Category: Kerry

(please please please) be my Valentine

A few weeks ago I wrote a guest post for my friend Will Maranto's blog (a quite enjoyable blog you should check out) about writing and my love for a certain typewriter I'm coveting and right now I'm thisclose to getting it.  Yes, I know, I'm usually the tech girl and this is way low-tech, being that it's manual, but the 1969 Olivetti Valentine typewriter is a thing of beauty.  I'm just hoping some punk or hussy doesn't come drive up the price on my Valentine's Day gift to myself.  

Valentine
I'm not going to go into why I need this typewriter, just know that I need it. 

Look at those keys.  

You did notice it's red, didn't you? 

Did I mention the case it comes with doubles as a wastepaper bin?  Genius.

And it says "valentine" right on the front to remind me of how smitten I am with this machine. 

If for some reason I am outbid on the Olivetti Valentine, I will assume one of my readers has purchased it for me as a "your blog is the bestest in all of blogdom" Valentine gift. 

On a completely different note, I wouldn't usually ask my dear readers to come to the aid of any causes (because I know all my wonderful peeps are charitable to start with), but if you live in the area and have the resources, the Covington Food Bank may have to close at the end of the week if it doesn't get any food donations.  If you are able to help, it would make a make a very real difference in someone's life.  Not to get on a soap box, but the recession is hitting home for a lot of people and I don't see the $800 billion stimulus package feeding anyone this week and I still haven't received my damn free unicorn either. Here's more on the Covington Food Bank if you would like to help. 

What the hell Friday: dear diary edition

Once again, my thunder has been stolen.  If I had a nickel, people. 

Maybe you've heard of a little book called "He's Just Not That Into You," the authors, Greg Berhendt and Liz Tuccillo, have been featured on everything — you've seen them, you've heard them, you've seen the book in Barnes and Noble.  I've read an excerpt of the book and I'll break it down for you: don't waste your time on men who aren't interested in you and – newsflash – guys like to pursue women.  This is freaking genius, Pulitzer Prize stuff!  Well, guess what?  Now it's a movie.  And I want a cut of the ticket sales.

Why?  You may remember the theme of this movie from a little-known book called "my diary."  What the hell? 

Seriously though, I know I was no different than any other girl as a teenager and a single girl in my early twenties, trying to find my way in the dating world and thinking I must have "weirdos apply here" tattooed on my head.  My high school friends can attest to the quality of some of my boyfriends, and college friends will tell you how I won over my hubs, Scott.  Today I thought I'd tell some of the lesser-known stories that are pure entertainment, but at the time were pure torture.

Back when I was a naive cute-as-heck 16 year-old, I dated a series of losers.  I'm pretty sure I could have won gold in the Psycho Dating Olympics.  I would have at least gotten bronze (and I wouldn't have smoked pot afterward like some Olympians).  So, here's a true story from my dating life circa 1991:

I had a ginormous crush on a boy year older than me, whom I was on the school newspaper staff with, we spent an hour together everyday, our journalism teacher even tried to fix us up, lovely.  The short story: he was not remotely interested in me and started dating a girl with two first names a year younger than me, of course she was a beyatch, but teenage boys were stupid and couldn't see that kind of thing.  Anymoron, he wrote me a note one day saying he knew I liked him and was not "interested in any extracurricular relationships."  Well, me, being me couldn't let this go and had to write a note back saying he was an idiot for not using the word extracurricular correctly.  Bold much?  I remember telling my BFF of said note-writing, who said, "extracurricular dating?  what a moron." Thank you.

So, since said genius wasn't digging my scene, I was totally on the dating market — look out boys!  I went on to have a couple of perfectly dreadful relationships, one of which was with a boy who, after dating for two months, stood me up for homecoming.  I was one of the homecoming dance planners so that was not superfantastic.  Let's see, I went out with a Air Force dude who told me I wasn't experienced enough for him — again, nice!  Being dumped for not being slutty was pretty confusing — a compliment?  I didn't know.  What the hell? 

At Louisiana Tech, I met Scott and he fell head over heels for me, obviously, when I was a freshman — but he was older and graduated when I was a sophomore.  We did the long distance thing, then took a break or broke up, whatevs.  At that time I was an RA in Dudley dorm and had the best residents ever, 2 of whom were the cousins of my high school BFF, oddly enough; and they had a roommate with a guy cousin.  I know, weird.  Anyfamilia, the roommate's cousin developed a crush on me and asked me to have coffee one day after a library science class and I went.  First mistake.  His name was Guy (okay, not his real name, but close).  We had coffee, he seemed normal enough, I said I'd have coffee with him another day, the next week, whatev.  So, we go to the coffee shop again and a few minutes in, I realize he's a little odd.  I few minutes later, I believe he's kinda crazy.  I decided it was a good time to fake having to be on RA duty for the night and asked him to drive me back to my dorm and we left.  I couldn't wait to tell my friends what a freakazoid Guy was and thought I'd made a smart move getting out of this before anything started.  Go me! 

