OK, so it's been a really wicked long week. I'm still decompressing after my trip back to Jersey for my HS reunion, and will post in more detail later this week. I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that happened--and my BAC is still inching it's way back towards normal--suffice it to say, I'm just not ready yet.
One tidbit I heard about that struck me prior to the weekend was the fact that one of my favorite songs ever-ever-ever is celebrating a very big anniversary. Yes, much like the class of 1989, Bust A Move is also turning 20 this year.
This is hands down one of the greatest songs of all time, because you simply cannot hear it without dancing--even the white boys need to shake a little tail when that tune comes on. Don't believe me?? Here--I defy you to sit still...
And the fact that this is actual poor-quality video footage from the year the magic happened is even better--and from the Arsenio Hall Show no less. I absolutely looove everything about it--the girlie "dressed in yellow" dancing in her spandex bra/biker short ensemble, the backup dudes with their sculpted hair and very pegged pants--so very, very awesome. The only way it could possibly be better is if it was taken at at house party with big-haired chicks dancing on tables, and I will neither confirm nor deny how I know that a video such as that exists
I'm not ashamed to admit it is a tune that harkens back to the days when there was a kinder, gentler hip-hop, that I still listen to today (and am training the Chicas to appreciate). I still know most of the words to 5 Minutes of Funk, Rapper's Delight, and just about everything on Run DMC's Raising Hell. I love Grandmaster Flash, Rob Bass, and especially the Beastie Boys. Don't get me wrong, I dig Public Enemy as much as the next white chick who grew up in suburban Jersey, but at a certain point, I just couldn't relate to hip-hop anymore, and my affection stayed with the originals. I am just Old School. No pun intended. And now that it's been 20 years, it's official.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Who's Who
OK, so I'm getting ready to take a little trip this weekend. I'm heading back to Jersey for the first time in 10 years, second in 20. Well, I actually did enter the state back in early 2007 for a couple of days, but I was at my Aunt's place in New Brunswick the entire time celebrating a family birthday on St. Patrick's Day, and no one else knew I was there, so I don't count that time (although it was wicked fun from what I can recall). Yes, Kelly-Girl is going home.
It's funny because for my entire life, I've felt like a transplant. I was born in Chicago, moved to Jersey when I was eight and lived there until I graduated, so I really didn't move around that much, but I somehow feel like I got uprooted a lot. In the summer after 6th grade we thought we were moving to London, said tearful good-byes to all we knew, packed up all of our worldly-possessions, and schlepped across the pond, only to come back 3 months later, having missed the entire summer of Recreation and pools, and sleepovers. My parents sent me to the Catholic high school because they were trying to ruin my life by making me find new friends at age 15 at the absolute pinnacle of my awkward stage. Then I went to college where I knew no one, and moved to the D after that, also not knowing a soul (well, except for the FM, which, OK, yeah I was right, I didn't know a soul). Even now, I work an hour away from home, on the other side of town, far away from what familiar Western Wayne surroundings I may have. I guess in a way, I've never been able to shake that new-kid feeling that everyone is staring at you, so apparently I've continued to recreate that scenario throughout my life. Holy Crap--I have been in therapy for entirely too long if I can come up with that one on a Tuesday...
So yeah, I'm the chick who is secretly bored senseless, but looks blandly and nods politely when friends talk about that girl that went to Bishop Borgess, and then married this guy from Northville, and now they live in Plymouth next to that hot guy who went to Churchill, you know the one who was a cousin of that girl with the unfortunate nickname who went to Harrison--no not her, she went to Ladywood. No clue. I can drive my ass all over this entire Metropolis and not get lost, but I am no good at the game of Who's Who. At all.
Recently, I've finally come to understand that I am not truly adrift, bouncing around without an anchor of history and stories and acquaintances. Sure, I am building toward that with my friends here in the D, but I already have that connection with my friends from Jersey. And I have recently realized that not only do I share with them these same common experiences and memories, but that I myself am remembered fondly, and that shock of all shocks, I feel like I belong. Finally. It has truly been the greatest gift I've received in a very long time, and I am eternally grateful for it.
And before you start to wonder if you've somehow wandered into some whiny-self-improving-potpourri-eating-Yanni-listening-Blog, I will tell you that the first thing I am going to do after I get off that freakin' plane in Newark is get my sappy-chick-ass a proper slice of pizza. And fold it in half. The way God intended.
It's funny because for my entire life, I've felt like a transplant. I was born in Chicago, moved to Jersey when I was eight and lived there until I graduated, so I really didn't move around that much, but I somehow feel like I got uprooted a lot. In the summer after 6th grade we thought we were moving to London, said tearful good-byes to all we knew, packed up all of our worldly-possessions, and schlepped across the pond, only to come back 3 months later, having missed the entire summer of Recreation and pools, and sleepovers. My parents sent me to the Catholic high school because they were trying to ruin my life by making me find new friends at age 15 at the absolute pinnacle of my awkward stage. Then I went to college where I knew no one, and moved to the D after that, also not knowing a soul (well, except for the FM, which, OK, yeah I was right, I didn't know a soul). Even now, I work an hour away from home, on the other side of town, far away from what familiar Western Wayne surroundings I may have. I guess in a way, I've never been able to shake that new-kid feeling that everyone is staring at you, so apparently I've continued to recreate that scenario throughout my life. Holy Crap--I have been in therapy for entirely too long if I can come up with that one on a Tuesday...
So yeah, I'm the chick who is secretly bored senseless, but looks blandly and nods politely when friends talk about that girl that went to Bishop Borgess, and then married this guy from Northville, and now they live in Plymouth next to that hot guy who went to Churchill, you know the one who was a cousin of that girl with the unfortunate nickname who went to Harrison--no not her, she went to Ladywood. No clue. I can drive my ass all over this entire Metropolis and not get lost, but I am no good at the game of Who's Who. At all.
Recently, I've finally come to understand that I am not truly adrift, bouncing around without an anchor of history and stories and acquaintances. Sure, I am building toward that with my friends here in the D, but I already have that connection with my friends from Jersey. And I have recently realized that not only do I share with them these same common experiences and memories, but that I myself am remembered fondly, and that shock of all shocks, I feel like I belong. Finally. It has truly been the greatest gift I've received in a very long time, and I am eternally grateful for it.
