BFFS! !!!

I don't have a best friend.

I think I'm just not meant to have one. The term "best friend" feels so young to me. Not judging those of you who do have a best friend, just for me...I can't really have one. I'm shit at it, to be honest. I've been burned too many times before with people who have been my best friend:

Best friend all through elementary school, Jessica, was a pathological liar and extremely jealous and possessive of me at the same time. I wasn't allowed to have any other friends but her, and in high school things turned really disturbing as when I became friends with another girl named Emily and Emily's best friend Krista.

The four of us started hanging out, and one day Emily's dad all gave us a ride home from a basketball game. Krista and Emily invited Jessica and I over for a karaoke sleep over.

Now, I used to be really weird about spending the night over at people's houses I didn't know that well. I'm just really private. Did I want to sleep on the floor of someone's house I didn't know that well, and have them see me in my glasses? I wasn't sure. So when when we got to my house, I was suppose to run in and ask my mom if I could spend the night.

What I actually did was run in and tell my mom,

"Hey, Emily wants to know if I can sleep over...I don't really want to...Is it OK if I tell them you said no because I have to go to Dad's tomorrow?"

My mom responded by saying,

"Yeah that's fine! Just blame it on me. Tell them I say no."

So, I ran back outside and tell Emily's dad and Krista and Jessica my story of why I couldn't come over. We all agreed to hang out some time next week.

Little did I know that while I was in the house explaining to my mom that I wasn't comfortable spending the night at a new place, Jessica - my best friend - was busy spewing some viscous lie to everyone in the car about my mom being an alcoholic and that she was probably drunk and if I couldn't spend the night -  that would be why.

I didn't find all this out until a year later, when Emily and I had become best friends and we found out that Jessica had been spreading vicious rumors about Emily. Emily explained that she didn't tell me about the car incident earlier because she just didn't know if it were true or not, or if Jessica actually lied as much as I claimed.

And that brings us to my best friend Emily.

Emily and I had a lot in common. We were both incredibly emotional, loved singing and karaoke, Christina Aguilera, John Mayer, Britney Spears and The Real World. We would eat McDonalds and then complain about how fat our size 5 asses felt afterwards. Emily taught me how to hate my body and how to flirt. She was an ex-cheerleader and we would spend hours in her bedroom singing and bitching about all the tradgedies of being 15.

We had a couple good summers, and then Emily started hanging around the popular kids. They liked her because her parents had the money to buy her clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch, and she was cool with molding herself into whoever they wanted her to be. I, on the other hand, wasn't.

Slowly but surely I became her unpopular best friend that was in Drama Club and Newspaper and was friends with The Mormons. She got a boyfriend and kept silent while everyone talked shit about me. She never joined in, but she sure as hell never stood up for me.

After high school, she went on to go to our local University, lived in the dorm, and joined a sorority. She broke up with her high school sweetheart after cheating on him with my former crush and Sadie Hawkins date - the son of my mom's best friend. I nursed her through her period of self inflicted heartache, and accepted the fact that she didn't seem all that enthused when I finally got a real boyfriend for the first time.

"And I promise I won't lie about your mom being an alocholic!"

Over the next two years we maintained a distant sporadic friendship shaped of random dinners at Chiles and Frappuccinos at Starbucks closer to her home than mine. When I met Iain I'd come over to her apartment, over 20 miles away from my house, sit on her balcony and smoke while she pressed me for more details...seemingly living vicariously through me.

We stopped talking after she failed to clear her *busy* schedule of parties and sorority events when I came back home for the first time after moving to London. She sent me an angry email 3 months after my trip back home asking why I deleted her off my Myspace friend list.

 I sent her another one back explaining it was because she was a self absorbed bitch who cared, scratch that, has ALWAYS cared more about her social life than being my best friend. How was it that she doesn't make time to see me, ignores me for three months, and then emails me to say, "We're no longer friends on Myspace?"

How about no longer friends in real life??How about I got married and you were so busy planning mixers for Alpha Pi Douche that you didn't even fucking know.

She responded by telling me that I was demeaning the "life she had worked so hard for" (more like "the life my parents have paid so much money for") and that I don't "know her anymore". Oh. And "goodbye".

Haven't heard a peep from her since.

The most recent "best friend" I had was named Roseanne. We had high school class together and bonded through a common interest of not doing any work for the class...ever. She welcomed me into her group of misfit emo kids and they seemed to like me alright -  despite me completely lying about liking bands they did and obviously having not nearly enough knowledge of 1980's British Punk.

