Thursday, July 29, 2010

Drunken Pet Selection: FAIL

On my 21st birthday, my best friend Allie helped me celebrate. Well, by 'celebrate' I mean she followed me through the streets of our college town and made sure I didn't get arrested.

By the time she convinced me to go home, I certainly wasn't ready to call it a night... I mean, it was only like 1 pm in the afternoon...

So I convinced her to let me hang out in our backyard for the afternoon and continue celebrating the big 2-1. While I wondered aimlessly around the perimeter of our fenced in back yard and Allie watched from the patio to make sure I didn't escape, I stumbled upon a little furry creature's tail sticking out of a discarded doughnut bag on the ground.
I was... amazed...
Suddenly, I had a fantastic idea!

I tenderly picked up the little squirrel... never did it cross my vodka-soaked little mind that it was odd a wild squirrel was letting me pick it up. I was mother-fecking SNOW WHITE, BITCHES!

This is the squirrel I remember.
This is the actual (flea-bitten, smelly, sick little) squirrel that Allie remembers.
I may not have the clearest memory of that afternoon but I do know one thing for sure... that little rabid squirrel and I.. our spirits bonded.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

The Tale of One-Eyed Montey

Meet Montey.

Montey was the 'head petting zoo-keeper' for a children's event I was organizing at work. Not only was he madly in love with me but he also smelled like goat poop and was missing an eye due to a run in with a pissed off emu.

Pretty scary stuff, huh?
Petting zoo Montey, as I mentioned, was inamoured by me. And can we really blame him? I think not... Country boy meets big city girl... I'm pretty sure there's a Patrick Swayze movie about this somewhere. But anyway, the petting zoo was open for three week event and every day, poor smelly, one-eyed Montey would ask me out again and again...
Perhaps one of the biggest problems he had going for him (beyond the missing eye and poop perfurm thing) was that animals are not always... um... drawn to me...

But still he dreamed. That's right, people. Montey was a man of dreams.

This did not happen.
Instead, this did:

The end.

Monday, July 19, 2010

A Letter To My Baby Self

Dear Sweet Little Baby Kate,

Hey there, chickadee. This is me… well, you… giving you a buzz from the future- all ‘Back to the Future’ style and shiz. You don’t know what that means right now, but awesome movie. Sorry to interrupt your bath. Gosh, aren't bubbles just the best?... Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles... la la la la... that would probably be a lot funnier to you if you could hear me singing it in the vocal styling of Cookie Monster. Speaking of, did you hear Cookie Monster is now going to be 'Veggie Monster' due to the rise in childhood obesity and the media's affect on healthy child development? Well, of course you didn't hear that yet. You're a baby. In 1981. But you WILL hear it someday and you'll think it's a total load of B.S., wonder why it's Cookie Monsters responsibility to teach children about proper nutrition (where are their parents? Hello?) and long for the days when 'C' was just for cookies and that was good enough for you.

But, I digress... lets get back to business. The year is 2010. Sounds super cool and futuristic right? Well, we still don’t have flying cars like Janet Jetson and you sure didn't end up marrying He-man – but, hey, you ended up with a great rack. So there’s that.

While you’ve come out on the flip side as a fairly well-adjusted adult, you have done some pretty stupid stuff in your first 28 years of life. So, I thought I’d save you some time and just throw you some friendly advice. Take it for what it’s worth but here you go!

General observations:

· That whole dream of becoming an actress or maybe a 911 dispatcher when you’re an adult because your mom let you watch too much ‘Rescue 911’ as a kid? Nah. Not happening. Instead you’ll work for a non-profit and do all kinds of do-gooder little things – You’ll be kind of like Jesus… only a super narcissist and kind of snarky.

· Listen to your dad. He’s always right… like in a scary all-knowing, Yoda kind of way. It’ll piss you off a bunch of times but eventually you’ll just give in to the facts – the man knows everything about everything.

· Picking up drunk Mexican hitchhikers on your way to Vegas with two other girlfriends in the car is NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER a good idea. Not even a little. You’re lucky I made it as Adult Kate and wasn’t beaten, raped, chopped up into small pieces and scattered across the Utah mountains so I can sit here and type this message out to you now, you freaking dumb ass!

