It Will Happen Again

I should be finishing up my end of year 2011 in review blog.  But I have been literally nauseous for the past 24 hours and I am thinking I will have better luck writing that blog if I get this one out first.

HSF hits the road in t-minus 144 hours.  I am going to calculate it into hours because it makes it seem longer that way.  I understand that the love of my life isn't going to war.  In fact, I am not even technically saying goodbye to a boyfriend.  I am just watching someone I care about deeply do what is very normal for 20 year olds to do, and that is go to school and get a degree like an adult.  So why does this seem so much harder to walk away from then that moment after high school graduation where the friends I had spent a decade with were all going their own ways too?

I guess the big difference is that he is leaving and I am staying. As much as I am sad to see him go, I can't deny the fact that I am a little envious.  I've always been a little envious of this kid.  He doesn't have to pay rent, utilities, or for groceries.  He doesn't have to set an alarm to wake up in the morning for work.  The only thing I seem to have on this kid is the lack of a curfew. 

So how come after all the hard work I do, and all I struggle with just to keep a roof over my head and my water kept on, how come HE gets to go start over?  How come he gets a free pass to try again, wipe the slate clean, and follow his dreams?  I feel like at 24 I am already stuck in the cycle of adulthood and watching him jump through it like a circus performer, coming out the other side unscathed, really kind of pisses me off.

But jealousy aside, he has become a permanent fixture on my couch over the past 5 months, and I don't know if anyone will be able to fill my time and hold my attention as well as he has.  I like to consider HSF the best rebound relationship I've ever had.  He was the perfect band-aide over the broken heart that Charlie had left behind.  He's been charming, and funny; I've at no point in the past 5 months been bored with any conversation we have had.  I was at at beautiful wedding at the Peninsula hotel in Chicago, and my date was upset with me because I ignored a 5 course meal and fantastic wedding band to spend the night texting my 20 year old Napervillian man-friend.

I wrote an essay to Barack Obama about why if I could have dinner with him tomorrow, I would bring HSF as my dinner date.  Some serious shit has gone down in 5 months.

So it's ending.  And he will get in a U-Haul in 6 days and take his life, the very little of it he has had yet, and move away.  And I will have to process him leaving the same way I have with every man before him.  The hardest part is realizing that this doesn't have to end in the most negative way possible. I don't need to be heartbroken and abandoned, because he isn't leaving me, he is just leaving.  And I truly believe that if he was to still be here in 6 months, we would still be us.  The only thing that changes about our relationship now is that it is over, not that one person broke the other person's heart.

There is an awesome early 2000s film called 'Someone Like You' starring Ashley Judd and Hugh Jackman.  In it the lead female realizes a pattern in the men around her, that more often than not they leave her.  I guess the advice her love interest leaves with her is all I could ask for right about now :

Jane: Because if this theory is wrong, men don't leave all women, Eddie. They leave me.
Eddie: I know it hurts. I know. It's so hard to believe that something that wonderful can ever happen to us again, but it can.

Of All The Gin Joints

I think back to the beginning of summer and that uncomfortable moment of finally running into Andy since we had broken up.  I have been very lucky to have so few run-ins with exs in the past.  Considering how many exs there are.  But when I saw Andy and his now fiance sit down in front of me in that theater I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I felt like I was going to throw up, laugh, and cry all at the same time.  It was awful.  In retrospect it wasn't awful because I was in the same room as an ex boyfriend. As much as it was awful because in all of the ways I had dreamed of running into him, none included the dimly lit theater for the 9:15 showing of Crazy Stupid Love.

When you date a lot of "performers" it's easy, in this day and age, to know how to avoid ever seeing them.  For those ex's who are in bands, I get emails weekly telling me exactly what club they are playing in on what night.  And not that I frequent the club scene much these days, it's still nice to have a head's up of where I shouldn't be going.  The same applies for comedians, I have found.  And though it is more than irritating that my facebook events page is nothing more than a daily reminder of all the things my ex is doing in the local comedy scene, at least I have a well drawn out road map of how exactly to avoid him.

Lately I have been fighting the urge to get back out into the comedy scene.  Not full-fledged like I used to be, but enough to see some new material from the local comedians I used to actively support and adore.  And part of me will even admit to missing the social aspect of the comedy world.  A lot of these people are just giant fucking douche bags.  But there is a select handful of them that do remind me why I fell in love with standup in the first place.  I have all these event invites just sitting on my stupid facebook, and I have stopped looking at them for the sake of not having to know the exact location of my exboyfriend on any given night.

I wish I could go back to a time where I wasn't able to access all of this information.  But I can't. Does this mean I have to be a prisoner to the information that is shoved in my face simply as a result of being a member of a stupid social networking website?  What if I want to go to a local comedy show, knowing there are so few in the area I live, in the off chance that on that particular evening I will have to run into an ex?  What if I just want to be a 24 year girl going to a comedy show - and not have to worry about who will or will not be there?  What if I stop looking and start living?

I am basically playing with fire.  And this blog isn't a result of throwing caution to the wind, as much as it is a blog about me throwing myself to the wolves.  But I don't want to have to swallow my stomach back down my throat again when I am caught off guard by the appearance of someone from my past in a movie theater.  I want to go to that restaurant I love, even if it was the place we had our first date.  And I want to lie on my couch and watch the show we used to watch together with out you  And listen to that song that made me think of you because it's still a great song with out you.  And I want to go see comedians and bands and not worry about who may also be partaking in these activities.


I will pledge to myself from this moment on not to dictate my actions based off of who I may find when I do them.  Life is too short  I may run into every last guy I gave my heart to that handed it back to me some where along the way.  Even if that is the case, I am not about to deter where I am going for where they might be. 

Worst case scenario : these men will see a girl who is still looking for love, who is still a bit too intense, and is still hellbent on not giving up.  And there is no shame in that.

Potentially Learning

One of the major connecting themes through all of my most significant relationships has been my ridiculous ability to fall in love with a man's potential vs. the man they actually are in the time I am dating them. I have always beaten myself up over this, I mean, I recognized it for the first time with Jerod 5 years ago. But it never seems to stop me from dating the same type of guy over and over again.

I am a "fixer", as it is most commonly referred to as. I like taking someone who isn't quite all there yet, and inspire and motivate them to make themselves some thing better.  And not in a manipulative way, but an incredibly supportive, more times than not, an over-complimentary way. If I see someone who has the world at their feet and the opportunity to do something great... but they don't realize it yet?!  Hold the phone...that's as exciting to me as being stuck in an elevator with Colin Farrell. 

When each of these relationships has ended, I have always felt as though I was letting go of someone that was going to be great someday. That someday I would wake up and see each of these men doing that one great thing they were destined to do.  And that it would break my heart to see them doing that thing I have always encouraged them to do with out me being there at their side.  But, I wake up now at 24 and realize - these men haven't become any of the great things that in my head I thought they had the potential of doing.

Jerod isn't doing anything great.  I wanted him to be a rockstar, or an explorer, or a writer. He joined the military after we broke up. Married some Aldi-brand Katie Keller in Hawaii while stationed over there. He was divorced within the year, and back in Aurora dialing up MY phone number shortly thereafter.  Andy?  We'll he's engaged to be married after he knocked up his Oswegoland girlfriend (also a redhead - it's almost creepy how this keeps happening).  And I am sure he is going to have a great life ahead working at GameStop and supporting his tattooed bride and bastard child.

And then there is Charlie, who is really the only hope I have left in being proved wrong with this theory.  Maybe I will turn on Live! with Kelly in 5 years and see him promoting his next comedy effort.  Maybe, though, just maybe, I will be rereading this blog when I am 30 and enjoying the satisfaction of this theory being proven true all across my early 20's dating board.

So now that I have taken this into consideration, and had my selfish moment of reveling in the lack of success of all of my ex's, I do realize that this says more about me than it does about any of them.  Maybe I need to stop looking for that project of a man I can fix up, and start looking for a man who, as they are right now in this very moment, is doing great just they way they are.  Maybe they aren't a rock star, comedian, magician, or rap god.  Maybe they are just that guy who works at the place and lives in that house and thinks I am a fucking goddess.

That is the dream, isn't it?  Maybe I am not making any huge revelation here.  But I do feel like it is a small step in getting closer to that love I think I am going to find someday. 

DTR With The HSF

I watch a lot of romantic dramedy television, listen to a lot of love songs, and sob through most of the formulaic boy meets girl romance films that exist.  There is a moment in every relationship, in every one of these mediums, that I refer to as the 'DTR' moment.  This is the point in the story where the characters are forced to define the relationship.

