Leave It In the 00's

See ya.
Sayounara.
Good bye, good riddance.
Don’t let the barn door hit ya in the ass……….
I wasn’t speaking to PaulA. I’m speaking about the end of the year…end of 2009…and end of a decade.

I look forward to 2010, because along with it; brings a fresh start. So I say “Out with the Old” (Please, not me) and “In with the New.”

There are some words, phrases, fads, or fashions that are so overplayed and overworked…they should be left in the last decade. Take “cougar”, “wardrobe malfunction”, “sex addict”, and “With that being said.”…definitely material that should be buried in the 00's.

But even worse is….the blending of two names to form a Super Couple. Branjolie…Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, Bennifer…Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, Tomcat…Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Although PaulAkat does has a nice ring to it.

So think about it. What would you want to leave in the 00’s?

I think I can speak for Tiger Woods (he’s not around to stop me.) Tiger’s “leave it in the 00’s” would probably be the word “transgression.” I’m sure he would be happy to leave the word, the phrase, AND scenario behind.

With that being said, I hear that sex addict, Tiger Wood’s, latest transgression is a cougar who experienced a wardrobe malfunction posing for Playboy…………..

Yea…let’s leave it in the 00’s.

Happy New Year’s Eve!

Man Up

I find it interesting that during this time of Tigergate, Tiger Wood’s agent, Mark Steinberg, is quoted as saying, “Let’s please give the kid a break.” I find it particularly interesting because today Tiger turns 34.

A kid? Age 34? Husband? Father of 2? When does a man become a man? I kid you not…Tiger is NOT a kid and shouldn’t be given excuses that you would give a child. That’s most of Tiger’s problem…the “excuses” Tiger’s inner circle makes for him.

I know I/we should have given it a rest by now…but this story is one that keeps on giving…because of the size of the gap between Tiger’s larger-than-life public persona and secret tawdry life he wanted to keep (out) PRIVATE.

Tiger and those around him may want to try to play the victim card, but that's just another excuse. He may feel like a victim…but Joe Public is Tiger’s victim…victim in believing that Tiger is who he portrayed himself to be…. a squeaky clean, straight-shooter, “family-first” man. We feel like he cheated on us along with his wife.

Maybe Tiger was robbed of his childhood...maybe Tiger didn’t have a “normal” adolescence...but with the indulgences and privileges Tiger has been granted, come obligations…and most importantly…obligations to his family.

You are 34 today, Tiger. No More Excuses. Man Up!

Ten Years Ago

I’m actually trying to figure out where the last decade went. I remember 1999…TEN YEARS AGO…when we were all worked up with what would happen when the clock struck midnight. Everyone was talking about it, reading about it, obsessing about it. Would Y2K be drama, disaster, or diddly? Would computers go screwy and not recognize the year 2000, but identify it as the year 1900, when grinding was done with a mortar and pestle and not with your hips? Shake ‘em Shakira.

I don’t know about you…but I squirreled away a blue plastic container in our basement and labeled it “EMERGENCY.” A just-in-case Y2K kit…with a couple of flashlights, several gallons of bottled water, and a few cans of spam. I think I even threw in some extra rolls of toilet paper for good measure. You can never have too many squares of TP.

My bro-in-law actually prompted me into preparing a Y2K survival container…he reads the sensationalized New York Post more often than I do. After a lot of talk of impending doom…I figured I better get my canned spam before everyone else beats me to it.

I heard some folks packed away items such as medical supplies, a generator, and cash. Cash-on-hand probably would have been a good idea, but I never even have cash-on-wallet (cat burglars need not enter Kat’s house.)

It would have been a great study in human behavior…an experiment in sociology (or is it anthropology?) to look at the different emergency supplies set aside for a possible Y2K disaster. I think it would have been very revealing to compare containers. “Okay, who had the Captain Crunch???”………….

We Three Kids

Yippeeee…the kids are home. Home for the Holidays. Being a mom who wears rose colored glasses, I have a vision…a rosy vision of all 5 of us…sitting around the Christmas tree…singing Christmas carols…holding hands. Okay, that’s Kat’s World….enter REAL WORLD….

