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.

Vote for Madelyn!

You love soda. You love babies. So wouldn't you love your soda to have a picture of a baby on it?

Click here to vote for my best friend Megan's baby Madelyn to be featured on a Jones Soda label. If you don't, Madelyn will know, and will cry and cry, and Megan will be so mad at you.

If nothing else, check it out for the awesome photo of Angry Madelyn-- seen below in much less angry, cuter form.

Call me

After two years of carrying Big Blue, I finally broke down and got me the kick-assiest new phone. Which is pink! Which I can't decide if that's acceptable or not.

I also got my own Bluetooth headset, which again, not sure about the acceptability of. I do feel like sort of a jackass wearing it. But if it means I can make a salad while talking on the phone and not worrying about slicing through the hands-free cord with my mondo giant vegetable knife (yes, I know I'm supposed to use the paring knife, but it just seems so weenie), then I'm all for it.

Since no one ever actually calls me except for Ashley, Megan, Marita and Kelly, I haven't had much of a chance to actually use the phone yet. But this has not deterred me from filling it to bursting with sweet-ass new ringtones, because yes, I am, unabashedly, one of those assholes that has annoying ringtones. But my phone plays "The Impression That I Get" when calls are received from people without caller ID!

I can even assign ringtones to specific people-- Ashley, for instance, has been assigned "Hedwig's Theme" from Harry Potter (which replaces her ringer on my old phone, Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough").

So if you act now, and tell me what ringtone you want, I will totally download it and assign it to you, depending, of course, if I actually have your telephone number. However, you will then be obligated to call me, because otherwise I will never hear my sweet, sweet ringtones in action.

Oh, my God, I sound like such a douche.

But, on a side note, I can tell you that Ben got an even cooler phone than me-- one that he can watch TV on. But it's not pink. And it doesn't play "The Impression That I Get." So I still think mine is better.

This person totally pisses me off.

Why another Kim Oja? Why so pretty? So unfair. SO UNFAIR.

That is all.

Devil Pants

Some of you may remember the shopping spree I went on earlier this year, in an update to delame my wardrobe? Well, on this shopping spree, it happens that I found the perfect pair of black pants, made of just the right fabric to repel dog and cat hair, and with just the right leg flare, so as not to look too librarianesque. And, they are a size six, which is most definitely not my size. But if I were to die in a horrible work-related incident, when they came to take my body away, they would find that I was wearing size six pants, and probably would have that figure engraved on my tombstone.

But these pants, I tell you, were sent here by Satan himself. Oh, yes, they're alluring, as many of the devil's creations are. And I totally do look foxy in them. But they deceive you with their good looks and pet-repellant surfaces into a false sense of security, because these pants want to kill you.

I say this based on the fact that in the two times I have worn them, I have nearly fallen to my death seven times, due to snagging my heel in the descreet cuffs that ring the bottom of the legs. Today alone, I did it in the bathroom at home while applying make-up (leading to horribly misplaced pink eyeshadow), in the bathroom at work, and right in front of my co-worker's desk, causing her to announce loudly, "My God, are you okay? What's wrong with you?"

It's the pants, Ann. The pants want me dead.

So be warned-- if I turn up the victim of what appears to be a routine slip and fall, smeared with eyeshadow and missing a shoe heel, you'll know who did it. Because I'm not going to stop wearing the pants. No. They make my ass look too fine. But please, make sure whoever finds me there checks the label in front of everyone before carting me off to my final resting place.

We are the champions

Please note! This entry is not entirely about the Cleveland Cavaliers. Only partially. So please read it, because I am bleeding readers due to my Cavs obsession. But dammit, I cannot help the love!

I don't know if you've heard, but Cleveland kicked all of your cities' collective asses at basketball (except you, San Antonio-- not yet, anyway), which makes Cleveland better than all your cities, using my false logic, even those cities that don't have basketball teams at all, and therefore can't even participate.

The Cleveland Cavaliers are now, officially, the Eastern Conference Champions, which has never, ever, ever happened before, and are going to the NBA finals, which, if they win, will cause this entire city to erupt into a chaos the likes of which has not been seen since Old Testament days. I, for one, plan to turn some people into pillars of salt. I won't tell you which people. But they'd better be ready.

This is something that the people of Cleveland have needed for a long, long time. Approximately since the time that our river caught fire. Which hasn't happened since, all right? So shut up about it.

But there is one major downside to this-- the Cleveland Cavaliers are eating up pretty much all of my free time. If I'm not staking out a table at a restaurant so I have a prime seat to watch the game, or actually watching the game, or discussing the game for hours on end with Ben and the people at work, then I am frantically running around doing errands that should have been done on the nights when I was watching the game.

Bike riding? Gone. E-mail correspondence? Spotty, at best. Blog posting? Pathetic. (Although Pen and M, I think you have to admit that even though I'm ONLY blogging about the Cavs, I feel that I should be upgraded back to normal blogging status.) I have only two modes: Game mode, and Doing The Bare Minimum of the Rest of My Chores In Order To Survive mode.

Not only that, but the Cavs are single-handedly forcing me to gain weight! Because why make a salad at home, when I can enjoy this tasty burger and three beers at Panini's while watching the game? I tell you, I went to try on my dress this weekend for the first time, and it felt as if all my vital organs had been squeezed into a small knot at the center of my abdomen. And, I had back fat. Not good.

So Cavs, I love you. I love you more than any non-athletic, book-reading trombone player really has the right to love you. But please, just hurry up and beat the Spurs in four games so I can bask in your reflected glow just long enough to eat one more plate of onion rings at Panini's and then return to my regularly scheduled life events.

What I'm doing instead of blogging (my deepest apologies)

Player haters/

Elevators/

If you cross me/

you'll die

--Wise Lebron

Cavs win in double OT, go up 3-2 against Pistons. I am seriously in tears right now. Why? Why am I such a basketball tard?