Why a free potato is better than nothing

Firstly, you need to know I LOVE free stuff. I feel like it’s pretty obvious considering what I’ve written in past entries. Mama likes free SWAG. I accept it. I also accept that I reference myself as Mama and free stuff as SWAG.
I won’t lie, when I started this blog I was hoping for free merch. (My young hip sister frequently references merchandise as such, so I’m definitely going to pathetically cling to my youth as long as I can and try to stay relevant with lingo). I follow a lot of fashion and humor blogs and I swear, all of them talk about the free stuff they get on a daily basis. They talk about shows and give-away bags and everything they get for FREE! Trips! Clothes! Hot Sauce!

My greedy little mind went straight to blog + internet = Free stuff! I LOVE FREEEEEEEEEEEEE.


Secondly, my life is not that exciting. I definitely do fun stuff, but if I’m being real – it’s a pretty average day-to-day experience unless we are travelling somewhere new or embarking upon a planned adventure.
I tell you these two things so that you can properly understand how and why my little heart raced when I logged into my e-mail and the following happened.




Yep, some guy from mailaspud.com contacted me to give me a free potato. No, for real. A potato.

And at first, I was REALLY excited. Like, what the heck – Someone is offering me a FREE THING BECAUSE OF MY BLOG. How cool is that?!


But then about two seconds later I was really sad. All I could think of was the cool stuff other people’s blogs were getting and I was being offered a potato.


So I got mopey for a second. A long second. Then i realized I was being a selfish little baby. Lots of blogs don’t even get the offer of a FREE potato! And here I was being ungrateful at the very opportunity.




So then I  figured, what the heck – I wrote Sean back about the now infamous potato. I kind of looked forward to opening my mailbox one day and finding a spud covered in stamps. It would make for a fun follow up piece to this. Then I got the following e-mail.

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I live in Canada.

And suddenly, this potato that I had been apathetic about moments before? I was suddenly crushed I wouldn’t be receiving it!  What a bummer.


So if you live in the USA and read this blog and want to mail a potato to someone for literally NO reason other than to confuse them. Then do it – maybe even tell them that Katelyn from Odd but Nice sent you so that I dunno, one day I get a raisin or something cheaper to mail to Canada.

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Why I am okay with having married my first boyfriend

Please know that I love my husband more than life itself. I feel like before you continue reading, you need to know this fact. I do not regret marrying him and I do not wish I’d dated a million guys before him. But since he was my first boyfriend, my first kiss and my first (and last) husband, sometimes I wish I’d gotten the chance to try out fun stuff like my single friends do now! Mainly, these three.

1. Online Dating Websites

Guys, this was not a huge thing when I was on the dating scene. It was kind of there, but everyone thought that online dating was for a.) Computer nerds or b.) People that wanted to find out your banking information and steal from you.


It wasn’t the giant thing that it is today. Now there is a website for every race, religious affiliation, or weirdly specific interest (look up Purrsonals.com, it exists and if you love cats, it’s the place for you).
2. Speed Dating
This is basically like one big acting audition. I figure, you can go in as any character you want! And then, just when they start to ask questions that could unravel your tenuous story, the timer is up and boom – you’re onto the next person! The more numbers you get, the more believable your character is!




3. Blind Dating

Guys for real. Blind dating stories are the BEEEEEEEEEEST. I kind of sort of went on a blind date ages ago, but we both sort of weren’t on the same page and kind of didn’t know it was a set up and then it was just weird. I googled him and found he had a really extensive amount of angry poetry. But it doesn’t even count!
But I want to go on the worst, most hilariously bad blind date so I had a hilarious blind date story to tell at cocktail parties. Right now, it kind of just goes like this.


It’s a buzz kill for funny stories.

I thought it would be fun to put an ad up on Plenty of Fish (just to see how many messages I got). And because I share everything with him, I ran it by my husband first to see if he was cool with it. However (after laughing aloud for a full minute), he was a bit confused as to why I would want to do such a thing.








