tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9627844024203821052024-03-13T05:50:42.015-07:00Two Songs Rewritten for the Tunes SakeKatie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-29376274059743040772009-05-17T14:51:00.001-07:002009-05-17T15:02:33.660-07:00So I haven't felt like being an exhibitionist lately...<span style="font-size:100%;">....well? I haven't. At work, I started to write again on my lunch break...a couple entries here and there. I haven't gotten around to posting them though. Here's the first one (and the most important since it basically recaps the events that have taken place since my little blog sabbatical):<br /></span> <span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"><br />Ok, every once in a while I get sick of my blog and move on for a while. Obviously this was one of those times. It just so happened that I moved on during a PARTICULARLY eventful time in my life, so it makes me sad to look at my blog now and see that the latest update about my life is about the Kitty Half Time. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span> <span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;"><br /><br />In March I got laid off. It’s ok, I didn’t like the bathrooms at the firm anyway, and I hated making nametags. HATED IT. Here’s how it went down: </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin: 1ex;"><div> <ol type="1"><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">The Firm calls a mass meeting to tell us we’re laid off. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Here is what I was thinking during the meeting: “SHIT.” </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">They tell me my lay off is effective the next day and I tell them there is no way in hell I’m going back to my desk…now…or EVER. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">…so, I get in my car and punch my steering wheel and cry for like ten minutes on the phone to my mom…</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">…and for ten more minutes at the mall on Colin’s shoulder. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I go home and apply for grad school…</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">…but then get freaked out about student loans, so I apply for jobs as well. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I sit around for about a month (in hindsight, this was awesome) </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">…and then get hired by a new, better company. </span></li></ol><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Yep, that’s right, I got another job. Within a month. MIRACLE. The only downsides to this job are: </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> <ol type="1"><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">My cubicle has no window </span><span style="font-family:Wingdings;font-size:100%;">L</span><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">. I know, boo hoo, poor kate. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">It is one (1)(uno)(un) HOUR from where I live. That’s two (2)(dos)(deux) hours in the car EVERY DAY. I never in a million years thought I would listen to as much morning radio as I do now. I even have thought about calling in a couple times because why SHOULDN’T I be part of the discussion? I mean, I’m listening every damn day, I feel like sometimes the morning show should hire me. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">They do not provide me with free plastic dishes and silverware. Or subsidized snacks and sodas. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Stupid handles on the bathroom doors. I will attempt to take a picture later, surreptitiously, with my phone. </span></li></ol><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /></span> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">They do, however, provide me with the following: </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <ol type="1"><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">The opportunity not to blow my diet on 25c snacks and sodas. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">A better salary</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Cooler people who do not talk about their children ALL DAY. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">‘Cause some of them don’t even HAVE children, which is nice. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">More work and more responsibility, so I only have time to update my blog during my lunch hour. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">A reason to move to the outskirts of St. Louis</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Way nicer building</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">No window IN my cubicle, but the window BY my cubicle looks onto a lake, and not a brick wall. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">If there is a terrorist attack on downtown St. Louis, I will not be the first to go. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Way better parking situation</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Way better boss/delegation</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">More jeans days</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">A coat hook that came WITH MY CUBICLE. </span></li></ol><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /></span> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Things the Firm gave me: </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <ol type="1"><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">a month off</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">severance pay</span></li></ol><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /></span> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Ok, lots of other things. It’s a way better situation. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">______________________________<wbr>__________________</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">My other big news is that I finally got my engagement ring!!!!!! I know, this happened like three months ago, but in thinking about it, I decided that maybe the only thing my future children will want to read about on my blog (future daughters, anyway) is my engagement and wedding. Probably about their births and the trials and tribulations of our early marriage before they came along, as well. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">For now, all I have to really talk about is wedding planning. It is probably a good thing that I did not update my blog when I was in the initial phase of wedding planning. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">Let’s discuss how my wedding is still ten months away, and I have already made it through the “initial phase of wedding planning”. Some normally adjusted women might not have even started planning at ten months out, or at the very least would have JUST started planning. NOT ME. I am finished planning, save for the cake. Yep, that’s right, the cake is the only thing I have left to plan in my wedding, which is in March of next year. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">So, that’s why I think it’s probably best that I didn’t update when I was furiously planning every detail of my wedding in a single two-month span. At that time, the only thing interesting about me was how crazy I was. Anyway, I can sum up the whole wedding planning experience in one post, instead of the two months worth of daily posts it would have required back then: </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <ol type="1"><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I booked a reception hall (which subsequently required me to book a caterer) and a ceremony location. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I asked my grandfather to officiate. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I bought a dress. This experience is still resonating “crazy” in the world of Kate because I have a picture of said dress on my cubicle wall. Mostly to remind me to STOP EATING. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I made mock invitations. OK, heres the thing. I would love to just ORDER invitations. However, I feel like if I do not make them myselves I will be judged. Still, my mock invitation took about three milliseconds of design skill, so perhaps I will be judged anyway. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">I picked out bridesmaid dresses</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">In a particularly intense wave of crazy, I made a playlist for my wedding reception. Which resulted in a minor discussion between C and I over whether or not it was appropriate to play Tupac. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">My mother and I booked a florist. I’m not entirely convinced my mother didn’t book him more because he was a fabulous gay man and less because he is also a fabulous flower designer. </span></li><li><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">We booked a photographer who is the BOMB DIGGITY. </span></li></ol>_________________________________<br /><br />That's as far as I got on my lunch break. Today I haven't been feeling very upbeat so reading my upbeat journal entry makes me a little more disphoric than I already was, and less inclined to write more.<br /><br />I intended to post pictures of all the wedding stuff, but I'm feeling a little burnt out on weddings lately. I dunno why...maybe because it just seems like it's so far away. I think that's a good sign to put it on the back burner for a while, anyway.