Dear God, It's Me Kate

So, I am feeling some pressure to get married.

It started weeks, no probably months ago. Most of my friends are married, getting married. Have babies or are having babies. A few years back I could deal with being the honorary Party Girl in the group, but now that most (not all, folks) of the Party has been taken out of the Girl, I am anxious for the next stage I choose this is my choice, afterall to define my existence.

Anyway.

I spoke to a dear friend on Sunday whom I hadn't talked to since October. He's very spiritual and has several, several years on me, so I know I can always count on him for some good advice.

The good Catholic friend he is, he suggested I search online for a good novena. There are millions of patron saints out there, something for just about anything you might need help with. In the past I've found patron saints for mothers, wine, television writers, the State of Kentucky, so naturally I knew there would be at least one for single women.

Actually, I found five.

Saint Andrew. He's the patron saint for all kinds of people like fishermen, Scotland, Russia, single women and gout.

Saint Catherine

Saint Ursula

Saint Vivian is also the patron saint of hangovers (a garden from her grave grew herbs that were said to cure hangovers) and cross dressers. Her feast day is December 2nd. So my birthday is sandwiched in the middle of two patron saints for single women. What does that mean?

St. Anthony isn't really a patron saint for single women, but the ladies in South America have an interesting tradition involving him in the hopes they find a good husband.

In the end, I have decided to try out an epic 25 day novena in the hopes I get what I want. The novena is to St. Andrew. Don't know whether it will work, however, I thought it was especially eery that his feast day was November 30th (the day I started searching for a novena).

Tag, You're It

Micah tagged me. So now I've got to turn around and tag five of y'all.

Here are the rules.

1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.

Here's said sentence:

I am so anxious for that period in my life when I get to have children.

It comes from this post quite a while back.

I must admit, it's a nice opportunity to go back and look through all the stuff I've written more than a year ago.

I'm tagging Michael, Michele, Cheers,

And funny: the sentence is still spot on.

Thank God patience is a virtue I was blessed with.

Starbucks, Red Bull and Memories

Right now my newscast is in the middle of a network break, so I'll steal away a few minutes to recap the weekend.

Went down to Hot Lanta to see the family after the Thanksgiving holiday (remember, I had to work on the actual day of. I've gotten used to it, but that doesn't mean I like it.)

What was a 6.25 hour drive down south snowballed into an 8 hour trip back across the Mason Dixon line. Sure, that 45 minute stop at the outlets in GA was all my fault, but I send out a very special thanks to the mad crazy drivers in Chattanooga and Knoxville for their own brand of hellraising, four-wheelin'-slammin'-on-the-brakes kind of driving.

People, let's keep the Nascar bad ass driving on the track.

I can't believe I made it home safely. Aside from all the road raging through the Volunteer State, I was just beat. I owe my safe arrival home to a nonfat vanilla latte and several sugar free Red Bulls.

Anyway.

SO. I missed out on my 10 year high school reunion this past weekend. I read a recap on a former classmate's blog and it made me think about how much I've changed since back in the day. Months ago I speculated as to whether were actually going to have a reunion. My best pal from high school and I met up in August to have our own celebration, but our early jump on the festivities left us to miss out on catching up with our other classmates.

I guess I'll just have to wait until the 15th reunion.

Time has been pretty good to me; I've become more confident, more established, and the pictures don't lie: I look a whole lot better than I used to.

It would be nice to see how well everyone else is doing.

Sheryl Crow Sez: Good Is Good

Who knew search engines made so much money?

This website is a search engine that lets you point and click your way to whatever you're looking for, all while making mad money for your favorite charity.

Right now I am alternately searching to benefit the University of Kentucky Alumni Association and my high school in Connecticut.

Ahead, I want to help out MADD and a few other personal interests.

Hoping to Stay Warm In Hot-lanta

Folks, I'll be leaving shortly for the much anticipated trip to see my family this weekend.

I just can't tell you how excited I am. Haven't seen my sister, Mary Bee, since June. Haven't seen her husband, 6'6", since last Christmas.

It's been months since I've seen my parents and youngest sister, as well.

Naturally you can understand why I am so anxious and excited...

Have a great weekend, y'all, and I'll report back on Monday.

Cheers.

Warhol Lives

I just came across this website this morning in the Cincinnati Enquirer.

Photowow can do just about anything with your favorite photo, including turning it into your own, colorful version of the classic Marilyn Monroe pop art poster.

I would love to have one of these of me, but I must admit that would be a bit narcissistic.

