tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44161774850321675122024-03-14T04:59:41.899-04:00The HodgeKatrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-4337857463381635792012-03-13T21:10:00.003-04:002012-03-13T23:08:55.097-04:00The end.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>824</o:Words> <o:characters>4698</o:Characters> <o:lines>39</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>9</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>5769</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Two weekends ago, I went to the planetarium at the Museum of Natural History Museum with Jenna. It was one of those Saturdays that pan out perfectly, despite lack of any planning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After taking the subway uptown (on which we saw a woman wearing black pantyhose with absolutely no pants on over them) we bought tickets to a show called “Journey to the Stars.” If I wasn’t already really fascinated by space, the selling point would’ve been that it was narrated by Whoopi Goldberg. As it is, that was just an added bonus.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Whoopi took us back in the day, when most of the stars in the universe and our planet were just a glimmer in the eye of….whatever the universe is contained within. (A giant’s toenail? Is that from Lost? I never watched Lost.) We learned how everything around is the result of stars exploding.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We are all made of stars. I think Moby may have said that in the early 2000’s, but it is nonetheless a mind-boggling thought.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had one of those “Life is SO IMPORTANT, yet SO MEANINGLESS” moments during the show that continued to haunt me through the night, enough to inspire me to hours later drunkenly type the following into a phone memo I found the other day when making a reminder to buy toothpaste:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Everything is tiny and gargantuan at the same time. I know this isn’t an original thought, nor something I’ve just realized, but getting sick really let me flesh out all the small moments that lead me to here, yet also zoom out and realize this was just one year of my life.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> (By the way, I omitted the typos for everyone’s benefit, but I am definitely the asshole who writes the word “nor” in a drunken memo.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m finally on the other side of this thing. It wasn’t enough for me to hear I was in remission. And maybe that’s a selfish thing to say, because for some, that’s all they want. But I needed to feel like I was truly involved with my life again—I needed a job I liked at somewhere I belonged, I needed to move back to Brooklyn, I needed to be independent again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I’m here. Here I am! I got a job I worked hard to get, packed up all my books and clothes and weird ceramic chicken sculptures I made in high school, settled into what feels like a new apartment now, and I’m so happy. Literally the happiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> When last I wrote, I was in a really dark place. I felt utterly defeated. There were days when I didn’t get out of my pajamas. Why change when all I was going to be doing all day was sending out resumes to places that didn’t want to hire me? To places that would look at the year-long gap in my resume—which wasn’t impressive even without the gap—and toss my application in the trash.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s pretty melodramatic, but I really felt like shit for a while.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I finally caught a break when my friend Eva—who subletted my room in BK for me while I moved home for treatment—posted about a job opening at her company. After meeting with 12 different people over the course of a month and a half, I landed in a place that seems like a perfect fit for me—something not too corporate, but a place where people take work and progress seriously. The company is called Axiom—it’s not a law firm, but it provides legal services by contracting lawyers out to big companies who need some help getting legal work done. If you’d have asked me two years ago whether I’d ever work at a company that even resembled a law firm, I’d have laughed in your face. But Axiom is not the average place to work; they’re extremely big on cultivating a great working environment and making sure their employees are happy, well-rounded individuals. And everyone I work with is so smart that it makes me feel more intelligent and productive by osmosis. I’m working as an assistant to two of the top tier people in the company, which is actually very satisfying because it involves a lot of problem solving. Plus, I feel a nice sense of importance knowing I’m helping everything run smoothly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m in the midst of my third week, and I’m still really loving it. I’m never counting down the days till the weekend. I’m not cursing audibly as I pad down the hallway to the bathroom in the morning. I just feel like I’ve finally planted my feet on a nice patch of ground, and I don’t intend to move them anytime soon.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are two things I’m missing right now, first and foremost being my family. Getting sick was not just something that happened to me—it happened to them, too. How many times did my mom and dad comfort me when I needed it? Every time. How long would they have taken care of me? Forever. How much closer could we have grown in past year? We couldn’t have.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The second thing is free time to get some writing done. I haven’t been busy in so long that I’m really relishing making the most of my free time with my co-workers and friends. It’s been a nice change of pace to be living a full life and not writing about it than writing about my lack thereof. But I have to strike a balance and be more disciplined with it now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This is going to be my last entry. Because I’m done. I’m over it. You know how I know? Because Bob Marley melded into Bon Iver on my iTunes and it no longer makes me think of being in the chemo room at my doctor’s office, but seems a perfect compliment to the cool breeze drifting through my window. Because my alarm didn’t go off this morning and I woke up an hour late and just laughed. Because I’m smiling more often than I’m not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So yeah, I think I’m done. Almost a year later to the day I found out I had a big ole mess of tumors in my chest, it’s time to close the book on this one. Or X out the blog. </p><p class="MsoNormal">So that's it, folks! Thank you to everyone who read this, and especially to those who told me you liked it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> It meant a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-68006717124761508992012-02-20T12:30:00.001-05:002012-02-20T12:30:53.866-05:00Offish in RemishI got the call from my doctor last week that my PET Scan was A-OK, which means I'm officially in remission. Say it with me now: Whew.<div><br /></div><div>I can't believe I'm coming up on a year of being diagnosed. I feel like I blinked my eyes and fall and winter almost completely passed. It's just been such a weird period--being done with treatment but not being able to officially say "I <i>had </i>cancer" and not worrying deep down if that was true or not; looking for a job I'll really love; going back and forth to from my home here to my home in Brooklyn. I just still feel really unsettled, like I can't look at this ordeal as truly over until I'm working and living on my own again. </div><div><br /></div><div>But Spring is coming, and good things always come with that season. (Proof: Titanic is being theatrically re-released in 3D on April 6.) And at least I know there's almost no way my birthday can be worse than last year's, which involved waiting for my biopsy results and awkwardly eating ice cream cake.</div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-15238904568814580042012-02-06T13:54:00.008-05:002012-02-06T14:51:06.968-05:00Oh, hi.<div style="text-align: left;">It has been a <i>while, </i>which always makes it hard to know what to start my next sentence with. I guess I'll get right down to the reason I'm posting: tomorrow is my first post-treatment PET Scan. That's big news.