<br /><br />Ok, gonna go cook dinner. I promise I'll update more, blog. I'm sure my future children will thank me not to write only about my cubicle, skipping the important, exciting moments.<br /> </div> </div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-85005350781780458752009-02-05T08:52:00.000-08:002009-02-05T09:00:27.575-08:00Only something with as great a magnitude of ridiculousness as the Kitty Half Time Show could shock me out of my blog-coma this time.<br /><br />Here it is:<br /><br /><a href="http://animal.discovery.com/tv/puppy-bowl/video/video.html?playerId=1369813243&titleId=9812760001">http://animal.discovery.com/tv/puppy-bowl/video/video.html?playerId=1369813243&titleId=9812760001</a><br /><br />Every single one of those cats is like WT-BLOODY-F IS GOING ON.<br /><br />It just reminds me of why I love cats. The puppies that participated in the Animal Planet Puppy bowl were so oblivious to the fact that they were being poked fun at. Whats this you say? You want us to romp around on a fake football field for an hour? There are toys involved? The kitties however...they had the right idea. In the first place, there is no way Animal Planet could get kitties to stand for this nonsense for any longer than they did, hence the kitty HALFTIME. Second, look at all these kittehs. They all look shell s hocked. Every once in a while the camera zooms in on a kitty in the midst of a plaintive cry for help. Of course you can't hear it because of the krazy kitty music they're playing in the background.<br /><br />_______________________________________<br /><br />In other news: I'M ENGAGED!!@#. I would post a picture of the ring but I can't find my camera card for my big camera. I would take one with the camera at work but my ring is being sized. Wedding plans are already progressing nicely, but I don't feel like typing about it. Theres nothing funny or really interesting about planning a wedding unless you're in it.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-44631238341711652182009-01-06T07:22:00.000-08:002009-01-14T10:41:36.176-08:00SORRY.You know what I think? If you don't have anything to write about, take half a month off. Now that I've sufficiently restocked the number of life experiences that I don't mention on my blog, I can write again.<br /><br />______________________________________<br /><br />Where to start, wheeerrre to start...oh yes, Christmas. Christmas was....christmas-y. That's about all there is to it. I baked 5 dozen cookies and ate a lot of pork. This year my little cousin had his muslim friend stay over for Christmas and New Years. Poor kid, he must think we eat nothing but pork, all day long. Sausage in the breakfast casserole, ham sandwiches for lunch, christmas ham for dinner, leftover ham for snacks, ham candy, ham popsicles, ham cookies, ham in our stockings...you get the point. There was even pork in the delicious meatloaf that my mother made especially for him on Christmas eve. Being the heathens that we are we debated even telling him, but being the questioning agnostics that we are, we considered the possibility that maybe pork IS sinful, and didn't want to risk his soul for a little meatloaf.<br /><br />I got good presents:<br /><br />a super nice camera lens<br />a<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FI73MA/?tag=googhydr-20&hvadid=2192951021&ref=pd_sl_20wgx685w_e"> kindle</a> so I don't have to haul books around when I travel<br />a bike from C<br />a gorgeous pie plate from poland from Callie<br />other odds n ends that I don't feel like typing out<br /><br />I gave good presents:<br /><br />ex libris stamps for my dad and sammie pie that i designed myself<br />a $100 mood gift certificate for my mom and a cool quilt pattern<br />a box from poland for callie for her earrings*<br />a blender, some cologne and something else that i cant remember for C<br />a wallet and $20 bucks for john vernon**<br />something for jessica that i cant put on here because i havent given it to her<br />a GPS for C's parents***<br />a diamond necklace for C's sister****<br />some beer steins for C's other sister<br /><br />*no, we did not consult with each other beforehand on the topic of whether or not to both purchase gifts for each other from Poland. We're just cool like that.<br />**I thought long and hard before buying this potentially lame gift and then I thought...he's fifteen, what could be better than $20 bucks?<br />***went in with his sister and her fiance and C. C'mon, I'm not THAT <del>rich</del> nice.<br />****it was on deep dark "please take this from us" clearance. also, not that nice.<br /><br />___________________________________________<br /><br />Then for New Years we went to <del>the godforsaken frozen north</del> Wisconsin to visit C's family. It was...cold. C thought it would be a great idea to bring Olibur Finwik, even though there was two feet of snow and he is only 1.9 feet tall. Not so much. The first thing he did when we got to my probably future in laws house is run around to every room like a maniac for about five minutes, finishing his romp off by pooping in the house while running.<br /><br />Great. 20 years from now they will still be talking about when my dog came and left a trail of poop in their house for Christmas.<br /><br />Then we tossed him outside where he proceeded to pee on the screen door and poop on the welcome mat, refusing to touch his porcelain ass to the snow. Finally, on our last day there he peed on the carpeted stairs.<br /><br />Anyway, aside from that New Years was great.<br /><br />____________________________________<br /><br />When I came back to work, the first thing I did was check my email, and then I entered fifty or so sweepstakes. That can be my new years resolution: Win Sweepstakes.<br /><br />Heres a (partially) comprehensive list of what I could win!<br /><br /><ul><li>A trip for two to the North Pole!</li><li>A trip to Montana</li><li>A trip to Branson</li><li>Eight Vera Wang Bridesmaids dresses</li><li>A trip to Ancestral Scotland</li><li>A West Virginia getaway!</li><li>Some super expensive baseball bats for C</li><li>A couple diamond rings.</li><li>combined approximately 2 million dollars</li><li>trip to disney world</li><li>a fifty thousand dollar wedding</li><li>a wood cutting machine</li><li>two sweeps with Hasbro and hellmans mayonnaise that i don't remember the prize for</li><li>a new set of pots and pans</li><li>a nice casserole pan</li><li>a motocross bike.</li><li>a fifty thousand dollar car.</li><li>some other stuff i can't remember.</li></ul>__________________________________<br /><br />I started this post right after Christmas and now it's like a month later and I'm going to finish it by god.<br /><br />Is it sad that when I added the "people I'm related to" application on facebook, it showed about ten people that I have never even HEARD of in the "possible relatives" section? Possible relatives meaning I have at least one relative in common with them. Maybe I should get home more...OR maybe my second and third cousins should stop marrying and having babies at such an alarming rate.<br /><br />I think thats a good place to end things....Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-89089671410936727842008-12-20T20:14:00.000-08:002008-12-20T20:36:36.765-08:00C and I will be spending part of this Christmas at our family farm at my father's behest. For those who don't know my father, let me tell you about how he is arguably the smartest person I have ever met. Eloquent, thoughtful, educated, well-read, cultured etc etc etc. My dad is the person I call when I need a mini-lecture about quantum physics or string theory or when I need to know what the scientific name of the sea cucumber is (all three of these things are actual bonafide questions that I have posed to my father and he has had the answer to.) <div><br /></div><div>HOWEVER...put my father within about fifty miles of our family farm and he...changes. I think my father wishes sometimes that he could trade in the civic for a john deere and call it a day. He wishes that he preferred labs and sheep dogs to tiny, nervous greyhounds. Most of the time he's ok with it. He likes his iPhone and routers and his hybrid civic...none of which are functional in the country. But being around our farm really hits him hard. </div><div><br /></div><div>SCENE:</div><div>Dad <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">(drives up in light blue hybrid honda civic with my sister and I. Callie is a French major, I am a graphic designer. We have a tiny greyhound in the car. Our relatives are leaning up against a tractor wheel discussing the harvest (I think.) Dad waves and gets out)</span>: Well fellas, I reckon the soybeans are about as high as an elephants eye!!!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">(Our relatives sheep dog tries to come after Oliver and he is mortally offended and makes a scene)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>Our Relatives (collectively): Yep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad: Billy, I saw you got 'bout fi'ty head o' steers on the back forty!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Billy: Sure do! </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm paraphrasing of course, because who wants to hear about breeding heifers? Well, some people do, but I'm not sure they're reading this blog. The point is, when we got back in the car Dad was right back to waxing poetic about our ancestors and popping in Ani DiFranco.