Wednesday, November 29, 2006


I think Man Friend is secretly repressing urges to kill me. He keeps having dreams about me that involve me in danger or some resemblance of pain. The first time I thought it was cute, almost charming, how worried he was but after the second attempt on my life, albeit in dream form, I'm beginning to question.

I can only hope he's smart enough to take out a life insurance policy on me first.

Now, I know most people aren't really interesting in the dreams of others because they rarely make sense and are often just utterly ridiculous but THESE dreams are about me and what the hell else am I doing blogging other than talking about myself? Honestly.

The first of these dreams occurred some weeks ago, maybe two, and I was actually present for this one. I was laying next to Man Friend, perfectly content in my own dreams when he woke me up by pulling me into a hug. Don't get me wrong. I like me some hugs but not if they require me waking up to receive them.

Then he whispered into my ear, "are you okay?"

This was not the "are you okay?" that actually translates to, "you're not mad at me, are you?" or the, "damnit woman, will you stop fidgeting?" He was scared.

"I'm fine. Why?"

He proceeds to tell me he just had a dream in which I was beaten up and he couldn't do anything to help me.

"Awww. That's cute. I'm fine. Can I go back to sleep now?"

The latest dream involved me witnessing a mob murder. He was trying to hide me in his parents basement because the mob was trying to kill me. Some of his buddies, particularly guys he goes shooting with, were defending the fort and one of them noticed someone moving outside. Thinking it was a mob guy here to kill me, the friend shot the intruder... only to find out it was my dad.

"You killed my dad?!"

"I didn't do it! Zayne shot him."

"So you had my dad killed?"


"Yes, you did! Why don't you like my dad?"

"Please don't tell you dad about this. It probably wouldn't be good for family relations."

Tuesday, November 28, 2006


"I can't wait until we live close enough together so that you can cook for me."



"I'M the sick one and you want ME to cook for YOU?"

"Well, you wouldn't be sick."

"I can just see you now. Getting home. Lying in bed beside me. Poking me until I got up to make you dinner. 'Woman, make me a steak.'"

"I was thinking more a grilled cheese sandwich."

Monday, November 27, 2006


But in lue of that, this might suffice.

Man Friend and I have a running joke (to be honest I'm not so sure how much of a joke it is) that when he wins the lottery he is going to buy me a pony. And a 4-wheeler. And an alpaca farm.

But, rather than waiting for something that WILL NOT happen (seeing how he doesn't actually BUY lottery tickets), I thought, for Christmas, I'd get him started early. Introducing Butterscotch. Check out those product details. Particularly the last one. That ALONE is enough reason to buy this toy.

Why I'm glad Dad never got me that pony.


Man Friend has what you could consider a skewed sense of vengence and I'll tell you why.

I made Man Friend cookies this weekend. Snickerdoodles to be exact. And they were damn good. To prove to everyone present just how good they were I offered a cookie each to Man Friend's mom and dad and then thought nothing of leaving the container on the counter while Man Friend and I went to Columbus to see the Loyal Divide play at some bar. I mean, we're all adults here. I should be able to leave Man Friend's cookies and have a reasonable expectation that something more than crumbs would be left.


We got home late (2ish) and I walked into the kitchen and noticed a severe lack of cookies. I informed Man Friend of his lost goodies.

Man Friend was not pleased. (I told you they were damn good cookies.) He woke his father just to yell at him.

The next morning, I woke up to three notes from his father DEMANDING more cookies. When it was suggested the he wasn't getting any more cookies until the following weekend and only then if he would be nice enough to share he suggested I spend my Thanksgiving making him more cookies. Man Friend suggested I add too much salt to them, right after he finished tearing up his Dad's bed and rolling the sheets into a ball. Then, after his mother made some not so good store bought cookies (some of which tragically ended up burned because no one told me I was supposed to be watching them), Man Friend and I ate all the not burned ones sans one which he then fed to the dog. In front of his father.

