Swim Good

I was in New York last October when I asked one of my girlfriends about her experience about falling in love for the first time at 29 years of age.

She gave me an over-dramatic exasperated gesture (as she normally does) and told me she wouldn’t be able to put her experience into words, at least not at the exact moment I asked her to describe the sensation. I think it was too fresh, honestly. 

As you are fully aware by now, I think/write in metaphors. My life lessons are always directly tied to some sort of poetic or stupid comparison. Either/or, hopefully they’re more poetic than stupid.

I like to think that any given individuals experience of falling in love is comparable to surviving a body of water. The other factor that paints the picture includes whatever weather or environment best describes the overall situation. 

Did you dive in head-first? Was it a shallow pool? Was it a beautiful day? Do you see where I’m going with this?

The first time I fell in love I was 17 years old. I fell fast because I was already in love with the idea of love. We were young and naive and dove in, heart first. All of the sudden every barrier that previously existed prohibiting us from expressing our feelings toward each other were gone. The emotions were overwhelmingly maddening, I couldn’t stay afloat. First love is a fucking doozy.

The second time it occurred I was 31 years old and I was caught off-guard. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It was as if I was wading near shore, the kind of weak swim where your feet still touch the bottom of the ocean floor and your head and shoulders remain above water. I thought I was in-control of the entire experience, however eventually the current pulled me away and I could no longer scrape the sand with my toes. Love dragged me out into open water and the ocean got rough.

I pray that the next time it happens I just drown, immediately. I don’t want to fight it, it’s exhausting. If I’m being real with myself that’s not going to happen. I am not trusting. I’m too damaged to do anything other than dip my foot in and check the temperature of the water.

Still wanna drown tho. ;-)

PASSIONFRUIT

"More Life" was extremely disappointing (and I didn't have high expectations to begin with). If anyone would like to discuss the wackness of this album with me I have an hour or so to kill. I've already expressed my opinions to anyone who has specifically asked.

I will admit that "Passionfruit" is the soft banger to stand the test of time. Here's a legit cover tho, enjoy.

Adult Thoughts

It’s not what you think. I will not be talking about sex in this post. Sorry, nah—not sorry. 

I have never been this good of an adult, not in the history of my life. 

I workout 4x a week. I don’t eat carbs past 6pm. There are groceries in my fridge, weekly. I am running as fiscally lean as I can manage (minus festival tickets, minus sneaker money). I just paid property taxes. I have seen my optometrist, gynecologist, dentist and doctor all in the past month. Whatever blood work, STD testing, pap smear or teeth cleaning that is required of me has been accomplished for the entire year. I just switched out 6 silver fillings at the dentist, because.

I’m operating like a machine. A rigid as fuck machine.

I’ll be 100% honest, as a result I am boring and antisocial because of my efficiency. However, I’m not going to apologize for putting myself first, cause—priorities. After all these years I finally realized I have the luxury of focusing on nothing else except my own well-being.

I have a random to-do list on my Google drive. The only items left are:

• Purchase stock options at work
• Sell engagement ring
• Inquire about fertility testing next doc. appt

All the minor things on the list were easy to check off, 2 of these fuckers are way too real for me.

The idea of selling my engagement ring makes me feel some type of way. I haven’t seen it in years, I gave it to my mother for safe keeping when I moved to NY and I haven’t seen it since. I guess I was always secure with the idea that it was my possession despite where it was actually kept. I finally have to sell it because the money it provides is my official dog fund. The plan is to get a dog in July when my calendar becomes calm again. My imaginary-not-even-born-yet dog already has a name and an account ready on IG. I need to sell that ring. No, I’m not telling you the name or the IG account until he or she is real.

I’ll probably sell the ring on a Sunday, get brunch and do shots. I had pickle back shots when I received my final dissolution of marriage. I had pickle back shots when I left NY. I will have pickle back shots when I sell my engagement ring (which BTW was offered to me roughly a decade ago, damn).

