Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Love Your Job?...God Doesn't Like Liars...

Four years ago, I have on some Express boot-cut black pants and I am standing on 10th Avenue and 58th Street, staring at this huge garage door, holding a VHS tape. I was supposed to deliver this tape to the address, but the address they gave me lead to a huge warehouse door and there was this doorbell, about 15 feet above me. Presumably only usable by drivers in large trucks. I stood there for a good fifteen minutes just staring at the doorbell, imaging that I need some kind of special bread like Alice in Wonderland to become tall enough to hit that bell. How the hell was I supposed to deliver this tape if I couldn’t even figure out how to go in the door? I had edited a tape that was supposed to be submitted for a News segment airing at 4pm. It was now 1pm and as I stood staring at the garage, I remember thinking I was going to have to quit work right then and there. I thought about just leaving the tape on the ground and not returning to the news station. Just running down 10th street screaming, "I hate work! And I hate the news!" But then I remembered I had left my sandwich at my desk. So that was a no-go.

Every job I ever had, I sat staring at my computer going, “Fuck..there has GOT to be something else better then this…” But truth be told. I am not so sure there is. If you are one of those people who claim to “love” their job, then you are what I like to call, “A Dirty Liar”.

Even people who seemingly have the coolest jobs hate their job. In my last job I hated my boss so much that whenever I would get her coffee I would put three extra Equal packets in it, in the hopes that she would become diabetic.

I wish that was a joke, but unfortunately, it's not.

One of my first internships ever I actually taught at a local junior high. Yes, me a teacher. I know. What was I thinking? I can’t stand children, mainly because they can’t drink and I have a problem with people who are not alcoholics. Regardless, I taught a writing class and in between classes I used to walk to the back lawn and pound my head against a tree hoping it might split open and I wouldn’t have to go back to that dirty Satan hole people called, “a school”.

In college I worked at a well known restaurant in midtown and one afternoon a mouse scurried across the floor and the manager actually yelled at me about the mouse. Yelled at me. “Kim how dare you let that mouse get out!” Let the mouse get out? Like , I was keeping him up fucking skirt or something?

Two years ago I worked editing radio contracts and one day some radio head called me absolutely frantic that the radio contest rules were not edited yet and how were they supposed to give away their, “FREE BEACH BALL IF YOU DON’T FINISH THESE FUCKING RULES BEFORE NOON?!”…Some people work on heart cavities..I make sure beach balls get raffled. Mother fucker.

Even now I find that no one I speak with enjoys their job and mainly those who have a “higher” education, including Law School and a PhD. Something about knowing more about the world makes you want to jump off a building apparently.

Every week I decide that I want to do something different. Write for more magazines. Write for less magazines. When I was 12 I wanted to be a veterinarian, whatever happened to that dream? What if we all had followed our dreams when we were 12? I would be married to Billy Organ, a Horse Veterinarian and I would own 10 unicorns.

This woman looks way too excited to be doing her job and that dog seems quite pissed
at Dr Lady Man-Hands here...
But hey, maybe I would have been happy?

Even if I could ‘Imagine” the perfect job I would probably get tired of it after awhile. I used to tell my dad I was going to quit everything and move to South Beach and become a towel-girl at the The Delano Hotel. My dad would lose it every time, as though I was really going to do it. He used to get so mad and say things like, “I paid for 4 years of college so that you could go hand towels to Puff Daddy?!” And then I would have to correct him about the whole , ‘P-Diddy’ thing and that would lead to a whole OTHER conversation.

Think of the coolest job you can think of. For example, - A sports editor, who gets to travel for free to sports games, he helps plan huge parties for big athletes then gets to go to all the parties and hang with celebrities…well guess what…I know him, I know a guy who does that very job, and he hates it. Yes fucking hates it. I know a girl who is top notch at Michael Kors and travels the world…some days she confesses she would rather have her eyes burned out by a hot poker.
My point is, if you hate your job, or sit at work thinking, “there MUST be something better.” I am here to tell you …there isn’t.

But if you find Billy Organ anywhere and he happens to have a farm with 10 unicorns and an extra vet let me know.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Drunk Girl

My first year out of college, I had the pleasure of taking up a guest bartending job at a popular midtown bar. Not only did the bartending experience give me great insight into the world of making Malibu Baybreezes …but it also taught me very invaluable lessons about the natural habits of drunk women.

