Thursday, March 24, 2005

Episode #72: In which she answers questions about things on her desk...
A few people have emailed me asking what those colorful things are on my desk in the Toblerone photo from a post a couple weeks ago.

They are Caroline’s Fortunehearts, sort of a cross between a fortune and a conversation heart. You can get them here—either the packaged ones (in the clear takeout container or in the small round plastic ones) or get them personalized or in kits you can make yourself. Pocket art is my new love.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

The horror...
I was just now going through my purse and cleaning out of all the receipts and crap and little bits of paper with things that no longer make sense written on them, and I accidentally threw away a quarter. I heard it plink on the bottom of the trash can.

My dilemma: Reach my hand into the trash with yesterday's lunch cartons, banana peels, and used tissue and root around for my lost change? Or let the quarter go?

On one hand, it's just a quarter. On the other, have I become the sort of person who can just throw money away? That quarter could be a Nascar sticker from the bubblegum machine at the grocery store. Or two Tootsie Rolls and a mini Charleston Chew. Or a donation to the guy who sparechanges me every time I walk into the Food Lion.

You might be saying, "hey now, you've put your hand into worse things than a receptacle full of trash." Yes I have. But I think I'm going to let this one go.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Cat in a Sweater!

You had to know there would be more cat photos. This is Nina after her "lion trim" body shave wearing her sweater from Doolittle's. She hates the sweater, but loves to drink from the sink.

I am officially a "cat lady."

Friday, March 11, 2005

I'm Late for Everything: Friday List
It was apparently EVERYONE'S Friday list LAST week. Miss Nobody got it from Pink Lemonade Diva, who got it from Azzy, who got it from Pink & Green Girl, who got it from someone else, who got it from this person, who got it from...well, you get the picture. Charleston Girl did it too.

I Live: in a 1940s house with my best friend of six years.
I Work: for Skirt! Magazine.
I Think: faster than I speak.
I Smell: like MAC MV2.
I Listen: when something is interesting enough to hold my attention.
I Hide: my true feelings. Well.
I Walk: for an hour or so, three times a week around the park near my house.
I Write: daily, both for work and not.
I See: dead people.
I Sing: along while I play guitar by myself when no-one else is home.
I Can: find an excuse to get out of just about anything.
I Watch: way too much news, and no more Reality TV.
I Daydream: rarely. I'm usually working on a story or article in my head.
I Fall: in love less often than I would like to.
I Want: everything.
I Cry: when I am angry.
I Read: anything I can get my hands on.
I Love: my new nephew way more than I ever thought I would.
I Rode: a motorcycle when I was 17.
I Sometimes: take my anger out on people who don't deserve it.
I Fear: frogs, air travel, death, geese, not being able to sleep, cancer, losing my mind, small talk, boredom...and about a billion other things.
I Hope: I am making a difference in this world.
I Eat: too late at night and too little during the day.
I Quit: spending time with people who are emotionally draining.
I Drink: about four liters of water a day.
I Play: Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, and I miss playing backgammon with my mom like we did almost every night when I was in grade school.
I Miss: how I used to be fearless, though it got me in trouble at times.
I Forgive: easily, but no longer maintain the relationship if the offense was serious.
I Drive: A loaded, way too expensive, black Honda CRV that I am in love with.
I Dream: vividly and in Technicolor.
I Have: everything I need and more than I thought I'd have.
I Remember: what I am able to. I have a poor short-term memory. I write a lot of things down so I can remember and have diaries dating back to 8th grade.
I Don't: allow people to disrespect me.
I Believe: in Karma, and that the universe will take care of me as long as I give more than I get.
I Owe: a lot of money in student loans.
I Know: that I will never know everything.
I Hate: obligatory singing. Anytime people sing the "Happy Birthday" song (to me or anyone else), I want to punch everyone in the neck.
I Feel: cynically optimistic.

So there it Friday list, better late than never.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

My very own Toblerone...

I'd like to thank the Academy, my agent, my manager, my stylist, my personal trainer, um, the guy who bought me a mojito at the bar a few minutes ago, and Keanu Reeves. Oh, and Jesus. And my mom. This award means so very much to me...

THANKS, BR, for the fabulous deliciousness of the Toblerone! I guess all that Buffy-watching paid off. I've seen Buffy, the Musical, a bajillion times. And did I mention that I never liked that show? My friend, housemate, and man that brings me chicken korma for dinner liked Buffy. And I like him. So I spent some couch time co-watching. OK, maybe I liked it a little.

Al and Jem: I have Toblerone and you already ate yours. I am going to eat it verrrrry slowly, then drop the wrappers off in the middle of the night in your mailboxes.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Dodgeball: Olympic Sport, My Ass
While there are many things I'd choose over dredging up memories from my screaming black nightmare of high school (like hand-washing Paris Hilton's unmentionables), I can't resist a good challenge.

My arch nemesis in high school was a girl I'll call Sporty Spice (even though her real name is Tracy Crawford). Sporty was a robust young woman, skilled in the Phys Ed arts. She was on the basketball, rugby, & bowling teams. Oddly enough, she was also a cheerleader. She was a mean girl. She was a Heather. Some people even thought she ruled the school.

