It Ain't Christmas if You Don't Rock Out Loud

Another Christmas has come and gone-- I had a lot of trouble getting in the spirit this year, mostly because in the wake of all the wedding hub-bub, I kind of forgot that I had to continue on with the remainder of life's tasks (what? I had to organize a wedding and pick out presents for every member of my family? This excuse also works well with getting your teeth cleaned, paying your bills, and vacuuming your carpet).

But around one o'clock on Christmas afternoon, my cousin Katie broke out her newest game-- Guitar Hero II for the PS2-- and the Christmas Spirit struck. And it turns out the Christmas Spirit is remarkably like the basist for Foghat.

All I know is, this game is the video equivalent of crack-- I would gladly have remained at my parents' house for up to eighty hours, helping Katie promote our new band, Grubmonkey, to new levels of success. Sadly, I was actually kind of a hindrance to Grubmonkey, as I routinely forgot to actually strum the guitar, or got confused between red and yellow, or realized that "Surrender" is not actually the song I thought it was. But I think she was still all right with me being in the band, as kind of a Ringo character, only without the awesome haircut.

Luckily for me, there's a version for the Wii, and it includes two of my all-time favorite songs: "My Name is Jonas," by Weezer, and "Rock and Roll All Nite" by KISS (which I played in marching band, so that's bound to give me a leg up on the competition). However, this game is not available ANYWHERE in the nation, except maybe at K-Mart, and, having solemnly vowed to let K-Mart die with dignity, I cannot spend any more money there, at least until they get wise to Sears' soul-crushing succubus nature.

So it's officially on my birthday list, but I was kind of hoping we could pretend that my birthday is today, and that I would magically find a copy lying in the bushes outside my house, so that I could turn it into the rock temple that it deserves to be.

In the meantime, I suppose I could go and get the ACTUAL guitar my parents gave me out of the basement and play that to take some of the edge off. But it seems like kind of a downer if I can't use it to interpret "Heart Shaped Box," which I can't, because I never learned to play it, and there may or may not be mice living in the guitar case.

A Very Crunchy Christmas

Dear Friends of Kim,

It is I, Crunchy! The angry Christmas nutcracker. Bask in my return to cyber-typing!

Some of you may not know me, Crunchy, because Kim was infected with the so-called "Christmas Spirit" last year at this time, leaving me, Crunchy, silent on the writing desk, surrounded by pictures of black-and-white old timey people of which Crunchy does not approve. Even though they do not move, Crunchy can see that their jaws are capable of free movement, and their legs are not really one big, non-working wooden leg with roundish planks for feet.

But this year Crunchy is back with a very special Christmas message, which is this: your Kim is a bad person! Because does she write you Christmas cards? No, she does not! I can see her right now, from my old-timey people perch-- she is playing Nintendo Wii! And not sitting in her chair writing you cards of good will wishes.

She claims that this is because she is tired out of writing cards, because of her thank you card writing debacle. But if she is so tired, how has she managed to become a pro at the Wii Tennis, with so much limb flailing and the cursing of small animated computer tennis players?

The truth of the matter is, only Crunchy loves you. And by loves you, I mean does not like you at all, again because of your working jaws and non-conjoined legs.

So rise up in your unhappiness at the Kim-not-writing-cards fooferau! Adopt the Crunchy as your new favorite Oja! You will be most satisfied, as Crunchy was built for loving you.

All best,

Crunchy

The Angry Christmas Nutcracker

What follows is a list of all the words I have added to my e-mail dictionary at work:

ACCS
Acord
Argh
ain't
argh
awesomest
BFD
Boobie
babearoo
bachelorette
bizarro
bleah
blizzarding
blog
blogged
Cavs
CC'ed
Che
Chex
COI
COIs
Cyn
convincingjohn
cystoscopy
d'oh
dammit
EMFH
effing
eHarmony
ew
Fatone
Favre
Fazoli's
fraggle
Goulet
Grr
gangsta
gangstas
gonna
gotta
gushies
Hee
Itza
Itzen
insureds
journazine
Lambeau
LPR
Maimo
Mamie
Marita
Marklar
Mmm
microsite
mojo
monoline
mopey
moreso
mostest
NARM
Netflix
Ow
Paychex
pooing
poopy
punked
RIU
Ric
rad
Sasha
SIF
Stix
Superdude
sads
sammich
snarky
sorta
TiVo
veg
Whatcha
Wii
WriMeBaMoFo
wanna
weirded
wuss
Xtreme
Yay
Yo

PS:

In addition to accomplishing all the tasks listed below, I would also like to add that I managed to fall down a flight of stairs and cut my palm with a bread knife in a two-hour window this morning. I'm really just waiting to slip and bruise my tailbone while walking the dog in this white-out blizzard to really complete the trifecta.

Busybody

I don't know what, exactly, prompted this change, but while I used to be perfectly happy to wallow in my own filth, ignoring my e-mails in favor of lying on the couch with an open box of Pizza Hut breadsticks resting on my chest while watching old episodes of The Family Feud, I have now become some sort of taskaholic, running from to-do list to to-do list with the fervent obsessiveness of an Ethel Merman fan.

Not that I want to go back to living in a pet-hair-clogged super toilet, but really, I think I'm starting to take things a little far. For example, Ben is out of town this weekend. Instead of relaxing and enjoying a few hours to myself, I accomplished the following things:

• Finished thank you cards (praise whatever deity controls thankfulness-related endeavors!)


• Went to lunch with a good friend


• Bought a Christmas present for my mom (on behalf of my dad, which sucks, but it's all the costliness of buying a present with none of the glory)


• Cleaned every room of my house, including the bathroom, which still smells chlorine-fresh 24 hours later


• Vacuumed-- twice


• Emptied the trash, which is no easy feat, because we have one of those metal horseshoe garbage cans with the impossible-to-remove bags


• Did two loads of laundry


• Wrapped remaining Christmas presents


• Went to the grocery store, narrowly avoiding the blizzard that has settled over Cleveland (and which, annoyingly, prevented me from going to the Browns game today, which is what I was actually supposed to be doing instead of all this)


• Answered all my e-mails


• Made a CD (using a burner; I did not actually go to a studio and make a CD, although I think the world would really clamor for a copy of Kim Oja Sings Neil Diamond in the Voice of Tom Jones)

And now I'm writing my blog, which was the last thing on a long list of to-dos I had amassed for myself. There are still a few more things that need to be accomplished today, such as walking the dog and packing my lunch, but then I think I'll finally have accomplished my entire list.

I guess I've been trying to catch up ever since the wedding, but really ever since I got engaged, and with the latest flurry of to-do activity I am pleased to announce that I am finally, blissfully left without anything to do. The possibilities are endless-- do I work on a novel? Organize my file cabinet? Reread the entire Harry Potter series? Stage a Clue marathon?

All I know is, my chest is in for some major table duty tonight! Watch out, arteries, because the Pizza Hut breadsticks are back in the picture!

You're welcome

Number of thank you cards written tonight: 26

Number of thank you cards sealed into envelopes with this error: 25

This! This is what I get for wanting to be cute and have Ben sign the cards in his own hand-writing! Twenty-five cards going out saying "Love, Kim & "!

People who will be receiving this limited edition fuck-up card include:

1. The minister

2. The DJ

3. My boss

4. My mom's boss

Oh, my God. Please kill me now. Because there is no effing way I'm opening those envelopes and fixing this. Not tonight. Probably not ever. Because I don't have enough sticky labels left to redo the addresses, and by God, I am not doing them by hand!

Maybe? People will think my fancy ampersand is, like, a fancy, fucked-up letter O? And that I just decided to sign all my cards "Kim O," like in a fun, familial way?

Okay. If you're one of the people who receives this particular card, I apologize. If you really want, I'll have Ben stop by your house and sign your card next time we're in town.

Love,

Kim O

My optometrist speaks*

*This monologue was actually performed by my optometrist at my eye exam this afternoon. While I may not have gotten it down verbatim, there is no embellishment on my part.

"I like your sweater. I like green things. I have so much green-- green sweaters, green pants, green shoes-- wait, I take that back. No green shoes.

"What size shoes do you wear? Sevens? Oh. My. God. You must go to the Clarks store. At Beachwood Mall? The Clarks store? They have the greatest shoes there. Green shoes. With lambskin insides. They're the kind of shoes with the little foothole? That you just have to kind of dig your foot into? Well, I was wearing really loose socks when I tried them on, and the foothole pulled the socks too tight, and I was like, these shoes make my socks tight! Anyway, my mom bought some shoes there, but not the green ones, which I wanted, but they didn't come in my size-- that's why I asked you what size you were, so you could go buy them, because you seem like the kind of person that would like green shoes. So you must go buy them.

