Say Something Funny...B*tch

‘You heard me.’  by Kate Ruppert

November 11, 2011

I’m in kinda a crappy mood.  I’m tired.  And y’all bitches know what happens when Mama gets tired:  I get sad-ish.  And that’s a power combo of emotions for me, and, at present, we’re edging our way into a serious May Day situation.  I have had so much crap going on lately that it’s like I’m watching myself from across the room or something.  And that’s not to imply that the things which have kept me occupied are crappy, but rather the fact that I’m occupied at all is crappy.  I just want to spend time alone, pronto.  This was my schedule this week just to give you an idea:

Monday:  Werk, then home to feed Smalls, then dinner in Hollywood (that’s, like, 9 miles away from Bungalow Ruppe after nightfall ON A SCHOOL NIGHT).  And yeah, that was the night of my Midwestern contingent—Indiana and Wisconsin represent!—and steak and vodka and a dope, creepy old manor with 13 bedrooms and tail-less kidden, but then I had to drag my black ass home and be productive because I still had ME shit to do and I like to be in the bed by 11:00 p.m. at the absolute latest, but this night, I got all the way to Leno’s musical guest.  Horseshit.

Tuesday:  Werk, and then home for a DP to the park for some tennis with Kimmiekins and then DP home for salads.  Turns out, Kimmie likes ranch dressing on her salad.  It would never have occurred to me that anyone would put ranch dressing on a salad.  Ever.  And I know she likes ranch because it’s been an issue before, but it wasn’t regarding a salad.  So I didn’t get her dressing and when it came time to enjoy our dinner, she couldn’t because hers was incomplete.  And I get it.  I totally get that.  And since I totally understand how disappointing it is to not enjoy your meal and not be able to do anything about it, I was super bummed out that I didn’t have what my guest needed and I internalized the bummed-outedness of it all because that’s what I do, and while I’ve recognized that as a personal flaw, it doesn’t make it any less frustrating.  And now Bungalow Ruppe offers ranch dressing as an option.

Wednesday:  Werk, then a DP in the park.  I haven’t been there in ages, and when I saw one of the Park Ladies, she gave me a hug and asked where I’d been.  When I told her I’d taken up tennis, she said she was hoping maybe I’d gotten a boyfriend.  Coincidentally, this was also the day I asked this guy to be my emergency fill-in for tennis this weekend because my tennis partner broke the news to me the night before that her husband got tickets to the Pacquiao fight in Vegas, and she has to go, so she can’t play at all this weekend, and this guy says no.  But not no, it was a non-committal no so he didn’t have to actually say no.  And right then and there, before the first half of the non-committal no was out his damn mouth, I regretted asking.  It was a glimmer of true color I can’t unsee and that bummed me out.  Aaaaaanyway, after my DP in the park where I informed the Park Lady that I did not, in fact, get a boyfriend, Smalls and I went next door to Swanny’s for our wine night because that’s what we do on Wednesdays.  And we watched The New Girl.  I love that show.  I’m thankful this character is on TV because if all us bitches be being honest with ourselves, I think we can all agree that she is the physical manifestation of every single one of our insecurities that we feel the need to change or apologize for in order to be happy or accepted or loved, yet she’s honestly and refreshingly confident that there is a guy out there who will happily accept and love her exactly as she is.  And she’s right.  I’ll support that shit ‘til the cows come home.

Thursday:  Werk, sit in painful Thursday Night Traffic (TNT) and then sushi for Kimmie’s birthday.  It was a fine day, but I ate too much sushi and I’m still pissed off about it.

Friday:  Werk while everyone else is observing a threekend.  And I’m PMSy.  It’s not the regular kind, I don’t get bitchy—that’s just me being me—I get mopey instead.  So much worse.  Everything makes me upset, I take everything personally, I can’t stand being around people because I just want everyone to shut the fuck up and I get upset with myself that I feel this way, and I just wanna go to bed.  I could go on for hours about people who feel comfortable enough to ask me why I’m in a bad mood and try to offer remedies, but then I would sound like a bitch, so we’ll save people’s lack of let-it-be for another time of the month.

Thankfully, it’s Friday, and while I have an equally busy weekend as I did werkweek, I can be as unapologetically stoned as I want and that makes a remarkable difference.  I have a great topic for next Friday that I will have plenty of time to write about because I’m making plenty of time for me this next week.  I would send you off with words of positivity, but instead I will get more pleasure out of letting you know that all y’all hoping for something remarkable to happen because it’s 11-11-11 should collectively exhale because it’s just a number, kids.  As such, there will be no amount of luck associated with bad decisions you make today, so make some good ones, just because it’s easier that way.  I’ll catch up with you next week.  I should be in a far better frame of mind. 

Maybe not.

You heard me. by Kate Ruppert

November 4, 2011

Okay, here’s the thing:  I don’t have much time.  Well, no, not true.  I have plenty of time for you, but Mama’s outta time to be thinking about what I’m about to write about.  You picking up what I’m putting down?  I’ll make it rull quick like, mmmmmkay? 

