I can't stop scanning things, so this might be the bulk of my blog for a couple days. But, I feel that the things I'm scanning are excellent insights into my life. Life this weird modge-podge journal I kept for a few weeks in grad school:

My only good halloween costume

We finally got the scanner I got for Christmas working, and so, as a belated Christmas present to you all, I offer this picture of me as a Killer Bee, circa 1988. What made me a killer bee was that I had a machine gun, sadly not pictured here.

Considering I now have an insatiable urge to scan every flat thing in my house, you can expect to see many more images as compelling as this one in the days and weeks to come.

Hot off the presses!

Had another column in the Dispatch today-- those of you who knew me while I was in Wilmington will recognize the story of The Great Potato Fire, as detailed here. I'm really proud of this one, mainly because I've been dying to tell the story of the GPF since the day it occurred.

I'm going to be writing a few more for them to keep in the hopper, and while I don't want to scavenge from my blog, I might need some suggestions to get the creative juices flowing (that is SUCH a disgusting phrase). Your thoughts?

Sad box

So.

I've been trying to figure out how to tell you about the resolution of my wee box problem for about a week now, and I'm not really coming up with anything. So instead, I'll just tell you in the least grody way possible.

So after the "you're just wiping too hard" incident, I went to my lady parts doctor for a second opinion. His first opinion? "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He is the stupidest urologist ever. What is his name? Dr. Stupid Urology?"

After this spite-filled (but quite true) rant, we got down to business. One exam later, I finally had the answer to a question that has been burning (yes, pun intended) inside me for almost a year:

Vulvodynia.

I have vulvodynia. Which, apparently, is a fancy term for "depressed lady parts."

Long story short, something in my brain short-circuited after that first bladder infection-- apparently, the only bladder-related issue of this entire ordeal-- and caused my lady parts to go all out of whack, simulating a bladder infection, but not actually being one. They are, in short, depressed.

The best way to treat this problem, apparently, is with extremely old-school anti-depressants from the seventies. Because the new anti-depressants are too weenie and smooth-jazz to snap my lady parts out of their funk.

In addition, I am now required to wear only white cotton underthingies, refrain from using fabric softeners and harsh soaps, and keep horse-back riding to a minimum.

Also, I am expected to blow dry my lady parts with a hair dryer, to avoid the harsh contact that apparently comes from use of a clean fluffy towel.

I'm not doing this part. I don't even blow dry my hair.

So far, things have been going quite well. My lady parts seem to be cheering up quite nicely, and I no longer have to worry about my wee box.

I do, however, have to worry about the fact that I just willingly wrote the word "vulvodynia" on my blog, in reference to myself. A blog that my thirteen-year-old cousin reads.

Sorry, Katie!

Okay, seriously...

...I WILL be back to blog about my wee box problem. I realize that the problem is no longer of any interest to anyone, but believe me, it's super funny, and you'll die when you hear about it. But I have been very, very busy doing the following things:

• Buying my wedding dress (it's the greatest!). I so desperately want to show it to you, but I can't, for fear of The Ben Factor. I also really, really, REALLY was hoping that I'd be able to post at least one picture of me in a shockingly ugly dress, but really, I couldn't find any. Either that, or a lot of them were ugly, but they just looked good on me because I am so hot.

• Going to my first bridal show, which was a terrifying event of terror, even though I did get all the information I will need to actually pull off this wedding. At one point, though, I had a woman's elbow in my ear as I tried to walk past a "spin to win" booth that could net you either 14 nights in Jamaica or 5% off a night with The World's Most Annoying DJ.

• Staying up late at night worrying myself into nausea over my guest list, which isn't even slightly official yet, because my third grade teacher might find out about my pending nuptuals and feel really badly that she wasn't invited. (But sorry, Mrs. Brunswick. You were a bitch, and I never forgot that time you knocked over Leva's desk because she wasn't paying attention to you during math).

and many other wedding related things.