"And then? My mom and I went to Sephora-- at Beachwood Mall, you know? I love Sephora. I bought $150-- $156, I mean-- I bought $156 worth of stuff there. My husband is going to go nuts! But I was out of face cream-- I haven't bought a face cream since 2002-- and I was like, why not, right? But the one I wanted, it was a milk-based one, I think, I can't remember now, but it was the one I really wanted, anyway-- they were out of it, so I bought this one that has a little clay in it. Cambrian clay? Have you heard of this? Oh, my God. They make it into everything. They make the moisturizer, and they make this shampoo that is so good... I have an itchy head-- no dandruff, but itchy, right?-- and this stuff just worked wonders. And they make this clay toothpaste, with is naturally flavored with lemon and mint, and my gums bleed when I get my period? So I use the clay toothpaste and that doesn't happen.

"Anyway, some of that shit I'm going to wrap up and put in my own stocking and say Santa put it there, because what's my husband going to do, yell at me in front of his parents? Although it kind of sucks, because I already know what I'm getting for Christmas, mostly... my mom bought me some Clarks, but not the green Clarks, because they didn't have my size, and this shearling coat from Lands' End, but it's faux shearling, so it's washable, which is good, because I tend to wreck my coats. And then the stuff from Sephora, which is really from me, but I have to put it in my stocking so my husband can't get mad that I spent $156 on face shit from Sephora.

"But really, it's so unfair, because he does like nothing to his skin, and it's perfect. He washes it with bar soap and then puts Curel on it. Curel! Like the hand cream! On his face! If I use shit like that, it gives me hives. Or something. Some kind of itchy welt. I think that's hives, right? And I have such greasy skin. It's like, I could wipe my fingers on my face and grease a cookie pan.

"Okay, anyway. What did you come in for again?"

Rabid!

Rabies has been popping up far too often for my taste lately. First, in the season premiere of my (sadly cut short by the writers' strike) all-time favorite show, The Office, in which Michael staged a fun run to raise rabies awareness; then in Rant, Chuck Palahniuk's newest book, in which the main character starts a rabies epidemic. But most disturbingly in a show that our TiVo thought we would enjoy, "The Girl Who Survived Rabies," the title of which is pretty much self-explanatory.

My previous encounters with rabies were pretty much limited to Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God, in which the main character is forced to kill her beloved Tea Cake (who is a human, and not a lap dog, despite the connotations of his name) when he is infected with the disease. Rabies is something that happens to characters in 20th Century Literature Class novels, not to me!

But now, surrounded by this glut of rabies mania, I am forced to assume my fallback position, which is, if everyone is talking about it, then I probably have it. Which is why, at two o'clock today when I cut my finger on the bathroom paper towel dispenser, a danger sign flashed: RABIES!

I am completely and totally aware that paper towel dispensers are not alive, and thus incapable of carrying the rabies virus. But at that moment, I fully expected to begin foaming at the mouth and develop an irrational fear of water, and figured by the end of the night, Ben would have dispatched me neatly with a shotgun.

What is the lesson in this? Has my rabies awareness been raised too much? Should I stop trusting TiVo? Am I, maybe, a bit too paranoid? Are the terror segments on local news channels meant for me?

I don't know. But all this talk of tea cakes is making me hungry.

Please and Thank You

The wedding has been over for almost two months, but I'm still struggling with getting my thank you cards out. Not that I'm not thankful-- really I'm nothing but thankful-- but the idea of writing 67 thank you cards makes my stomach clench up in the most unpleasant way.

There's also the added stress of being known as "the writer of the family," which is hilarious since I haven't written anything longer than a humor column on my insane urge to pee in like three years; but still, having this moniker comes with some expectations-- that you'll eventually write a best-seller and buy your dad a Ferrari; that Oprah may pick your book and yell excitedly about it in her weird baritone and millions of women will buy it and it will be made into a mini-series starring Kirstie Alley; and that you will write unique, one-of-a-kind thank you cards that accurately convey the true warmth and appreciation that one's contribution of a Deluxe Downy Ball Fabric Softener Gift Pack has afforded you.

So far, I have written ten of the aforementioned 67, but at least two need to be rewritten in light of recent developments (developments I could probably have avoided addressing in my already difficult thank you letters if I had gotten them done in October, as I had originally planned). And I am unsure when any more will be gotten to in light of the holiday season, which has T-boned me like a drunken Santa on a souped-up sleigh-- if I don't get my butt in gear, I'll have to add a sizeable amount of Christmas thank you cards to the pack.

To those of you whom I owe a thank you card, please rest assured that I am extremely thankful, not only for your gifts, but more importantly for your well-wishes and for daring to come to Cleveland in the first place (we have a lake!). The cards will be in the mail posthaste-- right after I make up my Christmas list, clean up my house, decorate for the holidays, get rid of the thirty pounds of wedding-related reading materials that I have acquired in the past year, attend a free showing of The Golden Compass, rearrange my Netflix list, make several batches of Chex Mix, and finish the three library books I started reading before Thanksgiving.

I promise.

I hate this.

I've begun to realize that I say the phrase "I hate" far too much. I think I've always said it a little too often, using it to denote things that annoyed me, rather than things I truly hated. And that's still the way I use it, but I hear it coming from my mouth with alarming frequency, and, as an addendum to my New Year's Resolution to be less angry, would like to curb it.

So, in an effort to direct my attention away from the things that I hate, allow me to list some things that I love:

• My husband
• My family
• My friends
• My pets
• The Office
• The new Kanye West CD, which I know I gave only a middling grade to before, but with which I am now totally obsessed. As a side note, I would love to be as confident as Kanye, with lines like "I think it's time you should get behind me but my head's so big you can't sit behind me."
• LeBron James
• Ric Flair (yes, I still love Ric Flair)
• Winter
• Cake (the band, not the food-- I don't actually really like cake very much)
• Bacon bits
• Babies
• David Sedaris
• Sloppy Joes
• Target
• Mix CDs
• Post Secret

And many more!

So there's still a lot of love to go around, even if I kind of hate the way I've been feeling lately...

You won't like me when I'm angry.

When I was in graduate school (which is a phrase I very much enjoy saying, because it reminds me of a time when I was actually a writer, as opposed to an auditor, which is still fine, but not quite as impressive), I went to a counselor named Etta who diagnosed me with an anger problem, which fucking pissed me off.

Because at the time, I did not see myself as particularly angry. It would make me mad, yes, when I would go to visit Etta and tell her I was doing very well that particular week, and she would say, "Okay, great! Let's talk about when you were nine and you were ugly and no one liked you." So maybe she got a skewed view of the situation. But that was more of an Etta problem than an anger problem.

But now I'm starting to wonder if maybe I really sort of do have an anger problem, at least lately.

At first I was just taking it out on passing traffic. Normally, I am a very friendly driver, and don't get stressed much if I'm running late or the traffic flow is moving slowly. But lately, I find myself leaning forward in my seat, kept in place only by my strap, ready to leap through my windshield and throttle those people who do not feel it necessary to abide by the speed limit, or who turn without their signals on. I also get angry at cute license plates and cars with ribbon magnets on them, because I feel if they really cared about their particular causes, they would man up and put a sticker on their car, rather than a removable magnet.

I've also become more of an angry person at work-- that person that you don't really want to go near, because they might launch into a diatribe about how it might be wise to give employees more than four days' notice that they're going to change the health insurance.

And Ashley got an earful of something I was angry about the other day-- I don't remember what it was, but I was pretty super pissed.

So one of my New Years' Resolutions this year (and I do make them early, in order to get used to the idea of sticking to them) is to become less of an angry person. Since I don't know how I got angry in the first place, this might be sort of difficult, but I'm definitely going to try, because I don't particularly enjoy it, and it certainly doesn't make me the best party guest for the holidays.

Perhaps I should call Etta and find out what she thinks about it. But she'd probably just refer me to her feeling wheel and then tell me to buy myself something nice, which generally seemed to be her approach to mental healing.

See this cat? She shat in three separate places in my car on the way to my parents' house tonight. Now my nose if full of cat crap smell, and my head hurts, and my hands are all itchy from upholstery cleaner.

I must find something more pleasant to be thankful for.

Tuffy love

I am not generally the kind of person who mopes about being "old"-- in fact, I find this behavior irksome in anyone under the age of 67, which is the age I have officially deemed as being the start of actual oldness. But I went to visit my college campus yesterday with my friends Denise and Melinda, and if anything can make you feel old, it's that.

