You know this world is SUPER crazy when even my brow girl wants to talk politics.
"You know what I think is REALLY happening right now?"
No. But I have a very uneasy feeling you are going to tell me. And mind the hot wax.
Everyone wants to tell me their opinions and their feelings about all the
madness in this weird, weird, world. Voices all around want to be heard on all things.
So, obviously you have been waiting to hear mine.
Are you ready to hear what I think?
No. No one is. Not even the Internet.
But, with that, I am taking this opportunity to blog something controversial.
Get your hand fan; takes are heating up in this post.
Here we go.
I, Katie Sanderson, did NOT hate quarantine.
I said what I said.
If you take the death, panic, anxiety, financial ruin, dismantling of small business, destruction of the hospitality industry, systemic ruin of education, separating families, sacrificing front line workers, et al out of it, ..it wasn't that bad. Dare I say, needed.
I am a little bit worried that maybe I had accidentally "Secreted" this pandemic into fruition. I didn't read that book, The Secret, but I get the gist and I think I did it. Here are just a few reasons I needed this quarantine to happen to become the best version of myself:
1. Unpacking
The Sandersons have moved 3 times in 7-years. If I told you it had been done with optimal organizational design, I would be lying straight to your face. I moved, begrudgingly, to Phoenix so I basically just threw my clothes, some books and my set of The Office DVD's into a box and was like "Let's Go." Once we got there, we moved again and if we are being honest, I had never really unpacked the first time. Finally, we moved back to Kentucky and I was just so glad to be home, I didn't really care about stuff in boxes as long as it was home. That is, until I go to the basement. Staring back at me from every angle were bins and bins of everything from baby clothes to my grandmother's dishes. I would see them and think "I just need a weekend."
Lie. A weekend, even a 3 or 4 day weekend would come up and I could think of 100 things to do that did not involve cleaning and organization of my family clutter. It's too hot, too cold. I'm tired. You know what will get around all of those lame excuses? A governmental shutdown.
We have cleaned, stored, purged, painted, fixed and organized. It finally, after 4-years, feels like home. And I'd sooner burn it down than pack up and move again.
2. Cooking
I don't know about your family, but mine insists on eating meals every day. Which I hate. I don't like to cook, I am not a good cook. Before the quarantine, we were always so busy that when I said things like "There is no way I can cook a meal tonight" it wasn't met with much rebuttal. Panera for the win! But shut down my LIFE and suddenly, I have all the time in the world to cook.
Also, I am a cookbook hoarder. It is a real disease and please look for my upcoming TLC special. I am comforted by cookbooks. I am also always looking for "the next best thing." One meal, one pan? Yes. Whole 30 but not the Whole Night? Add to Cart. Dinner without the Dishes? I'll buy one for me and a friend. These books arrive and I am so excited to look at them right up until they try to come at me with things like a dutch oven or Tumeric.
Get out of here with your fancy kitchen. I have ketchup and garlic salt.
But then, we were home.
And while we still did tons of takeout, there was something kind of comforting about cooking. And turns out, if you SHAME your family into helping, because they are also not doing anything, it can be a fun family activity. I was so desperate some days to while away the hours, I even started baking. Don't expect any meals or baked goods from me anytime soon.. I said I got into it. I didn't say it was good.
3. Telemedicine
I have a love/hate relationship with going to the doctor. I love to go and get an "all clear." Frankly, if it were simple, I would have a doctor look at me every day just to make sure I am firing on all cylinders. I hate the parts of the doctor like having my blood pressure taken (too squeezie) and my weight charted (too sad). I don't like to pee in anything other than a toilet, so I will thank you to keep your cup.
Since the shutdown, I have had 3 doctor appointments using telemedicine. And it is GLORIOUS. Instead of "step on the scale" I get "About how much do you weigh?" No awkward touching, no small talk in uncomfortable situations and no crap music and outdated magazines.
Also, there is a nice, evening of the playing field when neither you or the doctor know/care if the other is wearing pants.
4. Streaming
Bring me ALL of the Netflix, the Hulu, the Disney +, the Showtime, your HBO, Bravo and even STARZ. I want to watch all of the things.
I want a documentary, a scary show, a comedy where I laugh so hard I cry. I want everything set in the UK and a hot detective is never going to hurt my feelings. I want to watch all the TV and I don't want to feel bad about it.
Even before this, I was pretty much addicted to TV. I can literally watch almost anything. But I somehow felt guilty because that is what I was doing with my down time. (Wonder why I could never clean or organize before?) I like TV for background noise. I like it for entertainment. I like it for learning. Sure, we cruised though Ozark, Dead to Me and I thank GOD for Tiger King. It got a little stale, but that is when I just throw on my old favorites; Friday Night Lights, Parks and Rec, 30 Rock, etc. And you will never know a happier Katie Sanderson than when The Crown is on. And it is ALWAYS on.
Streaming has been my escape more than usual. I look to TV for distraction and that is exactly what I have needed, no, required during all this. I had to completely take myself off the news back in February because my anxiety isn't great on a day when things are going kind of ok for the world in general. I didn't imagine it stood a chance during a global crisis. You know where there is no pandemic? On a football field in Dillon, Texas.