The last item is for peace of mind, because although I have been blessed with a face that still looks 26—my eggs are going to be 34. I am running against a clock and as much as I fear anything even remotely close to what could be bad news I’d rather deal with facts than the fear.

I told myself I would wait until 37 until I give up on actual love with a partner, if no one steps up to the plate I will choose sperm out of a book. I will take volunteers (as long as they are legit candidates). I have volunteers… I don’t know how serious they are tho. However I’m completely fucking serious about my plan. I need to be a mom, I need to have my own family—even if I have to do it completely by myself.

Everyone I’ve shared this with tells me I don’t need to worry, “it’ll happen” they say. We’ll see, this is just my backup plan. I still have 3+ years of life to live, that is a decent amount of time.

These are my adult thoughts… 

WHY SO SERIOUS?!?!?!?!

I’ll try to write about something more light-hearted next time, like sex.

SPOTLIGHTS & QUEUES

Three of my boys are celebrating their 35th birthdays this year. An age that high sounds fucking frightening—if I’m being completely honest. I’m trying to remain unbothered that I turn 34 in August. If I tell myself enough, maybe I’ll start believing it.

There’s an episode in “Atlanta” where Donald Glover’s character has a monologue about how he feels he’s been on the losing end of life for a long time. He goes on to question if some people are meant to lose while others remain the winners. We can’t all win, right? Some of us have to lose… unfortunately.

I think there’s a lighter version of that, and it’s not so much about winning and losing. There are moments when we each get to take the spotlight. These moments are based around society’s benchmarks: graduating school, getting engaged/married, having a child, buying a house, etc. etc. etc. Basically you get to take the spotlight any given time you’ve unlocked one of these achievements. You are either in the spotlight or you’re in the audience—eventually awaiting your turn or having experienced that moment yourself.

I have 3 weddings to attend this year. I believe there are about a dozen babies waiting to be born from my Instagram feed alone, I lost count. 

I was so young when I was in the spotlight. It was graduation… proposal… marriage… one after another. Now I’m stuck waiting again, I get to watch everyone else have their turn. Zero saltiness, however I do feel like I’ve been waiting a long time.

Despite the imaginary queue I just described this is genuinely the happiest I’ve been in a minute.

Not just content. Happy. 

Maybe it’s because I’m currently running at 95% adulting efficiency and I’m fuckin’ killin’ it. Maybe it’s because I’m not dealing with dating and the disappointments that come with it. Maybe it’s because after all the times I try to convince myself that life always works itself out I am finally fucking believing in it.

Whatever it is… cheers to genuine happiness (even while single as fuck) and cheers to second chances of being thrown back in the queue.

Writer's Block

*Taps mic*

Hi. Is anyone still here?

Sorry. I’ve been struggling with some sort of writer’s block. Whenever I begin typing (anything) it sounded like trivial complaints coming from my entitled “millennial” mouth. There’s terrorism happening in major metropolitan cities around the globe, Trump is president, women are still fighting for basic human rights and here I am—ranting about random texts from Fuckboys or whatever the dilemma du jour is.

Maybe I just needed a break and some perspective.

Then I remembered who I am and why I write. 

A personal blog will have personal content, despite whatever is happening on the news. It doesn’t have to be that deep, that is not it's purpose. We could be in the middle of WWIII, I will probably still be getting random texts from Fuckboys. That’s just life, man.

I can complain. I can be shallow. I can try to entertain you with my random fucking stories. I'm allowed that—I pay for this domain after all.

Back to our regularly scheduled program...

L's FTW

One of my favorite things to do is to drink with my Dad and have him reflect on his life while I ask questions on questions on questions. I love hearing of my parents struggles, success and just how complex their journey was.