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back in October, after radiation finished, I was really anxious to get my PET Scan to make sure everything worked, but my doctor informed me I had to "give it time to work." The effects of radiation--the good ones and the bad ones, which I'll get to up ahead--continue to happen even months after you're done actually showing up to the hospital and sitting under the rays. So my doctor told me he wanted to wait until the end of January to scan me to have the clearest picture. I figured there was nothing I could do but wait patiently, but every now and then the thought would bob up from under the surface of all my other thoughts to remind me I'm not totally out of the woods yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the woods have been a little dense lately. Like I wrote in my last post, the road to recovery (what a typical phrase, huh) has gotten particularly bumpy these past few months. The job hunt has been hard, but with any luck that will change soon. (I am currently in the interview process for a really exciting spot at a company that I would kill to work at, but the superstitious lady that lives inside my head already thinks I've said too much.) </div><div><br /></div><div>But aside from that, I've also been dealing with the pesky side effects of chemo and radiation. My lungs really took a beating from everything that's been thrown at them over the past year. I get winded very easily. For a while, I couldn't actually take deep breaths without a sharp pain in my chest. After a visit to my doctor before Christmas, I was put on Prednisone, which is a steroid. It helped clear up the pain, but one of the most annoying side effects of steroids is weight gain, and girl put on some pounds. I've never been a skinny girl, but in addition to the weight I gained after stopping chemo, I'm now at a weight that I haven't been since I was when I was drinking 40's four nights out of the week in college. It ain't cute, and over the past two weeks I've been trying to really eat right to get back to a healthy weight. I have to look at it as another way of keeping myself healthy and cancer-free in the long term. But like I said, my lungs are a little feeble right now, so the runs I've been going on are more on the pathetic side than the Lance Armstrong side. But if I've learned anything over the past year it's that good, solid results take time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Other things that have been happening:</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had another story published in The Hairpin called <a href="http://thehairpin.com/2012/02/conned-by-a-mom#comments">"Conned by a Mom</a>" and I've been writing in my other blog, <a href="http://singularladies.com/">singularladies.com</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>The new season of American Idol started, and I'm apparently still into it? Well, ok.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got my first haircut. Just a little shaping for the curly garden growing on my head. I opted for a faux hawk type-thing that Evan Rachel Wood sported a few months back. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Inspiration:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcFbpfVC0uc1dqNYunCRtx_DsspvSsvNcdMAuIKKru_A4NMCtXrzBVexEKUdeDdvI00qOzkKY9BGTQQMnY87Kv_kpbKNuLf81KHlo0KVqNsbx4gqozQtIb9kbTqD_0RMeLmSrbTyO41Y/s400/Evan-Rachel-Woods-new-haircut-611.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706106312187325234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px; " /></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Result:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxSkZUVBN8iq-NYoKRHqJc3pqAYkjLGSs5wlwDg26Xjaat_rg6YR1SlumG5PvmufNUv_zgKnmWEK-meL-poT4CqDJwyykVBhA_n3p6Hr90vf3omIOb6mfKzlGzrO-Bi1ZChFltylIO2U/s400/jglg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706105919273658210" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">I figure it's the time to have fun, because once these hairs grow any further, it's going to be a while before they see a pair of scissors again. This haircut has also made me pay serious attention to guys' haircuts because they tend to be more similar than the ladies' that I come into contact with. Example: </span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBFBLVSzhVvq2uCclSiy9uQL6EEaMKbdqnhy8BPDh4wbWY0OB2JwMBQqhuJQ4lApSYHSgN1yrwGKyKS4NAdcAe_yBJ7CP4VftMA38jNeFDTFl5rt3E2Q16TanWo1omxLcj_x15hOO6CKw/s400/photo-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706108656993556978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Yeah that's a baby, but he's still a dude. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">My family got really sad news that our neighbor recently discovered she has breast cancer. While I think hearing you have breast cancer comes with many more worries than Hodgkin's, I remember those first few weeks after you "go public" with the news. It's exhausting. It almost feels like<i> </i>you have to make everyone feel better and not vice versa, because people just don't know what to say. But I now know that being in the position of having someone you care a lot about get sick is no picnic. My mom and I picked out a nice ceramic cookie jar for my neighbor, and I baked some chocolate chip cookies to give as a present, because when words fail, cookies are a decent substitute. Still, though, it didn't feel like <i>enough. </i>What could, really? Not to say that the comforting thoughts and well wishes are unappreciated. Quite the opposite; </span></span>I got so many treats and presents during treatment, and even though they weren't necessary, they did so much to cheer me up. I'm not one to normally save cards, but I've kept each and every one anyone sent me. They're all in a box under my bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>This felt like such a mish-mash of an entry, but I guess that's what happens when you neglect your blog. I'll undoubtedly be writing more tomorrow. Eeee!</div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-44149139911466136432012-01-06T11:26:00.004-05:002012-01-06T12:25:28.062-05:00UncompromisingI always promised myself I would be as honest as I could in this blog. Recently, I decided if I couldn't be honest, I just wouldn't write. <div><br /></div><div>I'm in a very sticky situation--I am looking more diligently than I have ever looked for a job. And not just any job--a job that would utilize my writing and editing skills, or my PR experience. (Ugh, I've been writing so many cover letters, everything I type is starting to sound like one.) Something with a salary, and benefits, and paid time off. Something that would make me proud to answer the question, "And what do YOU do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I get it--I'm in the same boat as millions of other people. It's tough times, everyone's going back to school, etc, etc. But there's this issue I don't quite know how to deal with, and that's what to say when employers ask why I haven't worked in the past 10 (going on 11, going on a YEAR) months. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember writing so indignantly about how that head hunter reacted with disdain when I told her I revealed to a potential employer that I had just gotten over having cancer. I thought she was so wrong to make me feel like I exposed myself as a potential liability. Now, I realize she had a point--I think companies might be leery about making an investment in someone who was sick. I used to think that getting over a scary disease set me apart. I couldn't even fathom deliberately keeping it to myself, because it had so profoundly affected me and changed my life. Now, I get self-conscious that employers will see mentioning that I was sick as a way to get pity points, or that I can't be professional and keep my personal life to myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's still that part of me that really wants to be true to my nature and be open and honest about myself. In almost every situation, I wear my heart on my sleeve because I think being open with people opens them up, too. It's just how I am. But lately I've been questioning whether that's a smart way to go about things. So I haven't written about this or how anything has really been going in so long. But I guess I'm going to be true to my nature and spew it out now:</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>When I got sick, staying positive was easy--I had my family and friends taking care of me, I had great doctors, a great prognosis. I never let myself question whether or not I'd get better. So I'm pretty disappointed in myself that I'm questioning whether or not I'll ever find a job I really love and am good at. But this period of getting back on track has in every way emotionally been harder than going through treatment. I just feel like I'm sending resumes and cover letters out into this giant cloud of unknowing, and with every application that goes out, the little bit of hope that went out with it depletes my natural store when I don't hear back. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not that I expect to snap my fingers and have the perfect life. I am just ready for the months of daily existential crisis to be over and to be doing something beneficial (and that pays my rent.) </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like I can't write how I feel without being "a liability." I worry that saying "I feel like I'll never find a job" will turn potential employers away if they find this entry. I question whether having this blog was worth it in the end, despite how beneficial it was for me emotionally and mentally, if it holds me back from getting a job somehow. </div><div><br /></div><div>But here's the thing: you google me, and that Bust Magazine interview, the one I was so proud to do, comes right up. KT Kieltyka, Cancer Blogger is on the first page of results of Google. So there's that. And what's even more important is that I am attempting to get a job where my writing experience is paramount. Much of my recent writing--not all--but much of it, is connected to having cancer. I did start another blog (www.singularladies.com) that is in no way tied to the Hodge, so I've been having fun with that. But I can't erase this past summer any more than I can erase those Google results (because I am not a hacker.) </div><div><br /></div><div>And when it comes down to it, I don't want to. Because there is that voice inside that keeps telling me to hang on and wait it out for the place that will be just as happy to have me as I am to be there. It's just taking a beating lately. </div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-16990006165991685962011-12-19T22:22:00.004-05:002011-12-19T22:26:13.224-05:00I think...<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGn7-ARSPWqahE7mSQkctMbnaxog_U35yV6u3yRN9UTdjiMw_MZBIT5WiAPf-cpx4tE_FEq9OEywgjlrZ5dOaiHDABJ6JGpD-GuNS_YsDtJDcVYzfTz1S2gKQSA1nBdsmJbi5PgzbpAA/s1600/Robert_Pattinson_broody-e1265030781625.