Tinfoil Trees

My dear Daddoo informed me that the tinfoil covered trees that I wrote about the other day, are covered in tinfoil to "keep the aliens away. Duh!"

Love you, Critter. :)

The Great... Entrance?

What's she doing? Why is Auntie Kati standing outside when she should be walking us?

That was Guinness and Jamie (Sean and Leslie's dogs) last Monday.

A little explanation. Sean and Leslie's front door is one of those that automatically locks as you pull it closed behind you. In my mind, it's a situation just BEGGING for you to lock yourself out. And that's just what I did.

I left for work, pulled the door closed and thought no more of it. I went about my day: a little work, lunch, got stuck in traffic, met with a temp agency, got stuck in traffic again, stopped at In & Out Burger for a well-deserved hamburger and Coke, and got back to the house only to realize that I didn't have the key.

I trundled around to the back door and sure enough, there they were, sitting two feet away on the dining room table, behind the firmly locked door.

Sigh.

Called Sean, hoping for a hidden key somewhere. Then remembered there's no cell reception where they are.

Called Andrew, thinking that if anyone had an extra key or knew where one was, it would be him. No dice.

Found the extra key for the garage. Not of much use, but at least the garage is heated and has chinchillas to amuse me. Extra key for the house? Non-existant.

Options... Well, there's the dog door. Nixed. Blocked by plywood as the dogs keep escaping onto the street. Plywood unmovable.

The bedroom window on the 2nd floor is open just a little ways above my head. Found a ladder in the garage. Still too far away. Don't want to break something. Like my head.

Kitchen window? Locked.

Other kitchen window? Not locked.... Hmm.... Filthy, but not locked.

And all this time, the dogs are throwing themselves against the doors because they're so happy to see me and want desperately to know why I'm not coming inside! I, on the other hand, desperately want them to have opposable thumbs, so they can throw the deadbolt.

And the cat? The cat is watching me from the bedroom window, also wondering what the hell's wrong with me. People are so weird!

But, back to the kitchen window. I find a saw in the garage. Useful because it's so thin. I can wedge it between the window and the frame and pry the window open. Hopefully...

Yes! Success! It's open 2 inches. Next, I find an axe kindof thing that I push in and use the handle for leverage to get it open further. Finally, I've got it open enough to get my body inside. My body that's all dressed up, because of my meeting with the temp agency. At least I wasn't wearing a skirt, but I was wearing a very nice pair of heels.

I get a foot up on the wall and a knee on top of the Culligan tank and two hands on the sill. I'll need to take a bath and do a load of laundry, but it'll be worth it. I've got a foot on the counter and my ass in the sink. The dogs are in the kitchen now, wagging their tails and looking ecstatic at having me inside again.

I called Sean and left him a message saying, "Nevermind! I'm inside. Crawled in a window. Might want to take care of that..."

When they got back, he let me know that they don't worry about it too much, as their dogs would kill and eat anybody who tried it. Thank God, they know and like me.

After my bath, curled up in my jammies, with both dogs on the couch with me, I praised myself for my problem solving skills. I'd really had to pee.

Deck the Halls....

I was debating about what to post on this post-holiday Monday.

First, I thought something about Thanksgiving itself would be apropos, but I can't seem to get excited about that.

I could post about the fact that we FINALLY had a full house for Loyal Women on Saturday night.

After all is said and done, though, I feel I have to post about a strange phenomenon that I witnessed at lunch today.

I was running errands and trying to still have time to grab food and I drove past a house with a guy putting up Christmas decorations. The weird part was the tree on the parking strip that was wrapped in tin foil.

And there was ANOTHER house two doors down that had the SAME THING!

Is there an explanation for this? Is it supposed to look like some surreal ice?

Not a very inspired post, I know, but I'm still recovering from the tryptophan-induced coma.

Gobble-icious

It's that wonderful time of year again! The time for homemade eggnog!

Wait, that's not what I meant to say... OK, maybe it is.

The time of year when we all want to hibernate has come. The time of excellent food, wine, and company. A time of tradition.

*Cue the Fiddler on the Roof music*

A part of me wishes that I was in Utah today, because today is the day that GF goes to the turkey farm to pick up the Thanksgiving turkey. (30 lbs this year, thank you very much.)

Apparently, the grandkids never grow out of the urge to accompany him. Granted, we all go through a phase of "This place SMELLS BAD! It smells like COW POO!!!" We all come back around, though. My cousins Christopher and Chance are going with him today and they're in their late teens. I'm sure my cousin Amanda (who just turned 21) would go with him too, if she weren't in school.

