Tuesday, January 31, 2006

vaginal rejuvination

so, my day job is writing queer ass content. it's just such a gosh darn great use of my writing talent.

fucking hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate it.

but a girl's gotta make a living, doesn't she?!

today, I spoke to one o' them plastic surgery sites.

the guy said, "we need implant, reduction and vaginal rejuvenation content. do you know anything about those topics? Specifically vaginal rejuvenation?"

"enlighten me." I says tah him.

he goes on, in painstaking detail about drooping pussies, lip lightening and sculpting, etc. etc."

I squeezed my legs together. I was so freaked out!

I'm not a hypochondriac. I fear death. There is a difference.

I said, "how do I know if my down there is drooping? like what are the symptoms?"

as he droned on, I dropped my pants, grabbed a compact and threw my legs in the air, TERRIFIED I HAD A DROOPING POOKIE.

I became so stressed out, I said, "I have my vagina in front of me. Can I please describe it to you?!!"

before he could answer, I screamed, "I don't want loose lips and the last thing I need is to send men between my legs with a miner's cap because I'm a lippy dark mess! Help me to help me!"

he was silent.

"hello! hello! vag-man, come on!" I was screaming.

He didn't want to hire me. like I wanted it anyway. ya know what, I WAS NOT TAKING that gig. No fucking way. I would spend my days comparing my pookie to the rejuvenated pookies and shopping for a new one.


I am so busy, I feel like Moses had an easier time parting the seas.


today when I stopped at the market for coffee, ya know, to brew; even though I suck so hard at making coffee, I wanted cheese and crackers so desperately, I wanted to burst into tears. I mean it. My cravings are at a psychotic all time high.

My fantasy plan was to buy gobs and gobs of that gorgeous extra sharp cheddar cheese and butter biscuits and stuff my face until I felt supreme guilt. And of course I would've promised myself that I'd start tomorrow.

My innards burned, I wanted it that badly.

But I didn't.


date jesus

you can bathe with him, too. his preference is twenty-somethings.

date jesus

post office shooting

This morning in the news:

A female ex-postal worker opened fire at a mail processing plant, killing six people before committing suicide

It was bad enough I saw a girl in leg warmers Sunday. Now this?!

And the suicide, that is sooo hack.

Get creative.

If you really want to push the envelope, pull out all the stops, and show people just what you're made of!

Monday, January 30, 2006

and this...

funny, no?

my dad emailed me this.

if I were...

a drug addict, I'd probably roll out with prescription drugs. It's the perfect fat free high!

sadly, I'm a wuss.

I love the smell of beer on a man's breath.

what does all of this say about cratie mortz?!

final pie note

when I said:

I would stuff myself with pie until I was so neaseaus that I never wanted pie again.

what I mean is that I would wait at least a month before going down, no-boundary-pie-lane. I WOULD never give up pie for good.



clarity on the craving

I just want to make it clear that I'd space out the types of pies hourly.

Chocolate cream pie would be hour one.

I think next, for hour two, I'd eat apple. It's kind of one of those checklist pies more then a desire pie.

Third hour, I'd eat the peach slices.

Fourth hour, key lime all the way...

But now I really want chocolate cream pie over all those fucking stupid pies. That's the one I really want.



If I could eat a whole pie right now, I would. But here's what I'd do. I'd have three slices of chocolate cream pie. Three slices of key lime pie. One slice of apple pie, HOT, and two slices of peach pie, HOT. Those three slices of apple and peach would be eaten with vanilla ice cream. ONLY THOSE SLICES.

That's a total of eight slices of pie.

I would stuff myself with pie until I was so neaseaus that I never wanted pie again.


I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate dieting. I hate it.

my name

is Katie Schwartz. Is it difficult to pronounce?!

I've been called:

lady hortz
katie schwanz
hatie shorts
cratie morts

what mother is going to spend a hundred hours in labor and name their kid, cratie morts...

Sunday, January 29, 2006


I HATE, and I mean HATE, Let’s play what-if-your-husband-loses-a-limb-goes-blind-develops-an-allergy-to-pussy, et al.”

This is how I want to spend my evening? Pondering acceptable handicaps my fictitious husband may or may not get.

Why do we women do this?

I had dinner with a girlfriend last night and she kept wanting to play the handy game.

It makes me crazy.


It's odd when people laugh at all of the, here’s-the-manual-for-what’s-funny, things, isn't it?

a very New York chick in a very LA city

I don’t like it here so much. I try. But, I'm homesick a lot. I don’t fit in, not that I want too, or try too. I have accepted that this is where I am for now, not forever, just for now.

Living across the street from my sister is GREAT. It’s our little slice o’ Brooklyn. Coffee on the stoop and all.

I used to write on stoops. It was one of my favorite things to do. And run the Hudson. I started in Chelsea, ran through Stuyvesant Square and ended at Central Park West, where I would get a cup of vendor coffee every morning.

I was so happy.