And its moments like this that I’m really okay with the fact that I married my first boyfriend.

Why I cannot accept that everyone doesn’t love me (Greenland, I’m looking at you!)

Guys, Odd but Nice has reached over 56,000 views! This is really exciting because it means that a lot of people are a.) true blue fans who have been here since day one and b.) there are a bunch of new people enjoying the horror that is my life! Both please me immensely!
And as I was observing this, I found a cool new tool on word press that lets me see how many views I get on what topic and very neat – a function that shows me which parts of the country are viewing Odd but nice and how much!

Turns out I have a fairly large following; Canada, USA, United Kingdom, India, Australia, Philippines , Malaysia, South Africa, Kenya, Singapore, Germany, and SO many others! Those are just the first eleven on the list (in order of most views).
When I saw this, I nearly fell over. I was SO excited because that seemed like just the COOLEST thing ever!


But something nagged me. While there were a few white spaces there was one huge, looming white space. No views. Mocking me on its map.

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Yep. Greenland. Greenland hates me.

And instead of just being happy at all the places that WERE fans of Odd but Nice, all I could focus on was that horrible blank space that clearly said; “NO ONE LIKES YOU HERE”. My husband came over to support me but all I could do was stew.


So then I would lie in bed, wondering what it was that was obviously repelling Greenland. Because I couldn’t be happy that a TON of other amazing countries were viewing my blog!


So what’s up Greenland? Why do you hate my humor? Why have you not even TRIED to enjoy my website? Okay okay, you’re literally one of the least densely populated country in the world – but dude, people from the CAMEN ISLANDS ARE STILL LOOKING AT ODD BUT NICE! And they are small too!
But perhaps it’s because I’m not catering enough to the Greenland crowd. Perhaps our cultures are just too different? Well, let’s look at some similarities that may draw you to my delightful Canadian part of the internet.

#1 – Color scheme


How great is that? Go team Red & White!

#2 – According to Wikipedia: “Greenland has been inhabited off and on for at least the last 4,500 years by Arctic peoples whose forebears migrated there from what is now Canada.”
So technically you’re pretty Canadian. That should make you love me anyway. Obligatory fellow Canadian love.
#3. Here are two photos.


One is from Greenland. The other is from Canada. Be real – if you weren’t from either place, wouldn’t you say the two are EXTREMELY SIMILAR?! (left – Greenland, right – Canada)

#4. Heeey, what is on your coat of arms? A POLAR BEAR?


Guess what? We have a bunch of polar bears in Canada! Okay, not where I live specifically, but for real – Manitoba, Labrador…
So Greenland, be real.


I’ve given you a bunch of really good reasons to love my blog… Or I’ve come off as needy.


Thank you. Or as they say in Greenland: “Tak”!

Why I hate it when my husband goes on Business Trips

Okay, so my amazing husband is currently in Boston on business. He is gone for literally LESS than 72 hours. As of right now, he has been gone for 19 hours. I’ll be honest. I hate it when he goes on business trips. I always picture that I’ll have this fun-filled bachelorette-type time to get a manicure, drink long islands with my girlfriends and catch up on my favorite Gilmore Girl Episodes. Only one of those things ever comes true and it’s because I don’t have to move off my couch.
When in truth, the horror begins a few days before I know he has to go. I insist on spending every waking moment hanging out, trying to get in all the fun couple time we can before he goes. I have no idea why I do this. We literally hang out ALL the time anyway.


So then I have to drive him to the airport (this time was at 5:00 AM! YES IN THE MORNING) and I always imagine it’s going to be this beautiful, teary goodbye.


But usually its him hurriedly kissing me because he’s worried he’ll miss his flight because he loves sleeping as long as he can.
Then usually about 20 minutes after I have driven away from the airport, I feel the first pangs of sadness settle over me. My best buddy is not here. I find myself overwhelmed with sorrow and I have to pull my car over so I can make a rambling, incoherent message on his answering machine that he probably won’t check until he gets back home. It’s usually interspersed with moments of me gulping and trying to hold back tears. Please note: Elapsed time since his departure? 20 minutes.


