Are You Fo Real?! or Life In General

This blog post is brought to you by recent ruminations, rants and the letters F and U.

Queuing. Lining up. Did you learn nothing from 1st grade?!

I don't understand why people have to be first in line. I was flying recently and sitting in the terminal. When the flight attendant announced that boarding was about to begin people ran life it was Pamploma. You have an assigned seat... we aren't leaving until you are seated, belted in and you have been threatened with your life if you don't finish your game of "Words With Friends".

On the T. I get that the train can be more packed than Twink Night at Ramrod, but really you don't have hover at the door even though your stop is 15 stops away. Also, to every tourist coming to Boston. EVERYONE IS GETTING OFF AT PARK STREET. No need to show how awesome of a linebacker you are fighting to make your way to the exit. We're all heading to the same finish line and you are wicked annoying. Go Pats.

To conclude. Are you a passenger on the Titanic? Is Dunkin Donuts handing out free iced lattes for life? Do you have the opportunity to meet Sara Ramirez? Then calm yo self.

Why is Aaron Sorkin Not Writing Life?

I think we can all agree that Obama smacks down Bush in public speaking. It's almost embarrassing. Nay, it's more awkward than watching me write a note in permanent ink attempting to spell correctly the following words: guarantee, embarrassing, and awkward. But if you have even watched 1 episode of West Wing you are currently giving me the highest mental high fives as you too wish that Jed Bartlett could be your president and that Aaron Sorkin wrote all of the things.

Operation: Achieve All the Things

You know me... well at least most of you reading this know me. Last year I changed my career path... and 8 months later returned to it. I got married to only person in the world that can both love me and not laugh at every joke- it makes me try harder than whipping out the tried and true twss. And since the Golden Globes last night we all saw the signs of the apocalypse:

• A blonde singer from the midwest will go all Harry Potter
• Laura Croft will achieve the same body as the children she adopts
• We will all do a spit take at Ben Kingsley's wife
• The best actress of all time will drop the S-bomb and still be the most elegant woman in the room
• The writers of "Modern Family" will prove that geeky sarcasm is hot

I have decided to make a bucket list of things I want to accomplish:

1. Find a career path that doesn't involve me wanting to stab my eye out every time a phone rings/not hear the following phrases on a daily basis "And that's why you can't see a Wagner with a husband who has incontinence" or "You have student rush, but no senior rush? That's agism!" or "Why aren't you open at 6am? I have been calling for hours to exchange my tickets... this is Lyric Stage right?". Do colleges take coupons?
2. Volunteer more. I started with The Boston Marathon- not running, the only thing that runs on me is my boxed hair dye... I mean... I'm a natural red head. I'm debating volunteering for the Wine Festival, but I think we know that could lead to a shit show of epic, Lohan, Spears proportions.
3. Read. And Playbills don't count. Also, reading books that are above the average reader age of 14. Hunger Games don't count. Hunger Games could solve world peace and make a perfect omelet. I feel we should put "May the odds be ever in your favor" in the constitution.
4. Take classes. By 2013 I want to be able to build my own app, make my own mozzarella, sail a boat on the Charles, make pottery b/c I keep losing our damn tupperware.
5. Change the world a little at a time: Talk Chenoweth out of singing country, stop playing Plants v. Zombies in staff meetings, tell more heavy women to stop tucking their shirts into their 'skinny' jeans- don't make us all look like new stuffed sausages, tell people to stop yelling at Rosie O'Donnell... we know she's an annoying angry lez, but we got this.
6. Support local shops. If that means that I have to eat all of the cheeses on farmer's market day to keep those guys in business I will. They do God's work.

This is going to be ongoing and suggestions are accepted. But let it be known, any defamation of Nutella's character will not be tolerated. Ridding one's life of that delicious nectar is a sin and, essentially, we would let the terrorist win. Yeah... think about that.

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

Christmas and Sappy Movies Lead to Cheesy Something Something...

I know guys, it's been far too long since I've posted. In following this cheesy ass themed post I promise to post more. I have just watched a butt-load of Christmas movies and made-for-tv godforsaken Meredith Baxter-Burney, "I lost my child, but a Santa who looked like Jesus returned him to me at the 11th hour on Christmas eve and then a strong lumberjack of a man saved my cancer-ridden dog with the gift of song" Lifetime vommed all over it type of movies and thus comes this post.

