Sunday, October 31, 2010

"and what are you little boy??"

It's not a huge secret that I would be content if calendars just miraculously got misprinted so that everyday was October 31st. That would be A-OK with me...and you bet your ass I would dress up ridiculously everyday and indulge in orange foil wrapped peanut butter cups while watching marathons of Ghost Hunters, never growing tired of this past time. It would be sublime. 

Not unexpectedly, this Halloweekend, as my friend Beth has dubbed it, had a plethora of highlights: amazing Avett Brothers show at the Ryman on Friday (which I will assuredly elaborate on in a later post this week) and ridiculous Halloween house party on Saturday.

My costume was a bit of a deep cut, so some people recognized right away that I was Saved by the Bell's Kelly Kapowski on the episode where she used Zack's homemade zit medicine and was crowned homecoming queen due to her unintentional Bayside tiger spirit. Others just stared, intermittently asking if I was a burn victim. These types of obscure costumes are my favorites, not sexy witch/sexy nurse/sexy meter maid/sexy lab technician/sexy devil/prostitute, and seem to garner the most appreciation from those that see it (I got several high fives.).
 *My best friend Kristen and I. Let it be known, she thought my costume was too obscure.

My favorite oddly specific costume of the season was a guy I saw downtown on Friday. I wish I had the forethought to photograph him, because it was meticulous and amazing, and as soon as I realized he wasn't a transient, I fell in love with his costume. He was dressed as Forrest Gump, but not the "traditional khaki suit park bench Forrest"; he was dressed as the "running across America Forrest." He had the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. hat, short shorts, 70s style running shoes, authentic beard/long hair, rain poncho and a yellow t-shirt in his hand. I felt compelled to shake his hand, but I didn't. I will add it to the long list of regrets in my life.
Another amazing costume was worn separately by both by my friend Alicia's 6-year-old daughter and my friend Turin's 2-year-old,  mostly because it was obvious that their costume ideas were dreamed up by a parent. [Tangent: I am not knocking this...in fact I think it's awesome, and it secretly makes me want children just so I can talk them into wearing things for my own vicarious enjoyment. My sister and I both agree that when we have kids, male or female, their costumes will always revolve around some kind of fake facial hair, because a baby with a moustache is always funny.]. This year, both Charlie and Eva went as the bee girl from the Blind Melon video. I can almost hear the conversation...

Charlie: Mommy, why do I wear these glasses?
Alicia: Because bumblebees are intelligent...hive building...spelling bees...tuna franchises....etc.


This leads me to by far my favorite part of every impending Halloween season- playing a game I invented myself, "Halloween costume or not a Halloween costume?" [Tangent: People-watching games are one of my guilty pleasures. They are most fun A. at concerts or B. Walking around downtown, but can also be observed anywhere. Don't feel limited to Halloween for prying into strangers intentions and/or personal lives. You can play gay or not gay?...guy or girl?...or my favorite...hipster or homeless? etc. Feel free to compose your own version. I assure you its the "Would you rather...?" of the 2k10s,  mark my word.] This year's game began Friday walking to the Ryman Auditorium, when I incorrectly ID'd  two individuals as being in costume, when indeed one was homeless and one was just very portly. Luckily, I kept my kudos to myself, because you never can be too sure, especially in Tennessee. [Tangent: In my defense, the homeless woman looked very authentic, and I merely thought it was a very committed role. Also, the larger lady should not have been wearing a tan sweatsuit with a white t-shirt tied around her waist if she didn't want to be mistaken from afar as a sumo wrestler.] 

My sister, Kelly, and I also played last night en route to the Halloween house party. Kelly was dressed as Snooki and had gotten earlier complimented on her tacky knock-off Ed Hardy sunglasses with a tiger emblazoned on them, while checking out at the liquor store.  Not knowing if the vendor was being sarcastic or sincere (unsure of her costume/not a costume status), she merely said, "Thanks" because other wise it had a 50/50 chance of insulting the person's taste level. 

We were also unsure on a woman exiting Kroger on Nolensville Rd. She was wearing a red beret and some kind of African poncho. Costume or not a costume? Was she Che Gueverra after a trip to Kenya? An ingenius costume concept, but the world may never know for certain. 







Thursday, October 28, 2010

when you move like a jellyfish, rhythm is nothing.



I couldn't think of what to write about today, but I just felt I needed to write, so I put on my pirate hat [Tangent: Its part of one of my Halloween costumes, and I am trying to keep it away from the dog...don't make it weird.] and opened my laptop and went about my business.



Do you ever feel compelled to do things but have no idea what is causing these urges? [Tangent: I don't mean in a weird arson pedifile kinda way, because frankly, I try not to endorse that sort of behavior...I mean more in a creative way.] Sometimes I just start typing or start doodling and have no idea what the outcome will be. Sometimes the things that have no intended purpose yield the best end results. When you don't try- sometimes, you succeed. Its pretty much the opposite of all those "Where There's a Will- There's an A" videos that my parents purchased over the years. If you really like doing something- shouldn't it flow organically and not be something you torment yourself over?





