goodbye, John Hughes

One of my heroes passed away today.

John Hughes was a brilliant screenwriter and director and I know much will be written about him in the coming weeks about his contribution to the film industry, his impact on my generation, and the group of actors he introduced to America. And while I marvel at those things, what sticks out in my mind is how he was able to develop characters like Andie Walsh, Samantha Baker, John Bender, Philip F. Dale, and of course Ferris Bueller.

Those characters had depth you don't see much in film anymore. That saddens me. Ferris wasn't just a guy who wanted to skip school any more than Sixteen Candles was a movie about a girl's birthday. Hughes made us care about his characters. I was 12 when Pretty in Pink came out and saw it at the old Joy Theater in Shreveport, LA. I knew little of the social dynamics of school at the time, which was the theme of the film — but I knew I loved Molly Ringwald's character because she believed in herself. She was cool. She had style. When I reached high school, I appreciated the movie on different levels. I understood the social element, the romantic element, and the setting. PIP was the first movie I HAD to have the soundtrack of, which, as I have blogged before, I have replaced more than any record, tape, or cd I've ever owned.

Hughes got teens. He didn't talk down to them, he didn't dumb-down his movies. He presented his stories and gave us something to think about as well entertainment. I miss that in film and hope someone will take up his mantle.

I've found a few of my favorite short scenes from my favorite Hughes films for you tonight. The first and the last are great scenes without dialogue, the others are great lines. Enjoy. And watch a Hughes flick this weekend.

one weak week

It's been an odd week for this chick, so I'll start there because it's always nice to start at the beginning.

Monday was normal. The hubs was sick, but everything in Kerry world was fine otherwise.

Tuesday sucked. The munchkins and I were on the way home from the club and I got into my first car accident. I rear-ended a woman, pretty much knocking her bumper off. Go me. Before I go on, everyone was fine — no need to worry or start a telethon for donations or anything. The middle child asked if I would get a ticket, followed with the question "will we go to jail?" So far (fingers crossed) I can say I've never spent time behind bars, but I told her we'd go to jail if we didn't behave. The police show up and I hand over my license, registration, and expired insurance card — of course my card expired on my birthday and I hadn't put the new one in my car yet. Awesome. Then deputy Megan shows up, jumps out of her car asking if I want her to take the kids or if there's anything she can do — I was expecting her to say she was once a traffic cop, because as those close to her know, Megan has had every job on the planet. By the way, I'm not exaggerating here — Megs has done everything from designing kitchens to taking newborn photos in the hospital — I never know what's next. We will be sitting in a restaurant or something and I'll wonder aloud if the paella is any good and she will bust out with "you know, when I was Castro's personal food taster, I had great paella." And I'm all "I didn't realize that was a job or that you'd even been to Cuba."

So, I told Megan everything was under control and she left. I got a citation and the middle child asks if it was a ticket. I said yes and the four year-old goes "yea!" as if it were a prize. Once I get home, Frugal Beth calls and tells me her mother saw me after the accident standing on the median. Later, on Facebook another friend tells me she saw me too. I felt like a minor celebrity. By that night my neck and head hurt and I've been popping Motrin since. Oh, the pic is of the car I hit, notice the bumper. And I didn't know they still make Lancers.

Wednesday night we took the kids to see Thomas Live in New Orleans. Driving across the Causeway, the hubs asked where I'd like to go for dinner and he suggested Chevy Chase's place. My hubs is a very bright man. He can do all kinds of math, knows the ins and outs of complicated computer programs, and is great at what he does. He's not so good with names. Make that horrible with names. I informed him that Chevy's Tex-Mex restaurant is not Chevy Chase's place. It is not an understatement to say he was shocked. His reply "but it's called Chevy's…" made me question his brilliance. I went into analogy mode –because my hubs is the king of analogies — and told him that the toilet paper brand Scott's doesn't make it automatically his. I think he understood, but I'm still not sure. No doubt I could not endure that conversation if it were not for medication. This blog should be sponsored by anti-depression/anxiety meds, I'm telling you.

