How to get away with lip synching about thick chicks in public

I am not cool.

People ask if I’ve heard the new song by whoever, and I have to stop them, because unless whoever has been recording ditties for at least ten years, I won’t know who they are.

When friends are giving me directions, I need them to relate it to the nearest fast food place. It’s no good to say “it’s next to Mishmosh”, because, what, excuse me, is that code for something? But tell me “opposite Burger King on Courtenay”, and I’ll see you at that hip new bar.

I just used the word ‘hip’.

This is my version of a VIP room.

This is my version of a VIP room.

So when I discover something that could be considered legitimately cool, I get that panicked excited feeling in my stomach. Like when you go to the bakery and there’s only one fresh cream doughnut left, and there’s one person ahead of you in the queue, and are they going to take it or aren’t they, and it’s exciting and scary and you aren’t sure if it’s odd that you’re kind of turned on.

A few months ago, I listened to the WTF podcast interview with Donald Glover, because I adore him on Community.  He talked about Childish Gambino (his rap alter ego), and I remembered having seen him perform on Jimmy Kimmel.

Podcasts. Community. Jimmy Kimmel. My introduction to the oeuvre of a rapper came about in the nerdiest way possible.

After watching some YouTubes I was totally hooked. He rapped about girls and Rugrats and fame and Rashida Jones and The Office, and I could not get enough. A month later and I knew most of the words.

This was fine, when I’d sing along in my bedroom, alone. I’d even self-bleep anytime he dropped the n-word – this added a secondary level of difficulty, but as a white girl horrified at the thought of doing something racist, it was my only option.

Singing along became less fine when I would listen to it on my headphones, walking around the city. I cannot have “You wanna see my girl? I ain’t that dumb. You wanna see my girl? Check Maxim” play through my pink headphones without at least lip synching along. Turns out, people look at you strangely when you’re mouthing stuff to yourself on the street. Concerned about my reputation around Wellington, I tried a few methods to hide my public singing.

I apologise to Donald Glover for any cool points he loses by being mentioned in this post.

I apologise to Donald Glover for any cool points he loses by being mentioned in this post.

Walking in the dark, and finding quiet, one-way streets with little traffic seemed to work well, then I wondered if I was compromising my personal safety because I wanted to rap about girl’s bottoms, so I stopped doing that.

Finding an excuse to touch your face so you can hide behind your hand might work for one or two lines, but speaking into your own palm while scratching your forehead is even crazier than just moving your mouth, so I abandoned that too.

Faking a yawn will get you through one line. Faking three yawns in a row will make your jaw hurt.

Keeping your mouth open, jaw slack, so you can click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, technically works. It also makes you look like a mother bird regurgitating worms for her young.

After a week I realised that I’d probably damaged my reputation more by walking around doing unintentional vomiting bird impressions than I would have just lip synching. I gave up and decided to stop worrying about it. Sunglasses on, striding through the city streets, so into my music that I just HAD to mouth along – this was living!

Of course, my brain can’t cope with having things be happy. It needs something to fret over to keep itself busy. To compensate for my comfort and happiness, Kate’s Bad Side started to push the limits. I found myself starting to emote more and more. I figured people were being overly judgemental with their judgemental eyes, until I walked past a shop window and saw myself doing this:

Look out for my upcoming coffee table book.

Look out for my upcoming coffee table book.

Now I’m back in a state of confusion about the whole thing. Do I restrict myself to listening in private? Or do I embrace the crazy and continue to wander the streets looking like I’m doing twisted, Jim-Carrey-inspired facial exercises?

Given that I barely hesitated before posting those images online, I think we all know which side will win out in the end.

How women’s underwear turned me into an asshole

Yesterday I saw someone hurt themselves, and I did absolutely nothing.

