Limping Down the “Block”

You know… there came a point when I sincerely wondered if I would ever write again. With all that has changed in my life over the past year, as well as within me, as a person, I just wasn’t sure if there was any point. I’ve written about so many things. So many topics. Most of them humorous, in nature…. but now? Now I find it harder to find the laughter in situations when our world is literally going to shit. I actually feel guilty for being happy. How fucking backasswards is that? Who knew there’d come a time when happiness and joy became a commodity, and not just a part of daily life?

Frankly, I have zero desire to discuss world events. Wanna know something interesting? The word “NEWS” – ever wondered its origin? It’s because it represents information coming from the “North” “East” “West” & “South“…. interesting, no? Just let that sink in….but what I find even more interesting is the term “information.”I often find myself separating the word and pronouncing it, “in formation”. Because let’s just keep shit real; that’s really the goal of telling people the NEWS anyway… to keep them in…formation. Which is precicely why I believe half of what I see and none of what I hear.

I know those of you reading this are wondering when the hell I’m going to get to my point; truth is, I don’t have one. I’m so happy just to have the urge to write… this is merely me verbally diarrheaing (that should soooo be a word) all over my blog, just to get the wheels turning.

I know you guys want me to make you laugh. I know you look forward to delving into the mind of a total fucking weirdo… I just don’t know if I have it in me, at the moment. So much has happened. I don’t even know where to start. My friends keep telling me to write a book about my journey. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, that’s what I’ve been preparing myself for. But a book? An actual book? Yeesh.

For those of you who don’t know me, or who may ONLY know me through my writings, there’s a lot that has transpired. To save myself the trouble (I’m lazy AF), I’m going to bullet point it for you, and then YOU can decide if you’d prefer I explain my journey using more than mere bullet points….

The last time I really connected with my readers was about a year ago; since then, I’ve documented my life via a few videos and photos, just to reassure people I don’t speak to that I was, in fact, still alive…. So in a nutshell, this is what has happened.

  • Realized I was GAY
  • Sat on the realization for the better part of a year before finally telling my husband 
  • Told three young children (5, 6 & 8, at the time) their mommy is a lesbian
  • Now a single mother, raising three children….with, I might add, the help of my wasband, who is the most incredible man ALIVE. If you only knew how supportive he’s been.
  • Still trying to navigate my way, trying to figure out what it is that I truly want for my life, and the type of legacy I want to leave for my children.

And so much more has happened, so much that I want to tell you. Because I wouldn’t believe it, had it not happened and continue to happen, to me.

You know what?… it’s funny. I get teased for being an over poster, but the truth is…. the way I see it? My social media accounts ARE a part of my legacy in this new digital world. One day, my children will see my memes, see me embracing my sexuality as a woman, as well as embracing my life as a gay woman who didn’t even realize she was gay until her late 30s. They will read my silly captions and hashtags, and see the laughter in my eyes and the smiles on my face, knowing that there was life before retirement. In effect, it’s a TIME CAPSULE for my kids…. and for anyone else who fancies a look. It is, after all, a public account.

P.S…….

I haven’t read back a word I’ve written, and aside from using spellcheck, I don’t really have the desire to. I’m just so grateful to be back where I feel most myself. Putting my ideas, thoughts, opinions, etc., on paper, trying to reach even just one person with my prose. If I succeed in doing that, then kudos to me.

Guys… this is NOT a bragging moment…. but there are 160+ countries full of people reading my blog, and it’s all been 100% via word of mouth, so if you have something specific you’d like me to address in a post, please don’t be afraid to reach out to me. With so many of you reading the same posts, I need you to know that whatever trepidation you may be feeling, I can pretty much guarantee there are many others, in many other countries feeling the same way. So don’t shirk. Many of you have reached out to me already, which is why I started the Facebook Live videos. But I’m not a celebrity. I don’t have a group of people, sitting in a room, deciding which topics I should discuss. Not to mention, I don’t get paid to do this. No joke. I am just a woman, living her life, hoping beyond hope that I can inspire or help at least one person…. I’m a woman transcribing her memories and creating a time capsule for her children . I know they’ll be proud of me. and I know this… because every time they’ve heard another child tell them their mom is “really weird”, they say, “I know, right?! Aren’t we lucky?”

If they only knew that it is I who is the lucky one. Lucky that my children are accepting and confident and aren’t afraid to stand up for themselves. They don’t have a lot of friends. But that’s ok. I tell them, “Neither did I, as a kid.” I’ve told them I’ve always been picky about whom I choose to call a friend, and aside from one or two glitches along the way, I’m fortunate beyond belief to have the friends that I do.”

Then I put on my “serious mom” face and I say, “Listen…no matter how nice or funny or whatever you may be, there will always be kids who won’t like you, for whatever reason or another. Bottom line? The sooner you accept that you were born to make a difference, and not just to ‘follow the herd’, the easier it will be to tune out the peanut gallery.” My six year-old hasn’t a fucking clue, but I still tell her the same thing. She’ll get it… one day.

Okay  – enough rambling for now. I’ve been brainstorming in my head, and I remember doing a post of “The Top 5 Things I’ve Come to Terms With in 2015”. I think perhaps its time for an update…. so stay tuned.

And for FUCK’S SAKE…. no matter how many times I’ve said it, you guys still ask…., so here it is, again….. 🙂

ANYONE & EVERYONE WHO CONTACTS ME WITH QUESTIONS IS KEPT 100% CONFIDENTIAL, 100% OF THE TIME.

DAMN. I hope I don’t lose some of you. Especially the haters. You guys are seriously my favorite. #truestory #fansagainsttheirwill

*Considering how random and all over the place this post was…. aww… who cares. I’m just glad I’m coming back!!!!!!

TTYL, motherfuckers. 🖤

Kate

@kate.seriously

facebook.com/kate.robinson

Heather: One Year Later….

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Happy Tuesday, world. The weather outside is blah, and all I want to do is curl up on the couch and watch endless hours of murder shows…. but alas, something of much greater importance is happening today, and therefore it must be addressed. Today marks the one year anniversary of the shooting of one of my closest friends, and although she doesn’t know it, this post today is dedicated to her. At the end of this post, I shall include a link to the article I wrote exactly one year ago about the shooting that almost ended her life, but for now, I would just like to discuss how far she’s come, and how her heroism has affected so many around her.

So Officer Heather Seddon, consider this my personal, yet completely not personal letter to you, my Tallest Best Friend Forever.

______________________________
Continue reading

Anxiety

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Hello, world.

I know its been a few months since my last post – the holidays were crazy, per the usual, and then the next thing I knew, I woke up and it’s Leap Year. It’s interesting that I’m choosing today to write this post; last night I had one of the worst night’s sleep in years, and when I did sleep, my mind was plagued by nightmares. I woke up sweating and then was immediately cold, and nothing and no one could help. I was having trouble catching my breath, and the whole world felt like it was imploding on me.

I know that, logically speaking, none of this is actually happening, but to anyone who has never had to suffer from anxiety, who has never experienced what true anxiety feels like, has never had an anxiety attack, or has never known someone and seen it firsthand, this is a very real and scary thing to deal with, and for many of us, it’s a daily struggle.

Last night, in the middle of the night, I posted a meme on Instagram that concerned someone I know. She reached out to me and I reassured her that I was okay, but that I was just dealing with my anxiety on a public platform. It’s important that people know they are NOT alone, and that anxiety is a real thing…. and a bitch and a half at that.

I fucking HATE feeling like this. It’s not a constant battle, but it is something I have dealt with my entire life. As a matter of fact, up until a few years ago, I didn’t even know I had anxiety. I had spent the majority of my life on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I just assumed that was the norm. I had never actually known what it felt like to not have a care in the world. Even before children, I would stay up, worrying relentlessly about things of which I had ZERO control; but my brain chemistry couldn’t have given two fucks. The mind is a vast, endless universe, compacted inside a small brain, and yet it can control 100% of your life, at any given time.

I don’t have anxiety attacks often- rarely, in fact, but if I’m not careful, it’s almost too easy to let negative thoughts and fears virtually take over your life. And my mind has some pretty dark corners. But allow me to put your minds at ease. I don’t hear voices telling me to do bad things, and I don’t even think about causing harm to myself or others. Rather, the dark corners of my mind are where I go when I just cannot stop worrying for those I love, or for myself for that matter. It’s horrible.

Back before I was actually diagnosed with Severe Anxiety Disorder, and given the proper medication to balance out my brain chemistry, my mind would jump from happy to sheer paranoia in a matter of seconds. Allow me to give you an example:

When Adam would leave for work, and told me he would call me at 5pm, at 5:01pm I would start blowing up his cell phone. TRUE STORY. Call after call after call…. I was relentless. From an outsider’s perspective, I must have appeared fucking crazy, but in my mind it all made perfect sense. He hadn’t called because he was probably dead. I know that seems beyond extreme, but welcome to the world of severe anxiety. I remember so many nights, pacing back and forth, looking out the front window, waiting for the police to come to tell me there had been an accident, or something terrible had happened. I would literally be staring out the window, planning his funeral and trying to figure out how to help my children cope with the loss.

I realize how incredibly crazy I sound, and even I must admit that now, looking back, I must have acted crazy, as well. I would lay in bed at night, and instead of thinking and stressing about the shit I had to get done, I would lay there wondering if this would be the last night I spent with my family. I would wonder, “Will one of my kids be murdered tomorrow? Will someone I love be kidnapped?” The fears were never for myself, but for my loved ones.

Most people never had a clue – they would just assume I was high-strung and über intense; and I usually hid it by being extra hyper or extra outgoing, if only to help me distract myself from all the horrible and irrational thoughts taking over my mind. I, myself, never had a clue, until my daughter was almost a year old and I had what seemed like the beginning of a complete nervous breakdown. I went and spoke to my OBGYN, because I thought perhaps that I was suffering from some form of postpartum depression, but once she started asking me pointed questions about my life, my state of mind and how long I had been feeling this way, she immediately referred me to a doctor for an official diagnosis. I was shocked…. Didn’t EVERYONE assume their kids were going to be taken? Wasn’t it completely normal to feel the world coming down on you and knowing, truly knowing, that at any second, the sky would simply fall? Apparently not. But I had never even given a second thought about it. That was my world, and I just assumed that was everyone’s world. I would watch other people go about their daily lives, and I would ask myself, “How do they do it? How are they not reaching for a paper bag just to catch a breath?!” 

Once I was told I had Severe Anxiety Disorder, and would need to go on medication, I had a complete meltdown. What was so wrong with me, that I would have to take medicine, most likely for the rest of my life, just to function? I was crying hysterically, and when the doctor asked me why, I remember saying something along the lines of, “Because if I can’t do this on my own, and I need medication to cope, then that must mean that I’m essentially broken. I’m weak and that is the complete opposite of who I am and what I stand for.”

Let me stop and state, emphatically, that I have never ever judged anyone who required medication to help them cope with daily life; it was just a complete shock to my system and psyche that I was now “one of them”. I didn’t want to have to rely on prescriptions to be able to function – I was a tough bitch. No one could tear me down. I could do this on my own, thank you very much. But it goes so far beyond that, and I’m grateful that I allowed myself to be vulnerable in that moment and accept what I was being told. Once I made peace with my situation, and once I fully understood that what I had been experiencing my ENTIRE life was not the norm, I knew that I was about to see life in a very different light.

It has been a few years since I started taking anxiety medication, and it’s something that I am not ashamed to admit, even in the slightest. I write about things that make people uncomfortable, but my ultimate goal is to help people stop and take inventory of their own lives. I’m constantly surprised by how many people confide in me about their own anxieties and fears, but refuse to talk about it for fear of judgment from others. So allow me to put your minds at ease. If you need to judge, judge me. Feel free to look down on me or see me as weak or somehow “broken”, because I can assure you, I am not. I am just a human being trying to deal with the day to day struggles of living with anxiety. Even with medication, it never goes away completely, although its a micrometer of what it used to be. But as adults, we all have different struggles that pop up on any given day, and it’s how we deal with these struggles that determine who we are. Whether or not you require medication to cope to me is irrelevant, unless you’re abusing said medication or are simply taking them to dull some form of pain.

So to those of you who know how to manage those struggles without medication, I applaud you. In fact, I’m fucking jealous. I wish I didn’t need medication, but the fact of the matter is, I do. And you know what? That’s okay.

Even with stress-related anxiety attacks, or any form of anxiety – mild or severe – you are not alone. Remember that, as you sit, looking out the window and imagining the worst, or laying in bed, convinced it’s a loved one’s last night on Earth, help IS available. Had I gotten the help I needed sooner, my path in life wouldn’t have felt like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, but in the end, all that matters is what we do in the present, and what we do in the future. We cannot change the past, but we can certainly do our part to try not to repeat it.

Sincerely,

Kate Robinson

Like I Said…. Onions (Pics)

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After getting kicked off of a plane Friday morning, I got a stomach bug. Yay me!!! 😒

I’m actually going to blog about Friday’s events in the next couple of days, but in the meantime, here I am doing something that was completely OUT of my comfort zone, but has empowered me in innumerable ways. I never considered myself “model material”….. But even I’ve gotta say, “Damn!” on this one. 😂

@laurabravomertz

@kaeopromakeupart 

  
  
 
  
 

Well, howdy do….. ME?!?! 😳🙈😍It’s always such an honor to collaborate with @laurabravomertz and @kaeopromakeupart . I’ve said it before and I’ll say it forever…. There is no one better. 👸🏻✌🏼️🌺 #highasakate #solifoto #solifotoboudoir #cristiamwilhelmy #laurabravomertz #feelingsexyispowerful #ownyourshit #cuteandfunny #femmetribe #thatswhatsup #ifeelbeautiful

Video

A 1st Time For Everything

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I can’t believe I finally did it, but I did. We don’t have video of my “set” <– I can say that now (eeeeek), but we made a video discussion at home afterwards, and I was still pumped full of adrenaline.

EEEEEK! 🙂

I Popped My Stage-Cherry

I’m Sorry… Could You Please Repeat That? Part I

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Well, howdy do!!! I know, I know… It’s been a minute since my last real post. I don’t count photos as posts, and why the hell am I even wasting precious key-tapping sounds explaining myself?! We all know why you’re really here…..