Oh well, maybe I'll reserve the idea for a time I have nieces and nephews.

Hollywood For Sale

You can buy the Hollywood sign.

All you need is 300 grand and some storage space.

The original letters are up for auction on Ebay, the perfect Christmas gift for that drama queen you know who has big dreams of making it in Hollywood.

RIP Newlyweds: 2002 - 2005

The AP is reporting that Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson have finally split.

As a longtime fan of the Newlyweds reality show, I am mourning this completly unexpected breaking news.

That said, I am happy to welcome this Cincinnati boy back to the Queen City and nurse him to better spirits.

Nick: I can cook, I can clean, and I will have your babies.

Oh, and I love Cincinnati Chili and Graeters.

1-2-3 Sake Bomb

This blog has a nice write up on Sake Bomb (plus some pretty pictures) , which is where I want to go to celebrate my birthday.

It's a hip sushi bar that prides itself on serving the Japanese version of an Irish Car Bomb. Which gets me wondering, is 29 an appropriate birthday to drink like you're 21?

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My long time readers (and those who are close to me) know I took a break from The Drink about two years ago and only picked it up last Christmas. Those 389 days gave me a lot to think about and realize where I checked in on the Scale of Maturity.

My stock in that department continues to rise, and I guess that's the way things should be.

I was talking to a friend of a friend a week ago about turning 29. She told me she spent a better part of the year between 29 and 30 in a drunken stupor, and though I can identify with that kind of lifestyle, I have to admit it doesn't sound all that fun at this age.

There's something about pissing away (literally) your money that doesn't jive with my new We Will Be Fiscally Responsible mantra. And all that alcohol can really take a toll on the bags under your eyes, your brain and your waistline. Believe me, I know.

That said, I am pretty hell bent on having a good time for my birthday. Scheduling conflicts aside (you know... that whole living life as a vampire thing), I am looking for at least a little bit of revelry next weekend. I am heading out of town Saturday, so that means all my partying is going to have to happen on Thursday (the actual day of said birthday) and Friday.

I can already hear the echos of my liver cursing me, reverberating from the future.

So, what does 29 mean, anyway? That question has been dancing in my brain over the past few days as I cruise around listening to some beautifully melancholy music (thank you, Micah). If 21 is getting over drunkenness and 24 is learning how to be financially responsible, I would have to say 29 is being comfortable in your own skin.

I've learned a lot over the past two years about who I really am. I'm a misunderstood, shy person who uses a veil of confidence and humor to confront situations I feel uneasy in. I am an introvert hiding in gregarious clothing. I like reading books but am often times too lazy (or engrossed) to turn off the tv. I rebel against years of hospital corners and neatly folded clothing by living like my bedroom is a walk in closet without shelves or hangers.

I think 29 means you know who your good friends are, and yet you are successful at playing nice with those who won't be on your Christmas Card list 10 years from now. 29 means only really caring about how those good friends percieve you, and not really putting too much stock into what others say about you when your back is turned. I am loyal to my best of friends (sometimes to a fault) and would walk through fire to be with or talk to my family. There's nothing I love more than my family.

29 means being content with the direction your life is traveling, appreciating the bumps and bruises you've weathered through the journey, and yet knowing there's still plenty of time to circle the wagons and head for greener pastures.

So far, I'm heading into 29 thinking life has been pretty damn good to me, and that every day is a gift from God.

I guess 29 also means you're allowed to drink like you're 21 on occasion, only at this age you are aware of the consequences and have no one to blame but yourself the next morning.

Cheers.

Secret Santa

It's Secret Santa time.

Click on that link to go to a website to get people you don't even know to buy you a present.

The catch is, you have to buy them something, too.

Basically, they hook someone else (a blogger or some other sprited folk) to your Amazon Wish List. You can't ask for that diamond solitare you've always wanted or a really cool Peavey electric guitar.

Your list has to be more like CDs, candles and other affordable things.

Here's mine, in case you're curious.

The Modern Day Cyrano de Bergerac

The following was the start of my email from Daily Candy:

Love letter:

Draft 1:Your lips are like roses; your eyes, stars. You taste like cheese, the kind you put on nachos. I want to devour you.

Draft 2:I love you like sunshine, draft beer, and breasts. Big breasts.

Draft 3:I feel so close to you. You remind me of my mother. Can we have sex soon?

I think Draft 2 would work best on me, if I had to pick one.

The email was actually plugging a website that will write a letter for any hard to express sentiment or occasion.

