Kitty Power

The Body Politic

Sometimes I like to be dramatic and say that puberty ruined my whole life. After the initial toddler catepillar period, I was a lean and mean sort of kid. I escaped chocolate when I became allergic at eight and spent the time away from TV and books with a basketball or a bike.

Puberty and its accompanying annoyances threw the body for a loop and it made me into a reactionary. I hated the attention that a budding body brought me. I resisted the bra push from my mother and stuck to undershirts as long as I could. When men noticed the curves and started commenting, I sought refuge in baggy clothes and dark colors. That was also when I started wearing hats. I wanted to blend into the woodwork. I enjoyed the confusion/curiosity on people's faces when I came along with my hat pulled down low to my eyes, giant army jacket, jeans two sizes too big and layers of shirts. Was I a boy or a girl? I wasn't sure myself. I would wear a skirt once or twice a year and spend most of it hiding. But as junior and senior years rolled around, we had our class formal dances and I broke out forcefully at both with such overwhelmingly girly dresses that I shocked everyone. "You're so pretty. Why do you wear all those clothes?" Because I could, more or less. The irony of a hardcore tomboy wearing a floor length pastel pink ballerina prom dress with pink heels was delicious. A fitting end to six years at a place where no matter how much you changed, you were that ___ kid from 7-X.

I'm never going to be stereotypically thin. I'm just not built for it. I've accepted that fact. The least I've weighed since I started curving out was 133lbs in the summer before freshman year, when I wore a size 8 and had bones sharp enough to cut glass -- not to mention skeletor face -- with muscles and a booty. Just before senior year, I was flouncing around wearing a 8/10 and hovering around 164. I was complaining about my chicken legs and flat chest, but I enjoyed having finally shaken the remnants of my tomboy reactionism and embraced color. For my annual visit, the doctor clucked at my weight number and suggested I lose a few pounds to get on track with my BMI. I looked at her like she was insane. I was still bones with muscles and a booty. It wasn't possible to be any thinner without starving myself to death. I turned my back on scales and have been trying to ignore the numbers thrown out at during the physicals ever since.

Ms. Mommy (always good for words of encouragement) enjoyed warning me through the years to enjoy my metabolism while I could because after teens, it was all downhill. She's thrown out there that 25 is when your body gives up and goes to shit. I have no idea what I weigh now, but I spend a lot of time thinking about it. I guess I've gained about 20lbs or so in the past two years. Besides my mom lecturing gleefully that I have bad genes and it's not a good sign that our weights changes are inverses of each other, shopping is becoming increasingly frustrating. I am the average sized woman -- height and clothing wise -- but I might as well be a freak in the average store. Some days I look in the mirror with a mental red pen marking up the problem spots. The upcoming trip to the WMC is scaring me shitless because I've never felt less prepared to throw on a bathing suit.

Mostly, I just feel angry. I'm not fat in any sense of the word. In my office, I'm one of the tallest women at 5'5" and the fattest because unlike most of them, I'd be hardpressed to shop in the kids' section. The first couple of months, I looked at them and me and immediately thought I needed to go to the gym so I wouldn't stand out as much. That worked for a while but I just got tired of restricting myself to follow the status quo of the people I most hate anyways. What I has been bothering most is the attention. I've never been so openly ogled in my whole life as I've been in the past two months. The street peanut gallery has been in rare form. I've been whistled at, catcalled, yelled at, followed, pawed, and menaced because somehow they feel that I'm not a real person and just a walking Black Tail pinup. The disrespect pisses me off and I'd be too happy to Mace someone if I got the chance. Not so long ago, I was with this guy chatting about first impressions and he felt the need to add that he liked that I was stacked. What's next -- someone saying I'm built like a brick shit house? I'll admit I'm overly sensitive about things like that, but it's a dance I've been through too many times. It's always the guys you least expect that will unconsciously reveal that you're playing the role of Black Fantasy and they just want to get you naked to see if you're really different from all the other girls. (What came first: the visual images or the physical episodes of black female sexual exploitation? Are so-called "video vixens" the Venus Hottentots of the 00s? Then again, I'm just a negative cynic, so YMMV.)

But really, fuck it. I'm happy with my body despite the complaints. I'd rather look like a woman with distinguishable curves than androgynous like I did when I was 11. Especially since I'm just not built anymore to ever look like that again. And old saying is that a time comes in a woman's life when she has to choose between her ass and her face. I choose both with a slice of cheesecake...and a burger.

Briefly

Yes, I'm still around. I've spent most of the week disgruntled, so I've been keeping it to myself.

