Monthly Archives: June 2011

My true colors: pink and violent

My true colors: pink and violent 0

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This blog post was not my idea.

When I awoke at 5:40 on Friday morning, I discovered a somewhat disturbing text message on my phone.

Katrina's a jerk while she's sleeping text message

In the words of Scooby Do.... "Ruh Roh"

Notice this text was sent at 3:24 am. I’m guessing he messaged me right after the “incident” occurred.

Scott was still sleeping when I left the house for my early morning boot camp class, but I called him later in order to apologize for such incident.

And then find out what exactly the incident involved.

Scott was on-call at the hospital last week (he works as a Physician Assistant), and often needs to answer pages at all hours of the night.

After returning a patient’s call at 3:24am, he climbed back into bed and attempted to spoon with his wife.

At which point I began furiously thrashing about and yelling at the top of my lungs for him to “Get off of me!!! NOW!!!!!”

In a rare gesture of kindness, I changed my mind (while still asleep) and rolled over to gently put my arm around him.

This moment of tenderness was quickly tainted as I continued to yell at him over the next two hours for “moving too much” and being “too sweaty”.

Oops.

That would explain why Jolie had abandoned our bed that night. Normally, we sleep like this:

Katrina and Jolie sleeping

“They’re just jealous ’cause we’re young and in love”

But that morning, she had abandoned me for “Tiger Dreamz”…. aka her bed in the living room.

Jolie in Tiger Dreamz

"I'm not ready to talk about last night yet. Order me a dozen bacon roses, and I'll think about it."

Bacon Roses

They look so real.

And yes, her faux fur bed really is named Tiger Dreamz.

With a “z”.

It’s the name on the packaging, and it just sort of stuck.)

Tiger Dreamz

I wish they made faux fur sleeping bags in human-size. Then maybe I would consider a camping trip.

This certainly isn’t the first time Jolie has had to put up with some of my strange sleeping habits…





Anyone who has ever traveled with me via plane, train or automobile (and sometimes the subway) can validate Jolie’s experience in the above drive to Boston. Consider this post an apology to you all. Especially to you, Rebecca, for demonstrating extreme tolerance when I mistakenly fell asleep in your lap in the carpool last week. Very sorry about that.

There’s a second video floating around that supposedly depicts me slowly raising my right arm, then making slow motion figure-eights with a limp hand. This goes on for a good five minutes. Scott swears I perform this ritual nearly every night.

He also claims that the video is lost. I choose to believe that he imagined the entire thing. Because if I’ve never seen it, then it didn’t really occur.

I did, however, grovel at Scott’s feet in regards to the thrashing episode, promising it would never happen again. I didn’t mean to do it…heck, I don’t even remember doing it!

He didn’t believe me.

“Why not?” I asked, my guilt-stricken doe eyes gazing up at him from beneath a layer of denial.

As it turns out, I’m a repeat offender.

Believe me, I was as shocked and appalled as you all are.

Two days before the thrashing incident, Scott had to take a call from the hospital in the middle of the night. It seems I didn’t like the light from his beloved iPhone interrupting my beauty sleep, as he claims I sat straight up, punched his phone across the room as if I were Rocky Balboa, and instantly went back to sleep.

Oops.

But it doesn’t end there.

On our recent trip to Las Vegas, Scott once again tried to snuggle up next to me after I had fallen asleep. Insert more thrashing and screaming, this time punctuated with some…let’s just say colorful language.

Oops.

I’m blaming it on the Murphy bed. Those things are seriously uncomfortable.

By the way, I never use colorful language.

Which leads me to believe that I have been plagued with a rare form of Tourette’s syndrome that only presents itself when I am asleep.

Scott assured me this ailment does not exist, suggesting instead that I am probably exhibiting my “true colors”.

Ouch.

I immediately called my sister Hayley to consult. She and I share a bed from time to time, in addition to the years of sleeping in the same queen sized bed growing up.

You guy’s aren’t going to believe this.

She totally took Scott’s side.

I believe her exact words were “You get pissy and violent.”

Fine. Be that way.

