Christmas Letter 2009

OK, so it's Christmas, and that can only mean one thing my Lovelies...it's Christmas Letter time!!! I've decided to send my annual accounting of familial superiority via blog only because if you've "forgotten" that I have a "blog" that's just too freakin' bad, and you need to be punished, and since I don't actually possess the all-encompassing power to destroy, I can at least hold out on the Funny and make your holiday season dull and humorless. I think the Sweet Baby Jesus would be proud.

We had a truly great year around Casa Chica in 2009, so all you friends, family and assorted hangers-on can sit back, relax, and bask in the aura that is Us. Watch and learn, Suckas, watch and learn.

The Oldest Chica is still a genius, and this year managed to add Social Activism to her long list of extra-curricular activities. Yes, she's following my dyed-in-the-wool-tree-huggin' footsteps by reaching out to those who are less fortunate and attractive, and started a group called, "It's Not a Hockey Haircut if You Don't Play Hockey." Their focus is to stress the importance of follicular hygiene, proper trimming, and responsible product-use. Please visit their website and give generously...it's an important cause in it's fledgling state that could really use your support.

The Middle Chica continued her dominance of the performing arts world as she won a scholarship to the prestigious Flynt Academy of Modeling and The Dance. She will be learning the basics of pole dancing, with a year-end performance down at the glittering new Hustler Complex in Lincoln Park. Many questioned my parenting skills and overall sanity by allowing her to participate at such a young age, but I think this will allow her to hone her God-given talents in a safe, judgement-free environment. Plus it was either this or dance camp, and which do you think will ultimately help her make enough coin to pay for those highlights she so desperately wants?

It is with slight embarrassment that I report the Littlest Chica had a brief brush with Johnny Law this fall. She was picked up by the 5-0 outside her daycare in connection with a series of home invasions believed to have been committed by someone under 4 feet tall who walks exclusively on their toes. The only items taken were nail polish, 14 pennies, and Barbie styling head with one missing earring, so they really just wanted to talk to her about the B&E. Imagine the surprised looks on the faces at the Plymouth PD when they found out she was working a uber-covert-double-secret operation for the NSA placing listening devices on the computers in the homes in question. Needless to say, her cover was blown, so she's back to being a regular pretzel-eating 4 year-old, and I can kiss that extra $2K a month buh-bye. Though we were able to keep the government-issue harness and night-vision-goggles that I think could come in handy...oh yeah, Mama likes...

As for me, I continue my meteoric rise up the corporate ladder of the medical billing world...goes without saying really. I also continue my boycott of the Bravo TV network. Ever since they reneged on the Wayne County Housewives deal, and gave everyone except me and Bad-Perm-Connie a TV show, I steadfastly refuse to watch it. Except for Top Chef, but only in re-runs. I am actively pursuing a deal with A&E, but am struggling to find my niche. I initially thought I'd be a shoo-in for that hoarding show, but it turns out that hanging onto angst and bitterness was not really the type of stockpiling they're looking for. So my quest continues.

And now...back by popular demand...drumroll please...Kelly's Naughty and Nice List for 2009.

The Naughty:

Mr. Kid Rock. I know many of you will be shocked to see the K-I-D on my Naughty List, but let's face it, I may have been able to overlook Pickler-Gate, but that coupled with the fact that I did not receive my oft-requested free tickets and/or passes is simply too much for this Kelly-Girl to bear. Let's just hope that the ensuing public scorn and social ridicule associated with being on this List will prove too much for him to endure, and he comes through with a free weekend when he plays the Mohegan Sun Casino in February or I can't say what might happen next.

Kwame Kilpatrick. Now this may seem to go against my long-standing conviction to avoid attacking the big, fat, stupid, slow-moving target, but each time I see his big, fat, stupid face in court, it just makes my blood boil. I know what it looks like to have $6 left over at the end of the month, and it doesn't look like a big, fat, stupid former-mayor now "working" for his buddy down in the Southern-D. No it does not, and he is big, fat, and stupid for even thinking for one moment that we'd believe him. Thus ends the political commentary portion of my Christmas letter.

Jason Lee. Another Chipmunk movie? Really? I know that technically this should go to the movie's producers, but I think that Brother Lee has a responsibility to spare the rest of mankind from such brutality, and should have just said No.

And now for the Nice:

My Court-Appointed Psychiatrist and the all the folks at the Macomb County Sheriff's office who helped me see that my "relationship" with the Starbucks Suit Guy was not "healthy" and needed to "end." Mad love to you all.

Oprah. She will always appear here, because I still fear her to the depths of my soul even though she's in her final year.

The MTV Brain-Trust who decided in their infinite wisdom to showcase the culture and class that is the Jersey Shore. Genius, genius, genius. Being able to witness such powerfully depicted art on a weekly basis brings a tear to my eye and makes me proud to be a Jersey Girl.

So that's it. As you can see, 2009 was another notch in the bedpost of greatness for us Chicas. Better luck to you and yours in the upcoming decade. Merry Christmas to all, and please remember to rock out responsibly. XOXOXOX

2009 proved to be yet another notch in the bed-post of greatness for me and the Chicas. We

The Exterminator

OK, so when I think of Mr. White, I can’t help but think about dead rodents. Hmmmm…that sounded better in my head….

Let me begin once more, and perhaps provide some clarification. Things are going marvelously well with Mr. White. We’ve been together for a few months, I dig him, he digs me, and as an added bonus, the Chicas dig him as well. I’ve even changed my relationship status on FB for Chrissakes, so y’all know I ain’t messin’ around.

As for the other one-half of my opening statement, well, that will require more explanation. Lucky for me, I have a captive audience in you, My Lovelies, because I know in my heart of hearts that you can no more turn away from this website than I can stop talking. About myself anyway.

I have an extreme, intense, jaw-dropping, pants-wetting…."fear of rodents”. I know most of you would have filled in that blank with “ass” but this is a family show, and I’m trying to tell a classy love story here, so let’s please focus shall we? So yeah, I despise rodents in all their forms. By rodents, I mean creatures that include, but are not limited to mice, rats, gerbils, squirrels, opossums, gerbils and hamsters. The latter two have put me on the elementary-school-pet-shit-list, but I’m an equal-opportunity hater. Just ask Mr. Guinea Pig.

So last year, my aversion to the bottom-feeders of the mammal kingdom led me to purchase some lovely little poisonous packets to place in the garage and shed of Casa Chica. I threw them in the corners, never saw hide or hair of the furry little bastards, so I consequently did not think twice about it.

This year things were slightly different. Enter Mr. White and his new-fangled extermination system. Instead of the discreet white-envelope-lookin’ things, these were trays filled with little blue pellets. He placed them in the very same corners I had put my white-envelope-lookin' things, and after two weeks declared, “They ate all the poison, we need to get more trays.” Now aside from the fact that I was absolutely dumbfounded that the poison might run out and therefore need to be replaced in order to achieve ultimate Mickey-repellent-status, I was totally creeped out that there had been nasty, nasty mice openly coming and going and feeding in my garage and/or shed. These aren’t your regular vermin after all…these are uber-duper-'hood-rodents livin’ in the D.

So Mr. White, God-Bless-Him, put out more trays. About a week later, I went downstairs to do some laundry. I tromped down the stairs, carrying a highly-overweighted basket full of chica-togs, turned the corner, and there it was. There was a D-E-A-D-M-O-U-S-E on my basement floor. Holy Mother of God, I dropped that basket and booked up that staircase faster than a Wolverine at the NFL Combine. Oh, who am I kidding, it was waaaay faster than that…they’re in the Big 10 after all… I was running for my life for crying out loud.

Needless to say, he rid the lower level of the vile carcass, and then put some of the snack trays down there as well. And about a week later, it happened again. And once again, I went screaming up the stairs, except this time, Mr. White was not on the premises to get rid of the body. So I did what any sensible, independent, college-educated woman would do. I locked the basement door, ran upstairs, and jumped in bed because we all know that your bed is “home-base” and no critters and/or boogey-men can gitcha when you are on your bed. Same as in 3rd grade. Duh.

The next morning, Mr. White came over to the Casa after I’d left for work. I then received a text message that stated, “Mouse Gone.”

Of course, I was thrilled, but after a few moments of reflection, I called him to relay my concern regarding the fact that I’d resided in my palatial estate for over 3 years, and ne’er once laid eyes on any critter within my domicile proper until those blue pellet snack trays came along, and while I thoroughly appreciate all he’s done for me, I simply cannot have/see/or hear about another critter in my home. Dead or alive (Go ahead and sing the song…I know you want to).

So he said, “No, no, no…I meant that I couldn’t find the mouse.”

And after regaining consciousness, I managed to stammer, “Wha-what do you mean you couldn’t find the dead mouse at the bottom of the stairs???” And my thoughts went immediately to the possibility that there was some dead mouse cloning project pioneered by a master race of Zombie Rodents that I’d somehow missed being reported on TMZ.

And he said, “Wait…at the very bottom of the stairs…to the right?”

And I said, very quietly, “Yes, why?” suddenly very afraid that the dead mouse was something way more horrific. I don’t know what that could possibly be, but an Undead Zombie Mouse is pretty goddamned freaky if you ask me.

And he asked, “Did you turn on the light?” And this is where I worried he’d flipped his friggin’ lid, because who in their right mind would do such a thing? Certainly not moi.

And that’s when he said, “Uh, huh, I didn’t think so. I didn’t see a mouse over there, but I did see a pencil with a very poofy feather thing on the end...probably looked like a mouse in the dark.”

So yeah, in the end, the Chicas strike again. And any fellow who's willing to put up with, help out, and otherwise fit himself into the lives of me and my insane offspring is OK by me. Better than OK. He's great.

