Love letters.

When I was in high school, for about six months during my freshman year, a group of more-popular girls entertained themselves by slipping nasty notes into my locker every few weeks. Like a lot of the torture campaigns perpetrated by teenaged queen bees, the notes displayed an incredible range of creative unpleasantness – sometimes they were just one-word insults scrawled on scraps of paper, other times, detailed pen-and-ink cartoons that gleefully illustrated everything about me that was ugly, awkward, undesirable and wrong.

The experience of finding them, on the other hand, was always the same. I would open the door, I’d see the scrap of paper fluttering amiably atop my textbooks, and my stomach would tie itself into a tight, nauseous knot as I thought, dully, Oh.

That was a long time ago.

But the memory of it – and the accompanying dread, embarrassment, and punched-in-the-gut sensation – has been bouncing around inside my head since this weekend... when I got a comment from someone who compared my scattered thoughts on homesickness to “pictures taken by a 17 year-old who thinks she’s getting into photography” and accused me of “faking insight and emotional depth”.

Oh.

Let me be clear: I know that to write is to be criticized, and this is especially true here, where the anonymity and instant gratification of the web give everyone the chance to speak his mind uncensored. I also know that this is the risk that comes with having a well-trafficked blog, period. I left the door open, and although I’m still surprised that so many people have come in, I shouldn’t be shocked when some of you aren’t particularly friendly. I appreciate your feedback, and I read and consider all of it – not just when a post is funny or moving, but when I miss the mark with an argument, when I make a grammatical or factual error, when a story doesn't quite get there.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to appreciate a comment like this one – unhelpful, cutting, and left with no purpose except to hurt my feelings.

Which, make no mistake, it did. A lot. So congratulations, anonymous person: You have succeeded in making a complete stranger feel really, really bad.

Of course, the humor in this isn’t lost on me – that when I take a break from penis jokes and writing about my tits in favor of something less vulgar and more thoughtful, someone’s first reaction is that I must be faking it. As though it’s impossible that I could have a rich emotional, intellectual and artistic life, and still think that there are few things funnier than the word “weenis”. (Heh. Heh heh. HAHAHA.) But compared with the disturbance that comes from being unsolicitedly insulted, followed by the unsettling knowledge of what a very special kind of asshole this person must be… well, the humor pales.

I wasn’t going to write about this at all – because I don’t like admitting that something like this gets under my skin, because I don’t want to be seen as fishing for reassurance. Some people treat their blogs like diaries – a place to write about emotions and relationships and personal problems -- but this is not that kind of blog. I try to keep things entertaining here, which means that, by and large, I write about the fun stuff rather than my fears and insecurities and feeeeelings. Including the fact that I was hurt by something one of you said.

But, at the risk of stating the obvious: Just because I don’t write about my feelings doesn’t mean I don’t have any.

And so, readers, while I’m not asking you to be nice (we all know how I feel about that) please feel free, when commenting, to practice the exquisite art of Not Being An Asshole. This blog provides no income for me; it's here because I enjoy writing it, and if you’re a regular reader, I urge you to not ruin that enjoyment by being cutting and cruel just because you didn’t love one of my posts.

Thank you, and we now return to our scheduled programming.

Last-resort randomness. Next stop, naked pictures.

Brad has been ill for a week, and I am exhausted as only a person who has spent seven days in the company of a coughing, groaning man can be. (Not to mention my nagging fear of the unlikely-yet-plausible possibility that he has swine flu.) (No, of course he doesn’t.) (But ugh, if he did? What then?!)

So, life is getting in the way, as it does. But I regret that I’ve been neglecting my little corner of the internet, and I want to post, really, and… well.

Here are three things.


Thing 1: Another slideshow written by me has gone up on SparkNotes, this one tackling the oh-so-important topic of Summer Loooooove. Check it. LOVE IT.


Thing 2: A picture of my mother’s parakeet, Scotty.




I have yet to discern Scotty’s usefulness to the household; as far as I can tell, his skills are limited to a) making an ungodly amount of noise for no good reason, and b) biting anything you stick between the bars of his cage.

On the upside, you can burp and blow it in his face, and he can’t do a damn thing about it.

You: But you wouldn’t do that to Scotty, right?
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.


Thing 3: I dreamed last night that I was visiting my family upstate, and, as a result of some sort of apocalyptic event a la Stephen King’s Cell, all electronic devices (cell phones, televisions, computers) had completely ceased to function. No telephone, no internet – all hell was breaking loose. However, the apocalyptic event had also had the unforeseen effect of turning house-cats into radio receivers… so we all just gathered around our resident tabby, Pi, and listened to the news on her.

