Time To Buckle Down

Discipline: Main Entry: 1dis·ci·pline Pronunciation: 'di-s&-pl&nFunction: nounEtymology: Middle English, from Old French & Latin; Old French, from Latin disciplina teaching, learning, from discipulus pupil1 : PUNISHMENT 2obsolete : INSTRUCTION3 : a field of study 4: training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character 5a : control gained by enforcing obedience or order b : orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior c : SELF-CONTROL 6: a rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity- dis·ci·plin·al /-pl&-n&l/ adjective

See also: Something Kate Doesn't Have
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I have started a diet again.

Please don't groan. Do not grow disappointed with me in the perception that I am unhappy with my body image. I am not completely dissapointed with the way I look, but I'd be lying if I said there's nothing that needs a little improvement.

It's just that point in the year where putting on a bathing suit is more likely than it was months ago, and yet I've only realized there's no way in hell I would subject anyone I know or respected with the punishment of seeing me in a suit.

Okay, so maybe that's harsh, but it's the way I feel.

Anyway, after a week of gluttony (I single handedly ate a whole carton of UDF Cherry Cordial and a jar of hot fudge on my own. I also downed my fair share of dirty martinis and I ate a whopping burger for breakfast on Memorial Day), I have decided a bit of responsibility was in order.

So at the suggestion of a good friend, I've decided to hit The Beach. The South Beach, that is. I dug my hardcover copy out from under a huge pile of clothing in my bedroom and found the accompanying pocket guide. I've done it before, and it seemed to work, as long as I stick with the program.

I think the only trouble is going to be the convenience factor, or lack thereof.

Anyway, I hope this works. My sleep schedule (as sporadic as it is) is making it tough for me to stick with any kind of routine (gym, eating, social or otherwise) and I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to go back to the medication to get some kind of pattern down.

Any suggestions out there from the Peanut Gallery?

Kate The Great: Princess of Quite-a-Lot

Pssssst. Hey you.

Yeah, YOU!

I've got a secret for you, and it's about every little girl's biggest fantasy.

She wants to wear a big princess dress and be whisked away by Prince Charming to a place where they live happily ever after in a big, fancy castle.

So far, my apartment is anything but castle-icious, and the closest thing I have to Prince Charming is a yippy neighbor-dog who stands watch on the front porch next to mine.

Princess is one thing I'm not.

But one little thing can change all that:



This is perfect for the Princess inside everyone.

One of my favorite fashion/trend websites is featuring these stunning crowns. They're custom made for each wearer and big enough to catch the roving eye of any Prince Charming. Added bonus: it's sparkly. I can't tell you how much I love sparkly things.

Studio d.sharp doesn't offer these directly on-line, nor do they have the prices on their website, so I may have to investigate just how much one of these would set a girl back.

Oh, and if I start wearing one, there's no need to genuflect or kiss my hand.

Murk Yo Ass

A photographer's camera catches all kinds of unexpected things when it's out on a live scene.

Sometimes it's a mother's anguish, tears streaming down her face as she's clutching a dead child in her bathrobe.

Other times its some pretty candid crack whores describing (very frankly, I might add) how they were meeting up with some guys in a hotel room for some crack when the men tied them up and forced them to have sex.

Just another day on the job for them, I guess.

Other times, us sheltered folks are introduced to the finer points of the ghetto, especially it's vernacular. Bitch.

This morning around 2:00 we had a cop shoot some guy in the street. The crowd apparently got a bit miffed and told our cameras "That cop murked his ass."

Murked? Well, you don't say.

A survey around the newsroom around 4:00 turned up nothing. So where does a fly betty go to get the 411 on slammin' speak?

The Urban Dictionary, of course.

Murk apparently has a murky definition. But I still think it doesn't pass for every day "conversational copy."

Anchor Joe: In other news, a Townsville police officer went off and murked a G with his glock 9 and a billy club.

Word.

From My String Cheese Wrapper:

What animal is capable of producing nearly 1 Amp of current?

Click here for the answer.

Here's a hint:

There Is Hope In Washington After All

Thank God the House has grown a few brain cells and elected to think independently of the great Washington Wonderboy Gee Dub.

So glad they've decided to buck the system and encourage this whole stem sell research thing.

I mean, it's a no brainer.