It was like watching gorillas in their natural habitat, untouched by mankind and running wild. It wasn’t the men per say that were running around like frat boys, but more so the women, dressed in a 3 dollar tops, carrying 300 dollar handbags.

And who can blame them?

Women have to have JOBS now AND be EDUCATED. I don’t know who made these rules, but clearly having to be educated and employed are causing huge problems in the female society, mainly involving sobriety.What happened to the good old days when women couldn’t vote? I bet those women were sober.

Around 3:45am every weekend at the end of my shift, it became inevitable that some chic was going to be the last one left in the bar , still trying to pick the bartender. Normally she would be eyeing me as though I was the only thing standing between her and the scruffy faced McGee to my right.

He’s all yours.” I used to whisper into their diamond clad ears and walk away.

She would sit, legs sprawled across her bar stool. Trying to remember her Ex’s cell number. You could hear her mumbling something along the lines of, “978-6..978-5….no, fuck, mother fucker…

And do you know who that girl is?

Yes you do.

She is ‘Drunk Girl’.

All of you know Drunk Girl. In fact, most of you have been Drunk Girl at one point or another.
Drunk Girl is the girl sitting in the corner of the bar waving her arms around, telling a story to…well… to no one.

She is wearing a tank top that is always about to reveal her left boob and some sort of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. Where did she get the Mardi Gras beads? Who knows! Why is she wearing them? Who cares! She has squinty eyes and believes the mascara running down her face is giving her a smoldering, sexy look. She thinks she is sexy. Actually, she thinks she is dead sexy. You always catch her trying to balance her head on her hand in a playful come-hither way and in reality she looks more like a toddler who fell asleep taking a shit.

Drunk Girl always has a million of glasses around her, yet has no fucking idea which cup she has been drinking out of. Her shit is everywhere…keys, cell phone, money, wallet, it’s all scattered either beneath her stool, in her lap, or on the bar. She can’t keep track of anything, but she will become violent if you try and touch any of it.

Drunk Girl has an obsession with her cell phone and is always shouting something like, “BUT I JUSH WANTS TO MAKE A PONE CHALL!”

Drunk Girl normally has a posse of friends surrounding her with some sorority chic explaining, “Kelly Cat! Totally listen to me for one sec…He totally wants to talk to you, but he is like going to go home with Jenny cause like you’re like a mess, but like don’t think he doesn’t like LIKE you like that because maybe he does like you LIKE THAT but just not right now…” Which as we know, makes PERFECT sense to Drunk Girl. Who is still trying to figure out what the hell the 978 number is.

Drunk Girl will sit there, clutching her cell phone, staring at everyone as though they all just spoke to her in Swahili yelling, “BUT I JUSH WANTS TO MAKE A PONE CHALL!”

Drunk Girl will then try and leave the bar and will wave cabs down the in the middle of the street like she is Matador in front of some Goddamn bulls. She always has on one shoe, the other shoe is always either broken or off in the street, about two inches away from being hit by a few yellow cabs.

When Drunk Girl comes to the bar, the shit show officially begins. And no matter how drunk YOU are, you always look at Drunk Girl and go, “Wow, I will never look as drunk as her,” as you hop off the bar in your mini skirt and go outside to catch a cab.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Go Pick Up My New Column Because I am a Writer Believe It Or Not Kids

Go pick up my new column in CBS' Watch! Magazine this month!

You can find CBS' Watch! Magazine next to the TV Guides at any major magazine stand. And you need to go pick up that shit because...umm...I am a writer? And I am part of the Writers Mafia? Which means if you don't go buy it we fuck up your commas or semi colons or some shit like that.


Monday, July 14, 2008

The C Word

So I may have written this tiny little article once, all about how I hate the C word.

That’s right…cuddling.

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, I hated cuddling. Just the thought of it made my skin develop some deep rash worse then the time I overused Neutrogena Sunless tanning from a bottle made in 1999, thinking the chemicals would not have broken down yet and it caused me to be put in isolation for three days with no food, water, or shelter. That MAY be an exageration, or it may be the TRUTH.