Master Thespian

OK, so my Dad is an actor now. I say "now" because he spent most of his career working for AT&T (we lived in Jersey after all, and that's where all the dads worked) and then after he packed it in there, he started a consulting firm, and one of his clients happened to be...you guessed it...AT&T. Now the details of what he did during the course of his career are a little sketchy. In fact if I'm perfectly honest, I have no idea what he did, which is probably the reason why I was an English major with a god-awful business acumen who is now gainfully employed as an Operations Manager for a medical billing company. I'm pretty sure they only keep me around for my fashion sense and my ability to write pitch- perfect notices forbidding the use of cell-phones at workstations. But hey, I live in the D and I have one of those rarefied things that Wikipedia calls "a job," so I'm not going to ruin a good thing by squealing on myself.

Anyway, a few years ago, my Dad started this acting gig. He does it part-time, mostly for film students, and yes, I believe he does have an agent. In case I did not mention it, he also bears a striking resemblance to Mr. William Shatner. So much so that he's been approached for autographs and photo-ops in airports, malls, and other places where the celebrity-crazed and (apparently) visually-challenged denizens congregate. Yeah, he is quite a prize, my Dad...he just kisses the babies, smiles, and growls, "Denny Crane!!" Don't believe me? Here is Shatner....

And here is my dad...
Spooky, huh? Especially considering my Pops doesn't have nearly the access to Grecian Formula or expert air-brushing that Shatner does. Of course here in the D, he gets pegged for Bill Bonds just as much as Captain Kirk, but still, an ill-gotten celebrity sighting is the same no matter what.

Most of his projects have been student films, (I'm not repeating myself, just trying to accommodate those with poor recall...I am a giver who likes to hear herself talk) and not that he doesn't have mad skills, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he books most of those jobs because he lets many of the twenty-something-cash-deprived directors shoot at his very fabulous Bay Area house, and my step-mom feeds them. Extensively. Also in his repertoire are a lot of those crime re-enactment shows, where he pantomimes his role as the meth-crazed half-brother who kills the family and stuffs their chopped-up bodies into yacht hulls. But my hesitance to crown my dad as "Master Thespian" has mostly to do with the fact that he is my dad, and I just don't buy him as a mob-boss-consigliere (he's Irish for Chrissakes) or a homicide detective (yes, he's a very natty dresser, but I know for a fact he's totally squeamish).

Recently, he's done quite a few internet info-mericals. These are my favorite by far. Here is his most recent addition to the old resume...it's just a voice-over, but still genius...

I had no idea that making ice was such a labor-intensive process that is currently causing such world-wide angst and unrest. My new-found knowledge of this is at once empowering, and yes, slightly unsettling. I wonder if the State Department commissioned this company to wag the dog and solve this bedeviling issue since they're getting nowhere in the Middle East? Is there some evil puppet master sitting up in his remote tower in the jungles of the Amazon trying to control our minds and actions by turning the simple act of freezing water into a revolutionary triumph? What other tasks could benefit so wildly by being done upside down? Most of all, I'm dying to know what makes a color "friendly."

So yeah, that's my Dad. I don't know that he'll be winning any awards any time soon, but it's kind of cool that he's gone so far out of the box (BuzBox? Sorry, couldn't resist) in an effort to try something different, something he's always wanted to do. It's actually really cool, and I'm very proud of my Daddy-O. I'm just hoping that he doesn't get too successful before I have a chance to finish the screen-play and casting for my life story. I think he would make an excellent Hobbit. He's a little tall, but all good actors can transform themselves for the right role. Just ask Shatner.

Chicas in the DC

OK, so one of the greatest things about the summertime, other than sunburned shoulders, and barbecues, and catching fireflies, and any of the other shallow Hallmark sentiments designed to make you overlook the boredom and whining and human limbs decimated by godforsaken mosquito bites, is going on Vacation. I mean taking a proper, get-away-from-home-and-work-and-Hobbit Vacation, and not just for a long weekend. I mean like a full week. I don't take vacations very often because you have to pay for them, and also because bad things tend to happen to Kelly-Girl when I'm away from home for more than 3 days. Last year, the Chicas and I went to visit my parents in San Francisco, and I wound up in the hospital for 4 days, and this past March I got trapped by weather for an extra day and a half in Jersey, which wasn't really so bad because at least there I had access to pizza and pork-roll and oh man, I gotta get back there.

So anyway the Chicas and I went to Washington, DC at the end of August. And yes, we packed up the Highlander and drove Griswald-style to our Nation's Capital. We had our Barnes and Noble tour book and my AAA Trip-Tik because I am old-school and I do not dig that Garmin-chick telling me what to do. We were so ready to go. Just look at them as we pulled outta the D on day one, all full of hopes and dreams and excitement at 6:30 in the morning...

First stop was Richmond, VA to see my old buddy JM and his family. And yes, I am now acutely aware of the fact that I drove right past DC to get to Richmond, and I will also tell you I did it in the pouring rain, and that my 9.5 hour trip took a full 12 hours, but that is besides the point. It was well worth it to see JM and his lovely wife Laura and their two boys whom the Chicas now secretly love. Plus it was so nice to finally be around God-Fearing Yankee fans again.

So the next day we headed back up I-95 to my Aunt Irene's house. We had a really great visit with her and my Uncle Tom. She fed and watered us and hooked us up with transpo to the Metro. I would post a picture of her, but there's a strict photographic-approval process in place in my family, and there just wasn't time to get all the legalese and paperwork in place. So yeah, we ventured into the city and that's where the fun began. I will begin your photo journey thusly....Middle Chica could not wrap her head around the fact that there was neither a Sbarro nor a Claire's at the National Mall, but that's a great shot, yeah? How about this one taken from the other direction? Now you should all know by now, my Lovelies, that I'm not going to bore you with cookie-cutter, Stepford-perfect pictures of my kids in front of various National points of interest. My name is not Julie McCoy, and I don't roll like that. Instead, I will offer you images like this...The looks on their faces so perfectly capture the fact that I'd failed to take into consideration the heat, humidity, and the amount of walking that we would do...and this was taken within the first hour. Oooh, how about this one for the Christmas card...Or this one of the Wee Chica and her Dirty Little Secret on our "Tour of DC at Night after a Day-Long Death March"...

Now I don't want to make it seem like we didn't have any fun. Because we did. We had a great time. We even stopped to see my mom (don't ask) and went to Mr. Jack Hanna's Columbus Zoo because we really had not walked enough.

So what can I take away from my 7 day journey with my Chicas? Well, we had a blast, and got ourselves 642 pictures and a whole boatload of memories. It wasn't always pretty, but we did it. And, I think it was important for them to see me pull it off by myself. I mean it wouldn't have been possible without my family and friends, but ultimately I was the one who got it done. Yes, I daresay it was a moment of Yanni-loving-munchy-crunchy empowerment. Plus it was kind of nice to be the super-happy-fun-parent for a change. All that and I got me a nifty new Obama magnet for the fridge. Yeah, it was a great Vacation.

Thank You Spartan Don

OK, so one of the things I've found incredibly ironic lately is that I started this here blog to report on my life and all of my compelling and hysterical observations regarding my fabulous existence. Except the only thing was that I didn't really have a life...I mean I did, I was breathing and responding and all that technical medical jargon, but all I did was work and come home and tend to the Chicas. And provide you with breathtakingly witty prose about my comings and goings.

And then Mr. White came along.

And so now I have someone to hang out with and do stuff with...did you know that there are these places called "restaurants" where employees come to your table, and you order food and beverages, and they bring them to you? And sometimes you can sit outside and the same thing happens? Genius...I wish I would have thought of that. Actually, that's an exaggeration. I've been to restaurants before, except now that I'm with a grown-up I don't order nuggets, and I don't have to cut anyone's food, and I only venture to the bathroom when I myself have to pee, and there had only been one slap-fight that required intervention. At another table. How nice is that?

Yes, it is very nice. Except now that I have good news to report, I have very little time left with which to report it.

Thus my dilemma.

So to summarize my life in the last month...Chicas are fine and started school again, thank the Lord in heaven above. The Hobbit and his Council of Darkness finally crossed the line into "Hell Hath no Fury-Land." Work at the Cube Farm is good and that's about as strong an adjective as I can muster. The FM continues his quest to be a thorn in my side forever more. Football season has started, which always makes me yearn for being home in Jersey and having access to a proper NFL team, or at least the disposable income with which to purchase the Sunday Ticket. And then there's Mr. White. Sigh. I won't bore you or induce queasiness with the in-depth details, but suffice it to say he is great, funny, and wicked tall, he weathered my first neurotic outburst very well, and I am happy. So there.

So yeah, it took actually getting booed by one of you, my Lovelies, to get me off my sorry ass and get back to work here on the blog. So everyone can thank Spartan Don, and we can move on. OK?

Pimp This

OK, so a few weeks ago, on a Sunday, I went and picked up a paper. I had to wait until after noon of course because Michigan still has their archaic Blue Laws that prohibit the sale of alcohol before that time, and I'm certainly not going to make 2 trips just to pick me up a new Black Box, when I am perfectly content to spend 4 hours laying around watching a marathon of 90210, waiting for the stroke of twelve. Alright, it was really more like 2 pm because there was that episode where Brandon gets caught sleeping naked with his ugly girlfriend, you know that smart one with the really bad hair and wart on her chin, at her parents' house when she had told them she was still a virgin, as if anyone would believe that you could actually date Brandon Walsh and not bone him repeatedly even though he's unfortunately short. Yes, I said bone. You can shake your head and read that again, but I said it. How many times must I tell you? I am a classy, classy chick with important things to say.

