Sucka punch!

So, I'm starting to believe that yesterday, instead of having my two grossly impacted wisdom teeth removed, I actually paid the oral surgeon $500 to sock me in the grill for an hour. Do my teeth and gums hurt? Not a bit. Does my jaw feel like it has been broken into a million pieces? Yes. Case closed.

Of course, I don't actually know what happened during that hour, under the influence of some amazing amnesic drugs. What I can tell you, however, is that I know I sat down in that chair listening to the latest "This American Life" and later found my ipod halfway through the Frightened Rabbit album. Obviously conscious sedation is no match for impeccable musical taste, suckas!

Other than being absolutely bored out of my brain and asymmetrically swollen-faced, I have no complaints. I just realized I CAN eat my favorite Ginger Cat cookies if I left them turn to mush in my mouth first. My day is made! Small victories!

In which my old/dead British boyfriends write songs that make me sad for the ladies...

So, I have this longstanding fear that I tend to gravitate toward tortured, brooding writers and artists who, you know, have um, issues with the ladies. I'm afraid this reflects badly on me as a "modern woman." Hemingway? Fitzgerald? Graham Greene? Full disclosure? I'd risk the psychological trauma to be a Zelda or a Hadley.

To further this embarrassing theory, I present my two '60s rock and roll boyfriends, Mick Jagger (oh god please see above) and John Lennon.

I had a date with Rubber Soul on the bus the other day ("I'm Looking Through You" is one of my favorite songs ever) and I stumbled again on "Run for Your Life." Every time I hear this song, I really, really want to blame it on Paul. Because, frankly, Paul is still alive and the 16 year old girl inside of me who used to make a point to wear her John Lennon shirt every year on December 8th is still kind of bitter about that. Also, I think he's a cad. But mostly, he's still breathing, and I'm going to go ahead and hold it against him.

Try as I might, though, I can't blame this nasty song on Paul. It's John. It's all John. And I quote:

Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl/Than to be with another man/You better keep your head, little girl/Or I won't know where I am

You better run for your life if you can, little girl/Hide your head in the sand little girl/Catch you with another man/That's the end'a little girl

Let this be a sermon/I mean everything I've said Baby, I'm determined/And I'd rather see you dead

If ever there was a DV theme song, here it is. Granted, apparently John did say some years later that this song was the one he regretted writing the most, but um, yeah. It's still there. It still ruins my Rubber Soul high every time.

And then there's Mick. Okay, so Mick has always been an asshole and I'll admit that "Under My Thumb" is also on my list of all-time favorite songs, but well, then there's "Stray Cat Blues." And well, lines are crossed.

I hear the click-clack of your feet on the stairs/I know you're no scare-eyed honey/There'll be a feast if you just come upstairs/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

I can see that you're fifteen years old/No I don't want your I.D./I can see you're so far from home/But it's no hanging matter/It's no capital crime

Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Oh yeah, don'tcha scratch like that/Oh yeah, you're a strange stray cat/Bet your mama don't know you scream like that/I bet your mother don't know you can spit like that.

And in an even more endearing twist of events, according to Wikipedia, on Get Yer Ya-Yas Out the Stones went ahead and changed the girl's age to 13. Nice touch, Mick.

I'd love someone to Freud this out for me and explain why I gravitate toward hyper-males. And by "I'd love someone to Freud this out for me..." I mean don't actually bother, because I think the combined power of Mick and John and Ernest and Graham and Scott may be a force I'm too weak to resist. Even if that makes me a shitty woman of the 21st century.

Skeeze!

Maybe my favorite craigslist apartment listing yet ... $100 Great offer for open minded woman (East Village)

I'm a white late 20's guy that works in finance. I work A LOT and therefore my social life has become nonexistent. So, I want to add a little bit of excitement to my life. I would like to rent the room to a woman between the age of 18-27.

You should be a free spirited, liberal minded person who is very open minded. I would like you to be a slim attractive girl who is OK with occasionally walking around or hanging out in her underwear <---yes...that would be the slightly crazy part.

I would never ask you to strip or do anything at all. You must be someone who occasionally walks around like that and is ok with me being around when you do. I know this is a strange arrangement, but like I said earlier, I am trying to add some exitement to my life:) I am not looking for anything to develop into a relationship, or to have you start acting like a girlfriend. If you are interested, send me an email so I can discuss it further with you. There is no sexual contact or anything involved. I WOULD NEED THE ARRANGEMENT TO BE 100% CONFIDENTIAL.