This sounds weird now, but when I woke up this morning, my first thought was: “Ooh, that would be an AWESOME screenplay.”

Home here, heart there.

This week has been hard.

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm lucky to be here. When I walk the streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood, I'm always catching my breath as I cross paths with beautiful, secret, fleeting things in the midst of the grit. There is nowhere like New York. This incredible city is my home.






But on some weekends, I drive the familiar road back to a small town upstate.
A place where the nighttime air smells sweet, the sky is unobscured, and fat junebugs fly out of the verdant dark to cling to our window screens. There are stars and night songs and small frogs in the trees.

And there are beautiful, secret things here, too.





I can't stay, I know. Because this is not New York, and New York is home, and only a failure would flee the city just to spend her Sunday afternoons lying prostrate in a patch of clover.

But sometimes -- as I cross the city limits, roll through the toll plaza at the Triborough Bridge, and catch first sight of the concrete skyline -- a lump rises in my throat and I have to fight the urge to turn around. To go back where I came from. To get one more look at the stars, the ones that New York scrubs into oblivion with its persistent nighttime glow.

No matter how I love this gritty, noisy, vibrant place, I'm afraid my heart will always be back there in the grass.

If you liked my A-cup, you're gonna loooove this.

After I wrote about getting honk-harassed on the interstate by some truck driver with a boob fixation, an anonymous reader deposited the following jewel of intelligent observation in the comments:

Why can't you girls just admit you love all the attention you get. It's not like you don't crave it.

I don’t usually answer my comments (although I love getting them, so don’t stop!) -- and particularly, I don’t bother to respond to ones that are as… special as this one. But lately, there’s a lot going on that has me thinking about the general experience of being a woman – from horrific tragedies to passing annoyances – and so today, I'm going to respond to the aforementioned comment on behalf of "girls" everywhere. Ready?

Dear author-of-the-aforementioned-comment,

...Oh, wait. That will never work. We’ve simply got to do away with such ridiculous formalities! Here, I’ll start: My name is Kat, and you are… oh, posting anonymously. Well, bollocks. My dear sir, since you haven’t given me so much as a nickname by which to address you, I’m afraid I’ll just have to make something up. Let me see, it’ll have to be something that suits you, something really appropriate, something subtle yet evocative…

Ah, of course.

Assgobbler von Cheesecrotch.

Dear Mr. Cheesecrotch,

Sir, I am chagrined. What can I say? Three days ago, I was but a silly woman who thought that my body ought not to be subject to public commentary by strangers on the street – but now, NOW sir, you have educated me.

For starters, please, allow me to apologize for so shamefully slandering the noble catcaller – a man whom, I did not realize, is seeking only to provide me with the attention I so desperately crave when he approaches me unbidden on the street with his adoring, indulgent, selfless shouts of “I want to fuck you in the ass!”

As the vivacious and spirited Miss Jessica Cutler once famously said: “A person who loves you will not try to fuck you in the ass while sober.” – and I can assure you, sir, that the gentleman in question was most certainly not sober… which means that I not only rebuffed his gallant ministrations, but also missed out on the chance to be done, in the butt, by someone who truly loved me. Oh, the folly! The regret!

Assgobbler von Cheesecrotch, if only you could see me now, you would see my tears of shame. I weep, I weep.

The thing is, Mr. Cheesecrotch – oh, can I call you Assgobbler? -- foolish ladyfolk like myself have been prancing about for quite some time, trying to insist that there’s some sort of difference between “wanted attention” and “unsolicited offers of ass-fuckery”. Ha! Of course, we are LIARS. You caught us, Assgobbler! How we are shamed!

Of course we love all the attention we get, every last bit of it. And of course, there is no notable distinction whatsoever between that pleasant young man who bought us a drink and chatted with us about our hobbies that one time, and the construction worker who called “Show me your tits!” from on high at 7:00am on a Monday.

Or the stranger in a polyester suit who strode past us this afternoon, staring aggressively at our ass whilst audibly sucking his teeth.

Or the rather shifty-looking gentleman who strategically placed himself behind us during our evening subway commute and, without so much as a “Hello”, proceeded to rub his shifty little boner against our behind. Why, Mr. Boner Buttgrinder wasn’t a pervert at all – only a man of few words, doing what he could to fulfill the needs of his fellow citizens. (Ooh, perhaps you know each other? Are you brothers? If so, Assgobbler, please do send him my most heartfelt apologies.)

