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

My mom watched Amanda Palmer's "Leeds United" video today. (At my insistence. Cool as my mom is, she does not sit around watching the Dresden Dolls' YouTube channel while she's supposed to be working.)

(Like someone else we know whose name begins with a "K" and ends with an "elly," and who is a pain in the ass of everyone she works with.)

Mom commented appreciatively on Amanda Palmer's drawn-on eyebrows, then let fly her criticism.

No, not of Amanda Palmer.

Of me.

"Wow. And you thought you were tearin' it up by wearing a miniskirt to the Dresden Dolls concert. I don't see a single person who's not in their underwear."

For the record, it was, like, 2 degrees in Birmingham that weekend.

--------

One of the many reasons I wish I was Amanda Palmer is that it would be really cool if people just started making out with whoever was next to them whenever I came around. Like they apparently do when Amanda Palmer's around. Although no one tried to make out with me when I went to see the Dresden Dolls, which, to be truthful, was something of a disappointment. I wore a miniskirt and everything!

That's something Americans need more of: "Makin' out to Faces of Death."

(No, I didn't just make that up. COME ON, Y'ALL. I'M NOT THAT WEIRD. It's from "Guitar Hero" on Who Killed Amanda Palmer.)

Y'all really need to go buy that album if for no other reason than you'll know what I'm talking about half the time.

--------

I sometimes think I'm clever, but other people rarely agree.

--------

So let's talk about someone who is quite clever:

The multi-talented arthursimone!

In addition to being a fantastic artist (I CAN HAS ORIGINAL ARTHUR SIMONE?), Arthur's also the Air Sex Champion. Which is pretty much the epitome of everything awesome. Though not necessarily the epitome of everything tasteful.

(None of those people are Arthur. Arthur's way better at Air Sex than any of those fools.)

Anyway, Arthur's having a solo exhibition at Lewis Gifts in Shreveport from Black Friday until Christmas. At some point during the holidays, there will also be a meet-the-artist event, which I will likely talk about excitedly every day for a month. (Please note: I will also agonize over what to wear every day of that month.)

Congratulations, Shreveport! You're doing something cool! Keep it up.

So you should really go to Lewis Gifts and see Arthur's paintings. And buy one. Or four. You know, as gifts. For someone you know whose name begins with a "K" and ends with an "elly" and who is a pain in the ass of everyone who reads her blog.

If you go to Lewis Gifts and Arthur's there, ask him to show you his mad Air Sex skillz. I bet he'd do it, too, if you asked really nicely. Or bought a painting.

Off to plan my outfit.

And stand in front of the mirror practicing begging Arthur to show me his mad Air Sex skillz.



Your pain-in-the-ass
Kel

Today, I indulged in one of my most favoritest activities:

I lounged in a nice, comfy chair, sipped ginger ale and read Vogue like it was some sort of Gnostic text while I sat under a hood dryer, wearing a smock.

In short, I went to the salon.

Surprisingly, my mom wasn't much of a spa girl when I was growing up. I mean, we went to the salon every six weeks, religiously, and she occasionally got a manicure. But she never got, say, a pedicure or a massage. I didn't even know what waxing was until I was in high school, because my mom never did it.

(And if Judy did it, it was glamorous. If she didn't, well...then it didn't exist.)

Once, after we moved to Birmingham, she and I went to a little spa up the street from our house to get manicures for some special occasion or another. The manicurist, a born saleswoman if ever there was one, gave my mom and wink and said, "You know, we also do facials, massages and seaweed wraps!"

My ears perked up, and the manicurist was quick to notice. "How about you, Kelly? Would you like a massage or a facial today?"

"Momma, can I?" I asked.

"Of course. It's your money." My mother went back to flipping through Women's Wear Daily.

In that moment, I. Was. Hooked.

From that day to this, spas are like my mothership. And the more bizarre and probably useless the treatment, the better. Wrap me in seaweed, paint me with mud, beat me with hot rocks and call me Edna.

In the course of the last 14 years or so, I have allowed complete and total strangers to see me as naked as the day I was born and then:
1. Pour hot wax on my body and then rip it off while I scream
2. Wrap me from head to foot in muslin and slather me with goo
3. Examine my pores with high-powered microscopes (and cluck over the sad state of affairs)
4. Scrub me with sand, salt, sugar and pulverized rocks
5. Try to drown me slowly with oxygenated mist

And I pay them for the privilege.