· Oh, hey. Guess what! Puberty is going to jack up your world! Your bone-straight baby hair will someday turn super, gorgeously curly and people will die of envy with how fabulous you are… And all it will take are those incredible hormones cruising through your body and making you all like ‘Boys are gross . They’re smelly and stupid and dumb and… wait… hey, did that boy just smile at me… ew… I mean… whoa… um, awesome… he’s got kooties, I mean.. I.. why am I all giggly and dumb? WHAT'S HAPPENING TO MY BODY???’, coupled with a few awkward years of not knowing how to deal with your birds nest on top of your head. You’ll get made fun of, for sure, looking like a brunette version of a homeless Carrot Top, but those kids will bite it later when you come out all super awesome and such.

· Credit cards do NOT = free money. No. No! Nooooo. NO!

· By the age of 28, you’ll have been the Maid of Honor in 10 different weddings. That's right, 10. People will tell you this is an honor and must mean you’re such a good friend to so many people… but then they’ll follow it up with a little quip like, “Always the brides maid, never the bride, eh, Kate?” This is not as funny a joke as they might think. You’ll politely laugh and maybe roll your eyes for dramatic effect the first few times but really you should just do one of the following things: a.) smack them. b.) respond, "That's right. And you're always the fatso, never the size 6, I see." or c.) call upon your theatre training and burst into tears while flailing your arms above your head and running out of the room screaming about becoming an old spinster. Trip over a chair or something and stumble for dramatic effect.

· Eyebrows don’t always grow back right. So if you’re even tempted to shave that passed-out boy’s eyebrows off while he lays in the middle of the Sig Tau fraternity house living room, be prepared to have someone hate you for the rest of your life.

· Tattoos are retarded. Butterflies are even more retarded. You. Are. Retarded. Don’t do it.

· If the tanning lotion bottle says ‘use sparingly on knees, feet and elbows’ it really means ‘If one drop of this substance touches so much as a freaking skin cell in any of these areas, you’re going to look like a Cheeto and a traffic cone got it on and one of them jizzed on your knee.’

· Nothing bad can ever possibly come from binge drinking. INCORRECT. The little voice in your head that says ‘nothing bad can ever possibly come from binge drinking’ is a fucking liar.

Furthermore, in your adult life, you’ll seem to date a lot of freaks and general douche canoes… You’ll spend way too much time obsessing over if they like you, if they’ll call, if it’ll work out… etc. etc. Don’t even worry about it now - here’s a list that should save you a LOT of time!

Signs there is a slight chance he ‘might’ not be right for you and you should stop trying to decide what you will name your first child:

· You tell him he resembles an ‘oompa loompa’ while you’re blasted drunk on your second date and yet he continues to date you for almost a year…

· He talks to God through small barn yard fowl. But we’ve already covered this. (

· He refers to you as ‘hooker’ throughout your entire relationship.

· He tells you his is in love with any of the following (and means it!) on your first date: a girl living in another state/ you / a man / Buffy the Vampire Slayer/etc

· You and your friends only refer to him as 'Manaconda'. You may be too young and innocent to get it right now, little Katie, but trust me - this nickname has nothing to do with his ability to unhinge his jaw and swallow a goat or small child whole.

· He spits his fried calamari on you from across the table during your first date because apparently he never learned how to chew with his mouth closed. You will spend hours trying to pick octopus chunks (or is it squid? Whatever…) out of your hair.

· His favorite accessory is a fucking fedora. These are lame, Baby Kate. And even though this word hasn’t hit your vocabulary yet, say it with me: pretentious.

· He stands you up on your second date. And then calls you 3 months later to say he made a mistake. You’ll be tempted to give him another chance. But really, unless he was dying of some rare form of cancer and in a treatment facility for three months without cell phone service or Internet access, chances are good he was just an a-hole then and will be an epic a-hole in the future.

· He obsesses about his weight more than you.

· You wonder why the guy can’t just go to sleep and stays up all night like a hyper ADHD toddler on PCP - 8 months later you realize it’s actually not, in fact, a matter of PCP. But he HAS been busy snorting the nose candy.

· He runs a petting zoo and is missing an eye due to a run in with a pissed off emu - meaning consequently he wears a pirate-type eye patch. Even in your wildest Johnny Depp/Captain Sparrow fantasy, this is NOT sexy.

· He doesn’t know the difference between their, there and they’re.

· He wears Ed Hardy. Exclusively.

· He sometimes supplements Ed Hardy with ‘Affliction’ shirts.

· He is almost as old as your dad and admits that you are the oldest girl he’s EVER dated.

· He is reading this list right now and wondering if Adult Kate is talking about him.

