The Total STRANGER

“Hi, I’m your college roommate. I’m a total STRANGER and I will be sleeping in that bed, right over there ….2 feet from your head. I might be normal, OR I might NOT, but you’re stuck with me for the next two semesters.”

Remember that first night in your college dorm? You and your roommate all squeezed into a shoebox…your parents left town…and YOU are left to sleep next to a total STRANGER. It’s bedtime, it’s dark, and you politely say into the darkness: “Good night STRANGER.” But you can’t fall asleep because you hear the STRANGER breathing. In and Out…In and Out. OMG…do they have to breath so much?

It seems unnatural to be thrown together with a total STRANGER, but then again colleges have done it for eons. Sometimes you get lucky and have the perfect roommate situation…someone who is just like you...or someone who is at least compatible with similar music, study habits, and sleeping patterns. But that is not the norm. The odds of a perfect roommate match? One in every 500,000 roommates.

Brianna’s university didn’t send out a 'preference questionnaire' to fill out. They probably figured why bother?…Most kids lie on those forms anyway. They say they’re a “clean freak”…that way they can get themselves a live-in maid for a roommate. They’re looking for someone to do the work mom used to do.

Eventually morning comes to the shoebox…and you rise to find that you have survived the first night. And you think… “that wasn’t soooo bad.” Then you realize… “OMG...Wait, I’m a STRANGER too.”

Hole-In-One

Whenever I tee up the golf ball on a par 3…I am always thinking I am getting a hole-in-one. Why not? Confidence is required when playing this game.

I push the tee in the ground and place the ball on the tee…then it falls off. Not sure, but when this happens… does this count as a stroke?

Then I address the ball…. "hello ball.” (Sorry couldn’t resist that overdone, overused, and overplayed golf joke.)

I then visualize my swing. I’m visualizing a fierce Tiger’s swing, but getting more of a wimpy Kat swing.

I play golf more like Stevie Wonder plays the piano…all by feel. Or is that by ear. Or both. I can’t see a damn thing. But I don’t think that matters…it’s all about the natural swing pattern. Vision is so overrated. My good ear comes in handy when my ball bounces off the trees in the woods…splashes in the pond…and hits a goose.

I realize it would be a stroke-of-luck…not stroke-of-ball, if I should get a hole-in-one. But then again, not every person gets a hole-in-one with skill. I have a BFF who got a hole-in-one and she plays only 5 times a season. Lucky dog. PaulA has played 55 million more times than that…and has yet to get a hole-in-one. (Now I’m thinking…I should have kept that little tidbit to myself.) Maybe he should be working on the stroke-of-luck part of his game. That’s my plan.

Anyway, after I give the ball its proper greeting…and visualize the perfect swing, I’m expecting that sucker to find the hole. And the day I get a hole-in-one…is the day I quit the game of golf. Why play anymore after that accomplishment? It’s all down-hill from there.

I can’t wait to quit the game of golf……………

Wisdomless

I’m sitting in the waiting room of the oral surgeon; waiting on patient, Colinboy. His 4 impacted wisdom teeth are coming out. By hook or by crook…he will be wisdom less before the hour is out.

“Impacted” sounds so serious. I first thought “impacted” meant that the wisdom teeth were buried in bone and the surgeon would need a construction size drill and buzz saw to get the suckers out. Now I’m finding out… “impacted” means that the wisdom teeth have failed to emerge fully in its expected position. (Enough with the dental terms, Kat.) Okay I admit I’m not an oral surgeon…I just play one in my blog.

Colinboy is an unwilling patient. He got out of this procedure once before…but he is NOT outsmarting me this time. Although, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him bust down the office doors any minute now. He googled “general anesthesia” and knows every risk and complication that comes with it. He’s probably told the nurses he has swine flu and is extremely contagious.

Before I go painstakingly further…(a toothache is less painful)…I have a juicy question I must sink my incisors, canines and molars in: “Why are the only teeth we have called “Wisdom Teeth”…the ones that routinely need to come out?” Were we not meant to be filled with wisdom?