And before you start to wonder if you've somehow wandered into some whiny-self-improving-potpourri-eating-Yanni-listening-Blog, I will tell you that the first thing I am going to do after I get off that freakin' plane in Newark is get my sappy-chick-ass a proper slice of pizza. And fold it in half. The way God intended.
Monday, March 23, 2009
60 Minutes
OK, so I work about 40 miles from my home, which means I have a wicked long commute every day--it takes at least an hour. Sometimes on weekends I can bang it down to about 45 minutes, but after all is said and done, it's just far away, and that's how long it takes. One hour.
Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!
After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.
Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.
Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!
After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.
Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Random Dude 2
OK, so I meant to post this yesterday, admittedly as more of a filler, but as with all of my good intentions lately, things seemed to have slipped to the wayside. I did find out yesterday that I am really, legitimately sick, and have the prescriptions to prove it, so I'm feeling a bit better about being so lax with my duties herein. I'm not sure what it is about that 10 day mark when you are sick--you go in at 9 days and it's "I know it's miserable, but it's just a virus, and everyone has it, you just have to tough things out." But you go on day 11, and they throw the medicine cabinet at you--I even got a new inhaler thrown in as a very special bonus. Kind of like the asthmatic equivalent of diggin' thru the pirate's booty chest--instead of choosing a stretchy lizard that sticks to the ceiling or a packet of Jonas Brothers tattoos, I got a little ventolin-delight.
But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.
Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.
It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.
But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.
Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.
It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Slainte!
OK, so St. Patrick's Day is upon us, and I have to admit, I'm a little crabby. It could be that, once again, I am not sleeping well or that my Neti Pot addiction has failed to kick this freakin' cold. But let's be honest, more than likely it is because I am not bellied up to the bar in a dark Irish pub swilling down my 9th Black and Tan while belting out "Drunken Sailor" and "Green Alligators" at the top of my lungs with 185 of my closest friends. Yeah, it's not much fun when an adult-oriented, irresponsible holiday falls on A) a work day, and B) on a day when I have Chica-Duty.
So it was with this spirit of pissy unwillingness that I greeted my day, and slogged through it like a 3 year old at the mall two days before Christmas. I even wore a (very cute) green sweater today, which I never do because I'm very Irish every day so why bother show it one one particular day, plus it strikes very close to my policy that grown-ups should avoid holiday-theme-clothing at all costs. I gazed longingly at the full parking lots at Rosie O'Grady's and listened intently to the reports of the drunken sots screaming "WOO HOO!" live from Duggan's and the Old Shillelagh. I reminisced about the St. Pats' of old at Murphy's Law where we'd start the day at the crack of noon and stay til we closed the bar and my shoes would stick to the floor and we couldn't afford Guinness so we drank Miller O'Lite, but never, ever the green kind.
Yeah, I missed that today. Today weighed heavy with meetings and emails, and carpools and homework and it was, quite frankly just a regular Tuesday. Not very Irish or even very holidayish for that matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up tomorrow, my hair will not reek of cigarette smoke, I will have more than 6 crushed slightly damp dollar bills in my pocket, and I won't be trying to piece together how on earth I managed to lose a shoe, come home braless, and get that monstrous bruise on my left forearm. Yes, tomorrow, March 18th, I will wake clear-headed and alert, and blessedly hangover-free. Man, does that suck or what?
So it was with this spirit of pissy unwillingness that I greeted my day, and slogged through it like a 3 year old at the mall two days before Christmas. I even wore a (very cute) green sweater today, which I never do because I'm very Irish every day so why bother show it one one particular day, plus it strikes very close to my policy that grown-ups should avoid holiday-theme-clothing at all costs. I gazed longingly at the full parking lots at Rosie O'Grady's and listened intently to the reports of the drunken sots screaming "WOO HOO!" live from Duggan's and the Old Shillelagh. I reminisced about the St. Pats' of old at Murphy's Law where we'd start the day at the crack of noon and stay til we closed the bar and my shoes would stick to the floor and we couldn't afford Guinness so we drank Miller O'Lite, but never, ever the green kind.
Yeah, I missed that today. Today weighed heavy with meetings and emails, and carpools and homework and it was, quite frankly just a regular Tuesday. Not very Irish or even very holidayish for that matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up tomorrow, my hair will not reek of cigarette smoke, I will have more than 6 crushed slightly damp dollar bills in my pocket, and I won't be trying to piece together how on earth I managed to lose a shoe, come home braless, and get that monstrous bruise on my left forearm. Yes, tomorrow, March 18th, I will wake clear-headed and alert, and blessedly hangover-free. Man, does that suck or what?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pot of Gold
OK, so I've been valiantly fighting this cold for the past week or so. It hasn't been easy, for he is a stubborn SOB who is showing no mercy. I am wicked congested, my neck hurts, and my eyes itch like a Mother, all of which is putting a damper on my usual sunny disposition--hey, I almost said that without laughing.
A few years ago, I would have been just fine, and fallen back on my old-reliable light blue Sudafed gel caps. These delicious nuggets were chock full of pseudo-ephedrine with a delightful guiafenesin chaser that took care of any and all cold or allergy symptoms within a couple of days without being overly drying. I loved them dearly. And then, all those Crank-Heads out in Kansas with their double-wide-meth-labs went and ruined it for the rest of us. I cannot remember a day when I was more pissed off than when I went to CVS to obtain the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder only to be told by the little tiny pharmacist that they no longer stocked it because they didn't have room now that all the decongestants were behind the counter like the pharma-equivalent of Grey Goose and Hot Damn. And to add insult to injury, they now required a driver's license to purchase the useless Red-Sudafed-Crap-Tabs--and best of all, they need to actually swipe your DL. I would have no problem with this, but no one, not even the TSA swipes my driver's license, but to buy Sudafed it's abso-freakin-lutely necessary! Really. Apparently it makes the folks in the poly-fabulous vests at Rite-Aid feel powerful and more content in their career choice.
