a post inspired by The Shamana

The Shamana graced my email inbox this morning with a copy of some of the hilarious dialogue from "Failure To Launch." The character of Kit made the entire movie.

Kit:*snatches rifle*
Jim the gun shop guy: *stares*
Kit: What kind of bullets does this take?
Jim: That gun doesn't take bullets. You need shells.
Kit: Ok, then give me the shells.
Jim: Ok, one box of shells.
Kit: Oh no, I just need one.
Jim: You know, there are places you can call...
Kit: I'm not suicidal, I just want to shoot a bird.
Jim: What kind of bird?
Kit: A Mockingbird.
Jim: You can't kill a mockingbird!
Kit: Why not?
Jim: Well first of all theres the book "To Kill a Mockingbird..."
Kit: Copy of that too! Just put it right here.
Jim: It's not a manual!! It's a great work of American literature! How can you not know that? And anyway, its illegal to kill a mockingbird.
Kit: Oh yea? Well what about my rights? What about the first amendment?
Jim: The right to free speech????

someone take away their parenting license

Ok, you would not believe what I saw. Seriously. Or maybe I should say - you would not want to believe what I saw. I was at the Starlite Cafe with The Marquee, eating dinner, when I happened to look over at a nearby table and see a mother helping her baby drink from a beer bottle. A BEER BOTTLE. (!!!!!) Excuse me? What?! For about 2.5 seconds I gave the mother the benefit of the doubt . . . maybe the beer bottle was filled with water and she was just trying to freak people out . . . but then I saw the mother and father take a swig from the beer bottle after the baby was done. I'm sorry. Those people should not be parents. I wanted to go over there and yell at them for being incompetent, but The Marquee managed to convince me to stay in my seat. I know that I'm not a parent, but I like to think that I have enough intelligence to know that letting my 9-month-old baby drink alcohol probably won't win me the Parent Of The Year award and hell - could put my child in danger. Gah. The whole thing just infuriates me.

row ye on home, land yacht

There were a lot of people building arks today. But I, Imperial Majesty of All That Is, have my ever-regal land yacht ('95 Buick Le Sabre) to ford rivers (the James), valleys, raging oceans and tranquil, flooded streets. I have a plan if the downpours continue. Some of the plan involves saving humanity, but most of it involves floating in all my glory down the streets of Richmond.

Brilliant Plan Of Action:
(setting - Rain)

1) Backstroke to my parked land yacht (LY) and climb in through the hole that I will simultaneously burn into the hood with the cutting torch that I keep in my back pocket for occasions such as this.
2) Brush hair, re-apply lip gloss (A World Dominator must look good no matter what the crisis).

By this point, the LY is floating in the parking lot. I have attached flags to its four corners.

3) Get on my mega-phone and tell all of those people trying to swim to get out of my way, as I have business to do. I begin my journey with a regal wave out of the window.
4) I proceed to pick up my friends and favored advisors, as well as a few babies and stray animals along the way (good PR).
5) Pass around the bowl of chips and salsa to my three best girlfriends (who have secured a seat inside the LY). Check to make sure that my B-List friends are OK floating in the intertube attached to the back of the LY.
6) Float LY to town hall. Claim the city in the name of all that is Good and Just (aka, me). "Ride the wave" to Ultimate Power. (Haha, sorry, couldn't resist).

america's got talent?

Ok. There is only one reason that you should watch the new TV show "America's Got Talent." And that is because it is so ridiculously horrible that it's worth your time to cuddle up on the couch with a bag of popcorn and make fun of it the entire time.

Let's get right to the point. David Hasselhof. And yes, I don't care if I spelled his last name correctly or not. Why? Why does he exist? Why On God's Green Earth is he a judge?? What qualifies him for it? The incredible acting that was required of him in "Baywatch?" The sensational singing voice that he possesses? So sensational that his cd will be forever mocked by sensible Americans? Forget it if the Germans like him. There is no explaining that. Honestly, I think that I would be offended if I got up on that stage and Hasselhof told me that I had talent. I would cry. But just watching DH get "moved" by a performance or "jam" to a dance routine is worth its weight in gold. Although, I need to point out that you have to really pay attention to him because he's had so much plastic surgery that it's hard to determine his facial expressions.

Ok, next judge. Brandy, of "That Boy Is Mine" fame and "Moesha." Why, oh why Brandy are you coming out of hibernation? Oh . . . that's right, you have a cd coming out. Well, Brandy, let me give you some advice. Fire your manager because this is not a good career move on your part. Another downside/goodside is the fact that Regis Philbin is the host. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. *twitch* Anybody else weirded out by him nowadays? Maybe it's all of his plastic surgery (new nose?) or the fact that he seems to overschmooze champion schmoozers. Blech. And the last judge - an ornery male Brit. Surprise there.

Oh, I'm not done. The creators and producers of this show (*ahem Simon Powell*) must really think that there are no intelligent people in America. Seriously, are there any Americans on the creative side of this show??? Watching it, I thought that if I saw one more red, white, blue & star combination or color scheme I was going to be sick. Yes people, the stars and stripes are nice. On a flag. Hanging from a flag pole. But it really doesn't need to be shoved down my throat. I know that I'm American, thank you. Secondly, the show is some weird mix of The Price Is Right, Star Search and Family Feud. Regis Philbin calls people's names from the audience (excitement! who is going to be chosen!) and then those people come up on stage and do their shtick. And then if Brandy, Hasselhof and Ornery Brit don't like you, they can hit a buzzer and a big red X appears over the stage. Three X's and you are out, suckah.

If someone made watching this show into a drinking game, the nation would be perpetually drunk. I can see it now . . . "Take a drink whenever someone does something weird or you feel like you will never be clean again." I realize that the producers are going to put the best and the worst out on stage for the ratings, but man . . . you never realize the worse could really be so bad. An 80-year-old stripper. A saw player who looked like a vampire. 2 women, a man and a horse (yes, no one quite figured out what their talent was). A nose flute player. Ugh. I'm just going to stop there.

But it's so bad that it's hilarious, so I guess the producers found one way to get people to watch. Anybody interested in watching it with me next week?

frank and teakettle, bff

Teakettle: FWOOSHthud. Fwooshie . . . f-w-o-o-s-h-i-e . . .
Frank: I just slammed my head on the desk, too. A lot nicer in theory than in reality . . .
Teakettle: fwoooshiebangbangbang
Frank: Hmmm. Shooting each other. That might work.
Teakettle: fwOOOshdoomdrip . . . drip
Frank: Yeah, it would be a lot more messy for me. But I hate this outfit anyway.
Teakettle: foreverfwooshie
Frank: You want to publish your memoirs first? About what? Your scandalous time on the stove burner?
Teakettle: FWOOSHdunes!
Frank: Oh, I didn't know you braved the Sahara . . .
Teakettle: Fwooshburnfwooshiefire
Frank: . . . without sunscreen . . .
Teakettle: fwooshieaaaaaaah
Frank: . . . and then was the one to discover the soothing properties of aloe plants . . .
Teakettle: FWOOSHyukyukyuk
Frank: Yeah, sounds reeeally funny. Yeah. Real page-turner.

the karma office

I seriously wonder if I ask for these things to happen to me. I mean, I have a feeling sometimes that an uber-bored desk clerk in the Karma Office has been assigned to watch every moment of my life so that I can be appropriately rewarded/punished for my deeds. Except, being the bitter desk clerk that he inevitably is, he wants to Stick It To The Man by way of maybe punishing me when I don't necessarily deserve it.

Case in point. Yes, I know that maybe I shouldn't have decided "just to windowshop" in Target . . . because windowshopping always leads to purchasing . . . but I had to buy cat food and there was a clearance sale and I swear, I NEEDED everything that I ended up buying. Seriously, I can rationalize it all. And my purchases helped humanity in the long run because it made me happy and correspondingly, everyone in my life happy. So was there really a reason to send three of the most gigantic and disgusting centipedes Ever To Exist after me in my apartment?

The first one I thought was just a random and brief moment with the seedy underbelly of nature. So, I killed it and moved on. The second one, I didn't find so cute. And the third one (discovered by the constant sound of Rue trying to chase it) thoroughly and utterly ruined any appetite for any food that I might conceivably desire in the future. Oh, I killed it . . . have no fear. But I also got to see the yellow pus of its innards squeeze out all over the napkin that I killed it with. I then flushed it down the toilet because By God I was going to make sure that multi-footed little monster was dead - but I was scarred for life.

Ok, so I figure by this point, I've evened out my score with the Office de Karma and showed that little bureaucratic bastard a thing or two. Well, maybe he was able to read my evil thoughts because when I woke up the following morning, I heard a gurgling noise coming from the toilet in my half bathroom. After adopting the surficial appearance of strength and serenity, I approach the toilet to discover that it is about to overflow with soap suds. Wha?? Excuse me??? Since when did my toilet turn into a washing machine???? I closed the lid on the toilet in a feeble attempt to keep the soap suds from creeping out onto the bathroom floor like those horrifying sitcom moments when some lovable yet idiotic character accidently pours too much detergent into the washing machine and the laundry room becomes the Land Of Slippery Suds. Aaaaaah! What did I do to deserve this??!

