Bathroom Politics

It's been a hot minute since you last heard from me, and boy have I learned a lot in that time.  I'm easily 75% smarter right now than I was this time last week.  If I keep going at this rate, I should be a genius in approximately 12 days.

So I bet you are wondering, "Wow, what has Kathy learned?"  I'm happy to share.  Sharing is caring.

On the walls of the stall.  Recently, on my way to Tulsa for a meeting, I made a quick stop at a seedy rest stop.  How seedy you ask?  They had showers available for truckers.  As I looked around the not-as-clean-as-I-had-hoped-for restroom, I noticed the following conversation written on a stall for all the world to see:

Citizen #1:  I wish I was a dog and Obama was a tree
Citizen #2: What are you going to do when you get healthcare, idiot*? (*another word was used here, but this is a family friendly blog)
Citizen #3: Impeach Obama!

And this is why this land is so grand, y'all.  Talkin' politics on the bathroom stall.  America!

Key takeaway:   I wasn't aware there were any Democrats in Oklahoma, let alone ones who were willing to fight for the Affordable Care Act by way of a Sharpie in a Shell station.  Hooray democracy!

Spellin' be hard.  Thanks to the handy red squiggly line that popped up as I was composing emails, I learned I do not know how to spell pretentious or gallivanting correctly.  In case you were wondering, they were two separate emails.  Because who has ever heard of pretentious gallivanting?  That doesn't even make sense.

Key takeaway: I don't seem to be able to spell a lot of the words I use.  I think this means I was meant to be an orator, not a writer.  Thinking about setting up some fireside chats to enlighten the masses.  I'm gonna get all FDR up in here.  We'll call them, "Carrying a big stick."  Also of note: history's not really my thing either.

Google knows best.  Last night, I spilled a tray of paint on the carpet.  On an awesome scale, 1 being a sinus infection on vacation and 10 being a YouTube video of a cat wearing socks, I'd say it fell at about -44. Instead of being understanding of the fact it was an accident and not an "on-purpose," Husband seemed pretty annoyed by the whole situation.  I couldn't believe it.  Kathy would never react that way.

I asked him to google how one goes about getting paint out of carpet.  And what do you know, but those geniuses inside my computer gave us the right answer.  You douse affected area with water and use a  Shop Vac to suck up your mistake.  I, of course, already own a Shop Vac because 1. I am my father's daughter and 2. My life is really just a series of accidents, spills and messes.

Key takeaway: Gloating is palpable.  I could actually hear the gleeful thoughts going through Husband's head.  "And you think I'M the klutz!" I'm going to remember that feeling and think of it the next time he breaks something....and I will show no mercy.

I'm still working out the topics of my first fireside chat, but I think it will include a story about how Husband spilled paint all over the floor and I remained calm and came to the rescue. Because as we all know, storytelling isn't about details, it's about delivery.

Letters: Spurs, Shoes and Sad Eyes

Cheer up!  It's time for letters.  I should have written this on Monday, but I didn't.  So sue me...in small claims court, of course.

Dear San Antonio Spurs, 

Enough already.  I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we're tired of your schtick.  I have been cheering against Parker, Duncan and Ginobili since 1984.  Collectively, you are all 400 years old.  So hop on your Rascals and hit the road.  Oh sure, you play fundamentally sound basketball and are well-coached, but that's not what the people want to see.  And by people, I mean me.  Just let my team, who shoots ill-advised jump shots, win it from here.  And while we're in the business of wish-granting:  I do not like Manu Ginobili and I wish to never see him on my television screen again.

Amen,

Kathy

Dear Lost Box of Shoes,

The sadness I have over your disappearance cannot accurately be expressed by the written word.  I didn't even get to say goodbye.  I just packed up all of you, my summer sandals and such, and assumed you'd make the move with me.  But you didn't.  And maybe this was a sign from a higher being that I did in fact own too many shoes.  But isn't that for me to decide?  Who are you to say that seven pairs of Toms is too many? I've worked my way through the five stages of grief since the realization that you were gone: denial (if I keep looking in the same place, they are bound to show up!), anger (I will never stop being mad about this!), bargaining (I should have moved them myself, never trust other people), depression (I can't believe I'll never see those wedges again!), and finally acceptance (goodbye old friends, may you bring the same joy to a stranger you once brought me).  But I'm keeping the acceptance to myself, because as far as Husband is concerned, I am still in the second stage: anger.  

