Me with a D

I routinely struggle with the question: “What’s your type?”

I have the tendency to provide a weak and simple answer just to get the conversation over with. In result every time I’m out with certain individuals they want to point out the hipster-looking white guy with the good scruff. That’s not my real type. I’ve been uncomfortable with sharing the actual answer.

What is?

Drumroll please…

Me.

Me in male form. Me with a D. Me as a dude.

Are you really surprised? I’m a huge fucking narcissist. 

You’re not surprised.

I am only attracted to men I see myself in. Same interests. Same musical tastes. Same sense of humor. Same attention to style and grooming. Shall I continue? Personally I do not believe in the theory “opposites attract.” That would be a nightmare for me—a perpetual headache. I would find it completely frustrating. Well, I might appreciate some occasional difference of opinion. We don’t have to be intellectual twins or anything…

But the entire package?

I want me. Me with a D—except taller.

You’re not surprised. This is not news, I was just too reluctant to admit it. Also, I believe that the more you know me this elusive man is now easier to distinguish, but ultimately more difficult to find. 

100. 1,000. 1,000,000,000,000.

Can I live?

I’m not quite sure what it is that I am supposed to be doing.

Everyone my age is wifed up, boo’d up, settled down and has at least one toddler on their hip, with another 2.5 running around somewhere in the background. 

I just moved into my first apartment, I’ve never lived alone—ever. I go out—a lot. I go out drinking on weeknights. My disposable income goes to my wanderlust fund and my wardrobe. I contemplate the sexiness of outfits or how age appropriate they are. I bought overalls today. “Can I wear these? I kinda like them,” I asked my sister. “You can get away with anything,” she responds. “HOW OLD AM I?” I silently ask myself… “Fuckit,” I quickly respond, “I CAN get away with these.”

I feel as though the world is either judging me or pitying me.

For what? Can I live?

I would happily be paying mortgage too, maybe potty training baby no.1, while I multi-task 4 loads of laundry and while dinner is in the oven. I would ungrudgingly accept that life if it was my fate, but it isn’t…

My once super sequential life took a few unexpected turns. In result I am a little selfish, slightly reckless (at the appropriate times) and quick to accept company with those who fit into my adjusted lifestyle. 

What’s my alternative? Stay at home? Live simply? Join a convent?

It’s unclear to me. So I do what I feel is right, even if that means I’m out a little too late on a school night, had one more drink than I should, or dash out of the house for almost every invite presented to me.

Trust me, I’m praying for the never-ending Netflix marathons, the opportunity to cook for at least 2 and the reason to turn way wayyy waayyyyyy down. 

Way wayyy wayyyyyy down. Swear.

Quality Assurance

I’ve recently discovered that I have a quality assurance panel of men in my corner. 

I guess they were always there. I just wasn’t paying attention.

Once I dragged Jun out with me when I was supposed to meet a guy back in NYC. I had barely moved and I was freaking out at the idea of being alone with this dude. Terrible sign right? I was anxious about hanging out with a guy so I drag my male cousin along for company. Yeah, I was still learning back then. The next day Jun told me, "I don't like that guy. He was trying too hard." Read: "I don't like that guy for you."

On the way back from SF after meeting the tall glass of handsome water, TK says: "Kate, you're so much cooler than that guy. He uses the word 'bro' in his vocabulary. You're a fucking Art Director. He’s just not as cool.” I actually despise when men call each other "bro." I thanked TK for looking out and asked him to please direct me to a man he feels is worthy of my attention. P.S. The tall glass of handsome water was a dead end. TK was right.

Rob is constantly asking me to point out men I find attractive. Always. So while out on a Saturday night I pointed one out. "I think you can do better," he says. Rob and I are frequently discussing optimal places for my BAE watching pleasure. Personally, I believe future BAE is lazy as fuck to go out and does not have the same energy I do (who can blame him, I swear I have a 23 year old’s stamina).

Law is always in my business, even if he’s on the other side of the county. Every time I came to work even slightly dressed up he would ask: "You got a date tonight or nah?" Eventually he figured out all of my patterns, specifically that when I don't wear glasses it’s the automatic indicator of "Yes, I have a date tonight." "Make sure he actually calls you and has a conversation, don't just accept texts." I swear his advice is so old fashioned sometimes.

Ex-Mr reads this blog and proceeds to ask me about whoever it is I just mentioned or figures it out for himself. "Who's this dude you sound excited about?" "Tell you what, if I actually go out with him—I'll spill, until then he's not worth mentioning." "You're wise that way," he responds. My Ex is on some silent watchdog shit. That's no surprise though.