Before you start thinking I'm deluded, I fully acknowledge that, by and large, spa workers are simply dominatrices with eastern-European-sounding names dressed up in starched white uniforms in order to make S&M more acceptable to the middle class.

My only defense is that, in the words of Truvy from Steel Magnolias, "It makes you pretty."

Well, that and "there's no such thing as natural beauty."

I freely admit that I am a total spa snob. If there was a Bliss in Shreveport, I'd probably be there every damn day. When I first moved back to Shreveport, I couldn't find a decent salon (or spa) to save my life. I was outraged; when I lived in Charleston, I had gone to the salon that Reese Witherspoon used when she got married to Ryan Phillipe! There was NO WAY I was going to set foot in Mabel's Curl Up & Dye.

I tried a few so-so places with limited success, until one fateful New Year's Eve I met Bryan Sullivan at a party. In addition to being THE stylist in Shreveport, Bryan is also quite - how shall we say? - BEAUTIFUL and fashionable, in addition to being one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet. He introduced me to Allison Dickson, whom I would follow to the ends of the earth if only she would continue to trim my hair.

I never have to bring pictures to Allison, or explain to her in excruciating detail what I want done or, more to the point, what I don't want done. I simply say, "Oh, you know, whatever," and "whatever" is always, ALWAYS fabulous.

Sometimes I think I missed my calling as a beauty editor for a fashion magazine. With my great love of spas, salons and, apparently, spending all my money on strange and likely toxic beauty products, I could at least be getting paid for it, right? As my friends frequently remind me, it is not my sole responsibility to make sure that the aestheticians of the world earn a living.

At any rate, I think my devotion to beauty says something for me, don't you?

Truvy does.

"I don't trust anyone who does their own hair. I don't think it's natural."



Your highlighted
Kel

P.S. If there were a spa that could turn me into Amanda Palmer, I would pay them any amount of money.

This has not been the best week.

Match.com hilariousness and general foolishness aside, this has pretty much been The Week of Kel's Discontent.

Yesterday, I got home from work (LATE, just like every other day this week) and trudged up the stairs feeling a little teary and very much like the title character in Amelie before the night she learns that Princess Diana (a.k.a. Laydee-Dee) has died.

(If you don't know what I'm talking about, then HOLY CRAP YOU NEED TO GO WATCH THAT MOVIE THIS MINUTE!)

("But I HATE subtitles!")

(Jesus Christ, do you know how many INCREDIBLE movies you will miss because you don't want to read while you watch the teevee?!)

Anyway.

So I was marching up the Stairs of Doom, preparing to throw myself an evening-long pity party when what should catch my eye but

A PACKAGE!

ON MY DOORSTEP!

THAT IS PRESUMABLY FOR ME!

And what do you suppose was inside?

These!



From the lovely and generous bankgrl!

bankgrl knows that two of the major pleasures in my life are:

1. Chihuahuas and Chihuahua-related items
2. Anything in the post which is not a bill

WHAT. I'm easy to please!

One of the many things which have gone wrong this week is that my workplace has apparently become the repository for any animal which anyone no longer wants. Therefore, we became the proud foster family of YET ANOTHER mama cat and two kittens.

Fortunately, we were able to find homes for the kittens, but the mama cat, whom Carol named Tabitha after the daughter in Bewitched (because I like witches, she said) has become the Office Cat. For those of you keeping score at home, Tabitha is Office Cat #3.

Dear Citizens of Shreveport: We like cats and apparently, you don't. This does not mean, however, that we are willing or able to adopt every unwanted cat in the state of Louisiana. Please do not leave any more cats on our doorstep. In sum, FUCKING KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF. Love, Kel & Her Coworkers

And with that, my dears, I take my Tylenol Simply Sleep and leave you with

KITTEH PICS!

Week of 11-17-08

Your ready-to-start-over-next-week
Kel

P.S. I would also like to give a very special and cryptic Clothes_Slut shout-out to amberle404 for being a generally all-around stand-up chick. YOU RULE!