On my way to the stairs, I passed an electrician fiddling with something in the wall, standing halfway up a ladder.  Another electrician stood next to him, fiddling with some sort of legit-looking handheld-device.  I did that closed-mouth-smile to say hello, where you’re acknowledging the other person exists, but that you are strangers. For a while, in my younger years, I experimented with a big toothy smile to greet passersby. This largely resulted in confused, awkward smiles back. My theory is that people see teeth, and feel that this over-familiar display must mean you must already know them. My advice: unless you want to spend your life watching people frown at you while they study your facial features, keep your chompers to yourself.

Especially in cases like this.

Especially in cases like this.

I reached the top of the stairs and heard a crash. Pausing, I saw that the wall-fiddler had fallen off the side of the ladder to the ground, and the device-fiddler was standing over him asking if he was ok.

And I kept walking.

This is horrible, right? I bet you’re scrunching up your nose, wondering what kind of heartless person is writing this, assuming I don’t even recycle. Full disclosure, I usually do, but if it’s something really really mucky and the time it will take to wash it and dry it and walk all the way to the garage to put it in the bag outweighs the time I have before Shortland Street comes back on, sometimes it ends up in the bin.

Lana's as shocked as you are.

Lana’s as shocked as you are.

This isn’t a laziness thing, I swear it. On most days I walk for miles, literal miles, listening to podcasts and getting angry at people for texting. Scooting down a flight of stairs to save someone’s life would be no problem. As I hovered at the top of the stairs deciding what to do, the question was not “can I be bothered?”, but “where on the danger spectrum is this?”

At one end of the spectrum we have something like a proper serious car crash. Horrible. Stop your vehicle, get out, help people, hopefully have a working cellphone or first aid training so you don’t just stand there like an idiot saying, “I don’t think the car is supposed to be on fire?”

At the other end of the spectrum we have something like walking in on your roommate engaging in some weird solo sex practice you didn’t think people actually did in real life. Sure, it’s a little dangerous, because that rope looks like it might be cutting into the skin. But it’s definitely not something he needs your help with. The only approach is to avoid eye contact and leave immediately, pretending you didn’t even notice.  

Many years back, I was riding my bike home with my friend Hayley after school. Chatting about Leonardo DiCaprio and the new Friends episode, we were distracted, and she rode her bike into the back of a parked car. She flew over the handlebars, into the road, skidding across gravel. I was horrified, and leapt off my bike to help. I didn’t know first aid, and what if she had internal bleeding? Broken bones? A fractured spine? She looked up me with a horrified expression, and I assumed the worst. Then she meekly asked, “did you see my undies?”

Since then, every time I see an accident happen, I immediately assess it for where it sits in the danger spectrum between “helping the car crash victim” and “pretending you didn’t see your friend’s bits, out of empathetic embarrassment”.

Yesterday, as the wall-fiddler lay on the ground, and I hovered on the top step, a pair of pale blue knickers flashed in my mind’s eye.

And I kept walking.

The Adventures of Ducky and Bob: Episode 1: Director’s Commentary

With your host, the auteur of this masterstroke of perfection.

With your host, the auteur of this masterstroke of perfection.


Three simple letters.

An endless abundance of meaning.

Too often, entertainment is confused for art. Art should never be entertaining. Art should reach into you and wrap itself around your intestines, it should make you vomit from the visceral punch, make you wish you’d never been born, make you yearn to erase everything and everyone and just become a pure and untouched bubble of authenticity and meaning.

I don’t believe that I created Ducky and Bob. I believe that I was just a conduit for something outside of myself, something in the universe that needed to be expressed. Since the day Ducky and Bob flowed through my fingertips and into the atmosphere, I have spent hours studying each panel, attempting to decipher truth. Why did the goddesses of art choose me as their channel? I have stopped eating and have eschewed natural light in an attempt to bring myself closer to understanding. I have gazed upon the moon, smoking endless cigarettes.

I have not smiled for days.

Ducky & Bob 1

We open with a title card. I was tempted to abandon the notion of an introduction – why, in this world, must we put everything in a box? – but feared that without a proper framing device, Ducky and Bob would float listlessly on a breeze of mystification.

