What the ...?

I’m troubled, y’all.

While plotting a methodic zigzag course through my local grocery store recently, I happened down the baby care aisle (not somewhere you’ll usually find me). It’s cute in there, you know – little bottles of food, gurgly babies on all the merchandise, smells kind of good.

But then my eyes fell upon this little oddity:



Wh-what? What is this? What is this used for? WHY DID THEY NAME IT THAT?!

How about salve? Or ointment? Or balm or cream or liniment? Not Butt Paste. Never Butt Paste.

Want to become even more horrified? They sell it in quantities that range from little two-ounce tubes all the way to ONE-POUND TUBS. That’s a lot of butts, you guys.

After further research, I’ve discovered that you can also purchase aforementioned paste in a gift pack of sorts that comes complete with a bib and bobble head doll. Observe:



That’s the stuff of nightmares.

I’m hoping my Mom Friends (as I like to call them) can shed a little light on this subject. Otherwise, I shall continue with my assumption that this is some kind of voodoo magic cream that glues your child’s behind shut.

Works for me.

The Invasion of the Fluffy-Tailed Rats

There seems to be some kind of uprising in the Land of Squirrels.

Yes, I’m speaking about actual squirrels here, not some filthy euphemism (and shame on you for thinking that). They seem to have organized a front, their ultimate plan to slowly infiltrate every human household in America, nay, the world.

I say this because in recent months, there have been several squirrel-related attacks on my and my friends’ domiciles. Either we are irresistible to long-tailed rodents, or something sinister is afoot. To wit:

A year or so ago, I was awoken early on a Sunday morning by my then-boyfriend after a looong Saturday night. Grumbling irritably as he beckoned me into the living room, I was alarmed yet intrigued by a clump of gray-brown fur poking from betwixt the very top of the mini-blinds. Further inspection from outside revealed it to be a supremely terrified squirrel, face pressed against the glass, eyes wide and skittish. The boyfriend and I then formulated a plan:

Step 1 – Call local Animal Patrol. Apparently, a squirrel is not deemed a wild animal by their standards (?!), and therefore not within their jurisdiction. Status: Unsuccessful.
Step 2 – Gently lob balled-up socks at said gray-brown fur lump in hopes of dislodging it. Status: Unsuccessful.
Step 3 – Boyfriend dons Squirrel Catchin’ Gear, which in this case translates to the following: jeans tucked into work boots, a long-sleeved windbreaker zipped up to the neck, a motorcycle helmet (visor down), and a broom. Boyfriend then proceeds to herd squirrel out the front door whilst swearing fruitfully. I choose to hop around in my underwear and squeal. Status: Successful, but traumatic (for all of us, I’m sure).

And just yesterday, two of my friends stumbled upon a baby squirrel in their home, presumably hijacked by their cat Pearl. The little mite seemed relatively unharmed, so they contacted the proper authorities to find out how best to care for him until he could be whisked away to Promises: Squirrel Division.

The answer? Nestle him in a box with a sock full of microwaved Rice-a-Roni to keep him warm, and feed him Pedialyte from a syringe. I kid you not.

I think this is their new plan – send in their young to distract us. Can’t you just see the King of Squirrel Kingdom sitting atop his acorn-encrusted throne, thrusting a tiny, furry fist into the air to rally his rat-like troops? I can.

World domination, people. That’s what we’re up against here. Viva la resistance!

It Came from the '80s ...

A glorious thing has happened.

After several weeks of frenzied cleaning back at The Olde Homestead, my mom calls me recently with fascinating news.

“In the closet in your old room, I found that … big, pink, case thing … you know … Kit & Caboodle?”

“MY CABOODLES?!”

Oh, I said it, y’all. (P.S. They’re still around – who knew?)

Ladies (and maybe some of you fellas out there), remember your Caboodles from elementary, middle, and/or high school? You were nothing without a Caboodles when I was growing up, and it damn sure better have been bursting with the following:
- scrunchies of all colors and textures
- at least one “BE FRI” or “ST ENDS” necklace and/or bracelet
- hot pink Barbie lipstick
- a handwoven friendship bracelet

Mine was returned to me on Sunday and is a treasure trove of atrocious 80’s jewelry that A) I was thrilled beyond belief to see and B) I will be wearing most of in the coming months until the 80’s fashion resurgence sinks once more into the pits of hell.

Shall we take a walk down memory lane? Let’s. I am now the proud re-owner of:
- dangly globe earrings
- dangly mood earrings (flawed by being rendered permanently moody, but still wearable)
- plastic button earrings in red, yellow, green, and blue (I may or may not mix and match these)
- several pairs of silver earrings that are heavy enough to possibly cause me injury
- more brightly colored metal hoops than you can shake a stick at

I am currently festooned with teal zigzag hoops that I vividly remember loving to death in middle school. Yesterday, it was giant black circles approximately the size of poker chips. They also made my earlobes itch something fierce, so I may have the Hanta virus now. I’ll keep you posted.

Now please let me get back to my episode of Fraggle Rock.

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Welcome to Said It, Meant It, my blog about dating, relationships, friendships, careers, and generally anything else that gives me great woe or great bliss. You are now in the brain of Kathrin – let me hand you a pith helmet.

Who am I? No one special really; just a 27-year-old woman living in the sort-of South and working as a writer. I have no extraordinary insight into life as we know it, but the good Lord did bless me with a penchant for social commentary and a host of equally bitchy friends and loved ones. I can and will offer you an oft-barbed wit accompanied by (and possibly powered by) some cracks, splinters, and rips in My Filter.

You know The Filter. It’s that screen through which your brain pushes everything before it tumbles from your lips. Your Filter prevents you from going bad on other drivers for cutting you off when you catch up to them at stoplights or schooling the kid behind the counter at Burger King when he is incapable of making correct change.

In my normal, everyday life, My Filter is quite functional. For example, there is a cashier at my local grocery store who can barely bring himself to make eye contact with anyone and has never, not once responded to my chirpy “How are you doing today?” Perhaps I annoy him, and I can live with that. But have I ever retorted his silence with anything akin to “Look, I realize that you hate your job but it’s not my problem so smile at me, damn it”? Of course not.

But here, in the veiled semi-anonymity of the InterWeb, My Filter is off, and I will question many of life’s little curiosities, including (but not limited to) toe rings, water “with lemon,” and men who wear flavored lip balm.

I hope you enjoy my tirades and rampages, my pleas and introspections, and I hope they inspire you to inspect your own Filters for fractures and to embrace them with a resounding, slurpy smooch.