Years ago I learned that Chicago was meant to be our family’s original destination. It didn’t work out because my mom didn’t pass a nursing board exam that would’ve granted her a working visa at a hospital there. Due to that "failure" the responsibility was put back on my dad. They were no longer tied to the idea of Chicago, he was open to find a position/location stable enough to begin our American Dream—anywhere. Eventually a series of denials and opportunities led my dad to the Bay Area.

Chicago tho… can you imagine if that worked out? I'm sure my parents wanted more than anything for it to work out. Instead they dealt with what they were granted. Instead—we’re here. (Shout out to the Bay, a place I love even more than New York City.)

Another story I love is that my parents had a long-distance relationship for a few years, typical to many immigrant couple's experiences. My father came to America in 1979 thanks to sponsorship from his older brother who had enlisted in the U.S. Navy. In December of 1982 he came to back to the Philippines for a routine visit, however when it was time to depart he said “FUCKIT,” simply refused and extended his vacation. He ended up losing his job—BUT I was conceived.

I’d like to award major points to my dad for the romantic and also wildly fucking irresponsible gesture of giving zero fucks about his job but sticking around extra because of love and shit. It's out of his character to ignore responsibility completely, but it's 100% him to do what ever he feels is the right decision.

I say that Leo’s are cocky because we’re conceived around the holidays and we think we’re a gift as a result of that extra magic in the air. 

My dad could’ve just gotten on a flight… went back to work… etc. etc. etc. but nah. 

I’m here, bitches.

My parent’s stories give me comfort because my life has not been a straight shot. I enjoy hearing about the multiple L’s, because in the long game of life the L’s put you up for the win.

I can’t wait to see what these L’s add up to.

D-ficiency

I’ve been going on numerous unsolicited rants lately. The last one consisted of me going off on DJ Khaled’s social media habits. The one before that involved a women’s clothing company that sells pieces with patterns so small and bright that they clash with each other, resulting in unaesthetic combinations. I apologize if you get caught up listening to my pointless monologues. I haven’t had the brightest disposition lately.

I’m stressed at work and I’m lacking Vitamin D. No, I’m not talking about nutrients that come from sun exposure.

I have vowed to stay off all modes of online dating in 2017. I respect any of you who have been successful with your attempts, however all I’ve gotten are messages from socially awkward men and futile dates with fuckboys. You can’t say I haven’t tried. I’ve tried, multiple times.

I have to rely on old fashioned means. I was probably always meant to.

My boys frequently ask me the same question over and over again: “KATE. HOW DIFFICULT IS IT FOR YOU TO GET OUT AND GET SOME?”

Difficulty is not the issue, it has never been the issue.

IT’S THE FUCKING SEARCH FOR QUALITY WITH A HIGH LEVEL OF RESPECT THAT IS HARD TO COME BY.

All my experiences since moving back to SF have been shitty—all except one, which includes love and feelz and orgasms, but that example is besides the point. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to just be good at something like sex. Like seriously… what the fuck…

Just try. TRY TO BE GOOD AT SEX. 

I understand if it’s not your personal priority. It might not be high on the list. Maybe you’re physically challenged, lacking manhood, I get it… However if you have a regular-sized penis why wouldn’t you just shoot for the stars?

Be the best you can be, homie. 

BE THE BEST YOU CAN BE AND TEXT THE WOMAN YOU’RE HAVING SEX WITH (DURING REGULAR BUSINESS HOURS) SO SHE KNOWS YOU RESPECT HER.

Is this really that difficult? FUCK… There it is… another random rant.

BAE & Bougie

Preface: #HIGHPOST

I don’t think I’m lonely. I think I’m bored.

Those are two different things, right?

I was clearing out my Google drive this morning when I discovered an old spreadsheet that I had forgotten about. It was titled “Restaurants I want to go to.” I created it so Ex-Mr had a direct list to pull from. The last addition I made was done in 2012. The concept of the list was fairly new, it only had 9 line items. We managed to knock out 3 of them before we split up. 33% follow-through is pretty good considering this was us at our worst.

