It's a Pillow! It's a Pet! It's So Fucking Hard to Get! ***this post contains many FUCKS and SHITS***

Holy Moses smell the roses! Since the day after Thanksgiving, I have been haunted by the stupidest cash-cow to ever catch the eye of millions of toddlers, tweens and in-betweens. Have you heard of them? PillowPets? It's a pillow AND a pet. I am going to warn you about that link. Make sure all family members under the age of twelve are not within earshot, lest you want to spend the next month listening to the child singing that song, ALL OF THE TIME.

ALL OF THE TIME. It's a pillow! It's a pet! IT'S A PILLOW PET! *stabby stabby*

Anyhoodle, I placed an order for a PillowPet, to be exact, THE PURPLE BUNNY PILLOW PET. Being an expert online shopper, (online shopping, the best invention since the vibrator) I was very careful to make sure the site was legitimate and not Nigerian. I went to my inbox an hour later, and there was no confirmation of my order. I didn't sweat it and instantly forgot about it for a week.

The following week, I was sitting at home when mine ears heard that familiar jingle which made me think "WHERE THE FUCK IS MY FUCKING PILLOW PET, GODDAMMIT!" I logged into my inbox, and there was still no confirmation from the Pillow Pet people, which I found rather odd. I then went to the PillowPets official website where I had placed my order a week before and after a little research, it appeared that my order did not only NOT go through, but that all Pillow Pets were SOLD OUT.

SOLD THE FUCK OUT.

You could get the Pillow Pet Blanket, which was not a Pillow and a Pet, but a blanket made from what looked like highly flammable material affixed to a creepy head. "LOOK INTO MY CREEPY GOOGLE EYES WHILE I WRAP YOU IN MY LAYERS OF BURNING, LITTLE CHILD!"

No thanks.

I was feeling a little defeated, but then I remembered the good folks at places like Ebay and Amazon. A smile crept to my lips as I exclaimed, "OH THE CLEVERNESS OF ME!" typing in the url. My exultation was severely limited when I discovered that, yes, both sites had Pillow Pets for sale............. For $199.99.

*sidebar: If you are an asshole who possesses a crystal ball that can look into the future to determine which piece of crap is going to be the next fortune maker for the following Christmas and then goes and buys every last one to sell for a profit of $150; Hit me up. I want in.*

I could not believe it, as I pounded my desk and grabbed the phone.

" Little Honey?"

" Yes, Kate."

"My Pillow Pet order did not go through."

"Why not?"

"I have no fucking clue, but now I cannot find them anywhere except for Ebay and Amazon and those Cretans are charging TWO HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS for the pieces of shit! $200! CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT?"

"Oh well."

"THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY TO ME?"

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

*click*

Clearly, he was not as emotionally invested in acquiring a Pillow Pet as I was.

I became a woman obsessed. My deadlines were pushed back and I had both assistants on the case.

YOUR MISSION, IF YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT, WHICH YOU HAVE TO SINCE I AM THE BOSS *natch*; IS TO FIND A PILLOW PET FOR UNDER $50.

An hour later, thanks to Wacky Planet, we were able to locate a cow PILLOW PET, not CUSHION CUTIE, or Padding Pup, or Bolster Buddy.... an honest to Betsy PILLOW PET for $36 after shipping! FUCKING A, MAN! VICTORY!

I felt so proud and accomplished.

I was certain that I had won Christmas, as I shouted, "SCREW YOU EBAY", while jumping up and down. Not to be fooled again, I headed directly to my inbox, where, BEHOLD! The confirmation letter was waiting for me as patiently as a pup waits for their master to come home. I read the confirmation and was assured that my recent PILLOW PET purchase would ship within the next three to five business days. Glorious, VICTORIOUS.


Another week of deadlines, duties, and doldrums went by and not a word from my local UPS man or a package from Wacky Planet....... What was the fucking deal? I went to the Wacky Planet website and called customer service, (yes, they make you call) and left a message inquiring about my order, (YES they make you leave a message on an answering machine.... Hey Wacky Planet! 1988 called, they want their customer service back).

A few minutes, I received a message in my inbox entitled "Your order is on backorder".

DAMMIT!