I’m not the enlightened type either.

Enlightenment is all the rage in Los Angeles.

Everyone’s doing it, and being of service. Not sure what that means. Sounds hookeree-for-the-poor. It sure is a popular catch phrase. Along with, I’m in my truth. I don’t get that at all, but I hear it all the time. It’s so staring-at-myself-in-the-mirror-while-cutting, isn’t it?

Saturday, January 28, 2006

my sister's wedding

my sister is getting married in 7 weeks.

my parents are severly divorced.

there's a dress... a good one.

I gotta stop eating.


It's a killer, ain't it?!

valium. Yes, I think I'll roll out with that.

although, is that really the best situation to take valium for the first time?

I wrote something for my sister that I have to read.

I have the worst stage fright. Talking in front of people freaks me out. God knows how I read my essays in front of people.

Oh, that's right, I vomit first.

I'm not a drinker. I'm the only jew in the family who doesn't really drink.

I need a new keyboard. My keys are sticking.

I hate this laptop.

my best friend, Katie is going to be there, but my other best friend, Izzy isn't. he has a prior engagement that he can't get out of.

I have a funny, great family.

still. My parents are severly divorced. But so fun to hang out with.

my three brothers are coming too.

great guys.

Ben is selling ad space on his forehead to afford the flight from Korea.


I'm avoiding writing these revisions.

what if it's hack.


too much on the mind.

I might ask my friend, Kent to come with me.

I think I want to go alone.

what is that? stag. queer word.

maybe I'll ask my best friend, wellie-pops. the best gay friend a girl can have. he knows all my secrets. he also taught me how to suck cock. what's not to love?!



I found a spider the size of my face in my apartment three days ago. The bug made me feel fat, dirty, cheap and poor.

He was gargantuan. I put a garbage can over it in the hopes of suffocating it. I felt like such a killer, but I had to make a decision. It was either me or the bug. Were my actions premeditated? Unfortunately there was no time to ponder and reflect.

A few hours later, with a bag in one hand and a handful of paper towels in the other, I was ready to remove the can and find out if my plan worked. It did. He was lying on his back in the fetal position. I felt guilty, which quickly dissolved into nausea, and fear because now I had to remove the evidence.

After several failed attempts with my roll of paper towels and garbage bags, I decided to sweep the bug into a dust pan. But as I went to do that, the idea of bug carcass on my broom flipped me out big time. I had to go back to my paper towel plan. I thought if I grabbed a leg using 50 paper towels then I wouldn’t feel the body. BIG MISTAKE.

During the bug’s junket in my home, “it” managed to reproduce a child. I promptly whacked the spawn – I haven’t slept for three days and I’m too scared to turn the lights off.

Do bugs haunt people?

kelly clarkson

looks like a cabbage patch kid.


when I quit

smoking, I had this insatiable desire to compulsively lift things, not steal, just lift. There is a difference you know.

anal retentive

I wonder why people say anal and retentive together as a phrase. Does it come from an ass reflex that I’m unaware of? I wonder who came up with the phrase and the origin.


never sneeze in front of a fan.

Friday, January 27, 2006

me and my crackberry

Well, it's true. Cat's out of the bag. I have my first non-food related addiction.

My crackberry.

When I first got it, I was too much of a wuss to use it. I was scurred. It seemed so overwhelming. But one day, I picked up the manual and started reading about it. I even took a 3D-creepy-geek-tour.

The minute I plugged that sweet berry into my USB drive to charge, we bonded. I couldn't stop spinning the wheel, clicking, spinning, clicking and spinning. Before I knew it, I was aggregating three email addresses, multi-tasking with tasks and calling everyone in the free world, including Cingular for support.

My vulva lips fell out when I was automatically redirected to crackberry support. I called six more times JUST TO MAKE SURE it really existed and wasn't a dream.

My crackberry is always there. She rarely lets me down, unless I have no emails for long periods of time. But I realized that I could just aggregate more email addresses to hit the spot.

I jones for it when it's in my bag or sitting beside me, unlit. I'll scroll the wheel just to see. Occasionally an email will have popped in without the signature buzz. I sigh, relieved.

I love my crackberry.

doc hates katie

My lil’ post about homeschooling caused such agida. You would think I told Christians to abort their babies, neo-Nazis to marry black-Jew Koreans and gay people to convert to heterosexual-ism. The research was accurate and the opinion was and remains my own. You can find facts and statistics from expert sources to support or denounce any cause.

What struck me was the intensity of hate and rage directed at me from Doc and Doc’s readers. Did I say, “live your life my way?” No. I disagreed and that got me, Idiot of the day on Doc’s Blog. For affect, she also called me a stupid moron and a coward, a waste of tax dollars. What does she do for an encore, skin me alive and burn me at the stake. She also made the assumption that I was a public school graduate. I attended public and private schools and I am a proponent of both. I mentioned that in my homeschool post. Doc also assailed Carrie. She made Idiot of the day, too, for her articulate and smart piece against homeschooling.