Last October, Scott and I took a romantic ten-day Hawaiian vacation to Waikiki. It was our first trip to the islands, and we couldn’t have been more thrilled to take a “real” honeymoon, as we could only fit in a quick trip to Canada after our wedding in 2007.

Upon checking in at the hotel, we were frustrated to learn that the only room available had two twin-sized beds.

Unacceptable. This was supposed to be our second honeymoon, after all.

The staff pointed out that the room we were in now had a far better view, and that we could switch to a room with a king-sized bed the following evening.

We never switched.

I remember falling asleep on our third night and hearing Scott say “I’m so glad we have our own beds.”

We were severely sunburned from a day at the beach, painfully sore from surfing and hiking, and very very hot, due to the lack of air conditioning.

“Me too.” I quietly replied.

I’m now realizing I may have…um…misinterpreted Scott’s statement.

We are totally going to be one of those old couples who sleep in separate beds after our kids go to college.

Pretty sure Scott is counting down the days.

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Don’t be a drag, just be a queen

Don’t be a drag, just be a queen 2

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A blue dress, fake hair and 22 princesses.

What could these three things possibly have in common?

You guessed it…it’s time for another episode of Gifts from Katrina’s Dad!

OK, so technically this is the first episode, but not to worry, there will be many more to come.

It is my hope that through examining the random objects my father bestows on me every month or so, we all might begin to understand the enigma that is Mark.

Mark W.

The man, the myth, the King of Costco

And I do not use the word enigma lightly.

I suppose I’m just a confused daughter in search of answers to the questions that have eluded me for so long.

Like why exactly did he think it was a good idea to give John Wayne a lecture on cat urine?

Was it really necessary to compete in and win the 1972 Miss Wild Turkey Pageant? (I’ve heard rumors that a leash was involved.)

And how exactly does he stay so tan?

Believe me, this is just the beginning.

When he picked Scott and I up from the airport last week, he presented me with this Market Place bag full of goodies.

Market Place grocery bag

Yes, I have sparkly placemats. So?

Mark never spends money on gift wrap.

Mark also usually doesn’t spend a lot money on the actual gifts. Often times, the items come from the Salvation Army or a garage sale. Unless it’s jewelry, in which case it’s almost always from a street fair.

Mark loves bad street fair accessories. I have vivid memories of him taking me to Harley’s Hippie Hut (a real store just for hippies!) in Parkland when I was eleven to pick out mood rings. My mother found out about our trips to the hut and threw a fit, as there was a rumor that Harley sold drugs in the back room.

I’m guessing that’s the reason the shop was swiftly replaced by a Mexican grocery store.

I promise we were just there for the mood rings.

The one place Mark really loves to shop is the Goodwill. It’s his holy land.

A few months ago my mother started to worry when dad was a couple of hours late coming home. She called his cellphone, which he groggily answered, explaining he fallen asleep.

On a sofa that was for sale at the Goodwill.

For two hours.

Oh, Mark.

As a child, I spent countless hours with Mark at the Spanaway Goodwill perusing the aisles for deals. I’ve memorized every last detail of that place. The instant I pulled this baby out of the grocery sack and the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, moth balls and grape kool-aid gently wafted to my nose I knew exactly where it had come from.

It’s a Bisou Bisou dress, circa 1991, I’m guessing.

Ugly dress

It kind of looks like something Mischa Barton would wear. Ew.

Dress with a hole in it

It's like the dress has a bellybutton! There's a total of three holes in the front.

Well, at least he tried.

The funny thing is that Mark sometimes tells me I look like a “streetwalker” when I wear something he deems inappropriate.

I’m not sure this dress is helping his cause.

Outfit from my dad

The transparency of the skirt adds insult to injury. You know it's bad when Jolie looks away

Did you notice anything different in the above photo? I was delighted when next thing to come out of the bag was this:

Jolie smelling my fake hair

"Hold on...I think there's some Bac~Os in here!"

I ordered this Ken Paves for Jessica Simpson hairpiece from a warehouse in the Bronx via eBay in 2007 to wear for my wedding.

