re: countdown

Um, I don't have much to say except that I'm a huge liar. Also, I am busier than a hooker at the Democratic National Convention.

No, seriously, I'm having so much sex with political nerds, you wouldn't believe me even if I showed you the videotape.

Okay, no, seriously, my life is so full it's coming out my eyeballs. And it really is that uncomfortable, at least at the moment. It's too bad the second half of the countdown was going to be more worth reading, because it's not going to be written.

I'll talk to you from NYC.

the truest thing i ever heard about moving

"I hate moving more than I hate not having sex."

six

Six is my shoe size.

SHOOOOOES.

"What do New York City and your love of shoes have to do with one another?" you might ask, if you knew nothing about anything.

Well. Not only does New York have shoes in numbers I can't comprehend, it has two of the world's best shoe buddies, Shiv and Krissa.

I'll let the evidence speak for itself.

+



+



+



+



+



= love.

This is being published late because I was out of town and unable to post for three days.

seven

When the word you use to describe one of your tightest groups of girlfriends is "troika," you revel in the idea of going to hell in a handbasket, and your motto is "no rest for the wicked," the word vice has a very nuanced meaning.

That is to say, BRING 'EM ON!

My seven vices-to-be (I hope):

• Drinking. I post about drinking so much, anyone who reads might think I drink as much as I actually do. Drinking is one of my favorite things to do, simply because it usually involves friends, a bar or party, music, joking, debating, laughing, flirting, yelling about George Bush, and more deliciously scandalous behavior. Plus, I love me a hangover. Mmm, hangovers.
• Shopping. My head says no, but my heart says yes! I wonder if the pink plastic stilettos are still at St. Mark's Place. Shopping: sports for attractive people.
• Cupcaking. Combine this with the two vices above and I think you might get the Cure For All Ills. I haven't been to Magnolia in a year and I fully intend to make it one of my first stops. Not including bars and shops.
• Swearing. I like swearing - sometimes it really feels like the anger gets spit out with the expletive - and I think it'll help me fit in in New York.
• Coffee. I've been cutting back on coffee, and being a traitor in doing so. Turning my back on the one thing that got me through much of my college career! For shame. Given that I'm expecting late nights and early mornings in the big city, I think coffee and I will begin a rejuvenation of our relationship.
• Sex. Okay, I was going to list "kissy face" and come off not looking like a whore, but then I was like, "That's not a vice, that's a necessity! Like food!" which sex is too, but a little harder to obtain, like the perfect quesadilla.
• Blogging. I won't forget you, internet.

This is being published late because I was out of town and unable to post for three days.

eight

Eight days away: my official last day at work.

I like to tell people that when I interviewed for my job in October of 2001 I was still skinny. This isn't a ploy for compliments. The reason I remember being skinny at the time was that at the interview I was wearing a pair of tight khaki-colored pants that I'd bought recently, having grown slimmer over the summer. I remember that because sometime later that autumn, those pants became tighter, and it happened that the day I decided I couldn't wear them anymore was the day the zipper broke. What I mean by "broke" is that the zipper tab was stuck at the top of the fly. But with all my struggling with it, the fly itself split open. This reinforced the sturdiness of the tab's hold on the waistline even more, and soon I gave up and - take note, this is why I remember all this - CUT MYSELF OUT OF THE PANTS.

I like to think that my life is less like a sitcom now.

And of course, it hasn't been only my appearance that has changed since I began working here. I started as a student assistant working 12-15 hours a week at a low wage doing mind-numbingly boring work. Now I'm a full-time staffer with a low wage pretending to do mind-numblingly boring work. See? People grow.

Despite the venom I hold for particular parts or people in our operation, my own little office suite, sheltered from the rest of the department, is by and large a great place to work. The women I work with are fun and sarcastic and scathing and sometimes bitter - some of my favorite qualities. When my life is exciting, they seem to want to live vicariously; they really root for me, and they're very frank with their advice. "Don't get caught doing development forever," they warn. "Get out now while you can!"

So I am.

This is being published late because I was out of town and unable to post for three days.

fuck drinking buddies

I need a hangover buddy.

nine

A red death has nine parts to it.

1. Pint glass
2. Ice
3. 1 oz. sloe gin
4. 1/2 oz. Southern Comfort
5. 1/2 oz. Amaretto
6. 1/2 oz. vodka
7. 1/4 oz. triple sec
8. 1/4 oz. lime juice
9. Fill with orange juice

That's pretty much the strongest mixed drink I know how to make. Stronger than a Long Island Iced Tea, stronger even than a Texas Tea (a long island plus a half-ounce of tequila - crazy Texans (Krissa, I'm looking at you)). The only thing I can think of that might be stronger that isn't straight liquor from a large glass is an Illusion from the Good Mixer, and I don't know how in the world that magic is concocted.