What I couldn’t let go of was the level of venomous hate directed at both of us. Two people wrote to me expressing their opinions and accepting that I had my own. I also received countless hate-mails. I didn’t shy away from this or any other confrontation. I’m not a pussy. I debated in college. Of course not according to Doc, “Public school may not have taught her how to debate, but it did teach her cowardice.” I was an activist. I’ve written essays and other things that incited harsh reactions. But in this case, I just didn’t agree. She wasn't looking for a spirited debate. She wanted to start a fight.

Why did it bother me so much?

So I started reading Doc’s Blog. I found this quote on today’s post: You don't get harmony when everybody sings the same note. --Doug Floyd

Well, isn’t that just the sweetest little cupcake celebrating differences. Kinda makes a girl cock her head to the side and go, huh?!

I kept reading.

Her Blog is filled with acrimonious resentment towards people who disagree with her. It’s also about family, homeschooling, loss, life, sickness and gayness.

But as I kept reading, I happened upon an entry that was one of the most exquisite things I’ve ever read, Uneasy Sad out of Sorts. Though it’s not poetry, it reminded me of Adrienne Rich’s work. A rawness that leaves an indelible mark.

I kept reading.

More hate. More rage against public school kids for lack of sophistication and poise, breathing, blah-blah-blah. And of course what Doc Blog entry would be complete without unwavering repulsion about a myriad of everythings.

I kept reading.

She's pro-choice. How positively shocking.

But I finally figured it out, what got to me so much. Obviously I don't like mean people and try to extricate them from my life as much as possible. This wasn't just that. Her fear and anger about circumstances in her personal life are projected onto anyone who crosses her. That’s not only mean, it’s pathetic. It lacks any sense of responsibility or accountability. Woman up, girl. Life is short. Why waste it hating so many people for thinking differently.

I'm sure Doc will berate me for this post. Hey, I might just make idiot of the year if I'm lucky.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

one million blogs

One Million blogs is fabulous!!! I just bought 5 squares. It's a cool, fun site that gets you traffic. Buy oodles of squares. Dave, the owner is cool and fun to work with. Run now, like a dawg and buy-buy-buy!!! Three of my friends scooped up oodles.

Email Dave for details. He's so responsive and nice. Sounds easy on the eyes. What's bad?!

homeschool facts and one person's opinion


  • There are between 1.5-2.0 million home-schooled students
  • Home education comprises roughly 3-4% of all school-aged children
  • Home-schooling continues to grow approximately 10% per year
  • Approximately 80% of parents are home-schooling with only a high school education
  • Home-schoolers are more rural than average
  • Approximately 90% of home-schoolers are non-minorities
  • Approximately three-fourths of home-schoolers would identify themselves as Christians
  • People home school because it minimizes negative socialization
  • People home school because of their desire to transmit a particular set of values to their children
Another fact to note is that socialization for home school kids is primarily with other home school kids. If the majority of home school kids are educated by parents with a high school diploma, how is that better then a public or private school education? Of equal concern is the fear that values differ from those taught at home. So what. Why the lack of trust that what you teach your children outside of school wouldn’t be respected? More importantly, why is questioning that such a bad thing? Isn’t one of the most fundamental aspects of education, diversity of thought and opinion?

If parents are educating their children, the lines are blurred between being a parent and a teacher. What about testing? A parent is going to give their child an F?

Going to school outside of the home is a place where we discover so much about ourselves creatively, intellectually and socially. Our parents aren’t around, so we’re free to cultivate ourselves. Our teachers don’t know us outside of the classroom. They see our strengths and weaknesses objectively. I will never forget certain teachers and the impact they had, and continue to have on my life.

I have spoken with teachers and asked them about home school kids entering the public and private school sectors. From what I've learned home schooling is dangerous and breeds sheltered minds who lack key social skills.


Wednesday, January 25, 2006

elliot gould

I swear this is my last canine post, cause I'm not one of those creepy dog owning chicks. Louie is just hilar...

This picture is when Louie was 4 months old. We were driving through Jersey enroute to Philly to hang with one o' my girls for the weekend. We stopped for a scoop at an ice cream joint.

A two toned Cadillac pulled up. Out saunters a couple in matching parachute sweat ensembles. Her with BIG HAIR and snappin' bubble gum. Him with a fabulous belly, the kind that makes a girl stop in her tracks and say, "yummy."

She screams, "oh my gaahd. It's Elliot Gould."

I love Elliot Gould, so I whip my head around. No sign of Elliot. She walks over to me and says, "it's Elliot Gould." I says tah her, "where?" She says, "on yah leash!"

"Oh, can we please get a picture with him? Please?!"

So, I obliged, of course and while I'm snapping the picture with Louie smiling in the center of two Joiseyites, she says, "smile big, hon, this is as close to Elliot as where evah gonna get."

