I was tagged by The Gay Stepdad in his Get to Know Me post. He listed me as a blogger he’d like to get to know more. I hope he knows what he has done, because I’m a massive over-sharer. Ya’ll ready for this? Brace yourselves. Hold onto your socks. Maybe, use the restroom first, because this is gonna get weird. Actually, it’s probably going to be boring, but I don’t have my other posts ready to publish yet. So, sorry not sorry.
1. Who are you named after?
Oh boy. Are ya’ll ready for some complicated shit? So, I’m named after my maternal and paternal grandmothers. Here’s where it gets fun. My “actual” name is Dorothy Catherine. Not once have I ever gone by Dorothy. Not once. My parents never even intended on calling me Dorothy, but they did intend on calling me Katie. However, they wanted to honor my mother’s mother first and foremost. So, instead of making it simple by calling me Catherine Dorothy (making the name “Katie” make more sense) they decided to stick with Dorothy Catherine “Katie”. I know.
Every first day of school was a nightmare. When I got to middle school, I had to explain the convoluted way my name ended up as Katie eight different times in the course of one day.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
2. Do you like your handwriting?
My handwriting changes depending on the day, the writing utensil I’m using, the surface I’m writing on, and my mood. I like my handwriting on the 82,567 anchor charts I have in my classroom, so I’d say I’m pretty happy. Dang, I don’t know how I’d sleep at night if my handwriting looked like crap and I had to see it all day long, on every wall and surface. What a potential nightmare that’d be!
3. What is your favorite lunch meat?
I know you all have wanted to know the answer to this particular question for some time. As much as I’d like to share, I feel this is an incredibly personal question that only my boyfriend should know.
Oh, I misread this question.
Salami.
4. Longest relationship?
Seven Years’ War. It ended in a battle wherein I almost cut an 18 year-old midget and her bearded fool. It wasn’t a pleasant time in history.
5. Do you still have your tonsils?
Yes, and if I wasn’t such a scaredy cat who needs her voice for her career, I’d get them removed by choice. Why you ask? Well, sometimes I get those nasty tonsil stones that smell like death. When I first got one, I put it in a bag; made an appointment with an ear, nose, and throat doctor; and spent the day mentally drafting my will, convinced I was dying.
#poopchunkssuck*
6. Would you bungee jump?
Hell to the I’d-shit-my-pants-NOPE.
7. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Actually, yes. Most of my shoes don’t just slide off of my fat feet. It’s one of the many inconveniences of being plump. Also, I dare anyone to just slip off Converse. It ain’t happening.
8. Favorite ice cream?
OH SNAP. Where do I even start? When I’m feeling naughty, a good cake batter ice cream with an icing ribbon and cake pieces is the only thing that will do. If I feel like I need to tone it down a bit, I am all about TruWhip and rainbow sprinkles. SHIT. I need some now.
9. What is the first thing you notice about people?
I’m going to break this down by sexes. The first thing I notice about women is their eyebrows. If their eyebrows are not on point, I judge the hell out of them. Every other YouTube video is an eyebrow tutorial. Get with the program.
Is that bad?
The first thing I notice about men is their height. When a man is really short, I always wonder how they feel about that. Like, are they insecure about it? Do they only like women smaller than them or are they into being the small spoon? Clearly, these are important questions.
10. Football or baseball?
Source
Baseball too…
11. What color pants are you wearing?
Wouldn’t you like to know? Actually, I’m wearing my black leggings with the holes in the inner thigh area. It’s laundry day.
12. Last thing you ate?
Oh, man…
Well, I ate a bowl of cereal. Only, it wasn’t with milk, but TruWhip. And, instead of cereal, there were sprinkles. It’s kind of like cereal, if you think about it.
This is TruWhip:
13. If you were a crayon what color would you be?
“Black is ‘Slimming'”
14. Favorite smell?
Baking bread. A fresh bottle of wine. Lavender.
15. Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone?
