Thursday, August 31, 2006
Photo credit: AP (left) Watch Magazine/CBS (right)
I mean, c'mon. We know Katie isn't 25 anymore.
She may not live up to that "pint-sized" adjective from back in the day, but she still looks pretty great.
This has given me volumes to think about in regards to a portrait I'm having done for my 30th, though.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I guess blood isn't always thicker than water.
I kind of hate how MySpace does that "popularity contest" crap of picking your top 8 or 12 or 16 or however many top friends you want to showcase on your page.
I'll admit, at some point, it gets a bit excessive - showing every person on your list, no matter how well or how little you know them.
Oh well... I suppose it's just the way the game is played.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
I've talked about it before - life's chain reaction that happens when you make wrong turns, run late for meetings or strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar.
Then something significantly horrific happens to challenge my beliefs.
Like the plane crash in Lexington.
This beautiful city ingrained itself in my heart a long, long time ago. I'm a transplant kid, having moved three times by 15. Three moves that spanned four different regions of the country. Lexington was the first place I got to call my own because I picked it myself. I stayed there for 10 years (the longest I've ever lived somewhere) and cherish every minute of it - even the bad times.
I was captivated by the television by about 8:10 Sunday morning. The Today Show did a little blip about it... Plane crash. Lexington. Maybe 50 dead. Details emerging. Blah Blah Blah.
My initial thought was about my Honorary Big Sis. She was a Delta flight attendant up until she had her son in April, and got transferred to the gate agent side of the business. My hope of all hopes came rushing fast, just praying she wasn't at that airport at the time of the crash.
But she was.
HBS was probably one of the last people to see those passengers alive.
My dear friend had a shift change - checking passengers in at Blue Grass Airport early that morning. And she greeted quite a few of those people before they walked on to that plane, without a glimmer of their fate.
HBS is a people person with a heart that knows no bounds for love. With her warm smile and wisecracking sense of humor, HBS quickly endears herself with many of the people she crosses through life, whether it be through a five minute interaction or a life long friendship. There is no doubt in my mind that HBS shared a little bit of herself with some of these crash victims.
Life is full of whys. Why did those people have to get on that plane? Why did something this awful have to happen? Why did that wrong turn have to happen out there on the tarmac?
And then we have to remember our place in this world.
So much of life is really out of control. Honestly, all we can do is just give it up to God and pray we're given the strength and faith to cope with the struggles and heartache we cross as we journey on.
Comair has not yet released the manifest of the victims' names, making a wise choice to confer with the victims' families before revealing their identities to the general public. But already, family members and local businesses in Lexington have come forward, sharing the names of their loved ones and coworkers.
I've always said Lexington is a small town with a big city feel. Spend any reasonable amount of time there and you'll discover the network there is pretty small. I kind of feel like I know just about everybody in Lexington, even if it's in a Kevin-Bacon-Six-Degrees-of-Separation kind of way.
When this crash happened, I just knew I'd know someone on board flight 5191. Maybe I'd know them in a personal sense, maybe I'd know them from newspaper headlines and the kind of gossip that's shared over Maker's and Coke.
It turns out I did know someone.
A man, I'd met only once. I'd seen him at my church in Lexington several times, but my only face to face encounter was at a meeting for my Young Adult bible study. Pat Smith was trying to arrange a trip to Ghana to help build Habitat homes there (I think in 2005) and was trying to drum up some interest in our group.
Pat couldn't help but get me excited about the trip. The way he talked about the work over there - the building of a Christ the King - Ghana, and the engineering of a key pump that would let the village there have clean drinking water. His eyes sparkled as he talked about the children there who loved spending time with the volunteer workers from abroad.
I would have gone in a heartbeat.
It's Pat's passion that we need to make it through this life. A selfless, courageous journey that helps us give ourselves to others while we take a little bit of life's lessons for the road ahead.
I don't know that I'm ready to give up my belief that everything happens for a reason.
Friday, August 25, 2006
If you could have a free subscription to any magazine, which one would you like to have?
US Weekly. My free subscription just ran out... I am so going to miss my guilty pleasure of celebrity gossip. (PS: Why does that word pleasure make me feel dirty inside?)
Describe your living room (furnishings, colors, etc.).
Taupe couches. A book case chock full of books, art posters from Vienna, Austria. Mail, mail everywhere. Nondescript beige carpet. It's a space that's begging for more Crate and Barrel and less bachelorette pad.
What does the shape of a circle make you think of?
Infinity. A wedding band. Sugared perfection from Krispy Kreme.
Name 3 things in your life that you consider to be absolute necessities.
- Friends and family.
- Good food.
What was the last really funny movie you watched?
Hmm. I've got to look at my Netflix list...
I guess Fever Pitch.
I haven't seen any funny ha-ha movies lately, but to be honest, movies and tv shows don't make me laugh out loud (This is a phenomenon I first noticed when I was in 2nd grade).
But people. I think some people are wicked funny.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The list is heavy on Divas but we'd be happy to have some Dudes along, too.
Please shoot me your email address - email@example.com - if you want to be on the guest list, since I operate on a More The Merrier premise.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Kate sez it's time to do the same.
I have a confession: I've long battled a bit of the Peter Pan Syndrome, a fear of growing up and handling the responsibilities that come with age. I grew out of the party scene a little later than most of my friends, and up until recently I've really been procrastinating on getting my finances in order.
But I'm taking some steps to stride into 30 with a bit of maturity and sense under my belt. About two months ago I enrolled in my company's 401K plan. I figure there's nobody but me to plan for my retirement, and there's no time like the present. I'm also chipping away at what debt I have (really, not that much considering I haven't used any credit cards in two years) and hope to be completely debt free in a year or so.