Roseanne weighed about 242lbs, which she quickly lost through using laxatives, binging and purging, and a burning desire to be thinner than her popular, punk princess best friend. She transformed herself into a warped version of her best friend, and even went as far as to make-out with said friend's long time ex-boyfriend behind her back. She, in every way, had turned into a skinny bitch.

I always kept Roseanne at bay because she was clearly in need of some intense therapy, and had a malicious, controlling streak that unless you were aware of what she was doing, you would become her puppet on a string. We drifted apart after high school (mainly due to me avoiding her and her awkward boyfriend), but she got in contact with me in early 2005 when she suddenly inherited a lot of money. She got extensive plastic surgery, decided to go to school in England and thought that now would be a good time to rekindle our friendship. (Wonder why.)

For some reason, I didn't see through this and thought she had *changed* a lot since high school. She seemed to be more mature. She seemed to be less controlling. So, when she moved to England in September 2005, we kept in contact and became really good friends through our daily email conversations.

I booked a ticket to see her in the upcoming January in September 2005, before I had ever even started talking to Iain.

Basically, during my visit to her in January, we made a 3 day trip to London so I could see the capital..and meet Iain. Despite having her boyfriend with her, she turned into a jealous, controlling, malicious bitch. She ruined my last night with Iain, and we spent the whole night, and early morning, arguing and screaming at each other. I was called a cunt, she tried to convince me that Iain was a liar and "not the right guy for me" and that "all the therapy in the world wouldn't be able to help me if I stayed with him".

Obviously, I spent the rest of my vacation with Iain in London, and then had to drive all the way to her flat up north to retrieve the luggage I had left behind. Upon opening it I found that she took back all the things she had given me for Christmas, and had slipped in a Chlamydia test kit into my belongings. You know, because I'm a whore. Get it?

Needless to say I haven't talked to her since. (Despite her "I'm sorry, but you still used me to get to Iain and are wrong about everything that happened" email that she also had published on her then public Myspace blog.)

She was the last person I called a "best friend".

Since then, I have met some incredibly fabulous women.

I think that I have some soul-sisters dotted across the globe. In San Francisco, in Davis, in Egypt and in some strange corners of the earth that I've yet to visit.

I have a good feeling about these women and I feel like I will know them a very long time; see them marry, see some of them have children, see them find their way in the world and make their dreams come alive.

But the label "best friend" is just dead to me.

Best Friend used to mean constant phone conversations, shopping, driving around with the windows down singing Britney Spears, back stabbing, being ditched and being lied to.

Now, I'm quite happy to email my friends. Talk to them on MSN when we're both at work. Get coffee whenever we're on the same continent and have champagne pajama parties. Plan websites together and how we'll take over the world.

On an everyday basis, in real life, I am friendless. When my laptop is off, there is no friend to meet with for lunch. There isn't a girlfriend that I can call and be like, "Hey, dude. Coffee?" without there being an incredibly expensive plane ticket involved.

I've met some really cool girls in London...

But we all know that we're not friends like that. There are a couple that I think we could be. I think that we could be friends for a while. But I just wouldn't be comfortable sharing all the ins and outs of my life and skeletons in my closet with them.

Maybe that's my fault for not opening up more, or maybe it's just me growing up, and realizing that friendships are not going to look how they did when I was 14.

While I love that I have friends around the world...I still wish that I could have them all in one spot so we could go out for coffee every once and a while.

That would be superb.

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Shhhh...Please hush....Shhh....Please?

Currently I'm sat in a Starbucks in the suburbs of London, trying my best to get some work done.

However, it's getting rather difficult to concentrate when there are numerous screeching children surrounding me. I'm by no means saying that women with children should stay home. I'm not saying that they should stay out of Starbucks.

What I am saying, is that I'm pretty sure that when I was 3, if I were shrieking at the top of my lungs, my mom wouldn't simply be cooing, "Cate, shhhh. Please don't scream like that, darling," at me each time I opened my mouth to release a sound that can only be compared to the noise mating foxes make.

May I also just point out real quick that I paid attention to how many women with strollers walked by the window where I was sitting for a half hour. Do you want to know how many I saw? 37. Most of these women actually came into Starbucks. But I digress.

Obviously, I'm not a parent.

I don't know what it's like to raise a child, or to discipline a child. The only point of reference I have is how my mom raised me, and I can tell you, if I were screaming or throwing a tantrum anywhere in public, I would have been dragged to the car and taken home immediately.

I can hear all the mothers shouting that "since I'm so fucking smart" maybe I should give them some advice on how I would get a screaming child to stop, and to be honest, I don't have the answer. (Aside from things that will end up with you going to prison, or your children being taken away from you...)