I asked his dad why he couldn't have saved Man Friend at least one of the cookies I made FOR Man Friend and he said he had left one but he just couldn't sleep knowing that cookie was left there in the kitchen. Taunting him. Taunting. A cookie.


I have no interest in entering the world of academia today.

Or tomorrow for that matter.

Sunday, November 26, 2006


I gotst stuff to do tonight so I can't regale you all with stories of Thanksgivingness so this is going to have to do for now:

"I don't want any more of your lovin'. It's dirty and it hurts and it offends my morals."


Wednesday, November 22, 2006


Since I've been making random, yet useless confessions (I killed Hoffa), I thought to myself, "Self. Why not one more?"

I was once in my younger days somewhat of a teeny bopper. Uch. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. But, alas, it's true. I refuse to go into details about how much of a bopper I was but let's just say, back in the day, JTT was a DREAMBOAT. The jury, however, is out on whether or not I ever sang along to a Spice Girls song. (From the first album. By that second monstrosity I'd learned my lesson.)

This is why it wasn't much of a stretch last night when Emily suggested (I can still blame this on Emily) we watch A Cinderella Story. The one with Hilary Duff. And Chad Michael Murrey, who, as luck would have it, I don't find to be nearly the same dreamboat quality at JTT was back in his hayday (and, my, what a hayday).

The movie was a let down and I'll tell you why. For one thing, it's distracting to watch a movie like that involving high school dances and see a woman who is so stacked you know there isn't anyway she's under 25. And I just can't forgive his (CMM's) character for being a dick all the way up until the end. Oh, wahh, I gave up a football scholarship for a girl in painted on pants and a chance to go to Princeton (because that is where princes go to school). Seriously. His football team mascot was the Fighting Frog. Last play of the night and he just walks off the field? MY ASS. My adult teeny bopper brain is more decerning than that. I DEMAND reality. Not this "awww" bullshit that doesn't happen in real life. Give me my JTT in Man of the House where wrongs are realized and the illusion of the perfect familly looks like it took some time to get there, where people are appreciated and the girls aren't dressed like prostitutes in training. Take me back when things were simpler. Take me JTT, back to the golden days.

Monday, November 20, 2006

36, 24, 36

I have a confession to make. I, the bringer of the cool, seductress extraodinaire, wear a padded bra.

Pause for shocked silence.

But I don't wear it for what might be considered the usual reasons. Such as my floor board cousin's reasons. Despite what my voluptuous, bountiful, able-to-feed-a-small-country sister might have said ever since her chest exploded, I am not lacking in that area of my physique. I have a respectable handful. So instead of attempting to add volume, I wear a padded bra for another reason. That reason being my traitorous nipples.

These little nodules of flesh don't really need so much as a stiff wind to be set off. They've been likened (by me) to turkey testers. You know. Those little red button's that pop up when the turkey is fully cooked. Yeah. Kinda like that.

I wasn't always fully aware of my ability to etch glass immediately following an awkward brush of fabric or a whisper of wind or no real reason at all. I mean, it might have been pointed out here or there but never to the point to discourage me from wearing a tank top, sans bra, come midsummer. That was until THIS summer and until this particular tank top. This was early in Man Friend and my relationship. He took me to a nice restaurant. It was late summer, still warm. I was wearing my favorite green tank top because.. well.. I wanted to show off my boobs. There. I said it. Don't judge me. The restaurant was air conditioned. ON HIGH. And shockingly, I get cold easily, which, shockingly, sets them off. Man Friend said they weren't that bad. He's a bloody, effing liar. I went to the bathroom and it was like I wasn't even wearing a shirt. You could make out EVERY detail, and I do mean every. I spent the rest of the meal with my arms crossed.

So now, now I wear a padded bra. My horrible secret is out. But I'll tell you what. Despite the padding, you can still tell when I get a chill. I'm like the princess and the pea. Four inches of fabric and you can still see it. But I have to say, I don't hear the gentlemen complaining.