I see the light, Assgobbler, and lo, it is glorious. Where once I thought that unsolicited sexual overtures from street strangers were an annoying interruption at best, objectifying and intimidating at worst, I now realize the folly of my ways. Why, these men knew what I wanted before I could even know it myself – to be propositioned, shouted at, pinched, groped, and – yes! yes! – FUCKED in the ASS by a stunning array of streetfolk who don’t even know my name. Because it’s all attention, and it’s all FANTASTIC.

And yet, having been shown the error of my ways, I find my thoughts turning to you -- yes, you, Assgobbler von Cheesecrotch. I pity you! You who, as a man, will never know the joy that comes from basking in the glow of all this Glorious. Fucking. Attention. Do you crave it any less for your sex? Is it fair that you should be forced to do without, all your life, simply because you have a penis? No, and no, and no again. It isn't fair, Assgobbler. It isn't right.

And that is why, tonight, I would like to meet you for a drink – my treat! – and spend a couple hours talking about your hobbies, your interests, the weather, or any other number of suitable topics. I might also invite some friends, and perhaps some total strangers as well, to pass through and indulge you with their thoughts about the size and shape of your scrotum – oh no, please, allow me! After a lifetime without catcalling, I wouldn’t want you to miss out on that! And then, you poor, attention-starved dear? And then? And then?

Oh, of course.
Then, I’ll fuck you in the ass.

Much love and warmest regards,
Kat

In which my A-cup drives you WILD.

After last week’s complain-fest on the horrors of being employed outside of the city, I’m reluctant to admit that there are also certain pleasant upsides to commuting by car to Long Island each day.

Namely: No catcalling.

As every city girl knows, being subject to the horny hooting of men on the street is one of the most irritating, and constant, hazards of commuting to work in New York – and this is particularly true in the summertime. Not that it ever really stops. No, there will always be devoted catcallers who, no matter how many layers of winter-wear you might be sporting, truly believe that they can and should make highly vocal judgments about the size, shape, and desirability quotient of your various parts... but when the warm weather comes around it becomes exponentially worse. The leering legions emerge in full force, their limited vocabularies at the ready, their eyes peeled for female passers-by upon whom they can bestow such heartfelt and high-quality sentiments as “I'd hit that!” and "Show me your tits!"

Given that I spent three years living in Harlem – where many of the resident dudes, when not just showing a penis to you outright, are delighted to tell you exactly where on your person they would like to insert it – I have experienced enough catcalling to last several lifetimes. Walking to the subway every day was like an anthropological survey of the Catcalling Underworld. There was the mystifying array of whistles, hisses, and smooching sounds; the moany-groany cries of “Mamiiiiiiii!”; and of course, the delightfully subtle, “Girl, I want to fuck you in the ass.”

Seriously, kudos to that guy for getting straight to the point. My dick, your ass! End of story! Screw your niceties and piddling chit-chat, lady – this is New York!

But whereas summertime commuting in the city is akin in stress level to the Running of the Bulls (you know, if the bulls were really small and wanted to have sex with you), summertime commuting to Long Island – in a car! – is a delightfully solitary, non-stressful activity in which the only real annoyance is turning on the radio to discover that NPR is in the middle of an obnoxious fund drive again.

So I was alarmed when this morning, as I cruised slowly with the flow of eastbound traffic and idly listened to the news, my en-route reverie was suddenly interrupted by loud honking. Startled, I looked out my window.

There was the source of the noise: A large truck had pulled up beside me and was sounding its horn. The driver, seeing that he had my attention, honked again and pointed at my car.

I looked back at him, confused. Had I done something while driving? Had the smooth voice of Soterios Johnson lulled me into a semi-aware fugue state in which I’d stupidly begun drifting into the other lane? Yes, I decided, that was probably it. Embarrassed, I waved sheepishly and put both hands firmly on the wheel, fixing my attention fully on the road in front of me.

A second later, there was another honk. The truck had pulled alongside me again, and this time driver was pointing furiously at something in my car.

What’s going on? my brain started to shriek hysterically as I looked back up at him, confused. What does he want? Isn’t there an urban legend that starts this way? Isn’t there… HOLYFUCKINGSHIT is there somebody in the backseat?

Wide-eyed, I looked into the rearview mirror. Nothing. I stole a glance back over my shoulder, but nobody was crouching there.

He could be hiding in the way back! my brain insisted. Pull over right now!

