I love you, Daisy

Sadly to say, my grandmother, Daisy, died last night…she would have been 95 on March 23rd. I know she lived a full and long life….and that you can’t live forever, but because Grandma lived for so long, I just expected her to keep living. Day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year.

I expected that every January I would go to Florida and she would be doing fine…sitting next to Ellie in their favorite chairs…watching tennis, the NBA, NFL, Dancing with the Stars…and their nightly regulars…Jeopardy and The Vanna White Show.

I expected to hear Willard Scott say “Happy Birthday” to her someday.

Sadly to say, she didn’t live up to my expectations of living another year….but as a grandmom…she lived up to every expectation. I have always been very proud of my Grandmother. She was an amazing woman with a sharp and keen mind…and a love for learning. She was someone I looked up to. We kept in touch through letters and my visits to Florida. She was always so sweet, kind, loving, and caring to me…I’m going to miss her.

Daisy was the matriarch of five generations…. 5 children, 17 grandchildren, 25 great grandchildren, 8 great great grandchildren. I wonder what it feels like to be the head of the family…at the top of the family tree from which many branches grew. I wished I had asked her.

After my visit with her this past January, I said goodbye to Grandma. I planted a big kiss directly on her lips…I can feel now.

Whenever I pull petals from a daisy...the last petal will forever be "I love you."

I love you, Daisy.

The Button

It’s not often I go to a public beach. I prefer our quiet, pristine, PRIVATE beach….but every now and then…I can really appreciate time on the beach with the asses. Like I said, the masses.

And the public beach in Fort Lauderdale, is not your normal ass beach… although I have found that it has changed since I last visited it during my college spring break, freshman year…back when Fort Lauderdale was Wild Ass Central.

What an eye opener it was for me…back then…circa 1865. Little Vermont girl goes to the Beach. I drove down from the University of Vermont with a bunch of girls…30 hours later we were enjoying the sun, surf, and turf. What stood out for me was the miles of bodies…packed like sardines on the beach, and packed like sardines in The Button.

The Button…a college bar on the Fort Lauderdale strip…when the drinking age was only 18…and the thinking age was even less.

While I was in Fort Lauderdale, I looked to see if The Button still existed. No Button. It appeared The Button had been sewn shut, and the area cleaned up with many nice hotels.

So I got to thinking about The Button and how it got its name. Maybe it had something to do with thousands of exposed belly buttons…but I think The Boob would have been a more fitting name…especially with the nightly wet T-shirt contests. I remember my reaction when I saw what was going on. Yikes! The last time I had seen that many exposed teats was on the dairy farm.

A little further down Interstate 95 from Fort Lauderdale is South Beach….another popular public beach. Definitely no buttons…or buttoning going on in South Beach…just miles and miles of boobs and biceps.

YouTube Bube

You might not realize this…but if you post a video on YouTube…it could come back to bite you in the butt…or even land your butt in jail...singing the "Folsom Prison Blues." Especially if it has you captured in illegal activity.

Gee…and to think a site seen by a million people a day can have that effect.

YouTube is better than a fallible human witness, trying to recall what they actually saw……..

Witness #1: “Yes, your honor. I got a good look at the bank robber. He was a slim man, wore a goatee, and had a tattoo of a frog on his neck.”

Vs.

Witness #2: “Yes, your honor. I got a good look at the bank robber. He was 400 lbs, wore a fu manchu, and had a tattoo of a dragon on his face.”

Today people carry their cell phones with them wherever they go. Shit…even to the bathroom…recording even the most mundane movements (sorry for the potty humor.) Sometimes, however, these devices prove to be useful when recording more monumental events. Recently, YouTube was used by the cops to point out people involved in drag races, fights, and the riot after the NBA Final last June.

A video recording is also better than a witness whose credibility is shoddy…like an ex-con with an axe to grind. Or someone holding a grudge…wanting to get back at you for that rake you never returned.

So what’s the point of this BS story, Katwoman???