Before I start, I feel it’s important to remind those of you who find my blog so grossly offensive, that in my bio, I state emphatically that I never apologize for what I say or how I feel and that is inherent to who I am, and therefore shall never change. Having said that, this post you are about to read has a few offensive parts to it. I feel it’s necessary that you know that going into this, because you shall read things that may be offensive, and you may very well be appalled, but remember….. these are not my personal views and/or thoughts. I receive emails from all over the place, as well as texts from friends, and I am simply relaying information… The shit I talk about after is all me, and you may judge me as you choose. Now that that’s out of the way, shall we?

Okay… So about a month ago, I decided I wanted to write a blog post about some of the most random and outlandish sexual requests people have ever made and/or received. I got a ton of responses from this question, and I finally realized that I should get off my lazy ass and then immediately sit on it again and type this shit out so that I may share this candy jug of love with you. But you’ll need to keep a few things in mind. These are in no particular order, some of these are stories I was told and some are simply requests that I will have to dissect. Not to mention, I am literally winging this entire thing, so who the fuck knows what will end up on your screen.


“I was giving a guy a blow job and he asked me if I would stick a dildo in his ass. Then he said he would think it was really hot if I licked the dildo after.”

Lol okay, look – I said these were in no particular order, and they aren’t. I’m literally looking at my janky notes that were copied and pasted from emails I received, so while you might think I’m trying to kick you in the face with this one, trust me…. I haven’t even cum close.

So… allow me to play Devil’s Advocate for a moment…. It’s hard for me to imagine myself as a dude, although I feel like I’d have mad swagger, but I do think that if my clit was eight inches long, I, too, would be horny 24/7 and would have a constant want and need to make contact with shit as often as possible. Unfortunately in this case, I think the gentleman really DID want to make contact with shit, because why the fuck would you ask your girl (or guy) to stick something UP YOUR ass and then INTO THEIR MOUTH, which will inevitably end up making contact with YOUR MOUTH… Are you that in love with yourself? “Yes, baby…. please assist me so that I may make out with my own excrement…..”  I think we should call this guy Mr. Hanky……Panky.

“Mr. Hanky, the sex time poo.

Up my ass, then on you.

Oh, won’t you give me a kiss or two,

So I, too, can kiss my Poo?”

(YouTube South Park’s Mr. Hanky so you can sing my words to their melody. Brilliant, they are!)

And for the record? I’m so glad you said no to his request. FIST BUMP EMOJI


This next one I have to relay as a story, and as always I shall be using fake names.

I have this buddy who likes to meet up with other men online for sex. I love it. Especially when I get to hear all the crazy stories he tells me… FOR EXAMPLE…. He met this guy online who, when they met up, was dressed in a slutty girl’s outfit. My buddy, whom I’ll call John looked at the guy and was like, “What are you doing?” The other guy – I shall call him Sparkle – tells my buddy John that he has this crazy fantasy of wanting to have sex and pretend like he’s getting impregnated. Now, seeing as how my buddy is a total power top he figured this would be relatively easy; as long as he can still get a boner while looking at a dude dressed as a woman, why not? So…. my buddy says he’s down, so they start hooking up. And they’re totally going at it, and THEN….right as my buddy is about to cum, Sparkle yells…. fuck that, he SCREAMS, “Give me your BABIES!!!!!!” 

John told me that if Sparkle had screamed that three seconds earlier, his penis would have imploded and he would have started laughing, but luckily for physics and forward momentum he was “spent” and so he didn’t say shit. Sparkle left, and that was the first and last time they hung out. Puns intended!!!

First of all, Sparkle…. you’re using condoms. What is going through your mind as you partake in such role-playing? Why do I keep picturing Jim Carrey with his head out the window of a car yelling, “So you’re sayin’ there’s a chance!” No, Sparkle, no. I’m sorry, my darling… but there is literally no chance for you to get John’s babies. Or anybody’s babies….. ever. Well, at least not the way you’re doing it.


Here’s one that will leave you with a nice, warm, fuzzy feeling….

“I met this guy at a bar and we hit it off right away. I had recently ended a long relationship and was on the rebound, so when he asked me out on a date and not back to his place, I was excited. We went on a date, and it went so well, that we ended up, well, back at his place. He poured me some wine and started kissing my neck. As we were getting into it, he was getting more and more excited and things moved pretty fast. Before I knew what was happening, we were having sex right on the couch. I wasn’t even using protection, which is bad enough, but what’s WORSE is what happened when he came…. He hadn’t really said much while we were having sex, but as soon as he started to orgasm he yelled out the name “Mariah!” That is NOT my name. He fell on top of me and I was in utter shock. I couldn’t believe he’d yelled out someone else’s name. And then he looked at me and said, “Jessica, that was amazing.” Okay, now I’m really confused because that IS my name (for this blog, it’s not), but I knew without a doubt that he’d said “Mariah”. So I looked at the guy and said, “What the hell just happened? Why did you call me Mariah? Do you have a fucking girlfriend or something?” The expression on his face changed in an instant, and he started crying….. while still laying on top of me. I couldn’t move, and there was a grown man crying on top of me. I asked him to please get off of me and he did, and I got dressed really fast. It was the most awkward silence of my life. He stopped crying and said, “I’m really embarrassed. I didn’t mean to say her name. Sometimes it just happens.” This was followed by MORE awkward silence, followed by the last words I heard him say before I literally ran out the door. “I just really love my mom.”


Okay – I’d like to pause for a minute and just state that I hold no judgments, whatsoever, towards peoples’ personal sexual proclivities (well, except for the one right above… dude, your mom?!?!?!). As long as there’s mutual consent and you’re both adults, do you. But I must say, some of these requests or actions I just don’t understand… For example:

“I was sucking a guy’s dick and he asked me to squeeze his balls. But there was more to it than that. While I was sucking his dick, he would literally count to ten, and then tap the back of my head as a signal to squeeze his nuts as hard as I could. I told him i was worried I would pop them, but he said he could “man up and take it”.

What the fuck does that even mean? What is “manly” about counting to ten and then bird-calling your girlfriend to attempt to castrate you?

She told me she never squeezed as hard as she could out of pure fear and I wrote her back and said, “I don’t blame you.” But I must admit I have questions…..

  • how can that possibly feel good?
  • how do you keep a boner while counting?
  • how well can you multitask?
  • when did you first realize you liked giving your balls mammograms?
  • what do you do when you’re alone?
  • is twister your favorite game?
  • are you a cyclist?
  • Do you ride horses?
  • are you insane?

I have this friend, Josh, who works in a bullpen at his job, and one of his co-workers was this guy, Ryan. Ryan, according to Josh (and the photo he showed me) was an extremely attractive, athletic guy with an equally gorgeous girlfriend. Well one day, Josh noticed a peculiar pattern: Every time he went to the bathroom, so did Ryan. Literally. And when in the bathroom, Ryan always seemed to be just one or two (at most) urinals away…. So finally, one day Josh goes to the bathroom and lo and behold, in walks Ryan. So Josh confronts him. “Dude. Why do you always follow me to the bathroom?” Ryan looks down at the floor and then looks at Josh and says, “I have a favor to ask you. If I pull out my dick and show it to you, will you tell me if you think it’s pretty?”

At this point, Josh is confused as fuck, because he doesn’t know if this is a cruel prank or if this guy is bi-curious or what, but he’s definitely curious enough to poke the bear, so he says, “Um…. what?”

“I know. It sounds dumb. But you’re into men so you have a unique viewpoint.” My buddy told him that yes, it was a very pretty penis, and gently patted him on the shoulders.


Truth be told, I have about 12 more stories to tell, but I’m tired and I’ve been waiting to watch Ink Master all morning, but I will definitely be presenting a Part 2 of this subject, because trust me when I tell you, I haven’t even scratched the surface of “fucked-uppery”. Also, keep sending me submissions. I can’t wait to tell you about the doozies. And on a side note, not one single request has been made by a woman…. I’m waiting 🙂

kate@highasakate.com

Enjoy the rest of your week, and find me on Instagram. Also, this is my 105th post, so there’s plenty more for u to scoff at. ✌🏼️

@highasakate1

Later. Peace Sign Emoji

Gimme Dat Nut…..job.

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Don’t ask… I don’t have an answer. I was ill and missed out on my dear friend’s Straight Outta Compton party, so this is my way of making it up to her….

Love you, Ace & Dawn!!!!!!! And I apologize, in advance, if you find yourself having to defend why you are friends with me on purpose. 🙂

Hashtag sorry not sorry.

Click below if you need a reminder that some of us are legitimately insane and weird.

Gimme Dat Nut…..Job

Fuck This Shit.

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Hey hey hey! I’m back from France and I will probably be doing a post on that soon, but today something of extreme importance came up, and I must get it out before it consumes my soul!!!!! Whoa…… that was fucking dramatic.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about what to complain, I mean write about next, but I’ve been seriously and ceaselessly distracted by three little demons who, according to some random dude named Webster, are known as my “children”. By the way, when you read this, and you say the last part, make sure you squint your eyes, use air quotes and speak like Dr. Evil.

BT-Dubs, if you aren’t immediately sure who that is, you can’t possibly be of legal age, so exit this website immediately.

Then it hit me. Literally and figuratively… No seriously. A dog toy hit me in the fucking cheek, and the boys both stood there trying in vain not to laugh, but laughing hysterically, nonetheless. My daughter, meanwhile, was on the staircase, having a tantrum because she was struggling to put on her Ugg boots, and – oh my God. I just realized something…. my daughter is only 4 and she’s…. she’s….. oh my God, she’s…… basic!!! Oh fuck. If she asks for me a pumpkin muffin or some spiced juice, I seriously think I’ll die.

But back to the main point. All this was happening, and then when all was quiet, I was texting with my friend and complaining about all the bullshit the kids put me through and how annoying they are, and I was basically like, “You know what? FUCK THIS SHIT. I quit motherhood. I need everyone under the age of 25 to just leave me the fuck alone…. which got me thinking…. We always hear about all the wonderfully “bubbly, flower field, puppy smell, daffodil” crap that moms and dads like to talk about, and sure…. we see memes and commercials showing moms and dads splattered with paint and laundry baskets atop their heads, looking defeated or worse, JOLLY & laughing…..and you know what? It’s fucking offensive. You know why? Because they’re meant to be cute… BUT THEY’RE NOT. At least not to parents who aren’t living in denial….So let’s forget all that and get fucking real. The truth is,

Motherhood is amazing…. but it also fucking sucks.

Speaking of suck….

They Suck the Life Out of You…Literally

And by “Life”…. I mean “social life.” Before kids, I had so much fun, whenever the fuck I wanted!!!! No curfew. No babysitter. No one needing me for anything. My life was free. And then I had kids. And now, if I want to leave my house solo, I have to seriously think of all the shit that this “outing” will involve….. For instance, especially without family around to help, the moment I walk out the door, I will become an employer. I will literally have to pay someone to guard my kids so I can get some  fresh air and space. And the employee has a virtual time card, too, because you can get as much fresh air as you want, but fresh don’t mean free, my friends. Oh no… That break you took to grab lunch and go to the beach just cost you at least an extra $50. Thanks, kids! Now, I know $50 means something different to everyone, but to me, 50 fuckin’ dollars is 50 fuckin’ dollars. Well now I’ve gotta weigh my options…. cuz $50 is also a cute top that I can wear more than once. Besides…. there’s fresh air in my backyard. And I know the kids won’t stop hugging me with their big ar…..

BOOM! See? They got ya! Now you’ve talked yourself out of leaving the house entirely. Social life sabotaged? Check.

Apparently, They Are the Fucking Sun

Everything and anything in your life, as a parent, revolves around your kids’ needs. Soccer at 4:30pm on a Tuesday? Bummer. Ballet at 8:30am every Saturday? Wakey, wakey, eggs & bakey….. Basketball practice immediately following crochet? How can she have gymnastics and preschool Zumba at the same time? Fuck! Now I’ll need to pay someone to help me divide and conquer…… or worse…… find someone with whom to carpool. (sad face emoji)

Now listen…. I have nothing against carpooling itself, whatsoever. It’s more a question of, can I stand this other parent long enough to even survive the exchange? They always want to chat and I’m over here like, “The point of carpooling is to SAVE time. Get my fucking kid to practice!” 

Anything and everything you wish to do or hope to accomplish will inevitably depend on two things: 1) Your willingness to pay someone for your freedom, or 2) your willingness not to do anything…. at all. 

(Obviously this doesn’t apply to people fortunate enough to have family around. For example…. I have a certain friend whose parents are amazing and just so happen to live nearby, and also just so happen to babysit all the time (which is FREE), and it just so happens that the grandpa still owes me dinner, and the uncle owes me free babysitting just because I said so…. and he’s like a big brother to me. Speaking of which, go tell your dad I want my dinner!)

They Make Sleep A Game of Russian Roulette

Except in this version, every single chamber is filled with bullets. Bullets filled with shitty, interrupted sleep. Except for one. One of the bullets is filled with a great night’s sleep, but you know the odds…..

Tiny little motherfuckers!!!!! I have a hard enough time falling asleep, and these creatures turn nighttime into a game called, “Who’ll Try to Murder Us First?” I swear… the first time, I try really hard to simply walk the little princess back to her castle, but these kids are Sneaky. As. Fuck. I’m pretty sure they’d successfully make their way through an invisible laser alarm if I had one above my bed.

“Mommmmmmmm…. I’m too tired to brush my teeth.” 

(But I’ll be a fuckin’ ninja doing backflips and yoga the second you hit REM sleep.)

Usually I don’t even notice the kid is in my bed unless one of three things occur:

1) It’s morning, and I look over and make visual contact with the subject.

2) I’m struggling to breathe because my daughter has chosen my face as a perfect spot to snuggle with her giant stuffed hippo.