My sudsy toilet problem was fixed in the long run, but someone really needs to get that desk clerk a cup of coffee and a salary raise. Pronto.

beautiful doggies

Location: Stony Point Fashion Park
Ladies: The Shamana and Kelly
Doggies: Lil' Bit and Izzy

deck lights, wine and girl talk

Friday night was an enjoyable one at the casa de The Fabulous One. When you get together a group of eight women (two of whom are engaged) and a few bottles of wine . . . and then sit outside on a beautiful night . . . and a beautiful deck (with lights!) then there really is no way that the evening will be a bad one.

I wasn't really feeling a glass of wine, so I went with more caffeine (not particularily smart - but heck, it was Friday night - a night to be wild and crazy). Hah. Anyway, we had great discussions on a multitude of topics including, but not limited to: Gynological Tales Of Terror, how best to make one's breasts look bigger in a strapless wedding gown, how to subtly let your significant other know that he either needs to trim his facial hair or shave it off completely, whether people were inherently good or evil, the many positive qualities of Greece and the men who live there, the sweetest things some guy or other said to us at this or that point, why the heck wedding dresses are all made in ridiculously large sizes (a conspiracy so that we'd have to pay more to have it altered), the evils of butt bows on dresses, entertaining stories about pre-marital counseling , how one of us had ended up dating a guy who turned out to be gay, and the philosophical existence of Fate. If you notice a wedding trend in our line of discussion, I repeat, two engaged women were a part of the conglomerate. :)

It was a very fun night. :) Three cheers to The Fabulous One for hosting such a lovely evening.

shower repertoire

We all know that the main purpose for the existence of showers is so that one can sing well, and with abandon. The acoustic capabilities of showers have continued to baffle scientists and acoustic specialists for decades. As I feel it is my duty to the world, and to the people who live above me, to not let the incredible acoustics in my shower to go to waste, when I'm in the shower - I sing. As the years have gone by, I have compiled a repertoire of songs. I may focus on one song in particular, or combine a few lines together from numerous songs. Either way, it is entertaining. Since I know that all my readers are just dying to get a glimpse of my repertoire, below, I have listed a few of my singing-in-the-shower favorites:

1. "So Are You To Me" - eastmountainsouth
2. "Blue Skies" (jazzy version, as performed by Eva Cassidy - I get to scat)
3. "Wade In The Water" (as performed by Eva Cassidy)
4. The entire "Songbird" album (as performed by Eva Cassidy)
5. "Killing Me Softly" - I know, I KNOW . . . it's just . . . you never know when you might be pushed onstage by your evil friends and forced to sing it in a karoake bar.
6. "Weep You No More" - a classic from the "Sense & Sensibility" movie starring Kate Winslet & Emma Thompson. Every now and then - I like to throw a little classical vocal work into the equation.
7. "If" (as performed by Jane Monheit - sung like I am in love).
8. "Blame It On My Youth" (as performed by Jane Monheit - sung with bitterness).
9. [Insert current Top 40 song that I can not get out of my head]
10. "Running" - eastmountainsouth


I am willing to take suggestions for further expanding my shower repertoire. Also, if you happen to be in my apartment at the same time that I am taking a shower, I may accept a few special requests on demand - assuming that I know your song selection, of course.

i hate you thursday

Thursday: Hi Kelly. I've decided to be the longest day EVER.
Kelly: Gee, thanks Thursday. I hate you.
Thursday: You know, I really care. I do. I care about as much as I care about what Dubyah said yesterday morning during his presidential address.
Kelly: I feel loved.
Thursday: Well, the love ain't coming from this direction.
Kelly: I hate you.
Thursday: You said that already.
Kelly: WHY?? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME??
Thursday: Because I am evil. And I like to be the center of attention.
Kelly: Get a boob job. Then you'll be the center of attention.
Thursday: I'm not a person. I'm a Day. Just so you know.

poor little grocery boy

So, I think I scared a grocery boy last night. I'd honestly prefer to think that I just intimidated him with my wit and charm, but realistically . . . I think I scared him. I don't know how many of you have participated in, or are familiar with, the Ukrop's grocery store scene, but Ukrop's does this thing where they actually take your groceries to your car. It's a very nice customer service gesture, but I always feel bad that someone has to take my groceries to my car, so I always try to have a conversation with whomever is lucky enough to follow me to my parking spot, with groceries in tow.


Sometimes, I am more successful with the conversation starting than other times . . . last night, I definitely was struggling. Those of you who know me know that I have a tendency to bring up some of the most random topics in the world. Occasionally, certain people find that quality endearing (i.e. other random people), but the majority of seemingly normal people either look at me like I'm weird (which I am) or just pointedly ignore me in the hopes that maybe I'll just stop talking. That's what happened yesterday.


I had gone to Ukrops to stock up on essentials and I was already looking a bit scary - had to wear my glasses because my contacts were killing me. But, I like to think that I balanced out the whole glasses thing with the short dress and high heels that I was wearing. Anyway. The kid who was lucky enough to be chosen to take my groceries out was, I'd say, probably in high school. Seemed like a nice enough guy. And so begins the awkward conversation:


Me: Hello, how are you? *smile*
Grocery Boy (GB): . . . alright . . . *sullen look*

(Grocery Boy proceeds to push the cart with my groceries in it with one hand and the other cart that I was shopping with back into the line of other carts with the other hand).

Me: That was very impressive.
GB: . . .

*if there were crickets, they would be chirping*

Me: Um . . . hot outside, isn't it?
GB: Yeah.

*puts groceries in car*

GB: Have a good night. (<--- monotone)

disturbing

I saw something on the drive home from The Fabulous One's house yesterday that I found very disturbing. I'm surprised that I never noticed it before, as it's located in the sketchtacular shopping center down the road from my apartment complex (a complex that hosts the "48 Hours store" and a "comic book store" whose windows are covered - ooo and a place where you can get a weave). Are you ready for this? It's a Chinese restaurant that sells fried chicken.

Why??! Gross. A Chinese place that sells fried chicken. Does anybody else find that disturbing? Its existence raises some very important questions. For example, why does it have so much excess chicken that it needs to deep fry the remainder and create a whole new non-Chinese menu item? Why can't the owners order just enough chicken to complete their "authentic" Chinese dishes? Is is really chicken? Why do they advertise themselves as a Chinese restaurant but also include a byline that screams, "Hey, btw, we have fried chicken, too, if you're craving the greasy stuff" ? Did they decide that they could make more money by catering to the stereotypical food choices of the nearby demographic? Who the hell sees a a Chinese restaurant and says, "Thank God. I was craving some fried chicken." There's a similar place that exists in Carytown, except it sells every cuisine under the sun - Chinese, fried chicken, seafood, cheeseburgers, probably freakin' baklava, too. Is it because the chefs are mediocre cooks in every genre of food and were like "Eh, what the hell, let's make it all?"

I'm sorry, I just find the whole thing as disturbing as the existence of all-you-can-eat seafood buffets.

Blech.

too much fame . . . not good

I just realized that I've been writing a lot about Rue recently. I should probably try to write about other things . . . spoiled kitty.

war games

I am currently writing you from enemy territory. I don't know how much longer I'm going to make it . . . I can't move without putting my life at risk . . .

Rue is playing war games with my bedroom furniture. My bed: The Enemy. My bedroom curtains: The Enemy. The cords hanging from my curtain: The Enemy. The carpet, the underside of my sheets, the computer keyboard, the laundry hamper, ME: The Enemy. Seriously, Rue rockin' a vendetta of some sort. And in truth, I'm scared that she's going to win this battle. Poor, innocent bedroom furniture . . . all you did was sit there, being all bedroom-furniture-like and then this orange tabby with Illusions Of Grandeur starts attacking you - Cadet Rue, that careless heroine.

AAAAHHHH! Geeeeez! I thought scary war game Rue had left the room for a brief minute (hence my hurried entry), but I got this weird "someone is behind me feeling" and There She Was - sitting right behind me, licking her paw in seeming innocence . . . plotting her next attack. I could tell by the look on her face. Seriously - she's got the stealth thing down. She could totally rule the world. Or at least fight all of my enemies in order to clear the way for my total world domination. Ok . . . now her butt is in my face. Why. Rue. Really. Why. (on all counts).

robert frost speaks

I was listening to NPR at work yesterday and they had Bill Collins on, a former U.S. Poet Laureate. He had the audio of Robert Frost reading his very famous poem, "The Road Not Taken." Now, I've heard and read this poem a million times - pretty much everyone has heard and read this poem a million times - so much I think, that people don't truly engage with it anymore. When I heard Frost reading his own poetry though, it really added a whole new dimension to the poem that I have grown up with.

