50 Shades of Crazy

In high school, I made the decision to jump on the bandwagon and read The Twilight Saga. Like a majority of the teenage girl population, I loved it. Unlike the majority of the teenage girl population, it ruined me. I started to get even more fed up with my teenage boyfriend than usual. He was just lazy. I mean my God, if it was raining I needed him to cover me from head to tow in a water repelling shield and carry me to the car. At night, while I slept, I fully expected him to climb into my window and whisper things like “I’ll make sure no one ever looks you in the eye without asking” or “don't worry sweetie, I will viciously murdered all your male friends because I am that in love with you.” He just didn’t do that kind of stuff and I had to break up with him. Those things were reasonable. Like W.W.E.D…what would Edward do, babe? As I grew and matured, I slowly released my Edward Cullen fantasy. I mean it wasn’t really that I stopped finding overwhelming control in a relationship important; I just got way more desperate and forgot about it a little. That is until I read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy.

That horribly written, kinky sex filled novel became my secret heroin. I knew the implication this might have on me mentally, but I couldn’t put it down. I tried my hardest to use the things my therapist taught me during my Twilight binge, but I just couldn’t stop it from taking a temporary toll on my current relationship. I wasn’t committed to 50 Shades for the whips, chains and other slightly terrifying sexcapades that Anastasia and Christian embarked on, I was in it for the unhealthy level of obsession that he had with her.

The change washed over me slowly but surely as I morphed into a little blonde haired psychopath. “Hey I think I’m going to go out with my friends tonight” I muttered one evening to my boyfriend. “Okay cool have fun,” he responded like the most irresponsible human being I’d ever met. I should have listened to my therapist and calmly walked to the bathroom looked myself in the mirror and said “Katherine, Christian Grey isn’t real. It’s also really strange that, in the novel 50 Shades of Grey…WHERE HE EXISTS…he forces his girlfriend to take a security team with her everywhere she goes. That’s not normal behavior. Also Katherine, you look really pretty today. You should go assert confidence and go make a real human connection instead of wasting your time with romance novels. ” But I didn’t. I snapped. “Look sir” I screamed as I jumped off the couch. I emphasized the ‘sir’ because that’s what Ana calls Christian in the book. “I just told you that I am going to a bar. A BAR. In Norman, OK…a city with an EXTREMELY high crime rate. Like I mean right under DETROIT. And you’re just going to be that nonchalant about me going? I guess I get that you don’t have the financial means to hire a security team 24/7 but you can’t even do it for one night? Oh my god. You’re so cheap. At least force your roommate to follow me around all night and make sure I’m super safe.” He looked stunned which annoyed me even more so I just left. The next morning I had forgotten about it. It was clear I’d suffered from what Summer Roberts on The O.C. calls a “rage blackout.”

 Later that day, and after a few more chapters, I decided to take another cue from the book. I snuck over to his house while he was at work and suspended myself from the ceiling with rope. I thought this would be a nice romantic gesture after a long day of the 9 to 5 but it totally backfired. He told me to leave and not come back until I had let go of “Anastasia” and come back to “Katherine.” I sat on the curb of his apartment building sobbing covered in rope burns and self-defeat. He obviously just didn’t want to evolve with me, right? This couldn’t be my fault. I slowly got up and adjusted the Bloomingdales tag on the Alexander McQueen dress I had bought myself for the occasion with the money I was supposed to be using on school tuition. So 50 Shades of me. 

Then it hit me. I was spiraling again. This sick, sexy, dysfunctional couple was my new Edward and Bella and I needed help. I took a big deep breath and set fire to the book…. well I deleted it off my iPhone but you get the point. I returned the dress, I guess buying it with your parents money isn’t really the same as your megabillionaire lover’s personal shopper buying it for you. My boyfriend eventually took me back and my life is back on track but let this be a warning to all of you. 50 Shades of Grey is a cruel, harsh drug. This isn’t literary child’s play, Ladies. Be careful out there. 

Katherine

An Open Letter to Call Me Maybe

Dear "Call Me Maybe",

I used to consider myself a fairly intelligent person. I read books. I pretended I needed glasses. I used the word “seemingly”…correctly most of the time. I watched documentaries with subtitles. I mean I didn’t enjoy them but I watched them.  I tasted wine and then slowly swished it around in the glass muttering things like “can you feel those rich notes dance on your tongue?” I might even venture to say that people don’t like to invite me to parties because I always have the most interesting historical trivia. But now I’m not that person that I used to be and it’s your entire bubbly, infectious fault, "Call Me Maybe".

