tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63707630147223269022024-03-18T20:02:47.710-07:00From the Inside...Outkathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.comBlogger603125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-37132209276392296052013-09-02T15:06:00.000-07:002013-09-02T15:06:01.842-07:00Implode<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm assuming you'd like to hear the story of my first trip into my new home state, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Any objections?? Speak now....(**crickets**)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay good. Here we go:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was a Tuesday. I flew Virgin America and had an uneventful flight from NY to CA:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In hindsight, that may or may not have been smoke from wildfires...at the time though, all I kept thinking was "oooooh....pretty mountains!"</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When we landed in LA, all I could think was, "Where are the palm trees? Wait, is that--I think I see them!!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Even though I've been MIA from InsideOut for a while, I'm lucky to still have my celebrity buds standing by to help with the messy disembarking, decompressing, ear-popping and endless claiming of one's bags. And so, I was elated to see my good friend George waiting for me in the terminal:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah, I know....he looks annoyed. That's because he tried to meet me at the gate and therefore had to navigate security...and all they <i>really </i>wanted was his autograph. Whatever. Being famous comes with some inconveniences, right? It's not <i>my </i>fault.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We then had to walk REALLY FAST to the baggage terminal, as if we were being chased by wild boar! I have no idea what that was about but I spent the entire walk chatting at his back about my uneventful flight, my lunch and how airport security had confiscated the hotel-sized grape jam that had mysteriously appeared in my bag.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When we reached the baggage carousel, George immediately sat down, blending into the crowd and started casually flipping through some newspaper. I noticed he'd donned a baseball cap emblazoned with the slogan, "I don't need a recipe. I'm Italian!" on it. This is when I'd realized I was on my own retrieving my bags.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">S-l-i-d-e.....<b>CRASH!!!</b>.....round and round they go. I'm waiting patiently at first...people-watching, "Is that Gaga? Nope...just an 8-year-old girl. Is that the guy who played the mean guy on The Office? He had an unusual name...'Snowblower'? 'Hail'? Now I remember...it was 'Rainn-something'? No, wait. That man looks to be in his 80's...never mind."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All of the above took place over an extended period of time and I suddenly realized that there were no bags left to claim. Now, my bag was MIA, as was George</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">...who'd decided to head for the airport bar to wait out was was sure to be a laborious lost-luggage process.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I dejectedly headed into the Virgin America office, eyes darting to the corners of the room for any sign of my black, overstuffed bag. The woman behind the desk inquired as to my name and upon hearing it, she replied (somewhat snippily), "Yes. He's bringing its contents to you now."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Its contents? As in....<i>the inside</i> of said bag? WTF??</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Sure enough, this guy rounds the corner by the baggage carousel and in his hand he is half-carrying, half-dragging a huge, clear plastic bag containing <i>all my stuff</i>. Prominently displayed are my undies, cosmetics and what I realize is an inordinate amount of Q-tips...all jumbled and mish-mashed together....quite the opposite I might add, to the neat, organized packing it took me two days to accomplish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I heard a tapping coming from above and glanced up to see George, attempting an Oscar-winning performance in his efforts to not burst into uncontrolled gales of laughter...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">and failing miserably. I'll deal with you later, GC.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I turn to the airport guy:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Kathryn: "Seriously? WTH?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Airport Guy: (Sheepish) "Yeah. I know....go figure."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">K: "What the hell happened? It's not Samsonite, ya know. You can't be all throwing it around like it's made of Kryptonite, or something."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A.G.: "That's Superman. Superman has Kryptonite. You're thinking of the monkey who threw the luggage around in those ancient teevee commercials."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">K: "I DON'T CARE! What happened to my luggage?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A.G.: (Sniffs) "It seems to have imploded. No-one knows how or why these things happen...they just do. Kind of a freak of nature....like heat lightning...or those sneakers designed to look like human feet."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">K: "So...with no human intervention whatsoever, this piece of perfectly good luggage just...'imploded'...out of the blue, throwing my unmentionables all willy-nilly?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A.G.: "Uh huh. And an inordinate amount of Q-tips as well, I might add."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">K: "Where's the suitcase itself?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A.G.: "Oh, it's in there. See the bits of black material? I think I got it all."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At this point, I sat on the floor next to my plastic-bag-luggage and wondered how the hell I was going to exit the airport with this thing in tow. This goes waaaay beyond embarrassing...even for me. By this time, the area was virtually deserted and George decided to join me to survey the damages. When we opened the bag, we discovered that miraculously, my black bag was still intact....just inside out. After many tugs and pulls and other sophisticated suitcase maneuvers, we managed to right it and after several tries, we even got the zipper to close after dumping all my crap back into it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We stood up, released the handle that allowed my bag to roll out the door and as George handed me a coffee cup (actually filled with a vodka tonic, which made all forgiven), he smiled...and said, "Welcome to Cali, Kathryn!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The next day, I replaced the luggage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Happy Labor Day, all!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">xoxo</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-43828572048521417862013-08-31T13:45:00.001-07:002013-08-31T13:45:45.230-07:00CALIFORNIA!<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, faithful readers....it's me. On this last day of August, 2013...with no furniture delivered as yet, my head spinning from the enormity of what I've managed to accomplish over the last month and my fingers poised over my old, slow, yet amazingly faithful 2006 laptop (Connor (16) has commandeered my beloved MAC, sighting mental anguish as his computer is stuck on the moving truck), I shout these words to anyone who's still listening:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>I'VE MOVED TO CALIFORNIA!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyone who knows me well knows I've got a bit of a thing for anything tropical.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The above three photos were taken from the hotel we stayed at in Long Beach, while I pounded the pavement looking for a rental I could imagine calling home. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Seriously. From my perspective, what's not to like? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hadn't settled on a home by the time I returned to New York but that didn't stop me. I booked the movers anyway and figured, "What the hell. It'll all come together. Right?" Two days before the movers arrived, I locked in the rental. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From that point, everything went into warp speed. Connor (16) and I arrived with whatever we could fit into a suitcase (or four) and thanks to Ikea, Target and CVS, we've managed a semblance of normalcy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Between working remotely, registering Connor for school and remembering all the people who still don't know I've left the east coast, I know I have a lot of work yet to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For those who prefer a visual, here's what a 1-week-old living room looks like:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdntOWB7E1t2k7bNwvBl2nTAEQave9cJ854eDgqexnKzWHCebTg1YfDuXlqd6wiW8FCvxLhLQ5MjDsZ8wFXOPYG9Co-7rPkyWZxJg6FjNnqqm7V0S7ufKDLCntHDrhv406TAmRDGRBFA/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdntOWB7E1t2k7bNwvBl2nTAEQave9cJ854eDgqexnKzWHCebTg1YfDuXlqd6wiW8FCvxLhLQ5MjDsZ8wFXOPYG9Co-7rPkyWZxJg6FjNnqqm7V0S7ufKDLCntHDrhv406TAmRDGRBFA/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Homey, right? That black monstrosity will be Connor's new computer station...built by yours truly (with absolutely no help from said Connor...just saying) but we don't want to finish assembling it in his room till the big furniture arrives, to make it easier on the movers. The brightly-colored lawn chairs served as desk chairs for about a week, until I thought I'd lose my mind (and my back...and damage my tushie). I broke down and bought 2 folding chairs....aaaahhhh...much better. And that red cooler? That was our <u>fridge </u>for 5 days. Evidently, Californians are very attached to their refrigerators....who knew? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway. Here we are. This place is bright, clean and already feels like home. I haven't felt truly happy in my surroundings in New York for many years now and I'm hoping this will be the beginning of a whole new chapter in Kathrynville. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm sorry I couldn't clue you guys in sooner to my dreams of moving out here but there are some who visit here for reasons other than to be kind and say hello and I didn't feel comfortable announcing before I was ready. As with many things in life, it's.....complicated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With new beginnings come new opportunities....and I'm planning to rejoin my beloved friends in Bogville as part of my new, improved life. I'll leave you with my very first purchase to signify the beginning of my now (tropical life):</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauwVyB_oM0xPcX9fPa1aJR0M4Lpyt8QVGfFsyu1wVGEAHrq7T_yYYgm1wzE5exnJrRwzTshHm3zbWXhCmJe2SKns9vjf_MMUH86pKM6i99PZJCtAG-aA_n1pQ7MQNZvyMD2tVC-goWlw/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauwVyB_oM0xPcX9fPa1aJR0M4Lpyt8QVGfFsyu1wVGEAHrq7T_yYYgm1wzE5exnJrRwzTshHm3zbWXhCmJe2SKns9vjf_MMUH86pKM6i99PZJCtAG-aA_n1pQ7MQNZvyMD2tVC-goWlw/s640/photo+1+(2).JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, people....it's a dwarf orange tree! Something I have <i>always </i>wanted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, enjoy the holiday weekend, dudes and dude-ettes.....wishing you sunshine, balmy breezes and the heavenly smell of barbecues!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">xoxo</span></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-68472134063528465212012-12-23T17:49:00.002-08:002012-12-23T17:49:45.102-08:00Eliza the Inspirational Elf
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PuvrAaZQV3guSADDiAc2NZPjOHTy1B2HB_eUe8B0OpNcj4b9lt7VOpk77XMfgpx5an0-RNzHSMcMRZjr8W4XromEyWo98cJa6B7GnHoMZN2-ziOVbF70_8-j_fMfuam7rOL2LPMW6fw/s1600/santa.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PuvrAaZQV3guSADDiAc2NZPjOHTy1B2HB_eUe8B0OpNcj4b9lt7VOpk77XMfgpx5an0-RNzHSMcMRZjr8W4XromEyWo98cJa6B7GnHoMZN2-ziOVbF70_8-j_fMfuam7rOL2LPMW6fw/s1600/santa.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I realized the other day that I needed to update my 2012
list to Santa. I freaked out for a sec, thinking that it <i>had</i> to be too late…but then I figured, “No prob. I’ll just shoot
the old geezer a quick email. He’d probably be impressed with my ingenuity and thoughtfulness in offering him an updated option to the old-fashioned physicality of <i>unwrapping</i> an actual letter. Besides, I’m
sure I’m not the only one who keeps losing her crappy letter opener.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I thought you might like to see how this dialogue played
out:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>From: Kathryn<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>To: Mr. Santa
Claus<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Subject: A
last-minute plea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Dear Santa,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>I apologize for
the delay in sending out this request to you. I’m sure you’re extremely busy,
so I won’t keep you. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind adding to your sleigh
some “Lancôme Resolution Eye Refill-3X™ Triple-Action Renewal Anti-Wrinkle Eye
Cream”. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>I’d really
appreciate it!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Happy Holidays-<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Kathryn<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">From: Mr. Santa Claus<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">To: Kathryn<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Subject: Re: Re: A last-minute plea<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Dear Kathryn,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Thank you for your recent email and subsequent eleventh-hour
request for </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">”Lancôme
Resolution Eye Refill-3X™ Triple-Action Renewal Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream”. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><b><span style="color: red;">I’m afraid Mr.
Claus is out of the office at this time and will not return until January 7<sup>th</sup>.
I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for a response. But thank you for your
desire to add even more strife to our already crushingly insane schedule, all
in an effort to satisfy your vain, selfish need for perfect skin.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Eliza the Elf/V.P./Insensitive Last Ditch Requests/North
Pole<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>To: Eliza the <s>Bitch</s>
Elf<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>From: Kathryn<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Subject: Re: Re: Re:
A last-minute plea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Whoa, whoa, whoa! Why the
hostility, Eliza? Shouldn’t you be focusing on needy kids, or that lengthy
beach break you guys get in January to relieve some of that stress? I mean,
yikes…it’s a teeny bottle of eye cream, for God’s sake. I get mine at the
Macy’s counter, if that helps. First floor, next to the Estee Lauder counter? Across
from the MAC display. I promose that the
reindeer-police won’t even notice a tip in the register when you add it to the sleigh. It’s
not like I’m asking for a freakin’ pony. Lighten up. It’s Christmas.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Cheers,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Kathryn/Requestor
of </b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">”Lancôme Resolution Eye Refill-3X™ Triple-Action Renewal
Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream.”</span><b><span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">To: Kathryn<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">From: Eliza the Elf<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">CC: Mr. Santa Claus</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: A last-minute plea<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Kathryn,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">When you strike out the word “bitch”, it does not prevent me
from being able to see it. I have cc’d Santa on this email. That should give
you something to think about for next Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Macy’s is out of your </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">”Lancôme Resolution Eye Refill-3X™ Triple-Action Renewal
Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream.” </span><b><span style="color: red;">It’s on back-order and there is no expected re-stock date.
