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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parents HAVE to take responsibility for their children.

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

Not this lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your thankfully-uninjured
Kel

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

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

Me: "You know air guitar?"

Mere: "Yeah."

Me: "That, but with sex."

Mere: "Oh. Ew."

Now back to our regularly-scheduled bitching.

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

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

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

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

This guy? Was INCENSED.

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

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

OH REALLY.

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

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

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

NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING

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

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

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

(OK, not really.)

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

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

Just HOW should I take it, then?

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

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

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

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

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

(And then I ran.)

(Like my hair was on fire.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chinchilla: 1
Redneck: 0

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

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



Your feminist
Kel

Tonight, I had a brilliant plan:

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

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

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

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

Some days, I love this town.

Today is not one of those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Currently reading the Good Guy by Deen Coons

No, you're not.

4. i like to go out and stay home .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

Are you sure? Really, REALLY sure?

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

A critical what?

----

I? Am going to die alone.

And I think I'm OK with that.



Your happily single
Kel

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

(Clearly, I live on the edge.)

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

Um, no.

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

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

AAAAAnd we're done.

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

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

I didn't think so.

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

Now, here's where it gets good:

He called me FRIGID!

Frigid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, FRIGID. Me. Yes.

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

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

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

Guess not.

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

Anybody wanna come over and watch Rocky Horror?



Your frigid
Kel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Your financially-challenged
Kel

So I was reading on some site the other day

(NO, I don't remember which site, and, anyway, you guys know I'm too lazy to look up stuff like that just so I can be all ACCURATE and shit on this blog.)

which said that one of the most popular wedding songs is THE THEME FROM JURASSIC PARK.

Let's think about that for a moment:

The theme

From a movie about dinosaurs KILLING AND EATING PEOPLE AND GENERALLY RUNNING AMOK IN COSTA RICA

Is one of the most popular wedding songs.

Srsly?

Because when I hear the theme from Jurassic Park, one thing comes to mind: VELOCIRAPTORS.

And, see, I'd prefer to have something other than "abject fear" as the overarching mood on my wedding day. Although, hey, you know, if the shoe fits, right?

Wherein I Make a Confession

When I was 14 and in the deep, dark middle of my mad, passionate, completely imaginary love affair with Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Star Trek Enterprise), I thought it would be the most AWESOME, KICK-ASS THING EVER to walk down the aisle at my wedding (to Patrick, naturally) to the theme from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

But I was fourteen. And very, very isolated. And I decided that one day, I wanted to get married to a real boy and possibly even have sex, and in furtherance of those goals it was probably best if I put away my Star Trek action figures (they were NOT DOLLS, MOM!) and get a life.

What's these people's excuse?

So tell me:
1) What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen at a wedding?
2) What was involved in your Dream Wedding when you were a kid?



Your perplexed
Kel

This morning, I vandalized a car.

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

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

But here's where it all started downhill:

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

Back to the car. Which I vandalized.

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

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



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

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

(I hope they didn't see me.)

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

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

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



Your moody
Kel

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

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

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

(Ready now? All better? OK.)

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

Anyway.

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

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

But me? I think not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there you have it.



Your no-Impala-buying
Mean Lady

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

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

I.
Am utterly exhausted.

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

I went into the bathroom to find:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Yes, she is.

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

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

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

Because everybody feels guilty because Carol is retarded.

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

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

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

SO
VERY
SLEEPY
AND
PISSED
OFF.



Your harsh/realistic
Kel

THIS:

http://www.encyclopediadramatica.com/Main_Page

Is the funniest thing I have ever seen. Ever.

Ever ever ever ever ever.

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

Go. Read. Laugh like an idiot.

-----

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

Person: "What do you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HELLS YEAH. Who doesn't?

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

Uh, no. No, I do not.

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



Your dog-grooming
Kel

Isabella Rossellini done lost it.

In a nutshell, Rossellini is directing and acting in a series of short films called Green Porno for the Sundance Channel. The films have to do with the various, uh, means of sexual intercourse of different species of insects.

Fun for the whole family!



Your confused
Kel