Suspect

So. I have chosen to own my silence. Everyone has always been so kind to me here…regardless of my transgressions, which is very sweet considering I’m imagining you’re really thinking, “Geez. What a noodle. Honestly, I think her behavior is reprehensible…and she’s a bit of a dweeb.”

Wow. You guys are harsh.

I won’t bore you with all the crap that’s getting in the way of my blogging. Suffice to say, it’s ongoing and I’m doing my best to power through.

Nevertheless, I do have a story to share…complete with a moral and everything. Consider it my belated Christmas present to you all…or maybe an early birthday gift. Mazel Navidad, people.

So, it was a typical Sunday and I had just finished paying my bills online. Due to a somewhat unhealthy proclivity for waiting until the last minute, I usually wind up paying half my bills through the bank’s online bill pay and the other half directly on Comcast’s Verizon’s American Express’ the company’s own website.

Whatever. Poe-tay-toh, poe-tah-toh. Either way it gets paid, right?

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes after I’d logged off the computer that my phone rang. The ID gave an 800 number and I was annoyed that a business had the nerve to call me on a Sunday. This may explain why I barked, “WHAT?” instead of the customary “hello”. After a half-second delay, I heard a female automated voice say, “Hello. This is the Wells Fargo Fraud Alert Division of Wells Fargo Bank, notifying you of some unusual activity on your account ending in 9999. Please press #1 to continue.”

I press #1. My thoughts are racing. Crap, crap, crap. FRAUD. ALERT. This cannot be good.

The automated voice says, “First, we’ll need to verify your identity. Is your first name Kathryn? Press #1 if yes.” And I freeze. (Picture deer in the headlights…eyes wide…mouth shaped in the perfect “O”.)

Uh oh.

My gut instinct is screaming, “HANG UP! SOMETHING’S WRONG. CRAAAAAAAP.” So, I punch the “end” button, severing the call.

Now I’m in overdrive. I dig through my piles of papers till I find my bank statement and I place the call to the actual bank. An automated voice wants my PIN# to access my records. I. Don’t. Think. So. I remain silent until the automated system dejectedly connects me to a real, live, breathing customer service representative. I rattle off my tale, pointedly relaying the 800# from my caller ID. Then I pause, hearing the “click-click-click” of the computer keys as the rep types in the phone number I’d provided. There’s this long pause and the rep says, “Um. That number? That’s not us.”

Shocking. Outrageous. Appalling. Craaaaap…

The rep put a temporary freeze on my account and suggested I call the actual Fraud Hotline, which would not open until 8am Monday morning. (Interesting observation: The actual bank keeps banker's hours. That should have been my first clue.) The next day, I inquired as to how this sham could have occurred, given that I’d ensured I was on a secure site. The (actual) Fraud-bank-lady asked if I’d typed in the web address myself, or if I’d used “my favorites” to find the link. Evidently, hackers can worm their way into your PC and change your bookmarked favorites to go to their hacked site…one that looks just like the real deal…and then you are in some deep doodoo. (The “doodoo” part is me…bank-lady remained quite professional throughout.) After speaking further, we ascertained that the “account#9999” the automated voice had mentioned was, in fact, the last 4 digits of my debit card and not actually my account number. Bank lady saw no suspicious activity but suggested that I close out my account and open a new one…which I did, that very day. She also suggested that I always type in the web address myself to ensure I'm landing where I'm supposed to be.

The moral of this story?

A) Don’t pay anything online. Just put the bills in a drawer and wait for the company to knock on your door so you can pay them in person.
B) Never answer the phone on a Sunday.
C) Calling someone a “noodle” and a “dweeb” may result in charges of slander…and possible jail time.
D) Whenever an automated voice asks if your first name is Kathryn, always say no. 

I believe the answer is “E”…all of the above. Either way, there's a lesson in there.

