Good... And Good for You

One of my all-time favorite movie cliches is when the main lady-character's hair perfectly mirrors her character evolution. Such as it is. I'm not being ironic. Okay, well, maybe I'm being a little bit ironic. But I'm being ironic in that way that circles back to earnest so that neither of us can actually tell whether or not I'm being sincere and so we both walk away feeling confused and frustrated. Now, we could totally get into a discussion about how a woman's hair has always been a means for symbolism in cinema and literature (I'm looking at you Scarlet Letter and Bronte Sisters and any other Victorian novel where a woman stands on a moor and lets down her hair in a moment of untamed abandon). But we won't. Because that's not what I'm about today. Today, I'm about movies. And not good movies. No, I'm all about movies with the subtlety of The Rock flexing the cast OFF his arm and saying "Daddy's gotta go to work."...

When I was 19-years-old, I was in love with a guy in my Biology class. He was hot in that turn-of-the-millennium, Heath Ledger in "Ten Things I Hate About You" way where you ask yourself, "Wait. Is he wearing a shirt with embroidery on it?" I know that description hasn't aged well, but trust me, he was beautiful. My love for him was a special blend of pure and awkward. I made sure to never enter his zone of attention, but I'd always sit a few seats away so I could look at him approximately 137 times during class. As a high school geek trying to remake herself in college, I was basically an expert at loving someone unrequitedly and I was very happy with my new, imaginary relationship. One day after class ended, I was shuffling past Hot Bio Boy's seat when he looked up at me and smiled . I was starstruck. I didn't want to look away. So I didn't. And I walked straight into a wall. This is not an exaggeration! This is something I really did. My...

One night, back in college, one of my dude friends falsely accused me of stealing his car keys and then started ranting about how immature I was. I felt like he was being unfair, so when his back was turned... I stole his car keys. I zipped over to Walmart, made a copy of his keys, and then snuck them back into his apartment without him ever knowing they were gone. For the next three months, every time I saw him park his car, I'd wait for him to walk away and then I'd run down and move his car to the other side of the parking lot in an attempt to convince him that he'd gone insane. Sometimes, when a dude is being kind of a jerk to me, I think about 20-year-old Kat. And then I mentally travel back in time and give her a high five.

I hate the book " The Great Gatsby ." There! I've said it! Or, I mean, hat ed . I hated Gatsby when I read it for the first time 15 years ago. As a 20 year old who was super into "Bridget Jones's Diary" and had just discovered David Sedaris, it's very possible that I didn't have the life experience and depth to understand the glory that is Great Gatsby. Very, very possible. But this summer, I revisited a bunch of the books of my youth! And since my mom and my sister and a bunch of my friends who are all much smarter than I am, love Gatsby, I decided to take another whack at it! And... um... I still don't get why it's a thing. There! I've said it! Or, I mean, I don't personally get it. I understand the reasons why other people like it. Usually they like it because it's a glitzy, perfect snapshot of the flapper generation. And because it's a searing indictment of the affluence and indifference of blah blah ...

Sometimes I stare at my profile pic on social media or on a dating app and I think, “Should I update this? sigh... probably. Cuz my hair’s longer. And also I’ve lost weight... Well, that is, if souls weigh anything, then I’ve totally lost weight.”

I just glanced at the sky and thought, “Oh, wow! It’s a full moon!” And then after a five-second pause I thought, “Wait. That’s not right. It’s still daytime.” And then after another five-second pause, “That’s the sun.” So there goes my career in astrology. Wait. That’s not right.

Sometimes, to keep my ego in check, I look at my sixth grade picture. Look at her sweet, little face. I don’t know why I wore so many vests. Nobody else was wearing them. Just me, Chandler Bing, and Paula Poundstone.

Real Talk: I 100% adore my 8-year-old niece, but it’s hard for me to talk to her about her favorite TV shows. Because it makes me feel too morally superior. Listen, kid. I grew up during the era of “infotainment.” So my favorite shows taught friggin’ life skills. I’m talking “This Old House” and “Yan Can Cook” and the unsung HERO of them all “ Square One TV .” What I’m saying is, when I was your age, I could build a house, cook a four-course meal, and solve ANY math-based crime!! (#mathnet) What crimes can YOU solve??? And why are you crying?? Why is your mother shaking her head at me?? Where is everyone going? Why am I all alone again? Author’s Note: I can no longer build a house or cook.

