New Orleans Part I

19 Oct

So I went to New Orleans this past weekend.

I’m going to break it up into shorter posts, because I’d rather you focus on one thing at a time.

I knew all along that I was going to New Orleans. Ever since I bought a ticket. But it didn’t seem real to me until I realized that once I walked onto that blue and orange plane over there, I would step off of it.

In New Orleans.

Where Brian would be waiting in his golden chariot to escort me to his palace. And oh how we’d laugh and laugh and laugh and shrug our shoulders and sip warm drinks and go “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” or any drink for that matter (margaritas, it turned out). And we’d hold hands and skip and also fall and sing and dance and make late night mistakes. Whoops.

And that’s exactly what happened except when I walked off the plane, I was punched in the smile maker by the moldy smell that means “You’re about to be really really really happy for a few days and hopefully remember why later.”

I felt like I was home again. Felt very relaxed immediately. Felt like I’d been gone a month, not over a year. Felt like I needed to lock it up so I could spend more time awake, up, and about enjoying this amazing city rather than vomming during the day. Felt like I should be be eating more and drunk shopping less. Felt like I should start pounding bourbon and ginger ales and Abita Ambers and Purple Hazes and blueberry mojitos and vodka and any wine, white even! Felt like taking my pants off and running through the ghettos! (I have a rule to never take my top off, but pants are okay). Felt like I would soon wake up in a sea of empty bottles, cigarette butts, crack pipes, and to-go cups.

There’s something about being at Monkey Hill that makes me become the poster child for ‘Oops.’  Nope. Scratch that. Not just Monkey Hill. Any bar in New Orleans.

At one point, I tried to say that I talk a lot. Instead, I said “I’ve never been the kinda girl who’s kept her mouth not open.” Because that’s the best way I could think of saying that?

My friend Matt heard through a friend that I was in town and currently at Monkey Hill. It didn’t take him long to find me because when he walked in the door I was the only person standing on the bar. Dancing to a song that I hardly even knew.

Most people recognized me but my hair being a different color really threw some people off.

My friend who got married’s father definitely knows me. I lived with his daughter for 3 years and spent time in his home. I walked up excitedly to him and his wife to say hello after the ceremony, and as his wife is like “Heeyyy!!!!” he’s like “Oh hiii there..?”

So had to do what I hate most, which is say, Hi it’s me Kate. Remember??

Then obviously his eyes widen as he realizes who I am, and exclaims,

“Wow! Kate?! Kate! You look just fantastic! Did you lose weight? Wow, what like 20, 30 pounds?!”

To which his wife responds, “No! She dyed her hair!”


Naturally as the night progressed and story was added to, it became 50, 75, 100, 150 pounds and I became the mopey roommate who blossomed after college, leaving her overweight life behind and learning all the splendors there are in life when you’re thin. (Note: I’ve never been overweight, except when I was in 5th grade and hit rock bottom as a juiceaholic and butter eater. And once my mom called me blown up like Jessica Simpson. But that’s it.)

To be continued…


Is This Real Life? Because If It Is… Yikes.

6 Oct

Oops. I got busy.

I don’t know if you remember this, but at some point I mentioned that I believe television characters are real friends of mine. (Southpark characters in ’07, The Office characters in ’08).

Just now I thought real quick of something funny to write about that had happened to me in last million years since I posted anything, and the only things that came to mind, were those things that happened to my friends in New York, Jerry, Elaine, George, and Kramer. And also that thing where someone from Letterman accidentally called me and asked me to audition for stand up. But that’s another thing. Hold your horses.

Season 5 of Seinfeld is really good. Really really good.

The first episode is about faking orgasms so naturally I loved that one. There is one scene later on in the season where Kramer is a stand in for a soap star, and the voice he makes… I can’t help but crack up each time (5 times and counting) I watch it. Whatever I’m already over trying to tell you funny stories from 1994. TV, 1994.

I can’t say too much, but let’s just say someone I work with is working with Julia Louis-Dreyfus on her new show VEEP and I may or may not have a copy of the first few episodes.

And I haven’t even read them yet.

I know, I know.

But I mostly just can’t bear to read a script if the name “Kate Holly” isn’t listed as an actor on it.

I keep having really close calls with being instantly famous (hahahha not close at all).