So Colinboy finally parted with his impacted wisdom teeth. After he came to…I found him sitting in the chair with a blank look. I got close to my boy and touched his leg…that’s when he made a LOUD roar…giving me a heart attack...then said… “just kidding, mom.” jk?

As we walked down the hallway to leave the office…the nurse put a hand on Colinboy to steady him…that’s when Colinboy tripped…and caught himself before he fell flat on his face. Actually, COLIN PRETENDED LIKE HE TRIPPED…giving the nurse a heart attack…then said… “just kidding, nurse.” jk?

I’m not sure having your wisdom teeth removed is a wise move…at least not for Colinboy. It seems the removal can make you both idiotic and wisdomless!

Don't Blink

The song, “Don’t Blink,” by Kenney Chesney with his lyrics: “Don’t Blink. Life goes by faster than you think”…hit home for me…and hit hard.

We will be taking Wishy to college on Saturday and I’m trying not to focus on…how much I will miss her…how quickly all three kids have grown… how PaulA and I will be entering a new phase in our lives. Nope…can’t think of that. Right now we are in crunch mode…organizing, packing and acquiring what Bri will need for life as a college co-ed.

Bri is Miss Independent…Miss Self-Sufficient…so naturally she has an alphabetized, categorized, and organized To-Do List with items to purchase…shampoo, sheets, shower caddy. My days with her are numbered…so any errand, any place she has to go…I ask if I can tag along. So there I am…right there beside her…like the faithful family katdog who jumps in the car next to his master, “Take me with you.”

Our first stop…Target. As we walk by the ‘Back to School’ aisle of school supplies, I’m drawn to the lunch boxes. I pick one up and work the silver latches….back and forth. Remembering...my kids getting ready for elementary school . Picking out their notebooks, backpacks, new shoes and outfit for their first day. The metal suitcase lunchbox says it all: “I’m a kid on the first day of school.”…both…shiny, new and no dents.

So I’m trying not to focus on what it will be like in THREE days. What it will feel like to drop our youngest child off at college…and wishing my sweet wish was 8 years old again picking out a new lunch box.

I’m trying hard not to Blink…like Kenney Chesney’s song says. Problem is…I can’t see through my tears.

Jonathon Livingston Seagull

Yesterday I was sitting on the beach…watching the seagulls fly over the water…and getting the rest, I so needed from weeks of intellectual blogging.

The scene around me was very peaceful and serene. It was a gorgeous blue sky, August day. I closed my eyes and my mind wandered to the seagulls soaring overhead.

I began remembering back to the story of the infamous seagull… the story of Jonathon Livingston Seagull…which was once a book…then a movie...with its own soundtrack by Neil Diamond.

The film was beautifully photographed, but other than that, it was “for the birds.” And Neil Diamond’s music was sappy and sentimental. Other than his songs “Sweet Caroline” and “Cracklin’ Rosie”…I don’t have much use for the Diamond…unless it’s shiny.

I don’t disagree with the themes in the book…about blah blah...it's good to be yourself…blah blah and taking risks. I just disagree with the type of bird the author chose. Why not a kinder, gentler, sweeter bird…maybe a sandpiper? Not a seagull…“The pigeon of the sea” as PaulA likes to call them. Along with their soaring comes the swooping, pooping, squawking, and dive-bombing.

I call them the “pirates of the sky”…scavenging the beach, eating live food…crabs and small fish…and even pecking and picking up small mammals...like cats. (Thank goodness I spell my name with a “K.”)

I particular hate it when they invade my space…my personal sand chair. I’d like to put up a good de-fence…a “No Gull Zone” around my sand chair.

Right after I began munching on a well deserved snack of Tostitos Chips with a Hint of Lime…a scavenger popped up beside me sooner than I could say… “Make mine a Bud Light.” The gall of these gulls. I can only image what the damn bird would do to me if I was eating my other favorite snack…Cape Cod Chips with Sea salt.

I’ve got one thing to say: “Jonathon Livingston Seagull, be glad I don't own a sling shot."