Now I want to buy property.
I've started sniffing around the neighborhoods and opportunities around the greater Cincinnati area, and am looking for a tricked-out condo. I am deciding against a house since I will be the only person living in said domicile and I'm really anti-yard work and absolutely don't want to be burdened with shoveling sidewalks or cleaning out gutters.
Already I've found a bunch of condos in a price range I think I can afford. Lots of em' have granite countertops and ceramic tile in the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances and fun stuff like shiny hardwood floors and exposed brick.
I'm starting at square zero and have a bunch of questions. How much can I really afford? What if I have crappy credit? What if I've got, like, four dollars in my savings account? Who should I meet with first: a realtor or a lender?
Am I crazy for even thinking I could afford/be lent enough cash to buy a condo?
So many questions. A good journalist can track down the answers...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
But lately the Sesame Street set has really been driving me crazy.
I can think of a couple instances within the past two weeks where I have literally had to bite the inside of my cheeks to refrain from unleashing the beast within on juveniles running roughshod in adult venues.
I first became mildly perturbed at the Kenwood Sprint store. I've come to discover cell phone outlets are Hell's latest opportunity to punish living souls on Earth. That's the only explanation I can surmise for the sheer misery that comes every which way 'til Sunday while you wait for an upgrade or some other tweak. The line for some face time with a technician is painful enough. On top of that, somehow the Gods of Evil must send every yours-mine-and-ours family with a brood of eight or so to the Sprint Store at the same time, the same store, on the same night I choose to go.
The kids are running around, trying different ringtones, pranking their father, playing tag and hiding behind counters. All while Mom and Dad are debating over whether this speakerphone function is better than the one on that phone.
I mean, seriously. You're buying a cell phone people! Not a Buick. Grab the damn Samsung, pile your kids back in the Escalade and get the hell out of my airspace.
Last week I had lunch with a friend and decided to pop in the Sephora store. I love love love how this cosmetics heaven will let you try anything for free including the uber-expensive 70 dollar Rapture eyeshadow palate by NARS.
So, since when can so many teeny boppers afford the goods in this chi-chi store?
Okay, I know the tween set is going to be in love with anything that's a step up from Bonne Bell and Wet and Wild, and Sephora is really heavy on the sparkles and lotions and potions, as my mom calls them. But if I have a tough time and really hem and haw over a 25 dollar tube of mascara (I had to say no. I mean really. Everybody says the generic Maybelline pink and green tube is the best, anyway, and it's for like five bucks at any Kroger), then how do these kids have the cash to buy their day-glo pink lip gloss? Is babysitting really that good these days?
And that's when I thought to myself Ahhh. School must be starting back up soon.
Yesterday was my latest moment of inner outrage.
I was enjoying the neighborhood Fresh Market when the peace and calm of my deepest thoughts was interrupted by some shrill shrieking and the squeaking of some light-up high tops on linoleum.
Two moms were apparently pouring over every goddamn detail at the store Oh. I think this brand of fresh mozzarella tastes better... Do you think the color of that salmon sushi is more like a coral or an apricot?... Can you smell this rose? I mean really smell it? Put your nose down in there. Smell it? Meanwhile, they were letting their trolls run rampant, knocking peaches off displays and grabbing grubby handfuls of chocolate malted balls out of the bag-yourself containers.
I really had enough. And so I did the only thing I had the balls to do.
I gave The Moms a dirty look.
It was a quick one. I pretty much snapped my head away as quickly as I glared at them, but it was a fast, staring expression complete with furrowed eyebrow and sneered nose.
And I think one Mom even saw me.
I've been kind of bummed with this new discovery of myself. I've long considered myself an absolute child lover anxious for the days when I have my own tyke. SO why am I getting pissed off at so many kids lately?
And then I realized - it's not the kids. It's the parents. The grown-ups out there are doing a complete disservice to their little ones. They're forgetting to pass on the wonders of Please and Thank You, Excuse Me and other pleasantries that go along with manners and respect. Parents are so focused on their careers, their friends, their stuff, their relationships that they forget to take the time to teach their children to behave politely and respectfully in public.
I guess I can't really fault the brats for being bratty. Somebody had to make them like that, in the first place.
Monday, August 21, 2006
It started when I was a little girl and my mom had a closet full of old clothes that she'd let me romp around in. My parents always said I was 3 going on 30, and I guess sometimes I wanted to wear the clothes that went with my 'tude.
I'd wear old peasant type Villager dresses and clomp around in her castoff ruby red platform shoes, thinking I was the hottest chick to hit Appleseed Drive.
I guess dress-up is still a fun game to play when you're 30, only at my age you get to try on a different caliber of stuff.
Bling, baby. Bling.
I had lunch with a friend of mine who is in the process of opening a high end jewelry shop in town. After our meal, she invited me over to her townhouse to look at some of her stock. I was kind of curious as to what kind of jewelry she'd be hocking in Mariemont, so I decided to check it out.
And I was pretty much bowled over.
The first piece I tried on was this beautiful white-metaled necklace with little shiny stones all over it. I briefly looked at the price tag and thought I saw a 30.00 on there. I casually said Nice piece of costume for thirty bucks and my friend was like, "Uh Kate. That's a comma and there's an extra zero on there.
Thirty grand. In white gold. And three carats in diamonds. On my neck.
Diamonds. On. My. Neck. Oh Mah Gahd.
She went on to dig in her box of ziplock freezer bags full of gems. Massive sapphire cocktail ring surrounded by an island of diamonds ($24,000). Quaint tennis bracelet with two carats of sparklers checking in at the reasonable price of $3,500. My friend suggested it was a bracelet I should consider since my 30th birthday was coming up and my parents are "Surely going to buy a substantial gift since it's a big birthday."