I opened the message to see just how long I was going to have to wait to receive the most coveted piece of crap of the Christmas Season, when I noticed something peculiar. The order had my name, billing and shipping information, but there was something different. It was for a Bunny, not a Cow, from the Pillow Pet People and not Wacky Planet....

What the fuck?

So, apparently my original order did go through and was being processed. Apparently, the latest shipment of Pillow Pets was stuck at customs, but rest assured, would arrive in time for the Holiday season.

Within the three minutes it took me to read that message and figure out just what the hell was going on, I received another email.

From Wacky Planet that was titled; "Your order is on backorder".

What to do, what to do? Do I just buy two and have one to spare that I can hold ransom for millions of dollars on Amazon? Or do I cancel one of the orders, therefore freeing up one coveted Pillow Pet for acquisition for someone as desperate as myself?

I decided to cancel the Cow since I had originally intended on purchasing THE PURPLE BUNNY and it was also $12 cheaper. Now when that familiar, nefarious jingle escaped from the lips of my family members, or from the commercial on television, I felt completely relaxed instead of stressed and weary.

All was right with the world when three days later I received notice that my PILLOW PET was shipping out in the next three to five business days! HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!
It was indeed, a Christmas miracle. As I read the order slip, something caught my eye.

Items Ordered:
QTY PRODUCT ORDERED UNIT PRICE PRICE
1 LADY BUG $19.95 $19.95

WTF??!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?

Somehow, the invoice that stated I ordered the PURPLE BUNNY a week or so beforehand, had now mysteriously morphed into a fucking LADYBUG.

That's not even a mammal for Xenu's sake!

What ever. On Christmas morning I plan to sip my coffee, scowl and sneer, "YOU GET WHAT YOU GET AND YOU DON'T THROW A FIT" when questioned about the fucking LADYBUG.


Have a crappy Christmas everyone!

Sha Na Na Na Nostalgia

All of the "self examining", "facing my own mortality", shenanigans I have been putting myself through lately, have been bringing a lot of memories back to the surface of my brain. As I age, my internal RAM becomes so vast and complex, memories that I haven't thought of since the day they happened can pop up out of nowhere and catch me off guard. One smell, a tiny sound bite, a certain angle of light hitting leaves, can cause a rush of memories to flood back and overwhelm me.

I was driving up Clifton Ave on the way to University of Cincinnati the other day, when I heard three guitar chords (I am no musician, so I have no idea if they were "G" or "E", or what have you), from a Social Distortion song, that propelled me back into the fall of 1987. This, in turn, brought back that awful, awkward feeling I used to have, ALL OF THE TIME. (Who am I kidding? I still wear that awkward feeling today, like a Scarlett Letter.)

My friend John is famous for stating that he is so thankful that Al Gore had not invented the internet yet when he was young, and I cannot agree more. Had I access to a digital camera and the world wide web in the seventh grade, society would have been inundated with images of really bad Siouxsie Sioux eye makeup, egg white hair-dos, and a dosage of bershon so lethal, it could kill small animals.

I won't even let my mind wander to the unbearable embarassment a public record like that would lead to in my adult life.... I know of a few people who possess certain photos of me and I still fantasize about breaking into their homes and destroying any evidence linking me to white powder make-up, Robert Smith hair-don'ts and teenage depression.

Although the cringe factor is pretty incredible when I think of the hijinks my two best friends C and K, and I would get into; I still get this warm feeling (not in my pants) around my cold, cold heart, when I think about those days.... Man, we were tragic melvins, and we had no IDEA. In our minds, we were the coolest. One day, we're at cheer leading practice, talking about Tretorns and Colors by Benneton; the next thing you know, we rented Dogs In Space,we're smoking cigarettes, we hate our parents, and all of our clothes have been ravaged by scissors and markers with "NO FUTURE" scribbled all over them.

Voila! PUNK ROCK!

But then again, isn't that what being a teenager is all about?

You are supposed to be misunderstood, moody, hungry and ugly. You are supposed to know everything despite the fact that your brain is not even fully formed yet. You are supposed to have no fear, strong principles and morals that are in total contrast to what your parents believe..... You are supposed to be forming the foundation for the person you are going to become...

And that is what we were doing.

