Housekeeping? Housekeeping.

After waffling back and forth about whether or not to archive my old blog and start a new one (it felt like throwing away a lot of memories), stop blogging altogether (but I have sooo much material waiting to be loosed upon the world), or do "something" with my existing site to make it fun for me again (it felt so clunky forever and I had gotten in the habit of heading over to Twitter or Tumblr when I have something to say), I picked door number three.

This is my toe in, re-introduction, new beginning, the opening of the floodgates (I like that one the best). It's been three years since I've blogged on a regular basis, and I want to thank my friends Angie Mizzell, Aleigh Acerni, Doretha Walker and all of the blogs in my reader (so many) for inspiring me and inspiring me and inspiring me once more. I've been testing the waters for a long time and I'm ready to get my hair wet (and if you know me well, you understand that this is kind of a big deal because me getting my hair wet in a chlorinated kiddie pool is equal to most other people diving from a high cliff into the ocean).

If you're reading this post in a reader, you are probably confused. Click over to my blog and see the "something" I did with my site. I'd love your feedback, even if you just want to throw out the spirit fingers (Angie). And since the actual work on my part was choosing a designer, let me add that Carrie of CarrieLovesDesign.com is responsible for all of sexiness up in here.

So with renewed vigor and enthusiasm, let the navel-gazing commence! 

Luck and talismans, part one...

After realizing I've been living in Austin for a year and a half now and I still have no live plants inside my house (it's good feng shui to have growing plants in your home) because I gave the ones I had away when I moved, I finally broke down and bought lucky bamboo in a red vase. My first live plant purchase, which got me thinking about lucky objects, talismans, feng shui, and superstition.

I could have gone for a spider plant, a philodendron, or some other plant that's nearly impossible to kill. Even a cactus, considering I now live in Texas. But I went for the lucky bamboo. And as I placed it on my fireplace mantel next to my lucky Happy Hoi Toi (symbolizes health and happiness) that I got at LimeBlue in Charleston, a green candle in a Japanese bowl a friend gave me years ago, and close to photos of people I miss very much, I realized just how many lucky objects and talismans I have around my house. And whether they work because they work, or they work because I believe they do, I also realized that I am a lucky girl. I do believe we create our own luck, but that a talisman or two (or five) can't hurt, especially if they remind you of people you love.


Photo: Lucky Bamboo, Happy Hoi Toi, Lucky Candle, and my favorite photo of my BFF Mary Kathryn. A "quadplex" of luck.

I'm working with a theme this month, so this will be the first in a series posts about lucky talismans. Am I the only superstitious one out there? Do you have any objects in your home that could be considered lucky charms?

I surrender...

I admit it, I give in. This day has completely kicked my ass.

Started off with a way-too-early doctor's appointment (note to self: don't schedule during drive-time traffic). Also, I discovered I am running slightly low on clean clothes about the same time I was getting dressed to leave, so ended up wearing a Depeche Mode t-shirt from high school with a sweater thrown over it.

Back home with a loooong to-do list, I figured I'd throw a load of clothes in while I worked. Sounded good, but after I moved them from washer to dryer, it started getting really warm in the kitchen area. I had to pull out and crawl up and over and behind the dryer for the THIRD time in a year to re-attach the hose to the dryer (you know, so the outflow will go outside instead of turning my laundry room into a steam room). My laundry room is just about large enough for a washer, dryer, and some shelving, so contortions were required. I think I pulled something.

I remembered to eat lunch (leftover Chinese food), but it was awful. Good for dinner last night, terrible reheated. Add that to the list of why I hate microwaves.

As a freelancer, I find it really difficult to turn down any projects (a good freelancer really shouldn't), unless it's something that violates my personal ethics. What happens as a result is that your days run into other days with things called "sleep breaks" in between and you no longer have time to do laundry, shop for groceries, make hair appointments, get a pedicure (summer's just about here!), and those things that you used to call "weekends" are just extra work days.

I'm a terrible person to complain about ANYTHING. Seriously. I have work that pays my bills, a mostly flexible schedule, and I get to hang out with my dog all day wearing yoga pants and a tank top.