Things I Am Grateful For

by Kate Walsh

1. Meg. I know to list her first and foremost as she splits half my rent, cooks way better baked goods than I do, loves me despite the flaming gay man I am and she can run faster than I can so in a couples challenge we would actually stand a chance in the physical fitness portion... but if by a stroke of luck we get "Explain the full story of 'Will & Grace' with verbatim quotes in character voices- I got you girl. ;) MT.

2. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. I strongly stand by my belief that "30 Rock" and "Parks and Rec" could solve world hunger... oh wait.. no. My belief was that they could solve world obesity b/c they are so funny you laugh for 30 minutes and that's equivalent to doing like 150 push ups or something... I may have been a little buzzed at the time I stated that... screw it, I still stand by it.

3. Goat Cheese. Seriously... is there ANYTHING this stuff isn't good with? I want to throw big ups to Tommy and Kyle for introducing us to the big log of goat cheese covered in warm fig spread. ... ... We need to come up with a better name for that... it pretty much makes me feel like the first guy to go through the new TSA frisking services... speaking of... I wonder if that will take the place of getting my yearly breast exam...

4. Beatles on Itunes. I say this in complete jest b/c the hype that was created days before they dropped this load on us was ridiculous. So yeah, I get it. It's the Beatles. That's great, but really let's be honest. We pretty much have all the digital versions of the Beatles songs we want b/c we all have that one friend who converted all his parent's record and tapes to digital b/c mom got an ipod and has to have "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" while doing power yoga at book club.

5. A Relly Good Vacuum. Trust me... if you've ever had cats you will attest to this. No matter how much you clean there will ALWAYS be a pebble or two of kitty litter on the bathroom floor that you step on right after you take a shower. And as you angrily exit the bathroom a kitty hair tumbleweed will roll down the hall and stick to your wet leg despite the fact you shaved that little bastard balder than James Carville.




6. Kristin Chenoweth. ... ... ...













7. The MBTA. AHAHAHAHAHA no, I couldn't even keep a straight face... HEYOOOO. But seriously, how mad does Boston public transportation make you? On a scale from 1 to Chris Brown.

8. Lastly, my parents. I know I'm more known for my snarky, sassy posts, but I would like to refer to the aforementioned Baxter-Burney clause. I came out a lot later in life to my parents than I had wanted to, but after multiple times of trying to do it in person things just didn't work out. So I wrote them an email. I know, shut up, just read the excerpt from y my mom's response:
"I cried-but you knew that. Then, I thought of all kinds of irrational crap like how we dressed you in Taylor's clothes (one, because money was tight and two, you hated girly, dressy clothes). Then, I went for my walk. But, I went to the left at the end of the street instead of the right. For the first time!! And, you know what? Nothing happened, nothing was different. It was still 1.5 miles. The sun set and the moon rose and it was still friggin 91 degrees. I heard a bird in a tree singing loud and for all its worth...though it was pitch dark. And, while I was used to birds singing in the day, hearing that bird lifted my heart, it was so beautiful. And, through all of this I kept thinking everything is ok-different but ok."

Merry Whatever Makes Your Heart Happy Kiddos.

So I was trying to think of the next thing to blog about and nothing was really standing out. I'm currently "between jobs" for two days and went to the gym in the middle of the day. It's like whole new world when you go to the gym mid-day. You don't have to hoover over someone like you do when you're in line at a salad bar and they've been in front of the bacon bits building a salad with a lettuce to BB ratio akin to 1:89043 and then they walk away and all that's left are some crumbs and that stupid plastic packet that comes in things to hold out moisture, but thanks to the miracle of the interwebs we all save those in case water get's into our watches or we need to freshen up before going out so we dab a little behind the ear.... wait... oh, right. The gym. So I was on a machine that was acting a little wonky and went to report it. This leads us to the purpose of this post. Stupid, awkward and/or inappropriate things happen to me constantly. Maybe it's so I "learn life lessons" or maybe it's so "I'll stop stalking certain blond petite entertainers" or maybe it's so "I can write this blog for your entertainment... so that I can be discovered and meet certain petite blond entertainers"... whatever, you get the point. Stupid stuff happens to me.