5. Social Distancing
We can do a full cool-down after this because this is the HOTTEST take I will give you.
I love social distancing.
I love it so much I want to buy it a gift or write it a poem. If I had gone to high school with social distancing, I would have wanted it to ask me out. I probably would have married it.
I hate hugs. I do. I don't know why. I don't have some dark past with hugs or touching, I just don't like it. I don't like hugging someone and having their hair in my face or make-up on my shirt. I don't like the awkward bits before a hug; the "should we/should we not." I don't like having to think "Are we hugging friends?" when I see someone at Target. I am next level awkward ALL the time. I don't need the wonderings of social graces dragging that out. And I don't want to be punished for it. I don't like hugs or cilantro. It is who I am.
That's not to say I hate touching in general. I will take a high five or a fist bump. I will even give you a pretty impressive handshake. I just don't like the hugging.
Frankly, I am very in favor of 6-feet of personal space. Moms, are you with me? Not since she lived in my body for 41-weeks have Bee and I spent this much time together. It is a little claustrophobic, but to be able to say "Careful, 6-feet apart" has been nice. I know it doesn't count for family, but she doesn't. I will take my personal space where I can get it.
And this public personal space is like an answer to prayer. I don't have the guy behind me at Costco trying to get a piggy back ride from me and asking things in my ear like "Do you like those crackers?" BACK UP, TED. When I get my nails done, that buffer chair is like Christmas. I don't want to talk to you while I get my nails done. I came here to not talk to anyone. Do you not see my book and headphones? Social interaction was not the play here, Karen. I don't want to hear about your grandkids or the weird car in your neighbor's driveway. I hope you are right and it IS al-Quieda.
Living in a time when I, legally cannot have people hug me or stand IN my skin at Target is what I imagine Heaven must be like. The introvert in me has been waiting to get called up to this big show because it is my time to shine!!!
This has been a great time for all the introverts. Don't want to go to a birthday party? You can't. The governor says. Want to come to our cookout? Sorry, social distancing. No FOMO, no guilt, no remorse. Just good, old fashioned staying at home.
Whether or not this global crisis can be blamed on infectious disease or me needing time to organize my life and watch The Crown, we will never know. It hasn't been easy and it hasn't been fun, but it was entirely necessary for me, at least. I needed the full, power and home button hard restart.
And since my parents cannot ground me anymore, I guess the government had too.
Friday, June 19, 2020
Saturday, June 13, 2020
Adventures in Babysitting
From the time I graduated the Red Cross Babysitting and CPR certification class, I was running a babysitting empire in my neighborhood.
EMPIRE.
You need Friday and Saturday night? Done. Oh, and you're going to Bunco on Sunday night? Sure. You want me to take your kids to the pool every day this summer AND you don't care how many packs of Sour Patch Kids I charge on your account? I'm your gal.
As someone who didn't get her first kiss until weeks shy of her 16th birthday, you know I had a lot of time on my hands.
If someone wrote me a check for all the money I made babysitting, even without counting for inflation, I could take us all on a really nice vacation. Like Top Level Disney Cruise nice.
*just kidding. I'd rather die than go on a cruise.
I was so good at babysitting and so bad as social living that I babysat WAY past the expiration date. So while this is one of my favorite stories, I have a million good ones and expect this to become a series.
In college, I actually worked for a nanny service. Everyone did. It was easy, tax free money. But, I seldom knew the people for whom I was sitting and I probably narrowly avoided being human trafficked millions of times. The families paid a small fortune to have access to this service, so most of them were pretty upstanding and well off. Read: some were super quirky. I always called ahead to get directions and ask about special restrictions or to see if they had a cat because I emphatically REFUSED to sit for anyone with a cat. You have seven year old triplet boys that have black belts in karate? I'll be there. You have a 2-year old tabby cat? Miss me with all of this. Standard business practice.
I called the family I was going to be sitting for that weekend and ran through my standard screener. They had 3 kids under 12, liked pizza and puzzles, video games were ok since it was the weekend, no cat. Bonus was that they lived on this AMAZING street of old houses and I couldn't wait to snoop around to find a secret hiding spot or buried Victorian treasure.
Saturday came and I arrived at this monster house that I just knew was going to be the setting of the movie based on my version of National Treasure: Louisville. Obviously without Nicholas Cage because he is insane. Introductions and pleasantries and pizza cooking directions ensued. Ma'am. Please. I am a professional babysitter. Making pizza is practically my Major.
Emergency phone numbers, the youngest daughter sometimes gets a bloody nose, the middle kid has asthma, in bed by 10PM and the remote is wonky so you have to hit it on the back. Got it. And there they go, out the door.
Oh, wait.
Mom comes back in while Dad is warming up the car and says, "Katie, I forgot to tell you something." This was pretty standard practice; tell me about the wonky remote, forget to tell me the kids are all diabetic. It happened all the time.
"We have a Tibetan Monk living on the 4th floor."
A what the hell?
And she was gone.
Left.
She told me there was a Tibetan Monk living on the 4th floor of their house AFTER the wonky remote? THAT is the information you kind of forgot? A HUMAN BEING IN YOUR HOUSE FROM TIBET?
