthier man. They wear diamonds to sit around the pool.  They have personal trainers and luxury cars and fake boobs.

In the episode that I was watching, one of the women was preparing for her umpteenth wedding, which apparently was going to take place in the back yard of her palatial home.  She’s gazing out over the work in progress, and I think she’s trying to look concerned as the voiceover conveys her worry that all the work won’t be done in time.  She could be conveying a look of concern, or a look of great glee—who the hell can tell the difference?  Her forehead and around her mouth are absolutely paralyzed from Botox treatments.  As she tries to muster a tear, she looks sort of like my chihuahua when he needs to go pee as her eyes get sort of wide and dewy…and she makes some attempt to furrow her unfurrowable paralyzed eyebrow that really makes her look like my chihuahua and I start laughing so hard that I snort.  As the camera goes for a closeup of her glistening (chihuahua-like) eyes and smooth forehead while I sip my water, I completely spaz out and snort the water out my nose.  I am so cool!!!!!!!  And Botox is so wrong.

New Year, new post…

First, yes, I do have heat as the potential for serious winter weather bears down upon us.  But I’m not sure if it really worksworks for real, or if it has just been rigged to work temporarily, since the person who did the work (Mr. Kat 2.0) is not speaking to me for some reason.  So. At the moment, I have heat and I’ll hope it holds up as the wind roars outside my window.

Next, my stalker.  Once upon a time, I had to leave my Asheville home in the middle of the night and move away because of a man who wanted to harm me and/or kill me to prove his love for me.  I was gone for many years, and only returned once I had a new last name, new career and an unlisted phone number.  Years have passed, around 13 years or so actually…and he’s popped back up, sending me messages through another website.   I’m really unhappy about this, so for those of you who do know me in “real” life outside my blog, please don’t ever give out any info–my last name, where I work or anything else–to anyone ever ever ever without my permission.  I’ve been pretty strict about not giving out my personal info over the last decade, but I guess Asheville is too small a town for me, a stalker and people who like to gossip.  I have some folks on the case, so he may crawl back under a rock for a bit, but obviously not forever.  Sigh.

Moving right along, let’s talk about “Trick My Truck.” Oh my god, I love this show.  It’s on CMT, and I don’t think I’ve ever watched anything on that channel before I got sucked into a “Trick My Truck”a-thon today while channel surfing.  Wow!  Big redneck men in workshirts with tats and power tools tearing stuff up and making it all shiny again: I’m in heaven.  I’ve been watching episode after episode this afternoon, loving it.  Especially loved when they tricked out the ice cream truck.  Ooooo and the truck that they tricked out like a train, and the owner of the truck cried when he saw it: crying big redneck men!  I love this show almost as much as “Dog the Bounty Hunter.”

Did you eat your collard greens and black eyed peas today for good luck?  For those of you who ain’t from around here, it’s the traditional southern first day of the year meal for prosperity, sometimes with a little bit o’ pork thrown in there.  I had my collards and peas, but I skipped the pork.

I also didn’t sweep my house today.  According to some feng shui mojo, if you clean on the first day of a new year, you sweep away or wipe away the good fortune the new year has brought you.  I didn’t clean anything, and even took it a step further by not showering, so all that good fortune could soak right into my skin.

What else…oh yeah!  My friend and the nosejob: yeah, he’s still going for his consultation, even though I tried to talk him out of the money so I could continue my education with it.  Apparently, me thinking he is hot is not enough validation for him, since the girl o’ his dreams does not think he’s hot or something (can you imagine that I am not the girl of his dreams? yes, it’s hard for me to fathom, too!).  But I tried.  I tried to reassure him of his hotness factor and shake the cash out of him, but alas…

A big shout out to the Image 420 posse for hooking Minime up with a rainbow of birthday shirts to wear to Disney to celebrate her 10th birthday!  She racked up on birthday greetings, loot and cake thanks to her stylish t’s.

And Disney.  Ok, what the hell are the people carrying in those backpacks and rolling suitcases all around the theme parks?  It’s bad enough that people are elbow to elbow smashed into the Magic Freakin’ Kingdom like sardines, but why does everyone have a backpack? And why did they all have to hit me with their backpacks or run over my feet with their rolling suitcases?  What is so damn important that you can’t leave it in the car or in your hotel that you must pack a suitcase and bring into the line for the Haunted Mansion ride?  All Minime and I had was our ticket for admission, a little cash for a cold beverage and a camera, all of which will fit into one of my pockets.  What else could you need that requires luggage in a theme park??  This baffled me during my entire visit and baffles me still.

