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

Poll #1308991
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 15

Do you want me to send you a Christmas card?

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

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

Ahem.

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

coughcoughDipshitEx-Neighborcoughcough

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

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

Whatevs. HATERS.

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

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

Sorry. Bitching again. Starting over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

/Feelings

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

So what do I do?

Poll #1308992
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 13

Do I...

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



Your grinchy
Kel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parents HAVE to take responsibility for their children.

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

Not this lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your thankfully-uninjured
Kel

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

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

Me: "You know air guitar?"

Mere: "Yeah."

Me: "That, but with sex."

Mere: "Oh. Ew."

Now back to our regularly-scheduled bitching.

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

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

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

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

This guy? Was INCENSED.

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

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

OH REALLY.

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

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

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

NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING

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

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

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

(OK, not really.)

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

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

Just HOW should I take it, then?

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

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

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

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

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

(And then I ran.)

(Like my hair was on fire.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chinchilla: 1
Redneck: 0

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

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



Your feminist
Kel

Tonight, I had a brilliant plan:

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

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

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

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

Some days, I love this town.

Today is not one of those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Currently reading the Good Guy by Deen Coons

No, you're not.

4. i like to go out and stay home .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

Are you sure? Really, REALLY sure?

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

A critical what?

----

I? Am going to die alone.

And I think I'm OK with that.



Your happily single
Kel

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

(Clearly, I live on the edge.)

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

Um, no.

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

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

AAAAAnd we're done.

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

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

I didn't think so.

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

Now, here's where it gets good:

He called me FRIGID!

Frigid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, FRIGID. Me. Yes.

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

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

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

Guess not.

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

Anybody wanna come over and watch Rocky Horror?



Your frigid
Kel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your financially-challenged
Kel

This morning, I vandalized a car.

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

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

But here's where it all started downhill:

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

Back to the car. Which I vandalized.

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

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



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

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

(I hope they didn't see me.)

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

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

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



Your moody
Kel

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

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

Two different words. Two different meanings.

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

I think maybe I work with too many men.



Your dictionary-wielding
Kel

I don't like sports.

I know, I know. For a southern woman, this admission is tantamount to heresy.

I mean, I like watching sports if I'm actually at the game or sometimes if I'm at a party (although I also think it's a bit of a waste to sit in a room full of friends and, rather than talk or interact in any way, just sit and stare at the television). But I don't like sports enough to waste my Saturday sitting in front of the television watching a game. It works out rather well for me, actually; the shops are far less crowded when there's a game on. And frankly, I have tons of things I'd rather do than veg out in front of the television: sew, take my dog for a walk, read, sit on my balcony, go shopping, etc.

Maybe it's that I don't like things I know I can't do. I am by FAR the least athletic person you'll ever meet. Actually, I shouldn't say that; I am athletic in that I'm good at activities like running, hiking, yoga, dance, etc. But if it involves hand-eye coordination and good vision, well, then I'm out. I'm very cerebral, and sports and activities that consist of running hither, thither and yon, shouting and generally acting very un-ladylike were never my thing (see: 15 years of ballet lessons).

When I lived in Alabama, people used to ask all the time if I was an Auburn fan or an Alabama fan, like this was the most important decision I would ever make. When I lived in Texas, it was A&M or UT. Most of the time I would make noncommittal noises and change the subject. My answer these days? "Neither. I don't really care for football." You should see their jaws drop.

Here's the thing, though. All these women who are rabid LSU fans/Alabama fans/UT fans/UGA fans/Mississippi State fans? I kind of think a lot of them pretend they're superfans just to impress guys. And that's super lame. Trust me, darling: in his mind, your devotion to his favorite team does not translate into your devotion to him. He just thinks it's convenient that you like football OK and therefore probably won't bitch at him too much when he does nothing all weekend except park his fat ass on the couch, eat chips, drink beer and watch football.

(Reason #38,593,727,846 Why Kelly is Not Married.)

And I won't even go into how much it irritates me that my family has to plan their cochon de lait around LSU's game schedule. We are ROASTING AN ENTIRE PIG and buying every bottle of Abita in the state of LOUISIANA. Can you REALLY not Tivo the game?!

Guess not.



Your non-sporty
Kel

I don't know how to appropriately ease into this one, so I'm just going to throw it out there:

Not too long ago, I was accused of manufacturing, selling and/or using drugs.

(I will now excuse you for a few moments while you howl, wipe the Diet Coke you just spewed out of your nose off your computer screen, pick yourself up off the floor, or do whatever it is you need to do.)

(Ready now? All better? OK.)

Now, I wasn't accused by the police or anything (as a matter of fact, the police I contacted about the situation also howled with laughter), thank God, but by a narcissistic, agoraphobic, emo "poet" who was upset that I wouldn't help him fulfill the porno fantasy he concocted when he moved into my building and discovered that a single female lived there. 'Cause, you know, single female = sex-crazed slut, naturally.

Anyway.

So yes. According to this person, I am just one big old drug-cooking, drug-selling, drug-using scumbag.

(Actually, I do not believe that people who sell and/or use drugs are necessarily scumbags. I went to college and was in a sorority, if you catch my drift. Besides, I spent some time once around a person who sold drugs, and I'm here to tell you that the idea of the "drug-pusher" is, in fact, a big lie. He never called anyone, yet his phone never stopped ringing. It's all about supply and demand, I suppose.)

But me? I think not.

1. I am a born snob, and if I were going to use drugs, I sure wouldn't use anything someone cooked up in the kitchen sink. I like my drugs the way I like my shoes and handbags: designer.