We have people who can't walk. People suffering with neurological diseases. People with failing organs. It's time we take medicine to the next level and consider ways genetic exploration can help people enjoy a better quality of life.

I guess this is one aspect of politics where my liberal streak betrays my Republican registration. It's nice to see other GOPers are feeling the same way.

You Can't See T*ts On The Radio

Vote for your favorite wardrobe malfunction.

Even the hoity toitys at Cannes fall victim to the baring of boobies.

I'd show you the pictures, but this is a family blog.

Yeeeah, right.

TomKat: The Odd Couple

Courtesy USA Today

Sure, they're pretty. But I dunno, this isn't passing the smell test for me.

Did any of you all get to see how hopped up on luuuv Tom was on Oprah yesterday?

Thank God he didn't take any advice from Michael Jackson and go for Dakota Fanning.

Where Is Susan Powter When You Need Someone to Stop The Insanity?

Psycho dude has called me no less than seven times since the failed rendesvous at 4 PM. Two timid messages and one that was downright weird.

Soooo, I'm guessing that had I gone, right about now he'd be taking a hack saw to my cold dead body and looking for a way to dispose of all my curvy limbs.

Oh, how I'd rather be at work right now.

You've Got To Be Kidding Me

That's what I was thinking when I was walking home from the gas station with my Sunday paper in hand.

It was around 5:30 in the evening (or is that afternoon?) and I was walking along a busy street in a nice neighborhood with beautiful homes and apartments. I was just wearing my jeans and a pink, non-descript top. It wasn't even tight, yo.

This dude pulls over his red Honda Civic, pops out of the car and throws up the hatch.

"Hi. I can't find my biology book."

Umm, okay. And I can help you how?

Then he says "I'm sorry, I've never done this before. But I saw you walking and you're so beautiful. I mean, I love your top. It's such a great color. (Gee, it's pink. How unusual.) I just had to stop and talk to you."

I was really kind of freaked out. What with his trunk being open and all. I didn't see any rope or duct tape in there, but I really didn't get too close to give it a thorough look-over. All I could think was, is this guy trying to pick me up? Do other guys resort to this totally bizzaro dating technique?

He went on to tell me he was in optometry school and that his name was Louai but I could call him Louie. He told me he was Syrian and that he was in love with curvy blondes.

I don't know that this curvy blonde was in love with him.

I gotta say, he had a charming personality, but I was just kind of freaked out so I tried to be as nice as possible to him for fear something crazy(ier) would happen.

He went on to tell me where he lived, where he worked, where he was interning, and how he just paid cash for his car a few months ago.

He asked me what kind of car I drove, where I worked, and what my phone number was.

Stupid bitch that I am, I told him everything. I am just a really bad liar, and I was so stunned by the whole fiasco that I was overly loquatious. It was like he had somehow injected me with truth serum or something.

Thank God he didn't ask me where I lived.

Louai went on to talk about fashion, asking what kind of clothes I like to wear and commenting on my preference in jewelry. He was comparing me to Marilyn Monroe and the other great, shapely women of the world. It was at that point in the conversation when I was begging God to strike me dead with a lightning bolt.

It's kind of odd. I didn't know whether to be really freaked out or flattered. This guy was either crazy or had balls the size of watermelons, or maybe a little bit of both.

He told me he would have stopped to talk to me in a bar, so he felt his pulling over on a busy street was equally reasonable. I have to say, I kind of question his judgement.

I feel really bad because I'm going to stand him up today. He thinks I'm going to be at a coffee shop in Hyde Park, when really I'm going to be either in my bed or on a walk.

I've never stood a guy up before.

Gee. I really messed up when he asked if I was single.

I could have said I was dating someone. I could have said I just had a bad break up or that I was a lesbian (though that's not always a deterrent, I imagine) or that I don't date. I could have been mean and bitchy or played really dumb.

How do I get myself into these messes?

Eavesdropping

Snippets of my weekend conversations:

Friday Night
Me: This place is full of hot girls. I'm not a hot girl. I'm a cute girl.
C: But cute girls are the kinds of girls they want to marry.

Saturday Night
Z: Geeze, Kate. The fun meter (at the old Lex. TV station) has totally gone down since you left.
The funny thing is, this guy started working at the station only a week before I left!