Simple. If you’re looking to star in your own video…looking to be a headliner..and you’re doing things that could get you into a heap of trouble…wear a different head. I would suggest an Elvis…people are always spotting Elvis in different places and it can help add to the confusion. Recently, Elvis was spotted at a mall in Peoria and a bar in Key West…on the same day. You could Shake, Rattle, And Roll yourself out of trouble.

Be careful with what you post on YouTube…try to be Johnny B. Goode...so you too, don’t become a Youtube Bube...doing the Jailhouse Rock.

ps....Don't Be Cruel...I know I'm a Hound Dog/kat.

Bed Head

Unfortunately, it is VERY hard to escape BED HEAD. You know, waking up with your hair tousled and disheveled…very unruly…Gene Wilder like.

Bed head is an unavoidable repercussion from time spent sleeping in bed. It can also result from a hammock…but that would be called hammock head. Anyway, there is an easy solution.

With a quick shower, you can rid yourself of the dreaded bed head and get back to normal. Plus there are even bed head/hammock head products on the market…to make your hair ruly ...(the opposite of unruly.)

Another casualty of sleep, is the dreaded sheet face. That’s when you’ve slept face down, and you wake up with the wrinkled impression of your sheets on your face.

I prefer to use solid sheets and not printed sheets….so I don’t wake up with little daisies all over my face…aka daisy sheet face. Unlike bed head, it takes a lot longer for sheet face to fade away. A quick shower doesn’t really help.

But solid sheet face and daisy sheet face…should not to be confused with the sheet face from a night of drinking…aka drinking sheet face. If you had a really big night…this type of sheet face could take up to 24 hours to wear off.

(Sorry this blog is so lame. I wasn’t even sheet face…when I wrote it.)

Tiger's Mea Culpa

Did you tune in to see Tiger make his apology to the world last Friday? It must have been hard for him…especially with his mother’s scolding eyes in the front row, almost screaming, “time-out for you when you get home, young man.”

It’s one thing to have to apologize to someone…in the privacy of their 4 walls. Like Tiger did with Elin: “Sorry honey, I was such an ass. Next time I promise to get better ass.” Wait, I mean…be a better ass. Sorry again, Elin.”

But for Tiger to have to apologize to millions…on national TV? That’s got to be tough. I can’t imagine that….and PaulA can’t imagine it either. He says I never apologize, but I don’t know why I would be apologizing, when there is nothing I ever need to apologize for. PaulA is so silly.

And what’s the deal with that line: Love means never having to say you’re sorry? Woah…wait a minute. So when PaulA leaves the toilet seat up and I fall straight in, you mean to tell me, just because we are all lovey dovey, that PaulA doesn’t need to say “I’m sorry for your splash landing, honey?” I think John Lennon said it right, “Love means having to say you’re sorry every fifteen minutes.”

So did you believe Tiger’s mea culpa? Did you believe he meant what he said, or did it seem like his PR people told him, “Tiger, when you get to this part... stare directly into the camera lens and remember how you felt when you were seven and your puppy doggie was run over in front of your house…because you threw his ball into the road.”

I don’t know about you…but I believed every word in Tiger’s apology…and that he’ll work towards becoming a better person…especially because he has returned to Buddhism. I believe Tiger is a changed man, now that he has found the big man with the round belly. You never, ever want the wrath of Buddha…OR Elin to come down on you.

Gator Happy

Why is it when tourists visit Florida…they get gator happy? I realize that Florida is Gator country…Home of The University of Florida Gators...gator this…and gator that, so I guess I can understand why a tourist is interested in seeing a 4-legged pocketbook...kinda.

Heck, if you went to Vermont, you’d probably want to see Ben and Jerry. If you went to Maine, you’d want to see a Moose. And if you went to New Jersey, you’d want to ride I-95.