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

my shame

so, I took louie vincenzo to the park this afternoon and while I was tossing the rope across the patch of grass, my sweatshirt unzipped from the top to the bottom, all by itself.


All of a sudden, my over-blessed rack, in a lovely black bra, is whippin' in the wind and three Russian cabbies are staring at the hoochies.


louie races back with his rope and plants it at my feet, panting like a dawg and wanting me to toss it. hello, space, please! but I was too busy discreetly trying to unzip and re-zip my sweatshirt and screaming at the Ruskies to mind their own fuckin' business and stop acting like they never seen titskas before.

What a freakin' fuck day. guess I'll never go back there again.


I am plagued with viscous insomnia. It sucks ASS. Big time. Last night, I was up all night. The sneezing and hellnine vomiting made it so much more glamorous. I'm such a lucky girl.

Monday, January 23, 2006

you know you're crazy when...

You say to a complete stranger, "I'm Anastasia Beaverhausen. The Romanov's control the weather so when they tried to assasinate me last winter we had more natural disasters then we've ever had."

bo duke's dick lips

It has to be said; we know it’s true. We’ve all seen it, Bo Duke’s dick lips and Daisy Duke’s nylon driven short, short lips. We’ve cocked our heads to the side and pondered the pervasive cavernous, could fill an east LA taco, lips. Meanwhile, Bo’s duly omnipresent split sack conveniently located betwixt his legs and the from behind seam riding higher than FCC censorship fines, up his, “how very bottom of you,” ass.

I have been watching The Dukes of Hazzard of late. I think it’s a culmination of shock and awe really. The dialogue is fascinating. In every episode, with utter seriousness, Luke Duke declares, “I heard that, Bo.” Daisy Duke always wails, “Luke Duke, I’m surprised at you,” And of course Uncle Jesse on the CB in that old school dulcet southern twang, “Shepard to lost sheep, Shepard to lost sheep. Come in lost sheep.”

Are the Duke boys’ ever truly lost sheep? Boss Hog never misses his nasally mark, “I will get them Dukes” and Roscoe is really on it when it comes to guttural dimwitted rantings. I am equally mesmerized by the continuous “Hee-haw’s,” but only when the General Lee catches air, or is soon to begin a dirt road car chase. Were they always written into the script, or did they become actor’s choices? I also couldn’t help but notice that there are only two storylines: Jesse being swindled out of his farm and them Duke boys for buying, holding, or selling shine.

I think what’s really got my OCD up is that I can’t get past Bo Duke’s dick lips. Never mind that he wears the same outfit in every single episode. I think Daisy Duke is the only one who changes short shorts, which by the way, who wears nylons with shorts and open toe, high heel sandals?!

Back to the lip factor; Bo’s pants are like sausage casings, riding up the crack of his ass with his signature dick lips in the front. Was this an actor’s choice, was this wardrobe’s choice, or was this the creative team’s choice? I mean it’s so obvious that Bo Duke has lips. You can’t miss them; they are in your face throughout every single episode.

How did these pervasive dick lips come to pass? Who made the choice and why? Was there a writers meeting, or a meeting with the network brass? Was it during a viewing of the pilot, or the pilot presentation? Were the writers and network executives sitting around a conference room table post-viewing and have a full on conversation about Bo Duke’s dick lips? Did the person who spoke up have to give a visual demonstration of the type of lips he was seeking in Bo Duke’s pants?

Network Executive: “Hey, Gy, I don’t mean to be a sticky wicket here, but ah, I think we really need to see more lip coming from Bo Duke.”

Gy Waldron:“More lip?”

Network Executive:“Yeah, you know, in his pants. We need to see an ever present crotch. Something that really says, Bo Duke has one.”

Gy Waldron:“Okay, I’m hearing you. Are you thinking of a jock strap, or a cock ring, something that brings his crotch forward?”

Network Executive:“No, no, definitely not that. I’m thinking more lip.”

Gy Waldron:“Lip?”

So, at that point did the network executive turn around, put his hand down his pants and separate his ball sack so that one ball would be on one side of the seam and another ball on the other side of the seam? Did he then zip up and turn around to fervently broadcast his crotch and declaratively announce, “Like this?!”

Did everyone gaze at his groin inquisitively? Or did everyone jump on board and holler, “Love it.”

Or was this an actor’s choice? And if it was the actor’s choice, didn’t anyone feel compelled to say anything to Bo Duke like, “Hey, Bo, that’s a split sack you’re workin’ in those jeans. And if Bo Duke did make a conscious choice to create his dick lips did he feel that those lips were the embodiment of his character or was it an ego thing? Or, was it wardrobe? Did they watch Bo Duke get dressed sans lips and cock their heads analytically and say, “Something is definitely not right. What is missing? Something is missing. I just know it. Hmm…”

When it hit them that the problem was in his pants did a light bulb appear above their heads? Did their smiles widen gleefully, knowingly? Did they pull Bo Duke’s pants down and adjust his groin to create the bold dick lip affect he so proudly sports? Did Bo Duke gaze at his lips in the mirror with pride?