If you haven’t already figured it out I have low-key bougie tendencies. I require a minimum of at least 800 thread count for my bed sheets. I enjoy super pretentious bars where the cocktails cost $14-18, and I enjoy them even more when the establishment is difficult to find. I like truffles, foie gras, escargot and whatever shit sounds impressive when you’re making small talk. They say Leos like luxury, I’ll give a minor cosign. What manages to balance me out is that I still have a decent grip on my wallet.

This period of life is my selfish time—after a man, before another & kids. It’s also selfish monetarily. I can afford the bougie if so I choose. During this span I've figured out who I am and I’ve partied—a lot. However I’ve grown extremely tired of the party phase. I prefer intimate gatherings of which I can be home and hydrated by midnight. Hey—we can still get drunk, guys. We just have to start earlier. 

I've self-diagnosed it as boredom because my individual routine is established, the solo trajectory is predictable. Meanwhile the chronic loneliness has disappeared. I have a bucket list called “Reserved for BAE.” It’s on an indefinite pause while items keep getting added on. Most of these involve the finer things in life and beautiful places to visit. Before we readdress the argument of “you can do these things with your friends”—I’ll shut that down with a simple “no.” There are certain things you want to see or experience with a very special person. While I would appreciate anyone accompanying me on any one of these bougie excursions I have to reserve the opportunity for future baby daddy no.1 or husband no.2. I'm not a fan of visiting the same destination twice—unless the location is particularly exceptional. 

The list involves dining at Michelin stared restaurants, experiencing a chef’s table, Spain, Portugal, Greece, THE FUCKING MALDIVES, driving down the most picturesque parts of HWY 1, and other romantic shit. So much romantic shit, yo. I swear—like the trading of sexual favors.

You can see why I’m eager to start a new chapter. 
*Impatiently checks watch*

PS. If anyone wants to go to Atelier Crenn or Son’s & Daughters—I’m down. I have a fat list that still includes New York restaurants, BAE has plenty to choose from. 

Rom-Coms & V-day

Preface: I’m already high. I hope I make sense.

I told myself it was ok to watch whatever Rom-Coms are playing on cable. I somewhat use them for a therapeutic/escapist purpose. It’s odd. I’m too cynical these days to daydream about romance and love. Hi, my name is Kate. I’m legit broken. I try to fix myself by listening to endless slow jam mixes and taking notes on Hollywood meet-cutes. Fact: If “The Notebook” is on I will watch it, every time. Gosling tho. 

My latest indulgence was a screening of “You’ve Got Mail.” 

*SPOILER ALERT* I’m basically going to share the entire plot. If you haven’t already seen it… you’re like 19 years late, homie.

I really hope you guys are imagining me narrating this post high AF. Because I am.

I forgot how much I liked “You’ve Got Mail.” Tom Hanks FINESSES THE FUCK out of Meg Ryan. He schemes so hard to build a rapport with her after he realizes he actually likes the feisty woman he has run out of business (who is coincidently the stranger he’s been chatting online). My favorite part of his plan was the fact that he buys time. From the moment they discuss the possibility of meeting IRL he makes an excuse to delay their date, all the while his slick ass has to play dumb whenever they meet in-person as he slowly charms her.

Such finessing. Such patience. Such game.

I received mystery flowers yesterday at work. Valentines Day. 

The card included a cryptic message and no name. Who ever sent them knew 3 facts: where I work, my phone number, and my general distaste for never receiving anything on Valentines Day as I watch the general population enjoy. (I'm low-key lying, there are 2 V-days where Ex-Mr batted 1000.)

I’ve exhausted my search, so far everyone I’ve asked has denied being the sender. Either someone is lying or I have an actual secret admirer. 

I’d put my money on the the first option—someone is lying. I told you, I’m cynical.

