We were merely freshman. (With really expensive t-shirts.)

We were merely freshman. (With really expensive t-shirts.) 2


My younger sister Hayley has never failed to tell it like it is.

Case in point, a shopping trip earlier this evening.

I’m in Seattle for work this week, which means at least one or two major shopping trips with the sister in my free time. Living in Smalltown, Minnesota has its perks — but a variety of high fashion retailers certainly isn’t one of them. Returning to the Emerald City always includes devout pilgrimages to Lululemon, Antrhopologie, Free People, and the Holy Grail of all things retail, Nordstrom.

Tonight, I decided to add Madewell to the mandatory list of merchandisers.

You guys. Madewell.

That place is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Sure, I’d been inside a couple of times before. I’ve also been known to stalk their cable knit sweaters online, never being fully able to commit to the $110 price point. But tonight? Tonight I dared to venture to a place I had never been before.

The dressing room.

With the passing of each year, my choices in fashion become less and less interesting. At twenty-two, a Tuesday morning would warrant a mini skirt, patterned blouse, and bejeweled wedges that perfectly matched one of the half-dozen purses in that month’s handbag rotation. Today I’m much more likely to gravitate towards skinny jeans, a soft t-shirt, and a comfy pair of boots or flats. As far as purses go, I (gasp!) carry the same one every day.

(Twenty-two-year-old Katrina would be rolling over in her grave pink Gerbera daisy bedding at such a thought.)

Needless to say, I brought a few classic t-shirts with me into the Madewell dressing room. The verdict? Let’s just say it was love at first try-on. The fit, the feel, the fabric…I suddently realized the logic behind spending $45 on a plain grey tee.

Which is precisely how I found myself at the front counter, prepared to purchase  $300 worth of t-shirts.

Uh…what a bargain?

(Insert my sister, rolling her eyes.)

As I stepped up to the register, I couldn’t help but notice a sign advertising a 15% discount for anyone who presented a student ID. My mind instantly went to the furthest corner of my wallet, where my graduate school identification card was safely tucked away. Sure, it bore my maiden name, was six years old and features a photograph of girl with hardly any wrinkles…but absolutely nowhere on that card does it show the year of issue.

student id card syracuse university

I don’t want to actually admit to what happened next…but I’m pretty sure you can use your imagination.

As I exited the store, my shopping bags overflowing with the most glorious t-shirts ever known to man, Hayley confronted me.

Hayley: Did you just use your student ID to get that 15% discount?

Me: Yeah…I figured if I was purchasing $300 of t-shirts my bank account deserved a little bit of a break.

Hayley: I feel like the fact that you just purchased $300 of t-shirts makes it extremely obvious that you are not in fact a college student.

Me: Hey…they didn’t question it.

Hayley: I suppose they may have assumed you were a young, spoiled freshman using daddy’s credit card.

Me: Yeah…although I think if I’m being honest with myself, I look a little too rough to be mistaken for an 18-year-old freshman.

Hayley: True. You also look a little too rough to be one of those girls who goes shopping with their rich boyfriend’s AMEX.


Under normal circumstances I would have been upset by this glimmer of sisterly honesty…but I think we can all agree that I kind of deserved it.

(I think we can also agree that I should never get rid of my un-dated Syracuse University ID card. I mean…you never know when you’re going to need some new t-shirts!)


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Desperate times call for stealing your dog’s prescription medications

Desperate times call for stealing your dog’s prescription medications 4


The past few days have  been a whirlwind of suitcases, taxi cabs. and trips to the airport. After touching down in ‘Sota for nine hours after my trip to Chicago, it was time to return to MSP International airport (yes…they technically fly to Canada) for a visit to Seattle. After what seemed like an infinity of flying time, I was eventually greeted in the Emerald City with drizzly rain, way too many people wearing fleece, and a big old’ cup of Razzmatazz Jamba Juice.

(I am eternally grateful for that juice, Hayley.)

While en route to my sister’s apartment in the city, I decided to call Scott for a quick check-in.

Me: Hey! I made it.

Scott: Cool.

Me: You okay?

Scott: Yeah.

Me: Oh…alright. You just sounded kind of melancholy.

Scott: I have pink eye.

Me: What?!?!?

Scott: I have pink eye.

Me: I mean…I noticed your one eye was really watery this morning, but I didn’t think it was pink eye.

Scott: Well…it was.

Me: That sucks — I’m sorry. Er…not to make it all about me, but…do you think I’m going to get it?

Scott: Nah, you’d have it by now.

Me: Did you just pick it up on the train in Chicago or something?

Scott: Yeah. Probably.

Me: Gross. So…are you gonna, like, have to wear an eye patch to work tomorrow?

Scott: I’m not even going to answer that.

Me: I suppose that’s fair.

{Five second Jamba Juice gulping pause}

Me: So…do you have medicine for it, or what?

Scott: Yeah, I’ve got stuff I’m putting on it.

Me: Good. Did you just write yourself a prescription?

Scott: Nah.

Me: It’s over the counter?

