August 31, 2015


This is right outside my therapist's office.  Do you see it?  

I'm the only one who sees it, aren't I.  
Look closer...

I envy that sidewalk.
Here you go.  Please feel free to use this photo for making jokes about large penises.  I insist.  

So that no one is left out, besides women, here's one for those with small penises:

August 22, 2015

Love Cruise

When it was time to go to bed, Andy and I would call it "Cruisin' for a Snoozin'".  

I just found a love letter I wrote him while he was sleeping, and I know it's a love letter because that's how I addressed it in the subject line.  

It's dated January 16th, 2003:

Dear Andy,

Good morning!  It's a bit past 6am, and I still can't sleep.  I woke up around 3am and was wide awake.  It's too chilly in the house during the night.  My feet are purple.

You look so snuggly right now, and you smell good.  (Next to this is a drawing of him looking snuggly.)  I keep kissing your head.  Thank you for driving me to work every day.  Sorry I ruined dinner last night.  I wanted to make it special too.  (Frowny face.)...

I'm being good.  I want to wake you up so that I can play with you.  Why do our jobs exhaust us so much?  This isn't any way to live life....

How come you can sleep through the night so well?  You just rolled over and smiled and kissed me.  I told you I was writing you a love letter, and you said, "Okay."  Then a few seconds later said, "Awww..."

You're so beautiful.  Even your breath smells good.  

I can't find the rest of the letter, but here is the drawing of him looking snuggly:

Bad Kitty

Recently something happened that got my goat, which isn't easy, because my goat is morbidly obese but runs like the wind.  

Someone did something that I found hurtful.  He found my response to it hurtful despite my sincere attempt to behave appropriately.  If you know me, then you know that I can't tolerate causing others harm.  I did everything I could to prove that I'm sorry, and it won't happen again.  That's the end of the story. 

The ironic part is that what had started this was that I felt treated like I didn't matter to him, like I was nothing.  It ended with me actually believing that I'm nothing to him.  

I may seem like a doormat, but there's a fence, and someone has to go a long way to cross it.  I hate having to lock it behind them.    

People generally question me about my motives before assuming I have any bad ones.  When bad motives are assumed first, it's because that person is looking for a way out and needs to blame me for it.
Things are going so perfectly in my life right now, and if birds of a feather flock together, then I must be beautiful, successful, genuine, funny, and the "it" kid of some sewing circle.  I wish the mirror would tell me that.  It just tells me to stop picking my face. 

How can I feel so loved by so many people and still hurt because a few people don't?  How can someone I show myself to not see me when thousands of "strangers" do?  How come you want to love me and know me?  They once did too, so how come they changed their minds, and you didn't?

It's not a matter of "getting over it"- the fence is locked.  It's a feeling of insecurity because I'm my product.  My future depends on people wanting to know me better.  Suppose everyone stops caring about me too?  I feel like if I knew what made me suddenly unlovable, then I could prevent that, but I know that the answer is "nothing" because I'm not the one who changed- being me is what I do best.   

Then the ghost of Patrick Swayze came, and rescued me from the corner.  

August 21, 2015

Love and Haight

Last week, my BFF got laid off from her job without warning.  Today, she wanted to know who sent her this in the mail:

"You lazy bum!" 
-A pantsless 35 year old woman typing this in the dark because it's too much work to reach over and turn on the light.  

I'm a bit insulted that after twenty-one years, she can't tell my handiwork. 

It's a Katt-Throat World...

“All I ask is one thing, and I’m asking this particularly of young people:  please don’t be cynical.  I hate cynicism.  For the record, it’s my least favorite quality, and it doesn’t lead anywhere.  Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. 

But, if you work really hard, and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.” 

― Conan O'Brien

This is one of those quotes that went beyond an inspirational platitude to the career advice I needed.  There is a business side of me, where I know that, like, 90% of my work is going to be "networking".  I can't use people though- I care about them too much.  It's just my nature.  Like, I would rather cut my own throat than be "cut throat".
It's always been my dream to go on Conan, ask to borrow a shirt, then giggle at how long it is on me.

Picking Friends

This is the present I got for my 8 year old nephew last Christmas.  By the time I was his age, I had read several of my peers diaries.