Panicking, I searched ahead for the nearest exit, when the horn sounded again. I looked up.

The truck driver waved frantically, then suddenly removed both hands from the wheel, bent his elbows, and momentarily held his cupped hands palm-up in front of him. Then, grinning broadly, he pointed again.

At me.

“Oh,” I said out loud.
OH, said my brain.
The truck driver clapped his hands back onto the wheel and veered away, narrowly missing a collision with a passing van.


New York catcallers, take note: You might think you’re hot shit, but until you have risked your life at 60 miles per hour just to convey to your target the all-important message of "YOU HAVE TITS!", I'm afraid your supremacy is no longer absolute.

Also, what the fuck.

I can always count on my parents for material.

After six years in New York, through career changes and moves and marriage, there’s still one thing that remains constant: Semi-weekly phone calls with my parents. Every Wednesday and Sunday, every week, ever since I graduated from college in 2003. I deviate from this schedule so rarely that when something comes up and I forget to call, I frequently wake up the next morning to a series of increasingly-panicked voicemails from my mother. They begin unconcerned--

“Hi honey, it’s mom! Just wanted to give you a call! You usually get in touch by now!”

-- become incrementally more concerned --

“Hi honey, it’s mom! Just… wondering where you are! Call us!”

-- and finally descend into all-out mayhem.

“Honey, it’s your MOTHER. I don’t know what is going on, but I am getting very worried. (long pause) VERY. WORRIED. (long pause punctuated by maternal sighs so guilt-inducing that I am mentally calculating how long it would take me to just drive home) Well… bye.”

For obvious reasons, I try very hard not to deviate from the schedule. And needless to say, my parents have come to expect my calls – I usually catch them either preparing dinner (Wednesdays) or doing the post-breakfast crossword puzzle (Sundays) – and they generally answer the phone with the cheerful tone of people who are expecting to hear from their child.

So I was surprised, on Sunday, when I called the house and was met on the first ring with a wary, uncomfortable, “Hello?”

“Uh… hello?” I said, feeling suddenly nervous. “Mom?”

“Ah!” my mother’s voice came back, exponentially sunnier and totally free of dread. “Hi, honey!”

“Hi mom,” I said. “So, uh… what’s going on?”

“Oh, you mean, why did I answer the phone like that? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! It’s nothing! I just thought it might be your father.” She paused. “He’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We were working on the crossword puzzle,” she explained, “but then he had to go to the bathroom, and right before he went in he suggested that he could call me from the toilet so that we could keep working on it. You know, by phone. So I thought maybe this would be him, asking for the next clue.” Another pause. “God, that’s gross, isn’t it? I’m so glad it was you instead!”



Well. After twenty-four hours, I’m certainly willing to agree that yes, that might be a little bit gross.

However, after revisiting this conversation, I’m less focused on the potential grossness… and more focused on what it says about me and my upbringing that, after hearing that my father might be telephoning from the bathroom, it did not actually occur to me to ask why.

Your marriage needs a Tostito launcher.

In case you were considering congratulating yourself on the longevity of your current romantic relationship, here's something to make you weep with the sting of insignificance: Here is a couple who has been married 81 years. Eighty-one, you guys.

I can just see them sitting down for bingo night at the local Y, where they're seated next to Walter and Myrtle Winkler, who have just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary and are feeling pretty damn pleased with themselves.

"Fifty years, eh?" says husband-of-eighty-one-years, chuckling and giving his wife an elbow nudge.
"Fifty years, huh?" says wife-of-eighty-one-years, cackling and giving her husband a knowing wink.

"Why, yes!" says Myrtle, who is privately thinking, These people are utterly demented. "And, er -- how long have you been married?"
"Oh, us?" The couple-of-eighty-one-years look at each other, then burst into raucous laughter. "EIGHTY-ONE YEARS, BEYOTCH!"

At which point Walter turns to Myrtle and says, "I've never liked the way you kiss."

(Of course, this would never actually happen -- English people don't even have a Y.)

More to the point, though, is that Frank and Anita Milford (the couple-of-eighty-one-years) have shared the secret to their relationship's amazing longevity: daily squabbles, or what Anita calls, "the odd cross word" -- which, they say, provides a bit of healthy excitement and keeps them on their toes.

Which is interesting, and something I would love to explore in detail... but right this minute, I have to call Brad and tell him that the incident last week wherein I threw a tortilla chip at his head was actually just an inspired means of keeping our marriage lively.