Ducky & Bob 1.1

In the first frame we are introduced to Ducky and Bob. They exist in a spartan world, free of context. The white starkness they call home could be anywhere, at any time. Does it stretch on forever? Or are the walls closing in at the sides? These are questions that the viewer is forced to brood over, to eventually reach their own conclusions, as they stare into the soul of the moon, lit cigarette in hand.

We see Bob’s smile clearly hides an inner turmoil as he faces the harsh reality of unemployment. Is Bob a victim of the global recession? A victim of discrimination because he doesn’t have any legs? He makes light of his situation using “humour”, but it is impossible to ignore his internal struggle.

Ducky & Bob 1.2

Despite Bob’s visible discomfort, Ducky continues the line of questioning. And in the second panel we see how dire things have become. “Something in an office”? No longer is Bob searching for career fulfilment, but is instead willing to take anything that he can find. Bob is in a desperate and vulnerable situation, suffering at the whims of a broken global system. And yet, Ducky remains expressionless. We must ask ourselves, who IS Ducky? What does he represent? Is he a symbol for staying above water, for continuing to float, even when the system beneath you changes imperceptibly? Is he the system itself? What IS a system?

Ducky & Bob 1.3

The last panel evokes a mix of heartbreaking agony and quiet optimism, creating a clash of emotions that may make some viewers feel lightheaded. First, our hearts break for Bob. Without employment, rejected by the symbol of movement and change, Bob is stranded in a world that has moved on without him. Yet, we do not dwell on this sadness. We see the warmth in the sky behind him, reminiscent of when your neighbour turns on their outside light and the moon looks brighter. We see that he is still using “humour”, indicating he hasn’t given up yet, similar to when you are sure you have more cigarettes somewhere and so you keep rummaging.

I continue to fast, in the hopes that the goddesses of art and beauty speak through me again in another instalment of Ducky and Bob. But for now, I must leave you. The moon is waning, and its crescent form speaks to me, using only words that start with the letter C, but from several different languages, including some that don’t exist, or have possibly existed once, but have been forgotten in time, like the packet of cigarettes I am sure is somewhere down the side of the couch.

Kate’s Food Photography Guide

It’s the new big thing, in case you haven’t heard. You get an app on your phone, and then you take pictures of your food, and then do some post production trickery, and then upload it, and then all your friends say ‘nom’. Given that I take photos of everything before it goes in my mouth (that’s what she said) I feel like I should probably jump on board this new craze. I don’t want this to be another YouTube debacle, where I hear about it from my Nana who heard about it on talkback radio and I have to pretend I understand what she’s talking about. So here we go. Before yet another bandwagon leaves without me: Kate’s Food Photography Guide.

I would like my steak medium rare, with some edam and some tomato sauce, if you got it.

I would like my steak medium rare, with some edam and some tomato sauce, if you got it.

Adjust Settings
There are hundreds of iPhone apps with photographic-faffery-features – add borders, adjust contrast, change light levels… all it takes is a few swipes of the finger. Before you post any pictures, you should always adjust settings to improve your image. However, you shouldn’t go overboard. Just make slight adjustments to make the colours pop and the cheese look even cheesier. After all, you want it to still look like food.

Scrambled eggs on toast.

Scrambled eggs on toast.

Include Captions
People don’t want to have to guess what kind of dressing is on your salad. They want you to tell them. Now, some people will tell you that food language is special. They will claim you’re not allowed to say “I chucked some ranch on it from a bottle I found in the fridge”, that instead you have to use words like “drizzled” and “infused”, and say things are “on beds of” other things, and just randomly translate things into French or Spanish for an exotic twist. I personally disagree, and think that people are most impressed if you keep it simple with clear captions. Go for “rump steak and some mashed potato”, instead of “amigos, view my pan-seared beef upon a bed of pomme de terre”.

Pureed apricots of the meadow served alongside une bouteille d'eau.

Pureed apricots of the meadow served alongside une bouteille d’eau.

