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, participants: 15

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, participants: 13

Do I...

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



Your grinchy
Kel

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

So...yeah. This is definitely going to go down in history as the Worst Halloween Ever. Michael Myers himself showing up would be a marked improvement, because at least then things would be more interesting. And Halloween-themed.

Speaking of Michael, I'll be watching Halloween for the 84,000th time tonight. Because who doesn't like 70's-era all-natural boobies, especially when they're combined with blood, guts and knee socks? I know I do.

At least y'all are here to keep my spirits aloft with your funny comments and suggestions for weight loss. I hope y'all know I love you more than my luggage. I love y'all so much, in fact, that I did something for you today that is heretofore UNPRECEDENTED in Clothes_Slut Land:

I took pictures of myself...

SANS MAKEUP.

Quick, someone grab the smelling salts!

If this ain't journalistic integrity, then someone's going to have to tell me what is BECAUSE I JUST DON'T KNOW.

Anyway, here they are: a photographic record of The Halloween Which Sucked a Thousand Dicks.

Mere: "In a row?"

Halloween 2008 The Giant Sucking Sound

Happy Halloween, my darlings! Look out next year: Mere and I are going as POLYGAMISTS!



Your scary
Kel

Yesterday, I didn't feel so hot. Nothing major - my sinuses have been bothering me a lot lately, and I haven't been sleeping well.

By the time I got home last evening, I was feeling pretty assy. I made up my mind to eat a good, nutritious dinner, work on my costume for a couple hours, take some NyQuil, then go to bed really early.

So I did.

Fast-forward to this morning: DIE.

DIE. DIE. DIE. Want to DIE. Pain. EVERYWHERE. Throat. Head. Back of Neck. Joints. GAH.

So I called my mom to tell her I would NOT be in to work, that I was going to the doctor.

Now, I love my momma. Y'all have no idea. She worries about me so much. Sometimes a little too much.

Mom: "I bet you have something really bad. Your sinuses have been acting up forever. You really need to go to the doctor. Make sure you go to the doctor, OK? Because I think you need some stronger medicine. Halloween is tomorrow, and you're flying to Florida next weekend. So go to the doctor. Promise me you'll go to the doctor. I want you to get well, and the only way you're going to get well is to go to the doctor..."

Kel: "BOBBA! I JUS TOL YOU I AB GOIN TO DE FUGGIN DOGTOR! STOP WIT DE DOGTOR TALK! LEAB BE ALODE!"

Mom: "What? I can't understand you when your sinuses are all clogged up. Go to the doctor, OK?"

So I went to the FUGGIN DOGTOR who informed me, after many (OK, two) painful tests that I have strep throat.

Ladies and gentlemen, I do not cry. I would rather scoop out my own eyeballs with a melon baller than cry in front of anyone. And yet, in the doctor's office, I began to cry.

"WHAT'S WRONG? ARE YOU OK?" exclaimed the doctor, whom I happen to know personally. He crossed the room in two steps and put his hand on my shoulder. He was most alarmed. "Are you in that much pain?"

(You know what he was thinking: "DUDE, we are so going to end up on an episode of House, and it is gonna be BAD. ASS.")

"DOH," I said, shamefacedly. "BUD I'B SUPPOSED TO BE NIBBLER AD A COSTUME PARDY TOBORROW!"

"Nibbler?"

"YES," I said, sobbing.

"Nibbler...is he the one on that show with the robot?"

"YEEEEESSSS..." I wailed.

He told me I will be contagious for about 72 hours. He said I could go, but laid out a whole list of precautions I must take in order to not be Typhoid Mary at the party.

I called amberle404 when I got in the car and told her my sorrowful tale.

"It's OK!" she said quickly. "We'll...make you your own cup! We'll write your name on it! It'll say 'Nibbler's Poison Cup' so no one will drink after you! And...we'll make you your own plate of food ahead of time so you won't have to touch the chips or anything!"

I love her so much. Why do I love her so much? Please see above re. Nibbler's Poison Cup. Willing to risk STREP-EFFING-THROAT so that all my work on my Nibbler costume will not be wasted.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I have done NOTHING in my life to deserve the kind of friends I have.