I try never to answer my phone. I also try to send an email whenever possible. Despite this, I still had to call to get a refill on my Xanax. It’s that kind of year.
16. Hair color?
A little bit of brown. A little bit of balayage blond. A little bit of bastard gray.
17. Eye color?
Baby blue, baby.
18. Favorite foods to eat?
I really don’t have enough battery on my phone to answer this question. Let me just make it easier by saying: all the foods, except lima beans.
19. Scary movies or happy endings?
Happy endings? I think you mean chick flicks or feel good movies, because happy endings are strictly XXX and I’m not about that life.
I like all movies, except Oscar-nominated flicks. Blech.
20. Last movie you watched?
I actually got The Arrival from Redbox Friday night. It was too boring and slow for me. I didn’t even finish it. I also forgot to return it until today, so I’m basically winning at life.
21. Favorite holiday?
ERMAGERD CHERSMERSE (you have to say it out loud).
22. Beer or wine?
Both. A lot of both.
23. Night owl or early bird?
I’m a teacher. I haven’t seen 11 o’clock in years.
24. Favorite day of the week?
Friday. I love me some Friday so much.
24 1/2: Which three of your favorite bloggers do you want to know more about?
Blair, An Historian About Town, and Charlotte
25. Who were the latest three people to follow your blog (link to their about page)?
Jennifer’s Kitchen Blog
Traci York
Old House in the Shires
*My friend Alyssa describes her hubby’s tonsil stones as “poop chunks”. This is such an appropriate name, so it’s what I call those foul creatures now, too.
Unbeknownst to me, this tag was started by Stomper Dad. Go give him some love!
Tag: satire
Flashback Friday-Nostalgia and Longing
Ya’ll, I wish, from the very depths of my soul, that I could be a travel blogger. Why hasn’t someone super rich and stupid with their money hired me to travel and write up hilarious travel snafus? Why?
Not only do I long to travel more, I wish to go back to where I left my bleeding heart-London Town.
I went on my last, serious trip seven years ago. Seven.years.ago.
This is unacceptable.
Seven years ago was the last time I was in England, and a little bit of my soul dies every day more. My ultimate fear in this life is never getting a chance to get back there again.
As I type (tap on my asshole phone that still thinks, after all this time, that I mean “duck”), my heart is literally aching and my stomach is in knots.
It feels like homesickness.
I miss where my heart belongs.
Ya know?
#fbf to when I was living it up in London (This is also a flashback to when I thought I was fat-I wish I could be that fat again).
I had some super sweet photography skills seven years ago. I’m glad I was able to travel all the way to England to capture this dude’s chops so well.
#awkwardtouristphoto
Those T-Rex arms, though.
Fucking Nandos. Dammit, I miss you.
I had just eaten a hot crossed bun. Baked goods create a certain glow about me.
Impossibly quaint.
I can still feel that cool, curry-scented breeze (it was a nice change of scent from the hotel room’s eau de funk).
Le sigh
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WTF Wednesday #1
In an effort to post more consistently (loved this tip from one of your recent posts, An Historian About Town), I’ve decided to start an installment called, “WTF Wednesdays”.
WTFW could be a rant about Target underwear (no way in hell those are XLs-try again), tirades on the topic of the price of a single cupcake these days, or just some of my random, seriously certifiable thoughts.
This Wednesday I’d just like to share a screenshot of one of my house matches on MLS that I was just emailed. I really think it’ll just speak for itself:
Except, I just gotta say…
Ain’t she a beauty? Condemned by the city and everything! I wasn’t going to mention the gorgeous rustic wood window coverings, the live in Cousin Eddie trailer, and the termite infested outdoor space, because I felt that was a little braggy.
I know my budget is on the low end, but damn.
If owning my own home means asbestos poisoning and ringworm, I think maybe I’m good?
So, in ending, why would a property like this even be an option on MLS? If the city doesn’t even think it’s safe enough, why would anyone else? Also, don’t even try to sell me on the value of the property. Ain’t no way I’m buying land that’s sandwiched between the Clampetts’ compound and a serial killer’s favorite dumping ground.
