Let's Get Physical

Some people hang on to old Cool Whip containers. Others can't part with their plastic grocery bags.

Me? I'm having a tough time separating myself from my stockpiled cellulite.

The extra pounds keep me warm in winter... and make for a nice source of energy should I get picked for the next season of Survivor, but let's face it, what is the likelihood of that happening?

I decided to sack up and join a gym like the rest of the modern world.

Let me first say I won't be one of those skinny bitches wearing one of those sports bra and thong getups. Thongs are for beneath the clothing (when one chooses to wear underwear), not on the outside.


I actually envy those kept women with the buns hard enough to bounce quarters off of, but I don't have enough time or love for the stairmaster and a diet of celery and water. Besides, someone has to keep the local Starbucks in business, right?

Unfortunately it's that very habit, the addiction to sweets I've previously mentioned that's leading me to take this emergency action.

It's true what they say, a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. My ample bosom is being complimented (in perhaps a not so flattering manner) by my ample hips, my ample thighs and my ample tummy. I'm 5'8" and big boned, and have always been one of the bigger girls. That I'm used to. But a couple months ago I started losing weight, and now I am looking to get a little toned.

Wait. Did I just say that?

I don't want to look back, years from now and regret the best years of my life. Regret that I didn't flaunt it because I didn't have it. Regret that I didn't wear those short skirts that drive old men crazy and old women mad. Regret I didn't try and use my looks to get out of a speeding ticket. Regret that I didn't at least have the option of looking like a porn star when I wanted to "when I was a young girl."

Because when I'm 80 and my boobs are hanging down to my knees... there's no way I'm gonna be looking like a porn star then.

Every Fashionista's Dream

It's in the bag for every style watcher.



I clipped this website off my new favorite website for fashion and other hipster culture tidbits.

Now trust fund babies and ghetto girls alike can carry the same hip handbags.

You know, it would be just my luck to borrow one of these bags and then totally bump into someone holding a glass of red wine. I'd have to skip out on the rent for a month to buy it outright, and then it would be relegated to the back of my closet.

Guess I'll stick with the purse I picked up at Burlington Coat Factory.

When Good News Can Depress A Person

From CNN.com: All I have to say is, I'd be pretty pissed off, too.

What A Girl Wants, What A Girl Needs

Today's obsessions...



I cannot shove enough sugar into my mouth at this juncture. Dr. Atkins is rolling in his grave.

I can't stop thinking about sex, either. Yep, it's true. Guys do not have the market cornered on thinking provocative thoughts. And my vibrator just broke, to boot. Oh well. I guess I can take solace in my ice cream, right?



Eat too much ice cream, and I could end up with more of these. I've got a zit on my cheek that's driving me crazy. I know I shouldn't play with it, but I have horrible self control where this area is concerned.



I got out of bed at 4 PM today. Talk about a lazy Sunday.



Benjamins. Jacksons. Lincolns. I don't care what they are, I just want more of 'em.
Not enough for me to become the next silicone enhanced wife of an 84 year old oil prospector, just enough for me to work my ass of at the J-O-B and move on up and out of here... to that Deluxe Apartment in the Sky.



I don't know what the hell my deal is, but I cannot stop thinking of getting married. I guess it's because everyone else I know is doing it... but a look at a few of the junkies walking the streets is proof to know peer pressure comes up way short on it's promises.

The Spy Within: Everybody's Got a Little 007 In 'Em

Some day I'm going to look in the mirror and see Sidney Bristow staring back at me.

Okay, so that's probably not going to happen, but a girl can hope, right?

There's a tiny piece (or maybe not so tiny) that longs to wear an exotic wig and some tight latex pants while executing the perfect foreign accent. You like, no?

Every time I hear a tune by Prodigy or the Chemical Brothers... it totally makes me want to bust out some krav maga martial arts moves, all while slapping on another layer of foundation.

There's something so powerful about a chick spy. She's sexy, smart, can physically kick some major ass, plus she's got this total alter-ego good girl personality. I guess that's how I feel about myself sometimes: a good girl with a little bit of a power bitch lurking beneath the surface.



