Addendum

One more thought on love. 

We've all heard this trope: 

What a giant steaming pile of diarrhea. Is there anything worse to say to a person who struggles with this? "Hey no one loves you! Quit being so sad!" Do you know how much love I have for Marlon Brando? Infinity amount of love, that’s how much, and that dude filled his self-hate vacuum with women and food until the end. Case in point. 

Now, I understand that confidence is very attractive so maybe that's where this garbage expression came from. Self-love attracts other-peoples-sexy love. LOTS of things are very attractive, though, including kindness and vulnerability and depth, which are beautiful things that can come from anyone at anytime at any part of the self-love continuum. 

I believe a more accurate phrase would be, “It can be hard to feel the love coming from people who do love you until you figure out that you are pretty fantastic and way lovable." Regardless, people will/do love you. If nothing else, I probably already love you a little bit by mistake, so there that is.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Me

p.s. I will never ever speak of love again.

Happy St. Chaucer's Day!

Chaucer maybe made up Valentine's Day, but that's ok! The real St. Valentine probably was a loving dude. Which is what I've been thinking about lately. Just being a real loving dude.

Real quick, I like this from Wikipedia:

While the custom of sending cards, flowers, chocolates and other gifts originated in the UK, Valentine's Day still remains connected with various regional customs in England. In Norfolk, a character called 'Jack' Valentine knocks on the rear door of houses leaving sweets and presents for children. Although he was leaving treats, many children were scared of this mystical person.

Norfolk sounds neat.

This week was a little rough. I received news that a handful of my loved ones are facing mortality.  It reminded me of what it's all about. 

My grandpa is having some health issues. He is 81. In my mind, William Norris Eaton has always been the epitome of strapping. He was (is) an athlete. He coached football, wrestling, and track for 30 years. Last year - LAST YEAR - he took me, my bro and his kids on a crazy bushwhacking hike to the top of a ridge in Maine for a view of the sun going down. He could be shwhacking right now for all I know.

Growing up, going to visit Buff & Muff (my mom's dad and mom) was equated with physical pain. "Hey we're going to see [physical pain] soon!" It was always humbling. (I just now realized that most people probably haven't harbored shame their whole lives for being weaker than their grandparents...) I remember biking in the Everglades between a bunch of damn crocodiles when I was eight. I was so worn out and so terrified. Buff & Muff's idea. I remember hiking up Mount Washington with Buff when I was eleven and nearly dying. I distinctly remember thinking on the way up,"This guy has something against me. I'M INNOCENT!" (The irony being hiking becoming a passion of mine). I remember getting cross country skis for Christmas that same year and immediately being forced to use them. On Christmas Day! Cross country skiing is exhausting! Why can't we sit around eating cinnamon rolls?? All Buff & Muff. I could go on. Strapping. 

I love this man. I don't think he knows how much. I didn't get to see him often growing up and don't get to much even now and it stings. I wish I could go off and live with him & Muff up on the farm until he gets better, listening to his wisdom and his stories (his students used to call him Sage), watching him watch sports. I'm sure he's going to be fine. He's an ox. (Strapping.)

Buff wasn't going to be a part of this post, but I'm glad he is. He represents the people in our lives that we wish could be present with us always. Sometimes I wish I could move into my brother Curt's house and nanny his children until I'm old and barren. Sometimes I wish I could live with my brother Jared so we could support each other through our rough times. Sometimes I wish my best friend was a man so we could get married and live happily ever after in a tiny house. But that's not how this works. Our loved ones have their own families or have passed on to the other side or maybe just don't want anyone around. Out of one's control. There's still stuff we can do and people we can share ourselves with.

I watch children for a living. I've had the normal jobs with the more impressive titles, but nothing fulfills me like this does. I get to love tiny persons and absorb their goodness as I study them and attempt to be like them. Children are the ultimate humans. They love purely. They remind me everyday that the point of all this is each other. Serving each other, expressing love in the "constant concern for the well-being of others" sort of way. I'm so grateful that I have been blessed with more than zero loved ones in my life. I have a few friends that, if they did not exist, I would have absolutely descended into a dark and destructive place. I'm grateful to know that I'm not alone when I am alone. I'm grateful I have a strong belief in the hereafter and in the eternal nature of love. One eternal round. 

In the words of St. Chaucer, if you can't be with the one you love honey, love the one you're with. Everything is going to be ok, you guys.

Your Valentine,

Katherine Elizabeth Cardon

Granddaughter of William & Marilyn Eaton

Ten Minutes

Yo yo yo!

I almost broke my 2015 blog promise to write one more post before the end of the year! Ten minutes until 2016. I'm excited for it to come. I feel like this year was a bunch of hard emotional/spiritual/physical/lyrical/spherical prep for 2016. Which is gonna be off the hoooooooooook! My bestie sent me two quote recently that I'm making my 2016 mottos/mantras/tramp stamps:

Numero Uno
"Whatever you're meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible."
-Doris Lessing

Zwei:
"Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final."
-Rainer Maria Rilke


I'm excited to fail and get my heart broken and be lonely and scared and feel all the things in 2016. Also in 2016, I will never say "off the hook". I do promise you, but more importantly me that.



HAPPY NEW YEARRRRRRR!

Kass

My How Things Have Changed - End of 2015

Hi Roxanne! 

And anyone else she may make read this! I just saw that this blog has gotten like 6000+ hits to date which doesn't make any sense. I know 26 people tops. I think what may have happened over the years is that "Kassie In The Raw" sounds vaguely like a possible porn website and folks maybe have come here by mistake. But if that were the case, the blog would have millions of accidental views. It's a mystery.

Anyway, two-ish years since the last post! I reread the past couple of ones and I gotta say I have seen progress in Ol' Kassie. Which is fantastic! I'm pretty much doing what I want to do and living where I want to live and being who I want to be. So that's ok. Good Lord this is boring.

I may fire up the blog engine again! At this point my journal is like, "Blech Kassie quit trying to be funny I'm exhausted." I will commit to at least one more post before 2016. Lucky yoooooooooou!

The Sofa vs. The Square

Lately I've been feeling a bit sorry for myself. Whether or not the reasons are valid is immaterial (we know the answer to that); the point of this blog is going to be PERSPECTIVE. Sometimes I need to take my head out of my a moment to look outside my tiny universe for one damn second. But first...

The Sofa

2014 thus far has kinda been a ¡Qué perra vida!-themed affair (I'm learning español. Duolingo, holmes!). The sofa was not in and of itself a spirit-breaker. It was sort of the penultimate straw on this camel's back.

