What is a cystoscopy?

NOTE! This entry is about my wee box problems. If you do not like excessive use of the word "urethra," or would prefer not to know what a cystoscopy actually entails, preferring to remain forever in the dark about the horrors of having your urinary tract checked out via tiny camera, you should probably not read this. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A verbatim account from the office of Dr. X., Urologist:

Cystoscopy is a procedure that is used to visually inspect the bladder and the urethra (tube leading out of the bladder). This can be done in most instances without discomfort by the use of a local anesthetic jelly (not a shot)!! You will be placed on a special table with your legs in special stirrups. The end of the urinary channel (or urethra) will be cleaned and a local anesthetic placed into the urinary channel for a few moments. The cystoscope (or telescope) is passed into the bladder and the inspection is carried out. The entire exam takes less than ten minutes. Afterwards, you might expect a little discomfort while voiding and perhaps a spot of blood for a day or so. A warm bath helps to relieve this irritation and will wash off the soap we've used to prep the area. You may receive some antibiotics for a few days afterwards. Ask if you have questions-- it's not as bad as you think-- honest!

I find several things wrong with this:

1. Does the fact that the anesthetic jelly is "not a shot!!" impress anyone else? It does not impress me.

2. I am also not impressed that there will be a "special table," or that my legs will be in "special stirrups." This does not make me feel special. It makes me feel really, really disgusting.

3. The word "telescope" should never be used in conjunction with my wee box. Not ever.

4. I don't void. I pee. And I already have this problem. So it's awesome that the test I'm getting to find out why I have this problem is going to make it worse.

5. They're going to just leave soap on my "area"? You don't just leave soap on anything!

6. The phrase "it's not as bad as you think-- honest!" leads me to believe that it is going to be much, much worse than I think.

Why can't I just have a broken arm or athlete's foot, or any non-horrifyingly embarrassing ailment? Just one time?

Actually, I did have athlete's foot once, and it was pretty embarrassing. So forget that one. But come on. I am now, officially, the only person under fifty to have all her entire excretory system captured on film.

Laotian Devotion

Can I just be the first to say, what the fuck? Why did I dream about Laotians trying to kill me the night before two Laotians won the Mega Millions Lottery? That's them, pictured. It behooves me to mention that they do not look like the Laotians that were attempting to kill me (although I am impressed by my subconscious' ability to generate people who apparently did look rather Laotian).

So, this indicates that a couple of things could be happening:

1. I am able, through dreams, to predict the winner of the Mega Millions lottery (or at least, the ethnicity of said winners)

2. I was actually supposed to have won the Mega Millions lottery, but because I chose, foolishly, not to buy a ticket, my winning numbers went to this couple, who contacted me through my dream just to rub it in

3. None of this is real at all, and I'm just in some sort of Lost-esque purgatory world

At any rate, it's all very bizarre. Here's hoping that these Laotians have the best of luck with their lottery winnings, and do not attempt to subdue me with a syringe to the neck.

Laost Cause

First off, let me just say that I left work early today, a victim of a mystery illness that has rendered me feeling cross-eyed and caused me to misjudge my distance from my surroundings, resulting in a full-on collision with the side of a cubicle and the unfortunate slamming of an entirely too-full cup of Diet Pepsi against the wall at Long John Silver's. Curiously, this does not seem to affect me when I drive, so apparently if I had been left to do my work in the car all day, everything probably would have been fine.

But anyway, none of this has anything to do with Laos.

What does have to do with Laos is the fact that I had a totally bizarre dream last night that these two Laotians were trying to kill me-- once with a syringe to the neck (full of something that, though burn-y, was apparently not lethal) and once by shoving me off a building. This entire thing is especially interesting in that I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever thought about Laos before in my life, and don't know any actual Laotians, and cannot fathom why they would be trying to kill me, in my dream life or otherwise. It is, by far, the most random topic for a dream that I have ever experienced-- and I once dreamed that I was part of an elite Kid Team sent back in time to stop the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. (LeVar Burton was our leader.)

When I told Ben about it, he was sure I must have been confused, and that it was Russians, not Laotians, that were attempting to kill me. But no, I assure you, it was Laotians*.

*Or, rather, dream Laotians, as I do not, in any way, want to insinuate that any real Laotians are trying to kill me, mainly because I don't want to get angry e-mails.

A Brand New Record For 1990

(By the way, this was a post I started on Friday, and clicked "save as draft" on, and the promptly forgot about. I didn't find it heinously boring, so here it is now, for your amusement!)

I was feeling sort of down today at work, so I decided to listen to Flood, by They Might Be Giants. While I wouldn't say I am a big TMBG fan-- I've tried, and failed, to enjoy many of their albums over the years-- but there is something about this one that I love love love.

But as I listened to it today, I reached an ugly conclusion-- this CD came out sixteen years ago. Which means someone who was born the day it came out could, in all likelihood, drive now. "Birdhouse In Your Soul" is to them as the Knack's "My Sharona" is to me.

As Flavor Flav would say, wowwwwww.

My Life as a TV Watcher: Week Three

I really have been attempting to stick with my TV-watching schedule, I swear! I didn't get to comment last week, as we were getting ready for our trip to St. Louis (and I was too heartbroken over the departure of Megg from ANTM). So here is how things are shaping up now:

8:00 America's Next Top Model

Okay, I hate to admit this, because clearly it is not what the producers want, but I actually really like Melrose. I'm not really sure what the issue is-- she's really pretty, and funny, and doesn't seem opposed to anything, even when they give her totally whacked out shoots, like being an old woman or, even more terrifying, Donald Trump. Is this wrong? Well, if loving Melrose is wrong, I don't wanna be right. And besides, doesn't she look an awful lot like one of our old grad school professors (whom I will decline to name, just in case there's another "Googling myself and finding derrogatory comments on Kim's blog" situation)?

In regards to Wednesday's actual episode, I have several questions-- which twin is the gay twin, again? Is that going to be important to know later on? Also, why does proving that one has an uncanny resemblance to Jay-Z somehow enhance your model cred? Also also, does anyone else feel gypped by the lack of Janice Dickenson? I was led to believe she would become a prominent force in this season. I was led astray.

Also also also, I was glad to see AJ go. In general, a "whatever, I'm too fucking cool for this, anyway" attitude makes me generally want to punch people in the face.

9:00 Lost

I have to admit, I'm about eighteen minutes away from never watching this show again. Am I seriously going to have to sit around for several more years before someone explains to me why there are perfectly nice-looking, suburban-esque houses on the island? Or why sometimes That Bald Guy can walk and talk, and sometimes he can't? Yes, I realize that this is high-brow, and that the payoff will be huge, and it's much more progressive than your average, mystery-less episode of CSI (unless "who killed this midget?" satisfies your need for mystery). But there is something about this show that makes me think it is laughing at me, because I haven't figured it out yet. Because the writers are all in on the joke, and so is everyone else in America, and I'm the only one in the world too stupid to understand the situation.

So, in other words, is there anything else on at nine on Wednesdays that I can use to fill the fast-approaching hole in my schedule?

10:00 South Park

I watched this on Wednesday, and already I have no idea what happened. I think it had something to do with Dog: The Bounty Hunter? My main thought on South Park at the moment: has anyone but me noticed that Cartman's voice is different now? Oh, it's definitely the same guy doing it. But it's like he forgot how to do it over the summer.

So, I guess TV Wednesday is not working out as well as I had hoped. Perhaps it's time for me to focus my attention instead on Thursday... I did get freakishly into Survivor: Outback a few years ago, and greatly enjoyed The Office on DVD. People tell me I would like My Name is Earl, but mustaches make me uncomfortable.

I find it disconcerting...

That someone found this blog using the wording "Kim Shable Blow." Whoever this person is:

• Knows me
• Thinks I blow
• Thinks I literally blow, in the gross sense of the word-- or worse, was looking for pictures of same
• Thinks I may have some blow, which would also not be true.

Please let me know if there is another, far more innocent explanation for this, which would make me very happy, as I am really sort of weirded out now. Although I have to admit, I am weirded out anytime I see anyone has done a search with my full name in it. Ordinarily, one might find that flattering; I, on the other hand, assume it is only people who have some sort of vague, unrealized but very heinous thing against me, and are going to do something really bad to me, just as soon as they find me. Something bad that will establish that I blow.