All I do know, is that cooing and and asking a child to please stop screaming in the same tone you'd ask someone to please pass the popcorn in the movie theaters is pointless. Obviously, it's not working, as still this child is screaming.

An hour ago there was another mum just letting her 2-year-old-ish- daughter stand directly in front of the door of Starbucks and hang on the door handle. Fortunately for Mumsy, the only people coming in this shop at the moment are other mothers who just stand outside the shop making "OMG HOW CUTE ARE YOU!?!" faces at the kid blocking the doorway.

Again, I'm pretty sure my mom would have made me sit in my chair quietly. Maybe I would be coloring. Maybe I would be looking at a picture book. Perhaps eating boogers. All I know is that I wouldn't have been dangling from the door handle of a busy coffee house. All it would take would be for one person to not be looking below eye level, push the door open, and the kid would be on it's ass, and potentially smack it's head on the tile floor. SAFE, NON?

Grover's Guide to Good Manners!

Was there some amazing parental movement in the '80s where parents actually believed it was okay to raise their voice at their children so that they wouldn't act like assholes in public? Did Sesame Street and Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood send us subliminal messages like:

"You will fear your parents authority"

or

"You will not scream like a wild banshee in public"

 Did Fraggle Rock teach us to shudder in fear at the idea of a time-out?

Maybe I was just a better behaved kid than the ones in this Starbucks. Maybe it was easier for my parents to threaten me with 'GOING BACK TO THE CAR RIGHT THIS INSTANT IF YOU DON'T BEHAVE' because I actually feared them and the authority they had over me.

But what does it say if every child of the 2-5 age range that comes in this shop clearly has no regard for it's parent's discipline?

(Currently, the screaming child is screeching "BOW BOW BOW bow bow BOW BOW BAH BAB BAH BAH BAH EYA YAYAAAAAAAAA" in a voice so shrill I'm pretty sure it would turn all the teenagers within a 5 miles of this cafe to mist. The mother's reaction? "Matt. Please. Shhhhh. Shhh...Please don't scream." Did I mention she was using a voice more suitable for the Hail Mary?)

Sure, there's a chance that you can check back in on me in 10 years or so if I decide have kids, and maybe I'll be the asshole mom who lets my kid tear around a coffee shop and scream bloody murder because:

a) I have a latte and The Guardian and get to play adult for a half hour, to hell with the studying University students' peace and quiet, THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE.

b) I have a latte and The Guardian and am so happy to be out of the house and around adults that I don't even hear my kid screaming.

...but I doubt it.

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The Camel Toe Cup!

I spent my morning trying on a vast amount clothes and staring at my pale, naked body under the unforgiving light of many a high street changing room.

It is because of this that I believe from now on, on CSI when they find a female suicide 'vic', the first question they should ask is, "Has she been shopping recently? Had she been trying on clothes?" because holy jesus, I was about to take a nap on the freeway this afternoon.

What is it about trying on clothes that suddenly makes eating disorders seem so plausible? Like,

"Yup. Never eating again. Sounds good. Should I just drink protein shakes and eat paper for the rest of my life? Why not! It would mean I could probably find some fucking clothes to wear."

Is it just me that feels like a disproportionate slob every time I go shopping for new clothes?

Do clothing companies have a deal with Slim Fast that they'll keep making horribly shaped, inaccurately sized clothing as long as it keeps women hating themselves so much they'll do nothing but drink chocolate-dung flavored "milkshakes" in order to lose weight?

What the fuck is up with clothes!?!!

Is it so unnatural to have some fucking junk in the trunk? Aren't women supposed to have hips? Am I not allowed to have any fat on my stomach?!

Anti Size Zero my fat fucking ass, man.

I consider myself to be pretty level headed. I feel pretty good about myself and have been trying hard to carefully balance wanting to lose weight and feel better about myself and not going into Crazy Diet Land where I start keeping a food diary and denying myself everything that is good in life.

But there is something about buying new clothes that sends me into a really dark, horrible place.

There is something about a changing room mirror and a stack of trousers in three different sizes (none of which that fit) that makes me want to violently punch the girl in the stall next to me that's whining that "THESE 10's ARE JUST, LIKE, FALLING OFF ME!" in the face...and then go eat a whole pizza by myself. And a milkshake. And a cheeseburger from McDonalds.

...and a Frappuccino. (Or 8.)

"Hello my name is MUFFIN TOP."