Who Wears Short Shorts?

There are days you don't care what you put on…anything…mainly because it is socially unacceptable to walk around town naked. I hear people get thrown in the clinker for nude walking…and nude running is especially unattractive. Unfortunately for Michelle Obama…throwing on any ole thing…is not an option.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to have your appearance discussed in the national news…The Today Show…and talk shows...like The View. Your clothing, your hair, your make-up…all scrutinized, criticized, and sometimes ostracized in public.

Michelle Obama, while touring the Grand Canyon last week, was photographed wearing shorts. OMG…Start the presses…the First Lady has legs! They were decent shorts…not hot pants (Okay, I’m showing my age)…low-rise shorts, cut-offs, bun huggers, or boxer shorts. Maybe the media was expecting culottes.

Get over it people…Michelle Obama wore shorts to the Grand Canyon…in Arizona in mid-August…where it is 115 degrees in the shade. First of all, the First Lady is 45…not 95…and is redefining what First Ladies look like. The ever so matronly, stately Hillary, probably would have worn her yellow bumble bee jacket…matching pants…and sensible low heels. And she would have been one sweaty bee.

Enough with the questions: Was it a fashion faux pau? Were her shorts inappropriate? Michelle Obama shouldn’t concern herself with these questions.

Michelle Obama should focus on what’s really important: Do they make my butt look big?

A Laughing Matter

I love to laugh. Remember the scene and song from "Mary Poppins" when Mary and Bert were floating in air. “The more you laugh. The more you will fill with glee.” What a beautiful metaphor showing how laughter lifts our moods.

Some people have the best laughs. Take my friend Elaine who has the best laugh ever. Elaine’s is a happy laugh…which is key. Not all laughs are happy…some are downright sinister. And some are uptight spinster.

They say laughter is contagious. I know for a fact that’s true. Whenever I hear Elaine laugh…I can’t help but laugh…the whole world laughs. And we usually aren’t laughing at the broccoli florets stuck in her front teeth. That’s not funny. We are all laughing because you just can’t help yourself…her laugh is contagious …so much better than the H1V1 contagion.

Elaine’s laugh comes from down deep…in her belly. When you hear it, you know everything is right with the world. People just want to be around laughers like Elaine…great laughers make even the lamest joke sound like a knee slapper.

If I was a stand-up comedienne (I hear you thanking the lord I’m not)…I would find myself 5 Elaines and plant them around the club. (Could be hard to find…she’s the original…the others are posers.) People would come in off the street in droves…just to see who was having all the fun.

Life is a lot more fun if you can laugh. Go ahead and give it a try…just try to make it a great laugh…an Elaine belly laugh. Anything but one of those hissing, squeaky, fizzing, or nasally laughs.

I just had a thought…Elaine might want to think about recording a laugh track for a sit-com. I wonder if she’s ever considered laughing for a living.

Archie/Betty/Veronica...The Love Triangle

The 600th issue of the Archie comic book is due out next week and the big news is…Archie Andrews makes a choice. For years it’s been Archie…Betty…Veronica. The bumbling, freckled faced, waffle red-head Archie caught between…the loyal and sweet Betty…and the spoiled, manipulative, rich biotch, Veronica. The Love Triangle.

Now the comical news is…this polygon will be busted into segments. Archie makes a choice between the two…and the winner of Archie’s cartoon hand …..Veronica.

I’ve been an Archie fan since I was a little girl so I find the outcome of this love triangle very disturbing…probably even more disturbing than the outcome of the real-life love triangle we are all familiar with…waffle-head Brad Pitt…sultry, sexy Angelina Jolie…and the wholesome, girl-next-door Jennifer Anniston. I wonder if Betty will be as devastated as Jennifer Anniston…and do a rebounder hook-up with John Mayer. I hear John is still available.

It’s actually amazing Archie has been able to keep 2 girls…on the hook for almost 70 years…there must be something behind that pie-eyed, blank look of his…that drives cartoon women wild.