Go Out
Go places. Wear dresses. Take friends. Tell stories. Laugh heartily. Take pictures of it all. The tablecloths. Silverware. Carefully manicured nails. Wine glasses. Definitely don’t put yourself on a restrictive budget. If you make something that smells like a foot and looks like something you’d scrape off your shoe, throw it out. Don’t just add liberal amounts of salt and more garam masala in an attempt to make it edible and suffer through it for six more meals of leftovers, the mess getting progressively drier, until you are pretty sure you’ve just reinvented the coaster.

Slowcooked dehydrated lentil dhal with superfluous spice levels.

Slowcooked dehydrated lentil dhal with superfluous spice levels.

Consider Presentation
People are visual creatures, and will appreciate the effort you go to when plating your food. You want a balance of colours. Add a side salad for a burst of green, or some ripe tomatoes for a splash of red. Arrange the items in a clever shape. Use the third dimension to your advantage, and make some of it vertical. Serve the food on your best Italian crockery. Use a clean tablecloth and polished silverware. In the world of food photography, presentation is paramount.

Vintage bread slices with olive-infused spread a la mesa, served on matured pizza box.

Vintage bread slices with olive-infused spread a la mesa, served on matured pizza box.

Make It Elaborate
Always make sure your meals are a complex mosaic of convolution. Before you go to make a recipe, check the number of ingredients and steps involved. Both should be sitting comfortably in the double digits. Feel free to borrow this rhyme to remember: “nine or less? what a mess.” Marinades, seasonings, side sauces: every part of the meal should have its own flavour profile. Turn up your nose at bottled sauces. Enjoy the tactile sensations of slicing locally-purchased vegetables into non-uniform lengths. Never just ‘boil’ anything. Never, ever, boil frozen vegetables. Never, ever, ever boil frozen vegetables then reheat them for lunch the next day. Never, ever, ever, ever do this three times a week because you can’t be bothered going to the supermarket.

Winter vegetable and brussel sprouts a la McCain: snap frozen, then snap boiled, then slow refrigerated, then snap microwaved.

Winter vegetable and brussel sprouts a la McCain: snap frozen, then snap boiled, then slow refrigerated, then snap microwaved.

Buy Exotic
Let me be the one to say what we all already know: your friends are going to judge you on these pictures. If you post a picture of your lasagne, it better be constructed from handmade pasta that you bought from an artisan shop for some exorbitant amount of money. Real food photographers wouldn’t be seen dead at a supermarket. No, no, you should be spending time at the local butcher’s getting halal chicken, at the farmer’s market haggling over eggplant, at the bakery inhaling the aroma of the laugenbrezeln. Fill your pantry with fresh ingredients that have a story and history attached. Never ever buy anything in a can.

Sundried tomato chicken from aluminium receptacle, served upon a bed of baked grains.

Sundried tomato chicken from aluminium receptacle, served upon a bed of baked grains.

There you have it. With these tips you’ll be wowing your friends in no time. With any luck you’ll even make them do that ‘oooh’ face with their eyebrows up. That one’s a sign you really know what you’re doing.

The Daily Hunk: Lincoln

Lincoln: He'll Blow Your Mind

Lincoln: He’ll Blow Your Mind

Lincoln: Try not to let your mind wander…

Lincoln firmly believed he had the skills to blow a woman’s mind. That was the phrasing he used, too. He’d lean back in his chair, knees wide apart, and would say “Oh, that blonde? Ha. I blew. her. mind.” His friends would smirk, and they’d all take a gulp of their watery beer, and be very proud of themselves for what they had achieved in life.

Maybe it was lucky for Lincoln that he didn’t know what ladies actually thought about while he was “giving them the business” (another phrase he liked to use). Minds were not being blown. Minds were feeling a gentle breeze… no, not a breeze, that’s too strong. Minds were indoors, in a room that is next to a room with a window slightly ajar.

In the past year, Lincoln had slept with three women.

Jackie was short and blonde. Lincoln had met her at a bar that had pictures of cowboys on the walls. Jackie had been dumped by her boyfriend and wanted to do something crazy, and Lincoln’s attention made her feel pretty. While Lincoln had pounded away like a jackhammer, Jackie thought about how strange his eyebrows looked while he concentrated. Her ex had great eyebrows. They didn’t look like this idiot’s, which were sort of reminiscent of the McDonalds arches. He really should wax them in the middle. Do men wax? Pluck? She’d ask her brother later.