Let me begin with a story some of you already know, but bares repeating to support my previous statements. I've had A LOT of jobs. Current employer that I begin working for tomorrow, this is in reference to Kate ages 13-21. So we're still cool. My first real job was at a McDonald's. I was not thrilled about it, but I needed a job. I should have realized how wrong this situation was by my interview. I was 16 (albeit the daughter of a high school guidance conselor so I was slightly more prepared than most) and walked into the store with a business suit and resume... we didn't interview. He made sure I had the power of speech and told me to start tomorrow. I showed up and had my 2 days of training... pictures on a cash register can be hard to decipher... you tell me the difference between a 5 ct and a 7 ct mcnugget meal in a time of haste. The third day they put me on drive through. I remember it well. It was a Saturday in late May. I was to work 9-5. 2pm rolled around and I was getting the hang of it. You had to wear a headset attached to a communication pack that hooked to your hip. When someone would pull up to the drive thru it would ding in your ear. You had to press a button to speak and release to listen... anyone who has ever buzzed an apartment door or stage managed a show has got me right now. So a car pulls up and her total to be paid is $5.93. I open the window and she begins to pull money from her purse. I stick my hand out to get it when the ding goes off in my ear that another call has pulled up. I instinctively try to grab the monies that she is giving me while trying to be a fast food worker rock star and press the button to talk. In slow motion I see the woman pouring her payment in pennies, nickles and dimes that then go streaming all over the ground and her car. In fear and frustration at what my life had already become at the ripe age of 16 I say aloud a phrase that I'm not sure can be repeated here as I want to keep these readings PGish, but it involved a goat and some level of copulation. I then see out of the corner of my eye my boss (wearing a similar headset) running at me like she's in a Die Hard film and the building behind her is about to blow. She speaks into the mic for the patron who had just heard the exclamatory statement I had just uttered through the speaker to pull around. I peered through the glass hot box of hell I had worked in all day at the car coming around the corner. I then felt my face go hot and that feeling in your stomach as if you ate chili cheese fries and you're lactose intolerant and you have no gallbladder as I started to recognize the car... it was some of the nuns from my old catholic school. I then took off the headset, stepped over the pile of change still in the hot box, walked out of McDonald's and never returned... except a week late to ask if I was going to be paid for those 2.5 days I worked. I've got class.

Another example. I was 17 and working for a bagel shop. I loved that job. Surrounded by bagels and 7 different types of cheeses all day. HEAVEN. My ass still talks about it like it was boarding school and how muenster had made her the big ass she is today. I was working on a Sunday (as some of you probably know, I should not work on Sundays- it brings out the Jersey Shore in me and I'm not even from there) and in the South it is big to go to church and then breakfast so it was extremely busy on Sundays. I was at the prep area when I took orders and made sandwiches. I saw this heinous punta come in and knew nothing was going to go well. She walked up and hand to God said she wanted a bacon, egg and cheese bagel. Now let me set the scene for you. This place is already like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange with people yelling things and making number gestures that I still have no clue what they were trying to convey. I can only assume it meant something related to some underground lox & schmear mafia. My station's only barrier from the motley crew of customers was something akin to a sneeze guard and I say that to prove this point... everything I do and touch you can see. I begin to swiftly make her sandwich and cut it and put it on a plate for her. She has watched my every move with the diligence of a waspy woman around hired help. She looks me up and down and says in a shrilled voice like Gilbert Gottfried and Rosanne procreated, "WHAT IS THIS?! THERE'S BACON ON THAT!!! I'm a vegetarian! I can't eat that". I replied, "Ma'am, you order a bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel...". With that statement made she saw that I was not even close to her level of bitchydome and I would be an easy target. She continued to scream at me and although, filled with rage much like the kind I have only felt in similar moments of public embarrassment or when West Wing went off the air, I grabbed the plate with the sandwich, ripped the bacon off, slammed it back onto the counter and said, "YOU WILL EAT IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!". I then turned smoothly to make a grand exit as in my mind I had won (how naive) and felt my left foot as I put it down in my leave of triumph step into pea soup that someone had spilled. I can only describe my fall as one that the physical complexities achieved can only matched by a member of Cirque du Soleil or Goofy.

There are many more of these instances in my life and I take some responsibility for the outcome as usually my mouth gets me in trouble, but someone has to be held accountable for these situations... you can't make up this stuff. And I'll end it on where I began. I went to tell one of the attendants at the gym that a machine was malfunctioning. She asked me to find out which machine section and the number of it so she could have it looked at. I went back up to report to her and she said, "Can you just tell me briefly what number machine and what's wrong?" and I replied (obviously without thinking), "Yeah, 69 is jerking on and off"... I slowly put my sunglasses on and walked out... I will no longer be attending this gym mid-day.