</div><div> </div><div>It's ok, Dad. I get it. Sometimes I too wish that my life were uncluttered and simple and free of the city. I long for it most when I look out my office window and see the tops of buildings and only slivers of sunlight. </div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-58108390373853052892008-12-20T19:41:00.001-08:002008-12-20T19:57:51.798-08:00hurray, it's the holidays.Today the mac went into a little tiny coma. Needless to say I immediately went into OMG mode and hauled its little computer butt out to the counties to the Apple Genius Bar to have it "diagnosed", the problem being that it refused to boot up past a certain point. <div><br /></div><div>All its troubles were miles away, however, after I hauled it into the store in the freezing cold and braved the mall the Saturday before Christmas. The nice, hip/harassed-looking apple genius (his shirt proclaiming: "If I were a reindeer, I'd be fixen") plugged it in and turned it on and it made a joyful little noise and booted up faster than I'd ever seen it boot in it's life. </div><div><br /></div><div>So...thats great. It's back at home now after it's car ride and journey to the mall. </div><div><br /></div><div>___________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>I though I had all my Christmas shopping done but people keep giving me presents at the last minute, leaving me having to lie about where THEIR present is. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, your present is coming in the mail. It's very exciting! I ordered it from Poland." </div><div><br /></div><div>I DID order some of my christmas presents from an online store called "POLStore" which sells polish souvenirs to people who are too broke to actually visit. Best believe I've been letting the people who got Polstore gifts know that THEIR gift did actually come from Poland, even though the postmark is Poughkeepsie, NY. Some people I lie to, however, which leaves me in a position of having to find something to give them that looks like it might have actually come from eastern europe and not from the mall. </div><div><br /></div><div>You never want to tell people that they weren't on your gift list to begin with. This happened to C and I a week or two ago, when we got a present for someone we hadn't even CONSIDERED buying one for. Early in the season we vowed to seek out people we didn't want to spend money on and have The Conversation with them. You know The Conversation, it goes like this: </div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey, times are tough, why don't we just go out for drinks or something in lieu of presents." </div><div><br /></div><div>But, we got lazy. The weeks just flew by and we never had The Conversation and then one day a present arrived in the mail. C found it and called me at work to tell me. He sounded about as bummed as any human being can get after receiving a gift in the mail. "You'll never guess who just sent us a present." he said. I already knew...our list of People We Don't Love Enough To Buy Presents For is pretty small, all things considered. "Awww dammit! What are we going to do now?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I think this puts us pretty squarely in the scrooge category for 2008. To make up for it we spent a lot of money on everyone who DID make the list. I guess in hindsight we could have spread the wealth but ah well. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, ya'll, I have done absolutely nothing of any significance today and I think I'm going to cap it off by reading my new book in the bathtub for a while. Cheers!<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-55702969996064266562008-12-17T07:11:00.000-08:002008-12-17T07:30:54.770-08:00Jury Duty.This week I had jury duty for the first time in my life. I expected it to be a lot worse than it actually was; all my relatives recounted waiting for eight hours while the judge deliberated over traffic tickets gone wrong and the like. In truth I waited about two hours to be called (aka: curled up in a corner of the waiting room and read a book) and spent the rest of the day being questioned for a rape case. Yep, that's right. My first jury duty could have been anything but it turned out to be rape. Two counts of forcible rape AND burglary. And I was selected for the jury.<br />It's an odd thing to sit in front of the accused and know that it is your job to judge them, that your vote will decide the path of their life from this courtroom forward. The defense was nineteen years old; a child. His mother was in the back row as we filed in but they did not look at each other. He vacillated between looking at each of our faces and hanging his head in his hands. Interrogation was done group style, questions were posed to the whole group and those who had an affirmative answer stood up and announced it. Eventually it came to the "have you or anyone close to you ever been a victim of violent crime?" question and <span style="font-style: italic;">literally</span> every other woman stood up. " I was raped, 15 years ago" "My sister was raped" "My daughter was raped" "My mother was a victim of domestic abuse and she was raped".<br /><br />I am cynical enough to recognize the possibility that some of these women were telling a terrible lie to get out of judging this kid. Some of them weren't. Some of them stood up and their hands shook. Their faces told the story for them. Even from across a crowded courtroom there were shadows on them. Some of them would not look at him because he had added another to their ranks. He, on the other hand, looked at each one. He looked devastated. I would like to think he was devastated because he had become the object of each of these women's nightmares but I suspect otherwise. He was nineteen, and most likely he was devastated because he was facing two life sentences.<br /><br />I have my own experiences with questionable sexual activities that could have gotten me out of jury duty, but they don't haunt me like what these women went through. I could look at the accused and feel an appropriate mix of pity and objectivity.<br /><br />On the second day after spending hours with our eyes on him he plead guilty rather than endure another day of listening to us recount our grievances.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-1656496551153715632008-12-12T10:40:00.001-08:002008-12-12T10:47:40.092-08:00PS: Lately, I'm so irritated by this one blog that I used to read and love. At first I thought she was just a smart, snarky MomBlogger. Sure she was desperate for attention, what blogger isn't really desperate for attention deep down? Lately she's been putting together this book filled with funny entries from blogs and she actually posted an entry where she asked her friends to tell her what her funniest post was. The desperate for attention part is ok until you actually straight up are acting desperate on your blog.<br /><br />I guess I just expect more than "Here, read this post that I think is hilarious AGAIN. Haha aren't I the funniest person ever?!" from a blog that has thousands of readers. Isn't tooting your own horn against the Bible or something. I think I remember this verse:<br /><br />1 Jes. 2-4:<br />"Verily I say unto you, thou shalt not tooteth thyne owne horne.<br />Nor the horne of thyne neighbor.<br />Nor the horne of thyne wyfe.<br />Nor the horne of thyne childryn."<br /><br />OR SOMETHING.<br /><br />Gah. It's time for the office holiday party. GET EXCITED, KATE. No really, try to get excited.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-50420092588989019592008-12-12T09:42:00.001-08:002008-12-12T09:43:24.150-08:00I am currently on hold with the Missouri Department of Revenue to ask questions about what the @#$% do I bring to get license plates. I am currently number TEN in line, and my approximate wait time is: ONE. MINUTE.<br /><br />To this, all I have to say is: LIES.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-39199457714661248272008-12-12T07:42:00.000-08:002008-12-12T08:58:44.305-08:00Lets have babies!!This morning Oliver pissed in his own bed. Well, I should say that he did the deed sometime last night and let himself lay in it until we woke up because by the time we discovered it he was pretty much saturated in urine. Imagine if you laid a piece of felt in some pee all night long.<br /><br />Usually Oliver wakes up earlier than us and sort of snuffles around and/or jumps in bed with us so when we heard his little collar jingling and his little nose burrowing away in his bed we didn't think anything of it for about two seconds until C says "do you smell something?" More like "do you detect the smell of our dog that has been lying in his own mess all night?" For a couple minutes (like five) we just shifted our bodies to the other side of the bed and buried our noses in each others hair to mask the smell. Dinah Lou seemed to sense that we were on her side and she came up for a scratch. Finally we had to give in and in the dark of morn, bathe the dog and his doggie mattress.<br /><br />Yeah, we're gonna be great parents.<br /><br />PS: Callie, this is why you don't want a damn dog.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-48087138546199036602008-12-11T14:05:00.001-08:002008-12-12T07:40:43.822-08:00The Bean TreesMy all-time favorite book is The Poisonwood Bible. Many years ago my father read it and after he had tossed it aside I picked it up. I won't go into the details except to say that it's pretty much the Best. Book. Ever. If you don't agree, well, sorry. You're wrong. That's all there is to it. I've been through about three copies and my current copy is looking a little worse for the wear.