Kperfetto's Page

There's a bookstore not too far from me -- I won't say where, lest I give away all my secrets -- where I can pick up classics for less than a dollar, and newer, contemporary fiction for less than five. All used, mind you, and some in questionable condition (I prefer to call it "loved" like the Velveteen Rabbit), but I'm unable to pass them up.

I should read these books.

No really, I should, because I'm afraid I'm falling into that trap of "having pretty shelves but nothing to read." If I wanted to read, hell, I'll go to the library to read. Why sully my nicely organized (*cough*) bookshelves?

(This whole post is a sham, as I do not now, nor have I ever had organized bookshelves. I prefer the disheveled intellectual look in my decor as well as in my dress.)

Someone recently told me she'd never read library books. "Too dirty," she said. "All those fingers touching them." Funny, I never gave it much thought, even when I find those mysterious, gauzy smears on the pages. (Peanut Butter? Steak sauce? Horror or horrors, blood?) No, the library is too valuable to even consider it. But I still I have the habit of over-buying, especially at used book stores.

Okay guys -- and I mean guy guys -- do you really think that hanging out a car window hollering some unintelligible mush about my breasts as I'm walking past is going to make me come running back, shouting, "Yes! Yes, thank you for noticing my tits. I was hoping you would. They are quite nice, aren't they? Especially in this sweatshirt I've had since 1993. It's way hot"

Lesson one: WOMEN HATE BEING YELLED AT WHILE WE'RE WALKING DOWN THE STREET DOING SOMETHING NOT EVEN REMOTELY SEXUAL!

(Like coming back from an emergency tampon run.)

And have you noticed the official cat caller soundtrack is invariably Aerosmith-laden? I've yet to be "hooted and hollered" at by a man in a Jetta pulsating to the beat Belle and Sebastian or Bright Eyes.

I'm not doing the "Top Ten" thing anymore. One, it's actually harder to come up with ten little snippets than it is one vaguely cohesive post, and two, so many people do a Friday bulleted list-type post, eh... with all the talk of originality...

Never mind.

Anyway, if you know me at all, (or have read this site for a while), you should know by now that I have a few issues with sandals. Not sandals per se, but the condition of the feet inside them. I've found out I have another pet peeve regarding flip-flops and their ilk: toes that extend over the shoe itself, sort of like a claw. Or a paw.

Granted, if I had my way, the world would be shod in classic, practical sneakers (sort of like the ones the members of Heaven's Gate wore, but more stylish), but if you're going to wear toe floss, at least buy a shoe that fits.

Thank you.

End rant.

Addendum: Remember when I said I was going to try to make this blog (and writing) fun again? Hmmm. That lasted all of two seconds. Let me ask you something: How is it that most of you guys can write these essay-length posts on a daily basis while I struggle to squeeze out two or three coherent paragraphs? I'm not being snotty, I really want to know. Is it time management, or have my terrible TV habits finally killed off my remaining brain cells?

Someone once said, "Every woman is either a Betty or a Veronica." (I think this wise person may have been a character in some long forgotten movie from the mid-eighties where Samantha Mathis plays a teen brimming with angst and ennui but without the benefit of an equally alienated Christian Slater to console her.) I am neither. I'm not the girl next door, nor am I the rich bitch two towns over.

(Though I do covet Veronica's sleek, black do.)

However, I am a Miranda.

And I'm totally a Dorothy.

I couldn't find a quiz for it, but I'm sure I'm a Jo Polniaczek, too. (With maybe a soupçon of Natalie.)

I once was a Bette, but now apparently I'm a Rosalind.

(26% grit, 62% wit, 24% flair, and 2% class! That 2% class is actually a bit high.)

NaBloPoMo's July theme is food, and while I have a post in mind (no really, I do!), I keep axing each title as I run through them in my head: been done before, vaguely offensive...

I almost called this post "The Meat In Me," but that just sounds dirty,

I stopped eating meat about a decade ago. Before that I did the "Well, I'm a vegetarian, but I eat fish and chicken," conveniently forgetting that fish and chicken do not grow on trees. In my meat-loving family, I'm a bona fide freak. Even as a kid I never had the taste for meat. I remember one summer barbecue my uncle tried to cajole me into eating a hotdog. A burnt hotdog at that.

"C'mon," he said shoving a steaming frank under my nose. "It's good for you. It'll put hair on your chest."

Which is exactly what every six-year-old girl wants: a hairy chest. I actually was dumb enough to believe that, and stayed away from hotdogs, at least burnt ones, for the next couple years. (Ever have hotdog tartar? Not so good.)

I waited until I was safely out of high school before I even thought about giving up meat for good. I spent a few years as a semi-veg, claiming to go back to a "normal" Midwestern diet once I lost the "freshman 25" (or in my case, 35). Around that time I read John Robbins's Diet For a New America and was convinced. Meat = bad. Nuts and berries and brown rice and wheatgrass juice = good.

Er, wait. Did I say wheatgrass juice? Make that Skittles and Diet Coke. Yeah, I don't always have the healthiest diet. I try, but I eat too many meals at my desk. Coincidentally, I was planning on making a strong effort to eat better. Just don't expect recipes from me -- I only have a few, and they all prominently feature chocolate and alcohol.