Pixie Baby, Pixie

Recently I have been thinking about my long hair. Probably because the year anniversary of when I cut it off is right around the corner.

The day I chopped off my hair still remains as one of the most liberating moments of my life. I had been thinking about cutting it off for months up to that point. I was planning on doing it right around my birthday. I had my reasons. I was turning 20 years old. Goodbye teenage years. Chopping off that part of my life. Not because I necessarily regretted it but because I was ready for a change, and how metaphorical. These were all my plans, yes, but would I actually have the guts to do it? Most women would agree that the idea of chopping off their hair is horrifying, and quite possibly the riskiest thing any woman would choose to do. However, the act of actually doing it wasn’t too intimidating to me. I mean, it’s just hair. It grows, right? Obviously, I am much less attached to my hair than most girls.

So, no, I wasn’t scared about cutting it off. What I was scared of was how people would react if I cut it off. Would people like it? So I started dropping hints around people.
“Do you think I could pull off a pixie cut? Hypothetically speaking of course.”
“Nahhh.”
“Not many people can, you know.”
“You aren’t thinking about getting a pixie cut, are you? Don’t.”

That was a majority of the responses I received. Yes, I did have a few positive responses, but most people are not a fan of the pixie. The pixie cut does not fit the gender schema. Girls are supposed to have long hair. Women are supposed to be sexy. Short hair isn’t sexy; it’s boyish. You know what’s sexy? Long, luxurious locks and a bodacious rack. Now, that’s sexy. And that’s how women are supposed to look, so they shy away from short hair. They remain hidden behind their long hair.

I was getting annoyed by these warnings. I knew I could pull off the pixie. I just knew it. And I want to prove everyone wrong. I was sold. I was chopping it off, and the more people who told me not to, the more I wanted to do it. I was sick of feeling constrained by my hair. I was sick of letting people rule my decisions. I was letting people define me as much as my hair define me. My decision was made.

I accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be able to have a ponytail anymore.

I accepted the fact that people weren’t going to like it.
I accepted the fact that guys probably weren’t going to be attracted to me anymore.

And I didn’t care.

Did I cry? No.
I went in and said, “Do it. Chop it off.”

And there it went. And I was free. 

It was like I cut off years of insecurities and doubts.  

The best part of chopping off all my hair was that is was my decision and my decision alone. It was something I needed to do for me. Like I said, I was so sick of letting myself be influenced by other people. I was done with letting others define me. I needed to do this for me.

And I did.

And the Kathleen that had been hiding behind her hair for so long was released, and she was ready to face the world.

So do something. Do something for you, and you alone.

I know I need to because longhaired Kathleen is trying to resurface, and that’s not okay. 

Ben Franklin Bridge To I Don't Know Where

Long time, no blog. Yes, I know, it's been awhile. I guess you could say I have been uninspired (excuses), but when CSM presented this blogging contest, I thought I had something I could share. So here it is:

Going into week three of city hosting, I was extremely confident. After some extreme conflict with my map during staff  training, I felt we had resolved some major issues and a summer love had started to bloom. Directions were starting to become really fun for me. Oh, Map 54 K-1 to Map 58 B-2 you say? Challenge accepted. I also felt like I had been doing an exceptional job being able to connect with each of the two unique groups I had the previous weeks. To top it all off, I was having so much fun serving alongside my groups at all the different ministry sites. So as week three was approaching, I was on my high horse. I was made for this job. It couldn’t be easier for me. Little did I know.

            When I first met the two leaders of my serving group, I was slightly nervous but not shaken. They were quite the dichotomous pair. We had the extremely detail-oriented and the 40 year old kid. This would be an  interesting week but nothing I couldn’t I couldn’t handle. Like I said, I was made for this job. I had it down.  I can handle challenges presented by other people. I’m flexible. I’m available. I can be teachable.  Definitely F.A.T.

            Come Thursday, I realized that I was the most challenging part of the week. The students and leaders needed to be F.A.T. for me and not the other way around. I had misread the schedule and thought we weren’t supposed to be at our next site until 1, not the actual time we were supposed to be there, 12:30, and currently, I had led our group to I have no idea, New Jersey. We miraculously arrived but 45 minutes late. When we got there I escaped to the bathroom and sat in a stall crying. I had officially given myself the “World’s Worst Host” title. I know what you’re thinking. Overreaction. Late one day? It happens. But did I mention we had arrived 30 minutes late to our site the previous day courtesy of , you guessed it, me? I like to blame it on the vortex of what is the Ben Franklin Parkway of Philly, but if I am being real, I just use that as a means to not dent my pride.

