Point fucking blank, I know I’ve been a bad blog friend and a bad blogger, but that is no fucking, mother fucking reason to punish me with a subscription to Martha Stewart Living and BaudV!lle (note the exclamation as a substitute for). Do you HATE ME that much?
Just call me a cuntlogger or a snatchpackage (I know it’s irrelevant, I just love the fucking word) or a bitchlogger. But, this?! This is cruel.
Baudv!lles Magazine cover reads, I kid you not, FROM THE OFFICE OF POSITIVE MOJO, in all caps. Seriously?! Each page is more subversive than the next. One section is dedicated to Build it and they will comeâ€, a series of cards to be dispensed to co-workers, I think? One box reads. Totally Awesome in delightful brown, gold and red font, circa 1980s, filled with oodles of totally awesome cards and buttons. The one that sent me to the porcelain goddess was the, Together We Can, box. In powder fuck me in the ass pastel blue, the box features a picture of two silver hands clenched. Really?! I’m not done. Other gifts include, Great job! You’re definitely on a rollâ€, filled with tootsie rolls. And the, â€œThanks for your Commit-Mintâ€, mint dispenser. Again in pastel, please allow me use this as my menstrual pad, blue, Write On a journal. Where’s the fucking irony? Where? Where? Where?
Fortunately, my sister received Martha Stewart Living before I did. It was sent to her address (we live across the street from each other, same last name). She called me to alert me, knowing I’d have a visceral reaction.
Katie, breathe and sit down. Oy vey. I assumed we were careening towards a deathversation. Metaphorically, we were.
Someone got you a subscription to Martha Stewart Living don’t panic. You don’t have to. It was too late. I interrupted. Who the fuck would have the audacity to send ME, of all people, the pastel loving, recipe stealing, K-Mart product whoring, greedy, snatchstick, ex-conzine? In Kerri, flat sarcasm form, she said, Okay. I see we’re not going to listen to Kerri. Is Katie finished? God, I lovemy sister, she knows me so well.
Hells no, I’m not finished. Egomania aside, her magazine is about exploiting human foibles. Unless those humans live by her rules, buy her products and eat her food. As we all know, it’s not about what’s inside, it’s what’s outside, what people see, that matters most. Now, are you done? She asked. I don’t know.â€ I said.
You’re done. You never have to see it, I’ll burn it.â€ She said. No. Keep it. You love her magazine. And I want you should be happy. Why don’t you just call me a dirty fuck baby, she asked. Berry, you know me better than that. Just because M-Stew is the bane of my existence and I have assigned angry emotions to her, and her magazine doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate how much you enjoy it. True. She agreed.
See, I’m not that much of a cuntarella. I have objectivity. I realize other people love these reads. Sending them to me, though?! Is this your way of chopping me from you blog life? You broke out the crates and have been sitting Shiva for me for how long?!
Now, let’s discuss last night. I went to my ma’s for dinner. She made gluten free, vegan baked ziti that was to die for delicious. We had a great time, lots of laughs, big dishing, it was fabulous. My ma is the fucking best.
She lives up the street from me, about a mile away. It’s important you know this because what happened in that mile was surreal.
I made my way down the hill and was turning left, to drive by Louie’s favorite park. It’s what I do every time I leave my ma’s, my little ritual, if you will. The memories of him running and playing warm my Yiddish heart.
I turn. I pass Louiejew’s park. I smile. I notice a cop hot on my tail. Lights start flashing, big bright fucking lights. OMFG.
Aside: Louie is a family name. My paternal great grandparents were named Katie and Louie. I am, Katie Louie and I have a cousin named, Louie Katie. I named my dog Louie, (he was a person in a dog’s costume, deal). In Jewguage, the first born childÂ is traditionally named after the last person in your family who died. However, in Jewgirl’sworld, a dead relative name I love, trumps that tradition.
I have Graves eye disease (we know this, right?) and bright lights are unbelievably painful and blinding (yeah, I know, I won’t have to deal with this forever. For now, it is what it is). Brightness feels like salt laden daggers bludgeoning my lady balls. And, unfortunately, if the brightness persists, it impairs my vision, which freaks me out. Who wouldn’t be freaked out by it, right? Right.
