Spring, Glorious Spring!

Yes, a post about the weather. My life isn't all thrill-a-minute action.

Spring is finally here, at least for today-- supposed to be crappy pretty much from here on out, but I have learned, slowly, that the Weather Channel tells vicious, vicious lies in order to get me to leave the house in weather-inappropriate clothing. So, who knows-- it might be here to stay.

Took the dog for a really long walk for the first time this year, and found out the following things about my neighborhood:

1. Elderly people here love dogs.

2. Drakefield is not as well-kept as Zeman.

3. There's only one chance to find out what street you're on; if you miss that sign, tough shit. You're in no-man's land now.

And here's the kicker:

4. The Ice Cream Man comes to Shoreview Avenue!

Not that I ever actually go to the ice cream man; since childhood, I have been too freaked out by the mechanics of the whole operation to actually flag down the ice cream man. But I really enjoy his tinkly Entertainer music, and he reminds me of the Evil Ice Cream Man who used to come to Abbott's Run and trade ice cream for beer and cigarettes.

Everything smells like barbeque and dogs are barking and people are playing frisbee and it's spring! Spring, dammit!

Listen to Convincing John

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, writers of all ages (but mostly young ones, preferably hot):

After a few months of flying under the radar-- so low, in fact, that many of you perhaps were unaware of our very existence (but that's fine, because we're like the ninja, we slink under the cover of night), Convincing John is back in its latest and greatest form: the blog.

That's right-- the online journazine that you have known and loved for months is now a user-friendly, interactive Blog of Note*, here to showcase the works of today's young, unpublished writers, as well as offering a more varied palette of action (I was going to say "activities," but it sounded very day camp-y) for our loyal readers. We're thinking round robins, we're thinking columns, we're thinking contests.

Ooh, yeah. Contests.

So head on over to Convincing John to check out how our new format will affect our original goal of bringing new writers to light. And the doors are open for submissions again! Just send your best work to us at convincingj@gmail.com, and we will check it out for skill, craftsmanship, and awesomeness.

Get ready to submit, get ready to comment (please comment, I love comments and so does Convincing John!), and get ready to gawk in utter amazement.

That's right-- it's gawkworthy.

*Note: we are not an actual Blog of Note, as we do not know how to become one. But we will be. Oh, we will be.

Don't bring around the cloud...

I have been irrationally sad for no reason lately, and I intend to put a stop to it. While being irrationally sad was a huge boon while working on my creative non-fiction thesis in grad school ("We are all nothing, and one day everyone I know will be dead, and nothing we did will have mattered at all. Sweet, that's an essay right there!"), it is a bit of a hindrance in the insurance world, where people tend to not like it when you start crying in your cubicle because you don't quite understand how exactly you're supposed to be "testing" the collections system. (Note: I figured it out. But boy, for that five minutes there, it was a soul-killer.)

So, I will turn to my tried-and-true method of irrational sadness eradication, list making.

1. Why be sad? Have wonderful boyfriend and awesome friends who love me! Also, talking like Cookie Monster fun.

2. Seriously, one day we WILL all be dead and the whole thing will be moot, so why waste time being sad?

3. Your irrational fear that one day you will have children and they will ride bikes without helmets and get hit by cars and then picked up by child molesters is NOT helping you shake your irrational sadness.

4. If you are still sad, go watch Christopher Walken's "More Cowbell" sketch. Sit around muttering "Last time I checked, we didn't have a whole lot of songs that feature the cowbell!" Still don't feel better? Something is seriously wrong.

Hmm. I still don't know if I actually feel better yet, but that was definitely a step in the right direction. Also, I am still giggling over the line "talking like Cookie Monster fun." Hee hee. I am awesome.

Development, Arrested

Dear Fox,

I hate you. I hate you, and I hate your ass face.

Arrested Development was the best show going-- in fact, I have a little crush on it. There, I said it. I'm in love with Arrested Development. And, like all of my crushes, it has gone badly, and ended with me broken-hearted and feeling slightly embarrassed about myself.

