The email that went out…
Dear Seven Loyal Readers:
I just realized that my little piece of the Interwebs has reached 500 blog posts. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something different to do for the obligatory commemorative entry. Finally, I figured why not some sort of Blog Roast? It seems appropriate. So, here’s my proposal:
If you have time and the inclination, would you please email me something to post? Something along the lines of a humiliating story/a sordid memory/whatever, as long as it pertains to the blog or me or vodka. Or, if you are more of an artsy person, you could send an incriminating photo or doodle. Or if you’re analytical, then may I suggest an estimate of what I’ve spent on shoes since you’ve known me. Really, anything. Anyway, I will then gather everything together, make it somewhat orderly and post the lot.
Thanks for helping me celebrate 500…
Pithy Comments and Flipilicious are relatively new additions to my Sphere of Love. But we’ve bonded over a shared appreciation of Kristen Bell, CW television shows, and our own boobs. Plus, we’ve all successfully repressed our Crazy Cat Woman tendencies. This was their masterful joint contribution, complete with the links of their choice.
Hey there, K-bell,
Do you mind if I call you that? I mean, I usually refer to you as Kristen “Almost Making Me a Lesbian” Bell, so if you want, I can continue doing so, but I understand how awkward that will be when it changes to Kristen “Made Me a Lesbian” Bell.
Anyway, enough about how hot you are (seriously, are you even human?). My cat convinced me (by covering every square inch of my apartment with vomit after eating my Veronica Mars blow-up doll) that I should stop talking about how much I idolize you and just write you a letter, proposing we meet up sometime. (Side note: That Fuckity Ass Bitchoid also convinced me to return her to the Pet Rescue – I still have my receipt!)
Since I know you’re busy promoting Fanboys, I’ve taken the liberty of giving multiple options for our date sex romp platonic meet-up:
- Shopping while wearing Crocs,
- Watching Battlestar Galactica (if you’re friends w/ Katee Sackoff, I’m open to a ménage a trios),
- Getting you liquored up so I can make my move Drinking copious amounts of Diet Coke
- Renting a zip car and running over a gay french bulldog Getting an intimate look at DC’s culture while mocking tourists
- Snuggie Pub Crawl
No matter what activity you choose, it will be time well spent. I was not recently nominated as the expert on personal waxing, hangovers and sex within my friends’ group for naught. I also have a Very Sexy Boob Mole, if you’re into that kind of stuff. I realize you don’t know a whole lot about me, but I assure you, our time together will be blogged/tweeted/facebooked about for years held in the strictest confidence.
Honestly, I’m open to anything – except sushi.
And because the most entertaining minds are always in tandem, Maxie submitted this photographic gem of me and La Bell. Little does she know I intend to make it into a life size cutout.
The only picture taken of Katherine where you can't say she's wearing crocs with her dress.
My college roomie is the keeper of my deepest, darkest secrets. She’s lucky she only revealed innocuous tidbits in her Roast contribution: my occasional straight-from-the-tub consumption of icing, which is arguably the genesis of my phenomenally-sized ass, and my secret adoration of Lifetime. Apparently, the following words are to be sung to the tune of “Memory.” Yep, from the musical Cats.
Never called her that name yet,
Sounds so grown-up and formal,
“Kate” forever to me.
I remember, unending tubs of chocolate icing,
Cakeless icing, purity.
Lifetime movies all Sunday,
It was pure girly heaven
Got up only to pee.
Countless hours, her with vodka, Captain for me,
College apartment, so shady.
When I tell people I have internet friends, they usually look at me funny. But after they meet LiLu, they totally get it.
Within moments of meeting Katherine, I immediately knew we would be friends. This was not ONLY because within about 5 minutes, I was basically sitting on her lap at a crowded table of bloggers while we gossiped about things of a sordid nature. I also liked her shoes.
I keed, I keed. But I was also right. Over the past months, Katertot and I have been through a lot together. Mostly highs, some definite lows, but we’ve successfully drunk our way through it all. Wait, I mean, held each other. Yeah, that’s it.
Because she makes me laugh, every day, on and off her blog. Because she is trouble with a capital T (and my middle name is Danger). Because she is the kind of person I know I can (read: have) call at 2 a.m., crying, and she’ll not only answer but actually make me feel better. Because when we’re together, it looks like this:
The Dynamic Duo. And the Sexy Boob Mole.
I heart you, Katertot. Congrats on 500. But mostly, congrats on being my friend. Wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was LOVE YOU, hooker!