Jinkies.

Thanksgiving for 2

My best gal pal D Money and I are homeless for Thanksgiving. That's pretty much par for the course in our line of work, and we've both become accustomed to missing out on those monumental holidays with the family. This time though, things will be a little different.

We're trying our own hand at cooking dinner.

I think I might have to put the fire department on speed dial just in case, but should everything work out as planned (and why shouldn't it?), here's what's on the menu:

Turkey breast (I am not quite ready to try a whole bird)
Mashed potatoes
a green veggie of D's choosing
Cranberry sauce
Stuffing with oysters
Derby Pie

Oh, and the wine. How can I forget the wine. Mulled, chilled, or breathing: we're going to have it all.


This should be interesting.

Back To This Whole Death Thing...

I was sitting on my good friend D Money's couch last night knitting and pearling when I started telling her about how I have this feeling I'm going to die.

I guess that's not really breaking news as last time I checked I am an organic being and have a shelf life of 85 or 90 (I have really good genes, and the grandparents lasted quite (at least one is still kicking at 85. The other three were pretty destructive in regards to smoking or alcohol (or both) and all managed to make it to their 80s). That said, lately I've had this nagging feeling it's going to happen soon, and I don't know how I feel about that.

Okay, let me first say I really don't know where all this darkness came from, although a looming birthday and the recent discovery a high school classmate has passed (from colon cancer of all things) could be the seeds of this latest pondering.

I guess I was kind of weirded out when I realized that I was going to see all of my very best friends this past weekend. Kind of odd considering they're as far flung as Texas and all but one have jobs and children (read: very, very busy women). I was beginning to wonder whether God gave me this weekend as an opportunity to say goodbye. Gosh, I hope not... it was just all a little eery for my pretty run-of-the-mill life.

I was driving back to Cincinnati from Lexington when I started thinking about how blessed my life is. I've had a great time on this little planet, and I sure hope I get to see more than a few more rotations around the Sun. That said, if God tapped on my shoulder today, I know I can say with complete honesty and contentment that life has been pretty good to me.

Okay, sorry for all the deep talk on mortality. On to something more shallow like trolling the Coach website or something.

Friday Feast

From this good meme blog

Appetizer
When do you feel impatient?
I am a pretty laid back person. I've figured out there are few things in life to really get riled up about. That said, I get pretty impatient when I've spent a lot of time and energy making plans for a group of people and everyone ends up trampling all over them.

Salad
How many times in your life have you had a broken heart?
Four times. You can read about the worst time here.

Soup
Name a book you would like to see made into a movie.
The book I'm writing. Seriously, Garlic & Sapphires is hilarious and has great recipes. I don't do as much reading as I used to, and this book was a delicious way to spice up my free time.

Main Course
If you could thank one teacher for what they taught you, who would it be and what would you thank them for?
I'd have to thank Mr. Heifetz for showing me it's alright to be passionate about what you believe in... and also giving me a great appreciation for the written word.

Dessert
What is your favorite kind of pie?
Oh, this one's easy. Derby Pie. This recipe is pretty close to my own, though I use a homemade crust and am pretty heavy handed with the chocolate chips.

Sulking In My Living Room

I am getting really bummed about my birthday. Today I'm two weeks away from turning 29 (although I have already started lying to all the boys in the bars), and I really don't know how I feel about that.

Pluses:
My skin looks great despite my age
Making more money than I ever have
Living in a great neighborhood in a good city
I have WONDERFUL friends
I am single and get to do whatever I damn well want to do.

Minuses:
I have more than a couple pounds to lose and am worried about my metabolism
I am apprehensive about being a Grown Up and buying my own house
I really don't have as much time as I used to and can't dick around with my career
I am single. Single single single single single. The clock is ticking and I am worried.

At any rate. I am dragging my feet on celebrating this one.

D Money wants to have a conference today to talk about the pending fete, but more and more I am leaning towards a night in with a movie and my favorite threesome: Me hot and heavy in the middle of Ben and Jerry.

That wouldn't do much for my #1 minus, would it?

At any rate. I am pretty blue about the looming 29. I want to buy a crown for myself (I'm normally not the princess type, but I agree a birthday is a perfect occasion to revere yourself as royalty), but other than that I just don't want to crawl out from under the covers December 1st.
If you have any suggestions to perk up my disposition or ideas for a great birthday party (please, no Pin The Tail On The Donkey), I am all ears and boobs.

I do have four days to party though, as the weekend directly after is a four day break for me.

