Tag Archive: birthdays


“wet my pants” “ten years old”

What?

That was a search term that led someone to my blog.

I scanned through the rolodex in my head of topics I’ve written about on my blog. Wetting my pants is not something I remember writing about.

This makes me wonder why “wet my pants” has led someone to my blog.

That does remind me, though, of a couple unfortunate moments of incontinence.

Like that time me and my cousin, who is eleven years older than I am, decided it would be a great idea to run around my childhood neighborhood like ninnys and deface my neighbors’ Christmas decorations. We made all the reindeer on our street mount each other. We were a block away from my house and we had been laughing really, really hard. I went to run back towards home after messing around with another set of reindeer. Then I felt like I couldn’t hold it. So I hid behind a tree and told Angie to stop making me laugh. But then I really couldn’t hold it anymore. My kegels were doing all they could and it didn’t measure up to how badly I had to pee.

I was a freshman in college.

The most recent, and probably most embarrassing, moment was when Rob, Leah, Megan and I traveled to Chicago for Leah’s birthday my senior year of college.

That was the same weekend trip that I forgot to pack pants.

So our first full day in Chicago, we went shopping and I bought some jeans from H&M. We had a glorious day.

That night, we all got dressed and ready to go and Megan realized she lost her ID. Probably on our trip to buy alcohol. But it was lost nonetheless. So she didn’t even get to go out with us to celebrate Le Le’s  birthday.

Rob, Leah and I did, though, and we had a good time.

Rob had a good time until he had to rally Leah and I into the cab for the ride home by himself. She and I were kind of out of control and when we were close to our stopping point, Rob called Megan in for back-up.

Megan met us at the corner and I was a gigglebox.

While Rob was trying to get Leah to stop digging in the trashcan on the corner of the road and shouting at nothing in particular with a Cyndi Lauper accent, Megan was trying to talk me out of the snow bank I felt into. But once again, laughter got the best of me. And Megan kept telling me that the mysterious hickey on my neck was not a bruise, like I had been calling it (because, let’s get real, how old are we?! Sure, drunken PDA in a bar is tacky but we aren’t in middle school anymore. Hickeys are not acceptable- ever). We were laughing so hard, and every time I tried to explain that a snowball had hit my neck in the same spots a few times causing me to bruise, Megan replied, “That’s not a bruise, homie” and it made me laugh really, really hard.

And that’s when I wet my brand new pants in a snow bank on the street in Chicago.

There ya go, search engines and random internet searchers. You go right ahead and search for “wet my pants” and I’ll be happy to share those stories with you.

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I have trouble with time.

I don’t understand it.

I’m confused by it.

I don’t understand daylight savings time. WTF is that about? WHY?! How can places just decide they will not partake in the confusion?! I don’t know about other states, but I know Indiana was one of those places to stick it to the man and say no! Although, I think I read that even they gave in.

Anyway, what I really mean is that I’m generally confused about the timing of things. I have trouble placing events in a timeline.

Not, like, recent events. Oh no, big, historical (?) events. I just can’t keep things straight.

Last Christmas, my family was discussing this very thing and it became clear to everyone that I’m an idiot.

I came up with the idea of negative time.

The way I see it, everything ties back to Jesus, and that’s confusing to me.

Last Wednesday, Drew called me to wish me a happy birthday. The phone call quickly turned into a quiz about time. It wasn’t until I had exhausted my list of events to place on my timeline did he even get the chance to say anything at all about my birthday.

When did the dinosaurs exist?!

Really?

Before or after Jesus?

*his soul dies a little bit* Before.

Negative time!

Yes, Katie, negative time. *soul dies a little more*

What about Christopher Columbus? Before or after Jesus?!

Seriously?

Drew! Tell me!

After.

What about the vikings!

Dark ages.

You know what I mean.

790s to 1066 AD.

That’s not negative time?

No.

What about cavemen?

Prehistoric. Very, very BC. Like 10,000 BC.

Like the movie?

Yes.

That means… before Jesus. Negative time.

Yes.

What about…. the movie Ice Age!? When was that? That’s negative time too?

Yes. Because cavemen show up in the very end of the third movie.

When we were speaking on the phone on my birthday, I heard chuckling. Then I heard a lot of chuckling. And that was when I knew that there was a small group listening in on our conversation. His fraternity brothers heard me sound like an idiot, asking for an explanation for shit everyone already understands.

But, the best part is, he still at least explains it. He still goes through the motions of trying to make me understand.  My brother is one of the good ones.

Well, I can tell you that 23 doesn’t really feel any different than 22.