It’s really more like…kids in and out…can I take the Ford Escape?…you had it last night….refrigerator in and out…late nights turned early mornings…fried egg sandwiches and lasagna at 3 am…dishes in the sink…TV blaring…computer screens glaring…every light blaring.

Back to Kat’s World. Ahhhhhhh…a peaceful night together…snow falling…and the distant voices of Christmas Carolers. Come on fam….let’s sing together “Silent Night.”

I remember when I could get the kids to sing holiday songs…but only if was “Grandma got run over by a Reindeer” or “We Three Kings”...the cigar version. "We Three Kings of Orient are, tried to smoke a rubber cigar, it was loaded, it exploded"....The loaded rubber cigar exploding trick. Kat’s World…shattered even then.

Now the kids are grown and singing their own version of “We Three Kings”……….

"We Three Kids"

We three kids of Kat n Paul Are
Hope to take the Ford Escape car
The tank is empty, Kat is testy
Living with Kat the Czar.

Goodbye Kat's World.

Merry Christmas

Christmas is here…
No more stress and strain…Got Strudel?

I hope you all are enjoying precious time with your families.

Tis the season of
rest,
relaxation,
recline,
repose,
recess,
resolve,
recreation,
respite ...........…and

REFRESHMENT!

Holiday Cards

One of most favorite things during the holiday season…is the cards. I live for the cards. I watch my mailbox, waiting for the mail truck to come around the corner. “Careful dude, you’re gonna fall out.”

Think about it, at what other time of the year do you receive so much personal mail…and not from the cable guy. But snail mail…hand delivered by a letter carrier? Old School style…not the bing, bang electronic inbox: “You’ve got mail.”

Getting cards out the door can be a monumental task and I appreciate the time involved around the process. It’s exceptionally tricky if you want to include a family photo……especially to include the family dog and get him to look straight into the camera and not be licking his privates. Then to address the envelope, stamp it, and lick the envelope. Yuck! Maybe the family dog could help in this department. “Oh Duncandog…come here puppy…I have a project for you”………

With today’s technology…there are some short cuts to the whole process…especially if you are computer savvy. Like using the computer to make cards with photos you’ve upload from your camera…printing envelope address labels and …printing cards with your name and message. You don’t have to bother signing, “Love, John Hancock.” As my friend aptly pointed out…it’s the “sign of the truly lazy.” Call me lazyKat…because that’s the route I took this year. “Love, lazyKat.”

And then there is the family newsletter shortcut…a printed update of what you’ve been up to. I love reading a newsletter…until I find out that they have a better life than I do. I have considered including one with our card, but I need some good stuff to write about. I need the WOW factor. I’m thinking it’s probably not a good idea to lie…seeing it’s Christmas and all. Right?

Although I am Old School when it comes to cards, I do appreciate receiving email holiday cards and photos. You have to be really organized to do this…and have email addresses for everyone. I have enough trouble keeping my tattered and torn address book up-to-date…crossing out addresses because people can’t just stay in one place.

I guess the advantage email cards have over Old School cards is that you don’t have to worry about who, or what, is actually licking the envelopes that you’ve received.

Bah Humbug

I don’t want to sound like Scrooge himself, but there are some things that bring the Ebenezer out of me. Before I sound-off…I have a digression (not transgression…don’t worry, this is not a blog about Tiger. Although I have been wondering if Tiger stopped at three women …would that be called a trigression? And 8 women…an octagression? And 13…a baker’s dozengression?) Back to the original digression….

Who calls their kid Ebenezer? So when he was born, his parents took a good look at him and decided that his was a face of an Ebenezer? It’s no wonder Eb grew up to be a grumpy grouch. Wouldn’t you be if you had to raise your hand in class and answer to that name?

Anyway…from digression and transgression…finally comes a progression.

The dealio that gets me all Scroogy is receiving holiday wishes from a leasing company. I received an email holiday greeting from our car Leasing Company which read: “We wish you a happy holiday and all the best as you steer into the New Year. It was signed “With Warm Wishes.”