Bethany was a redhead, but from a bottle, and you could tell it was fake, because she waited until the regrowth hit 10cm before she’d touch it up. They met at a party for Lincoln’s brother. Bethany had slept with him out of boredom, a common theme for how she chose sexual partners. While Lincoln had his way with her, she had tossed up whether she should have just recycled Bruce. He was keen and knew his way around her body. Why did she go home with this guy? And was this… was this… sand? In his bed?

Julie was under the impression that she was in an exclusive relationship with Lincoln. Their first date, three weeks prior, had been an awkward coffee where she had done all the talking in one endless nervous babble without pausing or really even breathing and by the time she was left she had a headache and her tongue was dry but otherwise she was happy with how it had gone she thought? After three dates she had given it up, as per her rules, and as Lincoln had climbed on top she had worried about her chunky thighs and her wobbly stomach and if her face looked weird when she moaned and maybe she should practice this in the mirror later and was she being too loud or not loud enough?

Lincoln would usually just think about himself. And unlike his sexual partners, he wouldn’t let his mind wander.

Forever a rebel

I am amazed at how rapidly technology changes nowadays. Back in my grandma’s day, they had like, fifty years to get used to the idea of the wireless. Now, there’s barely enough time to figure out how to change the wallpaper on your iPhone before the next one comes out.

I am going to start forcing my friends to socialise like this with me.

I am going to start forcing my friends to socialise like this with me.

Teenagers today have it so lucky. Downloading songs requires two clicks and you have a complete, high-quality audio file (maybe even for free, if you are loose of moral and smart of figuring out how on earth to do it). When I was a teenager, I used to tape songs off the television. I’d get up at 10am for the Top 40 on Sunday mornings, and when a song would end I’d sit, braced in anticipation. I need to quickly stab my finger on PLAY and REC on the remote (for songs performed by bands with synchronised dance moves) or screw up my nose out of confusion (for songs performed by bands with actual instruments)?

I’d end up with most of a track taped onto a VHS, which I’d then play back later through the lounge room speakers. I’d sit there with a microphone held up, recording a distorted, crackly, mono track onto a cassette tape, which I’d listen back to on my walkman. The song would go through so many layers of transformation that by the end it was a copy of a copy of a copy, barely recognisable as a Spice Girls track at all. I don’t think it would even count as piracy.



All teenagers go through their rebellious phase, and I was no exception. When hormones were high and the world seemed unfair, I would feel the urge to rage against my parents. I’d want to blast death metal and get high. However, I was also a goody-two-shoes, and I didn’t even understand what death metal or marijuana actually were, let alone where to find any. So instead, I would sit in my room with chocolate bars I’d stolen from the fridge, blasting the Men in Black theme song.

Seriously. I am blushing just remembering this. That was how I rebelled – listening to a fuzzy pirate-lite copy of here come the men in black, galaxy defenders – while eating a mini-Flake bar I hadn’t asked permission to take.

It’s lucky I made it through alive.

Note to self: never go to the gym after work

In the mornings, there are usually about six people in the entire gym. It’s quiet. After a few weeks you even start recognising the regulars.

There’s the old guy, whose routine involves changing his shirt in the weight room (bet you a dollar I’ve seen more elderly nipples than you today) and then balancing uneasily on a swiss ball for half an hour.

There’s the moany guy, who spends a great deal of time on the foam rollers and then does some light benching. Doesn’t matter what he’s doing – whether he’s actually lifting something or just walking across the gym – he’s doing his o-face with a matching aural accompaniment. It gives an air of intimacy to the place. Like you’re in a well-lit sex dungeon.

There’s the helpful guy, who has one of those all-American grins that was made for a service job. When I first started going to the gym, he was all too pleased to point out where things were or to help me re-rack the weights. This was right up until the day I farted while doing lat pulldowns. I hoped we’d both just pretend it was the seat, but come on. Seats don’t make that sound. He knew it. I knew it. I re-rack my own weights now.