"We're just friends."
"We're soul-mates."
"We're casually dating, but seeing other people."
"We're just not working."

My brain has been conditioned from a very young age to ask that question, "What are we?"  I think this is more important for women than men, and I think that is a direct result of our much more outward insecurities.  We need to know that we aren't falling alone.  We need to know if it is ending, or beginning.  Even just some sort of validation that it is happening at all.  Unfortunately, I have come to find in my many years of romantic field research that this is the exact opposite of what men want.  In fact, I haven't been able to find anything to make men more uncomfortable than having the DTR talk.  Maybe only second to a pregnancy scare.

I am in this pseudo-relationship with HSF, and though we have been doing this thing, whatever we are, since June; only twice have I had a strong pull to DTR.  And both times I have watched terror and discomfort build behind his eyes and the conversation had quickly extinguished shortly there after.  I haven't pushed this conversation any further, because to be honest, I have known from the beginning that this non-relationship relationship comes with an expiration date.  And there isn't much of a point of DTRing when we won't exist past December 31st, 2011. 

So this morning... I wake up with an incredibly strong urge to DTR.

'God Dammit, HSF' I thought to myself 'can you just tell me what the fuck this is already!?'

Why this has come barreling into my mind over Wednesday morning coffee I will never understand.  But I did quickly realize that this conversation with him would end no differently than it had the first two times before.  So instead of looking to him to define anything for me, I decided to define it for myself.  In my own terms.  He doesn't owe anything to me, he leaves in 3 weeks. I can label us with whatever the hell I want, and it won't affect the inevitable conclusion to this story.  So here goes:

HSF embodies all of the qualities of who Charlie should have been. And I don't mean that as terribly as it sounds. But Charlie was on board to be my boyfriend, he jumped at the opportunity to be exclusive.  But when it came down to it, he was all talk and no action.  HSF has been the complete opposite of that.  Though he has never exclusively claimed me as his own, he has made it a point to spend as much time as possible with me.  I know if there were a line up of me and most people he knows, more likely than not, he would choose to waste his days on my couch watching me laugh at Modern Family and arguing with him about the value of 90s music.  He has never changed his facebook status for me, or even alluded to the fact that we were in a relationship.  And yet with no answers, no DTR,  I am still happier spending time with him than anyone else in the world.

HSF is not the end all and be all of men. And once he is gone, I am sure it's only a matter of time before I am searching for the next guy to DTR with.  In the interim, I have stumbled upon a very pleasant reminder of what it is like to be in the company of someone who genuinely wants to be with you.  Whether it's defined or not.

The Mikey B Story

I don't know if I had mentioned this before because this blog has only been in existence for the past year.  And to be quite honest, though this upcoming story does carry some weight in the larger picture of Katie Keller, this part of my life hasn't had much relevance in this past year at all.  Before I worked at the music store, I spent 2 years as a waitress at the same Naperville Italian restaurant. Which, at the age of 24, felt like forever.

I went through a lot in my time waiting tables there. At one point I was living in a house with no running water and no heat in the middle of December with Brock.  There were some dark times, for sure.  I am so far on the other side of that part of my life at this point that sometimes I forget how much learning and growing up happened in the time that I was there.  Lately I have been nostalgic about a certain relationship I had, via this restaurant, the summer of 2008 when I met a fellow server, a young man, named Mikey B. 

It was the end of the summer, and the end of my 2 year long relationship with Andy. We had tried everything at this point.  We had dated and broken up, and dated and broken up more times than I can remember.  We both knew we were no good for each other, but like an addiction didn't want to stay away.  So we were, technically, still dating when Mikey B and I decided to grab a drink together after work one night.  I knew it was going to lead to cheating, I knew that it would be the final straw in Andy and mine's relationship. And I lit the wick anyway.

The thing about Mikey B was that he was moving to Boston about 3 weeks after we had decided to make something more of our casual beverage-station banter.  We threw caution to the wind, and decided that him leaving sooner than later would only make the time we had together that much more intense.  We stayed up, every night, camped out on the bed of his studio apartment in the middle of no where Aurora.  I would wake up to breakfast in bed, and very good sex, before we would shower up and go to work together to go home and do it again until he left.  And 3 weeks later he left.

I had a blast with Mikey B.  He was a weird kid, and the other servers of this time would agree, he was not all there in the head.  But my memory of him is that of such a sweet kid, that made me laugh, that gave me an out from a no good relationship with someone I will, undoubtedly, love forever.  We had great moments together, some of the most romantic moments of my life.  He did once ask me to move to Boston with him, though I knew this wasn't really an option since he was moving up to Boston to be with his long-distance girlfriend.  (Another story for another day...)

He lives there now, a head chef of some tapas restaurant.  They are married, and in love. And I honestly, truly, couldn't be happier for that man.  He was exactly who I needed him to be, when I needed him to be there.  There is a part of me that knows this memory is only relevant because history is, in a way, repeating it's self.  I guess this story, if nothing else, proves that whatever may be will be.  Not everything lasts, but that doesn't mean it doesn't count.

Men of Honor

"75 cents to the dollar is what that statement is worth." a typical response from the HSF in our on-going battle of the sexes debate. I fight on behalf of woman all the time because although, we are crazy bitches, I also feel like we are directly a product of the suppression we have dealt with and the places we have come from. Not to mention, the scientific difference between men and women, and on how on two very different levels we emotionally process things.

I feel bad for woman, more often than not.  Because I think we are smarter than we are acknowledged for.  And after centuries of being told we are good, but not good enough, we ourselves have begun to believe it.  We hold ourselves back, if anything, because we have had affirmed over and over that we are the lesser of the sexes.  We don't know how to be the best because we've constantly been told that we can't ever be.  I would be a more vocal advocate of this, but I am a girl, so I am insecure and constantly cowering from having a challenging opinion.  Ha.

Every conversation between man and woman can stand as a point in either the 'girls or boys' column in the scoreboard of life. Often times girls are responding off of an emotional reaction that makes our argument come off is irrational or invalid.  Where as men, more often than not, lack he ability to find any answer in the emotional gray area that does very much so actually exist.  One thing remains true to most situations though, which I hate to admit, women lack honor.

Men can be huge assholes, looking out for no one but themselves and constantly scheming new ways to get ahead be it in a job or a relationship.  But when it comes to friendship, family, and love - men remain honorable through the very end.  Us bitches will turn on each other at the drop of a hat.  We turn on each other faster than men turn on us, which is very quickly and all of the time.   Men will fight the good fight, get a bros back no matter what or who he may have done prior to that moment.  Because, above all else, men live and die with honor.

I don't have many girlfriends (red flag) but from the ones I have had and been close with, I think we can all agree that even though we have been closer than words - have laughed together, cried together, made vows to one another, and have held each other's hands and hair through many long and wonderful memories - we have all thrown each other under the bus in some way shape or form for the sake of a dude.  Because love, romance, sex, and lust will always mean more to us than honor.  Which is probably a bad thing, but a true thing nonetheless.

I want to make it a point, since I have recognized this short coming in myself, to live with more honor.  Keep an eye out for those other people in my life, be them men or woman.  Because at the end of the day - men don't get a lot of things right, but if there is one thing we can learn from them it is that 'no man left behind' all-for-one way of living.  All we have in this life is each other.  And hopefully some honor.

Why Georgia Why?

I have started writing 3 different blog entries to lead me to this one.  The first one was this awesome screenplay-esq tale of my top 6 most significant ex boyfriends being chloroformed and put in a room at random left to figure out how they got there and what connected them all. The second version was a blog about being inspired to write that previously mentioned blog.  And the latest version was a novella style interpretation of a story that was told to me by HSF.   The last of which is actually a full blog entry sitting in the drafts folder of this here blog site...

Here's the problem...I have put all too much pressure on who is reading my blog, how they perceive me as a result of my blog, and how I can shape my words and phrases to be someone that is more likable to the masses in my blog.  And for what purpose, really?

I know, for the most part, my audience when I write my words into this online journal. I know the people that hang on every last terrifying story of my awkward social encounters.  And I know the people that read this with hopes of piecing together some lager puzzle of who I am and how I got here.  And I know that my original intention for this blog was just for nothing more than talking about the mundane experiences of my life as they happened.

And then my dad got cancer, my heart got broken, I had to reevaluate all of my relationships (family and otherwise) from this 24 year old single girl perspective.  And it hasn't been easy or pretty to deal with these things on such a public platform.  But I've felt, from the beginning, that this blog has held me accountable to dealing with things as they happen.  And maybe that's the demise. That is where this blog becomes less about pleasure and more about the pressure of dealing with it all in an eloquent way for everyone else.