Oh...how cute... using “steer” as a play on words. What they were really saying was: “Keep the check coming or we are gonna steer your life into….credit hell…with warm wishes.”

It’s interesting that I found the email in my spam folder. Even my computer was smart enough to recognize it as junk mail. Call me Scrooge, but I don’t care to be warm and fuzzy with my leasing company. Bah Humbug.

scroogekatOUT

Home Alone

Remember the adorable letters kids would send to Santa? They would start working on their Wish List after chewing their last bite of turkey on Thanksgiving. Scribbling down on paper the name of every toy that caught their eye…every toy they saw in the colorful flyers from the newspaper and TV commercials. And God knows on Saturday mornings, there’s a Santa’s load.

Big C would phonetically spell out her List…bik, brbe, ktshn. Colinboy would draw pictures of Santa and his sleigh. And ask: “Mom, how do you spell Fisher Price motorized car?” I’d help him with the spelling: N-O-W-A-Y. I’d ask Wishy, what she wanted…she would pull her fingers out of her mouth and in her baby doll voice say, “I want Home Alone.” She was actually referring to the movie…not her own personal space…at 2 and a half.

I’m sure Santa still has those Letters banging around the North Pole somewhere…but she can’t always remember where she stashes everything…a bad case of santaheimer’s.

So I got to thinking…if I could make my own Wish List and send it to the North Pole…What would I ask Santa to bring me? Baubles? Bangles? Bucks? Naw….

I think my letter would read:

Dear Santa,
I’ve been pretty good this year…although there was that one time I slammed the paddle ball at an 86 year old woman…but it was at her feet. But let’s move on. Santa, this year I am asking for some faithful blog readers. The kind that will log onto my blog daily…and not think I have a few screws loose. That’s all, Santa…thanks.

Hmmm…I got to thinking about what Tiger Woods’s letter would read:

Dear Santa:
I know I haven’t been a good Tiger this year…more of a Cheetah…but I am asking for a SECOND CHANCE. My life is in shambles…everyone is leaving me…my wife, my kids, my sponsors, my fans. I look around and find I’m Home Alone……..

This is just a suggestion….Maybe Kevin could join Tiger….that way they could be Home Alone together.

Bringing Cheer and Good Tidings

Hey, it’s great when you can get a customer service person laughing…especially during the holiday season…the season of stress, strain, and strudel…sorry, that just naturally follows. And now that I think about it…apple strudel naturally follows…a holiday dinner.

Here’s my customer service scenario: I was online ordering a few gifts, each with personalized messages. I decided I should go back and make sure that I matched the right message with the right person. Heck, I don’t want to send...“Yo Yo…Have A Chill Christmas"...to Aunt Millie.

So after I clicked back to check for mistakes, the computer cleared all my billing information…which I then had to painstakingly re-enter. After I completed the 'check-out' page and hit ENTER…the screen flashed “Hey, Stupid…you forgot to put in a zip code.” As I was doing that…the screen went BLACK. Ahhh…I wasn’t sure if my order went through, or I just launched a missile strike overseas.

So I called the company’s Customer Service Department to make sure there were no mix-ups.

A Customer Service person answered: “Hi, this is Jack, your customer service person. How can I help you?”
Kat: “Hey Jack. This is Kat. I gotta problem over here.”
And then I proceeded to give him the long boring details I just gave you.
Then Jack said, “You used Internet Explorer, right? Well, it clears the cookies.”
So I said, “Hey Jack, the only cookies I know about are the ones that I put in my stomach.”

Jack couldn’t stop laughing. I guess I was killing him…with my ignorance…or maybe he was still drunk on punch and his cookies from his company holiday luncheon.

I was happy to bring Cheer and Good Tidings to Jack during this time of stress, strain, and strudel…but “Jack, when you ever stop laughing…can you help me out over here.”

Before Cookies

During the holidays there is just so much food to be had…to be eaten…to be applied to the thigh and butt area. I now understand where Santa gets his girth.

Think about St. Nick…he’s constantly around food. There’s at least 1,000 calories waiting for him at the bottom of every chimney. Millions of kids have left him cookies and milk and he’s expected to consume it all.