My students were starting to notice. When students start to notice, it is not a good sign. And they started to only remember all the times I got them lost, and not the times I actually got them places in a timely manner and with no wrong turns. Those times outweighed our lost times, but they didn’t remember that. Naturally. I was sick of the “Why can’t we just use a GPS system?” and “Why are we always lost?” So I had to finish strong. I had to prove that I knew where I was going. It was Friday. If I finished this day without messing up, then they would only remember that last day. A good day. Our first site that day was 30 minutes outside Philly. Okay, that’s fine. I have directions. We missed one turn, and we immediately got back on track, but the kids didn’t miss that wrong turn for a second. They dubbed turning around “Kathleening.” “Oh, we’re just Kathleening again.” Cute. But then it started to hurt. It was really a blow to my confidence. We got back to the city fine for the most part. They got to explore the city on their own for a few hours that afternoon. I only had one major place left to get them that night. Our restaurant. It was only 2 main turns from Old City Philly. Easy enough.

“Kathleen, do you know where you’re going?” “Yes.”

15 minutes later we were on the Ben Franklin Bridge to New Jersey. This officially made it the worst week of my life. Really, God? You were supposed to throw me a bone here. Instead, I am  now in New Jersey. I was really beginning to hate New Jersey. It gave me nothing but trouble. We eventually joined the groups at dinner. Late. I was so discouraged. I did not want to hand out those CSM evaluations that night. I didn’t want to know what they had to say.

Still super discouraged and with a bruised ego, I reluctantly gave them their CSM evaluations. What I read that night after they were all turned in was not what I expected at all. I can’t tell you how many students wrote how much they appreciated me and my hard work. They noted my directions weren’t perfect, but they still appreciated me. And they still got so much out of all the sites. What? How? It was God’s way of telling me, “Chin up, my dear. You are relying too much on yourself.  There is no way this summer is going to work if you keep that up. No, this week wasn’t perfect. And you messed up a lot. You’re not perfect, but that’s okay because I am. And I will use all of your mistakes for good. And I did. And I will continue.” What started as the most discouraging week of my life ended with so much encouragement. I was so humbled. I fully expect more challenging weeks like this to come. Fortunately, God can use my mistakes as much as my victories.

Now I can look back say, “Hey, remember that time I accidentally led a group into New Jersey?” and laugh. I mean somebody had to cross that bridge first (pun intended).

But the group that comes in on Sunday doesn’t have to know about that. Thank God for fresh starts. Never again will I underestimate 2 Corinthians 5:17. The old has gone. The new has come. Because really, the new group is coming, and as far as they are concerned, I am a directions expert.

Band Names

I’m really into music, but that’s old news.  Does that count as a hobby? It’s all perspective. And that’s life.

Although, I do enjoy doing one particular thing that I know absolutely counts as a hobby. Obscure as it is, it is still a hobby nonetheless. In fact, I would love this to be my career, but who actually makes a living out of their obscure hobbies? Mark Zuckerberg (made a living out of screwing people over. Obscure enough? … I still love you Marky Z!) He is the exception, not the rule. I digress.

Anyway, I know you are squirming in your seats to read about my obscure hobby, so I won’t let you suffer any longer.

And that hobby would be…

Creating band names!  So. Much. Fun. And all humility aside, I would say that I am pretty rockin’ at it. (See what I did there?)  

The name is the heart and soul of a band. I mean who really cares about the music and lyrics anyway? Psh. It’s all about the name. Shakespeare didn’t know what he was talking about when he had Juliet say, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Does anything Juliet say really have any validity at all? Homegirl was 14, so I’m going to say no. Not to mention, she killed herself over a pretty boy. Girl, please. I digress again!

Band names. Heart and soul.

But really, people should hire me to do this stuff for them.

But since people are not hiring me to do this stuff for them, I have found other ways to put my hobby to use.

The most obvious way is that I create fake bands. Easy enough. I get real with the members. The Golden Rods are my love child. We have Luke Lawrence- lead vocalist and guitarist, Alex Banner on bass, Jared Uldridge rocks the keys, and Derek James owns the sticks. Solid band.

Another way I like to put to use band names- You are in a group of people and something happens that you feel the need to include your commentary, but you don’t want to be too blunt, so you throw out a band name.

For example, your friends Ricky and Leah have been extreme flirting all night. You’ve got the classic banter and the obvious tension.

So what do you say? “Hey guys, have you heard of that band Sexual Tension? They are owning it this year.”

