The Thing By The Car

Labor Day Weekend 2021 was scheduled to start on Friday at 12:30 EST.

Unfortunately I received a text at 12:24 that shattered any illusions I had about enjoying the last official weekend of the summer that I never got to enjoy, but all of that is for the entry where I whine and cry about the traumas I’ve experienced in the past two weeks.**

Labor Day Weekend was scheduled to end at 10:00 EST on Monday. Then around 9:58 EST this happened.

I was walking down the hall while reading an article on my phone as my mother locked the screen door for the night.

“There was this guy who wanted to lose some weight, so he started exercising and eating better, but he didn’t do anything drastic,” I said still looking at my phone. “He lost ten pounds no problem because he’s a man so of course he would.”
I glanced up to see if my snark was appreciated but it apparently was lost on my mother who was too busy looking out of the screen door as she turned the lock. The porch light was out, and there aren’t any street lights on our block, so I had no idea what she could be seeing in the dark, but I continued with my story.
“But then the guy kept losing weight. He lost twenty pounds, and then another thirty-“
“It looks like there’s a pile of balloons next to my car,” my mother interrupted.
“-pounds,” I finished and then internally shrugged. “Alright.”
“I’m serious, it looks like a bunch of balloons,” she said.
“I believe you,” I told her, not really believing her at all, and continued my story. “But this guy kept losing weight to the point that people thought he was dying. He couldn’t understand it because he had been eating protein powder the entire time to make sure that he didn’t lose muscle weight instead of fat.”
“Come look and tell me you don’t see balloons,” my mother insisted.
I walked to the front door and looked outside. “Well, it turns out that his wife was putting arsenic in his protein powder.”
“You don’t see balloons? By my car?” my mother asked.
I stared at her car. “No, I do not see any balloons. But what I want to know is, given my difficulty in gaining weight, if you’ve been putting arsenic in my protein powder.”
“It looks like balloons! Or an alien. Or an alien holding balloons.”
“No I do not see an alien holding balloons,” I said in my most obnoxiously condescending tone as I finally turned away from the door.
Look!” she insisted again.

And for some reason I did look again, and that was when it suddenly clicked in my head that my mother was pointing to the car she’s had for years, not her new car that I’ve been driving since mine was totaled. Sitting next to the passenger door of her car wasn’t an alien holding balloons, but something almost as bizarre.

“It’s… It’s a giant bear wrapped in cellophane.” I blinked in disbelief.
“And you thought I was crazy!” my mother yelled triumphantly.
“I still think you’re crazy,” I told her as I unlocked the door. “An alien? An alien holding balloons? ‘We come in peace – see, we brought balloons!'”

I stepped outside and crept up on the giant bear.
“Do you want a flashlight?” my mother yelled from the safety of the front door as I confronted the ursine intruder.
“No, it’s definitely a bear,” I yelled back. “A giant pink bear.”
“And there’s no card or note or anything,” I added as I looked closer.
“That’s weird.” My mother came outside and joined me in examining the package. “I wonder if one of your uncles sent it.”
“Why would one of my uncles send me a giant pink bear?”
“Well, they know you’re not feeling well.”
“And you think that they would think that sending me a giant pink bear would help?”
“There’s chocolate too.” Mom pointed to the gold box sitting in front of the bear.
“Okay, that would help.”

I looked on the ground around the package to see if a card had fallen off and finally shrugged. “I guess we might as well bring it inside.”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” Mom suggested as I carried the bear through the front door.
“Why are you assuming this is even for me? It could be for you. Maybe you have a secret admirer.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I don’t know. You’ve been looking awfully cute lately. Everyone has said how they like your silver hair.”
Mom waved away the idea.
“This is probably some warped joke, and for anyone who’s listening I do not want to play a game,” I shouted at the bear.

I set the bear down in the hall where the dogs and the cat proceeded to give it the sniff-degree.
“I’ve had it. I’m going to bed,” I said as I started up the stairs. “I’m sure the cellophane will keep it trapped if it comes alive.”

