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

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

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

And all of you.

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



Your most grateful
Kel
Who is never eating again

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

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

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

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

As you can probably imagine, he says this often.

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

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

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

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

HOW COMFORTING!

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

Some days, though, it's still hard.

Today was one of those days.

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

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

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

It happened today, actually.

It wasn't pretty.

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

I shook my head in quick, hard shakes.

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

Still shaking my head.

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

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

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

But I'm getting better at it.

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

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

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



Your working-class
Kel

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

Some of us are celebrating, and some of us are threatening to hang ourselves and/or move to Milan. I must say I'm very disappointed in the results for California's Proposition 8. Don't despair, though; we'll get there.

In any case, the Clothes_Slut has had enough politics for this week. For one thing, my mother is no longer speaking to me.

So let's talk about Disney World, shall we?

This is shaping up to be a banner week - we have a new president, amberle404 and I are making fantastic progress on a Super Top Secret Creative Project, and Friday, I'm flying to Tampa to spend the weekend with avidchick and megarath!

Thankfully, I'm completely over Bacterial Infection 2008, a.k.a. HALP HALP I'm Gonna DIE.

Kel's Immune System: 1

Streptococcus: 0

Among other things, including, but not limited to, DISNEY WORLD, Jennifer and Swell Nathan are taking me to La France Vintage Store, a vintage clothing store in Tampa.

I'm just going to tell you right now that chances are good to excellent that I'll start speaking in tongues the moment I walk through the door.

We're also going to an authentic Thai temple to - what else? - eat. Jennifer and Swell Nathan, like yours truly, delight in anything Asian, seasonal, hard-to-find, and just plain WEIRD. I can't wait to see what's cooking at the Thai temple.

(I'm going to wear my highest heels, talk in a gravelly voice and pretend to be Anthony Bourdain.)

I'm so excited about this trip, I'm surprised I haven't broken out in hives yet. Harley Quinn and Batgirl will be together again!



Your eagerly waiting
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

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?

I have this Thing.

(I have a lot of Things, actually, but here's a new one!)

Before I go out, like, you know, for an evening out, I have to straighten up my apartment. Because people might come home with me, and I don't want them to see my shamefully messy abode.

Not like COME HOME WITH ME come home with me, but, you know, just come over after a night on the town. Like when you're sitting at a restaurant and everyone's like, "Let's go finish this bottle of wine somewhere else!" I'm always petrified that my place will be nominated, people will come over and the illusion I try to create every day that I am this perfect, perfectly beautiful, perfectly organized creature will come crashing down around my ears because people will see my dirty potty or my overflowing garbage can.

Obviously, this blog greatly helps to maintain that illusion.

I think this particular Thing is leftover from Kel: The Post-College Years, when I was one of the very few who had a) had an apartment and b) had an apartment that did not house myself and five roommates. People dropped by all the time and stayed for hours, so I was always very careful to pick up after myself.

These days? Not so much.

So Saturday night, I headed out to my friend Karla's daughter's 13th birthday party. I didn't pick up before I left because, I mean, 13-year-olds don't go back to anyone's house after a party to drink too much wine and talk shit. Or at least they shouldn't.

I won't give too many details, but A.'s party wasn't going so well for her. She had a pretty good time, all things considered, but let's just say there was a fair amount of intermittent crying.

During the final crying jag, I got a flash of inspiration.

After quickly talking things over with Karla, I invited A. back to my place to spend the night, watch scary movies and gorge ourselves on cookies and popcorn. Sunday, I promised, we would go to the mall or anyplace else she cared to go.

Well, it worked a treat, and A. quickly packed her stuff for Slumber Party 2008.

(There will apparently also be Slumber Party 2009, as A.'s little sister S. promised not to get jealous that A. was allowed to spend the night with Miss Kelly, etc., as long as she could spend the night with Miss Kelly by herself on her birthday. What can I say? I'm popular.)

We got back to my place, and the cat boxes. Were NOT. Clean. Whatsoever. The whole joint smelled like poop, and I had to scoop the boxes with A. watching. Fortunately, she didn't seem to mind a bit, but this is what I get for not cleaning up before I go out. Lesson learned.

I have to say, though, as good as an evening with Miss Kelly's undivided attention was for A., it was every bit as good for me.

