I incorrectly labeled myself an “adult” after I successfully finished my first load of laundry as a child.

After promptly realizing my mistake, I decided I would truly be an adult once I turned 18.

On my 18th birthday, once I realized that too was a joke, I thought perhaps graduating college would signify official adulthood.

Wrong again. In fact I think I may have gone backwards. Once I decided to move to Cali, I believed surely that would make me an adult, right?

Well, the move itself didn’t do the trick. However, I have since determined the specific milestones one must pass to ultimately be considered a full-blown adult. So, in order for me and probably me alone to consider you an adult, you must:


Discuss the weather with a stranger in an elevator.

Begin or at least try to begin watching Downton Abbey.

Physically make trips to the Post Office for various reasons.

Purchase a lint roller rather than just dealing with dog hair.

Cry over a Pier 1 sale.

Cry over a Target sale.

Cry over a Staples sale. Sure, you may not frequent Staples, but you like knowing that you have the option. And for a discounted price!

Be addressed as “ma’am” at Starbucks or Chick fil A. I think the Chick fil A employees are required to do this, but it sure cuts deep nonetheless.

Internally complain about the movie theatre and everyone inside it being too damn loud. And then throw a thunderous groan when some youth whips out his phone.

Crave a salad 1-2 times a day (Chick fil A counts) because you know that the better, less healthy food will make you tired.

Designate a portion of your monthly budget to coffee.

Designate a portion of your monthly budget to espresso shots for said coffee.

Regret how much money you’re spending on caffeine every month.

Purchase another coffee to deal with your regret stress.

Have pain. Just, like, in general.

Ask a younger person to explain the newest social networking site to you. Why are there so many?

Wonder why there are so many social networking sites.

Google “how to do insurance.” Word for word.

Return a purchase you intended to return.

Look up your credit score/attempt to build a credit score/learn exactly what a credit score entails.

Devote your snapchat solely to pictures and videos of your roommates’ dogs. This one feels a tad specific to me.

Invest in a badass frying pan.


I may or may not but definitely have done all these things. But I think the real lesson here is that no one ever really becomes an adult and, even more accurately, no one knows what the hell they’re doing. And that is all the reassurance I need.




Tim Duncan’s Retirement Announcement

Well I dragged myself out of bed this morning, optimistic of the day ahead, only to be disappointed by Twitter. Despite being constantly disappointed by everything on Twitter, this morning was particularly difficult to process. As I stood in the kitchen, brewing my instant coffee, I was brought to tears by the news of Tim Duncan’s retirement announcement.

Of course I had seen this coming, or at least I knew it was a possibility. But in the back of my mind I had this hope that all these “leaning toward retirement” and “recently turned 40” headlines were just click bait. After all, wouldn’t we have known all season that this would be Tim’s last? Wouldn’t we have gotten emails and ESPN alerts about Old Man Riverwalk’s Farewell Tour? “Tim Duncan will be having his last game in your town! Don’t miss it!” Shouldn’t he have had a long, drawn-out interview halfway through the season or at least a press conference to discuss his 19-year career complete with 5 rings, 2 MVP’s, 3 Finals MVP’s, 15 All-Star appearances and even his work for the community through his Tim Duncan Foundation?

I don’t remember getting any sort of promotional messages about that.

It’s like when Beyoncé dropped her album without telling anyone, except rather than overwhelming exhilaration, I felt nauseous about this one. After feeling emotionally drained by my lack of mental preparation, I paused. Of course Tim didn’t do any of that. He’s never been anything but quiet, unpretentious and private. He played like a demon on the court with an angel’s temperament. I mean good lord he once got ejected for laughing on the bench. He was never showy, but damn it he got the job done.


The only example I can come up with to explain the significance of his announcement’s subtlety to someone who doesn’t watch basketball (I just assume all basketball watchers are either Duncan fans or are lacking a soul) is a particular episode of Parks & Recreation. And if you don’t watch basketball or Parks & Rec., I don’t know how to talk to you anyway.

Ron Swanson hates attention and crowds, so he keeps his birthday a secret. He keeps hearing about all the insane surprise parties Leslie Knope has thrown in the past for people like Ann Perkins – balloons, yelling, singing, other people, everything he hates – so he’s overcome with anxiety when he learns that Leslie made it her mission to find out his birthday. And it’s today.

At the end of the episode, Ron is terrified to open the door of his office for fear there will be a raging celebration about to occur. But he’s shocked to find Leslie waiting there for him in his dimly lit office in front of a table decorated with a steak dinner, a glass of whiskey and his favorite movie ready to watch. He relays his shock to her. She simply responds, “Why would I throw Ron Swanson an Ann Perkins party?”


