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

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

...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

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

In these troubled economic times, every American is being called upon to exercise fiscal responsibility. We're all having to reevaluate "wants" versus "needs." Everyone has a little less disposable income, and, in a nutshell, it's Belt-Tightening Time.

To that end, I gave myself a pedicure and a manicure last night rather than paying someone to do it for me.



WHAT. BABY STEPS, PEOPLE, BABY STEPS.

I would like to thank the Academy for recognizing genius when they see it. Also, my yoga teacher and the above-pictured lamp, purchased at Target for $7.99.

Speaking of belt-tightening, I acknowledge the fact that my new apartment costs a great deal more than my old one. However,

1) I love not living in a tenement, and
2) Even more than that, I love not living above stalkers.

Perhaps best of all, tonight Cici's Pizza was selling medium pizzas for $5.00 right outside the gate! Which, by the way, is $0.42 less than it costs me to make a pizza at home.



Most humans experience complete happiness few times in their lives. Chihuahua, on the other hand, experiences it every single time I walk in the door from work holding a pizza.

"MEAN LADY HAVE PEPPERONI FOR TO FEED CHIHUAHUA?!"

Other than painting my own toenails and eating pizza, I've been packing for my much-anticipated trip to Florida to visit Jennifer and Swell Nathan. The only part of this experience that's NOT enjoyable is trying to decipher the Kabbalah-like airline regulations regarding liquids in one's carryon luggage. DOES NOT COMPUTE.



Well, off I go to pack some more. This girl's gotta look good for Mickey, you know. Lots of pictures and such when I return.



Your very excited
Kel

P.S. Here's hoping Lola doesn't eat all the food out of the automatic cat feeder on the first day. I'm half-expecting to come home to find a beach-ball-shaped cat paws-up in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Yes, I realize that today is Tuesday, but I'm way past ready for it to be, you know, Tuesday Tuesday. Election-Day Tuesday.

Things have been getting tense at work, to put it mildly. Our workplace is about half and half Republicans and Democrats. I'm sure it's a big No Shit which category I fall into, but it is important to note that my parents? Who are also my bosses and therefore capable of making my life utterly miserable? Well, they fall into the OTHER category.

Who would think that this



could cause an all-out, ear-splitting scream-fest in the middle of my family's place of business?

Well, I should have. Because my family is what you would get if your threw the Sopranos, the Munsters and the Beverly Hillbillies into a blender and then got drunk on whatever came out.

In the photo above is a button that I picked up at the counter at the GAP Sunday while waiting for A. to pay for some socks she bought. They had an assortment of "VOTE" buttons, most of which were, naturally, red, white and blue. I liked this one because it's so different; the picture is kind of quirky and fun; and perhaps most importantly, it matches more of my clothes than any of the others did.

While I agree that this is a particularly critical presidential election, I have always felt that the most crucial issue in any election is that everyone who is eligible to vote does so, if for no other reason than "If you're not going to do anything about it, then you forfeit your right to bitch" is my personal life motto.

Anyway, I was quite pleased with my little "vote" button and made up my mind that I would wear it every day until election day.

When I walked into work Monday with it pinned to my black wool swing jacket, Mom eyed it suspiciously.

"What is that?"
"My 'vote' button! I got it at the GAP yesterday; isn't it cute?"
"What is it supposed to represent?"
"Um. Voting?"
"Yes, but what does the drawing mean?"
"I...have no idea?"
"Who designed it?"
"The...GAP Designer Person? I guess?"
"Did celebrities design those?"
"I don't know. Maybe?"
"I just don't understand the picture."
"What's to understand? It's a little girl. She has a bird on her head. She's encouraging you to vote."
"Vote for who?"
"Whoever you want to vote for, I suppose. She's non-partisan. She just wants you to vote."
"OH, I SEE. SO THIS IS A BIG SLAP IN THE FACE TO JOHN MCCAIN, HUH?"
"I...what?"
"You just think you're SO CLEVER with your VOTE button from the GAP WHICH WAS PROBABLY DESIGNED BY OPRAH WINFREY!"
"Oprah? Designed? What? MOMMA. It's just a fashion-y little 'vote' button."
"Some fashion statement..."