Also, a 4th floor? How big IS this house?
Ok. This is fine. Everything is fine. It's a Monk.
What is a Monk?
OMG. I know nothing.
Kids know and will tell you everything. But you have to know how to talk to them. Because of my extensive nanny resume, I am basically a professional child communicator. Not with my own child, but like every other child in the world. So, like the professional I am, I start quizzing the kids.
"So... pizza for dinner!!!! I love pizza don't you guys? You know what else I love? Learning new things. Why don't you guys teach me something new... like anything and everything you know about Monks. "
There was no Google on my phone. At that time, I had a red Nokia brick phone that was absolutely no help. No "Alexa, What (who?) are Tibetan Monks?" My Mom. I called my Mom who was living in Wyoming at the time."Hey... can a Monk kill me and a house of children?"
The kids began to tell me that the Monk, or "Bonk" as the youngest one called him had been living with them for about 6-months. He sleeps, he goes to church and he does some chanting. All this from the older kiddo who was clearly the one I needed to pose my questions to. The youngest one said "He doesn't talk." Thanks, junior.
What to do, what to do.
Do I interact with him? Do I offer him pizza? Will he be in competition for me with the TV later?
I decided that it was fine. The kids weren't bothered, I didn't have to sign a form or anything, so I am sure this is all on the up and up. Pizza and puzzles were on the agenda and that was fine.
We got into the night and frankly, I kind of forgot about him. We ate, played and soon, it was time for the kids to get ready for bed. I only had hours left, so I felt like I had wonderfully co-existed with a Tibetan Monk and started to write my Nobel Peace Price acceptance speech in my mind. I was an International treasure.
GOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG
What the what.
The LOUDEST, literal GONG sound was echoing throughout this monster house and it was deafening.
"Kids, do you know what that sound is?" I screamed.
"It's the Monk. He prays and chants now."
Couldn't have listed that on the schedule you wrote on the back of a Kroger receipt, Mom?
9:30 Brush Teeth
9:45 Deafening Monk gong and chants
10:00 Bed
Again, the kids were unphased. I guess you can be calm when you have had 6-months worth of notice compared to my 2-minutes. I got them to bed and crept back downstairs using a staircase that was hidden behind a door in the asthma kid's room. THIS HOUSE.
Should I be praying to? Or chanting? Is it ok that I am cleaning-up pizza while he is doing all that? Would it have been too much to leave a small book like "So, You're Babysitting in a House with a Monk. "
He stopped.
Ok. So now I had experienced it and now I would know how to handle it if it happened again. I could sit down, beat the remote until it worked and get some homework done.
It was eerily quiet for the better part of an hour. No kiddos up, no Monk, even the dog was silent. The quiet and calm was making me a little sleepy, so I went into the kitchen for some caffeine.
From yet ANOTHER secret staircase, came the Monk.
Into the kitchen.
Standing right in front of me.
OMG.
I froze. Seriously froze. Maybe he didn't see me? I didn't know much about Monks, but I am certain they are not a blind people. He saw me and I had to do something. So of course, I went ALL American on him.
Shouting, "HELLO! I AM KATIE. THE BABYSITTER. CAN I HELP YOU WITH ANYTHING? ARE YOU OK? IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU. WELCOME TO OUR COUNTRY AND OUR CITY." I AM A METHODIST AND ALSO PRAY."
Seriously, full red, white and blue.
And then, I remember the youngest kid saying that the "Bonk doesn't talk." And he didn't.
He began to make some kind of meal and I stood there like the complete ass that I am. I tried to help by anticipating what he might need like passing him the salt when he really needed a knife to cut the sandwich he had made. I asked him if he wanted pizza by using my hands to make a triangle and shouting "PIZZA?" And he just shook his head and smiled. I finally won when I handed him a napkin and he shook his head in that "thank you" way that we all understand. And here I was again, International treasure.
He went to leave the kitchen back up the secret stairs and turned, looked at me and bowed. A for real, bend-at-the-waist bow. And I just stood there waving. WAVING. I looked like the Clampetts at the end of an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. Just waving. I was a "Y'all come back now, ya here" away from a full blown hate crime.
And he was gone.
I didn't see or hear from him again the rest of the night. The Monk-hosting parents came home and I hit them with more questions than a Congressional hearing.
1. How dare you?
They expalained to me that they were so used to him, they almost forgot he was there. Neat for you. He had been displaced when he came to the US from Tibet and he was basically a refugee in Louisville, Kentucky. You know, where there is a huge population of Tibetan Monks. They were playing host family to him and he would be there another 6-months to a year.
Wow. Just wow.
I left the Boudelaire house from Lemony Snickett and as I drove home I thought "No one will ever believe me." I called the nanny agency on Monday and told them about the Monk. They agreed that it was kind of a big deal to let future sitters know. They were worried that maybe I had been too afraid. No. My God. It was a Monk, not a cat.
Even thinking about it now, I am embarrassed at the way I was so ignorant about it all. I would like to think that, should I ever meet another Tibetan Monk in someone's kitchen, I will not offer them pizza using my hands.
