The week that never stopped giving

For starters, my boobs are growing at an alarming pace. I realize that sounds much like a line from your favorite local mommy blogger, but the fact is I am not a mommy, nor an expectant mommy and not even sure if I qualify as a blogger. Nonetheless my boobies/bags/knockers are getting out of control over here. I don't get it. I personally, am losing weight as a whole. But the bags seem to be their own entity. Perhaps I shall consider myself the latest of the late bloomers. I can't just say "late" because really getting an average size of bags by age 18 is impressive but weeks away from 29?
My mother always said she never got hers until college. So, sure as shit after my first day enrolled in college I raced home to find that my barely "A" chest was still a barely "A" chest. So I waited years and years until I gave up waiting and decided to just go ahead and get fat instead. But NOW, NOW losing weight and gaining boobs is just too much. And really lets be honest here (you know since you are reading about me talking about my bags and all) when the big-boobied girls in school complained about hating big boobs, they really weren't just being bitchy after all. In my opinion they sucked... big time. And all this time I kept hating those bitches, putting them in the catagory of girls who call themselves fat in the company of those who are fatter, or those with two legs that challenge one legged persons to a race, or a ski competition, or to see who can tie BOTH shoes faster.

Bottom line big bags suck! Or at least to me they do. Tom swears our difference of opinion on this subject will be the demise of our relationship.

So other than bigger bags... what's new in my world you wonder?

Life is life, work is work. I took up bike riding which sucks being a chubby girl and all, but I'm working on it. I ride with people much more in shape than I am (although I must admit I'm doing okay for a pack-a-day smoker who hates to sweat). Other than a small outburst today when riding up a large hill where I shouted and cried at my riding companions, "Someone get a bitch a doughnut!" I think I might just enjoy it a tiny tiny bit.

I've started to really love my life and the diversity in it. Two nights ago I went to a poetry reading. (Okay, I know, SUCK big time) It was at an AWESOME local new book store in my town. Which is amazing that someone had the balls and faith to open a local book store in this day and age where we are outsourcing everything from tech support to blow jobs. The best part is she has some damn good taste in books. I think I girl crushed on her the second I saw a section titled "Misbehaved." Not Mystery, not History and not Self Help but "Misbehaved," and coincidentally the majority of my favorite books/authors were in it. It's not like your big chain book store which I cannot go in anymore because I am tired of trying to read something that is on a "best sellers list." This woman took one look at ONE book in my hand and had the power to determine everything else I would love. And so far she was dead on! And to think she even convinced me (a tiny bit jew) to purchase over sixty dollars worth of books in what was meant to be "a quick stop!" I kind of want to make out with her, but not like for real make out. More like, "Shit, you like books I like, and know more about books I like than I know about books I like... wanna book make out?" Thats like real making out only no touching or kissing or anything, just some serious book sharing... maybe over vodka...

So, the point, you ask. Diversity in my life.... as of late...


I ride places in this city I didn't know existed. I realize this city is much prettier that I ever knew. And I spend nights at poetry readings in book stores. Talking with artist friends who want to form a commune. One where artists could live together and be appreciated. But, don't get worried it's still me... we are going to name it "The Naked Hot Dog Lady." And we're not so concerned with growing our own shit to sustain us as we are making sure we just laugh a fucking lot!

And the next night was with work friends, at a bar listening to Reggae music and watching hippies (for lack of a better word) dance in light up houla hoops. And thanking god that I not only have a great shower but actually know how to turn it on. Oh and the fact Tom even occasionally lets me use soap.

And then in the same night seeing my old best friend from Colorado (who lives here now) and her teacher friends on Spring break. People living the dream I pretended I wanted to live. And I contemplated how hard they work, and how hard they play. And for a second I wondered what was swimming-swirling-jumping-dancing in their heads, and then I stopped... and thought

and I wondered... what did they feel about THEIR bags today?

Katie Lauren

That One Day That One Dog Ruined My Plans to Get My St. Patrick's Day Drink On

Do to some seriously lack of drinking lately I was super excited to go to my friend Stephanie's house for St. Patrick's day, or Mardi Gras Part two, as Steph made me cook breakfast again claming that if she had to feed everyone they were going to be eating breakfast bars. To say steph isn't a cook is an understatement which I learned when I asked her for garlic salt and she looked at me with such a lost look in her eyes that I thought for a second her brain had completely shut off and she might be gone forever. She did however make her self useful by cutting five laves of french bread for french toast. Cutting them mind you with knives she just opened fresh from the package because apparently this was the first time in seven months of living there she found herself needing to cut anything. Oh and I guess that part about opening her house for us on this scared day was pretty useful as well.
One thing I have learned about St. Louis is that they love their parades, and more so parades that involve large amounts of drinking going on. Stephanie lives in a part of the city named Dogtown and they have the huge St. Patty's celebration. Some people say the town is named dog town because of the Irish settlers who ate dogs. I am certain this is not true and I even looked up the actual reason of the towns name a bit ago but obviously it wasn't as memorable as picturing my ancient irish ancestors in St. Louis eating dogs.
With breakfast cooked and a few mimosas downed I was well on my way to pants pissing passed out drunk when this little guy ran right off the street and into Toms arms.