OH NO SHE DID NOT.
OH NO SHE DID NOT JUST INSULT MY FASHION SENSE.
It.
Is on.

I'll spare you the next few exchanges. Suffice it to say there was much high-pitched screaming, some hissing and perhaps a little spit.

"WELL, YOU JUST GO ON AND VOTE LIKE THE LIBERAL S.O.B. YOU ARE!!"
"Did you overdose on something this morning?"
"FINE!"
"FINE!"

In the end, it came out that Mom, who has learned so, so much from Oprah Winfrey, including what it means to toss someone's salad, how a daughter on Ecstasy might behave and how to flat-iron one's hair, would no longer sit in the audience on the Oprah Winfrey show if she KNEW FOR A FACT that it was Oprah's Favorite Things Day simply because - GASP - THAT BITCH HAD THE NERVE TO ENDORSE BARACK OBAMA, A DEMOCRAT, ON HER SHOW! I think she feels betrayed.

Please understand, my mother is not some right-wing, ultra-conservative whackjob fundamentalist, and in all fairness, I must tell you that she cannot stand Sarah Palin. But she's a life-long Republican who wouldn't even vote for our Democrat cousin when he ran for governor of Louisiana.

Besides, I think maybe she'd just had too much caffeine that morning.

On the bright side, our coworkers claim they are pitching our family as a reality show to several major networks.

Now, I think we've all figured out by now that the Clothes_Slut is no expert on political affairs. I try to stay abreast of the issues; I read news magazines and the paper, watch the news and listen to NPR every morning of my life. But I have nothing to say about this election that a hundred other people couldn't express more accurately and intelligently than me.

But I can say this: Vote your conscience. Vote your beliefs. Vote your party, vote whichever way the voices in your head tell you to, but for Pete's sake, get out on November 4th and VOTE.

And try not to insult anyone's fashion sense at the polls.



Your left-of-center
Kel

P.S. Today, of all days, I should not be making fun of my poor momma. She had minor surgery today to remove a small skin cancer from her lip, and she feels like shit on a stick. And now her MEAN, MEAN daughter is making fun of her in front of the whole internet. Her politics may not jive with yours, but leave Mrs. Judy some love, will y'all?

A word of advice:

Do not watch this movie right before bedtime.

I will NEVER. Get to sleep. Ever. AGAIN.

Guillermo del Toro + subtitles + grossness + extreme creepiness (AND THE SOUNDTRACK DOES NOT HELP MATTERS) = Kel sleeping with her bedroom door locked and all the lights on. Forever more.

Here is how neurotic am I:

During the creepiest part of this extremely creepy movie, Chihuahua began growling in a most menacing way (well, for a Chihuahua, anyway) at something in the corner. I couldn't see anything, so naturally, that meant it was a ghost. You know, like from the tee vee.

OMG. OMG. CREEPY LITTLE-KID GHOSTS HAVE SUPERNATURALLY COME OUT OF THE TELEVISION AND ARE NOW HAUNTING THE FAR RIGHT CORNER OF MY LIVING ROOM!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

HURRY HURRY HURRY MUST CALL FATHER DAIGLE ON THE BAT PHONE WE'RE GONNA NEED US AN EXORCISM UP IN THIS MOTHER RIGHT. EFFING. NOW.

So I leaped off the sofa in an uncharacteristically athletic manner and starting doing that hopping-around-on-tippy-toes-and-squealing dance that I usually reserve for very large spiders and trying to find my phone.

When I realized that Ouiser, not a ghost, was haunting the far right corner of my living room.

Oh.

Dear Clothes_Slut Readers: Wait. Why am I single again?

Clothes_Slut Readers: Because you are an idiot.

Oh yeah...

P.S. I hate to break it to Chihuahua, but she's going to have to keep her tiny legs crossed until daylight, 'cause AIN'T NO WAY we're going out for another walk tonight. In the dark. WHAT. THERE MIGHT BE GHOSTS.

So tell me - what's the scariest movie YOU'VE ever seen?



Your seeing-and-believing
Kel

1) Who was your first kiss?

His name was Curt. We were in eighth grade, and it was very romantic indeed. I believe the kiss in question occurred during the course of my 13th birthday party, for which my parents had a dance and hired a DJ. We were sitting in the swing next to the pond in our front pasture (HICK!) and we bumped braces.

