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.