Mrs. Goodcookie's Jungle Crackers

Yeah, how wrong are those? They were a snack option on my JetBlue flight this morning. I went with the non-controversial chocolate chip cookies, thank you very much.

My trip to Florida to see the fam. Well, how does one begin. Upon my arrival, my dad picked me up. We went to PF Chang's for lunch. My dad lit into me. I started crying. He paid the bill. Drove me a silent thirty-five minutes to my brother's home. Stayed for about 10 minutes. "i'll tell Mr. Brown you send your best."

"Well, I'm sure I'll see him at some point."

Silence from my dad. He didn't try to see me or talk to me for the rest of the weekend. In fact, canceled all plans to see any of us for the duration of my stay. "Tell Katherine to have a good flight," he told my sister.

He does it every time. Just when I think we've moved beyond the headgames (one lack of underwear incident comes to mind), something like this happens. My friends have all seen my dad do this to me.

There is a part of me that believes, truly, that my dad has used his sole-living-parent status as the ultimate trump card in every family dispute. That no matter what, we are the children, he is THE PARENT. And there is a part of me that truly believes we will all breathe a collective sigh of relief when he passes. There, let me be the first one to put it out there. In writing. In the cosmos. There is some part of me that believes that once my father is dead, I will somehow be free. Of his expectations, of his manipulation, of wanting/needing/demanding his approval.

There is a survival instinct inside of me that is hopeful. But that same instinct has kept me in romantic relationships past their expiration dates. If my dad and I do bring out the worst in each other, why pursue a relationship?

When I lived in London for six months, my dad told me I was no longer his daughter. When I came home from London briefly for my grandmother's funeral, my dad told me I was a humiliation, an embarrassment to him. When he caught me sans underwear a couple years ago, he accused me of prostituting myself on the streets of New York City and said that I would not be welcome at the Thanksgiving table. When I first started seeing a therapist when I was 13, both of my parents asked me not to tell my siblings, it would be our secret. I often wondered if either of them drew the line between their near-separation and the cutting that took place shortly after.

And yes, I hold my dad responsible for my mom's death. I hold my mom responsible for her death as well but she's not here. It's like being angry at a vapor. It's already won. And I hold my dad responsible for the sadnesses of my childhood. Of the screaming matches I witnessed from the top of the stairs: my dad, red-faced and scary, my mom's hushed replies, not quite audible. For the time he pushed my sister. For the time he threw the chubby family shih tzu on my mom's bad arm from the front seat of the chevy caprice. For the time he punched me because I said the word shit after a particularly ineffective family therapy visit.

It's almost like I'm looking for some sort of permission. And I don't know from who. Someone who will say: "Yes, Kath, as much as you love your dad and as gruffly kind a man as he can be, a relationship with him may not be in your best interests. You are hereby absolved of this responsibility. Be good to your siblings, your in laws, your nephews, your friends, your co-workers, your self but on this one thing . . .this very big thing that could change your life and the lives of your children . . . we're letting you off the hook."

Then there's the apartment. When I tried to move out last yearish and exert some element of control over my life, he reined me in even harder. Then he got sick. And I took care of him. I took off work. I exposed myself to the same mold that infected his lungs. I cooked his meals. Walked his dog. Changed his sheets. Did his laundry. Vacuumed his floors and rugs. And even now as he attempts to sell the place where he nearly died last year, it is my duty to get the mail and send it to him. Check the place, make sure it looks okay. That it looks sellable.

My mom always said, until she died that the best days of her life were when she was young and single and living in new york. My sister and I often felt slighted by that, as though the life she currently had was sorely lacking. At some point after I was born, my mom stopped smiling with her mouth open. In life and in pictures. Maybe a closelipped smile was easier to fake.

stands with boob

Someone much funnier than I said that Harry Whittington could die and somehow Dick Cheney would become a hero, have a cereal named after him. Dick Flakes or something. That made me chuckle heartily.