Another example would be when you are talking to those people. And by those people, I mean the ones that you don’t really connect with at all and find yourself fighting the Mongols to make conversation. So what do you say? “Hey, this reminds me of this one song, ‘Forced’ by this amazing local band, Small Talk. Have you ever heard of them?”

Band names. They are great. Great for a band’s integrity. Great for conversation. Now if only people could pay me to do this. But they aren’t, so I’m in college, studying liberal arts.

Ball of Shame

Do you ever have those moments where you relive all of your most humiliating moments in a span of seconds? Yeah, me neither.

However, if I did ever have those moments, I could only guess what those moments would feel like. And based on my extraordinary imagination, I know those moments are quite the phenomenon of shame that I like to call the “Ball of Shame.”

In my studies, I have found that the Ball of Shame is most likely to occur due to humiliation, but it is not limited to only that and may occur in two other circumstances.  

1.    Ball of Shame: Humiliation Edition

This is the phenomenon most previously noted. These only last a span of seconds, but you somehow are able to relive every embarrassing moment you have ever had since shame entered your life. The most embarrassing of those moments from your life seem to be played in HD in your mind. I don’t know how it’s possible for this to happen in a span of seconds, but it does, and it’s rough. Those seconds last for an eternity. Unfortunately, this most often occurs spontaneously, and the trigger is often irrelevant.

For example, you are walking to class one day and you see a mailbox. The mailbox reminds you that you need to send back your Netflix DVD. The Netflix DVD reminds you of how you spent your Saturday. You watched the movie that night, but most of your Saturday was spent at the homecoming football game. At that homecoming football game you got hungry and went to buy some fries. You got in line at the concession stand and realized you were standing behind the guy you sit next to in your Economics class. The guy turned around and said hey. Excited, you returned his greeting. He gave you a confused look and then gave you a slight but awkward head nod, and then proceeded to have a conversation with the guy standing behind you. All of this occurs to you as you are walking to class because of that stupid mailbox. You think of that one humiliating moment that happened the last Saturday and every other embarrassing moment you have ever had flashes before you in a matter of endless, excruciating seconds.

2.    Ball of Shame: Regret Edition

This happens when you are reminiscing about life and you think about something you most recently said or did that you regret. This most often occurs when you are alone and finding ways to waste time. Normally the trigger for this occurrence is much more obvious than the Humiliation Edition because you are clearly asking for it. For example, you are probably sitting alone in your dorm room and Facebook stalking yourself. This is self-destruction at it’s finest. You will find and remember things you regret, and then you find yourself in the Ball of Shame.

3.    Ball of Shame: Gob Bluth Edition

Do the words, “I’ve made a huge mistake,” ring any truth to you? This is very similar to the Regret Edition, but on a much more immediate and on a larger scale. This Ball of Shame occurs immediately after you've made a huge mistake and you realize you can’t do anything to fix it. It’s done and all you can do is the Ball of Shame.

The Ball of Shame looks a lot like this:

The Ball of Shame: A real and frightening phenomenon.

You’ve been warned.

Mountain Man's Guide to Manliness

So I know you guys are used to my writing, but in spirit of the holiday season, I decided to spice it up a bit. This is my first video post! Yay! I did this as a Christmas gift to my good friend Chris. Special thanks to Kelsey for helping me out!

I present to you "Mountain Man's Guide to Manliness."

Kathleen’s Not So Efficient but Exceptionally Effective Study Process

People>Studying. Always and forever. I think most people would agree with me on this opinion. However, my finals don’t understand that. And neither does Nathan Deal. So that means I must study. Eventually. At some point. It’s going to happen. Not now. Eventually. When I have no other choice.

I have a study process. I think it’s pretty effective. I mean, it has gotten me this far in my education; obviously it’s getting me somewhere in life.  It goes a little something like this:

Kathleen’s Not So Efficient but Exceptionally Effective Study Process:

1.     No Stress. Your finals don’t start until a week from now. That means people time. People. People. People. Finals? Why are you people even talking about finals? Who studies this far in advance? Get out of here, and go to the library. I don’t need you and your stress around me at this moment. You can go read while I have all the fun. Oh, hey, more people. I need to be around people!

2.     Finals are approaching. I am completely aware of their impending presence. Don’t think about it. Can I hang out with more people already?

3.     Okay. I really should be studying at this point, but I really don’t want to, so I'm going to complain. Wah! I don’t want to study. You know what I really don’t want to be doing right now? Studying. Wah! I really don’t want to study. Wah! Wah! Wah!