<br /><br />ANYWAY, the point is, about the time that I finished my first reading of TPB I bought another book by the same author, Barbara Kingsolver. I though, surely I will love this book as much as TPB.<br /><br />Not exactly. The book, called The Bean Trees, stayed on various shelves in my house, unread. It traveled from house to house and for some reason I was reluctant to just put it away or sell it or give it to charity. Honestly, I should have given up on it but I couldn't. Every time I would start to read it, it would fail to interest me. I kept it around for the same reason I keep Skinny and Fat Jeans and shoes that need to be fixed and old pieces of wrapping paper and ribbon. "Maybe someday I will need it."<br /><br />It's funny how characters in a book can change depending on your circumstances. Two days ago I picked up The Bean Trees for about the millionth time and for some reason it spoke to me. Maybe I am old enough to be friends with the women in this book now. Maybe we have more in common. The point is, I finished it. I read it cover to cover. It only took me five years.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-57419992295601611662008-12-08T08:22:00.001-08:002008-12-08T09:06:28.778-08:00I am thankful for: my spam folder.I love the spam section of my email. I can't help it. Long ago I gave up on having a separate email for spam, since inevitably I would accidentally send something I needed to "spamsuckssof***off@yahoo.com" (except without the stars) and I wouldn't know the password. So I just started using my regular email for everything. G-mail has a nifty "THIS IS SPAM" button you can push, and I use it liberally. It's because of this that I get probably two hundred spam messages a day, and because of THIS I have learned the joy of perusing my spam folder.<br /><br />I think of my spam folder as a flea market for words. Every once in a while hidden in the piles of junk and velvet black Jesus posters is a real gem. Nowhere else do I receive correspondence from the following people and/or inanimate objects:<br /><br /><ul><li>MyColon (does <span style="font-weight: bold;">your</span> colon send you emails?)<br /></li><li>Colon Cleanser<br /></li><li>Mesothelioma (No thanks, I don't accept emails from CANCER)<br /></li><li>Dallas Wysiskolla (born in eastern Europe, raised in the west!!!!)<br /></li><li>Baby Back Ribs (please kate, we want to live!)<br /></li><li>Body Pillow (please stop getting me stuck behind the bed)<br /></li><li>Mr. Allen</li><li>Laughter Petrailia (should I ever be forced into sex slavery, this will be my alias)<br /></li><li>Me</li><li>Wind Generator (hahahaha) </li><li>Birth Control (Dear Kate: I am in your uterus and I make you miserable at least three times a week. Love, BC)<br /></li></ul>___________________________________<br /><br /><br />I think that my addiction to perusing my spam folder stems directly from my addiction to perusing craigslist. For a couple of weeks now I've been wondering where in the piles and piles of classifieds are the crazy desperate people who want to sell "GHOST OF A YOUNG WOMAN IN A MASON JAR" for $100 dollars to make their utilities payment? Remarkably, craigslist has all but avoided these kinds of shanigans as far as I can tell. People do get desperate though, believe you me.<br /><br />Observe: <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><h2><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://stlouis.craigslist.org/clt/949171713.html">1 BEER CAN, DAYTONA 1991 H.D.!! - $10 (St. Ann)<br /></a></span></h2><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://myrtlebeach.craigslist.org/clt/945428141.html">Snow Globe Musical by Willitts #7402 - $4 (Forestbrook,Myrtle Beach)</a><br /><br />exCUSE me?!: <a href="http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/clo/949707339.html"><br /></a></span><h2 style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/clo/949707339.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Used underwear panties boxer briefs undies - $40 (NYC brooklyn manhattan)</span></a></h2>_________________________________<br /><br />Ok, I'm off to be busy and do work.<br /><a href="http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/clo/949707339.html"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></a>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-92077955968065470872008-12-06T23:22:00.000-08:002008-12-06T23:42:47.588-08:00God, I suck. I guess the least I can say is that I TRIED to update every day. That's better than nothing. <div><br /></div><div>I've been trying to think of meaningful things to be grateful for, but I find the usual things to give thanks about make for boring entries. For instance, today, I was thankful that I didn't have to work so I could sleep in til ten. Then I was thankful that there was a Whose Wedding is it Anyway? marathon on. I guess I'm also thankful that <a href="http://gaineyd.blogspot.com/">Daniel's</a> work gave me a table to put my TV on (in my room) so I could achieve ultimate slovenly-ness and watch said marathon in my underwear. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was NOT thankful that Sam gave C a Lowes gift certificate for christmas. We spent a goodly amount of time picking out the PERFECT metallic black spray paint. Thanks a lot, Sam.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful that I invented a new drink tonight at Halo Bar: Amaretto and RedBull. Do you like sweettarts? Do you like delicious things? Try this out. It is both of those things (delicious and like sweettarts) Honestly, you might just have to be a bad person if you don't like this drink. </div><div><br /></div><div>___________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>DORK ALERT: You are a dork if you receive hundreds of dollars worth of clip art and a book about fonts for christmas. Extra seventy eleven trillion points for being stoked about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>__________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>For the last seven minutes or so C has been trying to take a picture of our cats and dog sleeping together on the bed. On the one hand, how can you not love a boy who is taking pictures of kitties. On the other hand....he's taking pictures of kitties. I feel like this is important insight into what it will be like to live with C in a retirement village. You may ask....is it possible to be a cat MAN? Well, I'm here to tell you. It's possible.*</div><div><br /></div><div>___________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm beginning to think updating your blog every day is a bad idea, like having sex every day. It seems like a great plan at the time but then after a while all you can think about is the style network marathon you watched in your underwear that morning while you're doing it.**</div><div><br /></div><div>*Heather: C is not as bad as Dave. Yet. </div><div>**we don't have sex every single day so don't worry, my sex life is not as boring as my blog.***</div><div>***I hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>__________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>To sum up: </div><div><br /></div><div>1. I'm boring and apparently lazy</div><div>2. ....thats about it. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-72327618573546844052008-12-03T09:45:00.000-08:002008-12-05T10:23:36.655-08:00I swear I wrote this two days ago and didn't finish it.Submitted to <a href="http://www.canisitwithyou.org/">CISWY</a>, December 2008.<br /><br />Sixth grade was a tough year for me. Not only did I have a bowl cut, but I also sported jean jumpers, turtlenecks tights and lace-up boots (all at the same time). This was during the era of Limited Too, which I was too fat to fit in. Plus, sequins* just don't tend to flatter a rotund, pre-pubescent figure.<br /><br />So to sum up, if I wasn't already desperately uncool because I wasn't wearing Limited Too, I also was totally into dissection, I brought in a leather-bound version of Treasure Island to school (because duh? I loved Treasure Island), I didn't have a trapper-keeper and I couldn't figure out how to put my hair in a ponytail. Instead of writing notes in class I was writing stories about Pegasus and unicorns and imaginary creatures. I formed a club called "The Iron Horse Club", devoted solely to the pursuit of galloping around the playground; members: 2. Me and the horse.<br />One day whilst galloping and prancing about I happened to prance by a crowd of my cooler classmates who were playing truth or dare. They invited me to join. Thrilled that I had been invited, I accepted, dismounted and tied up my imaginary steed and sat down in the space that had cleared for me in the circle.<br /><br />"Truth or Dare?" asked Jennifer.<br /><br />"Truth?" I, tentatively replied. Both sounded dangerous, but at least with Truth I could lie. I was good at writing stories...and telling them.<br /><br />"You can't pick Truth, you have to pick Dare."<br /><br />This in hindsight was a red flag, but I was desperate. I shifted in my jumper, glancing back over my shoulder at the school yard and the observing teacher. Both seemed very far away.<br /><br />"Ok, dare."<br /><br />A snicker erupted in the circle and I remember how my face flushed. How I hid my blush behind my mop of tangled hair. Even writing this almost fifteen years later my heart pounds in memory of the next moment, my legs are still hot with adrenaline.