Copy....kat.

Hey, guys! Let's play fill-in-the-blank. Ready?
Okay, complete the following sentence.

This woman is...

a) Malibu Barbie
b) the illegitimate child of Pamela Anderson and a snake
c) what your mother has nightmares about when you tell her you're "bringing your new girlfriend home for Thanksgiving"
d) Chelsea, the infamous blog plagiarist
e) all of the above






... Shit. I made it too easy, didn't I.

Yes, that's right -- the mess above is Malibu Viper Nightmare Blog Stealer Chelsea, who made waves all over the internet yesterday when a bunch of people (including me) discovered en masse that she'd been copying their posts and attempting to pass them off as her own. It was incredible. Drama! Intrigue! The fabulous photo above! Which a person with more restraint would probably have not posted!

(Note to those who would chastise me for not displaying the aforementioned restraint: You must be kidding. Have you met me?)

Alas, her blog has since been deleted-- most likely by the Google Police. Her legacy, however, will live on forever.

The plagiarized bloggers were, by turns, understandably upset, inspired, and bemused. I, myself, experienced a range of emotions that started out with abject rage --

scene: My apartment, 8:00 am

Kat: (screaming and thrashing around at computer) What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!

...followed by several hours indulged in the concoction of elaborate revenge fantasies. My favorite was a reinterpretation of an early scene from Terminator, in which I imagined myself knocking on Chelsea's door, confirming her identity (Kat: Chelsea? -- Chelsea: (cautiously) Yes?), and then, with no further explanation, punching her in the mouth.

Ultimately, I landed somewhere in the land of bafflement.

scene: My apartment, 8:00 pm

Kat: (hand cupped to chin in thoughtful contemplation while puffing a meerschaum pipe) I am rather surprised that anyone would have the time, let alone the inclination, to put so much effort into an activity which is not only morally bankrupt, but yields neither money nor recognition for its perpetrator. Couldn't she have just taken up knitting?

Which seems like a good place to stop, especially in deference to the wishes of my mom (who has urged me to waste no time analyzing the indubitable emptiness of Chelsea the Plagiarizer's life, and just "have fun tossing the carcass around", which all adds up to further proof that my mom is both wise AND awesome). I can't even find the energy to be pissed off.

I could, however, find the energy to create this lovely tribute in MS Paint.



What can I say? I'm a creative soul.
And it's suddenly struck me that all of this, at base, is a really good excuse to go shopping.

The kids aren't alright

In case you hadn’t noticed, people these days are up in arms about the hypersexualization of America’s youth. You can’t open a newspaper or turn on the television without coming across yet another article about thongs for ten year-olds, or middle-school pimps, or a billion other examples of young’uns engaging in activities from which they’d be better off abstaining for the next several years.

Of course, everyone has their theories about why the kids are getting so over-sexed… but after a visit to K-Mart last weekend, I’m pretty sure I’ve found the ultimate culprit:

This is it! Sitting innocuously in the "impulse-buy" section just west of the checkout line! Here, before you, is the children’s book that is the insidious source of everything that’s wrong with America’s youth.

First, of course, there’s the title – Bathtime Peek-a-boo sounds an awful lot like a game for adults, a sort of waterlogged version of That’s-Not-The-Popcorn. And then there’s the yellow bathtub duck who, with his cajoling smile, seems to be saying, “Don’t be afraid, kids. You can trust Uncle Duckie. Uncle Duckie is awfully fond of you. And if you ever tell anyone what Uncle Duckie does when we play Bathtime Peek-a-boo, Uncle Duckie will be very upset and then UNCLE DUCKIE WILL KILL YOUR WHOLE FAMILY.”

And then, at last, there is the subtitle – which, in case you can’t quite make it out, is here in extreme close-up:

Yep, that’s right. According to this book, the ultimate in bathtime fun for children is something called “touch-and-feel and lift-the-flap”.

Let’s just consider that for a minute. I don’t think I even need to say anything. Lift-the-flap? Seriously???

