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'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

I for sure don’t have a column for you this week.  It’s been a week, y’all.  That’s all I can say.  Even trying to think about having to come up with something is tiring.  I think if I got paid to be here, I’d care more, but I don’t, and the job that does pay me is requiring a fuckton of my time.  I have dinner plans tonight that I’m about to cancel because I just want to go home and sit down for the day.  Sorry.  I’m not putting you off, promise.  Next week won’t happen either.  Don’t kill me, but I have a wedding in Indiana for my best girl, Alisha, and I can’t have multiple activities.  I get overwhelmed.  My Kidden is sick, and I just spent $300 at the vet to get her x-rays and an antibiotic; coincidentally, I also just spent $29 on a handle of voddy, and, much like people schedule sex, I schedule time without other people and that time is now.  I need to regroup and stay hush for a minute, and I’ll be back in a bit.  Aiite, you know how, in the old days, TV shows used to have a season finale, and then there would be a hiatus during the summer and there would be NOTHING to watch until, like, September, and there was none of this mid-season replacement bullshit?  Well, I won’t make you wait until September, but I will be taking a hiatus.  The Summer of Tennis begins tomorrow and there are bowls to be smoked and balls to be slammed into next Tuesday.  You heard me.  I need some leisure.  And you, no doubt, need time to yourselves, too.  I’ll see you pretty babies in a few weeks.  Behave and make some good choices without me.  Or don’t; I could use some inspiration.  

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

I don’t have a column today.  I was gonna come up with something, and almost-excitedly, because after a 4-month-long smoking hiatus, Mama’s back—bet you couldn’t tell, huh?  It’s like in the movie Spanglish when Tea Leoni tells Cloris Leachman she’s a drunk and Cloris Leachman says she hasn’t had a drink in, like, 3 months, but nobody bothered to notice.  Anyway, I was looking forward to waking up today and start writing again as a stoner, but that dream died at 7:45 this morning.  And I’m up at 745 in the a.m. because no matter what substance I abuse the night before, I wake up early now, which wouldn’t be so bad if I could simply move to the couch and sit idle for the day, whatever, but I can’t because once I’m up, I’m awake. No transition time.  I hate it.  Hate it.  Mama likes to sleep.  I love to sleep more than I love to do most anything else.  But I don’t anymore.  And so I was up this morning, ready to greet April 20th with the reverence I thought it deserved when shit got real.  My out-the-kitchen-window neighbor saw me standing at my stove, boiling water for my bougie French press and she screams desperately:  KATE! WHAT DO I DO?!


Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you have got to be kidding me. Not only am I no longer in a perfect state of sleep, I have to immediately jump into, based on her delivery, what I can only imagine is humanitarian task where my three-sizes-too-small heart will be tried and tested to see if it can handle whatever level of empathy is required at this inopportune moment.  Keeping in mind I’m 24-hours out of a rather unpleasant surgery, heavily medicated, and whatever help I can offer will be tepid at best, and it involves a woman I’ve just told—three short weeks ago—that she needed to stop dropping by my house unannounced to talk to me about how much she hates our building owner, Vicky, because it gives me anxiety knowing she watches me come home, and then comes right over.  I wrote all this in a note and put it in her mailbox.  Haven’t heard from her since, until right now.  Kimmie calls her Martina.  She has Nordically blonde hair, and one time I saw her walking to the tennis court in a half-shirt and her tennis skirt (she’s 50), and she’s always screaming in this shrill German-ish language from her stoop all day, like, shrieking ‘TAH-KOHH…TAH-KOHH’. Ugh, anyway, that brings me to Taco. Her cat.


Taco was just hit by a car out front.  I live on a small, peaceful, residential street that always has parking, and it sits right next door to Beverly Hills High, which, during morning arrival and afternoon departure times, has the highest concentration of aggressively entitled parents, and resulting teenagers, in all of world.  Their driving practices are not only obnoxious, they’re downright dangerous.  One of these gems in a black SUV hit Taco.  Martina was crying and screaming to me through my window, one floor up, as I stood at my stove, with the gas on, boiling water, wearing no bra, see through tank-top, red-and-white striped boxer briefs, and, gracias a Dios, great hair.  Her clogs are clomping all up and down her stairs as she hysterically asks me who to call and what to do.  I am now involved.  I told her I’d meet her outside and she clomps down in her clogs and races to meet me.  I make my way to the street where I see the crowd.  Her teenage daughter is inconsolable on the curb, a few neighborhood ladies have taken charge to slow and caution traffic, Martina is running out behind me, and Taco is in the street with his bloody head, bulging eye, short breath and pretty-much-dead half-meow topped only by Martina now scraping him off the street and into her arms.  Oh.  My.  God.  You serious right now?  No, I am serious, are YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!  WTF?!  It’s 7:45 in the morning, on a Friday—Friday, 4-fucking-20 and I’m peacefully and blissfully at home with prescribed pain killers, a quarter of weed and the next week off and this is how it’s going to start?!  I don’t know what to do!  It’s not my usual lack of empathy, it’s an absolute panicked fact:  I have no idea what to do!  Like, here’s the thing, Taco looked rough.  I mean it, this was like some shit on TV.  He wasn’t gonna make it; there are 5 people already on the scene so my input isn’t necessary, but I did come out at her behest, so I had to do something, you know?  So, I went inside and got a Restoration Hardware bath sheet (it’s, literally, the only towel that would have done anything, and ugh, I felt like I had to sacrifice that, ugh, okay, whatever) because while there were a lot of yentas all up in the mix, none of them could do anything but act concerned.  So I got the towel, and went out back and got her cat carrier, because someone had already pulled up a car to race Martina and Taco off to the Animal ER—I should mention at this point that this isn’t even the are-you-fucking-kidding-me?! part of the story—and they hopped in the car and raced away and it was all over as quickly as it’d started and the crowd had dispersed.  Except that there was still fucking blood and brains all over the street and blood all over our front stoop—I am not kidding about this shit—so I went inside and got a pitcher of water and washed the blood off the steps and off the street and then, when I got back into my kitchen, to attempt coffee and the entire start of my day again, I saw out my window that her front door was open because it all happened so fast that she just left without worrying about anything else.  So, I went downstairs, and around to the back, and up her up her stairs and pulled her front door closed.  But she’s super freaky about security and how she thinks someone is always trying to break into her house (I’m serious), so—still standing outside—I just reached around to make sure the door knob wasn’t locked or anything because she definitely wasn’t thinking to get her keys, and I saw a gun on the entry table with the clip full of bullets lying next to it.  I SAW A GUN ON THE ENTRY TABLE WITH THE FULLY LOADED CLIP LYING NEXT TO IT.  It is now 7:55 a.m.   