I KNOW! I KNOW! Yet... I work at a place that is practically the inspiration for "Initech". This profession does not flow organically [Tangent: Understatement of the century.]  Many times I have wondered if I did something that truly did flow like melted butter off the roll that is my soul- would I still like it? Probably not, but at this point I have no way of knowing for certain.




Yesterday, out of nowhere, my best friend sent me a text that said "I have decided you need to start painting again." I asked her if this was merely because she needed art for her new apartment, and she said something uncharacteristically sweet for someone I keep company with. "No. You used to really love it and you are really good at it." 




Until a few years ago, I have done some form of art for every day since I could hold a crayon. [Tangent: I come from very athletic stock, and in case you are new here: I am not sporty (Wait...that's the understatement of the century). My mom wanted me to have something to succeed at so she enrolled me in every art class in a 5 county radius.]  This lifestyle I had grown accustomed to, Hobby Lobby runs and permanently marker splotched fingers included, went on until I completed my art minor in school. After college, I was burned out. Being forced to sketch chairs and fruit "just so" and paint obese naked women who didn't shave their pits or keep their lady business groomed made me want to stop for a while. In a way, having an art minor taught me to be such a better and more meticulous artist. However, I had to do it, thus its appeal dwindled away considerably. Ahhhh...Catch-22!





I guess my now shaggy boyfriend, Jack Johnson, put it best when he said: "When you move like a jellyfish- Rhythm is nothing. You go with the flow. You don't stop." So why did I stop?




Ok. That's all the free thinking I got for you tonight. That's what happens when I have no plan. I get all philosophical on your asses.

Monday, October 25, 2010

my hair is everywhere


Whoever designed me did not design me to have long luxurious hair. Its a lifestyle choice: short hair vs long hair.  For the last 15 years of my life, I have stuck to what I knew best: having the short no nonsense hair also popularized by Indigo Girls fanatics. [Tangent: I blame my mom for starting this trend. I had the Dorothy Hamill cut until the age of 8, and my quafts usually resembled a 10 o'clock news anchor. In old photos, I also was known to proudly rock a baby mullet.]

To say that I had the hair of a woman is actually putting it quite kindly. My loved ones have not been shy about pointing out my many male doppelgangers. It all began one morning when I went to visit my sister in Chattanooga about 10 years ago. I sat up early in the morning after a party at her apartment with a bad case of bed head.  My ever-subtle sister, still with eyelids heavy from sleep, said "Your hair looks like a Goo Goo Doll," and then laid back down.


She was right. Johnny Reznick and I could have been twins. [Tangent: Why have the Goo Goo dolls come up twice in conversation today? I was just earlier talking about how in 10th grade I wanted "Slide" to be my wedding song. My how times have changed.] Since my sister's astute observation, it has become painfully obvious that no matter how chic and cutting edge I attempt to be with my hairstyle, all my supercuts soul mates just happen to have penises...along with gorgeous hair. 

Examples:

Exhibit A: "The Matt Camden":

Exhibit B: "The McCartney"


Exhibit C: "The Michael Jackson" [Tangent: This proves that even with long hair you can inadvertently have a male hairstyle....although I prefer to think MJ of having girlie hair. Too soon? I doubt it.]


I finally decided, after the whole Paul McCartney debacle of '09 that I needed to start being a girl. [Tangent: This need for femininity strengthened tenfold after a very elderly lady at a Cracker Barrell told my coworker (a girl) that she had "a nice young fella" (me). After she was corrected that this was indeed not a romantic entanglement and that I was a female, the Estelle Getty body double incredulously said, "Really?" and waddled off in her Easy Spirits. Yep. That'll do it. I still stand by the fact that the pink cardigan should have, at the very least, given her pause.] At that juncture, I got my ears re-pierced and started growing out my hair for the first time since third grade. Never being one to do anything halfway, I set my goal at 12 inches so I could donate it to Locks of Love. Anyway, my follicles are turbo charged in their growth rate so this seemed like a simple year long undertaking. It was comforting to know that when I got sick of having this ridiculous mane (which I most assuredly would), an adorable Cancer baldie could benefit from my vanity.

Right now, I am at about the 10 inch mark, and I have discovered that having this long hair is like having a pet. You have to keep it groomed and clean and pick up after it. Yes. I said. "Pick up after it." I shed like a Collie. Strands of my DNA can be found in every nook and cranny of my home. My bedroom floor has started looking like a Great Clips. At least I feel confident that if I am ever murdered or go missing, CSI will crack the case in mere seconds. 

With each shower, I clog the drain and could make a baby toupee with each swipe of the pipe snake. I also find these unwanted visitors inhabiting nearly every morsel of food I attempt to place in my mouth. I have become immune to it, and I have come to terms that likely one day, I'll be cut open and a hairball the size of Montana will be found in my abdominal cavity. [Tangent: FINALLY! I will get my TLC freak of the week special.]