And before you even think of asking, <u>NO</u>, my team <u>cannot</u> scout
every possible location in an attempt to find you your freakin’ eye cream. Try
replacing some of that wine with water every now and then and while you’re at
it, try increasing the resolution on your monitor to 200% so you’ll stop all that
squinting…that ought to help. Other than that, I don’t know what to tell you. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Yes, it’s Christmas. Please remember: it’s what’s on the
inside that counts. You’ve got to just let it out. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Wow. That would be a great title for something,
don’t you think? </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">“From the Inside…Out”.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">What do you think, Kathryn?</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">In Christmas Spirit,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="color: red;">Elf Eliza<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>To: Eliza the Elf<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>From: Kathryn<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Subject: Re: Re:
Re: Re: Re: A last-minute plea<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>This recipient is
out of the office and will return on December 26<sup>th</sup>. She’s spending the holiday surrounded by
those she loves and is happily willing to create a few more smile
lines in the process. She's realized it’s a small price to pay.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>(Thanks for the
reminder, Eliza.)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Wishing everyone the
warm comfort of peace we all so deeply deserve this holiday season. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Love you. Mean it.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>xoxo</b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-2445456900514302672012-10-01T17:17:00.000-07:002012-10-01T17:17:26.530-07:00There She Goes AgainTAP. TAP. TAP.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">IS THIS BLOG ON?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<b>Lame Excuse #1: </b>I lost my password for the blog and couldn't log in.<br />
<b>In Actuality: </b>I lost my freakin' mind.<br />
<br />
<b>Lame Excuse #2: </b>I could swear I'd received an email from someone saying that the Internet would be closed for....(we hear the rustling of pretend papers)...like, three months.<br />
<b>In Actuality: </b>I lost my freakin' mind.<br />
<br />
<b>Lame Excuse #3: </b>I've spent the past three months traveling around the world on my private jet with George Clooney and they don't allow computers in international air space.<br />
<b>In Actuality: </b> This is completely, totally, 100% untrue.<br />
<br />
Hello, my loves. How I've missed you!<br />
<br />
I was gone so long, I was afraid to look. At my inbox (86 unread messages. 86!)...at the comments from my last spiderweb-laden, antiquated post. (I'm still annoyed that I had to lose the comments showing up on the main page. Hey! Maybe they've fixed that since I've been gone! Huh.)<br />
<br />
I've worked. A lot. Now it slowed down...just a smidge...and I found myself thinking, "Remember when you wrote just for <i>you</i>? Oh and also for those poor, neglected subscribers on Kindle?? Remember???"<br />
<br />
(Hangs head)<br />
<br />
The most self-centered, egotistical thought just popped into my mind: "I can't imagine how they've survived without me."<br />
<br />
Yikes. Did I just say that out loud? I promise you that I did not mean that....and I will seek therapy first thing in the morning.<br />
<br />
Now I find myself wondering if there's an App for that. I mean, maybe I can just download a PDF and have Siri read me the riot act about taking people for granted while she sternly reminds me that, contrary to my innermost thoughts, I am <i>not</i> the center of the freakin' universe, all whilst I'm comfortably commuting to or from work, in my chariot. I mean, my car. You know, kind of a "get over yourself" book on tape? Surely iTunes must have that.<br />
<br />
Siri! Set a reminder: Look into self-help book on part-time narcissism...'cause I'm not really all that bad. Oh and look up the meaning of the word DENIAL while you're at it.<br />
<br />
I know you've all just plowed ahead...living your fabulous lives without me. I understand...really I do. I mean, what choice did you have?<br />
<br />
I could say that I'm back for good (yeah, we've all heard that one), that I've got it from here (this song is getting old), that I miss each and every one of you with every fiber of my being (insert collective eye roll here, followed by a deep, affectionate sigh).<br />
<br />
As I've come to realize, I am my own worst enemy.<br />
<br />
But you've got to give me credit for tenacity...<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-51458293122116704732012-06-09T19:35:00.000-07:002012-06-09T19:35:49.932-07:00Damn You, Responsibility.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m so sorry. These words sound hollow…even to me. How
can something I adore so much (this place…and by association, each and every
one of you) be so difficult to lovingly maintain?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Anyone??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">*<i>crickets chirping…</i>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So here’s the poop, peeps. This is by no means an excuse
for my absence…let’s just call it a <i>defense</i>,
if we may.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Judge Judy: “Sure, Kathryn. I’m just so damned glad to
see you. I will allow it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Kathryn: “Oh. Wow. Thanks, Jude…I mean, <i>your honor</i>. Do you have any peppermint
candies in that secret pocket in your robe? My mouth’s a little dry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Judge Judy: “Sorry. They’re in the robe I use for <i>real</i> hearings. Proceed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Ouch</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Anyway. You know I’m a single mom with three sons. You know my eldest has
autism and needs a stable environment to live and work, requiring a full-time
advocate to figure out how to facilitate improvement in his less-than-ideal
living conditions. Evidently, that “full-time advocate” is….well, me. Unless
someone’s volunteering? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Anyone?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">**<i>More crickets
chirping…</i>**<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That’s okay. My life, my issues. I know we’ve all got something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My middle son (Taylor) has just finished his 2<sup>nd</sup>
year of college, is now officially home with all of his <s>crap</s> stuff and
is <i>just now</i> learning to drive, got
his license yesterday and plans to drive himself the 5 hours north to his new school
in September to get his bachelors degree. Why he is so against the idea of my
wrapping him in a little bubble wrap for added protection and
accompanying him on the drive so he’ll have backup in case he sneezes and gets snot all over
the steering wheel, I’ll never know. He knows I always have Kleenex
tucked somewhere.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You’re dismissed, Judge. I hope that robe can double as a
tissue ‘cause mine is now officially unavailable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My youngest (the infamous Connor) is finishing up 9<sup>th</sup>
grade and can tend to be more than a little crabby. He’s in the midst of finals
and he keeps calling everyone a “nord”, which I’m thinking is a cross between a
nerd and a Nordic person. The connection is lost on me...evidently making me
even more of a nord.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m working full-time, toggling between our DCH auto
group’s Toyota and now our Acura location. Double the Twitter, double
the Facebook, double the compliance/website maintenance/feeds/reputation
management/meetings, meetings and meetings about the meetings. When I finally arrive
home, I hit the computer and split my evenings between one part-time job and
two freelance gigs. It’s busy…it’s challenging…it’s downright intimidating. I
feel blessed to have the work when I know so many don’t. I feel guilty that I’m
not a better cook/housekeeper for the boys but according to them, the most
important thing that I can give them is the internet. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Score!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have 716 unopened emails presently in my inbox. Many
are garbage…just as many are not. I know what needs to be done…but until then, my Band-Aid
is to create sub-folders with the stuff that simply cannot be ignored, i.e.:
Taylor’s college tuition paperwork or Connor’s required physical in order to
enter 10<sup>th</sup> grade. I chip away at the rest…but as fast as I hit "delete"...well, you know. And, I don't want to miss anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lest you think that I’m this disorganized, stressed-out hot
mess every single freakin’ day (I secretly am), know this: Recently, (the beginning of April is
still considered recent, right?) my two sisters persuaded me to take a 3-day
weekend and head to the Cape for a mini getaway to celebrate my birthday, life
and sisterhood. But mainly my birthday. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We stayed with our longtime and dear family friends, Mr. and Mrs. Copp,
at their incredible oceanfront home. In my humble opinion, nothing restores the
spirit better than the gentle roar of the surf and I am once again reminded why
oceanfront real estate deserves that hefty price tag. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The only negative to staying with the Copps is the steep
staircase that stands between you and digging your toes into the sand of that luscious
beach. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Their staircase consists of 77 steps, I believe…and comes complete with three landings, to allow one to drop your beach stuff and take a moment to drink in the view.</span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And so it came to pass on our first night there that one of the
three sisters decides to turn in early…as does our most gracious hosts. This
leaves my sister Kerry and I to fend for ourselves. It is a moonless night and
after several cocktails, we decide to go for a walk. Realizing we may not have
the full </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">capacity</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> to walk down 77
stairs to the beach, we responsibly head out the door that leads to the street.
After walking at a brisk pace for what felt like half a mile (in reality, it
was more like 100 feet), we boldly announced, "Those stairs are totally doable!" and we gleefully </span><s style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">stumble</s><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, </span><s style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">stagger</s><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, tiptoed through
the front door, up the stairs, across the living room and slipped through the French
doors that lead to the back deck…finding our way to the gated
landing at the very tippity top of those stairs. The illumination from the deck
was extremely dim from this vantage point…and looking down, it was a big black
hole. Kerry chose this moment to solemnly remind me that she’s deathly afraid
of heights and that this staircase has been the cause of many a terrifying
nightmare going back as far as her early childhood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Really? <i>Now</i> you tell me this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But she doesn’t want to turn back…and she’s holding my
hand and my arm in a death grip as she takes a deep breath and tells me to open
the gate and says, “<i>let’s do this</i>”
which is already becoming a challenge because it’s difficult to open the clasp
on the gate with only one hand and I’m thinking I’m losing the feeling in my
arm from her vise-like grip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Slowly…step by cautious step, we find our way to the
first landing, where Kerry has taken on some breathing technique that reminds
me of childbirth (“<i>hee-hee-hee-hee</i>”) and
I’m wondering if I could leave her there and run back up for one more martini
before we hit the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">By the time we hit the second landing, we were in the
midst of a heated debate, with Kerry insisting there was a definitive
sway to the stairs…and me spouting some bullshit about the
psychologically-proven “sway factor” (as it’s known in the industry) whereas
someone who’s consumed several shots of tequila, coupled with acrophobia, married
with a pitch-black evening and 77 steps will produce the <i>essence</i> of swaying, whereby none actually exists. I’m not sure she
could even hear my b.s. explanation over her “hee-hee-hee-hee”
breathing…and by the time we hit the next (and final) landing area, it occurred
to me that we were still going to have to climb back up these stairs,
unless we slept on the beach…which was starting to look like a stellar option. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After pausing again, we stand up and prepare for the
final leg of our mission and as I extend my hand toward the latch on the
gate, Kerry asks me how much further I think it’ll be. I can hear the roar of
the waves below us…but I can’t see much of anything. I imagine myself as a
raccoon…or maybe a sloth?…in a vain attempt to create some kind of night vision
as I slowly rotate my head first to the left, then to the right…back to the
left and then to the right…trying to differentiate between light and shadow…or in
this case, pitch-black from…not so much. I’m sensing a span of white from the
beach below…but shouldn’t I be picking up on something dark as well? Something
like maybe, I don’t know…the <i>stairs
directly below me</i>, for instance? Kerry can just make out my head-cocking,
head-swaying movement and she starts to laugh as she simultaneously swings open
the gate and prepares to step down…into NOTHING. That’s the moment I realize
that the stairs…literally…aren’t there. With a shriek, I lunge towards her,
grab a handful of her jacket and jerk her backward, sending both of us toppling
to the floor of the deck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She’s like, “WTF?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m laughing this maniacal laugh and I gasp, “No stairs. There’s
<i>no freakin’ stairs</i>. OhmyGod…they didn’t
tell us they haven’t put in the #&*%@ stairs.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Here’s the view the next morning from the beach. Every
house on this strip pulls up the very bottom portion of their stairs for the winter;
otherwise the ocean at high tide just sweeps it all away. Evidently, we would have
known this had we thought to ask…our hosts also felt it would have been fairly
obvious had we attempted our descent during (reasonable) daylight hours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, we survived…and took the longer, windy way down to the
beach for the remainder of our stay. It was positively beautiful.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Tb_HX8OsGiaY6sCUb4q6hD_8_3r7ABL3N2loebjhhtUFIfXywG5yL2GM2_KmEKmm-Opo0-U68Tc2XCvoH4Fk2ozTkWTWj1wpGTVT-gxsjVAvhnlovGTYATKkLogzqy_dcpHqsCq3mgg/s1600/IMG_6149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Tb_HX8OsGiaY6sCUb4q6hD_8_3r7ABL3N2loebjhhtUFIfXywG5yL2GM2_KmEKmm-Opo0-U68Tc2XCvoH4Fk2ozTkWTWj1wpGTVT-gxsjVAvhnlovGTYATKkLogzqy_dcpHqsCq3mgg/s640/IMG_6149.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I hope everyone is well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">From my heart to yours, I wish you health, prosperity and
love…and some much-needed time to appreciate it all- </span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">xo</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-18335393000464311492012-03-26T17:35:00.000-07:002012-03-26T17:35:46.034-07:00Give 'Em Hell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRSOmNv0oYBan2_N1B1asuGjGzqSEK-PrBbAgkp-3LceFFQHUJFDabK-mlEbAC5rcICGvA_oy57sBOkffSJsBbbHiIHuZMPQ8qkRVadB_tkL5XJ2Yk9hv3nZ-_ANkSORomrGE-oavQZg/s1600/mixed-up-numbers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRSOmNv0oYBan2_N1B1asuGjGzqSEK-PrBbAgkp-3LceFFQHUJFDabK-mlEbAC5rcICGvA_oy57sBOkffSJsBbbHiIHuZMPQ8qkRVadB_tkL5XJ2Yk9hv3nZ-_ANkSORomrGE-oavQZg/s320/mixed-up-numbers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In the dream, I’m having a cocktail. This is precisely why I am unaware that this is a dream…everything seems perfectly normal. Then I happen to glance at a clock. It reads 1:00…and realization dawns. One o’clock? Like, in the afternoon?? Don’t I have a JOB? Oh and a KID. Oh, CRAP…did I leave Connor somewhere?? I grab my phone and try to dial but the numbers are all jumbled…and WTF is wrong with this freakin’ phone?! Then I hear the faint melody of a familiar song…and I’m straining to make it out. And I think, “Is that Foreigner?”<br />
<br />
This is when I wake. My eyes focus on the red numerals projected onto my ceiling: <span style="color: red;"><b>6:27</b></span>. The volume of Foreigner’s “Urgent” is increasing…and I wonder (not for the first time) how the conversation must have gone around that brainstorming session when someone said, “We need to <i>slowly </i>increase the volume. Start off <i>low</i>…and <i>work our way up</i> to annoyingly loud. Too many morons are stroking out because they neglected to turn down the volume before they set the alarm.” I imagine everyone around the table nodding knowingly.<br />
<br />
I stumble out of bed as I punch the button to silence the music. I start down the hall towards the heavenly aroma in the kitchen, vaguely aware of the sliver of light under Connor’s door that tells me he’s up and about…but I’m incapable of speech till I get that first sip of coffee.<br />
<br />
On the return trip to my room, I knock on Connor’s door and take the responding grunt as an invitation to enter. It is not…but that doesn’t stop me from pushing open the door. He’s watching I Love Lucy and eating a bowl of Lucky Charms. I casually note that the milk has taken on an odd shade of purple.<br />
<br />
Me: “I had that stupid dream again. You know, the one where I think I left you somewhere and my phone’s on acid.”<br />
<br />
Connor: (Eyes never leaving the screen) “Huh.”<br />
<br />
Me: “I always get this sense that I’m far away, like it’ll take half the day to get home.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Um.”<br />
<br />
Me: “And I just <i>know </i>it’s a weekday and I’m missing work. But I can’t call anyone because of the trippy phone.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Cool story, Mom. Tell it again…”<br />
<br />
Me: “Why are you still here at 6:52?”<br />
<br />
And I watch his face. For a split second there’s panic, then his eyes settle on the actual time…prominently displayed on the cable box, right underneath Lucy. He has a full ten minutes left to go. His features relax and settle back into that look of 15-year-old boredom I’ve grown to accept….but I think I see a ghost of a smile on his lips.<br />
<br />
Connor: “Way to go, Mom. That wasn’t very <i>nurturing </i>of you…”<br />
<br />
And I roll my eyes in mock-exasperation as I’m pulling his door closed behind me…but not before muttering, “I have to pee. Have a good day.”<br />
<br />
And he groans.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-4442720461060765572012-01-29T19:44:00.000-08:002012-01-29T19:44:27.564-08:00Star Light, Star Bright<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Star light…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Star bright…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>First star I see
tonight…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>I wish I may…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>I wish I might…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Survive this rough
patch and find some time in my life to write.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdGjwEYhBQSGBAxXTaeRDEiTN76sPqLL5CgkvhnGNFkwd52OVWC_bUwjxmyvPUkdIitZad6jA7ja0MCg20mpoO_vJJFTPxgFH52W56w58m0vqlez5JnAcZMM9DlA6KWThAOo8LuOUZOY/s1600/IMG_6111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdGjwEYhBQSGBAxXTaeRDEiTN76sPqLL5CgkvhnGNFkwd52OVWC_bUwjxmyvPUkdIitZad6jA7ja0MCg20mpoO_vJJFTPxgFH52W56w58m0vqlez5JnAcZMM9DlA6KWThAOo8LuOUZOY/s640/IMG_6111.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This was the view out my kitchen window at dusk. For
those of you professionals (Kimberly, Lynn, Smoog), you can probably tell that
I am uber-adept at holding the camera still. I took five shots…and they all basically
look the same. If you need some audio to accompany it, just imagine: <i>Click</i>. “Crap.” <i>Click</i>. “Dammit!” <i>Click</i>. “Seriously??”
