If you've been reading the Kerry Blog for awhile, you know I love the Mr. T. I love the Mr. T even more when he appears on television shows you would NEVER expect him to be a guest on. For instance, "Taking Stock" on the Bloomburg channel. Yes, it's a show about stocks and investments, so naturally, they would have Mr. T on for a segment on gold.
Oh, yes the did.
I will now be using Gold Promise for my retirement plan.
A few months ago I read that mary janes are nice if you want to be the cute girl, that there was nothing wrong with being the cute girl — but they weren't fashion or high glam.
Maybe they're not high glam, but they're sassy and I do love sassy.
These are my favorites on Zappos.com right now.
I do believe I need these.
Fun for everyday. Hot pink stitching? Fun.
These also come in red, but how many red mary janes do I need? A few more.
Yes, I'll take these in a 9, thank you.
And now, the promo for TLC's new show "Sarah Palin's Alaska."
Yes, she really said “I’d rather be doing this than in some stuffy old political office. I’d rather be out here bein’ free.”
Full disclosure: I've never been president or vice president, so I can't be absolutely positive, but I believe there is a great deal of office stuff involved. Good thing she and McCain weren't elected — it totally would have cramped her style, man.
A story, but first…
Back in the day (which spans the mid 80s to the mid 90s), I kept a journal. When I was about 11, it was a real deal diary complete with lock and key, where I wrote about goings on in 6th grade and my infatuation with a boy named Allen. By 8th grade it was John and writing about making friends and losing friends and music. There was always music. In high school I amassed a collection of journals — sometimes marbled composition notebooks, hard-backed book journals, random notebooks — almost any bound paper would do.
And in those journals I tucked away every thought, emotion, and experience. First date, first kiss, first heartbreak. First love, first dark place, first lies. There were names named and there were things written in a way that only I knew what I meant. There were pages of poetry, stream of consciousness, well-thought out plans, drawings, song lyrics, letters never sent, and lots of wishes. I wrote for the school paper, for the city newspaper, and for myself. Writing for myself, in my journals was always where I felt most at home, using my voice, where there were no rules.
It was probably 1994 when I gave up journal writing. By then I was writing papers on dead authors in college. Nothing quite kills an expressive writer like writing about dead writers.
In 2003, I was a mom of a two-year old and needed to send pictures of the munchkin to family, so instead of doing what a normal woman would do, I started a website. In 2003 there was no such thing as "mommy bloggers." I posted pictures of the kid and wrote about my life in Canada, my book club, play dates, and snow.
At some point I made the switch from the website to Blogspot, then to Wordpess, then to Typepad. And at some point I started posting fewer things about mom life and more about my life. I suppose that's when the blog turned into my journal, where once again there were no rules. I cared more about writing and entertaining myself than entertaining my family members, which is when other people started reading. Writing is a great form of communication, an outlet, and a way of life for me. A lot of you get that. Maybe you kept journals back in the day too.
So, friends and interwebs strangers, thanks for being there through a difficult week, when I needed to write to feel a connection. The Facebook notes have been great. But seriously, no inspirational quotes, I can't take it.
If I sound jaded it's only because I am. And I say that with love.
Love your guts,
Kerry
I'm not positive, but I think I dreamed this once.
From my boyfriend Anderson Cooper's Twitter – "in IA for story on ape communication. The apes asked me to dress as a rabbit. Weird, huh?"
I'm just going to leave this here.
I'm narrowing down the images for my Christmas card.
This from artist Lukas Ketner is a contender.
I saw this on Regretsy and I know it's Obama, but hell if doesn't look like Will Smith meets Prince with a Lisa Frank unicorn. And that, my friends, is awesomesauce.
This is Part 2. Part 1 is below this post. It's already been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Blogging.
My Saturday in the hometown started nicely with a great visit with Darla, her twins, and hubs. Good times. I had planned to meet my dad, grandmother, and his fiancé and called him after leaving Darla's. He told me that my aunt, her boyfriend, and his fiancé's sons would be meeting us — because it was a good time for me to meet them. Of course it was!
I sat between my dad and my grandmother, showed pictures on my iPhone of the kids, asked about my other aunts — the usual. It was going well. The fiancé was late, as were her two sons. I have a thing for punctuality, but I let it go because I was in one of my favorite restaurants and my grandmother was unintentionally cracking me up. I should have known things would turn crazy.
When our food arrived, my dad held out his hands to me and my aunt and asked me to say a blessing. Now, this would not surprise me if it were my grandfather, but this was my dad.