I know I promised not to be a crazed bride-to-be on this blog, but really, we're putting almost all of this behind us by the end of this week-- we're looking at one more site, auditioning photographers and DJs, and even securing Super Awesome Favor ideas. So once we enter that time where it's just list-making and envelope-licking, I will definitely have more time to talk about my wee box.

So, in short, stick with me! It will totally be up this week! Please?

Not to fear...

...the wee box story is coming-- I'm just thinking of the best way to phrase it without being totally gross. Here's a hint for those of you who watch Sex & The City, though-- Charlotte had it.

Vera Wang Terror Dress

I went dress shopping today for the first time, and felt very thin and sassy, which is actually the exact opposite of what I thought would happen. I realize, of course, that my thin-and-sassiness was mostly due to the corset and slip that actually left me dizzy for several minutes after removal, but I do not actually care, because even though I couldn't breathe, I was so. Hot.

Of course, for security reasons, I can't post any pictures of the actual dresses I tried on here-- while I do regularly inform Ben of my every move, including my need to poop, I am trying to keep him in the dark on this one. So if you'd like to see me in any thin and sassy dresses, just let me know and I'll e-mail some pictures over (but please be warned-- my mother did not tell me before she took any of the pictures, so in a fair number of them I look like a slack-jawed yokel).

So instead of posting actual pictures of me, I will instead share with you this picture of a Vera Wang dress model, whom I find very scary and upsetting. There are multi-page spreads of models just like these in every bridal magazine I pick up, and they all give me the heebie-jeebies. Why is she all hunchy like this? Why is she holding a stick? Is she going to attack me? Did she just fight a stag for superiority? Is that why her hair is so messed up, and she appears to be sporting the defeated stag's horns?

The dress I like does not look like this one. But I am so preparing my Big Stick bouquet.

2006: Angel or Demon?

Before I begin my annual year-in-review, I must share with you my make-your-own-South Park lady, as I was challenged to do by my Peruvian Girlfriend. I think she's pretty badass-- check her wicked cape:



Now, for the big review!

Up until about ten days ago, I was getting ready to give 2006 a relatively bad grade, although now for the life of me I can't figure out why. I do have a bias against even numbered years (2002, anyone?), so that might have had a lot to do with it, along with

• the thousands of dollars spent to cure my wee box problem
• the near-burglary of my home
• the continuation of my now two-year non-essay-writing streak
• the lack of visiting with my good friend Alan

But really, on the whole, 2006 was quite rad, offering such highlights as

• getting engaged to the man of my dreams (move over, George Clooney!)
• having three columns published in the Columbus Dispatch
• making not one but two trips to Wilmington
• the pregancy of my best friend Megan and my friends Deidre and Diane, along with Daren's wife Cassie and Ashley's sister-in-law, and probably at least three more people I forgot (I like babies. So sue me.)
• the marriages of my cousin Jennifer and my friends Karin and Dan (along with several others which I unfortunately could not attend)
• my first real vacation with Ben

And, to top it all off, I finally learned the real solution to my wee box problem, which was not, as previously suggested by The Worst Urologist Ever, "wiping too hard." However, I am reluctant to share it with you all, mainly because I happen to know that at least three guys from my high school class read my blog, two of whom I have known since we were little, and I totally think they do not want to know about it. But if they do, I'll totally tell you, because it's really about the single most hilarious thing that could possibly be wrong with you.

So, overall, I have to give 2006 an A+++ (there would be at least two more pluses due to the whole "I got engaged situation, but I felt the wee box had to negate at least one of them).

My resolutions for 2007? I generally don't make them anymore, because I used to be one of those people that would make impossible to reach goals and then bum severely when I did not meet them, but I think this year a few are in order:

1. Lose 10 more pounds, in order to be hot hot skinny bride

2. Immediately regain 10 pounds after wedding by eating nothing but sloppy joes and astronaut ice cream

3. Go to dermatologist to make preventative measures against future returns of the Evil Zit

4. Buy vitamins and actually take them every day, not just when I "feel" iron-deficient

5. Blog more and comment more

6. Write an actual essay

7. Get at least two more columns in the Dispatch, or maybe even the Plain Dealer

8. Kick ass in all life arenas

Happy New Year!