On Tuesday, I was suppose to have wine night with Swanny.  Usually, it’s on Wednesday, but Peaches in in town from New York where she moved very regrettably almost a year ago never to return to LA again, and out-of-town guests trump standing invitations with your next-door neighbor.  Anyway, on Tuesday, I canceled.  And it used to be very much like me to pull the plug on social plans, but now I don’t because it gained me a reputation I’d rather not have.  But this time I had to.  I had an annoyingly annoying day at work, and when I went for my DP to release my energy after said workday, I ended up making it worse.  I got suuuuuper stoned (like always) and I retreated into my own head.  Mayday.  I mean, ordinarily, taking a trip through my head is quite the expedition in itself, but, at the moment, I’m balls deep in how I get someone to notice and take me seriously when this someone probably doesn’t know my last name, and ugh, okay?  You feel me?  And the school-girl thoughts swirling up and around in there are not the normal kind where you start naming your children or what wedding dress you’ll wear—that’s unrealistic and high-school.  No, these are worse, more me-thoughts, much more attainable and approachable ones with a simple concept:  Interaction.  I’m a writer.  I love to write lines.  For every scenario.  Comebacks.  Low blows.  Admissions.  Scene stealers.  Rants.  And, in my head, I’ll take this shit somewhere that people could believe it would actually go.  And I get all wrapped up in the creative process and drama of where I’ve decided this unbeknownst-to-him imaginary relationship will end up that I turn a regular meet-cute into some crazy wonderland of thoughts that are RIDICULOUS.  And I know it’s not real and I know it’s completely insane.  This was one of those situations.  I was thinking of this guy, and thinking of this guy and thinking of this guy, and waking up at 5am to get a glass of iced tea because I don’t drink water and not being able to go back to sleep because I’d start thinking of this guy, and before you know it, the trash trucks are driving past my window, and it’s time to get up and, well, you get the idea.  It was getting to the point where I was finding that I was resenting him because there is no way on Earth he’s thinking about me as much as I him—again, in a very admittedly unreasonable fashion.  And I’m taking this DP through the park on Tuesday night, and I’m getting angry and depressed and insecure and mopey and everything else which goes with rejection because my logic started to kick the shit out of my imagination and I realized that expectations I didn’t even know I had were not being met, and I was punishing this refreshingly normal gentleman for something he hadn’t done.  Men—in case you didn’t know:  Based on personal research, the human female is the only breed on Earth who grows sullen the instant she gets a crush—and then we take it out on you.  I’MSOEXCITED!!!,it’llneverworkout,hemusthateme,I’mdepressed.  It’s a feeling that washes over us in such an instantaneous flash that we never feel it happen until it’s too late.  Until we’ve unconsciously pumped ourselves up with so much self-doubt that we sabotage whatever possible anything could ever possibly be happening between two people.  First of all, that’s why the Mans think we’re unbearably impossible to understand—and as a result, invest in, because you shouldn’t invest in something you don’t understand; and secondly, they’re right.  And at that moment, my right- and left-brain came to a powerful understanding and I snapped out of it.  Instantly.  Not only am I the only one who gets to determine how I feel about myself, but the amount of pressure I’m putting on a situation that is not even a situation is going to be the end of it if I don’t release This Poor Guy from the terms and conditions I’ve laid in a contract for him behind his back.  I can control how I feel about a situation, but I have no say over how he feels.  That’s his job.  I don’t want to be a hypocrite and tell you, week after week, that you are worth more than you could ever know and you are exactly the way you should be, and if a Man don’t want at that as-is, then you should want nothing to do with him, all the while pre-deciding that I’m not good enough for some guy who hasn’t had the opportunity to have a say.  How dare you or I allow someone else to determine the unchangeable fact that we’re pretty great and any Man worth his salt should be honored to call you his.  That said, I have mad crazy bad checks in my Con column.  I correct people.  Disgusting.  I’m declarative.  Annoying.  I’m above-and-beyond quirky.  Tedious.  But the fact of the matter is, it’s a part of who I am, just like having the last word and driving in the slow lane is a part of who you are.  None of that affects the fact that, in the grand scheme, and taking into consideration the kind of whack that is out there, you should ever doubt what you bring to the table or what you have to offer.   I got out of my own head right then and there because crushes are beyond fun.  And there’s just something about this one….  It’s best to take advantage of these moments while they happen—obviously, within respect and reason towards whatever your sitch.  I want you to know that I struggle, too, and sometimes to the point of the same crippling fear and insecurity that you experience and think no one else goes through.  I’m not saying that lightly.  Understand that, as Ladys, we’re prone to overthinking and irrationalization and emotional manipulation—oftentimes when we don’t know it’s happening.  But the second you’re noticing that you’re down in the dumps when you should be savoring the moment, assess why.  I’m guessing it’ll be because you’re all swirled up in your head and that’s no place for a Lady to roam on her own at night.  Be confident in who you are, be confident in what you have to offer, and be secure in knowing he will either embrace it or not, and that’s not something you can control. 

For those of you who don’t know, I stand in my kitchen to write this column because I’m too tall and I have too much leg to sit down anywhere in my house comfortably and do it.  So, I suppose we could call it an occupational hazard when I say that my drink has run dry and the vodka is but an arm’s length away and it seems foolish to let the convenience go to waste.  Am I right, or am I right?  So, Imma go and refresh my beverage while you all go on about whatever it is that people do outside the confines of idyllic Bungalow Ruppe.  I have a jam packed weekend of tennis (duh) and Ladytime.  Speaking of Bungalow Ruppe, this weekend It will fulfill Its prophecy and host a range of guests from a Lady I’ve known for 10 years to a friend whose girlfriend doesn’t like for us to hang out.  Dear Salty Girlfriend:  Get over yourself.  Aiite, y’all, be smart out there, and for the love of sweet, little baby Jesus, make good choices.  I’ll catch you on the flip side.  Speaking of flip side, don’t forget to set your clocks back an hour.  We get an extra hour of sleep this weekend!  Speaking of sleep, I wonder what that one guy is up to….

“You heard me.” by Kate Ruppert

(October 28, 2011)

I got an email from a best-good friend of mine about a not-so-good boy of hers.  I say hers…after this is over, I think we’ll all agree he’s best left in the past.  They’re in the starting stages of a legitimate relationship—not a third date, like, a relationship—and he sends her this email:  …blahblahblah…my ex-girlfriend lives in Thailand and I feel guilty about the flooding…blahblahblah…she is so close to the suffering and that distracts me….it feels unfair to bring you into a situation where I’m just not in a position to be as intimate as I’d like to…blahblahblah…but I would be really bummed to not spend time with you as I think you’re hilarious, a lot of fun to be around, and really inspiring…blahblahblah…Chad.  And, no, that’s not his real name.  But similar in taste.  My girl asked for advice.  So, I replied to her series of emails with this: 