Massive gas face going out to the local pharmacist who had to have the convo with me abot my prescription and ailments at full volume. I doubt there was one person in the place who didn't hear him query me if I knew where I had to put my stuff and ask specifically where it's going. If it was like hemorrhoid cream and/or I wasn't blase as shit, I might have been embarassed. But since it was stuff prescribed by the derm (and therefore, innocent), I couldn't be bothered to give him the satisfaction of pseudoblushing. I just kinda narrowed my eyes and glared at him. This is why I'll probably go to one of the 20 million Duane Reades around town next time. Fuck a local business (in this case).

Virtual middle finger going across the land to Farmer, disappeared for a while and coming back to whine about his love life as if I give a shit. Boo hoo...chicks on his jock as he lounges about aimlessly in a foreign locale. Cry me a river. Just to think, I was fairly fuzzy about him not so long ago. Self-centered lame ass sniffer bastard.

I'm also fairly bothered by paying almost as much to go to Miami as I did for my LA plane ticket. Last time I checked, it's way closer! But, I'll pay it because I'm sick of snow/cold and I want to see some performances and flounce around in flip flops and short sleeves. First off, I need to actually do some exercise so I don't have to drape myself in baggy clothes and pants because I find my out of shape body so unacceptable right now.

See? I shouldn't be blogging. I'm off to rustle up a good weekend. Catch you on the flip.

When In Doubt

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Very High
Schizoid:	Moderate
Schizotypal:	High
Antisocial:	Moderate
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	High
Avoidant:	High
Dependent:	Moderate
Obsessive-Compulsive:	High
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

[via ILX]

Only Partially Joking

As fun as it is listening to 3 6 Mafia and Trina at work, is not being able to go on AIM a good enough reason to quit? Not that I would (quit, that is). Really. But, I'm more miserable than I've ever been. Sigh.

Go Shorty

Heartfelt happy birthday going out to Jay-V, Wes partner in drunkenness, bitchery, and internet addiction for going on 5.5 years! She's hit the big 2-4 and is keeping my seat warm on the "staring the quarter life crisis in the face" bus tour. Hope the day was a good one!

Being that my birthday is two weeks from Wednesday, I'm trying to figure out how to top last year's event. Ant and I are still into the whole Chuck-E-Cheese thing because neither of us have ever been to one and a pack of 20-somethings running around with little kids is just funny to us. Do they have some sort of an age limit there? Most of us are short(ish) at least. If I take off the boots and bind down the chest, I could pass for a tween -- especially considering I've seen some 12-year olds that look older than my mom. Too bad there's no BK around the nabe because all I really want is a cheesy crown and to be inappropriately drunk in a family friendly environment. I'm sure we'll think of something.

Like Gold

I went to a big blogger party (and a smaller one) and met a lot of bloggers. It was like every other blogger party ever -- except this one had music people and they strangely (mostly) knew who the hell I was. I'll leave the mad linking/blog fucking to someone else, but woo...the extra traffic is a little frightening I've got to say. But all in all, it was amusing and as par for the course, there was some adventure had (alas, my lips are sealed).

The main focus of the weekend was Ant and I rushing around trying to whip our place into shape before the housewarming party. Somehow, it all came off -- though my spanky new bed wasn't delivered until a hour and a half before everything got started, I wasn't even dressed with people came early (Q: who the fuck comes to a party early on a Saturday night? A: Binge drinking lamesters. They were so Ant's friends.), and I had to go and buy a shitload of beer (as if I drink that piss). I was cowering at my own party at that first wave of folks and P. Diddy and G were scared off pretty early on. But, appearances from Trendvickster, PrincessNella, Lina, Faiks, and wonderful HS/Wes friends helped me enjoy myself. We had a party freak (again, one of Ant's friends) that was following everyone around and making a nuisance of himself. Jenny played DJ with the Zen. The chillout room (a.k.a. our spare bedroom done up with candles and super massive pillows) ended up as the makeout room a certain point (tsk, tsk). The solitary barfer was pretty well contained. Not a peep was heard from a neighbor despite it going on until the wee hours because this is a post-war and the walls are thick as hell. We got mad compliments on the space and my wonderful cake. They didn't trash the fucking place and we've got liquor left over for the next blowout, i.e. my birthday pre-party in a couple of weeks. Good times, good times.

The best part of the weekend stuff personally is that there's not a solitary fucking picture out there of me, the most non-photogenic person alive, to drive me nuts for the next few months. And that Monday's a holiday. Everything else...blah.

