Dear Barenaked Ladies,

How could you do this to me?

Do you know how embarrassing it is already to be the world's biggest Barenaked Ladies fan? No one takes you seriously! Even after I explain that your genius lies not in "One Week" and "Pinch Me," but in your other varied, beautiful, soul-searching tracks. No-- once I explain that I am a Barenaked Ladies fan, people's image of me drops from Well Educated Literati to Girl Who Probably Watches "Pants Off Dance-Off" While Making a Scrapbook of Her Cat.

But I always stood by you. Even after you released Everything to Everyone, which, let's face it, wasn't really that great. Except for "Upside Down." And the song about the monkeys.

But now you come at me with not one but two CDs O'Crap, Barenaked Ladies Are Me and Barenaked Ladies Are Men. Which I had such high hopes for! Because maybe? They would be a return to form? And I would find another song like "Enid" or "Break Your Heart".

I did not find anything remotely like that.

Oh, that one song, "Bank Job," that was good. I liked that. Because there were nuns in it. And catchy!

But then I go get BNL Are Men, and find that not one but two of the songs on it are the exact same song as "Bank Job," only with different lyrics! (For anyone else out there who's been burned by these CDs, which I think at this point is just Kelly, I'll point them out for you-- "Fun and Games," and "Quality.") Also eeriely familiar-- "What a Letdown" ("Never Is Enough") and "Beautiful" ("Conventioneers").

Point is, I sense that you've given up. Your new music is hookless and unmemorable, and the drawings on the covers of both Me and Men are creepy and upsetting.

And so, it is with great sorrow that I announce that I am renouncing you as My Favorite Band Other Than the Beatles. Of course, your entire catalogue, up until Maroon (and some portions of Everything To Everyone) will still be celebrated in my home. But I deny the existence of these two CDs entirely, and a good third of Everything.

In your place, I name Cake my new FBOTtB. As such, I will be forced to rearrange my CD book so that their CDs come before yours; in a fit of rage, I may also place you behind Elvis Costello and possibly even The Presidents of the United States of America, which I know is a severe blow, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Okay, I won't do that, just because the only thing lamer than a BNL fan is a POTUSA fan. I obviously know how to pick them.

To the rest of the world, I urge you to listen to BNL as they once were, and discover their glory anew. But to you, BNL, I can only express my disappointment and sadness.

Thanks for everything up to, well, Everything.

All best,

Kim Shable

PS: Some awesome new music? Lily Allen (especially "LDN," which I can listen to on incessant repeat), Mika, and Avril Lavigne's new song, "Girlfriend," which I understand is geared toward thirteen-year-old girls, but which I cannot stop rocking out to.

Kim's Obsessions Du Jour

Thanks, Pen, for the tag-- does it count in the total if I admit that I'm obsessed with being tagged for things? It makes me feel like I got picked in gym!

1. My sudden realization that Hugh Jackman would be perfect as the lead role in the horrible novel I've been writing since I was thirteen. This is a position that has been held, over the course of the last fourteen years, by Mark Harmon, George Clooney, Colin Firth, and, most recently, that big Scottish guy from 300. Of course, it would have to be big Wolverine Hugh Jackman, and not skinny, sort of creepy The Boy From Oz Hugh Jackman.

2. Procuring a new wardrobe, as I have come to the vastly horrifying conclusion that every piece of clothing I own is horrible, and not in a trendy way, but more in a middle-aged blood bank volunteer way. I will approach this scientifically, procuring only those objects that I actually need (black pants that are flatteringly cut and do not pick up lint) and avoid those that I do not (Cherokee cardigans from Target).

3. Riding my new bike, which is currently chained to a lawn tractor in our garage, but which I went to visit a few minutes ago, trudging through the three inches of snow on my driveway, just to reminisce.

4. My wedding dress, which just arrived in town yesterday. Sadly, I have to wait two more months to try it on, which is both good (two more months to get my monsterous double stomach under control, so that it does not explode out of my dress like a muffin escaping a pressurized Pillsbury tube) and bad (two more months of slowly morphing its super-cuteness to hideous Seinfeld Puffy Shirt-esqueness in my mind).

5. The identity of the person who left this comment on my trombone blog:

I also play trombone...I also know kim shable and kim shable knows me

Was it you? (I don't like to name names with all the evil Internet predators out there, so I'm hoping you'll recognize this artfully cropped portrait of the person whom I believe it to be, at least for now.) If not, I'm at a loss... weirdly, I really do know a lot of people who play trombone, so it could be almost anyone...

