New Years Eve and a red tartan Christmas miracle.

I once had a Christmas miracle.

It was Christmas 2008, or as we the class of 2008 call it, the year that Christmas break ended, and I was responsible for coordinating a director at work’s Christmas gift, as I was her assistant.

I spent weeks diligently collecting checks and being pleasantly persistent with the people who didn’t pay, then selecting a ten-bottle wine set that came in Santa’s sleigh (did not specify if it was the real sleigh, but I’m pretty sure for what it cost that it was). I put it on my credit card, tucked the cash away in my purse to take to the bank the next day and went off to the office holiday party.

That was at noon.

Fast forward to 7am the next morning, when I woke up in Lincoln Park on top of my bed wearing my winter coat and full work outfit, including boots.

Hey, give me a break. I was 22.

I was congratulating myself for having all my credit cards when I realized that in my rushed inventory, I hadn’t seen an envelope or the four hundred enclosed dollars.

All I will say about that day is that I hope no one can relate to the experience of calling a bar and asking if anyone turned four hundred dollars cash in to the lost and found. Shockingly no one did.

That Christmas Eve, after returning anything I owned with a tag on it and trudging back to Naperville, I heard from the hall, “KK, there’s something for you in the mail.”

Thinking it was another bill, I continued laying on the couch watching Maury clear up which “holiday honies” were actually women, and felt an envelope land on my face.

“I said there’s something for you.”

The unmarked envelope was post-marked Maywood and felt heavy. I opened it and found four hundred dollars and a note that said, “Found this at Shenanigans… thought you might want it.” It was all there, every last dollar.

God bless us, every one.

**********************************************

So that brings me to my point. I’d love another Christmas miracle in the form of cash, but know that holiday lightning rarely strikes twice (especially to girls who wake up still in their boots).

But let it never be said that I’m not a go-getter, so Kae Passe, I need your help for a New Years miracle.

I made the mistake of doing a Google search for the red tartan dress of my dreams (that I later realized was some leftover desire to be a grown-up American Girl doll) for New Years Eve.

And of course, I found it.

The problem is, I found it in an image search, which didn’t come with a designer, store, or price.

So please o please, shoppers and friends, is there anyone out there who knows what getting dressed for New Years is all about?

Happy Ho-Ho-Holidays.

All She Wrote

As you, the Facebook loyals, may already know, today is an exciting day at the Kae Pasa? headquarters (and not just because of the Thanksgiving pants).

After much contemplation, website design study and careful noting of other people's annoying behaviors, I am so pleased to announce the launch of Posts on Post: A field guide to traditional etiquette for the train-riding, high heel-wearing, cubicle-dwelling woman of today.

The posts will incorporate the teachings of the Justin Bieber of etiquette, Emily Post, but focus on providing modern and practical guidelines for how to behave in a number of situations that people who go to the theatre never encounter.

So what will become of Kae Pasa, you ask?

Well it ain't over 'til it's over, and the fat lady is too busy eating yams to sing quite yet.

Kae Pasa? will be transitioning from the dead-inside relationship advice for people who want to destroy their relationships to the rock upon which future Kae Pasa? blogs will be built.

So that's all she wrote for Kae Pasa, but the snarky, cynical adventures are just beginning at Posts on Post.

And finally, on this Thanksgiving Day, a sentimental note:

I am so grateful for all of you that regularly read Kae Pasa and provide the unsolicited opinions that keep me ever-striving to not become one of those bloggers. You are what stands between me and feelings, me and an online diary, me and people who cry real human tears, and for that, I am thankful.

Onward and upward, Kae Posse.

PLEASE BOOKMARK POSTS ON POST, at www.posts-on-post.com.

The World's Most Sadly Effective Pick-Up Line

The good folks over at How About We have unearthed the world's most sadly effective pick-up line. Have you used it?

Leave your stories of how you used it and whether it worked in the comments.

Who Women Want

Now I’m no Mel Gibson and this no great tale, but I had an epiphany last week and think I have attraction figured out. 

So folks, Santa’s coming early. If you think no one understands you but your Netflix, you're wrong. Kae Pasa is here for you. Here’s why you like who you like:

Darwin.