See, the thing is, unlike yours truly at 13, A. is definitely part of the In Crowd. She and her little girlfriends rule the 7th grade, whereas I, in sharp contrast, had to go to the middle school Valentine's dance with the son of my father's optometrist because no one else was going to ask me.

A. doesn't think there's anything pathetic or weird or countercultural about the fact that I'm single and have no children. As a matter of fact, she thinks it's freakin' awesome. I got to see my world through her eyes, and it was a little like having the ghosts of the popular girls from my junior-high days tell me that I did well, that I turned out OK. In A.'s view, I have unimaginable freedom - I can eat whatever I want! I can go any place I want to! I can sleep late, and no one's going to come in my room in the morning, jump on my head and demand that I play with them!

(Yet. I will have a boyfriend again someday, you know.)

She loved my pink appliances, my "HUGE!" closet, my pets and my car. I must have heard "Miss Kelly, your house is so clean" about 150 times.

"Well, lovebird, I don't have any little girls to mess it up!"

Sunday, I took A. to the Clinique counter at the mall for her first "real" makeover. The Clinique lady assumed I was A.'s mother and kept saying things to me like, "Well, Mom, you can help her practice with eyeliner at home." A. and I were greatly amused by this and didn't correct her.

As we walked away from the counter, I said to A., "Aw, lovebird, she thinks I'm your mommy!"

"I know!" A. said, laughing. "You're too young to be a mom!"

God bless your anachronistic little heart, A.

(Please note: I am barely a year younger than the child's mother. Perhaps she meant "too immature" rather than "too young.")

It was a perfect girls' weekend in every way. We talked about boys and college and cars and apartments and high school and makeup, and I hope I had a small part in ensuring that A. had a 13th birthday that she'll remember for a long, long time.

My favorite part, though, was this:

After Mass, we went to Sonic to grab some lunch. We ate in the car, of course, with the windows rolled down so we could enjoy the gorgeous weather (I *heart* Louisiana in October). As A. munched her popcorn chicken, she went quiet for a few moments.

"MISS KELLY!" she said suddenly.

"What is it, lovebird?"

"I just remembered something!"

"What?"

"When I'm 20, you'll only be 38. We'll be practically the same age!" she said.

Damn right, lovebird. DAMN RIGHT.



Your loved
Miss Kelly

Because I like to use my time efficiently and wisely, I have spent my drive time the last few days compiling a list of Top Five Greatest Voices in Rock 'N Roll. After much consideration, I believe the results are thus:

1. Layne Staley of Alice in Chains
2. Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam
3. Amanda Palmer (formerly?) of The Dresden Dolls
4. Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac
5. Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane

YEAH. I PUT AMANDA PALMER BEFORE STEVIE NICKS. You wanna fight?

I would also put my friend Phil of The Bad Motivators and Mr. Lewis & The Funeral 5 and whomever else he's currently playing with (I CANNOT KEEP TRACK) in at least my Top Ten Greatest Voices in Rock 'N Roll. When we were teenagers, I used to be all, "PHIL! SING FOR KEL! AND PLAY THAT GUITAR OVER THERE WHILE YOU DO IT." And he would be all, "No, darlin', I can't sing that well," and I would be all, "YES YOU CAN," and he would be all, "NO, REALLY, DARLIN', I CAN'T," and now he sings for every band he's in and why? BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, THAT'S WHY.

I didn't meet Phil until he was 18 and I was 14, but by my estimation, Phil came out of the womb and promptly joined a band.

I don't think brotha man has ever had a formal music lesson unless you count the school band (which I don't), and he can play just every instrument ever invented.

(Phil will now e-mail me a lengthy list of instruments he cannot play. None of which I will have ever heard of.)

Anyway, I remember when Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden and all the rest became really popular in the early '90s. Everyone thought it was OMG SO REVOLUTIONARY THIS IS GREAT! and my little group of friends had been listening to Phil and his various bandmates play that kind of music forever.

SO SUCK ON THAT, EDDIE VEDDER.

(However, I had no compunction whatsoever about begging Phil to play, endlessly, every Black Crowes song ever written. Still don't, actually. Poor boy. We've been friends for almost 20 years, and I still treat this professional musician like he's my personal minstrel.)

It's funny; I forget about my favorite bands for a while sometimes, then I rediscover them and it's all I'll listen to for a month. A year ago or so, it was the Violent Femmes, and now it's Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam.