Everyone walks around with their heads held low, maybe a mumbled “g’mornin” as you pass. The only soundtrack is the faint whir of the ancient wall fan, as well as the dulcet tones of Petra Bagust nattering about how smoking is bad and her children are organic, or whatever she’s into this week.

Petra Bagust: What's REALLY In Our Children?

Petra Bagust: What’s REALLY In Our Children?

It’s comforting.

It’s reliable.

Last week I couldn’t make it in the morning due to unforeseen circumstances (fine, full disclosure, I had a monster hangover and my bed was too warm) so I decided to go after work, and was horrified with what I found.

Gym bros. Everywhere. All of them barely 20, all of them in wife-beaters, all of them grunting. The air was thick with bodyspray and sweat and testosterone. And it was not in that sexy well-lit sex dungeon way. It was in that communicable-diseasey-swampy-men’s-locker-room way.

They are all flexing, and smirking at each other, and saying “squeeze it brah”, and what does that even mean? I felt completely indignant that they were all there taking up space and occupying equipment. This transformed into guilt, because I was doing the same thing, and I shouldn’t judge my fellow man for practices that I myself engage in. Then I turned indignant again, because they had the nerve to make me feel guilty in my own gym.

(It was complicated.)

I decided to just ignore them and do my workout. I would rise above the noise. I would be a bubble of zen. This lasted all of five minutes before I realised I was unintentionally frowning at everyone. Having used up energy already on all my earlier indignant mood swings, I decided to just embrace my anger. I stomped around from room to room, sighing audibly. The gym bros focused intently on each other’s bicep curls. I scowled. They said things like, “really tight, brah”. I scoffed.

Lucky enough to find a spare bench, I settled in to do some dumbbell rows. I hate dumbbell rows. You basically have to get on all fours and stick your butt in the air, and then, to add insult to injury, you have to lift up heavy things, lots of times. I always feel like a zoo animal presenting itself to its mate… while having the misfortune of needing to watch for predators AND babysit the cubs at the same time.

Image by flowcomm on flickr

“Wait, WHAT do I have to do?”

I lifted the dumbbell up and down, my eyes locked on the mirror, trying to scope out if you could see down my top from this angle or if I was getting away with it. The gym bros clanged their weights and grunted. Huffing and puffing and grimacing, I started to feel my indignation rise again. Girls are always complaining about being perved at the gym, right? And I’ve done my hair today, I’ve got my work makeup on, I’m on all fours, and these gym bros can’t bear to tear their eyes away from their swole guns to try and look down my shirt? Their respectful distance really started to annoy me. 

I was halfway through my last set when I caught the eye of a gym bro, watching me from across the room. I felt immediately enraged. What, is he just at the gym to flirt?! I glowered down the mirror for a moment before remembering my desperate desire for attention only minutes prior and feeling bad for him. Then I felt angry again, because how was he to know I wanted attention? Most girls just want to be left alone!

(It was complicated.)

Never going to the gym after work again.

Blog launch party

Done. Twenty blog posts published. My self-imposed ban on waiting to tell people that this blog exists is over. I can now email the link to my mum, so that she can pretend that she reads it and I can pretend to believe her. I should definitely do some sort of… welcome.

But what should I do?

Thinking dimple.
… hang on, the ad break’s over. Wow. Thomas from My Kitchen Rules might have the smallest mouth I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he takes smaller bites of food than most people. Does it mean he eats less overall? Or would he just compensate for it by chewing really fast?

Alan? Alan?
Ok, right, so, a welcome. Maybe I should throw a party! A blog launch party.

Ok, let’s do it. What do you think, Responsible Kate?

I think that you cannot host a party when you’re in your pyjamas with wet hair. Perhaps you could schedule it for a more appropriate time?

It doesn’t look that bad, does it?

The Thinker.
Ugh. At least dry it off. And get changed!


Ok. What do you think? Can we have the party now?