I can also tell you that last night, out on the town, celebrating my 23rd year on earth with some of my best gals, I had the best time. It was a top night.

Thankfully, none of us had the sense to bring a camera to document the shitshow that was my birthday celebration. I did manage to snap a couple pics on my crackberry, which I will of course share with you here.  I can’t post all of them because some are embarrassing, so those will just stay on my phone for my own viewing pleasure, for moments when I need a good laugh. Or to remind my old ass that I was once, indeed, young, pretty, and fun.

that measuring cup doubled as a shot glass

At dinner, I ordered a Shirley Temple. I turned 23, I’m at a nice dinner with my mother for my birthday and I ordered a Shirley fucking Temple. Who am I?! And while I was sipping my mocktail of sprite and grenadine, I had a thought: cherry vodka and sprite! So I went and got burnetts cherry vodka, like I’m in high school and will drink anything with alcohol in it ’cause you take what you can get when you’re underage. Except not me, when I was underage I almost exclusively drank Bacardi. But that is neither here nor there.

I sent the following text to my friend: “So, I bought cherry burnetts for tonight… I’m pretty much gonna die”

It was pretty much right on point.

the only appropriate photo of the entire evening

I had a birthday crown. It was made for a four year old, I’m sure, but I wore it all night long. The “jewel” on the top of the crown had a button on it that made it light up and blink different colors. I was very excited by this for the simple fact that I could use it as a beacon to locate my girls when we inevitably got separated. Needless to say, that idea didn’t really work out, but in theory it was genius.

The best part of last night was that we haven’t had a night like that with a bunch of us girls together in a while. And we also haven’t scattered like that in a hot minute. There were six of us and there was a time when none of us knew where any of the others were. It was awesome. I decided to wander away from the group (okay, so that’s pretty normal) and go somewhere else with someone else, and as I was leaving I ran into Meg and Kirsten. We went to another bar and didn’t have any idea where the other three went. We only found out later that Le and Mil went home, and Sen had left to go to another bar with other people.

I woke up this morning still drunk and thanked my lucky stars that I was alive! Then I ate a piece of birthday cake and found religion, it was that good.

It was a top night.

I hope 23 is a good year!

I’m a catty little bitch.

Obviously, this is not a new realization for me or anything. I’m just putting it out there for you. I’m here for you. ‘Cause I’m also considerate like that. Who knew, right!?

It’s just that I think all these bitchy, judgy things about people and SOMETIMES I even say that stuff out loud.

This is all coming out because of recent events. Lately, my mother and I have been fighting more than usual. I wouldn’t say that we normally fight all that often. I mean, we’re both pretty … verbal… when it comes to being pissed off, so generally things are solved in the moment. When one of us feels wronged by the other, or a disagreement occurs, things escalate quickly. At the same time, though, things are usually resolved and forgotten about after just minutes of screaming our faces blue at each other. It may result in tears but I would say we forgive and forget pretty quickly.

Lately, though,… oh man, it’s been bad. We just yell and say mean things we don’t really mean and then shut down. Nothing gets solved, feelings stay hurt and we get angry. Then we stay angry. And everything we do just eats at us; I annoy the hell out of her with every action and she drives me up a fucking wall with everything she does. This goes on until it just boils over and something snarky comes out and the other one loses her shit.

Being a catty little bitch means that I nitpick and remember the mean things that were said in the heat of the moment that should be forgiven. This means that even after all is said and done, and we’re back to talking and laughing and joking around like always, I can still hear the tiny voice in the back of my head (which obviously belongs to my mother- because good or bad, she’s the one I hear through all the madness) pushing those things we argued about back to the forefront of my mind.

Being a catty little bitch means that I can tap into that part of myself that no one should know is there and say the meanest thing possible in that moment. Because in that moment, it feels good to say it. It feels good to stab the knife in and twist it a little bit. It feels good to know I have earned a reaction, even if it is her heart breaking a little bit. If feels good because in that moment, I won.

The thing is, after that moment passes, I always wish I never would have gone there. I wish I could take it back. I wish more than anything that those words could disolve from her mind and she could un-hear them.

I’ve been a catty little bitch to the woman who gave me life, to the one person on this earth who truly loves me unconditionally. So, I’ve been working on it, because it hurts me too when I hurt her.

And on the eve of my birthday, she deserves a thank you. (And an I’m sorry.) (And an I love you.)

But let’s get real: I’m still gonna hate on people. It’s, like, what I do.

Haterz gon’ hate. Cliches are cliches for a reason; they’re true. Bahahahhaha

So there is this new(???) trend that I have started following.

