I've just seen a face, I can't forget the time or place where we just met

Two people meet. They share an intense, inexplicable but undeniable chemistry. They explore the cosmic bond for as long as reason will allow, then they part ways. They're young, they figure. There will be more intense, inexplicable but undeniable chemistry. It's okay to let it go. Right?

I guess that depends on how much you value happiness.

I had that kind of instant bond once. It was pure magic, every second we spent together was paramount. As a mega-b*tch, I'd never experienced such pure joy from the company of another before then -- and nothing since has come close.

So who is this amazing "one who got away"?

My puppy Lucy. She was a 6-week old baby Basset Hound when my dad and kid sister and I wandered into the pet store. We saw her through the window and her soft brown eyes spoke to my soul. We asked to see her in the pen, something we had never done before in my entire life. As soon as they put her in my arms, it was all over. I had to have her. She belonged to me already, we were inextricably linked by some cosmic force -- to leave her behind would have been to leave a piece of myself behind. Ly knew it. Dad knew it. The only person who didn't know it was mom, but that's just because she hadn't joined us in our aimless rambling through the mall. We didn't bother to call home and warn -- instead, I carried my baby out of the store and into our home, placing her on the bed where my mom was napping.

Mom, wake up! Look who's here!
... Is that a rabbit?

She was so sweet, my little Lucy. Her ears were so awkward and long and her little legs were so short and stubby that when she was little, she would trip on them when she walked. They fell into the water bowl as she drank, and afterwards you could follow her path through the house because there were two parallel watermarks. Climbing the stairs was the cutest -- she'd trip and fall on those Dumbo ears all the way upstairs. I wanted to call her Margo or Sadie, but we chose Ly's name, Lucy, because of her ridiculous loose skin, to represent both the sweet and the misbehaved sides of her (Lucifer? no?), and because of the diamond-shaped freckle in her eye. Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

Oh, what a baby. I was about to start college, but my parents said they'd keep her until I graduated, when I could have her to myself, wherever I ended up.

Three days before the end of my freshman year of college I was laid up in my room with mono. I tried to study, but there was no point -- I was on the brink of death (curse you, Anonymous!). My phone rang. My parents and my younger sister were on the line. Something was wrong. Lucy had been hit by a neighbor's car, and killed instantly. She didn't feel any pain. There was nothing they could do. She was gone.

There are no words for the sorrow that caused me. Nothing has ever hit me that hard. Devastated, I took the car my sister and I shared and drove the 8 hours home. When I got to my house it was past midnight, but I couldn't muster the strength to go inside for at least an hour. I collapsed, sobbing, on my driveway. My baby wasn't there to jump up against the door to greet me; I couldn't kiss her ears; she couldn't run into my lap. She was gone.

Fast-forward 5 years.

For no apparent reason, I open CraigsList. For the first time, I see a "Pets" link. I click; I peruse. I pass over puppy after puppy. Cute, I think. It's what I always think when I see a dog. I love dogs.

But then...


And there he is. Crash. A 4-month-old Beagle/Basset mix. He has Lucy's face. He has all of her coloring, actually. He's like a taller, sensible-eared version of my baby. And I love him. His eyes speak to me the same way hers did. Bubby is burned in my brain and I can't forget him.

Erol punched me in the face when I showed him.

Go f*ck yourself, Kate. Everyone knows my rugs are worth more than your happiness. Now, please excuse me while I trip old women and steal candy from small children.

Heartless b*stard.

Sure, maybe sometimes I forget to feed myself. And sometimes I go out and don't come home. And yeah, I leave for work in the morning and don't get back to the apartment 'til like 8 or 9 at night 5 days a week. I may or may not be the world's worst potential pet owner.

But I've just seen a face I can't forget. This is my second great love and I just can't have him.

So, to sum up 2008 thus far:

• I was forced to flee from what became a terrifying housing situation -- that one came with a 50% rent increase (oof);
• I was dumped unceremoniously by the most skilled mind-f*cker who ever lived;
• I have been victimized all over my hood by pretend muggings, verbal assault of a sexual nature and Beverly Hills Chihuaha previews;
• I fainted 3 times in a bar;
  
• I was labeled a spinster by my peers; and
  
• the Universe dangled the dog of my dreams in front of me years before I've achieved the emotional maturity or responsibility to get it.
  

On the bright side, I learned how to grill fish and I discovered the glory that is Chaka at Boundless Yoga.

Anyway, Crash needs somebody to love so I'm giving him what publicity I can:

Learn more about Crash here!

Crash is a great puppy looking for a new home. Friendly and playful towards, people, kids and other dogs, Crash is a medium energy, calm guy. He loves long walks, a good car ride and cuddle time with his people! Sound like a fit for your home?