PLEASE do NOT respond by saying "WHY WOULD A GUY AS GOOD LOOKING AS YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS". We all have our reasons.....Thanks

Oh man am I excited to interact with this level of self-absorbed douchebaggery in NYC ...

In which Katie spends her Tuesday getting screwed over by a dental professional, Vol. 2

For about eight hours today, I was having one of those days, unique to your mid-twenties, when you feel a rush of excitement that you're finally in control of your financial life, finally independent, able to fully support yourself. It feels good! It feels amazing to realize that I'm moving to New York City, and I'm paying for the whole damn thing! I can actually do this and it's weird and it's awesome.

What I've lost this past week in terms of appetite and dignity, I've certainly made up for in productivity. By noon, I had hashed out a budget with a loan counselor at school and discovered I need to borrow $10k less than I thought; finalized my move-out with my landlord; emailed 6 potential roommates; and rented a 14' U-Haul for next week's move. That shit? I was knocking it out of the park.

By the time 2:00 rolled around, I was walking into the Medical/Dental Building downtown with an extra spring in the old step, nearly no longer terrified of meeting the oral surgeon to talk about my wisdom teeth (RIP). I actually thought to myself "It feels kind of good to pay for my own dental bills."

I'll just put my pansy self right out there: the thought of having my wisdom teeth out terrifies me, for totally irrational reasons. I don't want to be put to sleep. I don't take pain medication. I have major anxiety about not having control of my faculties and having people all up in my grill freaks me out. I'm a wimp. Case closed. That's where I'm coming from.

So when this surgeon comes into the room, throws my xray up on the computer screen and starts barking to her assistant about sinus cavities and bones and nerves and "complications" and then molesting my mouth with her finger, I start to lose it.

Of course, because I'm already effing terrified, I'm told I have a "very complicated case" and she will "absolutely not do this without general anesthesia" and something about bacteria rotting my face and my lower lip tingling for life. I cry. This encourages her to go soft on her Pro-Anethesia stance and agree to do some sort of heavy sedation shit. Fine. Whatever. Get it over with. I hate you.

And then comes the bill. I had talked to friends about this and everyone said "Eh, couple hundred bucks, don't worry about it." So I was, naturally, expecting to pay $500 max. Fine. Whatever. Get it over with. I hate you. I'm handed the bill and .... $3,100. That's right, $3,100. I burst into tears.

Granted, my insurance will pay for some, but I'm still left with a big, whopping $1,700 to cover, out of pocket. Oh, the fucking irony.

So I'm trying to weigh my options at the front desk when I say something to the effect of "I just, today, signed $40k in student loans. I'm not putting this on credit. I'm moving to New York in one month, this is ridiculous." And the office manager says, apparently trying to console me (?), "Oh, where are you going to school? ... Columbia! Don't worry honey, you'll have plenty of money later." What the fuck? Who says that? I'm not going to med school, or law school, honey. I'm going into debt so that I can work at a non-profit. It's awesome and I can't wait and I wouldn't have it any other way, but don't tell me to buck up and take it, don't give me that "Oh please, stop overreacting" look, because you assume I'm going to have loads of expendable income in the future. Was I just reverse-discriminated against? It was weird.

My solution is, I'm just pulling two teeth. The easy ones. The one with a cavity and it's sister. The others can wait.

And of course, because I'm a worrier, this immediately made me think of the millions of people who don't have dental insurance. How the hell do they pay for this stuff? And of course, those who don't have insurance, probably aren't those who can suck up a $3,100 bill, and probably aren't the ones who can take a week off of work to recoup. And those health problems just get worse, and lead to other things that can't be treated. Ugh. It makes my gut hurt just thinking about it. It's all cyclical.

Though I'm finding some solace in the fact that this Tuesday I can say, it's just business. Not personal.

*I saw this poster next to Animals on 12th this morning as I was walking to work ... I thought it fitting.

Bus Notes: Scratch these ...

So I was reading this amazing article in last week's New Yorker this weekend about a woman with an insatiable itch on the right side of her scalp. She can't stop scratching.

One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, “this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid.” She pressed a square of gauze to her head and went to see her doctor again. M. showed the doctor the fluid on the dressing. The doctor looked closely at the wound. She shined a light on it and in M.’s eyes. Then she walked out of the room and called an ambulance. Only in the Emergency Department at Massachusetts General Hospital, after the doctors started swarming, and one told her she needed surgery now, did M. learn what had happened. She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.

