Evil Plans...

So I'm teaching Creative Writing this fall. Although technically only a graduate student, I will have 18 young, malleable minds under my sole tutelage. And herein lies the problem.

Imagine you're trying to defuse a bomb with 18 other people, all working by committee, and (best case scenario) only you and maybe 2 others know what you're doing. You can see that by simply cutting the blue wire the problem will be fixed. But most everyone else is sure they're the ONLY ones who really understand the way the bomb works, and they're all shouting "RED! RED! RED!" The ones who haven't a clue feel like saying something is better than saying nothing, so some of them chant "RED!" and some of them chant "BLUE!" And you're beginning to feel like it'd be better if the bomb just went the fuck off. Worse case scenario: no one knows how to diffuse the bomb.

Have a headache yet? 18 is too many students for a writing workshop.

In the classes I've taught before, biology and philosophy, I could use grades as an intimidation tactic. I'd scare people off by telling them the average really is a C in my class, but Brown, Douch-bag University Numero Uno, has made the class pass/fail (at least they don't call it pass/no-pass like they do at Berkeley!). So I've just lost all my leverage, essentially. Which means it's going to have to come down to pure theatricality.

So I'm coming up with various and sundry ways to scare them off. I think I'll wear some pleather and introduce myself as Mistress Kathryn. A whip would probably be overkill, don't you think?

                                        Rrrrrow.


Then again, the wrong people will probably be the ones who stay.

Any ideas? The more outlandish the better. I'm desperate, people.

                                                                                 Bomb image by C. Julian 'jez' Klewes

100 Things To Do Before I Die.

                       

I love wagons. Station wagons, hay wagons, but most especially bandwagons. And the "100 Things to Do Before I Die" wagon? Possibly my most favorite of all. Here it is, in all its glory, the ultimate list. I have been salivating all over myself in anticipation of this, which has made it a messy three days. 

I'm cheating a little because I've already done a few of the things on the list, but I figure, everyone needs a head start, right?

Give me a hard time in the comments, if you like. Peanut gallery. You know who you are.

100 Things

1. See the Northern Lights
2. Dance at a Honky-Tonk.

3. Have a mushroom species named after me. Preferably not one that grows on poop.

                                    


4. Make street art.
5. Organize an event for a cause I'm passionate about. Like dangling prepositions.
6. Visit India.
7. Live my life according to my role models: Auntie Mame and Mary Poppins

.
8. Get to the top of an indoor climbing wall.
9. Start a perfume blog.
10. Always look for the good, the funny, and the kind.
11. Two words: Simultaneous. Orgasm.
12. Grow our own vegetables.
13. Bake cookies for a neighbor.
14. Buy a home.
15. Visit the Galapagos Islands.

16. Swim with some dolphins. (Isn't this a requirement of ALL life lists?)
17. Make a souffle.
18. Complete my midwife training.
19. Train trip across America.
20. Have a million dollars in the bank.
21. Go see Willie Nelson live in concert. (Note: I would totally hit that. In a second.)

22. Visit Madagascar.
23. Inspire a painting.
24. Get a Ph.D.
25. Learn how to prune.
26. See Bonnie Raitt live in concert.
27. Bike or hike around the perimeter of Ireland.

28. Have a year-long spending hiatus.
29. Pose for an arty nude photograph by a professional photographer.
30. Try stand-up comedy.
31. Get published in 100 magazines.
32. Record my grandparents talking about their families, historical events, etc.
33. Was the age Christ died. I'd like to live past 33.
34. Give someone away in a wedding ceremony.
35. Be able to do 5 real push-ups.
36. Crochet an afghan.
37. Inspire a poem.
38. Finish my silk quilt.
39. Read all the books I already own.
40. Write 1000 fragrance reviews.
41. Learn to ride a horse. Maybe not this one.

42. Publish (at least) 5 books.
43. Learn to ride a motorcycle.
44. Take a photograph every day for a year.
45. Read all of Italo Calvino.
46. Develop a consistent yoga practice.
47. Make living with gratitude a reflex.
48. Smile at more people on the street.
49. Wander in a field full of fireflies.
50. Be smashingly interesting.
51. Become really, truly fluent in Russian.
52. Learn to juggle.
53. Memorize 100 poems.
54. Go on a road trip with no particular destination.

