October 19, 2015

Naked and Unshamed

Playboy is getting rid of their nude photos.  I guess I'm going to have to find another way to support free speech without my clothes on.  

My First Nudie Pic

That's me and Linda Sir at Seven Sacred Pools in Maui.
She accused me of desecrating it when she saw little poops float by.  

October 12, 2015

Happy Columbus Day!

My dad was Cherokee.  His father was allegedly full Cherokee, and his mother probably half.  Her mother, Great-grandma Teeters claimed to not be Native American, but she has been described to me by different people as, "The most Indian looking woman you had ever seen."  

The story I've heard about dad's family history is this:

Grandpa Adams was a bootlegger.  He and granny ran off from Oklahoma to Los Angeles in order to evade law enforcement.  The feds found them and, because it was wartime, offered Grandpa this deal:  prison or the navy.  Grandpa chose the navy.  Then he worked at the General Motors plant.

My dad had blue eyes.  I asked my aunt about this after he died, and she explained that we come from a slutty, slutty people.  Other tribes in Oklahoma make fun of the Cherokee because so many of them are blond and blue eyed. 

...and that, children, is the story of how Christopher Columbus brought syphilis back from the New World.  

Dr. Sam Adams (1946-2007)

Linda Sir's Monkey Butler

I'm mom's chemotherapy date today.  

As I was bringing back lunch from the cafeteria, I chatted with a woman in the elevator who said, "I would hate to have my kids take care of me."  I snorted and said, "She loves it!  She gets to have me as her servant all day."  

I told my mom who decided that she must be a horrible woman to not want to make monkey butlers out of her kids.  At least, that's how I interpreted, "Can you get me some tea, honey?"

My mom, whom I also call "Linda Sir", has ovarian cancer and is currently in a clinical trial that helps prevent the tumor from growing.  So far, her labs have been stable, but today we found out that the tumor grew a little.  

Her chemo treatments take all day, so I found her some reading material in case she gets bored.  

"Oh my, well, now what do we have here?"
"Heaven's to Betsy!"

October 11, 2015

Natural Woman

June 2015
Me without makeup and my natural hair color.

October 2015
...and back to being a painted strawhead.
This was my look from 1995-2015

October 10, 2015

My Top Banana

Does this banana look weird to you?  Is it supposed to be this straight?  

Maybe I've just forgotten what bananas are supposed to look like.  

Yes, that is a wiener joke making fun of my nonexistent love life.  Sometimes a cigar is just a penis.

Get some ID- that banana is barely ripe!

Ingenue:  "My name is Banana.  I took a bus out here from Nebraska in hopes of becoming famous!"
Pencil Mustache:  "Would you like to be in the pictures, kid?  I can make you a star!"
Ingenue:  "Yes!  I would do anything to make it!"
Pencil Mustache:  "Anything?  Slowly unpeel yourself for me..." words. 

Official Code of Conduct for Aunt Kathleen's' Story Time.

My brother's kids like my stories.  They all take place in the Hawaiian Islands and are about spies, a naked robber, a sassy sea turtle who says, "Aloha baby", a mongoose with a fetish for cross-dressers, suicidal boars, hula dancers, weapons, an evil monkey, and cameo appearances by their baby sister.  

Our snuggle position is I am on the couch, and they climb on top of me.  Then as I tell stories, they interrupt and scream at each other, and at some point, I get kicked in the boob.  Then I order the older one to get me a cup of coffee, because the kid makes really good coffee.  

Last story time, we decided we should have rules before proceeding.  I'm considering adopting these rules in all areas of my life.  

Rule #2 applies to ALL of you!
Rules of Story Time

1.)  No innteruptshins unless Kathleen says you can.  
(And your innteruptshin must be asome.)

2.)  Most important:  No farting on Kathleen's lap.  Or else!

3.)  No papa.

4.)  No getting mad.

Coffee offers are wellcome.
The coffee store is open forever.

