The first time I ever saw your face, your face, your face...

One of the weird things about living in New York is that, in spite of its massive population, you tend to run into the same people over and over again.

I know it’s mostly ‘cause we’re creatures of habit – if you ride the same subway line at the same time of day, every day, you eventually start recognizing the regulars who share your schedule – but then, Murphy’s Law plays a part too. Last year, for example, I was riding the 2 train uptown with some girlfriends when one of them whispered, “There’s a cute guy staring at you from across the car.” I looked up, and indeed, there was a cute guy staring at me. Not only that, he was actually moving toward us. He squeezed past the other vacant-looking passengers, came to stand in front of me, smiled, and said, “Hey, you never returned my calls!”

At which point I realized that this was not some cute stranger, but a guy who I had slept with several months ago and decided not to call again because – in spite of his undeniably nice face – he suffered from B.O. so extreme that one whiff would have felled an entire herd of buffalo.

But after living here for awhile, having a random run-in with a guy with whom you once had sex isn't even the worst of it. The real problem is that there are just too many fucking people here – you see so many faces on a daily basis that it irreparably screws up your ability to recognize anyone by sight. Add to that the fact that everybody you have ever known in your entire life has a doppleganger living in New York – I can’t count the number of times that I’ve whirled around to double-take at a girl who looks just like someone I knew in high school (only to realize that, if she looks identical to someone I knew in 9th grade, then she cannot possibly be old enough to have actually been that person) – and eventually, you start to feel like every person – on the street, in the subway, sitting next to you at restaurants – is someone that you’ve seen somewhere before.

So it was that I found myself staring intently at a man who I passed in the street yesterday. He was middle-aged, Asian, round-faced and a bit balding, and he had that unfortunate dental affliction wherein all the teeth are crowded at center as though they’d rushed up there in an attempt to leap out and escape. All in all, a pretty unforgettable face… and I was convinced that I knew him from somewhere. But where?

I racked my brain. I knew him, I was sure of it. If only I could remember!

And then I realized that I had, indeed, seen his face before.

He was a dead ringer for Mickey Rooney in his ridiculously un-PC role as the Japanese neighbor in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Missa Go-right-ry! MISSA GORIGHREEEEEE!

I’m not sure what's more bizarre – that my brain has become so addled that it no longer recognizes the difference between “people I’ve met” and “racist characters from mid-century cinema”... or that a person who looks just like Mickey Rooney in yellow-face actually exists.

bloody hell

For the past few months, I’d been seeing references to some sort of chocolate dessert thing that was rising to stardom courtesy of the blogosphere. My interest was piqued, of course – I mean, I like sugar. Nuff said. And then, purely by accident, I happened upon the recipe.

So when I found myself home alone last night, I decided to give it a try.

Before I continue, I should get something out of the way: the dessert, probably because it is 1) chocolate and 2) tasty, is called “Chocolate Yummies”. Not to be contrary, but there will be none of that here. I already hate the word “yummy”. It suffers from the same overwrought, repulsive cutesy-ness that has given rise to emetic characters like Snuggles the Cooing Laundry Bear. And seeing it pluralized – as though it were some kind of fucking noun – well, I just can’t take it.

So with that point in mind, I made the Chocolate Thing. It was actually pretty easy, and everything was going swimmingly, until I went to take it out of the fridge and discovered that the casserole dish I’d used to bake it in had cracked and shattered into several pieces.

I realize now that I could have predicted this. I mean, I’ve seen Alien 3 – I know what happens when something super-heated is suddenly exposed to extreme cold. The only difference between the alien and my casserole dish is that my casserole dish didn’t lay eggs in my chest before it died.

Fuck, I thought. I really liked that casserole dish.

And then, in what can only be described as a moment of suicidal idealism: Maybe it can be saved!

Which is how, after cutting the Chocolate Thing into bars and popping them all into tupperware, I found myself brushing its crumbs from the casserole dish in the hopes that I’d be able to glue the clean pieces back together.

Also, how I found myself spraying blood all over the kitchen after making too generous a sweep over a jagged piece of dish.