Nuggets

[Gangsta Bear via ILM]

Paris Hilton has singlehandedly killed my desire to own a Sidekick and this has killed my desire to ever go with T-Mobile. Is it wrong though to want to call Adrien (Brody, I assume) since his number is there and all? Not that I would, he's just a tall skinny sniffer bastard. (Then again, I like that sort of thing.) Tsk, tsk...celebrities today... But not to be flip, if I was a celeb who got prank called/emailed, I'd kill her ass. Why's everyone gotta suffer because she's a stupid cow? The most awesome part about this is the speculation on FT that she's a celebrity snitch. Imagine her writing a crazy "my debauched life!" tell all. I don't even read the (print) tabloids, but I'd eat that shit up for real. I love a good (auto)biography.

So, over at the Prefuse site (because what am I good for but giving you the LATEST in the world of Prefuse and Man Man!), the new tag is "anti leak mode, buy music in 2005!" yet he's softened his "you motherfuckers are ruining my career!" stance of the other week. Perhaps he's up on ILM (check this super nice thread I stumbled across in my search) and the other static gotten from the net. Check an interview with him here (it's a faker actually). Anyhoo, tour in the spring! Woo! I'm really going to the shows this time. I swear. ETA: Poppin' fresh Pitchfork interview.

Over at a new-to-me site, the cataloguing of UK #1 hits from 1952 to the present hits one of my most fave songs ever (plus the origin of the working related topic title), "Sixteen Tons."

Nuggets

Yeah, I've got nothing except this one link right now, but fuck, it's funny!

But,

"I have to say Farmington is the last town where you would expect to find someone like 50 Cent," said Willard Holmes, the director of the Wadsworth Atheneum museum in Hartford, who lives a few blocks away from Mr. Jackson. "But my 6-year-old son is obsessed with seeing him."

If your six-year old is listening to 50 Cent, you've got a fucking problem. Like you need your ass kicked. My just turned six year old brother is singing stuff from Dora The Explorer and dinosaur cartoons.

You know, Kanye's beginning to turn me around. He's such a jackass that it's just interesting in that watching a car wreck sort of way. I'm waiting for the reality show. You know he must have that in the works. But on a serious tip, I'm really over the fact that the Daily News needs to get outside talent just to report on black people in the gossip column. Maybe if they believed in hiring black gossip columnists full time, they'd discovered that they can report on more than the latest going ons in the BET world. (Yeah, I'm totally not bitter that they didn't want me as a Rush and Molloy EA. Not. At. All.)

Tonight at Cielo, they're having a live set from The Fucking Man a.k.a. Robert Owens. I must remember not to get too drunk at the blogger/music critics party so I don't do any faceplants on the cobblestones.

That bitca is only 24! Jesus! Ever notice that all young famous women look like 10 miles of bad road in the face? Coke and tanning is hell on the visage, ladies.

Zen Travels

Yeah, so I sort of dropped the ball on the whole posting thing. Ah well. Life is busy occasionally. I've been off disbelieving that my freaking birthday is in 3 weeks (ugh...I'll blink and be 30 -- not there's anything wrong with 30 -- one of these days) and masterplanning this housewarming party. And watching my money disappear, but that's typical.

I've been listening to the bizarro playlist on the Zen called 1114, in honor of when I made it. It's becoming a general dumping ground for the newly uploaded stuff and therefore, ultra strange. Ten choice cuts:

1. Trickeration, "Rap Bounce Rock Skate"
2. Siunds of Blackness, "Optimistic"
3. Everclear, "Strawberry"
4. Blackalicious, "Alphabet Aerobics"
5. Mos Def, "Brown Sugar (Fine)"
6. Gang Starr, "Dwyck feat. Nice & Smooth"
7. Robert Owens, "Tears"
8. R.E.M, "E-bow The Letter"
9. Mariah Carey, "Boy (I Need You)"
10. Geto Boys, "Mind's Playing Tricks On Me"

I want to write something about each but work calls. Damn that pay for labor system! Keep an eye out though.

Sunday Sessions

This weekend was rather boring and I thought it was great. Staying around the house/area for long periods of time is still a novelty thing. My main highlights were making the pilgrimage to Western Beef, dragging Ant to National Wholesale Liquidators, finding sour mix at Key Food, and finally finding the window shades I wanted at Target. Low key is especially good since this coming weekend is going to be a monster. The housewarming party is Saturday and that means we've got about five days to whip the place into shape. I'm still waiting on my bed(!) to arrive and our extra room is still a shoe/storage bin glorified closet. And there's always the wonder at how we're gonna fit the 70-something folks we invited in here if at least half show up. But, I'm making cake and we're having enough refreshments to drop an elephant, so it should be all good.