EMPIRE.
You need Friday and Saturday night? Done. Oh, and you're going to Bunco on Sunday night? Sure. You want me to take your kids to the pool every day this summer AND you don't care how many packs of Sour Patch Kids I charge on your account? I'm your gal.
As someone who didn't get her first kiss until weeks shy of her 16th birthday, you know I had a lot of time on my hands.
If someone wrote me a check for all the money I made babysitting, even without counting for inflation, I could take us all on a really nice vacation. Like Top Level Disney Cruise nice.
*just kidding. I'd rather die than go on a cruise.
I was so good at babysitting and so bad as social living that I babysat WAY past the expiration date. So while this is one of my favorite stories, I have a million good ones and expect this to become a series.
In college, I actually worked for a nanny service. Everyone did. It was easy, tax free money. But, I seldom knew the people for whom I was sitting and I probably narrowly avoided being human trafficked millions of times. The families paid a small fortune to have access to this service, so most of them were pretty upstanding and well off. Read: some were super quirky. I always called ahead to get directions and ask about special restrictions or to see if they had a cat because I emphatically REFUSED to sit for anyone with a cat. You have seven year old triplet boys that have black belts in karate? I'll be there. You have a 2-year old tabby cat? Miss me with all of this. Standard business practice.
I called the family I was going to be sitting for that weekend and ran through my standard screener. They had 3 kids under 12, liked pizza and puzzles, video games were ok since it was the weekend, no cat. Bonus was that they lived on this AMAZING street of old houses and I couldn't wait to snoop around to find a secret hiding spot or buried Victorian treasure.
Saturday came and I arrived at this monster house that I just knew was going to be the setting of the movie based on my version of National Treasure: Louisville. Obviously without Nicholas Cage because he is insane. Introductions and pleasantries and pizza cooking directions ensued. Ma'am. Please. I am a professional babysitter. Making pizza is practically my Major.
Emergency phone numbers, the youngest daughter sometimes gets a bloody nose, the middle kid has asthma, in bed by 10PM and the remote is wonky so you have to hit it on the back. Got it. And there they go, out the door.
Oh, wait.
Mom comes back in while Dad is warming up the car and says, "Katie, I forgot to tell you something." This was pretty standard practice; tell me about the wonky remote, forget to tell me the kids are all diabetic. It happened all the time.
"We have a Tibetan Monk living on the 4th floor."
A what the hell?
And she was gone.
Left.
She told me there was a Tibetan Monk living on the 4th floor of their house AFTER the wonky remote? THAT is the information you kind of forgot? A HUMAN BEING IN YOUR HOUSE FROM TIBET?
Also, a 4th floor? How big IS this house?
Ok. This is fine. Everything is fine. It's a Monk.
What is a Monk?
OMG. I know nothing.
Kids know and will tell you everything. But you have to know how to talk to them. Because of my extensive nanny resume, I am basically a professional child communicator. Not with my own child, but like every other child in the world. So, like the professional I am, I start quizzing the kids.
"So... pizza for dinner!!!! I love pizza don't you guys? You know what else I love? Learning new things. Why don't you guys teach me something new... like anything and everything you know about Monks. "
There was no Google on my phone. At that time, I had a red Nokia brick phone that was absolutely no help. No "Alexa, What (who?) are Tibetan Monks?" My Mom. I called my Mom who was living in Wyoming at the time."Hey... can a Monk kill me and a house of children?"
The kids began to tell me that the Monk, or "Bonk" as the youngest one called him had been living with them for about 6-months. He sleeps, he goes to church and he does some chanting. All this from the older kiddo who was clearly the one I needed to pose my questions to. The youngest one said "He doesn't talk." Thanks, junior.
What to do, what to do.
Do I interact with him? Do I offer him pizza? Will he be in competition for me with the TV later?
I decided that it was fine. The kids weren't bothered, I didn't have to sign a form or anything, so I am sure this is all on the up and up. Pizza and puzzles were on the agenda and that was fine.
We got into the night and frankly, I kind of forgot about him. We ate, played and soon, it was time for the kids to get ready for bed. I only had hours left, so I felt like I had wonderfully co-existed with a Tibetan Monk and started to write my Nobel Peace Price acceptance speech in my mind. I was an International treasure.
GOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG
What the what.
The LOUDEST, literal GONG sound was echoing throughout this monster house and it was deafening.
"Kids, do you know what that sound is?" I screamed.
"It's the Monk. He prays and chants now."
Couldn't have listed that on the schedule you wrote on the back of a Kroger receipt, Mom?
9:30 Brush Teeth
9:45 Deafening Monk gong and chants
10:00 Bed
Again, the kids were unphased. I guess you can be calm when you have had 6-months worth of notice compared to my 2-minutes. I got them to bed and crept back downstairs using a staircase that was hidden behind a door in the asthma kid's room. THIS HOUSE.
Should I be praying to? Or chanting? Is it ok that I am cleaning-up pizza while he is doing all that? Would it have been too much to leave a small book like "So, You're Babysitting in a House with a Monk. "
He stopped.
Ok. So now I had experienced it and now I would know how to handle it if it happened again. I could sit down, beat the remote until it worked and get some homework done.