HSF mentioned tonight that this summer, as fucked up as it was, has been awesome.  And as the cynic in me wants to disagree, maybe he is on to something.  Maybe, despite all the obviously horrific things, I've not only survived, but enjoyed what I was given to work with this year.  I am an insanely different person than who I was when I wrote my first blog entry January 1st, 2011.  And though I will more closely examine that and the specific details of what this year was in an upcoming end-of-year blog, I will now make mention to how much worse it could be.

This particular blog lacks focus, theme, and any sort of character development.  And to be honest, that is the most accurate description of my life I could make these days. I have lots of things to say.  Things not as easily mapped out for me as 3am breakups, or Charlie and Adrian meeting in a dark lite room with dripping pipes and bars over the one small window in the corner (if they are going to be chloroformed, let's at least be realistic about where they end up.)

I wish I had better stories.  I wish I didn't sound like a cheesy column in Cosmopolitan magazine.  I wish I could find the words, not only to achieve a brilliant blog post, but to get me from here to January 1st, 2012.  I wish I could find a more profound way to say that none of this is pretty, or fluffy, or fun.  Nothing that I write about is nearly as quippy and snarky as it comes off as on this blog.  And I am not going to try and make it that way anymore.  Because, quite frankly, I can't take the pressure.

'Umiliante' Is Italian For Mortifying

mor·ti·fy

[mawr-tuh-fahy] 

IPA verb, -fied, -fy·ing.

verb (used with object)

1. to humiliate or shame, as by injury to one's pride or self-respect.

2. to subjugate (the body, passions, etc.) by abstinence, ascetic discipline, or self-inflicted suffering.

3. Pathology. to affect with gangrene or necrosis.

I have had a handful of moments in my existence that I would qualify as mortifying.  Though, I use the word for more than these specific events that it applies to.  Fact of the matter is, if something is truly mortifying, you find that even looking back on it years later it still makes you feel like you want to crawl out of your skin.  Well, one of these mortifying things happened to me this weekend.  And after it happened I swore to myself I would never tell a single soul.  I was so mortified I vowed to take it to the grave only revealing it (maybe) to my future husband on my deathbed.  Then I though about it, I thought about it over and over again. It occurred to me that there is some serious entertainment value in the mortifying things that have happened to me.  And if I am brave enough to tell everyone about them, maybe over time they will feel less mortifying.  In the very least, maybe you will read one of these and be like "man, thank GOD that never happened to me."  In which case, that's good enough for me too. 

Without further explanation, and for your own personal enjoyment, I now present the top 4 mortifying events of my entire life.

7th Grade. 1999.

It was a passing period, just the tail end of it.  I was still pretty new to my Jr. High having just moved there that year.  It was a hard transition for me because the elementary school I went to was K-8th.  So I had had the same classmates forever.  I started school in one building when I was 5 - and didn't have to navigate myself through a new school at any point.  Coming into a Jr. High that started in 6th grade, already had me at a disadvantage because everyone else had had a year to familiarize themselves with the layout of the school.  I was lost all the time.  At least I could fall back on my good looks, right?  Wrong. I was hideous. 

So there I was with my half-mullet and my perfectly round gold framed glasses (if only Harry Potter became cool 5 years earlier...) just trying to gather my books for my next class and then figure out where exactly that class was.  Somewhere between bundling my books and closing my locker door, two 7th grade boys approached me and started teasing me, calling me a dog.  I was not a very confrontational kid, so I did what anyone would do, kept my head down and kept walking to where I thought my next class was.  But these kids were relentless.  They thought I was a dog, and they wanted me to know about it.  I picked up my speed as they followed closely behind me barking, literally barking at me, sporadically interjecting that they were barking because I was a dog.  Yep, thanks guys, got that.

The fast walk, turned into a jog, which turned into a sprint to my next class.  These two boys behind me the whole way.  By the time I had gotten to the right room, most of the 7th grade had watched this happen and would reference this moment for weeks to come.  Needless to say, mortified.

Senior Year. 2005.
It's never been a secret that I became a little slutty at a young age.  Since about 14 years old I have found the very little self esteem I have from the validation of men wanting to bed me.  Not something I am proud of, and one of the many things I have been working on in therapy.  But at this point in my life, at the ripe old age of 17, I didn't even know it was wrong.  What I did know was that I was spending a lot of time with older men in the Chicago rock scene.  And these men a. didn't know I was only 17 and b. were used to really slutty groupies that would do anything to steal a moment of their attention.

Since I was receiving attention from these men, I had to compete with gorgeous 20something girls who had the time, money, and IDs to seduce these men in bars after shows when they are good and drunk.  All I had was my parent's basement and a digital camera.  So, some pictures were taken.  Some really inappropriate illegal pictures.  I had sent them to a handful of men I was attempting to win over, and made the silly mistake of leaving them on the family computer.  One day when I had gotten home from school my mother asked me to take a ride with her.  This was the first red flag that something was wrong.  She took us to the Oswego Park District parking lot where she confronted me about finding them, and explained how awful it was that I even took them nonetheless sent them to strange old men.  She was right.  But I was mortified.

New Year's Eve. 2006.
Taking the last story into consideration, I found myself at a friend's family friend's NYE party the winter after I had left college.  I was 19 now, but clearly my judgement hadn't improved much over those 2 years.  At this house party, there were people every where.  Lots of adults with kids, some grungy teenagers drinking heavily behind the house, and a group of old biker dudes showing off their motorcycles in the driveway (this was also the first time I was ever on a motorcycle...on December 31st).  I scanned the party for the first half of the night checking out the prospects for my midnight kiss.  So far the position was going to be filled by my gay friend Paul.

After one two many beers in the garage, and strangers filtering in and out for drinking and dancing, I met an older man who seemed to be very into me.  And I seemed to be very into being drunk and looking for a make out buddy.  We were a match made in drunken holiday heaven.  It was getting closer to midnight and we found ourselves alone in the garage, he made the move, he leaned in, and we kissed.  A little kissing turned into a lot of kissing.  It was a full blown makeout session before I realized more people had entered the garage as well.  Turns out, those people were his wife and 2 small children.

For a very long time I never told anyone this story, other than discussing it with my one girlfriend who was there that night.  This is one of the harder stories of mine for me to swallow because my stupid decisions didn't only affect me that night.  And I try to consider that I was 19, and at that point didn't think to look for a wedding ring.  And really, fuck that guy - he's skeezy as shit. What makes this story mortifying was that I spent the first half of the evening dancing with these 2 little kids.  Dancing with them, spinning them through the air, showing them how to do the twist.  They were my little buddies, and they adored me, probably until they heard what their mother said about me on the ride home.  Mortified.

November 12th. 2011.
My friend had asked me to be a plus one at a wedding he was attending.  I didn't know anything about the wedding other than that there would be a limo at my house at 3pm to take me where I needed to be.  I put on a pretty black dress, and some fancy dancing shoes, and let my limo take me away to the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen in my whole entire life.  The ceremony was at a cathedral on State and Erie in the city, and following the vows everyone was charter bussed over to the Peninsula Hotel for a reception in the Grand Ballroom.  First of all, holy shit beautiful hotel.  It looked like Nate Berkus had designed the ballroom from top to bottom, from every beautiful center piece to the perfectly crafted nameplates and menus.  I was in awe that a wedding could be so breathtaking.

I took my seat and made small talk with the other guests at my table.  I was at one of those younger tables wedding couples through together since they don't fit in any where else with the older friends and family.  And though I was at the young table, I was still 10 years behind everyone else.  So I played extra cool, used my best manners, and paid very close attention to which fork I was using.  After a few minutes the wedding party headed in, one couple at a time.  Once the bride and groom were in sight I stopped with everyone else to raise my glass of champagne and toast the beautiful couple.  Out of the corner of my eye, as I stood up, I noticed a gigantic blood stain atop the white linen covered chair I was sitting in.  Oh hey period blood - could your timing be any worse?

I was quick on my feet, given my complete and total horror.  I pushed the chair into the table, covered with my napkin, and ran to the bathroom to calculate my next move.  I choked backed tears in the stall of the ladies room, and strongly considered running out the door and not answering my dates phone calls for the next 5-10 years.  Instead, I cleaned up, went back to the table to sit over the spot until the next morning when everyone was sure to have left.  But to my surprise when I had gotten back to the table, a new chair was in it's place, a new linen folded nicely sitting on my dinner plate and no one had said a word about it for the rest of the night.  It took a few cocktails to get my heart rate back down, but by the end of the night it was as if it never happened.  But I will never forget the shear mortification of that moment.