Don't have much to report today. I leave for Florida to visit the family tomorrow which, as of late, brings up the sticky situation: who do I stay with? My dad helped pay for the ticket but my sister in law will be pissed if I don't stay with her but will expect me to take care of her two sons while I'm there on vacation ("giving her a break" she calls it) and if I do stay with her and don't give her enough notice, she'll be pissed that I'm springing a stay with her on her. If I stay with my dad, I'll go to bed early and my dad will sleep on a cot and I'll eat rich delicious foods and undo all the hard work I've done in the past two weeks, although it'll be free rich delicous food which will help me save money for my trip to Knoxville next week where i'll most likely binge on cheap food, cheaper beer and well, manjuice.BK whopper meal: $3.18PBR in a can: $2Manjuice: pricelessI really want to stay with my sister the entire time as she and her husband are very cool and do fun things, like wine tastings and have fun friends who also do fun things, like drink beer and play darts. Sigh.

Stands-with-boob.

Someone much funnier than I said that Harry Whittington could die and somehow Dick Cheney would become a hero, have a cereal named after him. Dick Flakes or something. That made me chuckle heartily.

Don't have much to report today. I leave for Florida to visit the family tomorrow which, as of late, brings up the sticky situation: who do I stay with? My dad helped pay for the ticket but my sister in law will be pissed if I don't stay with her but will expect me to take care of her two sons while I'm there on vacation ("giving her a break" she calls it) and if I do stay with her and don't give her enough notice, she'll be pissed that I'm springing a stay with her on her. If I stay with my dad, I'll go to bed early and my dad will sleep on a cot and I'll eat rich delicious foods and undo all the hard work I've done in the past two weeks, although it'll be free rich delicous food which will help me save money for my trip to Knoxville next week where i'll most likely binge on cheap food, cheaper beer and well, manjuice.

BK whopper meal: $3.18
PBR in a can: $2
Manjuice: priceless

I really want to stay with my sister the entire time as she and her husband are very cool and do fun things, like wine tastings and have fun friends who also do fun things, like drink beer and play darts. Sigh.

Very superstitous, writing's on the wall . . .

I'm becoming a bit of a slacker on the job. I'm out of town for the next two weekends . . .the number of websites I enjoy perusing continues to increase . . have I told you how much I enjoy www.wwtdd.com?

(What Would Tyler Durden Do) . . .the things that man says about Kirsten Dunst make me pee on myself.

I've had an unhealthy habit over the years that's very easy to perpetuate in NYC. I have a tendency to look at other women's bodies as they walk down the street:

"Wow, what a small, firm ass she has. I wish I had that ass."

or

"Gosh, she sure has ripped thighs. Sure wish mine looked more like that and less like a ham and swiss sammich."

or

"Christ on a bike, she's tall with willowy limbs. Even with 6 inch heels on, I would still look at her like a dweebish prepubescent prom date."

Sadness.

Ah, well. I'm using the Jergens moisturizer that adds a subtle tan to even the whitest of albinos so i've got a slight glow that makes the dimpled flesh a bit less noticeable. The unfortunate side effect is that I smell like toast.

Happy Valentines Day

Hello, fair reader(s).

I'm thinking about quitting my second job. My boss sometimes just doesn't show up. And sometimes he just doesn't call me to tell me he's not showing up. So I leave my proper job at 6:00 pm on the dot, book it to an L train, switch to an uptown F train to 42nd, walk three blocks north and a half block over, take an elevator to the 6th floor which inevitably smells stale and curry-like, ring his buzzer and get nothing. I get paid $10 an hour and the most I've worked is 6 hours a week. The last few weeks it's been closer to 3.5. It'd be one thing if overtime wasn't avail at my real job but it is. So I may take what little experience I've gained, receive my check for last week (a whopping $32.14) and tell him goodbye. Friends, please advise.

In the meantime, I'm taking an advertising copywriting class at NYU which is keeping me plenty busy. I've so far lost 4 lbs with my new dieting and weight loss regimen. Given that I've gone from NO physical activity to a half hour a day and NO water consumption to A LOT, I'd hoped for more. My brother would tell me to give up coffee, which I cannot. But I guess one can't get rid of one's beer thighs in the span of two weeks after seven months of significant boozing.