I just really want to know who made the dick lip decision.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

bush's beaver

So last night, Laura called… Oh my God, I’m so exhausted. We were on the phone for like FOUR HOURS! She was crying and everything. George stopped going down on her when the war started.

The last time this happened was after George got sober. Billy Graham told him he had to stop all deviant behavior, so naturally he stopped going down on her. But after a year, Laura went ape shit and called Barbara. Barb talked to George and explained that he had to go down on her at least once a month and that giving his wife a modicum of sexual satisfaction was not deviant, it was normal. George said that he was afraid if he went down on her, he’d end up going on a bender. Barb told him his father did a shot of Nyquil right before and three shots of extra strong Listerine right afterwards. Laura said George Jr. worships George Sr., so he followed his dad’s oral protocol. Laura hated it, but said he really knew how to eat pussy, so she dealt with it.

Anyway… Just before the war started, Billy and George were spending a lot of time together. Billy spent every weekend at the White House. They were inseparable. One night Laura found them in Jefferson’s bedroom. Billy was cradling George in his arms, rocking him back and forth. He was going on about how George had to lead the fight against all abnormal behavior before the war started, telling him that he was in a position to force Americans to find God and leave all queer behavior behind. Consumed with power and pride, George cried. Laura said her husband’s vulnerability touched her so deeply that it totally turned her on.

She believes in George’s passion for his work, but she’s having a really hard time accepting that he won’t go down on her. I told Laura she had to put her foot down and confront him. I said, “Laura, eating your wife’s pussy is not deviant. You have to tell him.” But she’s just not the confrontational type and finding the words to say it is even more difficult. She’s super simple, but super sweet. She feels her role in their marriage is to make everything nice and pretty. I thought that was such an antiquated perspective. She got all defensive with me and screamed, ranting that I was taking an annoyingly liberal position on the whole thing. Can you believe that? I wasn’t having it, so I said, “Laura, you’re being really judgmental right now and it’s not okay. You call me at 2 AM and ask me for advice on getting your husband to eat your pussy and then scream at me when I say something you don’t want to hear?!” She apologized, but it was so disingenuous.

Anyway, by 4 AM, I was so over it. We were going in circles. She kept fighting me on talking to George. She said if he wasn’t all stressed out about his decline in the polls and total disenchantment with Americans protesting everything he did, she’d consider getting over herself – Whatever. Three hours into our conversation, she did admit that she made one attempt to address it with him. She slinked into the oval office in a short lacy nightgown one night, but wimped out because George, Rumsfeld and Cheney were in military uniforms with camouflage on their faces practicing evolutions and she didn’t want to interrupt their work.

I said, “Laura, do you think its possible George has bisexual tendencies and that’s why he doesn’t want to go down on you?” She was so mad; she called me anti-American and said, “Katie, the relationships my husband has with men are intimate, not gay.” I so wanted to tell her to get over herself, but I just didn’t have the heart, you know? I told her she should take a lover and she said adultery was a sin. In the next breath, in that polite Stepford way she said, “Would you look at the time? Its 6 AM, I better get going, Condi and I are going to Camp David this weekend for a good Old Fashioned slumber party.”

best line I've heard awwwwl day

"I'm Pam Anderson, but Mensa"

lifetime: television for women

You ever notice that in every lifer semicolon flick there's always a shimmy tomboy named, Jesse?! She's from the school of hard knocks. She's rough with a soft, predictible interior.


How annoying!

Thursday, January 19, 2006

you know you have issues when...

...you contract strep vagina from your girlfriend, and give her strep ass. Yes, that is what my friend, Edwina shared with me.

Ah, the trials and tribulations of bumping beavers.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006


I am new to blogging. Question, what does a girl have to do to get comments around here? I have hit a lot of blogs with severely boring content, and they get comments. COME ON! Throw me a bone, even if it's hateful. I can take it. I sure as shit can dish it out, donchya know!

Is it the excessive use of exclamation points?

Don't blogs seem like self indulgent crap? To me they do. I feel so narcissistic with this Blog, you just don't know. And of course that sends me right into a guilt cul-de-sac that I couldn't possibly extricate myself from.

I think I'm going to flog Katie now.


I'll eat. I'll gorge my fat fuck self on fat-artery clogging foods.


I'll exercise.


So not in the mood.

What a day. This day sucked ass and it's not even over yet.

FOR THE Love OF Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhd!!

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

suit daddy of doom

I guess I had, “will fuck for food,” scrolling across my forehead in bold fire engine red font. Or at least to Mr.-Suit-Daddy-of-Doom I did. And what an esteeming moment for Katie that was.

Henry suffered from a severe case of assholicitis. He probably contracted it from his father, Henry Sr. when he was a child. While other kids were playing with their friends in the sandbox, Henry Sr. was teaching his son how to be the perfect prick, leading by example.