Oh the possibilities.

The Silent Patriot

WARNING: This is very political. I hope y'all will still like me now that I've come clean with some of my opinions. KTG

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I don't have any of those yellow ribbon magnets on my car.

I don't wear a flag pin on my coats and I usually don't engage people in political debates, but that doesn't make me any less of an American, or a patriot for that matter.

Yesterday was the first time I was overcome with patriotism in quite a while, and it was quite by accident.

***
My apartment has horrible cell reception. This summer I took up the habit of sitting on my front porch when I wanted to have long chats with friends and family, as well as any occasion considered important business. Yesterday was a fairly balmy day considering it was Mid November. Temps in the high 60s and only a mild wind. I had to talk to the bank about some issues regarding the deposit of my paycheck, and I decided to step outside to ensure the conversation wouldn't be dropped by one of those dreaded satellites overhead.

That's when I was reminded of what day it was.

Ohio has lost an unfortunate number of service men and women to fighting in Iraq. One such sacrifice was made by Captain Tyler Swisher of Mariemont. The 35 year old died last month when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle, tossing him into a nearby canal. My job has given me the opportunity to read and write about Captain Swisher and the life that was cut short overseas. He sounded like a great family man who had a deep dedication to America.

Anyway.

I was on the phone with the bank when I saw lights on the firetruck whirling around and the crowd gathering at the funeral home across the street. I had written about the memorial days earlier but somehow it escaped my memory until I saw the riderless horse and the Marines in their dress blues. I closed my cell phone and walked along the sidewalk until I could see the hearse. Suddenly my veins started pounding with a pride for this young man, a sadness that he'll never see the sun set again, and an anger tied to the questions surrounding the reasons for the war.

The memorial procession had a couple mile course until it made it to Captain Swisher's church. I decided to follow along the way for a while, sort of paying homage to this great American hero. Others were standing on the sidewalk, coming out of bars and shops to take off their hats and bow their heads. The police on motorcycles, the cops on horseback, the parade of cars with the little funeral flags waving made their way down Madison Road, it was all very somber and dramatic at the same time. Once they passed Saint Cecilia's church a bell rang out. That low, deliberate resonance sliced through the silence every five seconds or so, drawing the tears and determined anger out of my soul. Little school children stood outside the church, wearing their uniforms and waving American flags.

I walked back to my apartment thinking my problems pale in comparison to the family left behind by Captain Swisher. He leaves behind a wife and three children, having paid the ultimate price for a war I don't understand. I'm not completely convinced we're being told the full reason why we sent 20 thousand men to Iraq.

All I know is one silenced patriot has reminded another silent patriot of her pride for the sacrifices overseas. I am proud I live in a nation where I can question our government. I am proud I have a choice when it comes to electing our leaders. I am proud I have an opportunity to voice a need for change.

Thin, And Licensed To Kill

Props to this man who went on a MAJOR diet to serve our country.

And to think, I only want to go on a diet to keep my lumps in shape.

Who Knew I Was Such a Funny Girl

I wouldn't be able to type this guy's name without cutting and pasting.

T.J. H-O-U-S-H-M-A-N-D-Z-A-D-E-H is a wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals.

He's really hot. Trust me, this picture doesn't do him justice.

Anyway. My filthy filter was broken at work today.

I said:

"He can score a touchdown in my end zone anyday."

I think I surprised my co-workers, considering I'm a pretty "down to business" kind of gal at work.

All Dressed Up and No Place To Go But Hell

So, I was having a morbid thought the other day.

Forgive me, but sometimes I dwell on my own mortality. I don't know if that makes me in tune with my humanity or just very morose. At any rate, I decided I don't have anything to wear to my own funeral.

Should I die today, my mom would be left in quite a predicament.

I have a great black dress, but it's sleeveless, and I operate on the rule of thumb that less is more when it comes to exposing the flesh of a dead body.

I could go with the casual look (my jeans, a nice Banana Republic, black wool sweater and some boots) but I don't know that I want to spend all eternity looking like I'm gearing up for a round at the neighborhood watering hole.

The dress I wore in my sister's wedding is stunning. Navy blue silk with a darling blue and white gingham sash, but again, that whole showing skin thing comes into play. I have another bridesmaid dress that could be pulled in to the equation, but I have to say it's just hideous. Though that would be punishment enough for my worldly sins, I'm going to have to neg that choice.

Perhaps I could go with my Halloween costume. Blue Saran Wrap is the best way to preserve chicken breast, how about dead breast?