Yeah, I’m good.
I’d love to hear some of your house-hunting horror stories. Entertain me in the comments!
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The Happy Teacher Challenge
A couple weekends ago, my teacher friend and I engaged in a fun day of learning on a Saturday. I had to get up at 6:30 on a Saturday and had to put on a bra and makeup on my day off. I totally did not have a shot of whiskey in my coffee or a super sugary filled donut for breakfast.
One of the break out sessions we signed up for was all about Social Emotional Learning for the educator. They sold the class like we would learn skills to feed our souls and regenerate our purpose.
Pretty quickly, we called bullshit.
After reading an article that stated my teacher burnout was due to my low social emotional intelligence, I pretty much mentally checked out.
At the end of the session, we were handed a gorgeous color copy (you know you’re a teacher when a piece of paper has more value solely due to it being printed in color) of The 30 Day Happy Teacher Challenge.
We looked at each other like, “Holy shit, yes!”
We both need more happiness in our lives in regards to our school year, so we were so down for the challenge.
That is, until we actually read the “challenges”.
Double lame with some “fuck that” sprinkled on top is what this challenge consisted of.
Most of the “challenges” are things I do every single day, because they are what good teachers, who have a solid pedagogy, do. And, some of them, like assigning an exit ticket (one or two questions to gauge understanding) depress the ever-loving crap out of me a lot of the time.
When we saw, “Happy Teacher Challenge”, we both thought it had to involve alcohol, days off, and lots of chocolate. Not one of those things are included.
For shame.
Here’s the challenge:
I blurred out the copyright name, because I don’t want to shame this teacher. I’m sure they meant well, but, well, just, no.
So, after being utterly disappointed and underwhelmed, I decided to make my own “Happy Teacher Challenge”.
In case there are any fuddy-duddies reading this, or people who have not one ounce of humor, know this is satire. It’s not literal.
I’m not fancy and also have way too much shit to do, so I didn’t make this into a pretty calendar, so you get a list. Quityerbitchin.
1. Pull a trusted colleague aside to whisper all of those ‘fucks’ to that you have been holding in.
2. Have your students partner up and organize a section of your room. Call it OCD: Beginner’s Edition, or just Life Skills.
3. Finally strike up a conversation with the idiot who keeps jamming the copier and leaving it for someone else to deal with. Getting how you feel off your chest first thing in the morning will make you feel ready to tackle a day of holding in how you feel all over again.
4. Spend your entire prep period sending teacher memes to your teacher friends. These might be especially apropos:
Michael Scott knows!
5. Take a short walk down to the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge for a much-needed soda during lunch. When everything but Dasani water is sold out, take another short walk to your car where you have a nice, little scream.
6. Calm yer tits, paper. Organize the stacks of papers on your desk labeled “to be graded” by sweeping them into the garbage can. They’ll just end up crumpled around a moldy bag of apples in the back of their desk anyway, so…
7. Think of a student who is always well behaved and really smart. Pick them to lead your math lesson for a day.
8. Fill out a staff appreciation for your fellow teacher in arms. Luckily you have a really good one this time: “Mr. Walton is a real star for cleaning the word, ‘sex’ off of the boys’ bathroom wall during his only break last Tuesday”.
9. Buy this shirt for yourself (and wear it to school immediately upon receiving it):
Buy here
10. Take an Ambien and a nap under your desk during lunch.
11. Ask your students to draw a portrait of you, and laugh all the way to the wine aisle at your nearest liquor store.
12.Download a fun desk planner, attempt to laminate it, and when the laminator is broken AGAIN, just buy one on Amazon.
13. Bribe your custodian with a Starbucks gift card so that they will keep providing you with those paper ass gaskets. When you share a bathroom with 20+ eight- and nine-year-olds, they make all the mental difference.
14. Make a very serious effort to smile more. Even while saying, “It goes in the turn in basket” for the nine billionth time. Bonus: your excessive smiling with creep them out.