October 9, 2015

Chapter Three: The Seating

Three:  The Seating
Fifty people were crammed into the lobby of the detox center hoping to get one of the six warm beds.  I knew that if I couldn't stay, I would never return.  In desperation, I began rocking in my chair, and it worked!  They noticed me, and I got to stay seated while the riff raff shuffled out.
Surprisingly, detox ended up being the most fun I had had in years.  All around me were intelligent people with depth and understanding.  Well-read high school dropouts spoke eloquently, and there was much generosity and kindness.
A few days in, I got into an argument with my mother over the phone and lost my temper.  Right after I slammed down the receiver, I heard a voice say, “Kat!  Kat!” and looked up to see the cook standing across the room, trying to get my attention.  He looked worried and asked, “Are you alright?”
Remembering that question always brings tears to my eyes.  My life didn't feel like it was worth much to anyone, and no one was proud of me for being there.  Yet I had value because he cared about my well-being, regardless of whether or not I behaved perfectly.  When he held out his arms for a hug, I collapsed into them sobbing.
The days at the detox were a blur of chain-smoking and socializing.  Most people had a treatment plan upon release and were genuinely excited about turning their lives around.  I didn't even know what a treatment plan was, but I knew that a check had arrived for me in the mail.  When asked what I would do after detox, I enthusiastically replied, “I am going to get high!” and meant it.
Most addicts stay about five days to a week, but my counselor forgot about me and went on vacation.  When she returned, she did not know why I was still there.  Later she was fired for having relapsed, which was not surprising because what junkies do best is forget.  Life becomes a blur, and memories do not get made.  Nothing matters worth retaining, and the body becomes busy trying to keep the respiratory system from shutting down.  A couple of times toward the end, I had breathed in and realized after a minute that nothing had come out.  In other words, overdosed.
My counselor’s misfortune became my blessing because it wasn't until day ten that I conceded to being more than just a junkie, but an alcoholic as well.  Admitting that I was a drug addict meant that I had to give up drugs, including cocaine.  I love cocaine.  She’s a mean little drug though, handing out only twenty minutes of heaven for a day's worth of despair.
Giving up alcohol meant a complete change in lifestyle and even more separation from others.  Being called “unique” throughout my life was never the compliment it was intended to be.  I was sick of being everybody’s snowflake, and drinking helped me fit in.  It was also causing problems which made a “drinking problem” pretty hard to reason my way out of.  Admittance was incredibly difficult, and the denial felt thick inside, needing forcing through.  That moment was the turning point for me.
I have heard so many times, "You have to want recovery." and maybe there is some merit to it, but it seems like a lot people there wanted it, and only two people got it- one of whom is me.  Recovery had certainly not been on my Christmas list.  What I truly wanted was a lower tolerance and a pound of tar.  My ideal was for life to go on as it was, where I could continue the bar scene with my friends and escape into a whirlwind social life, where I still felt alone, but not after I drank enough.

October 8, 2015

Monkeying Around

I'm on a deadline to complete a writing project.  In order to focus, I've imprisoned myself in my apartment for the next thirty-six hours with the sole purpose of working.

I've done what I can to limit distractions, including cleaning the kitchen and stocking up on caffeine.  


Here's me not writing.  

Instead, I'm taking photos of myself as I try to find a way to eat a banana that doesn't look "sexual".

Hey there, big boy.
Airplane hanger is all cleared for landing!  

Know what we should collaborate on?
 "Fast Times at Ridgemont High:  The Musical!"
Dunno what made me just think of that.

When I was done aping a chimpanzee (feel free to boo that pun), I put on the cat ears.  That means it's time to buckle down and get to work because I invented a rule: while I'm wearing them, I'm required to write the entire time.  Cat ears mean Katt gets down to business.  
...and not monkey business!    

October 4, 2015

A Public Service Announcement

It has come to my attention that I am the blogger with the highest percentage of good-looking readers.  It's just a fact based on objective observation.   

So if any of you are struggling with addiction, I ask you to please consider getting sober. 

For vanity's sake.  