3) I’m knocked out of unconsciousness via some sort of violence inadvertently directed towards me. It’s usually a punch to the mouth or a foot to the face, although I have been head butted once or twice….But regardless…. THUMBS DOWN. (Except for the first one…. I secretly love it)

And forget getting violently woken up…. how fun are the nights you’re awoken by the sound of a fucking PARTY going on in your son’s room, and every guest is a goddamned LEGO?!?!? All 485,668,350,234,859,098,481,123 of them. Awesome! Now I get to navigate my way through a literal Lego minefield just to get to my kid who is just sitting there, smiling at me like he’s about to say, “Hey! I’m so glad you could make it!”

Fuck you, dude. Get the fuck back to – Ouch!!!

The Day the Music Died

This one is near and dear to my resentful heart, because one thing I LOVE LOVE LOVE to do is car dance. Oh yea…. when the beats are good, my body’s in the ‘hood. Yea, I said it. I like it gangsta. Which sounds hysterically white coming from me, but seriously, Wiz on Pandora is one of my favorite stations, but once the kids enter the vehicle, it’s “bye-bye Promises” and “Howdy Do, Cotton Eye Joe!” It fucking sucks!!!! I can’t lie. I let my kids listen to hip-hop and house music sometimes because if I don’t, I’ll let the kids out, then drive myself, my van, Laurie Berkner & HER band off the side of a motherfucking cliff. I get it. You’re sitting here and you’re 3 days old. Well guess what. Get yourself an agent, because at three fucking days old, if you can put together a band and record a fucking song about how you are literally three days old , I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ve got some scholarships headed your way….

Why must I, as a mother, be subjected to boring melodies about friendship and numbers? If we’re gonna teach our kids about the world through song, then the lyrics should read like this,

“Today you are young. One day you’ll be old.

Then one day you’ll die, and your estate will be sold. 

In the meantime, I’ll tell you, it’s important to know,

That while you’re in school, the economy won’t grow. 

You’ll get a degree, but won’t find a job.

But still make your bed, and don’t be a slob.

Be kind to others and don’t break the laws.

But most importantly, find a way for women not to have to wear bras.”

Having to Make Other Mom Friends

Okay. This one tricky… I know A LOT of moms throughout San Diego, and I genuinely like 80% of them. 15% of the moms are the kind I’ll hang out with if they ‘just so happen’ to be there, and the last 5% I really try to avoid, at all costs. I’m not going to go into detail, because some of you paranoid women already ended friendships with me over information you read and took personally in various posts that, in actuality, had nothing to do with you. But since I don’t have the time or desire to coddle your insecurities, I wish you nothing but the best!

*Credit for the epiphany I had for writing this post goes to my friend, Hannah – a brilliant human being who has an insanely stunning personality, and literally NO cellulite. That pretty much makes her a Goddess. She’s also a writer and extremely well-versed in living a healthy lifestyle… Helllllerrrrrrrr? NO CELLULITE….? Here’s the link to her blog. Check her out.

https://wordpress.com/read/blog/id/55508056

DISCLAIMER: I literally feel like an idiot for even feeling the need to add this little epilogue, but for those of you out there who read this and are concerned for the safety and/or well-being of our children, I can assure you, they are in safe and secure care. I write what I think – and 99.999999% of the public can relate to this, so I guess what I’m trying to say is….. chill the fuck out. I’m not dangerous.

And for those of you who read this and consider me “ungrateful” because so many couples are unable to have children of their own, you also need to chill the fuck out. If they don’t have kids, you never know. They might thank me.

You’re Annoying…

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What’s up!! I am no longer in a bad mood, BUT…. when I WAS in a bad mood, I wrote about people who should just basically do us all a favor and die. Well, I’m happy to report that the response to that post was overwhelmingly positive, and people wanted more, so ask and you shall receive.

Since whenever I blog, it’s ALWAYS live, I will get texts and comments on my social media and phone with ideas for posts like this. So far I’ve gotten a few that are pretty on the fuckin’ money.

Having said that, this post is pretty self-explanatory. If you are guilty of any of these, and I’m sure I am, too, stop immediately, or please die.

Chewing Gum With Your Mouth Wide Open

Look, if I were a dude, and I saw a chick smacking her gum like she had a bunch of Milk Duds stuck in her teeth, my dick would stay as far away as humanly possible from her. What the fuck… Who are you trying to deep throat, whore? Not to mention, the face you make when you smack gum tells me the following information:

1) You most likely own a bright pink faux fur vest and/or hooded jacket.

2) You have “I smell a fart” face. Think about it. No one looks happy smacking their gum. And, if they’re smiling while they’re doing it, they’re fucking crazy, so run!!

3) You own lots and Lots of gloss

4) You have at least one ex named Johnny

Constantly Foaming at the Corners of Your Mouth

No joke. Back in college, I was really excited to take this particular history class. I remember the first day, vividly. I sat in the front row (less distracting for me), and then the professor turned around. He smiled and then when his face rested, there it was. But wait….what was it? I’d seen it before on other people, but only in passing. Now I had the opportunity to study it, and I was deeply perplexed. Seriously, did he just cum in his own mouth? Does the poor guy have rabies? Is he saving some cream cheese for a snack? What the fuck is going on? And it got worse. Every so often, while speaking, spittle would fly out of his mouth, directly at the front row….. where I was sitting. Great. I’m taking history class at Sea World, and I forgot my tarp. I swear, if that shit had been venomous, I would not be here to tell the tale. I couldn’t take it. I dropped the class after only two sessions. With my gag reflex, I could see the crystal ball, and it was filled with vomit.

Using a Toothpick at the Table

Let me ask you a question. If we were out having a nice dinner, would you want to watch me eat my leftovers, before they even were leftovers? Fuck no, you wouldn’t!!! Picking your teeth at the table is one of the most disgusting things I can even think of. It’s one thing if you have something stuck in your tooth, and your friend politely points it out so you can fix it. But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you dirty fuckers know it. Those creepy folk who look like they’re going on a fucking treasure hunt inside their mouths, and when they think they’ve “struck” something, they pull it out of their mouths to examine it and determine whether or not to eat it.

You know what? I’m gonna ralph… moving on!

Coughing and NOT Covering Your Mouth

You people need to watch Contagion. End. Of. Story. You should have learned that shit in pre-school.

Calling MY House and Then Asking Me Who I Am

Motherfucker, you called me! I ain’t telling you shit.

Showing Up to My House, Unannounced

Oh helllllllll no. There are literally THREE people on this entire planet who have the green light to show up to my house, unannounced. And no – none of those three people are related to me. I’ve got three kids. My house is a mess. Maybe I’m drowning my sorrows in a bucket of ice cream. Perhaps I’m upstairs having a romantic date with myself. You really wanna be responsible for interrupting that shit? Good luck staying my friend. You want to enter my personal space? Ask first. I can honestly say I’ve maybe shown up unannounced, twice in my life, and one of them was because I needed to make sure the person in question hadn’t just killed themselves. No joke.

Eating Like Shit & Then Subjecting the World to Your Constant Complaining

I’m sure this one will piss a bunch of people off. Guess what? I don’t care. If you’re going to fill your body with nothing but crap and then complain about not being healthy and in shape, I do not feel sorry for you. I’m not a shrink. I don’t give a shit about the “emotional” aspect of it. We all deal with things in our own way, and if you want to clog your arteries and almost guarantee an early exit from this world, shut the fuck up and don’t complain. It’s like listening to you read the rest of us the longest suicide note in history. Bottom line? If you aren’t happy with the way you look, do something about it. Because complaining about it only works out your jaw. And if you’re constantly shoving crap down your throat, then your jaw is obviously getting enough exercise, as it is.

Being In Denial About Your Size

Listen, I’m not a fat-shamer. It’s your life – it’s your business. I don’t care what size you are – as long as you’re happy. However….. with certain people, and at certain points, you inevitably involve the rest of the community when you choose to walk around in clothes that barely fit over your head. If you’re not a size 6, so what? Not a size 4? Who cares? Not a size 16? Whatever….. But regardless of what size you are…. that should ALSO be the size you wear. I get it. You really want to fit into those size 8 jeans you rocked 5 years ago. Unfortunately, your Papa, named John and cousins Ben & Jerry, took over your life, and now you’re a 12. Stop rolling your eyes. A size 12 is not large. But my point is, that being a size 12 and attempting to wear a size 8 is just sad. Seriously. It’s really, really sad. I know you own a mirror. I know you take selfies. I know you had to lie down and pray to the gods that the zipper didn’t break as you forcibly assaulted it all the way to the top. You’re not blind. What are you trying to prove? Do you work for Consumer Products? Are you testing the durability of the garment? If so, let me tell you. You’re at the fuckin’ red line. Back away, slowly, and take those poor pants off. Rock your size. Ain’t no shame in how you look.

Rich People with Bad Hair

There are no words, and there are no excuses. You’re fucking rich, for fuck’s sake. And this applies to men AND women. I’ve seen some fucked up hairstyles in my day, and I’m always shocked to hear that the people sporting such hair aren’t homeless or going through heroin withdrawals. Just like the ladies and men mentioned above, I know you own a mirror. Hire someone to tell you the truth. And if you happen to live in San Diego, and are suffering from “rich people” follicle problems, Tara Leard @ Hair Lounge in Solana Beach (858)755-4522 is beyond amazing. AND NO – she is not paying me to write that. I only give compliments where compliments are due. Bribes don’t work. But I’m dead serious, get your hair fixed, asap. I guarantee all of your friends are talking shit about you. I know I am, and I don’t even know you.

People Who Talk About Themselves in the Third Person

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!

You are a joke. I literally have NO respect for you. You are an idiot. And you also apparently watch way too much Elmo.

Text Fighting

Oh my GOD!!!! Can someone PLEASE enlighten me? Has anyone ever engaged in an  argument via text and made up at the end? I don’t mean a tiny misunderstanding; I’m talking a full-blown argument. Listen, world. It is virtually impossible to accurately read into what another person is saying when you aren’t there to listen to their intonation, affect, watch their eyes, hear the quivering or lack thereof in their voices. When you’re mad at someone, your CAPITAL LETTER texts come across as screaming. I know this cuz I’ve been accused of it, when in actuality, I was only trying to reiterate a point, but I can totally see why someone would think that. I’m guilty as charged. That’s why it’s always important to talk face to face. Especially as adults. It’s not like we need to be afraid that the argument will turn physical. And if that is a concern, then that person has no business being in your life, in the first place.

People Who Take Forever….. Literally…. to Respond to My Texts

You know who you are. We both know you’re reading this, laughing, and apologizing PROFUSELY to the screen. And I’m not talking to just one of you. I can think of at least  five people to whom this applies. Newsflash!!! I’m texting you because I’m thinking about you and I’m a SAHM with no life outside of motherhood. I’m needy and want attention from other adults. Send me an emoji. Send me a meme. Send me a Dear John letter… I don’t care. Just don’t leave me hangin’!

Disclaimer: I do have one or two friends who are also guilty of this, but I don’t care about them as much so it rolls right off my back.

Liking One Spouse and Hating the Other

Do you have any idea how hard it is to make solid friendships with other couples? This is a chronic problem for MANY MANY MANY MANY people. The worst is having to hang out with a couple when you adore the wife but think the husband is a total douche; or the opposite. The guy is cool, but the wife singlehandedly represents everything I hated about every cool girl in high school. I will say I’ve been very fortunate, because I like 99.99999% of the other couples I know. So to my friends reading this, chances are, you’re safe. Lol.

People Who Refuse to Wear Deodorant

If I can smell you, you can smell you. Which means…. the world can smell you. Ew.

Okay, I’m bored. One of my favorite songs is playing so I must dance. And in case you’re interested, it’s called ‘Til It Hurts by Yellow Claw.

(Hashtag dude)

Image

Solifoto-genic (w/help, of course)!

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I was recently told I was “no spring chicken.” I said, “You’re right. I’ll be 36 in a couple of weeks. I’m a fucking hot wing.”

 
Chick in the Pic: Me!  (pun intended)

@highasakate1

Photography: Laura Bravo-Mertz @ Solifoto

@laurabravomertz

http://www.solifoto.com

Hair & Makeup: Cristiam Alfonso 

@cristiamakeupart

https://www.styleseat.com/m/#/cristiamalfonso

Jewels: LOVEthirteen by Heather Wells

@love_thirteen

http://www.love-thirteen.com

I Was In a Bad Mood, Until…..

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Oh my God. I am in a really fucking bad mood today. It’s so bad, in fact, that I’m actually laughing, thinking about how pissed off I am.

What’s caused such a drastic mood shift, you ask? Absolutely nothing. Seriously… nothing. Sometimes, I’m just fucking pissed off for absolutely no reason, whatsoever. But…. there’s a silver lining. Due to my insanely bad mood, I need to “express myself” so as to rid my body of these toxic feelings. Blah blah blah. Seriously, though… seeing as how I am in such a foul mood, things that normally annoy me, really annoy the fuck out of me when I’m in a funk. So, for the purposes of this post, I shall simply tell you about the last couple of days, the different people I encountered and the reasons why they should all just do me a favor and die.

To the Lady Who Doesn’t Know What a Stop Sign Is:

I fucking hate you. Are you actively trying to kill yourself or someone else? I don’t think stop signs could be ANY MORE SELF-EXPLANATORY if they tried. It’s got EIGHT fucking sides. It’s BRIGHT RED. It says but one word. STOP. SERIOUSLY. It’s really that simple. You see a stop sign… you stop, bitch!!! If I have to take my kid to the ER because your dumb Escalade couldn’t wait that extra half-second for YOUR TURN, I will find out where you live, and I will do absolutely nothing, cuz I’m a pussy. But I’ll definitely think about standing on the sidewalk and imagine doing something horrible to you. And it’ll involve a stop sign. And most likely probing of some sort.

To the Mom Who Likes To Park Between Spaces @ School:

You suck. I hate you. Get over yourself, ho. You’re driving a Saab, for God’s sake. Your car didn’t just get detailed; although it certainly looks like it could use one. And so do you, you persnickety, pouty brat with so much Botox above your eyes, I can almost guarantee that your husband could fuck your eye socket if he tried.

I won’t talk shit about your kid. They’ll get enough of that on the playground when other kids realize his mom is related to Pennywise.

To the Mom Giving Our Table Dirty Looks Because I Let My Kids Be Kids:

Guess what? My kids are smiling and your son looks depressed. NO JOKE. He kept looking over at the “fun” table, wishing he could join. Oh… you don’t like that I gave my boys rainbow hair? Well guess what? I don’t like the fact that you think in 2015, Birkenstocks are okay.