Not every poet can read his or her poetry well out loud. The inflection, volume and flow of the voice can enhance the line or draw out a layer of meaning that had been entirely unrealized. Someone reading poetry has to pay close attention to breaks in the line, to the emphasis of one word over the other . Robert Frost's voice was not entirely what I had expected - kind of like the physical appearance of radio djs is often one that you don't expect . When we read poetry, and actually, when we read anything to ourselves, most of us hear the words in our own voice. His voice was wisened, worldy . . . almost like a man who has seen too much , but at the same time, wished he could have seen more. It reminded me of some kind of grizzled man living off in a shack by himself . . . a la Thoreau (who actually, didn't stay in a shack by himself the whole time that he wrote Walden, but that's a discussion for another time). It was truly fascinating to hear Robert Frost speak and I found it even more poignant because he is no longer with us.

fwooosh!

Teakettle: fwapforeFWOOSH!

Frank: OUCH! The green is THAT WAY *points at driving range*
Teakettle: fwooshienogreenswoosh.
Frank: Well if you weren't aiming for the green... then what were you aiming for??
Teakettle: tickleticklefwooshhehehehe.

Frank: ME?? Why were you aiming at me?

Teakettle: fwooshdorkfwoosh.

Frank: These pants are not dorky! *looks down at plaid golf pants*

Teakettle: fwooshhonkhonk.

Frank: HEY! I do not look like a walking set of bagpipes!!

Teakettle: Fwooshfire?

Frank: No you can't set my pants on fire!

Teakettle: fwoosh?

Frank: Because it will burn me.

Teakettle: swooshmcdreamyfwooshie!

Frank: No he works in Seattle...

Teakettle: Fwooshwooshwooshbangbangbang

Frank: ???

Teakettle: FWOOOOOSHGAHSWOOSHWEEEEEEE!

Frank: .......................................

Teakettle: FWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAOOSHFIRE!!!!

Frank: *backs away slowly*

Teakettle: Fwoosh?

Frank: Oh, um, I was ahhhh, just going to check on my begonias...

Teakettle: FWOOSHLIARRAAAAAAA!

Frank: *Deer in headlights look* Why are you so crazy? Did someone spike you with coffee again?

Teakettle: FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESH!!!

Frank: So that would be a yes *runs from room*

pump house park

A gorgeous photo shot by my amazing photographer friend, TW. This is a small park near the river, where an old pump house from the early 20th century stands.

ok, weirdness

Well, my week is starting off to a weird start with crazy dreams and Rue antics.


Ok, now I don' remember the dream that I had last night in its entirety, but it featured me and a friend of mine from church - we'll call him Harvard Lawyer. In this dream, Harvard Lawyer and I decided that we were going to go to Wintergreen . . . by foot. So we set off on this massive hike of hundreds and hundreds of miles and after say, Mile 8, I'm about ready to collapse. Then (and I don't know who's brilliant idea this was) we decided to steal money along the way. OH and I forgot, my brother ended up joining us for the whole stealing of the money part. I know that we stopped a lot of different places and rationalized our crime spree in a variety of different ways, but I do remember that we stopped at VCU (a university in Richmond - I don't know how it got on the trail to Wintergreen). In the attempt to capture the money that was rightfully ours, my brother and Harvard Lawyer got caught by a bunch of nurses. Bro and Harvard Lawyer then pretended that they were Catholic and as punishment for stealing, the nurses made them convert to Protestant Christianity. I didn't get caught, though. Because I am amazing. Once they finally escaped, we decided to give all of the money that we'd stolen to charity.


Yeah, weird.



And then this morning, I was sitting in my recliner, drinking my coffee and watching the news like I do every work day morning, and all of a sudden, Rue starts running and pouncing around the living room like she's chasing something. I thought she was just being psychotic like she normally is . . . but then I realized that she actually WAS chasing something. And although it looked like a fly . . . it wasn't. It was a freakin' wasp. A WASP. So I freak out and am yelling at Rue to leave it alone because all I can picture is her smacking the heck out of it and getting stung in the process and I was also taking notice of the wasp's increasingly agitated state as it was being chased and swatted at by crazy Rue and I just had a feeling that it would take its anger out on me, as well. So, I yell "NO RUE!" and she stops for a millisecond to stare questioningly at me before she attacks it again. So, I bolt to the kitchen, grab a massive wad of paper towels and kill the wasp myself before disaster strikes.


Wasps. Rampant dream crime sprees. I hope this isn't an indication of what the rest of my week is going to be like.

the greek festival

I have found heaven on earth. And it is in the form of baklava.

Today, The Cyclist and I experienced one of the many festivals that Richmond has to offer - The Greek Festival. The festival was just a few blocks over from our church, so right after the service, we walked on over. Picture this: tons of white tents, Greek flags flying all over the place, the smell of amazing Greek cuisine, wine flowing like water, little children in traditional Greek dress running around, a stage with Greek performers and musicians . . . it was awesome.

It was also ridiculously hot and the lines were ridiculously long. I had prepared well for this adventure, in my little black dress because I figured why wear a color that reflects heat when you can wear one that absorbs heat? (The Shamana - btw, The Cyclist says "kudos" on the dress selection). But seriously, the food was good enough that I would have gotten back at the end of the line just to have some more. I refrained from getting some wine to keep me company in line due to my heat headache, but there were people walking around drinking from whole bottles of wine . . . now talk about a party!

Once The Cyclist and I got our food from some very nice Greek women, we sat down under one of the tents, at a table across from an old married couple - the husband of which was a graduate of the same school as The Cyclist. Naturally, as does everyone in THE ENTIRE WORLD, they assumed that The Cyclist and I were married. They were a sweet old couple, married 50 years (how great is that?). Anyway, the old guy at one point asked me if I worked outside of the home. I looked at The Cyclist, laughed, and told him that yes, I do in fact work outside of the home. The Cyclist and I didn't feel like crushing this couple's impression that we were married. But it was pretty funny.

After lunch and my first experience with baklava (incredible), The Cyclist and I checked out the section where they were selling jewelry and art. There were gorgeous gold cross necklaces, shawls and bangles. There was this mannequin with skimpy belly-dancing type clothing on it, with lots of gold bangles . . . I told The Cyclist that he should get that mannequin for his future home. Hehe.

Anyway, it was good time. I have decided that I'm going to go to Greece for my honeymoon now. Or Greece & Italy. Or Greece & Italy & Ireland.

The conversation on the way back from the festival:

Me: Thank you for being gracious enough to let me work outside of the home.
TC: Well, you know, I am taking a risk here . . . the guys at work give me a hard time.
Me: . . .
TC: Hello?
Me: Oh, sorry. I was, you know, thinking about the stuff women are supposed to think about - grocery lists, what I'm going to make you for dinner . . .
TC: . . . the excitement of polishing my shoes . . .
Me: . . . exactly . . .
TC: . . . because, you know, I've had a hard day at work.
Me: Exactly. You deserve a woman waiting for you in the kitchen.

Yay Greek Festival!

animals that make it difficult to play the piano

When I refer to "animals" that make it difficult to play the piano, I am really just referring to one specific animal, of the orange tabby cat variety, who goes by the name of Rue.

Rue, Dearest,

It was a joy to have you in my lap, arching your back under my arms and walking over the keys of my keyboard, but you've got to understand my love, that it makes it extremely difficult to play the piano well (or at all) when I have a nose bumping my fingers off of the keys or a head lifting my arms so high that I can't reach the keys. In the "Allegro Burlesco" that I was playing, the key words are "Allegro Burlesco," which means that the notes are supposed to be played quickly and preferably, accurately. Unless your paws can contribute the correct notes at the correct time, perhaps you should just be an astute listener. And dearest Rue, when I was trying to sing the Italian aria "Sento nel core" while playing the piece on the keyboard at the same time, the keys you ended up pressing weren't quite (or at all) in the same key. Playing an instrument while singing in Italian isn't easy on a good day, and although "Sento nel core" means "Sorrow Unending" or something similarily depressing, it's not an entirely contemporary piece, so constant dischord is not the way to go.

I realize that you are a cat, and as a cat, it is your duty to walk all over whatever it is I am in the middle of doing. And yes, most likely you can't tell the difference between the incorrect d minor chord and the correct d minor diminished chord, but I propose a compromise. How about next time I try to play or sing at my keyboard, you sit on the floor near me and just meow along? I think that I can handle that. I still love you, Rue.

the dialogue of bonnie and clyde

I spent last night helping The Cyclist pack for his move this weekend. It was great. My hands were completely black from newsprint by the end of the night and I left crazy messages on the boxes that I personally packed; for example, "Packed by The Hot One (Kelly)" and "Packed by the Smart One (Kelly)." I found those messages extremely amusing, but The Cyclist did this whole grimacing/whining thing (afraid that his new roomie would give him a hard time) which I didn't quite understand. Who wouldn't want boxes with comments about how great I am? I know, I know . . . it's hard to fathom.