So I'm home now, sitting with Chihuahua, wrapped in her fake-fur throw, watching bad television, and high on medicine. (Dear Clothes_Slut Readers: Please disregard anything I say for the next 24 hours or so. Love, Kel) I'm praying for a miracle, but chances are good to excellent that all my work on my Nibbler costume will have been for naught.

I realize that this does not even make the list of Top 100 Bad Things That Can Happen to You, but for me, missing Halloween is tantamount to being in the hospital on Christmas day. Of all the 72-hour periods during the year for this to happen!

It's really pretty fortunate, all things considered. I'm flying to Tampa next weekend to visit avidchick and megarath, and at least it's only $30.00 worth of sewing supplies wasted rather than a plane ticket that costs as much as my luggage. Besides, as my mother reminded me, a trip to Disney World with two of my best friends in the universe is a pretty damn good consolation prize for missing dumb old Halloween. And anyway, Jennifer and Swell Nathan are cool enough that they'll probably let me wear my eyeball to Disney World.

On top of everything else, for the first time in six months, I let the nurse at the doctor's office tell me my weight.

RIGHT. Like I'm really gonna tell it to y'all on here. It's one of those weights that if you heard it, you'd probably be all, "Pffft. Talk to me 30 pounds from now, Sweet Cheeks," but when you're five-foot-nothing and have a small frame, this weight is, um. Yeah. NOT GOOD.

I whined to Emily, "So I can't even sit home tomorrow night and drown my sorrows in Snickers Minis. I get to drown my sorrows in carrots."

"That's gonna take a whole lot of carrots."

So entertain me, Clothes_Sluttians:
1) What are YOU going to be for Halloween?
2) What makes you feel better when you're sick?
3) How does one lose weight when one abhors low-fat processed food and is none too fond of exercise?

Off to get more ice chips and pout about my fate.



Your sickly
Kel

This morning, I vandalized a car.

I know what you're thinking. It's true that vandalism is, as a rule, not my modus operandi.

(Except for those stupid bumper stickers that are all "MARRIAGE = [stick-figure man] + [stick-figure woman]". I used to carry a Sharpie at all times so that when I saw one of those, I could surreptitiously draw a skirt on the man.)

But here's where it all started downhill:

Between last night and this morning, I've sunk into an existential crisis wherein I have become convinced that my life has no value whatsoever. As in, if I, a single woman, were on a life raft with a bunch of married ladies and mommies, well, I'd probably be going over the side. This despite the fact that the average IQ in this country is 90. Did you know that? Well, now that you do, you can stop being mad about everything else and focus solely on that. The average American citizen's IQ is precisely twelve points above "functionally retarded." Explains a lot, doesn't it?

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Me getting thrown over the side of a life raft because I haven't managed to get (stay) hitched and/or had life burst forth from my loins.

Dear Men: I am sorry. I will never use the word "loins" and "burst" in the same sentence on this blog ever again. Love, Kel.

I found out yesterday that one of my friends is pregnant with her second child. Now, we won't go into the details of her particular situation, but suffice it to say that she is, by all outside appearances, at least (and that statement certainly isn't meant to imply anything - we just haven't had much conversation beyond "I'm trying to get pregnant!" "OMG, I might be pregnant!" and "Do you think I'm pregnant? I bet I'm so totally pregnant!" for two months or so. Which is to say, I have no earthly idea how her life is going except as it pertains to her reproductive system), living the American dream. And I'm happy for her. It's not my dream, but it's her dream, it's a good dream, and I'm glad she's achieved it.

Don't get me wrong - I would probably like to get married and have babies. It's just that my dream focuses, for now, a bit more on myself and my ambitions, not suburbs and public schools. (It seems ridiculous to have a dream based on a husband and children who are as yet imaginary. So I work with what I've got.) Is my life ideal? No. Is hers? Probably not. And that's OK. There's nothing wrong with her dream, there's nothing wrong with my dream.

Right?

Wrong.