For they let me play with knives and fire in the same evening.

Dear Jennifer and Swell Nathan:

Why did you do that? Don't do that.

Love,
The Rest of the World

Way back when (you know, 10 months ago or so), I made a New Year's resolution to learn to cook one dish that did not originate in a box.

DONE!

Swell Nathan taught me, the girl who can barely boil water, to cook a WHOLE CHICKEN! And make chicken stock! And mashed potatoes! And roasted asparagus! And...something else, but I can't remember right now.

(In other news, I am sick. AGAIN. PEOPLE, I AM STILL ON ANTIBIOTICS FROM LAST TIME. All the bacteria in the world have apparently decided to gang up on me. So if you've ever wanted to lick a toilet seat, eat raw pork, visit a leper colony, etc., now's your chance - the bacteria are not looking, because they're far too busy setting up shop in my sinuses. So I'm on pharmaceuticals, which in my lame world, means one thing: I'M HIGH. Which makes me think I'm funny.)

(How nice for YOU!)

In addition to teaching me how to, you know, cook stuff, Swell Nathan and Jennifer also taught me to make jewelry. Which is pretty much everything I've ever wanted in the world, since I think I am Martha Stewart and OMG SPARKLIES!

You may not know this, but Jennifer and Swell Nathan make jewelry. And when I say "make jewelry," I mean they, like, MAKE IT FROM SCRATCH. They have an Etsy store and everything! Which is here: Avidchick Jewelry

I know, right? GORGEOUS.

Jennifer and Swell Nathan? If y'all ever decide to take up polygamy, I'M IN.

And now, the photographic evidence!

Tampa! Part Three

Your chicken-roasting
Kel

Mouse introduced me to Thai food. Ever since, I've been hooked. I love rice noodles, coconut, citrus, lemongrass, peppers and peanuts, so I suppose my affection for Thai cuisine was inevitable. When I first moved to Shreveport, it didn't have a SINGLE Thai restaurant, and I mourned this travesty at great length.

Sunday, Jennifer, Swell Nathan and I made our way to the Thai temple in the late morning. Basically, the deal is this: Each family who worships at the temple prepares food to sell on certain Sundays each month. They set up at long tables in a pavillion, and people from the community come and buy the food, then they eat at the many picnic tables by the water. The families then donate all the money they make from the sale of the food to the temple. Jennifer and Swell Nathan found out about it through Creative Loafing, and they've gone frequently ever since.

Many of the temple members don't speak fantastic English (though many probably speak English better than I do), but everyone communicates pretty well nevertheless. All anyone really needs to know is "This," "How much?" and "Thank you." I surveyed the landscape, then swooped in for the kill.

Cute side story: One Sunday, Jennifer went into the pavillion and indicated to one of the ladies that she wanted to try some sort of orange-colored dish, probably a mango salad. Jennifer pointed to the dish and said, "This, please."

"Nooo..." came the answer from a little old Thai lady.
Jennifer was understandably confused. She indicated the dish again. "This?"
"Nooo..."
Jennifer held up some cash. "I have money, I can pay! I'd really like this, please."
"Nooo..."
To this day, Jennifer doesn't know what the deal was. Maybe the lady figured it was something Jennifer wouldn't like.

I'm gonna be real honest with y'all right now. I don't really know what I ate. All I know is it was fanTASTic.

Jennifer and Swell Nathan found a table for us right near the water (as in, if I had walked three steps from our table, I would have found myself IN the water), and we dug in.

After we finished eating, we decided to have a look inside the temple. I didn't take any pictures inside, of course, since that's you know, just rude, but I think from the outside pictures you can tell that it was one of the most magnificently beautiful things I have ever seen.

(When we walked - barefoot - into the temple and kneeled, I gasped, it was so gorgeous. Swell Nathan just looked over at me and smiled.)

As delicious as the food was, as breathtaking as the temple was, as good as the company was, the most important part of the day was a grand cultural lesson that I learned because of the experience:

Church ladies are church ladies no matter where they're from, what language they speak or who they worship.

Seriously. Except for the notable lack of Sicillian food, it was more or less exactly like the St. Joseph altar at my church.

