Monday, May 23, 2005


Originally uploaded by KDUNK.

Do You Think...

...Katie Holmes comes home late from a shoot starving and goes to make cheese and crackers for herself only to find that Tom Cruise ate all the crackers in the house and then she gets pissed...over crackers.

...Tom Cruise gets pissed when Katie Holmes leaves all her Manolo Blahniks strewn about the house and he nearly breaks a leg in the pitch dark after fetching her water because she is too drunk and annoying to get it herself?

...Katie Holmes gets pissed when Tom Cruise takes her dirty clothes out of the washer only to put in his dirty clothes and run the load and then when his load is done puts her dirty load back in but doesn’t start the machine?

...Tom Cruise gets pissed that Katie Holmes blows through toilet paper like it’s water using it to wipe up spills, clean things, blow her nose - pretty much everything except for crucial toilet paper purposes and then never buys more?

Do you think Tom leaves things in the fridge to die and Katie never replaces the trash bag liner in the can - ever?

Maybe. But no. It’s Hollywood people. Where stars are born. Where dreams come true. Where couples are full of happy endings and new beginnings. A place where Tom puts on his stilt shoes and gels up his hair and Katie puts on her dress that looks like a bra and then Tom gives her a star necklace with not one but three stars because frankly…one star is never enough and everything my friends is just so shiny.

So bright.

Monday, May 16, 2005


On what is meant to be a lazy, relaxed Sunday I'll put on the only clean shirt I own which happens to be a shirt that is entirely too small for me and belongs at a Baby Gap sale for preemies and at brunch I will huff and puff and complain after eating one morsel of granola at how fat I am and how I am bursting at the seams - literally a button flying off from one mere breath - when really any normal human being wearing this sized shirt on this body would die instantaneously from constricted breathing and as I reach for a sip of water and feel the shirt dig sharply into my flesh I consider the fact that I may go down in history as the only woman to amputate her own arms by the mere vice grip style shirt I've chosen to wear to brunch on a Sunday and then you sum it up perfectly reminding me exactly why I love you,

"Honey...I love you but that shirt sucks."

Sunday, May 15, 2005


I recently came across some fake postcards I wrote to an old boss while
away on vacation in Spain. He fired me two days before my trip and the
following fake postcards sort of sum up how I was feeling about it all:

Dear Old Boss,

Hola from Spain! Thank you for firing me two days before my vacation and sending me abroad with absoulutely no health insurance. My parents thank you too. I can hardly decide how to spend the half of one week's severence pay that you gave me. I'm torn between buying the taco with or without guacamole. I hope all is going well with you and 'the gang' back at the office who I'm sure are all still pretending to work hard by getting up to go to the bathroom fifty times a day and having their friends ring their phone lines off the hook. I also hope that company marketing kit I poured my blood and guts into writing (2 days before you fired me) to make your little shit company sound fifty times better than it really is is doing wonders for business.


Dear Boss,

Hola from Spain! Still having a great time. I only wish you and your anorexic wife were here so we could talk about such stimulating things as 'skateboarding' and 'spin classes' instead of all this Spanish history stuff. It would be so fun to walk through all the little shops of Spain while you looked for more Playstation games and your wife some more high heels. It's just not the same not having you - a grown man close to forty say, 'this is beat' one million times a day in my ear.

I don't think you'd like the hotel too much. It's actually an old castle converted into a romantic hotel overlooking the mountains of Spain. Yeah, but it doesn't get MTV. Instead we've had to do a lot of reading which I know you hate having said many times as President of the company in our morning staff meetings how you 'hate books' and that the newspaper 'makes your hands dirty'. Speaking of staff meetings, I really wish I was there at one now - presenting the morning agenda full of bullshit bullet points to remind us all on a daily basis exactly how lame your company idea is and just how badly you are failing. Instead my days involve sleeping in until noon, having sex with my boyfriend a few times a day and heading to the beaches of Costa Brava with a cooler full of drinks.

Wish I were there!

Sunday, May 08, 2005


Originally uploaded by KDUNK.

It's Mother's Day-the day you give thanks to that amazing woman in your life that wore all those scary, pre-stylish Liz Lange, 1973 maternity clothes when what she really wanted to wear were hipster denim low rider bell bottoms and cool floral tight fitting tops on dates with your father.

For the woman that experienced complete and utter pain to later be described as "a ring of fire" coming from her privates just to bring you into this world while you father whispered, "just try and relax" which in turn made her scream a line of profanity so horrific it can not even be typed here on the world wide web.