That white thing that looks like a connect-the-dot doodle is actually the first
star to peek through the clear winter sky.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, now we’ve determined that I’m a photographer-extraordinaire
and that I can rhyme. But you already knew this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For the record, I’ve done very little writing anywhere.
The last article I wrote at work for the monthly Toyota newsletter was entitled
“Anew” and it was all about the stinkbugs that have found a winter home
somewhere in our building. Yes, I wrote an entire article about stinkbugs. The
worst part was that Toyota compliance initially kicked it back with a “WTF?
This isn’t about cars” knee-jerk response. Evidently, they have software that
scans the articles for anything questionable and some computer red-flagged the
word “stink”…like, 23 times. Go figure. Fortunately for me, when an actual
person read it they thought it was pretty funny and I received the green light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So, I work. I come home and I work some more. Then I go
to sleep and do it all again. The closest thing I’ve had to socialization in
ages is playing Words with Friends with a few coworkers and a guy I met at a
conference in Albany. He’s kicking my butt…and that’s not an easy thing to do, given
my love of words and all. (Anyone who’s interested in a game can find me as
user Kathrynville. Feel free to bring it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The situation with my son is…awful. If I haven’t said it
enough, autism sucks. Autism has come to define my entire world, as well as my
son’s…it’s pervasive and all-consuming. I feel very alone with it…even though
my family tries their very best to offer emotional support. I keep telling
myself that one more email…one more phone call…one more plea for help and maybe
we’ll get him in a better place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m not giving up…I’m just…weary. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I miss you all and I hope that everyone is well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Always,</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-69005238299749037572012-01-03T17:35:00.000-08:002012-01-03T17:35:21.866-08:00SuspectSo.
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.”<br />
<br />
Wow. You guys are harsh.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <strike>Comcast’s</strike> <strike>Verizon’s</strike> <strike>American Express’</strike> the company’s own website.<br />
<br />
Whatever. Poe-tay-toh, poe-tah-toh. Either way it gets paid, right?<br />
<br />
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, “<b>WHAT</b>?” 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.”<br />
<br />
I press #1. My thoughts are racing. Crap, crap, crap. FRAUD. ALERT. This cannot be good.<br />
<br />
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”.)<br />
<br />
Uh oh.<br />
<br />
My gut instinct is screaming, “<b>HANG UP! SOMETHING’S WRONG. CRAAAAAAAP</b>.” So, I punch the “end” button, severing the call.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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 <i>actual bank</i>. 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.”<br />
<br />
Shocking. Outrageous. Appalling. Craaaaap…<br />
<br />
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 <i>actual bank</i> 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 “<i>my favorites</i>” 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 <i>just like the real deal</i>…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.<br />
<br />
The moral of this story?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
B) Never answer the phone on a Sunday.<br />
C) Calling someone a “noodle” and a “dweeb” may result in charges of slander…and possible jail time.<br />
D) Whenever an automated voice asks if your first name is Kathryn, always say no.
<br />
<br />
I believe the answer is “E”…all of the above.
Either way, there's a lesson in there.<br />
<br />
Talk soon,
xo
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; cursor: move;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-65877757800223309902011-11-16T17:42:00.001-08:002011-11-17T08:12:41.422-08:00Hacking, Scooping & Blind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTx0wtx5etcymeoZ-kebAjydhc7Gz2OFRnQXN_yuw6ayjtRaNNv62dGUVlsT-EdpsmUXqaJ2JGaLV2HwP5qHEuE5LR1HpbEjXW9xs0ZQ7Qg3woS4Yq3KfUAQKA6sqDzJjTL6SZu7AgBc/s1600/hammer+and+spoonclaw.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTx0wtx5etcymeoZ-kebAjydhc7Gz2OFRnQXN_yuw6ayjtRaNNv62dGUVlsT-EdpsmUXqaJ2JGaLV2HwP5qHEuE5LR1HpbEjXW9xs0ZQ7Qg3woS4Yq3KfUAQKA6sqDzJjTL6SZu7AgBc/s640/hammer+and+spoonclaw.JPG" width="476" /></a></div>
<br />
I’m telling you up front that <i>this </i>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.<br />
<br />
We lost power on Saturday…around noon. I handled that with my usual aplomb…I remember sighing deeply and saying, “<i>Really</i>?? 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 <i>me</i>! I danced a little jig of victory, pumped my fists in the air and then coolly responded with, “…’Sup?”<br />
<br />
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 <i>no cellphone service</i>.<br />
<br />
So. Let's recap.We had:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>No electricity</li>
<li>No heat</li>
<li>No cable</li>
<li>No landline (telephone)</li>
<li>No internet </li>
<li>No iPad </li>
<li>No iPhone </li>
</ul>
<div>
Outside, the storm was raging. The roads were impassable. Oh, joy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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…<i>unsettling</i>.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By Monday, school had been cancelled and I was texting ToyotaBoss to see if we had juice at the office:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Me: “<i>No power since Saturday. I’m cold. I’m bored. You’re the boss. Make it stop.</i>”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
ToyotaBoss: “<i>We have heat. We have internet. TV in the service department. C’mon in!</i>”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>two</i>…we could always freeze the…..left-…..Oh, wait. That’s right. <i>Everything in my freezer is melting</i>. By this time, it was probably colder in the <i>kitchen </i>than it was in my <i>fridge</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tuesday evening, Verizon restored cell service. I do believe I wept a little when I heard the soft *ding!* of my emails resuming. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>freakin’ snow outside</i>…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 <i>pick up</i> 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 <i>regular </i>serving spoon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“TAKE THE SNOW OUT OF THE FRIDGE”. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Words I never thought I’d say…</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-57114161007885970552011-10-26T17:40:00.000-07:002011-10-26T17:40:39.114-07:00PurgeSome of you may find this hard to believe…but I have some purging issues.<br />
<br />
(In Kathryn’s head, her readers <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">GASP</span></b> 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.)<br />
<br />
When booting up laptop upon arriving home, I was a bit shocked by how cluttered my desktop has become:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1uFmILS1YLvKncMtYg7CTi8YD26xHvt0CcLxnbPFuI2bQHERYgkbPvbDeuYAz-w9KUBfrj6op-bQGGTU6-ZJUc5-8_xQaisMz2KVrYK3XarNv9H6kAZDRcXVevSJv_eHBXB9w90U1-UE/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1uFmILS1YLvKncMtYg7CTi8YD26xHvt0CcLxnbPFuI2bQHERYgkbPvbDeuYAz-w9KUBfrj6op-bQGGTU6-ZJUc5-8_xQaisMz2KVrYK3XarNv9H6kAZDRcXVevSJv_eHBXB9w90U1-UE/s640/Capture.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://gigisramblings-gso.blogspot.com/">Gigi</a>? Girlfriend…cover your eyes…I’m afraid you may spontaneously combust:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKsFMCk69BmzGo9te2oh3csG_50VNzLKcXpCX8A0Dp6z-cZn7Jt4bgRseaawo6aAVGXLJl_ieDII9fTvzcmO3D3hZeGHjESTAgHBbN7-PyOUZfsAqNiDxaahP-vOZn1vTNoSgNmHzMaM/s1600/office+debris.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKsFMCk69BmzGo9te2oh3csG_50VNzLKcXpCX8A0Dp6z-cZn7Jt4bgRseaawo6aAVGXLJl_ieDII9fTvzcmO3D3hZeGHjESTAgHBbN7-PyOUZfsAqNiDxaahP-vOZn1vTNoSgNmHzMaM/s640/office+debris.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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 <strike>crap</strike> stuff is sitting <i>on top</i> of the file cabinet.<br />
<br />
<i>So close</i>. And yet, kind of ironic…don’t you think??<br />
<br />
Okay, <a href="http://gigisramblings-gso.blogspot.com/">Gigi</a>…you can open your eyes.<br />
<br />
My latest attempt at purging was to get some of the <strike>crap</strike> stuff off of my phone. Turns out, I use my phone to take photos of <i>everything</i>…and by everything? I mean <i>everything</i>. Let us turn to Exhibit A:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7UZZ_c9oAsrI_MUrt-UP6Acq_qIR6jCsTqFowiuiqpF5R-YFuUg1n22Eim0bRnlUup16SE83iZQJe7ULr6QUKXF60P6OKXLjPYvM_ZtH71av0zcqCxtnPlbmVdoHm4p4u6uARhvxACc/s1600/rolltome.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7UZZ_c9oAsrI_MUrt-UP6Acq_qIR6jCsTqFowiuiqpF5R-YFuUg1n22Eim0bRnlUup16SE83iZQJe7ULr6QUKXF60P6OKXLjPYvM_ZtH71av0zcqCxtnPlbmVdoHm4p4u6uARhvxACc/s640/rolltome.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AM_OxaEteiwtPCYuZCblfiEz51wAnQC7XaLwYqEbnPtMgWio4mqSbTMghA6W4_1CixGJjE23P4yVHtb7CQitB7u1mdL8jUjTPffaCt2Ye8S5eb2_59AhQpVMhHX27K_pnOxU5vdRjVw/s1600/sweatshirt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AM_OxaEteiwtPCYuZCblfiEz51wAnQC7XaLwYqEbnPtMgWio4mqSbTMghA6W4_1CixGJjE23P4yVHtb7CQitB7u1mdL8jUjTPffaCt2Ye8S5eb2_59AhQpVMhHX27K_pnOxU5vdRjVw/s640/sweatshirt.JPG" width="478" /></a></div><br />
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.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKP3kgjWEdG-iJ6fWN6BA42duk_0pOyQwnfRbknKW6cwBYx6u2xgBCEMf6Km01g9xd2wrjGsLym7tVdDUGaa2cnj7GEG_sMAT16wkzgBszjXAlUaNjABeuCC5y9f1PVJvgJRKCkB_Yc8/s1600/staplergarbage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKP3kgjWEdG-iJ6fWN6BA42duk_0pOyQwnfRbknKW6cwBYx6u2xgBCEMf6Km01g9xd2wrjGsLym7tVdDUGaa2cnj7GEG_sMAT16wkzgBszjXAlUaNjABeuCC5y9f1PVJvgJRKCkB_Yc8/s640/staplergarbage.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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 <a href="http://www.twitter.com/wearepaperpro">competitor</a>…who then sent me this: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1jqu-4m_6bgeU01Hqopb35nAS7he9fHo9eGSVw5QK0-tPAvdwMQjIL7b09vEEVZ_YdyvEyn8xp6CT2qSIgnfjsw_EItQ_aX2p0D-TbMBvS8_8Dq9TZa7w6Q-VQtRTJ1cJaSg99qXe0Y/s1600/stapler+heaven.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1jqu-4m_6bgeU01Hqopb35nAS7he9fHo9eGSVw5QK0-tPAvdwMQjIL7b09vEEVZ_YdyvEyn8xp6CT2qSIgnfjsw_EItQ_aX2p0D-TbMBvS8_8Dq9TZa7w6Q-VQtRTJ1cJaSg99qXe0Y/s640/stapler+heaven.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
SCORE!! Yes, folks…that’s <i>THREE </i>awesome staplers. It was the major topic of conversation at the office for two days. All you kept hearing was the <b>***PING!!***</b> 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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseImAbfpe6Mvf_14cR51Uq3-yT6o_V2jIgHXLXAoFwmjYI_R4eIZHJrZxzeDL0dkIGnevDwRN3pP7hyUqxB3GEl9du2fr-OHT2tdfv1mVVbXPOqnT8aSMXqOY1dLg_-1hMHphwW1tNBI/s1600/bigbang.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseImAbfpe6Mvf_14cR51Uq3-yT6o_V2jIgHXLXAoFwmjYI_R4eIZHJrZxzeDL0dkIGnevDwRN3pP7hyUqxB3GEl9du2fr-OHT2tdfv1mVVbXPOqnT8aSMXqOY1dLg_-1hMHphwW1tNBI/s640/bigbang.JPG" width="478" /></a></div><br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdQVxqTKF4zfOfh7K9_SOTxwlDouB6XtbFI2yYSoI06IEtwL_0Tl-4C5tXo5aY5TeVKLacvc1S8lScM6bWeNh_IJi2fXWTjB1yn578vDSGex3ernNxRnrJzw5p3Cvq5sxr9cxD7WWyGU/s1600/buy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdQVxqTKF4zfOfh7K9_SOTxwlDouB6XtbFI2yYSoI06IEtwL_0Tl-4C5tXo5aY5TeVKLacvc1S8lScM6bWeNh_IJi2fXWTjB1yn578vDSGex3ernNxRnrJzw5p3Cvq5sxr9cxD7WWyGU/s640/buy.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Evidently, photographing almost-used-up beauty products only aids in replacing them if one remembers that one needs them whilst one is out. Wow...<i>that </i>was a mouthful. So, it’s great in theory…but I'm still out.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4hDJSwZoB2pYZkrxL2vl-a-KM27kXylMCptVR70MEYrNcUMdQTVtD9ZgBdH2hWvUvkhTndx7b58sX6DYl55Lxc7iBVK1Bz53PV44ZpyNt_GV0BJECdEvbhrriYiKJc9HI_duC-eVn-0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4hDJSwZoB2pYZkrxL2vl-a-KM27kXylMCptVR70MEYrNcUMdQTVtD9ZgBdH2hWvUvkhTndx7b58sX6DYl55Lxc7iBVK1Bz53PV44ZpyNt_GV0BJECdEvbhrriYiKJc9HI_duC-eVn-0/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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 <a href="http://www.gayguystraightguy.blogspot.com/">GayGuy/StraightGuy</a>. They crack me up.<br />
<br />
