Thursday, July 31, 2008

It's Not Stalking If I WORSHIP YOU.

My Dearest Petal of Sweet Beauty Oprah,

Hi! It’s me, Kiki. Remember? From that one time that I hid in your closet and tried on all your clothes and then you called the cops? Right. Sorry about that. But you really have some nice clothes and even though they didn’t exactly fit me, I was able to get them on and you have to admit, that yellow dress you wore to the 54th Annual Emmy Awards in 2002 looked pretty good on me. I think if you’re being honest, you’ll have to admit that the wine that got spilled on it when you tried to wrestle your Emmy away from me is pretty much your fault. I was just licking it, okay? What’s so wrong about that? If you would just let me smell your socks ONCE IN A DAMN WHILE I wouldn’t need to do that, now would I?

So, um, anyway. You haven’t been returning my calls. Or my letters. Or my email. Or my texts. Or my faxes. Or the singing strip-o-gram. Or the edible arrangement. Or the sky writing. Or the bill board. Or anything, frankly, I’m starting to think you JUST DON’T CARE. You never even wave to me when you see me in the bushes anymore. I went and bought a new trench coat because you said that it was one of the ten wardrobe essentials every woman should have. I wear all ten essentials all the time, but do you even LOOK AT ME ANYMORE? No. No, you don’t. Now I know how Steadman feels. Could it be that you feel you see me enough since I sent you that photo album where I Photo-shopped myself into every interview you’ve done for the last 22 years? Just so you know; superimposing my face over that of every single audience member and guest was a lot of work. But it was a work of love. Because I LOVE YOU and I want you to be able to relive those happy times with me. Even though you can’t see me, I AM ALWAYS THERE.

But, really, would it kill you to JUST ONCE acknowledge me? One damn compliment about how excellent the tattoo of your face on my back is would go a long way. How many songs have I recorded and sent to you? 12? 24? 367? Didn’t “If you were a cult leader, I’d drink your Kool-Aid” touch you at all? Did you not weep to “If God Were One of Us, He’d be you, Oprah”? I understand why you didn’t make my book “Ops & Me, Like Mash Potatoes and Gravy, A love Story about my special bond with the most fabulous woman ever, Oprah Winfrey, by Kiki” a book club selection, it would just make people jealous. There is simply no reason that you can not allow the life sized cardboard cut out of me to be displayed in your bathroom like I asked you to nicely each of the five times I’ve sent it to you though. Yet, still, you act as though that restraining order makes me invisible. I AM A REAL GIRL OPRAH, if you cut me, do I not bleed the Color Purple?

The real reason for my letter, this missive penned with my blood, sweat, tears, drool and toe jam on paper woven from my belly button lint and locks of hair is this; Ops, I’m thinking I may have to break up with you. The cost of fuel to follow you from Chicago, to California, to your farm, to Hawaii; it’s just getting too expensive. I know you’ll miss me, precious, but don’t cry! This is nothing like that time you had me held in jail overnight for rubbing myself all over with the Crisco from your kitchen! This parting will be temporary. Just until this wee little energy crisis is over! Although, if you would just give me a damn Vespa custom painted with your picture like I’ve asked you for in the haiku’s I composed about our friendship, it would be over a lot more quickly.

I must sign off now, My Oprah, my precious, my little chocolate lamb chop, the nurses say it’s time for my medication and I’ve worn my crayon down to a nubbins.

There, there, don’t cry my chicken fried southern snookums, absence only makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Until we are together again, just know;



Your Kikikins

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Eating Worms

Lorrie stressed me out today. She sent me an email that commanded me to be funny. But, chickens, I am no trained chimp! This hilarity takes MINUTES of careful planning in which I consume Butterfinger bites and check myself for chin hairs. It’s a science.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I texted my friend Frank and said “Do something humorous that I can blog”. Wouldn’t you know that he, too, is not a trained chimp? What the hell? AND THEN he had the nerve to ask why I wasn’t doing work?! So I’m all; DUDE. I am getting FREE BLOG PIMPING today and I have no inspiration. NONE. Nothing funny happened yesterday. Nothing funny happened this morning. No one of dubious character hit on me this morning and that weird guy with the “lifted” ten speed is no where to be found. I am desperate here. This blog could be my launching pad to Oprah! And you know what that ass said to me?

Frank: If excuses were the equivalent of the 100 yard dash you would be Carl Lewis!!!!!
me: Ah, you're sweet.
Frank: I know, like a pickle
me: ew. I HATE sweet pickles!
Frank: Really
me: yep. They're an affront to the pickle species.
Frank: Ok then
I am sweet like a sweet tart?
me: I DO like those.
you may be a sweet tart.


You know what that means? That means all my comments are going to say “YOU SUCK” and I’m going to get all depressed and stop combing my hair (which looks real cute today - see?)
Just kidding. Although, that would be fabulous. I should wear my hair like that to work. Now this
Just looks boring. GREAT. ONE MORE THING TO STRESS ABOUT. I'm not funny and my cute hair isn't cute.)

I will have to resort to doing ACTUAL work and by the time I get home I’ll be all exhausted (and will not get any damn sleep because of these two)

Which means will NEVER launch my career as a gift bag gift picker, I will never get interviewed on the local news by someone with a lisp and mall bangs, I will NEVER be witty and charming and attract the attention of a vacationing TV producer who will NEVER want me to talk about my successful Gift Bagging/Blogging life on a somewhat nationally syndicated evening infotainment program which will NEVER get seen by a Harpo producer and I will NEVER EVER get to meet Oprah.



Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Just in Case

So, if I die, I loved you all.

I just wanted to say that, because that’s what my Twin and I say whenever we part company. Primarily, we say it because we share a twisted, morbid sense of humor; but also we say it because it drives her mom NUTS.

Why am I saying it now? GOOD QUESTION. I’ll tell you why, don’t y’all worry your collectively pretty little heads about it.

I’m telling you now because the Other Shoe Dropping Bus is probably about a half hour away and it’s bumper’s no doubt got my name on it.