But today? I'm allowing it. Just one day that kicked my butt, I'm offline for the evening, planning on actually cooking some food for dinner, watching mindless TV (Glee!) and that should be enough to regroup and start fresh in the morning. There's a light at the end of the tunnel and its name is "Balance." Also: "Day Job." Still looking.

What June in Austin looks like...

Work, work, sweat, sleep, eat, sweat, work, sweat, swear, sweat, apply sunscreen, sweat, work, eat, sleep, pay high electric bill, work, eat, sleep naked, work, eat, sweat, apply sunscreen, repeat.

Also:

Laugh my ass off when the weatherperson on the news channel refers to this time of year as "spring."

Get angry at the dog for wanting to go outside when it feels like 110 degrees, but worry that the sidewalk is burning her feet.

Notice that the entire neighborhood in the mid-day heat smells like garbage and dog shit.

Designate the hour upon returning home from the office following taking the dog out "naked time." Fall in love with my ceiling fan.

For my Charleston friends back home, June in Austin feels like August in Charleston. I'm imagining that July and August in Austin is going to make me want to move into my refrigerator. And that thing about Texas heat being "dry heat?" Lies.

Because I haven't done one of these in a while...

A "gratitude" post, that is...the last time was in February of 2008, I figured it was time to do a "what I love" list - some Austin-related, others not.

J'adore: Sparkling Lime IZZE soda (they didn't sell IZZE at the Food Lion in my old neighborhood in Charleston), PITT Artist pens are helping me get back to the notebook writing basics, healthy cooking shows on FitTV (love having digital cable again), early morning and late evening dog walking up and down the hills in my neighborhood, my new purple shorts with front and back pockets from The Gap, the Zocalo plate with avocado from Zocalo Cafe for lunch (also love the Tacos Del Mar with watermelon salsa), that I don't need health insurance to get affordable health care here (even with a diabetic specialist), the pet store that's within walking distance of my house - Just for Pets - and the owners who love my dog...I bring Lulu there often to get bully sticks (she loves them, I love them because they keep her busy; I just don't think too hard about what they're made of), my new pink gel iPhone case, two-for-$5 tacos at the taco bar at the gigantic Whole Foods, Sunday afternoon naps, Neutrogena 110 SPF dual spectrum oil-free sunscreen, washing it off, the extraordinarily ugly wide-brimmed sun hat (mine is in black) that makes me look like a total dork (but I love that a. I do not care and b. it protects my face from the brutal Texas sun...seriously, it's not even officially summer here and I'm already freckling), Half-Price Books (one of the most organized used books store I've ever visited), and that I can walk to the grocery store (HEB), CVS, Starbucks, La Salsa, Quiznos, and around the track around the middle school up the street after school hours.

Time flies, which means I am old...

I can't shake a story I heard on NPR's "All Things Considered" last week by one of my favorite reporters, Robert Krulwich (his stories are always fascinating). It isn't the first time someone has asked the question, "Why Does Time Fly By As You Get Older?" but it is one of the best explanations I've heard. Everything is new when you're young. When you're older, it isn't. There are a few other theories in the story, but the bottom line is that it's true. I left Charleston more than a month ago, I've been living and working in Austin for over a month - and that month has gone by like a DAY.

Sort of. There have been wonderful moments, wheeling a cart through a grocery store or eating lunch at a great Tex Mex place downtown (Guero's last week - yum), when it has occurred to me that I will not run into a single person I know. I don't have to be on guard all the time. I can turn the bitch alert off and not even worry about it. I'm not talking about the wonderful friends and family and other people I miss in Charleston. I'm talking about the "didn't you used to be Kelly Love Johnson" gossipy bitches, the "hey can I pick your brain over lunch" mooches, the "bless your heart, are you ill?" fake people (I've been asked that question when I went out without makeup in Charleston). There is an amazing freedom in being in a city where no-one knows you, where you can leave the house wearing tights, boots, a ripped Depeche Mode t-shirt, sunglasses, and hair like a rat's nest and no one will look at you twice. Or even once. There's no-one here to ask me why I'm no longer writing for/working for the magazine I used to work for. I can be whoever I want to be - who I really am, once I find out who that is.

But I've also been working, so time has flown by. I even began to wonder why my days seemed so short, why I was tired so early (only an hour time difference, folks), and even while writing this, wondering why I haven't been able to write a damn word in my own voice. Until now.