We ate dinner at Chevy's (not Chevy Chase's place) and went to see the show. Once we found our seats, I started reading the tattoos of the woman sitting in front of Andrew. The back of her neck said Sarah. Her hand read Ms. Pink in swirly letters and there were different sized stars going up her arm. She turned her head to talk to the woman sitting to her left and to reveal more stars coming from below the bra area (she was wearing a very low-cut top) and going up her neck to behind her ear. Another family shows up on their row and informs Sarah that her family is in their seats. Color me surprised because Sarah seemed like the type who knows her way around an arena. The show began and ten minutes in a 50something lady is asking me to move my purse from her seat and I obliged, then she says they've paid good money to be there and want to sit down. Huh? Are we gonna have a throw down? I moved my purse, grams. Grams, Gramps, and a kid sit and don't stop talking the entire time because apparently they felt the show needed to be narrated. Intermission. Grams tells her hubs, who is named "Dammit George" to get them drinks. He asks what type of beverage, she replies "Dammit George, I said Cokes!" He walks away, returns with said Cokes. Grams says "Dammit George, I thought I told you to get cotton candy." He walks away, then turns around, maybe 15 feet away and yells "red or blue?" In my head, I'm thinking that it's pink and not red, but I'm not going to interject. Grams yells "Dammit George, get the blue!" I start to wonder if he was Dammit George as a child or if he got the pet name once he married Ms. Congeniality.

Thursday was a day spent on the computer from morning 'til way past sundown. There was a bit of work to be done on the ScrapFest! website, just cleaning up a couple of things that most people woudn't even notice — then I decided to make a favicon (that's the little picture you see next to a website in your address bar and in your bookmarks or favorites). I made a pink scalloped circle with a blue fleur de lis inside, uploaded it, and put it on all the pages of the site. When I got to the FAQs page I saw an empty page. Somehow there was no saved version of the FAQs page, so I remade the whole thing — it was time consuming. I fully intended to write a post Thursday night, but instead had work to do. Gosh, I sound like a real grown up. Ugh.

So, this has been an odd week, complete with my first ever car accident. I know, hard to believe I haven't caused more accidents, right? That's what I thought.

With ScrapFest! looming I'll be quite busy for the next several weeks, but since practically all my work is either in Photoshop or the Interwebs, I'm hoping to post more since I'll be on the computer anyway. The hubs thinks I'm on this thing a lot now — he hasn't seen anything yet. I hope he likes the new nickname I'm giving him, "Dammit Scott!"

a brief personal history of summer (or why I hate summer)

There is a psychological disorder called SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) which is described as a pattern of
depressive or manic episodes that occurs with the onset of the winter
months. As the days become shorter, and the weather colder, there is
an increase in vegetative depressive symptoms. In pronounced cases, they say significant social withdrawal occurs as
well. Some have described the pattern as a hibernation during the
winter months.

That's all well and good, but what about summer?

Here are the SADS (Seasonal Affective Disorder, Summer) symptoms according to Kerry: As the days become longer, and the temperature unbearably hot, there is an increase in vegetative depressive/rage symptoms. In pronounced cases, significant social withdrawal occurs as well. Some describe the pattern as a "it's hot as hell outside, I'm staying in the air conditioning and yes, my hat is a bag of frozen peas!"

Did I mention I live in Louisiana, which has been featured on the Weather Channel's special "Louisiana: Forget the Cayenne, It's a Seasonless State." We have summer and a few months that aren't summer. These months cannot be referred to as autumn, winter, and spring, as they are not marked by typical temperatures, precipitation, or foliage changing colors. No, not here. Not Louisiana. I remember moving to Atlanta, Georgia in 1997 and something the natives there called "fall." First the leaves turned glorious colors, then the temperature started to drop. Before I knew I it, I was buying a coat. Not a jacket, an actual coat.

I became jaded when it came to summer as a young girl. I was probably seven when I realized it was because I had a summer birthday that more kids didn't come to my birthday parties. Besides having a summer birthday, it's also the same week as the 4th of July when many people go on vacation. So yeah, summer sucked.

What most people love most about summer was the thing I knew nothing about: vacations. A vacation in my family was traveling to a relatives' house or going to Six Flags in Dallas. I heard stories of friends going to a mythical place called Disneyland. Usually after summer break, I'd return to school only to have the thing I dreaded most come up: the what I did on my summer vacation essay.

Somehow I didn't think my experiences were essay material:

One year we went to Tennessee to my aunt's house and had to return early because my 80something year-old great-grandmother accidentally overdosed on her eleventy-seven medications.

The next year we returned early from another aunt's house when my dad fell off of a scaffold and injured himself. At least I got to tour Graceland, thankyouthankyouverymuch.