Suffice to say, I’m losing my mind...but I seem to have accounted for all of my <i>stuff</i>.<br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-10097396168589061822011-10-19T18:00:00.000-07:002011-10-19T18:00:01.632-07:00Hysteria Revisited<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFWt6Wwyrr1d0gSScNe8gvBcwAA2TjJDAkId4-d6LIyr4r4bGI3oGnauIJPfoy1DmCsBjIBh7FAyKfd2k89IhEZvgjXcKw9wffA6zizlvsTTBbZ04s_0Fz4-EpYSh_lx_WBxl5HAG13o/s1600/mouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFWt6Wwyrr1d0gSScNe8gvBcwAA2TjJDAkId4-d6LIyr4r4bGI3oGnauIJPfoy1DmCsBjIBh7FAyKfd2k89IhEZvgjXcKw9wffA6zizlvsTTBbZ04s_0Fz4-EpYSh_lx_WBxl5HAG13o/s400/mouse.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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, “<i>And new mom Twyla has no idea if her newborn child will suffer any post-traumatic stress from being born in the toilet…</i>” and we <i>all</i> <i>know</i> that the baby is <i>fine </i>because <i>every baby from the last 200 episodes</i> has been <i>fine</i> 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.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Anyway.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">“CONNOROHGODCRAPIT’SAMOUSEOHGODOHGODCONNORCONNORCONNOROHGODI’MGONNAPUKEIT’SAMOUSEOHCONNOR!!!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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 <s>bolted</s> casually walk down the hall and <s>frantically leap</s> nonchalantly sit on the sofa in the living room. <span> </span>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…<i>directly towards me</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">It was the scream heard ‘round the world.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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 <i>beast</i>. This is my demon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">When I spied the thing scurrying across the living room…<i>as if it was following me</i>…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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">At this point, the thing disappears. Connor hunts and hunts…alternately moving furniture whilst reminding his mother-in-a-puddle that “it’s <i>way </i>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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Oh. My. God.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I flew out my front door in my bare feet and hammered on the landlord’s door. When he opened it, I yelled, <b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">“MOUSE. IT MUST DIE”</span></b>, 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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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 <i>helpless</i> little mouse. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Although Connor initially claimed the mouse had been caught and disposed of by the landlord the next day, upon further <strike>interrogation</strike> 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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">The next morning, the traps were empty…but <i>something</i> 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.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">That was several weeks ago…and since then, I haven’t seen any signs of anything.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Helpless</i>, my ass. </div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-22400765370840470032011-10-16T18:59:00.000-07:002011-10-16T18:59:06.195-07:00The World Begins Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgk6GqC28UPiZRC-YbglK39QwAey8442tMnrV0xAyQZb1CSnsmXv1T5C_C2JjVEgaM6qI05sBfaDhqf0CT575wrIt0tApb0tEPBNY3mKy2ZKaljp-q_FSu4dsVsgYyfyDy-xRhevD540/s1600/tunnellight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgk6GqC28UPiZRC-YbglK39QwAey8442tMnrV0xAyQZb1CSnsmXv1T5C_C2JjVEgaM6qI05sBfaDhqf0CT575wrIt0tApb0tEPBNY3mKy2ZKaljp-q_FSu4dsVsgYyfyDy-xRhevD540/s640/tunnellight.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I have this theory about dirt. Actually, I consider it to be more of an ingenious epiphany...but whatever.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 39.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Side-swiped the dirty fender of your car whilst misjudging the distance needed to properly walk <i>around</i> your car, versus haphazardly walking <i>into</i> it…or<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 39.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->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<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 39.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span>·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->You have no freakin’ idea how it got there and actually wasn’t even sure it <i>was</i> mud until you’d delicately sampled a small portion of it and determined that it was <i>definitely</i> <i>not</i> pudding, Oreo dust or brownie batter.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Voila, kablam! (Picture Kathryn making wild magician-like gestures here.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">This is a clear example of why it’s sometimes better to leave crap alone to see if it’ll go away. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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 <i>that’s</i> working out.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I wonder how the Dalai Lama would handle this.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Dalai Lama: <i>“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……”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Me: “Really? Are you kidding me?? That’s the biggest load of poopoo I’ve ever heard. You can’t be serious.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Okay, so maybe Dalai’s way is simply not the Kathrynville way. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">My Conscience: “YOU NEED TO GET ONLINE.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Me: “Can’t. Too tired.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">My Conscience: “YOU MUST CHECK YOUR EMAIL.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Me: “I want to. It’s too much. I’m online all. Freakin’. Day. My butt hurts.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">My Conscience: “DO IT.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Me: “Please hold.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">My Conscience: “HURRY UP. WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Me: “Bite me. YOU do it. You’re not the boss of me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Fingers crossed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Sending you love,</div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-44651017962246752402011-08-31T06:36:00.000-07:002011-08-31T06:36:14.957-07:00Definitely Not Nina<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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):<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><h2><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(Random) Sampling of Kathryn’s Google Searches</span><o:p></o:p></h2><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxz6ydGwSyDaVTt0rRKw_UOrNd9-mINlqRsWeuV3E-wnBP6d035tuAeCcJVQWnGuk6ohlTGvBMb7S-OGHcgHqTlOsdw8HIQ4wZLO_AbNiNnnLmEvwco9a_8QU85GWhGy5T0poyc-MQ3I/s1600/strangedarkmarkonarm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxz6ydGwSyDaVTt0rRKw_UOrNd9-mINlqRsWeuV3E-wnBP6d035tuAeCcJVQWnGuk6ohlTGvBMb7S-OGHcgHqTlOsdw8HIQ4wZLO_AbNiNnnLmEvwco9a_8QU85GWhGy5T0poyc-MQ3I/s640/strangedarkmarkonarm.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAumxOQ0X0pa9i0-dbysYw5PKuAHOocrc3UsYnhxHNlbu_LvrMg0I-hLmlqRVBlPcO8Gi6SdSi9AEYuikjG8SevstMLrl2H-wknnIfiO3I_jtxdv3MRPwQDii_1nyy9fpbBPn23nr5wC8/s1600/haircolor+from+skin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="44" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAumxOQ0X0pa9i0-dbysYw5PKuAHOocrc3UsYnhxHNlbu_LvrMg0I-hLmlqRVBlPcO8Gi6SdSi9AEYuikjG8SevstMLrl2H-wknnIfiO3I_jtxdv3MRPwQDii_1nyy9fpbBPn23nr5wC8/s640/haircolor+from+skin.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ah. Problem solved.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbwcavoec0Yx0tUJnjo0H1JpiKdYHcFHUlHM3LW7jE5G48iJFzxZS_oY57gqJSQngtlc8pEvGlgiH9wVVUF4QWE0wrDm57mERPS3VIa3DJISddsBnLno66_nEw1aucJxLky_vE5tdoQE/s1600/how+to+unstick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="44" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbwcavoec0Yx0tUJnjo0H1JpiKdYHcFHUlHM3LW7jE5G48iJFzxZS_oY57gqJSQngtlc8pEvGlgiH9wVVUF4QWE0wrDm57mERPS3VIa3DJISddsBnLno66_nEw1aucJxLky_vE5tdoQE/s640/how+to+unstick.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This was a particularly frusttttttttratttttttting day. Turns out that one should never eat a sesame bagel over one’s keyboard. ‘Nuff said.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMKPc-vlVyHzT9o8zsSQVjkW7qcbhzYdyMtbBdVuVZQ7Ed1d0_4YPBQZIUGrz_zjH3pRi_osJ04KNFTscifJRFdN3LWKYPfLYxi1Lp4tZfOi4knqpdsq-r5Bp1PZXyjonYa4nJ4olLF4/s1600/ninas+hair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMKPc-vlVyHzT9o8zsSQVjkW7qcbhzYdyMtbBdVuVZQ7Ed1d0_4YPBQZIUGrz_zjH3pRi_osJ04KNFTscifJRFdN3LWKYPfLYxi1Lp4tZfOi4knqpdsq-r5Bp1PZXyjonYa4nJ4olLF4/s320/ninas+hair.JPG" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nina Garcia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have harbored a longing for <a href="http://www.ninagarcia.com/">Nina Garcia</a>’s golden, honey-colored, perfectly-highlighted hair for quite a while now. I gave it some serious thought and I came to this conclusion:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“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!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3peC4GosD5rdJilW3HMRZHyexkUCzQruFdE-ms2PPpsHpA9DyZy_iznMdx6Cq7b_lvvedd0FiYAUPOsS0iKMFcx9yIoCD8Dq3WvTpiPyxNjLW1GNZt5OfPvv4ICVFfdg2tlKCTNARKs/s1600/orange+hair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="42" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3peC4GosD5rdJilW3HMRZHyexkUCzQruFdE-ms2PPpsHpA9DyZy_iznMdx6Cq7b_lvvedd0FiYAUPOsS0iKMFcx9yIoCD8Dq3WvTpiPyxNjLW1GNZt5OfPvv4ICVFfdg2tlKCTNARKs/s640/orange+hair.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Yeah. At first, I thought it was <i>maybe</i> a light auburn. Then maybe more of a…copper? But no. It was orange. Craaaaaap. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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 <i>someone’s hair</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaEG3jq5vzeniERpcbX0sD-bq2Y_x1MWg7hM0YWV0fCDjhpo7A27ia-05JyZ1SJn5_oO7elHw347N9URlWG2JwFu87_QJqkRBS94qH0joGRUgVbcxmmuxdmC_NxQ3sNrluw8aMqA0lhA/s1600/ambien.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaEG3jq5vzeniERpcbX0sD-bq2Y_x1MWg7hM0YWV0fCDjhpo7A27ia-05JyZ1SJn5_oO7elHw347N9URlWG2JwFu87_QJqkRBS94qH0joGRUgVbcxmmuxdmC_NxQ3sNrluw8aMqA0lhA/s640/ambien.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Honestly, I didn’t even think “amnesiatic” was a word. Word says it isn’t…Google allowed it. <span> </span>Insomnia can be maddening…and can cause one to have diminished brain function, including (but not limited to) when one <i>thinks</i> one is awake. This observation is based on an odd conversation I had with my son Taylor (19) the other morning:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taylor: “Mom. How weird were you last night?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: “Um. I don’t know how to answer that. Was I ‘Mom weird’ or the usual ‘generally weird’?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: “I did no such thing. You’re such a liar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Uh oh. This can’t be good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: (Eyes wide) “No way. I do not remember this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taylor: “Shocking. Then you went on to explain how the lunch truck at your office makes these killer chili dogs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: “Oh! They really do. They make them with chopped onions and tomatoes…you would <i>love</i> them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taylor: “I know, Mom. That’s what you said.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: “I guess I was hungry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taylor: “Ya think? All that talk of chili dogs made <i>me</i> hungry, so we got dressed and you drove to the diner to grab a bite.”<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: “WHAT??!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Taylor: “Kidding. This may be a good time for you to cancel that new computer you ordered on your phone, though.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: (Squints) “You’re messing with me. Tell me you’re messing with me…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This is the part where he walks out of the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What about you? Any (ahem) interesting searches on your computer??<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">(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.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">xo</span></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-47392036259386387592011-07-26T17:34:00.000-07:002011-07-26T17:34:27.373-07:00Melting (Pot?)<div class="MsoNoSpacing">I’ve decided we’re long overdue for a seriously-lighthearted self-interview with yours truly.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t even bother</i> telling me that I have redundant oxymoron taking place above, ‘cause honestly, Scarlett?? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t give a damn.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Interviewer: “So, Kathryn….hot enough for ya?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Kathryn: “Ha. I totally didn’t see that coming.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “I know, right? I thought I’d dive right in with the hard-hitting questions.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: “Okay.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “Wait. What?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: “Ask the question.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “I already did. Let the record reflect that this witness is hostile.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: “<i>WTF</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “Oh. Sorry. I’ve been watching <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=1&ved=0CB4QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mylifetime.com%2Fshows%2Fdrop-dead-diva&ei=klcvTt3OJYXm0QGUt6DHAQ&usg=AFQjCNEo8PltdkT2tFsGK07Mi9ltuTHEGg">Drop Dead Diva</a>. Good show. She’s a lawyer, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: (Frowns) “I’m aware…but it’s irrelevant. Focus, Interviewer.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “We prefer ‘Translation Specialist’ or ‘Procurer of Intelligence for Public Consumption’.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: (Stares. Frowns.) “Who the hell is ‘we’?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “That would encompass myself and all the other voices in your head. Recent additions to the group would include Tim, Heidi and Suze.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5tc3043zNr_BW_XSjGD2BwIwjcf1-vdMgZiH2GajiZTFRrEOL6r61LXmALvYX9_M8H_A40UvyFm4m7BDnixH32_hOsLg5T6RuC_PvrsMSexrOqmW_7bJmA1Vq0_MsFmqAocVuS_FDmk/s1600/tim+gunn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5tc3043zNr_BW_XSjGD2BwIwjcf1-vdMgZiH2GajiZTFRrEOL6r61LXmALvYX9_M8H_A40UvyFm4m7BDnixH32_hOsLg5T6RuC_PvrsMSexrOqmW_7bJmA1Vq0_MsFmqAocVuS_FDmk/s1600/tim+gunn.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=9&sqi=2&ved=0CEsQFjAI&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FTimGunn&ei=9lcvTuK7BOiy0AGU7vywAQ&usg=AFQjCNFpALFFr-36EmmvQaPhWONhMXp6hQ">Tim Gunn</a>: “<b>MAKE IT WORK, PEOPLE!</b>”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_wk2wOvr859gUOCaRSDMbD1ziSAtlHCqahEkrLpMXZFkMaNwS6jFNTK_Z5KHpGE6aRHxcvRFlx6T3KwWeCiWKKyxjuG7o6HRscedI5y_n8V-soJGs-uXFRExF_zh5KiwRhM076wnwzI/s1600/heidi_klum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_wk2wOvr859gUOCaRSDMbD1ziSAtlHCqahEkrLpMXZFkMaNwS6jFNTK_Z5KHpGE6aRHxcvRFlx6T3KwWeCiWKKyxjuG7o6HRscedI5y_n8V-soJGs-uXFRExF_zh5KiwRhM076wnwzI/s320/heidi_klum.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/heidiklum">Heidi Klum</a>: “<b>AUF WIEDERSEHEN!</b>”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPG7P6vEWSu4U5Nnz54C3JXOow4Hq3b5jHPQrICvX4kiLxB_jGPhNFd2g3ewasK3iWPdtQ7UVuUhve9L3NxxKANjLvPfQuuZerwfdMnCFvkD73qOTE3VG7NXaW2Dfym98ig1LujVSWGS8/s1600/suze_orman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPG7P6vEWSu4U5Nnz54C3JXOow4Hq3b5jHPQrICvX4kiLxB_jGPhNFd2g3ewasK3iWPdtQ7UVuUhve9L3NxxKANjLvPfQuuZerwfdMnCFvkD73qOTE3VG7NXaW2Dfym98ig1LujVSWGS8/s320/suze_orman.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=1&ved=0CCcQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.suzeorman.com%2F&ei=81gvTqqUK-b40gGVwongAQ&usg=AFQjCNHBteBffWTRAK54Jixqu-piU-dFWw">Suze Orman</a>: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>“</b></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">DENIED</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>!”