So interspersed within the story of this poor woman and her poor itchy head is the story of how the study of itching baffled doctors and scientist for a very long time. Apparently, they've now discovered that the itch reflex differs from more primal, survival type responses like pain, in that the itch sensation actually triggers more sophisticated areas of the brain, including the areas responsible for emotional response and for satisfying urges and impulses (the same area that tells me to eat ten more bites of ice cream when I've already had twenty, and that tells the wino that she needs another drink). Which explains why scratching feels soooo effing good.

So anyway, (I'm about to link this back to my bus ride, I swear) what I thought was especially interesting about this story is that itching isn't necessarily connected to the need to scratch, and the way that just the thought of something itchy or creepy triggers the desire to scratch (whereas the though of sticking your face on the stovetop doesn't necessarily make your cheek sear in pain). Needless to say, I devoured this article because gore + niche-y science knowledge = my cup of tea.

And then today, today, there was a woman sitting outside of Elliott Bay Books at the 15/18 bus stop, furiously scratching her white-with-chafe feet with a dull razor blade. I was waiting there for nearly ten minutes and she didn't let up for a second; the sound of sandpaper against a cast iron pot. It was excruciating to listen to and watch, and I'm sure doubly so to actually feel. Now, an hour later, at home, I cannot kick the urge to scratch my feet and could swear (though I've not actually touched them) that they are dry and screaming out for the sweet, sweet relief my fingernails can offer. And yet there's nothing even remotely near them, save for some air.

Oi. Brains.

Oh, and the picture? I saw that keychain on top of a trash can at the 3/4 bus stop up on 12th and Jefferson. Poor Danny Sandhu ...

Warning: You Will "Awwww!!!!"

Pig in Boots: The world's only porker who is afraid of mud

Help Me Avoid NYC Hobo-dom

Friends, friends, friends:

I am headed to NYC for school at the end of August, and I am going to go ahead and exhaust all possible avenues to find housing. This is where you maybe come in.

Know of anyone who is looking to sub-let an apt on the Upper West Side for a year (last week of August 2008 - Early/Mid-Summer-ish-maybe 2009)??? And/or anyone who is sane and awesome and just as terrified by roommates as I am but equally terrified by NYC apartment costs and is looking for a roomie (who is, you know, also kind of awesome, will cook rad veg food, and is a serious lover of personal space)???

So, my preferences are: Upper West Side (seriously, anywhere; i'm kinda crushing on the 70s, but I'll consider anything); liveable, I like clean things; cat-friendly; within walking distance to GOOD grocery store: I am kind of a strict eater so I need a soy/organic/SEATTLE-friendly market/co-op (don't laugh, bitches); something close to the 1 line, ideally. I would love, love, love to spend under $1300 a month. God, Seattle, I miss you already.

Also, all of that said, there is still a chance I could maybe MAYBE be persuaded to do Brooklyn (Cobble Hill, Prospect Heights, Park Slope, esp.) for the right person/price/place...though most of my classes are at night, so I'm not really loving the idea of a long late night commute. But if you've got 'em, throw 'em this way.

I'm early on in my hunt, so am open to anything at this point. If you know of anything or anyone and are lovely enough to send them my way, I can guarantee you that it will be much, much, much appreciated.

Hugs and thank yous,

kt

Bad Effing Dog, Carl

Okay, before getting started here, let's just make two things clear:

1. I am a dog lover. And if this picture is any kind of proof, DOGS LOVE ME BACK. Case closed. (Yes, I'm also aware that this picture is proof that white girls shouldn't wear keffiyehs if they don't want to look like dbags. moving on.)

2. Some Rottweilers are amazingly awesome and gentle and sweet lovely things. See: Carl.

Now that we've got that straight, let's talk about my walk home last night. So, la dee da, it's 10:30, I'm walking down 12th after a looong night of proctoring. I'm approaching the Cafe Press/Stumptown complex when I see a lovely little Rottie tied up to a pole outside. I'm a good three feet away at this point, because I'm not a fucking moron, people, I've lived with dogs all my life and I know you do NOT shove your schoz in the face of random dogs on the street. I say (because I talk to all dogs; I can't help myself), "Hey buddy, how are you?" His/her ears go back, I think "Wow, homes does not want to be touched," and proceed to walk by while saying goodnight to the pup. Apparently homes did not want to be spoken to either, because fucker LUNGED AT ME AND PUT MY ARM IN HIS MOUTH.

I then proceeded through a strange mental process that went (in my head, mostly; some shouted via text message) like this:

Me talking to dog: "Dude, why did you do that? That is not cool? Let's be friends man. Not cool!"