He is in no place to have a girlfriend.  I can appreciate his honesty, but he’s basically saying he’s into you, but not enough to make the choice to move on from his last relationship.  I don’t really care what kind of act of God has him all wrapped up in blue, but the fact of the matter is, it’s not his girlfriend anymore, and saying he feels guilty about a fucking tsunami is like my being emotionally unable to date a Jew because I feel so guilty about the Holocaust.  Like, it makes no sense whatsoever.  And if he were a prepubescent and angst-ridden 13-year-old, fine whatever, they’re prone to irrational thought, feelings of woe and juvenile emotional handicaps regarding women. But at this point in our lives, the last thing you need to be dealing with is an adult male whose irrational emotions have him unable to move past his ex which leaves you in the lurch.  That’s a Lady’s job to be crazy in the head like that.  And if you’re any sort of normal Lady, you should be able to see the WTF surrounding his emotional state, and that his baggage is more than just baggage; it’s an ongoing, self-destructive distraction and his town ain’t big enough for the both of you.  When you’re dating a Man, there should be no other Lady distractions.  I’m not saying he’s a bad guy, but I am saying that he’s not ready to be dating you.  And that sucks, because I’ll bet you like him, and I’ll bet he’s okay, too.  But a lot of great guys are unavailable.  And the fact of the matter is, he’s unavailable.  He may think he’s ready, willing and able, but he’s not.  And just because he’s being honest about it doesn’t mean it’s something you need to stick around for.   Let him get his shit together.  He doesn’t have it together right now, and I’d take his email as a gracious out.  Don’t take yourself off the market in hopes; go on about your merry life and be open to his return when and if it happens. 

She replied in a more diplomatic nature than I did, and then Chad sent another email:  …blahblahblah…I can understand why you would want to vilify me, but I’ve tried to be as straightforward with you as possible…blahblahblah….

Fucking Chad.  I responded to her again:   Ohhhhhkay.  I see.  Well, first off, he’s an LB.  Little Bitch.  And that sucks, because Chad can be a masculine, sexy name.  Or an LB.  Coulda gone either way.  But then he used the word ‘vilify’ as if you’ve implied his importance and/or disappointment is on par with a political or religious leader.  LB.  His back-to-back emails at 11:03pm and 11:15pm are geeeeeeeniuuuuuussss!  So…take-that!-air-quote-and-another-thing!  LB.  Hey Guy, we get it, you’re upset.  It’s weird you send this, because on the way into work this morning, I saw your email, and my first thought was:  What if I’m being too hard on the Guy?  What if it’s okay that he’s sad and guilty over flooding in a foreign land that may or may not be affecting his Thailandian ex-girlfriend?  And then, I reconsidered my reconsideration and I jolted back and realized no, fucking no. I don’t care what kinna benefit of the doubt I’m supposed to give, I just feel like he’s an LB and the Mans have a baaaaaaad habit of using the Ladys as their emotional or sexual crutch while simultaneously remaining emotionally and sexually absent until the day he burns you and goes back to where he left his emotions and desire: His old girlfriend, wife, life, drugs, fortune.  And you know what?  Peace, homie.  He don’t want you full-force gale, then you need to move on.  And, after reading your recent email thread, it turns out I’m right after all. Again.

And then the emails stopped.  Mans, you’ve gotta be careful.  Not all us Ladys are cray-cray.  Many of us are just Basic Lady Crazy (BLC):  PMS, mother issues and food issues.  All those features are stock.  That’s the kinda Lady you want.  Throw in she’s funny, and you’re on to something.  Throw in she’s kinda cute and you’re ahead of the pack.  Throw in she’s kinda smart and you’ve made out like a bandit.  But, speaking of making out, if you’re gonna get all wrapped up-and-then-some in the Lady to the point you’re seeing one another every day for 2 weeks, and only one another every day for 2 weeks, and then you shoot her an email and let her know that a natural disaster halfway across the world has you missin’ your old boo and you hope you can stop what you have had the past couple weeks and just be friends, because you think she’s pretty much awesome, except that she’s not your ex-girlfriend…, then, there is a much bigger problem here.

I’m gonna take the side of Ladys who are not, in fact, the kind of crazy to stay away from.  We’re the kind who tries really hard to be as normal as we can to break the cycle from the past women you’ve dealt with, but we can’t control your baggage, and unfortunately, more and more these days, you Mans are rollin’ deep in the baggage and you’re all so emotional, that we can’t win.  Because, like it or not, we’re emotional, and there can’t be two of us.  Figure your shit out; and don’t come around until you have.  Leave all this baggage behind.  You’re 28, 29, 30, 35, some of you are 40 and you’re not getting any younger.  This looking back to what you had that clearly didn’t work because it’s in your past is not going to do much for your future.  And besides all that—which is pure logic and annoying that we still need to go over the point—you need to understand that when you’re balls deep in a relationship with one of us legit Ladys only to let us know no, nevermind, you’re actually not into it, and we should just be friends, then we get a little gun shy.  After that happens a few times, we stop putting ourselves out there, because ending up looking foolish is such a miserable feeling, and we won’t give you the opportunity to get that far; and before you know it, you’re on the other side of a table from a Lady who wants more than anything for you to make it clear you’re into her-and-only-her so we can get the show on the road and attempt a normal relationship, but until then, won’t open up, and all you’re thinking is:  Is she into me?  Can’t have it both ways.  If you’re going to claim to be straightforward, then be that way.  Make your intentions known, let us know where stand.  Ask us out, mean it, show up and check your past at the door.  If you’re not ready—or if you even think you’re not ready—don’t make your move and be gracious enough to understand that we’re probably not going to want to be friends should you assert you’re not into it anymore—much like you would not want to be friends with us were we to let you know we’re still into our ex-boyfriend.  Is that clear enough for you?

Okay, that’s all she wrote.  I’m having, like, this mental battle over that one guy, and the Mrs is coming to town this weekend and I need a steak because I feel weak—not really, I just crave red meat and I want a dirty martini or three ASAP.  All that combined can take its toll.  I’m gonna get up on outta here and get to it, but I want to leave you with a few parting words for all my beezys out there who look at the gene pool we’re left to fish in and wonder how we’re gonna find anyone let alone one who wants to be with us as much as we want to be with him:   You’re too good, too valuable to have to put up with any Man who doesn’t think of you first and often.  Period.  On that note, have an amazing Halloween weekend.  I’ll be kicking it at Bungalow Ruppe  because I’m far too insecure  to be around drunk, scantily clad women claiming whatever they’re wearing qualifies as a costume.  Don’t accept candy from or go home with strangers.  Make good choices and live to tell about them.  Mama loves you.  Oooh, especially that one guy. You heard me.