I'm not just trying to be a Drama Queen. I'm not even making this all up for the sake of writing a funny post. I was seriously at my wits end today.

The reasonably "business" type clothing that's available for women to buy is pure and utter CRAP.

What is that material that they use? That sparkly, itchy, crunchy black shit! It's horrible!

I couldn't find ONE pair of black dress pants to buy. Not one. Why? Because they look horrific on me.

They made me look like I have a BA in CAMEL TOE. Never mind the weird way that they manage to clasp really high on my waist, push all my love handle and lower stomach fat up so that I have the most prolific Muffin Top of all time - WHY THE CAMEL TOE?! Isn't a Muffin Top enough to make me want to stop eating anything but Special K?

Do Muffin Top and Camel Toe scream, "Hello. I am a highly successful business woman."

NO. They scream MONS PUBIS and NOT A FAN OF WORKING OUT.

Do you want to know how many shops I went into today? 10

How many pairs of pants did I try on?  10-13

How many tops? 4

And which store do you think I ended up buying something in? Oh yes, the first fucking store I went into. Why I just didn't stay there and look a bit harder and try on a few more outfits I will never comprehend.

And the annoying part is, I ALWAYS DO THIS!!!

I'll find what I want straight away, then waste 2 more hours of my time wandering around trying on ill fitting pants for the off chance I'll find something cheaper/better/faster/stronger.

This, let me tell you, rarely happens.

I opted for a skirt, a nice blouse, and a black cardigan. I'm not terribly excited about the outfit, but it looks really nice on, and I won't have to worry about Camel Toe.

Not having to worry about Camel Toe is all I can ask for, really...

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I think I actually look like a lady in this photo...

Today I am 23. The big two-three. And I even though I know what I'm about to say is totally going to make you throw up, I'm still going to say it anyway:

OMGIMGETTINGOLD.

There! I said it! I admit it! This is the first birthday I've sort of wrinkled my nose and been like, "Ugh. Really? I don't think I'm ready for that age, yet."

I could totally go on and bitch about how hilarious it is that I'm technically out of work and technically should probably be busy calling up recruitment agents and frantically sending off submissions to various magazines and newspapers...but I'm definitely not.

I think I'm finally grasping the coolness of being set free from my 9-5 gig and getting to choose where my life is going to go. Vacation hours are a thing of the past. Sick days can suck it, and I'm never going to have to get stuck in a lift with the fucking lazy, large assed people from the first floor who couldn't just walk up the one measly flight of stairs it would take them to get to their fucking desk ever again!

I'm officially done being sad, and moping about and staring out the window on trains wondering what I'm going to do.

For god sake. I'm 23 today. TWENTY-THREE.

I have some incredibly exciting ideas in my head. My brain has turned into a vibrant, colorful road map of ideas and possibilities rather than some depressingly emo haiku.  I'm finally starting to feel stoked about stuff. 23, I'm really hoping that you're going to bring it and bring it hard.

The Ting Tings! Great DJ

23, I want your volume turned up to 11.

I can feel my world moving into a new direction, so today, I'm really going to try to celebrate my life, my future and my rebirth as passionately as I can. (And, obviously, cupcakes, pizza, the Sex and The City movie and cocktails are the way to do it.)

So...

Happy Birthday, self.

Here's to you, and your new beginning.

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OK FINE! I DO! I GIVE A SHIT!

A lot of people wish to themselves that they didn't care what other people thought about them.

However, when it comes to most of the women I know, there seems to be the common mantra of, "I just need to not give a shit."

Whether it's "giving a shit" if a potential new boyfriend that's probably "just not that in to" us calls or not, or fretting endlessly about what our coworkers are saying behind our backs - we all tend to wish we just cared a little bit less about what's going on out there.

Lately, I definitely wish I didn't give a shit about stuff.

I wish I didn't give a shit what some of my contacts thought, and just said: "Listen, I really like you, but unless we decide when/if you're going to pay me, this really isn't going to work out."

I wish I could show up at 10:08 every morning with a piping hot soy-no-water-chai from Starbucks in my hands with my iPod blaring and float over to my desk like it ain't no thang and all the while laughing to myself because I know it's not like they can fire me (muahahahahah)...but I can't.

You'll find me at my desk no later than 9:15, and taking a 15 minute lunch to go get whatever I can find at Marks & Spencer that "isn't going to make me feel fat" and eat it hunched over my desk, feeling naughty as I read Fart Party for another 15 minutes.

I can't tell you how many times I've ignored a snide comment ("So do you have a plan? Do you know what you're going to do now that you don't have a job? Or are you just going to wing it?") because I don't know what will happen if I were to make it very clear that I DO in fact GIVE A SHIT.