Me being very very thankful that this Rottie decided to bite ME and not some little kid and/or person afraid of animals. Maybe I'm just an asshole, but I can definitely tell the difference between an "I want to eat you" bite and an "I'm kinda freaked out so I'm gonna put my mouth on you so you'll go away" bite. This was the latter. Had this been anyone else, though, there's a good chance this could have ended up in a law suit and/or dead puppy.

Me being really fucking pissed off that this dog's dumbass owner has neither the sense to NOT TIE UP A DOG PRONE TO BITING STRANGERS ON A PUBLIC SIDEWALK; nor the time/brains to get to the bottom of this biting/being afraid of strangers shit. You know, I understand if you've got a dog for protection. That is cool. But don't put it on the sidewalk. And if this dog is just your fun let's-get-a-pet dog be a fucking responsible pet owner and get a handle on that shit. Talk to a trainer, whatever. IF YOUR DOG IS ANGRY AND AFRAID OF PEOPLE, THERE'S A REASON. Talk to anyone in my family; we had the border collie from hell who is now The Greatest Dog In the World.

Me being really freaked out because a ROTTWEILER FACE is not something you want to see lunging at your person. See:

Me feeling really slighted that this dog didn't like me. See: If your dog is angry, there's a reason, above. Dogs love me. I wasn't antagonizing this one. I promise. It just flat out, didn't like me. I take that personally, Rottie. Dogs love me. I love dogs. Sometimes more than people.

So, in conclusion, nothing was harmed (save my feelings) and I'm angry at irresponsible people. This is not news afterall.

And because I'm such a dog nerd, I have to say, again, that I'm not criticizing Rottweilers. Ever! They are awesome! If they are socialized and treated well and taken care of (like every other dog ever)! I'm not afraid of them! Just their idiot owners who give them a bad name!

circa 2001

for a brief moment last night on the bus while listening to "say it ain't so" (don't hate) and texting my sr. prom date, i could have sworn it was 2001.

The Danger of Living Alone

I got home last night and immediately put on my pajamas; it was one of those days. Well, my apartment was freezing for some reason, so over the course of a few hours, I managed to put on quite a few layers, grabbing whatever was lying on my bed from the day before. La dee da. Well, then I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Obviously there was no one around to tell me that I'd dressed myself up like a giant effing Easter egg. Though, I mean, at least I was seasonally relevant. At least. Oi.

I'm Headed Straight to Hell, or How the Irish Ruined My Sacred Sunday Morning

So I really needed to talk about how at 9 a.m. this Sunday morning, some sort of very very loud, loud-speakery ruckus was being raised on Lower Queen Anne. In a sleepy stupor I grabbed my computer and googled "What the fuck is going on Queen Anne Sunday March 16." Obvs didn't get me very far. Luckily rational side of brain slowly waking at this point. Looked at the Seattle Center site and realized it's Irish Heritage weekend or something and apparently they're running on UK time, because assholes were having an effing party too damn early on my sleep-in-Sunday morning.

My real point: when I started to write this post, I was trying to think of something funny because I have to try really hard to be funny, and the only things that popped into my head were Bloody Sunday and potato famines. What does this mean? I'm an awful person, on the fast track to H-E-double hockey sticks. Oi.

Oh, I should also point out that yesterday, there was this St. Patrick's Day parade going on downtown on 4th ... which the bus drivers apparently didn't know about. So there were impromptu reroutes on my way to the library (which is like the easiest way to rile up the crazies on the bus, let me tell you). My bus driver pulls some sorta Jack Ryan shit and SIDESWIPES A CAR. Brilliant. THE IRISH ARE FUCKING WITH THE BALANCE OF THE UNIVERSE THIS WEEKEND.

P.S., I need a Wolfhound, stat.

In case you aren't already celebrating

Today is Pi Day! Today at 1:59:26 p.m. is Pi Minute! Not to be confused with Pi Approximation Day, because, obviously, that would be held on July 22!

All of those of you awaiting your acceptance letters from MIT, fear not! They're in the mail today! Because any other day would just be unacceptable!

MY LOVE OF NUMBERS NERDS JUST REACHED A NEW PEAK

I'm sorry, but this is just absurd

"Woman sits on boyfriend's toilet for 2 years"

Though I kind of understand. I've been to Kansas. Might as well stay on the pot.

grillz

i went to target today and bought a toothbrush. this toothbrush tells me it's special because it has this special bristly "Tongue & Cheek Cleaner!" on the back. Isn't a toothbrush already one big tongue and cheek cleaner? Yes. But I bought it anyway.