I will never forget the first time I heard you, your brain washing melody dripped out of my roommate’s iPhone speaker. I scoffed at you. “HA!”,  I said as I took a sip of my black coffee with a dash of pretension stirred in, “this song is so stupid.” Then something awful and wonderful happened. As you transitioned into the chorus, I felt an almost "Freaky Friday" change come over me. Within those 3 minutes and 13 seconds I had become a completely different person. There is now a pile of rainbow glitter where my cold, judgmental heart used to lie. I don’t walk anymore, I sashay. I call my friends things like “baby girl” and say “totes” with reckless abandon. My ringtone is just a recording of a little kid telling me to have an awesome day. I only wear colors that match the bubble gum I’m using to blow flirty bubbles. The most alarming thing I’ve realized is I am definitely not the only person that this has happened to. My best friend’s boyfriend, "American Chopper cast member look alike with a passion for Duck Dynasty", even wiggles to it. The entire town has turned into a giant dance sequence in a subpar movie and I effing love it.

I guess in short, "Call Me Maybe", thank you. Thank you for allowing the world to shed their converse tennis shoes and inhibitions, start drawing hearts over the I’s on their rent checks, and really live.

Sincerely with Kisses, Colored Eyeliner, and Kitten Smiles,

Katherine 

Hell On Earth: The Cottage Pool

“Through me you enter into the city of woes

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

 Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

-Dante’s Inferno

Ever since I lied to my Priest about brushing my teeth during my First Reconciliation, I’ve been 110% sure I’m going to Hell. He asked me what I wanted to confess and I just stared back at him, cloaked in terrified silence. “Well,” he started, “Do you always mind your Mother?” I answered "yes" truthfully. “Have you ever stolen anything?” I said no, frankly insulted that he had even insinuated something so appalling. “Do you always brush your teeth when your Mother tells you to?” Oh God. How did he know? “Uhhhhh…yes.” I lied looking down at my Velcro-fastened shoes in horror. I tossed and turned that night knowing my fate was sealed. I was screwed. There was no way I was going to sit on a cloud watching as much Famous Jet Jackson as I wanted while Angels taught my Polly Pockets to talk after what I had just done. As I grew up I always knew in the back of my mind that I probably didn’t stand a chance. In high school, as I stamped out the Camel Number 9 I was pretending to smoke with my Catholic school required loafer, I knew I had just solidified that fact even more. The thing was, I just didn’t know what form “Hell” would come in. I mean I thought I did. You know "fiery pit with a mean red guy screaming at you to do certain tasks" or maybe somewhere that you could only wear Crocs and you had to do a lot of math. I was wrong. Hell is a much different, much more awful place and I would see it much sooner than expected. 

I’ve decided Hell is different for everyone. You know, like Satan has a Genius application or something that customizes your eternal pain. Unfortunately, mine came in the form of the pool at my apartment complex, The Cottages of Norman. 

When I walked in, I knew something was off. The air smelled of stale, barf-stained fraternity tank tops and Keystone Lights.  As the abrupt “clang” of the metal gate echoed behind me, I knew there was no way out. Immediately my sense of hearing was compromised, deafening my brain with the sounds of "Party Rock Anthem" mashed up with something that sounded like Pit Bull mashed up with Barry Manilow mashed up with a baby crying mashed up with Pink Floyd mashed up with Gladys Knight mashed up with the sounds of take off on the first Apollo mission mashed up with The Jackson 5 mashed up with Mel Gibson’s voicemail to his ex-wife. I knew this was sent to weaken me for the attack. 

I did my best to make it to a lounge chair, wading through the piles of passed out guys named Chad and other bros that weren’t up to the first challenge of the Under World, “Day Drankin’.” I laid down bracing myself for the next phase of the swimming pool prep process, trying my best to ignore the too-loud conversations of the overly tanned and perfectly groomed.  The next thing I heard was “No, but like I’m for real. If he’s gonna be all about her than I’m def. going to make out with that half-Iranian guy that’s been texting me. It’s like 'let me live'….. ya know? YOLO and all that. You think you can smoke weed with your ex after I repeatedly asked you not to and I’m just gonna be like 'yeah, sure honey, I’ll do your laundry and hook up with you whenever?’ So over it. Like already done. Like unclear as to why I'm just now over it.” 

