tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39229863841402835902024-03-13T22:13:01.898-05:00Katt FunnyCry until you laugh. Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-88683833534396588002022-04-25T03:14:00.036-05:002022-04-25T05:51:53.255-05:00We Had A Splenda Time Everyone has their own spiritual path, and I respect it. Until Pascha. When our Orthodox Easter comes around, everyone in my household is forced to go to church. They can sin their butts off all year, but when it turns midnight, and the Paschal liturgy starts, I want those butts dressed up and sitting in the pews. Then standing. Then sitting. Then standing. <div><br /></div><div>What I want and what actually happens usually disagree. On Holy Saturday, I cleaned our place for the Easter Bunny, just like I do for any visitors. At 10pm, Zach, who is now four, claimed he was “starving” for spaghetti. We’re supposed to fast before communion which should be easy for little kids because they are happy to starve. Wasting my time and money each mealtime is their passion. Not that night. I offered alternatives that would take 2 minutes to prepare, but he only wanted spaghetti. Once again, I was put in the position of setting limits, or having a crabby child in public. I chose the one where strangers don’t silently accuse me of being a bad mother, and afterwards put another invisible dollar in the future therapy fund. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since my mama was Sicilian, I’m not allowed to use jars of Prego. I didn’t have time to simmer anything, so I improvised with canned tomato sauce, basil, garlic salt, and a packet of Splenda. Buon appetito. </div><div><br /></div><div>To preserve their church clothes, Zach and Kate chowed down on their noodles in the buff. Meanwhile, 14 year old Ben was trying on his dad’s pants because the dress pants I got him last August for Kate’s baptism split in slapstick hilarity when he bent over. Jason’s pants were big on him and only stayed up because I didn’t have a slide-whistle on hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally had a chance to dress myself, I had a choice between two outfits. I picked the one that didn’t need Spanx. Tight underwear and high heels only appealed to me when I was young and didn’t need them. Now I’m on a perpetual quest for physical comfort as my body turns against me. My mattresses need mattresses, and I can’t sleep because I’m too hot and too cold. I pay a fortune in electric bills running the heat with the window open.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time we got out the door, it was already the time we planned on being there. Upon arrival, we learned that Kate had taken off her clear Cinderella jelly shoes in the car which seemed to have become invisible at the stroke of midnight. We couldn’t find them, so we had to settle for the only other pair of shoes in the car. They were green tennis shoes covered in dried mud. I had taken them off after she did her Peppa Pig impression at Ben’s baseball game. </div><div><br /></div><div>We found a pew in the back corner so that the kids would bump into walls if they tried running around. Our phones were on silent, but Kate still found one to mess with, which had a frantic group message from Jason asking me to come downstairs. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found him in the basement and the resale Armani shirt I got him didn’t have wrist buttons. It’s expected that men who own Armani shirts have at some point in their lives received cuff links as a mindless gift for Father’s Day. Moments like these shrink me down to size and remind me which deck of the Titanic I belong on. No life boat for me. We’re just normal Pittsburghers, not steel tycoons. Recently, my delusions of grandeur were curtailed when I heard myself asking Jason to stop using my Aldi quarter for scratch-offs. </div><div><br /></div><div>His sleeves ballooned clownishly, so I tried over and over again to roll them up, but the fabric was too well threaded to be cooperative. Finally, I gave it a “good enough” and we were back in the church just in time to join the end of the communion line. Jason grinned and said, “This is the length of service I could go to every Sunday.” I gave the obligatory disapproving scowl, but OMG yes. Definitely. Just a quick service where I get my sacramental needs met, then enjoy my post-Eucharist day where I try not to yell at anyone for the rest of my life. On my best days, I don’t even make it to the parking lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got in line, and Ben took Zach who won’t open his mouth for anything that isn’t in nugget form. I never thought I would raise a picky eater. There have been days Zach hasn’t been allowed to eat until he tries a bite of dinner from the night prior. The stand-off lasts until he throws up stomach acid, and I relent. For some reason, he’s convinced that communion doesn’t please his palate even though by this point, he can’t possibly remember what it tastes like. Each time the priest serves communion, everyone in a ten foot radius tries to get Zach to take it. My sweet boy who draws thank you cards for the Easter Bunny and says he just wants everyone to be happy turned into a horrific turd. He sobbed and yelled, “Nooo! I hate it! It’s yucky! (Gasp, gasp) I can’t stop crying!” To his credit, his head didn’t spin around. Vincent Price’s voice wasn’t heard over the music. Still, it was mortifying. Maybe even more embarrassing than the time Kate saw the communion spoon, called it a fork, then repeatedly yelled the eff word because she can’t pronounce “r” yet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Afterwards, we went to the basement for the feast. I brought coleslaw that I threw together in thirty seconds: a bag of shredded cabbage, light mayonnaise, lemon pepper, and the rest of the packets of Splenda. To my surprise, it was a hit! It stood out among the long line of delicious Syrian food, which I don’t have the courage to recreate. My husband is Syrian, not I. I fear someone would take a bite of my goat stew, throw the bowl against the wall, and scream, “Imposter!” </div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, we had a wonderful Pascha. A perfect night for us means memories to laugh about for years to come.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christ is Risen!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD80YoC91va2zA6JyQUDL6cyRQjG9Emu-d9p4GnWfoMo-6p5mIJqK_GF9AK1payHougnTjN_IUA81_I1OxW9a_Unn1jDHlCQMLC0BMUsdCg_FWKeYyWFh4c9nU_LkYw4K8n4f-fUCfnLXr_l6uQW2wfArzvpBmEQx-EGoioHIXmLPEKIAOPTvjbJVO/s1655/0E036EA6-9761-4AF2-B9BF-22FBB7CBC4AB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1655" data-original-width="1604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD80YoC91va2zA6JyQUDL6cyRQjG9Emu-d9p4GnWfoMo-6p5mIJqK_GF9AK1payHougnTjN_IUA81_I1OxW9a_Unn1jDHlCQMLC0BMUsdCg_FWKeYyWFh4c9nU_LkYw4K8n4f-fUCfnLXr_l6uQW2wfArzvpBmEQx-EGoioHIXmLPEKIAOPTvjbJVO/s320/0E036EA6-9761-4AF2-B9BF-22FBB7CBC4AB.jpeg" width="310" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Time to go home and assemble Easter baskets at 4am.</i> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-28083935318540820172022-04-03T04:30:00.001-05:002022-04-03T05:19:31.202-05:00The Voodunnit<p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman">If you’re someone who laments the downward spiral of society, surprise! We have always been assholes. My husband got me a subscription to <a href="http://newspapers.com">newspapers.com</a> for Christmas, and I’m fascinated by the wretchedness. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman">Oddly enough, there are people better than I who don’t gawk at wreckage. We pulled up to one house that had been converted into a gambling parlor. Despite being surrounded by nowhere, they put a terrifying and punchable looking mannequin out front to attract attention.</span> An employee came out and asked if we were coming in. I told him that I was just looking because there had been a famous murder there. He shrugged and went back inside. I imagine his co-worker asking what happened, him repeating me, and her being outraged that he didn’t ask about the murder. Weeks later, she’s still going through true-crime podcasts trying to find out what happened. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman">(The murder was a sad one. During WWI, a guy picked up a teenage war bride, and instead of giving her a better life, he eventually beat her to death in a quiet house at the end of a suburban block.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMqnhKbSBWoqiP8IhikqrnQ_awMT9hBX5derAIbYcs-FxxYQPPi-Nj_8Ek_N7lt0C_MTyee0OAFpeLJxE6hDgy939PKCWRpXjt-KYBKiYl99Iu2xmgcXu2ONauxWFwHMoYEp3ckIcb4O7_-o5WrqjioN6A1-lhJ11QSRfrffSfV-nNyOQpVpyy9L0/s2810/E2DDDFDB-940A-461B-98E2-6B45F069F55A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2345" data-original-width="2810" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMqnhKbSBWoqiP8IhikqrnQ_awMT9hBX5derAIbYcs-FxxYQPPi-Nj_8Ek_N7lt0C_MTyee0OAFpeLJxE6hDgy939PKCWRpXjt-KYBKiYl99Iu2xmgcXu2ONauxWFwHMoYEp3ckIcb4O7_-o5WrqjioN6A1-lhJ11QSRfrffSfV-nNyOQpVpyy9L0/s320/E2DDDFDB-940A-461B-98E2-6B45F069F55A.jpeg" width="320" /></a><i style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"><span face="Charter-Roman">Mr. Emplolyee-of-the-Month gave about as many shits as his</span> terrifying mannequin. </i></div><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="Charter-Roman">Some murders, while still tragic, are gruesomely amusing- like the one near us where Mr. Lorenzo Savage was convicted of murdering Ms. Ethel Barthel. </span></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In 1923, this house in the Shadyside neighborhood of Pittsburgh was home to Mr. Lorenzo Savage and his family: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWh2EPBXNLBN2ucsQMreH3VwMHXXEF_Ka6nc-ANOzBbMhNIkN5PDRjNHQuwsLwvxbLmwwNEbIhz1TQR8ow0eczC4NBCHTzWAXJEv_8r8hkooc-PYUQm4VmLQ9D9gqf9-tPr6VlX58xPYld-RlvaU8SfJOgL21pn5_uuGRNEgHNp8yRd0oDihvK63T/s3281/ED661D33-9B1F-4A72-8358-F400A52AB035.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3281" data-original-width="2805" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWh2EPBXNLBN2ucsQMreH3VwMHXXEF_Ka6nc-ANOzBbMhNIkN5PDRjNHQuwsLwvxbLmwwNEbIhz1TQR8ow0eczC4NBCHTzWAXJEv_8r8hkooc-PYUQm4VmLQ9D9gqf9-tPr6VlX58xPYld-RlvaU8SfJOgL21pn5_uuGRNEgHNp8yRd0oDihvK63T/s320/ED661D33-9B1F-4A72-8358-F400A52AB035.jpeg" width="274" /></a></div><i> The Savages’ home, sweet home. </i><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He was the former butler to Dr. Marshall and had been laid off three months prior. Dr. Marshall’s nurse and secretary was a 28 year old woman named Ethel “Elsie” Barthel. Mr. Savage, who dressed as dapper as can be, fancied himself a “Jamaican Voodoo Priest” and sold “charms” and “spells”. By unintentional admission from his own title, he was a charlatan. Even though his awesome name was real, he wasn't Jamaican. He wasn’t even from a country where Vodun was regularly practiced. He was from New Jersey. His parents were from Virginia, and their parents had also been born in Virginia.</p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nurse Barthel was a hard-working, nice Christian girl and engaged to be married. She was also pregnant with a baby that wasn’t her finance’s, and the medical attempt to “restore her period” failed her. The claim was that she made an appointment with Mr. Savage in the hopes that he could use his magical powers to make the pregnancy disappear. The hefty price tag was $400 which is about $6,000 in 2022. Weeks later in court, Mrs. Barthel, mother of Elsie, testified that it was a desperate attempt to stop the pregnancy before she began showing. However, Mr. Savage testified that Nurse Barthel was in love with a man who didn’t return her affection, and she wanted a spell for the man to love her back. He admitted to giving her a hand of cards that was a “charm”. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nurse Barthel’s body was found at the abandoned, and unfortunately named, Hussy Mansion. It had been the residence of one of Pittsburgh’s many steel tycoons but now used as a place for “petting parties”. She had been punched, then in a mighty escalation, bashed with a 75 pound block of granite. There was a hand of playing cards next her which became referred to as “the death hand”. (I doubt they contacted an occult specialist for this insight.)</p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">At first, Mr. Savage tried to use his wife as an alibi, and she wasn’t interested in providing one. Next he admitted to meeting with Nurse Barthel, was angry that she only brought $31 when she owed $400, but left instead of becoming homicidal. (The rest of the money was found in her bedroom.) Finally, he admitted that he did it, took them to the crime scene, and step by step showed them meticulously how he did it. Afterwards, he said he didn’t do it, and the confession was coerced. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m no Encyclopedia Brown, in fact, I’m inclined to go with wizardry in cases that don’t even involve claims of magical powers. Yet, even I have noticed some oddities here: </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">1. A nurse wouldn’t keep seeking medical or herbal alternatives before turning to superstition? </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2. Her mother, a wealthy woman of high society, admitted that her unmarried Christian daughter was not only pregnant, but seeking to break their legal and moral law to end it? </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">3. Nurse Barthel couldn’t just lie like the rest of us and say the baby is her to-be husband’s? </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">4. They met at a make-out spot? </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">5. Why didn’t she bring the money if she had it? Homicide is an odd alternative to $6000 for a man laid off with a family to feed.</p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">6. His wife didn’t put up much of a fight for him, did she. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Without any proof, and probably never truly knowing, I’m going to guess that the baby was the result of Dr. Marshall’s employees meeting regularly at the Hussy mansion during the three years they worked together. In fact, if he had been laid off three months prior, and the pregnancy wasn’t showing yet, then that would align with the time Dr. Marshall might have noticed his assistant running off to vomit every few hours. Mr. Savage was handsome, and they were close in age. Another suspect had been a man dubbed “one of her sweethearts”, but he was cleared because his alibi held up. Maybe Mr. Savage was another “one of her sweethearts”, and perhaps he was the man who wouldn’t return her affection. Forbidden fruit is all the sweeter, and she had enough money saved up to run away together. Once the baby was born, it would be hard to deny the paternity. The evidence died with her. As far as the hand of cards, that’s just weird. Maybe he dabbled in the dark arts after all or used it as a red herring. Why would he have left it at the crime scene? </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Mr. Savage was found guilty and sent to die by electrocution. I almost felt sorry for him until he threatened to use his powers to kill everyone and their families if they followed through. They ignored his threats, and unlike Tutankhamen’s crypt, the curses never came to fruition. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The lead detective claimed it was simply a fraudster trying to get his money. Mr. Savage had given Nurse Barthel the cards, told her to sleep on them for three nights, then come back and see him with the money. When she didn’t bring the money, he got violent. In fear over the repercussions, he killed her. I guess this makes sense and would explain why his wife didn’t want to provide an alibi. If he had a propensity towards violence, his wife may have been relieved it wasn’t her or the kids in the morgue. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here’s a final fact though: the fiancé of Nurse Barthel drove a taxi and there’s an hour unaccounted for in his time sheet. During that time, he picked up a customer near the Hussy mansion. It was Mr. Lorenzo Savage. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My second and less exciting theory is that this was a coincidence. A taxi driver isn’t going to have elite connections to frame an innocent man. This reality is probably much more simple. A man with a quick temper acted out of anger and fear. Prisons are filled people having poor impulse control. The Hussy mansion was between their houses, and they needed a private spot for the sensitive matter. </p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Charter; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I have to give Mr. Savage credit here: he technically delivered what his “charm” promised. In fact, his spell worked so well, it boomeranged. Maybe be wasn’t a phony after all. </p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-54976962119968627492022-03-09T07:14:00.003-05:002022-03-09T19:35:53.582-05:00Vice Is Nice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Now that football season is over, I can reflect on the life lessons from my stint as a gambler. Some consider it a sin and feel it’s best to abstain. They prefer gambling on their eternal salvation by judging others who bet on sports. For others, it’s the only time they pray. </span>Then there are those unfortunates who become addicted and need help. It’s a poison to them that’s best left alone, and since I haven’t had a drink in 14 years, I get it. Genetic predisposition to addiction is like inheriting someone’s messy basement we don’t want but have to clean up anyway. That’s just part of being a grownup though. Maturity in its barebones is fixing things someone else broke. </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Then there are those like me: middle-aged mothers in sweatpants who desperately need a vice. We promised ourselves thirty years ago that we would never turn out like this. Our moms were lame, but we were going to be cool. Then going out became too tiring. New fashions became unflattering. Salt and sugar became our bodies’ enemies.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Everyone needs something naughty. People too wholesome leave others feeling dirty. Vices connect people the way a private joke does. They build camaraderie among us exhausted from being good all day. We need a break from the constant self-restraint of role modeling. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">When I got sober at 26, I still smoked for a few years. Eventually, I had to quit because it was no longer cool. It’s badass to smoke in one’s twenties. After that, it’s just a filthy habit. In my thirties, I stayed wild by eating ice cream for breakfast and driving a sports car. Now I drive a Highlander and can’t remember the last time I ate a carbohydrate. I used to enjoy murder mysteries, but my wiener four-year-old cries if someone gets hurt and won’t believe that so many people fall asleep eating ketchup. As a Portland girl, I drank coffee by the pot. Now more than one cup gives me anxiety. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">With all of that gone, gambling this past winter </span><span style="text-align: left;">was refreshing. It showed me that I’m a far better person when I have an outlet for suppressed depravity. My husband laughed when I said this and reminded me that I’m the only person he has ever known who cried from losing $2.50. (I cried because I would have turned that into a small windfall if Tom Brady hadn’t walked backward and lost me a few yards.) </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">He’s also a far better person than I am. Less uptight, funnier, perceptive, etc. It’s because he thoroughly enjoys his vices. He got a free $100 bet before the last football season started and bet it on the Rams winning the Super Bowl. We went to Ocean City. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgm6qo8DreOuav4MmiWCt2Rh7iezKo403ory1CmZCx4G9yA5-iT6bH-vVaOweH8L__WrwrInq3TUAKP_QtN5en8Mwol-_hvLiIA0NVX7GWrQv8ViViDgey73djZVlChoKmAHU8Xd-geGoe-1pknytMMhl01FeQGvcFE__fp7VTw-lUo9KWXdiRwmSQ9=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgm6qo8DreOuav4MmiWCt2Rh7iezKo403ory1CmZCx4G9yA5-iT6bH-vVaOweH8L__WrwrInq3TUAKP_QtN5en8Mwol-_hvLiIA0NVX7GWrQv8ViViDgey73djZVlChoKmAHU8Xd-geGoe-1pknytMMhl01FeQGvcFE__fp7VTw-lUo9KWXdiRwmSQ9=s320" width="240" /></a></div> “<i>Thank you Aaron Donald!</i>” <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-23209404430919237152022-02-13T05:38:00.002-05:002022-02-13T06:21:28.286-05:00Super Broke Sunday <p>Football season is finally ending, and with that, so is my stint as a gambler. I studied hard, developed new skills, made a friend along the way (my husband), and my children learned valuable life lessons, like not to stand in front of the TV. I’m looking forward to next season, but until then, I’m going to be busy with my new subscription to Newspapers.com. </p><p>At the start, my husband picked my bets, but after some of them lost, I developed eye strain from glaring at him. Then I studied “expert picks” and hope for the sake of their families that they don’t take their own advice. Eventually, I was diligently researching everything necessary to make my own educated guesses. Night after night, I studied players like a psycho ex-girlfriend, looking for any changes that could affect their playing. </p><p>Now as it concludes, I’m officially a fan who developed her own subjective relationship with it:</p><p>1. I have a fondness in my heart for the Steelers, and even though I’m not their biggest fan, I’ll always root for them. In fact, cheering for them has helped me feel a sense of home in Pittsburgh. These past 5 years, I’ve felt like an orphaned Portland girl just visiting. </p><p>2. My husband gave me two wonderful stepchildren whom I cherish, and I was emotionally prepared for them. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for him giving me his Lions fandom. They’re like a scrappy dog who can’t catch a break, but maybe if we love it enough, it will become a champion. </p><p>3. I’m not a fan of the Chiefs, but I’m a huge fan of their players. They’re young, insanely talented, and have big personalities. </p><p>4. There is no one else like Tom Brady. Future generations will consider him the greatest player of all time.</p><p>5. Aaron Rodgers is sexy, and I’m ashamed of myself for it. It’s like I turn my head in repulsion, then peek out of the corner of my eye. </p><p>6. Matthew Stafford is my favorite player on and off the field. His whole family seems awesome. Because of him, I’m now a Rams fan and was overjoyed when they made the Super Bowl. </p><p>Now on to the recipe portion. </p><p>Here are my very last Sportsbook picks for this year:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrNJ6EkGdwm5-HXUqYRyzctcWFytz6ZVjpRBlPY5cfy5CvOCNndyKiUafVAoOIU1gmIThyOirv6LB8rGRXU0jSRbt_pY7MwAVGjHflaNYPQ1LZmZIkFSua9jDByLMw0edwVdyX3COOBQkn_Z_3IepjGpnU8w8OZfkKB2RfrsV1B1WzBFDB5JJCxT1_=s828" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="828" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrNJ6EkGdwm5-HXUqYRyzctcWFytz6ZVjpRBlPY5cfy5CvOCNndyKiUafVAoOIU1gmIThyOirv6LB8rGRXU0jSRbt_pY7MwAVGjHflaNYPQ1LZmZIkFSua9jDByLMw0edwVdyX3COOBQkn_Z_3IepjGpnU8w8OZfkKB2RfrsV1B1WzBFDB5JJCxT1_=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(One of these will be wrong.)</div><p>1. Stafford gets 250+ passing yards, maybe many more. My husband talked me down from betting 300+ yards. Also, add 2 passing touchdowns. Since he’s my favorite player, my heart might be fogging my judgment, but then again, he’s my favorite player because he comes through under pressure. As a rookie, he threw a game winning touchdown with a separated shoulder. Not to mention his wife surviving brain cancer, and they have four girls which includes a set of twins. He’s psychologically tough enough to play his best. </p><p>2. The Bengals might actually win, so hedge your bets here. Quarterback Joe Burrow is like me when I was in college- cool as shit, smokes cigars, and hoards all the good luck. There’s no logical reason why they beat the Chiefs twice to get to the Super Bowl, and if there’s no logic, there’s room for chaos. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqd2-FjRo2wupxHOremgZfrzXLm5gk2WYGOdGG5qQz25fRf_G_QjxnMNOh6PdV04BHQ4KGjlxdKAlJGttV_KFbWjEUP--I334LX4tooIYylElSmoBJrGUiZuY0oLB6LEDJ0_AlyHWf6dZMM7659zJlzKN5DO0BFiVvVbg1AcmhLKKIlZBc8ZBvg2eW=s828" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="828" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqd2-FjRo2wupxHOremgZfrzXLm5gk2WYGOdGG5qQz25fRf_G_QjxnMNOh6PdV04BHQ4KGjlxdKAlJGttV_KFbWjEUP--I334LX4tooIYylElSmoBJrGUiZuY0oLB6LEDJ0_AlyHWf6dZMM7659zJlzKN5DO0BFiVvVbg1AcmhLKKIlZBc8ZBvg2eW=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Bet hedged. Yet still, one of these will be wrong.)</div><p>3. HOWEVER…moneyline on the Rams. Without superstitious intervention, like a voodoo curse, they’re the better team. Also, my husband bet they would win the Super Bowl before the season even started. He has two extraordinary gifts: he knows when an Arby’s is nearby, and he’s great at gambling. Since we’ve never eaten at Arby’s together, his powers are all the stronger for sports-betting. </p><p>4. Cooper Kupp will probably get at least 90 receiving yards and score a touchdown. He and Stafford have chemistry that’s elusive to even the happiest marriages.</p><p>5. Stafford will get MVP (and go on to become a hall of famer.) Without being hindered by the Lions’ curse of Bobby Layne, he’s thriving. Sometimes good things happen to good people. </p><p>The only prediction I can make with 100% certainly is that one pick in each bet slip will be wrong. It happens each week, and I’m hoping since it’s the Super Bowl, the curse of “getting one leg wrong in each parlay” can be temporarily lifted. But, since the Lions couldn’t win a playoff game with Stafford despite their aforementioned curse expiring the year before his first season, I won’t press my luck. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAvUkJC_JKG0uYvb9_KcGMpN3EmpfGng7UuTlHiQ9ly3jobFFXAS5NHH00ILi0q-92wpbNpBZ1ytSuW8REgP9V4OTv20OvDLKkxHqOFvDL5WTATeYzi_0bvzDNXFRV7gnHcDSo5uuSlbbjmwl8QmsY0tX8dCONhrpZ5S1pFSiudEXr05oQ9VxIFQ0R=s828" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="828" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAvUkJC_JKG0uYvb9_KcGMpN3EmpfGng7UuTlHiQ9ly3jobFFXAS5NHH00ILi0q-92wpbNpBZ1ytSuW8REgP9V4OTv20OvDLKkxHqOFvDL5WTATeYzi_0bvzDNXFRV7gnHcDSo5uuSlbbjmwl8QmsY0tX8dCONhrpZ5S1pFSiudEXr05oQ9VxIFQ0R=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(There’s no reason for me to suspect this might happen. It just appeases my ego to lose a bet I already know is dumb.)</div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-77276458404506367512022-01-14T23:36:00.002-05:002022-01-14T23:42:24.094-05:00My Get Poor Quick Scheme<p><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">Until the Super Bowl is over, I’m on a football jaunt. Just like writing about parenting, it can be exclusive and boring, so I appreciate you making it this far. Since I’m at such a rudimentary level in my sports’ education, it won’t be too hard to follow along. If this sounds like I’m over-explaining things, please don’t feel insulted. It’s just where I’m at. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Right now, I’m working on my betting picks for this weekend’s playoff games. I like to pick parlays, which means I predict a few things will happen. If one of those things goes awry, the whole thing is a bust. The greatest benefit of winning these isn’t the money; it’s that when I’m right, my children think I’m psychic. They grow out of believing Santa is watching them, then enter a teenage nihilistic phase where they no longer think God is watching, but if they fear their mother has a secret crystal ball, they may think twice about lighting up that doobie in Madison’s basement.</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">This weekend, Pittsburgh’s beloved Steelers are playing. They barely made it to the playoffs and will be playing the Kansas City Chiefs who are one of the best teams right now. The quarterback for the Steelers is Ben Roethlisberger who is retiring this year at the old fart age of 39. (I spent most of my spry 39th year enjoying a geriatric pregnancy.) He has been their quarterback for eighteen years and is considered one of the greatest of all time. If they lose this next game, it will be his last, and the city is already grieving his departure. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-8WrcDkeJhBa2mT6sLivhtSwyHC9FfN1koI7LyevDWu4kzLTSOq5W6xBUKG0Ek-AeWe_od7Dp4x0n0iKLgQDWr7eIeUTvpA1hglvbpByd_qGaz-X6du1LdBpttJA6t8U99OsIxSfXVRVIRQSWsDgrPQV3jy9A6V8I_tITyTrC9lNZMyvE-W9vug63=s2895" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2895" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-8WrcDkeJhBa2mT6sLivhtSwyHC9FfN1koI7LyevDWu4kzLTSOq5W6xBUKG0Ek-AeWe_od7Dp4x0n0iKLgQDWr7eIeUTvpA1hglvbpByd_qGaz-X6du1LdBpttJA6t8U99OsIxSfXVRVIRQSWsDgrPQV3jy9A6V8I_tITyTrC9lNZMyvE-W9vug63=s320" width="256" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(</span><i>39 year old hag in a “Watermelon Smuggler” shirt</i>)</blockquote><div><br />