Oh, and you don’t like that fact that my children are laughing and enjoying themselves? Well, I don’t like the fact that you look like you have sex like a dead fish.

Oh, and if you’ll notice, I don’t give one flying circus elephant fuck that you kept shaking your head at me with disapproval. Your husband is cheating on you. I guarantee it.

To the Grocery Clerk Who Insisted I Was Mispronouncing “Organic”:

Dude. Dude. Seriously, dude. You live in fucking California, for fuck’s sake.

I was trying to help you, I really was. At first I thought perhaps you had an accent; but when you visually showed me with your jaw how to pronounce it, and I had also determined that you were not mentally disabled, I was at a loss. I studied Linguistics in college, sir. If I can’t pronounce “organic”, I need to give back my fucking degree.

Him: “This one is really good for kids.”

Me: “Oh great. And it’s organic – even better.”

Him: “You mean orgaynic.”

Me: “What’s ‘orgaynic’?”

Him: “What you just described – the all-natural protein drink. It’s not pronounced ‘organic’.”

Me: “I’m sorry….. what?”

Him: “Yes, I know…”

Me: “Ummm, I’m pretty positive it’s pronounced “organic”.

Him: “No no. It can’t be. You see, the ‘A’ is right next to the ‘N’, so it has to be pronounced as a long ‘A’, as in ‘orgaynic'”. 

This is where he set down his can of peas in order to demonstrate, with his jaw, the correct way to pronounce the word that apparently the rest of us keep repeatedly fucking up. I just stood there and stared at him, and after about five seconds of silence, I asked him,

“So is your favorite movie Titaynic?”

Him: “Huh?”

Me: “Nevermind. Thanks for your help.” <— at least I’m pronouncing ‘Thanks’ correctly.

To the Lady Who Repeatedly Attempted to Open My Bathroom Stall @ Target:

I’m not attracted to you. Please stop trying to force yourself on me. I don’t know if you’ve got some kind of fucked up golden shower fetish, but how many times must I tell you that I’m in the fucking stall? And speaking of stalls…. there are like, FIVE others. Leave me alone! You’re giving my urethra stage fright. Great. Now I can’t pee and need a distraction. Can someone please tell me a fucking story?

To the Lady Who Decided to Open a Target Account Right In Front of Me:

Bitch?!?!?!?!?! You know exactly how you’d feel if the roles were reversed. Now I have to sit here and watch my frozen waffles melt while you decide which phone number to put on the form. How about 911, since I want to fucking kill you. Go away! Fill that shit out on your own time. This isn’t a flash sale or Black Friday. If you’re that desperate to save 5% on a $70 purchase, void your sale and get back in line. Ugh.

Wow – I actually feel better. Thanks, computer! Who knew simply – wait. Hold on…

Holy LIVE update: My close friend and photographer just posted a new photo of me from a Boudoir series on her Instagram account.

@laurabravomertz

Fuck my bad mood. This frown has been turned UPSIDE DOWN!!!!

I’m not even gonna re-read this shit. I’m posting as is. Life is good! The aforementioned assholes have been hereby pardoned.

Enjoy the rest of this fabulous day!!!! ❤

The Freedom Zone

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Howdy!

Well, well, well…. look who’s back. Since my last couple of posts have been more serious in nature, I decided to change things up and go back to what I know best: being bossy and telling people how to live their lives. Having said that, today’s post is dedicated to something ridiculously long and overdue in my life, and I’m pretty sure in many womens’ lives, and that something is….. Girl Trip. That’s right – it’s been exactly ten years, to the day, since my last girl trip, and I finally got to go on another one just this past weekend with three of my favorite friends. It was for just one night, it was so much fun and I can’t wait to do it again, but I did learn a few things about girl trips that I feel I should share with you…. First and foremost, when on a girl’s trip,

Wait Your Fucking Turn, Even If You Already ARE Waiting Your Fucking Turn

So….. there were four girls, including me, and when we got to the desert, we immediately headed for the pool. It was searing hot, so thank the Lord for cabanas. We drank, ate fruit kabobs, swam, and most importantly…. we didn’t melt. Hooray for small victories!!!!!

After a few hours at the pool, we decided to go back inside the hotel to inquire about making dinner reservations. So the four of us walk up to the line and wait patiently. After less than a minute, we noticed that one of the spots at the front desk was empty, so one of my friends asked the lady in front of us if she was in line or not. Now, I don’t care if I have to call that motherfucking hotel and demand the video footage, but if you were to ask ANYONE standing in that line with us, they will tell you with 100% confidence, that the woman to whom my friend spoke said, with a heavy Persian accent, “No, I am with him.” She even POINTED to a male guest standing at the front desk. NO. JOKE.

So…. since she told us in her heavy Persian accent that she was with another man, my friend attempted to walk up to the empty spot at the front desk. I swear to God – my friend made it about 3 steps before this CRAZY BITCH, who JUST told us she was with someone else, yelled, and I quote, “Hey!! What do you think you’re doing?!?! It’s MY turn. You wait!!!!” Imagine saying those words and sounding like Vida from Shahs of Sunset. Anyhoo – aside from the fact that my friend is as tall as a model, and this crazy woman was about as tall as a model airplane made out of legos, she kept giving all of us the dirtiest looks!!!! When she snapped at my friend, my friend immediately apologized and then the four of us gave each other “the look.” I know you know what I’m talking about… that “What…..the….. fuck??????” look. It’s universal. But apparently, this crazy woman wasn’t done with my sane friends and me. She walked up to the front desk, and then proceeded to turn around and yell at us again!!!!  It was so unbelievably uncomfortable, and this woman’s tone was so aggressive, that when my friend was finally able to walk up to the front desk, the woman was literally inches from her, so I walked up and stood between them, just in case I had to….. well, I don’t know what the fuck I would have done… probably nothing, since I’m a giant pussy, but I learned how to mad-dog from Kevin Hart, so I probably would have just started barking uncontrollably, cuz no matter what situation you are in, if someone is being an aggressive asshole, once you start BARKING repeatedly like a rabid dog, I can promise you one thing: You will be left alone. You’ll get some weird as fuck looks…. but you’ll be left alone.

And when we came back to the front desk thirty minutes later, the man the woman said she was with (I swear – that bitch fucking said she was with him!!!!!), immediately jumped and said, “Uh-oh, ladies. Make sure you wait your turn. I don’t want to see you murdered.”

**The fact that she had a Persian accent was irrelevant to her attitude. It just so happens that my friend who was yelled at is also Persian, and some of my closest friends are Persian, so for those of you who want to jump on the “RACIST AMERICANS!” bandwagon, chill the fuck out. I’m just being detail-oriented.

Don’t Ask a Cop If You Can Shove Him Cuz He’s Hot and You Want Him To Throw You Down & Frisk You

Dinner was awesome. The decor was really tacky, so my friends and I didn’t have high hopes, but I love being pleasantly surprised, so when the food was delicious, it reaffirmed my belief that you should never judge a book by its cover. Another thing that was reaffirmed is that you should also not judge a cop by his level of hotness or his smile….

After dinner, we went to a bar at a nearby hotel, and it was the perfect spot for a group shot. Being sort of in the off-season, it wasn’t exactly packed, so there was literally no one around us to take the photo…. Until….. hot cop.

Hot cop came running up the stairs, and instead of letting this man keep running to what was probably a seriously fucked up emergency, I blocked his way and asked him if he would stop to take our photo. “Oops…. my bad.” But he said, “Sure!” I guess whoever needed CPR would just have to wait. These bitches needed a FO-TOE. So hot cop takes probably 3 or 4, and being the inappropriate hedonist that I am, after he took the photos, I said to him, “Wow – you’re really hot. Let me ask you a question…. If I walked over to you and shoved you hard, you’d HAVE to throw me down and arrest me, right?” His response? “Please don’t…..” And then hot cop RAN AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I swear to whomever you claim to believe in… that cop straight bounded up the stairs in 2 seconds flat, and my girlfriends and I immediately started laughing. One of my friends was like, “Kate! He was wearing a wedding ring!” Ummmm so? I wasn’t trying to make out with him…. but who wouldn’t want to get shoved and frisked by a hot guy or girl? I love that shit. Okay… moving on…..

Don’t Enter a ‘Freedom’ Zone If You Happen to Care About Your Children

The morning after, we all had breakfast on the terrace overlooking the pool, and then went off to get our massages. The spa was beautiful, and once we walked in, we were escorted to the ladies’ locker room to get changed into our robes and gummy sandals. Well, apparently the locker room is where your freedom ENDS, because once you exit said locker room, you enter what is known as the “Freedom Zone“, just like the photo for this post states. In fact, that IS the fucking sign they put out…

no cell phones

no disquieting conversation

no smoking

Okay… first of all, I get the no smoking and loud talking, which, bt-dubs, majorly sucks for me, since I naturally have an obnoxiously loud voice. I can’t NOT talk loudly, and I’ve had my ears checked, so I guess I must just really like the sound of my own voice.

Now…. I can understand why they would ask you not to bring your cell phone into that area, in case you decided to call your meth dealer so you could loudly ask him to bring you something to smoke, but when I walked in and was told I couldn’t have my cell phone, my response was, “Umm… I don’t think so. Some people may not give a shit, but if God forbid one of my kids falls and breaks their nose, I’m not going to find out about it 90 minutes later, once my freedom is once again taken away”…. In fact, calling it a ‘Freedom Zone’ is contradictory! If its a free zone, then I should be free to do whatever the fuck I want! Including, but not limited to…. having my cell phone with me, in the off-chance one of my three children gets hurt. If that makes me a dissident, fuck it. This bitch is holding on to her phone.

I will admit, however, that when I got on my soapbox to declare why I would, in fact, be keeping my cell phone, I spoke extremely disquietly, and then noticed the two women to my right holding towels up to their faces, whilst simultaneously giving each other the same “What….the….fuck?” look my friends and I gave each other after “Persia-Gate.”

Never Call a Massage Therapist a “Masseuse”

I love that I feel like I learn a little something new every day, and Monday was no different. The massage therapist, whom I shall call Kim, led me back to the room for my massage, and I told her immediately that I’m not the type of person who can just relax, so I’ll probably talk the whole time and ask her inappropriate questions, but to feel free to tell me to shut up at any point.

Kim was awesome. She was so nice and sweet… and candid!!!!!! I told her about me planning on getting on stage to do stand-up, and that I was going to ask her some questions and she was free to answer any or none of them. Truth be told, I only had one…. “Do men ever ask you for a happy ending?”

She said it had happened once, so I jumped at that shit and was like, “Details, Kim!!!! Details!!”

He was a hairy, older man, and towards the end of the massage, he asked her if she would “finish him off” if he paid her cash. She adamantly declined, and then he told her, “C’mon… we can close the blinds. No one will know.” Well, shortly thereafter, that jerk was immediately escorted out, his photo was put in their computer, and Mr. Jerk & Squirt is now banned.

Now… that story didn’t really surprise me, and when she told me, I said, “You know… why do men pull that kind of shit? Women never do that…..”

I WAS WRONG.

Kim then told me one of the weirdest fucking stories I’ve ever heard… in my life….. Because I pride myself on keeping everyone about whom I write anonymous, I asked Kim to make up the name of someone she hates more than anyone so I could use that name for this female pervert. Hello, Cheryl!!! Kim hates your fucking guts!!! Good thing you don’t know Kim’s real name….. (I’ll never tell – cue evil laugh)

Kim had escorted Cheryl to the massage room and then stepped out so she could undress and get under the covers on the table. A few minutes went by, and Kim knocked on the door and walked back in. As she opened the door, Cheryl was on the bed, AGGRESSIVELY fingering herself and moaning….LOUDLY!!!!!!! Kim immediately closed the door again and, according to Kim, “She left her alone so Cheryl could relieve her ‘stress’ before the massage.” 

HHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH…….. Ok?

When Kim comes back in, the woman is on her stomach, as she should be, and Kim started the massage. Within just a few minutes, however, Cheryl took her right hand and proceeded to start pleasuring herself AGAIN!!!! She was moaning and doing her thang, and Kim let her know that that was very inappropriate, so the woman stopped.

At this point, I asked Kim details about this woman. Apparently she was in her late 20s and attractive – basically the exact opposite of creepy penis man.

Anyway…. halfway through the massage, Kim asks Cheryl to turn over, and as she does, Cheryl purposely pulls down the sheet so her breasts are fully exposed. LOL OMG! Does this woman not know the definition of a CLUE?!?!?!?!?!?! Kim was professional and acted like it was an honest mistake, even though it was blatantly obvious that it was NOT, and continued with the massage…. and things were going well until Kim moved down towards her legs and feet. She was rubbing her right foot, when she noticed that Cheryl had taken her big toe and pinched the sheet between that toe and the second toe, and was using this to pull down her sheet, an inch at a time!! I asked Kim if the lady said anything, and she told me that the woman remained silent and kept her mask over her face. Playing devil’s advocate, I asked if it was possible there was a language barrier, but nope. Not one, whatsoever. I then asked Kim if she made a face when she saw what Cheryl was doing, since Cheryl couldn’t see Kim, and I wish I could do her face justice when describing it. The best description I can think of would be horror, mixed with grossed out, confusion, and a whole lot of “what the fuck does this bitch think she’s doing?!?!” Needless to say, she also ended up on the Spa’s “No Massage” List, as well.

Oh yea, and one more thing I learned. Masseurs and masseuses are known in the “massage world” as the happy ending providers. Professionals who will NOT jerk you off or finger you are known as “massage therapists.” Get it right, people. I didn’t. Let this be a lesson…. Kim was cool, and I really hope she reads this post, but you want to know who NEEDS to read this?…..

The MASSEUSE…..

Who spent 80 minutes shoving religion down one of my friend’s throats. No fucking joke. My friend told this MASSEUSE that when she misses someone who has passed, she sometimes talks to them for comfort…. Wanna know that MASSEUSE’S response?

“Oh no…. that’s impossible. GOD is the ONLY voice that can come down to this Earth and speak to you. If you talk to someone who has passed, you are actually talking to a demon in disguise.”

