Good... And Good for You

My mom found an old vhs tape of my old 1992 dance recital last week and we sat down as a family and watched my sister and me dance through our awkward preadolescence. The tape filled my mom with nostalgia. The tape filled my young niece with glee. The tape filled my sister with shame. The tape filled me to the brim with all three emotions because, seriously guys, I was 11 years old. I'd just starting to have my growth spurt, and I was not good. Like, embarrassingly not good. But I was so blissfully unaware of how not good I was and you could just see how much I  loved dancing. I watched myself spazz out in front of an audience with my giant, BEAMING, brace-faced smile, and I'm just so glad that I'm not 11 years old anymore. Okay. But seriously folks, my perfectionist sister was mortified. " Why did you let us do that?" she asked my mom. "We were so bad! And we, like, worked so hard at it! Why weren't we better ??" My sister watches a lot o...

uggh. over a 24 hour period, i have STUPIDLY read... this:  https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-intersect/wp/2016/02/17/in-the-battle-of-internet-mobs-vs-the-law-the-internet-mobs-have-won/ and this:  https://www.yahoo.com/beauty/14-women-were-brutally-attacked-140600254.html and i spent way too much time reading this:  https://www.instagram.com/byefelipe/ oh! and i also read this:  http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2016/feb/14/love-conquers-all-child-brides-sweetheart-spouse-ashley-judd?platform=hootsuite ... and now i feel overwhelmed and overloaded. and angry. and the kind of sad that stems from not being able to be helpful in any way. and asexual. there's probably a word in german that encompasses all of that.

i'm taking an online social psychology class which involves a weekly "discussion post." i have copied and pasted old blog posts for two of the five posts so far. which i think serves as proof that my blog is therapy. also serves as proof that i'm too lazy to come up with original thoughts, but, whatever. ***update: 02-17-16*** three out of six.

I've been taking a pottery class the last month or so. And it’s been so much fun . I’m not good, but I’m decent enough. And I have enough of a sense of humor to really enjoy the weird stuff I unintentionally create (so. many. ashtrays!). Plus my teacher is really great and chill. I was sick last Saturday so I went in on Monday night for a make-up class, which isn’t supposed to be a big deal. You slip in and find a wheel in the back corner and go about your business. People do it all the time. So I slipped in and found a wheel in the corner and I started to prep my stuff. But then the teacher stopped teaching class and started giving me a hard time for being there. He announced that he had a full class and I needed to leave. I don’t know what it was about me that rubbed him the wrong way, but there was another non-class member who came in the same time as me and set up a wheel and started throwing with no problems. I’d counted the number of people in the room and the number...

on sunday, i taught my niece/”rey” about the force. and how to properly use it when you’re losing your lightsaber battle with your aunt/” dark vader”. and how to pretend to get your hand cut off at the climax of the light saber battle. ...this is the first time in my life that my biological clock has ever ticked.

walking out, after going to see an opera... familiar voice: hey, kat. i turn around and see a guy i went to high school with. me: oh, hey there! how've you been for the last twenty years? him: pretty good. you? me: same... well. see ya. him: bye. and we both went our separate ways. i feel like this is the ideal high school reunion scenario.

on or before the third sentence of my second interaction with every person ever, i will inevitably get asked, “ how tall are you?” or “how tall are you?” or the super casual, “so how tall are you anyways?” it’s a thing. i’m so not offended when people ask, it's just that i get asked it a lot. like, a lot. (i do get a little bit offended when people make me stand back-to-back with them. and i get super annoyed when someone asks how tall i am and then doesn’t believe my answer. come on, guy. i don’t somehow think that taking an inch off my height will suddenly make you think i’m a beautiful, delicate flower.) i guess i just don’t understand why people need a quantifiable height. they need my espn stats. they need a concrete number. i’ve never been on the other side of it that i can think of. i don’t think that i ask people their exact height or weight or age or ethnic heritage, but maybe i do and i just don’t realize it. i guess- if i’m being honest about why i’m ...

yesterday, i was chit chatting with some random people before church started and, since i didn’t know the guy who was sitting next to me, i introduced myself. “i’m kat, by the way.” “i’m buddy” -- interjection #1: i go to a ward of 800+ people. it’s chaotic and crowded and pheromonic, and the odds of casually running into someone you want to run into are slim to none. fate doesn’t bring you your new best friends, you have to put actual effort and scheming into finding people.-- -- interjection #2: but of course, fate ALWAYS has time to screw with me.-- -- interjection #3: knowing this, i immediately knew whom fate had seated next to me.-- “buddy, what’s your last name?” “jones.” sigh… “do you know [my boss. the boss. the first name on the firm's letterhead.]?” “... oh... you’re THAT kat.” “yep. i am.” “... i didn’t plan this!” “i don’t even know how you would plan this.” [awkward silence. church starts] okay. why don’t we rewind a couple of months? ...