Yesterday and Today

Yesterday:

• Temperature: 75 degrees
• Sky: blue
• Sun: out
• Precipitation: none
• Dog-walking outfit: cute pink tank and brown gauchos
• Minutes on bike: 35
• Opinion of Ohio: Swell!

Today:

• Temperature: 31 degrees
• Sky: gray
• Sun: mysteriously imploded; dawn of second ice age?
• Precipitation: that annoying snow that comes in pellets that get stuck in hair and don't melt for a really long time, but when they do, they sink onto your scalp and run down your back in a totally grody fashion
• Dog-walking outfit: big brown coat over long-sleeved shirt and gray yoga pants, with white tennis shoes (hot hot hot)
• Minutes on bike: none
• Opinion of Ohio: Why do you taunt me, why, you wretched state of death!

Things I find vexing

• I just bought this bike:

And tomorrow the temperature is supposed to go back down into the thirties.

• I am, as I type this, compiling a mix CD that I do not feel has a solid anchor song. It does, however, feature both "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" and the Presidents of the United States' of America's "Puffy Little Shoes," so I am hoping its eclectic nature will save it.
  
• I still have no music for my wedding ceremony...

... and this guy is an actual option available to me. This isn't just a picture of a bagpiper. This is an actual Cleveland bagpiper that I could get to play at my wedding. For $3,000. I am seriously considering this.

• Not really.
  

I have been having a lot of trouble lately with the fact that I'm getting older. I don't mean, Oh, My Back Hurts older. Or even Old As My Parents older. Really, just Not a Kid or Even a Cool Youth Anymore older. Older like that one student teacher that always wanted to be hip to the young people.

Specifically, I started feeling older when I pulled out some old CDs I made in college (I was a very early adopter of the CD burner, one of the only things I can officially claim to have gotten in on near the ground floor) and the song "Good" by Better Than Ezra came on, and I realized that that song had been old when I put it on the CD, meaning it was even older now. Specifically, it is twelve years old. Meaning it would be in the seventh grade now, if it were a person. It would be learning pre-algebra.

One day, I will have kids who will listen to "Good" and tell me what a humongous spaz I was for ever liking that song (I'm assuming that by then, music will have deteriorated into the sounds of actual murders being committed while the trumpet riff from Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual" is sampled in the background).

Another factor that is really not helping my feelings of oldness is the fact that I am actually looking older, I think. Sort of puffy and wrinkly and my hair is definitely turning white at an alarming rate. I mean, look at me here, circa 1995 (the same year that "Good" came out, not coincidentally), with my brown, brown hair and big full eyebrows. (In an unrelated by very interesting note, that cat that I'm holding was named Sly, and when he died in 1998 my parents had him cremated and the tin containing his ashes sits under our Christmas tree every year.)

All I know is, I only have a few more years before my youthful exuberance becomes "creepy 30-something woman behaving in an upsetting fashion" at parties and sporting events. So I'm going to make the most of them, and spackle every last wrinkle into oblivion (because caked-on makeup is so youthful).

PS: This picture was actually taken for a faux fashion catalog that my friends and I had to put together for French class. So, that should tell you how into fashion I was in 1995. Maybe getting older isn't so bad, after all...

Trombone-tastic!

This fancy trigger trombone is not unlike one I used to play, until the one I used to play was hit with a hammer by someone who shall not be named.

My friend Denise was awesome enough to send me the following letter to the editor to the Daily Iowan, in reference to Iowa's search for a state instrument:

Trombone represents Iowa

If Iowa legislators want to declare a state instrument, the trombone should be it. Not only to honor Glenn Miller and Meredith Willson, but because the character of the instrument is in perfect harmony with Iowa and its folks.

Take a look sometime. Trombones are plain and simple, like the Iowa landscape, yet still beautiful. There are no fancy keys, no valves, no reeds, but still the trombone holds a note with all the rest. Its versatility as an instrument in many styles is in tune with Iowa's land and its people. Its ability to make only one note at a time, unlike many of the strings, speaks best of Iowa people - while we may do something by ourselves, we know that a much better song is played when many work together. And just as Iowa works hard to feed the world, the trombone works hard to hold up the band.

The trombone and Iowa: simple yet versatile, underappreciated but important.

