Things I Should’ve Done That I Never Will Now

1. Learned another language.

2. Been a stripper.

3. Learned to play bass guitar. Or a drum set.

4. Gone sky diving.

5. Drugs. Real ones.


If You Like These Things

…we probably can’t be friends.

1. Radio commercials or promotions that employ the use of police sirens. The last thing I need to hear while I’m driving down the street is fake police sirens. I inevitably freak out (because apparently I’m on the lam).

2. Bono

3. Singing the song “Sweet Caroline” at the top of your lungs. Especially the “ba ba ba” part.

4. Nickelback

5. Loud swallowing

Cymbals and Oboes

Everyone should have a chance to play the cymbals in public just once. If I showed you how to do it (there is kind of a technique, believe it or not), and you were standing in a band playing the National Anthem, you could totally do it. Right now. With no music.

(“Oh say can you see (crash) by the dawn’s early light (crash) what so prou-dly we hailed (crash) at the twilight’s last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars (crash)…”)

The awesome thing about them is that they are so loud that everyone can hear them, and they are a blunt object, so it’s hard to screw them up. Plus, if you go to the symphony, who looks to be having the most fun? The percussionists. If you go to a concert, who gets laid? The drummer. (Alright, the lead singer, but out of the musicians, it’s the drummer.)

I played the cymbals, as you might have guessed by now. I played them, among other percussion instruments, in marching band because I played the oboe, which is a non-marching instrument. If you have heard an oboe, you know that this is because:

1. Double-reeded instruments are hard to play, let alone play and walk at the same time.

2. The oboe, while a versatile instrument, is predominantly a sad, moody one. I like to say, loudly, “OBOE” when I am watching a sad movie, because inevitably the background music when someone is dying/leaving summer camp/breaking up is oboe-heavy. And we oboe people like to point out when we hear an oboe.

3. Oboists are usually weird, and are better suited to banging gongs and slapping vibraslaps and clashing cymbals than they are to marching around in band uniforms, playing peppy marches.

Speaking of peppy, I was doing all of this cymbal-playing in my cheerleading uniform most of the time because I was also a cheerleader. But that’s another story.

Blog Writing

It’s really hard. I know no one is making me write these posts, and no one except my husband is reading them, but it’s still strange to write things down and expect that maybe some day someone else will read them.

That probably sounds stupid to you know if you know I was an English major (Side note: NO ONE ever says, “Katherine has an English degree.” People say, “Katherine was an English major,” or “Katherine is an English major.” It’s like the major part is more important than the fact that I completed my degree.). The thing is, though, that people who major (and graduate with degrees) in English aren’t necessarily good creative writers. I certainly am not. I can read real good and I can write you a manual on hospice software, but I can’t really write you a short story.

(Another side note: And I’m sure as hell not going to write a novel. I found out that November is the month you’re supposed to work on your novel. It’s like a national movement. Is the goal to get published? If you’re writing a novel, more power to you, but does anyone know how hard that is? It’s like the equivalent of an online movement to get a spot on the next space shuttle that launches. Like, that’s probably not going to happen.)

Anyway, I hate this stupid blog. I think I might be kind of funny in person, and people I don’t know very well tell me they love my Facebook posts, but this blogging thing is hard.

Vacation Reentry

I came back to work today after being on vacation for three days. I missed two days of work.

When I walked back in this morning, my desk was in a state of pre-vacation. I had everything all organized, but there was still that kind of haphazard “I ran out of here and knew I wasn’t coming back for two work days” feeling.  It’s a bummer when you come back to a place you couldn’t wait to leave.

And that is the problem with vacation. I am getting better, but I routinely can’t enjoy myself at the end of a trip because I know it’s going to end. Sometimes I have a hard time at the beginning, too. This is kind of like why I dread every Friday: once the weekend starts, it’s on its way to being over.


I just unwrapped a box from my mother. It was a Halls box, wrapped in Halls paper with a Halls bow.

If you’re unfamiliar with Halls (because this blog is undoubtedly going to attract national attention), it’s a fancy local department store, kind of like Saks. My mother has worked there since I was eight.

The problem, of course, with your mother working at Halls is that you might get something in a Halls box that is:

1. Something that was once $450 that has been marked down to 90% off and then purchased with her discount, which made it $4.50. This is usually wrapped with the price tag still on so you can appreciate the discount.

2. Something that is actually a gift but from QuikTrip or someplace else decidedly un-Halls.

3. Something that is not really a gift, but you needed it, and she has wrapped it in a Halls box because we have a million of them. So when you think you’re going to be getting a Chanel compact, it’s actually a box of Fiber One bars that she thought would be “more fun if you can unwrap it.”

All of these are wonderful, actually. I’m not looking in the mouths of any gift horses (what does that even mean?).  But this time I got some mascara I’d been coveting. (I’m not even sure I told my mom I wanted it, but she knew anyway. How do moms do that?)