***

S: So how's the man hunt now that you're in Cincinnati?
Me: I've got a few prospects but we'll see. I just am taking things as they come. Resisting any urge to start picking out china.
S (to her boyfriend): See?! That's what girls do. No matter when they meet a guy, they wonder whether he'd be a good husband. You? You guys wonder what a girl will be like in bed. Even if she's pouring your coffee.

***
Sunday Evening
L: Wow. I've never done this before. I saw you walking on the street and just love your pink shirt. Are you single? Do you want to go out sometime?... ...I'm a black man trapped in a white man's body... ...I just want to find my curvy aphrodite.
Me: Stunned look on my face

This Is Disturbing

I was searching the Web for a hilarious commercial someone just emailed to me when I found this.

Ugggh. You want fries with that shake?

The Wimp website that I stumbled upon actually has lots of interesting (is that a nice way to say strange?) clips:

These are not the kinds of girls I hung out with in school.
This is just wrong.
And I thought Asian people were peaceful.

p. 174

This is an excerpt from my yet-t0-be-penned autobiography, due out in 50 years or so. If the book were on a 200 page timeframe, the following covers what I anticipate will hit page 174.
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so he handed me the map and said, "Fine. You decide where we're going." I was so tired. My feet were aching after trudging around in Rome's spring rain and I had a bit of a headache left over from too much fun at Vincenzo's restaurant. We had no idea we'd close up shop last night after, oh, about four bottles of wine and probably twice as many plates of food. Boy, the Italians sure do know how to eat.

I couldn't believe Vencenzo had stayed in touch with us after all those years. He was so nice to guide us around Italy when we made our first trip. It was our Honeymoon. I had some kind of thing for Italy so we decided to make the trip after the wedding. Years later, it looked just like I remembered it. Unfortunately these old bones couldn't quite keep up the way they used to.

I looked at the map and made an executive decision: We'd head off to Amsterdam. We loved riding the rails and hadn't been to Holland in years, I guess it was that one time we took the kids and they ran off one night to smoke some pot in the Red Light District. I have to admit, they come by their adventurous flair naturally.

***
There we were, sitting in the hotel room when they stumbled in singing some French song they learned in the hash bar. The noise woke my sleepy eyes, I think the clock said something like 2:30 Amsterdam time. We had gone to bed early because we had a big meeting at the Embassy the next morning, so needless to say there was lots of yelling as soon as we realized just where the kids had been. Sure, they legalized marijuana something like 10 years before, but as parents (and I guess growing up so conservatively) we weren't big proponents of the new law.
I guess it's true what my mother always said though: Moderation is the key. With everything.

Yes indeed, trip to Amsterdam was in order.

***
He stomped out of the bathroom, "So. Have you decided where we're off to next?" I couldn't tell whether it was a quiz or an inquiry. There was no way I was going to be able to get him to eat any more sausage on this trip, so Germany was out. Actually, he probably would have sucked it up if I wanted to go back to Munich, but he forgot his antacid medication and wasn't too thrilled with what we picked up somewhere between London and Budapest. "Amsterdam," I stated as I rifled through my bag on the bed. That's the great thing about traveling with someone you're incredibly in love with. They have a way of ebbing and flowing with all your bad moods, all the good times that seem to crop up during long trips.

And that's when he reminded me that he loved me. A wonderful friend of mine was a flight attendant back in the day, and she says there's nothing better than hotel sex. I'd have to agree.
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So, what's on your pg. 174?

Comfortable

I feel really full right now, and I'm comfortable with that.

What a statement, considering way back in the day (high school) I used to throw up on purpose when I ate too much.

Now I choose to either suffer the consequences when eating too much, or I work (sometimes really hard) to be a bit more responsible with what I choose to eat.

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The Tuesday Breakfast Club may officially have been started.

I'm one of those people person types. You know, the kind of person who just loves getting to know other people. The bus driver, the hot guy at the trendy bar, the coworker who sits next to me. I've never had a tough time talking to people, and so I'm usually guilty of trying to incite others into participating into some kind of social behavior, legal or otherwise.

We're two weeks into a breakfast pattern, myself and three other co-workers. They're a fun bunch with a motley set of characteristics. The personalities together provide lots of opportunities for laughing and sparring. Two of my favorite things.