Sorry I've been away for so long-- I've been out of town visiting Ben's family, and then heading to Cincinnati to spend New Years Eve with some friends.

Oh. And GETTING ENGAGED!

(Oh, God. I'm such a girl.)

Ben proposed to me on Christmas, after all the presents were opened-- he reached into the tree and pulled out one more, noticeably ring-box-shaped box, which was addressed "To Ben, from Santa."

"Should I open it?" he said.

Come on, man! Open it!

Which of course he did, and there was a ring in it, and he got down on one knee and proposed and I said yes and then cried my face off and ran around screaming for about half an hour, when I finally calmed down enough for him to point out that he hadn't actually even put the ring on me yet. I called my mom and screamed at her about it for awhile, made a few more calls, and finally passed out around two in the morning.

Here, for my own greedy edification, is a picture of the cry-and-scream-inducing ring:

So, that having been said, I had just about the single greatest Christmas of all time. And as if that weren't enough, I got TiVo, too! You're so jealous. Mostly of the TiVo. I can tell.

Anyway, consider this blog post to be the end of my weeklong blog absence (blogsence?). And I hereby make a solemn vow not to talk about my wedding plans on my blog. Too much. Very much.

Seriously.

Merry Christmas to all...

Since I'm going out of town for awhile after Christmas to visit Ben's family, I wanted to swing by and wish you all an early Merry Christmas! Most of you know that I'm not the most religious person in the world, but Christmas has always been by far my favorite holiday. When I was little, of course it was for the presents-- it was for the presents probably for much longer than it should have been. But as a teenager, I started flagging in my Christmas spirit-- it wasn't as easy to wake up on Christmas morning, where only a few years before, I had been up since four, eagerly awaiting my chance to go downstairs and see what Santa had brought.

Only in the last few years have I learned how much more fun it could be to be Santa, instead of just waiting for him-- and this year, I have tried to be Santa to the T. Decorated house? Check. Christmas cards actually mailed out, not just bought and stored in an empty space in the linen closet? Check. Sugar and spice pecans, oatmeal cookies, and copious amounts of Chex Mix prepared-- and meant to be shared with others, and not simply gorged on in my darkened living room while watching Clue? Check. And thoughtful presents for all? While not enough to compensate for the years of presents my parents have so thoughtfully purchased for me before I finally caught on about this whole giving v. receiving situation, check.

I hope for myself, and for all of us, that this Christmas, we wake up feeling like we did when we were six years old. I wish you all the happiest of Christmases.

PS: Crunchy is very mad that I wrote such a mushy Christmas post, and wants to remind you all that Christmas spirit is for jerkwads.

Harry Potter and the...

I'm sure most of you already know it by now, but I don't want to spoil the surprise for those who don't: the title of the final Harry Potter book was just revealed.

We need some serious discussion of this. While the name hints at insane amounts of drama and intrigue, it seems a little too Nancy Drew-ish to me. Also, could it be a reference to Godric's Hollow?

Oh, man. I am such a geek.

That having been said, let's discuss!

Dear Thaddeus,

Can I just tell you that about every fifteen seconds, I nearly pee my pants with glee because you're reading my blog? And it's getting really gross and messy, so I hope I get over that soon.

Anyway, I know this is super exclusive of every other person in the whole world who reads my blog, but I had no idea how else to get in touch with you, so I'll keep it quick-- when I try to click on your Blogger name, it won't let me see your blog, and therefore allow me to greedily read about every single thing that has happened to you since 1997 (or at least since you started your blog). Is there a way you can enable that? Because enquiring minds need to know.

Otherwise, we need to find a way to exchange e-mails. Because I cannot wait for the (most likely not going to occur) AHS Class of '97 reunion to catch up.

Sincerely,
Kim

PS: My mom says hi.

**Resume blog content for all people. Sorry for the interruption!**

Happy birthday...

To two of the greatest guys I know!