I hear Archie has finally graduated from Riverdale High (only took him a short 68 years), also graduated college, and has a job. I wonder what Archie does for a living? He better make the big bucks…or Veronica will make his life miserable and throw him out on his waffle head.

Everyone who reads Archie will have their favorite… Betty vs Veronica. Blond vs. brunette. Sexy vs. wholesome. Money vs. real love (why can’t you really love money…a good compromise.) I think Archie doesn’t deserve Betty…she’s too good for him. (I had to weigh in.)

I still don’t get why after 68 years Archie chooses between the two. Why bother? I think the writers should get with the times…get with 2009. They’ve updated the characters…and their looks…so why have them get married…an old institution? Maybe instead of proposing marriage…Archie shacks-up with one of them without any marital commitment. He could choose Veronica for now…and then change his mind and take Betty…the ole switcheroo…like on the last “Bachelor.”

Or let’s get really REAL and with today’s times. Forget Veronica AND forget Betty. Why not choose Jughead?

Very Superstitious

Would you consider yourself superstitious? I am about some things, but not others… Like the number 13. Unlike some people, I happen to love the number 13…it is odd, but it is friendly. I happen to have been born on the 13th …I would consider myself both odd and friendly.

I do admit to one superstition. Every time I drive by a graveyard, I must hold my breath until I completely pass it. I know, it might seem quite juvenile…but so is your number 13 superstition!! Whenever I know a graveyard is approaching…I take the largest breath that I can muster (when other people are in the car, I do it quietly…so not to be found crazy.)

To get to our airport, I have to pass 2 graveyards. I have driven by them many times, so I know exactly when to take in air. My problem the other day: Right after breathing in, I went around the corner and ended up behind a farmer…who was happily bouncing down the road on one of those tractors with the BIG wheels. The double yellow lines on the blind, windy road meant...Do Not Pass…so I was stuck holding my breath. (Michael Phelps I am not.) Finally, I got by Farmer-Got-All-Day.…after turning a pale blue.

Then I drew a second breath for the second graveyard I had to pass…Luckily no farm tractor. This time I came up behind a car…that was at a full stop. “Driver…What are you doing!? Can’t you see that I am holding my breath over here!”

I saw why the car had stopped…a little dog was in the road. The Katangel on my right shoulder thought, “Oh, poor little doggie is lost”. The Katdevil on my left shoulder said, “Let’s get going ...run that damn dog over…I can’t hold my breath much longer.”

I guess if I’m going to continue with this superstition…I need to find a new way to the airport.

I Scream, You Scream, Moms Scream

One of my favorite things as a kid was the ice cream truck…hearing the happy music off in the distance…listening as it got closer and closer….knowing it was coming to my street.

The anticipation was too much. Kids everywhere would stop what they were doing and come running from every direction. So many choices…What ice cream to choose? Colorful pictures of...popsicles, nutty buddys, push-ups...on the side of the truck. The Ice Cream Man would put smiles on kid’s faces and then head out for another neighborhood… the sign on the back: Watch that child!

Every now and again an ice cream truck comes to our neighborhood. Although ice cream is still my number one food group, I was just thinking about how much more I would appreciate a…What’s for dinner? truck…a sort of meals-on -wheels…one that came through our neighborhood every afternoon.

I’m loving this idea. I can picture it now. You'd hear the theme song to the Rachael Ray Show in the distance...listening as it got closer and closer. And then it would pull up…a truck filled with prepared meals that you could serve your family for dinner. Over-worked, stay-at-home Moms everywhere would drop what they were doing...put down their playing cards, mah jongg tiles, golf bags, and tennis racquets…..and run to the truck.

So many choices…What’s for diner tonight? Colorful pictures of pasta, chicken, beef…on the side of the truck. (Even gallons of milk…just in case you ran out.) The dinner truck would put smiles on Mom’s faces and then head out for another neighborhood…the sign on the back: Watch that Mom!

Families everywhere would be happy….and stressed-out Moms would have time to get back to what they were doing…. “Who’s got the Ace of Hearts??” “Anyone for another 9 holes?” “Hey…I got mah jongg!”