How many “who the fuck do you think you ares” does it take to piss me off? ONE!!!!!!

CRAZY BITCH. We got her into trouble, and my friend received a certificate for a free massage! Maybe MASSEUSE lady can go tattle to her demon friends and then head over to the “Freedom Zone” for some good, disquieting conversation and a smoke.

PHEW!… After all that insanity, we all enjoyed a wonderful lunch on the patio and then headed home. We are definitely going back in a few months, and I’ll let you know if that post is written from jail.

The Soli…..Photo

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There it is. The photo that changed everything. I say this, because the moment I saw myself, everything inside me DID change. I finally saw myself the way I’d always hoped to. Of course, there’s no way in hell any of this would have been possible without the help of a few key people.

Laura Bravo-Mertz

Hold on. Give me a second. I’m trying to find the most accurate description for this unicorn. In a word, Laura is priceless. She is a genius when it comes to having the ability to see you and shoot you in a way that you never imagined was possible. Not to mention, she is so charming and witty and she instantly makes you feel so special, that when she tells you you’re beautiful, you truly believe it.

Aside from her skills as a photographer, she is simply a remarkable woman, overall. She is a devoted wife and mother, and I know this because I’ve hung out with her children. You can always tell in a child’s eyes when they truly know they’re loved. And hers definitely know. And what’s more, she has the uncanny ability to make her friends feel the same way. I know that Laura is a true friend, and true friendships are one of the rarest gems you can find in life, so in a sense…. Laura has made me rich.

Thank you, Laura, for enriching my life in so many ways during the tenure of our relationship. I hold you in the highest regard, and will do everything and anything in my power to help the world see your brilliance and gifts.

If you wish to learn more about Laura Bravo-Mertz, get on it. She’s crazy busy!!

Laura Bravo-Mertz

http://www.solifoto.com

laura@solifoto.com

Instagram @laurabravomertz


Cristiam Alfonso

Alright, so check this out. I literally met this man yesterday. But I don’t care. It was love at first sight. I’d asked Laura, in advance, if he was going to be cool, or if I would have to act like a nice, respectable person, which is fucking exhausting, by the way….

He walked in, and aside from the fact that physically-speaking, I kind of hoped he would accidentally fall on top of me, he was an incredibly nice guy. We hit it off, which definitely made me feel a lot less stressed about the shoot, but when he finally allowed me to see myself in the mirror, I realized his awesomeness went far beyond anything I had ever imagined. There’s a reason this man works with the top celebrities in Hollywood. Good reason. Not only did he do an incredible job on my makeup, but he put up with my wonky left eye that felt like crying non-stop for five hours. Thanks a lot, pollen. And the hair… the HAIR!!!!! He made me look like I actually HAD some. Thin hair is awesome, n’est–ce pas? #thumbsdowntothinhair

In a perfect world, I would move him very close to me so he could do my makeup every day… which consists of concealer and Carmex. But damn, if he wouldn’t apply that under eye concealer and Carmex perfectly!!!!

Anyone in the WORLD who wants to look and feel like they had their makeup done by a legitimate artist and not someone behind a fold-out chair at a kiosk, here is his info.

Cristiam Alfonso

Facebook: Illuminati Hair and Makeup Studios

https://www.styleseat.com/cristiamalfonso

Instagram @cristiamakeupart


LOVEthirteen

The bracelets I was wearing for the photo shoot weren’t brought by the photographer as a prop. I own those pieces. I chose those pieces. Those pieces are mine. I’m emphasizing this, because if you try to steal them, I will cut you. So get your own. I say this, because I have received such a response from people everywhere wanting to know where they came from, so ask and you shall receive.

LOVEthirteen is a spiritual jewelry line designed by Heather Wells. Now, I have known Heather a while. As happens with many many of us, we lost touch for a few years. When we finally reconnected, she told me about her new jewelry she was designing. One look. One look and I was hooked. In the photo, you can’t even see the intricate details she uses in her design. She meticulously adds details that set her jewelry apart from what I’ve seen elsewhere. She loves making custom pieces, too, which is what I was wearing. I told her what I wanted and she…. well, she basically blew my fucking mind. I love her stuff. Period.

Her star is rising at lightning speed, so if you’re interested in her pieces, I highly recommend you check her out and contact her, ASAP.

LOVEthirteen

http://www.love-thirteen.com

Heather@love-thirteen.com

Facebook.com/LOVEthirteenjewelry

Instagram @LOVE_thirteen

This was photo number one. There will be many more to come in the coming weeks, and I cannot wait to see them! Thank you, Laura & Cristiam!!!! xo

Officer Down – May 17, 2015

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Today is Sunday, May 24, 2015. The weather is overcast and cool, and it’s definitely one of those days where the video games will get a lot of use….

Funny thing – this was also the case exactly one week ago. May 17, 2015. It was overcast and cool, and a Sunday much like so many others. The kids were playing downstairs, and I was hiding out in my room for a few minutes just to clear my mind before the mundane tasks of motherhood took over and I was forced to play second fiddle to everyone elses’ needs. Then my phone rang. Now, anyone and everyone who knows me knows how much I LOATHE speaking on the phone. 1996 Kate? Loved it. 2015 Kate? Not so much. But the person on caller ID just so happens to be one of my favorite men on the planet, so I answered.

“Hey, Kate. What are you doing?”

“Nothing – just sitting on the toilet.”

“Okay, well I’m glad you’re sitting down, because Heather was just shot, and she’s on her way to the hospital.”

In that moment, I knew I wasn’t fully processing what I was hearing. It couldn’t be. Not in a million years. Not Heather. NO. No, no, no, no, no. I immediately went into “Robot Mode”.

“Okay – where is she now?”

“She’s at the hospital, in surgery. The hospital is on lockdown, so when you get here, call me and I’ll get you in.”

See, I’m not a police officer. I am what police like to refer to as, “a civilian.” Call me whatever the hell you want – just let me see my friend. Now Heather – Heather is a police officer, and a damned fine one at that. The department is lucky to have her, and even though she may not patrol my neighborhood, I still feel safe knowing that officers of her caliber are out there, putting themselves in harm’s way in order to make our city as safe as it can be.

I know there has been a lot of tension in recent months or even years with regards to law enforcement, but let me be perfectly clear. This post has really nothing to do with that. This post is about two friends.

From the first moment I met Heather, years ago, something clicked. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew the second we met that we’d be friends for life. And I was right. We text almost every day, tag each other in silly Instagram posts and send each other ridiculous memes in long text threads involving at least three other people at all times. She’s my “go-to” when I’m having a bad day, and she’s my “go-to” when I’m having a wonderful day. But it’s not just Heather who is amazing. Her family is amazing. Her mom and dad are hilarious, and two of the kindest people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. At parties I have had the opportunity to meet many of her co-workers, and I have to say… most police officers are pretty fun to hang out with when not in uniform. I will admit that, as a civilian, I can’t help but feel a little bit like an outsider when we are all together; after all, I have no idea what it’s like to put your life on the line, every single day and/or night, for strangers who more often than not, seem to want to point out your failures as an officer, rather than praise you for being as close to a superhero as superheroes get. Not to mention, sometimes someone will make a joke, and then you’ll hear a resounding, “now THAT’s what I call a 1086 or a Code 5911, etc.” or whatever cop jargon they use, and then I just look around the room thinking, “I need to get a cheat sheet for this crap.”

Now, back to May 17. As I sped down the freeway, yes… I SPED, I didn’t know what to think. Was she dead? Was she paralyzed? Would she ever be the same? I thought about her fiancé, the buddy who’d called me. I thought about her mom and dad and brother and all of her fellow officers whom I’d met. I felt numb and utterly helpless, and I cannot, for the life of me, think of a worse feeling than that of feeling utterly helpless; unable to say or do anything to improve or change the circumstances in which you find yourself.

When I finally reached the hospital, I was taken aback by all the police cruisers, cars and just men and women in uniform literally protecting her from any outsiders. It was a marvelous, albeit, stressful sight. I was overcome with pride and happiness that she worked with so many good men and women who love and care for her as much as the rest of us do. I can’t begin to try to imagine what it would be like, as a fellow officer, to see someone you put your life on the line with every day in such unknown circumstances – but at that moment, I couldn’t even think. I just needed to see her. Immediately.

As I approached a group of officers in and out of uniform, I asked if I could go in with them so I could see her. I already knew her room number – I wasn’t exactly a stranger. One of the officers looked at me suspiciously and said, “You know Heather?” My response? “Well, I’m going to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, so I sure hope so.” I know my sarcastic humor couldn’t have been more ill-timed, but laughter is how I deal with most things. If I’m not laughing – I’m crying, and there was no way in hell I was going to let her see me upset – she was my hero, and now it was my time to be hers.

I was escorted into the waiting room where I was greeted by 20-30 police officers. Some in uniform – others not. Greeted might be a strong word, since the room was cold and tense. To say I was intimidated would be a hugely gross understatement. I scanned the room and only recognized two officers, and was receiving suspicious glances from everyone else. I didn’t blame them. The waiting room had a level of tension I had never experienced before. Of course, I had also never been in this situation before. Obviously, many of the police officers there remained stoic and poised. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what to do. So I sat down and loudly stated, “For the record, nobody has permission to check my purse or my trunk.” (sigh) I don’t know what I was thinking…. I just couldn’t handle all the serious tension. We were ALL helpless at that point, so might as well break the ice in the only way I knew how. It was well-received by some, and by others? Not so much. On the bright side, I had the opportunity to speak to many of her fellow officers, and I was able to meet many new and wonderful people whom I know I will see again and greet with hugs.

Now, before I reached the hospital, I already knew the details of what had happened to her and when I arrived, I was able to get an update about her condition. And I can now definitively say, with 100% certainty, that the media has no clue what the hell they are doing or talking about. They couldn’t get the information they wanted, so they made up whatever they thought would attract the most attention. It’s sad, really.

I just sat there, waiting for hours, just hoping to see her face and let her know that I was here. I even brought dumb magazines to keep her company, but after three hours of waiting, we were told by the hospital staff that we had to leave. Not just civilians – everyone, except for the officers on duty protecting her. I saw her fiancé, hugged him, and asked him to please make sure he let her know that I was there, even if I couldn’t see her. He assured me he would, so I gave one of the officers on duty the magazines, and I went home.

When I came back the next morning to see her, I ran into one of her fellow officers in her cruiser and asked if I could sit with her for a minute before I went in. As we sat in the car talking, something most unexpected happened. An African-American man cleaning up the garbage around the hospital approached the officer’s window and said something I will never, ever forget. He said, “Hello, Officer. How’s your friend doing? I really am praying for her and a good recovery.” Then he said, “Listen, I wanted you to know something. I live in a very bad part of town – I guess you’d call it the ‘hood, and most of my family and neighbors are in gangs and involved in drugs and stuff, and I know that there’s been a lot of stuff going on and being said in the media about cops and blacks, but I have not heard one single person make light or laugh at your friend’s situation. No one is cheering. No one is clapping. No one is celebrating.”

That really got to me. I had no idea one man’s comment could put so many things into perspective. See, Heather is not just a police officer. She is a human being. She is someone’s daughter. She is someone’s sister. She is someone’s friend. She is someone’s fiancee. She is someone. It is so easy to forget in times of strife and evolution, that at our core, we are all people. That man didn’t know her. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know the details. All he knew, was that she was hurt and he was praying for her. It was as simple as that.

I wish we, as a society, could look past the uniform, and realize that yes, there are police officers out there who give others a bad wrap, especially the ones who give me tickets for having tinted windows on my minivan, but take the uniform off and we are all just people. And people need each other. And when someone so close to you comes thisclose to losing their life, it really makes you resent all the negativity pointed at these heroes we so easily take for granted.

It has now been one week since Heather was shot. Looking back, and after speaking with someone I love, it was made apparent to me that having my tallest best friend shot and almost die was essentially a perfect storm of all of my worst fears and anxieties coming at me at once. I wasn’t able to eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even be a mom – I was so wrapped up in the hailstorm, and now, a week later, I’m finally starting to feel normal again. And that is mostly due to my hero, Heather. God love her. She’s the one who reassured me that she would be ok. She and her fiancé are the ones who held me when I went to their house and laid on her lap and cried. She is the one who continued to smile and put me at ease, even though she’s the one who took a bullet. She was there for me when I wanted to be there for her, and if THAT isn’t the definition of a hero, then I don’t know what is. I want the WORLD to know what an amazing woman, friend and police officer she is, and San Diego is lucky as hell to have her.

I love you, Heather. You are my hero. You are everyone’s hero.

~ Your Shortest BFF

Why Does My Weight Get to Dictate?

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Happy Tuesday, everyone! Not for me, though. I think today sucks balls. And I thought yesterday sucked balls, too. Who knows what kind of balls will be sucked tomorrow….

“Damn! Why’s Kate in such a shitty mood? What did Adam do!!!!”

Actually, it’s not Adam at all – it’s 100% me. I’m in a really fucking shitty mood because……. I. Feel. Fat.

Before I continue, I’d like to say something. I am not a medical professional. In fact, I passed all of my physical science classes by the skin of my teeth. So if you’re reading this and hoping that I’ll provide some EUREKA moment of clarity that will solve your weight problems – don’t bother. I’m as clueless and lazy as you are.

Another thing I’d like to point out, is that I’m thin. How thin? None of your goddamn business, that’s how – but not too thin…. that’s for sure. But the reason I’m telling you this, is because I know some of you know what I look like and will be rolling your eyes with a word bubble hovering over your head that reads, “#skinnybitch #skinnypeopleproblems”. But it’s important you know this, because I sincerely feel that there is this radical misconception that only fat people can feel fat, and that if you’re thin and feel fat, then you’re really just fishing for compliments. I stand by this statement 100% because ANY time I’ve tried to even broach the subject of how I am feeling about my weight, guess what? Some of my friends roll their eyes, mad-dog me and then tell me to, “Shut the fuck up.”