Yeah, right. And my dad is Dr. Phil.
The big two Big Mama items that I tried on for kicks and giggles: A diamond and sapphire necklace with the whopping price tag of 50 grand. It was a stunner with the most beautiful, blue translucent stones, but even if I were rich I don't know that I could legitimize buying a necklace worth four times my car. The other piece was an intricate tennis bracelet that measured about an inch and a half wide. Four carats at $32,000. Who would ever play a match of tennis in that??
The whole session was a fun one - it was nice to play Let's Pretend and try on the kinds of things that belong to the rich and famous. I think I know now what an actress feels like when she gets to borrow beautiful baubles from Cartier for the Academy Awards.
And while I may not have a treasure chest of cash stashed to buy a bunch of bling, the afternoon did get me thinking.
I am a big girl now, and I guess it's about time I start wearing some Big Girl jewelry. Even just a little bit.
Maybe I should go check out the Right Hand Rings at Zales.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Sarah from The Delicious Life has a great post about what men really want. The little gem ends up being about food (which I love to drool read over) but it starts with a spot-on scenario that I think I may have recently lived. I'm sure some of you will enjoy it, too.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
JFK assassination facts
I have long grouped the Ramsey Mystery in the same bag as all the other stories the American Public has been consumed with.
We could never get enough about the little girl dressed up to look like a 30 year old, complete with the false eyelashes and massive hairpieces.
Photo courtesy the AP/Star
Well, you can just about close the history book on this one. A former teacher faces charges after authorities arrested him in Bangkok, Thailand after he confessed in the murder mystery that has gripped the nation for a decade.
American John Mark Karr says he's sorry for what happened, and that the girl's death was an accident, claiming she died in a botched kidnapping attempt.
Investigators are still unsure how this effin' bastard knew the Ramseys, though he apparently lived near them when they resided in an Atlanta suburb in the early 90s.
All I want to know is this:
How could this schmuck walk the earth for 10 years, even after the massive scrutiny cast a shadow of a doubt regarding JonBenet's parents' innocence? How could he live with himself, knowing he was a free man when Patsy Ramsey died in June of ovarian cancer, not knowing who killed her child? How could this a**hole live with himself, knowing he held the key to a major crime case that has baffled police for a decade?
Throw the book at 'em.
10:16 am update
In an exclusive interview with The Associated Press, John Mark Karr said that he contacted JonBenet's mother, Patsy, before she died of cancer in June to express his remorse for the killing.
If you've looked at my profile lately, you might have noticed the return of "The Waistline Chronicles."
I just breathed some life into that blog with a brand spankin' new post.
I'm starting to shrink again and I thought I'd talk about it.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Moments when I think Oh shit. Someone just put the time traveler into warp speed and I've turned into my mother.
The most significant of these moments in recent memory (yes, that's going, too) was last week. When I noticed my right arm was shooting away from the trunk of my body while I was approaching red lights in my car. Shooting away like it was bracing to hold an imaginary person in the passenger seat. Shooting away like my arm is made out of titanium steel and would be just the thing for keeping somebody safe and sound on my side of the windshield.
Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Hell, you might catch yourself doing it from time to time.
It's no so much that my right arm has decided to operate independently from the rest of my body, but that this was a smart maneuver my mother employed when I would ride shot gun as a wee one in her pea green Honda Accord (yes, you should feel bad for me. It was a hideous car she got on sale and paid cash for when I was like, three years old. She ended up driving that damn car for 13 years until the good people at the dealership told her a key central beam had almost rusted through. Until that day, I had wanted the Earth to swallow me hole every time she picked me up from school. Seriously. The school bus would have been cooler in high school, and I think that says volumes.) She would thrust her forearm out whenever we approached red lights quickly or happened to be stopping short (Mom isn't always the best driver around and to this day requests somebody else drive to the city whenever we need to go... no matter which city we're talking about.)
I remember thinking at the spry age of 11 or so "Uh Mom. I don't think your arm would stop me if we were in an accident. In fact, it might hurt me."
She said something about how you never know and a mother's love is powerful and besides this just one more way I can try and protect you.
So 19 years later I find myself doing the same damn thing with my right arm. And I don't even have any kids to protect, just some ratty summer straw purse full of nonsensical things like my wallet, lip gloss, my cell phone and matchbooks from a few choice bars around town.
Things that wouldn't mind getting smacked against the windshield.
But then again, maybe I don't want all that junk thrust against the glass like a rock in a slingshot. Because then my windshield would break and I'd have to hassle with the insurance company and price out for the best estimates and rent a car while the new windshield was getting installed and...
I'm definitely getting old.
And wouldn't you know, those crazy Royals are making the headlines just in time.
The Windsors (a.k.a. the Royal Family) are having a bit of a tussle with the press after some pics of Prince Harry in a chummy embrace with some TV chick.
The article goes on to talk about how Harry and elder brother William were really having a rockin' night on the town, calling them the "Booze Brothers."
If I'm lucky, I'll run in to them when I'm over there...
I am all about reading this blog I found that's written by a chick in London. She's got lots of stunning photos, interesting observations and descriptive imagery, and some suggestions on the left column.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
10 years ago
I was shlepping plates to tables at a restaurant that's very near and dear to my heart now. It's on the coast of Connecticut and has (or at least had) awesome food. Lobster Bisque/Clam Rolls/Steamers/Spinach and Artichoke Dip. I learned a lot from waiting tables and to this day I tip well and am very forgiving with servers (but I cannot tolerate awful service).
5 years ago
I was producing the 6:00 news in Lexington, Kentucky and working for my second of four news directors at my former station. I was working hard, playing hard and spending hard. I've reigned in my Party Girl lifestyle and my freewheeling spending, but I like to think I'm still busting hump.