Sunday, November 19, 2006


My wonderful, charming, better-than-your boyfriend made a spur of the moment decision to come visit me this weekend despite his less than reliable transportation. This was wholey unexpected because this was the weekend of the OSU, Michigan game. Man Friend's original plans included spending the entire weekend in Columbus getting shit-faced drunk and completely forgetting he ever had a girlfriend.

But he DID NOT forget and drove all the way down here to share in the glory of college football with this non-believer. An obvious consequence of this surprise visit involved me spending four hours watching football, but I have to confess it was worth it (and from this moment on I will deny ever saying that despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary).

Now, funny thing. Despite the fact that professional drinkers (Tiff and Trini) could EASILY drink Man Friend under a table, he doesn't often get drunk. HOWEVER, things just worked out Saturday during the game that there was enough time between the pancakes I made him for breakfast (at noon) and the pizza Danny ordered for the game come 6ish that around halftime, he leaned over and stage whispered in my ear that he was, in fact, drunk. I'm not sure how quickly his body metabolizes alcohol, but that apparent admission was enough excuse to allow for an ENTIRE NIGHTS WORTH of sticking a clean or often times otherwise finger under my nose and demanding I sniff it. Not exactly star boyfriend action.

I know what you're thinking. Why would I put up with that? Well, for starters, I started it. Not THIS time, but I am the one who first stuck a finger under his nose and demanded he sniff it. Second, he's bigger than me and if he can pin me down for raspberries, he can certainly do the same for a tainted finger.

Besides, I got him back this morning.

It so happened that I had to be up (relatively) early to work my last day in retail hell. Rather than get up with me and leave immediately, Man Friend decided to remain in bed and get a little more caught up on sleep before the long hike home. I was forced against my will to leave the nice, cozy warmth of my bed and my reward was icy cold hands. Usually, when I'm alone, I'll press my hands between my thighs to warm them, but this method is uncomfortable and why use my thighs when I could use his? Sweet, juicy revenge was mine as he writhed and whimpered under the frosty bite of my touch.

The crop dusting I was doing the night before didn't hurt either.

Friday, November 17, 2006


"When we get to your sister's I'm going to need to take a shower."


"Yeah. I've got a major case of swamp ass."

"?!.. I'm telling everyone you said that."

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


"Want to know something? We just spent all weekend together and I'm not sick of you yet."

"I'm not sick of you either. I didn't even get mad at you all weekend."

"Yes, you did."

"Doesn't count. I was annoyed, not mad."

Monday, November 13, 2006


My (Future) Brother-in-Law, hereafter and forever known as Trini, is an asshole. "Why is he an asshole?" you might ask yourself. He's exceptionally friendly, he treats my sister well, he's generous with his money and is happy to buy you a beer, he's practically raising his Aunt's kids, so why on God's green earth would you call that poor man an asshole? Because it's true.

I would know. I was there.

My sister doesn't DO floors. So Trini does them. He polishes them to a fine, high shine.

"Now how would that possibly make him an asshole? I wish I had myself a man who was willing to do floors."

You want to know WHY that man is willing to do the floors? Because of the aftermath. His floors are so slippery people have been known to fall down on them while STANDING STILL!, much less running away from a would be attacker as was my situation. I was BAREFOOT. My left foot hitting that floor reacted much like the shady side of a hill after a snowstorm. The right foot however, remained where it was, safely planted on the carpet and not budging an inch as my no so flexible ass did a split only to bash (see: possibly break and maim) toes and bruise a knee.

And all the while Man Friend and Tiff are leaning over me asking if I'm alright and doing a damn good job of stiffling their own laughter, Trini is over on the couch laughing so hard his face is red (quite a feat, let me tell you). Now I'm occassionally hobbling around and I'm pretty well convinced I broke my foot. Not anything serious. I mean it doesn't hurt so much as annoy, but it's the same feeling I got when I fractured my hand (and dad didn't believe me for a week).