Talk soon, xo

Hacking, Scooping & Blind

I’m telling you up front that this New York gal's bucket-list would never include the desire to be on the receiving end of over a foot of snow and the loss of power for five days…and all this before the end of October.

We lost power on Saturday…around noon. I handled that with my usual aplomb…I remember sighing deeply and saying, “Really?? They said this was gonna happen. How utterly original,” to no-one in particular. Then I heard a disconnected voice...responding with, “What? Did you say something??”…and it was then that I realized that it was a snowstorm-miracle: Connor(14) with no-one else to talk to…was talking to me! I danced a little jig of victory, pumped my fists in the air and then coolly responded with, “…’Sup?”

We played cards. We played Trouble. We played Angry Birds. We played checkers. Then it got dark…and we got cold and bored. It was time for the power to return. Unfortunately, this was only day one…and it got worse. It seems the power loss also hit one of Verizon’s cell towers and we had no cellphone service.

So. Let's recap.We had:

• No electricity
• No heat
• No cable
• No landline (telephone)
• No internet 
• No iPad 
• No iPhone 

Outside, the storm was raging. The roads were impassable. Oh, joy.

By Sunday, the storm had passed…but it left over a foot of the white stuff in its wake. The sky was bright blue…and everything else was white. Connor and I had barely slept. You’d begin to drift off and be jolted awake by the sound of branches cracking under the strain of all that snow. It was…unsettling.

By Monday, school had been cancelled and I was texting ToyotaBoss to see if we had juice at the office:

Me: “No power since Saturday. I’m cold. I’m bored. You’re the boss. Make it stop.”

ToyotaBoss: “We have heat. We have internet. TV in the service department. C’mon in!”

Connor refused to leave the house, clinging to the hope that the power would return any minute. I vowed to return in several hours with downloaded games, a full charge on my cell-with-no-service and some food. I arrived home again to utter blackness and announced that Dominos had a buy-one-get-one-free special so I’d purchased two…we could always freeze the…..left-…..Oh, wait. That’s right. Everything in my freezer is melting. By this time, it was probably colder in the kitchen than it was in my fridge.

Tuesday evening, Verizon restored cell service. I do believe I wept a little when I heard the soft *ding!* of my emails resuming. 

Wednesday morning, I awoke around 4:30. I’m convinced some part of my subconscious was searching for a solution to my concern for all that food going south in my fridge/freezer. Then it hit me: There’s freakin’ snow outside…lots of it. I jumped out of bed, threw on my down coat (left my pjs on) and donned my New Balance rocker-sneakers (the ones that are supposed to tone your butt?...but are probably not a great choice for walking in snow and ice. Hey, it was all I could find that wasn’t heels. It wasn't supposed to be snowing, remember?) and I double-bagged eight gallon-sized baggies…figuring the inner one would be filled with dirty, (possibly yellow) snow and the outer ones would be perfectly fine to be reused for sterilized, hygienic purposes…such as storing extra toothbrushes and such. I then needed to find something to hack away at the ice-encrusted snow-mound conveniently left by snowplowguy. That’s when I thought of the hammer. Oh, and I needed something to pick up the chunks of ice…since I’d temporarily misplaced my gloves. That’s when I thought of the spaghetti-server-thingie. My logic was that the ice chunks would slip right off of a regular serving spoon. 

Can you see my wisdom now? Of course you can. So, there I am….at 4:45am…hacking away at the ice with my hammer. Nothing was really happening until I thought to hack with the claw part…then the ice started flying. I filled my eight double-bagged, gallon-sized baggies and headed back inside. I threw five bags in the fridge and three in the freezer and said a prayer. I figured we were right on the cusp of losing everything…so that meant I had nothing to lose. 

The power resumed at 3pm that day. Connor was on the bus…on his way home from school. I texted him, “POWER’S BACK. ANSWERING MACHINE PICKED UP!!”…then finished with the words:

“TAKE THE SNOW OUT OF THE FRIDGE”. 

