Old Lady Katie.

I discovered this on Saturday:

A flaw.

 

Not only do I wear bifocals, occasionally drive a granny car, and have hip problems, but now my hair is turning gray at a rapid pace. I’m only TWENTY-THREE, for heaven’s sake! I shouldn’t have to worry about getting GRAY HAIR at this age!

It pains me to say that I have flawed genes. I have always thought of myself of being genetically superior to most of the world because of my sinfully gorgeous hair. Now my favorite feature is RUINED. DESTROYED. FLAWED.

 

How Katie Got Her Groove Back.

Starting in about 15 minutes, I will embark on a colossal effort to blog every day for a month. And not just “My life is fab. Kthxbye” type posts either. We’re talking the hardcore “deep” stuff that will supposedly help restore my writing groove, so people once again will read my intricately written thoughts and say “Oh you’re SO clever!” and give me imaginary gold stars.

Some say the best way to help you write better is just to write, no matter how boring and mundane your life has been. And that by sheer willpower I can carve pumpkins by shooting lasers from my eyeballs:

 

Bow ties are cool.

 

"Wait 'til you read the seventh book. Oh I cried!"

"You don't know the powerrrrr of the Dark Side!"

Nothing is hotter than a man who cooks (or grills).

(This was originally written a year ago for my creative writing class. Enjoy!)

It is a fact of life that for every hot guy a girl meets, there are ten guys who are even hotter—and unavailable. A ring signifies marriage. A simpering fiancée/girlfriend clinging to his arm is an automatic turnoff. He may not even be interested in girls.

 

But . . . what if the boy of interest is apparently single, straight, and completely uninterested? What is holding him back from dating the cutest girl around? Could it be the love of another girl?

 

Maybe it’s the love of his grill.

 

Like any doting boyfriend, he has one special night set aside each week to bond with his lover. For him, Tuesday Night is Burger Night.

 

Or Steak Night. Or Rib Night. Or Whatever-meat-strikes-his-fancy Night. But without fail, every Tuesday he is out there forging a bond with his propane beauty. It can be 90 degrees with the sun beating down on his balding head and he will still flip his burgers in confidence. He even cooks in the rain! He’s like a postman—come rain or sleet or snow, he’ll always grill.

 

But, similar to a relationship with an actual human being, his life isn’t all happiness and meat.

 

No, a distraction—be it a phone call or prepping sauce—can destroy his precious creations and his relationship with the grill. He goes inside for several minutes while the grill is happily smoking away. Ten minutes later, he bolts outside and throws open the grill lid. Copious amounts of dark gray smoke pour from grill as he coughs and swats furiously at the smoke with his silver spatula. Peering through the smoke, the anxious look he once possessed turns into one of defeat. The distraction proves fatal to the bond. Betrayed by his lover. Burnt.

 

For every piece of chicken that he burns to a crisp, he cooks ten burgers to perfection. Juicy. Succulent. Cheese perfectly melted. The rapport between man and grill at its finest. He slides his perfect burgers onto a serving dish and retreats inside to enjoy them. Alone.

 

A grill only rusts if it’s left out in the rain for too long, it doesn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West (and most girls). A grill doesn’t care how good of a father its man is—actually, a grill doesn’t care about anything. A grill is simply a means through which a man can satisfy his craving for flesh without breaking the Honor Code.

 

You have to admit, it’s hard for a lady to compete with a grill.

 

After all, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

 

Wanted: A Perfectly Proportioned Husband.

If . . .

. . . you’re a man . . .

. . . you like feisty redheads . . .

. . . you like nerds . . .

. . . you don’t mind constantly being outdone by someone else . . .

. . . you’re filthy rich and want a trophy wife . . .

(or if you’re just curious).

Then give me your wrist size. Or click here. And then get back to me on your proportions.

The winner gets to die with the knowledge that they are the Greek epitome of manliness.

Why I Hate The Toyota Prius.

Quick disclaimer: I have started watching the BBC show Top Gear. Therefore, I have started actually noticing cars and what they look like. I also have been thinking about the cars within our family and why I like and dislike each of them.

On one of the episodes of Top Gear, Jeremy Clarkson reviews the Toyota Prius, his main critique being that it’s not as “eco-friendly” as everyone says it is, and that fuel economy has more to do with driving style than the actual car itself. While that in itself is good to know (and completely irrelevant to me), I have my own personal beef with the car.

Take a look at it, and see if you can spot my issue:

If you have an eagle-eye (as I do), you will have spotted it right away. It’s a major design flaw that makes me wonder why anyone in their right mind would buy this car, given that they had test-driven it first.

See that little rear spoiler?

It cuts straight across the back windscreen.

Essentially what Toyota has done is halved the rear visibility. And while it may not be that noticeable from the back of the car, if you look at it from the front there is no mistaking that massive error. I tried to find a picture to demonstrate my point but I can’t find any, mostly because I’m too lazy and also because pictures of that don’t exist. The spoiler isn’t so large that it would block small vehicles approaching from behind, but I think it would be extremely annoying to look in your rear view mirror and see a line across your window. Kind of like how obvious bifocal lines drive me absolutely crazy when they cut across someone’s eyes and why my glasses are line-less bifocals (yes, I wear bifocals. I also have a bad hip and occasionally drive a Mercury Grand Marquis. I am essentially a 90-year-old woman).

I don’t care about the speed capabilities of the Prius, and I really don’t care about how “green” it is. The person who designed is probably very nice and likes to cuddle with baby seals or some other innocent creature. I don’t even think that person is necessarily the one to completely blame for that stupid spoiler.

I think that if you know someone who drives a Prius, you should publicly ridicule them for buying a car that is so poorly designed. And while you’re at it, burn their shoes, because they’re probably wearing Crocs.