Sigh. There's nothing like the people around you having snuggly babies left, right and center to make you doubt the worth of your choices. Today, I feel as though I have foolishly defied the laws of nature when I should have just gotten married at 18 and started reproducing right away as Mother Nature intended. Tomorrow I will be proud of the life I've made for myself. But today I am convinced that everyone who knows me is looking at me with pity and/or disdain.

Consider the fact that every time I leave any family gathering, at least two people shove money in my hand as I walk out. I know what you're thinking - it's free money! What the hell are you complaining about?!

They give me that money because they think that, as a single woman, I can't possibly have any of my own. That it is only a matter of time before I find myself a Destitute Spinster. That's what I'm telling myself today.

Tomorrow, I will know that they give me money because they love me and care about me and know that I have to support myself all by myself, and they want me to have nice and frivolous things. But today, it's all sociological judgment, all the time.

Back to the car. Which I vandalized.

So this morning, I was in a rather black mood. We've reached the point in the year in Louisiana in which there is a 30-degree difference between morning and afternoon, so dressing for the day, which is usually one of my favorite things, has suddenly become quite complicated. The cats were climbing the laundry rack and Chihuahua was trying to pee under the bed and I didn't have any breakfast food in the house and I'm seeing clients this afternoon and everyone has babies but me and...well, you get the point.

When I walked out to my car, I noticed that the car next to mine had one of these.



And I...well, let's just be real honest about it. I kind of lost it.

And I popped that awful inflammatory thing off that person's gas-guzzling SUV with my car key.

(I hope they didn't see me.)

I mean, anyone who's been reading this for any length of time knows that I'm, you know, VERY Catholic, but come on. Why you gotta have shit like that on the back of your car?

If it was your car, then I'm sorry. Bet you really hate my blog, huh? Please do not call the police. It didn't hurt your car at all! I ONLY HURT THE FISH! Actually, NO. YOU. YOU HURT THE FISH. But only if you backed over it. Please do not call the police.

The rest of you: Please do not tell on me.



Your moody
Kel

I am dying.

Not literally, of course. I just feel that way. Alternatively, I wish I would die. AND I AM SO PRETTY RIGHT NOW:

--My throat feels like two porcupines crawled into my mouth last night and made sweet porcupine love on my tonsils.
--My eyes are swollen nearly shut.
--I cannot hear, and my ears are itching so bad IT IS DRIVING ME INSANE.
--By doze iss swolled add RED add id's flakin all OBER DE PLACE.
--My lips are cracked due to all the mouthbreathing I've been doing.
--I cannot stop sneezing and
--SNOT. EVERYWHERE. ALL THE TIME. I'll just leave it to your imagination.

Mere: "Wow. And you're single, you say?"

It's just me and my box of Kleenex today, folks.

Also: Claritin D12, YOU LIE AND LIE AND LIE YOU LYING FUCKERS. YOU NEITHER CONTAIN AN EFFECTIVE AMOUNT OF ANTIHISTAMINE NOR DO YOU WORK FOR 12 HOURS. I call bullshit.

As you might imagine, my popularity with my coworkers is at an all-time low. Everyone is shunning me like the disease vector I am.

Now I know how Typhoid Mary must have felt.



Your pestilent
Kel

So I'm learning to sew on oilcloth.

It's not easy.

Oilcloth is simultaneously slippery and sticky, and it's just a giant pain in the ass to deal with. Sewing a zipper onto oilcloth is essentially sadomasochistic torture. Last night, I got so pissed off that I stormed into the laundry room, grabbed a tube of super glue and super-glued a zipper to the oilcloth before sewing it, which, as you can imagine, is VERY BAD for the sewing machine.

Anyway.

One of the products that's highly recommended for helping a budding seamstress such as myself deal with oilcloth is called Sewer's Aid. It's sewing-machine lubricant, but you can rub a bit on your needle, feed plate and presser foot to help fabrics like oilcloth glide through rather than stick and bunch. I bought a bottle at the fabric store last night.

A little ways into my second project, I looked around for the Sewer's Aid. I couldn't find it, and I knew the cats had gotten it. I prayed to God that maybe, just MAYBE, the cats had batted it under the china cabinet or something and weren't actually EATING the Sewer's Aid.

Naturally, my prayers went unanswered.