I used to believe that there needed to be rules and regulations. Kind of like a sports game, you know the ones that require "referees" and "people in uniforms" handing out penalties and time outs. Too much leg action and there would be a ten minute penalty resulting in a loss of a defensive player on the field.

But I have to say, for the first time ever. I , Kim Forrest , fucking love cuddling.

That’s right. I fucking love it. There I said it. Are you happy now?

I love it so much I can’t get enough of it. In fact if I could cuddle all day, I think I would. That’s right, I said it again. I could CUDDLE ALL DAY.


There, go ahead, call me an anti-cuddle traitor. But truth be told, I feel like it is some sort of amazing therapy that I could essentially pay thousands of dollars for. Just laying there entangled in legs and arms I think ever single problem I ever had could be solved.

Stressed about your credit card debt? Go cuddle.

Hate your boss? How about some Spooning?

Developing a severe case of the bubonic plague and your baby’s daddy is about to sell your trailer for two meth pipes?..Someone needs a good cuddle.

I don’t know what happened to me. Somewhere along the line I started to actually crave a good cuddle. I can’t wait not to just throw arms and legs and hands and hair all over someone and hope I don’t drool all over their neck, but even if I do, hey it’s like the drool of Gods, so who cares!

Someone needs to seriously punch me in the face.

What the fuck happened to me?
Before you know it I am going to start watching things like ‘Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’ and crying into a box of Tampons. Someone needs to drain some estrogen out of me before I start DVR’ing Snuggle Bear commercials

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Russian Roulette?

He looks so damn happy doesn't he?

So, liking to think I am a "smart" girl, which is confusing, because I also like to refer to myself as a "beautiful" girl and a "hilarious" maybe what I am saying is I relate more so to Jesus then most...and that goes without saying considering I did try and help him buy new sandals once at Macy's, but damn that man sure does like himself a good brown leather...wait...I am sorry...I was going somewhere with this before...

Ok, back to topic, so being a "smart" girl blahdiddy blah blah ( I tend to like to make air quotes when I say it) I try and do this thing in my life that I refer to as - "not getting pregnant". Now this is seemingly becoming a more difficult task then originally assumed.

You say Birthcontrol.

I say Potato you say Potato.

I dont know what the hell that rhyme is people but I know it makes sense in my head.

Now this whole "birth control" thing is considering not as effective as once seemed...and by "not effect" I do mean "Not effective when you dont use it". I wish it was just plain old effective just by thinking about it, I mean, no one told me I actually have to use the stuff. Damn MAMA! That is a hell lotta work!

I say this considering I have taken about three baby-tests in the past year alone. And thankfully none of them have come up positive, but I am starting to wonder, how many can you pass before your luck is up?

As I say this, I can think of three or so of my girlfriends who are all on Plan B right now, praying that whatever is in that thing will get rid of any Mike Jr, Danny Jr, Sutton Place Bar Jr... that might possibly be in them. I called my friend up the other day who told me not to worry, I couldn't never be pregnant ever because I - "drink too much, all that alcohol will kill the baby."
I actually reasoned it in my head for a minute.

The point here being, why are we all suddenly being so non-cautious with our bodies? It is like the HIV and AIDs epidemic suddenly creep away and we started saying things like, "Well I don't personally KNOW anyone with AIDS, so therefore it may not exist in my circle and who likes a condom anyway?"

And I will agree with that, a condom is just about the most unromantic thing to ever exist, but also completely necessary. And yet too many of us cannot even be bothered with a simple piece of latex (or sheepskin for your dirty birds out there.) But more importantly after you start seeing someone for three...four...five months (mother of sweet Jesus do people do this?!) ... you start to wonder, is the condom necessary? Clearly after five months they cannot get me pregnant anymore, it's like a rule or something. Who needs condoms?! Who needs birth control that makes you fat and cranky? (Not I!).

I mentioned this to a friend the other day, telling her I think sex during my period must be OK, because I cannot get pregnant then. "Well" She said, "That's a little bit like playing Russian Roulette, dont cha think?"

And GOD DAMN I am a bad card player!

What about the rhythm method?

What about all those damn catholics, I mean it's not like they have more like 1 or 2...or 6 children right?