I couldn't understand their language, but boy howdy, I know me some church ladies, and they were gossiping and fussing at each other and their kids and grandkids just exactly like the church ladies at St. Joseph. I was expecting, at any moment, someone to grab me by the arm and demand to know why I'm not married yet.

Some things naturally transcend nationality and religion, I suppose.

I'm just glad no one bugged me about why I haven't yet birthed a litter of Catholic (or Buddhist) babies.

And now, the part everyone's waiting (or wading) for: PIKTURZ!

Tampa! Part Two

Your table mannered
Kel

My friend amberle404 sent this to me today, and I nearly died from aspirating Diet Dr. Pepper.

So I made one to show you guys. Because we all know we're going to die of choking-related causes.

It's only a matter of time.

(Yeah. I put my name as Kelly Rollins. A girl can dream, right?)



No time for my usual carefully-crafted blog entry today (STOP LAUGHING). Too busy working on my Halloween costume...

Wait for it...

WAIT FOR IT...

NIBBLER!!!



Clearly, I decided that I had way too much dignity and needed to correct that situation on Halloween. By wearing a diaper and an eyeball on top of my head.

Say it with me now: NERD.



Your crafty
Kelly "That's LORD Nibbler to You" Rollins

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

Halloween movies watched: 4

Kel: Happy. Also afraid to walk the dog after dark.

Last night, I went to Target to stock up on supplies and briefly considered purchasing the Rob Zombie version of Halloween, but ultimately decided against it. I am neurotic and paranoid

Peanut Gallery: NO. EFFING. WAY. Srsly?

and didn't think I could handle being that freaked out while home alone.

I saw the Rob Zombie version in the theatre the night it came out. (Note to self: An enjoyable evening at the movies cannot be had on Friday night.) Now, I am a person who has watched and loved the crap out of every gross, disgusting, sicko movie you can think of, but Rob Zombie's Halloween was so very gorey and disturbing that I called Phil on the way home from the theatre and said, "DUDE. YOU MUST GO SEE IT. IMMEDIATELY. I feel kind of nauseous. Like, I don't think I'm going to throw up, but I totally could if I wanted to."

I also gave this exact same review to my priest, who loves horror movies too, because I have no sense of propriety or boundaries.

It's funny, though. I can watch someone get disemboweled on screen and think it's awesome and the gnarliest thing ever, but if you skinned your knee in front of me, it would be all I could do not to throw up and pass out.

It's certainly not a Halloween movie, but last night I watched The Day After Tomorrow. It was OK. It's kind of ridiculous ("global warming" being one of my pet topics), but if you just want some mindless entertainment while you sit on the sofa and eat Junior Mints and do your nails, then I'd Netflix it. Or purchase it on sale at Target for $7.50. Whichever.

Off to try (probably unsuccessfully, to be honest) to accomplish something before this weekend is officially over.

Will try my best not to encounter Michael Myers, Jason, Jigsaw or Pinhead.



Your Halloweenie
Kel

1) Who was your first kiss?

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

2) Who is the last person you kissed?

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

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

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

I just haven't had one lately.

*hinthint*

Hello? *taptaptap* Is this thing on?

4) What is the story of your worst kiss?

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

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

(Oh, NEVER MIND.)

5) Who do you want to kiss right now?

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

WHAT. I like the Beastie Boys!

And more pictures.

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

Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend

By my decree, today is Take Your Chihuahua to Work Day.

This fact was previously unbeknownst to a) my father/boss, who abhors both Chihuahua and Take Your Chihuahua to Work Day and b) Chihuahua, who abhors getting out of bed before noon.

It's gone pretty well so far. For all Chihuahua's sociopathic tendencies, she actually behaves well in public, and the biggest disturbance so far has been her snoring.

(Chihuahua say, "When lunch? Chihuahua benefits inadequate for Chihuahua lifestyle. Chihuahua going to need AT LEAST 20% cost-of-living raise. Chihuahua good negotiator."

It's rainy and a little chilly and truth be told, I'd really rather be at home in my pajamas, snuggled on the sofa with Chihuahua and her fake-fur throw I purchased for her last Christmas on clearance, watching horror movies and drinking hot cocoa.

