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.  

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!"

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

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..."

 Shhh...no 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.

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.

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.  

Soooo.... 

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!    

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.  

2000
Going to school in Germany

2006
Ch-ch-ch-chiva!
("Chiva" is Mexican slang for heroin.)

A couple days ago.  

  

Ch-ch-ch-chiva!
("Chiva" is Mexican slang for heroin.)

I Prefer Black Schtick

CAUTION:  THIS IS ABOUT MY DAD'S DEATH, SO IT IS ALSO SAD. 

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.  

1988.
Later that day, we drank cocoa, and watched a Disney dick flick.