I immediately screamed and commenced leaping around the kitchen in pain. My finger was spouting an unholy amount of blood. I buried the wound in a dishtowel and applied pressure – just like they teach you in boy scouts – swearing violently the whole time and cursing my stupid inclinations to bake in the first place.

After awhile I peeled the dishtowel off my finger to look at the cut, figuring that five minutes of hard pressure would have stopped the bleeding.

It hadn’t.

More to the point, there was no cut. I squinted at my gushing finger, trying to find the wound, before I realized that I wasn’t looking at a cut. Instead, I was staring into the hole where a significant portion of my finger should have been but, somehow, wasn’t.

“AAAAAAAAGH!”

I ran screaming into the bedroom, clutching the towel to my finger again, flipped open my cellphone with my teeth, and used a toe to call my parents.

My dad answered.

“Hello?”

“Daaaaaad!” I yelled.

“Hi,” he said.

My mother, who had picked up the extension and whose power of intuition is slightly more advanced than my father’s, simultaneously said, “What’s wrong?”

“I cut off a piece of my finger!”

“Oh, no!” said my mom.

“Gross!” said my dad, who – lest anyone has forgotten – is a doctor. “How’d you do that?”

I rambled incoherently for a few minutes about chocolate desserts, blogs, and Alien 3.

“I see,” said my dad. I don’t think he was really taking the journey with me.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” I sniffed. “What do I do?”

“Are you putting pressure on it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a band-aid?”

I looked down at my hand. Rivulets of blood were rolling down my finger, pooling around my knuckles and clogging around the band of my engagement ring. The whole thing looked uncomfortably like the cover art from a V.C. Andrews novel.

“I don’t think a band-aid is going to do the trick right now,” I said.

“Did you say that you cut off a piece of your finger?” my dad asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Do you still have it?”

“What?!”

“Do you still have the piece of your finger?”

“What the… why? What good will it do?”

“Oh,” he said, with total sincerity, “If you can find it, you should try to stick it back on.”

I sat dumbfounded for a minute. Stick it back on? Would my finger regenerate, starfish-like?

Then I panicked.

“Wait. You mean it won’t grow back on its own?”

“Well, I mean, it’ll heal over…” my dad said.

“But it won’t grow back?”

“Well—“

“What about my fingerprints, will they look the same? Will my fingerprint grow back?”

“Well, I mean—“

“What if I can’t find the piece?!” I cried. I had a sudden vision of the dog, who had been sniffing around the various bloodstains on the floor of the kitchen with great interest, finding the tip of my finger on the floor and promptly eating it.

There was a pause.

“I don’t really know about the fingerprint thing,” said my dad.

“What kind of doctor are you?” I shrieked.

My mother started cackling.

My dad said, “Whatever, I’m not a forensic pathologist.”

“Jesus Christ!!!"

There was another pause.

“This sucks,” I said, finally. “It’s my left-hand ring finger, too. I mean… this is a very significant finger.”

My mother stopped laughing.

“Well,” she said, “if your fingerprint doesn’t grow back, maybe you could use that finger to commit crimes.”

* * *

All told, I’m pleased to report that I actually did find and reattach (sort of) the piece of my finger, wrapped the whole thing in a few-hundred band-aids, and went to sleep after sending Brad a text message in an attempt to forewarn him about what he’d be coming home to. (It said, “I had an accident. Don’t be freaked out by all the blood.”)

And it doesn’t even really hurt that much.

But I am never baking again.

Update for all those who asked and/or expressed concern: I'm fine, really. And the chocolate Thing (which was already out of the pan and into tupperware containers by the time I mangled myself) was really freakin' good -- I highly recommend that you make your own.

Just not in a glass dish.

The rich are different, but we are awesome.

Around noon today. I received an email from Brad. It read, “I have the greatest early birthday present EVER for you.”

“OOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!” I wrote back. “What IS IT?!!!!!”

A second later, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

It was him.

“What are you doing March 7^th through 10^th?”

I thought for a minute. What was March 7^th? I attempted some quick addition and decided it must be a Tuesday.

“Uh, working?” I said, hazarding a guess. What did this have to do with my birthday? What kind of birthday gift could possibly last from March seventh-thru-tenth? If this gift turns out to be a 4-day trial package of Cinemax, I thought, I am going to return the unused portion of this relationship for a refund.