I can't believe I spent a good 20 minutes on my couch thinking about this dilemma. I guess I just can't die any time soon.

Excuse me, I have a question...

Actually a few. Feel free to answer the ones you want to.

Would you rather be (or be with, for the boys) the the girl with the pretty face and the curvy body, or the girl with the rockin' bod and the fugly face?

Would you rather have the worst house on the best street or the best house on the worst street?

What's on your top five list of things to do this lifetime?

Do you already know what your future childrens' (those that haven't been concieved) names are?

What is in your fridge right now?

Has God ever shown you a sign? What was it?

I could keep cranking these out all day long...

These Boots Are Made For Walking

And running and dancing and skipping and biking and twisting and scuffing and trudging.

I heart these boots.

Macy's has these boots on sale for $62 (as opposed to Coach's original 90 bucks), but there's a pair I want even more (the Coach multi-colored Scribble pattern) that's up for full price.

Maybe they'll be an early birthday present.

My Life As Bridget Jones

So. I've often revered myself as the American version of Bridget Jones, the professional woman struggling with being a singleton and the antics of dating.

Saturday Night I had a complete Bridget moment.

I went to a smashing (from here on in, read this post with a British accent, love) party with a bunch of blokes I didn't even know. My chum D Money has a flat in the same building as the chap who was throwing the soire, and she was invited after meeting him in the lift. Most of the guests worked in the Cincinnati branch of a company based in Merry Old London, so lots of the people there had ace British accents.

The party was a sort of gathering for a bunch of bloody drunkards. Everyone downing shots of vodka, lots of beer and all sorts of fab drinks. No real wankers there, but I did meet one great chap while puffing on a couple fags.

His name was Ben and he was the closest thing I'd ever seen to Hugh Grant. He had these wicked blue eyes and great, thick hair. Ben dressed in that hip Euro style you see in all the mags. Lots of black clothes and a great smile (I was surprised about the nice teeth).

Ben and I went out for another smoke around 4 am, just the two of us. My buzz was wearing off, and I could tell Ben was far from blotto, so I was a bit gobsmacked when he planted a big kiss on my lips.

We went back up to the host's flat and noticed everyone had cleared out of there, so I offered to drive Ben back to his place.

And what a place he had.

The cushy diggs are on a hill overlooking the Ohio River. After I got the nickel tour, Ben showed me the door to the patio overlooking the scenic spot. I was handed a gin and tonic and Ben and I sunk into the chairs and talked about our families, our passions and our respective life histories. Every once in a while he'd lean over and kiss me. It was just smashing, I tell you, especially when the storm started rolling in and the rain was pouring down, complete with thunder and lightning bolts.

I remember thinking My gosh. I'm never going to forget this night for as long as I live. The whole time my mind was racing Am I wearing good underwear? How long was it until I shaved my legs? Do I smell too much like smoke? Oh my gosh I have to go to the bathroom. Does he really fancy me?

It was a true Bridget Jones moment, indeed.

Then we moved in to his living room to nestle in on his big, L shaped, black leather couch. Ben started playing a game of truth or dare (we both stuck to the truths) and snogged a little bit (okay, a lot) while Michael Jackson's greatest hits spun in Ben's DVD player. It turns out even British guys love to beat it.

I don't think we went to sleep until around 7 or so. My clothes stayed on, love, so I don't have anything too juicy to report. I must say though, I was ready to shed it all each time he looked into my eyes and said, complete with that sexy British accent "God, you're stunning."

Like I've said before, there's nothing better than giving or getting a compliment. They're free to give and can make a person feel amazing.

We finally settled in on sleeping around 9 I think, finally waking up around noon. I was completely knackered all day Sunday.

Ben and I exchanged cards and we made loose plans to perhaps see Jarhead. I'll keep you all posted on most of the details.

Cheers.

For All You Men Who Have Ever Had A Crush On A Cheerleader...

It turns out you might have some competition from inside the squad.

Long story short: two brute Carolina Panther cheerleaders are facing charges for getting into a bathroom brawl at a Tampa bar. Apparently witnesses say the two women wouldn't leave a bathroom stall because they were having sex with each other.

Here's another story link with pictures of the accused.

I know women have a reputation for going to the bathroom in pairs, but I have to say, at least for me, it's just for the conversation.

Another thanks to Curly Girl for the heads up on this story.

The Men I've Loved: Thomas

Love leaves us with deep marks on our hearts.