Words I never thought I’d say…

 

Purge

Some of you may find this hard to believe…but I have some purging issues.

(In Kathryn’s head, her readers GASP in utter surprise and disbelief. It would be nice if you took a moment to fulfill my mental image. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.)

When booting up laptop upon arriving home, I was a bit shocked by how cluttered my desktop has become:

Yikes. I mean, they’re neatly spaced and all…(actually I had little to do with that…it’s the default) but…double-yikes. Actually though, this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Gigi? Girlfriend…cover your eyes…I’m afraid you may spontaneously combust:

This past weekend, I dug through no fewer than 500 emails. Then I sorted all my paper items into these handy-dandy shoe boxes, until I tired of it and gave up. And in case you were wondering, this precarious pile of crap stuff is sitting on top of the file cabinet.

So close. And yet, kind of ironic…don’t you think??

Okay, Gigi…you can open your eyes.

My latest attempt at purging was to get some of the crap stuff off of my phone. Turns out, I use my phone to take photos of everything…and by everything? I mean everything. Let us turn to Exhibit A:

I’ve been trying to get a decent photo of the necklace I wear to work every single day. Obviously, this is not it…but I'm giving myself an A for effort…and an A+ for creativity. As you can plainly see, I was extremely busy...

This would be me trying to shop for Connor (14), who would rather have a root canal than be seen in public with his mother…much less actually trying on articles of clothing. This blurry photo actually resulted in an affirmative nod from Connor, as it was fluffy and furry inside. It's like pulling teeth, I tell ya! (Pun intended.)

This would be my Swingline “Jam-Free Guaranteed!” stapler, which I ceremoniously tossed after it jammed for the third freakin' time. The upside is that I tweeted my displeasure with this particular office product, thinking Swingline might honor their “jam-free-guarantee”. They did not. Instead, I received a tweet from their competitor…who then sent me this:

SCORE!! Yes, folks…that’s THREE awesome staplers. It was the major topic of conversation at the office for two days. All you kept hearing was the ***PING!!*** of things being stapled. My boss was the worst offender...putting no less than 20 staples into a Camry brochure 'cause the stapler said it could handle up to 20 pages. And it did.

I was tickled when I realized the theme song to Big Bang was sung by….well, you can read. I sent this photo in a text to Taylor (19) who’s up at college ‘cause…well, I needed to share the joy. He responded with, “I knew that.” I was sufficiently deflated.

Evidently, photographing almost-used-up beauty products only aids in replacing them if one remembers that one needs them whilst one is out. Wow...that was a mouthful. So, it’s great in theory…but I'm still out.

Finally, I thought I’d share one of my most prized possessions. It’s neatly posted right on my wall. As you can see, I’ll be needing to start another Post-it:

I’ve no idea what the “Accent font=lying” means. Suggestions are welcome. I'll admit that I totally know the meaning behind the "boom-chicka-wah-wah" and I'm relatively certain I originally read it on GayGuy/StraightGuy. They crack me up.

Suffice to say, I’m losing my mind...but I seem to have accounted for all of my stuff.

xo

Hysteria Revisited

A few weeks ago, I was watching TV in my bedroom. It was a typical evening…and I was toggling between Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on Food Network and I Didn’t Even Know I Was Pregnant! on TLC. 

Do not judge me. I can’t explain it…there’s just something bizarre about that show. Maybe it’s because the voiceover-guy always says, “And new mom Twyla has no idea if her newborn child will suffer any post-traumatic stress from being born in the toilet…” and we all know that the baby is fine because every baby from the last 200 episodes has been fine and this is the part where I say out loud, “Oh, gee. I wonder if that mom’s gonna play this episode for this kid when he gets older and say, ‘See, honey? We put the story of how you were born in the toilet on TV for all the world to see’, ensuring that, if nothing else, he’ll be taunted by his peers and called names like “Poopy Boy” and “Toilet Throat”…’cause…ya know, kids can be cru-el and aren’t very sophisticated.