My best friend, Katie Donnelly hooked me up with Henry because he was traveling to New York for business. She assured me that his work personality was charming and witty. Though I’m not a fan of the blind date, I figured how bad could it be? He lived Philly. We didn’t run in the same circles and our paths would never cross unless I schlepped to Katie’s office, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. While I prefer to be a veritable whore for one true love, if it’s been awhile, which it had, a fierce pounding was in order for this millennium dame.

Upon agreeing to the debacle, Henry emailed me:

Hi Katie,
Henry here. I just wanted to introduce myself, maybe get your number and see if we can’t hook up for dinner one night while I’m in LA. What do you think?

What a seemingly normal and lovely introductory email. He even included a photo of himself. When I opened it, my vagina, Olivia, glistened with joy. Henry had short dark hair, ravenous green eyes and an almost perfect physique. I would’ve preferred a paunch, but whatrya gonna do?! A paunch on a man, especially if he has charisma and I am attracted to his personality sends me deranged with a capital “D.” Sadly paunches are a rare commodity. I don’t like chiseled men. I never have. I prefer a real man’s body; you know, white collar desk jockey meets construction working professional luncher. I wanted to email him back and ask, “Where do you want my ankles,” but opted for restraint. I kept thinking, I didn’t even have to go cock hunting for this one. What a lucky girl I am.

For the next week, Henry and I exchanged flawless emails. He didn’t get my sense of humor and I idealized that he understood it completely. He was not the sharpest needle in the haystack, yet in my idyllic world, he was, in a word, brilliant. He was cutting and cold. To Ms. Denial, he was perfectly sarcastic.

Everything was moving along famously until…

…He insisted on a mall-date. Chelsea Brewing Company at Chelsea Piers. Okay, so he’s o-orama guy. It’s not my favorite, lacks character, but I said to myself, “Katie, keep an open mind.”
I decided to go with a provocative conservative look for the fiasco that was my date with Henry. Tousled, I-look-great-after-I-fuck, hair. Understated, bordering preppy brown eyeliner and beige shadow with slutty red lipstick. To wear, I chose my pleated-Catholic-guilt-wielding mini skirt, 3 inch very high Mary Jane’s and a plunging-show-those-DDD-breasts-v-neck blouse. Being an avid collector of vintage, and select modern scents, I wore Eau De Hadrian perfume and lathered my body in vanilla bourbon lotion. I wanted to eat myself, I smelled so delicious. For good luck, I carried my whoomph bag. Ya know, a bag so big it goes whoomph when you put it down – leathah, of course.

I showed up on time with the effervescence of a virgin call girl turning her first trick! Henry told me he would be wearing a navy blue Italian double breasted suit. Okay 80s. And that he was tall, 6’5. I aspire to be 5’4. In heels I’m barely 5’7. To me a guy 5’10 is tall… enough. I digress. Stay open, Schwartzy.

Henry was easy to spot, he was the redwood tree pacing in the foyer of Chelsea Brewing Company. He was yakking on some overly priced cell phone that double backs as a palm-email-web-surfing-television-feeds me-when-I’m-hungry-cures-cancer, phone. We made eye contact, so I smiled pleasantly and walked towards him. Still on the phone, he said, “Katie Schwartz.” I nodded. He simultaneously snapped for the maĆ®tre d, continuing with his phone conversation and whisking me to the table.

It gets better.

He proceeded to toss his head from side to side preying for a food service engineer to interrogate, and screaming obscenities into the phone. I wanted to slink under the table, turn to smoke and hope that the air conditioning pushed me out the door or sucked me in. Instead, I mouthed, “I’m sorry,” to every person I could make eye contact with, rolling my eyes at Henry’s behavior. It was truly the zenith of shame.

Instead of politely ending his conversation, he snapped his phone shut and slammed it on the table sending a nervous-wife-beateree jolt down my spine. A few loud snaps later, a waitress was taking his orders, “Two glasses of house red. No more then 7 bucks a glass and no less than 4.” As she turned to leave, Henry wailed, “hey, I’m not done yet.”

Oh my God, what is wrong with this man? Who behaves this way? Why did he have to forget to take his human pill tonight of all nights? I was every shade of crimson you can’t think of and wanted to burst into flames from humiliation. The poor waitress regretfully obeyed Spawn of, and took his order. “We’ll each have a prosciutto salad. She’ll have shrimp pasta for dinner and I will have the filet mignon, medium-rare. That’s medium-RARE. No water for the table and do not fill this bread basket again.”

I sat across from him thinking, thanks for asking me what I wanted, Henry. How very sensitive and caring of you. I’m deathly allergic to meat and seafood. I’ve been a lacto-ovo vegetarian my entire life. The only meat I eat is cock. As much as I love red wine, I don’t drink and drive. In fact, I rarely drink at all.

This was the first time in my entire life I didn’t feel like Katie. I felt like, “Insert female here.” It was soooo creepy and surreal to see someone go from ostensibly normal to unadulterated narcissism.