“Nuh-uh,” said Brad. My email chimed a second time, and there, in my inbox, was a link. I clicked it, took one look, and squealed.

Not that I’m gloating or anything, but my boyfriend is taking me to Puerto Rico for my birthday.

This is, hands down, the greatest present I have ever received. Jetting off to a tropical island for the weekend? Could we get anymore posh? "Oh, I’m so sorry, darling, I hated to miss your little apartment party… but I was in San-fucking-Juan, in my bi-fucking-kini. I’m off to Milan, but call me, will you, daaaaaaaarling?"

This – this hopping on planes and flying to warm, beachy places for a 48-hour stretch – has always struck me as the sort of thing that rich people do for fun. (When they aren’t buying Birkin handbags or dying their sheep funny colors for a Vogue photo shoot.)

Which makes the fact that we’re doing it that much funnier, because Brad and I are not rich. Rather, we’re sort of impoverished.

Not that we mind – we're young and in love and it feels very Intrepid New York to subsist mostly on grilled cheese, Goya rice mix and $10 bottles of red wine – but it still means that air travel tends to be somewhat… out of reach.

So when it truly hit home that we were Going On Vacation, I confess that things got a bit out of hand. I suddenly felt different, felt like the kind of girl who jet-sets off to exotic locales at the drop of a hat, felt utterly untouchable. Hell, I felt rich! I felt so rich that—in spite of the fact that only this morning I had packed leftover cabbage for lunch in an effort to save money—I immediately threw on my coat, dashed out of the office, and, buoyed by an ineffable tide of illusory wealth, bought a bag of cookies.

I ate all of them.

I no longer feel rich – my bank account balance, post-cookies, is 38 dollars and fifteen cents. I do, however, feel a little bit ill.

In defense of the indefensible

Salon tossed out this little tidbit of an article a few days ago – the unvarnished truth about love and email. Based on a recent survey, men are twice as likely as women to have a secret email account, while women are about one-third more likely to admit email snooping.

(Oddly, in spite of the fact that one of those statistics shows a much more obvious discrepancy than the other, the headline of the article is “Ladies, don't snoop in people's e-mail”, with no mention of the fact that – with that many dudes keeping secret email accounts – there might be a reason for all that pokin’ around.)

Jezebel posted a link to this back on Valentine’s Day, and the comments section erupted with outrage, shock and moralist platitudes galore about the repulsiveness of snooping – that it’s bad, wrong, a hideous betrayal, and shows unequivocally that your relationship is a sham. That suspicion should be confronted head-on, like an adult. And that you, the snooper, are a nosy shit who deserves no pity.

But then, there were also a few like this:

“When I had suspicions that my ex was cheating on me, I put on my big girl pants and asked him flat out. He very persuasively said "NO! I would never do that to you!" A few weeks later he left his gmail open on my computer and lo and behold, an email from another woman that was less that subtle about having sex w/my ex.

I agree that snooping is not awesome, but what do you w/the lying bastards in your life!?”

And there, as they say, is the rub.

This is where I confess (because what would one of these posts be without embarrassing self-revelation?) that I, too, am guilty of snooping. Not with Brad (although he sometimes leaves his email open on the computer, and I must confess that I have noted with alarm the sheer volume of messages that appear to be either from J. Crew or the Republican Party), but with a former boyfriend. And just like the aforementioned commenter, I had the point-blank, “Are you doing this” conversation. And I also received the unbelievably convincing, “I would never do that to you!” response, complete with real tears. And, of course – after months of wondering if I was going insane – I also snooped in said boyfriend’s email and found that he had not only been doing… well, icky things, but that he had been doing icky things and lying about it for the entirety of our 8-month relationship.

Complete with secret email account.

(The bastard.)

But this post isn’t about him. Rather, it’s about the Rules of Engagement. Because as much as I advocate the grown-up approach, honesty and direct discussion, what do you do when the other person isn’t playing by the same rules?

Some people, men and women alike, are utterly convincing liars. And if you’re unlucky enough to love one, some of them will happily use it against you to keep on doing… well, whatever hurtful thing it is to which they feel oh-so-entitled. Some of them will try to convince you that it’s not them, but you – your crazy relationship issues – that are creating the rift. “How can we be together if you won’t have faith in me?” they’ll say, looking genuinely hurt. And you, not realizing you’re being gaslighted, wonder when you became such an untrusting freak.