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized that around midnight I had received a series of texts from the 15 year-old next door:

Hey 🙂
I hate to bother you at such a late time but I have a question.
I think you may have taken something of mine by accident.
It’s a pink teddy bear with chocolate.
If you do please keep it there if you don’t mind and I’ll pick it up from your backyard around 9 if that’s okay. I have to pick it up at that time because my mom doesn’t know I’m dating someone.😁

So not only was there a giant pink bear in my house, but I was now an accomplice in the illicit love affair of my teenage neighbor. And me being me I started overthinking and wondering if I was now responsible for telling her that her body is hers and no one has any right to it no matter how many ridiculously huge teddy bears that they leave by your neighbor’s car because consent is everything, and if anything is consented to then please do it in a responsible and safe way. Then I remembered that she is being raised in a normal, stable family with boundaries – hence not being allowed to date – and didn’t need my anxious dysfunctional attempt to adult at her.

But all I can say is thank God that this episode didn’t happen this week because I would’ve torn into that chocolate.


**I’m doing my best to not have two “heavy” entries in a row, but, as I was recently reminded, I write my best when I just write what I’m feeling from my heart, without thinking or censoring or editing myself. This is difficult to do when you feel like hell and your heart is hurting. It’s even worse when the hurt is from people you trusted or care about because I also have a rule where I don’t put anything on the internet that I’d be wouldn’t be okay with absolutely every single person in the world reading. Not only am I not naïve enough to believe that my corner of the ‘net couldn’t be found by anyone who looked, I’m also not someone who hides behind a pen name to talk shit. I thought a lot about the entry that will come after this one, and I’m willing to take the risk that people won’t believe me or think I’m overacting, in addition to the risk of the perpetrator reading my entry and finding out that, despite my feigned ignorance, I’ve always been aware of everything. This unfortunately might lead to a disruption in my health since this is a healthcare provider, but I’m willing to accept that because I can’t take it anymore.


Writing was once one of the few things that I thought I was good at, that came naturally, that I even…believed. And I’m afraid that I’ve lost it. I’m really afraid that it’s gone. Almost all of the entries that I’ve done in the past year sound like garbage, including this one. I’m forcing a “fluffy” entry with this bear story and it shows. The only thing that doesn’t keep me from hanging up my keyboard is that I can still feel some words left in me, but they’re ugly and painful, and they’ve been suppressed for so long that they festered into something that needs to be lanced. So I’m tearing the blade across the thick skin I’ve developed to keep the pain in and the world out and following this pustulant flow to see if it leads to something I’ve lost, or if bleeding the poison was all that I had left.

The Tale of The Flaming Buns

Okay, I admit it: I have a tendency to torture myself. Whether it’s setting my own broken hand, starving myself in a seven day detox or getting all of the hair ripped off of my nethers in a Jewish Community Center, I have a special proclivity for putting myself through some ridiculous shit. I would like to point out, however, that in every most cases I have a legit reason for torturing myself. For example I was forced by a lack of medical attention to set my own hand and the detox was bolster my health and the Brazilian wax was necessary because it was the start of swimsuit season.

See? Good reasons for insanity in all most cases. And such it is too with The Flaming Buns that I had a good reason for torturing myself.

If you’ve watched my videos on youtube then you can probably tell that I’m constantly sniffling between perpetual allergies and/or a cold. One of the things that really sucks about this–aside from the obvious abundance of snot–is that because of my cardiac issues I’m not supposed to take regular allergy or cold medicine so I usually just suffer through it. However the other day I was scrolling through Pinterest–where all good ideas come from–and I found a homeopathic cold remedy in the form of a Ginger detox bath which promised to help you sweat out your afflictions. The next thing I knew I was grabbing my keys to make a trip to the supermarket.

“Where are you going? It’s dark out!” my mother exclaimed as I headed toward the front door. (My mother is from the school of thought that females should not go out after twilight or they will surely be accosted by ghoulies, beasties and long-legged nasties.)
“To get some ground ginger,” I replied.
“Why do you need ground ginger at 9:30 at night?”
“Because I’m going to bathe in it.”
And as she is so used to doing, my mother just accepted that I had said something inane.

After aquiring the ground ginger without being kidnapped–though I told my mother that I fought off a hooligan who tried to shiv me and an old man who offered me candy–I dug the baking soda out of the cupboard and went upstairs to brew a Gingered Kat Stew.

I ran the tub full of hot water, added the ginger which turned the water a disgusting shade of brown, shook approximately a third of a cup of baking soda into the mix, eased myself into the mess, grabbed a book and let myself cook. It only took about ten minutes before I started to sweat but you’re supposed to soak for at least forty minutes to get the full effect of the ginger so I continued to soak and read my book.