For Santa…It’s Ground Hog’s Christmas Day all over again. Another Christmas…another trip around the world. When he gets to the Schneider’s of Schenectady, he’ll find the usual Snickerdoodles….to the Patterson’s of Peoria…it’s Peanut Butter Blossoms and to the George’s in Georgetown…it’s Gingerbread Men. The Brady’s of Bradford are always good for a snort of Brandy. Hopefully Santa doesn’t indulge too much at the Brady’s…it can lead to hazardous sleigh driving.

Rumor has it that back in Santa’s younger years, he was svelte and ripped. He was known in the North Pole as Santa the Playboy…but that was before Mrs. Claus bagged him. After too many years and too many cookies…everything slid to his equator. Granted, in the North Pole it’s hard to get outside and exercise. There also isn’t much time for workouts, when you’re stuck in the workshop building toys for sweet and sour children. That’s his excuse. I’m working on mine.

I wonder if Santa has ever thought about switching holidays…maybe with the Easter Bunny. The bunny hop is actually very good exercise…much better than the slacker move of putting his finger to the side of nose trick and magically sliding down the chimney.

I found this picture of Santa back in his younger years…back when he had a six-pack…and not the six he was dropping off for PaulA. Back then he had dark hair, no beard, and liked to walk around without a shirt. Young Santa sure had it…and liked to flaunt it.

The years and the cookies have caught up with him. But that’s what makes him jolly Old St. Nick. Before cookies....we all used to look like Svelte Santa.

Yes, Virginia

I sure miss having little kids at home believing in Santa. The excitement, the anticipation, the sugar-high. Sweet little ones in footy pajamas…going to bed with visions of sugar plums, tiny reindeer, and a bearded stranger…in their heads.

Question: Why is there always a BIG kid that likes to ruin the charade for your little Johnny? I’m guessing that same kid had his own Santa fantasy ripped prematurely from him, so he wants to return the favor to someone else. Merry Jingle Balls Christmas.

We never told our kids any differently about St. Nick…and they never questioned Santa’s existence or non-existence…maybe because Jingle Balls Brian wasn’t in their class to spill the Santa bag…. or maybe because our kids didn’t want to leave anything to chance…especially when the gig was so good.

(Okay, so the ‘rents say there’s a big guy in a ratty ole suit who flies around the world in a sleigh pulled by 8 tiny reindeer…and he shimmys down 8 trillion chimneys in one night. As long as the payday keeps coming…why open our mouths and ruin a good thing?)

I’m not so sure that our three didn’t get together and conference, “What do ya think? Katwoman as Santa??? Nah, she couldn’t be Santa…she’s way too disorganized. Although…she is filling out those red velvet pants.”

And so in our house…we believe. Not only in the true meaning of Christmas…but we also believe in the spirit of giving and sharing...St. Nick Style.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

The New Lipstick on the Collar

Watching or reading any more about Tiger Woods…is like looking at a train wreck…actually staring at one. We've looked way too long.

Granted, the jokes and play on words…are endless and pretty funny…but I think we need to call a moratorium on it all. Heck, Nancy Grace is referring to Tiger’s transgressions by number…I think we are up to Lucky woman number 13. Then there is also a reference by their profession…cocktail waitress, lingerie model, porn star, pancake waitress. I refer to them by Bimbo. But like I said…I am not going to add more fuel to the Tiger flame…it appears he has enough flames.

But wait…one more thing. I think it's interesting that Tiger is paying off only one of the 13 women he has been involved with. People are speculating that’s probably because she has the most damaging evidence of their affair…like texts saying that he loves her, or he wants to leave his wife for her. And he’s willing to pay up to 5 million bucks. She has to have more on him than words of LOVE. I’m thinking it’s probably something weird….compromising pictures with a Tiger…maybe Tiger in a golf skirt. But that is how my mind works. Like I said, I am not going to add more fuel to the Tiger flames.

What is MOST interesting about all of this is…the texting trail left behind. The text message is actually better than a Hansel and Gretel trail of bread crumbs. Today’s texting is the new “lipstick on the collar.” Back in the old days, the wife would be sorting laundry and come upon a lipstick stain on her husband’s collar. (I never understood how the man never noticed ruby red lipstick on his collar.) Now we have text messages as evidence of sordid affairs.

