If you've ever wanted to see me in action, now's your chance.

I have just returned from a long weekend in Charleston (which, for the record, is the reason for my lack of posting as of late.) I totally meant to throw up some sort of Gone-fishin’ entry indicating that I’d be away – really, I did! -- but such things require foresight, and when I am traveling, my modus operandi is not so much “foresightful planning” as it is “I am late to the airport because I accidentally sat on a strawberry”.

So, yeah, that happened. And of course I’ll be providing a recap of my trip sometime this week, which will include many pictures of houses, dire warnings about South Carolina Biting Bugs, and a brief debate about whether or not it is racist to name a black dog “Uncle Remus”. (Yes, really.)

So, that's that.
And now, this!

Are you bored? Listless? Driven mad by your lack of Saturday-night plans? ME TOO! But not this weekend, because I’ll be attending a city bloggers meetup with a number of very lovely people who I have never met. (How do I know they’re lovely, you ask? Actually, I don’t. I just love a good mystery!)

All of these bloggers are coming…

http://lemmonex.com/
http://speak-on-it.com/
http://idontliketoread.wordpress.com/
http://www.ihatesomuch.com/
http://survivingmyselfblog.com/
http://wordyninja.wordpress.com/
http://shenaniganist.wordpress.com/
http://www.livitluvit.com/
http://dmbdoesnotstandfordavematthewsband.blogspot.com/
http://ontheroadwithcavy.blogspot.com/

…and if you are a Blogger From New York (or, alternately, a Blogger Who Just Happens To Be In New York This Weekend), you are invited to join us. Please see below for FAQs about what is sure to be the funnest thing that anyone has ever done, ever.

Where and when is this fantastic event taking place?!
We’ll be at the Village Pourhouse starting at 9:30pm. Follow that link to find out where it is.

What should I wear?
Underwear, for sure. And... a hat. Yeah, a hat.

Can I have a beer with you?
Yes! But I’m not stopping at one, so you’d best keep up, grasshopper.

I don’t have a blog, but now that I know where you’re going to be on Saturday night, I’m going to come stalk you.
That, sir, is highly inadvisable.

Oh yeah?
Yeah, motherfucker. And if you try it, I will EAT YOUR FACE.

*******

Well, I think that about covers it! And I hope to see some of you darling blog-friends this weekend.

It's not oversharing if it keeps you from committing statutory rape.

A couple weeks ago, after putting it off for about 18 months longer than one is supposed to, I finally managed to get in for my yearly exam at the lady doctor. I always delay making this appointment, because… well, you don’t have to be a genius – or even a woman – to understand that it sucks to have a stranger rooting around in the darkest recesses of your vagina. With tools, no less. Tools! And that is why -- despite the fact that I knew my birth control was nearly gone – I still couldn’t get it together to schedule the stupid exam before my final pill pack clicked its way around to… empty.

Whoops.

See, the Pill and I have a long history; I’ve been on it since age 14. And I’m 27 now, which meant that, up until that moment when I ran out, I had officially been taking the pill for longer than I’d ever not taken it. I had made my way through high school, college, early adulthood and beyond without ever having experienced life sans oral contraceptives and their magical baby-battling properties.

Which, in my naïveté, somehow led me to think that there were no real differences between Life With Pill and Life Without Pill.

Even when my girlfriends talked about the side effects – weight gain, nausea, headaches, etc – I always privately thought they were just crazy and/or unlucky. And never did I think this more than when one of them revealed, after having just obtained her first prescription, that the pill had a serious depressive effect on her sex drive.

“It’s horrible,” she said. “I’m never, ever in the mood.”
“Oh God,” another friend chimed in, “That totally happens to me, too!”
There was a general chorus of agreement, while my jaw crept toward the floor, when suddenly someone said, “Kat, what about you?”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Er, I’m on the pill, but that doesn’t happen to me.”
“Really?” said the first girl. “It doesn’t affect your libido at all?”
“Nope!” I said. And then added, “I mean, if it does, I’d hate to see what I was like without it! Ha, ha!”
“Ha! Ha!” said everyone.

Ha, ha.
HA.

Unfortunately, having now spent a month un-medicated, it turns out that the pill does affect my libido. I just didn’t realize it, because I have wanted to Do It All The Time for as long as I can remember, and it never occurred to me that my sex drive was being artificially depressed by hormonal contraceptives. I mean, on a libido scale of 1 to 10, I was already at an 8.5. How much higher could it get?

And then I found out: without the pill, on a libido scale of 1 to 10, I am WILT CHAMBERLAIN WITH A VAGINA.