I don’t know when, where, or how it started.  All I know is that a few weeks ago I thought it was stupid and didn’t give it another thought, and now I’m fully engulfed in the excitement.

Silly Bandz.

A couple weekends ago, I was back in O-Town and my neighbor was wearing this tiny, yellow squiggly rubber band around her wrist.

WTF is that?

A horse.

Explain yourself.

*Takes off yellow squiggly rubber band, twists it around for a minute, places it flat on the table*
It’s a horse.

Why?
There is no answer for why. As far as I can tell, there is no purpose to these squiggly rubber bands. I’m also sad to report that I have no good reason for being as excited as I am about them.
I currently have six on my wrist at this very moment.

what they look ON

I know. It’s totally ridiculous. But I feel like it’s what happens with pringles; once you pop, the fun don’t stop.

LOVE LOVE LOVE

Starting at the top left: That first one is supposed to be Gingy, you know, from Shrek. In the yellow, next to Gingy is Shrek’s head. The red one beside that is supposed to be Donkey. These slay me. My neighbor gave these to me with my My Little Pony birthday card at dinner last night. GLORIOUS. Below that, the pink one, is a crown from the Disney princess package of silly bandz. Then, of course, my two favorites (I would): The red one is a brontosaurus and the green one beside him is the mighty T-Rex.
LOVE LOVE LOVE.
I’m weak. I hop on bandwagons. So sue me.
Now, go get yourself some silly bandz. We can trade. 🙂

Yesterday was Grandma’s 78th birthday.

She requested for my mom to make fajitas for dinner and chocolate cake. That’s exactly what she got. (Yum, btw.) And then we did presents and talked about how different life is now than it was when she was young. I love when that happens because her childhood is just so outrageous to me. She talks about how she used to iron her brothers shirts all the time and that amazes me because I’ve never ironed anything in my life, besides my hair. Jeeez! Although, I have used my flat iron to “iron” a few articles of clothing. Something tells me, though, that that is totally not the same thing.

Grandma enjoys getting pedicures and is seriously obsessed with sports. She cares about, like, every sport there is. Something is always on. Hockey, football, tennis, golf, baseball… it never ends. She tries to make conversation with me about it but it’s completely useless since I just don’t know sports or care to pay much attention to it.

For her birthday, my mom thought of something awesome to give her. She purchased tickets to the Detroit Tigers game that was at 1:05 this afternoon. Grandma has talked about how she hasn’t been to Comerica Park and how she so wants to go to a Tigers game for foreverrrrrr. So we just fucking did it. We got tickets, hopped in the car this morning and drove to Detroit to watch the Tigers play the Minnesota Twins. She was so excited and it was adorable. She was so surprised and it just made it really precious to give those tickets to her for her birthday.

As previously stated, I do not watch sports. Most importantly, baseball is just so not sexy. It’s like the least sexy of all sports. With football, you’ve got these buff guys who run around in spandex and throw people to the ground. That’s kinda hot. And with soccer, you’ve got these really lean, really fit, hot guys who wear pretty normal outfits and aren’t all ‘roided up. Swimmers… this is all I’m gonna say: baaaangin’ bodies. Hockey is hot because even though it’s violent there’s something about the thrill of the fighting; you know those guys aren’t pansies. Golf  isn’t exactly sexy but I guess it’s not not sexy. (Tiger Woods is a total douche but I basically pretend he doesn’t exist, so whatevs.)  I mostly just think of people my dad’s age when I think of golf, and that’s awkward. Never mind. Let’s move on. My point is that baseball is not sexy and I just don’t get it. No thanks.

But, despite my feelings towards baseball, to the game we went. There was way more traffic than anticipated and Grandma told me I looked like “Sarah Palin’s daughter with those new sunglasses”- whatever that means. (I didn’t take that as a compliment. Bristol Palin (and basically the whole Palin clan) is a hot damn mess. Not in the cute, fun way that I am.)  When we got there, it was sunny and nice and it felt so good because the air was BLASTING in the car. But we got to our seats and I wanted to die. It was scorching. I now have a really sexy tan. And by that I mean I have not-so-cute tanlines. And by tan, I mean I’m bright red. Despite putting sun-screen on, I definitely burned. Whatever, though, right? Sunburns are sexy. bahaha

Long story short, I’d go to another game. It’s just fun to be there, be a part of it and feel the excitement of everyone around you. I enjoyed eating a hotdog in the stands and I totally wished I had Tigers apparel because that’s the best part- dressing for the occasion! lol I’m such a girl.

UPDATE (seriously-wtf-day-is-it?!, July 13):

here’s a picture to show you how good my sunburn looks:

soooooo sexy!!! i know you're jealous.