Anyway. On the menu this morning: a great Bloody Mary, a Veggie Omlet and goetta. It's VERY Cincinnati.
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I suppose I can give a green light to such a comfortable breakfast, considering my 22 mile bike ride yesterday. I did about 16 and a half yesterday morning right after work with one of my morning anchors. It's on a trail that runs along the Little Miami River. Very peaceful and scenic. After she chided me about not wearing a helmet, my guide and I set out with our water bottles and determination. Now, this chick does bi and triathalons. Me? I do knitting. So anyway, I was certainly putting more gusto into my bike ride than she was, but I was happy when she complimented me on my speed and said that if I kept it up, I'd have some great endurance.

That made me feel good. Somebody once told me the best, cheapest thing you can give is a genuine compliment. It has a way of making somebody feel so darn good, and it really is no skin off your back.

The one thing that did not feel good was my butt. The bike seat, as I've already addressed, is about as hard as rocks. This aspect of the bike ride was -not- comfortable.

Well anyway. I went home and somewhere between Ellen and Passions I fell asleep. I woke up to a phone call of another coworker asking me if I wanted to go on a bike ride with him.

Well, golly gee. I already logged 16 miles. What's five and a half more?

This time, we rode around Cincinnati's older airport. Also peaceful and serene, but this particular location is cool because you get to watch little Cessnas and Leer jets take off and land. My muscles weren't too thrilled with the fact I interrupted their rest, but oh well.

You know? I don't think I'd ever done that before. Ride a bike for 22 miles. I guess I can cross that accomplishment off the list.
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Today is shaping up to be a gorgeous one. I'm still having trouble sleeping, so I'm thinking about strapping on the swimsuit and finding a little, secluded place to catch some sun. It would be a perfect opportunity to betray my Vampire lifestyle.

A couple years ago I would have bristled at the thought of putting a suit on unless some kind of mandatory water activity was involved. But age and confidence has instilled in me some kind of brazen, almost nonchalant attitude where suits are concerned. Years ago I would have covered up and hid myself and my curves from the world, now I almost look for opportunities to show them off.

And I am very comfortable with that.

Back On The Tarmac

So today I left work with a little bounce in my step.

There's a bit of satisfaction in life when you successfully come out of a challenging situation with only minor bumps and bruises, and that's pretty much how work was for me.

If I were a pilot, the landing wouldn't have been stunning, but considering the turbulence and the down engine, I think the passengers would have been thrilled with the jostling.

Around 5:15 or so (remember, I work overnight) we heard some squawking on the scanner. Man shot in the back. It was somewhere over on the other side of the river, not a microwave shot, so we'd have to send the Sat(ellite) truck.

Tipster du jour started calling in with all this information. Home invasion. Man down. Police on a manhunt. The guy was obviously listening to his own scanner at home (what is he, a news junkie or lonely?) and had far better reception. Tipster kept calling in my phone, and I started getting friendlier, working him for anything I could.

You don't say? Two mile radius? And how many cop cars? About what time did the chopper leave? Okay, hon. Please DO give me a call with anything y'all hear.

Yes, it works.

Our crew started doing phoners when they got there, waiting for the arrival of the Sat truck. We decided to book a shot through our parent company's satellite, and this apparently involved some kind of new math, seeing as it was a new bird (that's lingo for satellite) and all.

Meantime, I decided to lead my newscast with the reporter's phoner. We'd take the live pic as soon as the shot got up. But wait, my Executive Producer says. The shot's almost ready. Float it until you can get to the live picture (in layman's terms: juggle the rest of your news content and delay running that story until the reporter's ready and on the air.)

Minutes pass. They seemed like an eternity. Still no shot. I am dying because I really want to/need to get to the breaking news. My management has instilled in me a sense of urgency to be first on the air. Lead with the breaking news. Don't bury the best story.

Nature is handing to me a situation that grates against my journalistic makeup.

We decide to go with the phoner. Reporter calls in and tells me she's ready. I press those magic buttons that let me talk to the anchors in their ear.

Toss to Debbie next. She's on the phone.

And, of course. Debbie's battery dies. There we are sitting on a graphic of her pretty face and listening to tone.

Oh, how I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

We recovered and waited two more minutes. The picture was good. We were on the air first with the pics, which is a small triumph in the business. Especially during sweeps. We went back to Debbie for two more live hits, and pretty much everything else went smashing.

Glad we were able to pull that one out of the fire. And now we get to go back and do it again tomorrow.