</b></span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: (Winces) “Crap. How the hell did so many people get in there? It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> explain why I’ve put on a few pounds…”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdxQ1ichq96dDCxGr_db6ViU_QLgnMS0hmMPA5n7CEE22bFXj7w5SS9MsmXW4A2QI-bc1ywdcRqFb-fN-Fp6DNQfJmMugSSN6ww3YlHEYrPJdcHHn-WgapEtiJtLjUWdO4x8FyM_M3as/s1600/clinton+kelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdxQ1ichq96dDCxGr_db6ViU_QLgnMS0hmMPA5n7CEE22bFXj7w5SS9MsmXW4A2QI-bc1ywdcRqFb-fN-Fp6DNQfJmMugSSN6ww3YlHEYrPJdcHHn-WgapEtiJtLjUWdO4x8FyM_M3as/s1600/clinton+kelly.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=1&sqi=2&ved=0CBkQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FClintonkellyofficial&ei=dlkvTrX7BsPL0QHhkum8AQ&usg=AFQjCNHQc2RMmKuFWzpjCiRIIhS_crP7HQ">Clinton Kelly</a>: “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.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: “<i>Clinton</i>. Inside voice, dammit. And it's still lame to use 'air-quotes'...I don't care <i>who </i>you are. ”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Heidi: “<b>There’s chocolate?!</b> <b>GUTEN TAG…HALLO!</b>”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Suze: “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">APPROVED!!</span></b> <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Out of my way. Comin' through...</span></b>” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Kathryn: “Dammit! <o:p></o:p>This is a test, people. There is no chocolate. Had there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually been</i> chocolate, you would have each received advance notification via email marked ‘High Priority’ with return receipt requested. Again, there <u>is no chocolate</u>. This concludes our test. Kudos for not trampling each other in your zest to reach said (fictional) chocolate.”</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">I: “Who are you talking to?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">K: (Sighs)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">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.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-76481082177435197852011-07-17T16:31:00.000-07:002011-07-17T16:31:02.047-07:00The Best of IntentionsI’m composing this post as I always do...with “Document 1” opened in Word…and I’m guesstimating how long it’s been since I’ve posted at Inside…Out. I’m resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder at the wall calendar and I fully realize that the <i>rational </i>way to check would be to log in and simply <i>look</i>. But where's the challenge in that?? Instead, I’m recalling the events that took place when I logged in here the night after I’d shared our recent struggles dealing with my son’s autism:<br />
<br />
(At this point, the screen gets all blurry, so that everyone knows we’re going into a classic <i>Lifetime Movie flashback</i>, complete with sappy intro music and with the predictable “Several Weeks Ago?” printed across the bottom of the screen for those who haven’t figured out that this is a sappy <i>Lifetime flashback</i>)<br />
<br />
Kathryn sits with her hand poised over her mouse, ready to view the responses received from her gut-wrenching tell-all post. We can see her internal struggle as she wonders whether she’s about to read a bunch of well-meaning but awkward, obviously uncomfortable responses with things like, “Um. Well. Gosh. Huh…gee. Good luck with that.”<br />
<br />
She opens the comments section as the music swells to an overwhelming crescendo…so loud she has to plug her ears with her fingers as she begins to read the heartfelt, moving responses. The tears soon flow unchecked down her cheeks and the camera zooms in to follow a single tear as it falls…and gently lands...in-between the “V” and the “B” on the laptop’s keyboard.<br />
<br />
That’s when you hear Kathryn’s emotionally-charged voice mutter, “CRAP. NO-NO-NO-NO…” as she grabs for a tissue and begins to gently dab the keyboard, which ultimately does nothing to prevent her screen from blinking, flashing and eventually turning a frightening shade of blue:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqEz7JLBy27hcMd7BBEicysNJ5cXxPPSaTfo_epbYVSGNkx_K1BgsmAg5vNCacjU9vzUvhkM4Cp3eSMsuVvjloAZGLUQkg_Jd2yvuu898rWuj5sBz7rDjhtH-Q3mmhBo-cgDWTdaoxN8/s1600/windows+error+message.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqEz7JLBy27hcMd7BBEicysNJ5cXxPPSaTfo_epbYVSGNkx_K1BgsmAg5vNCacjU9vzUvhkM4Cp3eSMsuVvjloAZGLUQkg_Jd2yvuu898rWuj5sBz7rDjhtH-Q3mmhBo-cgDWTdaoxN8/s640/windows+error+message.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Okay, so maybe it didn’t happen <i>exactly </i>that way. But I <u>did </u>cry…and it <u>did</u> feel like one of those Lifetime Movies when the lady thinks that no-one’ll show up at her party and she’s just about to leave and then the doors open and everyone she knows and loves comes walking in…smiling and looking amazingly supportive. Then the camera pans out and you see that there are <i>thousands </i>of people outside the building waiting (in an orderly fashion) to get inside and then the music swells again.<br />
<br />
Regardless, that’s pretty much how I felt. Your comments reminded me that even if I can’t see you, you’re still here with me. And I know you mean that in the most non-creepy of ways…<br />
<br />
And although (thank God) my son hasn’t had yet another repeat trip to the ER (knock on wood, throw salt over shoulder) the challenges have continued unabated. The latest was an interesting series of events that took place on Thursday of last week. I’ll give you a snapshot:<br />
<br />
When checking my home phone messages, I discovered one from 2pm (automated) which stated that I was to have a phone interview with the Social Security office on Friday at 1:30pm to discuss benefits for my son…and that I must cancel within 24 hours if I would be unavailable. Not only would I be unavailable (I’d be at work) but I knew nothing about this. An urgent email first thing Friday morning from me to the people at my son’s facility was followed by a response assuring me that their office was handling this call and that I had no worries.<br />
<br />
Ha.<br />
<br />
Even with this assurance, I decided to remotely activate the call-forwarding feature on my home phone (where I wasn’t) to my cell phone at work (where I was). I’m guessing you know what happened at 1:30. When the guy from SSI called and informed me that A) I did not have the option of rescheduling and B) He’d be needing quite a bit of information; including dates, addresses and telephone numbers, I hurriedly bolted from work and headed for home, all the while telling SSI guy that I’d be home momentarily and within arm’s reach of all the detailed info he’d requested. <br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes into my drive though, the guy put me on hold and returned to say that the people at my son’s agency were on the other line and were looking to complete the interview themselves. He thanked me for my time and the line went dead.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
At this point, I did what any loving mother would do: I called home to ask Taylor (19) and Connor (14) if they’d eaten lunch yet. They had not and enthusiastically suggested I stop at the diner and pick up two deluxe barbeque bacon cheeseburgers, STAT. <br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
But here’s where it gets…interesting. As I walked out of the diner with my bag ‘o burgers, I walk past one of those newspaper vending machines and the headline causes my heart to skip a beat:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKAQeij_NPPW71mj9xFX6Y4fd4YFAxx9194C3BotqTZstWVT7VSCHfe6oV3o6Y5zI9VtrIAB2x9WJt-lddlNODoiwMzrEAzKhf5LtQoEeS_NSGDAP6TM2HJFnQXVzjWcESZ77rnml4GI8/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></div><br />
See the headline on the left? Here’s the photo below it:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSi_noakuLF7UsMnqUQWY38af1xWmT5LyBFNz5Q9wfZTzMzZ1kgbGU5BEcAfOmCgssy18WhWvrrT0CJw8T0-8xmBdjSvfUCi4gaWUTbvRIhPsxZLHEvZY6B42jMKu0FmRSz27Z1h1ZDsM/s1600/taconic+ddso.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSi_noakuLF7UsMnqUQWY38af1xWmT5LyBFNz5Q9wfZTzMzZ1kgbGU5BEcAfOmCgssy18WhWvrrT0CJw8T0-8xmBdjSvfUCi4gaWUTbvRIhPsxZLHEvZY6B42jMKu0FmRSz27Z1h1ZDsM/s640/taconic+ddso.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This happens to be where my son presently resides. The irony is that this paper was dated July 11…a full four days prior to my seeing it. But the machine was broken...and in lieu of fixing it, they’d opted to place the recent papers on top of the machine, free of charge. But, I wanted THAT paper. I emptied eight quarters into that machine…the equivalent to two papers...all to no avail. No matter how hard I pulled, banged and rattled, I could not get that door to open. In the end, I raced home and found the article <a href="http://www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/article/20110712/NEWS01/110712013/An-8200-accidental-death-serious-lapses-care">online</a>.<br />
<br />
God bless the World Wide Web. <br />
<br />
I know to take any investigative exposé with a grain of salt…but still. Now in addition to following up on that abrupt end to that SSI call, I need to research and discover exactly who, <i>or what</i> is the watchdog for this agency caring for my son. <br />
<br />
I’ve always maintained that the responsibility for someone with special needs can be a full-time job. When you’re attempting to dedicate 11 hours of your day to an actual <i>full-time</i> job, the stakes are only higher. It’s my <i>child</i>…he doesn’t understand why any of this is happening…and he doesn’t understand why he just can’t <i>come home</i>. <br />
<br />
And so, this is the latest. The next two weeks contain another two doctor’s appointments, which I’m hoping will translate to some much-needed stability for all of us. <br />
<br />
I hope you know how much your thoughtful comments have meant to me. It’s a reminder that no matter how isolated I may feel, I’m never truly alone with support from you.<br />
<br />
And that, my friends…means absolutely everything.<br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />
<img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" />kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-27786591797241735662011-06-16T18:52:00.000-07:002011-06-16T18:52:51.599-07:00Woah.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdA1vsqtdhyphenhyphenlZNlcxfczmZz8D9FZ6Rm9Q5OtVGiFd6hcrZa6D0ggisH_oziXUyjm-b1KND8uxZqxjESAb0PbmUnV4qqXRr1eY9LHwLObxyh8ZqaDBXo4P717ZWhWjf48xZdfcb-tZPcM/s1600/face+06.15.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdA1vsqtdhyphenhyphenlZNlcxfczmZz8D9FZ6Rm9Q5OtVGiFd6hcrZa6D0ggisH_oziXUyjm-b1KND8uxZqxjESAb0PbmUnV4qqXRr1eY9LHwLObxyh8ZqaDBXo4P717ZWhWjf48xZdfcb-tZPcM/s1600/face+06.15.11.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And here I thought no-one would know how to respond...<br />
<br />
Once again, you guys have blown me away with your kindness, your insights and your uncompromising faith. I am one lucky gal to have such tremendous support! I don't know how to express how much your comments have meant to me...but you absolutely have been <i>instrumental </i>in helping me to gather my strength and forge ahead on behalf of Kevin.<br />
<br />
I've managed to line up three appointments between now and the end of the month...and one of them has to pay off! I'm looking forward to Friday night...when I can curl up with a glass of Cloudy and respond to <i>each and every comment.</i>..'cause you guys simply ROCK. With such loving support, how can I possibly fail??<br />
<br />
"Thank you" doesn't begin to cover it. Sending you back some cyber-love across the miles...<br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-86719805686333150462011-06-14T19:18:00.000-07:002011-06-14T19:18:30.263-07:00Over the Edge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscw6-sm_e5tAybVaqguEJkffX44wpEcm1mCMIsuI3OlcGPjF0-1gy5t1SqbZtrNSd5Sp_CPqPv3yixNTujrf3eO8X4fJGIGh6kjJ9UfACWPE1zAsByFBLk3-OcJAtTRpGmIS7c6KDXFI/s1600/tears1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscw6-sm_e5tAybVaqguEJkffX44wpEcm1mCMIsuI3OlcGPjF0-1gy5t1SqbZtrNSd5Sp_CPqPv3yixNTujrf3eO8X4fJGIGh6kjJ9UfACWPE1zAsByFBLk3-OcJAtTRpGmIS7c6KDXFI/s400/tears1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
My son has autism. He’s 22 years old…which obviously means I was a baby when I had him. In many ways, I was a baby when he was born…blissfully naive and pointedly focused on nothing more complicated than play dates and diapers; preschools and summer camp. Never in my wildest dreams did I think the lion’s share of my adult life would subsist focusing on meltdowns, medications, behavior modification and an endless stream of doctors and therapists.<br />
<br />
My son is considered to be high-functioning…he’s verbal, sweet and oh-so-childlike…with his own unique perception of his world. He moved six months ago into a group home, needing more daily supervision than I could possibly provide. He couldn’t spend his days cooped up alone whilst the rest of us ran out the door each morning to live our busy lives.<br />
<br />
I'm ashamed to admit that I was relieved in a way...this was to be my opportunity to experience "normal". I could finally search for full time work and know that my son was with people who could handle the unique challenges that come with this often-misunderstood disability.<br />
<br />
It was the third week in April when I got the first call. I was walking through the parking lot of a local office supply store at around 6pm, tired from a long workday and anxious to get home. The social worker on the phone informed me in a voice lacking emotion that my son was returning home from a social-skills group when he flew into an unexpected rage. They weren’t sure what set him off but staff had been forced to perform a maneuver that left him pinned to the ground, bruised and bloodied. They’d then called for an ambulance and had probably just reached the hospital, where my son would be confined to a bed in the psychiatric wing of the ER until he could be “evaluated” by the psychiatrist on staff. <br />
<br />
<i>Evaluated</i>? <i>For what</i>?? He. Has. Autism.<br />
<br />
As I stood at the trunk of my car, the bags containing my recent purchases all but forgotten at my feet, I tried to speak but it was difficult to form thoughts, much less words. I felt the ache in my throat and that familiar burning in my eyes…soon the tears would come. Before I could respond, the social worker added, “Oh and before they were able to subdue him, your son deliberately punched a staff member in the jaw and may have broken it. Our staff member is going to the hospital and plans on pressing charges.”<br />
<br />
The next few moments went by in a haze. I remember vomiting…and frantically scraping my hand on the rough concrete of the parking lot as I grabbed for my dropped cell phone…and I remember having the crazy thought that I would bear a fitting scrape of my own to mark this horrific day. I was gagging and sobbing when I brought the phone back to my ear. My son had flailed out before when overwhelmed…but had never intentionally hurt someone.<br />
<br />
