Kate's Reflections of the Day

My obnoxious commentary on pop culture, life in Philly and people who work at malls.

Monday, June 26, 2006



In the past month, I have become a one-man HR department at our public relations agency -- much like my hero Toby, the HR manager from NBC's "The Office." Stay tuned for my tales -- including the woman who wrote to tell me that "her mussels" were sore from a car accident and the woman who asked me if she should follow the directions on our company website to get to our office building for her interview.

I don't make this shit up, either.

Saturday, May 27, 2006


OK. My girl Heather Leo (www.heatherleo.com) tells me that Taylor Hicks looks like "the lovechild of George Clooney and an owl."

Why the woman doesn't have her own late night show baffles me.

If I may Heather, I'd suggest that a source close to the George Clooney camp confirms the report and adds that it was none other than X the Owl from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Clooney only does celebri-owls.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

"JOY .... AND PAIN."


Oh ye wise sages Rob Base and D.J. EZ Rock, you knew what you were talking about.

The JOY since I last blogged? The birth of my second little baby girl, Quinn. She's delicious and healthy and happy and an absolute miracle.

The PAIN since I last blogged? The fact that Taylor Hicks (a.k.a. the next national spokesperson for Tourette's Syndrome whether or not he's a confirmed sufferer) is all over the television, and all my honey gets is a lame-ass offer from Fuel. It's been weeks, people, and I'm still not over the Dissing of Daughtry. Suffice it to say, I won't be buying a "Soul Patrol" shirt on eBay like the rest of you. I puke at the notion.

I just had a baby for Christ's sake. I'm not sleeping. I'm covered in spit up, boogies and Goldfish crackers for 17 hours a day. I have a job at a very fun PR firm to get back to. I have friends that I'm way behind on connecting with. And all I can do (besides feeding my newborn and preventing the stealth attack tactics of her 18-month-old sister) is think about Daughtry (and McDreamy, Jim Halpert finally kissing Pam Beasley, and what prescription pills David Chase was on between 2003 and 2006, but hey, they're different shows).

Fuel? Chris, in the words of master poets Hall & Oates, say it isn't so. That's all your sexiness commands? When you start with Fuel, isn't Warrant or Hootie or RATT the next to come knockin'? Just because you also got beat by Elliott "Snaggletooth" Yamin doesn't mean you have to trade in your self-esteem, dude!

Honey, you got me through pregnancy. Call it too much information, hormones or a deadly cocktail of the two, but every time you got on stage ... I wanted you to IMMEDIATELY remove your shirt and, oddly enough, your shoes. Visions of you in those jeans and the belt buckle danced in my head.

You also have the "Mel Gibson effect," i.e. the fact that you're married with children is H-O-T.

May you avoid ANYTHING that resembles the career or style of Bo Bice. I can't wait until we meet again, my sweet. This time, I won't be pregnant. (Unless, of course, my plan with Vince Vaughn gets going).

Thursday, April 06, 2006



Last night, she took one for the phat girls .... right between the eyes.

Mandisa, Mandisa, Mandisa. MAN-DIVA.

You rock my world. You really do.

You represented for the thick thighs, the big arms and the double chins. You shook it like a salt shaker AND a Polaroid picture. You brought it down for Big and Brown.

But then, you made a critical error. You dared to disprove the tried and true "By God, dress for your body type" theorem. And you did so on voting night. ABORT PLAN! I REPEAT, ABORT!

Then, to pour vinegar, salt and some Lipton onion mix into the gaping wound, you show up on results night looking like a fox. Downright vixen-esque. Like a juicy piece of red velvet cake.

And this morning, Bucky Covington is not only thanking God for NASCAR, Wal-Mart rollbacks, the new Rascal Flatts CD and Banquet frozen dinners, but he's also thanking God for horizontal stripes and an A-line cut.

May you rest in peace -- and dark hues. See you in Dreamgirls.

I'll miss you and mourn for you -- all the while painfully watching Ace Young do his best with Dirty Dancing's "Hungry Eyes."

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Usually on Thursday nights, I'm still on the floor in hysterics after watching the best show to ever be on television, The Office. Last week, I remember vividly hitting the carpet when Michael Scott rubbed his hands in anticipation of a "New York slice" of pizza and walked confidently into a Sbarro in Times Square. The show is freakin' genius.

What's not so genius? The fact that instead of seeing Phyllis tonight creating her 80th Excel spreadsheet while smiling sheepishly about her boyfriend from Vance Refrigeraton, I'm sentenced to more Torino and (gasp) Johnny Freakin' "I'm so not your mainstream figure skater because I'm like a shot of whiskey and a vile of heroin mixed together" Weir. Note to Johnny: the second you have to say you're not mainstream out loud, you're mainstream. You triple lutzing toolshed.

Way to go, Torino. I loved the Opening Ceremonies and how everyone randomly paraded in to bad 70s and 80s music. Is that what's hot in Northern Italy? "And now, Estonia!" (background music -- We Built This City). "Next, the wonderful nation of Finland!" (cue Hall and Oates' Maneater).

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Why did Robert Palmer have to die? WHY?

Wouldn't have it been slightly more entertaning for him to come in from stage left during tonight's State of the Union, backed by Condi, Dick and Rumsfeld dressed like vamps, sporting red electric guitars and singing "we're gonna have to face it we're Addicted to Oil."

