Category: kat

I’d like to order J. Lo’s butt, Angelina Jolie’s arms…

I got an email this week from a friend, and he shall remain nameless.  He told me that in January, he is going for a consulation for rhinoplasty.  A nose job.  WTF?

Before I could even reply, I had to go find some photos of him and ponder on his nose, because my immediate reaction was that his nose was just fine.  So I looked at photos and decided, yep, his nose is good.  He is a handsome man, teetering right on the edge of being ridiculously sexy until, of course, he opens his mouth and says something stupid.  He’s not a person you would look at and say “oh, he’d be handsome if only he had a better nose.”  It’s just a regular nose.  A good nose on a good-looking guy.

My own nose used to be different.  John loved me with such fervor that he thought it was important to hammer his fist down onto my sleeping face to show his passion.  Once the swelling had subsided and the restraining order was in place, my nose was really really really really straight.  The natural curve was gone.  But I’ve never thought about plastic surgery for my nose or any other body part.

I’m not sure I like the idea of plastic surgery for anything other than reconstruction or medical issues.  A friend’s sister was in a devastating car crash that essentially crushed half her face; I can completely understand her wanting to have reconstructive surgery.  Or if something going on causes breathing problems, the medical issue there is a valid reason to have surgery.

It would seem to me that if my friend “fixes” his nose that suddenly the rest of his face won’t match the new nose.  He’ll look in the mirror all pleased with the new nose, only to find what else is “wrong.” He’ll need an eye lift, some Botox.  Dermabrasion.  Maybe a chin implant.

To order body parts off a menu at the plastic surgeon’s office seems wrong.  “I’d like the J Lo booty, Angelina Jolie’s upper arms, but hold the Lisa Rinna lips.”  I like people to look natural, with their scars and body shapes that reflect lives well-lived and their heritage.

To my faraway friend, I really wish you wouldn’t do this.  If you must, please go see a therapist first and make sure that your nose really is what needs to be fixed, and not something else.  I think you’re a gorgeous creature.  In the words of INXS, “don’t change for you; don’t change a thing for me.”

And to everyone else, yes, the wisdom is the same…”don’t change for you; don’t change a thing for me.”

The joys of parenthood

There are so many moments as a parent that you look forward to with great joy: first steps, first word, first tooth, riding a bike, going to school on the bus.  Those are the moments and milestones the books prepare us for, the Kodak moments, the stuff of Nescafe commercials and Hallmark cards.

There are tons of other moments that no one prepares us for, like the first time your child tiptoes quietly through the house, past the bathroom, into your room so she can throw up on you while you’re fast asleep.  Or those times when you’ve got guests over and your child strips naked, jumps up on a box, slaps her butt and sings her brand new song, “This is My ButtyButt.”  As they get older, you can enjoy the first time she stuffs the top of her swimsuit with socks for a summer camp field trip, or the first time you get a call from the principal because your child shoved another child face first down a hill (“but he asked me to, he said he wanted to be a bobsledder”).

And this morning, another magical moment:  removing the love-seat cushions to vacuum, only to find a stash of Halloween candy layered under the cushions…gummy Lifesavers, Reese’s Cups, Dubble Bubble…all stored for winter under my cushions…and all sat upon and smushed for the last month.  Items had to be scraped off the cushions and the couch with a butter knife in their melty disarray.  I had wondered where the Halloween candy went, but thought back to my own childhood, when I would stash it in a drawer and ration it out for a month or more, so I didn’t worry.

Of course, when I asked MiniMe about it, she said she had no idea who did it.  There is a potential speck of truth to her words, since herds of other people’s children reside at my home every weekend and do all manner of insane things.  I didn’t give MiniMe a hard time, I just gave her a butter knife and invited her to join in on the scraping fun and the beautiful memories we were creating…ahhh, the magic.

 Happy Thanksgiving, ya’ll…

My Name is Prince…And I Am Funky!

Just a quick word to point out that I’ve given Kid Rock and So Hott all the credit for multiple consonants in upping one’s hotness factor (see my recent ‘foxxxy guy’ post and the one about me rolling around on the hood of my car to So Hott)…but alas, I had forgotten that Prince did it even earlier on with his super subtle tune Gett Off, full of great lyrics like It’s hard 4 me 2 say what’s right when all I wanna do is wrong.  My apologies to his Royal Purpleness.

Fred Durst to my Aaron Lewis

If you’ve been in my car at any time, you know I sing in the car almost non-stop.  You must engage me in conversation to get me to stop, and even then, I’ll still sing between my sentences or sing at you in reply to your questions.  It is only in slightly embarassed hindsight that I just realized that I sang Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch to a near stranger very recently (look up the lyrics if you don’t know why that’s mortifying), but it’s just habit to sing behind the wheel.