But this is not the story that I intended to tell you. I have to share with you the experience of obtaining the newspapers that we used to wrap The Cyclist's stuff:


Now, The Cyclist and I are poor and do not have a subscription to the newspaper. Therefore, we had to take matters into our own hands. The Cyclist's great solution: Go scavenging through recycling bins. I raised my eyebrow at this idea, but went along with the plan.


THE FIRST ATTEMPT:
Location: The recycling dumpster outside The Cyclist's apartment.
The Cyclist climbs into the dumpster.

Me: Um, are you sure that we're allowed to do this?
TC: Yeah, of course.
Me: Huh.
TC: Here, hold these *hands me a stack of newspaper*
Me: Ok.
TC: Gross. Someone's thrown their trash in here as well. They aren't supposed to do that.
Me: These newspapers smell.
TC: Do they really?
Me: *wrinkles nose* Yes.
TC: Hmm, ok, we're going to have to go somewhere else. I don't want the newspaper stinking up my stuff.
Me: *gives him papers back* Um, how are you going to get out of there?
TC: I'll just . . . uh . . . climb up here . . . ack *falls back into dumpster*
Me: *smirks* Looking good. Haha.
TC: Shut up punk. *finally gets out of dumpster*

THE SECOND ATTEMPT
Location: Recycling dumpster outside of a fire station.
The Cyclist climbs into yet another dumpster.

Me: Of ALL the places to go climbing into dumpsters, you pick one outside of a fire station!
TC: So?
Me: There's a fireman standing right there outside of the building. He's going to see us and then we're going to get arrested.
TC: He's just a fireman. He's not a policeman.
Me: But he knows policemen.
TC: What's he going to say, "Sorry son, you're under arrest for taking those old dirty newspapers that nobody wants anymore?"
Me: Yes.
TC: Here, hold these.
Me: I see how it is, give ME all of the incriminating evidence to hold.
TC: That's right. I can see it now, "Um officer, I don't know this crazy woman . . . I uh, dropped my keys in the dumpster and had to go and get them."
Me: Gee. Thanks.
TC: Alright, I think that's enough.
Me: *laden down with newspapers, can't move*

The Cyclist and I head back to the car, putting the newspapers in the trunk.

TC: We're like that famous crime duo . . . even though we took newspapers that we were allowed to take.
Me: You mean, we're like Bonnie and Clyde?
TC: Yeah!

one little kelly, two little kellys, three little kellys, FOUR

So, there is this huge phenomenon going on right now amongst women in their teens and twenties . . . and that is the selling of their eggs. And not the type of eggs that you eat . . . I am referring to the type of eggs that contribute to the production of human beings. It is ridiculous how much money us women can make off off selling our eggs . . . seriously, $3,000 - $5,000 per donation. True, you have to give yourself shots of hormones and go through extensive physical and psychological tests, but you're reimbursed for everything and you make thousands of dollars. Then all you have to do is wait to heal and then you can do it again.

How do I know so much about this? Well, I had a friend in college who donated her eggs. I found the whole thing rather disturbing. Not that I don't think that people who can't have their own children shouldn't get help and even though I can think of copious ways that I could spend thousands of dollars . . . I'd be bothered knowing that technically, I could have children running around that I didn't even know about. I mean, when I have children . . . I'd like to know about them, you know? On a side note - I heard on the news that this sperm donor guy has 12 children! Seriously, he must have had a very enticing profile to make 12 women choose his sperm. I wonder how many guys lie on those things . . . like "Hi, my name is Romeo and most women call me an Italian God. I'm a doctor and an astrophysicist, as well as a member of Mensa. I have olive skin, dark hair and a very white smile. I have a fabulous physique. In my spare time I like to read, save the world and feed the homeless. I play ten different instruments. I can calculate the tip in my head. I'm amazing!"

please. go. away.

I cannot escape them. They are everywhere. And you know of whom I speak - Nickelback and Mariah Carey. Lord help me.

Nickelback,

WHY is it that every single time I turn the radio on, the station is playing you? I kid you not, I risked switching to the Top 40 radio station a handful of times over the course of this weekend and every single time you were there . . . playing . . . and singing . . . those horrific songs - and I end up changing the station back to NPR to regain the brain cells I lost while listening to you. I know that massive radio play is a good thing for you guys, but I swear if I hear that opening riff again, I might just rip the radio out of my car. Oh, and by the way, the song you guys have out right now . . . I could swear it's the same song I heard played overandoverandover at the karoake bar I was at, let's say . . . 3 years ago. That's right. I can't tell the difference. Take that as you will.

Me


Mariah Carey,

For The Love Of God when did body suits and bathing suits (as everyday wear) come into fashion?? And when did "singing" imply minimal sound and maximum breathiness? I swear, everytime I hear you on the radio as I'm driving, I check to see if my tires are deflating . . . or if some 50 year smoker has climbed into my backseat, unbeknownst to myself. I get it . . . you can roll around in skimpy clothing and straighten your hair extensions with a hair straightener AND you can get key hip hop artists to stare at your breasts in music videos (Snoop Dogg, Pharrell) but did you ever consider after making "Glitter" that maybe your lifetime career in the entertainment industry shouldn't be so "lifetime" oriented? The public will forgive you for retiring. In fact, I think a lot of people would help you find a new job. Oh and by the way, I thought I heard your recent single a few years back, as well.

Me

suitcases, strappy red sandals and modern satirical angst

I've decided to resurrect two of my favorite blog entries from back in 2003 & 2004 when I had a xanga account. Enjoy. :)

November 20, 2003

"The most important quality in a man is whether or not he can carry your suitcases." ~ my grandmother

This was valuable knowledge passed on to me during a phone conversation with my grandmother this afternoon and I have to admit that it is important for a man to be able to carry my suitcases because Lord knows I can't . . .Haha. But I'd like to lay approximately 75% of the blame on suitcases themselves and their deceptive and oftentimes nasty little qualities. They pretend they have your best interests at heart: "oh look at all the roooom we have in here, come on, pack a few more things, we can take it." So, I pack and pack and pack and usually can get the suitcase closed without sitting on it. I then move on to suitcases #2 and #3. We're all getting along fine until it's time for the trip back home. When my back is turned while gathering my stuff for the return trip, the suitcases (with their evil and cruel intentions at heart) decide to shrink on me, therefore requiring me to a. sit, jump, or scream at them, or b. give a bewildered glance to my fellow travelers and insist that the suitcase shrunk and I DID NOT acquire more things on the trip.

These suitcases also make me look bad. They make me look like I CAN'T PACK or I'm one of THOSE PEOPLE. You know, the ones who pack a million things and have no packing skills or strategy. I have strategy. I do. It involves putting the stuff in my suitcase- in a lovingly and carefully arranged manner of course.

Now some people may argue, most of them probably men, that the real issue here is that I don't NEED all of this stuff. HA. My question to you is this: What if on our trip you got attacked by seagulls and were dying and the only way- THE ONLY WAY- to save your life was with a pair of sexy, red strappy sandals? You would be dagon glad that I packed my pair of sexy, red, strappy sandals to go with my red dress that I might wear that one night- maybe. If the necessity of something I pack is not immediately visible to you, just think "preparation." You never know if it will rain, or in this case, if you will be attacked by seagulls.

I hope whatever men come in my life will understand my philosophy on suitcases and packing and realize that truly, I am the victim here. I hope that they will lovingly say, "Let me hold those suitcases for you . . .no, of course they aren't too heavy . . . yes, yes, I understand what a brilliant mind it takes to pack the way you do."

October 20. 2004

Tonight's journal entry is brought to you by Modern Woman Satirical Angst (a term invented by the lovely author of this journal).

Modern women with satirical angst tend to be women who, when drop-kicked by the nuances of reality and trod on by the bastards of society, adopt a witty and piercing world-view as a method coping. They usually record their keen observations with humor in journals, or profess them voraciously over a latte or glass of wine amongst friends. Modern women with satirical angst tend to be culturally proficient, but this quality is not mandatory. Actually, failed attempts at being cultured are often quite handy in the furthering of said angst. Furthermore, most women of this nature were fixing their panty-hose in the bathroom when the "Gorgeous, Succesful, Intelligent, Overall-Perfect-Men" were passed out to the remaining women in the room, a.k.a. the "Overly Successful, Pretentious, That-Kind-Of-Beauty-Is-Unfair-And-Obviously-Fake" women that modern women with satirical angst like to despise. Quite often, due to the sadistic humor of circumstance, modern women with satirical angst end up making idiots of themselves in front of said pretentious and man-stealing women. But all is fodder for previously mentioned journals and diatribes.