I pull over immediately. He’s flashing a ginormous white light from his car, as well as the bright red and blue I’m-a-fucking-officer-of-the-law, bitch, lights. He then walks over to me with his manly man bright flashlight. I can’t look at him. I’m already wearing glasses to cut the glare from normal night lights.
Ma’am, he says (I am so not a ma’am). I butt in. Please do not flash that light in my face. Please, I have Graves eye disease. What is that, he asks. Extreme sensitivity to light, I’ll give you my doctor’s number and you can call him right now. He’ll tell you. I’ll take my glasses off and you can see my swollen eyelids (I wanted to scream, I hate my jacked lady balls, and taking them out for show-and-tell, but I will humiliate myself for you). I am begging you to please turn that light off. To which he responds, â€œI have to check your car for weapons.
I’m thinking, you pulled over a fat Jew broad, wearing prescription/glare cutting sunglasses, driving an understated, vintage, registered, insured vehicle and you’re checking it for weapons? Youâ€™ve seen me. What part of my person screams glock, or Wusthof-for-murder, knives? (No disrespect, Joe-Joe-Bean.)
Because I always confess and freak out when I get pulled over, like the fucktard I am, I tell him I am coming back from my mother’s. We had baked Ziti. I have some. You want? You can eat it when you get back to the station. Do I have any forks with me? No forks, sorry. You’ll love it. You want to taste it? You can finger it. (Katie, you did not just ask an officer of the law if he wants to fingerbang your mother’s baked ziti?) Do you want to call her?
He says, You’re a big girl (I’m thinking, you better fucking mean age wise), you’ll be fine.
How do you know I’ll be fine? The other day, a guy in a wheelchair rolled by, yanked my sweatshirt and called me fat. I called him a criptard. Though, he was kind of a hot handi. Maybe it was the glasses, I’m not sure. I lied to my sister yesterday. I’ve been playing phone tag with my father for two-weeks, and I really want to talk to him. I feel like we’re growing apart and it worries me. One of my brother’s is in Korea and we’re not communicating as much as I’d like. He never emails me back. My younger brother has yet to respond to me regarding visiting my dad in August or September. I lied to my dentist and told him that I couldn’t make the appointment because I was stuck in the Valley, when really I just didn’t want to go.
He interrupts; the nerve, ma’am, can I just see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?
But, there’s more, I exclaim.
I’m not a Priest, he says. I’m not a Catholic, I say.
Driver’s license, please?
Fine. I give him my license. Your middle name is Louie? I love that name. Thanks”, I say. I can’t find my registration or my insurance because I’m shaking like a crack addict, and, or a Graves addled, or Parkinson’s patient.
He goes to his car. The lights are blindingly bright. I’m now wearing two pairs of glasses trying to keep from going blindy because I have to fucking drive after our engagement.
10 minutes later he comes back and says, Well, Louie, I have to give you a ticket. Sir, sorry, officer, my first name is Katie. He literally says, I like Louie better, so I’m gonna call you Louie.
My close friends and an ex-boyfriend call me Louie. But, whatever, Louie’s fine. He gives me a ticket for a burned bulb, my front light, whatever the fuck that’s called. I read the ticket, it says, Louie Schwartz. I say, Officer, my first name is Katie and this ticket is made out to Louie Schwartz, won’t that be an issue when I pay it? I don’t know. I don’t care, really, I just like the name, he says. Okay, fine. Great. Thanks. I say. He bids me a safe and fabulous night and finally turns his blaring white light off.
I collect myself for a minute before I drive, to blink-out-the-temporary-blindyness before I drive off.
I go ONE BLOCK, got it, one fucking block. As I’m passing the gas station, a car that just entered, is stuck behind a bus. Instead of waiting, he doesn’t just back into me, he slides the side of his car across my front bumper, which destroys his car. He calls ME a bitch and drives away.
How was your Saturday night?
PS: If you’re not bored stupid yet, my Jewchives are still housed on All The Way From Oy To Vey.