2. I can't even cook macaroni and cheese from scratch. I don't know much about how drugs are made, but it seems it might be pretty complicated. Frankly, I don't think I'm up to the task.

3. As I tell prospective employers, I'm not much good at selling tangible items. That's why my jobs are writing, marketing and advertising. I know my limitations, is what I'm driving at.

4. I couldn't work with any drug which came from a plant, because as we all know, I can't keep any plant alive for any length of time whatsoever. I killed a cactus once, for God's sake. I don't see anyone entrusting marijuana plants or whatever into my care.

5. I am a member of my church's altar society. I voluntarily pal around with 80-year-old Catholic widows and priests. Not exactly the ideal market for a drug dealer, wouldn't you agree?

6. DO YOU THINK I WOULD BE WORKING 3 JOBS AND BUYING ALL MY FURNITURE FROM IKEA AND TARGET IF I HAD THE INCOME OF A DRUG DEALER?! Please. I'd be retired to St. Croix where my home would look like a West Elm showroom.

7. I have a feeling this blog would be a HELL of a lot more interesting if I were a drug manufacturer/dealer.

8. Chihuahua, Wednesday, Lola and Ouiser would find some way to eat the drugs, then I would have this ENORMOUS emergency vet bill and a whole lotta 'splainin' to do.

9. The family might find out, and HOLY CHRIST THAT IS ONE HEADACHE I DO NOT NEED.

10. Chihuahua say, "Please. Even Chihuahua know Mean Lady too stupid to make drugs. Chihuahua watch Law & Order every day. Chihuahua seen Blow, like, 200 times. Chihuahua know score. Chihuahua be great drug dealer. Chihuahua have Cartel wrapped around Chihuahua toe. Chihuahua sell drugs, Chihuahua buy Impala and blade 22s Chihuahua always wanted. Mean Lady no buy Chihuahua Impala."

(Please note: Chihuahua thinks "drugs" are some sort of super high-quality dog treats invented by the Illuminati and passed down over thousands of years that Mean Lady won't let her have/is too cheap to buy/is too dumb to obtain.)

And there you have it.



Your no-Impala-buying
Mean Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I get this particular speech practically every day.)

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

I only ask for one thing in return.

DO
NOT
TALK
SHIT
ABOUT
THIS
FAMILY
IN
MY
PRESENCE.

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

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

Today, one of our sales reps

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kelly: BOOM

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

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

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

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

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

Bring it, Fat Boy.



Your fiercely loyal
Kel

I.
Am utterly exhausted.

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

I went into the bathroom to find:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Yes, she is.

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

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

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

Because everybody feels guilty because Carol is retarded.

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

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

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

SO
VERY
SLEEPY
AND
PISSED
OFF.



Your harsh/realistic
Kel

THIS:

http://www.encyclopediadramatica.com/Main_Page

Is the funniest thing I have ever seen. Ever.

Ever ever ever ever ever.

Readers, I regret to say that it has been FAR too long since I have laughed so hard I could not breathe, so hard I had tears running down my face.

Go. Read. Laugh like an idiot.

-----

On a related note (related as in, "relates to complete and utter retards"), I have a new pet peeve. Like I really needed another one.

Person: "What do you do?"

Me: "Well, right now I work as a freelance writer."

Person (EVERY person): "Really?! I'm a writer too! I self-published a book of stupid emo [horror/romance/erotica/insert genre here] that was so bad no one wanted to read it, let alone publish it, hence the reason I pulled a Wendy Wasserstein and did it all by myself!"

Actually, everything past "I self-published a book..." is only in my head. But it's ALWAYS true.

I am not a "writer." I do not write novels. I SHO NUFF don't write poetry. I am under no delusions that ANYONE, even my MOM, is interested in reading more than 500 or so of my words at a time. And that's on a GOOD day.

I am a hack. I get paid peanuts to write on subjects like pink food and bladder distension. It just so happens that I like writing, writing anything at all, enough to find this sort of work immensely enjoyable. (THANKS, KATIE!)

(Either I like writing that much or I'm just that dumb. The jury's still out.)

Unfortunately, all the "writers" I've met recently labor under a different set of delusions.

Do I hope that someday I can crank out good enough bullshit that I fool someone into giving me a sizable amount of money for something I've written?

HELLS YEAH. Who doesn't?

Do I think I'm smart enough, talented enough or downright entitled to such a thing simply because I can string a few words together without so many grammatical errors and spelling mistakes that it becomes unreadable?

Uh, no. No, I do not.

So I think I'm just gonna start telling people that I'm a dog groomer. Or a madam. I haven't decided yet.



Your dog-grooming
Kel

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

Pros:
1. The Colors

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

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

2. The Confections

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your embittered
Kel

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. I am evil incarnate.

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

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

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

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

You will burn in hell.

-----

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

AND IT'S ME.



Your hormonal
Kel (aka Captain Crankypants)

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

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

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

Highlights:

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

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

-----

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

Personal to pervs: Fucking knock this shit off.

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



Your outraged yet gleeful
Kel

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

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

Kind of like this one, I thought.

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



Your ambivalent
Kel

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

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

ANYWAY

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

Win Free Cord Blood Banking with Cord Blood Registry!

Ew. Ew? Eeeeeeeeewwwwww!

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

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

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

Exsqueeze me?

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

Uh, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or are we already there?



Your pondering
Kel

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

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

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

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



Your suspicious
Kel

Kel's Day: A Summary

Cookie baskets delivered to clients: 6

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

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

Gifts purchased: Numerous

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

Gifts wrapped: 84,000 (approx.)

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

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

Presents to be mailed tomorrow: 3

Presents packaged for mailing: 1

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

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



Your very tired
Kel