In my mind there are very few reasons to drink something like a red death. It probably tastes like crap and it's gonna make you throw-up-pass-out-and-not-even-get-laid drunk. I've never had one but I imagine a couple could do you in as soundly as something more in my realm of experience, say, a half-bottle of wine, a pair of vodka tonics chased by a Tokyo Tea, and a couple of beers.

Why get so drunk? I have nine answers.

Lissa, Billy, Felipe, Kellie, Olivia, Tanya, Molly, Jolene, and Stan.

Some call them friends. I call them drinking buddies! I love mine. Drinking buddies have that special sort of bond - the sort of camaraderie that makes you okay with sticking your finger down the throat of someone who needs to be sick, for example. That's love, man. Those obnoxious midnight phone calls. The buying of drinks for whoever's poorest at the moment. The passionate conversations about which more deserves a place in the pantheon of bad music - Crazytown or Jet.

And oh, the things you'll yell! YOU'RE NOT DRUNK ENOUGH YET! LISTEN TO THIS CRAP MUSIC! FUCK, I HATE PB! GIRLS IN PONCHOS HAVE SO OVERSTAYED THEIR WELCOME!

Since my first quarter in college, when nine was the number of vodka shots Lissa and I (in our vastly built-up tolerance) would take to achieve, reliably, a sufficient wastedness to attempt to drink away the sorrows of a horrible campus social atmosphere, through the Serious Relationship Years when I was a Bad Friend and also Didn't Drink for Complicated Reasons, and into the present day, when no evening is complete without a cocktail or a pint or five, these people have been, collectively and by far, my favorite thing about San Diego.

It's nine days till I leave my drinking buddies behind.

@#*$&*#

I was going to come home and write "Nine," but then again, I was also going to read, get rest, be home at a decent hour and, presumably, not feel like a total ghastly ugly piece of shit when I went to bed. Clearly, some plans don't follow through, because I can't recall ever feeling so undeniably like all of those things.

If I fail to post "Nine" today, it's because I feel like crap. Crap, ok? How's this: here are nine things I hate. Clubs, dance floors, girls who are whores, men who want whores, bad music, spilled drinks, diluted drinks, Pacific Beach, and myself for letting a night like this get to me.

ten

The full and complete title of this post is:
Ten: the number of days till I bust this joint
or alternatively,
Ten: the number of days in a row I am going to post on my blog, beginning now

As though you (I mean the readers - hi mom, hi dad, meow spike*) hadn't had enough of my crappy lists-that-have-to-do-with-moving, here I go with another. This list is much, much longer, infinitesimally more sensible as blog material and, I hope, substantially more interesting to read.

I achieve a multiplicity of functions here. It satiates my desire to post about nothing but this move. It provides a method for posting consistently - something I haven't done since something close to EVER. Or at least a number of months. It provides an additional outlet for my feelings, which are about 70% elated, 20% sad/nostalgic, and 10% hysterical panic. It gives me something with which to occupy myself while I'm at work, bored and pretending like there's nothing else I could be doing.

Ten days isn't very many. You can't do much in ten days. You can't order from a catalogue and expect your package to arrive in that little time. You can't get an appointment at the DMV. You can't lose a noticeable amount of weight (DAMNIT!). You can barely get a good tan. The most you could hope for in ten days is to do enough at work so that your responsibilities move safely into someone else's hands. God, I hope so.

After ten you move into the single digits, and soon it's a week, and then less than a week, and then a few days, and then a couple days, and then tomorrow, and then now, and then it's over. It happens fast. Wish me luck.

* That's a lie. My parents don't read. I cannot vouch for the cat, however.

would that i were kidding

Yesterday my friend Lissa and I drove out northeast to our bartending school to brush up on our technique and when we arrived there was a lesson in progress so it was going to be about a half hour wait before we could get behind the bar so we decided it would be a good idea to drink some beer so we drove down the street and picked up a six-pack but then had nowhere to drink it so we drove around for awhile in this boondocks sort of area and ended up in the far back corner of this big empty parking lot by what looked like an abandoned factory and while we were drinking Lissa said something really funny and because I had beer in my mouth I spit it up all over my shirt so I got out of the car and took off the shirt and we sprayed it with Febreeze to make the beer smell get out so I was left wearing just a bra so I put on my one-button jacket which still looked ridiculous and I sat thus as we finished our beers and my shirt hung to dry on the car window and the sun set over the trailer park in the distance.

Don't you ever say I'm classy.

it comes to this

Today I heard a number I wasn't pleased to hear. It has to do with my car, and what it would take to get my car in selling condition. By extension, then, it will affect my ... flexibility and confidence in a couple of months, when I'll be facing another number: the sum of first month + last month + deposit.

And while it doesn't spell doom, it sure makes me feel a lot more like I'm getting to New York via tightrope rather than airplane.

So it comes to this.

Humiliation.

With the faintest hope that perhaps some good will come of it.

If you can stand to open a PayPal account No account necessary, so if you can trust me to reimburse you if PayPal screws you, though I don't think it will, and if you can spare anything...

