Since the site moved to WordPress, a lot of people have reported problems getting Bachelor Girl to show up in their Google Readers.

Luckily, our resident Web Wizard, Jessica, solved the problem! Here's what you need to do:

1. Scroll all the way down to the bottom of this page.
2. Click the little blue link at the bottom that says "Entries (RSS)".
3. Click "Add to Google Reader."

OR

1. Go to your Google Reader page.
2. Click "Add a subscription."
3. Paste this into the text block: feed://www.bachelorgirl.net/?feed=rss2

And that's it!

Seriously, Jessica deserves some sort of Medal-of-Valor-esque award for Superhuman Patience With Technologically Retarded People. Whenever she tries to explain to me how to do anything with regards to this site, she has to put up with questions and statements like, "Is it this little button thingie over here?", "What does it look like? What color is it?" and "I don't think I have one of those on my innernet."

For those of you with feeds on your LiveJournals, fear not: Jessica is on the case. It's just that, you know, she's got a big fancy day job and a lovely little dog and a husband who demands to have attention paid to him sometimes. But she'll solve all our problems in the next few days.

(Those that pertain to Bachelor Girl, at least.)

And you know what? Thank you for caring whether or not Bachelor Girl shows up on your Google Readers. It means a lot to me that you guys want to be able to read my humble little blog everyday.

Your ever-so-grateful
Kel

Actually, my mood has taken a turn for the AWESOME because a Super Top Secret Creative Project that amberle404 and I have been working on for ages has finally come to fruition.

Introducing...

Bachelor Girl!

TA-DA!

I love LiveJournal (obviously - I've been here FIVE FREAKING YEARS, oh my GOD), but I wanted a space, my own little space, to start fresh and write my stuff and be a little bit more professional and (fingers crossed!) hopefully attract some more freelance work. The content will be pretty much the same as here on LiveJournal, just probably without so many lame-o memes when I have writer's block.

Bachelor Girl has truly been a labor of love for everyone involved. amberle404 designed it, her husband is hosting it, and avidchick created the Bachelor Girl caricature! Many others gave us shoulders to cry on and offered us wine when Google wouldn't play nice with us.

My LiveJournal will remain...pretty much forever. I want to be able to keep up with all of you and stay active in my various LJ communities. PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE come see me at Bachelor Girl, though, because I would be so lonely without all the funny and crazy comments you guys make here on Clothes_Slut. I don't know what I'd do without my Peanut Gallery!

I've got all kinds of exciting things planned for Bachelor Girl - In addition to chronicling my misadventures, I'm doing the $25-And-Less Gift Guide again this year, and closer to Christmas, there'll be a GIVEAWAY! And who doesn't like free stuff? I know I do.

So check the ol' Girl out and tell me what you think!

(Empty comment fields make me cry.)



Your thrilled
Kel

I can't think of anything to write about which doesn't involve a ton of bitching about people who are epic examples of SUCK and FAIL, so let's make some important decisions instead:

Poll #1308991
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

Do you want me to send you a Christmas card?

MY CHRISTMAS CARDS ARE NOT FUGLY. I stood in the Christmas-card aisle at Target for, like, FORTY-FIVE MINUTES examining various cards and judging them on their relative merits and you know why? Because I love you. Because I want to mail you a beautiful card and you know why else? BECAUSE I CAN. Unlike SOME people WHO TRY TO MAKE OTHERS FEEL BAD BECAUSE THEY HAVE THE TIME AND ENERGY AND STUFF TO LOOK AT CHRISTMAS...

Oh. Sorry. That would be "bitching," wouldn't it?

Ahem.

If you want a card, please leave your name and address in a comment. All comments are screened, naturally, so that, you know, you won't get stalked by some psycho loser and whatnot.

coughcoughDipshitEx-Neighborcoughcough

And don't feel like you're voting for yourself for Most Popular or anything if you leave a comment. I LOVE SENDING CHRISTMAS CARDS SO MUCH, so the more, the merrier, I say.

See what I did there?! Merrier? Merry? Christmas cards? Heee? Anybody?

Whatevs. HATERS.

So here's my other Christmas issue. Besides the fact that I am apparently in a very bad mood this week.

Ouiser, my cat? He's a destructive little demon-pig from hell. And he tears shit up all the time and I hate him so much

Sorry. Bitching again. Starting over.

Ouiser, my cat? He's EXTREMELY...active.

I had him neutered, of course, to try to cut down on the BRAIN-BURNING HYPERACTIVITY and DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR, but it...hasn't worked. Like, at ALL. Yet.

And if that cat broke any of my Christmas ornaments, I could not be held responsible for my actions. Essentially, Ouiser would forfeit his right to live.

***An aside to explain my feelings toward Ouiser***

To be perfectly honest, I do not like Ouiser. I couldn't find a home for him and felt it was my responsibility to keep him. However, I am not mean to him. Sure, I tell him all the time that I hate him, but all in all, he has a great life. He has plenty to eat, lots of toys, his cat mother, the finest veterinary care money can buy, a TV to watch, lots of windows to look out of, etc. The way I see it, his landlord hating his guts is a minor glitch in an otherwise luxurious existence. You can't have it all, right?

Essentially, he is Little Orphan Annie and I am Miss...whatever her name was. You know, Carol Burnett.

/Feelings

Anyway, I know that if I have a tree this year with Ouiser being less than a year old and still very much a destructive little shithead kitten, he will climb the tree, break my stuff and then we will have Big Problems, not the least of which will be me figuring out how to dispose of a cat-body and trying to hide Ouiser's untimely demise from the family.

So what do I do?

Poll #1308992
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

Do I...

Off to watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and drink hot cocoa.



Your grinchy
Kel

Actually, let's start by talking about someone very smart who probably shouldn't get her knickers in a twist over something moronic.

One of my favorite bloggers, Amalah, wrote a post today about Dennis Leary stating in his book, Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid, that there is no such thing as autism.

Amalah's son, Noah, has been diagnosed with Sensory Integration Dysfunction, a disorder that is, in some respects, similar to autism. So naturally, Amalah takes Leary's remarks about autism being a catchall diagnosis for bratty children of lazy parents very, very personally. However:

1. Soccer moms are not exactly Leary's intended audience in the first place. Most of the up-in-arms mothers who are raising a stink about Leary all over the internet ran out and bought the book just so they could read for themselves what he wrote. To which Leary responded, "KA-CHING!" Or they haven't read it for themselves at all, and they're just throwing a fit about something someone told them in the carpool line. Which is, after all, the American Way.

2. No one with any sense takes Dennis Leary, of all people, seriously. He's an actor and a comedian, for God's sake. The book (which I have, like a good American, not read) is probably entertaining, but when I want to read an author who will inform my views of the world, I do not choose Dennis-Effing-Leary. And I don't imagine anyone who's not a boy younger than 14 does either.

3. Like autism researchers around the world are really gonna throw up and their hands and exclaim, "Dennis Leary says autism is bullshit? Well, screw you guys, I'm goin' home!"

Personally, I believe that autism and Asperger syndrome are real, if overdiagnosed, disorders. While I think they are possibly caused by something environmental, I doubt they're caused by childhood vaccines, which, thanks to celebrity big-mouths like Jenny McCarthy, is the cause du jour.

You wanna get mad about something, Amalah? How about the fact that parents these days are refusing to vaccinate their children against deadly transmittable diseases because a nitwit famous for showing her hooters to the world via Playboy screams to anyone who will listen that those life-saving vaccines MIGHT cause a disorder that neurologists and other medical experts know very little about, including what its causes might be?

As for me, I'll get mad about THAT, thanks.

However, even though I think Dennis Leary hasn't much to offer the world in the way of wisdom, he does have a point about one thing:

Parents HAVE to take responsibility for their children.

I'm certainly not knocking all parents here; I know some truly stellar examples of parents. I won't name any names in the interest of privacy, but I have a friend whose son has ADD. Upon hearing that diagnosis, most modern parents would have driven straight to the pharmacy for their economy-sized bottle of Drug This Kid the Hell Out, PLEASE.

Not this lady.