I’m not a hiker. I mean, I'm a hiker on the most basic level where "hiking" is walking on dirt. But I’m not someone who puts effort into hiking. What I mean is, there are people who travel and camp and have gear and go through a lot of effort to… walk on dirt. And I wish I was that person. I wish I had a mantra that involved the word “adventure” instead of a mantra that involved the phrase “just don’t spend all day watching Netflix, okay Kat? Come on.”   I’ve been trying to change that up. Not necessarily change my nature, but rather work with my existing, Netflixy nature to expand my experiences. So one of my goals this spring and summer was to hike every trail I could find that’s within a five to ten minute drive from my house (because when you live in Salt Lake City, that’s an easily achievable goal), and it's been fantastic. I found some amazing trails and I now hike two to five times a week. It’s worked out exponentially better than I planned.  Valley View...

I know for sure that the human brain is more evolved than any other animal’s brain because of its ability to troll itself. Seriously, my brain can full-on PUNK me. Just for the heck of it. Por ejemplo! I can send a text to a buddy and then 30 minutes later my brain will be like... 🧠 :   What if you had accidentally sent that text to your ex-boyfriend from 3 1/2 years ago, instead of sending it to your buddy? Me: Oh my gosh, don’t even joke about that! That would be the worst thing ever and I would shrivel up and DIE. 🧠 :   Haha, right? But (funny story) you DID! You DID send it to him. Me: Wait, what? No way. 🧠 :   Yes way. Remember? You weren’t really paying attention and instead of typing in your buddy’s name, you typed in your ex’s name! And now you’re gonna have to live under a rock! Me: OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH *checks phone* No. See? I sent the text to my buddy. 🧠 :   Hahaha! Idiot! Why would you have texted your ex-boyfriend from 3 1/2 years ago? That’...

As a young nerdling, I freaking LOVED that Proclaimers “500 Miles” song. I still do. I scream-sing it whenever it comes on the radio. But as a tired, jaded, scream-singing adult, I’m singing a song of lies. Because I know full well that I wouldn’t walk 500 miles (and 500 more) for anyone. I won’t even set my Tinder “distance setting” above 7 miles.

I had to go through some papers from the 80s and, in the process, I accumulated a pile of 80s printer paper edges. So I did what any respectable child of the 80s would do and turned them into 80s printer-paper caterpillars. 80s. ...(wait, or was it the 90s?)

During my little hike up the Avenue Twin Peaks, the song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” started playing.  And I just want to point out that, um actually, Marvin, there are DEFINITELY mountains high enough to keep me from you. In fact, I’m pretty sure this hill I’m looking at right now is more than high enough to keep me from you. So let’s make our relationship goals a little more attainable, shall we? Something like, “Ain’t no burrito ‘grande’ enough to keep me from gettin’ to you, baby.” ...I should write songs.

I kinda thought it would be a fun, whimsical summer goal to reread (or re-Audible, if I’m being honest) each of my ALL-TIME FAVORITE OF ALL! TIME! EVER! books. But then I started to worry that there’s no way my beloveds (super creepy word choice, Kat) could live up to the hype and I was effectively ruining all of my favorite books. Like when you plan dinner with an old friend that you haven’t seen in over a decade and as you’re driving to the restaurant you think, “Wait. I’ve changed since college. What if they have too? What if they kill puppies for a living?? What if they think dinosaurs and dragons are the same thing??? What if they were always the worst, but I was too stupid to notice it until now?? What if they’re so boring, I panic and start filibustering about how cinnamon is technically a vegetable and pickles are technically fruit???” ... Anywho. So far I've re-listened to "The House of the Spirits," "The Three Musketeers," and "Me Talk Pr...

Let's be honest, each of us really only have four or five truly entertaining stories. Stories that are genuinely funny or compelling and that we know exactly how to tell. Right? So maybe it's just me, but I get SO EXCITED when I make a new friend and I get to tell that person one of my four or five genuinely entertaining stories. This happened to me the other day. I was grabbing dinner with a new friend, and he mentioned something about driving a stick shift, and in my mind I was like, "Oh ya... that reminds me of the time my exboyfriend and I..." and then I realized that I had an AMAZING story that I was going to get to tell for the first time in FOREVER! ... sigh... hello old friend. But then, even though I'd told the story approximately 7.5 billion times (once to every person on earth), I somehow don’t tell it right and it fell flat. Tragedy. Ya. It was like the conversational equivalent of walking into a room with a big cake, but then tripping an...