Anyway.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see…(wait for it)…a mouse. It darts behind the armoire and I begin to choke on that slice of pizza I was casually eating. Then, I scream.

“CONNOROHGODCRAPIT’SAMOUSEOHGODOHGODCONNORCONNORCONNOROHGODI’MGONNAPUKEIT’SAMOUSEOHCONNOR!!!!!”

Connor(14) comes barreling into the room and politely asks me to exit the area. Actually, I may have knocked him down in my enthusiasm to get out the door…but you get the idea. I bolted casually walk down the hall and frantically leap nonchalantly sit on the sofa in the living room.  Connor had closed the door behind him and had evidently decided he was going to catch this unwanted intruder. Unbeknownst to him, the little bugger made a hasty retreat back under my door and ran down the hall…directly towards me.

It was the scream heard ‘round the world.

I ran into the kitchen, crying and gagging and I flung myself onto the countertop…feet resting in the sink. Absent from this scenario was any hint of motherly restraint…for Connor does not fear this…this beast. This is my demon.

When I spied the thing scurrying across the living room…as if it was following me…I almost lost consciousness. At this point, I’m done. Game over. We’re moving…we’ll just live in the car…and I feel utterly betrayed by the one place where I should feel safe.

At this point, the thing disappears. Connor hunts and hunts…alternately moving furniture whilst reminding his mother-in-a-puddle that “it’s way more afraid of us”. After many, many minutes of looking, Connor proclaims the area secure…that it probably couldn’t take the noise level and booked next door for some peace and quiet.

After 20 minutes of hysteria, I began to settle down and had moved from my perch on the counter back to the couch. That’s when I saw it run out of my office. When I screamed, it ran back in.

Oh. My. God.

I flew out my front door in my bare feet and hammered on the landlord’s door. When he opened it, I yelled, “MOUSE. IT MUST DIE”, or something to that effect. He set traps and stuffed towels under my office door, assuring me that it would be “taken care of” by morning.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I told anyone that would listen about my mouse-mayhem at work the next day and I received little sympathy. Almost everyone looked at me like I’d lost my mind…being afraid of a helpless little mouse.

Although Connor initially claimed the mouse had been caught and disposed of by the landlord the next day, upon further interrogation questioning  I learned that the trap was, in fact, empty. I arrived home that evening with half a dozen mouse traps, four packages of blue poison pellets, several plug-in Sonic Pest Repellers and a healthy dose of dread.

The next morning, the traps were empty…but something had left a small piece of blue poison right next to my flip-flops. Almost as if to say, “I was gonna eat this but I decided to chew on the edge of your comforter instead. NAH-NAH-NAH-nah-nah-nah…” (Insert evil mouse-laugh here.)

That was several weeks ago…and since then, I haven’t seen any signs of anything.

Helpless, my ass. 

The World Begins Again

I have this theory about dirt. Actually, I consider it to be more of an ingenious epiphany...but whatever.

You know when you inadvertently receive a splatter of wet dirt (I believe you outdoorsy-types may refer to it as…mud) on your garment? Maybe it got there when you:

·         Side-swiped the dirty fender of your car whilst misjudging the distance needed to properly walk around your car, versus haphazardly walking into it…or

·         It randomly appeared after you enthusiastically dumped an entire gallon of water into your potted plant in a vain attempt to compensate for not watering it for a month…or

·         You have no freakin’ idea how it got there and actually wasn’t even sure it was mud until you’d delicately sampled a small portion of it and determined that it was definitely not pudding, Oreo dust or brownie batter.

Okay, people…there’s an epiphany on tap. Stay with me. No-one honestly cares how the dirt got there…you could be a closet puddle-jumper for all we care. The burning question is: what do you do now? You could moisten a towel and rub vigorously at the offending matter…but that will only serve to grind the organic stain deeper into your garment. The second option makes a lot more sense: let it dry and then casually brush it away.

