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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


On Ice Cream

To me, nothing stands as a reminder that summer is coming more than Mister Softee. Even before the weather gets warm, you start hearing that familiar tune off in the background, a few blocks away, letting you know winter is coming to a close. When I was younger there was nothing I loved more than Mister S. Back then he used to give us free bubble gum--overly-chewey gum hidden beneath a hard, flavorless shell. The gum's flavor lasted all of 2 minutes, and I used to try to eat as many pieces as possible just to get a decent sized wad in my mouth. When I had money, I'd get one of three things, depending on my mood: a SnoCone, the Baseball Mit pop (with bubble-gum baseball), or a Baby Rattle. A Baby Rattle is a chocolate soft-serve cone with sprinkles at the bottom of the cone, creating a rattling sound. I'd usually shake the cone right away, since the longer you kept the cone still, the more the ice cream would melt down and solidify the sprinkles. However, when I shook the ice cream to hear the sprinkles at the bottom, the sprinkles at the top--half chocolate, half rainbow, which was another big draw for the Baby Rattle--would fly off. So really, it was lose-lose situation when it came to sprinkles, depending on how badly I wanted to hear that chika-chika in the cone.

I used to think there was only one Mister Softee, and that he somehow managed to get his one truck around to all the children of New York City before nightfall. This made him seem like Santa Claus to me, magical and a lot more available to me, being around more than once a year. I always wondered where he parked his van at night, and if he ever got tired, and where he used the bathroom. Gross. Anyone else ever wonder that?

I remember clearly one summer evening when I was around 6 or 7. My mom gave my older sister money to get us both ice cream. When we reached the truck and I gave Roseanne my order--a Baby Rattle, which was then only $1.25--she told me, "I don't know if we have enough money to get that. We might not have enough money for sprinkles. I'll just get you a chocolate cone." I had no clue as to how much money my mom had given us, and fully trusted that my sister would have the decency to split it equally.

A few minutes later she handed me my boring chocolate cone. I noticed she didn't have anything for herself. "Where's yours?" I asked, but she ignored me. Minutes later I watched in horror as Mister Softee handed my sister a white bag, with no change. Anyone who knows anything about ice cream from trucks knows that things put in bags are usually expensive. I watched as Roseanne pulled out a large cup. Inside was a chocolate milkshake. Being older and smarter, she knew the money my mom gave us could afford her the milkshake, the Holy Grail of Mister Softee desserts, if only I (unknowingly) made a sacrifice on sprinkles.

I burst out crying. I felt cheated, duped, lied to, betrayed, and I was still clutching the sprinkle-less cone melting in my hand. RoHo blew it off, saying it was no big deal. I, like the snitch that I was, immediately ran inside and told my mom.

I was given the money duties after that.



In order to switch some things up on this, I've invited my dog Stella to be a guest blogger. I'll say it now--I take no responsibility for what she might say or who she might offend, and I'll let it be known that she spends a lot of time with my dad, which might explain the right-leaning ideologies. Enjoy!

So my older sister's allowed me to post a few blogs on her site. I'm fortunate for the opportunity, although I doubt her self-described "high readership" which she desribes in the "hundreds." If there's one thing I've learned from living with her, it's that she's known for her exaggeration. Another thing she's known for? Not sharing her dinner with me. If I could speak I'd remind her of that trip to Florida she has planned this week and how different she looks than all those hot mamis hanging out on South Beach. Maybe if you gave me that piece of chicken, I'd like to say, the difference between you and Julissa from Miami wouldn't be so great.

But I didn't come here to insult her. I came here, instead, to write about a topic that means a great deal to me--the 2008 Election.

I know I possess what many may consider to be an unpopular position, especially on this blog (nothing but liberal swill up on here! Makes me sick!). However, my position is based on watching hours and hours of FoxNews and The Military Channel with my true owner and father, Mike.

So lemme tell you what's up. All I ever hear about is the race between Hillary and Obama. Hillary said this, Obama said that, blah blah blah. In my opinion, I just wish this Democratic race would be OVER already so I can at least know who John McCain will be DESTROYING come November.

So why, if ever given the right to vote, would I cast mine in favor of John McCain? To me, he's the only one of the three who actually has the guts to protect us from the terrorists. Also, with his white hair, he looks the most like me. There are other reasons--things I hear on my daddy's talk radio stations, but I can't think of them at the moment. I just wanted to come on here and tell ya'll to stop fronting the Mac! You know he's the only one who can pull through in the fall!

This Bitch is out.




from the vault

I posted this on my special Rome blog nearly 2 years ago (!).

