Speak For Yourself!

I have always had a difficult time complaining about a service. At a restaurant: “I asked for medium and I think this is a little rarrr….you know what? It’s fine. Never mind” and then I don’t eat it. Getting my make-up done: “It’s beautiful. I love it” and then I wash my face. Having my house cleaned: “It looks great. Thank you so much” and then I clean everything myself (note: I’m fully aware I should be cleaning my house myself anyway but every once in a while I treat myself to a professional.) I feel as though a service, even if you pay for it, is like a gift and I don’t want to make the giver feel bad. How often have we received a present we hate but pretend to love it. You don’t look at the person and say, ”Wow….I really hate this.” It’s also partly because I think I’m not very strong about communicating what it is I want because I don’t like to seem demanding. And I know exactly when it started.

All I wanted when I was 9 years old was to have the Debbie Gibson “windblown” haircut that was on the cover of her “Electric Youth” album. I found an advertisement for the album in a magazine and promptly tore it out and showed my mom. Two days later, I was sitting in Fantastic Sam’s ready to be beautified. When they called my name to go to the chair, I handed the photo to my mom and asked her to show it to the lady. “You’re a big girl,” she said. “You’re perfectly capable of telling her what you want.” Sheepishly, I handed her the picture and half-pointed at Debbie. She took it, looked back at me and said, “Are you sure this is what you want?”. I looked at my mom who gave me the ‘why are you looking at me?” look, and nodded my head at the woman.

I managed some idle chit chat about the happenings of the fourth grade and watched the hair fall. I was so excited about the prize I was going to get when I put all the fallen hair in the Fantastic Sam magic box, I stopped paying attention to what was happening. It wasn't looking quite like the picture but I hadn’t been styled yet. There was a moment, however, when I realized that something had gone horribly wrong. My excitement soon turned into a nervous stomach as I began to piece together what was going down. I looked again at the picture on my lap. Next to the advertisement for “Electric Youth” was also an advertisement for “Married With Children”. The hairdresser wheeled me around for the grand unveiling, and staring back at me in the mirror was a 9-year old version of Peg Bundy.

My mother’s eyes were wide in amazement (and amusement) as I was escorted back to her. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked. I nodded, trying to hold back the tears. “You’re sure?” she reinforced, giving me the chance to fix it. I pulled it together and said to the nice lady, “Thank you very much. It’s just what I wanted.” And proceeded to cry the entire car ride home. My sweet mother, who was trying to be sympathetic, couldn’t stop laughing at me. “Well Kate,” she said, “I guess you just need to be a little clearer about what you want.” Hearing her retell the story to my dad through fits of giggles didn't make it any better. But then she combed it out and put a headband in and I began to look somewhat normal again. And then Dad took me to Colonial Café for a sundae and all was well in the world. While I still have issues to this day expressing my dissatisfaction, that was the day I discovered that a bad haircut isn't going to kill you and that ice cream truly does make everything better.

Home For the Holidays!!!!

Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

Except for my dad turning my heat back down to 65 degrees.

We’ve been going back and forth since yesterday. I realize I’m in Los Angeles but my house gets chilly so if I’m going to turn on the heat – I’m going to turn on the heat; a reasonable 78 degrees.  65 degrees is not heat.

Air conditioning and heat were always a hot commodity in our house. Spring was about the only time of year I didn’t hear my dad yelling, “Shut the door!” morning, noon, and night. Summer was especially stressful with all of us running in and out of the house with all the neighbor kids. Not only did his “Shut the door”s increase ten-fold, he had to keep up with the “Take off your shoes!”, “Slow down ya little rugrats” and“Is that water in my house?!” It’s no wonder my dad always walks around with a look on his face like something is about to break.

So when I woke up this morning freezing and saw that he had snuck out in the middle of the night and turned it down yet again, I calmly explained to him that I’d rather have the heat off entirely than down that low. He didn’t seem to be listening as he was too busy inspecting the locks on my windows and responded by giving me a lecture about how many candles I had around my house and what a danger it was.

My mother used to read us a children’s book when we were younger called, “I Love You Forever”. The mother would say to her son at various stages in his life (birth, being sent to school, graduation, wedding day):

I love you forever

I like you for always

As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

This book culminates with the son rephrasing this to his mother on her deathbed but instead of saying 'baby' says 'mommy'. Touching, though a little creepy when you’re 4. But I think this a good bedtime story for grown adults who aren’t used to having their parents visit them during the holidays. Because no matter how old we get, we are always our parents’ children.

As he put on his shoes to go check the oil in my car which I had told him was fine no less than 20 times, I asked:

“Am I old enough yet to say ‘my house, my rules?”