Talk about rides…on Alligator Alley through southern Florida…every 2 miles there are airboat ride trips to see gators…to watch lazy over-grown reptiles not move on the bank of some knee deep swamp. Folks are just lining up to take a ride on a boat driven by some Jethro with a red neck and bushy mustache…who's crackin’ jokes, tellin’ gator tales, and threaten’ to dump you into 14 inches of water. Hee Haw.

And if you think those airboat owners aren’t laughing their red necks off by charging you big bucks for the ride…there is some swamp land in Florida I want to sell you.

At least the cost to ride a portion of I-95 in New Jersey is only $1.70.

Sticking it to John Mayer

There are times when you should stick to what you know best. And not venture into territories that are out of your realm. For some reason there are celebrities who are accomplished at something…and feel they would be a natural at something else.

Take an actress turned singer…Minnie Driver, Scarlett Johansson…very lousy. Take a singer turned actress…Mariah Carey, Britney Spears…very, very lousy. Very rarely is the cross-over a good thing…unless you are Jennifer Hudson.

Which leads me to John Mayer. Okay, he’s not a singer turned actor…but lately he could get an Academy Award for his actions. “And the winner for Acting Like A Huge Ass Award goes to…John Mayer.”

Last month I read the smart aleck stuff he said in Rolling Stone Magazine …which was weird and hard to follow. Am I the only one in the Room for Squares?

But last week John was waay more offensive in an interview he did with Playboy Magazine and ruffled a lot of feathers. Even Oprah won’t let him on the show to atone for his comments…and she even let a bad guy, who bit off an ear, on her show.

Sometimes when Mayer opens his mouth...he does more damage than biting off an ear. He acts too smart for his own britches…with his edgy comments, and shock jock remarks. He should keep his mouth shut, unless of course, he’s singing his lyrics.

Sing it, John… “You’re body is a wonderland.”

Granted, Mayer is very intelligent, especially for a guy with only a high school degree. (And a year at Berklee College of Music.) His IQ could be over 140…but his Common Sense IQ is definitely around 14.

Although his Intelligence Quotient might be off the charts…he needs to cool off… with the off color commentary and off the cuff comments…especially before he ticks-off too many people…and finds his ass...off the music charts.

Kat’s advice. “Stick to what you know John…the business of making MUSIC...and your fans will be happy.

katOUT….a HUGE, HUGE, HUGE John Mayer fan.

Mapping It Out

How do you get there from here?

Do you use Mapquest or Yahoo? Maybe you use a built-in GPS or a portable one? They sure can cut down on time spent going in circles...when all you have to do is plug in your starting address and your destination…and it automatically sets you on your Merry Way….or Merry Avenue.

But the question is: Do you know how to read a map…an old school paper map, the one with creases and folds? I remember in elementary school being taught how to read a map. Yes, I am ancient. With technology today, I’m sure map reading skills have been driven out of the curriculum.

Kids prefer the new school method. Colinboy uses Mapquest because he’s a young person and that’s what they know…but I happen to know he can read a map. Any family road trip we took, PaulA would get the map out and have Colinboy follow along. He probably didn’t want his son growing up...and stopping to ask for directions. PaulA wanted Colinboy to follow in his same tire tracks.

Regardless of what mechanism you use for directions…it is important, at the bare minimum, to have some reference point. It can come in handy to know at least which end is Canada, eh?...and which is Mexico..ole.

A lot of people like to name their GPS systems. They usually choose a woman’s name, because directions are mostly spoken in a woman’s voice. I’m guessing the GPS manufacturers decided on a female voice, because men hate asking for directions… and just might consider taking directions from a woman who sounds hot, sexy, and knows when to make a U-turn. “Turn here…Big Boy.”

I say, give me a map any day. I like to pull out a map…unfold it…and spread it out on the table. That way I can see what else is around my destination…just in case I need to take a detour. “Oh look, honey….we are near the Outlets.”

Whatever system works for you…whether it’s Sexy Monique with her big GPS…or an old school folding paper map…either way...will get you there from here.

Have a safe trip and enjoy the ride.

Big Chill

Big Chill Hits Naples, Florida.

