Why you shouldn’t bury your change

I have always loved getting free stuff. I got a free slurpee cup from 7-11 once and could not stop talking about it for months afterwards. Free stuff is one of the best things in the world – it’s the universe smiling upon you.
But you know what’s even better when you’re a kid? Buying stuff yourself. The FREEDOM of saying, “I want that, here is some shiny crap in return.”
You get that money in your hot little hands and you can buy WHATEVER you want! Candy? Check! Toys? Check! When I found a five dollar bill on vacation once, I nearly lost it in excitement. I literally RAN over to the “Sugar Shack” as it was known and bought a boatload of candy (or what constituted a boatload when I was younger) to share with my brothers.
I was a HERO.
But, at the tender age of nine, I had decided that money was what made this world go around. Money was where it was at. And at nine, I had none. My family didn’t do allowance, you did what mom and dad asked you to and once in a while unrelated to what chores you did, sometimes they bought you stuff. It was a good deal and I never remember going without.
But one day, sitting by my doll house I distinctly remember wanting a candy and feeling powerless because, well, they cost money. I knew my Mom and Dad wouldn’t fund this sugar-laden treat more than once a month. But it would seem, fate intervened.
I came downstairs to grab a glass of water when I heard my Mom moving around in the kitchen and the unmistakable sound of coins. COINS = MONEY! I peered around the corner to see Mom tossing in her loose change into this small, black, cardboard tube we stuck on the lower shelf of our kitchen.

I always just thought it was decoration. When she vacated the kitchen, I rushed over to said tube and saw to my surprise and delight that it was FILLED with change! Shiny quarters, dimes and nickels – delightfully copper colored pennies. All I could see when I looked into that thing was: CANDY.

Specifically, the penny candy you got at “Macs” which if you spell it backwards is Scam. Is this a coincidence? I do not think so. Anyway, Macs = penny candy. Which in no world cost a penny, everything was at least a nickel. The really good stuff was a dime. And the rich stuff was a quarter each. When I looked into that tube, all I saw was all the penny candy I could eat and more!

I want to tell you that I had a crisis of conscience. I want to tell you that an angel and a devil sat on each of my shoulders and I weighed the decision thoroughly before eventually deciding to do the right thing.
But if I had, let’s face it, this blog wouldn’t exist.
The moment I knew my Mom had gone into the backyard, I rushed over to the tube and stuck my greedy hand into it. Even as a child I knew that I couldn’t steal all this money at once. I had to be crafty. I had to bide my time. (This is how I know it was devious. The forethought).So over a course of a month, I took small handfuls of change from that tube, stole away to the front yard of my house and buried it in a hole beside my favorite tree. Seriously, I actually DID that.




Then I would sit in my room, pretending to play Barbie’s with my giant dollhouse and secretly just scheme on the next time I would steal from the tube. Would it be Wednesday? No, I would wait until Mom went to mow the lawn. Dad would be at work. It was perfect. Then I would smile a Grinch-like smile and wait until my next covert operation.

I remember the thrill of taking this money. I remember the thrum of my heart in my chest as I scrambled with those coins (always replacing the lid so it didn’t look suspicious) and running to the front yard to bury my treasure.


Now, you’re thinking:
Hey Katelyn, wouldn’t your Mom find it suspicious when you came home with all this candy?”
I had that under control. You see, my brother Matt loved pirates. So much that my Dad made him a pirate ship in a tree. Yes, my parents rocked. And Matt was always going on about pirate treasure. BURIED pirate treasure. I had the scheme all hatched – I would innocently play in the front yard (with my Mom watching of course) and pretend to be playing pirates. I would then unearth this treasure and rush to Macs to buy candy. It was the perfect crime.


Except, you know, it wasn’t…
I went to the tube one afternoon, one of my last planned heists. And just before I could stick a hand into the tube, my Mom and my littlest brother Jon rushed into the room holding a plastic bag full of change.




Yep. My Mom knew all along. She’d watched me over the weeks rushing off, burying the treasure. She saw it all. And she made her move KNOWING that there was no way I could claim the money as my own. I’ll never forget that feeling of being super furious at the situation but feeling utterly powerless because I knew I was in the wrong.



And so yes, I conceded defeat. Either I had to admit the money was STOLEN and get no treats PLUS get grounded and make my brother really sad. Or I could just pretend like my brother found buried treasure and let it go and accept my fate. My Mom was sure to dole out the appropriate punishment.


My mom knew the devastation of the event had hit me at my core. She didn’t even have to move the black tube from its shelf. It sat there until the day we moved from that house and I never touched it again.
Moral of the story: Don’t steal, bury your treasure and think you can unearth it a while later pretending its buried treasure. Someone will always beat you to it.
Oh, and also, just don’t steal.