The little lipstick cams... the hidden microphones, the secret codes and mocked up passports... I love it all. But as sexy and as hip as chick spies are, the profession's actually been around for a long, long time.

Ladies in espionage were key during America's first ever revolt. Years later two sisters spied for the Confederates during the civil war. Ginnie and Lottie Moon moved from Virginia to Oxford, Ohio, maintaining their loyalty to the South. Lottie was one of the three foremost spies for the Confederacy during the war and even made trips to Lexington to pass on messages to the Confederacy.

One of her biggest missions took her to Washington, D.C., where she passed herself on as a British woman yearning to sit in the warm springs on the other side of the front lines. This little charade led her to ride in President Lincoln's very own carriage, with Honest Abe assuring her safe passage to the other side.

She faked exhaustion during the trip and was able to soak in all of the Union's secrets, with the President and his Secretary of War talking with ease about their mission plans. Lottie was able to pass the covert details on in person to Jefferson Davis, costing the North dearly where their war plans were concerned.

The President and his secretary realized they had been duped and put a price on Lottie's head of 10 thousand dollars.

That part I'm not really enthused about.

Espionage is a dangerous field, but so is firefighting.

And I look way better in thigh highs than I do overalls.

My Name In Bright Lights

This weekend I'm going to try and become a movie star.

Well, okay, I'm willing to share part of the limelight with Kurt Russell. The movie star will be filming scenes in Lex this September for, what else?... another horseracing movie. It's about a broken thoroughbred horse and his trainer, who wants to take the horse to the Breeders Cup. Sounds like the Horse Whisperer meets Seabiscuit.

They're having an open casting call at UK tomorrow and I think I'm going to join some of my friends for the audition. I was in Seabiscuit (along with 4000 other folks) for the racing scenes shot out at Keeneland, so I am VERY experienced in the movie extra circuit. At any rate, they're looking for folks to play townspeople, horse owners and race fans... so I imagine they can find a place for me somewhere.

It's the little things that count...

-It's nice to be nice.
-Say please and thank-you, excuse me, pardon and God bless you.
-Send handwritten thank-you notes when someone gives you a gift, tangible or otherwise.

-Don't pass on gossip. Pass on compliments.
-Call your parents once a week to tell them you love them.

-Help those in need, and learn how to ask people for help when you're in need.
-Tell the truth, even when it hurts.
-Do everything in moderation.
-Listen to others with a closed mouth and an open mind.
-Leave the store before you make the big purchase. If you go back a week later, you know you really want it or need it.
-Know how to hold your silverware properly at the table. Table manners are priceless.
-Karma really exists.
-Before criticizing, critiquing, bashing, or insulting... pause and think "there but for the grace of God go I."
-Work hard. Don't finish a job until it's done right, strive for perfection and always search for the next level of achievement. Even if no one else notices.
-Don't toot your own horn.

-Appreciate the simpler things in life. Sometimes money will be lean or the body will be tired, that's when a good book or a long talk can be entertainment enough.

-Don't eat that second piece of cake.
-Drink water, 8 glasses if you can... it's really life's fountain of youth.
-Time is the greatest gift you can give someone.
-Pick your battles.
-Think before you speak, especially if you're going to say something with irreparable impact.
-Don't play your trump card unless you have to.

-Don't "put on the dog".
-Dorothy said it best: There's no place like home.
-Blood is thicker than water.
-Brush your teeth twice a day. Three times if you have braces.
-Trust your instincts about people.
-Use sunscreen.
-Trust in God. There really IS a plan at work, even if you might not have a clue what it is.
-Be a stickler for good spelling. It's hard to see the big picture when one's distracted by all the errors.
-Can't say enough about that honesty thing.
-Take time to play with children.
-Always buy Girl Scout cookies, Boy Scout candy, magazines, gift wrap and other fundraising efforts.
-Never pay full price for something over 20 bucks.
-You can be anything you want to be, as long as you work at it.
-Good looks are only skin deep, and they only last 20 years or so without any surgical assistance.