As he drove past my dorm I realized I was being kidnapped.  I thought, "now who would kidnap a chubby redheaded girl?" then remembered "Silence of the Lambs" and started to freak out on the inside.  I reminded him that my dorm was getting further away and he told me he wanted to show me a house a few miles away.  WTF?  Great, I was going to be a person suit, just what I needed.  I contemplated how injured I would get if I jumped out of the vehicle and looked around the truck for any weapons.  No weapons.  He drives to the middle of NoFreakinWhere, Louisiana (close to Ruston) and shows me this dilapidated house, tells me this is where he'd like us to live one day and I realize he is certifiable and he could probably outrun me, defintely run me over with his truck.  I'm looking around for the well I'm sure Guy is going to drop me into and hope Jodie Foster drives by.  And so eventually (after over an hour) I talk him into driving me back, using psychology, and when his truck came to a stop in front of Dudley, I run into my hall director's apartment and call the Tech police.  I recount the story to my HD and the Tech cops, who do exactly nothing about the crazy Guy.  I was pissed. 

And so it was almost the end of the quarter and I moved my stuff into Kidd dorm, where I would be an RA during the summer.  Crazy Guy had backed off and I learned he wouldn't be attending Tech during the summer, so I was able to relax.  That was until he started showing up at the dorm almost everyday and Crazy Guy became Guy the Stalker.  It got to where I was pretty much trapped in the dorm because he would wait at the front door until I would leave for class.  I didn't want to risk becoming a person suit so, I began to spend my afternoons safe in the housing office, hang out off campus at my friend Carole's, and would return at night to the dorm to sleep.  There would be dozens of messages on my machine when I got back to the dorm and I was miserable.  One night "Silence of the Lambs" came on and I don't think I left my dorm room for over 48 hours.  Being away from Scott and having the crazy stalker was taking its toll on this chick. I'd dropped two classes and gained twenty pounds, awesome!   So, summer wound down and Stalker Guy backed off again until fall when he started the stalking again.  At that point a male friend got involved and Stalker Guy never darkened my doorway again.   I don't know what was said or if fisticuffs broke out, but I knew I had never been so glad for a guy to never call me again! 

And that's the story of how Kerry learned that bad boys may be bad boys, but then again, they may be psycho crazy kidnappers.  So, I won't be seeing "He's Just Not That Into You" because I've lived enough of that, thank you very much. 

this should explain a lot

Although I've never been diagnosed with ADD (not the hyperactivity part for obvious reasons), I believe I have it and no one can convince me otherwise.  I've had the hardest time trying to write a post for the past few days.  Several times this week I have sat down with my laptop with an idea in my head (where I keep all my best ideas), write a title, start a sentence — maybe two, and something breaks my train of thought.  Actually "train of thought" isn't such a great phrase for my thoughts.  Maybe a "minivan of thoughts," maybe even a "caravan of thoughts," but I'm fairly certain I've never strung together enough thoughts to constitute a "train of thoughts." 

Anyflaky, so I thought I'd walk you through the types of things that have happened while trying to blog over the past day or so. 

I sit down to write about recording the commercial with my trusty laptop, cup of coffee, notepad, Sharpie pen, and phone.  I get as far as the title when the phone rings. 