For this morning, I found a chewed-up plastic bottle on the floor by my bedroom door with only about a quarter of the lubricant left in the bottle. Surprisingly, the carpet was not splattered and soaked with oil.

Which can only mean one thing: One, or possibly all, of the cats have eaten sewing-machine lubricant. At best, this means explosive diarrhea. At worst, it means an emergency vet bill the size of the national debt.

I hate cats.



Your oil-free
Kel

I'm sure y'all are aware by now that I can't do ANYTHING, not the simplest, smallest, most trivial little THING without some kind of fucked-up shit happening.

I firmly believe that when God created me, He said to Himself, "And you, My darling, you are going to be the court jester for the universe."

And so I am.

The movers came to the apartment early Wednesday morning. They were great; they did a terrific job, and the only thing they broke was something I packed completely improperly.

One of the last items they took from the apartment was the love seat in the sitting room. They lifted it up, and Chihuahua's secret stash of dried-up cat poop came rolling out.

FanTASTIC.

They all stopped, turned their heads and looked at me like "Eeewww."

A rational person would have been all, "WHAT. It's not like it's MINE."

Instead, because I am socially inept, I ended up stammering an excuse that included the words "secret stash."

As the movers continued to stare.

Perfection, thy name is KEL.



Your humiliated
Kel

I.
Am utterly exhausted.

Last night (or technically this morning, I suppose) at midnight, I was awakened from a dead sleep by the sound of some sort of metallic banging noise coming from the bathroom next to the guest bedroom at my parents' house (i.e., Carol's bathroom).

I went into the bathroom to find:

1. Carol
2. Wearing nothing but a t-shirt, her car-cover-esque panties and a headband
3. Standing on a stack of encyclopedias
4. Banging on the shower curtain rod with a pair of grilling tongs

Even in my half-awake state, it only took me about 0.56 seconds to completely lose my shit.

Let us enumerate all the things that are wrong with this scenario:

1. Carol is mentally handicapped. She is also very fat. When I say that Carol is shaped like a beach ball with feet, I'm not saying that to make fun of her; that's about how stable her balance is
2. So standing on a stack of encyclopedias falls firmly into the category of Really Stupid and Dangerous Shit Carol Should Not Be Doing
3. (She falls down even more than I do, if that tells you anything. She completely destroyed her bookcase by falling into it just last week)
4. It is MIDNIGHT, and
5. I AM TRYING TO SLEEP
6. No one else in our home is bothered in the least by the five facts listed above

Carol is very sweet sometimes, but she can also be the most annoying brat anyone has ever encountered. Part of this is because all of her actions are completely consequence-free and have been all her life.

My parents are loathe to "punish" her (as were her parents, my grandparents). "She's 60 years old," they say, "what would you have us do? She's not a child."

Yes. Yes, she is.

Carol is physically and chronologically 60 years old. But for all intents and purposes, she is a child of about eight. Eight-year-olds should experience negative consequences when they do undesirable behaviors. Am I suggesting we spank her? Lock her in a closet? Tie her up in the yard? Absolutely not. What I am suggesting is:

1. Take away her TV privileges
2. Take away her coloring books and puzzle books
3. Unplug the computer so she can't play Solitaire
4. Remove the snacks in the house
5. Prevent her from using her own bathroom (this sounds really bizarre, but Carol loves having her own bathroom and is loathe to use the others in the house)

You experience negative consequences when you do stupid stuff; I experience negative consequences when I do stupid stuff; why doesn't Carol?

Because everybody feels guilty because Carol is retarded.

My attitude is that there's no reason for anyone to feel guilty. We did not cause Carol's retardation and couldn't have done anything to prevent it. No, her life has not been easy, but pampering her, spoiling her and indulging her is not improving Carol's life; she deserves the dignity which comes from having a structured existence in which there are rules, rewards and consequences. There are certain things that Carol will NEVER understand no matter how much we try to ingrain them in her, but we CAN establish a system of rewards and punishments that will make her far less likely to engage in activities which will inevitably end with her breaking her neck or cracking open her skull like an overripe melon all over her bathroom floor.

Needless to say, no one else sees it this way. Everyone says I'm too harsh.