With great despair, 
Shoeless Joe Kath

Dear Oklahoma Allergens,

I hate you.  I hate you like I hate South American floppers in the NBA.  I cannot handle it anymore.  My left eye has been watering for seven days.  SEVEN DAYS.  In a super sexy twist, I was suffering from both pink eye AND mystery allergies.  The Bob Costas Olympic Conjunctivitis has cleared up, but my sad left eye continues to weep.  As Sheryl Crow once said, I can't cry no more...I really battled between quoting Sheryl Crow or the band Kansas here (Don't you cry no more).  I've also been working hard for the last 30 minutes on figuring out a way to tie in a Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes reference, to no avail.  As you can see, my weepy eye has led me to a state of progressive hysteria (<-- Def Leopard!). The sooner we clear this up, the quicker I can go back to referencing Mean Girls and pop culture.  I'm currently in a tailspin of 90's power ballads.  Make it stop!

Through my tears,
KHR

That's all for today.  If you need me, I'll be under my desk watching highlights of last night's game while wearing an eyepatch.  What music will be playing in the background you ask?  Cinderella, of course.  Because it's true, you don't know what you got, till it's gone.

Storm trackin'

I find the NBA Playoffs to be exhausting.  I'm completely worn out.  Someone place me IR.

In a tribute to the amount of Sesame Street that is being watched in our home at the moment, today's Thunder recap is brought to you by the letter B.

Big Baby?  As you all know, yesterday was Mother's Day.  Following a nice lunch with my family, my mother and I settled in to watch the Thunder take on the Clippers.  After the Thunder got off to a blistering start, the following conversation ensued.

Mom: Big Baby doesn't look too happy
Me: *pause* Ummmm....you know who Big Baby is?
Mom: Well, yes.  Do you think I've been living under a rock?
Me: No...  It's just that sometimes your knowledge surprises me.  This is one of those times.
Mom: I think he's friends with Fifty Cents.
Me: It's Fiddy Cent.  Just one.  Don't ruin the moment, mom.

(** Editor's note: this story is so much better if you know the back story of my mom correcting me on how to pronounce Fifty Cent years ago).

Blake Griffin, BOOOO!  I would like to go on record that I have never liked Blake Griffin.  Ever.  Since the time I became aware of his existence, I have disliked him.  I liked him for about 15 seconds when he did a funny bit on the ESPYs a couple of years ago, but that was it.

Back in the day, I commented on a local message board (before I knew better) that he was a dirty player.  I was attacked by the OU faithful for being jealous.  Of course I was jealous.  The Cowboys haven't had a legitimate center since Bob Kurland (that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but just go with me).  I have never denied his talent, but that doesn't mean I have to like him.  I have a sense for unlikable players.  When I know, I know.  For example: I have also never liked Joakim Noah.  I didn't like him when he played at Florida and thought he needed to hold his jersey out away from his body.  I know who you play for punk, you don't need to pull the jersey closer to the screen.  I didn't like how he slapped the floor, because I think slapping the floor is moronic.  And I just wish one time when someone was doing that and opposing player would tackle him. And I don't like his dumb hair.  Or his dumb face.  Or the dumb way he screams like a wild banshee. Down with Joakim Noah!  Down, I say!

Back to my point: Blake Griffin is the enemy.  And I'm glad to see we are all in agreement about this.  I don't want to tell Scotty Brooks how to coach, but we need more Steven Adams annoying him.  Pushing him to the brink.  Give the people what they want!

Also, I taught Tiny Human to boo when Blake Griffin has the ball.  Don't worry, I'm teaching her letters, numbers, colors, and the words to Ride 'Em Cowboys: all the basics.  But it's important to learn sports villains early.