My girls are quick to accept anyone I am even lightweight interested in, I’m picky and lonely at the same damn time. Maybe they just want to hear progress in my “love life.” SIIIIIIKE.

My boys on the other hand will tell me how it is: “You need a cut-off age. The young ones have zero respect. The dudes who have the balls to talk to you are lame. You don’t notice most of the men who noticed you.” The list goes on… and on… and on…

Thank you boys, but how about instead of screening you try scouting instead? ;-)

Piece 2

I'M BACK. 

This reunification is a little too surreal, a little too brand new and so quick that I even surprised myself. I honestly haven’t had a good minute to take it all in yet. I’d like to slow down the rotation of the Earth just so I can get a quick grip on my life right now.

March has been madness.

I told you that I needed to hold off on my apartment search until I was ready. I know myself too well, I had to suppress myself until the proper time came around because when it did—I was like a runner out of the gates. I checked out an apartment and had keys within days. You could barely call it a search, but I wouldn’t call it luck. I just don’t sleep on what I feel are opportunities.

So I’m back in my favorite 7x7 square miles, the same city as my favorite ice cream, burrito and sports team.

Piece 2 of my transition has been secured. Also, I’m crowd-funding this chair, I haven’t forgotten about it. JOKES. I don’t have space for it in my studio—but if I did… HAH.

Just pick me, world

I finally landed a gig that makes me comfortable enough to begin my apartment search. At this point I managed to snag a contract position at the large ad agency scenario I was envisioning all along. In the end the timing and opportunity worked out. So although I complained, cried and chewed myself out during the process—I still got what I wanted. Figures. Life is your professor, you know that bitch is gonna test you. +10 if you can name who said that off the dome. -50 if you think it’s Drizzy.

I must’ve been through a million interviews. I’m so tired of trying to sell myself.

I’ve put my house hunt towards a studio search just so I can avoid searching for roomie listings, because that is an interview process in itself. I don’t really feel like convincing a bunch of randos that I’m a super clean roomie that’s also cool as fuck. I’m too lazy to go through the entire ordeal. Just fucking pick me, shit. GAH. I actually enjoy living with people, there’s always someone to listen to my dumb anecdotes and witness me trying to heat up frozen breakfast burritos at 3am after I get home drunk. Damn, I miss my BK house/roomies.

AND THEN YOU KNOW WHAT?

After I find a place to live I will probably start paying attention to men again, and then I’ll have to convince one of those mother fuckers that I’m as cool as I appear. I’m exhausted and anxious just thinking about dating…

This year is already one long screening process where I am simply a candidate…

JUST PICK ME, WORLD. GAH.

BAE Watch 2015

Did you know BAE is actually an acronym? It’s NOT a shorthand version of “babe.” It means “before anything else.” It’s pretty mind blowing if you weren’t aware. Personally I think it’s so much better than babe, but I was never partial to conventional pet names in the first place.

I used to call my ex “squib.” Do you know what a squib is?

It’s a person with the HUGE MISFORTUNE of being born into the magical world (of Harry Potter) and not having any magical abilities at all. It’s fucking terrible actually. Squibs have the lowest place in magical society, they’re pathetic. Yes, I just geeked the fuck out on all of you. I love Harry Potter, you have no idea. No one should fall in love with me, I’ll just insult you with geeky bullshit.

That was a ridiculous sidetrack.

I only have a handful of single friends, we have coined our searches for significant others “BAE Watch 2015.” All we need to do is send a text: “BAE Watch tonight?” and its on. The most beneficial thing is that we’re not just looking for ourselves, we’re keeping our eyes peeled for each other. I am a great wing woman, no lie.

BAE is not a ONS (one-night stand). BAE is real. We probably won’t find these people out at a bar at 1am, but we’re having fun with each other in the process. Also, I heavily believe in the “outlier” because I think I am the definition of an outlier. I shouldn’t fucking be single, but I am.

Between TK, Melissa, Vince and I we are constantly throwing out “BAE credentials.” These get stupid and outlandish sometimes because it sounds as if we are describing mythical human beings. Unicorns. It’s entertaining regardless, so we indulge ourselves.