I mean, I don’t know about you guys, but if someone tried to wander into my childhood bathroom and then, with wild abandon, start touching and feeling and lifting up fucking FLAPS, I’m pretty sure my father would have put a stop to that immediately, and Uncle Duckie would be selling his evil little bathtime experience from behind bars.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from buying the book – I’m a consenting adult, I can do whatever I want. (hey, Uncle Duckie… Peek-a-boo, you sexy motherfucker!)

What dreams may NOT come.

I know I'm not the first bride-to-be to suffer from nightmares. I know. I am totally unoriginal. In fact, if a quick trip around the blogosphere is any indication, becoming engaged is pretty much the quickest route to a stunning variety of bad dreams that involve everything from infidelity to wedding gown disasters. (For example.)

So no, I wasn't surprised when I started having nightmares. Particularly the ones about cheating -- they seem to be pretty standard fare for the betrothed. But I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to find that, in all my nightmares, I am the cheat-ER, rather than the cheat-EE.

Yeah, that's right. No playing the role of The Weeping Betrayed Woman for me! In my dreams, over the course of the past few months, I have had sex with an absolutely stunning array of people. I've had sex with my co-workers (one of whom doesn't even like girls), my friends (some of whom are girls), my next-door neighbor (who looks a bit like a girl, but more to the point is not remotely attractive to me). I've had sex with the least and most fondly-remembered of my college boyfriends. I even nailed the valedictorian of my little brother's high school graduating class.

Weird? Um, yeah. Also, unpleasant: every time it happens, I wake with a jolt and spend agonizing minutes trying to figure out how to tell Brad that I cheated on him with a 19 year-old before realizing, with indescribable relief, that I didn't actually do that.

Still, I could have handled it -- they are only dreams, after all, and I'm no wuss -- until last night, when my subconscious threw me a curve that I simply cannot abide.

Dear Brain,
If you are currently planning tonight's R.E.M. Revue, please do me a favor and leave Skeet Ulrich out of the sexual lineup.

A GIRL CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH.

And then I knew it was time to lay off the green beer.

In spite of my immense fondness for this kelly-green hat, I'm not the biggest fan of St. Patrick's Day. Mostly, it's because my birthday happens to be the day before. (That's right -- if you wanted to buy me a pony, you missed your chance. But there's always next year.)

People always point to Christmastime as the primo season for unlucky birthdays. And that makes sense. But being born on or around St. Patrick's Day has to be a close second, for the simple reason that its status as a nationwide drinking holiday totally eclipses whatever piddling little celebration you might have planned to commemorate your entrance into the world.

I can actually pinpoint the moment when I realized that my own was badly-timed.

Kat: So it's my birthday next week, want to go to a bar with me?

Kat's friend: Oh, well...

Kat: What?

Kat's friend: Isn't St. Patrick's Day the day after?

Kat: Yes, but--

Kat's friend: Well, I mean, I'm gonna really get hammered on St. Patrick's Day, so I have to take it easy the night before. But if you come out on St. Patrick's Day, I'll buy you a drink.

Kat: But... but... St. Patrick's Day isn't my birthday.

Kat's friend: (blank stare) So?

Kat: You asshole! You're NOT EVEN IRISH!


Since then, of course, I've tried to limit my circle of friends to people with an impassioned hatred of all things Celtic. (British nationalists, call me!)

But sometimes, spurred on by promises of free belated-birthday drinks, I would still venture out on St. Patty's Day to take small part in the festivities; for the last three years I've made my way to some bar or another -- always one of NYC's ubiquitous "Irish" pubs -- and spent the evening in the company of a billion other people, all basking in the opportunity to drink themselves silly for no particular reason except that it was mid-March.

It was always pretty uneventful.
Until last year.

The bar was on 2nd Avenue -- it was one of the St. Pat's-specific party spots where all the tables and chairs had been stowed away somewhere such that the whole place was packed, every square inch, with standing human beings. The only thing louder than the shrieks of the inebriated was the booming sound of Sting being pumped through a loudspeaker somewhere. I grabbed a beer and threw myself into the fray.

I had battled my way into the center of the room and was standing next to a friend, when the person in front of me stepped aside and I saw something that made my jaw drop.

