Know what would be really funny? Make the dad a widower.

Hey guess what? It turns out I don’t really know any lullabies. (Don't trouble your pretty little head about why I need to know them.)

I’ve got the Twinkle Twinkle down, which flows smoothly into the ABCs (same tune, yo!) but I flounder after that, singing a few French and German songs I learned in middle and high school. Then I stretched my brain and came up with the chorus to Hakuna Matata and about six other random Disney verses melded together into one pan-Disney all-star review.

From there, I went patriotic with “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and a singing recitation of the 50 states. After we were amped up to march in the 4th of July parade I threw in the towel and started singing pop songs.

I drew a blank after a few of those and just resorted to singing commercial jingles and TV theme songs, which is why a nannycam would have caught me late last night in a rocking chair in the dark singing, “Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman, the paperboy and evenin’ TV…”

Jonathan Taylor Thomas should maybe chew carefully this week, is all I’m saying

Oh my God guys? My ’90s crushes? They’re all dying?

Brad Renfro was sad enough, but then death kindly stopped for Ledger too? It’s just too much to process. I really am upset about their deaths in a way I didn't expect to be.

And just the other day at lunch, my friend Lauren was re-enacting meeting Heath Ledger last year.

She’d been the one of my friends who always just missed seeing a celebrity with us, be it Carmen Electra at Vitamin World or a random NBC reporter at 30 Rock.

Then! One day she was at lunch when Heath walked past with some guy. Not wanting to miss her first real celeb, she drops her lunch on the bench, yells to watch her bag and goes sprinting down the street in her skirt and sensible shoes.

She wooshes past HL and the male companion then stops dead a few feet later at the corner, trying to casually look at her watch and catch her breath as though she didn’t just almost knock them over.

One thing about Lauren. She’s 5 foot nothing but her boobs are more proportional to a girl about maybe 6’ 8” so none of us were totally shocked to hear that she looked at Heath and said hi and he checked out her rack. How fun for everyone!

And now he’s in that big Tiger Beat in the sky. RIP Heath.

Because who doesn't love the Irish?

I'm and huge fan of Barack Hussein Obama. He's so MLK and Kennedyesque! Gonna unite us all! Red and blue states together in purple harmony! He's so committed, even his lips are purple!

Worried the name is too scary for flyover country? Change his name to Barack Hussein O'Bama. Punctuation saves the day!

Yes, I'll probably take this post down when Brit Brit dies

Journey back with me to the year 1999, when we were all partying like the year that it actually was. Did I just blow your mind? It was a simpler time when Dallas beat Buffalo for the Stanley Cup (what?) Rev. Jerry Falwell outed a purple Teletubby named Tinky Winky (the?) and Concerto for Flute, Strings and Percussion by Melinda Wagner won the music Pulitzer (fuck?).

It was also when a young redneck named Patrick in my newspaper class took a shine to fresh-faced popstar Britney Spears. You have to stretch your imagination and remember she used to be ohmigah the hottest girl ever



instead of a bloated mentally unbalanced cat woman.



Patrick would go around shouting to whoever would listen that, “Britney Spears will be my wife. Oh yes, she will be my wife.” Which would have sounded creepy if not for it being so far-fetched. Let the scrawny, pimply boy dream his dreams in peace!

I was thinking about Patrick the other day. Someone should really let him know that now would be the time to make his move.

Tom Cruise and his caps should convert

Random thought for the day: What's up with Mormons and their big white families teeth? Something in the salt water? It's like God's love for his people is being beamed directly through their mouths.

They should seriously make a little money for their church selling Mormon brand teeth whitening strips, like Kabbalah water.

Hop on my Rascal, let’s go for a spin

My new boyfriend and me.

I think I’m breaking up with you, Match. I'll just make Clancy Wiggum my new boyfriend.

It was all fun and games and online shopping for boys in the beginning, but a few recent setbacks have shown me the light.(I winked at a guy I’d already gone on a date with, and hated, and totally forgotten about. It took a lot for me to admit that.) Apparently I’m a huge wink slut. It’s also come to my attention that I’m actually out of single guys in the nation’s biggest city.

But the nail in the coffin has to be this tale of woe and bewilderment (and anger! Lots of anger!)

A year ago this guy and I had been emailing back and forth and had agreed to meet up for coffee. He seemed totally normal. But then he got concerned that my fat ass was going to not be worth 15 minutes of his life. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Him: You only have face pics, no body. That's not fair. What does your body look like?

Ah romance.

Me: (My hackles raised with ten kinds of indignation): I’m 800 pounds and ride around on a Rascal. Didn’t you see me on Maury last week?

Him: This obviously isn’t going to work. You’re the most passive-aggressive person I’ve ever met in my life.


So after a few days of retelling the story - my outrage and arm gestures getting more out of control with each telling - I went on to date someone else. After the breakup when I started up with Match again guess who was waiting for me, I assume not remembering our little exchange?

He winked at me four times in the span of a few weeks so I finally wrote:

Funny story {recount story here}. So how’s this for direct: Never contact at me again.

So then he like totes passed a note to Sarah in study hall and Mrs. Hamilton intercepted it and made him read it in front of the whole cla…zzzzzzzzzzz. What?

He sent me Match’s form rejection letter, which says something condescending like, “I’m sure you’re great for someone, just not me. We don’t match based on (fill in the blanks) physical attraction. Good luck in your search!”