2) Who is the last person you kissed?

Ugh. No. We shall not Go There. Suffice it to say that it is regrettable.

3) What is the story of your most romantic kiss?

I am happy to say that I have had a few take-my-breath-away, sweep-me-off-my-feet, seeing-visions-of-hearts-and-cupids-afterwards kisses.

I just haven't had one lately.

*hinthint*

Hello? *taptaptap* Is this thing on?

4) What is the story of your worst kiss?

HAHA. HAHAHAHAHA. HEEEEEEEE! Let's just say that bankgrl and I discovered one night (probably after having had too much to drink) that we had the same Worst Kiss.

(Not that we were each other's worst kiss or anything, it's just that we kissed the same...)

(Oh, NEVER MIND.)

5) Who do you want to kiss right now?

--Tiny Angry Man, a.k.a. Henry Rollins
--Penguin (Don't be cross with me, Penguin, my darling! You are second only because I have to wait for Tracy to get bored of you before I can claim the kiss that is rightfully mine. Tiny Angry Man is unencumbered.)
--Anthony Bourdain (Married, I believe. Like it would really happen anyway.)
--Neil Gaiman (Sadly, Neil is, like Penguin, married to a terrific lady. A girl can dream, though, right?!)
--Michael C. Hall (I have to wait in line behind Jessica, though.)
--Brian Viglione
--All three of the Beastie Boys.

WHAT. I like the Beastie Boys!

And more pictures.

(It took me, like, five tries to type "pictures" correctly. pcirtres pcitures picurets)

Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend

So this lady from Shongaloo, Louisiana calls this morning. She needs to schedule a service call. I take all the usual information: name, address, phone numbers, etc.

Then I ask the inevitable question, "So what exactly is going on with your garage door?"

In my family's parlance, this woman pulled a Kelly.

You know the rope thingie that hangs down from your garage door motor? Well, that's the emergency release cord. Pull it, and you can then raise or lower your garage door manually. It's very useful when your electricity is out.

In this lady's case, pulling the cord caused her door to lower all on its own, for this is what happened:

1. She accidentally shut the emergency release cord in her car door and started to back her car out of her garage.
2. Pulling the release cord caused her garage door to lower. Which was most unfortunate, because
3. She hit the garage door.
4. So she then pulled forward
5. With the emergency release cord still caught in her car door
6. And hit the wall in her garage.

Lady (worriedly): "Do you think y'all can fix it?"

Kel's brain: DO NOT LAUGH. DO NOT LAUGH. DO NOT LAUGH. DO NOT LAUGH.

Kel's mouth: MWMP. HERF. HEEP.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Lady From Shongaloo: *Extreme indignation*

*For which I do not blame her one bit.*

I COULDN'T HELP IT. I COULD. NOT. HELP IT, Y'ALL. Because I am 12 and not nearly mature enough to handle such things.

So then, to make her feel better, I had to tell her the story about the time I hit the side of my parents' garage, thus causing the entire structure of the garage to essentially implode.

Wouldn't it be awesome if business school included a class in Not Laughing at Your Customers Even When They Do Dumb Stuff That You Would Totally Do Too If Only You Had a Garage?

(I would probably get an F.)



Your tactful
Kel

Long story short, Ouiser, my cat whom I have believed for SIX MONTHS to be a GIRL, is in fact a BOY.

(On the bright side, this turn of events has given me new insight into why, at age 31, I am still single.)

Even worse, this fact was discovered Friday morning when Ouiser was ON THE OPERATING TABLE AT THE VET'S OFFICE ABOUT TO BE "SPAYED."

The receptionist at the vet's office called me.

Her: "Kelly? This is Quan. Um, so we had Ouiser on the table this morning..."

Kel's Brain: OMG. OMG. OUISER HAS DIED. Ouiser has died because I disobeyed the vet and fed her [him] a piece of potato chip this morning even though she [he] wasn't supposed to have any food or water past midnight and now she [he] has died AND IT IS ALL MY FAULT.

Her: "...and Ouiser's a boy."

Kel: ?

Kel: "Wait. What?"

