Regular readers of this blog know that I whine a great deal about the lack of eligible bachelors in Shreveport, Louisiana.

"I WANT A DAAAAATE! I NEED A DAAAAATE! WHY DON'T I HAVE ANY DAAAAATES?"

Being a big fan of a little something known as "personal responsibility" and also willing to do just about anything for your amusement and edification, I joined Match.com for one month. Remember? I wrote about it here. Then I met this cute guy and accidentally gave him almost all my personal information, which I wrote about here.

Well, the Catastrophic Coffee Date fell through for a variety of reasons too long and boring to go into, so we instead decided to meet for dinner tonight.

In all my moaning about wanting a DAAAAATE, the fact that all dates must begin with the dreaded First Date was wiped from my consciousness. See, all the "dates" I've been on in the recent past have been with people I already know or people I've met through friends, so no one calls it a Date (in the manner of teenagers standing around in parents' basements smoking pot in lieu of dating. Not that I have ever done that on a date. Well, not since high school, anyway). And as long as no one calls it a Date, I can live happily in denial, telling myself that, Pffft! It's not a date! We're just hanging out!

Well, the concept of "Date" came back to me this afternoon at about 4:30. I was to meet the guy, whom we shall refer to as The Guy (WHAT. I've only got so much creativity to give here, people) at 6:00.

So my evening went something like this:

4:30 - 5:00 PANIC. BLIND PANIC. Call Mere, Emily and Jessica and freak the hell out. Friends wonder if am actually qualified for life in any way.

5:00 - 5:05 Select outfit. Mere insisted that must wear The Kel Uniform (i.e., turtleneck sweater, denim pencil skirt, badass boots and chunky jewelry) as that is "who [I am], and the whole point of a first date is to showcase who [I am]." Decide to wear dangly topaz earrings avidchick made for me last Valentine's Day as good luck charms.

5:05 - 5:10 Arrange hair. Bemoan fact that hair is uncontrollable and messy. Wrangle hair into ponytail-type arrangement and decide that messy hair is integral part of Who Clothes_Slut Is.

5:10 - 5:15 Smoke cigarette and stare at Chihuahua in vain attempt to calm self. Chihuahua leaves room, as is frightened by Mean Lady's wild-eyed stare.

5:15 - 5:20 Consider calling other girlfriends but decide that friends are very worried about self as is.

5:20 - 5:30 Begin makeup application. Try to remember that New York Times, Village Voice reporters and similar frequently go undercover in very dangerous situations in order to get good story. Decide to think of self as intrepid girl reporter. Remember while applying eyeshadow that watched History Channel program on vampires last night, and New York Times reporter disappeared after infiltrating vampire coven in West Village. Curse History Channel, reporter and self ad nauseam. Hope that The Guy is not vampire. Or zombie. Dismiss zombie scenario as unlikely, as The Guy has yet to make any mention of BRAAAAAIIIIINS.

5:30 - 5:45 Take off and put back on various items of clothing, jewelry and shoes. End up wearing same thing was wearing in first place.

5:45 - 5:50 Walk outside. Discover is very cold out. Return to apartment, try on three different coats and four different scarves before deciding on appropriate coat and scarf. Realize have lost ever-loving mind. Wonder why self owns so many coats and scarves, as self lives in Louisiana and only wears coats four days out of average year.

5:50 - 5:55 Go to ATM. Know that guys traditionally pay for dates, but do not wish to be presumptuous. Am Independent, Modern Woman, after all.

6:00 Arrive at Barnes and Noble. Text friend. While texting friend, catch whiff of (expensive-smelling) noticeable but subtle men's cologne. Know The Guy has arrived before even look up from phone.

6:00 - 8:10 Have very good First Date. Eat copious amounts of Lebanese food. Learn what exactly "chains on tires" are and what purpose they serve (The Guy is from "Up North," as Louisiana girls say). Discuss The Office, Kevin Smith movies, Disney World, zombies, haunted houses, PETA protests, President-elect Obama, Proposition 8 and snow, among other things. Have very good time indeed. Realize that am idiot and that there was nothing to freak out about in first place.

8:10 - 8:15 The Guy walks self to car. Do not kiss The Guy (duh), but decide might want to at some point in future.

8:15 - 8:30 Drive to Walgreens. Reward self for not falling down, vomiting, etc. by purchasing Olay Warming Pedicure for self.

8:45 Arrive home. Receive very nice text message from The Guy.

9:00 - Present Write about how neurotic and insecure self is for whole internet to read.