Roommate Allison and I moved into our new apartment Friday, January 4th, 2014, the day after The Blizzard of 2014. I don't wanna talk about it, except that I found this steal of a sofa on craigslist 30 minutes after it had been posted, and as we own no things, I was going to make this happen. What ensued thereafter involved hunger, exhaustion, a rented conversion van, un-plowed roads, darkness, premature elation when Allison and I perfectly execute couch-retrieval, snow banks, spinning wheels, darkness, resourcefulness, cardboard boxes, premature pride when I find broken-down boxes, darkness, dumpster, blunt force trauma, my head, rivers of blood, darkness. And then of course one still has to return the rental van.

I packed snow into my pre-frontal lobe until the gushing subsided, and Allison sacrificed her scarf to turn me into a fashionable Rambo. We were in Williamsburg so I may have unintentionally started a new trend. I'll have to go back and check how the ladies are wearing their scarves these days.

Post-victory, exhausted, un-showered (day three), and ready for that Oreo. The next day I had a nice canyon forming from the gash and a forehead that resembled that one dinosaur in Jurassic Park with the - hold on I'll google it, brb - pachycephalosaurus. Kassycephalosaurus. 

I was going to have my picture taken for an acting thing two days later. This is what I worried about almost immediately. What an idiot. I should have gone as Kassycephalosaurus. It made my face so much more interesting. The things I choose to focus on ughghghgh. Vanity, ladies. It's not just a river in Egypt. Speaking of Egypt...

"The Square"

NPR gave me a head's up about this documentary that was filmed in the trenches of the revolution happening in Egypt. It was released on Netflix yesterday and today it crashed my pity party and burned it to the ground. I would gladly give everyone in this documentary an opportunity to punch me right in the face. I don't have the right to utter ¡Qué perra vida! - not only because I am not cool, but because I live ¡La dulce vida! ¡INDEED!

I'm annoyed that I get so self-involved. I'm annoyed that I just made this about me again. I'm also annoyed that I can't help my humans in other parts of the world. I can't fight the regimes, I can't save the dolphins, I can't stop the bullies. I guess I can just spread the word within my little circle of influence. That's how the revolution started in the first place, right? 

Watch the film. Everything will be ok. Scars are cool. 

Kassie 

North and Norther

Last week, I bussed it up to Mass & ME to be reacquainted with Nature and with some of my maternal home fries. This is what they look like:

(Maine Nature)

(Nantasket Beach Nature)

(Kono the Dog)

I love that damn 80lb. puppy. We just laughed and laughed, Kono and I. I also spent some QT with the moms and the grand 'rents, etc etc etc. It was fantastic! I didn't talk as much as I expected I would because I was quite overwhelmed with the clean air and panoramas and lack of humidity and being around so many people who remember when I used to poop my disposable pants. I was fully occupied with soaking it all in. I sat on a porch facing the White Mountains for probably 75% of my visit, just watching the hills and the birds  (rose-breasted fancy lady finches...female mourning doves...little bitty brown hoppers...). Why does bird-watching work?! It's a mystery. I was enthralled.

I was fed fresh vegetables from gardens! Chicken from outdoor grills! Homemade breads! When I retire from the career I have yet to establish, I will happily move up to the North Country, [have someone] plant me a garden, buy a mountain lake, and sit in my hand-whittled rocking chair and proceed to slip blissfully into senility (I predict my brain will start slipping shortly before my 40th birthday). There are way too many days between this day and that day.

Thank you soooo much, family!! For the familial love, the hospitality, the stories told, the wisdom imparted (and absorbed), the patience displayed. I'm a lucky, lucky gal.


Kass

KONO 2012!!

A Word on Woody Allen and Me

I just finished the Woody Allen documentary that came out last year, and I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that I have a crush on him. On the youngish him. I feel shame. But I feel much more adulation and bizarre attraction. I challenge any woman to watch him in "Manhattan" or "Annie Hall" and not maybe resign to his charm. And to Diane Keaton's charms! They don't make them like they used to! Or maybe they do...*winkwink*...(me?). I need to watch his earlier stuff. "Bananas" is next on my list. This is all. I yield the rest of my time to a severely overdue update.

Hey guess what? Sorry that I haven't blogged in literally a year! I signed in again today for the first time and there's all this new stuff! I changed the format a bit. My big ole face is in the background. It's this self-promotion stuff; I'm trying to get the hang of it. I hate it. Was that the correct use of a semicolon?

So there were all these stats listed when I signed into my moth-eaten blog page, and turns out this thing has had over 2200 hits! WTF?? Who are you people? I was certain only a handful of family members looked at this thing and maybe the outlier roommate and/or stalker (just one before I die, please, God). Me and Woody are completely baffled. That being said, I am all ABOUT you creeps checking me out! Do it! I've made a mid-2012 goal of blogging regularly. I would say that I accomplish my goals greater than 50% of the time. Things are looking good!

This is the story of the past year of inter-web rogueness: Hot damn Ray LaMontagne is a sexy voodoo man! He's the ambience music this evening. He will, without fail, put me in the mood. For blogging. Note to self, fellas...(hahahaaaaa@nomalesreadblogs) Aaaaand we're back on topic - Here's the thing - I did long and thorough standup comedy research, and I have come to the conclusion that I am too well-adjusted a woman and/or I harbor too little self-hatred to be a successful stand up comedian. I don't have a stand up brain. I seem to have more of a comedy improv leaning. I have to say that I'm pretty relieved I won't have to stand in front of 25-75 unfamiliars in sundry stages of inebriation who have come either to mock me or to ignore me and concentrate on getting laid. I'd rather just spontaneously make my roommates giggle in our living room. Other than research, I quit my job at a leading technology-based, fruit-promoting juggernaut, got off the Facebook, got sick, got poor, got milk, got poorer, and then got hilarious & adorable children to watch part-time for entertainment, enrichment, and frankly financial purposes (I don't own them - they are rented out to me by their legal guardians, usually their parents, on a weekly basis with the tacit agreement that I will do them no harm...basically I'm a pediatrician.). It's been great! But it's also been creatively not entirely fulfilling, so here is what is happening now - Ostensibly, it's time for me to "start my career". I know. I, too, am rolling my eyes.

I'm getting back on Facebook! It's gonna be more of a professional lady page (not no stop it), but really that just means I won't have a wall, in case a casting director or whoever decides someday to browse the FB page. Casting directors are a thing, right? Walls should really be called Public Restroom Surfaces. PRSs. I want to avoid any "for a good time call..."-type situations. AND I'll be joining Twitter soon blargh which makes me throw up in my mouth a little, but apparently it's a necessity. These are all of my internet things. Tell all your friends!!

I'm gonna be doing a music thing! I went to an Ok Go concert last week and it made my whole body ache which can only mean that I, too, must Ok Go. I wrangled a friend into reteaching me guitar skillz and we all know I have the voice of ten thousand angels and the lyrical stylings of one Bobert Dylan, so we shall move forward from there. I also have a drum player who is fantastic looking AND hilarious! Just what every band needs!! We have no drum set or rehearsal space - baby steps. It's all a process. Madison Square Garden concert dates TBD. Stay tuned.