In other words, I'm not exactly an Enthusiastic Worker today. My enthusiasm has been subjugated by my desire to watch Halloween movies and eat candy.

Instead of sucking it up and getting on with my work, I borrowed D.J.'s camera to take pictures of random things around the office, then accidentally transferred all the pictures on his camera to my computer. Because I am a delight to everyone.

So here they are, the ill-gotten office pictures. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to shopping online, breaking my coworkers' possessions and generally being an all-around pain in the ass to everyone who knows me.

From Hard at Work

Your lazy
Kel

"And there the wicked old Witch stayed for a good long time."
"And did she ever come out?"
"Not yet."

--Gregory Maguire, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West

Ever since I was a wee Clothes_Slut, I've had a soft spot in my heart for the ol' green girl. I've always felt she never got a fair shake.

a) The shorty-pants citizens of Oz go around singing nauseating songs about how very wicked she is. As a much-maligned former resident of Henderson, Texas (pop. 11), I can say with the utmost authority that people saying you're wicked does NOT make it so.

b) A little twit named Dorothy from Nowheresville shows up and lands her crappy house ON TOP OF the witch's sister, killing her.

c) The twit and her yappy, ill-behaved, flea-bitten mutt then have the audacity to take the sister's ruby slippers and refuse to give them back. (I don't buy any of that "Oh my! They just magically appeared on my feet and won't come off!" business. That doesn't fly in Bergdorf Goodman and won't work any better in Oz, you little klepto.)

d) You know what? If you'd been born green, you'd probably have a shitty attitude too.

e) And if you don't think I wouldn't send winged monkeys after my own mother for a pair of ruby slippers, you are badly mistaken.

Heh. The first time I watched The Wizard of Oz, I nearly drove my grandmother to the insane asylum asking questions about just how, exactly, one might go about obtaining her own pair of ruby slippers. Nana finally made me my very own ruby slippers by coating a pair of my patent leather mary janes in Elmer's glue and pouring red glitter over them. And then she had red glitter all over her house for the rest of her life, The End.

If you don't have a child under the age of 10 or a very immature 31-year-old friend, then you might not know that the latest Happy Meal toys are cheap versions of the Madame Alexander Wizard of Oz dolls. Naturally, the greatest wish of my cold, black heart is to own the witch.

So basically, what I'm trying to tell you here is that I've been spending all of my disposable income on Happy Meals.

In a thus-far unsuccessful bid to obtain the witch doll.

After my latest disappointment, in which I got stuck with YET ANOTHER cursed Munchkin, the lightbulb came on.

I posted the following on the board at my office, where I work with a bunch of roughneck punks:



Yeah, pink marker. Yeah. 'Cause that shows them that I'm serious.

Much to my surprise, I quickly became the owner of not one but two witch dolls.

The first Bearer of Witch Doll was all, "Why do you want the witch?" To which I replied,

"Not surprisingly, I consider the Wicked Witch of the West to be a role model."

Keep 'em comin', guys, keep 'em comin'.



Your wicked
Kel

Seriously, is there anything more boring and annoying than someone going on and on and on to the point of utter boredom about how sick they've been?

Oh, well. As it happens, I have little else to talk about.

I finally decided yesterday to go home from work early. I was so gross and scary that even my animals wanted nothing to do with me when I dragged-ass in here yesterday. Following zugspitze's advice (after all, she's really very smart), I popped two NyQuil and fell asleep in my clothes. I woke around 10:30, when amidreamingmere called, swallowed two more, and fell back asleep. I didn't so much as stir until about 8:00 this morning. At which point I realized that I was still fully dressed in the clothes I wore to work yesterday, including my earrings.

SEXY!

Fortunately, I feel much better today. Or I should say that I FELT much better today until I walked into the kitchen this morning and realized that sometime during the night, Ouiser broke my Chihuahua cookie jar. Then I completely lost my shit, The End.

So most of my day has been spent reading The Pioneer Woman's blog and singing the praises of NyQuil. Because, you know, I like to spend my time wisely and bettering the world around me.

Speaking of Pioneer Woman, may I just say that I really, really, really LOVE the spit out of her blog? She has the kind of life that I dream of sometimes (you know, like when I have psychotic breaks and forget how much I love modern conveniences like paved roads and shopping malls and Starbucks).

