WHAT IT'S LIKE TO DATE ME

It will be 7am and I will tap you on the shoulder in my bra and underwear with a headband on and crazy wild hair sticking out saying,

K: Um...there is a roach. In the bathroom.

And then you will say,

E: Oh really? Ok.

And then you will roll over to go back to bed. And then I will politely wait a moment or two and then I will tap you on the shoulder again and say,

K: Actually, um...can you kill it? Because it's GIGANTIC and it's in the shower. It has long hairy horrible legs. I'm late for work.

And then I will wait outside the door because I can't even watch. And then even though I hear the entire hitting and smashing and flushing process when you come out and say it's 'safe to go in' now I will say,

K: Are you sure? Are you sure it's dead?
and really mean it.

GHOST OF KDUNK PAST

Tonight I enjoyed a lovely dinner catching up with my two girl cousins that I haven’t seen in a while. We had fun laughing and going down memory lane. Inevitably the conversation turned to what it always does - how I am the oldest cousin and how I tortured them as kids:

M: Remember when K put piles of salt at the bottom of my OJ when I went to the bathroom and tricked me into having a ‘OJ drinking contest’ to see who could finish their drink the quickest?

K: Who? Me?

S: Or the time K said Oscar the Grouch lived in the garden hose and that I should look inside and then she blasted the water on.

K: I did this? Oh wait…I did.

M: Or what about when we were in the minivan stuck in bumper to bumper traffic and K gave me a super hot fireball and I was crying and dying for water and Mom was freaking out.

KL It wasn’t that hot…

S: Or the time she told M to take an ice cube right out of the freezer and put it on her tongue because it tasted 'really, really good' and we had to stick M’s tongue under hot water to remove it?

K: Ohh…that’s bad.

What a terror! Despite having done the pranks I still felt bad. More importantly - where were my parents during all this? Playing in a drum circle? Making God’s eyes? Running in a field of daisies?

All I know is that the stories died down, we paid our check and left the restaurant. As M turned around to wave goodbye I was tempted to motion that she had toilet paper sticking out the back of her skirt but hey…I didn’t.

WHOOPI-what AH YA doin'

If you were looking for the where abouts of Whoopi Goldberg on Saturday night I know where she was. She was making me a Stoli Cranberry in Massachusetts at a local bar called Captain Carlo’s Seafood.

I know when many of you read this you will think I am completely insane and full of crap. The rest of you that don’t think that will think I’m racist or nuts because it was just someone that ‘looked’ like Whoopi. It wasn’t. It was friggin’ Whoopi Goldberg wearing a peach striped shirt and jeans and her hair back and those signature annoying sunglasses and there was a Prince cover band and let me tell you it was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

I am from New York. I see celebrities all of the time. This should not be a big deal to me. But somehow thanks to the combo of being in this funky local bar with real Massachusetts locals and some frat boys and Whoopi-blew my mind.

When my friends were driving me there I was making fun of THEM saying THEY were full of shit until I saw her with my very own eyes. Was she doing research for an upcoming role? Does she summer here? What was the DEAL??? Luckily, I had a fantastic resource. My friend’s father is the mayor of the town. Apparently Whoopi called a meeting with the mayor telling him to have the local press back off and leave her alone. She’s friends with the owner and she herself is part-owner of the bar.

The night I saw Whoopi, a local, rough around the edges woman with a ‘Tina’ tattoo sensed my surprise (jaw drop–eyes wide) and nudged me in the ribs as I waited for my drink,

T: (thick Boston accent) Wic-kid re-ta-did, huh?
K: Uh…yes! Very weird!
T: She’s not nice ee-tha. I was in hee once. I said somethin’ about her bah being too crowded and how the wait for a drink was ha-rrible. She grabbed my shirt and said, ‘Don’t talk shit about this bah!’
K: Really?!
T: Yeah. And I said, ‘Go back te Ha-lee-wood Squares!'