Breed Estimate: Beagle hound mix

Gender: male

Approximate weight: 26 pounds

Approximate age: 16 weeks

Location: Williamsburg

Cratetrained: yes

Coat Type: short

Personality: calm and easy going, medium energy

How can you resist that face??

beverly hills chi-kill-me

I went to see Wall-e the other day -- as a female, I find it nearly impossible not to see the latest Disney movie -- and I'm watching the previews when someone threw a huge pile of dog sh*t in my face. Seriously, it was putrid.

Look, I got it on film:



Disgusting, right?

Okay but then the greatest thing in the entire world happened, something that makes me feel more connected to my fellow web-Americans than anything since the 2Girls1Cup reaction videos: Beverly Hills Chihuahua reaction videos.

Behold, and enjoy:



aaaaaaand...



aaaaaaand...



Love it. Love it!

things I couldn't have made up

This morning a guy I know told me about his intentions to get married.

That's great! You know, I didn't even know you were in a relationship.

Oh, I'm not. I'm getting married to myself.

I spent the next 20 minutes learning all about the benefits of self-marriage.

Oh, you can still get married to someone else after you marry yourself. It's just about loving and accepting the life you already have. I mean, how can you commit to someone else unless you've committed to yourself first?

I don't know, man, but I think I can spare myself the embarrassment of standing alone at an altar before all my friends and family dressed up as the saddest bride who ever was. Think: The Joker goes bridal.





*Shudder*

He then presented me with a book called QuirkyAlone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics. Flipping through (which, incidentally, was full of quizzes he filled out and passages he had highlighted -- TMI, buddy), I couldn't help but think about how misguided the whole concept is. Once the author lands a man, she'll be writing QuirkyClingy: Why Relationships With Others (Including, But No Longer Limited To, My Cats Fluffy and Tinkerbell) Are The Most Important Thing In The World.

As I returned the book I commented that the book, although super fun due to its occasional use of handwriting-fonts and celebrity quotes (bullet... through... brain...), gave me more of a feeling of depression than empowerment.

Kate, it's okay to be single! It's great! Just think about how many great, attractive single people there are out there -- in the world, and just in this city alone! You have to commit to yourself and accept that you're here on your own.

Eek, I guess I've made one too many self-deprecating jokes around this guy. I might whine a little, but that's more my sense of humor than anything -- I fully understand that the reason I'm alone is because I don't want that kind of intensity in my life just yet. I'm cool with the status quo, but apparently I've been labeled the bitter spinster, which is interesting because I'm twenty-f*cking-four. How has this guy already sorted me into his "Hopeless" file?


We spinsters-in-training don't give up on everyone else's dream of romantic bliss until we hit 35. Then we throw a huge I Give Up party officially taking ourselves off Der Laden of Liebe and resign ourselves to a one-bedroom apartment in a building without limits on how many cats we can have. I'm gonna get whole litters at a time, and then join a book club. Cats... books... life is good. Anyway, look out for that invitation sometime in 2019. Oh, and your bratty kids aren't invited. Get a sitter.

Or maybe it doesn't have to be an I Give Up party, it could just be a wedding... to myself. Or a cat wedding, I could get little tuxedos and veils and put them on Wiggles and Kitty-Face and have mini gay and lesbian cat weddings. Yay, social justice! Man, I can't wait for my 30s.

U Street Blues.

I live sort of in the "hood," right. I mean, not really, but U Street is no Foggy Bottom. I've lived in this city for half a decade without ever running into any problems and suddenly I've found myself in situation after situation to the point where I don't feel comfortable walking the one block to my local liquor store, sometimes even in broad daylight. Good news for my liver, bad news for my state of mind. It sucks to be afraid of your neighbors. It sucks to be afraid of strangers on the street. It sucks to feel like you have to change your route because you see a man further down the block. It sucks to call 9-1-1 on a teenager outside your house. It sucks to put serious thought into buying mace.

Mace, as it turns out, is very confusing: much like I'm not sure what situation warrants someone harassing and assaulting me, I'm not sure what situation warrants me spraying mace in their eyes. And how useful is a tiny can of mace when faced with that group of 5-10 huge teenage boys who loiter outside my apartment every day? If something happens in that environment, I'm sh*t out of luck. I'd need to be Bruce f*cking Wayne to get out of trouble. Save me, Batman! Maybe there's something to that -- an alter-ego that involves a body-hugging bullet-proof costume. Or maybe that's just schizophrenia.

I was telling my mom about how I had to call the cops on a guy who had purposely scared me, then laughed about it with his friends. Erol came home 10 minutes after I did, all upset because he had witnessed them doing what they had done to me to some other girls on the corner. I got away okay, but the guy actually touched this other girl. Not okay, dude.