It was eerily quiet for the better part of an hour. No kiddos up, no Monk, even the dog was silent. The quiet and calm was making me a little sleepy, so I went into the kitchen for some caffeine.
From yet ANOTHER secret staircase, came the Monk.
Into the kitchen.
Standing right in front of me.
OMG.
I froze. Seriously froze. Maybe he didn't see me? I didn't know much about Monks, but I am certain they are not a blind people. He saw me and I had to do something. So of course, I went ALL American on him.
Shouting, "HELLO! I AM KATIE. THE BABYSITTER. CAN I HELP YOU WITH ANYTHING? ARE YOU OK? IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU. WELCOME TO OUR COUNTRY AND OUR CITY." I AM A METHODIST AND ALSO PRAY."
Seriously, full red, white and blue.
And then, I remember the youngest kid saying that the "Bonk doesn't talk." And he didn't.
He began to make some kind of meal and I stood there like the complete ass that I am. I tried to help by anticipating what he might need like passing him the salt when he really needed a knife to cut the sandwich he had made. I asked him if he wanted pizza by using my hands to make a triangle and shouting "PIZZA?" And he just shook his head and smiled. I finally won when I handed him a napkin and he shook his head in that "thank you" way that we all understand. And here I was again, International treasure.
He went to leave the kitchen back up the secret stairs and turned, looked at me and bowed. A for real, bend-at-the-waist bow. And I just stood there waving. WAVING. I looked like the Clampetts at the end of an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. Just waving. I was a "Y'all come back now, ya here" away from a full blown hate crime.
And he was gone.
I didn't see or hear from him again the rest of the night. The Monk-hosting parents came home and I hit them with more questions than a Congressional hearing.
1. How dare you?
They expalained to me that they were so used to him, they almost forgot he was there. Neat for you. He had been displaced when he came to the US from Tibet and he was basically a refugee in Louisville, Kentucky. You know, where there is a huge population of Tibetan Monks. They were playing host family to him and he would be there another 6-months to a year.
Wow. Just wow.
I left the Boudelaire house from Lemony Snickett and as I drove home I thought "No one will ever believe me." I called the nanny agency on Monday and told them about the Monk. They agreed that it was kind of a big deal to let future sitters know. They were worried that maybe I had been too afraid. No. My God. It was a Monk, not a cat.
Even thinking about it now, I am embarrassed at the way I was so ignorant about it all. I would like to think that, should I ever meet another Tibetan Monk in someone's kitchen, I will not offer them pizza using my hands.
Thursday, June 4, 2020
In the BAG (Revisited)
This world is so weird right now. I wasn't feeling surer funny or insightful this week, so I am taking it back to a time when I/things were lighter...Enjoy!
Original Post: 2012
I feel like tween-age Katie would be pretty impressed with how things have turned out for us. After all, I did finally get my braces off, my glasses were replaced with contacts and at one time, I had lost my "baby fat." (In a cruel twist of fate, it has returned because of an actual baby. That is now 3-years-old.) The want some worries of the angst ridden, real-life Judy Blume character who definitely played with Barbies too long are mostly all gone. I think that tween-age me would be happy about us.
Except for one thing.
What you may or may not know about me is that from the ages of 11- probably like 17, I was obsessed with teen heartthrob Brian Austin Green from the show Beverly Hills, 90210. And when I use the word obsessed, I am certain that is the word the police would have used. Had they ever found out. I was in LOVE with him. His bowl cut, his herringbone chain, his baggy Cross Colours pants, his "not a sweatshirt but has a hood" clothing choices and his keyboard musical talent. While he played a geek on the show, he was no geek to me. No, someone who survives seeing their childhood friend accidentally fatally shoot themselves, someone who abstains from sex with his older girlfriend, and someone who tracks down Color Me Badd at the Beverly Wiltshire only to expose infidelity, is no geek. Sad sack, maybe. But not a geek.
If you made it through that last paragraph, I think we can have a gentelmen's agreement that humility is out-the-window on my part. So, I will go on to tell you that I wrote him letters. Like, plural. I just thank God that the contents of such ramblings are not available in my long-term memory. I sent him pictures with those letters. To me, it seemed entirely possible that he would be in his trailer one day, between scenes, when he opened a pink envelope from Louisville, KY. When he read my prose, he would see how much we had in common. When he saw my picture, he would think "This is the girl for me. Someone, go to Louisville and find this girl." After that, I imagined there was a process whereby I had to fit in a glass slipper, but you get the idea. In summation, I would move to LA, marry Brian Austin Green, and get my own spin-off show produced by Aaron Spelling. And co-starring Randy Spelling, Tori's little brother. Because everyone in Hollywood has to pay their dues.
In case you were wondering, that did not pan out.
It became apparent that more drastic measures would have to be taken. And the universe heard me. Because the winter of my 6th grade year, Brian Austin Green did come to me. Well, Louisville. By way of a patron saint named Carl Casper. And his custom auto show.