NOT JUST DONUTS

So tonight I had a belated Father's Day dinner with my dad. He is a funny and adorable man. (Hi Dad!) I write Hi Dad because there is a possibility he will read this since he was 'given permission'. Here is the blow by blow of tonight's conversation in so many words:

D: So...I am allowed to read your...blog?
K: Yes Dad.
D: But I thought it was private.
K: No Dad.
D: I think your mother reads it.
K: Yes Dad. (Hi Mom!)
D: Oh ok.
K: But you have a lot of reading to do. To catch up. I've been blogging since November 2001.
D: Since November? Wow.
K: No Dad. Since November 2001. So you have a lot of reading to do.
D: Well...I look forward to reading Not Just Donuts!
K: Um...well great. Maybe when you're done reading that you can read my blog...MORE THAN DONUTS.
D: Oh! Ha. Whoops.

Whoever she is-Not Just Donuts-I'm sure she is far more interesting. But I'm sorta glad we cleared that up before he read all about some random person's life thinking it was me.

On a side note I have had a BUSY WEEK. I am TIRED. Tomorrow I board a 4 hr bus to visit my best friend with twins that are 7 months old. MY FRIEND HAD A BABY. TWO OF THEM. Oh my lord. My life seems so surreal sometimes. Perhaps not as surreal as E's who writes a very surreal email from his hotel in Las Vegas where he is visiting with his dad.

"I lost a button on my sport coat when it got caught on one of the metal boxes on the strip which give away the newspapers with hookers' telephone numbers. No i was not picking one up. I was just walking around slow fat assed midwesterners gawking at the stupid pirate show ("arr, matey!") they have with fireworks in front one of the other
hotels."

Stay tuned for more. I miss you. Hopefully as much as you miss me.

FATHER'S DAY

It’s almost Father’s Day-the day you give thanks to that amazing man in your life whom your mother forced to say, “Congratulations” when you first got your period after he came to get you from the school nurse where you had a sweatshirt tied around your waist and you just wanted to die-truly die.

For the man that likes to tell the story how he used to have a really bad temper long ago. Like the time he lost a racket ball game and threw the racket over the court wall and then drove over it in the car. Or even the time when you were little and had a scooter shaped like an ice cream truck with plastic fake ice creams and you kept saying DAD DAD WANT SOME ICE CREAM DAD DAD WANT SOME HUH HUH DAD WANT SOME DAD DAD HUH HUH DAD until he finally snapped and picked up the ice cream truck and hurled it into the bushes in the back yard.

To the man who gets a hearty laugh each year when he pulls out his favorite Christmas ornament you made him at a young age-a little red construction paper cut out with a ship drawn on it and the message, “FOF U DAD” because you crossed the R making it look like an F instead.

To the man who's fate was to have two daughters and no sons. Two daughters that he attempted to teach sports to like football by setting up folding chairs in the living room and explaining how one player runs from this chair to that chair and it’s called a touchdown and when he asked if you had any questions you said, “Yeah… um… do they use real chairs?”

To the main who surprisingly didn’t suffer from a heart attack both times when you A.) Threw your life sized child doll from the attic window as he was mowing the lawn because you thought it would be ‘funny’ if he thought it was your little sister falling from the roof or B.) The time you buried this very same doll in a pile of leaves with only a leg, arm and tuft of hair sticking out right where he parks his car so that when he pulled the car into the space you ran out of the house screaming and fake crying and pointing until he thought he'd run over something unknowingly-like-your little sister. Ha. Funny.

To the man who invented pranks. Who put a ‘can of nuts’ with a snake that pops out in your mother’s stocking. Who gave your sister a hand buzzer and a whoopie cushion for her birthday. To the man who gave you some quote, ‘quality stink bombs’ once that looked like a little glass crack vile of urine and told you the best way to use them was to smash them over the school radiator in the back of the classroom and wait for the heat to turn on. To the same man who hours later had to admit to your principal who kept you in detention that he um…actually gave you the idea.

To the only father on earth who is so cool his teenager daughter wanted to steal clothes from him-the vintage pink bowling shirt with bonsai trees embroidered on it and the black low top Chuck Taylors that you would stuff tissue paper in the front of so they could fit.