Jeremy and John celebrated their third annual birthday extravaganza last night, and were kind enough to invite Ben and me. And considering I've had this party marked on my calendar since mid-July, you know it's a good one!

It was great seeing everyone again, and I sincerely hope that we will actually get together more than once in the upcoming year, as opposed to claiming we will, which is two different things.

Also, on a somewhat related note, AHS Class of '97? I think I might have been tricked into joining the reunion committee. So you are now OBLIGATED to come. Please?

Mystery solved

After three weeks' postponement, I finally had my cystoscopy today (those of you coming to my site looking for an answer to the age-old question "What happens during a cystoscopy?" will be glad to learn that it really ISN'T as bad as you think... honest!) And the doctor says there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my bladder at all, and has come to the conclusion that ALL my wee box troubles of the last year are caused by…

Are you ready?

…Me wiping too hard.

Seriously? You might have mentioned that possibility to me BEFORE the CAT scan and ultrasounds and four rounds of antibiotics.

So, thus ends a year-long chapter of my life totally devoted to my excretory system... not with a bang, but with a Whipple.

(Oh, my God. I just made a Mr. Whipple joke. Please come to my house and kill me now.)

Creepy Ronald, the marionette

I would just like to say that I had the greatest Yankee Swap present ever, in the form of this marionette:


Originally a wedding gift to my friend Denise, it ended up in the hands of Kibby, who then mailed to me upon leaving for Peru. And it stayed on my bookshelf for a year and a half, biding its time. Until Yankee Swap.

It ended up in the hands of Rich, who was most happy with it, posing it in many Christmassy ways and, finally, embedding it deep into the tree, where we would forget about it for awhile, only to be creeped out again by its withered face whenever we glanced at the tree just right.

Ooh, baby. Is that mistletoe?

Attention, everyone:

Please buy me all these t-shirts. (Come on-- they're on sale!)

I tip my HAT

Welcome, HAT, to the Land of Blog. I think you will find it pleasant, although sometimes people will tag you and force you to name six weird things about yourself. Which is what I'm doing right now. So do it! Or else!

Meanwhile, the rest of you should check her out-- many of you know her, you love her, and you wish you could be her. That is, when you're not spending all your time wishing you could be me...

I cannot be stopped

I will bring Christmas cheer no matter what, at the cost of the well-being of all those around me, as well as those brave knick-knacks who sacrificed their prime places on the entertainment center and writing desk to make room for Christmas Cheer in the form of Yukon Cornelius and Hermey bobbleheads, as well as other Christmas paraphernalia (mostly purchased at Marc's).

Above is our tree, which, while the picture is small, you can probably tell is decorated in 95% cartoon character theme (Patrick Starr being the most prominently featured, for some bizarre reason). This was the first year that we even had enough ornaments to do the back of the tree, which we usually neglect because it is not easily visible.

The rest of the house, also not pictured, is similarly Christmas-laden, and officially ready for the full-on, practically disgusting Christmas obsessiveness I bring out every year around this time.

I don't know why I do this, but I always have, ever since I was on my own, starting with a one-foot tree I purchased at AC Moore my first year in Wilmington, after my roommate took the TV and couch (but before I set the kitchen on fire). I think it's because I was one of those kids-- unless we're all one of those kids, and I just assumed I was overly Christmas obsessed-- who so fanatically waited for Christmas, and was sad to see that feeling inevitably wane as I got older.

But with the presence of Rudolph-themed bobbleheads, the Christmas spirit is alive and well. And bobbling.

(I know these aren't the aforementioned bobbleheads. But I believe this to be the most sickeningly cute ornament ever-- my mom made it for us.)

Santa's little helper

Despite the 60 degree weather and the the decidedly un-Christmassy feelings it inspires, I have begun, in earnest, the purchase of this year's Christmas booty. And this year, I'm doing it with a budget, which is serving no purpose whatsoever other than

a) to give me a reason to write in my new "I Heart AU" notebook and

b) to drive me absolutely insane.