After a not that fantastic weekend, I was not all that thrilled to be back at work. I hate month end. HATE IT. Also, I had all of my quarter end crap to finish and turn in and in the words of the Head Corporate Bitch (I) “don’t know nuthin’ ovah therah”. This is pretty much true. However, if they want me to know “something”, they’re going to have to pay me a LOT more. Until such time (and I do the books so I know it won’t be anytime soon) I will continue to know nothing.

All this added up to a case of the Mondays like I’ve not had in ages.


Today, my corporate minder (whom I will be leaving shoes to in my will) came over to double check my reports and guess what? THEY WERE ALL PERFECT.



I got the following text from my husband –

“House looks nice – also like what u did w/deck”


I had to double check the sender. Seriously. My husband? Noticing that I’d cleaned house? WTF? There are only two possible explanations for this and they are a) He’s having an affair and he feels guilty about it or b) I’m going to die any moment.

Since I’ve met my husband, I’m pretty sure it’s B.

So before I die, I want you to know that I love you.

And here is a picture of my ass to remember me by

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Is it just me?

or does Mimi's belly button look sad?

Of course, I would be too, if someone made me leave the house dressed like that.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Too Much Togetherness

Among the odder traits of my family is the fact that we don’t go anywhere alone. Chances are if one of us is coming to visit you so are the rest. Especially if there is a party involved.

My sister CK lives as far away from home as she can get with out actually leaving the country. Smart girl, that one. I don’t live quite that far from the rest of them, but far enough that it requires a trip to the airport.

Airports HATE ME. Once, I spent three days in the airport in Manchester, NH waiting out a hurricane and snow storm and a plane with hydraulic issues. It was NOT cool. This trip was somewhat less dramatic; though, of course, my plane was delayed five times and wound up landing 3 hours late. I consider anything less than 6 hours late on time when I’m flying.

The reason for the trip was CK’s “surprise” bridal shower. I say “surprise” because she’s known about it for months. We’ve got big mouths, us Murphy Girls.

So, there we are, descending on NYC in the midst of a heat wave. 90+ degrees and nearly 80% humidity. It was fucking oppressive. I thought I was going to literally melt into the pavement. Of course, every time someone asked where I was from, they’d follow it up with “Oh, well you must be loving this heat!” Uh, NO. See, the thing is, in Phoenix, when it’s that fucking hot, when it’s exactly as hot and wet as the inside of a sauna, we have the good sense to STAY INSIDE where there is this amazing new invention called AIR CONDITIONING. We do not wander the streets, we do not ride crowded public transportation and we definitely don’t plan out door events for 1:30 in the afternoon.

My family on the other hand is fucking INSANE. Which is why it seemed like a good idea to ride the subway from Queens to Manhattan to shop on Saturday. You know, because being crammed up against 50,000 tourists in SoHo is just like a big sweaty orgy, but with Assistant Coach purses and people selling random shit stolen from unattended laundry rooms out of suitcases on the street. And who doesn’t like orgies?

The thing about traveling with my mother, grandmother and sisters is that I wind up spending LOTS AND LOTS of “quality” time with them. And you know what? I remember why I live far away. Just kidding. Kind of. I love my family. In small doses. Small doses that involve medicinal drinking. To this end, I packed six flasks in my luggage. What? They weren’t ALL for me. One was for my Gramma.

Saturday night, after a simulated Bataan Death March through the Union Square area we had dinner with sister’s future in laws out on Long Island. They’re absolutely bat shit crazy, the kind of crazy which makes my family look like the a happy hybrid of the Cleavers and the Walton and the kind of crazy that makes you begin to wonder if the bride and groom shouldn’t strongly consider moving to a foreign country where people live in mud huts and you have to ride a flatulent quadripedial animal 16hrs through wilderness to visit them. This is all I’m going to say about them though, because crazy or not they’re my sisters family. KL and I spent the evening sneaking to the kitchen to top off the “ice” in our diet cokes. And by “ice” I mean “Crown Royale”.

When we were finally paroled, KL & I dropped Mom & Gram at sister CF’s apartment in Sunnyside and headed for the bar.

For those of you unfamiliar with Queens, Sunnyside is possessed of a large number of Irish immigrants. Which is awesome, because the Irish love to drink. And WE love to drink. It’s a match made in alcoholic heaven.

KL and I hit Maggie Mays downed a couple of doubles and decided to head back up 40th so that when we did finally reach “drunk” from our current state of “happy” we were at least in a fairly straight line from the apartment. This is how we wound up in Dillon’s.

Can I just say, I love random, dimly lit, smoky, dubiously inhabited bars like Dillon’s?

I order us another round and we slide into a booth that happens to have a deck of cards. We play cards rather loudly and with no resemblance to any actual game, but with a level of hilarity that drew the attention of a number of other bar goers. Including a rather handsy guy in scrubs who insisted on kissing me repeatedly about the hands, arms and cheeks while gazing adoringly at KL. It wasn’t long before we were joined by an Irish Guy, who while not fresh off the boat, still spoke with a brogue you could cut with a knife. He was quite drunk as well and decided that since we wouldn’t join him for a joint that he’d impress us with his card sharking. So we pick a card, any card, he shuffles, does whatever it is the trick entails and begins to show us cards, “is this your card?” he asks and we say no, so he asks again, still no, a third time and hits the card, so we say yes. With out even skipping a beat he moves on to the next card, which, shockingly, was not our card. The trick completely screwed at this point he yells “Ah, feck it! Gib me a beer!” and we return to our random game that requires cheating, lying, slapping one another and more cheating.

At three forty five, three double C&C’s and a pair of black & tans into the night we stumble (literally) back to apartment.

This meant we were still drunk when my mother cheerfully woke us up at 7:30 the next morning.

You know what? Riding in the back of a Versa to Long Island, when it’s 98* and you’re still drunk? NOT A GOOD IDEA. Also, New Yorkers are VERY LOUD talkers.