A tiny figure, standing uncertainly in the mist of a hundred drunken adults.

There was a child in the bar.

"What the fuck?!" I yelled.
My friend turned toward me and raised her eyebrows.
"There's a kid in here!" I gesticulated at the spot where the child had been, but the person in front of me had moved again, blocking the view.
"A what?" said my friend.

I squinted in the dim light, trying to catch sight of the kid. I was furious. It's bad enough that people are busy wheeling strollers into bars (I'm sorry, Park Slope parents, the madness must stop), but this was beyond ridiculous. An Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day was no place for a kid -- hell, it was dangerous.

I was determined to find whoever had brought the little one and give them a piece of my mind.

A moment later, the person in front of me moved again. Sure enough, there he was -- a little kid, his back to me, hovering precariously amongst the long legs of several tall guys in soccer jerseys. I charged forward, blood boiling, ready to do my civic duty. My plan was to clap a hand on his shoulder and yell, with all the outrage I could muster, "Where's your mother, god damnit?"

I was almost there, fingers outstretched, when the child suddenly turned around.

I stopped short.

We looked at each other, and with a dawning horror, I was forced to admit to myself that I would not be doing any good deeds on behalf of The Children today. Because the child I had so stridently run toward was not a child at all, but a 30-something male midget.

And as for St. Patrick's Day... well, yeah, after this, I'd say the bloom is pretty much off the rose on that one.

Puerto Rico, you lovely island.

It was lovely, of course.

Lovely...

Lovely...

LOVELY.

But apart from the loveliness, the tropical drinks, and the crystal clear waters, beach vacations always serve another purpose for me — one that exists completely independently of having some good old-fashioned Fun In The Sun.

Namely, bikini pictures.

That’s right. Beach vacations mean the opportunity, nay, the imperative, to take bikini pictures. Really, it’s a requirement; if I am wearing a bathing suit, I cannot rest until someone has captured me on film.

It’s not that I look all that great in a bikini. (Seriously, this, which caused such an uproar ‘round the internet a few months ago, is a pretty close approximation – minus the awesome ta-tas, which I totally missed out on.) But no matter how fervently I wish my body would just improve, already, the fact remains that this – big hips, ass dimples, cheese thighs and all – is, in all probability, the best that it’s gonna get.

And it aint gettin’ any fresher, either.

So documentation is necessary. Then one day, when all my parts are in various states of decay and descending slowly floor-ward, I can whip out one of these photographs and point to it, saying, “Look, kids! Weren’t mommy’s tits perky?" (Ah, there -- you see? This isn’t about me at all! I’m doing it for the children.)

Thus whenever I find myself bikini-clad and in the same general vicinity as a camera, I get a little bit agitated. Which is to say that I act like a fucking lunatic – sauntering around in a vaguely action-shot-cum-In-Touch-magazine kind of way, and then punctuating the sauntering with sudden abrupt stops during which I pose awkwardly and/or flip my hair around, all while shrieking, “Take my picture!” at a volume that causes seagulls to startle and take flight.

In the past, of course, I usually avoided doing this to anyone but my closest girlfriends – the ones who I know will love me no matter how neurotic I am. But in Puerto Rico, with Brad and the digital camera close at hand, I decided that it was time to let it all hang out.

“I’m going to frolic on the beach!” I shouted, leaping out of my chair and running headlong toward the ocean. “You have to take my picture whilst I frolic!”

“Uh… okay,” said Brad, gamely aiming the camera at me as I skipped up and down by the water. I ran around for awhile, twirling this way and that – if you’re going to do this, you have to make sure to get all the angles – and then sauntered back up to where he was sitting.

“That’s it?” he asked, looking amused.

“For now, I guess,” I said, settling into the chair next to him and brushing sand from my feet.

He patted my arm lovingly and said, “Alright, I’m going to get a beer,” as though it were totally natural to be beering up at 10:00am, and not at all that my weird bikini-pic fixation was driving him to drink. Because, readers, he is so very understanding.

Which is a good thing, because – although he did try, he really did – Brad is not much of a photographer.