And you, yourself, Kati? Would you go?

In a heartbeat. And I might even let GF talk me into having a calf suck on my finger.

But, because I'm here, in balmy Los Angeles, I get my auntie's homemade eggnog. Such bliss, so much rum.

*Cue the Pirates of the Caribbean music*

I'll peel potatoes while I watch the Macy's parade. We'll watch the dog show while the turkey's cooking. We'll eat until we can eat no more. Then we'll wait awhile and have some pie.

Josh's Kentucky Pecan Pie... with dark chocolate and bourbon....

And Friday? Leftovers.

HAPPY GOBBLE DAY!!!

What the Hell?!

It's been a while since I had a post entitled this and after this morning, it's time for a new one.

It all began Sunday night after the show. I was going over to my friend Dan's house cause he has a kick-ass pub in his basement and it was time for a cast party. I was sitting at a red light and hear the sound of someone hocking up a loogie (anybody know how to spell that?). I looked over my shoulder in time to see some psycho SPITTING on my car!

What the hell?!?!?!?!

And this morning, as I was getting into my car I saw an eggshell stuck on the top. Yes, my cherubs, someone EGGED my fucking car!!!! It's all over my driver's side window and my rear-view mirror. And little pieces of shell thrown in for decoration...

What did my car ever do to you people?! Why did you feel the need to exercise your dumb-ass, juvenile tendencies on random automobiles?! What the hell is wrong with the world?!

Happy fucking Thanksgiving, you assholes.

Red is Fun!

What's so cool about red? Well...

It's the color of a Coke can and my Starbucks mug.

It's a cherry on the 4th of July.

It's a scarlet pimpernel and my tattoo.

Th garnets in the rings I wear everyday are red. "I'm Not Really a Waitress" is the best red fingernail polish in the world.

My pepper grinder is red, my lipstick is red, and today my dress is red.

The shattered Christmas ornaments in Loyal Women are red. We call them "mirth bombs."

Josie's cell phone is red. I'm a little jealous.

My mom had a beautiful red vase that the cat knocked off a shelf and broke.

Ladybugs are red, my hair is red, and my toenails are... well, my toenails are blue.

But, I have a red purse, a red scarf, and red gloves.

Red is bright, red is fun, red is everything we should want in our lives.

In the Shadow of the Moon

The space geeek in me is ALL atwitter over this! I can't believe I missed it when it was here... Damn it!

Of course it's Ron Howard. The man's a genius.

DVD, please?

Bathing the Chinchillas

Today on How L.A. is Different From Utah, we present - The Hostess Party.

In Utah, the hostess party is a rather demure affair. Scrap-booking, cooking paraphernalia, and yes, the ever-famous tupperware.

On the other hand, my friend Andra is having a "Passion Party" tonight. Yup, a whole room full of chicks and gay guys examining the finer qualities of vibrators, edible underwear, and naughty dice.

To me, this is weird. I'm too private to sit around with people (ANY people) and debate the bullet vs. the jack rabbit.

Fortunately, I have other things on my plate, so I'm spared the merriment.

I'm house-sitting for my friends Sean and Leslie this weekend and I'm going to have dinner with them tonight to learn how to care for their guinea pig and Sean's two chinchillas. (The dogs and cat I'm familiar with.) Maybe I'll get to give them a dust bath.

Knowing the people who will be at Andra's "Passion Party," they'll undoubtedly think that "bathing the chinchillas" is a euphemism for something completely different.

The Miracle of Penzey's

I got home from work last night at 6:30, thanks to some rather bizarre traffic, and did I just stop at McDonald's for dinner and shove french fries into my mouth? No, sirree, I actually cooked! Not only did I cook, but I used a RECIPE and everything!

It was a recipe that I found in a Penzey's spice catalog about six months ago. I'd made it once before, but the weather has finally cooled off enough so I can cook it again.

Greek chicken and pasta. Simple, fairly quick, and really really good! Tomatoes, mushrooms, lemony herby goodness. And look at how pretty it is!



It also made a LOT of it, so I have it for a couple of days.

I even made it my own a little bit. It calls for chicken broth to deglaze the pan, but I used white wine and I used cremini mushrooms instead of button. (Wild girl!) And, craziest of all, it calls for thin spaghetti, but I used linguine. Woah, slow down there, Bessie!

So, here's a toast to tasty food on a Tuesday night and plenty of leftovers.

Five Freakin' Years! Part I

You've been living in L.A. for almost five years now, Kati. How do you feel?

I feel fantastic, Kati. In a way, it seems like I've been here for five minutes and, in another way, it feels like I've always been here.