4.     More complaining about how I don’t want to study.

5.     Even more complaining.

6.     Okay, I should really start studying now. Let me open my laptop. Distractions.

7.     I read one page. I can take a study break. Oh, hey Facebook.

8.     Another few pages. Hmm… let me start thinking about my future: I am moving to Europe, when? Oh, right, I’m supposed to be reading.

9.     But I really don’t want to continue. I am going to take a lunch break.

10. Wait, I have two finals when? In two days? When did that happen? More complaining! Wahhhh! Wahhhhhhhh!

11. Okay, but really. Studying starts now.

12. Crank it out. Final Countdown style.

Ehh, perhaps not the best process, but a process nonetheless. Finals. They’re real. They’re ugly. They’re coming.

Backhanded Compliments

I don’t know when people decided backhanded compliments were an acceptable form of praise and encouragement. Worst idea ever. This coming from possibly one of the most (tastefully) offensive people I know, myself. If you’re going to compliment me, please go all out. It’s most flattering, and expect me to be especially thankful. If you want to critique me, please, by all means, go all out, and expect me to respond passive aggressively. It may burn, but I would rather it burn than feel the weird sensation of icy-hot that is backhanded compliments.

Examples, you ask? My pleasure.
(All of the following are dramatizations unless otherwise noted)

1. Me: So, remember that guy Ryan I told you about? Well, he asked me to go to dinner with him this weekend.

“Complimenter”: Really!? No way! I never thought a guy like him would ask a girl like you out on a date. He’s way hot. Props!

Time-out: I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to take this. A guy like him? Are you saying a hot guy can’t ask me out for dinner? What kind of girl does that make me? Not hot? And props? Really? Props? Who uses props (other than thespians) anymore? Icy-hot.

2. “Complimenter”: It’s too bad we can’t be roommates at Harvard. I was really looking forward to it. But you know, UGA’s not a bad school. I mean, it’s no Harvard, but it really is quite prestigious if you’re from Georgia.

Time-out: Are you really rubbing the fact that you got into Harvard and I didn’t into my face? I mean, that’s okay, you are making me feel better by telling me the school I did get into, even if it is no Harvard, is decent, if you’re from Georgia. But doesn’t the state of Georgia have one of the worst school systems in the nation? So I guess this does make me smart by Georgia standards indeed. Icy-hot.

3. “Complimenter”: You’re not as big as you used to be!

Time-out: So you’re saying I’m still big? Icy-hot.

4. Me: Just got a personal best on my mile! 7:30, baby!

“Complimenter”: Hmm, 7:30? Not bad! I must say, today was not my best day at all. 5:55 is not gonna cut it.

Time-out: Okay, it started out decent, but did you really have to go on? If 5:55 is not going to cut it, then what is my 7:30 to you? Thanks for making my personal best look embarrassing. Icy-hot.

5. “Complimenter”: You’re pretty now, so I can introduce you to my friends!
Time-out: (This one is a true story, no exaggeration. However, I’m not going to throw the person under the bus who said this to me. You know who you are.) So you’re definitely saying I wasn’t pretty before. I’m glad you think I’m pretty now though. But was I really so hideously troll-like before that you couldn’t introduce me to your friends? I am glad I have made such a miraculous transformation. Icy-hot.

So there you have it folks, backhanded compliments galore. Aren’t they fun? (Sarcasm bell) Give me the compliment or give me the critique, darn it! I don’t want this ambiguous backhanded compliment. Have the balls to say what you really mean! I can take it. I promise.

Dear Mr. Darcy,

Elizabeth Bennet’s long overdue letter to Mr. Darcy

Dear Mr. Darcy,
This letter is not easy for me to write. I have been putting it off for quite awhile now, but I need to write it. I need to write it for you, and I need to write it for me.

First and foremost, I shall swallow my pride, and apologize. Please forgive me for misreading you. I was caught up with myself. I was caught up in my pride. I was caught up in my vanity. I was caught up with Mr. Wickham. All I wanted to be was desired. Mr. Wickham did desire me. Or at least I thought he did. That was all a sham. His vanity desired my attentions. Like my vanity desired his attentions, so really we are one in the same, Mr. Wickham and I. And you loved me through it all and despite it all. You loved me despite my vanity and my pride; while I blamed you for pride that I really knew nothing about. Please forgive me.

Next, I want to thank you. Thank you so much for loving me despite it all. Thank you for pursuing me. I realize now that the desire wasn’t enough. Desire without pursuit is nothing. You pursued me after I so harshly rejected you (or as Kathleen likes to say, after I was a total B.) You pursued me in a way that could be special only to me and me alone. You didn’t merely desire me. You loved me: quirks, attitude, spirit, lack of piano skills (or not any), and all. I cannot thank you enough for that.