But my Real Simple magazine said that using a budget was the best way to shop for Christmas without going broke, so I'm going for it. This is in stark contrast to last year, in which the theme was Buy Everything, No Matter How Much People Will Scorn Its Lameness, So That a Large Portion of the Presents Under the Tree Are From You, Even If They Suck. This was both expensive and unfulfilling, mainly because the vast majority of Christmas 2005 presents with "Kim" on the "from" line are now defunct, if ever opened at all.

That strategy itself was a large revolt against my previous previous shopping plan, which was Be Cheap and Blame It On Being Poor. Which I actually was poor, but, coming from a family with very generous relatives, I felt downright chintzy. So now that I have a real job (sorry, Day Spa!), I feel it is my duty to buy the very best. Or at least, to buy something that isn't from the Mikasa outlet at the Aurora Farms. (Or, I shudder to mention, from The Paper Factory, where the majority of Christmas 2002 was born.)

So far, the budget is going well, even if it is frustrating (I have a ledger AND charts explaining who got what gift and how much it cost). In another very un-Kimmish move, I have completed at least half my shopping in just the last two days, using nothing but the Internet (and, in future days, the friendly nature of my office's front desk receptionist, who will be thoughtfully receiving my packages for me, as I fear that whoever broke into my house this summer will be lurking around to swipe whatever the hapless delivery guy may leave on my porch). I'm kind of bummed that it's looking like I'm going to miss out on the Mall Experience, but at the same time, how can you not like something that involves Super Saver Shipping?

Not much

This is not the first time I have had nothing of import to say on my blog, but it will probably be the least interesting.

This is mainly because many, many hilarious things are happening in my life right now, and I am not at liberty to discuss any of them, because they could get me fired, or beat up, or put on Santa's naughty list, or all three. So I am forced to keep them to myself, giggling in a high-pitched way at their sadly secret hilarity.

However, this will not stop me from blogging, because I totally dread being placed on the "You Should Blog More" list over at Pen and M's. So here, in no particular order, are some random numbered pieces of information:

1. I am still insanely obsessed with Clapton's "Bellbottom Blues," mentioned earlier; this has only gotten worse since, just this evening, I got a copy of The Cream of Clapton from the library and have been listening to it pretty much non-stop. Turns out the whole CD is good, which shames me, because I have always been a vocal anti-Clapton rabble-rouser.

2. You should read Philip Roth's The Plot Against America. If you do so, please note that it does get more interesting, although you might not believe me when you're in the interminable section about his attempt to run away to the orphanage.

3. Click is the single most misleading movie ever made. Do not watch this movie. It will make you cry your face off, and that is no joke. I sat around the house with no face for about forty-five minutes. It was ugly.

4. I feel that the number of comments on my blog is down, and that makes me sad. I am sad now. Do you know what will make me feel better? If you post a comment. No pressure.

5. Please visit this man's blog. If you like things that are funny, or if you like Marmaduke (which, please note, does not fall into the catagory of "Things That Are Funny"), you will like this blog.

6. Finally, because I feel a blog post without a picture is terrifying and naked, I include for you this picture, which comes up in Google image search when you type "Click Marmaduke:"

Welcome Back, Tullis!

I will be back shortly with stories of my heroic near-victory against Ben's niece Kaylyn at Mastermind (which I am extremely retarded at) over Thanksgiving, but first, it is my honor and pleasure to mark the return of Matt Tullis' Sick Cookie to the blogosphere, after an extended absence. This is proof that hounding someone incessantly for months and months and months is an excellent way to get what you want.

So check him out, yo! You know you want to...

Weirdnesses Six - Eleven

Curse you, Variant E! You have tagged me to reveal six weirdnesses about myself, and I already used up my best five when Diane had me do this last year. But worry not, as I am sure I can come up with six more:

1. When I was in high school, I would cut pictures of handsome men out of magazines and lamanate them with special laminating paper. Proof of this can be seen here; my collection also had a lot of Kevin Kline (yes, I found him sexy and no, I don't know why) and Gregory Peck. I hung them all on the wall across from my bed, which was dubbed The Wall of Men. When my parents moved out of the house earlier this year, they attempted to give me the remainder of the wall of men, which I refused, although now I wish I hadn't.

