Thursday, December 29, 2005

How I'm spending my winter vacation...
I don't have to go back to the office until January 3rd, which means I am in the middle of an 11-day stretch of not working. Which we all know drives me a little nuts, but I can still be productive. I've done my share of couch-and-channel surfing, but I've also crossed tons of things off my to-do lists. What I've been doing so far:

*Staying up very late means not fighting insomnia, and I love that.

*Sleeping late. Wish I could do it every day.

*Puttering around the house is one of my favorite pasttimes. I have already rearranged my bedroom furniture and hung my Christmas gift to myself on the wall in my bathroom. It is a photo by the very talented Lolly Koon and looks like it has always belonged there.

*Knitting (the scarf I finished for my sister inspired me to make a few more like it).

*Making art. I finally have the time to put all of the ideas I keep in my artist's journal down on paper.

Stay tuned. I'll either go completely batshit crazy and someone will have to talk me out of the corner where I'm rocking back and forth and muttering about deadlines and printer proofs, or I'll return to work on the 3rd with a renewed outlook, the memories of me bad-mooding all over the place in early December completely wiped out.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

When the Universe speaks, I listen...
True, you can’t see what you can't see, Kelly Love, you can’t hear what you can’t hear, and you can’t feel what you can’t feel. But still, you can know you're not alone, that you're adored, and that absolutely everything will continue to work out for your very best, as it always has.
It’s built into your DNA.

~The Universe

If you're not getting your daily Notes from the Universe, you're definitely not as cool as I am.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

It just has to be good...
"I'll tell you what. Buy me lunch, my friend, and I'll tell you the best Christmas story you ever heard. How's that? And I guarantee every word of it is true."

"It doesn't have to be true. It just has to be good."

from Smoke.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Busy McProductive the holiday bitch elf gets much done...
In just the past week, I have managed to:

Finish the scarf I started knitting three months ago for my sister Kristin. It's gorgeous, if I do say so myself.

Locate a source of quality (dry), legal (not stolen) firewood and stock up so my 12 days of Christmas can be accompanied by a blazing fire. And also so the cat won't try to suffocate me in my sleep for not making fires every night.

Buy annual monkey t-shirt (black with white writing, as white tees are so gauche) for roommate in time to send him off to his family in Charlotte.

Procure gifts for five nieces, one nephew, a brother-in-law, three sisters, one sister's girlfriend, a mother, my favorite editor bitches, and the cat. *Did I already mention I did this in ONE WEEK?

Get the annual holiday crying jag out of the way before Christmas Day. I did it last week during a particularly emotional episode of Family Guy (warning: riotously hilarious video and sound). Or It's Christmas, Charlie Brown...can't remember which.

Stuff envelopes with thank you money for my postman, cleaning lady, thai food delivery driver, the UPS guy, and my dealer bikini waxer.

Not flip anyone off on the road, even the dickwad who almost rear-ended me at Earthfare yesterday because his fat ass was in SUCH a hurry to get to the Krispy Kreme.

I overflow with the spirit of the season. Seriously, I'm positively dripping with good cheer.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Reason #43 why I love this time of year...
Holiday cards put the christ in my Christmas, the jeez in my Jesus, and the fruit in my fruitcake. My favorites (and I won't name any names, though you know who you are):

All the way from the great state of Texas: "May the simple joys of the holidays be yours," along with a scrawled "All my love, bitch!" One of the few men in the world who I wouldn't make suffer for calling me a bitch. Seriously, he gets away with murder.

A cutout Santa face card that says "Happy Christmas!" The best part, written on the inside: "remember how unhappy I was this time last year? Oh, how times have changed." Yes, indeed they have. And you deserve every bit of it.

Love. Laugh. Celebrate. The best part: It came with a mix CD of some of my favorite music in the whole world, particularly "Baby It's Cold Outside" (I love me some Ella) and "Whatever Lola Wants" (I always replace Lola with KLo in my head).

A "secret admirer" card (yes, I know who you are) that said, simply: "her lips said 'adios'...but her eyes said 'hasta luego'." I'm not going to tell you what was written on the back, but lets just say that my secret admirer doesn't have a passing familiarity with the spanish language. Or the english language, for that matter.

And then there are the Anne Taintors, the MikWrights, and the oh-so-special family photo holiday cards from distant relatives (so distant that we're not actually related by blood or marriage) make me giggle my ass off.

Checking the mail is like, well, Christmas every day. I am chock full of holiday spirit.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Confessions of the dangerous kind...
I've known since we tried on clothes together in the dressing room at Granny's Goodies that I would someday get tagged by Charlie. My confessions:

I confess...Love is my real middle name. The middle names of my three sisters are: Hope, Joy, and Gay.

I confess...I made out with Rikki Rockett from Poison when I was 16. It lasted for about two minutes, then he asked me how old I was. He dropped me like a statutory rape charge and we ended up playing Atari and eating Jolly Ranchers on the bus for two hours (he was 19 or 20 at the time).

I confess...I can’t sleep if my sheets don’t match. They have to be (fitted and top) from the same set.

I confess...I wait for no man.

I confess...My first Broadway play was "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." My mother took me to see it when I was seven and bought the soundtrack for me. I still get choked up when I hear the original Broadway cast version of “Hard Candy Christmas.”

I confess...I don’t really ever want to get married, but sometimes I write letters to the future husband I haven’t met yet apologizing for being so hard to get along with.

And of course, Al's getting the tag because I haven't heard any confessions from my former bitchling since she was promoted to full-on bitch.