55. Send something to Postsecret.
56. Sew myself a beautiful dress.
57. Have a mad tea party.
58. Host Thanksgiving dinner for anyone who wants to come.
59. Make 1000 paper cranes.
60. Inspire a song.
61. Visit all 50 states.
62. Take a creative photobooth picture every year on my birthday.
63. Learn to play pool like a hustler.

64. Make a red velvet cake.
65. Get a lap dance.
66. Take a dance class with Ilya.
67. Sneak into 4 movies in one day.
68. Visit Grasse and walk around in Chanel's jasmine and rose fields.
69. Have a custom perfume made.
70. See the desert in bloom.
71. Get it on in some library stacks a la Atonement.

72. Go on a mushroom hunt at least once a year.
73. Own a Jaguar. Pretty sure these are the sexiest cars ever made.
74. Donate my hair to Locks of Love.
75. Look for ecstacy and transcendence.
76. Never be afraid of success.
77. Work at a Texas birthing center.
78. Teach Creative Writing at a major university for a year.
79. Draw one self portrait every year.
80. Have 15 minutes of fame.
81. Grow zinnias from seed in memory of my grandmother.

82. Buy something from Bottega Venatta. I love everything they make.
83. When in doubt, stand still.
84. Laugh so hard I cry.
85. Throw a pot on a potter's wheel.
86. Spend more time looking at the sky.
87. Write a wildly successful self-help book.
88. Listen to my body more carefully.
89. Make it to Ilya's and my 50th anniversary.
90. Read all of Tolstoy's novels.
91. Be the best dancer in the room. Even if I'm alone.
92. Be loud, be proud, accept my lot as the cat lady.

93. Have 2 kids? Have any?
94. Buy an incredibly comfortable mattress.
95. Know when to be extravagant and when to be humble.
96. Get 1000 visitors to my blog in one day. (Record so far: 100.)
97. Look under the hood of my car and know what's wrong. Or right. Positive thinking!
98. Open a press/magazine to support short-shorts and prose poetry.
99. Love my life.
100. Always be adding to this list.

And then I boiled it, peeled it, cut it into chunks, and made him eat it.

It'd be even sweeter if Ilya weren't so terrifying-looking, wouldn't it be? The man needs a shave and a haircut, pronto. Luckily he's in Slovenia now, which I imagine is something like Siberia, which I imagine as being full of big, bearded lumberjacks. So Ilya should fit right in. If they let him check that chainsaw, that is.

On the Subject of Babies

The first argument Ilya and I ever had was about what our children's names were to be. He proclaimed (this is three weeks into our relationship, mind you) that his first son would be named Victor after his father, and his first daughter Natalia after his grandmother. It was as if he expected the hand of God to come down and pat him on the head, he was so proud of himself. I was taken aback, but chocked it up to some kind of Russian Jewish tradition I knew nothing of, that the father named his children before even going to the trouble of securing a handy fertile woman. So I told him he was a moron and we sort of forgot about it.

Which pretty much sums up my feeling about kids in general. Can we just forget about it? Lalalala I can't hear you. I'm 26 years old, Ilya and I have been together nearly 10 years, we own a home, he has a good job, and we're both all over this country like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. We are writers. We are selfish. We need three hours a day holed up in our respective offices with no disturbances to mentally masturbate, producing maybe 10 words, maybe 1000. We go to bookstores for fun. I'm turning into the kind of woman who sneers at noisy kids in the restaurant.

But funny things sometimes happen. A 5-year-old with a mohawk made me giggle by standing on his head. A picture of a newborn made me feel a little empty in the womb region. I simply refuse to plant over our back lawn despite the drought because I see an undefined but rather tall toddler stumbling all over it laughing insanely as his father chases him. A little girl picks up a Queen Elizabeth doll in the bookstore and turns to her mother, saying "Look, mama. A queen." With a kind of reverence I have never, ever heard.