Without hesitation or even looking my direction he replied, “Nope” and walked out the door.

Ahhhh, Merry Christmas Daddy. I hope I’m never too old to call you Daddy.

You Need To Be Held Accountable For Your Actions

Funny thing happened yesterday. I got pulled over.

The first time I ever got pulled over I was driving home from Champaign, Il to Downers Grove and made the mistake of listening to Journey on the 55. I got so lost in Steve Perry's titillating voice I was apparently going 90 miles an hour. As if the ticket wasn't bad enough I was then accused of being high because I hadn't noticed that the t-shirt I had grabbed off the floor actually belonged to my boyfriend and had a big marijuana leaf plastered across the front. Right underneath it said "Phour-Twenty". Having never done a drug in my life, I swore on everyone's grave and their mother's that I had no idea what that meant. It was the truth. When he threatened to take my license I cried and begged him not to as the reason I was speeding was that I was trying to catch a flight to Mexico. This did not help my case. Somehow he let me go and I had my day in court. Pleaded one hundred percent guilty and learned my lesson. You don't speed.

The second time was about 3 months ago. In the midst of moving, I had lost some mail and also my reminder to renew my registration on my car. I also might have blown through a crosswalk right next to the kind police officer's car who decided to let that part slide. I hadn't been pulled over in almost 12 years and I was so nervous - I just starting throwing everything in my glove compartment at him hoping it was whatever he was asking for. "No ma'am I do not need a map of California or a receipt from your last oil change. Just your insurance." I learned my lesson. It is my responsibility to remember to renew my registration, not the city's.

I received a $35  ticket in the mail and was asked to send it back with proof of registration. Only problem was I hadn't received my new sticker and the ticket was due in 30 days. I called the DMV and found out there was nothing I could do to expedite the process. I called the courthouse and was never able to reach a human being. So, being the naive person that I am, sent my check with a nice little note that read:

Dear Courthouse,
I haven't received my new registration in the mail but I didn't want to be late in paying my ticket. I'll send it off as soon as it comes. Let me know if you need anything else!


I might as well have sprayed it with perfume. Imagine my shock when I opened up a letter back from them 2 weeks ago with a $900 ticket!!!!! This just wasn't right. I hadn't ignored it! I tried to rectify the situation, granted my approach was that of a 9 year old. So I called and called and tried to bypass voicemails and robots and left messages for anyone who would listen and decided my only option was to schedule a court date. I was not backing down on this.

Which brings us back to yesterday. Officer Alvarez was finishing up writing my warning for yet another traffic rule I was unaware of (different day/different blog) and I said "Hey, can I ask you a question?" and proceeded to tell her my story.

"Yeah," she laughed. "I noticed when I ran your license that there's a warrant."
I froze. "A warrant?" She nodded.
"Like for my arrest?"
She chuckled again. "Well technically, yes."
"Who would want to arrest me?" Now I was laughing. "I pay all my parking tickets! I don't do drugs! I don't rob banks! I vote! I serve jury duty! "
I was rambling on and on about how I never break the law and how much I respect those in her position and what a responsible person I tried to be as Officer Alvarez was doubled over in hysterics at my window. I was also laughing and crying. Mostly because her fly had been down this entire conversation and I had been debating whether or not to tell her but now I was afraid she was going to arrest me.
"So I'm like....wanted?!?!" I asked her with wide eyes.

After we both finally caught our breath, she gave me some helpful, though still very unclear, advice as to what I could do. She was pretty much telling me to pay it. I drove away feeling like a woman on the run. But I learned my lesson. That my parents raised a moron. And a good citizen.

So please realize that if you hear I've been arrested it is purely because of principle. And also partly because I'm confused as to how the system works and not used to being in trouble with the law. I will and have paid tickets that I accept responsibility for. But if I went out of my way to do the right thing and feel it is unfair....well, that deserves a little bit of a fight, no? But like mom used to say, "Well, sometimes life isn't fair Kate." We shall see.

To Be Continued....

Best. Birthday. Ever.

November 29, 1984

I woke up on the morning of my 6th birthday, smart enough to know I probably wouldn't be getting the circus in my backyard that I had wished for, but still naive enough to think it just might happen. What I was really hoping for, more than the circus even, was the brand new stuffed Care Bear that had just come out. The only thing I cared about was Care Bears. Big, miniature, stuffed, posable, cartoons - you name it. I wanted to live in the Forest of Feelings and Care-A-Lot and roll around on big puffy clouds with them. I was sick.