Anyway, that's not my point. So I was perusing the Free Press on that Sunday when I saw that they were having a contest for blog entries. It was being held by one of the staff bloggers, and the contest was called "Pimp my Blog" and if you won, you'd be one of 7 people to get your entry published on their website. And then the grand-prize-winner would get their entry published in the actual Sunday Free Press in the Editorial section. Awesome. I loved the name, I dig the chick who writes that blog/column, so I knew I had to enter.

So, being of sound mind and even sounder lazy-assitude, I submitted the Beaver piece that I wrote last winter. And yes, I did just insert a link to my own blog. Go ahead, sue me. It's still one of my favorites, and I think it gives a pretty good picture of my admittedly distorted, at times demented, point of view. So I emailed the chick and didn't think anything of it...And then she called me... And she emailed me back to tell me she'd called me...Because she liked the piece, but there was one problem... I had to submit something that had never been published before.

WTF??

Seriously? I mean, you know I love you to the ends of the earth my Lovelies, and I truly appreciate each and every one of my 8 loyal readers, but I never once considered that this was regarded as "publishing" even though I hit that "publish post" button each time I send you a new and compelling piece of prose. I know everyone in the world can read this blog, but they most certainly do not. And even though I now have an international audience thanks to my buddy the Commander being stationed over in Bahrain, I would still think there should be some minimum-readership rule in order for it to truly be considered "published." And I told her that. And she said too bad, stop being lazy (who me??) and gave me an extension. Til the next day.

And of course, I couldn't think of a single...solitary...thing to write. So I stumbled and fumbled and finally submitted something about the NJ political corruption scandal. And it was baaaaaaaaaaaad. No, really, it was awful. But I'm still gonna post it here in a few minutes because I may be vain, but I still gotta up my numbers. Besides, if I hit home-runs with my posts all the time, you'd be all freaked out about the literary wunderkind in your midst, and totally start stalking me because there is no one else on this earth as fundamentally hot and witty as I. Hey, it could happen.

So yeah, I did not win. I sooooo did not win. But in the end, as trite and suburban as it seems, I'm glad I tried. And deep down somewhere in the reaches of my dark and twisted soul, I know that the Free Press is probably not the best forum for my writing. I would be very glad for someone to point out what exactly that forum might be so that I can start making some much-needed extra coin here, but until then, I'm happy to write for you my Lovelies. I'm happy because I know you love my goofy stories about the Hobbit and the Banana and the Chicas and my Random Dudes. And some of you even love me, come on admit it, you do. It's OK, really, how could you not? So yes, we will continue our little cyber-love-fest here, and everyone else can suck it and suck it hard. And I can say that because I am a classy, classy chick...and a published author.

Previously Unpublished

OK, so I’m a Jersey Girl living here in the D, right? I’m an East Coast chick firmly ensconced in a suburban Midwest lifestyle, and I utterly dig it, save for the absence of proper diners and pizzerias here in the Motor City. I’ve got one foot in both camps, and I am at once thoroughly proud of, and therefore fiercely protective of both where I came from and where I currently live. It has been said, in fact, that I’m a bit of a Mama Bear, so that’s why the news of today made me wince and say “Oooh, that’s not gonna be good,” much like I did last week when I saw the tell-tale pink spray paint along that stretch of 696 through Oak Park. Queasy and bracing for the worst, I am, that’s how I roll.

For those of you living in a cave, or choosing to remain blissfully unaware of the world around you, the news of the day was the story of how 40-some people were arrested in New Jersey in a “widespread corruption ring.” After scanning the story on the Internet and determining, much to my chagrin, that none of the perp-walking parties were former boyfriends, I was able to get to the proverbial nuts and bolts of the story. Except it was kind of complicated. And I had to read it twice, which took away both my “lunchtime,” and my ensuing “stare into space-time,” which meant that I had to both read and look incredibly busy, which was so very exhausting. I really should get paid overtime.

Anyway, the gist of the story is that there are all of these people, and they all took money that they weren’t supposed to, for various reasons (seriously, Local 4 could use a chick like me to briefly summarize news events with compelling detail). Among those swept up in the dragnet were 3 mayors, 2 state legislator-dudes, some rabbis, and assorted regular-folk. They are accused of the aforementioned corruption, money laundering, and trafficking Israeli kidneys. (Don’t look at me like that, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried!) One of the ways they laundered said ducats was through the sale of fake Gucci and Prada bags. Now this little tidbit should stop the hearts of quite a few ladies I know who love nothing better than to shop for “replica” bags in dimly-lit suburban garages. Just think—the proceeds from that fabulous faux-Coach you purchased as an impulse buy after one too many Jello-shots could have been used to pay for ill-gotten-black-market-human-organs…hmmm…suddenly my “issue” with copyright infringement doesn’t seem so militant, does it??

Now here in the D, we are no strangers to the “Public Embarrassment by Public Officials” department, so we should be able to identify with the residents of New Jersey and share their dismay and frustration with once again being led astray by those chosen to lead. More likely, however, we are glad to have the spotlight taken off of our Kwame, and Mary/Sam, and Crazy Crazy Monica dramedies that have played out recently. So even though I bristle at what’s being said about my beloved Garden State, I understand that we really don’t need any more negative national coverage here in the Motor City. Nope, we need talk of wind turbines and rebuilding the Big Three, and ponies and balloons, and while we’re at it, fabulous money trees growing along Woodward. Of course we’d probably find out that they’d all been planted via inappropriately awarded landscaping contracts to longtime political cronies, but that would be months from now. By then, the wonks will have moved their scandal coverage to the next slow-moving-target, maybe this time in a pristine political city like Chicago. Yeah, they’re no better than us, but oh, man do they have good pizza.

K-I-D in the D

OK, so a quiet Sunday morning has dawned here in the D, though Kelly-Girl did not personally witness said "dawn," but rather snored right through it on her way to a more humanly acceptable 9 am wake-up. I actually don't think I've seen the sun rise in...gee...ever. Oh, wait, there was that time...no...hmm. Well I can neither confirm nor deny that I did it, yet I do not think this sunrise-witnessing-crap is something that needs to be added to my bucket list. No way.

More importantly to you, my Lovelies, I'm ready to talk. Spill it, confess all, give you all the inside information. "Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?" you ask with the giddy anticipation of a squealing throng of 15 year-olds at a Jonas Brothers meet and greet at a Metro Detroit IHOP because they don't have any diners in this godforsaken town and all I really want today is a proper pork-roll egg and cheese sandwich followed by a big fat nap and is that really too much to ask?? Whoa, sorry...got a little carried away there. Anyway, yes, I am finally ready to talk of the defining moment of my summer, nay, of my calendar-year thus far. Yes, your patience will finally be rewarded today as I tell you about...The Kid Rock Show.

Oh, yeah, Baby!

So, needless to say, I ultimately did not get my frequently-requested free ticketage or backstage passitude. But that is OK, because I know that the K-I-D is a busy, busy dude, and he can't always come to the door when I bang on it at 3 am, nor can he just give out tickets and passes to any hot single mom who asks for them. Well, there's really not that many of us, so technically he probably could do that and still turn a tidy profit, but really it's OK, I get it. And thanks to my brothers at StubHub, direct personal intervention from my Bobby was unnecessary. All I really cared about was going to the show, and oh, what a show it was.

Now I'm going to be brutally honest here, borderline blasphemous even. From a strictly musical standpoint, this particular K-I-D show was not the best one I've ever seen. I still think that his Pre-Super Bowl extravaganza at Joe Louis in 2006 was my all-time favorite. This show was really great, but the best? Sorry, no. Because they had the concert in a baseball stadium, during baseball season, it meant that they could not use a whole lotta real estate inside the park. The entire infield was all cordoned off as off-limits, and that meant that the stage was set up waaaaaay back in center field. So far in the outfield in fact, that I believe most of the amps were actually plugged into sockets located in Canada. Thank you, Windsor Power and Light! Here's what I could see...

If you look veeeeerry carefully at the left-hand-side of the Rectangle of Light in the center, there is a tiiiiiny dude that I believe to be the K-I-D. Of course,it could also be a roadie or something, definitely not a stripper. But hey, that's what the Jumbo-tron is for, and I was able to take comfort in the fact that I really don't think anyone had good seats, thus I was not alone in having to watch the entire show on the big screen.

So he played all my favorite songs, and a couple I do not enjoy, but that's to be expected when "someone" refuses to review the set list with me beforehand. Whatever. But hands down, the best part of the entire K-I-D experience on July 18, 2009 was the people-watching. Bar none, the single greatest thing I've ever laid eyes on. My GF Mar and I arrived downtown at about 5:30 pm. But the Kid Rock All-Star Block Party started at 2 pm, and I would venture to guess that a vast number of the folks gathered in the streets around Comerica Park had been there way longer than that even. There were drunk people EVERYWHERE--and not the good, fun, rockin' out kind of drunk like I was. I mean blind stumbling, drooling, nearly comatose, yet somehow still walking around drunk. Oh, yeah. Seriously, it was so awesome.

Even better was the fashion. Now the K-I-D has a pretty wide fan base, and by wide, I mean young, old, rich, poor, city, trailery, but mostly, I really mean... fat. After what I witnessed on that night, there is no longer any doubt in my mind that the D is the fattest city in America. Yet bless their hearts, they jammed their ample selves into little tiny t-shirts and tank tops and short shorts and wow. Wowie wow wow. And you know, it's a concert, so they all mostly wore black, which I found so remarkable, because black is usually such a slimming color. Oh, and then there were some really perplexed and out-of-place-looking Euros who were dressed all in white linen. And loafers. Just begging to be barfed on by some Woo-Hoo-shouting drunk chick sporting a three-sizes-too-small halter top with an over-matched shelf-bra and 6, count them 6, Red Stag shot glass necklaces. Like I said, so very very awesome.