So there they are.  In all their glory.  The top 4. 

I racked my brain for a 5th, just because a list of 5 sounds better than one of 4.  But I think I have relived enough embarrassment for one day.  I am sure 100 more terribly mortifying things will happen between now and the day I die.  But in 24 years, this is hands down the worst of it.

Bubblegum Cigars For Everyone.

I have walked a very fine line with this blog in what I want to write about my life for entertainment value, and what I need to write about my life as a way of learning and growing from the experiences I have had.  My reservations with talking about some particular topics are mainly because of my audience here.  I have some friends, family, and mentors that check into this blog and I feel like if I share certain things that they will see me in a different light.  That they won't see this badass Katie MF Keller persona that fills these pages with quippy stories of love, lust, and sex. 
 

I have always had a desire to use the negative things I have experienced for good.  That maybe some where, some day, the right person would hear my stories and know that it is going to be okay.  And not that I am necessarily the picture of that reassurance yet, I know that some day where I came from and what I have gone through will mean something to someone.  So what better time to start throwing it all out there than the present.  Especially when one of these experiences came bursting through the forefront of my mind in recent days.

"The plot thickens..." was the text I got from Kurt last night.  And before I even asked for him to continue on, I knew exactly what he was going to say.  I knew that he was going to tell me that recently engaged ex-Andy's fiance was preggers.  Which is fine.  Good for them.  Having babies. (I wonder if they will home school?). 

The thing is, that last week when I first found out about them getting married the only thing I could wrap my head around was that him and I would have a 5 year old child today if I had made different choices in my youth.  I stand behind the choice that I made was I was 19, but it's crazy to imagine how different things would be if I chose yes over no.  He would still be in my life, though I doubt we would've maintained a romantic relationship over all these years.  He wanted me to keep it when we found out I was pregnant.  He would have made every effort to be a good dad.  I truly believe that.

Of all the things in my life I have struggled through, I am the most public about my abortion because I feel like there needs to be a voice for those of us who made the decision to live the best life for ourselves, rather than bringing a child into the world that we couldn't provide for the way we hope to when we have children in the future, as adults.  Nothing breaks my heart more than seeing protesters outside of clinics, because I was there.  I made the toughest decision of my entire life, and when I had to walk through the clinic doors on the darkest day of my 24 years on earth, I had a group of people screaming at me the whole way.  "You are going to hell!  If you go in there you will DIE!"  Well, thanks guys, but that isn't helping.

I guess at the end of the day pro-lifers will never be able to understand the heartache that goes into making the decision to terminate a life.  And I am not going to pretend that that isn't what I did.  I just truly believe the life I want to give to my future children was not one that I could provide at the age of 19.  And you can make your arguments about adoption all day long, but I know myself better than to think I could bring a child to term and then hand them off to someone else.  If I am having a baby, I will love the shit out of that baby myself.

I know this is a hot button issue for a lot of people, and believe me when I say it's something that runs through my mind every day that I am breathing, and will until the day I die.  But I don't regret it.  I'm proud that I was strong enough to determine what was right for me without being swayed by society's perception of right and wrong.  And if it was a huge sin that god will punish me for forever, than that's on me.  I think the big guy will be more peeved I spent years telling people he's not real.

Someday I will write a blog about the 8 weeks I was pregnant, because it was a roller coaster worth reliving for the sake of the story.  In the meantime, I wish nothing but the best to my ex (again) and hope that he has the chance to be a father on better terms than he would've been 2 months after we had started dating and I made the decision that I did.  And even more, I wish that someday I will make up for that decision with all the beautiful babies I will love and parent using everything I have learned along the way.

With Love, Katiefish

It was only a matter of time before I was going to have to write one of these blogs.  And I would like to preface this by saying that this isn't one of those "what does it all mean?" things.  I am not going hallucinate Bruce Springsteen or call my 'top 5' for dinner dates.  But, as these things sometimes happen in life, I found out yesterday that my ex-boyfriend Andy is engaged to be married.

Now, this is not all that shocking in the sense that he is significantly older than most of my exs (except Erik, but the day he gets married, I suspect not much will change).  And Andy, as previously mentioned, is one of my more meaningful past relationships.  I have always felt that way, and it was reaffirmed when I ran into him at the movies that fateful night a few months back.  We were on and off for 2 years.  I went through one of the most horrific experiences of my life with his shaky hand in mine.  And equally relevant is one of my favorite moments in the past 24 years when we came back from a fireworks show on the 4th, and his eyes welled up with tears as he finally told me that he loved me.  And then we kissed, and cried, and kissed some more.  It was one of the most beautiful, genuine, real moments I have ever shared with a boyfriend. 

Whether or not I would have found out about his engagement, I would have still grown nostalgic for him this time of year anyways.  The winter has always made me miss him, because cold nights in each other's arms were the best times spent in our relationship.  And though we had a tendency of breaking up for whatever reason towards the end of summer, one of us would breakdown shortly after the first snow fall missing the warmth of what we were.  I remember the night I put up my Christmas tree all alone at my apartment by the marshmallow. I picked up the phone after a month or so of us not speaking and told him it wouldn't be Christmas without him.  I got my diamond necklace from him a few weeks later. (After a very funny prank involving me believing my gift was actually a bag of blessed peanuts from Africa.  I should've know better - but he even had his parents in on the schtick.  I was pretty pissed.)

My dear friend Kurt intercepted the news of the engagement for me.  And thank God, because he made it tolerable to hear.  I was most comforted by his simple response of "better her than you".  And it's true.  That kid is sort of a mess, always will be.  And for anyone that knows me, that is the reason I loved him as much as I did.  I have a tendency to fall in love with the potential of people more than what they are at face value.  And God Dammit did he have potential.  He just never could muster up the motivation to do anything about it.

So I did dodge a bullet in getting out when I did.  And though there was a long time in which I truly believed we would find our way back to one another in this world, that has been long gone for me for years. I really don't have too much to recover from with this news.  Other than the sad realization that the world keeps on spinning when you and someone you love stop being in love.  So, good luck Mandy.  I will always find it a bit odd that he ended up with a redhead from Oswego.  But I sincerely hope that they are happy together and that he found a love as great as the one his parent's share that he's always sought out for himself.

I will say though, the day the wedding pictures show up on facebook there is going to be some very heavy drinking happening.

Strangers With Candy

I've always loved going to bars by myself.  I love it because it feels like being in a movie.

When I arrived into Chicago on Wednesday night, my intentions were only to spend time with my mother and father, and try to keep them company for long hours in the hospital between treatments.  The American Cancer Society generously put my mother up at the Westin Hotel on Michigan Ave for the time my father was in the ICU.  I checked into the hotel with my mom late Wednesday night and was in awe of how beautiful it was.  The location, the ambiance, the fact that just outside my window was the John Hancock building...  In all my travels and spending nights in amazing and strange places, I have never had the pleasure of staying in such a grandiose downtown hotel.  My intentions were only to spend time with my family, but I didn't want to miss an opportunity to feel rich and fancy for the night.  If only for a few hours.

I tried talking my exhausted mother into joining me for a glass of wine in the hotel bar, but after 3 long sleepless nights in the hospital, the white fluffy king size bed was more appealing to her than a loud bar.  She told me to go out and enjoy the evening, but we both knew that 6am would come quickly and another long day at the hospital was just around the corner.  I would have been more convinced to stay in if I wasn't wearing my new sweater dress and sexy leggings with heels.  I felt hot, I was in a big city - I needed to play pretend, if just for a few hours. 

I sat down at the only empty seat in the bar.  From wall to wall, the room was filled with 30 something business men split into small groups of 4 or 5, laughing loudly over beers and the end of the world series.  I ordered myself a glass of Four Vines Zin and put on my best Emma Stone face waiting for Ryan Gosling to approach and offer to pay for the next glass.

Gosling never showed up.  But a few minutes into my first glass of wine, the seat next to me opened and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before some middle aged man would make their move on the cute redhead alone at the bar.  His name was Paul.  He was from Pennsylvania and in town for a "tool convention".  This later proved to be incredibly ironic as he would reveal himself to be quite a tool.  A few minutes into my free glass of wine, our pleasant conversation about work and the weather turned into a very intense discussion about religion.  Paul is a devout Christian who, while not traveling for the tool business, spends time preaching at his local church praising his lord and savior.  Since he didn't have a congregation to preach to this windy Wednesday night, he decided to save me.

Now, I have talked about my relationship with God on here pretty openly, so I am not going to beat a dead imaginary horse.  But this is inappropriate bar banter no matter what your views of religion are.  And I am sure this man's intentions were good, but I can only take you and your belief system so seriously when you are inching your hand up my skirt. 