Going to school in Germany

("Chiva" is Mexican slang for heroin.)

A couple days ago.  

("Chiva" is Mexican slang for heroin.)

October 1, 2015

I Prefer Black Schtick


My dad died eight years ago today.  He had a heart attack, hung out in his brain dead body for a week, then was transferred back to his place so that he could die at home.  

At 6:55pm, my brother said, "That's weird, there's a hawk just walking around on the ground outside.  I've never seen them do that before."  I looked over, and it was a few feet away, pacing outside the patio doors.  Then it stopped and looked at us.  

Behind me, I heard my dad's partner Dawn yell "No! No! NO!"  I turned my head, and saw brown stuff coming out of his mouth.  That was the first time I saw that amazing phenomenon of death, where my own father transformed into a stranger before my eyes.

Later, I asked a Native American about the hawk, and she said, "Yep, messenger of the soul."  My dad was Cherokee.

Despite my dad having an IQ of 148 and piles of certifications and degrees, he still said "warsh" instead of "wash".  That drove me nuts.  Also, he would spend thousands of dollars on clothes, but always wear the same outfit:  light blue Levi's jeans, sneakers, a white turtleneck, and a sweatshirt.  (I bet he had to warsh it every day.)

His schtick annoyed me to no end, but when he wasn't randomly putting boxes on my head or making up bread puns, he had a quick wit.

Like, once this guy referred to a movie my dad liked as a "chick flick".  My dad fired back, "Well, I like it, so that makes it a dick flick!"

Aw papa.  Mwah!  I miss our dinner conversations where the two of us would bounce a dialogue back and forth for hours, while everyone else sat around silent and bored.  

Later that day, we drank cocoa, and watched a Disney dick flick.    

September 30, 2015


After fifteen years apart, I finally found my Icelandic friend Oli.  Do you realize how difficult it is finding an Icelander?  They're the most homogenetic people on the planet.  It's like looking for a piece of hay in a haystack.  

We met at college in Germany.  I was drawn to him because he was the best-looking person I had ever seen, with the kind of Nordic looks that would give Hitler a boner.  But, soon he became Oli, and looks no longer mattered.  He was brilliant, kind-hearted, and had a childlike wonder that gave him the clarity to see me as I was.  Perhaps this is why he was the first person I confided to that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, specifically, an autobiographical one. 

It sounded as embarrassingly impractical as saying that I want to be a princess when I grow up, but Oli didn't flinch.  Instead, he became the first person to believe in me.  
He didn't just believe in me though- he would laugh at my jokes and say things like, "There's something about Kat."  He would listen to me in a way that made me feel interesting, like I had something worth saying.  Normally, I felt like a loser scraping by, but his influence left me feeling like I could actually be somebody.  I began writing for hours every night, and haven't stopped since.
I suppose writing is just in my nature, but Oli is the reason why I started.  When I recently found him, and he responded, there was a familiarity present, like we had said farewell last week instead fifteen years ago.  In my heart, it feels like one of the rooms that was dark has been filled with light again.  Maybe that's how we know who our real friends are in life- in their absence, we save their rooms for when they come back.  
He's married with kids now, of course, because you people keep growing up whether I want you to or not.  I've been kind enough to preserve myself in time. 

Me today.
He's married with kids now, of course, because you people keep growing up whether I want you to or not.  I've been kind enough to preserve myself in time.  
Me 20

Me 19
Me 35
Oli has pneumonia, so I made him a card. 

Heh...I'm a Card.

I used to write Nathan Malachowski "I don't not love you" letters.  They sounded something like this:


I'm not sick of you.  Your presence doesn't make me vomit.  I hope you don't burn to death in a bathhouse fire.  I'm not dreading seeing you again.

Not hate,

Yeah, I'm a cut up. 

My friend from Iceland has pneumonia so I made him a card:
Specifically, rotten shark.
But my best work was when my BFF got laid off, so I sent her this:
While you're at it, get a haircut! 

It's Not Easy Being Green...