Because it really still feels like I just left college. I still know all the words to the fight song and the alma mater and everything (which I realize is actually more of an old person thing to do, considering a young, cooler person than myself would have forgotten the words to those songs immediately, or, more likely, would never have learned them in the first place). I even remember the combination to my mailbox (so watch your back, box 678).

But I found myself, while checking out the campus, noting with disapproval all the changes that had been made. How dare they build a new gym? The old gym was perfectly fine, except for that one part over the pool that was caving in a little. And as Melinda pointed out, the new education building looks a little Hogwarts-y, which again, I do not condone.

At least my old building, the Arts and Humanities building, remains blockily stolid and antiseptic (the perfect setting for all creative writing workshops!). Of course, I didn't go inside, because my student ID is long gone, and something tells me they might not honor one that was issued in the previous millennium, so the whole building might be reconfigured in there, with rocket jet packs on the chairs and walls made of spun sugar candy.

All in all, even with the weird unsettled feeling of maybe not quite belonging as much as I once did, it was a highly satisfactory trip to good old Ashland University (up on the hill above the town/seen from miles around). And whenever I start to feel bad about my college days receding in the mirror behind me, I can at least console myself with the fact that I am way hotter now.

Dig my tiara and creepy Geisha-esque too-light foundation, yall!

This week in reviews

For some reason, perhaps pity, or perhaps just to shut my whining maw, the fates visited me with loads of free awesomeness-- a friend from work gave me tickets to an advance preview of Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, and I was able to find both Britney Spears' Blackout AND Kanye West's Graduation at the award-winning Euclid Public Library (gooooo, library!). And so, in an effort to pay it forward, I will provide you all with my reviews of each, something I know you've been waiting for, because no one buys a Britney Spears album without checking with me first.

Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium: This movie got a scathingly horrible review from Entertainment Weekly, which is pretty much the bible by which I live my daily life, but we went anyway, because it was free, and because my arm was sore from Wii-overuse and I needed a break. But actually, I really, really enjoyed this movie a lot-- I thought it was funny, and smart, and it made me cry, which was super embarassing because the aforementioned friend from work is super grossed out by human emotion. I would very much recommend this movie, and not just because I have a weird Arrested Development crush on Jason Bateman (I love your cutie nose freckles, Teen Wolf Too!).

Thumbs down, however, to the crazy woman in the row in front of us who, after buying one of those industrial-sized tubs of popcorn that were designed solely in the off-chance that an actual elephant decided to spend $8.50 to watch In the Valley of Elah, dumped the entire thing into a plastic grocery bag and sent her five-year-old son out to the lobby to get it refilled (because apparently, if you have the tenacity to plow through one of those tubs, they reward you by giving you another tub). She repeated this action no less than three times, all the time smugly and loudly proclaiming how she slipped popcorn's stranglehold on the US economy. She also passed out ten cans of soda to the busload of children she had brought (which I am totally baffled by, because upon entrance to the advance screening, my purse was searched AND I had to walk through a metal detector), and produced a bag of candy as large as Brazil. Way to go, Lady Cheapington! You brought the movie theater snack industry to its knees.

Blackout: Conversely, Blackout got pretty good reviews, which is really the only reason I picked it up, and not because I still secretly enjoy listening to "Hit Me Baby One More Time" and pretending to slam my locker in a coy, come-hither fashion. However, I found this album shockingly unlistenable-- the last third of it might be totally awesome, but I will never know, as I had to turn it off somewhere in the middle of a song called "Get Naked (I Got a Plan)."

Graduation: I ain't saying it's a bad stinker/I'm just saying it's no "Golddigger." (Yes! I am an awesome rapper. Someone bring me some Louis Vuitton clothes now.) My favorite song on it so far is "Can't Tell Me Nothing," but "Stronger" is also fun. I was a bit perplexed by "Drunk and Hot Girls," but see an awesome opportunity for a collabo between he and Spears on "Drunk and Hot Girls Get Naked (I Got a Plan)."

Birdman Speaks

I hope you enjoy this footage of the Birdman, the super fanscot of the Philadelphia Eagles. Please note that I know this guy personally, and that makes me super mega awesome.

Kiim and Benjamiin get a Wii

In what will likely prove to be the stupidest idea ever in terms of ever getting our thank you notes out, Ben and I purchased a Nintendo Wii last night, and I must say, without qualifiers, that it is the coolest video game system ever. So far, I have defeated Ben at Wii Baseball, Wii Golf, Wii Bowling and Wii Shooting Range, thus proving once and for all that, at least on some level, I am good at sports.

The only major side effect has been that my Wii arm is very sore, and tends to pulse with muscle tics. This, after only one night of play, is slightly alarming. Alhtough I must admit that we repeatedly ignored the Wii's warnings that we should probably take a break and relax for a minute (That Wii, always thinking of our well-being!).

I will attempt not to let the Wii curtail my blogging habits, but it's really hard, knowing that every second that passes is a second that I am not working on my Wii backhand for Wii tennis, or further improving me Wii avatar, which looks a lot like me, only with this weird Rastafarian haircut, as apparently the Wii creators do not believe in offering curly hair as a hairstyle option.

WIBD?

Increasingly, I find myself asking the question, "What is Britney Spears doing right now?" I have kind of become obsessed with this-- I think, perhaps, because at work we are forced to watch Fox News during our lunch hour, and Fox News appears to be about 80% dedicated to the comings and goings of Ms. Spears. I generally know what she is wearing each day, what she looks like when she's sobbing uncontrollably, how she changes her hats to fit her moods, and what shapes the acne on her face is making from one day to the next.

But, I wonder, what is Britney doing during the hours of her day that are not covered by Fox News (which, weirdly, seems to have inked a deal with TMZ.com, which seems sort of odd for a news channel whose only other extensive coverage appears to be on Why the President Is Doing a Super Awesome Job!).

I mean, think about it-- it's 9:29 p.m. here in Cleveland right now, and I am wearing a big gray sweater and typing on my blog. That means it is 6:29 p.m. where Britney is (presumably) right now-- and what is she doing? Right now? Is she eating? Is she in some sort of yoga class? Right this minute, is she scratching her ass?

This concept can also be applied to pretty much anyone-- somewhere out in the world right now, the Pope is doing something. My mom is doing something. It's actually kind of mind-boggling, if you think about it-- all around the world, people that you know in real life and in TMZ life are doing things that you're not a part of, that you can only conjecture about.

This is, really, a concept that sometimes tends to overload my synapses, which is why I choose to focus more on the Britney situation.

So, if you had to hazard a guess, what would you think Britney is doing right now? My guess: buying a new hat. With a lollipop in her mouth. Holding a small dog. Without her children.

I'm willing to bet I'm right.

Okay, so clearly I haven't exactly done anything to make this writing group happen yet. I think I was hoping that I would wake up one day and be some sort of writing group starting guru, or that woodland creatures would have just set the whole thing up for me, so I could just log on and look like a hero. Lest I appear to be an Indian-giver of writing group promises, I will get this thing up and running. I just need to overcome some general malaise, which mainly seems to stem from the fact that, now that the wedding is over, I have so much free time that I literally don't know what to do with it, so I do absolutely nothing.

This is not strictly true; Ben was out of town this weekend, so on my first weekend of alone time since long before the wedding, I accomplished the following things:

1. Bought speakers for my laptop, whose own internal speakers had died long ago.

2. Listened to the shitty music I have on my laptop through my new speakers (for instance, right this very second I am listening to the "Strongbad Techno" song from Homestar Runner, and I just got done listening to "P.I.M.P." Oh, and Genesis' "No Son of Mine" just came on, so I'm going to have to skip it so that I don't fall to the ground in a gelatinous goo of total gaywadness).

3. Packed away my summer clothes, so my closet is now capri-free.

4. Thought about writing thank you cards, a little.

5. Watched season 7 of The Simpsons, arguably among the best of the seasons. Actually, I like season 7 of the season better than I like the actual, real-life season of spring. So that's saying a lot.

6. Pretended like I was going to work on my craptastic novel that I've been working on since high school, but didn't fool anyone, so went and watched reruns of I Love New York II.

7. Made the best Chex Mix, like, fucking, ever.

Oh, and, Becki's boyfriend Joe, who just happens to be the Philadelphia Eagles Birdman, was in a promo spot during the third quarter of the Eagles game yesterday, so I watched that about seventeen times. God, I wish he had been at the wedding, so he could have done that squawk.