"You know what bothers me?" I mused to my mother. "When I first got home, I felt bad about my reaction. When that boy turned around and came towards me I was scared to death, and I showed it. I gave him this look of sheer hatred, total contempt -- I hated him before he even had a chance to say anything lewd to me, before he could touch me, before anything more could happen. It must be so damaging to that kid. He's what, 17? 18? And white women are terrified of him. We hate him. And yet, he was assaulting me. He was trying to upset me and potentially, trying to hurt me physically. He could have stolen from me or hit me or raped me. Anything. He knew he had that power to make me fearful, and he was exploiting it. That's wrong, and yet my reaction was to feel bad about what a racially insensitive *sshole I am. It makes no sense."

"Imagine how victims of rape must feel," she said. "Hold on to that empathy."

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to deal with the constant cat-calling, or how I'm supposed to feel comfortable walking through that group of teenagers who get drunk and high every day and loiter in the street. I resent that I'm afraid to leave my yard by myself, even to walk to the metro or to a good place to catch a cab. But I can't hold on to this fear of strangers forever. And I don't want to contribute to the already pervasive racial tension that dominates the mood of my neighborhood. I shouldn't have to feel afraid; likewise, my neighbors shouldn't have to feel like second-class citizens "allowed" to live where they do by the generosity of state assistance.

Ah, the politics of home. Who knew it'd come to be so complicated?

oh hai universe

Sometimes I worry that I spend too much time on introspection. It's completely involuntary, is the thing. Or maybe I just drink too much red wine. I do tend to search for my soul at the bottoms of Malbec bottles. But I find that when I'm not conscious of it, I'm a drifter, that I tend to let things happen to me and react instead of looking for what it is that I want. And crazy sh*t happens to me, so a typical Thursday afternoon finds me covered in saliva and cursing at strangers in the street. My apartment filled almost exclusively with Erol's things is the only thing that really distinguishes me from a homeless person. ... Nice.

I won't dish the deets, but I found myself curled up in my front stoop this afternoon, watching the rain with my favorite friends: Red Wine and My Thoughts. At one point My Thoughts deserted me (Red Wine and My Thoughts have an ongoing fued, usually resulting in the total obliteration of My Thoughts) and a song I haven't heard in years started playing in my head.

I came inside to search for it on YouTube. Behold, the fruits of my labor:



No big deal, but this is probably the most deliciously depressing song ever written -- it seems a little cruel to give people a blackscreen to stare at. It's basically a mirror. You've got this depressing music, you're staring at your own image... you're searching for more Red Wine...

waca waca waca?

I got pretend mugged this morning. Pretend mugged. You get that? Someone violated my personal space, threatened me with physical violence and demanded my money -- but they "was just playin'," so it's all good. Hilarious, *sshole.

It's 8:40 am, I'm coming up on 16th St on T. I'm gabbing away to my mom about how yoga is the new "not having a TV" when this guy a few feet away starts walking towards me and saying something I can't understand.

"Great, another drug-addled mind," I'm thinking. "This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs."

More jibberish. I'm not understanding him -- I'm a little distracted:

"Jesus, this man only has two teeth!! Oh, that is unfortunate. And disgusting. How does that come to be? And how the devil does he eat?"

Outwardly: "Excuse me?"

"B*tch, give me all your money before I slap the sh*t out of you!" He starts walking directly at me, faster than before, raising his right arm above his head as if to hit me.

Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing at this point. I just remember staring at this toothless man thinking "Tuesdays are the worst. God, seriously, how do you live with only your incisors? This guy probably lives on milkshakes and apple sauce singles. Less crack, more flossing, dude."

"Aaaaaaaaaah, I'm just playin'!" he says, breaking out into laughter. At this point I notice his girlfriend a few feet away; her teeth are also bad, she may/may not be homeless. She's laughing hysterically. He's laughing hysterically. Everyone is laughing hysterically. Except me. Maybe it's the stick up my *ss, but I don't think threatening strangers with physical violence is all that funny.

"DUDE! List of things that are not funny!" I yell at him angrily and return to my phone conversation with my mother.

Mom: "What's going on, did someone throw a tomato at you?"

...

I can't even begin to consider the reasons she might have heard an altercation on my end of the line and thought that someone threw a tomato at me. Frankly, I don't want to. It's disturbing.

At least as disturbing as someone pretending to mug me. What's the joke there?

Hi, I'd like to play off existing racial and socioeconomic stereotypes, make light of physical violence and street crime, and scare the sh*t out of you first thing in the morning!

Right, well, with all due respect, sir, I'd like you not to.