So, I start my 4/20 smoking a bowl out of necessity, not luxury and after I reboiled the water and finally made my coffee, I didn’t have enough creamer to make it that perfect delicious, which is so annoying, so the only thing I knew how to do to shake this off (and I learned this from my mother, if you can believe it) is clean, so I’m cleaning. Cushions-off-the-couch, attachments-out for the Dyson. I need to burn off some steam—on account I just saw a cat die and a gun at the ready.  Shit.  I’m having an impromptu Chipotle dinner tonight because where else would one finish this kind of day?  I’m going to try the off-menu ‘quesa-rrito’ which is when you ask the Burrito Artist to make you a quesadilla and then they open it up after the melt and turn it into a burrito. You fucking heard me.  Sorry about not having a real column next week, provided there are no other ridiculously horrific distractions that come up along the way.  Happy Friday.  You may be at work right now while I’m stoned in my living room, but at least you didn’t see a dead-ish cat.  Get after it, and know I love you regardless of the decisions you make; that’s not true, my love is conditional, but consequences are not, they’re inevitable, as such, it behooves you to make good choices.

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

I knew what I was gonna talk to you about the other day, and then, on the Today Show, I saw this whole thing about the British blogger lady who is lamenting her rough life on account of her good looks, and I couldn’t not address it.  I just couldn’t let this one go without having a chat with y’all bitches about what this kind of Lady means to our collective reputation. 

One super easy and relevant topic comes to mind:  Granting women access to The Master’s Golf Club.  I didn’t realize that Ladys weren’t allowed there—or that it was an issue—until I was watching the Nightly News with Brian Williams this past week (I learned a lot from various NBC news programs over the past few days).  And, I’ve gotta be straight with you, I’m not bothered by it in the least.  There are other clubs; Ladys, we can go there.  Leave the Mans to their green jackets.  I’m sure there is another war on sexism that can be waged somewhere else; this needn’t occupy our time.  More to the point, Ladys have a bad rep.  We just do.  We do it to ourselves, though, and when your rep precedes you, people don’t generally want you around.  I can understand the Mans at Augusta National not wanting us all up in their joint.  I don’t want most of y’all up in my joint.  And now, Miss All That And a Bag of Chips in the UK has solidified our place in this category.  I’m not so sure about you, but I don’t wanna be anywhere near being a woman after reading her drivel.  Which brings me to her drivel (do yourself a favor: ).  I have an overall problem with Ladys who think they’re hot shit.  Mainly because the ones who do, aren’t.  Ever.  Or even remotely so.  I have to admit something to you…humbly:  I’m not dumb or blind, therefore, I know I’m not a complete troll.  Before yesterday, I’d’ve never verbalized it or written an article about it or brought it up outside the confines of my subconscious, but based on empirical data and tremendously good genes, I think I can say that I’ve come out on top—and don’t worry, I can also very openly say I went through high school, college and most of my 20s as empirically unattractive.  I can claim both points honestly and objectively.  That said, the Mans don’t ask me out or buy me drinks or compliment anything aside from my car or make an effort to recognize me in any way whatsoever.  Ever.  Ev. Er.  I repeat:  The Mans all but don’t know I exist, and if they do, they certainly don’t tell me about it.  I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true because it’s not a particularly flattering or boastful thing to say.  Rather, it’s kinda embarrassing, but it’s the truth.  And I think maybe there’s a slight touch of resentment I have towards ugly bitches because I wonder how the fuck they get guys, but then I remember some fun facts you learn when you have brothers:  Men are indiscriminant.  Further, guys are more likely to roll up to a lady who is far less than all-that because it’s an easier target.  And if The Hunger Games taught us anything, it’s that being an easy target doesn’t usually play in your favor at the end of the day—and you should always want the odds to be in your favor.  If you have ever ever ever ever ever ever ever verbalized any place other than your head how attractive you feel yourself to be, or how jealous other women should be/would be/already are of you, then you are—assuredly—not as attractive as you think.  Pretty women don’t speak of their pretty.  Just like people with real money don’t speak of their wealth.  As it happens, the woman who wrote the article isn’t as remarkably attractive as she thinks.  I can’t imagine anyone would ever turn around to look twice, quite frankly, which is why she wrote the article on herself, and someone else didn’t write about her.  We ain’t jealous, honey, we’re just confused as to how no one ain’t never slapped you silly yet.  There is no moral to this story.  Either you agree or you don’t, so I’ve either made my point, or I haven’t.      

And another thing—and the original topic for this week’s column before The Most Beautiful Woman in the World reared her ugly head:  Dating.  Since I know we’ve talked about this before, I won’t spend too much time here.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again and again and again, dating is moot.  I went on one a few weeks ago.  A set up.  But I was set up by the most legit friend ever in the universe, so it passed through so many filters of knowledge that it was sure to be a sure thing.  Except that it wasn’t the least bit a sure thing.  In fact, it was an immediately unsure thing.  Immediately.  Not a bad thing, by any means, but  nothing that would ever become something.  The date never needed to happen because the chemistry was never there.  Like any date ever; you can tell right away, making the date itself an exercise in spending unnecessary money.  Wanna know what we all do daily?  Date.  Sometimes, I’ll date fifteen times a day…the guy in line behind me at the market, the barista, the guy here for a 2-o’clock interview, the guy dropping off sunglasses his buddy left at his house.  And sometimes, I wish for the 12-second conversation to turn into a lifetime of happiness—shit, especially when that one guy stops for s date.  But 99.9% of the time, I want the 12-seconds to be over so the date can be over.  You know how when you go out to dinner, your waiter is either dope or an asshole, and you don’t need him or her to get to the specials before you’ve decided how you feel, and you spend the whole dinner either praying said waiter hasn’t spit in your food, or excited to tip generously or leave your number…?  Dating is exactly the same.  Chemistry is chemistry, whether it’s platonic or romantic, short-lived or long-term, and it’s there right away, or it isn’t.  Dating just isn’t my jam; I don’t like it.  I’m not, like, upset about it, though.  It’s a choice.  It’s like dancing.  I don’t dance.  Not my thing.  But I’m not miserable.  I’m at the table having a drink and watching the purses.  I’m fine, really.  I dunno how many Mans you’ve met in your day, but I think we can all agree that when a dude wants something, he goes for it.  Balls to the wall, all in, no fucking around.  He’ll make damn sure and take what he wants.  The Ladys are by  no means an exception.  If a guy wants you, he’ll come get you.  I promise.  I have a hard and fast rule that I will not make the first move.  That shit is the Mans’ job, and it sets a bad precedent when the Lady does it.  I also don’t think I’m destined to die alone.  All these things combined makes for a logical argument and I prefer to defer to logic every time, because, for most of you, emotion gets in the way of realizing you’re actually happy much of the time.  You heard me.  I’m very patient, in no hurry and very sure that my time will come.  In the meantime, I’m kickin’ it and so thankful I have this time, because when that one guy—the right guy—finally decides to ask me the fuck out, it’ll be forever, and forever is a long-ass time to not be alone doing whatever I do whenever I want to do it like I do how I do.