Tuesday, July 8, 2008


So last night I came home to about an inch of water across my bedroom carpet and kitchen floor. Now as much as I love pools, I don’t want to live in one. The water was seemingly coming from the bottom up though, not from the ceiling down. I stood there, my feet soaking , staring at the water. How could it possibly be coming from the ground up? I am on the 2nd floor of my building, it didn’t make any logical sense. Was water rising now like heat? Was I in some sort of sci-fi thriller and soon my lights would shut off and I would become a virgin again screaming into a house phone that I don’t even own (do people actually have home phones still or did that go away with the dinosaurs?) .

So I went downstairs and explained the situation to my doorman.

Me- “There is water all on my kitchen floor and carpet.”

Him- “Your name Kim, yes?”

Me- “Um, Yes?”

Him- Shakes his head and goes and calls some maintenance guy.

I don’t know what that’s about, but continuing on…

One hour later I hear a knock at my door. I open the door and there he stands.

The maintenance guy.

He was about 6 ft 2, and built like a meatpaddy who does a lot of steroids and bathes in bronzing cream. I just stood there staring at him for a good minute. He was wearing a wife beater and shorts. As I stood there in the doorway staring at him, the Meatpaddy spoke.

Meatpaddy: "I am here to fix your pipes.”

Me: "Why yes, yes you are...”

Meatpaddy: “Should I go into your bedroom for the leak?”

Me: (still standing with the door half open) “Yes, my bedroom, that is exactly where you should go.”

Meatpaddy: “So, I guess you should probably let me inside?”

Me: “ can go inside.”

I still stand there, holding the door, until I see him staring at me. I laugh a little and open the door the rest of the way.

Meatpaddy walks right over to our central air unit, opens the door and bends down. Meanwhile I am standing behind him wishing he could bend down over and over again and how I am going to break my fucking central air everyday now, along with every other single pipe in my home.

One of my roommates emerges from her bedroom and I grab her arm and start pinching like a 12 year old gay boy who just discovered his queendom.

“The MAINTENANCE GUY is here” I say giving her big eyes. She just shakes her head at me.

Meatpaddy gets up from the floor and tells us something about the pipes or whatnot.

Meatpaddy- "So it appears as though your central air tubing has dislocated.”

Me Thinking- I wonder if he goes to the gym every day, or maybe just three times a week. I bet he could lift me with one of those arms and throw me onto some horse.

Meatpaddy - "And because it wasn’t on tightly enough the water has been dripping.”

Me Thinking- Or maybe he just goes to the gym twice a week but he has one of those ab rollers he uses at home, or the thigh master, because that Susan woman wasn’t kidding those damn things work like a mother fucker .

Meatpaddy - "So the more it dripped the more the water collected under your floor and that’s why it created a pool under your carpeting. So essentially all you have to do is just stick it back in..”

Me- “I’m sorry…what?!"

Meatpaddy - “You know stick it in..the tubing, stick it back in the hole so that it fits tightly.”

Me - "Right right... the tubing…”

Meatpaddy - “Can I see the water damage in your bedroom.”

Me - Yes, let me show you my bedroom.”

We go and stand in my bedroom together. We are just standing there. Looking at the floor.

Me- “Do you see how wet it is very wet.”

Meatpaddy - “Wow, that is really wet maybe I can come in tomorrow and have someone take care of that for you.”

Me-“Yes, I need someone to take care of that.”

Meatpaddy – “How about I will come in myself tomorrow and bring a blower”

Me-”That would be perfect...a blower.”

Meatpaddy - “Ok so what time do you want me to come in and blow your rug?”


Meatpaddy - "Anytime?"

Me- "Yes."

Meatpaddy - "I think I have your cell phone right here..can I call when I come in for the rug?"

Me- "You can call me about the rug anytime."

Meatpaddy - ”Ok, will do, you know, I am here just to satisfy the tenants.”

Me- “Yes, I see that.”

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

4th of July, A Picture Story

(For those of you who read my blog, but are illiterate).

My 4th of July, A Picture Story:

I am going to a place that sounds this:



Oh for the love of Jesus people, the EAST HAMPTONS!
They are known for:
And also:
And apparently:
After I leave the Hamptons... the Hamptons will be known for:
As well as:
Maybe a bit of:
And lots of this:
....HAPPY 4TH!