Let there be rock...
Last night, I visited one of my old haunts with Erin, our friend Leigh and her British import Geoff (it's pronounced "Jeff"). We had some food (cheese fries, how I love you...even though I could only have a few...) and played some very bad pool.

I had forgotten how much fun hanging out can be. AC's is a laid back, don't-care-what-I'm-wearing, let's-make-friends-with-the-facial-tattoo-guy kind of place. In the space of one hour, you can hear Ozzy Osbourne, the Allman Brothers, and AC/DC - in between old school rap and some song from Tommy Lee's last CD.

What I learned: I'm still fun when I go out, even though I no longer drink. However, my billiard skills have suffered tremendously and my hunch that alcohol made me good at pool was absolutely true.

What else I learned: Even though he calls the solid balls "spots," Geoff had some pretty good moves on the table. Leigh, on the other hand, is either the Rain Man of pool or a hustler because she claims to have played very little, but she nailed some amazing shots (even though a couple were the eight ball). Geoff should totally marry that girl.

High fives all around.

This bitch gets smacked down...
I got smacked (site reviewed) by the bitches (and I mean that in a good way) at italk2much.com. I expected two, maybe three smacks. To my complete surprise, my site got FOUR (count 'em) smacks. That's better than three. And almost as good as five.

I assumed my site would get thoroughly lambasted (they spank often and without mercy), and only submitted it because I have a thick skin from years of rejection letters, but now I can carry on with enormous ego intact.

Thanks for the constructive criticism, Princess Pottymouth. Now buy me something from my wish list.

Just one thing to say...
I walked The Bridge yesterday. Both ways. That's five miles, baby.

Walked. The. Damn. Bridge. Baby.

The world stops spinning and hell freezes over...

Because I must admit I am wrong. "What??" you gasp. "Kelly Love could be WRONG?" Yes, she could be. Just this once.

Let's just say I've had some issues over the past year with my family. Specifically, the great friendship I used to have with my mother has dwindled away following the birth of my younger sister's son a year and three months ago. My mom and I used to spend a lot of time together (she lives about 20 minutes outside of Charleston). We used to play backgammon, shop, have dinner, and chat on the phone a few times a week.

Since my gorgeous nephew was born, my mother now spends most of her weekends in Hilton Head at my sister's house. When she talks on the phone, it is to my sister. I have gone for more than three months at a time without seeing her (I know lots of people don't see their families for years at a time, but mine is very close and we don't do that). Sometimes, she doesn't return my calls. When she does, I get to hear about all of the cute and adorable things The Smartest Baby in the World is doing.

I've resented it, and probably taken it out on my sister a little. Katie gets to spend nearly every weekend with my mother because she's there with the baby. My mother calls her daily. Yesterday, when my sister called to tell me she would be in town for my mother's birthday, I went off the deep end about the plans, got irritated because I really can't drop everything and leave work the day our magazine goes to the printer, and said it really didn't matter anyway because as long as mom gets to see the little one and Katie, Sean Connery and Neal Diamond could be sitting at the same table and my mother wouldn't notice. My sister reacted as one should: "stop feeling sorry for yourself."

I got mad, but then I realized: It is her turn. My sweet sister, who was always "the good girl," two years younger than I, spent YEARS of her childhood taking a back seat to me. I was the one who got my mother's attention, even if it was in a negative way. Having school conferences about my attitude, talking the vice principal into giving me detention instead of suspension, bailing me out of jail, and, once I'd moved out of the family home, paying my rent so I wouldn't get evicted after I spent the rent money on other things, lost yet another job, or had yet another boyfriend wreck my car. For years, I was the phone call in the middle of the night. I was the neurotic mess. I was the just-out-of-rehab girl. I was the black sheep, the family money pit, the you'd-better-walk-on-eggshells or she'll get out of control.

Throughout all of this, my sister got straight As, lived with my mom until she was 22, got a good job, got a better one, bought a house, met her true love, got married, and then had a baby last year. And I don't think my mother ever lost a night of sleep over anything Katie did.

I managed to get my sh*t together and I don't think I've caused my mother distress in many years. So she's enjoying her new grandchild and paying more attention to my sister now. I had my time. And I had more than my share. It's about time someone else in the family got some mom-time.

So yes, I was wrong. I'm going to quit being such a baby about it. I'm going to listen to all of the cute and adorable things my nephew does that charm my mother so much, no matter how long she wants to talk about them. And I'm going to remember that my sister sat on the sidelines and watched me compete in the F*ck Up Olympics for a good 10 years. Now it's my turn to sit on the bench.

Happy birthday, mom. I love you bigger than the sky.

Traveling light...

Sometimes weightlessness is just a state of mind. Sometimes, it's more corporeal. I once had a dream where I was floating around my room writing the word “buoyant” over and over on my walls with black paint.

It’s true—the lighter I am, the better I feel. Despite occasional dark fantasies where I diminish until I float away, I have to remember that there is a happy (the key word being "happy") medium somewhere between buoyancy and disappearing altogether. And that's where I should be.