I'm gonna be doing act-y stuff! I've been procrastinating starting the whole audition/agent-search/resume-bedazzle game because it has seemed overwhelming. I'm in a fetal position, naked, rocking, as I type this right now. But, meh, it's gotta get done so I am initiating. It's probably about time that I become comfortable admitting to myself that I am an actor/singer/performer. Ugh I'm a slashie. Acknowledge and accept, Cardon. There have been suggestions of podcasting. Well, we've come up with a podcast name. It would be called The PodKass. Roommate Abby is the pun queen.

More to come!! Thanks for looking here! Lookuphere lookuphere!


Kassie

p.s. I learned how to do this!

What is the deeeaaaaal with comedy?

Friends, family, strangers, haters,

The latest news is that a buddy asked me if I had ever done stand up comedy before. No, I have not. I have been encouraged by certain folks (mostly moms - my own and others), but it has always sounded terrifying until now...So I know a guy who knows a guy who could probs get me a gig doing stand up at a pretty prestigious NYC comedy club that shall remain nameless so as not to jinx anything.

So what do we think? Should I try it? It's not a talent I ever thought about having or flexing. Mostly cuz, besides being scary as folk, a stand up comedian merely by walking on stage is saying, "I think I am hilarious." My ego hasn't been able to reconcile that one. Here's where the tipping point is: certain comedians make good money. If walking on stage and telling strangers funny stories can bring in CASH?! Hmmmm. I work at a certain retail store. I have to communicate with and smell and sometimes touch lots of people that I have no desire spend time with. These strangers are turning me into a horrible person. I'm really worried that I have literally lost my ability to empathize. Maybe I'll regain some humanity! Besides, I don't even have to interact with or like see the audience.

Weigh in, folks. Go.

SEINFELD, I WILL NOT SHAME YOU.

A Word On Self-Aggrandizement

Yo yo yo! I'm baaaaack!!

Quick recap: The past almost year, I have been studying my acting by day, working full-time as a vampire computer-nerd by night, and trying to remain healthy and sane in between. Now that I have graduated, have a couple of gigs under my belt, and have changed my work schedule to something less life-ruining, I have more time to blog again!!

I apologize for my absence, and if you are reading this, I must say that you have passed my test of true friendship and I am forever indebted to you. I can say that confidently and yet with little personal accountability as I have no way of knowing exactly who you are. Awesome.

Ok, I think I need to ease back into this whole thing, so I have chosen a topic that has been on my mind today. The concept of self-aggrandizement. It's something that I've been extremely uncomfortable with my entire life. Everyone knows that self-deprecation is socially adorable and more than a little charming. I find it attractive in men and women alike. Self-promotion I have found equally loathsome.

What is so disgusting about giving oneself props? What's your gut reaction when a person tells you in all sincerity that they are really good at something? Mine usually is, "This guy [and it's usually a dude] is either Narcissus or hates himself because he is not. And I can't handle either scenario. I'm out." It's unappetizing, right? It's also dangerous, because then I think, "OR this dude either has a tiny penis he's overcompensating for or a third leg he's much too proud of!" And then I'm upset because you made me think of penises (peni? penipoda...?) and I don't want to think about your penis. I hardly ever want to think about genitalia.

LATELY, though, upon reflection, I have found self-aggrandizement (at least to myself, in the safety and privacy of my own noggin) has been instrumental in what I consider my successes thus far! How else does one grow and progress if she doesn't look back plainly at what she has done well, where she has succeeded, and what methods were employed to get her there?

When I was in college, I walked on to two different sports teams. Until very recently, I have have not recognized this as any sort of achievement. They were just things that I forgot I did once:

-When I was 17 I joined my university's rugby team and was a surprisingly quick study. (If you would like me to teach you the most effective way to tackle someone, by all means, contact me). I later quit after I watched teammates receive dislocated body parts, head injuries, memory lapses, etc. At the time, my brain was the one part of my body of which I was actually proud, and I didn't want to keep it in harm's way (self-deprecating! aren't I precious?). But, looking back, successfully joining a rugby team and excelling is kinda cool! And I unconsciously learned from this that I could probably succeed in a similar situation in the future.

-When I was 19, right after I transferred to Michigan State University for my upperclassmen years, I tried out for the women's crew team and made it. (I also quit this team less a month into the off-season for reasons that were right and important then...maybe I should dedicate a blog to 'why Kassie quits sports clubs'...) I remember after a long day of tryouts, our last test of the day was the invisible chair wall sit. It's where you sit against the wall, thighs parallel to the ground, for as long as you can stand it. Ten minutes was the maximum limit the coach was going to make us do. I was one of the few remaining in her invisible chair after seven minutes had past. If memory serves, the coach stopped us before eight minutes, but I remember feeling like I had some strength left in me had we continued. Let me stress that at this point in my young life, I was fairly unhappy and generally unimpressed with myself.

I'd like to juxtapose this last experience with one I had today. I have started exercising much more regularly again. Today I went to a class at my local gym where the final exercise of the night was...the wall sit! I lasted maybe 45 seconds. The toughest person in the class I think lasted 2:45. Was I embarrassed that my thigh strength is 1/10 of what it once was? Well, yeah a little. BUT, was I more impressed that my younger self owned that challenge? Hells yes!! I must have had legs that would make Thigh-Masters weep! I had Everest-climbing quads! After I shakily flopped to the floor today, my heart filled with love and empathy for my old critical self. She deserved a little recognition and I never gave it to her. As part of the MSU DI athletic package, she was offered private tutors, trainers, free clothes and a generous per diam during the season. But did that make her see her talent and success with humble pride and appropriate encouragement? Nope! I distinctly remember feeling confused and uncomfortable with it all.

My current inner condition is much improved from my self-flagellating days at MSU. I do not envy her or her steel-bending musculature. I'm happy, I like myself, and I think I've learned that self-deprecation and self-aggrandizement have their rightful place in all of us. My specific organs were my heart for all things failed and some black-hole in my memory banks for anything good I ever did in life ever. Now my belief is that recognizing our achievements and being proud of them should be something done regularly in our minds and hearts as it spurs us on to greater heights and joys. And self-deprecation should be left to the trivial dribble of dates and dinner parties, and reassigned to that black hole where my best memories used to go. Besides, if we don't know what we're good at, and don't love doing it, how are we going to serve anyone else with our mad skillz? Sounds wasteful now.

The next time someone tells me that they are the best at x, y, or z, I will try to congratulate them for recognizing their own strengths.

I probably still won't want to spend more than five minutes alone with them. Baby steps in my maturation, folks. Baby steps.

Holler at me, lovers!