“You heard me.” by Kate Ruppert

(October 14, 2011)

So, a lotta shit happened this week.  None of it happened to me, but all of it happened to other people I know, and you never like seeing bad or unfortunate shit happen to people you know.  And on top of that, me and all my Beezys are on our collective periods.  You heard me.  Because—and this is for all you Mans out there—when Ladies spend enough time together, eventually Aunt Flow rolls into town to visit everyone at the same time.  Not kidding.  And when you and all your girls are cranky and feeling insecure and fat and broken-out and ugly and our chi chis hurt so badly we have to walk gently, it sets a general tone that is difficult to escape and impossible to embrace, so for the past 10ish days, life’s planetary shitstorm has aligned and the road has been bumpy.  But Imma rally.  For you.  Because I love each and every single one of you.  Except for that one guy….

I have a couple things to address—both of which were special requests—but I’ll be brief, I swear, on the lives of both my Kidden and my cocktail.

#1:  Dating a guy from LA vs. dating a guy not from LA.  Uhhh, I think it’s a crap shoot.  Each demographic has its own ‘thing.’  In general—because I don’t date, so I’m speaking in wide-sweeping sociological terms—I feel like people born and bred in LA will remain here, as has their family for generations, as such, their family is close.  Seeing people around their families is a huge tell.  You need tells when vetting a mate—this is a good one to have at your fingertips.  I would say that men not from LA have a deeper sense of tradition, reverence and respect.  That’s a social trifecta that, having lived here for 10 years, I can say is lacking to a noticeable degree.  Almost to the point of a turnoff.  And I don’t have many turnoffs with regard to LA.  Unlike, say, my parents, who are convinced I will be a selfish, single, brat as long as I’m living here.  Maybe they’re onto something.  Uhh, what else….  Guys not from LA are less likely to be metro.  I have a gay brother.  Straight Men in LA are gayer than he is.  I mean, it’s like asking if I like blondes or brunettes.  I can’t answer that; I have to see him and shake his hand to know if I think he’s a viable prospect, whether he’s from LA or not.  Neither option is a “con” or a deal breaker.  I dunno.  I think in the fields of being more well-adjusted and rooted in reality, you’re gonna want to tread with caution when finding out your potential Boo is LA-born-and-bred.  Shiny things should make you nervous…there’s usually a catch or price to be paid.  LA is a pretty shiny place.

Nextly and lastly, this article I read today at the behest of a fan.  You know who you are.  Here:  http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/#.TpQ9RHu88DQ.facebook  No, actually, don’t read it.  Not only will it take you 4 hours to complete because it’s the most boring article in the world, it’s ironically very easily summed up:  In this day and age, being a single Lady for the rest of your days on Earth is just as valid and fulfilling a future as being in a relationship that may leave you wanting more for the rest of your days.  Okay, so about that:  No.  Like, no, not at all.  First of all, this day in age is irrelevant to the argument.  People are people, and relationships are relationships.  They have no day and age.  And people want to love people and relationships want to last forever.  It’s the way of the world.  It just is.  Just because it’s not working out for you doesn’t mean it’s an already-passed-trend.  I’ve been single for a length of time that could be measured in years.  It is what it is.  But at no point have I thought:  What if I’m like this forever?  What if this is just how it’s gonna be?  It’s so depressing.  Why would any one of you Ladies just give in?  How could any of you even think that at some point—and while you’re still alive, coherent and vibrant—you may as well throw in the towel?  I don’t give a shit if you’re 45 and single…are you telling me you have never heard of a woman who is 45 and a bride?  Ever?  If anything along the timeline has changed about people and relationships, it’s that people are getting out of the gate a lot later in life, and their relationships are timed in tandem with that.  I don’t want you reading this bullshit.  I don’t want you comparing yourself with what your peers are doing.  I want you to be you and go on about things the way you’re gonna go on about things—just do how you do like you do how you do.  It doesn’t matter how many of your Facebook friends are “in a relationship, “ or “engaged(!!)” or “blessed to announce our new miracle,” or “running a marathon tomorrow.”  Does.  Not.  Matter.  Be happy for them.  Be excited for them.  Be supportive of them.  But do not measure yourself against them.  You are you.  You are moving at your own pace.  And you will get there when you get there.  At the time you’re supposed to get there.  Enough of this wallowing.  And on the flip side, get out your own way in order to facilitate the process.  Consider dating a guy who doesn’t have the job you think he should have.  Consider dating a guy who doesn’t look the way you thought he’d look.  Consider dating a guy who doesn’t dress like he ought to.  Consider dating a guy who will never buy you the things you don’t really need to have.  There’s a difference between being picky and being choosy.  Choosy is a very undesirable female trait, as it’s usually paired with indecision, and indecision is a deal-breakingly horrific female trait.

Aiite, that’ll do it!  I told myself one bowl to write this column, and Mama’s all smoked out, so time’s up.  Today begins the one week countdown to my birthday.  I love my birthday.  I hate to celebrate my birthday, but I love having a birthday.  I love going out to dinner more than anything in the universe, and on your birthday, you get to have control over two things:  Who is involved, and where you go.  I love power like that.  And y’all bitches have one long week to hope you make the cut.  While you’re holding your breath, I’ll be exhaling and setting in to a weekend of tennis, lounging, manicuring and consuming.  Oh, I’ll also not be going to have a column next week, on account it’s my birthday.  I’ll try and check in, but, maybe on this one, don’t hold your breath.  Okay, remember what I say a different way every week:  Make good choices, but if you don’t, be prepared to deal with the Consequences.  And rumor has it, Connie is a real bitch.       