I don’t think the person who sent the flowers wants any acknowledgement or credit. I don’t believe this is all a part of this grand scheme of how I fall in love with the next man in my life. However I do think they were sent as a true act of love. Who ever sent them understands me with a fairly deep comprehension level.

OR maybe I’m wrong… maybe I am the protagonist of a hilarious (and romantic) movie and the plot is just beginning to unravel, maybe I get finessed so fucking hard my life makes “You’ve Got Mail” appear like a weak version of my potential reality.

WHO KNOWS. 

P.S.
If you’re out there, sender… a million thanks <3. I'm famous at work cause of this shit. No lie.

How to Dress - via QWAC

Every year I tell myself I’m going to dress better. Every year I do a decent job of putting the same exact amount of effort into my appearance. I know I dress just fine, but I felt compelled to share whatever shopping hacks/style knowledge I have in my dome. Maybe you find this useful. *SHRUGS*

For the record I can’t justify spending more than $50 on single pieces unless it's a big ticket item such as cocktail dresses, coats, outerwear or leather shoes/boots. I’m cheap, I still wear Forever21—the trick is you can’t tell its Forever21.

Shopping

• Learn to shop online.
  I prefer shopping online because I despise dealing with crowds and prefer to avoid the general over-stimulation. If you’re not already good at this you will need to work at it. It takes a lot of trial and error and sometimes purchasing multiple sizes of the same pieces of clothing. The trick here is to buy from retailers with free shipping (and returns) and to have patience. You’ll also need to know what colors/patterns work on you as well as silhouettes and proportions. Best of luck and God speed. I swear once you get this down you will save so much time in life. Also, boys and girls—ASOS.com is your friend. Your best friend, their sale section is always good.

• Buy stuff at the end of the season.
  You want thigh high leather boots? By that shit—NOW. You need a new winter coat? Cop it now, save it for next year. The same goes for clothes and shoes at the end of the summer. 

• Learn when the sales are.
  I’m talking LEGIT SALES, not sales where they put random signs around the store and claim its a sale. Zara has a FAT sale after the new year, always. It’s difficult to maneuver through, the store literally looks like it blows up, however the savings are worth digging through (or better yet, shop online). Promise.

• Don’t buy it unless you’re sure.
  When I really like something I start subconsciously dancing in it, that’s the automatic “BUY” or "KEEP" sign. If I want to buy something that is usually out of my budget I sleep on it, at least overnight. If I still want it after a few days then I’m allowed to purchase it. When I was younger I would waste a ton of money on “shopping sprees” where quantity was the motivator. I was always left with unused clothes with their tags still on months later. Also just because something is on sale doesn't mean it's worth buying, you're wearing the clothes, not the price tag.

Dressing

• Give yourself rules.
  You think I’m joking? Nah. You have to phase shit out of your life, like screen tees. I hope you only wear screen tees to go to sleep. You can slip into laziness quickly if your closet allows you to. Personally I have to tell myself I can only wear a hoodie to work a maximum of 1x a week. 1x too lenient if you ask me. I realize this one sounds vain as fuck and like it came out of "Mean Girls," but hey if you're cool with hoodies and sceen tees then more power to you. No shade.

• Build your wardrobe, slowly.
  Someone wise once told me he doesn’t want things in his closet unless he is automatically fly in everything in it. First of all this is a daunting task, most of the time women (like me) will have a closet full of clothes and will tell you they have nothing to wear. You can’t build your wardrobe all at once and you can’t fill it with cheap/trendy clothes. The dream is to pull absolutely anything out and still have a solid OOTD, however that is not going to happen overnight and it takes regular updating.

• Challenge yourself.
  Sometimes you don’t need to go shopping. Sometimes you need to just come up with a combination of pieces already in your closet that you’ve never worn together. Maybe you need to dig stuff out or force yourself to wear a shirt you rarely choose. Sometimes you need to put on annoying ass tights and a dress—just because. Men, sorry... I don't know what your equivalent is... maybe you get through a week in nothing but collared shirts. *HEART EYE EMOJI HERE*

PS. Yeah, your laundry piles up if you have to flex in a superior outfit almost every day. I have no hacks to this except for hanging decent outer layers back up. Don't judge me. I hate doing laundry.