I humored Paul in this conversation only because I saw my 2nd glass of wine dwindling away rapidly.  Without hesitation he ordered himself another Maker's and a 3rd glass for me.  Now that I had acquired the alcohol I was seeking, my attention was turned to finding a way out of this conversation.  (Insult to injury, he called me 'Kim' the whole night.  I didn't have the energy to correct him, since I was too busy pushing his hand off my thigh.)

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall dark and handsome man approach the other side of me.  I would have dropped my conversation with Paul immediately, but the new handsome man was on a phone call.  He was talking about work, and lord knows what he was saying.  I couldn't hear anything passed his incredibly sexy accent.  The moment he said goodbye to his coworker, I swiveled my chair around to size this guy up more closely.  He looked like Clive Owen, with Hugh Jackman's accent, and a game show host smile.  "Excuse me, sir.  But I have to know where that accent is from."

We began to banter, and Paul grew frustrated I wouldn't listen to another story about a burning bush or casting the first stone.  He excused himself to the bathroom and I quickly informed my new Australian friend that he had to help me shake Paul permanently.  "Well that's quite simple," he smirked "I'll buy your next glass of wine and then you'll have to talk to me."  I could tell you this mystery man's name - but it kills the effect, since it's such a God awful Australian name.  So I'll just refer to him as Clive.

Clive and I finished our drinks, long after Paul went back to his hotel.  And the lights were coming up around us in the bar.  "Well, I guess I should be heading to my room." I said, thanking him again for my wine.  He didn't want to say goodnight, and even convinced me to give him my number. A few goodnight kisses were followed the next day by a few unanswered text messages hoping to see me again before he left Chicago.

I am proud of myself for being as well behaved as I was that night.  Seeing as though a goodnight kiss didn't turn into anything more.  And I can't help but smirk every time I see the business cards of these two gentleman tucked into my purse.  But why this night was so perfect had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with how great it felt to be out on my own again.  I can preach all day long about learning to be happy with yourself, and working on your personal internal relationship.  But at the end of the day, it isn't easy sitting by yourself alone at a bar and making friends with strangers.  I still have the ability to captivate the attention of all kinds of people.  And I needed to be reminded of that.

I think I have decided to start taking myself out for nights like this more often.  Maybe get a cork board I can fill with business cards from the random men I meet that buy me booze.  And in the end, have great new stories from great strangers, that when they meet and get to know me think I am pretty fucking awesome too.

Hooker Sex

It was Julie Robert's golden hooker rule in Pretty Woman that she wouldn't ever kiss a client on the mouth.  Because a kiss on the mouth is, and I do agree, the most intimate part of having sex with someone.  Outside of the mouth to mouth contact, sex is just another way to get your juices flowing the same way you could if you were all alone, sans love-making partner.  So maybe that is the key to keeping people you choose to be with sexually at a theoretical arms length away from you emotionally.  Or maybe it just serves as a constant reminder that them being inside you means nothing to them either?  And is that okay?

I have developed a very bizarre non-relationship relationship with a young man I have met a few months ago now.  We are friends.  There are no feelings other than platonic that exist between the two of us.  We can sit on my couch, separate sides, never so much as brushing up against one another's hand.  We talk, laugh, watch tv, the things that you do with friends.  But after a few hours, and before we are about to retire for the evening we engage in some friendly hooker sex. 

The relationship (non-relationship) didn't start off like this.  We had met on a dating site and at first we were cute and cuddly.  Whether we were sleeping together or just sitting on the couch, we were affectionate and driven by a more than friendly desire to be together.  There was handholding, hot makeout sessions that lasted for days, and the evening always ended with a gentle kiss goodnight.

I don't remember how it flipped into what it has become.  It must have been around the time I decided that I wasn't looking for an emotional connection for the time being, but he was still there.  We didn't discuss a change, we just stopped doing the romantic things, and fell into being friends.  Friends with benefits.  But, the real kind, not the Justin Timberlake kind.  And we now end every evening together with a friendly salute goodbye (seriously).

Here's the thing: I like the relationship I have with this kid.  I like that fact that if I don't hear from him for a handful of days, if we don't constantly call/text or make plans to see one another, it doesn't affect me.  When he is around it is nice.  But nice in a way that it is when anyone is saving me from myself on a night I would normally stay inside alone being miserable.  I am not emotionally invested in the two of us together at all. 

I do miss the cuddly part of relationships.  I miss the handholding and the makeout sessions.  And I do think it is probably a problem that I have been laid more than kissed in the past month. But it's safe what I have with this kid.  I am not worried about getting my heart broken, I trust being intimate with him on a health level, and maybe the lack of affection is just a small price to pay to having my heart guarded and still being able to get some.  My therapist doesn't exactly condone this behaviour, but at the same time she knows I am just getting something out of my system.  She compares him to wine for me.  I know it's not going to solve any of my problems long term, but it's nice and no one gets hurt as long as I do it in the comfort of my home with the blinds drawn closed.

It may be cheapening in the act of sex, hooking up without mouth kissing.  But I think it's the opposite.  I am going to, someday, have a relationship with someone that I want to mouth kiss with as well.  And then I won't be "getting laid" I'll be "making love".  And there will be rainbows and butterflies and fireworks...but for the time being I don't have, nor do I want to actively look for, those things.  So it's an exchange of goods, only unlike Julia, I don't get paid at the end of it.  Maybe that's the only flaw in this plan.  Lord knows, I could certainly use the money.

Katie Keller : Death of a Suburban Socialite

Well, I did it.  I maned up and went to Comedy Under The Tap last night.  I haven't been there since my Father's benefit show, and the time before that being my birthday.  I don't enjoy stand-up the way that I used to.  But a combination of things inspired me to go to last night's show.  I wanted to test the waters, see if maybe I would have a change of heart about comedians.  And no, nothing has changed on the comedy front.  I will say a couple comedians I haven't seen in a while were very gracious and went out of their way to acknowledge my recent disappearance and express their disappoint in not hearing my laugh through the crowd every Tuesday. 

But there is just no denying that it's not the same for me anymore.  I sat at the table furthest from the stage, alone. I spent more time scribbling down an outline for this here blog than I did actually laughing or engaging with the comedians.  I used to be the girl, front and center, that would go out of my way to be noticed by the man with the mic.  I would make it a point to be the loudest laugh and to participate in audience/comic banter.  It was what made me fall in love with comedy, being able to interact and feel like even though I wouldn't ever have the balls to get on stage and do it myself, I was still apart of something that I loved.

It was when I was swirling my wine and staring at a torn piece of notebook paper that it occurred to me; these changes are hardly about the local comedy scene.  I am just not that girl anymore.  I don't want to be front and center. I don't need that constant attention and validation from being apart of something.  And when the show came to a close, and a number of people insisted I come upstairs for a drink, I had no interest in being there any longer.  A year ago, you couldn't get me out of that bar before last call. 

I have the greatest memories of falling over Adam in the revolving door, nearly killing ourselves nonetheless.  The nights I spent chain smoking on the patio where a crowd of 10 or more comedians and bar regulars would listen to the epic stories of my life.  I had the attention of every last person in that bar when I called for everyone to take a shot.  Everyone knows 'Katie Keller'.  Everyone has a story of that night I got drunk and made out with them, or someone they know.  My laugh, my drunken tears, my overly confrontational personality.  The good, the bad, the ugly.  I was this larger than life personality that was the life of the party every night. 

In the immortal words of T.I. "the old me's dead and gone".  I not that person anymore. I will forever adore that girl I once was who didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought, and went big every time.  I wear those nights, every last one of them, as a separate badge of honor.  I once drove home from the bar in the trunk of my friend's car.  I have lived.  I have fallen on my ass, stuck my foot in my mouth, drank too much, thrown up in public bathrooms, and have played drunken millionaire more times that I can count.  And the heart of that person still exists.  But she would now rather captivate a room of 2 close friends over a bottle of wine than a room full of strangers and more red headed slut shots than she can count.

I am sure I will allow myself to play "KMFK" on special occasions in the future.  I am not about to go back to Vegas and enjoy a nice evening at Ceaser's sipping a glass of wine and playing video poker alone.  I am going to drink a magnum bottle of gray goose with my brothers, dance with foreigners, and throw up the next morning.  And I will never feel guilty about that.  But Vegas is Vegas.  Not any other Tuesday.

So, no, this isn't about comedy.  This is about looking for something more than I have ever found at the bottom of a draft beer. 