The truly self-aware would recognize that sort of manipulation and flee. But for the rest of us – the ones who’ve made enough bad romantic choices to question the trustworthiness of our own guts – what then? It seems that we’re left with no choice but to draw our own lines in the sand. I know where mine is, having once found myself on the other side of it. And whatever the advice columnists and moral scolds say about invading privacy and the preciousness of trust, I’m not sorry. Suck on that, Salon – turns out I’d rather confirm my sanity than preserve my integrity.

Though I like to think there’s a point at which the two are no longer mutually exclusive.

small successes

My career path, such as it is, has always been something of a disappointment. It was never even really a path, per se, since paths by definition are supposed to lead somewhere -- the land of Oz, the estate of Manderley, the magical world of Job Satisfaction. My path was more like a poorly-lit circle of moldy, poisonous toadstools that all faced into the same sad little Clearing of Ultimate Disgruntlement.

But now, six months after I quit my awful job (in which I could actually feel my soul being sucked out on a daily basis) to become a writer, though I haven't found job nirvana, I do have this:

Interiors magazine, February issue.

(My first ever published article is on page 56.)

Champagne cocktails for everyone!

valentarded

After yesterday's menstrual confessions, I’m moving on to more middle-of-the-road fare. Next stop: Pastels.

This is, after all, that sort of day-- the one day of the year where people forget all notions of intellectual stimuli or dignified love, opting instead to wander the streets in a sugar-heart-and-Whitmans-sampler-induced fugue state, clutching white polyester-furred teddy bears inscribed with such insipid phrases as, "I can't BEAR to be without you".

If Jane Austen or Anais Nin could see the mass-produced schlock that passes for romance these days, I'm pretty sure they would vomit on their shoes.

So instead of doing that, let's do this (this which, as of yesterday evening, is the most expensive Russian objet d’art ever sold at auction):

Thank you, Christie’s, for the lovely photograph.

I am posting this because, like Valentine’s Day, this faberge egg is overwrought, screamingly pink, and serves no useful purpose whatsoever. And yet, its self-conscious, candy-colored prettiness fills my frilly little heart with longing in a way that heart-patterned-boxer-clad bears do not.

I also like the chicken on top whose mouth appears to be open in delighted surprise as though it were saying, “Hell yeah, motherfuckers! I laid this!!!”

Happy Valentines Day, dear readers, and may it bring you a lay just as fabulous as this gilded bird's.

xoxo,
Kat

The curse

I finally saw Superbad a few weeks ago. I know, I know, I’m really late to the party. I only mention it now, because at some point – somewhere in between feeling nostalgic for high school sex and drunkenly shrieking “McLovin!!!” at top volume – I couldn’t help noticing something.

Something I hesitate to mention, since it’ll probably send the few male readers I have running for the hills at top speed.

And yet, I must.

What is up, seriously, with the intense male phobia of All Things Menstrual?

(…guys? Guys! Hey, come back!)

Ok, but really? I’m wondering. See, there’s this part of Superbad – which most of you have undoubtedly seen – where the Fat Kid Protagonist dances with a hot girl at a party... only to later discover that she’s left a little, er, crimson souvenir on his leg. And what happens then? Well, of course, he FREAKS THE FUCK OUT. For fifteen minutes.

Which is, to me, a just a little, teensy bit ridiculous. But it's also based in reality. Fear of Teh Menstruation has become a sort of accepted social norm for, like, every guy ever. And watching the scene play out, I started thinking about all the gentlemen I’ve known who flip at the mere mention of periods. Guys who would, in the aforementioned scene, probably have coped with the presence of lady-leavings on their pristine white thighs by setting themselves on fire.

Take, for instance, my college boyfriend -- who screamed and hurled his glass of water against the wall when my roommate jokingly dropped a tampon (a clean one, ok, we weren’t that sick) into it. Or the group of guys I hung out with my freshman year, all of whom purchased matching t-shirts that said, “I Don’t Trust Anything That Bleeds For Five Days And Doesn’t Die”.