We made it through the shower, initiated a few new Sugar Plum Nightmares and headed back to the boroughs at about 5p.m. Now, the problem with THAT is we had no fucking clue where we were so we took some random combination of freeways that involved only abbreviated designations like “BQE” and “LIE” wound up lost in a rather seedy looking section of Queens. How we got there, I have no idea because I’d dozed off (or, um, passed out from knocking off 10 or so glasses of rum punch in the previous 4 hours) in the back seat and didn’t awake until I heard my mother saying “If you don’t stop yelling at me, I’m going to get out and leave you here!”

Which she did.

This was inconvenient because she was driving.

Eventually, she did come back for us though and a very nice guy from the Bronx whose neck tattoos were all very tasteful got us pointed in the right direction.

It only took about 68 more turns and an hour of deciding if we were going north, south or straight to hell and we made it back to the apartment safe and sound.

KL & I decided the only sensible solution was to get the hell out of there, which we promptly did. Back on the Subway of Heat Prostration and back into Manhattan to CK’s apartment to play WII for a few hours and we were counting ourselves lucky to have made it this far with out committing some sort of matricide involving strychnine and diet Coke.

By the time midnight rolls around we’re back on the subway getting hit on by an interesting variety of extremely forward men; including one who was sorely disappointed that we didn’t wish to consider a trip back to his apartment.

Monday morning dawns the same temperature & humidity as the inside a pot of soup and I’m pretty sure that if I have to spend one more minute with these people I’m going to have to stab myself in the neck with a fork. I mean seriously, I was THERE WHEN THAT STORY HAPPENED you don’t have to tell it to me again and NO I do not talk to whatever random person whose mother you happened to see on the bus any longer, I didn’t know and don’t care that Susie So&So from Sunday school just had her fifth baby and IF YOU MAKE THAT NOISE ONE MORE TIME I WILL GO LICK THE THIRD RAIL, I SWEAR TO THE LORD BABY JESUS, AMEN.

Another trip down Canal street, in & out of way too many shoe stores, $20 in random crap emblazoned with the Yellow Rat Bastard logo and I’m very, very grateful to be in a dubious cab that smells like ass and is running so close to empty in the gas tank that it’s a miracle we make it all the way to the airport with out having to push the car the last few miles.

Into a flying cattle car, wedged up against a kid who shit himself somewhere over Oklahoma and six extremely bumpy hours of breathing through my mouth and I’m home to enjoy the 100* night air.

But it’s a dry heat.

By this morning, a mere 36 hours after leaving them, I find I miss them and can’t wait for our next family vacation.

Which is arguably evidence of mental illness on my part.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Miss Thystle Has Left the Building

All righty, Peeps, I'm blowing the Popsicle stand. I'll be back on Tuesday, so y'all behave.

Actually, DON'T behave, I don't plan on it.

I just hope NYC is prepared for the invasion by the Murphy Girls Drinking Team!

I added an email link to my profile and (be impressed) I learned how to check my email from my phone! So if you want to drop me a line, I would love to hear from you. I'll probably even email you back. While I'm sitting on the toilet, most likely.

Because I'm CLASSY like that.

Thursday, July 17, 2008


Okay, KWR, prepare to be WOW-ed by my amazing home made cooking skills. You may need to book yourself a course at a top notch cooking school before attempting these, because I have MASTERFUL baking skills. MASTERFUL.

1 - box Chocolate Devils Food cake mix and necessary ingredients to prepare
1 - bag semi sweet chocolate chips (or not, either way)
1 - can cherry pie filling (cheap stuff works great)
1 or 2 - cans prepared cream cheese frosting (vanilla is good too, as is whipped cream)
chocolate baking powder stuff (the Hershey chocolate baking powder in the can, that stuff)


1) prepare cake mix according to directions, mix in about half the bag of chocolate chips
2) spoon enough cake mix into a cupcake liner to cover the botton (I use a heaping spoonfull)
3) layer two or three cherries with sauce into the center of cake mix (try to keep them away from the edge of the cupcakes or they fall apart)
4) add another heaping spoonfull of cake mix to cover the cherries and filling the liner about 3/4 full
5) bake according to mix directions
6) cool completely
7) frost and then garnish with powder & remaining chocolate chips & cherries

Note: these will keep tightly covered in the fridge for a least a week**. I like to eat them cold, but J likes them warm with ice cream.

Makes about 2 dozen

And there you go, that is my super secret signature delicious recipe. Impressive, right?

** In theory. They've never lasted that long.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Tag, I'm It!

Here's How It Works:

1. Link the person(s) who tagged you (DUDE. I don’t know how to LINK. Y’all go over to the blog roll and click on "Give Me A Minute, I'll Come Up With Something", okay? Please? She’s awesome.)
2. Mention the rules on your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours… (all my quirks are spectacular)
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them…(All y’all are tagged. SO THERE)

5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

Six Quirks About Me:

1) I annoy my husband to death with my need to have a made bed before I sleep. If the pillows and sheets aren’t “right”, I’ll fidget all night. I never make the bed in the morning though, I always make it right before I get in it.
2) If I was stranded on a desert island (as opposed to just in the desert) and I could only take one thing, I would take tweezers, because I am terrified of chin hairs. I have ONE chin hair that I’ve named Charlie because he shows up EVERY DAMN DAY.
3) Despite my overwhelming love for shoes and handbags, I have surprisingly few of either. But I LOVE red shoes. LOVE them. I currently have five pairs of red shoes, all of them shiny. I wore a pair yesterday, as a matter of fact. I hate tennis shoes though. I own one pair and wear them only to the gym because I think they’re ugly. I totally do not get people who wear big, clunky, blinding white trainers every where, every day. There are so many beautiful shoes out there people! Diversify!
4) I currently have 9 tubes of mascara. I’ve got a serious obsession with my eyelashes. If I didn’t think it would make me look like a stripper, I would wear fake lashes every single day. As it is, I have tried just about every brand and formula of mascara in existence. My favorites are Tarte “Lights, Camera, Lashes” for dressing up (it’s $18 a tube, but AMAZING) and for daily wear Maybelline “Lash Blast, Volume Blasting Mascara” both in black. I’ve worn mascara every single day since I was twelve and I think I look beady eyed with out it.
5) I claim that I hate to cook, but really I just hate to have to decide what to cook. By the time I decide the menu, shop, put away, take out, prepare, dish and serve it, I’m TOTALLY over whatever it was. When I had a roommate who liked to cook, I loved to cook with her. She would plan the meal, we’d shop for it together and split the prep and clean up and I had a blast. I do like to bake though, but I also like to eat what I bake, so normally I don’t, because I would weigh about 500lbs if I baked every time I felt the mood. I find it very soothing. That’s why everyone around me gets fat, because I like to feed them up with things like Black Forest Cupcakes and Skor Cookies.
6) If I hear the same song twice on the radio, I’ll change the station. There are like eleventy billion songs out there, so I can’t fathom why they play the same song twice an hour.