So yeah, I danced and sang and jumped around with my GF, and had a grand old time. I never once placed my sweet ass into the chair that cost me 75 of my own dollars. I also finally put to rest any notion of me touring with the K-I-D as one of his cage/pole dancers, because while I am still a physically remarkable specimen, I can no longer deny the fact that I am old. The next day my voice was hoarse, my knees ached and my feet hurt, and I felt all of my 29 years. Hey, it's my blog, I can lie if I want to. But really, it was a great night, a great show, and he is still on my short-list of favorite cats of all time. If you get the chance to see him live and in person yourself, go. Don't think about it, just do it. You will not be disappointed. Even if you do have to pay for your own tickets.

This One's for the Ladies

OK, so after an admittedly poor posting-showing in the month of July, I'm back to hit August with a vengeance. I got me my list of ideas buried somewhere in the Black Hole of Calcutta, aka my handbag, so as soon as I get that out and peel off the gum and lip gloss, I'll be all set. I'm seeing a new dude, Mr. White (who is quite fab and wicked, wicked tall), the Chicas and I will soon be leaving on our East-Coast bump and run, and there's a whole lotta summer sun for the Banana to soak up, so the blogging possibilities are endless. But back to the business at hand. Now you all know that I'm not one to write about indelicate topics, for I am widely known as a paragon of style and good taste, but something happened this week that was at once so weird and personally humiliating, that I just had to stop and find some shred of hilarity in it. Luckily for you, my Lovelies, I did just that. And so today, I give to you, the story of my trip to....wait for it....the gynecologist.

Now, hold on a minute, come back here...trust me. See I had my annual exam a few weeks ago, and apparently I had an abnormal Pap, so I had to go back Wednesday for a colposcopy. More on that in a moment. My official diagnosis was ASCUS which stands for Atypical Squamous Cells of Undetermined Significance, which is an incredibly technical, highly scientifically accurate medical term for "We don't know what's wrong, so in order to cover our liability, come back in for another uncomfortable test." At the same time, no matter how many times I hear it (which is a lot, especially in my line of work) it always, always, reminds me of the ROUS in "The Princess Bride." That probably speaks more to my sophomoric sense of humor than anything else, but still, it does, and I can't help it. At least Dr. Benjamin's office is not in a Fire Swamp.

But I digress. So I get to the office, wait the obligatory 22 minutes in the waiting room proper, and then get led back to room #7. Now this is where things get a little freaky, so fellas, either jump off the ride right here, or keep your squeamish mouths shut. I don't want your whining to distract the others. So Assistant-Lady-Mary opens the door, and there in the room is the desk thing, the wheelie doctor-stool thing, and a really, really big chair. Now it took about 4 seconds for me to take in and process what area on my person needed to be examined, the route typically taken to access said area, and the notable absence of the usual gyno-table-stirrup-combo. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how this big eye-doctor-looking-chair thing factored into the equation, and I immediately wanted no part of this freak show. So naturally I turned and tried to bolt, only to be physically blocked at the exit by a suddenly and surprisingly strong Assistant-Lady-Mary who shoved a paper sheet at me and said the dreaded words, "Waist down."

And then she was gone, and I do not think I imagined hearing the lock click. Crap. Now, once you've given birth, you lose all that demure, cute little sense of embarrassment and self-consciousness at taking your clothes off in a doctor's office. No, I can state for a fact that the experience of childbirth completely strips you of any semblance of a sense of pride. The act of going to the doctor 486 times during the course of the pregnancy coupled with anyone and everyone looking and poking at your feminine business during the delivery itself shows you in no short order that nothing, and I do mean nothing, is sacred. And I did it 3 times. 4 if you count the miscarriage. Seriously, I'm lucky that the phrase "I just want to check your bottom" is not more commonly used in real-life, or there's a pretty good chance I'd drop trou right in the middle of Kroger.

But the chair threw me off completely. I was puzzled and befuddled, and so that's why when the door opened, Dr. Benjamin found me standing in the middle of the room, giant paper towel wrapped around my waist, just staring at it. And then he gestured for me to sit in it, and said, "Have you ever had one of these done before?" and I said, "No." And then he shook his head and said, "Yeah, they're not fun. Not at all. Nope." Really. I don't know if I was more struck by him admitting this was going to be "Not Fun" or by the fact that my doctor, my trusted medical professional said the word "Nope."

So then he pointed out the little stirrup thingies at the bottom of the chair, directed me to place my hoofs into them and said, "Hold on." Now, I'm sorry, but "Hold on" was not what I was expecting to hear while sitting in this chair wearing an industrial-sized Bounty, but then neither was what happened next. He pushed this button, and the chair started rising from the floor, and then I swear to God flipped me backwards and upside down. Oh, and then the seat dropped out. The blood immediately raced to my head, so the next ten minutes were a terrifying black-spotted dizzy fog of holding on for dear life with feet in air, a big ol' microscope thing, a horrific pair of wicked long scissors, a highly uncomfortable discussion of the current state of the Oldest Chica's reproductive health, and a "little pinch" on an area not at all used to being pinched. And then I was being righted and returned back to earth. It was over.

So yeah, with no dinner and a movie beforehand, no smack on the ass and "Gee that was great Baby" afterwards, I was left with an overwhelming feeling of What in the Freakin' Hell just Happened? It was completely and utterly bizarro and just goes to show that whenever I get cocky and think I got things all figured out, the Big Man Upstairs throws me a curve ball to get my attention and show me who's really boss. It's just that this time He chose to do it in the form of a minor health crisis and a kinko-chair. Dr. Benjamin assured me that the biopsy was most likely normal, or, as he so eloquently put it "probably totally nothing," and they'll call me with my results in a couple of weeks. But am I going to worry about it anyway? No way. Not me. Nope.

Random Dude 3

OK, so I was at the mall the other day, which I usually do not do because as I have gotten older, I have grown to hate "The Mall." I do not enjoy the confluence of humanity in all of its sketchy, ill-dressed form, nor do I dig the inflated prices and surly teenager sales associates who couldn't act more offended when asked to do something crazy, like, I don't know...do their job. So yeah, I don't go there much.

So it was kind of ironic that I encountered the third winner of the Random Dude Award on a Saturday afternoon at the Westland Mall. I happened upon his vehicle, a very large, very white Ford F-250 as I trolled the aisles for a parking spot located an acceptable distance from the door--it's how I keep in shape, and as an added bonus, it allows me to continue to silently judge the old fat guys who drive up and down and around, all in the vain hopes of gaining the highly sought-after "right-next-to-the-handicap-spot" parking spot. That, plus I am convinced that the close-by spot has bad mojo. If I park in that close-by spot, I will not find what I am looking for, and be forced to visit the dreaded Mall once more.

But I digress. I saw the huge, yet not-jacked-up F-250, and was struck at once by it's behemoth size, pristine cleanliness, and of course, the obligatory two stickers in the back window that won him the coveted Random Dude Award. Now, shield your eyes, my Darlings, because these stickers were kinda bad. But on the other hand, I guess if you were a connoisseur of taste and refinement, you certainly would have stopped reading my blog months ago, so here goes, my little dirty little Lovelies.

OK, on the left-hand-side of the rear window was a sticker that proudly read "Ditch the Bitch--Let's Go Ridin'," and on the right-hand-side was a sticker of a hand gesture commonly referred to as "The Shocker." Seriously. Now, I am not going to get into the specifics of "The Shocker," you will need to check Wikipedia or your 17 year-old nephew for that definition, but suffice it to say that it is not classy. At all. And I think this is what surprised me, because the Westland Mall is widely-known as a pantheon of cosmopolitan culture and distinction, a veritable hotbed of distinguished charm and grace. And here was this travesty, sullying the place.

So I went against my innate, Jersey-perfected nature and did not ram his vehicle repeatedly, thus creating a tailor-made excuse for the insurance adjuster to cover up my still unrepaired bumper after the East Side Shopping Cart Incident. No, it would have felt really, really good, but I did not do it because I am growing emotionally, or so my therapist says. Instead, I pulled into the adjoining spot, and waited--hey, it was Saturday afternoon, I had nowhere to be, and I just had to see this colossal doofus with my own eyes. As I sat, I wondered what he looked like. Would he be a barely-twenty-something in one of those stupid white tank-top undershirts (I will not call them Wife-Beaters--if Child Molesters wore them, would that be a socially-accepted description of them?? I think not) with too much product in his hair, his pants slung low and belted well below his scrawny ass? Or would it be some scraggly 30 year old with a spotty goatee and a sideways-cocked Red Wings hat carrying a baby carseat? And then it dawned on me. What if, on one of this one occasion, the Random Dude with the Poorly-Thought-Out-Window-Stickers was actually a Random Chick? After all, I did see that really big lady with the poofy blonde hair and fluorescent pink acrylics tooling down Hall Road in a Jeep Liberty that said "Have a Nice Day Butthole." Hmm...nope...the presence of "The Shocker" sealed the proverbial deal. It had to be a dude--no self-respecting chick would be caught dead in a car with that sticker on it. Unless she borrowed it. The truck, not the sticker. Duh.

I waited, and waited, and after about 15 minutes, I saw the folly in my actions. I realized that it didn't matter what the Random Dude looked like, because he so had the Award in the bag no matter what. Actually, I began to fear that perhaps he was normal-looking, even worse, mildly attractive, because I may be a judgemental chick, but I'm still single and I gots dates to go on and a blog to write. I live in perpetual fear of meeting some nice guy, with a job and a house, and a well-adjusted sense of himself, and then going out to his car and seeing a PTOWS. Much like bad grammar or spelling errors, that's just a personality flaw I don't honestly know that I can overlook. In the end, I abandoned my quarry, and headed into The Mall with my head held high. I will never know what Random Dude 3 looks like, and I will have to be OK with it, because, even with good reason, stalking some poor stupid guy in a parking lot is not classy. And yeah, nothing says class like Kelly-Girl and the Westland Mall.