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div>...that Robert Pattinson may be my new hair idol, for no other reason than because my hair is growing that way. Ahem:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IJSVdYPwMdfS8BoX_8ntbNMwqg38mjiEKrlvc9kMKJ9QCC6FY39ikUgGa5BeKeHqBaddVvDMTJ6UG7KtNJW3oZ-k98ZVtqzJGrR2hmeJZkLIRXh-o52OUn5bFXLP1kVXJGw1wJ-crPk/s1600/Photo+549.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IJSVdYPwMdfS8BoX_8ntbNMwqg38mjiEKrlvc9kMKJ9QCC6FY39ikUgGa5BeKeHqBaddVvDMTJ6UG7KtNJW3oZ-k98ZVtqzJGrR2hmeJZkLIRXh-o52OUn5bFXLP1kVXJGw1wJ-crPk/s400/Photo+549.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688046279072077250" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxoB4HgAZOUmVKFJYgz87w7xkxae65sn-UygVk8e37qoFsx8x2hh5MATp-5iLTZoF6V65YGLBL4iE9eCnX-6hs71G4eNvrn-p374-9n0wfi3PjFo3B8uIjMgaQHxchSAp1KLliyoyQBg/s1600/Robert-Pattinson-Photo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxoB4HgAZOUmVKFJYgz87w7xkxae65sn-UygVk8e37qoFsx8x2hh5MATp-5iLTZoF6V65YGLBL4iE9eCnX-6hs71G4eNvrn-p374-9n0wfi3PjFo3B8uIjMgaQHxchSAp1KLliyoyQBg/s400/Robert-Pattinson-Photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688046169156204754" /></a><br /><br /><div>I can't wait until I get to this stage:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGn7-ARSPWqahE7mSQkctMbnaxog_U35yV6u3yRN9UTdjiMw_MZBIT5WiAPf-cpx4tE_FEq9OEywgjlrZ5dOaiHDABJ6JGpD-GuNS_YsDtJDcVYzfTz1S2gKQSA1nBdsmJbi5PgzbpAA/s400/Robert_Pattinson_broody-e1265030781625.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688046516166453442" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-12477217641329385692011-12-09T23:37:00.002-05:002011-12-10T00:11:24.159-05:00Xeni Jardin<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 22px; margin-left: 0px; ">Last week a Boing Boing blogger named Xeni Jardin went to get a mammogram after two of her friends had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She live tweeted the appointment to bring awareness to the need for mammograms, but also to ease her own nerves, or in her own words, "to make the unknown and new feel less so." By the end of her appointment, she found out she had breast cancer. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 22px; margin-left: 0px; ">I thought about her all day after I read that. I told Cody and Dad about it at dinner after we moved my stuff in, and we all just kind of shook our heads, lost for words, at the awfulness of it. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 22px; margin-left: 0px; ">I imagine, even though she's a professional blogger, that it must've taken guts to reveal her diagnosis on Twitter, almost in real time. And then she wrote a <a href="http://boingboing.net/2011/12/09/the-diagnosis.html">really beautifully articulated piece on Boing Boing </a>where she describes the outer body experience perfectly via an extended metaphor about space:</p></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204); font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; ">"I do not know all of what's ahead. I know a little. I know that there is a new kind of life on the other side of this thing. A changed mind and body. A new appreciation of time, and breath, and health, and life, and loved ones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204); font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204); font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; ">The gravity in this place is different. I've spoken to others who've traveled out here, too, and returned home safely. When you become one of them, you learn quickly that you share a language others can't understand."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; "><div>It comforts me to know she seems to be looking forward to the positive ways in which her life will change. Mrs. Rapp always talked to me about "the other side" when I was diagnosed, and I can now say that it is definitely a Real Thing. There are moments when the thoughts whirring around in my head just halt to a stop and I think, "Wow, here I am. On the other side." I don't know if those moments--the ones where I stop to just appreciate the sensation of sucking air up through my nostrils--even existed for me before the Hodge. I don't think they did. But they do now, and I really hope they do for Xeni someday, too. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Liberation Serif', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; "></span></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-16546544035582052242011-12-07T13:45:00.003-05:002011-12-07T13:55:10.163-05:00Some advice on sutures...If you're showering a few weeks after you've had your port removed, and most of the weird glue bandage has dissolved, and you notice something that looks like the end of a string hanging out of one end of the wound, you should proooobably contact your surgeon after the full body chills of disgust subside. Because that ain't supposed to be there. (I'm not even going to write "don't pull it" because I hardly think that needs to be said/I can't stomach the thought.)<div><br /></div><div>The good news is that once your doctor confirms that it is indeed a suture that your body is desperately trying to expel from itself, it's easy for him to remove it. A few yank yanks here and a snip snip there, and you're done. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just in case anyone was wondering.</div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-55828952791075242662011-12-05T23:49:00.005-05:002011-12-06T00:31:01.792-05:00Mission: Redecorate=Accomplished<div style="text-align: left;">It took getting cancer to realize I'm happiest when I'm writing. It took getting cancer to make me a more patient person. And it took getting cancer for me to redecorate my apartment.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I'm not even kidding that much with that one. When I was sick, I promised myself that when I moved back to Brooklyn, I'd make my living space a positive, happy place with the end goal of living a positive, happy life. I can also be a huge homebody (or to use a term Jenna coined, "house cat") so I need my place to be extremely cozy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Living at my parents' for the past 8 months has shown me how an abode ought to be treated and maintained (translation: my mom has made me a clean freak), so this past week while I was house sitting, I did a huge scrub down and prepped my room for a face lift. And after a trip to Ikea with Andrew, we finally took our living room from this:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJknGdpK-UMxeQsV2ghKySGf7olIfhJKmOEZgbEigk1N5JTYsimnF6YQATKi86eEYJkZeE41ZGDgDZV3G8Bb9gsA5NMIzs_5f31BYBdHl5TTJbivg9h_zLx1FbgIhSH28iJkQFdFKTF4/s400/old+apt+empty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682879251547739970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000066;">September 2010 (the day we signed our lease)</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>To this: </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ByzwKyAF9j_ApoxvHDDFO-L8PN-MJU7JCyQRZkJO51cUKdWMgjaxT9Dzdjch2BZ3u9-XFXAXfMHPkLEt9dGO62qL-mepUn1MDf1pzar65Q4vKP8vMICENuVNntuihGUuyJxOOjFy2Uw/s400/living+room.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682879494594262386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div> </div></div><div>Well, I mean, that didn't happen in a day. But it's a huge step up from THIS:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeZen8fOImabC2ditcBZROf8BJiPNgeEh6EH1W6lstmz25mnuEW8B-QRLbdceWnzrxmLWwiV2n2et2aancZ7zqinsQgr0e9NlR6fb_2YdPiY1ZCH_CAoYespSAQOfHYwmzV_tjFNN0rA/s400/old+apt.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682880003703941826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">which was last December. (Hi, Hope.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Yesterday my dad came in and spent all day helping me hang shelves, pot racks and sconces, as well as with painting my room an extremely lovely shade of lilac, so a lot of my progress is owed to him. (Recurring theme of my life? My parents being the best and most supportive, helpful people in the universe? Yep.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Even though there's nothing in my room besides a bed, a bag of clothes and a chair with a lamp on it, it already has good juju. And I caught some great, solid zzz's in it last night (despite having no idea where I was when I woke up for a few seconds.) Knowing this is taken care of has lessened the load of anxieties I had about moving back in. Now to get a job...I'd be floating. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-28060343099800655492011-11-27T11:05:00.003-05:002011-11-27T11:38:32.551-05:00How to Tell You Have Anxiety About Moving1. Go to sleep on Friday night. Proceed to dream that:<div><br /><div>1a: You are not moving back into your apartment in Brooklyn, but the hippy house you <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>lived in during college--the one with the purple shutters, neon green walls, and dirt. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Everywhere dirt. But you're there alone. No roommates in an old house that used to belong <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>to schizophrenic woman and still looks it.</div><div><br /></div><div> 1b: You ARE moving back into your (3 bedroom) apartment in Brooklyn, but with ALL <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>your old college roommates, one of whom is your ex that you haven't spoken to in 2 years.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>1c: You're moving back into the insanely gorgeous brownstone you lived in during a brief <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>stint in Albany, for which you paid a paltry sum, but this time you're paying Brooklyn <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>prices.