(Note: I forgot to skip "No Son of Mine," and I just noticed it's still playing. Why do I have this? Of all the Genesis songs I could have, why this one? I wonder if I have that one about the homeless people that was on this same album. God, I was obsessed with this album when I was in the fifth grade. That's why I grew up to be such a lameass.)

So this week, Ben and I are rededicating ourselves to doing post-wedding wrap-up stuff (which is not nearly as much fun as pre-wedding stuff, because I know there's not going to be a big party after I finally buy the stamps for the as-yet-unwritten thank you cards), and then maybe I'll be ready to start the writing group. Those of you who expressed interest, do not despair! I promise it is just over the horizon.

Although it appears I'm going to have to go through and delete some of my mp3s first.

The time is (almost) now

Just in the last couple weeks, I've been feeling compelled to start writing again. Not just blogging writing (becaue as I've proven, my blogging is a bit sub-par of late), but actual writing writing.

This is a big deal-- I know a lot of you out there left the MFA program and your day to day life changed very little. I, on the other hand, left school and immediately proceeded to not write anything for the last three and a half years. Essentially, I figured, I had written a (very short) book, and was now entitled to list my name as "Kim Shable, MFA" on my TV Guide subscription.

I think I was just burned out-- kind of the way a greyhound doesn't really feel the need to run after a few years chasing the rabbit. And I also met a sexy dude, and moved into his house, and so writing took a back burner to being a sexy beast.

But just lately, I've been thinking, "maybe I could write something." I don't even know for sure if I could anymore-- I might have too much insurance knowledge in my head right now to make room for anything made up.

So I was wondering-- if I were to start some sort of informal writing group, would anyone be interested in allying themselves to it? I might have to start slow, with prompts and word limits and the whole deal, so I can ease back into it (if I try to write a novel right now, my brain might get tired and give up and go watch reruns of Just Shoot Me).

Any interest? If not, no big. I can continue with my unchecked TV viewing alllll night.

Power of the Pen

If you could, please take a moment to wish my fabulous cousin Katie good luck on her Power of the Pen try-outs tomorrow-- I will attempt to hide my jealousy that I am no longer the best writer in the family!

For those of you who aren't from 'round these parts (although Power of the Pen might be a national thing? But I don't know, because I got my ass kicked at the state level, so I didn't really progress much beyond that), Power of the Pen is a writing competition open to seventh and eighth graders, in which the writers have a limited amount of time to write a short piece based on a prompt given at the start of the session.

My own Power of the Pen story is a tragic one-- in seventh grade, I was felled the evening before the local round of competition by a vicious stomach flu that left me unable to compete. On a side note, that same night I ate a homemade pizza, and, convinced that it had poisoned me and robbed me of my one chance to finally kick ass at a (admittedly nerdily academic) team "sport," I swore off pizza for the next four years.

In the eighth grade I made it to the aforementioned state level, only to be positively crushed, leaving me embittered. Oh, I still wrote-- most famously, I went on to complete the infamous John Boston novel, quite possibly The Worst Novel Ever Written By Anyone, Ever-- but it wasn't really until college that my urge to use writing as a form of ass-kicking-ness returned.

Based on the story that Katie read me tonight, though, I have no doubts that, if such a thing exists, she will make it to the nationals. And I will ride on her coat tails to glory!

Good luck, Katie!

I've been trying to come up with something interesting to blog about for the past few days-- I promised that, upon my return, I would be a blogging machine, right? But thus far, nothing really of note has occurred. I did get a really bitchin' haircut (only one day after returning from my honeymoon, which prompted my boss to announce that "pretty soon, I would be going on an All-McDonald's Diet and going to sleep in flannel pajamas with a chastity belt underneath," because apparently cutting one's hair is tantamount to Giving Up Entirely), but hesitate to comment on it further until I can get a decent picture of it to share with you.

But other than the new 'do, there just hasn't been much happening. Or maybe there has, but because the wedding was such a gigantic event, it makes all other events in my life seem insanely small and lame? Possibly.

Either way, I'm beginning to worry that I have become boring. What's worse, I fear that I may have been boring for some time now, but had the crutch of Discussing the Wedding to fall back on.

I guess it's kind of like when you go on an amazing vacation, and take tons of pictures, but as soon as you return and people start asking you about the trip, you can't think of anything to say, other than, "it was really, really fun." Also: "We went putt-putt golfing," because you always go putt-putt golfing on vacation. We would have gone in Mexico, but such a thing did not seem to exist there. Which is silly, since the whole thing could have been Mayan-themed, which would have been awesome.

Anyway, I'm hoping to get my Person of Interest Mojo back shortly. Actually, I just thought of something way better to blog about than what I just wrote, but I think I'll save it for tomorrow-- I can't blow all my interestingness at once.

Will post more as soon as...

1. Office where computer is kept is reverted back to its normal state, away from its current state of Giant Messy Wedding Present Holding Pen

2. I get tired of my new shredder, or run out of things to shred

3. I work up the nerve to call my very nice but still somewhat intimidating photographer to find out how, exactly, we go about building our album

4. I find a way to re-enter society as Kim Oja, Married Girl, rather than Kim Shable, wedding-obsessed engaged girl who can talk about nothing other than her wedding

Until then, please enjoy this picture of Mexico, and please, don't be shy about goading me into posting, as I will likely recline in my living room under my souvenir Mexican blanket watching reruns of "The First 48" until the end of time.

PS: This picture was taken at Xel-Ha, which is where they filmed the movie Blue Lagoon, which means that I have gone swimming in the same water as Brooke Shields. I find that sort of gross.

Things I learned in Mexico

1. If the Atlanta airport loses your luggage, as they so often do, do not panic. Luckily for us all, Wal-Mart has penetrated even the most beautiful of locations. Once there, you will find an excellent Mexican Wal-Mart swimsuit, some perfectly serviceable Mexican Wal-Mart toiletries, and a most excellent Mexican Wal-Mart skort. Upon your return from Mexican Wal-Mart, your luggage will arrive.

2. It is helpful if you try to learn at least some phrases in Spanish before traveling to Mexico. For instance:

What time is it?

Where are we?

What is this I'm eating?

All those would have been helpful phrases for me to learn. However, my Sesame Street Spanish of Ola!, Gracias, Agua and Por Favor got me much farther than I would have anticipated.

3. For your information, the letter X is pronounced as a SH sound in the Mayan language. I tell you this so that you can avoid the embarassment that followed me pronouncing Xcaret and Xel-Ha as Excarrot and Excelha.

4. The Mayans still exist today, which I totally did not know, having assumed that, like the Aztecs, they were largely wiped out. Not so! In fact, they still comprise a large portion of the population in the Riviera Maya, where we stayed; over 10% of the population of Mexico is Mayan, and does not speak Spanish. (There is no joke in this one; I just found it extremely interesting.) On a side note, though, Mayan tour guides do enjoy making perhaps too many human sacrifice jokes.

5. They do not have squirrels in Mexico, but rather iguanas, wild pigs, feral cats, and some animal that we couldn't actually identify, but insisted on calling a Badgerito, which I'm sure is highly offensive, but which we found unendingly funny. They also have this weird half midget-deer, half-gopher thing that was weirdly ominous.

6. The movie Blue Lagoon was filmed in the previously mentioned Xel-ha; however, do not hold that against it, as it is probably the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Also, it has several all-you-can-eat buffets, which is definitely a bonus.

7. In all, Mexico-- specifically the Riviera Maya-- is about the greatest, most romantic place you can ever go for your honeymoon; its only real downfall is that it is, in fact, so spectacular that it makes the prospect of going to work tomorrow make me throw up a little in my mouth.

Pictures to follow tomorrow as soon as Blogger ceases its broken-ness!

Ojas at the hitchin' post

Greatest. Day. Ever. Thanks to everyone who made it so special-- those who were present, and those who were present in spirit. Special thanks to the greatest maid of honor and matron of honor ever, Ashley and Megan, and to my new sister-in-law (weird!) Becki, and most thanks of all to my wonderful, amazing, astounding husband Ben. If you want to check out more pictures, or if you were in attendance and have pictures you still need to upload to fulfill your friendly honor (hint hint), go to our Snapfish site.

Now, to Mexico. Ole!

The last you'll hear from Kim Shable

With the wedding rapidly approaching, I have decided it best not to try to cram in any more blog posts until after I get back from my honeymoon, at which point I will officially be Kim Oja. Thus, this will be my last blog post ever as Kim Shable.

This concept weirds me out a little-- not that I don't want to change my name, because it's obviously my choice to do so. But it still seems a little scary-- what if Kim Oja is nothing like Kim Shable? What if she enjoys collecting Hummel figurines and surfing the Web for midi files of her favorite Sousa marches? What if she's not funny? What if she's not nice? What if she's lame?