This Roar Ain't Dull

OK, so it's a relatively subdued morning here around Casa Chica, and I am thorougly digging the P & Q. The Hobbit is away at his summertime lair (a fact I know because I saw one of his underlings gain access to the Hut of Darkness, ostensibly to bring in the mail, but who are they kidding? It was to check on the collection of shrunken heads, poodle tails, and hearts of children whose parents have inexcusably parked directly in front of his home while visiting neighbors), the Banana has been oddly absent, and when he is around, even more oddly--completely clothed--so not sure what's up with him, and so here I sit in a clean, laundry-completed Casa, just waiting. The Chicas returned from Up North, and are still ensconced in their beds, sound asleep, or more-likely semi-comatose, based on their being gone in the sun and fun and fresh air for the past week. Yep, it's pretty freakin' quiet.

The phenomenon called "quiet" does not happen very often in this house with 3 little girls (yes, that's how many kids I have, and if you did not know that, you should be throat-punched, or at the very least directed to review previous posts--on your own time, for now you need to keep up with the rest of us). I gotta admit that I myself bought into those quaint pictorials featuring doe-eyed, freckle-faced girls skipping through the meadow in lavender plaid sundresses holding a bunch of dandelions, whose fuzzy white tops are delicately trailing behind them. Or the image of three sisters with neatly plaited hair, all cuddling together around a book, perhaps one of the Laura Ingalls series, the older ones taking turns to quietly read aloud to the younger one, introducing her to the joys of literature and the world of imagination. Yeah, all that is a bunch of crap. You want to know the real-life images associated with Casa Chica? Buckle up my Lovelies, here we go.

Casa Chica functions in a state of perpetual motion at a constant noise level of about 285 decibels. It could be the sheer number of children in my house, or the hardwood floors, or lack of dining room furniture, but I still contend it's because my kids are LOUD. Even when they whisper, they can be heard by the semi-deaf. And outside? Oh, My Ever-Living God, it makes your ears bleed. And as for gently guiding the youngest Chica? Yeah, not so much. Yesterday the oldest two shoved her in a bucket and hosed her down because they were playing "Filthy Dirty Baby Needs a Bath and the Bathtub is Broken." Granted it was a large bucket, and she seemed to enjoy it for 3 of the 18 minutes she was in said bucket, but still. Or there was this time...

This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago at the Livonia Spree fireworks. All around us, families were quietly picknicking with their wholesome snacks of fruit and organic free-range soy crisps, eagerly awaiting the start of the early-summer spectacular of light and sound (ok, it is Livonia, so that might be a bit of a stretch). And what happened on our blanket? Yeah, I had three kids, all hopped up on faux-cheese Pringles, red-dye #12, and good old fashioned high fructose corn syrup pounding the life out of each other in a Tweeenage Version of Summertime Smackdown. They were a tangle of limbs, hair was flying everywhere, and at one point the Smallest Chica lost her pants. Oh, man, we were soooo the topic of many hushed ride-home discussions between horrified parents in their mini-vans emblazoned with stick figure kiddos and pets.

And you know what? I couldn't care less. I'm not saying that I don't make a good-faith effort to tame them when they start to act utterly feral, but really, at the end of the day, if they're not causing direct physical harm to either themselves or others, does it really matter? I know for a fact that I am referred to as "That Divorced Woman with Those Wild Girls" in certain circles around these parts, but I also know that my girls are good kids. They can be helpful, and kind, and quiet--just not around each other or me. And that's OK. They know how to behave well when it matters. I am purposefully making an effort to not sweat the small stuff, and in turn give them a place where it's OK to act up, yes, maybe even wild, and be as loud as they want because there's going to be an awful lot of people that want to paint them into a corner, plug them into a little box, and expect them to act and do things a certain way. But they sure as hell won't ever hear that from me.

So yeah, I'm embracing the calm before the storm on this lovely morning, and wondering what the day will bring. There was some talk of a lemonade stand after yesterdays "Buy a Bubble" stand was a bust (sorry, couldn't resist) and ended in a screaming match, or maybe they will once again tie Baby Girl and some teddy bears to the fence and invite their buddies over to see their petting zoo. The possibilities, along with the volume, are limitless. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Up North

OK, so let's just overlook how much time has elapsed since my last post, shall we? The Chicas have been gone for the past 10 days, are home for 4, then leave again for another 10. It seems to me that the FM is playing a little fast and loose with the summer visitation rules, but the Chicas love being Up North, and it will only cost me a small fortune to deprogram them once they are safely back into my fold, so what do I know?

For those not in the know, "Up North" is a unilateral Michigander directional term much like "Down the Shore" is for us Jersey Natives. Except there's a whole lot more geography "Up North" than there is "Down the Shore," so Up North means pretty much any destination above M-59, including the UP. So that also means that in order to travel Up North, you can either be in the car for an hour, or for 8, and it still counts the same. It also encompasses virtually any type of property--whether it be a big-pimpin' house on a lake, a permanently-parked trailer in the woods, or a family farmhouse in BFE--doesn't matter and no one asks. As long as you have a place Up North, you are spoken about in hushed, envious terms by those of us trapped in the D on long-ass holiday weekends.

Not that my weekend was uneventful, my Lovelies. Nope I hung out with Monroe (the fella formerly known as "The Camping Guy," thusly nick-named for the town in which we met, purposefully overlooking the dodgy RV circumstances) and learned the painful lesson that I really cannot hang out with a dude for that long this early in the game. Not that it was completely my fault--there was literally nothing to do here in the D last weekend. The Tigers were away, there weren't any festivals or other people-watching opportunities, and absolutely everyone we knew was....say it with me...Up North. Yes, see you do pay attention after all! So there we were, two people still getting to know each other, trying to find something to do, and not having much luck. His neighbors had a lot of Blow-Your-Hand-Off Fireworks, but other than watching those over the fenceline, and waiting to see if EMS would need to be called, there wasn't nothin' goin' on.

And this week was no different. It was completely foreign to me for the Chicas to be gone and to not have to be anywhere or do anything. I guess I function in a constant, unconscious state of flurry, so the fact that I didn't have to race home to relieve the babysitter, or get anyone to practice or really do anything besides to go to work was kinda mind-blowing. So I did what any self-assured, independent single chick would do--I emotionally shut down for 72 hours, and then got off my ass and shook it off. I went for a 5 mile walk, went to dinner with a couple of girlfriends-past, and played an absolutely terrible round of golf on Thursday. But I got closest to the pin and some passably good pizza afterwards, so it all worked out well in the end.

So yeah, I did it. And now I'm going to enjoy my Chica-weekend and get my snuggles and kisses in before they head off again.We're going to have little friends visit to Slip-N-Slide, go to Art in the Park, and catch up on all their newly-forming vacation memories. I already have a game plan for this next break in the parenting action, and if Mr. Kid Rock comes through with my requested tickets (sorry to keep harping on this, but I really do not understand the delay) all will be entirely good in the 'hood once more. Oh, and just so you don't think I've gone completely Midwest, I'm also planning a kick-ass August Chica-vacation back East. Not that I'm deliberately trying to trump the FM and the mighty-mighty "Up North," but I'm pretty sure a visit to DC and Philly might come close. I might just throw in a side-trip Down the Shore for good measure.

News Flash

OK, so I woke up early this morning, and opened up my email inbox, only to find a most disturbing message from my GF Lori. It contained a news flash so shocking, so absolutely unthinkable, that I immediately had a vaso-vagal reaction and briefly lost consciousness as my body tried to protect my mind from the unearthly horror before me. "Oh, no, Kelly-Girl, what is it??" you ask, sharing my terror, poised at the ready to summon emergency response personnel. Give me a moment to compose myself...OK, here goes.

It would seem that the K-I-D is dating....Kellie Pickler. Oh, God, there it is again, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth, and I'm seeing spots.

Seriously? Of all people? Kellie-Freakin'-Pickler? In the words of my aura-reading-studying-to-be-a-shaman Mother, JesusMaryAndJosephYouHaveGottaBeFrigginKiddingMe!! So now, not only has he ignored my repeated entreaties for free-ticketage and backstage-passitude, but he is dating a reality-TV-chick. With fake boobs. And she spells her name wrong. Now I understand that she's a singer, and may even be considered by some to be marginally talented, but really. Would we even know who she was were it not for American Idol? I think not. So, in my opinion, she is nothing more than a country-music-version of Spencer and Heidi, and she can take her obviously-augmented self and go back to from whence she came. And, yes, I did say "whence." She might have to look that one up, but I said it.

Now, deep in the reaches of my reality-based cerebellum, I know that things would never work out between me and the K-I-D. He tends to like chicks who are, shall we say, slightly more inflatable than I am, and let's face it our lifestyles are not exactly compatible. Can you see him tooling around P-town with a Highlander full of Chicas? I think not. But I know you my Lovelies, you can so picture my bikini-clad self hanging out poolside in Vegas, partying like a rock star, because let's face it, I am wicked, wicked hot. But the K-I-D hanging in the Suburban D? Not so much.

I guess it's the same old story, the bane of all of us smart chicks--dudes that we dig choosing to be with girls who aren't exactly. Now "she" may very well be smarter than I give her credit for, but...um...no, sorry, I can't go there. So yeah, I will continue to worship at the shrine of the K-I-D, because no matter what he does off-stage, he is still a very talented cat who puts on a tremendous show. I will put aside my differing opinions on his love-life, and gladly accept the long-awaited tickets, passes, and swag as a salve for my bruised ego and crushed and broken dreams. All he has to do is call me. I may be hanging out poolside with my new IB, Mr. Mathers, but I would pick up the phone. Well, I'd probably let it go to voicemail just to get back at him for making me wait, but I'd gladly go to the show. Fo-Sho.