Okay, enough.  All this talk about how Mama hates being lumped together with undesirable women and dating undesirable men has me excited to go on a Lady Date tonight with one’a my girls.  A vodka-artichoke-filet night  Shit just got real.  To say I’m excited is an understatement.  So, Imma go.  Think about what I said.  Ladys, get over yourselves, and Men, assert yourselves; we’re waiting, and not as awful as some make us look.  Whatever you choose to do, choose wisely, and know there’ll be a result, good or bad, and you’ll need to deal with it, now or later.  Speaking of later, I’ll see you brats in a couple of weeks.    

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

You know, sometimes, eloquence escapes me.  Completely.  Sometimes, I just want to rant and/or rave and not have to worry about a thesis statement, a segue or a conclusion paragraph.  It’s possible this is one of those times, for, this past week, I was chatting with one of my girls and as she walks away, she turns and comes back and goes:  “We’re so angry.”  She was right.  There wasn’t a single word we exchanged that was positive or a part of a solution or a sentiment of kindness.  We spent a solid 10 minutes supportively venting to one another over the course of two topics that had enraged us with mutual exclusivity.  When that sort of thing happens, I try to turn it into a column, as y’all are ALWAYS the source of my material.  So, A.) Thanks for being so fucked up and confused all of the time; your input and participation is not lost on me; but B.) I don’t feel like rearranging my thoughts to sound pretty or kind or flowy.  We know one another pretty well, but one thing you may or may not know is that I can be a salty brat sometimes, and y’all, this is one of this times.  

1.)  Do not argue or pick a fight with me (or anyone else).  Ever.  It’s just the dumbest.  My dad has always said that the best position you can be in is one of being underestimated.  I eat it up with a spoon.  Validation is so much sweeter when you let people assume you’re incapable, wrong or weak, and then effortlessly, you shock and awe with behavior that undoes the established perception of you.  That’s why arguing is stupid.  We’ve talked about the power of admitting you’re wrong.  So, if I’m wrong, I’ll say it and stop the discussion before it starts—and if you prove me wrong, I’ll agree with you; I ain’t got no ego, y’all, and I mean it.  And if I’m right, I’ll be right, I don’t need to talk you into it.  You’ll either agree, or be proven wrong, and your realizing you’re wrong is so much more fun for me.  What’s not fun is when the issue is pushed and a battle is waged and I’m asked to fight or argue against my will. I will shut that shit down so fast it’ll make your head spin.  It’s like when you smell fart and you feel the need to bring it up and make it known that it wasn’t you; the person who did it knows s/he did it, and you know you didn’t.  It doesn’t need to be a talking point.  If you have an interest or habit in arguing, fine; more power to you. But do it with someone else, do NOT pick a fight with me.  I ain’t got time in my day or space in my brain for that bullshit.  And, as a follow up to the fact that I will downright concede an argument just to end it, I don’t care to allow it to linger or take control by not being able to move past it.  People disagree, people have moments of tension.  It’s all completely meaningless and superficial (hence the reason it’s so ridiculous) and it doesn’t affect anything having to do with my feeling about the arguer or the fighter.  We’re adults, we should be mature by now, let’s learn to grow up and move on.  Enough with the passive aggression; I’ll not humor that shit, either. 

2.)  Eating habits.  I have talked before about how bitches be weird about they food, and how you just gotta let that go.   I don’t keep food in my house.  MacGuyver couldn’t come up with something to eat at Bungalow Ruppe.  If I wanna eat, I’ll go buy it.  When you have to travel to eat—or meet a delivery minimum—you’re less likely to do it mindlessly.  If I have leftovers after a dinner party, I send them home with guests, or I throw them away.  I don’t snack, or want access to the ability to do so.  I don’t generally eat breakfast or lunch.  Unless I want a chorizo breakfast burrito four days in a row, then I’ll have one because I can…I’ll work it off, been doin’ it for years.  On most days, however, I exist on coffee, iced tea and vodka until it’s dinner time.  On the weekends, I will play 2 hours of tennis, then run errands all day and not eat a single bite of food until 730 p.m. when I’m showered and settled—and by that time, I’ve usually had a cocktail or two.  During the week, I’ll run my 5 miles after work, and eat for the first time all day when I’m done and home and showered and settled.  It works for me.  Not too long ago, someone cautioned me that sushi has a lot of carbs.  For real?  What about me makes you think I give a shit about eating a carbohydrate?  Leave it alone.  I eat a tostada salad at a Mexican restaurant because it’s an easier-to-eat burrito, not because I think it’s a salad.  I eat rare beef constantly because that’s what I crave and I don’t give a flying fuck if it’ll kill me early (though it won’t).  I haven’t had so much as a cold since 2005, I haven’t had a zit since I was 15, I have freakishly low blood pressure and I don’t wear sunscreen because Vitamin D is what keeps us all alive.  I don’t need you to critique what I’m eating, how I’m eating, when I’m eating or whether I’m eating too much or not enough.  That’s my business, not yours.  You heard me.  Especially since the most vocal of kids today are into this new thing called the Coachella Diet.  Really?  A diet to go to a music festival in the middle of the desert with 300,000 of your closest friends?  Seriously?  It’s not Spring Break ‘96 in Panama City, it’s a concert.  I can’t even deal.  You’re a vegetarian on Monday, and indulging in chicken by Friday.  You go to spin classes for a month, and then the dream quickly dies because class is “sooooooo earrrrrrrlyyyyy.”  I promise not to call you a fool to your face about your always-changing dietary lifestyles, if you promise to never attempt to advise me on what I do or don’t eat.  Knock it off. 