“Is he going to jail? What hospital? Oh, God,” I sobbed. The social worker went on to explain that charges would eventually be dropped, as my son would be deemed unable to understand the charges against him. “Then <i>why would someone press charges against him</i>? I don’t understand this!” The tears coursed unchecked as I threw my bags into the car and took off for the hospital.<br />
<br />
The confusion increased upon reaching the ER where my son, who simply lacks the emotional sophistication to lie, was horrified to learn that I’d been told he’d struck and injured someone. To this day, he swears it didn’t happen…and I believe him. Two more harrowing incidents took place in the weeks that followed…both involving trips to the ER for “evaluation”. Each “evaluation” involved a harried hospital psychiatrist’s drive-by assessment after less than five minutes of actual face-time with my son...akin to reviewing a movie when all you’ve seen is the poster in the lobby of the theatre.<br />
<br />
I can’t sleep…my thoughts race. What do I do? He can’t be here alone; I need to work…I can’t lose this job. I have to help him! My baby…my sweet boy…the rest of my life…<i>this will be the rest of my life</i>. Guilt overwhelms me…it’s <i>not about me</i>…it’s about him! I weep…and I have never felt so alone. <br />
<br />
When someone is physically ill, people will say, “How is he doing?” That doesn’t happen with autism. People don’t know what to say. I get that.<br />
<br />
I turn in imaginary circles…trying to find answers to a question that has tortured me for 20 years: Can anyone help my son? Medicines…side-effects…therapies…doctors, doctor, doctors. No-one seems to understand my overwhelming desire to come home from work, dive into bed and pull the covers over my head. I should be working…should be writing…should be on the phone every spare minute looking for answers…yet I glance longingly at my bed and learn to live with the familiar burning of fresh tears yet unshed.<br />
<br />
“Normal” eludes me…nightmares consume me. The sound of a phone ringing fills me with dread. Autism is forever…it forever changes those who must live with it and it doesn’t care if you’re tired or frightened or feeling alone. <br />
<br />
I know I’ll keep trying to help my son…will undoubtedly advocate for him till the day I die. For right now though, I’m so very weary. Tomorrow is another day…it’s bright with possibilities and that fills me with hope.<br />
<br />
I hope for the strength...to step away from the edge.<br />
xo-<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-53395611565030581002011-05-04T16:16:00.000-07:002011-05-04T16:16:03.510-07:00Now Comment Enabled. I Dare Ya.After two years with my fancy-schmancy inline comments showing right below the post, I officially threw in the cyber-towel and reverted back to the old <i>click-here-to-get-to-the-comments-first</i> option. I’m a big fan of being unique…but not at the expense of losing precious comments. Now if I can just figure out why no-one’s avatar is showing, I’ll be golden.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I'd mentioned that I’m now doing social media for our local <a href="http://dchwappingersfallstoyota.com/">Toyota</a>. They were using an outside company before this…and they weren’t doing a very good social-job. I am <i>so, so</i> much better. Now I am their in-house social media, which means I get to cruise online all day. <i>Suh-weet</i>.<br />
<br />
There is one major issue, though. This issue has become <b>MORTAL ENEMY #1</b>…the absolute bane of my existence. It’s called <b>WEBSENSE</b>. This is corporate America’s answer to blocking all employees from anything even remotely social…no poking, tweeting or streaming video allowed. <br />
<br />
Or evidently, philanthropy….as I recently discovered whilst following a link from Toyota’s Twitter page:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzuar7yMIoUPjlDrl7aRv7us4RZiREwAvwsQ_6mtgSMQoRbQyd5TOgOgQNUCD6dLiOP6FWmb1K2hTEO246fMz1Cma8uu8SAM4zloYKUjC6uzoDuJzyc7_55nOUfRzfZiEHYjakEghrC0/s1600/red+cross+blocked.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzuar7yMIoUPjlDrl7aRv7us4RZiREwAvwsQ_6mtgSMQoRbQyd5TOgOgQNUCD6dLiOP6FWmb1K2hTEO246fMz1Cma8uu8SAM4zloYKUjC6uzoDuJzyc7_55nOUfRzfZiEHYjakEghrC0/s1600/red+cross+blocked.PNG" /></a></div><i>Huh</i>.<br />
<br />
Then I attempted to link up with YouTube:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3XKyLiYjjNkhcQwQ5ktNmNgPCOALP3PSzDilkxo5HlCF9P5Uhh8kegcT3Ec_4l5JeM9nwAuB3m3ejLrZutyo5JMIX4NZOACuLgWmi7LeyD_UOQZ4erKIpd9wuQ3RgVl4N-FuyoggmPQ/s1600/youtube.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3XKyLiYjjNkhcQwQ5ktNmNgPCOALP3PSzDilkxo5HlCF9P5Uhh8kegcT3Ec_4l5JeM9nwAuB3m3ejLrZutyo5JMIX4NZOACuLgWmi7LeyD_UOQZ4erKIpd9wuQ3RgVl4N-FuyoggmPQ/s1600/youtube.PNG" /></a></div><i>Wow</i>.<br />
<br />
So, I figured I’d head back to Twitter:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8i-ySJs_UPgPtMWf98N0OIFOhaMRfbr13Gcfpk94AZy1-fxqILz2zW-3yh1LgMDyPy4M2v6GAShsp6zcEQ7S8k9cw232jxG48qMvbuk_hXrBZOT_We7wwy9hn6nvEYMOm7T9cdhZVGw/s1600/tweetchat.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8i-ySJs_UPgPtMWf98N0OIFOhaMRfbr13Gcfpk94AZy1-fxqILz2zW-3yh1LgMDyPy4M2v6GAShsp6zcEQ7S8k9cw232jxG48qMvbuk_hXrBZOT_We7wwy9hn6nvEYMOm7T9cdhZVGw/s1600/tweetchat.PNG" /></a></div><br />
Ouch. <i>Okaaay</i>…this is annoying. I’ll stick with the basics and log into FaceBook:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8w-JyYf-aypZjW3vf96gE09DavaggeP1I7eIsLlPPFd1f1Fg81zP5sabvzpL4zqp_6vT4pT6d347Ey2rJJ_hx952M44fngYfcg3Bw-xcBvxyu-lvPh7c3IrKUv83xb5HJYp70vAu87I/s1600/toyotafacebookblocked+%25282%2529.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8w-JyYf-aypZjW3vf96gE09DavaggeP1I7eIsLlPPFd1f1Fg81zP5sabvzpL4zqp_6vT4pT6d347Ey2rJJ_hx952M44fngYfcg3Bw-xcBvxyu-lvPh7c3IrKUv83xb5HJYp70vAu87I/s1600/toyotafacebookblocked+%25282%2529.PNG" /></a></div><br />
<i>Yikes. Seriously</i>?? This <b>WEBSENSE</b> is starting to tick me off! Well, at least I can still review our own website:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEISTkSQxCKCtbbI09DMJCSD_04Jxo_4e7Ac0yhbgmh-hY0M2G7auUTuZ8EJ1k_XE9t705uPxUK4mXemyWu081P6ish6bcjmgd4bfS2IbAyQP3BNQHh40zR_jwOthOCUyGHtwbVYN4sbw/s1600/dchblocked2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEISTkSQxCKCtbbI09DMJCSD_04Jxo_4e7Ac0yhbgmh-hY0M2G7auUTuZ8EJ1k_XE9t705uPxUK4mXemyWu081P6ish6bcjmgd4bfS2IbAyQP3BNQHh40zR_jwOthOCUyGHtwbVYN4sbw/s1600/dchblocked2.PNG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-kaUMwnjQMympbgrdFT3mBVEautTSYePr0JQKl09p9a-QwYyoBkhyphenhyphennVQR-XBz2UWpZcDmHGi0_Ih4oENixusEx9nzo2axtU3U-KGbR2CgJL478P1tVxmuKQFbE3RupPwKtNWF_iS5qg/s1600/dch+blocked1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-kaUMwnjQMympbgrdFT3mBVEautTSYePr0JQKl09p9a-QwYyoBkhyphenhyphennVQR-XBz2UWpZcDmHGi0_Ih4oENixusEx9nzo2axtU3U-KGbR2CgJL478P1tVxmuKQFbE3RupPwKtNWF_iS5qg/s1600/dch+blocked1.PNG" /></a></div><br />
At this point, I’d had enough. It seemed that as fast as I could get I.T. to <b>UNBLOCK </b>them, they’d <b>BLOCK </b>again. It was maddening…it was obnoxious…it HAD TO GO. So, I sent a text to my boss, who was at a conference:<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE. UNBLOCK ME. I CAN’T DO MY JOB.”<br />
<br />
ToyotaBoss: “Who is this?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Oops. Sorry…it’s Kathryn. Bad day. UNBLOCK.”<br />
<br />
ToyotaBoss: “JK. I know who this is. Why are you shouting? It won’t help.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “UNBLOCK. UNBLock. Unblock.”<br />
<br />
ToyotaBoss: “Okay.”<br />
<br />
Then it got eerily quiet. I continually refreshed my email and kept glaring at the monitor, mentally composing a snarky email to I.T.-one where I’d tell them where they could stick their <b>WEBSENSE</b>:<br />
<br />
Dear IT:<br />
I hate you. You suck. You’re dead to me.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Kind regards,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Kathryn/Director of Social Media</span><br />
<br />
Several hours later a guy in dusty work clothes, carrying a metal ladder and the biggest roll of Ethernet cable I’ve ever seen...knocked on my office door. Dave proceeded to set up the ladder and then climbed i<i>nto the ceiling</i>…and when he finally resurfaced, he brought back with him wild tales of dead rodents, exposed rusty nails and the news I had fervently hoped for: a new, (UNBLOCKED) internet connection! I whooped with joy and texted this message to ToyotaBoss:<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “I have internet! Dave is my hero! I’d marry him if he wasn’t already married. Whee!”<br />
<br />
Several hours later, I’d bookmarked a dozen sites and was happily viewing that previously-blocked video on Toyota’s Facebook page. That’s when it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen any emails come through in a while.<br />
<br />
<i>Uh-oh</i>…<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-50362143621264213862011-05-01T16:39:00.001-07:002011-05-02T06:50:57.536-07:00Total Eclipse of the BlogYikes. You guys deserve a proper explanation as to my recent whereabouts…or more precicely, my what-the-hell-have-you-been-doing-all-this-time-abouts.<br />
<br />
I owe you that. So, here goes:<br />
<br />
Remember when I started working fulltime at <a href="http://www.dragonsearchmarketing.com/">DragonSearch</a>? Yeah…an hour away from home and suddenly I was trying to cram the same amount of blogging from before into a block of time that had been <i>cut in half</i>. <br />
<br />
Double-yikes.<br />
<br />
Then about a month ago, I’d brought my car into Toyota to have some work done. It was making that wonky noise…remember? You don’t?? That’s okay. I barely remember it myself.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the General Manager there took me to lunch and said he wanted to offer me a job. (At this point, feel free to conjure a mental image of Kathryn cocking her head to one side in complete confusion.)<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “But. I <i>have </i>a job.”<br />
<br />
GM: “I <i>know</i>. I want you to work <i>for me</i>.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: (Still confused) “You mean, like…<i>in addition</i> to my full-time gig? ‘Cause I don’t know if I can handle that. I mean, I don’t get home till pretty late as it is…”<br />
<br />
GM: (Sighs) “Hoo boy. Okay…let’s take it from the top. I want you to <i>stop working at the other plac</i>e and <i>you’ll work here</i> and do our <i>social media</i>. It’s only a 25-minute commute. <i>Think of all the gas you’ll save</i>.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmBxCtOwnmIcS3sOVJk3im0QWP08Po4569G-MPyhApJgwiLRqXWZrAP5w89_-h7UohIzH4sKgtS6exzOnFt-qpFVevroUoa2XLz44U4T2WrgRAgO-jgyf16OCNIZGIznDuATfRbhipQw/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmBxCtOwnmIcS3sOVJk3im0QWP08Po4569G-MPyhApJgwiLRqXWZrAP5w89_-h7UohIzH4sKgtS6exzOnFt-qpFVevroUoa2XLz44U4T2WrgRAgO-jgyf16OCNIZGIznDuATfRbhipQw/s640/photo.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 18, 2011 (It's almost $1/gal higher now. Triple yikes.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kathryn: “Ohhhhhh. Okay.”<br />
<br />
But I didn’t want to stop being a Dragon. Dragons rule…and when Dragon, <a href="http://www.dragonsearchmarketing.com/blog/author/dragon/">Ric Dragon</a> said he completely understood my leaving and wished me the best, I thought I was going to cry. I then offered to continue copywriting for them in my <i>spare time</i>…which is ironic, since I wasn’t aware that I actually had any. Bear in mind that I’ve held down an additional part-time job for the last 14 years that’s done in my <i>spare time</i>. But I’m nothing if not tenacious. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I may be kicking and screaming on the inside but I’m not stupid…I know when I’m living the dream. I’ve always wanted to wear a lot of hats…it mixes things up a little…and it definitely keeps things from getting boring.<br />
<br />
So, now my full-time gig is as the Director of Social Media for <a href="http://dchwappingerstoyota.com/">DCH Wappingers Falls Toyota</a>. The website needs a serious overhaul but I'm tackling one thing at a time. I’m on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DCHWappingersFallsToyota">Facebook</a>…I’m on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/wappfallstoyota">Twitter</a>…I’m on FourSquare and LinkedIn and YouTube and Google on behalf of DCH. I’m <i>everywhere</i>… but never on From the Inside…Out. For how will I possibly find the time??<br />
<br />
But then an amazing thing happened. After a month at the new job, it started getting a little bit easier. Not a lot at first…but there was a definitive ease of that perpetual knot in my stomach. One freelance project was completed…and then another…and I began to realize that <i>maybe I can</i> do it all…and maybe Kathrnville really defines being <i>crazy like a fox</i>…instead of the white-knuckled, white-coat, white-hair-from-worry-insanity we’ve always equated with living inside the padded walls of my head. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_wxJHUqyrs4nOTXmdq-NZk1E1Jz3K92G_55tKTFoU7KtTm60M8eSGpH6sJ796JEIAsXzQLeA28zomPkac7VjG-0ieLYuUYSJ482J8496dYxBNjPIaTUymUS9_PR7BGEnfVhyphenhyphenxaeR0Z0/s1600/kathrynville+street+sign+in+space.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_wxJHUqyrs4nOTXmdq-NZk1E1Jz3K92G_55tKTFoU7KtTm60M8eSGpH6sJ796JEIAsXzQLeA28zomPkac7VjG-0ieLYuUYSJ482J8496dYxBNjPIaTUymUS9_PR7BGEnfVhyphenhyphenxaeR0Z0/s640/kathrynville+street+sign+in+space.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
And so, here I go again…trying to find that all-elusive balance between work, motherhood and my interminable love for my cyber-friends. May this time be the charm.<br />
<br />
Hey. You’ve gotta give me credit for trying…<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-4080131643231301992011-04-07T17:06:00.000-07:002011-04-07T17:06:43.358-07:00Closer Than They Appear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig68tCn6KvZgGYFIrxq_nR3K7SMIhNErHa2AQ7yiwCt1vfDk71d0l3WhjRTSYmkyUP0RXaOHA8BdI3Mpmp58Gl3q1dxA29pMeDJ08B4T8pcU-yHWeqlNsGs7jlU9FLFhmh5dQlekGFFbg/s1600/sideviewmirror.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig68tCn6KvZgGYFIrxq_nR3K7SMIhNErHa2AQ7yiwCt1vfDk71d0l3WhjRTSYmkyUP0RXaOHA8BdI3Mpmp58Gl3q1dxA29pMeDJ08B4T8pcU-yHWeqlNsGs7jlU9FLFhmh5dQlekGFFbg/s1600/sideviewmirror.png" /></a></div><br />
Kathryn: “Dammit! Sonofabitch. Crap, crap, crap. I <i>can’t freakin’ believe it</i>. This <i>bites</i>.”<br />
<br />
Connor (Staring at computer monitor): “That’s nice. Hmmmmm….”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “You’re not even listening to me. Pay attention this minute.”<br />
<br />
Connor (Eyes still on the screen): “You’re smothering me.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “<i>What</i>?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “<i>Huh</i>?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “This is serious. I need to vent. Honor thy mother.”<br />
<br />