Friday, October 22, 2010

handi hitch your wagon to my star.



Today on our 15 minutes of freedom at work, my coworkers and I were on break in our 10 am sanctuary, the courtyard of our office building. Somehow we got on the subject of avoiding the pestering kiosk people at the mall. You know them well; those folks that rabidly foist upon you nail beautification systems, lotions made from dead sea minerals or super absorbent shamwows, as you elbow your way to The Gap for a sweater sale. Most of my fellow slaves to the insurance industry shamelessly admitted to using the classic "pretend you are on your cell phone" charade, which proves believable and surprisingly effective in the fight to avoid unwarranted hand massages from strangers. [Tangent: While typing this I remembered that my sister in college didn't have a cell phone or a car for a year . As she walked from the bars to her dorm, she had to pass through the ghetto, so she would talk into her camera to avoid interaction with tweakers and homeless people. Brilliant improvisation.]  After discussing various ways to dip, dive and dodge, I revealed my secret strategical bomb....which led my friend Josh to immortalize me via facebook status for the day...

Josh Branum
Josh Branum  I have a new-found respect for Kimmie Jones.
5 hours ago · View Post · Remove Tag

Josh was very impressed that my method of avoiding forced unwanted social interaction is to reinforce my stereotype; I act as handicapped as possible (both mentally and physically). I may throw in some blank stares or maybe speak in jibberish. If it the lotion pusher is extremely persistant, drooling may even be implemented. I may even kick it up a notch with some kind of twitch. This makes me sound like a terrible human being, and I am aware that you are now envisioning me getting barbecued by Satan for these comments. I totally accept this criticism, but it works- so take off the white wig and put down the gavel. [Tangent: After working in a mall for nearly 3 years, especially during a bustling Christmas season, I had perfected this routine. Trust that desperate measures had to be taken to keep me from getting roped into buying a full nail buffing system instead of the $1 McChicken sandwich every time I made my lunch break trek across the galleria.]
 
Instead of villifying me, consider my "gimping it up" as a sociological experiment (that just so happens to save me time and money). Why was I suddenly less approachable? I daresay, even without the extra hoopla and tremors, the majority of people would still not make the first move to interact. As one of my friends has always pointed out, "People fear the chair."  (<----seriously click on this)

My wheelchair can be my golden ticket in and out of situations, good and bad. This disability has a metric shit ton of drawbacks, and the world is not built to accommodate me, so I have found my way to accommodate the world. In addition to avoiding product pushers, I have found ways to use this piece of durable medical equipment to my advantage. [Tangent: A term has even been coined by those in my inner circle for this kind of behvavior- "Handi-hitching."] 

 Kimmie's Greatest Hits of Handi-Hitching
  1. Cops are scared of wheelchairs. A group of friends and I discovered this on a chilly Halloween night in 2002. All underage at the time, with a bottle vodka in the floorboards, my friend, Courtney got pulled over in a random traffic stop. She was driving a rental car in her father's name and her costume had no pockets, so she had no ID on her. It was an arrest waiting to happen...but wait, I was with her- so all was well.  We got off with a simple "Happy Halloween. Drive Safely" simply because my handi-hitching friend kept repeating, "We had to use this car to pick up my friend who's in A WHEELCHAIR." [Courtney threw in the word 'wheelchair' roughly 15 times in the 5 minute conversation with the officer.]
  2.  Concert workers are scared of wheelchairs. During a John Mayer concert at the now defunct Starwood Ampitheater, my friend Phillip and I let another friend sit in the very VIP wheelchair seating with us. Her assigned seat was way back in the nosebleeds where everyone smells like dirt and peanut butter. [Tangent: As a child, I used to ride the bus with a kid that I always described as having that aroma. Many years later, I realized that smell was Marijuana.] Being a good team player, I had given her my ticket so her ass would be covered should anyone got wise to our scheme. Eventually space became limited, and some bruiser in a black t-shirt and earpiece came to investigate. As I rummaged through my purse, I made kind of a dopey face like I didn't know what he was talking about. He slowly backed away and even apologized for bothering me.
  3. Movie theaters love wheelchairs (or at least they did).  From 2000-2009, I saw every movie I wanted free of charge. Making it a blockbuster night was more pricey than going to the theater...and for most of those years I would biweekly take advantage of this fantasyland of gratis cinema, seeing movies on the big screen that would never be worthy of my dime under normal circumstances. Turistas, anyone?  I assume Carmike theaters had observed that amphitheater style seating, which has become the norm nowadays, was not ideally accessible, thus the decision was made to honor their sedentary patrons. [Tangent: The term 'not ideally accessible is a bit of an understatement. If the two available wheelchair slots are taken on the central plane, all that's left is to be sonic boomed in the face from the front row during Die Hard With a Vengeance.] However, those damn movie pirates have apparently hurt the industry so bad that Carmike was forced to put a total recall on those free movies I so enjoyed over the years. Not cool, Carmike. Not cool. I never bought your snacks anyway, I always stopped at Walgreen's for my Snow Caps and Coca-Cola.
Really, I could go on and on [Tangent: In fact, taking a family trip to Disneyland is oozing with handi-hitching schemes.], but I think its obvious that I am to this little known art form what Telly Savalas was to Battle of the Network Stars- THE CHAMP! [Tangent: That reference goes out to my brother Mikey, who strongly desired me to make more Battle of the Network Stars references in my writing...no, I'm serious.]. On a day to day basis, I ardently try to downplay my disability and reach out to people to make them unafraid, but some people will always be skeptical and I have come to accept that. Sometimes its very hard to maintain some credibility as a pseudo advocate when you have this amazing trump card burning a hole in your back pocket. If warranted, I will play it like Lionel Richie...all night long.