Scott: Nope.

Me: You went to urgent care?

Scott: Of course not.

Me: Well how in the world did you get it, then?

Scott: It’s Jolie’s.

Me: I’m sorry?

Scott: It’s Jolie’s medicine. Remember when she had the laceration on her eye? I’m using the leftover ointment the vet gave her.

Me: Wait a second…you’re using dog medicine on your eyes?

Scott: An eye’s an eye, Katrina.

Me: Is it…working?

Scott: I guess we’ll see, wont we?

Call me crazy…but isn’t the entire point of having health insurance to avoid finding yourself in a position where you’re forced to steal topical eye steroids from your chihuahua?

And…you know…medical emergencies and stuff, too…but mostly so you don’t have to lift puppy meds.




And somehow I’m the one who’s crazy for asking the eye patch question?

(Although I’ve got to admit…I think Walt would be proud.)


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Table for one

Table for one 0


I’ll never forget the first time I went out to dinner by myself. I was…

So…I just typed a 600 word post about my tips on going out to eat by yourself. I saved it, previewed it, and nearly threw my cup of local Chicago coffee at the screen when I realized the above sentence was all that had survived. An hour’s worth of effort had been completely swallowed by my hotel’s crappy Wi-Fi.

To borrow a quote from the oh-so-eloquent Regina George, “Boo, whore!”

Because I’m on my way to a conference session, I’ve chosen not to retype it. Instead, I’m sharing this super flattering photo Scott took of me last weekend while we were walking back to our car after a lovely dinner out.

And by “super flattering” I mean “I kind of look like I guzzled a bucket of paint thinner and then rode the tea-cups at Disneyland.”


My instructions to him?

“Scott! Take a photo of my outfit for Instagram…I need to document this fashion!”

Uh…fashion documented?

This right here is why I’ll never be a fashion blogger.

Also why Scott will never be a professional photographer.

And probably why I often times find myself going out to dinner alone.


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Just say “yase”

Just say “yase” 12


Would you think any less of me if I told you I was considering getting one of my dog’s quotes permanently tattooed on my body?

Because I’m totally considering getting one of my dog’s quotes permanently tattooed on my body.

(And yes…my dogs do indeed have “quotes”.)

Most of you are probably aware of the trip to Australia my partner in crime (and CrossFit) Kayla and I are taking this November. Thanks to Tone It Up’s Bikini Series, we’ll be spending fifteen fun-filled days soaking up the sun across the Gold Coast, and apparently, getting inked.

Kayla is a tattoo veteran. This June I watched her get a tattoo at Venice Beach on a whim. She was cool, calm and collected through it all. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. What if they messed up the font? Spelled the words incorrectly? Gave her AIDS?!?

You can see how my going under the needle is probably going to require some serious anxiety medicine. Possibly a horse tranquilizer.

While there’s a significant chance I may chicken out and sit lamely in the corner while Kayla takes the plunge, I still spend a lot of time fantasizing about the emblem I may or may not get permanently etched into my skin.

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

Allow me to explain.

In order to understand the meaning of “yase”, you must first realize that Scott and I have assigned voices to each of our dogs.

That’s right. Voices.

(This is what people who don’t have children are supposed to do…right?)

Penny is an old-fashioned Southern Bell, known to use phrases such as “I do declare, that is the finest bacon on this side of the Mississippi!” or “Would you mind terribly if I went outside and rolled in that spot of grass where that squirrel died for a spell?”

She is dainty, polite, and always a lady. (Kind of like Scarlett Ohara if she wasn’t all the way potty trained.)

In contrast, Jolie speaks like a feisty, unapologetic Latina firecracker. She swears like a sailor with a voice that can best be described as a combination of Sophia Vergara, Charro and Sesame Street‘s Grover. She refers to Penny simply as “Peso” and has been known to offend even the most colorful of characters.

She also says “yase” instead of “yes”.

(It’s an accent thing.)

Naturally, Scott and I have quickly adopted “yase” as an integral part of our everyday vocabulary.


Some of our friends have even started using the term. Truly, “yase” has become so much more than an alternative to “yes”. It is an homage to all things ridiculous and silly. A reminder to say “yes” to all life’s adventures. And most importantly, a tribute to the original snuggle pooch.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of why I’m considering putting a hypothetical Jolie-ism on my body. Specifically, on the upper side of my right rib — about four or so inches under my armpit, right where my bra strap goes.

The other option is on the sole of my right foot. I mean…if you’re going to permanently sketch an imaginary dog word on yourself, the bottom of your foot seems like a pretty good place to do it, right?

I’ve been warned by several knowledgable sources that this is the most painful placement I could possibly choose. Words such as “excruciating” and “torturous” have been thrown out. Yet if I get inked at the end of the trip, I can simply wallow in pain, complimentary wine, and Australian muscle relaxers for an entire twenty-four hours on the plane ride home.

If that doesn’t sound like a mature, adult decision, I don’t know what does!

(Looks like I’m gonna have to swallow my fear of Hepatitis and just say “yase”.)


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