She and her family tried (and I mean REALLY tried - not just, "oh, we did that for 15 minutes and it didn't work!") every behavior-modification technique known to MAN before they resorted to medication. Yes, the kid is on medication now, but medication combined with the afore-mentioned techniques. And the message they've sent their kid is an important one: Drugs are not the first solution, they're the LAST.

That's a good example. Now let me give you a bad one:

For the second time, I sat in Mass next to a little boy who has severe Tourette's syndrome. He doesn't have the vocal tics normally associated with Tourette's. He has the physical ones.

His mother always brings him to the noon Mass, the most crowded one, and sits in the center of a pew.

I spent Mass practically crawling into the lap of the old lady next to me, trying to keep from getting smacked in the face by this kid.

I am in no way unsympathetic to people with physical and mental handicaps. My aunt Carol, who lives with my parents, is mentally handicapped. But this kid...oh, this kid. I could have punched his mother in the face.

He flailed uncontrollably throughout the entire Mass. As is common with Tourette's, the more he tried to sit still, the worse he got. When it came time to kneel, he hit his chin on the back of the pew in front of him because he had a tic wherein his knees came out from under him and he flung his arms behind him.

He was utterly humiliated. He kept looking at me apologetically with tears in his eyes. I gave him a smile and then glared daggers over his head at his seemingly-oblivious mother.

I don't know how much anyone here knows about Catholicism, but our obligation to attend Mass on Sundays is an extremely serious one. So I don't blame her one bit for bringing him to church. I would do the same thing in her position, EXCEPT
--I would seat the child on the end of the pew, nearest the aisle. That way, he couldn't hit anyone but me, OR
--I would bring him to an earlier or later (less-crowded) Mass so that we would have more room in the pew around us, OR
--I would sit with him in the Cry Room. (The sound-proofed room where parents with babies sit. NO, it's not a place for us to work out our Catholic guilt.)

But not this lady. No, sir. She doesn't care that those around her can't pay attention to anything the priest is saying, that someone might be injured OR that her child is mortified. Just as long as she can sleep late on Sunday and make a spectacle of the both of them.

I told this story to a friend of mine who is a mother of a small child. She didn't actually say that I am a heartless monster and that she hopes God curses me with 20 developmentally-disabled children (and she absolutely is the sort of person who would view a child who is anything less than "perfect" as a curse), but that was the gist of her response. She actually used the word "un-Christian," and she is very lucky indeed that the words "narcissistic bitch" weren't bandied about as well.

(It's OK; her kid is a B-R-A-T brat from hell. The apple doesn't fall far and all that.)

So what do you guys think? Have you had an experience like this? Is the mother in the wrong, or am I just cruel?

And is Dennis Leary a 21st century prophet and I'm just missing the boat?



Your thankfully-uninjured
Kel

Regular readers of this blog know that I whine a great deal about the lack of eligible bachelors in Shreveport, Louisiana.

"I WANT A DAAAAATE! I NEED A DAAAAATE! WHY DON'T I HAVE ANY DAAAAATES?"

Being a big fan of a little something known as "personal responsibility" and also willing to do just about anything for your amusement and edification, I joined Match.com for one month. Remember? I wrote about it here. Then I met this cute guy and accidentally gave him almost all my personal information, which I wrote about here.

Well, the Catastrophic Coffee Date fell through for a variety of reasons too long and boring to go into, so we instead decided to meet for dinner tonight.

In all my moaning about wanting a DAAAAATE, the fact that all dates must begin with the dreaded First Date was wiped from my consciousness. See, all the "dates" I've been on in the recent past have been with people I already know or people I've met through friends, so no one calls it a Date (in the manner of teenagers standing around in parents' basements smoking pot in lieu of dating. Not that I have ever done that on a date. Well, not since high school, anyway). And as long as no one calls it a Date, I can live happily in denial, telling myself that, Pffft! It's not a date! We're just hanging out!

Well, the concept of "Date" came back to me this afternoon at about 4:30. I was to meet the guy, whom we shall refer to as The Guy (WHAT. I've only got so much creativity to give here, people) at 6:00.

So my evening went something like this:

4:30 - 5:00 PANIC. BLIND PANIC. Call Mere, Emily and Jessica and freak the hell out. Friends wonder if am actually qualified for life in any way.

5:00 - 5:05 Select outfit. Mere insisted that must wear The Kel Uniform (i.e., turtleneck sweater, denim pencil skirt, badass boots and chunky jewelry) as that is "who [I am], and the whole point of a first date is to showcase who [I am]." Decide to wear dangly topaz earrings avidchick made for me last Valentine's Day as good luck charms.

5:05 - 5:10 Arrange hair. Bemoan fact that hair is uncontrollable and messy. Wrangle hair into ponytail-type arrangement and decide that messy hair is integral part of Who Clothes_Slut Is.

5:10 - 5:15 Smoke cigarette and stare at Chihuahua in vain attempt to calm self. Chihuahua leaves room, as is frightened by Mean Lady's wild-eyed stare.

5:15 - 5:20 Consider calling other girlfriends but decide that friends are very worried about self as is.

5:20 - 5:30 Begin makeup application. Try to remember that New York Times, Village Voice reporters and similar frequently go undercover in very dangerous situations in order to get good story. Decide to think of self as intrepid girl reporter. Remember while applying eyeshadow that watched History Channel program on vampires last night, and New York Times reporter disappeared after infiltrating vampire coven in West Village. Curse History Channel, reporter and self ad nauseam. Hope that The Guy is not vampire. Or zombie. Dismiss zombie scenario as unlikely, as The Guy has yet to make any mention of BRAAAAAIIIIINS.

5:30 - 5:45 Take off and put back on various items of clothing, jewelry and shoes. End up wearing same thing was wearing in first place.

5:45 - 5:50 Walk outside. Discover is very cold out. Return to apartment, try on three different coats and four different scarves before deciding on appropriate coat and scarf. Realize have lost ever-loving mind. Wonder why self owns so many coats and scarves, as self lives in Louisiana and only wears coats four days out of average year.

5:50 - 5:55 Go to ATM. Know that guys traditionally pay for dates, but do not wish to be presumptuous. Am Independent, Modern Woman, after all.

6:00 Arrive at Barnes and Noble. Text friend. While texting friend, catch whiff of (expensive-smelling) noticeable but subtle men's cologne. Know The Guy has arrived before even look up from phone.

6:00 - 8:10 Have very good First Date. Eat copious amounts of Lebanese food. Learn what exactly "chains on tires" are and what purpose they serve (The Guy is from "Up North," as Louisiana girls say). Discuss The Office, Kevin Smith movies, Disney World, zombies, haunted houses, PETA protests, President-elect Obama, Proposition 8 and snow, among other things. Have very good time indeed. Realize that am idiot and that there was nothing to freak out about in first place.

8:10 - 8:15 The Guy walks self to car. Do not kiss The Guy (duh), but decide might want to at some point in future.

8:15 - 8:30 Drive to Walgreens. Reward self for not falling down, vomiting, etc. by purchasing Olay Warming Pedicure for self.

8:45 Arrive home. Receive very nice text message from The Guy.

9:00 - Present Write about how neurotic and insecure self is for whole internet to read.

So there you have it! Three hours' worth of How to Go on a First Date With a Neurotic Bachelor Girl. You know, should you ever need a tutorial on such a thing. That's me! Always here to help her fellow man. And woman.

Off to give myself a warming pedicure.



