Thoughts during the MTV Movie Awards

-Kate Winslet being a Nazi is kind of funny.

-Megan Fox scares me. No. For reals. She’s not pretty. She’s just scary.

-Twilight Guy looks like he wakes up and is immediately weary of his pretty. So weary that he cannot even shower.

-Twilight Girl is SOOOO over this.

-High School Musical Girl is not over this, and is PISSED that Twilight Girl won instead.

-Ben Stiller is too old for this.

-Really. Way too old.

-Anyone else get the feeling that the Harry Potter cast didn’t show up so it wouldn’t be supremely awkward when they bumped into Twilight Guy backstage?

-Why is Hayden Panettiere with Zachary Quinto?


-Why do I care?

-Did they honestly just congratulate Heath Ledger for winning best villain? They congratulated a dead guy? Nice, MTV. Really nice.

-You know what? I’m too old for this.

In general…

I spent the last three hours at work today not actually working but being the camera girl for Jen Lancaster- which is pretty fun. I heard a wonderful story involving a regular and some guy and some lesbian lover of hers for twenty years and how they all tried a three-way relationship and it didn’t work and now she can’t move to Florida and whatever, lady, I just wanted to know if you wanted lemon loafcake. I went out to dinner. I got to wear my pretty Wal-Mart dress.

I refrained from banging my head into the desk when someone preordered the sure-to-be instant classic “A Pilgrim in a Pilgrim Church”.

I think this counts as a good day.

Musical health class?

Has anyone seen Grease 2? Because we’re flipping between that and Walk the Line (and Joel Osteen, becase my sister wants to be a preacher’s wife despite her Catholic faith. She does enjoy speaking in a Southern accent, though.), and I’m confused…and intrigued. We just got through the health class number (who knew you could rhyme so much with “reproduction”?) and it appears that there is next to no dialogue. Just some amazing musical numbers featuring high school students who are taking Metamucil.

I think I may have to actually watch this all the way through.

And I’m NOT in therapy.

My head- it’s a scary place sometimes.

(And not just because it sometimes think that law school would be the best way to go for me despite the fact that the rest of my body is going “FRICK NO WE DO NOT WANT TO WORK PAST FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON!”. True story- I walked past a place this afternoon that closed at three and resolved to come back tomorrow for an employment application.)

No, because now that Grandpa’s house is almost completely finished (I know! Right? It’s only been TEN FREAKING MONTHS! So if you know anyone who wants to rent, give me a call!), I kind of…um…really want to move in. Like, now.

Not only do I not want other people living there- although I emphatically do not. I don’t share well. I never have. Those joint Christmas gifts with my sister when we were little? Screw ’em. The joint birthday parties we did for a few years? Gross. I don’t like people using the bathroom attached to my bedroom- and it’s the guest bathroom in a house that I don’t own. I have repeatedly attempted to find a way to obtain sole custody of children when you’re still married because I don’t think I’m ever going to love anyone enough to trust them with my children- even if half of their DNA came from him. So other people wiping their gross little hands all over the walls I bled on, cried on, threw things at in frustration painted? NOT COOL.

But I want to live there. I’m going out after work on Saturday. I’m not going to lie, part of the reason I accepted is that there won’t be enough time to go home and I’ll have to change and get ready there. I’ve done that a couple times now, and I love it. I mean, yes, I’m using makeup out of a bag and I have to stay away from treatment-less windows because the women in that neighborhood have a median age of 85 and are huge gossips- and I’d hate for the entire group to know that I wear (*gasp*) black underwear sometimes! But it’s still almost like I live there.


I find myself stopping to refill my water bottle or use the bathroom, even if I’m just going home. I go for walks in the neighborhood because there are small roads that lack both a.) big trucks, b.) big trucks going incredibly fast around curves, and c.) rabid dogs who like to follow me home and hump my leg. It’s just so much more peaceful.

I have developed into an adult at the socially acceptable time, and so I haven’t spent a whole huge amount of time daydreaming since I was, oh, twelve, but whatever little story is running through my head at any given time? Probably is set in that house. Last winter I had to stop and pick something up on my way home from school and it was dark and as I was letting myself in I caught myself thinking, “Hmmm…I’m going to have to leave the porch light on…this is kind of spooky.”

For God’s sake, I have the nursery decorated in my head. I’m 21, single, and decidedly not pregnant. (Can one be decidedly not pregnant? Or decidedly pregnant for that matter? Whatever. I’m not.)