I don’t know if you follow the weather…but it has been particularly harsh this winter…the south included. Washington DC was completely snowed under…which interestingly enough…is what politicians do to us on an on-going basis. At least the weather is trying to help us get even.

Even southern Florida has had its share (crop) of adverse weather..with freezes damaging orange and grapefruit groves. Just don’t mess with the limes for my V and T’s.

I’m not exactly a meteorologist, but I’ve caught wind of the main reason for the weather…something to do with El Nino. Or is that Nina? Anyway, a little Spanish girl or boy has been wreacking havoc with the temps and rainfall in Florida this winter.

And whenever you go on a vacation…the weather is of paramount importance. So a lot of folks have been disappointed with their get-away winter Florida vacation this year. Disappointed to find temps taking a dive …when they were expecting to be the ones taking a dive. And hoping to get color...to show off to their pale ass friends back home.

The last time we were in Naples, we didn’t escape the chilly weather either. It was chilly outside, and the The Big Chill inside.

The Big Chill. If you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about here. The Big Chill…old college friends…friends with history …NOT to be confused with friends with benefits. That’s a different group and movie. Friends whose bonds are as strong as the cosmos Terry was pouring.

With The Big Chill soundtrack of our friendship playing in the background…we hung out, and enjoyed each other’s company, unfazed by the chilly temps.

There were, however, definitely others in Florida complaining about the chill…and they would really appreciate it if that Spanish kid would shut the damn door.

PS. Kat…being a woman, true to her word…did not post a Naples Big Chill picture.

Kat's Safety Tips

Here are a few safety tips (free of charge for my favorite blog readers):

DO NOT drink Clorox …regardless of how thirsty you are.
DO NOT play with a loaded revolver…especially if you are not Russian.
DO NOT hold a tarantula…in close proximity to your face.

Okay, these tips seem obvious …seem like a Duh…but apparently there are people out there with pet tarantulas…not to mention revolvers, and gallons of Clorox.

Most people know that a tarantula can bite, but may not realize a tarantula’s tiny hairs can be just as dangerous…and can injure a handler’s eyes.

This happened to a man cleaning the tank of his pet Chilean Rose tarantula. The tarantula released a mist of hairs in his face and eyes…which then lodged in his cornea. Just another reason NOT to own a life threatening wild exotic animal.

Aren’t you playing with fire by keeping a tarantula in your home? I'm not exactly sure how you get enjoyment from owning a tarantula...unless you get your rocks off by scaring the pants off your friends. Besides...there is always a chance your tarantula can find his way out. You may think it could never happen to you…BUT please consider even the most random of scenarios....

You pick up your hairbrush one morning and notice the hair on your brush is moving. You take a closer look…and come eye to eye with your fury spider...that you thought was safely locked up. You scream bloody spider murder…and throw the brush. You try to run for safety, but your socks cause you to slip on the tile floor…and you fall. Your head hits the floor hard, knocking you out. That’s when the spider sees his chance to get to know you better. He moves from the hairbrush…across the tile floor towards you. His legs moving…crawling …creepy crawling…up your hand, inch by inch, up your arm, inch by inch, up your neck, inch by inch, and then onto your face…releasing his tiny hairs into your eyes. I’m just saying…please consider all scenarios.

As for the revolver and Clorox…never mix the two.

Any other safety tips from Kat…will cost you extra.

Colintines Day

This is a special day. A Colin birthday. Special to Colin …and forever special to us.

Colin, unfortunately, won’t be home to put in his menu request for the traditional birthday dinner. The birthday dinner...when we sit around the table to celebrate Colin and to talk about the day Colin arrived…………

Talk about how the night of my due date of February 13th, we saw the movie, Moonstruck, with our friends, the Caldwell’s…his eventual godparents. Talk about how the bucket of chicken wings we consumed helped to get things moving. Talk about how we got home at midnight, and 3 hours later I woke up with Colinboy wanting to enter the world. How we called the Caldwells and dropped Chelsea off at their house.