"Now, just imagine you're weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses." ~Deb (Tina Majorino), Napoleon Dynamite

My horoscope practically orders me to exchange bodily fluids...

I rarely read them, but since I had to stand in line at the post office today for an hour and my Blackberry has a link to Astrology.com, I was bored enough to read my horoscope. Surprisingly, it was right on, but then it had to go and start making suggestions.

Hello, Scorpio: Okay, you're done.

It's time to finally let go of those awful feelings you've been dealing with - and even though it's Tuesday, try to do that while you're having some fun. Bet you're feeling better already, just thinking about how wonderful it will be to let go and stop worrying.

Of course, if you really want to feel better, you'll plan some quality time alone with a dear one. Really alone. Like at your place. Alone.

Granted, it does want me to spend time with a dear one. But since I don't currently have a significant whatshisface, I guess the nearest human with a Y chromosome should do. My horoscope made me feel dirty.

Maybe I should just take a very long bath this evening instead, and try to remember how sordid and guilty it made me feel to be "intimate" with someone I then wanted out of my bed (house, neighborhood, city...) before 2 a.m. Thanks to the Gods of Self Esteem those days are long since over.

Amen.

I am a scary green-eyed monster...
I have a rule about not allowing anyone to pinch me, unless I'm sleeping with him on a regular basis. My "no-touchy" vibe keeps strange pinchers (and huggers...and inappropriate strokers...and hand-holders) away anyway.

Since I have green eyes, I'm immune to the St. Patrick's Day Pinch. Good thing, because nearly every single piece of clothing I own is black or gray. Just as an extra precaution, I decided to put this mermaid tattoo on the inside of my forearm.

Can't look me in the eye? You get the arm.

Maybe next year I'll get into why I'm ashamed of my Irish heritage. I feel like I couldn't be fair right now, as I watched a very loud, very long parade of drunken old people march down the street in the name of St. Pat in front of my office first thing this morning, after I threw down with a dozen stumbling bagpipers who were swilling devil juice in my parking spot. Want to fight about it? You'll have to wait until 2007.

Adding to the sum of accurate information in the world...
Truthiness (a word reinvented by the very great Stephen Colbert) is the quality by which a person purports to know something emotionally or instinctively, without regard to evidence or to what the person might conclude from intellectual examination.

My truthiness for the week:
* If I'm so damn smart, why don't I have a summer cottage and a BMW instead of a two-bedroom rental and a Honda?

* Happiness is never something you get from other people.

* Living alone for the first time in seven years is both terrifying and immensely gratifying.

* I don't care what (or who) celebrities are doing anymore. And this is coming from someone who used to watch E! like it was a second job.

* Being a bitch is acceptable if you're not: too mean-spirited, a crybaby, or completely incompetent. On the other hand, if you're stupid and a bitch, you're just a stupid bitch.

That is all.

Because Venezuelan spider monkeys told me to, that's why...
Today is the first time I've been awake for more than two hours in the past 72. No, I didn't go on a bender or sign up for the Swiss Sleep Cure. I caught a bronchial virus from a co-worker last week and it completely took me out this weekend. I'm talking 105-degree fever, shakes, hallucinations...the works. Saturday afternoon found me on the couch gently weeping while watching Lake Placid on A&E (quite possibly the worst movie ever).

On Saturday night, the fever kicked in and I huddled under the covers in my bed, having a strangely logical conversation with a wise spider monkey who was sitting cross-legged in the armchair across the room. He came off somewhat professorial, as if he wore spectacles and held a pipe, except without the spectacles and pipe. I'm sure what we discussed was important, but he was gone the next time I woke up and I can't remember the gist of it now. Of course, throughout the night I also had conversations with The Cat (we're so rarely on the same page), a pillow, something that was under my bed, and the host of an infomercial on television. The fever broke around 4 a.m. and I had to crawl to the shower because my hair and clothes were soaked with sweat. Then I had to change the bed linens, drink a gallon of water, and whimper myself back to sleep.

I'm still hacking a bit, but no longer discussing Occam's Razor theory with inanimate objects. And I lost some lbs., both from not being able to eat and sweating like I was wearing wool in August. My dear friend (and former roommate...and new homeowner) Michael emailed me this morning to ask if I was feeling better and my first response was "I lost 8lbs..." He responded: "Okay, the eight and the "L" sort of blend together so I read that as 81 pounds in four days...thought you were pulling a Nicole Richie." I wish, my friend. I wish my head were as big as a basketball, that I was six inches shorter, and that the veins stood out on my neck like an underfed racehorse. But since I probably can't get my hands on the veterinary drug she takes to deplete her body of every last fat cell, I'll have to settle for Nicole Richie's smaller-headed, taller, more educated sister. With a pot belly.

Seriously, though, I woke up this morning, pulled on my "wear-around-the-house" jeans, proceeded down the hall to the kitchen, and my pants fell down before I made it to the doorway. Instead of putting on a smaller pair, I just grabbed them at the waist, tucked the band once, and folded it over. Maybe I'll start a new fashion trend (let the mocking begin, Ida). Or maybe, taking into account my pallor and consumptive cough, people will just think I'm a street person.