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>2. Go to sleep Saturday night. Proceed to dream that:</div><div><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2a: You get to your apartment, and your roommate painted the living room walls mustard <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> yellow, the molding red, and put down cobalt blue carpeting. Then he asked if you liked <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>the new "pre-school chic" look. You didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div> 2b: You go to use the bathroom, fall into the bathtub, and no one will help you out.</div></div><div><br /></div><div> 2c: Your room is just a giant closet, plastered with photos of people from your 7th grade <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>tech ed class whose last names you don't even know.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2d: Your dad designed a system of moving your stuff in that was not unlike a log flume <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>down the hallway to your room. Everything got wet. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2e: You ordered a new love seat, but it showed up with a sink in the middle of it, and no <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>one understood why you wanted to send it back.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. That's pretty much it. </div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-18381248647484189522011-11-26T23:42:00.004-05:002011-11-26T23:52:51.062-05:00"Ooh, swish!"My favorite part was the concept of pants as absolutely and completely audacious, but then I got to 1:00 in. <div><br /></div><div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/H1aNPPj6AAY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://io9.com/5862703/womens-fashion-of-2000-ad-as-predicted-by-a-1930s-newsreel">Via io9</a></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-89035463002479282011-11-18T17:18:00.003-05:002011-11-18T17:26:15.416-05:00Ri RiOn her last album Rihanna <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR0v0i63PQ4">sampled Avril Lavigne</a>. "Drunk on Love" from her new album, Talk That Talk, featuring The XX's "Intro" (AKA the song from that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7Mm2csc_rw">awesome 2010 Winter Olympics commercial</a>) is a super sized upgrade. <div><br /></div><div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dd6mKKZyOnw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-80411440924070559322011-11-17T12:10:00.008-05:002011-11-17T15:56:11.645-05:00The Hole Time<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf2V2YTu4sBM6ELHANhsh6wHZIczj0UPn2RTmApB5wiS2xCO4XomEOzj_9CS6iEHJWZ7OZS4GhgDaE8H8pL60YfXB6Zl8Vp9oVRUEmTkw7uMfiR2htw_ZRJsGiftr5zWygLDuwh_-mdU/s1600/photo-27.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY4wiPVq-a6ActGZkXv1fklHFUEUs8wejWd8uUEWc-MkqeM_Yot5vSKMDliwPvcntS3OMw3AVA96IuZz4LOmnBUXXQ3rQOGksF_NK0O7KBSyor5pzkWQHJl2cCE-tLGx_HVLuXdy-DwE/s1600/port1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>I got my port out yesterday (Ha.Le.LUJAH.) and guess what, you guys? My port was PURPLE. The whole time!<div><br /></div><div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1r-2X5w1gP8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>And honestly, if I'd have known the thing was purple, I might have hated it less. (Because....I'm a fifth grader?) Actually that's probably not even true; I hated that thing from the second they put it in, and now it's out and (I can't believe I'm admitting this) sitting next to me on my bed in a biohazard bag. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY4wiPVq-a6ActGZkXv1fklHFUEUs8wejWd8uUEWc-MkqeM_Yot5vSKMDliwPvcntS3OMw3AVA96IuZz4LOmnBUXXQ3rQOGksF_NK0O7KBSyor5pzkWQHJl2cCE-tLGx_HVLuXdy-DwE/s400/port1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676070323995728882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Yup.</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I've already been called (lovingly, by me best friend) or had it insinuated that I am (by one of the operating room nurses) a total freak for taking it, but I really wanted to examine it up close. The needle hurt a lot every time it went into my chest before chemo, so it's somewhat satisfying to see where exactly the tips ended up. I can actually see the holes in the rubber from the needles. So sticks and stones, people, sticks andddd stones. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>For those who don't remember/don't want to wade through Justin Bieber videos to get to my old posts about my port, here's the 411: the type of chemo I was getting would've been risky to administer in a temporary arm IV, so they installed a "power port" in my chest above my right breast and below my collarbone. It was roughly the size of six quarters stacked together. And as you can't just stick something that thick without displacing anything else in your body, they had to (ughhh, grossss, GULP, sorry) "scoop out a pocket" in my chest to create a place for the port to go in. </div><div><br /></div><div>All summer long I was really careful not to get sun on the scar itself in the hopes it wouldn't be as noticeable in the future, but then I also realized I would probably have a weird, sunken-in, hole-like spot where they port was. I asked my surgeon about it before the surgery, and they told me they minimize that effect by stitching the skin together underneath. I couldn't really picture how that works, but great! </div><div><br /></div><div>It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be. Like after the placement, I have a two-inch incision stitched or rather glued together by this weird, clear medical glue that will most likely stay on for a few weeks, and the area where the port actually was is only slightly sunken and weird. I'm really sore and protective of the wound (example: the terror I feel whenever my mom stops short while I'm wearing a seatbelt), but I know it'll feel and look better eventually. And I once again have full use and extension of my neck!</div><div><br /></div><div>But how it looked and felt in my body was only half the reason I resented it so much; it barely ever worked properly on the first go around. Before I could be administered chemo, the nurses would have to draw blood to make sure my white blood cell count was high enough to withstand treatment, and they had to do so from my port. So one of the nurses would stick the needle in and try to extract blood, but every time they ended up pumping the empty syringe 30 times or so, only to have, at best, a tiny trickle of blood come out. I'd then have to go into a private room and lay in all types of positions to try to get enough blood flow for the pump to work: one leg up, now the other, now both, now sit down, now put your arms up, one arm, etc. In the beginning that would be enough, but for the last six treatments--and I am not kidding--I was doing jumping jacks and skipping around the halls of my doctor's office to get my blood pumping. I even tried hula-hooping a little. All of this with a needle in my chest, in front of other patients getting their treatments. I felt like a total moron, plus I barely had energy to skip around, which is why I think I wasn't able to see it as funny as I see it now. But it always worked, and so it became just another weird thing that eventually became normal over the months during treatment. </div><div><br /></div><div>But that's done, and the port's gone. If nothing else, having a weird, plastic object in my body for the past 6 months has reinforced my notion of breast implants as terrifying, so there's that, too.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf2V2YTu4sBM6ELHANhsh6wHZIczj0UPn2RTmApB5wiS2xCO4XomEOzj_9CS6iEHJWZ7OZS4GhgDaE8H8pL60YfXB6Zl8Vp9oVRUEmTkw7uMfiR2htw_ZRJsGiftr5zWygLDuwh_-mdU/s400/photo-27.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676071087513699634" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "> The gray part in the middle is rubber, where the chemo needle would go in.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Also, t</span>hey washed it, I swear.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-53146286483361592042011-11-14T11:40:00.002-05:002011-11-14T11:41:21.430-05:00It's a good day to be French<div>Or to watch this and pretend I know what they're saying.</div><div><br /></div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/n7vYo6l06lo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-78103004671951397102011-11-12T16:55:00.008-05:002011-11-12T18:51:50.143-05:00How To Learn That Putting Up a Christmas Tree The Second Week of November is Wildly Inappropriate<div style="text-align: left;">Full title: <b>How To Learn That Putting Up a Christmas Tree The Second Week of November is Wildly Inappropriate (Even If You're Just Trying To Put Yourself In A Good Mood.)</b></div><div><br /></div><div>1. Come home from a week of house sitting in Brooklyn a little worse for the wear; you went out far too often, ate far too little protein, and witnessed all of your friends actively being adults--going to work, going to school--while you sent out resumes and writing into the ether during the sad hours they weren't around to hang out. Also, you miss <a href="http://meandthehodge.blogspot.com/2011/11/how-to-be-good-dogsitter.html">GoGo</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Fall into a little slump for a few days. Let it sink in that the celebration of being done with treatment is over, and it's time to stop being polite, and get real. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. Briefly consider applying for the Real World in the days you pass in existentialist crisis. Remember that your mom told you if you ever went on Reality Television (and this was even before they were making reality shows about <a href="http://tlc.howstuffworks.com/tv/extreme-couponing">literally everything</a>), she'd disown you. Consider culinary school. Consider beauty school. Consider dog grooming school.