Everyone and their mother knew about Kobe’s retirement. And there’s nothing wrong with what he did – he’s also a legend and he’s allowed to go out with a big public bang if he wants to. His on-court presence would elicit such an exit. But why would Tim Duncan retire in Kobe Bryant fashion? He left the same way he played: humbly. Leaving a lasting impression on everyone.

I’ll miss watching Tim Duncan play basketball. He’s always been one of my heroes and I’m lucky to have grown up in the place he too calls home. I also have to believe it’s some sort of sweet symbolism that Timmy, our dog named after #21 himself, passes away the same year that Timmy the human ends his unforgettable career, passing the torch to Tony (our other dog and #9) and Kawhi (my little brother’s new puppy and #2). Might be a stretch. But Tim Duncan is 7 feet tall. Now that is quite literally a stretch.


It’s eerie to imagine the Spurs sans Timmy, but Kawhi seems to exhibit a similar disposition so cheers to the future. I’m crossing my fingers that maybe the Big Fundamental will even discover a newfound passion for coaching and he along with Becky and Pop can lead us to numero seis. For now I’ll just be keeping dates open for that trip home for the Hall of Fame induction. Thanks, Tim Duncan, for being a selfless teammate, a master of the game and a prime example of an unassuming leader from whom we can all learn.


Flyin’ High

I love traveling, I really do. New places, new people, new food, bring it on. The one thing I hate about traveling, however, is traveling.

Let me preface by assuring you that I appreciate the incredible invention that is the airplane. Planes make vacations possible. I do not take air travel for granted. And now that that’s out of the way, let me spend a few minutes ranting about why planes are the worst and why I hate everything about them.

I received an email informing me that security lines would be long this summer, as they are every season, and to arrive at the airport at least 2 hours before my flight. While it was very thoughtful to send me this suggestion, my flight was at 7 am. So I arrived at 4:45 am because I often pretend to be responsible. The security line didn’t open until 5:30.

To pass the time, I purchased a diamond-encrusted bottle of water (it wasn’t diamond-encrusted, but it may as well have been based on the amount of money they demanded in exchange). You may be thinking, Katie why would you buy an entire bottle of water before security? You’re just going to have to throw it away. In response, here’s some context: it was 4:45 am. I do not make good decisions before the sun rises.

Security is fun because neither the passengers nor the employees are happy to be there. I also think I’ve set a record for the number of times I’ve been randomly selected for a full-body pat-down which is not as romantic as it sounds. Naturally I’ll try to make a joke to make myself feel less awkward. I’ll say something insanely clever like “wowza buy me a drink first” and, without fail, no one really acknowledges it and I continue to feel awkward. One of these times I will elicit a laugh from a TSA employee; mark my words.

After throwing away my unopened water and making no friends in the security line, I needed coffee. So I bought some questionable scrambled eggs and coffee that must cure cancer because altogether it came out to about $107, give or take.

Finally the time came to board. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not a fan of finding my spot in the boarding line. The sections are broken down into 5-person areas, so I usually just find the general area in which I am supposed to stand, and chill there without bothering anyone ahead of or behind me. But some people treat these positions as crucial and unwavering identities. You would have thought the woman assigned to A37 would rather burn her earthly possessions than deign to board behind me, lowly, scum-of-the-earth A38. Like, calm down. You’re not Rachel Green from season 10, you’ll get on the plane.

Now that I’m on the plane: aisle, middle or window? Most people I know prefer the aisle – more legroom, easier access to the bathroom, generally associated with less claustrophobia – but I go for the window. While I do enjoy the views, the real reason I snag the window is so that I can angle my computer away from everyone and hide what I’m watching on iTunes so that strangers will not make fun of my guilty pleasure plane movies like the incredibly underrated Bring It On: All or Nothing. It’s worth the uncomfortable “do you mind if I go to the bathroom?”‘s followed by those irritated eyerolls and reluctant movement. But I think we can all agree that the middle is the worst.

I’m a fairly outgoing person, but man do I dread airplane chitchat. I usually pop my ear buds in as soon as I sit down so that some extrovert who sits next to me doesn’t get any bright ideas. I feel the same about elevator chitchat. I guess I’m not a true Texan because I don’t really care where you’re from or where you’re headed since I’m never going to see you again after this plane lands and chances are I’m really tired, hangry and bitter about the fact that we’ve figured out how to fly drones around the sky but Southwest still doesn’t have plug outlets on their planes.

As much as I complain about airports, I intend to keep flying. Where else can I sit alone at a bar at 1:30 pm and listen to a podcast without* judgment? So, until I purchase a private jet (date TBD), I suppose I will suck it up and appreciate plane ol’ air travel.


*without that much judgment