I have since realized – shortly after a moment in which I found myself staring at an 18 year-old boy on the subway and thinking, “I’d hit that! I’d hit that right now! I’d hit it TWICE!” – that being constantly in the mood is a lot less fun than it sounds... unless you are Wilt Chamberlain, I suppose, or some other equally troubled person who thinks it would be great fun to spend several hours every day trying to surreptitiously rub yourself on the furniture.
Not that I have done that.
Yet.

Fortunately, having gotten my new prescription and officially resumed Life With Pill, I think I can expect to return to a more reasonable state of mind within the next few weeks. Which will be a great relief to everyone, including the furniture.

But in the meantime, there is a high school baseball team having a practice outside my office… and I have to go and try not to think about how much I want to bone the second baseman.

TWICE.

Addendum: And watch your language, you fucking cockbiscuit assclown.

Because I understand that my sense of humor and/or situational irony is not shared by the world at large, I would like to offer the following as an update to my previous post:

If I respond to one of your comments by accusing you of being profane and insensitive, I am being disparaging.

If, however, I respond to one of your comments by accusing you of being profane and insensitive, and then I immediately follow up by calling you a "soup-taking, cock-gobbling, cracker-ass retard", I am being ironic.

PSA: Size matters and linkage.

As many of you have noticed, I have a new blog header. And, as one of you commented, it is “fucking huge”. (Listen, Unnecessarily Profane Person – around here, we refer to such things as “Headers of Size”, ok? Have a little sensitivity, you soup-taking, cock-gobbling, cracker-ass retard!)

So: I have attempted to resize the header so as not to cause problems for those of you with tiny internet browsers, but if it is still too big, feel free to let me know.

Or, alternately, quit being such a pussy and reach for the ‘maximize’ button.

This is the first of what I’m hoping will be several changes to the aesthetics of Pink India Ink, making it less a haphazard mishmash of elements and more a thoughtfully well-designed hub of internet creativity. Or at least, that is what I tell myself when I’m drunk and dreaming big, web-design-y dreams.

Anyway, one of the changes planned involves doing away with my blogroll sidebar – which I find aesthetically troublesome as well as difficult to maintain – in favor of a single page devoted to link love. The problem is, I haven’t updated my blogroll in so long that I have to start from scratch… and this is where you guys come in, as follows:

• If you would like to be linked, let me know.
• If you would not like to be linked, but would like to recommend a link-worthy blog, let me know.
• If (very important!) you have linked to Pink India Ink on your own site, and you’ve been wondering why its ungrateful bitch of an editor hasn’t seen fit to return the favor, tell me who you are immediately. I occasionally notice that somebody new is sending me traffic, but between my gnat-like attention span and my epic laziness, the chances of my actually doing anything about it are slim. But I will totally do better this time.

Any other suggestions are welcome, as always. Unless you’re one of those people who want me to post more, in which case, FORTHELOVEOFGOD I am only one woman. (Also, if you need more Kat-like prose, there’s always SparkNotes. They pay me over there, you know, which leads to much more regular posting.)

More to come, and warmest regards to all of you.

love and kisses,
Kat

P.S. Also, a big welcome to readers of New York Shitty, which so kindly linked to my previous post about dog pee. Hi, guys! Make yourselves at home! I hope you like penis jokes!

Save the planet. But first, the children.

I was walking the dog in our neighborhood park yesterday when I saw something mysterious: a small, rectangular object attached to one of the trees. A few feet later, I saw another one – and then, in the distance, another – and decided to investigate.

Apparently, the students from the elementary school across the street, probably in anticipation of Earth Day on April 22nd, have launched a public awareness campaign to protect our neighborhood green space. A campaign about what, you ask? See for yourself:


It was quite rainy, so my photograph isn’t the best, but hopefully you can get the gist of the thing; it’s a dog-shaped cutout, framed by the red circle-and-slash symbol indicating verboten-ness, with a handwritten line underneath it that says:
Dog Urine Kills Trees.

Ah, yes. New York, witness your tax dollars at work: empowering our young residents in their campaign against the terrible, life-altering environmental risks posed by pee.

Of course, I’m all for education and public awareness and environmental do-gooding. Yes, sir, I love the Earth! But I can’t help thinking that this particular initiative is a tad misdirected. Because... well, let me just show you.



See that little, light-colored spot about midway up the trunk of this big, big tree?
That’s the sign.

Now, far be it from me to quibble with the scientific consensus about dog pee and its murderous effects, but I’m pretty sure that allowing Hurley to squirt a few ounces of liquid gold on that trunk isn’t going to have an effect one way or another. Hell, I could probably aim a urine-filled fire hose at Mister Tree for… well, at least an hour, and still have him emerge from the experience unscathed. A little smelly, sure, but alive, you know?