~From a current Modern Woman With Satirical Angst in Training,

Kelly

lorelai = me

[Luke’s Diner. Luke is taking chairs off the tables when he sees Lorelai sitting outside the diner waiting for him to open.]
LUKE: What are you doing?
LORELAI: I need coffee.
LUKE: It's 5:00 in the morning. Make coffee at your own house.
LORELAI: I did. I drank it all.
LUKE: You drank all the coffee in your house before five in the morning?
LORELAI: Big gulps, lots of sugar.
LUKE: Alright, get up. [Pulls her up and takes her inside.]
LORELAI: And just a little bit of cream 'cause it makes it cold.
LUKE: Keep moving.
LORELAI: [ Sighs ] I can't sleep. I can't turn my mind off. It keeps running and thinking and making lists.
LUKE: Maybe if you drank a little less coffee, you'd make a little less lists.
LORELAI: Oh, I can't stop drinking the coffee. If I stop drinking coffee, I stop doing the standing and the walking and the words putting-into-sentence doing.
LUKE: I'll make you some coffee.

well hello wall, fancy meeting you here

So, I fell into a wall this morning. No, I wasn't pushed, I wasn't intoxicated, I didn't trip . . . I just fell into a wall. It was 4:30 in the morning and I had to use the bathroom. As I was leaving, I fell into the wall. I don't really know what happened, maybe since I was still half asleep I might have fallen asleep for a split second and lost my balance, thereby collapsing into said wall. All I remember is suddenly realizing that "Oh there is a wall here" and thinking "Gee Kelly, you're a winner" and then laughing at myself as I crawled back into bed and proceeded to take forever to fall back asleep.

a dream is a wish your heart makes? hmmmm, how about not.

Honestly, matrimony has not been on my mind lately. The entire world knows that I don't plan on getting engaged before the age of 24 (barring the appearance of Josh Groban at my side, on his knees, proposing . . . ).

Well, last night I had a very real dream where I was marrying The Cyclist. Sorry buddy, I have to share this one. Anyway, so this dream felt so real that I actually remembering feeling like I was going to throw up from nerves. The interesting thing about this wedding was that in my dream, I knew nothing about what it was going to be like until the actual day of the wedding. Yes folks, the wedding was entirely planned by my parents and let me tell you, the invitation colors were horrific . . . blue, red and orange on beige paper . . . *cringe* . . . but anyway, here are other highlights of my wedding dream (not dream wedding):

- The wedding gown chosen by my mother for me was a pinkish/gray/pearl color, strapless . . . ugly.
- The ceremony was to take place in the church that I grew up in (ok, I can live with that) but the reception was to take place at the amphitheater with music by a Celtic band and Celine Dion. (<--- what????) - My parents had decided to invite all of their friends, but none of mine. - I had no bridesmaids (because my mother neglected to organize THAT part of my wedding, so I was frantically trying to call my three best girlfriends to be bridesmaids at the last minute). - I was too nervous to eat, but people kept on telling me to eat or I'd faint at the altar. - I had a massive diamond engagement ring on my ring finger. Kudos to The Cyclist!! ;) - The Cyclist's brothers and parents were there. - At one point I was playing the drums. Yeah . . . I don't know why, either. Hmm, I think that's it besides the constant "Oh **** I'm getting married!" feeling that permeated the entire experience.

In real life, though, here are my current wedding demands:

For a husband: Josh Groban
For flowers: blue & purple lilies
For a dress: white and not a strapless, preferably with an empire waistline, simple and elegant
For bridesmaids dresses: anything sans taffeta and poofy sleeves and rainbow sherbert hues
For a location: Reveille United Methodist Church (for now)
For a honeymoon: Italy or Ireland.

Alrighty, Josh . . . get to it! *waits patiently*

cathedral of the sacred heart

There is something about a beautiful space that makes beautiful music pierce the soul with more passion and more grace. Last night I went to the Cathedral Of The Sacred Heart to hear my uncle perform with the Cathedral Choir and the Richmond Symphony. On the program: Bruckner's Requiem and Mahler's "Resurrection." Honestly, I closed my eyes during much of the performance and thought that I was in heaven. It made me think, if God gave Man the ability to sound like this and to write music like this, how incomprehensible and magnificent must be a choir of angels? And what a perfect venue for such pieces - a cathedral that is almost a hundred years old and that is so breathtaking. The strings just soared and they inspired me to get my grandmother's violin fixed as soon as I can so that I can learn how to play the violin. I know my description of the experience is a bit syrupy, but honestly, my extensive adjective list is failing me. :)

Gustav Mahler's "Resurrection" (Symphony No.2 in C Minor):

Rise again, yes you shall rise again, my dust, after brief rest! Immortal life will be given by Him who called you! You are sown to bloom again. The Lord of the harvest goes and gathers sheaves of us, who have died. O believe, my heart, believe: Nothing is lost to you! All you have desired is yours, yes, yours! Yours, what you have loved and fought for! O believe, you were not born in vain! All that is created must perish. All that has perished rises again. Cease trembling! Prepare to live! O Pain, all-pervading, I have escaped from you! O Death, all-conquering, now you are conquered! With wings which I have won in love's ardent striving, I shall soar upwards to the light which no eye has penetrated! I shall die in order to live! Rise again, yes, you shall rise again, my heart, in an instant! Your beating shall lead you to God!

awwww . . . yay!!!

a series of unfortunate events . . . involving a wet bed

At some point over the weekend, my bed apparently changed it's name . . . and it's entire identity. Much to my surprise, ( & chagrin, anger, annoyance, etc ) *ahem* the ruler of the apartment, we shall call her Queen Rue, decided that my bed was no longer "Comfy Place To Cuddle Up With My Mom And A Great Stepping Stone Onto The Windowsill" but "Litter Box Number 2."

Now, as much as I love and spoil Her Highness, she does NOT need two litter boxes. And one of them does NOT need to be my bed and the amazing concotion of sheets and blankets that lie therein. My washing and dryer machines are tired, poor things. They have had to wash my sheets three times within the span of two days. I'm tired. I've had to put my sheets in said washer and dryer machines three times within the span of two days. Rue . . . WHY???? I've given you only the best in life . . . I've given you food, water, medicine, a box full of toys, a cat bed, the leftover milk from my cereal, Love and Attention . . . *throws hand dramatically across forehead, cues orchestra, squirts eyedrops into eyes for similarily dramatic tears of anguish*

Through consultation with my friends and my friends with cats, we have determined a list of possible reasons that Rue McRuester (aka "Cat" when I'm angry at her) has decided to paw my sheets like they are litter:

1. My attempt to get her to use a covered litter box on Sunday totally screwed with her mind, as it was like in form to that of a cat carrying case (which she loathes). But, I removed the top to the box and although this new bottom half is deeper, she does use it.
2. She only pees on my bed when I'm in the room because she is mad at me.
3. She only pees on my bed when I'm in the room because she loves being around me so much that she can't bear to be out of my presence for the two minutes it would take to walk down the hallway and use the REAL litter box.

I could put major cat deterrent stuff on my bed . . . but I enjoy cuddling with her on the bed and don't want to scare her away from it completely . . . but I also can't live with constantly changing my sheets.

cathedrals

I love this song. So does The Shamana. It's "Cathedrals" by Jump Little Children.


In the shadows of tall buildings
Of fallen angels on the ceilings
Oily feathers in bronze and concrete
Faded colors, pieces left incomplete
The line moves slowly past the electric fence
Across the borders between continents
In the cathedrals of New York and Rome
There is a feeling that you should just go home
And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is
In the shadows of tall buildings
The architecture is slowly peeling
Marble statues and glass dividers
Someone is watching all of the outsiders
The line moves slowly through the numbered gate
Past the mosaic of the head of state

(chorus)In the shadows of tall buildings
Of open arches endlessly kneeling
Sonic landscapes echoing vistas
Someone is listening from a safe distance
The line moves slowly into a fading light
A final moment in the dead of night

the hanging of artwork

I spent most of last night hanging artwork at Plant Zero, where tonight The Richmond Show (the biggest advertising awards show in the region) will take place. It was a long night . . . didn't get out until around 10:45, but it was a lot of fun.

Against all odds, I did not get lost finding the place from work. This was the Achievement of All Achievements. Now, finding the art space where they were hanging work WITHIN Plant Zero was a different story. You see, there are a ton of galleries and art studios at this place and when I walked in, there was an art show going on in one of the front galleries and I was like "Hmmm . . . I have no idea where I'm going." I tried to walk around and look like I knew where I was going (admiring the art work, etc.) but I really had no clue. I think the people at the art show knew, too. They were giving me interesting looks. I tried to call my friend, the VP of the Ad Club, who was running this whole thing, but he didn't answer his phone. Eventually, though, I decided to explore the building and found the art space that I was looking for.

So here was the setup team: 3 Ad Club Board members (including me) and five or six VCU advertising students. And we had massive amounts of work to hang. The space had a pipe & black/white panel decor and we were supposed to hang the work by fish line and binder clips from the top of the pipes. This task required a ladder as tall as the Empire State Building and some very delicate hanging and clipping sensibilities. I met two very cool VCU boys and we became a team. One of them I shall call Green Eyes.

Green Eyes and I became fast friends and he decided, after knowing me for about 3 hours, that he had license to mess with me. For example, when we were cutting fishing line, he would pull on the line so hard that I lost grip on the spindle and it would go flying 10 feet away - something which he found really funny. Of course, I did not feel bad laughing at him when a woman walked in on him in the unisex bathroom.