Even Brad, who I’m proud to say is one of those rare men who will uncomplainingly buy tampons if I ask him to, doesn’t like to talk about my “period”. (He calls it Aunt Flo.)

All told, there seems to be a serious phobia amongst menfolk of what Alicia Silverstone so fabulously referred to in Clueless as “Surfing The Crimson Wave”.

Which I don't really understand, because -- I might as well just throw this out there -- I got my period on a dude once.

And, contrary to what you might expect, he did not die.

It was just a random accident; I went on my fifth date with a hot architect, we went back to his place, we had [a cup of tea – really, Mom and Dad! Tea! Ha, ha!], and fell asleep. And the next morning, the hot architect asked me for a massage. Which, of course, I happily climbed onto his back to give.

Only to discover, when I moved after ten minutes or so, that my Aunt Flo had decided to pay me an unexpected visit all over the hot architect’s boxer shorts.

And yes, it was really embarrassing. I high-tailed it out of there like I was on fire (instead of just bleeding profusely from the vagina), spent a good part of the day recalling the look on the hot architect’s face when he saw the spot I’d left on him, felt utterly mortified all over again, and then finally called and told the whole sordid story to my mom.

Whose response, I will never forget, was, “Well, at least you didn’t pee on him!”

But my point is, it wasn't the end of the world. Eventually, the embarrassment faded. And even though the hot architect ended our dating relationship a few weeks later (Him: I’m just don’t think I want to be with anyone right now. Me: Is this because I menstruated on you?) it was not the screaming tragedy that Seth Rogen would have you think it is.

And all told, I wonder if it's asking too much for gentlemen -- particularly those who are old enough to be having sex -- to just relax already with the period phobia. (To use a metaphor: if you want to go spelunking, you can hope that there aren't any bats in the cave. But if there are bats, you deal with it. Otherwise, you shouldn't be spelunking in the first place.)

What do you think, guys? Deal? Okay, great... now who wants a backrub?

All tied up in knots

Before I got engaged, I did not (you will be shocked to hear) spend any time on wedding websites. I had better things to do, you know? Important things. Things like, oh, I don’t know, pulling out my armpit hairs with a pair of tweezers.

(Um, by the way: I actually did do this once, and ladies, I do not recommend it. Not only is it ridiculously painful – way more painful than tweezing your eyebrows – but you develop a horrible stiff neck, pounding headache, and nauseau-inducing tunnel vision from all that close-focus staring at your armpit. You know, just FYI.)

Of course, now that I am engaged, I have officially popped my wedding website cherry. Yes, guys. I visited a wedding website. Even worse, I have become a member of said website, and even worse than that, it is not just any website, but the worst website. It is the grand poo-bah of wedding planners, the mother of all things taffeta, the all-high psychosis-inducing behemoth of the bridal internets…. yeah, I joined The Knot Dot Com.

(If I could, I would insert that pounding, “terrifying revelation” music here – you know, dun dun DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNN!)

Granted, I only joined because they make you do it. Did you know? You are not allowed to enter the hallowed halls of The Knot Dot Com without providing evidence – in the form of your email address, fiance’s name, and wedding date – that you are a member of the bride-to-be elite. God forbid any nasty, wedding-curious single people infiltrate the sisterhood! But still, join I did, even against my better judgment. Largely, I did it because I was convinced that I needed access to all those planning tools and budget calculators and vendor databases, all the things that one needs to plan a wedding, all created by much more bridally-minded people than myself.

As it turns out, of course, these tools are worthless to me – having been created not just by, but for, people much more bridally-minded than myself. (Really. I quit my bridal budget plan in midstep after finding that it contained a field for “pre-wedding pampering” that I was not allowed to delete. Fuck you, The Knot Dot Com. The only pre-wedding pampering I want is a mid-afternoon appointment with a bottle of bourbon.)

But since I've already sold my soul to the knotty powers-that-be, I now use The Knot Dot Com for entertainment only – namely, cruising its editorial content and chuckling heartily at the slew of guides, galleries, and other ephemera that its writers are hurling at brides-to-be as they plan The Most Important Day In Their Lives Ever For All Time. The ideas range from borderline useful to totally unneccessary to utterly batshit insane. Some are cute. Some are ridiculous. And some are just, y'know, funny.