<br /><br />"We dare you to have sex with that telephone pole."<br /><br />I was mortified and the snickers were unabashed. Some even surpassed snickers and came out as snorts. I looked at the circle, and they were staring back. In the distance my Iron Horse was pawing at the ground, restless and desperate to carry me away across the soccer fields, across neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs and in to the safe arms of my mother. We had just completed Sex Ed. in school and the act of sex had seemed too personal, too intimate to contemplate. I was universally undesirable in sixth grade and I knew it.<br /><br />"You don't have to take off your clothes. The teacher would definitely notice that."<br /><br />Today I am sitting in my office remembering the feel of cool, smooth wood on my lips and tongue; my awkward thrusts and the splinters in my hands as they clawed the pole. I had clenched my eyes shut and imagined a day when I would write this story without feeling my shame and desperation as physically as I did that day. That day has not yet come.<br /><br />*A staple of all limited too clothing.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-22252946547267816702008-12-02T16:05:00.001-08:002008-12-02T16:11:22.753-08:00I promised a picture of Oliver in his new fancy-schmancy long sleeved wool lined sweater made by his Grandma Sue. Plus I haven't updated today and if I can't even make it two days I might as well hang it up. Here it is: <img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/STXOUl7xX5I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/Er15sD0sOvU/s200/Photo+22.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275349391709921170" /><div>You'll have to excuse the fact that I look like I'm 30 years older than I really am in this picture. It's COLD. And it's the END OF THE DAY. And to be honest I just don't care. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was going to post something better than this, but this is all I can muster up at the moment. Soooo...I'm off to target. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-11503825675107540562008-12-01T10:05:00.001-08:002008-12-01T10:23:47.691-08:00ok Ok OK, I'm updating every day starting.......NOW.So it's December and I no longer have any excuse not to update every day. I'M GONNA DO IT.<br />Plus, I've been provided with a "theme" for my December entries. This is good. I work well with structure. For December my theme is: "THANKS."<br /><br />I had a little time to think about this. THANKS (caps not my edit) is a pretty broad theme. THANKS a lot! THANKS for nothing! THANKS for the memories! You get the idea.<br /><br />So today, December 1, 2008, I will write a list of what I am thankful for, in general. You know, for starters.<br /><br />I'M THANKFUL FOR:<br /><br /><ul><li>My job. Even though sometimes I want to lay down in my cubicle and kick and scream and throw my chair through the window*. Or cut myself with the paper cutter. You know, all the usual office related death wishes. This is par for the course with an office job, right? Right?! The truth is, I do like my job. I'm thankful for the stability it brings to my life. I'm thankful for the occasional piece I get to add to my portfolio because of it.</li><li>C. Ya'll, sometimes I don't even recognize myself when I'm with him because I'm all gushy and twittery and ridiculous. OK, sometimes, along the lines of the ridiculous, I want to shove his face in the dirty laundry that he lets pile up and let him lay there and think about it. That's not very often though. Usually my response to the laundry (and everything else he does) is: "I love him!!! It's ok!" The bottom line is: I love him enough to do his laundry** and make bread when he asks and scratch his back 20,000,000,0005011 times a day.***</li><li>For my new gmail "skin" which changes to match the weather in Saint Louis. It was pretty cool when it was rainy or sunshine-y but now that it's snowing its SUPER COOL because it displays little piles of snow on top of my Google chats, <span style="font-style: italic;">even when I expand them out of window!</span></li><li>For Daniel's co-worker who came over and clipped Rex's wings for me last night, free of charge. Now he can't fly to the top of my kitchen cabinets and crap all over everything I own every time I let him out of his cage. You know what they say...if something is a little bitch to you every time you come near it, render it immobile and dependent on you for it's life. That'll teach him. </li><li>For the foresight to start buying Christmas presents for people three months ago. Go me!<br /></li><li>For my mom, dad, and siblings. They're the bomb. Special props to my mom who made a whole brisket for thanksgiving even though we already had three turkeys. That's right, THREE whole turkeys. And a brisket.<br /></li></ul>Ok, I have other things that I'm thankful for but I'm supposed to fill up a whole month of thankfulness in my blog, so I better give it a rest. More later, perhaps.<br /><br /><br />*While sitting in it.<br />**He does do his own laundry, just not as frequently as we need it.<br />***get some lotion already!Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-37702234443148334482008-11-25T14:28:00.000-08:002008-11-25T14:32:20.398-08:00booze and hors, here I come.Ya'll....just two seconds ago I typed up an email to send back to a coworker. I was THISCLOSE to sending it and heres what it said:<br /><br />"...it should be on your desk tomorrow. Love, Kate."<br /><br />LOVE. I ALMOST SIGNED MY WORK EMAIL WITH LOVE. I NEED TO GO HOME RIGHT NOW BEFORE MORE DISASTERS ALMOST HAPPEN.<br /><br />________________________________________<br /><br />Along the lines of other stupid email blunders....two days ago while discussing (light heartedly) over email with my coworkers whether or not to have a cocktail and hors d'oeuvre hour instead of a gift exchange I <span style="font-style: italic;">actually sent </span>the following email to my entire office:<br /><br />"You guys know I'm always game for alcohol and hors."<br /><br />Yeah, I'm really big on hors. Especially with alcohol.<br /><br />Ugh.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-79083213945813434802008-11-25T09:29:00.000-08:002008-11-25T10:40:39.935-08:00<div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-size:100%;">Today Callie and I were discussing the newest abomination in advertising: The Lying Cheating Glade Lady: </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span><br />me:</span> </span><span id=":pa">know what commercial i really f-ing hate</span></span></div><div id=":p9" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">that damn glade commercial</span></div><div id=":p8" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">its so offensive</span></div></div><div style="font-weight: bold;" class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">divingdar</span><wbr style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">lin8812:</span> </span><span id=":r8">which one?</span></span></div><div id=":r8" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">i dont have tv</span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">me:</span> </span><span id=":p7">oh right</span></span></div><div id=":p6" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">its a newer one</span></div><div id=":p5" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">ill describe it</span></div><div id=":p4" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">It starts out with this perky housewife ushering her kids and husband out the door</span></div><div id=":p3" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">because "she has a lot to do"</span></div><div id=":p2" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">so off they go to slave away at work and school</span></div><div id=":p1" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">and then she sprays glade air freshener all over the house and goes out to lunch and plays tennis and shit</span></div><div id=":p0" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">and when the kids come home (and the husband too, obviously she cant even be bothered to pick up her kids from school)</span></div><div id=":oz" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">theyre all like "wow mom, it smells great, you must have worked all day"</span></div><div id=":oy" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">and shes like "oh yeah, ive been cleaning all day"</span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">divingdar</span><wbr style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">lin8812:</span> </span><span id=":r8">ugh</span></span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">me:</span> </span><span id=":ox">but then the husband finds the glade bottle and they all laugh about it</span></span></div></div><div style="font-weight: bold;" class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ej8B8e">divingdar<wbr>lin8812: </span><span id=":r8">lazy bitch</span></span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">me:</span> </span><span id=":ow">i know right?