Last year was hard, for me and many people I know for a variety of reasons. The economy, layoffs, the unemployment rate in South Carolina. For me, 2009 will always be "the bad year" when I lost my SELF. I forgot who I was. I stopped believing in myself. I lost faith in humanity, in people I once cared about, and in me. I was my own worst enemy - and a dangerous one. I had to pick up and move to another city halfway across the country to get enough perspective to realize how bad things were. Mostly because I'm really good at pretending things are OK when they're not.

Last year, because it was full of "novelty" for me, so to speak - I've never experienced some of the emotions, the personal crises, and the joylessness that I felt then - made my days, weeks, and months feel like a fucking eternity. I was so focused on survival that I stopped having fun. Time did not fly in 2009.

But it is now. Which means I have perspective. It also means that I'm back. Oh, and I'm old.

Twitter ate my blog...

No, I'm not really blaming Twitter for my slacking off on the blog posting. But it's just so damn easy to do my navel gazing in 140 character spurts than it is to sit down and write a blog post. I won't lie and say that the idea of shutting my blog down entirely hasn't crossed my mind. I have friends who did it and they don't seem to regret it. I miss reading their blogs, but if they're on Twitter I can still keep up with their goings-on.

It wasn't until I realized I was writing an email yesterday in "Twitterese" (abbreviating, leaving out pronouns) that it hit me: relying on Twitter to communicate so often not only takes away from my blogging time, but also that it has impacted my ability to think and write in complete sentences. I'm still writing essays, so I know I haven't lost it entirely, but I've also noticed that some of the editing I've had to do with my essays lately is different than the editing I did a year ago. A year ago, to get a 900-1200 word essay, I'd write about 2000 or 2500 words, then tighten everything to get my final, shorter word count. Now I write almost exactly to word count and during the editing process find myself having to flesh out sentences, change abbreviations, clarify thoughts, and basically translate Twitter-esque sentences into something that the general public will be able to read and understand. And I've been on Twitter for just about a year now.

Don't get me wrong - I love Twitter. I love being able to keep up with friends, find great links, find new blogs to read, and communicate faster online than ever before. I'm definitely a #twitteraddict. But if I don't keep up my regular writing here, I'm going to end up writing and speaking in 140-character bursts and completely forget how to express myself like a normal human being. Or a writer. It reminds me a little bit of "IM speak," something I fell prey to a few years ago myself to the point where (I admit this with some embarrassment) I actually SAID "O M G" and "I D K" (yes, out loud). I'm over 30 and shouldn't talk like a teenager. I blame my nieces and modern technology in general for that phase. And cheerleader movies.

This isn't an excuse or a promise to blog more often. This is the ultimate in navel-gazing: Me telling ME that I need to step it up. I still plan on Tweeting about what I had for lunch, about my puppy's behavior, about the weather. When you work from home and have little contact with people during the day, Twitter is like a group of online co-workers. But I also know I need a little self-intervention in the form of writing in full paragraphs. I also have VisualCV, LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, and my other blog for my book to keep up.

I hope blogs aren't dying. Watching print media take a dive has been bad enough. I still love reading blogs and my friends are funny as f*ck, so I hope they won't stop writing them. I've had this little corner of the web since 2003 and I'm not going anywhere soon. I'm going to keep navel-gazing, making lists of things that make me happy, rambling on about my lack of cooking skills, curing my social phobia, mocking family members (my mother hasn't managed to find my blog in six years, my younger sister still doesn't have internet access at home, and my nephew can't read yet), and bitching about politics, the neighbor's dinosaur that won't stop pooping in my front yard, how much I love naps, and my television addiction.

p.s. I was going to write this yesterday, but I was almost finished with Kate Christensen's "The Great Man" and couldn't put it down.

p.p.s. I was going to write this earlier this afternoon, but decided to give the dog a bath instead so she would smell like apples instead of wet dog ass.

p.p.p.s. You can find me on Twitter here.

Recognizing each other in the mundane...

I had a lot of fun talking about navel-gazing in my essay this month for Skirt! For those of you who haven't gotten your hot little hands on the print edition (we're in 12 cities now - no excuses!), I'm sharing it here because my friend JAZ at Wicked Winter reviewed it so eloquently that it made ME want to read it.