And we even have the invention of a new word…"sexting" (texts about sex). So I was thinking… if you are lusting in texts…is that "lexting?" Or you talk about cheating in texts…is that "chexting?'

I’m sure Tiger wishes he was born back in the day when lipstick stains were evidence for infidelity. Heck, his wife never would have caught him. It’s not like Elin washes Tiger’s golf shirts…on the old washboard.

Ps…Hey, just heard there’s a Woman Number 14 now. The woman is 48 years old…Tiger and a Cougar.

Rest assured…there has never been a Tiger and a Kat.

Hold It!

Who hasn’t had a decorated Christmas tree fall over? I’m sure a lot of people out there have had their tree fall over…at least once. A Christmas tree disaster is a horrifying event.

To enter the room and find your tree horizontal on the floor is devastating and overwhelming. You feel paralyzed…kinda like entering a crime scene…and seeing the chalk outline of a dead body. I know this because it has happened to us…2 and a half times. (the tree silly, not a dead body.)

So you were wondering (humor me here)…How is it possible for a tree to fall half a time? Glad you asked. Well…I caught the tree in the act of falling. I had just finished decorating one of our trees (with my prized ornaments...my "gold" tree)…and it started falling toward me. I quickly stuck my hand through the branches and grabbed the trunk of the 12 foot tall and 5 foot wide tree. And screamed for help.

But help never came. The kids were MIA and PaulA was in the basement running on the treadmill …watching a Patriots game…with the volume on 50.

So there I stood with my face planted in the tree, my arm getting scratched, and eyes being poked with needles…holding a tree that was getting heavier with every minute. And hearing the treadmill and the Patriots in the distance…knowing that any screaming was just a waste of breath.

That day PaulA decided to be treadmill Marathon Man. I had to keep switching arms to hold the tree up. This went on for countless minutes…until when PaulA finished…he heard my yelp. I swear, if I had to hold it any longer, there would have been a dead body.

But Christmas would go on…and rightly so.
Over my dead body…there would be a Christmas.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

What’s your favorite part of preparing for Christmas? Could it be bringing up all the boxes stored in the basement, decorating the house, finding a tree, decorating the tree, stringing lights outside, hanging garland and wreaths, sending cards, dealing with the Post Office, baking cookies, coming up with gift ideas, shopping for gifts, dealing with the crowds, paying the bills?

Who knew getting ready for Christmas could be so much fun?

My favorite worst job …is putting lights on the tree. Yep…lights out, it is definitely my favorite of the worst. Somehow I became the designated Lighting Designer…but that’s probably because PaulA has already tied the dang thang to the roof of the car, squeezed it through the back door, moved the furniture, put it in the stand, worked to get it straight. Then for me to tell him… “It’s crooked. Re-do.”

Who knew setting up the tree could be so much fun?

So now it’s my turn to join in on all the fun…wrestle with the tree lights. Untangle them from square knots. Test strands to make sure they’re working. Get the female and male parts to “hook-up.” Balance on a stool to reach the top. Get stabbed by bristly needles. Ahhhh…Wrestling, stringing, balancing and stabbing.

Who knew putting up tree lights could be so dangerous?

The worse though is coming downstairs the next morning to find that the tree took a nose-dive during the night. Branches spread eagle on the floor. Precious ornaments obliterated. And water, water, everywhere.

Who knew getting ready for Christmas could be so much fun?

SNOW Day

Yesterday I woke up to white fluffy stuff falling from the sky…luckily not falling from the scalp. The first snowfall of the season! It was 7 am and there was already 7 inches of snow on the ground…7 at 7. I decided to hit the hay for another hour…it’s not like I had to be up at the crack of dawn for an early morning flight to Baton Rouge or anything (Sorry PaulA).

The morning was gorgeous…a winter wonderland with all the makings of a snow globe. I’ve always liked the feeling of being snowed in. But this time it was different. Lest I remind you…I am an EMPTY-NESTER…no kids to hunker down with. It definitely felt different.