I know seriously three lost dogs in three weeks. This has to be some kind of joke. So after giving this dog a stern talking to about how she was really putting a damper on my booze fest we picked her up put her in the car and drove to the pound to see if she was chipped. The pound was less than a mile away but between the parade traffic and dodging drunks in the street it took us almost an hour to get there. Don't worry though we passed the time by yelling every dog name at her we could think of to see what kind of response we would get out of her. We settled on Gumby, because Gumby was green and this was St. Patrick's day oh and I was wearing some cheap ass beaded necklace with big plastic Gumby's on it.

Gumby was not chipped, as I would have guess because we couldn't get that lucky twice in a week. The lady at the pound suggested we leave her there and I suggested she was nuts. Mostly because after seven days the dogs become available for adoption or in most cases available for doggy sleepy meds... the kind where the dog doesn't ever wake up. Also it is against the policy to call us if the owner comes to retrieve the dog. Seven days seems like long enough for the owner to find the dog, unless of corse as I explain to counter lady that thing happens that happened the last time I brought them a dog. The dog was put in the system as a girl collie mix. Which was great and all until owner knocked on my door a few days later (tipped off by a neighbor that said I had his dog) and explained that his dog was not in fact a collie, but a husky and was 100% percent not girl. (that means it was a boy for those of you reading that are not good with math) the guy had been calling the pound for days and not surprisingly not getting anywhere. When I explained this to bitchy counter lady she explained it was the owners job to be a little more proactive. Which I agree and all but I was like "well isn't it also your job to look down below and you know...ummm do a weiner check before you just go deciding that it was a girl and all." And she was like "No." So Gumby and Tom and I left.

Stephanie agreed to keep Gumby for an hour so we could go get some food and figure out how the hell we were going to smash Gumby into our one bedroom apartment with our two other dogs. And how we would deal with it when Henry (the dog) decided to sexualy molest her because Henry is a pervert so it would be inevitable.

And then Steph called and let us know Gumby's owner ran into someone who said we had her and came and got her. And another puppy was saved, and another drinking day was lost, which is ok because I am sure it is just a matter of weeks until this town has another parade to celebrate another foreign holiday! And that time I will wear my I Hate Stray Dogs shirt, and hope they all can read and go find someone else to get them safely home!

A Cry For Help Now On Amazon

It's been almost a year since I published my book. So almost a year later I have some news and some thoughts to share on the topic.

First, My Book Loud Mouth is now available on Amazon. When I published it came with distribution plan that came with the mandatory ISBN. This also gives me the ability to get it in local stores. Why a year later? A divorce, new job, new boyfriend, new house, new puppy, and new outlook on life kept me busy enough to procrastinate my end of the deal. So when I realized it had been almost a year and I should get my butt in gear with final edits and the distribution I got to work. And after the folks at Amazon fiddled around with it for a bit taking it out to lunch, and movies in such, getting to know it a bit and make sure there was no child pornography and military secrets inside they approved it and there I was on the big screen. (Like big computer screen, well depending on the size of your monitor.)

Second, I find now that I have mixed feelings about the book. My writing has grown immensely since I published it, and in some ways find reading the old material to be a bit painful or perhaps even a bit if an embarrassing show of my current works worth. I published the book not as a money making venture but as a way to grab everything I had package it up nicely and be able to hold in my had something I accomplished that was mine. Something I finished.

It's funny because often when I am introduced to people by friends or fellow writers they make the comment "Katie "SELF PUBLISHED" A book." I want to finish the conversation explaining that I also, that day, "Self Showered" "Self Wiped" and "Self Fed" because let's face it I'm not helpless. I've never tried to hide the fact that the book was self published, but at some point I find the humor in people feeling the NEED to attach "self published." I had every intent to self publish this book and never even considered going a different route. I am well aware of the fact anyone can self publish a book. You could type the word shit a million time get it all bound up with a nice cover featuring a cover of a stinky dump and call yourself published. A Writer I used to know would say, self publishing isn't for writers it's for entrepreneurs. I disagree I think it all depends on what the writer is looking to get out of the publishing experience.