I watched the Grammy Awards natch. The good: Alicia Keyes, Usher, Southern rock medley, Queen Latifah's performance, Mavis Staples (first part) and the Blind Boys, Joss Stone and Melissa Ethridge (though I couldn't help but gasp when I saw her), Green Day. Meh at the rest -- especially "I guess we'll never know what I would've done -- cause I'm a winner!" He actually had me halfway happy for him for a split second until he let the ego back out the cage. That Across The Universe was terrible. Norah Jones is so awkward on the stage that it's really hilarious. Does she do her "uhh...I'm uncomfortable...don't look at me" shtick for her performances also? Fucking Black Eyes Peas...they didn't win anything for Let's Get Retarded I hope. Just seeing them annoys the shit out of me. I saw them in 97/98 at Roseland on the Snocore Tour (check this lineup: DJ Spooky, Black Eyed Peas, Soul Coughing and Everclear!) and it was one of the best shows I've ever seen. Their old singer was amazing and they were great performers. I can't even recognize them anymore and having an 80s Disney channel reject as a singer is even worse. The weird: Gwen Stefani looking like a shipwrecked pirate wench, the Franz Ferdinand singer guy's hair (He looked like a German Jimmy Fallon), Scott Weiland who might actually look better on drugs, Jack White looking like the undead taller Ryan Man Man, how on point the characterization of Joe Adams was in the movie Ray. I loved Ray Charles, but the sweep was a bit much. I prophecized to Ant that by the summer Jamie Foxx will be releasing a record and he'll be all over the music stations. (ETA: Was I right? Or was I right?)

There was a strange bit actually. I was hanging out with Faiks and we met up with some older Wes kids. I was being introduced to one when he was like "ohh...hey, we've met before...I'm [Crackhead]'s friend!" My eyes narrowed so quick. It was interesting that he pegged me after all these years, but it just annoyed me when he introduced me to someone else as friends with Crackhead. "Not friends per se..." I said, cautiously. Fucking weird. The paranoid in me knows that he was chomping at the bit to tell him later about the encounter. The hate is resimmering just below the surface, but as long as I don't run into that fool, all is well. But, I probably just jinxed myself...NYC is ridiculously small when you don't want it to be.

Nuggets

The "I got that posting thing covered, but here's some morsels to tide you over" edition.

Proving my outer right in that I talk about Prefuse all the time, the news page over at that site is reason number one why musician/(most) journo blogs are interesting. It's totally unhinged in a beautiful way. And I naturally feel kinda guilty that I've been listening to the new shit all week, but then again, of the last six CDs I've bought, like 2 of them have been Prefuse, so I'm doing my part to aid the money trickle.

The one thing I loved in my DC living days was their Metro web site where you could map out your way anywhere via buses and trains directions. So, now I'm mad happy to have found one for NYC. Boo on them for leaving out buses though. Some of us aren't afraid to take a bus every now and again and occasionally they just make way more sense.

The Grammy torture we all get to look forward to this year [via WFMU's Beware of The Blog]. Lose, Kanye, lose! *ahem* Cibula family Grammy predictions. I'm so amazed by those kids. I know at nine, I barely cared enough about The Grammies to watch, never mind even knew what they were at six.

While we were out working and all that, Ant's fave laundromat around the corner from our house caught fire. Eek.

I might even put up some new songs today. Keep an eye out.

And in the "no shit" category [via Different Kitchen]:

You Are a Life Blogger!

Your blog is the story of your life - a living diary. If it happens, you blog it. And make it as entertaining as possible.

I think I went to HS with this guy. How weird is that?!

Minor Waves

"I know who you are!" he said randomly. I gave the patented "huh?" look and played dumb.

My first mistake was mentioning the blog. I usually avoid that sort of thing with strangers. I do this whole blogger thing in a bizarro way. I'm not necessarily anonymous because it really wouldn't take much effort to know my last name (as is the case when you're doing interviews and shit) and y'all already know what I look like -- I mean, hello, step back from your computer and my face is right there. But, I'm also not trying to be overly stalker friendly either and I strip a lot of things out. And I'm so not up on the whole blog networking thing. That's a personal problem I suppose.