You know how people rave about the wonders of kombucha?  (hippies.)  I'm going to show you exactly what it tastes like.  

"Green sludge and vinegar?  Sounds like a taste sensation!"

"omg...Son of a monkey's uncle!!!"

"Why would you do this to me?  
What kind of monsters are you?"
I kombuched the kombucha.  

September 27, 2015

Finding the Dragon

I have slowly been organizing the photos and mementos that were stored at my mom's house.  Among the piles was this little guy:

It's an old karaoke slip.  Andy and I loved doing karaoke.  

Notice how it's all burnt up?  That's from smoking heroin.  It's called "chasing the dragon".  We were under the impression that it was less dangerous or addictive when smoked.  Growing up during the Nancy Reagan "Just say no!" era was the drug education equivalency of teaching abstinence only sex education to teenagers. 

See that little shiny nugget?

That's black tar heroin that got stuck on the slip.  Either that or the residue- I wasn't interested in getting close enough to find out.  

There was a period of experimentation before addiction when things were still fun.  A lot of kids smoked heroin with us, then stopped and went on to become lawyers and social workers.  Most of them liked it way more than I did.  I don't know why Andy and I couldn't put it down like they could- addiction is just weird like that.  Sometimes I wonder if he was still alive, would he be sober now too?

This is on the back of the slip.  Andy drew it:

 It says, "You are my sunshine."

Pipe Dreams

When I was a baby, my dreams were simple:  be cute, eat food, and get my BM taken care of. 

I was such a little stinker.
 Then I read some platitude about reaching for the stars, so in my early teens, I decided that I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.

Auditioning for the part of the constipated girl.

Then I went off to college, and my life revolved around boys, classes, and sucking at John Barleycorn's sweet teat.

Me with my beloved.

Then life got simple again.  All I wanted was food, some delicious heroin, and the occasional baby laxative in my cocaine so that I could have a BM.
They call it "Heroin Chic".  More like "Heroin Shit".

Then at thirty-five, I finally grew up, got practical, and decided that the most logical career path was "famous writer".  

Me hard at work writing poop jokes. 
My neighbors blast pirated Christian music at all hours.  In order to communicate, they have to yell over it.  I've complained too many times, so now I just relocated my office.  

This is me sitting in my (dry) bathtub.  When I'm no longer able to "rock with the flock", I grab a pillow, and banish myself to my porcelain think tank and close the curtain.  It's so quiet and dark in there that I can focus for hours.  

That's the purple bathrobe I wore the night before detox.  I wear it when I need to believe that my dreams aren't stupid and impossible. 

September 24, 2015

Drinks on Me!

I redecorate my apartment every equinox.  For spring and summer, I use light teals and accent with dark reds.  For fall and winter, I do the opposite.  My favorite color has been red for as long as I can remember.  My guess?  I've probably got the bloodlust.

Or, it could be because growing up, dark red was usually the most delicious seletion.  Dark red candy meant cherry or strawberry- and strawberry is my favorite flavor.  Orange, lime, and lemon are like shitty consolation prizes.  

Anyway, I needed dark red for my coaster set that doubles as photo frames, so I used the pictures from my knee surgery.  They're so disgusting, I gag when I walk by the table.    

I'm not especially worried about what my guests will think because I'm just about the only person I know who actually uses coasters.   

I checked,- not strawberry flavored.

September 23, 2015

Happy Spinster Day!

I'm sick of not getting a complimentary flower on Mother's Day.  What about the women who couldn't get a husband if their lives depended on it?  Where are our flowers?  Where are our anniversary presents of jewelry and romantic vacation packages?  

In the past, I would have just said, "Up my butt with a coconut."  But, ever since I turned thirty-five, I've decided that I'm a grown up and can do whatever I want.  So I told my BFF that from now on, we are celebrating Spinster Day.

How exactly do we celebrate Spinster Day?  By doing whatever we damn well please!  (And cursing while doing it.)  

Happy Spinster Day, buttasses!

Because we can, suckers!  