1 year ago
I was about a week away from going to Vegas for the second time. We had an awesome time - rollin' as VIPs at Rain and Ghost Bar (my favorite) at The Palms. I also ate the most expensive meal of my life at Fleur de Lys at Mandalay - $160 a person. But it was awesome...
I picked out some luggage for my next traveling adventure. It's got wheels on it - my previous suitcase is this awesome leather and canvas duffel from a place called Duluth Pack. Think preppy outdoors. Anyway, I am looking forward to giving my shoulder a break with my new luggage.
I really don't plan on doing much outside of a full day of work. I've got some Netflix movies coming in so I may spend some quality time on my couch.
I alluded to my trip in the "Yesterday" comment above. Well, tomorrow I'm buying my plane ticket. $669 on US Airways to go to London for a week in October. I've already started major planning of what to do and am exploring all the options for things I need to buy (comfortable shoes etc.) I'm also looking for good books (historic accounts of the Jack the Ripper crimes/London history/travel suggestions).
I'm really cracking down on my spending because I'd like to go with a wad of cash. But I won't tell you where I'll be hiding it on my body...
5 snacks I enjoy
I love Rice Krispy Treats. They're pretty lo-cal and they taste dynamite. I also like applesauce cups, mandarin oranges, yogurt, and all kinds of cheese.
5 songs I know all the words to
I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. What's Up by Four Non Blonds. Stay by Lisa Loeb. Crazy by Patsy Cline. Hotel California by The Eagles.
Wearing my heart on my sleeve too often.
Being too gullible/believing people are honest more than they really are.
Not working up to my potential in high school and college.
Not living abroad while in college.
Drinking too much in my youth.
5 television shows I watch weekly
The news on Local 12.
CBS's Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood. The storytelling is amazing, and it would be a tragedy if CBS reformatted it to the "Early Show" template when Osgood steps down.
5 things I would do with a $1,000,000
I would give my parents a big wad of cash so they could stay in Connecticut.
I'd get a bit of nip and tuck (sorry, I have a tiny vain streak)
I'd buy a home in the Cincinnati area.
I'd pay for the rest of my youngest sister's college.
I'd take the whole fam damily on a kick-ass trip.
5 locations I would love to run away to
A certain home on Island Avenue in Madison, Connecticut
If time was no barrier, my Nana and Papa's home in Canfield, Ohio.
London, England - yippee!!
5 things I hate doing
Listening to my voicemail
5 things I would never wear
Anything size 2.
Anything with a Nascar logo.
Anything crunchy granola.
5 recently seen movies I like
The Devil Wears Prada
Road to Perdition
In Her Shoes
5 famous people I'd like to meet
5 biggest joys of the moment
My trip coming up - duh.
The idea of my parents moving here
The fact I've lost 9 (or is it 10?) pounds
A wedding I'm looking forward to next month
That I'm really happy with my place in the world.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
My apartment is starting to look markedly better. D-money had a place to sleep in my living room (since I cleared the crap off my couch and made my living room look spic-n-span) and the bathroom is no longer a bio-hazard.
Cheers to me.
I went to the White Trash Bash and D and I were the only ones who actually obliged the host's request for our finest redneckery (see below for the full descrip).
We were kind of ticked but realized we were the only ones secure with our appearance/social status and could really give two rats asses whether people judged us for lookin' like tramps from Estill County, Kentucky.
I've now lost nine pounds.
Gosh, I just don't know what to say... I'd like to thank all of the stores in Cincinnati that stock bottled water, Diet Canfield's chocolate soda, the skim milk case at the Hyde Park Kroger and Mott's applesauce. I could tell you my big time secret to losing weight but then I'd have to kill you. But here's a hint: I've rediscovered that good friend Will Power.
I am buying my ticket to London on Wednesday. I am crazy psyched and have been practicing my English accent (I went out with an English dude once and he says my impression is more High English than it is cockney. Ha ha. I just said cockney.)
I am salivating over all the places I want to eat/the places I want to go. On the list right now:
Jack the Ripper tour
River cruise on the Thames
Shakespeare's Globe Theatre
The London Opera House
St. Paul's Cathedral
Antiquing on Portobello Road (in Notting Hill)
Authentic London dance club (so I can wear the pink wig out. It's been a long time)
Tour of Tower Bridge (the famous one you see in all the pictures)
Stonehenge (a bit of a train ride away)
London Eye - giant ferris wheel with amazing views
Friday, August 11, 2006
You know one.
Or you want to be one.
There's got to be some reason why you read this blog, isn't there? (I'm not excluding all you men out there who read the blog, but this appears to be more of a chick thing, so that's who I'm addressing).
I am taking an informal survey as to who would be interested in a Diva Drinking Night. As in all of us, in all our glory, wreaking havoc on Censor Nasty.
Looking in to my Crystal Ball, I see Saturday September 2nd as a possibility.
Please be so kind to post a comment with your email or drop me a line at firstname.lastname@example.org if you're interested.
I am looking for suggestions.
I've been invited to a White Trash Bash of sorts and am workin' on my get-up.
So far the green, tight Pabst Blue Ribbon t-shirt and some hillbilly teeth are on the list.
Any other suggestions?
I know there are some creative types lurking out there.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
(Y'all, the following is the way I write for work...)
Scotland Yard investigators say they've cracked a massive terror plot growing beneath the waving Union Jack.
21 people were arrested in London in connection with a scheme to blow up several planes in mid-flight. Authorities in Britain say it was a plot "intended to be mass murder on an unimaginable scale."
The Homeland Security Agency has bumped up the security level to red, or severe (a first for the HSA) for all international flights originating from Britain to the U.S.
