Children of the 70’s were often not supervised in the same way that children of the millennia are, and the two year old had been sat upon the brown and orange linoleum flooring in the galley kitchen to entertain herself. Her mother set about doing the things a young woman might do on a Saturday morning when the responsibilities of adulthood had been thrust upon her, perhaps cleaning the small apartment of messes made by both toddler and husband, laundry or thoughtfully looking introspectively, seeking wisdom, to ponder the state of the life she had found herself in. One will never truly know.

The one and only phone in the apartment was located on a wall at the far end of the long narrow kitchen where the toddler had been placed. It rang, once, twice, three times, the mother ran from the back bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment to answer it before the caller hung up and she was left wondering; Who was it? What did they want? Was it important? At full speed, her feet transitioning from the brown shaggy carpet of the living room to the smooth linoleum floor, she was caught off guard by a slippery substance of unknown origins. Her arms flailed, and stretched out to grab hold of counter-top on either side, while her legs and feet tried desperately to gain traction, down the length of the alleyway like kitchen. She crashed into the wall, knocking the phone not only off the hook, but off the wall entirely. Looking back from a crumple on the floor, her daughter stared wide eyed and innocent at the spectacle she had witnessed and began to laugh at her silly mama. The open can of Crisco from the lower cupboard sat beside her, empty. 

Fall is my favorite. The autumn’s of my youth were storybook magic and the joy I am filled with beginning in September is un-containable. Even living in a place where Fall arrives late in the “er” months, my mood definitely changes to one of bliss. I have decided that I will no longer bow to the marketing machine of big box stores and will defiantly set my own timeline for the Falliday season. For me, the season runs from Labor Day to New Year’s.

The first of the holidays is Labor day, a day in which I celebrate by sleeping in and then lounging around in my PJ’s watching Netflix all day. Please do not invite me to a cook-out on this day, I will politely decline. I have never really understood the whole cooking out concept, and it does not appeal to me. Too much work. The host has to clean their house and manicure their lawn, probably stay up the night before making potato salad, and then be forced to hang out at the grill while people who really don’t want to be there, but feel obligated to be there, sit around in lawn chairs and talk about Betty Johnson down the street who is a horrible mother, while they are in fact drinking way too much expecting someone else to wrangle their children. I’m not bitter though.

October brings Halloween, the most sacred of all holidays, but do not begin decorating before October 1^st. Nope, you keep your ghosties and spider webs in their storage tubs until that clock hits midnight on October one. October is my favorite month. The joy and elation I feel during this month of crisp, cool, burning wood tinged air. My favorite thing is to cozy up on the couch each evening and watch a Halloween movie every night. Hocus Pocus being my all-time favorite. There are so many good ones to watch though. The Nightmare before Christmas, or anything Tim Burton honestly, Monster House, my new addiction Stranger Things, 31 days isn’t really enough days to watch them all. Which is precisely why I continue my movie watching spree well into November up to Thanksgiving.

On Thanksgiving Day, we head over to the Cracker Barrel and pick up our feast, because there are just three of us and we have no immediate family in the area. Why cook? Football is watched, as well as the traditional viewing of the Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye classic White Christmas.  With belly’s full of turkey and cranberry goodness, we can move quietly into December and Christmas.

Growing up, the family would head out the day after Thanksgiving to the snow covered mountains to find our tree. To be honest, it wasn’t as Norman Rockwell as one would believe. After hours of hiking in frigid weather, we would come upon the perfect tree to uproot and drag back for miles to the car, complaining the whole time. So actually, not really fun, but it’s a tradition dammit.  December is filled with holiday magic, baking, gifting and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation outdoor lighting moments of pure and utter frustration. Good times.

In the days leading up to New Year’s Eve, I am reminded that I need to set a resolution, I swear I will keep it this time, promise. I cozy up on the couch with my love to watch Nicolas Cage movies, eat cheese and crackers, sip champagne and celebrate my wedding anniversary. We were married on January 1 so that every year at the stroke of midnight, we can say “Happy New Year, Happy Anniversary!” We’re so adorable.