Voila, kablam! (Picture Kathryn making wild magician-like gestures here.)

This is a clear example of why it’s sometimes better to leave crap alone to see if it’ll go away.

Yeah, I know. I’m like the Dalai Lama…with the addition of a full head of hair and the exclusion of all that bothersome spiritual serenity.  

So, it’s been a smidge over a year since I began my efforts to squeeze the same amount of social media/blogging/visiting/commenting I’d managed prior to the full-time-work gig and we all know how well that’s working out.

I wonder how the Dalai Lama would handle this.

Dalai Lama: “Hummmmmm. Ummmmmmm. Find the inner wisdom that lies beneath you…release the expectations of yesterday and embrace the knowledge that your tomorrows are celebrations…brimming with endless potential, blessings and dreams. Ummmmm……”

Me: “Really? Are you kidding me?? That’s the biggest load of poopoo I’ve ever heard. You can’t be serious.”

Okay, so maybe Dalai’s way is simply not the Kathrynville way.

I know that my absence here must reek of indifference…but nothing could be further from the truth. Autism, motherhood and the painstaking effort to not co-mingle my personal-internet-world with my professional-internet-one is kicking. My. Ass.

My Conscience: “YOU NEED TO GET ONLINE.”

Me: “Can’t. Too tired.”

My Conscience: “YOU MUST CHECK YOUR EMAIL.”

Me: “I want to. It’s too much. I’m online all. Freakin’. Day. My butt hurts.”

My Conscience: “DO IT.”

Me: “Please hold.”

My Conscience: “HURRY UP. WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Me: “Bite me. YOU do it. You’re not the boss of me.”

And so it goes. I believe we’re moving in the right direction…and I believe that ever so faintly, I can make out the light at the end of the tunnel.

Fingers crossed.

Sending you love,

Definitely Not Nina

They say you can tell a lot about a person based on their Google searches. If this is true, I figure I’ve already got one arm in that straightjacket, so I may as well share. It’s not as if you haven’t already formed a strong opinion of me. (Insert smirk here):

(Random) Sampling of Kathryn’s Google Searches

As you can see by the above, I was deeply troubled by what appeared to be a dark spot on my arm, which resembled either a snowman or the state of California, depending on the angle.

 Ah. Problem solved.

This was a particularly frusttttttttratttttttting day. Turns out that one should never eat a sesame bagel over one’s keyboard. ‘Nuff said.

Nina Garcia

I have harbored a longing for Nina Garcia’s golden, honey-colored, perfectly-highlighted hair for quite a while now. I gave it some serious thought and I came to this conclusion:

“I’ll bet I can do that. I mean, sure…she probably spends hundreds of dollars at some pricey salon in which she spends the lion’s share of a day parked in some colorist’s chair to create this coveted look but really. How hard can it be? I’ll bet if I concentrate really hard and download a photo of her lovely locks on my phone as a guide, I can probably re-create that look for a fraction of the money! And probably in a quarter of the time!”

Yeah. At first, I thought it was maybe a light auburn. Then maybe more of a…copper? But no. It was orange. Craaaaaap. 

Two gentle colorings later, I’m still trying to remove the traces of neon pumpkin from my hair. Let’s face it…there’s only meant to be one Nina. And neon-pumpkin is a color better suited to just about anything other than someone’s hair.

Honestly, I didn’t even think “amnesiatic” was a word. Word says it isn’t…Google allowed it.  Insomnia can be maddening…and can cause one to have diminished brain function, including (but not limited to) when one thinks one is awake. This observation is based on an odd conversation I had with my son Taylor (19) the other morning:

Taylor: “Mom. How weird were you last night?”

Me: “Um. I don’t know how to answer that. Was I ‘Mom weird’ or the usual ‘generally weird’?”