To the man that loves music and taught you to love music. To the man who has been known to trap you in his car parked outside the house with the doors locked, the volume close to ten, having you listen to a long-winded solo by some obscure blues artist while your mother peered through the curtains wondering what on earth you both were doing out there.

To the man that appears more nervous about your upcoming wedding (in a good way) than you do. To the man that writes the following email,

“I’m thinking I’ll give a PowerPoint presentation for my wedding speech if that’s ok with you” (ha ha) followed by “Unless you have other plans, I would like very much to come and get you on your wedding day and bring you to the ceremony. Love, Dad”

No Dad I have not made 'other plans'.
I love you.

Happy Father’s Day!

THAT TIME AGAIN

Give me something to write about.

TWO DOLLARS

Today I woke up at 8am and decided to have a yard sale. This is what happens when you turn 30. It really doesn't get much more exciting than this.

In contrast, E is off in Canada photographing Tom Green. Tom Green is promoting his new ‘hip-hop’ album. Despite being nervous about the success of my yard sale, I am suddenly reassured by the fact that if Tom Green can produce a hip-hop album than I can have a successful yard sale.

It's not really a yard sale per se. After all I live in Brooklyn. Nor is it a stoop sale. I don't have a yard-nor a stoop. I should have wrote 'Sidewalk Sale' on the one sign I hung about five feet from the house 10 minutes before I started but I digress.

No sooner was I out front setting up my bags of crap when a friendly competetor decided to get in on the action. The upstairs neighbor's kid-Em. He is very cute in a ‘I want my two dollars’ kind of way. He pulled out all the yard sale marketing stops by coming down in a pirate’s hat carrying an armload of toys. He was also wearing an hand made, anti-smoking T-shirt. Not only was he trying to make a buck but he was saving lives. What can I say. The kid is a genius.

My first customer was an older, friendly man with a thick South Carolina accent. He looked at the many books on the table and said,

M: Are you a book reviewer?
K: No sir. Just an avid reader
M: I see. I love books myself. I grew up in a very poor family in the South. Reading was such an escape for me.

The man bought my old Gwen Stefani CD (no books) and left.

After my sale Em looked a little peeved.

Em: How much you make?
K: Fifty cents.
Em: Humph. Well...I plan to be out here all day.

With that he asked me to watch his stuff and said he'd be right back. Returning shortly he came back with a giant jug of fresh lemonade and some paper cups in his hands.

K: Wow. Lemonade. How much you sellin' it for?
Em: Two dollars.

The sun blasted. Birds chirped. Not a single human being in sight. My hair soaked up the humidity making me resemble Carrot Top the comedian.

Helen-my senior citizen born and raised in Brooklyn neighbor stopped to say hello.

K: You look nice Helen.
H: I’m goin to church. Havin a junk sale?
K: Yup.
H: I’ve been trying to reach you for three days.
K: Really?
H: Knocking on ya window. I signed for a UPS. A package for your lova boy.
K: Sorry. He probably didn't hear you.
H: I saw him sittin there. On the computa. Airconditioning was on. All day. Must be expensive.
K: I'm sure that's why he didn't hear you.
H: (lowering her voice) I think it's booze.
K: E's package? A bottle of booze? Huh...
H: Good thing I don't drink! Or they'd be no package!
K: Seriously.
H: I’ll come ova after church.

Time passed. A couple of lesbians with small dogs poked through boxes but didn't buy. Sun blasted. Em picked at a scab on his knee. A tumbleweed blew past.

Finally in a bizarre twist of fate a father and son walk over just as I decide to pack things up. Dad picked up the gigantic, heavy, ugly mirror leftover from my first marriage. E and I hate the thing and can't seem to get rid of it.

D: How much?
K: Three bucks.
D: How about one fifty.
K: Um...(image of me lugging the thing back to basement)...SOLD

Em peered over at the transaction.

E: I have some great lemonade over here too!
D: How much?
Em: Two dollars.