And whereas I had, in my mind’s eye, been anticipating a photo set that was practically indistinguishable from this lovely shot of Brigitte Bardot frolicking on the beach in Cannes, in reality I found myself stampeding onto our hotel room’s deck with camera in hand, waving it about like a weapon and shouting, “IS THIS WHAT MY THIGH REALLY LOOKS LIKE?! IS IT?!!!”

* * *

And thus a valuable lesson was learned about the many negative points of being a narcissistic asshole. I think I’ll give the bikini picture thing a rest for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Okay, but guys, seriously? This is a photograph of me, frolicking.

And I'm sorry, but this cannot be my thigh.

Lance Armstrong, wherever you are, please come get your thigh back – I have somehow stolen it. Thank you.

Stab, stab, stab.

I'm back! And at some point there will be a Puerto Rico post, but of course, dahhhhhling.

Oh... but first, there will be this.

Because I got back from vacation, and what did I find? Apart from the fact that some leftover mac'n'cheese that I unthinkingly left in my refrigerator now appears to be wearing a sweater... my ex-boyfriend is suddenly engaged.

And hoo, boy, am I pissed off.

It's not for the reason you might think. Sure, this guy was my first New York romance, and granted, he did break my heart whilst using me quite unceremoniously as a stepping stone toward getting over his ex-girlfriend, and yes, this all happened in spite of the fact that he was nearly 10 years older than me. Which is clearly a major violation of the "campsite rule" in age-discrepant dating: you're supposed to leave that pristine young campsite as un-fucked-up as it was when you found it, if not in better condition overall. You aren't supposed to trample all over the campsite such that it spends several evenings in a row doing so much pitiful weeping that it runs out of Kleenex and is forced to blow its nose on the cat.

Not that the campsite ever did that.

But anyway, the source of my rage is wholly unrelated to the exboyfriend's becoming engaged to his new girlfriend (you know, the one who never had to deal with any of his neurosis or bad behavior because he'd used it all up on someone else blah blah blah) after not abiding by the campsite rule.

No, the source of my rage is this fucking other guy named... well, no, I can't say. So instead of using his name, let's just call him Slug Pecker, because we can.


Slug Pecker is a mutual friend of both myself and my soon-to-be-wed exboyfriend. I'm sure that every girl has a Slug Pecker in her life -- he's one of these guy friends who might want to sleep with you, but in lieu of mentioning it, he gives you a lot of hugs and head pats, and sometimes tries to drunkenly make out with you, and fixes you with those long, smiley looks that are possibly an indication of lust, but just as possibly an indication of wanting a hamburger.

The male mind is a non-specific thing, after all.

So, despite my suspicions that Slug Pecker wanted to get in my pants, and even though he made a big show of giving Brad the stink-eye on the rare occasions that they met, I always thought we were friends. It had been several years, after all -- as such, I assumed that whenever I did find someone to settle down with, Slug Pecker would just smile and nod and hide whatever miniscule twinge of regret he felt at having never plundered my maidenhood underneath his appreciation that I had found the Great Love Of My Life. That's what friends do, right?

Well, guess what.

I did get engaged, of course, and Slug Pecker's reaction was notable... in its absence. That's right. He never said anything... until my exboyfriend sent out the news of his engagement, and then SP's reaction was one of unrestrained and exuberant joy.

I had thought, really, that Slug Pecker just wasn't the type to get excited about engagements. Period. It was nothing personal.

Now, as it turns out, it's just that -- oops! -- we aren't friends. Oh, my bad.

Apparently, Slug Pecker's bitterness over having never known the internal topography of my vagina is such that the mere existence of a ring on my finger -- an unequivocal sign that Brad has planted a little Flag Of Monogamous Ownership in my nether-regions -- means that we no longer have any relationship whatsoever. The possibility of boning, however slim, was all that kept the friendship alive for him.

Sigh.