The Feds have also hiked up the security level to orange, or high for all domestic flights within the United States.
(Back to Kate-speak)
Now, why do these nasty people have to throw a tizzy just a couple months away from I jet over to Jolly Old London?
My soul sister Denae is traveling over to England next month to study abroad, and I'm planning on visiting her in October.
This whole situation kind of reminds me of the first time I went overseas.
I was 12 during all the Lockerbie terrorism talk. 270 people died when Pan Am 103 blew up over Scotland. Jane Pauley was all over the Today Show the day my parents and I were to travel, reporting plans of another credible bomb threat for another U.S. flight bound for Europe.
My parents looked at me and asked whether I wanted wanted to still go.
And I said Hell yeah!
We made it to Boston, where I got to see the bomb dogs sniff through all our luggage as it sat on the tarmac at, like, 9 PM.
We made it to where we were going with no problems.
This time I'm operating on the same premise: I'm going on my trip or I'm gonna die trying.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
I cry because of what could have been.
I cry because of circumstance.
I cry because the idea of you is gone.
I cry because hope has slipped out of my hand like a million grains
of sand I'll never get back.
I cry because I felt understood.
I cry because that one hug was safe.
I cry because the electricity is gone.
I cry over what I thought was good.
I cry because it left as quickly as it came.
Other people, not so dangerous people, can stumble on to your blog and read things that shock them. Drool over nuggets that make them gasp, point fingers in shame, erupt in laughter at your mistakes and trials, and empathize in your heartbreak.
Its this second group of people I really worry about.
These people are your future employers. They're your future friends and they're your future loves. This same group of people includes past enemies, past acquaintances and other folks you've crossed paths with.
I have now had relationships with two men who've searched the internet for my blog.
I told the first one about it and he made it his mission to find it. John gave me a heads-up that he was going to find it or die trying. My religious IP number tracking (get a counter - you'll see what I mean) turned up the moment he found my little literary playground.
John came clean about his discovery pretty quickly, and we'd discuss things I wrote about on here. Then he found some old posts mentioning how Kate wants to get married and Kate wants to have a baby and Kate is a big time family-oriented person and he got a little freaked out.
And John fessed up about his freak out.
We talked about it and John said he wasn't so scared about my aspirations (considering they're the same as lots of other chicks out there) but that he was skittish because my hopes and dreams were there in black and white.
That's what happens when you go trolling for blogs, you find things that may freak you out, no matter how benign the subject matter.
John said he still wanted to see me, but that he decided he would opt to NOT read my blog and we would continue to see each other. John and I parted ways at the end of June as friends (I think we were both looking for something a little different) and we still touch base from time to time.
The Biscuit is a different story.
I never told The Biscuit about my blog but he found it anyway. He trolled away and uncovered it pretty much 24 hours after we met and started reading it continuously. I was a bit irked because he never mentioned reading it, even after my subtle mentions about Kate's Random Musings.
The idea of The Biscuit and Me recently went South (not in that way, you dirty bird!) and The Biscuit now tells me finding and reading this blog was his biggest mistake in our brief relationship.
And that's the rub.
I could close up shop, stop revealing my little idiosyncrasies and foibles and hy-jinks, making things safe and anonymous next time somebody does a Google search on my name or discovers I have a blog.
I can plow away at my writing, tuck away little memories and thoughts and observations I have about the world for another day, a day when I decide to write the Great American Novel (or at the very least something you'll find someday in the Bargain Bin at Borders). Toiling with words and situations that nag and grate on me until I let them settle on the World Wide Web.
And that's the road I've chosen.
This blog is to me what Song of Myself was to Whitman, and I don't really care what people think after reading it. What you find on these pages is the essence of me, and I am proud of or responsible for the ideas/experiences I chronicle here.
Which brings me to Charlotte. That's who I am, for those of you in the know with the Sex and The City lingo.
I want a family. Check. I want kids. Check. I want to be deeply in love. Check.
What's there to be ashamed of there? These are my hopes, and dreams and aspirations, yes, but that doesn't mean I really expect every man I date to marry me. One philosophy I buy into: every date is a prospective mate, and that's something I consider when dating guys.
I would never date a guy I wouldn't want to take home to Mom and Dad.
So if this freaks out some guy when he reads my blog, then I guess that's too bad. Because I pretty much have my head screwed on straight about life and my issues (especially the issue about wanting to get married) pale in comparison to the issues of other chicks in the world.
Any guy who can't handle that is the wrong guy for me.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
You as in you've been reading this practically daily since, oh, late June. Like I said before, I know, because of my IP tracker.
The only reason why I'm writing this here is because I've got a lot of unfinished business that I'd like to say to you and I'm guessing this is the only way I can communicate things with you. Things that zip through my mind at random times and I think to myself Gosh, I wish I had a way to get that off my chest and make you know how I really feel.
Because even though I can be a cool chick and take everything inside, I end up bottling a lot of stuff up just because I want to appear so perfect and calm and okay with the way things end up happening to me.
And most of the time I am. Okay with the way things happen to me, that is. Because I know I'm in control of my destiny and happiness and blah-blah-blah about a bunch of other stuff relating to my place in the world.
But I'm not in control of what other people do, how other people respond in this great big world. And most of the time when people crap on me, I take it because that's the kind of person I am. I take it and I really don't bitch and complain, and I just go on and wait for the next challenge life throws me.
But I'm not going to take your crap. And that's what you did to me, crap on me, I mean.
And since I'm beginning to think your final exchange with me was full of more shit than sincerity, here it is. My feelings online in a blaze of glory.
I told you initially that I'm pretty much a straight shooting chick and I was willing to take one one the chin for the sake of honesty.