ILBO in the D

OK, so I've been away for a while my Lovelies, but I am back. As the Divine Mr. M says "It's been a long time, sorry I've been away so long, I didn't mean to leave you." He then says his name is Shady, and goes on about been hooked on Valium and painkillers, and killing people, so other than our rockin' hot bods, right about there is where any similarities end. In the past few weeks I've gotten through the end of the school year, ended a relationship, took a road trip to Kalamazoo, and completed a mini-triathlon. Alright, that last one was technically "made up," but a single chick's gotta pad her resume somehow, yeah? So lest I be placed upon Jersey Girl's Sleeping Geniuses list, I offer you this little gem of an anecdote.

Last week (OK, it was 2 weeks ago--Jeeeez, get off my ass already about not posting lately) I was driving home from work, traveling westbound on 696. I was in the right lane--I know, I know, I never thought I'd use those words together in a sentence either, but it was because I was trying to remember to get off at the Southfield, and I find that if I punish myself by driving behind excruciatingly slow commuters in those right-handed lanes, I am more inclined to exit when I'm supposed to, not necessarily because I remember to, but rather because I am desperately trying to get around their dumb-ass, slow-moving, wind-up cars. So there I was crawling along at 71 mph, rockin' out, lookin' hot, (goes without saying, I know) when IT happened.

"What is IT?", you ask, with the requisite breathless anticipation, your finger poised over the rollie thing on your mouse, desperate to learn more. Well, at precisely the same moment, the black Grand Prix in front of me started slowing down--stopping really--and I noticed an Inordinately Large Black Object in our lane directly up ahead. In an instant, I realized that A--I had nowhere to go if this Grand Prix guy stopped--there were cars to the left of me, and a rather imposing cement wall to the right, B--this dude had nowhere to go (see option A, and please pay attention) and C--this dude was so going to hit whatever this ILBO was. And soon.

So I braced myself for impact. I've been traveling this stretch of MDOT-ignored roadway for over 2 years now, without incident, save for a Saturday-afternoon flat tire, so this was it, this was the Commuter-God's payback for Kelly-Girl, and all my snarky stories about fat guys and bumper stickers and other things that I found so incredibly important at the time. I was finally going to become the "Injury Accident" on WWJ, the "Breaking News" on Local 4, the poor soul attached to a 3 hour traffic tie-up. And soon. The ILBO was there, the Grand Prix was about to plow into it, and there was not a goddamn thing I could do about it...

POOF!!!

I say POOF my Lovelies, not because I suffered grave injuries and lost consciousness, only to be awakened by a Mr. George Clooney-esque ER physician at Beaumont, no, I say POOF, because that's the sound the Grand Prix made when it struck the ILBO in the roadway. And then it started snowing. See, it turns out, that the ILBO was filled with about eleventy-kajillion styrofoam peanuts, and when the Grand Prix dude plowed into it, there was a subsequent mushroom cloud of white that rivaled anything Mother Nature could throw at us in January. So I turned on my wipers, breathed an enormous sigh of relief, and started laughing.

So yeah, rather than Commuter-God's revenge, I guess my brush with death was more of a wake-up call to get off my ass and get back to the business of posting. I've been a little caught up in the drama of my life, and I guess I felt like I had nothing to say. Certainly not much good. Once I told and retold that story a couple times, however, I realized that was the whole point of this blog. I'm not here to change the world, or blow your mind with insightful, heart-felt commentary, nah, I'm just here to make you laugh. And no matter how bleak things look, there's a whole lotta stupid stuff that can make me laugh, so I'll be sure to share it with you. And soon.

Annual Review

OK, so remember like a month ago when I said that I was doing my employee reviews? Yeah, well, apparently part of the deal is you actually have to present them to said employees, and provide constructive criticism and insightful commentary that will aid their professional development. Now what helpful feedback I could possibly provide to someone who is content to have spent 8-plus years pounding away at a 10 key for $11 an hour is beyond me personally, but I managed to somehow say the exact same thing to each and every one of them and sound somewhat kinda remotely supportive.

So today was the deadline for giving the reviews, thus I spent the last 2 days feverishly cutting and pasting astute behavioral observations such as "Employee X consistently meets the expectation of this standard" into 16, count them, 16 employee evaluations. I am all for the warm-fuzzy non-exempt employee experience, but I have waaaay too many direct reports to actually know what they do or how they do it on a daily basis. I have entirely too much internet surfing and goofing around to do to actually pay attention to whether Sally Ann is actually hitting her 7000 keystroke per hour minimum. Really. I am paid to oversee, supervise, and look really great in high heels. And I am fine with that. Especially since in our era of corporate financial conservatism, I'm not getting a raise this year--you gotta pay to play, baby, and if you want more than my bare minimum performance, you gotta pony up some coin (and contrary to what you may have read on the bathroom wall, that is not my philosophy in the boudoir--that would be tacky).

So anyway, I'm a little worn out, because I spent the past few days actually working which is always exhausting for me. As for the rest of my week, I'm playing golf tomorrow (woo-hoo!). Seriously, is there any better combination of words in the English language?? I think not. Well, I believe that "Hey Kelly, this is the K-I-D, but you can call me Bobby, and I would looove to give you free tickets and backstage passes to my show on July 17 and/or 18 at Comerica Park, whichever date works best for you, I just really would like you to come be my guest and hang out and drink beer with me and my buddy George Clooney, so please, please call me back" would probably be a better sentence, but slightly less likely, so I'll take the golf reference. And then there's Wings game afterwards, and holy crap what am I still doing up??

I may be tired, but tonight was kind of special (and if you sing the Lowenbrau song, I swear to God, I will punch you right in the throat) because I had dinner with two of my oldest friends, Holly and Lori. Now I've been friends with them since right around the time I moved to the D, so that is roundabout 83 dog-years, give or take. We got married and had kids at the same time, and shared our life experiences as young mothers together. More importantly, they shared my belief that we may be moms, but we are still smokin' hot chicks who like to party like rock stars. And we did. Our families would get together and play cards, and laugh, have some (lotta) cocktails, and laugh--you get the idea. It was great. And then I got divorced. And the wheels fell off. I fully expected it to lose some friends because of it, but not them, and I felt terribly disappointed and hurt. I think we got caught up in the circumstances, and just plain lost each other for a while. But I think we're on track towards finding our way again. We're slowly shedding the awkwardness that got tangled up in our friendship, and I am very glad for that. At least I hope we are, because I've missed them.

So yeah, it's mid-way through the first week of the month, and I am beat. I don't think I'm cut out for all this reflecting and evaluating. I'm so much better at judging and disparaging. Nah, I'm just kidding. I love my job even with all of its drama and tension--after all, it pays for golf and my subsequent nearly-good-pizza binge. At the end of today, I would offer that I was a goal-oriented performer, who worked well with others, and was able to accomplish my assignment in a timely fashion, with little or no direct supervision. And if The Man doesn't agree, he can suck it and suck it hard. And I think my girlfriends would agree.

Sunday in the D

OK, so last weekend was Memorial Day, and for the first time in recent memory, the Kelly-Girl was not relegated to scrounging up last-minute pity invitations to other families' BBQs. Nope I actually had something that, according to Wikipedia, is called "plans." I took Friday off, a decision that I paid dearly for all this week, and worked around Casa Chica. On Saturday, I had a blind date at an RV "Resort" (really) that apparently did not go as well as I had thought. Then on Sunday, I went into the D-Proper for a Tigers game with the Marine, his brother, and his brother's Army-buddy. Yes, my Lovelies, my weekend was chock-ful o' fun, so much so that I slept all...day...long on Monday. I may have been uber-busy, but I'm still a lazy chick at heart.

So yeah, we went downtown for the game, which was so fun because the Wings were also playing (albeit in Chicago) so the city was abuzz with excitement. It was a lovely day for baseball...

As you can see, my thrifty side was on full display, because we were seated in the 300 section, but hey, doesn't the D look nice from up here?? Plus we were right by the scoreboard, which is helpful to myopic-me, especially when this bizarro statistic hit the Jumbo-tron....

Does it really say that?? Yes, the Tigers' catcher's batting average is a whopping .100--how'd you like that purty little factoid displayed 3 stories high?? And then he struck out or something, because later in the game it got even lower. Ouch.

After the game we made our way towards Greektown...That's The Marine there in the orange, though I have to admit I looked twice at that fine specimen over on the left with the giant purple windbreaker wrapped around his mid-section. Bow-chicka-bow-bow!

Along the way, we passed the town dump...
To some Greek bakery that had really bad cannolis and was staffed entirely by Indian dudes...

Photo not available

And into the casino. Now I really did not want to do this, because my motto is "The Casinos are Everything You Hate About Detroit in One Convenient Location." Sketchy people, cigarette smoke, expensive drinks (FYI to prospective visitors-- Michigan law prohibits free casino cocktails), fat dudes riding Amigos, slot machines, and cigarette smoke. Did I repeat that last one? Well, it is warranted because there is soooo godawful much of it in there. In addition to missing the Gratis V & Ts, we are also lacking the Vegas-style ventilation systems.

But we parked there, so we had to go in. In the end, it was OK, because I found out that if you have Tiger-ticket-stubs you get $2 beer, which was a huge bonus, especially after drinking my car payment at Comerica Park. And then it happened. As I sat at the bar, nursing my sunburn, sucking down my deeply-discounted Labatt, I spotted the single most fabulous thing I'd laid eyes on all day long...

Yes, my Lovelies, this is my new boyfriend and I love him madly and truly. He was a vision in lavender, right down to his shiny purple wing-tips. I am sad that I did not ask his name, but I have heretofore dubbed him Mr. Louis Davis III. We will live happily ever after, and be well-accessorized forever more. So yeah, the Tigers may have lost, but the Wings won, and it was a really great day in the D.