Happy V day to all. I shall fellate a burger this evening. Perhaps I should find something more phallus-like.

Things that do and don't suck.

Things I do not believe in or things I believe are unacceptable or unlikely or things I hate:

musicals
the supposed comedic stylings of the fat one
umbrellas (j/j: sorry, i took yours by accident)
actors as genuine, good-hearted people
comics as genuine, good-hearted people
musical theater actor's straightness
poodle haircuts
not flossing
not showering
excessive backhair
smoking pot as a supergood thing for anyone
people who are unaware of their surroundings, like the dude who walked right into my darts game at Billymarks while chatting on his cellphone.
people who charge the elevator or subway w/o waiting for others to get off
people who don't talk. unless they're genuinely mute.
people who can't take a joke.
people who are PC
people who wrinkle their noses at things i hold dear but get horribly offended if i poo poo something they like (like my co-worker who wrinkled her nose at therapy and told our entire office how horrified she was that her exbf was on anti-depressants)
people who only drink at expensive bars
people who willingly get up early and don't nap later
cats
guys who use IM conversation or texting as a substitute for calling
umbrella drinks (see, it all comes back to umbrellas)

things that are important or i believe in or i think are awesome:

taking a dump at home when no one's there
keeping the same movie in your DVD player for weeks so you can have it on in the background while you're cooking, i.e. Best in Show or Anchorman or Old School. Esp Old School.
underwire bras
thong underwear
boyshorts
dive bars
cheap beer
good beer and seafood
red wine and a cigarette
italian food
sushi
pizza
a good turkey and swiss sammich
coffee. and more coffee.
the lazy brunch. and if it's at a place called sabrina's, so much the better
naps
kielbasa
lip balm. the kind in the blue circle tub.
jergen's tanning moisturizing lotion
dogs
oatmeal, the 5-minute kind
gravy
(you can put gravy on oatmeal. i don't recommend it)
arrested development
jason bateman
a long shower
a good pair of sneakers
the morning screw
the afternoon screw
mintyfresh breath
kathleen turner's voice

there's more but i'm hungry.

Is 29 the last year of hotness?

I'm not above watching "Scrubs" on a tuesday night after the gym and before Law and Order: SVU. So, last night, one of the characters, a 37-yr-old nurse, went to a doctor for a fertility test as she had tried to conceive several times without success. When the smoking hot doctor, age 25 maybe, asks her for her age, she swallows and says "29."

"Funny," hot doctor says. "I'm seeing a lot of 29-year-olds today," pointing to another character in another room who is also in her late 30s and lying.

As a 29-year-old rapidly approaching her 30th birthday and the beginning of lines forming about my eyes and mouth (i've had forehead ones since i was 15), I worry. I've gained a few pounds but I'm starting to lose them again, thank God. But, is this it for me? Is this the hottest I'm ever going to be for the rest of my life? I wasn't hot in high school. I wasn't hot in college. So, that's it? I had my early/mid/late 20s and now I'm done? That's completely unacceptable.

Christ.

A friend of mine pointed out a website where my fat ugly bald untalented smelly ex was referred to as a brooding genius not to be tamed by any woman. Oooooh, could I but comment on that foolish website. If they had only a glimpse of the backhair on that asshole. Yikes. Brooding, hardly. Does talking in a high-pitched baby voice in an unfunny way equal brooding? And the tamed bit. Please. More likely, he can't keep a girlfriend because he's too busy being a self-absorbed asshole who needs time with his female friends before taking time out for his "girlfriend." Oh, and have I mentioned that he's INSANE? And DOESN'T SHOWER? And has NASAL POLYPS that require the daily use of a NETI POT?

Bear with me.

Or I suppose it could be "bare with me." (hiyo!)