I don’t sing well, noooooooo.  Lack of talent doesn’t stop me.  It’s my car, I’ll do what I want, so there.

Generally, I have my mp3 player on random.  My thought pattern is fairly random, so my music should be, too.

This afternoon, I was sitting in traffic downtown.  I had the windows down because it was nice and warm.  I had just finished throwing down Run DMC’s It’s Tricky (this beat is my recital, I think it’s very vital…) when the random mp3 player mix brought up Staind’s Outside, the studio version of the tune.  The more popular version of the song is the one that emerged from the Family Values Tour with Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst sort of warbling backup vocals.

 I gulped down some water and scooted forward in traffic only a smidge before I embraced my inner Aaron Lewis, power ballad-ing into the steering wheel like Staind was auditioning me to replace Aaron right then and there.  And I hit the chorus I’m on the outside (horribly off key, but with enthusiasm!) and I heard another voice sing I’m lookin’ in!

WTF?

I look over and the passenger in the Subaru WRX next to me is hanging his head out the window.  He’s singing the Fred Durst backup!  It was so cool!  I was Aaron, he was Fred and we were rockin’ the power ballad out!  The light turned green just a few seconds later, and I had to wave goodbye to my backup vocalist and return to my solo efforts, but, man, there for an instant, we were both rock stars.

I could wallpaper your house…

Because I am the queen of over-sharing on this blog o’ mine, you need to know that I have had the most heinous, horrible, painful, dreadful sinus infection EVER for the last several weeks…so bad that it laid me out flat on my back with dizziness on Sunday at my soccer game during halftime.  I’d already finished one round of antibiotics, and have now kicked up to some new frightening purple and turquoise pill.

 But what’s really cool is I’m now truly on the mend thanks to the crystal meth my doctor gave me.  Ok, he didn’t actually give me meth, but I’m convinced I could whip up a batch of something profitable from the prescription decongestants he gave me.  I took one yesterday and within an hour was pacing, grinding my teeth and ready to clean the gutters, rake the yard, wash the curtains and maybe even bathe the cats.

I couldn’t really sleep, but I can tell I am at last I’m really getting better, thank goodness…but the crazed edginess is not something that works well for me.  I want to jump up and down, wallpaper my house, maybe wallpaper your house, drive to the beach just to get an ice cream cone, drive back, organize my CDs chronologically, make a paper mache pinata, call up JimDiggity and talk reallyreallyreally fast and hang up mid-sentence, stop by Image 420 to hug Uncle Lane and remind Joey not to smoke, bake some muffins, wash my car, wash your car and jump and down some more. 

Obviously, I’m not jacked up enough.  I’m going out for a Red Bull.

Belly Rubs, Butt Rubs: a typical night on the town

On Friday, I went to see Nashville Pussy, Hank III and Rev Horton Heat at the Peel.  Well, the band(s) I went to see is a bit o’ trivia that’s neither here nor there.  What’s important to note is the wildly entertaining men that were sharing space with me in the front of the Peel. 

One gent had his shirt yanked up with his generous slightly-furry belly on display.  He asked if I wanted to rub his belly for luck.  I declined ever so politely like the delicate southern belle I am.  He told me he was due in just a few months and the man behind him was the Baby Daddy. (yes, that’s Baby Daddy, not Baby’s Daddy—watch enough ‘Maury’ episodes about finding the Baby Daddy and you’ll understand).  I congratulated them on their bundle of joy.

Another fellow happily declared to me that lots of people were rubbing and touching his butt in the elbow to elbow crowd at the sold out show.  I said they should at least buy him dinner, that he shouldn’t be so easy. 

I didn’t get to interact with the last fellow on my list: top hat man.  Top Hat Man decided that not only should he be annoyingly tall in front of my not tall self, but that he should also don a hat as tall as he for the show.  This velvet topper towered over the crowd.  I wondered if there was a monkey in there.  Or maybe a cooler filled with snacks.  I wished he would take his monkey and snacks elsewhere, and because I am me and the world revolves around me and my every whim, he was soon moshed away and I could see the stage unobstructed.

 I just love the friendly demeanor of a fun crowd, a group happy to be all smushed up together in a pile.  Maybe next time I’ll reach out and rub that belly for luck, but I can’t promise any butt rubs.