Kassie

p.s. My former crew teammates at MSU turned into female Arnold Schwarzeneggers. I remember breathing a sigh of relief after I quit as I considered my own feminine-sized deltoids (If any of you would like me to show you how to properly operate an Erg, please contact me).

p.p.s. My former rugby teammates at BYU mostly ended up with C averages, at best, and back hair and acne.

p.p.s.s. That last one is not true.

You're gonna make it after all!

Who can turn the world on with her smile? I can, so it seems. I've just moved into a fab new neighborhood, have a wonderful new job, and I'm feeling a little bit like Mary Tyler Moore. Good times. I have a few stories for you all. Let me recount to you my first 'holla'd at' occurrence in my new neighborhood. It came unbidden yesterday afternoon.

Now, back in Washington Heights, one can be expected to be mildly sexually harassed at least once a week, or once an outing if you're walking greater than or equal to five blocks. Recently, I was walking from the library on W. 145th St. to my apartment on W. 162nd St., and got hollered at no less than FIVE TIMES! I am not boasting, ladies and gentlemen. I wouldn't be surprised if female dogs get hit on by some drunken residents. Nor shall we assume their intentions are honorable. I doubt they're thinking, "Wow! What a fair young lady! She appears to be interesting! She bears signs of nobility! I admire her inner and outer beauty, therefore, I shall exclaim, 'Ay Mami!'." Nope. I usually try to look as unappealing as possible if I have to walk places. On the library occasion, I was wearing my old Beatles t-shirt that I usually wear only under things because of the obvious yellow pit stains. Even so, I was waiting to cross the street at a corner when the driver of an SUV (also waiting) looks over at me and says, "Yo the Beatles is sexy...so are you!" Yikes. Did I mention the girlfriend glaring at me from the passenger seat? Awkarder. (Hopefully it was just a pimp/prostitute relationship. Otherwise, that's just rude) I used to hate walking around up there.

So I'm working nights at my new job (I'm very happy there, thanks for asking!), and my sleep schedule is still wonky. I rolled out of bed sometime in the afternoon yesterday and I had a hankering for a New York slice, so I walked to the corner to a local pizzeria I spotted a few days ago (no cat calls!). In fact, I had walked into the place last week and realized I was too poor to buy anything so I pretended to go get money and that I'd be back. The young Italian pizza immigrant goes, "I'll be here!" in a "I'll-be-waiting-wink-wink" kind of way. Yeah, yeah whatever, Pizza Guy. Well, yesterday, I walk in (mind you I'm rocking serious bedhead, a big blue t-shirt that is about three sizes too big in a man size - picture the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka, and unbrushed teeth; I literally did three things between sleep and pizza: bra, pants, shoes & purse) and the same dude is there working. Here we go.

Pizza Dude: "It's you! What can I get you, babe?"
Me: "Hm I didn't realize we were dating..." (I didn't actually say this, but my sassy brain was thinking it)
Me, for real: "Two cheese please."
Pizza Dude: "Ipad."
Me: "Huh?"
Pizza Dude: "Ipad...where do you keep all your buttons?" (Wink wink, pointing at all different points of my body; my shirt advertises the new Apple Ipad)
Me: "Oh...Ipads don't have any buttons." (Trying real hard to will the pizza to warm up faster with my mind)
Pizza Perv: "What do they have?"
Me: "They have touch screens."
Ballzy Pizza Perv: "Can I touch you then?"
Me: "NOOOOO." (Said in the same manner as a little girl would say it, had her brother just asked if he could spit in her hair)
By this point I've paid and am trying to get the hell out of there.
Bally Pizza Guy as I rush out: "Stay pretty!"

I leave clutching my pizza, trying to figure out what just happened. I told one of my best friends this story, and he 1. laughed way too hard and 2. told me to take it as a compliment and live in the moment. He's probably right, but I just don't handle these things well. I just get confused and uncomfortable, and make a list of places never to visit again. Maybe it's a crazy girl thing. When I don't put any effort into my appearance, I assume I look like Will Ferrell's version of Harry Caray, therefore anyone hitting on me at any time immediately becomes some sort of weirdo pervert. But I know a lot of girls who like the attention no matter what, so maybe they're the crazy ones. I dunno. Only in New York. Besides the one Italian dude, I no longer walk my neighborhood in fear (or in 'homeless drag' to avoid harassment, barring first-meal hankerings)!

Here are a couple of good NYC MTA bus stories. All of them feature a different large black women. All the buses I take seem to be run by said women. They don't drive the bus, but we are all subject to them. One time I got on and the only spot open to sit down was in between a petite woman to the left and a large black woman on the right. I sat just barely on the edge of the seat, not wanting to cramp any one's style. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the lady on my right scooching over to her right. Naturally, I think she's doing this for me! So I ease my way back until I hear, from my right, "Where you goin'?!" I look up at her, smiling, thinking she was starting friendly banter. I quickly realized she didn't really want to know what was my ultimate destination. What she meant to ask was, "Do you really think I'm going to allow your leg to touch any part of my leg for the duration of this voyage? If you do, I'm afraid you are mistaken (Move your white ass back over)." Naturally, I did what I could, and also I found whatever I was reading for the rest of the trip just rapturous.

Word to the wise, try to stay out of the way of people who like to walk around/stand on a bus when they don't have to. They're probably a little bit off their rocker. Avert your eyes, pretend to text someone, sleep, etc. I was on my way home one morning when this bossy old LBW (large black woman) was standing up front by the driver, ranting and raving. I looked up once to see what she was talking about, caught her icy gaze and my blood stood still for a minute. Pretend you were looking around at everyone! You're life is at risk, Cardon! It was sort of hard to not hear what she was saying. We had a crying infant about halfway back on the bus, and at one point crazy LBW yells out to the mom, "That baby's cold! Put a blanket on it, it's freezing! C'mon now!" Oh. no. she. di'int. Mothering a stranger's baby! That's not allowed, is it?!?! I looked over, aghast, at the mom. She was calmly ignoring LBW. Incidentally, the baby was all bundled up already. LBW kept talking until she got off. Probably telling the driver how to drive better. Some people can get away with anything!

My last story isn't really a story. I was riding home from work the other day and was real tired and had a headache, and this CBW (crazy black woman) with a long black trench coat kept walking up and down the aisle. Sitting down, standing up, sitting somewhere else. That's the whole story, except she wreaked strongly of urine and something sour, like rotting flesh. I was so angry that she was making me smell her. So angry that she was stinky. Why are people so stinky sometimes?

I wonder if Mary Tyler Moore ever had to smell a CBW on a bus.

Holler back,

Kassie

More Like Happy Dependence Day

Warning: This post smells of tree-huggers and free love. Do not be frightened.