So, I'm reading this book: "The Loss That is Forever: The Lifelong Impact of the Early Death of a Mother or Father" (all of you know my mom died 15 yrs ago, when I was 14, yes? yes.) and some of it is pretty straight forward: anyone 18yrs old and younger doesn't really have the vocabulary or life experience to articulate what they're going through. As a result, they develop personal mythologies to help them deal with it as they grow into adults.

One of mine is pretty gosh-darn unhealthy. My dad was an overweight, inactive 2.5-pack-a-day smoker for 25 years. My mom was an avid water-drinker, bicyclist and registered nurse who, although she surely had a "mom's" physique, wasn't overweight per se. Who died of mysterious illness that was cancerous that was most likely ovarian?

Well, the person who had ovaries.

To this end, I've rationalized any number of my own unhealthy behaviors, i.e. smoking. Although I've never been a daily smoker (well, my first week of college, perhaps. when I first got drunk, first got high, etc), I can't begin to estimate the number of times I've thought to myself: "well, my dad smoked for years but my mom died young. you just never know."

My father shattered this personal mythology last year when he told me that my mom never saw an OBGYN after she had kids. I was dumbfounded.

"How? What? You're kidding."

"Never."

"How is that possible? She was a NURSE!"

"We were very private."

"Dad, there's private and there's ridiculous. Women are supposed to get checked out once a year after they're 18. It's a rule of being female."

"Well, we didn't do that."

"So, how do you know that her illness was ovarian cancer?"

"She had a lot of discomfort down there."

"And she still didn't see a gyno?"

"No."

Thus, my mythology shattered, my perception shifted. If what my dad is saying is true, my mom developed an illness that not only was preventable, but might have been utterly treatable once diagnosed, HAD IT BEEN DIAGNOSED. My mother's mysterous death somewhat demystified, my adult brain attempts to make sense of the senseless. When I was 14, Mom was dead and I treaded water from there. Now I'm 29, Mom's dead and I'm struggling to make sense of myself, my decisions, my choice of potential mates (theories abound) and to top it all off, I'm frustrated with my father and my dead mother for decisions they began making over 30 years ago.

Beauty and the Geek

So, Beauty and the Geek is a guilty pleasure of mine. The first season was a delight and the second season is quite good as well but I have some serious beefs with it:

1) The women aren't that hot
2) In addition to not being that hot, the women have high-pitched annoying voices. Only women who are smokin' hot (see beef #1) are allowed to have voices like that.
3) I don't understand why really beautiful women can't be portrayed as intelligent with lovely voices. (see beef#2_

In other words, why do these beautiful women have to be stupid? Couldn't they find smart, beautiful women anywhere? I guess the contrast wouldn't be as strong. And some of the geeks, while not hunky, are kinda cute in their own way. The one with curly hair and sideburns, for example. Not so bad. And none of them are fat, which is a plus.
http://thewb.warnerbros.com/batg/

You see the blonde? Tristan? Not that cute. Butterface if you ask me.

crap. I've drank so much water today that I can't stop peeing. It's in an effort to lose 10 lbs by March 1.

Beer thighs.

My fat roll hanging over my jeans is making me incredibly uncomfortable. After five days of eating healthily, working out, and drinking a lot more water, I'm still at the exact same weight. I tell myself it's cuz Aunt Flo is on the way, hence the enormous titties but it is frustrating.

In other news, I'm coming down with a wicked cold and I can't go home early because sick days and vacation days all fall under the umbrella of PTO: Paid Time Off and I don't want to lose a vacation day. Lame, no?

I'm reading this book, QBQ: The Question Behind the Question and it's all about asking the right questions in the workplace. Rather than: "why can't they do their job" . . or "why can't they give me proper instructions" or "why can't they be more communicative" . . you should ask things like
"How can I adapt to the changing world?"
"How can I contribute?"
"What can I do to solve the problem?"
'What can I do to develop myself?"

yet, today, bloated, irritable, fat, sick and lethargic, I want to tell everyone to go fuck themselves. exclamation point.