Yeah - Darwin. You with me? No?

Ok. So here’s how it works. We know that we like certain things, full head of hair, height, ability to cry, ability to laugh, big fat wallet, but we don’t necessarily know why. The answer lies in our evolutionary instincts to fulfill our own shortcomings by shooting pheromone bombs at the people who have what we have not.


For instance:


I pay my own bills, I laugh at my own jokes, I manage my own emotions, I cook, I clean, I organize my household appointments in my Outlook calendar.

So what I need is not a touchy-feely person who wants to “talk about it,” it is a tall person who can do the things I cannot do - i.e. reach high shelves, fix things and install a router so that I don’t have to go to my sister’s house every time I want to work from home i.e. go on Facebook.

Someone like....

Opposites attracting is a common misconception, because a self-centered person doesn’t always need a selfless person - sometimes they need a no-nonsense person who will cut them down, nicely of course. 


So if you’re waiting under the mistletoe this Christmas, trying to decide which of the ugly sweater-clad suitors to smooch, allow me to suggest who you might go for. 


If you are very pretty / handsome: Skip the gal or guy who BYO’s his pocket mirror to every party. Head for the one looking at you like you just announced an immaculate conception. People widely accepted to be attractive become accustomed to being considered attractive. Someone less attractive than you will likely be as interested in the happy accident of your perfectly-symmetrical face as you are.


If you are needy: Though your eye keeps wandering toward the guy in the corner tearing up to the Christmas shoes song (every good party plays the Christmas shoes song), pass him up and go for the guy who is self-sufficient. Two needy people have the inevitable results of a combined cornucopia of needs. Someone needs to either solve the problem or coddle you until the next crisis comes along. 


If you are the center of attention: Most scene-stealers think that they need someone extreme - either in their quiet backstage personality, or their Abbott to your Costello comedic complement. Au contraire. The center of attention needs someone slightly to the left of attention. Their quiet sarcasm won’t let you feel like Atlas, carrying the burden of entertaining the masses, but also won’t intervene when you’re telling that totally funny story about knocking that woman’s teeth out over a 20% off Coach purse on black Friday. 


If you are compassionate: Forget what your mama told you about not trying to change someone, because you’re dying for that troubled soul that you can nurse back to a healthy relationship. I’m not saying that you should start thinking that gentleman of questionable housing status looks good (and he might after a few egg nogs), but maybe start with the guy who is “finding himself.” 


If you are the total package: Why would you need someone? You can sing both the “fa”s and the “la”s, in perfect two part harmony. But don’t lie, it’d be nice to have someone there to hang the shining star upon the highest bough. Go for someone who impresses you, almost as much as you’re impressed with yourself.

Why men want to date rich women

Though I’m often criticized for disliking women, I actually don’t. I dig girls as much as anyone who had to simultaneously be one and be thirteen years old could. I’m just not a feminist.

But I’m not a masculinist either. I’m just disinterested in almost everyone.

But since this is an equal opportunity world and I was mean to my gold-digging girls on Thursday, I am ethically obliged to provide reasons that guys like girls who have or appear to have money. And they do.

Here are the reasons:

Because of clothing. Yes, we’ve all heard that girls get dressed for girls, and not guys. But men are visual people and it’s much more fun to unwrap a present in shiny, classic wrapping paper than the polyester stuff from Rainbo.

Because being a stay-at-home dad is not just for the unemployed anymore. Guys have gotten the idea, somewhere along the line, that it is appropriate and acceptable for them to leave perfectly good jobs and play with children all day. I have heard of this working. Every male I know, however, drinks beer before noon when not in a heavily regulated environment.

Because of Hall & Oates. She can rely on her old man’s money…. So you can keep yours.

Because rich girls have more fun. Though most women reach 24 years old and are immediately content to stay in wearing leggings and watching Judging Amy reruns, those with money know how to eat, drink and experience merriment in an extended way that involves bedtimes later than 8:30pm. So suck it, blondes.

Because of competition. Boys are encouraged from the first day of t-ball to outshine their little playmates who will later become their “buddies.” And one of those buddies is destined to find a very pretty girlfriend who will immediately be deemed out of his league. If not promptly surpassed, it is a given that this friend will ultimately have superior children who will ultimately be better at t-ball.