‘You Heard Me!” by Kate Ruppert

(September 30th, 2011)

I haven’t much for you today, but I don’t want to disappoint. Besides, you’ve come all this way. Smalls Notes this week, it’s been a doozie and I’m ready to smoke a bowlski and go to bed—one more sleep until a super dope weekend starring four of my favorite Beezys. The Notes below are snippets of discussions, dramas, counsels and sessions I’ve had since our last chat. Buckle up. 

Men are 100% visual beings. If you have the ugliest face the Lord’s ever crafted, yet wear the shortest skirt Forever 21 has ever sold, men will want you.  And in an inappropriate way. Men’re dogs; Ladies, resist feeding the beast. Put some clothes on, or you’re gonna end up married to some bastard who treats you as well as you dress. 

You get 24 hours. Bad mood? Boy broke up with you? Hate your parents? Jury summons?  Red light ticket?  Overdrawn account?  Didn’t get any of the Target Missoni? Then I want you to get it out. Let ‘er rip. Express yourself. Cry. Stomp. Be an asshole. Swear like a sailor and smoke like me.   Whatever. But when hour 25 strikes, you’re done. It’s time to move on. Check that shit at the door, be thankful it wasn’t worse and focus your energies on the people, places, tasks and things that not only require, but deserve, your time. You’ll need to move forward or move on; either way, move. 24 hours.  You heard me. 

If you wouldn’t do it in front of your Boo, then don’t do it. Period. We’re all flirty. It’s the way of our people. Flirty leads to all sorts of actions and most of them are along the road to danger. If you get a little happy and smack some Lady on the tush with a ping pong paddle, fine. If you get a little happy and smack some Lady on the tush with a ping pong paddle AND you have a girlfriend, not fine. Pretend your Lady is watching and think through your Stupid. Behave yourselves; lock that shit up.  Ladies, same goes for you.  Flirting is our secret power, but you need to harness that power and save it for a later time if you’re with a guy who should assume you’re not flirting with another.  You dig? 

And Men, it’s not your fault. Someone asked me why it is that Bitches be cracee. It’s simple: Men drive us to crazy. Not because of what they do or don’t do, even. Just because they…are. We’ll take whatever a guy says and translate it; before you know it, we’ve become unnecessarily celebratory, unnecessarily jealous, unnecessarily angry, unnecessarily distrustful, unnecessarily disappointed, unnecessarily hopeful, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. We do that. That’s on us. Further, once we’ve developed these crazy ideas of ours, and let them marinate (as with foods, sometimes it doesn’t take long for a marinade to change things forever), we will make it your problem should things not go according to plan.  We’re crazy.  WE ARE ALL CRAZY IN THE HEAD, all you can do is hope and pray that you land one of us who understands, accept and uses her powers manipulation for good. 

Alright, that’s it. See, short and sweet. I’m not here to waste your time. I respect your time, as I wish you to respect mine. Which is why I’ve gotta bounce. As I may have mentioned, I have one of the better weekends in recent planning history on tap and I’d like to get the show on the road.  In the meantime, over the weekend and until we meet again, don’t be the girl we all hate.  Make good choices, stiff drinks and final decisions.  Mama loves each and every one of you.  Except for that one guy.

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(September 23rd, 2011)

I’m jumping right in; I have shit to do and a drink to make.   

Monday, one of my girls comes and tells me that her man has been cheating on her for 4 months.  Now, I say “Her Man,” but what I really mean is her “Baby Daddy and would-be-fiance-were-it-not-for-his-unreasonable-insistence-on-a-pre-nup.”  She’s staying with him for all sorts of reasons—and we can all agree that we will create a reason or excuse for whatever we need to rationalize or excuse, and there is but little wiggle room in our willingness to, perhaps, choose a different path or heed advice or warnings.  Further, until we are IN the situation ourselves, we cannot say how we would handle it.  That said—and having been in the situation myself—I need to make something very clear:  You will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, never, ever be able to look at that Man again and trust a thing out of his mouth the way you did every second up until the one where you found out he’s been sleeping with another woman. 

Ladies, I hear you say that you hate men.  Like, all of the time.  And so damn many of you say it. Also, it’s the reason you’re still single.  There is nothing like a bitter 30-year-old Lady to keep the Mans at bay.  And you hate them because they don’t like you, but why would anyone like you if you’re always saying how much you hate Mans…anyway, for another time….  You hate Men.  Don’t do that.  Don’t punish all men for what YOUR man has done.  You can hate your man.  And you should for a good minute. Be mad.  Be beyond mad.  Feel foolish. Feel hurt and embarrassed and rejected and low and insulted. Feel that shit. Do NOT let him off the hook because you’re gonna go numb and fake being strong because it’s easier and because somehow, in our LadyBrains, being cool about bullshit shit makes us feel less foolish than we have every right to feel.  You know when you’re walking down the street and you trip and almost fall on your face but catch yourself from a full fall at the last minute all the while you totally stubbed and maybe broke your toe and you’re definitely gushing blood in your shoe, but you play off your immeasurable pain like it was nothing in the hopes no one saw it because it’s so embarrassing you’d rather just pretend it didn’t happen?  Unfortunately still, there is but one teensy little fact that cannot be clouded by the emotion of the situation:  You broke your toe and it needs to be addressed.  He needs to know he fucked up. He needs to freak the fuck out about getting caught. He needs to beg to do anything to keep you, and you need the tell him what he can do is be gone by the time you get home from work. He decided to keep you in the dark about how he felt and what he was doing, but he should not be extended the same courtesy.  Shine the light on how you feel. Shine the light on what he’s done to his family and your trust. Shine the light on how things will continue from here. Do not keep him in the dark. Make things crystal clear.  Because not all men cheat, but those who do will surely do it again. And if they don’t cheat again, they’ll lie about something else. You should want to try and tolerate most of what is Man. They’re really not that bad. But one thing that is dealbreakingly intolerable is lying.  And those who deceive—men and women alike—deceive. It’s the way of their people. Don’t ever rationalize that with yourself.           