The other night I was having sushi by myself, pretending to watch baseball and realizing that some players are really hot and other are really old and wear necklaces? when the man sitting next to me, also alone, started chatting with me.

He used the most obvious lead in, ‘Is that your natural hair color?’ as I stuffed a too-big sushi roll halfway down my throat before I could get a chew in.

Choking down the thread of sushi paper and crunchy shrimp tail, oops, I eventually responded with my usual response.


Long my-life-story short, after blabbing about how I’m hilarious yet not actually being funny at all, he tells me he’s a writer/director for comedies.

Again, I don’t want to get into details, you never know how many writer/directors in Hollywood are reading this, but I’m pretty sure I could get a job out of him, as long as there was raw talent and sex involved. Which I don’t want to do. Not not have sex, but with him.

Then, the worst thing of all happened.

My dreams came true. And then I watched them slip through my hands and die.

I work at an agency. Not for actors.

I answer a call, from a friend, I’m assuming, because they say,

‘Hello, do you have any stand up comics.’

to which I respond,

‘Ha, just one!’

you know, because they’re obviously talking about me, this friend of mine who’s voice I don’t recognize.

‘Just one really funny one?!’

my friend says, in on the joke too.

‘Great, because we’re holding a private audition for stand ups to be featured on Letterman and then be a part of an exclusive workshop for stand ups.’



This is real.

What do I do.

This is it.

My moment.

‘Ohhhh. Hahaha. You’re gonna laugh…. I thought you were a friend of mine…’

You can still save it Kate! Tell her how funny but I’m hilarious and would love to audition!

‘We don’t represent actors… Sorry!”


So now I hate myself.

And then after work I got drunk and then also went running after getting drunk, because, no better time to make your heart race than when your blood is thinned out and you’re automatically short of breath.

Something is going to happen soon. Something….


August 17, 2011

18 Aug

I had a day yesterday.

An I Love Lucy day.

I woke up, refreshed my red hair from the night before, did my makeup in the car, and arrived early to work.

At 6:00pm, I left the office to meet a friend for dinner.

You know that super cheesy Lionel Richie song, most lately famous for being the song that Steve Carrell’s character uses as the backdrop to his very first masturbation in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin?”

Hello… Is it me you’re looking for? I can see it in your eyes… I can see it in your smile… You’re all I’ve ever wanted, (and) my arms are open wide, and I want to tell you so much…

… I love you …

Well, that song played seven times in a row. At a sushi restaurant. Where during our apparent romantic dinner, an agent overenthusiastically convinced her new hot actor client that he was going to be the next, as I said: George Clooney, as my hot date said: Colin Farrell. He was not this good looking, and the agent was that annoying.

So we wrapped up dinner – I had to skiddaddle to get to a Cardio Barre class and still had to go all the way home to change, turn right back around and pretty much go right back to where I just was.

Realizing that I have physical therapy the next day, I decide that I must do laundry after the class because, well, my athletic clothes were all dirty and smelled that way.

I took off my pants, and decided on no underwear, to really get the full use out of the Laundromat – let no underwear go uncleaned!

I put on a pair of leggings that I hadn’t worn in a while, threw all my dirty clothes into my handy-dandy laundry travel bag, and rushed out the door to make the class.

For some unfortunate reason there was too much traffic on my usually normal jaunt over to Hollywood so I was antsy and annoyed. 25 minutes later, I finally make it to Wilcox, park, grab my yoga mat, and rush in to the class. They swipe my class card, and I find a spot on the floor.

Chuck off my shoes, put my bag on the wall, and join the class, relieved and excited to get this workout in. I always love doing this class because it focuses on the core and is mainly dance/ballet-oriented movements, so I can relive my dancing days of the past…

I roll my head around, stretching my neck and begin the class. Following the instructor’s commands, I step my legs far apart to either side of me, and plie, squat, if you will.

As I look through my legs, squatting with them wide apart, I see my vagina.

There is a gaping hole in my pants. And there is no underwear to shield what lies beneath.

I stared at it, laughed with a big HA! and walked into the bathroom with a huge smile on my face, like, can you believe that?!

In any other circumstance, I would have been like, HA! LOL and continued on with my business, but in a class where the main focus is basically opening your legs and stretching, vagina facing the whole class from any angle, it was a no go. Even I couldn’t do it.