Your giddy
Kel

...but after reading my friends' lists of Stuff They Are Thankful For, I am inspired. So here goes (in no particular order):

1. My family, even though they're ridiculously overprotective
2. My friends, even though they make fun of me
3. My animals, and the fact that they love me even though they live lives of STUPID and BORING
4. The History Channel
5. Salads with marshmallows in them
6. My sewing machine
7. Starbucks
8. I-20
9. Indoor plumbing
10. Hair products
11. Books
12. Turtleneck sweaters
13. Badass boots
14. Being a mere pawn in my friends' nefarious plans (Beth, I'm talking to you)
15. Cute boys
16. Endless possibilities
17. Personal responsibility
18. The fact that people underestimate me
19. Henrietta the Hen Purse
20. Wine
21. Disney World
22. I have friends with whom I can discuss how survivors trapped in Disney World would fare during the Zombie Apocalypse
23. Said friends continue to take me seriously after we have discussions regarding how survivors trapped in Disney World would fare during the Zombie Apocalypse.
24. The punk cabaret
25. My apartment
26. Fiona Fit
27. MY BED
28. That I do not live in a McMansion
29. That my life will never, ever be normal
30. That I'll probably never Rock the Suburbs
31. That I'm Still Fighting It
32. Wondering Who Killed Amanda Palmer
33. Ben Folds
34. That I'm the only one who gets my jokes sometimes (or at least that I'm the only one who thinks they're funny)
35. Neil Gaiman
36. The CBLDF
37. That we live in a country where organizations like the CBLDF can legally exist
38. Tattoos
39. That I engage in activities that other people think are pointless and a waste of time
40. That I am painfully self-aware
41. That other people don't know that about me
42. Making fun of people with Oh Mere of Mine
43. Chefs
44. Flirting with Penguin
45. Bird's legal advice (without which I would have been sued 84,000 times by now)
46. Haikus
47. Lucienne's red velvet sofa
48. That I met Robin Goodfellow (the Mick Jagger of the dog world) yesterday
49. Dance (though I sometimes wish I'd never done it so I couldn't miss it)
50. Vogue

And all of you.

I hope you all had magnificent Thanksgivings, my darlings! And that you stuffed yourselves silly.



Your most grateful
Kel
Who is never eating again

But before I launch into "Things for Which Kelly is Distinctly Not Thankful," a word from Oh Mere of Mine:

Mere: "There is no way in hell I am watching that video, so you're going to have to tell me: Just what, exactly, is Air Sex?"

Me: "You know air guitar?"

Mere: "Yeah."

Me: "That, but with sex."

Mere: "Oh. Ew."

Now back to our regularly-scheduled bitching.

I work with a lot of "Get 'Er Dones," as Swell Nathan calls them. Not just my coworkers, but our clients as well.

(My "Get 'Er Done" coworkers have learned their lessons. I am rather like a chinchilla; I may look all cute and cuddly, but fuck with me and I will maul your face off.)

So today, I got a call from this guy who went on and on about how he is just such good friends with our General Manager, D.J., and one of our technicians (D.J. and the tech have never heard of him). He asked for a same-day service call. Since we've never done business with his company before, I made sure to inform him that, as is standard practice in our industry, we would require payment when services were rendered for this first service call. After that, I told him, we would be happy to invoice him for payment.

I don't care if the Pope called us up. We've never done business with our Holy Father before, and he'd have to pay COD just like everybody else.

This guy? Was INCENSED.

He threatened to call our competitor. I said, "Well, you do what you have to do, but Trey's gonna make you pay COD too unless he's worked with you before."

He asked to speak to the owner. He said he needed to speak to my supervisor.

OH REALLY.

I like to think I remained very calm and collected at this point in the conversation, but Dad informed me later that I got a little...uh, shrill.

"GLADLY! I WILL BE HAPPY TO LET YOU SPEAK TO THE OWNER AND MY SUPERVISOR. JUST GIVE ME A MOMENT TO GET DAD ON THE PHONE!"

I know. That probably wasn't the smoothest move, but ladies and gentlemen,

NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING

Pisses me off more than some dumbass redneck who barely has command of the English language talking to me like I'm some kind of G-------- moron just because I happen to be a woman.

Dad spoke to the man, who was just as sweet as sugar when Dad got on the phone. No sir, he doesn't mind paying COD one little bit! He'll even get us a P.O. number for our records.

Meanwhile, I was standing in Dad's office vomiting pea soup all over the place and growling, "KELLY'S NOT HERE RIGHT NOW."

(OK, not really.)

Before Dad got off the phone, he said, somewhat jokingly, "Well, Kelly's the boss around here and what she says goes! She handles all that sort of stuff, and if she says you gotta pay COD, you gotta pay COD!"

Dad chastised me, "Kelly, he's just a Bubba who doesn't like talking to a woman unless he's buyin' her a beer. Don't take it personally."

Just HOW should I take it, then?

I have worked very, very hard for a very long time to make sure that I am always taken seriously in my professional life. I'm college-educated, I do my work, I do it extremely well, I'm hyper-responsible, I dress modestly (though not conservatively), I keep my word, I look people straight in the eye and I have a firmer handshake than most men I know. Given everything I've told you about Big Daddy, do you think he'd have some miniskirted, brainless ninny of a daughter working for him? I think not.

I even purposely lower my voice when I talk to men at work.

And this inbred shithead is gonna talk condescendingly to me like I don't know what the hell I'm talking about? And I'm not supposed to take it personally?

Dad: "Well, your college education sure as hell didn't teach you how to talk like a lady."

Kelly (sweetly): "No, Daddy, you taught me that."

(And then I ran.)

(Like my hair was on fire.)

(As my grandfather used to say, I frequently allow my mockingbird mouth to overload my hummingbird behind.)

While my dad believes in traditional male and female roles in a family setting (which is why at every family party I end up waiting hand and foot on my dad and brothers while they drink beer), he has ALWAYS taught me that women are every bit as capable as men. Not every man, especially in small-town Louisiana, shares that belief, and it's hard for me to accept that sometimes.

But you know what? I have something that he doesn't have.

The "Get 'Er Done" crew we work with.

When I called up the tech that would be taking Mr. Just-Shut-Up-and-Invoice-Me-Little-Missy's service call, I told him what an ass that guy was to me on the phone.

"You want me to go over there and beat the hell out of him?" the tech asked eagerly.

While he would never do such a thing and I would never want him to, it's nice to know I've got friends like that.

And I bet you not a one of Mr. Get-Back-in-the-Kitchen's crew would offer to come over and beat the hell out of me for him.

Chinchilla: 1
Redneck: 0

Back to the kitchen to bake pumpkin bread for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.

What?! There's a time and place for everything, right?



Your feminist
Kel

My mom watched Amanda Palmer's "Leeds United" video today. (At my insistence. Cool as my mom is, she does not sit around watching the Dresden Dolls' YouTube channel while she's supposed to be working.)

(Like someone else we know whose name begins with a "K" and ends with an "elly," and who is a pain in the ass of everyone she works with.)

Mom commented appreciatively on Amanda Palmer's drawn-on eyebrows, then let fly her criticism.

No, not of Amanda Palmer.

Of me.

"Wow. And you thought you were tearin' it up by wearing a miniskirt to the Dresden Dolls concert. I don't see a single person who's not in their underwear."

For the record, it was, like, 2 degrees in Birmingham that weekend.

--------

One of the many reasons I wish I was Amanda Palmer is that it would be really cool if people just started making out with whoever was next to them whenever I came around. Like they apparently do when Amanda Palmer's around. Although no one tried to make out with me when I went to see the Dresden Dolls, which, to be truthful, was something of a disappointment. I wore a miniskirt and everything!

That's something Americans need more of: "Makin' out to Faces of Death."

(No, I didn't just make that up. COME ON, Y'ALL. I'M NOT THAT WEIRD. It's from "Guitar Hero" on Who Killed Amanda Palmer.)

Y'all really need to go buy that album if for no other reason than you'll know what I'm talking about half the time.

--------

I sometimes think I'm clever, but other people rarely agree.

--------

So let's talk about someone who is quite clever:

The multi-talented arthursimone!

In addition to being a fantastic artist (I CAN HAS ORIGINAL ARTHUR SIMONE?), Arthur's also the Air Sex Champion. Which is pretty much the epitome of everything awesome. Though not necessarily the epitome of everything tasteful.

(None of those people are Arthur. Arthur's way better at Air Sex than any of those fools.)

Anyway, Arthur's having a solo exhibition at Lewis Gifts in Shreveport from Black Friday until Christmas. At some point during the holidays, there will also be a meet-the-artist event, which I will likely talk about excitedly every day for a month. (Please note: I will also agonize over what to wear every day of that month.)