Since Kim Shable and Kim Oja will (soon) be the same person, I realize these fears are ridiculous. But still, giving up the last name that you've had for twenty-eight years, it's fucking weird.

And more than a little sad-- most of my friends know me as, and call me, Kimshable, as if it were all one word. And there are no male Shables left to carry on the name-- my dad and his brother only had one child each, and we were both girls who married. So by taking the Oja name, I officially close the door on the last of the Shables.

Which is a silly thought-- if I had stayed single forever, there would still be no kids to carry on the name. And if I kept my name, I would still want the kids to have Ben's last name. But it's still very sad, knowing my time as a Shable has come to a close.

I hope Kim Oja is cool. I hope she writes a book that makes her famous. I know she'll be married to the man that she loves, and she'll always be happy.

And I've already been practicing her signature, and it looks pretty rad. All in all, an auspicious start to what I know will be an amazing marriage.

An Elegy for Geauga Lake

I emerge from my pre-wedding blitzkrieg (twelve days and counting!) with sad news: though many of you probably never visited it, the hallowed theme park of my youth, Geauga Lake, announced late last week that it will be removing all but its water rides effective immediately, thus turning it into yet another water park.

I don't know about other areas of the nation, but northeast Ohio already seems pretty saturated with water parks-- Holiday Sands (although no one seems to remember Holiday Sands but me, so maybe I just made it up), Dover Park, Pioneer Waterland... This, sadly, only strengthens my belief that Geauga Lake, as a whole, will be dead within five years, making Aurora devoid of theme-related amusement, but leaving behind it one humongous parking lot.

Unlike many other people, I didn't bat an eye when Sea World left town-- I'm not a big fan of being splashed in the face by whales who are, quite obviously, swimming around in their own urine.

But Geauga Lake was a huge part of my life growing up-- I never worked there (though many of my friends and classmates did, throughout the years-- I prefered the quiet and air-conditioned-ness that my job as a local library bookshelver afforded me), but my dad, being a Geauga Lake FANATIC, took me there three times a week for ten summers: a total of over 400 times.

Did I get sick of Geauga Lake? Yes. There are only so many times you can ride the Big Dipper before you begin to realize that it's just not that much fun to have your soul rattled out of you on a mediocre wooden roller coaster.

But now that it's leaving, I can't help but feel a little maudlin. My dad and I spent many, many hours of our lives there together-- that space needle thing might not have been exciting, or even remotely fun, but it's always been a landmark in my map of the past.

So farewell, Geauga Lake: you will be missed. Except by my mom, who seems thrilled that she will finally be free of your chokehold on my dad.

Where to?

As a gift at my bridal shower two weeks ago, Ben's mom bought me a most extravagant Garmin navigation system. She and I both share an all-consuming fear of getting lost in strange places, so it was a perfectly suited gift.

Unfortunately, though, in the past two weeks I have not actually been called upon to go anywhere I don't already know how to get to (except for Old Time Pottery in Parma, which Garmin led us to most efficiently). So for right now, I'm mostly just performing the age old ritual of Fucking Around With My New Toy Until I Accidentally Break It.

So far, the best feature (other than its obvious navigational abilities) is the fact that I can customize the voice in which the Garmin speaks. For its first two weeks, it was an erudite, Russian-sounding woman named Jill, but just this morning, in a bit of a funk with pre-wedding jitters and mall anxiety (attempting to find a suitable gift for my parents), I changed it over to the soothing sounds of Daniel, a smoking-hot British dude who probably looks a lot like Colin Firth (at least, this is my aural impression of him).

Tonight, I might upload some MP3s and pictures to it, just because I can. And when the price of gas goes down to a more tolerable $2.80 level, I plan to drive myself out into the middle of nowhere and let Daniel lead me home with his sexy, sexy robot voice.

Things I will have time to do when this wedding is over:

1. Shave my legs more than just for bridal showers and dress fittings

2. Eat real meals, instead of nineteen fistfulls of garlic bagel chips from industrial sized bag purchased at BJs

3. Answer e-mail (I hereby declare E-MAIL BANKRUPTCY on all e-mails currently awaiting answering in my hotmail inbox)

4. Monitor TiVo for reruns of Adult Swim cartoons and shows featuring Will Arnett

5. Dwell on the fact that I have a creepy mini-crush on that kid who played George Michael on Arrested Development and is currently rocking it hardcore in Superbad

6. Order photos of the last nine months' worth of events from Snapfish (always uploading, never buying)

7. Write on my blog more than once every ten days or so (sorry, guys!)

8. Actually eat lunch, rather than spending lunch arguing with the people at the Aurora Inn, who apparently have no recollection of the block of rooms I reserved there

9. Go back to avoiding craft stores, instead of spending hours in them choosing just the right fake nasturtiums

10. Sleep. Oh, sweet sleep, I miss you.

Meanwhile, I refuse to give up the fact that our wedding is going to be mega-kick-ass. So in the end, it's all worth it. Superbad!

The art of beauty

As the wedding grows closer, I find myself attempting, often in vain, to somehow correct the years of bad habits and master the unlearned arts of beauty maintenance. On my list this week:

1. Fade embarrassing tan lines
2. Curb insane sweating
3. Artfully shape brows

The tan lines are going to be an issue, because for some reason, my tan never really goes away, which is really great, except that I have tan lines from my past three bathing suits threatening to draw attention away from my sassy dress. Solution: go tanning ($7).

As for the sweating, I figure-- outdoor bridal shower? Outdoor wedding? Many hugs from people who do not want my constant patina of perspiration on their nice dresses and suits? Solution: procure prescription strength Secret deodorant ($8).

And my brows? Manly and wild, like the great forests of Tennesee, they must be contained. Solution: plucking (free!).

Sounds like I have it all under control. But you would be wrong. So, so wrong.

For all three beautification rituals collided in a shocking miasma of decline on Tuesday, when, armed (no pun intended) with a liberal coating of prescription strength anti-stink and sporting a bald spot in my left brow that apparently no one can see but me, I entered the stand-up tanning bed, only to learn that even the most powerful anti-perspirant is no match for the 100-watt bulbs of fury, and that, when exposed, the skin under your eyebrows can burn.

So now I am a stinky, piebald, sunburned mess (although I will say that after my stinging all-over burn subsides, my tan lines WILL be almost gone), just in time for my engagement photos, which were earlier tonight, and my shower and bachelorette party, which is this weekend. After which I will be sealing myself in a large Ziploc baggie to prevent any further damage. But you might have to let me out after awhile, due to the stink.

The people you came in with

Today was the last day at work for one of my co-workers, a guy named Todd, who secretly fed me most of my information about the Cavs so I could go home and look smart in front of Ben (it was Todd who tipped me off to the fact that Daniel Gibson was nicknamed Booby long before everyone else started calling him that). In the old building, I sat diagonally from Todd; in the new building, I sat right across from him. We were never really friends, but I really liked Todd-- he was funny, and a good worker, and a very smart guy. And now he's gone, and I'll probably never see him again.

In fact, a lot of people have left my office lately, mostly because of the drive, as my new office is about seven hundred miles from everywhere, and you must drive around something called Dead Man's Curve to get there. In fact, of the original group I worked with at the old office, only two people remain, other than my boss and the other supervisor. We've got new people, and they're awesome, but there's something to be said for the people you came in with.

I've always had a lot of friends-- not to sound pompous, but I am insanely likeable. But co-workers are a different breed of friends. They're like stealth friends-- you don't even realize how much you like them until they leave.

And if you think about it, you probably spend more time with your co-workers during any given week than you do with any of your other, outside-world friends-- even, probably, more than you spend with your significant other or family. So the sudden void left by Todd's absense is troubling.

The sudden fact that there is now only one dude in my entire department is also troubling, because now we could all begin crying at a moment's notice, with no dudes there to hold us back. On the plus side, I don't have to hide the secret departmental tampon supply anymore, but that is but small consolation.

Farewell, Todd-- you will be missed.