Makes me want to dig out my plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens and black tights. Because everything comes straight back to clothes with me. At the time, I thought my plaid flannel bikini was the greatest fashion coup EVER until Phil & Co. informed me that I was missing the point a bit. Whatevs. HATERS.

So tell me - what was your favorite "grunge" band? Who're your Top Five Greatest Voices in Rock 'N Roll?

(And please don't everyone start screaming "NIRVANA!" all at once.)



Your Singles-watching
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

Yesterday evening, after work (and after having driven around downtown Shreveport for 20 minutes trying to find a parking space that did not involve parallel parking, because I cannot parallel park to save my life even though Lord knows I have TRIED, Lord, I HAVE TRIED, and after nearly mowing down five pedestrians, and this is why I should not be allowed to have a driver's license) I found myself perched on a barstool next to my friends Jessica and Susan, sipping (read: gulping) a vodka martini and eating a hamburger that probably contained enough calories to sustain the population of a third-world country for a year.

Hi! My name is Kelly, and I *HEART* details!

ANYWAY, Jessica and Susan are a couple of impressive ladies. Jessica, at a very young age, is the editor of a religious magazine that goes out to something like a quarter of a million people in the state of Louisiana, and she enjoys the kind of creative freedom and latitude that I have been dreaming of my entire life and will probably never achieve.

Susan, on the other hand, spent her work day assisting in twelve hours' worth of brain surgery. So, yeah. THEY SMART.

In sharp contrast, here is what I have accomplished this week:
1. Got hopelessly lost on the way to a potential customer's house
2. Broke D.J.'s camera
3. Got in numerous arguments with my family
4. Had my panties man-handled by a washing-machine repair person
5. Locked up and subsequently shut down the server at work (please note: I have no idea how I managed to do this)
6. Wrote about my misadventures for the amusement of the entire internet

So as I was sitting there in the bar last night, a sobering (Sobering! Heee! See what I did there?!) thought occurred to me.

"I just realized," I said, turning to face Susan and Jessica, "that I'm sitting here with one person who brings the word of God to thousands of people all around the state and another who saves lives every day."

"I, on the other hand, spend a great deal of my time shopping, scheming about Happy Meal Toys and then writing about it for the whole internet to read."

Of course, Jessica and Susan said that this was bollocks and pointed out many of my fine, outstanding qualities and career achievements. Which just adds, in my opinion, to the myriad reasons they are AWESOME.

So here's to Jessica and Susan - between the three of us, we can make you a better Catholic, operate on various parts of your body and then turn it into a funny story on the internet.

(And then bake you some cupcakes.)



Your (under?)achieving
Kel

Today, in cleaning out their dining room, which has been the receptacle for basically everything since they've been remodeling their house, my parents uncovered a treasure trove of memories.

I spent most of my afternoon in the dark in my parents' living room looking at slides.

Remember slides?

You young whippersnappers (Jesus, I really need a yard so I can yell at kids to stay off of it) who don't remember slides: You make me feel really old.

ANYWAY.

There were tons of pictures that I'd never seen before and some that I haven't seen in over 20 years: pictures from my dad's time in Vietnam (technically illegal); countless photos of me with my grandparents; several dozen inexplicable pictures of cattle; me naked, riding a tricycle; me in my very-first-ever dance-recital costume (BLUE BIRD COSTUME, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH); and pictures of Carol when she was young and spry.

My mom is having all the slides transferred to CDs, so hopefully there will be, in the near future, plenty of fodder for you all to make fun of me, which is, of course, everyone's favorite activity.

They also found and gave to me my children's Bible (got it for my 2nd Christmas, and over the course of a year, my father read it to me, cover to cover), my Girl Scout handbook (WHO'S READY FOR THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE? THIS GIRL!), a needlepoint of the Virgin Mary that my grandmother did many years ago, and, perhaps most importantly, a picture of my great-grandparents, Cicero Campbell and Molly Smith Campbell.

Technically, I suppose, she was Molly Smith Campbell Campbell, since her two husbands were brothers.

Molly's first husband was a banker who died of yellow fever at age 26, when they'd been married only five years. She then married her first husband's brother, Cicero, a farmer whose first wife, Daisy, had also died in the same yellow-fever epidemic.

With the money Molly's first husband left to her upon his death, Molly was able to lend/give the money to Cicero to build a house and expand his farm, which was our family's first Big Break, I guess you could say.