Oooooh, speaking of knocking it off, I’m gonna do just that—knock a few back.  Well, not right away, in a few hours.  Kimmie and I have a date and then I have a weekend of tennis, the mothafuckin’ Hunger Games movie and brunch with a few bitches from the good ole days.  It’s a banner weekend, for sure.  I’m sorry I had to be a little angry today.  It’s never my intention to be put-offy, but sometimes y’all put me off in a big way, and my good attitude only stretches so far before it straight up snaps in half.  I don’t’ love you any less than I did before, though, so don’t take it personally.  Unless, you’re gonna, then there is nothing I can do about that.  I’ll catch up with y’all in couple of weeks. Do me a favor and light the place ablaze, will ya, so I’ve got something more interesting to talk about come then, eh?  I’ll make the good decisions, you go do what you do and we’ll meet right back here in a bit.

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

I’m a very well-behaved girl.  I always have been.  Prudent, really (except that I use unreasonably foul language, could smoke Marley under the table and drive my car like I’m fleeing the scene, but otherwise…).  I never felt pained or burdened by obeying my parents, the law or my bosses.  It’s just something you do in life—play by the rules.  But there is one area of my life where I’m a loose cannon:  Mama loves her some tattoos.  Do I ever.  Don’t even get me started on how I feel about a tattooed Man….  For as long as I can remember, I’d wanted one.  A star on the top of my left foot—told you, prudent.  Nothing cray.  Nothing trampy (no offense to all you stamped bitches), nothing obvious.  Understated rebel.  But rebellious enough.  In fact, it reached such a maximum level of concern for my parents that they told me they’d stop paying for college if I got one.  And I dunno if you’ve met the Captain and the Mrs, but they don’t fuck around when it comes to higher education.  Those fools woulda stopped writing tuition checks before the ink set in.  So I decided not to call their bluff.  After I graduated NYU, I moved out to this great land, and along the way, I stopped in Austin, Texas.  Take my word on this one:  Go to Austin before you die.  Anyway, while there, I got a tattoo.  Rolled to 6th Street, took a few flaming Dr. Pepper shots, saw some dueling pianos, escaped a near-death experience with bats (did you know Austin has a bizarre bat thing?) and I got a tattoo.  A star on my left foot—super cute.  Cut to present day adulthood, and there is nothing I hate more than the fucking tattoo of a “super-cute” star on the top of my left foot.  I look at it every day and shake my head.  Really, Kate, a purple star with green dots at each point?  Really?  Really?  I don’t regret it, that’s such a negative burden to carry around (a different lesson for a different time; regret will drag you down.), but I most certainly and absolutely do not like this permanent feature on the landscape of my favorite body part.  All this brings me to my main point:  If you don’t listen to those who attempt to advise, or learn from your mistakes quickly and actively, you’ll end up a hot mess of a Lady.  I may be a handful, but I’m not a hot mess.  I have seven tattoos now, and I’m obsessed with all but the one, because from that point forward, I decided I needed to make my choice on the matter a bit differently and carefully than I had in the past.  No matter the choice, the outcome or consequence will be irreversible, so it behooves you to remember how it went down the first time, and vow not to repeat it a second time. 

This past week, a friend of mine came and asked me for advice as y’all are wont to do.  And I gave her my opinion.  First of all, you Ladys come find me, not the other way around.  I don’t give my opinion unless I’m asked, as I don’t assume anyone gives a shit.  But what’s more, if you’re gonna ask, I’ll be candid—there is absolutely no point otherwise and it’s the least I can do.  So, she asked what I thought.  And I told her.  Honestly and directly.  Unfortunately, she didn’t like my answer, insisted I wasn’t understanding the question-slash-situation and stormed off.  Le sigh….  As we all do, we compare others’ situations to our own in order to better relate.  It’s never a direct comparison, but an alignment.  I come to you every week, and I relate on a level of similarity that’s loosely based on an experience we loosely share.  I’m not one-upping, I’m not judging and I’m never trying to be right.  I’m just bringing it to a common ground.  I have made several massive mistakes in my life.  But of those mistakes, I’ve only ever made them once. 

I have not had a credit card in 5 years, and I won’t ever again, because in my youth I fucked up with eleven different ones—ELEVEN—and I’m tired of spending—and hate trying to afford—almost as much as my rent every month paying them off.  Your money woes?  I get you.  Since the day I moved into the state lines of California, my parents stopped listening to a word I had to say.  Nothing that happens here is to be taken seriously, and by default, they tend not to take me seriously pretty much ever.  It’s okay, they don’t read this, I can talk about it all I want.  Your parent woes?  I get you.  I was the biggest of all my girlfriends as far back as memory serves.  At my heaviest, I was 180 pounds and a size 16, give or take an elastic waistband.  A family member once told me a guy would have to think outside the box to date me.  Body, self-esteem and insecurity issues?  Don’t even; I get you.  When I was 24, I thought it was a brilly idea to get myself all tangled up in a horseshit filled clusterfuck of a relationship with a guy too-old for me, and it went on for 3 years too long.  When you end up—willingly—in a mess like I did, you check off a great many life experience boxes that it generally takes you Ladys multiple relationships to accomplish.  Do I know exactly what you’re going through?  Nope.  But you have no idea what I put myself through and how royally it fucked me up for a long time and how I wish I hadn’t done most of what I did and how I’ll never have the chance to take back or undo any of it.  You feel me?  And that’s why you come to me now.  Your relationship woes?  I fucking get you.  You don’t have to listen to me, ever, actually.  But if you decide to ask me for advice, do yourself a favor and heed it.  I’m trying really hard to keep you from the pitfalls of life which so many people have tried to keep me—and about which I decided it was in my best interest not to listen.  Making mistakes is inevitable, but making them again is avoidable.  Every single time; enough with the excuses and justifications.

Okay, that’s it.  Short and sweet.  Mama’s gotta jet.  I’ve taken the day off to get some shit done.  First up, I have a date with the ball machine on Court 2; if my tennis partner wants to prioritize other activities, whatever, I’ll just up my game while she’s away.  And then I’m getting a manicure because I haven’t had one since January and I’ve got somewhat of a situation tomorrow night and I need to be ready. Speaking of situations, please don’t get yourself wrapped up in one you wish you hadn’t by doing something you know you shouldn’t.  Make good choices, and for the sake of baby Jesus in a manger, learn from the ones that weren’t.  And if you can’t manage that, I’ll for sure love you anyway; I’d not have any reason to come here otherwise.  See you beauties in a couple weeks.

SSFB B*tches doing more dope things.

Like starting a card line.


You should go. 