FINAL SCORE:

KDUNK $2.00 / EM $2.00

And all before 12 noon.

GAY BOYFRIEND

I wrote and helped produce my very fist promo that played on TV this week. The promo is titled, 'Gay Boyfriend' and is about how chicks sometimes like their gay boyfriends much better than their boring straight guy boyfriends. It then goes off to list a bunch of horrific gay sterotypes about why gay guys make great friends. Welcome to TV.

I wrote the script. I helped pick the images. The music. Helped audition 'gay' voice over talent ("Can you try and sound a little bit more...'gay' on that last line? Thanks.") and helped in the edit room putting it all together. Who knew making a :30 promo would take days and days and days from creation to approval process but it does. My current goal is to write a promo a month to start building a reel. Only 7,000 more to go!

I once had a gay boyfriend. I met him when I was going to college in Virginia. He was the only cool looing dude at the frat party not smashing a beer can against his head (clue #1) or coming up to me saying something smarmy like, "You look like a 'funky' chick. What's your name?"

I met him. We hung out. After the frat party he took me back to his spotless apartment (clue #3) to make me a pot of tea (clue #4). He was an extreme mountain biker and had a great bod (clue #5). Eventually, he wrote very heartfelt letters between the long periods of time we were apart-me in England and him finishing up his degree in Physics in New York at Columbia University.

One weekend I took him out to meet my family and my parents loved him (clue #6). We enjoyed huge meals around the table. He was always the last one to come down having spent a little too much time in the bathroom getting ready (clue #7). The next day he suggested we all go ice skating together (clue #8) and as my family and I all put on our skates he vigorously headed to the middle of the pond turning tricks that could put Brian Boitano (clue #9) to shame.

Communication between us became sparce after that weekend visit. One night while enjoying a meal at Avenue A sushi with some pals I spotted him. He was sharing appetizers (clue #10) as in...putting food into the other guy's mouth and wearing a skin tight Donna Karan (clue #11) T-shirt.

Me: (jabbing my friend in the ribs) Holy crap! That's my ex-boyfriend!"
J: What?!
Me: What is he doing with that guy?!
J: Um...like...practically giving him a bj in the restaurant.
Me: WHAT?! Is he...gay???

THE BABIES ARE COMING

Two of my best friends have kids. One friend twins (boy and girl) and the other a boy. As this was going down-my two best friends getting pregnant...the having kids...it blew my mind. It continues to blow my mind. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you at times I feel selfish. I want my friends back. Like when I call my friend with twins and she has me on speaker phone feeding two babies and meanwhile I want to tell her about my wild night but feel wrong saying the words, 'got trashed' on speaker phone to the sounds of two adorable twins cooing like doves.

Now, I've adjusted better and have to say I am just soooooo EXCITED to meet these little beings. These little pieces, little extensions of these amazing women. At the end of June my friend with twins will be home in Massachusetts with the twins and my other friend will be coming to New York with her baby that very same week. When I think about I get nervous. Excited. I am worried my camera won't be good enough. Or that I'll act like a fool and burst into tears at the very sight of them.

Yesterday E and I sat in Prospect Park hungover and looking at the tens of thousands of couples around us with Maclaren strollers and Baby Bjorn carriers. Sometimes it feels like a baby explosion. Like a massive wave of babies have been let loose out of a gigantic jar and they all ran straight to Brooklyn.

Everyone looked so 'cute' and 'happy' and 'adorable' it was enough to make one scream. I don't know why I had such a bad attitude about it. It's not that we want a baby right now because we don't. As we talked about it, it seemed more related to the fact that life seems to be in fast forward. Our friends-most of them are becoming or are parents. It's wierd and scary but at the same time admirable.

All I know is that E summed up the mood perfectly as we stared at some hipster couple's kid dance like a spaz in the grass,

E: Why are babies such bad dancers?