Know Your Audience

I am about to be insensitive to a lot of people that I love.  So I will preface this blog by saying that this is something I am feeling, and though I would like to apologize if what I am about to say makes me seem dismissive of your problems, but I will not.  I will always be there for those close to me, I will always be a sounding board, a shoulder to cry on, and will try my hardest to make you laugh when you are feeling at your worst.  But this blog isn't about these people, this blog is, and always has been, for me.

Recently I have noticed how terrified people are of being alone.  Whether they are just ending a long term relationship, or getting in to one.  Everyone seems to go into panic mode when they are forced to be with themselves.  I am not going to claim that I have never been this way, or had these feelings.  But I feel like everyone is missing the bigger picture when they try to resolve their loneliness.  Of course the quickest fix would be to find someone new to warm the other side of the bed, or in the case there is someone already there, turn your world upside down to ensure they are warming the other side of the bed regularly.  But I find it a bit sad we aren't taking advantage of the loneliness to figure out how to be alone, how to be comfortable warming a bed all by ourselves.

Most of my life I have been alone more than I have been "together".  And though I am often a victim to loneliness, I have made a conscience effort to enjoy the not-together time.  It's required a bit of work to figure out what I like about myself.  Why exactly being with me is sometimes better than being with anyone else.  Sure, I am harder on myself and the decisions I make more so than anyone else is.  But if anything, that makes it that much more imperative for me to learn to forgive myself for the things I can't undo, and to appreciate the things that I have done to make up for them.

I am not going to get on too much of a soap box about it, but if you are worried about being alone, don't just jump into the next relationship that is out there, or rush the beginning of the one you are in.  Evaluate why it is you are so terrified of being with yourself.  Because there is a good chance that person you are filling the bed with won't always be there either.  And then you are going to be left feeling terrified and lonely all over again when that relationship ends.  You will rinse and repeat until you find someone as codependent as you are to stick it out for the long haul.  And though that may be desired by some, it is not the kind of relationship I hope to be in at the end of the day.  If you can't be apart, then you most certainly don't deserve to be together.

I guess all I am trying to say, and I apologize for being preachy, but I am taking this time being single and using it as an opportunity to get to know myself better.  I wholeheartedly believe the person I will be on the other side of this "loneliness" will be a far better companion to the next Mr. Katie Keller than the person I could offer to them today. 

In closing, I would like to point out that it is in bad form to complain about being alone to someone who is very much so alone.  It's like gaining 3 pounds and complaining about it to your fattest friend.  Know your audience. 

I'm Kissing Dating Goodbye

I had a friend in high school send me a book once, in fact, it is still sitting on my bookshelf.  It was called "I Kissed Dating Goodbye".  And I am sure my friend had good intention when he gave me this book, especially at that time in my life when I was becoming notoriously slutty.  The book, as described by amazon, is a blue print for having a Christian relationship in the way that God intended.  It teaches how to develop relationships based off of one's character and their own relationship with God, versus some lust/love feeling that may overwhelm you at first.  It also preaches against premarital sex, along with a few other Christian beliefs I have clearly never followed myself.

Now, you can't make an argument to me using God as your basis.  Because I personally don't believe in "God", at least not in the way I find most people preach about it.  This book made me roll my eyes more than it made me think about my relationships past and present.  I lost the meaning of the book because I was too busy being defensive for my fellow atheists.  Why can't you offer me relationship guidance without it becoming a God thing?  Whether or not there is a God will not be determined until after I am six feet under, and I would like to have a healthy, functioning relationship between now and then.

This isn't a blog about religion.

I have done some soul searching in the past few months.  (Maybe more like the past few days, but I like to have a reason for my promiscuity so we are going to pretend the soul searching started in May).  And I have decided after lacking the motivation to go on a recently scheduled date, the same lack of motivation that has watched numerous messages pile up on my dating site with no response, that I just don't want to do it anymore.  Not indefinitely. But for the time being, I don't want to exert any more effort into romantic relationships.  I can barely make the platonic ones in my life last, how can I expect to meet, learn, and maintain a new romantic relationship on top of everything else already going on in my life?

I love boys.  I love kissing boys.  I love falling for boys.  I love hating the boys that don't love me back.  And needless to say, this isn't a vow of celibacy by any means.  I am still going to have fun kissing boys, or whatever.  I guess this is just the first time I am questioning my constant pursuit for another man in my life.  After every breakup, it's a matter of days before I start looking for men on the web, letting them court me around town.  I usually can't muster up enough interest to see it through more than 1 date or late night phone chat.  And I keep thinking it's because these men aren't the right ones.  But maybe I am not the right one.  At least not right now.

I have to take this time, with my life being in transition, to focus on me.  My finances, my mental stability, my ability to live on my own (and enjoy it rather than just tolerate it). I think if I continued to date right now, it would be the previously mentioned battle of searching for Patrick Dempsey and constantly lowering my own standards to the people that are available at this very moment.  Enough of that.  I am going to make me an even more awesomer version of me.  And then when I am done doing that, that will be the person I flaunt around town.  It will be then, and only then, that I will score my own Patrick Dempsey.

Best Friends For Never

I am taking a break from the narrative style story telling I have been doing in my blog lately, to better explain what has been weighing heaviest on my heart in the past few days.  As everyone is pretty well aware of at this point, 2011 hasn't been my greatest year.  I have accomplished a whole lot, and looking back to where I am now, versus where I was 3 years ago, it would be crazy to think it's been all bad.  I am a stronger person than I have ever been, I am making healthier, better decisions for myself on a regular basis (although I slip up from time to time, who doesn't).  I am becoming financially stable, I genuinely love my home, and my job is my proudest accomplishment to date. But this year has been the year of my father's diagnosis, the rise and fall of Chatie, my best friend's Dad passing, my Mother's cousin passing, failed marriages, fights, lots of tears.  And now - on top of all of that goodness, the best friend. Is. Gone.

I was devastated by this all day long.  I broke down in tears at my desk more than a handful of times through out the work day.  And I don't think my therapist even got her office door closed all the way behind her before I fell apart on her couch.  I have been battling a bit of depression lately.  Which, I believe, is a result of being so lonely.  I work all day with people I love, at a job that most of the time I love too. But lately (and by lately I mean the past 3 months) when I come home from work, I spend an eternity by myself.  Well, me, my cat, and Harvey Levin.  Curtis has been that person, that even when I am being depressed and mopey and don't want to see anyone in the world, I would prefer to be on my recliner.

Now, I am not going to go into the sob story of how our relationship has fallen apart.  And if anyone one knows the two of us, and our odd chemistry, it was probably only a matter of time before one of us broke away.  But the timing couldn't be any worse for me personally.  And from someone with preexisting abandonment issues, I'm a bit shaken that the loneliness I felt before now suddenly feels exponentially worse.

I can't help but lump this sadness into the recovering feelings about Charlie.  And in saying this, I am by no means referencing the romantic relationship.  But I think back to that Easter afternoon I was tucked into a back alley doorway crying harder than I can ever remember crying saying "I just lost my best friend.  I just lost my best friend."  When my dad got diagnosed this spring, there were two people I allowed myself to breakdown to.  Charlie and Curtis. And though the relationships were very different, they were my lifeline.  They were the two people I could always count on to make me laugh when I needed to laugh, and let me cry when I needed to cry.  They both, to this day, still mean the world to me.

I am not trying to snub my other friends, who have been beyond words supportive through a particularly rocky year.  But I have a tendency of keeping face even when I am being honest with people.  I can give you a power-point presentation of my life, every last gruesome painful thing and at the end of it, you will shake my hand and leave thinking I am genuinely alright.  These 2 guys were the very few that I never even bothered faking it for.  They knew everything, and then they saw me. And they made me want to show them me more and more every time we talked because I wasn't afraid to show my real feelings, to breakdown, to be ugly. 

Alas, you can only count on yourself to be there at the end of the day.  And not that I don't wish to have a friendship like that in my life again.  Or that the people I do have don't do enough.  But I am alone.  And I need to be okay with that before I can let anyone see me ugly again.  I am 24 years old, I live on nobody's paycheck but my own.  I keep a roof over my head, food in my belly, TMZ on my television.  Even after the longest work weeks, I get up, I show up, and I give 110% of myself for a job I truly find rewarding.  I think there is more to be said for that sometimes, than a great friendship or relationship.  Plus, my therapist thinks that even through my tears and sadness, that I still sparkle.