So yeah, I have issues with getting a cold now and I'm always on the lookout for the next greatest thing, so it was in this spirit of intrepid ague that this week I purchased a Neti Pot. Now for those not in the know, a Neti Pot is this little watering can looking thing that you use to flush out your sinus cavities with a saline solution. Many people swear by them, and I figured it couldn't possibly make me feel worse, so I decided to give it a go. Plus I figured if I could tout myself as an edgy homeopathic chick, I might just be able to scare up some new dating action live from the streets of A2.
So the directions seemed simple enough. Pour 1/2 of the packet of stuff into the Pot, add lukewarm water, stir until dissolved, then insert the tip of the Pot into your nostril, tip your head to the side so that said nostril is above the other one, and flush away all the germs and goo. Of course, the 14 year old in me was immediately giggling about the irony of the white powder/spoon/nose thing, but other than that it was pretty straight-forward. Or so I thought. I am here to report that I very nearly died that night.
Technically it was my own fault because first, I misread the directions that said to add water to the top. The directions actually said to fill it to the top of the label on the side of the pot, so I inadvertantly forced about 7 times the amount of fluid as necessary into my head. Second, I am not sure that the Neti Pot is advised for someone who's suffered a broken nose as many times as I have, for I would speculate that this created some sort of detour through which the liquid rushed, surging into my brain and cascading down my throat which caused me to panic mightily. And of course, when one panics, one tends to breathe irregularly, which is a huge negative with the Neti Pot. I ended up aspirating salt water, choking and sputtering, desperate for liquid-free air--I swear to God I saw the light and heard my grandfather's voice. But as I slowly regained consciousness, I realized that for the first time in days I could breathe freely and completely on that one side. Holy crap this thing is a miracle!
It was with mild trepidation that I completed the task on the other side, but it has gotten easier with each subsequent attempt. I have now worked my way up to one full packet per sinus cavity, and I can flush away without blacking out--though that was kind of a trippy bonus. I wouldn't say I'm an expert yet, but I am getting pretty darn good at it--after all, I went to college, I'm a mom, and I play a doctor on TV.
I am a proud convert and I am eagerly awaiting allergy season and all of it's trials, because I have my new best friend and secret weapon. I have to be, especially since I heard Warner-Lambert doesn't even make the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder any more. Stupid Crank-Heads. I'm still jonesing for my old stand-by so I'm left wondering if crossed the river into Canada, if they might have my drug of choice in their wonderland of socialized FDA-less medicine? And I'd venture to guess the crack border-patrol agents at the tunnel in the D would never give a second thought to a hot soccer mom re-entering the US with a Highlander full of light blue Sudafed gel caps. I bet they'd just wave me on my way without even swiping my driver's license. It might just be worth a shot, eh.
A few years ago, I would have been just fine, and fallen back on my old-reliable light blue Sudafed gel caps. These delicious nuggets were chock full of pseudo-ephedrine with a delightful guiafenesin chaser that took care of any and all cold or allergy symptoms within a couple of days without being overly drying. I loved them dearly. And then, all those Crank-Heads out in Kansas with their double-wide-meth-labs went and ruined it for the rest of us. I cannot remember a day when I was more pissed off than when I went to CVS to obtain the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder only to be told by the little tiny pharmacist that they no longer stocked it because they didn't have room now that all the decongestants were behind the counter like the pharma-equivalent of Grey Goose and Hot Damn. And to add insult to injury, they now required a driver's license to purchase the useless Red-Sudafed-Crap-Tabs--and best of all, they need to actually swipe your DL. I would have no problem with this, but no one, not even the TSA swipes my driver's license, but to buy Sudafed it's abso-freakin-lutely necessary! Really. Apparently it makes the folks in the poly-fabulous vests at Rite-Aid feel powerful and more content in their career choice.
So yeah, I have issues with getting a cold now and I'm always on the lookout for the next greatest thing, so it was in this spirit of intrepid ague that this week I purchased a Neti Pot. Now for those not in the know, a Neti Pot is this little watering can looking thing that you use to flush out your sinus cavities with a saline solution. Many people swear by them, and I figured it couldn't possibly make me feel worse, so I decided to give it a go. Plus I figured if I could tout myself as an edgy homeopathic chick, I might just be able to scare up some new dating action live from the streets of A2.
So the directions seemed simple enough. Pour 1/2 of the packet of stuff into the Pot, add lukewarm water, stir until dissolved, then insert the tip of the Pot into your nostril, tip your head to the side so that said nostril is above the other one, and flush away all the germs and goo. Of course, the 14 year old in me was immediately giggling about the irony of the white powder/spoon/nose thing, but other than that it was pretty straight-forward. Or so I thought. I am here to report that I very nearly died that night.
Technically it was my own fault because first, I misread the directions that said to add water to the top. The directions actually said to fill it to the top of the label on the side of the pot, so I inadvertantly forced about 7 times the amount of fluid as necessary into my head. Second, I am not sure that the Neti Pot is advised for someone who's suffered a broken nose as many times as I have, for I would speculate that this created some sort of detour through which the liquid rushed, surging into my brain and cascading down my throat which caused me to panic mightily. And of course, when one panics, one tends to breathe irregularly, which is a huge negative with the Neti Pot. I ended up aspirating salt water, choking and sputtering, desperate for liquid-free air--I swear to God I saw the light and heard my grandfather's voice. But as I slowly regained consciousness, I realized that for the first time in days I could breathe freely and completely on that one side. Holy crap this thing is a miracle!
It was with mild trepidation that I completed the task on the other side, but it has gotten easier with each subsequent attempt. I have now worked my way up to one full packet per sinus cavity, and I can flush away without blacking out--though that was kind of a trippy bonus. I wouldn't say I'm an expert yet, but I am getting pretty darn good at it--after all, I went to college, I'm a mom, and I play a doctor on TV.