SCHOOLS OUT FOR SUMMA

I love Helen. She is the older woman living in the next brownstone over from us in Brooklyn. She was born and raised on this block and so were her parents and all her aunts and uncles and cousins, etc. She likes to tell stories how 'back in the day' the shaved ice guy lived in the building she is currently in or how her aunt used to live in my house and how her father once built doors in all the picket fences so the kids could go from yard to yard to yard.

The only times I really see Helen I am on the back porch in my pajamas. She is often on her back porch in her pajamas. She is ususally hanging out the laundry. It's a pajama party. With Helen.

I've liked Helen since the moment I met her. It was day two of living in our new place and I was sweeping the walk. She shuffled up to me and nudged me in the ribs,

H: How much ya pay for that place?
K: Oh..um..well we are actually renting.
H: Ohhhhh...ok. I was won-da-rin. (thick Brooklyn accent)
H: You two married?
K: Nope
H: Catholic?
K: Nope
H: Jewish?
K: Nope
H: Oh. My name is Helen. I've lived on this block my whole life.
K: Oh wow! Nice to meet you!

The funny thing about Helen is that for some reason she got it in her head that I am a public school teacher and E 'works in computers'. Recently on the way to the subway I had a rare Helen sighting in the front yard. I was wearing jeans.

H: You can wear denim to school? As a tee-cha? Must be nice.

It was one of those moments where it would take longer to explain to her that I am in fact not a teacher nor have I ever been. So I just said yes. Yes I can wear denim as a teacher. Sort of like the time E went on a trip to Texas to take some photographs for an upcoming photography show. When he returned Helen asked me,

H: So...did he get the computa jawb in Texas?

After a moments pause, I just said no. No he didn't get the job in Texas.

I don't mind the life Helen has created for the two of us. In fact I find it kind of endearing. This morning I saw Helen on the pack porch.

H: Goodmornin'! So...schools out for summa!
to which I replied. Yes. Yes it is.

BEING SOMETHING

I work in TV. Despite my love/hate relationship with the world of television you know what? I really love it. It gives me tons of excuses to watch really, really, really horrible TV and movies both at work and at home. Plus when E walks in on me watching 'The Real Gilligan's Island' on TBS I can say, "WHAT?! It's for WORK?!!"

Recently it occured to me that I've worked in TV for close to 8 years now. That doesn't tell you much except that well...I'm really old. Back in the day when I was working on Barney Miller (kidding) when I was working at a major kids TV network, I don't think it ever occured to me that working in TV was going to be a long-term career choice for me.

I floundered a bit after college. All I wanted to do was be something...anything! After a few shitty jobs I finally landed an interview through my father's friend a big wig at a major kids TV network. Before the interview I was nervous and worried that because I came in through my dad's friend everyone would hate me or think I was a stuck up bitch. All the people I talked to on the phone seemed young and hip and cool and I didn't want them to hire me because of my connections.

Naturally, I hoped my great outfit would get me the job. I wore a stunning mud colored, linen, potato sack dress (literally a sack) and a nice pair of coal black, square tip, Amish style chunky heels. HoTTT. As if that look wasn't 'proffesional' enough I dragged along a giant black, pleather, puffy handled portfolio the size of a front car windsheild. It held my cover letter and resume which combined came to half a page at most.

Shockingly, I landed the job. Not because of my outfit but because of my connections. The happy ending was I got a makeover, made some friends for life and have continued to work hard to make my family proud.

When my grandmother heard I landed a job in TV, the next week she sent me a package in the mail. It was a pair of nude stockings.

K: Grandmother! Thanks for the package.
G: Sure, honey.
K: Why the nude stockings?
G: Because they make your legs appear tan on TV!

While I couldn't bear to break the news to my grandmother that my recent TV gig didn't mean I'd be 'on camera', I could tell her one thing. I was finally something.

KFUNK

I'm sort of in a wierd funk. A bit of an 'I hate everything about New York' funk. I really don't hate everything. It's just that I get a little 'enough already' about it sometimes. New York is a rough and beautiful city. Half the time I feel high as a kite-successful, powerful, lucky, talented, connected...blah blah blah. Those nights I spend going to art openings, book signings, album release parties, magazine launches, fashion shows, seeing friends, etc. I get my hair cut at a fancy salon. I buy new clothes. I wear uncomfortable shoes because they look good. I bring a change of clothes to work if I go out.