At that point I thought maybe it was a good idea to swim and take my mind off things. I tried to be sexy as I walked over to the pool but the pavement was so hot I just ended up looking like a scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary or something. Once I got in, the pool was so incredibly packed that swimming had become a mere pipe dream. It was like a battle zone, but with a lot more over-the-swimsuit fondling. The worst part was I had absolutely no idea what to do with my hands. Do I put them at my sides? Do I cross my arms? Do I use them to subtly dance? Like seriously, what do I do with my hands? I decided to just throw them straight into the air and make unbreakable eye contact with every well-manicured sorostitute that came my way, showing them that I would not back down. It was every man for himself. I climbed out and dangled my pale legs from the edge. I gazed down at the murky water filled with urine, beer cans and tanning oil, briefly catching a glimpse of my reflection.  A tear came to my eye. “I WANT ANOTHER CHANCE!” I screamed at water Katherine. “PLEASE GOD GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE!” Then suddenly the heavens opened up and an angel dropped down in the most unlikely form. “You can’t have glass by the pool”, she barked glancing at my drink, “leave.” 

I’ve literally never missed Mass since.  

A Lesson in Twitter

First things first, this post is not a rant. I also want to say that I’m going to be really annoyed if you call your best friend and tell her that you think I'm a bitch because you read this and realize that you fit into one of these categories. Look sweetheart, if that happens to be the horrendously unfortunate case for you, I’m doing you a favor by pointing it out. If one of the strong powerful black women on The Help pointed this out to you, you would be all tears and thankful hugs. So just stop being such baby and thank me.

That being said, there are some people that just completely suck on Twitter. Before you stop reading, I’m willing to admit I am a slave to social networking. I’m not going to pretend that I have a life. I don’t. I eat out alone often.  Anyway, I check Twitter more than I have actual human interactions, so I do have the authority to make these kinds of accusations about others. I’m also willing to admit that I’ve done some of these things but I’d rather just point fingers at all of you than at myself. So I ask you to look past my own flaws while I totally capitalize on yours.

I have broken these 140 character offenders up into groups. I did this because I like to envision myself as the leader of a hypothetical seminar where people from across the globe have come to allow me to belittle them into a better way of expressing themselves on the internet. It’s just a lot easier for me to hurt your feelings if you’re categorized. So sit down, grab a bottle of tequila, and take notes because I’m about to change your life.

The “Look How Sweet My Boyfriend Is” Barf Bait- By telling us that your boyfriend calls you beautiful every hour on the hour and calling yourself a #luckygirl, you’re not making us swoon. You’re making single girls everywhere consume four boxes of Franzia while watching Titanic and drunk dialing their mom.

The “Shout Out To My Girls” Party Girl- Scenario: Its Friday night. Its’ been a really long week. You’re ready to pound some brightly colored shots with your home girls. Who knows? Someone might kiss someone they don’t know. A top might come off. The possibilities are really endless.  I completely respect this but if you tweet about how happy you are to be with “yo main ladies” every 36 minutes, everyone is going to think you’re sitting in the corner booth alone listening to Kreyshawn on repeat. I know this because my friends and I have done this and woke up having lost close to 10 followers each and a lot of self respect.

The TMI Tweeter- We get it. You have corns. I’m not going to go into that much detail on this one just don’t tweet about your corns, it’s really weird. Same goes with cramps. Don’t tweet about your cramps, girlfriend.

The “Too Many Hash Tags” Train Wreck- This is everyone’s mom. Everyone’s mom who has a twitter has no idea how to properly utilize hash tags. Their tweets are usually like this “Shopping with my #BeautifulDaughter #SoFun #GladShesHome #NeedAXanex #DidISayThat? #YesIDid."  I’m going to be real with you.  I don’t really understand hash tags either but I stay away from them because of that. Also, if you use too many hash tags on Twitter you probably speak with hash tags in real life. In that case, you’re hopeless. I’m done trying to help you.

The Calorie Burner- If you ate four carrots and then spent six hours on the elliptical and then made the colossal mistake of telling me about it, I’m absolutely going to want to fight you. No, seriously. You tweet about that and I’m calling all my friends to talk about you behind your back. This is mainly because there is a 600% chance I have already had Wendy’s that day. You make me feel bad about my double cheeseburger, I tell everyone you made out with your 6^th grade gym teacher. That’s just the way the world works. 

If you realized that any of these were you then I’m sorry for being so harsh..... but.... you’re welcome! I just increased your like-ability by quite a bit. So now, my tragic little Tweeter, take these lessons into your own virtual world and use them wisely. And please, for the love of god, try not to #DropTheBall again.

Taco Bell Love Affair: The Final Chapter

Before I tell my final Taco Bell Tale, I would like everyone to think of a time when they did something really stupid. Have something in mind? K good. Keep it there. Now I want you to think of a time when you did something dangerous. Now combine the two. That’s exactly what this story is. It was stupid and dangerous...but you know what? I learned a lesson. So, Mom if you’re reading this, please don’t call and yell at me. No one assaulted me.