Congratulations, Shreveport! You're doing something cool! Keep it up.

So you should really go to Lewis Gifts and see Arthur's paintings. And buy one. Or four. You know, as gifts. For someone you know whose name begins with a "K" and ends with an "elly" and who is a pain in the ass of everyone who reads her blog.

If you go to Lewis Gifts and Arthur's there, ask him to show you his mad Air Sex skillz. I bet he'd do it, too, if you asked really nicely. Or bought a painting.

Off to plan my outfit.

And stand in front of the mirror practicing begging Arthur to show me his mad Air Sex skillz.



Your pain-in-the-ass
Kel

Today, I indulged in one of my most favoritest activities:

I lounged in a nice, comfy chair, sipped ginger ale and read Vogue like it was some sort of Gnostic text while I sat under a hood dryer, wearing a smock.

In short, I went to the salon.

Surprisingly, my mom wasn't much of a spa girl when I was growing up. I mean, we went to the salon every six weeks, religiously, and she occasionally got a manicure. But she never got, say, a pedicure or a massage. I didn't even know what waxing was until I was in high school, because my mom never did it.

(And if Judy did it, it was glamorous. If she didn't, well...then it didn't exist.)

Once, after we moved to Birmingham, she and I went to a little spa up the street from our house to get manicures for some special occasion or another. The manicurist, a born saleswoman if ever there was one, gave my mom and wink and said, "You know, we also do facials, massages and seaweed wraps!"

My ears perked up, and the manicurist was quick to notice. "How about you, Kelly? Would you like a massage or a facial today?"

"Momma, can I?" I asked.

"Of course. It's your money." My mother went back to flipping through Women's Wear Daily.

In that moment, I. Was. Hooked.

From that day to this, spas are like my mothership. And the more bizarre and probably useless the treatment, the better. Wrap me in seaweed, paint me with mud, beat me with hot rocks and call me Edna.

In the course of the last 14 years or so, I have allowed complete and total strangers to see me as naked as the day I was born and then:
1. Pour hot wax on my body and then rip it off while I scream
2. Wrap me from head to foot in muslin and slather me with goo
3. Examine my pores with high-powered microscopes (and cluck over the sad state of affairs)
4. Scrub me with sand, salt, sugar and pulverized rocks
5. Try to drown me slowly with oxygenated mist

And I pay them for the privilege.

Before you start thinking I'm deluded, I fully acknowledge that, by and large, spa workers are simply dominatrices with eastern-European-sounding names dressed up in starched white uniforms in order to make S&M more acceptable to the middle class.

My only defense is that, in the words of Truvy from Steel Magnolias, "It makes you pretty."

Well, that and "there's no such thing as natural beauty."

I freely admit that I am a total spa snob. If there was a Bliss in Shreveport, I'd probably be there every damn day. When I first moved back to Shreveport, I couldn't find a decent salon (or spa) to save my life. I was outraged; when I lived in Charleston, I had gone to the salon that Reese Witherspoon used when she got married to Ryan Phillipe! There was NO WAY I was going to set foot in Mabel's Curl Up & Dye.

I tried a few so-so places with limited success, until one fateful New Year's Eve I met Bryan Sullivan at a party. In addition to being THE stylist in Shreveport, Bryan is also quite - how shall we say? - BEAUTIFUL and fashionable, in addition to being one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet. He introduced me to Allison Dickson, whom I would follow to the ends of the earth if only she would continue to trim my hair.

I never have to bring pictures to Allison, or explain to her in excruciating detail what I want done or, more to the point, what I don't want done. I simply say, "Oh, you know, whatever," and "whatever" is always, ALWAYS fabulous.

Sometimes I think I missed my calling as a beauty editor for a fashion magazine. With my great love of spas, salons and, apparently, spending all my money on strange and likely toxic beauty products, I could at least be getting paid for it, right? As my friends frequently remind me, it is not my sole responsibility to make sure that the aestheticians of the world earn a living.

At any rate, I think my devotion to beauty says something for me, don't you?

Truvy does.

"I don't trust anyone who does their own hair. I don't think it's natural."



Your highlighted
Kel

P.S. If there were a spa that could turn me into Amanda Palmer, I would pay them any amount of money.

...and so does Mere. And Jennifer. And all of you, probably.

I'm beginning to think that maybe - just maybe - I'm too uptight.

Maybe it's Catholicism. Maybe it's the fact that I don't drink much anymore. Maybe it's the notable lack of recreational drugs in my life. Maybe it's the family. Maybe it's having been single for so long. Maybe it's Bird's influence (he's an attorney, and if there's one thing attorneys do well, it's BE PARANOID).

Actually, I like that one. Let's stick with that idea, shall we? IT'S ALL BIRD'S FAULT.

Yes.

Anyway, to put it in graphic and unsavory terms, perhaps I need to unclench.

The other night, in a fit of misguided optimism (and before I wrote the now-famous "Match.com" post), I signed up for Match.com for one month.

As predicted, most of the guys are EEEWWWWW. But there's this one that's...not. So much. Maybe. OK, FINE. HE'S REALLYREALLY CUTE. There. I'm shallow. Happy?

He's also...you know, not stupid. Maybe. And he likes historical stuff. Which is good. And he's all into creativity and shit, like me with this here blog.

Anyway, so he's e-mailed me (through the Match.com site) a few times and hasn't said or done anything to make me think he's a sex-crazed psycho killer. Which is something of a record in my world. Generally, it only takes guys 1-2 communiques before the little voices in their heads say, "Oh, go ahead and tell her all about your bestiality fetish! This one won't mind! I CAN TELL."

So perhaps, because of that fact, I got a little carried away. And when I went to reply to his message, I didn't click "reply" through the Match.com site, I clicked "reply" in my actual e-mail.

Which means that my e-mail signature was at the bottom of the e-mail.

My e-mail signature which lists the following information:
1. My real name
2. My place of business
3. THE FUCKING ADDRESS OF MY PLACE OF BUSINESS, OH MY GOD IN HEAVEN
4. My work phone number
5. MY G-------- CELL PHONE NUMBER

Brilliance, thy name is KEL.

Because I'm LIKE, SUPER AWESOME in a crisis, I then performed the following actions:
1. Ran around the coffee table multiple times screeching OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD
2. Flopped onto the sofa and covered my head with a blanket
3. Searched the house for alcohol (search returned: 0)
4. Called Jennifer, who didn't answer
5. Called Mere, who told me that I am insane

Heee. Don't you want me around during, say, a tsunami?

Fortunately, Mere talked me down off the ledge.

"KEL," she said severely, "This is not the best thing you could have possibly done, but it is certainly not the worst. You work with a veritable army of gigantic guys, all of whom are extremely protective of you and your family. I FEEL SORRY for the guy who goes up there and tries to start some shit. Second, you're not listed in the phone book, so he can't get your home address. Your apartment building is like Fort-Fucking-Knox, so even if he DID figure out where you live, how's he going to get in? And finally, it's your cell phone number. If he calls and you don't wish to talk to him, THEN DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE, GENIUS."

"Well, he asked me to COFFEE. Isn't that a little...untoward? I mean, I don't even KNOW HIM."

"Kel. It's COFFEE on a SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Look, the whole purpose of sites like Match.com is that you are supposed to meet someone with whom you will eventually GO ON DATES. Like, TOGETHER. What else are you going to do, prearrange a time to pass by one another in a specified aisle in the grocery store? It is not the least bit unreasonable that he should ask you to coffee. The amount of time invested is less than an hour. Coffee houses are PUBLIC PLACES FULL OF PEOPLE. You like him? You order a second cup. You don't? You suck down your coffee and leave. I mean, I'm guessing the residents of Shreveport would figure out that something was up if he slipped a roofie into your gingerbread latte then started dragging your lifeless body toward his car ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. If you're going to do this, then you're going to have to take a chance. It's that simple."

See, when she puts it that way, it all sounds so...normal.