You are a man. A man after my own heart.

And by a man after my own heart I mean you are not passive. I have had more than enough passivity in my life. I am no longer amused by it. How was I ever amused? Passivity is not attractive by any means. I would go on, but I will save you from the hot mess that seeps from my bitterness. Nobody wants to read that.

You are intentional. Pursuit: How can there be anything else? And you keep pursuing me to this day.
By man after my own heart, I mean you are not cryptic. You say what you mean. I need that.
By man after my own heart, I mean you are flawed, but you are willing to work at it.

By man after my own heart, I mean you put up with my strong spirit, (some might call it difficult) and you love it.

Mr. Darcy, I could go on, but let me save the public domain from the sappiness.

My sincerest apologies and firmest gratitude,
Elizabeth Bennet
(and special commentary and input by Kathleen)

My Heart

My Vision Board.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Matthew 6:21 (NIV)

I'm such a magazine major.

SEC Football: It's Kind of a Big Deal

I still vividly remember the day I figured out that Georgia Football was more than just a game in my household. It was Saturday, November 2, 2002. I was a mere fifth grader. Before this day, football was just a sport to me. A sport my dad really liked. A sport my dad coached. I knew that in our household we cheered for the Georgia Bulldogs.  I knew that before I learned how to talk, I was taught to bark. Yes, Georgia football was prevalent in my life in those mere 11 years I had been living, but at that point, I didn’t understand that football was not “just” a game.

November 2, 2002 was a day to end all days. It was the Georgia/Florida game in good ole Jacksonville, Florida. The Dawgs were on fire this season. We were undefeated at this point. And then, like most of our games against Florida in these past 20 years, we choked. We lost. 13-20.

This didn’t mean much to naïve little 11-year-old Kathleen.  Sad day. We lost, but it happens. No big deal, right? Wrong.

After the game, I remember I needed to talk to my dad about something. What that was, I don’t remember, but that hardly matters in relation to the scene that followed.

I remember walking to my dad’s room. We basically have a no knock policy in my house. We have no regard for each other’s privacy. It’s common for us to just walk into each other’s room without knocking. So I went to my dad’s room and turned the handle on the door like I always did. It was locked. That was extremely strange for me. We never locked doors in our house. So I was forced to knock on the door, an action so foreign to me. My dad was not answering. I didn’t really get the hint that my dad didn’t want to talk to anyone because obviously what I needed to talk to my dad about was more important than anything else he could have been doing. Finally my dad came and opened the door. My mouth was open, ready to talk to my dad about whatever I needed to talk to him about, but quickly shut after I realized that his eyes were wet. My dad was crying. My big, strong dad was crying!
“What’s wrong?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

“I thought this was our year,” my dad responded, choking back tears and then went back into his room and shut the door.

That was the day that it clicked for me. Georgia football was not “just” a game in my house; it was a way of life.

I was enlightened that day, and my dad’s passion for the dawgs officially transferred to me. And since then I have been with the dawgs, win or lose. I was with them when they went undefeated, save Florida, for the rest of the 2002 season and went on to beat Arkansas in the SEC Championship game. I got a sweatshirt to sport that glory, and I still rep it proudly today because that year was my perspective changer. I was most definitely there when they went on to defeat FSU in the Sugar Bowl that season. (sadly not the National Championship game) I was there for them when they won the 2005 SEC Championship game. I was there for them when they went on to the Sugar Bowl that season, only to be defeated by West Virginia. I was there for them during the tragically beautiful 2007 season, also known as the BCS blues, where Tennessee went to the SEC Championship game instead of them because Georgia and Tennessee were tied in the SEC East, but since Georgia lost to Tennessee, Tennessee got to go, even though their season was going no where but down, and Georgia’s season was going no where but up. I was there to watch Tennessee lose to LSU, in a game that I know Georgia so could have won, and then painfully cheered LSU on in the National Championship game, thinking, “that could have been us” with all the other Georgia fans.  Sigh, the BCS blues. I was there to watch the dawgs DESTROY Hawaii in the Sugar Bowl that season. My freshman year at UGA, I was literally there to watch the dawgs have their first losing season since 1996. Now I am here to support my dawgs as SEC East Champions. You best believe I will be cheering them on in the SEC Championship game. (as underdawgs and all). 

Born and raised a Dawg fan, officially converted into a Dawg fan in 2002, I will be there to support them through thick and thin. National Title, we will meet again.

Disclaimer

I feel I’ve been misunderstood. Normally I wouldn’t care, but this has just led to way more controversy than I’m comfortable with.

