Monday, April 25, 2011

Home at last

Vacations always seem more magical in one's head, no? I mean, yea, I know all the mom-and-daughter things I had cooked up in my mind were not actually going to happen as TLC/Lifetime-y as I thought, but I guess it takes some time away from relatives you thought you knew to make you realize how human they are.

Which isn't to say that I'm disappointed, and I also don't mean to imply that I'm referring to my mom.
I guess reality just turns out to be a lot more real than my fantasy version of reality tends to be in my mind.

Friday, April 8, 2011


Speaking of "it being a while", it's time for a vacation. With all kinds of travel plans swirling around, one thing is at least semi-nailed down. I'm going home. For Easter. For the first time in a long time. Or is it Passover? There's still time to decide.

Even though I am going home, it isn't really a vacation until I'm released from the clutches of my mother. Of course I want to see her, and my grandparents, and visit, and drink coffee, and et cetera, however-
It's not a vacation if all your activities are pre-planned and taking place on the lido deck at 1:00, promptly after lunch.

And even though my leave starts at 0001 on Sunday, 24 April, my vacation doesn't start until whenever I wake up on Monday, 25 April and get my cereal and cartoons on.

Luckily, my leave has been approved and tickets bought, so we're halfway there. Now just to get through the next 16 or so days... But who's counting?

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

It's been a while...

So yea, I fell victim to the allure of the blog only to have that candor sparkle and quickly fade. I felt only slightly guilty for the neglect I've shown my poor little defenseless blog, so I've returned.

It was weird at first- what the hell are you supposed to say? The maiden voyage of any journal is at least a little awkward... "Hey, Journal, it's me, Kat. Uh, how are YOU doing? I'm swell. Ok, bye!"

No. That's like small talk with a coworker you barely know or like but are forced to share a candid moment with at the Christmas party or picnic or whatever. Thank God for booze in that situation, no?

Luckily, blogs cannot talk back, judge, or made snide comments behind your back to other coworkers- or worse, your boss. They just sit there, kind of like immobile dogs, waiting for you to come back and pick up where you left off. They're chill like that.

So let this be my second attempt at a maiden voyage. My second first post. It's good to be back.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Not to ruin the ending, but I die at the end.

So I started this blog to give all my sad, homeless, unfinished articles a home, but discovered I'm quite too lazy to transfer them all over from their temporary halfway houses in notebooks or word documents, day planners- wherever they may be.

In my attempt to have a witty and insightful blog, it has resulted in not very many blog entries, leading me to the conclusion that I am only witty or insightful at very periodic intervals. So instead of trying to be clever, ironic, or whatever's hip these days, I'm just going to spout of arbitrary nonsense and hope it entertains. I fell it's better for the creative process anyway. (That was a joke. Get it? Cuz I sound pretentious and- never mind.)

What is that saying the French have? The one where you're insulted or challenged, but at the time you can't think of anything glib to say until you're standing on the stairs, and then the most devastating remark just dawns on you? Esprit de la escalier or something Frenchy like that. I think I have the opposite of it; I think of all this crap to write down, and then when I actually go to write it out, it all leaves me. Fucking French.

Is there a word for thinking of something, walking to another room, forgetting what you thought of, and then going back to where you originally thought of it in order to remember? My mom taught me that trick, and for some scary reason, it works. It has about an 84% success rate. It's pretty much voodoo.

Also, Jamba Juice is a lie. It's not healthy for you. How can you trust the health claims of a corporation that, first of all, employs shady-looking high schools with fake smiles and ball caps (you gonna play ball in the store?) and second of all, uses styrofoam cups with plastic straws and lids. Um, let's back up a minute. You claim to be all New Agey and earth-friendly and body-healthy and shit, but you deliver your product in a vehicle that has absolutely no future as anything other than that cup, that straw, and that lid. After you've served your heart-healthy, energy-boosting, could-be-but-probably-isn't-organic (and let's face it, what really IS organic now, anyway?) beverage to the masses, you take zero responsibility in its container's disposal.
"Oh no, we've been found out, Mr. Juice!" "Looks like it, Mrs. Juice!" That's how Mr. and Mrs. Jamba Juice talk in my mind. Not that I hear voices, I just imagine them as very animated people. Plus I don't know their real names. I'm just ripping on them.

So as I was ranting, it's pretty much bullshit, I'd say. At least there's no high-fructose corn syrup, or so we think. Jeez. There's a whole other topic we just do not have time for.

As for other things that are bullshit (pardon my French. I started with the escalier stuff and just couldn't stop), so is excessive training that you just have no use for. But maybe that's one for the corn syrup day too.

Good cliffhanger. Give you something to look forward to.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Remember letter-writing?

In my incessant pondering, it occurred to me that there has been a nasty, unfounded rumor started regarding cell phones. Why do people seem to think that sending a text message as opposed to calling is the digital equivalent of knocking instead of ringing the doorbell?

It has generally been my experience that a the ringer for a text message will be just as loud as that of a phone call, just different. I know that sometimes it's possible to change the settings on phones to make different ringers have different volumes, but to be honest, I want to know when I'm getting a text message as well as a phone call. That's why they both have ringers.

Also, I've learned that no matter how many texts I send or phone calls I make, if my friend's phone has somehow found it's way to the endless abyss that is Under-car-seat World or Bottom-of-gym-bag-in-the-trunk-of-car Land, ain't no gettin back to me. The volume of missed calls and text messages as well as the volume of the ringer for each is inconsequential. Communication has halted. If you've sent 40 texts and called eleven hundred times, it's not like magically, text #41 is suddenly going to have the same effect as a dog whistle that only your target text/call audience will respond to.