2. I pretend like I'm in a movie pretty much all the time, and everyone who interacts with me is in the movie, too. This is most obvious when I drive, because in the movie, this is when I reveal important facts about my life to the viewing audience, with a mellow Jack Johnson song playing in the background.

3. Sometimes I just really like singing the Ashland University fight song; I believe it to be just a really great song.

4. I refuse to watch movies about animals that get separated from their families because they make me cry like nothing else. I caught the last ten minutes of Homeward Bound a few months ago and cried for like an hour. The same is true of Snoopy Come Home.

5. When I'm out walking the dog and listening to my MP3 player, sometimes I march in time with the music. I think some of the people in my neighborhood have noticed. This works really well with Ashlee Simpson's "I Didn't Steal Your Boyfriend," which is about as fast as my normal walking speed.

6. I really don't like Halloween, because I can never come up with a good costume, and because I am a creative person, people always think I'm going to have a really good one. But I can't come up with any. At all.

Okay, now for the tagging: I would love to see responses from Pen, Ashley, Meg, Frisby, Denise and Tom, and would super love to perhaps see some responses from the gang at Turkey Hat Sweet, even though I secretly believe I am too nerdy for them. I know the rules are that I am supposed to go their blogs and personally tag them, but I'm in the middle of making a troublesome batch of not-so-flavorful Chex Mix, and must decide what the next course of action should be (reseason? With the risk of overbaking?). So I trust you all to do your civic duty and play along!

Happy Thanksgiving, blogosphere!

Phone Calls From the Doc

Dear Varied Medical Personnel With Whom I Am Currently Affiliated,

I thought perhaps you might need a reminder of when is and is not a good time to call me with information that might directly impact my health.

For instance:

Do call when the results of my CT scan come back abnormal. This is information that would be most helpful in Preventing My Possible Death. Do not make me call you for this information.

Conversely, do not call me with the same information a few days later because no one marked it on my chart. All you are doing at that point is ruining a perfectly good trip to Walgreen's.

Do not call me forty-five minutes before a scheduled doctor's appointment to tell me exactly what the doctor is going to say to me in said appointment. This serves only to make me late for the very appointment that I will already know the entire content of.

Also, when I leave three messages with your answering service, do call me back to let me know that the fax from the urologist that I am so desperately checking on has, in fact, arrived; without this fax, there is no point in me coming to the appointment that I already know the entire content of.

And while this actually has no relation to the telephone aspect of doctor-patient communication, do not make me look retarded by checking on the whereabouts of said fax, the fax that was supposed to say that my uterus was probably going to fall out, when it turns out that, when interpreted by a proper doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my uterus at all, rendering the entire appointment I already know the entire content of totally irrelevant.

I really am sorry that all I can write about lately is the doctor, but this entire situation is starting to wear on me. More photographs have been taken of my insides this year than my outsides, and still, it hurts when I wee.

Thank you, Spammers, for the inspiration!

Special thanks to Kristy for letting me know that I had another column run in the Columbus Dispatch today-- Hotmail is down, so I sadly cannot send out my self-congratulatory e-mail as of yet. But luckily, Blogger is still here for me to indulge in my narcisistic needs!

You can check the story here-- it revolves around my deep-seated hatred of all things spam (although curiously skips the canned meat variety). I hope you enjoy-- please enjoy! Please?

Fade Away

Although I realize that this will reveal me to be nearly elderly in my music choices, I have to say that I heard the song "Bell Bottom Blues" by Eric Clapton on the radio yesterday, and I cannot get it out of my head, which means I must procure a copy within the next 48 hours or else succumb to madness. It is, at least in my mind, the greatest song ever written*, even though as of right now I only know like six words of it-- "I don't want to faaaaade awaaaay"-- but they're the best five words of the whole song, so I'm not too worried about that part.

If you have this song, please come to my house so we can play it over and over and over again, until we get tired of it or else vomit from sheer glee.