The morning that these events transpired started just like any other morning. I was in the middle of a wonderful dream where I lived in a Costco and the only people that were allowed to speak to me where the members of the Criminal Minds team.  They consulted me about crimes and I could solve them from atop my throne of bulk paper towels (because that is a completely normal thing to repeated fanaticize about) when my phone rang.  I was in no mood to answer as it was 10 a.m. and everyone who’s anyone knows not to call me before 2 p.m., so I just rolled over. My roommate launched the phone at my head saying, “Your caller ID says Josh Taco Bell, so it’s probably important.” I didn’t know what was worse: (A) that he was calling me (B) that he had my cell phone number (C) that my roommate had just told me someone from Taco Bell was calling me in such a normal voice, or of course (D) that she dubbed it important.

“What, Josh?” I answered being sassy, but his tiny little infantile short person voice on the other end was much more discouraged than usual. “Little Lady,” he said sullenly. “I’m moving to Cali. There’s nothing left for me here.” I was annoyed. “Oh my god. I’m going back to sleep. This is ridiculous. You’re not moving to Cali. It’s super expensive and there is absolutely no way that you wouldn’t spontaneously combust the second you crossed the Arkansas border. This state was made for people like you.” He hung up. I went back to sleep.

Five minutes later my phone was buzzing again.  This time it read “Nikki Other Taco Bell.” A little background: Nikki was Josh’s ex-girlfriend who worked at the Taco Bell a few streets over. We instantly hit it off. She even invited me to her illegitimate son’s birthday party. On that occasion I actually showed restraint and didn’t go, but I did buy him a present. “Baby, Josh is in real bad shape right now. He is drinkin’ Jack right out da bottle and keeps sayin’ dat he's movin’ to Cali. He’s askin’ for you Baby. Please come over.” I knew what I had to do. I had to go save my friend. I had to convince him to stay. I had to get him to start saying the full word “California.”

Nikki Other Taco Bell gave me vague directions and told me a man named Buck would meet me by the entrance to the trailer park to show me the way. I was blaring “Fighter” by Xtina the entire way. My blood was pumping. I was going to bring justice back to my home. It had not at all dawned on me that going to his house might not be such a good idea until I laid eyes on Buck. He was a tall, burly man with a Jaeger Meister t-shirt and a face scar. Teeth were something I wasn’t even sure he was born with and he had those sweatpants on that are fitted on the bottom.  Strangely the sweatpants weren’t saying “nerd” or “tired mom” they were saying something much more like “I murdered someone so I wear these because no one has the balls to say anything.” A bit shaken, I opened the passenger door and let him in the car. He pointed me toward the trailer and after we parked, he ushered me inside. It was worse than I thought. Josh was a shell of his former, tiny self. He was pretty drunk, pretty shirtless, and pretty irritating. “I can’t wait to see the ocean,” he said as he threw a pair of shorts out of the window of the trailer. “I can’t wait to meet all them ladies that will appreciate this,” he said motioning to his tighty whitey-clad body. “How do I become a citizen of Cali?” he mumbled as he threw more clothes out the window in an effort to pack for his relocation. I had had enough.  “Oh for the love of God, why can you not just call it California?” I knew that was the real issue here. Spoken abbreviations are always the real issue.  But it had become clear to me that Josh was having a midlife crisis.

After talking him into putting some clothes on and moving the thing that I was pretty sure was a dead cat that he had had stuffed, I sat him down to talk. We talked about everything. His break up, his self worth, his obvious fashion issues, his body odor, his irritating accent, we really covered all the bases until the truth came tumbling out of his mouth. “I’m not happy with my job. I’m not happy with my life.”

It was at that moment that Josh decided to take a job at Arby’s and I decided to transfer schools. If my Taco Bell family was breaking up it was obvious that I needed to make a new life for myself somewhere with a more emotionally sturdy fast food chain. We shook hands and said our teary goodbyes.

If you took anything away from my story, I hope it is that you can find friendship in the most unlikely places. Also, never judge a book by its cover. Just because someone doesn’t come from the same lifestyle as you doesn’t mean that they won’t be the answer to your prayers. But most importantly, I hope you learn to never go into some dude you just met at Taco Bell’s trailer. Seriously, have you seen those people? Do you know what could have happened to me in there?