Calgon Take Me Away

I fought the dragon at work today. And I won.

Stay tuned for breaking details.

I Am Elvis

Get Nick Cage on the phone, and tell him I am Elvis.

Not in a literal sense (thank God) but certainly where uppers and downers are concerned. My crazy ass work schedule has sent me spiraling into a pattern of dependence on melatonin to go to sleep and coffee or Red Bull to stay awake. Not quite Elvis' cocktail of choice to function in his last days but it's unorthodox none the less.

I am going to have to down an extra cup of coffee today as I am gearing up to go biking with my female anchor. She's quite the biker, so I decided to take a spin around town yesterday. 10 miles and two aching ass cheeks later, I am starting to realize I should start small. The distance wasn't the problem, it was the hills that got to me. And what's up with my damn seat? I have a pretty flat ass, and this is apparently a drawback as the hard, tiny seat cut into my posterior. I don't know that bikers have a wider version seat to turn to, so I am hoping my butt gets accustomed to the less than comfortable conditions.

After my bike ride yesterday, I decided to break down and stop at Wendy's for one of their free, junior Frostys. So not even worth the gas money or the time to stop there. The cups were about the size of a shot glass.

At least they were small enough to ensure there was no finger hiding inside.

Latent Sexism and Sharon Stone's Turtleneck

The two aren't related, or are they?? Hmm.

Warning: The following post is an editorial by Bra Burning Kate, Kate The Great's Extra-Jiggly, Women's-Lib Supporting Ego. Kate apologizes in advance for any offense that may be taken by great men everywhere.

Ask any man (okay, not every man. How about Tom DeLay?) and they'll tell you women are just as equal as their penile counterpart. They'll say years of growing armpit hair, burning bras and marching in Washington has given rise to equal rights everywhere. To black, to gays, and of course to the fairer sex. Darlin'.

I'm sure my militant sisters would say otherwise.

"But Kate!", you say. "What bumblebee has stirred your bonnet? What's all the fuss, glamourpuss?"

Well. It all has to do with the crappy, changing table in the women's restroom.

My normally sunny, go-along disposition took a jolt of sorts when I decided to use the fine facilities at Cincinnati's downtown public library. The jilted jolt arose when I noticed the very prominent changing table in a vestibule between the point of entry and my destination (stall number three). I realized there was a sign outside the restroom indicating to parents everywhere this location would accommodate little tykes with that "not-so-fresh" feeling.

It simultaneously occurred to me the men's bathroom did not feature a similar type of signage.

So people, I ask, wassup with that? Daddies can't change a poopy diaper? Just because a chick's got some mammaries on her, that automatically makes her the Chief Engineer of the family sanitation department?

And what about single dads? What about male babysitters? What about non-traditional (read same sex) couples? This great water closet injustice is leaving all those folks up a shitty creek without a paddle, too.

I say this little discrepancy is just one more indicator that sexism is still alive and well, thick into The New Millennium.
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Why is it that some men think they have some kind of prospectors rights on every pretty girl they see walk by?

Exhibit A: Man at cellphone kiosk imposing himself on me as I happen to be doing my shopping. He wrangled me in by asking me about my cellphone plan and wanting to see my cellphone and blah blah blah when all of a sudden he's handing me his card and saying "Please do give me a call if there's anything I can do while you acquaint yourself around this new city." Tossing out mentions of fun bars and restaurants and "I'd love to give you a call so we could talk just a little bit."

Well, how very 50 Cent of him.

Why did Mister Kiosk Man use a professional opportunity to be decidedly un-businesslike? Why did he automatically assume I was single? Maybe I was having my wedding ring cleaned at the nearest Kay's Jewelers while I was shopping. Maybe my boyfriend was in the sporting goods store. Maybe my husband was still circling the parking lot looking for a damn spot.

Exhibit B: That little glare men give each other when they're circling fresh meat. Note to men everywhere: Please be a bit more guarded when expressing your interests to the competition. You make a woman feel like a piece of roadkill when you shoot each other dirty looks in an attempt to express some kind of ownership.

"Back off bitch. She mine," is not an attractive come-on line.
***************

Sharon Stone's 22 dollar Gap turtleneck scored me some bragging rights. A co-worker of mine and I were engaged in a duel of wits, Trivial Pursuit-style last night. The trash talk started early last week: both of our noggins were full of all kinds of useless information. The braggadocious banter led to Friday night's challenge, each of us paired with a partner to compliment our respective weaknesses (me: science and all things sports).