  • Scott calls to say someone called him about a job in Angola (the country, not the prison).  What is he thinking?  I'm going to have a stroke.  For real this time.
  • I Google "Angola" to make sure it's in Africa — yeah, it's still in Africa.
  • I sing the song "Africa" by Toto to myself
  • check the ScrapFest! email to see if we've received the MP3 of the commercial, nope
  • check Facebook and comment on stuff. 
  • back to the blog
  • Andrew comes over for a snack.  I tell him I'm not making blueberry muffins and no, he can't eat the baking powder.  He finally accepts some Goldfish crackers.  I have a cookie.
  • I decide to change my shirt, then end up putting on lipgloss, and look in one of my bags for my Pandora bracelet that is currently missing. 
  • phone rings, it's my mother-in-law telling me to call my sister-in-law about the party this weekend
  • for some reason I give Andrew some Tootsie Rolls (this will haunt me later).
  • back to the blog, write exactly three words, hear Lucy bark and look outside
  • check email — no commercial
  • check Facebook, chat with a friend for a bit, check Kirtsy.com and look at a few popular stories (find a supercute outfit), check our bank account, check CNN
  • phone rings, it's Megan, Scott beeps in to say Angola's not that bad blah blah blah blah
  • check my email — ooooooo– Mignon Faget for Valentine's Day.  Look at mignonfaget.com, decide they really should have made the bee earrings in silver to go with my pendant, but no one asked me.  Think about making a Valentine's wish list, maybe earrings.
  • more coffee
  • read exactly half an article in Rolling Stone, Andrew wants to watch Thomas the train, so I put his DVD on, find that he has ground some Goldfish into the carpet, I vaccuum the Goldfish
  • back to the laptop, someone's trying to talk to me on Facebook, we chat, I watch Leslie Hall's "How We Go Out" video and laugh, check the weather for tomorrow, ponder what to wear to Andrew's speech eval, do some dishes, check SF email — no commercial, check my email — ooooooo — there's a perfect Olivetti Valentine typewriter on eBay.  Now, that's a Valentine's gift!  Think about Valentine's again.  Think about Mardi Gras, should the kids and I go to S'port?  Houston?  Why the heck is school out for a week for Mardi Gras?  Remind myself I live in south Louisiana.
  • phone rings, it's Scott saying he needs a table for his apartment.  I try to blog while talking to him, can't — check out lolcats, FU Penguin,tell Scott to get a card table as we do not need another table, check out coolmompicks.com and email Molly about a funky kids clothing site. 
  • back to the blog, check SF email — no commercial, call Megan and laugh about what music they could possibly put behind our voices on the ad.  I was pulling for "Love Shack" or something else by the B-52's, the original southern party band, and Megan likes "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun."  I say we should have "Lowrider" and Megan agrees. As everyone knows, that is our original theme song for scrapbook trips.  I put a few things in the dishwasher.
  • back to the blog, sing "Lowrider" and go to the iTunes store — I'm pretty sure they have subtly changed the interface, but I'm not positive.  Ben Fold's "Bitch Went Nuts" comes on, I cringe when he says the C word.  I'm not big on cursing, but not especially bothered by cursing, but the C word is just cringeworthy.
  • iTunes has a Paul McCartney EP, interesting.  I hear Andrew say "uh-oh" and get up to see what he's doing — he has gotten himself stuck to the carpet.  It looks like he had fallen asleep while eating the Tootsie Rolls and they are stuck to his cheek.  Brilliant!  I ponder how to remove my son from the carpet and decide a warm wet washcloth should do it.  He cries while I go get the washcloth, cries while I apply the washcloth to his face, cries as he is freed, runs off to go upstairs and yells "thank Mom!"  no, not "thanks," he says "thank."  I clean up the carpet, wonder why we ever got carpet in the first place, decide that we should get wood in the living room and contemplate ripping up the carpet myself.  Decide that's probably not a good idea.
  • back to the computer, completely forget what I was doing, never listen to the McCartney EP.  Call Beth and tell her about the recording studio experience so she can have something to laugh at.  My left eye starts watering — it's always my left eye — wassup with that?  Stupid allergies.  Chat with Mandy on Facebook about having lunch this week, I remind her to remind me to give her the clothes I have for Emily in a big Hefty bag that I've been driving around for almost a month. 
  • pour myself another cup of coffee, losing track of how many cups that makes.  Notice that it's kinda cold and think I should put on socks.  I hate socks. 
  • back to the blog, write exactly 0 words when the pop sound tells me someone's trying to say "what up?" on Facebook.  I say "word."  I notice I have a Friend Request and have no idea who the person is requesting my friendship.  I email another friend to ask who this person is, as I have a memory like an encyclopedia of uselessness and can't place them.  It dawns on me that I perhaps possibly may have gone to prom with this individual, then realize I went with another guy with the same first name.  Whew. 
  • look at the clock on the microwave and realize I never ate lunch.  I do this everyday.  Everyday, unless I'm having lunch with a friend.  It seems as an adult I cannot remember to make a deadblame sandwich for myself as I make lunch for the kids.  I feed the kids and usually get busy with other things and realize at 2:30 or so that I'm starving.  This is a problem.  Not life or death, but a problem, nonetheless.  I wonder if there is some kind of service, like a wake-up call at a hotel, that would call and remind me to eat lunch — then I realize that is one of my dumber ideas. At 2:30 I don't know what to eat for lunch, it's not lunchtime, it's not dinner — what would Elvis do?  I have cheese and crackers, like a grown-up Lunchable.
  • back to the blog, check our email — no commercial. 
  • It's 3 o'clock and the girls are getting off the bus.  I realize I have accomplished a big fat zero of nothing and try to think of a better answer to the question "what did you do today?" for when I talk to Scott later, because "some stuff" sounds stupid.  I contemplate telling him I have ADD, but I know he would just shake his head and say "you've been on the computer all day, haven't you?" to which I would reply, "no, not really," which is the truth. 

So, next time the blog isn't updated for a day or so, just know it's the ADD.  Or mad cow, I'm not sure.

new theme song

If you're anything like me (which is possibly the most ridiculous statement I've ever made), you have a theme song. 

A personal theme song for is quite the necessary accessory for your day, your week, your life.  If you do not have a theme song, I suggest you go out an get one right this minute.  But Kerry, I don't know what my theme should be, you say — well, I'm here to help, peeps. 

Your personal theme song should reflect how you feel or how you want to feel, your attitude, or your beliefs.  Or it could be that a song with lyrics that seem like they were written just for you.  Everyone has had a moment when a song comes on the radio and you're blown away by the words.  Say, if your name is Ruby and you're cheating on your spouse who happens to be a disabled veteran — your theme song could be "Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town," by Kenny Rogers, recently covered by The Killers.  There is no judging on the Kerry Blog, only love.  And helping others.  And sarcasm.  And maybe a a wee little bit of judging, but it's only because I care. 

Just for fun, I thought I'd share my theme song with you and all of the interwebs this weekend.  It's always been Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes" for me, since forever. 


I love that song.  Which reminds me, I still haven't gotten those leather leggings and gun holster of piratecowboy.com I ordered a few weeks ago.  While Adam Ant always wore more makeup and used more hair products than me, his song has played in my head through lots of moments of my life.  After all, I've been Miss Goody Two Shoes forever and wear the crown gladly.  By the way, "subtle innuendos follow, must be something inside" is the line everyone can't make out. 

It's also helpful to have theme songs for specific activities, trips, and such.  As of last night I have a new theme song for scrapbook trips courtesy of my friend Laurel who introduced me to the fabulousness that is Leslie Hall.  This is the song that Laurel listens to while she gets ready to go out, because that's what the song is about, but because of a few lines, I'm declaring it the new scrapbooking trip song.  Peeps, I give you "How We Go Out."

Simply awesome.

The lyrics I'm loving are:

On the way to the club we pass a Dairy Queen
You stop cause it you know it means so much to me
We take the back seats out of your mini van
Now we roll like a hummer or a full size sedan

obviously that would be because we have to take the back seats out of my van when we go on a trip.  And thought we don't usually stop at a Dairy Queen on the way, we do stop somewhere for goodies.