Why the Lunch Police ruined my life

I love lunch. Its actually my favorite meal of the day if I had to choose one. However when I was around eight, I had much better things to do during lunch hour than actually eat. You see, I was a very social creature, and I LOVED school. To be fair, I think I was a nerd; I just wasn’t aware of it.


So much that I didn’t want to waste a minute of it, sitting and eating. My friends and I were always coming up with new, usually inappropriate, things to do during our lunch hour. And usually it seemed there simply was not enough time to eat AND play. So I chose play. Every single time.



Unfortunately, I was not the brightest bulb long term. I just kept bringing my mostly uneaten lunch home day after day.  And my Mom kept seeing it, day after day.



And to my mom’s credit, she tried the old fashioned way of trying to get to me.


However, it fell on deaf ears. Cool stuff happened at school and I was not going to miss out on it. Until one day, I think my Mom lost it.


Seeing that guilt wouldn’t work, my poor mother realized she would have to approach this from another perspective. And then my Mom got a horrible idea. An evil idea. My Mom got a horrible, evil, creative idea.



Yes. My mom told me about the Lunch Police. She told me that a group of people were dedicated to seeing who ate their lunch and reporting back to parents. As my father was a Police Officer – my imagination dreamed up something exactly like this:


If you’re wondering why I grew up to be a neurotic mess – its &*@! like this, people. So for days after, I freaked out. I was convinced these lunch police were around every corner watching me like a hawk. My lunches often went like this.



Then I suppose I got suspicious. I never saw these lunch police folk.

I hadn’t seen any. And they were throwing a wrench into my social life. So I threw caution to the wind and said, forget it. I did what I wanted.




Surely no one saw.



But someone did.


And so I disposed of the evidence. I played it off like nothing happened. I came home with an empty lunch box and went to do my thing but I was stopped upon my arrival at home.



That’s when the Lunch Police became real.

 So until the age of 11, I believed in them. Yep. I believed in the Lunch Police. Oh, I still complained about lunch every now and then, I threw away the odd apple. But there would be my mom, telling me the Lunch Police saw and giving me hard evidence.They were nice enough to inform my mom when I did eat my lunch. I think that’s what sealed it. 



It was frightening. My only solace came in the form of trading. If I wanted to trade something, I had to do it like I was in prison. Covertly, quietly and quickly. I was horrified that every minute was being monitored.


 Little did my mother know that her lies would come crashing down around her.

 So what you should know is that I cannot draw bikes in ms paint. I just can’t. What you should also know is that when I was eleven years old I was obsessed with bike riding. I loved my bike. I also abided by the laws of the road and wore a helmet. But because I was me, it was huge and neon green. I was a spectacle.


 I was told I was not allowed to ride as far as the bowling alley in town. It was too far; traffic too fast. Sometimes I listened to this. But sometimes the wind dictated the day and I would find myself cycling down there at full speed.

 On this particular day, Mrs. R – owner of the Subway NEXT to the bowling alley waved to me.


I felt it courteous to wave back as I continued on my sojourn. I was not prepared for what awaited me on my return.





It had finally crystallized. How could the Lunch Police be monitoring my bike ride? Simple. Mrs. R phoned and told her. How was my Mom finding out when I didn’t eat? My teachers were ratting on me every day my Mom came to pick me up from school!


My mother seemed to mull this over. Maybe she was worried her daughter would live her life believing in the Lunch Police if she didn’t admit. Maybe she was sick of the charade with me. Maybe, just maybe, she regretted telling me about the lunch police.




And because I was a horrible sell-out that loved being in on something that the adults were, this was my immediate response:


And thus, the Lunch Police saga came to an end. Why, you ask? Because if I am anything, I am horrible at keeping secrets.

Why I am odd but Nice Part 1

So, let me start out this posting with: I am SO sorry I’ve not been updating more often! I swear I am trying harder to keep on track with it! I am not abandoning this beautiful but awkward blog I have created. Sometimes the stories just don’t come as quick.

Secondly, can I just say I LOVE everyone who comments? I mean, I still love those of you who support and view the blog and don’t  comment, but I especially love those who take the time out to comment – especially new people who I don’t even know in real life!

Anyway – as you know, I always get sick. I blame this on the fact that I am going through slurpee withdrawal. That and I have the immune system of an 80 year old woman.  But I digress. As I was laying in bed last night with a fever of 102, I won’t lie… I think in my over dramatic state (that I never get into normally… *shifty eyes*) I thought I was going to die. Then I thought of all the stupid stuff I had yet to share on my blog and thought…no, this cannot be the end.