So there you go. AND NOW, for my encore, I’ll proceed with my NEXT tag;

10 random Facts about me!

Yeah, I know, I’m vain. But you love me.

1) I am right handed, but left eye dominant.
2) My life’s goal is to be a guest on the Oprah Show.
3) When I was a teenager, I worked at a series of summer camps where you went by a code name. Mine was “Gecko”. Years later, when M was a camper there, there was ANOTHER counselor called Gecko, as it turns out, her first name was ALSO Kendra. But she was born on Hawaii instead of Guam. FREAKY.
4) I believe in past lives, ghosts, collective memories and most other forms of “new age” beliefs. I think there is too much that we don’t understand and therefore dismiss. I call every ghost George after the ghost that lived in my little house and used to turn the drawers upside down and then replace them so the silverware fell out when you opened them. He was a prankster that one.
5) I dye my eyebrows.
6) You can always tell how things REALLY are in my life by the cleanliness of my house. The more stressed/unhappy I am, the cleaner my house. When things are good, my house is a wreck. I think this is because I need to feel in control and the act of cleaning and setting things to rights allows me to do that. The house is a wreck right now, by the way. =)
7) Sometimes, NOTHING tastes better than a hot dog with mustard and onions and an icy cold Coke Classic. Bonus points for being consumed with in sight of the ocean.
8) I have a permanent retainer glued to the inside of my bottom teeth
9) I’m thinking about piercing my nipples
10) I used to want to change my name to something more mainstream, like Christina or Jennifer, but now I like having an unusual name.

So there you go, 16 random bits of over sharing. Do you feel enlightened?

OH! And Crap! I forgot that I was ALSO tagged by I forget who with the “ASK ME ANYTHING” tag. As if you don’t know EVERYTHING about me already, right?

So, here’s the deal, you can ask me ANYTHING. Nothing is off limits and I have to answer. Leave your questions in the comments and I’ll post them later. This is your chance, peeps, don’t let it slip away. (Like I needed a tag for this? My middle name should be OVERSHARE!)

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The Story Behind the Picture I'd Rather Not See

So a few of you are new here and a few of you aren't but by way of explanation regarding the end of my "Kodak Moments" blog, here's the scoop....(that was a helluva run on sentence, sorry).

When M was seven we lived next door to a family with a little girl the same age and a boy about four years older. Like myself, the mom was a stay-at-home, so we split the duties of running the kiddos to things like swimming lessons and summer programs.

Despite being officially a non-worker, I was running a costuming business from our spare bedroom and because it was Renn Faire season, I was simply over run with orders. I popped next door and asked Neighbor Mom if she would pleasepleaseplease run the kids to swimming even though it was my turn. I bribed her with cake, but she was so sweet she would have done it anyway.

About a ten minutes later, I heard helicopters, sirens the whole nine, but thought nothing of it since we live not far from a busy street with a fire station/ambulance depot.

When they were an hour late, I figured they had stayed to swim and forgotten to call. I went next door. Neighbor Husband had not heard anything either. There was a commotion at the corner, so I assumed they were hung up in traffic. I walked to the corner, through the parting sea of neighbors and peered into the street.

The only resemblance to the car that remained was the color. It was literally crushed in half, the roof torn off the doors flung into the street after being removed by the jaws of life.

Ever calm in a crisis, I flagged down the nearest cop and asked what kind of car it was. He asked what kind of car it thought it was. I replied that I believed it was my neighbors Dodge Neon. The cop walked away and conferred with the incident commander who came over to talk to me. He asked if I knew how to contact the family of the victims.

I said I was the family. I wanted to know where my daughter was and I wanted to know RIGHT THEN.

What I remember most was the quiet. I remember not one sound except my own breathing. My own heart beat. The cop clearing his throat. The click-click-click of his pen as he debated my propensity for hysterics.

I met Neighbor Husband coming around the corner. I was told later that he fainted in the street, but by that time I was in my car and on my way to retrieve J from work.

We parked the car in a loading zone and hit the ER at a near run. They led us to a little room. NEVER, EVER, go into that room. Nothing good comes of it. The nurse and the Chaplin insisted that we sit down. This too, is never a good sign.

After a few minutes it became clear that they had sent us to the wrong hospital, and while this staff could tell us she'd been transported, she was not there. We broke land speed records to the other hospital. They wanted us to go into a room too. They asked if she had identifying marks or tattoos.

SHE IS SEVEN I calmly replied. She's missing her front teeth. She has on a mermaid swimsuit. She had crooked bangs. Her toenails are ten different colors. If there is something you need to tell us, JUST SAY IT.

The nurse leaves and come back alone. She's upstairs, they tell us and we're lead to the P.I.C.U.

M is hooked to every machine they have in the hospital. She is intabated, immoblized, catheterized, monitored, everything. She is also filthy with bloody, matted hair, her little face torn up, her body covered in bruises.

She is in a coma, though we don't know it yet. Every so often she emits ear shattering screams. She tells the Doctor to fetch her dad, but doesn't see him right before her. She shrieks to go home, she cries to have her goggles taken off. She yells for those men to go away, she DOES NOT LIKES THEM.