*Please note that my opinion of "the greatest song ever written" changes sometimes over the span of just a few hours-- for example, this afternoon, I believed "Oh Sherry" by Steve Perry was the greatest song ever written, but after coming home and listening to it a few times, I am totally over it.

What I Believe Now #2

No matter how bad things get, everything is better when you listen to a song with a na-na chorus.

Some good options:

"Hey Jude," The Beatles
"Centerfold," J. Geils Band
"Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' ," Journey
"Land of 1,000 Dances," Wilson Pickett
"Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye," Steam

I am sure I am forgetting some; please feel free to add to my list. Then make a mix CD out of it. I guarantee you, you will be feeling good within minutes.

Canceled!

I had finally worked through my utter terror of going to the cystoscopy today, and was already planning the hilarious blog entry that would ensue, when I got a call at the last minute saying the doctor had been called into emergency surgery and would have to reschedule my appointment. Blast! So now I get to spend another unspecified amount of time wondering what horrors await me at the urologist's office...

I have to admit, though, I do feel bad for whatever guy had to have emergency urological surgery today.

A belated review of the Office, and of my failures in love (updated)

Warning! This post contains unfunny and borderline downer insights into my former non-existent love life, B.B. (before Ben). While "The Office" is definitely a funny show, this post is not. So do not be fooled by its tangential connection to "The Office!"

Having come to "The Office" very late, I had a lot of catching up to do-- with their non-stop coverage of all things "Office," Entertainment Weekly had already more than informed me that Jim and Pam would be kissing by the end of season two. But what I was not prepared for was the way in which it all went down.

Jim? Going up to Pam? And finally just saying his feelings out loud? And then later they kiss? This whole thing made me want to cry. Because I have done this exact thing before-- the "saying your feelings out loud" thing-- and it did not end with kissing. No, it did not.

Because on the three occasions that I actually worked up the nerve to try this, I got these three responses:

1. Slight revulsion, as if being propositioned by a homeless woman smeared with feces and BBQ sauce
2. Utter confusion, as if it could not be possible that I were even female, let alone someone you might make out with
3. Complete refusal to acknowledge the entire situation.

So to see it work for Jim-- and yes, I know they don't end up together, at least not yet, so it didn't really work-- really kind of blew my mind a little. I had kind of just assumed that, because I had failed at it three different times, it probably wasn't actually possible, but really only the kind of thing that your friends tell you you should really do when you're all drunk. But now that I see that it is possible (at least for fictional office drones) kind of bums me out.

Which, I know, is super stupid, because I have Ben, who is ten thousand times a better man than the three aforementioned guys. And with Ben, I didn't have to spend any time sitting in my room feverishly journaling out all the reasons that He Seems Like He Likes Me-- it was just, he likes me. There was no need to sit down and Have a Talk about it. It took me forever to figure out that if someone actually liked me, it would be a little more obvious.

Still, though, I felt a little twinge watching Jim and Pam. Maybe I was jealous that it worked, or maybe I was just embarrassed for Jim, and mad at Pam, or maybe I was mad at Utter Confusion guy. Or, I just remember how humiliating it was-- telling someone your feelings, and having those feelings rebuffed. It was like being broken up with, only without any of the benefits of ever actually having gone out. And I think that no matter how in love with Ben I am and will always be, and how I'll probably never have to go through that situation again, that whole concept will always sort of bother me.

The whole point is, sharing your feelings tends to lead less to kissing, and more to crying on the floor in your bedroom, singing "All By Myself" very loudly at three in the morning. One can only hope that this is not what Jim ended up doing.

Thanks, Mr. Raudins!

Marita and I totally just used algebra to solve a ratio equation. Who said we would never use that again? I mean, other than me.

Dancing With the Pundits

Ben is an election junkie, and, having decided that finding out if the democrats will seize control is more important than the Cavs game, I am now stuck watching the talking heads on CNN. Which is when I noticed something of great interest-- in the background, behind the Heads' heads, is a big screen with four smaller screens in it, and the one on the lower left is playing-- I shit you not-- Dancing With the Stars. I know this, because as we were flipping to a local channel to see how our issues were fairing (note: local channels DO NOT CARE AT ALL how the issues are fairing, it turns out) I saw Mario Lopez dancing with his shiny hoochie woman, and when we flipped back to CNN, I saw Mario Lopez again, this time with his arm around the shiny hoochie.