You get me hotter than a stick a hot glue
And I'm scrapbooking everything we do
Ring ring ring- that's my cell
Bring the bling when I sing of course I will

FINALLY!  A hip hop song that talks about scrapbooking!  Now my life is complete. 

You may return to your regularly scheduled weekend. 

What the hell Friday: all the news that’s sh*t

Edit:  If you're not in the mood for a semi-rant, just scroll to the bottom for some good 'ole Kerry Blog fun.

I'm sorry for the expletive, but I've been cursing more than usual and I blame the news.  Today's topic title comes from the idea behind the New York Times masthead and their slogan "all the news that's fit to print" which Rolling Stone changed to "all the news that fits" for the debut of the magazine in 1967.  But now, all the news that's sh*t seems to be a better phrase. 

This is a painful topic for me, being a news junkie and all.  I've loved all things journalism since I was 11 or so and I tend to soak up as much information as I can, via print, television, and the interwebs as a rule.  I took journalism for five years in high school, yes five (that's a whole 'nother post), and the only reason I didn't go into journalism in college is because I wanted to write fiction, not straight news.  But I did love my time writing for the Byrd high school newspaper and The Shreveport Times, I learned a lot and was in my element, at least one of them anyway.  But that's when news was news.

I have a beef with the media these days.  I guess I should restate that: I have a beef with the news media, our trusted news sources, the Big 3, the CNNs, and the local stations, too.  Why?  Here's why:

As I write this, at 1:40 CST, these are the top headlines on the CNN homepage:

Let's examine this, shall we?  Disgraced minister Teg Haggard sexual preference is not news.  I don't care if it's sex with both teams of whoever the hell is in the Super Bowl or their mascots, it's not news.  It's just not. 

Neither is the crazy woman who has had octuplets.  Why?  Because she has 6 children at home and went through fertility treatments to have the new babies.  That's not news.  I know I'm going to get flack for this, but because I'm riled up already, I don't care.  Here's my view:  just because you CAN have babies doesn't mean you SHOULD.  The smallest baby was 1.8 lbs.  What kind of problems do you expect these babies to have?  And the woman lives with her parents, no mention of the father.  At best this is a story for the Health section, under ethics (and no, I'm not a medical expert, but I do have common sense). 

No, the Obama girl look-alike is not news.  Please.

Neither is Stuff White People Like, although it is a funny website. 

Eating well for under 10 bucks is a Living story. 

Pole dancers?!  Pole freaking dancers?!  Is CNN just trying to tick me off or what?  This is so not news.  Not effing news.  No effing way.  You know what would be news?  If I were a pole dancer. 

Amy Winehouse's house being burglarized?  What were they after, her crack pipe?  Not news.  Not unless they broke in and found shiny ass unicorns dancing the can-can with Amy's wig. 

Mittens the cat — now CNN is mocking me.  This is Star Magazine stuff.

Do you see what I mean?  Does anyone remember that we're in a recession, a war, massive debt, environmental crisis — just to name a few?  I know those subjects aren't fun, but that's what news is.  News is serious business, you know news is serious because newscasters wear suits.  Suits are for serious situations.  Frivilous stories belong in entertainment and silly blogs and things.  Mittens the cat should be on FUPenguin.  Amy Winehouse belongs on TMZ.  The Obama girl look-alike, who cares?   To be fair, the Obama thing is a Feature and should appear in Living, nowhere near the CNN top stories.  These things should be tucked at the bottom in the categories in which they belong.

I don't know what happened to reporting serious news.  I miss Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw. 

In case you're thinking it's just CNN and to show both sides, here's the top FOX News stories at 2:58 CST:

Now, the Kerry Blog is anything but Fair and Balanced, so I'm calling FOX out — y'all ain't reporting the news either!  Yeah, I said it.  The politicians' signatures, sister attacking the bride, Drew Peterson's fiancee, and Amy Crackhouse  — not the news, not even close. 

Just for fun, and because I'm in a mood, here's the news story of the day that I'm making up off the top of my head, because that's where I keep my bestest ideas. 

128778242684964107
BREAKING NEWS:

SPACE HOOKERS HAVE LANDED, OBAMA DEFERS TO BILL CLINTON

Reports are coming in from the MId-West of Space Hookers landing in cornfields.  President Obama has deferred to former President Bill Clinton on this issue, citing the current economic crisis and Clinton's accomplishments  in diplomatic affairs. 

When contacted for a comment, former President Bush said, "there's hookers in space?  DAAYUUUM!"

Please stay with KBN the Kerry Blog Network for further developments .  We now return you to your regularly scheduled program. 

The photo comes courtesy of plaidstallions.com (my current obsession) and I made the Breaking News pic on icanhascheeseburgers.com. 

overheard at Walgreens this afternoon

After going to the grocery store, I stopped by Walgreens to get a pad of manuscript paper that's required for Katie's homework and while I was on the school supply aisle I got a pack of blue Sharpie pens as I do any time I'm in a store that has them.  People, the Sharpie pens are the best.  I've realized that because I have OCD about stupid things, I pick up a pack of Sharpie pens whenever I'm in a store that sells them, as not all stores do and apparently I'm afraid of ever being without one.  I know this is eccentric behavior, but I've always been a pen person and it is not unusual for me to buy them in this manner, so don't get the straightjacket out quite yet.   

So, I'm checking out at Walgreens and the older lady behind me starts writing her check as I'm paying for my items.  This is the conversation I overhear between said customer and the clerk who is in her mid-60's, I'm guessing.