There isn't any time. Lately I've felt more desperate than ever before, watching it slip away. Where are my books? My degrees? Where's my career? Ilya continues to be successful, and I could not be more proud. I love my life, I'm proud of my accomplishments, but damn if I don't feel jealous sometimes. Just on the verge, on the cusp of finally succeeding, of beginning something wonderful with my life, how can I slow down for 18 years to bring a child into the world?

Even if I would be a MILF. Cause I totally would be, you know.

I Done Bought Me a House!

Now, don't judge a book by its cover. Slap a fresh coat of paint on that sucker and we're good to go! The interior is just a matter of clearing out the pigeon shit and the possum babies, though we're thinking we might just adopt them for pets. Would keep the coon dogs good and exercised, and they're getting a little draggy with all this city living, if you know what I'm saying.

The kitchen has indoor plumbing, y'all! We just need to buy some pipes cause the scavengers already been through here for all the copper in the place. T'ain't no snakes in the tolet (it is an outhouse, y'all! So cute with that little crescent moon and everything! It's like my own little house, behind the big house!), I know cause I just dangled one of them possum babies down there to check and nothing came raring up. So I'll pee easier tonight. I've named the spiders Octopussy, Heptopussy, Sextopussy (that's my favorite!), Quintopussy, Quartopussy, Triptopussy, Duopussy, and Monopussy. They've all got eight eyes and most of 'em got eight legs.

But the best thing about it is all we've got to do is hook the mobile home up to the tractor and tow it on out here! Moving's no trouble y'all, I don't know what all the bitching and moaning is about!

Come on down-- we got a guest room and everthang!

This 87-Year-Old Woman is Cooler Than You

But then, most 87-year-old women are.

1200 People in New York are Cooler Than You

Like, Way Cooler.

The better to see you with, my dear...

So I took my new contacts to my optometrist yesterday for a check-up. Everything was fine except for one minor annoyance-- at night any bright light was surrounded by a halo. Which made it look like there were cars all the fuck over the road. To cut down on the glare, I've been wearing shades at night, like a crack-whore. They're my asshole cop glasses-- polarized aviators. I keep asking my friends for their license and registration. Yeah, they still think it's funny.

ANYWAY, my optometrist nodded his head, concerned, looked deeply into my eyes, and told me it was because I had enormous pupils, so big in fact that they expanded around the edge of the corrective part of the contact lenses. He used the word enormous. He even made a gesture with his hands that implied a sort of weight, rather as if he were talking about breasts. I believe it turned him on a little.

I myself, I was a little freaked out. How can you go for twenty-five years without knowing that you have some truly exceptional physical characteristic? I felt a similarly taken aback when I found out that I had a tipped uterus-- it was like, how come no one ever told me? I've been seeing gynecologists and optometrists for many a yearn now, and they'd kept mum. I say that's medical malpractice by omission. 

At any rate, I found a sudden need to take a look at my pupils.

Here's the things about looking at your pupils: looking at them makes them disappear. They go into hiding. They shrink down like genitalia in cold water (that was my attempt at tact there, the lack of specification of genitalia, by the way). As you may already know, pupils dilate in the dark, when you're relaxed, and when you're sexually aroused. Through undisclosed means, I attempted to contrive a combination of these three factors in the bathroom, flipping on the light only after I was quite certain they were dilated. Of course they just contracted again. I had to try this two or three more times until I had convinced myself that I did indeed have enormous pupils, and also it was good that I was doing this at home instead of in Providence where I have a (male) roommate.

Well and so, I have to wear glasses at night if I'm driving in unfamiliar terrain, and I have learned two things about me: firstly, I have Pupils of Unusual Size (POUS's). Seriously. Those fuckers are huge. Also, I am willing to do almost anything in order to prove a point to myself.

I think I'm going to create a center for those, like me, who are the Particularly Ocularly Enabled. We're accepting applications now. Please include your name, phone number, and the maximum dilation measurement of your pupils. In metric units.

A City of Books

This Is Where We Live from 4th Estate on Vimeo.