Taco Bell Love Affair: Chapter 2

When we last met to discuss the epic saga that is my Taco Bell Family, I had just solidified my BFFness with Josh and our relationship was really soaring. Not that winning him over was that difficult of a task…..I mean, look at me. I'd like to be a non-douchelord here and say that wooing the rest of the staff was more trying but that would be a lie. We all hit it off pretty quickly. It was kind of like the story line on Will and Grace except nothing like that at all. We were just like the girls on The Facts of Life, except slightly different. Our bond completely mirrored the show Friends except…oh my god, okay I get it; it was kind of weird, but I loved it and it made me feel whole, so forget the analogies.  Anyway, I pretty much had the whole night staff in a go-to-Bed-Bath-and-Beyond-together-to-pick-out-towels situation, but there was only one thing missing. That thing was the approval of Ash, the one female employee. She was a lot more woman than I was used to. She was the kind that didn't really brush her teeth and hissed at me when I walked by. Some people are probably into stuff like that but it just eroded my confidence a bit. I spent much of my TB time trying to ignore her as I thought my elusiveness would gain her respect in some way. After a while, it became clear that playing hard to get was just not going to win Ash over, so I turned to Josh for advice. His solution was not too dissimilar to how I would imagine Aristotle and Steve Martin’s character on Father of the Bride would jointly solve a problem. He simply and profoundly said "Just start talking about crap. Maybe she likes crap you like. Probably not, you talk too much, but try."  So the next day I waltzed in to try it out.

Me: “Oh hey Ash! Did you know there's only 80 calories per serving of Ovaltine? That’s like stealing! Am I right?”

Ash: Hiss

Me: “Who in this room misses Mary-Kate and Ashley? Show of hands. Ash, put that hand up girl. You look like someone that effing loved So Little Time.”

Ash: Double hiss and some spitting

Me: (Now a bit deflated) “Ash, I see you have a wrist tattoo that says “Bill Buddy." I know there’s a story behind that.”

With those words, her face lit up. She shuffled me over to a far back table to elaborate on the origins of the tattoo. It turns out that Bill Buddy was her boyfriend that had just kicked her out of their shared apartment and moved in a girl that he met at a strip club in Farmington (next town over) called the Petting Zoo. This seemed to be a reoccurring theme throughout the TB community. Ash was devastated, but lucky for her; she was sitting in close proximity to the Relationship Master.  I was here to do my thing. I explained that the only mature and logical next step would be to summon the stripper to the T-Bell parking lot for a heated brawl. It was a good plan.  I would be her coach and we would fight clean. I would bring a sponge.  While they were bare knuckle boxing, Josh would knock out the windows in Bill Buddy’s truck with a T-Bell deep fat fryer basket. I was so proud of myself I couldn't stand it but Ash gently let me know that there were a few flaws in my plan.  Mainly, there was the distinct probability….let’s say 90%, that I could get stabbed in the process. Meanwhile, Lawrence, the guy who always ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches alone, but whom I had grown very fond of, was eavesdropping. After hearing how incredible at love I am, he stepped in for a piece of the pie I was serving. He pulled up a chair and settled in…

Lawrence: “Have I ever told you how I became a felon?”

Me: “No. But please don't. I mean, really, please. I spent all my money this month at Taco Bell so I don't have enough money to get out of town, just in case you decided "She knows too much" and try to kill me or something.”

Lawrence: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Me: “Fine. Let me have it.”

Lawrence: “Well, I used to be married. She was hot, super hot. But she only made Hamburger Helper for supper. A man can’t survive only on Hamburger Helper.  Do you understand that? I mean, every once in a while, a little hamburger to go along with the helper, would have been nice.  So one day I slapped her around a little bit and she made it a big deal and all and called the pigs.”

Me: “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh…well I….uhhhhhhh…”

Lawrence: “Look, I think you can help me…I want her back…She was so hot and I'm having a hard time with the rent now. Fine, okay, I’m living in my car. Wait, does your dorm have a futon? Maybe that would work.”

This was a tall order but I knew I could help him. So I dug out an old Charlie's Chicken gift card that may or may not have had any money on it and got this half eaten box of chocolates I keep in my car so I look like someone desires me just in case a guy ever rides in it. I gave him the items and sent him on his way because fried chicken and old chocolate can cure any relationship ill…even domestic abuse. Though this situation might seem weird to the average on looker, it is an instant that remains near and dear to my heart. It was this night that took my relationship with the Taco Bell employees to the next level and the night that I went home and threw out the futon at the dorm.  It also set the tone for the next sequence of events that launched me into fast food stardom.  (STAYED TUNED! There are more fast food adventures in Part 3)

Once the drive through line had picked up a bit that night and I knew I wouldn't be getting as much attention, it was time for me to go home. As Josh walked me out to my car he turned to me and said "Well you and Ash seem to be buddies. Maybe we could grab a beer or something sometime." I was flattered, so I sweetly turned to him and replied "Ew….oh my god, no. Are you kidding? Like real people might see us."