This situation was a little unique. The scene: where I've been hanging out too late on a school night one Wednesday a month for a while now. The guy who was outing me wasn't necessarily an unfamiliar face. I'd had a eureka moment about him the first time I ever went there, but I was playing that close to the chest. I wasn't necessarily waiting to be cornered like I ended up, but I wasn't going to make a random dummy out of myself for kicks either. I've run into him plenty of times being that he's a friend of some newish friends of mine. We've been casually introduced but he said he didn't remember.

I was at the party in a chatterbox mood. I'd run into that friend of a friend and I forgot for a min that musicians can be sensitive when I mentioned his resemblance to Leisure Suit Larry at that show (btw, does no one else but me and a handful of kids my age remember that? Is it one of those things that unless you're an '80s baby, you've got no clue?). He wasn't really amused and asked my feedback on costuming. My constructive criticism skills have been waning since Wes times because I know what I like and what I hate but I just don't care enough to be helpful in my old age. I was also on some ADD shit. Oh hey, it's The DJ! Chatter, chatter, chatter. Oh hey, friends of The DJ I met last week...chatter, chatter. What can I say? I was in a good mood. I'd taken a sick day and I was relaxed for the first time in too long. The fact I had a drink of my own making (read: more like paint thinner than a regular drink) at home didn't hurt much.

I found myself jumping into a convo about that artist I love to hate...no, the other one. I totally went off and mentioned having a blog in the middle of my tangent. Suddenly, he gave me a funny look and said: "I know who you are!" I went into "deny, deny, deny" mode with "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your AIM name is Jamirakid, right?" "No."
"You've got a South Park character on your page..." "No..."
"Your blog is all color and black and white..." "Uh...no. What does that even mean? You're giving me a headache."
"You blog a lot about the shows you go to and Prefuse..." "I do not blog about shows I go to, Prefuse maybe...uhh, no. You're just wrong!"
"No, I know you. I know exactly who you are...and I know you know exactly who I am. I just can't remember your blog name...tell me what it is?"
"Okay dammit, fine...maybe you do know. I know who the hell you are too."

And then he told me how he made the connection between where we originally came across each other (definitely not as terrible as my crypticness is making it sound. It's really not that serious. It has a lot to do with the last time I was outed actually.) and blogger me by stumbling onto the old version of KP. BTW, can I go back to being semi-under the radar and not giving a fuck again? This was actually a funny story but I've edited it to be as bloodless as possible to cover my own ass a bit. Just look at the tone change between outing #1 and #2. Regardless, just imagine me yesterday squirming and being totally unconvincing in my denials, while pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. It was a total farce, but great for a laugh once I finally fessed up. He said that he's a music blog escapee and now I want a URL (natch), so I can be a nerd and we can be on the same playing field at least. He even urged me to write this up. Good thing because my sidebar was in an unsightly place and I've been too lazy to write lately. (Oh, don't let that last post fool you. I'm not the slightest brokenhearted. That was putting down a lame horse.) But cheers to him (sorta) for amusingly blowing up my spot, not so much for promising not to mention it with a "who would I tell?" and dropping bits to almost everyone. He did turn me on to Google having an SMS search and a new place (mmm...regional Carolina sauces...) to go this weekend when Ant and I are on our eating our way through the hood tour.

He's cool enough for a non-collect call responding punk (bitter? me? never...ah just kidding. It was hilarious and random fun) and it helped the night stay interesting at least. The DJ rerevealed himself to be sniffer and I think I'm gonna find better things to do having learned a little something from the Farmer episodes. All in all, typical misadventure.

Growing Pains

I've been preoccupied with reassessing and redefining. Last week was emotionally rough as it seemed everything kept getting so twisted around that I lost my own perspective.

The theme of that week was disappointment. I actually expected to be rewarded for being a cheerleader, but was told I should be happy for it if I got offered the scraps. And after a year and a half of navigating the twists and turns, Farmer and I got to the end of the road and I've decided to walk on alone. Is it strange that the conclusion of both of those episodes has made me kind of relieved? I think I've been working hard at changing myself for the better here yet those things were definite throwbacks to when I did bullshit for the sake of the angst and time-wasting and "adventure." I'm been feeling beyond that and finally my actions are catching up to the words.

The highlights were looking forward to next month. A year older plus WMC, ho! It's cool to be on the fringes as people you know are making moves. Friend D came out of left field with wanting me to do PR for his record, even though: a) I'm no publicist b) as if I'm not totally clueless on where to start. (Still, it's not worth tripping over because they say such strange things when they want your attention.) And there's The DJ in my sights anew because I've knocked some sense into myself. In what universe is being shy a crime, considering all that came before?

And so it goes. My world still turns with some dead weight dropped off. I might be on blog vacation for a min though.