</span></span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ej8B8e">divingdar<wbr>lin8812: </span><span id=":r8">that would bug me too<br /><br /></span></span><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ej8B8e">me: </span><span id=":ov">theres another one where shes pulling cookies out of a box and she lights a gingerbread glade candle</span></span></div><div id=":ou" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">and her friends come over and compliment her on the cookies she just baked because they smell fresh out of the oven</span></div><div id=":ot" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">and shes like "thanks!"</span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ej8B8e">divingdar<wbr>lin8812: </span><span id=":r8">geez whats with lazy women?</span></span></div><div id=":r8" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">"glade...for the lazy housewives"</span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">me:</span> </span><span id=":os">i just want to be like "jeez you f-ing ho, so glad your husband slaves away so you can go out to lunch and play tennis and NOT even manage to clean your house"</span></span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="t" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ej8B8e">divingdar<wbr>lin8812: </span><span id=":r8">seriously</span></span></div><div id=":r8" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">i hate glade</span></div></div><div class="V5xRrf"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div dir="f" class="RNCQof"><div class="Q2bXSc"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span class="ej8B8e"><span style="font-weight: bold;">me:</span> </span><span id=":or">me too</span></span></div><div id=":oq" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">i totally dont even want to buy it</span></div><div id=":op" dir="ltr" class="h8iICe"><span style="font-size:78%;">even if it DOES penetrate the carpet fibers more deeply than febreze<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">So basically, all these commercials make me want to do is burn down the glade plant, especially the advertising wing. I take issue with most commercials for products that are stereotypically the domain of women (for instance, when was the last time you saw a commercial for a vacuum cleaner that featured a man using the product and not merely slapping his wife's ass while she vacuumed under his feet? Ok, maybe that's a little too histrionic an assessment, but you get the idea) but at least these products show busy, industrious women who usually look happy to be providing a service for their family. At LEAST. Not this woman. Her husband works all day, presumably making enough money for her to enjoy luxuries like a country club membership and lunches out with the girls. Her only job is to clean the house, and it's supposed to take her all day. Instead she sprays it down with Glade and attempts to lie badly about it.<br /><br />I feel as though there's some sort of grim subtext to this commercial. Why is she lying about not cleaning the house? Will something bad happen to her if her husband finds out about the Glade? Does he work for Febreze?<br /><br />To add insult to injury Glade leaves us with the worst punch line ever invented at the end:<br /><br />"Wow, you must have been cleaning all day!" For eight hours! Did you even eat? You look emaciated!<br />"Yes, well, aren't you glad" Aren't you glad you work 40 hours a week so I can clean the house for eight hours a day!<br />"Don't you mean....GLADE?" Oh, haha! I get it! Glade is just like Glad except it has one extra letter! How much are they paying their advertising execs to come up with this shit?<br /><br />There's another one where she pretends to bake cookies and uses a candle to simulate the smell of freshly baked cookies to impress her friends. Then she ruthlessly eats a poor anthropomorphic gingerbread man who has curiously sprung to life to expose her.<br /><br />Obviously this woman will stop at nothing for the approval of her peers and now I am a Febreze user for life.<br /><br />First Glade Commercial:<br /></span></span></div></div><br /></div></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyzrfSLyDmL0TllTJF7HutxqrXh2nAsNcurX6CggrhLkuG6-ZZbHQiTCy7OzKbvayq4ZbKL5vZrOM_kDB8bVg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />Second:<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxWMdmbWpzvyAw1eM76D5Kjdnja_6AQNpDq1-BJa31y3dgTCuYrm3Sa2L7UtImnqBXBYa_wHUeJk0VPeIuJPw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-51522033577832700392008-11-24T11:04:00.000-08:002008-11-25T09:29:08.043-08:00A Partial Christmas List for My Millionaire Friends.Ok, I've done some thinking, now I'm ready.<br /><br />_______________________________________<br /><br />I was thinking that I haven't posted tree cam since...well, since I started posting tree cam. The tree is bigger now, and its looking all fall-y and winter-y. We're contemplating bringing it inside for the winter but I am (probably rightfully) afraid that I won't water it and it will wither away. NOT a good sign for the tree that is supposed to <a href="http://kafrinrosefindaw.blogspot.com/2008/08/tree-cam-issue-1.html">be representing our relationship </a>(ya'll sometimes we're so sappy it makes <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> want to barf, so its ok if you do that now).<br /><br />Tonight C and Downstairs Dan. are both at work so it'll be the perfect time to update Tree Cam. GET EXCITED.<br /><br />_______________________________________<br /><br />Ok, even though I've done some thinking, I'm still not feeling very verbose and exciting so instead I'm going to provide my Imaginary Christmas List for 2008, with pictures (some)! Without further ado:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kate's Imaginary Christmas List Presumi</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">ng Her Loved Ones Won the Lottery 2008<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. a pony. </span>I'm not even trying to be cute here because I really really REALLY do want a pony. I'm fairly sure this one has topped every Christmas list since I was five :(<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsJXvHePdI/AAAAAAAAAQU/ppC9sv6MuSo/s1600-h/normal_horses22.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsJXvHePdI/AAAAAAAAAQU/ppC9sv6MuSo/s200/normal_horses22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272318092156747218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">(this horse is prettier than me :( )</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. a house </span>While I love my CURRENT house, and my current roommates are fine and dandy, I do NOT love living with three other people (not including C).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsJsP7Z8EI/AAAAAAAAAQc/gbN1mqWQiF8/s1600-h/house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsJsP7Z8EI/AAAAAAAAAQc/gbN1mqWQiF8/s200/house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272318444561887298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">(room for ONLY two people and lots of love!!!)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. a vacation to somewhere exotic </span>actually, anywhere but st. louis is sounding exotic enough to me at the time being. I've found myself saying to C, "Hey baby, lets get a room at the Holiday Inn by the airport! Won't that be fun?!" Yea...I need to get out more.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsK39Vn_LI/AAAAAAAAAQk/JJSczMnhWgo/s1600-h/holiday-inn-express-main.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsK39Vn_LI/AAAAAAAAAQk/JJSczMnhWgo/s200/holiday-inn-express-main.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272319745241644210" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsK4rkZPUI/AAAAAAAAAQs/rVBk4gv9_-k/s1600-h/Pavillion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 98px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSsK4rkZPUI/AAAAAAAAAQs/rVBk4gv9_-k/s200/Pavillion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272319757651623234" border="0" /></a></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:78%;">(both of these are Holiday Inns...)<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /></span></span></span></div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-40194218530733053842008-11-24T10:38:00.000-08:002008-11-24T10:43:15.588-08:00file this one under "boring ass posts"Soooo, Thanksgiving is just around the corner. It ended up that I had ALL of my vacation days left to use (yes, you are in awe of my <del>extreme fear of getting fired</del> work ethic!) so I took Wednesday off to absolutely shorten the amount of time I have to spend at work this week. At the moment I am seriously regretting not taking tomorrow off as well. Alas, I am greedy and want to carry over as many vacation days as possible to next year.<br /><br />GOD this entry is boring. Were you expecting something pithy? Perhaps something touching and nostalgic? TOO BAD, you get to hear about my vacation days.<br /><br />I gotta go think some more before I finish this so I don't fall asleep on my keyboard.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-15336189061706746982008-11-21T10:46:00.000-08:002008-11-21T11:34:11.523-08:00When I was about eight, my parents signed me up for Cotillion. We had been living in the South for several years by then (two to be exact) and I suppose they were either A. enamored with the gentility points that you get from sending your daughters to a school for manners or B. trying to fit in. Probably a little bit of both.