HIMYF

She stood up from reaching over and filling the cat bowl.  The same way she always did, every night after another exhausting day at work.  She kept her shoes on, and skipped across the over grown lawn to the mailbox, the same way she always did.  She grabbed the bundle of junk mail, and fingered through a few envelopes of bills that would be left unpaid well past their due dates.  A smaller envelope fell out of the mix and onto the wet grass in front of her.  The handwritten barely legible address scribbled across the front of the letter made her heart drop to the bottom of her stomach.

After they had ended, she had checked the mail frantically every day.  For days that turned into months, that turned into years.  Eventually, she stopped searching for that poor penmanship and was excited to find anything that wasn't a catalog subscribed to by her previous roommate or a final notice from which ever utility she had neglected that month.  Over time she had made peace with the fairytale love story of his parents never becoming their own.  She didn't even know that with all her heart, she was still holding onto the hope that someday that letter would arrive.

When she got back inside, she threw the stack of papers on the table, including that one small envelope, and walked into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.  It felt like her mail had eyes of it's own that night, eyes that followed her around the house until she finally worked up the courage to glance back in it's direction.  God Dammit.  It took all of the strength she had left to let him go the first time.  And there he was, folded and tucked between the local 'savers' advert.

Why now?  Why after she finally felt whole again, did this appear on that damp Monday night?  Falling straight out of her fingers, and down to her feet. Staring straight up at her, like it had separated itself from the pile to make itself more known than it would have already been.  She had defended her feelings for him for so long after he had left, struggling for the words to make anyone believe that their breakup was a mistake.  That he had left something so real, and so good.  And trying so hard not to remember the hope in his voice when he told the story of the letter that was once sent from his own father to his own mother.  Maybe timing was everything.  But just because this letter showed up on this day didn't mean it was the right time, either.  Or that she could undo the months of heartache, begging for the warm happy ending she was rediscovering had never left her at all.

She took a deep sip of red wine, and let her fingernail slide under the fold.  The envelope opened with ease, and the college ruled paper neatly tucked inside took her breath away as she slipped it out.  It was one piece of paper, barely filled, with the words etched in lightly with blue pen.  The words, though faint on the page, screamed into her face.  She read left to right, over and over again for what felt like an eternity.  She stared at his signature one last time.  Then promptly folded the letter back up, tucked it back inside the envelope, and threw it back down on the coffee table with the rest of the day's mail.

She looked back down to her shoes, conveniently still on her feet. And as quickly as she had locked the door behind her on her way in, she locked it on her way out.  She got into her car.  And she drove to him.

Somethings Never Change 5.12.08

"Do you want to hold my hand?" I looked down at his hand, extended towards me on the train ride home.  In my mind, the clock was ticking.  Every minute that went by brought me one minute closer to the day that he would leave Oswego, and he'd never have any reason to come back.  It takes such a short time to get close to some people.  Some people you just meet, and for some reason know immediately upon shaking their hand that they are someone one you want to know.  And not know as in say hello to every once and a while, and occasionally share a conversation with in the lunch line, but really know.  That's how I felt about Peter. From the second I met him, I knew I needed to know him. Really know him.  And we did know each other. We really did, as much as you could know a person at 16 and 18.

We were sitting on the train back from Chicago.  We had just spent the entire day taking pictures all over the city.  We walked around all afternoon, went to the Cultural Arts Museum, and finished the day by having a picnic and a movie in Grant Park.  We sat on a blanket, eating cold pizza and watched an old Gene Kelly movie on a big screen. We laid under the stars and looked at a glowing skyline just to the left of us.  It was a perfect day.  Perfect weather, perfect location, and perfect friends.  But with Peter, being close to him and being his friend wasn't enough for me.  I always wanted it to be something more, because he was the first person I'd ever felt that strong draw to.  He was the first man I'd ever met in my life that I was so fascinated with, any minute I wasn't with him felt wasted.

"I don't want to." I turned my head away and wiped the tears from my cheek.  This was a normal thing for me at the time.  When I was 16 years old, every thing felt so intense.  Every mood was amplified so much more because I had never felt these sorts of things before that I had no idea how to process them.  Nonetheless emotionally and physically control them.  I did want to, though. I wanted to hold his hand from the moment I set eyes on his shaggy brown hair, and his Chuck Taylors.  I wanted him to hold my hand, to hold me, to want me near him.  He was with me, though. A lot of the time.  We did things together, we talked to each other, and made each other laugh.  We spent time finding things out about one another, the things we liked and didn't like. Sharing music, showing each other movies.  But he never did those things.  He didn't want to hold my hand, he didn't want to hold me, and he didn't want me near.  At least not as much as I wanted to be near.

I watched the side of the train bump and shake along the track, and scanned the car to memorize the faces of the drunken Cubs fans sitting below us on the lower deck.  I looked up at his face, and narrowed in on his smile.  It broke my heart, every time it shined at me I knew it was a smile that I could never keep, as desperately as I wanted to.  But this time there was warmth, as I looked up into his eyes I knew that day was good.  And that there is a pain from watching someone you love slip away from you, but there is an undeniable joy of having them in your life at all that will always trump the pain.

I continued to cry, quietly.  But felt better.  Well enough to lean over and put my head on his shoulder. There was never going to be another Peter in my life, and I didn't know how much longer I was going to have him around for, so I bit my tongue and continued to pretend it didn't hurt.  At least until the next time it broke me down.

That summer ended too quickly.  And I wish that I could remember every memory from that year, but I have forgotten most of it. When you lose someone, the time to follow begins to blur.  I don't remember how much we talked after he left for college, but I do remember how quickly the distance grew between the two of us.  And I remember, vaguely, that Christmas when we stared at each other from across a Steak n Shake table, desperately trying to find something to regain momentum, but we failed.  He slipped away from me just like I knew he would. 

Its been 5 and a half years now.  And I have completely stopped thinking about him on a day to day basis like you used to.  He has become nothing more than a faint memory.  And even sitting down to write this makes me laugh, to think of those things I felt and how normal those feelings have become to me.  How quickly I can brush off unrequited attraction, and my higher tolerance to neglect and disappointment.  But I can still also look back at it and smile, because he was just one of those people that I needed to be near.  That I just needed to really know.  And after last night when he showed up at my 21^st birthday party after years and years of silence, I have learned some things never change.

A Girl Named Kid

It was just about 11:00pm. My father's breathing machine was resonating through the whole upstairs.  I looked at the clock and then back to the mirror.  I was almost ready.  I grabbed my purse and slowly turned the door knob.  I stopped when I got outside the doorway.  And I listened closely to the left. Nothing.  I continued down the stairs.

The Grand Father Clock that sits in the foyer would chime any second.  I always timed my escape to it, because then you couldn't hear the front door shut behind me as I left.  I would open the car door, and quickly start the engine.  As I reached over for the seat belt, I was already putting the car in reverse and heading out of the driveway.  I left the door open, until I made it a couple houses away.  As I shut the door, I would accelerate and turn the stereo up as loud as it would go. 

This was night.  This was my time.  My time away from my peers that didn't understand me, my time away from my family that disapproved of everything I did and was.  I was going to disappear into the darkness.  I smiled into the cloud of smoke that floated in my face, and began to sing.  This is the way you wished your voice sound, handsome and smart. Oh, my tongues the only muscle on my body that works harder than my heart. On this night, these are my words, this is my anthem.

The best thing about living in a town this small is that there is inevitably some back country road to get you where you want to go.  Get you there with complete avoidance of everything you wish to avoid at 11:17pm.  I looked at my phone and back to the road.  Usually if my parent's haven't called within the first 15 minutes of me being gone, they wouldn't notice.  They had accepted quite a bit about their rebellious 16 year old daughter.  But there were things I was doing, that they would have hated had they known.  I was unwavering in my smoking habit.  I was spending all my time with 20something rock-stars, driving from concert to concert, and party to party.  But the more they told me not to do these sorts of things, the more I needed to.  I was a rockstar.

I was almost there.  I looked up at the red light in front of me, and threw on my right turn signal.  A block further and I turned the bass up, obnoxiously. I rolled down the window and I screamed as loudly as I could "I'm gonna blow up your house, mother fuckers." Then, I honked the horn a few times, and pulled in front of the driveway.  

The five guys standing in the garage looked up and smiled.  Three of them raised their middle fingers high in the air, as to say 'welcome back, friend.'  Frado flicked his cigarette in the direction of my car and yelled back "get your cute ass out here, Kid."  I put the car in park and let myself out.  I leaned against the door and lit up another cigarette as I began to walk over to them.  

They were of course and older group of guys, previously mentioned '20somethings.' But my age was never spoken around the guys, and that was the way I liked it.  It didn't matter what year I was born, it only mattered that these people seemed to understand me far better than anyone I had met my age.  They wanted to know me as badly as I wanted to know them.  I mean, I was a rockstar.  