Because truthfully, what’s a wedding if the bride isn’t wearing synthetic hair from the land of J-Lo?

Dad and I, with the weave

Dad and I, with the weave. He requested we dance to "Little Surfer Girl"...and odd choice as I don't know how to surf.

The hair was actually quite expensive and disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle that is Mark’s garage after the wedding. I’ve been begging him to find it for the last four years in hopes that I might be able to wear it again.

Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to be happening anytime soon as it doesn’t um…blend so well now.

Katrina with fake hair

I think it's safe to say that our marriage has fared better than my hair extensions.

But where do the princesses fit in, you ask?

Included with these gifts was a full-page spread from the Tacoma News Tribune my dad had saved for me, which included these head shots.

Daffodil Princesses
The 2011 Daffodil Festival Royal Court

Aren’t they beautiful? Unfortunately, I don’t have a photo of the actual newspaper clipping as Scott threw it away before I could snag a snapshot.

You see, he kept having to explain why he was hiding photos of princesses in the trunk of our car and didn’t want people to think he was…you know…creepy or anything.

Really, all he would have needed to do was explain that he is lucky enough to be married to the 2002 Daffodil Queen, and as a result, has a vested interest in all future Daffodil Festival coverage.

Katrina W., 2002 Daffodil Queen

I still have my sash and gown. Sometimes I wear them to tea parties and make all of my stuffed animals call me "Queen Katrina". Living in the past? Me?? Never.

In all seriousness, the Daffodil Festival is one of the richest traditions in the Tacoma/Puyallup area and one of my most treasured memories. If you’re interested in donating to an organization that provides over $50,000 in scholarship money to some very deserving Pierce County high school seniors, you can do so here.

I’m really hoping Jolie might have a shot at the title one day…

Jolie loves daffodils

"Do queens get to eat gravy?"

I decided to text my dad a thank you photo of my new outfit as I truly am grateful that he took the time to pick out a dress for me. Even if we have slightly…um… differing tastes in fashion, he’s pretty much the coolest dad ever.

Katrina and her crown

Oops...how did that get in there? It's not like I secretly wear my daffodil crown around the house on every second Thursday of the month or anything...

I mistakenly sent this to a different contact named Mark on the first try. Awkward.

Dad’s response once the photo finally arrived?

“Well, you’re no Miss Wild Turkey 1972.”

I think I’ll take that as a compliment.

I’m really looking forward to seeing what surprises Mark digs up for me next.

I’m just hoping there’s not a repeat of the 2010 body stocking incident.

I wish I was joking.

Love you, Dad :)

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Roll it down or gulp it down

Roll it down or gulp it down 4

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Today’s blog post addresses a gravely serious issue that is all too often overlooked.

This isn’t easy for me to talk about, but I’m putting personal feelings aside in order to raise awareness for the tragedy that I fell victim to last Sunday morning.

People have become too stupid to roll down the freaking window when they puke in a cab.

And so, I feel compelled to launch the “Roll it Down or Gulp it Down” campaign. And yes, I’ve been in a cab with someone who swallowed their own puke to avoid disaster, so I know it’s possible.

All those in violation will be issued giant Flava-Flav style necklaces with plastic buckets at the end instead of clocks.

I’m doing it for the upholstery, people.

I’m also doing it so I never have to hear the words “Pizza toppings! Everywhere!!!!!”  ever again.

Yes, that is a direct quote.

This is the part where you admire me for my bravery in the face of stomach acid.

It’s also the part where I inform you I am eating hummus as I write this, and you gasp in amazement at my stomach of steel.

But back to Sunday morning. I swear on my Michael Kors watch that there is a perfectly good explanation for the…um…ensemble I rocked at the Las Vegas airport.

Katrina's puke-covered airport outfit

Even a fedora can't fix this hot mess. Note the judgmental stare in the background.

I bet you can figure out my excuse.

And yes, my sweatpants do say “HUSTLE”  in rainbow letters. Thank you for noticing.

Hip Hop Hustle Sweatpants

The "Hustle" is for Hip Hop Hustle. Holla.