15. Take a goofy picture with your students-it’s super cute. Just crop out the kid throwing up gang signs.
16. Do a compliment circle with your students to start your morning. Maybe they’ll notice your new Kate Spade earrings or overly-expensive Tieks that they’ll scuff after three days.
17. It’s Life Skills day again! Provide a Swiffer duster and a push vacuum, and they will actually want to clean the room.
18. Play some Enya, add some lavender essential oil to your diffuser and transport yourself during Guided Reading. Hey, it’s better than nodding off. Calgon, take me away!
19. Drink your double espresso out of your World’s Okayest Teacher mug, and remind yourself that you are doing your very best, dammit.
But it here
20. Make time to sit on your fat arse at the end of day. In fact, make time to sit accompanied by a glass of wine, loaded nachos, and some Netflix. Getting up 20 times a day from the kidney table counts as exercise. Thighs of steal, man. Thighs.of.steel.
21. Bring home the contraband notes they write to each other that you find on a daily basis. Laugh over their spelling choices and sweet innocence with a glass of wine and your dwindling sanity. Math sux bols!
22. Organize your files on your teacher computer with fun new folder names like, “Important Shit”, “Crap I Will Never Look At Again”, and “Bullshit I Have to Deal With”.
23. Share passwords to Teachers Pay Teachers, HBO Go, Discovery Ed, Match, and Flocabulary. Sharing is caring.
24. Encourage students to bring cupcakes for their birthdays. It’ll create positive memories for them and you won’t have to fund your cupcake habit. But, store-bought only, and remind them not to forget the Capri Sun (organic tropical punch pairs nicely with a good white cake and vanilla cream cheese frosting).
25. Bring a bottle of wine to weekly planning with your grade level. Watch how your lesson plans are utterly transformed.
26. Download a countdown app and set the date for the next school break. Watch the seconds count down as you get closer and closer to freedom.
Get the same app here.
27. Do you work with an overly harried colleague who needs some “chill the fuck out” time? Buy them this mug, if they have a sense of humor, it’ll make their year:
Buy it here.
Don’t forget to include some mini booze bottles and a couple Xanax. Bonus: You basically own them now.
28. Make sure you plan “Coffee/Wine Bitch Hours” with your teacher friends. These people and the moments you spend commiserating is a huge part of why you might remain sane during your career.
29. DON’T assign an exit ticket so that you can briefly, blissfully believe your students understood what you were going on about for 40 minutes.
30. Stand at the door and give your students a high five as they leave for the day, knowing you don’t have to see them for another 18 hours.
So, what do you think of the challenge? Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments.
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Christmas Puke
Dudes, it’s Christmastime! I thought I would announce that in case some of you were still not aware.
I freaking love Christmas!
I decorate errything with Christmas-Christmas hand towels, Christmas candles, Christmas kitchen utensils and tools, Christmas blankets and pillows, Christmas soap, and even Christmas underwear.
Yup.
I am Christmas AF.
Don’t mistake my penchant for Christmas-ing everything to mean that any Christmas decor will do.
I have standards.
Most of my decor is either vintage-inspired cool or new, funky, and simple. The only cheese factor involves my ornaments. I have been collecting ornaments since before I was born, thanks to my parents. No matter how cheesy they are, they are forever included on my Christmas tree. Some may have a permanent place on the back of the tree, but, dammit, they are never being donated.
Because everyone simply loves checking out random people’s Christmas decor, I thought I’d share some of my favorite spaces in my home.
Before I forget, “Christmas Puke” is what my boyfriend calls any and all Christmas decor. He can’t even when I’m constantly bringing home more ornaments or gift wrapping essentials after he’s expressed that he thinks we have just enough Christmas crap. Ha! Like that’s even possible!
Men.
I hope ya’ll are enjoying the best time of the year. I know I am. I love listening to Christmas music as I curl up in my Christmas blanket and eat an entire tin of shortbread cookies. It’s practically a tradition!
Merry Happy Holidays Time!