No. No, I am not harsh; I am REALISTIC, a trait which, apparently, no one in my family shares.

SO
VERY
SLEEPY
AND
PISSED
OFF.



Your harsh/realistic
Kel

UGH. Valentine's Day is nearly upon us again. And while I love the decorations, I wish the rest of it would drop into the pits of hell, never to be seen or heard from again.

Pros:
1. The Colors

WHY did someone have to decide that red, pink and white would represent a holiday which (for me, anyway) is all about alienation?

Fine. I hereby declare that the official colors for the day of my birth, May 13, are red, pink and white. Suck it, Valentine's Day. The rest of you: dress accordingly.

2. The Confections

Candy bars in the form of Scrabble boards? Bittersweet chocolate cupcakes sprinkled with pink peppercorns? avidchick's strawberry shortcake? WHY, GOD, WHY?

...OK, that's about it. The rest of Valentine's Day is truly horrible. Here are a few of the many reasons why:

Cons:
1. I NEVER get anything for Valentine's Day. Unless I order flowers for myself when I'm ordering flowers for my dad to give my mom. WHAT. I should get a commission, right?

2. Forget going out to dinner. You can't even go to IHOP without seeing moony couples drooling all over each other. And I'd rather not cry into my Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity, if it's all the same to you.

3. If you have just started seeing someone, what do you do? They're not your VALENTINE, for Pete's sake, but do you just let it slide by unacknowledged? I mean, what do you do? Box of chocolates and a card? BO-RING. CD? What kind of CD? Nothing too romantic, that's for sure, and the Sex Pistols' Greatest Hits seems inappropriate. ACK. Although, come to think of it, I might actually be sort of touched if a guy bought that for me. But I'm weird like that.

I think this Valentine's Day, I will do what I do every Valentine's Day, which is hide out in my apartment eating frozen pizza, avoiding romantic comedies on television, eating cut-price chocolates, and whining on the phone to all my single friends. YAY.



Your embittered
Kel

...except all of you, of course; I love you guys. Unless you were one-half of that weird couple at the movie theatre who kept staring at me and smiling. THEN I HATE YOU TOO.

Srsly. What the fuck. Who does that? Do they not have any idea how CREEPY that is? Like, they kept casting these furtive (furtive!) glances in my direction and half-smiling.

And of course I'm all, "What the hell? What are you, retarded, Mormon, or just Canadian?" In my head, of course, not out loud.

(My apologies to all retarded Canadian Mormons. You are a fine and noble people. I'm just pissed at the world right now.)

And Jennifer said, "Dude. You have the worst case of PMS in the history of western medicine. They must know you from somewhere."

To which I replied loudly, "I DO NOT KNOW ANY PEOPLE WHO DRESS THAT BADLY."

I know. I am evil incarnate.

So as long as we're (I'm) being bitchy, here is a list of Things Kel Hates:

1. When people do not have their shit together in the concession line at the movie theatre. Have your wallet out before you step up to the counter. Decide what you want ahead of time. Tell the kid, get your crap, and get the hell out of my way. I mean it. Let me get my gummy bears and go watch my movie. 'Cause I have the ability to make decisions quickly AND I WILL USE IT ON YOU.

2. People who talk in movie theatres (i.e., not whisper). This is not Mystery Science Theater 3000. I am not interested in your witty running commentary. You are watching 27 Dresses in an afternoon matinee in Shreveport, Louisiana. You cannot be that fascinating or YOU WOULD BE SOMEWHERE ELSE (present company included).

3. To the lady who DRANK out of MY DIET COKE when it was in MY CUPHOLDER that YOU SAID I COULD USE:

You will burn in hell.

-----

I think it may be time for my next dose of Midol now, and perhaps a nap. Someone's cranky

AND IT'S ME.



Your hormonal
Kel (aka Captain Crankypants)

...has got to be Dateline's To Catch a Predator.

Don't get me wrong - there is absolutely nothing funny about perverts sexually exploiting underage girls. But HOLY CHRIST, PERVS, DO YOU NOT WATCH TV?