Actually, I take that back. I pretty much do know what will happen if I voice my said giving of the shits: nothing.

Well, they will probably be caught off guard, think to themselves what a bitch I am, and move on. Or they won't even notice. Or they'll think I'm right.

...Or, they will freak out. Or, they'll Twitter about what a nasty bitch I am and then tell everyone on Facebook and then they'll Google Bomb me and make it so that when you Google my name you'll find some horribly set up web page that says, "...IS A FUCKING BITCH-HEADED TWAT WHO GIVES A SHIT!!!" written using the spray paint function on MS Paint and then EVERYONE WILL KNOW WHAT A HORRIBLE STUPID PERSON I AM AND NO ONE WILL EVER HIRE ME OR LOVE ME AND I'LL END UP HOMELESS AND ALONE (AND PROBABLY WITH A DISEASE).

Kate Nash "Foundations" video

I suppose the lesson in all of this is that I need to realize my worst fear is not going to happen simply by stifling my ridiculous need to go above and beyond and to hand out free sexual favors to prove that I'm nice and reliable...because sometimes "nice and reliable" means "pushover" and that's something I'm really not prepared to be.  (Anymore.)
 
So. I think tomorrow I'll start not giving a shit by writing some rather awkward emails, and by not smiling and saying thank you when someone offers to shove their foot up my ass for free.

And on that note, I really need to get to bed so I can get up early and catch the 8:19 train so I can get into work a half hour before I need to for reasons I don't understand...

Maybe I'll start this whole "not giving a shit" thing on Monday. (I'll be 23 that day. And officially unemployed. That seems like a good time to start.)

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Vitamin Water Inspires Women!

Last night I went to another one of those Inspiring Women In Business talks. The last one I went to was pretty good, so I thought I'd shell out the £25 to see the next one.

That was my first mistake.

My second mistake was showing up.

The third was not bringing my hip flask to spike all of the fucking free Vitamin Water (complete with colorful neon straws) they were giving us. You know how women are about their water!

So. We have a bunch of women sitting in a room, who are all there to listen to three women talk about personal branding and entrepreneurship, and who are all silently psyching themselves up to network and frantically scanning the list of attendees to see if there's anyone even worth talking to.

The first speaker goes by. She had presence, charisma, and stretched out, pixelized photos in her Power Point presentation. Aside from the latter she was fantastic.

The next speaker...I don't even know what happened. I couldn't understand a damn word she said, she droned on and on and on, and I still don't know what the hell her business is or why she was supposed to be inspiring.

The third speaker was interesting, but half way through some jackass behind me had a "question". The presenter of the evening asked her to stand up and ask her question and from behind me this grating, overly loud voice says,

"HELLO. My name is BLAH BLAH and I'm a freelance designer and I have been trying to get in contact with you company FOR YEARS and now that I FINALLY have you in the same room as me I just want to let you know that I have some GREAT IDEAS for you that I think you will REALLY LIKE and I WOULD LOVE TO SIT DOWN TO TALK WITH YOU."

There was a hum of laughter, and most of the women (including the presenter) broke into some sort of congratulatory applause and acted like this was an act of inspiring bravery. I, on the other hand, had my eyes closed and was doing breathing exercises because it was SO FUCKING AWKWARD.

The presenter smiled graciously and tried to tell us all, yet again, about a time when networking and bravery REALLY worked for her, but Miss Blah Blah in the back of the room wasn't done:

"And LADIES. If you're wondering where I got all this CONFIDENCE from, I'll tell ya. It's a book called THE SECRET, ladies, and it's in paperback and DVD. It is SO INSPIRING. IT CHANGED MY LIFE. YOU SHOULD GO OUT AND BUY IT."

More awkward cooing and uncomfortable applause.

The Secret to acting like a jackass!

Wow! I'm sorry...that was confidence? I thought it was tactless, awkward, rude, and inconsiderate jackassery. Maybe I'm confused.

Soon after the awkward Secret outburst, the third "inspiring" speaker was finished and we were encouraged to, "Get out there AND START NETWORKING!!!!!!"

And that, my friends, was the moment that I silently started screaming in my head.

Trust me, I like to network. I've met some really cool folks by networking. I get how important it is. I know. I KNOW.

However, I believe you have to have the right combination of things to create the right networking atmosphere.

You also need people in common fields. AND MAYBE BOOZE.