Because a happy wife is a happy life. Men are simple creatures who ultimately seek, and often find, happiness. It can be in a Bud Lite or a Bears game. Women are far more difficult to please, but the best way to do so is with money. By selecting a mate who comes with her own cash, the pressure to keep her in kate spade kicks and a good mood will be drastically reduced.

A wealthy woman is a wonderful thing, and less of a rarity than ever before. And despite the risk of total emasculation, a few brave man-souls are getting on board with the trend.

Perhaps it isn’t about material things, but confidence, ambition, joie de vivre. Perhaps love really doesn’t cost a thing, J. Lo.

Either way, the moral of the story is this: most people would choose a rich partner over a poor partner, because people do not like to live in studio apartments, especially with other people. But with the power of a sparking personality, and the ability of the hipster chic trend to disguise a prince as a pauper, it may just be a merry Christmas at two dollar taco night after all.

Why women try to date wealthy men

It’s a long-known trick of the seductive trade* that donning a suit, a Blackberry and a furrowed brow will get you luckier than even the evergreen “so, do you wanna get out of here?”

But what is it about cuff links and tequila that make clothes fall off?

Ok, I know everyone out there is saying DUH. Money. Moneymoneymoneymoneymoneygivememoney. But there’s got to be a deeper reason.

After all, when did women start making dating decisions based on security and retirement funds?

It’s not the actual money, I think, but rather the sparkly mirage of seemingly rich men, based on a few assumptions:

Because of power. Though many women (note: myself not included) claim to want sensitive, caring men, it’s the no-nonsense, ball-busters of the world that we fight for seats next to at the bar at Peninsula. A man in charge gives us the sense that maybe, one day, after the white horse is parked in the garage, someone else will snowblow the driveway.

Because of the chase. Go to O’Hare on any given Thursday night and see who’s travelling. My guess? You’ll find 20% really tan middle-aged women from the South Side, and 80% men in suits. We don’t outgrow wanting the chase in junior high, but it becomes harder as the less fair sex decides that they wouldn’t HATE only dating one girl at a time. In order to find that first thrill of wanting someone that doesn’t really want you, it’s entirely necessary to fall madly and instantly in love with someone who doesn’t have time to pay attention to you.

Because of competition. Having worked in the suburbs in a barely corporate job, I can say that when you do such a foolish thing, you will be surrounded by people that are a) older, b) married, c) not even affair-fantasy worthy. So if there is a single, single person there, they are so excited to see you that their eager eyes will turn even the most commitment-prone to stone. The corporate world prides itself on hiring people who wear very, very high heels and clothes from Benneton, which means that your carefully worded “wanna get drinks” email will be lost in a sea of other, e-lipstick-kissed-mails from other girls in very high heels, thereby making it way cooler when he says he has plans but totally checks you out in the elevator.

Because of other girls. Girls are really, really mean, and also like to one-up each other. So when you follow bestie’s brag about her boyfriend at the Bureau with, “Ummm, well, he got promoted at Portillo’s,” an innate insecurity flares that hasn’t reared its ugly head since she totally wore it best at your senior prom.

Because you think you should. Since Grandma told us at age 4, “It’s just as easy to love a rich boy as a poor boy,” we’ve been conditioned to seek the most financially stable (and good looking) man that our 7.5 on a scale of ten can score.


They say what we want and what we need are rarely intertwined, and even though I’m not totally sure who “they” are, they’re probably right, because after about three years of lunching in the loop, most of us have dated a variety pack of corporate climbers. Some are great. Most, as with other demographic groups, are OK.

The problem with looking for something so specific as a certain tax bracket is that it eliminates a number of other important qualities (like knowledge of fast food locations in the Chicago metro area), that may ultimately be more interesting than Groupon's IPO. And like that high-paying job in a just-your-niche market, even when you find the holy grail, they may pass you up for more qualified candidates.

An open mind is as imperative to the Bachelorette – Real Life Edition as really fast running shoes, whether it be to slicked back hair that your mom said was reserved for pimps, or jeans that really are slightly too short. There are few things that can’t be fixed with really good financial planning or a denim sale at Nordstrom.