Talk about how when we arrived at the hospital, the doctor advised PaulA to quickly put on the paper gown and paper booties to cover his street clothes…Colinboy was coming fast. How I got ticked when I caught PaulA yawning during one of my contractions…and yelled, “AM I BORING YOU?”

Talk about how Colinboy was born at 4:59 a.m. and the nurses whisked him away to Newborn ICU because he had no voice…no cry. How at 8 lbs 15 ounces …he casted a huge shadow over the preemies in ICU. How I freaked out for hours, wondering what was going on with my baby boy. And how I was later relieved to find out his only problem was immature vocal cords.

Talk about how I noticed that PaulA was wearing a red V-neck sweater that morning…and then realized it was Valentine’s Day. Talk about how our baby Cupid…is an expression of our love.

Colin may not be with us on this special day, but Colin is with us.

Happy Colintines Day!

Profile

We’ve been travelling a lot during the past month…as you may have noticed by my spotty entries…and not so spot-on blogs.

I don’t like to say exactly when we’re away, because that would be giving a green light to the crooks to “Come on Down. The Price is Right.” Besides, I like our spiffy Hi-def fancy pants TV, so I like to keep that information on the down low.

I’m not a fan of flying, but I’m also not a fan of the alternative…not flying. So I just do it. Anyway, during our latest travel, I’ve started to feel like the airlines are picking on me…profiling me…as the next Kat Bomber. What is it about my profile?

On one trip they pulled me out of line and asked to inspect my hands. I promised them I had washed after using the restroom. But they still insisted. So I put them out, palms facing up, as they requested. They dusted them with a brush containing a powder and did some test. I suppose they were looking for bomb residue. I proved to be innocent…although apparently my profile is questionable.

The last trip we took…security became very interested in my clogs. After my shoes had already been through the x-ray machine, they asked for them for further inspection. They probably took them aside because the clog had a wedge (not to be confused with chicken and a wedge) and thought they contained explosives. I gotta get a better looking profile.

As for PaulA’s profile…PaulA had his usually identity crisis. When he checked his bag, the attendant with the bag ticket called out “Paula.” (In case you care to know…that’s how Paul got his blog nickname. The airlines print his middle initial next to his name – PaulA…and it just cracks me up.) The airline attendant told PaulA he was in good company. The day before, they had a RobertA check his bag.

So if you are a crook out there…thinking about casing our joint…PaulA and the Kat Bomber may, or may not have left the house, but we aren’t telling you when, or where, or anything about the spanking, cool TV in our family room.

Super Bowl Saturday

Did you watch the Super Bowl last Sunday? I’m guessing you did. 106 million people did, so the odds are in my favor. It was the most watched TV program ever…overtaking the M*A*S*H finale. I’m sure even Alan Alda tuned in.

Super Bowl XLIV (44, for you non-Romans) was good this year…not a super bore, or a super snore, which is sometimes the case. It was actually better than the commercials, and could have gone either way…until Manning threw the interception in the 4th quarter. Then you knew the Colts had no kick left in them.

And I really didn’t care who won, because our team, The Poopy Patriots, lead by Thomas Brady…didn’t make the big game this year. So I was a territory that could be claimed. I was up for grabs by either side. (I’m being formal with Thomas Brady…because I didn’t even recognize him this year. Who dat?)

Because I had no allegiances…I could either be Team Colts…because I like Peyton Manning and his commercials with his Bro. Or I could be Team Saints, because they hadn’t won before, it would be something positive for the city of New Orleans, and Drew Brees makes me think of a cool tropical day. Yes, I’ll have another Drew Brees, please.

The half time show was entertaining, in an old fart kind of way. A throw back to the rock of ages…back when rockers were rollers and half in the bag. I’m not sure why they don’t have young bands play during the half. I would be down with a younger band…but just don’t sick the Jonas Brothers on us…bow wow.