Basic Kate BAE cheat sheet: randomly spits out Drake lyrics at appropriate times, obviously; provides Smart Water, fresh squeezed OJ and a breakfast sandwich on mornings that I am hung over; reads his TSS feed daily; gets a VISCERAL reaction to this song; will cook me spam, eggs and rice AND NOT JUDGE ME; will NOT let me over-order at the drive-thru drunk; will sit through entire baseball games with me while I yell at the umpire; MUST BE GREAT AT SEX; must endure me talking to myself all the time; HAIRCUTS, ALL CAPS, EXTRA EMPHASIS, ALWAYS; TBC and the list goes on and on and on…

Melissa and I have agreed that BAE Watch ends for both of us when we successfully post an image with a person of the opposite sex (of significant value) on IG. Neither of us foresee that happening any time soon, but the “Watch” portion is already amusing in itself.

Pray for us.

Retraction

Ok, I lied. I’m a fucking liar.

The universe still insists on throwing men at me, despite my aversion to the idea of dating. The universe threw me a choice candidate last night and I obliged. I was running game like the best of them. 

Few people have actually seen me in such fine form. It’s a rarity that I am legitimately interested in and attracted to a dude off the bat, so when I meet one… HI, GAME ON. I will insist you take my number, tell you to text me and that we should chill. I realize I don’t need to actually convince them much, but I can be super forward when I am feeling you. 

This motherfucker insulted me then proceeded to compliment my dimples. FUCK YOU. Don’t do that to me. I am melting into your hands as we speak.

So I need to retract my words… I can focus on a guy when he seems worth focusing on. Also this could be a dead end stop in 24 hours, but I needed to admit my change of heart.

When a tall glass of handsome crosses your path you might realize you're thirsty.

ENTJ

I took two separate Myers-Briggs personality tests because I was curious (due to this). I got the same personality type on both tests, ENTJ. It stands for Extraverted Intuitive Thinking Judging. Apparently it is the least common personality type amongst women, only 1%. It’s also rarest type in general, only 2% of men are ENTJs. There are 16 types total, take this, and this and holla.

Apparently I am an anomaly. This personality type makes no sense to me, yet it is me.

In a nutshell I am outgoing, intuitive, logical and structured. I focus on things that cannot directly be observed. I prefer interpreting meaning rather than concrete facts. Yet I am less concerned with emotions and more objective overall. I require schedules, goals and routines—Type A, all the way.

I wish that last statement wasn’t true, but I scored super high on the structured side vs. spontaneous, it wasn’t even borderline. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it to myself, ENTJs are a highly efficient type of person. Guilty as fuck. 

1% though, super rare. ;-)

+100

Tuesday marks 2 months back in the Bay. On paper that seems like a pretty insignificant amount of time, but it feels like forever since I was in New York. Every time I see a NY skyline on tv I get all glassy-eyed and I call out the location. SIGH. Why’d I leave? Just kidding, I skipped winter—they’re out there suffering in single-digit weather and blizzards. I still miss NY, but I’m not sad about this pathetic excuse of a Cali winter. I win.

My contract at work ends this week. I can’t tell if they’re going to keep me on or not. I won’t take it personally if I don’t get a full-time offer. I’ve been trying to analyze the business and I’m not convinced that there is a need for the position I applied for. However I could be wrong, if all goes well I will sign on the dotted line and hunt for an apartment a minute after. On the safe side I have 2 interviews lined up this week because a girl needs back-up plans. #Options. Also, I like using them as leverage against each other. If only dating could work out just as strategic for me…

Between my 3 potential opportunities I expect to be back living in the city by the end of next month. I HOPE. Commuting during the week cuts out 4 hours of my day and exhausts me. On the weekends I still end up in the city and return home anywhere between 3-5 am. I’m not meant to live where public transportation runs so infrequently and I can’t just walk to get coffee. OK, BUT I WON’T LIE… The free rent aspect makes my living situation quite bearable, for the meantime.

Last weekend my girl Melissa and I were on fire. Well, she’s always on fire. She could walk into church on Sunday and men would still holler. I believe I have a much less powerful immediate presence, but the universe insisted on throwing dudes at me the entire weekend. I even gave one my number. He did everything right. He texted me with his name, that it was nice meeting me and a significant funny line regarding our conversation. I never responded. Abby asked me why I even bother giving my number out to men if I’m not going to respond. My response was easy: “I want the time to decide and reserve the right to be in touch if I choose to be.” In reality I actually ignore a majority of these texts. I admitted to Melissa that if the same situation happened in New York I probably would’ve texted this particular guy back—but I’m not ready yet. Apparently the super lonely social butterfly over here is not yet ready to dive back into the dating pool. I believe that even if a man fell from the sky I would question it. I wouldn’t give him the chance to find out if he was worth it. Sure, it sounds like a sad thought, but I actually feel liberated by my revelation. Lonely as fuck and still not ready to date... #Priorities #Job #Home

+100 character building points for me.