Things you didn't know about St. Louis

1. On the way there from Cleveland, you see the world's biggest, freakiest cross. While Ben and I could not muster the courage to stop and actually look at it up close-- you can see it well enough from the freeway, as it appears to be over ten stories high and made of aluminum siding-- we did feel really awed by its big... crossiness.

2. The Arch is very tall, but not as tall as you would think. Also, you can ride to the top of it in tiny, Woody Allen in Sleepers-esque white little bucket trams. But once you get to the top, you will be bummed out, as the only really exciting thing to see in St. Louis is the Arch, which is the only thing you can't see from inside the Arch.

3. Foxy people get married there, like these two-- congrats, Dan and Jenn! Apparently, the weather in St. Louis also cooperates for foxy people, so that Dan and Jenn had the perfect day. A good time was had by all, even Ashley, although her evening took a decidedly dramatic turn around the clog dancing...

4. On the way home from St. Louis, if you stop at a certain gas station, they have a machine that will spray you with imitation cologne for a quarter. The bad thing was, though, that this particular machine was hung right around eye-level for me, so it's more like I could have been maced with imitation cologne for a quarter.

On the road again

I know I just promised that I would blog more, and in more detail, in an effort to stop the gradual slow decline of this blog into nothing more than a chronicle of my bad teeth and urinary issues. But in all the madness, I kind of forgot that we're going to Saint Louis for the weekend to Dan and Jenn's wedding. I mean, I didn't forget that we were going to the wedding... I just kind of forgot that, in order to go to the wedding, my car had to have gas in it, and I needed, you know, clothes to wear and stuff.

So while I pull that together, please enjoy this slightly out of focus picture of myself in a sweet pirate mask:

I got it at Walgreen's for a dollar, but do not even think of getting it for yourself, because it's mine. I found it, and it's mine! I'm just saying that I got it at Walgreen's for a dollar to rub it in.

Also, I think I would look more piratey if I hadn't put my sunglasses on over top. Now I look more like the Macho Man Randy Savage. But that's a pretty good idea for a mask, too, really.

What I Believe Now #1*

That boxes of Nerds candy are far too difficult to open.

*A new My Biz feature that allows me to state my beliefs in a frank and honest way. Beliefs, apparently, about the relative difficulty of opening a box of candy. But other beliefs, too, in the future. I don't have any more beliefs at the moment.

Also, I suspect I stole the name of this from somewhere really obvious, but I can't put my finger on it right now, so I will pretend I made it up.

Do as I do

Not unlike Pen, I, too, have noticed a general malaise among our Blogs of Note (except, of course, for Ashley, who continues bringing the awesome like it's her job)-- I, personally, have been rather neglectful of late, because I have been too busy doing the following things:

• Getting root canals
• Having my kidneys ultrasound-ed
• Watching the 3rd (and alas, final) season of Arrested Development
• Reading books about girls who had sex in high school, probably in a belated attempt to cover up for the fact that I wasn't one of them
• Attending my butthead cousin's soccer game

Et Cetera.

But more than that, I have been experiencing a general malaise, based largely on my growing belief that, despite the fact that I got into graduate school for creative writing, I am not even kind of creative. I base this belief entirely on the fact that I have never once created a catchphrase.

I am so jealous of people who create catchphrases. Like Daisy's "I less than three..." That totally depresses me. Because I'm like, that's a really awesome catchphrase. And I totally didn't come up with it.

Oh, I'm big on appropriating other people's catchphrases. To the point where, the other day, I had to ask Marita, "Did I come up with the word 'ween?'" Because I really thought I did. But no, I didn't.

And it doesn't help that, around the office, people do an imitation of my boyfriend's catchphrase, which is just the word "sure" spoken with a Wisconsin accent, but still, it's totally catchy, and he came up with it, and he doesn't even work here.

And it's not just catchphrases-- I am also super jealous of T.'s discovery of the Church Sign webpage. Because that thing is totally rad, and I totally can't use it now because it's T.'s thing, and I don't want to be a copycat. So not only have I never come up with a catchy catchphrase, I can't even find awesome webpages to use for awesomeness, as T. did.

So far, the only even remotely creative thing I've done is figure out that I can post to my blog by e-mail, as I am doing right now. But that's not really so much creative as it is devious.

But in an effort to revive the blogscene and ease my own mind, I will attempt to blog more often (and less about my teeth). The way I see it, every entry I write is another chance that a phrase I use will become catchy. And isn't that all we ever dream of?

My cousin is a butthead

Hooray, Katie, good work in the game today against Shaker B! I'm glad I got to come and see you play, and see your sassy haircut and whatnot. However, I am still angry that you called me a butthead. Because you're the butthead!

Love,

Butthead

My Life as a TV Watcher: Day One

As most of you know, Ben and I don't watch much TV. This is not, I must stress, because we sit around at home and do Masterpiece Theatre type things, like identify local flora or read Proust. In fact, I honestly couldn't tell you, a lot of the time, what we're doing instead of watching TV-- in the summer, it was bike-riding or dog-walking, and in the winter, a lot of the time, it's basketball. But I told Ben last week that I wanted to start watching more TV, and thankfully, he agreed.

Our main TV night, we have decided, will be Wednesday, mainly because:

• America's Next Top Model is on, and I'm tired of only experiencing it through VH1 marathons.
• We saw last week's recap episode of Lost, and it looked really bitchin', and besides, most people inform me that I will really love this show.
• South Park is on, and, though it shames me to admit this, Ben and I are the only people alive who still watch and enjoy it.

After a test run last week, we settled in last night for our first Evening of Television (although Ben opted out for the ANTM portion, as he believes it to be "gay"). My thoughts:

• If I weighed forty pounds less, I could totally be on ANTM, as all those girls are secretly sort of weird-looking. I guess I had never realized before how weird-looking you had to be to be a model. But Tyra's not weird-looking, she's just pretty.
• I don't understand Lost at all, and I sort of doubt I ever will. It just seems like everything is weird and complicated for weirdness' and complicatedness' sake. How can the Lead Other also be Matthew Fox's wife's boyfriend? Are those houses actually on the island? And if so, why has no one yet located them? Does Stephen King approve of being the Others' book club selection? I mean, obviously I have missed a lot, and one recap show will totally not help that much. But is it too late for me and Lost?
• South Park is really, really gross.

We have decided, after a marathon viewing session of the first season DVD, to expand our Night of Television to include The Office, which we both find excruciatingly funny, except for Steve Carrell's character, who we both just hate, and not in the way you hate a particularly good TV villain (i.e., Newman). We actually just really hate him, and use his screen time to go get more Chex Mix. Although he did have the funniest line thus far (now granted, we've only watched the one season), which was "Abraham Lincoln said 'If you are a racist, I will attack you with the North.'"

Any other thoughts on how I should modify my TV viewing schedule? I like it thus far, as it is contained to one evening-- since I don't have a TiVo or anything of the sort, and hate reasoning with the VCR, I am pretty much restricted to actually watching things as they happen, instead of at my convenience, although I've sort of been begging for TiVo since last winter-- but would gladly entertain substitutes for, say, Lost, which, the more I think about it, I am probably not going to watch much more of, as things that are purposefully confusing irritate the shit out of me (see Memento).

Was Blind, But Now I See

I feel it my civic duty to inform you all about 39 Dollar Glasses, an insanely awesome website that, as indicated by it's catchy name, provides glasses-- frames and lenses-- for $39. For real.

My friend Denise's husband turned me onto it about a year ago, but for some reason I put off actually using it-- possibly because the idea of $39 dollar glasses is so mindblowingly savage that to even contemplate it for longer than 30 seconds is to risk madness-- until last week, when I realized, after a year or so of wondering, that my evening headaches are actually caused by my super weak glasses. So, I went to the site, ordered the glasses using my prescription card, and now I have totally awesome new glasses, and they only cost me thirty-nine dollars.

(That, by the way, is not a picture of me wearing the new glasses, but rather of me holding up a cutout of what the new glasses would look like, as you can actually print life-sized pictures of the glasses to see what they look like on your face, which I did a few weeks ago before taking the plunge, hence the long hair. I suppose I could have taken a picture of myself actually wearing the real glasses, as I am doing so right this very second, but I am feeling lazy, and my teeth hurt, and I'm wearing a bandana-- all of which are colluding against me showing you the real deal. But seriously, check out the cut-out job Marita did on those babies. She's like a scissors machine!)

