I was 27. Yup, you read that right— 27. I could count the number of drinks I’d had before then on my fingers. Anyway, it was my last night at a job before my husband and I were moving to NYC. The district manager was in the store, so all but one of my store managers forgot to say good-bye to me. I was beyond pissed. A night out was already planned (our customary good-bye to long-term employees), so everyone kept buying me cranberry vodkas and I kept drinkin’ ‘em ‘cause I was pissed. Cut to the next morning, 7 a.m., movers are on their way. I was a wreck. The next time I got that drunk was last year, four years later. I’m apparently a once-every-four-years drunk, which is probably a good thing.

Kiesha has been a fun one living with, especially because I’m white and that just completely confounds people. On top of that, my mom spelled it wrong because it’s typically Keisha.
It’s pronounced Key-sha and I’ve been called Kai-ee-sha, Kee-shy-ah and my personal favorite Kish-ah. I’ve started giving the Starbucks baristas my middle name because they never get that one wrong.

In my head, this is a similar situation: I see a woman wearing a necklace that I really like. I would like to tell her that I really like her necklace. So I observe her for a moment to see if she’s in a place where she’s willing to listen to someone talk to her for a second. (IE she’s not wearing headphones, she doesn’t look occupied by thoughts, she has a pleasant expression on her face, etc). If those factors are in place, I will say, “I really love your necklace! It’s so pretty.” Here’s what I expect in return: “Thanks.” That’s it. No smile, no conversation. If I get those, bonus. If I don’t get the “Thanks,” I might think in my head, “Wow, she’s rude,” but I’m certainly not going to say something like, “FINE, BITCH. THE REST OF YOU UGLY ANYWAY.”

I don’t want some rando dude on the street telling me he thinks I’m hot. I don’t care what he thinks. If a close friend told me I looked great, that would be different because I KNOW THEM. But a stranger on the street? No thanks. A guy the other day told me, “I love your hair.” I said, “Thank you” without smiling and kept walking. He then shouted, “Can I see that smile? Can I see that smile? Hey, let me see that smile!” I didn’t turn around or acknowledge him. If I didn’t smile at you, I’m not going to do it on command. I think the problem comes in that a lot of guys who catcall expect something in return. That guy told me he liked my hair but wouldn’t just accept a straight-faced thank you in return. He wanted to see me smile, he probably wanted me to stop and have a conversation with him. Sorry, but I have more to do than stop and talking with you, stranger.

“Nay, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I do bite my thumb, sir.”

You are definitely right that eggplant is the steak of vegetables. There’s a reason I don’t eat steak. Of any kind. Vegetable or no.

It should be “In conclusion, Spring sucks. Call me when it’s Autumn.” Because summer sucks too.

I’ve learned to tell people to shut up. The best story I have concerns a Ted Leo concert a few years ago. Kurt Braunohler did a comedy set before Ted played and these two incredibly drunk girls behind me were yakking and heckling him. I finally turned around and said, “Guys, can you keep it down please? I can’t hear.” They then dropped their voices, but my husband tells me they proceeded to lose their minds that someone had the nerve to tell them to be quiet. One of the girls said, “I’m gonna throw up on her! You know I can do it!”
Spontaneous vomiting: worst superpower ever. At least I didn’t have to listen to them babbling at insane volume levels for the rest of the night.

My husband luckily found out that if you took a Time Warner bill, you could get in the Fast Pass line. We only waited 30 minutes to get in. When we left, I couldn’t believe how long the line was. People must have waited six or eight hours. I would have been so angry if I’d waited even an hour and gotten inside because the exhibit while cool, was small. It wasn’t worth waiting in line for more than 45 minutes.

Would anyone else have been smacked for crying about this stuff as a kid? Because I know I would have. Or at least threatened with a smack, which would have turned the crying off immediately. Not saying it’s a good way to deal with it, but if I showed this to my dad, his first response would be that the guy should smack the kid.