The drawer of shame

The drawer of shame 6

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I wrote this post in February 2013, but haven’t had the balls to post it until now. In fact, we no longer even live in our apartment with the secret drawer.  In the new house, my collection of shame is located in the back of my closet, behind all my TOMS.

As a disclaimer, this post isn’t meant to offend anyone. I love kids! But I think the 900 words below prove I’m not currently in the correct mental state to actually be responsible for any of them quite yet.

Read on, and you’ll see what I mean.


I have a secret drawer in our guest bathroom.

While I wish it was full of something cool, like Twix bars or Tiger Beat magazines, I must admit it contains something way more lame and humiliating.

That’s right. Pregnancy tests.

Please allow me to clarify that I am NOT pregnant…nor do I really want to be pregnant. (Perhaps eventually…but not, like, today.) I have not purchased these tests out of hope. I have purchased them out of fear.

Fear that is spurred by the following thoughts I have on an almost daily basis:

“Oh my gosh! I drank three glasses of wine at happy hour and ate two sushi rolls! And there’s a .0001 percent chance that I could be pregnant! Now I’m going to have a baby with three eyes!”

“I just spent sixty minutes in a 300 degree sauna! Now the twins I’m hypothetically carrying are going to be attached at the back of their misshapen, albeit adorable, little heads!”

“Oh no!!! I’ve been using those pesky class X skin care products made entirely of retinol that Scott gave me from the clinic! What if I’m pregnant? The fact that I have a wrinkle free face won’t matter when I’m birthing a child with a hairy tail and no nose!!!”

I know.

Yet despite my best attempts at rational thought, these are the worries that have spurred me to buy several pregnancy tests a month over the past few years. Naturally, I always insist on purchasing the pricey digital ones as I just don’t trust the ghetto plus/minus sign knock offs. I need to actually see the words “Not Pregnant” to prove that I’m not cooking a three-headed child with hooves as the result of too much Chelada.

When I think of all the money I’ve wasted on these overpriced pee sticks, it makes me want to punch myself in the face. And don’t even ask how Scott feels about the entire thing. He utters the phrase, “You’re not pregnant! NOW QUIT THROWING OUR MONEY AWAY!!” at least twice a month.

This viciously expensive cycle creates a fair share of embarrassing moments. A few weeks ago, I made a late night stop to Wal-Mart to pick up a few pregnancy tests. Because buying a bulk-sized box of First Response at midnight seemed slightly questionable, I decided I should probably purchase a few other things to make me seem slightly more legitimate.

Naturally, I chose three watermelon flavored ring pops.

(Those are totally legitimate, right?)

Out of the two aisles that were open, I chose the register with a kind looking little old lady who didn’t seem very judgmental.

“Are you hopeful?” she sweetly asked as she scanned the box of shame.

I need to say something here. If ever you find yourself in a position where you’re assisting someone with the purchase of a pregnancy test, DO NOT COMMENT ON IT. Even if you are an adorable little old lady wearing a cat sweater.

Two years ago, Scott found a new box of tests that he insisted I bring it back to the store as I was ‘obviously not pregnant…just crazy’. When I returned the tests, the sixteen year old girl at the counter responded with a big old smiley “I’m guessing this is a good thing for you, right?”

What was I even supposed to say to that!?

Instead of telling granny whether or not I was hopeful, I quickly unwrapped a watermelon ring pop, shoved it in my mouth, and waved thank you to her with my real wedding-ring hand so she didn’t make assumptions. I’m going to forgive Mildred for inquiring about my personal life as she was wearing totally adorable bifocals and smelled just like my Grandma. But just this once, Mildred.

I think this is God’s way of telling me I need to lay of the crazy. (Not to mention the ring pops.)

I mean…if I’m this unhinged now, can you imagine what a disaster I’d be if I actually had a child?!

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Call me coxswain

Call me coxswain 2

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I’ve got to brag on my little sister Hayley today. I’ve mentioned before she’s a competitive rower for Seattle’s Pocock Rowing Center. (Yes, the same one you read about in The Boys in The Boat.)

Last week, Hayley’s team traveled to San Diego to compete in the Women’s Masters Club Final.

Spoiler alert — they won.

By a lot.

You can see Hayley and her teammates blow everyone out of the water (literally) in the video below.

She’s the cute blonde girl wearing a cap and sitting in the boat’s bow.

(That’s the opposite end of where the coxswain sits. Bow is the first person to cross the finish line.)

(Don’t feel bad if you didn’t know that…I had to ask about it, too. In fact, the above description was copied and pasted directly from her response to my “which part is the bow???” Facebook inquiry.)

Speaking of not knowing things, you’re probably wondering what the hell a coxswain is.

The official definition?

“The person in charge of a boat, particularly its navigation and steering. The etymology of the word gives a literal meaning of “boat servant” since it comes from cox, a coxboat or other small vessel kept aboard a ship, and swain, an Old English term derived from the Old Norse sveinn meaning boy or servant.”

If you watch the video above, the coxswain for Hayley’s team is mic’d over the footage the entire time.

From what I can tell, the coxswain basically gets to sit in the front of the boat and yell motivational phrases to the rhythm of the pull of the oars, all without having to actually row.