So. In my head, it doesn’t make a difference that I have essentially no job, no car, no career path for the next nine years, and unless the pay for a barista goes up considerably in the next six months, no hope of changing any of these circumstances for a little while. No, in my head I’m picking out furnishings.

(Not wallpaper. NEVER, EVER WALLPAPER.)

But! The fact that in nine years I will have a piece of paper saying, “Hey, you can give her a job shaping not-so-young minds and she knows a crapload about the Troubles-

(OOOH! I have something to say about that, but it has absolutely nothing to do with this topic, so will you stay with me for a tangent? You will? Oh, good. Okay. I was watching the BBC news the other night because I’m a little bit sick of the American economy and that’s all the US news organizations will report on, and one of the stories was about how there is now an investigation into why, exactly, a Catholic man was beaten to death outside his house, and this isn’t the first one recently either. Is it starting again? Because Dr. Crain will be very sad if he has to stop ending his Northern Ireland class with the whole, “But now there’s peace. And that will be enough.” Okay. Tangent over.)

-but more importantly can make a mocha that will knock your socks off!” if we don’t find somebody to rent it. So while I’ll be locked away in the basement to prevent me from hissing at potential renters, it is a lovely house and if anyone wants to rent it please let me know!

(I’ll be the one doing my makeup in a recently furnished bathroom that’s not mine.)

Night at the Home of Old Vacation Memories

Went to see Night at the Museum 2 today, and it was quite lovely. Funny, stupid, Owen Wilson. Good times had by all.

Particularly those of us who have spent a ton of time at the Smithsonian museums, especially Air and Space, my mother’s most beloved of all museums despite the fact that walking in the door gives me hives.

(At least I have never ended up sobbing in the bathroom. That was the Wright Brothers’ Museum.)

(It was a bad day.)

The Wright boys make an appearance as well, which caused Mary to curl up into a little methods-induced ball and start freaking out about her paper grade and I got a little ill thinking about the abovementioned day…but other than that…

And the National Gallery of Art featured prominently as well, even though they changed the name to the “Washington Art Museum” for some reason. That made my little art history soul squee.

There were several…inconsistencies, however. (No, not the exhibits-coming-to-life inconsistency.) The gift shop at Air and Space is not in the main room, it’s kind of in the back and most of it is in the basement. And the National Gallery of Art is not a part of the Smithsonian museum system.

This is why it closes three hours earlier than everyone else and I end up with twenty minutes there at the end of the day but we had four hours to stare in contemplation at the first plane to fly in March of 1953 or something.
(I’m not bitter.)
So now I want to go on vacation.

Dear Big Daddy,

Hi. It’s me. Kathleen. Well, you’d probably know me as “Kathy” because despite the fact that I was one of your only fifteen students, you never got my name right.

Yeah. I’m not going to lie. I spent most of the semester hating you. I had lots of things to do with my Monday afternoons, and spending three hours every week listening to you talk about Post-Modernism but not really because if your graduate students couldn’t understand it- well then! Neither could we!

You struck me as kind of like a perv. The Playboy, the lesbian article with graphic physical descriptions, when you said your five-year-old posed like a pin-up…yeah, weird.

You wore a pair of earrings. That’s really weird.

Gradually, I warmed to you. Mostly after you wrote loving comments on my paper.

By the end of the semester, I was crying because the class was over.

(Although to be fair, I was crying about…oh…just about everything that week.)

However. If you continue to withhold our final grades for the class, I will be forced to consider you a mean pervert again.

Honestly, man. It’s been two weeks since we turned in the papers. They’re only 7-10 pages, hardly being handed a stack of master’s theses, and you even got to read them beforehand, so you know what they’re about.

Does your partner-of-an-ambiguous-gender really require that much attention that you need more than two weeks to grade FIFTEEN papers?

So. You’re on notice.

Kathleen (Not. Kathy.)

Role Model

Okay, I’m in the middle of parties and movies and cemetary-going and four loads of laundry, so the only thing I have for you this afternoon (except that once again- Ewan McGregor: Hotter When Celibate) is a lovely little item about Brooke Shields from

Brooke Shields announces she would have lost her viginity sooner.

A.) Who the hell cares when Brooke Shields started having sex?

B.) Yes, Brooke. You are truly a role model for young women everywhere.

C.) Obviously, the way to become okay with your looks is to do it with the first guy to come along. That’s why anorexia is almost never present in sexually active young teens.

D.) Seriously, who wants to know when Brooke Shields is having sex???