I mean, if I were a disgusting horny freak hot to have sex with a prepubescent female, I would think twice these days before hooking up with one I met online. Alas, no one ever accused pedophiles of having an overabundance of brains.

Highlights:

Stone Phillips (or whomever): So why are you here?
Perv: To talk to her about the importance of education.
Stone: It says here in this chat transcript that you told her you want to put your _____ in her _____ and _____ her. That doesn't sound like you just want to talk to her about her education.
Perv: I was born in Austria.

(So "Perv" is NOT a universal language. EDIT: Or else Austrians have some pretty crazy ideas when it comes to education.)

-----

Stone: So why are you here?
Perv: Just to hang out. She said she has a hot tub.
Stone: You, a 22-year-old man, drove an hour and forty-five minutes to hang out with a 13-year-old girl in her hot tub?
Perv: Yeah.
Stone: So have you ever done anything like this before?
Perv: Yeah, but the woman turned out to be a transvestite.
Stone: How'd that work out for you?

(Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during THAT romantic little tryst.)

-----

Stone: So you're how old?
Perv: 27.
Stone: And the girl you're meeting is...?
Perv: 13.
Stone: What did you bring with you?
Perv: Change of clothes, a camera, and condoms.
Stone: So what were you planning to do?
Perv: Just hang out.

(This one was, I could swear, wearing a Circuit City uniform. Four words, dude: LAY OFF THE ANIME.)

I also love how they're all there to "just hang out." I swear, keep watching long enough, and you're going to hear THIS exchange:

Stone: So what did you bring with you?
Perv: A donkey, roller skates, a dildo, a magnum of Two Buck Chuck, cheese puffs, and a Tijuana stripper.
Stone: What were you planning to do?
Perv: Just hang out.

See, it's a good thing I wasn't hired for Stone Phillips' job. 'Cause then it would cease to be To Catch a Predator and instead become Watch Kelly Flay Perverts Like Boneless Chicken Breasts.

Personal to pervs: Fucking knock this shit off.

Schadenfreude: Happiness at the misfortune of others. (Especially when others are pedophiles.)



Your outraged yet gleeful
Kel

My dad called the last time I was writing a note to Jeanette, the soldier I was assigned through soldiersangels.org. I asked him, "Daddy, did people do stuff like this during Vietnam?"

"Hell, no. There were a very few people who believed in that old war-protest slogan, 'We're not against the soldiers, we're against the war,' but not many. Most people thought we were mercenaries, baby-killers. Sure, some who knew people who'd been captured over there wore POW bracelets, but even that was pretty rare. Vietnam was, as you know, a very unpopular war."

Kind of like this one, I thought.

I can't do anything about my dad's war experiences; hell, I wasn't even born until 8 years after he came home! But though I'm no proponent of this "War on Terror," I can make sure at least one soldier doesn't repeat his experience. Coming from a "military family," I guess you could say (and having been married to a submarine officer), I know first-hand the ambivalence military personnel sometimes feel about the things they're called upon to do. Not being a very obedient sort myself, it's hard for me to imagine carrying out an order that I'm not sure I believe is morally right for the sake of an ideal, but I admire them for doing it. As my dad is fond of saying, every once in a while, you have to just stand on principle. (Though he also frequently reminds me that one can only stand on principle for so long.)



Your ambivalent
Kel

So I was reading one of my new favorite blogs, Sundry Mourning, and the author, who is currently about 8.5 months pregnant, included in her latest entry a link to a site which lists the Top Baby Names of 2007. So I click, naturally, to see if any of the names I like for my Phantom Imaginary Baby Which Will Likely Never Exist were on the list. (No.)

(I guess not very many other people compile a list of baby names, all of which include the names of various comic book characters.)

ANYWAY

So, while trolling around on the baby-name site, I come across this:

Win Free Cord Blood Banking with Cord Blood Registry!

Ew. Ew? Eeeeeeeeewwwwww!

I'm very sorry, but this, ladies and gentlemen, is SO SUPER GROSS. And I especially like how it's all, you know, WIN! in the same manner that you might be, like, WIN A FREE LOUIS VUITTON DIAPER BAG! See, one of those is disgusting and the other is not. Actually, I guess it would be disgusting to spend 11 trillion dollars on a LV diaper bag, but let's face it, I sure as hell wouldn't turn one down if I WON it.