Literally. Sick. The previous year I had been hospitalized with Reye's Syndrome. I had spent half the year out of school, hence why I'm a year older than most I graduated with. I had to repeat kindergarten. Sounds kinda funny when you first hear it, right? But it was scary and Care Bears got me through it. The nurses would watch as I had the Care Bears reenact the soap operas that played on the tv. After 8 am, that was pretty much all that was on all day and it helped my mom pass the time as she worriedly stayed glued to my bedside. I think my dad even got a little hooked. I would escape into their world and forget the stark white hospital bed I was stuck in and the needles in my arms and the yucky tasting medicine and the horrible bananas they made me eat with every meal. Instead, I was in Care-A-Lot.

Deep down, I think this was a special birthday for my parents as there was probably a time where they weren't sure it I'd make it to 6. As I walked down the stairs for my annual birthday breakfast of ice cream waffles, I couldn't believe what I saw in my living room. It was better than a circus. It was Care-A-Lot. A huge Care Bear tent was perched on the floor. All my favorite bears were all over it floating on clouds and inside was my heaven. Every stuffed Care Bear I didn't own yet ( and there were a lot considering I only had 2 at that point) was lined up inside, ready for their Care Bear stare and looking at me like I was their new best friend. And I was. It was one of the first moments I remember thinking that wishes do come true.

But I also knew my parents were up to something. I heard mom and dad talking about money from time to time and I knew we weren't rich. This must have cost them at least a million dollars. There was no way. I started noticing subtle differences in my bears. First off, the new ones didn't have any kind of tag. They were also slightly bigger. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was just something different about 'em. Kind of like when you know a set of identical twins and one's just slightly more attractive but you can't really pinpoint why. I don't remember the exact moment I realized it but when I figured out that my mother had spent months hand sewing every last one of those bears to look like the real thing (or pretty darn close), I also had one of my first moments of realizing what it meant to love someone. And I've never loved anything or anyone more.

If A Guy Pulls Your Hair, It Means He Likes You...(or there's actually no underlying meaning at all and they just feel like being annoying and girls are just over-analytical)

I've always liked boys. Even when I was little. This will never change. I wasn't a tomboy - I might be one of the clumsiest most uncoordinated athletes there is, hence, choosing a life of theatre and writing. Although I was a pretty big girl when I was young and could wrestle just about anyone under the age of ten to the ground so I was always the first choice in a solid game of Red Rover. I also didn't mind getting dirty and still don't to this day (proven by the sweat pants I'm wearing right now for the fourth day in a row....I think that spot might be spaghetti sauce). I liked girls too. I've always had a tight group of girlfriends. I loved sleepovers, wearing make-up and talking (obsessing, whatever) until the wee hours of the morning. But I've always had a very strong relationship with boyfriends. Not boyfriends. Boy. Friends.

My first boyfriends were Danny and Mikey. They were my mom's best friend's sons and so we would always be creating some sort of mischievous game or playing ghost in the graveyard, cops and robbers, or....doctor (just kidding about that last one). Danny and I were such good friends I actually peed in my pants for the first time in front of him and not because I was laughing. It was because we were watching "Double Dare" and I could not tear myself away form the TV. To this day he won't let me forget the helplessness he felt as it all went down. Poor Danny. I think I scarred him for life. Throughout my schoolgirl years there was Peter and Tony and Nate and Jeremy and John and Andy ...and then there was college....and then there was my point.

My first day of college I met Jonathan. We were set up on a blind date and I thought he was obnoxious. That's a frat boy for ya. Then we became buds, going through the theatre department together and were thrilled to find out we'd be moving to LA together. The first couple of years in a new city as adults were great fun. I had my other guy friends in Cali like Gabe and Oakes  and Brock - but it was Sadowski (or as others would and will call him, Jonathan) who became my roommate for four years and in time - my brother. And today is his birthday.

See, girlfriends will hold you when you cry. Guy friends will hold you - and then smack some bloody sense into you. They will listen to your problems and then respond back with ten million reasons why you should feel ridiculous for thinking it's a "problem". When you have a bad day, they will make you watch a marathon of "Intervention" to make you feel better about your life (and if you feel fat "Man vs Food). They will hear you gab about the new boy you're in love with and then break his face when he breaks you're heart. You will ask them what is wrong and they will ask you to make them a sandwich. When someone is jealous, they will be your biggest fan. And when you start to get down on yourself and start to think that everything is wrong with you, they will be sure to give you a power point presentation on ways in which you could improve how you react to situations to not seem so crazy. Okay, maybe the last one is just a Killacky/Sadowski thing. But there's no doubt that these are the reasons I cherish our friendship. When I hear people say guys and girls can't really be friends, I am dumbfounded because he has been, without a doubt, the best friend a gal could ever have. And no, it will not culminate in some cute little 'When Harry Met Sally' love story. I don't think I could ever end up marrying someone I peed my pants in front of:) Yes, it happened twice in my life. But the this time, it was because he made me laugh.