For the woman who hung tough after she asked her daughter how the first day of kindergarten was and her daughter said, "Ok. But I won't be going back thanks." An unfortunate foreshadowing for the years to come.

For the woman who told me not to ride a three-speed bike that was too big for me - not once...but twice which resulted in two trips to the dentist to fix my teeth in the very same day.

For the woman that came to every flute concert, field hockey game, school play, swim meet and dance lesson. For the woman that ran home once arriving at such events to retrieve my flute, my field hockey stick, my play costume, my bathing suit and my ballet shoes which I forget each and every time.

For the woman that bought me a nice sweater for my first date with a guy to the movies and I told her it was LAME and UGLY and instead put on my cream colored XXL Hard Rock Cafe Japan sweatshirt with the cuffs rolled up and a turquoise collar sticking out.

For the woman that remained calm after getting the call that I failed my gym credit freshman year because I 'got my belly button pierced' and refused to get in the pool because it might get infected.

For the woman that put on a fake smile and waved from our front porch as I loaded my sleeping bag into a red VW van full of hippies that I'd just met two weeks before who had plans to drive from Long Island to Jersey City (to pick up a friend) and then to Florida all in the next 36 hours in order to make a Phish concert.

For the woman that allowed me to get married at the age of twenty-three with no questions asked to someone I'd known for just a few months. For the woman that took the collect call four years later when things didn't work out.

For the woman who bought me all new bedding, plates, silverware, etc. when I essentially started my life over. For the woman that took my crying calls after the bookshelves I attempted to assemble on my own came crashing down. For the woman that sent me the book titled, Dare To Repair-A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home along with my very own toolbox.

For the woman that continues to try and understand me and I her. For the woman that despite our ups and downs continues to plow through this mother/daughter thing despite having a daughter that once uttered the words at the age of seven, "You're not my friend you're my mother!?"

Happy Mother's Day Mama.

Thursday, May 05, 2005



And welcome to my wedding blog.

So for ONCE my Long Island accent worked in my favor. In order to get a permit to get married in a Brooklyn park one has to talk to one TOUGH COOKIE at the City Parks office by the name of Leora Manachelli. Leora-Brooklyn born and bred.

Leora was out of her office for two days. When she finally called back I made the mistake of saying, “Were you out on vacation?” to which she barked back in a smoker’s rasp and THICK Brooklyn accent,

“Vacation?! Vacation?! PHFTT! Yeah right! My knees was busted! If you people could just WAIT two seconds for me to call you back it would be NICE!”

The minute Leora used the term ‘you people’ I knew it was time to bring out the big guns. You see—‘you people’ is code for you rich fucking snobby bride bitch yuppie. Yet despite the difference between a real Brooklyn born and bred accent and a Long Island one-there is enough similarity in the two accents that if you bust one out on someone from either parties there is an instant unspoken connection of sorts that can often work in one’s favor. I took a chance. But I was right.

For those of you not familiar with a Long Island accent it is truly a wonder. Not only in it’s ear piercing decibel-cloying, annoying-but it what it really stands for. What it really means. The unspoken understanding from one person to another that says something like,

I’m with you and you’re with me.
We’re not one of them.
We got it. We understand one another (anotha)
Or plain and simply stated…fucking yuppies.

K: (full ammo) “Well SAW-ree! I hope ya feel betta! I’m askin’ ‘cause my motha is drivin’ me nutz! She wants a park (pawk) permit so she we can confirm a date and she can help me buy a weddin’ dress. I’m like MA! Yo MA! Leave me alone! They’ll cawl me when they cawl me! About the pawk permit!”

L: (silence and then a soft chuckle)…”Mothas! I swear!”

K: “Totally! So I says MA! I’ll cawl ONE MORE TIME and that’s it! Enough already! I swea…”

L: (sound of computer keys clicking), “Well…OK. I really shouldn' be pushin' this along without approval but what’s ya case numba?”

K: B-B like…Baw-bra, 74..35

L: (click click click) Well…you know you can’t have chairs!”

K: Yeah.

L: And you know you can’t have confetti or limos on the grass-nothin’!

K: Yeah.

L: Well…ok. I signed it. You should get the permit in the mail by Tuesday.

K: Thank you sooooo much!

L: No problem. Now tell ya motha to leave you alone! Sheesh! If she doesn’t believe you I can fax ha a copy!