I always make the effort to choose a stylish yet comfortable outfit while traveling as it tends to bother me when people find it apropos to schlepp around in PJs and UGG boots.

OK, so maybe there was one exception last February….

Socks with flip flops

The true meaning of camel toe.

…if you’ve ever traveled on a red eye in the dead of winter with a husband in a neck brace, you’d understand.

But other than this one minor infraction, I’m in good standing with the airport fashion police. Well, at least I was.

The sweatpants disaster began as a perfectly cute outfit, I promise. Imagine a pair of simple black leggings in place of the hustle pants and you’ll get the idea. The morning also started out surprisingly well.  Despite needing to be out the door by 5:30 am, Scott and I were running early — a complete anomaly for Team Taylor. We quickly hailed is cab outside the Hilton and were on our way to McCarran airport.

The cab driver seemed friendly and was driving a newer vehicle with a credit card machine–always a good sign.  But the cab was freezing.  All the windows had been rolled down which at this early hour is never a good idea, even in the desert. I quickly rolled the two backseat windows up in order to warm up.

And then I smelled it.

It smelled like a night at the Flamingo gone horribly wrong.  Like a bad buffet doused in vodka.  Like horrible decisions involving tattoos, Elvis impersonators and possibly Lindsay Lohan.

It smelled like vomit.

Because it was vomit.

And I was sitting in it.

The cab driver had clearly taken the car to be shampooed immediately prior to picking us up, but lets be honest…there’s only so much you can get out of a fabric upholstered backseat. There wasn’t enough to notice it right away or to immediately feel that the seat was ever so slightly damp…if I hadn’t rolled the window up I probably would never have noticed, a thought which makes me shudder.

Within two minutes or realizing I was sitting in someone else’s hangover we had arrived. I sprang from the cab and broke out in a full sprint (something that rarely happens) to go change in the bathroom.

As we were visiting Vegas in June, I had only packed cocktail dresses and swimsuit cover-ups…the hustle pants were my only option that didn’t involve shivering on the plane the entire way home. I emerged from the bathroom with tears in my eyes. I’m bit of a germophobe, and after the spa incident, and my sunglasses’ near-death experience, this was just more than I could handle.

I was full on bawling by the time we reached airport security. If you’ve never gone through a full body search at the TSA checkpoint while crying dry-heave style, I really don’t suggest it. I now understand why the workers wear gloves…several tears and possibly a few drips of nasal congestion sprayed across the woman’s hands as she patted me down.

Still trying to decide if this was poetic or pathetic.

Shut up.

Upon arriving at the gate I decided to have Scott snap the above photo of my “What Not to Wear” moment as someday I’ll probably look back on this and laugh.

That day is yet to come.

This is even worse than the last airport fashion catastrophe, involving my new (at the time) Louis Vuitton purse. I was enraged when I woke up as we landed in Seattle to discover the chewed up gum covering the front of the handbag. The horror!

Seriously, who spits out gum on the floor of an aircraft? People can be so slovenly. After deciding a call to 911 might be inappropriate, I spent a good twenty minutes engaging in some serious huffing and puffing while I searched for the scoundrel who had ruined my favorite new accessory.

And then I remembered one very small detail. There had been gum in my mouth when I fell asleep on the plane.

That gum was no longer there.

Again, kindly shut up.

The good news is that the bag lived.

The bad news is that Tim Gunn was on my sweatpants flight.

Just kidding. But I really hope he never reads this.

Tim Gunn

"I'm always watching..."

 

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Never flush Versace

Never flush Versace 0

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Would you still be my friend if I told you I wore a pair of sunglasses that were rescued from a public toilet?

Because I totally wore a pair of sunglasses that were rescued from a public toilet.

What? They were Versace.

Let’s rewind a bit. This all started out with a perfectly innocent trip to Arizona’s Grand Canyon National Park.  After losing $100 at a roulette table (and being banned by Scott from the Forum Shops as a result), I needed a break from Vegas. So I hopped on a charter bus at 6:00 am, thrilled to finally see the grandest canyon of them all.