So, to sum up: Dog urine may kill trees (and seriously, wild dogs are living and peeing in still-verdant forests all over the world, so even this is debatable), but it is certainly not going to kill this tree. Comethefuckon, guys.

Ordinarily I’d chalk this entire thing up to the naiveté of children and not take it as any particular referendum on the quality of Brooklyn’s schools, curriculum, or teachers… but that sign is awfully high off the ground.

Blah, blah, blah.

I am a tad hard up for material these days -- I keep waiting for Brad to get nearly-mugged again, or for one of my neighbors to show me his junk, but it just isn't happening. (Seriously, I haven't seen a stranger's wang in MONTHS! What has happened to my life?)

...So in the meantime, I thought I'd travel back in time to 2 weeks ago, after a difficult few days, when Brad and I escaped the city for a recuperative weekend upstate at my parents’ place.

Why recuperative, you ask? Because there’s nothing that'll make you forget your troubles faster than a couple days of country air, good food, and the guaranteed devolvement of your entire visit into Theatre-of-the-Absurd territory within 12 hours.

For instance.

Saturday, 8:00am
This, presented to Brad during breakfast.

I’m guessing that, in most families, a passing mention of your husband’s job-related frustrations would yield sort of… well, abstract results. A sympathetic reception, maybe, or a word or two of advice.

In mine, however, it gets you the Box of Respect.

Motivational flashcards? Check.
Desk statue in permanent kow-tow position? Yep.
Mother’s record of locating pitch-perfect gifts for totally bizarre situations? Undefeated.

Saturday, 11:00am…
With Brad’s self-image restored, Mom and I leave the men alone and set off for a day of bargain-hunting at Local Flea Markets Numbers 1 & 2. Purchased:

A casserole dish.

A necklace.


A belted dress with pockets, circa 1940.
For 2 dollars.

(Of note, and on display here: Vintage dresses include some sort of magic tailoring that, how you say, biggens your boobies. Seriously, look at those things!)

Not purchased: the 1930s Santa Claus costume which we found hanging creepily from a rafter in Flea Market #2. Apparently, generations past demanded that their Santa impersonators go the extra mile in dressing the part, eschewing the simple faux beards preferred by today’s Father Christmases in favor of a full-face Santa MASK – which was stuffed into a plastic bag and attached to the suit.

It was, frankly, terrifying.



I can’t help wondering when in history it was that social norms dictated the transition from “Santa With Hideous Plastic Mask” to “Grandfatherly Santa Whose Face Is Actually Made of Flesh.” (My guess: shortly after the tenth child in a row was put on Plastic Santa’s cushy red lap and started screaming uncontrollably.)

Saturday, 4:00pm…
With several hours of shopping out of the way and the scent of old furniture clinging to our clothes, we return home armed with our antique-y purchases, plus: three bags of potato chips, a pound of burger meat, and a large amount of beer – which my mother and I immediately start drinking. The men, not to be outdone, follow suit. I didn’t take any pictures of this. Fortunately.

Saturday, 8:00pm…
Brad and I are incoherently debating the existence of openly gay professional male athletes; my mother is busy searching for said athletes “on the Google” (Brad: "Did your mom just call it 'the Google'?!"); my father is gleefully shouting at no one in particular that he is not drunk because he could still stand up if he wanted to; and it seems like I might as well go to bed because we've all hit rock bottom.

One second later:
Mom: (looking up from laptop) Hey you guys? What’s a merkin?

...and scene.


I'm not sure how to wrap up today's post, except to say that if you're ever looking for an explanation as to why I am the way I am, this might be a good place to start.


Obligatory fact-disclosure:
Per my mother: “God damnit you two, I do not call it ‘the Google’! I just said it that ONE TIME!”

In which I brag shamelessly.

Let me start by saying that, as a general rule, I have always been seriously annoyed by women who use their blogs, facebook pages and Twitter status as platforms for public declaration of how awesome their husbands are. (If you’re one of these, I’m sorry… but really. REALLY.) There’s something so sad about the contingent of ladies who think that the most useful thing they can do with their little corner of the internet is to post photos of their uncomfortable-looking spouses accompanied by captions like, “Walter is the smartest man I know!” They are one step removed from the people who can’t help but shriek at you about the “amazing”, astronomically mundane accomplishments of their children, except worse, because I can at least understand that you might take pride in someone’s having learned not to eat crayons when the person in question made his way into the world through your vagina.

But Walter? No. If Walter wants to talk about how smart he is, let him start his own damn blog.