I remember when the kids, after finding out the snow gods were in their favor, ran around the house yelling “No School…It’s a SNOW DAY!” It was the only day they didn’t mind getting out of bed. They couldn’t wait to get outside to go sledding, build snowmen, and throw snowballs at each other’s heads.

After getting my 3 little stooges dressed and ready for the elements…bundled up with every article of winter clothing we owned, Curly would need it all taken off…with the predictable “I gotta go to the bathroom!” After a romp in the snow…there were rounds of hot chocolate…hold the whip cream. Followed by wet clothes and jackets, hats, scarves, and boots everywhere. Man, I loved those snow days. Not that I particularly like wet soggy clothes, but it was an excuse to not leave the house.

Even though the day felt differently, the weather was the same. It was a very typical winter day in New England…a snowstorm, followed by wintry mix (kinda like Chex Mix you eat in the winter), topped off with rain. Actually a storm with lightening and thunder. Yep…a summer-winter storm…or is that a winter-summer storm? Anyway, by 5 pm the first snowy day of the season was replaced by a monsoon…putting an end to any Currier and Ives fantasy.

A typical winter day in New England…has its way of bringing you back to reality.

According to Kay

I’ve read that the bathroom scale is the worst gift a man could give a woman. This seems obvious…especially during the holidays when yule logs, rum balls, and egg nogs are the foods of choice. Does this advice really need to be put in print? The second-to-worst gift….might be a heavy appliance (unless of course the guy can be stuffed into it, or you can jump inside and drive it out of the garage with the top down.)

If gift giving were up to Kay Jewelers, the perfect gift would be diamonds. After all, “Every Kiss Begins With Kay.”

In the Kay’s commercial, “he” surprises her with a Kay’s diamond. “She” goes ga-ga over it… reaches over, caresses his face, and plants a big kiss…smack on the kisser. (Snow is suddenly falling over their heads.) She now has a little twinkle in her eye, replacing any daggers she might have had for him earlier in the week. And that is because: Every Kiss Begins with Kay.

According to Kay…After a woman receives a Kay’s sparkling rock, “she” decides her boyfriend or husband is now worthy. Before he gave her the diamond…he was “okay” at best. And you know what that means…she just might be nice to him…the nooky factor has just increased.

Unfortunately men are led to believe that the only way to a woman’s kiss is to shower her with diamonds. These poor guys are made to feel that if they don’t get the woman in their life a diamond…they are a dud...a low-down, lousy, cheap, son-of-a-scoundrel. Men are made to feel that diamonds are the only thing that will get their woman’s attention and adoration.

Now is that really fair? Now, come on. Men, please do not be fooled. Women welcome all rocks….emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls.......

A Minute and a Half

A minute and a half, 90 seconds, and then it’s over. That’s how long it takes me to sing the National Anthem, and I did that last night at a college basketball game ...live…A cappella. No instrumental accompaniment to drown me out. Yep, me, the microphone, and my fingers crossed.

Singing the National Anthem…A cappella…is probably the most vulnerable I could feel…unless I also experienced a wardrobe malfunction. After all, I’m not a professional, and there are thousands of people there…plus or minus those who saunter in late. Next time, could you please try to be on time?

So was I nervous? You bet your late ass I was. Even though I have done this for ten years…the anxious feelings still come. Actually I am the most nervous the day I have to sing. And driving to the event, I am very preoccupied and focused on the whole thing. Heck, if I got a call from one of my kids and they said… "Mom, I’m dropping out of college”, I’d say, “Oh, isn’t that nice.”

And PaulA is so sweet to me. When he drives me to the event, I can tell he is on his best behavior…trying to say and do all the right things, so I don’t go into Diva breakdown. He provides curbside service and wishes me good luck… “Shake it, don’t break it.” Or...“Break a leg.”

During the time before the game…I pace and wait. Practice a few notes. Wait and pace. Then when it’s game time…and my name is announced…I walk out to center court, take a deep breath, check for wardrobe malfunctions, stare at the flag….and for some reason….I am not nervous anymore. Maybe it isn’t nerves responsible for upping my amps…maybe it’s adrenaline. But that all goes away with..."Oh say can you sing."