-Children should nurture talents in both one sport and a fine art.
-Seek therapy if you're weathering a storm within. People need doctors for both the outside and the inside.
-Try new foods. It's the easiest, least expensive way to add some adventure to an otherwise ho-hum day.
-Look but don't touch. In homes, stores, and strip bars.
-On second thought, don't go to that strip bar if you're married, or want to be.
-Don't rush in to marriage, and only do it once. You have your whole life to fall in love.
-Skim milk and diet soda are just about as good as the real thing.
-Fulfill yourself with experiences, not things. The memories last much longer and provide you with more to draw from.
-Always have a valid passport.

-Put your library card to good use.
-Walk. To the park, to the store, to dinner.
-Be a good host. Show your friends just how much they mean to you.
-Don't drink and drive. Ever.

Dating on the Download

Let me first start off by saying I'm not a complete and total dog.

There are a couple pics of me on this blog, so you can judge for yourself, but I am reasonably confident and pleased with the way I look. God blessed me with nice hair and skin, my parents blessed me with good teeth (thanks to braces.)

That said, I am a pretty busy girl and hate meeting guys in bars. I love GOING to bars, but looking to pick people up there, well, that's another story.

Church groups, I've done that.

Bookstores. I've done that, too. (FYI... save yourself a lot of trouble and steer clear of the Self Help section.)

This internet dating thing, this is kind of new to me.

I have a profile on a website out there, if you look hard enough you can probably find it. The trouble is, so have a few less desireable guys. There are lots of men on there who fall in one of three catagories:

A) They don't have a college degree

B) They don't have all their teeth

or
C) They don't even have a chance


There IS an upside to internet dating, though.

It's a perfect way for a busy girl to find a nice guy. Sure, you've got to do your homework and take your time for fear of any psychos out there.

The trouble with online dating is that after a couple emails you start bypassing the whole courtship thing and you wonder if this is the guy you could spend the rest of your life with, before you've even met face to face.

Talk about jumping the gun.

The Girl Gears Up for Fore

Gone to pick up clubs from a girlfriend of mine.

Playing with the boys Saturday... I understand some of them are serious about the game, meanwhile I have 75 percent confidence in my contact with the ball.

So this is how friendships are broken, right?

My Favorite Car is A Car Without Payments

My favorite song is "Hotel California" by the Eagles. The tune has a weird way of popping in and out of my ears from time to time, whenever I hear it, I know it means something good is going to happen. Sometimes I find it serendipitously on the radio, other times it has a way of finding me. Today it was a case of the latter.



HC hit me like a ton of bricks as I was walking in the bank to pay off my car loan. It was playing on some speakers outside near the bank, and I just knew it was a nice omen to go along with the monumental occasion.

After four years of fighting with the meanest loan officer in the world (that means you, Mr. Plyman) I finally own my very own bucket of bolts.

Four years ago it was a nice looking, well running, five-year-old car.

Today?

Some things get better with age, like wine or cigars.

My car is not one of those things.

I made that final payment anyway. $588 and change for four wheels in my very own name.

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you feel like it belongs in a movie? The scene, the costumes, the audio, perfect for some kind of screenplay you know the audience would identify with?

Well, that's how I felt when I walked out of that bank. Proud I had suffered through all those damn car payments despite a myriad of other financial foibles. Relieved that for now I have a little bit more room in the 'ol budget to do fun stuff (or more responsibly, to pay off other debts.)

I stepped out of the bank and a band started playing. Literally. It wasn't a high school band, although that would have been really cool if there were a parade in my honor. The band was next door doing a promotion for a barbecue restaurant, but at that moment, they were playing just for me. The guitar, the crashing drums, as I walked towards my little car I felt like the whole world was celebrating my financial freedom from The Bank.

Today was a little triumph for Kate.

And that's fine by me if that's all we get... little triumphs. As long as they come every once in a while, and add to my already pretty cool soundtrack.

11 Angry Men, and Oprah

I pity the poor guy who has Oprah Winfrey sitting on the jury for his trial.

The Associated Press and other sources are reporting the talk show mogul will report for jury duty Monday.