I’ve had my own personal web site for more than four years now—a blog, if you will. I started it for kicks, but soon began to use it as a repository for observations about myself that were either (a) not well-developed enough to become an essay or (b) not interesting enough to say out loud. Or both.

As a result, what I have is four years worth of navel-gazing, sometimes so deeply I’m in danger of turning myself inside out. One example from my list of “50 Things You Can’t Tell by Looking at Me”: I adore tiny vegetables. I will eat any vegetable, even weird ones, if they are tiny. Fascinating, yes? Not really. Yet I had four perfect strangers email to tell me that they too enjoy a tiny vegetable. Afraid of frogs? I am. It’s called “ranidaphobia” and when I shared that bit of information (I don’t swim in pools at night unless someone has done a frog check first) on my blog, I’m fairly certain I heard a collective “OMG WHO CARES” from the Universe (or at least the online version of the universe). But then I had no less than eight people contact me with sympathy, advice, and mutual identification.

Want to see a picture of my cat? No? I’m putting it up anyway. Did I mention that she’s a long-haired cat but in this photo she has just been completely shaved and has a SWEATER on her tiny hairless body with her big giant head poking out? And that she’s really pissed off about it? My cat photo just got a whole lot more interesting, at least to the blogosphere. I got more comments on that cat photo than on any other post that year, ranging from “how could you torture an animal like that?” to “I could DIE from the cuteness.” And I still correspond with the woman who e-mailed me to ask for the full-size photo so she could print it out and put it on her bulletin board because it made her laugh.

When I tell people I have no secrets, I mean it. They’re all out there in their vast and mundane glory for anyone to find. Cat photos are just the tip of the iceberg. On my site, which anyone can find by Googling my name, I’ve written about my most embarrassing moments for the world to read. The time my skirt fell down while I was dancing in front of about 150 people at a Joan Osborne concert. My bad teenage poetry. Summer camp. The time I cried during a massage. That I stuffed my bra with Kleenex in the fourth grade after reading Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret a few years too early.

Who cares about all of this introspection, meaningless confession, and minutiae? I do. After all, it’s my navel we’re gazing into so raptly, is it not? And if a few other people out there hit me with an “I know how that is!” every now and then, it’s just a bonus. It’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one who ever accidentally farted (audibly, BTW) while on a date. Or that someone else in this world owns a copy of “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo” on DVD. Or that three people (besides me) are willing to admit that they find James Gandolfini from “The Sopranos” sexually attractive. Besides sharing my innermost thoughts with perfect strangers, blogging is a great way to communicate with friends. I can’t count how many times I’ve been with a group of friends and started to tell a story, only to have a friend finish it because she’d already read it on my site. The other upside of having my own site: Free stuff. I once received coupons for three free cartons of eggs just because I wrote that I thought Eggland’s Best eggs really do taste better than the ordinary egg. And after writing that I love to read graphic novels when I’m overworked because they’re easier for my brain to process than regular books, someone sent me a copy of Craig Thompson’s Blankets, which now has a slot on my “100 Favorite Books of All Time” list, graphic novel or not.

When I overhear someone on a cell phone, say in a grocery store or pharmacy, discussing in great detail the merits of super versus super plus or plastic applicator versus cardboard (hopefully with a friend or family member on the line), I want to tap them on the shoulder and firmly advise them to take it online. “Think about the time you’ll save by boring the crap out of all of your friends at once instead of one at a time,” I’d say. “Think about the cell phone minutes you’ll save!”

Whenever someone asks me about my blog (usually in the context of “what the hell is a blog and why do you have one”), right after I ask them if they’ve watched CNN at all in the past five years, I explain that it’s all about identification. The addictive thing about writing for the cyber-universe is the call and response. I tell you that I think Smart Dogs (soy hot dogs) are better than regular hot dogs; you tell me that (a) you agree wholeheartedly or (b) why you think my vegetarian hippie ass is trying to bring the pork and beef industries down single-handedly. I tell you that I’m over 30 and recently painted my bedroom pink; you tell me that you’ve been waiting for your husband to get his own place so you can do the same. This is what it is: We recognize each other in the mundane. We’re not alone out there. And we love tiny vegetables.