Having the world’s most negative tour guide was an unexpected, yet not unappreciated bonus.

As we departed Las Vegas he proceeded to tell us in great detail exactly how bad Sins City’s economy was, including the average wages of casino employees and precisely how many of them had been laid off. He lamented about the lack of rain (Only 1 inch per year!), the crash of the housing market and pretty much anything else he could complain about.

He then warned the adults to watch their children so they didn’t fall off the rim of the canyon and die…which he assured us has happened before. He must not have noticed the little ones crying in the seats behind him as this lovely anecdote was followed by countless other vivid descriptions of people plummeting to their demise in a variety of canyon adventures gone wrong.

Fortunately, we reached the canyon before he had time to inform the six and under crowd that Santa Clause isn’t real.

Actually, he probably would have just told them he had fallen out of the sleigh over the canyon and died.

His delightful monologue came to an end with the instruction that while we had been allotted one hour at each of our two stops in the canyon, we could leave after twenty minutes if we wanted to.

Yes, because I rode six hours each way (in the seat next to the bathroom, mind you) to spent 20 minutes at the Grand Canyon so you can get home in time for South Park.

I don’t think so.

My two full hours at the Grand Canyon did not disappoint.

Katrina visits the Grand Canyon

Fedora from Nordstrom, Cardigan from Urban Outfitters, potbelly from the buffet at the Venetian.

 

Squirrel at the Grand Canyon

Hey, you guys! Forget the seventh wonder of the natural world...there's a freaking squirrel over here!

 

And neither did the gift shop.

Over the Edge -- Death in the Grand Canyon

Best $25 I ever spent. Seriously, I'm 200 pages in and can't put it down.

I think our tour guide would really enjoy this book.

After our two hours of sightseeing, it was back on the bus for the six hour return to Vegas. I was enthralled with my new book which, all jokes aside, is a fantastic read for anyone interested in wilderness survival.

Yes, I do have interests other than dog clothes and cupcakes.

Upon arriving at a rest stop two hours later, I rushed to the restroom and was horrified when I looked in the mirror. I had spent the last two hours reading on the bus with my sunglasses on. Shades indoors (or behind tinted windows while reading ) are never acceptable.

Unless your P-Diddy* which clearly, I am not.

* As a side note, my P-Diddy name would be K-Titty…which, um, no.

My hands were full so I opted to prop the shades up headband style over my fedora. This was my first mistake.

My second mistake was selecting a stall where the toilet paper roll was quite literally stuck. My fear of all things “germy” has prompted me to engage in a number of bathroom rituals, one of which is always ripping off the first two squares of toilet paper and discarding them before I actually use any. You never know whose hands have been on that paper and I’m not willing to take chances.

As I bent upside down, careening my neck to get a good look at why the toilet paper would not pull apart from the roll I heard a “plop”sound.

I also felt a spray of water graze my face, but we’re not going to discuss that.

I looked down in horror to discover that my $200 glasses had plunged lens-first into the Grand Canyon of gift shop toilets.

Actually, it was a gift shop/gas station/greasy spoon diner, which is so much worse as far as commodes are concerned.

As my mind wandered back to the days when I earned minimum wage cleaning toilets at the Midland McChevron (Chevron gas station with a McDonalds inside) I knew I had it in me. And that’s how my hand became Versace’s own personal search and rescue party.

I emerged from the stall, dripping sunglasses in hand, to a collective moan of sympathy from the women in line who had realized my unfortunate fate. I spent a good ten minutes scrubbing those babies off with all my might, but some things will just never be clean.

I placed the glasses back into their protective case, and tried not to think about it.

Because truthfully, what would Scott wear while sipping candy-striped daquiris if my hands hadn’t been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice?

Scott drinks a daquiri in Las Vegas

I'm digging the blond version of Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka thing he's got going on here. Apparently, so is that man in the background.

I am convinced our marriage works because I’m not afraid to get a little dirty, and he’s not afraid to get a little flamey.

We sure do bring out the best in each other.

***All photos are Scott-approved. I would never reveal his affinity for daquiris without permission.

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