Duncandog's Bone to Pick

Hey Duncandog here. You haven’t heard from me in a while cuz Kat doesn’t let me blog very often. She’s such a blog hog…but every now and then I pull a fast one on her. Today while she was blogging her face off...I got a glimpse of her password over her shoulder…”DamnDuncandog.” I’m now wondering if I should be offended.

I’m mainly writing this because I have a bone to pick. It has to do with a little Cockapoo who has been on my back for a few days. They say he’s half Cocker Spaniel…half Miniature Poodle. That’s a mutt in my book. They also say this mutt’s name is Sam…Sammy…Samson…Yosemite Sam. In unison…oohhhh….Isn’t he cute. And he gets’s all the attention…cuz he’s a puppy. Again...in unison…oohhhh….isn’t he cute? Sucks to be me…a big dog at age 11 and get no appreciation for 11 years of loyalty.

They also say this Sam is my cousin. Huh? So because our humans are related…this makes us related? I don’t think so…no blood there. I hear my real cousin, Pierre, is living in Paris and floats down the Seine River all day long. C’est la vie.

Anyway, Kat is always complaining about me. The nerve of her complaining about my dog habits when I’m a regular angel food dog compared to that mutt. I’m thinking of calling the little mutt…Son of Sam. He’s the one that starts all the trouble.

He gets all worked up with his happy puppy routine…barks at me and tries to get me to chase him. I’d like to chase him…and eat him…but Kat is watching so I have to pretend like it’s all fun and games…just because we’re 4-legged cousins and all. So I chase him, and when Kat turns her head…I try to mount him…the next best thing to eating him.

One thing I did notice…this Sam dog has a gravy train life. I was watching the way Sistersledge, his owner, takes good care of him. Waits on him snout and paw. Picks him up, hugs him, kisses him, and feeds him 3 times a day.

Whoa…..Kat take notice. Why don’t I get the same TLC? You are one lousy dog owner.

Next time I get a hold of Kat’s laptop…I’m thinking of changing her password: DamnKatdog.

You Have Been Declined

Let’s see if this story resonates out there. Here’s the scenario. You’re a customer making a purchase with your lifeline…aka…your credit card. When out of the blue you hear 4 dreaded words… “You have been declined.” (3 words if a contraction is used). Even if the words are whispered, you feel like everyone in the store has heard it too. It sounds like an announcement through a megawatt megaphone…YOU HAVE BEEN DECLINED.”

So you insist there is a reasonable explanation for the declination. “Run my card through that computer again, sonny.” So the kid does…and with an accusatory look says… “Sorry Ma’am…YOU’VE BEEN DECLINED.”

This, my friends, is what happened to Wishy and I while visiting the Apple Store. After a lengthy show-and-tell discussion with an Apple Expert about the pros of a MacBook computer…we decided to purchase one. At this point in the sale, Wishy and I were BFF’s with the Apple Expert…and we knew more about him than we wanted.

We knew that the Apple Expert was a Canadian, went to college in Nova Scotia, and his college education was a deal at 6,000 dollars a year (I wonder if Wishy would consider a transfer). He played the bagpipes, his identity was once stolen, he studied geology but switched to computers. And his name was Bruce.

And what did Bruce know about Wishy and I? One thing…WE HAVE BEEN DECLINED. We were a couple of rotten Apples.

Friendly, congenial Bruce then became the frenemy…No more Mr. Nice Guy. Bruce looked at us in horror…like we were trying to pull off the Great MacBook Laptop Caper…as if we were a mom and daughter duo…hitting Apple stores looking to reap the latest technology. Bruce called in all his enforcements…managers, and manager’s managers…all with concerned looks.

The humiliation was unbearable. Even though I knew I wasn’t a criminal…I began to feel like one. I felt like a fraud…move over Bernie Madoff. I thought about making a citizen’s arrest on ourselves and throwing us in the slammer…for ten to twenty.