Would you like to give us a re-cap of the best memories of the last five years?

I'd be glad to. These are in no particular order...

I saw U2 in concert.
I stage managed nine shows.
I fell off a ladder.
I killed my car and had to live without it for over six months.
I had a total of six roommates.
I've lived with two dogs, three cats, and two fish. And some hermit crabs. (Granted, at different times.)
I've had three jobs. (OK, one was only for a couple of weeks, but still...)
I've been to Disneyland approximately 20 times.
I've been to the beach twice.
I've seen a lot of theatre, including Red Noses, Angry Young Teenage Girl Gang, Wicked, Jersey Boys, Box 27, The Marvelous Wonderettes, Tango 'Til They're Sore, A Christmas O'Carol, Fighting Words, A Glorious Uncertainty, The Lepers of Baille Baste, The Beauty Queen of Leenane, Well of the Saints, The Shoe, a Sherlock Holmes play that I can't remember the name of, some witch play that just managed to piss me off, and others that haven't remained in my head at all.
I've had enough to eat and drink at Timmy Nolan's Irish pub that they automatically know that I want either a Bass or a gin & tonic made with Bombay Sapphire.
I discovered The Macaroni Grill, The White Stripes, Queen, Muse, U2, and Burke Williams.
And I figured out what I want my next tattoo to be.

I'll post more of these as I think of them over the next month and a half.

January 3rd marks the day.

And I'm Supposed to Be "The Organized One"

Last Saturday night when our fearless leaders were abandoning us to go and see a four hour production of Edwin Drood, Sean told me "Don't forget to remind the cast about Daylight Savings Time tomorrow...." I nodded and went back to stirring my lumpy tar.

Before our warm up, I did just that. "Don't forget that tomorrow is Daylight Savings Time! Set your clocks back an hour when you get home tonight. If you get here an hour early tomorrow and all the doors are locked, we'll all laugh at you."

So, Sunday morning, I get up, drink my tea, shower, get dressed, and look at my cell phone to see what time it is. After all, cell phones are linked into the all-powerful, all-knowing, satellite network of doom, right? Apparently, mine is the only one that isn't.

I got to the theatre, set my props, vacuumed up the feathers leftover from Saturday night, vacuumed the dressing rooms, vacuumed the house, and finally realized that it was five minutes to 1pm and NOBODY ELSE WAS THERE....

I thought, "Noooo.... I didn't." I trundled into the lobby and eyed the clock. 5 minutes to 1pm. I then thought to myself, "Well, the person who would have changed that clock would have been.... me. So, that means..."

When all else fails, call Mum. She picked up the phone and said, "What now?" (I'd been talking to her about ten minutes before that.) I said, "What time is it?" And she said, "Well, here it's five to 1, so there it's-"

"5 to noon." *Deep sigh* "I'm an idiot."

Luckily for me, there's a deck of cards and a comfy couch on stage. And I had a brand new box of Cheez-Its and an ice cold Coke in my bag. Not a bad way to kill an hour. It was much better for it to be an hour early than an hour late.

Sean took one look at me and said, "Did you forget?"

I said, "No, my cell phone just sucks."

And, yes, they did all laugh at me.

Will She Make It?!?!?!?

Once again, I find myself forced to reiterate that cable television is the spawn of satan, but also that it's miraculous and demonically tempting. This week's culprit?

Ninja Warrior.

Yes, you did read that correctly. Ninja Warrior is a show on G4. It's Japanese and is a cross between American Gladiator and... you know, I can't think of anything else, because it defies description. I'll do my best, though.

Now, my friend Mel turned me on to this... thing. (Although, she blames her boyfriend Dan, so I'm going to blame him too.) The episodes that she's seen are mostly guys. I got "lucky" and caught episodes of Women of Ninja Warrior, being a slew of scantily clad, Japanese, teenage girls running a floating obstacle course.

I have to say that I found the best part to be when they bit the big one, or did a face plant into a large, foam island. I'm not proud to admit this, but it's true. Hee hee. Yeah, it's still funny.

The commentator is pretty awesome too. Where else can you hear someone say something like, "Look at her! She should be rated NC-17!" and not get his balls kicked into this throat?

And may I just say that I always wear my pleather short shorts when I need to run across a Floating Bridge. Thank you.

More Nicknames

After yesterday's post, my dear Daddoo pointed out to me that I neglected to mention the more... whimsical nicknames I've had over the years.

For instance, he used to call me Twinkie. When I told him I wasn't overly fond of that one, he switched to Swinky. I told him, "No Twinkie or anything that rhymes with Twinkie."