I shift into auto sing and the words just come ...and luckily in the correct order, which is totally awesome because I might confuse a few people singing along with .. “And the rockets blasted in red air. The glare bursting in bombs.”

Every year I keep going back for more…A minute and a half….of adrenaline, being on the spot, and trying, oh so hard, not to embarrass my family.

Shout-out to Meredith… “Happy Pearl Harbor Day Birthday.”

Consumer Zombie

Do jingles stick with you? Do you sing the jingles of items as you put them in your grocery cart? Am I the only one from Planet Weirdo?

I love jingles…the little ditties that are designed to turn you into a walking consumer zombie. The jingles have a way of planting a subliminal message into your head…so you continually go home with a product that you’ve bought for years and years…and you’re not even sure you really like it anymore.

I admit…when I’m in the soup aisle…I start singing…Mmmm good. Campbells’ soup is Mmmm good. There are probably other brands out there that are tasty…but I’m sure they are not as mmmmm good.

When I need to restock my first aid cabinet, I find that I am stuck on Band-aid…and Band-aid is stuck on me.

In the Cereal aisle…I’m so coo coo for Cocoa Puffs, there is no room for the healthy cereals. And Trix are for kids…not for silly rabbits.

Most days when I’m grocery shopping, I wish I was an Oscar Mayer Weiner…that is what I truly want to be. And one thing is for certain…Choosy Mother’s choose Jif and nothing else. I’ve been know to Do a dollop of Daisy. And for sure….Everything’s better with Blue Bonnet on it.

Finally, the walking consumer zombie has left the grocery store building. I’m driving home….next thing I know I find myself in TJ Maxx…because you get the max from the minimum at TJ Maxx. And god knows I only want the max.

Next stop…home. Wait…I deserve a break today. A Big Mac is what I have a hankering for…and I’m lovin’ it.

These jingles are quite powerful and have a way of controlling actions (at least mine.) I see other products on the shelves…but the jingle takes over…and I succumb.

I’ve never been hypnotized, but it appears that from my consumer zombie tendencies, I would be the perfect person to go under the spell. "Take me to your maker." I would be willing to try hypnosis, but I would want to make sure the hypnotist didn’t make me do anything embarrassing or anything I would regret later. I’ve heard that sometimes they can get you in front of a crowd and make you say embarrassing things…or embarrassing sounds.

It would be very wrong to make this Kat…bark like a dog.

Beam me up now, Planet Weirdo.

The Case of the Missing Object

Why when something is missing…can’t be found….looked high and low…and it’s still missing…there's only one thing that could have happened to it. KAT THREW IT OUT. I ask you…Why is this the only solution?

Let’s just take a random person…say PaulA. Say PaulA is missing a cord to something and can’t find it. The only solution…the ONLY thing that could have possibly happened to it is that…KAT THREW IT OUT. And not only did Kat throw away the cord…but apparently she threw away the box and the instructions with it. But that is just a "for instance"…..I’m speaking hypothetically...in generalizations.

Generally, there is always someone who gets the blame. And it is never the person who actually had contact with the object…who could have misplaced it, lost it, or thrown it away. It’s always someone else’s fault that the object is MIA. It’s always someone else who swoops in, grabs it…and quickly throws it in the trash.

Okay, I’m sure there are those folks out there who don’t like clutter so they deep six things quicker than most. Those are thrower-outer people. I am not. I repeat...I am not of the thrower-outer kind. I would like to go on record that I am of the mover-over kind. I move things around…upstairs to downstairs, counter to counter…closet to closet. Heck, PaulA still has some of his favorite shirts from the Happy Days.

Does that sound like a person who regularly throws things out? I rest my case…I had nothing to do with the MIA object…as I am a certifiable mover-over person. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Case Closed.

White House Interlopers

Have you ever crashed a party? Showed up somewhere…unannounced, uninvited, unrequested, and unwelcomed. If so…that is definitely uncalled for. Maybe back in High School crashing was copacetic.....