We spend a very sleepless night.

In the morning, we are met by the top pediatric neurosurgeon at the hospital. We are lucky to have been taken to one of the leading brain injury hospitals in the country. He hands us the scariest book in the world called something like "You're brain injured child".

He tells us that the child we had is gone and they can not promise the child that is left will ever recover fully or even at all. It is wait and see.

In the seven days that follow we learn the circumstances of the accident.

They had been stopped at the southbound intersection of a blind corner. When the light turned green neighbor mom proceeded into the intersection. They were struck at the "B" pillar by an ambulance traveling above the speed limit, through a red light, at a blind intersection without sirens. She never saw him coming. He did not see her until it was too late. All he could do was swerve. In an effort to avoid her, he struck the drivers door with the corner of the ambulance. Had he not swerved he would likely have gone right through the back seat of the car, killing the children. Instead, Neighbor Mom was killed. The two little girls in the back seat were crushed through an opening about 8" wide. Both of them. They were dead on scene and were revived by the very man that had killed them. The irony of it was not lost on anyone.

The City was more than solicitous during this time. They paid for our parking, our food, everything. They sent the cities grief counselor to tell us that the paramedic was devastated, that he could not sleep at night. That he was a father, too. That he had a little girl. That if he could do anything, anything at all, we only had to say.

The only thing that we asked for was retraining. The paramedic, in his effort to help another had broken his Hippocratic Oath to first harm none. He had violated the law (all emergency vehicles must come to a "prudent stop" before proceeding through any intersection with or against a traffic light), he had violated our lives.

On the seventh day, M was moved to the children's ward. She was still comatose. We didn't know when, or if, she would wake up.

And then.

The nurses name was Kelli. She was just coming on shift and wanted to know if we needed anything. Would I like an apple? Clear as a bell from the bed came M's reply.

I like apples.

Those three words are the most beautiful words ever spoken. Far surpassing any I love you ever uttered.

For a hour we talked to her, trying to get her to speak again. She was not interested. At last she asked for her baby, the blanket from the couch, for me to just HUSH already, she was tired.

She spent another week in the hospital, underwent every test ever, none of them with out expressing her extreme displeasure. It was clear that the sweet tempered daughter we had raised had been replaced by someone with no censor valve. It was pretty awesome. How liberating to just say what you think; what you really mean; EVERY time. That's what your frontal lobe does for you, it tells you when and how to react, it's the Polite Lobe. It's the part of the brain that keeps society from self destructing due to everyones inability to tell right from wrong. M's was irreparably damaged. Also lost was her short term memory. This too, has proved to be not that bad. I could agree to anything, and she was happy. I never had to deliver, because she didn't remember anyway. It was inconvient, though, because I'd feed her breakfast and a hour later she'd insist that I hadn't. It's effected her school work too, she lost about 20 points from her IQ. She tested at "extrememly bright" to "genius" levels in the weeks prior to her accident. Now she tests at "average".

But she is still here to test, so can we really complain?

It's true, certainly, that we were robbed; that she was robbed, of her potential. As she gets older, she notices more and more that she doesn't get things she should, that she can't remember, that she's not as smart. Her self esteem suffers, then, and that is worse than anything. That she feels "not good enough" is what breaks my heart. That it could have been prevented makes me angry beyond calcualtion.

In the end though, there is no use dwelling on it and we don't. I scold her for being implusive, I nag her about homework, I send her to her room for talking back, just like she was a "normal" kid. This is her normal. Right or wrong, this is what Fate has decided for her. All I can do is show her that strength comes from with in, that all you can be is your best, that there is no excuse for excuses.

But isn't that true of any mother?

Monday, July 14, 2008

Mars and Venus, Indeed.

There are incalculable numbers of differences between men and women. Chief among them has got to be a man’s ability to do nothing, literally *nothing* productive, for hours or even days at a time.

I’m not sure if it’s because of how they were raised or if it’s something to do with having a penis, but the fact of the matter is boys are infinitely better at fucking off than girls.

Truth be told, it pisses me the fuck off. How in the hell do they manage it?

Take this weekend, for example.

J comes home from work about five. I’m watching something on TiVo. Something specifically for people with vaginas. Something I have looked forward to watching for a couple of days at least. After pointing out that he thought my show was “crap” he stripped off his shirt and jacked the remote from me.

“Let’s go to dinner and then I need to pick some stuff up to change the oil on the truck” he tells me.

Now, any time I can get out of cooking, I’m ALL FOR IT. I HATE to cook. I acquiesce and inquire where he wants to eat. He claims he doesn’t care, but I can tell he’s not listening to me, he’s watching highlights on CNN and ranting about politics. So while he is doing nothing, I am straightening the living room.

We go to dinner, hit up Wallyworld and head home. It’s now 9pm or so. He heads to the bedroom to check his email. I do the dishes.

He emerges in work clothes and I head out to “help” change the oil. (I say “help” because my job is to step n’ fetch things like sockets and towels and whatever.) Half hour of sweating through our clothes later, we’re back in the house. He watches TV, I comb the dogs.

Saturday morning, he’s up at 3am to go hunting. By 3:30 the dogs are up and running about, so I’m up too. I finish a novel and figure, “what the heck! I’m up!” so I vacuum the whole house, dust, shampoo the carpets and clean the bathrooms.

He’s back home by 10:30, eats some lunch and takes a nap. I throw in a load of throw rugs and nap myself for an hour.

Back up at lunch time, he’s on the couch, I’m mopping the kitchen. Then it’s grocery store time and after that I finally shower. J continues to perfect his impression of a log.

Clothes changed, I head to the gas station and the drug store then make him a quick dinner before heading to a friends house for dinner and an excellent night of hanging out. Back home at midnight, I’m asleep by one.

Sunday morning, I’m up at 9:30, I toss in a load of darks and clean out the fridge. Then, because I’m starving, I make WAM (waffles and ham, for those not in the know) and fold some laundry. More washing in and out, and I’m straightening the book shelves.