How I missed the initial advertisements for this epic event is beyond me. My word, when you are 200lbs of fat, braces, glasses and insecurity, you don't get out much. TV becomes your best friend. But somehow, I had missed the commercial that went something like this:
"THIS WEEKEND, CARL CASPER CUSTOM AUTO SHOW PRESENTS A CAR THAT KIND OF LOOKS LIKE THE GENERAL LEE, KIT FROM "NIGHTRIDER's" cousin, KAT, AUSTIN FROM "DAYS OF OUR LIVES," SCHNEIDER FROM "ONE DAY AT A TIME." SEE THE SECONDARY DALLAS COWBOY CHEERLEADER SQUAD AND ALL THE GIRLS CUT FROM HOOTER'S TRY OUTS OVER THE LAST 10-YEARS (and Brian Austin Green.)
What the...
BAG is your headliner, man. Apparently, Carl Casper had not taken a Marketing class.
For one-night only, BAG would be in my town. Home field advantage. I began the week long "Can I go, ppppllllleeeeaaassssseeee" conversation with my parents. I figured it was an easy sell because my Dad likes cars, but it took a little work. Apparently, driving from the East End to Broadbent to stand in a seemingly never ending line so your "handsome" daughter can meet Davey Jones circa 1992 is not every parents priority. But there really isn't anything my Dad wouldn't do for me, so that Saturday night, dressed in my County Seat finest, a face full of the Clinique samples I had stolen from my Mom's bathroom and a pretty amazing scrunched up curly look held stoically in place by enough White Rain hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer, we headed to meet my crush.
There, amid the smell of fried foods, new cars and "Kentucky," one thing became agonizingly clear; you were supposed to purchase tickets in advance. Great. As we approached the line, which I would estimate to be no shorter than 9million people, the "ticket taker" advised us that if you did not have a ticket, there would be no entrance. I am confident it was not that eloquent.
WHY ME?!?!?!?!?!?
Sensing my sorrow and probably fearful that some sort of hormonal episode was on the horizon, I saw my Dad spring to action. My Dad is an action guy, but this was pretty Bond. While I tried to un-fog my glasses from the tears and determine the culinary treat that would satiate my sadness, my Dad went back over to the ticket man. This was a real meeting of the minds; my Dad, holding advanced degrees and a super job and the ticket guy, not having what a dentist would call a "full" set of teeth and yet pulling dip cans out of literally every pocket on his person. I had no idea what my Dad could say to this man, the man with all the power, the ticket god, the all and powerful OZ... wait, did my Dad just slip him some cash? Oh, that is BOSS. Next thing I knew, I was in line.
With clear instructions from my Dad, I was to stay put in the line while he ventured out amid the car show. Clearly, my Dad needed to get away from all this drama having already secured "Father of the Year." So, I began to wait. And wait. And wait.
Because Swatch had recently gone out of style, I was without a timepiece those days. So who knows the hours that whittled away during that magical night. It was good, because I could plan my attack. I could rehearse what I would say to him, how I would wile him with my stiff but "beachy" hair, how I would advise him that next year, the ortho said my braces would most likely come off; to assure him that my parents had said as soon as I kept my room clean for a month, I could get contacts. Oh, so many things to tell him! So much love to fall in! But the curse with all that time became the realization that I was missing 2 things: a working camera and any kind of fan fare for him to sign.
Who does that?
Me, apparently. As this was my first real celebrity/future husband encounter, I didn't know the rules. And, because my generation had not been formally introduced to Brett Michaels yet, I didn't have the audacity to ask him to sign my body. "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. Well, Margaret Kathryn, but I go by Katie. Listen..." And then I came to realize you could purchase pictures of this teen idol to have him sign. For $5. Which based on inflation from 1992, the crisis in Greece and the fiscal cliff, would cost you $400 today. I fished out the $20 my Dad had given me for "emergencies." What? Buying an 8x10 glossy to have his future son-in-law sign was an investment.
I won't bore you with the exact details of our first in-person meeting. Mainly because I would like to locate my diary in order to quote directly. (That's right, I had a diary and wrote in it every night. Especially that night. And I guarantee you that entry started with "Dear Diary..." ) Just know it was not the serendipitous occasion I thought it might be. There was no extended glance, no brush of my hand as he grasped for his Sharpie. No longing in his voice when he said "What's your name?" and I said "Katie" and he said "How do you spell that?" and I said "Just however you think." No spark.
Which was probably the beginning of the end. By 9th grade, I was pretty much 90210ut. BAG and his alter ego David Silver gotten in some pretty heavy stuff and clearly, he was too busy for me. I mean, he was trying to skip a grade, host a morning talk show at WBH and in the summer, he was marooned to the BH Beach Club to work on his keyboard rap in a cabana. Don't discount the fact that his Dad had recently remarried the most popular girl in school's Mom and they were having a baby.
When 90210 ended, I watched him fade into obscurity. Until, that is, he started dating Megan Fox. If you are not familiar with her, well, who isn't familiar with her? It was then that I would again see him in my precious People Magazines with his tattoos and Creatine created body. He was harsh looking; he hadn't aged well. Not like a Mark-Paul Gosslear. And he didn't have the long lived teen idol career of say a Scott Baio. Yes, well into my 20's I realized it was over.
Until last month.