I particularly enjoyed the moment where I walked up to the front desk and asked them if I could get the class back on my card, as I had a hole in my pants and no underwear on.

The owner slyly whispered to me, I don’t wear underwear when I work out either… Although this is a new one… While the other two girls stared at me like I was an alien.

So I giggled my way to my car and drove to the Laundromat in which I threw my brand-new York peppermint patty on the floor the minute I forcibly opened it. Only to pick it up, look around to see that no one saw, and ate it.

What Nancy Thinks I’m Like

25 Jul

Yesterday, Nancy was about to take her dog for a run and since I couldn’t go (will explain this later), I said,

“I’ll just walk down to Whole Foods to get some broccoli for dinner. Ha. I’ll probably secretly get a cake and eat it before you get home.”

To which she looks at me and says,

“Kate, you sound like a fat kid in a–….”

and then looked the length of my body up and down, and then shut her mouth.

“In what, a fat kids body? I sound like a fat kid in a fat kid’s body?! Thanks Nance.”

And then we laughed. Apparently I’m not physically ready to be called ‘thin’ or ‘skinny.’

But she says I’m not fat anymore. So. At least I’ve got that.

Ball Ass Rolling

16 Jun

Yeah you wanna know what that’s all about, don’t you?

It’s about Jim.

In high school I was on the dance team and every other year ripped one of my hamstrings, up where it connects in your butt. Splits, high kicks, and leaps will do that to you.

I used to have to bring a pillow to class to sit on, but that was before I just started bringing my own foldy camping chair to every class. God bless Lincoln High School, and Portland, Oregon for that matter.

So since I’ve been seeing Jim and Walker and Forest and C. Barre, (I know. I’m a player. But I just get bored so easily I need to switch it up every day) my ‘strings are all messed up again and hurtin.’

Hurtin’ real bad.

After my session with Jim and before Walker last night, I sat down on a hard weight ball, and rolled my ass and back thigh around on it.

I learned this from my physical therapist in high school.

I also learned that ultrasounds feel fantastic on your muscles, and that frozen cups of ice rubbed on your ass until it’s all melted DOESN’T.

Anyways, I found myself telling my gal pal about my ball ass rolling and felt that that would be an amazing title to, well, anything.  But I used it for a blog post.

By the way, all the guys I’m dating are forms of exercise.

That came out wrong.

I’m using Personification, ok. Putting human qualities in, well, types of exercise. So it’s a version of personification, alright.  Jim is gym, Walker is walking, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!

My dad can finally let out the breath he’s holding reading this. Don’t worry dad! Still as single as you can get!!

Wah Wah Wahhh….

15 Jun

Okay, okay, I know, ugh.

You trusted me and I wasn’t there.

I’ve just been really busy with my new boyfriend, Jim (read: gym).

He’s just really needy and clingy and when I get off work I have to go spend at least and hour with him or I feel really guilty. So because I’ve been spending so much time with Jim, I haven’t been experiencing too much life to turn around and make fun of the next day…

But for the last two nights I’ve watched I Love You, Man. And, I love it, man.

There are all these behind the scenes and how it’s made special features that had me cracking up loudly while I laid in bed alone.

And then I got really frustrated and depressed that I’m not improving on set, or anywhere, except in real life, audienceless.

Oh well, that won’t get me anywhere! Once my relationship with Jim pays off and I’m dangerously thin (I wish), I’ll have saved enough monies to pay for acting classes.

K I’m bored already/again.



3 Jun

I’ve just not been in the mood to do this lately. Just wanted to let you know that I haven’t forgotten about this, I still love it, but in a relationship with exercise and dieting right now and they’re very needy. Plus I finished my SNL writing class at iO West and my first priority is to polish that packet and make it ready for sending out into the writing world.  I’ll post some here when they’re ready for the world!

In other news, I’m sick, because that’s what happens when you work out and eat healthy, right?

Write for you soon,


Some Things Never Change…

17 May

Little Girl Plays with Dead Squirrel

17 May

This just straight up reminds me of my childhood. Not that there is a video of me floating around anywhere playing with a dead squirrel, but guaranteed there are several videos of my sisters and I playing with dead animals or doing something disgusting. In fact, Rikki and I used to play dung frisbee with the dried up disks of cow shit we used to find in the hills of San Luis Obispo, right off Corrida Avenue.  Nancy loves reminding me of the time that I “wrote a note to the bum who lives here to come back at 8pm so I can give him more pants and a blanket.”