My teammate and I cleaned the board up early, winning the Pop Culture edition with a question about Sharon Stone's infamous Academy Awards wardrobe selection.

The high-fiving and chest-bumping was shortlived, though. The men won the rematch of the Millennium edition.

What's up with Sharon Stone's turtleneck, anyway? Can't a girl stay covered up once in a while? Do the great ta-tas have to be in full view for all to see at every awards show? Or was it just shock she showed up in something so off the rack, so simple, so... suburban?

I can't honestly say with a straight face that I've never worn anything revealing (What? Me? Never!), but I am a huge fan of letting women wear what they want, when they want. Not as a way to make herself a man's sex object, but as a way for her to express her sexuality, freedom and beauty.

As Britney Spears says, "It's my prerogative."

This concludes this feminist rant. Kate will now put the apron back on and return to the burning batch of cookies and her Cosmopolitan magazine.

Who's Hungry?

from Friday's Feast

Appetizer
Whose intelligence do you find intimidating?
Hmm. An old friend of mine is brilliant. I haven't spoken to her in quite some time, but she was like a walking encyclopedia. She knew everything, I mean everything. Latin, cooking, knitting, the history of Catholicism, art, philosophy. Catherine was just brilliant. Wow, how I do miss our heady conversations.

Soup
Name something you've done that surprised yourself.
I moved away from Lexington and stayed in tv news.

Salad
List 3 people whom you have only "met" online, but consider good friends.
Micah (though perhaps you don't count because now I've met you in person)
spydrz
Big Orange Michael (if only he'd change his color!)

Main Course
Where is the dirtiest place you've ever been?
Chicago, Paris and New York City are at the top of the list. Can't quite pin down a "winner."

Dessert
What is the best example of "perfection" that you can think of?
There's nothing more perfect than true love.

Snippets

Nine Inch Nails
I need to check in with my chakra crystals, my horoscope or my psychiatrist, because I've stopped biting my nails.

Granted I'm only 3 or 4 weeks in to this thing, but still, this is one bad habit I've fought for 28 years. I know it's a habit that comes with my nerves: I've consciously thought I should stop biting my nails this very minute during stressful moments in my life, like when my dad was in the hospital or when UK was playing big time games (shameless plug for the Wildcats goes here).

I don't know what I owe this blanket of calm to, but I'll take it with a side of hashbrowns any day.

Don't Be Fresh
Actually, please be fresh. Very fresh. On my list of things to do this week: stop by Cincinnati's Findlay Market. I remember my parents taking me there when I was a little girl of 8 or 9, my hair in golden pigtails. It's this huge outdoor farmers market that's chock full of local vegetables, fruit, meat, cheese and other goods. I'm always a big fan of supporting the little guy when doing my grocery shopping, so this is a good place to feel the melons and such. Besides, there's nothing better than fresh, home grown tomatoes with fresh mozzerella and fresh basil. Drizzle some olive oil (e-v-o-o if you're a fan of Rachael Ray Honorary Big Sis) and balsamic vinegar and it's an orgasm on a plate.

Under The Table and Dreaming...
Of Dave Matthew's old style of music. I ran out like all the other groupies and am a bit disappointed. The sound isn't as big, isn't as flavorful as UTTAD and Crash. Stand Up is a bit more simplistic, and his lyrics are very much an attempt at musical activism. There are a few fun, summery, drinking-Iced-Tea-or-G & Ts-on-a-Friday-afternoon type songs. Dreamgirl, Hello Again, Louisiana Bayou and Stolen Away on 55th & 3rd all get thumbs up. Everything else, uh, nope.

A Mental Institution in South Africa?
Dave Matthews is from South Africa, and he's even had some tough times in his life to overcome, but he's not the Dave in trouble. Several media outlets are reporting that Dave Chappelle has checked himself in. This comes on the heels of a production and release delay of his hit show Chappelle's Show. I don't know what his deal is, but I hope this dude gets things fixed soon because he one funny mother effer.