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

'You heard me'

February 24, 2012

I spend a lot of time throughout the week wondering what I’m going to write about come Thursday.  I wait and wait and wait and wait for one of y’all bitches—or, on a fortuitous week (for me, but definitely not for you)—several of you to sit on the Stool of Ventilation behind my desk and launch into a problem for which you’ll ask my advice.  Sometimes, I get down to the day-of and not one you have begged my ear with anything warranting a further delve.  And that’s a good thing.  I don’t want you to ever suffer, it’s just that it really helps me out when you do.  This week, however, there was no need for any of you to beg my ear—though several of you did for a few little things which were easily remedied.  As such, I’m taking the lead, and we’re gonna write a relatively positive and supportive column (who’re we kidding, I’m about to be a straight up bitch).  I spend a fuckton of time talking about the kinds of women I simply do not care for.  I have a few remarkably specific examples complete with names in mind right now, but subtly calling-out is not something I would ever intentionally do, as it’s passive-aggression of the worst kind and I’d rather just be an a-hole to your face so we’re clear on where we stand.  Instead, I’m gonna reco’nize my fellow dope Ladys who exemplify those I do, indeed, want to be friends with.  And if you’ve ever met me, you would know I’m not keen on being friends with too many of you.  I’m serious.  Allllll booked up; not accepting applications for friendship at this time.  By the end, you’ll see why, and you’ll see why those few who have the honor of being among my friends are enviable.  And certainly not because I‘m special, but because they’re all pretty remarkably special in and of themselves, without my input.  Lemme tell you which kinds make up my short list: 

The kind of Lady who would never say ‘wanna go shopping?’ because shopping is not only annoying, but a very specific practice not to be done in the company of others because input from others isn’t necessary as these bitches have minds of their own, and the question “what do you think about this?” is as stupid and meaningless as a Yelp review—why do you care what I think?; you’re wearing it, not me. The kind of Lady who wouldn’t know a diet if it hit her in the face because we’re not 25-years-old anymore and we know we’ll never look like a single person we see walking down the street, let alone any model on any runway, and—Ladys, hear me on this:  A legit Lady would rather have no friends at all than one who can’t shut the fuck about what she is or isn’t eating “right now.”  It’s one of the bigger turn-offs and life is too fucking short to give a shit; no spin class in the world is gonna matter when you turn 32 and your metabolism shifts and smacks you fuck in the face—you’ll be happy to fit into your fat jeans, forget about your damn skinny ones. The kind of Lady whose parents have absolutely no domain over their financial well-being because at some point she understands that an enormous portion of her self-respect comes from her self-reliance, sink or swim.  A mother and father who pay your bills is the equivalent of actually living with your parents and when you meet a guy who matters, that will most certainly matter to him.  The kind who can not only drink me under the table—which is a fete in itself—but who shows up with a bottle of booze without being asked because you don’t roll anywhere empty handed whether you’re drinking or not, and if you’re not drinking, please don’t come. The kind who doesn’t say hi when she doesn’t want to and who doesn’t care that I didn’t when I don’t. The kind of Lady who is ready to disagree unapologetically and doesn’t insist or care that I do or don’t concede. The kind who doesn’t own any of the same clothes that I do, because I’m my own person, and you’re yours.  The kind of Lady who isn’t all booked up every single night of the week with a social calendar or her job because sleep and personal time are equally as important as the number of zeros in her paycheck.  The kind of Lady who speaks to everyone with respect no matter what the situation, and no matter what the opponent, because hitting below the belt is unacceptable and one of the more massive red-flags of Lady friendship that one can wave.  The kind of Lady who shutters at a man wanting to buy her things.  The kind who thinks a man buying her an unsolicited gift, or taking her shopping, is contrived and weird and just…tooclose.  A Man can come home with flowers any ole time he wants, but gifts are altogether different—they’re unnecessary loaded gestures, and it goes along with parental monetary control:  Buy your own shit.  If you can’t afford it, you do not need it.  Most importantly, I have a love for the kind of Lady who absolutely does pass judgment because whether we like it or not, life is one huge judgment call and if you’d like to live in a world where people don’t pass judgment, then you should certainly live with your parents because it’s their job to love you anyway.  But it’s not my job to love you anyway.  It’s, rather, my job to make sure you’re the kind of person I want to be aligned with, and if that ever comes into question, I want to know I can call you out, or—on the flip side—that I’m surrounded by Ladys who’ll make it clear to me that when I fuck up, it’s not aiite.  We’re adults.  If you are going to reserve judgment for me, then I have to wonder what else you reserve judgment for.

Speaking of judgment, it doesn’t take a brilly judge of creative genius to agree I’ve gotten my point across here.  And no point at all, really, just a shout to my Boos—all of whom assemble in one room, once a month, to play the shit outta some Catchphrase and enjoy the shit outta some booze.  Imma go now; I’ve got a fancy dinner with a not-so-fancy bitch on tap for the night, and I need to carb up on account of all the vodka I’ll be drinking in a minute.  I have no tennis this weekend which is annoying, and not just because my tennis partner is snowboarding and may possibly break something and render herself unable to play, but because I’m babysitting her bunny, Jae’Qwonn, and he is a furry hot mess.  But, this furry hot mess brought a handle of Kettle with him, so I’ll drink through the pain and be fine.  Speaking of, I’ve gotta get to it.  Take advantage of your weekend, Ladys.  Do it up, do it right, do me proud.  And if not, I’ll be here in a couple of weeks to address whatever clusterfuck of a shitstorm you’ve gotten yourselves into.  Make some good choices out there, and if you don’t, Mama loves you anyway.  For the most part.  

If you’re lamenting why no Man will take you seriously, then you need to consider the fact that casual sex is, by definition, not serious. I hate to break it you, but why buy the cow, you know?

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

Febby 10, 2012

We have so many things to talk about this week.  Y’all have been especially full of the kind of woe only a Lady can experience.  One topic is particularly high on the dramatic scale, and it’s ohsovery timely, so we’ll chat about it:  Valentine’s Day.  My favorite.  Before I go any further, if you don’t do Valentine’s Day, or you think it’s a marketing ploy, or if you think it’s the kind of day that should be celebrated year ‘round therefor not specifically on Tuesday, then I don’t want you comin’ round here no more.  Get over it.  You’re annoying and cliché, and no one likes that.  Which brings me to my next few points.   

It’s in just a few days, and thank sweet, little, powerful baby Jesus because y’all Bitches be drivin’ me crazy.  Yikes.  Just listening to all of you who are single and depressed and have hatred for the day is reason enough to confirm why you’re single—who would want to date you all sounding like that?  Get a clue.  And as an equal opportunity employer, I’d like to give a shout out to all of you special Ladies who can’t shut the fuck up about the plans you have set in place with yo Man.  We get it; you have a Valentine.