Pikachu Spanking gifI’m not sure exactly when it happened but at some point I looked up from my book and realized that my ass was hot–and not “hot” as in “cute”, “hot” as in “I feel like I’m sitting in a vat of salsa”. While I had been occasionally swishing the water around in the tub, a healthy amount of the ginger had settled to the bottom and I found that I was sitting in a layer of pure ginger. I swished the water around some more but it was too late; my buns were officially on fire. It wasn’t exactly painful though so I went back to reading and sweated out the remainder of the time, however by the time I got out of the tub, my ass was numb. It was one of the most fucking bizarre sensations I have ever experienced… and of course I made worse by smacking myself and then laughing like a bloody lunatic because I didn’t feel anything when I did it and my mind instantly made a dozen filthy jokes. But aside from amusing the hell out of me, I will say that this ginger soak did actually clear up my stuffy, sniffly nose, and not only that, but I went to sleep soon after I got out of the bath and didn’t wake up once during the night, which is very rare for me.

polar plunge logoAnd in a hilarious turn of irony my next tale of maschicsm is already in the works except that instead of burning ass, I’m going to be freezing it off. Tomorrow, 1/19/13, I’m going to be jumping into the semi-freezing Atlantic Ocean with my Gal-Friday of insanity, Jewels, and my brother Mike (known on here as “Gator”). Again there is logical reason for this madness and we are not arbitrarily jumping for my hypothermic fun of it but because we joined the Polar Bear Plunge to benefit the Special Olympics. Jewels and I have already our minimum donation goals thanks to some brilliant peeps who I’ll be linking to their blogs/twitters as my featured Super Peeps next month, but my brother hasn’t reached his goal yet, so I’m extending my thanks of pimping to anyone who contributes to his goal, too. For a minimum donation of 5 bucks toward Gator’s/Mike’s goal, I’ll shout you out in the post I do about the Plunge and also have the link to your blog on my sidebar in all of its glory for thirty days (or more usually).

But before you think that I’ve gone soft and am helping my brother because I’m a nice person or something, let me clarify that by donating to my brother you are actually still helping me because if Gator/Mike doesn’t reach his goal, he can’t plunge and I will feel much better about plunging into icy water if I can look over and laugh at my brother’s freezing ass.

Finally I wanted to add that by donating, not only will you be helping me, but you will also get bragging rights that you personally helped me in my latest tale of what-the-fuckery.

How can you resist that, right?

(And this is Number 25 on the List of Shameless Shit: Ask for help.)

That Poor Meat-Peddling Bastard & The Evil Kat

Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.

What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?

Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.

Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door anyway. This is very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.

I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from their fifteen pound frames.

“Can I help you?” I asked him.

meat team ad“Uh yeah, I’m from CM Meats (← not their real name) and we offer a discounted meat delivery service,” he told me adjusting his hat.

I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”

“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman spiel.

“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck to me and yet it was.

“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.

And then the evil part of my brain woke up.

“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.

“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”

“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.

“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.

“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”

He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”

He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”

“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.

His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”

“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”

“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.

The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”

His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.

The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.

I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.

I’d like to add a side note that door to door salespeople on my street are ridiculous and relentless. They do not take no for an answer and will visit your door every single day until they wear you down. Considering this and the fact that I was unable to fall back to sleep after the interruption, I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.

*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.

Dating Over Thirty And a Follow Up To The Wrongest Story Ever

I have a friend who really wants to get married. She happily informed me on Sunday that she found out that the average age for a woman to get married is 29, so “she’s not too far behind the 8 ball”. I then had one of those moments where a thought pops into my head and tumbles out of my mouth by telling her that the number is probably that high because it’s based on the age of all brides and, since half of all marriages fail, that would include a lot of second marriages.

She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the luncheon.

As some of you may know, I was married once. And for those of you who just found out now, I’ll wait while you pick yourself up off of the floor since I agree that is shocking to consider me in such a role. Anyway, it was quite literally a lifetime ago, and unlike a lot of women I don’t feel the frantic need to be in a relationship again. That’s not to say that I’m actively opposed to the idea – I’m not one of those women screeching that she never wants to be in a relationship again while at the same time her head is swiveling in every direction for a Y chromosome – but rather, I’m okay with being on my own. I have however been told that I’m subconsciously avoiding a “real” relationship based on the caliber of guys that I’ve dated since my liberation. I can’t argue that they haven’t been a bunch of toads, but at least I ended it when I kissed them and they didn’t turn into a prince. I am. But apparently this is an avoidance tactic of my part.