Anyway, despite the fact that I am acting like a paid endorser of 39 Dollar Glasses, I am totally not. I'm more just a person who enjoys sticking it to those bastards at Lens Crafters, who tricked us all into thinking that glasses, for some reason, need to cost $300.

However, if 39 Dollar Glasses were to happen onto this site, and see my glowing endorsement, and agree to give me free glasses for life, that would be totally acceptable. I don't say no to eyewear.

Dental Day

So I'm leaving for my three hour dentist appointment in about ten minutes-- what an awesome way to spend a day off! But hopefully, by two o'clock this afternoon, all my dental woes will finally be over. Which will free up much of my blogging time to talk about other, much more interesting things, such as:

• I made homemade Chex Mix for the first time yesterday! A nation rejoices; my waistline, it weeps.
• Curtis Sittenfeld's book Prep-- unstoppably awesome. Go get it, now!
• Who's a crochet madwoman? It's me! Believe it, bitches!

Okay, so I lied, the posts won't be any more interesting than they are right now. But at least they won't be about my grody teeth.

Public service announcement

Fergie is 1/2 Mexican, 1/2 Native American. Because there is no way that I was the only person who wanted to know that.

Also, is it just me, or is she going to look just like Kirstie Alley in about ten years?

Extreme Blog Makeover

Well, I think the renovations on my blog are nearly complete, save some possible color-tinkering in the future-- please note the new name, and be struck by its insane awesomeness. I had a very strange dream the other night that this was what my blog was called, and was totally impressed by my subconscious' ability to come up with catchy, non-porny blog names. If only I had been so bold when actually naming it in the first place...

So unless anyone really hates the new name, or it turns out I only dreamed it because I saw it on another, much cooler blog, I think My Business will stick around for awhile. This, hopefully, will put a stop to Google searches for "unwilling adult bitches" (at least they threw "adult" in there).

Pity party

Suddenly, without warning, things have gotten really upsetting at my house. Including:

1. Ben being the middle car in a three-car accident, in which he was hit by an uninsured motorist. An uninsured motorist, no less, who was driving illegally, as his license had been suspended four years ago for not having insurance.

2. Ben's identity has been stolen. Which is creepy, and gives off a Lifetime-esque vibe. I keep expecting Robert Urich to pop out from behind a road sign and bludgeon me to death. Which then makes me even sadder, because he's already dead.

3. This? Still happening. It's time for another ultrasound! Because the three I've already had were so much fun, I couldn't resist a fourth.

4. Not to mention the whole having all my cavities, which were done improperly the first time, redone by the dentist situation.

So, I am down right now, and planning on medicating with a Klondike bar. I realize things could be a lot worse. But right now, I am totally ready for PJs and a good wail.

At least my face looks thin when I do that pouty thing.

Why I will never succeed in deep political thought.

Not much to say today-- very interesting things abound, but I find myself at a loss to discuss them. So until then, consider this-- there is a man where I work who looks just like I think He-Man would look when he got older. How bummed do you think He-Man was when he got old, and was just King of Greyskull, or whatever, and his nephews all sat around at his feet while he was like, "Once time, I fought Cyclops, and my Battle Cat..." et cetera? And his nephews were so bored, because they had heard all these stories before, and were just cringing with embarrassed anticipation for when, after a few goblets of wine, He-Man stood up in front of the whole family and yelled "I have the power!"

I bet he was, like, really bummed.

Zit of the damned

Okay, I am still feverishly working to finish the aforementioned Perilously Close to Being Overdue Library Book and so don't have much time to write. But as promised, here is a photo of the Gruesome Zit of the Damned, which, at its zenith yesterday, was roughly half the size of my own eyeball (conjuring images of Stephen King's The Dark Half). Thankfully, to some surreptitious emergency surgery performed during the movie The Black Dahlia yesterday evening, it has subsided somewhat, although I still generally have to wear my bangs in a scary, over-the-eye, Ally Sheedy as scary loner fashion.

Please feel free to suggest names for Gruesome Zit of the Damned, or provide dialogue for it. Seriously, if it's going to have the tenacity to grow to such elephantine proportions, it seems wrong not to anthropomorphize it in some way...

My library kicks your library's ass

Just got word from the Euclid library that my copy of Princess Diaries Volume VII: Party Princess is in. Shazam!

Also just in-- my copy of The Black Dahlia, which poses a problem, as I have still not completed the now painfully-close-to-overdue book I mentioned in the previous post, nor have I even really started V For Vendetta, which I took out in an effort to further alienate myself from the rest of the normal, non-graphic-novel-enjoying world. But I was number 15 on the waiting list for Dahlia! How could this have happened? Curse you, library, and your awesome goodness!

Maxin' and relaxin'

Okay, seriously, I do have interesting things to blog about, I swear-- but as the result of a super-busy whirlwind weekend of fun (Congratulations, Karin and Ryan!), I just need to spend a night or two relaxing (and finishing a library book that is dangerously close to being overdue). I do hereby solemnly swear that I will be back blogging like a maniac within 48 hours, so please don't abandon The Unwilling Adult as being comatose.

In the meantime, here are some quick tidbits to tide you over until I can get to the real shiznit:

1. The dentist? I have to go back. And have all eight fillings redone, as the first doctor did them totally wrong. I also have to rinse with a truly heinous fluoride mouthwash that has the aftertaste of vanilla, mint, and sweet barbeque. More on this later.

2. I have an insanely large zit on the side of my head-- roughly the size of a baby's eyeball. I'm thinking that soon it might develop cognizance and start vying for control of my brain. Pictures to come? If you dare gaze upon its horror.

3. Megan and Matt were here this weekend for Karin's wedding, and we went to the zoo and saw the cutest orangutans ever. When my strength has returned, killer orangutan YouTube footage.

4. The Bourne Identity is the first action movie I have ever seen that didn't make me want to kill myself. Discuss.

Any idea...

...why my sidebar has now migrated to the bottom of the page, making my blog most unattractive and perhaps downright amateurish? I have many new things to say-- on my horrific experience at the dentist, on why the new BNL CD, while good, could have used more "Old Apartment" and less "Helicopters"-- but I feel I cannot move forward until I have fixed the Ugly Ugliness of my blog in its current state. I've asked the Blogger people, but they have not yet responded, as "unattractive sidebar" probably does not rank very high on their list of bugs to fix in Beta.

In the meantime, I just wanted to post quick, in an effort to remain off the "comatose" list over at (Mis)Adventures. This weekend one of my close friends, Karin, is getting married, so I will be out and about in the real world (as opposed to last weekend, which I spent almost entirely in the Cyber World or the Flavor of Love World, alternately).

In further music news...

I just totally downloaded* "Sexyback" by Justin Timberlake (Ashley's latest flame), and am about fifteen seconds away from burning it to a CD so I listen to it eight hundred times in the car on the way to work tomorrow.

*Legally! Legally! From MSN Music! Just in case Metallica stumbles upon this site and wants to exact a weird revenge involving an "angry chair," whatever the fuck that is.

Barenaked Are Back

...or at least I think they are, based on the very brief listen I was able to give this CD since I purchased it a few hours ago. I have never really been one of those people who just puts music on in the background-- if I need to concentrate at all, it better be silence, and unlike most people, almost everything I do, including walking and going to the bathroom, requires an insane amount of concentration-- so I haven't had a chance to listen to the entire disc yet, let alone the ten or twelve times it takes me to fully grasp the goodness or badness of a CD. But I am confident that by the end of the work day tomorrow, I will be able to give you a definitive verdict on the quality of this CD.

But so far, it's looking good. I was vastly underwhelmed by their last CD, Everything to Everyone (which isn't saying much-- I liked "only" seven of the roughly twelve songs on the CD), and so was a little worried about this one. But it is sounding very Born on a Pirate Ship and not so second-half-of-Maroon, so I am pleased.

Also, please note that I am fully aware that it is patently uncool* to like Barenaked Ladies anymore, and that I should have stopped after college, like everyone else. (I could make a Dave Matthews Band comment here, but I won't, because all my friends are DMB fans and I don't want to get beat up.) However, those of you who refuse to acknowledge that BNL did not, in fact, peak with "One Week" are really missing out on a quality band. I won't go too far into it, as many of you are far more music savvy than I. But I defy you to call BNL a novelty band after listening to "Break Your Heart," "Jane," and "Tonight Is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel."

So buy this CD. Do it. Do it or I'll break your tail lights with a lead pipe. For real.

