Christmas Letter 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Naughty:

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

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

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

And now for the Nice:

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

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

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

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

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

The Exterminator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master Thespian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicas in the DC

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank You Spartan Don

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

And then Mr. White came along.

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

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

Thus my dilemma.

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

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

Pimp This

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

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

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

WTF??

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

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

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

Previously Unpublished

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

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

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

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