Paul Worrell

UI student & trombone fan

First of all, congrats to you, Paul Worrell, for being as trombone-obsessed as I! It is lonely here, Paul. So very, very lonely. But oddly gratifying in its self-righteousness!

Secondly, I am so jealous that I didn't write this myself, only about Ohio! Because of my slight, we'll probably end up with the effing accordion. Or, like, the hammer dulcimer.

The day the wedding stood still

I've reached a really strange point in wedding planning where phase one-- finding a site, getting a dress, hiring a DJ and a photographer, getting a minister-- has all been completed, but it seems too early to move on to phase two, which seems to involve about eight million small but infinitely significant details-- yes, we have a caterer, but we never told them what we want to eat. We haven't yet picked a cake for the baker to make. We have no invitations, or save-the-dates, or even a master guest list. Or any music for the actual ceremony (note: if any of you play a musical instrument, or know someone who does, and they want to play at our wedding, we will give them a million, billion dollars.).

Even though I know it's too early to start on most of these things (or, rather, I have been informed of such by my mom and by Ben, who just want me to stop freaking out for five seconds), I am already secretly in a panic over them, a panic which manifests itself in these horrible dreams where I wake up and it's the wedding day, only we only have planned what we actually have planned in real life. Which means we have a reception hall, and photographer and DJ and dress, but no menu, or seating chart, or guests, for that matter, because we never sent out any invitations.

And on top of all that, I feel intense pressure to have a really cool wedding, especially since so many people are (theoretically) coming in from all over the country to attend. But this is a fatal flaw in my character-- while I may be a decent creative writer, I am not even slightly creative when it comes to almost anything else, including decor, costume-making, and yes, wedding planning. So in my mind I picture all my cool friends from all over the world arriving in Aurora, Ohio, and going, "eh."

Actually, let me take that (slightly) back-- I DO have creative ideas, but they cost a lot of money. Like my idea to have a photo booth on site at the reception, which would have offered up all sorts of weird and wacky portraits of my guests that I would cherish for decades to come. Yeah, those booths? Cost, again, a million, billion dollars.

Sadly, there's nothing I can really do to overcome this crippling defect in my character, except to artfully steal from other weddings and hope that no one in attendance at my own remembers them.

Behold my sword and scales

About a week ago, I received a very angry letter from the government informing me that I was a wanton hussy who had refused to fill out my jury selection questionnaire and that if I did not do so within ten days of receipt of said questionnaire, Scooter Libby would come to my house himself and beat the crap out of me.

This was highly upsetting to me, as I had not received any of the supposed previous attempts to get me to fill out this questionnaire because the government had my wrong address (which is so weird, since they knew exactly where to mail my income tax forms), and even this one was late-- the deadline for filling out the forms pre-ass-kicking had already passed.

So, like the good citizen I am, I filled them out immediately and returned them.

And was almost instantaneously called for jury duty, about eight days later.

I mean, I knew filling out the forms might meant they might want me to be on a jury someday. I didn't realize it meant before the hiatus of The Office was even over.

After overcoming my initial shock-- I don't know if any of you have ever been called for jury duty, but just getting the letter made me feel like I had dome something really wrong, like this was all an elaborate trick to get me to go down there so they could bust me on some trumped up littering charges-- I am now actually quite excited about doing my civic duty and serving on a jury. I am also excited about the $40/day I could potentially earn as a juror, which I plan on putting toward a sweet new bike... of justice.

Seriously, though, I honestly am kind of excited about it now. Which means that my jury pool will most likely not be chosen, and I'll never get the chance to actually be a part of a jury. Which is too bad, because Ben and I watch a lot of American Justice, so I would probably be quite the worthy candidate.

Whoot whoot!

I'm in the Dispatch again today-- you can see the column here.

I feel compelled to note, though, that this is the first time I have ever ripped off my blog for column material-- it's a rewrite of the Stuck In Traffic post of a few weeks ago. But funnier, I swear!

So check it out-- enjoy! Also, your thoughts on blog ripoff? It was justified, I swear!

"Anything" Was Mine First

I would just like to share my abject horror at the fact that the new

Gap ads feature the song "Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better" from Annie Get Your Gun, as sung by Ethel Merman. Not because I dislike this song-- actually, I like it very much-- but because up until now, I believed myself to be the only person on earth who knew this song existed, other than the rest of the cast of the Aurora High School 1994 production of the aforementioned play. And this somehow made me cool. I'm not sure how yet, I haven't worked that part out. But my knowledge of that song made me cool.