Not that I'm outside of this phenomenon; I too have sent many a volume of text messaging and made plethoras of phone calls that fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. But I've figured out that whether the person whom you are trying to reach is unavailable or ignoring you, if it's urgent, just leave a voicemail or a text or two. 50 texts and 80 calls start to look a little some circles.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Snooki, Sookie, and shoulder pads. Where did we go wrong?

Sometimes I feel like those crafty people in Hollywood allow shows and movies to happen not because the premises therein are captivating or clever, but because they know that they will serve in their entirety to be made fun of by the very masses for which they were created. At the risk of offending the vast majority of females with whom I associate, here are a couple examples which I feel solidly fit the description: Jersey Shore and True Blood.

Having never seen Jersey Shore, only a clip of "Chelsea Lately" where the three more popular "characters" appear, I can only gather that the United States of America (with the exception of a minority up in arms about the show because they are in "the know") will agree with me when I note this show as a gleaming beacon of "guido" mockery.

I should only have to state the premise of True Blood in plain English to make my point about its sheer farcicality, but I will elaborate.
Basically, a bunch of vampires and other already-thought-of creatures run around in a fictional Louisiana town and hang out with non-vampire-but-telepath Sookie flirts with Bill The Vampire.
Uh. Shall I go on? Oh ok, since I promised. According to wikipedia, the story is an allegory for LGBT rights. The vampires "come out of the coffin" and allege that "God hates fangs".
Personally, I was willing to accept Twilight and the rest of Stephenie Meyer's brainchildren as this generation's Harry Potter. But as the vampire trend slowly grew until it reached a tipping point, I have to admit, all the lore began to grate on my last nerve. And it's just a hop, skip, and a jump from first nerve to last. Not many stops in between.

I feel like fictitious creature fads go in and out like fashion. Like, high-waisted skirts were "in" during the 80s, much like vampires were in the early 90s with "Interview With A Vampire". But sometimes fads are just big mistakes. Like shoulder pads.

It's time for someone to come up with a new fictitious creature or superhero. Like "Schruteman". He could go around righting wrongs and feeding beets to everyone. Although, even that is just a variation of a preexisting character. Maybe we're just doomed to be exposed to more reality when we come home from a long, hard day of reality and watch Snooki in all her orange glory and hair bump talk about God-knows-what on the beautiful shores of New Jersey. Or, if we get bored with that, there's always the gripping and oh-so-original blossoming romance between Sookie and Bill The Vampire.

Tell you what though, I never get tired of hearing his wise vampire warning of "Sookie, no".

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Maiden voyage of the ship "Blog"

Hm. Now that I have this thing, all my clever musings have left me. I s'pose I'll start with a short bio:
I'm a hot blonde who drinks far too much coffee and has a few too many ambitions.

I'm in the Navy; four years down, two to go. For me, being in the military is like being in an on-again, off-again love-hate relationship. Or maybe a bad marriage that one sticks out for "the kids". In our case, however, the Navy and I don't really have children per se, so it's really just the legal binding contract and fear of going to prison that makes me stay. What can I say, he's just such a charmer.

Ok, maybe that's not totally fair. There are things I like about being a "servicemember". The guaranteed paycheck (higher-ups will warn you from referring to it this way, but if you're not a complete idiot and you stay off the CO's radar, you're pretty much golden), checking bags for free (like everyone used to be able to do...I think gas prices came down already, airlines...what are we still doing paying $1100 per bag?), and the 15% discount at places like Rudy's (best BBQ in TX, don't listen to Doc). Oh, and the pijamas for uniforms. Those are pretty nice, if not a pain in the A to put on.

But, sometimes recruiters lie. Or don't tell the "whole" truth. (Got news for you, recruiters, that's still lying). Sometimes they don't tell you you'll be working in a building with zero natural light and a cranked A/C in the dead of [Texas] winter. Which, let me tell you, folks, is still cold. It snowed for 15 whole minutes last February.
And sometimes, big government organizations have rules (or appoint people who makes rules) that plain-and-simple do not make any damn sense to anyone.

For example: When I'm awake for 24 hours in a row, I think it's reasonable to want to go to sleep afterwards. However, when playing the rank game, E-7 beats E-5 every time, any way you slice it. So when all you want to do is let your body rest after working a mid-shift, your Chief wants you to attend an assembly of the "entire command" at an All-Hands Call. This is where a bunch of Admirals and other various officers that have no consciousness of their audience blather on about things that people who are just coming off a mid-shift will never understand unless they've had a metric ton of caffeine or some f-ing sleep.

Although, as a desk-jockey, I admittedly do not have to tolerate life aboard ship which would otherwise be customary for a "sailor" such as myself.
I get to sleep in my own queen-sized bed with the realized expectation that I will be the only one sleeping in it at any given time. There is a common phenomenon that occurs out at sea called "hot-racking". This means that there may be only enough beds for half the crew, and since they generally work in shifts, the beds are shared. While one sailor works, the other sleeps and so on, leaving the "rack" "hot" at all times.
Uh, can you say gross? Who changes the sheets? Do they even get changed? Where do you think bedbugs come from?

Also, I hear from the saltiest that the food on ships is pretty terrible. If you're lucky enough to get any, the coffee's burnt and the food is about what you might expect from a school cafeteria in West Virginia.
Not that I'm a great chef, but I can cook well enough to keep myself alive and happy for a few hours. And, if I don't feel like cooking (more like "compiling". See also: "lasagna"), I have a wonderfully epicurean boyfriend who kicks the shit out of Marie Callendar AND Aunt Jemima. Yea. I said it.

I guess it's not SO bad, the life of a sailor in Texas (God save you if you call me a Texan sailor. I am from Nebraska. Represent). Especially since I've recently traded in my 2001 Cavalier for a honest-to-goodness Texas truck, so now I get to play "Get out of my damn way or I'll run you over. Bring it on, Dodge Ram".
I love that game.