The multimillionaire will be paid the same as every other joe in the jury box... $17.20 a day.

The Cook County Court doesn't want Winfrey's presence to cause a commotion, so they'll allow her to enter and exit the court through a side door.

Now how about that. A celebrity making good on her civic duty.

Quite a refreshing attitude, in my book. The rest of us have to miss out on work (sometimes at a financial loss) for jury duty. Parents have to pay for babysitters, for others it's parking, we all make little sacrifices to step up and do what we're supposed to.

I've heard all about celebrities needing a sitting jury for their various legal indescretions (Kobe Bryant, O.J. Simpson, and of course Martha Stewart.)

photo courtesy of the Irish Examiner

But I can't remember for the life of me the last time I heard about a big name celebrity sucking it up and serving like the rest of us schmoes.

I think it's great Oprah wants to be like the rest of us.

C'mon. At least she's trying.

Barbie for President

She's a vet, doctor, police officer and astronaut.

Now Barbie wants to take on Washington.

I spent many years playing with that doll of plastic perfection. My sister and I created a Barbie village of sorts, built with pillows around a wooden toddler slide.

Barbie was sometimes a mom, other times we'd make her a fancy executive who got to travel on lots of business trips. Barbie was always way cool in our book. Our diva had a plastic lunchbox full of fancy clothes and a silver glitter Corvette.

Could life get any better for Barbie?

Like lots of little girls, our Barbie fantasies made her the lady we wanted to be when we grew up. That's why I think this latest venture by Mattel is the best thing since the Barbie Dreamhouse.

According to CNN.com, the doll maker is pairing up with the White House Project, a group that encourages women to run for public office.

They're encouraging women to take their daughters to the polls, and are even selling a Barbie for President doll, complete with a leadership tip sheet.




photo courtesy of the Indianapolis Star


The best time to influence a person is in their youth, at least in my book. And even though women got the right to vote way back in 1920 (thank you, 19th Amendment,) only 46% of women vote, according to the most recent census information.

That's a lot of apothy, especially considering the many issues that affect women, like education, equal wages and health care.

We need someone to show little girls how cool big girls are when they vote.

And Barbie might just be the gal to do it.

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

No offense. But I really don't want to touch you.

It's nothing against you. Really. I'm sure you smell very good and don't carry any communicable diseases... It's just that I'm not very generous with my affection, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Which is why I'm blown away by the latest craze in New York City.



Folks in the Big Apple aren't really known for their warmth. Whether you're in Starbucks or Versace, you pretty much expect an abrasive and abrupt greeting from the salespeople. Tourists are long warned to divert their eyes from passersby for fear of being struck dead by the rudeness.

So what's with the cuddle parties?

It's a strange phenomenon my friend "Lady L" found in an article on CNN.com, describing these parties where people shell out good money to lounge around in their PJs with total strangers.

They hug, they cuddle, they even have a warm-up session to practice "saying no" to a fellow cuddler.

It's a movement to help bring together folks who may not be getting enough snuggling.

Now let me start by saying I love to cuddle. There's nothing better than a warm, safe embrace with someone you trust and care about. However, my ability to develop that type of relationship is not contingent on shelling out 30 bucks, and it usually relies on the amount of time I've invested in the relationship.

I'm not a cold hearted bitch. Really. I just don't feel like cuddling with you until I know with confidence that you're not an asshole.

I've already made that mistake a couple times, and I spent way more than 30 dollars recovering from the huge error in judgment.

Could I have been a parking lot attendant?

Dave Matthews is a musical genius.





The man has an incredible way of touching our feelings and making them tangible for us. He welcomes us to the table of our emotions, helps us enjoy and appreciate them until our pain, our joy and our contemplation are easy to digest.

Basically, Dave puts into simple words what the rest of us mere mortals struggle to even understand.

One of my favorite songs is #41. The tune needs no title... just a couple minutes of your time to listen to its greatness.