To further complicate matters, after I sent The E-mail of Doom, I Googled his name to see if something along the lines of "John Doe, Serial Killer" would come up. It didn't, but what did come up was a website with a bunch of pictures of him and his buddies getting drunk and hanging all over Hooters girls. This? Yeah, I want no part of this.

Then Mere pointed out that all the pictures are date-stamped 2000 and 2001.

"Kel, that was seven and eight YEARS ago. How old were you eight years ago?"

"Um, 23?" (WHAT. I'm really bad at math.)

"Think about what we were doing when we were 23, 24 years old. Would you want someone to judge you by your 23-year-old self? I think not."

"But..."

"No but. He seems like a perfectly nice, normal person. He's in the Air Force, for Pete's sake. Stop being a dumbass and meet him for coffee."

That Mere, she is wise.

For the record, Jennifer pretty much echoed Mere's sentiments exactly. She warned me to make sure to tell a couple people where I was going and what time, how long I planned to be there, to call them afterwards, etc. and everything should be fine.

So what do you guys think? Am I being paranoid and uptight? Is coffee unreasonable? How would you feel about doing something like this?



Your perhaps-a-little-too-stuffy-for-her-own-good
Kel

This has not been the best week.

Match.com hilariousness and general foolishness aside, this has pretty much been The Week of Kel's Discontent.

Yesterday, I got home from work (LATE, just like every other day this week) and trudged up the stairs feeling a little teary and very much like the title character in Amelie before the night she learns that Princess Diana (a.k.a. Laydee-Dee) has died.

(If you don't know what I'm talking about, then HOLY CRAP YOU NEED TO GO WATCH THAT MOVIE THIS MINUTE!)

("But I HATE subtitles!")

(Jesus Christ, do you know how many INCREDIBLE movies you will miss because you don't want to read while you watch the teevee?!)

Anyway.

So I was marching up the Stairs of Doom, preparing to throw myself an evening-long pity party when what should catch my eye but

A PACKAGE!

ON MY DOORSTEP!

THAT IS PRESUMABLY FOR ME!

And what do you suppose was inside?

These!



From the lovely and generous bankgrl!

bankgrl knows that two of the major pleasures in my life are:

1. Chihuahuas and Chihuahua-related items
2. Anything in the post which is not a bill

WHAT. I'm easy to please!

One of the many things which have gone wrong this week is that my workplace has apparently become the repository for any animal which anyone no longer wants. Therefore, we became the proud foster family of YET ANOTHER mama cat and two kittens.

Fortunately, we were able to find homes for the kittens, but the mama cat, whom Carol named Tabitha after the daughter in Bewitched (because I like witches, she said) has become the Office Cat. For those of you keeping score at home, Tabitha is Office Cat #3.

Dear Citizens of Shreveport: We like cats and apparently, you don't. This does not mean, however, that we are willing or able to adopt every unwanted cat in the state of Louisiana. Please do not leave any more cats on our doorstep. In sum, FUCKING KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF. Love, Kel & Her Coworkers

And with that, my dears, I take my Tylenol Simply Sleep and leave you with

KITTEH PICS!

Week of 11-17-08

Your ready-to-start-over-next-week
Kel

P.S. I would also like to give a very special and cryptic Clothes_Slut shout-out to amberle404 for being a generally all-around stand-up chick. YOU RULE!

Tonight, I had a brilliant plan:

I was going to join Match.com or some such internet-dating site, go on some dates, and chronicle the hilarity for you guys.

Schadenfreude: Happiness at the misfortune of others. Specifically, me. Is what you would have been feeling.

It was going to be HILARIOUS. And I'm willing to do damn near anything if there's a chance that it might be funny or at least mildly interesting.

But as much as I love y'all, I can't do it. I just can't. There is absolutely no way on God's green earth I can go out with even one of the douchebags that are on Match.com in Shreveport, Louisiana without eventually climbing to the top of a clock tower and shooting some folks.

Some days, I love this town.

Today is not one of those days.

ATTENTION, MEN OF SHREVEPORT: FROSTING YOUR HAIR WENT OUT OF STYLE IN, LIKE...actually, I'm not sure it was ever in style for men to frost their hair.

1. Lay off the bleach
2. Lay off the tanning bed
3. Lay off the "tribal armband" tattoos

And you might - just maybe - have a teeny, tiny, weensy little chance of looking a wee bit less like a douche.

Since I obviously won't be going anywhere with any of these tools, you instead get

Kel's Guide to Internet Dating for Men: A Douche-to-Smart-Chick Dictionary

1. i am grateful for the simple things that money cant buy.

I either missed Capitalization Day in second grade or I have been afflicted with a terminal case of e.e. cummings. Also, I am broke, so you'll be paying for all our dates. I will ask you for a loan no later than our second date.

2. Lets see... i would say my favorite food is mexican!! not to big on shopping, and i like action movies!!

We will not be doing anything, anything at all, that YOU want to do, so just get that idea out of your pretty little head right this minute. I am fond of eating spicy, greasy food then trapping you under the covers while I fart on you. My IQ is only 82, so I find this hilarious.

3. Currently reading the Good Guy by Deen Coons

No, you're not.

4. i like to go out and stay home .

At the same time? Wow, you're MAGIC!

5. I also like going to places said to be haunted because I'm very interested in the paranormal.

You? Will be going to a fucking LOT of Area 51 conventions.

6. I have a 4 gauge piercing can you guess where?

Based on the structure of this sentence...your frontal lobe?

7. I am interested in a casual relationship with a fun loving person. You can show me around Shreveport or we can explore together. A tennis partner would be great! Regardless, I promise to be honest and sincere.

As a matter of fact, I'm being honest right now - I just want to f---. If you're all into being classy and shit, we can Do It at the country club.

8. Open book proffesional who belives in the formula tgat mass confusion equalls more money!

What?

9. im a foreman for a commercial plumbing co. i have pretty much accomplished everything i have wanted to accomplish in life

Are you sure? Really, REALLY sure?

10. someone that I go to a play with and both of us be able to enjoy it and have a critical analisis of it with me...

A critical what?

----

I? Am going to die alone.

And I think I'm OK with that.



Your happily single
Kel

"When we're at church, we believe."

"When we're with the family, we feel."

"But when we're here, we THINK."

This is one of my dad's favorite sayings. He uses it at work when someone in the family starts to bring our family's dynamics into our work life.

As you can probably imagine, he says this often.

During a particularly rough time in my family's business, when we were literally about to walk out on each other, just when I didn't think things could get any worse, just when I thought I had made the biggest mistake of my life going to work for my family's business and that OH MY GOD, THIS CONFIRMS IT, I AM OFFICIALLY CLINICALLY INSANE, I scheduled an appointment for a face-to-face confession with Father Daigle.

And he confirmed that yeah, you're right, YOU DONE LOST IT.

"I couldn't do it," he said. "I love my parents to death, but there is no way I could work with them."

This from a man who has given his life to God. And he thinks my career is difficult.

HOW COMFORTING!

Things eventually got better. For one thing, my parents and I learned how to deal with each other as professionals instead of as parents-and-child, which involves a lot less throwing things and screaming. For another, one of my brothers came to work with us, and now we have another family member's future riding on our success, so you know what? We best get our shit together, start making some damn money and stop acting like fools.

Some days, though, it's still hard.

Today was one of those days.

I have always been Daddy's Girl. Dad taught me, from a very early age, that I could and should be girly and feminine and princess-y and all things sugar and spice, but when it came time to Take Care of Business, I better be able to hang with the boys.

Today, I told one of our coworkers about Dad making me read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People when I was in middle school. My brother and I discussed the other day how Dad gave me my first marketing lesson when I was a little girl and we got the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalogue in the mail. I got The Essential Drucker from him for Christmas last year. All my life, he's been preparing me for...well, for the job I have right now, actually.

So you can imagine that nothing - NOTHING - turns me into a four-year-old brat about to pitch a fit in the candy aisle of the grocery store faster than the mere idea that Dad is about to pass me over for responsibility or recognition of any kind.

It happened today, actually.

It wasn't pretty.

As I stood in his office, trying not to cry (crying is not Taking Care of Business, after all), Dad said very gently, "Kelly, it's my company."