Why did no one watch this show? Was it because it was on opposite King of Queens, or something terrifying like that? Because as much fun as it is to watch those shows with the Fat Guy who's a Garbage Man and has an Inexplicably Hot Wife-- apply this theory to any number of shows, there's a glut-- I would much rather watch the misadventures of the Bluths.

And now, Arrested Development is gone. But in its place is The War at Home! A fantastic, smart-witted show about a rasict guy who hates his family and apparently drinks to escape his dreary, vile life! Oh, and it stars Definitely Hollywood A-Lister Michael Rappaport. Wait, wait, I have to get my TiVo ready.

If I had TiVo, which I don't. But I figured it would make a good statement about my total lust for more programming like The War at Home.

Look, Fox, Alan told me you renewed the Simpsons for two more seasons, and that's great and everything. But seriously, I will do whatever it takes to get AD put back on the air. I would even let a seal in yellow bow tie bite off my left hand.

Just put it back on the air. Please? I mean, what will Jason Bateman do now? It's criminal!

Love,

Kim

Whoa!

I stop posting on my blog for one week, and suddenly I am totally left behind by the biggest blog war since we found out Frey was lying.

I know it's practically over now, but I would like to express my outrage at the following things:

1. Anonymous posters who say crazily uncool things. Let me pre-empt you now, but posting my own for myself: Oh, ha ha, Kim, you're so funny with your insurance job and your love of pro wrestling! Perhaps you think no one remembers, but you were a way, way, way ugly girl in high school, and people totally noticed that your clothes came from Sears. You're not a good writer and your innermost thoughts are boring and I hate you.

No one can top that. Sears, people.

2. http://www.ilinxaudio.com/blog/2006/03/paradox-of-internet-freedom.html
This is just wrong. I feel that everyone else has already written about this situation, and written about it better than I could have, for me to elaborate. But Cue, remember, there are always jobs in the ever growing arena of insurance here in Cleveland! Come on, you know you want to...

Seriously, I'm sorry that I was so late in picking this up, and I know it's all already over and it's time for us to move on. But I didn't feel I could just not mention it.

So Tom, please don't go dark. I do that enough for both of us, and you're way more interesting than me.

Cue, it's all fodder. I mean, my one piece of hate mail from Mark Harmon has kept me going for years. You're sitting on a goldmine!

I love you all. And now I promise to go back to reporting on the banal minutae of my life.

Sears! Seriously!

Congratulations

...go out to Matt Tullis, who just informed me (even though it's been up on his blog for three days and I was too lame to go check it out right away) that he just got a new job reporting for the Columbus Dispatch. Even though I am a Plain Dealer reader myself, I can't help but envy his new social standing as Major Big-Wig!

Also, on a side note, it's lunchtime, and the cleaning lady is in the bathroom right now. I believe her to be the devil.

Letters to Unknown Workmates

Dear new weird balding guy with no neck who I have no idea what your actual job is,

Please stop staring at my tits when you walk by.

Love, Kim
*
Dear cleaning lady,

Please stop cleaning the bathroom at lunchtime. I always have to go to the bathroom at lunchtime. Also, please don't talk on the cell phone while I'm going to the bathroom if you do happen to be cleaning while I'm in there. It makes me paranoid.

But thanks for keeping the free tampons in stock.

Love, Kim
*
Dear lady who buys our kitchen supplies (actually, a known workmate, and a nice lady),

Please buy more spoons. Everything I eat with my lunch involves a spoon, and I don't like reusing the oatmeal spoon for the triple-cherry fruit cup. The textures don't mix. I brought my own spoon from home to try to cut down on my spoon consumption, but I'm like a spoon junkie, apparently.

Also, I need paper plates. I feel weird eating popcorn out of a coffee filter.
Love, Kim
*
Dear person who ganked my caffeine-free Diet Pepsi from the fridge yesterday,

You sicken me.