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Food Baby Part Two
So, as I mentioned in my previous post, I meant to share pictures of my food dalliances, but got too carried away with the story of my cupcake ninja moves at a baby shower.
Last week, on break, I had a permanent food baby. In fact, now that I think of it, I have always had a permanent food baby. Oy vey.
I guess, without further ado-Why I’m Fat #3,456:
I thought I took more pictures of what I ate. It doesn’t even look that bad….
But, it was. I’m still hurting.
I’ve been taking a shot of Pepto with a Kaopectate chaser before bed for four nights.
#helpme
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Rein It In
My childhood was filled with wonderful experiences. Yes, I was an asshole, but I was a lucky one with involved parents who read to me every night, made holidays and birthdays magical, and they always made it a point to take us on trips whenever possible. My parents also taught me how to be a decent human being. Part of their parenting included teaching us manners, etiquette, and decorum.
Knowing this is an important part of being a decent human being.
Growing up in an era where car seats were optional, and spanking your child wasn’t deemed child abuse, hearing adults say, “Dammit, I locked the shitting keys in the car again!” or “Shit! I burned the Hamburger Helper!” was old news.
My parents never cussed at us, only cussed when appropriate-as in not in the middle of a Ross, and never once did I ever hear the mother of all cuss words-fuck.
That word was just too naughty for the late 80’s and early 90’s.
It was a time of innocence. I think the first bad word I ever said was when I was five and it was ‘stupid’. I felt guilty until I was at least 10.
It was always a mystery where I got my salty-bastard-mouth, as I just don’t recall my childhood being filled with foul-mouthed moments.
The mystery has been solved, though, folks!
The propensity for using bad language is genetic.
My mom has a saltier mouth than me.
In the last few years, as the aches and pains of growing elderly have set in, my mom has replaced her ‘dammits’ with ‘fuck me’s’.
It’s practically her favorite word.
It’s almost embarrassing.
She looks more like a teacher than I do, with her holiday-themed pins and crocheted vests. Yet, behind the sweet-matchy-pants-set-facade, she’s a true salty bastard to the core.
My mom was a real trooper, a true wonder for being able to never use ‘fuck’ in front of us when we were growing up (as a teacher, I know how hard it is to refrain from screaming, “What the actual fuck?!” on those really bad days).
The very first time I heard my mom say ‘fuck’ was right before we almost died.
When I was 15.
When I had my learner’s permit.
When my mom let me drive home from Marshall’s.
She guided me on one of her “long cuts” (she swears they are short cuts, but they are in fact, a ruse to go on a longer car ride) through Midtown.
Everything was going splendidly until I didn’t see the boat of a car that just motored on through the stop sign. My mom was struck momentarily mute from the realization that she was most certainly going to die, and the last thing she’d hear is her daughter’s tone deaf sing along to Britney Spears.
Her wild seizure-like hand gestures eventually led way to her renewed ability to speak and this is what she said:
“Put on the breaks! Break! Break! You’re going to hit that fucking ocean liner! Fucking break!”
I was positively appalled. Never mind the fact that we had almost died, my mom had said the big one.
I don’t think you truly know your parents as adults, though, until you hear them say ‘fuck‘.
It’s true.
The other day, my mom, aunt, and I were discussing my darling mother’s use of her favorite word (it might have been an intervention) and she was adamant that she has been using much less ‘fucks’ lately.
She spent most of this past summer with the littles in our family at the cabin on Coeur’d’Alene Lake in Idaho. She obviously knew she’d have to watch her mouth, and she swore that she was practically cured.
She proudly announced, “After this summer, I was practically ‘fuck’ free!”
Despite the natural way the naughty word flows from my mother’s mouth, she’s always incredibly appalled and almost surprised when it comes out.
So, at the end of our intervention, she said, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to rein in the fucks again!”
I think there’s very little hope.