Back to the task at hand: This week’s lesson.  Being alone.   My least favorite breed of Lady is the kind who can’t be by herself.  Not, like, she can’t live on her own, but she, literally, can’t be alone.  She always wants hang out, and the mention of an activity is somehow an invitation to join you.  These girls go from boyfriend to boyfriend to boyfriend and every time they break up with one, they assert their independence and cite the need to “just be alone for a while” until they are on a date a week later.  Like, I cannot deal with these women.  I. Can. Not.  I have a general aversion to people, so I am the farthest end of the spectrum from this breed of Lady.  Somewhere in the middle is a perfect sweet spot, however, and we’ll call it “social independence.”  Being able to be alone for the day.  Being able to be alone at a restaurant.  Being able to be alone in a movie theater or grocery store or at the mall.  Being able to be alone on a Friday night or the 4th of July.  Being able to live alone.  Being able to be alone.  Alone.  Just you.  And your thoughts.  Just you and your crazy.  Just you at your most raw with no one watching.  Just you looking like shit warmed over after a night out and not caring in the least that you’ll remain that way for the next 48-hours, maybe, who knows?  Being able to be alone and understand that it does not define who you are.  You define who you are.  It’d behoove you to get to know yourself.  You can’t do that if you’re always surrounded by other people.  When you’re a Lady, you also have the added benefit of having to figure out who you are in order to have a successful relationship of any kind.  The Mans simply don’t need to carry out that task to the level of execution we do.  As a result, being alone presents a slight challenge once you hit your 30s.  Because we have to understand that being alone may just mean being alone.  As in, we stop sleeping around because at some point in our lives, that behavior becomes counterproductive.  If you’re lamenting why no Man will take you seriously, then you need to consider the fact that casual sex is, by definition, not serious.  I hate to break it you, but why buy the cow, you know?  You know what else you’ll face?  The eventual loss of friends who mean anything to you.  Without a secure sense of self (and, don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t necessarily have to be a puppies and rainbows sense of security, but it needs to be honest), it becomes difficult for people to trust, relate, empathize, share and care for you—who are they friends with?  You from yesterday?  You from last week?  You when you’re around a guy?  You when you’re around your other friends?  Every year that ticks by is another year when relationships that aren’t supportive, 50/50, two-way-street relationships are relationships not worth investing in.

Being alone is not seeing a future with the guy after drinks, thus not continuing on to dinner.  Being alone is knowing how to survive with $4 in your bank account and knowing there will be no one else buying your dinner or putting gas in your car, and then figuring out how to recover from a shitty week at work all by yourself (and a handle of Kettle) on top of your poverty.  Being alone is learning how to cope with being lonely, how get over feeling sorry for yourself and having the ability to assure yourself that you look amazing before you leave the house with no one there to back you up.  Being alone is understanding that sometimes the only person who gives a shit about your problems is you.  That begets accountability and humility and all sorts of fun things.  For another time….    

I was saying….  Okay, so, you’re 30 and single. Why do you have to make a point to state such specifics?  No one knows you’re single, and the more you talk about the fact that you’re single, the more people have an aversion to talking to you at all.  Why can’t you just be 30 and love the color blue?  Why can’t you be 32 and brunette?  Why can’t you be 34 and successful? Why can’t you be 31 and independent?  Single is a box you check on government forms; it’s not a definition of who you are.  Don’t allow single to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The sooner you understand that the need for social independence—especially in a time of trendy happenings like everyone you’ve ever met getting engaged, married or pregnant—will inevitably arise, then the sooner it is you’ll be prepared to face it. Be so thrilled you still have the opportunity. One day you won’t be alone ever again. Ever. Because one day, you’ll have a husband who doesn’t listen to a thing you say, and will, in due time, forget your name—or, God-forbid, that he has a wife at home at all; you’ll have kids who spend all your money and tell you they hate you; all the while, each of them—including a dog which you stupidly bought for your kids so they’d learn responsibility (seriously?)—will be destroying your house, your car and your physique. That will go on until the day you die.  Please hear me girls alone this Valentine’s Day, or last Thursday or next month or on a Friday night like tonight:  Feeling secure while being alone is the greatest gift you can give yourself.  Period.   

You never know, one night, when you’re 35, watching General Hospital from the past week, accompanied by a bottle of vodka and an eighth of Train Wreck (you heard me) you’ll have a dramatic ah-ha moment that will lead you to self-discovery.  Those don’t traipse through your head while your thoughts are constantly occupied by the revolving door of life’s needless drama.  You’re only doing yourself a favor.

On that note….  I’m off for a weekend of no tennis and a lot of Lady time with some pretty amazing brats.  You should know that I am able to super confidently tell you everything I just have because I’ve never had a date on Valentine’s day—or any other day, for that matter—and I think I’m doing just fine.  The Big Day is but 96 hours away, and this year, I want you to embrace it; single, committed, disillusioned, optimistic or otherwise.  Take the weekend to think about how you want to approach the celebration, even if it’s just that it’s, strategically, a perfect night for Dirty Chinese take-out because everyone else is out to eat at an overrated $85-per-person-without-booze prix fixe dinner, which means delivery times are cut in half.  Again, not my first rodeo.  And since you’re spending $85—or asking someone else to—make good choices, ‘cause food, like life, you can’t take it back or do it over.  Remember that Mama loves you come Tuesday, and every other day.  Ooooooh, gurl, especially that one guy. 

Valentine’s Day is Swiftly Approaching- do you have a card to speak for you?!

Whether you are in love, hate love, love hating or want a new lover to eventually hate- The Messenger has a card that will say it all for you. 

Check out this awesome new line from some of your funniest favorite b*tches- Kate Ruppert and Alisha Gaddis (with logo design by Rebecca Leib!)

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

We’re gonna chat about something we’ve never really delved into on its own before.  It’s so fundamental that I’m shocked and awed we haven’t dedicated an entire year to it yet.  Maybe 2013.  Unless I’m super famous or married by then, then probably not.  I’m talking about Honesty.  Your basic, erryday Honesty.  And, in the spirit of honesty, you should know I’m stone cold sober right now.  I don’t drink when I write because booze is a ridiculously silly way to think you’re gonna perform better.  A nice fatty bowl, however, is the way to a true writer’s heart, and I’m dry as a bone for a couple weeks.  I cannot vouch for how this is gonna go.  Speaking of, shall we?

The other day, I was catching up on my General Hospital.  Backstory:  Sam(antha) and Jason are just married.  Jason was in a car accident when he was a teen (because his fuck of a brother, AJ, was drunk driving) and when he woke up out of his coma (duh), he was different.  He was harder and unemotional and difficult to love.  He shunned his parents and turned to the mob because Sonny (the mob boss) understood that he needed a mentor, someone to understand him and accept who he had become, not a judge, and took him under his wing.  Jason became Sonny’s enforcer; his hit man.  You heard me.  He was handsome, cold and calculated, but loyal and always, always, always honest.  And then he grew up, met Sam (salt of the earth, though formerly a little slut-slut) and they fell in love and everyone wondered how she could possibly love him.  And Sam says:  “It’s pretty easy.  You just have to be honest.”  Nailed it.  And this column was born.