They're like little well warn paths of memories that sometimes become exposed again by a familiar scent, a well known tune or another unforgettable experience.

For me, Better Than Ezra, Garbage and U2 sends memories of Thomas rushing through my veins.

My heart used to beat faster at the thought of seeing him. Oh, how I remember laying on my bed, going through my mental catalogue of clothing, hoping the night's selection would be the style to send him rushing into my arms.

It sounds silly, I know. But when you love someone as much as I loved Thomas, pretty much every waking, conscious thought has a Kevin-Bacon-six-degrees-of-separation connection to that person.

I'm surprised some people didn't call in the doctors to have us surgically removed. For a long while, wherever Thomas went - I went. Whenever I needed a date, Thomas was the obvious choice. He was hilarious, uber-intelligent and a lot of fun.

We met when I was interning at my first TV station. He was a tape editor showing me the ropes, getting me ready for my own jump at slicing and dicing beta tape. Thomas was an unlikely crush for me: I like my guys manly, masculine and towering, and Thomas was kind of on the shrimpy side. I don't mean to say he was a shrinking violet, but at about 5'10" and maybe 140 pounds, he wasn't exactly the kind of guy I could see suiting up to be on O Line. That's the way I like my guys. But I digress.

Thomas was so damn funny. From great jokes and impressions, he always made me laugh. I felt like I could totally be myself around him, which was a refreshing change from so many other crushes I'd had in my life.

I spent the night over at Thomas' place a million times, sometimes in the same bed, and nothing happened. There were times I was piss poor drunk at his house and nothing happened. This speaks volumes about two possibilities, one I know for certain: Thomas is a man of impeccable character.

I remember New Years Eve 2000. I was so drunk that I planted a massive smack on his lips while fireworks blasted overhead in Lexington's Cox Street Parking Lot. The kiss got a luke-warm reception but I was pretty much too crocked to either notice or care.

But I started caring later.

The trouble with love is it has a way of becoming overgrown and out of control if left unattended, and that was exactly the problem Thomas and I had. He knew I loved him, I knew I loved him, but neither of us wanted to confront the fatty, white elephant in the corner. It was just too uncomfortable a conversation for us to broach.

I can admit it now. I became borderline obsessive. I was jealous. It drove me crazy when Thomas showed even the slightest bit interest other girls. He eventually left the tv station and went to law school, taking on a whole new bunch of friends I had no connection to, no knowledge of, no relationship with. It hurt me to be filled with so much love for a person and have it completely left by the wayside for the unfamiliar.

After a dozen crying episodes (mostly precipitated by alcohol, mind you) and half as many heart-to-hearts, Thomas and I had an unspoken agreement to essentially part ways.

In an interesting twist, about six months ago I moved to the city Thomas now calls home. In fact, his home is almost smack-dab behind my apartment.

We've seen each other (because of a mutual friend) a half dozen times in the two and a half years we "separated," but we had our first, great reacquainting a couple weeks ago. The possibility of lunch was even floated out there.

To this day, I love Thomas. I don't think there's enough rubber to erase the memories, the fondness, the past of such a deep relationship. But I'm not in love with him. I've learned through the grapevine there are some good reasons that make me feel better about my unrequited love. I guess it's a small consolation for the lump of rejection I carried around in my heart for years and years and years.

Thomas did leave me with something to be thankful for. I learned that humor is a key piece of enduring love. Thanks to Thomas, I know the one person I spend the rest of my life with is in for some pretty damn good times.

Do You Think The Flatscreen Will Fit In My Carry-on Bag?

I love a good trip.

The lights, the smells, the exciting sensations, it all sounds like heaven to me. Even the interesting conversation with strangers while on the plane.

Right now I'm entertaining sugarplum dreams of my next excursion out of dodge. I know I'll be making another sojourn to Vegas in August (you all are invited, especially you, Bad Mother F*cker). I'm also planning a trip somewhere in April. Italy has been put on the backburner until my traveling companion and I have more green in our pockets (or find a sugardaddy who would like to spend time with two beautiful blondes), but we've considered ideas as far flung as South Beach, Napa Valley and Madison, Connecticut (home, sweet home).

Anyway.

Before I decide where to go, there are all kinds of traveling tips to consider. The following suggestions are from a daily newsletter I get. Daily Candy has great tips, especially for chicks, on everything from beauty to travel to food. Three things me likes.

Enjoy the tips, and here's my own advice: Only take the shampoo/conditioner/lotion bottles. If you stash them in your bags daily, housekeeping will replenish. It's a major score if they have a fancy schmancy brand like Gilchrist and Soames (at Monte Carlo in Vegas).

