For a hint at my BAC
30
May
2007
Dear Harvester Wheat,
after forty ounces I
place all faith in you.
Here in Katie’s Head
For lack of subtlety
29
May
2007
dear cute boy, I think
we should spend the whole weekend
in bed. love, Katie (Continue →)
For the one or two readers who’ll get the joke
28
May
2007
At the point that there is a cartoon about online journalism and it name-drops Adrian Holovaty, I am no longer worried about the future of our industry.
The cute boy ringtone
26
May
2007
Since I got a cell phone that can play mp3 ringtones, I’ve had a very specific system for how I assign custom ringtones. Because I am a crazy person.
I hate the stock ringtones. So as soon as I got Bluetooth working, I transferred a few not-fucking-annoying musical clips over to my much loathed RAZR. The exact clips are unimportant. The point is how they are assigned:
- Default ringtone: A short little ditty that reveals my smartypantsedness. A catch-all for miscellaneous friends.
- Work ringtone: So obnoxious that there’s no way I’ll miss it. Applied to coworkers in my department and bosses.
- Family ringtone: When I hear this one, I always know what the call is about before I answer it.
- Cute boy ringtone: A short clip of a favorite song. Applied to only one person at a time because, uh, it would feel slutty to do otherwise.
What I don’t understand is why when I hear any of the first three, my hand reaches for my phone right away, but when I hear the cute boy ringtone, my brain goes into a frenzy of “I love this song! Where is that coming from? Whoa, it’s coming from my pants — I mean my pocket. OH WAIT. That’s my phone. OH WAIT. That’s him. OMG. Answer the phone. WHERE IS THE PHONE? Oh yeah, my pants. Pocket.”
And then I have to answer the phone and pretend to be all cool and collected.
Which is obviously right up my alley.
For the rainstorm I drove through near Topeka today
26
May
2007
Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa
I can’t see anything now
I am gonna die
Sunday self-loathing
20
May
2007
It seems that at the end of every weekend, almost without fail, I find myself in the same place. After even the most fun, uplifting, relaxing or exciting of weekends, somehow Sunday night my brain decides to focus on everything that is wrong in my life.
My theory is that after spending, oh, the last decade of my life stressing out with last-minute homework every Sunday night, I have become hardwired into finding something, anything to panic about each week. The long-term significance of that something may be next to nothing, but for a good three hours, it will be the only thought in my head.
Maybe it’s bills, maybe it’s about a boy, maybe it’s that damn speeding ticket, maybe it’s the POS slipcover for my couch that I should really just return, maybe it’s a thousand things I’ve put off for too long. Okay, this week it’s all of them.
But this morning? All was well. Hell, I got to meet Matt Haughey. This afternoon? I was in the garage stripping paint with a heat gun and a sander, loving every sweaty minute of it. Tomorrow morning? I’ll happily rise and shine when my alarm goes off.
But somewhere around when Desperate Housewives starts, my thoughts turn to things that make me cranky. When Brothers and Sisters is over and I don’t have a TV show to distract myself, it gets worse. And then I think I need to write a blog entry about Sunday self-loathing in case I’m not the only one. Most weeks I decide to read a book or go to bed early instead.
This week I’m blogging it. So. Sunday self-loathing. Is it just me?
Arbitrary geographic stereotypes: Wichita edition
20
May
2007
So I’m thinking about moving to the west side of town. Which means I’d have to end a lifetime of trash-talking west-siders and maintaining that the east side gets everything first because we’re just better (and smarter and more attractive).
(First, to clarify: by “west,” I mean near west, as in Riverside. And by “east,” I mean near east, as in College Hill. I’m far too much of a hippie to live in a faux suburb.)
It occurs to me that most of my Wichita readers are west-siders. Maybe all of them.
And maybe, deep down in my soul, I’m not east-side material. (Besides, everyone knows all the true nerds live on the west side.)
Hmm. Most ridiculous crisis ever?