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Porta-Poop Revisited
This past weekend, a good friend and I went to the Genoa Candy Dance. I had assumed that people would be dancing and throwing candy around. I mean, isn’t that what it sounds like it would be?? To my dismay, the Candy Dance was just a bunch of over-priced vendors and food trucks (apparently there is a dinner and dance event in the evening). The food truck part was, however, much appreciated. What I did really like about this event was that it was held in Nevada’s oldest town/settlement. For a history lover, it is a real damn shame that I had never been to Genoa before. I fully plan on visiting again sans tons of people pushing to get to a stall selling crocheted rabbits.
Continue reading “Porta-Poop Revisited”
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I Was An Asshole
I was a strange, precocious child. I was the kid that makes every teacher silently mouth, “What the fuck” several times a day. I never stopped talking. I also did weird, inquisitive things, and I said, probably, thirty times a day, “Mom, watch me do this!” I was annoying with a capital unbearable.
I recently shared a memory on Facebook about a time when I was envious of the dog’s dinner. I’ll just share a screenshot:
If it was ever any wonder where I got my random weirdness from, I think the mystery has been solved. When I shared this memory the other day with my mom, this is what she said:
“Oh, I thought canned dog food looked really good, too. In fact, back when I was a kid, they put barley in it and it looked almost exactly like beef and barley soup, before the water was added. So, um, I would eat it.”
Along with salivating over the disgusting can of wet dog food, I would also sneak butter. Half of the stick of butter would be missing from the butter dish all the time. I would escape to the hall closet with my prize, and it was usually blamed on my dad. Win!
I think this is a testament as to why I’m weird and fat.
So, this random smell-induced memory led me on a nostalgic trip down memory lane about all of the weird things I did as a kid.
Care to hitch a ride?
1. I was fascinated by penises at an early age.
I was quickly barred from bathing with my boy cousin when we were just innocent babes, because whenever they put us together in a bathtub, I thought his little member must have been a fun pull toy. His little face would be in agony and his eyes big as saucers, and they’d realize pervy baby Katie had her fist clenched over his pee pee again.
My dad stopped taking me places solo, because inevitably I’d have to go to the bathroom (I used to have to visit the bathroom at every single place we went to-creepy, random gas station and all), and, obviously, he couldn’t let a young child go in the restroom by themselves. So, I’d have to accompany him in the mens’ room. That was a recipe for disaster from the get-go.
After I did my thing, he needed to use the restroom too. He told me to stand in one place, where he could see my feet as he was in the stall. Almost immediately after he closed the stall door, my feet disappeared.
Where did he find me?
On hands and knees, under the urinals, staring up at the men using them.
To this day, I still pray they just didn’t see the little girl with stark black pigtails under the urinal when they unleashed their no-nos.
That was my first adult penis, I just didn’t know it at the time.
My dad was appalled and stopped taking me anywhere, other than the drive thru, by himself from that day forward.
2. I was way too interested in urinals (obviously).
When I was a toddler, up until I started Kindergarten, I went to a daycare called, Thumpers. When it was potty time, they would line up the boys and girls in separate lines. Even then, at such young ages, the girls took twice as long as the boys. As such, they would have to let the girls start going in the boys’ bathroom, or the girls would be in the line for the restroom all day. I always volunteered, or I would push myself to the front of the line, so I could go to the boys’ bathroom. I was always so jealous that they got to stand up to pee, and use such a strange apparatus to do so.
Well, one day, a kid pooped in the urinal. Since I had pushed my way into the boys’ bathroom that day, I got to see the offending excrement with my own two eyes. I immediately ratted out my cousin (the same poor kid who almost got his weiner ripped off by yours truly).
I had no obvious proof, but it had to be him.
Still, to this day, I swear it was him, only now he punches me and holds me on the ground with his giant Popeye arms. It’s kind of scary. I never learn.
3. I had really fun bad ideas.
Speaking of Thumpers, it was there that I did the only truly naughty thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.
One of my favorite teachers was this older lady named, Doris. She was so nice and fair. I really don’t know why I chose her as my victim.