One summer during the wonderfully horrid time known as puberty, I had a swimming birthday party. After the party, when I was changing out of my swimsuit, a family friend's son my age walked in on me naked and looked just as disturbed as I was.

The summer before I started high school, I was trying to be sporty — bike riding with a boy I'd liked for a year, went to a dance with, you get the picture. We'd had a nice afternoon, it was June 18th (I remember this because I have some sort of idiot savant memory that hasn't been documented yet), very hot and very humid. Because I'm nothing that remotely resembles sporty, I got overheated and threw up in front of him. Yeah, the boy never called me again.

The following summer, my parents took a vacation together and I stayed with my grandparents for a couple of weeks. I was changing the water in my fishbowl and my fish, Ringwald (it was a Black Molly, get it?), jumped out and down the garbage disposal, committing suicide. Sure, it was a fish, but I was a girl with major allergies and my parents wouldn't let me have a cat and I was going to have a pet, deadgummit. And despite what Nemo said, all drains do not lead to the ocean.

The summer that I turned 16 was just a prelude of crap to come. Guess what I got for my birthday. Go ahead, guess. A Caboodles. Girls of the late 80's/early 90's — do you remember the Caboodles? The make-up case that was made of more plastic than Joan Rivers. The Caboodles contained a t-shirt with the columns of ancient Roman architecture and a faux Russian watch. Sweet sixteen? Not so much.

I dated a guy named Fred (yes, that was his real name, it's so generic I don't have to change it for the blog) who was much too old for me and dumped me for not being experienced enough for him — well, hello, I was 16 and he was in the air force. What was I doing dating a guy in the air force? He had a mustache for cryin' out loud. I'd seen Top Gun once too many times. Picture this, it's my birthday, late in evening in Bossier (where we hung out for some reason) and a few of my friends, dudes, and Fred are in the Airline High School parking lot. My good friend has her car's stereo playing Bryan Adams "Everything I Do (I Do it For You)" from Robin Hood: Prince of Theives over and over 'cause it's one of those cassette singles and damn, if that song wasn't everywhere that summer — even on my birthday make-out night with Flyboy Fred. Here's the rub, he broke up with me the next day. I KNOW. Oh, and I had to go to summer school that year because I'd failed math and my teacher was the same teacher I'd had all year because that's how my life is. And I went to driver's ed, but my mom wouldn't let me get my driver's license just because. Ah, memories. What a great summer 1991 was.

I've blocked the year after that from my memory. Okay, I wish I'd blocked it from my memory. I honestly had such a bad year that I do not remember much of what happened after Thanksgiving '91 and I couldn't tell you what the next summer was like. I'm guessing hot. I'm pretty sure I rode with some friends to Mississippi for no reason overnight that summer without telling parents where we were, but I'm only guessing it was that year.

The summer after 11th grade was a mixture of a great deal of hurt and a good bit of happy. I finally got a cat for my b-day from a great friend and I didn't care about my allergies or that my mom said no cats. So what if I had to have allergy shots twice a week?

After graduating from high school I had the worst summer of my life.

The summer after my freshman year at Louisiana Tech brought back the crazy. I was dating the man who later became the hubs and I babysat three boys two days a week for the whole summer. Their parents were going through a divorce and the mom was having a terrible time, which she would tell me about while driving me home. Lovely. I started taking Accutane for my stupid acne and felt as attractive as a dried up raisin when the future hubs asked me to go to the August wedding of his aunt in New Orleans.
That was my first flight, I was a nervous wreck. After arriving back in S'port, I found that no one remembered to pick me up. Awesome. I knew my life was the makings of a wacky sitcom.

The next summer I worked at Kirkland's in the mall by my parent's house and hated every minute of it. There is something unsettling about a place that smells of that much eucalyptus. And I had to look at this Andrew Wyeth giant framed print called "Master Bedroom" everyday, which I referred to as "Dog on a Bed." Oh, and since I didn't know the real name of the print, I Googled "dog on a bed print" and it came up — how good am I? Do you know how much this print annoys me? Every time I sold this print to some art lover I'd say "oh, it's Dog on a Bed, good choice!" in my loveliest tone. The highlight of that summer was going taking a bus to Baton Rouge to visit the future hubs and having to come back early because of a hurricane in the Gulf. Stupid hurricanes. Guess what? When I returned on a Greyhound bus at 10 pm there was no one to pick me up. In downtown Shreveport. At night. Yep, two years in a row stranded.