Every Jane - Coming Soon

On July 29th, 2015 I sent an email to 2 of my GFs telling them that I wanted to start an online collective of stories written by strong independent women. It all began because I needed a lightbulb changed in my apartment and my building told me it was my responsibility to replace the bulb.

Bitch, how? I stand 5'3." Where am I supposed to get that ladder? How am I supposed to accomplish this? I can do so many things on my own, but this? BTW, I ended up asking my dad to come to SF to do a few handy chores, ladder in tow—sometimes you just need to ask for help. It was as simple as that, I just wanted to let other women know that the struggles are big and small and I see you trying, 100%. However I didn't want to solely focus on my blog, I wanted to hear the voices of other women out there. 

In light of the current political landscape we live in and with so many of my fellow women hungry for a platform to speak I figured it was time to get off my ass and start. Writing is my number 1 creative outlet outside of work. I'm always torn when it comes to getting more serious about it because growth makes me fear publicity and criticism. I write for myself as a form of expression, however I exist in a small bubble in which I am comfortable creating in. 

After 4 years of writing this blog (next month), I kinda need to pop that bubble. I kinda need to push myself, along with a handful of other ladies I'll be asking to contribute their talents.

I have no real idea what this is supposed to be or turn into, but it's been a long time coming. URL is real, I bought the domain & errythang. Logo & design TBD but heyyyyyyy that's what I do for a living.

EveryJane.me — coming soon

PS. No, QWAC is not going away. I still need an avenue for my ridiculous personal story telling. Forever. Ever.

In Defense of Single Women Past 30

I was out on Saturday night, still drunk and coming down from my musical high when a friend of a friend of a friend decided it was an appropriate time to address the fact that the 3 beautiful woman in his presence (myself included) were all past 30 and “too picky.” I’ve never met this man in my life, yet he thought it was ok to evaluate me and my search for a significant other. He then continued to add insult to injury by telling us our time was ticking and we only had a few years left in us and we needed to hurry it up. No exaggeration. There was no humor in his delivery, there was zero sensitivity being served along with the bullshit escaping his dumbass mouth. He reeked of machismo and misogyny, fortunately something I’m not normally accustomed to. The longer the conversation went the deeper his foot went into his mouth, a downward spiral of insults and back-handed compliments.

Normally I don’t associate myself with individuals who have such a general lack of respect for women, but with that many degrees of separation he somehow slipped through the cracks. As far as I’m concerned I will never be seen with this man at the same place or time ever again, and I thank God that meetings with men like him are infrequent for me. However his questions are derived from societal norms and his assumptions are fairly conventional—he only said what many others are afraid to ask.

You don’t need to ask why I’m single.
You don’t need to know the reasons why I’m single.
You don’t need to figure it out.
Period.

I am not psycho, a bitch, high-maintenance, or any other stereotypical reason we throw at women who are not in a relationship. There is nothing wrong with me—yet everyone wants to figure out why I don’t have a man.

She’s not in a relationship… must be something wrong with that one. Why is it taking her so long?

If I was a man I could be 43 and no one would be curious about my lack of settling down. There would be no cause for contention. Zero. I could be focusing on my career, waiting for the right woman, or hey… maybe a wife or kids just aren’t for me. No further questions asked. 

I am surrounded by gorgeous, amazing, driven women who are past 30, single and just trying to live. We don’t need your pity or your false presumptions on why we are without partners. Maybe we’re fucking hustling, maybe we’re holding out for fireworks, or maybe we really just are 100% all good by ourselves. Whatever the justifications may be—it's our business, not yours.

*DROPS MIC*