Katie Schwartz

I read Gail Konop Baker's memoir Cancer Is A Bitch *Or I'd Rather Be Having a Mid-Life Crisis , twice. Before reading it, I wondered if I'd be able to relate-- I've never had cancer, I'm lucky and grateful for that. I also grew up in a neurosis-is-the-breakfast-of-champions environment, where the word cancer is whispered for fear that elevating the pitch would somehow invite the disease into our lives. Flowing along that superstition, I wondered if reading a book about cancer would beckon a social call. Would I be dialing-a-disease-for-delivery by reading this memoir? What would my grandparents think? Should I even tell my parents I was reading a shh-book? And I wonder where my hypochondriac roots stem from?! Really? Really. OY. The minute I started reading Cancer Is A Bitch, I could NOT put it down. Honestly, irreverently, hysterically and exquisitely, Gail hurled me into what she endured and continues to face as a cancer survivor. But, more than that- the fren...

Officially, I am grossly behind on my e-mails, grossly , like it's embarrassing how behind I am in e-stalking people back. My sincere apologies. The past four days have been a cluster fuck wrapped in a riddle, served on burnt toast with rotting oysters and penicillin drenched cheese. The Way We Were, saltines and Ginger Ale, my combo cure-all for stress, is doing fuck all. I have stressrhea, stomach pains that would make Satan climax, nausea to the point of making bulimics everywhere green with envy. Oh, wait, and I'm ovulating. If I were fucking, even myself, I'd be worried about getting knocked up. I'm too stressed out to take 5 minutes and spin a get-myself-off yarn. The shame. It's time to back the fuck off and re-evaluate my life. Before I do... I'm supposed to participate in a sleep study because of my freakish, incessant nightmares. My shrinktail hooked me up with a Sleep Daddy Doctor of Doom. Whatever. I called their office today to inquire about the pro...

I finally got the chairs I wanted on Craigslist. OddChairBoy delivered two of the most divine 100-year-old chairs evah on Saturday afternoon. I got both chairs for 60 duckets, isn't that amazing?! I was plotzarella, too. I've always been so wildly in love with these chairs. They were so far out of my price range though, that I couldn't swing'em. I wonder how many asses sat on these chairs in the past hundy years, what decisions they made, how many of those tooh-chai were happy, how many hearts were broken, how many people laughed, wrote, spun a few verbal yarns. Perhaps that's why I adore vinty tchoch as much as I do. I like to imagine the history of each piece. Schwartzy is out to run errands and bust a few chops along the way. Have a beautiful Sunday, dollies. PS: Moon River (my favorite song) just popped on the pod. Bliss.

I was so sad to learn that Bernie Mac died yesterday. The world won't be the same without this extraordinary comic genius, a beautiful man-- brilliant and hilarious. B-Mac depicted family in reality, not some watered down, sugar coated version of family, one of the things I loved the most about him. Bernie Mac was the menschiest of mensches and such a talent, oy, and now he's dead. I am such a blueJew. I loved his TV show, " The Bernie Mac Show " and his stand-up comedy. He was one of the Original Kings of Comedy , donchya know! He was flawless. He will be missed terribly. 50-years-old is too young to die. Tributes to Bernie Mac .

My faith did the drama diva swan dive off the Golden Gate Bridge when I almost peeled out from Graves' disease . Over the past year, I've been working on faith restoration in every area of my life. Let me tell ya, it ain't easy. I have good days and bad days. Days when I am so in the flow of faith-- if we bonded any harder, I'd spontaneously combust from being overly faithed . Other days, I want to fuck faith in the ass with a giant cock the size of the Chrysler building sans lube. My faith is moody, tempestuous and unreliable. I know it's there, it's just a matter of rekindling it. Pre-Graves' I was a very idealistic broad. And now my idealism is fractured. When it surfaces, it's a beauuutiful thing. Today for example, I have been reading Wade Agnew's poetry books A Desultry Way and Solace for a Starving, Naked, Alone In The Dark Soul (does that scream KATIE or does that scream Katie?! Please...) The boy has serious poetry chops. I'm falling ...

I just started blogdating Traveling Man Rick . Sharing a love affair with the word Cunt , it was inevitable. Rick has coined a new variation on Cunt for men, MUNT . He wrote a fab post about it, including a few examples WE appreciate. His blog is divine. His views are liberal squared. He loves, loves, loves to travel. He's also a menschy good kid and fun-neee like nobody's bizola. Check him out. You'll dig the read, to be sure.

What is going on with my Karma?! I'm not cunty dame, or so I'd like to think. So, what the fuck?! The past few days I've been in Karmic hell and my K-Rolodex is yielding no insight. I'm trying to dig deep and figure it out. Let's begin with the chair Odyssey. Today, I schlepped my ass in 90 degree weather to a chair joint. My car doesn't have air conditioning, it's a vinty number, over 30-years old. Love it. Schlepped it from NY and I'm not giving it up, period. Anywho. I met with the owners of the chairs I wanted. Lovely black and white 7o's high camp chairs. I was thrilled, hoping to walk out of their with my new chairs. Mind you, I had cash in hand ready to complete my transaction. The owners sat me down with a clipboard in hand. A fucking clipboard. Their house was hotter than it was outside. God forbid they crack a window or use a fan. GOD FORBID. I admit it, I was a bit snippy. But, nice. Keeping my snippiness to a low roar. I pushed sarcasm a...