And if they wanted to go old school at half time…they should bring back college marching bands…and make that Tuba player work for his free 4 year scholarship…instead of sitting on his fat tuba.

My biggest beef (not corn beef, hate that) with the Super Bowl is that it is played on Sunday. I know traditionally games are played on Sunday, but they do have Monday Night Football (I’ve seen Faith Hill, strutting her vixen self) and also Thursday night football..so don’t say it ain’t possible. Maybe a Super Bowl Saturday?

The Super Bowl game starts late for us East-coasters. Doesn’t anyone ever think about us …and our schedules? Sunday evening, an evening when you feel like you should be making school lunches and drying out…and NOT eating nachos, wings, and guzzling beer. Maybe the Super Bowl would have more audience…if the organizers listened to my helpful suggestions.

But then again, I’ve proved myself wrong…especially with the record number of people watching last Sunday. And also by the way Colinboy and his friend’s apartment looked on Monday morning…the morning after. I don’t think the day, or time the Super Bowl was played…was ever a consideration.

PS. Never allow your parents to enter your unattended apartment, unsupervised...the morning after a Super Bowl party.

Walking Stick Man

If you had 104.3 million dollars…What would you do with it? Would you do something altruistic? Ahh…that’s so nice of you. I would choose another -istic. Materialistic. I’d start by purchasing homes around the world, one on every continent…throw in a Lear jet ...a few baubles and bangles…and then toss a couple of bucks to the kid carrying the UNICEF box.

With 104.3 million dollars…the possibilities are endless.

BUT, there is ONE thing I would NOT do with it. Buy a 9 foot bronze statue of a stick man. That’s just crazy…although, for some reason, it was a sane decision to some anonymous buyer.

Last week the statue entitled “Walking Man,” sculpted by Giacometti, sold at Sotheby’s for 104.3 million dollars…an auction record. I saw the photo of the pricey stick man on the cover of the Wall Street Journal and had to wonder about the buyer’s taste. Maybe the statue is more impressive in person. I hope for the owner’s sake it is. To me, it looks like he got ripped off and deserves a refund.

I do appreciate art, so I do realize it can be costly. I might understand the price, if the art was a Renoir, or a Picasso…at least I’ve heard of those artists. Or even a Van Gogh. He had a cool story with a lot of drama around cutting off his own ear. Ouch.

But Swiss sculptor, Giacometti? What’s his story? His story probably has something to do with Swiss chocolate…or a Swiss watch. Maybe he cut off his wrist watch…with a knife. Sliced right through the leather band. Ooooo.

I can’t imagine his friends are gonna be that impressed by his purchase. The sculpture isn’t even that old. It was sculpted only 50 years ago. Heck, I have friends who would be considered much more of a relic than the “Walking Man.”

Let’s face it…the sculpture looks like lawn art. Like pink flamingo art…only larger than life. Too bad the flamingo artist didn’t gain that kind of respect. He should have made one giant pink flamingo…and not thousands of them. Apparently he didn’t know the value of supply and demand.

I have no artistic ability at all, but coincidentally, my forte happens to be a stick man. I had a lot of practice doodling them during college lectures. And to think my drawings could have been the start of something big.

I also have enormous talent for drawing a Hangman stick man. A stick man with a noose around his neck is way more creative than a “Walking Man”…and waaaaaay more dramatic. I’m just saying.

Kick Out of Vending Machines

I’ve always liked vending machines...and especially gotten a kick out of old school vending machines.

With so many enticing choices displayed in the glass case…a decision was never easy. Sliding coins in the slot ….a quarter…a dime…a nickel..and listening to them as they dropped, one by one. Pulling the knob out as far as it would go…and letting it spring back. Watching the goody fall to the tray…and reaching in to grab it. (Sometimes getting an arm stuck there.) And kicking it. Even if everything worked properly, the vending machine always deserved a swift kick. ..for good measure. Everybody knows that. The process was almost as good as the snack.