And now everyone knows it. And I've heard like seven people humming it. And I guarantee everyone's going to download it, and soon the whole country will know it, and will have developed Ethel Merman impressions that rival my own, which anyone major dude will tell you is very good.

Come on, Gap people! That was my one theater thing that I had going for me. Everyone knows "Music of the Night," or even "No Business Like Show Business," which, as you may or may not know, was also in Annie Get Your Gun. But this was my one big song. I used to sing it while waiting in line for stuff, which really used to annoy people. I was annoying like that. But still, I bet they couldn't help but marvel at my obscure musical theater knowledge.

What I believe now #3

It is never all right to have rubber testicles dangling from the ball hitch of your truck and van, as I have seen twice in the last two days-- actually, I think it was the same white van both times, but still. What is the message he is going for? My van has big cojones? Ladies, sweet loving is available in the back of my rusty, windowless white Econoline cargo van?

Unacceptable.

Ooo, baby baby!

So I'm heading out on the wide open road again tomorrow, ending my sweeping tour of the south (Okay, North Carolina and Virginia) with a visit to my best friend Megan, her husband Matt, and their new baby Madelyn! This, of course, means no blogging from me, but seeing as how I don't really blog that much while actually seated in my own home, I don't think it will really hurt your hearts too much.

In general, my whole life has been awash in babies for the last year or so, as like a third of my friends have been dedicating their lives to reminding me that I totally want a baby, even if it means giving up laying on the couch and watching cartoons. (But babies like cartoons, right?) Among those prestigious baby-havers (and baby-havers-in-waiting) of the last year or so:

• Angela (and one on the way!)
• Deidre (and one on the way, part two!)
• Megan
• Diane
• Stephanie
• Alyssa
• Cassie (actually, has this baby arrived yet?)
• And finally, one friend who I will not mention by name until she has revealed it on her blog, which is the true sign that it's okay to announce!

Actually, that list seems kind of small, like I forgot someone. Which is really crappy, when you finally realize that you've forgotten that one of your friends had a baby. So if I forgot you, please write in to berate me, so I don't have to spend too much time worrying myself nauseated about it.

So until I can have some babies of my own, which is still probably a few more years down the line (I want to be mature enough to at least watch the live-action shows on Nickelodeon), I will avail myself of these people to play with their bundles of joy. I can even change diapers! I don't like to, but I can.

Oh, and in unrelated news, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGAN! And furthermore, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DENISE, whose birthday is coming up while I'm out of town-- curse you, state lines!

Dear Aspen Dental,

I hate you.

Here is why:

1. Your bad, evil dentist did all of my copious cavities wrong, leading to a "redo" that inevitably led to a root canal and a crown. (Please note that the new dentist is much nicer, but also gives off a distinct "I hate you" vibe.)

2. The ladies behind your counter treat me as if I were a suspicious dissident.

3. The bathroom in your office requires a screwdriver to unlock.

4. The radio station your reception tunes to is always staticky and tuned to Delilah, which is the worst radio show EVER.

5. And finally, I just received a threatening letter from you demanding the $31.20 I owe you, despite my never having heard of this debt before, especially when I specifically remember asking the dissident-fearing receptionist how much I owed, and she said "nothing."

Your $31.20 is en route. I hope it makes you happy in your cold, cold dentistry heart.

All best,
Kim

All-stars

Tonight I got a phone call from an old middle school teacher, which I realize doesn't happen to most people, but that's just because most people aren't the shit, like me. Anyway, he wanted to confirm that I was actually getting married (as I had hinted in an earlier e-mail) and asked if he could tell various attendants of a Harmon Middle School retired teachers lunch the following day.

I asked him who was going to be there, and it was a cavalcade of old favorites-- Mrs. Hayes, Mrs. Wolfe, and others. And as he was listing them off, it hit me how strange it is that, while pretty much unknown to the rest of the world, the teachers you have when you are young are like your first encounters with celebrities-- like when I freaked out when I was nine and saw my old second grade teacher, Mrs. Mills, at Heinen's, which made no sense, because teachers do not go out in public or appear anywhere other than in their classrooms.

This is a feeling I was never able to shake-- I once ran into another teacher, Mrs. Brookhart, out at the same Heinen's (only in a different plaza now, so can that really be considered the same Heinen's?), while visiting home from graduate school when I was 24. And I was still like: "Wow. Mrs. Brookhart. In Heinen's."