When we were leaving, we noticed two cats in the building and a litter box. Apparently, the owners of Plant Zero own two cats and allow them to stay in the building. How cool is that?

I'm excited about tonight. Green Eyes and I are working the front door. We get to check people off the list with an air of importance. I'm a little sad that we don't get headsets so that I can talk into mine and say things like "Um, VP, we have a situation out here" and "Code Blue! I repeat Code Blue!" (I don't know what Code Blue would mean, but it sounds cool).

I am determined to be lazy all day so that I can be not so lazy tonight. This evening is going to be an important one for networking and looking good. Heh.

vampire hunting & vegetarian hypocrisy

If there is one thing that I learned about vampire hunting this weekend, it is that vampires are tricky little creatures that won't die unless you employ three weapons in succession: garlic, a wooden stake and a sword. How do I know this, you ask? Did I spend the weekend staring glazedly at episodes of "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" ? Did I find the need to go to the library and max out my library card on vampire literature? Do I harbor an as-yet-unpublicized obsession with the novels of Ann Rice? No, no . . . and no. And, in case you were thinking it, I most definitely did NOT watch "Interview With A Vampire."

I did, however, battle zombies, werewolves and vampires with J.HumHum this weekend. He came to visit and brought the board game "Vampire Hunter." You have to play the game with the lights out and there is a tower in the center of the board that glows red and blue and lights up various parts of the game board. We each got a little plastic vampire hunter figure in order to Battle Evil and I have to say that my vampire hunter was definitely the more capable hunter. True, techinically I didn't win the game, but my hunter fought her way through with more finesse and I'll just say it . . . good, plain old sanity, than J.HumHum's vampire hunter - who had a tendency to hang by his head from the tower, cry with fear when approaching monsters . . . etc.

It was fun. :)

Before we fought the Powers of Darkness, we had to satisfy our appetites, so I introduced J.HumHum to the Richmond restaurant scene by taking him to Iponema, a vegetarian restaurant down in the VCU area. Neither of us are vegetarians, but I enjoy hummus (as everyone knows) and they have a really good hummus sandwich and the bartender has a really cool beard AND there is a wooden mermaid on the wall. We discussed whether or not they would be able to tell that we weren't "real" vegetarians. Luckily, we made it through dinner without blowing our cover. On Sunday we further buried ourselves in vegetarian hypocrisy by eating at Double T's, a barbeque place in Carytown. But I had the situation all under control, as I kept my eyes peeled for Iponema spies. True, one might argue that neither one of those places really cared about whether we were true vegetarians because heck, we paid them for their food . . . but you never know.

It was a good weekend. A Frisbee was tossed, a lake was admired, a shirt was purchased that says "Don't play leap frog with unicorns" and a metal robot found a new home. Good times.

smile pretty rue, come on now . . .

First of all, I've eaten an ungodly amount of hummus today. Just so you know.

So, today was Rue's big Photo Shoot. I "hired" as in "kindly asked/begged" my new friend The Photographer Extraordinaire to take some glamour shots of Her Highness as I did not have a digital camera and the film that is currently in my camera is black and white . . . which doesn't do much to highlight her beautiful orange color.

Rue wasn't very cooperative to begin with. Probably because I got her high on catnip and although that occupied her for eh . . . 5 solid minutes . . . it left her a little spastic for a while. I kept trying to distract her with toys, snap my fingers to get her to turn her head in a particular direction. It was like I had a child and was busy making goofy faces behind the camera in order to catch that "moment." But 4-year-old cats are smarter than human babies, I think, and Rue soon picked up on what was going on.

She picked up so much on what was going on that she finally realized that this photo shoot was all about her and began to perform brilliantly. Once The Photographer Extraordinaire and I got her on my bed, she was striking poses like a seasoned veteran. Some really cute pictures were taken of Rue and me.

Here is a list of various expressions Rue decided to portray in her first photo shoot, this day, the 18th of April:
- Annoyed
- I'm Cleaning In Between My Legs Why The Hell Are You Trying To Take My Picture
- *Blink*
- Catnip-Induced Blank Stare
- Catnip-Induced Psychotic Stare
- Butt-Wiggle In Combination With The I'm About To Pounce At That Motionless Bit Of Feather NOW Stare
- I'm Pretty.
- I'm Really Pretty.
- I'm Prettier Than My Owner.
- Seriously, I Am.

The Photographer Extraordinaire is working on loading the pictures onto his computer and once I get them I will probably post a few. :) How exciting!

By the way, I'd like to give a shout out to the most dastardly pirate out there: J.HumHum. Avast! Walk the plank! Aargh! Treasure! Woooooooot!

Ok, now I must go and work off the ungodly amount of hummus that I ate.

automated paper towel dispenser therapy

Today I discovered some really good therapy for those days when you are pissed off at the world and those days that just completely and utterly suck (both of those types of days = today). If you are fortunate enough in your place of work or wherever you happen to be to have one of those motion sensor paper towel dispensers, then make one of the paper towels come out and then RIP IT OFF AS FAST AND AS FURIOUSLY AS YOU CAN, like you are ripping someone's head off their neck and you don't care in the slightest that this means that they will die. Honestly, it feels great. Just channel all of your rage into a comparable level of aggression towards the paper towel and just RIP. If it wasn't for the automated paper towel dispenser in the ladies restroom today, the stapler might have been in trouble.

a pool shark who hates her car

If a "pool shark" is defined as someone who, on occasion, gets the intended ball into a pocket (by accident) and humbly provides amusement for the rest of the people playing pool by completely missing all the balls on the table . . . then I am a bona fide pool shark of the highest order.

We got off of work early today and a bunch of the Creatives invited me to come with them down the street to play pool, drink beer and overall to just be cool for about two hours. I sauntered on into the place and found a great place on the wall from which to observe the hard core pool players but someone (me) managed to get wrangled into joining one of the teams. Ok, it wasn't really "wrangled" so much as " jumped at the chance." There I was, playing pool with three guys. My partner and I talked trash while we continued to lose (although, I have to say that at one point I got two balls in the pocket in a row and we did win one game . . . out of three) and I did my best to get three beers into my partner because apparently, that's how many he says he needs in order play pool well. Yeah. I told him maybe he should try three at once next time. :)

It was a lot of fun. Actually, a whole lot of FUNNY because when one of the guys was bending over to shoot pool some of the other ones would yell, "I wish I could QUIT you!" a la Brokeback Mountain <---- so began a multitude of Brokeback Mountain jokes. And my personal favorite, from The I'm Always Fabulous One : "So . . . my first . . . kiss . . . was on top of a pool table" - from which followed the successive whiplash of all of the men near us towards our direction and inquiries along the lines of what exactly happened on the pool table again??

Now on to the part about how I hate my car. I hate it. I have evidence now about my Murphy's Law of Shopping. I go and buy a bunch of stuff from Target and then the @#(*(@#* plastic thing that shifts the gears in my car decides to break! GAH!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank goodness I plan on winning the $220 million dollar lottery tonight, even though I didn't buy a ticket. If that somehow falls through, then I'm going to trade my car in for tricycle. I'm serious. A blue one. With silver metallic tassles.

i present to you a dandelion

So, I was just sitting at my desk this morning. Mind you - just sitting there - when a boy comes in with his mother who happens to work at the company here on the first floor. I'd say he was somewhere in the age range of 10-13, black, on the chubby side and was wearing a gold turtleneck. I shall dub him The Golden One.


The Golden One says hello to me when he comes in and I say hello, thinking nothing of it. Then he comes and sits on the chair right in front of my desk . . . and he just sits there . . . and stares at me . . . for 15 minutes. Me, being rather disconcerted by this attention, decide that it is in my best interest to avoid eye contact. So, The Golden One gets up and leaves. He then walks back in and hands me a dandelion. I was rather startled but managed to get out a "Thank you" followed by "What's your name?" And sorry - I can't remember it now. I think that I said "thank you" at least 3 more times after that because I really didn't know what to say.


Ok, so then his mother is finally ready to leave and they walk out. I get back to work and then happen to look up at the door to find The Golden One there. I let him in and he hands me a McDonald's happy meal toy (a plastic hand-held sega genisis) and tells me how to turn it on. Then he precedes to continue to stare at me as he walks out of the door.


???? I'd like to know exactly what it is that I'm doing. For some reason, every male in the world who is either collecting Social Security, is a baby, is a Chester with a molesterstache, or an unnattainable man, is attracted to me. Not that I'm complaining, attention is nice every once and a while . . . but I'm starting to notice a pattern here that I'm not too fond of.