I was surprised when Henry’s phone rang and he let it go to voicemail. Then again, I’m sure the idea of not spending the evening uninterrupted discussing Henry was a burden he just couldn’t bear. Henry is addicted to commentating about Henry and while he did that for two solid hours, I fantasized about my responses had I been able to get a word in edgewise.

“Katie, you’re a lucky woman to be in my company this evening.”

Are ya sure, Henry? Cause I’m thinking a case o’ warts with a yeast infection, bronchitis, back would be much more pleasant.

“I’m so good looking.”
Until you open your mouth.

“If you play your cards right, you just might get some.”
Chance to give you a vasectomy so your gene pool ends with you?

“I love DVD night, hundred dollar nights. I can go from double breasted Italian suit to sweatpants in an hour.”
What an I- wear-leather-n-lace-creepy-chick-syndrome thing to say.

“I love washing my woman’s hear with papaya shower gel.”
That’s just so wrong on every level, pharmacy boy.

“My armor is dinged. I have battle scars from love.”
Who loved you? I want names and addresses!

“I need intimacy immediately.”
Isn’t your reflection immediate enough?!

“I could make out with you right now if I wanted to.”
With a date rape drug. Go you!

Henry could not stop talking for five fucking minutes. He was so hot for Henry, he spit talked steak and probably maintained a steady-as-she-almost-blows, erection. Had I been hot for him, watching him eat steak would’ve spread my legs faster than Condi Rice defends Bush for being Bush. I am the first vegetarian you know who loves watching a man eat steak. It’s carnal, raw and manly.

I was a prisoner without food or water, strapped to the electric chair being injected with heaping doses of Henryoxins. Onlookers glanced my way with pity in their eyes, actual pity! I was chanting for someone, anyone, to call my cell phone so I could flee under the guise of an emergency. He droned on like Bush addressing the nation without dummy cards. This Jew was in hell and it had a name, Henry!

I wanted to scream, “how dare you impose your pulse upon us, you wretched life sucking demon! Why couldn’t you have become a reclusive cutter and spared us all of your lackluster, egotistical self?! I hate you-I hate you-I hate you!”

Oh, I was losing it, and faster than a doctor prescribes ADD drugs to a 5-year-old with an overactive imagination. My dignity and ability to maintain perspective went right out the window. They couldn’t run fast enough, leaving me with my base personality and Henry, the devil incarnate himself.

After Henry inhaled his last bite of flesh, he took a long deep breath. Silence reverberated. It was bliss on a stick. He paused for a moment only to beckon our waitress with the sensitivity of a piranha eating its young. Keen on Henry departing from her table, she rushed to his side.
“Check, please.”

Please? Oh my God, could it be? Was he being nice? Was the date ending? I felt as victorious as Moses did after parting the seas. I was about to get my walking papers. Hallelujah!
She quickly handed him the check and waited for him to pay. He glanced at the bill, then at me, back to the bill and back to me, sitting there with two untouched plates of food and a full glass of wine. I reached for my bag and took out my wallet. Like I wanted to feel beholden to Henry. “No, no, I’ll get this,” he said while tossing me a smirk and a wink. With that, I pulled out my credit card and handed it to the waitress. He took the card from her and handed it back to me. So I said, “Henry, let’s just split it, okay.”

“I’m a gentleman” pours out of his mouth, echoing in my brain.
A gentleman? He’s a gentleman! According to Webster’s Dictionary, because I looked it up, a gentleman is, “A well-mannered and considerate man with high standards of proper behavior.” My legs welded closed in anticipation of what was next on this gentleman’s “To Do” list because it sure as shit wasn’t me.

I raced out of the restaurant first and positioned myself at a cold distance from Henry, feeling distressed about his next move. I frigidly extended my hand to shake his. As an alternative, Henry inched closer to me using his height as a fear tactic. I hate when men do that, tower over a short chick. It’s so raperee. The closer he got, the more I withdrew. Being a straight shooter and realizing I wasn’t getting out of this without minimally a hug, I said, “Let me hug you so I can go, okay? I have to be up at 4AM.” I extended my arms to hug him in a way that insured our below the waist extremities would have no contact whatsoever. My head was turned so far away from his that his tongue landed in my hair. I could only hope my hair products made him choke. No such luck. While freeing myself from his embrace, he grabbed my arm and pulled me closer trying to kiss me. I was furious. “THIS. Isn’t THAT.” So he says to me, he says, “We’re going for a nightcap.”

Is he kidding me with this?! “You don’t have to play coy with me, Katie. I’m a sure thing. You got the guy,” he shouts, peppered with the enthusiasm of a serial rapist on a binge.
“Henry, if a nuclear war killed everyone on earth except us, and vibrators became extinct, I still wouldn’t fuck you,” I screamed.

He laughed. I left.

Two weeks later I received an email from Henry.