CUSTOMER:  I don't know when I'll get the hang of writing 2009 on these checks.

CLERK:  And it's passing by fast, January's almost over!

CUSTOMER:  I know, I know!

CLERK:  It will be February before we know it!

CUSTOMER:  And February's a short month.

CLERK:  Yeah, I saw that. 

It took every bit of reserve God has given me to not open my mouth.  Y'all know that's hard for me. 

what the hell Friday: carry that weight

When I posted my new year's resolutions last week (has it been 2009 for a week already?  Damn) I'm sure a few of you thought "ok, where's the 'lose weight' resolution?"  Well, I didn't make that a resolution.  It's not because I don't want to lose weight, it's because after 20 years of being on some type of diet or another, I've decided not to make it a resolution.  Yes, it's been on my list for 20 years.  What the hell?  That's either pathetic or — well, it's pathetic.  So, no, it's not a resolution. 

What I have decided to do is be healthier in 2009 and not make my weight the center of it all.  Why?  Because of Oprah.

Did you miss the headline?  It made CNN!  Good grief, Oprah gained weight.  The nation's economy is in the toilet, we're in a war, Osama's still out there, Israel's attacking Gaza again — but stop the presses!  Oprah has hit 200 pounds. 

Oprahhow
This is O on the cover of O.  Does she look horrible?  No.  Sure, the purple outfit is doing nothing for her, but she looks fine.  This is what O had to say on the matter: "I can’t believe that after all these years, all the things I know how
to do, I’m still talking about my weight. I look at my thinner self and
think, `How did I let this happen again?’"  Maybe it's because your body is not meant to be 140 pounds.  I'm not advocating being heavy, but starving yourself and having to workout to the degree Oprah did to stay the weight you diet down to is unhealthy as well. 

For instance, I'm 5'2" and according to several weight charts I'm supposed to be 128 pounds.  A friend of mine who happens to be a doctor said that would be tiny for me and I agreed.  I was 128 pounds when I was in 7th or 8th grade, which was before I had hips (you're thinking I was going to say "and boobs," but no, I had already had the boobs).  So, no, I don't think 128 pounds is my "ideal" weight.  Ideal maybe if I go on Survivor for fat chicks and lose half my body weight, maybe — but no, 128 isn't gonna happen.  Nope. 

1-9-2009_001
Just for fun, I uploaded a photo of me taken a few minutes before my date picked me up for prom senior year.  Let's look at what I would consider my ideal weight, shall we. 

The pic is taken at an angle, so it's weird, but whatev.  And yes, I really am that pale. And that was the year I made a brilliant decision to dye my hair black at Halloween with the wash-out in 24 shampoos hair color, only it didn't wash out, so that was as light as it got.  What the hell?  I was an effing genius — really, I don't know how I made it through that year with all the stupid things I did.  I was 18 and I'm guessing 160 lbs.  I looked normal, looking back, of course.  But at the time I was depressed beyond belief and had zero self esteem (and obviously no posture to speak of — look at those shoulders).  At 18 I hated the way I looked because I thought I was fat.  Now, if I was a good blogger, I would photshop in a pic of me now looking at my 18 year-old self and do a magazine cover mock-up like the O cover.  But, I'm not going to do that because I'm lazy.  My point is, hindsight is 20/20.  Always has been. By the way, I don't know what I was thinking straightening my hair that night because it rained and I looked like a poodle by the time we got to prom.  Oh, and look at those skinny ankles — is it any wonder I've sprained them a hundred times? 

We can't dwell on what was any more than we can worry about the future.  Sure, I looked a lot better then, but I was 18.  I wasn't a happy girl.  It took years to figure out my happiness isn't connected to my weight and it shouldn't rule my thoughts, although it does much of the time.  If I beat myself up over my weight it only makes me want to eat cookies.  Like half a bag of cookies.

Instead of Oprah asking how she "let" herself gain weight, a better message would be to be happy and healthy at whatever point in life you are, whatever age you are.  I'm going to eat healthier this year and start walking and stuff.  That's not mind-blowing, it just makes sense that if I don't want to have a lot of the problems overweight people deal with as they age, I should get healthier for health's sake.  That's not because I'm unhappy with the way I look, hell, as you can see at 18 I had the double chin — it's about being happy with who I am and treating myself better. 

And treating myself better also has to deal with how I view myself.  I am not my weight.  I am not my dress size.  I am Kerry: wife, mother, daughter, friend, superfantastic woman in the here and now.  And that's pretty good. I'm not perfect, and I'm okay with that. 

For your Friday, I'm leaving you with two more pictures from an artist I just discovered a few days ago through one of my favorite blogs, Manolo for the Big Girl.  The artist is Kal Barteski and she was an instant fave the second I saw her art.  It's empowering and smart, pretty and soulful — and I love art that is all those things.
Kbtinyart_43_2008

Barteski calls these "tiny art" and these are my two favorites. 

This one says:

"she was the one who couldn't see /she was the one who didn't know/ compassion was curvy/ experiences experience was heavy/ beauty was within her/ so much beauty."

If I would have seen this as a teenager it would have turned a lightbulb on inside my head.  I'm sure of that.  There were no messages for girls like this in the early 90's.  There were no girls that looked like me in magazines.  There were no body acceptance blogs, that was a few years later.  

I'm loving the tiny art.

Kbtinyart_44_2008
The tiny art on the right says:

"she loved/ she loved and loved/ with every inch in every way/ en masse/ and all and every/ undeniable/ unbelievable/ indisputable/ incomparable beauty./ so much beauty"

If you don't think that's awesome, just go put on some Britney Spears and read Cosmo or eat some Cheetos, 'cause I got nothin'.