Then, I remember I need a belt for a dress I bought, so into the shower and off to the mall. Being a good wife, I stop at the boy store and pick him up some manly things and then some lunch before home again to take a quick nap and do some more laundry.

Dinner on the stove and served, dessert made and issued, kitchen cleaned back up, trash to the curb, laundry hung up or folded and I sit down to read a book for a bit and out with the lights by 10:30 once I’ve gotten caught up on the world’s events.

Up this morning and to work a half hour early while J sleeps in before working second shift.

Sign into email, get caught up and responded and Eric IM’s me to ask what I did over the weekend. You know what I said?

“Lazed around doing nothing”!!!


What part of the above sounded like lazing around?

Now, having been an English Lit major in college, you think I would have at least a marginal grasp of the English language. AND YET. And yet, I think that enough manual labor to wear out a team of maids is LAZING ABOUT?

I clearly need help peeps. Serious help. Or at the very least a glass of whiskey.

Friday, July 11, 2008

I don't know who wrote this, but I totally want to make out with them

A JC Penney catalog from 1977. It's not often blog fodder just falls in my lap, but holy hell this was two solid inches of it, right there for the taking. I thumbed through it quickly and found my next dining room set, which is apparently made by adding upholstery to old barrels:

Also, I am totally getting this for my bathroom:

There's plenty more home furnishings where those came from, however I'm not going to bore you with that. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something else. The clothes.
The clothes are fantastic .

Here's how to get your ass kicked in elementary school:

Just look at that belt. It's like a boob-job for your pants. He probably needed help just to lift it into place. The belt loops have to be three inches long. And way to pull them up to your armpits, grandpa.

Here's how to get your ass kicked in high school:

This kid looks like he's pretending to be David Soul, who is pretending to be a cop who is pretending to be a pimp that everyone knows is really an undercover cop. Who is pretending to be 15.

Here's how to get your ass kicked on the golf course:

This "all purpose jumpsuit" is, according to the description, equally appropriate for playing golf or simply relaxing around the house. Personally, I can't see wearing this unless you happen to be relaxing around your cell in D-block . Even then, the only reason you should put this thing on is because the warden made you, and as a one-piece, it's slightly more effective as a deterrent against ass-rapery.

Here's how to get your ass kicked pretty much anywhere:

If you look at that picture quickly, it looks like Mr. Bob "No-pants" Saget has his hand in the other guy's pocket. In this case, he doesn't, although you can tell just by looking at them that it's happened - or if it hasn't happened it will. Oh yes. It will. As soon as he puts down his matching coffee cup.
Here's how to get your ass kicked at the beach:

He looks like he's reaching for a gun, but you know it's probably just a bottle of suntan lotion in a holster.
How to get your ass kicked in a meeting:

If you wear this suit and don't sell used cars for a living, I believe you can be fined and face serious repercussions, up to and including termination. Or imprisonment, in which case you'd be forced to wear that orange jumpsuit.

How to get your ass kicked on every day up to and including St. Patrick's Day

Dear god in heaven, I don't believe that color exists in nature. There is NO excuse for wearing either of these ensembles unless you're working as a body guard for the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

In this next one, Your Search For VALUE Ends at Penneys.

As does your search for chest hair.

And this -- Seriously. No words.

Oh wait, it turns out that there are words after all. Those words are What. The. F***. I'm guessing the snap front gives you quick access to the chest hair. The little tie must be the pull tab.

Also, judging by the sheer amount of matching his/hers outfits, I'm guessing that in 1977 it was considered pretty stylish for couples to dress alike. These couples look happy, don't they?

I am especially fond of this one, which I have entitled "Cowboy Chachi Loves You Best."

And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and a blonde girl with a look on her face that says "I love the way your junk fights against that fabric."

Then, after the lovin', you can relax in your one-piece matching terry cloth jumpsuits:

I could go on, but I'm tired, and my eyes hurt from this trip back in time. I think it's the colors. That said, I will leave you with these tasteful little numbers:

Man, that's sexy.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Kodak Moment

My husband sent me on a mission to find this picture

last night, and while I was looking for it, I was killing myself laughing and then, I was sad. Because there was nothing quite like the thrill of picking up your roll of film from the drugstore, opening that packet right there and flipping through snapshots to find out if they came out as well as you hoped they would.

Not to mention the joy you feel when you find a photo like this
while you dig through the desk looking for last years property tax statement.

Or one like this

tucked into an old book to make you remember the smell of salt on your skin.

It makes me sad that technology will mean that M can just delete pictures like this
or this

to prevent them from being used against her later the way that I fully intend to use these pictures. (That's my sister EyeTest, I mean Kassie rocking the pink sweat-suit)

As I sat in the middle of my living room floor pulling out album after album I found myself remembering the time my twin & I "climbed" a mountain

(she dresses WAY better now) and how crazy and carefree we all were

how a summer day didn't mean being cooped up in an office

it meant getting high in the park.

I suddenly had a nearly overwhelming longing for another baby when I saw just how cute M was

BUT then I remembered she was a freakin' BRAT she was for about the first 13 years

a brat with a FIERCE sense of fashion, though

Just as I was finishing up, resolving to dig out my giant manual winding Canon from the closet I opened one last roll of film.

There was M's 7th birthday party. Twelve little girls and this guy

rocking out in my living room with a karaoke machine, the Josie & The Pussycat's CD and 36 inflatable fish. I smiled as I remembered how completely happy everyone was that day. Not one squabble, the birthday girl radiant with the idea that we would take her to a movie at 10pm that night, that she would get pizza for dinner, that everything she asked for she got. I look at the one picture of myself from that day, six silk flowers in my hair, I'm making a face at the camera, but you can see that I'm happy, that the day could not have been happier, more perfect.

My heart sank though, because I knew what was coming next. I kept flipping though that stack of pictures, marveling at how young you can look, how innocent. I traced my finger over M's smooth forehead and then flipped the picture. There was her birthday cake, only the candles visible in the over-dark photo. I should have looked away, should have stopped there, stuffing the rest of the pictures back into the envelope.