Love, Kim

Crazed Maniac on the loose

I woke up this morning after only five and a half hours sleep, walked the dog, showered, dressed, and went to work, without realizing that most of my soul had been sucked out, leaving me a sleepy, cranky, shattered husk of a human being. This was not helped by the consumption of one can of caffeine-free diet Pepsi.

So, having gotten the word from my doctor last Friday that I will not, in fact, die upon consumption of caffeinated beverages (contrary to the advice of previous doctors and WebMD, an apparently untrustworthy purveyor of medical terror), I decided to make a concoction of half-coffee, half hot chocolate, a sludgy yet delicious energy drink.

Add to that five Wonka Bottle Caps, and I now have irreversible Crazy Eyes, as evidenced by the above picture. So while I may look like I might kill you and eat your brains, at least I'm no longer tired, and a good deal more social.

I'm Mark Harmon! Check out my sweet 'stache!

I don't know how I missed it, since I read every article both before (Dave Chapelle invites Ohio marching band to his concert!) and after (Some woman named Cupcake Brown is mildly interesting!) it, but last week's Entertainment Weekly featured a three-page article on my arch-enemy, Mark Harmon. Apparently, Mark Harmon regrets nothing he has ever done, including competing in Battle of the Network Stars, and taking-- and relishing!-- a role in which he plays a man named Jethro. I'm not even certain of the point of the show, but come on, man-- Jethro?

I often wonder if I will ever get over my intense, burning dislike of Mark Harmon. One would think that twelve years later, I would no longer be bothered by the fact that a b-list celebrity's assistant would write me an angry, six-page letter in response to my admittedly over-the-top requests for an autograph. One would think that I would realize that perhaps Mr. Harmon does not take to sarcasm as well as other, perhaps more fun celebrities, and was truly unappreciative of the tone of my letters (which, let me note here again for the record, became sarcastic only after they began coming back to me with a hand-written "return to sender" note on them).

But piss on that. I'm not doing it.

Mark Harmon, you totally blew your chance to star in the movie version of My Crappy Novel That No One Will Ever Be Allowed to Read. It was also going to star Wynona Ryder (until she got too old, because it took me so long to write) and maybe Paul Giamatti, who has real Oscar potential. And a million billion people were going to watch that movie, and buy it on DVD when Target put it on sale for the low low price of $15. And teenage girls everywhere would have been impressed with your sensitivity and ability to fist-fight other celebrities.

So sad for you, Mark Harmon.

Taco Karma

So the other day, as happens from time to time, I got an insane urge for tacos. I'd say this happens, oh, every seven months or so, but when it happens, it is intense. Like, Kill Your Mom For a Taco intense. So intense, in fact, that it prompted me to send Ben this e-mail:

Could I get a taco at Chipotle if I wanted to? Or are they more of a burrito place? There's always the taco place in Mentor, but that can get tricky, too, with the totally plain ground beef tacos I received last time... what to do, what to do? Depending on the outcome of this discussion, I would be willing to pay for Don Pablo's. I just want tacos THAT BADLY.

What's wrong with me? Have I fallen prey to some sort of flu that only craves tacos?

Won't you take me to-- TACO TOWN!

And you know, if I'm making up a song about eating at a taco establishment, I must be in pretty deep.

So I am promised a trip to Don Pablo's, an insanely expensive taco eatery, and I am doing a little taco dance. And also refusing to eat, because there are tacos in the near future, and I don't want to sully their goodness with, like, a handful of Reduced Fat Cheez-Its.

But then, suddenly, Ben does not want to go to Don Pablo's. He does not, in fact, want tacos. So, sadly, I do not get tacos.

And the taco urge does not pass. No matter how many Reduced Fat Cheez-Its I feed it.

So the next day, when my taco urge has still not passed, and my oft-coveted lunchtime Dairy Queen hot dog just tastes like so much dust, I again make overatures to go to Don Pablo's, and this time they are well-received.

When we get there, I literally cram my tacos into my gullet, as there is no way I can possibly eat enough taco. If the Dalai Lama were made of tacos, I would eat him. I would.

But then, suddenly, comes The Agony.