One day, as she was putting my lunchbox in the refrigerator and I was just standing there, right behind her, twirling a thumbtack between my thumb and pointer finger, I did it.
Let me explain a little better. I was following her a little too closely, and when she bent to squeeze my lunchbox into the fridge, her ass was just millimeters from my face. And I had a tack.
So, I did it.
I stuck the tack deep into her rump.
I really don’t know why I felt that was a good idea, because I spent literally all day in time out. It was then that I realized being bad did not pay off.
4. I had a loud speaking voice.
My mom’s second favorite story to tell about me involves penises (again), my favorite soda, and KFC.
I was pretty young when this happened, so it’s still thought of as a cute, kids-will-say-the-darnedest-things-outburst.
We went out for a special dinner at the local KFC (we didn’t go out much. Not because we were super poor, but because it wasn’t the thing back then to eat out all the time). I was very adamant about making sure I got what I wanted all the time, especially when we ate out. I think I told my mom thirty times that I wanted Dr. Pepper, but I was still afraid she maybe missed hearing me somehow.
As my mom went up to the counter to order, from across the busy, family-filled restaurant, came my booming voice, because I had to make sure…
“Mom, I’ll have a Dr. Pecker!!”
I couldn’t properly pronounce “pepper” and due to the urgency of the matter (she might have accidentally gotten me water-gasp), that’s how it came out.
I’m always sure to embarrass, still to this day.
5. My surprised reaction was (is) a loud, “whoa!”
As we’ve learned, it was always a crap shoot taking me anywhere. I might shout “penis!” in a quiet library, or maybe I’d be lost and then found on the ground of a restroom, staring up at a man’s taint. You never knew, and I think that was the real danger that was being around me as a child.
Around the same time that the “Dr. Pecker” incident occurred, I struck again. Why my parents took me anywhere was beyond me.
I was never shy about pointing out painfully embarrassing things about people and things. I was a real asshole. So, the fact that the #1 embarrassing Katie story occurred at a buffet, is almost too obvious. It’s almost like my parents wanted me to shout to someone random, clear across the room, “Why do you have red dots all over your face?!”
After nervously scouting the entire restaurant, my mom was cautiously optimistic about where we were seated. It appeared there was no one around us that stood out in any real, obvious way.
She was able to relax for precisely two minutes.
Then, of course, I needed to use the restroom, which was obviously on the opposite side of the restaurant.
The trip to the bathroom was uneventful. Then, my mom saw them.
They were immense. I want to say they took up several chairs between the two of them. My mom knew her jerk of a kid would say something mortifying.
She did everything she could to keep my attention away from them during the trip back, but I turned to look behind me.
And, just like that, all of my mom’s efforts were in vain.
“WHOA!”
It reverberated off the ceramic dishes and cheap metal cutlery. It made a ripple effect in the lumpy gravy at the buffet stand. A tacky reproduction of The Birth of Venus fell off the wall. It was heard by the entire restaurant.
I’ll just skip to the part where I had to apologize to the couple, even though I didn’t know that what I had done was wrong. My mother’s only wish was that they thought my “whoa” was in reaction to their oxygen tanks, and not their behemoth size.
I think these stories of what an utter embarrassment and pain in the ass I was is likely why I don’t think I want kids. I know my karma comes in the form of a deceptively cute, but terrifyingly mortifying child. I’ll just pass on that, thanks.
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These Hiking Boots Were Made For Quittin'
Recently, I decided I haven’t seen enough of the rugged Nevada countryside, nor have I been on enough hikes (the last time I went on a hike I almost died from Burst Lung Due to Lack of Use. It’s a real diagnosis. Look it up. Just kidding, but really, I almost hyperventilated at least 20 times. So…that’s probably why I haven’t been on a hike since).
So, today, I got up in enough time to make some nutritious oatmeal (don’t tell anyone it was loaded with brown sugar), filled up my dusty Nalgene, and found my running shoes that were in the deep recesses of my closet.
I dragged a friend and myself up to the Galena Creek Trail off the Mount Rose Highway.
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