*Also patently uncool? Gauchos, apparently. Not one of you has one opinion on the gaucho craze? Oh, God, I've totally missed it. I will never be fashion forward.

Gauchopalooza

May I just use the last five minutes of my lunch today to tell you that I wore gaucho pants to work today, and I simply cannot believe that they are letting me get away with this? The outfit I'm wearing right now (sadly, sans sassy vest, as depicted here) is more comfortable than the PJs I woke up in.

Even though I am probably far too late-- as we speak, all the thinner, prettier, more fashion-forward girls than me are setting fire to their gauchos in big oil drums, their pert noses wrinkling in disgust-- I must admit that I am now a full-on gaucho convert. Viva los gauchos!

An open letter to those with teeth

Dear Dental-Minded Americans,

You may have heard some sort of claptrap at one point or another in your lives that indicated that you should be going to the dentist every six months or so in order to maintain your dental health. I am here to tell you now that this is patently untrue, and that, in fact, going to the dentist will only make whatever dental problems you may have a bajillion times worse.

Observe: About six months ago, I decided to start going to the dentist, not because any of my teeth were particularly bothering me, but because my parents made it seem as though if I didn't go to the dentist soon, I would most likely be dead before my thirtieth birthday, as dental problems, especially undiagnosed ones, are evidently the number one killer among all age groups and races.

Over the past six months, I have gone from having what were undoubtedly unhealthy but perfectly nice and painfree teeth to having extreme sensitivity in pretty much all the teeth the dentist worked on (in one spot, so bad that I can't really chew on it, which will likely cause me to wear down the teeth on the opposite side of my mouth much faster, which will definitely end with my face being severely lopsided), a still-gaping hole where my wisdom tooth was pulled, and the sinking feeling that one of the teeth he worked on is just a millimeter larger than all the others, causing my bite to come down awkwardly.

And last night, while I was dilligently flossing, a piece of one of my teeth broke off. Just broke off. Which, I might add, was not a regular occurrence in my Pre-Dentistry days.

So now I have a hole between my front teeth where the Tooth Piece used to go, and a toothache that my aunt, who is a dental assistant, diagnosed as needing a root canal, which sounds wholly unpleasant, and one monster tooth that is bigger than all the others, and, to top it all off, my dentist keeps mailing me mysterious bills for $10, which I keep paying, because I don't know what else to do, and my dental insurance keeps mailing me even more mysterious letters claiming I had other coverage during several of the aforementioned procedures, and they want me to prove it. Which I am so not going to do.

In closing, no matter what anyone tells you-- Mr. Rogers, your parents, anyone-- do NOT go to the dentist, as it will only end in heartbreak. And toothbreak.

Hugs and kisses,

Kim

Pitfall

I just learned something terrifying-- I can no longer comment on non-beta blogs using my Blogger account! I can still comment-- I know you're all breathing a collective sigh of relief-- but only by designating myself as an "other," which makes me feel weird and very M. Night Shyamalan.

So the point of this, I guess, is that you all need to become Blogger beta right now, because it will make everything easier for me. And isn't what this whole experience is really all about?

Okay, I promise a non-Blogger beta themed post by the end of the day. So check-back, beta-lovers!

Dig!

I am so Blogger Beta right now. Please take the time to check my sweet new additions, as it took about forty minutes of sitting with a hot, hot laptop on my lap (no doubt rendering my sterile, per an article I read in Maxim magazine the other day). Also, please note that now that I have the capability, I will be updating not only my blog, but my sidebar, color scheme, and font selections at will. And giving my posts retarded tags, even though they don't need them.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am the future! Behold my shiny metallic glory!

A brave new world

After having consumed two glasses of margarita and a beer, I feel this is an excellent time to attempt to convert my blog to Blogger Beta (because obviously, a moderate buzz will definitely help me with any programming issues I may encounter along the way). So I just wanted to write this post to say that if I mess anything up, and my blog becomes unreadable, I'm really, really sorry. But the good news is, if I have to start over from scratch, I can have a blog name that is not so unintentionally porny.

Wish me luck!

Long Awkward Pose #1

Here it is-- the much anticipated Long Awkward Pose I shot of Pen and Ashley during my trip to Wilmington (inspired, I must credit, by the website of the same name). I sincerely hope that there will be many more to come (provided anyone gives me permission to blog them, or that they even consent to having their picture taken after I have pulled this stunt a few times).

It's poorly lit and hard to hear, but man, is it full of memories...

Dear Wilmingtonians,

By the time most of you read this, I will already be on my way back to Ohio, singing loudly with the radio and giving Ben the creeps (a little). But I wanted to be able to say, if only once, that I, too, blogged from Wilmington (as well as drank too much in Wilmington, bought too many things in Wilmington, and prepaid for gas for the first time ever in Wilmington).

Also, I would like to state for the record that all the above-pictured people, along with Meg and Thomas, who sadly had to leave before the group picture could be corralled, are sexy bitches.

Does it sound too Hallmark to say I miss you all already?

Ooh, um yeah, upon reading that statement, especially when left alone as its own paragraph like that, it does. So while that statement is true, let me end instead by saying that there are no people I'd rather let mock me mercilessly for leaving my purse in a gas station bathroom. Again.

Labor Day Weekend '06-- the countdown begins

Weirdly, I've been so worried about the approach of Sucknesto (now downgraded to a tropical depression-- in your face, you crap-ass storm!) delaying my vacation that I haven't really had time to fully grasp the fact that I am, in fact, going to be in Wilmington in less than 72 hours.

In fact, it really just hit me a few minutes ago, when I read Ashley's appeal to Ernesto to disapparate, or whatever depressions do. And now I am doing a happy dance of joy-- I am coming to Wilmington! To see many Blogger friends (actually-- I think pretty much everyone I'm going to see is a Blogger friend. Does this mean we are self-involved? I say NAY!), and walk on the river walk, and eat doughnuts and go to Sonic and drink Cheerwine!

It has also just hit me, really, that I have a shitload of things to do. So far, I have:

1. Made the perfect vacation CD
2. Sort of cleaned a little
3. Put away a whole bunch of other CDs
4. Ripped up the 1,000 credit card applications I have accrued over the last two weeks.

I have not:

1. Packed
2. Gotten maps to Charlotte or Wilmington
3. Gotten cash for tolls
4. Gotten gas
5. Actually cleaned
6. Acquired snacks for trip
7. Figured out how to work my effing video camera

Et cetera.

Now, granted, most of those things have to wait until tomorrow night anyway. But now that I have finally caught on, not unlike a dog being lured into the car with Snausages, that I am going on a trip, I want all these things to be done now, so I can begin the road trip portion of my journey, and listen to my sweet new CD, which features both "Apache" by The Sugarhill Gang and "The Lees of Old Virginia" from the soundtrack to 1776. Ben, I'm sure, will be thrilled.

For those of you still pining...

Arrested Development season 3 DVD is out today, and on sale at Target for $20.

Rest in peace, Bluths. Rest in piece.

And not to change the subject, but-- also out on DVD today and on sale at Target? Flavor of Love season 1. Why won't you buy it? It has a special feature called "The Blackucation of Pumkin." Buy it! How can you not?

Worry Wart

It's something that my mother has been saying forever, but really, I'm starting to think that I really do worry too much, and it's starting to get me down. For instance, this weekend, I worried about:

1. My impending haircut

2. The completion of a project that absolutely had to get done and in the mail by a certain time

3. An invitation I had to turn down

4. This vaguely threatening letter I got from my dental insurance people

And now, I have the haircut (and it just keeps getting sassier with each passing day!), finished the project, turned down the invitation only to be met with great understanding, and straightened out the insurance situation. One would think that I would have learned my lesson about worrying, seeing as how every single thing I worried about this weekend turned out just fine, and in some cases, actually great. But instead, I have simply shifted my worry to include:

1. The imminent distruction of my upcoming vacation to Wilmington by that hellhound, Ernesto. Curse you, Ernesto, and all your windy fury!

2. My inability to answer all the requests placed on my blog for the "all request and dedication post" (some famous fictional dinner partners I would enjoy-- the Invisible Man from Ellison's Invisible Man, Mrs. DeWinter from Rebecca-- or, better yet, Rebecca herself. Some weird foods I have eaten since grad school-- salmon, monte cristo sandwiches, mozzarella cheeseburgers)

3. The Department of Education's malfunctioning website, which will not allow me to post my student loan payment online, meaning I have to mail it in, meaning that the check will inevitably be lost, resulting in my first ever late student loan payment, and probably my deportation from the country.