I tried to start some seeds to plant in my garden, but over the last month they have ALL slowly withered and died. (Hashtag!: Black Thumb) And, as someone who grew up on “Beauty and the Beast,” when the last of my petals fell, I absolutely DID look in the mirror and think, “Whelp! Guess I’m stuck forever as this beast!” But come on. Deep down we all know that, if anything, I’m the footstool dog thing.

The other night I got home, walked in my house, decided I was going to make brownies or cookies or something, and excitedly ran to my kitchen to see what my options were. CUT TO! Me, flat on my face in the hallway and bleeding out of my foot, because I got too excited and tripped during my sprint to the kitchen. The thing is, this is the second time in as many years that I’ve had a food-sprint-related fall in my own home. Which, ya, makes me look like a real idiot. But, guys, in my defense... food is SO GOOD. Have you even tried it? Have you?? If you haven’t, you totally should. It’ll blow your mind.

My next door neighbors put their house up for sale and I’m bummed because I really like them and I don’t want them to move. So, you know, the only course of action is OBVIOUSLY to sabotage their open house using sitcom logic. Like, by walking around with a boombox on my shoulder blasting heavy metal music. Or by pretending to have a loud, angry phone call regarding “tonight’s drop.” Or by sneaking over to the open house wearing a fake mustache and spreading rumors about crime and toxic waste. Guys, I have a feeling that this is going to be a very special episode of Kat.

This one time, I had to run an errand at the Gateway Mall (back when it, you know, had stores) and as I walked down the street, out of NOWHERE, a full-on, freaking Teen Wolf appeared around a corner and started walking towards me. “Gah! Teen Wolf!,” I exclaimed. The Teen Wolf responded by extending his arms to either embrace or murder me. So I said what I always say when I’m either gonna be murdered or hugged: “No no no no no no no...” I gingerly sidestepped the Teen Wolf while maintaining aggressive eye contact with him until I reached the corner and could run towards freedom. Turns out it was actually the Jazz Bear. -The End- ... It occurs to me now that I was actually making aggressive eye contact with his fake, Jazz Bear eyes. Which would explain why he never blinked.

When i’m single, an “evening in” means watching a season and a half of, like, The Office, in a ratty, over-sized t-shirt that I’ve had since junior high, while I pour chocolate chips straight into my mouth from the bag. When I’m dating someone, an evening in means watching an awesome 80’s movie like Last Starfighter or Superman, in my Dirty Dash t-shirt to fool the guy I’m with into thinking I’m active, and ordering a gigantic pizza. And I’m assuming that if I were married and parental, an evening in would mean watching the latest Pixar, in a t-shirt that used to be my husband’s until I claimed it as my own, while I sneak away to the pantry every five minutes to eat candy that I don’t want my greedy little child goblins to know we own. My point is... what the heck did people do before television ? I mean, I guess they probably listened to the radio. But before radio? Well, they probably read books. And before books? They died of dysentery. I truly don’t expect any of you...

I truly worry about the day that I go missing and the FBI has to delve into my phone’s search history for clues. Because you know that some crime podcast is gonna parse where my head was at when I googled “do koalas have STDs?” What they need to understand is that I have a totally healthy curiosity about the world around me!! ... which is why I also googled “whale nipples.”

Today is my 10-year Dogiversary. To give you some perspective, there’s only one other thing that I’ve spent time with EVERY DAY for the last 10 years. And that is my with my life partner, Television. Seriously. Like, all of the stories from the last decade that I tell people involve Ziggy. ... or Television. My point is that I. Love. Television. Wait. Was that my point? ... Dangit. I don’t think that was my point.

Happy New Years, friends!! I always have to make resolutions like, “Act like an actual, grown up human.” Because I’m that weirdo walking up & down the aisles at Smith’s mumbling, “Don’t start dancing to the N’Sync song. DON’T start dancing to the N’Sync song...”* *Based on a true story. *Based on ten minutes ago.