Monday, October 18, 2010

why are the birds so angry? aka cue the confetti

 *This is what my image search for "celebration confetti" yielded. 
It appears to be the worst movie ever made (naked people + tennis + weddings),
which means it has future residence in my Netflix queue.

Today I stumbled upon my blog's stat page again, [Tangent: Stumbled upon = checked on a twice daily basis] and realized I am 5 page views short of 5,000 views. Whaaaa? That's insanity incarnate. Cue the obscenely hard to clean up confetti!


This impending milestone makes me incredibly happy [Tangent: Mainly the happiness stems from the fact that my former blog only yielded 50 views in its entire lifespan. Waahhh Waaaaaaah. Conclusion: no one cared about my angsty quarter-life crisis when graduating college. Noted.] and tells me that I am apparently interesting on a worldwide level.
 *Lookie- I have taken the Middle East by storm. SCORE!

Although, I shouldn't get too stoked; its likely people in Indonesia are just finding my page because they think its some weird fetish site -a lesson learned after naming the blog about your puppy "doggy style". All this fanfare also ups me stress level. Because I have had such kind words from friends and distant acquaintances regarding my page- I wants to keep it spicy! (<----yes that spelling error was on purpose, grammar police.) But how do I do this?

Reinforcements were needed, so I called my sister. "Kelly, my blog is on the verge of 5,000 views. I need a good blog topic." Her response without hesitation: "Two Words. Angry Birds." [Tangent: Her boyfriend, Micah, chimed in "Write about douche noodles!" but the area of "douche noodles"would be limiting.]

For those of you not fancy or lame enough, Angry Birds is an app available for my new android phone: An app that my sister and I are obsessed with on an unhealthy level. The concept: evil pigs, who resemble tiny green pumpkins, stole eggs from a flock of assorted supernatural birds. Your role in this theft is to fling aforementioned birds onto/through structures to kill the pigs, and hopefully get your eggs back. [Tangent: Oddly enough, I am petrified of anything with wings and talons and find it a little strange that I would feel moved to murder on their behalf.] Some birds fire egg bombs while others will separate into multiple tiny birds with a screen tap. When you kill these cocky bastards, you can advance to the next level which increases in difficulty and introduces you to new varieties  of warrior birds. [Tangent: I am aware that this rambling just sounds like the hallucination of a meth addict or the description of a V-tech children's game, but my sweet chocolate coated lord- IT IS AMAZING!]



I stayed up to 2 am this morning obsessively playing the new version I had just downloaded, which is weird for someone that is not at all "a gamer." I don't think I have been this addicted to a game since my brother Mikey got the ol' NES back in 1987. Our corneas would be inflamed from sitting to close to that 8 bit goodness, and we would cling to those non-ergonomic square controllers till we had done irreparable damage to our palms. In fact, I think I could count on two hands the video/computer games I have actually played consistently in my life. I will share with you my top 5 [Let it be known that honorable mentions were awarded to: Joe Montana Football, Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?, NBA Jams '95, Number Munchers and Zelda. It also further proves that my knowledge of video games is very outdated.]

1. Tetris 
I still have my bricky late 80's game boy, and am still occasionally haunted by those hard to place "L shaped" pieces and that eerie opium den music.

2. Super Mario Brothers
I never got on board with the spin offs. I found it illogical that a former plumber would go on to become a doctor. That rags to riches story is slightly hard to swallow.

3. Punch Out
As in most things, my family bought the generic Punch Out. This version was not affiliated with Mike Tyson, and was thus markedly less pricey. Instead of fighting the future ear biter/rapist/Hangover actor, you would fight a fellow named Mr. Dream, that just resembled Mr. Tyson in the final bout.

4. Mortal Kombat (1 and 2)
I was an adorable 9 year old girl who loved horses, Lisa Frank stickers and ripping a man's spinal column out as his headless body wobbled in front of me. Is that so wrong?