Then I get sick to my stomach as I wait for a message from him to confirm that he’s reached his destination safely. This can take several hours. Several excruciating hours. In these hours, I often find myself eating bad food and watching Netflix.In fact, the last time he was gone and I went through the drive through, the kind man asked me how I was doing and I burst out with how sad I was that my husband was away on business. I would like to note that McDonalds employees are surprisingly kind and patient in listening to rambling stories.


Then suddenly, like a ray of sunshine I get an e-mail on my phone to say he has landed A-OK! I feel momentary joy! Yay! He’s safe! I can stop being worried!


It takes about an hour before the despair overtakes me. But I usually have to work so for a couple hours I am distracted from this. But when I get home to my empty condo (aside from our cat) all I can think is, “he’s not here.” and drag myself dejectedly from room to room. I promise myself I won’t check the e-mail for more messages because hello, he is on business and cannot write to me all day. Even though I logically know this, I am still sad when I see 0 new messages from him.


This is about the time I notice the cat’s baleful glances at me. I know exactly what he is thinking.


The worst is yet to come. After staving off sleep as much as I can, I finally collapse into our King Sized Bed which feels like an icy tundra when I’m lying there by myself.


And when I feel like I may just be drifting off to sleep, I hear a strange CREAK noise from somewhere within my home.


My sleep does not go well the entire time he is gone. I usually end up spending the night in my mom’s guestroom, because I’m almost 30 and apparently ghosts are a genuine concern for me.

Undoubtedly my dear husband will Skype me as soon as he is able to and the time difference allows. And after the initial, “What is the hotel like?” inquiry, the conversation undoubtedly goes like this.


Yes. So husband, I hope Boston is really awesome but I REALLY MISS YOU DESPITE MY CAVALIER SKYPE ATTITUDE.

PSA: I’m not always this pathetic and needy, I SWEAR. Just when he goes on business trips.

Why I hate public Transit

This short little tale was inspired when talking to someone at a party about bad experiences on public transit. For the most part, my experiences have been fairly fine. Commuting to graduate school (for a whole month) was fairly seamless. My really bad experiences seem to stem from when I was a teenager and a.) Completely unaware of how the real world worked and b.) Way too scared to stick up for myself.

One time my friend and I were coming home from some get together and took the Sky Train. A young man suddenly hurtled himself and his bike into the sky train as several other men ran behind him screaming and uttering threats. He narrowly managed to get in the sky train, the doors closed behind him and the men were trapped, screaming on the other side: “WE’RE COMING FOR YOU AT THE NEXT STOP!” and banging on the glass. This was one of my first forays into public transit.

The story that I will share with you today however takes place on a bus, which somehow is worse to me than the Sky Train because people are just about ten times more miserable. My friend (who was very transit savvy) had suggested shopping downtown. Being the naive teen that I was, this was a unique experience – I never shopped outside my small town. This was County Mouse heading to the Big City as far as I was concerned.


A few stops in however, there was a bang at the side of the bus. A short, fat, middle aged man was banging on the doors demanding to be let in. He boarded and I do not remember him paying a fare.


He stank to high heaven of two smells that make me gag 1.) old alcohol and 2.) Putrid B.O. He was sweaty, greasy and wobbling back and forth on his feet. His rambunctious actions already had me uncomfortable around him. As a teenager I was mortified by anything that drew unnecessary attention that I wasn’t prepared for.

Suddenly I felt his bleary eyes on us. If he’d been quiet or steadier on his feet, I never would have noticed or glanced at him. As it was, I had and like a stinky moth to an unwilling flame, I had been caught in the crosshairs and I was suddenly a target.


I remember my stomach dropping. I think we were fourteen at the time, so the creep factor on this whole exchange was pretty high. Like, off the charts. We didn’t say anything back to him. My friend and I continued our conversation as normal trying not to engage this bizarre man.