I apologize.  Also, you're fucking boring.  That's probably why we aren't friends anymore.  

Because every eight year old boy needs to know what I'm doing in the bathroom at 4pm.

August 20, 2015

Limp Throttle

This is my car Alvin:

"My name is Alvin, and I only get baths once a year.  Nice to meet 'cha!"

in a parking garage, he tried to hit on this sexy, hot tomato. 

A hot boxster.
Poor Alvin.  She's totally out of his league.  My little roadster and I drove home, and I put up his top so that no one would see him weeping in the parking lot, listening to Adele.  

Booby Trapped

I ordered a shirt six weeks ago from male friend, and it finally arrived, but with a tear in the collar.  I was so annoyed that I sent a mean email bitching about it, demanding a refund.  He apologized, told me to keep it, and that he would send a new shirt immediately.

I felt so awful that I sent an apology email telling him not to send me a new shirt, bought another shirt, then attached a photo of me in my underwear sewing the rip.  Not to be seductive (I see people as big bags of smelly goo), but because it's easier to forgive people in their underwear due to them being so non-threatening.  It's the same theory as picturing the audience naked.  

Normally I would be horrified to post a picture like this, but yesterday I was going through old photos and discovered that no matter how hard I try to get rid of those "boudoir" pics from my early twenties, you know, the ones that seemed like a great Valentine's Day present, they'll always reappear.  By this point, I have no idea who owns photos of young me in my underwear, but the more I succeed as a writer, the more likely they'll reappear.

HA!  By the time I'm well-known enough to blackmailed, I'll be well-known enough that people will say, "These are surprisingly more tasteful than I'd expect."  So suck on that, guys whose basements haven't flooded.  

Next is my bikini photo to Target letting them know how much I love their dish soap...
And I'm sorry for not putting things back where I find them.  

August 16, 2015

Time to Drop the Rot

I just returned home from my sixteen day pantsless wonderland.  Speaking of pants, I can barely zip mine now because I thought eating all their expired food was an intelligent sport for a thirty-five year old woman.  It will take about a month to lose the weight I gained.

This was taken roughly three weeks ago:  

Like a ballerina who doesn't know when to retire.
Oh, there's no "after" photo.  Are you kidding?  I'm just going to let the sands of time erase this bout of gluttony and its plumpy repercussions.  

Now that I'm home, my standard weight loss routine has commenced.  Any time I want to lose weight quickly, I use this wildly unhealthy routine:  

Here's my exercise gear.  It's an ab roller, a pilates ball, and tea in a language I can't read.   

The pilates ball is for sitting on while I watch Netflix on my phone.

Here's my typical meal:  lettuce, an unripe pear, herbal tea, and green tea.  The green tea is actually made in a pitcher every morning, and I use it instead of water.  I won't keep food at home, so I go to the grocery store almost daily, which is one of the many tasks I busy myself with so that I'm moving and too distracted to eat.

For putting pictures of my food on Instagram, I just have this on a daily loop.  

Where do I get the strength for exert such self-control?  How do I have such girthy willpower?  I take diet pills, obviously.  My doctor put me on topiramate, and I ordered garcinia cambogia on Amazon.  If I slip up and eat a half gallon of ice cream, I drink warm mustard water and play Roman Empress.  

Oh, I'm well aware that none of this is healthy, but I know me, and I know that this will only change when being attractive no longer gives me a career advantage.     

And yes, eating rancid food was totally worth it.  

Kiss My Feet

It's not easy avoiding the KISS paraphernalia where I'm house-sitting.  I grabbed some of the teenager's slip on's by the door when I went outside to do my pantsless watering and discovered that my feet were partying.  

Spoiler Alert

I'm still house-sitting...

The majority of food in this house has expired.  I'm attempting to eat all of it before they get back.  So far, I've gained about fifteen pounds and have spent about eighty hours in the bathroom.  

The "secret" is revealed about an hour later and lasts about a day. 

I actually waited for it to expire before I drank it.


Pantsing With Myself

I'm house-sitting and wanted to see how long I could go without having to put on pants.  I made it nine days.