4. Sonic The Hedgehog 2
When we got the Sega Genesis, it came as the freebie game. Games were upwards of $40 at the time, so it can be assumed this is the only game we had for a while- and I dominated it. The only downfall was the annoying presence of Sonic's newly acquired BFF, Tails. He really didn't do much but get in the way of my victory. Upon discovering that with a few clicks on the options menu, he could be eradicated forever- a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders.

5. Oregon Trail
After a bout of nostalgia, I tried to download the new version of this game, but after playing it once realized it had lost that charm it once had. The blobbiness was refined. The enhanced graphics now made differentiation between a rabbit and a squirrel possible, when I had to put aside my politics and go hunting for sustenance. Ever the romantic, I would name my wagon members after the boys that I thought were cute in my third grade class. [Tangent: They were not as cute after they had gotten dysentery or eaten by bears.] This pseudo- pioneer lifestyle did teach me a valuable lesson. Are you the kind of person that fords the river or are you the kind that floats? I, myself, am a forder.


Now blog time is over for today, and I have to go fight my cell phone away from my mother, who has fallen through the Angry Birds worm hole and is spewing bird related expletives from the couch. But first, get out the dustpans because its confetti time!

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Relax...don't do it.

 *yikes.

Sitting still is not something I like to do. I am kinetic. My resting heart rate is 115.  Even if I am watching TV or interwebbing, I am usually simultaneously doing something else. This need to multitask and be on the go has been exacerbated since I got my automotive a year and a half. This need to be to be "participating in activities" has become excessive. [Tangent: My best friend and her boyfriend, as well as my friend Shane, refer to all my constant errand running and hyper-social behavior as "activities," saying I participate in more "activities" than anyone they know. The term "activity" makes me feel a bit like I am in Pre-K and I am writing big A's on tablet paper or making turkeys with hand-shaped bodies, but I really don't have any other word for it.]

I also co-habitate with my folks and my big brother, who albeit lovely individuals do not provide for the most exciting or private living situation. Being in my car out and about is the only time I truly have my own space, so I cherish it. Having lived for years being left out of things for lack of proper transportation, I have this constant urge to roam free.

Finally, I had gotten to a place where I was able to go somewhere after work or go out on the weekends without worrying if I will have a sober escort home. However, as fate would have it I am on strict orders from everyone I love to not hyperextend myself or burn the proverbial candle at both ends.  They have put the kabash on my lifestyle since my extended stay-cation in the intensive care unit [Tangent: We are fairly certain this need for speed is what yielded me a first class ticket to the land of intubations and chest tubes. The pointed finger is aimed at Carbon Dioxide oversaturation. Like Whitney Houston, I was literally waiting to exhale.] To put it bluntly- it sucks.  

My strength is just not up to tackle my old life yet, and its extremely frustrating. Limbo is not the place I want to reside right now, but I guess I better learn to relax. I will have to suck it up...only this time I will breathe out from time to time.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

so you want to be in love like the movies?



Today I was driving home from work blasting The Avett Brothers, which is not an uncommon scenario. Per usual when listening to my favorite North Carolina alterna-folk-grassers, I thought "huh...you have a point, Avetts." [Tangent: Its safe to say Scott Avett is the finest example of the male gender that presently inhabits the earth, at least in this girl's humble opinion. Some may call it blasphemy, but I dig a guy with a somewhat Jesusy look about him. (subtangent: I am 98% certain that if Jesus was alive today and living in the greater Nashville area- I would try to put the swerve on him. An ambigulously ethnic carpenter with curls and a sweet beard...a friend to the animals and less fortunate...and just so happens to have some crazy ideas about society. SIGN ME UP! Plus, I bet he could get into any concert...because who has a more powerful dad?)]

 *see the resemblance is crazy, right?!?

I digress. I was listening to their live version of Love Like the Movies when this line hit my ear differently than it ever has before.


Now in the movies they make it look so perfect
And in the background they're always playing the right song
And in the ending there's always a resolution
But real life is more than just two hours long


SO TRUE. After being a girl for the last 27.84 years [Tangent: Wouldn't it be weird if I threw you a curve ball and said for the last 10 years?  Shamylan Twist!], Rom-Com love has finally worn me down. If Jennifer Lopez or Katheryn Heigl is at the helm, you know an onscreen love/hate relationship will dissolve into love after she sports a very cleavagey yet classy evening dress, and the object of their indifferent affection (usually Hugh Grant or Ryan Reynolds) sees her with fresh eyes. I have seen it all before- just not played in such a neat simple package for myself or anyone I know.

It's all very misleading [Tangent: DON'T GET ME WRONG...I love these films. Every time Never Been Kissed airs on TBS, I clear my afternoon to watch it.] In movies, it seems like a "smart move" to break up a wedding right before the rice is thrown (who cares about that rejected third party anyway?!?)  or go across the country to profess feelings to someone with whom "a moment" was shared. In real life both of these are terrible ideas. Instead of romantic, they are probably viewed more as desperate or insane....but that could be just my jaded perspective on love.