Gentlemen, on to you:  You need to be giving us a little more credit. We’re big girls and we’ve been dealing with your Man Shit Bullshit for a really long time, either through fathers, brothers or fucks like you. We can take a hit. If you’re not into it anymore, let us know. A break-up is worse than a find-out any day of the week. If you’re bored or secretly resentful or really just want to be getting it from someone somewhere else, or you’re, like, “not sure,” then go do it; get it out of your system, Boo.  But let us know you won’t be needing these things from us anymore; ambivalence is very, very, very, very, super overrated. And I can promise that you’d rather we’re pissed because you dumped us, rather than pissed because we found out that you cheated. 

Okay, so that’s it for this week.  I have Thai food on the way, and a Kidden who won’t shut the f*ck up which can only mean one thing:  She must need a drink as badly as I do.  Imma’go.  I hope y’all bitches have a tremendous weekend.  It’s fall, y’all!  My most favorite, and not because it’s my birthday, but because you burn more calories when you’re cold, and since I leave my windows open 365 days a year, Smalls and I are always skinnier during the colder months.  Everybody wins!  I’ll be back here next week—maybe, I have a crazy week on the horizon, and I may phone it in; haven’t decided—but in the meantime, go tear up the town and cut a rug, or whatever you kids do these days, and keep one thing in mind:  Make good choices and drink responsibly.  Unless you’re in the confines of your own home like I’ll be, then you can drink as irresponsibly as you’d like. 

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You Heard Me! by Kate Ruppert

(September 16th, 2011)

This is gonna be a Small Note today.  I think.  I mean, I wasn’t gonna write much of anything, but then I had a perfect powerwalk through both the commercial and residential areas of my neighborhood with a best-good friend the other night, and she told me a great story, and I had the moment every writer gets where I, literally, had to say aloud:  “I know what I’m going to write about.” I just dunno how long it’ll take me to get my point across before I’m either tired of hearing myself talk, or I decide I’ve said all I need to say.  You never know which is going to come first with me.  Sometimes, I feel like beating a dead horse with a stick; but then sometimes, I’m very quick to throw in the towel because I realize I’m on a road to nowhere.  Afterall, quitting is different from quitting while you’re ahead.  But that’s another chat for another time.  Now.  Let’s go. 

Really, very simply, say yes.  Decide to go with it.  Step outside the box, outside the comfort zone and outside yourself for a hot minute, just long enough to see that standing still because you’re standing in your own way isn’t doing you any favors.  And I don’t just mean agreeing to do something you’d rather not, but just doing something you wouldn’t normally.  Last weekend, I was playing tennis.  That’s my new thing.  On Saturdays and/or Sundays, I play for an hour with my friend.  Only the one friend, and only at the park I like.  But I’m committed.  Three months ago, I spent the entire weekend every weekend on my couch with my Kidden and no interest whatsoever in pursuing a physical activity.  Now, I have gear, a routine, a left-handed backhand, and a fierce forehand.  Last week, I told my tennis partner that not in a gazillion years did I ever think I’d be spending my weekends playing tennis instead of being lazy.  Laughable.  But here I am, obsessed.  And so excited I stepped outside my box and agreed to do it.  Years ago, and after being single for years, I joined Match.com because I was so tired of telling people why I didn’t want to join, that I joined, so I could say why I didn’t like it.  And that’s exactly what happened.  I hated it just as much as I thought I would—just awful, and immediately—but I tried it.  These are just examples; you don’t have to be like me.  Whatever.  Take it all in, take it in stride.  You don’t have to commit to any hobby or relationship or competition or friendship, but consider it all an opportunity.  You were presented with it for a reason, small or large, so it behooves you to embrace it.  If it doesn’t work out, try again the next time something else comes along.  If you believe in God, you would trust He put whatever in front of you for a reason.  If you believe in fate, you understand that everything happens for a reason.  Say yes.  I promise that’s the path you want to go down.  It may not work out, but you looked into it.  You may hate it, but you looked into it.  You may realize half way down that you should be going down another path, but at least you looked into it.  Obviously, I speak within reason.  Drugs?  Just say no.  Go on a date with a guy you actually really like, but pre-decided not to date because you work with him?  Maybe, instead, just say yes.          

And just say thank you.  To my girl kimmerbelle10 whose story inspired my “I know what I’ll write about” lightbulb.  We have been friends for a very long time, if we use the Los Angeles Standard for Relative Friendships, or LASRF.  And we were friends first during formative times.  Early-20s, retail jobs, glitzy zip code, pretentious surroundings, and different but compatible personalities neither one of us understood needed to be schooled, tamed and honed or they’d get us nowhere.  Then, 7ish years later, after a whole lotta shit had done shaked on out of our system, a whole lotta friends had been severed from our ties and a whole lotta insecurities had been realized, accepted, embraced and/or checked, we fell back into a routine that has the same compatible personalities, the same quirk, the same comfort and the same honesty, but none of the same immaturity, and none of the same drama.  I’m thankful for it daily—as I am all my friendships, of which there are, maybe, nine—and, for that reason, I’ll never forsake Facebook because it brought us back together.  On an unrelated note, Imma make an iced coffee with Bailey’s, pick a playlist and walk over to Bloomingdale’s for some new fake diamond studs because I lost mine last weekend when I was tubing on the lake.  I’ve taken the day off because I’m tired.  You know how some people turn into f*cks when they don’t eat?  Well, not me; I can go for days on end without eating and still manage to run every night and drink like a fish and come out 10 pounds lighter on the other side—you heard me—but I turn into a f*ck when I don’t sleep. My mom wouldn’t let me go to sleepovers as a kid because she didn’t want to have to deal with me the day after I stayed up past a reasonable hour.  You can ask her.  As such, I’ve used a vacation day, of which I have plenty, to take the time for myself.  And my cocktail(s).  And my Kidden.  I’m also getting a massage later today.  In my living room.  I’ll be around, but I leave it to you to make good choices, as, clearly, I’m not in a state to do so.  Have a brilly weekend, and I’ll catch you on the flip side. 