Maybe the supposed "clump of eyeliner or mascara" located on my lower right eyelid (a fact pointed out to me by The Zim) is to blame for this whole thing.

of trees and valleys

The following is a true account of the events that conspired during the weekend of April 7th through April 9th, in the year 2006:

So, last weekend, The Shamana and I went to Massanutten to escape from the craziness that has been our lives since the beginning of the year. Right after work, I bolted home, hoping to see The Shamana waiting in the parking lot outside of my apartment. Alas, her SUV was no where to be found. So, I putzed around the apartment, kindofsortof finishing packing, but in reality, just tossing a few things into my suitcase every five minutes in between playing with Rue, begging her forgiveness for leaving (which she seemed to know I was about to do) and watching the news. I also tried calling The Shamana, but she wasn't answering her phone. From the news I learned that there were an abnormal amount of accidents on 64W, which of course caused a delay because all you need on 64W anyway is for someone to look at a tree as they are driving by and then there is a 6 mile back up. Anyway, The Shamana finally arrived and I finished packing and we set sail . . . minus the sail part. And the water.

Gas was needed for "Becky" (The Shamana's name for her SUV) so we went to a gas station down the road. While The Shamana got gas for Becky, I recounted to her my amazingly fun anecdotes about how this gas station was normally inhabited by sketchy Mexican men with a penchant for blantant staring at anything female that is mildly attractive. Well, I guess just anything female. But of course, no sketchy Mexican men appeared when we got gas this time so my stories were unsubstantiated. After getting gas, we needed to get ice for our cooler - and friends, events occured with the getting of ice that I have never seen before. Mum's the word on that story, however.

As we were leaving the gas station this occured:
*SUV drives over large metal object, creating unnaturally loud noise*
*Kelly jumps ten feet in the air and by reflex utters a string of profanities that would make a veteran sailor drop his jaw in shock*
*The Shamana stares at Kelly and starts laughing. Continues laughing and reliving said experience for rest of trip. Even goes so far as to make an acronym of said bad words for easy use*

Anyway, so we're driving to the mountains and it's dark because we were late leaving. Then, of course, we drive right into a torrential downpour. Great lightening show, but we weren't too fond of the driving on mountain roads in the dark, in a near rain out with trucks in front of us splashing water onto the windshield. The Harry Potter audio book that we were listening to offered relative comfort, but as mentioned in the previous post, thoughts of imminent death were not far from our minds. At one point where visibility was in the lower 10 percentile, we were screaming things like "AAAAHHHHH" "Dear God!" and "If you survive, you can have my stereo."

We finally make it to Massanutten and head into the check in area, which surprisingly was full of extremely attractive male workers our age, minus one female who looked like a man. As is our life, we get the gender-ambiguous check-in lady and therefore can not put our powers of flirtation to good use in order to obtain free perks. After obtaining our keys, we get in the car and wander aimlessly up and down summits until we find our condo, which we initially miss, causing The Shamana to have to do a K-turn on a tiny mountain road with a plummeting cliff on one side. Up until that point I had been singing "Climb Every Mountain" (something that I had been waiting to do all evening) but my serenade was then interrupted by me praying that we didn't fall off the cliff.

We eventually find our condo at the top of the summit and it was amazing. Nicer than any hotel that I've stayed in. It was absolutely huge - had a master bedroom with it's own bathroom and tv, another bedroom with two twin beds, a massive bathroom with a huge jacuzzi (seriously you could fit 6 people in there, and the walls around it were covered in mirros . . um . . yeah . . .), a kitchen, dining room and living room with a gas fireplace and big screen tv. We also had a screened-in balcony with a gorgeous view of the mountains and the valley. The rest of the night we just chilled out. Watched tv, relaxed . . . made smores.

Saturday it rained all day, so we stayed in for most of the morning and afternoon. It was sooo relaxing. We watched movies and each did a painting. That afternoon we went to The Shamana's sister's house to visit her brother-in-law and nephew because they live close by. They took us to a local book fair, which was my heaven on earth. It was a warehouse full of new books that ranged in price from $1-$4. !!!! I bought two books for $6 - one containing Oscar Wilde plays and Vanity Fair. Yeah, I stuck with the literature genre. Then we went back to the house and ordered Chinese, played with their kitty Ezzy and with The Shamana's little nephew (who by the way is adorable). On the way back to our condo, we checked out a movie at Blockbuster, where I decided to make friends with/scare shamelessly the cute checkout guy:

Blond check out guy: Ok, let me get this over with. *ahem* Would you like to buy a tub of our popcorn to enjoy with your movie? . . . Sorry, I have to ask.
Me: We just ate, but thank you.
Blond check out guy: Sometimes it's a good snack . . .
Me: We just had Chinese.
Blond check out guy: Oh. Maybe it's not such a good idea then.
Me: Probably not. Chinese and popcorn . . .mmm . . .
Blond check out guy: This is due back next week.
Me: Well, we're only here for the weekend. *WINK*
Blond check out guy: Um . . . ok . . . uh . . . have a good night . . .

After we watched the movie, I took a nice, long bath in the jacuzzi. Oh, it was soooo nice. Sunday morning we decided that we wanted to go for a hike. So we pack up my bookbag with water bottles and granola bars, a camera, a map . . . and we can't find the dagon trail for the life of us. Here we were, all prepared to scale mountains and brave the wild and we couldn't even find the trail. So, we decided on the next best thing . . . putt putt. In order to pretend like we are hiking and getting at least a little bit of exercise, we decide to walk to the putt putt course from where we parked our car looking for the trail.

We get to the putt putt course and get our clubs, balls, etc. The man at the front desk was a little unclear as to how we were supposed to get to the "lower course" so we end up walking around the outside of the fence that surrounds the entire course, having to scale rocks and traverse over grassy knolls, all the while looking like idiots to the cars passing by and the putt putt players on the other side of the fence. Eventually, us two college graduates figure out how to get to the first hole (which really just involved walking into the actual entrance to the course). We pretended like we were on a vigorous hike during the course of the game, stopping for water and granola bar breaks inbetween holes, garnering the raised eyebrows of numerous people around us. I got two hole in ones (very unusual for me) but only won the game by one stroke.

After putt putt, we get back to the condo, clean and pack up, then hit the road. We decide to take the back country way (as it was sunny and nice outside) and stop by a pottery store/studio that was off the road in the mountains. It has gorgeous pottery, and I wanted the entire collection, but decided that I should hold off on such a big purchase. We managed to head the wrong direction on the road that we were traveling but eventually figured it out . . . the rest of the drive was uneventful. Although, I have to admit, that after a few hours of beautiful countryside and back country roads, we were more than ready to hop on an interstate. We managed to find 64E and got back to Richmond in one piece.

Ah . . . but we didn't want to return.

indiana jones & co. in the mountains

So, The Shamana and I are about to embark on a journey of epic proportions a la Indiana Jones - fighting evil, raiding arks that are lost, locating temples of doom, Winning The Good Fight, looking dusty, rugged (and muddy) from struggles through vast wastelands in search of legendary treasure (yet still looking incredibly hot) . . . all in the course of one weekend. Except we will be in the mountains, far from deserts and temples of doom and lost arks. And we'll be staying in luxurious accomodations on the summit. We won't even have to cook over an open campfire, because we have a full kitchen. But the spirit of adventure is still with us. And count on it - if we come across Evil & Doom, we will kick its butt. And take names. Although, I guess their names would be "Evil" and "Doom." Eh. Whatever, I'm beginning to digress.


My only area of concern is the drive up the mountainside. Brave and heroic that we are, full of all that is courageous and Good, one of us (me) has a penchant towards motion sickness and hilly, twisting roads do not get along with my tummy. The Shamana sometimes thinks that massive hills and mountains have a death wish against her car/jeep/vehicle. I can see it now:

*mountain looms*

The Shamana: Oh Dear God.
Me: I think we are going to die.
The Shamana: I think so.
Me: So this is what it feels like to be practically vertical in a moving vehicle.
The Shamana: Do you feel like we're about to plummet backwards onto the cars behind us and explode into a ball of fire?
Me: I was just thinking that.
The Shamana: Huh. That would suck.
Me: Yeah. But at least we'll die in the mountains . . . which are pretty? Right?
The Shamana: I guess it's the whole "the more beautiful a thing is, the more deadly it is" concept.
Me: Hence why we're so deadly.
The Shamana: . . .
Me: Cause . . . you know . . .
The Shamana: . . .
Me: Ok. I was just trying to make us feel better about ourselves before we die.
The Shamana: Oh. Yeah. Um. I feel better.

richmond, i duel thee

The only thing that I have ever known that I am allergic to is penicillin/amoxicillin - you know, life-saving drugs. And I can deal with that fact. One thing I cannot deal with, or I guess, would really like to not have to deal with is the fact that I may be allergic to Richmond in the springtime. Here I present my evidence: I constantly have a stuffy nose and my head feels like it is not attached to my head for a good portion of the day. My head has been tight and headache-y since the trees began to bud. Furthermore, I have never lived in Richmond in the springtime and there could be flora and fauna here that don't reside in Virginia Beach where I grew up, so my body is like "Whoa. New tree. I think I'll have a headache now," and (to my nose) "GAH! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!! IT'S RICHMOND POLLEN!"