However:

Two nights ago, on the way home from the subway, Brad was accosted by a group of neighborhood youths. As is typical of these sorts of encounters, one of them threw an elbow in passing, Brad gave the elbow-thrower a Look, and within a few seconds my husband was surrounded by Dirtbag McFightyPants and his band of delinquent assholes, fielding demands that he hand over his wallet immediately or suffer an epic beatdown.

At which point the following exchange occurred:

Brad: You want my wallet? Well, you’re gonna be disappointed, because there’s no money in it. But if you want it, then why don’t you try to come and get it.

(McFightyPants began to raise his fists.)

Brad: And then, I’ll EAT YOUR FUCKING FACE.

(McFightyPants and friends flee.)



So okay, Brad may not be the smartest man in the world – as terrifying as the prospect of face-eating is, I’m not sure it’s a failsafe defense against being mugged – but seriously?

My husband is AWESOME.

Hypothetically, this might be a good time to upgrade your home theatre system.

Because I am still far too mature and dignified to blog about the idiosyncrasies of my job, I’d like to stress that I was HYPOTHETICALLY not thrilled when my boss turned to me last week and said, “I think you should attend our customer service meetings, so you know what’s going on with the products.”

As has been previously established, I do not do well in meetings. After five years of employment in a number of different industries and fields, I have reached a degree of peace with this fact. After all, I have plenty of marketable skills; I simply lack whatever it is that makes people capable of sitting in a conference room for an hour or more while maintaining perfect focus on the subject at hand and never allowing their minds to derail into the contemplation of other topics like, say, what sort of pubic hairstyles all their coworkers are sporting.

...Uh, hypothetically.

I admit nothing.

So I didn’t have high hopes for this morning’s meeting. At best, I figured, I would be able to concentrate on the first five minutes of proceedings and feign believable interest for the other 55. Irresponsible, yeah, but at least I know my own limits. Five minutes later, I had struggled my way through the preliminary discussion – about reorganizing the service system, analyzing the issues, and giving each problem a priority number of 1 (extremely fucking urgent) through 5 (eh, we’ll get around to it) – and was on the verge of mental checkout when the meeting manager turned to the first issue at hand.

“So,” he said, “This is an issue with product number TTF2298. As you can see, there have been four more reports of the unit’s battery overheating and becoming combustible. And as you all know, this is in addition to the five previous incidents of this type that we already knew about.”

Around the table, everyone nodded and made affirmative noises.

“So now,” the manager continued, “We’ll just need to assign a priority to this item.”
“Hmm,” everyone said.
“Is this a new product?” someone asked.
“No, we're not selling it anymore, but it’s in the field,” said the marketing manager.
“Ahh,” the person replied.

And then he said, “Okay, let’s make this priority level three.”



On one hand, I am pleasantly surprised to find that I am, in fact, capable of paying attention during meetings.

On the other, I now know that I am working for people who don't think it of particularly pressing importance that one of our products is spontaneously catching fire.

HOLYWTF! Jonas Brothers Arrested in Connection with Chainsaw Murders!

From the wire: The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s office has confirmed that Kevin, Nick, and Joe Jonas of the popular pop-rock band, The Jonas Brothers, were arrested early Wednesday morning. Charges have not yet been filed, but sources say that the trio has been implicated in a series of grisly murders that took place in the foothills of Southern California last night.

Palm Springs resident Lisa Polfor, in an interview with a local news crew, described the teen pop idols’ murderous rampage.

“At first, I only heard the chainsaw,” Polfor said. “Then I saw them – they came running out of the brush over there, waving the chainsaw around and screaming some kind of nonsense about kingdoms. My neighbor, Gunnar Hansen… he tried to stop them, and they just cut him down like a pine tree.”

Police confirm that Mr. Hansen, age 62, was among the five victims of the Jonas Brothers’ unexpected violence. The group had cultivated a family-friendly image which will likely suffer in the wake of their arrests.

Another local resident, Justin Kidd, witnessed the trio fleeing the scene. Kidd, 15, confessed to enjoying the group’s music and identified their homicidal shrieking as the lyrics to the recent hit, “A Little Bit Longer”.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said. “I used to listen to their music every single day. Now, every time I hear it, I just want to cry and hit things.”

In a brief statement, the Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca confirmed that the brothers were considered “persons of interest” in the murders, but gave only vague responses to questions as to which of the brothers may have masterminded the attack.

“The one with the eyebrows is of primary concern to us at the moment,” Baca said. “He looks sort of different from the other ones, and that's suspicious. So we’re paying extra close attention to him.”

***************************************************

Update: Yes, obviously, I am just kidding. April Fools and all. (Sorry guys, but it was either this, or telling my parents I was pregnant.)