Baby gear.  I'm a sports superstitionist (<-- not a word). I go with what works.  If I am wearing a shirt, and the team is playing badly, I'll change mid-game.  If we are in the midst of a losing streak, I'll change my gametime attire until we start to win, and then I stick with that.  It's an evolving science.  But I'm willing to do my part.  When the playoffs started, I wore my James Harden Thunder shirt.  Retro.  As you can imagine, there is some bad juju associated with the Beard Gear, so I opted for something else.  So far (until yesterday), I had found the winning combination.

But I'm pretty sure the Thunder's epic collapse yesterday can be placed squarely on the shoulder's of my child.  She didn't thunder up, and I think that was the missing link.  Sure, I dress her.  And sure, it's up to me to make sure her Thunder outfits are clean.  But we aren't talking semantics here, people.  We are talking putting the team before oneself. And frankly, she just isn't cutting it.  Pull your weight, kid.  You're only 26 pounds, how hard can that be?

Okay, so let's meet back here tomorrow night. We'll all dress appropriately, hope that someone Tonya Harding's Chris Paul (kidding...kinda), and all say a collective prayer that after Steven Adams knocks Blake Griffin to the floor, he stands over him ala Chris Tucker in Friday and in the immortal words of Smokey says, "You just got knocked the **** out."  Imagine, if you will, how amazing that line would sound coming from a Kiwi.

Make. It. Happen.

Amen.

I don't know what that means...

Ok, look.  It has come to my attention that I don't actually know everything.  I can tell you are as shocked as I am by this revelation.  From time to time, I come across something and I have zero frame of reference.  I can't even fake my way through it.  And since I am so humble, I will share three "I do not know what is happening" situations I recently found myself in.

It's tantamount. I was reading a semi-political blog the other day that used the word tantamount.  Assuming I knew the meaning, I kept on reading only to discover that my interpretation of the word did not fit the context of the paragraph.  I did a quick google search, only to discover that not only was I WAY off on definition, I wasn't sure I had ever heard this word used before.  In my life.  I was annoyed with the entire situation.  Mainly because it's a pretty obnoxious way to say "equal to."  Let's bring down the pretentiousness a little, shall we?

I asked Husband later that night if he knew what it meant.  This was our conversation.

Kathy: Are you familiar with the word tantamount?
Husband: Oh sure.
Kathy:  Oh sure?  Really?  You know what it means?
Husband: Of course
Kathy: Go ahead and define it for me.
Husband: The top, the pinnacle.
Kathy: Not quite.  I think you are referring to "paramount."
Husband: Then what does it mean?
Kathy: Equal to, virtually the same
Husband: that's what I meant
Kathy: Your response is tantamount to a lie.

Getting down to the brass tacks.  Imagine my surprise, while reading another article I learned that the correct cliche is "getting down to the brass tacks."  I would have bet $4 that it was "brass tax."  I don't know why.  Neither of those things make any sense to me. I use cliches all the time that I have no idea what they actually mean.  Like, "what's good for the goose is good for the gander."  No idea what that means, but I like the way it sounds.  I looked up what "brass tacks" means and it has something to do with hardware stores and measuring fabric precisely.  Seriously?  Who approved this for public distribution?    For good measure, I googled "brass tax" just to see if that was a thing.  It's not.

On another note, I'm starting to think I may be seeking out articles above my reading level.

Who is Craig Biggio?  I'm all for obscure sports references.  Lately, I've been driving Husband crazy by talking about NBA players from the 90s as if they still play.  For example, when the Portland game was on the other night, I asked when they were going to put in Clyde Drexler.  I've been told that my delivery is a little too dry, so it's hard to tell when I'm joking.  Sounds like a personal problem to me...  Anywho, I'm a strong supporter of well-placed random references.

Unless, of course it's Craig  Biggio.  After hitting his elbow for the third time in so many days, Husband texted me that he needed an elbow guard, ala Craig Biggio.  I mean, really?  I think you might have overreached on that one.  And by "might have" I mean, you absolutely did, because 9 1/2 out of 10 people wouldn't get that reference.