I've written about my college summer school experience on the blog before, also known as Stalker Summer. Ah, good times. It was Lifetime Movie material, not that I've ever seen a Lifetime Movie, because I have not. I've got the perfect Lifetime Movie title for it too, because those movies have names like "She Woke Up Pregnant," "Someone to Love Me: a Moment of Truth Movie," and "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger" (no, I'm not making those up). Because my movie would definitely be Moment of Truth material, I'd title it "S'talking Too Much: Kerry's Story: A Moment of Truth Movie." I would've been played by Tracey Gold or Kellie Martin back in the day because I only want the best. This would be the stuff Emmys are made of.

Come to think of it, all of my summer stories should be made into a movie, but it may be too big for Lifetime. I believe this could be a big budget Hollywood screenplay. Maybe directed by Woody Allen in little vignettes. Or it would be a Michael Bay summer blockbuster with robots and explosions. What? I didn't tell you about the summer my friend's car turned into a robot and the feds showed up and there were explosions that lit up the town like the 4th of July? Man, that was a summer.

So, we're halfway through Summer '09: Forced Vacation. It's too hot to live, the kids are arguing, there is a thunderstorm every other day, and the boy is finally potty trained. I've donned my bag of frozen peas hat, played lots of wii, ran through the sprinkler, and sat by the pool. There's only so much a whiter-than-pale girl can do. And we're in a recession, I can't be at the nail salong getting my toes done as often as it takes to maintain a Kerry level of glam. It's only a matter of time before SADS gets the best of me and I fill the tub with ice, declare it winter in my bathroom and invite Sarah Palin to come ice fishing with me. It's not like she's got anything to do the rest of the summer.

on illness, death, and things that are generally not awesome

I've been semi-MIA the past few days, here's why:

Last Thursday my scrapbook peeps and I went to a cabin in the swamp/woods to hang and crop. This was not my idea. I am not remotely what you would call "outdoorsy." I'm allergic to everything and I have asthma and I don't like insects, but I like my friends, so I went. It was our own little retreat and I have to say, I had more fun in the cabin than at any retreat I've been to and believe me, I've been to a bunch. So, yeah, we were in a cabin with air conditioning and running water and all, but it was still roughing it as far as I was concerned. Frugal Beth and I arrived to see we would have to bring our bags up fairly steep stairs. Now, this was a scrapbooking trip and we had my minivan (maxifun) packed to full capacity with scrapbook bags, plastic 12×12 organizers, ice chest, overnight bags, bags of snacks and beverages, pizzas, and a tray of Triple Dippers from Chili's. If we ever do the cabin-thing again, we're getting one with a ramp (and bringing more southwestern eggrolls 'cause them was delicious).

On the way to the cabin Beth and I talked about how sad Farrah's death was, then said I said "well, you know how celebrities deaths come in threes. Ed McMahon, now Farrah." And for some reason after that, I checked Facebook on my iPhone (no, I'm not obsessed) to see everyone's status updates read something like this: OMG WTF Michael Jackson is dead?!?!?

I am nothing if not resourceful, and went to Google news where I found a plethora of contradicting headlines from CNN, AP, Reuters, and every news organization known to man. This just wouldn't do. Beth and I had to know the truth before we were smack dab in the middle of gatorland, where we feared there would be no television or wifi. At that point I realized the person my friends rely on for pop culture information is me and there is no one to call to confirm this story. Sad, isn't it? I called Melissa, who had not left for the swamp yet, and she said MJ was in the hospital and of course moments later I check CNN again they're saying he's gone. We arrived at the cabin, where Megan was already scrapbooking (I know, the nerve!) and watching — get this — Friends on the flat screen. Beth and I bust out with "how can you be watching Friends at a time like this?! Michael Jackson's dead!" Seriously.

And so began the Michael Jackson Death Watch weekend. Heartwarming, isn't it?

…….

Saturday I tried to post layouts to the blog on the iPhone, but got a message from Typepad saying my account was put on hold because something was wrong with billing my credit card. Okay, so I got a new debit card and forgot to update my info, whatev.