Like, for instance, The Knot Dot Com Guide to Writing Your Own Wedding Vows.

Just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding, I’m not knocking the idea of writing one’s own wedding vows. Variety is the spice of life, and people should be free to express their undying love for each other in their own words, and it’s nice of The Knot Dot Com to provide a useful template for drafting one’s wedding vows. It’s just that The Knot Dot Com Guide to Writing Your Own Wedding Vows isn’t really a guide, per se. A guide would provide jumping-off points, things to ponder, loose guidelines for the verbal expression of love. A guide would provide, in a word, guidance.

This is not a guide.

It’s a puke-worthy Mad Libs exercise from the champagne satin-ensconced bowels of hell.

Don't believe me? Well, here it is, the abridged version: The Knot Dot Com Mad Libs Guide to Writing Your Own Wedding Vows

(with useful examples)***

1. What did you think when you first saw him/her? Start from the beginning -- you didn't want to go out and now you’re grateful your friends dragged you out?

How to use: "When we met at ______, I knew ____."

(ex: "When we met at __the Russian Bath House_, I knew __that your buttocks were the same ones I had seen in my dreams_." )

2. What do you have now that you didn't have before you met? Focus on the heart and head, not material possessions. Has she taught you to appreciate beauty differently? Has he helped you learn to savor creating a home-cooked meal?

How to use: "Before I met you, I ____. Now I ________."

(ex: "Before I met you, I __was a virgin__. Now I __have herpes__.")

3. What do you miss most when you're apart? This will probably be something mundane but powerful; what about his smile first thing in the morning, or the way she puts out your "lucky mug" for your morning coffee?

How to use: "You are such a part of me that when you're gone, I ____."

(ex: "You are such a part of me that when you're gone, I __have horrific anal hemorrhaging__.")

4. What about him/her inspires you? What is it about your fiance that you'd like to improve in yourself? What do you most respect about your partner?

How to use: "Your ___________ has shown me how to be___________."

(ex: "Your __dad__ has shown me how to be __a better kisser_.")

5. What metaphor (or simile) would capture your love? Think of something that describes or defines your love: Is it strong like a castle? Peaceful like a mountain stream?

How to use: "Our love is like a ___________ because it ___________."

(ex: "Our love is like a __bag of tainted spinach__ because it _makes people puke_.")

6. Why are you entering the bond of marriage? Think about why marrying your fiance is so special. You may be surprised how the answer leads you to the perfect words.

How to use: "To me, marriage is ___________. With you, it's ___________."

(ex: "To me, marriage is __just a word__. With you, it's __a fucking experience, man___.")

7. What words do you associate with "love"? Make a list of romantic terms so you can avoid overusing "love" -- too many repetitions dilute its power.

How to use: "My devotion/adoration/ passion is ______."

(ex: "My devotion/adoration/ passion is __burning up my thighs in a most uncomfortable manner__.")

* * *

I’m sorry, The Knot Dot Com, but this little article of yours is like a live sheep in a tiger pit: begging for evisceration.

***Bridal Mad Libs are for everybody! Got your own suggestions? Leave ‘em in the comments.

Notes on coats

Around the time that temperatures here in good ol' NYC dropped into the sub-freezing zone, I decided to take stock of my winter outerwear. Because, being as walking is the preferred method of transportation in our fair metropolis, a girl simply must have a varied supply of attractive-yet-cozy coats in which to strut the city streets. A military-style canvas number for nights out on the lower east side, a slinky cashmere overcoat for walking down avenues Park, Madison and Lex, something that's the perfect combination of functional and fun for those daily commutes to work... the necessities are endless!

I'm at least marginally fashion-conscious, so I was sure that I'd find myself well-positioned to survive the winter in style.

Instead, it turns out that my cold weather-wear is like a case study in multiple personality disorder, and all of the personalities have serious issues.

Take this, for instance.

Is that Kat?
No-o-o-o-o...

... it's Nadia Bechyakakoff.

A spy for the Soviet Republic and one-time mistress of Leonid Brezhnev, Nadia has been at loose ends since the Cold War ended. Most of her time is spent shut indoors, where she reads George Orwell's 1984 obsessively and hides cans of soup in her pants.