You replied with your litany of reasons and so on and so forth with the conciliatory I want to get to know you better later yadda yadda yadda.
The thing that really makes me fired up about this situation though is how you essentially blamed me for something you by rights claim equal ownership to (I know this may be a bit cloudy for you outsiders, but you'll just have to indulge me here). You put part of the onus of our parting on something that you are equally guilty of, and that's just shitty.
So here it is, my big finish:
I think you're a coward. It took first days of waiting and then my prodding for an explanation before I realized things were essentially over.
Dude, that's so sixth grade.
In general, men appear to operate on a maturity curve not parallel to women their same age. And that's why I typically don't date younger men.
In the future, I suggest you approach the women you date immediately when you have waning interest. Do not, I repeat DO NOT have said conversation over dinner, like the intentions you indicated in your correspondence.
In the future, be honest with the women you date about the status/your intentions/the circumstances. Do not give them some bull shit about how you want to get to know them at a later time or how you gave it a go because it was, well, them.
And in the future, please do not read my blog. It really bothers me that you are still curious (see below post) about the things I reveal here. If you have the time to read my blog as frequently as you do, then you certainly have enough time to call someone you're starting to date.
And time to call them and tell them what's up.
I am fairly certain I wouldn't feel so jilted or disrespected if you had handled this situation differently. I am also fairly certain a particular friend of mine wouldn't feel so shitty about encouraging the possibility of us.
And I am definitely certain I would come away believing you are a far better person than the person I think you really are.
2interest Function: transitive verb1 : to induce or persuade to participate or engage2 : to engage the attention or arouse the interest of
I guess there's a difference, isn't there?
Monday, August 07, 2006
I talked to a good friend yesterday. She's a three time cancer survivor and a bride tying the knot in September. Gosh, I totally unloaded on her and she made me feel so much better. Now I feel like such a schmuck for thinking my little problems are big deals, when I think about what she's struggled with over the years.
The heat is wicked awful out there today. It was just as bad yesterday when I spent some time at the Goetta Fest. Check out this link for all you non-Cincinnatians who don't know what goetta is.
I give two thumbs up to the goetta burrito. Busken's Goetta Goobers were pretty good, too.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
From the Courier Journal:
The Rolling Stones will be performing at Churchill Downs Sept. 29, track President Steve Sexton said Monday morning at a meeting with horsemen.He called a concert by the legendary rock band “a once in a many year opportunity.”
Sexton said as many as 50,000 tickets would be sold, ranging from $60 to $300 with no general admission offered.
Tickets as well as parking will be sold through Ticketmaster starting August 14th at 10 a.m.
I have to buy my ticket to London on the 15th, but there may be enough jingle in my pocket to arrange for a rendezvous with Mick.
****** ****** ******
6:10 pm Sunday.
I cannot believe this breaking news out of Louisville. The Rolling Stones are rumored to be adding a Louisville show to their tour sometime in September. The band would reportedly play beneath the famous Twin Spires of Churchill Downs.
The Thoroughbred Times reports Mick & Co. are touring in Europe and are expected to kick off the North American leg of their tour September 20th in Boston.
More details are expected out of Churchill Downs during an 11:30 am press conference Monday.
A fan website is reporting a concert date of Friday September 29th.
I will be out of the office Monday but will try to post an update for all you Stoners.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
That said, I have a few, random thoughts rolling around in my head:
First: Go rent, check out or steal Hotel Rwanda. Great flick, and I had no idea Don Cheadle could be such a great, serious actor. I am super sensitive and cry at almost anything, but this flick is sure to tug on even the blackest of heart strings. Ditto for Road to Perdition. I saw that one this morning, and it has so many undertones but it basically covers the struggles of loyalty, family and honor in the Irish mafia system of the 1920s.
Speaking of family, today is my father's birthday and I have been given the quest of taking a photo of myself as a gift. Dad apparently wants his three daughters to give him only photos of themselves for his birthdays. My mission today is to try and take a snapshot of myself with a Cincinnati landmark in the bkrd. Don't really know how that will go, but there is a Jimmy Buffett party I'm going to tonight, so that can be my last ditch effort if everything's out of focus today.
What a crazy challenge.
I am pinching pennies hardcore over the next few days as I get ready to buy my ticket to London. The trip is October 20th to the 28th I believe. Southern Son and I are going over to Jolly Old London to visit my gal-pal D-Money, who will have just moved over there for school. I am salivating over all my travel books and stuff, plotting out visits to the largest ferris wheel in the world and other good stuff. A brief jaunt to Scotland is also on the itinerary, and we may take a side trip to Stonehenge, too, though my dad tells me the stones are all fenced off and it's a bit touristy. No matter, it should still be sensational.
I think I've whipped that nasty Bummer Bug and feel completely restored to my usual, silly, always positive self.
Gotta go. My sunroof and some good tunes are calling.
Friday, August 04, 2006
The driving range - I have a great tip to help the ladies with their swing, if any of y'all are interested.
The libraries - they're cool, peaceful and a world to be discovered.
Ault Park - my favorite suntan spot. I know this place where I am fairly certain it is safe to sunbathe like the French, if you know what I mean.
Sunlite Pool - I am a sucker for anything that's water related.
Long walks by the river - my favorite place to hoof it.
The Cincy Art Museum - Gosh, I haven't spent any time there lately. The Museum is celebrating its birthday with a Saturday night club scene straight from Ibiza, and a sleepover right along side Picasso and friends!
The Cincy Museum Center - Note to self: Friday August 25th is a Free Friday. Score!
My bike - It's got a thin layer of dust on it that I am fairly certain would come off if I actually used the darn thing.