Cuffed and Stuffed
You don't have to wear your heart on your sleeve, but what about a cool beer cuff? It's a hip sterling bracelet featuring a bit of your favorite beer can. For chicks and dudes alike, I am doing everything I can to prevent myself from buying a cool PBR one. This week, that is. Next week, oh yes, it will be mine.

SO, you like to watch?

Just a shout out to the new voyeurs checking out My Random Musings (and you know who you are).

I promise I won't say anything bad about y'all. Well, unless you give me something to talk about.

Cheers ;)

From The Wires

If there's hope for Bridget Jones, then there's hope for me

So, maybe Wacko Jacko likes girls, too?

Now, aren't the Secret Service agents supposed to catch these kinds of incidents?

"This can't happen here." Oh, but it can.

The essence of authentic journalism hinges on this decision.

And the kicker: I can't wait to get licked in Columbus

Dip, Baby, Dip

Today in Cincinnati: A high of 81 degrees, chance of a few showers

The warm temps remind me that summer is just around the corner. Summer elicits so many memories for me: The smell of suntan lotion. The feel of a freshly-washed, cute, cotton top on my tan skin. The way the breeze wafts through the screened windows on a Saturday night. Watermelon juice running down sticky hands during an afternoon picnic. Sitting on the back porch on a Friday afternoon with a margarita in hand and Bob Marley on the stereo.

Look around, and you'll find all kinds of reminders that summer is just weeks away.

One of my big reminders is the J-Crew catalog on the floor in my bedroom. I just ordered my bikini yesterday and became quite aware just how soon I'll likely be in it.

My sweet tooth has not apparently picked up on these reminders.

After months of indulging every whim (Graeters Ice Cream, Busken Bakery, Derby Pie, Dewey's Pizza to list just a few no-nos), my midsection is a bit, how do you say, round?

The skinny clothes in my closet are so lonely. After months of hanging during the colder months, now the sunshine's here, but my skinny body's not. They're left waiting until I can chisel a couple (okay, maybe a few) pounds off my physique.

But this new suit in the mail... it should be the perfect incentive.

We'll see.

The Dorks Rise Again

I have a confession to make.

I used to be a big-time dork.

The signs started early in my life. At around four or five I paraded around Minneapolis, armed with my metal, Holly Hobby lunchbox complete with a giant Stop Acid Rain sticker. Surely the cool kids would think that was dorky.

My fashion sense and genetic curse did nothing but enhance the dork factor. I was enchanted with wardrobe selections that others seemed to peg as quirky. To be sure, I was wearing all the right brands (Esprit, Guess, Pasta and my beloved Benetton), I just had an uncanny talent for picking all the wrong things (oh, how I remember these red and white checkered pants I loved that others said looked like a Big Boy restaurant tablecloth).

My hair didn't help much. I had the equivalent of a white girl afro. My grandmother used to call my mom and ask her why she was giving me those awful perms. My mom responded "But Mother, that's natural!"

Oy vey.

In 8th grade I got a feature in the school paper for being one of the top five book checker-outers. I think back then I used to log three books a day between my time on the Loser Cruiser, study hall, and that time I spent between my sheets with a flashlight. Each book probably averaged 200 pages or so.

Later on, I went on to all the safe havens for dorks (Honors English, A.P. History, the school paper), the places cool kids wouldn't even think twice about checking out. I also volunteered at Safe Rides and Peer Advocates, two spots where the popular kids actually mingled with the do-gooder dorks.

I came to terms with my dorkdom towards the end of high school. My journey to college 900 miles from home gave me the opportunity to reinvent myself a bit. After years of wearing all the wrong clothes and having the worst hair, I figured out classy was better than outrageously funky. I also discovered a great highlight and cut can do wonders for even the most rebellious of hairstyles.

Still, you can take the girl out of the dork, but you can't take the dork out of the girl.

I still like to read the dictionary to learn new words and I get excited about stuff on the Discovery Channel (not that kind of stuff on the Discovery Channel).

This weekend I was at a great Derby Party. The festivities were winding down and most people had cleared out and I found myself sitting with some good friends. There we were, two engineers, an interior designer, a flight attendant and a journalist. I don't remember how the conversation came to the point, but I do recall throwing in how I was a dork back in the day.

My Honorary Big Sis' husband (one of the engineers) asked everyone there whether they were cool or dorky. Every person proudly proclaimed they were dorks way back when.