I didn't; instead closing my eyes and laying that photo face down I sucked in my breath as I looked at the next picture, taken just two days later.

M's little face swollen and bloody as she lays hooked to tubes and machines, her blankie tucked beneath her comatose arm.

And I was grateful for the ability to delete pictures you don't want to ever see again.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Adam and Eve and Betty (GBE: 45, Cheating)

So, I’m probably the only one that’s going to not write a blog entitled “Why All Cheaters are Scumbags Who Must DIEDIEDIEDIE”. But, you know me, always have to be different.

I do not believe and never have believed, that there is only one person in the whole entire world that you are destined to love. I don’t believe that you can only love one person at a time. I don’t believe that modern American concepts of morality are the only “right” ways to believe. I don’t believe in condemnation for its own sake.

I believe that no one, not even its participants, knows everything that goes on in a relationship. I believe that it is wholly possible to love two or three or more people for different reasons, but still be “in love” with all of them. I believe that we all need as much love as we can get. I believe that you should be happy with the one you’re with and if you’re not, you should leave; but I am also realistic enough to know that you can’t always just walk away; so sometimes, one relationship will overlap another.

For me to say that someone is a bad person because they engaged in out-of-relationship relations is just like me judging them for any other reason…it’s not my place. I do not know what goes on in your home, in your bedroom or in your heart.

I do not know if your husband/wife/other makes you want to kill yourself every time you hear them chewing their dinner. You don’t owe me an explanation for feeling whole and calm only when you’re with someone other than said partner. It’s not my damn business.

Now, I can smell the burning rage emanating off of a couple of you. You’re probably thinking “Stupid Kiki, you’d feel differently if you’d ever been cheated on”. Well, no, actually, I feel this way because I was cheated on. I’d tell you my story about it, but it’s not that interesting and pretty short.

Ah, heck, I’ll tell you, because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want.

I had a boyfriend. I caught him (literally, caught him) fucking my friend. I was very, very hurt. Very angry. I hated both of them with adjectives I had to look up. Then, I talked to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t (like) love me, it was just that he (liked) loved her, too. It wasn’t that I wasn’t special, it wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough, it had nothing to do with how he felt about me at all, it’s just that he also felt this way about someone else.

My point of contention was that *I* deserved to know this information, to make a decision for myself regarding my participation in this triangular relationship. He agreed, apologized, expressed his regret/fear/worry about losing me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t what he needed/wanted, it’s just that he needed her too. He didn’t mean to hurt me, because it wasn’t ABOUT me. It was about him. Of course, being both angry and hurt, I chose to walk away. I chose to find someone else who loved (liked) only me. Friend and boyfriend got married about a year later. I got drunk. They have five children. He still signs his Christmas cards “love” and I still believe him. Could I have been happy with him? Probably. He’s a pretty great guy. Could he have been happy with me? We’ll never know.

I was pretty mad at him for a long time. I blamed him for “cheating” on me and “robbing” me of what I thought was mine. Like I owned him and he owed me.

Of course, I didn’t and he didn’t. We can only own ourselves. We can only owe ourselves happiness. Is it selfish? Hell, yes. Happiness is always selfish to some degree. Even if I do something that I know will make YOU happy, chances are it’s because making you happy makes ME have I really done it for you, or for myself?

Then, also, I grew up. I realized that it’s not my place to legislate your morality. If *I* don’t like what *you* are doing, then that’s on me. I can leave or not. Would I be hurt or angry if my husband had an affair? Maybe. It would depend on the who and the why and then when and a thousand other factors. Would I instantly strike him from my life? No, that would just be silly; I wouldn’t NOT love him because he loved another, if that’s what made him happy. I don’t tell him not to hunt, I don’t ask him not to see his friend that I dislike, I wouldn’t make him choose between them and me. If being I felt that his time with another woman took away from what *I* needed from him then it would be up to me to either get/ask/take what I needed from him or leave and find it somewhere else.

I think how I feel about it comes down to the “why” more than anything. Everyone does everything for a reason, no matter how base, matter how small, no matter how controllable it seems; there is a reason for everything.

* There are “cheaters” who do it for revenge. They do it to “punish” their partner for a short coming, for not being a “good” provider, a “good” or “supportive” partner or for having an affair of their own. One day, they’ll throw their sexual conquests in the face of their partner, because the purpose all along was to hurt someone else. This kind of cheater does suck, I won’t argue with you there.

* There are thrill of the moment “cheaters”. These are the people who coined the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”. They don’t cheat to hurt their partner, they’ll probably never tell their partner. They’ll probably be wracked with guilt for the rest of their lives. This cheater, I think, can be "forgiven".

* There are the “cheaters” that can’t help themselves. Low self-esteem, prior abuse, substance abuse; something other than the sex is what drives them. Sex is the balm for their wounds. If it wasn’t sex, it would be gambling, or drinking or some other potentially self-destructive behavior. They probably will cheat until they get caught. They probably can’t explain exactly WHY they do it, they only know that they HAVE to. This kind of cheater should also be "forgiven", they need help.

* There are “cheaters” who cheat for love. Oh, yes, I said it. This kind of cheater is not a serial offender, would probably be one of the first to tell you “cheating” is wrong….and yet. This cheater probably loves their partner, or did love their partner, very much. Then, they met another. Someone they love just as much, or think that they do, or may someday. This cheater sometimes lives a double life; a man with two families in two towns or a mistress of decades, for example. Sometimes, they leave their spouse, sometimes not. Sometimes, it’s culturally acceptable (France, for example has both a long and current history of accepting extra-martial relationships as normal or even healthy). Here it’s not. Sometimes this “cheater” is in the leaving stages of one relationship when they find they love another, is it my place to tell them they must wait, if in their heart the other relationship is done?

This fourth cheater is the stickiest kind, isn’t it? How do you condemn someone for love? How do you look at a woman who’s spent decades waiting in the wings, loving when she can a man that belongs to another, simply because the other came first? Do you tell her that she has any less right to be happy? What of the married partner? Can you blame them for not wanting to leave someone they promised to love forever if they still do, in fact, love them? Can you ask them to separate themselves from their children because they love someone in addition to those children’s mother?