Off to put more zinc up my nose...

I hate the meeces to pieces...
A couple of weeks ago Michael was cleaning the pantry because we have seven years of crap to separate and he’s more organized than I. He was pulling some stuff out from the floor (coolers, ice buckets, fifty million “Go Heels!” plastic cups) and there were little black pebbly looking things in the bottom. Being a calm, rational, and laid-back fellow, Michael said, “uh oh.” Since I am not calm, rational, or laid-back, I shrieked like a panicked five-year-old. Hysteria ensued.

Me: “Is that MOUSE DOODIE?”

Him: “It might be.”

“IS IT??”

“It could be getting in through that space behind the fridge.”

“But the exterminator comes once a month!!”

“Yes, he does. For bugs.”

“How do I get rid of it?”

“There’s bait that makes them thirsty and they have to go outside for water.”

“But then it will come back in! Or drink the water in Miss Kitty’s bowl!”

“I don’t know how the bait works. It makes them go away.”

“I want it DEAD!”

[pulling a box of batteries and candles from our emergency shelf] “Looks like he’s been here too.”

“That’s it. I’m buying a gun.”

Yes, that is rational thinking for me. Yes, would kill a mouse given the opportunity. Yes, I know it is absurd. In my defense, I am a really good shot. However, I probably would not be able to hit a mouse .

So instead of allowing me to play small game hunter indoors, Michael checked all of the baseboards and put a new one behind the fridge where it looked like our furry friend had access. And there have been no signs of critter visitation since. I have been discussing part-time employment with The Cat, just to be on the safe side, but since I haven’t mastered Russian and she’s dumb as a box of soap flakes, it’s taking longer than I thought.

How much does happiness cost?
My bigass check for jury duty came in the mail yesterday. I earned a whopping $39.15 for three days of knitting and not being in the office. And I think for sending a man to prison, though I really don't know what the sentence was.

Now I have to decide what to spend the money on? Since it isn't enough to buy a new guitar or new shoes, my choices are:

* Wilco tickets (they're in town tomorrow night and second tier tix are still available).
* How to be Lovely (because I need to learn this)
* A down payment on my new tattoo.
* Hand it over to the woman who served on the jury with me whose job wasn't paying her for being there. I know where she works.

What do you think?

And that's why I'm scared of little people...
If you allow envy to take over your life, you could miss out on some wonderful experiences. For example, if I cut talented people out of my life because I have a twinge of jealousy every now and then, what would I have to live up to? Who would challenge me? Sure, I might be the funniest, smartest, and most talented of that group, but how does that make me a better person?

I'd rather be around people who are smarter and more talented than myself. My theory is that if I'm not feeling a bit jealous of the other people in my life, I'm not challenging myself and I'm being petty and small. Alternately, I've learned to recognize the same in others and act accordingly.

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great."
~Mark Twain

Not far enough, baby...
I went out on a limb and wrote about a more serious issue in my latest Skirt! essay. It's a good thing I have thick skin from years of rejection slips and criticism because the "Whodoyouthinkyouare?" and "Whatchootalkinbout?" letters have already started rolling in.

Before everyone who thinks the feminist revolution is over and done with gets in a big giant twist, let me say:
Yes, there are women out there who still think it is OK to bake for the office.
Yes, there are women who bake for the office and wonder why they aren't getting promoted.
Yes, there are women out there who have never asked for a raise.
Yes, there are still employers who pay female employees less and relegate them to lesser tasks simply because they are female.
Yes, women still earn about 3/4 of what a man makes for the same job, on the average.
Yes, there are still women who have never researched what they should be earning.

This goes for men and women, but especially for women: If you don't know what you're supposed to be earning, visit Salary.com or Pay-Equity.org and find out. Speak up about discriminatory or potentially disparate workplace policies. Stop fighting the stay-at-home-mom vs. working-mom fight. We all need to make sure quality childcare is available for female employees with children. Whether they want to or have to work is irrelevant.

I'm not making this up. Take a look at the most recent Fortune 500 list. Nine female CEOs. NINE out of FIVE-HUNDRED.

Who I think I am: Sick of excuses, sick of women who accept the status quo, and tired of being the only bitch in the room.

What I am talking about: Equal opportunity and fair wages. And getting your head out of your ass.

(...stepping down from soapbox now).

I’d like to thank the Academy, the foreign press, my third grade teacher, my stylist, Charles Darwin, Target, the 1980s, the Charleston Police Department, the King Biscuit Flower Hour, my television remote, Gloria Steinem, my mother’s divorce attorney, Bettie Page, and the Marlboro Man...

...for shaping who I am today. My little web site was named “Best Local Blog” by the Charleston City Paper (thanks, Jason!) and I’m thrilled to tiny little pieces. It’s almost as good as winning “Little Miss Sunshine” in 1989 or runner up for “Okra Festival Queen” in 1995. This one’s going in the scrapbook.

I love you; I love you all. Well wishes and congratulations may be tendered via the Amazon wish list link at the right. And in case you’re wondering, I will be wearing my tiara and sash for the rest of the week.