Kenwood Towne Center - It's a dangerous place but I am wise to the ways of window shopping.
Okay, so it's not as bald as a baby's bottom, but it's this little patch of thinning hair close to my forehead, just beyond the hairline. If I parted my hair in the middle, you'd notice this little area where the part isn't quite the fine line it is elsewhere.
That's why I part my hair on the left - I am part of the Comb Over Brigade.
I noticed this strange phenomenon probably five years ago. The spot hasn't really changed much (perhaps it's gotten a smidge bigger over time, but nothing incredibly noticable) but it has caused me a bit of worry.
Is it alopecia? Will I go bald all over someday?
I consulted with a dermatologist once and he told me he could give me a bunch of cortisone shots in the hair follicles to spurt growth in that damned spot.
The catch is, the rest of my head has, well, too much hair.
Hairdressers loathe my arrival. Every time I make an appointment for a full foil highlight, they cross off the rest of the day for the poor stylist who's punished with the task. Seriously, I got a full foil and cut three weeks ago and it took five hours. Five hours off my life that I will never get back, dammit!
I think this bald spot thing is a curse from my mom years ago.
I had really, really, really bad hair when I was a kid. Thick and kinky. Naturally. The best way to describe it is a White Girl's Afro. Some of my good friends have seen the pics, the ones from the era when the kids in school called me Pyramid, because my hair stuck out from my head like an equilateral triangle.
My mom was once quoted as saying, "Kate. You've got so much hair. If you ever go bald, no one will ever notice."
Thanks, Mom. That quote has haunted me ever since.
The worst part is, I can't even shave my head. I've got one of those Gorbachev birth marks on the top of my head, too.
I guess I'll stick with the bald spot.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Wow. I can't believe I'm still writing all this junk two years later.
Even more, I can't believe y'all are still reading it!
At press time, Kate's Random Musings has logged 525 posts and has had 68086 hits (kind of freaky since that's a palindrome) of people wanting to learn more about a 20 something single girl searching for her way in the world.
This past year, I've written about my crazy time in Vegas and I discovered I was quirkyalone.
This year I also turned out my most read, most searched, most commented blog of all.
I've had a few good moments of self analysis, I won a battle with one of Cincinnati's Finest and I did something grown up and negotiated the purchase of a new-to-me car.
I've met many wonderful men including The Brit, John and The Biscuit, and I trashed boys who won't grow up.
The year has been a great one, all in all.
I look forward to logging many more memories and opinions, as I get ready to streak my way into 30.
I hope you stick along for the ride, too.
Right now the cronies in Washington D-C are considering whether to allow Plan B be sold over the counter. This is a last ditch oops I crapped my pants! option for people who copulate sans protection when all the conditions are right for making babies.
These people would have never gotten themselves into this sticky situation if they just stopped picking up the G strings off the floor.
This morning my apartment looks like a cross between a Victoria's Secret and a dorm room in a frat house. Two places I have spent some time in, on most occasions walking out empty handed thanks, just inspecting the merchandise. The truth is VS doesn't always have much to offer for the 38DD set. Fraternity houses, on the other hand, welcome 38DD people with open arms and hands and mouths. I however, wasn't really so willing to participate.
But I digress.
I have clean underwear thrown everywhere after I tossed my laundry basket in the living room. There's an empty pizza box from Dewey's on the floor, along with some dirty dishes, empty Netflix envelopes, shoes! shoes! everywhere! and junk mail up the wazoo.
And this is pretty much how the entire apartment looks.
I go through phases where cleaning my apartment is concerned. Sometimes I get all anal about the grout between my bathroom tiles and the burners on my stove, other times I really could give a rat's ass whether I have a pile of clean clothes in the living room right in the path of traffic.
But that's the thing - when my apartment's messy, there's no traffic to be had.
I've had good friends beg to use the bathroom on occasion. It took months and lots of convincing on D-Money's part before I'd let her use my disastrous facilities after a long afternoon walk. A pregnant friend of mine asked to use the bathroom three weeks ago, and for a split second I thought about saying no (but it was okay because the messy alert level was at an elevated status, compared to the current severe warning).
So it goes without saying, I would never let a boy in to my shipwreck of a house. And that's what I mean about a messy apartment being the best, cheapest form of birth control. There's no way in hell Boyfriend X would see my clothes and mail and plates strewn about much like the scene of a tornado disaster.
Truth be told, my apartment has made it to the low level within the past three weeks. There was a time when every fork was in its place and the carpet had those lovely vacuum lines all going the same direction. I am inclined to clean up if there's an incentive, if I imagine an opportunity may present itself warranting cleanliness.
But most of the time I live like a hermit, anticipating few visitors in my domicile. So confession time if I can live like a slob and get away with it, I suppose I will.
I think my mother is at the root of all of this. She is Martha to the tenth degree. Critical about how the rest of the family opens kitchen cabinets ("Brass knobs only! Brass knobs only!"), whether our body oils from our hair or feet would get on the couches in the living room and very intense about our -not- being allowed to sit on the comforters in our rooms.
Can we say Joan Crawford?
My mom was a little crazy about the house cleaning, and there were many painful tears shed when I was a little girl about how unreasonable her expectations were.
So now that I've gotten older, I don't really care. My apartment always looks spotless when company comes over and I actually do pride myself on taking care of my home and my belongings.
I just don't care enough to keep the facade up when it doesn't matter. Because let's face it. I've got a life to live in this great big world, and I don't want to live it with a can of Comet attached to my hand.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Okay, not really a throwdown because I prescribe more to the Gandhi school of thought and I don't think I've hit anyone since my sister Brigid and I got into a fight over a purple mohair sweater in 1992. But last night I was about two seconds away from letting the Z snaps fly -Oh, nah, Girl. No you dihnt! all because a pair of twirps in matching, cotton strapless American Apparel dresses tried to cut in line at the restroom.