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. Get what might--<i>might</i>--be a good lead in the career-staring direction and perk up a bit. Run with that tiny bit of... percolation (but mostly run from fear of feeling as depressed as you have been) and decide to get into the Christmas spirit a little early this year, since the holidays make you happy and generally warm-feeling towards the rest of the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Decide to let your parents in on your preemptive cheer. Proclaim "CHRISTMAS IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER!" at dinner one night, and that it's time to put up the tree. Scoff when your Dad tells you "You're going to ruin Thanksgiving." Realize you have a partner in crime when your mom cocks her head to the side and nods as she considers the calender on the kitchen wall. </div><div><br /></div><div>6. Assist your mom as she (obsessively) researches which model Christmas tree to buy online, because this is the year she's finally "allowed" to get a new one that doesn't require 8 hours of set up and shaping. Vehemently argue for colored lights against your mom, who wants a "sophisticated" white-lit tree. Find a company that, amazingly, makes a tree that comes pre-lit with both colored <i>and</i> white lights. Marvel at the wonders of technology. What will they think of next?</div><div><br /></div><div>7. Tell your mom you're going to put the tree up as soon as it comes. Waiver a little bit on that certain announcement when the tree arrives in two large boxes on your doorstep 3 days later, on the 10th of November. Let the boxes sit in the hallway for 18 hours or so, or until Friday afternoon comes along and you realize what your Friday night is going to be. Realize you're not even a little bit mad that you will be spending it in your pajamas.</div><div><br /></div><div>8. Put on the Taylor Swift holiday station on Pandora; if you're going to do this, you're going to do it <i>right. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>9. End up with 5 pieces that look like they just have to be stacked upon one another.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. Quickly realize that's not true, and neither was the part of the online description of your new Norway Spruce that promised "easy setup" with "no shaping necessary." </div><div><br /></div><div>11. Insert the bottom section, section E, into the base. Plug the red "male" (ew?) plug from Section D into the red "female" (like, really?) socket in Section E. Same for the yellow plugs. Wait, why isn't D lighting up? Consult the directions. Maybe Section C has the socket in it. Heft Section C onto the pole. No, no, take that one off, I can't get to the plugs in Section E now...</div><div><br /></div><div>12. Utter strings of obscenities over the next hour as the Christmas music playing in the background becomes ironic and incredibly annoying. Tell your mom "Santa Baby" is, as its core, a song about date rape, causing a debate that's a nice little distraction from the catastrophe at hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>13. Take a break on the couch while your mom goes up to speak with customer service. Consider burning the tree. Seriously doubt it when she tells you she thinks she figured it out, but humor her. Feel like you cured cancer (haha) when the appropriate sections of the tree actually light up. Apologize for doubting your mother, you jerk.</div><div><br /></div><div>14. Finally get it set up. Step back and marvel at your tree, which you are controlling via a small remote. (America: the country where even your fake ass Christmas trees come with remotes.)</div><div><br /></div><div>15. Be reminded by your mom that "you were the one who wanted to do this!" when you say "NO" to her request to put the ornaments on the tree. Trudge up to the attic and get the large box of ornaments down.</div><div><br /></div><div>16. Notice as you begin putting them up that the usual nostalgic, magical feeling of handling your favorite Wizard of Oz ornaments can't get through the door because the frustration of putting up this freaking tree is taking up all the space in your living room. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">17. Put more than half of the very large amount of ornaments you own on the tree. Hear the garage door open, the signal that your dad is home from work. Trepidatiously lead him into the living room and watch as he shakes his head at the tree. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div>18. Reassure your mom that the branches are not drooping (even though, now that you look at it, they<i> do </i>seem to be wilting a little with the weight of the ornaments) and beseech her to come eat dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div>19. Drop your fork when she tells you she wants to return the tree and get the one from Frontgate that has wheels and only two pieces. Note that if it wasn't already gone, any inkling of Christmas cheer you may have started this process with would have just gone out the window.</div><div><br /></div><div>20. Sit on the couch begrudgingly with a glass of wine as your mom begins to remove ornaments. Finally agree the tree has "bad juju," and take pity on your mom when she unsuccessfully attempts to take the top section off. Sustain scratches to your hands as you wrench--literally wrench--the sections of the tree off one another. Yell at your mom to "HUG IT. HUG IT TIGHTER" as you attempt to tie string around each section of the tree so it can fit back into its box.</div><div><br /></div><div>21. Refill your wine glass and look sadly at the two large, slightly bulging boxes sitting in the spot where an hour ago, a beautiful (yet extremely annoying) tree had stood. </div><div><br /></div><div>22. Ruminate on the lessons you could learn from this: that rushing headlong into something and spurring yourself on by the desire for a happiness that you know deep down is more sparkle than substance <i>never works out. </i>That even though you wasted hours setting it up and it's a pain to send it back, holding out for the better product (read: person/job) is the smarter thing to do in the end. But mostly that your dad was right--it's too motha truckin early for Christmas. </div><div><br /></div><div> 22a. Maybe don't change the Tay Swift Pandora station as you go to bed that night. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV6ni2ui2HAuqm4w5kYwJZiKg-d10djFEYDSd6uIiSgs20vrhp5mnqLDcJmRcB9i8o5PdCxOatiDnh1CzRWgAJHDPUz5L3vapviH4YkGrnRe-KaQJGXfMa4dtskuzOsqsq1z4GhdSlXA/s400/tree.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674259877747489938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Asshole tree.</span></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-74939590844083057692011-11-09T22:25:00.002-05:002011-11-09T22:31:25.801-05:00Watching the Country Music Awards with my motherMe: That's it. They keep promising Scotty (McCreery) and they aren't showing him!<div>Mom: They just said his name. They just said it! He's on next, stay downstairs for 5 more minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>45 minutes later (with no introduction, by the way. What is that?)</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Is that him? Is that Scotty?</div><div>Mom: It's him! </div><div>Me: Oh my God, FINAL--</div><div>Mom: (ferociously) SHH!</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to miss her when I move out.</div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-10794441036705511542011-11-04T00:47:00.008-04:002011-11-04T14:18:36.486-04:00Just some thoughts I had after a few beers<div>I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of what it means to deserve something.</div><div><br /></div><div>People have told me since I got sick that I didn't "deserve" to go through having cancer, and I accepted that like a compliment. But who deserves to do it? Who <i>deserves </i>anything? </div><div><br /></div><div>I think a lot of people walk around thinking we humans have an innate right to be handled correctly by the universe, which is false. When it comes to fate or luck or whatever you want to call it, we deserve nothing. The pursuit of happiness is written into the basis of the laws that govern our lives, but we so often forget that it's the pursuit and not the actual happiness that is our right. </div><div><br /></div><div>That being said, I do think we all deserve to be treated properly by one other. We have a responsibility to each other to do that, because how we handle each other's emotions is one of the few things we have under control. Maybe that's why I'm finding it so hard to understand how people trip over honesty like it's a root they didn't see jutting out into their paths.</div><div><br /></div><div>It might sound like I'm trying to say we all deserve to be loved, but I don't mean to say that--I just mean we all deserve to be respected. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's all she wrote, folks. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-37198807791138490842011-11-03T14:08:00.010-04:002011-11-03T14:56:58.834-04:00How To Be A Good Dogsitter<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKm2g-HfmZvLuYwBgBYXCBKI1aDfoDhTRzFlcP5241nuXHOxVXz-j8l-Htkiqp7EiQ7gh51DoBHgtukH2m0pI0zFK2qwBXH-ODf7SMtubclimqcr4_dIdT19lT_HALBIMka0TBK5nrok/s1600/gogo+sunhat.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: left;">1. Get to know each other. After all, you're going to be spending a whole week together, so you should know that he's not constantly miserable, but that's actually just his face.