So, so lovely. Enjoy!

Mutiny in my nase

There is a very small mutiny or perhaps a pirate war going on in my nase. There are several ships mutinying at once, so it's not a small war in the sense of importance, only small in the sense of scale-- that is, those are teeny weeny ships. And they are exploding one after another, in the vicinity of that silly place between your eyes that people are always pinching. Now I know why people are always pinching that place: because they are trying to kill the tiny fucking pirates! Hey guys! Stop making my nasal passages burn! IT'S NEITHER HILARIOUS NOR PRODUCTIVE!!!



These pirates are way more cute and yet still way huger than the motherufckers in my nose. Just to give you a sense of scale.

All this, with a British accent!

Creepy, hilarious, philanthropic... what more could you ask for in a video?

My apologies to avid followers of cuteoverload.

This cat is cooler than you.

Dude.

My Feelings (Mostly Negative) About Ice.

What's that you say? It's the only known non-metallic substance that expands when it freezes? That it's an important part of global climate and the water cycle? That glaciers are pretty and stripey? 

I DON'T CARE! FUCK YOU, ICE!

Yesterday was the first time I've seen ice in probably years. It is ice, not snow, that drove me from New England. Think I'm exaggerating? I cried when I heard the words "wintry mix" uttered over the radio a couple of days ago. Cried! Like a baby! 

Ever since the day I slipped and fell on black ice outside the chapel of St. Catherine's School (since I'm already grumpy, I might as well mention: FUCK YOU SISTER SUSANNAH! I have had a happy and productive adulthood without learning how to write the letter "b" in cursive according to your arbitrary rules. Although I have lived in sin and no longer believe that Jesus is my Savior and for that matter, I assume the Pope is kind of a twat, so maybe you should have tried HARDER!), I have hated ice. 

I walk around like a little old lady which I always think is going to help but it DOESN'T, because if ice wants you, it will have you. And you can say hello to a bruised tailbone, is all I'm going to say. Nothing hurts more than a bruised tailbone, except maybe getting shot or having a baby or getting your toenails torn off or occasionally really bad indigestion which is NOT THE POINT, let us just say that it hurts. And that I really, really, have strong, distasteful feelings for that slippery stuff. Okay? Let us never speak of this again.

Except to say that here's a really suggestive image of a girl sucking on a icicle. Like, almost NAFW. This girl's going to be one hell of a troublemaker when she grows up.

Yo dog's so ugly, her mama had to tie a steak around her neck to get your mama to play with her.

See what I did there, to that "your mama" joke? Heh.



One thing's for sure: Bobo's not making it to "cuteoverload" any time soon.

Good God, can my attention span GET any shorter?

Once considered (by me anyway) solely the provence of annoying teenage girls, Twitter has become the new... what? The new black? The new blog? The new me? You have 140 characters to say something clever, which believe me is a lot easier after drinking. Which is why I've taken to shots starting at 11 am, which is usually when I publish my first Twit, as I like to call it, of the day. (The technical term is "Tweet" but I think A- this is because they realized that 'Twit' made them all sound like idiots and B- they decided saying it with a French accent would make it sound less moronic. Which is usually true.)

Anyway, regular readers (hello.. hello...hello...) will notice that I have a new! Twitter feed bar to the right of this intensely brilliant post. Until this post goes further down the page. In which case it will be to the right of the next intensely! brilliant! post. You can also sign up for my twitter feed at www.twitter.com/katiefar. You can even sign up for my updates to get sent as text messages to your cell phone if you join. And then it will be like I'm stalking you, only funnier. Although, I can be a funny stalker. Really. People could tell you stories.

On the Subject of Art

Art, Craft, or Crapola? Sometimes the line is thin my friends. So very thin.

Don't Worry, I'll Not Quit my Day-Job Yet

Of course, that's easy to say when your day job involves screwing with the concept of subject-verb agreement and grooving on thoughts like attempting to render Joseph Cornell's boxes with words. Have I mentioned lately how much I love this thing called art? And how lucky I am to be making it?