This Agony has been ongoing for several weeks now, possibly as a side effect of the anti-biotics I am STILL TAKING for the bladder infection that I CANNOT GET RID OF. It usually comes with healthy foods, such as grapes or cheese sammiches. But not tacos. Never tacos.

That night, though, The Agony has come on stronger and harder than ever before. No cheese sammich has ever produced the gut-wrenching horror of Taco Agony. And I wondered to myself-- why would my body crave something so much that it must have known, all along, would bring about Such Agony? Why would it turn me into a sad, moping trollop when That Agony was denied to me the first time? Why would it make me turn to Reduced Fat Cheez-Its, also a large source of The Agony?

So, what I learned was, my body hates me. Perhaps as a result of the many, many years in middle and high school that I spent hating it.

If there is a lesson to be learned from this, it is just this: even if your body makes you sing songs about tacos, do not eat them. They are vicious, sparkling death-stuffed semi-circles of evil.

But oh, they were tasty evil.

Katie! Katie! Katie!

Hey, all. I know I still haven't been blogging as much as normal, but trust me, I have a backlog of bloggable material going on right now, and will probably bust most of it out this weekend, while Ben is out of town. I will also be over at my parents' new house, ripping down wallpaper. You know, just in case you feel like sending over some pizza or something.

But first, I need to formally announce that my younger cousin Katie has joined the ranks of my blog readers (blogateers, if you will). She wants me to tell you that she is evil, and definitely up to no good at all times. And here are some other fascinating facts about Katie:

1. She is an excellent horseback rider, and has a sweet horse named Gracie. Which I am really jealous of, since I majorly failed at going to horse camp in the seventh grade, a fact that my dad totally won't let me live down. "You want to move to Wilmington? But why? You couldn't even make it two days at horse camp!"

2. She can belch better than anyone I've ever met. Seriously, it's way impressive.

3. She is an excellent actress, and does a killer Britney Spears impression. But in a funny way, not a serious way. Because I think she would kick my ass if I said she was into Britney Spears.

4. For real, I think she could kick my ass.

So now you're all up to speed on the Katie situation. Doesn't it make you wish you had an evil cousin, too?

(By the way-- not really evil. But I wasn't lying about the belching part.)

I both rule and suck

It seems to me that everyone comes pre-programmed with both things that they are extremely good at and incredibly poor at-- whether we take a million classes or never even read a book on it, there's a few things that all of us will either rule at or suck at. A few of mine, in no particular order:

I rule at:

• Singing (especially "Me and Bobby McGee" and "One Way or Another")
• Writing (not counting The World's Worst Novel, which I still think is awesome, by the way. Fistfights. A trip to the Oscars. Like nine deaths. What could BE better?)
• Crocheting (I don't actually rule at it, but picked it up very quickly)
• Figuring out a 15% tip
• Knowing where to put a comma

I suck at:

• Drawing (which makes me super, super mad. Sometimes, I wonder if maybe over time, I have magically absorbed the ability to draw, and get out some paper and try it. But I haven't, because I just truly suck at it, and always will)
• Dancing
• Reading a map
• Matching my clothes

I invite all of you, now, to tell me the things you were born sucking and ruling at. Who knows? Perhaps we have intermingling skills, and could trade, like a talent swap-meet! Because I'd totally trade my Rain Man-esque tip-calculating ability to be able to properly draw and shade, like, an egg or something.

When good names go bad

The other day, I received a postcard from Random Writers Who Mail You Crap Every Three Days, promoting the latest Conference No One Would Be Caught Dead At ("Jingle Writing to the Xtreme!"), and glanced briefly at the visiting writers, only to receive a shock-- one of them, Angelo Pizzo, has the exact same name as a good friend of mine, only off by two letters.

Apparently, all it takes is an O and P to go from cool, fun, funky female, to scary, pompadour-sporting producer of Rudy and Hoosiers.

Come on, though, man-- you're in Hollywood. You couldn't find something other than Pizzo?

Although I guess as a person whose last name always comes up during spell check as "Shambles," I probably shouldn't talk.