I suppose we can stop celebrating my birthday now

My Captain Jack Sparrow balloon has started to deflate so I guess it’s time to stop celebrating my birthday.  It’s been nice having Johnny Depp floating in the corner of my living room for the last two months, but I guess it’s time to move on…

…to what I want for Christmas!  I know that some of you wait with eager anticipation each and every year for my list, so I’m ready to spring it on you so you can cater to my every whim.

First and foremost, there should always be good chocolate.  If you have to ask where good chocolate comes from, you are not worthy of even giving me a gift–just relinquish your entire wallet unto me, as you are too stupid to operate it.  Good chocolate in Asheville, NC, comes from The Chocolate Fetish, and that is the one and only place you should go for chocolates if you are in the Ashevegas area.  I want Ancient Pleasures (dark chocolate with cayenne) and I want Velvet Sin (dark chocolate inside and out).  If you aren’t in Asheville, they will ship, so you have no excuses for not giving me what I want.

Next, bubble bath.  I will eat my truffles in my bubble bath and I’m sharing neither the truffles nor the bath.  A good bubble bath is a difficult thing to master.  I want bubbles that last with a fragrance that doesn’t overwhelm me.  Jasmine Vanilla is a nice blend, let’s do that.

Now that I’ve been subdued with my bubble bath and exquisite truffles, I want books.  Ooooo lots and lots of books.  I read in the bathtub.  As a parent, the bathtub is one of the only places in the house I can hide, so if I’ve got a great book, we are bringing my bubble bath experience to new highs.  Don’t try to pick out a book for me, just gift card me.  You’ll undoubtedly pick out something pretentious and foreign to make yourself seem cool and knowledgeable, so don’t even bother; I’ll select my own books and thank you kindly for the gift card.

Eventually, I’ll have to leave the tub. To keep your beloved Kat subdued and happy, let’s lavish me with wine.  Nothing expensive, really.  I prefer Yellow Tail Shiraz and Yellow Tail Merlot, both readily available at many a grocer’s.  And bendy straws.  You’re already at the grocery store, get me some bendy straws.

I think now you should drive my drunk ass to a spa so I can get a massage.  Don’t be cheap, I want 90 minutes of attention there.  The best massage I ever had was given by a male massage therapist.  It wasn’t just that he was a man that made the massage super yummy (although it doesn’t hurt to be rubbed into a pile of submissive dough by a man in a dimly lit room with a warm scented oil all over my back), it was the fact that he was so tall he could really, really work on some of my tense spots from above, rather than reaching across, niiiiiiiiiice.

Now, make me a nice dinner and go away.  That’s all I want for Christmas this year.

And what will you get out of all this?  A kinder, gentler Kat, at least while the wine and chocolate supply lasts.

Lest you think I’m shallow and greedy, please make a donation to one of my favorite charities (Manna Food Bank or Buncombe County Foster Care Association) before you shop for me.  And then, once that’s done, please feel free to inundate me with the love offerings I so richly deserve.

I’ll admit I’ve looked into the online dating thing…

Alright, alright, I’ll admit to some looking into the online dating thing again.  I poked around at it a few years ago and was absolutely traumatized by one online stalker in particular, so I’ve left it alone.

But time has passed and surely there are some normal people out there, right? RIGHT?!?

I’ve browsed some profiles, read some ads on different sites, and I’m mostly just perplexed by the whole damn thing.  Why do some men feel it’s a good idea to take pictures o’ their weenies to post with their personal ads?  It’s never been a dating criteria of mine in the past.  “Oh, thanks for offering to set me up with Brad, Sally.  He sounds super, but…  Do you have a photo of his package I could check out before I commit to dinner?”

Frankly, gents, if I could lay it on the line for you, your private package is the least of our worries when we womenfolk are checking you out.  We want to know if you have a criminal record, and we want to know if you have a real job that you go to with some kind of regularity.  We want to know if you still live with your mom 7 years after your divorce.  We want to know if you listen to Journey on a daily basis–it could be a dealbreaker.  We want to know if you are still married and does your wife know you’re on match.com?  Once we know all those things and still more, only then do we really give a crap about your package…and even then, we really only care if your package is clean and well-maintained with a doctor’s note, and if you know what to do with all that stuff you’ve got.  We don’t need to see a photo of it.  REALLY we don’t.

I was randomly scoping out craigslist.com and found that a man has posted that he would like to astral project into a nice Asheville woman’s boudoir to have, umm, astral relations…and a snack.  Nevermind the relations thing, how the heck do you get a snack on the astral plane?  If I knew refreshments were being served, I’d be out of body all the frickin’ time noshing on velvet sin truffles from the Chocolate Fetish.

I don’t know if I need a date…or if I just need a good out of body snack.