Again, DON'T GET ME WRONG, I possess rose-colored glasses, and have been known to slip them on occasionally. While watching a chick flick, its as I get enclosed in an idealistic bubble for 90 minutes or so [Aforementioned girly fortress of solitude is inevitably bright pink and smells like cotton candy]. Within the confines of this zone, ass hole moves like stopping traffic to get to a lover's taxi seem chivalrous.

As credits roll, I remember "Sweet lord! That wouldn't happen. That sucks." However, I always remember that grand ridiculous serenades and meetings at the top of the Empire State Building are good and all, but the little things, like remembering how someone takes their coffee would have been just as honorable a gesture. Practicality can be sexy.

There are days when I will cry at the end of You've Got Mail, but then other days, I think, "Wait, she's going to meet a stranger in New York City...What if NY152 murders Shopgirl in the middle of the park? No one in her inner circle (you know...the former coworkers at Shop Around the Corner) will know his true identity is Joe Fox. The case will go unsolved. Another Internet predator."

I wish there was a pill I could take to combat cynicism. If you know anyone at Phizer, tell them to get right on top of that.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

come on get happy.

Short of pooping skittles and talking like a Chipette, I think I give off fairly upbeat vibes. Positivity is at least my motive, even if I portray it sometimes in weird twisty ways. How do I stay happy when life pees in my Cheerios? [Tangent: Not sure why I felt compelled to mention poop and pee in my intro, but it reinforces the obvious - I AM CLASSY.] The answer is simple. Inside my mind, there is an endless catalog of imagery that will 99.9% percent of the time give this girl a giggle fit. [Tangent: Be forewarned you will likely not find these pictures as funny as I do, making this post completely self indulgent. I just needed to laugh a little.] I present to you a slight window into Kimmie's Happy Place, beginning with otters paint shopped into Top Gun...







Now if you are not in a better mood- you must be a robot.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Oh say...I can't see

Getting older is terrifying. In about a month, I will be 28... which isn't old technically, but makes me feel like one of those eerily adorable kids with progeria. (not because I have an bulbous head, but rather because I'm old beyond my years and seem to aging in dog years.) Reclaiming my youth is likely not aided by the fact that I like to scrapbook and enjoy Michael Buble. [Tangent: At least I am not having birthday parties for my animals or decorating my house with teddy bears- then intervention will be needed.]
 *So cute. It's the best of both adorable worlds: old people and kids.

It all began with the gray hairs. Albeit infrequent visitors, the little bastards are always unwelcome, and my dark locks do little to camouflage them. Dying follicles just remind me daily that I should no longer be trying to wear things in the Juniors department.

Then, last week, I got final verification that I was aging- apparently, I have the eyesight of a 65 year old woman. Because I am fantastic at following directions, a "weekly wear" pair of contacts has been residing on my eyeballs off and on for roughly a year. My burning corneas indicated that I needed a fresh pair and a vision test.  Getting my eyes tested ranks way higher than getting my teeth drilled on the Things that Give Kimmie Anxiety Meter- I hate the whole "Better or worse? How about now? routine. Generally I can't see any difference and just end up playing eenie meenie minie mo. [Tangent: I will not say where I go for my optical needs, but I will give you a hint- they also sell Kenmore appliances. Many don't even know they have an eye doctor, but it is carefully tucked away behind a labyrinth of doors by the mysterious unisex bathroom. I am also pretty sure the office itself was formerly a fitting room, because you cannot sit in the waiting area without your knees hitting the adjacent wall and your face butting up against the ugliest 1974 motel paintings you have ever witnessed.] I told my doctor, who looked oddly like James Lipton from Inside the Actor's Studio,  that I needed new contacts, because I was overdue and I had lost one. His response, "Are you wearing your  now?" My response, "um....I'm wearing glasses."
I could see my first appointment with this gentleman was on the fast track to shitsville, maybe because he was an eye professional that didn't realize that wearing glasses and contacts simultaneously would be a terrible idea,  and something you just don't do. I may be be half robot, but I am not a moron [Tangent: Let's not revisit the fact that I had been wearing weekly disposables for a year...that might negate aforementioned "not a moron" statement.] 

My left eye was golden...I could read almost all the lines without stopping to take a breath. Then came the right eye and I could read [cue the sad tuba...] only the top line. Yep, that's right- just the big E, which even if I couldn't read, I could have easily deduced was going to be atop the pyramid of letters. Ol' doctor Lipton looked flabbergasted that my vision had gone down the pipes so quickly. It was not reassuring or making me feel like less of an old lady. 