I am a proud convert and I am eagerly awaiting allergy season and all of it's trials, because I have my new best friend and secret weapon. I have to be, especially since I heard Warner-Lambert doesn't even make the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder any more. Stupid Crank-Heads. I'm still jonesing for my old stand-by so I'm left wondering if crossed the river into Canada, if they might have my drug of choice in their wonderland of socialized FDA-less medicine? And I'd venture to guess the crack border-patrol agents at the tunnel in the D would never give a second thought to a hot soccer mom re-entering the US with a Highlander full of light blue Sudafed gel caps. I bet they'd just wave me on my way without even swiping my driver's license. It might just be worth a shot, eh.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Junkie
OK, so I have been all awhirl this week, eagerly anticipating my favorite time of year--March Madness!! (you need to say that with a sing-songy-lilt to your voice like when Oprah announces her favorite things). I have stayed up way too late all week watching games, catching Sportscenter--I'm beginning to think I may have a slight problem. But hey, if being a Hoops Junkie is wrong, I don't wanna be right.
So the Big East Tournament this year has been one for the ages. Were it not for Marquette's inability to rise above losing their point guard and thus crapping out of every game for the past 2 weeks, I'd say it has been nearly perfect. That Syracuse team is simply unbelievable--I can't possibly add anything more to the litany of well-deserved praise that followed the 6 OT spectacle the other night, so I won't even try. Even better, they then sent Bob Huggins packing, and anyone who does that is A-OK by me. Don't tell Buzz Williams, but I think they may be my new favorite team--certainly one that will factor heavily in my bracketology this week. And, I'm not ashamed to admit, even though it is very Coo-Coo-Catchoo of me, but that Eric Devendorf is now my newest IB.
I'm currently watching Michigan State in the Big Ten tourney. I love State because they are always a solid team that you don't hear much about (probably because I am not an alumni, but still) and then all of a sudden the season's over, they're ranked in the Top 10, and making lots of noise. I do not, however, understand everyone's love-affair with Memphis. Don't get me wrong, they are a good team, and that John Calipari is kind of delicious, but how can we take them seriously as long as they continue to play in Conference USA? I mean, they won their conference championship game against a team that only managed 39 points--really? 39 points? Come on. Should that even count as a real game? And then there's the ACC, the Pac-10, the Mid-Majors, and is Dayton going to be Cinderella this year?, and--holy crap, I need to calm down...
And so the waiting begins. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, just itching for all the fun that is just a few hours away. Well, since the selection show isn't until the evening, today is probably still mostly like the 23rd of December, but still--I'm pretty geeked. Back in the day, I'd watch the show and feverishly write down all of the pairings on a yellow legal pad while my brother screamed out the teams and the seeds. And then neatly, very neatly I'd transcribe them into my fresh new Sports Illustrated and/or Courier News bracket sheet. Now I'll just cozy up to the telly, watch to see who makes it and whose bubble bursts, and then just download that bad boy and get to work. I'll be back in Jersey for the Sweet Sixteen, and I'm looking forward to catching some games with some old friends. Still not my Vegas Dream weekend, but a pretty good substitute. The Final Four is here in the D this year--I really hope we don't screw it up--and I would absolutely kill to be able to go. I'm considering selling off either a Chica or a limb to make that happen, but the terms and conditions are tripping me up a little bit, so it's a work in progress.
Yes, it is a pretty freaking magical time of year, full of electricity and hope and excitement, and this here chick loves it madly and completely. My name is Kelly, and I am an addict, proud and true.
So the Big East Tournament this year has been one for the ages. Were it not for Marquette's inability to rise above losing their point guard and thus crapping out of every game for the past 2 weeks, I'd say it has been nearly perfect. That Syracuse team is simply unbelievable--I can't possibly add anything more to the litany of well-deserved praise that followed the 6 OT spectacle the other night, so I won't even try. Even better, they then sent Bob Huggins packing, and anyone who does that is A-OK by me. Don't tell Buzz Williams, but I think they may be my new favorite team--certainly one that will factor heavily in my bracketology this week. And, I'm not ashamed to admit, even though it is very Coo-Coo-Catchoo of me, but that Eric Devendorf is now my newest IB.
I'm currently watching Michigan State in the Big Ten tourney. I love State because they are always a solid team that you don't hear much about (probably because I am not an alumni, but still) and then all of a sudden the season's over, they're ranked in the Top 10, and making lots of noise. I do not, however, understand everyone's love-affair with Memphis. Don't get me wrong, they are a good team, and that John Calipari is kind of delicious, but how can we take them seriously as long as they continue to play in Conference USA? I mean, they won their conference championship game against a team that only managed 39 points--really? 39 points? Come on. Should that even count as a real game? And then there's the ACC, the Pac-10, the Mid-Majors, and is Dayton going to be Cinderella this year?, and--holy crap, I need to calm down...
And so the waiting begins. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, just itching for all the fun that is just a few hours away. Well, since the selection show isn't until the evening, today is probably still mostly like the 23rd of December, but still--I'm pretty geeked. Back in the day, I'd watch the show and feverishly write down all of the pairings on a yellow legal pad while my brother screamed out the teams and the seeds. And then neatly, very neatly I'd transcribe them into my fresh new Sports Illustrated and/or Courier News bracket sheet. Now I'll just cozy up to the telly, watch to see who makes it and whose bubble bursts, and then just download that bad boy and get to work. I'll be back in Jersey for the Sweet Sixteen, and I'm looking forward to catching some games with some old friends. Still not my Vegas Dream weekend, but a pretty good substitute. The Final Four is here in the D this year--I really hope we don't screw it up--and I would absolutely kill to be able to go. I'm considering selling off either a Chica or a limb to make that happen, but the terms and conditions are tripping me up a little bit, so it's a work in progress.
Yes, it is a pretty freaking magical time of year, full of electricity and hope and excitement, and this here chick loves it madly and completely. My name is Kelly, and I am an addict, proud and true.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
10 Questions
OK, so I suffered another romantical set-back this week--a rather ouchie one. But hey, live and learn, right? I am really just hoping that I learn whatever it is that I'm missing here...and soon. I'm in a somewhat contemplative mood, putting off what I'm sure will be a night chock-full of tossing and turning, and so I wonder...
Who cares if Kwame leaves the D to move to the Big D? Hasn't he done enough to embarrass the office and the city, and more importantly, where will poor Christine Beatty be given safe haven? Is it too early to bet that Carlita will veto Houston?
Why would anyone get a French Manicure on their toes? Is it just me, or is the illusion of longer nails not particularly appealing on your piggies?
Why do they even bother to open Hines Drive at this time of year? Flooded again?? Really.
