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

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

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

Prostate: a firm partly muscular partly glandular body that is situated about the base of the mammalian male urethra and secretes an alkaline viscid fluid which is a major constituent of the ejaculatory fluid

Prostrate: stretched out with face on the ground in adoration or submission ; also : lying flat

Two different words. Two different meanings.

It's always nice when one begins one's day a) talking about "prostrate" glands and b) writing about ejaculatory fluid on one's blog.

I think maybe I work with too many men.



Your dictionary-wielding
Kel

Him: "So which Bad-Ass Chick traits do you have, exactly?"

Me: "All of them."

More later!



Your missing-you-guys
Kel

My dad has an interesting philosophy when it comes to business ownership. Our family is what he refers to as "servant leaders."

Yes, we own the business, but it's not a dictatorship. Our jobs are to make it possible for the people who work here to do their jobs. As you can imagine, this isn't always easy.

We try provide a safe, healthy work environment that's as enjoyable as possible. We thank all our employees on a daily basis. If there's something that will make their jobs easier, we'll buy it for them; all they have to do is ask. Often, we help them out in their personal lives as well. We lend them money for car payments, help them find lawyers, give them time off when they need it, and buy Christmas gifts for their children, among other things.

The hard part is that we, as a family, come second. Or third. Or twenty-fifth. The point is, we will never ever be as important as the company in general or the employees in particular. For example, if I need to be off to go to the doctor, but one of the employees makes a last minute doctor's appointment and he or she needs to be off the same day, well, my appointment has to wait. They. Come. First.

My dad really feels his responsibility toward his employees. He reminds me and my brother on an almost-daily basis that we are responsible for the lives of scores of people, and we must always put ourselves last. "The company puts food on our table," he tells us. "We don't have to worry. But WE have to put food on THEIR tables."

(Our other brother is a banker in Dallas. He lives the good life, is what I'm saying.)

Whenever I get ticked off at an employee, Dad simply asks me if I want their job. "You wanna get out there in the heat and [hang doors/weld stuff/do all kinds of things I don't know how to do]? 'Cause we'll fire him right now if you think you can do it any better than he does."

"They aren't our fishing buddies, Kelly. We don't have to like them. They do their jobs, they do them well, and they make everything possible for us."

(I get this particular speech practically every day.)

I am fine with Dad's philosophy. Sure, it hurts my feelings that EVERY SINGLE DAY NO MATTER WHAT THEY COME FIRST, but servant leadership works. My dad has almost 40 years of business success proving that it does.

I only ask for one thing in return.

DO
NOT
TALK
SHIT
ABOUT
THIS
FAMILY
IN
MY
PRESENCE.

I
WILL
RIP
YOUR
FUCKING
HEAD
OFF
AND
SPIT
DOWN
YOUR
NECK.

I think sometimes people forget that that's my mom or dad or big brother or nephew they're dogging right in front of me, that we're not just coworkers to each other the way we are to everyone else.

Today, one of our sales reps

(I will stop right here and reemphasize that WE are HIS customer, not the other way around)

said something about how my dad "talks down to people" and he (the sales rep) didn't like it happening in front of him.

Based on the above description, do YOU think my dad sounds like the sort of man who "talks down to" people?

(I mean employees. HECK YES Dad talks down to the family, but never to employees.)

And even if Dad does "talk down to people," this guy is a SALES REP, not a customer or an employee or an advisor or even a friend.

WE DO NOT CARE AT ALL WHAT HE HAS TO SAY ABOUT THE WAY WE RUN OUR BUSINESS.

Kelly: BOOM

Brother, Nephew & Mother: Shock and amusement at Kelly going BOOM; waiting excitedly to see what sort of drama will unfold

Rest of Employees: Trying desperately to ignore Kelly going BOOM and the drama that is about to unfold

Dad: "Well, [Sales Rep], the only way I can see to keep that from happening in front of you again is for you to take your shit and leave, and we'll take our business elsewhere."

At this, the sales rep BLEW THE HELL UP. He's a grossly fat man, and the thought of him hopping up and down and screaming is, frankly, terrifying.

Dad: "Kelly, do you have a voice recorder on your phone?"
Kelly: "No, why would I?
Dad: "'Cause I have a strong suspicion that [Sales Rep] is gonna be calling YOU."

Bring it, Fat Boy.



Your fiercely loyal
Kel

Yesterday, I was introduced to someone in a most interesting way.

One of our delivery drivers came into the office. Dad introduced him to my brother and my nephew, then he brought the man back to my desk.

"And this is my daughter Kelly," Dad said proudly. "She's the girl one!"

My feminist hackles raised slightly until I thought about it and realized, yeah, I guess I am the girl one.

The girl one has been waiting several days for one of the boy ones to go with her to Target. See, there's this bookcase I've been wanting, but I can't lift the box. I've asked all of them every single day for a WEEK and something always comes up. So I've been stuck waiting.

Last night, I was on my way home from work and thought, "Screw this!" I'm a lot of things, but a pussy isn't one of them, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit in my apartment up to my ears in books because none of the men in my life will go with me to effing Target. There HAD to be a way to do this; I was just gonna have to figure out what that way was.

So I went to Target and, after much drama and confusion on the part of the Target employees (note to self: Mensa members do not work at Target), bought the bookcase. One of the employees loaded the bookshelf in my car. Now I just had to get it out of the car, up three flights of stairs and into my apartment. Easy. Right?

Uh...

Now, the bookcase box weighs at least a hundred pounds. I can lift a hundred-pound human (for a few seconds, anyway), but there's no way I can carry a hundred pounds of dead weight that's taller than I am up to a third-floor apartment.

Finally, the lightbulb came on.

I went up to my apartment, grabbed a knife, went back down to the car, cut open the box, then proceeded to carry the bookcase upstairs piece by piece. Voila!

Cons:
1. No cons! I have a new bookcase now!

Pros:
1. I now have a new respect for the mafia. Hauling dead bodies around all the time can't be easy.

Bachelor girls rule!



Your roaring
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

I may not lead the most exciting life, but you'd be hard pressed to find someone who laughs more than I do.

So tonight, like every night, I go into the Meows' room (formerly known as the Scary Room) to say goodnight and make sure they have enough food and water to last them until morning.

Well.

There is kitten chow EVERYWHERE.

The Meows, being six weeks old and all, are not very good about, you know, like, watching where they're going and stuff? So they'll go tearing across the room and skid into their food and water bowls and it just really looks like Al Qaeda detonated a kitten kibble bomb in the Scary Room.

Sigh. Back to my closest friend these days, the broom.

But then I thought, hey, wait a minute! This sounds like a job for my PINK DIRT DEVIL KONE! So I grabbed the Kone and went to work.

Well, the minute I turned on the Kone, the Meows went all OH EM GEE WEEZ GONNA DIE and scattered. One Meow ran straight into the tiny tent they play in and kept running, so it looked like there was a brightly-colored hamster ball rolling across the Scary Room floor at maximum Meow speed (i.e., "warp").

I'm gonna admit right here and now that I fell on my ass laughing.

And experienced just the wee-est bit of a power trip.

She who holds the Kone rules the cattery!



Your benevolent dictator
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