I will go in this way
And I'll find my own way out
I won't tell you to stay
But im coming to much more...Me
all at once the ghosts come back
Reeling in your mind
Oh what if they came in crashing
used to play for all that loneliness that nobody
notices now
Oh begging slow
I'm coming here....., yeahah ohoh
I'm waiting
I wanted to stay
I wanted to play
I wanted to love you

Dave Matthews makes you contemplate your past. All those old loves, painful fights, agonizing solitude, he makes you think about where you've been and where you're going in this world.

Which is exactly what I've been doing a lot of.

Is my past (or the future I would have predicted in my past) better than my actual reality? I know this is a lot of Who's On First, but stick with me.



Where would I be in life if I had chased after Boyfriend X? Would I be any happier than I am now? Would I be blissfully in love, or would I be devastated I had wasted my precious time in a dead end relationship?

I think a lot about the ghosts of my past, the happy nights that peppered every day life... the times when happiness washed over you with every breath of life. But those same happy ghosts have a way of leaving behind weeks and months of pain in the dust of their departure.

One ghost in particular brought a lot of joy to my life. He nurtured in me a great appreciation for Dave Matthews, and so it is with great melancholy that I listen to Crash and Under the Table and Dreaming. As much as I love the music, I've worked hard to heal the scabby wounds left behind by that abruptly severed relationship.

And as painful as his departure was, it probably was the best thing for me. His quick and hurtful fleeing gave me the opportunity to make some personal discoveries about myself. I was so blinded by his glory that I failed to see the brightness of my own. My infatuation with him had left my heart and soul so tarnished with neglect. I was starving for some self discovery.

Parking lot attendant?

Probably not. But an insecure, drunk singleton with no direction... that's definitely where I was heading.



It's amazing how one person's decision to hit the road can put another back on the path they were meant to be on.

Calling Captain Destiny. Come in Destiny. Destiny, Do You Read Me?

Fate and destiny. Do they really exist, or does everything just happen by chance?

I ask this because I've been thinking a lot about how things happen, when they happen and why. More specifically, I've been wondering how much destiny is playing a hand into my finding my true love.

Is it a sign when you run into someone on the street, or just coincidence?

All the movies talk about it... being in that right place, at the right time. Sliding Doors, Only You, and Serendipity all show how fate plays a part in the magic of true love. It happens in real life every day, people fall in love in subway cars, honkeytonk bars and next to office water coolers.

And so I wonder what my destiny is. Will I find my true love in Lexington's public library? Will he crash into the rear of my car on Alumni Drive? Will he walk into my bible study?

One of my favorite songs is from the musical South Pacific. The words are totally relevant:

Some enchanted evening
You may see a stranger,you may see a stranger
Across a crowded room
And somehow you know,
You know even then
That somewhere you'll see her
Again and again.

Sometimes I think destiny has a way of teasing people. You might have a person on the brain, they keep sprinting through your thoughts until you smack right into them in real life. And you end up wondering if your thought was a premonition, or if you manipulated the circumstances of time and space (I'm starting to creep into Einstein's General Theory of Relativity here) to make that chance meeting actually happen intentionally.



There are some interesting Catholic traditions and prayers for single women.

An old German tradition says that single women who wish to marry should ask for Saint Andrew's help on the Eve of his feast (November 30th,) then sleep naked that night; they will see their future husbands in their dreams.

Another says that young women should note the location of barking dogs on Saint Andrew's Eve: their future husbands will come from that direction.

So what? Man's best friend is going to lead me to my own?

Oh brother.

Will Walk for Brownies

I am having a hard time scraping my butt out of bed. No matter how much I stare at my cottage cheese ass in the mirror, I somehow can't gather the drive to put on the ol' sneaks for a run around the block.

Okay. A run would be ambitious. I can't even muster the strength to go for a leisurely stroll.

Yesterday Central Kentucky was blessed with a truly exquisite day. The temperature was hovering in the mid 70s, the sky was the most incredible azure blue dotted with pure white clouds as puffy as cotton candy. It was almost as if I could reach up and pull off a piece to taste.
I decided around 11 that it would be practically sacrilegious for me to laze around in bed in light of the gorgeous day, so I picked up some clothes off the floor of my bathroom, threw on some sandals, grabbed my keys and sunglasses and skedaddled out the door.