I'm not the type to go banging down my not-anymore-friend's door with demands of reconciliation, explanation, whatever. (Although I am, apparently, the type to rant about him for a good thousand words that I then post publicly on the internet... so you can take whatever you want from that.) Still, it gives me a modicum of pleasure to write the following:

Dear Slug Pecker,
Fiance or no, I would never have allowed you to so much as stand on the Veranda of My Womanhood, much less hang out in the hallway, so eff off.

Also, you have a nosehair problem.

Love and kisses,
Kat

Match point

I’ve said this before: Looking for love is a difficult thing.

Looking for love in New York City is still more difficult.

But looking for love, in New York, on the internet? That, my friends, is the ne plus ultra of Difficult Dating.

It simply boggles the mind. Online Dating in New York is like a new species of animal, wholly unique in its ability to give rise to dates that are not just boring or unpleasant, but complete train wrecks of human interaction. Seriously, you guys, we’re talking some bad dates. Baaaaaad. These are dates that would make a grown man cry. Dates that cause post-traumatic stress disorder. Dates that are to the history of romance as Waterworld is to the cache of 1990s film. (That is: expensive and poorly-planned, featuring terrible dialogue and bad outfits and – sometimes –a guy who has semi-functional gills sprouting behind his ears.)

I had some truly terrible internet dates back in my internet-dating days, but my latest insight into all of this nuttiness comes from my dear friend Mardie, who is currently braving the online dating jungle and returning like a war hero after each disastrous rendezvous to regale me with the latest story. Most of them are enough to make one’s hair curl. It puts me in a difficult situation, too – on the one hand, I fervently hope that one of Mardie’s suitors will eventually turn out to be fabulous boyfriend material who can give her the loving relationship she so richly deserves.

On the other hand, I’d hate to see the endless well of entertainment provided by her exploits on Match dot com suddenly dry up, because it is some funny shit. Mardie’s misadventures are like a virtual parade of unconscionably awful men, from some guy who spent the better part of their date drooling on the table to a 31 year-old virgin who still lived in Westchester with his parents because he was, quote, “afraid of the subway”.

And then, yesterday morning, I got this email:

From: Mardie
Sent: Wednesday, March 05, 2008 11:25 AM

To: Kat
Subject:

I went on a date last night with a guy who has Tourettes.

* * *

From: Kat
Sent: Wednesday, March 05, 2008 11:26 AM
To: Mardie
Subject: RE:

Oh my God! How was it?!!!

* * *

From: Mardie
Sent: Wednesday, March 05, 2008 11:30 AM
To: Kat
Subject: RE:

Total misery… he commented on my cleavage within the first five minutes, badmouthed his parents and bragged about how much he drank and smoked in college.

But that didn’t have anything to do with the Tourettes. He was just an asshole.

* * *

(By the way, if you’re anything like me, you are probably wondering -- since the guy in question was already something of a vulgar jerk -- if his Tourettes syndrome manifested itself in the opposite direction, i.e. uncontrollable shouts of “I love puppies!”)

(It didn’t.)

(Fun as that would have been.)

The punchline to all of this, of course, is that Mardie had been emailing extensively with her date in the weeks leading up to their meeting – messages in which it would have been easy and natural for a man to mention that he was unfortunately afflicted with a neurological disorder that caused him to noticeably twitch and stutter in between making inappropriate comments about his date’s breasts. That would be the adult, responsible thing to do, after all.

So of course, he didn’t.

This is by no means a unique occurrence. It’s happened to me, too; I once went on a date with a guy who looked, based on his photos and description, like a perfectly normal, nice-looking dude. But when I went to meet him at the appointed location, there was no normal, nice-looking dude there. Instead, there was a pear-shaped fellow (and I mean really pear-shaped, like a to-scale human representation of the actual fruit), at least two inches shorter than me (I’m five-foot-three, guys), who looked and talked just like Newman.

NEWMAN, GOD DAMNIT.

And that is why willful misrepresentations (or lies of omission so blatant that they are like a hard punch to the throat upon first meeting) are a scourge upon the face of internet dating.