Her: "Ouiser. Is not a girl. Ouiser's a boy. The vet was like, 'Did you bring me the wrong cat?' and I said, 'No, that's Ouiser and she's here to be spayed,' and the vet said, 'We can't spay Ouiser because Ouiser has testicles.'"

Kel: *Hysterical laughter*

Her: "Well, look at it this way: the surgery's cheaper!"

Kel: *Hysterical laughter*

I owe Wednesday an apology, because I blamed her for peeing all over the bathroom the other day, and uh...yeah. Now I'm pretty sure that was Ouiser.

SHEER F-----G BRILLIANCE, PEOPLE. Sheer brilliance.

Dear Harvard: Please FedEx my PhD IMMEDIATELY.



Your genius
Kel

Life Mission No. 286: Accomplished

Phone: Ringring

Kel: "Hey Mere of Mine! You're never gonna believe what I did tonight!"

Mere: "What? What'd you do?"

Kel: "Listen!"

*Puts phone down*

Kel (in background): "CHIHUAHUA! Velociraptor!"

Chihuahua (in background): *Jumps around and barks madly like a rabid Chihuahua*

*Picks up phone again*

Kel: "Well? Whaddya think?"

Mere: "WOW."

Kel: "Come on! That's awesome! My dog attacks velociraptors!"

Mere: "So what have you done this evening besides teach your dog to bark at more stuff?"

Kel: "That's...about it. GOD, MERE OF MINE. You make it sound like I haven't been busy. I accomplished Life Mission Number 286!"

Mere: "You don't aim real high, do you?"

Kel: "Oooh! I wonder if she'll do it for zombies too!"

Mere: "Oh God..."

Kel: "CHIHUAHUA! Zombie!"

Chihuahua: Goes apeshit

Kel: "Heee! Chihuahua's a genius!"

Mere: "Kel, she only does that because you point at Lola when you say 'velociraptor' or 'zombie.'"

Kel: "NO WAY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES CHIHUAHUA HAS SEEN JURASSIC PARK?"

Mere: ...

Kel: "Life Mission Number 287: accomplished."

--------

And now I'm kind of thinking that the person who accused me of doing drugs may have had a point.



Your accomplished
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

"Good God! Kelly thinks I masturbate like a spider monkey!"--Anon.

--------

"HEY, MEREDITH! SOMEBODY PEED IN THE BALL PIT."--Mere's old boss at McDonald's

--------

Kelly: "...so then the conversation naturally turned to zombies..."

Mere: "Kelly, conversations never naturally turn to zombies. Do you know how many conversations I've had in my entire life about zombies? Two. And both of them were with you."

--------

[Today, I bought a bicycle. I know! I'm so excited. Pictures tomorrow. Anyway, my dad the bicycle expert went with me to pick it out and to make sure I got all the necessary accessories, like a helmet.]

Kelly: "Oooh, bells! Do you think I should get a bell? Can I get a bell? Do you like this bell, Daddy?"

Dad: *Withering stare* "Does Lance have a bell?"

For the record, he also nixed a basket with flowers on the front, a Disney Princess horn, streamers for my handlebars and those clickety-clackety things for the spokes. AND *I* BOUGHT THE BIKE. He really likes my bike, though, even if it is pink.

--------

Kelly: "Oh, Em! I got a bike! And I LOVE IT SO MUCH! But Daddy wouldn't let me get streamers for my handlebars."

Em: "Kel, I swear, you are a 14-year-old boy in a 31-year-old woman's body."

Kelly: "A 14-year-old gay boy."



Your quotable
Kel

Mere's cousin Tim is getting married to a lovely girl, Laura, next Saturday at the cathedral in Nashville. Mere and I are traveling to the wedding.

Laura, like most brides 7 days before their weddings, is nervous as a cat on speed.

----

Kel: "Well, you just tell Laura that we'll be there for her and we can handle anything that crops up. I'm bringing my patented Kel Survival Kit[TM], so we're prepared even if the zombie apocalypse breaks out."

Mere: "Do you have any of those poison pills? I mean, just in case the zombie apocalypse does break out."

Kel: "That's a great idea. After all, running ourselves on our swords would be SO messy."

Mere: "True. And we ARE southern ladies, so ruining our dresses and the table linens is out of the question."