Now, I know some of you out there are like, "Well . . . you know . . . there is such a thing as allergy medication . . ." Believe me, I know. I suffer through the commercials with the rest of America. But, I'd prefer not to take allergy medication for various and assorted reasons. I know - then I am willingly letting myself suffer and I shouldn't complain about it. To that I retort, "Well, there are other ways to fight allergies!" *slaps Richmond with a glove.*

In other news: My cat Rue decided last night that the best place in my apartment to sit was on top of my bills - while I was working on them. I informed her that I, too, did not like bills - looking at them, or paying them - but if she didn't get off of the bills and I didn't pay them, then she'd be out of a home, and food . . . and toys . . .

the universal laws of shopping

I swear, there has to be some Murphy's Law-type Universal Code that states that when you purchase an expensive item that you don't really need but just want, then something pivotal that you already own will break or die as punishment for your unnecessary purchase.


Case in point: When shopping with The Cyclist last night I gave in to the demands of a very sexy pair of brown heels that insisted that I buy them, take them home, and use them to conquer the world and the hearts of men. Naturally, I could not just leave them on the shelf to waste their potential, so I bought them. Yes, they were a bit expensive. In fact, they were on the extreme edge of prices that I would pay for a pair of shoes. I was rather empowered by the purchase and proud of myself for resisting the pair of shoes with titanium heels that could pierce any surface other than steel and that intimidate the majority of men. Those shoes were the perfect "Don't mess with me, I am single and I don't need a man" shoes. I almost tried them on, because I think every woman should own a pair of shoes like that, but I was good.


Anyway, so I go to sleep overall content with my purchase and quite able to tuck any guilt at spending that kind of money way into the back of my mind. Then I woke up this morning and discovered that my cell phone had died. And I mean DIED. Not as in "ooooo I'm going to fake dying because I just need to be recharged" but "oooo I'm going to punish Kelly for buying expensive shoes by dying in such a way that I cannot be revived no matter how much pleading, cursing and threats to throw me across the room are yelled in my general direction." Bastard cell phone. I thought we were friends! We have a long history, you and I. And you chose to freeze yourself on the screen that says that I have 3 messages and now I can't even listen to them. That's just cruel. Also, now there is no way for me to retrieve the phone numbers from my contact list.


*Simmer*


So, alas, I am being punished by the universe for my shoe purchase - as it looks like I'm going to have to buy a new cell phone. Grrrrrr.

soccer boys and their legs

Male readers of this blog, you may want to stop reading here. I am going to discuss (philosophically of course) the amazing tendency for 99.9% of soccer boys to be attractive and have the best-looking pair of legs on men, out of all the men hitherto viewed by women.


Via email today, The Shamana and I had a very important discussion about our careers, love, the theraphy in throwing rocks at men, which, invariably, led to the observation that Holy Smokes Don't All Soccer Boys Have The Hottest Legs. As The Shamana said, normally, it is the woman who is held accountable for the condition of her legs (as well as *ahem* other physical features) but we felt no shame commenting on these guys. Honestly, women, have you seen a male soccer player who doesn't have amazing legs? It just baffles the brain. Sure, there is an exception to every rule and I'm sure that I'll get testimonials from people recounting the one moment in their life where they happened to notice that a male soccer player did not have attractive legs, but really, come on . . . it's highly unlikely.


Furthermore, all of the male soccer players that I have met/seen in the 22 years of my life have been very attractive. Ugly male soccer players? I have met none. Yes, yes, I know that there are probably a handful that exist . . . But I'll sit on the sidelines of a college/professional men's soccer game any day.

Speaking of college male soccer teams, one of the fondest days of my existence took place at lunchtime, when I was eating lunch with my mother at a deli in Virginia Beach (one of my favorite places) called Schlotsky's. I think I was either in my late high school years or early college . . . can't remember. Anyway, there I was, eating a roast beef & cheese on sourdough, minus the pickles (because pickles are gross) when Lo and Behold the entire men's soccer team from Wake Forest walked in to get lunch. I tell you ladies, it was like an entire bevy of male models decided they wanted a sandwich. I think my mom notified me that my jaw had indeed hit the table. I asked her how many of them I could bring home.

Now we get to the philosophical part of this entry: What makes male soccer players so hot?

the store of no clothes

I'd like to know how, out of an entire cart full of clothes, none looked halfway decent on me.

Target, I was willing to spend money on you that I didn't have today and you let me down. Actually, you let YOURSELF down.

Hope you like the feeling of missing out on my money.

You could solve this problem, by just designing clothes for me and me alone. No more of this pleasing the masses thing.

Think on it.

I'll be here.

eternity and counting

*grabs mail opener, carves a line into wall for each minute that feels like eternity* I I I I I I I I


I have decided to run away with my friend APea to the Land Of The Magical Healing Leprechauns. This is the 50th time that I have reached this conclusion within the last month.


Must make a pro & con list about today, I MUST!!


Pros:

- Have discovered that my friend The Cyclist has a bevy of women throwing themselves at him. I can make fun of him. And ask him if every single one of these women are blond. And ask him which day of the week he has assigned to each one. And when the world can expect a wedding and little cyclists running around.
- Coffee. It exists. This pleases me.
- Coffee. It makes my apartment smell good. And it has caffeine in it.
- Campbell Brown hosted the Today Show this morning instead of Katie Couric. Campbell has been hosting for the past 4 or 5 days straight. I hope that this is evidence of a takeover.
- I talked to The Shamana and she created a blog. She lives in a cupboard.
- The Shamana is sending me Real Mail.
- The Zim visited me in my dungeon today. Human contact is a wonderful thing.
- I turned up the radio in my car this morning so that I could pretend that I couldn't hear the funny noise that my car sometimes makes. Sometimes it's nice to live in ignorance.
- I like my hair cut.

Cons:

- I am writing this during my lunch break. Minus the "break" part.
- Rue woke me up this morning. Which means I forgot to lock my door last night. Oh well.
- Ankle chain is chaffing.
- This dungeon smells and my candle is almost gone.
- My teeth will most certainly rot by the end of the day, as I keep on eating the gumballs, or as I like to think of them, "Sugar Bombs" that are under my desk in a box.
- With rotten teeth, I will most certainly be single forever. Unless I never talk. Or smile. Or eat. Or move to Britain. <---- ooo that was mean. I'm sorry if you are British and are angry that I went with a stereotype there. I'm sure your teeth are beautiful and that your voice sounds pretty.

roadtrip correspondence

I just got back from Virginia Beach and there are a few letters I'd like to send out in reference to my time on the road:

Dear Car Going 20 Miles Below The Speed Limit,

I admire the fact that you want to be different from everybody else. Individuality is important. But perhaps you don't realize that your quest to stand out from the crowd is preventing me from getting to my destination before I turn 40. Some suggestions: Perhaps you should stop completeley turning your body to talk to the person next to you. Perhaps you should get your vision checked so that you can read the speed limit (or in your case, "speed goal") signs on the side of the road. Also, buy a bike. You'd save gas and be able to reach the same speed.

Sincerely,

I Know Where You Can Find A Bike


Dear Radio Announcement For Botox,

I find it interesting that you advertise botox as "therapy" and that you suggest sticking needles with poison in them into people's arm pits. What ever happened to lying down on a couch? Oh and by the way, you know that you're advocating people injecting poison into themselves, right? Ok . . . just wanted to make sure.

Sincerely,

Needles Were Meant For Vaccinations. And Sewing.


Dear Mr. Blunt,

Apparently, I'm "beautiful." Thanks. Can't hear that enough. Oh, well unless I hear it 10 million times from you, within one day. It begins to lose its meaning after a while. You know, the whole "you can't know hot without cold," "you can't know good without bad" thing. Oh and hey - are you the lovechild of Macy Gray and Rod Stewart? This has been a topic of much debate.

Sincerely,

You Haven't Seen Me When I Wake Up In The Morning


Dear Traffic Jam on 64W,

I know that I've been complaining about money recently and that rent does take a big chunk out of my paycheck . . . but I'd prefer not to live in my car. Forever. Thanks.

Sincerely,

What The Hell Would My Address Be?


Dear Veggie Veggie Wrap From Tropical Smoothie,

If I can talk on the cell phone and drive, then I can eat you and drive as well. I'd appreciate your full cooperation in this matter. Should you decide to miss my mouth, please take care that you fall on the wrapper in my lap.

Sincerely,

Finally, Lunch.


Dear Right Lane,

Why the heck are you moving and I'm not? Who are you paying? *searches through purse for money*

Sincerely,

I Always Get Stuck On The Losing Team - Aka, The Lane That Doesn't Move


Dear Red Explorer In Front Of Me,

I don't get your license plate. "CIATYRA" ? Are you called Ciaty and you happen to be an RA? Do you work for the CIA and your codename is "Tyra"? If so, I don't think it's wise to advertise.
By the way, it is possible to drive while talking on the cell phone. I think you and the 20 Below Car should take lessons together. But not in my city, please.

Sincerely,

At Lease Your License Plate Doesn't Say "SUGRPIE"