Darwin on Hall Road

OK, so yesterday I was very nearly in an accident on Hall Road, and not because I was driving inattentively (see--there is a first time for everything after all). What in heaven's name happened? you ask, clinging desperately to the edge of your seat. Well, my Lovelies, I was almost physically harmed because there was an enormous traffic jam with subsequent gawker-delays, due to....wait for it...a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone. Really.

Now for those who have never seen one of these bad-boys, a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone is where the Po-Po create an area in which to identify and ticket drivers who are not wearing their seat belt as the law requires in the state of Michigan. In this particular instance they had 2 sheriff's cars in the Hall Road median with lights flashing right by the SBEZ sign--and the two sheriff's deputies were leaning on their cars, arms crossed, looking all menacing, just to let you know you are entering an area where serious, bad-ass police work is being done. So then they have about 143 other police cars from various agencies, cities and townships, all strategically placed along the road, in parking lots and driveways, all poised at the ready to issue citations. Macomb County also uses police officers on bicycles to drive along the cars stopped at the traffic signals to suss out these hardened criminals.

Now I am all for adhering to the laws of the land, and I for one always, always, always wear my seat belt. It would seem to me, however, that if The Man was really intent on keeping drivers safe on the roadways here in the D, they would be much better served to set up You Really Need to Stop at the Red Light Enforcement Zones, or better yet a couple of sobriety checkpoints on the Lodge after a Red Wings game. The SBEZ just seems like a lot of work for a $65 ticket that really only affects one individual. Personally, I firmly believe that the use of a seat belt really just comes down to Vehicular Natural Selection. If you are seriously dumb enough to not wear a seat belt,while hurtling through the air at 80 miles per hour, don't you kind of deserve whatever consequences might occur should you be thrown from said vehicle?

So yeah, I averted a collision, and worked late that night because the 5-0 on patrol made me late to the office. But it is OK, because I can sleep easy knowing that thousands of Macomb County tax-payer dollars were spent to give tickets to at least 6 or 7 unrestrained drivers. After all, I'm a Wayne County chick. Though it is slightly humbling to know that all those cops that drive past me doing a double-take, checking me out, are really just after one thing--my seat belt.

Ad Lib

OK, so it's a glorious Sunday morning here in the D. The screaming winds have stopped, the sun is shining, birds chirping, the whole freakin' shebang. I even have the windows open at this relatively early hour, and the sound of my typing is echoed by the gentle "plink" of helicopters landing in my gutters. And, shhhh, if you listen really closely, you can actually hear my grass growing ever taller, especially around the edges where the mower won't reach and since I still haven't actually purchased a weed-whacker, will most likely reach the top of the fence line before summer officially arrives next month, all of which has been duly noted, I'm sure, by the Hobbitt and his Council of Darkness.

The Chicas are nestled into the couch in their 3rd hour of Spongebob-induced coma, and things are relatively peaceful here in the Casa. We are heading down to A2 for soccer today, but that's not until 2:30, which means I have tons of time to goof around on the Internet instead of tending to my home and hearth. Priorities, people! I still spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, although not nearly as much as in the past. And well, there's this here little blog-venture, which I do not see as time-killing because I am providing a valuable public service to you, my loyal readers. After all, if I suddenly went away, where would you turn for deeply stimulating, daresay provocative social commentary on life here in the Motor City?

So while I was on FB today, I took notice of some of the ads placed on my profile page because, quite frankly, they are taking away from the stunning photographs of the Glory that is Me. Now, I'm guessing that these ads are generated based on keywords from the compelling details that I placed on my Personal Info page but my knowledge of how these things work is thin and sketchy at best--if you told me that there was one dude and an army of hamsters powering the Internet I would probably believe you. Well I should give myself more credit than that--I would consider it for a moment, and then dismiss it as farce after I successfully Googled and Snoped it.

So once I actually looked at the ads thoughtfully placed there by the Powers that Be, I was intrigued. There are a whole lotta dating sites trying to lure me in. There are your regular Harmony and Chemistry ones, but there are more specialty dating sites than I would have imagined. Like this one for Wealthy Men. Now, I would be all for hooking up with someone who makes more coin than I do, which actually wouldn't be very difficult, but check out some of these dudes. The Scorpio guy--don't believe for a second he is wealthy. The one guy's screen name is "quadlord" which automatically removes him from consideration--I would be constantly fighting the urge to throat-punch him. "Canuckchuc" has potential, but he looks a little skeezy, and he spelled his name wrong. I know he probably only gets 10 characters, but a spelling error is a spelling error, and I just can't abide it.

Now, judging from the classy chicks that posted their photos on the home page, I am not nearly inflatable enough to sign up for that site. Fear not, my Lovelies, there's more to choose from! There are sites for Singles who Love Golf, Single Chicks who Dig Big Men, Singles with Herpes (what?!) even sites for Catholic Singles. I found this one interesting, because they include us divorced Catholics in their ranks, when usually we are relegated to sitting in the corner like Baby, but hey a monthly fee collected is a monthly fee collected, right? I wonder if they ever considered that angle for their marketing--"I found someone I want to spend the rest of my life with, but her soul is forever damned, which is perfect because that means I don't have to spend eternity with her--thank you CatholicMatch!" Even better is the fact that this site extols itself as the "premier" Catholic dating site, and then gives the ratings to prove it. Really. Next week, I am so signing up for AveMariaSingles because I would just looooove to see the profiles of the edgy bad boys that signed up for that site.

So I get the singles ads. What I find mystifying, however, are some of the others. What exactly is included in my profile information that would prompt a link to this Gynecomastia site?? Now for those of you reading without a Thesaurus (not recommended, but hey, it's your life) this is the medical term for ManBoobs, or, as the home-page indicates, "Moobs." It's comforting to know that there is a fashionable-fix for this condition, but why the hell is it on my profile? I will freely admit that I have not been endowed with ample-breastages, but I do not feel it is appropriate to taunt me with photos of dudes that have a larger cup size than me. On my turf.

Then there is this very strange ad about immigrating to Canada. Perhaps it is my proximity to the border-lands, but I don't think I've included anything that would indicate I'm looking to jump ship and change flags. I had no idea that relations with our neighbors to the North had deteriorated to the point where "Family Reunification" would be such a hot topic in immigration law. Most interesting, however, is the page for people who are currently illegal residents of "another country." Now, obviously they are talking about us here in the States, so why not just call a spade a spade? Do they really expect us to believe that there is some illegal Belgian, currently living in Poland, who is just dying to make things right, and become a legal resident somewhere, somehow, then jumps on FB one night, and stumbles across the answer to his prayers--Canada?? Seriously.

So yeah, there's a lot of bizarro crap to see on the Internet. Lucky for me, I am not a motivated person, and there is not a lot happening here in the D, so I have all the time in the world to go looking for it. But enough for now. I probably should go, and at least give the appearance of mild-industriousness--maybe cut the grass before the Banana heads out for his afternoon sun-session and ruins the pristine landscape that is Casa Chica. But first, I'm going to look into a home CPAP machine--I look pretty hot in a mask--and register to win free laser-hair-removal for life. After all, if I have any hope of ever landing a relationship-minded-single-dude I need to be smooth and well-rested. Priorities, people!

Litterbug

OK, so now that I no longer have to schlep around the D in the ice and snow (I know, I know, I'm seriously tempting the weather gods by saying that--hope I don't jinx it) things have gotten a lot easier for me in the Commuting department. That would officially make it the only area in my life to see any sort of improvement in the last 13 months, but hey, I got all the time in the world, right? We have now entered the portion of the calendar year where my drive-time is shortened thanks to fewer cars on the road on Fridays and the occasional Monday, and were it not for the plethora of construction zones popping up along my major thruways, I'd be a happy, happy chick. So tonight I got to sit in traffic in the rain on the Southfield (my convoluted alternate-route to 696) and ponder my lot in life.

With all this extra time I was given to devote to deep philosophical introspection, I was struck by a penetrating realization. Here in the D, there is some really weird shit left along our area freeways. I mean, the people driving are strange enough--lately not strange enough to hand out another Random Dude Commuting Award--but the things they leave behind are totally bizarro. As evidence of this, I would respectfully offer the following:

Shoes. I would love to be with the dude who gets to his destination, goes to put on his shoes, and finds that he's missing one. Because you never ever see a pair of kicks on the side of the road, it's always just one. I wonder if he's just mystified, like "Where could it be....?" When I travel with footwear in the car, it's usually in some sort of bag, so if I lost one, I'd lose the whole nut. Well, except for my golf shoes, and if I ever lost one of those, I would suffer emotional devastation such that the location of the missing mate would be irrelevant. Ohhh, I can't think of it--it's too horrible.

Appliance Doors. Now this one kind of makes sense, because I think when you go to dump them, you have to take the doors off, yeah? Remember a hundred years ago when that was such a huge initiative? "Take your doors off your refrigerators so your little neighbor boy won't get trapped inside of it on garbage day and suffocate!" Man, whoever thought of that PSA never lived next door to Slouchy Kyle. I'd shove that kid inside a Frigidaire any day and never think twice about it.

Burning Cars. Seriously, this really freaks me out every time I see it. Because again, there is nothing else around, no sign of accident or other malfeasance, just a single apparently spontaneously combusting vehicle. Two words--WIL-LIES.

Stuffed Animals. Now I can only suspect that the grimy fuzzballs that I see are the red-headed-step-children of the stable of toys of the kids who lost them. Because I know for a fact that if it was a favorite guy, like the Littlest Chica's Ella, I would enlist the help of area law-enforcement officials and perhaps a psychic to launch an all-out manhunt to retrace my steps including scouring area freeway embankments, never tiring until that bad boy was back in her outstretched paws. Really.