I'm serious. 

Okay, if you're still with me, I'll post some scrapbookie stuff this weekend and we'll have some fun.  Your assignment for this weekend is to be happy with yourself, or at least start on that path. 

I'm happy being me and I'm happy you're here. I like you the best.  But you already knew that.


what the hell Friday: Christmas school vacation

Note: if you happen to be a teacher, you may want to stop reading now.  It's not that I don't love you, I do, but I'm thisclose to losing it. 

When I was but a young lass, Christmas vacation was the best.  It was the best two weeks of the year, it was the shiznit if you will, pardon my hip hop slang.  Right before the break, all the kids had written their letters to Santa and talked about what we'd asked the big man for.  We had our Christmas parties at school and Christmas programs at church, the countdown was on.  The last day before school let out for the break, there was a flurry of activity.  I remember watching Christmas movies, singing carols, working holiday word find puzzles, and giving my teacher a small gift. 

These days not much has changed, sure the teacher gifts are a little nicer and of course the Christmas outfits and dresses are much prettier, but it's still the same excitement of getting out for two whole weeks of Christmas.  So, what the hell?  Now I'm the mom!

I don't know exactly when it was that I became an adult.  Yes, I know — I could vote at 18, drink at 21, but I wasn't an adult.  I married the hubs at 23, but I wasn't an adult.  I didn't become an adult until I was responsible for another life.  Little did I know that little 7 1/2 lb life would change a lot of things.  It started before she was even born.  I couldn't eat guacamole or brocolli when I was pregnant and when she came into this world, suddenly I had to turn the music down in the car, there was no sleeping in on weeekends, she controlled my life. 

And now, she and her sister are in elementary school.  Their brother is in mother's day out twice a week.  You know what that means?  Christmas vacation. 

Let me explain how things are now that I'm the mom.  We get the December calendars for school and both of the girls have Christmas parties, Molly has a progam, Andrew has a program — and here's the best part: the parties are on the same day and so are the programs.  And so it begins, the mad rush before the break.  Now, having three children means lots of gifts.  No, not for them!  For teachers, bus drivers, librarian, and 400 other people you have to buy gifts for if you're the mom.  So, by now you're broke and you've run around town like a crazy person finding gifts for people, outfits for programs, and then you get a note in the backpack.  For the program, your child's class has to wear cowboy gear.  What the hell?  What do cowboys have to do with Christmas?  Oh, they're singing the western version of Jingle Bells, which is the regular Jingle Bells, with a twang and a yee-ha at the end.  Makes perfect since.  And so you send the hubs to buy a cowboy hat at Target on the dollar aisle because they had them last week and you're busy wrapping teacher gifts.  The hubs calls to say no, there are no cowboy hats!  So, you send him across town to Party City and he calls asking if it's okay to get her a pink sequined cowboy hat.  Sure, at this point you don't care if has flashing neon flamingos on it, whatevs!

And so the Friday Christmas break begins they kids come in all high on sugar and bring in backpacks with all sorts of little gifts and candy from friends, tons of artwork and ornaments made from popcicle sticks, beads, pompons, and pipe cleaners that litter the kitchen table.  And the children say, "Mom, isn't it great?!  We're out for two weeks!"  Oh, yeah, just great.  Just wonderful.  Just shoot me in face right now. 

We're almost at the end of the two weeks and my house is a disaster.  I have stress acne.  They've eaten everything in the fridge and pantry.  I've watched more Noggin, Rudolph, Boomerang, and Strawberry Shortcake than anyone should ever have to.  Truthfully, it's cruel and unusual punishment and I wouldn't wish it on hardened criminals.  Well, yes I would, especially Yo Gabba Gabba and Dora the Explorer.  Come on vamonos, everybody let's go — yeah, go to hell, Dora!  I'm sorry I got carried away for a minute.  I really hate Dora.  Her head is shaped like a damn football.  What the hell?  Have the illustrators ever seen a human being?  We tend to have heads shaped more like baseballs, not footballs.  But I digress. 

My daughters go back to school on Monday.  When they get on the bus, I'll be doing the mother effin' Mexican hat dance and beating the hell out of a pinata in celebration.  I may start drinking for the occasion.  A little tequila in my coffee cup sounds about right. 

Also on Monday, I will be writing a letter to my congressman.  I believe I have come up with a plan to make the Christmas holiday a little more manageable.  I know it won't be easy, I know we have a long road ahead of us, but I know that it will make the moms of this country a little more sane and full of Christmas spirit.  My plan is to make Christmas a holiday celebrated much like Thanksgiving.  We will make Christmas on a Monday every year and New Year's Eve will be on Thursday.  That way Christmas vacation lasts only one week and sanity is spared all across this great nation.  But Kerry, we can't move Christmas! Oh, yes, my friends, we can.  You see, since we're celebrating the birth of Jesus and He was born in the spring as our theologian scholar friends believe, we're not celebrating it on the right day anyway, so it's okay.  But Kerry, won't that mess up the whole calendar if New Year's Eve is on Thursday every year?  Listen, I didn't say my plan is perfect and there are plenty of smart people who can figure this out.  Hell, we have leap year every four years and I still don't understand how they come up with when we have Easter every year.  I know we have Mardi Gras 40 days before Easter, but how do we know when Easter is?  See, there are people wiser than I who can figure these things out. 