So there you have it! Three hours' worth of How to Go on a First Date With a Neurotic Bachelor Girl. You know, should you ever need a tutorial on such a thing. That's me! Always here to help her fellow man. And woman.

Off to give myself a warming pedicure.



Your giddy
Kel

...and so does Mere. And Jennifer. And all of you, probably.

I'm beginning to think that maybe - just maybe - I'm too uptight.

Maybe it's Catholicism. Maybe it's the fact that I don't drink much anymore. Maybe it's the notable lack of recreational drugs in my life. Maybe it's the family. Maybe it's having been single for so long. Maybe it's Bird's influence (he's an attorney, and if there's one thing attorneys do well, it's BE PARANOID).

Actually, I like that one. Let's stick with that idea, shall we? IT'S ALL BIRD'S FAULT.

Yes.

Anyway, to put it in graphic and unsavory terms, perhaps I need to unclench.

The other night, in a fit of misguided optimism (and before I wrote the now-famous "Match.com" post), I signed up for Match.com for one month.

As predicted, most of the guys are EEEWWWWW. But there's this one that's...not. So much. Maybe. OK, FINE. HE'S REALLYREALLY CUTE. There. I'm shallow. Happy?

He's also...you know, not stupid. Maybe. And he likes historical stuff. Which is good. And he's all into creativity and shit, like me with this here blog.

Anyway, so he's e-mailed me (through the Match.com site) a few times and hasn't said or done anything to make me think he's a sex-crazed psycho killer. Which is something of a record in my world. Generally, it only takes guys 1-2 communiques before the little voices in their heads say, "Oh, go ahead and tell her all about your bestiality fetish! This one won't mind! I CAN TELL."

So perhaps, because of that fact, I got a little carried away. And when I went to reply to his message, I didn't click "reply" through the Match.com site, I clicked "reply" in my actual e-mail.

Which means that my e-mail signature was at the bottom of the e-mail.

My e-mail signature which lists the following information:
1. My real name
2. My place of business
3. THE FUCKING ADDRESS OF MY PLACE OF BUSINESS, OH MY GOD IN HEAVEN
4. My work phone number
5. MY G-------- CELL PHONE NUMBER

Brilliance, thy name is KEL.

Because I'm LIKE, SUPER AWESOME in a crisis, I then performed the following actions:
1. Ran around the coffee table multiple times screeching OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD
2. Flopped onto the sofa and covered my head with a blanket
3. Searched the house for alcohol (search returned: 0)
4. Called Jennifer, who didn't answer
5. Called Mere, who told me that I am insane

Heee. Don't you want me around during, say, a tsunami?

Fortunately, Mere talked me down off the ledge.

"KEL," she said severely, "This is not the best thing you could have possibly done, but it is certainly not the worst. You work with a veritable army of gigantic guys, all of whom are extremely protective of you and your family. I FEEL SORRY for the guy who goes up there and tries to start some shit. Second, you're not listed in the phone book, so he can't get your home address. Your apartment building is like Fort-Fucking-Knox, so even if he DID figure out where you live, how's he going to get in? And finally, it's your cell phone number. If he calls and you don't wish to talk to him, THEN DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE, GENIUS."

"Well, he asked me to COFFEE. Isn't that a little...untoward? I mean, I don't even KNOW HIM."

"Kel. It's COFFEE on a SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Look, the whole purpose of sites like Match.com is that you are supposed to meet someone with whom you will eventually GO ON DATES. Like, TOGETHER. What else are you going to do, prearrange a time to pass by one another in a specified aisle in the grocery store? It is not the least bit unreasonable that he should ask you to coffee. The amount of time invested is less than an hour. Coffee houses are PUBLIC PLACES FULL OF PEOPLE. You like him? You order a second cup. You don't? You suck down your coffee and leave. I mean, I'm guessing the residents of Shreveport would figure out that something was up if he slipped a roofie into your gingerbread latte then started dragging your lifeless body toward his car ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. If you're going to do this, then you're going to have to take a chance. It's that simple."

See, when she puts it that way, it all sounds so...normal.

To further complicate matters, after I sent The E-mail of Doom, I Googled his name to see if something along the lines of "John Doe, Serial Killer" would come up. It didn't, but what did come up was a website with a bunch of pictures of him and his buddies getting drunk and hanging all over Hooters girls. This? Yeah, I want no part of this.

Then Mere pointed out that all the pictures are date-stamped 2000 and 2001.