Though, we were pretty bad sometimes and experimented with a lot of drugs.... We had our fair share of violent interactions with people, and, ashamedly, with our parents... It was not without purpose... We didn't like the people around us who marched to beat of the Suburban values drummer. We felt a strong need to express ourselves through art, music, clothing, and politics. We needed to stand up for what we thought was right.... We needed to stand up for ourselves and our rights to be who we wanted to be without being hassled by people who found that determination to be too scary and uncomfortable. We needed, and would stop at nothing, to become strong adults.

I'm not saying that kids who didn't do what we did are weak, or less or anything to that ilk. I am just recognizing that it was necessary for me and the people I hung out with to take the paths we chose. I think about that 12 year old girl spray painting "ANTI-RACIST ACTION" on the wall behind Krogers, and I just want to hug her.... She was a good kid and I need to remember her and her strength to stand up for what she believed in and the strength she had to stand up to those who tried to put her down........

That girl was pretty awesome.....I miss her.

On Death and Dying (No, Elizabeth Kubler Ross is Not Here)

Recently on a forum I frequent, a young man brought up death and how it scares him. Many posters responded that the older you get, the less afraid you become of the unavoidable, and that it is totally natural to be afraid of something so unknown and permanent when you are young. There was also a consensus that you start to appreciate life more as you age; you value your days more the older you become.

This made me think.................

THEN WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?

I am 32 years old.

Just typing that makes my skin crawl. I hate getting older, HATE IT.

I work for the University, so I am constantly surrounded by young, vibrant, energetic, hopeful, optimistic, 20 YEAR OLD, students. I watch them walk the halls, talking on their cell phones, laughing, smiling, planning........ I watch and my soul fills with envy and vileness... I feel like a Gollum.. Creeping in the dark corners of the college, observing, obsessing, coveting their youth and happiness..... I just want to jump on their childlike backs and suck out all of their joie de vivre, like some Dick Clark-esque, soul vampire.

I'm PATHETIC.

I lay in bed at night, surrounded by quiet and stillness, gazing out of the window, at the moon and stars and their peaceful light............and I fret. I worry about wrinkles, thinning hair, fat asses, DYING........ Where do we go? Will I see my old dog again? If you get to the edge of the Universe, is there a sign? An Over-look? A camp ground or picnic area? Will Jesus really be a black man? Will there be snacks? What is holding the universe up? Was Clouds in My Coffee really about Warren Beatty?

I lay there, quietly in my bed, the soft touch of the down comforter, the comforting snore of my beloved by my side, and I obsess myself to sleep. When I finally succumb to slumber, I am assaulted via REM with dreams of doom and gloom, and life without Botox.

I know I am ridiculous. I am only 32. I am a young woman, still. I have my entire life ahead of me and I am wasting precious moments and time by obsessing over my own mortality.

I do try to stop, I do! I become very mindful of what I am doing and the self talk begins. ("Self Talk" is the term your therapist gives you to make it okay when you talk to yourself. When you are "Self Talking" and people look at you strangely, every therapist in America agrees that it is okay to tell them to go fuck a rusty nozzle.) So, as I self talk, I start to realize that I am spending precious moments of my life, wasting these moments, on lecturing myself to appreciate these moments more. It's my very own never ending cycle of ridiculousness. Try not to be too jealous.

I feel like I am slipping down a shame spiral, that my quest to be more appreciative and present, is really just a guise to trick myself into feeding my OCD. I have not been taking any medications for over a year now, and slowly I see myself slipping into these bad habits. It's hard to explain and hard for many to understand. When I tell the man who loves me that there was a point in my life, when I could not leave the house until I cleaned the entire house, including, but not limited to, behind every large appliance, window sill, woodwork, and bathroom tile crevices, he looks at me like "Hey, if you were still cray cray, our house would be a lot CLEANER."

Though he understands that I walk a thin line of being somewhat normal and becoming a prisoner to my neurosis, I don't think anyone can really understand what I am going through, unless they are as unfortunate as I am to be afflicted with this disease.

I hope one day, I will be able to not fret and obsess over things I can't control without the aid of medication. Until then, the only answer I can come up with about death is this: "I don't have time to fear dying, right now I am too busy fearing living to even care."

What's Driving You Crazy Today, Kate?

What isn't driving me crazy?

I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.

These are driving me crazy.


There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.

Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.

Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.

Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.

And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.

I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.

My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?

Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.