Et cetera.

Honestly, there probably isn't a day that goes by that I'm not worried about something. And it's often something stupid. I once agonized for an entire day under the belief that a girl I knew hated me (which makes no sense, since I didn't do anything to make her hate me, and didn't actually even like her very much, so what did I care if she hated me?), only to be curiously vindicated when she smiled at me in passing, thus assuring me that she didn't hate me at all.

Is this normal? Do the rest of you worry this much? Has my obsessive worrying worried any of you in the past? Please confirm my general normalcy, so I don't have to worry about that, too.

And by the way-- if you want to see something worrisome, trying doing an image search on Google for the word "wart." You'll see why I went with this anxious, slightly menacing looking woman, who, if you look at her in the right light, looks a little like a red-headed Brigitte Nielsen.

Miso Sassy

Okay, this is probably not what it's going to end up looking like-- according to the stylist, my hair was so thick and heavy from having been long for such a long time, the remaining portion of my hair will have to "remember" that it's not being dragged down by the weight, and will eventually curl up even more. But first reports clearly show me as being a sexy, sexy fox.

By the way, this is The Haircut That Almost Wasn't-- I got a call this morning letting me know that my stylist had taken ill, and all other stylists were busy until next Wednesday! Knowing that it would improve the situation, I immediately began sobbing, ceasing only once a second appointment could be established at a different salon-- two hours earlier than the original one was supposed to have been. So in your face, Sick Monica! My monies went to Crystal at Francesco's (although my heart will always belong to Ladies and Gentlemen Salon and Day Spa)!

Return of the fro?

Unless anyone has any reason why I shouldn't do this, I think I'm going to go crazy-go-nuts and get my hair cut like this again. So please don't tell me not to unless you really, really, really hate it. Please.

In fact, don't even tell me. Don't say anything. Just think of this as a warning. I am totally getting my hair cut like this. Maybe even shorter. But not crazy short. But no-ponytail short! Which I haven't been in two years.

Yipe! As someone who wore their hair so short that she couldn't even put barrettes in it until she was 21, I have no idea why this is freaking me out so much. But I am totally freaked. But still totally doing it.

Lady Mix-a-Lot

Before I begin with today's request, let me just say: to Frisby, the images come from Google Images-- I highly recommend it, as it has never, NEVER failed me. And to Mendacious-- I am totally NOT avoiding your request. It just requires a bit of time to ferment...

And now, without further ado...

Two words for you-- mix tape.
--Croot

Songs That Sound Like They Came Out While I Was in Grad School, But Didn't:

1. You're Beautiful-- James Blunt
2. Bad Day-- Daniel Powter
3. Orange Sky-- Alexi Murdoch
4. I Don't Wanna Be-- Gavin DeGraw
5. Sugar, We're Going Down-- Fall Out Boy
6. Over My Head (Cable Car)-- The Fray
7. Black Horse and the Cherry Tree-- KT Tunstall
8. Bitches Ain't Shit-- Ben Folds
9. Beverly Hills-- Weezer
10. Somebody Told Me-- The Killers
11. Float On-- Modest Mouse
12. My Doorbell-- The White Stripes
13. Wake Me Up When September Ends-- Green Day
14. Kelly Clarkson-- Since U Been Gone
15. Wheels-- Cake
16. Take Your Mama-- The Scissor Sisters

Selected Liner Notes, in which I Cover My Ass, and also 'Splain Some Things:

Track 1-- I can definitely see myself, sitting on the porch swing in front of my house, vaguely crying and smoking cigarettes while watching the rain, imagining how this song really obviously was about me.

Track 3-- This song technically came out while we were in school, but no one heard of it before it was in Garden State, and also in the commercial for the really ugly SUV that looks like a milk truck.

Track 4-- Isn't this the theme to One Tree Hill? I don't think that's why I always think this song came out while I was in grad school. It just has a Wilmingtonian vibe to it.

Track 6-- We would all think this song was about us, all the time.

Track 8-- This song, not unlike "Gin and Juice" by The Gourds, would be very popular among everyone at first, but then, slowly, everyone but me would grow to hate it, while my love for it only flourished, to the point of horrifying everyone.

Tracks 10 and 11-- These songs also came out while we were in school, but so close to the end of school that they did not gain popularity until after I was already back in Ohio.

Track 16-- I would totally sing this on the way to get Hot and Fresh donuts at the Krispy Kreme.

Party time! Excellent!

If you could throw any kind of party, what theme would it be? Who would you invite, and what would you wear. Would party-goers play Pin Lucifer's Tail on Mark Harmon?

--Pen

I have never been successful at throwing parties, except for a very brief period in college in which I threw awesome ones, but I think it was because I was the only person I knew who didn't live on campus at the time. Dan and I did throw several parties at our apartment on South Fifth, including one of the Welcome Back parties, but I think it is widely believed that, of the three years my class was in school, it was probably the lamest of the welcome backs (although there was a horse cop involved, later in the evening).

So if I could throw a dream party-- what kind of party would it be?

Dang it, Pen! This is a hard one!

You know what I think I would like? I would like to throw a Post Secret party. In which each guest would be required to write down one of their secrets and mail it to me, with no return address, and I could post it on the walls of my house before they came over. Then, while we were drinking and walking around and talking, we could read each other's secrets.

Taking things a step further, we could all bring out secretly favorite food-- like how everyone says their favorite food is something fancy, like Pad Thai, but really it's macaroni and Cheez Whiz.

And maybe? You could only gain admittance to the party if you had an awesome secret. But then I would have to know who had what secret, and that wouldn't be fair. So instead, you could only come to the party if you complimented my outfit, which would secretly be from Wal-Mart (in keeping with the secretiveness of the party).

Ooh, I so want to throw this party now. Mainly because I have a deep-seeded need to know secrets! And because I like the fact that, now that we're grown up, it is customary to bring a gift for the hostess. Ahem. Just saying.

All Request and Dedication Hour

I don't know about the rest of you Bloggers, but I tend to go through cycles-- from euphoric Blog-related glee to fallow, idealess stretches of evil (often brought on by prolonged quality-checking of the company's collections system).

So, rather than go silent, I thought I'd leave the content up to you (read: make you do most of the work) for a little while-- at least until I can get back on my feet, or until something interesting happens to me, other than this mondo, all-consuming Chin hemorrhoid situation (also brought on by the collections system).

Here's the deal: you drop me a comment with any topic you want, and I promise I will write at least three sentences on it. Some restrictions apply (namely, please don't try to trick me into giving my opinions on world events, as the closest I have ever come to being a political expert was that glorious day in 1992 when I got an A on my election notebook in social studies). Please also don't make me say bad things about people. Unless they're like celebrity people, or people I don't know. Then, screw them.

You want me to write something about your cousin? Bring it. Existentialist art? It's on. These mini-blogs will not be factual, nor particularly educational, but they will be more entertaining than, say, a step-by-step analysis of Where Collections Went Wrong.

Help a sister out here. You provide the topic, I'll provide the words. It's magic time.

I am herbivorous

Just as an update, I totally ate the salad. I added some sunflower seeds and a few slivers of grilled chicken, and it was fabulous. I even passed up a trip to the much beloved Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat* buffet to enjoy it. I am so healthy, it's scary.

The best part is, having eaten such a healthy lunch, I am now free to eat a ginormous celebratory dinner this evening. With dessert. Because I earned it through matchstick carrots.

*For the longest time, I did not know that AYCE on a restaurant's sign meant "all you can eat." I thought it was some sort of weird code, or the name of a group, like the BPOE (I don't know what that stands for, either, but it seems sinister). But then I thought, why would the AYCE (which I perceived, for some reason, to be like a religious organization) eat wings at Hooters? That's when it all came together for me...

Better late than never!

I just found out from my friend Kristy at the Columbus Dispatch that my column, which many of you were aware was slated to run last Thursday, but had to be rescheduled, ran in yesterday's newspaper (she herself didn't find out until after work was over)!

Much props to my best friend Megan for finding the link for me-- you can check out the column here. I would like to state for the record, though, that in the paper, this column ran right next to a big article on Snakes on a Plane, which makes me super, super proud. (Really!)

The big mass e-mail will be sweeping the nation in a few hours, so I apologize to those of you who are on that list-- but just think, when it arrives, you can always say, "I found out about it hours ago, on her blog." Meaning that my blog will finally have been good for something.