So in the end I got what I wanted out of it. I got something that was mine, something with my name on it and my voice in it. Something I could hold in my hand. It might be funny to you, or as a few of my family members described it "Katie's cry for help." Either way I laughed when writing it, and people tend to laugh when they read it so mission accomplished even if I did "self publish"



Check Me Out!

The Things I Don't Post on Here... for Various Reasons

So many times throughout the day I think of things I could be writing about on here. I think of them at work, before work, when waking up, when going to sleep, when I am dreaming, and most funny when I am drinking. For the most part the ideas seem to run straight out of my head. A head that run’s 100,000 a minute, and regardless of the times they have put me on anxiety medicine or Adult ADD medicine they just keep racing by. However, when on the medicine the thoughts still race by and I also get to experience great things such as racing thoughts, and the idea that I could shit myself at any second. Or, racing thoughts, along with nightmares, shortness of breath, nausea or vomiting. The kind of vomiting that does not happen as a result of a bad gag reflex when brushing your teeth, but the kind that makes you pull your car over to heave anywhere but in your lap at 5:00 pm even before you make it to happy hour. Getting my brain to stop or even just slow down is next to impossible for me. So in an active effort not to shit myself, or go even crazier, I opted a few years ago not to take these prescribed medicines. The result; Lots of good ideas lost, lots of lost sleep, and lots of big ideas I never follow through with. Most of all I love it when I wake up from a night of drinking to find words scrawled all over everything in my purse and my body. On my hand it might read “Cousin/Ladder” on the match book I read “library mystery not book” and on the old target receipts I usually find thing like” Fuck you,” “stick it to them,” or “I love hippies because of the Clash= band not the purple and red pants.” Ideas which, at the time I knew were good. And not as in- hey I’m drunk it’s a good idea to kick over mail boxes while simultaneously calling every ex boyfriend I have ever had- but more in the way I can promise each and every one of you that I knew they were good ideas I just forgot them, or how to decipher my notes of them later. Note to reader: this is not all a result of drinking as I often cannot read my sober “to do” lists as they mention things such as: “Socks taken in” “Call Number” Figure this out” and “Dad”.

This is simply how my brain works. Smart enough to come up with things, too stupid to remember to make good notes. Too freaked out to take medicine that potentially makes me brown in my pants.

Regardless of the above issues I notice most recently that I leave out good stories. Stories I want to write about on here but don’t because

1. I forget them
2. I can’t decipher the notes
3. I am so excited to tell another story that I leave a good one out
And #4. most importantly I just don’t think it’s funny enough for you all

I used to write what ever I wanted on here. And now more of you read this. And more importantly, more of you that know me in the real world read this. And some of you read this, and don’t have any idea, I know you read this. So, sharing who “I” am becomes a different story. When ever anyone writes online for a time they develop a “personality.” Something the reader expects to read when they come to the site. And shit, I’m not saying a thousand people come here a day but I know for sure most of you expect some kind of laugh. So I tend to skip the stories that are not necessarily laughable.

So after the longest explanation ever I give you the lost dog story I briefly mentioned yesterday, in order to make room for the “Things On My Tard” story.


I said once before I would never mention my divorce again. Mostly because the whole scenario of the marriage was strange and also because I don’t really believe in airing out some one else’s dirty laundry online. The bottom line being, I was married to a very amazing person who happened to be the opposite of myself in ways in which it just could not possibly work.

One of those differences was apparent the first time I found a lost dog. We were living in a house here in St. Louis and had two dogs of our own. I was outside on the porch smoking, (because I smoke, and yes I should quit, but no I am not going to. Not yet.) I was home alone +2 dogs and I saw a dog wandering around outside. This was a dog that was obviously someone’s. It was groomed well, clean, and well behaved. I got the dog into my backyard. I was careful about doing so, because I am not totally stupid. Stray dog secure in my yard I called the husband. The husband that was responsible, and safe. So safe my family and friends called him “Safety Patrol” and mind you, to his face because my family is loud mouths, and my friends are bitches. He immediately told me how crazy I was and this dog could have rabies or be aggressive, or fleas, or maybe he mentioned herpes but I wasn’t listening at this point, because I didn’t care, all I knew was there was a lost scared dog and he needed his mommy, and more than he needed his mommy I knew somewhere out there his mommy needed him. I hung up with my husband after I suggested we keep him over night to see if anyone was looking for him. He politely declined my offer, mostly because we didn’t even know if this dog was packing heat and he might shoot us in our sleep. Or he could be a trained jewelry stealer and could quite possibly take not only my wedding ring off my finger but manage to coax some other dog into getting my dead grandmothers wedding ring out of the fire proof box that was locked and labeled “Shit you don’t want to steal/dirty socks” that was hidden in the closet under the box of coats, old bills, and porno’s of his my mother found while helping us move in.