How can you ask someone to destroy themselves because YOU don’t feel their behavior conforms to YOUR idea of what’s morally right?

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Move Aside, Award Winning Blogger Coming Through

Good news Peeps! I have been awarded a prestigious award called the “Arte y Pico” award! An award so coveted that YOU HAVE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF IT, it’s that secret and awesome. It’s so awesome that I get a magical…..just never you mind what it is.

I got this accolade of great glory from the hilarious Lorrie over at That’s a lot of “blog” in one blog, but she’s well worth seeing past the repetitiousness of her blog name because she is a drunk like me….I mean blogger of great caliber.

She came to visit this filthy mouthed corner of the world and she thought little ol’ me was worthy of this wonderful recognition. You know what? I SURE FOOLED HER! And you know what else? I’m taking it and running gleefully away to pet it, and love it, and call it George.

You know what the best part is though? It’s the kind of award that you pass on down the road once you’re done molesting it. And by molesting it, I mean licking it. And by licking it, I mean….licking it. What the hell else could I mean?

I mean LOOK AT IT…..

You know you want to lick it too.

So here’s how it works, I am going to use my MASSIVE power to bestow this coveted glory on the following five people (in no particular order) who must then pass it on to others of equal, um, quality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give it UP for;

Miss Nadine Hightower at because she’s my beloved blog sister. Beloved for being a)shorter than me and b)a kick ass beehive wearing queen of the country road.

Liz, My heterosexual pig farming life partner at she doesn’t blog much, but it’s because she’s busy chopping up bodies…FARMING. I mean farming.

Landinn – at she gives awesome job hunting tips and rights insightful blogs about deep topics. Unlike someone you might know who blogs about her own ass a lot…

KWR221 at she’s my new snarking buddy. We visit all the same sights and gasp at all the same fashion tragedies and yet still manage to not stab our collective eyes out with proverbial forks. AND she has a boat. She hasn’t invited me over yet, BUT SHE WILL.

And drum roll please…..the final Arte y Pico goes to……

Manda at Miss Manda has three adorable babies, a hunky man, a lovely new house and she’s gorgeous. So I hate her. JUST KIDDING. I love her. She’s also very funny, very sweet and CANADIAN. I know, right?

So there you go ladies, you too can be one of about 65,000 people who are now equal to Nobel Peace Prize winners, the Poet Laureate and the Baby Jesus.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Waiting for Mine

I still believe in love at first sight.

I still believe in Prince Charming, happily ever after and undying love.

I still believe in roses, in surprises, in just because.

I still believe that one word is enough, that one touch is enough, that one glance is enough to say everything.

I still believe that you get what you need even if you didn't know you need it.

I still believe that everything will work out.

I don't know if this makes me brave or stupid.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Alone Together (GBE 44: Independence)

There is a difference between independent and alone.

Standing on my own feet and having no one to support me are not the same thing.

Making my own choices, for my own reasons is not mutually exclusive to wanting advice.

I would give you the shirt off my back, the food from my plate, my heart to hold, my soul; if you needed it. I would give it to you even if you didn’t. I would stand up for you, stand up to you, stand up beside you; with out hesitation.

It scares the breath out of me that you would do the same.

All this time, I have thought I wanted to be alone when what I needed was independence.

Thank you for helping me see the difference.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Why I am going to Hell, reason 9,652

So my beloved Sister is getting married in September. She's very laid back and describes her wedding colors as "comfortable green". Yes, vague, I know. But nice. Because some of us (me) do not look good in all shades of green so we've got the option to find a color that suits us.

She's also allowed each of the bridesmaids to find their own style dress, shoes of their choice, etc. Basically, she's a bridal consultants nightmare. She even made a "floral designer" sputter with indignation when she said, "Oh, I don't care, whatever's easiest". EASIEST? Has this girl NEVER been to a wedding? There is NO easiest when it comes to wedding, there is only "How many hoops can I make my friends jump through before someone strangles me with their butt-bow?".

So, in an effort to make her wedding as dramatic as possible her mother-in-law texts her everyday to nag her about what shoes the bridesmaids will be wearing. *I* am wearing red patten peep toe platforms. With sparkles and *maybe* a slot in the toe bed for cash. Just saying.
But this isn't about my shoes. This is about the damn dress. So y'all remember when I was searching all over hells half acre for this dress in green?

Yeah, well it doesn't exist. Anywhere. So I figured if I couldn't have the dress I wanted I'd do my very best impression of a Long Island Princess in this dress instead;

Cute right? So I find the color that looks best with the dresses already been ordered and march my happy ass into the nearest David Bridal to order it. Except you need to have ordered in 23 weeks in advance. I (rudely) point out the color just became AVAILABLE less than a week before. They do not care. I order this dress instead in the picturesque color of fern;

IT will be here in mid August.

I'm pretty pleased with myself thinking that I'm all done with that horrible, mind sucking place BUT NO. I have to go order M's JR bridesmaid dress. SIGH.

So back I go. I wait in line for 25 minutes while the ONE sales girl working the front has a long involved discussion about canapes and shrimp boats and the virtue of the color "serenity" over "smoke" when at LONG FUCKING LAST it is my turn.

The following conversation ensues;

BridalGirl - Is the um, like, BRIDE registered here?
Me - No. But I should be in your system. I ordered a dress on Saturday
(side note; see how I am being MOSTLY polite?)
BG - You, like, need ANOTHER dress?
Me - It's not for me. It's for my daughter
BG - OH, I was like OMG, Who needs TWO dresses, even I don't, um, LOVE weddings that like much
Me - Me either. My 13 year old does though
BG - LIKE OMG, you look like so YOUNG to have a teenager!
Me - I gave birth when I was 10

(uncomfortable silence)
(nervous laughter)
(uncomfortable silence)

What? Like you wouldn't have done the same thing!