Travel: Cheap Tricks

The most annoying thing about traveling? The bill. (And malaria. And avian flu.) Not that you should put a price tag on the experience. Because though you might stare at the unworn $700 Narciso pants in your closet, you’ll never regret that madcap weekend in Reykjavik.
But you can make it cheaper. We asked some savvy travelers (and Dad) for their money-saving secrets.

Here are the top ten:
1. Never change money at exchange counters. (Fees are outrageous.) Get cash from the ATM, but do it as infrequently as possible to avoid multiple international bank fees.
2. The $1.69 bottle of water at the corner store costs triple at the airport and quintuple at the hotel. Stock up at local markets.
3. Or pack ahead. Energy bars, trail mix, and Emergen-C packets to keep energy up and calories down. This prevents you from a) calling room service at 3 a.m. when your body wants dinner, b) stopping for overpriced lunch, c) ruining your miserable diet.
4. If the hotel offers free breakfast, eat up. (As Dad used to say, “This is it for today, kids!”) And slip some bread into your bag for later.
5. Never order room service, use the hotel’s laundry, or call out on the hotel phone. Unless you really hate your money.
6. Use your cell but beware roaming charges. It might be cheaper to rent a phone locally.
7. Take public transportation to and from the airport (plan ahead), use all-day public transportation passes (cheaper, and usually faster, than cabs), and walk (best way to see the town).
8. Use and abuse nice hotels. If you’re presentable, you can walk in, use the bathrooms, load up on beauty samples, and use their free Internet.
9. Really befriend a local so you won’t have to stay at a hotel the next night.
10. Pretend it’s your birthday. You just might get free dessert.

The following tips, on the other hand, are money-saving, sure, but also vaguely criminal and scummy. (Hey, it takes all kinds.)

“I buy the cheapest thing I can find at the best store before I go home. Once I’m back, I buy an exotic-looking trinket and put it in the bag from the store, giving the impression I bought a much nicer gift.”

“A fancy friend checks into nice hotels, stashes the robe in her bag, and calls the front desk to complain that there’s no robe so they bring up another one.”

“I consider anything that isn’t nailed down in my hotel room a ‘gift’ from the management for my patronage.”

“Find hair in your food or, even better, glass. Meal will be free. Guaranteed.”

Here’s hoping your wad is tighter, your shoestring shorter, your wallet heavier, and your trails happier. (You’re on your own for flu prevention.)

Num, num, num

A meme from Friday's Feast

Appetizer
What was the last game you purchased?
I bought the 90s version of Trivial Pursuit for my sister and brother-in-law. I challenge anyone to a duel of Trivial Pursuit...

Soup
Name something in which you don't believe.
Racism and hate

Salad
If you could choose a television personality to be your boss, who would you pick?
Oh wow.
So many choices, but maybe I would go with Lexington newsman Tom Kenny... one of my favorite co-workers of all time. Great news judgment, great delivery and great impressions. He has a very kind heart.

As for someone famous, I think I would pick Oprah. I mean, come on, that place has got to be a ball.

Main Course
What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
That showing dead bodies on television is never good.

Dessert
Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.
Sinatra playing, a few scented candles, dim lighting and a good glass of red wine.

Oh, and maybe a handsome man to talk to.

Home, But Not

This past weekend I had an unusual experience I had been dreaming about for months.

I crossed over the threshold of my home.

The lighting fixtures were the same, and the powder room (does your mom call it that, too?) was in the familiar spot, but there was hardwood where there had once been carpet and the wallpaper was unfamiliar.

I think I was secretly harboring a wish that the moment I entered 8757 Appleseed Drive I would be transported back to a time when I was more innocent, my parents were younger and we were all closer.

My childhood home is on the market in Cincinnati. It has been for several months now (from back in April? May?) and I have long wished for a chance to see the place where Kate began. My parents built the subdivision home (I think it was one of seven floorplans offered; ours was called the Evergreen) back in 1982 when I was six years old. We moved there from the arctic cool (both in respect to the weather and our nearby relatives) of Minneapolis for a job transfer and the dreams of a happy home.

And happy it was.

Sunday, I stepped across the threshold and half hoped the door swung wide open would reveal three little girls dancing around their father as he hung the highest of Christmas ornaments. Or a mom painstakingly seasoning (yes, painstakingly) the pumpkin seeds freshly scooped out of the family of gourds waiting eagerly for darkness on the front porch.