If he was going to use the addiction theme, he should have started with Lost, American Idol, iPods, McDonalds, the Brangelina scandal ... at least something EVERYONE is addicted to. Something tells me the "addiction to oil" rally call coming from Big Tex of all people didn't resonate so well with the guy from Oregon who drives a Toyota Prius and hates W's guts to begin with. Who you callin' an addict, bi-atch?

My other fave highlight of the evening was Rex, the injured bomb-sniffing dog that W decided needed a Congressional release from his "military contract" (Be All You Can Be, Fido) so that Rex could live full-time with his partner, an Air Force veteran who was injured alongside Rex in Iraq. As much as I feel for an injured soldier and her animal, I must state that I'm so glad that we're prioritizing the Congressional voting schedule these days.

Next hot button item for Capitol Hill? The official establishment of OAA -- Oil Addicts Anonymous.

Chris, an OAA member: "Hi everyone. My name is Chris."

OAA group: "Hi, Chris."

Chris: "I've been driving a Lincoln Navigator for 8 years now. Every time my lease is up, I ... well, I ... I ... this is so hard to talk about ...

OAA group: "Let it out, Chris. Let it out."

Chris: "I ... I RENEW my lease. Oil is my Kryptonite, man. I just can't say no to a 19-gallon tank. Ohhhhh, God, I feel so ... so .... so weak."

OAA group: "Chris, today is the first step in acknowledging your addiction to oil. Good work. Eleven more steps and we'll have you on the road to recovery -- and on a new 10-speed courtesy of OAA's corporate sponsor, Schwinn."

Monday, October 04, 2004

It's been FOREVER since I wrote in my blogger -- too busy being pregnant I guess. However, thanks to pregnancy, I have a new vent to share .... the adventures of childbirth education classes!

Since our hospital is in Center City Philadelphia, I (quite naively I'll admit) thought our class would be a Sesame Street-esque blend of diverse couples. My non-PC husband, however, reminded me that only overly anxious white people with $120 to blow on useless childbirth ed classes actually follow doctor's orders and attend childbirth ed classes. No, I wouldn't be seeing the 14-year-old Moms that I sit with in the waiting room at my OB at this Saturday's How to Have a Baby 101.

The class was 18 couples, most of whom were crunchity, crunch, crunch granola/wheat germ eating Whole Foods shopping yoga-heads, who insisted that they were going natural and squatting in the Downward Dog position with a ballet bar or chair rail to give birth. Something told me I shouldn't mention to them that I actually ate a hot dog while pregnant (a big NO NO) -- and washed it down with two sips of my husband's Miller Lite at the Phillies game.

I, on the otherhand, made no apologies for my theory that epidurals are manna from heaven and meant to be taken -- and taken as early as humanly possible. I was being judged all day for my admission at the beginning of the class that I was considering an epidural. I just kept muttering to myself -- "One of you bitches needs to call me when you're chanting, looking out of your third eye and sporting a coochie that's 9 centimeters dilated. Let me know how that's going without pain medication so I can adjust my plans -- but something tells me you'll be the one adjusting your plans -- not to mention your yoga position."

There was the couple with the twins, who would be "just devastated" if she couldn't deliver them vaginally. (Something told me that they've never had a personal tragedy in their lives). Then there was "I'm the only pregnant woman here," whom my husband and I sat directly behind. First of all, she brought PILLOWS. There were no instructions given of the sort. For the duration of the class, she moaned, adjusted her pillows, grabbed her husband's hand as if she was about to fall from the Golden Gate to her peril and drank from a water jug the size of my ass using two full gripped hands, gulping and gasping as if reinacting a scene from Ishtar. (As a sidenote, she also ate every bear claw pastry intended for the remainder of the group). I was stunned at my husband's silence toward this chick's behavior, but he finally broke down on the way to lunch and said, "What's with High Maintenance Honey in front of us? Doesn't she see that she's surrounded by pregnant women who can tell she's a fraud?"

High Maintenance Honey was just the highlight in the cast of characters.....

There was Mid-Life Mommy, who wanted to know if she could have her 6-year-old in the birthing room to "learn about the miracle of life…….." We also couldn't figure out why someone with a kid would endure another class!???!!???!!??!!

And then there was Don't Touch Daddy, who kept asking the nurses whether or not he'd be asked permission before a medical instrument or IV touched his wife's skin……….

And of course, I'm Important Damn It, who insisted that his cell phone be on (and ringing, not vibrating) throughout the entire 7-hour day. Oh so appropriately, his wifey sported an 'adorable' (gag) "Due in November" T-shirt. I thought it should just read "Please Acknowledge My Pregnancy."

We had the good fortune of sitting next to this couple who my husband quickly dubbed The Potters (a Harry look-a-like and his wife). Mr. Potter looked like he spent the previous night eating cabbage and Cheetos while playing a fierce game of Dungeons and Dragons with strangers on the Internet; Mrs. Potter was sporting long purple nails, braided pigtails, the strangest lisp I've ever heard and that 'disturbed librarian' look (the kind of librarian who still reads V.C. Andrews and Nancy Drew). At one dramatic moment in the class, they asked the nurse if breastfeeding led to an increased chance of rickets -- and then I almost lost bladder control.