The No Judgement Zone

I spent my President’s Day taking endless shots of tequila in SF. On Tuesday morning I woke up at 6am still drunk from the previous evening, in a panic and unable to piece together anything past 8pm. It was not my finest moment. We all have those right? Agree with me. 

By 8:30 am I was ready to cut a deal with the devil that I would trade my first born if he could relieve me of my hangover and restore my health—if offered. Don’t take that shit for granted, kids. Seriously. By 9:15 I was at my desk at work when my girl in NY, Britt, hit me up on chat. So I confessed: “Britt, I’m still fucking drunk from last night and I have the worst hangover in my life.” BTW, I had a blast on my day off, I might have wished I look a few less shots, but that's about it. No regrets.

See, I like to think I’m an intelligent woman, book and street smart. I have “cum laude” on my bachelors degree and I’ve survived living in two major metropolitan cities for most of my adult life.

However I still make super stupid decisions. I already know when I’m about to make an unwise choice. I just can’t talk about these moments because I know better. I don’t want to hear any lectures or see your judgmental faces. 

Enter what I call “The No Judgement Zone.” There are less than a handful of people who are fortunate enough to live here. This is a rare support squad privy enough to hear when I engage in shameful activity. Part of being amongst this elite few is due to the fact that they share their dirty laundry too. Hell no, I’m not just telling you my bad business—you need to be guilty as fuck too. No spectators allowed, equally irresponsible offenders only.

The key to the no judgement zone is that your views of me cannot change based on my lapses in decision making and my temporary irresponsible behavior, and vice versa. I’m human, I make questionable choices—it makes my life interesting. I’m wise enough to know when I’m fucking up on purpose, I just don’t want to hear your opinion on that. I’m going to do what I want anyway. Also, for the record, I don't always give into these poor choices, I'm still an ultra responsible individual. In the end I trust that you know what you’re getting into as well. The no judgement zone is filled with the smartest people I know, this is a fact. 

Sometimes when the brain, heart and vagina battle it out the brain is the first to lose—and that’s ok. No judgement, you know better. I do too. 

Deuce. Deuce.

When I began this blog I referenced it a couple times on IG, saved the link in my bio and publicly outed it on Facebook once. As far as my promotion efforts go I didn’t try very hard. I know what it takes, I work in marketing/advertising. I barely attempted to let you know it existed. 

Yet, here you are.

I’m not sure what I really expected. My previous blog was full of random opinions and fluffy content, this one is a whole other story (literally). It’s a chronicle of my life after rock bottom—a journey, still filled with my random viewpoints and personal anecdotes, subsequent to a super fucking serious time in my life. 

I believe it takes a certain sense of humor and strong sense of self to publicly put yourself out there in the same way I do. I have to trust you don’t think I’m some pathetic divorcé on the verge of a breakdown every time I go through PMS. I hope you take my opinions with a grain of salt. I presume you can actually hear my sarcastic tone as you read through my entries. I WOULD WRITE ALL CAPS ERRRYYTHANG IF YOU JUST UNDERSTOOD.

I came across this quote the other day, I think that’s why you read this.

“Remember that people will brag about what they’ve achieved, but they don’t brag about the price they paid to get it. So find someone who will tell you the worst parts of their life.”

We exist in a world filled with vicious social media feeds where everyone attempts to put their best foot forward. It’s not meant to be a stage for negative news, you look like an asshole trying to get attention and people don’t know how to react. Good vibez only and shit. That’s cool, just don’t believe everything you see. I celebrated a dating/wedding anniversary, birthday and went on a complete family vacation all while attempting to mask the demise of my marriage. I was great at creating a beautiful facade. That’s why my separation (and then divorce) came as a shock to everyone (and their moms).

In result I was humiliated, admitting to myself and everyone I knew that my husband and I had failed after trying to convince you (and us) that we were so picture perfect and built to last. Pride is my deadliest sin, I had to swallow all of it (TWSS). Overall the experience humbled me, I came out real as fuck and stronger than ever. So with a little encouragement and support I shared my ups and downs and shitty (but also good) days on this blog.

2 years later and much more encouragement, I'm still here, and so are you.

Thank you for the love, again and again... and again.