So I thought I would provide a brief explanation of everything Kathleen. Okay, most definitely not everything, but certainly a huge part of my heart and soul:

My sense of humour. (Yeah, I did spell it the British way, and naturally, I only did that for the controversy.)

Which is obviously a huge chunk of who I am because I’m hilarious… 

Anyway, I love irony. It’s how I function. How I deal. How I love. How I hate. How I do.

How do I incorporate irony in my everyday life?

·      Blog Posts

·      Facebook Statuses

·      Pictures

·      Ideas

·      Interpersonal Communications

·      Intrapersonal Communications

And you people aren’t getting it! It is quite wearisome having to explain myself all the time. It defeats the purpose. You people.

So that leaves me with a few options:

1.    Continue explaining myself

2.    Stop explaining myself and accept that people are going to think I’m either (a) a pretentious douche bag or (b) a moron.

3.    Quit Irony Cold Turkey (and right before Thanksgiving too? I’m not sure about this option…)

I don’t really like any of the above options, so they’re not gonna happen.

But this blog post is happening. So consider this my disclaimer. (Oh, and I’m still considering getting that sarcasm bell. I really think that would work wonders.)

Warning: I’m ironic. And hilarious. And hot. And humble. (Yay! Irony!)

I would also like to provide a shout out to the people who do get my irony. I don’t know where I would be without you. Probably friendless. So thanks! ; )

Expectations vs. Reality

I really love that mainstream-indie film 500 Days of Summer. (Oh, hipsters, does that oxymoron bother you? I’m sorry. Sarcasm Bell.)
Yeah, you know it.

I think it’s quite the little gem, although, don’t even get me started on Zooey Deschanel…she’s so boring. Yeah, yeah, I get that these are fighting words, but I will stand by them…I digress.

There are so many great things about this movie from the witty screenplay to the awesome soundtrack to the unique art direction, but I must say that one of my favorite scenes in that entire movie and probably one of my favorite scenes in a movie ever is the “Expectations vs. Reality” scene. Genius. Absolutely genius. I think the whole concept should be its own movie.

If you haven’t seen 500 Days of Summer, let me give you some insight on this particular scene. You honestly don’t need to know the plot to understand it. At this point in the movie, the screen is split into two screens, and one screen is labeled expectations, while the other screen is labeled reality, and the scene is played out as such for the main character Tom: His expectations and the actual reality. The two different scenes start off so strikingly similar, and then the subtle differences start to come into action. How genius!?

The reason why I love this scene so much is because it is so relatable. Do we not imagine our expectations every day? Have in our mind exactly how our day is going to look?

I am going to study for this test and obviously get an A.

I am not going to say something stupid today and embarrass myself.

I am going to go on a hot date, and we’re going to drink hot tea and talk about good music, good films, Harry Potter, Jesus, college football, appreciate each other’s irony, and we’ll just be hot.

My day is going to go like this and this and this. Right?

My point being, we all do it. We all have these expectations. And these expectations we set up for ourselves hardly ever reflect what reality actually looks like. And we know why. Because life is unpredictable. We can’t control it no matter how hard we try. Oh, you don’t like that? Tough. So let me quote Remy from Ratatouille on this topic,  “The only thing predictable about life is its unpredictability.” (You better believe I just cross-referenced Pixar.) So you better get over it. And no, I’m not going to tell you to stop building expectations. That’s just silly. We’re human. It’s what we do. I’m just going to tell you that life’s most likely not going to happen the way you set it up in your head. I personally love that because it keeps me guessing! I appreciate the unpredictability of life. Sadly that means I haven’t been on a hot date where we talk about all of the listed above, but where’s the fun in me planning that. Sigh, expectations…

Yes, sometimes reality sucks.
But that’s okay because that makes the moments where reality is actually better than your expectations even sweeter.

Muse me.

Writer’s Block.
It sucks.
You know what’s worse than writer’s block?

Apathy.
Writer’s Block is the lack of ideas.
Apathy is the lack of passion. I think lack of passion is arguably one of the worst things in the world.

And I’m feeling it right now. Rather not feeling it.

If you know me, you know I thrive on my feelings. I thrive on my passions. That’s what motivates me to write. That’s why I write. Because I feel. And because I’m passionate enough about topics to give them the attention I think they deserve.

And if you really know me, you know my writing is only a mere reflection of how I act. Phew, if you can only imagine that! I’ve got that strong-willed spirit going on. At least that is what I like to call it. Others might call it interestingly dramatic. Still others might call it too much. Love it or hate it, that’s me.