But really y'all know I'm just shallow and love cowboys and tight Wrangler jeans and the opportunity to ride horses whenever I feel like it. Because I can't hide anything from y'all.

True fact (and I've mentioned this before, but I like to repeat myself): My parents used to be cattle ranchers.

In case you ever doubt the force of my father's personality, bear in mind that he was magnetic and persuasive enough to convince my city-girl mother that living in the country and looking after cows would be a SUPER AWESOME career. They lived that life for about seven years, during which time my mother (who was happy to learn that the postman would still deliver her Vogue magazines to a "Rural Route" address):

--Castrated calves (though, to my knowledge, my mother, unlike Pioneer Woman, has never fried up calf nuts for her family's dinner)
--Branded calves
--Got thrown from the back of a horse
--Found herself down on her hands and knees in the middle of the woods at 3:00 a.m., feeling around on the ground for pools of deer blood (long story)
--Got lost with my father in a pirogue on a lake with her newborn baby daughter (i.e., ME) clutched in her arms
--Spent the better part of a day standing on her kitchen table, screaming, because my father refused to come in from the fields and dispose of a half-dead mouse the cat had dragged in

So really, it fell into the No Shit category when my dad sold his land and cattle and installed my mother in a house in suburban Shreveport, Louisiana.

(Lest you think my mother is a total pansy, in the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that my father claims he does not hunt anymore because my mother finally put her well-shod foot down and declared that she had field-dressed her last deer. Dad maintains that Mom is the best deer-field-dresser who has ever lived.)

In other words, I don't want my dad to start reading Pioneer Woman's blog and get any big ideas about returning himself to his former cattle-ranching glory. 'Cause when Dad gets big ideas, I end up doing things I really do not wish to do, like share an office with my mother.

Also: I would like to nominate the manufacturers of NyQuil for a Nobel Prize in...actually, I'm really not sure of all the categories for the Nobel Prize (and am far too lazy to look it up). Nostril Peace, perhaps? Or maybe the Making People Less Repulsive and Snot-Filled category.

Off to watch Law & Order. WHAT. Everyone knows Det. Stabler has miraculous cold-curing properties.



Your mending
Kel

My name is Kelly

(Hi, Kelly!)

And I have a thing for chefs.

I think it started the first time I ever ate in a "grown-up" restaurant. As you've probably gathered, Mom and Dad were pretty strict and started training me early to dine in public without making a spectacle of myself (note: we are still working on this one). This wasn't just some ingenious lesson in etiquette - my parents are foodies of the highest order and, well, they weren't going to let a little thing like having a toddler cramp their eating style. So off we went, every single Friday night, to Lowell's, a swanky (by Shreveport, Louisiana standards, at any rate) seafood restaurant. This tradition began when I was about two.

My parents and grandparents, as regulars, were treated to a few "off-the-menu" goodies every Friday night, and I can vividly remember how this food, cooked to perfection and beautifully plated, could cause the adults in my life such complete and utter delight.

The person responsible for their happiness was, of course, the chef, though I don't think I really understood that concept at the time.

Every business trip (on which my mother and I always accompanied my father), every vacation, every jaunt across the parish line, even, involved finding someplace fabulous to eat. Usually, it wasn't any place fancy - my parents, partial as they are to "local flavors," ate in some pretty nasty holes-in-the-wall over the years. They taught me - and I am so grateful for this - to eat adventurously. To try everything at least twice. As Anthony Bourdain puts it in Kitchen Confidential, your body isn't a temple, it's a carnival ride. If one little old oyster or some chorizo or cow brains makes you deathly ill for 24 hours or so? Well, that's the price you pay to play.

(To this day, I've only ever heard of two "delicacies" that I don't think I would ever, EVER eat. But, you know, catch me in the right mood and we'll see what happens.)

The point is, my family had all these adventures, told all their stories and got to know each other a little better over food prepared by chefs.

I think chefs are about as close as we're ever going to get to wizards in this world.