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">With this in mind, my betting picks are as follows:</p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">1.) The Steelers will win by one point. A city that puts fries on their pizzas are tempting fate for heart attack opportunities. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2.) The Steelers will get 3+ sacks. Their current outside linebacker (TJ Watt) is tied for the record of sacking the quarterback the most times in a season. This is a rough spot to be in. People need their own rung on a ladder, so it’s better to be second than tied for first. My guess is that he’s been sacking people all week to reassure to himself that he’s superior.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">3.) Ben Roethlisberger will get under the predicted amount of passing yards. Reason being: the closer we get to our last day of work, the more our body starts molding into television watching formation. We start preparing for catching up on all the shows we missed. Even if he is focused on the game, his body knows it’s about to watch the last season of Dexter because he heard good things about New Blood. He’ll be distracted by intrusive thoughts like, “Did John Leguizamo guest star on a season?” No, that was Christian Camargo somehow mixed with John Lithgow.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqTovItBSRCEvY_FCmOcRS4npwZK2vsGAFI2Ugzj8lP7fd4YMbr73t1QfRboWZr6xs4fgEEB_wK5lJcMXYB9fwR9SPpaM9yYo_0feWM2WYH2rNxbFOyMNOdqmyJ4Rr33KHtfyz8btZKphbhElp9T0z6rm1DHEToSkCuxbQO_VYYfDJasoxyaMgw2Yv=s1162" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqTovItBSRCEvY_FCmOcRS4npwZK2vsGAFI2Ugzj8lP7fd4YMbr73t1QfRboWZr6xs4fgEEB_wK5lJcMXYB9fwR9SPpaM9yYo_0feWM2WYH2rNxbFOyMNOdqmyJ4Rr33KHtfyz8btZKphbhElp9T0z6rm1DHEToSkCuxbQO_VYYfDJasoxyaMgw2Yv=s320" width="297" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">(<i>Not John Leguizamo</i>)</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizu4bFoiJ1n6pSEDJXoulILaRFRVdgzVwKw0LR0nkkRvQlj94XiF5J6EfF9PPxRXF-TuHrnPGMh_BZwPv8pxOQVJl_9M8gs4tGGzo9GQMoCNVdtXWApsr6BkVz2esPlaazhRoQlcwbk91XuGzfA1UHb27B6NT60ECPNopGrPJ8Dx6zwQaJbECADjP1=s1537" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizu4bFoiJ1n6pSEDJXoulILaRFRVdgzVwKw0LR0nkkRvQlj94XiF5J6EfF9PPxRXF-TuHrnPGMh_BZwPv8pxOQVJl_9M8gs4tGGzo9GQMoCNVdtXWApsr6BkVz2esPlaazhRoQlcwbk91XuGzfA1UHb27B6NT60ECPNopGrPJ8Dx6zwQaJbECADjP1=s320" width="225" /></a></div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px; text-align: center;">(<i>Especially not John Leguizamo</i>)</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">4.) Najee Harris won’t get a touchdown because the universe is out to get me. He gets touchdowns all the time, except when I’m counting on it. Most likely, while he’s asleep, a voice creeps into his subconscious saying, “There’s a woman in Pittsburgh who could win five whole dollars if you score a touchdown. Be prepared for flying tackles. Huh? Erm..I suppose she’s kinda hot if you’re into the middle-aged mom thing. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">5.) Chase Claypool is going to have fabulous hair. This isn’t currently being offered as a bet because Sportsbook sites don’t take my suggestions seriously.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj2Wk4cCFOE1oIy3L6hK7AaYHIYo5u7khXm4kyMfg_iRgolwidMPfT297BO5mG6rfUQI2RlzltOirmMbF6SfTFbQDlBjax0ZnHKj7mdYQOse9jF2Ye3pnr7hOxbolECYgbCMw4UTIxSB5sG6zCDf6aA3dhawV5jD85PXP58XMkFsq_L_V4lHW2CIHt=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj2Wk4cCFOE1oIy3L6hK7AaYHIYo5u7khXm4kyMfg_iRgolwidMPfT297BO5mG6rfUQI2RlzltOirmMbF6SfTFbQDlBjax0ZnHKj7mdYQOse9jF2Ye3pnr7hOxbolECYgbCMw4UTIxSB5sG6zCDf6aA3dhawV5jD85PXP58XMkFsq_L_V4lHW2CIHt=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(<i>Be still my heart, Goldilocks</i>.)</div>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">6.) The total score will be over five points and under a hundred points. I know, I’m a wizard. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">7.) I’m still not sure what a “safety” is, but the answer is no. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">8.) Patrick Mahomes, the baby-faced quarterback for the Chiefs is going to have 250+ passing yards. This sounds like it contradicts my prior statement about Roethlisberger not getting as many passing yards himself, but they’re going to run the ball more because the Chiefs have a weak defense. The Chief’s success is entirely dependent on Mahomes passing for touchdowns. The only chance the Steelers have is a strong defense and keeping it out of Mahomes’ hands. I occasionally know what I’m talking about. (Btw- a “safety” is when the offensive player with the ball is tackled in their own end zone, and the other team gets two points. There are more scenarios, but this one is the most common. You may have seen these in compilations of football bloopers with “Yackety Sax” playing.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuC3V2GttifVhTPDiLqteGn-y9MyBpPWwYCJQZTqCXqT89g0vjkbVhh3qejaAH1XlSswKoG78-qHKBAHKaC7HNeyV4BfO2WEmyJ-5uCAQ85vGAuznVnrIwBD88fy1XCcPyXE90ggyJLB1mVYBI9d9DvmW-Wl7adPTG5Gva9lgPYuqFZrGl2XlhRI_J=s1920" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuC3V2GttifVhTPDiLqteGn-y9MyBpPWwYCJQZTqCXqT89g0vjkbVhh3qejaAH1XlSswKoG78-qHKBAHKaC7HNeyV4BfO2WEmyJ-5uCAQ85vGAuznVnrIwBD88fy1XCcPyXE90ggyJLB1mVYBI9d9DvmW-Wl7adPTG5Gva9lgPYuqFZrGl2XlhRI_J=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(<i>Also has fabulous hair</i>)</div><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">9.) It’s predicted to snow in Kansas City that day. That gives the Steelers an advantage because Pittsburghers treat the snow like Portlanders treat the rain- they put on a hoodie and give zero shits. When it snows here, not one aspect of life changes. In Portland, the city shuts down and people sled down hills. If they tried that here, they’d fly head first into traffic. Even if you’re certain the Chiefs will win, don’t count on them covering the spread. My husband says it’s the opposite- Pittsburghers can’t drive in the snow and, like Portland, the city shuts down. No, Pittsburghers can’t drive in general. They’re the nicest people who release years of repressed rage while driving. They only shut down for blizzards because they’re not a city of Waffle Houses. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">10.) Everything I just said is wrong, so pick the opposite, then send me footage of yourself making it rain with all your winnings. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">With all this said, I do have one sincere tip: may everything in our lives be for entertainment purposes. </p></div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-68099678229759612362022-01-10T00:14:00.003-05:002022-01-10T04:07:15.598-05:00(Silver) Trophy Wives<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">My guess is that every happily married sports fanatic has either an equally zealous spouse or one that has immeasurable patience. My husband would talk about Roger Federer for hours while I was trapped in the passenger seat in traffic, and all I remember is that he has two sets of identical twins. That man must scream into a pillow every night.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Since we travel so often, I took up sport-betting which forced me to learn about NFL football. With educated guesses, I can not only make a few bucks, but also rub it in my husband’s face each time I’m right about betting the under. There’s no sweeter rush for a spouse than being right. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">However, I’m still not necessarily a sports fan. Since I live in Pittsburgh, outsiders make conversation by asking if I’m a Steelers fan. Sure, why not. If they can cover the spread, I’ll make Renegade my ringtone. I grew up in Portland, Oregon, so I’m prone to saying snotty things like, “You know that the rest of the world considers soccer to be real football, right?” My attitude is softening over the years as I adjust to Pittsburgh, but I’m far from decorating a rumpus room black and gold. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My unique perspective, as the spouse of a man who would throw me into traffic for the chance of the Lions winning a Super Bowl is this: we don’t get it, but we respect it. We tolerate your emotional affairs with your favorite teams. In fact, we’ve accepted that they may be your real spouses, and we are the mistresses. There was no hiding what you were when we met, and we chose this life anyway. That’s why we don’t get upset when dinner turns cold because a game went into overtime. On the plus side, we enjoy seeing your passion as you cheer, and I’ve been blessed with two beautiful children because the Lions won a couple games.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzNuS_JHhK1svk9EWI-68qUEeNoRbiUlX6DyN89i8qjvPBEs5T1d8-YocJHxYdPNtNl-EfYGJos9lqK1T1tHxSRechMli36DzsB7_vpPnvfbzc7J4vtxdQCrXuCgqWga7_XjrEw5BdiMImlWvE2yWZ76llhFXJBgsKqtS63FoC2SCvWw8NFyh8aPFL=s1800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzNuS_JHhK1svk9EWI-68qUEeNoRbiUlX6DyN89i8qjvPBEs5T1d8-YocJHxYdPNtNl-EfYGJos9lqK1T1tHxSRechMli36DzsB7_vpPnvfbzc7J4vtxdQCrXuCgqWga7_XjrEw5BdiMImlWvE2yWZ76llhFXJBgsKqtS63FoC2SCvWw8NFyh8aPFL=s320" width="256" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My term for us is “trophy wives” because second place is still a trophy, and silver is up to $23 per ounce. Not too shabby. Gold is still worth a lot more, but no one makes a thousand dollars betting on my talent. There’s no betting site that gives an over/under whether or not I’ll get an article published. But, if I must come in second place, I’m glad it’s to something that jerks his emotions around more than I do. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUseWWNp8bmXOONMnekDDbR6lbtkEEQL-UohSP2wc5ga9r8WIcy1k_ZzUmeMNpynNP7xzc6_3R5QYZvE-pHg-wc9SDj_nGaaM1DuPqAL7Os5_La7I36Xop19p5JJzNEndo-iTqswPEwIsKqSLN_7nHviWSUD9HyOhK3FTpLp_uL8EnNhKlRtTSEhTI=s828" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="828" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUseWWNp8bmXOONMnekDDbR6lbtkEEQL-UohSP2wc5ga9r8WIcy1k_ZzUmeMNpynNP7xzc6_3R5QYZvE-pHg-wc9SDj_nGaaM1DuPqAL7Os5_La7I36Xop19p5JJzNEndo-iTqswPEwIsKqSLN_7nHviWSUD9HyOhK3FTpLp_uL8EnNhKlRtTSEhTI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>(They say to bet what you can afford.)</i></div><br /><p></p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-35022280514230400812021-12-15T05:29:00.001-05:002021-12-15T05:34:28.662-05:00Marriage Is A Gamble <p><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">Since I didn’t like football, my husband tricked me into enjoying it. He introduced me to sports-betting, and now I know excessive details about every NFL wide receiver, including how to pronounce Equanimeus St. Brown. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE-ApR-iBbvZu4PWcYjZpvhx-Xplfy2CCCkJcniUs0MeQA0iChMDTmz3FNCc4x3BH_REJtOeCmThBLOIEgLo_CK4MFppZVVnU04tqhooTz6_DAqCL94Po2Z8Hea4dEOthvsFuvIQd3w5Zkz0To2VcfsRgGzutg7o8aFDSFfTxp8wyBuOyqXVn6P3X1=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE-ApR-iBbvZu4PWcYjZpvhx-Xplfy2CCCkJcniUs0MeQA0iChMDTmz3FNCc4x3BH_REJtOeCmThBLOIEgLo_CK4MFppZVVnU04tqhooTz6_DAqCL94Po2Z8Hea4dEOthvsFuvIQd3w5Zkz0To2VcfsRgGzutg7o8aFDSFfTxp8wyBuOyqXVn6P3X1=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;"> (Seynt Broun)</span><p></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I can understand why people get addicted to gambling despite it being a system designed for “the house to win”. With skill and research, people can learn how to make good bets, but certainty is impossible. Try betting on a running back getting over seventy rushing yards, then watch him injured five minutes in. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When money is lost, there’s an urge to win it back immediately, especially if the loss is by one measly point. That feeling of being so close is pure frustration. Gambling sites regularly reward players by giving them back their money- in the form of free bets. It’s a downward spiral with a win here and there for the sake of intermittent reinforcement. Like being a kid with a drunk parent who occasionally takes them to the zoo. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">One would think with my history of addiction, this would be a problem for me. In fact, the first time I lost $5, I flipped my lid, said I was a degenerate, then locked my account until January. After a few days, I wondered if I had overreacted. Jason informed me that I hadn’t lost money. I had deposited $5, won $10, then lost a $5 bet. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In response, I found some sanity and a better site. We use the same account and set limits on how much we are allowed to deposit per week. Mine is a cool $25. I bet $5 per NFL game I watch. That’s Monday and Thursday nights, and three games on Sunday. Thanks to the reliability of Tom Brady, I win about one out of every five bets. Most weeks, I break even, but sometimes I’ll make an extra $1.25 to $8. It sounds like a waste of time, but people do all kinds of weird things to spice up their marriages, and we have no use for a pool boy. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As far as triggering addiction, oh yes, it definitely has, but not to gambling. I’m getting my jimmies off the sweet rush of being right. There’s no greater euphoria in a marriage than being proven correct. Jason’s head is filled with sports knowledge and strategy. He’s excellent at poker and winning arguments against people who aren’t me. However, I am a wife. I run the house, and the house always wins. As the children sleep, I read stats, weather reports, injury lists, and game predictions. Then I make betting lists based on where teams will fall short. I’ll bet that they won’t get 20 points, and the quarterback will throw an interception. I’m my mother’s daughter, so my eyes are adapted to fault finding. If I tell my handsome expert husband that he’s expecting too many receiving yards on a windy day, then it’s dopamine city if I’m right. If you haven’t gotten to tell your spouse to suck fat donkey balls, then you haven’t truly lived.</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;">Jason thinks it’s mean to bet for a team to score under a certain amount of points because then I’m cheering against them. I told him that if they prove me wrong, then I’m happy for them. Like when I bet against his beloved Lions and thought I was going to make a cool seventy cents because they never win. That day, they accidentally won, and Jason was so happy he cried. So, it’s like I paid five dollars for his ephemeral joy, and that’s a bargain.</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;">Not only am I bonding with my husband, the children have stopped sobbing when we put a football game on. They enjoy cheering with us. Yesterday, Zach jumped up and down with me chanting, “Cover the spread! Cover the spread!” Their favorite cheers are raising their arms over their heads, yelling, “Touchdown!” and throwing pillows while shouting “F*cking ___, I’ll burn down your childhood home.”</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;">I’m still learning how to lose graciously. Jason consoles me and says I made excellent bets, but we can’t predict things. He has explained that the best gamblers still lose most of the time, just their wins cover their losses, and that’s what I’m doing. Easy for him to say. He got a $200 free gambling credit ages ago and has been playing off of it ever since. I cashed out this week with $8 extra dollars and $24 in free bets. According to him, that’s really good. No, “really good” is being invited by the sportsbook site to enjoy a Steelers game from their luxury suite at the stadium, with our own private bathroom and gourmet spread. Jason got to bring a guest, and I wasn’t even his first choice, reason being, “…but you don’t even like football.” </p>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio8fV-sTiJ7EqA4-n02mUYnkh1BEfk3XNzdbDKHzLZgMbmSA3ISlaV8PONVcZfBTlUbqQ55PUEUAW4X-oqXuP4Q1PN4XuMt9YDnDxJF6qJQjxU8QwcLoYx9zEx-qMDTOe9H9eQNcLDbErPoRB3njOufce0NV9M_ymuD6HgGWvbaP9wwYZ3YRx9YzcA=s1383" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1383" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio8fV-sTiJ7EqA4-n02mUYnkh1BEfk3XNzdbDKHzLZgMbmSA3ISlaV8PONVcZfBTlUbqQ55PUEUAW4X-oqXuP4Q1PN4XuMt9YDnDxJF6qJQjxU8QwcLoYx9zEx-qMDTOe9H9eQNcLDbErPoRB3njOufce0NV9M_ymuD6HgGWvbaP9wwYZ3YRx9YzcA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(I’m a hustler, baby.) </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"> </p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-50759538745232770152021-11-21T07:20:00.003-05:002021-11-21T07:32:59.989-05:00Because It’s Tradition, That’s Why<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Conversation with my mom many years ago:</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Mom: (groan) I don’t want to do Thanksgiving. I don’t want to do all that cooking. I don’t want all those people over. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Me: Then don’t.</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Mom: But it’s tradition…</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">(Following year, year after that, year after that, etc.)<b> </b></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i> Mom: (groan) I don’t want to do Thanksgiving. I don’t want to do all that cooking. I don’t want all those people over. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Me: Then don’t.</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Mom: But it’s tradition…</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">(Finally one year)</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Mom: (groan) I don’t want to do Thanksgiving. I don’t want to do all that cooking. I don’t want all those people over. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Me: Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to do Thanksgiving. You’re going to do the cooking. You’re going to have people over. You’re going to complain about not wanting to, but you will anyway. It’s tradition. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Mom: Oh. Alright then. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Now it’s my turn. Jason doesn’t understand my relationship with the holidays. I get excited and count the hours after Halloween until my family lets me decorate. Then on Thanksgiving Day, the official portal to the Holiday Season, I bitch nonstop about how no one helps, how expensive the food is, how I don’t have any counter space to prepare, how I hate everyone and the dumb looks on their faces, and how my husband is in an emotionally abusive relationship with the Detroit Lions. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Then, after I’ve passive-aggressively cleaned up after everyone by banging pots and pans loudly in the sink, I put my feet up and gush about what a wonderful time I’m having. My family can’t understand this when twelve hours prior, I was telling them to burn in hell for going number two after I cleaned the toilet. Now after a long day, I’m all smiles and asking who wants to help put up the Christmas tree. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Conversation with my husband a couple nights ago:</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Jason: How can you like the holidays so much when you complain about them nonstop?</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Me: It’s not just me; it’s every person who hosts holidays. They bitch incessantly then gush about how much fun it was. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Jason: That makes no sense. </i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Me: (Shrug) But it’s tradition…</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdQsQ9C7xJKgDdN14nI9cS3cr9AngiAvaIw97AjcGZcaek_aJSrnWAHaCM271Jca1z6-icvVO2zki-V00japjlqhyIShtarpt8c727Jl3GItkyV0Rfz7TXxfcVe5gEw4S_Vt9IFk5t8Y/s2048/8CF73C2C-DD5C-4C4C-A2E6-1F099E5AF94F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdQsQ9C7xJKgDdN14nI9cS3cr9AngiAvaIw97AjcGZcaek_aJSrnWAHaCM271Jca1z6-icvVO2zki-V00japjlqhyIShtarpt8c727Jl3GItkyV0Rfz7TXxfcVe5gEw4S_Vt9IFk5t8Y/s320/8CF73C2C-DD5C-4C4C-A2E6-1F099E5AF94F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>(Thanksgiving 2019, we went to Ford Field to watch the Lions crush Jason’s soul. Then I spent a buttload of money on mediocre room service for our holiday feast which included a Little Caesar’s pizza.) <p></p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-61537769083626295772021-11-03T05:48:00.010-05:002021-11-04T14:12:23.837-05:00Not One Of Yinz Yet<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">After four years, I still feel like a visitor in Pittsburgh. The people here are great, it’s just a city with a very strong identity. Added to this, I’m from Portland, Oregon which is also a city with a strong identity, albeit a very different one.</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here’s why I don’t quite fit in yet: </p><ol>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> If I want a good parking spot, I arrive early and wait. I don’t reserve one with a broken patio chair. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWahH57wmNPc-rf21Af1P5FwFo9gGNakqL2i1zKCvj5OnFTD8JyBZibVWeG1v9gw6d2HEK0gM_Mci10GJi5XuhmylPUCFn_bMPcJkSvEv6K4kU3ppKOhy4hjfySSugiel1fIL4SlyvYNE/s640/B73C2E23-3E4A-4A0C-AA0F-B1C0C91726D4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWahH57wmNPc-rf21Af1P5FwFo9gGNakqL2i1zKCvj5OnFTD8JyBZibVWeG1v9gw6d2HEK0gM_Mci10GJi5XuhmylPUCFn_bMPcJkSvEv6K4kU3ppKOhy4hjfySSugiel1fIL4SlyvYNE/s320/B73C2E23-3E4A-4A0C-AA0F-B1C0C91726D4.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I specifically order my fries near my food, not on or in it. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_2pyAMSSiwSBYxxfhyphenhyphenKhEIPWow7ylRErNZ1GC0PgP4u_8kTBwz8bZ_Cp4d6jwX7c5UjaWzTU1206Cms6yw3D3RHudvfagRdV1Wy4GJWQ1ev112QiKzTahEcRMdX6xT_Uk98IwGh4Jps/s388/13A025A1-FC69-43AB-B818-2F1A766F277B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_2pyAMSSiwSBYxxfhyphenhyphenKhEIPWow7ylRErNZ1GC0PgP4u_8kTBwz8bZ_Cp4d6jwX7c5UjaWzTU1206Cms6yw3D3RHudvfagRdV1Wy4GJWQ1ev112QiKzTahEcRMdX6xT_Uk98IwGh4Jps/s320/13A025A1-FC69-43AB-B818-2F1A766F277B.jpeg" width="247" /></a></div><br /></li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> I can go a whole meal without dipping something in something. </li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m not a fan of fish no matter which church basement it was fried in. </li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> Instead of saying “watch you don’t fall” if the kids are climbing on stuff, I yell, “Get the f*ck down!” like a normal person. </li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Tom Brady seems lovely. There, I said it. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcOX1NhNvyo26i01uNrGA24G8p0DpcbY7yWwjLfmsZTfQifyZ9VSscekAEfxz-bIihdM8loEgREbNH2jFsCrGneia-D-O8K2Rri1AMHGHcQ5wdzNLKjzikhcEu_UqwWx6BFCZgAj-YS0/s632/1DFFA874-9389-40C8-ABE3-C66E28DBC965.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="632" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcOX1NhNvyo26i01uNrGA24G8p0DpcbY7yWwjLfmsZTfQifyZ9VSscekAEfxz-bIihdM8loEgREbNH2jFsCrGneia-D-O8K2Rri1AMHGHcQ5wdzNLKjzikhcEu_UqwWx6BFCZgAj-YS0/s320/1DFFA874-9389-40C8-ABE3-C66E28DBC965.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The grocery store cashiers are stumped over the exotic produce I hand them. It’s rhubarb, and it’s native to Pennsylvania.</li>
<li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No one in Portland has ever asked me, “Why are you dressed up?” Out here, I’m overdressed wherever I go. Formalwear means “a clean Steelers shirt”. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Then when someone compliments something I’m wearing, I brag about how cheap it was. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I order cultural foods, I try to pronounce them in their native language and sound like an ass. Out here, they butcher them in American phonetics. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My freshly fracked Pennsylvanian water tastes like gasoline, yeah yeah. I’m more concerned about the fluoride for absolutely zero reason. We Portlanders know it’s illogical and don’t care. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I don’t walk on streets without sidewalks at night wearing a Penguins, Steelers, or Pirates hoodie. Do you know why? Because they’re all black. Do you know who does this? The entire Pittsburgh population between 20 and 50 years old.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Anthropomorphic pierogis racing each other is fodder for nightmares. I hear in Chicago, it’s sausages. That’s a dream designed for Dr. Freud himself. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw6xB0KFzky6EEvBfKEkxqulQEVe9yLp0O4aj8NCzfK-NbPx5uDgN5SBs1mbPt6kc0dmaQc8ONOZ3ny2jOPkKrmbE6puRVK-x5kJvk6kPQo6Na-mp3DNvFBB_QFkIyfPaweWJa9oZAN0/s1700/EB21C0F2-51E5-4D1B-A694-A1593A79CD28.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1700" data-original-width="1700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw6xB0KFzky6EEvBfKEkxqulQEVe9yLp0O4aj8NCzfK-NbPx5uDgN5SBs1mbPt6kc0dmaQc8ONOZ3ny2jOPkKrmbE6puRVK-x5kJvk6kPQo6Na-mp3DNvFBB_QFkIyfPaweWJa9oZAN0/s320/EB21C0F2-51E5-4D1B-A694-A1593A79CD28.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">If I beep my car horn, it’s to say “hello!”, not an aggressive show of highway dominance. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">If someone cuts me off in traffic, I don’t follow them home and burn their house down. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">If I want to ask what several of you want, I say, “What do all of you want?” Out here, the plural of “you” is “yinz”. And, I wouldn’t bother asking because I know what yinz all want: fries stuffed inside your mispronounced gyros.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It’s more common back home to call us “full-time parents” instead of “stay-at-home moms”. Reason being, we’re necessary for doing the things other parents can’t leave the office for. Bake sales, cutting orange slices, and organizing raffles are our jam.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Please, no more ranch dressing.. For the love of all that is good, no more ranch dressing.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No bet I have ever made on sports has involved the loser being publicly humiliated or their spouse being pimped out. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There are many reasons why I don’t like Chick-Fil-A. The primary one is that it sucks. Burgerville, food carts, and gourmet happy hour menus have made Northwesterners into cheap eats snobs. We love paradoxes like that.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Each time I see an abandoned, rundown, rat-infested house that’s clearly haunted by hobos from the 1800s, I sigh and say, “It has beautiful bones.” and wish I could fix it up.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I don’t know how to dress for days that are 80 degrees at noon and -4 by 9pm. I look senile. </li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Do I go to higher ground to avoid the flash floods? Or do I chance the water to avoid falling trees landing on my car? I usually choose option 3, which is waiting in a gas station parking lot with only sour rhubarb to snack on.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I introduce myself, I follow the Portland formula: lob wry comments back and forth, state our names, where we live, share darkly personal information, then agree we hope to see each other again. Out here, they say “hi” back, then shuffle uncomfortably like I ripped a silent fart, and they know it.</li><li style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There were only two plates of cookies served after my wedding, not a full table. However, this is a Pittsburgh tradition that I’m warming up to fast.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfEG7IQerhkRz6bnHtrmDHURtfV4114MXBRBiF8KWc9Erphl608NYeWWfHhTm9eXxGVxo2qVs9V7-Rnj7XIoiOXxHTrL1o6pDr5M0RQyQ0E7G1ZGGwFW-hutcxgyK8p6jM4Ku8soaf9Y/s2048/F2AE60C6-81D9-4850-A4C7-566ADDE36023.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="2048" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfEG7IQerhkRz6bnHtrmDHURtfV4114MXBRBiF8KWc9Erphl608NYeWWfHhTm9eXxGVxo2qVs9V7-Rnj7XIoiOXxHTrL1o6pDr5M0RQyQ0E7G1ZGGwFW-hutcxgyK8p6jM4Ku8soaf9Y/s320/F2AE60C6-81D9-4850-A4C7-566ADDE36023.jpeg" width="320" /></a></li></ol>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-59387390944444414642021-10-09T18:01:00.001-05:002021-10-09T19:15:32.727-05:00The Sexiest Men of Toddler TV My husband is wonderful. Doesn’t like my writing about him, but is nevertheless fantastic. Now that I’m middle-aged and married with kids, what I find attractive in men has completely changed. Working out at the gym isn’t sexy because that means more time away from family. Begrudgingly wearing matching Christmas pajamas? Super hot. <div><br /></div><div>While he’s at work, I’ve replaced him with new boyfriends from children’s programming. Kid stuff is intolerable without some courtesy eye candy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are my top pics: </div><div><br /></div><div> The Dad From Cocomelon
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SzYboBx5zzCRlkyUhK8OjpCHbRjmNedVGxiGnxMsC1h7LC7HdlX2DHwqgLxXyXi-BKPp3EO0gOfno5JS2CO9gVHswvVlzIa-51fc1Kt8RwX71-VUigMg5DemwC2xcVLIEWq9msDTpxI/s300/E9D72560-72CD-41D0-A9CA-DA5AA6BE0B14.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SzYboBx5zzCRlkyUhK8OjpCHbRjmNedVGxiGnxMsC1h7LC7HdlX2DHwqgLxXyXi-BKPp3EO0gOfno5JS2CO9gVHswvVlzIa-51fc1Kt8RwX71-VUigMg5DemwC2xcVLIEWq9msDTpxI/s320/E9D72560-72CD-41D0-A9CA-DA5AA6BE0B14.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Be still my heart, green eyes. From romantically dancing with his wife in the kitchen, to helping with dishes, he’s 100% heartthrob. Not only does he play with his kids, he patiently laughs off their shenanigans. He’s humble enough to take public transportation, and my goodness, have you seen those big hands? Swoon! </div><div><br /></div><div>2. Blue Shirt From The Wiggles
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5JUVs5Nn09GAyzvde6ypZRVmddrJA9pc0V6Ny17bwjVSejvTyUHxdISNs_maNGRy2XEP3s9fVx4rwKgVWu4hn4iVI16LSEgf3GAv7A1-NaBtxjAmJBAjD8e6h01WXpWu2yQ-flITRxI/s828/8DD81190-9659-4C4D-970B-FDBAD9F6E37A.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="828" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5JUVs5Nn09GAyzvde6ypZRVmddrJA9pc0V6Ny17bwjVSejvTyUHxdISNs_maNGRy2XEP3s9fVx4rwKgVWu4hn4iVI16LSEgf3GAv7A1-NaBtxjAmJBAjD8e6h01WXpWu2yQ-flITRxI/s320/8DD81190-9659-4C4D-970B-FDBAD9F6E37A.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
His name is Anthony Field, and he’s a 58 year old former preschool teacher, soldier, and pop musician. His openness about struggling with depression and chronic pain have helped bring awareness to mental health. What woman wouldn’t want to save this complex silver fox?. Hubba hubba!</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Blippi
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6BwFpV8oV3rKzWyrAlC0wtGGF5p156e-KBCd9LKB5x7r2YQTazwhZ9ukCOeQ711bjL_SgHd3TYhHkvBn0QbKCaBWFIysFIwhM9TcrDRnUKsjr_2Ni48V3OCOqwd_1iAk1oF4kfJ0WsAA/s680/CD5FAAE3-494E-4229-96EF-A22ABFF0FFA8.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="680" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6BwFpV8oV3rKzWyrAlC0wtGGF5p156e-KBCd9LKB5x7r2YQTazwhZ9ukCOeQ711bjL_SgHd3TYhHkvBn0QbKCaBWFIysFIwhM9TcrDRnUKsjr_2Ni48V3OCOqwd_1iAk1oF4kfJ0WsAA/s320/CD5FAAE3-494E-4229-96EF-A22ABFF0FFA8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Many years before his multimillion dollar, childlike character was created, Stevin John made gross-out poop videos. Who doesn’t desire an angel with a dirty past? Now he writes songs about tractors, and travels all over to teach about a variety of subjects- all while being man enough to rock an orange bow tie. My son is sick of me putting him on and saying, “Keeping it tight, Blippi.” Here’s hoping he does a segment about cougars. Meow!</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Catrat from Gabby’s Dollhouse