"Kel, that was seven and eight YEARS ago. How old were you eight years ago?"

"Um, 23?" (WHAT. I'm really bad at math.)

"Think about what we were doing when we were 23, 24 years old. Would you want someone to judge you by your 23-year-old self? I think not."

"But..."

"No but. He seems like a perfectly nice, normal person. He's in the Air Force, for Pete's sake. Stop being a dumbass and meet him for coffee."

That Mere, she is wise.

For the record, Jennifer pretty much echoed Mere's sentiments exactly. She warned me to make sure to tell a couple people where I was going and what time, how long I planned to be there, to call them afterwards, etc. and everything should be fine.

So what do you guys think? Am I being paranoid and uptight? Is coffee unreasonable? How would you feel about doing something like this?



Your perhaps-a-little-too-stuffy-for-her-own-good
Kel

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

So...

Perhaps posting MAKEUP-LESS PICTURES OF MYSELF ON THE FREAKING INTERNET was...unwise.

Dear Men: Please form an orderly line starting at the front door. Thanks, The Management

Mere: "Those were...yeah. Um. So...what else is going on?"

Am I the only one who thinks the dudes on the freecreditreport.com commercials are kind of hot?

Wait. What?

(I'm having a little trouble concentrating today.)

So I'm going to share something with you guys...something that's definitely enriched MY life over the last year or so.

One time, one of my friends wrote about how her ex-boyfriend had a bad habit of starting completely inappropriate conversations at cocktail parties.

For instance, at one soiree, he loudly announced, "Did you know that every day, at least once a day, you think about a monkey?"

WELL, IF WE DIDN'T BEFORE, WE SURE AS HELL DO NOW.

As soon as I read this - and I mean the very moment I read this - my internal monologue took a definite turn for the worse.

Kel's Brain: "Hmmm, let's see. I need to post those invoices, pay those bills, prepare that bulletin, consult Dad about these numbers, stop at the drycleaners on the way home from work, oh! And I need Diet Dr. Pepper MONKEY."

"He's really cute. Does he think I'm cute? I wonder if he'll call? He said he would call but that certainly doesn't mean he'll call MONKEY."

"Heavenly Father, please continue to bless and keep safe all of my friends and family and all the people in the world MONKEY."

Naturally, I called Hef and told him this news because if there's one thing I love, it's sharing joy.

A couple days later, I was the recipient of an EXTREMELY pissed-off phone call.

"MONKEYS!" Hef screamed. "I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT FUCKING MONKEYS! I WAS IN A MEETING TODAY, A VERY IMPORTANT MEETING ABOUT VERY IMPORTANT AND GRAVE SAFETY ISSUES AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WAS THINKING! MONKEYMONKEYMONKEYMONKEYMONKEYMONKEYMONKEY!"

Heh heh. MONKEY.

Wait. What?

Also, you know what? Most of the time, I am perfectly fine with being single. I mean, sure, I'd like to meet someone special, but on a day-to-day basis, it doesn't really matter to me one way or the other.

HOWEVER.

It SUCKS being single when you're sick.

Friday night, all I wanted in the whole, wide world was to take a bath that was roughly the temperature of magma. I gathered my towel and fresh pajamas and headed in the direction of the tub.

And what should meet my eyes but

CAT PIDDLE.

IN THE BATHTUB.

WHAT.

THE FUCK, WINNIFRED?

About that time, Mere called. I was almost weeping with frustration.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Cleaning CAT PEE out of the BATHTUB!"

"What?"

"Winnifred PEED in the BATHTUB because she's STOOPID. She's not just regular stupid, she's S-T-O-O-P-I-D STOOPID."

"Why the bathtub?"

"I don't know! When one considers alternatives to the toilet, or, in this case, the cat box, one does not normally gravitate toward the BATHTUB!"

So then, naturally, even after cleaning the whole bathtub with Scrubbing Bubbles, I couldn't bathe in there. Winnifred WET in there. So I had to settle for a shower.

UNFULFILLED!

The moral of the story is that it would have been nice if I had a person who was morally obligated to clean cat piss out of the bathtub for me when I'm sick.

But I don't, so I had to be an Independent Woman and clean the bathtub all by my feverish self.

And you know what else?

MONKEY.



Your mischievous and medicated
Kel

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

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

Who would think that this



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your left-of-center
Kel

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

A word of advice:

Do not watch this movie right before bedtime.

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

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

Here is how neurotic am I:

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

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

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Clothes_Slut Readers: Because you are an idiot.

Oh yeah...