However, I think I may have recently discovered the true reason why I’m not in a relationship ship, and this is thanks to a resurgence in popularity of the Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You post. The first time I published that, the general consensus of comments agreed that it was indeed a very wrong story.  Since the second posting though? I have received a few messages and emails from women asking how this story is wrong. At first I thought that they were being facetious, but imagine my surprise when I discovered that a handful (HAHA!) of these women were serious. One woman told me, “I think that everyone has done this and they just won’t admit it.”

I replied with, “I have not.  But then I don’t date much.”

Her response was, “Seriously. You might want to think about it. When you find the right guy you’ll want to give it a try.”

And there you have it, peeps. This is why I will probably never be in a relationship: I can honestly say that I will never, ever find someone with whom I am so enamored that I will want to try holding his tally-whacker while he pees. In fact I will happily demonstrate my love by telling him that’s his rodeo and he can handle his own lasso.

But seriously, you all have some weird relationships – which is fine, but I just don’t want to know the details of them.

Consider No. 22 on my List of Shameless Shit, “Set a Boundary” done because I’ve just decided that the doorway to the bathroom is a sacred boundary that will not be crossed.

true love funny

The Time I Got a Brazilian Bikini Wax at a Jewish Community Center

I’ll admit that some the ridiculous events in my life are a result of my own inanity, but then there are episodes where I am a completely innocent bystander.  I am seriously not joking when I’ve said that I’m a magnet for what-the-fuckery.  I can’t make this shit up.

For example, I was given a certificate for a Brazilian bikini wax at a local spa for Christmas. (Don’t ask, just go with it because that’s a story in itself.) I’d never heard of the spa where I was to undergo the aesthetic torture of having a stranger apply hot wax to my nether regions and then yank it off, but I was assured that this place was the best.  With summer finally here, I decided that it was time to use my certificate.  The first thing that I did was look to see if the spa had a website.  It did, but there wasn’t much to it except an overview of services and the address.  I happened to notice there was a “JCC” in the address, but ditzy me thought that this was a business suffix like an “LLC”.  It wasn’t until I typed the actual numerical address into Google maps that I realized that “JCC” was short for “Jewish Community Center”.

wtf, what the fuck, cat

I wasn’t even sure what a Jewish Community Center did, but I was pretty sure that it didn’t typically include chocha grooming.  Since I’m well-versed in life throwing me the perverse, I just rolled with it, and called to make my appointment.  When I spoke to the owner of the spa, she verified that she was indeed located inside the JCC, but assured me that I didn’t have to be Jewish to enter the building.  I’m actually part ethnically Jewish, which was a good thing because I planned on praying through the entire procedure.

The first thing that I have to say about this JCC is that it’s bloody huge.  Not only is it three buildings, but each of the buildings is massive.  I didn’t know which one held my destination, so I chose the biggest building which thankfully turned out to be correct.  After signing in as a guest, I was pointed in the general direction of where I would find the spa, but then I wandered the halls for ten minutes searching frantically for the correct door for fear that I would have to actually ask someone where to go. I finally stumbled in a blind panic through a doorway that I hoped was where I would just be waxed and not circumcised.  The receptionist – who was a gentleman old enough to by my grandfather – assured me that I had found the correct place.  (Yeah it was a little weird to be asking an elderly Jewish man if I was in the right place to have my nonny-hoo-hoo primped, but again, I just rolled with it.)

As shocking as it might sound, the waxing itself wasn’t traumatic.  Aside from being aware that there was a daycare center right next door, and there was only a wall separating a bunch children from the room where all my business was just out there, it went off without a hitch, in fact, you can read about the actual waxing experience, and what to expect if you want to have one done in my article, “Making Your Brazilian Wax a Smooth Experience” at The Indie Chicks.

In other news, I’ve started edits on my book.  I pretty much rewrote chapter one the other day (long story as to why) and I have to say that it’s something that I’m proud of–like to the point where even if it’s turned down by every literary agent in the world, I’ll still love it, and would be willing to show it off.  My posts are going to remain a little sparser for a bit longer, but as you can read, a lot of the awesome that I’ve been mentioning in the past few months has been building momentum, and I’m still adapting to keeping up with it.  It’s a lot of work -I pretty much live on my computer -but I love it.