This is a drawing of me watering the plants without pants on. 
This is a drawing of me reclined on their leather couch without pants on,
 eating boxes of expired cookies. 
Here's a picture of me without pants on drawing myself without pants

August 14, 2015

Ten Scoops of Chowder

*Dedicated to Nathan "Chowder" Malachowski, aka The Big LeChowski, aka Nathan Bacon Deserves a Spankin', aka Natron, aka Flock of Seagulls, aka Leslie

1.  Nathan was my first boyfriend and still my best friend (except for Meghan, who is my BFF).  We met while we were in high school and eventually moved to Germany to become hair twins.
Nathan and Katt in Germany.  People mistook us for Nordic siblings, but he's 100% Polish, and I'm majority Native American.  Our jam sessions usually ended by him asking me to stop singing 'Nathan Is A Dirty Pole".  Later I wrote a song called, "This Song Isn't About You Nathan Malachowski, Geesh, Get Over Yourself.  Not Everything Is About You."

2.  Once a big black dude in a bar mistook him for my sister and began stroking his head.  Nathan thought it was me.  When he finally turned around, they were both were surprised.  

3.  My dad was hard of hearing and wouldn't do anything about it.  Man, it was annoying.  One night he came home after Nathan had fallen asleep on the living room couch and asked me who my friend was.  I whispered, "Nathan", and he responded "Pardon?" to which I loudly hissed, "Nathan!"..."What's that?"..."Nathan!!!"..."Who?"..."NATHAN!"..."Leslie?"  By then, my dad was standing next to Nathan's head, who was pretending to still be asleep and suppressing laughter.  When the room was clear, I observed to Nathan "You know, not one letter in those names is the same."

Dad and Baby Katt in Hawai'i.  He was Cherokee.  Notice that he looks like he belongs on a pack of tobacco, and I'm as white as an Irish mailman.  

4.  Another time, my brother kept calling my name at the patio and when I came in through the living room, he realized that he had mistaken Nathan for me.

5.  And another time, Nathan was driving my sister somewhere and a car of guys pulled up and said, "Hey ladies!" was just the two of them.

6.  And another, another time, he was driving both me and my sister somewhere, and a bunch of men in the sedan next to us at the stoplight said, "Hey!  A car full of ladies!"  When the light changed, they zoomed ahead, and I heard voice in the distance  remarking "Hey!  That one's a dude!"

7.  A few days ago, Nathan texted me with the tragic news that there was a giant, unreachable zit on his back, and I was powerless to help him because he moved to Austen, Texas a couple years ago.  

8.  For the record, when Nathan told his friends that he had sex on prom night, it was a lie.  He was up till 4am playing video games while I sat in my dress, drinking the beer he bought with the money his parents gave him for my corsage.
The Velour Goldmine

9.  As soon as I became Nathan's girlfriend, he ignored me.  I wasn't used to dating and unaware that ignoring me is standard protocol, so I didn't take it well.  In response, I went to a party at his parents' house (they were out of town), asked to speak privately, then sat on him until he agreed to be my friend and ordered him to call me the next day.  Sure enough, he called.  

10.  Nathan and I lived together on and off for years, usually sharing a bed despite the (mostly) platonic nature of our relationship.  When we moved to Freiburg, Germany, I lived in his dorm room, and we shared a twin size bed.   While sleeping, I'd hog the bed, and occasionally Nathan would wake up with burn marks on his side from where I pressed him into the heater.  

And They Call It Puppy Love

I'm house-sitting for the first two weeks in August.  Here's my new friend.

"Hi, my name is Snuggles.  If you touch me, I swear to God, I will cut you!  Nice to meet 'cha!"

Smells Like the Teen Spirits

Done and done...and I mean done

This is the door to the teenager's room where I'm house-sitting.  Look carefully, you can see the candelabra in front of the window.  On the ceiling is a poster of Bauhaus (of course there is).  The message is unnecessary because I'm too creeped out to go in her room anyway.  She's either a pagan, wiccan, or methodist.  I can't remember.  

Backyard Party

This is the backyard where I'm house-sitting.  There appears to be a clothesline, cage, and zombie in a blue corset.  

Dunno what they're into...
but count me in.

Just an ordinary day on the compound.

I Bore Myself Awake

Once I had a dream that I was waiting in line.  It was so boring that I woke up.  Just last night, I was forced awake because the plot of my dream went nowhere.  If I was a fiction writer, you would probably be asleep by now.  (The ghost of O. Henry just gave me a high-five.)  