‘Here’ being the park bench near our house.  Apparently I had found a pair of disgusting old pants on the bench and decided that he needed more. I was most likely going to just help myself to my dad’s pants.

Happy My Birthday – A Confession…

12 May

Hello everyone. Happy My Birthday.

The year was 2000. The age, turning 14.

My partner in crime: Caroline.

The scene: probably somewhere at Caroline’s house, I usually was there.

When you are a 13 year old girl, you are absolutely bizarre. You are boy obsessed, and I mean to the point of it being unhealthy, and you think you can do anything.

So there we were, a couple of insane middle school girls, talking about the most exciting thing: boys, birthday parties, and ourselves.

I told Carol, that’s what I call her because it’s SO not her, how much fun a surprise birthday party would be. My birthday was coming up so we were trying to figure out what we should do. When you’re in middle school the only awesome thing that happens are dances and parties. All you look forward to is getting dressed up in your finest glitter outfits, twist your hair into butterfly clips, wear platform foam flip flops and light purple eyeshadow with no eyeliner. This was all to impress each other, Look at my enormous B cup boobs girls, did you get your period yet, because I obviously did, and the boys, ohhh the boys. How badly we wanted to slow dance to Stairway to Heaven with our crush, to be in their balled up, sweaty hands for 7 minutes…

Anyways, a surprise party.

It started out innocently enough.

I just mentioned that a surprise party would be amazing.

One thing lead to another and we came up with a guest list together, if I were to be surprised with one.

Then it got bad. Really bad. We took it from hypothetical, to very very real.

It started as two girls giggling on a bed with boys and dancing on their minds, saying “what if?!” to a cold, hard reality.

After I was heavily involved with the guest list, we decided when the best day would be. And that’s when it spiraled out of control.

I made the invitations, and Caroline mailed them out.

And the ball was set in motion.

The day of my birthday party, my two very amazing friends, Sam and Michelle, took me shopping to this new amazing boutique, Forever 21, that had recently opened in Pioneer Place Mall. They picked me up at my front door, having no idea that I had just spent two days decorating my basement for my surprise birthday party.

We went to Forever 21 and I was immediately on the lookout for my perfect surprise party outfit: a green camo mini skirt and a slinky green top. I paid for it and left the store wearing it.

Sam and Michelle must have thought, Well that was easy?

You guys, I can’t even… WHAT WERE WE THINKING!? Who helps throw themselves a surprise party!?

And obviously my parents were in on all of it, so they must have thought I was insane, which I was.

I even burned all the mix CDs to dance to…

Caroline remembers making sure everyone that was hiding downstairs remained as absolutely quiet and still as possible “Like it mattered!” she says, as they waited quietly in the dark for me to stumble upon a party in my basement.

I have always been dramatic. Not when it comes to relationships, or friendships, or things that really matter, but when it comes to being theatrical. I’ve always loved that performance high, even in daily life. Back then I just hadn’t learned how to control it and when it was incredibly innappropriate. Incredibly inappropriate to plan your own surprise party.

To quote Jenna from 30 Rock: I know the Tony rules because I’ve been petitioning for them to add a category for living theatrically in normal life.

I know my friends from middle school/high school are reading this, remembering being at the party, and thinking that I am some crazy selfish bitch.

To you lovely people who I still love today, 13-going-on-14 Kate was definitely crazy. Caroline and I realized early on that we were going over the top, and made a vow to never tell anyone until our senior year of high school, when we would tell our lovely Sam and Michelle what we did… and no one else.

Senior year came and went and we still didn’t have the nerve to tell them. It was only Freshman year of college when we were visiting Caroline at U of O did we get drunk and spill our secret. And even 5 years later they were pissed. And rightly so!

I don’t remember the actual party much. I just remember all the planning that went into my surprise birthday party, that ended up feeling like I was surprising everyone else, I was the one keeping the secret.

One of my friends, during the party, said they thought that I’d found out after walking up to people holding invitations at lunch.

Nope, I found out when I planned it.