If Jay Leno is willing to come to the D and perform for free, thus bringing badly needed attention to the paralyzing economic climate in our area, is it really appropriate to publicly berate him for doing his show at the Palace and not in the City proper?
Is there anyone funnier than the Oldest Chica when she tells a much-repeated story about a friend at school, and finishes it by saying, "Oh, man, that just never gets old!"?
Who makes up the brain-trust at MDOT that closed the exit ramps to Mound Road at 696, thus making Dequindre the detour of choice, when that particular stretch has more cavernous potholes than Main Street in Kabul?
Why did the Girl Scout Cookie delivery directly coincide with my attempt to stuff myself into an inordinately tiny LBD for my high school reunion?
Is there anything in the world that makes me feel better as a grounded, sensible mom than watching those wacky pageant mothers on Toddlers & Tiaras?
Would it really be so bad if the Lie-Downs changed their uniform colors? Really, how successful can a group of men become when saddled with a unifying hue named Honolulu Blue?
Is there any shadow of a doubt that the Snuggie is one of the sole, crystal-clear reasons Americans are so fat and lazy?
See, that is better. Maybe not all the questions that I need answered right now, but at least it's a start.
Who cares if Kwame leaves the D to move to the Big D? Hasn't he done enough to embarrass the office and the city, and more importantly, where will poor Christine Beatty be given safe haven? Is it too early to bet that Carlita will veto Houston?
Why would anyone get a French Manicure on their toes? Is it just me, or is the illusion of longer nails not particularly appealing on your piggies?
Why do they even bother to open Hines Drive at this time of year? Flooded again?? Really.
If Jay Leno is willing to come to the D and perform for free, thus bringing badly needed attention to the paralyzing economic climate in our area, is it really appropriate to publicly berate him for doing his show at the Palace and not in the City proper?
Is there anyone funnier than the Oldest Chica when she tells a much-repeated story about a friend at school, and finishes it by saying, "Oh, man, that just never gets old!"?
Who makes up the brain-trust at MDOT that closed the exit ramps to Mound Road at 696, thus making Dequindre the detour of choice, when that particular stretch has more cavernous potholes than Main Street in Kabul?
Why did the Girl Scout Cookie delivery directly coincide with my attempt to stuff myself into an inordinately tiny LBD for my high school reunion?
Is there anything in the world that makes me feel better as a grounded, sensible mom than watching those wacky pageant mothers on Toddlers & Tiaras?
Would it really be so bad if the Lie-Downs changed their uniform colors? Really, how successful can a group of men become when saddled with a unifying hue named Honolulu Blue?
Is there any shadow of a doubt that the Snuggie is one of the sole, crystal-clear reasons Americans are so fat and lazy?
See, that is better. Maybe not all the questions that I need answered right now, but at least it's a start.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Clothes-N-Stuff
OK, so it's been about a year since the Former Mister (FM for the recall-challenged) and I began our Co-Parenting gig. For those not in the know, we have joint custody, and the State of Michigan in their infinite wisdom subscribes to a convoluted system known as 2-2-5. This means that the Chicas are with me Monday/Tuesday, with him Wednesday/Thursday and then we switch every other weekend. It was presented as The Solution because it allows for the most "touches" per parent per year--terminology that I am absolutely not making up--in this realm kids are actually referred to in a manner usually reserved for leather-bound-spheres.
So this 2-2-5 arrangement actually works out OK for the Chicas. They are still young, so their world revolves around the days of the week--dance on Monday, soccer Tuesday--it's the grown-ups in their lives that struggle. I cannot tell you how many times I've heard "Oh, I never know where they're going to be--you've just made things so confusing..." as if I possess half of the bureaucratic know-how to create an arrangement that is so monumentally cumbersome. For it is not so much shuttling the Chicas between the FM and myself that is the issue--I for one have yet to lose one of them--it's all their Stuff that's the problem.
Yes, the dance shoes, the soccer kit, the library books and the lunchboxes, all need to be in a certain house on certain days. I would guesstimate that the FM and I do a good job on that 86.9% of the time. We have a lower success rate with with The Guys, but overall we do OK. Now in our family, The Guys refer to any number of stuffed animals, blankets and soft toys that make up the mountain under which the Chicas sleep on a given night. Without fail, when they arrive back in my home, at least one Chica is missing "the" Guy of the moment--the Webkin they covet, the dusty threadbare dog they discovered in the basement last week, or even worse, the itty-bitty My Little Pony finger puppet that came in a Happy Meal 3 years ago. Yes the inter-home movement of The Guys is an ongoing source of consternation for me, but oh, so much worse is the issue with the clothes.
Now, I understand that things get lost, but on a consistent basis clothing items leave my home never to be seen or heard from again. Its as if my house, his house, and the school create this perfect Bermuda Triangle of apparel-swallowing mojo. Even better, the duds that do come into my home are funky, ill-fitting things that are clearly sent in the hopes that they do not return. Now, I am not one of those moms whose kids must always look like they stepped out of a LL Bean catalogue. On the contrary--I am all about kids wearing what they want, I would just prefer that my offspring don't look like refugee urchins who got dressed out of a bag of Goodwill castoffs in the dark.
Such is my fixation on this issue, I sometimes lose sight of things, the old forest-trees problem that I continue to struggle with. Case in point--the FM and the Chicas arrive at my house last Friday for the early-morning weekend transfer. They each have their backpacks, and Bags-o-Guys, and then I see the Middle Chica roll up in an ensemble that quite nearly stopped my heart. She had on faded black leggings adorned with candy corns, polka dot socks with brown shoes (a huge pet peeve of mine--no matter how sketchy they may be, black pants require black shoes) and an enormous blue Finding Nemo sweatshirt, whose Nemo looked inordinately peely and all sides of wrong. She looked like a chick emerging from her double-wide on her way to bail out her old-man Rodney on an episode of Cops. So the door closes and I immediately turn to her, point, and say "Seriously-upstairs now, you are not going anywhere, let alone school, dressed like that--absolutely not, move it now--seriously." To which she responds with a blank look, and a whimper and says, very quietly, "But Mommy, today is Mis-Match Day." Ouch.