By this time none of us had had dinner and their idea of snacks were those quarter-sized mini sandwiches and odd shaped cheeses on sliced tomatoes. Fucking hell, people. A GIRL NEEDS TO EAT. It was almost 9 and the event started at 6:30. Hello. We're not ALL anorexic!

And also, I find that if you DON'T PUSH THE NETWORKING THING SO FUCKING HARD people will feel a lot more comfortable and natural when they do speak to someone.

It's like asking us to flirt on cue! I can't do that! And, to be honest, I'm pretty sure the idea of networking is that everybody is after something. It's a get and give situation. You're looking for clients, you're looking for a new job, you're looking for contacts that can increase your business and help you.

So when you tell us all to hop to and to get networking, it's just becomes so unnatural and feels really competitive...like a bunch of cats in heat wandering around scratching up against every thing in the room that moves.

I guess it pissed me off so much because every single fucking time I go to an event like this, especially when it's for women, I'm not only the youngest, but the only person in my field. Women In Business is such an odd term, if you think about it. Does that mean women who work? Women who start their own business? Women who are interested in business?

And why is it that I've been to TWO "INSPIRING WOMEN" events in one month? Can't they think of something else? Why do we always need to be inspired? I would much rather be fed and given free booze than given some lame *inspiring* speech. Talk to me straight. Tell me how you got to the position you're in. Give me a case study of yourself. Please don't feed me Eleanor Roosevelt quotes that I've already heard and posted on my Myspace page about 5 years ago.

There are shit loads of creative, YOUNG, smart ,savvy women out there who are in business and I'm sure they feel just like me at these events. Where are all the women in tech at these events I go to? Where are the writers? The artists? The photographers?

Why is always just the same women from banks and corporations and PR companies with the occasional bitchy fashion editor thrown in the mix?

I just want to go to an event, meet other creative working women, leave with a stack of business cards with at least 3 I actually will use and knowing that I met and talked to women who in the same sector as I am.

"I might be okay! Maybe!"

I've had enough of being let down and insulted by the snooty bankers and fake ass PR women that clearly are only talking to me for the sake of saying they met their business card distribution quota for the week.

Clearly, these situations will always arise.  At certain events and certain venues they are inevitable. However, I am simply saying that I refuse to participate and act like a Networking Sheep at another one of these "INSPIRING" women's events. I'm not going to pretend to like Vitamin Water or force myself to talk to people that clearly have no idea what a blog is, just for the sake of throwing out a business card.

The one thing I did learn at that even was from the first speaker who said "networking isn't about handing out business cards...it's about having genuine conversations with people and putting the best version of yourself out there".

So. From now on, I am going to be smarter about networking decisions. I am not going to something just because I was invited. I am going to go to something because I think that there is something I can truly gain and walk away with.

And not just a free bag of things women like. You know...like, fruity lip gloss and tiny bottles of bath gel. UGH.

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"Just fucking dandy, thanks!"

I thought I would try a new approach to this whole, looking for freelance work thing. Sure, being angry and panicky and all fearing the fear of failure is really good for my mental health and my husband just loves being around me when I'm like that - but I thought maybe I'd go out on a crazy, bald, umbrella slinging whim and try a different way of thinking.

I've been trying to make a lot of changes, lately. When I got back from Tokyo I was all, "Fuck this! This is my life! My L-I-F-E! It's short! I gotta start doing shit! HARDCORE." And then like magic, the Universe was all, "Hah-hah, Grasshopper. You want change? You think you want to live your life, HARDCORE!? YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND, SUCKA." And, like magic, my job refused to stop paying my obscenely high, trillion figure salary which then resulted in me making the decision to peace out.

So, in the midst of panicking and worrying about money and breathing in bags of all shapes, sizes and colors - I'm trying to...redecorate and refurbish my life.

See, I love myself. A lot. But I feel like somewhere over the past two years I went from being a really cute shabby chic studio apartment to being a 2 bedroom,1 bath cottage that sort of resemble the shabby chic studio aparment, but wtih considerably more room in both the rear and middle section. The owner started to feel really bad about the house, but was too busy enjoying red wine and pizza and sleeping in late to like, mow the lawn, get new furniture or replace the peeling wallpaper.

So, my goal is to refurbish the house, inside and out, to being the spacious one bedroom studio apartment with funky furniture, colorful walls and a tiny yet bountiful garden in front.

"Fuck this. I'm going across the street for a drink!"

So, to do that, I've here's what I've been doing:

*  While I may not seem like the yoga type, I totally dig it. I've always to get ball bendy and stretchy and to be less homicidal and more zen, so I'm doing yoga once a week.