I shook my head in quick, hard shakes.

"It is. It's my company, and it's my decision. You don't want to do this. And I don't want you to. Let someone else have it."

Still shaking my head.

"Kelly, when all this is said and done, you know your place in this company and in this family. Let it go."

And that's really the problem, isn't it? My job has always been a big part of my identity. My family is an even bigger part. Now they're one in the same. I work for myself. I work for my family. I work for The Man, I work for my dad, I work for my mom, I work for my brother, I work for all the people who work for us, I work for family members who aren't even born yet.

Some days, it's really hard to pry all that apart.

But I'm getting better at it.

It's really nice to have amberle404 as a friend because she gets it. Her dad and her husband both own their own businesses, so she understands that it's a job unlike any other. And that some days it's a job like every other. But that I never, ever get to walk away from my job at 5:00 and then forget about it until 8:00 the next morning. It's every day, all the time, no matter what.

My job is my family and my family is my job. And though the two will eventually cause me to require veterinary-grade tranquilizers, I really wouldn't have it any other way.

(Unless, of course, I get the opportunity to retire to Italy. Then, yeah, I'll have it THAT WAY, THANKS.)



Your working-class
Kel

Some days, I know what I want to write about the moment I wake up. I've been thinking about it for days, rolling it around in my mind like a piece of hard candy, or I dreamed about it.

Other days, it comes to me a little later. Something ridiculous will happen or I'll have an interesting conversation.

Today, I've had no idea what to write about all day. Teh interwebs have been uncharacteristically silent, and thus there is no inspiration to be had from that quarter.

Then inspiration hit like a ton of bricks: I can bitch about something! And EVERYONE likes that, right?!

Yeah.

So a few weeks ago, a guy contacted me on MySpace.

(I know. Please excuse me while I transform into a 14-year-old. Some days I really worry about my fitness for the title "adult.")

Anyway, so he was pretty cute, and miracle of miracles, he could SPELL. Big words and everything! Plus, his message was kind of witty, so I thought, why not? You only go around once. I messaged him back.

(Clearly, I live on the edge.)

So we message back and forth for a while, and in one message, he asks me to go to dinner with him. THAT NIGHT.

Um, no.

1. He could be a serial killer
2. Actually, there is no #2. #1 is sufficient. HE COULD BE A SERIAL KILLER. And let us not forget, this ain't my first rodeo when it comes to stalkers.
3. What is the proper etiquette here? "No, I'm sorry, I'd love to, but I can't. You might eat my brain, and I have a busy day at work tomorrow"?

I decide to forgive this gaffe, and we continue to message each other. He reads a bunch of my blog entries and seems to like them a lot. (Flattery will get you everywhere! Almost.) Then he writes something (I can't remember exactly what) of a fairly explicit sexual nature.

AAAAAnd we're done.

I mean, in what universe is it appropriate to make sexual overtures to someone you barely know?

Granted, not all of you know me in real life, but is there anything in this blog to suggest that I'm the kind of girl who's going to a) go out with a man SHE DOES NOT KNOW FROM ADAM and then b) give him a blowjob in the parking lot? (Or whatever. As I recall, he did not specifically request a blowjob.)

I didn't think so.

Granted, my sexual morality is probably a little...stricter than that of most people my age (see: Catholicism, southern, crazy family, etc.). But I'm not sure that I would consider it prudish in the least to be offended when A COMPLETE STRANGER makes prurient remarks.

Now, here's where it gets good:

He called me FRIGID!

Frigid.

(Please excuse my ex-boyfriends while they wipe up the beer, Coke, etc. that they've just blown out their nostrils.)

Mere: "FRIGID?! On what PLANET? Kel, granted, you are not a slut, but COME ON. I know more people who have seen you in your underwear than I do people who HAVEN'T."

(I feel the need to clarify: I like Rocky Horror. Like, a lot.)

(The ex-boyfriends are nodding their heads and giggling to themselves right now, like some kind of beer-swilling Greek chorus.)

(Hi guys! Call me! I really need some shelves put up!)

(I have just ensured that NOT A ONE OF THEM will ever call again.)

Anyway, FRIGID. Me. Yes.

THEN he gets all offended when I (gently) rebuff him. OH, WELL, YOU'RE CLEARLY A SHE-DEMON BITCH FROM HELL. NEVER FUCKING MIND.

(Personal to ex-boyfriends: STOP NODDING! I CAN SEE YOU!)

I guess I shouldn't be offended in the first place. It's MYSPACE, for the sake of All Holy Christ. But still. Can't just one guy in the whole world who does not have an entire ENCYCLOPEDIA of sexual pathologies and a black, sucking hole where his sense of propriety, decency and boundaries should be like me? Just one?

Guess not.

Oh well. At least I have you guys, right?

Anybody wanna come over and watch Rocky Horror?



Your frigid
Kel

In some ways, I live pretty frugally. I have to; I don't make a ton of money. Plus, I'm not very good with money. Money management, for a variety of reasons, does not come naturally to me. So I have to be very careful most of the time.

In some ways, I do not live frugally at all. I have a twice-monthly cleaning service, which many would argue is COMPLETELY unnecessary for a single person who lives in a small home; I live in an expensive (by Shreveport standards) apartment; and, as I think we've all figured out by now, I spend money on clothes, shoes and accessories (though I do not buy designer fashion and shop mostly at sales).

One of the ways I try to stay on track financially is to read personal-finance and "frugality" blogs. For me, exposing myself to something on a daily basis keeps me motivated. For instance, I'm reading health and fitness magazines now that I'm trying to lose weight.

I started reading The Simple Dollar, which I really liked at first. The guy does have some pretty good "frugal" tips sometimes. I didn't know, for example, that plugged-in appliances still suck power even when they're not turned on.

Did you know that? Someone please tell me how that works, because I DON'T GET IT. How...? Whatever.

Anyway, the more I read The Simple Dollar, the more I kind of hate that guy. He's SO sanctimonious.

Now, I may be overreacting due to some sort of psychological phenomenon that I don't understand, but what I get from that blog is this: You suck because you're not me. You're materialistic and brainwashed and consumerist and evil and I'm not. My family rocks, whereas yours is about to fall apart at any moment, due mostly to the fact that you're materialistic. Your kids don't know how much you love them because you keep buying them stuff instead of playing Scrabble with them in the dark like I do.

My parents are not, in any way, materialistic people. My father's favorite saying, which I have mentioned here before, is "Stewardship, not consumption, is the proper relationship to material blessings." Now, don't get me wrong - we have some Stuff, but not a lot. My parents would never consider buying fancy European luxury cars, but we've always had nice television sets and stereos. We've lived in large-ish homes, but my parents' philosophy was to buy the smallest house in the nicest neighborhood they could afford, because those homes are usually easy to sell (we moved a lot). We went on some very nice vacations, but more often than not combined them with business trips. In other words, even though my parents worked hard and were successful, we didn't spend money just to show off. We bought what we needed and maybe a few extras, but my parents' greatest joy has always been sharing with people who didn't have as much as we did.

And NO, my parents did NOT buy me everything I wanted. Not by a LONG shot. Remember when Guess jeans came into fashion in the eighties? I wanted some SO. DAMN. BAD and my parents, for a long time, flatly refused to buy them. I remember sitting with my parents in the living room and them trying to explain to me, with all the patience they could muster, that I only wanted the Guess jeans to show off and that they were no better than any other pair of jeans. Yes, they finally bought them, but ONE PAIR (as my "big" Christmas gift that year), which I then wore until they just about literally fell off my body.

The only thing my parents bought for me in unlimited quantities were books, which, if you think about it, explains a great deal. I could have all the books I wanted, and want them I did.

Having said that, I'm a little insulted by the Simple Dollar Guy's attitude that buying things for your children simply because you can is bad, always bad, and you will all end up with a broken home and drowning in debt. I FULLY realize that some parents, no matter how hard they work, are simply unable to buy everything they want to for their children. Which, in a way, is more unfortunate for the parents than it is the children, since I think most parents who love their children WANT to spoil them a bit.