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgZFm0pj5FZIaxO40kNYYdnbtdJfWcdXjkgh3l69jndvzjpuGXlQ0WW5AcTAZ0Y_gDRoQjgpwT2AQghg3OdwO-Y7qRPVq038ZdKBfziwFGgXBIDr_c5QKmj5iTxlSUyfpvLY6Y6LAQck/s1000/6D3D6326-F6F3-4116-BDBD-B33B3D38B9F8.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgZFm0pj5FZIaxO40kNYYdnbtdJfWcdXjkgh3l69jndvzjpuGXlQ0WW5AcTAZ0Y_gDRoQjgpwT2AQghg3OdwO-Y7qRPVq038ZdKBfziwFGgXBIDr_c5QKmj5iTxlSUyfpvLY6Y6LAQck/s320/6D3D6326-F6F3-4116-BDBD-B33B3D38B9F8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Catrat is a sociopath with no conscience. His catchphrase is “Shiny is mine-y” and he steals without remorse. The other cats overlook his self-centered behavior which further enables him to behave narcissistically. I know, hot! Who doesn’t love a broken bad boy? He’s just misunderstood, and I can fix him. Hamina hamina!</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Dave Seville from The Chipmunks
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFupPPC6T2827pNibXLvD8hLBsJb-c3J_3B1f0IA0VeVCja5CYEyj7vTIXAJ_r86zII6_u0RdrKQBC6xkD6Jja6oavmpkvuLmabk7QpWR3T28gbPMx1eCeahqFlnq5aYlAfE2lJtLGyoM/s2048/55E3CF10-8E36-4D21-92AD-F73EAE7A186F.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFupPPC6T2827pNibXLvD8hLBsJb-c3J_3B1f0IA0VeVCja5CYEyj7vTIXAJ_r86zII6_u0RdrKQBC6xkD6Jja6oavmpkvuLmabk7QpWR3T28gbPMx1eCeahqFlnq5aYlAfE2lJtLGyoM/s320/55E3CF10-8E36-4D21-92AD-F73EAE7A186F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
This swarthy dreamboat gets more handsome with each revival. Look at that bone structure and olive skin, not to mention he’s a talented and successful musician. What makes him especially delicious is how patient he is with that rapscallion Alvin he adopted. Nom nom nom. </div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-2084852461202989082021-10-06T04:07:00.002-05:002021-10-06T11:12:42.017-05:00Why People Are Obsessed With Their Kids<p><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">Just a few years ago, I convinced myself that if I ever had kids, I wouldn’t talk about them incessantly. The universe abounds with other topics, many of which won’t thoughtlessly annoy people who don’t (or can’t) have kids.</span><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;"> </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;">Then I had them and learned that those fascinating topics are still out there, I just can’t access them because my brain is mush. No one warned me that they do that. In fact, a lot of things were left out: </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Once you give birth, you’ll forget all about the pain. </i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I’ll make them pay.</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Take time to play with your kids and enjoy them. </i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I don’t enjoy playing with my kids. Their games are dumb, and the three year old criticizes my sand building. </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Take lots of pictures!</i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: They stole my phone. </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Write down the cute things they say.</i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I don’t even write down the cute things I say. </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>No screen-time</i>.</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I’m not firing the iNanny. </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Don’t yell at them. Then they won’t listen if you need to yell. </i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: Since I mostly communicate by yelling, they can tell the difference between imminent danger and mom stepping on a Lego.</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.9px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Feed them a variety of healthy foods</i>. </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: Everything in Pittsburgh has fries stuffed in it. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Babies are so beautiful!</i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: He looks like a chicken wing. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>You’ll love your children more than all else.</i> </p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I love my family, and we are equal parts to a whole. A happy home doesn’t quantify love. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Your children come first.</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: My health comes first. Then the health of my marriage. Then the rest falls into place. A team needs the best coaches</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>You can’t travel with kids.</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: We go everywhere with them. They love 29 cent lollipops at gas stations, running around rest stops, and Happy Meals for lunch.</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Get the kids on a schedule.</i></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: We have one on a schedule. The other is destined to work night shifts. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>They</b>: <i>Just another 18 years to go!</i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Me</b>: I’m sure they’ll be emancipated by 16. </p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It seems like people obsessively talk about their kids, but that’s because children rob people of the ability to think, focus, or remember. They’re all that’s left in their parent’s brain, so their moms and dads talk about them out of default. I don’t regret the trade, just wish I had known about it first. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJxF26mhDZSOQ0gte5bD0Ac7euIl78GcntHmdXZdLNpQs6QdBQUbh_T325CbFO6KvPrTcxyL9zNFCH9Rq5tBBU8W8jO20P3mz0gBOKStUJ2qItSRd9PgqHQ41nFHlnBqfj4DM0yGWGtU/s1090/339CB120-CD7A-4086-8DF3-B7DF5FA42A49.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJxF26mhDZSOQ0gte5bD0Ac7euIl78GcntHmdXZdLNpQs6QdBQUbh_T325CbFO6KvPrTcxyL9zNFCH9Rq5tBBU8W8jO20P3mz0gBOKStUJ2qItSRd9PgqHQ41nFHlnBqfj4DM0yGWGtU/s320/339CB120-CD7A-4086-8DF3-B7DF5FA42A49.jpeg" width="243" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<i>Just sitting in the car and staring for 20 minutes before I get out.</i>) </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-90814779919853679082021-10-01T04:21:00.005-05:002021-10-01T04:23:06.448-05:00I’m Unqualified To Babysit My Kids <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroSvxsgDcEqXQr5ZDCpzIfdMAb7X-QRa990uH4ENJO7LzQLJKjwoF_Iz9OhJgv79XliqN0GUGF4zD_Gb9yqRvkWOTNlvGBLAFnF7D4jlsH2oFIYDFCZ63xOYZUwKtUwsc1JI79DA2R4U/s2048/338EBE63-DCB3-43C0-B1F4-59AA3BE4FB86.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroSvxsgDcEqXQr5ZDCpzIfdMAb7X-QRa990uH4ENJO7LzQLJKjwoF_Iz9OhJgv79XliqN0GUGF4zD_Gb9yqRvkWOTNlvGBLAFnF7D4jlsH2oFIYDFCZ63xOYZUwKtUwsc1JI79DA2R4U/w200-h200/338EBE63-DCB3-43C0-B1F4-59AA3BE4FB86.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">If I were Zach’s and Kate’s nanny, and not their mother, I would have been fired a long time ago. Despite being the most influential person in their lives, my standard for hired help is much higher than for myself. If I came home to toddlers eating crayons for dinner while watching a documentary on Richard Ramirez, I would be furious. Yet when I’m watching them, I consider it a successful day if everyone is alive by the end of it.</span><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;"> </span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>My performance review of myself:</b></p>
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<span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">1. How has your relationship developed with the children?</span><div><i style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;">If I try to take a bath, they climb in and pee on me. </i></div><div>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2. What kind of healthy foods do you serve?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>High fructose corn syrup is a vegetable, right? It might be a whole grain.</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">3. What is the bedtime routine like?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>I routinely scream into a pillow.</i> </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">4. How much screen-time are the children exposed to?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>I don’t know what they do when I’m not there.</i></p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">5. What disciplinary measures do you use?<i>Darwinian ones.</i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">6. Give an example of when you used positive parenting techniques:</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>Earlier, I told them they were doing a great job of pissing me off. </i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">7. What educational activities do you employ?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>The walls and furniture are covered with art.</i> </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">8. Do they get regular exercise?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>They must because the downstairs neighbor complained about hearing running and jumping at all hours </i>(this is true.) </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">9. How are you a positive role model?</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>I don’t do any night stalking. </i></p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">10. Do you feel this job is the right fit?</p>
<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>I’m the only right fit for this family. </i> </p></div>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-6171184004307552232021-09-28T22:21:00.002-05:002021-09-28T22:24:04.231-05:00The Mean-ager <p><span style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px;"></span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBekPmGlgmHXUWyiAY5GwXWHlXWOoGGMfuqxYCDRxpMkrz-qcGhCowsneskfnuHZHGN3-WqWKwidKiockiTFCAndvc4Ytw7Mi-QJI2rp03MfXSXO-eTfZLgkMhkxl1WaLIl2QjcauJrE/s4032/IMG_6075.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBekPmGlgmHXUWyiAY5GwXWHlXWOoGGMfuqxYCDRxpMkrz-qcGhCowsneskfnuHZHGN3-WqWKwidKiockiTFCAndvc4Ytw7Mi-QJI2rp03MfXSXO-eTfZLgkMhkxl1WaLIl2QjcauJrE/s320/IMG_6075.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">(His shirt says “Kind people are my kinda people.”)</p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We went to a park and two boys and a girl, all about 13 years old, were sitting and chatting in front of the entrance to the slide, subsequently blocking it from my son. I told Zach to ask them politely if he can use it.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He ran up, pointed, and asked if he could use the slide. The girl didn’t fully understand toddler English, and replied patronizingly, “Yeah, a slide!” The boys did and started getting up for him, to which she snapped, “I’m not getting up!”From the ground, I yelled up to them, “I told him to ask nicely.” She was huffy, but did. Zach and I thanked them, and the boys smiled and gave a hearty, “Yeah, no problem!” and the visibly irritated (and extremely pretty) girl sat back down. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Now when a woman becomes a mother, she develops the superpower to destroy a girl down to her essence. As soon as they hand us our beautiful newborn daughters, we suddenly have the ability to plant seeds of shame and can water them throughout the years with guilt-trips. Had I yelled jokingly, “Hey! Move your butt! It’s blocking the slide,” she would have wondered if her butt was big, tried to convince herself that I didn’t mean it like that, but nevertheless, would have gone hungry the rest of the day. Had I asked, “Can you and your two boyfriends please move?” she would have wondered if I was saying “boy friends” or slut-shaming her. Had I simply said, “Okay.” and turned around, she would have wondered if everyone hates her and is too nice to say.</p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">However, we have happened upon a phase in my life where I’m working on being less critical of others. I’m teaching my kids that we all make good and bad choices. The girl blocking the slide isn’t “bad”, rather, her choice to not move her butt was. Her stupid, lazy butt. </p>
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<p style="font-family: Baskerville; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My ultimate decision was picking Zach up and telling him, “Let’s go to a different park. This one is full.” With great powers comes great responsibility. I could have looked at her outfit and grimaced, but I chose not to. Not all superheroes wear underwear over their hosiery. </p>Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-12496875935672390832021-09-24T13:25:00.005-05:002021-09-24T13:32:53.272-05:00Hope You Like Your Birthday HookerNear where my husband grew up, a new business appeared a few doors down from one of his favorite pizza shops. It claimed to be a massage parlor, but I told Jason, “That’s clearly a rub-n-tug.” He was skeptical, but upon inspection, did think it was odd that they were open until 11pm, and the only way to get in was by calling the number from the Post-It note on the front door. <br /><div><div><br /></div><div>I looked them up on a site that lists local massage parlors offering “extra” services, and sure enough, there it was. In fact, dozens of them were listed, and while reading the reviews, I suddenly realized that my mom accidentally sent me to one on my 25th birthday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Upon reflection, they weren’t even trying to disguise it. This place was in Beaverton, Oregon and advertised as an “Asian spa”. I had never had a salt scrub added to a massage before, so I assumed side boobs and inner thighs were part of it. As far as her “thoroughness”, I reasoned that she should be lauded, not criticized, for going above and beyond. Besides, as a professional massage therapist, she is trained to be careful not to touch private parts no matter how uncomfortably close she gets to them. The talking with her hand on my butt was probably a cultural difference, like how in some countries, they greet by kissing on the cheek. Americans culture is so prudish. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps the most telling sign of all was thinking during the massage, “She looks like a prostitute”. I deduced<br /> it was from the room being so stuffy, so of course she was wearing hot pants and a bralette. My birthday is in February. </div><div><br /></div><div>My cluelessness lasted sixteen years. I wish I had figured it out sooner. My mom would have laughed so hard learning she unknowingly bought me an hour with a prostitute as a birthday present. Surprise!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc5D0IeMrgOlYEB_m7nUPWp1wl0D-NbmBoBS05UMhWUd2YygUQd_iY8x8ZbBcxMWh9BHpQljbtaDwCSs4a3NrLMwJIUApUiyuUtKpR2rLli-AUqYxwsHt47sfSZVhaU1wPJ9Jfkcl5cE/s2048/B75FDD25-D323-4DB0-8F62-854C0616CDFF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc5D0IeMrgOlYEB_m7nUPWp1wl0D-NbmBoBS05UMhWUd2YygUQd_iY8x8ZbBcxMWh9BHpQljbtaDwCSs4a3NrLMwJIUApUiyuUtKpR2rLli-AUqYxwsHt47sfSZVhaU1wPJ9Jfkcl5cE/s320/B75FDD25-D323-4DB0-8F62-854C0616CDFF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-80214976687014255172020-04-13T02:45:00.000-05:002020-04-13T02:45:02.276-05:00Funnymoon: Nemacolin <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our first minimoon was at the Nemacolin resort in Southwestern Pennsylvania. I chose it because we had passed it on a trip to Maryland, and Jason asked, “What’s that place there?” I took that to mean that he was impressed, but in actuality, he was trying to remember if it was somewhere he had played golf. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nemacolin: Where Jason May or May Not Have Once Played Golf</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My first thought when we pulled up was, “I regret not going through a carwash first.” However, the valet was professional and didn’t write </span><span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wash me” on the back of our Equinox. When we got to the room, there was a bottle of champagne to congratulate us, and I asked if they had something non-alcoholic. They replaced it with sparkling cider, and Jason later went through the menu to discover the vast price difference. To his credit, he doesn’t drink since being with me and never treats my alcoholism like it’s a punishment. The least I could have done was let him drink the $50 bottle of champagne and buy my own $1.50 bottle of Martinelli’s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our room was spectacular, and the bathtub was like a Zach-sized pool. It would have been nice not to bring him with us, but, then again, missing him would have ruined our trip. It’s one of the paradoxes of parenting.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJQJXuNgBtiWN4pTwe6Q9tuoxg5wcw3mz8HJAN3Kgm7MSFFSy8KidmWljoi7-eUPHstqubRwHEGfeLT2nh1QRVC_knZm9UaLnQLoj-Rl6yx2aNljG_ruO6pqAI4fzH0zH4fT8mGA1Gr0/s1600/20190527_200257.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="797" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJQJXuNgBtiWN4pTwe6Q9tuoxg5wcw3mz8HJAN3Kgm7MSFFSy8KidmWljoi7-eUPHstqubRwHEGfeLT2nh1QRVC_knZm9UaLnQLoj-Rl6yx2aNljG_ruO6pqAI4fzH0zH4fT8mGA1Gr0/s200/20190527_200257.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Zach’s impression of Arthur. Dudley Moore, not the aardvark. Yes, he’s an aardvark. Yes, that’s how you spell “aardvark”. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">To Zach’s credit, he’s a wonderful traveling companion. He enjoys car rides, French fries, and any hotel room with a landline. I have to unplug the phones as soon as I arrive so that Zach doesn’t call the front desk repeatedly. If there’s a full length mirror, he can entertain himself for hours with his new buddy. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Real babies have curves. </i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3922986384140283590" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3922986384140283590" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3922986384140283590" style="clear: right; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">The area had several eighteenth century historical sites, like Fort Necessity, but a quick drive by was enough for us. The resort had too much to offer. There was a shell museum, authentic things from movie sets, an aquarium, and an empty kids’ pool. Jason pointed out that staying at places like this was normal for many of these guests, whereas for us, it was special. </span><br />
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<i>Not a Necessity for us</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Clearly the devil planted this along with the dinosaur bones.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dress Marilyn Monroe wore in some movie. She definitely wasn’t a size 14. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shirt Elvis wore in Blue Hawaii. He definitely was a size 14.</i> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m grateful for that. One of our fondest memories is the one star hotel we stayed in when I moved to Pittsburgh. I was very pregnant with Zach, and we were waiting for our apartment to be ready. Their criminal background check on Jason came back with a felony, so Jason had to submit proof that they had the wrong Klingensmith. It’s a surprisingly popular surname around here. I asked Jason if I could see his criminal report, and on it was a misdemeanor charge from his early twenties that said, “Conspiracy to Commit Loitering”. I married Captain Badass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We pass by this crappy hotel occasionally because it’s off a freeway exit a few miles from us. Each time, it brings back nostalgia; we were so innocently unaware of its horribleness. Like when I lifted the bathmat and saw the stray pubes of every guest who had showered there. Or when we couldn’t figure out the laundry, and one of the prostitutes living there helped us out. Or the complimentary breakfast of cereal with no milk. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYkI3qWElQpKnjYzmiOramp5UWqwFilLb-M5frO4-hOFParVY6LgGNoVzwTxOIZR_fOSpqbVKDTvm7jZWU3e3D3eMMSf6rSvP40_cENACiUHnW9t4-tF05_txh6iM-rGc4gtECDdrUFE/s1600/998F4099-F327-4D2B-AB4C-B67A7C51378B.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYkI3qWElQpKnjYzmiOramp5UWqwFilLb-M5frO4-hOFParVY6LgGNoVzwTxOIZR_fOSpqbVKDTvm7jZWU3e3D3eMMSf6rSvP40_cENACiUHnW9t4-tF05_txh6iM-rGc4gtECDdrUFE/s320/998F4099-F327-4D2B-AB4C-B67A7C51378B.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A kindly hooker helped me wash my “Watermelon Smuggler” maternity shirt.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "gilda display"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That was in August of 2017, and our Nemacolin minimoon was in May of 2019. We came a long way in that time. It’s now April of 2020, Zach lost his leg fat rolls, we have a newborn named Kate, and a dirty Highlander for the valet.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vDTWyfYGNOjehr7aG4QF805z_Zcpu49ibn6x6vqsSfuzpVWf6WM764uOVhmB-YrS9nPpIrgpvQCiD5GS-dApc_rxKcnaVK4GQrAoXkzvslbyD0yNx3lSGXWPJr8oIiMTa5tzjEBMQgE/s1600/6D313440-C5BE-4636-9BB3-6E6E930325E8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vDTWyfYGNOjehr7aG4QF805z_Zcpu49ibn6x6vqsSfuzpVWf6WM764uOVhmB-YrS9nPpIrgpvQCiD5GS-dApc_rxKcnaVK4GQrAoXkzvslbyD0yNx3lSGXWPJr8oIiMTa5tzjEBMQgE/s320/6D313440-C5BE-4636-9BB3-6E6E930325E8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Zach and Kate</i><br />
<i>Not pictured: the dirty Toyota Highlander</i></td></tr>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-6684601186944191742019-06-07T18:18:00.000-05:002019-06-07T18:18:32.358-05:00Funnymoon: Fort Klingensmith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You tried. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Due to limited vacation days, our honeymoon has to be broken up into a few small getaways throughout the year. Our first excursion was over Memorial Day, and along the way, we stopped by Hannastown, where Fort Klingensmith is. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTRcdWalhSKyBZkzGU9m38TnhVfqefx8UX1fNV-G0qLs9i1Y2WyA1TCqWY0rOp_C9gLHk7yrOMHXSLJxxHR14McbxFnyiYANdNra-2eDigANINmrhUcS2amZkfnEIGKtHmUscQy1BWn4/s1600/20190527_155725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" class=" " data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTRcdWalhSKyBZkzGU9m38TnhVfqefx8UX1fNV-G0qLs9i1Y2WyA1TCqWY0rOp_C9gLHk7yrOMHXSLJxxHR14McbxFnyiYANdNra-2eDigANINmrhUcS2amZkfnEIGKtHmUscQy1BWn4/s320/20190527_155725.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"No military force in history could penetrate those walls."<br />-Jason Klingensmith </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jason’s 5th great-grandfather, Johannes, built it with his brother John Peter. They moved to the colonies when they were young and became scouts for General George Washington during the French and Indian War. Eventually, they plopped down about thirty-five miles from where Jason grew up and worked on their farms with the occasional break to impregnate their wives. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Zachy happily playing where his foremothers were publicly shamed. </i></td></tr>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5bb464ed-7fff-7cd0-21da-4b5038af7358"><span style="font-family: "goudy bookletter 1911" , serif; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All the Klingensmiths around here can be traced back to Andreas Klingenschmidt who owned a bell factory in Leipzig, Germany in the 16th century. (Klingen=bell, schmidt=metalsmith) They probably immigrated here to escape religious persecution, but then again, maybe word got out that Pennsylvania likes their bells.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "goudy bookletter 1911" , serif; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hannastown only had a few good years because the Seneca were already using that land. Their perspective was that God owned the land and blessed them with its bounty. Another human owning that land wasn’t taking it from them, it was stealing from God. In response, they came to the town and slaughtered a bunch of them, including John Peter and his family. They spared the 8-year-old boy Peter and raised him as their own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "goudy bookletter 1911" , serif; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Peter grew up to become “White Peter”, and not to be outdone in unoriginality, the white people named his wife “Molly Indian Maiden”. Their offspring live in New York and Canada. Jason grew up hearing that he is part Native American, but as far as I know, it’s through marriage instead of blood. From what I’ve gathered, he is mostly German and English on his dad’s side (with a smidge of Irish and Jewish). Zach’s paternal line on his DNA test confirmed this. Jason’s maternal side is a hundred percent Syrian, but since the country was invaded so often, that’s likely a hodge-podge as well. It’s difficult to research her history without knowing Arabic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "goudy bookletter 1911" , serif; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All of this information came about when I made a family tree for Zach. Jason and I value history, and we want Zach to know his place in it. Being a part of something much bigger is valuable for our humility while paradoxically teaching us that we are important.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOC332QtS46ikzeadPPF6LQY_57urxczY01apToCdBEUIjRIHhXddxAehaXB79X_Whg7b0qwDBMw1V5XD9ARnOQzc5rv-K1Qhfhd_7WQveC0tJ6QeYYRB0Bv3GB4WC7C2NH8aQcT2Urw0/s1600/20190527_155736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" class=" imageResizeTarget imageResizeTarget imageResizeTarget imageResizeTarget" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="1240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOC332QtS46ikzeadPPF6LQY_57urxczY01apToCdBEUIjRIHhXddxAehaXB79X_Whg7b0qwDBMw1V5XD9ARnOQzc5rv-K1Qhfhd_7WQveC0tJ6QeYYRB0Bv3GB4WC7C2NH8aQcT2Urw0/s320/20190527_155736.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The blockhouse where Jason's family probably lived because his uncle's nickname was "Blockhouse". They weren't great with nicknames back then. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Coming up next is "Funnymoon: Nemacolin". If you would still like to donate to the honeymoon fund, click the link </span><a href="http://paypal.me/funnymoon" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">.)</span></div>
Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-90095029893307928752019-05-17T19:49:00.000-05:002019-05-18T18:55:04.217-05:00My Shotgun Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcWmTzTrWgoqkseSM2kSngAuPk0Dph2GXLjoT5GXpnwMB-laqTbxpVraSo9FibRjWbX_akpRKzha5tS4VGz0P4eDpF_o-djNSxT0W1thLvpCLfHsehwhBXzH6dQuCTJaQwvadpFVF52M/s1600/IMG_20190413_062047_683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="669" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNcWmTzTrWgoqkseSM2kSngAuPk0Dph2GXLjoT5GXpnwMB-laqTbxpVraSo9FibRjWbX_akpRKzha5tS4VGz0P4eDpF_o-djNSxT0W1thLvpCLfHsehwhBXzH6dQuCTJaQwvadpFVF52M/s320/IMG_20190413_062047_683.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reverend Dr. J<br />
Dentist, wedding officiant, Tombstone tour guide, and his favorite movie is also Office Space.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "goudy bookletter 1911" , serif; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Office Space is supposedly my husband’s favorite movie, but every other week, I wake up to go to the bathroom and find him passed out on the couch with Tombstone playing. He has every line memorized and likes to remind me that it has the manliest cast of all time.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My relationship with the movie is different. I have a fondness for it because I saw it for the first time in detox back in 2007. That was a difficult time, of course, but what I had kept in darkness was now exposed. For the first time, I could talk openly about all the horrible things I’ve done without being judged as a horrible human being. It’s easy for me to forget that a person isn’t an action. We get to decide our actions, and if we feel like we can’t, we can choose to find help until we can. In my experience, when we have compassion without holding others accountable for their behavior, that very virtue is twisted and used as a weapon against us. Predators feast on people without healthy boundaries. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back then, I was 26, but no more than a teenager mentally. I wanted to marry and have kids, but life had several more years of character building planned for me. Sometimes it felt like a video game where a level could only be passed by admitting that I was wrong about something I had been adamant about. If you think this prepared me well for marriage, you are correct. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After ten years, and a lot of loss, Jason came along and filled in some of those gaps. My parents had since passed, and he gave me his. They’re good, decent folk. Cliche ‘in-law’ jokes don’t apply to them. I feel appreciated for what I bring to their family. Like most people, I thrive on appreciation. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The package deal included two stepkids and their mom, who has become a dear friend. People may think that’s odd, but she is raising incredible kids and clearly has wisdom to teach. Being a wife and mother can be emotionally confusing, and she’s patient with me <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHSji6ZBGSmp8SfWclLVDxkW0JjiwSRGsjt6WlAgsbugEg1z4Xfi7iIDDwDsr14QNpUmyWT1SNgxKDD7i11dwfAwC_lbbLNPh8f8TT-_4_V8UZlRJ303tRIIQkdn3mE41XXlQzsSRxeE/s1600/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-37-21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="974" data-original-width="1189" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHSji6ZBGSmp8SfWclLVDxkW0JjiwSRGsjt6WlAgsbugEg1z4Xfi7iIDDwDsr14QNpUmyWT1SNgxKDD7i11dwfAwC_lbbLNPh8f8TT-_4_V8UZlRJ303tRIIQkdn3mE41XXlQzsSRxeE/s320/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-37-21.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father-in-law George, stepdaughter Kira, stepson Ben, and homemade son Zach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe_lVJl2evxklx9z5Sm-3J5kOnfCGkIL785XDXE5sExSMGu6I3vJp8QScfOxOR63kqvvzHO_TvxDyNEHN4M_r7RczYWLBwmJRtD1JaTUuAOFoDgufWaZyMIJHxNWbh-oyXfEMD6Taj_I/s1600/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-37-26.