So after my Husband came home from work, forced me to eat soup and took care of me my fever came down to a respectable 99 and I decided to keep my deathbed promise and return to my blogging more regularly. Interesting to note: I also had THREE bottles of pop in my fridge. Random ones I never get, like Diet Pepsi. My husband didn’t buy them. And I didn’t remember purchasing them.  How then? Turns out in my fevered state  I wandered through Safeway like a wayward street urchin wearing the following outfit grabbing crap literally left right and center.

When I finally found my receipt days later my list comprised of the following:

*  THREE bottles of Pop that I don’t drink

*  Cough medicine (Yay! Go semi-coherent Katelyn!)

* A giant bag of potato chips (that I had to throw away because I don’t trust myself and chips)

* A GIANT box of cookies that I think I feverishly bought because I know my husband likes cookies?

*  Shampoo and Conditioner; a brand I never use

* Pop tarts

So I think a part of me was like: “Woah, I really need cough medicine” and the other part of me was like “Bitch, you’re gonna die – you better live it up while you can.”

I’m getting away from my point. My point was, as I was laying there in bed I was thinking of all the funny crap that makes me odd but nice. Hey, I know it’s self centered but guess what? It’s my blog. You can write your own blog about what makes you awesome. Go ahead. I’ll read it. I’m supportive.

Anyway, without further ado – here are some glimpses into what makes me me….  And if you don’t mind, I’d love to know what makes YOU odd but nice. If your comment is randomly picked, you will be getting a surprise in the mail!

What makes me Odd but Nice

The fact that I KNOW when my cat is staring at something out of the blue for a REALLY long time, he’s obviously communicating with the dead.

That when I took off my wedding dress on my wedding night, underneath was a HORRIBLE black skirt that I’d forgotten to change out of when we put my wedding dress on. Yep. I walked around in that ALL night.

That this is what happens EVERY SINGLE TIME I hear ‘The Cat’s in the Cradle’ on the radio.

That when I was working in a factory type setting, I would practice putting together pieces blind so that if there was a disaster, I would still be able to work.

I’ve seen the Odd, you’re thinking. But what makes me nice, do you ask?

How about having this question about a billion times with my brother Matt and not murdering him?

Why I wish every day was my birthday.

So, I realized today that along with my FAVORITE holiday Halloween, my birthday is also coming up! (November 30th, mark it in your calendars.) And it made me recall all the awesome things about birthdays.  And of course, as soon as I thought of them, I had to draw them in MS paint. This is my life now.

And so, without further ado –  here is my list of reasons why I wish every day was my birthday.

Also – just a reminder about the awesome advertising contest! I’m curious – What would you like to see as a prize for the Great Odd but Nice Advertising Contest?




When I wanted to be a vampire bunny.

Hey, I have been doing as many updates as possible for the last bit because I am going away on vacation on Friday and will not return until the following Saturday so there will be no updates. BECAUSE I’LL BE ON VACATION. Sweet, sweet bliss. I am going to read until I get sick of- okay, that’s not possible. But it’s going to be a welcome reprieve!

But, on with the story.

Okay, I went through a lot of weird phases as a kid. Wanting to be a mermaid, a gargoyle (my dad made me wings and…well, that’s another story) and a myriad of other things. For a while, I was pretty sure I was going to be a wizard for a career.  But one that I hold near to dear as a coming of age tale, is when I went through the stage of wanting to be a vampire bunny named Bunnicula.

It all started at the tender age of five, when my Dad brought home a book for me called Bunnicula. If you haven’t read it, DO IT. Even though it’s a kid’s book, it’s amazing. Even the movie is amazing, even if it deviates from the book. Just… love it.

I remember be rapt at the story, thinking how neat it would be to be such a sly, scary creature.

And so what 5-year-old wants to be their boring old 5-year-old self? I sure didn’t! And the more I wanted to be a vampire bunny, the more it seemed possible. Why, I loved scaring people! Until one day….

(Let’s just put aside the fact that I was a human and obviously not a bunny.)

Other creatures were afraid of Bunnicula because they feared his vampire-ous rage. I needed a new angle. Forget the veggies, I needed something more.

After no victims and no other success, I found my niche. A coffin!

(To be fair, I had snuck down to the party when my parents weren’t looking and hid in the box until the party moved to the room I was in. This was exciting for me. And I giggled the entire time watching stuff go on. Until that d-word drunkenly picked me up.)

Now, if only I could find a cardboard box big enough…

Why I suck at being a friend/keeping in touch.

