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.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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...
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.
Friday, July 10, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.
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.
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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