Breaking News: Caucus Goers, African-Americans, Hillary Says 'Eh, No Big Deal'

So you know, I spent the majority of the last week working my ass off to get people to the caucus on Saturday. I spent all day Saturday working my ass off at the caucus, getting people to their precinct locations, registering new voters, doing anything I could to help out.

I'm planning to write about how incredible an experience it was, how inspiring it was, how good things come out of the chaos of sticking hundreds of neighbors into the same room and talking about politics, but first I just need to point out ...

Hillary doesn't think it matters much! Because apparently I fall into one of two categories: "activist" or "African-American" and God knows neither of those actually represent the American electorate.

Tell that to the 1,000 people who showed up at my caucus location on Saturday. And the hundreds and of thousands who showed up to theirs around the state and elsewhere in the country.

You know why they showed up, Hills? Because for once in our lifetime someone (not you) has actually inspired us to quit complaining and do something about our state of affairs. Someone made us feel like our vote actually mattered, beyond this "Red State/Blue State" 51-49-is-good-enough-for-me bullshit.

It's a good thing 70% of us Washingtonians didn't cast our useless vote for her anyway. Turns out she didn't want them!

Cry it out, bitch, and Stay Classy, Mrs. Clinton!

Nutrisystem Commercial Defies Laws of Grammar

"It works.  So.  Good."

"After two weeks, I could tell my jeans were fitting looser."

Telling

Email exchange with Adam this morning: A: "Hey, your boyfriend's on the Drudge homepage." (I look at Drudge homepage) K: "Which one, Ahmadinejad or Obama?" A: "Brian Williams." K: "Oh THAT one!" Eccentric? Demented? I know not the best description for my taste in men. What really needs to be said here, though, is that this whole conversation started today because I woke up from a very vivid dream this morning in which Brian Williams traveled to my house to hang out where I proceeded to try and get him in the sack. Unfortunately he was not amused and hit on my sister instead. And the best part? We got to my house on a very special, hidden "Reporters' Railroad" with golden cars, available only to very special journalists. Brian was happy to give me a (non-sexy) lesson about the history of the rail cars for some reason, but was still partial to hitting on my sister instead of me. Part of me was not bothered, though, because in-my-dream Brian Williams was kind of a frat boy. I'm holding out for real life Brian Williams, who instead likes dogs, spray tans and his adorable elderly father. And is totes sexy and into me.

oh memories

you know what i love about our current state of affairs? that it's worn me down to the point where i now look upon this fondly, as part of the "good old days" long gone are the days when our AG and the DOJ were just weird and slightly offensive; this is terrifying. does it feel like everyone in this administration has been giving us the finger for the past 7 years?

jackpot?

saturday we take the boat out, come back up to the marina parking lot and what do we find? someone has thrown out their 40+" samsung lcd television. we suspect the owners of the mega yacht a few slips over, who adam claims he saw pawing over a new big screen the other day. regardless, it is now in my apartment. so adam manhandles this thing for two days (parking lot to car to boat to cameron's car to my house), we plug it in and bravo! it works! for a minute! the lamp is blown. but cheap fix for a $2k television, right? worth it, right? $200 and I get a real television that can handle katamari damancy and some sexy setup with my macbook, right? RIGHT. so now i have this GIANT television eating up half a wall in my tiny apartment, that I refuse to give up on. REFUSE. just so you understand the severity of this bargain, let me explain my current television. in, say, 1994, my parents bought about ten of those giant black box mitsubishi tvs. i have been dragging one of them around from apartment to apartment since i was 18. now 13 years old, this bad boy is still kicking. i even have the original remote, if that gives you any inkling into how well i've cared for this thing. it is a perfect 2x2x2' cube. born before the days of dvds. baby doesn't have anything but a "cable in" and a power button. i've spent the last five years running a dvd player through a vcr, with the most elaborate speaker hook up you can imagine. it's time to let him fade away.... also samsung related: dudes, remember when you wooed me with your blackjack and convinced me that by bumping up its memory i could also use it in lieu of a new mp3 player? remember? also remember how you failed to tell me that no one on this planet sells a pair of headphones compatible with your special little headphone port? i do! you're on my shitlist.

doing

i was standing in our empty office eating my lunch, looking out the window and watching one of the school's gardeners carefully arrange twenty five or so plants in an empty flowerbed. sometimes (a lot of times) i think about quitting everything and adopting a trade like gardening. some trade where i can use my hands a create something. sit outside and dig holes and arrange fauna and understand the properties of potting soil. tactility. that's what i'm after. this is what happens to the dreams of a 23 year old woman when she spends too much time in a windowless office with only her excel spreadsheets to keep her company.