Euclid Loves Ricky

On a routine trip to the Euclid library (which, in a bit of trivia that might interest those of you who are local, is apparently considered the third best library in the nation-- I highly recommend it), I decided to peruse the CD collection, expecting to find the usual libraryesque selections-- Pavarotti, Joni Mitchell, and a random Wilco album from 1993.

So I was shocked to find an entire rack dedicated to Ricky Martin, including no less than seven copies (seven!!) of his Spanish-language album Vuelve, an album of which I believed I owned the only copy (please, do not even question why I would own a copy of this. I bought it to impress a guy, and it didn't occur to me until much later that a guy that would be impressed that I owned Vuelve might not be interested in me).

My question is, why would the Euclid library believe that seven different patrons would come in within two weeks of each other, just really wanting to hear "Por Arriba Por Abajo"? And that only counts the ones that were actually on the shelves-- what if there are, like, seven more copies of Vuelve out there, already checked out to happy Ricky Martin fans?

And there were tons of other Ricky Martin selections, as well-- Livin' La Vida Loca, that one that has "She Bangs" on it, et. al. Why? I would have investigated further, but someone was hovering around near me, clearly wanting to get a look at the Ricky Martin rack. And I didn't want to hog the Vuelve. Whatever that means.

Baby's first salad

Behold! I made a salad!

Having never actually made a salad before in my entire life (more on this in a moment), I obviously also made a really big mess. And no, there is no Febreze in my salad. But the point is, I did it-- I personally assembled a salad with more than five ingredients, for the sole purpose of my consumption at lunch tomorrow. Since I figured that no one would believe me (particularly Ashley, with whom I was on the phone during the assemblage of said salad), I thought I would photograph my triumph, even though it reveals the embarrassing fact that, as I did not know how to properly toss the salad, I just transferred it to a bigger container and shook it up and transferred it back.

Those of you who are relatively new to this blog will not realize the significance of this event, and walk away shaking your head, oddly vexed by my salad retardation.

But those of you who have known me for awhile, I hope you appreciate the sheer magnitude of this situation. I made a salad. And I'm going to eat it. Unless I panic, throw it out, and go to Long John Silver's. But I'm hoping Healthy Kim prevails. Especially since this salad took me like 20 minutes to make.

Dear Euclid Neighbors,

Why do you keep throwing rib bones into the grass around the school across the street from my house? Why? Why are you even eating so many ribs? I swear on all that is holy, I probably haven't eaten ribs in seven or eight years. Not one rib. And yet, somehow, you're all eating them like they're going out of style, and the unceremoniously throwing them into the lawn in front of the school (which means you also often eat outdoors, which is again weird, as I never actually see any of you eating outdoors, and I'm out there quite a bit. Are you throwing them from your car? Are you eating ribs in a moving car??).

Don't you understand that every time my dog finds one of these discarded rib bones, she has to pick it up and eat it-- I don't mean chew on it, I mean she eats the entire thing, and it makes sickening crunching noises, and I just can't stop thinking, my dog is eating something one of the neighbors already chewed on.

So please, please, please, please please stop doing it. There are enough obstacles on my morning walk-- renegade poo bombs, mysteriously dead-of-apparently-natural-causes squirrel carcasses in the middle of the sidewalk, kids who set fire to things in the school parking lot-- that I don't need your rib bones adding just that much more evil to my day.

Love,
Kim

Wish I was there

I'm back from vacation! I always feel awkward that first day back from vacation, when everyone asks about it, because I feel pressured to give a detailed blow-by-blow account of the trip, when people really only want to hear that it was "really fun."

So here, in a nutshell, were the highlights (and not-so-highlights) of my vacation.

1. It was very pirate-themed, as you can see from this picture-- which, by the way, if you show anyone this picture of me in a bathing suit and/or comment about the sad state of my thighs, I'll kill you. Most of our free time was spent scouring the boardwalk for pirate-themed souvenirs and accoutrements for our pirate outfits.

2. The sunset cruise, long a staple of the Shable family Rehoboth Beach vacation, was cancelled due to the escalating price of gasoline, thus only deepening my insane obsession the price of gas.

3. I got a killer tan, although it is not evident in this picture. But trust me, it's TOTALLY killer.

4. I got buried in the sand, which is much scarier and more claustrophobic than carefree parental nostalgia make it appear to be. However, once you get used to it, it's really quite cozy, to the point where I only eventually got up because I had to pee, and there was sand in my butt.

5. Ben and I got whistled at by the lifeguard, and-- here is a little known fact about me, I have an insane fear of lifeguards. I always have, ever since my dad started taking me to Geauga Lake when I was little and they would point ominously into the water in my general direction and blow their whistles in a threatening manner. Even though my best friend Megan and I were once actually rescued from certain death-by-smashing-into-a-jetty by a very nice lifeguard, I still totally fear them. So when this lifeguard whistled at us, I panicked, which caused a series of waves to break right on top of me, once again filling my swimsuit with sand and retiring me to the beach for a short while.

All in all, my vacation was "really fun," and I really wish it were still going on right now. But still, a vacation isn't a vacation if you never have to go back to work. But seriously? That's bullshit, I just want to be on vacation forever.

Staredown

Having just encountered a strange guy in the stairwell on my sixth trip to the bathroom today (I have purposefully been chugging large amounts of water in an effort to take many bathroom trips and thus make the day go faster), I realized that I very rarely look people in the eye if I don’t really know them. I don’t know if this is like alpha dog—or, no, that’s not right, what’s less than alpha dog, beta dog?—behavior, because I know that, as the alpha dog, you’re always supposed to stare down your adversary in an effort to show dominance—but I totally can’t do it.

This once got me into trouble at the day spa, when one day I was feeling shifty and would not look my boss in the eye, and she called me on it. “Is something wrong? What aren’t you telling me? Why won’t you look me in the eye? Did you do something wrong?” Which I hadn’t, but as she began badgering me, I really couldn’t look her in the eye, which caused her to spend the rest of the day monitoring me with (from what I could see out of the corner of my eye) an extremely suspicious look on her face.

My favorite part of that story is that she asked me, “Did you do something wrong?” Which is totally what I ask the dog when I think she’s peed on the carpet.

Summer lovin'

As I ready myself for vacation, I find myself finally getting into the swing of summer, which is sad, because according to all the stores around here, it is now Back To School Time, and I need to purchase my Trapper Keeper posthaste, lest it suddenly morph into Halloween.

So in an effort to maintain that summer groove, I thought I'd give shout-outs to the things that have received much props from your homey this summer:

1. Cherikee Red Pop. The world's most racist soda! And yet, so very tasty... I was first introduced to Cherikee Red at Camp Hidden Hollow, where the Aurora High School Marching Band held its band camp. Cherikee Red was the only thing that made skit day bearable...

2. David Hasselhoff's "Jump In My Car" video (see below). Okay, at first I thought it was funny, but now I get it stuck in my head sometimes, like at work, which is really embarrassing. But Evil Ejector KITT is so hard to resist! I wonder how many other ladies he has seduced in this manner...

3. The return of Flavor of Love on VH1! This evening, at 10/9 Central. Watch it! Watch it or perish! Because no one watched it last time, and that left me with no one to discuss The Great Pumpkin Spitting Incident, or to quote Goldie-isms to. So please watch, so that we can have long, spirited discussions about it. Also, according to the promo I watched (multiple) times yesterday, someone is going to crap on Flav's floor during this episode. How can you resist?

4. Snap peas. They're delicious AND nutricious! Really, I like them. It's a whole new me!

So check these things out and indulge yourself for once! In the meantime, I'm going to be putting the finishing touches on my Tiny Toiletry collection (I acquired the Tiny Gel and Tiny Shave Cream I needed on Friday!), praying I can learn how to upload video content from the video camera my parents lent me (if ANYONE has any idea how I can upload from a PV-GS9, PLEASE let me know, as I am now desperate to memorialize every second of my two upcoming vacations, as well as several weddings and hilarious cuteness between the dog and cat), and doing many crunches and leg lifts in a feeble attempt to not look like I am wearing a fanny pack under my swimsuit. We're leaving Tuesday, so I may be going dark for the week, although I'm secretly hoping that the hotel has wireless access... because yes, I am depraved and sad like that.

I'm unsure

I apologize for the lack of blogging over the last few days-- Ben and I are leaving for Rehoboth Beach, DE, in a few days for our first official vacation, and I am busy alternately fantasizing about how romantic it is going to be and obsessing over the fact that I have not yet assembled a complete set of travel-sized toiletries to carry me through the four-day trek.