But I can’t help it! Sometimes that’s how I feel! For example, over the past two weeks, I have gained 5 lbs. Now this may not seem like a lot to some of you, but 5 lbs. on a fat person and 5 lbs. on a skinny person look wayyyyyyyyy different. And no – I will not be politically correct and call fat people “overweight”. Fuck that – you’re fat. Now, does it make you in any way less of a person? Of course not! Does it mean you’re not beautiful just the way you are? Fuck no – as long as you’re happy, DO YOU. I’m just calling a spade a spade. If you are carrying a lot of extra weight around your major organs, what’s that weight made of? Dollar bills? Laundry baskets? Lawn chairs? No – it’s made of fat. But that’s not the point of this post. I could give two shits how much a person weighs; if you’re a good person, that’s all I care about. Well…. that’s not entirely true. Obviously, if you’re carrying excessive fat around your major organs, preventing them from working properly, and you also happen to be someone I care about, then it will matter to me. But I’m not your mom, so I will never try to make you feel bad about it. But if you are reading this, and we’re friends, and you happen to be overweight, know that I want you to get into better shape for your health – NOT for your closet.

Okay, now that that’s out of the way, allow me to get back to my main point. I feel fat. I know that logically speaking, I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel. It boggles my mind how much power I give my scale. Seriously. Every morning, after I pee (morning pees are the BEST!!!!!) I weigh myself, and then, like an idiot, I allow the number on the scale to dictate how my day will go. How fucked up is that?!?! How did a fucking square, made in Taiwan, with numbers on it, gain so much power? Someone please tell me?

I just don’t get it. It’s like there are two little synapses inside my brain, having a little conversation.

Good Synapse“It’s okay, Kate. No matter what the scale says, you are perfect just as you are.”

Bad Synapse: “Fuck that shit. If you so much as gained 1/2 a pound, you are a loser and are completely unloveable. Step away from the bread, you fat whore.”

Good Synapse: “Shut up. Don’t listen to it, Kate. Just drink a lot of water.”

Bad Synapse: “Yeah… listen to Good Synapse, you bloated goat. And remember, water does not mean chocolate milk…….. Fatty. Hey! I just realized something…. Kate and ‘weight’ rhyme! HAAHAAHAHHAHA – that means you ARE fat. Fat, bloated & gross. Stay indoors. Don’t subject the world to your FUPA.”

Me“Hey, Bad Synapse. Did you realize your initials are BS?”

BS: “Hey, Kate Weight, did you realize you’re fucking fat? I’m shutting down your endorphins so you suffer!!!!! Suffer, you fat bitch. Suffer!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I know – I sound crazy. But, truth be told – if I were to write this post when I’m feeling skinny, I’d probably end up ‘there-‘there’ing myself and writing down all sorts of euphoric wisdom. But guess what? That’s not how life works. Sometimes you love yourself, and sometimes you wish you could be anyone else BUT you. And it sucks. It really, really sucks. BUT, it’s important that men and women of all sizes understand that even the skinniest people aren’t happy with the way they look sometimes. In fact, I think it’s fucking rude to tease skinny people about their size – EVER. If it’s not okay to tell a fat person, “Dude! Put the down the burger!”, why is it acceptable to tell a skinny person, “Dude! Eat a burger!” Guess what? It’s not.

Okay, I’m getting off-topic. Back to my venting. I was chatting with a friend of mine recently, and she was really bummed out because she had gained some weight and was having a difficult time getting rid of it. I can totally relate. It is so fucking frustrating to try your best and still feel like you’ve failed. Every morning you wake up and promise yourself you’ll do better, and then as you turn out the lights at night you feel like a failure. You tell yourself, “There’s always tomorrow.” Well guess what? That is one fucked up way of thinking. And I can say that because that’s exactly what I say and how I feel.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE!!!! Why are so many of us afraid to admit when we’re feeling bad about ourselves? I have yet to meet one single person who loves themselves so much that they never have a bad day and they never feel depressed. You wanna know why? Because they don’t exist. They don’t!!!! And……. if you’ve met someone like that, run as quickly as you can in the other direction, cuz that person is in such denial about the realities of life and is so detached from their own feelings that they will most likely end up on an episode of “I Thought I Knew Them.” No, that’s not a real show, but it sure as hell could be! Think of all the killers, rapists, child molesters, con artists, etc. who portrayed themselves as “having it all”. Think of all the Dateline interviews where the victims or acquaintances look at the camera and say, “He/she was such a nice person. Never in a million years did I think…. (sigh) …. I thought I knew them.”

And for the people who say they never weigh themselves? I’m telling you right now that I envy you. I am jealous and bitter, but most of all, confused. I can’t imagine going a single day without weighing myself. But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps I need to calm the fuck down and reassure myself that the scale means NOTHING. The scale doesn’t pay my bills. The scale doesn’t get my nails or hair did. The scale doesn’t cuddle with me and tell me I’m pretty. The scale doesn’t rub my feet on the weekends and help out with the kids. The scale doesn’t feed the dogs or water the garden. In fact, the scale doesn’t do SHIT. Literally. It literally does nothing. At least a dog licks your face and lays in your lap (regardless of its size). Does the scale lay at your feet and follow you around the house, sensing your sadness and wanting to make it go away? Fuck no, it doesn’t. It takes up 12 square inches of my bathroom and 100% of my brain. How is that even possible?!!?!?!?

FUCK. YOU. SCALE!

I know…. I’m cursing a lot. I can’t help it and I don’t want to, either. I write the way I speak. In fact, not to plagiarize myself, but I’m pretty sure it says that it my bio, as well. And anyone who knows me knows that, while my vernacular may be broad, I’m just too lazy to use intelligent words. So my go-to is always “fuck“. I’m mad? Fuck you. Didn’t like my food? Fuck that dish. Find out someone is badmouthing me? Haha. I don’t give a fuck. You don’t like me? Your fucking loss. You fuck with someone I love? I’ll fuck you up. You talk badly about one of my friends? I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.  My son got 100%? That’s fucking awesome! My daughter drew a flower? Fuck yeah! My husband is coming home early? Whoa – that’s fucking rare…. but also fucking amazing!!!!!!

Okay, now that I’m rambling, allow me to finish this by stating simply that, we all come in different shapes and sizes, and regardless if you’re a size 4 or 14, we all have feelings. And while the size 14 might find it obnoxious that a size 4 person would not be happy with the way they look, it doesn’t make our feelings any less valid. So when a thin person tells you they’re feeling ugly, fat, lonely, whatever, please don’t roll your eyes. Sometimes all a person needs is someone to hear them. Believe me – there is a stark contrast between listening to someone and hearing them. Hearing someone goes much deeper. By hearing them, you allow yourself to put yourself in their shoes, even if only briefly, and you can often see things from their perspective. It’s amazing what kind of friend you can be when you HEAR what other people have to say instead of just listen.

…… More on that topic later.

P.S. You know how ‘they’ say writing shit down helps? Well FUCK ‘THEY’. Who the fuck are ‘they‘ anyway? Talking scales – that’s who.
P.P.S. I’m never getting rid of my scale. 

Pick-up: Elementary School Edition

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Well, hidy-ho!!! Fuck – I cannot get that Mr. Hanky song out of my head…..

“It’s Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo – small and brown, he comes from you…..”

Yep – I’m that mom. I’m the mom who, every morning at the breakfast table, says or does something so ridiculously inappropriate, and then giggles uncontrollably with our two boys as my hubby looks on, head hung low, defeated. They have three minutes to leave the house for school, but we’re too busy making faces at each other and saying potty words…..

But alas, they do leave the house, mostly just in the nick of time, and then I go about my day until it’s time for me to pick them up….. which brings me to today’s topic: Pick Up.

Oh… pick up. What a “fun” experience THAT is. There are just so many aspects of pick up that confound my mind, that I feel now is the time to call some of these bitch-ass parents out. And I shall do this in my favorite way…. CATEGORIZATION. Oh yes…. Shall we begin? Okay, for the purposes of today’s post, I will be using random descriptive words as the headings, and then, if you managed to graduate 3rd grade, you’ll hopefully pick up what I’m putting down. Now, without further ado, allow me to present to you…..

The CaraVAN

I happen to own a van, which comes in handy when you have three kids or are just too fucking lazy of a parent to bother helping your kids into their seats. I happen to fit into both categories. Jealous, anyone?

Anyhoo, every day when I drive up to the school, I swear there’s an assembly line of auto parts being physically put together as I wait. EVERY FUCKING VAN IS A MOTHERFUCKING HONDA. Including mine…. But I pimped mine out – Black rims and blacked out windows. And I blast hip-hop and house all day long, so even through the sea of HONDRONES waiting to get their kids, you can’t miss me if you try. And if you do happen to overlook my car, you’re a fucking liar. I saw you look at me. It’s cool. We don’t need to be friends, but apparently only ONE of us is a human being, because apparently only ONE of us knows how to be polite…. which brings me to the…..

Cardiophobics

Medically speaking, this is a fear of the heart or heart disease(s). Metaphorically speaking, however, this is apparently the fear of being polite and WAVING. Who knew!?!?!?! Who could have known, in their wildest dreams, that there are people out there physically incapable of raising their hands or arms an entire 9 inches to wave hello. It makes no sense! I don’t see you struggling as you remove the lint from your friend’s shirt, or to flirt with the dad next to you. You smack your hand against his chest like he just told the best joke EVER. If you make eye contact with someone you know, you wave – and I don’t mean the crazy waves you see at the airport when sorority sisters are reunited after a loooooooooong weekend apart. No, I’m referring to the universal term for, “I see you, I acknowledge your existence and I hope you have a nice day.” Well guess what? You obviously DON’T want me to have a nice day, so to you cardiophobics I say, “Go fuck yourselves.” Waving is not that hard. Just pretend you’re about to praise Hitler. You probably already do praise him, so then just act like I’m him and say hi. Would you NOT say hello to your Fuhrer, even if said Fuhrer was Hitler? I think not. Fucking bigots. At the very least, you could manage a smile. Hell, maybe you are smiling, and the Botox and fillers are physically preventing you from curving the corners of your mouth. If that’s the case, call my doctor – he’s awesome.

But you wanna know which non-wavers REALLY piss me off? The rearview mirror non-wavers. Allow me to jump forward for a brief second. At our children’s school, there are two lanes that cars use to enter and exit. This method seems to work fairly well, until you actually have your children in your possession and attempt to exit the cluster-fuck of vans and sports cars. Oh, did I forget to mention that? You have two choices when it comes to the type of car you drive…. a van, or a sports car. If you see a sedan, take a photo. They are an endangered species at our school.

Anyway, back to the main point. Once you have your kids, you have two choices – go left or right. You are not allowed to just go straight. The vast majority of families live to the left, so naturally, you’d prefer to be in that lane…. but truth be told – THEY BOTH SUCK. If you’re in the left lane, you have to deal with the onslaught of other vehicles attempting to invade your lane, while you’re stuck behind 4 cars at the stop sign, just trying to get the fuck out of school but are prevented from doing so by the crossing guard, who, if I didn’t know any better, has a personal vendetta against me. I swear – they’re fucking psychic. “Oh look, it’s Mrs. Robinson…. hmmmm I don’t see any kids who need to cross the street. Oh! I know! I’LL cross the street by myself!”

But that’s not even the part that truly pisses me off. It’s when the car in the right lane puts on their blinker, I let them in, and then I wait…. I wait and I wait and it never comes. The universal sign for “thank you”. RAISE YOUR HAND AND WAVE INTO THE REARVIEW MIRROR, ASSHOLE! Remember……I didn’t HAVE to let you in.” In fact, now that I’ve seen your car, I’m going to make a mental note NOT to let you in the next time… Actually, who am I kidding? I’m a sucker. I’ll always let you in. But not the asshole behind you who tries to sneak in, too. Muthafucka, I see you! What…….you think you’re just going to pretend you’re hitched to the back of the car I just let in? Jigga, pleez. Nice try. Looks like someone needs a reminder rhyme….

No cuts, no butts, no alligator guts.”

Repeat.

No cuts, no butts, no alligator guts.”

Are You Trying To Get Run Over?

Make up your minds!!!! Are you crossing the street, parking lot, two-lane carpool or what?!?! You literally look like a deer in headlights. I’m not referring to the kids… well, that’s bullshit. I’m totally referring to the kids – but only the older ones. Not only are you NOT looking both ways before you cross the street, but you’re not even fucking CROSSING!!!!!!! You’re stopping in the middle of the cross walk and staring at all the cars or even worse – you’re tying your shoes. It didn’t occur to you to tie your shoes before you, oh…. I dunno… RAN DOWN THE STAIRS to the sidewalk?!? Maybe you’re looking for your mommy. Maybe you’re looking for your friends – in either case, move the fuck out of the way! My kids are waiting for me, and I don’t have time to sit while you decide whether or not the guy asking you to help him find his dog is legit. Just be a good boy and help the guy out. He’s obviously a nice guy. Just look at his van! It says “Free Candy” on the side. In either case, please just keep going. This bitch has places to be – namely home, so I can hide in my room.

Invisible Drivers

I remember the first time I saw what I thought was an invisible driver. I was so freaked out and awestruck that I took out my phone and started to take pictures. But then something rather strange happened. Out of NOWHERE, this mom climbs INTO the driver’s seat, obliviously unaware that she was physically crushing the invisible driver, and then!!!!! Get this? The bitch straight DROVE off with a kid in the back! Can you believe that shit?!

(I hope the invisible driver is okay)

Seriously though, don’t be “that asshat“. Don’t get in one of the drive-thru lanes and then park and exit your vehicle in order to get your child. Don’t you think that’s what we’d ALL like to do? C’mon. Now that you’ve abandoned your vehicle, the 30 cars in line behind you are now stuck, waiting for your entitled ass to get back into your car and MOVE. If you want to walk up to the school to physically get your child, arrive to school earlier and PARK. You should definitely know how to park. You do it in the carpool lanes all the fucking time. C’mon. You’re being a douche. How can you not know this? Well I’ve got news for you – we all know it, and if you think we’re not all mad-doggin’ you and mumbling insults under our breath, then you’re as dumb as you look.