Sunday I made it home to see that Billy Mays had died and decided something very strange was going on in the universe. That afternoon a mucho tired me took the almost 6 year-old, her big sis, two friends, and my bud Frugal Beth (mom of one of the friends) to the circus, as if I don't have a three-ring circus at my house. Please. And I nearly twisted my ankle on a New Orleans sidewalk. Imagine that.

Monday afternoon I noticed five or so red streaks on my right heel going up my ankle and two of the streaks going up my calf. I'm not a doctor, but I thought this was bad and with the way people are dying lately, I thought about having a will drawn up. Shortly after that, I started feeling pretty bad and researched the streak-thing online which made it sound like I was very near death or at least getting ready for an emergency room visit. Then I talked to a couple of friends in the medical field about it (shout out to my peeps), and by the end of the night was pretty sure I wasn't dying. And pretty sure is good enough for me.

Tuesday I woke up feeling like death on a bad day. I was positive I'd be sitting on a cloud learning the harp with Elvis by nightfall (totally kidding, Elvis is still alive). I know everyone has different thoughts about what heaven will be like. I've read what the Bible has to say on the subject several times, but I like to think Fred Astaire is giving dancing lessons and Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon do a nightly talk show.

Yesterday afternoon I felt a little better and started writing this very post.

Now it's Thursday night and I'm nearly 100%. Streaks have faded, energy is back, and I didn't need a nap this afternoon.

Here's the thing, being sick is not enjoyable. I spent a good portion of this week trying to rest. Yes, I said trying. For those of you without children or just one child, let me paint a picture for you. I will be your Bob Ross, minus the afro.

It's 9am, I'm in bed. Katie is standing next to my bed asking what's for breakfast. My hubs is sitting with his laptop at the kitchen table. I tell her to ask her daddy. Next comes Molly asking if they can go swimming. I tell her to ask her daddy. Katie returns, says her daddy told her to wait until he's finished sending an email. Andrew enters the room with no Pull-Up or undies on, jumps on my bed and asks for cookies. At this point I get up. Later that afternoon I attempt a nap. Exactly three minutes after I get comfy, here comes Katie asking if they can play upstairs. Next the hubs asks where his iPod is. Now, I do not use his iPod. Where in the marriage vows does it say "I will find everything you lose" for the rest of my life? For realz. Next it's Andrew saying he can't find MollyKatie (he's reduced them to one name). Then Molly comes in, asking when their daddy is taking them to swim and can she wear her tennis shoes instead of her flip flops. Out of nowhere Katie pops up, says Molly won't play upstairs and wants a snack. The hubs returns, says he's taking the kids swimming. The kids all go nuts and run out of the room, only to return seconds later asking where 42 things are.

…….

Sunday marks the beginning of Kerry's Crazy July, with our anniversary and Katie's birthday, followed by my berfday, then Andrew's, and the hubs at the end of the month. It's about this time every year when I remind myself that Katie was due in June and had she been born then, it would have lessened my July stress. I mean, come on.

making Father’s Day a little easier

Yesterday after reading every Father's Day card that Target had, I decided there has to be something out there for the rest of us. Are you familiar with the typical Father's Day card? Most of them have a picture of a sailboat or a lighthouse with a sentiment like this, "To my Wonderful Dad on Father's Day. You taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike, but the most important thing you taught was how to love." Or there is a picture of a man's feet with little girl feet standing on his shoes and it says, "Daddy, I'll always be your little girl no matter how grown up I am. Happy Father's Day." These types of traditional Father's Day cards make me want to throw up.

It's not that I have a bad relationship with my dad, it's that I don't have a that kind of relationship with him. The truth is, I didn't have much of a relationship with my dad until my parents divorced three years ago and he started speaking for himself. We talk on the phone once or twice a week and he tells me what he's been up to, which is usually working and going to Nicky's on two for one enchilada night with his girlfriend, then we usually talk about a couple of amusing relatives. It's good times. My dad is a regular guy who works hard for a living and doesn't have any real hobbies. He doesn't play golf, doesn't grill, doesn't care about football, and doesn't wear ties unless he's forced to. He's not one for a great deal of sentiment and I've never found the right sentiment for him in a card — and for some reason, this year was especially hard. I ended up buying a card that said "To the King of the Road, Happy Father's Day." By the way, my dear old dad is a truck driver, more specifically, he is a "route salesman" for the big dairy in my hometown, but that's a fancy schmancy word for truck driver.