Speaking of making art, I have always had this love for claymation. I remember seeing a little making-of special on Wallace & Gromit when I was younger and being obsessed with the idea of making a three-dimensional world come to life. I love me some Pixar, don't get me wrong, but there's something so amazing and fantastic (in the sense of fantasy) about stop-motion videos. So when I got an opportunity in a class to try something completely new, my group decided to do a claymation movie. This was probably insane, as it took us approximately 20 hours to make them, two little films that total approximately 2 minutes of actual footage (and one silly minute of undoing all our hard work.) 

Anyway, in the interest of making sure these movies go viral and become a Youtube phenomenon and financially support me for the rest of my days, I thought that I'd post the first of the two here. Because of my vast readership. And the marketing strategists that make it up. 

Please note this isn't exactly appropriate for work, and please do not gather round your church group and/or my nieces and nephew to see the nice cartoon. And DO enjoy.

"People"

Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

In the Pursuit of my Life-Long Desire to be a Crotchety Old Lady

Not only do I drink Cape Cods, not only do I have more cats than bathrooms, not only do I wear flat orthopedic sandals, not ONLY do I hate children and make inappropriate sexual comments at any turn, I partake in needlework, darlings. And not just any needlework: this is the queen of all crotchety old lady needlework-- it is in fact, CALLED "crochet." Crotchety, crochet. Get it?

At any rate, these are Granny Squares for the afghan I am currently completing in my head. I've made seven (Granny Squares, that is: not afghans) in the last four days, with speedy progress in the pattern-reading department, and here are them (why do I adore bad grammar so much? Seriously? It just makes me laugh to write like that. My mother will be horrified. Hi Mom!). There are the Loopy Flower Granny Squares (not so hard to pick out), the Basic Granny Squares, the Diamond Granny Square Variation C, and then the one and only "Splendor in the Grass" which reminds me of the CDB song "Uneasy Rider." You know, the part, where said uneasy rider is trying to convince the other rednecks that the greenteethed one is actually a "friend of those long-haired, hippie-type pinko fags." "He's a snake in the grass, I tell you guys/ He make look dumb, but that's just a disguise/ He's a mastermind in the ways of espionage."

Aside from crochet, I am enjoying summer vacation enormously, despite my twentieth cold of the year (!) catching up on my reading. Recommendations thus far include Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover if you like fairy tales, short fiction, or fantastic prose, and Kay Ryan's Flamingo Watching-- fantastic short, rhyming poems. I'm looking forward to the Blotner Faulkner biography and as much Carson McCullers as I can cram in before school starts again!

Ladybird

Ladybird is the newest addition to the family, with probably the most dramatic story. I was dumping our recyclables in our neighbor's bin (I am probably the world's guiltiest recycler-- I always sneak out late at night and drop them in one at a time to minimize noise, afraid I might be found out!), I heard this little squeak, looked down, and saw a bedraggled white kitten, wearing a flea collar. I patted her and went on my merry way, convinced she had owners if she had a collar. 

Over the next two weeks, I brought my trash out more often than I ever have or will in the future. She was always hanging around my dumpster or the recycling bin, getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I couldn't deny that she wasn't getting the care she needed, even if she was technically someone's cat. I fed her a couple of times next to the dumpster, but I knew I couldn't take another cat. My eldest, Rooster, is a nervous wreck around other animals, and my husband is at best a begrudging cat lover. So I called a couple of friends, trying to convince them that they really needed a fluffy! white! (flea-ridden) kitten! All I have to say about that is that it's a good thing I'm not  a pimp, because evidently I fell short. Nobody could or would take said kitten.

So a few days before Thanksgiving I came home around 2 in the afternoon and found her sitting on my stoop. My heart just kind of fell because I knew this was it: she'd never been to the house before, she'd never seen me in the broad light of day, and that meant that she probably really did need a place to live. So I sat out on the porch with her for about an hour, trying to convince myself to walk away, then opened the door for her. 

Luckily she's one of the most lovable creatures ever to walk the earth, a fantastic, generally mellow lap-cat with a squeaky meow but a mighty purr like thunder!