This dog was not allowed in my house, and I am not going to say he was wrong because in reality “safety patrol” in his own way was protecting me and our two puppies. Mostly though, he was undermining my ability to make a decision. And more importantly he wanted me to let go someone’s baby.

I sat outside with the dog until a torrential downpour and then I realized, as I sat there watching her-or him (never checked) shake down to the bone that we perhaps had different ideas on life. That I lived for the moment. That even if this dog bit me on my face or mauled me until I was screaming uncle, (even though all my uncles lived in different states and were to far away to hear my calls of mercy,) that I couldn’t leave someone’s baby all alone because I was scared of a little dog herpes, fleas, or bites.

I put the dog on a leash and walked it for over and hour all over my neighborhood. Hoping that at some point it would recognize where it was and lead me to it’s home. When I was soaked, and cold and out of hope I returned home. I did the only thing I could do at that time. I put the dog in my car, against my husbands wishes, and drove it to the shelter. I begged them to call me if they didn’t find the owner, knowing that this wouldn’t work as it is against the policy of 99.9 percent of shelters. I left it there. And I drove home and cried. Cried because someone’s baby was going to spend a night without them, and that could have easily been MY baby. And I did it not because I wanted to, but I did it because of someone else’s fear.

Life is very different now. Yesterday I was at a coffee shop a few miles from my house with Tom. I was getting some work done and he was busy staring out the window because he can stare at things for hours in complete peace, where as I have to have the radio, TV, oven, computer with 40 websites open and a party of people playing twister in my living room before I can get any peace. After a while he left me there to go to the bank. On his way back he found a dog in the street and called me. What follows is proof that my life is different now.

Tom: I was driving and there was this dog in the road.

Me: Go Get Him!

Tom: I have him… he doesn’t have tags.

Me: Be careful… he could be mean (the silly things I learned from “Safety Patrol”)

Tom: No he’s really nice… he’s someone’s dog, someone is missing this guy

Me: Guy? Is the first thing you did was look for weiner? You are such a guy

Tom: Really… what do I do with him? I can’t leave him here

Me: Put him in the car and bring him to me


He did. He did because he loves my babies as much as I do. He did because he isn’t afraid of living, and doing what is right. He did because he knows what love is and what loss is.

Her name was Ginger. I found out when I drove her around looking for a vet to see if she was chipped. Her name was Ginger she was ten years old and walked over fifteen miles form where she lived to where we found her.

As I waited in the car for her owner to come get her I called Tom

Me: Her dad is on the way
Tom: I love you

Me: I love you also

And right before I hung up

Tom: Tell Ginger I love her

Me: You lover her? You don’t even know her…

Tom: Tell Ginger I love her

Then I think I called him dumb or something and hung up. But deep down it felt nice to be with someone who has compassion for all things.

New Website in the Works... Totally PC

I was searching through the site stats on my website today. This, was just after I returned a lost dog to his owner which is another story in itself, or perhaps eight stories in it self because I seem to have this strange knack for finding lost dogs.

So about the stats. I was looking through a list of search words or phrases that people searched for on Google/Yahoo/(Are there still people using ask.com?) My all time favorite being the phrase "Things on My Tard" Yes the keywords "Things on My Tard" lead straight to my website. Strange? Yes! Sad? Yes? Proud? a little: )

I am having a hard time keeping a straight face. The kind of mature adult in me knows there is nothing funny about making fun of retarded kids, but the eighth grader in me cannot resist the chuckle. I keep picturing that website stuffonmycat.com. I just picture a bunch of retarded kids balancing beer cans on their heads, crazy crowns, socks etc...

I am sick... and need help...and perhaps a good beat down.

"Things on My Tard"
Haha

Good thing I earned a few Karma points for the return of the lost dog, I might be able to keep at least one of my toes above the surface of hell!

A whole Lotta Nothing

Things I am up to:

Planning a large fundraiser with some of my favorite people-Because I have a knack for getting involved in things that do NOT make me money or further my career. Which is ok in a way, because I have super fun doing them.

Writing like a crazy person-which is why I am straight out of funny so be for warned this is going to be a boring update

Planning a Summer trip with Tom and a good friend to Hilton Head-It has been far to long since these toes have touched the sand.

Begging my manager at work to trade our stupid host to the Crackle Barrel for an order of biscuits and gravy-I don't even like biscuits and gravy

Spending too much time on facebook

Loving the shit out of these two!