I'm half Italian. I am proud of my heritage, although I''ll admit that, coming from a mostly Irish neighborhood, growing up I may have have embraced my other half more. I guess it was just easier for me to embrace the "Kathleen" in me, that 50% that looks forward to both of my St. Paddy's Days, puts an IRL sticker on my car, and sings along to "Celtic Symphony" with actual passion. You could say I might have been denying my other half when I would occasionally make fun of the guidos in Howard Beach, make fun of my mom's accent that only appears when she goes to the old neighborhood or to Ragtime, and horribly mangle any word in Italian. It helps that English is the official language of Ireland.

It didn't matter, though, how much I've denied my Italian half--it's hard to hide the hair. No, I don't mean my long, luscious, naturally highlighted hair (can I brag, just this once?)--I'm talking about the hairy arms, the hairy legs, and good Lord, the facial hair. I knew Jolene was more than just a Dolly Parton song at too young of an age; I came home crying when kids would call me Mustachio McHonan; my legs were hairy at the age of 5; and people would flat out say to me "Oh, did you know you have a mustache?", like I had no idea. I've gotten myself into lots of messes trying to hide the Maria Lucia in me--always very dangerous stories that I won't put on this blog, for my own pride. I spent years praying to trade this hair for some freckles, like all the other kids I knew. Freckles were cute. Body hair was not.

I remember being 7 years old, running into my house crying because some kids on the block were teasing my hairy arms. "Your arms are hairier than mine!" some boys said. "You look like a gorilla!" said another. Their descriptions were spot on, but come on. I was extremely sensitive, and had nothing to reply back with, so I cried down the street into my living room, where my mom was sitting, watching TV.

"Mommmmyyyy" I cried, collapsing into her own hairy arms, the only place I truly felt
accepted. "All the kids are making fun of my hairy arms!"

"Oh, Katie. Your hairy arms are beautiful."

What the hell? I thought.

"They're not beautiful."

"Well, maybe not here. But in Italy, all the most beautiful women have hairy arms. If you don't have hairy arms, you're ugly."

"But I don't live in Italy!"

"But maybe one day you will. Or maybe one day you'll visit it and you'll see that the most beautiful women look just like you."

I stopped crying and actually smiled. I felt better, if only for a little while. I still lived where I lived, I was still 7 years old, and kids were still kids.
But I did dream of one day visiting the motherland, where I could see people just like me who weren't ashamed of their heritage or what it came out like on the outside.

Today I got my letter of acceptance for Rome. A whole month, away from home, in a new city, trying something completely outside of myself--it's pretty exciting. I don't even know what to expect. I'm looking forward to so much in my 30 days that I can't even begin to think of what it's going to be like. The sights, the sounds, the food, the nightlife, the history and,oh, yea, that class I'm taking--I'm looking forward to it all.

But what I'm most looking forward to is finding out if my mom was right, 13 years ago, when I was a lot younger and more impressionable. If my mom tried to tell me that now, I'd probably call her a liar. But back then, I took comfort in knowing there was a country full of people like me. I've been waiting for this hairy homecoming since I was 7 years old. I'm going be pretty pissed if I land in Rome and find a bunch of hairless Italian women walking through the streets.


Know When To Fold 'Em

When people would ask me how my new job was, I would start with, "Well, have you ever seen the movie Falling Down? Sometimes I feel like that guy."

That's when I realized it was time to let it go. I'm not a quitter, and I have a strong work ethic, but the way I felt working made all of these things go the wayside. For one, I was denied any and all contact with my one true love, The Internet; the time spent away from him was often excruciatingly painful. It wasn't anything I wanted to pursue in the future, and the workload was tedious and never ending. Also, I was really fucking terrible at what I did. Worst assistant ever, and certainly no Bright Future In Sales. I never got any better at what I did, and part of me didn't want to.

So I gave my two weeks without a back up plan, without another job or a plan beyond a 5 day vacation to Florida. Not the best decision I've ever made, but not the worst, either. What now? Who the fuck knows? At least I don't have to walk around feeling like this girl anymore :



Along with Arnold and Gerald, Helga is the main character on Nickelodeon's "Hey Arnold!". Helga is 9 years old and attends P.S. 118 with all the other "Hey Arnold!" kids. She is a very complexed character. While she acts tough and has no problem with telling people where to go, she is really a very soft person who just want to be understood. You really have to watch the show to understand Helga and where she's coming from.

Helga is madly in love with Arnold. She writes obsessive poetry about him and has a shrine to him in her closet. Her love for Arnold is her darkest secret and although she has tried many times to tell him how she feels, she finds it easier to just bully him, so that's what she does - constently! Helga is always coming up with new ways to get Arnolds attention, whether it be acting different, dressing different, or whatever.

Helga's best friend is her Japanese classmate, Phoebe. Helga values Phoebe's friendship, yet she is always bossing her around. Phoebe doesn't really seem to mind this, and maybe that is why Helga does it.


I wonder if my writing has even improved?