In spite of a fervent desire to throw herself under a train, she's usually so drunk by 10am that she can't figure out how to work the doorknob.





While Nadia lays about clutching her vodka, a shadowy figure creeps through the dark corners of apartment 3L.

It's...

... Mackenzie Jammywaffles, Girl Detective!

The game is afoot, sir! Last seen uncovering clues to the whereabouts of her roommate's dime bag in The Case of the Pilfered Pot, Miss Jammywaffles has turned her attention to the homefront, where mysterious strands of blonde hair are taking over every corner of the apartment.

Great scott, Watson!

What sinister force is at work to create this hairy situation?! (ahahaaa.) Will Miss Jammywaffles crack the case?

Aha! The culprit was under our noses the whole time.

(Obligatory cute dog shot.)

And then, of course.... ewww, what's that smell coming from the boudoir? It's like a combination of Dior Perfume, Arbor Mist and latex condoms...

Oh, it's Prostie von Muppethunter.

The illegitimate child of Heidi Fleiss and Charlton Heston, Prostie's loveless and tormented upbringing ultimately manifested itself in her impassioned hatred of all things Jim Henson. A lesser-known muppet met his end at the hands of our friend Prostie, giving his life to furnish the collar for this, er, magnificent coat.

Miss von Muppethunter now divides her time between stalking the stars of Sesame Street (especially that little fuck, Elmo) and ministering sexually to the octogenarian whom she married for his money.




I'm not sure why, where most people would have a trifecta of useful coats -- coats for Work, Going Out, and Keeping Warm -- I ended up with coats for Tolstoy Role-Playing, Solving Mysteries, and Whoring.

It's fine and all... but if I end up having to attend a funeral before spring, I am totally fucked.

***

Epilogue

Brad: Hey Kat? Kat, are you here? (opens bedroom door to find Kat, wearing pink coat, heels and a negligee, frozen in mid-pose atop the dresser)
Kat: AAAAGH! I thought you were at Earl's!
Brad: Yeah, I was, but I wanted to come home and hang out with you.
(pause)
Brad: What are you doing?
Kat: Uh... blogging?

***

Update for the girls who asked: Nadia's coat was purchased at an upstate New York flea market for $3. (Please don't hate me.)

This must be one of those Mars-Venus things.

Scene: Saturday afternoon. Brad and Kat are lying on the bed with a bowl of guacamole, watching American Beauty.

Kat: Oooh, there's Wes Bentley. I've always had the biggest ladyboner for Wes Bentley.
Brad: Who?
Kat: You know, the guy who plays Ricky Fitz.
Brad: (studying television) That guy? That guy gives you a ladyboner?
Kat: Yeeeeah.
Brad: Is it bigger than the ladyboner you have for me?
Kat: Uh... no?
Brad: You were going to say that it is!
Kat: No I wasn't! I mean... It's a different kind of ladyboner. My ladyboner for you is born of mature, lustful, passionate love. My ladyboner for Wes Bentley is just teenage hormones.
Brad: (warily) Alright.
Kat: Like you and Jennifer Connelly.
Brad: I don't have a ladyboner for Jennifer Connelly.
Kat: How about a manlyboner?
Brad: What?
Kat: A regular boner.
Brad: No.
(pause)

Kat: Well, while we're talking about this, I guess I kind of have a ladyboner for Peter Gallagher too.
Brad: What? Come on!
Kat: Not his whole person, just his eyebrows.
Brad: ...He does have pretty thick eyebrows.
Kat: I'd like to sit on them.
Brad: You wanna go for an eyebrow ride?
Kat: Hell yes, I want to get on the Gallagher Brow Coaster.
Brad: Thats... great.
Kat: I'd sit on his forehead and then I'd let them tickle me.
Brad: Okay, I think that's enough.
Kat: I'd make him wiggle them.
Brad: Please stop.
Kat: And then I'd giggle and say, "Oh Peter Gallagher! Your eyebrows are so BIG!"
Brad: ...
Kat: Okay, okay, sorry.

(pause)

Brad: I don't think I can watch this anymore.

Call me!