Friday, December 16, 2005

You're the smartest and the prettiest and everyone else is jealous of you...
All we know of love comes from our mothers. Yet we have buried that love so deep that we may not even know where it comes from. If we have been wounded and have grown scar tissue over our hearts, we confuse the scar tissue with the heart itself, forgetting the wound that caused it.
~Erica Jong, What Do Women Want (1999).

My brain might implode from thinking about the logic of this too much, but I've been my own parent for so long that I'm not sure if it is possible to go back and fix the damage I did by not mothering or loving myself enough. An interesting paradox, to say the least.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Hey, why you so angry?
From Cute Overload. Very. Disgruntled. Puppy.

I would name him Hostile Sam.

Doesn't he make you want to bite someone's face off?

Monday, December 12, 2005

You say "crazy," I say "contained and appropriate expressions of anger are healthy"
Several years ago, after a passionate relationship that was followed by an equally passionate breakup, I found myself home alone one evening packing his stuff into boxes (because I was SO ready for it to be over, but also so I'd never have to see his lying face again). I might have been a little liquored up, definitely a lot pissed off, and I spontaneously decided to cut all of his clothes into one-inch strips, fold them neatly, pack them into plastic shopping bags, and leave them on the porch for him to pick up. Then I drunk dialed all my friends to tell them what I did.

The response was mixed. A few of my female friends said I should have tossed everything in the trash. One said I should have destroyed his CDs too, but I couldn't bring myself to touch the music. I had some guy friends wonder out loud if I hadn't been a bit harsh, but they weren't 100% clued in to the vast emotional wretchedness of my former beloved. A few just said, "that's freaking crazy." I know when it comes to breakups, using scissors on anything is about one boiled bunny away from Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction (remember that scene at the end when she isn't even aware she's stabbing herself in the leg?). But to me, what I did was a logical artistic expression of my shredded feelings for him. And I might have been a teeny bit drunk, but I wasn't crazy.

How do I know? Because ALL I did was cut his clothes into strips and wish that I could be there when he opened the bags. However, if I had cut his clothes into one-inch strips while chanting ancient curses, cut off parts of my own body (minor ones like fingers and ears) and maybe some hair to put in the bags with his clothes, then hide while bleeding and giggling maniacally and waiting for him to come pick them up because once he did he was sure to see my love for him? Yeah. That would have been crazy. Big difference.

Friday, December 09, 2005

It's beginning to look a lot like Studio 54...
The first thing on my to-do list for the weekend:
Put up pink aluminum tree and decorate with tiny disco mirror balls.

Everybody dance now.

*edited 12-12...done! The tree is up, the photo has been replaced with one of my "real" tree.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Why I say "gift certificate" when people ask me what I want for Christmas...
In a weak moment, I made the mistake of telling my mother I might want knee socks (to wear with my new Frye boots) for Christmas. As a result, I had the following phone conversation with my sister Katie today:

ME: "Hithisiskelly."

SISTER: "Hey, you know those socks you told mom about? From Old Navy?"


"Are they trouser socks?"

"I don't wear trouser socks."

"They're knee socks?"


"Up to your knee?"

"Yes, that's how I'm defining knee socks."

"We don't carry those." (my sister is a manager at Old Navy).

"I just bought them two weeks ago in Charleston."

"If Hilton Head doesn't have them, none of the stores do. Are they holiday socks?"

"What, like with reindeer on them? Have you ever known me to wear holiday socks?"

"NO BUT PEOPLE CHANGE." (I'm apparently annoying her). "Did you save the receipt?"

"Of course, I have it right here." (silence)

"You do? You do not. F*cking liar. OK, can you just tell me what they're MADE out of?"

"I don't know. Sock material?"

"Clearly, you have NEVER WORKED RETAIL. Because you can't even DESCRIBE CLOTHING. You're like those women who call the store and say, 'um, yeah, I want to order a blue shirt.' I'm all 'long-sleeved or short-sleeved? slim fit or regular'? AND THEY DON'T KNOW."

"Dial it down a few notches, sister-woman. Socks is socks is socks."

"But did you tell mom they were CABLE KNIT? We don't HAVE cable knit AT ALL. What does the top of the sock look like?"

"They're dark gray. Did I already say they come up to my knee?"

"If you're just messing with me, you better tell me because I have a LOT of shopping to do and IMAGINARY SOCKS are NOT ON THE LIST."

"Maybe they're wool?"


I am not making this up. And lest you think it's ME, let me say this conversation followed one with my mother, who called from a department store to ask if I preferred 400-count Egyptian cotton to 800-count Pima cotton. Sheets. Because when I mentioned the socks, I accidentally told her I could use some new white pillowcases because I think our cleaning lady uses mine to transport heavy objects to the trash bin. And she ran with it.

So because I never ask for anything for Christmas, this year I'll probably get 50 pairs of knee socks and a lifetime supply of bed linens. Not that I'm complaining.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Proof that you can be creative no matter what your day job is...
Sometimes I feel like disconnecting the Internet. There's nothing new, nothing original, nothing interesting. It bores the bejeesus out of me.

And then I stumble across this. The guy draws cartoons on the backs of business cards. He is one funny motherf*cker.

I'm lucky (and persistent and talented) enough to get paid for being creative and I often finish the day with my soul intact. But I've had jobs that made me feel like my soul was being sucked from my body through a cocktail straw. I could have used a few of Hugh's "How to be Creative" tips back then.

If you're one of the hollow masses staring into the abyss of your future, wondering how you ended up working for The Man and cursing your need to feed and shelter yourself, chin up. Judging from the sheer number of former disgruntled worker-turned-free-agents, ennui breeds creative genius.
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