And as long as we're on the subject of child-rearing...

So last night, I'm reading Red Book magazine. (Shut up.) And there is an ENTIRE MULTI-PAGE article devoted to "How to Say No to Your Child Without Saying No."

Exsqueeze me?

Actual example: "If your child is banging on the table, you should say to her, 'When you bang on the table, you hurt the table, and that makes me sad. So please stop.'"

Uh, no.

Granted I am no Benjamin Spock, but here is the Kelly Answer to THAT little problem:

1. Child bangs on table.
2. Kelly/Mom: "Stop banging on the table. You're making too much noise, you're messing up my table, and it's rude."
3. (Child continues to bang on table.)
4. Kelly/Mom: "Bang on that table one more time, and you are going to get a spanking."
5. (Child foolishly continues to bang on table.)
6. (Kelly/Mom spanks child's ass.)
7. /Table-banging forever more.

7 Easy Steps to Your Kid Doing What You Tell Her to Do Because You are the Adult and She is the Child.

"That makes me sad"? Oh, PLEASE. No. My parents whipped my ass when I misbehaved, and I am absolutely no worse for the wear. As a matter of fact, I am a well-adjusted, contributing member of society with good manners. I mean, you can take these things too far, to be sure, but spanking your child's butt is not going to kill him. Mind you, I did not say "beat the ever-loving bloody hell out of your kid on a daily basis." Therein lies the difference.

As I have mentioned before, my friend Karla is an EXCELLENT mother. As a matter of fact, she is a single mother of two. Which means that much of the time, Karla goes it alone. And her kids are VERY well-behaved. Why? Because Karla is able to reason with her girls most of the time, but when push comes to shove, Karla punishes her daughters when they misbehave. Karla's girls are older now, and sometimes things like grounding are enough to get the desired result, but both her daughters know that it will be quite some time before either of them is too big for a spanking. Karla is the parent and they are the children. The family is everybody's ship, but Karla is the North Star, and they WILL do what she tells them to do. Simple as that.

(Side note: I was Karla's nanny for 6 months - I had to quit when I moved to New Orleans - and I am proud to say I only called and begged her to come home immediately once. You should have seen it. That day, I was waiting for her at the door with the dog.)

But seriously, I worry for the future of our country. Are we one day going to have CEOs and Senators throwing temper tantrums on the ground because the (equally entitled) teenager working the counter at Starbucks forgot to put an extra shot in their lattes? Are the businessmen and women of tomorrow going to eat their Power Lunches with their hands because their mommies didn't want to "stifle" them by teaching them table manners?

Or are we already there?



Your pondering
Kel

So according to Page Six, PARIS FUCKING HILTON (pun most definitely intended) may receive Harvard's Hasty Pudding Woman of the Year Award next month, thus putting She Who is Famous For Doing Absolutely Nothing Except Being a Bad Actress, A Worse Singer, and a Slut in the company of

--Scarlett Johansson
--Halle Berry
--Sarah Jessica Parker

Apparently, Harvard's denied it, but who knows? Maybe they need the money.

Guess the ol' Ivy League just ain't what it used to be, huh?



Your suspicious
Kel

RIP Kel's Jeep.

I JUST had a new transmission put in the Jeep about two weeks ago. And now it has to be towed to the mechanic's shop AGAIN.

There is a new car (and the corresponding monthly payment - ack!) in my immediate future.

I really, really, REALLY want a Mini Cooper, but I think I may have to go with something more practical. The nearest Mini dealership is in Dallas, and it would have to go there for maintenance, repairs, etc. or else I risk invalidating its warranty.

Suggestions welcome.

Alcoholic beverages and cookies also welcome.



Your exasperated
Kel

Kel's Day: A Summary

Cookie baskets delivered to clients: 6

Africanized bees encountered (see previous): 0 (SUCCESS!)

Times wanted to throw GPS out car window and run over it: 1 (Improvement)

Gifts purchased: Numerous

People in Shreveport, LA on the roads today who know how to drive worth a DAMN: 0 (Including self)

Gifts wrapped: 84,000 (approx.)