He gets  to wear a microphone.

Clearly, my new life goal is to become a coxswain. Although I suspect I’d have to lose a few pounds. You know…for the sake of not slowing the boat down.

My first order of business? Changing my official title to “sea cheerleader”, obviously.

Hayley’s thoughts on my master plan?



In other words…if anyone in Central Minnesota is in the market for a coxswain sea cheerleader, I’m totes available.

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Throwback Thurdsay: Pregnant Nun Edition

Throwback Thurdsay: Pregnant Nun Edition 0

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You guys…I got the most delightful email last week!

My sister, who had finally gotten around to deleting her Hotmail account, discovered some photos I had sent to her circa 2005. I was a junior in college, and had just wrapped up the Spring theater production of Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure”.

Scott was cast as Lucio, the comic relief of the show. Due to my horrendous faux English accent, I was assigned two small roles that required minimal speaking.

My first character? The young, unwed woman who is tragically impregnated by Claudio.


Ironically, I transformed into an old, stodgy nun by the second act.


And yes, of course I took photos of myself simultaneously sporting the nun’s habit and fake pregnancy belly.

(Unfortunately, those images are still waiting to be rescued from the murky depths of Hayley’s dilapidated Hotmail inbox.)


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I’m so vain

I’m so vain 10

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Some of you may recall a very important resolution I set for myself at the beginning of 2014.

And no, I’m not referring to “Achieving a cellulite-free posterior.” Let’s just say that one hasn’t been going so well.

The resolution I’m talking about is much more…well…fun.  I wanted to start painting again!

I studied art in college, and particularly excelled in painting. Time spent at the easel went quickly — the hours passed like minutes as I zoned out and let my brush do the emoting. At the risk of sounding like one of those hippie dippie art instructors with beads in her dreadlocks, painting fed my soul.

Now felt like the perfect time to head back to the easel. I have the budget for supplies, plenty of space to work, and a plethora of blank walls just begging to be decorated. I decided to jump back in with both feet — ordering a 40×40 canvas from Amazon last week.

The following day, I created a concept for my first project based off of (cringe) an Instagram selfie.


Within forty-eight hours, my 10 square foot painter’s canvas had arrived. I was ready to get down to business! Halfway through the first coat, Scott inquired as to what I was actually painting.


Scott: Is it just going to be a bunch of blobs? Kind of like that Pollock guy does?

Katrina: Jackson Pollock? No. It’s going to be a self-portrait. I’m just working on the background texture right now.

Scott: Seriously? A self-portrait?

Katrina: Yeah. What’s wrong with that?

Scott: Don’t you think it’s a little…I don’t know…self absorbed? It’s going to be huge.

Katrina: Not at all! Many of the great painters are known for the self portraits. Do you think Vincent Van Gogh or Frida Kahlo were self-absorbed?

Scott: They knew they looked funny–they highlighted their flaws in those portraits.

Katrina: Whatever. I would kill for thick brows like Frida.

Scott: Where are you going to hang it?

Katrina: In the space above the fireplace in our living room.

Scott: What?! No. That’s ridiculous.

Katrina: No it isn’t! I’m even using paint colors that will tie in with our decor.

Scott: Katrina. Who hangs a mammoth-sized painting of their face in the most prominent wall in their home?

Katrina: Rich people in movies do it all the time. Haven’t you seen Clueless?

Scott: We are not rich, nor are we in any movies.

Katrina: I don’t care. I’m hanging it there whether you like it or not.

And with that, I returned to my painting.

Over the next twenty-four hours, the portrait started to come to life. Being out of practice for seven years, my skills are a bit rusty, but the final result looked somewhat close to my original concept.

It ended up looking like my slightly more attractive cousin who's eyes aren't symmetrical...but I'll take it!

It ended up looking like a more attractive cousin who’s eyes aren’t symmetrical…but I’ll take it!

Scott was even impressed. “You’re really talented,” he offered, “Now we just need to set up a better space with you an invest in higher quality paints so you can sell some of these.”

“Whoa, whoa whoa…” I responded, “First things first, let’s just focus on hanging this up, alright?”

It came as no surprise Scott was resistant to this suggestion.

“It’s a beautiful painting, but I still don’t want a giant replica of your face looking over our living room. I’m saving you from you narcissism.”

I shrugged casually before sneaking out to the garage to locate a hammer and nails. It was time to take matters into my own, egotistical hands.




It wasn’t until I saw my abstract mug perched high atop our living quarters that I realized Scott may have had a point. A giant picture of my face overseeing the main area of our home? It was a little ridiculous. And self-indulgent. And perhaps just a tad delusional.

But I still kind of love it…?

Moments later, I called Scott into the living area to admire my handiwork. “What do you think?” I asked nervously.

“No offense, but it kind of looks like Britney Spears.”

My heart melted into a puddle of flattery. It was the perfect response.

“Well,” I argue, “If you’re too embarrassed to tell guests your wife hung a giant portrait of herself above the fireplace, you can always just say it’s a painting of the Princess of Pop!”

“That would be even worse, Katrina.”

He continued ranting, but I didn’t catch much of it. I was too busy dancing around the bedroom belting “Paint me baby, one more time!”

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