The farm (which I guess was technically a cotton plantation) grew successful and supported and educated several generations of my family. Unlike many, less fortunate families in central Louisiana, the Campbells hung on to their farm during the Great Depression, with only the help of a black family, the Grants, who lived on the farm. They suffered greatly during WWII, when all the men had to leave and go to war (Molly and my uncle Buddy kept the farm running by themselves, since Uncle Buddy was the only man too young at the time to go to war).

I never knew Molly; she died the year I was born. But I like to think I have a little bit of her scrappiness. Though she had to cook for scores of people every day, raise children and do the other endless and back-breaking work of a farm wife, she and my grandmother still managed to look like they'd stepped out of a fashion plate in every picture ever taken of them.

I come from a long line of hardworking clothes sluts :)





Your very proud
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

A week ago or so, I was flipping through my favorite fashion magazine, Lucky. The focus of the issue was a "work wardrobe" (well, that and "How to Update Your Look in One Easy Step"). On the page with the editor's letter was a picture of Mary Tyler Moore from her Mary Tyler Moore Show days, with the caption, "Mary Richards (a.k.a. Mary Tyler Moore): the only woman who knew how to get dressed for work every single day."

It was like I was hit with a bolt of lightning.

Now, I consider myself to be a very self-aware, insightful person. But it wasn't until that very moment that I realized something earth-shaking:

For 31 years, I have expected my life to be exactly like Mary Richards'.

THINK about it:
1) My obsession with turtlenecks, bold colors and big, chunky jewelry
2) Poufy brunette hair
3) The neverending search for the perfect apartment
4) My bed used to be in my living room (though it did not fold out of the sofa)
5) My penchant for winding up at jobs where I have the most neurotic coworkers on the planet
6) Hef = Ted Baxter
7) Jewish best friend, anyone?
8) I EVEN HAVE A K ON MY WALL, PEOPLE

See, The Mary Tyler Moore Show used to come on in the afternoons, right after The Dick Van Dyke Show. Somehow, my little-kid brain decided that the genesis of TMTMS was Mary (even though she was "Laura" on TDVDS) dumping Rob and Richie and the suburbs of New Rochelle and heading off for the bright lights of Minneapolis.

WHAT. I had no idea where Minneapolis is, and let's face it, Minneapolis is a very glamorous-sounding name when you're six. We should all just be thankful I didn't name one of my dolls "Minneapolis."

TMTMS was pretty avant garde for its time, if you think about it. Mary was the first single woman in her thirties to have a real career, not just a job. She had a great apartment, lots of friends and dates who came back to her apartment. Perhaps most unusual was the fact that Mary Richards wasn't panicked about her marriage prospects or her biological clock. Pretty racey stuff for prime-time '70s television.

Anyway, I think that's where I got the idea that "30" is glamorous; that hairstyles rolled on orange-juice cans should never have gone out of style; that all the problems in my life, including, but not limited to, going to jail for refusing to give up the name of a source, could be solved within 30 minutes; and that all I had to do was work hard, dress well, sleep in the living room, and have Jewish best friend, and life would turn out OK.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn't such folly after all.



Your still-hopeful
Kel

P.S. Rhoda was supposed to be the FUF (Fat Ugly Friend), yet Rhoda was neither fat nor ugly. Discuss.

In celebration of the fact that I - FINALLY! - have internet access at home (thanks, Daddy!), the photos some readers have been waiting for most impatiently - photos of my new apartment!

I resisted the urge to clean every last inch of the apartment in preparation for taking these pictures, in order to give you guys a more realistic idea of what life in Clothes_Slut Land is really like. (Please send my Journalistic Integrity Award to my new address.)

Without further ado: Chez Kel, Version 2.0!

Chez Kel V. 2.0

Your relaxed and happy
Kel

Kel: "Momma! Look! Pictures from Fashion Week! You know, the Fug Girls are right: I think Anna Wintour really does have icewater in her veins..."

Momma: "Oh well."

Kel: "Oh WHAT?!"

Momma: "I'm just not that interested this year."

Kel: *Chokes and sputters*

Momma: "It's all about comfort these days."

Kel: "But it's all about designer comfort, right? Chanel designer comfort? Michael Kors designer comfort?"

Momma: "Just comfort."

Kel: "WHO IN THE HELL ARE YOU? MY MOTHER LOVES DESIGNER CLOTHES! SAY IT! SAY IT! SAY YOU LOVE DESIGNER CLOTHES!"

Momma: "I guess."