Man Friend prefers to think it was this accident that caused the suspect fracturing since the other accident involved his knee and he doesn't like the idea of breaking me.

(DISCLAIMER: Trini is FULLY aware his floor does this. It is why he waxes it like that. He even waxed it SPECIFICALLY FOR US TO COME VISIT knowing there would be alcohol consumed -- though I hadn't been drinking when this little incident occured. Bastard.)

Wednesday, November 08, 2006


"If I died you would need Katie to perform sexual favors for you to ease the grieving process."

"Or Andrew."

"That IS another option. You aren't picky."

"Which is why I'm dating you."

"... I will make you pay for that."

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


"Apparently while we're up there (Boston), Trini is going to go to a birthday party. With strippers. He invited you to go along if you want."

"I'd rather hang out with you."

"Are you saying that because you really don't want to or because you think that is what I want to hear?"

"I want to hang out with you."

"Even if hanging out with me means you're forced to go shopping?"


"Atta boy."

Monday, November 06, 2006


Apparently, men find it very sexy when a woman is wielding a gun (so long as she isn't psycho pissed and aiming it at their preciouses (hell yeah, I just made a Lord of the Rings reference)). This was so proved by Man Friend's insistance that I not only wear a ammo belt Rambo style but that I pose for a picture with his big ass*, HEAVY, scary looking 500 S&W Magnum.

*It would seem my definition of a big ass gun is very similar to Rusty's definition of a bad ass gun.

I did not fire this gun. Oh, no. I have no interest in getting pistol whipped because I can't handle the recoil. But holding it as if I'm not actually terrified of the thing? That's hot.

"Even Drew said it was hot."

I suggested if THAT was hot with me wearing a coat zipped up to my chin, might it not be EVEN HOTTER if I was wearing a slutty top that showed off my puppies, using the ample valley to cradle that massive bringer-of-death? Apparently not.

"That gun would dwarf you, if not hide you altogether." And by "you" he means my assets.

But despite the veto of the money shot, there is a lesson to be learned from all of this. The new hottest look for fall is Victoria Secret's slut wear coupled with a holster. Maybe even a little badge on the hip. Ohh! And handcuffs. Make sure you don't forget the handcuffs.

Sunday, November 05, 2006


Driving through Columbus last night mine eyes happened upon that little beauty of a licence plate. Happened upon because the guy who owned the plates cut me off. Doing 90.

I'm sure it comes as no surprise to ANYONE that I, myself, was speeding (Hello. I am my father's child.), and this guy cut by me, sweeping across LANES of traffic in either direction, only hitting his brakes when absolutely necessary... and then got off at the next exit. His driving wasn't what bothered me either. Despite the speeding and the cutting and the weaving, despite all of that, it was still reading his licence plate that elicited my freshly painted middle finger. Little prick. I hope she gave you syphilis.

I found out a few things this weekend. The first being I'm a decently okay shot. As Man Friend told his father, I'm either low or dead on. What does this mean for you? Well, should ever the occasion arise where I'm shooting at you, I'll either hit you in the chest where I was aiming or the nuts. And if I was aiming for your nuts? Well.. then I won't miss.

I also discovered that Man Friend's parents won't do a whole lot of anything if they hear a girl's screams eminating from their eldest's room. Like coming to my rescue. And I don't like being pinned down and given raspberries. It tickles.

Finally, I found the depths to which Man Friend will stoop. I won't give the details but it involved the farts and my face in an area I would never willingly put it. (No, he didn't fart ON my face but there was certainly the imminent threat of residual gases eminating forth from their cling hold on the fabric of his jeans - an act wholey unacceptable in any boyfriend o' mine.)

Thursday, November 02, 2006


Andrew: "So the pirate goes to the pet store.."