The other half of the time I feel deflated, tired, not creative nor successful etc. On those days I don't shower. I wear jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt. I come to work late. Piles of emails clog up my inbox with invites to various events reminding me of everything I am missing. Time Out NY arrives at my desk listing 76.5 gazillion events happening that I shoulda, coulda, woulda...you get the drift. I struggle for the exact path-literally-to walk down the street so I don't get knocked to the ground by a dog walker or mime or a business man running for the next train at Penn Station or a model/actress on her way to a casting call. On those nights I stay home and watch bad TV in E's gigantic hooded sweatshirt or read one of the three books I am reading at the same time. I think about Maine.

Sometimes...often...the two moods clash and I end up at a magazine launch party wishing I was in E's hooded sweatshirt or praying to god I'll overhear someone at the flashy party REALLY saying what is on their mind, "Psst...I feel like ass today. See this shirt? It hasn't been washed in 2 days. I actually wish I was home in bed instead of talking to you assholes."

A friend-former New Yorker-shared a story recently. She was walking in the park in the suburbs of Minneapolis when she stopped on the sidewalk abruptly after spotting a friend. A guy behind her yelled, "HEY LADY! Why don't you get your head out of your ass and pay attention!" to which she was absolutely stunned. The friend who she bumped into was from New York and so she screamed at the top of her lungs, "FUCK YOU, DICKHEAD!" And my friend screamed out, "YEAH, ASSHOLE!". A little taste of New York in Minneapolis.

As far as if that was a good or bad 'New York' moment I'm not sure.
I guess you could say it depends on the day.

HOME

So I'm back from Guatemala. I guess you can say 'we' are back. As E put it...when I was freaking out as he kindly stuffed my dirty, clay covered flip flops into his suitcase when packing up to leave, "Um...we live together. I'll think I'll be able to return these to you...real soon." I think I was just crabby it was all ending. My mother has a theory that vacation really ends the moment you pack the flips flops in the suitcase. And I think it's really true.

Guatemala is amazing although as usual when I return from a trip I am at a loss for words as to my experience. Today at the office I managed to spit out a few stories full of yucks mixed in with a few gross TMI details to quickly disperse my co-workers from the coffee cluster by my desk and send them back to their cubes with all too descriptive images of me suffering from violent diarrhea while simultaneously puking into a gorgeous Guatemalan mosaic tiled tub.

Getting sick in a foreign place SUCKS. The 'drug store' ie: wooden shack sells spooky, glossy pills that look like bath beads and not the Alleve you know and love. You just feel like total ass and contemplate the fact you may in fact have to go to one of those nearby remote village hospitals that just yesterday you took a photo of while nudging your partner like, 'Can you believe this joint?' By most standards I'm sure those places are fine. But by vivid imagination standards they are not. Dirty sheets. Dirty needles. Foaming at the mouth dogs running through the empty, flickering light halls of some place that smells. Luckily, I didn't have to fulfill that reality nor the fantasy. Despite me moaning and clutching my stomach before the taxi came to pick us up E was right. It was time to go home.

Luckily the plane ride was sooo smooth AND we got bumped to biz class. For the record...I DO NOT FLY WELL ON AIRPLANES. I am not a relaxed passenger. I freak out. I think we are about to die at any second. When asked if we'd like biz class I consider this a trick question. What does this REALLY mean? Do you know something I don't know? Is my weight at the front of the plane crucial for reasons only you know? No matter biz class or regular I consider the fact that I will be the person going down just as someone is stuffing KFC into their face on my left and someone's baby shits their pants on my right and all this happening as episode after episode of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' plays until we are done. Perhaps it's best I shut up.

Regardless I am glad to be home. And now I will stop blogging because I've just gone through half a glass of water while typing this only to just now notice a beetle at the bottom of the glass. Home sweet home.