Until I was about twelve yrs. old, I was a military brat (US Air Force w00t!). A fortunate by-product of such an upbringing has been a healthy, maybe even fierce pride and respect for our country and our military (cue Kenny Rogers). While this patriotism is alive and well inside my ticker, I've never been quite as disenchanted with our nation as I have been the last few years. I have taken the time to remove my "American" hat (resembles a baseball cap with a flat bill/sticker still on, "D" for Detroit; sits slightly askew) and don my simple "Human Being" hat (maybe like something I'd weave out of weeds?) to have a look around, and I've had myself quite an education. Mostly I've become aware of bad, bad Americans making bad, bad decisions all over the place. In a word: Boo, America!

Many times I've sat in my little room with my little energy-efficient Ikea lamp & light bulb ablaze utterly frustrated at my lack of influence in healing the world & making it a better place (cue MJ). These sessions usually occur after forgetting once again to bring my own bag to the grocery store. NYC has got to be the biggest waster of plastic bags in the world. And probably about 5% of those bags are under my kitchen sink. Gaaaaaah. For shame! In a word: Boo, Kassie! My heart is soooo in the right place, but it seems inevitable that I just keep aiding in the demise of this land that I love!

How can little you and I repent America? (If you've read a lot of the Old Testament, which I've been doing lately - especially Jeremiah - the word repent is used sillily. Specifically, with regards to God - He can't repent He's already at Himself! Anyways, I've taken to using 'repent' in any way I please. Silly translators.)

1. Stop being ignorant. Regardless of your political views or how you feel about global warming (If you think it's a myth, that's great. Not a myth? CDCs and other oil waste products. They are poison whether or not they are actually punching significant holes in our beloved ozone layer), bone up on at least the ecological consequences of your actions. Start small. I promise you learning about this stuff is addictive. It's a little like researching your family history - before you start, your gut says it's important, but your attention span says it's important for someone else. But once you've started , you're hitting my dealer for a re-up like daily. Word to the wise: If you're going to head to the media for your 'facts', make sure you check out both camps. I've lost complete faith in any news program besides The Colbert Report & The Daily Show.

2. Watch this film: http://www.hulu.com/watch/158468/fuel


IT'S FREE! and it's a feature film, so dedicate a night to it. It's educational AND entertaining! If you, like me, get inspired to help change and unite the world by serving and sustaining one another, this film will be a relief and a huzzah! Because, as you will learn from the flick, people, nay nations have already done all the work and made all the changes. The world is just waiting with it's arms wide open for the group hug we are all starving for, we just need to seal the deal with our support. How?

3. Contact your Congressman. Why are people so afraid of these stool pigeons? It's easy! We have email, telephone, snail mail. They have offices, even if they don't spend any time in them! Photocopy a buttload of your biofuel/renewable-energy-for-your-community demands and send one each day, or even all at once. They need to feel the pressure from their constituents to conform to the new green trend. No one wants to be more trendy than Congressmen do! Obama can't do much without the dis/approval of Congress, and who runs Congress? We do, actually! What?? I knoooow!!! We all know that Congressmen are (with a few exceptions) whimpy people-pleasers who need fill the holes in their souls with power and money. And they need to listen to us, or else their power & cash flow diminish. I'm gonna write my Congressmen this week. I'm not sure which state I'm a resident of, so I'm gonna hit up both New York and Virginia. Of course, our points should be made in a spirit of fellowship and progress, not disrespect aka the spirit of point #3.

If you can't be bothered with "environmental issues" and can't see their connection to your own life, that's cool. I can see how it feels like an unnecessary & futile effort. We've got enough on our plates with our small independent worlds. Well, at least check out www.thefuelfilm.com. Give it a two-minute browse and see if anything inspires you. At the very least, your effort could help create hundreds of millions of green-collared jobs here in the States. Which is reason enough for me!

Each of us can do something to eliminate our dependence on oil and coal. We don't have to create or instate alternatives. That's already been taken care of! We just need to strong-arm some politicians to do their job. The power is in our hands! And if the masses (you and me) don't do it, who will?

Or at the very least, get paper instead of plastic.


GOD BLESS AMERICA!! LAND. THAT. I. LOOOOOOVE!!!

Holler back,
Kassie

Musings on fellas and free monies

Gah there are so many things right about this picture. For those of you who don't know him, meet Sufjan Stevens. I've been in love with him for roughly three years. Amongst other things, as you can see, he plays the banjo. He's from Michigan. His first name is Sufjan. He describes his sound as "sixth-grade band class". How could I NOT fall for him? I just felt like honoring him today.

This week, I recognized a trend in what I tend to be attracted to in a fellow. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. Puzzled, I think, because after looking over the list, it appears as though my ideal dude is Willie Nelson. And, needless to say (I hope), he is NOT. Here are a few things my butterfly-inducing-boys usually have in common: they play instruments (guitars/banjos mostly), they like to garden, they are amateur photographers, they are hairy about the face/chestal area, they love bikes, they are frugal, and they are incredible at some sport (that's a typical girl thing, probs). OH! And they usually end up being under 6'0", which is bad news bears for Kassie as I'm at least 6'1" with heels on. K. So, no big deal, none of these are bad things or too creepy, except that every gay man in NYC probably has the exact same list... But what I've been trying to figure out is, whaaat? Why? There's gotta be some fundamental characteristic I'm attracted to underneath it all that leads to...gardening. And whatnot. I can't be that superficial (oooooh! he has a homemade bike? AND a beard? swooooon)! Gah I dunno I'm a weirdo. But I will get to the bottom of this. Because to know oneself is to know God. Or something like that. I bet Sufjan makes his banjos with materials he grew in his backyard and makes strings out of his chest hair. And then takes pictures of them with his digital Nikon and uses the copies as stationary. Gaaaaaah so sexxy!

AND subject change:

So since my classes have ended, I've been trying to get me a full-time job in the City because that is what one is supposed to do. Surprisingly difficult, ladies and gentlemen! I've technically had an extremely part-time/on-call job for an oral surgeon since March (he has called me probably four times and I have been able to work for him once), and I think he fired me via text on Wednesday. It's ok, folks, I didn't come to NYC to be a surgical assistant. So back to the drawing board. I got a couple of rad gigs this week. Did you know that marketing companies hire actors and pay them good money to exist?? Wednesday I got $100 for six hours of work, three of which I had the tiring task of hanging out in Madison Square Park and looking like I wasn't being paid to be there. We were promoting a movement (trying to get peeps to take their lunch breaks and leave their offices building let's change corporate America w00t!!) and I pretended to be a convert, eating my lunch at the park. It was beautiful out and there were some really cool-looking birds chilling in the little flower garden I was admiring. So I even communed with nature a bit. (Also, has anyone been to MSP recently? There are these strange naked dude statues standing in what appears to be yoga's "mountain pose". What ARE these? Some little kid walked up to one, stared, and just took a hold of the statue's manhood. Like it ain't no thang, just holding it as casually as if it were his mom's hand. Awesome. THAT, my friends, is art to me...) I was even interviewed for some NBC affiliate. Flirted with the cute field reporter. Easiest money EVER! Free t-shirt, free lunch and granola bars. Perfect gig for poor people like me (I was so excited to get a free t-shirt)! I'm all about this!

