Good... And Good for You

three ish years ago, my roomates and i had a kramer. i refer to him as kramer because i don't remember his real name. i also referred to him as kramer three ish years ago because i never bothered to learn his real name. or where he lived. or if he had any family or friends. i just knew him as the little stray person who would randomly burst through the door and need to borrow our computer, or play my guitar, or show me pictures of some unknown punk band he staunchly idolized. eventually he stopped bursting in. which was fine because unlike seinfeld, my roomates and i had lives. i did run into him once at a battle of the bands thing and we he talked about how the last band had done an unspeakably lame cover of a weezer song but the next unknown punk band that he staunchly idolized was going to blow my mind and he had started a band consisting of him and a drummer and i was totally gonna have to come to one of their gigs. i'm writing this down so it won't take spotting him

i like to think there's no shame in squealing like a small british school boy when you go to pick up a newspaper and there's a snake underneath it. i even think it's okay to go "eeps!" at the wasp hiding in the mail box. and when you open the front door and a spider jumps at you and goes "hiss! kathryn! hiss!", i think it's completely normal to call your daddy and tell him to drive 30 miles to kill it. and when he suggests you kill it yourself, it's fine to yell, "well who asked you mr. rational pants!" and hang up the phone. that's what i think. but who cares what i think, what will the neighbors think?

in trying to take advantage of my not-workingness, i went to a matinee. at a time when most people were participating in "the grind", i was enjoying an afternoon of cinema. i was the only person in the theater, which made me feel self conscious until i remembered that celebrities buy out entire theaters so they can see a movie. and they also build really swanky home theaters with recliners and pinball machines. so then i felt all pampered and famous and i wondered where my personal assistant had gone with my popcorn. (to jump from the topic, but not from the afternoon... when i went to buy my ticket i was all excited because it cost $4.75 and i'd get a quarter back and have enough change to buy a mountain dew and then the ticket lady was like, "would you like to donate your quarter to primary children's hospital?" of course i didn't think my caffeine fix was more important than sick children. of course i didn't begrudge the hospital my quarter. of co

i am not a fashionista. i have never believed myself to be one. i've always had an inexplicable penchant for personalized t shirts. i used to wear stuff with sunflower print. i do in fact buy a good portion of my clothes at target. but... girls, even i can see that this year's trends are meant to make you look fat and tacky. don't wear them. i don't care what lindsay lohan's doing. and boys, ruffles are never ok. unless you're, like, an 18th century duke. or a member of the h.m.s. pinafore. and britney spears and kevin federline, there's no such thing as "derelict chic". stop spending $6000 on a hillbilly outfit. and britney especially, wear some pants. please. i'm tired of seeing your baby crowning.

behold the summertime byu rebellion period. i know it well. shaggy, uncut hair. cap sleeves. facial hair. lot's of facial hair. and people staying in apartments waaay past midnight.

would you please write my obligatory review of the new "star wars" movie for me? i'm too tired. in it, please make fun of the plot holes, hayden christensen's inability to act, george lucas' egomania, yada yada yada. point out my love of ewan mcgreggor, john williams music, and THE FORCE. and also r2d2. talk about how it's fun to imagine that r2's beeping is actually excessive profanity. also, please include a witty rebuff to the wookie-immitating preadolescents who sat next to me. something that makes fun of their inability to grow facial hair. you could say that, like, until they can grow a beard they shouldn't be imitating a wookie. i don't know. but, definitely say something.

at the moment when you realize that you are in fact one of " those girls" who wants what she can't have, is motivated by jealousy, likes to be liked, and that you have become what can only be described as an uber version of yourself, you can... a. try to grow as a person. b. accept that karmicly speaking you should die alone. c. buy a dog. now, i'm not admitting to uberkatness. i did go to the pet store today, though.

dear cary grant, you're bisexual??? are you kidding me? love, kat during last sunday's mother's day extravaganza i read parade magazine. and that's how i found out. by reading parade-freaking-magazine. i used to absolutely love "hello dolly" until i found out that barbra streisand and walter matthau hated each other. same with "dirty dancing". and now that i know rock hudson was gay i feel all awkward during the scenes when he's acting all seducey to doris day. richard chamberlain's gay which kind of spoils the whole "prince charming" effect in "slipper and the rose". and as much as i love "my fair lady", finding out that that's not really audrey hepburn's voice spoiled it for me. i understand the miracle of acting. i get that people don't randomly burst into song, or have an innate profficiency in dance. i think i'm pretty good at suspending reality for the sake of cinematic entertainment. but th

one of my first dates ever was a triple blind date where i spent the first half of the evening coming to terms with the fact that i'd been classified as the ugly friend, and the last half of the evening concentrating very hard on "tommy boy" and not on my friends making out with their dates. then when my date (the ugly one) scooted closer to me i stood up, said i had a 9:30 curfew and went home. it was a bad night. even without that memory, i still wouldn't do the blind date thing. i don't beat odds, i maintain them. and to have a blind date actually work out, you have to be someone who beats odds. the biggest factor towards me not blind dating, is that i don't want to find out what people think of me via their concept of my perfect match. it's too big a dose of realism. i like living in my dream world where i'm more than freakishly tall and 23 years old (that's 65 in provo years). i like thinking that i'm funny, and talented, and also good wit

gold lame ("la-may"), ruffles, bermuda shorts... for the love, what if the frizzy perm comes back? curse you the late 80's -slash- early 90's! and also curse you carmen rasmussen. i have a feeling you're somehow behind all of this. p.s. why can't the slap bracelet come back? is it still considered a weapon?

i got a present the other day. a bracelet. from ralph. the old man at the park. who was pretty nice compared to all the moms at the park who never talk to me because they decide that i'm either the spazziest, unmarried mother they've ever seen or the spazziest, unmarried, older than them nanny. it's a relief when the dads or grandpas are with the kids because they're just as clueless as me. and they talk to me. and give me bracelets. and don't raise their eyebrows when i yell, "way to slide, j-dawg!" so, ya, ralph was completely nice, but being an old grandpa man, he was also loud and boring and talking to me about his entire family. and i did the polite smile and nod thing while i sat on the bench and watched "billy madison" in my head. and i was just to the part where billy's in the bathtub debating hair care products when i heard ralph say, "oh! here's my nephew! he just got back from iraq." and i politely smiled and nodded a

ok. so, ya, i have the list... hugh jackman, collin firth, david boreanaz, jimmy fallin, will smith. but then there's my other list. my secret list. my list that i'm not proud of and try not to publicize but which is a very present and very important list in my life... jackie chan , rodger lodge , seth green , michael ian black , wayne bradey . i just... i just love them all. i can't help it. and you know what? if loving them is wrong, then i don't want to be right.

i've always thought there was great closure when someone you dated or crushed on gets married. and then they have babies and dogs and house payments and when you're family asks you how whatzhisname is, you say "um, i don't know, married?" and everyone is happy with that. see? closure. my grandparents totally trumped me. grandpa: "i was talking to my old high school girlfriend and she's in a home now. she likes it though. she says she's been hit on three times." me: "but in a home the old men hit on the vending machine." grandma palmer: "i went to a high school dance with whatzhisname... he's dead now!" ok. fine. you win. THAT's closure.