Back in my Ohio Days, there was a six month period where I was unable to drive. No, Interwebs, I did not get a DUI. At least that would have been a story. I’ve always secretly wanted to get booked… The car-ban was health related. Anyhoodles, about three months into my home boundedness, I bribed a Lawyerly Place Partner In Crime to drive me to work every morning. It was self-preservation; if I listened to any more of my father’s books on tape, there was going to be an Incident. Susan and I were friends, but our shared rides took it to an entirely new level. Especially when we realized we both obsess over Lindsey Buckingham in questionable and slightly stalkerish ways. This gem is titled, “Are you there God? It’s me, Suz.”
Ever since Katherine left my passenger seat, I have to live with this empty feeling in my car. Sure, I can fart freely (and trust me, I do) and get an extra 15 minutes of sleep, but it’s just not the same as having KJ’s wit and wisdom at my disposal. My chauffeuring abilities are probably, like, total crap now too.
God, every day I have to live with the idea that now there is no one to dress up like a burrito with on Halloween for a free meal, no one to make a Bob Evans‘ run for, and no one to invite me to inappropriate parties at their apartment. It just isn’t fair, God! KJ always had the best spreads.
I’ve tried to make friends with the other girls here, but they just don’t get it. Sometimes I think they will be like KJ because they like Star Trek and online dating, but then they just end up being total LOSERS, God. I know that I shouldn’t judge, but these people…they have the ability to drink, but they choose not to engage. They just don’t! Can you believe it?! They can forget being invited to my post-giving-birth happy hour, that’s for sure!
My grandpapa taught me that there is always a silver lining…and I suppose in some ways there are. If KJ hadn’t dumped Ohio, she probably wouldn’t be writing in her blog as much or as hilariously. She would probably still be walking to the Winking Lizard every day to feel cool, risking life and limb by making a mad dash across Bethel Road only to be mutilated into a big pile of goop by a Tim Hortons‘ truck…but I digress, God.
In my heart, I know that moving to D.C. and leaving me here alone at The First Place of Lawyerly Things was what’s best for KJ…but I can’t help but think what about me? I hope you can forgive me for being so selfish, God, but just look at how happy we were together…we even wore the same clothes! Sigh.
Until next time,
Stella…What can I say about Stella? She pimps my blog, provides me with vodka on an as-needed basis, and threatens my exes with sorta scary forms of retribution. She’s like Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda united into one wondrous being. Stells, someecard says it best.
Vodka and boobies
Bridget Jones, eat your heart out
With a twist of geek
Laina and Jill were 2/5ths of the reason I managed to stay sane during law school, especially when they talked about the Rule Against Perpetuities. (The other 3/5ths were Anona, Kelly, and vodka.) The Terrible Two are the kind of friends I can talk to every day or not for six months, but it doesn’t matter. Either one would happily give me a kidney (God knows I’m going to need it), a come-to-Jesus, or the bra off her boobs. And I’d do the same for them. They’re calling this one, “Laina’s 23rd Birthday, Or The Time We Managed To Get Katherine To Leave The Outer belt, Or Katherine Pets A Baby Chicken.” I think the ridiculously long title is a quiet jab at some of my stunners…
As you all may very well know, Katherine used to live in Columbus, O-H-I-O. And that wonderful city is encircled by an outer belt, known as I-270. During her tenure in C-bus, one of the quirkiest things we noticed about Katherine was she had little problem going outside the confines of I-270. After her post complaining about living outside the NoVA divide, it was clear to us that DC has not yet broken her geographic-phobia. But we digress…
How The Trip Done Got Planned, by Jill
In 2004, Katherine was suffering through her third year of law school, along with Laina. I had graduated a year earlier and had moved to Jackson, Ohio. At the time of our story, Laina was way pregnant and about to celebrate the big 2-3. I thought we should do something special before Laina got sucked into the Baby Abyss but she was being all responsible about things like fetal alcohol syndrome, so drinking was out.With margaritas and alcoholic debauchery were off the table, I figured we should eat. Laina had a thing for this little Mexican restaurant in Jackson and I figured that was a place we could afford to feed her preggo appetites. Initially, Katherine refused to go, citing I-270 restrictions. But then I mentioned the place had fried ice cream and she became putty.