There was every type of Father's Day card except for the non-mushy card. There were expectant dad cards, new dad, step-dad, grandpa, papa, grandad, "to my son on Father's Day," "to my mom on Father's Day," and my favorite "you're like a dad to me." I thought about getting the last one just for fun. There was even a Father's Day card from the cat or dog. When I saw the card from the cat I said WTF outloud in the presence of children. I apologize, I'm not proud of that, but I couldn't help it and yes, I said the words, not the acronym. So, I grabbed the king of the road card and mumbled to myself on the way to the check-out, vowing to make a line of honest Father's Day cards for The Rest of Us.

I think I'll call my card line Cards for the Rest of Us, which could mean whatever you want it to. I'm debuting my Father's Day line here on The Kerry Blog, feel free to clip and print for your own use, royalty free 'til Hallmark comes calling, bitches!

This is the first card, which I put on my Facebook page yesterday. It's short and to the point.

My friend Shannon suggested that maybe the above card was a little too mushy, so here is the bare-bones version, just right for your dad and any dad you know. And if you're visiting your dad at the county jail, this is perfect.

For those of you looking for a little more sentiment, this is the card for you. It can be taken any number of ways. I would let it speak for itself.

This card is just great for those "regular guy" dads like mine. Self-explanitory is the best way to go.

My friend Jennifer made a special request for a card and I hope this one covers all the bases. I thought the hammer added that nice passive-aggressive touch I'm always looking for in greeting card.

And lastly, this card is truly for the rest of us.

Y'all have a great weekend. Check the blog Sunday for an extra special Father's Day edition.

xxxooo,
Kerry

a lesson in subtlety

As longtime readers know, I am nothing if not subtle. Of course, that couldn't be further from the truth — it's a joke, people. However, I do know the difference between subtlety and a big dose of harshness. There are few things in life worse than trying to get your point across and appearing like you're speaking with a megaphone. Some of us are naturally loud crass creatures while others are mild-mannered and tactful. And while my usual motto is "more is more," today's lesson is "less is more."

In real life, I'm a fairly normal person. I guess. I'm not a very good judge, so maybe I'm kind of normal, I don't know — is it normal to want to be Endora from Bewitched when I'm older? Anywitch, I suppose I'm not exactly the low-key type. I typically do things in a big way, believing that bigger is better, but there is such a thing as going too far. I know what you're saying, "but Kerry, where do I draw the line?"

I'd say this would be a good start:

This look comes courtesy of Captain Obvious, Mr. T-Pain.

Why yes, that is a big ass chain.

It shows off T-Pain's grill and tattoos rather nicely, especially the "Nappy Boy" tat. But, as my homeboy, Tim Gunn would say, this is a lotta look.

Personally, when I wear my Big Ass Chain, I make sure I'm not wearing a shirt with a logo or slogan on it — it's just distracting.

And what's with the cowboy hat? I'd love to hear a duet with Kenny Rogers — on second thought, I want T-Pain and Dolly Parton to record "Islands In the Stream" for this generation. I've always thought what was missing from the original version was the auto-tune flava T-Pain could bring.

People, we can make this happen. I'm going to head an email petition for the duet of the century. It's a fairly new century, so odds are good that it would be the duet of the century.

I just thought I'd point out the T-Pain appears to also be rocking a mullet.

While I do appreciate his sense of humor, if you have to hold up your chain with both hands, maybe it is a wee bit too big.

I'm just saying.

I know many of my readers aren't big jewelry wearers, other than the wedding band and a pair of earrings, and that's just my male readers. Ba dum bum! Tip your waitresses, I'll be here all week. Anybling, maybe you wouldn't go for the Big Ass Chain and you're more concerned with the subtlety of your clothing. Certainly I can understand this. Obviously, people look to me for fashion advice, as I am quite the trendsetter. Clogs? Please, I was wearing clogs in 10th grade — that was 1990, people. I'm talking wooden and suede clogs. Hot pink. Hell yeah. Fell down the stairs in them and still wore them to school 'cause I was a trendsetter. You think the "emo" look is something new? Ha. I wore black for two years back in the day and dyed my hair to match. Emo ain't new. You know what is kind of new? The angry look.

I'm not talking about the stupid skulls. I'm so over the skulls. And skulls with bows. And skulls that are Hello Kitty.

I'm talking about really angry.

Like I'm so angry I'm going to unleash my inner killer gorilla on you.