I have lots of friends who come from families who didn't have a lot of money, and their childhoods may have been harder than mine, and far less sheltered, but many of them had childhoods as happy - and sometimes happier - than mine. The point is, if you love your kids and try to do what's right for them, the crap you can't buy for them doesn't matter so much.

But the Simple Dollar Guy's advice for how to save money is largely dross, especially if you're a single professional:

--Don't go out to bars and buy alcohol; stay home and play Go Fish and watch DVDs with your lovely spouse! I'd love to! Now I just need a spouse! And I bet a husband is way more expensive than a gin and tonic during Happy Hour.

--Never buy new clothes! Always shop at Goodwill! Now, I'll grant that great clothes (even designer clothes) can be bought at Goodwill and consignment shops for a fraction of the price of other stores. But any person who works in an office setting, especially if you see clients, knows that sometimes? You gotta buy a new suit or two.

--Grow your own food! Save tons of money on your grocery bill! Well, dude, it's a little difficult to play Green Acres when you LIVE IN AN APARTMENT. Besides that fact that I can't even finish a whole bag of carrots before they go bad.

--Don't have pets! They cost too much! SUCK. MY. ASS. I'd MUCH rather be poor and have Chihuahua and the Meows than be rich without them.

(My position on this may change the next time they all need vaccinations or we make our Super Awesomely Fun Annual Trip to the Emergency Vet.)

--Eat less so you'll spend less money on food! Um, OK. So maybe this IS good advice for me at the moment, but telling people to drastically cut calories and, more importantly, nutrients to save a couple bucks is downright irresponsible.

--Turn out all your lights! Do everything by candlelight! If my budget depends on the $1.52 I save every month by showering by candlelight, then I've got bigger problems than energy consumption.

--NEVER EVER EVER EVER NUH UH NO WAY EVER BUY A NEW CAR!! Bullshit. This is a whole entry in and of itself, but there are many perfectly justifiable reasons to buy a brand-new car.

--Make your own laundry detergent! Your own instant oatmeal packets! Your own toothpaste and deodorant! Wash your hair with baking soda! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...sorry. Ahem. Now. Where exactly am I supposed to get the time and energy to mix up giant 5-gallon buckets of goopy laundry detergent? Which it will then take me two years to use?

--Don't buy gifts for friends and family! Make your own gifts! Like me! I make homemade wine for EVERYONE on my gift list! Good idea. Some friends and family will be getting a few homemade gifts this year since I am, after all, the self-proclaimed Second Coming of Martha Stewart. However, I could be wrong, but I think my family and friends might disown me if I gave them all nothing but arts & crafts and MOONSHINE for Christmas. Plus I don't think hooch makes appropriate gifts for my friends' children.

(Come to think of it, moonshine might greatly enhance my family's Christmas spirit. Duly noted, Simple Dollar Guy!)

So tell, me: Am I being unreasonable, or are these things simply not feasible for a person in my situation? Or am I just being spoiled?

Even better, how do YOU save money? What are some of the things you do to keep yourself within your budget?



Your financially-challenged
Kel

I could go on forevermore about my trip to Tampa to visit Jennifer and Swell Nathan. I know some of you are probably going, "Dude, you went to Florida, and it's nice and all, but WTFBBQ?"

For one thing, it was SUCH a long time in coming. The last time I saw Jennifer and Swell Nathan before this trip was at their wedding in 2005!

For another, Jennifer and I have so much in common, and she feels sort of like a big sister. She's not very much older than I am, but she's just so much calmer and wiser and levelheaded that she seems like some strange combination of sister/sage/shaman/fairy godmother.

I won't go into all the mushy details, but I had separate conversations with her and Swell Nathan this weekend about relationships. What they're about, what you should be looking for, what you should watch out for, but most of all, how they should make you feel.

For some reason, this weekend, I finally Got It.

I know a few - a precious few - people who are in what I would describe as truly great relationships. I never thought much about what made them so great. I guess I just thought that they got lucky (HA! so to speak) and I haven't. Yet. Or ever. Whatever.

This weekend, I had an AHA! moment. I tried to describe it to Swell Nathan in terms of a Venn diagram.

(And I'm sure he must have been thinking - though he is kind enough that he did not say it - "You explain relationships in terms of Venn diagrams and you wonder why you're single?")

I tried to figure out how to draw Venn diagrams to explain this, but I am Dumb, so instead you get lists. Because I'm better at lists than I am at computers.

My successful-ish relationships have consisted of:
1. Physical attraction
2. Admiration
3. A weensy bit of trust
4. Varying degrees of respect
5. Some mutual interests
6. Some shared goals and ambitions
7. Need - humbling to admit, but true
8. Shared morals/religious principles
9. Love
10. Logic - it makes sense for me to date this person.

But the best relationships, well, they're:
1. I was going to try to make you another list, but the point is that the best relationships are simply more than the sum of the parts listed above.

And they're not always logical. They're sometimes inconvenient. Ill-timed. They don't always look real great on paper.

I asked Jennifer, "How did you know Nathan was The One? Like, when did you know?"

And one of the smartest, most rational, most balanced people I have ever met or ever will meet said "Our first date."

"REALLY? SERIOUSLY? You're kidding."

"Nope. I knew after our first date. I had no idea how he felt about me, but I knew that he was everything I'd been looking for but never thought I'd find."

They were married in a few months.

Three years later, they are one of the most blissfully happy couples I've ever seen.

That's the point. It wasn't terribly rational by most people's standards. This is a girl who has worked so hard her whole life to be successful, and she did so by planning carefully, meeting lofty goals and making very intelligent, considered decisions.

And she found the love of her life by taking a leap of faith.

--------

On a somewhat related note, just when I think I have everything figured out with regards to my disastrously failed relationship with my ex-husband (He Who Shall Not Be Named, As He Comes of a Very Litigious Family), I have some new revelation.

It occurred to me not too long ago, out of the clear, blue sky, that it never was a matter of Her (the woman for whom I was unceremoniously dumped) versus Me. Her relative merits versus my relative merits.

It is simply this: He was (is) madly in love with her. He loved me, I'm sure, but not ever in the way he has always loved her.

It doesn't make sense. From a strictly objective point of view, I probably make more sense as a wife than she does. But that doesn't matter. And it never did.

The heart wants what it wants. His wants her. It's exactly that simple. All this time, I've thought it was me, or him, or her, or a combination of the three. It wasn't. It's just that.

It was one of the most liberating moments of my life.

--------

I didn't say anything at the time, and I'm not going to say much now, but in September, I ended a "relationship," for lack of a better term, that was, in a word, crushing. Long story short, I was simply not good enough. At least that's what I was led to believe. It was one of those "relationships" that has you constantly striving and wondering and always wanting to be something better, something more than you are. But not in a good way.

Well, I dropped a fucking nuclear bomb on it and didn't look back.

I haven't felt so good or so much myself in nearly two years.

The best relationships raise you up.

They don't push you down.

--------

So as much fun as I had at the Food & Wine Festival, as much as I loved cooking and creating and talking and laughing and debating happy manatee families with Jennifer and Swell Nathan, the best part of the trip was the fact that I figured out something that quite literally changed the way I see the world.

I know y'all hate it when I wax poetic. Don't worry. I'll be back to writing about making an ass of myself tomorrow. For one thing, I'm going to hem pants - imagine all the mayhem that's going to result from that! Just the "sewing with cats in the room" aspect alone will be good for at least one ridiculous story.



Your learning
Kel

For they let me play with knives and fire in the same evening.

Dear Jennifer and Swell Nathan:

Why did you do that? Don't do that.

Love,
The Rest of the World

Way back when (you know, 10 months ago or so), I made a New Year's resolution to learn to cook one dish that did not originate in a box.

DONE!

Swell Nathan taught me, the girl who can barely boil water, to cook a WHOLE CHICKEN! And make chicken stock! And mashed potatoes! And roasted asparagus! And...something else, but I can't remember right now.