K: Leora-You’re the best! And hey! Have a good summa!

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


So remember my previous bitching about how I’d never in a million years blog about my wedding plans? Well yeah. Whatever.

So here is a little piece of Brooklyn real estate info for ya:

If you are looking to get married in DUMBO Brooklyn you have two park options:

The BIG BEAUTIFUL NEWLY RENOVATED Empire Fulton Ferry Park. (state park) Unfortunately, no piece of beautiful Brooklyn property comes without a price:

$1000 for ceremony up to 100 people for 90 minutes
$150 for no more than 15 chairs
$150 amplified sound fee
$25 lawn permit fee
$100 photography fee
$25 photography fee permit
$1450 Total

For a ceremony that is sure to last all of 15 minutes the above fees seem silly.

Option B however is the Brooklyn Bridge Park (city park)...$25 fee.

Sure it has a loud train overhead and a playground in the middle of it shaped like a pirate’s ship but whatever. Instead of I do perhaps E and I can respond with, “Arrr! Matie!!”

My favorite part of this whole process is my most recent conversation with the City Parks woman named Moniqua who despite the bureaucracy of her office has been quite kind and helpful.

K: If we rent the playground…I mean park to get married do we get the whole area?
M: Oh. You have to call the Park Manager about that. She'll give you a diaphragm.
K: Excuse me?
M: A diaphragm. Don't forget to ask her to give you a diaphragm...of the park.
K: Ok. Well great. I'll be sure to ask.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005


Perhaps when applying for a job:

-Don't sound like Dr. Evil in your cover letter:

"I am most interested in securing employment for your quite fascinating sounding department. I find this opportunity with your company most intriguing."

-If the job requires that you are an Illustrator expert perhaps mention Illustrator on your resume

-Maybe don't sound like if we don't hire you that we need to send you a crate of Xanax,

"I don't have many friends nor do I really have social life because of my recent move from Colorado to New York and back to New Hampshire and then back to New York again. Because of my lack of friends, employment nor a domestic partner I have a lot of time to devote to work and projects."

Sunday, May 01, 2005


This weekend my parents came to visit. Despite how old I get, you can still find me running around stuffing crap into closets minutes before they arrive. Perhaps some things never change.

It’s funny though, as I grow older I can’t help but reflect back on the slow progression of my domestic maturity and acknowledge an increased appreciation and sentimentality for their visits.

It started back as a teenager when mom or dad would dare step foot in my own personal hellhole (that they paid for) otherwise known as my high school bedroom. The very same room I once wanted to paint black and spray paint a giant palm tree in but they said no and I got pissed. When they visited my room I would ‘invite’ them in and push aside a mountain of clothes and teen mags and dirty plates to make a small opening for one of them to squish themselves into at the end of my bed.

Then it was off to college where I lived in a beer soaked carpeted dorm (that they paid for) and drove ten hours to for four consecutive years of parents weekends. At the time my roommates and I at least had the decency to clean up for their visits. But inevitably mom or dad made a reach for a plastic beer cup from the cupboard for some water and would knock down an entire mountain of empty Vodka and Bloody Mary Mix bottles that we piled neatly in the recycling bin but didn’t bother to bring out.

Then on to my first apartment (that they half paid the deposit for) out of college where they were forced to walk up seven flights of stairs each carrying a heavy box full of high school love letters and yearbooks from home that I just HAD to have at the time. The apartment looked fairly nice and also had fresh flowers in their honor. I was even able to offer them something to drink other than water and in an actual glass (with a chip).

This last visit I cleaned for hours beforehand. I bought fresh cut flowers for more than one room. I took the recycling out. I found myself at eight in the morning using Windex to clean the smudges on my washer/dryer and even made ice. When they arrived I was able to offer them, beer, wine or seltzer with lime (in matching glasses-no chip). Despite the seltzer being a tad flat and the lime a little past it’s prime, they enjoyed themselves and I enjoyed their visit.

As we walked around my Brooklyn neighborhood (in the rain) Dad in his little yellow raincoat and Mom in her green one with the hood up, it hit me like a ton of emotional bricks. Their continued visits are never about how neat my place is or how many of my glasses match. No matter where I live or no matter what good or bad place I may be in at the time (emotionally or apartment wise), one thing remains consistent. Their unconditional love for me. Their great attempts - no matter how far I move from them - to always come find me.

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