Connor (Heavy sigh…regretfully pulls his gaze away from the computer): “Okay. What happened?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (Falls into a chair, looking miserable): “Well. I’ve been so…freakin’…busy. Like, <i>mad</i>-busy…not normal-busy. <i>Crazy</i>-busy…like, <i>insanely</i>-busy.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “So…you’re saying you’ve been busy. Duly noted.” (Turns to go back to computer)<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “No! You don’t understand…I missed my three-year Blogiversary…it was on Tuesday! AND my website expired and I still can’t find the email and when I checked it today, it was a site for ‘internal cleansing’ or something…and (jumps out of chair) OHGOD, OHGOD, I thought I’d been hijacked and I called <a href="http://ingwa.blogspot.com/">Mark </a>in a panic and he said the website just needed to be renewed and he told me to breathe and...(flaps hands, doing an incredibly remarkable imitation of Big Bird having some sort of epileptic seizure) I think I’m gonna faint…or cry…or maybe vomit.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “So…who’s Mark? Wait. Is he your co-worker with the awesome British accent that thinks he’s from Zimbabwe?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (Stares): “We’ve been over this. He <i>is </i>from Zimbabwe. And I don’t think he appreciated when you questioned his country of origin.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “I’m just saying. He sounded very British to me.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Oh, yeah…because you’re <i>such an expert</i> on dialects. Can we get back to what’s important here?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Dinner?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “What?” (Waves hand dismissively) “No. I also noticed I’ve got <i>600 posts</i> in the hopper. This is <i>number six-oh-one</i>. I’m just missing everything…and now I have to finish the laundry I started at 5:30 this morning and finish that article that’s due….like, <i>right now</i>. I shouldn’t even be standing here talking to you.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Well, then…I’ll let you go.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “But…”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Chop, chop Mom. You really need to learn how to apply yourself.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “I don’t want--“<br />
<br />
Connor: “Sometimes, it’s not about what you <i>want</i>…it’s more about what you <i>need</i>.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Rolling Stones?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “<i>What</i>??”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (Sighs): “Never mind. Go back to your computer. Oh and my comment-thingie is being wonky, too. Mark's trying to help me figure out why.”<br />
<br />
Connor (Staring at the monitor): “That’s nice. Hmmmm….”<br />
<br />
And so it goes…three years down…hopefully many, many more to come. Please keep trying to comment…and I’ll try to be timely in responding! <br />
<br />
Miss you. Love you. Mean it.<br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-11790525016256994692011-03-29T18:52:00.000-07:002011-03-29T18:52:56.656-07:00Because I Said So.Ah, the joys of motherhood. The trial and error…the give and take…the uncontrollable sobbing.<br />
<br />
Oh, wait…that’s just me.<br />
<br />
Connor is heading off on his 8th grade rite of passage to Washington DC. <i>Five hundred and fifty smackeroos </i>of my hard-earned green so he can tour museums and take cell photos of many, many monuments. Yes, folks...he's travelling to the home of our nation’s capital and, more importantly, land of <a href="http://www.gayguystraightguy.blogspot.com/">GayGuy/StraightGuy</a>. Honestly, Connor has no sense of how to prioritize. <br />
<br />
Turning 14 also seems to have eliminated any ability he may have had to communicate effectively:<br />
<br />
Connor: “Mom. You need to bring my suitcase into the school tomorrow between 3 and 4:30 or between 6 and 7.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “What? Why?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “I don’t know. You just have to do it. I suggest the 6 to 7 slot.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Wait. I’m confused. <i>Why </i>do they need to see your suitcase? Are they concerned it might not fit on the bus? What the hell is wrong with these people? Don’t they have anything else to do but critique the size of our suitcases? There’s more to a person than their luggage, you know…there’s empathy and having a killer sense of humor.”<br />
<br />
Connor (Stares): “Are we having the same conversation? What the hell?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Connor. Language.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “But, you just said it. Do you not hear yourself?”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “What?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Huh? Oh. Ha…<i>so </i>not funny.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “This is unacceptable. I’m calling the school.”<br />
<br />
Connor: “Whatever.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (To lady at the middle school): “I know I’m probably the 4,357th person to call with questions….”<br />
<br />
Lady at Middle School: “Actually, there have been 4,358. Good guess, though. Are you calling about the suitcases? ‘Cause 14-year-old boys are notorious for their lack of conveying information properly.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “<i>Thank you</i>.”<br />
<br />
Lady: “You’re welcome. We need parents to bring the packed suitcase to the school the day before we leave so we can check for contraband and avoid confusion during the 5:45am drop-off.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “I’m sorry…contraband? Are we talking cigarettes and scotch here? ‘Cause I can assure you that----...<i>wait</i>. Did I just hear 5:45am? You did <i>not </i>just say that. I thought it was...like, 7.”<br />
<br />
Lady: “More like energy drinks, PlayStations or weapons. Yes, 5:45. If you go to the school district website, click on middle schools, then click on our school, then 8th grade, then the tab for the Washington DC trip, it’s right there. You can’t miss it.” <br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Okay. Weapons?? You’re joking.”<br />
<br />
Lady: “Oh, you’d be surprised what we’ve found. Once, a kid had packed a huge rock.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Well, I don’t think you can judge them based on what they like to eat. I mean, maybe they were vegetarians…or maybe they’re training to be a chef or something. I don’t think that would make them a possible threat to society…although maybe the hot oil could splatter or something…”<br />
<br />
Lady (Sighs): “I said <i>rock</i>. Not <i>wok</i>.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn: “Oh.” (Silence) “So, I guess I’ll see you at 5:45 then.”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (To Connor): “Have you heard anything about some kid packing a rock for his 8th grade trip?”<br />
<br />
Connor: “No…but we heard a story about some kid who put Neosporin on his leg and he was allergic and he almost died. What idiot packs a rock??” <br />
<br />
I then asked Connor if he’d forgotten to hand me any pertinent paperwork. He said, “I doubt it”. We then proceeded to empty the contents of his book bag:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoFD3S6P7n6VxEW24DK36XqH_nqZ9kZZKb9xwWcKM3lU2KL5n_6zs232tAjZ2W2pysnnuRQw0uAbtGN4aDpFaQKuHO0SeCVQ0xzUijKK6UGx3AfQetvNaj1SF9hb2Fm16xZocK0NmZbQ/s1600/IMG_5527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoFD3S6P7n6VxEW24DK36XqH_nqZ9kZZKb9xwWcKM3lU2KL5n_6zs232tAjZ2W2pysnnuRQw0uAbtGN4aDpFaQKuHO0SeCVQ0xzUijKK6UGx3AfQetvNaj1SF9hb2Fm16xZocK0NmZbQ/s640/IMG_5527.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Um. <i>You </i>be the judge...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-85723929533375570352011-03-24T18:15:00.002-07:002011-03-24T18:23:58.075-07:00Wham. Bam. Thank You, Ma'am.So, I’m driving to work…minding my own business…being the <s>short-tempered</s>, <s>impatient</s>, fastidious driver that I always am…and my car starts making this noise:<br />
<br />
<b>WHOMP</b>…<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>WHOMP</b></span>…<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">WHOMP</span></b>…<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">WUP</span></b>…<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">WONKA-WONKA-WONKA</span></b>-<b>WONKA-WONKA</b>…..<b>WUMP-WUMP-WUMP</b>-WUMP…..<b>WUH</b>…….WUH…..WUHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…<br />
<br />
<i>Anyone</i>??<br />
<br />
No? No blog-diagnostics available at this time??<br />
<br />
Whatever. <br />
<br />
Was I concerned? Yup. <br />
<br />
Was I concerned enough to rush somewhere to take it in? Not so much.<br />
<br />
You see, I’d performed some oh-so-technical Kathrynville-diagnostic-testing of my own. By utilizing this highly-advanced methodology, I was able to draw certain conclusions:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>It did not make this horrific sound when the car was cold. This was monumentally positive, as I drive Connor to school first thing. I do believe he’d rather <i>DIE </i>than be seen <i>with me</i> in an annoyingly loud vehicle.</li>
<li>It did not seem to matter whether I had my foot on the brake. My superior power of deductive reasoning concluded that it probably, most likely, could conceivably mean it had little to do with stopping.</li>
<li>It only made this horrific sound when I got below about 20 mph. I’d no clue what <i>this </i>had to do with <i>anything</i>.</li>
</ol><br />
After three days, I’d concluded that the sound was not going to stop on its own. So, before I left work for the day, I texted my bud at Toyota:<br />
<br />
Kathryn: <b>OK. Car is mankig soundd from reaROf car. Likea WHOMP-putta-putta-puhhhhh. I hoep it’s not serious.</b><br />
<br />
Toyota Guy: Why don’t you stop by and let us take a listen?<br />
<br />
Kathryn: <b>But. I am all the way HeRe @ wrok. I thnnk it’ll stops again like b/3. I’m telling you just in case somethgg bizzrre happens.</b><br />
<br />
Toyota Guy: Oh? Something bizarre, huh? Got it. Should you go missing, or something. LOL.<br />
<br />
At this point, I begin to suspect I’m not being taken seriously. I mean, LOL? <i>Really</i>?? And so, I decide to pull out the big guns…or, in my case, the camcorder feature on my cell phone. And I text “<b>LISTEN</b>” with this:<br />
<br />
<div id="kadoo_video_container_14397746-5da"><object height="338" id="video_detector_14397746-5da" width="600"><param value="http://divshare.com/flash/video_flash_detector.php?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtpOjE0Mzk3NzQ2O3M6NDoiY29kZSI7czoxMjoiMTQzOTc3NDYtNWRhIjtzOjY6InVzZXJJZCI7czo3OiIxMzk1MjA5IjtzOjQ6InRpbWUiO2k6MTMwMTAxNjE1NTtzOjEyOiJleHRlcm5hbENhbGwiO2k6MTt9&autoplay=default&id=14397746-5da" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="opaque"></param><embed wmode="opaque" height="338" width="600" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://divshare.com/flash/video_flash_detector.php?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtpOjE0Mzk3NzQ2O3M6NDoiY29kZSI7czoxMjoiMTQzOTc3NDYtNWRhIjtzOjY6InVzZXJJZCI7czo3OiIxMzk1MjA5IjtzOjQ6InRpbWUiO2k6MTMwMTAxNjE1NTtzOjEyOiJleHRlcm5hbENhbGwiO2k6MTt9&autoplay=default&id=14397746-5da"></embed></object></div><br />
Yeah. I know. I was holding the phone sideways. This is SO not the point. Focus, people. Keep listening...ya can't miss it...and.....THERE.<br />
<br />
Toyota Guy: BRING IT IN. NOW.<br />
<br />
Yikes. Honestly, I was more embarrassed than anything else. Driving home in bumper-to-bumper traffic drew a tad more attention than I’d prefer. I kept sliding <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">lower </span>and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">lower </span>down in my seat.<br />
<br />
It turned out to be my “hub bearing”. It cost a pretty penny to replace...but it’s a small price to pay for a car with 115,000 miles on it…with relatively few issues reported over its lifetime.<br />
<br />
If only the same could be said for its owner. But <i>that</i>, my lovely friends…shall have to wait for another day.<br />
<br />
Happy 19th Birthday to Taylor! Woot! I'm so damn proud of you. Rock on, son....rock on.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-9622454965793826022011-03-15T16:53:00.000-07:002011-03-15T16:53:24.124-07:00Disconnect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSaaw3-0SWEcfJLfcCDxsRxV5ALPgxoUMGL-rJy_-Vgm24KO7m_pHFH8t5taSxmY9Gkq-d6QH181AsD7p6NE-yFs1Niyu-KgOhT0z048S4im1w6iiflCLBUBOtxxctFDP2w-3mfRiNYmc/s1600/IMG_2966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSaaw3-0SWEcfJLfcCDxsRxV5ALPgxoUMGL-rJy_-Vgm24KO7m_pHFH8t5taSxmY9Gkq-d6QH181AsD7p6NE-yFs1Niyu-KgOhT0z048S4im1w6iiflCLBUBOtxxctFDP2w-3mfRiNYmc/s640/IMG_2966.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I’m sorry…the blog you have dialed has been temporarily disconnected…due to the owner of said blog temporarily losing her freakin’ mind. If you think you’ve misdialed…well, you probably haven’t.<br />
<br />
I know how much we enjoy a good interview and since I’ve opened the door to Blogville and no-one’s on the other side, I’ll just have to do this myself. <br />
<br />
(Sighs dramatically. Takes deep, cleansing breath--like they do on all those exercise videos I never do—and prepares to go into her multiple-personality-mode)<br />
<br />
Interviewer: “Okay. So, <i>WTF</i>? You’d better be short a limb or something for being gone so freakin’ long. No email, no tweet, no nothing? You just…drop off like that? Is that how your mother raised you??”<br />
<br />
Kathryn (Surprised): “What? Yikes. Crap. I guess this is what they mean by us being the hardest on ourselves. Lighten up a little, will you? And kudos for wishing me the loss of a limb. Way to make me feel loved.”<br />
<br />
I: “Don’t turn this back on me. Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do. Spill.”<br />
<br />
K: “Ahem. Okay. <b>MY DAD IS OKAY. HE’S OUT OF THE HOSPITAL AND HAS BEEN LOVINGLY AND RESPECTFULLY PLACED IN AN ASSISTED LIVING ENVIRONMENT WHERE HE CAN LEAD A PRODUCTIVE LIFE WHILST BEING MONITORED AND RECORDED. <i>WAIT</i>. <i>JUST MONITORED</i>…NOT RECORDED.”</b><br />
<br />
I (Wincing): “Why are you <b>shouting </b>at me? Inside voice, Kathryn.”<br />
<br />
K: “Oh…sorry. I’ve been talking to an 81-year-old for a while now. If you don’t speak up, you wind up repeating yourself a lot. Actually, you wind up yelling <i>and </i>repeating yourself, so it’s kinda moot, now that I think about it. Do you want me to get you some Jell-o?”<br />
<br />
I: “Um, no. Although I could go for a pudding cup, if you’re asking.”<br />
<br />
K: “I’m not. The family stuff has been intense. Plus working fulltime and doing the whole Mom-thang.”<br />
<br />
I: “What does that involve, exactly?”<br />
<br />
K: “Are you mocking? Don’t mock the Mom-thang. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Cleaning. Cooking.”<br />
<br />
I: “<i>Cooking</i>?”<br />
<br />
K: “Cleaning. Laundry…”<br />
<br />
I: “Yeah, I thought so. Hard to lie to yourself, right?”<br />
<br />
K: “Bite me.”<br />
<br />
I: “Wow. Someone’s cranky.”<br />
<br />
K: “But I’m…(tries to think of something positive)…adequately hydrated.”<br />