 "Just got 2000 more fliers for the 24th, Kid." I looked down to a box, top torn open, and paper fliers spilling out the top.  A black sharpie marker was scribbled along top the box, reading "For KatieKid."  It looked like Chris' handwriting.  I looked up at Frado and smiled. 

 "And why would I want that?" I said with a giggle.

"Because you are the KatieKid and you're the best." the dryness in his delivery made this statement seem completely rehearsed.  It was.

  

I was their promotional manager.  I ran their street team, booking, and all things with their name attached to it.  But most importantly I was KatieKid.  Creator of KatieKid Promotions, street team leader extraordinaire, and future CEO of Skyline Entertainment.  

I was a rockstar.

I was 16.

Be Moderate In Everything, Including Moderation.

I was mind-blogging last night, which is when I think about blogging in detail, but don't actually get up from my couch.  I had a question repeating in my head, and applying it's self to every thought that passed through my mind.  So I dragged myself to facebook, and posted quite simply the idea that everything seems to come back to the question "how many is too many?".  The reaction from a few close friends was the obvious connection to how many drinks is too many drinks.  And though this has been one of the biggest connotations to this question for most of my 20s, I was looking at a much bigger picture.

Everything is moderation.  That's what they say.  But finding a balance with anything is really hard when you are growing up.  For quite a few years of my life, the overwhelming question was how many nights out at bars and clubs is too many nights out?  Now, as I am becoming far too complacent in my 2 bedroom ranch-style house, and my value time bag of microwave chicken nuggets, I find the question more appropriate is how many nights alone are too many nights alone.  I don't think I have ever had that divine balance of socialization and down time.  It is always one extreme or the other.  Either I am out every night, drinking too much, and coming home too late.  Or I am getting home from work at 5pm, closing the curtains and sitting in the same spot in my living room night after night for what seems like months now.

I wish I could cut myself some slack, and not constantly question every phase of my life as it happens.  But I wonder if I do too much of something, all the time.  How many hours at work is too many hours at work?  How many hours of sleeping in is too many hours of sleeping in?  How many nights of crying yourself to sleep over the same person is too many nights?  How many cigarettes are too many cigarettes?  How many weeks and days are too many to sit around feeling sorry for yourself?  And on those nights where I am tired of feeling sorry for myself, than that age old question of how many drinks is too many drinks?

One of the things my therapist and I keep touching on is my view of the world being black and white.  I am always trying to classify everything in one of two columns.  Right or wrong.  Good or bad.  Too much or too little.  I haven't yet been able to grasp the idea that we live in gray.  That it will never be as easy as saying this is the appropriate amount of anything.  So I haven't left my house in a while.  I will come out again when I feel like it.  So I haven't entirely moved on from my past relationship.  I will be done with it when I'm done with it.  So I am not really happy right now. I will be happy when I get happy again.  I don't need to constantly pressure myself to do things and feel things for the sake of definition.  I'm in gray right now.  And that has to be okay, it has to be enough.

I am not accepting defeat, or hanging up the towel on life, by any means.  But I do need to let go a bit more.  Realize that I am only one person capable of one day at a time.  It may just be gray for a while. All I know is that this many questions is too many questions.

7 Habits of Highly Defective Single People

Another Sunday afternoon has come, and will quickly go, like they always do.  I love Sundays.  I would go as far as to say Sunday is my favorite day of the whole week.  It's the one day of the week I forgive myself for having no motivation to do anything.  And sometimes, most times, I surprise myself and do more than anticipated.  I guess that's the advantage of setting the bar nice and low, the littlest things can be seen as the biggest victories.

So I finally got around to the dishes, which is my biggest failure are a single home-dweller.  I can justify NOT doing dishes like you couldn't believe.  For starters, I have so many dishes that I never actually have to do them.  In fact, I could throw away every plate I own once it's used and still not have to worry about dishes for easily a month.  I know this because I have strongly considered it while glaring back at the odoriferous pile staring up from the sink.  But they are done now, which inspired me to sweep the kitchen floor and wipe down the coffee table.  I even fluffed the throw pillows on the couch.

At the end of the day, I feel better when I clean.  But cleaning brings to light a lot of things my distracted by tv and filth mind doesn't normally see.  I am made to recognize a lot of my young adult habits.  Ones that, I believe, didn't really start to exist until I was finally on my own again.  I am without roommate, without boyfriend, without live-in family.  I am officially alone.  And with the exception of the time I am at work, I have developed some very interesting habits.  Maybe they have always been there, lurking under the surface, and now that I am spending more time getting to know myself they are shining through. 

1. Sometimes when I am washing a dish, or silverware, I will convince myself that that spot there isn't just a piece of stubborn debris that can't be easily removed, but better yet a stain that probably won't come off ever.  This is just shear laziness.

2. I sleep on my couch 90% of the time.  Why wouldn't I?  That's the room with the tv and a table located closely to the pile of pillows and old worn down comforter.  Not only is it comfortable, but it's closer to the kitchen.  I'll worry about crawling back into bed when I have I someone who can't comfortable fit on the couch with me.

3. Pretzels dipped in melted chocolate chips is the easiest, and most delicious dessert ever.  A touch of peanut butter is the perfect addition for those classier nights in.

4.  Every night can be a night in!  As long as there is no one around to make you feel guilty about being anti-social, being alone is the best!  I've already made my distaste for pants very apparent.  But why spend money at a bar when I can go on, not wearing pants, and spend time with the DVR, which for the record, knows me better than any ex-boyfriend ever has.

5. TMZ is the trashiest most amazing show on television.  I wish they had a 24 hour station.  I vote we replace C-SPAN with TMZ.  Does anyone even watch C-SPAN?

6. Sometimes I use the pizza driver as a delivery man for pop.  And cold pizza breakfast for the next 5 days.

7. The 20s are for having fun.  But the real fun is defining your own idea of fun.  I don't need a man, or to be rich for that matter.  Things are never super easy, but there are rewards for living the modest life I do.

And on that note, I am going to finish cleaning.  I am having close friends over tonight for turkey burgers, beers, and to watch the VMAs.  Because that's my new idea of great night.

I've Got You On My Lips

I’m calling ‘slut’ on myself.  And it’s not that I feel bad about it, or regret my more recent decisions.  But I have always been one to call a spade a spade, and this spade has been a little slutty.

I am putting my romantic money where my mouth is these days and spending less time searching for my one true love, and just enjoying the things in my life that are actually working.  It has made my relationships with men way more fun because there isn’t that immediate pressure from me with ‘will we won’t we be together forever’ right from the get-go.  So I’ve continued chatting up new guys on the same old dating site I have used for years, and have enjoyed interactions with old friends and new acquaintances.  Now, clearly I am not sleeping with all of these people.  Not only would that be disgusting, but who has that kind of time?  But I will never deny the fact that kissing boys is amongst my most favoritest hobbies.

I had gone on a date Thursday night.  And I discovered very quickly into the date that this guy was a little boring.  In his defense, he was fascinating in text-form.  But his personality did not translate from my phone screen to my couch.  Conversation was lacking, I spent more time asking him questions I didn’t really care to know the answers to for the sake of filling the silences.  Once I realized that wasn’t working anymore (his mouth was moving-and I was grocery shopping in my head) I gave him the “you can kiss me now"eyes and was relieved that his kissing ability was far better than his communication.

There were no butterflies, my heart wasn’t set a flutter at the touch of his lips on mine.  But it was hot.  And my eyes were closed, so for those 30 minutes of heavy petting, he may as well have been Jude Law. Same thing went for the party I was at last night.  I had spent time working the room and deciding which company was worth keeping once the tapped PBR took its full affect on me.  In sizing up my options, I realized I was thinking less about whose jokes would be funniest, or could potentially play human ponytail if the crap beer and I didn’t get along, and more about who would be the most fun to make out with in a dark corner once everyone was nice and blitzed.  I narrowed down my options, and tested my few theories.  My few.  That means there was more than one guy in more than one dark corner. 

This is why I am calling 'slut' on myself.  There is no reason I should have had more than one guys mouth on mine over the past two days.  On the other hand, it should be recognized that I’ve still got it.  And it’s harmless, in the grand scheme of things.  I guess I want to be the first to call myself out on this behavior.  It is more likely than not that I will continue to be mouth-slutty for a while.  Which I am perfectly content with, mouth-slutty is cleaner and safer than vajayjay-slutty.  And it does feel good to know, that after all the broken hearts and romantic indecision, the boys still want to kiss me.