Hi, Kate.
I’m in town September 12th. Let’s have dinner unless you’re still on the rag.

What’s with the asterisks?

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked that my, no-I-won’t-fuck-you was postulated as menstruation. After all, if you’re Henry, rejection just isn’t an option.

The email went unanswered, so I was delighted when I received yet another inviting-and-caring-correspondence from him.

I guess you are still on the rag. Whatever be-yatch. At this point, Katie, even if you do email me back, I won’t respond. The window is closed. I’m no longer interested in you. It’s your loss.
Stupid, silly girl.

And he questions why he’s single?!


so my neighbor borrowed my entire screwdriver collection, and like never returned them. Isn't that wrong? You can't just abscond with a woman's screwdrivers for crissakes. When am I going to take the time to buy more? She's foreign, so does she think borrow means keep? How very ethnocentric of me to say. So, I am a snatch on wheels.


I want my fucking screwdrivers back.

Monday, January 16, 2006

what will my epitaph say

What's going to happen when I have my face-to-face with God? Is he going to ask me if I was a liar, a thief and a cheat? If lying tops his, “What not to do list”, I’m fucked! I’m queen of the yarn. What I hear and what you say will never find common ground, regardless of how many times you ask me to repeat it. A story just isn’t a story without a dash of embellishment and a pinch of Katie. As for cheating, I ask, “What really constitutes cheating?” Semantics. Nicely done, Schwartz. Like God never saw that one coming. I would never take credit for something I didn’t do. Though, I did cheat on a few tests in high school, but just the ones I couldn’t be asked to study for. I’ve never done anything spiteful, or hurtful. Oops, there I go lying again. There was that pesky divorce in 99’. But, hey, that doesn’t count. The relationship was so dead it was petrified and he couldn’t leave well enough alone. I think stealing is a gray area. Does one cappuccino and 20 packets of sugar in the raw really amount to stealing? What about ashtrays? I have the God given cleavage of a woman who’s earned the right to boost at least one ashtray and three place settings at a time. As for those delightful cheese samples at Whole Foods, their cheeses are so distinctive, I need at least 15 cubes to justify the impulse buy.

Did I do unto others as I would want done unto me? Or, did I do unto others with expectations that if went unmet were received with silence? Was I unconditionally giving? Or did I give knowing that I would get something in return? Did I love completely or to the best of my abilities? And, if those abilities limited my capacity, did I do more then just seek to change? Did I live fully? Do the authors of my epitaph feel that I did? More importantly, do I? Or did I just live fully in my head where I housed my ideal self? Did I rise above my crippling fears, or give them carte blanche? When my tag expires, when my life flashes before me and God and I are sharing a pitcher of martinis over Manhattan on a blustery autumn day, will I justify my actions and beg for a second chance, or will I feel sated?

You see I’m not confronting my mortality. I’m confronting my life, because in the end I want my epitaph to read, Katie was funny, fearless, passionate, bright and deeply loving. She strived for greatness within herself and for her life. She was an innovative thinker. She made people laugh. She had high aspirations and voraciously pursued them. She was a loving wife (probably to many. What can I say? My mother and my sister think I’m going to be a serial marrier. Is that so terrible? ) An idealistic and adoring mother, a dynamic and loyal friend and very much a soulful sister. Katie lived each day as if it were the last, rising with the sun and laying down with the voluptuous late moon. She was someone worth knowing and having in your life. Her quirkiness lifted your spirit. Her tenderness filled you with warmth. Her wit surprised, or healed a broken heart. Katie will be missed, but always remembered for how she lived, those who embraced her and the life that she lived OH, so loudly.

published in
new york opinion

Monday, January 09, 2006

cheneys heart

He has had four heart attacks, quadruple bypass surgery, two artery-clearing angioplasties and an operation to implant a special pacemaker in his chest.

at least we now know the boy has one. how refreshing!

Friday, January 06, 2006

katie's queer ass fears

katie worries when she pees that a snake will swim through the pipes, plunge inside her pussy, pierce her womb and kill her.

katie is petrified of dying naked without shoes on.

there's more.... when katie stops sneezing her fucking head off, she'll be back.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

me and mr. blind

I was walking across the street this afternoon not paying attention because what’s the fun in that; when someone tripped me with a cane.

Yeah. A cane.

So I says, “HEY!”

Turns out he was blind.


To appease his guilt he asked me if I would have coffee with him.

To appease my guilt, I agreed.

There we sat at buckeys. Me and blind boy.

Me challenging his blindness by unbuttoning my blouse a little more. Ducking and weaving; knowing I was soooo close to calling his blind bluff.

Him complimenting my voice and intellect. Like that’s enough.

Hmm... I thought.

No mention of my mini-skirt, my 3 inch heels, my fabulous legs or long black tresses, and what about my ravenous brown eyes? What are they? Chopped liver!

I’m sorry but I just can’t date someone who is incapable of appreciating when I take time out of my day to give a jhush and make myself fuckable.


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