That’s about all I have to say about the subject at this point; perhaps I’ll add a few more as they pop into my head. Oh, and if you’re interested in reading about the different types of parents I’ve encountered in the past, check out these two posts I wrote last year.

http://highasakate.com/2014/04/25/are-you-going-to-work-or-are-you-going-to-twerk/

http://highasakate.com/2014/02/03/greener-grass/

*I considered adding different types of elementary school moms I’ve encountered, but seeing as how I can’t even distinguish them apart from each other (these women need numbered jerseys, I swear) I’ll refrain…. for now.*

Tata!

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Feeling like a proud distant cousin…

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All of these DJs are so talented, it’s ridick. But what’s even cooler, is that I’ve also partied with these guys (Scooter back in the early 2000s – fuck, I’m old) & Erick and Gabe more recently, and they’re just as cool off-stage as on. You’ve gotta check ’em out!

 

You Are Beautiful

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Good morning, world!

I just got home after running some errands, and while checking Facebook, I saw an interesting link about a campaign Dove is promoting called #choosebeautiful. This campaign’s purpose is to encourage women to embrace their beauty. They are doing this by putting up two signs above the doors to various places. One sign says “Beautiful” and the other says “Average“. The aim is for the women to choose the door that they feel represents their inner feelings about their own beauty. At the beginning of the video, most of the women around the world commented on how they didn’t perceive themselves as being worthy enough to enter the door below the “Beautiful” sign, and instead opted for “Average”. However afterwards, they all regretted their decisions and wished they could go back and change their minds. This got me thinking…..

What makes someone beautiful?

If you gauge beauty by what you see in a magazine or on television, then I guess none of us are beautiful. Even the women and men portrayed in magazines and television don’t start out looking like that; it takes an entourage of hair and makeup people, followed by a crew whose sole job is to make sure the lighting is perfect, and even after all of that, (and I’m SURE I’m missing a few ‘crews’) THEN comes the editing, where any and ALL traces of perceived imperfections are permanently removed. All of this is done, solely to make the rest of the world aspire to look like the finished product. But that’s impossible. If the model doesn’t even look like the model, how the hell can we?

Back in the day, and I mean way, way back, it was considered beautiful to have a rotund figure – voluptuous and full. In fact, in many societies, it was a sign of wealth. But now, the opposite seems to be true; the skinnier you are and the hungrier you look, the better. Can someone please explain this logic to me? Since when is it the standard for women to only be considered truly beautiful by means of Photoshop and some celery? Obviously there are many, many people who don’t follow this logic, and do indeed find women of all shapes and sizes beautiful, but where did society as a whole go wrong? Don’t we all realize what we’ve done?

Ponder the following:

1. We promote an unattainable image that basically says, “You’re only beautiful if you have a, b, c, d, e, f, etc.”

2. As a result, people all over the world struggle to achieve unachievable standards. And because it is virtually impossible, we try to navigate around the problem with plastic surgery, makeup, fancy hairstyles, fabulous clothes…. (I understand that how you dress is a symbol of personal style – I’m not referring to that aspect), etc.

3. Since so many of us will be unable to ever feel “good enough” and will spend our lives feeling ‘less than’, we become depressed and self-loathing, and that manifests itself in a plethora of negative ways. I know how I feel when I’m depressed – I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

4. BUT…what we all seem to be overlooking…. is that little thing called TIME. No matter how hard you try, unless you are Rob Lowe or a vampire, YOU. WILL. AGE. Like a candle… your face will start to melt, and you’ll even shrink as your spine deteriorates. I know this sounds horribly depressing, but it’s true, nevertheless. By the time we are in our twilight years, all those efforts we put in, trying to stay “beautiful” will have diminished, and we will be left with………? What’s inside.

That’s right. You will be left with what’s inside. And I don’t mean that literally. But at the end of the day, everyones’ looks fade, and then your true self is what is left. So instead of worrying about being beautiful on the outside, why not focus more on the inside? I know it’s a cliché to say that “true beauty lies within”, but it’s true. I know so many men and women (NOT ALL) who, on the outside look perfect, but they’ve become so self-loathing in their efforts to attain that perfection, that they completely ignored their insides, and their insides, over time, became ugly. For some reason, some people feel that being pretty somehow makes them better or more entitled than the person next to them. And we allow this behavior because we reward it. Go to any popular nightclub. You see it all the time. Sarah – the hottie – gets in, while Jessica – the one who actually likes to eat more than once a day, and prefers a more natural look than Barbie – gets completely overlooked.

Sadly, chances are, Sarah is a bitch of epic proportions who refuses to pay for anything, and relies on the attention of men to keep her self-confidence in check, and Jessica is happy and excited about life, but who cares about that? She’s a size 8. 

 

I’m not saying that this is always the case; obviously there are many, many gorgeous men and women out there with personalities to match, but why are we even needing to have this discussion? Why is it that every time I go out and take photos, I have to edit them before I post them? I have to make sure I’m not too shiny, and if I have dark circles under my eyes, I fix those, too….Oh, but I don’t stop there. I have Instagram, so I THEN get to make sure that the lighting of my photos is as flattering as possible! I will say that I have never tried to Photoshop my body or make myself look skinnier, but what’s the difference? Why am I not satisfied with myself the way that I am? When I went out that night, I had circles and I was shiny, and everyone saw me, and we all had a great time, so why must I “fix” myself before presenting myself to rest of the world? Well, probably because I’m extremely vain. But that’s beside the point.

Seriously, though…. let’s get down to the nitty gritty. Let’s say you’re having a dinner party, and you’ve invited ten people. Hypothetically speaking, three of those people are genetically blessed, and are beautiful on the outside and the inside. Now let’s say that four of the other guests are perhaps average-looking by society’s standards, but they’re super fun, smart, engaging, basically just pick any positive adjective. Now – that leaves three people. Are they pretty on the outside and ugly on the inside? No. Why? Because who wants a good-looking asshole at a dinner party? The point is to have a good time, no? Are they ugly on the outside AND the inside? Probably not…. so who are these three people? The truth, is that they most likely fit into one of the other groups. Pretty & nice or Average & nice.

NOW…. let’s change the scenery, shall we? You’re going out on the town and you wanna have a fun, and perhaps even regrettable night. Whom do you invite? I will tell you that most people, in my experience, want the most arm candy. Personality goes out the window when you want to be “seen”. How shitty is that? Now I’m stuck with four stuck-up, anorexic bitches who think they’re better than everyone around them, including me. <— I’m exaggerating. I don’t actually experience this, because I don’t associate with people like this. EVER. I loathe people like this. Beautiful or not, if you’re arrogant and entitled, you need to do some serious work on yourself. You obviously hate your life, even if you prefer to live said life in utter and complete denial. Not to mention, vibes are real, so I don’t have time to hang out with people from Slitherin House. You wanna put that negativity out there to the universe? Well you can do it SOLO.

I have friends of all shapes and sizes (men & women), but they all have one thing in common: they are each uniquely beautiful for a multitude of reasons, and I hope they see themselves the way that I see them.

My point, is that in reality, everyone wants to look beautiful. But what everyone seems to be forgetting, is that what they should really be focusing their energy and attention on is feeling beautiful. Because when someone truly feels beautiful, the energy they put out is in kind, and then that person does indeed become beautiful, and that beauty will attract others in ways Sarah could only dream.

 

                Candles, Sarah…. candles.  

  

  

** These posts are purely my own opinions, and in no way do I ever try to make assumptions about the rest of the world… I just write what I see. And if you want to check out the Dove video that inspired this piece, here’s the link…. and NO, they aren’t sponsoring this. 

 https://youtu.be/7DdM-4siaQw

Why, Hello There, Vagina! Apparently We’ve Never Met….

Hey guys! I know it’s been a little bit since my last post; I’m taking a writer’s vacay, but something happened that was so bizarre that I had to go on a quick vacay from my vacay to share this with you…..

For the past couple of days, I’ve been suffering and waiting for the doctor’s office to open because…. I have a bladder infection! YAY!!!!!! Bladder infections are just the best, aren’t they? I can’t decide which is my favorite symptom: The never-ending urge to pee, or the sensation of boiling water as my infected pee exits my body…. Damn, it’s so hard to choose!

The truth is, they fucking suck. Seriously suck. So when I got one, I naturally called my doctor to inquire about HIM prescribing me an antibiotic so I can focus my energy on what’s really important: the twelve baskets of unfolded laundry mad-dogging me from all corners of my bedroom. I wish I was exaggerating…. but I’ve had many a girlfriend come over, so they’ve seen my struggle…. and the struggle is REAL, y’all! The. Struggle. Is. Real.!!!!

Anyway, I called my doctor to ask about HIM prescribing me some medication, and what followed was one of the strangest, weirdest, awe-inspiring, yet oddly hilarious exchanges I’ve had, ever.

For the purposes of this post, and out of respect for my doctor (whom I actually adore), I am going to use fictional names….

 

Operator: Hi, thank you for calling Dr. Johnson’s office, how may I help you?

Me: Hi, yes. For the past couple of days, it has been extremely painful to urinate, so I was wondering if Dr. Johnson could call in the same antibiotic I used for my last infection.

Operator: Okay, and where are you experiencing this pain?

Me: Where? Ummmmm… my vagina?

Operator: (mumbles as she takes down notes… “Patient complaining of pain in her vagina”) Then says, Have you checked to see if there are any foreign objects that might be causing this discomfort?

Me: Foreign objects? Ummmm, what do you mean… like, is there a vacuum cleaner stuck in there? Or a fork? (I then laughed, as I was obviously being sarcastic….. but apparently I was the only one who picked up on that….)

Operator: A vacuum cleaner? I’m confused. Are you saying you hurt your vagina with a vacuum cleaner & a fork?

Me: No! I was being sarcastic…. I’m just confused as to what, exactly, could be foreign in my vagina…. (I immediately had flashbacks to Alien)

Operator: Oh you’d be surprised. <– THAT certainly peaked my interest, but I wasn’t going to touch that with a 10-ft pole.

Me: The inside of my vagina does not hurt… it’s my urinary tract. It hurts when I pee, so I need some medicine to make it better.

Operator: Are you sure the pain is coming from your vagina?

Me: (long silence…. followed by…) Ummmm, yes, I’m pretty sure it’s coming from my vagina.

Operator: You’re pretty sure?

Me: I’m fucking positive! It’s MY vagina!!!!!!!!!

Operator: Okay, ma’am, there’s no need to raise your voice or use profanities.

Me: Oh, I’m not raising my voice. There must be an echo. You’re in the bathroom with me while I painfully pee through my EAR and check my VAGINA for my Dirt Devil. It’s been missing for a week.

Operator: Well, in either case, we can’t call in any medication until you come in and leave a sample.

Me: A sample from my ear?

Operator: Is that where you’re experiencing the pain?

(At this point, I’m trying everything in my power NOT to ask this lady if she’s sober)

Me: Okay, let’s start over: I have extreme discomfort in my urinary tract when I pee. Since that also appears to be where my vagina resides, I put 2 and 2 together, and came to the conclusion that the pain is indeed coming from my vaginal region.

Operator: Okay, please come in today and leave a sample so we can test it and call in a prescription for you.

(NOW since she’s decided to put me thru hell, I decided to return the favor)

Me: Leave a sample of what? What all do you need? Hair? Saliva? My ear?

Operator: No – we don’t need any of that, unless you’re experiencing discomfort there, too.

(I REALLY wanted to respond with, “Great, then I will come leave a sample of my brain, since this conversation has caused plenty of discomfort in THAT region.”)

Me: No, I was kidding… I’ll be right in.

 

Who the hell second-guesses someone who complains of pain in their vagina? Or any body part for that matter? I’ll tell you what matters…. I’m in pain, SO FIX ME, motherfucker!

 

Me Toe Horny

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Hey guys. I’m excited to share with you my very first podcast. I will be reading this post, so you can just listen or read…. or both! I created a separate post with just the link to the podcast, so please, please, please…. any and all positive and/or negative feedback is welcome.

I hope you can stand the sound of my voice. 

 


 

 

Ya’ know… several years ago, I made a video recording of my husband promising me that every single Sunday, until the day one of us dies, he will give me a solid foot-rub. And I mean a nice, firm foot rub. Not some half-assed shit you get at the nail salon, where they wear latex gloves and lather your leg with lotion, just so they can repeatedly “scratch” the same spot with their “crit-o-gel”.***

Not only has he not kept his word, but I seem to remind him so often that I want my feet rubbed that one time when my dad happened to be visiting, he subtly suggested that I might have somewhat of a foot fetish. Obviously I was taken aback by this, and when he saw the look of confusion on my face, it was over. I knew in that moment that I would never live that down. One year my dad even sent me a coffee table book filled entirely with pages and pages of different feet, as a joke, just in case his inkling was correct. Allow me to state, emphatically, that Dad… your inkling is wrong.

I do not have a foot fetish; I just really love getting a foot rub. If I could get them daily, I would, but then again, who the hell wouldn’t?! Foot rubs are amazing – especially if I’ve gone out and suffered in 4-inch heels all night. But it did get me thinking… what exactly is a “foot fetish”? Is it just being obsessed with feet? I’ve heard stories and I’m pretty sure I saw a special about it years ago on Real Sex on HBO (man, I miss that show), but I’d never done any research….and now I have. And now I must write. Before I do that, however, I’d like to say something to everyone reading this. When I write my posts and I talk shit about subsets of people, just know that while it might be my opinion, in no way do I ever think that such things make one person better than another. Please keep that in mind. Especially now, because I am about to talk some serious shit.

According to Wikipedia, the following are four characteristics of foot fetishism that have really got me thinking about what else is out there, in terms of fetishes…. Oh yes, my friends, you’re picking up exactly what I’m putting down…. But I will tackle those one at a time. My psyche can’t handle the information overload.

 

1) Shape & Size of the Foot and Toes

Oh, I’m sorry. Is my big toe not long enough for ya’? FIRST of all, what the fuck? Second of all, huh? Thirdly…… ummmmmm….errrrrrr……what? You mean to tell me that out there in the vast world we call home, there are men and women who will literally bust a nut merely from the sight of a long third toe, or a stubby pinky toe? Or a bent middle toe? Hahaha I just don’t get it. To me, feet are fucking ugly. My own feet are ugly. Everyone’s feet are ugly!!!! Why, oh why, does this turn you on? Do short toes somehow resemble a clit? If it’s long, does it look like a schlong? What does it all mean?! High arches? <– I don’t even know what to do with that one… Ballet, anyone? And the foot, itself. Is bigger really better? Is it the size that counts? Are you trying to fit the entire thing in your mouth? What is going on?!