But no. My visions of the past came to a screeching halt when I was smacked in the face by the unfamiliar, less attractive (I suppose I'm biased) changes of today. Beautiful, antique looking bathroom mirrors were replaced by something you'd find in the halls at Wal-mart. My mom's special wainscoting in the dining room was still up, but her impeccable color choice of Wedgwood blue had been replaced by the most drab of institutional white.

To be honest, I'm pretty surprised I didn't cry when making it to my old bedroom.

The haven of my youth, the one spot I felt free and safe and hidden from the realities of growing up had been turned into a trashy jungle. My azure blue paint and beautiful Laura Ashley border (Simplicity on paper, I tell you. It featured blue and white ribbons with little olive branches here and there.) Had been replaced by what I like to call Simba In A Strip Bar. All over leopard print wallpaper with a border running about waist high with a big, pink flower print. Just hideous. It kind of hurt me to see the once shrine of my childhood, the spot where I used to hide under my covers with a flashlight and my Nancy Drews, turned into such an ugly spot.

And by the way, why the hell would someone take the two sliding closet doors off the track? Who wants their closet so out in the open?

I can't even do the description to my sister's room justice. It was something of a cross between a space ship landing and and acid trip. It even had metal tubing across the top of the window, to act as a kind of valance for the curtains. Hideous times two.

I can only guess two children slept in these respective rooms, and while I imagine they had pleasant times in their little creative havens, the unique decorating choices are going to have to be tamed down if they want to move that house (like I said, it's been on the market since Spring).

Looking back on it, I was glad I got to go back to the old house, even if for the chance to see some truly, uh, creative decorating techniques. Honestly though, it wasn't like going back to my old house. It was like checking out a house that had a similar floor plan.

Before I left, I looked one last, long look out the back window to a now overgrown hill that was once our sledding spot. I remember my Dad and my sister and I playing Train out there with our sleds, working up a good sweat before coming in to cocoa and homemade cookies.

I said goodbye to the foursquare of concrete in the driveway where I used to play ball, where I learned to ride my bike, where I used to collect lightning bugs, where I had my first kiss.

I glanced at the bush in the front yard I dented when I tried to sit on it after a snowstorm (the dent has somehow filled out), and the two trees I helped my dad plant when I was nine or ten, two trees that now tower over the front yard.

It was a very Grovers Corners moment in my life, no doubt. At least in my version I know I get to make more memories somewhere else.

What Ever Happened To Feathers and Chocolate Sauce?

I've had bad breakups.

I've had bad boyfriends.

But I've never had (what could be) such ruthless revenge as this woman in Pittsburgh. Watch the video if your computer lets you.

Superglue and satin sheets do not good bedfellows make.

And boys, you might cringe a little bit when you hear about the only solution the nurses at the hospital had to help the guy out.

*Special thanks to Curly Girl for the heads up on this great story.

Martha, Martha, Martha

From Yahoo! News:

After serving five months in jail for lying about a 2001 stock sale, which was followed by nearly six months of house arrest, the lifestyle guru Martha Stewart says she feels resilient.

"I have learned that I really cannot be destroyed."

Kate sez: Hubris what?

Read the rest of the article here, including how she thought she was going to fire The Donald off his Apprentice hit.

Thanks to A Socialite's Life for the heads up.

ps: Truth be told, Kate's turned a corner on Martha. Something about the prison sweats... it seems like it softened her up. I cringe while admiting I actually TiVo both her shows.

Today's Horoscope

Sagittarius:

Financial problems are masking other problems.
Look beyond the money, and see what you gain
from the financial excuse. If you're afraid to try,
now is the time to admit it.

Hmm. That's some food for thought in my hungry world...

Three People Away From Scooter Libby

I just learned that if I were playing the Washington version of The Kevin Bacon Game, I'm only three people away from Scooter Libby. Well, three people away from Scooter, Karl, Dick and the whole gang 'o cronies.

Apparently the senior FBI agent in the whole Plamegate investgation lives in my hometown.

Jack Eckenrode is Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald's right hand man in the drama. Several years ago he was the head of the FBI in New Haven, and he's quickly climbed up the ladder of agent prominence and is now overseeing the whole fiasco inside the beltway.

My dad called me up Friday and was like "Hey. That Eckenrode guy standing next to Fitzgerald. I had a long talk with him at a graduation party we went to for your sister and some of her friends."

Apparently the guy has a son who graduated with my youngest sister.

Kind of trips my trigger.