So not feeling and not caring and not having anything to have expressive opinions about is KILLING me.

And I guess this is my lame excuse for my lack of posts recently.

I need a muse.

With the Values of a "Liberal"

I find some offensive jokes funny.

I don’t apologize for offending; I apologize for hurting.

I find controversy necessary.

I like having my own opinions, and I like my own opinions. I like that you have your own opinions, even if I don’t necessarily agree with all of them. In fact, I like disagreeing with your opinions, and I like that you disagree with my opinions too.

I don’t like censorship. 

Truth is truth.

I don’t think everything is black and white. I think there is a lot of gray in this world.

I love Harry Potter.

I watch R-rated movies. I like a lot of them. I don’t like a lot of them.  

Cussing doesn’t offend me.
I stand by my convictions.

I have Journalistic values. Some might call me liberal. I call myself a humanitarian.

I like having the freedom to make my own choices even if I don’t choose to act on all of them. I’m not one to judge. I think you’re entitled to make your own choices. I like to call that little treasure of choice free will. I like to call that gift of free will love. I like to call that love Jesus.

Yes, I am a Christian with liberal values.  

Banjos: My Achilles' Heel

Some girls are suckers for guys who play the guitar. I, on the other hand, am a sucker for guys who play the banjo. I'm obsessed! The banjo is such a beautiful and unique instrument. Take me to a bluegrass concert with guys who can really jam out on the banjo, and you will find me swooning.

I know, I know, the banjo does not have the best reputation thanks to that good ole’ movie Deliverance. (Cue “Dueling Banjos.”)

And also, many people associate the banjo with southern bumpkin country music, and I know how most people feel about that...

But trust me when I say that the banjo is so much more than that! It really is a lovely instrument. It just needs a good musician to accentuate its beauty. Allow me to introduce to you my top five favorite swoon worthy banjo players.

1.     Sufjan Stevens

Oh, Sufjan, my love. I can go on and on about this man, but I will try to keep it brief. I really have Sufjan to thank for my love of the banjo. There is something so pleasant and soothing about the way he plays the banjo. Not to mention the banjo looks awesome paired with giant wings. But seriously, check out the songs “Seven Swans” and “For The Widows In Paradise; For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti” if you want to be blown away.

2.     Winston Marshall (Mumford and Sons)

Thank you so much Mumford and Sons! You guys have done so many great things for the banjo reputation! You guys are kind of a big deal, and I must day, I think you deserve it. And I want to specifically thank Winston because people now know that the banjo can be more than that creepy music from Deliverance and southern bumpkin country music. It can be folky and awesome.

3.     Scott Avett

First off, I like his beard, but that is beside the point. Like Winston, he has proved that the banjo can be folky and awesome. He sure does rock that banjo. Oh man is he soulful. I think that is the best way I can describe him and his banjo.

4.     Andy Bernard (The Office)

“Women cannot resist a man singing show tunes. It's so powerful even a lot of men can't resist a man singing show tunes.” -Andy Bernard

Replace singing show tunes with playing a banjo and you got me.

Words cannot describe how much I would love Andy Bernard even if he didn’t play the banjo, so the fact that he plays the banjo (and sings show tunes) makes me love him even more. Trust me, that is a whole lot of love. What’s not to love about a goofy, fun guy who plays the banjo? On top of all that, he covers Kermit the Frog which brings me to my last point.

5.     Kermit the Frog

Kermit the Frog can serenade me any day he wants to with “Rainbow Connection” on his banjo. Miss Piggy has got herself a man! Talk about the original. I am speaking for all of the above, but I am pretty sure Kermit the Frog inspired all of the above mentioned men to learn how to play the banjo (I know he inspired Andy for sure!) Thank you Kermit! I don’t know where my musical tastes would be without you.

So there you have it folks.  The banjo is so much more than creepy, country, and bumpkin. Although I will admit, in the wrong hands it can be all of that, but in the right hands, it is so much better! And I think you will find the right hands are mentioned above. Don’t hold onto those preconceived notions about the banjo, and check these guys out!

Sigh… Banjos.

The Real, The Fake, and The Absurd

Oh, my major you ask?
I am a Journalism and Sociology major.

…

Yes, that’s your cue.

Go ahead. Ask it. I know you want to.

Okay, I’ll ask it for you.

“What are you going to do with THAT?”

I am so sick of that question! I am not worried about it, and you shouldn’t be either-person I just met.

You can laugh too. I mean it wouldn’t be the first time.

Or Gawk.