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1440" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe_lVJl2evxklx9z5Sm-3J5kOnfCGkIL785XDXE5sExSMGu6I3vJp8QScfOxOR63kqvvzHO_TvxDyNEHN4M_r7RczYWLBwmJRtD1JaTUuAOFoDgufWaZyMIJHxNWbh-oyXfEMD6Taj_I/s320/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-37-26.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zach, Kira, Ben, and my mother-in-law Carole hiding</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_-cv_DkvBZszJwufeZFAjmL4ScUim39c_U7EHIwxMKZ8gbYD9Kpj45QV6F7s_nBeLSp8PAeJLVW_ibrjGuIjx3oMWCPqQZ5Jg3MlX3TjWUeFezuHD_-V-91Av3NZTi_AtFaoPZTr46c/s1600/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-38-03.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1413" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_-cv_DkvBZszJwufeZFAjmL4ScUim39c_U7EHIwxMKZ8gbYD9Kpj45QV6F7s_nBeLSp8PAeJLVW_ibrjGuIjx3oMWCPqQZ5Jg3MlX3TjWUeFezuHD_-V-91Av3NZTi_AtFaoPZTr46c/s320/Screenshot_2019-05-17-19-38-03.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kira's mom, Laura. I would refer to her as my "sister-in-law" if it didn't imply that she and Jason were siblings. (They're not.) Oddly enough, Laura and I discovered that we are fifth cousins. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br />With this backstory painted, it’s easy to see why I married into the Klingensmiths. We intended to marry in a traditional way, but that wasn’t an efficient one. Growing up, I assumed my parents would pay, and it’s easier spending someone else’s money. Trying to plan a wedding without my mother revealed many of my shortcomings. I found myself feeling ashamed for not being as successful as my parents, envious of my siblings, and ungrateful for what I have. That’s not how I want to celebrate our life together, and it's certainly not what my mom would have wanted. She never compared my success to hers because our obstacles were different. Life had given me too much too early; she was proud of my endurance and the lengths I went to transcend hardships. Sometimes not becoming bitter is a high accomplishment, brutally earned.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our trip to Tombstone had been planned since Christmas, and Jason made an off-the-cuff remark about getting married there if he can dress as Doc Holliday. Later, I Googled "Tombstone Weddings" out of curiosity, and </span></span><a href="https://tombstonewesternweddings.com/" style="font-size: 18.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Dr. J and Linda</a><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">popped up. We called, and for a few hundred dollars, they could marry us like it was the 1800’s. They even specifically asked if Jason wanted to dress as </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Doc Holliday. This made me Big Nose Kate, his common-law wife. What girl doesn’t dream of dressing up as brothel owner for her big day.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJq6_bcgfYmCXzJqvK7qHAIOBoU_tePRpPCHE2KMmRbeLIxm8q_FJOB2wkX9gm4u2OF59EKTkwN6kKxCnt9yILpI-q5pCPpDGTMePToAiuWieCEME7u45AH0QeNuXT-QGj-v1NwOTNck/s1600/IMG_20190413_073809_105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1564" data-original-width="1564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJq6_bcgfYmCXzJqvK7qHAIOBoU_tePRpPCHE2KMmRbeLIxm8q_FJOB2wkX9gm4u2OF59EKTkwN6kKxCnt9yILpI-q5pCPpDGTMePToAiuWieCEME7u45AH0QeNuXT-QGj-v1NwOTNck/s320/IMG_20190413_073809_105.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our wedding venue was Madam Mustache's Olde Time Costume Shoppe. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmgzhhzQmnE2vDQKipre8W-lGiQfD8F93p90BPaMj0DRti5UbB1iZnaSr46Rp8Lozx_Ef2cUI5OLJpRWAvB_1sBeFHHRkY06JSKFCjx2Rk6jEVYljN9Ve6sOLdHH_aQd37D_XaemWoBHw/s1600/IMG_20190413_061810_568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1590" data-original-width="1590" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmgzhhzQmnE2vDQKipre8W-lGiQfD8F93p90BPaMj0DRti5UbB1iZnaSr46Rp8Lozx_Ef2cUI5OLJpRWAvB_1sBeFHHRkY06JSKFCjx2Rk6jEVYljN9Ve6sOLdHH_aQd37D_XaemWoBHw/s320/IMG_20190413_061810_568.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Congratulations, Zach! You're legitimized!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcDxTGsWrLtJxj5KEk-B1WZo-ajGDU0UZJxfGT4cQsOP56ldNajtpbgZ8VNYi0KUiUZv5Cct0Q1fLLjnJ2D7YkRDvL02WpQ2QJWpCQPgZmDOa9yrYtsV6mrBh0hgSFnVxDj_MuXY4ay0/s1600/20190414_045123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="795" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcDxTGsWrLtJxj5KEk-B1WZo-ajGDU0UZJxfGT4cQsOP56ldNajtpbgZ8VNYi0KUiUZv5Cct0Q1fLLjnJ2D7YkRDvL02WpQ2QJWpCQPgZmDOa9yrYtsV6mrBh0hgSFnVxDj_MuXY4ay0/s320/20190414_045123.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No longer a bastard. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDICJCzHbpmL_ysuCjORGGiCPGQQ-uRedqaltUxzPjKxg8ssYbVwo4ASOg0NI-CWqMvKKjACxSOQ_d7xNSl5g5TMC5tsHpFaMH6HMMLRjCWysGBOC75OhzHO-RRulxJ-dZPRUc8fPKv2M/s1600/IMG_20190413_062733_544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="1600" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDICJCzHbpmL_ysuCjORGGiCPGQQ-uRedqaltUxzPjKxg8ssYbVwo4ASOg0NI-CWqMvKKjACxSOQ_d7xNSl5g5TMC5tsHpFaMH6HMMLRjCWysGBOC75OhzHO-RRulxJ-dZPRUc8fPKv2M/s320/IMG_20190413_062733_544.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Instead of 'I do', I got to say, "I'm your huckleberry."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjks0lPxo8E0A3zDOR4f7f5ixU5uJo3lLbcW5ZWKASt0gzsj46yXt3N6GAHVCp0VTV5tw3sCmwFQy_1BIarkuGrt4V-E1GdrP3xtNWjB15M-AJN5hhKXNiZGmc3roJXaE4B2mdp8lc22S0/s1600/VID_94310207_213146_472.mp4" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjks0lPxo8E0A3zDOR4f7f5ixU5uJo3lLbcW5ZWKASt0gzsj46yXt3N6GAHVCp0VTV5tw3sCmwFQy_1BIarkuGrt4V-E1GdrP3xtNWjB15M-AJN5hhKXNiZGmc3roJXaE4B2mdp8lc22S0/s320/VID_94310207_213146_472.mp4" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After our wedding, we ate wingdings at Big Nose Kate's Saloon, then Jason shot some 19th-century Rugers. </td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We assumed that when we returned, I would begin planning the church wedding. I got as far as inquiring into catering prices. People flying across the country for a wedding they secretly don’t want to attend deserve to be fed well. For a decent spread, we could buy a new car. Then it dawned on me that if we have another kid, which we hope to, we need a vehicle with at least six seats. I can forgo a party if it means not being a Disney villain and sticking a stepchild in the trunk.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the honeymoon, we are breaking it up into several short getaways throughout the year. Jason’s vacation days are already reserved for our two-week family trip to St. Augustine, Florida this summer. I insisted we still make time for a honeymoon. Before my mom passed, she asked me to travel and see the things she couldn't, so in a way, this is a part of my wedding that she can still help me plan. Our first getaway is at <a href="https://www.nemacolin.com/" target="_blank">Nemacolin</a> over Memorial Day weekend, and I hope to tell you about it when we return.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It felt tacky to create a registry, so I looked up “wedding gifts & elopement” and one of the recommendations was creating a honeymoon fund. If you would like to give a gift, the site is </span><a href="http://paypal.me/funnymoon" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://paypal.me/funnymoon</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. If not, that’s expected because we didn’t feed you. </span></div>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-44154471098572556562018-12-11T02:52:00.000-05:002018-12-12T00:55:31.088-05:00Katt Funderland: Lower Education<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The now defunct Trump "University" has been reestablished and is now located in Katt Funderland. In the corner is a student preparing for his final. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-apaKgf59Bnqwm3P075wivTE7Z1nKF7YNhieRYYN7iJmQ1fZNIPf1EXnHV9_d1jEw_bM6BLiAXHYCAftRkFf23jsnUu28g9DHyFuooi73R0FSp843SOmKsCv3Mbfmvalic9GI4nABpc/s1600/20181208_181131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="1600" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-apaKgf59Bnqwm3P075wivTE7Z1nKF7YNhieRYYN7iJmQ1fZNIPf1EXnHV9_d1jEw_bM6BLiAXHYCAftRkFf23jsnUu28g9DHyFuooi73R0FSp843SOmKsCv3Mbfmvalic9GI4nABpc/s320/20181208_181131.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Noooo! Leggo my eggos!"</td></tr>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-19781707278819040952018-12-06T12:20:00.003-05:002018-12-06T12:25:00.997-05:00Kult Funderland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Many years ago, I decorated my mom's snow village and posted pictures. It started out as a prank to see if she would notice the strip club among her cute little houses, and then it took off from there. I inherited them, and now as the matriarch of my own family, I intend to carry on the tradition.<br />
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This year, it's named Katt Funderland, and here is footage from the local church:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7NvawipWbeOfMK5VOOgnafmEbAY85_sKE-SnMb6ppcKt0wUgEwS4DDnz0L6GuCXLrz8ijTWKAA35liIZou9Sw6TcVVQmcgJWIneiBYC5mfSPpEvfKIRrrQ2-pxC4uroB0ZbUXU5XKhI/s1600/2018-12-04-01-27-48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1504" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7NvawipWbeOfMK5VOOgnafmEbAY85_sKE-SnMb6ppcKt0wUgEwS4DDnz0L6GuCXLrz8ijTWKAA35liIZou9Sw6TcVVQmcgJWIneiBYC5mfSPpEvfKIRrrQ2-pxC4uroB0ZbUXU5XKhI/s320/2018-12-04-01-27-48.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's just common sense. </td></tr>
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A month ago, we took a trip to Eastern Kentucky to see where the Hatfield-McCoy feud took place. I later discovered that we were in the area of Appalachia where the snake-handling churches are. There's an evangelical sect where the parishioners dance around with rattlesnakes during the services. The theory is that if they have faith, the snakes won't bite them. (The founder has since died of a snakebite.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOxxnE2Rvi8qNTpzjB0fUH74xeroJgfMYEMNG04p-KhMiUy1NLMNFeFSRb5AQXTlc604tHf-vNPNrivtxAobRrRftVZtlwkKVwdgejXhajJ_u50ZQuJ2IEczWpzJwgweE5nP2d_PkTYw/s1600/IMG_20181205_015309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1142" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOxxnE2Rvi8qNTpzjB0fUH74xeroJgfMYEMNG04p-KhMiUy1NLMNFeFSRb5AQXTlc604tHf-vNPNrivtxAobRrRftVZtlwkKVwdgejXhajJ_u50ZQuJ2IEczWpzJwgweE5nP2d_PkTYw/s320/IMG_20181205_015309.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's one way to stop clans from inbreeding. </td></tr>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-11745818994057727762018-11-30T21:55:00.001-05:002018-11-30T21:55:38.672-05:00The List of the Magi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm driving Jason nuts because he wants to know what I want for Christmas, and I have no idea. All he wants is to buy me what I like and see my joyous expression when I open it, and somehow that's asking too much. Instead, I gave him a shopping list with things on it like serving bowls and silver polish, and then made another one of my general interests, which included tropical vacations and British mysteries. Last year, I wrote down what my heart truly desires, and handed him a list of chores. He requested that I refrain from being passive-aggressive this year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwzwckPGwY0XEfkrgv1A7owX9wk6G4_QrYxMlXHzDCJ6ka8YxRlEpWUVXzLU04SjFkiFNn0Ox1VegfINkwBeLP3MyVDdBdSquMrtfSpFRzexh9m5xI3QsCS6bX8Vqfs9bVuA1p1kmDDM/s1600/2017-12-05_20-12-30_817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwzwckPGwY0XEfkrgv1A7owX9wk6G4_QrYxMlXHzDCJ6ka8YxRlEpWUVXzLU04SjFkiFNn0Ox1VegfINkwBeLP3MyVDdBdSquMrtfSpFRzexh9m5xI3QsCS6bX8Vqfs9bVuA1p1kmDDM/s320/2017-12-05_20-12-30_817.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 2017</td></tr>
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My main obstacle is that we share finances, so I can't exactly ask that he spend money on me. Then if he comes home one day with a Truckasaurus parked outside, I won't have the leverage to tell him to return it. Then there is the baby issue. There's no point in wanting anything breakable for the next few years. Everything expensive is currently stacked on the highest shelves.<div>
<br />However, Jason's main obstacle is that not even the safe bets work on me. Earlier, he pointed out that every woman likes bath bombs and lotions except for me. I told him they imply that I stink and have lizard skin. Also, I'm no longer just a woman; I'm a mother. My priorities and needs have changed drastically. Before Zach, I could indulge in luxury, like baths longer than six minutes. I could treat myself because I remembered that I existed. Now what I long for is the nanny from Nanny 911 to come work for free and be willing to sleep in a walk-in closet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhacv_aYYLlQMy1G0NlTiYG3vBWHNbjcDGujE0JMa0uECAsdlCAFkUaJJ__xVh9fvYCk_5zGiQEV84hhSga50cqPyac8th66PC3qTEPdWQmW0mmul4c3jw7ni_z9xYYtaZtuAuKOT690HU/s1600/20181123_080947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhacv_aYYLlQMy1G0NlTiYG3vBWHNbjcDGujE0JMa0uECAsdlCAFkUaJJ__xVh9fvYCk_5zGiQEV84hhSga50cqPyac8th66PC3qTEPdWQmW0mmul4c3jw7ni_z9xYYtaZtuAuKOT690HU/s320/20181123_080947.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I told Zach Santa isn't coming because his tantrums killed him.</td></tr>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-80986160325874546462018-11-03T04:05:00.000-05:002018-11-03T04:05:50.576-05:00Hallowiener<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Decisions are so much easier to make now that I'm with Jason. I try to pick what he likes because not only might it make him happy, it spares me from having to spend days stressing over the unimportant things. No matter how mundane the decision, I am obsessed with finding a way to make everyone happy. Then I spend the rest of the time telling people that they can't make everyone happy and to stop stressing about it.<br />
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It's true though. There will always be that person who doesn't like a certain food no matter how it's prepared. With kids, it's easier to deal with. You don't like eggs? Then you can't have cookies. They have eggs in them. Grownups are less flexible. They need to be shamed for being uncultured. Unfortunately, there are also people who are proud to be xenophobic and have no problem rudely refusing a meal if it's not staring some kind of meat dish. Then there are the people who, no matter what, say, "It would have been better with..." As I said, it's impossible to please everyone, and some people make sure of it. </div>
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If it truly matters to me, I speak up, like insisting that Jason watch Call the Midwife with me. He did, which is reason enough to marry him. Since then, I usually let him pick what we watch. The only thing I put my foot down about is The Blair Witch Project. Scary movies are too much for me, and just being told the plot of it many years ago gave me nightmares. Jason asks all the time if we can watch it, but I refuse to be worn down. I'm such a wiener that I even got a nightmare from a Halloween episode of Pretty Little Liars. </div>