There are the guys (and yes, I know girls do it too, but I have never dated any of those) who only post photos of themselves as they were 5 years ago – you know, before they gained 50 pounds and lost their hair. There are the ones who lie about where they live (with their parents!) and what they do for a living (rat-catching!). And there are the ones who, in spite of having a neurological tic that would bring the conversation to a grinding, screeching half for thirty seconds at a time, fail to say anything about it and then expect you not to notice.

Which is, at best, truly ridiculous. Because the thing about online dating is that the entire point – the whole purpose behind all that emailing and creating of profiles – is, eventually, to go on a date.

Which means that the other person is going to see you.

I mean, really…

…just…

…DUH.

As I write this, I can’t help feeling a little bit sorry that my life has become so dull that I no longer have any dating stories to post on my blog apart from those lived vicariously through friends.

But not that sorry. It is really fucking scary out there.

The road less travelled is paved with penile queries that even I sometimes cannot fathom.

It's time, once again, for an installment of Dear Googly! -- a delightful romp through the unusual search terms that bring visitors to pink india ink, and the only thing I've got that remotely approaches a recurring feature. (Unless you count "Room With A View Of A You-Know-What", and really, that was more like a serial.)

Dear Googly has been absent for the past few months, but is pleased to return just in time to announce that she is no longer surprised at the sheer volume of people who find their way here via search strings containing the word "penis". The shock has all worn off... although she does sometimes wonder whether this blog is really so unique in its use of said word, or, rather, whether people are simply more inclined to search for peens on the internet than for anything else.

In honor of this empowering realization, today we'll be lending our infinite expertise to a couple of penis-related queries from curious blokes around the world.


Why, indeed.

Ours is not to reason why, sir (if you are a man, as I suspect you must be). But I commend you for seeking the root of the problem -- most gentlemen would simply ask, "Do girls like a big penis?" and then, upon finding that YES, in general, a large penis is preferred, said genetlemen would proceed to jump for joy or to curse the bitter unfairness of life, depending upon the size of their junk.

So it's great, really, that you want to know why. There are so few like you, sir, who are diligent enough to seek out the logistics of large-penis-liking. I'd like to think that you're simply the inquisitive type, but reading between the lines of your search, I tend to suspect that you're seeking out information for the purpose of arguing against the preference for a big peen.

In which case, let me just tell you -- Forget it. You aren't going to change anyone's mind.


Now, our next question. This one is particularly perplexing in nature:



Dear Googly is speechless with wonder at what sort of circumstance could possibly necessitate searching for such a thing.

What the hell, sir? I can practically hear you now, protesting your innocence, saying, "It wasn't my fault! I was teaching kindergarten and it just slipped out!"

Well, nevermind. Dear Googly will refrain from leaping to any hasty conclusions about your accidental exposure of "the penis". (What's up with that, by the way? There is no need to designate the singularity of your penis -- most people only have one, you know.) But, given the nature of your query, I'm going to go ahead and suggest that you cancel your MySpace account and stay away from playgrounds until you can be sure that it won't happen again.

Love and hugs,

Googly

...and a little something extra, 'cause I love you.

alternate title -- My Saturday Nights Have Really Gone Downhill Lately

Scene: Our apartment, 10 pm. Brad is lying on the bed with the dog, watching television. Kat is staring with glazed eyes at the computer, playing yet another game of Scrabulous.

Suddenly, from the direction of the bed, comes a brief but fabric-rendingly loud burst of flatulence.

Kat: Hey! Brad! Gross!

Brad: It was the dog.

(5 minute pause)

Kat: (muttering) I know it wasn't the dog.

Brad: (defiant) You don't know anything.

(5 minute pause)

Kat: It is physically impossible for the dog to have made a sound like that.

Brad: He could have done it.

Kat: No, he couldn't.

Brad: Oh yeah, why not?

Kat: Because there was some major vibration going on there, and no matter what you say, the dog does not have ass cheeks.

(5 minute pause)

Brad: (muttering) You can't prove anything.

-scene-

Excuse me while I pump my fist in the air.

bridesmaids' dresses: $40
gloating sense of superiority: priceless


(Sorry. I had to.)

To make up for this moment of debased bitchery, here is a picture of a puppy.

(From Cute Overload, if anyone cares.)