<br /><br />My siblings and I were christened in the Midwest, in the Reformed Latter Day Saints church surrounded by our stolid relatives, but we were baptized in a white clapboard Episcopal church, dripping with Spanish moss. I only have memories of that church being damp as most things were in the South; damp sidewalks, dewy moss clinging to saturated grave stones, cold holy water on my forehead. Our baptism did more than open the doors to the social hall at St. Pauls, it also bonded us forever in holy-siblinghood to our former family friends-made-God Family.<br /><br />What is a God-Family to a bunch of RLDS Midwesterners displaced to the deep(ly religious) South, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Your Godmother and father are responsible for assisting in your spiritual growth. They will watch you when your parents are out of town and you will have countless Easters, Christmases and Thanksgivings together. Your God-Siblings will have warmed their body next to yours in a crib or a bathtub. You will have snickered through a multitude of church services only to run screaming into the church yard afterwards, ignoring the priest on your way out. Your Godbrothers will be your Cotillion dance partner and on some level people will probably assume they are your betrothed.<br /><br />Yes, that's where Cotillion came in. At the age of eight my Godbrother and I were pulled out of the creek in the backyard where we were most likely building a fort out of mud and narrowly escaping death by Cotton-mouth. We were stuffed into church clothes (on a Tuesday night!!) and packed off to ballroom dancing where likely our parents beamed from behind a crack in the door.<br />Mrs. Whipple was our teacher, devoted to enlightening us with the ageless joys of the waltz, the fox-trot and the tango. Godbrother and I were deeply mortified at the prospect of touching not only each other in what seemed like such an intimate fashion, but of touching other boys and girls. You can only imagine the consequences this had on our dance skills as we shuffled around the room, as far apart as two eight year olds can possibly be without attracting the attention of Mrs. Whipple, who was probably eight around the year 1800 and had since forgotten completely what it was like.<br /><br />In addition I learned to keep my knees together when I sit and cross my legs at the ankle, tucking them politely behind me and folding my hands on my knees (a habit I still keep to this day). I learned to balance books on my head so as to avoid rudely "walking" and adopt the habit of "gliding" across the room instead. This was particularly hard for a girl who was overweight, grossly unfashionable, a huge dork and accustomed to ducking through hallways and around corners instead of "gliding". I learned to curtsy, how to kneel in a skirt and how to accept an invitation to dance from a gentleman caller. Godbrother learned how to issue an invitation to dance (I'm fairly certain neither of us has ever used these two particular skills).<br /><br />We learned together what a Victrola was when unexpectedly the CD player broke. Of course Mrs. Whipple had purchased a Victrola (probably around the time they were invented) for just such an occasion, and that week we danced to scratchy renditions of dance music from the 1910's, gliding around the room in the strained silence that always accompanies a group of 50 eight year olds being forced to waltz.<br /><br />My sister and I were never given away as Debutantes, so in theory our Cotillion training was a waste. I'm fairly certain C considers me an eligible young woman for marriage despite my lack of a formal introduction to society. I'm fairly certain Godbrother has never asked his longtime girlfriend to dance in the proper way.<br /><br />Occasionally though, in the way that many things about the South still do, a piece of Cotillion sneaks up on me. I will sink all the way to the floor instead bending to pick something up. I will hold C's hand in the style of a waltz if our favorite song comes on the playlist while we are alone in our room. I will sit at my desk and ignore the ergonomic qualities of my desk chair, sitting straight with my ankles crossed until the end of the day when I will crumple at home, legs akimbo and stockings pulled down. This much I am sure I have in common with Mrs. Whipple, may she rest in peace.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-55385679798119694322008-11-20T14:48:00.000-08:002008-11-20T14:56:02.110-08:00OH (cold) SNAPPS: It's COLD today. Tonight the low temp has the word "teen" in it, and no, I'm talking about fifty-twoteen degrees. Commence lack of fashion......NOW.<br /><br />PPS: Speaking of fashion, my mom has agreed to fashion a long sleeved fleece jacket for Oliver. I will definitely provide pictures.<br /><br />PPPS: Someone today told me the picture of oliver in his stupid cow hat was, well, stupid (those weren't her exact words but I get it...it IS stupid) and I quickly set the record straight. That hat keeps him WARM. Ya'll I'm so serious. His brains would probably turn to ice if he didn't wear hats in winter. I assume his cranial space is made mostly of water, so this is entirely possible.<br /><br />OH SNAP. It's five o clock. I have actually been busy today AND updated my blog. Yep, I'm awesome.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-77876637942426896332008-11-15T21:12:00.000-08:002008-11-20T13:10:21.385-08:00THIS IS WHAT I WROTE THURSDAY.THIS IS WHAT I WROTE SATURDAY:<br />Ok ok, I'm updating. It's only 11:10 so it still counts for Saturday.<br /><br />THIS IS WHAT I WROTE MONDAY:<br />That's what I wrote for Saturday. MAN I'm a loser. Clearly the problem is just that I need to start at the BEGINNING of the month and not in the middle of it. Clearly.<br /><br />Ok, now I'm really going to update.<br /><br />_______________________________________________<br /><br />THIS IS WHAT I WROTE ON WEDNESDAY:<br /><br />I put the Onion widget on my google desktop because, well, I love the Onion, and ever since I did this I keep thinking the headlines it posts are real. This results in quite a few of these: "Hey baby, President Bush just took a wild tumble down the steps of the Washington Monument! Did you know?!" and "oh my gosh, a blistex employee made a fool of himself at a lip balm conference!" and "Jesus! Bush just got his arm bit off by a crocodile!" and other ridiculous outbursts that have nothing to do with real news.<br /><br />______________________________________________<br /><br />Today I will really update. I really will. My latest exploits include searching for vacations in Sun Valley Idaho for the family and blowing the lint out of my keyboard with the magic dust remover. That stuff is amazing! PS: why does the can get cold when you use it? Anyone?<br /><br />_____________________________________________<br /><br />Occasionally my phone does this thing at the office where it will randomly turn the ringer back on at it's loudest possible setting. Let me tell you, when I'm expecting my phone to merely buzz harmlessly and instead a blaring rendition of my alma mater's fight song, Al Green (C's ring) Hall and Oates (Sammy's Ring) or Don't Stop Believing (Gibble's Ring) comes out of my phone unexpectedly....lets just say I've knocked a couple elbows and knees around jumping out of my seat when it happens.<br /><br />____________________________________________<br /><br />BEST OF YAHOO ANSWERS V. 3<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><h1 class="subject"><span style="font-size:100%;">I feel upset, so will you sing a Nic</span><span style="font-size:100%;">kelback song to me please?</span></h1><h1 class="subject"><span style="font-size:100%;">What is the best website to date teen girls in Oman ?</span></h1><h1 style="font-weight: bold;" class="subject"><span style="font-size:100%;">What will the plot of the next cat porn, starring Adam and Sophie, be?</span></h1><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">_______________________________________________<br /><br /></span></span>Anyway, I leave you with this:</span><br /><h1 class="subject"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSXSCKb0fWI/AAAAAAAAAP8/tLH73Tr93DQ/s1600-h/funny-pictures-kitten-is-tough-and-should-not-be-messed-with.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 174px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SSXSCKb0fWI/AAAAAAAAAP8/tLH73Tr93DQ/s200/funny-pictures-kitten-is-tough-and-should-not-be-messed-with.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270849873509645666" border="0" /></a></h1><br /> <div class="content"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span></div>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-38224771585517809622008-11-14T08:42:00.000-08:002008-11-14T10:00:04.592-08:00NaBloPoMoYesterday I joined <a href="http://nablopomo.com/">NaBloPoMo</a> as extra incentive to update EVERY DAY. Get excited!<br /><br />I'm not going to put up the November NaBloPoMo badge becauuuuse November is half over and I definitely haven't posted every day.<br /><br />_________________________________________<br /><br />In other news, November is half over!! How?!<br /><br />Tomorrow it is supposed to snow in Saint Louis. GREAT. I used to really think snow was awesome, because it only happened once every ten years in South Carolina. Well, the reason for that is because snow is only awesome IF it happens once every ten years. You need at least ten years between snows to forget how much they suck. I mean, don't get me wrong, snow is pretty. If you happen to be in the country, in a quiet field surrounded by sleeping trees and with grey-blue sky stretching as far as the eye can see. If you have a snug coat and cute hat on, even better. Snowflakes will fall on your nose and eyelashes and everything and everything will shimmer with joy. Yeah.