Honesty, y’all.  It is the be all and end all of everything.  And I don’t mean that you shouldn’t steal wallets.  If you’re gonna steal a wallet, there is nothing I can do to better you here.  Futher, if you’re gonna steal a wallet, I don’t want you even coming to read my column.  I mean honesty, like, if you’re uncomfortable in what you’re wearing don’t wear it because I don’t care to hear you lament how awful you look.  Be honest with yourownself and know skinny jeans just ain’t your thang and your self-esteem should most certainly not be required to take a hard knock because you can’t come to grips with that.  I mean honest, like, if you don’t want kids, and some guy you like asks if you want kids someday, say no so it doesn’t come up after you’re married and then you’ll need to go ahead and get yourself a divorce because the truth came out.  I mean honest, like, if you can’t afford to go out to dinner with your friends, you decline the invite because you can’t afford it, and we ALL understand what it’s like not to be able to afford to go out to dinner three nights a week.  And if you’re eating out three nights a week, you need to be honest about the fact that it’s an expense no one should foot, and possibly rethink the assumption that the rest of your paycheck won’t eventually run out.  Honesty is some rull basic shit that will save you so, so, so, so much time and emotion and energy and woe.  And if you don’t start with a baseline of being honest with yourself, how are you supposed to present yourself honestly to others.  And if you’re presenting some skewed version of yourself, everyone you meet will want to be friends with that person, not the real, honest, flawed version of you.  And, this just in, we are all very much flawed.  Y’all come here every Friday and thank me for whatever I’ve said because it hits home week after week, and I am so remarkably flattered—really, I don’t think you have any idea how full my heart is when I know I’ve touched on something you’re struggling with, too, because there is so much pressure on women—on everyone, but I’m here for the bitches—to be exactly who everyone assumes women should be:  Cool, put-together, sassy, confident, independent, social, funny, blahbitty blah, blah, blah.  But the truth is,  most of us are none of those things altogether, let alone on a mutually exclusive basis.  We’re just trying to keep our heads above water and make it through the day without hating ourselves.  At least I am, and as much as I can be an odd duck, I feel like we all share this to some degree.  It’s the way of our Lady people.  But if you’re honest about what you bring to the table—OR DO NOT BRING OT THE TABLE—you will find that, not only does someone share your insecurity, but is so thankful someone else is dealing with the same.  You are never going to look like Jessica Alba, so stop comparing yourself; rather be honest with about what you can accomplish in the gym with a week before you leave for Cabo.  If you can’t get a grasp on this, you won’t be able to be honest about how incredible it is to be afforded the opportunity to go to Cabo in the first place—most people are only able to make it to a poolside in the Valley.  Enough of this woe about what you don’t have.  Embrace it, understand it, work with it, and put it in perspective, because honestly, no matter how sick your body is, you’ll still never think you look as good a Jessica Alba.  It’s not about what/who/where you’re comparing you or your life to, it’s about how honestly you’re being with yourself in the life you have.  And, most importantly, honesty will forever lead to action.  For.  Ever.  If this is the year of the decision, you can’t make a decision without being honest about the data points that brought you there in the first place.  I had a friend for a really long time and she was always someone different.  Always.  She said she spoke, like, 5 languages.  She did not at all speak 5 languages.  She said she surfed.  She did not at all surf.  She said she goes to yoga.  One time a year is not someone who goes to yoga.  I could not be friends with her anymore because I had no idea who she was, and after 10ish years of friendship, I told her I had to bow out gracefully from our relationship because she’s not honest with herself, so I had no idea which version of her I was supposed to be friends with.  It was never anything huge, but it was always something.  And if you know the person looking you in the face is consistently something other than who she claims to be—even just on the surface—then you can’t get to know and love and invest in the person underneath.  I want all of you to be a little easier on one another.  It’s fear of reproach and judgment that we avoid honesty, but the fact of it is, we’ve all got shit; we’ve all got reasons to dislike ourselves, our place in life, our job, our significant other, and everyone around us, but the majority of us dislike in others things we seem to think we don’t also possess or display.  As such, we should all be so damn thankful anyone is willing to look in our direction, let alone accept us with all of our flaws.  Be honest about your flaws, as I promisepromisepromise that accepting them in others won’t be a decision you have to make because your practice of honesty will bring you to the understanding that you will need people to have the same kind of grace shown to you as you work your way through your ability to show grace to them.   

Last night, I went to a good friend for a haircut, and she said her Mormon family is beside themselves with her “LA” life—exaggeratedly, but anyone not from this town gets what she means—and I felt an immediate and familiar connection with her as a friend I’ve had for longer than I think we both realize.  But she is honest about the life she has, the life she knows her family wants her to have, and the fact that neither one will ever match up.  It’s either going to be something you own, or it’s going to be something you shrink away from.  And, in essence, shrinking away begets insecurity which begets dishonesty.  If you’re going to roll out, own it, be honest about the path you’ve chosen and the decisions you make because they’re yours.  And eventually, someone will call your ass out and you will need to stand by the person you’ve decided to be.  I know my parents think my life is a shitshow of discarded potential, but very luckily, I absolutely love every act of this long-running shitshow that has provided me the honor of a starring role.  I am obscenely blessed to have each and every one of you in it—even that one guy.  I’m constantly excited by how much I love my friends, and I’m constantly shocked as they continue to have me among them. 

Aiite, that’s all she wrote.  In two weeks, I hope have fallen the fuck off the wagon, and I’ll bring you something crazy hard-hitting.  Until then, however, I’m just gonna drink a lot a lot of vodka and try to better myself or something.  Oooh, I’ve just gotten into The Bachelor and, while just one and a half minutes of the show makes me remember why I detest our breed, I’m gonna keep watching in hopes Courtney (sociopath) gives me some material from which to pull from.  It’s possible the title of my next column will be:  Why Dating a Model Will NEVER Go Well For You, Ben.  Maybe that won’t be the title, but maybe we’ll talk about Men Who Date Bitches and Then Wonder Where it All Went Wrong.  It’s got a nice flow….  Okay, babies, get out there and make some better choices than you did last time, and I’ll see you next time.

She had a mastiff, a raspy voice and some fiancée who got her a gorgeous ring. And she was definitely a stoner. I didn’t know that then, but looking back, it’s very clear.