Maybe this isn't a phenomenon common to other people, as I was freakishly attached to my teachers growing up (which might explain why I still consider the original aforementioned sixth-grade teacher one of my favorite people). I do remember that some of my own (male-- just to clear up the coming confusion) students seemed totally freaked out to see me at the beach one day when I was a TA, but I think that was more because they didn't have their shirts on and felt totally grossed out that their TA could see their nipples.

But still, I couldn't help but feel sort of proud that news of my impending marriage was being carried back to the all-star crowd at the Harmon reunion lunch tomorrow. I just hope a certain gym teacher doesn't ruin it by doing his hilarious impression of the way I run.

I don't run like that anymore, ass! And I'm marrying a hot guy. So bite it.

Fergie's Insecurities, brought to life

So I borrowed Fergie's CD from the library, because not unlike the rest of the nation, I apparently find her "tastey". And I have to say, there are some pretty interesting songs on there-- I hope this does not diminish whatever little amount of music cred I have garnered by being an Elvis Costello or Cake fan for all these years. But there is one song in particular that irks the shit out of me, which contains the following lyrics:

Would you love me if I didn't work out/

or I didn't change my natural hair/

And I could be the/

One you want to grow older with baby/

I'll give you all that I got-t-t-t

There are several issues with this:

1. Fergie, if your boyfriend doesn't love you because you don't work out, then boyfriends across America must be living shams of lives.

2. What do you mean by your "natural hair"? Are you refering to the color? Or is your natural hair actually a matrix of snakes, a la Medusa? In that case, I, too, would be apt to leave you if you did not change it.

And, most importantly,

3. THAT LAST LINE DOESN'T FUCKING RHYME WITH ANYTHING! This isn't free verse! It's GOOD for things to rhyme in POP SONGS! It is ENCOURAGED! And for no apparent reason, that bothers me above all else.

Anyway, I thought I should make this lyrical gem available to everyone else, so we could discuss its badness. Meanwhile, I am off to go listen to Warren Zevon's greatest hits, so as to counteract whatever Pop Music Haters I may be attracting here.

(By the way, pop music RULES! There. I said it. Just not this song.)

The following activities were performed in my car between the hours of 5:05 pm and 8:15 pm yesterday, when I was caught in a really bad traffic jam on my way home from work.

1. Called Ben to find out the situation: overturned cement truck at E. 140th. Minor annoyance.

2. Called Megan to find out when I will be going to visit her and her husband and their new baby! Fun times! Too bad I'm not moving at all. Urge to pee rising.

3. Called Kelly to discuss the newest BNL release, which I had planned on buying when I got home. Not only was it beginning to look like I wasn't going to get home in time, but Kelly infomed me it's not even that great, anyway. Then, phone begins to die. Must hang up with Kelly. Distance traveled: 1.3 miles in 30 minutes. Urge to pee rising.

4. Called Ben despite dying battery. Began to cry. Not good. Cut off old woman to get in far right lane, which I have learned from the radio is the only place to be to pass the overturned truck. Looked forward to seeing truck in flames, with cement volcanoing out from every direction.

5. Listened to Blue Collar Comedy on Sirius. Blue Collar Comedy is not really that funny, so I listened to a CD I made to take to Wilmington. Upon three consecutive listens, decided that I really don't like the song "You Can Call Me Al." Who knew?

6. Sobbed uncontrollably for about 15 minutes for no reason. Urge to pee reaching deathcon-4.

7. Popped massive zit on cheek, only to discover too late that it was one of those zits that is filled with blood, which made me look like a crime victim and thoroughly freaked out the people in the lane next to me.

8. Did more crying. Wondered if a pack of travel tissues would absorb at least a little pee if needed.

9. Finally approached the location of the so-called overturned cement truck, only to learn that it had been removed several hours before, and that absolutely nothing remained to impede the flow of traffic. Immediately began going 60 miles an hour again. Cried over lack of flaming truck. Cried bitter, bitter tears.

Unfunny bop

So, I haven't been feeling very funny lately.

This scares me, because it makes me feel like I was only given so much funny, and squandered it all in my youth, so that by the time I have children, I'll be the mom who makes inane banter about cartoons that went off the air years ago and encourages my kids to join a social group like Scouts, but not even as cool as Scouts, more like Indian Princesses.

Not that there's anything wrong with Indian Princesses. If there even is such a thing. If not, I could found it, which would give me even more humorless crap to talk about.