Oh, this is my favorite reaction. Journalism is not going to exist in the next few years.(Thanks for the support Grandma!) It is becoming obsolete. Umm News Flash! (see what I did there? Most definitely not becoming obsolete) Just because journalism is now heavily online doesn’t mean that it will not exist anymore. People are nosy! We need to know what is going on or else we won’t survive! Journalism is going to be just as alive 20 years from now as it was hundreds of years ago. Okay, let me step off my soapbox and get on with my post.

The point is I am sick of this outward judging of my life choices. You can inward judge me all you want. Because I don’t really care what you think. Oh, was that harsh? Well so was laughing at my majors.

So to prevent the outward judging, I have designed a plan. I mean “not to toot my own horn” or anything, but I think it is a pretty good one.

My plan: I have 2 hypothetical majors and my 2 actual real ones. I will share these majors dependent on who I am talking to and my mood. Allow me to elaborate.

The Real:  Journalism and Sociology

This is reserved for people I will most likely see again. And people I can actually see myself developing a sustainable friendship with. They deserve the truth, I guess.

The Fake:  Pre-business- Marketing

This is reserved for adults and practical people.  Or people I just don’t feel like dealing with as they question my motives. I mean you can get a job with this! This is an extremely marketable (BOOM! I am on fire with the puns today) major. It is not as challenging to find a job with this major. What a practical major! I get the adult seal of approval. Yay! I tell these people this is my major, and I will get mmhmms and oh yeahs with some fervent nodding. No outward or silent judging is going on. Just sheer approval.

The Absurd: Sculpture

This is reserved for people I just really want to mess with. This is the one that is especially dependent on my mood. Do I really want to be judged at that moment? Do I really want to deal with the judgment? Sometimes, yeah, I am in that mood. Sometimes I just want to get a reaction. I want to cause turmoil. Is that bad? Probably. Do I care right now? Not really because this makes my real major look at least 1.5 times better. Right?

So this is my plan. I think it’s a pretty good one.

*Oh, and by the way, no amount of judging or what you say is going to change my mind. I am a pretty stubborn person. I have my mind set. Do I know exactly what I am going to do after I graduate? No. I don’t. Does that bother me? Nope. So really, it shouldn’t bother you either.

;)

Road Trippin'

My good friend Kelsey told me that I should write a book titled How to Make a Road Trip Last Forever. I might take her up on that, but like all of my best ideas, or other people’s best ideas for me, it shall end up on my blog first.

I like to pump people up when they first get into a car with me, so I tell them “Every car ride is an adventure with Kathleen.” Which is true, but perhaps they should take it as a warning. The word adventure might be a euphemism for what they are actually about to be involved in. I am not saying I am a dangerous driver. Because I’m not. The safety of my passengers are first and foremost the most important thing to me as a driver. Not the destination, but the safety, which is perhaps why my car rides are always an adventure. And when I say that I am a safe driver, that doesn’t mean I am a grandma driver because, well, that is no fun. In fact, I am a “cop approved speeder.” I drive 10 miles per hour above the speed limit for the most part. (more when I am by myself, but that is besides the point) A police officer told me that I should not be pulled over for going 10 miles per hour above the speed limit, hence why I am a “cop approved speeder.” I digress.

Anyway, I am not particularly good with directions. And when I say I am not particularly good with directions, I mean I am really bad with directions. And understanding the road signs on the interstate. And reading a map. I just can’t. So I need a navigator. It is absolutely necessary for me to have a navigator or else I will find myself at an abandoned truck stop sobbing in my car because I have no idea where I am, not that that has actually happened or anything… So to prevent that from happening, I need a navigator. Naturally, I have a GPS system. Her name is Cheryl, and she has a rather unpleasant accent and attitude. She is no Monika (my old GPS system that was stolen). She can sometimes be more destructive than I am, but we have a love / hate relationship. She does always get me where I need to be, just not always in the best way or in the shortest amount of time. I guess I do need her because she is more knowledgeable of directions than I am, even if sometimes she does get confused like me.

I have decided to include a few Kathleen approved tips on how to make a road trip last forever which will be included and expounded upon in my book.

1.     Interpersonal Communication? What’s that? Avoid a human navigator. The person in the shotgun position should be just as clueless as the driver.

2.     Always listen to your GPS system, never your gut instinct.

3.     Never turn around when you miss a turn, take the 20-minute detour down the cemetery back roads.

4.     Make excuses!

That is just to name a few.

And I will leave you with one last thought. A friend of mine once said, “If you are looking for time, don’t ride with Kathleen, but if you are looking for a quality ride, you should definitely ride with Kathleen.”

So you tell me. What is more important? Time or quality? I think the choice is easy.