I also might be starting my own baby-sitter's club, members: one. Maybe I should get a members only jacket... A friend of a friend hooked me up with this rad little family up in my neighborhood aka "the barrio". I'm gonna regularly babysit two wee lasses - three & four yrs. old, a-dor-a-ble. AND the mom is gonna tell all her friends about me. More easy money and, truly, kids say the darndest things. I freaking LOVE humans not in my age bracket.

Why waste my time doing crap I don't want to do? Office assisting, surgery assisting, paperwork, selling beds, blargh. If there are things out there like fake-activist-ing and hanging out with rad kids, I'm all over it. It may be less consistent and less health-care-covering, but it's fun stuff! Loved ones, I think it IS possible to support yourself actually doing things that you enjoy. Don't give up hope!! And don't let the ego get in the way. I'm a 27-year-old babysitter. And I have no apologies.

Holler back,

Kassie

I still miss MJ

I miss him a lot today for some reason! Probably because I just watched "This Is It". I don't think I ever properly mourned for the King of Pop. For all of you who are too cool for Mr. Jackson, I recommend you skip this post and go get a life. Cuz you just don't get it yet. For the rest of you, journey towards healing with me.

When I was a kid I lived in Germany for a few years. The old man was financing his oral surgery specialization via the USAF. We would go on lengthy road trips around Europe and, tellingly, my fondest memories are of being in the backseat, staring out the window totally absorbed in the magic my Walkman was pumping into my tiny impressionable ear canals. The two cassette tapes I played the most from ages 9-11 were the Boyz II Men Cooleyhighharmony album (abcbbdmmmhm!) and Michael Jackson's Dangerous. Hot damn, I know I would've already become like the President by now, or Oprah, had Bad found it's way into my cassette collection then- I didn't get hip to those insane grooves until later - but, to be honest, I'm lucky I had any good music to listen to. Sweet serendipity landed those cassettes in my player, there is no other explanation for me having them. It couldn't have been my mom's doing (I love you mom, but Lionel Richie and Michael Bolton did not plant the seeds for the deep and abiding love I have for music today. I'll give you Nat King Cole).

I can't explain accurately what I felt then, or really what I feel now, when I hear MJ sing or watch him dance. It was like knowing you're experiencing something big and important, and knowing you will and must be a part of it. I didn't know it then, but it was inspiring me. I distinctly remember it stirring up stuff inside of me that was powerful and alien, kind of like how David Bowie made me feel the first time I saw Labyrinth, but safer and less confusing. We didn't have proper TV until we returned to the States, and then I would wait until an MJ song would come on and sit there slack-jawed, mouth-breathing, probably drooling, mesmerized by a music video. The one where Eddie Murphy is a pharaoh, or the one where he's white and he's singing about how it's ok that way cuz it don't matta, or the duet with Janet in space where they scream a lot. SOOOOOOOO GOOOOOOOD! I don't care if you're the most boring, scroogiest, art-hating soul-sucker in the world - if you were around when MJ was around, you wanted to be him. You can lie to me, but don't lie to yourself, guys. I still want to be Michael Jackson.

As I am no longer a child and have a little life experience under my belt, what impresses me most about MJ isn't his freakin crazy presence or his singular dance moves, it's his courage and inner strength. He was so abused, had so much pressure on him since the womb, so much public scrutiny and negativity, yet he never quit and he always left it all on the stage. This beaten man wanted to 'bring love back into the world'. He definitely was a little insane, and God bless him for it. The sane don't have that kind of capacity. I can't imagine the pain he dealt with everyday. The dude probably never even had the chance to fall in love with someone. But the general love that man had, and had the courage to share, was enormous, too big to let fear or ill health contain it. Aaaah MJ! So tragic and so sweet a life. "What a beautiful mess", as Jason Mraz would say. I am so grateful for Michael Jackson!

It makes me sad to think about how my kids won't have MJ around to provide them with their first mind-blowing experiences. I know we still have the music, but it's not the same. He won't be a part of the collective unconscious that pervaded my youth and young adulthood. He was a great example in that he never, ever fit in anywhere down here on Earth, but he rocked his own angelic alien-like status and inspired the hell out of us. I want to be an angelic alien, too. I want to find my own moonwalk to show you.

So I guess the lesson here, folks, is dare to shine, despite your weaknesses and maybe your craziness! Don't hide your candles under bushels!! We need to find a new version of MJ by the time my kids are old enough to dream (as said children have yet to be born, you all have plenty of time to practice). Listen to good music! Sing. Dance. Or at least find out the things that blow your mind and make you feel scared and excited at the same time. And, most importantly, go easy on your kids if and when you have them. Where would MJ be today if he had a different dad, you know? He'd probably be in the middle of another world tour and I wouldn't care much if you all hid your gifts. Cuz I'd still have MJ.

In heaven, my hope is that there are lots of baby animals of course (that never poo or pee and that smell like baby lotion), we sit on edible cotton candy clouds, and sit around with our loved ones experiencing the world of MJ. What if heaven is a perpetual Michael Jackson concert, without the bounds of mortality?? WHAT CAN'T THAT MAN DO THEN!?




Many thanks, MJ!



Holler back,

Kassie

So many things should not be legal

Especially this. It's 2010!! How is bullfighting still a thing?? Where you at PETA? It boggles my mind. I have so many problems with this.

First of all, if this sort of activity is going to happen, it should at least be held exclusively at the Coliseum. Rome is to spectator murder-sports what St. Andrews is to golf. Animal-stabbing really shouldn't have left the circular confines of that sadistic arena. Second, it's way too simple to be a sport. I'm a girl, and I can fathom the object and rules of the game without even watching! A true sport should take a girl at least a season of diligent study and maybe even a high school level P.E. examination to understand it enough to enjoy or play. The really great sports require strategies from the players that are incapable of female contemplation. I am a fairly intelligent woman, in addition to being an avid sports fan with a good grasp on and experience in most sports, but I still sit in dumbfounded silence every time I witness the men in my family discuss in depth whatever sport is in season. I think the female brain is missing that lobe, just like the male brain is missing the thoughtful/multi-tasking lobe. Jim Rome might as well be speaking Norwegian on his podcasts. That is the way I like it! That's the way it's supposed to be! That is a world that makes sense. Third, the predominant thought in an athlete's head during a sporting event should never have to be, "Only one of us is going to make it out of here alive, hombre."