I remember taking family road trips as a kid, and stopping into a Full-Service Rest Area. Begging my parents for coins…so I could get a box of candy cigarettes from the vending machine. I loved to smoke those bad boys with the red tips . Sometimes I would smoke 3 at a time…one at each corner of my mouth and one dead center. Smoked like a fiend, back when I was 10.

Today’s vending machines are so much more advanced. As items got more expensive…they were designed to accept dollar bills…occasionally spitting out a George Washington, when it didn’t sit right with the machine’s taste.

Heck, now you don’t even need cashola on you. Just a credit card will do…should you want to purchase item E55. Occasionally I would push the wrong number, missing it by one, and end up with E56…the Nutter Butter peanut-shaped cookie. Ugh. Not a fan of those.

Not only can you get a bag of chips, cookies, candy, or drink…you can get stamps, DVD rentals, and even iPods. I will never bring myself to purchase an iPod from a vending machine. I think if the item is over a couple of bucks….I should probably find my way into an Apple Store and have a juicy discussion with an Apple employee.

I did a double take the other day, when Colinboy and I walked by a vending machine on a college campus. The vending machine actually made Hot Pizza. Good idea…college kids are always hungry…especially in the middle of the night. I just can’t imagine what it tastes like. I did notice there was one thing missing. An antacid vending machine next to it. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.

I might go back and give that Pizza vending machine a try. I haven’t kicked a vending machine in a long time. I miss it...and need to get my kicks out.

For Posterior-ity

I enjoy movies with separate and distinct storylines. Stories that eventually intersect…or in some cases, collide. Maybe I could write a screenplay about characters whose life paths end up crossing each other. Think Academy Award winning movie… “Crash”……

Cut to:
Kat the blogger…at home in her blog chair.
The camera pans far and wide, capturing Kat’s large ass in her blog chair. She’s at home blogging her simple life away. A tornado spins up out of the plains…think Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz.”‘ Kat runs for cover in her newly installed bomb shelter in her basement. The tornado picks up her house…swirling it around…carrying the house and contents. Her computer and blog chair is seen flying through the air….as Kat watches her blog life past before her.

Cut to:
20 Years Later in a Peruvian Rainforest.
An archeologist is searching for ancient artifacts deep in the jungle. After weeks of excavation, he discovers a segment of petrified wood…brushes the dirt off…revealing an impression. He’s perplexed by the shape of the impression and the faint symbols, or possible letters, imprinted in the wood. His discovery is not indigenous to the area. He questions how the material ended up in this “neck of the woods.” He contemplates who would know the answer…perhaps, an expert at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, or Al Roker? The archeologist brings the wood back to the states to…Washington DC.

Cut to:
Kat’s new residence
Kat’s house was rebuilt after the tornado. She’s still at the business of blogging…different chair…same wide camera angle. Kat decides to take a trip to Washington DC to represent Hack Bloggers of America . As President of the organization, she's there to voice concerns regarding how hack bloggers get NO respect…think Mr. Smith goes to Washington. While in Washington, Kat takes in some historical sights and visits the Museum of Natural History…

Cut :
Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History
A precocious kid from Idaho, on a field trip with his middle school, is walking through the Rainforest Wood exhibit. He is intrigued by a large impression in a piece of wood not indigenous to the rainforest neck of the woods. He tries to decipher the symbols or letters found in the impression of the wood...“I” … “K” ...“E”.

Kat is standing at a nearby exhibit, counting the rings on a cross section of a tree, when she hears the youngster’s loud sounds of astonishment, as he views the petrified wood. Kat pushes through the crowd to take a closer look. Could it be…could it be Kat’s long lost IKEA blog chair from years gone by?

Cut to:
Local museum in Kat’s hometown.
Kat brings home the remains of her old IKEA blog chair. Her posterior…for posterity sake.

Anyone interested in the movie rights? Come on. You know it has “Academy Award Winning”… written all over it.