* I always look at cute girls with glasses and am filled with jealous rage, so I'm going to take my ass to Specsavers and get some cute glasses.

* I'm going to the gym! And working out! And lifting weights, and trying to, oh I don't know, fit into the hot jeans I used to wear when I first moved here. Imagine! JUST IMAGINE. If I could get my ass into US size 6s or 8s again, I would be SOOOO HAPPY!!!! (Fat and happy, I'm over it. I'm cool being thin and content. Or how about thinnish and not hating how her body looks every single fucking day of her life. My that sounds nice.)

* I've seriously been taking vitamins. Vitamins for my hair and skin, a multivitamin, and these nifty effervescent Vitamin C tablets. This really isn't that big of a deal, but I just wanted to type the word effervescent. It's my favorite new word.)

But I don't know if believe that anymore. Since picking up and moving here, I don't feel like I've been particularly brave or proactive about anything. Yes, I did a damn good at my job. Yes, I was asked to be on TV and in a magazine and to give some quotes here and there and was basically handed a writing job.

In my heart, I want to work my ass off. I want to be brave. I want to be tired and excited all of the time, and to take a massive risk, and then get to bask in the glow of my success.

But at the moment, I have to admit, I'm so scared of actually working that hard. I'm scared of taking a risk, because what if that glow doesn't come?

What if I'm the girl who moved here and then had some good shit happen to her...and then have that be it?

That can't be it.

I won't let it be it...but I have to admit I've been sitting here with a few tools and a shopping list of supplies I need to refurbish my "house"...and I feel like all I can do is sit and stare at my To-Do list through tearful eyes.

I can do this. I will do this.

It's just a shame getting started has to be this hard.

Sugarland - Baby Girl

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Hi folks.

Feist - I Feel It All

I apologize for my once-a-week posting, but, there's a lot going on at the moment; most of which can't be talked about. A lot of it is because there is far too much cross-over between my "real life" and my "online life", and although the whole "neighborhood only", "friends only", "friends and family" settings on VOX are fantastic...if I feel like I need to constantly downgrade, upgrade and kick people out of my neighborhood just so I can have some expression and release...I can't really decide if it's worth all the effort or not.

There are all of 2-3 people that I can really talk openly and honestly with about all that's going on at the moment, and for that I'm grateful - but I truly do miss being fearlessly open online. Of course, I always had my boundaries (no personal family talk, no airing out my dirty, marital laundry online) but I've felt all muted and censored lately. There's nothing wrong with having to watch what I say, as I know I'm making the right decision, but I just being able to FUCKING TALK.

It's like, there's so many companies and organizations and bloggers and journalists that I just want to rage on about...but I'm in such a vulnerable position I can't really afford to piss anybody off.

Does that make me weak and subservient to The Networking Gods? Or just smart?

Does anybody else feel like the Internet is just claustrophobic lately? It just kills me that I used be in this fantastic little bubble where I could slag off some idiot journalist who did something shitty and laughable one minute, and now I do the same thing and realize that we have 8 "mutual friends" on Facebook and follow the same people on Twitter and have high music compatibility on LastFM. SERIOUSLY?

Am I losing my balls or and caring too much what others think? I wish I had the clarity to know for sure at the moment.

I have a feeling it's just this awkward transition period that I'm in the middle of. Or maybe it's that fucking Mercury Retrograde everyone on here is always banging on about. Can I blame it on Mercury? Is he retrograding at the moment? What does that even mean?

Thanks to everyone for their job suggestions and concern for my ability to afford food in the next few months. I really am okay, and I've accepted the fact that a Magical CEO is not going to email me and offer me the most fantastic blogging job of all time that allows me to work from home whenever I want, and get paid £500 a day AND get paid ON TIME!

The Universe is leaving me to figure this out myself. I'm up for the challenge, it's just just a shame my mojo is only running on half power at the moment.

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Dear Internet/Silicon Valley/San Francisco,

Hi! It's me. Cate. CupCate. Of the London CupCates.

Here's the thing, homie...

I was made redundant at my job last week.

I'm there for another month, as I've agreed to do some very limited freelancing work on ye old Dollymix in June, and then after that, I'm broke, I mean, 100% open and available for new freelancing work.

Shit like this happens when you're freelance. The economy's bad at the moment (so I hear) and things are looking a little dull over here in the UK blogging industry. For example, please observe what happens when you Google "UK Blogging Jobs":

NO I DIDN'T MEAN BILLING!

Yeah. I know, right?!