<br /><br />Unfortunately when it snows on Indiana Avenue, immediately it turns grey and fills up with dirt and soot and crack needles. Oliver goes out into the yard and refuses to go further than two inches away from the porch so the snow in our yard is spotted with dog poop and pee. I consistently Soooo, not that great. Nothing magical about that.<br /><br />___________________________________________<br /><br />Speaking of Oliver, this morning when I woke up I found a present that he left me IN MY SHOWER. When he was a puppy, I understood this sort of behavior a lot better. I said to myself, why wouldn't the equivalent of a two year old child come and poop in my house? As he got older, I said "sure, the equivalent of a 15 year old person SHOULDNT be pooping in the shower, but this is oliver so maybe that fifteen year old is delayed a couple years"...if you know what I mean.<br /><br />Now he is equivalent to a thirty year old human and i truly, TRULY cannot think of a good reason why a 30 year old man would drop a deuce in my shower. He's getting gray on his muzzle now, so he's got to be old enough to know that pooping in the shower is bad. I'm sure theres a wise adage about this somewhere (as you all know, my grandfather was a sailor so I know ALL ABOUT adages):<br /><br />"Gray on your muzzle, don't poop in the shower."<br /><br />....<br /><br />I love him, but sometimes I think back on the day I picked him out. There were literally HUNDREDS of dogs there (it was a puppy farm, mistake no. 1) and I picked the dumbest one. Sure he was pretty and expensive, but he was dumb from the start. That's very classic kate behavior, by the way. Sort of like my $350 leather boots. Pretty, expensive, and a very dumb idea from the start. Of course I still love them (a lot, much like Oliver, I will cry when they bite the dust). My boots don't poop in the shower though. Not to my knowledge, anyway.<br /><br />In other animal news, C just informed me that Ethan got locked in a room and was screaming bloody murder. IF there's any living thing in the house dumber than Oliver, its quite possibly Ethan. Here is a picture of him, telling me how he really feels:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SR27pwDs8QI/AAAAAAAAAPw/DAbTxqeUEDs/s1600-h/Photo+220.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zZkEyNZ-CZU/SR27pwDs8QI/AAAAAAAAAPw/DAbTxqeUEDs/s200/Photo+220.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268573465042809090" border="0" /></a>Ethan is also a pooper. So is Dinah Lou, since Ethan moved in. Between the cats and Oliver, its often like the book of revelations come to life in this house.<br /><br />ALSO, look how THIN I was! I guess that's what livin' off of cigarettes and adderall will do for you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway, its my lunch break now so I'm going ot watch the office.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-23506619984882348862008-11-13T14:15:00.000-08:002008-11-19T14:12:53.855-08:00Heck is for people that don't believe in gosh.Dear Blog,<br />Sorry for not updating regularly.<br />Love,<br />Kate<br /><br />_______________________________________<br /><br />Anyway, I would like to tell you that I'm so busy that I just don't have a minute to break away to write but that's not true. I'm just lazy. Lately I've mostly been consumed with reading other people's blogs and this had made me intimidated and feeling sluggish about regaling the internet with stories about my cubicle. Or...well, my cubicle. That about sums it up. Yesterday I cleaned it! Today I rearranged the magnetic poetry on my cabinets! Oh, did I tell you about when I organized my books from largest to smallest?!<br /><br />Yeah, cubicles suck.<br /><br />_______________________________________<br /><br />SORRY, MORE ELEVATOR RANTING:<br /><br />This morning I was late to work. I parked my car by the elevator (I always park like three floors higher than necessary so I don't have to walk a long way to the elevator. Whoo...I am SO not living an active lifestyle and will probably die from deep vein thrombosis or something) What was I talking about? Oh right, the elevator.<br /><br />ANYWAY: This SUPER cheery woman was holding the door for literally every single person in the whole garage. Including me, even though I was busy fiddling with my car, and putting my shoes on and losing my keys in my purse (you get the idea). I even gave her the "go ahead without me" wave and she didn't get it. I'm not sure what else I could have done except give her the "I LITERALLY WOULD RATHER HURL MYSELF OFF OF THE TOP OF THIS GARAGE THAN RIDE DOWN TO THE STREET WITH YOU AND THE SIX OTHER PEOPLE IN THERE" wave.<br /><br />Eventually she got the message, but SERIOUSLY people. I'm beginning to think my hatred of the elevator is borderline sick.<br /><br />____________________________________<br /><br />Since I've been reading other people's blogs I've been feeling less and less important/articulate. I think I've mentioned this before, but MAN, some of these ladies don't even curse. HOW?<br /><br />Once, someone told me that someone told THEM that I had a gift for telling stories, which I don't think exactly translates into my blogging sometimes. For one, it must seem as though I have absolutely no grasp whatsoever of the English language, or it's grammar (one I got a C on a paper in COLLEGE because it had 17 comma splices, so this might actually be the case). But seriously, I just don't see the point in editing my blog. What you see is what you get here, people. This crap comes straight out of my brain onto the paper. No filters.<br /><br />Secondly, it has occurred to me lately that maybe I was good at telling stories...back when I had some stories to tell people. I mean, it's not hard to tell a story like this one:<br /><br /><ul><li>Once upon a time, Kate and her Friend Sam trespassed in a National Park by climbing the fence at Monticello into an apple orchard planted when Thomas Jefferson lived there and absolutely GORGED themselves on delicious, ripe little national treasures.</li></ul>True story! But man, compare that to this:<br /><br /><ul><li>Once upon a time, Kate was late to work because she couldn't find any pantyhose and she didn't want to get in the elevator and then her computer broke and she converted some firm resumes into a new format and went home and waited for C to get off work because she has no other friends.</li></ul>WOW.<br /><br />This same person also told the person who told me that he told her (right? right.) that when I cursed, it sounded "right" or that "it fit". At the time I was not interested in cutting down on the amount of cursing that I do nor did I regularly post in a blog that my grandmother may or may not read. So I was excited. Yea! I'm good at cursing! Now I'm not so impressed with myself when I can't come up with anything better to say than "shit." But I still make mistakes. Probably like ten times a day.<br /><br />Hey, my grandfather was a sailor. That's what my mother told me and that's probably what I'll tell my daughters when they curse someday: "Hey, your great grandfather was a sailor, it's ok" and so on down the line. Someday there will be a distant ancestor of mine saying unspeakable things and her mother will tell her "Hey, I bet someone in our family was a sailor, so it's ok".<br /><br />I think I really need some help. Shock therapy or something.<br /><br />_____________________________________________<br /><br />*BONUS: Right as I typed this tome excusing myself from cursing my grandmother sent me an email with a prayer in it from Billy Graham. What's that you say? No one cares that your grandfather was a sailor? Cursing isn't cute anymore because you're a grown woman and not a whippy, in-your-face college girl?<br /><br />___________________________________________<br /><br />To sum up, and a few more small things that are happening in my life:<br /><ul><li>I should not curse because God will use my grandmother as a tool to make me regret it by coinciding her devout emails with my excuses. </li><li>My life will never, ever be as exciting as it was in college, but hopefully it will not continue to be this horrifyingly boring. </li><li>God, I hate elevators. </li><li>I tried for the fourth time to burn off the wart on my hand this weekend, and its STILL THERE.</li><li>C and I looked at engagement rings! That's exciting, right?! I won't even allow myself to talk about it because people DEFINITELY dont want to read descriptions of the 50,000 rings I liked. Bottom line, C? If it's got some diamonds in it, I think I'm happy.<br /></li><li>It's four fifty and I am getting the <del>hell</del> heck out of dodge.</li></ul>Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-962784402420382105.post-39505105030742448712008-11-06T12:20:00.000-08:002008-11-06T12:23:26.511-08:00Today is absolutely crawling by at an excruciating rate. I've even been busy, which usually helps the time go by, but no dice. I'm suffering.<br /><br />Yesterday went by super quick, however, because I did THIS:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.katefenwick.com">www.katefenwick.com </a><br /><br />Need a photographer? If I make enough as a photographer I will not have to suffer through days like this anymore. So if you need one...I'm your girl.<br /><br />Too bored to write.Katie Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17083509476513281905noreply@blogger.com1