Kel: "You GUESS? YOU GUESS?! YOU ARE ONE OF MY TOP 3 FASHION ICONS! Yes, you ranked below Carine Roitfeld BUT I RANKED YOU ABOVE SARAH JESSICA PARKER! HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME?! AND SARAH JESSICA?!"

Y'all just don't understand. I probably knew who Karl Lagerfeld was before I knew who Jesus was. This is a woman who would start pouring over her Vogue magazine on her way back from the mailbox. When I was a wee tiny Kel, I would sit on the floor in her closet for hours, playing with her yard-long strands of pearls, quilted handbags and Ferragamo pumps.

I think my mother is severely depressed or clinically insane. If she doesn't show signs of life soon, I'll be shipping her off to the Betty Ford Clinic, where she's sure to see plenty of designer fashion.



Your worried (but happy it's Fashion Week!)
Kel

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

Me: "All of them."

More later!



Your missing-you-guys
Kel

...so here goes:

Stuff the Clothes_Slut is Grateful For:

1. Chihuahua...and the fact that she lets me live in our apartment

2. My bed (AAAAAHHHHH KELLY LOVES SLEEPING INSIDE A MARSHMALLOW SO MUCH)

3. Wednesday, Lola and Ouiser, even though I threaten on a daily basis to take them to the pound

4. My pals! You guys are the cat's pajamas

5. Exotic food and drink and really exciting meals

6. My new apartment...I can't tell you what a glorious feeling it is to walk around outside at night WITHOUT BEING AFRAID

7. My family, even though they will eventually drive me to the insane asylum

8. My car! Fiona Fit is one of the best things that has ever happened to me

9. Law & Order

10. The Dresden Dolls

11. My church

12. NPR

13. Zombies

14. Audiobooks

15. Perfume

16. Bathtubs (that actually hold water...also grateful for hot water)

17. Extermination services

18. My housekeepers

19. The color pink

20. OMG SHOES



Your most grateful
Kel

So last night, I started yoga classes again. This makes for one EXTREMELY happy Kel.

It's a tiny little studio in an older part of Shreveport. The inside is a hippie version of a Maharaja's den - Indian tapestries hang from the ceiling, belly dancing costumes and crazy paintings adorn the walls. It's a warm, dusty, sunny little place, with two large window seats and pillows everywhere. The smell of nag champa permeates the air.

I called the instructor about 2 weeks ago to inquire about class times and pricing and ended up talking with her for an hour. Seeing as how I HATE talking on the phone to people I don't know, this is really saying something for me. She asked me countless questions about my life, my family, my job, my hobbies, what I like about yoga, what I don't like about my body...and right away, I knew she was the right yoga instructor for me.

Unlike most "yoga instructors" in Shreveport, she's actually affiliated with an ashram, so she's a real yogi. Which is to say, she shares my view, which is that yoga is not just a trendy form of exercise or a way to impress people with my flexibility, but a lifestyle that brings a sense of balance to your whole life that's hard (for me, at least) to find any other way.

(I know some of you are rolling your eyes right now. I SEE YOU!)

NEWS FLASH: For the last two years or so, I have felt really terrible about myself and my body.

Peanut Gallery: Gee whiz, Kel, tell us something we DON'T know!

When I walked into the studio yesterday evening, one of the first things the instructor asked me was what I hope to get out of yoga. I told her that I feel really disconnected from my body; I don't like it right now, so I don't connect to it the way I should. And I know I have to reconnect with it before I can change it in any meaningful way.

She asked me if I prefer to face the mirror or away from it. "Right now, away from it," I said.

So naturally, she made me face the mirror.

At one point, she had me do a really complex, difficult pose. I was surprised that I could still do it, to be honest. Wrapped up like a pretzel, I wondered at one point if it is physiologically possible for a part of one's body to simply fall off.

I looked in the mirror, and for the first time in two years, I thought

That is a beautiful person.

That person took the time to learn to do this. That person had the discipline and the skill to master something very difficult.

And this body can't be all bad if it can do THAT.

In short, for the first time in at least two years, I felt really good about myself.

I know, I know. It was probably a combination of the heat, the incense and my brain trying desperately to pump enough endorphins through my body to kill the pain, but it was the first time in a really long time that I could remember feeling GOOD.

The instructor smiled at me. "You're a beautiful yoga student."

And for once I agreed.



Your better-balanced
Kel