Taylor: “You were weird, even for you. Don’t you remember? You were throwing things from the drawer of your nightstand at the closed door to your room, all while tucked in bed. Evidently, this was your bizarre way of calling me.”

Me: “I did no such thing. You’re such a liar.”

At this point, Taylor shows me the hazardous pile of debris on the floor behind my door. I spy a plastic hair clip, some Chap stick, a quarter and two packs of Juicy Fruit gum.

Uh oh. This can’t be good.

Taylor: “When I opened your door and asked why you didn’t get out of bed, you said you couldn’t stand up because you were sleeping.”

Me: (Eyes wide) “No way. I do not remember this.”

Taylor: “Shocking. Then you went on to explain how the lunch truck at your office makes these killer chili dogs.”

Me: “Oh! They really do. They make them with chopped onions and tomatoes…you would love them.”

Taylor: “I know, Mom. That’s what you said.”

Me: “I guess I was hungry.”

Taylor: “Ya think? All that talk of chili dogs made me hungry, so we got dressed and you drove to the diner to grab a bite.” 

Me: “WHAT??!”

Taylor: “Kidding. This may be a good time for you to cancel that new computer you ordered on your phone, though.”

Me: (Squints) “You’re messing with me. Tell me you’re messing with me…”

This is the part where he walks out of the room.

What about you? Any (ahem) interesting searches on your computer??

(Hope everyone is well. Another meeting on the board for today. I’m still clinging to the hope that life will calm down soon. Miss you guys. Love you. Mean it.)

xo

Melting (Pot?)

I’ve decided we’re long overdue for a seriously-lighthearted self-interview with yours truly.

And don’t even bother telling me that I have redundant oxymoron taking place above, ‘cause honestly, Scarlett??  I don’t give a damn.

Interviewer: “So, Kathryn….hot enough for ya?”

Kathryn: “Ha. I totally didn’t see that coming.”

I: “I know, right? I thought I’d dive right in with the hard-hitting questions.”

K: “Okay.”

I: “Wait. What?”

K: “Ask the question.”

I: “I already did. Let the record reflect that this witness is hostile.”

K: “WTF?”

I: “Oh. Sorry. I’ve been watching Drop Dead Diva. Good show. She’s a lawyer, you know.”

K: (Frowns) “I’m aware…but it’s irrelevant. Focus, Interviewer.”

I: “We prefer ‘Translation Specialist’ or ‘Procurer of Intelligence for Public Consumption’.”

K: (Stares. Frowns.) “Who the hell is ‘we’?”

I: “That would encompass myself and all the other voices in your head. Recent additions to the group would include Tim, Heidi and Suze.”

Tim Gunn: “MAKE IT WORK, PEOPLE!”

Heidi Klum: “AUF WIEDERSEHEN!”

Suze Orman: “DENIED!”

K: (Winces) “Crap. How the hell did so many people get in there? It does explain why I’ve put on a few pounds…”

Clinton Kelly: “Uh-huh. I’m sure that 'emergency' stash of peanut butter Lindor Truffles you’ve been popping from the very back corner of the second drawer on the right side of your desk has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

K: “Clinton. Inside voice, dammit. And it's still lame to use 'air-quotes'...I don't care who you are. ”

Heidi: “There’s chocolate?! GUTEN TAG…HALLO!”

Suze: “APPROVED!! Out of my way. Comin' through...”

Kathryn: “Dammit! This is a test, people. There is no chocolate. Had there actually been chocolate, you would have each received advance notification via email marked ‘High Priority’ with return receipt requested. Again, there is no chocolate. This concludes our test. Kudos for not trampling each other in your zest to reach said (fictional) chocolate.”

I: “Who are you talking to?”

K: (Sighs)

I: “I’ll bet now you’re wishing you’d answered my initial question, huh? Don’t bother showing me out. I know the way. Even though you and I both know I'll never really go.”