But not I. I was the girl who had her period for four straight years in high school to avoid gym class. I cut PE to hide out in the bus parking lot and smoke cigarettes. I even once threatened to drop out of honors english so my teacher would talk the girl's volleyball coach (also my PE teacher) into letting me spend fourth period gym in the library. And even though I was the leather-jacket-and-black-eyeliner-wearing don't-f*ck-with-me-girl, Sporty decided to add another sport during our junior year: Random torture of the Queen of Saturday Detention, namely me.

Why me? I have a few theories. It might be that time in english class when I snorted out loud with barely contained hysterics when she read her essay, "why I love to cheer." Or the time I raised my hand in social studies and asked to move my seat because she hadn't showered after that afternoon's intramurals. I think the phrase I used was "smells like a goat's ass."

Her harassment predominantly consisted of passing me notes that said, "I'm going to kick your ass," and "Your [sic] a freak." And I think she once taped a picture of me cut out of our yearbook with the word "bitch" scrawled on it to my locker, but I can't be 100% sure it was her.

You might be asking, "KLo, WTF does this have to do with DODGEBALL, for crying out loud?" I'm getting there.

At the end of my junior year. I got called to the guidance counselor's office (yet again) to discuss my "nonparticipatory attitude with regards to specific requirements for graduation." One of them, with full compliance from my traitorous english teacher, was that I had to attend three full class periods of PE.

Ex-squeeze me? I ranted, I cajoled, I think I might have even summoned up a tear or two. But she refused to relent. Because it was in the last weeks of the year, my only option would be to attend the MWF schedule PE that involved the finals of a semester-long DODGEBALL tournament. Yes, people. In my high school, we didn't just PLAY dodgeball, we had TOURNAMENTS. The kicker? Sporty was one of the tourny leaders.

The first day I showed up for gym in my plaid boxer shorts, Converse high tops, and a Cure t-shirt, Sporty's eyes lit up like she'd just been handed the spirit stick at cheer camp. I knew I was in for it. Not only was I uncoordinated, I was also inexperienced in the ways of the "sport" that is dodgeball. In two 50-minute gym periods, I was pelted (pelted is too was more like battered) repeatedly. Once, I even ended up on the floor after taking a ball to the chest. It was social Darwinism at its finest.

On the final day, word had gotten around. The bleachers were peppered with students who were skipping another class to witness my humiliation. My rage had built up over the past week to the point of no return as I sat at home with ice packs on various body parts. The gods of savage teenage vengeance must have taken pity on me, because at some point during the game, I found myself clutching that red rubber ball. Instead of weakly lobbing it in her direction, hoping to peg her with the ball, I charged - breaking the rules and crossing the clearly marked line - until I got within three feet of my tormentor. Then I swung the ball up, with both hands, and smashed Sporty under her jaw. She fell backwards, the coach dragged me off the court toward her office, and the last thing I heard was Sporty, yelling "bith! You thupid bith!" Apparently, she had bitten almost all the way through her tongue.

To Coach Scary McThicklegs, I feigned ignorance: "But I didn't know I couldn't cross the line! I've never played before! I thought I was supposed to tag someone with the ball!" It worked, and I didn't even get a detention.

Game over. Freak girl 1, Sporty Spice 0.

So you want to know my real feelings about dodgeball? It's barbaric, stupid, and ridiculous. Yes, it takes skill to tag someone in the ass with a ball, but you're still TAGGING SOMEONE IN THE ASS WITH A BALL. It pits the mighty against the meek, which in my opinion, is akin to making an Olympic sport out of me playing Trivial Pursuit with chicks who have appeared in Girls Gone Wild videos. I prefer to pick on someone my own size, intellectually speaking.

A post script: I actually ran into Sporty Spice a few years ago, right around the time of our 10 year reunion (that I didn't attend). We had a really pleasant conversation about sports and Nike versus New Balance cross trainers. Because she works at Lady Foot Locker. At the mall. Full time.
By request: The only martini worth drinking
I usually don't give up my perfect vodka martini recipe to anyone unless they plan on making them for ME, but since Erin, who rocks out old school style, asked so nicely, I'm making an exception.