Okay, reason I am updating twice in a day is because a.) I had the cartoons all finished a week ago b.) I didn’t want to end on the Biff Loman blog and c.) Tomorrow is tech-less Sunday. Which means no internet, no television and no high tech phone (the latter is for my Husband.)

Lots of people think I’m a snob. They think this because I either don’t always show up for events, never talk on the phone and am choosy with who I wish to spend my time with that I am a jerk-face who thinks she is better than everyone else. This is not the case.

You see… I’m just really shitty at keeping in touch and in general, being a good friend.

It’s not that I don’t care so much as I am just bad at being a good friend because I am usually excited or distracted by something else.

(Note: All the above scenarios ACTUALLY happened. I am just that big a forgetful jerk.)

It goes back and forth between the two extremes for a while.

(Above throw up scenario actually happend at a bookstore in Portland. You may know if it: Powell’s Books = Heaven.)

And so in closing, just know that if you adopt me as a friend… you are adopting a very unstable individual who needs lot of patience and love… and books.

You have been warned.

Why I feel like Biff Loman.

Warning: This is a self-reflective post. Some parts may be funny, but you’re mostly going to be horrified.

If you’re not familiar with Biff Loman, I am sad. Because it means you’ve never seen or read “Death of a Salesman”. Which is actually pretty superb. It’s up there with “Who’s afraid of Virginia Wolff?” Seriously well written stuff.

Back to Biff. Biff is a guy who had real potential in highschool – his parents really thought he was going to go somewhere even though they were stupid enough to name him Biff. But he was really bad at Math and flunked it his senior year so he couldn’t go on to university on his football scholarship. Then he could have done summer school but he saw his dad being a man-whore and things went down the drain.

I had great potential in highschool, even though I was lousy at doing schoolwork, and I always struggled with Math. Thankfully no summer school and no philandering father!  But people thought I would be going somewhere, make my mark on the world…. It has yet to happen. Life is summed up fairly well in this chart.

Life was amazing from ages 1 – 12. Then there was highschool which took a dive. Then from University my life was grand again… and then the real world in which I never got into the grad school I wanted.

But why, you ask?

You see, this is my pie chart. It is fairly straight forward.

I was always taught that I was talented and had real skill and so when I got into the real world and things didn’t go my way because I never had any of these alleged skills because I was brought up in a generation of people telling children all over the world that their were special and that they had talents like none other…. I was shocked. And confused. And angry And sad. And sarcastic.

I had always believed that I could do anything. Be anything. This was reflected in my job desires which ranged from heroic and kind to…weird.

In the end, the one career that had always stayed with me since my infancy was writing. I wanted to be a famous author. Of what? I hadn’t decided. Part of me wanted to do kid’s books, another wanted to write novels.

But in the end… I made a blog.

Sticking to your guns – hair wise.

I am not a fan of getting haircuts. I don’t enjoy putting my hair into another person’s hands.  But I do like it when someone brushes my hair. I know that’s weird, but it’s like the poor man’s head massage.

And some days I look like this:

So it’s rather imperative that I get a haircut once in a while.

And one day, feeling saucy, I had brought a picture of what I deemed to be more risky bangs than usual to the Hair Salon (aka Super Cuts). I looked forward to getting my usual hair lady and sat in the waiting area patiently.

As I sat however, I viewed something rather unsettling.

As you can assume, I was silently praying to get my usual hair lady.

I’m one of those people that has a real issue with confrontation sometimes in certain places. I rarely complain in restaurants for the same reason I don’t complain in hair salons- your fate is in their hands. And so I slowly went to the chair as a woman condemned.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes.  And so he consulted another hairdresser, one that knew me, and silently pleaded the case that my hair would look ridiculous.


And so he begrudgingly began to cut my hair, a scowl on his face.  He was convinced my hair would look ridiculous and went to great lengths to tell me this as he cut.


And finally, the big reveal…..

Even the hairdresser had to admit that it looked good. So it just goes to show you – if you believe in something, don’t let anyone hold you back! (Don’t you love how I try to seem like I get these nuggets of wisdom out of awkward situations that will completely change your life?)

Also, hair grows back – so get some wicked haircuts!

When wedding dresses are inappropriate.

Okay, let me just state, I love my wedding dress.

I love wedding dresses in general. Even though I’m already married, I still love planning weddings and I LOVE looking at the dresses.  I’m sort of obsessed.

Truthfully, I sort of want to wear it everywhere. Getting mail. Going shopping. But I know this is inappropriate….but it didn’t stop me from thinking of several scenario’s where wearing a wedding dress would be inappropriate.

Just in case you were wanting to wear yours to any of these places.

Note: Would probably get you OUT of jury duty.