Nine years after losing a friendship of twenty-five years, I received two unexpected pieces of my former best friend’s life in the mail: a bracelet I’d given her on her wedding day and a necklace containing some of her ashes. Somehow, those small keepsakes helped me find something I’d been searching for all those years. Closure.
Every year, the ants invade our kitchen, and the Husband Dude goes into full Rambo mode. This year, he decided to wage war on the wasps, too. Unfortunately, his battle strategy may have involved driving the enemy directly into our living room.
KISS brought The Husband Dude and me together, so when the band announced yet another farewell tour, we packed up The Kid and headed to Oklahoma City. Between the crowds, overpriced merchandise, and a freezing drive home, it was a reminder that some things change with age, but rock and roll, family, and a good love story never get old.
Marie Kondo says we should keep only the things that spark joy. Unfortunately, I live with two aspiring hoarders, and my cleaning methods involve stealth missions, ninja attacks, and occasionally stuffing everything into a closet before company arrives. Welcome to Kleaning With Kat: The Art of the Fail.
When a friendship of twenty-five years ends, there’s no funeral, no condolences, and often no one willing to listen. Nine years after losing someone I once considered a sister, her death forced me to confront the grief I’d carried in silence and the apology I knew I would never receive.
I’m no domestic goddess. The Husband Dude does the grocery shopping and occasionally brings home enough mayonnaise to feed a small army. I can’t sew, and my idea of hemming pants involves tape. But one Homecoming dance reminded me that being a good mother has very little to do with being a perfect homemaker.
After seventeen years at Satan’s Butthole, I deserved more than a quiet exit. I deserved a red carpet, an Academy Award, and a microphone so I could properly thank the bosses, the metrics geniuses, and everyone else who helped make my resignation possible.
We survived metal playground slides, cars without seat belts, toys that could burn down the house, and childhood games that practically qualified as contact sports. So why am I terrified of my granddaughters’ trampoline? Apparently, growing up in the seventies left me with a few scars and a healthy appreciation for liability insurance.
For my forty-seventh birthday, The Husband Dude planned a surprise involving a blindfold, a mysterious dress code, and a serious case of motion sickness. What followed was a night of casino shenanigans, a little marital jealousy, and a concert that made getting older seem a whole lot less depressing.
My hysterectomy involved a hospital fire alarm, an entirely unnecessary pregnancy test, and a robot named Da Vinci. Meanwhile, The Husband Dude had questions, The Kid wanted no part of the conversation, and I was just hoping nobody accidentally gave me a new hip.
After forty-seven years of service, my lady parts were called in for their final performance evaluations. The uterus had some explaining to do, the cervix had a questionable work history, and the ovaries thought they were indispensable. Unfortunately for them, management had already made its decision.
Surviving a family trip to the water park requires the perfect swimsuit, industrial-strength sunscreen, and the ability to claim a lounge chair before twenty other people get there first. Naturally, I also end up guarding everybody’s stuff while trying not to become the grouchy old lady yelling at teenagers.