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You Heard Me!  by Kate Ruppert(September 9, 2011)

Me:  Hi.  I just asked Guillermo for breakfast tomorrow…25 people, quiche, fruit salad and OJ.  Just so you know.  And so I  know…you fine?  I haven’t seen you in awhile, and it kinda bums me out. 

Other Person:  Thanks for the biz.

It helps the kitchen tremendously when they have a little more notice. Of course we’ll have everything for you tomorrow.

I’m fine, although I took a little offense at one of your emails a few days back. Nothing serious, but since you asked…

Truthfully, I’ve been crazy busy and I’ll make sure to stop by tomorrow. 

Me:  I’m really upset that I upset you. I know exactly what email it was, and I’m so sorry my bitchy receptionist routine was, perhaps, ill-timed. It is just a routine, though; I never mean to offend, and I really do apologize. Please come by tomorrow so you can call me a bitchy receptionist to my face, and we can go back to our old ways.  

Other Person:  (crickets for days ….) 

The Captain instilled that the three most important words you can say are not “I love you,” but “I was wrong.”  A lot of what we discuss has to do with checking your ego before wrecking your relationships.  Being able to hear that you have upset someone—whether you see it as valid or not is beside the point—and then make moves to fix the problem speaks volume about the extent to which you’ll allow your ego to get in the way of your life.  And so we’re clear, your ego is for sure getting in the way.  The above email is real, though I changed a few names.   

I ruffled someone.  It happens.  I work in an office with 150 mostly-men who think they’re the only ones who’ve asked the questions they’ve asked or offered the commentary they’ve offered or made the mess they’ve made.  It takes a f*ckton of patience and even more sassy to cope on a daily basis.  And sometimes I’m reeeeally sassy.  And sometimes, I’ll get checked.  When it gets to that point, I’m probably in the wrong.  But, like I’ve said before, not because I said what I said, but of how I said it.  When this situation presents itself, I usually owe someone an apology.  I did in this case.  But, for the record, this “Other Person” was being a little bitch—nay, IS a little bitch—and my “offensive” comment was dead-f*cking-on which is why it caused the days-long silent treatment.  Which brings me to my next quick point.  The giving and receiving of an apology.    

If we’re having an argument, discussion or an apology-forgiveness situation, it helps to have the goal of resolution.  It’s super super easy to resolve a conflict, too.  Like, suuuuuuuper easy.  And I know you probably think I speak as if I live in some sort of idyllic bubble, but I say this, not only as a certified peer mediator (Centennial High School, 1997 – 1999),but also as someone who has managed disgusting corporate retail in this God-forsaken town and it doesn’t get more consistently contentious than that.  I get bitchy fights, and I get petty shit, and I get gossip and trying to retrace your comments to figure out how an innocuous conversation gets turned into something someone somewhere reports to HR.  I’m not referring to anything of importance.  It’s not the important stuff that undoes us.  It’s the little things.  Daily life is overwhelmed with conflict—it’s everywhere.  Behind backs, behind closed doors, behind the wheel, out in the open, listed under “bcc” and dished at Happy Hour.  Conflict over big things is a foregone conclusion if there isn’t patience and humility for the little things. I’m trying to catch you before you get there.  You upset someone every single day.  Rationally or irrationally, doesn’t matter.  You’re not always going to catch it, but there’s no reason to be aware of it and choose not to handle it.  It’s not worth the negative environment; it’s not worth the effect to your daily operation and it’s certainly not worth what it does to your other relationships—either because your mutual path-crossings will become strained or because when you continue failing to recognize being in the wrong, every relationship you have will suffer, just, in general.  If you piss someone off, apologize.  What if you don’t know if you upset someone?  You know.  We always know.  There is nothing weird about asking, either.  Is something up?  Have I done something to upset you?  It’s a pretty loaded question.  If the answer is yes or otherwise honest, then you have a possible challenge on your hands.  But you approached it head on, and all you can do is hope the person is honest.  I got lucky.  I got honesty, and I’m so thankful I did because this Other Person has become a part of my landscape as it were, and I didn’t like that it had changed all of the sudden.  It was important to me to look into it.  Make it important to you.  Be okay with recognizing when you’re wrong.  Be okay with accepting when you’re wrong.  Be okay with apologizing when you’re wrong.  And just because you are wrong doesn’t mean the other person is right, it only means you’re willing to understand that the other person doesn’t see whatever it is however you see it—a joke, a point of view, a character trait, a business idea. 

But also, y’all Mans don’t have to act like jerks. You each have enough of that in you innately. You don’t gotta turn that shit up to 11. When a Lady apologizes to you, respond.  Be gracious.  Don’t be the dickhead who can’t be bothered to acknowledge—there is little worse than being dismissed.  And that is not a commentary on the above emails, it’s a response to behavior.  Speaking of annoying, I have an annoying weekend ahead.  It’s not worth going into.  I just want it to be over, quite honestly, so I can look forward to the next weekend when I will be making no plans whatsoever.  In fact, if I have plans with you next weekend and you’re reading this, this is an official cancelation of whatever I agreed to do—unless you’re that one guy.  Which brings me to my next point:  I’m annoyed that I’m still typing this.  Have a good weekend, you brats.  Do not dress like sluts and do make good choices.

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YOU HEARD ME!!  by Kate Ruppert

(September 2nd, 2011)

I have something fun to tell you!  And it’s not about snacks, y’all!!  It’s about our upcoming threekend!!  I bet you forgot.  Well, I’m here to remind you about our fastly-approaching day of rest.  Normally, when I send an email like this, I’ll take to Wikipedia prior to sending as a proactive strike against argument; you precious angels love your Wiki and you’re seemingly in an implied race against time to send me a link that will correct an error or highlight an anecdote. But when it comes to threekends, prize money, my ex-boyfriend and/or too-good-to-be-true diet crazes, I’m likely to do my own Wikipedia’ing.  So I did.  Labor Day…my favorite.  Mostly because it’s Smalls’ birthday.  But also because it’s the start of football season, and I get to hear about all your Fantasy Football league names; it’s the start of college football, too, so the USC-themed smack talk is kinda outta control, and I love it; and NCAA kick-off…can you say “Lakers”?  I can.  I can also say “Celtics.”  But that’s neither here nor there.  The point of all this is to let you know that football, Kiddens, basketball and labor unions all recognize this weekend as an important time to focus on what’s real: Time of Leisure.  I know many of you have takin’ it to the streets already, but for those of you with travel ahead, be safe.  For those of you like me and Smalls with no plans whatsoever ahead, be safe as well…and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. 