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

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



Your seeing-and-believing
Kel

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

I'm a little OCD about laundry.

I don't have tons of money to spend on clothes, which does not mean that I don't spend tons of money on clothes (see: Clothes_Slut), but rather it means that I take very good care of the clothes I have.

In college, I was in a sorority, and as you might imagine, there was lots of clothes-sharing going on. On Thursday nights (Going Out, Getting Trashed and Allowing Frat Boys to Hit On Us Night), all the girls would bring their entire wardrobes, practically, to the sorority suite (I went to college on an urban campus that didn't have sorority houses) to create their party ensembles. I had a strict rule:

You can borrow anything of mine you want, but a) you ruin it, you buy it and b) DO NOT WASH MY CLOTHES. I don't care if it comes back to me reeking of Eau de Douchebag, but DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT WASHING MY CLOTHES.

I line-dry (or rather laundry-rack dry, as I live in an apartment) almost all my clothes. I've found that it makes your clothes last a lot longer. The only things I put in the dryer are (some) underwear, socks and maybe the occasional pair of pajama pants.

Seeing as how I'm completely obsessed with clothes, it stands to reason that I own roughly 15,000 pairs of panties. I wash underwear with my other laundry every week, but it's not like I've ever been in danger of running out of clean undies. So I often forget about the laundry in the dryer.

(The above statement is what is referred to in literature as "foreshadowing.")

Well, both my washer and dryer were acting up this weekend, so I called a repairman.

We long ago established that I can't do anything without something ridiculous happening (see: this incident), and having my washer and dryer repaired was certainly no exception.

So the repairman, Manny, came over and went to work straight away. He fixed the washer in short order, then turned his attention to the dryer.

While he worked, I hung around in the kitchen in case he needed anything. When he opened the dryer, I saw him stop suddenly.

Then Manny reached into the dryer and pulled out an armload of thong underwear.

OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.

MY PANTIES.

HE HAS NOT ONLY SEEN MY PANTIES. HE HAS HANDLED MY PANTIES. I USUALLY MAKE PEOPLE BUY ME SEVERAL EXPENSIVE DINNERS BEFORE I ALLOW THEM ACCESS TO MY PANTIES.

(Dear Father Karl: If you are reading this, I have never, ever allowed anyone access to my panties. Ever. Evereverever. The above statement is what is referred to in literature as "creative license." See you in church!)

"Uh, here you go!" said Manny, looking sheepish as he handed me 42 pairs of my most un-Catholic panties.

(Dear Father Karl: I do not wear un-Catholic panties. Ever. Evereverever. See you in church! Where I will be wearing Catholic panties.)

I have one word for you all, and that word is FAIL.



Your bumbling
Kel

A couple weeks ago or so, amidreamingmere and I concocted an odd little fantasy about me marrying a man whose last name is Dumbass. Because, you know, we're swingin' single gals who like to keep busy.

(Shut up.)

Ever since, Mere and I have been working on her bridesmaid's speech.

"From the moment your handsome, rugged and virile groom looked into your eyes, he knew you were, deep down, a Dumbass. You didn't have to speak a word; the Dumbass in you was readily apparent. As time went on, your Dumbass nature became more and more evident. If ever a girl was a Dumbass, it was you. Today, the two of you embark on your Dumbass life together. You'll move into a Dumbass house and have lots of Dumbass children. Even your pets will be Dumbasses."

"One day, a long time from now, all the other Dumbasses will be gone, and you'll become the head Dumbass. Every Dumbass here today has the utmost faith in your ability to carry your Dumbass legacy far into the future. When you're gone, you'll be known for one thing above all others: You, Oh Kel of Mine, were a Dumbass."

To the happy couple!



Your dumbass
Kel
Who Clearly Lacks Enough Creative Outlets

Mom (i.e., my own flesh and blood, who is morally obligated to think everything I say, do, think or write is breathtakingly brilliant): "It's funny. Not hilarious, but funny."

SOMEONE is not living up to her responsibilities, and it's MOM.

Me: "Maybe it would have been funnier if we'd used 'Dipshit' instead of 'Dumbass.'"

"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

So I'm learning to sew on oilcloth.

It's not easy.

Oilcloth is simultaneously slippery and sticky, and it's just a giant pain in the ass to deal with. Sewing a zipper onto oilcloth is essentially sadomasochistic torture. Last night, I got so pissed off that I stormed into the laundry room, grabbed a tube of super glue and super-glued a zipper to the oilcloth before sewing it, which, as you can imagine, is VERY BAD for the sewing machine.