So this year, give the Thanksgiving gift of an open mind to that bartender, student or freelancer in your life. Feel free to sign my name on the card.
*The legal kind that takes place during peak hours on the Brown line, not on Craigslist.

The Kae Pasa guide to acting like you feel real, human emotions

This morning I showed up to the designated conference room right on time, like the eager little learner I am, for the appointment in my Blackberry titled “Sensitivity Training.”


Imagine my surprise to find out that this so-called “sensitivity training” was actually about not hugging your colleagues or moving your eyebrows in a seductive manner, rather than learning how to feel human emotion.

In all fairness, I probably need both classes since I have a tendancy to hug colleagues with reckless abandon, but I was still very disappointed that I wasn’t going to learn practical ways to feel “empathy,” “sadness” and other emotions that are not related to hunger (though sometimes I do feel sad because I am so, so hungry).

But in the end, I got two firm-sponsored Diet Cokes out of it, and a new awareness of a massive gap in my emotional education.

It’s not that I’m completely unfeeling. When Willy Nelson sings “you were always on my mind” to those injured animals, I DO change the channel to avoid their pain, but it’s the more humans-minus-Willy emotions that I have a problem with.

I have vague memories of the obligatory teen heartbreaks, and being angry with people beyond the point of a two hour silent treatment, but as an adult, I mean… The Notebook was just OK.
Though I know most of you out there are crying to Hallmark’s Christmas commercial and thinking that I’m dead inside (you’re not wrong), there have to be others – people who just don’t feel things to the caliber of most Lifetime-sponsored female stereotypes.

And someone has to be the voice of those people.

So here, my cold, heartless friends, is your sensitivity training. This one’s on the house.

Get sure. The term “I’m sure” is your easy-out of having to contort your face into appropriately empathetic permutations of its normal structure. These expressions don’t offer comfort, and are often the cause of massive confusion. By saying things like, “I’m sure that’s really difficult,” you acknowledge that you do not actually understand how the person is feeling but are sympathetic to the abundance of feelings that they are experiencing. Try very hard not to sound sarcastic. On that note…

Don’t be sarcastic. If you are as cold as you say you are, the years of speaking in a tone that leaves people constantly questioning your sincerity will have made it hard for even you to know when you sound like you are mocking people. People do not like to be mocked, especially when they are crying.

Rely on your teenage years. Recall your first crush. If you are especially good at burying emotions, that will have been the last time you experienced a significant emotional flux that would register on other peoples’ “we’re out of cereal” reaction meter. Tell the anecdote and fudge the years. No one needs to know.

Buy things. People that did get their fair serving of sensitivity usually feel strongly about a number of things, so can be easily distracted with shiny objects in shot glasses. Material representations of what you can’t emotionally offer generally serve as an adequate consolation prize to real human tears.

Make physical contact. People who emote are most likely responsible for the “8 hugs a day” campaign that foolishly added embracing to the list of “needs” prevoiusly limited to food, water and shelter. They like – nay, demand –physical comfort. If you can get away with an arm pat, God bless you, but it’s more than likely you are getting a hug, with swaying, before you’re out of dodge.

Avoid hungover people. I once read somewhere on the Internet (so will now quote as fact) that hungover people have a harder time dealing with assorted demons to include depression, anxiety and profound feelings of emptiness since their bodies are trying to fry bigger fish like digesting 8,000 calories of McDonalds. Hungover people are always sad. It is what they do. Avoid them, especially when you are one of them.


Feeling isn’t a weakness, I guess (though Darwin certainly wasn’t crying about the evolutionary shortcomings of a baby tricerotops when he was busy telling us how to survive). It, like calling bike riding “cycling,” is just something that certain people do.

In the great, diverse salad bowl / melting pot of the world, other peoples’ behavior may seem foreign to us, and annoying (as in the case of me eating kettle chips at my surprisingly not sound-proof cube). Unfortunately, we cannot tell other people how to feel, or to stop doing so.

So try to be nice and get over it - if "uncomfortable" is the most uncomfortable emotion you have to feel, from what I've seen, you're pretty lucky.