While there are no hard feelings and I understand that the company I worked for for the past year and a half "feel that we can no longer pay your incredibly inflated salary and support your extravagant lifestyle", it still sucks.

It sucks like...

...when you know you're in a relationship that is eventually going to end because either one of you doesn't want kids and/or you haven't had sex in 3.5 years and although you didn't want to marry the guy or even get a cat with him, when he looks at you over over half melted Jamba Juice, and says, "You know...I just don't think this is going to work. It's not you, it's me. It's been great, "

You're sort of relieved because you know how it's going to end, but then it just sort of pisses you off that HE BROKE UP WITH YOU and he gets to keep the apartment and YOU'RE THE ONE who has to start Googling BLOGGING JOBS and thinking about how you're going to be able to afford your next root canal...or something.

Does that make sense?

So, that's how I feel. I understand, I'm cool with it, I see how it's better for both of us in the end...but finding enough freelance work to float me for the next few months is my main concern at the moment.

I'll dress up like this if you need me to.

But like...Silicon Valley? Could you maybe SHARE all of the work you have with the rest of the world? Does blogging REALLY need to be done in an office? Can't you just fly me out every couple months, give me a free laptop or something, and then let me get on with the blogging from London? It really will benefit you in the long run.

Please, let me explain how.

See, while you're sleeping, I'M AWAKE. You're site will be guaranteed to have fresh content on it by the time you and all those returning visitors go back to your site first thing in the morning. PLUS, how IMPORTANT and SERIOUS will you look by having INTERNATIONAL CORESPONDENTS??

TRES. IT WILL LOOK TRES/MUCHO/A LOT IMPORTANT.

So, all I'm saying, San Francisco, is that you're very wealthy. You've got a lot of blogging jobs, but it would be better for you if you just shelled out the cash to pay some hot ass bloggers in sterling and let them telecommute from London Town.

Just think! I can get you all the latest news on what drugs Amy Winehouse did last night, who Russell Brand is boning this week, and what Heather Mills is lying about lately BEFORE all of your other US based bloggers. Time is on my side! You're 8 HOURS BEHIND ME. Do you know how many hits you could be getting in those 8 hours!?!?

TRES. YOU COULD BE GETTING TRES HITS.

I know I'm American and all, but all this means is that I know shit about TWO cultures! TWO! How many do you know about? It's probably like one and a half. I can talk about Richard Hammond and Miley Cyrus with equal ease. If you want me to be British, I can be British! I sleep with a British guy on a regular basis! I'll even lie and say I like Marmite. I'll throw in random 'u's in my spelling.

Liouke Thious

But in all seriousness, Silicon Valley...San Francisco...California...The United States of America....

We have some fine bloggers in the UK.

But!

There is only ONE in particular that has not only participated in a rather bland, awkward debate over WAGS live on Sky News, and managed to become a sex and relationships expert for Yahoo just months before they fired thousands of people, and (AND!) was misquoted in a grid about feminism in The Observer Woman, complete with an unflattering embarrassing photo.

Where the hell else are you going to find those kind of qualifications?

I may not be whorish enough, *ironic* enough, or have a strong enough love for cocaine to be a part of Gawker, or perhaps friendly and perky enough to be a part of Sugar....but god dammit, I am all for settling and deal with disappointment and low pay very well.

Please. CALL ME.

Cate
xx

PS. In all seriousness, if you have any blogging or freelance writing work done, please get in contact. PM me or my email is in the links on the side. Please? I'll send you a photo of my bra.

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Today was our day in Japan, and I have to say, today has been one of the best days of my life. We didn't try to jam in a whole bunch of touristy things into our schedule, we simply walked through the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, with the simple goal of sitting under the cherry blossoms in Shinjuku Gyoen National Park.

Hanami means "flower viewing" in Japanese, and tons, and tons of families, friends and couples gather in parks, like Shinjuku Gyoen, to picnic, drink, and admire the cherry blossoms.

Now, I had of course heard that this time of year was the best to go to Japan because of the cherry blossoms. I've seen pictures of them. I've seen them in movies. I've read about how the blossoms look like snow when they get caught in the breeze and flutter to the ground.

However, nothing can compare to actually seeing it in person. I was so moved and so taken aback when I stepped foot in Shinjuku Gyoen, that I have to admit I teared up every now and again.

I am forever thankful to whatever ever good karma I sent out in the world to that allowed me to be in Japan this morning. The feeling I had while standing under the cherry blossoms, having those tiny pink and white petals falling gently fall down to the earth around me - catching in my hair, and softly brushing past my skin - I will never forget it.

Up close...

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