Anyway.

One of the products that's highly recommended for helping a budding seamstress such as myself deal with oilcloth is called Sewer's Aid. It's sewing-machine lubricant, but you can rub a bit on your needle, feed plate and presser foot to help fabrics like oilcloth glide through rather than stick and bunch. I bought a bottle at the fabric store last night.

A little ways into my second project, I looked around for the Sewer's Aid. I couldn't find it, and I knew the cats had gotten it. I prayed to God that maybe, just MAYBE, the cats had batted it under the china cabinet or something and weren't actually EATING the Sewer's Aid.

Naturally, my prayers went unanswered.

For this morning, I found a chewed-up plastic bottle on the floor by my bedroom door with only about a quarter of the lubricant left in the bottle. Surprisingly, the carpet was not splattered and soaked with oil.

Which can only mean one thing: One, or possibly all, of the cats have eaten sewing-machine lubricant. At best, this means explosive diarrhea. At worst, it means an emergency vet bill the size of the national debt.

I hate cats.



Your oil-free
Kel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kel's mouth: MWMP. HERF. HEEP.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Lady From Shongaloo: *Extreme indignation*

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

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

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

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

(I would probably get an F.)



Your tactful
Kel

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

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

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

The receptionist at the vet's office called me.

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

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

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

Kel: ?

Kel: "Wait. What?"

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

Kel: *Hysterical laughter*

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

Kel: *Hysterical laughter*

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

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

Dear Harvard: Please FedEx my PhD IMMEDIATELY.



Your genius
Kel

Life Mission No. 286: Accomplished

Phone: Ringring

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

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

Kel: "Listen!"

*Puts phone down*

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

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

*Picks up phone again*

Kel: "Well? Whaddya think?"

Mere: "WOW."

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

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

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

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

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

Mere: "Oh God..."

Kel: "CHIHUAHUA! Zombie!"

Chihuahua: Goes apeshit

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

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

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

Mere: ...

Kel: "Life Mission Number 287: accomplished."

--------

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



Your accomplished
Kel

I am not mechanically inclined in the least.

Peanut Gallery: DUH.

I don't know why mechanical things work the way they do. I just know that they do. And when they don't, I call people who know why mechanical things work the way they do to fix it.

Hef: "WOW. Does the left side of your brain work at all? Or is it just there to hold up your hair?"

My family's business deals with mechanical things. People call sometimes to ask about mechanical things, and I generally pass them off to someone else.

(Very fortunately, my job at the family business does not require me to know why mechanical things work the way they do.)

Today, a gentleman called to ask about garage door springs, and since there was no one else to whom I could pass him, I was stuck.

The thing is, this man was fixated. His garage door only has one spring, but his friend's garage door has two. Should he have two springs? Are two springs better than one? Is having one spring a mistake? Can we replace his one spring with two? Why does he only have one spring?

I got pretty exasperated, and, of course, I had no answers for him.

In the end, I told him I would have a technician call him.

What I wanted to tell him was this:

"When Jesus comes back for the Rapture, he's only going to take people whose garage doors have two springs. So...it really sucks to be you."



Your evil
Kel

I'm sure y'all are aware by now that I can't do ANYTHING, not the simplest, smallest, most trivial little THING without some kind of fucked-up shit happening.

I firmly believe that when God created me, He said to Himself, "And you, My darling, you are going to be the court jester for the universe."

And so I am.

The movers came to the apartment early Wednesday morning. They were great; they did a terrific job, and the only thing they broke was something I packed completely improperly.

One of the last items they took from the apartment was the love seat in the sitting room. They lifted it up, and Chihuahua's secret stash of dried-up cat poop came rolling out.

FanTASTIC.

They all stopped, turned their heads and looked at me like "Eeewww."

A rational person would have been all, "WHAT. It's not like it's MINE."

Instead, because I am socially inept, I ended up stammering an excuse that included the words "secret stash."

As the movers continued to stare.

Perfection, thy name is KEL.



Your humiliated
Kel

"Foolishness"

One of my favorite words. I use it a lot. Just ask Mere.

This one is a depiction by Giotto of one of the Seven Vices (Foolishness, Inconstancy, Infidelity, Injustice, Wrath, Desperation and Envy). All of which I have been guilty at one time or another.

Just today, as a matter of fact, I indulged in the vice of foolishness.

See, I have some friends who have a lot of Stuff. It's hard to spend time in the presence of Stuff without beginning to want Stuff.