The extent of my spiritual conversations with my dad goes something like this: once I was home from college for Thanksgiving or Christmas and was watching Oprah in my parent's living room, half-way paying attention to the show and reading a magazine. Deepak Chopra was on talking about what he viewed the afterlife to be. At a commercial break, my father says, "you know, I do believe we go somewhere when we die." THAT'S IT. THE END. I grew up going to a protestant church with my grandparents, volunteered every year as a teen at VBS, was active in a college Christian organization — the whole nine yards. My parents were not church-goers and besides the nightly blessing over dinner, God was not a big topic of conversation. We never prayed in restaurants.
And so, I said a blessing. I'm accustomed to praying aloud — just not with this side of the family. Not ten seconds after I said "amen," my aunt's boyfriend voiced his opinion that prayers should be silent as to each individual's personal preference. I had offended him. Great. Later, my grandmother corners me in the restroom and tells me the fiancé is Jewish. So, I guess it was a good thing I held back on my prayer and didn't mention the blood of Christ washing away our sins to pave the way for our eternal salvation. You know, I wouldn't want to offend anyone else.
After lunch I drove for a bit to process the day so far.
That night I had a perfectly nice dinner and visit with a friend and afterward was going westbound on I-20 when what seemed like a nightmare began to unravel. I hit something metal that was standing straight up in the left lane. After I hit it, I looked in my rear-view mirror in time to see the car behind me hit whatever "it" was and start spinning. I didn't know what to do, so I drove over the overpass that was before me and pulled over safely, put on my hazards and checked out the damage. It didn't look that bad, I wasn't injured, but I was hysterical. I called Triple A and they called the state troopers for me, told me to sit tight and wait, so I did. There were several emergency vehicles on the other side of the interstate by this time, crossing the median to get to the scene. All I could see were their lights behind me glowing and there were no cars passing me at all. I tried calling the hubs, no answer. I called my friend Will. I cried. I was okay. I told myself to breathe. I called the hubs again, this time he answered. I told him I didn't know what I hit, but I wasn't the only car involved and moments later a deputy appeared at my door.
The deputy escorted me back to the wreck site and told me that it was a six car accident, but one car left the scene. I hit a trailer that had come unattached from an RV. It had been towing a golf cart. An 18-wheeler hit it first, then an SUV hit part of it, then I sideswiped the trailer. My car was the only one that was drivable. It was terrifying and I was told that if I would have been in the right lane I'd be dead. None of the vehicles involved had lights on.
I barely remember driving back to my hotel.
Sunday morning I got up, cried, cried some more, and got ready to check out. I went by my grandfather's house and told my mom what had happened, had coffee, and told her I'd call when I made it back home. I had breakfast with Molly and her two boys, then left for my five-hour trip home. I drove like a grandma.
The damage to the car is not impressive. I'm not sure about the damage to my emotional state. I'm not eager to get behind the wheel again. The hubs went to the grocery store today because I couldn't do it. We were planning on making the trip up for Thanksgiving, but now I'm not so sure. I may be making the cornbread dressing and sweet potato pie myself (if someone gets me the ingredients).
So, Universe, you win.
I'm not leaving the house again. It's okay, really. It will give me time to organize my closet and maybe learn to knit or quilt or clean. It's a good thing, right?
I am never leaving my house again.
I mean it. I plan to become a hermit. I see only a few drawbacks to my plan. I'll need to learn to make sushi and if I don't leave the house my chances of meeting Andrew McCarthy will be virtually nonexistent.
When I leave home things happen. I know things happen to everyone, but as you know, I'm special. Because I'm special, crazy ass things happen to me. I would pull out the KBF Crazy Ass Archive and reminisce, but there are new stories to tell. And so, here's most of the story — because I don't care anymore.
October 10th was supposed to be the date of my dad's wedding. A couple of months ago the wedding was postponed because my aunt was diagnosed with ALS and the ex-husband of my father's fiancé died suddenly. It was understandable that they would choose to postpone the wedding with all the family drama, but I still planned on making the trip to the hometown to visit family and friends because it was a good weekend for me.
The drive up was fine. Lunch with Hillary in Baton Rouge — had a great coconut and lemongrass soup, laughed a lot, spilled some sauce on the boob shelf which is my chest — whatever. It was good. On the way, I noticed that all but one mile of all three interstates I travelled on were being mowed. It was at this time I realized that when I switched purses, I hadn't put my inhaler in the bigger raspberry satchel. Don't worry, I ended up not needing it anyway.
When I got to the hometown, I went to my grandfather's house, said my hellos and went to dinner with my mom who told me she hates my Facebook profile picture. Hates. No reason for the hatred given. That's okay, there is plenty of hatred to go around, I suppose. We went back to my grandfather's, watched tv, then I left to check into my hotel. Of course their computers were down at the hotel and it was 30 minutes before I could check in. The front desk lady apologized several times and I thought "what would I expect – this is me, this is what happens when I leave home." On my hotel room door was a wet paint sign. Still, I'm not surprised. No, I'm jaded and know the universe fucks with me to see just how far I can be pushed before I hit my head against the freshly-painted door repeatedly and the men in white coats come to take me away.
The next morning I ripped the coffee packet thingie open and coffee went everywhere. I said "I give up" out loud and went on about my day despite not having coffee. I put on my new cute gray mary janes and dared the universe to beat me. Ha. My plan was to go the Red River Revel arts festival to see my friend Will perform. The Revel did not want me to go. I drove around for at least 20 minutes looking for a place to park. I accidentally drove over the Texas Street bridge because I was in the wrong lane at one point. So, I'm not good with the parking, fine. I parked in a casino parking garage, noted that I was on the second level, and walked approximately 42 blocks to the festival. It was at this point I remembered that the last time I'd worn new shoes on a day I would be doing a lot of walking I'd said that was the LAST time I'd do that. Obviously, I'm not good with the learnin' either. But the Revel was great. Will's wife Molly, their son, and I walked to the parking garage afterward, said our "see ya laters" and I began to look for my car. It was not on the second level. I could see my car below and walked down the ramp, cursing my mary janes and my bleeding ankles.
I was downtown at a red light when there was a knock at my passenger's side window. A heavily-tattooed ZZ Top reject on a motorcycle was making the international sign for "roll down your window" despite the fact that no one has the rolly things anymore and we push buttons now. I figured it was daylight and he might not kill me, so I put the window down. He said "yer back tire's going flat." I said "thanks" and put up the window and got on the interstate headed toward my grandfather's house. My grandfather put air in my tire and told me to go to a tire/tune-up place he goes to, so I did. At the tire place, Mr. Tire Man told me it would be two hours before they could get to my car because one of his guys was on vacation and one was out sick. I didn't have much of a choice, so I waited. And waited. In the big waiting room there were two tvs. One was playing CMT, the other (by the coffee machine) was playing Gangland. I sat by the coffee machine. The show told the story of a gang member named OMG. I decided I was changing my name to STFU. After Gangland, Mr. Tire Man switched the channel to the Andy Griffith Show. It was the episode where Andy opens the first coin-operated laundry in Mayberry. Yippee. Then Good Times came on. It was dyno-mite. Then The Jeffersons. We were movin' on up. Mr. Tire Man told me my car was ready and I was "all good." I asked him how much it would be. He said I was "all good" again. I asked what that meant. He told me they changed the inner liner and it was no charge. I wondered how they make any money and left.
That night my mom and I took my grandfather to dinner for his birthday. It was nice. Afterward, my grandfather wanted me to drive by his church to show me the new building, so we did. After that he asked if I'd like to go by my grandmother's grave. Well, sure, because that's the way I like to end my evening and no meal is complete without stopping by the cemetery.
End of Part 1. Part 2 will be up soon. I need a margarita.
I went to the hometown over the weekend.
Bunches of things happened.
I'll be working on a post today about the fuckery that was my trip. Until then, enjoy the ecard.
Love,
KBF
There hasn't been a Tunes You Need Tuesday in quite some time, but Ben Folds put out a new album, so I'm bringing it back, baby.
Lonely Avenue is the new album by Folds with lyrics by author Nick Hornby. Yes, Nick Hornby, author of High Fidelity and About a Boy. If you've read Hornby's novels or seen the films based on them, you know that music plays an important part in all of his work, but it's rare to see a novelist turned songwriter.
My review: Hornby and Folds make a dynamite combination. I'm a fan of both, but together they really bring it. The lyrics are great – very much a story-telling vibe, something unlike anything you'll hear on the radio today and the music is pure Folds.
Folds and Hornby introduce the album and explain how it was written as well as have excerpts of the songs in this lovely little video.
This is "From Above." Folds says Hornby wrote it about soulmates and how we must pass each other on the street, never meeting.
And because after hearing it I said "wow," here is "Levi Johnston's Blues." Yes, as in Bristol Palin's baby daddy. The chorus is from his My Space page. It's kind of insane. In a good way.
I'm sure I'll post more as more live videos pop up on the You Tube, as I'd rather give you the videos rather than just the audio. I do love the Ben Folds live videos, he's such a great performer. So enjoyable, just like the new album.