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So for Halloween, I picked out a lion costume for Zach because it's Jason's favorite animal. In fact, this is why he has been a fan of the Detroit Lions since he was a kid. We brought Zach to the Waterfront mall for trick-or-treating because it was free, easy, and fun. Then I insisted we get in line early for the baby costume contest. It never occurred to me that Zach wouldn't win because Zach is clearly the most perfect baby ever. Then as other contestants arrived, I soon realized that I was out of my depth. One baby was half Zach's size and dressed as a turtle. Two kids were mac n' cheese. There were princesses who looked like contestants on Toddlers and Tiaras. Some had elaborate homemade costumes that their parents had clearly spent all week on. I regretted wasting my time in line instead of getting candy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFS2ZZRoyZdLz88MxhaRtE2WsCl4TstGCCPX6ofAZiNNfACk1wDNikePNx_BfH_nUAPPXRFNKkDII_2kTuNZwx1lGWaAUgyZepSjfpc8DY-PkXBGiDHYaPftjc6pd_fYFD9OS2mUHM7s/s1600/20181030_182642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFS2ZZRoyZdLz88MxhaRtE2WsCl4TstGCCPX6ofAZiNNfACk1wDNikePNx_BfH_nUAPPXRFNKkDII_2kTuNZwx1lGWaAUgyZepSjfpc8DY-PkXBGiDHYaPftjc6pd_fYFD9OS2mUHM7s/s320/20181030_182642.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The costume came with a zebra to snack on.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRQYN9ns59Ns6A_KeO61NX7QAPETrWRKhBXQvIJK6ig7klo4SRKaI_JxtE7aL2Hu_RTvsdXVt3jb0qkDk-TQwjAnEqo3W057VVvTTbtiU7kV6VPOxHqIkVzE_Tp-BsODNk5wy6PZaNUo/s1600/20181030_195430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkRQYN9ns59Ns6A_KeO61NX7QAPETrWRKhBXQvIJK6ig7klo4SRKaI_JxtE7aL2Hu_RTvsdXVt3jb0qkDk-TQwjAnEqo3W057VVvTTbtiU7kV6VPOxHqIkVzE_Tp-BsODNk5wy6PZaNUo/s320/20181030_195430.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zach without the mane was much happier, albeit less adorable.</td></tr>
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Sure enough, when they announced the winners, none of them were Zach. Second place was a radio, but I thought they said "rainbow" and screamed to the girl dressed up as one, "YOU WON!!!" only to be politely corrected by the crowd. The winner was a little girl dressed as an angel on a wagon turned into a cloud of feathers. Her dad was in his army fatigues, clearly to tug their hearts. Well played, soldier. </div>
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Later that night, I put my loser baby in his R2-D2 pajamas. I'm going to try and find him a pair every year because his first Halloween costume was R2-D2. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0_KxlRB4-CLMApfNRc82VS3ofU9yDdMApNEMf1TOg2DIXb8pyv_n3Dype4_B5sqXMD-9B6EDQaXwSe8MBy8x27VtrWwczOG1ROl7-NRgi9u4UkgY05r6pBK5-XH8w4DNYFIL_9SjAgA/s1600/Photo+Oct+31%252C+19+06+38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0_KxlRB4-CLMApfNRc82VS3ofU9yDdMApNEMf1TOg2DIXb8pyv_n3Dype4_B5sqXMD-9B6EDQaXwSe8MBy8x27VtrWwczOG1ROl7-NRgi9u4UkgY05r6pBK5-XH8w4DNYFIL_9SjAgA/s320/Photo+Oct+31%252C+19+06+38.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 Weeks Old</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimeXcQItoX-ZkWvaGlnS3SIwWZEbLbZVrW48jV-W0XvjyNAOp0CUHUNfm8Kjxae5BTxtk0w3z6xxSF6akrzSMm40cN2czmf-TJbcDP0JMYnKxeOJLidysd1nSnr5RYSsBeSnW7BLs3Qko/s1600/IMG_20181101_174609_142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimeXcQItoX-ZkWvaGlnS3SIwWZEbLbZVrW48jV-W0XvjyNAOp0CUHUNfm8Kjxae5BTxtk0w3z6xxSF6akrzSMm40cN2czmf-TJbcDP0JMYnKxeOJLidysd1nSnr5RYSsBeSnW7BLs3Qko/s320/IMG_20181101_174609_142.jpg" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One Year and Two Weks Old</td></tr>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-52829723537202486522018-10-28T20:36:00.000-05:002018-10-28T22:49:43.624-05:00First Birthday <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
October 18th was Zach's first birthday, and it seemed like he knew because he was in a fabulous mood all day. That isn't like Zach. He's a very happy baby, but he also whines a lot. Once he made that discontent whining sound for so long, it took everything in my power not to unleash the earth's loudest "SHUT UP!" I've taken videos of him making that sound to guilt him later in life.<br>
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We started our festivities after midnight, which is the tradition I created for our family. Jason works evenings, so we are all on a late schedule. I decided that on birthdays, we would have a household celebration before bed, and then a celebration with the rest of the family later that evening. That way we can both start and end the day with a celebration.<br>
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I set out the presents people had sent us, as well as the ones we bought. The first one was a plush avocado from my best friend Meghan, which Zach decided he was content with and no longer interested in the rest of the presents. We persevered and opened up the ones from my sister and her family which included his first set of Legos. Instead of waiting for me to step on them, he makes it easy and just puts them in my shoes. His godparents generously sent nearly an entire winter wardrobe, which we needed because Zach went from a size 6m-9m to 18m-24m in a matter of weeks. He somehow skipped over a growth phase. At his 12 month doctor's visit, we discovered that he is in the 97th percentile for weight, which is incredible considering that he started out in the 3rd.<br>
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Last of all, he opened the ones from us which included a night light that displays the Lions mascot, courtesy of Jason obviously, and from me got everything needed to convert the walk-in closet into his own bedroom. Jason isn't a fan of this idea because making a kid live in a closet borders on abuse, but I think it's the perfect size for a toddler and a creative use of space.<br>
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Afterward, we went to bed and woke up ready to party again. I made his first scrambled eggs, and he spat them back at me in disgust. We played with his new toys until it was time to get ready for dinner. Since we were meeting up with Jason's family at a restaurant, I put Zach in his fancy suit and wore a nice dress. Jason asked if he should dress up too, and I told him no because we live in Pittsburgh. I'm not from here, so it's not pretentious when I dress up. The rest of the city has to wear the standard uniform of cargo shorts or blue jeans.<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_R3kJcLfkDzN2BIuN-JmZXYn0p4qLobXYMbN8-3SnGSLQ7qknO0-hGWxXmaMMuUkTA1yeoY3CX9zzA59_KbEBXUzPCAT7aXPg5oZypCyfWVj8j-NmfsjpKRnypOi-c7x6vF7WqS4_2TI/s1600/IMG_20181018_145932_176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_R3kJcLfkDzN2BIuN-JmZXYn0p4qLobXYMbN8-3SnGSLQ7qknO0-hGWxXmaMMuUkTA1yeoY3CX9zzA59_KbEBXUzPCAT7aXPg5oZypCyfWVj8j-NmfsjpKRnypOi-c7x6vF7WqS4_2TI/s320/IMG_20181018_145932_176.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My little dandy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After dinner, we returned to our place, and Zach had his first piece of cake. I wasn't paying attention, and Jason's kids, in being good siblings, made sure that Zach got enough frosting to eat. By the time I turned around, Zach had gotten frosting all over himself, including in his hair and ear canals. He also got plenty on the inside too because later he vomited and the following day had colorful diarrhea. It reminded me of my twenty-first birthday.<br>
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At some point, Jason steered the conversation to wrestling. Unfortunately, I had already fallen in love with him by the time I found out about his WWE fandom. If you are wondering if I'm referring to the "fake sport", nope. It turns out, I'm referring to the "scripted sports entertainment." Jason explained that it's not fake because they genuinely get hurt. Now I just call it his "stories."<br>
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He was telling me about a wrestler's intro music being "Line In The Sand" by Motörhead, then played it for me. As soon as it started playing, Zach, who had never heard it before, got a big grin, scrunched his nose, and began headbanging with his arm raised. I'm not making any of this up. Since then, I've been testing which bands he enjoys, and he likes Def Leppard, Kiss, doesn't like Ozzy, and loves AC/DC. I found out about AC/DC because we were watching Daddy's Home 2, and when Will Ferrell's character sees Mel Gibson's, "Thunderstruck" plays. Zach abruptly stopped eating peas to raise his arm and headbanged. Last night Jason asked me which AC/DC song do I consider the best. When I said, "Shook Me All Night Long", he said no, it's "Hells Bells". Then he played it, and as soon as Zach heard it, he grinned, raised his arm, and bobbed his head to the beat.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBWL2l9SMkz1SWEK0I3vOV7QfmOOlZG0f94JEV55Ov5yK25lREYZg5fRm3-RAcOv7T18xzRZ1GfsPcixg2amIsFd8KGECDcpRXuAyfbpqjXIO4mBUf74ToSYC7cTDA_o5ttqXsBCkih8/s1600/20181028_192347.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBWL2l9SMkz1SWEK0I3vOV7QfmOOlZG0f94JEV55Ov5yK25lREYZg5fRm3-RAcOv7T18xzRZ1GfsPcixg2amIsFd8KGECDcpRXuAyfbpqjXIO4mBUf74ToSYC7cTDA_o5ttqXsBCkih8/s320/20181028_192347.gif" width="179"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thank you for making me a mama, Zachy.</div>
</div>
Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-72784957857321527262018-10-15T07:28:00.002-05:002018-10-15T07:56:27.653-05:00Rosie the Robot Vacuum <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For my birthday, Jason's parents gave him money to pick out a present from them. Jason picked a robot vacuum because he knows what chicks dig. It was a rose gold colored one, so I named it Rosie.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sK1n57DhKD19k4o2sZ-AmirJT-j47-8cCf75OZISjBBL3EVxPZWLmunVpu6fqOYvwpgY-_5ex6jkiUwRmJdbdhkqs4NfVxS7xahkXrj79HwgRjrXH6YMJI_aj9Oz3vBQmGoJoU9VjUc/s1600/lf.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="699" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sK1n57DhKD19k4o2sZ-AmirJT-j47-8cCf75OZISjBBL3EVxPZWLmunVpu6fqOYvwpgY-_5ex6jkiUwRmJdbdhkqs4NfVxS7xahkXrj79HwgRjrXH6YMJI_aj9Oz3vBQmGoJoU9VjUc/s320/lf.jpeg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this Rosie, but lazier and less sassy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I used to dream about having a baby and getting it a Roomba to sit on, like in YouTube videos. This proved very disillusioning because by the time Zach could sit up on his own, he was too heavy, and Rosie just beeped while grinding into the ground. <div>
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<div>
Soon it became normal to have Rosie buzzing around, and when she would go by, I would say, "Zach! There's your sister Rosie," and Zach would watch it with interest. Since Zach was too heavy, I would put a stuffed T-Rex on it and sent it into the bathroom after Jason. </div>
<div>
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<div>
After a while, Rosie began getting on my nerves. She got stuck places she never should have been able to fit in, couldn't handle the incline from the floor to carpet, and beeped while being charged. Basically, she was getting stupider. I think it's because Zach had learned how to crawl, and when I had my back turned, he would find her and beat on her with his little fists. </div>
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<div>
Finally, the day came when I had to retire her. Zach was sleeping in the bedroom with the door closed, and she kept smacking it, trying to get in. When she finally succeeded, I yelled, "Get out, Rosie, you dumb bitch!" Upon hearing myself say that, I realized that I was taking this vacuum way too seriously. I packed her up and put her in the closet for the time being. In the meantime, I still have two other vacuums I can tell myself I'm going to use. </div>
</div>
Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-37920906568738812782018-10-14T03:59:00.002-05:002018-10-14T03:59:22.705-05:00The GIF That Keeps on GIving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
I have immortalized my baby in GIF form.</div>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3922986384140283590.post-41705090395872910132018-10-12T18:18:00.000-05:002018-10-14T03:36:36.253-05:00Cleaning the Irritation Valve<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I finally have an opportunity to write, and I'm grumpy. The annoying things in life have crept up on me, and it's finally time to unleash them. Here's this round:</div>
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1. Snapchats filters with babies.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me-ow., Zachy.</td></tr>
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2. Jason's crush on late 90's pop musician Michelle Branch.<br />
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3. People thinking my social media posts are about them and getting offended. They've been wrong 100% of the time.</div>
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4. Stating outlandish things without fact-checking first.</div>
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5. Sharing a bathroom with a boy.</div>
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6. Having to put on clothes that aren't pajama pants.</div>
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7. Hamsters that eat their babies.</div>
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8. The weather in Pittsburgh. I've seen all four seasons within the same week. It's creepy.</div>
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9. Not changing an opinion despite being given factual information to the contrary.</div>
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10. Responding to what they interpret the photo or tagline to mean without reading my blog post. Like, they noticed the post, it interested them, had time to reply, and blatantly decided not to read it.</div>
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11. The "Just Say No" campaign of the 80's. It was proven to have done exponentially more harm than good.</div>
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12. Unaffectionate people. They're reptilian, and I don't like it.</div>
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13. Affectionate people. Gross.</div>
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14. Spammers calling when Zach is asleep on me.</div>
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15. Having people watch me while I clean.</div>
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16. Responses that start with "You just think that..."</div>
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17. Blonde jokes because they're generally about women being intellectually inferior or shame their sexuality.</div>
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18. Unhealthy foods high in carbohydrates cost the least.</div>
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19. How patronizing it is when someone must always respond with "wise lessons" or advice.</div>
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20. People grabbing pitchforks because they got their political information from a meme. Just because it's in meme form, that doesn't automatically make it true. </div>
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Katt Funnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07836445101034327600noreply@blogger.com