I'm back in Shreveport and looking around at my humble little Bohemian existence and thinking to myself, "Maybe I should have a Roomba instead of...a broom. Maybe if I had a hot car I would have more dates. Maybe I should go get a 'real' job so I can buy a new television and a Louis Vuitton handbag." Nevermind the fact that less than a week ago I was perfectly happy with my broom and my car and my job and my TV and my handbags.

I come of a family who does not believe in Stuff. One of my dad's favorite sayings is that "stewardship, not consumption, is the proper relationship to material blessings." And I wholeheartedly believe this. My family believes and has taught me to believe that it's OK to have some Stuff, but our first responsibility is to use material wealth to improve the lives of those around us.

My dad and I were talking today about a family we know who are conspicuous consumers of Stuff. At first I was taken aback a bit when he said, "We don't do that, and I can't speak for you, but I don't want to be around that." But considering that I've spent an entire day grumbling to myself about my crummy apartment and my old sewing machine and my non-designer shoes, I kind of see now what he means.

Under normal circumstances, I love my life. I love my old apartment with its high ceilings and skylight and hardwood floors and abundance of windows. I don't mind my car; it's OK, and I don't spend that much time in it. And I'm the girl who rails to other people that you don't need designer clothes and shoes and handbags to look like you just stepped out of the pages of Vogue! I rarely even watch my damn TV! Why on earth would I need a new one?!

Why? Because I was seduced by Stuff.

Foolishness.

I love my job. I fell into it (just like I fall into everything), but there is nothing, literally nothing, I would rather do all day than write. It's a pretty luxurious existence, in my opinion, never having to drive and not having to answer to a boss and working in my pajamas and petting my animals any time I feel like it, but because I allowed myself to get sucked into the illusion, if only for a short time, that Stuff is the way to happiness, I forgot that while this job pays peanuts, it's the best job I've ever had.

Happiness is:
Faith
Family
Friends
Animals
Creating something new every day
Owning your life
Being who you really are
Believing in who you really are

Happiness is not:
Stuff

Kelly is:
Foolish



Your wiser
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)

Well, not really. Presently, it's very cold and gray outside. But that's not the point. This is:

As you know, I've been occupied the last few days pasting things in my scrapbook.

(Hold on - have to turn off the iHome. I can't type and listen to music at the same time. I have a most annoying habit of forgetting what I'm writing and typing song lyrics instead. And I'm nice enough that I'll spare you all Me & Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse.)

So anyway, as you can imagine, this project has also involved sorting through THOUSANDS of pictures and tons of photo albums, including...

Dum dum DUM!

My WEDDING PHOTOS!

Yes, I still have the proof book. Mostly, it's good for viewing when drunk with friends and laughing about how I look like a giant cupcake in my big poufy wedding dress. But considering events of the past few weeks and the fact that I have started working in earnest on my annulment, I figure this is one albatross I've hauled around long enough, and it's time to cut that baby loose.

So I went through and collected the photos that tell the story (should someone, one day, be interested in "the story,") and threw the rest away. Well, my subconscious was not AT ALL happy about THIS little turn of events and my brain retaliated last night by making me dream about all the worst times between me and my ex-husband. I actually woke myself up screaming profanities. Way to start the day off right, huh?

When I woke up, I was in a positively foul mood and decided that this would never do. So I wracked my brain for a good memory, and finally, I came up with one. A REALLY good one. Something my ex-husband did that was good, that was nice. Something funny.

(This may still be one of the most romantic things that has ever happened to me, as a matter of fact.)

One night, we were watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 together, and I laughed so hard I threw up, and he didn't even get grossed out. If memory serves, he may have even cleaned it up.

So there you have it. Here's the memory on which I am going to once and for all end that chapter of my life. It won't go away, and I can't pretend it didn't happen. D. and I were together (as friends as well as lovers) for so long that I can't just edit him out of all of my memories, good and bad. But I'm done with it, if that makes any sense. I've paid for this sin, I've been forgiven of this sin, I have forgiven him, and regardless of what anyone else thinks about it, it's over. Finis.

The dancers bow and curtsy; the audience throws roses onto the stage at their feet. What a magnificent tragedy!



Your finished
Kel

EDIT: If I can find someone to scan them for me (not my dad, obviously), we will do a Kelly's Wedding Picture Post. Then we shall be finished!

Admit it, y'all just want to see me all lookin' like a giant fluffy cupcake so y'all can have ammunition for the next 30 years.