Aw hells naw, son.

I blocked him, but he’s back with a new screenname! And he winked at me again today.

Me: I’m still 800 pounds, but you clearly want me. Let's do this.

i would say millions things to you that we can be a good match,the question is;how long is it gonna to find out am i the one for you or are you that

Realization of the day: There's no polite way to ask someone if English is their first language. There's just not.

I do wish it were an Alf skateboard though

As we all learned last March (I'm timely!) I tried a thing last year where I set a resolution for each month.

I achieved them all except playing a dead body on Law & Order (I'm still coming for you, Dick Wolf!) and getting insurance, which seems to just be eternally out of my grasp.

And what's the number one thing a girl without insurance should do? That would be skateboard, of course! Journey back with me as I explained my goal for June:

JUNE
Goal: Skateboard.
Reason: Never have, always wanted to. Want to be able to sing “Sk8er Boi” with some authority. (Boy, spellcheck does not like that song.)

Why did I set this goal? Who knows! I'm not really clear if I thought I had a friend with a skateboard or if I was going to take lessons from someone or what. Plus, there's nowhere in Manhattan to learn without some 11-year-old pro laughing at you while he does a 360 over your head. Whatevs. All I knew is that I'd wanted to do it ever since I asked for a hot-pink Alf skateboard when I was 8. (Sensing a theme of weird gift requests?)

Because I didn't do it in June, I'm only giving myself partial credit. It was a photo finish. On New Year's Eve afternoon I was talking to my sister about next year's goals and I mentioned skateboarding was the only one from this year that I was bummed about. She - with her supernatural sense of logic - pointed out that we had a few hours to kill, a flat surface for a driveway and a Wal-Mart within a mile of us. Dunzo.

The total endeavor cost $12. Sure, it would have been more if I'd gotten a helmet, but the way I see it, I didn't plan to use it anyway. (Wal-Mart cashier: "You need a helmet, girl?" Me: "Nope, I got this, thanks. I don't plan to fall.") Boom, $20 saved.

Sure, I was a bit rickety at first, but I soon found my center of gravity and was gliding elegantly and tentatively grinding ferociously down the driveway.

Even though I didn't fall once, my parents were alarmed:



It also led to a great quote from my sister. She and I were fighting about how old that wee little skater Rob Dyrdek on Rob & Big.

Me: There's no way he's older than 25!
Annie: Nope, he's like 33.

(Hair-pulling, name-calling interlude.)
Me: (*Clacking away on Wikipedia*)

Me: Annie, I owe you an apology. He's 33. But he's so short though!
Annie: Well, Kate, short people age too.

A wise lesson for all of us going into the new year. Short people age indeed. Short people age indeed.

It's a major award!

Just wanted to let you know I got an honor from this dude, confirming my suspicions that I am - as I suspected - awesome. Here's what Jacob had to say about yours truly:

Funniest Blogger I don't Know Personally: I have no idea who Kate is. I do know that she doesn't post enough though. However, despite the slow pace of content addition, her posts are comedy gold. She's got a great way of making the mundane sound hilarious. Kudos. Just read her dining room floor glitter post or this to see for yourself. She also gets the award for Best Use of Labels.

Go me.

Suck it, old ladies.

My mom told me the other day how glad she was I don’t censor my blog even though I know my parents read it. To that I say: Let me tell you about the gingerbread house contest I entered, muthafuckas!

I’m going to level with you. When I was home, I made a gingerbread house. (Don’t judge me. I had no access to a car, so I was trapped at my parents’ house for almost three solid weeks. It was like “Alive”. You do what you have to to survive.)

My sister and I had been talking about making one for the past dozen years or so. This was going to be our year. We got supplies! I printed out pictures of churches! We batted ideas around! My sister made exactly three holly berries for a mini wreath and bailed!

I channeled my gingerbread rage and refocused it squarely where it belonged: little old ladies. I found out about a Hometown gingerbread house contest, entered the hell out of it and immediately started trash talking at the little old ladies and assorted gays I imagined my competition to be.

It turned into the most badass gingerbread house on the block, straight outta Compton wit its fly lil’ cobblestones, fuckin’ sparkily sugar snow on the roof and one kickass Holy Family.



Awwwww yeaaaah.

No gumdrops here. I went batshit with fondant, making every roof tile, chimney stone and row of siding. I cannot tell you how damn fly my Baby Jesus’ manger was.

After a few weeks of going around the house yelling “Suck it, old ladies!” at random times/objects, I was finished mere hours before I had to leave for the airport.

Not only did I enter a gingerbread house contest, and not only did I take it way too seriously, it came to my attention I may have cheated: I reinforced my walls with cardboard, lest the house collapse like DJ Tanner on a treadmill. (That’s my new favorite metaphor.)

Turns out I WON THE FUCKER! I know. I was more shocked than anyone. Despite the trash talking, I really thought there was some little old lady/gay who would know what they were actually doing and take my rightful prize from me.

Oh, and what was the prize? That would be a $200 savings bond. You may laugh now, but in 5 to 10 years, I’ll be sitting pretty.

Sadly, I did not win fan favorite (an additional $100 savings bond.) That went to some snot-nose homeschooler whose friends and family stuffed the ballot box. Like I need another reason to hate homeschooled kids? Go back to your spelling bees, nerd.

So in conclusion, I’d like to say: “Suck it, homeschoolers.”