This is why America is the greatest country on earth.

High Five!

Nothing I can say about this movie would be funnier than the actual movie itself. You must just go see it. Please, see it. Please. Every time you think about going to see Borat, but don't, a baby dies somewhere. Think about that when you think about not seeing it.

Go see Borat. Now!

The Unwilling Adult/My Biz is Your Biz-- a retrospective

Happy Blogday to me-- it's the one year anniversary of My Business Is Your Business (the blog formerly known as The Unwilling Adult)! Not unlike Tom, I am secretly horrified at my first post, which should perhaps instead have been called "Look at me! I am still clinging desperately to the fact that I was once a literary writer!" So rather than rehash its pretentious musings here, I will instead give you a guided tour of The Year in Blog:

November: Bought motorcycle on eBay. This, by the way? Still not resolved.

December: Crunchy wishes you all a Merry Christmas. Will we hear from Crunchy again? Only time will tell!

January: I got a sweet ass big giant chair at work. Sadly, I no longer have this chair. Probably a homeless person is using it. I envy him.

February: I learned that there is no such thing as baby carrots. This still haunts me to this very day.

March: I wrote letters to anonymous work mates. I may have to consider this tack again: Dear Person Who Controls the Thermostat-- neither 63 nor 74 make good temperatures for the office. Just so you know. Love, Kim

April: My dental woes begin. Readers settle in for months and months and months and months of disgusting updates.

May: Absolutely nothing of interest happens this month. The blog is a fallow wasteland. I apologize. Although all my Seven Short Shorts in Seven Days are there-- I won't link them all, but they're a fun read! I think.

June: Robbery at the homestead! But luckily, a plucky neighbor saves the day.

July: You wanted more of the Hoff? You got it.

August: More issues with the neighborhood. But I know in my heart that Alex was not a part of this mess.

September: Behold, Zit of the Damned! This was over a month ago, and I still have remants of it. Awesome.

October: Perhaps you didn't catch this?

All in all, a great year for blogging! Here's to many more-- even if it means more motorcycles, more big giant zits, and more invasive medical procedures involving cameras. Viva La Business!

We're so fine, there's no telling where the money went

I realize this is a bit belated, but please enjoy this picture of several of my co-workers and I dressed as Robert Palmer girls:

Please note that I have a total inability to make sexy Robert Palmer girl faces.

Sadly, we did not even place in the company costume contest. But the votes were decided by applause level, and my department is lacking in the Temporary Suspension of Dignity area, and rightfully did not hoot itself hoarse.

However, I think you will all acknowledge our hotness. Special props to Marita for costume concept. And thanks to everyone involved for never acknowledging out loud that my sash was not actually red.

Surprises and shirtlessness

Attention, everyone! Please go see The Prestige, because it is an awesome, awesome movie. It is, for instance, the first movie I have seen since V For Vendetta that I left the theater actually wanting to talk about something other than its badness.

Also, for the ladies, there are several scenes in which Hugh Jackman is shirtless. Just saying.

I will warn you beforehand that both Ben and Jeni figured out the surprise ending way before I did; Jeni went so far as to declare the movie "predictable." I, on the other hand, did not figure it out until much later, which is a little vexing, as I pride myself on figuring out trick endings and then deriding their obviousness. But in my own defense, let me just say that somehow, I had heard or just made up that the trick ending was something totally different than what it actually was, and spent so much time looking for evidence of my own supposed trick ending that I missed all the clues pointing to the actual trick ending.

So, for the record, and just to help you out, the trick ending is not that Christian Bale is actually magic.

Anyway, go see it, so we can talk about it. Because Ben is tired of discussing this movie with me, and will not entertain my desires to go see it again, perhaps because I showed too much interest in shirtless Hugh Jackman.

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.