No need to thank me, I'm sure there's already a statue being carved out of stone in my honor, hopefully it will be a little thinner than the flesh and blood version, I don't ask for much.  Don't worry, I'll keep you updated on how my bill progresses.  I'd like congress to call it the Give Momma a Break Bill.  Or the What the Hell Vacation Bill.  Either way, I'm sure we'll get the votes for it to pass.  I'll be willing to go to Capital Hill if need be.  Hear that, Hillary?  I'm comin' for you.  And I'm bring my kids for you to babysit.  You should have plenty of time now that you're going to be Secretary of State and all.  Maybe we can have lunch and enjoy some girl talk, you know, about hair products, pantsuits, whatever. 

2009 resolutions (or ok, fine, I’ll make some changes)

In 2009 I resolve…

  1. IMG000320
    to not talk to loudly when I have my earbuds in.
  2. to not stare at the neck tattoo on the chick at the McDonald's drive-thru.
  3. to not refer to alternative medicine as voo-doo anymore.
  4. not to self-diagnose myself by looking up symptoms on webmd.com.
  5. to stop greeting the other moms at the bus stop with " 'sup, bitches?"
  6. to dream more.
  7. to remember to use moisturizer.
  8. not to snicker when people mispronounce words.
  9. to not get mad when people misspell my name.
  10. to take compliments better.
  11. to start some form of exercise.
  12. to resume ninja training.
  13. not to think my friends are copycats when they order the same thing as me in a restaurant.
  14. to stop saying yes to things I really don't care to do.
  15. not to point at people when I'm singing in the car pretending I'm in a music video.
  16. to read more.
  17. not to take any more magazine subscriptions.
  18. to not answer "hammertime" when someone asks me what time it is.
  19. to stop using "you too" inappropriately (i.e. when the hostess at a restaurant tells us to have a good dinner or the gate attendant at the airport says "have a good flight").
  20. not to pretend I remember someone's name when I don't and greet them with "hey, man!"
  21. to actually laugh out loud when I write LOL in an email or IM.
  22. to not roll my eyes when a man asks me what scrapbooking is.
  23. to not roll my eyes when a man says "so people actually pay to go sit and scrapbook" when I explain it.
  24. to have a better response to the above instead of bitch slapping them.
  25. to not make faces babies in stores when their parents aren't looking.
  26. to spend more time with Lucy dog.
  27. to get more sleep.
  28. to come up with better nicknames for friends than Lunchbox and Snackshack.
  29. to order my superhero costume and wear it to the next neighborhood watch meeting.   
  30. to not quote lines while I'm watching a movie with someone.
  31. to tell people exactly how I am when someone asks "how are you?"
  32. not to tell another friend I should nominate her for "What Not to Wear."
  33. to ask myself what Aretha would do when faced with an obstacle more often.
  34. to not say OMG when someone tells me they homeschool.
  35. to not say "oh, God, no!" when someone asks me if I homeschool.
  36. to come up with a better response when asked "so, do you work?" instead of pimp slapping them.
  37. to stop telling people I'm a Rockette when asked if I work.
  38. to start training for some sort of Olympic sport, maybe badminton, since Rogue Croquet is out.
  39. not to make up holidays (like Tupac Remembrance Day) for the sole purpose of having cake.
  40. to not say "I love this song" when it's my iPod that's playing.
  41. to not say "I hate Garth Brooks" when Megan's iPod is playing.
  42. to start proofing my posts more often.
  43. to have more fun and less stress.
  44. not to freak out over things I can't control, like the American Idol results or weather or anything else.
  45. to not let things get to me as much.
  46. to do my best to give you something to laugh at, look at, or think about here on the blog — maybe all  three once in a while. 
  47. to wish a Happy New Year to everyone!  Feel free to leave your resolutions in the Comments, I'd love to read what y'all have to say.

a new year’s eve story

New Year's Eve has always been a fun night for me.  Whether I spend the evening at a party or at home watching Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve, I enjoy it.  And for some reason it's usually a night out of some movie, only not as cleverly written. I thought I'd share one of my more memorable New Year's and an ex-boyfriend story at the same time, fun for everyone!  I looked half-heartedly for a high school photo to post with this, but couldn't find one from the year I'm writing about.  If I find one while I'm going through stuff to organize my scrap office, I'll edit and add a pic.

Once upon a bizarre New Year's Eve, when I was 17 in 1991, I was dating a guy named Judd who looked a lot like the actor Jeffery Dean Morgan on Grey's Anatomy now.  Anynatomy, we went to a party at my friend Kim's house on Cross Lake (if I recall correctly) with another friend I'll call Drama ('cause that's the best word I could pick to sum her up) and her boyfriend.  Judd had wrecked his car the day before Christmas, so we were all riding together. That year I was in a black and white phase, I remember wearing black skirt and white button-down with cuff links — I think I got that look from Sassy magazine, loved that mag. 

The night started out decent enough, then a guy a had previously had a really bad blind date with showed up and it started getting weird. Now, I'm not a social butterfly and I hate parties, so I was pretty much dragged to that one by Drama because we were both friends with Kim and Kim was super sweet and I'm a glutton for punishment.  We were there for about 45 minutes and Drama announced she and the boyfriend were headed to another party, one I hadn't been invited to.  Now, they were our ride.  Kim said not to worry, her mother was coming home at midnight and would take us home, so I said goodbye to Drama only to have more drama unfold.  Judd and I were having a pretty good time, I was trying to avoid eye contact with blind-date-guy and then some pretty unsavory characters showed up, friends of Kim's boyfriend.  It was the entire Fair Park High School football team and some guys I assumed were drug dealers, not to mention the girlfriends and a baby.  And they brought a liquor store with them.  It was then when Judd suggested we go sit on Kim's pier. Once outside, he tells me he smelled pot, and he knew the scent of pot when he smelled it.  I learned more about my boyfriend that night than I wanted to and knew he was yet another guy I'd be breaking up with soon. 