In the meantime, I thought I'd post this video I shot while attempting to figure out if Ben's camera phone really could shoot video, as promised (turns out it can, and here it is, for your entertainment!).

A lot like hate (or at least strong dislike)

So last week, in Pittsburgh, Ben and I returned to our hotel room early and decided to watch a movie. Sadly, the only movie we could find (that we didn't have to pay for, and that didn't feature full-scale nudity) was the Ashton Kutcher/Amanda Peet classic A Lot Like Love, an annoyingly drawn out love story with many things wrong with it, such as:

1. The fact that it stars Ashton Kutcher
2. The fact that it stars Amanda Peet
3. The fact that it is an annoyingly drawn out love story.

Really, it's number three that really gets me (although I really do harbor a likely unhealthy dislike of both these stars, particularly Amanda Peet, who needs to learn that being naked in a movie does not make you an artiste). In his book Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman goes into a digression about how all people just have movie archetypes that they truly cannot stand-- he, for example, hates "nobody believes me" type movies, where people's wives are kidnapped and no one will help them. And I, it turns out, simply cannot stand movies where couples get together, break up, get together, break up, get together, are suddenly separated by 1,000 miles and changing life views, get together briefly again, break up this time seemingly for good, and then, desperately, at the last moment, get back together again, one can only assume forever, but given their past, it might be unlikely.

I realize that this is the plot of almost all romantic comedies; this is why I avoid them. While I understand that it would really be pretty boring to watch a movie where a couple just hits it off right away and never breaks up, only having minor squabbles about who walks the dog more often, it would also be much more realistic, and waste a lot less time-- if we know they're going to get together in the end, why prolong it with a series of tortured montages set to Ryan Adams music of them staring out the window moodily?

But this whole rant is not really about why I hate romantic comedies-- it is more to find out what movie archetype makes you insane. For instance, Ashley has told me that she really hates movies that in any way involve the apocalypse or any type of post-apocalyptic world, such as Waterworld, The Postman, or pretty much any other Kevin Costner movies (themselves a sign of the apocalypse).

So doooo tell-- I'm fascinated by this whole concept. Your least favorite movie archetype-- spill it.

The Hoff Spits Game

Much thanks to Pete for bringing this, the world's most heinous and terrifying video ever, to my attention. Between the air guitaring, the dancing (with thumbs! Like Elaine!), the Power Point-looking green screen backgrounds, and the fact that he appears to be kidnapping at least one of the amateur porn stars that make up his unwilling female entourage, I get horrible, sweaty chills.

Also, note the fact that KITT appears to have been recustomized so that his steering wheel is now on the right. Perhaps a nod to his legions of intensely creepy German fans? Also, please note again that KITT is not evil, and therefore would not, in real life, have taken any part in this kidnapping (and the subsequent ejection that follows when the Hoff realizes he is not going to score).

Yarrrrr!

Here, Marita and I pretend to be pirates, with the aid of some cardboard cutouts from the side of a McDonald's Happy Meal box. I feel that Marita makes a much more convincing and menacing pirate; my pirate looks sort of smiley and constipated, all at once.


It should be noted that Diane was also present, but chose not to participate in the piratification of our lunch hour, possibly because she was not too hot on the idea of putting the nose ring in after two people had already worn it. In hindsight, this was perhaps a good idea. But I prefer to live my life on the edge, like a true pirate. Also, Marita and I very much enjoy going to Long John Silver's, so this is all starting to make sense now...

A few last random things

Obviously, I have done the triple lindy of blog badness and posted three times tonight (scroll down for more awesomeness). But since I get to post so sporadically anymore, due to my new tendency to drop into a torpor and watch much Celebreality, I figured I'd get them all out in one manic burst. So make them last!

Here are a few last things to ponder:

1. I'm coming to Wilmington over Labor Day weekend! Get your Wilmington on! There will be modge-podge and sunbathing and Arbor Mist wine. It will be glorious.

2. A few weeks ago, someone found my blog by Googling "Elizabeth Hasselbeck" and "Feet." Ew.

3. Ben and I celebrated our two-year anniversary in Pittsburgh, which we chose because it was nearby and, to quote a friend, "less of an armpit than Cleveland"*. Also, it has an Ikea, as evidenced here:

*Please note that as a resident of the Cleveland area, I do not believe it to be an armpit, so please don't write me angry comments to that effect. I didn't think Pittsburgh was an armpit, either. Having never been to Detroit, I will now designate that area an armpit.

Get your read on

I know this book is making face time all over the blogosphere, but seriously, you've got to pick up Eli Hasting's new book Falling Room, because Eli kicks ass and is very near and dear to my heart, and also because if I ever write a book, I know Eli would make his friends buy it. And while my book might suck, Eli's is actually quite rad. So buy it now!

And while you're at it, please please please go buy Joe Mackall's The Last Street Before Cleveland, which also happens to be in the exact same book series as Eli's book. Meaning I have totally eaten lunch with two authors from the same series. I feel like an American Life Series groupie!

Seriously, Joe and Eli are two of the greatest men I know-- please support them.

Why I am a narcissist (or not)

This may seem random, but hear me out:

I have a friend-- his name is Jared, most of you don't know him, but he's a great guy in an awesome band-- who once asked me why I choose to only write about myself. This is a question that has been posed to me on many occasions-- by friends, professors, people on my blog who are tired of hearing my every pissant thought.

The main reason for this is not, in actuality, narcissism-- it is because I am the only living person on the planet that I can write about without fear of backlash, or getting things wrong. I will not, for instance, refuse to speak to myself at Thanksgiving if I choose to reveal that I once sort of went to the bathroom in the back of a friend's car, nor will I freak out if I say that my favorite food is sloppy joes, when it is actually astronaut ice cream (both excellent fare, in my opinion).

I realize that, one day, I will have to write about other people if I really want to be successful; after all, David Sedaris wouldn't have gotten all that far without the Rooster, or Hugh, or the Incomplete Quad. But this prospect seriously scares the crap out of me, mainly because one day, when I was in Advanced Reporting in college, I got yelled at for about an hour by a woman I had apparently misquoted in an article I wrote for the school paper (even though I sort of had what she said on cassette tape, and specifically asked if we were on the record), and I really, really, really hate being yelled at.

But in the meantime, I think I'll stick to writing about myself. I may be my own worst critic, but at least I can't sue me. I don't think.

I stink

Every single time I smell something bad, whether it's exhaust, foot stink, or a co-worker's Poorly Prepared Salmon Covered in Burnt Onions and Green Peppers, I become absolutely convinced that the smell is coming from me. Not that the smell is on my clothes, or that I caused it by eating something I shouldn't, but that it is actually emanating from me, as if all the cells in my body decided simultaneously to begin emitting stink rays (depicted here in this highly scientific drawing I found of foot stink).

I guess I didn't realize it until recently, but I've had this problem for a really long time. I wonder if, at one point, I really did stink a lot for no reason, causing me to become sensitive to the presence of other stink-related situations? Or perhaps, when I was a baby, every time my parents farted, they blamed it on me, thus giving me a stink complex. All I know is, if something smells bad, it's probably me, even though I will always, upon first detecting a stink in the air, sniff myself vigorously and can never find conclusive proof that I am the source of the stink. Which in and of itself is a totally different problem, being caught sniffing yourself in public.

Dear Nelly Furtado,

Do you remember when you used to be a hippie, and you had those annoying hippie songs, "I'm Like a Bird" and "Turn Out the Light"? And everyone was like, Ooh, Nelly Furtado, she's Portuguese and Canadian?


Well, I didn't like you then, and I certainly don't like you now that you have reinvented yourself as a shiny, stomach-baring floozy.


I am CCing VH1 on this message in the hopes that they will never play "Promiscuous" again, and perhaps burn whatever footage they may have of it, so that I will never have to watch it while getting ready in the morning (as I have taken to watching VH1 in the mornings before work to catch up on what the young people are listening to, even though MTV would be a better choice, but everyone on MTV is very angry all the time, and wearing threatening eye makeup). Also, please tell Timbaland that I don't understand why he is special, given that he is named after footwear.

Please note that your new, writhing nudie image will not work, as it did not work for Jewel, and soon "Promiscuous" will be featured in commercials for crappy razors-with-the-lather-built-in.

Also, those pants make your butt look big.