So anyway, just thought I’d let you roll that around in your little baby girl-brain for a while. Hope some of it helps. You’re a pretty good kid… a little wacky and I’m pretty sure every night your mother will go to bed and collapse of exhaustion after chasing your spunky little butt around all day... but otherwise, it's all basically sparkles and puppies and unicorns. Keep on keepin' on.

Later gator,
Future Kate

Monday, July 12, 2010

(Updated) Confirmed: My Cats Are Trying To Kill Me

I'm fairly certain my kittens are trying to kill me. That's right. If I end up missing for an extended period of time (and you've confirmed that there's no Oxygen Channel marathon of 'Snapped' or 'America's Next Top Model' in process) you know who to look towards as suspects.

Bruce and Hattie.

Don't be fooled. They may be fluffy and adorable but something is... off... about this situation at home. Bruce, well, he walks around like he's half drunk all the time and runs into walls while chasing after toys... but that guy has some stuff going on in his head that I don't want to know about.

And Hattie. Ohhhhh, Hattie. The mastermind. She may seem prim and proper. Some might even say she's cute - but let us not forget sista kitty was a stray for the first 5 weeks of her life and I imagine she saw some pretty crazy shit going down out there in the wild.It's not that I'm overly paranoid. I mean, things just started happening... gradually... and I'm finally starting to put two and two together.

At first, it was just tiny little accidents, here and there... Bruce darting out in front of me in the hallway or rubbing against my leg and 'accidentally' tripping me.

Or waking up in the middle of the night with Bruce's butt pressed up over my face, ready to suffocate me.

And trust me, this is not a pleasant sight to wake up to out of a dead slumber.

And it's always Bruce doing the dirty work while Hattie just chills in the background. That's how I know Hattie's running the show. Bruce is too dumb to come up with a plan to murder me on his own. Hattie must be pulling the strings. A puppet master, making Bruce do all the dirty work for her.

My suspicion grew.
It was the sequence of events last Saturday, though, that confirmed my fear. I was just trying to get a little laundry done when they almost had me.

A visit to the ER and 9 stitches later, the doctor looked at me with a strange expression on his face when he tried to get to the bottom of what happened.

Doctor: You know, Kate, you can tell me what really happened. There's no need to lie and protect anyone here. No one has the right to hurt you.

Kate: What do you mean 'protect anyone'??? I told you what happened. My cats are trying to kill me. They've tripped me, tried smothering me and now are dropping irons on my head.

Doctor: Well, now miss, you wouldn't believe the stories we hear here all the time... someone knocking their face on a doorknob... another accidentally running into a corner...

Kate: Dude. I told you. It's the kittens. They look sweet and innocent, sure, but they've got it in for me. Well, at least Hattie does for some reason. I think she over heard me talking to the vet about getting her declawed or something. Anyway, I'm pretty sure Bruce is just retarded and easily manipulated. Hattie's probably offering him kitty sex on the side or something. What a hussy. There's some serious Pinky and the Brain stuff going on here...

Doctor: Ma'am, if you don't want to tell me what really happened, that's fine. But I'm just going to leave this informational brochure here on your bedside, should you choose to admit the truth to yourself and find help.

Kate: *sighs* Okay, thanks.

So anyway, just let it be known now: If you read this and I'm gone, don't put it past those little fur balls. I've probably been hacked into little pieces and buried in the litter box - ironically enough, the same one I scoop crap out of for those little rats.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

The Time I Was Certain I Had a New Friend Named Toxocariasis -OR- Why I Don't Watch Animal Planet Anymore.

There's nothing like coming home from a long day's work, ready to turn on your TV and watch a DVR'd episode of your favorite show, So You Think You Can Dance.

Unless, that is, you accidentally recorded the wrong channel and something like this comes up on your screen.

"The Monster Inside Me"???? Why would Animal Plant even make a show about nasty parasites??? Who wants to watch that crap??? OMG, it's so gross!!!! WHY CAN'T I STOP WATCHING! CHANGE THE CHANNEL, KATE! Just do it! You don't want to see this; you know how stuff like this bugs you!!!

No matter what I did, I couldn't change the channel though. I just sat there, starring at Tommy Toxocariasis and starting to feel itchy.

Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch. Itch.


For a brief moment, something dawned on me.


Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Domestic Goddess

After another afternoon on the couch watching an 'Intervention' marathon on A&E with my cats, I sat thinking to myself about the state of my current love life. I looked down at my baggy sweatshirt, pushed back a stringy lock of hair and heard the crackle of candy bar wrappers crunching under the sofa cushions I'd last stuffed them between.