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgsn70EiuaAFVoVwdMJYqJ9Vp8f0Dh_jNd17u8s07xmbbQq7w4RQNKMSri2KqrQA178kQN2drS7pK48G_30tBFI-mH0zCtfVdMLclb7hbixa_2-GKwCZ0QlyYmawfT5oP1B0NxRvrPQ7g/s400/gogo+grump.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670836591355704498" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div>2. If you wake up at 7 am on the first morning to take him out to the bathroom, then again at 8:30, then again at 9, and by 11 he still won't get off his bed, pick him up and put him outside. Do not be startled by the grunts and sighs and general troll noises he will make as you do this.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Don't get frustrated when he won't eat his dog food but allow yourself to be impressed at the heights he will go to when begging for people food. Give him a bite of chicken.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGEKlQz0ynyFkHA0J1APBUDdYNSn3d_X0L71knyJKuYnto7hRx1CPjjuriD7Z_mFInVb7eeg9fe3oXuiGf-u3OxHx_Q9ZfuRX4pxDzr8KpWeVYOIhT5ezXdYObK83-cpZoSKDNoVElmuM/s400/gogo+stand.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670837733747276786" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div>4. Take him for walks and let him strut his stuff, as his is wont to do. Receive the most smiles from strangers you've ever gotten in your life. Realize it's not you they're smiling at. Attempt to take the pup up to the park, but realize it's you who's being walked when he takes you right to the door of a doggy toy store. Actually consider buying him a toy before you remember you're unemployed.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjN7bYyjveRB_d9RzSTsIY3NdblekPprTOtIyoBNSfyKtqtaFct6tELy1pahpVlilOMKQFNiU7fYO4zGlzydpTqRmvazZhETah9x_gPiUROWXLhIu9JWnhhmQxYaJO1BEnNxTs2eNf1I/s400/gogo+walk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670839142936889122" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div>5. Lift him up on the bed to snuggle when it's time for bed. Completely reconsider wanting a boyfriend when he farts and snores like every guy you've ever dated. Feel slightly guilty when you lift him back down to the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. Feel guiltier when the next night you not only move him back down to the floor but actually evict him to his bed in the living room because you just. can't. sleep. with. the. SNORING.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. Give him some space when he's a little pissed at you the next day. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhjQVa2wrMCDyOcyIjuMHNhUhUN7uekyIOqtlP6eTB07azppuVkM4aSpdoFHTNh9f8gRWs9Azw43p_ynJb_KNYUFkUsGqkdwwPKPlsIBtzHbcwYKaDodY__E840d0tY2LcspbEUTJfEc/s400/gogo+sulk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670841343217868898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>8. Make it up to him by taking him to a tropical location for some fun in the sun. But make sure it's not TOO much sun.</div></div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKm2g-HfmZvLuYwBgBYXCBKI1aDfoDhTRzFlcP5241nuXHOxVXz-j8l-Htkiqp7EiQ7gh51DoBHgtukH2m0pI0zFK2qwBXH-ODf7SMtubclimqcr4_dIdT19lT_HALBIMka0TBK5nrok/s400/gogo+sunhat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670843313374525186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div>9. Feel your heart fully liquify at the site of this:</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9CLd8urQ42E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>(Also be reminded you have the voice of a 6 year old.)</div><div><br /></div><div>10. Maaaaaybe let him sleep in the bed tonight with you. Maybe. </div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-10980567608844205602011-11-02T11:58:00.003-04:002011-11-02T12:06:52.595-04:00Da BrooklynistaMichele Morrissey, the beautiful Brooklynista, wrote a really, really lovely post about me on her blog. You can read it <a href="http://thebrooklynista57.blogspot.com/2011/10/writing-wigs-and-wisdom.html">here,</a> but it's probably a better idea to just <a href="http://thebrooklynista57.blogspot.com/">read the entire blog itself.</a> Mich works in eco-conscious fashion, and her blog is gorgeous and full of inspiration. Thanks, Mich!Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-23307408432450650732011-11-01T12:38:00.012-04:002011-11-01T14:17:17.507-04:00Halloweekend<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOTITGeQJE6pbbGmQIX03iogiWWk6RGgwj94XMBqAwkzMia3jC42p050FNm8pgGjSDllGkrwptMCQnRTi_WBVmASt62YxtHktsPPj2xF8h6Jhy2F-lSSl3WQ4JKynOHuvdlYkVvYX6O4/s1600/photo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: left;">(This entry is brought to you by the Justin Bieber Christmas album.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Of all the weird stuff that happened this weekend, I guess the weirdest is that I had a dream last night that Jessica Alba was my cousin and I was defending her acting. This was interspersed with a dream that I saw a collie riding a bicycle standing up. I woke up so creeped out and for a second had no idea where I was. Then I heard GoGo, the dog I'm babysitting, make his weird snarfle snoring sound and remembered I'm house sitting.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcV0XwLYFutHjJbTMS-YGZIkRzuuYRkmmzRpArIxAqqEAuF_oQXu-IOcBXRovWE_U3Jzqv_mLx-ImIWWH2ATh2Io3p4yXJLTLMTrcPTwYBzb9nbdlTt7NNTpxJF4GevTL24xp4SxRwFnE/s400/385781_747492212730_27906457_37277358_445209827_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670076666637711090" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is my new, live-in boyfriend, GoGo. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The apartment is 12 blocks south of Jenna and about 20 from my apartment with Andrew and Sara. I fully feel like this is my own house. I'm loving pretending I live in a place this lovely with a pup this...hilarious. He snores while fully awake, and he begs for food by doing a little jump. I laugh literally every time he runs down the hallway. </div><div><br /></div><div>SO, Halloween. This year was top of the list good. I look forward to this weekend all year, but this one was special for a reason I think is pretty obvious, but I'll say it anyway: done with treatment. Ahhhhhh. (That was a nice little satisfied sigh.) I was extremely happy with how my costume came out, and the party we had at the apartment was kickass. I saw so many people I haven't seen in a long time, and everyone was so, so nice and congratulatory. I felt really loved and (I always use this word, but) just fortunate that I made it to the other side of this whole thing and my relationships with a lot of people are the stronger for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that the mush out of my system, pictures:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pHP-crjoNJPUOgwCEhvljyyUbjkRe2mC966HkqlnNXNiar5VHjLGeyhpFq4oqRve9jWWahn2QmYQrDgsTysNakWQCDc8SyacP45eVtCzVvJIHuaIMMqe4Q5meAfqJI6PdM6a3kHIidI/s1600/389467_747492033090_27906457_37277356_342141942_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pHP-crjoNJPUOgwCEhvljyyUbjkRe2mC966HkqlnNXNiar5VHjLGeyhpFq4oqRve9jWWahn2QmYQrDgsTysNakWQCDc8SyacP45eVtCzVvJIHuaIMMqe4Q5meAfqJI6PdM6a3kHIidI/s320/389467_747492033090_27906457_37277356_342141942_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670086765607493794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp8xYokmVWEp_FdG4_5wDZg60QbD3d6fPkOSW17Z4Ahbwnf3Nyr4ZWXObeAsg3zmTqfqX5W84LIUNq8_1EixHaE8_MbxrIuUAa8EaTlXoX2CTzQMcgREFDWeOt_FDqp0SID6pbvq3Elk/s1600/389415_747491893370_27906457_37277355_1752283423_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFp8xYokmVWEp_FdG4_5wDZg60QbD3d6fPkOSW17Z4Ahbwnf3Nyr4ZWXObeAsg3zmTqfqX5W84LIUNq8_1EixHaE8_MbxrIuUAa8EaTlXoX2CTzQMcgREFDWeOt_FDqp0SID6pbvq3Elk/s320/389415_747491893370_27906457_37277355_1752283423_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670086691092412066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_29AAbyUKhrj6ayqYGAeVlvgq89uhlMCxcSBens8mwHdjirCGS1URrxVWdkKsc3dHmDig9vSCLx8UoOmsM0BF4xti_ilhmAD0CAk7hdt2CJ63oiMVG5rf8DfpxT2FqvkNfQ8oyMdt4A/s1600/313631_746554796320_27906457_37263035_696663161_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_29AAbyUKhrj6ayqYGAeVlvgq89uhlMCxcSBens8mwHdjirCGS1URrxVWdkKsc3dHmDig9vSCLx8UoOmsM0BF4xti_ilhmAD0CAk7hdt2CJ63oiMVG5rf8DfpxT2FqvkNfQ8oyMdt4A/s1600/313631_746554796320_27906457_37263035_696663161_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_29AAbyUKhrj6ayqYGAeVlvgq89uhlMCxcSBens8mwHdjirCGS1URrxVWdkKsc3dHmDig9vSCLx8UoOmsM0BF4xti_ilhmAD0CAk7hdt2CJ63oiMVG5rf8DfpxT2FqvkNfQ8oyMdt4A/s320/313631_746554796320_27906457_37263035_696663161_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670086601871996146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNwcSL5nqkKDwg4Rib2RwgbQgasKD9XEZN6VWGuZBZqGU6kq1MMCGgto2H79WpANQLtafcIXIlZ4fFkXUsMzfyg11gqTYymuL5-C9UPrwz3-hWF7ds4L4xwYhb68BJCUKZ6lQfsVKvbc/s320/318410_746767874310_27904287_37267496_551965516_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670087053052995410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfV_0fgD1MXFTm2tg198Hm952LgqHbERhSgsOefuZ7PT1mWrcqmbVLfT5XSEfyXcWNuH9wPmvva1AiNgxM5eJZ7g9LROXEpiDPSPP-vAGJtOEol22aOW_6oTLMwXoIt-S_toPQhTPW6ds/s1600/314488_746768328400_27904287_37267509_2033444383_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfV_0fgD1MXFTm2tg198Hm952LgqHbERhSgsOefuZ7PT1mWrcqmbVLfT5XSEfyXcWNuH9wPmvva1AiNgxM5eJZ7g9LROXEpiDPSPP-vAGJtOEol22aOW_6oTLMwXoIt-S_toPQhTPW6ds/s320/314488_746768328400_27904287_37267509_2033444383_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670087600407770178" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKW4vlawo2_GvnS0N62Wh0WWcUFujbd3ZxKGiqDW4ttRUfA7iY_YLob1S_1Iw7qNmcxhbuFHPSyV2tLJeMWFDVWeUD44ITX0rqCq3CxExqUZaXKMlFnGzKqXHwe0d9FXUeqhrR80FPxiM/s1600/310440_746798477980_27904287_37268169_827501388_a.