To counteract this- I decided to find my fountain of youth in tried and true locale, the Juniors department, with an impulse leggings purchase. In years past, I have been leading the anti-legging crusade [Tangent: Until 6th grade, my waist down wardrobe consisted of exclusively tights and leggings, because I could only wear pants that would fit under hip high leg braces. When I stopped wearing the braces, I dropped the leggings like a bad pill habit. Whenever I saw them making their comeback a couple years ago, I got vivid 'Nam style flashbacks of the uncomfortable orthopedic devices....oh and Stephanie Tanner, because she rocked the leggings like no ones business.] , but my resistance against the comfort and youthful appeal of a nice cotton/spandex blend was futile...so I bought two.

 *I am 99.9% sure I owned this book at some point in my life.

I may be half blind and have random grays, but at least I could contemplate my ascent into my late 20's in Jodie Sweetin style comfort.  Ahhh...stretchy pants you make me so very happy....I'm so glad you came into my life. 

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

don't hate the player...hate the game

Today was my first (half)day back at work after my long 2 month medical hiatus. [Tangent: It was bizarre. Why do I feel like a different person now? I don't mean to get all philosophical and veer off the usual topics of Full House reruns or the female propensity to dress whorish on Halloween, but I feel a bit like I work in the Matrix. Today when I swiped my badge to get onto the elevator, I really felt like it had been eons. People had changed seats. The Halloween decorations had come out of storage, peppering the cubicles with faux spider webbing. New people had been hired. All this is pure minutiae, but its pure minutiae that happened unbeknowst to me. It was a little like a dream where you go to a familiar place, like an old home or old high school, but things are tweaked just enough to put you ill at ease.] After trying to login to my computer at 8:27 AM,  I got the following message:



How appropriate. Its disabled too!  My computer and I are kindred, except I think I have more memory than my work computer. [<----lamest office joke ever told. Wakka. Wakka. Wakka. ] Oh well, I would just be forced to be unproductive all day...at least until I was entered back into the system. This didn't occur until early afternoon...and I was in bed snoring through Keeping up with the Kardashians by then.

I am working shorter days to ease the whiplash of going from eating Pringles and watching Family Feud all day to actual being a productive member of working society. Luckily the Pringles are portable, but the game shows I watched will be missed tremendously. By the time I get off work...the only quiz show on, besides Jeopardy, is Don't Forget the Lyrics. Gross. [Tangent: As I've mentioned, I not-so-secretly am jealous of/despise people that like to showboat their mediocre voices on a show with a mediocre pop star. i.e. Mark McGraf. His douchiness doing the Chuck Berry along the stage as a large black woman stumbles through "Friends in Low Places" does not make for great entertainment...for more than 5 minutes.] 

Oh how I miss the Feud. 

I miss the excitement of seeing who will be hosting. Will it be Al from Home Improvement? J. Peterman from Seinfeld? Or Steve Harvey from the Steve Harvey Show? [Tangent: I also worry about them given the Ray Colmbs/Louie Anderson curse.]

I miss thinking "Wow....how the quick the mighty have fallen!" everytime I hear Joey Fatone do the famous introduction: It's time to play the feud!!!!!

I miss giggling when a contestant gives a terribly awesome answer.  Ex: Q. What's another name for backside? A. Anus  [<---well done, sir!]

I miss the ending when I see that the producers name is Ken Fuchs. [Tangent: My sister has a similar bout of inappropriate silly laughter at the end of Law & Order...Dick Wolf. Need I say more?]

Goodbye,  old friend. Thy aim is true.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Not the doctor



By first grade, I had my future completely mapped out. Unlike most kids that wanted to be ballerina/teachers or firemen/cowboys-  I was going to be a doctor, more specifically a pediatric orthopedist. This seems like a lofty goal for a girl who was dreaming of setting fractures while rolling faux boogers out of dried rubber cement. However by the age of 7, I knew my high gross-out tolerance and superior medical knowledge (which I believed I had under my belt after one surgery) was going to serve my future career well. 

However, like most children, my reach far exceeded my grasp because precision in sciences is not a strong suit of mine. I went on to make a strong C- in high school chemistry. I only passed because I wrote a poem about phosphorus as my final big element project. [Tangent: Sadly, I still remember it, at least the beginning. "A scientist named Henig Brand had some urine in his hand. He brought it down to a boil. A glowing substance came from his toil. He named the light-bearer phosphorus. Atomic number 14 to all of us. Some kinds of phosphorus is white. You'd surely die if you took a bite. Some kind of phosphorus is red. Its in coca-cola and match heads."] Basically my powers of bullshittery allowed me to pass honors chemistry with dying colors... yes, your guess is good as mine why I took honors sciences.

It occurred to me that medicine may not be the most practical career path to travel down, given I couldn't reach the sinks to do the pre-surgical scrub up. Additionally, although I do look fetching in scrubs, I require a more diverse wardrobe and my powers of bullshittery would not be appreciated.  For these reasons,  I just play pretend doctor with the info I uncover on the Internet. Wikipedia and WebMD, as well as online medical journals,  are saving me lots of money in copays. This "webnosis-ing" has become a huge past time of mine since being released from the hospital [Tangent: Having an inordinate amount of free time makes this banal hobby a little more understandable.]. Every single question I have regarding my health, I promptly google. Maybe I watch too many episodes of "Mystery Diagnosis" or perhaps I am a hypochondriac...call it what you will.