Go’on, getouttahere.  See you perfects on Tuesday.

This is the email I sent to my office yesterday.  And it’s the email I’m sending you today.  It’s a threekend, Ladies, and as such, I’m checked out.  Completely.  I have to vacuum my house, change the litter box, go to the market and buy weed, and then my threekend will be ready to get underway.  I bought five new tennis skirts and I have 2 games this weekend.  I’m looking very forward to pounding the shit outta some balls.  You heard me.  Also, Smalls doesn’t know it’s her birthday, even though I told her; I got her a screen door as a gift.  She has no idea how excited she should be.  So much stuff going on.  Okay, so, Imma go.  Have an amazing threekend, and maybe next week I’ll have something of substance for you.  Maybe not.  I’ll let you know next week.

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A while ago, some guy asked me out.  It doesn’t happen often.  Well, to be honest, it doesn’t happen at all.  Ever.  This was an official first-time-ever situation where a potentially legitimate Man approached me and literally pitched himself to me, fully confident I’d be sold, hook, line and sinker.  I was so taken off guard that I was kinda speechless.  No, not kinda, I simply did not know what on Earth to say.  He was good-looking, employed, age-appropriate, charming….  However, this is LA, and every guy whom I’ve ever met here has a catch.  His catch:  He’s is a celebrity chef.  And that doesn’t mean much these days in this town; it seems like you can butter toast and consider yourself a celebrity chef, but this guy is one for reals, and I have no interest in dating anyone who has a following, a reputation or an agent.  Veto.  That’s asking for trouble and drama, and  it’s an open invitation for being blindsided and/or made a fool.  Having been in that sort of situation once before, it’s only something you get yourself into one time—it’s far from what it’s cracked up to be.  Also, all this is beside the point.  And none of that is to say I didn’t eat up our 30 minutes together with a spoon.  He would have been my meal ticket, no pun intended.  All I’ve ever wanted is to be a wife and raise some very lucky Man’s kids and never work another day in my life.  This was my chance.  You heard me.  While I was charmed and intrigued and beyond flattered, I wasn’t all that interested.  He handed me his card, with a phone number scrawled on the back, and I let it marinate.  But I didn’t let it marinate, really, because I wasn’t interested right away.  Intrigued, but not interested.  Big difference.  He comes around often.  Almost-daily.  In his handsome, white chef’s coat.  And his German accent.  And his blue eyes.  But, nah.  I mean, it’s cool that he was all into me, but it ended there.  He can heap it on as thick as he’d like, but he’s not really my thing.  And I don’t even have a “thing,” but whatever he is, it’s not me.  Here’s the point of this anecdote:  He does this celebrity-chef-charming-Euro thing at my office, in front of my coworkers.  He always asks—nay, begs—for “just one date,” and when he abandons the mission for the time being, my coworkers will ask what is going through my head that I don’t wanna go on a date with this guy.  And here’s what’s going through my head:

It’s not okay to go out with a guy you know likes you if you know you don’t like him.  Like, why?  For a free dinner?  So someone might see you two out?  Because you have a cute dress you’ve wanted to try out?  No, Ladies.  Not because you want to try that new sushi place, not because you needed a date to the wedding, not because you want to get laid, not for any reason.  It’s shallow, it’s deliberate and there are other options—perhaps some are less comfortable, more expensive or lonlier, but none of them hurt anyone or anything but you and your ego. Let’s get over it.   Remember a couple weeks ago I said that I was talking to my friend about knowing when to “use your Girl”?  Well, this is not one of those times.  Using your girl works when you need someone in the lumber department to cut your crown molding without charging you the fee usually charged to cut crown molding.  Using your girl is when you want a tea refill at a restaurant that charges for refills, but you could probably charm your way to a free one.  Using your girl is when you’re at Subway and you compliment the sandwich artist for how beautiful your $5-footlong is, and he decides not to charge you for the extra cheese and/or avocado.  Save your Girl for occasions that make you look good without injury, not for situations that portray you as the stereotype you should want to avoid.  I can promise you that our people don’t need any help in the area of seeming needy and manipulative.  Both things Men think we all are. Both things incredibly negative and avoidable.  And, this just in, going on dates with Men you’re not really interested in takes you off the market for the Men you may be interested in—or who may be interested in you. 

Aiite.  Mama’s tapped out.  I’ll even tell you why:  Smalls has fleas.  For those of you playing along at home, Smalls has no fur, so the flea thing is a mystery of magnificent proportion.  Like, I don’t understand where, how, why, nothing about it makes sense.  But it’s a fact, and as such, Mama’s house has fleas, so I needed to bomb the house.  But when you bomb a house for fleas, you need to remove all pets.  Well, WTF do I do with this Kidden while my house is fumigated?  Gotta take her to work.  And then after the bomb is done bombing, you have to clean the house, top-to-bottom, before you return to the confines of its 3-regular-and-1-round wall.  So I had to call my once-a-year cleaning lady, Mayra, to come in after the bomb and do the cleaning because Mama doesn’t have that kinda energy this second, but this shit needs to get done.  But Mayra is not cheap, and Mama also doesn’t have the reserves to just call her up, so it required planning.  And by “planning” I mean I had to win my office So You Think You Can Dance draft.  And I did.  $100…easy come, easy go.  So, all the logistical stars were aligned, and now my life is flea-free, clean, weekend-approachable, car-finally-serviced’d and I am mentally checking out as of….now.  So, y’all Bitches can run on out there, tear some shit up and let me know how it goes.  And I’ll let you know what, maybe, you should have done differently.  At least try to make good choices, but if you can’t manage that, I’ll be here next week to talk you through the fall out.