Because that is when I saw this:
PS-I was a little worried that my Diane Sawyer like political commentary last week would somehow come back to bite me. I did receive lots of text and emails about my nonsensical rantings. From that, I offer you this:
1. Some anonymous emailer tried to explain to me how Obama won using math. Clearly, he/she is a devoted reader of this blog. Because I love math as much as I love the NFL and the DNC.
2. I need to double check it with the Pugh Institute and the City of Pawnee, but it looks like we all need to get ready to be 'Nsync. Just based on early voting.
Original Post: 2012
I feel like tween-age Katie would be pretty impressed with how things have turned out for us. After all, I did finally get my braces off, my glasses were replaced with contacts and at one time, I had lost my "baby fat." (In a cruel twist of fate, it has returned because of an actual baby. That is now 3-years-old.) The want some worries of the angst ridden, real-life Judy Blume character who definitely played with Barbies too long are mostly all gone. I think that tween-age me would be happy about us.
Except for one thing.
What you may or may not know about me is that from the ages of 11- probably like 17, I was obsessed with teen heartthrob Brian Austin Green from the show Beverly Hills, 90210. And when I use the word obsessed, I am certain that is the word the police would have used. Had they ever found out. I was in LOVE with him. His bowl cut, his herringbone chain, his baggy Cross Colours pants, his "not a sweatshirt but has a hood" clothing choices and his keyboard musical talent. While he played a geek on the show, he was no geek to me. No, someone who survives seeing their childhood friend accidentally fatally shoot themselves, someone who abstains from sex with his older girlfriend, and someone who tracks down Color Me Badd at the Beverly Wiltshire only to expose infidelity, is no geek. Sad sack, maybe. But not a geek.
If you made it through that last paragraph, I think we can have a gentelmen's agreement that humility is out-the-window on my part. So, I will go on to tell you that I wrote him letters. Like, plural. I just thank God that the contents of such ramblings are not available in my long-term memory. I sent him pictures with those letters. To me, it seemed entirely possible that he would be in his trailer one day, between scenes, when he opened a pink envelope from Louisville, KY. When he read my prose, he would see how much we had in common. When he saw my picture, he would think "This is the girl for me. Someone, go to Louisville and find this girl." After that, I imagined there was a process whereby I had to fit in a glass slipper, but you get the idea. In summation, I would move to LA, marry Brian Austin Green, and get my own spin-off show produced by Aaron Spelling. And co-starring Randy Spelling, Tori's little brother. Because everyone in Hollywood has to pay their dues.
In case you were wondering, that did not pan out.
It became apparent that more drastic measures would have to be taken. And the universe heard me. Because the winter of my 6th grade year, Brian Austin Green did come to me. Well, Louisville. By way of a patron saint named Carl Casper. And his custom auto show.
How I missed the initial advertisements for this epic event is beyond me. My word, when you are 200lbs of fat, braces, glasses and insecurity, you don't get out much. TV becomes your best friend. But somehow, I had missed the commercial that went something like this:
"THIS WEEKEND, CARL CASPER CUSTOM AUTO SHOW PRESENTS A CAR THAT KIND OF LOOKS LIKE THE GENERAL LEE, KIT FROM "NIGHTRIDER's" cousin, KAT, AUSTIN FROM "DAYS OF OUR LIVES," SCHNEIDER FROM "ONE DAY AT A TIME." SEE THE SECONDARY DALLAS COWBOY CHEERLEADER SQUAD AND ALL THE GIRLS CUT FROM HOOTER'S TRY OUTS OVER THE LAST 10-YEARS (and Brian Austin Green.)
What the...
BAG is your headliner, man. Apparently, Carl Casper had not taken a Marketing class.
For one-night only, BAG would be in my town. Home field advantage. I began the week long "Can I go, ppppllllleeeeaaassssseeee" conversation with my parents. I figured it was an easy sell because my Dad likes cars, but it took a little work. Apparently, driving from the East End to Broadbent to stand in a seemingly never ending line so your "handsome" daughter can meet Davey Jones circa 1992 is not every parents priority. But there really isn't anything my Dad wouldn't do for me, so that Saturday night, dressed in my County Seat finest, a face full of the Clinique samples I had stolen from my Mom's bathroom and a pretty amazing scrunched up curly look held stoically in place by enough White Rain hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer, we headed to meet my crush.
There, amid the smell of fried foods, new cars and "Kentucky," one thing became agonizingly clear; you were supposed to purchase tickets in advance. Great. As we approached the line, which I would estimate to be no shorter than 9million people, the "ticket taker" advised us that if you did not have a ticket, there would be no entrance. I am confident it was not that eloquent.
WHY ME?!?!?!?!?!?
Sensing my sorrow and probably fearful that some sort of hormonal episode was on the horizon, I saw my Dad spring to action. My Dad is an action guy, but this was pretty Bond. While I tried to un-fog my glasses from the tears and determine the culinary treat that would satiate my sadness, my Dad went back over to the ticket man. This was a real meeting of the minds; my Dad, holding advanced degrees and a super job and the ticket guy, not having what a dentist would call a "full" set of teeth and yet pulling dip cans out of literally every pocket on his person. I had no idea what my Dad could say to this man, the man with all the power, the ticket god, the all and powerful OZ... wait, did my Dad just slip him some cash? Oh, that is BOSS. Next thing I knew, I was in line.