Recurring dreams tend to be unoriginal.  Mine is the Billy Madison-like one, but I can't figure out how to go to classes.  Maybe because I'm Native, but probably because I'm kind of balmy, dream interpretation makes sense to me.  In this case, I feel anxious because I can't catch up with my peers.

Yeah, I'm thirty-five, and have never been married or pregnant.  Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out the name of the career that I'm pursuing (more on that later).  The first two are on me though because I'm way too nice and let men know right away that I'm smothering and idealistic.  (You're welcome.)   Funny how I've never worried about that pushing away friends.  I think they interpret it as genuine care and acceptance, at least, I hope so.  

What I'm saying is, I'll grow up at forty, and thank you for being my friend even though I'm smothering.  Also, yes, I'm idealistic, but I do see your flaws- I just don't care about them.  Because I don't want to.    

As a treat, here's a reel of my most boring dreams:  
What did the snail say on the back of the tortoise?  "Weeee!" -Nathan Malachowski

Parting of the Mediterranean Sea

I'm house-sitting.  There's a large painting of Fabio in the dining room.  
Lah-ove me. 

Smelly Kat, Sleepy Girl

I just finished watching all ten seasons of Friends and am still in disbelief that it began airing over twenty years ago.  I've had dates who were born after the Friends premiere (yes, recently.  Shut up.)

For the ten years it was on (and longer), people sang "Smelly Cat" when I introduced myself.  In return, I had to swallow my irritation and come to terms with what a hackneyed world we live in.  At some point, my younger sister started just calling me "Smelly", but that turned out to be because I thought heroin was more interesting than hygiene maintenance.  It didn't have anything to do with the occasional bouts of homelessness, which is what happens to moochers who aren't Rachel and Joey.  

After January 3rd, 2007 (my sobriety date), I began gradually following a more curious path.  Eccentrics like me, who are sensitive and intuitive, tend to wind up as either ascetics or occultists.  The "dark side" involves more teamsmanship, whereas the path of "peace and joy" compliments my intermittent desire for people to scoot.     

Me at 29 years old
Resting on my loveseat when I lived in an Orthodox parish.
In my search for infinity and beyond, I wound up homeless for seasons.  Twice, I lived in Eastern Orthodox parishes, the last of which was on property that didn't have plumbing yet.  It's common for an Orthodox parish to have a monkish wanderer living in a closet or shed.  Not once was I stinky.  Even by the time my clothes became rags, I smelled like hope and sunshine.  
Now both lives are behind me, and my journey as a writer has lead to a new horizon of snacking, napping, and binge-watching TV on my phone.  My hygiene is pristine, and I smell like Sirocco vintage perfume.  That's from doing "European Laundry", where I spray a mix of it with water and alcohol into the pits and crotches of my rags.  Go ahead and say "TMI".  I'm at peace with your hackneyed quips.  
Me at 35 years old
Resting on my futon because I can't handle my beta-blockers

August 12, 2015

Black Leather and Red Paint

I started working full-time during the summers when I was fifteen.  My first job was as a nanny for a couple of my sister's friends...and my sister.  My mom never paid her bill and exploited me for free labor.  Why?  Because she could, my friends.  Because she could.  

My financial goal was to buy a car so that I could have a place to smoke freely.  I settled for a 1988 red Nissan Sentra and put a "Hooked on chronic works for me!" sticker on the bumper.  Why?  Because I could, my friends.  Because I could.  

Prior to buying the car, I spent $350 on a black leather jacket at Banana Republic because it made me look rich.  The next day in sophomore chemistry class, an actual rich girl was wearing the same jacket, which ruined my life, and I still owe her a kick in the crotch.  

The car lasted a few months before I crashed it with my friends and a French foreign exchange student in the car.  They forgave me, and I'm still sorry.  Except to Chloe.  She still owes me money for chronic.  
Baby Katt and her first car ('96 or 97).  The car became scrap metal almost two decades ago, but I still wear the jacket.  

My current car.  He's a Mazda Miata named Alvin.  Why did I buy a car with only two seats?  Because I can, my friends.  Because I can.