You see, I am a purist in the sense of manners and politeness.
I have an Emily Post book on my bookshelf and my mother started weaning me from acting like a Goop at a young age. I know all about the silverware on the table, how to actually use it without looking like I'm eating at a truckstop on I-68 outside of Morgantown, West Virginia and I am hard core about sending notes of thanks after receiving gifts.
Oh, and I -love- to say Please and Thank You. Big time.
So cutting in line is one thing I don't tolerate. Especially when it happens to me.
Last night everybody and their mother decided to go to Riverbend for the Dave Matthews Band concert. The night was a sweaty mess of body odors, drunk girls and people trying to be cooler than everybody else. Lots of popped collars, Reef sandals and cargo shorts.
I did my part to join the club, downing a few choice cold beers in the parking lot (Blue Moons sans orange slices) and decided I wanted to void body cavity number one before Dave and friends took to the stage.
Ohmygod the line for the restroom was about as long as the checkout lane at Wal-Mart 5 minutes before closing time.
Naturally, I was one of the older chicks waiting for the bathroom, but not the oldest. The woman in front of me probably had six or seven years on me, firmly planted in her mid to late 30s. We were surrounded by the young, the nubile, the stupid. There we were Old Girl and me, waiting and waiting until a gaggle of these Screaming Mimis hopped over us in line to stand next to a chick they knew. She was a bit older but apparently knew these little girls from high school. It was obvious she was the one who apparently went on to college - the little girls still had a few years before they'd be celebrating with pints of Peach Schnapps (kids don't drink wine coolers anymore, do they?) at Project Graduation. The reunion was pretty much what you'd expect - lots of screaming, hugging, air kisses and other obnoxious pleasantries that grate on me like a new, shiny microplane on a fresh lemon.
Old Girl turned around to me and said, "So. What do you think these girls are doing?" Eyebrow raised. Lips pursed. She and I were openly discussing the tween set's secret maneuver to pee before us. And I wasn't having any of it.
"Uh, you've probably never seen a preppie fight before, but I'm ready to throw down."
The older, cooler, College tween shot us a look of frustration and bewilderment I don't know what's going on here! I am sooo not a part of their group! Really! Ohmigod!
The little girls bubbled on without acknowledging the fray that was moments from unraveling before us.
Old Girl sharply turned to the gaggle of giggling girls, "What's going on here?" Who responded with their not-so-innocent-but-more-assertive-in-their-first-foray-in-adult-conflict, "We're in line to pee."
The deafening silence that followed was the exclamation point of the moment, until I looked down (at 5'8", I towered over the little girls, even in my sandals) with a terse "Yeah. And you were behind us."
The scrappy one of the American Apparel pair looked up at me, hair askew and held back in a haphazard pony tail, and delivered the best come-back she had.
As much as I would have loved to have responded with an Uh-huh, I stood firm with my chorus of "Yeah, you were behind us."
Old Girl nodded her head, eyes squinting and chin jutted out.
Cool College Girl was getting flustered. Stand with them and look like another tween. Stand with us and be mature about things, but lose her air of coolness.
Ah, but she's a smart girl, that Cool College Girl (who apparently is going in to her Sophomore year at The University of Kentucky. Smart girl, indeed).
"Just get behind them. (Raising hand in talk-to-the-hand pose) Just get behind them."
Cool College Girl turned to Old Girl and me, apologizing for her little girls and all their big shortcomings.
I think maybe she learned a lesson that night.
Being rude isn't cool. Even when you're dressed to the nines and travel in packs like rabid wolves.
Sometimes I wish other mothers made manners a priority like my mom did. There's something about being genteel and kind and knowing one's place in this world. Manners are an important tool to peacefully co-exist with the rest of society. Manners are about respect and patience and dignity. I just wish more people felt the same way about etiquette.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
It's one of those exhaustions where your body literally wants to just lay comatose, preserving all energy for changing the channel with the remote and hoisting a glass of water to a dry mouth. And yet for all my spent energy, I cannot muster the deep peace needed to flag down a few ZZZs.
What a quandary.
I laid in my bed subjecting myself to horrible daytime television (note to the good people with Days of Our Lives: I understand one of your characters is searching for his past life in of all places, Cincinnati. Please note that in our rough and tumble watering holes, most native people do not speak with a faint New Yawk accent) and the tepid temperatures aided by my little, window unit air conditioner Whew. I think I can! I think I can! until I could just not take it anymore.
So I am at the library with all the other ejumucated people.
Of note: I found my kid sister's MySpace space. It was essence of Lil Sis, complete with a Burberry background and quips about how she pops her colla' to make the boys holla'.
I suppose I was 19 once.
The jury's still out on whether she'll accept my friend request.
I have a furlough from the morning show. Well, not so much as an imposed break as a requested one - I took tomorrow off so I can enjoy DMB in all it's splendor, complete with my share of beer.
Netflix keeps sending me movies. I've got Hotel Rwanda at home (kind of apprehensive to see because I am not in a Serious Movie mood and would much prefer something that involves no thought and plenty of escapism) and ET just arrived today. It's been forever since I saw Gertie and Elliot bond with their Phone Home friend. Netflix sent me a little email saying that Secondhand Lions (Michael Caine and Robert Duvall are both in it, so it must be good) is on its way, too. I sent back Raging Bull earlier this week, and all I can say is WOW. That DeNiro sure did undergo a transformation from a wiry powderkeg to what some would call a Fat Eff.
He really does impress me, mole and all.
And so cycle begins - melatonin to bed, Red Bull later tonight.