My great grandmother, or Great Gram as she was known, always called me Ladybug.

My grandmother called me, and still does occasionally, Ducky Daddles.

I used to call my mom Piglet, but she decided that wasn't very appealing. She said she wanted to be called Possum. I pointed out that possums are mean and, let's face it, not very pretty. She said she pictured a baby possum. I agreed that this was acceptable.

I told her that if she was Possum, I wanted a cute nickname too. Mousling.

Then Daddy wanted one. Critter.

Yes, we're strange, but you have to admit that we're pretty damn cute.

Kate, Kati, or Katherine

When I was in kindergarten, there were four girls in my class and three of them were named Katie. Finally, there was one who spelled it Kati and I thought, "Hmm, a way to be different!" I think it was a couple of years after that I officially made the change from Katie to Kati.

It's always an interesting barometer of how much people love me to see when they finally figure out that I spell it differently. How observant ARE my friends? Some of them, very. Some of them, not so much.

I had a conversation with my friend Matt one day. He noticed that my auntie calls me Kate and I told him that virtually all of my family do. He thought this was very weird. He says I'm obviously a Kati and definitely not a Kate.

My new uncle, Josh called me Kate for a while, but then stopped. I'm not sure why. Now that he's my uncle, I think he should take it up again....

And then there are the few and far between people who call me Katherine. And the fewer who actually get away with it. My mom does, naturally. (She also calls me Annie, being that my middle name is Anne.) And my choir teacher I let call me Katherine, although she was pissed off when she finally found out that I go by Kati. "Why didn't you EVER TELL ME?" I told her my name IS Katherine and I respond to it just as well as I respond to Kati.

I also had a teacher once who insisted on calling me Kathy and it made me nuts. I have nothing against the name Kathy, but it's not mine.... He was a nut.

Most people who call me Katherine, it comes out sounding condescending. I don't know why. When I stage managed in college for the first time, my Assistant Stage Manager's name was also Kati. (What are the odds?) So, I went by Katherine. The second time, she was IN the show, so once again... Both directors made "Katherine" sound like a bad thing. Granted, I didn't really get along with either one of them, so maybe it's just the connotations in my head.

My auntie occasionally calls me Katherine, but it sounds fine when she says it. And I occasionally call her Stinky. Just thought I'd insert that in here.

Sean calls me Katherine now and again, but with him it seems to be more of a term of endearment. I call him General and he calls me Katherine.

It was strange, when we filmed the teaser for The Whisperer in Darkness, he called me Katherine when I got there and then our Director of Photography, who only vaguely knew me, called me Katherine himself a few minutes later and it was weird to hear him doing it. He eventually picked up that I go by Kati to everyone else and switched over.

It's a very strange dynamic, I think, and as long as no one calls me "Kathy," we'll be fine.

If Only....

... I had five years of experience in QA. I could get a job testing Coca-Cola for it's quality.

I actually found that in a job listing last week. How perfect would I be for that?

And can you think of a better way to make sure that I'm so sick of it I'll never drink any ever again? I can't.

All Hallow's Eve

My Halloween was hugely uneventful this year. All of my friends got invited to fancy-schmancy costume parties, but I showed them! I went home and WATCHED A MOVIE BY MYSELF!!! Wait... damn... that sounded less pathetic in my head...

Anyway, I wasn't even going to dress up, but on the morning, I found my sparkly turquoise go-go dress in my suitcase and thought, "What the hell." Melissa took one look at me and said, "You need a wig!" I said, "I don't have a wig." She ran into her bedroom, whipped open her closet and brought down Marianne, which is her wig from Dockers. It's named Marianne after her character was perfect with my dress. Then she found some sunglasses for me and POOF, I was Ginger from Gilligan's Island.



We had a catered lunch at work which was so-so, a pumpkin carving contest which was pretty cool (crazy animators), and a costume contest which was awesome.

Cap it all off with pizza, beer, and Shaun of the Dead and you've got yourself a pretty decent Halloween (even if it was by me onesy). Robyn joined me for the very end of the movie, though, so I wasn't all alone. Ali bought LOADS of Dum-Dums in preparation for all the trick-or-treaters. I hadn't mentioned to her that we didn't have ANY last year. Sure enough, now we've got 300 Dum-Dums lurking around our apartment. Thankfully, I back at The Colonel's house now, so they won't tempt me.

An innocuous post for such a crazy holiday, but every day can't have falling apart sets and tar everywhere. What do you want from me? A Dum-dum, perhaps?