The bus lurched on its route and every time it gave a sputtering stop, the Drunk Man would stumble closer and closer to us. I tried to use the hand bar as some sort of makeshift shield which would have worked if I were the width of a pole. Spoiler: I am not.


Closer and closer this stinky guy got.



Suddenly and without warning the bus lurched and the man, seizing this opportunity suddenly leaned forward and with dramatic flair LICKED MY HAND.


Yes, the hand that was wrapped around the disgusting dirty pole. HE LICKED IT. Like, not a quick lap. He fully got his ENTIRE TONGUE around my hand. WTF IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE!

I remember the moment of horror. The shrill realization that my rights had been violated. But I was so afraid to talk to people. I was afraid of causing trouble. I remember my eyes welled up with tears and I rushed off the bus to the nearest bathroom, scrubbing my hand over and over while my friend acted like it was no big deal. She’d seen worse.

I hadn’t.

I like to think that these horrible experiences over the years have truly shaped me into the person that I am today. Now when someone steps out, I am first to tell them (Firmly but politely). I have more self confidence, I know that I am valuable and I KNOW that no one has to right to touch me without my permission.

So to all you shy girls (and guys) out there that think they can’t say anything because they don’t want to cause trouble or rock the boat- YOUR BODY, YOUR RULES. That’s just that way it is. If someone is creeping you out, if someone is touching you or talking to you and you don’t like it, say something. Be safe, but stand true to yourself. You are a valuable, amazing person; remember that.

Trust me, if you do that – the odds of you being licked on a bus are far less.

Why I no longer take my cat to the vet

Okay, so you need to know a few things about me. One: I am a highly emotional person (shocking, I know). So when I think stuff is hilarious, I will laugh with all my might. However, when things are sad I will be downright devastated.
This particular devastation happened last week. It was time for Gizmo’s yearly check-ups. The poor guy hates the vet. I pulled out his carrier and like a doomed POW, he just walked into the carrier with this defeated stride. I tried to make it up to him by plying him with treats in his carrier, which he did not indulge in. I tried being upbeat and talking the entire walk from my condo to the car. When we started driving, I tried to keep my upbeat attitude.


Then he mewed. This sad, baleful sorrowful sound that clearly said, “Mommy, why are you doing this to me? Don’t you love me?”
And I lost it.



We hadn’t even got the vet yet and I already had tears.
So we finally get in and go into the examination room. The first thing to do is get Gizmo out of the carrier which is done by tipping the carrier parallel with the table and shaking… kind of like when you’re trying to get ketchup out of the bottle.
When he’s finally out, shaking and making me feel like a villain, we place him on the scale to get weighed. This is when things turned dark.



I felt indignant.



Someone later told me that this was the equivalent of someone who is supposed to weigh 120 weighing closer to 150. I was not aware of this at the time and thought the vet was being unfair… but I also thought that this definitely confirmed my fears that I would make a TERRIBLE mother in the future.

I also thought his logic for getting Gizmo to eat less through the day was…odd.




By the time the actual shot came around, Gizmo had pressed his entire body against my chest, hiding under my hair and trying in vain to get me to protect him. I have never felt like more of a monster. So when the vet came back to the exam room with the needle, this is what he was greeted with.


With what could only be a disgusted shaking of the head and firm “no” he quickly gave Gizmo his shot and ushered us out into the foyer, glad he wouldn’t have to see me for another year at least.

When I told my husband of the day’s events, trying to choke back tears, I was greeted with a sigh, a bemused “only you, Katelyn” and:


He’s the best.

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Why Being Married to Me is Sometimes the Worst

My husband puts up with a lot. And I mean, a LOT. At bedtime for some reason, I turn into a giggly, curious schoolchild that needs to know answers to questions and likes to ask my husband puns as he tries to read his latest boring adventure novel.

The following is a very accurate portrayal of five minutes before we are going to sleep when my Husband is about to fall asleeo and the light on his nighttable is still on. To me Light On = Conversation Time.





Usually this is the point in the “Discussion” that he chooses to kiss me goodnight and turn off the lamp.