Kate Ruppert

Give something dope with that bottle of 2 buck chuck you are going to take to that Xmas party coming up. 

This card is just that. 

THE MESSENGER launches in 2012…but this, my friends, is a teaser….

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

Sorry I was late.  I’m cleaning.  I have a super fast story.  So, this week, the Mrs calls to tell me about a Delta Christmas charity thing she and the Captain went to at JFK.  And wouldn’t you know it, the driver of the VIP van caught her eye.  For me.  His name is Rocky.  Rocky is a 400-pound ramp worker who works my dad’s runways at JFK and he just looooooooves my dad, and Rocky, a native of Longuyland, is adorable and when he swears, he apologizes because “it’s New York!” and my mother thinks it’s just the cutest thing, and his personality…!  Okay?  First of all the Mrs doesn’t even read this shit because she thinks I may as well punch a baby every time I swear.  And 400 pounds?!  A ramp worker at JFK?!  She also told me about this guy who has red hair (and, again, an adorable personality) because SHE THOUGHT I HAD A THING FOR GUYS WITH RED HAIR!  That’s it.  That was  a highlight of my week. 

 Anyway, I’m not sure if I said this out loud, or just in my head, but I’ve decided I’m not writing a column every week.  I mean, if I think of something, I’ll write one every day.  But the pressure of procrastination—which is the most stressful part—and then the anxiety of not liking what you eek out just because you have to….  I’m too old for this kind of term-paper pressure, so, like, once a month, I’ll bring you something hard-hitting, for sure.  This will be it, really, until after the new year, actually, because I have a lot of shit going on.  I’m not a huge fan of the holidays, because there is so much pressure to be social and, quite frankly, social situations annoy me.  Not because I don’t like them, but more simply because I hate to dance, and people always wanna fucking dance, or do karaoke, and I just wanna sit there and drink continuously and/or eat, as the case may be, and not participate in any additional activities.  But more than all that, I hate to travel.  I lived in airports and out of a suitcase my entire childhood, and now I just want sit still.  I don’t feel like spending my time or money on travelling with the general public.  It’s a stressor I do not need, but which the holidays require, and—if you’re single and alone like me—you’re always the one to go to everyone else, and sleep on the floor in the dining room on an air mattress that’s flat by 4 a.m.  I hate it.  In fact, I told my mother I only have 2 vacation days left this year because I already just want to come home and see my Kidden.  It’s aiite, she doesn’t read this, remember, she’ll never know.  Okay, baby boos, Mama’s gonna bounce—my tater tots are almost crispyyyyyy and my drink is almost emptyyyyyy; I just wanted to use this quick minute to check in with you and make sure you know I love you.  Especially that one guy.  You heard me.  No, seriously, I’m asking, do you think he heard me? 

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

'You heard me.' by Kate Ruppert

December 2, 2011

On Wednesday, I was talking to a coworker, and he made an astute observation.  To be honest, I don’t think it was his observation at all, as he’s pretty much a complete dunce, but whatever talk radio host he lifted the bit from was dead on:  Like the day after Christmas or the day after New Year’s, the day after the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is a busy day at the gym.  Nailed it.  I asked him what the general age range at the gym was, and he said young.  Nailed it again.  The youth don’t appreciate the VSFS the way it’s meant to be enjoyed, and I wasn’t going to write anything this week, but then the show happened, and now I think we need to have a quick come-to-Jesus. 

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.  It’s my most favorite televised event of the year.  I know it usually falls around Thanksgiving, which is cruel, but what can you do…?  And I usually watch with my friend Carissa, who, until this year, was the only other person I know who watches and is as enthusiastic as I.  And you can’t watch the show with just anyone.  Your fellow watcher must come from your camp—like, you can’t go for Mexican with a person on a diet—everyone’s gotta be on the same wavelength for success.  There are two kinds of VS camp: Y’all bitches who covet the life of an Angel; and the rest of us bitches who watch and only care about ever having a booty like that but knowing it’s just not in the cards so we don’t even try instead we get loaded on 80 proof booze and salads that are mostly oil-based and decide which wings we want and which kind of confident-slutty we would rock the shit out of in the bedroom, because that’s more tangible.  You heard me. 

Candice is my favorite, followed closely by Behati. Lily is a beast and Alessandra is in her own league. I think having an Asian Angel is reaching and Giselle forever owns my heart. These bitches are a force and I want whatever power they have. Not because they’re hot. Not because they have long-ass torsos. Not because they grow up to procreate with Tom Brady, who is the closest we’ve to superhuman. No, I want the power of their force because they OWN. IT.  All their insecurities are checked and they show up for the moment and exercise their power as a Lady because they know that only we possess it.  And when you’re the only one with a very specific, very necessary power or skill, it behooves you to learn how to use it.  I talk about using your Girl all of the time.  The VSFS is when a group of women come together and use their collective Girl.  We’re captivated.  My #2 Girl, Behati, said she felt like a real woman when she strapped on her wings and hit the runway for the first time.  Nailing it right and left.  Don’t get lost in the fact that they have lithe, inhuman praying mantis bodies.  Don’t get distracted by their hair extensions.  And don’t get hard on yourself when you realize you will never be that.  Those bitches are stomping down that runway because they are taking a deep breath and pulling some fierce confidence out some deep down place where every Lady’s confidence lies and they are owning the shit outta the beat.  And if you can’t make the connection between watching them, and understanding that you have just as much inside as they do—probably more, Ladies, don’t self-deprecate to the point of nonsensical—then fake it ‘til you make it.  Confidence is one of those things that people generally don’t question, and it’s one of those things that you’ll generally need to make it through.  You won’t find it at the gym, you won’t find it in a carb-free life, you won’t find it by cutting back on red wine, you won’t find it at your favorite store.  When this shit comes on TV again, you’re not gonna be in the gym flogging yourself the next morning, you’re gonna be sleeping in because your ass is hungthefuckover on account of your viewing party the night before.  

So much for no column.  Whatever, in my sleep.  Anyway, I have to get on up outta here as my weekend hinges on ending this day.  I have a full couple days of tennis, and there’s no way I could adequately describe my joy about that here. Also, if I’ve learned anything this week it’s that people’s red flag warnings are telling and irrevocable, and not learning from your mistakes will be the end of you. I hope that shit sounds dire because bad choices tend to have a domino effect, and it won’t be over until you’ve dealt with the issues that came out of the issues you never dealt with as soon as they presented themselves as issues that need dealing with. Now, g’on, getouttahere and make the kinds of good choices you’d want someone making on your behalf. 

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