 So. Happy New Year!  I wish you and yours all the best.  Psychic Sylvia Browne on “Montel” said 2008 should be a better year for all things compared to ’07, that odd years are years in which things get started or a change begins and even years are the years for things to reach their fruition.  I know ’07 sucked in many ways for me, so sure, I’ll take that!!   So may all your hard work pay off in ’08! Blessings to you all–kiss kiss kiss.

Vintage Kat Box from 2002! Facial hair…

Published on FreakinAsheville.com way back in 2002…

Goatees Galore, Moustache Mayhem and Beard Bedlam

 

“Hey, babe, do ya think I should grow a beard?” your man inquires.  Ladies, do not reply immediately.  Understand that this is the male equivalent of the ever-popular women’s question, “Honey, do you think I look fat?”  If you say “yes” and agree that he should grow a beard, goatee, moustache or some weird hybrid of the aforementioned facial hair styles, he’ll immediately ask you what’s wrong with his face.  If you say “no” and tell him you think facial hair is not the way to go, it’s an affront to his masculine decision-making skills, as he has already decided to sprout fur on his face whether you like it or not. 

Recently over dinner with a fellow and his girlfriend, the fellow asked us if we thought he should grow a goatee.  His girlfriend and I both shrieked and looked horrified, shaking our heads.  I told him he could grow a goatee and look okay in it if he also pierced one ear and wore jaunty black berets and turtlenecks year round.  He didn’t like the beret idea, so I think he’s let go of growing his facial hair. 

Some guys look great with facial hair.  My annoying ex-husband had a goatee when we were married.  The ex-husband kept it well groomed and it was okay by me.  I hated it, though, when he would get upset or worried and start twisting the hair on his chin.  He would twist it in these ridiculous little points while he fretted, but then he wouldn’t untwist them and he’d walk around looking like a moron with these pointy blobs of hair on his chin.  That wasn’t cool. 

Then one day, the ex-husband spontaneously shaved off the goatee.  The horror!! I couldn’t look directly at his naked face; it was too weird.  It was like he was missing an eye or an ear; the goatee was part of how I expected him to look each day.  Without his goatee, he was a one-man freak show.  He grew it back shortly thereafter. 

Now, years later, I see him sporting the same goatee that I once enjoyed and I think it looks stupid on him with his current hairstyle.  Either the goatee has to go or the hairstyle has to change.  It’s part of an complete look, this facial hair business.  The total look is why I told my friend he didn’t need a goatee; it just doesn’t suit his style.  It’s sort of like wearing overalls and penny loafers: the two just don’t go together. 

The Bloodhound, Freak in Chief Extraordinaire, was sporting a “soul patch” on his chin when last I saw him.  The soul patch reminds me of that old TV show with Gilligan in it when Gilligan wasn’t Gilligan but was some other character.  Anyhow, Bloodhound scarred me for life by referring to his new crop of facial hair as a “flavor saver.”  AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!  See, that’s one reason right there, ladies, to tell your man that he can’t have facial hair because he’ll be wandering around saying gross things like “flavor saver.”  Blegh. 

The Boyfriend despises facial hair and would probably shave every hour and a half if his schedule permitted.  I like a little stubble at the end of the day on his face.  It’s just manly and scruffy and makes it seem like he’s a hard-working man even when he’s been slacking and doing nothing harder than taking a nap.  If he asked me if should grow a beard, I’d scream.  Full beards immediately make me think of Grizzly Adams and I don’t want him bringing his pet bear and raccoon over to my house for movie night. 

My advice to women when hit with the facial hair question (it’s inevitable, ladies, so be ready) is to answer a question with a question.  He’ll say, “Should I grow a beard/goatee/moustache?”  Your immediate response should be, “Do I look fat?”  He’ll probably say some form of  “yes,” you’ll cry hysterically, he’ll apologize, he’ll bring flowers and take you out to dinner and spend a month or two making you forget that he called you fat, and voila, facial hair discussion is history.

so whatcha whatcha whatcha want?

Chiquita suggested that I spell out some rules for dating me, the uber hott Katster, so would-be lotharios bearing gifts get it right.

1.  Pretty much I can date as many people as I want at a time, but you can’t.  You can only date me.  “Date,” by the way, is not a euphemism for “bed.”  Just because I date you doesn’t mean I will bed you.  Get over yourself.  You’re lucky I’m even acknowledging your existence.