Shopping Carts. This would make sense if these were found nearby retail areas, but they never are. And the Hobo pushing his cart full of returnables doesn't hold true here either, because there are no pedestrians allowed on freeways here in the D. Perhaps the wind blew it there, much like the gusty hurricane that blew one into my path on 8 Mile and Harper a couple weeks ago. It was from K-Mart. Most likely Corporate retaliation relating to my post from March. Yep, that's it fo' sho'--payback pure and simple.

Donuts. This morning I saw a pile of doughnuts on the side of the road. A little ways down was the brightly colored DD box. Now I am dying to ask--what was the sequence of events that caused an entire box of doughnuts to fall from a moving vehicle? I'm guessing big fat MDOT pothole meets a Dodge Neon with an open sunroof, and then the guy was like, "Well, there goes breakfast, I sure as hell don't need this box around reminding me of what I lost."

So yeah, in short, people are pigs, and there's a lot of crap laying around. I can honestly say that I have never thrown anything on the side of the road--at any given time I probably have about 13 lbs of Happy Meal Boxes, goldfish, and crayons rolling around in my car. I grew up in the 80's, so I Give a Hoot and Don't Pollute, I Always Put Litter in its Place, and to this day can't get the Native American with the single tear outta my head. Hell, my carbon footprint is still as big as Sasquatch, but I guess I'm a lot more green and eco-friendly than I give myself credit for. In case you're wondering, back in the day, I also loved to Be Kind and Rewind, but that ended when my Betamax crapped out and I tossed it in a landfill wrapped a plastic grocery bag full of batteries and lead paint chips. I'm just kidding--I'm no litterbug.

Word to Your Mother

OK, so today is Sunday and I am enjoying my court-appointed-bonus-day with the Chicas, aka, Mother's Day. Today, like most years, feels an awful lot like a regular Sunday, but that is the glory of parenthood--you are given a day that acknowledges you and all you've done for your family, but you're too freakin' busy to sit back and enjoy it. So once I'm done here, I'm off to cut the grass, do the laundry, and clean the bathrooms--you know, all the sexy glamorous stuff that makes dudes sit back and say, "Man, I gotta get me some of that!"

I still have to call my own mom, a task that I embrace, because if I have to call her, that means she is not here. Now don't get me wrong--I love my mom, I really do--it's just that our relationship seems to be getting more difficult as the years progress. We are still close, but she drives me crazy more often than not. I would feel tremendously guilty, but I am pretty confident the feeling is mutual. I also have to call my step-mother, which I kind of dig, because she always seems genuinely surprised and touched by the fact that we remember her on this day. She doesn't have children of her own, so she thoroughly looooves her grandmother status, and just can't seem to get enough of those Chicas.

Being a mom is something that I don't think about too much. I can't think about it, really, because if I take a moment to ponder on the enormity of the job I do and what is ahead of me, it's completely overwhelming. Deer in headlights, turtle in shell, paralyzing. I have been given charge of 3 remarkable human beings, when most days I am a hot steaming mess myself. I have to provide for them, nurture them, and help them to grow into the women I could only hope to be. I feel no different today than I did when I was 17, so how on earth can I be qualified to do something so monumentally important? There was no background check, no owner's manual, nothing--just here's your baby, good luck!! Seriously.

And when I think about the complexity and importance of being a mom, and how I genuinely want to do right by them, I cannot help but think about the d-i-v-o-r-c-e. People always ask me why, if I was so unhappy, did I stay so long? I honestly don't have an answer for that, but I do know that if I'd left when I initially realized I'd made a mistake by getting married, I might not have 2 out of 3 of the Chicas. Definitely the 3rd. So apparently, this is my journey, what the Big Man wants me to live through, experience, and figure out. I'm a single mom now, and on a lot of days it really sucks, but then I look at those Chicas, and see that they are healthy, and happy, and it keeps me going. One foot in front of another, one tiny step at a time, I'll get there. Chin up.

The past 10 years have flown by, yet on the other hand feel like an eternity. Someone once told me that when you're a parent, the days are long, but the years are short. Truer words have never been spoken. So yeah, I'm going to hang with my Chicas today, and make the dinner of my choosing that will include neither mac & cheese nor meat in nugget form. I'm going to put away my to-do-list, and take a moment to acknowledge what I've been given and what I've accomplished thus far. I am Kelly-Girl, I am a mom, and I rock. So there.

Star-Date 5-9-09

OK, so thus far, it has been an uber-trippy weekend! The weather is indicative of recent events--one moment sunny, warm, and de-lovely, the next moment gloomy, windy and drizzly. Or perhaps the weather is creating recent events? Hmmm...more credit than I'm willing to give a mythical mother figure, but 'tis the season to give mad props to Mommies, so perhaps she's workin' harder than I thought.

So last night, I was all snuggled up on my couch for a long evening of Tivo-lovin'--I even bought me a new Black Box for the occasion--when the Marine calls to see if I want to go out. Go out? On Friday night? Much like the Yeti or Snipe-Hunting, it is an often-heard-about-occurrence, but not much witnessed around Casa Chica. So I hoisted myself from my much-desired-horizontal position, and popped my contacts back in. I would say that I brushed my hair and put on makeup, but seriously. My aforementioned fabulous head of hair requires absolutely no maintenance (even at 9pm) and my face gets painted but once daily--any more than that would require a personal visit from either Mr. Clooney or Mr. Ritchie. Let's be frank, I'm lucky I'm smokin' hot, because I am far too lazy to put any effort into lookin' good.

We went to see the Star Trek movie. I will be honest and say that it was not my first choice. To be even more honest would be to admit that I balked and protested like I was being required to attend a Novena during Spring Break, but in the end it was all good. The movie was way better than I anticipated, dare I say entertaining, though I fear I am turning into my grandmother because not once but at least 4 times I caught myself saying "Oooh, its sooooo loud." Additionally, I now worry more than ever about flying out of Metro--I always thought there was something "off" about Romulus, and now it has been categorically confirmed by the creepy yet still somewhat dreamy Eric Bana on an enormous theater screen. After last night, however, I have made the executive decision to never again see a movie any place other than Emagine--how humans ever managed to watch motion pictures sans cocktails is beyond me. Really.

But the freakiest thing happened today. Mark your calendars my Lovelies, because today, Star-Date 5/9/09 (big shout-out to my b-day GF Holla) will go down in history as the day that Kelly-Girl met a.....NEIGHBOR!!!! And he was friendly and helpful. Shut up!! No lie, I couldn't believe it either. So here's how it went down. A while ago, I noticed that a limb on my big overgrown Maple tree (you know, the one in the front--no, that one in the back is a Pain in the Ass Walnut) was hanging a wee bit low. Upon further inspection, utilizing my supreme botanical knowledge, I determined that the branch was actually broken off and dead, and just begging to be pulled to earth. So naturally, I left it dangle there for another 2 weeks.

So the other day, the Marine was here, and said "Hey that branch is broken, why don't I pull it down for you?" and like a complete moron, I said, "OK, thank you so much!" which was so stupid because once it came down, I had to do something with it. When it was suspended above the ground, looking all sketchy and ghetto, I didn't have to do anything except avert my eyes and plan the perfect bitchy comeback like "Yeah I know it's dead, what're you gonna do about it??" or something along those lines--I hadn't really thought that part out. Once it had returned to being governed by Earth's law of gravity (and whatever other Star Fleet mumbo-jumbo would apply here) it revealed itself to be a horrifically enormous big-around-as-my-leg tree limb that I had no idea what to do with. So of course, it sat there for 5 more days.

Now I knew that the Hobbitt was laying in wait to report me to his Council of Darkness at the Township offices, so I was actually a little concerned. Not about the impending citation and subsequent monetary fine issued by the Hobbitt Lackeys, on the contrary--now that I've started cleaning up around here, I did not enjoy having an enormous tree limb taking up my entire front yard. And no, I am not kidding and yes, it was that freakin' big. I fully intended on taking care of what I could this morning, but with the Oldest Chica's soccer game, and a delicious nap inspired by a marathon of Make Me a Supermodel, I didn't quite get to it until roundabout 4pm. Me and my little pruning shears ambitiously began to take care of whatever branches were small enough to succumb to it's vise-like-chomping-grip. Which left over 75% of the limb still on the ground, and me looking completely clueless and highly pathetic.

Pay attention, my Darlings, because this is where the magic happens. I was out there, trying not to lop off my fingertips, when I heard a voice say, "Hey, do you need some help?" Now, I was no longer certain that those words could be used together in a sentence, so naturally I was stunned, and looked around like an idiot. That's when I see my across-the-street-neighbor coming at me with a chain saw--neither he nor the machine was running, so I figured he meant no harm, and did not run away in a panic. In about 3 minutes, he had hacked up that tree limb into tidy 2 foot sections, ready to be stacked neatly at the curb for yard waste pick up. Really!

How nice it was to exchange small talk with someone whom I've lived across the street from for 3 years, and only today learned his name (Derek). He and his wife Maria (another new fact) and their baby Desmond (one more) are doing fine. He asked about the Chicas, and commented on how big they've gotten. We weren't invisible after all...hmm...that's a mind-bender. Now don't be getting any ideas about me making nice with the Banana or Slouchy Kyle and his Very Loud Parents. No way. They still have a loooong way to go before they can be considered even honorary members of Team Kelly. Being friendly with my neighbors may enable me to live long and prosper, but where's the fun in that? Yeah, I can only grow so much in one calendar year, and it's much more childishly entertaining to think of putting the Vulcan Death Grip to the Hobbitt, so I'm-a-gonna stick with that for now. Kelly-Girl Out.