And that my friends is my Holiday timeline wherein I spend a lot of quality time on the couch with the people I love the most doing the things that make me the most happy, which mostly revolves around avoiding people. Love you, mean it. 

Once upon a time, I was a blogger, and MySpace was my platform. I wrote every day, satirical pieces on mommy hood and societal expectations.  I had followers who validated my thoughts, interacted with me, challenged me. We were a community. Does anyone even remember a time before blogging was the disgusting advertising, influential marketing machine it is now. I was no expert on anything, and neither was anyone else. It was a gathering of regular people just trying to connect in some way. Stephanie was a young mother of 4, and it was her naiveté and blissful ignorance to most of the societal pressures placed on females that really drew me in.  Stephanie was someone that I oddly related to, and tried in so many ways to emulate, even though she was the complete opposite of who I truly was. It was through Stephanie that I found Courtney, so much more like me, slightly irreverent and sarcastic, super witty (humblebrag). I really loved these two sisters, and I loved their ginormous Mormon family that they shared with all of us. It was an emotionally devastating day when I logged in to read the daily posts and was instead updated with the news that Stephanie and her husband had been in a terrible plane crash. The crash resulted in burns over 80% of her body, the pilot was killed. The blogging community really came through in their support of her recovery in a beautiful way. The following months were filled with waiting for updates via Courtney’s blog, donating and sharing, quiet hopes for recovery and speculation as to what would come next for our "friend". Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with anything.

Stephanie’s accident was 8 years ago. Eight years ago I was 33, Emma was just 4 and Dan was not even 40 yet. That seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, it’s only been 8 years, not even close to a lifetime. Eight years ago, I was a blogger, I was a woman trying to balance work, family and personal needs. Full transparency, I was sad, all the time, I was so very very sad. Life just wasn’t turning out to be the way I planned it, not at all how I had imagined it would be. I did not like my job, I did not like being a mom, I really didn’t like my husband very much. I was stressed, and angry all the time. Mostly, I would look around and see that everyone else was so lucky, everyone else was prettier, smarter, more successful, better at being everything. EVERYONE.  It was Stephanie’s accident that really grabbed me by both shoulders and shook me, what the hell was I doing? I had to stop comparing myself to other people, trying to be more like them, especially people who I didn't even know outside of the Internet. I needed to be more like me. I had lost a little bit of me somewhere along the way trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations. I was done.

Except, I wasn’t done. Not even a little bit. I am still fighting the same fights. I didn’t truly have this realization until Stephanie posted today that it’s been EIGHT YEARS. I have literally wasted 8 years without action, without change. My life is by no means horrible, but I want to love my life and I want it to mean something. I want the life that values relationships, and nurtures souls, the life that teaches and learns, and leaves a legacy of humanity to humanity. I want to really know myself, and I want to really know you. I want today to matter, and I want to not look back on this day in 2024 and realize again that I am wasting life.

And that friends, is how one returns to the blogosphere, if that's even what's it's called any more. Shared accountability. You with me and me with you. Hi. 

Wednesdays are for otters. Why? Because otters like Wednesdays. Now, you might have been led to believe that Wednesdays are for camels, but you would be wrong, because screw camels. ALL HAIL THE OTTER!

Today is day 2 of 2015 and it feels a lot like 2014 which felt a lot like 2013, which let's face it, was a lot like 2012. Going through the motions of each day, trying to figure out what matters and what doesn't. In the end, what really does matter? It's very easy to come to the conclusion that nothing you do or say really matters. Are people's lives really changed because I existed? While I can caress my ego and go all "It's a Wonderful Life", the fact of the matter is, in the overall scheme of things, I don't matter.

And so, here we are, starting 2015, another notch on the old bedpost of time, and I am wondering, what can I do that will make it all worthwhile and to whom am I accountable? You? Me? The world at large? I think this will be a year of introspect and discovery, getting to the heart of what matters, to me at least, so that this time next year I can say I did something that mattered and that 2015 was unlike any other year before.