I attempted to redeem myself by telling her how fabulous she looked, and helped her find a really crappy Valentine T-shirt and formerly-light-up Christmas headband to go with it. It was still one of those lovely, classic, "God I suck so bad" moments that only occur post-childbirth, but it served to remind me--yes, it's the principle, and yes, he should try harder to return the stuff, but at the end of the day, it's just clothes, they are just kids, and things happen. I just need to be more tolerant, and in some cases, smarter.
And so when Wordy-Shirt-Wednesday comes, and I drop my children off for their long weekend with FM, I will make sure that they each wear their very favorite "My Mom Rocks" T-shirts, because I still do, and more importantly, I'm pretty sure I'll get those back.
So this 2-2-5 arrangement actually works out OK for the Chicas. They are still young, so their world revolves around the days of the week--dance on Monday, soccer Tuesday--it's the grown-ups in their lives that struggle. I cannot tell you how many times I've heard "Oh, I never know where they're going to be--you've just made things so confusing..." as if I possess half of the bureaucratic know-how to create an arrangement that is so monumentally cumbersome. For it is not so much shuttling the Chicas between the FM and myself that is the issue--I for one have yet to lose one of them--it's all their Stuff that's the problem.
Yes, the dance shoes, the soccer kit, the library books and the lunchboxes, all need to be in a certain house on certain days. I would guesstimate that the FM and I do a good job on that 86.9% of the time. We have a lower success rate with with The Guys, but overall we do OK. Now in our family, The Guys refer to any number of stuffed animals, blankets and soft toys that make up the mountain under which the Chicas sleep on a given night. Without fail, when they arrive back in my home, at least one Chica is missing "the" Guy of the moment--the Webkin they covet, the dusty threadbare dog they discovered in the basement last week, or even worse, the itty-bitty My Little Pony finger puppet that came in a Happy Meal 3 years ago. Yes the inter-home movement of The Guys is an ongoing source of consternation for me, but oh, so much worse is the issue with the clothes.
Now, I understand that things get lost, but on a consistent basis clothing items leave my home never to be seen or heard from again. Its as if my house, his house, and the school create this perfect Bermuda Triangle of apparel-swallowing mojo. Even better, the duds that do come into my home are funky, ill-fitting things that are clearly sent in the hopes that they do not return. Now, I am not one of those moms whose kids must always look like they stepped out of a LL Bean catalogue. On the contrary--I am all about kids wearing what they want, I would just prefer that my offspring don't look like refugee urchins who got dressed out of a bag of Goodwill castoffs in the dark.
Such is my fixation on this issue, I sometimes lose sight of things, the old forest-trees problem that I continue to struggle with. Case in point--the FM and the Chicas arrive at my house last Friday for the early-morning weekend transfer. They each have their backpacks, and Bags-o-Guys, and then I see the Middle Chica roll up in an ensemble that quite nearly stopped my heart. She had on faded black leggings adorned with candy corns, polka dot socks with brown shoes (a huge pet peeve of mine--no matter how sketchy they may be, black pants require black shoes) and an enormous blue Finding Nemo sweatshirt, whose Nemo looked inordinately peely and all sides of wrong. She looked like a chick emerging from her double-wide on her way to bail out her old-man Rodney on an episode of Cops. So the door closes and I immediately turn to her, point, and say "Seriously-upstairs now, you are not going anywhere, let alone school, dressed like that--absolutely not, move it now--seriously." To which she responds with a blank look, and a whimper and says, very quietly, "But Mommy, today is Mis-Match Day." Ouch.
I attempted to redeem myself by telling her how fabulous she looked, and helped her find a really crappy Valentine T-shirt and formerly-light-up Christmas headband to go with it. It was still one of those lovely, classic, "God I suck so bad" moments that only occur post-childbirth, but it served to remind me--yes, it's the principle, and yes, he should try harder to return the stuff, but at the end of the day, it's just clothes, they are just kids, and things happen. I just need to be more tolerant, and in some cases, smarter.
And so when Wordy-Shirt-Wednesday comes, and I drop my children off for their long weekend with FM, I will make sure that they each wear their very favorite "My Mom Rocks" T-shirts, because I still do, and more importantly, I'm pretty sure I'll get those back.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Bobby's Chili
OK, so I was trolling Facebook earlier today, and found a status update from my buddy Bobby, that I found interesting/funny/blog-worthy. Now Bobby's real name is Michael, and we worked together about 50 years ago. And then, one day, a process-improvement consultant-chick came into our little hospital aiming to make our stuff "run better." She had an MBA and an Ann Taylor suit, so clearly she knew more than any of us who toiled in Operations on a daily basis. The only problem was (OK, she had a coupla problems) she could never get anyone's name right. She was the type of person that would call you-up-one-side-and-down-the-other-but-never-quite-get-your-name-right as if in justified confirmation that her existence was more important than yours. So, naturally, in public ridicule of her cognitive tic, Michael dubbed me KiKi, and I called him Bobby.
Now Bobby's wife, Brooke (I suddenly feel very bad that she does not have a nickname) and I became friends about 35 years ago. She has been incredibly supportive, always willing to listen and give sage advice, and she is a fabulous stylist who is the sole reason my hair rocks so hard. The two of them have been great friends to me, and they have 2 adorable little boys, the youngest of which I am still trying to finagle a way to kidnap because he is the most delicious child to ever live. Really. They also have a really great relationship story that I admire and respect and may in fact tell someday, given adequate movie rights and royalty payment dealios.
But, I digress. Bobby's post made me laugh tonight because he stated that he won the chili cook-off at work. Now, a chili cook-off at work is a highly suspect arrangement, because I for one, have a documented aversion to a buffet of any kind, let alone one that sits out all day long, and is prepared using crock-pots, hot-plates and hunting coolers. I have done my best to eliminate the "pot-luck-lunch" in my department because there are only so many varieties of off-brand Doritos and Mexicali dip that a person can tolerate, plus I see these people, I see their desks, and I cannot imagine their home kitchen/funky blue rolling Igloo are any more sanitary. The whole thing gives me the willies, and, hey, I'm the boss, so too bad for them--they can go work for Radiology if having pasta frittata for Shirley's birthday is so freakin' important.