And so we sat on the pier until midnight, watched fireworks — it was actually nice (despite the fact that I was freezing to death because I had sacrificed warmth for fashion — which I did often, actually — and didn't bring a coat).  So, it was going fine, until we headed back to the house.  Most of the football team had left, the air was thick, and most everyone was drunk, a few couples were making out — the party had turned.  I remember having that awesome uncomfortable feeling that starts down deep in the pit of your stomach and works its way up to your throat and you feel like you're watching something bad unfold and you're afraid of what's next.  We sat on the sofa and blind-date-guy moves toward us and sits next to Judd.  Did I mention I hate parties?  If the first part of this story didn't give reason enough, let's seal the deal. 

Kim tells us her mom isn't coming home after all and I realize we're stuck without a way home.  At this very moment blind-date-guy begins to tell my boyfriend just how bad a date I was.  Me.  I was the bad date.  And he was talking about me like I wasn't in the room.  Nice, huh?  Turns out I was a snob.  Me.  Well, excuse me if my idea of a great date doesn't include mini-golf (really, who plays mini-golf on a first date?), hot dogs, you talking to your friend who works at the mini-golf place the entire time we were there, being referred to as a "hot piece of —" and hearing your friend ask you if the curtains match the drapes (nice), the glove box in your car falling open 20 times into my lap, dodging your hands all night, and the boom boom boom of your car's bass playing Vanilla Ice (too cold).  He was surprised when I turned my head to avoid his kiss at the end of the night, his kiss landed in my hair thanks to my cat-like reflexes.  Blind-date-guy went on and on, I think he ranted longer than our date actually lasted.  Oh, and my genius boyfriend laughs with the guy and agrees with him that I was indeed, a prude.  Awesome.

Most of the guests had gone home by one, and I was in my own personal hell, as now blind-date-guy and Judd were now BFFs, Kim was doing sexy times with her boyfriend in her bedroom, and my allergies start to go through the roof because Kim's cat has decided I'm a scratching post.  I managed to find some Benadryl as Kim was coming out of her bedroom and I told her I really had to get home.  By now my eyes were watering, I was sneezing my head off, and I was itchy all over — exactly how I like to spend my New Year's.  Kim begins asking people if they happened to be heading across town and if they could give Judd and I a ride to our homes and no one is volunteering.  Lovely.  Judd and blind-date-guy were now drinking to my prudishness and other faults, something I like to call good taste, and Judd was none too concerned about getting home.  I believe that was the moment I decided to go hide in one of the bathrooms, great idea.  A few minutes go by and Kim knocks on the door.  No, she hadn't found me a ride home, but she did have something to tell me.  I'm thinking she's going to apologize for the night turning into the party scene in Pretty in Pink when she tells me she's pregnant and starts sobbing.  

By this time the Benadryl had kicked in and I wasn't feeling much like being the sympathetic friend, but I gave it a shot.  Kim cried on my shoulder for a while and her boyfriend comes in to tell us his two buds are going to my area of town.  I'm pretty sure he referred to these characters as Ray Ray and Tiny.  This was just getting better.  My boyfriend remembered I was there and asks if I'm ready to go with these delinquents and I look at him like he's been smoking crack.  He assures me it's okay, he'd be with me, I would be safe — like he could fend off these linebackers should they choose to kill us.  At that point, I didn't think I had much of a choice because if I called my mom to pick me up she would a) kill me, b) ground me 'til summer, or c) kill me and ground me.

SpaceballI got my purse and headed outside with Judd to what I was sure would be my last car ride before being murdered and thrown in the lake.  I got into the car, which looked like something out of the Pimps R Us catalog and soon we were on our way.  It seemed like the drive took forever, Tupac playing, and Judd trying to have a conversation with our chauffeurs, who, it turns out were in their 20's and were wanna-be rappers.  Eventually they pulled up to my house, Judd had been giving the directions, since he was now BFFs with Ray Ray and Tiny.  He walked me to the door, Ray Ray and Tiny yell "night, sweetie" and I'm hoping they don't commit my address to memory in case they had only offered to drive us because they were casing out our houses.  Judd told me goodnight
and happy new year and I told him happy new year and please don't call me.  

A few days later I broke up with Judd and resolved not to go anywhere with Drama again or go to another party that year.  When I recounted the story to friends they thought it was pretty funny, knowing I was Miss Goody Two Shoes and antisocial anyway.  Looking back at my 17 year-old self, it's hysterical.  At the time, it wasn't funny at all, since I was convinced I was going to be killed one way or another that night.  Later that year, Drama's mother sent her to a children's home and Kim had a baby girl she named Jade.  I lost touch with her after that, but I did attend the ghetto-fabulous baby shower, where I met Ray Ray and Tiny's baby mommas.  Good times.  If I had it all to do again, I wouldn't date guys with the first initial J, because there seemed to be a running theme there for me; and I would have stuck with Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve that night.  Dick Clark never did me wrong.

Happy New Year and say hi to Ray Ray and Tiny if you see them!