No plans, no agenda. Not even a final destination in mind. I was just gonna give the ol' body a bit of what it had been craving.

I love walking in downtown Lexington.

The city has a remarkable charm about it... a little bit of history, a little bit of class, a little bit of grit and a whole lot of hospitality. On my days off I love walking downtown and sitting in either Triangle Park or at the corner outside Starbucks on Broadway to watch the people passing by. Standing at the intersection of Main and Broadway makes me feel the tiniest bit cosmopolitan, with the cars whooshing by, the sounds of horns. It's all very "urban." Well, okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit.

Anyway. I set off for my walk not really knowing where I was going. It being a Friday, I decided I wanted to stop in all the places that are closed when I'm not working... like Sam's Hot Dog Stand.

I'd heard of the reputation for years but had never squeezed it into my culinary exploits, until yesterday.

Wow. What a hot dog. For like two bucks I got a dog with onions, kraut, mustard, and relish. All I needed was a baseball game and a bag of Cracker Jack. The dog gave me the kick I needed, and I spent the rest of the afternoon ducking into all sorts of cute shops downtown.

Then it hit me.

Sweet. Sweet. I need something sweet.

The craving whacked me like a ton of bricks, totally affecting every following decision. Do I go in this store? Do they sell candy? Maybe they have baked goods? I was on a mission to find something ooey gooey... a cardinal sin, so to speak, at least where the South Beach Diet was concerned.

I walked and walked and walked. I walked by or in 7 different spots I thought might have satisfied my need for decadence. I wasn't gonna cave in easily, whatever I sunk my teeth into was going to be well worth the search.

After blocks of soul searching and weighing my options, I settled on a caramel nut brownie at Starbucks (the second one I had visited.)

And so after hours of exploring Lexington's less beaten paths, and probably burning 150 calories, I decided to cap the day off with a light mocha frappuccino and a caramel brownie. Grand caloric total: 720.

Maybe I should reconsider my physical endeavors. At the rate I'm going, this walking thing could be bad for my diet. Really bad.

The Thrill Is Gone

"One reason I don't drink is that I want to know when I am having a good time."
-Lady Astor

I was out last night to hear a friend play with his band. They had a really cool sound and it was a really cool setting: a hip bar with exposed brick and dim, cozy lighting to set the mood. Lots of posters on the wall for other bands, some local & some not. Folks sipping on their Bud Lights, pints of Blue Moon and glasses of Makers with a splash of coke.

I was sipping on diet soda, and I couldn't have been happier.

Today makes eight months and six days of my sobriety, and I am slowly learning I'm not the only one with this cross to bear. Us drunks all take a different path to get where we are, but we all end up in one of two places: an AA meeting, or in the ground.

I myself decided I wanted to spend a few more days on God's green earth, and I figured that wasn't going to happen if I kept drinking my martinis. Or my Absolut and tonics. Or my Makers and Cokes. Or my merlots. Or my Miller Lights. Or my Chamobord and sodas. Or my Quervo shots.

You get the picture.

Thank God I'm not alone in this challenge. There are 14 million alcoholics in the world, over 2 million of which are members of AA.


Tobey Maguire says he is a member of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Dave Letterman has been sober for 15 years.

George W. Bush says he got sober when he found Christ.

I guess you could say I've got some good company. And the great thing about all these examples is that they're all really successful people (political differences aside.)

Besides, it's way better being able to remember what happened the night before. I don't have to make those inquiry phone calls, trying to read the reaction from my friends whether I was a jackass the night before.

And I don't have to make as many trips to the recycling center.

Girl. You'll be a woman soon.

Oh, if I only knew in high school what I know now.

Nine years ago I graduated from a nice little school in Madison, Connecticut. It's a public high school for a fairly affluent community, where all the kids have money, cool clothes and nice cars.

Except me.

I had bad hair, bad clothes, bad acne, a bad car and bad grades (well, in math and science classes.)