But seeing Wishy was too sweet for jail life… I stammered and hammered out some story about how this was some mistake. I set out to prove my innocence by calling the credit crud people who eventually validated my story. I was actually an innocent mother/blogger from the burbs buying some electronics. (In credit crud terms, the computer had put an automatic block on my account because it concerned a large electronics purchase.) Hey, I wasn’t a rotten Apple. Vindicated!

Low and behold…Enemy Bruce became Friendly Bruce. He decided we weren’t riff-raff after all. We were not the Bonnie and Clydebelle schiksters of the electronic world.

I’m trying to figure out who bothered me the most…my credit crud company…or the Dr. Jekly/Mr. Hyde Bruce, Apple Expert.

Hmmm…I’m thinking Bruce ticked me off more: “Hey, Apple Expert….take a bite out of my…."

The Russians Are Coming?

The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming! Well…maybe that’s a little dramatic. But it is interesting that two Russian submarines were detected off shore…200 miles out in international waters. That ‘s not that far away. That’s like from here to Newark… waaay too close for comfort.

The Russians have been on the back burner since the Cold War. Back in the day when I was in middle school, I used to pretend that I was a Russian spy. Call me Katyenka….but I had a weird obsession with Russians. Now it’s just a mild fascination.

I think the fact that the Russians have a couple of submarines off our shores...should move them from the back burner…to the front burner. And also the fact that lately…Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin has been photographed bare-chested riding a horse in Siberia. Whoa…hold your horses.

What’s the deal with that? For some reason Putin is being photographed as a rugged outdoors man doing manly-man things. He’s either trying to drive the Russian women wild, or he’s letting the world know he’s a tough guy…virile, athletic…and means…“you-wanna-piece-of-me” business.

Add his bare-chested-ness to the list of his other macho maneuvers…..fishing and swimming the butterfly in an icy Siberia river, skiing expert rugged terrain, mastering a black-belt in judo, diving to the bottom of the world’s deepest lake in a mini-submarine, co-piloting a fighter jet, hunting bear and wild boar, and shooting a tiger.

I must say that Putin is in pretty good shape….there’s no pudding in the Putin. Much better shape than the red-faced, vodka sauced Russian President Boris Yeltsin. But are the beef-cake pics of Putin showing off his pecs a form of intimidation? Have we moved from the Cold War to the Warm Blooded War?

Our own President Obama, however, is no pudgy pudding pot belly President. Last summer Obama was photographed on vacation bare-chested in his bathing trunks. GoBama. I think we should retaliate with our own pics of our President bare-chested. Obama walking his dog…bare-chested. Obama conferencing with Hillary Clinton (calm down Hillary.) Obama addressing the nation…bare-chested.

The Russian media can keep photographing the shirtless, macho ex-KGB man Putin. We will not be intimidated. Putin ain’t got nothing on Obama. I hope the Russians know that……….OUR President killed a fly with ONE swat…of his bare hand.

A Song and Dance for Papelbon

If I could be any athlete, I would be Jonathan Papelbon. No Question. Papelbon… the Red Sox Closer. He’s the pitcher who comes into the game in the 9th inning when the Red Sox have the lead. His mission: keep the Red Sox ahead and close the game with a “W.” All he has to do is get 3 OUTS. 1-2-3-you’re OUT! And that sounds easier than it is…or he makes it.

Sometimes Papelbon likes to mess with his fans and give them heart attacks along the way. ..so he loads the bases. Maybe that’s because he only gets to play for 1 inning and wants to hang around for a while. But eventually he gets that 3rd OUT…right before Red Sox Manager Terry Francona wants to string him up by his baseballs.

Another great part about being Papelpon is that he gets wicked applause and kudos…just for not blowing their lead and the game. How cool is that? “Hey…thanks for not losing the game, dude…you da man.” Wish PaulA gave me kudos for the obvious. “Hey,…thanks for not losing Duncandog today…you da Kat.”

The coolest thing, however, about being Jonathon Papelbon is that he has a theme song. When Papelbon gets the call to pitch...he grabs his balls and trots out onto the field toward the pitching mound…while his theme song plays…and 38,805 screaming fans are dancing and cheering for him.