Bullfighting? Really? Dude wears tight pants and a jacket that someone went a little crazy with the bedazzler on, holds a piece of cloth in his hand that inspires murderous thoughts in a pre-enraged animal, enters big sand box with aforementioned animal, is armed with colorful swords (of course), attempts to kill bull by severing spinal cord via the lumpy thing on the bull's back. Are there fancy rules I don't know about? Probably a maximum IQ for participants. Must be equal less than or equal to the bull's, apparently. WHY IS THIS LEGAL?

A word to the bullfighter: 1. Sorry for the loss of your tongue but, and it needs to be said again and again - I told you so. 2. This does not make you manlier. I am sorry you were deceived by your proud country. Please try to step back with me and take an objective look at exactly what's going on here. Are you seeing what I see? Yeeeeeaaah I know, yikes. How about next time you just release an "angered and disoriented" bag of chicken breasts on a remote-controlled vacuum into a racquetball court with you and a sledge hammer? You can still feel macho by brutalizing an "animal" without the threat of being gored in the chin. Also, you have tenderized the meat for dinner. Win win win.

Ugh so many things to change in this world! Can I help illegalize this somehow? Gah I need more sway on global stage than I currently hold. Tomorrow, when I write my congressman my serious disappointments with the (lack of) financial regulation reform, I'll air my concerns about the bull-fighting epidemic. I vote no more please.

Holler back,
Kassie

I love to hate you. No wait, hate to love you. No, you to love hate?

This song isn't new at all but I'm real stoked on it right now:

It's by this unassuming fella over here to the right. I love Brett Dennen. Look at him! He looks like that shy, quiet dude in high school who always wore led zep t-shirts and who surprised the hell out of you when the yearly talent show came around. I love it when things are sooooo not what they seem. Well, not so much in a Dorian Grayish way, but like a tamale kind of way (who knew such deliciousness could be contained in an ordinary corn husk?! and it takes love and hard work to make that savory soul-healer...I could take this metaphor much further, but I'll control myself. Gah such a dork) Anyways, this dude is quality.

So I've made a couple of new friends recently and I told them I'd blog more often out of respect for the medium. Mostly, I invited them to read this crap and I feel unworthy, so I need to kick it up a notch. We found out we all blogged, but they actually blog about useful and helpful things. And they do it like almost daily. I talk about stuff running around in my brain (visual: dog chasing it's own tail) maybe once a month. And since the chances aren't great that the concept will change (if any of these turn out to be helpful in any way, I promise you, it will be accidental), I've dedicated myself to more frequent ramblings. Holy geez I'm listening to my Ben Harper channel on Pandora right now and it's blowing my mind. Richie Havens doing "Here Comes the Sun" may or may not make your life a little better.

Maybe I'm just in a fantastic mood because today was my last class. I don't think I've shared this with many of you, but from class one, my acting teacher has proven to be giant douchebag. Huge. I have stories that would shock and awe you. The military could send me to Afganistan to the most cave-y terrorist-infested mountains, give me a megaphone, have me recount a few experiences, and I would not be surprised to find hordes of weepy Al-Qaeda shuffle out of their hiding places as broken men. I cried for three hours straight, uncontrollably, in class recently. He's got a gift. It takes talent to know how to completely break down a class full of such different people! And for that, I give him a lot of credit. Tip o' the hat.

All that whining said, today I was in love with the dude. The struggle was over. We all talked. He transformed from a death eater into a homo sapien, and I was objectively able to see how his constant spewing of disgust and shame actually made a strong group of capable artists. Bravo, David. I guess you're not ultimately a douche if it was just the means to an end?*He pretty much is a hero of mine now. We'll see how long that lasts. Isn't it crazy how quickly and unexpectedly our feelings can change about people and things? We change all day everyday and I love it. Life can be monotonous, can't it? But you're wrong, it's completely unpredictable and exciting every second. Life would be a lot easier if we remembered this. And remembered the things that never change. Like my love for you all (aaaaw yeah)!

I may shave my head tonight. What are you gonna do? Maybe someone will leave a puppy on my doorstep.^ Who knows?

holler back,
kass



*Please don't infer that I'm implying a possible attraction to guys who belittle and torture me. I'm into the nice ones still, Mom, I promise.

^Fat chances, I know. Shut up! That's not the point.

Miss you!

Just a quick note for the day:

Today I've been thinking a lot about people that I've been missing around the country, nay, the world. And there are a lot of them! I know legion of folks and I won't forget any of you. I can't. I try, but my memory is relentless. Blessing and a curse. Anyways, for those people that I don't want to forget, I will think back fondly and melancholily* about them, and inevitably this is the thought that always surfaces: "That little bastard better miss me back!" But not like in a cutesy, nostalgic way. This thought is like jealous Zeus that kills all the lesser-god thoughts that are in his way. Doesn't matter who it is I'm missing. Even my little two-year old nephew is an unknowing victim of my violent love. For him, Zeus also adds, "and I better be his favorite aunt! Little smiley jerk."

Who am I? But I can't be alone in this, right?

If I made greeting cards, I'd get rid of all the, "Miss you!" and "Thinking of you!" mumbo-jumbo and replace them with anecdotes along the lines of: (outside of the card) "Sure do miss you..." (inside of the card) "...but more importantly, I hope there's a gaping, throbbing hole in your heart that keeps you up at night and just gets bigger and bigger because I'm gone." or maybe, "...but more importantly it would be great if you've lost all hope in the future being anywhere near as blissful as your time with me." or "...but more importantly I hope you need therapy. Lots of it." That kind of stuff. It's ugly, but it's the truth. And the truth will set you free?

The fact of the matter is, that honestly, from the bottom of my heart, I hope that each and every one of you are in pain. Moderate to extreme. No, just moderate at most.

And I hope it is because of me.

Sincerely (hope the sight of my name is like a kick in the chest),
Kassie

Holler back, lovers!

*new word...also could be a new breed of flower, perhaps with petals that stay within a neutral color palette; dull yellows, sad grays, the color of teardrops, etc. They skip blooming and go straight from the pod to wilting because, why bother?

Who dat?

I'm not sure what I'm emoting here in this picture. It looks like I'm trying to be polite, but really I'm not a fan of what or who I'm hearing. Look at that left eye. That is a disinterested left eye if I've ever seen one.

So Mama Donna kindly chastised me for not getting on this blog more. She's right! Why start a blog if you're not going to finish it? Which begs the question, how long does a blog live? FOR-E-VER. I'm telling you right now, I won't be blogging past menopause. I can't make that kind of commitment. Oh! You know what else? You know how chicks complain about their dudes always being 'afraid of commitment'? What if I'm the dude? I don't like committing to things lately. Don't tie me down, baby, I'll have you in a half-nelson quicker than you can say "sign here". I also get real excited at the idea of having babies, though. So. Chock full of contradicting feelers. But this is all beside the point.