I don't exactly know where my funny has gone, but if you read back over the last few weeks of blog, you'll see that it's been sadly lacking. Could it be due to:

1. This shitty weather, which went from blizzardy cold to unseasonably warm, causing the two feet of snow here to take on the consistency of florist's styrofoam-- the kind you like to touch at the craft store because it so willingly accepts thumb prints?

2. The presense of TiVo in my life, which makes it so I don't have to come up with funny things to entertain myself?

3. My slow but persistent transformation into The Bride, but not the cool ass-kicking bride from Kill Bill, but rather the kind of bride that wonders if post cards or magnets would make better Save the Dates? (We're leaning toward magnets.)

I don't know. But I am so unfunny right now, it kind of hurts. Do you guys still love me?

Pepzilla

In an effort to prepare for our overnight journey to Charlotte this evening, I have already drunk one 24 ounce Diet Pepsi (left), and have moved on to a comically oversized 1 liter Diet Pepsi (right).

My entire upper lip fits in the mouth of the bottle. It is madness!

Never Mind

There are only two ways to get to work from my house, and they're both closed. Snow day!

To those of you out there in the thick of it, please don't think I'm a wuss, but I am just not the kind of person who is cut out for Great Adventure. PLEASE BE CAREFUL!

If I die on the freeway on my way to work

Please

*Call my parents and Ben and tell them I love them

* Don't read my journals-- ever

* Make sure someone feeds Mamie

* Try to forget all the times I freaked out and cried or screamed for no reason, and remember as someone cool and socially acceptable

That, by the way, is not my house, but is somewhat similar. I took a half day from work and am now steeling myself to head out. I also broke Ben's coffeemaker this morning in an attempt to make him some coffee while he so graciously and uncomplainingly shoveled us out of our driveway. So if I die on the freeway on my way to work today, also make sure he knows I really am sorry about that.

The Blizzard of Aught Seven

Once, 29 years ago, Cleveland was hit with a blizzard, commonly known as The Blizzard of '78, that people still talk about to this day. I, being young and vibrant, was not alive then, but have heard much of its fury and anguish.

But let me just say, that blizzard was probably pansy-esque compared to this.

After finally being released from work today at 4:30, it took me three hours to complete the normally 30-minute drive home, including an unscheduled and most unwelcome stop at a BP to chisel free my windshield wipers from their awkwardly-frozen ice prison, which caused them to seize up and completely stop functioning about ten miles from home. Finally, after prizing them free ("THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, MOTHER FUCKER!" was, I believe, the exact phrase I used once they finally began moving again-- Ashley can corroborate this, as she was on the phone with me at the time-- on my hands free, of course, as I do not have a death wish), Ben came and rescued me, and I followed him the rest of the way home.

I would like to thank the manufacturers of my intensely oversophisticated ice scraper and the makers of Orbit Mint Mojito gum (it really tastes like an alcoholic beverage!) for helping me survive this ordeal.

In the meantime, I thought it would be prudent to announce, for those of you who don't know, that I WILL BE IN WILMINGTON THIS WEEKEND, and expect to see all my Wilmingtonian friends while I'm there. Please tell me the temperature is about 18 degrees, and I will be able to get the car wash I so desperately, desperately need.

Drama, deferred

At work, we have Fox News playing in the lunchroom at all times (not because we are particularly interested in the thoughts of Greta Van Susternen, but because we don't know where the remote is, and therefore cannot change the channel), so it didn't take us long to find out about the death of Anna Nicole Smith. And soon, the entire office-- men and women both-- were abuzz with the information, speculating on cause of death (TrimSpa? Was it TrimSpa?) and remembering our favorite ANS moments.

I have to admit that, even as a well-educated woman of literate aspirations and supposedly lofty life goals, I am utterly fascinated by all celebrity disasters. For instance, I wrote a paper on the OJ Simpson civil trial verdict that got me a scholarship to my undergraduate university-- and I wrote it not to make an ironic statement, but because I was genuinely addicted to the OJ trial.

And now the death of ANS gives me a whole new stable of things to obsess over-- was it suicide? Did someone kill her? Does this have something to do with her dead son? Who is the father of that baby? Things I never would have really put any thought into otherwise-- ANS was not particularly high on my Celebrities To Watch list, despite her being batshit crazy.

But the question remains-- why do these things so interest me, when in theory, I am supposed to be reading up on literary theory and paying very close attention to the political climate around me?