I bemoan the fact that I can't boil water, and someone inevitably says, "Oh, anyone can cook! All you have to do is follow directions." Truthfully, I think that attitude sells chefs, both amateur and professional, very, very short. Chefs are some weird combination of artisan and craftsman who can slam out 250 (or more) meals a night, stand on their feet for 12 hours at a time, work in the hellish heat of a restaurant kitchen, haul enormously heavy crates and boxes and still turn out food that can take your breath away. Chefs don't follow directions. They have something the rest of us don't:

Magic.

Oh, don't give me that look. It's magic, plain and simple.

I've dated a few chefs, and one of their favorite things to do was take the odds and ends in my kitchen and see what they could make. It was always, always delicious. Now, don't get me wrong. The pumpkin ravioli (made with canned pumpkin pie filling) wouldn't win anyone a James Beard Award. But I can tell you this much - it was a hell of a lot better than anything I could make and sure as hell better than anything you can get at McDonald's.

I love chefs. I love their knife- and burn-scarred hands, their muscular forearms, their foul language, their "hard-core roller" attitudes. (No offense to the late, great Julia, who was none of these things.) For me, they're a combination of Dumbledore and Hunter S. Thompson and Michelangelo and the working schlub down the street, and it's positively intoxicating.

Ever wondered why I spend so much time in restaurants? Yeah, that's it.



Your food-loving
Kel

1) Bold those you have tried
2) Strikethrough those you wouldn't eat on a bet.
2a) Italicize any item you'll never eat again.
2b) Asterisk any items you'd be interested in trying but have not yet.

Dear Parents: Thank you for rearing me to be an EXTREMELY adventurous eater. There are precious few things I would never eat.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea***
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile (but I've had 'gator)***
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp***
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi*** (I don't actually know what this is)
15. Hot dog from a street cart - Your body's not a temple, it's a ROLLER COASTER RIDE!
16. Epoisses*** (?)
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns*** (Eh?)
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries (As a child, one of my punishments was picking muscadines)
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese***
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper (Name a pepper. I've eaten it raw.)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda*** (Although this does not, honestly, sound very tasty.)
31. Wasabi peas (Favorite bar snack!)
32. Clam chowder
33. Salted lassi***
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea************
38. Vodka jelly************
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail***
41. Curried goat***
42. Whole insects*** (As long as it's not a spider. That I cannot do.)
43. Phaal***
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu***
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin************
51. Prickly pear (I actually looked over and asked my mom, "Mom, have I ever eaten a prickly pear?" "It's been a while, but yeah," she answered.)
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine***
60. Carob chips*** (I've had carob, but not in the form of chips)
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin***
64. Currywurst***
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis*
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette*
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini*** (I've had caviar, but not blinis)
73. Louche absinthe************
74. Gjetost, or brunost***
75. Roadkill*
76. Baijiu***
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong***
80. Bellini
81. Toam yum***
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky***
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare************
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse*
90. Criollo chocolate************ (Chocolate?! I'm there!)
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa***
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake***

Life Mission No. 286: Accomplished

Phone: Ringring

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

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

Kel: "Listen!"

*Puts phone down*

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

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

*Picks up phone again*

Kel: "Well? Whaddya think?"

Mere: "WOW."

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

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

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

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

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

Mere: "Oh God..."

Kel: "CHIHUAHUA! Zombie!"

Chihuahua: Goes apeshit

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

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

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

Mere: ...

Kel: "Life Mission Number 287: accomplished."

--------

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



Your accomplished
Kel

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

Right now

This very minute

There is a man in the office

Who looks

And sounds

EXACTLY

like Boomhauer from King of the Hill.

BWAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Yup, dang ol' Boomhauer, man.



Your madly-in-love
Kel

Last week, the Jeep finally breathed its last. New car time!

(And car-payment time. And higher-insurance time. But we here at Clothes_Slut choose to focus on the positive.)

Anyway, so I decided to go get my dream car: a Honda Fit.

(I am easy to please, obviously.)

I had a heck of a time finding one - Shreveport only had one (orange stick shift), Baton Rouge had one (bright blue stick shift), but I finally found THE one in Monroe.

Road trip!

Presenting Fiona the Fit!

Fiona the Fit

She's zippy, cute, efficient and practical - kind of like her owner!



Your veryveryveryvery happy
Kel