The point is I got a rad new hairdo. Check it out! First time I've had bangs since like the single digit years. I walked into this salon my roommate recommended, told the hairdresser (Katie-she's a doll) to have at it, and this is what she came up with. She's a painter in real life. She works her art into hair to pay the bills. You can't see this, but she shaved The Mona Lisa into the back of my head. That's not true. But she did treat me as a work of art and kept complimenting my facial area, so she's won me over for life. I'm real easy, folks.
Possible scenario:
Hairdresser Katie-"You're so gorgeous I think you could really pull off baldness. Like a shiny happy noggin type of head."
Kassie-"Yes do it. Yes. You think I'm gorgeous I will do whatever you say. And I will tip you generously. Thank you."

It really is that easy. Just like when I meet a person, I don't trust them until they've genuinely laughed at something I've said. (I discovered this about myself last year. I know the implications. Let's just leave it alone for now.) I'm a simple person. I have simple needs. And currently I'm simply just so thankful that God lets me still look very much like a girl when I have boy hair. Cuz the truth is I'd keep the short hair either way probably. But my boobs are huge. So that helps.

AAAAnd on that note. Holler back!

Goodbye 20<10s

This is always what I think about when I watch the New Year's Eve countdown on the tellie. This poor guy. He HATES New Year's. I don't think he's feeling all that hope in humanity that the crowd was tripping on earlier in the evening. We haven't even learned to throw our coffee cups into the garbage can (five feet away from us) when we are through. Cmon guys, they're everywhere! I feel you, my sanitation man. Thank you for your commitment to your dirty job. We couldn't continue to pretend we are evolving without you.

Hey! Happy New Year! Happy New Decade!! I'm usually not big on New Year's as everyday is a new day, but this time it's a new decade, and I can get behind the excitement of that, I guess. Especially since I'm gonna OWN this decade (you can quote me on that). To celebrate I bought 10 lbs. of delicious Indian food and a bottle of Martinelli's, fell asleep at like 8 pm (dude, I was getting my butt kicked by lady issues! I said it. Uncomfortable?), I woke myself up at 11:30pm to watch the new-and-improved ball drop with Dick Clark, bless his heart, and then I hit the sack shortly thereafter. I know what you're thinking-how does she DO it?! I could never keep up with this force of nature!! Relax, guys, I've been doing it for years. You have to build up to it.

Token New-Year's-Type Insights
I have learned that:
1. I'm capable of all sorts of sh*t I didn't know about. You probably are, too. Just try something new. Often please. Watch life unfold.
2. When I am home alone, I enjoy going to the bathroom with the door open.
3. I suck at flower arranging. It is an art apparently. I'm looking at some winter tulips I just bought yesterday to brighten up the living room, and they ended up making my life less awesome. They're all askew and look like they're trying to escape. Which, of course, makes me feel guilty. I didn't take them from their homes! Ugh when I'm rich I will take a class about this.
4. My gut is the smartest person I know. My brain is useless 75% of the time, detrimental to my quality of life 95% of the time.
5. Most powerful epiphany of the year: Life is good.

I am incredibly blessed. It's ridiculous. I'm gonna pay it forward, guys. That is a promise.

Much luv,
Kassie 010110

I Fold Like a Card Table

Regina Spektor's a little bit of a weirdo, eh? She was just making dolphin sounds on this here album I'm listening to. I think I like her. Plus, she resembles Mel from The Flight of the Conchords, and my brain delights in this connection. Oh the possibilities.

Who wants to hear a random "Only in New York" story?! Me too! So I am currently job seeking (ugh I can't wait to be paid for being Kassie Cardon) and awaiting classes to start at the studio, so I have plenty of time to walk a mile round trip for a Popeye's lunch every once in a while! Those $1.50 chicken wraps are a steal, I tell you, a steal! So I'm standing third in line, excited to purchase my delicious and economical lunch when a crazy lady comes up to me from behind and to the left. Her teeth and hygiene reminded me of this lady I have featured to the right here, Ms. Winehouse. The aging woman came up to maybe my left bicep. She was, let's be honest, most likely Dominican in nature, and had long, windswept hair which had been pulled back in a ponytail. I think. I only got a good look at her face, as I stared at it in disbelief for the majority of our relationship.

"Huh?" She had demanded something of me, but I couldn't hear her over my iPod. And these are the words she spake, hand to heaven, with the authority of a mother and the entitlement of Paris Hilton: "Buy me something to eat! I'm hungry." Me: "Wha?" She repeats it, this time with impatience. "Buy me something to eat! I'm hungry!" I stared at her in disbelief. Little beady eyeballs to wide shell-shocked eyeballs. The words had stunned my brain. And I'm not gonna lie, the feelings that ended up surfacing were not ones of anger or defensiveness or annoyance. They were 70% guilt (of course) and 30% unadulterated awe. Some emotion in the respect family. This tiny woman just demanded food and/or money from me, a humongous Amazon of a white chick! I was fascinated by her. Her teeth were rotting I believe, you know, brown in the middle and more cylindrical than they should be. She was angry at me for being me. She made me feel like I had shirked some responsibility for too long, and that this directly affected her, and now was the time I was to make up for it. She made me feel like draft dodgers must have felt when they got caught. She was hungry. Her son was dying in Vietnam. And this was completely my fault.

My reaction?

"Um, ok. Well, what do you want?" I ended up just giving her a couple of bucks because we disagreed on taste. (I was willing to hook her up with one of my wraps, whilst she wanted a fancy $6.00+ value meal.) She was gone quicker than you can say "crack pipe". In-credible. Wow. That woman OWNED me.

I'm not sure if I should feel ashamed of this character flaw. Surely some sort of self preservation survival instinct should have kicked in. I might as well have had "Welcome" written across my chest and been laid at the entrance to her cardboard box. Honestly, though, I feel that she earned it. The delivery of her request alone was worth at least a biscuit.

I know what some of you are thinking. Future Kassie: "Gee, husband of mine, that slug in the face really hurt, but golly, the way your arm swung across your chest, the position of your fist, your form was PERFECT! Bravo!" I'm pretty positive this won't happen. Right? Hm. Maybe I should adjust some more brain wires.

Only in New York.

Holler back!

Long Time No Blog

Howdy! It looks like I skipped the entire month of July. Whooooops. It was crazy busy, anyway. Much too much has transpired since I moved to NYC, I would have to write several volumes to catch up. All you really need to know is that the acting program went better than anyone could've imagined, they've invited me back for the two year program, and I agreed to after some arm-twisting. :)

I'm stoked. Dreams turning to realities. Apparently that actually happens. I feel more happy and liberated than ever. Doesn't get much better than that.

I'm on vacation in Denver. Getting tan and preparing to rock the NYC fulltime. More to come.

Holler back.

Kassie