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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
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.
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.
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