Sheepish in a bearish hat.
Did you fix your hair? Or did you just put your bear hat on to hide it?

Maybe just the bear hat. But look! I put eyeliner on!

Just you wait for the makeup tutorials.
Not good enough. And you’re still in your pyjamas!

But they’re so cuddly. Do I reeeeeally have to go do my hair?

But mummmmmmmmmmm?
The longer you sit here, the more time you waste.


Ok, NOW can we throw the party?

Party approval seeking.

What are you wearing?

It’s that top I got on sale a month ago. The one with the weird sleeves. It’s messed up, right? It’s like I have a cape, but only on one side! And it’s on PURPOSE! People who do fashion are weird.

Is it... is it a wing?
…so this is the top that you are too scared to wear outside? Because you can’t work out how to match it with any of your pants or skirts?

Little bit.

Definitely a little bit.
Are you still in your pyjama pants?

Little bit.

They have flowers on them.

If you want a party, you will need to wear appropriate clothing. Go put on a dress.


I think Responsible Kate will be most pleased with this turn of events.
Totes a lady.
Is that a ballgown?

Totes. Nailed it. Even put earrings in.

I got this.
I appreciate the effort, but this is a party for a blog. And you keep saying you’re “launching” it, but I’m fairly certain that you just mean you’re going to post a link on your Facebook page. Does a ballgown seem like it’s maybe, perhaps, going a bit too far?

Are you saying I have to get dressed AGAIN?

Petulant child.
Yes. And I don’t think I didn’t notice that you left your pyjama pants on under that gown.


I’m almost too scared to ask.

Don't get mad at me.
Much better!

Oh, lovely! Can we have the party now?

Well, I don’t see why not. Although, I’ve been meaning to ask… what does a launch party for a blog actually look like?

Pretty much just this.

If my name were Kat, this would be Kat in a Hat.

Does that hat say Happy Birthday?

Little bit.


Where did you get that?

Found it.


Should you wrap this up somehow? Congratulate anyone who’s bothered to read this far? Tell them what your blog is about? Welcome them to leave comments?

These things sound like… elephant farts. Phffffft. PhhFFFFFT.

Farty noises and hats are all too much excitement for one day.
…I don’t even know where to start with you.

Practicing some self-restraint. Sorta.

I started this blog almost a month ago on what was surely one of the most anti-social but most enjoyable Saturday evenings I’ve had in a while. I sat down with this curry:

Friends will be unsurprised to see that I have kept a photo of my dinner from three weeks ago.

Friends will be unsurprised to see that I have kept a photo of my dinner from three weeks ago.

and this movie:

Flawed thinking in DVD store: "yeah, this will be fine to watch alone".

Flawed thinking in DVD store: “yeah, this will be fine to watch alone”.

I put on the pink fluffy socks my grandma sent me for my birthday and cackled at my own good fortune. I don’t mean this euphemistically. I literally laughed, out loud. I know, I know. It’s just a hop skip and a jump to crazytown here, kids.

After I watched Kevin be creepy for two hours, I got up, turned on all the lights in the house, and decided I needed a project to keep me busy until dawn. So I started this blog. As with everything I start – whether it’s a sewing project, a low-carb plan, a relationship – I threw myself in with both feet first, not looking where I was going, smug that I’d found the One Thing To Make Life Complete. In terms of this blog, that meant posting six times in an hour with my hand hovering over the “share on Facebook then email all your friends about it then text them to see if they got your email” button.

But, I’m a grown up now. I am all too aware that these One Thing To Make Life Completes often turn out to be the opposite. The sewing project ends up in a plastic bag, half-finished. The low-carb plan is abandoned, because, bread. The relationship ends in death threats AND he takes the popcorn machine. So I decided to practice a bit of discipline. I’d only tell people about this blog after 30 posts.

…Then, fine, I got too excited. But 20 is the new 30, right?

So far I’ve told some stories, written some lists, wondered about the truth behind a calendar hunk, reviewed some public toilets in haiku form… so far I’m having a blast and I hope you enjoy it too!