This is the time of year when people reflect upon the past year and prepare for the new. My hair had an amazing 2014 as you can see by the photos above. It went through a lot of changes, long, short, brown, blond, red, brown, trying to figure out who it was and what the people around it wanted. Always trying to please every one else. My hair tries to be everything to everyone and is quite unsure of itself, much like the head it sits upon.

This hair and the body it occupies will be 40 in 2015, it will celebrate a 13 year wedding anniversary and a child of 11's birthday, and I am okay with the fact that it will begin to change getting a little grayer, a little thinner. This hair is a large part of my identity, easily changed to satisfy my mood or my style. I have never had either for very long, a pattern that has been repeated since I was 12 and I first got my hands on some Sun--In. When all else fails, I always have great hair.

I might leave it alone in 2015, just kind of let it grow and take shape, become it's own, find it's identity, not trying too hard to be liked, or needed or wanted. I'll let you know how that works out.

I'm outtie until next year. Gonna enjoy some time off, some time with family, some time where I don't have to worry about the rest of y'all and what yer doin' and sayin' and feelin' and all that crap.

Love ya, mean it.

The primary reason I started this blog was to get away from the blog clutter that had taken over my life. I was tired of what blogging had become and I needed an opportunity to say what I needed to say without fear of retribution or the dreaded "anonymous" comment. I had forgotten how long it takes to build a readership when you aren't constantly promoting yourself and you just let things happen organically. It's a very new feeling to be here with only 2 or 3 readers who show up on a regular basis. I feel like I'm failing, like nobody is listening. And then it kind of hit me like a truck. I spent so long not saying the things that I wanted to say I forgot how to say anything at all. This is how my day goes. I write, I read, I edit, I delete. I am afraid. But afraid of what? Not being accepted? Not being liked? Offending someone? Well guess what. Today I am throwing my hands up in the air and saying "Fuck it!" I am not a major publication. I don't have to vet my facts. I am not required to see all sides. Sometimes it's just my side and I want to speak it. Sometimes, I really don't want to see your side. It is really exhausting to have to filter every little thing all the time for fear of.....what? Being a human who says things?

It's been a week since Thanksgiving, and I bet you are just dying to know all about mine.

Growing up, holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter were full fledged family affairs. Someone hosted, everyone cooked and brought dishes pot luck style, everyone ate at a big table or two, conversated, laughed, ate some more. Kids ran around the front yard, back yard, upstairs downstairs, down the street, up the street. Dishes were done by all, naps were taken, movies watched. Those days were drama free and looked upon with great affection.

At some point though, people went all Martha Stewart and things got out of hand. Turkeys had to be perfectly glazed, and vegetables perfectly roasted. Cranberry sauce from a can was no longer acceptable. Tables contained cloth napkins folded into little turkey, craft tables and guided activities were set up for kids, and heaven forbid you ask your "guests" to assist with anything. It's exhausting and a chore. I don't like chores, not since, like, ever.

So that's why, for the last four years, we get Cracker Barrel for Turkey day and sit at home, in our PJ's, just the three of us. If you follow me on Instagram you might have seen the extras I cared to make because:

a. I like fresh cranberry sauce;
and b. nobody else in my house will touch the stuff.

What you didn't see was the big fat box that contained everything one needs for a happy day of anti-social isolation. Just the way I like it. I think Cracker Barrel should reconsider their marketing and call it Big Box of Eff All ya All, We're Staying Home in our PJ's. 

Any who, I hope you had a good holiday, Christmas is coming. Just a friendly reminder in case you were unawares.

p.s. The fresh cranberries I used to make the sauce were spoiled, except, I didn't know that. Thankfully, I am the only one in the house who ate them. I say thankfully because if 3 people were in the situation I found myself in we might have had to have the toxic waste clean up team to our house for the holiday. Carry on.

Just got finished reading a blog wherein the author is receiving long-term disability benefits from her employer, presumably until she dies, because she has Lupus. She went to court and she won, in her words "the right to continue to collect my long-term disability benefits, as contracted to me by my employer".