Kelly Love Johnson is managing editor for Skirt! She has a slight overbite, skipped second grade, and thinks “Xanadu” was the best movie ever. E-mail her at kelly.love@skirt.com.

Some backtalk from the mute sky...*

I'd like to call this "View From my Office Window on a Rainy Day," but instead I'll share stream of consciousness because I forgot my socks (how one does that...) but my feet are always cold anyway, it might be my shoes or that we were listening to "Stairway to Heaven" that makes me feel like I'm in the 7th grade, my outfit matches the sky but not my mood, my hair is still damp and smells like someone else's shampoo, I'm nostalgic for the days when it didn't matter on what pillow I laid my head because I always wanted things to be different, different, different and now I just want them same, same, same.

*From "Black Rook in Rainy Weather," Sylvia Plath.

On being a fashion victim...

And by "victim," I mean victim - not aficionado, not fanatic, not devotee, and not really even enthusiast. Enthusiastic would not be one of the words I use to describe my relationship with fashion. My own personal style, in the past few years, has been mostly black - black skirts, black shirts with jeans, black tunics with jeans, black tanks with jeans. The lower rack in my closet looks like Denim Day at The Gap. The upper rack, like it belongs to a mortician's daughter. I had a brief flirtation with color when my hair was platinum blonde. But I think the bleach soaked through to my brain and made me do silly things, like wear all pink, so I could flip through photos later and wonder why that blonde girl is dressed like a box of Valentine's day candy hearts.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not all function and no form. I like a well-cut pair of jeans (so much, in fact, when I find a pair I like, I stock up). I will spend a lot of money on a shirt that fits well, looks good, and is comfortable. Other than that, I don't care who makes it when, where, and why. I do look for designer labels, but only because some of them are really well-made, not so I can answer "who are you wearing?" with "Prada" or "Marc Jacobs."

The victim part is my fault. I get set in my ways and want to be able to replace the black summer weight Liz Claiborne cardigan I bought two years ago that now has a hole in the sleeve with an identical cardigan, except Liz decided that she was going to focus on old lady golf clothing in pastels this year. I need a new pair of jeans, maybe two or three pair, because every pair of the EIGHT IDENTICAL Gap specials I own has some damage - paint, rip, wear, tear, bleach. I found out this morning that Gap no longer carries My Favorite Jean in My Size. I. Am. So. Vexed.

What to do? If you knew what it takes to find a good pair of wearable, comfortable, dependable jeans, you'd bring me a happy pill right now. As I mentioned in a previous post, I even gave a pair of boys' jeans a shot last week. They were OK, but just OK. The last time I set forth on this journey, it took me a year and eight months to find the right pair, wearing the XLs that I was four-to-six sizes too small for the whole while. Picture me: shuffling through malls and TJ Maxxes, through outlets and department stores, holding up the waistband of my baggy fatgirl pants with one hand and flipping through racks and racks of denim with the other. Not a pretty sight.

Thinking it might be time to change things (and by "things," I mean my wardrobe) up, I started reading some fashion blogs to see what might work for my new look. Will it be this? Or this? It won't be this because messy Boho has never been my thang. But maybe it could be my New Thang?

What I do like: The vintage-inspired pieces in Alvin Valley's Spring '07 collection. Especially this. And this.
I've always loved Diane Von Furstenberg , but I'm not sure I could pull this off. I would, however, try the bright tights-plus-tunic.
Then there's Graham & Spencer, Michael Kors, Betsey Johnson, and Nanette Lepore. If only they made dresses out of the same fabric as the t-shirts I sleep in. Stretchy. With drawstrings. And pockets.

Ideas are welcome, as long as they don't involved the words "fitted," "eighties-retro," "fluorescent," or "tube sock."

I expound at length regarding my lack of trunk junk...

I love my job. Where else would I have the opportunity to offer up 1,000 words on the shortcomings of my ass and get paid for it?

Read it here, or I can sum it up in a sentence: "My ass is defiant and its flatness more powerful than a $36 pair of silicone inserts."

We are two both weirdos...