1. You gotta have to have the good vodka: Belvedere. If all you have is Stoli, don't bother. In a crunch (or in a Belvedere-less bar), Grey Goose will do.
2. Keep your martini glasses in the freezer. If you don't have space, throw out all of those freaking Lean Cuisines and MAKE room. Frozen dinners suck ass anyway.
3. Don't pour the vermouth into the shaker. Pour a little into the glass, swirl it around, then pour the excess down the drain.
4. There are people who will tell you that the only way to make a martini is stirred, not shaken. Don't listen to them. They also drink light beer and frozen banana daiquiris. Own a martini shaker, preferable a sturdy metal one.
5. Crushed ice. If you don't have it, put ice in a Ziploc, wrap in a dishtowel, and pound the crap out of it with a hammer. Or get one of these.
6. Fill shaker halfway with crushed ice, 2 jiggers vodka, and a splash of olive juice. If you like a really dirty martini, squish an olive and throw that in too. Note: Don't buy those crappy little olives on the pickle aisle. Get the big giant ones they keep on the shelf with the mixers. They're called "martini olives" for a reason.
7. Secure shaker lid tightly and shake it like a Polaroid picture. Shake it hard, for like five minutes or until your arm gives out.
8. Strain into glass, add as many olives as you can stand (I like to skewer them on a cocktail pick). It should be so cold it has little ice chips floating in it.
There it is...your perfect martini. If anyone would like to volunteer to come by my house every day at 6:30 (p.m. - the cocktail hour, people!) and practice, I'll be happy to supervise while you make my martinis. As a bonus, I will be witty and droll for as long as it takes me to drink two.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Episode 63: In which she responds to interview questions
I couldn't resist the temptation of Vivian's recent offer to grill anyone who responded to her post with "Ahoy Matey." Al did. BR will. You know I can't stand to be left out, so here's my official Vivian to Some Q&A:

1. What is the singlemost ability you'd feel qualified to give a how-to demonstration of?
I am quite gifted at making people cry, but I don't think I could lead a seminar about it. I could, however, demonstrate how to make the perfect vodka martini. I've made hundreds (of thousands) and would love it if more people (bartenders) knew how to do it, because I hate shouting "MOVE" so I can get behind the bar to make a drink that I'M PAYING FOR. And don't piss me off by telling me how much you love your "crantinis" or "appletinis," which are not actually MARTINIS; they're the whores of the drink world and good people stay away from them.

2. Besides persian hair and a sleepy purr, what would you most like to find sleeping next to you on cold wintry night?
I hate to sleep in the same bed with a person, but I might make an exception for Keanu. I have insomnia and a no-sleeping-over rule, but if I really fell in love with someone, maybe him. (I can hear the "Awwwwws." Shut up.)

3. Red or white. Discuss.
It used to be the reds, any red would do, but I preferred Pinot Noir. However, I have recently discovered the wonder of an amazing white, specifically Sauvignon Blanc. They just started carrying the best one in the world at Whole Foods.

4. Which Sydney Bristow disguise would you rock around the clock?
This is the hardest question I've ever been asked! I suppose if I HAD to pick just one, it would be the red/black hair, nose ring, and leather trenchcoat ensemble from season 3, episode 15, "Facade," in which Sydney kicks ass.
Wait, she kicks ass in EVERY episode! I'm such a geek.

5. If you had to pick ONE 80's song as the KellyLove theme song, what would it be?
Freddie Mercury's duet with David Bowie, "Under Pressure," from Queen's Greatest Hits. If I could pick an ALBUM, it would be Guns n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction.

Thanks, Vivian! I feel better for getting all of that off my chest. And because I like to copy Al when I can: To continue the interview chain, I'll interview anyone who comments on this post with a new question for me to answer. Ask me one, and I'll ask you 5 back!

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Feminism isn't dead, it's in Faith Hill's pants...
In the March issue of SELF magazine, there's a cover interview with Faith Hill where she makes the following statement: "That's one thing I had in high school: a bottom that stood at attention. I didn't have much of a chest, so I had to rely on my backside."

I had to read it three times to make sure I got the context, and then I was all like, um...rely on your backside for WHAT?

Why should women be talented or smart? We have tits and ass! Why did I spend all that money on six years of college? Why do I even have a career? If I do the power squats that Faith Hill's trainer makes her do five days a week and quit THINKING so much, I could just run around in all my bootyliciousness and people would give me things for being cute.

I am not a fan of country music (quite the opposite), but have always thought Faith Hill represented something good about the world. And I have always liked SELF mag for its special mix of girl power and girliness. Then I have to go and read an interview like that.

She's just like so many of the stupid bitches I used to be friends with: "Ohmygod, my ass is so big, he'll never love me", "I had four M&Ms and a piece of lettuce today...I'm not eating at ALL tomorrow", "If I get a boob job, do you think he'll leave his wife for me?"

Do you? Come on, seriously. DO YOU?

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Cringe Factor
One of the most gratifying things about writing is that you (usually) get better at it the longer you've spent doing it. After several years and a few hard knocks, I've found that the only way to be a better writer is to write (and not add to my HUGE collection of books on writing).

The down side (and there's just the one) is the skin-crawling, face-numbing, full-body recoil when I read something I wrote way back when. I occasionally Google myself, and it hurts me to know this is still out there (yah-haw-haw-haw-HAWN). I wrote this almost five years ago when I was an idiot. And thanks to this (circa 1999), my name is linked to multiple relationship and dating advice web sites, oddly enough. It should have a sarcasm disclaimer and an addenda that no-one should EVER take relationship advice from ME. There's more, but I can't bear to look.

I can hide my blast from the past print clips away and never look at them, but a lot of what's on the Internet stays on the Internet. Right?
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