Six More Weeks

It’s groundhogs day all over again….
And Phil saw his shadow….like last year. And the year before that. I’m wondering …When did Phil ever NOT see his shadow? I wanna change Punxsutawney Phil’s name to Pete…or RePete.

I’m sure the poor rodent is pissed off, after being pulled from his burrow this morning. I thought he was supposed to emerge from hibernation on his own. I know I hate it when I’ve been awaken in the early morning to see my shadow…especially before my coffee.

According to legend, if the groundhog sees his shadow (a sunny morning), there will be six more weeks of winter. But isn’t the sun shining, an indication that the weather is getting warmer? And if the sun isn’t shining …isn’t that a sign that the weather will remain cold and snowy? What the hell? My mind goes round and round in circles over the complexity of this issue.

So for good reason…I never could get Phil and his shadow figured out. I guess it doesn’t matter….it is always 6 more weeks of winter. Isn’t that why they call it Ground Hog’s Day?

Besides…How reliable is a badger anyway? And why the town of Punxsutawney? I have heard that there are other groundhog posers out there trying to beat out Phil for his job. Yep. I hear there’s one in Staten Island. Staten Island Stan. Watch your spiny back, Phil. There is no such thing as job security…especially these days.

Personally, I have more faith in Cupid…flying around shooting arrows at people on Valentine’s Day. I was stung by Cupid’s arrow when I met PaulA….so I know there’s some truth to a pudgy baby with wings...and good aim.

The Catcher in the Rye

American author, J. D. Salinger, recently died…but the voice he gave Holden Caufield will continue to resonate…in our psyche. Salinger’s book, The Catcher in the Rye, with its themes of alienation, the phoniness of adults, the innocence of youth, and the painfulness of growing up….struck a chord with every teenager who read it.

J.D. Salinger, died at the age of 91, a recluse in Cornish, New Hampshire. I’ve actually been to Cornish…not to stalk Salinger, or to look for a Cornish hen, but to visit my sister, Jayniebug, who lived in the area for 20 years. The people of Cornish always gave Salinger his space, and even helped him live his life of self-imposed isolation…by keeping outsiders away.

I remember reading The Catcher in the Rye when I was 16. The Catcher in the Rye was the first REQUIRED reading in high school…I actually enjoyed. A novel idea. I looked at my English teacher in a new light. “Mr. Johnson…you, dirty dog, you.…assigning a book containing countless swears and provocative situations.” It was the first time I had seen the F-word in print (bathroom stalls don’t count), and the word “goddam” was written so often, I tried to count the number. But quit after 100.

Teenagers through the years, who have read The Catcher in the Rye, easily identify with Holden’s angst. Feeling like not belonging. Feeling awkward and alienated. Seeing the adult work as phony, superficial, and hypocritical. Wanting to show individuality through self-expression.

Holden expressed his individuality, his desire to be different, by wearing a red hunting hat. It could be considered the equivalent of a teenager today…covered in tats. Although, I would venture to say, the red hunting hat is much easier to remove than a sleeve of tattoos.

A few years ago, another author tried to publish a book describing Holden Caufield’s life…60 years later…but Salinger’s lawyers sued to block its publication. I would never buy the book. I prefer to leave Holden at age16…the way we care to remember him...angst and all.

Besides, most people by the time they get to my age know what happens to Holden Caufield after 60 years.

Holden would have been forced to grow up and enter the world of phony adults…forced to conform and wear his red hat…only for hunting…forced to join society and become a card carrying productive member…get a job, pay bills, educate his kids…yada, yada, yada. And Holden would have answered his own burning question, the question he repeatedly asked adults: "Where do the ducks in Central Park go when the lagoon freezes?"

Holden would have learned…as we all learn when we grow up…that ducks fly south…to Florida. He would have been to Florida in the winter and seen the increase in bird population…ducks, geese, and snowbirds. Especially the snowbirds. Holden would have seen snowbirds for miles and miles…..

Thank you J.D. Salinger for Holden Caufield, the Catcher in the Rye…the Holder of our Youth.