Best of all, Bobby's big win took place in a hospital. In addition to the first place award, I wonder if he could he have picked up a nod for "Best Use of Stuff Leftover in the ER," or maybe "Most Likely to Send You to the GI Lab on Thursday." Perhaps even my personal favorite, "Oh, Sure, Those May Look Like Beans..." The possibilities are endlessly adolescent and thoroughly enjoyable.
But seriously, I gotta give props to a dude who cooks well enough for public consumption, let alone win first prize. If I totaled up all of the meals that guys have prepared for me in my lifetime, I'd have a bowl of Froot Loops, a nearly-raw chicken kebab, and 4 very sketchy taquitos that I strongly believe were not made from scratch. Kudos Bobby! And I will love you even more if you promise not to offer me the leftovers...
Now Bobby's wife, Brooke (I suddenly feel very bad that she does not have a nickname) and I became friends about 35 years ago. She has been incredibly supportive, always willing to listen and give sage advice, and she is a fabulous stylist who is the sole reason my hair rocks so hard. The two of them have been great friends to me, and they have 2 adorable little boys, the youngest of which I am still trying to finagle a way to kidnap because he is the most delicious child to ever live. Really. They also have a really great relationship story that I admire and respect and may in fact tell someday, given adequate movie rights and royalty payment dealios.
But, I digress. Bobby's post made me laugh tonight because he stated that he won the chili cook-off at work. Now, a chili cook-off at work is a highly suspect arrangement, because I for one, have a documented aversion to a buffet of any kind, let alone one that sits out all day long, and is prepared using crock-pots, hot-plates and hunting coolers. I have done my best to eliminate the "pot-luck-lunch" in my department because there are only so many varieties of off-brand Doritos and Mexicali dip that a person can tolerate, plus I see these people, I see their desks, and I cannot imagine their home kitchen/funky blue rolling Igloo are any more sanitary. The whole thing gives me the willies, and, hey, I'm the boss, so too bad for them--they can go work for Radiology if having pasta frittata for Shirley's birthday is so freakin' important.
Best of all, Bobby's big win took place in a hospital. In addition to the first place award, I wonder if he could he have picked up a nod for "Best Use of Stuff Leftover in the ER," or maybe "Most Likely to Send You to the GI Lab on Thursday." Perhaps even my personal favorite, "Oh, Sure, Those May Look Like Beans..." The possibilities are endlessly adolescent and thoroughly enjoyable.
But seriously, I gotta give props to a dude who cooks well enough for public consumption, let alone win first prize. If I totaled up all of the meals that guys have prepared for me in my lifetime, I'd have a bowl of Froot Loops, a nearly-raw chicken kebab, and 4 very sketchy taquitos that I strongly believe were not made from scratch. Kudos Bobby! And I will love you even more if you promise not to offer me the leftovers...
Monday, March 2, 2009
Super-Kelly
So I've recently been thinking about what super-power I'd like to have. Not a whole lot of thinking about it, like to where I'd go to a convention and present a costumed dissertation on it or anything, but just your basic noodling.
I don't think I'd pick strength, because I'm notoriously unmotivated, and going with the assumption that you can usually only exhibit a single super-power at any given time, super-human-strength plus my general lazy-assitude would not be terribly helpful. I don't want to be invisible, because I am quite fabulous, and I do not want to deprive the world of my physical wonder. Plus, I would wager to guess that I'd still be equally clumsy, so it would basically amount to just scaring people with a lot of noisy crashing about...tempting, but I still decline. All the others, like elasticity, the ability to freeze stuff by pointing--all flashy parlor tricks, but have very little street value.
So I really think that I would have to go with the nose-wiggle. I know that it is technically a Bewitched-power as opposed to a genuine super-power, but it would still be such an excellent skill to possess. Just imagine--poof! dishes done...poof! house clean...poof! Chicas happy and well-adjusted. I'd have to take a pass on those creepy Darrens, and the wacky-witch-mother (wait, I do have one of those), but the ability to have anything and everything finally, neatly taken care of with just one little rhino-twitch would be a sweet, sweet deal indeed.
Plus, as an added bonus, it comes complete with it's own wicked cool sound effect "dinkadinkadink," and that coupled with the rockin'-hot cartoon of me in a witch costume is bound to get me some action. Sounds like a win-win to me.
I don't think I'd pick strength, because I'm notoriously unmotivated, and going with the assumption that you can usually only exhibit a single super-power at any given time, super-human-strength plus my general lazy-assitude would not be terribly helpful. I don't want to be invisible, because I am quite fabulous, and I do not want to deprive the world of my physical wonder. Plus, I would wager to guess that I'd still be equally clumsy, so it would basically amount to just scaring people with a lot of noisy crashing about...tempting, but I still decline. All the others, like elasticity, the ability to freeze stuff by pointing--all flashy parlor tricks, but have very little street value.
So I really think that I would have to go with the nose-wiggle. I know that it is technically a Bewitched-power as opposed to a genuine super-power, but it would still be such an excellent skill to possess. Just imagine--poof! dishes done...poof! house clean...poof! Chicas happy and well-adjusted. I'd have to take a pass on those creepy Darrens, and the wacky-witch-mother (wait, I do have one of those), but the ability to have anything and everything finally, neatly taken care of with just one little rhino-twitch would be a sweet, sweet deal indeed.
Plus, as an added bonus, it comes complete with it's own wicked cool sound effect "dinkadinkadink," and that coupled with the rockin'-hot cartoon of me in a witch costume is bound to get me some action. Sounds like a win-win to me.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Imaginary Boyfriend
OK, so the whole 48-hour rule lasted less than a week, but that's a solid 5 days longer than any of my New Year's resolutions, so all in all I'd say I'm making improvement.
So, the Kelly-Girl went on a date last night. It was more of a spur-of-the-moment-hey-I'm-not-doing-anything-either-why-don't-we-get-a-bite-to-eat thing that did not involve any picking up or dropping off, just a quick meet and eat at a local tavern. It was nice, but more importantly served to remind me that I simply cannot date anyone more than 10 years younger than me, and preferably someone who does not call me "Dude" quite so much.