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKW4vlawo2_GvnS0N62Wh0WWcUFujbd3ZxKGiqDW4ttRUfA7iY_YLob1S_1Iw7qNmcxhbuFHPSyV2tLJeMWFDVWeUD44ITX0rqCq3CxExqUZaXKMlFnGzKqXHwe0d9FXUeqhrR80FPxiM/s320/310440_746798477980_27904287_37268169_827501388_a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670087536608965314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 231px; " /></a></span></span><div style="text-align: center;">unintentional fruit salad</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQE00dSIo4ZyHwBLHaQ4v0Z2ijw4A7srUJl7K0taMUZqcR44ZpfBlp26Nhy9nmcWDu10ocXIc9uE9Pz4xPRHHF3vkBtNXWXJsnN5ui5shtyzw0whZRJOTy5M3lgUdaIM1PFKXPV-Whw4I/s1600/388104_10101679264617134_9341581_87108002_996558379_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQE00dSIo4ZyHwBLHaQ4v0Z2ijw4A7srUJl7K0taMUZqcR44ZpfBlp26Nhy9nmcWDu10ocXIc9uE9Pz4xPRHHF3vkBtNXWXJsnN5ui5shtyzw0whZRJOTy5M3lgUdaIM1PFKXPV-Whw4I/s320/388104_10101679264617134_9341581_87108002_996558379_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670087401592396450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></span></span><div style="text-align: center;">Beyonce with child</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE57Pvmsef1hlCSAgU2PNFwbCAvZvQQTzGBEgw1FqreMvGFAfzzax0YfY497EXlqMiB-CrhjntmWdmVAwk26kH2U_iFkv3jU-J0TdzwT3m1-MW8KxY72zigW7me1TmvmgVq5dDcd8tQag/s1600/389669_746765304460_27904287_37267431_860880627_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE57Pvmsef1hlCSAgU2PNFwbCAvZvQQTzGBEgw1FqreMvGFAfzzax0YfY497EXlqMiB-CrhjntmWdmVAwk26kH2U_iFkv3jU-J0TdzwT3m1-MW8KxY72zigW7me1TmvmgVq5dDcd8tQag/s320/389669_746765304460_27904287_37267431_860880627_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670087260366104962" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pHP-crjoNJPUOgwCEhvljyyUbjkRe2mC966HkqlnNXNiar5VHjLGeyhpFq4oqRve9jWWahn2QmYQrDgsTysNakWQCDc8SyacP45eVtCzVvJIHuaIMMqe4Q5meAfqJI6PdM6a3kHIidI/s1600/389467_747492033090_27906457_37277356_342141942_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">Despite threats from my skin to quit and walk off my face, I painted myself up again for actual Halloween and went to the village. We tried to get a spot near the parade, but settled on a bar instead. It was really fun, but it's quite possible I overdid it with the vodka, because I had a little mini breakdown on the crowded streets of the village and freaked out that "Cloverfield was happening" when I saw some kind of riot and police lights. I...don't know. I haven't been beer tears drunk in a while (a 7 month while) so I guess I had to get it out of my system.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPq4nparEw2R9Kf7Su-LCWVLpgChXQTgqWROtOAQMkV94U8FmirrUKvs9y8TGwnFSAfjE7vjf6CB1Yw3W7cTvKaKL9ViCeSqV8qyjv43hAd-fKKRdQU74qEY2nA7E1b5SJH7y8uD3E8Q/s1600/389669_746765304460_27904287_37267431_860880627_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w7LaYGt0GVO1UeS3opuJkkW5ZhFgy_8b0zJrLIogi6dysCU0WxT42W0QlMPh7nP_9tGJk_vUcg3E2ZeZe_c0b37GZKERyKuunpWa_5uphEWhBh1lpK0tko3roy1x2m0rmVkPg1SB824/s1600/318410_746767874310_27904287_37267496_551965516_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7qV37qx93KhrWZhUjQWpDGU3gxDjWuoEazkfjvutF8wtRZSBy7hSPvLN0qepWIn3oh2TKbKNvNx_Qg4FMLyPk7gys0dTEgQkOBZSgo8MiyhqDpDKe7y0k6pR3hKEFm-rHrpXBD1TZMpM/s320/315891_747484498190_27906457_37277313_339369265_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670090448729340258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvATUHpwjIOgqNwxglKyyNkLmqBUiZdnuuKecokeBgRl1ix_HyOkElixBJUfWknwkpzzmyN6FwmV_GMAdNnzAZI7gEo3iKIQ6PRQkw6E1daRrMuIeqQoKMXYKTUijuEZKsi52M3YdCaek/s1600/383215_2348270339898_1044249228_32581193_1631938046_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvATUHpwjIOgqNwxglKyyNkLmqBUiZdnuuKecokeBgRl1ix_HyOkElixBJUfWknwkpzzmyN6FwmV_GMAdNnzAZI7gEo3iKIQ6PRQkw6E1daRrMuIeqQoKMXYKTUijuEZKsi52M3YdCaek/s320/383215_2348270339898_1044249228_32581193_1631938046_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670091091270757618" style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Bob Ross/Birthday Roy</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhyphenhyphen3AgRady0OhdovZ8RWVmrYzP-QAFNWjyGdwF2wjAQ-FAz5Fa-FZTc0cB_lFT7nP6lD6mEVq1pqQAVqHdHvByDYQTcbNIMdQXAOPhESFtsAGmKhRJLw-4CC0qOEBw5RSmnyNhwx1nVQ/s320/376541_747482482230_27906457_37277308_871905466_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670090577086225394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Kate Middleton and "William"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCj2VXoppTMMQvIKTBpUiIJLhACHssQ2ru1DxdLqVvGLOM0lH6D6QkY3xWcJ7Q3FwWolO6uZZB-3W-ldL-IImxXO8JjwelyyDBm2TYr1YOdRC5Kg2bUydhsDqceb3UjX4O2kwDNRekRJA/s1600/384376_2348261059666_1044249228_32581162_709979112_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCj2VXoppTMMQvIKTBpUiIJLhACHssQ2ru1DxdLqVvGLOM0lH6D6QkY3xWcJ7Q3FwWolO6uZZB-3W-ldL-IImxXO8JjwelyyDBm2TYr1YOdRC5Kg2bUydhsDqceb3UjX4O2kwDNRekRJA/s320/384376_2348261059666_1044249228_32581162_709979112_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670091015193885714" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJo9qc2Fk5asb3JC04QLMYTuqXOZ0TPJRBwNqSWHg-ZyZM5K4dbqzohQho1jXYOppKrVOKFx1p2gcAc84QNUEmMgVwpf2ZhNcSLmtwzsTC44iyPwPGvCRFgleteiU9e4LL0UxOYrBbRbI/s1600/316218_2348266899812_1044249228_32581182_845448854_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJo9qc2Fk5asb3JC04QLMYTuqXOZ0TPJRBwNqSWHg-ZyZM5K4dbqzohQho1jXYOppKrVOKFx1p2gcAc84QNUEmMgVwpf2ZhNcSLmtwzsTC44iyPwPGvCRFgleteiU9e4LL0UxOYrBbRbI/s320/316218_2348266899812_1044249228_32581182_845448854_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670090799473097506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfV_0fgD1MXFTm2tg198Hm952LgqHbERhSgsOefuZ7PT1mWrcqmbVLfT5XSEfyXcWNuH9wPmvva1AiNgxM5eJZ7g9LROXEpiDPSPP-vAGJtOEol22aOW_6oTLMwXoIt-S_toPQhTPW6ds/s1600/314488_746768328400_27904287_37267509_2033444383_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Yw9mdInViDTZ2MoMGdO-AFhsNuYhyp-iF8uHGv5GNfN8b1Lz0UjXFB0cKBlXnYmOg2cYkhVrouxD7cG1gYlieXTLFJniy8cAZRIz8yk1nkjuq7ziG7qIL_RF17NidWVsFjQJ7etBAz8/s1600/313631_746554796320_27906457_37263035_696663161_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">GoGo typed this entire post, btw</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOTITGeQJE6pbbGmQIX03iogiWWk6RGgwj94XMBqAwkzMia3jC42p050FNm8pgGjSDllGkrwptMCQnRTi_WBVmASt62YxtHktsPPj2xF8h6Jhy2F-lSSl3WQ4JKynOHuvdlYkVvYX6O4/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670093044471843746" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></span></span></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-22075985281398257202011-10-27T23:35:00.002-04:002011-10-27T23:39:04.442-04:00Beethoven is so hot right now<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/vQVeaIHWWck" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div>In all seriousness, one of the most beautiful things humans have ever created.</div><div><br /></div><div>(In some more seriousness, I have been listening to this non-stop since I heard it last night in the background of a preview for next week's episode of Revenge, and had to call my friend Dan at work and hum it to him so he could remind me of the name.)</div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-53741988320164655032011-10-25T20:02:00.002-04:002011-10-25T20:06:56.195-04:00I'm...done.<div>At 2:36 this afternoon, I finished cancer treatment.</div><div><br /></div><div> I would set aside a few seconds to let that sink in, but I let it sink in over a burger at Five Guys with my mom already, sooo...</div><div><br /></div><div>It's probably the most finite ending I've ever experienced (except maybe for when I quit my job at the State Assembly. I hightailed it out of there and never looked back.) Now there's nothing holding me back from living a happy, productive life. It is a strange feeling though; what's been my reality for the past six months is now very suddenly a part (a big part) of my past. I feel airy and I feel light and I feel happy, but also kind of disoriented. What now?</div><div><br /></div><div>There will also probably always be that tiny inkling in the back of my mind named Recurrence. When I asked my radiologist last week when I could call myself "cured," he replied with a quote by a famous oncologist on breast cancer: "You can consider yourself cured of breast cancer when you die of something else." <i>I</i> responded with "Jesus Christ." He then kind of backtracked and said Hodgkin's is not as severe a cancer as breast cancer is in terms of recurrence, but I probably won't ever forget that quote. As sobering a thought as it is, it's what's going to keep me vigilant about my health in the future. </div><div><br /></div><div>Right now, I'm not so excited to get <i>back</i> to my life as I am to move forward and onto the kind of life I <i>want. </i>I want to be able to fend for myself financially, and I want to be able to do so by means of a job I really enjoy, something that fulfills me. I don't want to sit at a desk all day. I don't want to dread waking up. I don't want to wish that the hands on the clock or the pages on the calender would change faster. I spent the good part of a year wishing for that. So, as you may have read in past posts, I figured going to a head hunter would be a good way to move in that direction. Then I met Janet, the <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=patti%20stanger&source=web&cd=3&ved=0CFcQFjAC&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.aoltv.com%2F2011%2F09%2F26%2Fpatti-stanger-offends-gay-jewish-viewers-watch-what-happens-live%2F&ei=-E6nTr2FEKTV0QGM-MypDg&usg=AFQjCNEHhAOGYzsHRiEKnp3O6y3C3Kt3rQ">Patti Stanger</a> of head hunters. </div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Jason had gone to her a week before my appointment, and things hadn't gone so well. "She made me have a panic attack and I lay in bed for a day crying. Then I applied to Americorps," he said. So the night before my appointment, I tried on my interview outfit--a pretty Calvin Klein dress and a pair of heels--for my friends. "Sweater or blazer?" I asked Jenna. "Dress for the job you want--blazer," Jenna said. </div><div><br /></div><div>The morning of the interview, I even went the extra mile (and by "extra mile" I mean "just to feel like I had some say in the style of my hair") and rubbed some mousse on top of my head. I felt beautiful, professional, and confident. </div><div><br /></div><div>By the time I left after meeting with Janet, I felt like I was wearing <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZD0Uj8nYELcQfYy0qLgkQiJygtufL6GAygn9pO3m13NSe2O8aQDI_X2J4r0TF8cGD-IXLt-LcL9k4in8RiBXztQ0lC6fqXpGvtOc4_cM6d80vEm3eY4RDIw38fm-m8kNlZO32T7U8SA/s320/the_rain_281x211.jpg">this</a>. Literally as if I had walked into her office in a black contractor bag. "I know you want a career in a creative field," she said when I told her I wanted to put my writing skills to use, "But you need to up the ante in your presentation. These companies want someone who looked like they stepped out of Vogue Magazine, not, you know... this," and she made a broad gesture up and down my person. This was all said in a thick Jersey accent. And not for nothing, you guys, but I looked <i>good, </i>okay? Really, I'm not lying. I did. ("Imagine if you wore the sweater?" Jenna asked later. I shudder to think.