Because that's what all employers sign up for when they hire employees and offer them perks like health insurance and vacation days. Lifetime payout because someone happened to be on their clock when they contracted (or already had) a debilitating disease that will prohibit them from working for the rest of their lives. That's so awesome.  It's one thing to be injured or affected on the job and be unable to work, but this, this is just wrong.

There is a lot to be said on this subject I think, perhaps I might find the time to expand upon it. Next week, or next year. Who am I kidding? This post will probably be the only time I talk about it.

Politely decline requests that will take you away from family. 

Play more Christmas music.

Donate gently used items to a thrift store. 

Go Christmas caroling. 

Say thank you as often as possible.

Schedule a night to help another person or family.

Call someone you normally wouldn't to wish him or her a Merry Christmas.

Delegate some holiday preparations to children or other family members.

Trim the gift list.

Simplify a traditional activity.

Write down great memories as they happen.

Set and stick to a holiday budget.

Forgive a grudge.

Music holds an incredibly large portion of my heart.  For as long as I can remember, music has been there, making me feel in ways that nothing else does.  My earliest memory of really feeling something and connecting with music is riding in the car with my mother while she belted out Journey’s Lovin’ Touchin” Squeezin’.  She would lean over to me, one hand on the steering wheel the other on her Virginia Slim and sing with passion and emotion, especially the Na na na na na na part.  She included me in her experience, even though I had absolutely no idea what the lyrics meant, the moment was connection between me and my mom. It was kind of our song. Whenever it was on the radio we would join in together and sing it with everything we had. Of course, many years later I would learn that my father was a lying cheating bastard, so, ya know, clearly this song had a lot of meaning for my mama.  

When I was in my mid 20’s I moved 2000 miles away from home.  I was sitting in a bar in New Orleans with two or three new friends, feeling home sick and I mentioned this song, waxing melancholy.  Moments later, the house band started in with the familiar blues rock intro and before long, the entire establishment joined in to sing. I was so happy in that moment I could have sprouted wings and flown away.  I don’t know who you were awesome stranger who was eavesdropping on our conversation, but good God, I love you still to this day.

Lyrics and music are my connection to the world, always saying out loud what I can’t seem to find the words for.

Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'"

You make me weep and wanna die
Just when you said we'd try

Lovin', touchin', squeezin' each other
When I'm alone all by myself
You're out with someone else
Lovin', touchin', squeezin' each other

You're tearin' me apart
Every, every day
You're tearin' me apart
Oh what can I say?
You're tearin' me apart

It won't be long, yes, till you're alone
When your lover, oh, he hasn't come home
Cause he's lovin', who he's touchin',
He's squeezin' another

He's tearin' you apart
Every, every day
He's tearin' you apart
Oh girl what can you say?
Cause he's lovin', touchin' another
Now it's your turn girl to cry
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na

Let's go ahead and address the rainbow unicorn kitty in the room (the room being the United States of America, the kitty being Ferguson, MO)

but first, my #whitegirlproblems opinion. It would appear to me, based on the limited facts that I have available, that a police officer was doing his job and felt his life was in danger so he utilized lethal force, as he is permitted to do so in accordance with his job description, therefore, the grand jury worked precisely the way it should have in respect to how the legal system works in America. End of story. Justice, in the accordance with the legal system, is served. 

People in Ferguson do not agree. People in Ferguson say they are tired of being killed and harassed by cops based on the color of their skin.  “JUSTICE! JUSTICE!”, everyone is screaming, but isn't it time to call a spade a spade? Listen, the top 25 most dangerous American cities where violent crimes like homicide, rape, armed robbery and aggravated assault are predominately non-white.  I teach my daughter that people will judge her by the company she keeps, so choose your friends wisely. You could be the Virgin Effing Mary but if you hang around with a bunch of skanks people are gonna think you're a skank.

Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white--separate and perceptibly unequal. But is that true? Do non-whites have any less opportunity in this society? Aren't we all given the same opportunity to succeed and fail regardless of race, religion or socioeconomic status?  

In the early 1800s, women were second-class citizens who were expected to restrict their sphere of interest to the home and the family. Women were not encouraged to obtain a real education or pursue a professional career. Women did not have the right to own their own property, keep their own wages, or sign a contract. In addition, all women were denied the right to vote. Only after decades of intense political activity, peaceful protests, and public education, did women eventually win the right to vote and to be treated as equals, kind of. And let's not even start with how the Jews were oppressed by the Egyptians, or the Irish by the British or the Muslims by the Christians or the Christians by the Catholics or the entire Middle East thing. Fact of the matter, this really isn't just a black issue. It's a people issue. I think it's time that we take a good long hard look at our society and our humanity and how we interact and engage as humans. It's time to stop being a victim of perceived circumstances. Perhaps “The man” is indeed holding you back, or perhaps the choices you make and the lifestyle with which you associate are holding you back or propelling you forward. It doesn't matter if you’re black, white, purple or a fuzzy rainbow unicorn kitty. We are all humans, living on the same planet, we're gonna have to figure this shit out pretty soon or the human race is headed toward extinction. 

Oh blogging! How you have changed. It seems to me, that blogging has become less about the personal story and more about the sponsored post, the blog hop, the analytics and the capitalism.  What used to be a fun way to wile away some spare time and engage with others who you may not have ever met, has become more like watching network T.V, in which blog posts are scripted and editorialized.  I am not a fan.  I miss the connection and the sharing of things with my blog friends, stories, advice, joy, tears, unedited photos, posts about how the cat thought that the Swiffer was the enemy and tore it to shreds, not a post about what a great job Swiffer did on your floors because Swiffer sent you some free stuff in exchange for your “honest” opinion.  I think it's time for a little reflection bloggers. Why do you blog? Honestly?

That is all.

Sometimes, when I think that I should make a triumphant return to blogging, I remember that I am too busy living my life to take step-by-step pictures so that everyone else can see how I am living my life. Also, henceforth, I shall be using the largest font possible when I blog. It makes me feel more important. 

I have just come to the conclusion that I don't like to cook meals. I don't like that everyone in my family expects dinner to be made every. single. night. Like, make your own dinner for crimany sakes. Maybe I'm not hungry. Maybe I just want to eat toast. I like toast. I could probably eat it 365 different ways, thereby eliminating the need for me to cook for a year. That would make me happy. Do you know what the best Christmas present in the world would be right now? If someone else did all the meal planning, shopping and cooking for one whole year. And a toaster. BEST PRESENT EVER!

Oh, the gratuity debate. It’s just so…touchy. Tipping is an added expense, especially in an economy where people are watching their money more closely than ever, and I can’t help but question the commonly accepted tipping standard that exists. (i.e., tipping at seemingly all “service” industries). First, before you call me a cheapy chicken, I would like to say that I do tip, quite generously and once in a while, if the service is exceptionally awesome, borderline obscenely, and in most cases, it’s my choice to do so. In theory, though, I am opposed to the practice of tipping for a couple of reasons.

It’s Deceptive, and Random

It is easy to see why employers like having tipped employees. They can pay their employees $2.13 an hour and the customer picks up the rest of the wages. Wait, what?! So the EMPLOYEES are expecting the customer to pay the difference in their wages. But why should the responsibility of ensuring fair compensation fall on the shoulders of the patron? Weird.

A larger problem I have is the randomness of the tipping system. I’m supposed to tip the server at Chili’s, hair stylist, manicurist, massage therapist, and Starbucks barista, but not the librarian who went out of their way to recommend books they knew I would love, or the flight attendant who occupied my 5 year old on the first leg of a 16 hour flight, or even my neighbor, who cut my grass last week while my husband was deployed. See what I’m getting at here?

