Thou shalt not talketh smack

Thou shalt not talketh smack 6

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Earlier this month, I overheard a friend saying some pretty nasty ‘ish behind my back.

Despite several urges, I decided not to write about it. No need to appear whiny and passive aggressive, after all.

But (shocker) I ended up changing my mind. What’s the point of a blog if you can’t post about whatever the heck you want? Including ridiculous girl drama. Also? I am kind of whiny and passive aggressive, so I may as well embrace it, right?

I’ve overheard unsavory commentary about myself before (haven’t we all?) and much like my previous experiences, this one left me feeling completely shitty. Normally I try not to swear on this blog, but really, there’s no other word that accurately described my mood after stumbling upon that vile conversation. Sorry…but I’m not sorry.

After getting over the initial hurt, my first reaction was to decide the Katrina-slanderer wasn’t really my friend.

But that’s not true. She was probably just irritated. I mean…let’s be real — how many times have you complained in a less-than-kind way about one of your friends? I do it way more than I like to admit, and would die of guiltbarassment (guilt + embarrassment) if the people I care about could hear some of the nasty complaints I’ve unleashed about them.

We all do it . Shame on us.

At the risk of losing all my blogging credibility, allow me to quote Lindsay Lohan from Mean Girls. (In the form of an animated gif, obvi.)


Preach it, Cady Heron!

Tina Fey, thank you for writing that line. Gossiping has got to be one of the most unproductive behaviors on the planet! Sure, it’s fun for a little bit…but what does it actually accomplish at the end of the day? If I took all the time I spent making catty comments about others, and used it to do…I don’t know…crunches, I would have a 24-pack of abs right now! Whispering mean things behind others’ backs is toxic, ugly, and a complete waste of time. We are far too fabulous to squander our precious moments of each day complaining about petty drama!

So, the next time you or I feel the urge to bitch about somebody, let’s just drop down into plank position instead. We’ll all be a lot happier — and rocking Britney Spears circa 2001 abs in no time!

(Also? I don’t care what anybody says — ‘Mean Girls’ is the best most fetch movie of all time.)

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Regrettable choices

Regrettable choices 3

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A series of stupid decisions I made over the weekend:

1. Eating a ridiculously hot chicken wing. To my credit, I was attending a 21st birthday party, and feeling kind of…well…old. Something about taking a risk and ingesting the wing tricked me into believing I was closer to 20 than 30.

(And to think, if I had managed 11 more I would have gotten a free t-shirt and my name on the wall!)


2. Going through an uncovered drive-thru in the middle of one of the worst downpours I’ve ever experienced. Truly, the only thing worse than eating greasy fast food is eating greasy fast food that’s sopping wet.

3. Purchasing a high-waisted graphic print jumpsuit, complete with cutouts that are strategically placed over my Christmas hams. (That’s my affectionate nickname for “love handles”.)

4. Drinking an entire bottle of wine before hitting up T.J. Maxx. (Don’t worry — I didn’t drive. But yes…this may have been behind the Christmas ham jumpsuit.)

5. Dedicating my Sunday afternoon to the two-hour Breaking Amish Season 1 reunion special. (The worst part? It was on-demand, which meant I selected it from dozens of  more preferable viewing options out of my own free will.)

6. Ordering “The Tour of Italy” at–cringe–the Olive Garden. (Scott still doesn’t know about this.)

7. Willingly drinking a giant glass of Mountain Dew. I hate Mountain Dew! I judge people who drink Mountain Dew! (Let’s just say it’s kind of a long story.)

8. Willingly drinking a giant glass of Mountain Dew fifteen minutes before bedtime. Pretty sure that stuff is made of nothing but caffeine and mildly toxic food coloring.

Truly, my only sound decision of the weekend was finally getting around to starting season 1 of Vikings. Ragnar Lothbrok is pretty much my new hero. Can you blame me? He’s strong, has awesome hair, and has probably never allowed a drop of Mountain Dew through those rugged Nordic lips of his.

Seriously…why are all the bad choices I make a direct result of the things I put in my mouth?

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Three years old!

Three years old! 14

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Tomorrow, ‘Sota is Sexy celebrates three years of ridiculousness. My baby is all grown up! (But unfortunately, still not potty trained.)

To celebrate, I’m taking the day off from writing and turning back the clock to highlight my three favorite posts from the past 12 months. Ready? Here goes:

  1. This is what you did last “inight” – AKA, adventures with Ambien.
  2. Urine for a rude awakening – The time I accidentally drank my husband’s pee. {shudder}
  3. Squirrel Tail (Part 1) – Trust me…you’ll want to read Part 2 as well.

Want to send ‘Sota a birthday greeting? I’d love to hear how you found my little blog and what your favorite post is in the comments. Better yet — share the love and post a link on FB or Twitter! There’s always room for more readers here in ‘Sota.

Most importantly, thanks so much for supporting this crazy little endeavor of mine. Words can’t express how much I appreciate you stopping by from time to time to read my delusional musings. Truly, ‘Sota wouldn’t be the same without you.



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Who wants to be my Vice President?

Who wants to be my Vice President? 4

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A few weeks ago, I learned that one of my friends from the gym is the president of a local motorcycle club.

How cool is that? It’s like Minnesota’s version of Sons of Anarchy, just without illegal activity and Ron Perlman!

Naturally, I was inspired by this discovery. Not to ride a motorcycle — I think we can all agree that would end in some sort of unintentional amputation — but to found a club. To gather a group of like-minded individuals and spend time doing something fun together.

But what type of club would I start?

My mind  instantly went to The Happiness Project, a book I read last Spring about–you guessed it–being more happy. Sure, I got distracted with who knows what and never actually finished the book, but I did make it to the chapter about having more fun. Gretchen’s advice? Think about how you loved to play as a child, and do that!

Simple, right?

While I probably shouldn’t form a club based on terrorizing my younger sister or spending five straight hours watching Hey, Dude, I had tons of other childhood pastimes that could translate quite well into a “grown up” club. Especially dancing!

I’ve always loved to dance — particularly making up my own routines to a favorite song. Heck — I was learning dance routines until the age of 22 as a member of my college dance team! So why in the world did I ever stop?

After a great deal of research, I’ve come across the unfortunate truth that there are no adult dance classes available in Smalltown. In a moment of desperation, I considered crashing a hip hop class for 12-year-olds but one, that would be creepy, and two, they probably don’t get to do any shimmying yet.

The solution soon became obvious.

It was time for me, Katrina Taylor, to found a hip hop dance club for adult women!

(Cue the applause.)

We could meet in my garage, take turns choreographing routines, and shake our asses to Missy Elliot, all while getting a really great workout! And wearing really awesome hip hop shoes!  Then we could perform the routines in front of my dogs before drinking wine to rehydrate!

I don’t know about you, but I think that sounds like the best club in the world.

Now I just need some members. Smalltown friends….anyone interested? I’m totally in need of a Vice President. As for all you long distance readers, I will obviously support you in founding your own local chapters.

I think this is the start of something big, you guys.

(Let’s just hope it goes better than this did.)

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