Kel: "I just had the best idea! OK, so let's say you got bitten by a zombie, right? So we would feed you an L-Pill and kill you, thus preventing you from reanimating as a zombie..."

Mere: "Doesn't that just...you know, speed up the reanimation process?"

Kel: "No. I don't know why, exactly. I mean, I'm not completely sure how the zombie virus works. But basically, if you off yourself before you reanimate, you won't become a zombie. So anyway, we feed you your L-Pill, right..."

Mere: "I don't really think about zombies...ever."

Kel: "So we feed you the L-Pill, you die, and you don't become a zombie. But the zombies would probably eat you anyway, because brains are brains, right? So what if the L-Pills could make your brain poisonous so that if a zombie ate it, it would kill it? That's a great idea, huh?"

Mere: "Ever."



Your imaginative
Kel

Today is Aunt Carol's, uh, 39th birthday!

(Not really. She's 60. Good thing the only thing she knows how to do on the computer is play Solitaire, huh?)

So I made her a handbag. Aunt Carol might be mentally handicapped, but she's definitely astute enough to know that handbags are a girl's best friend.

Pretties

Your sew weary
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

My name is Kelly.

And I am here today because I have a problem.

I aspire to be Martha Stewart.

(But without the whole prison thing.)

*Sob*

A few weeks ago, thanks to my friend Katie, I discovered this most excellent website, and I have been hooked ever since. Meg, Sew Liberated's author, is a Montessori teacher living in rural Mexico, and she creates the cutest patterns you've ever seen. I ordered this one. It says it's suitable for advanced beginners, so I figured I was in the clear.

Yeah. No.

The pattern is great, but it is not AT ALL IN ANY WAY for beginners. It is a bear.

But finally, after much sewing-machine drama, blowing my weekly budget at the fabric store, and many bloody pin-pricked fingers, I finished the Emmeline apron and gave it to my mom for Mother's Day.

And here it is!

Mother's Day 2008

I went to my parents' house after Mass yesterday, then Mom, Carol and I went to the cemetery to put some pink roses on my Nana's grave. A few tears were shed, but all in all, it was a great Mothers Day and we are all thankful to have each other.

Happy Mothers Day to you, whether you're a mom of human children or fur babies!

(Chihuahua gave me a Mother's Day gift in the form of actually hitting the potty pad each and every time yesterday.)



Your grateful
Kel

So tonight, I had my training conference call for my freelance writing gig. My stomach began to hurt again, not from the virus, but due to the fact that the training lady made me SO NERVOUS. They have very, VERY specific style guidelines which are quite different from Kel Style (TM), and I am so scared (skeered?) that I will up n' git fard, just when I've worked out a whole fantasy wherein Stephen King calls me this November and invites me to Thanksgiving with the fam, and Fran Lebowitz wants me to spend the summer hanging out with her by the pool sipping mojitos.

(Shut up.)

In other news, Mere and I had a number of important world events to discuss tonight, seeing as how I've been dead for two days and haven't been able to come to the phone.

Namely, the fact that that woman in Kansas who spent two years on the john has a boyfriend, and MERE AND I DON'T. Where the justice at, y'all?

Also, Mere told me a very funny story related to her by one of her coworkers. Mere's coworker, who is black, goes to a church where, at the end of services, the minister asks for prayer requests, and the congregation shouts them out. Well, one old woman asked everyone to pray for her mother, who is in the hospital on a vibrator.

A vibrator. This she hollers out IN CHURCH. I think the entire congregation should get medals for not wetting their pants.

Just as we were about to ring off, I told Mere my last bit of World News, which is that Hef has the flu.

Kel: "Be thinking about Hef. He's got the flu, and he's supposed to have a date tomorrow night."

Mere: "Let's hope he doesn't get too sick, else he might end up in the hospital on a vibrator."

Kel: "He should be so lucky."

At least he probably won't wind up growing to the toilet.



Your alive-and-almost-well
Kel

I got the baby in my first slice of king cake of the season, AND I didn't bite into it (like I did two years ago, ripping a big hole in my gums that took weeks to heal).

I did not get the baby at all last year, and correspondingly, 2007 was NOT the best year ever. So I have high hopes for 2008.



Your lucky
Kel