<br />
I: “What?”<br />
<br />
K: “Huh?”<br />
<br />
I: “So, are you back for good? Or, are you going to disappear again? Because it’s very inconsiderate…and more than a little rude.”<br />
<br />
K: (Sniffs) “Well, I hadn’t planned it <i>this </i>time. Things happen. Sometimes, life throws you a 180 and you need to sink before you get what you give.”<br />
<br />
I: “<i>What</i>? What the hell?? Only you could take three metaphors and turn them into a run-on sentence with no meaning whatsoever.”<br />
<br />
K: “Bite me.”<br />
<br />
I: “Okay. That’s getting old. And it’s not very ladylike, either. You need to work on that.”<br />
<br />
K: “<i>Ya think</i>? Maybe I should focus on removing any negativity from my life as well. Shed the winter blues, as it were.” (Looks interviewer up and down)<br />
<br />
I: “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to go. Or, you could not bite the hand that’s worth two in the bush and have yourself a merry little Christmas. Now.”<br />
<br />
K: “I like the way you think. But can I go to bed? I'm pooped. Start fresh tomorrow?”<br />
<br />
I: “Sure. Just promise everyone you’re back for good. So they won’t worry.”<br />
<br />
K: “I’m back…I don’t want any. More. Drama. Just calm, boring stuff. Woot.”<br />
<br />
I: “So, you remember how to get back to this here internet? ‘Cause you’ll need to come back and check in periodically…just to be neighborly…”<br />
<br />
K: “Very funny.”<br />
<br />
I: “And you'll have to show up more than once a week, or these virtual cobwebs’ll be back quicker than you can say ‘Kathrynville’.”<br />
<br />
K: “Okay… I get it.”<br />
<br />
I: “I don’t want to have to come back here again. Now, drive to the store and get me my pudding cup.”<br />
<br />
K: “Bite me.” <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-27090190240241259332011-02-27T19:55:00.000-08:002011-02-27T19:55:40.878-08:00The Road to Insanity is Paved with SeltzerOnce upon a time, there lived an ex pole dancer with an IQ of 168, extraordinarily-awesome hair, legs that went on for miles and a sense of humor that once gave Seinfeld a hernia from uncontrolled bouts of laughter. <br />
<br />
That gal, my friends, <i>could be me</i>.<br />
<br />
Okay, so maybe the only pole moves I’ve ever done involved trying to escape down one that attached to the big-kid slide when I was too chicken to actually wait my turn to hurtle down the 103-degree-aluminum-ride-of-death when I was ten:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA73nJb0ngu01ZDSSozEy7WqGuccGzJkx3QqCtuV8k44SyPwZ3JL48yjPCrd_aZxo-nWe-zSrvV5Z0McxJBE27q_Fd2KvMQLvIs5DsWjcPKDJe-rUoFRsJcRJ01sihSvqrz_l58L62HJ0/s1600/metal+slide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA73nJb0ngu01ZDSSozEy7WqGuccGzJkx3QqCtuV8k44SyPwZ3JL48yjPCrd_aZxo-nWe-zSrvV5Z0McxJBE27q_Fd2KvMQLvIs5DsWjcPKDJe-rUoFRsJcRJ01sihSvqrz_l58L62HJ0/s400/metal+slide.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
…and maybe that 168 isn’t really my IQ but more like the balance in my checking account…and I might have just made Jerry pee a little bit…<br />
<br />
But the long legs and great hair are <i>mine</i>, dammit. Can I finish the story now??<br />
<br />
This chick has it all: great fam, great friends, great job, awesome blog and the extraordinary ability to recite the alphabet backwards, even during inappropriate moments of stress. But there is one trait that seems to get her into trouble: she likes to drink lots and lots of seltzer…and she likes to drink it at <i>room temperature</i>. (It’s weird…I know….but hey, I never said she was perfect.)<br />
<br />
Drinking lots and lots of seltzer has its value. Hell, you’re drinking water, after all. How can that be bad? The bubbles tickle your nose and relieve any errant gastro-intestinal upsets, resulting in one's experience of sweet, lady-like belches, which are often a source of private amusement that will cause this gal to smile knowingly, and will more than likely cause those who catch her eye to unknowingly smile back, creating a universal ripple-effect of smiles that could ultimately result in world peace. <br />
<br />
Hey, it could happen.<br />
<br />
The <i>downside </i>to drinking room-temperature seltzer is that during the initial opening of the bottle, you must turn the cap ever-so-slowly…to let the carbonation escape ever-so-gradually…or be prepared to take an unexpected seltzer-shower. Don’t believe me? Go ahead…give it a try. I double-dog-dare ya. You’re fine once you’ve progressed past this nerve-racking initial phase and have taken a few lady-like gulps (yeah, she’s a drink-straight-out-of-the-bottle kinda gal…but always with one pinky delicately raised, of course) but beware of that first time. It’s a doozy.<br />
<br />
At work, she’s kind enough to offer her co-workers a verbal, “Seltzer alert, people”…so that they receive sufficient advance notice of the inevitable “sssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSsssssssssssssSSSSSS” sound to follow and they don’t panic and call 9-1-1, thinking someone’s about to be consumed by an escaped, freakishly-oversized rattlesnake from the Bronx Zoo that somehow made its way up to the second floor of this particular building, took a left at the second green door, somehow got past the employees in the first three offices and is now closing in to dine on the tastiest one of their beloved dragons.<br />
<br />
Hey, ya never know. <br />
<br />
Her dad’s been in and out of the hospital. He started off at home, then to one hospital…then to rehab….then was rushed to a <i>second </i>hospital (for a completely different reason, just to mix things up a bit so everyone is truly and utterly insane) and as of this writing is back in the rehabilitation place, getting stronger and evidently feeling more like himself, as he insisted that Laura (sis) drive down there and bring him ice cream ‘cause he didn’t like whatever kind they had on hand. I mean, that’s progress, right??<br />
<br />
You’re probably wondering what this has to do with seltzer. I know I would be. See, on one of her visits to the hospital, she lost her mind and opened a new bottle of seltzer on the way to her Dad’s hospital room, looking to take one giant swig to down the ibuprofen hurriedly thrown into her mouth moments before to quell the monster headache threatening to cause her brain to self-combust.<br />
<br />
The seltzer literally went off like a volcanic geyser and she yelped in surprise and spit the pills all over the floor, along with her keys and her yet-to-be-validated parking stub from the lot. Now, a hospital….with all those walkers and IV’s…. is probably not the best place to create a slippery (water), bumpy (four Advil) environment for sick people sauntering down the hall. And the nurses who are simultaneously walking and trying to read the doctors’ terrible handwriting on those charts probably aren’t too keen on it, either. Afraid to leave the scene for even a second to grab paper towels for fear of an even bigger mess, she stood rooted to the spot until she could flag someone down and offer about a hundred apologies, while some sweet nurse’s aide was kind enough to insist on cleaning up the mess on her own. Grateful, the gal thanked the sweet aide cleaning up the projectile seltzer with bits of half-melted Advil mixed in and proceeded to enter her dad’s room, where he inquired as to why there was so much ruckus in the hall.<br />
<br />
Two days later, this gal returned to said hospital…with a previously-opened seltzer in hand (thankyouverymuch) to discover this sign above her dad’s bed:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvq8TCYCBFvMoOsYpsrZPjLQNDWC-JcV8Nbtw37IxQ09EIL5OfChyoSGyjTDPydZ7F6EkLjh1Bxg1-xSKI0lVdG6NYE8IZcXArhZQkLqeNzzWtE8TUxgcd7Bp0cKWM3-xk2hrCnBA_-ng/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvq8TCYCBFvMoOsYpsrZPjLQNDWC-JcV8Nbtw37IxQ09EIL5OfChyoSGyjTDPydZ7F6EkLjh1Bxg1-xSKI0lVdG6NYE8IZcXArhZQkLqeNzzWtE8TUxgcd7Bp0cKWM3-xk2hrCnBA_-ng/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Ha. I’m glad someone’s got a wicked sense of humor. I’m certainly glad <i>I’m not that gal</i>…for I would probably be mortified. And if I were her, I think I’d switch over to something a little less…combustible. Maybe a nice coffee cup of concealed Cloudy….I’ll bet she wouldn’t spill <i>any</i> of <i>that</i>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6370763014722326902.post-91471389305369737042011-02-19T07:14:00.000-08:002011-02-19T07:14:57.400-08:00-athryn...Who??<b>Anonymous Person #1</b>: “What the hell ever happened to that chick from Inside…Out? The one who lost the first letter of her name to some mysterious, unnamed boss (<a href="http://www.dragonsearchmarketing.com/blog/author/dragon/">Dragon, Ric Dragon</a>) due to some unfortunate trauma of <i>his </i>(we can only <i>assume </i>it’s a childhood trauma that somehow involved a cello, a container of Play-Doh and something to do with his mother…’cause in the end, mothers manage to get blamed for just about everything anyway. I’m just saying…), whereas the rule is that anyone with a “K” in their name had to have it surgically removed if they wanted to work with him? Wow. Imagine if your name is Drake…or Brooke…or Nikkie? That’d be a bitch. ”<br />
<br />
<b>Anonymous Person #2</b>: “Excuse me? WTF was the question? Do I <i>know </i>you??”<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “Very funny. Seriously, what was her name? Kelly? Kourtney? Kumbaya??”<br />
<br />
<b>#2</b>: “You very well know her name. For everyone else, it was Kathryn.”<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “Did you say ‘<i>was</i>’? Did she <i>DIE</i>? ‘Cause I heard she was in rehab with some hairdresser who got hopelessly addicted to the hairspray fumes from the guy on Jerseylicious who used it in his hair like, every half an hour. It looked lime cement on camera. I can only imagine what it felt like. And the fumes....(shivers)...” <br />
<br />
<b>#2</b>: (Stares) “No, I believe it’s her 81-year-old dad that’s in a <i>physical rehabilitation facility</i> following several bad falls, two trips to the doctor and a 5-day-stay at a hospital. Now her dad’s getting three squares a day, his meds are on time and the goal of physical therapy is to make him stop falling down. She’s missed more work than she can possibly make up but rumor has it that she’s relieved as hell he’s in a secure, comfortable environment (albeit temporary…21 days) and that although she has stuff to do during the day today, she’s planning on partying like it’s 2011 tonight with her sisters. Rumor also has it that there will most likely be alcohol, dancing with abandon and there’s been talk of building a couch in the middle of the front yard constructed entirely of snow. I’m sure photos will be taken…if not by the participants, then surely by the neighbors.”<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “What’s the ‘stuff’ she has to do today?”<br />
<br />
<b>#2</b>: “<u><i>That’s</i> </u>what you got out of that explanation? Whatever. She’s taking her car in for a recall she got like, 2 months ago. Evidently, her steering wheel can lock whilst she’s driving. Also, her windshield wipers are getting ‘wonky’. (Her word, not mine.) They only operate on one speed (fast) and won’t retract when you turn them off…but simply stop in wherever position they happen to be in at the moment. When the roads are messy, which is basically all the time, you’ll hear the <i>click </i> of her turning them on…followed by the <i>click </i>of her turning them off…followed by, “<b>CRAP</b>”, as they’ve stopped in the perfect spot to completely obscure her vision. Then it’s a series of, <i>click</i>…<i>click</i>…<b>DAMMIT</b>!...<i>click</i>, <i>click</i>…<b>SONOFABITCH</b>!...<i>click</i>, <i>click</i>…<i>YOU ARE SO FREAKIN’ DEAD TO ME</i>…etc. If the steering wheel locking doesn’t kill her, the stress from those damn wipers may just do her in. Either way, it’s time.”<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “So, she’s not dead? Or in rehab? Or fleeing the law from that Ponzi scheme?”<br />
<br />
<b>#2</b>: “<i>What</i>?! Um, no, no…and <b>NO</b>. My understanding is she’s fully aware that she’s been frustratingly remiss in both posting, visiting others’ blogs and commenting here and there and even mentioned a few people (AKA <a href="http://whatpassesforsaneonacrazyday.blogspot.com/">Spot</a>, <a href="http://thenightmarescreenplay.blogspot.com/">Mark</a>, <a href="http://onnonnon.blogspot.com/">Wendy</a>, <a href="http://www.pampersandpinot.com/">Pampers & Pinot</a>, <a href="http://missedperiodsandothergrammarscares.blogspot.com/">Missed Periods</a> ((not what you might think it means, BTW)) and <a href="http://www.ishouldabeenastripper.com/">Chrissy</a>, (to mention a few but certainly not all)...and some very welcome newbies commenting at Inside…Out and <i>many, many</i> others who faithfully comment on a regular basis...but I can’t read her harried notes here as I believe she was driving when she wrote them) whom she hasn’t spoken to in “fore-eva”-again, her word- and is feeling a crapload of guilt and said, “I’m really jonesing to get back online to my place and stay awhile”.<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “WTF does ‘jonesing’ mean?”<br />
<br />
<b>#2</b>: “Look it up. It’s a New York thing. Suffice to say, she’s missed everyone and has cleared her calendar of everything on Sunday except to pay two bills, investigate and remove whatever’s emitting that funky smell in the back of the fridge and will stay in Inside…Out all day...in her jammies, if need be. She's also reminded me of some self-imposed punishment she has that will not allow her to read one comment until she’s in a position to reciprocate…so she’s almost afraid to check her site. She’s thinking no-one’s there but spider webs and a dog-eared copy of Nat Geo from 2004.”<br />
<br />
<b>#1</b>: “Do you think she’ll really resurface tomorrow and make a dent in re-connecting, <a href="http://www.twitter.com/clinton_kelly">Clinton</a>? It would make her feel a hell of a lot better. I've heard she installed the theme song from the show “Cheers” as her ringtone, as a gentle reminder of everyone here she adores so much…”<br />
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<b>#2</b>: (Frowns) “Well, thanks for blowing my cover, Anonymous Person #1. As I am a man of integrity and honor, I shall not stoop to your level. But to answer your question? Yes, Ellen…I do believe she’ll be back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9Yk5_0KpX6eja_W3uO_MFdvfwEFqoeMZw2tMrSGgSX6wrErKlOKMb2x4CJOK9WCqeprojLxmsnV9oxhiZSIKnUzzn24TKLe72D5NvY-vUFtdBDjc2Utmds715RxaP7up-MQrMLYFm6c/s1600/CK+and+ellen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9Yk5_0KpX6eja_W3uO_MFdvfwEFqoeMZw2tMrSGgSX6wrErKlOKMb2x4CJOK9WCqeprojLxmsnV9oxhiZSIKnUzzn24TKLe72D5NvY-vUFtdBDjc2Utmds715RxaP7up-MQrMLYFm6c/s320/CK+and+ellen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>xo<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85760/kathrynl/3b26675104a185d8ace04f1c9f1bbc64.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a>kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06152568985075401447noreply@blogger.com20