I was so dorky. I was the girl some guys made fun of because I was an easy target. Lets face it, when a cool guy writes "hose beast" on your locker, you're probably going to let it slide for fear of the ensuing wrath if you make a big deal about it.

Never had a boyfriend, but I did manage to snag a date to the senior prom.

It was a fun event where I got to feel like one of the cool kids, if even for just one night.

Fast forward nine years, and now I'm a career girl with a college education and a lot of experience under my belt. I came to college and made up for lost time, and now I probably have as many "party hours" logged as those cool kids from years ago.

Time has been good to me, too. I feel way more comfortable in my own skin. I've got my own money (well, a little bit of it, anyway) and I can use it to get highlights in my hair, if I so choose (which I do.) I am more interested in what I put into my body (i.e. food) and make conscious decisions to eat healthy stuff. It's true what they say, after all. A moment on the lips... a lifetime on the hips.

I also have way more confidence than I used to. When you get down to the nitty gritty, and you take stock of your mettle, can you be proud of the person you are? I'm satisfied with my accomplishments, my mistakes and the things I've done to make myself a better person. My spirituality has grown immensely, and so has my sense of self. Only I know if I'm a "hose beast."

(What the hell is that, anyway?)

I can go to fun bars or cool restaurants if I want to. There's no secret handshake that keeps out all the high school dorks. Besides, when you get down to it, the high school dorks are the ones raking in the cash in the "real world." The high school dorks are today's engineers, attorneys and stock brokers. The cool kids from days past are now administrative assistants, bar bouncers and phys. ed. teachers.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I did pretty well for myself, too.

All that journal writing that my parents bitched about has paid off. I work for a network affiliate as the producer of the 6 o'clock news.

In a nutshell, I get to tell the anchors what to say and do, and even though there are a lot of stresses, it's still a pretty cool job.

I went back home for my sister's wedding last month. Us young kids all went out to a bar after the rehearsal dinner, and I saw that guy who wrote "hose beast" on my locker 12 years ago. He did a triple take when I walked by.

I guess that's what happens when you lose 25 pounds, get a tan and a really great hair-do (thank you, Darlene!)

I can't wait to go back for my 10 year reunion.

Baby, I haven't even peaked yet.

Do I smell or something?

Never fail... at least once a day... whenever I go to the restroom at work, the automatic air freshener goes off.

Now, what in the hell does that mean?

Does it have some automatic sensor inside saying, "Oh no. Kate walked in. Brace the air for toxic fumes."

I mean, I bathe on a regular basis. I use deodorant. I even spritz the obligatory perfume on several spots (but not too many) of the ol' body.

So what did I do to set off the damn air freshener?

And if it goes off when I walk in, then what does it do when those other people walk in... the same smelly people you avoid in meetings or in lines at the bank. The ones you scoot away from or cock your head to the side... hoping to catch a whiff of something else. The people who, in a last resort, you avoid the odor of by bowing your head in to your chest, working hard to catch a sniff of your own, comfortable and less offensive smell.

And when you meet these smelly people, how can you tell them they should do something about their less than becoming odor? What if this person is your boss, your neighbor, your brother or your best friend?

I guess with the boss you just have to suck it up. I mean, you've got to have balls the size of cantaloupes to say, "Hey Mister Jones, I know you've been working really hard on those T-21 reports, but could you take a few minutes out of your day to put on the Right Guard?"

Or worse, what if someone's really smelly because of the cologne or perfume they put on?

I once had an ex-boyfriend who would leave an odorous trail behind him after leaving a room. We happened to work at the same company, and I could know with 100% certainty that he had passed through a hallway or spent a moment in the breakroom, just by smelling him.

His scent-trail had about a 10 minute lag behind him until it dissipated into the rest of the regular workplace odors. It was great when we were dating, but once we broke up (which is another story for another day) I HATED that damn cologne.

Fortunately I had remarked several times about how good Polo Blue smelled on him, and so he switched to something else. I think it must have been a gift from his new white trash girlfriend because is smelled equally cheap.

Probably English Leather or Old Spice.

Oh well.

Even when I smell like ass, I am ALWAYS 100% class.