Goddamnit, I hate this.

...if you can spare anything, I'd love the help. And if you think you know people or readers who can spare anything, and you don't mind being a microphone, I'd love the plug. I'll be honest and say I'll survive without it; I'm just worried the money stress will turn me into a "Before" shot for Botox.

I'm lame for doing this, especially because I never even post anymore. And yet here I am trying to collect. I don't even deserve my readers, let alone donations from them. Believe me, every dollar will be a surprise. But I think every penny will help, and though I have zero expectations for this gamble, I'm going to place my bet anyway.

Thanks for even reading this far without barfing. If you barfed ... sorry.

dear ken:

Believe me.

I am better than Mormonism.

Yours,
Kate

boobies

I'm presently nestled between someone's breasts.

I'm on a phone call to the mechanic. I want to arrange a meeting. I want to know how much it will cost me to tune up my car before I sell it. The receptionist is a gregarious woman.

"We have an opening tomorrow," she chirped.

"Tomorrow would be perfect," I said.

"Let me just run it by the mechanic. Can you hold on?"

"Of course," I said.

"I'll have to just put the receiver down, if that's okay."

"That's fine," I assured her.

"I can't actually put you on - oh, I can put you in my bra. Okay. Hold on. Okay."

So here I am.

It's muffled, but comfortable.

erasure

I wrote a long post, then deleted it.

I am only saying this because I cannot spend forty minutes typing into this MT form and then not hit Publish. I just can't.

O defeat.

goodbye, california

1. The Henry Mancini Orchestra - Moon River
2. Rufus Wainwright - California
3. The Decemberists - Los Angeles, I'm Yours
4. Elliott Smith - L.A.
5. Ryan Adams - La Cienega Just Smiled
6. Joni Mitchell - California
7. Wilco - California
8. The Decemberists - California One / The Youth and Beauty Brigade
9. Tom Waits - San Diego Serenade
10. ShiveryDelicious - The Right Mistake
11. Roxy Music - More Than This
12. Otis Redding - Change Gonna Come
13. Aqualung - Brighter Than Sunshine
14. Pulp - Something Changed
15. Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye

Thanks to Stan and D, who put some of these songs onto mixes before I did, and to Shiv, who wrote and performed the song that marks the turning point in this loosely narrative tracklist.

a little pick-me-up

Last week I tripped while wearing these and didn't feel like blogging when I could be moping about having to use crutches. Sorry.

Anyway.

Sometimes when I'm feeling low, I doubt I could be attractive to anyone. When this happens, I try to remember all the assets at my disposal to lure the men:

• I have very nice hands
• I have good taste in music
• I can quote Office Space like nobody's business
• I occasionally get into moods where I have to watch The Big Lebowski
• I've been to the bars in Swingers (this only works occasionally, and not on people from LA)
• I have lips which could theoretically make contact with those of other girls
• I can back my car up in a straight line with my right arm draped over the top of the passenger seat
• I can and would prefer to drive a car with a manual transmission
• I'm smart note to self: lose weight, perhaps from the brain
• I will be leaving the state in less than three weeks - I'm naturally commitment-free!

In a way, this genuinely helps. In a much bigger and more persuasive way, it helps only inasmuch as I need to freaking post on my freaking blog. For bonafide joy, I've got this.

And more importantly, this.

because why keep a notepad for lists when i could just use my blog

Pick-up appointment confirmed with movers? Check.
The first few boxes ready for stuffing? Check.
Airline reservation made and paid? Check.
First halting steps toward selling my car? Check.
Change of address form submitted? Check.
Notice given to employer? Check.
Moving budget budgeted? Check.
Relationship with new landlady cultivated? Check.
Bucket of cosmos scheduled for drinking upon arrival? Check.
Days till the uprooting? 22.
Fraction of posts that will have nothing of interest to anyone except myself? Shut up, you bitches.

so much for courtesy

I spent a weekend in the Bay Area with my sister, brother and sister-in-law. When I returned, I bought thank you cards for them and sent them off hurriedly. Today it occurred to me: I don't know if I remembered to write messages inside the cards.

What do I do?

just call me ramona quimby

It takes some real pluck to mess up at work as much as I do, and some real luck to be so loved in spite of it. After returning from a one-week vacation during which I promised to check my work email and didn't, I've managed to miss two mornings at work (one because of a hangover I didn't lie about, for some reason), leave early twice, accidentally change $2500 to the wrong account, and be seen oogling the good-looking department officer in the kitchen.

And yet, every time my upcoming resignation comes into the conversation, it's all "I don't know what we'll do without you!" and "We're not ready for you to go!" and "Let's not talk about it, it makes me too sad." How? I don't know. Maybe since I was unemployed for a month at my employer's fault, I've accumulated some good karma around here. I just wish I could do a karmic funds transfer and get me some kissy face with that officer.