September 20, 2015

If Your Day Is Long, and You Want to Ride On..

You know what I love?  Cocaine.  The first time I did it, I thought, "Whew!  Now THIS is my drug!", then I pulled Andy aside because I was fascinating, and he needed to know my opinion on chairs.  Twenty minutes later, I was back to normal, ready to do another line, and it was gone.  My opinion of chairs suddenly changed, and I wanted to throw them across the room in rage.

Cocaine became a weekend hobby, and soon enough, it was just always around.  That was the music scene in the early 2000's though.  Instead of bongs, parties had coke rooms.  Everyone was sweet on the booger sugar.  Since the eighties, the quality had been increasing, and prices dropping, so it was no longer a rich kid's drug.

My nose started bleeding too frequently, so I mainlined cocaine instead.  Few thing are as uncomfortable as visiting a friend to do some lines, as she casually goes in the next room to shoot up her share.  Even now, my nose bleeds frequently, especially around dusty bookshelves.

Kill the Messanger

 My lack of texting and messaging protocol causes me deep shame, and I appreciate those of you who tolerate it.  My color bubble will be a yard long, then several inch sized ones.  Only women and guys who still find me a novelty read those.  

Once I'm yesterday's news, men just delete without reading them.  How do I know?  I was a middle child in a nutty home.  We always sense neglect- it's where we thrive.

You know what though?  I'm a writer- they should be so lucky to get a free sample of my work.  You're welcome, assmunchers.  

September 10, 2015

Ow! My Lady Wiener!

I just had knee surgery.  Since I had to throw out my pain medication because it was trying to Shanghai me and turn me into a ghost hooker, it has been an uncomfortable week.  
Yesterday I was sitting on the futon binge watching “The Fall”, and I suddenly felt something downstairs, in my pee chamber.  I went to the bathroom and discovered that not only did I have some major kidney stones, but I had not noticed them on their southern journey.  That’s concerning.  Maybe the whole area finally went on strike after years without a love-life.  Sigh.  Being chronically insulted by male rejection is one of my charming trademarks.  
Meh.  Even I'm not that into me. 
I continued birthing my private gemstone collection on and off for a few hours, then ran out of liquids that aren’t tap water, so I drove myself to the store to buy some diet cranberry juice.  I hate drinking water- HATE IT.  I would rather eat vegetables.

When I sat down in the car, a feral black cat came out of nowhere, jumped on me, and ran off.  I screamed, and no one cared.  Sigh.  In the distance, I heard the cat cackling, as it shapeshifted into the Witch of Spinster Future, and across the face of the moon was the silhouette of her on her broom.  
Today I feel the stones in me.  I get several at a time, and I have heard women say that they hurt worse than childbirth, which I will just have to take their word for.
A few minutes ago, a stout maintenance guy who looked like Wilford Brimley wearing Jeffrey Dahmer's eyeglasses came by to do a scheduled routine check of the overhead sprinklers in my apartment...and he was flirty. I laughed at his joke that wasn't funny, and now I feel cheap. Like a Shanghai-ed ghost hooker.

September 6, 2015

No-Budget Porno

I'm still stuck at home recovering from knee surgery.  I thought I had bought two weeks worth of food, but I forgot that I have to be force fed vegetables.  It turns out, I had five days worth of food, plus garnish.  

Today I ordered a pizza.  Let me try that again.  Today I ordered two pizzas.  Normally the delivery guy is a rotund, middle-aged, peg-legged gentleman in Dahmer glasses. 

And normally, I look like this:

Taken yesterday.
For comparison, this is Jenna Jameson, most celebrated female porn star in history:
Also, most celebrated pizza delivery customer.
This is what greeted the adorable, twenty-four year old, lanky dreamboat who brought my pizza: 

He was about a foot taller than I am and smelled like delicious pizza.
Our sexy dialogue went like this:

Pizza delivery kid:  Hey, you really know how to order pizza!  You got the apple pies and the chocolate-chip brownies too.

Katt:  Shut up.