If it’s Expected, or Required, it’s No Longer a Gratuity

The societal expectation is to tip 18% unless the service is completely horrible. So, a custom that once helped customers by giving an incentive to employees to provide a high level of service doesn’t really provide that value any more. If a gratuity is added to the bill, then it’s no longer a gratuity, it’s a service charge. For my daughter’s eighth birthday party, I hired a DJ to spin some tunes. On the invoice that I received BEFORE the party, was an 18% gratuity added, due in full prior to the event. So essentially, I was expected to pay for exceptional service, for a service that I was already paying for, before the service was actually provided. Are you as confused as I was? Tipping for a service that you are already paying for seems like a cash grab. If I have already paid for the actual act of service (nails, massage, lawn care) why am I tipping too? I am a professional, and when I do my job, I get paid. I don’t expect my clients to tip me on top of the invoice I am sending them. Seems rather silly.

What’s My Solution?

How would I propose to fix the situation? I can choose not to patronize businesses where tips are expected, but I am not sure I am not that strong. I do really enjoy a good pedicure. Realistically though, business owners should pay tip-based employees a fair wage (like, at least minimum) and make tipping an OPTION intended to reward service above and beyond the expected level. Good service=happy customer=repeat business=happy business owner. It seems only fair to put the majority of the cost of employment on the actual employer – the person who receives the most benefit from the employee. What are your thoughts on tipping?

I'll Stab You in the Eye
How I Hid the Body
Leave Me Alone, I Hate You
Stop Breathing, You're Stealing My Oxygen
You're Stupid, Bless You're Heart, You Don't Even Know It

I saw this little slice of thought provoking prose on Facebook today, and I thought to myself, but isn't it? Isn't it my business? Shouldn't I be concerned that under the guise of "choice" and personal freedom people can regard a human life with such indifference?

I am continually surprised and somewhat disgusted at the argument that people give for pro-choice. What about pro accountability and responsibility? The primary function of sex is procreation and maybe the non primary function is intimacy and connection. So I would argue, should you ever engage in sex without expecting to become pregnant? Sure it feels good, sure it’s an expression of love, or art, freedom of one’s body. Take all the precautions in the world, if pregnancy occurs, you take responsibility, because the entire reason that sex exists at all is to propagate the species. In the U S of A we are indeed quite lucky that women no longer have to give in to the lustful nature of their husbands and perform sex acts on demand. We are incredibly fortunate to have the ability to exercise our right for family planning, and to do so with several methods of birth control legally available. I will never argue the fact that the choices you make with your body are indeed your own to make. So, if you don’t want a baby, make the choice not to have sex. The only infallible method of birth control is abstinence. Seems like a more reasonable request than killing an innocent human being. Abortion is murder, pure and simple, and it’s not your body, it’s the beginning of another body, another human who will eventually be completely free of your body, who doesn't get to choose.

There is no argument.

In regards to the inevitable question of rape and/or incest. My answer is to kill the rapist. If you would like to drill down to the heart of the matter, statistically, According to Web MD, rape is the reason for 13,000 of 1.3 million annual abortions, or 1% of the total. So, there, I’ll give you 1% of the argument, but only because Web MD is a totally legit source.

Dear Kim Kardashian,

I get it, your ass - (NSFW or Around Children or Your Husband) is fabulous, it really truly is. I would love to have an ass like yours, my husband would go CU-RA-ZY! But seriously, and I mean this from a place of love, put that shit away.

You have a husband and a child. I am not saying that your sexuality needs to be hindered because of that, I'm just saying, it doesn't need to be displayed so prominently in the public eye.  If I found a picture of my mom that she took in her own bedroom, by herself, while I was 3000 miles away at summer camp, and her ass was out like that, I would be mortified, and my mom's rump is pretty fantastical if I'm being honest.

Is Kanye really okay with this? Is he is okay with millions of people just staring at your ass? I mean, does he know what dudes are going to do to that picture? Do YOU know what dudes are going to do with that picture?

I love to look at beautiful things, and you my love, are a beautiful thing for sure, but have a little class, show a little restraint, maybe use that ass for charity or something.

Love you, mean it!

Katie