Two Random Mix CDs, and what they say about my life at the time of their creation (roughly)

Random CD 1:

1. Come On Over-- Christina Aguilera
2. Wonderful-- Everclear
3. Simple Kind of Life-- No Doubt
4. Music-- Madonna
5. Why Does It Always Rain On Me?-- Travis
6. Absolutely (Story of a Girl)-- 9 Days
7. Don't Change Your Plans-- Ben Folds Five
8. Anyway-- Dynamite Hack
9. Faith-- Limp Biskit
10. You're a God-- Vertical Horizon
11. Boys in the Hood-- Dynamite Hack
12. Hero-- Foo Fighters
13. Thong Song-- Sisqo
14. Everything You Want-- Vertical Horizon
15. Sour Girl-- Stone Temple Pilots
16. Say My Name-- Destiny's Child
17. Superman (Kryptonite)-- 3 Doors Down
18. These Are Not My Pants-- Five Iron Frenzy

What it says:

1. I must have been in college at the time, because had I known I had a CD like this among my possessions while I was in graduate school, I probably would have destroyed it so that no one would find out that I had a CD with "Thong Song" on it.

2. I had not yet developed (and subsequently gotten over) my short-lived but intense hatred of Christina Aguilera.

3. I likely listened to the radio a lot more, as this is mostly top ten hits (with the possible exception of "These Are Not My Pants").

4. I apparently liked a band called Dynamite Hack, and even owned their CD-- I just went through my collection and found it as proof.

Random CD 2:

1. No Such Thing-- John Mayer
2. Ohio-- CSN & Y
3. Lose Yourself-- Eminem
4. Yesterday-- The Beatles
5. Push-- Matchbox 20
6. Cool Blue Reason-- Cake
7. How You Remind Me-- Nickelback
8. Somebody To Love-- Queen
9. Margaret-- Jill Sobule
10. Trunk Fulla Amps-- Self
11. Song Sung Blue (Live)-- Neil Diamond
12. Blame It On You-- Gin Blossoms
13. Who Will Save Your Soul?-- Jewel
14. Go Tell It On the Mountain-- Harry Simeone Chorale
15. Misery-- Green Day
16. Piece of My Heart-- Janis Joplin
17. Forever In Blue Jeans-- Neil Diamond
18. As Is-- Ani DiFranco
19. 45-- Elvis Costello
20. These Apples-- Barenaked Ladies
21. Leave the Biker-- Fountains of Wayne

What it says:

1. I must have been super depressed when I made this CD, because the only time I ever put "Song Sung Blue (Live)" on a CD was when I was super depressed. Same with "Go Tell It On the Mountain," unless it was a Christmas CD.

2. I must have been in graduate school at this point, because with the exception of Neil Diamond and the Gin Blossoms and Nickelback, this is a somewhat more socially acceptable group.

3. I liked Fountains of Wayne WAY before "Stacy's Mom" came out.

As a side note, on a second listen, I have determined that this is the CD that Ash, Pen and I were listening to when we got stopped by the military convoy on the way to my birthday party, and I got the ominous feeling that something bad was going to happen, and then it did. Creepy.

Today: two massive thunderstorms, with actual lightning, not that crap lightning that just lights up the clouds. Two near-power-outages, a great deal of really loud, teeth-chattering thunder, and a car abandoned on a flooded street (not mine). Oh, the glory of it all!

I love, love, love thunderstorms, to the point that it's probably unhealthy. As in, I wish it would thunderstorm every day. I wish for thunderblizzards in the winter (does such a thing even exist? If so, I must be a part of it). I like to hang out in the Rainforest at the zoo, just for the simulated thunderstorm. I even like it at the grocery store when they have the fake thunderstorm over the produce.

I do wonder where my love of thunderstorms comes from-- somehow it seems romantic, or exciting, like I might suddenly be kidnapped by a handsome and well-meaning stranger who takes me to his castle and makes me his love kitten. (This would only happen during a thunderstorm, as it would be highly anticlimactic to be kidnapped by a lovestarved castle-dweller on a hot, sunny day.) Or maybe it's just a break from the ordinary-- sunny or rainy, windy or humid, or whatever, you must admit that a storm really breaks up the monotony.

And I especially love power outages, although they seem to happen less and less frequently. In fact, I couldn't really tell you when the last storm-related power outage I experienced was, although Ashley can tell you how pissed I was when the power didn't go out during Hurricane Isabel, the Lamest Hurricane Ever (I nearly had to fistfight an old woman for the last flashlight in Walmart, and did I even get to use it? No.).

On a side note, I must admit distaste for fully grown adults who act like they're afraid of storms. If my cat can sit through a thunderclap without flinching, so can you. There. I said it.

Fanscots of Glory

This weekend, Ben and I had the enormous privilege of being invited to the official NFL Fanscot reunion, held in scenic Canton, Ohio (home of the Football Hall of Fame-- because that's right, bitches, we have two halls of fame to your none, unless you live somewhere where there's a hall of fame, which you probably don't).

This was due, in large part, to the fact that Ben's sister is dating the Philadelphia Eagles' fanscot Birdman, who, in real life, is an awesome guy named Joe. Awesome enough, in fact, to lend us these Birdman beaks and masks, so we could experience the sensation of being a fanscot, if only for a few moments. (The sensation was that of being stared at a lot.)

Following the Hall of Fame parade (in which many bands appeared, although none of the trombonists had the good sense to keep their horns up, nor did any of them perform horn swings, much to my chagrin), we went back to the hotel where the fanscots were staying. There, each fanscot had decorated his or her door with team paraphernalia-- Joe, for instance, was stationed across from the Hogettes, who had covered their door with Hog Balls. Which is highly upsetting.

Throughout the day, I learned many interesting things about the Fanscots-- what they do, where they live, what they look like without their pope hats on. I learned that Big Dawg was at a wedding and couldn't make it (although a very strange fellow named Brownie the Elvis Elf was there in his stead, giving me horrible Aurora Greenman flashbacks), so that kind of dashed my hopes of meeting my own personal Browns Fanscot, although Joe promised to arrange a meeting one of these days, which will probably just make me pass out, because I have a weird mascot fetish that I don't care to discuss.

All in all, I learned that Fanscots really are just normal people. Who really, really like football. And dressing up. Which, when you really think about it, couldn't that be said about any one of us?

It lives

I really am sorry for the lack of communication lately-- I know I got on a roll there for awhile, and even extricated myself from the You Should Blog More section of Pen and M's blog. But I am sorry to report that absolutely nothing of interest has happened to me lately, with the exception of the following things:

1. Ben's sister and her boyfriend are coming tomorrow to take us to the Football Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Which, as you know, I would not normally find interesting. But it just so happens that Becki's boyfriend is the Philadelphia Birdman, Eagles superfan of high local acclaim (so I am told-- as a some-time Browns fan, I recognize only the superfandom of Big Dawg). I have been informed that there will be many other superfans there, which will allow me to indulge in my lifelong love of mascots, both official and unofficial.

2. I picked up a copy of my mentor Joe Mackall's newest book, "Plain Secrets," which is about the Amish. I happen to love the Amish for many reasons, among them the fact that I personally know two people that lost their virginity to an Amish, which you have to admit is totally interesting. Anyway, I will read this book soon, in theory, so long as I do not first die from a massive paper-cutter wound while attempting to assemble the final pieces parts of my invitations. But you should read the book right now. Go on! What are you waiting for? You're not going to learn about the Amish sitting here reading this! Except for the fact that, aside from the virginity thing, I'm also obsessed with the Amish because they got rollerblades before I did, which I thought was totally unfair.

But other than that, my life has mostly consisted of handwriting addresses onto envelopes, struggling to learn how to print things on both sides of a piece of paper ("Why the fuck is it printing upside down now? I will kill you, bastard printer of Hades!"), and staring forlornly at my bike, who it appears will remain locked in my garage for the rest of the summer.

Mundane-gus Fletcher

Okay, so I know I haven't been the best at blogging recently, even though I promised to stop being on hiatus and start bringing the awesome again. But quite honestly, other than reading Harry Potter and doing some occasional wedding stuff, not much has happened. A short breakdown of the week's events:

*I saw the Simpsons movie on Friday, and it was highly hilarious, based solely on the line "Spider Pig/Spider Pig/Does whatever a Spider Pig does." If you go to see it, I recommend staying all the way through the credits. Also, just a warning-- you'll get to see Bart's ween, which is totally disturbing.

*My car appears to have developed its own cloak of invisibility, rendering my translucent whenever I attempt to merge onto the freeway. No less than five cars nearly ran me off the road last week alone.

*I discovered a Wal-Mart that's easily within driving distance of work, which is depressing, because it means I no longer have a reason to beg Ben to go to Target with me in the evening.

*A friend of mine told me the other day that she had seen a special on the Antichrist on television, and that he was supposed to be of Middle Eastern descent, very charismatic, and experience a swift rise to power. Which got me to thinking-- I'm of Middle Eastern descent, very charismatic, and I did become mail audit supervisor shockingly quickly. Perhaps...?