My friend Michael and I often email each other back & forth about random things, such as what we are currently listening to, what we ate for lunch, and how many more days it is until Heroes comes back on. Usually, he's listening to some crappy Eurotrash pop (or Gwen Stefani) and I'm listening to some godawful heavy metal or obscure trip hop. I joke about his musical tastes; I've actually gotten some good music recommendations from him (Amy Winehouse! Corinne Bailey Rae!) and he's helped me have an open mind about The Eighties Music and The Disco Music. We both love the heck out of Cyndi Lauper, Jenny Lewis, any chanteuse with an album between 1940 and 1970, and New Order. He's mocked me in the past for my brief affair with James Blunt (lasted five minutes, I swear), Tori Amos, and of course, All Things Metal. I made fun of his disco mix of Dolly Parton-doing-Stairway to Heaven (but listened to it in secret).

Today I was randomly sampling from my iTunes playlist and still had "Sister Christian" stuck in my head from earlier in the afternoon when Michael emailed me a "now playing" email with the following:
Saw you walking out on Sentimental Street
What cha going out there
Who ya trying to be
I know what you're thinking
Cause I've been there myself...

What are the chances that our sometimes disparate musical tastes would converge and we'd find ourselves both listening to Night Ranger on the same afternoon? Something like one in 750,000, I think. I figured I'd ride that brainwave and try to send him vibes to come over and bring me dinner later, but unfortunately my good friend is attending a Reunite REO Speedwagon rally this evening. Otherwise he would.

The listress strikes again...

I am working on the final pages of my MS and will be subhuman until Friday. Therefore, I am ripping Erin's good idea (though, um, coughcough, I don't let a month go by between posts...) and making a list of what's on my mind that does not involve the book I am working on (yes, I get a little thrill every time I say those words...try not to hold it against me).

* I feel guilty about neglecting my friends and family for the past few months.
* I had a dream last night that Michael and I went whitewater rafting in Germany and he was in the shower with our tour guide for over an hour and when I finally got in there was no hot water left.
* I'm really excited about using the new pencils and sketchbook I bought in Savannah over the weekend. They're sitting on my kitchen table waiting for me to finish all this word business.
* If I ever wrestle in Jell-o, the flavor of Jell-o I would choose is lime.
* In yoga class on Monday, I stepped out to use the ladies room because our instructor made us do too many sun salutations in a row and I was bored.
* It's time to start riding my bicycle to work again.
* I bought two summer dresses on Bluefly last week - same designer, same dress, but one is blue and the other is black.
* What's in my fridge right now: Crystal Light lemonade, an avocado, half a package of wheat pita bread, four cheese sticks, three cans of beer, a bottle of prosecco, and three-fourths of a bottle of Bailey's. Alcohol to food ratio seems odd, since I haven't had a drink since April of 2005.
* Also in relation to previous item, I finally bought my Mr. Bento, but realized I must cook (or at least shop for food regularly) in order to have things to put in it to take to lunch.
* Finally, my nomination for best speech in a television drama goes to Grey's Anatomy (if you haven't been following here, I got hooked on seasons 1 and 2 on DVD for a while) for this gem: "Okay, here it is, your choice... it's simple, her or me, and I'm sure she is really great. But Derek, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me." ~Meredith Grey

Monday minutiae...

Heroes: The show I didn't think I'd get hooked on, but I did. I'm all geeked out about it. I even read the graphic novel episodes in between the TV episodes.

Superfoods: I tried to hit all 10 this weekend, but only managed about five. I bought some Clementines with the intention of eating them yesterday, but decided that eating dark chocolate for a snack made me happier.

Surfing: Skirt's MySpace page is growing and growing. All the cool kids are on MySpace now. Be our friend here.

Reading: An advance copy of a memoir called Sister Salty, Sister Sweet . I'm going to send it to my sister Katie as soon as I'm done so she can exhale and stop waiting for me to reveal all of our childhood secrets in memoir form. On my wait list: What is the What, Dave Eggers; Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name, Vendela Vida (coincidentally, she's married to Eggers); and Special Topics in Calamity Physics, Marisha Pessl (I've been putting this one off for a long time, but after listening to Pessl on KCRW's Bookworm podcast this weekend, I might have to bump it up on the list).

Listening: Starbucks Compilation "Crush on You" CD, which has one of my favorite Pink Martini songs AND Jeff Buckley. And Madeleine Peyroux, who will be in Charleston in March performing at the Music Hall.