We conspired to bring Laina to Jackson, have dinner at the Mexican place, and then hang out. By way of information, Jackson is only 77.1 miles, or 1 hour 34 minutes, from Columbus. It’s pretty easy to get to. But I know Katherine and how she gets lost. Plus, Katherine could count her excursions outside the outer belt on one hand. So, in preparation for the big adventure, I customized her directions complete with arrows, several maps, and pictures of relevant signage. I hoped it was enough for Katherine to get Laina to Jackson without a four hour tour of Southeast Ohio.
The Trip Itself, by Laina
So, Katherine comes to get me for an “outing.” I think we’re going to the mall but as we walked to her car, she tells me that I’m actually being kidnapped for a Day of Adventure. Since that was before you heard about all those crazy women cutting babies out of pregnant women, I figured I was good. So we set out. Mind you, she’d already left her geographic comfort zone to pick me up in New Albany (for you non-Ohioans, that’s about 15 minutes from downtown Columbus, but still outside that magical I-270 beltway). She hit the highway, pulled out a ten page sheet of directions and then started heading south. Knowing Katherine always, always, always gets lost, I figured I might want to navigate, and began asking questions. (Note by Katherine: A. Freaking. Lot. Of. Questions. She was unrelenting and wasn’t happy with, “For the love of Baby Jesus, SHUT UP! It’s a surprise.”) Finally she fessed up that we were going to Jackson, meeting Jill, and eating. See, good friends know that a pregnant lady’s world revolves around food.
After repeated “OMFG this is a long way away”s and “Jesus, are we there yet”s and “This is why I never leave the outer belt”s from Katherine, several direction fiascoes that resulted in me franticly calling to Jill so she could demand I navigate, and three pee stops (and I was eight months pregnant!) we finally arrived at Toro Loco. I then proceeded to eat so much Mexican I thought I would explode. Or possibly brain damage my child with my distended stomach.
(Note by Katherine: Oh no you don’t, Laina. We are not glossing over the feat that was your caloric intake. Interwebs, listen to this: Laina ate an appetizer, more chips and salsa than the Tostitos factory produces each Monday, a big glob of cheese in a tortilla with an extra side of rice, fried ice cream, and my fajitas leftovers. On the way home, the Human Black Hole demanded we stop TWICE for more food. This sounds impressive until you’ve seen Preggers Laina eat a Cinnabun. Also, I would like to mention that Laina was forced to wear a sombrero while the waitress sang “Happy Birthday” in a Spanglish. I have pictures, which I am willing to sell. Plus, Laina got mad at me for commenting on the restaurant’s disproportionately high people-to-mullet-ratio.)
And back to Jill
So after Toro Loco, things got a little, um, loco. You see Jackson is kind of a small town. While it is the biggest city (Note by Katherine: she uses that term way too loosely) in Jackson County, Ohio, it’s really dinky compared to the meganess of Columbus. Basically the joke is when someone asks what you’re doing on Saturday night, the automatic answer is going to “the Wal-mart.” The Wal-mart is the center of all things cultural in Jackson. It’s also the primary shopping option. (Note by Katherine: aside from Tractor Supply.) (Note from Jill: We’re getting to that). (Note from Katherine: They sell clothes. I’m just saying.) I’m still unsure why local custom dictates we put “the” before “Wal-mart,” but when in Rome… Anywho, in order to entertain the pregNATE lady and do a little after lunch walk stretchy-stretch, Laina and I decided to show Katherine the sights. (Note by Katherine: Again, that’s a loose use. If I recall correctly, Jackson has like two traffic lights and a hill.)
Laina explains about Tractor Supply Company
First of all, I want to note I love you, Jill, but I have been trying for four years to teach you that it’s pregNANT.
So, back to our story. Katherine looks out the window of Toro Loco, glances across the street and says all innocently, “What’s Tractor Supply Company? Do they sell tractor parts?” Jill and I laugh (Note by Katherine: totally at my expense; and yes they do sell tractor parts, so it’s not a stupid question, thank you very much, bitches.) and tell her that it’s a farm supply store, which actually used to be called “Farm and Fleet.” Katherine mumbled something about “being open to cultures and mullets.” But I know she was actually hiding her elation. Today, Katherine will do crazy stuff so she can write about it on her blog. But that’s just an excuse. Really, she just likes anything novel, potentially humiliating, or with free liquor. TSC met the novel requirement, if at a low level… So, it didn’t take a lot of arm twisting before we set off across the street to TSC.
