The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Katie!

All day I’ve been thinking about how my last entry would have been funnier if I’d written it in a timeline. Like this:

1975 Dark, wispy, and newborn.

1980 Cut Off, Unbeknownst To Me, in the Pre-Emptive Strike Against Kindergarden Lice Incident.

1982 Bangs.

1985 Austrian rock singer Falco records…ROCK ME AMADEUS!

And so forth. Wouldn’t that have been better? Yes it would.

Well, in more hair news, I have to report that I have it in pigtails right this minute, and I still look a little bit like a spaniel. A generally friendly, person-sized spaniel with opposable thumbs, but a spaniel nonetheless. This would be an optimal time for a digital picture, wouldn’t it? Well, Christmas is coming up. You know what to do. Also in hair news, the new hair looks fine without all that product Zan put in it, but looks much…and I can’t stress this enough…much better with it in. But what am I supposed to do here, get up three hours early so I can mangle some leave-in conditioner in there? If it can’t be accomplished by water, some Herbal Orgasms and a comb, I’m having nothing to do with it. Sigh. Seriously, though, it looked so sassy. I can’t even tell you.

But the real reason I’m writing this entry has nothing to do with my hair, oddly enough. The real reason has to do with a new amusement I’ve discovered, and that is to have a friend named Katie and be over at her house one evening, say, last Saturday night, and sit on the floor playing with some puzzle pieces and just generally acting like a fool and then to look up suddenly and break out into song, much like in a musical: “I love you Kaaaaaaaatie, and if it’s quite all right I need you Kaaaaaatie la la la la la la la la la Kaaaaaaaatie, something something, something else….oh pretty KAAAAAATIE, la la la la la la la, something else KAAAAAAATIE, la la la la la…” Discover, to your glee, that Katie is an excellent name because it fits seamlessly into almost any song. Brief experimentation has proven, sadly, that if your name is Chiara, or Treasa or John or Ian, you are out of luck. But if your name is Katie, well then! You will be treated to the abovementioned people singing all sorts of songs with your name cleverly inserted in appropriate junctures. Over and over and over again. You will try to distract them with actual conversation about actual issues, but it will be fruitless.
To wit:

“Straight up now Katie is it going to be you and me together (oh oh oh) or am I caught in a hit and run?”

“But now! There’s noooooowhere to hide, Katie pushed my love asiiiiide! I’m out of my head, hopelessly deVOted to Kaaaaaatie, hopelessly devoted to Kaaattie…”

“Her name is Katie and she dances on the sand! Oh Katie Katie Katie, Katie, Katie, Rio Grande!”

“Katie, the two of us need look no moooore! We both found what we are looking for!”

See? I’m telling you, fun for the whole family. This is yet another entry into my “Proof You Don’t Need To Actually Drink Alcohol to Act Like A Drunkish Person” file. I’m talking that when I went home that night, I had a sore throat and I was all lying awake in bed thinking up more songs into which I could fit Katie’s name.

“I’ve got two tickets to Iron Katie, baby, come with me Friday don’t say maybe, I’m just a Teenage Katie, baby, like you. Oooooooooooh!”

“If you want to destroy my Katie! Hold this thread as I walk away!”

“In the ciiiiitaaaayyyyy! City of Katie!”

Hoo, boy. I’m done now. That was my weekend. I spent not a little of it making up stupid songs. Not so unusual, really. I leave all the glamor, the cool clothes and the trendy nightspots (that’s going to be the name of my band, by the way: “The Trendy Nightspots.” ) and the drunken confessions of love and the tight shiny shirts, all of that, to you. I’ll be sitting on the floor, trying not to upset my root beer float, singing the silly songs at the top of my lungs.

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