There must be a better way than this... Think, Kate. Think. There must be a positive role model out there for you. You know, a gal who had it all... the husband, the house, the kids, the friends, the admiration...

Suddenly, it hit me! Of course! June! June Cleaver was everything I needed to become if I ever hoped to spend a night not talking to my cats and killing off that second bottle of merlot.

I used this time to examine exactly what it was that made Junie so special.

1.) Cooking! OF COURSE! The way to a man's heart, right? Okay. Cooking. I can do this.

2.) Cooking with actual cooking utensils! GENIUS!

3.) A cute apron. I can totally rock that look.

4.) Her rolled up sleeves let you know she means business in the kitchen.

5.) She loves her pearl necklace... hee... hee... that's what she said.

6.) Scary clown cooking utensil???

7.) Perfect hair and makeup. She can saute and seduce at the same time. That tricky little fox.

I knew what I had to do! Learn to cook! Develop some man-marketable domestic skills!
I ran out to the nearest Bed Bath & Beyond and then headed out to the Hen House. I collected my new supplies: fashionably domestic apron, baking goods, utensils, book of recipes, Martha Steward Living Magazine... I even bought a fancy-schmancy new mixer, which cost me almost $200 bones.

Tying on my new apron, I was all hardcore and ready to get started.

36 minutes later...

Maybe I should try something more simple with less directions like dusting. :(
Addendum: I thought you might like to see the pictures of what really went down that night... Look how exhausted and sad I look. See? Not only do these pictures help paint a real-life picture of what inspired this blog but it also proves that ev-er-y-thing that I post is obviously 100% true and completely accurate. Even the zombie stuff.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Flock of Seagulls? No, those are fecking butterflies you moron!

Sometimes I'm a girl-brianed moron. Other times I'm just a straight up dumbass. This is one of those times.

When I was 18, I decided it was time to make a statement. I'm an adult. I'm independent. I can do what I want, damn it! And you know how I'm going to rebel? You wanna know what a bad ass I am? I'm going to get a tattoo! Yeah! A kick ass, hard-core frickin' TATTOO! Suck it, Authority!

Shirtless and ass - up in the air, I waited for my moment of liberation to come...

But, being the superior bad - ass that I am, I kept going... Finally, it was time for the big reveal.

Butterflies. Don't ask me why. I guess in my 18 year old girl-brained head, they seemed sure to be a timeless classic and something worthy of sticking with me for the rest of my life. Somehow, at the age of 18, I had a flock... no... a freaking SWARM of insects permanently etched into my skin.

All the same, I enjoyed the bragging rights to my newest addition.

But then... then things started changing.... Never mind that suddenly EVERY girl in my graduating class who wanted to piss off her daddy started showing up to school to show off her new tat... Never mind that it suddenly dawned on me that someday I'd be 80 and my butterflies would look a little less like winged beauties and a little more like melting moths... Or that 2 weeks after my tattoos, I sat at dinner with my best friend and my parents to overhear the following conversation:

Lindsey: I'm thinking about getting a tattoo on my 18th birthday.

My mom: (hand goes to her throat, looking horrified) Oh, honey. No. Don't. You're own mother would be so disappointed. I know if Kate ever did anything like that... well, I'd be devastated.

My step-dad: White-trash! That's white-trash! No daughter of mine would ever live under my roof with something like that on her skin! Over my dead, cold body!!!

Lindsey: (looking at me out of the side of her eye) Well, I was thinking something small, something cute. You know, like a butterfly.

My step-dad: Butterfly?! Gay.

No, no, what ruined the whole things was the emergence of a new phrase.

Say it with me : "Tramp stamp"

I defended my tattoos to the death.

Boy in class: Dude, you got a tramp stamp!

Me: It's not a tramp stamp, you idiot! My tattoos are on the lower RIGHT side of my back. Not the middle. Duh.

But even as the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I'd done. Laser removal sounded too expensive and too painful, so I started plotting additions to the design on my back that would lessen the tramp stampiness of the ink.

This is what I came up with - As you can see, I didn't have much luck.

Or maybe turning them into something super hard-core. Like a fire breathing raptor that smoked cigars!Or a reenactment of a totally melodramatic Denzel Washington-type hostage scene.
But really, this is about the best I could come up with...
*dramatic sigh*