BABY CHICKENS!!!!!!! by Jill
We actually drove across the street to TSC, it would be a dangerous walk, especially with a waddling preggo. (By the way Laina, you can get one of those “slow moving” triangle signs at TSC). Anyhoodles, we walk into TSC and Katherine’s senses were overwhelmed with the non-city smells. Katherine described it as “Manurery” and “Slightly too natural.” Oh, the sweet smell of feed and chain saw oil…We start walking around the store and pursuing the isles. At this time in her life, one of Katherine’s various money making ventures was the sale of sex toys in the home party setting. Kinda like Pampered Chef or Mary Kay for the Va-Jay-Jay. So her great knowledge of vibrating products led to many interesting questions regarding the various implements in the TSC. (Note by Katherine: Jill contributed. I am not the only one who thought the E-Z Nurse Screw Cap Nipple resembled a 14th Century butt plug.)
Damn. I’ve got to stop with the tangents… So along with seeing the implements and smelling the smells, Katherine also noticed new-to-her sound. She turns to me and whispers, “Are those the baby chickens?” There was awe. There was excitement. There was disbelief. Looking at her face, you’d have thought she just witnessed the birth of Christ. So I explain to her yes, those are baby chickens. They are actually called “chicks.” That yes, you can buy chickens because, yes, they are in fact for sale, and yes, they are “actual farm grade poultry,” and yes, they will eventually lay eggs because all eggs do not actually come from Trader Joe’s, and yes, these eggs would qualify as organic. After the 50 questions, Katherine decides she must see the chicks NOW. She sprints towards the sound, which is coming from a big water container and peered in. Little, fuzzy, yellow chicks. It was her personal Christmas.
For ten minutes, I watched as Katherine was absurdely amused by a bunch of chicks in a big water tub. Eventually, she demanded to touch them. By this time, was Preggo gettingbored with us and the chicks. When you leave the outer belt, this stuff is slightly less novel, so she wondered off. I stayed with Katherine; mainly to laugh when she got pecked and when the chick she was holding dived down her shirt. But main reason in staying was to explain the downfalls of Pet Chick Ownership to Katherine. She was determined to leave TSC with at least one of those chicks, but she’d have preferred several. If I recall, her master plan was to dye them pastel colors and give them away as Easter gifts. Anyway, while I was busily reminding Katherine that Columbus was not zoned for livestock, we heard this odd pregnate huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning, and then our names being called in despiration.
Back to Laina, the Baby Chick Killer
Yes, I have seen chicks before. In fact, I had a traumatic experience regarding an accidental chick homicide of one when I was a small child. So, I was not interested in a possible repeat of The Baby Chick Killing. With nothing better to do, I wandered off… Then, from nowhere, I found that among its many other wonders, TSC sells rail buggies!!!!!! (Interwebs, this is AWESOME! Who could be anything but excited about a rail buggy???)
A rail buggy in its natural habitat
I’ve always wanted to ride in one and sitting in one, getting a feel for it, was about as close as I was going to get until I paid off my student loans. So, forgetting that I was 60 lbs heavier than usual (all of you just shut up, you’ll be pregnant one day and unable to resist the lure of Taco Bell or Ben and Jerry’s), I lowered myself into the rail buggy. It was super cool for about 30 seconds, until my short attention span kicked in, and I tried to get out. Which brings us to Jill’s point of view…I was NOT huffing and puffing, more yelling for help.
Katherine had to cut her baby chick adventure short so they could rescue my fat ass from the rail buggy. (Note by Katherine: It took both of us to pull her out. Seriously. It was like The Three Stooges, but with women.) On the way home, Katherine asked me about three times why we wouldn’t let her buy a baby chicks and when they weren’t cute anymore, why she couldn’t give it to me to live out on my “farm” (to be clear, I lived in a house with a normal yard, like anybody else; but anything outside I-270 is soybeans in the eyes of K.). And that, Interwebs, is the one and only time Katherine left I-270 until 2006.
And what was the point of all this, besides sharing the IMPORTANT INFORMATION that Katherine USED TO SELL SEX TOYS? Well, to demonstrate how easily she can be bribed with things that are sugar-filled or fuzzy (knowledge that often comes in handy, Interwebs). And also, this was the only story she’d let us tell. She vetoed all the ones from law school, citing “ethical considerations.”
P.S. Katherine did make a second trip to Jackson in ’06. She was overwhelmed by the number of silk-screened shirts in the local sports bar. (Note by Katherine: And also in ’06, I visited Laina in even-more-small-town Ohio. The directions included “turn right at the big tree” and “follow the dirt road past the people who don’t have electricity.” I vowed never to go back again.)