The moral of this random blog is that my confidence is shaken.  It's like I'm in a telenovela...lots of attractive people, and I have no idea what is going on.

But it's like I always say, the goose and Clyde Drexler are tantamount, now pay up on your brass tax.  Shoot, I think I might have messed that one up.

A House Divided Will Always Love You

Greetings friends.  Good to see you again.  Talk about Mr. Unreliable...Kathy seems to have disappeared into blogging oblivion.  But I'm back!  I was inspired by a poorly written headline, and, well, the rest is history, suckers.

It's been a big sports week in the realm of real news.  Well done, universe.  What did we learn?  Racism is bad.  It never stopped being bad.  So stop doing it.  And stealing crab legs is frowned upon in Florida.  And frankly, I don't think Winston's punishment was harsh enough.  Seafood is a gateway food.  What's next?  Kobe Beef? Truffle Oil?  Fancy Mac n' Cheese?  Let's nip this in the bud and go ahead and suspend him for the first football game in 2014.  And Kevin Durant just needed a little kick in the pants to get back in rhythm.  For a minute, I felt like I was living in a big city like Chicago or Philly where media and fans turn against great players.  We got LeBron'd.  Big League City, indeed.

After watching the Thunder thump the Grizzles, I'm back to being the over-confident fan.  Good win, good win.  Blowouts are so much better than OT nailbiters.  When it's a blowout, I can get other things done during the game: clean, workout, facebooky fun, etc.  Close, what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-this-team and why-won't-they-drive-the-lane games?  Not so much.  And frankly, I can't handle any more Thundovers.  I gotta work the next day.   More taking control in the third quarter.  More Steven Adams.  Less Mike Miller.

So now that we all feel warm and fuzzy, I'd like to address a couple sports pet peeves with you.

I still love {insert losing team name}.  So it drives me a little batty when people feel the need to state after a very disappointing loss that even though the team ripped their heart out, they still love them win or lose.  Well you know what?  Kathy loves her teams a little less when they let her down.  I'll never stop loving the Cowboys.  But when they lost Bedlam (all of them) and the majority of basketball season, I didn't love love them.  I loved them like you love a boyfriend who shows up drunk to an important event.  Sure, the relationship will survive, but at the moment, I don't want to see their dumb face.  Don't call me.  I'll call when I'm ready.  So next time there is a heart breaker, you don't have to tell me you still love the team.  I know.  Sports are like family.  You'll always love them, you just don't have to like them all the time.  (In case any of my family is reading this, this doesn't apply to you guys.  I like you guys ALL the time, pinky swear).

A house divided.  Ugh.  Are you serious?  Those license plates make me so mad.  Yes, yes, I realize there are much more rational people out there who fall in love with people who went to rival colleges or cheer for rival schools.  Good for you, I suppose.  But I just can't imagine anything worse.  When the Cowboys lose, I do not need to be in the same room with anyone who might have any shred of joy about it.  Because that person, in that moment, is my enemy.  You guys saw Sleeping with the Enemy right?  Not a good idea.

All of that being said, this weekend marks a "house divided" moment in our household.  The Arizona State Sundevils are taking on the Cowboys in baseball.  As you might know, I attended both OSU and ASU. I'm so fancy.  You already know.  I married a Sundevil, cause that was a totally safe choice.  Also, he's really kind and good, blah, blah, blah.  But back to sports.  I suppose this is an even more complex situation, seeing as I am a woman divided.  I am Janus.  Oh, who are we kidding?  I will never cheer against the Cowboys.  Ever.  Unless Tiny Human becomes a Division I athlete and is playing against them.  And even then, I'm not sure.  We'll evaluate when we see what her role on the team is.  I kid.

So Tiny Human and I will be decked out in orange while Husband sports his gold.  We'll cheer for both  teams to play well, as long as the Cowboys win.  No wiggle room.  Sorry bro, this is what you married.  Embrace it.  And like I always say, even though the Sundevils lost, I still love them!  Go Pokes!