With clear instructions from my Dad, I was to stay put in the line while he ventured out amid the car show. Clearly, my Dad needed to get away from all this drama having already secured "Father of the Year." So, I began to wait. And wait. And wait.
Because Swatch had recently gone out of style, I was without a timepiece those days. So who knows the hours that whittled away during that magical night. It was good, because I could plan my attack. I could rehearse what I would say to him, how I would wile him with my stiff but "beachy" hair, how I would advise him that next year, the ortho said my braces would most likely come off; to assure him that my parents had said as soon as I kept my room clean for a month, I could get contacts. Oh, so many things to tell him! So much love to fall in! But the curse with all that time became the realization that I was missing 2 things: a working camera and any kind of fan fare for him to sign.
Who does that?
Me, apparently. As this was my first real celebrity/future husband encounter, I didn't know the rules. And, because my generation had not been formally introduced to Brett Michaels yet, I didn't have the audacity to ask him to sign my body. "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. Well, Margaret Kathryn, but I go by Katie. Listen..." And then I came to realize you could purchase pictures of this teen idol to have him sign. For $5. Which based on inflation from 1992, the crisis in Greece and the fiscal cliff, would cost you $400 today. I fished out the $20 my Dad had given me for "emergencies." What? Buying an 8x10 glossy to have his future son-in-law sign was an investment.
I won't bore you with the exact details of our first in-person meeting. Mainly because I would like to locate my diary in order to quote directly. (That's right, I had a diary and wrote in it every night. Especially that night. And I guarantee you that entry started with "Dear Diary..." ) Just know it was not the serendipitous occasion I thought it might be. There was no extended glance, no brush of my hand as he grasped for his Sharpie. No longing in his voice when he said "What's your name?" and I said "Katie" and he said "How do you spell that?" and I said "Just however you think." No spark.
Which was probably the beginning of the end. By 9th grade, I was pretty much 90210ut. BAG and his alter ego David Silver gotten in some pretty heavy stuff and clearly, he was too busy for me. I mean, he was trying to skip a grade, host a morning talk show at WBH and in the summer, he was marooned to the BH Beach Club to work on his keyboard rap in a cabana. Don't discount the fact that his Dad had recently remarried the most popular girl in school's Mom and they were having a baby.
When 90210 ended, I watched him fade into obscurity. Until, that is, he started dating Megan Fox. If you are not familiar with her, well, who isn't familiar with her? It was then that I would again see him in my precious People Magazines with his tattoos and Creatine created body. He was harsh looking; he hadn't aged well. Not like a Mark-Paul Gosslear. And he didn't have the long lived teen idol career of say a Scott Baio. Yes, well into my 20's I realized it was over.
Until last month.
Because that is when I saw this:
Yeah.
And because my favorite late night host Conan, also resides on TBS, I saw a ton of these promos. Each one a little knife in my heart. He was in a show, playing the leader of a band that exclusively plays weddings. I mean, have you ever? But looking in the mirror, I saw a little 13-year-old Katie staring back at me. And through her braced face and snacking, she would say "Just give it a try. Don't let your love fade away." But it was from there that I grew strength. And I looked at that tween and her dream and I squashed it, dead.
Where she would be so proud of me for the compliments I get on my less crunchy hair, the fact that I learned to apply make-up, my abandonment of bodysuits all together, I know that tweenage Katie would be upset with me for not giving BAG a second chance. But she needs to know that you cannot "crush" forever. That is why they call them crushes. Because they hurt like heck, but you get over them. Just like I am over BAG. (Really? I was in love with a guy whose monogram is BAG?)
That is on a list of about 1 million things I would have told tweenage Katie.
Also including: don't spend your babysitting money at The Disney Store, Jon Knight is gay, you will never be on the Mickey Mouse Club, focus your energies on European royalty, get better at math, clean your room so you can get those contacts, "Diary" is not a person- do not address it as such, pleated jeans only make you look fatter, reading on the bus is not making you any friends, starting a real life "Baby-Sitters Club" is not a venture capitalists move and everyone you have already asked to be in the baby-sitters club has kissed at least one boy, stop trying to make the dance team- you are only embarrassing yourself, wearing pink chuck taylor's does not make you ironic, En Vogue will not be around forever, Tiffany Amber Thiessen will drop the Amber and also struggle to lose baby weight years after her baby is grown...
Sorry, tween Katie. I just can't do it. But before you get too sad, know this:
Donna Martin graduates.
PS-I was a little worried that my Diane Sawyer like political commentary last week would somehow come back to bite me. I did receive lots of text and emails about my nonsensical rantings. From that, I offer you this:
1. Some anonymous emailer tried to explain to me how Obama won using math. Clearly, he/she is a devoted reader of this blog. Because I love math as much as I love the NFL and the DNC.
2. I need to double check it with the Pugh Institute and the City of Pawnee, but it looks like we all need to get ready to be 'Nsync. Just based on early voting.
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