Post Traumatic Potter Sydrome

I don't know about the rest of you, but if you're anything like me, you're still reeling from LOP-- Life After Potter. I personally find myself going to bed early under the pretense of finally getting some sleep (between wedding, Potter and work, I've been averaging 5 hours a night), only to stay up until one a.m. rereading the crucial parts (and purposefully skipping over the two hundred page section in which they do absolutely nothing except camp, which I can experience just by staring at Jellystone Park for a few hours). Also, romantically enough, right this very minute Ben is sitting in the living room, listening to disc 9 of the book on CD.

For those of us unwilling to let the whole thing pass unanalyzed, I suggest heading to Post Potter: After the Deathly Hallows, a support group of sorts created by that Head Girl of Potterdom, Ashley. It is wracked with spoilers, so if you haven't finished reading, or haven't started (riiiiight), do not go there. But if you have, and you want to discuss, there's your chance.

In the meantime, I must retire to (pretend to sleep and) reread The Prince's Tale a couple more times. Alas, poor Snapey. I knew him well.

A Farewell to Wands

Just finished HP & the DH about two hours ago... face is puffy, but spirits are good. I have so much to say, but don't want to spoil anything for those who haven't finished. So here, in extremely censored form, are my thoughts:

1. I heart Harry Potter.

2. I heart cameos-- ride on, Cadogan, ride on!

3. Some people seem a little too brave since the last time we saw them.

4. Some deaths: not necessary?

5. Some: highly necessary. But totally gut-wrenchingly sad.

6. Where the fuck was the Mimbulus Mimbletonia?

I will say this: I am a life-long reader of books, and studied literature in-depth for seven years, and I have never, never cried the way I cried at this book (except maybe at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, but dude, I was only eight). All in all, a highly satisfying end to a cultural phenomenon I feel proud to have been a part of, even if I wasn't in on the ground floor (much props to Ashley and Denise K. for getting me on board).

So, Potter lovers, where do we go from here? And don't say Lord of the Rings, because I am not doing that.

Dear Snape,

As I prepare to read the final Harry Potter book, I realize that it will be my final chance to tell you how I really feel about you. Which is that I really, really, really love you.

I know you've done some bad things. I know your hair is greasy and and you have a hook nose, and in the book, the pictures of you depict you with a creepy pointed beard and mustache combo, which I am not generally accepting of. But I can't help it. I believe you to be, by far, the most interesting character in the whole series. Including Harry Potter himself.

That's right, America. Harry Potter is lame in comparison to Snape. I don't apologize for my feelings.

Anyway, Snape. What I'm really writing to tell you is that I will be super, super pissed if you turn out to be evil. Don't be evil, Snape! I command you! Be good, and fall in love with Petunia, the sister of your first love. Because that would be so awesome if you were Harry's step uncle. I don't know how we'll deal with the Vernon situation. But you've dealt with so much worse!

[Please note: I do not believe Snape will end up with Petunia, because I am not retarded. But wouldn't it be swell?]

Anyway again, Snape. Sorry for all the interjections. I still feel the need to explain my love for you to those less inclined to accept your sour hatred and intermittent killing sprees.

So, that having been said, do not be evil. Please?

Stay awesome,

Kim

PS: Okay, so maybe Harry's not lame. But I still think you're cooler. Also, please tell Alan Rickman that I want to be his girlfriend. Okay?

Ferrets: The Pursuit of Excellence

Tonight, a show called "Ferrets: The Pursuit of Excellence" is going to air on PBS. This, alone, is hilarious. But the reason I even know about this show is because I was watching NOVA last night (because not unlike Ashley, I, too, enjoy dorky public television) and after it was over, this commercial came on.

This may be the greatest commercial of all time, due to:

1. The look of stone glee on the woman's face

2. The fact that they are throwing a ferret into the air with a sheet

3. There is clearly ferret poop on the sheet

I swear, I must have watched this commercial 100 times. I do not, however, have any actual plans to watch "Ferrets: The Pursuit of Excellence."

Two ways to end a pity party

I was having one of those shitty days, which I have about once a month or so (or, for about a six-month period while I was in graduate school), during which I feel that no one likes me at all, and that my disappearance would have about as much effect on the world as the cancellation of "Family Matters" (which, I'm sure, at least a couple of you assumed was still on).

I don't really know what prompts these days, but I do know that a friend once told me (during my six-month bout with extreme self-perceived unpopularity) "If we were to organize a weekly 'We Love Kim Shable' party, you would wonder why we weren't throwing them twice weekly."

Rereading that, I don't know if I should have held on to that particular statement as long as I have.

All I know is, I was feeling totally unpopular and nobodyish, until I got home and two things happened:

1. My passport arrived two weeks earlier than the earliest they said it would. This makes me feel extremely important, as there are constantly stories on the news about people who applied for their passports in March and still don't have them. Of course, the ultimate irony in all this is that, since the time I ordered my passport back in May, Ben and I have changed our honeymoon plans to go to Mexico, for which I currently don't actually need a passport.

2. While walking the dog, Jeni and I saw a man in the street taking pictures of something with his cell phone. As we approached, we saw a gigantic black bird perched menacingly on the fence of the baseball field-- a buzzard, something I have never actually seen before in real life. We watched it for about five minutes, and were particularly enthralled when it hopped off the fence and began eating a dead squirrel in the road. Once we dropped Che off at the house, I ran back to try to take its picture, but it was already gone.

What does this mean? Is it a sign of some sort? A sign that I shouldn't be so down, because at least I get to sit on my couch eating Cheez-Its instead of scavenging for carrion? All I know is, it's a lot harder to feel bad about yourself when there's a three foot tall raptor hanging out outside your house.

Shaby's back/tell a friend

Hiatus over. Was I missed? I suspect the answer is "You were gone?"

It was a much needed break, as I was beginning to-- and I am not making this up-- develop hives regarding my wedding status. But much has been accomplished, both wedding-wise and un-wedding-wise in the past ten days.

Wedding-wise:

*Bought wedding bands
*Bought sassy new wedding shoes
*Picked readings (one by David Sedaris!) and readers, and vows and other ceremony jargon
*Chose, ordered and approved invitations
*Tentatively chose favors (which are shockingly uncool, but still very cute, and their having been chosen immediately eliminated all signs of hives and irregular stomach issues)
*Fired DJ and hired Rocco
*Worked on registry (An issue: how many more things could we possibly need? This is why there is now a memory foam leg-separating pillow on my registry.)

Un-wedding-wise:

*Rediscovered fervent passion for shandies-- half light beer, half lemonade, all delicious
*Watched copious amounts of TiVo, including old favorite "Home Movies" on Adult Swim
*Read half of "The Little Friend" by Donna Tartt before mysteriously stopping
*Got weak little tan at beach
*Listened to the song "Dance Tonight" off Paul McCartney's new album 800 times

Now that the wedding stuff is a little more under control (until the invitations arrive, I guess, and I have to face the agony of either doing the correct thing of hand addressing 125 envelopes or printing snazzy labels instead), I intend to proceed through life with more of a Don't Worry, Be Happy, Bobby McFerrin-esque attitude. I also intend to e-mail the people I have been ignoring for the last three months, and possibly fall into a Harry Potter based coma. All in all, a nice, relaxing hiatus.

But I'm back, bitches. So be warned.

On hiatus

This is just a short post to let you know that I am going on hiatus for a couple days. Move me to the "blog more" section if you must, Pen and M, but know that I will return, stronger and more venerable than ever before!

In the meantime, I am giving myself a much-needed break from all things wedding over the 4th and just relaxing. Thus far, this includes:

1. Eating 3/4ths of a family-sized bag of (reduced fat, at least!) Shearer's Kettle Cooked Potato Chips

2. Going bowling after getting let out of work early-- I have my own ball, which I keep in the trunk of my car! Convenient!

3. Trying in vain to set up a Twitter account, which I am convinced would be awesome, even though I don't know anyone who uses it and it does seem vaguely annoying. Thoughts?

Anyway, I WILL return soon, so please don't abandon hope, ye who enter here.

Update (8:33 p.m.): So I did succeed in joining Twitter. Will I use this utterly mundane, ultimately soul-killing device? Probably. Probably most often when I'm out at a restaurant and Ben's in the bathroom, which is when I feel the most life-suckingly bored. Luckily for you, Twitter makes a special app that can let you see what I'm Twittering, which I have pasted right here onto my blog. Oh, the joy of it all!

Fall Into a funk

I must admit, this whole wedding planning thing isn't exactly shaping up to be the non-stop funnapalooza I had anticipated.