And You Thought Your Parents Were Embarrassing?

This is not a joke. My father actually wrote this letter to Oprah. What blows my mind even more is that he forwarded it on to me thinking I'd be thrilled.

Dear Oprah,

Alert ! Katie Killacky considers a return to Chicago!!

My daughter, Katie Killacky, is a theatre graduate of the University of Illinois Champaign. She has been living in Los Angeles for the past 8 years. She is a former Miss Southern California and a runner-up for Miss Illinois in the Miss America pageant. She has done acting, modeling, commercials, game shows. She currently works for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. She is still single and I (dad) want her to meet a great guy who lives in the midwest. Katie is considering returning to Chicago to restart her theatre career. I would like Katie to be a guest on your Chicago television show and have her seek advice from Oprah on whether to move back home to CHICAGOPRAH!

Thank you for your consideration in this matter,

Keith Killacky

Downers Grove, Il.

Katie writes a blog:

You're Ruining My Life!!! (and other things I wish I hadn't said to my mother)

Now that I'm in my thirties, I'm beginning to realize that all those times I thought my mother was trying to ruin my life, she was really just trying to stop me from doing a fine job of ruining it all on my own.

My followup email to Oprah:


Dear Oprah ( or underpaid production assistant probably reading this insanity as I doubt Oprah has the time),


I wish I had really good excuse like "my father is suffering from early stages of dementia" or "I lost a bet" or "my dad's a drunk". Unfortunately, this is just the sort of thing my father does and has done my entire life. I realize that every accolade he stated happened about ten years ago and that there are only 23 followers on my blog he mentioned, but my cross to bare is that my dear father thinks everything I do is gold.


While I'm completely aware that an Oprah episode based around my potential move to Chicago, and apparent "still single" status, would not take up an hour show or even a 45 second blurb, I think it's adorable that he finds me that wildly entertaining. Deep down, I think it's he who wants to be on your show so if you happen to run a segment anytime in the near future on overbearing stage dads who are desperate to get their daughters married off, know that he would make an ideal guest.


On a side note, while this sort of thing used to embarrass me growing up, I now find myself feeling pretty lucky that he thinks I'm that great. He's pretty great himself.


Warmly,


Katie


My follow up email to my dad:


Dear Dad (or whichever one of your 8 crazy personalties I should be addressing at this moment),


If it walks like a lunatic and talks like a lunatic...guess what?


Have you lost your ever loving mind? If you want me to move home that bad you're doing a really good job because I'm about to get on a plane and come to either A) Smack some sense into you B) Take you to get your mental faculties checked out or C) help you put down the booze.


Oh, and the next time you want me to write a blog about you, just ask. Because I have a pretty good feeling Oprah doesn't care...but I love that you do.


Love you,
Kate

It's the Thought That Counts

Is it just me or are some people a little too abrasive about this whole voting thing? "Get out and do it!" "You MUST vote", or (my personal favorite) "I voted. Did you?" It feels like good, old-fashioned Catholic guilt. Some will even go as far as to say  "the worst thing in the world you can do is NOT vote!" Really? The worst thing?

I get it. It's important to exercise our rights; to not take for granted the freedoms that our ancestors fought for. I plan on voting. But I can't help thinking that I wish there were some people who just wouldn't. I'm voting because I've educated myself on the candidates and the issues - not because society guilted me into making my way to the polls. Do I really want some idiot participating in our democracy when their only contribution to society is punching a hole through a ballot once a year? To be honest...not really. I realize that some, if not most, will strongly disagree with this statement. I realize that candidates tend to gear their campaigns towards the elderly so young people need to vote, it's our civic duty, and every other valid argument stating why it's so important. I also know from an economic standpoint it's a very expensive system and at the end of the day the "your vote could mean all the difference" statement is really only intended to be directed to the supreme court.

The clearer message, and what we should really get "abrasive" about,  is how our country is educated about the elections. Voting should be exciting not an errand. And I certainly don't want to be threatened via commercials, facebook, or strangers on the street about what a horrible human being I am if I don't do it. Let's try for some positivity, unity and encouragement here folks. Most importantly, let's try to make sure we all know exactly what we're talking about before we step up to those boxes.By knowing the black, the white and the grey side to every story, every candidate, every decision - it ignites a passion that makes you want to get out and vote. It shouldn't feel like an obligation. It should feel like a freedom.

The following is a bit offensive but has some amazing points. The great George Carlin.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIraCchPDhk