Letters to my 17 year-old self...

Dear 17 year-old-self,

I want to start off saying I know these will be of no use to you as I’m now 30 and I’m a grown ass adult and understand the workings of past and present, but I feel that these epitaphs should serve as a reminder of things done terribly, horribly wrong/if you are a fat, pimply closeted chick in the south surfing the interwebs… you might want to take a gander at these.

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

Learn that that $3 box of hair dye is never the right option. This whole lesson of “you get what you pay for”/”fast, cheap and easy” will never work out well for you- no if, and or butts (heyooo, cause it’s a joke on ‘easy’ and… never mind). Also, you will start going grey in 1 year. And I’m not talking a strand or two. I’m talking full blown bustin’ out all over. And just accept the fact that you are a brunette. You. Will. Never. Be. A. Blonde. You are just killing the living crap our of your remaining hair and you will regret it when you are a broke ass college student and you have more episodes of roots than the Lifetime Movie Network in February making up for the fact they never have any diversity throughout the remainder of the year in their “Not Without My Daughter Who Secretly Huffs Coffee Filters” staring Meredith Baxter Burney marathons. Lastly, magenta is a color meant for swatches of fabric, not your hair.

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

You do not/will not like boys. Stop using whatever “acting skills” (we’ll get to that later) you think you have when you “gush” over Curt, Tim, Chris and Mike. The only thing you will EVER share with them is a love of “Wicked” and gossiping over a box of wine. Your extremely strong feelings of bonding with certain females- they are called crushes.

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

Despite the fact you think that your acting skills are extraordinary, Broadway is your new home, your dreams are immense and, much like the Koolade man, no walls can contain them. You have no talent. You are not an actress. You are a witty person that likes attention which is understandable why you confused this with talent. You will not be an actress. Also, grades make a difference. You do well in high school, but enjoying the on-campus Chick-fil-a and plethora of parties that serve free beer you will slowly slump into a semester of Suma Cum C average… although later on you will learn an appreciation for free beer. Choosing a PR major, as it was the closest thing to acting- being able to talk and entertain to sell something to make money, you are only kidding yourself. You will intern. You will graduate and you will sell tickets for 10 years after college. You grow an affinity for boxed wine and a sarcasm muscle so huge it is ogled by men and women alike. It’s not too late for you to become a teacher. They share a lot of these above traits, but make more money and have better retirement.

Also, GET OFF YOUR ASS AND APPLY FOR SCHOLARSHIPS. I am broke and student loans will majorly impact your Broadway show fund. You will come to learn the importance of finding change in between the seats of your car so that you can get lunch from the 99cent menu at Wendy’s. You will learn to post-date checks to the point you forget what year you’re in. You will learn how to get free drinks from anything that even remotely mouth breathes. Clipping coupons will be cool. You will learn to fold your laundry in a certain way so that people at the Laundromat will not see the Gapê tag aka the knock-off Gap/Nordstrum/Bebe item of clothing you bargained for because then you could also pay the cable bill.

We all know you joined all of those clubs to be in as many year book pictures as possible. Your ego is ridiculous. You will be given a shot of reality very soon and then, wincing, life will make you say, "Please sir, may I have another?".

This is not meant to depress you. This is meant to slap you in the face and any other teen that thinks that food will always be in the fridge, gas tanks have no empty and that moving out will be the most awesome thing ever. Stop it. No!

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

Your skills at skipping class will come in greatly in skipping meetings. Well done there kiddo.

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

Spend less time studying and learn more $10 words. They will get you jobs and save you from looking like an ass when you have been playing Angry Birds throughout a staff meeting- whip one out, hopefully applying to the same discussion topic on the table feigning any shred of interest you could possibly have about whether the filing cabinet should be organized by alphabet or defaulting on the system created by a staff member 15 years ago that is more complex than the Dewey decimal system, but couldn’t organize itself out of a paper bag.

XO,
K

Dear 17 year-old-self,

This is part 1 of many in a continuing series so sit back, turn on some Greenday/N’Sync/Bone Thugs n’ Harmony you big poser and stop telling people to call you Rosie O’Donnell 2. It’s not going to turn out that great to have that relation and actually turns out to be AMAZING foreshadowing.

XO,
K

It's Called Kate Luck

So in the 1 week before the wedding I have managed to be diagnosed with a severe ankle injury from multiple third degree sprains that have torn all of my posterior talofibulars (who has 2 thumbs, speaks limited French and will be in a cast all summer next year... this moi), experienced a Nair accident and dropped a 25lb box of thermal tickets on my ring finger hand. Now don't think for one second that this is going to be a serious post because despite this crap that has happened there is a definitive reason for it so acceptance comes naturally. It's called Kate Luck. Kate Luck is ironic and the pure jet fuel situation comedy that couldn't possibly write itself. Some people were born to be doctors, some people were born to be nuns. I was born to have the weirdest shit happen to me and then tell the world about it. Please open your hymnals to Kate as a 5 year old.

My parents were high school teachers and with that they often found it convenient to hire their students to be babysitters. One night I'm chilaxin' at the sitter's house and her brother was in the process of moving out. Apparently, you will start seeing the stars align, he was a deer hunter and had been showing his equipment (heh) to someone earlier in the evening. I, having the balance of a drunk epileptic with an inner ear problem, ambled down the hall and fell onto an arrow. Now on this fateful day, that being if you were alive, it was the scream heard across the land. Prairie dogs stood on hind legs, dogs howled in three-part harmony, Mariah Carey said, "Who dat singing my notes?!". I was told that an ambulance wasn't necessary as my screams cleared the lanes to the doc-in-a-box that I was taken to. Kate Luck: I've been shot in the thigh by a dear arrow.

I used to love chocolate milk. It was just a carton of awesomesauce when I was a kid. I, being the rotund child I was, took a cup of it everywhere. Not like a sipper bottle, not a sports bottle with a screw on lid. A cup. I was walking over to my friend Amanda's house one day with my cup of chocolate milk and cutting through the backyard of a neighbor. I encountered a fence. The full bright scholar that I am, I decided that the best way to handle this was to hold the large cup of choco with my teeth and climb on over. Please refer to my level of balance and grace from the previous paragraph in-which maintaining balance on a flat surface is even hard for me. I held that cup with all my might and swung my leg over. In the next amazingly awesome moment I made a decision that would change my life. I lost footing on the fence and in the split second of panic my mind rationalized all the outcomes and chose to attempt to save the chocolate milk. As my body slammed, straddled on the fence and that feeling of panic/all you can do is constantly inhale much like the times you sat on your bike's banana seat wrong, I winced in pain and my mind wept as my chocolate milk spilled to the ground. Kate Luck: I lost my virginity to a fence.

Cut to: Present Day. So out of the trifecta of awesome injuries/acts of vain ridiculousness that I have experienced this week let me give you a brief run down.

The Ankle: I have sprained my right ankle 5 times. Here are a few of them...
1. Playing softball in 9th grade (no lesbian jokes please, they form themselves). Running to 3rd base I rolled my ankle. My teammates screamed to run and I crawled to the base. The 3rd baseman had tagged the bag, gone to get a drink of water and written/stared/directed a short filmed called "Tubbo Steals Third" before I got to the base.

2. At college. I was unpacking into my junior year townhouse and taking way too many boxes down to the dumpster. I am a firm believer of less trips (no matter how excruciatingly painful or breaking all laws of physics) is better. I missed the last 2 steps and rolled said right ankle.

3. I can be a sloppy drunk sometimes. That ankle was on the mend and almost back to normal. One night I was partying out in the trailers (George Mason University- one of the best schools of law/not that that was my major - has a housing option that is an on-site trailer park. Setting the bar a little low kids.) We had run out of booze so I was walking through the woods to someone's house to go get more and in what was either a Fouetté rond de jambe or Kate was being her well-balanced/box of wine night self rolled the ankle. Dogs howled, Kate howled and a barrage of creative curse words were spewed that would have made a sailor blush.

4. Working at Jacob's Pillow Dance Festival. I had come in on my day off to hang out with dancers and interns. I stepped down an uneven step and rolled my ankle. Hey they all can't be witty.

Ticket Thermals. This, my non-box office friends, is the term for those long tickets you get for events. (The more you know! *shooting star*) I was trying to organize my office and instead of, you know, doing the smart thing like asking for help or following any laws of office safety protocol, I lifted said box. I would like to again point out my stellar record of grace. The box began to slip and I swear that it performed an epic 90 degree turn in projection so that this mammoth box then sandwiched my hand between itself and the sharp edge of my ticketing printer. It was like watching Final Destination 1 and 2- I didn't care for 3. Now don't panic. It's only swollen, my ring finger is fine and I can still successfully flip off those people who stop immediately after they get to the top of the stairs from the subway.

Nair. A blessing and a curse. I come from a very European stock that provides me with dark, thick hair... in places other than the top of your head. Shut up, don't be that nasty person (although in any other circumstance I would probably giggle with you and slap the highest of fives), I'm talking about facial hair. Those of you who are in their late 20s/early 30s will immediately know of which I speak of. It's like God said at a certain age, "You've had enough time to find a mate. I'm upping the stakes. You will grow ridiculously dark, coarse hair in awkward places and I will turn everything flabby. This is my Hunger Games and we should totally have a datesy for the opening night of that movie!" So I was taking care of a patch of awesomeness and I put some Nair a little too high. This resulted in removal of hair so close to my hair line I look like the 13 year old that was going to shave her hair, but then chickened out. It also is whiter than Michael Jackson after a bleaching (too soon?) Again, don't panic. How do you solve a problem like Maria.. Kate? Self-tanner in a very concentrated area. Let us pray.

When I Grow Up I Wanna Be Tina Fey

First off, I'm sorry I've taken so long to post to my blog. I could lie to you and say it was due to overcommiting myself to society and my career, but let's be honest... I'm getting married in 1 week and Parks & Rec is on Netflix so...

Getting married is an experience. I'm not talking the ceremony, I'm talking the journey to the ceremony or as I call it, "Sooooo I shouldn't invite your personal trainer, the wine shop owner and the Starbucks barista?/For $600 this wedding dress should make me look like a Lane Bryant model (I aim low)/If the chicken dance is played, so help me God".

During all of this I turned 30 and have begun questioning my future. And by that I mean, I started out in ticketing when I was 22 to build my resume to get into marketing, but after all this time I haven't made the leap. You know you've been in ticketing too long when you refer to the first game of a double-header as "the matinee".

So where does this rambling brain dump lead me? What do I want to do? Let's look back at all the jobs I have ever wanted:
1. 3rd Grade Math teacher- I can't even balance my own checkbook, I can't be trusted not to say, "That's what she said", the words "5am" and "alarm" are considered hate speech.
2. Barbra Streisand's long lost child.... I'm not sure how that's gonna work out.
3. An actress... stop laughing.
5. Writer for SNL. So, from my estimations this is the only legal and feasible aspiration. I call upon you, my lovely readers, other than moving to Chicago to perform for 2nd City or performing stand-up in some skeasty club downtown... how can I make a career out of these ramblings that I'm currently giving away for free? (I love you guys, but a girls gotta paid in the escalade).

So, to sum things up. When planning a wedding you should remain in a constant state of inebriation, Imneed to combine all of the above jobs into a mega job.... I'm not really sure what that is... and I need to blog more and you need to spread it around like mono at a frat party.

XO,
K