Times wanted to boil Chihuahua and Wednesday up in a pot of Dog-and-Cat Gumbo because they WOULD NOT STOP playing in the paper and trying to eat the ribbon and getting their whiskers stuck in the tape: I can't count that high

Personal to Chihuahua and Wednesday: I know where you sleep, and I know where we keep the scissors.

Presents to be mailed tomorrow: 3

Presents packaged for mailing: 1

UPS Store employees who are going to try to murder me with tape guns tomorrow because I have three Target bags' worth of stuff to send to a soldier overseas, all of which needs to be packed into a box by THEM: All of them

People in this apartment who need a drink: 1 (me)



Your very tired
Kel

So tonight, I was sitting on my bed in the midst of a giant pile of cards, envelopes, stamps, pens, envelope glue, return-address labels, and envelope seals, trying to address 84,000 Christmas cards in time to mail them tomorrow. Because I'm organized like that. Yeah.

The animals were driving me CRAZY. WHY OH WHY, every single time I have some sort of important paper products on the bed which really just DO NOT NEED paw prints all over them do Chihuahua and Wednesday decide that RIGHT THEN would be a DANDY time to walk all over whatever the hell Mom's doing? WHY?

And they get all up in my face and swish their tails at me and Chihuahua's whining all, "CHIHUAHUA IS DIE OF STARVE," and it drives me batshit insane.

So I was talking to Mere in the middle of my own little Christmas clusterfuck, and she's trying to tell me a highly entertaining story about something that happened at work and she hears:

"Hold on a sec..."

*Screaming at top of lungs* "ANIMALS GET THE HELL OFF MY MOTHERFUCKING CHRISTMAS CARDS BEFORE I GET UP FROM HERE AND FUCKING KILL YOU BOTH!!!!!!!"

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Mere: "Wow. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, huh?"

That's me, Little Miss Ray of Christmas Sunshine.

Off to wrap presents.



Your irritated
Kel

P.S. My current mood may have a little something to do with the fact that my GPS decided to lose its tiny mind while I was trying to deliver 8 million cookie baskets to clients, thus causing me to text Hef, "AM LISTENING TO KILL BILL FIGHT THEME AND WISHING THE GARMIN WAS HUMAN SO COULD RIP ITS FACE OFF," and then I pulled up in front of one client's house, where I was welcomed by the following sign:

WARNING
AFRICANIZED BEES MAY BE PRESENT
ROLL UP WINDOWS AND TURN OFF AIR CONDITIONER

Seriously? Seriously. Africanized bees. You have GOT to be kidding me.

I am the Court Jester for the universe, folks.

And then I pulled up in The Rich Folks' Neighborhood and the rent-a-pig in the guard tower acted like I was a known felon just escaped from Angola. So I had A Good Day.

99.9999999% of the time, I am perfectly fine with being single. I don't care that much one way or the other.

HOWEVER.

Tonight, I reached into the bathroom cabinet to get my face lotion, and what was staring back at me? In addition to 28,000 bottles of perfume, there was a BIG, NASTY, UGLY, DISGUSTING MUTANT BUG with giant front legs and a triangle-shaped body and these gross-looking feelers sticking out from his head and DUDE I COULD NOT EVEN IDENTIFY HIM.

Predictably, I screamed so high and loud that no one but Chihuahua could probably hear me.

Right about that time, Hef called.

"IT IS TIMES LIKE THESE THAT I REALLY WANT A BOYFRIEND," I informed him.

"Oh, just grow a set and kill it."

"FINE, I'll get a shoe."

"Not a shoe! You'll ruin your shoe! Use the toilet brush!"

(I got an old shoe.)

I put the phone down so as not to scream in Hef's ear. (The man has better hearing capabilities than a dog, I tell you. He probably heard me scream.)

This is what he heard:

"One...two...two and a half...THREE!" *SMACK* *SCREAM*

Hef was still laughing when I picked up the phone again.

"I did it! I killed it! I AM SHE-RA, PRINCESS OF POWER."

"Yes, you have The Unicorn Power."



Your very brave
Kel