And his song is a fun one… “I’m shipping up to Boston” by the Dropkick Murphys. I wonder who chose it? It sounds like an Irish drinking song…and let’s face it…by the 9th inning, the crowd is ready for a drinking song.

You just know Papelbon is loving it all…who the hell wouldn’t? So I was thinking….hmmmmm…..Damn, wouldn’t it be nice to have a theme song…your own personal song that plays when you enter a room? Can you imagine that? For some reason I can.

I enter our house through the front door after a hard day at the Taj MaMall…and the music starts. I hear it now…it’s “Super Freak” by Rick James. Wait, why should I get the short end of the song stick? I’m changing it to something better… “Foxey Lady” by Jimi Hendrix or “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer. (Your choice.)

I wonder what my theme song would be if PaulA chose it for me. Hopefully he wouldn’t remember my latest shopping spree and choose “Material Girl” by Madonna. Hopefully he chooses something sweet like “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison or “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. Yep, Now we’re talking.

As for PaulA…When he walks through the front door after a long and arduous day at the office…I would suggest the song: “It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere” by Jimmy Buffett. But maybe he would prefer “I’m Bringing Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake. Or “Rock Star” by Nickelback.

Who wouldn’t want to be Papelbon ….he gets applause AND a theme song…just for not messing up.

The Likeness is Scary

“I am so like you, it’s scary.” Big C wrote that comment on one of my blogs. I chuckled to myself when I read it. Question: Why when we find that we are similar to our moms…in some way…ANY way…we think it’s scary?

Maybe Bic C mean’t that our resemblance is remarkable and uncanny…and not ewwww scary. (Go ahead and tell yourself that, Kat) Regardless, I’m sure Big C isn’t the only one to think this…let alone verbalize it. Heck, I might have had the same thought once or twice about my mom. But if Alice is reading this blog… “Not once in my life did those thoughts ever, ever cross my mind.”

Of course, it only makes sense that we would have a few similarities with our moms. Heck they are just that…they are our MOTHERS…they have mothered us. It only stands to reason that some of them…their mannerisms, their momisms…would rub off on us.

We swore when we grew up we would never have the same quirks and facial expressions…as mommie dearest. And we swore we’d never, ever say comments like: If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. Or how could you be bored? I was never bored at your age.

Another interesting observation (at least to me) is…for some reason any resemblance to Dad…is not scary. Why is that????

That’s okay. I’m so proud of my kids…that if they think we share some resemblance in ANY…way, shape, or form….scary or not…I’m grinning like a Cheshire Kat.

The Disclaimer

There is always something lurking below the surface…the unsaid, the underlying meaning, the underlying truth. When you scratch the surface…the real truth is revealed. Question: Aren’t the words “real truth” redundant? Is there such thing as “false truth?”

With advertising…whether in print or television….advertisers start out with some amazing claim about their product and then directly follow it with…the small print…or a tiny voice…aka the disclaimer. That way they don’t land their butts in jail.

First they say things like: “Take Sleepytyme tonight for the best night’s sleep of your life.” Then a tiny, quiet, speed-talker adds: “Prolonged use of Sleepytyme is habit forming and may cause loss of liver, limb, lungs, and life. Should you never wake again…that’s your own stupid fault.”

If I were to advertise my blog on television I would make the following claim: “Kat’s blog is good for your health. It relieves stress and prevents tension. Your blood pressure is guaranteed to go down 100 points with daily dosage. Read Kat’s blog today and lower your blood pressure.”

On the surface it appears as though Kat’s blog has a health benefit. The unsaid, however, is apparent: Kat is desperate for blog readers and is making claims that are total B.S.

Just so I wouldn’t find my sorry ass in jail…I would add The Disclaimer (please read this part as fast as you can)… “99 out of 100 people have been known to become nauseous with excessive exposure to Kat’s blog material. Any real health benefit regarding blood pressure is total crap.”