The biggest issue I have had since getting out of the hospital is losing my sense of taste...or rather having all food I ingest taste like it has been coated in burnt plastic. I have googled the hell out of this matter, and have deduced that it has something to do with being intubated for 3 weeks and having all those tubes compress some kind of sensory nerve that had previously allowed me to taste things properly.  DRAG. 
*This came up when I google image searched tongue anatomy. 
I found it disturbing on a number of levels.

This loss of taste, albeit hopefully temporary, is increasingly traumatic; I daresay more traumatic than the whole experience in itself. You see, I am a fatty in a skinny body. I LOVE FOOD.  If my stomach could yield a higher capacity, I would have a TLC special devoted to my obesity. I fiend for it. Its not unusual for be to give you locations and dates of the best dishes I have ever put in my mouth. [Answer- Cabana has lobster brie mac and cheese, I still fantasize about it, even though it will be 2 years ago in January since I have had it...mostly because I am not hip enough to frequent that place.] 

Damn the nerve damage for it has ruined the things I once loved. I went into a Starbucks the other day and the scent of coffee made me cringe. Starbucks was now a paralell universe where every pleasant smell/taste had morphed into the odor of a GI Joe in the microwave. Bright side- this new asociation will save me a lot of money on impulse coffee purchases.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

concert quarantine

A live show is something I never turn down...ever. [Unless it's Nickelback or Yanni or one of those emo bands that has a gender ambiguous lead singer- Then I may break this absolute...one has to have some standards.] I have gotten especially concert happy in the last couple years. Downside to being a disabled chick at a concert- accessible seating is limited,  so it's either amazing or amazingly shitty. There really is no in between. I have sat so close to Adam Duritz that I could taste the sweat off his dreadlocks, and I have been so far from Justin Timberlake that he was simply a distant beat-boxing blob of hotness. [Tangent: I also have to be extremely on the ball, and can't buy tickets last minute. With the Antichrist that is ticketmaster- you have to make an "accessible ticket request" and then have it approved or denied by some gate-keeper...which can take several hours. By the time those several hours have dwindled, the Flight of the Conchords show at the Ryman is sold out and you and your coworkers will have already started a letter writing campaign and drafted a powerpoint depicting a firebombing....not that this scenario actually happened or anything. :)]

Last week, my friend Binkley gave me his tickets to see Guster because he was gonna be out of town. Despite not being a superfan,  I like them and have a few of their songs, and I am 98% certain I saw them open for Barenaked Ladies when I was 16, and that the experience was a good one. [Tangent: Yes...I was a BNL superfan when I was in high school. Laugh it up. They WERE good.  Past tense was used because in the last few years their brand of Canadian pop rock, which was witty and funny without veering into Yankovich territory, has taken a dark turn. They have dropped Steven Page as co-lead singer and appeared on The Bachelorette. They haven't just jumped the proverbial sell-out shark...they have jet packed over it and then had a regrettable one night stand with it. However I still hold steadfast to my claims that their early work is awesome. ] I also remembered that Guster has the most bad ass drummer, who looks a little like Michael Phelps and plays like Animal sans drumsticks. Its a sight to behold and worth the price of admission- which in my case was FREE.

 


My friend Alicia nor I had ever been to the venue, War Memorial, which was gorgeous, but was fairly open and was pretty much "stand where ya want." That made me happy, because I thought that we could just play the wheelchair card and get all the way to the front due to audience hospitality, but it was way better. The little hobbit of an usher lead us to this....
We had a random roped off rhombus all to ourselves; as in enough room to do the electric slide comfortably, if we so desired. [Tangent: Apparently that's how I measure spaces now- with dance moves. 8 feet = electric slide; 3 feet = tootsie roll; 5 feet = moon walk]. The whole setup made me feel very VIP....or petting zoo...depending on if you opted to add a silver lining. I chose VIP, because it made me feel like one of the little old men on The Muppet Show and trust there was a lot of people watching to do.

For some reason Guster attracted the most haphazard assortment of people I have ever witnessed in one space. For example, Alicia and I enjoyed several rounds of "first date/not first date"; "is that a man or woman?"; and my personal favorite "gay/not gay?" These concert goers also further reinforced that I don't understand hipsters. At one point I had to lean over and ask Alicia, "I can't tell if that girl is being ironic or just really unfashionable." She was wearing pegged jeans, wicker shoes, some ill fitting aztec striped blouse, giant red plastic framed glasses and long, long hair that was on the verge of pentecostal. She basically was dressed like me in 6th grade. If that is a good look- then I was the coolest middle schooler ever.

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