Lazy

And yet another facebook conversation for your enjoyment


10:12pmKatie-dude my boyfriend has a headache and wont go get me chocolate
asshole huh?

10:15pmStephanie- totally
my boyfriend has a job and is out of town
total asshole

10:16pmKatie-we should get new boyfriends... not like NEW but like second boyfriends
so when these are busy we have people to get us stuff

10:16pmStephanie-yeah - I tell "Frank" that all the time and he just doen't think its funny
no sense of humor

10:16pmKatie-that's ridiculous
I bet your second boyfriend would think it's funny
maybe my second boyfriend will be made of chocolate doughnuts...


Katie Lauren

Excuse me miss, are you our waiter?

Life is so much more productive when one decides to give up the sauce. I have picked up a few unfinished projects that have been begging to be resurrected for the past few years. One of which is a book written by myself and a friend years ago. After pulling it out and rereading it I came to the conclusion that I am damn funny and she is even funnier. She also is way better at grammar and doesn’t use words like funnier. The book is begging to be published, which is leading me down the long road of finding an agent. The problem with this, being my patience is equal to that of a three year old sitting through a formal Catholic Mass. The idea of throwing our shit out there and waiting weeks and weeks and even more weeks for what will inevitably be a string of rejections is enough to send me into a full blown panic attack. I am just simply not a waiter. Which, is in fact funny to think about as I type this because my profession is called Waiting. Which, actually is even funnier as I write this because there is really no “waiting” involved at all in serving tables, unless you count me waiting for you to get your ass up and out of the restaurant.
We have also begun the planning of a large fundraising event involving many of my favorite local comedians and performers. Mostly, because I have a huge knack for involving myself in work that does not pay the bills. It will be a cold day in hell when I figure out how to keep doing what I love and actually make enough money doing it that I can dump a pitcher of Ice Tea on an unsuspecting subject while simultaneously shoving a hamburger up some jerks ass, therefore making myself a retired server FOREVER!

I am working on the idea that I perhaps, need to set some goals that perhaps, do not have instant gratification. Or at least get used to the idea that sometimes in grown up life you actually have to WAIT for what you want.

Perhaps I could start with leaning how to grasp the proper use of a comma. Because, let’s face it unless it follows the words however or although or is found breaking up a list of items I really have no idea what I’m doing.

Katie Lauren

Vodka

Dear Vodka,

None of this is going to be easy for me to say, and I am sure, as well, it will not be easy for you to hear. I am sure you have noticed I have not been around for a multiple days now. I would imagine, knowing how your mind works, that you think this has something to do with Mardi Gras. Vodka, it doesn’t, in fact I was pleasantly surprised at how well you behaved yourself during that entire day.
See, it’s just without you I seem to get so much more done. I wake up before noon, I write, I read, and I don’t constantly have vomit crawling up my esophagus trying desperately to see the light of day. And, lets face it you are no cheap date. You are running me dry. Besides the idea of spending my money on a nice fat vacation lying on the beach in the sun over powers my desire to drink you, say stupid shit and fall on my face, you can call me stupid I know that seem irrational. I do realize that you go hand in hand with my job of waiting on folks, and more often than not servers count on you and your family (ie beer, wine, Tuacca and Jager) to get them through one last night, but I just cannot do it anymore.
Perhaps it would be best to say I have grown out of you. Or gotten too old for you. Or maybe more so, that you bore me. I hate the way you make my face look after I’ve spent sometime with you. And I hate waking up after a night with you and realizing that once again you erased my memory enough so that I can’t remember where the bruises on my leg came from, but not enough to be well aware that I said stupid shit.
I know this isn’t coming as a surprise to you as we have spent less and less time together in the past year or so. And trust me it’s not like we can’t still be friends. I mean I don’t mind seeing you from time to time, but the serious relationship just isn’t working for me anymore. Let’s say we get together on holidays and special occasions?

I will never forget you. I will never forget the time you gave me the courage to get up on stage and read the first time, or the time you gave Tom the courage to put the moves on me (the older woman) in a very childish way. I think back to the first time I stole you from my friend’s parents liquor cabinet, or how after a long day of teaching children, you managed to make everything funny. You are a talented friend Mr. Vodka, a talented friend.

I realize that leaving you means we will have a few things to split up. You may keep the friends that I only saw when you were around. Truthfully I believe you were the only thing we ever had in common anyway. I will keep the pictures from when we were together because shit, some of those are funny. You can have the hangovers. I do however get Tom, because with or without you that guy keeps me laughing and makes me goofy, and he’s a lot cheaper than you.

In simpler terms you were getting in my way of world domination.

Love,
Katie