2.  I deserve gifts and flowers ALL the time, and I require them to put up with your nonsense.  One of my ex boyfriends was so fabulous at this.  He never appeared at my door empty-handed; even if it was just a pack of my favorite gum, the boy brought gifts every time.  He knew how to pay homage to She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Good boy.

3.  I will only tell you I despise red roses one time, and this is it.  If you bring them to me, I will hit you with them.  If you enjoy that, you are too bizarre for me.

4.  Don’t lie to me.  Don’t make up random crap.  I have no tolerance for lies. NONE.  Ask Mr. Kat version 2 if I have patience for that.

5.  I get to remain friends with as many of my ex-boyfriends as I want.  Your ex-girlfriends should fall off the edge of the planet and be snapped up by piranha from outer space.

6.  You should buy me dinner, at least the first date; I’m not looking for a sugar daddy, but I need to know you at least have the means to provide a meal or two…it’s a manly, good thing to do.  You should hold open doors, and you should let me order first at restaurants.  Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?

7.  You should smell good, but manly.  A manly, rugged scent is not sold in the bathroom at any bar, bowling alley or gas station.  I should smell your goodness only when I lean in, not when I’m leaning away, gasping for air.

8.  Compliment me.  I am looking extra especially glamorous in your honor.  Tell me I’m hotttttt, but please don’t say that directly to my cleavage.  I’m up here, thanks.

9.  Hold up your end of the conversation.  My last date was very good at this part, so good I was quite charmed by his company, pleased to spend time with him, not planning my escape.  On the other hand, I have had numerous dates with gents who couldn’t come up with anything, anything, anything to say, so it was an exercise in pulling teeth to get them to talk.  No fun!  You should also be the one to follow-up after  the date with an email, phone call (I probably won’t answer) or text; this shows you are undaunted in your passion for me, even after I’ve been a diva all evening.

 10.  If it doesn’t work out, no harm, no foul.  Don’t talk nasty untrue nonsense about me around town.  You want me to hug you when I run into you at Stella Blue, not enlist one of my posse to beat you up in the men’s room.

 I think these 10 rules are a really good start.  If you can make it beyond the first 10 hurdles, the rest is a cake walk.

I posted this on myspace, but I’ll post it here, too

Why not? It’s my world.  I posted it on my usually neglected myspace blog, but I’ll put it here too…

so it’s a weird time in the life of your beloved katster.  i’m broke, i’m tired and i think i might be lonely.  when i find myself contemplating people i haven’t seen in 15 years–gosh, wonder what ever happened to tamim? or kooky mahala? or all the bitches scott slept with?–then i suppose it’s pretty safe to say i’m a little lonely.

i thought very briefly in a moment of weakness that i might be ready to date again.  and when my ex announced he was oh-so-dateable-and-he-thinks-i’m-just-jealous, yep, then i felt like i’d better have a date for every night of the week and a few extra just for lunchtime giggles.

in reality, ack, no, i really can’t handle dating and being rejected and rejecting other people and all that right now (“now” being a little after 11 PM on a Fri night, i can change my mind about this at any point).  what i really want is someone to just send me flowers (gerber daisies please) and fabulous gifts and leave me the hell alone.

“but kat, didn’t you just say you were lonely?”

oh yeah.  i did.  and i am.  but i think being lonely sometimes is healthy.  gives you room to think about the kinds of people you do and don’t want around.  for example, there are a couple numbers in my cell phone i think i could call (well, text, you know i don’t actually call anyone EVER) right this instant, and voila, there would be a companion on my doorstep.

but i don’t want that.  i don’t want a booty call.  and i don’t want someone who wants me to take care of them.  and i really don’t want to listen to an earful of problems.  and most importantly, tonight i don’t want a wet spot on my side of the bed, and since it’s ALL my bed and thus all my side, well, there ya go. sorry, i am known for oversharing at times, my bad.

i do want attention.  i want to be lavished with gifts and then i want to be left alone.  i want to wear mismatched flannel pajamas and read books and eat ice cream for dinner.

but by tomorrow, i could want a line of eligible bachelors at my door…in addition to oversharing, i’m also ridiculously moody.  i think the best thing for everyone to do is go ahead and send me gifts, you can just leave them on the doorstep and scamper away, and also pull together lists of eligible heterosexual employed bachelors in the asheville area that shower with regularity and don’t live with their moms.  thank you, and good night.

***in a PS to this blog, someone on myspace pointed me in the direction of my former roommate mahala’s myspace page after i posted this.  so now i know where she is these days!  the internet is a cool thing.  i am still, however, looking for all the eligible bachelors to line up at my door.