I am the first to admit that I am not terribly good at dating. I don't go out much, all of my friends are married, and I still cannot bring myself to take the e-Harmony plunge. To that end, this here clip of my all-time-favorite-lovable-lug Mr. Chris Farley pretty well sums up my mad skills/modus-operandi in the dating world...
Hilarious, yes, but sadly so very, very true.
Back in November, I got introduced via Facebook to a very nice friend of a friend. He's also divorced, has a whole passel of childrens, and is dreadfully funny. We hit it off swimmingly, exchanging emails, chatting in the little green-dot FB box--things moved slooooowly, but they were moving. He asked for my phone number, but oddly, never used it, and our communication never ventured outside of the FB world. Nonetheless, we met for lunch over Christmas, and I thought it went well--I did not crush a baked good, I didn't have anything spew from my nose, and I'm fairly certain I said nothing overtly offensive, but I've been wrong about that one before. Long story short, after a couple more weeks, he disappeared. Just gone. Ouch. Now, the Tommy-Boy-Kelly-Girl would have emailed him incessantly "Are you OK--did you get amnesia and subsequently kidnapped by Victor Kyriakos--could you possibly be trapped under something heavy?" But the new-fangled Kelly-Girl, albeit still confused, has somehow managed to just let it go. Somebody call Oprah--I think I've had a breakthrough!
It is situations like this that has reinforced my dedication to my Imaginary Boyfriends. These are men who I've never actually met, but I have an inexplicable affection for, and I love them dearly. My list of Imaginary Boyfriends has included David Cook from American Idol, Brendan Shanahan of the Red Wings (don't care if or who he plays for now--he never should have left the D), Maks from Dancing with the Stars, and number-one of all time, Mr. George Clooney. I also continue to carry a torch for the Starbucks Suit Guy, who is pretty much the only real-live person who is on the list but who is so strikingly handsome that I am rendered slack-jawed and mute in his very presence.
I enjoy the Imaginary Boyfriend, because he doesn't speak, so he can't disappoint me by not calling me when he says he will. We don't actually go anywhere, so he can't be stupid and insensitive and say something like "Open your own freakin' door." He is always well-groomed, never snappish or crabby, and thinks that I am the most fabulous creature that has ever walked the earth. Plus, he totally understands that "Wow, you look really good for someone your age" is not truly a compliment. Yes, he is perfect, save for the fact that he does not really exist.
Does my loyalty to my IBs hamper my dating life by placing unrealistic expectations on the actual human beings that I go out with? I can't say for certain, because, quite frankly there haven't been very many interested human beings on which to test that theory. Rather, I think my Imaginary Boyfriends all possess some quality or attribute that I would look for in a real-life partner, and that they serve to remind me of my needs and standards and that I should not compromise them.
So yeah, I'm going to hang onto my Imaginary Boyfriends for a little while longer--today we will watch Marquette basketball and go grocery shopping because they love it. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, that's just too friggin' bad, Dude.
So, the Kelly-Girl went on a date last night. It was more of a spur-of-the-moment-hey-I'm-not-doing-anything-either-why-don't-we-get-a-bite-to-eat thing that did not involve any picking up or dropping off, just a quick meet and eat at a local tavern. It was nice, but more importantly served to remind me that I simply cannot date anyone more than 10 years younger than me, and preferably someone who does not call me "Dude" quite so much.
I am the first to admit that I am not terribly good at dating. I don't go out much, all of my friends are married, and I still cannot bring myself to take the e-Harmony plunge. To that end, this here clip of my all-time-favorite-lovable-lug Mr. Chris Farley pretty well sums up my mad skills/modus-operandi in the dating world...
Hilarious, yes, but sadly so very, very true.
Back in November, I got introduced via Facebook to a very nice friend of a friend. He's also divorced, has a whole passel of childrens, and is dreadfully funny. We hit it off swimmingly, exchanging emails, chatting in the little green-dot FB box--things moved slooooowly, but they were moving. He asked for my phone number, but oddly, never used it, and our communication never ventured outside of the FB world. Nonetheless, we met for lunch over Christmas, and I thought it went well--I did not crush a baked good, I didn't have anything spew from my nose, and I'm fairly certain I said nothing overtly offensive, but I've been wrong about that one before. Long story short, after a couple more weeks, he disappeared. Just gone. Ouch. Now, the Tommy-Boy-Kelly-Girl would have emailed him incessantly "Are you OK--did you get amnesia and subsequently kidnapped by Victor Kyriakos--could you possibly be trapped under something heavy?" But the new-fangled Kelly-Girl, albeit still confused, has somehow managed to just let it go. Somebody call Oprah--I think I've had a breakthrough!
It is situations like this that has reinforced my dedication to my Imaginary Boyfriends. These are men who I've never actually met, but I have an inexplicable affection for, and I love them dearly. My list of Imaginary Boyfriends has included David Cook from American Idol, Brendan Shanahan of the Red Wings (don't care if or who he plays for now--he never should have left the D), Maks from Dancing with the Stars, and number-one of all time, Mr. George Clooney. I also continue to carry a torch for the Starbucks Suit Guy, who is pretty much the only real-live person who is on the list but who is so strikingly handsome that I am rendered slack-jawed and mute in his very presence.
I enjoy the Imaginary Boyfriend, because he doesn't speak, so he can't disappoint me by not calling me when he says he will. We don't actually go anywhere, so he can't be stupid and insensitive and say something like "Open your own freakin' door." He is always well-groomed, never snappish or crabby, and thinks that I am the most fabulous creature that has ever walked the earth. Plus, he totally understands that "Wow, you look really good for someone your age" is not truly a compliment. Yes, he is perfect, save for the fact that he does not really exist.
Does my loyalty to my IBs hamper my dating life by placing unrealistic expectations on the actual human beings that I go out with? I can't say for certain, because, quite frankly there haven't been very many interested human beings on which to test that theory. Rather, I think my Imaginary Boyfriends all possess some quality or attribute that I would look for in a real-life partner, and that they serve to remind me of my needs and standards and that I should not compromise them.
So yeah, I'm going to hang onto my Imaginary Boyfriends for a little while longer--today we will watch Marquette basketball and go grocery shopping because they love it. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, that's just too friggin' bad, Dude.
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