But as a full grown grown-up…it is something frowned on. Especially crashing the biggest party in the USA. I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the couple who crashed the State Dinner in Washington…the White House Interlopers…not to be confused with the Wild Hooved Antelopers.

The couple looked the part…and acted the part…. somebody who would be invited to the big dance. I guess the Secret Service and Social Secretary…were too busy…having a good time to notice that posers had entered…stage right.

The couple obviously studied the book “Dress for Success.” But just because you’re wealthy, well-dressed, and attractive…doesn’t mean you can’t have a few screws loose. The Interlopers joined in with Washington’s inner circle…had their picture taken with the President, Joe Biden, White House Chief of Staff Emanuel…Heck, even Katie Cutey Curic...and then posted it on Facebook. They definitely have a few screws loose…and some nuts and bolts.

Actually, the bottom line is publicity. Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame….or is it 20 minutes now? Aspiring to be reality show celebrities on The Housewives of Washington DC. ..the Interlopers showed they would do anything to gain attention. Lower themselves to any level or higher themselves to any level… like Balloon Boy’s parents who also created publicity to get their own reality show.

These types of people crave attention. They are attention seekers and suitors. And it appears that any attention…either positive or negative…is okay with these folks. Kinda like when our kids were 2 years old…sometimes it was just worth the time-out.

That’s what the couple should get for the trouble they have caused….a Time-Out. Time-out of the spotlight….time out of the media…because so far they are getting the attention they crave.

That’s why the White House Interlopers shall remain nameless and faceless……in my blog.

Tiger Mulligan

The rumor mill is churning over Tiger Woods. Why do people need to know the details about Tiger’s incident with a fire hydrant, tree, SUV, and golf club? Isn’t it a personal matter…a match play, two-some…between Tiger and his wife?

Okay, it probably isn’t our business. Tiger’s business occurred on private property and the cops confirmed alcohol was not a factor. But we, Joe Public, want to make it our business. Probably because this incident humanizes TIGER…THE GOLFINATOR.

Let’s face it…His persona is robotic…one made of a tough armor exterior…with laser vision…focused solely on a golf ball. So it only makes sense that we want to know about Tiger, the human. Does Tiger have a chink in his armor? Inquiry minds want to know.

Let’s double face it…leaving the house at 2:30 in the morning after Thanksgiving isn’t par for the course. It’s more like 5 over par. Maybe Tiger was headed to the gym to work off his turkey dinner…when his seemingly perfect hand-eye coordination failed him and he crashed into a tree. And his wife, Elin, ran to his rescue, freeing him from his SUV…with a golf club.…

Or then again, maybe his wife heard about the other woman…and got tee’d off...so Tiger took off and she ran after him with a golf club …aiming for the Tiger Pin…with a full swing and an accurate approach shot ...that would leave the windows of his Cadillac broken. In matters of the heart…etiquette of any kind…gets tossed out the SUV window.

But regardless of the scenario…the big questions really are: Was her club of choice…a driver, a wood, a hybrid, or a 4-iron? How many strokes did it take her to break the windows? Was it an inside-out swing pattern that made contact?

Tiger should know that there is a hazard to having golf clubs around the house. It only makes sense that when Elin needed an object …it would be a club. So it also follows course, that if Kate Hudson was to go after A-Rod…she’d pick up a bat. For Emeril’s wife, it would be a frying pan. And I would have to chase PaulA around with an insurance policy and clobber him with a few Policy Exclusions.

I think in a couple of days this will all blow over. Tiger will play it safe and lay low in a bunker somewhere, while his publicist lays down some back spin. One thing for sure…Tiger will be begging his wife for a mulligan.

It appears Elin is one fierce competitor, so Tiger better play it safe on the back nine. Elin might not be able to play the game as well as Tiger…but it appears she knows how to even the net score.

Handicaps are the great equalizer in the game of golf…and the game of love.

Disclaimer: This blog is based on no real facts and is written on ground under repair. I took a few unjustified chip shots at Tiger and his wife and have presented it from a closed stance. I apologize for any bad lies and chunks resulting in large divots in the truth.