“Baby, there are so many things I love about you, but you know what I love most?”

“My smile? My eyes? The way I make you laugh?”

“Nah, bae…. it’s your big toe. Damn, girl….(grunts), just thinking about that giant digit gets me goin’.”

 

2) Jewelry

Toe rings and ankle bracelets. Mmmmmmm. I tried wearing a toe ring once, but it was really fucking annoying. I cannot, for the life of me, fathom how seeing a stubby or normal toe with a ring on it could cause sexual arousal. What exactly are you seeing that I’m not? Educate me, people!!! For the love of God, what?!?!?!! If you guys get married, will you buy her/him an engagement toe ring? If so, make sure to get pavé diamonds, so it hurts less when he/she walks.

 

3) State of Dress

Okay. Let me just put it out there, front and center, that unless I have a special event I have to attend, or I am going out for some good old-fashioned debauchery, I live 99.7% of my life in flip-flops…. as do most inhabitants of Coastal Southern California. Having said that, California, Arizona and Hawaii must be motherfuckin’ meccas for those with foot fetishes. After this post, I’m going to be looking around at school drop-off to see if anyones’ eyes linger a leeeeeetle too long at someone’s feet, or if I see someone looking at someone’s flip-flop and popping wood. Either way, I’ll probably chuckle… loudly. In fact, if you see me at school, and I’m walking alone, laughing for no apparent reason, chances are I found someone with a foot fetish. And if that person is YOU, and you try to explain away your lingering stare as some sort of random daydreaming, I’ll call your bluff and shove my foot right in your face just to see your reaction. With my luck, you’ll be appalled, and I will immediately have an awkward encounter with a soon-to-be former friend.

High heels I kiiiiiiiiiind of get, but only if you’re seeing the whole leg in the heel. Women look hot in heels, plain and simple. But if you’re getting turned on by just the shoe, itself, I’d head to Payless. Their aisles are almost always empty, and they sell plenty of heels. You’re welcome. But what about those dudes (and I’m sure women, too) who like to drink out of a worn high heel? What the fuck is that about? “Hi. Um, yes, bartender, I’d like to order some Tito’s with Club Soda and a pinch of Athlete’s Foot, please.”

 

4) Sensory Interaction, Including, But Not Limited To

  • Smelling the foot
  • Licking the foot
  • Kissing the foot
  • Tickling the foot
  • Biting the foot
  • Etc.    <– Etcetera? What the fuck does that mean? What the hell ELSE can one do with a foot?!!? Wait…. oh my God.. no joke, I legit just realized what “etcetera” they were referring to as I wrote this. This is real life, people, and Shit. Just. Got. REAL.

Smelling the Foot

I remember being at summer camp and after a long day of hiking, my friends and I would gross each other out by throwing our dirty socks at each other and when someone was sleeping on their bunk, we’d put our smelly feet in their face to wake them up. It was hilarious. It was fun. And I was TWELVE.

Can someone puh-leez explain to me what the appeal of smelling someone’s foot is? Feet are gross!! All of your body weight is put on those fuckers, and they get sweaty and stinky and callous….ee, and (shiver) BLECH!. And let’s say you have just stepped out of the shower or nail salon, and your feet are pretty in pink, still, what’s the appeal? It’s not like they spray your feet with perfume. Your feet don’t have eyes. They can’t wink at you, subtly, and twirl their hair. What is it?!?!?! Is it like wine-tasting? Do you swirl the foot around by your nostrils and try to determine the person’s activities from that day?

“Oooooh, baby. Give me that foot. (swirls it around) What is that I smell? (gasp!) Did you go to the grocery store? I smell plastic bags and matzoh. Wait… wait….there’s more! Darling, did you stop by Teresa’s place? I smell Teresa. Oh, and you got the mail. Thanks, honey.”

Licking & Kissing the Foot

I can’t. I just can’t. I’ll straight ralph if I type any more.

Tickling the Foot

“Oh, my pretty little pet. I love you. So I stroke it, I pet it and I massage it. Heehee, and I love it. I love my little naughty pet – you’re naughty!” – Tommy Boy

That is what enters my mind. Every time. End of story.

Biting

Yea, I don’t have much to say about that. You’re obviously hungry. I’m more concerned for your partner at this point.

 

Bottom Line? I don’t get it, at all, whatsoever. I DO get the appeal from massaging someone’s foot, but only if it’s YOUR FUCKING FOOT! There is no logical reason, in my opinion, why rubbing someone else’s foot would turn one on. Maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I’m boring. Maybe I’m wrong, and have been seriously missing out. Who knows.

Anyway, stay tuned… there are A LOT of fetishes out there, and it is my DUTY to share it with all of you. Allow me to end this with a question. What about the old lady who LIVED in a shoe…….? Ponder that!

 

*** If you don’t get the high-larious reference to “crit-o-gel”, here ya’ go.

http://youtu.be/SsWrY77o77o 

Solifoto is NO JOKE. ❤️

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Not too shabby for an almost 36 year-old, but what’s really important about this photo, other than the fact that I can’t believe I actually pulled it off, is that men and women need to understand that we are ALL onions. We all have special attributes, both physical, and mental which make each of us unique and special. One doesn’t need to be “only smart”, “only pretty”, “only funny”, “only anything”.

YOU are the one who defines who you are, and from that, it is your duty to allow others to discover what lies beneath the layers. #weareallonions

And anyone in the SoCal area who wants to look and feel like a zillion dollars needs to call Laura Bravo-Mertz (760) 720-9796 @ Solifoto Boudior, STAT.

Don’t Dare to Wear….

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Happy Saturday! I have the house to myself and our dogs, at least for an hour, so I’m taking this opportunity to reflect on something that completely outraged me…. and it comes courtesy of the cast of the Project Runway All-Stars Reunion Show. Yes, I love that show. I watch every season and I’m in awe of their talent…. BUT, there is something one of them said which I must take to task. When asked by the host, Alyssa Milano, what trend they would like to see go away, one of the cast members immediately yelled, “Leggings as Pants.” This was followed by a collective “Yes” from most of the fellow cast members, and to that I say, “oh hell naw.”

I LOVE LEGGINGS. I LOVE LEGGINGS. I LOVE LEGGINGS.

Was I clear enough? I hope so! First, I’d like to state, emphatically, that leggings as pants are completely different from “yoga wear”. Ok – now that that’s out of the way….

I love leggings. Wanna know why? Well I’ll tell you why. Simply put, leggings are fucking awesome. Here are a few reasons why:

1) Leggings are the perfect pant when you’re bloated. Throw a tunic over them and boom, no one knows you’re bloated.

2) There are an infinite number of designs, so one can literally introduce themselves without saying a word. How? Here’s how. For example, I happen to own a pair of black spandex leggings with the bones of my lower body as the design. It essentially looks like the bottom half of my body is stuck inside an x-ray machine. So let’s say I rock those out at a bar one night. Wanna know what those leggings and the fact that I’m wearing them in public says about me? It says, “That chick is weird. She is crazy. She does not give a fuck! She’s bold. She’s confident. Did I mention she’s fuckin’ crazy?” And guess what? All the above are true!

Likewise, if I walk in wearing a pair of leggings with the outline of Manhattan skyscrapers down the side-seams, that tells you again that I’m quirky, unafraid to take certain fashion risks, and perhaps even come from NYC. It’s an ice-breaker. You’ll approach me at the bar and say, “Are you from NYC?” And I’ll say, “No.” But still… it’s a conversation starter, n’est-ce pas?

Now, if my leggings are covered in candy canes, cupcakes, and daffodils, I’m probably a serious user of molly.

If they’re coated in roses or flowers? Depends…. as in, she’s probably wearing them. Anyway, you catch my drift….

3) They are the perfect Twerk-wear. I love getting down and dirty at da club, y’all, and it’s all possible, thanks to that pair of leggings I’m rocking. I can deep-squat the night away, and smirk as all the money-hungry tigers spend the night see-sawing between pulling down their hems and making the rounds, hoping to find her Prince Charging… oops, I meant Charming. Wait, no I didn’t – I did mean Charging… as in “charging the shit outta his credit card!” Ya herrrrd?

4) They’re flattering as hell. I get the most compliments on my ass when I’m in leggings. Especially when I’m rocking ones made with a thicker fabric, because they fit like a pair of spandex, so you look 30% smaller. My inner thighs are best friends. At least, I assume they are since they’re so fucking inseparable (ugh), but in leggings, they get a much-needed break. Pair them with heels and shazam! You look like a vixen. Win, muthafuckin’ win.

 

Okay… I’m done talking about leggings….which I love and have no intention of not loving….ever, so now let’s get to what this post is really about, which is what trends should go away….forever. Pay attention, Project Runway All-Stars cast…

P.S. Congrats, Dmitri!!!! #loveyourdesigns

 

1) Sneaker Booties

What………..the fuck….. was so bad in our society, that platform tennis shoes with built-in cleats and slits became an attractive piece of footwear?

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Are you fucking kidding me????? I’m seeing shit like this everywhere, and now I’m convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the end of the world is near. Just fucking decide! Do you want to wear heels, or do you want to wear sneakers? You can’t have it both ways, people. Where do you need to run and be tall? A strip club? Is this Jack and the Bean Stalk? Are you going to a gym with giants? I don’t get it. And I WON’T be getting them, unless it’s meant as a gag gift, as in, I’ll be gagging as I hand them over.”

These are the ugliest things I have ever seen. When you look online, they always have a tall, 90lb chick rocking these with a crop top and a flowy skirt. The shoes literally look like they are eating her legs. But I’ve also seen them on heavyset folk…. they can’t actually see their feet, so they get a pass. I just tell myself someone else dressed them.

Please don’t buy these… and those of you who are my HOMIÉS, please don’t buy these for me…..EVER.

 

2) Forehead Headbands

You know who looks great in forehead headbands? Anyone….under the age of 20.

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Everyone else needs to just slow down and think about what they’re doing. I’m dead serious. And I know I have friends who rock these, and I don’t say anything out loud, but in my head, I’ll admit that I am in fact thinking the following:

“Doesn’t that annoy your forehead? Did you forget your DOB? What statement are you trying to make with that foreband? Doesn’t that annoy your forehead?”

Hey, maybe you just really like them and don’t care that you look silly. I completely and totally respect that. Hold on… give me a sec… I’m trying to keep a straight face while typing.

Unless you’re at a theme party or a bohemian wedding, or on the set of Forrest Gump or Hair, push that shit up on TOP of your head. You look like you’re trying to keep something from escaping your face and it freaks me out. What are you trying to keep restrained? What’s back there? I’m scared. Daddy!!!!!

 

3) Maxi-Miniskirt

Talk about an oxymoron!!!!! I hate this look so much, I really don’t even know how to put it into words. I should just let the photo speak for itself.

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That is fucking hideous. I dare you to argue with me. Where are you headed? A conservative brothel? Are you schizophrenic? Are your personalities fighting with each other? Make up your mind!!!!! Whaaaaaaaa. 😦

 

4) Jeans With Giant Holes Next To Your Vagina

And No doubt, your dumb ass paid $200 for these….

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What exactly am I looking at? Were you attacked at the zoo? is this part of some hazing ritual? Why?!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Not only do you look ridiculous… but you also look cold. I want to wrap my sweatshirt around you and hold you tight. But then again, if you’re wearing these, you’re obviously not adverse to air-born STDs, so maybe I don’t want to come near you, after all. Please buy normal jeans…. I don’t care if they’re covered in slits and have holes in the knees, but the photos I posted above take this shit to an entirely new level, and it’s sad. You look homeless. You look slutty. And did I mention cold?

 

5) Cut-out Swimsuits

Are you trying to have the worst tan lines imaginable? Not only that, but you can’t even consider a cut-out swimsuit unless you’re in insane shape. Swimsuits are unforgiving, and so am I!

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What the hell is going on here? Could you not afford an entire bathing suit? Is the rest on layaway? Listen, looking at the pictures, I can see the appeal, but pay attention. What do all these girls have in common? Insane bodies. I am not a politically correct human being. I do not believe that I should have to watch what I say or censor myself for fear of offending people. Life is wayyyy too short for that. And I am perfectly entitled to my opinion, as is everyone else. Having said that, I, Kate Robinson, am not a firm believer that everyone should be able to wear whatever they want. You know that saying, “If you don’t like how I look, then look away?” Well how about, “If you dress like an idiot, don’t be surprised when I give you dirty looks and exploit your poor taste for my own people-watching amusement.”? That seems like a fair trade.

You do you, and I’ll do me, cuz I’m my own person, and I am free.

These bathing suits are so unforgiving that I don’t understand the appeal in the first place. If I had a body like that, I’d try one on and take a selfie so I could admire myself later, but I wouldn’t actually buy it. If you have the body, and don’t plan on being naked around people for at least a week, then rock the shit out of these suits. They look great in photos….annnnndddddddd that’s about all they’re good for. But I’m telling you…..you look like a human stencil. If that’s your goal, congratulations. You have succeeded. I’m sure your Geometry professor would be proud.

 

5) High Water Pants/Jeans

I. Am. Not. Blind. I can tell the difference between a cigarette pant, a crop, hipster style, and straight high waters. No excuses. No excuses, people!!!! Especially when you make them high waters on purpose.

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Isn’t your penis in pain? Isn’t it?! I’m a genuinely concerned citizen. What makes you think these are cool? You look like a man-child. And a dweeb. (sigh) Seriously, how does your penis feel? Is it squinting? I know if I was a penis, and I was jabbed up inside, chafing against denim or corduroy, I’d be one unhappy dick. Poor penis. I’m squinting just thinking about it.

 

Okay…. I have a zillion more, but this goddamned headache won’t go away. I’ll write more later….. maybe. Can’t make any promises, other than if I see you on the street or at the beach wearing any of the above, I will shove my card into your hand and insist that you read this post.

Bisous!