I have two theories on this:

Theory 1: I. Love. To Gossip. But yet suffer from a crippling fear of fully gossiping about anyone for fear of being caught, and also, yes, because it's really just wrong to do so. I try to limit my gossiping to only well-trusted sources, whom I know will not repeat my gossip; I try also to stick with gossip I know to be true, not things I heard or thought possible. But my thinking is, celebrities sign away full gossip rights by stepping into the spotlight, and I am free to gossip about them with impunity. So now, I am free to go buckwild with my theorizing, and to share my speculations with anyone I see fit.

Theory 2: I also love drama, but as anyone who has attended an MFA program (or any school, for that matter) can tell you, too much personal drama can lead to very bad things. Celebrity drama, however, can be enjoyed at full-strength, because while you know Anna Nicole Smith, you don't actually KNOW Anna Nicole Smith, which enables you to delve as deeply as you want into the sordid details of her death without any personal emotional repercussions.

This, of course, does not mean I'm glad Anna Nicole Smith is dead; it's never good to hear that anyone has died. But am I interested in her death? Indubitably.

Death to Scum

I highly recommend that you all go out and buy this Scumbuster RIGHT NOW. If, for example, you have a scummy bathroom, like I do, it will allow you to destroy scum in a most satisfactory manner, as well as unidentified blue-black smudges of what can only be Super Scum, various types of mildew, and other nastiness.

You can also use Scumbuster to clean:

*sinks
*toilets
*the lid to your perpetually scum-covered metal garbage can
*windowsills (which get very, very dirty, in case you haven't noticed)
*carpet (or so the packaging says, although I can proudly say that at least my carpet is free from scum)
*the other heads of the Scumbuster

and so on.

All I know is, my bathroom is a million times cleaner than your bathroom. At least a million. Which is why it pains me so that, immediately upon completion of Operation Scumbust, Ben suggested that tomorrow, we wash the dog in the bathtub.

The prodigal poster returns

So, I know I haven't been the best at keeping my "blog more and comment more" resolution, but I have to admit, this whole wedding planning thing is a real ass-kicker! But we now have an official date (after visiting the worst location ever for a wedding reception-- in the worker cafeteria at the BP building), a dress, a caterer, a cake, and possibly a DJ. So it's all coming together quite nicely.

But on top of that, I have been:

• working with the Aurora High School Class of 1997 Reunion Committee to pull together some semblance of a reunion. So let me just inform you right now that if you are a member of the Aurora High School class of 1997 and you read this blog, you will be attending this reunion. There's really no way around it. Jeremy. Thaddeus. I will come to your homes and get you and make you dance. We'll be doing the Macarena. Oh, the joy, the joy of it all!
  


• returning all the e-mails in my inbox. This does not include the seven bazillion e-mails I got in response to my "I'm getting married!" e-mail of 12/26. Those of you who sent one of those e-mails, I greatly appreciate each and every one of you, but I must declare e-mail bankruptcy regarding those messages, lest I be found dead at my computer.
  


• working out with my new arm and ankle weights I got for my birthday, in an attempt to not have big scary flappy underarms on my wedding day. Thus far, I have accomplished only Looking Like a Supreme Idiot, as I tend to talk on the phone while wearing the weights and walking the dog, so I can often be found standing in front of various neighbor's houses, pumping my arms wildly and apparently talking to myself while my dog sniffs around in the garbage.
  


• attempting to overcome my fear of the woman who runs the place where we're getting married, because she totally hates me, and I think it's because my mom mentioned to her that I drank too much at a party I once attended at the same party center, thus securing my reputation, in this woman's mind, as "the girl who will almost certainly get drunk and ruin her own wedding."

And so on.

So, I must apologize, but it seems likely that my posting and commenting will be sporadic, at least until we get past this initial phase of wedding planning. But I am reading everyone's blog, and thinking of funny comments in my head. Which has to be worth something.

If it makes you feel any better, my hair is turning gray at a fantastic rate, which is alarming not only in and of itself, but also because I cannot resist the temptation to rip all the gray ones out, which will only ensure that, while I may have tight toned wedding underarms, I will probably be bald.

Also, please enjoy this picture of myself as a seventh-grader. Please note that yes, that is my dad's shirt I'm wearing. And I'm out in public. And those really were my glasses.

I feel that this display of naked humility should excuse me from all further anger at my not posting very much. Thank you!

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.