Katie: "I know this one! 'Arr!! It's turning me balls!'"

Andrew: "You mean, 'driving me nuts?'"


My class was cancelled for this evening and do you know what that means?! Here are my (your) choices:

    a) Taking the wonderful opportunity to play catchup on my portfolio and various readings and assignments, including the two scary looking articles I still have to create (e.g. pull out of my butt) for my writing seminars.

    b) Napping.

    c) Packing (The plan is to slowly but surely move all of my crap back home to Mommy and Daddy's so it isn't so overwhelming and to drag the sappy sentimental pain and heartache out as long as possible).

    d) Anything related at all to personal hygiene.

Alright. Let's be bloody, effing honest here. I haven't done ANY of those things today. Why not? Well for starters, breakfast was delievered to me IN BED this morning by one very nice roommate who made cinnamon rolls. Why I'm using that as an excuse is beyond me other than the fact that I really haven't been FORCED from my nest in order to fend for myself today.

I did do something productive by way of applying for another job on and The deal with Mother Dearest* is that I will apply to AT LEAST one place per day for the next two weeks so she doesn't decide to respawn Satan (and thus depression) upon my consciousness.

(THANK YOU SO EFFING MUCH, JAYMIE - not that the youngest of the R. clan even reads my blog but OH! will she get her comeuppance the next time her pretty little face is within clawing distance. You know a conversation with your mother is NOT going to be good when her response to you ANSWERING. THE. PHONE. is this, AND I QUOTE: "I just got done talking to your younger sister about her lack of a job and now I'm on the war path." All I've got to say is my Christmas present better be expensive you little shit and I hope she made you cry.)

Despite this recent jump in job hunting activity on my part and finding a couple of publishing jobs I WOULD KILL MY YOUNGER SISTER FOR (or at least fake it pretty damn convincingly), I have yet to hear anything by way of a response. True, I need to give it a little time for it to sink in how wonderfully brilliant I am and for them to decide between my asking salary and 50 bajillion dollars AND the fact that it would be slightly convenient for them to wait to schedule an interview until I've gotten psycho Mom to buy me a suit to interview in... I just want it resolved BEFORE I HAVE TO MOVE BACK IN WITH MY PARENTS. It is one thing when you can avoid picking up the phone ("I don't want to be like Grandma. I know what it's liked to be nagged to death.", ((COUGH)) You aren't like Grandma. GRANDMA DOESN'T KNOW WHERE I LIVE. - Oh, she knows the mailing address for the occassional card with pretty green paper stuffed inside but we all know she's at the age where eating her own offspring is beyond her physical capabilities so driving to Cincinnati ISN'T AN OPTION.**)

Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. Both of them. Even though Dad is winning that whole A-parent prize by default right now. Hell, I even LIKE them. I am WILLING TO HANG OUT WITH THEM whenever I manage to make it home. But I still don't want to move back in, free rent and all, because I would like to CONTINUE liking my parents. And being able to not pick up the phone is an appealing option.

*This is the name I use for her when I'm not particularly charmed by her existance.
**I'm not insinuating that MY mother wants to eat her young. My bright red guts strewn all over the floor is a pretty clear indication.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


"Call your charming, beautiful, funny girlfriend. Then, after that, call me."


As a female who has been self-conscious about her weight since THE THIRD GRADE, it's a nice feeling to know Man Friend can sling me around like a sack of potatoes.

That is to say until his shoulder is planted firmly into my stomach and my pleas for mercy errupt from my throat as grunts.

This display of manliness is also a clear indication that I could not take Man Friend is a fight. Ohhhh, no. Battle of wits? Maybe. Screaming match? Most definately. (I actually have no proof of this seeing how we've never BEEN in a screaming match, but I believe we are all WELL AWARE of the set of lungs I've got on me.) But Man Friend has shown himself to not shy away from biting, spanking, or generally molesting me back. And I can't exactly DEMAND clemency when I started it.