It's funny, because we're all doing pretty well in our chosen professions. We're not waiting tables or acting as the high school security guard, like some of the cool kids from my high school. It kind of reminds me of a chant I heard at a high school football game:

"That's alright. That's okay. You will work for us someday."

So I guess these days it's all the rage to be a dork.

Cool.

Sticky Fingers

Lord have mercy, I don't think I can eat a piece of Derby Pie again.

Well okay, not for at least the next few hours or so.

I was up to my elbows in pie goop yesterday, tackling (howboucha Joe Namath?) an unprecedented seven Derby Pies. I made two for my morning show crew to nosh on, one for the anchors to show off on-air, two for a party tomorrow and a couple for some people I owe favors to.

I am loyal to my mother's tried and true recipe, and I also make my crust from scratch (hint: freeze your butter after you cut it up, and then freeze the dough for a bit before you roll it out), as I refuse to be one of those frozen crust kind of people.

As Mother's Day approaches, I think about all the wonderful gifts my mama gave me. I don't resemble my mom much (the flat butt and the big boobs both come from my dad's side of the family) but I definitely have some domestic tendencies passed on from The Queen of Everything (whereas my sisters and I are all Princesses of Quite-a-lot).

There's no doubt about it, my passion for cooking is all Mom. Same with my keen eye for decorating and my love of wine. I also think my interest in the arts is something I get from my maternal side of the family.

I just hope I don't develop her crazy obsession for all things neat.

I hate it when she licks her pointer finger to pick up the crumbs one by one off the kitchen floor.

How Does Mrs. Namath Sound?

1:28 AM

Just ate lunch: Half a pita stuffed with mixed field greens and herbs, swiss cheese, prosciutto, roasted red peppers and a cranberry mustard dressing. Bottle of ginger ale.

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So I think I met my husband this week.

He has a great head of hair and a bank account, the only trouble is he's like 60 years old (62 on May 31st, but who's counting?)



Broadway Joe was a guest on my morning show Tuesday to talk about osteoarthritis not quite a selling point where dating is concerned. I knew about his prolific career as a football player for some team some years ago playing some position, but I didn't really know much about him. The AM crew filled me in on all I needed to know: Joe has a thing for the ladies.

I was bound and determined to get my picture taken with him so I could put it on my Wall of Fame (so far only a pic with Cookie Monster's up there) to remember the moment for years to come. I packed my digital camera in my purse the night before, ensuring the I'd get to mug for the camera with the legend.

I wish I had put as much planning into my wardrobe selection.

Banana Republic has become my store of choice over the past few months, with my latest addition being a cute, pink top with a boatneck front and a scoop in the back. If that's greek to you, basically it has a high neckline in front and shows off my back, freckles and all. It's a lycra mix meaning it's got some stretch to it (translation: it's very, uh, fitted).

Now, form fitting tops look great on me. For better or worse, God gave me a big rack, so anything fitted makes me look pretty much like a porn star. That's not always a bad thing, but it's probably not the right image to portray at work. Especially when you're going to meet a man known for soliciting kisses and such from women in broadcasting.

I raced downstairs after the interview segment (I sit in Studio Control during my newscasts. It's kind of like "mission control" during the show, and it sits upstairs at our station. The studios are downstairs) to make sure I didn't miss J.N. and his entourage before they slipped out the door. I stood patiently as his posse started walking by me, with Joe putting on these crazy ass, big yellow sunglasses on as he walked by.

I was kind of flustered during the approach:

Me: "Hi, Mister Namath? I'm the producer of the show, my name's Kate, and I was wondering if I, um, could get a picture of you?"

JN: with a swagger "Well, only if you're in it."

He took off the God forsaken glasses and slung his arm over my shoulders. A pretty girl (of course) from the entourage snapped the camera.

Me: "Oh, thank you so much!"

JN: as he takes a long look over me from head to toe, and back up to the top "YOU have a nice day".

I couldn't tell whether he was playing Humphrey Bogart or Pacino, but he was certainly living up the the whole womanizer thing. And I don't think the pink top went lost on him.

And so, for just a minute, Joe Namath could have been mine.

But even with all that great hair and that fat bank account, let's not forget he has osteoarthritis. Five minutes with me, and all his bones would be broken before I'd even get to my g-string.

My Blue Heaven

Wow.

Did I mention that blue is my favorite color?