Love,
Kim

By the way...

Okay, so a bit of "felt truth" here, for my fellow memoirists-- in truth, growing up I actually loved Mama's Family, particularly the episode where Thelma had a short-lived but oh-so-hilarious stint as the receptionist at a travel agency (when asked if she knew what to do when the phone rang, she replied "No, usually whenever the phone rings I run around with my hands in the air yelling 'what'll I do, what'll I do?'"). But I decided that, of all the early eighties sitcoms I could choose from, it had the funniest name.

Pete suggested that perhaps Mr. Belvedere would have been a better choice, and I have to say I might agree. Also, I just thought of Head of the Class, where Howard Hessman taught a bunch of overacheiving nerds. But I think I may have been the only person ever in the history of mankind to watch that show in its entirety, even through the dreadful Rain Pryor years.

Honk honk!

As I am not normally one to toot my own horn-- in actuality, I spend more time thoroughly discussing every tiny thing I have ever failed horribly at in my entire life, from myspace to Letters of Feeling-- I feel that I have thoroughly earned the right to tell you that I had a column published today in the Columbus Dispatch, a real-live newspaper with many, many readers!

As you can imagine, I have done many a happy dance today.

I know many of you received this news via mass e-mail last evening (sorry about that), but for those I regretfully missed, you can read the story online here. No word yet on whether my dad is upset about being outed as a Safety Man.

Hopefully, this will lead to more to come, and Dave Barry here will be asking for my autograph, just like I did to him when I was in the eighth grade and sporting a big puffy afro and a men's XXL t-shirt (I had big style then, boy).

Big copycat seeks friends

So, partially inspired by Pen's success on myspace (see her exploits here) and Meg's debate about it (here), partially because I heard the word mentioned at least 35 times yesterday as both a proper noun and a verb ("I was myspacing, and I ran across an old ex who now skins puppies and eats their brains"), and partially because I simply cannot be left out of any major trend that will likely make it into a future social studies book (albeit in one of those side bars: "The Aughts-- What Young People Did For Fun!"), I decided to take a second look at my myspace page and spruce it up a little. Mainly because all it was before was a stick figure and a random collection of unsorted friends. And while I enjoyed being portrayed as a stick figure (check out those narrow hips and thighs!), I thought I should at least put up a picture.

But I am not having the myspace success of others. For instance, why does everyone else get a top eight, and I appear to only have a top four? I am very popular! Very! I need others to see this!

Also, there was a scary period last night in which, no matter what I did, I could not get my profile picture to come up. I acted rationally, following all instructions (myspace runs very much like an old Commodore 64 program, don't you think?), finally resorting to voodoo, only learning that the picture had, in fact, been posted hours later, upon receiving a "comment," which is a scary, ominous note that appears in your e-mail.

So anyway, I am now more suitably presented on myspace, and ready to find friends (although Alan, didn't I ask you to be my friend like seven years ago on there, and you never got back to me? Is this because I suck?). So for the love of God, friend me! I am too confused and stupid to find you myself-- I've been trying, but keep getting a weird TECHNICAL ERROR! message that makes me feel scared and ashamed of myself, as if typing in a person's name in the search function is the totally worst way you can possibly go about finding them.

By the way, I'm still sorry about the lack of frequent postings. Hopefully something hilarious will happen soon (I saw those blasphemous pierogies again at the grocery store!). In the meantime, I should share that I found the greatest thing to cut out and modge-podge onto my as-yet-non-existent journal cover, so that project is well underway.

The Dark Underbelly of Journaling

I have had a lot of inquiries as to whether my sudden new need to return to journaling means that I will cease to blog-- it may appear as though I have already ceased to blog, given the infrequency of my postings and their sudden white hot lameness-- but fear not, as this is not the case. The lack of postings is simply because not much of note has occurred to me lately, and I am in a period of oscillating between Totally Unoriginal Thought ("I think Dame Edna just might be a man!") and Entirely Too Original Thought ("Have you ever noticed that when some fireworks go off, they look like big round balls that are racing right at your head?"), neither one of which really lend themselves to blogging.

And as for the journaling, I'm still debating whether I should even go back to it. Because as Cue pointed out, there is now an actual person in my house who could read it, whereas before I was perfectly comfortable just leaving my journal out in plain view (except when I lived with Dan, and practically buried it in a pile of my own feces to keep him from getting near it). Not that I think Ben would read my journal, and not that I would write anything bad about him in it. But the fact that he could read it if he wanted to...

Also, it turns out that not all of my journals were as genius as the Letter of Feelings journal. The journal that immediately follows it, the I Wish I Were Way More Important Journal, is rather annoying. Apparently, I felt that my life had no impact on anyone else's life whatsoever, by which I mean that they did not weep and tear out their hair every time I exited a room. It does contain this eerily prescient paragraph, however, written directly before a non-fiction workshop that I feared was going to go poorly (eerily prescient, is that a Wendy-ism?):

"I'm getting really antsy and upset all the sudden. Like I know everyone will be disappointed. Oh, brilliant. Why don't I just go get a job in insurance?"

So, the point is: I am still blogging, and I may begin journaling, as soon as I can scrape together enough stuff to modge-podge onto the cover of a composition notebook, which is really the only good journal (mainly because of its ability to hold modge-podge). Also, I am glad that I am past both the Letter of Feelings portion of my life (in which I was a hilarious psycho) and the Why Aren't There More Lifesized Posters of Me Everywhere phase of my life (when I was a pathetic crybaby psycho). Now, I am just a normal person, although still hilarious, and now much better looking. And obviously, still quite modest.

Also, as an unrelated update, Ben and I are about to start our sixth week of non-smoking! Go go gadget cleanlungs!

The Journal Journal

I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but I've been having some nostalgia for my journal lately. My plain old, pen and paper journal, which I relied so heavily on in college and, to a much greater extent, grad school, where I apparently journalled obsessively about everything from the bed side at hotels ("The bed in this Sleep Inn is freakishly large. Like, uncomfortably so. I don't know why you would need a bed this large, except for having an orgy") to my thoughts on Australia ("I fucking hate Australia").

This nostalgia mainly stems from one journal in particular, which I wrote in the period from March 2003 to August 2003 (when I abruptly stopped and began writing in a different journal; according to the last entry, I stopped because I was drunk and pissed off about something, but I can't figure out what, although there is a semi-legible rant about why it's so awesome to be single, which ends with the phrase "I FUCKING HATE BEING SINGLE"). Mainly, this journal was about the following things:

1. My undying love for a guy (not the guy most of you are thinking of), and the ill-fated Letter With My Feelings that was given to him and received with no response whatsoever.

2. Hundreds of pages analyzing why there was no response to the Letter of Feelings.

3. Further analysis of how one particular incident, in which he caught me talking out loud to myself, probably put the death knell to the whole thing.

4. How my boss was absolutely sure that I had single-handedly robbed the company of our entire stock of Lip Ink. (This came up surprisingly often, and was usually intermingled with the Letter of Feelings, for reasons I can't really understand)

All I know is, this journal was intensely awesome, and while I was apparently depressed and nearly insane the entire time, I was also really, really funny.

So it makes me wonder-- should I really be blogging? Or is journaling where it's at? Don't get me wrong, I love blogging, but it has its drawbacks (mainly, that I can't discuss my actual feelings about certain issues for fear of reprisal, as in Pen's PAM entry). While the journal really would afford me more freedom, it, too, has its drawbacks:

• No one else can read it, lest I die of embarrassment (seriously, if any of you ever find this journal that I'm talking about here-- it has a picture of Richard Nixon decoupaged onto the cover-- after my death, you need to destroy it immediately, lest my ghost come to you and eat your children), and blogging allows me the chance to bask in my need to be paid attention to
• Other than the decoupage cover, it's a little aesthetically hideous, and causes hand cramps
• Most importantly, thanks to Ben, I don't really need to write tortured, long entries about how no one will ever love me. Mostly, the new entries would be "July 2: Ben is sexy. All systems are go." And without No One Will Ever Love Me entries, my journal would be pretty skimpy indeed

But I still miss it. I may go back to it, although it would seem odd to do both a journal and a blog, and I fear that I would find myself scavenging my journal for blog material. So for now, I think I will dedicate myself to Journal Interpretation and Self Reflection. So far, I have learned that I really believed that secretly, all my male friends were in love with me, but too shy and tortured to show it. Which they probably were. Who wouldn't be?