(In other news, I am sick. AGAIN. PEOPLE, I AM STILL ON ANTIBIOTICS FROM LAST TIME. All the bacteria in the world have apparently decided to gang up on me. So if you've ever wanted to lick a toilet seat, eat raw pork, visit a leper colony, etc., now's your chance - the bacteria are not looking, because they're far too busy setting up shop in my sinuses. So I'm on pharmaceuticals, which in my lame world, means one thing: I'M HIGH. Which makes me think I'm funny.)

(How nice for YOU!)

In addition to teaching me how to, you know, cook stuff, Swell Nathan and Jennifer also taught me to make jewelry. Which is pretty much everything I've ever wanted in the world, since I think I am Martha Stewart and OMG SPARKLIES!

You may not know this, but Jennifer and Swell Nathan make jewelry. And when I say "make jewelry," I mean they, like, MAKE IT FROM SCRATCH. They have an Etsy store and everything! Which is here: Avidchick Jewelry

I know, right? GORGEOUS.

Jennifer and Swell Nathan? If y'all ever decide to take up polygamy, I'M IN.

And now, the photographic evidence!

Tampa! Part Three

Your chicken-roasting
Kel

Mouse introduced me to Thai food. Ever since, I've been hooked. I love rice noodles, coconut, citrus, lemongrass, peppers and peanuts, so I suppose my affection for Thai cuisine was inevitable. When I first moved to Shreveport, it didn't have a SINGLE Thai restaurant, and I mourned this travesty at great length.

Sunday, Jennifer, Swell Nathan and I made our way to the Thai temple in the late morning. Basically, the deal is this: Each family who worships at the temple prepares food to sell on certain Sundays each month. They set up at long tables in a pavillion, and people from the community come and buy the food, then they eat at the many picnic tables by the water. The families then donate all the money they make from the sale of the food to the temple. Jennifer and Swell Nathan found out about it through Creative Loafing, and they've gone frequently ever since.

Many of the temple members don't speak fantastic English (though many probably speak English better than I do), but everyone communicates pretty well nevertheless. All anyone really needs to know is "This," "How much?" and "Thank you." I surveyed the landscape, then swooped in for the kill.

Cute side story: One Sunday, Jennifer went into the pavillion and indicated to one of the ladies that she wanted to try some sort of orange-colored dish, probably a mango salad. Jennifer pointed to the dish and said, "This, please."

"Nooo..." came the answer from a little old Thai lady.
Jennifer was understandably confused. She indicated the dish again. "This?"
"Nooo..."
Jennifer held up some cash. "I have money, I can pay! I'd really like this, please."
"Nooo..."
To this day, Jennifer doesn't know what the deal was. Maybe the lady figured it was something Jennifer wouldn't like.

I'm gonna be real honest with y'all right now. I don't really know what I ate. All I know is it was fanTASTic.

Jennifer and Swell Nathan found a table for us right near the water (as in, if I had walked three steps from our table, I would have found myself IN the water), and we dug in.

After we finished eating, we decided to have a look inside the temple. I didn't take any pictures inside, of course, since that's you know, just rude, but I think from the outside pictures you can tell that it was one of the most magnificently beautiful things I have ever seen.

(When we walked - barefoot - into the temple and kneeled, I gasped, it was so gorgeous. Swell Nathan just looked over at me and smiled.)

As delicious as the food was, as breathtaking as the temple was, as good as the company was, the most important part of the day was a grand cultural lesson that I learned because of the experience:

Church ladies are church ladies no matter where they're from, what language they speak or who they worship.

Seriously. Except for the notable lack of Sicillian food, it was more or less exactly like the St. Joseph altar at my church.

I couldn't understand their language, but boy howdy, I know me some church ladies, and they were gossiping and fussing at each other and their kids and grandkids just exactly like the church ladies at St. Joseph. I was expecting, at any moment, someone to grab me by the arm and demand to know why I'm not married yet.

Some things naturally transcend nationality and religion, I suppose.

I'm just glad no one bugged me about why I haven't yet birthed a litter of Catholic (or Buddhist) babies.

And now, the part everyone's waiting (or wading) for: PIKTURZ!

Tampa! Part Two

Your table mannered
Kel

My brain is still a little foggy. I feel like I slept forever last night. It's funny; I had so much fun with Jennifer and Swell Nathan in Tampa that I never felt the least bit tired all weekend, even though we were going a million miles an hour the whole time I was there. Ah, well. Reality has set back in and I'm feeling the after-effects of a trip that included more activity than I've done in a very long time!

And boy, was it ever fun.

Friday night, about 10:00 p.m. Tampa time, Jennifer and Swell Nathan picked me up at the airport. The plane was really crowded, so I was in the back of the swell of people headed toward the baggage claim. Jennifer told me later that she said to Swell Nathan, "Remember, she's tiny, so we may not see her right away." I saw them before they saw me and started hopping up and down and waving like an idiot. As soon as I got to them, I grabbed each of them in turn in giant bear hugs. We found my suitcase right away and headed to the car. We stopped at Wal-Mart for Diet Dr. Pepper (nectar of the gods) and went back to their house.

Dear Jennifer and Swell Nathan: Please adopt me. I realize I'm a little old, but I'm very neat and clean and hey! At least you don't have to send me to college. Love, Kel.

Their house is like the coolest museum on the planet. Every single way you turn your head, every place your eyes rest, there is something cool to see. It may seem like this would be junky or overcrowded, but they've done a really good job of editing and arranging all their stuff so that nothing seems out-of-place or disjointed.

You may recall that Jennifer and I first bonded over our mutual love of comic books, so I almost passed out when I saw their office upstairs.

( The Office of My Dreams )

We stayed up for a while looking at photo albums and catching up, then we headed to bed to get some rest for what proved to be a very exciting activity: the Epcot Food & Wine Festival!

For a foodie, the Food & Wine Festival is pretty much like dying and going to heaven. I was expecting the food to be very good, but not world-class. I mean, it's Disney, and they're feeding a) thousands of people and b) thousands of people who are not necessarily adventurous eaters. So I guess I was expecting the watered-down versions of the various world cuisines.

Yeah. No. It was some of the best food I've ever had at any time in any place.

Though Jennifer and Swell Nathan, as regulars at Disney, were a bit wary of bringing bags of any kind to Disney (the bag-check lines can be murderous, though they were definitely not on the day we went), I brought a little makeup bag with my money and essentials, most importantly, stomach medicine.

I knew. I just KNEW. That my already-sensitive stomach was going to be, like, "Leek tart and lamb shank and apple strudel and cream puffs and couscous? OH YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME" and rebel. Strangely, it didn't. Despite all the weird shit I managed to eat that day, my stomach never so much as threatened me. It was probably just happy that everything I ate was so, so good.

After we had sampled all the goodness that the Food & Wine Festival had to offer, we made our way to the Magic Kingdom, where I proceeded to turn into a five-year-old. Everything at Disney, even though I've been there three times before, was new and fun and exciting when experienced with best friends.

Best of all, Jennifer and Swell Nathan are the perfect people with whom to have an experience like this: they're laid back and fun, and they're the kind of people who are enthusiastic about everything and think everything is fun, and those are the kind of people who make others happy to be around them.

"Fine, fine, Clothes_Slut, we get it, you had a great time, blah, blah, blah, NOW WHERE ARE THE EFFING PICTURES?!"

Hold your horses! They're right here!

Tampa! Part One

More tomorrow!



Your still-dreaming-of-escargot-en-brioche
Kel

I have returned!

And I had more fun than is legally allowable in several states.

Jennifer and Swell Nathan? They are swell. They are sweller than swell. THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE DOES NOT EVEN HAVE A WORD FOR HOW SWELL THEY ARE.

Anybody got an English-Swahili dictionary?

Yes, I had a great time, but this girl? She is POOPED. So more later. Trust me, I have so much to tell you guys, we just may talk about this little holiday for the rest of the year.

But until then, I leave you

With this.



Chihuahua say, "CHIHUAHUA NOT IN HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH. CHIHUAHUA WISH MICKEY MOUSE WOULD CRAM DUMB EARS DOWN MOUSE-HOLE."

Hope you all had wonderful weekends and mildly painful Mondays!



Your insanely happy but very tired
Kel