Now don't get me wrong-- I definitely still want to get married. That isn't the issue. The issue is, I want someone to plan the entire thing for me, and have everyone magically show up, and all I have to do is look sassy in my dress and dance with my sexy, sexy fiance.

But right now, we are drowning in tiny details. Like the favors. A quick poll: do you care what the favors are? I am very favor-oriented, and have hoarded every wedding favor I have ever been given. So that might explain why I am so fixated on having The Perfect Favor. But it turns out that such a thing does not exist, and many of the favors out there are unbearable, such as the leaf-shaped "Fall In Love" soap petals that Ashley so abhors.

Yes. My wedding is in the fall. I understand your delightful play on words. So let's not print it on all semi-decent favors, thus ruining them irreparably.

And the guest list, which, at times, ranges anywhere from seven thousand people to me, Ben, the dog, a justice of the peace, and a random homeless witness. Do not even talk to me about the guest list, or I will burst into tears.

I know-- I know-- that our wedding is going to be super awesome, and will likely be talked about for generations to come, especially when I bust out my killer dance moves, which I imagine will be eighty times more entertaining when I'm wearing a 40 pound dress. But these little details are killing us.

So those of you who have been married, please tell me-- does everyone reach a point like this? Or am I some sort of horrible anti-bride, doomed to wander the earth in my tattered dress like Miss Havesham?

PS: Is my head really that big in comparison to my shoulders? Yikes.

Dear Evil DJ Company,

Why are you not returning our calls or e-mails? Is it because you know we're going to fire you and hire Marita's awesome grandpa Rocco to DJ our wedding instead? Because rest assured, we are justified.

Since entering into a contract with you, you have:

*Purposefully rescheduled two meetings to make us miss the $50 bridal show discount deadline

*Assigned us a terrifyingly bland DJ named Gary, who has a mustache, which everyone knows I am not all right with

*And might I add, that Gary actually refused to come to our house to let us meet him? And then, when he finally came, he mostly told stories of how he used to spin records at the now-defunct Beachland Ballroom?

*Sent me e-mails addressed alternately to Mr. Shable, Ben Oja, and, most confusingly, "Heather"

*Charged us three hundred dollars more than Rocco is planning on charging

And now, you're not returning our calls. So call me, so that we can end this horrible charade and I can delete the backlog of e-mails you've sent (to Heather) advertising all the wonderful extra services you provide (our names in lights on the dance floor!) for just a small additional fee.



We don't want to fight. We just want to party like it's 1999.

All best,
Kim

The fall of Chris Benoit

A totally fucked-up story from Yahoo: former WCW wrestler (and member of the Four Horsemen along with Ric Flair, Arn Anderson, and Dean Malenko) Chris Benoit killed his wife and son over the weekend, and then shot himself.

Chris Benoit was totally a favorite of mine during my WCW glory days (along with sorely missed Eddie Guerero). Rich and Alan and I watched many a Benoit match, and marveled at his cheerful Candian-ness. I even had-- and still have, actually-- a Chris Benoit valentine card (because apparently, nothing says "I love you" like a sweaty, half-naked wrestler on a flimsy cardboard card).

But apparently, my former WCW heroes are not faring so well.

So please, Ric Flair, hear my impassioned plea-- do not die in some horrible way. Don't kill anybody, don't do any drugs, don't fly in any planes. Shirley might not miss you, but my heart, it would break.

Dear Shithead Neighbor,

First of all, the six flowering plants you have deposited haphazardly into the ground around your light pole do not constitute "a garden." And second of all, if my dog needs to poop two feet from them, and I am standing eight inches from her ass with a plastic baggie, ready to collect the damages, you do not have the right, as a decent person, to scream at me about how I need to "keep my filthy dog out of your garden, because that's what the tree lawn is for."

Obviously, you have never had a dog, and are not aware that they are not, in actuality, genetically programmed to shit on the tree lawn, and it is impossible to direct them to do so.

But aside from that, I am aghast at your inhumanity. What gives you the right to scream at me, in broad daylight, in front of other neighbors? I wasn't dancing on your "garden." We actually weren't even in your "garden." And may I remind you, I do not believe those plants constitute a fucking "garden!"

Does it honestly give you pleasure to make people like me feel bad about myself, and make me afraid to walk down your street again for fear of incurring your vengeful wrath? Once you got out of your iffy-looking pick-up truck, did you go inside and say to your husband (if he's even still with you, considering you probably berated him daily for not remembering to put his shoes back on his shoe tree) "I had quite the productive day, I went to the grocery store and then I made a nice-looking girl and her cute pet dog doubt their self-worth"?

Listen, I saw the sign on your lawn that says "Best Yard on the Street." I'm not quite certain if you made this sign yourself, or if some sort of pathetic block party committee gave it to you to shut you up for a few months so everyone else could enjoy their summer. But in my opinion, the Best Yard on the Street is not the one with the randomly sodded flowers, but the one in which people are not afraid to congregate, let their dogs and children run, and have a good time.

You probably don't have any children. And if you do, they probably left town right the fuck away.

Anyway, don't worry, Che and I won't be back to darken your "garden" again. Do not be surprised, however, to find that, in the middle of the night, your "garden" meets with an unfortunate accident. I'm just saying.

All best,

Kim

Could you hate this dog?

Night at Giant Eagle

Having slept until nearly noon this morning (after finally coming down from my mouse-disposal adrenaline high at two a.m. the night before), I found myself with an excess of energy around ten o'clock and decided to make the most of it with a trip to the grocery store, thinking it would be less crowded.

While there, I learned the following things:

1. Really, really ugly people go shopping at night.

2. They often bring their children, who are often barefoot.

3. They buy the following items: Spiderman popcicles. Fatback. Thomas' English muffins.

4. They have coupons for every item they buy.

5. They always pay by check.

6. They hate Oprah Winfrey ("Why that God-damn Oprah Winfrey got to be on the cover of every magazine? Give someone else a chance, girl!") and, confusingly, Maya Angelou ("That woman a bitch.").

7. They are very interested in what you're buying. ("What you got there? Peas? Why you buyin' peas? In the pod? That makes no sense.")

All in all, a highly depressing trip. Which I then decided to follow up by depositing two of the $2 checks I've received as dividends from the stock I got from work. Because nothing caps off a night at Giant Eagle like a $4 deposit slip.

Red Alert

I don't mean to alarm you, but it is 11:30 Friday evening, Ben is out of town, and there is definitely a mouse in my bathroom and I don't know what to do. I was just sitting on the floor in the living room, ripping up junk mail (the poor man's shredder), when I heard a fracas in the hallway and found Mamie crouched over what was most assuredly a brown mouse on the bathmat. At the time, the mouse appeared prone.

After stepping away for a few moments to freak out about the prospect of having to remove a dead mouse from my bathroom, I returned to find that the mouse was no longer there, and that Mamie had wadded up the bathmat into a big blue ball.

This is most disconcerting because it can mean only one of three things:

1. The mouse escaped and is now limping angrily around my house, waiting to wreak its horrible vengeance upon me while I sleep by pooping in my mouth.

2. The mouse is, in fact, dead, and is wadded up in the bathmat.

3. Even worse, the mouse is only wounded and wadded up in the bathmat, meaning I will somehow have to find a way to remove a wounded mouse from my bathroom.

Worse yet, this is my only bathroom, meaning if I intend to pee or shower at all over the next 48 hours, I am going to have to face this situation sooner or later. Probably sooner, as I just chugged down an entire Coke Zero in an effort to calm my nerves.

More news as events warrant.

UPDATE (12:01 a.m.): There is definitely a dead mouse rolled up in the bathmat. It is now up to me to remove said bathmat from the bathroom without freaking out to the max. Also, just as I typed that last sentence, a big, fat, horrible-looking Super Ant of some kind crawled across my writing desk. Face it: My house is being overrun by wildlife, and I will be dead by morning. Don't cry for me. It is what nature intended.

UPDATE (12:07 a.m.): I have successfully removed the dead mouse from the bathroom, using a complicated plan which involved scooping the entire bathmat into a garbage bag, taking said bag behind the garage, shaking it out vigorously so the dead mouse would fly off into the dark and I would never see it again, and bringing the (mysteriously unsoiled) bathmat back into the basement to be washed. I feel strangely empowered with my new dead animal removal skills.

Thank you Cavs

Okay, so we were swept by the Spurs. But, we went to the Finals. And by we, I mean you. So thank you, Lebron, Z, Drew, Sasha, Booby, Andy, Larry, Eric, Donyell, and Damon (and even Scot Pollard). I am a witness.

Also, thank you for giving me my evenings back. Seriously.