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Janet then proceeded to tell me that there was about a 0% chance I'd be able to get a job in a field I actually wanted to work in, and that I basically shouldn't even try. As she continued to talk, any positive energy that remained in my being seeped out of my body. My spirits felt so low that I figured they had probably taken the elevator down to the basement to kill themselves. So by the time she mentioned the "amaaaazing opportunity" in reception at a fabric company, I agreed to send my resume there. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was like I was made to feel so discouraged that working in <i>reception </i>at a <i>fabric company </i>(italics because that's the precise job I had right before I got diagnosed that I truly loathed with all my being) seemed like my only hope. It was as if the anxiety Janet instilled in me had stomped out all the memories of how many envelopes I'd stuffed and what it was like to page someone over a loudspeaker every time I had to use the bathroom. I was still in that haze when she called me a few hours later to tell me she had set up an interview for the following Monday and that she needed me to "get myself to Ann Taylor and put myself together over the weekend." </div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't until I was back on Long Island relaying this information to my parents when I realized the interview would be, at best, a practice interview. Because there was no way I'd be taking that job. I even debated on whether or not to go to the actual interview, but decided it would be completely irresponsible not to.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yesterday, as I sat waiting to be interviewed, I noted how absolutely pleasant it was to go into an interview with dry palms. (To quote the late, great Janis Joplin, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.") I was given some paperwork to fill out, and "Please explain any gaps in your employment, excepting those concerning personal illness or disability" was the last of the blanks to fill in. Legally, I knew I had no obligation to tell the woman who was interviewing me about the Hodge, but I really feel like it's an important point to make; for one, it explains the um, seven month gap in my resume, and for another, it's a big event in my life that I learned a lot and grew as a person from. It's like, I dunno, the Peace Corps. Except...cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I told the woman who was interviewing me I had "just gotten over cancer" (just like getting over a cold!), and she was really sweet and congratulatory, and I managed to demonstrate that it had actually been a very positive experience, which she respected. On the whole, the interview went very well, so I called Janet to relay the information as I had been instructed. Perhaps I just wanted to hear one word of approval from her. But when I told her I mentioned the Hodge to the interviewer, she all but bit my head off. "WHY did you tell her that? You didn't have to, you know!" she snapped. I explained that I was well aware of my rights and briefly went into my reasons why I mentioned it, which she cut off by basically telling me I had made myself a liability. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was Janet's third strike. The first was the entire first time I met her, essentially, and the second was telling me to go to Ann Taylor and not even Ann Taylor <i>Loft</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know where I'm going to end up. I just know where I'm <i>not </i>going to end up. So thanks for showing me that, Janet! Thanks for being awful and kindling a fire in me to work my tail off to find a job I can be proud of. Because I'm going to find one, and you're not going to get commission off of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that my rant is finished, I am going to help my mom put the final touches on her halloween costume and then probably enjoy a nice glass of wine. Cheers!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-53614346765046459202011-10-24T21:38:00.003-04:002011-10-24T21:41:35.075-04:00Some next level ish...<div>This is the kind of thing that always makes me wonder what aliens or people from the past would think if they were shown these videos. </div><div><br /></div><div>I.... don't even have any more words for this. </div><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WAXMtUCcp7o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UfcNoMnKjrY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>via <a href="http://gawker.com/5852885/the-awesome-halloween-light-show-youre-glad-isnt-on-your-block">Gawker</a></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-80992133012487060152011-10-19T11:31:00.002-04:002011-10-19T11:53:04.530-04:00The Biebs does Christmas<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LUjn3RpkcKY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div>It's pretty grey outside, kinda nippy, and I'm wearing fleece pajama pants with little skiing people on them, so we'll overlook the fact that it's October 19, and talk about Justin Bieber's Christmas song. I thought he'd give Mariah Carey a run for her money, but this is nowhere near the level of "All I Want for Christmas Is You." The best I can say about it is that it's understated, and we may actually be listening to Bieber's voice start to change. That particular event is about 5 years in the making, so it's quite exciting. </div><div><br /></div><div>One last thing before I put on a hoodie with no shirt or bra underneath like a creepy flasher to go to radiation---has anyone actually ever been kissed underneath mistletoe?? Is it just me who hasn't? Wait..don't answer that. </div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-85103516347413860352011-10-18T17:01:00.002-04:002011-10-18T17:06:03.602-04:00BustedEeeeee my awesome and hilarious friend Bridgette <a href="http://www.bust.com/blog/2011/10/18/writing-wigs-and-wisdom-talking-with-cancer-blogger-kt-kieltyka.html">interviewed me for Bust Magazine's site</a>. It made my mom cry, which actually, come to think of it, doesn't say much about it, because my mom has cried at every single entry she's ever read. Literally every one.Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4416177485032167512.post-64504849184747109622011-10-18T11:32:00.004-04:002011-10-18T11:48:44.789-04:00OKStupid<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj9drRma_Z0OYxMwxUdORV1L2CciujY-XtJjmEs5r29o0mcVchPgkKzvFXMmt2LgrhrVaA9cHKy05PweGB23IBcJwGNCKvrJ4jXsZmOglxOL3ZX2Q-iAU_cConhMs_hJgULTtYR_RMp0/s1600/13174923039732364618.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>I accidentally (and by accidentally I mean "while a little tipsy from a glass of wine last Saturday night") re-activated my OKCupid account, and the site won't let me delete it for a full week! It's like reading something I signed in someone's yearbook in sixth grade. (What's ^? Tech Ed was soo weird. KIT" followed by my landline.) <div><br /></div><div>I'm getting messages from people being like "Hey, I like your photo! You sound neat! blahblah" and I want to write back and be like, "Oh sorry, the person you're reading about literally does not exist anymore. But maybe you'd like Kt 2.0?"</div><div><br /></div><div>This was my main photo. WHO IS THAT. Also...the hand on the chin? Really? </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj9drRma_Z0OYxMwxUdORV1L2CciujY-XtJjmEs5r29o0mcVchPgkKzvFXMmt2LgrhrVaA9cHKy05PweGB23IBcJwGNCKvrJ4jXsZmOglxOL3ZX2Q-iAU_cConhMs_hJgULTtYR_RMp0/s200/13174923039732364618.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664859463313438146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to another musing--Jenna and I were discussing whether or not the Hodge is first date material once I "get out there" again (makes the dating scene sound like an arena.) Do I sneak it in? Like,"I went to college at SUNY New Paltz, I love Robyn, and I actually just had cancer a little bit ago. What's your favorite food?" I'm really not good at keeping my own secrets, and I don't really want to treat the Hodge like a secret anyway, but I could imagine it being awkward. I actually went on a date during chemo, but the guy knew I had cancer beforehand. Imagine dropping THAT bomb if he didn't? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katrina Kieltykahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09007312983408443331noreply@blogger.com0