I don't know where Rihanna was going in this dress, under her umbrella, no less — but I'd like to think she was going to fight a parking ticket or maybe to her IRS audit. That's when an angry gorilla dress would come in handy. That's when I wear mine.

Call me crazy (wouldn't be the first time), but is the gorilla's mouth kind of, oh, I don't know, in an odd place? It seems to be screaming "don't go near my vajayjay!" Which, come to think of it — nah, I'm not going to say it.

Rihanna also picked an odd necklace to wear with the angry gorilla dress. Kinda looks like the gorilla has a halo on, which is sending a mixed message. Angry gorilla or gorilla of hope and light? If I had a nickel for every time I've had to say that. Pick an emotion and go with it.

And the yellow umbrella screams "happy." Rihanna, you confuse me. You are a question wrapped up in an enigma in an angry gorilla dress.

Did we learn something today? Less is more. Unless you're a gorilla, then subtlety is lost on you.

various and sundry thoughts

Various and sundry have always been useful words when I've been using my favorite word, random, too much. More and more people are using my word and I can't have that, so various and sundry it is. For some reason I feel like I should start this post old-school-narrative-Superfriends-style, "when we last met our heroine she was having a couple of decent days…" then ominous music starts and you see that I'm tied to railroad tracks and hear the train whistle in the distance. Okay, I wasn't tied to train tracks, but I sure have felt like it.

The air conditioning went out in my house sometime Friday evening. My brain has apparently been affected by the heat and I'm not feeling a real post today, so here are various and sundry thoughts.

The wonderful Mr. Fontanille (husband of my friend, the lovely Keva) came to my rescue today, fixing the thing that makes the AC cold and making this place habitable once again.

I re-watched Swingers the other night and can't stop quoting the movie in my head.

We're planning on taking Andrew to see Thomas Live! Something About Some Circus Comes to Town! for his birthday next month. I'm pretty sure this will make me want to shoot myself in the face.

I've decided someone needs to take out Dora, Diego, and Kai Lan on Noggin. Damn shows are seeping into my brain making me accidentally learn Spanish and Mandarin. Ni Hao my ass, Kai Lan! And don't get me started on your best friend the koala — koalas don't live in China! Hell, do you think I'm stupid, Kai Lan?

Shampoo and body lotion placed on the hotel shower ledge makes me think it's shampoo and conditioner — it's not.

The 5 year-old asked me what the FBI is this afternoon. I'm scared.

The hubs tells me a friend of his at some big company asked him if he wants to go work in Kuwait. If he goes to Kuwait, I will start auditioning houseboys. Houseboy requirements and qualifications will be posted at a date TBD.

I love Jon Favreau. I want him to act more.

I've had a dull headache for three days.

Sometimes you have to hit the "hide" button on Facebook friend. You really don't need to use the F word on every status update. I'm just saying.

I was THAT mom today at swim lessons and was asked to stay out of sight at swimming lessons by the instructor.

Hummus would be really good right now.

Someone honked their horn at me at a red light today. Where was I supposed to go?

I got a paper cut at the hotel and touched no paper apart from the receipt I signed.

How can I tell if my bassett hound is depressed if she always looks that way?

The five year-old saw two dogs on the way into the subdivision this afternoon and exclaimed, "look Mom! that dog is giving the other dog a piggy-back ride!" I nearly spit Coke all over the dashboard.

self-portrait

For many reasons, I've never been one for self-portraits or seeing photos of myself. Mostly because I — like a lot of you — am highly critical of myself , my looks, my skin, my hair, my anything and everything. So, I'm usually the one behind the camera (or cameras, as the case may be). I'm quite the amateur photographer, you know. But when I'm the subject of a photograph, I see my round face and double chin, the two scars from when I had chicken pox in high school, and acne. I see the complete lack of color in my face and lips that point downward at the corners. I see eyebrows that must be dyed to be seen and barely-there eyelashes. And over the years I've noticed my freckles have faded and my nose is getting bigger at the end, which is par for the course, really, isn't it? At least I still have my sense of humor. Lord knows where I'd be without it.

So, those are the thoughts that are with me when I look in the mirror or see a picture of myself. And please, I've only listed the issues I have with my face. I'd go into the rest, but frankly, I have plans later this month and I don't have that kind of time.

As I've mentioned recently, I've been in a funk. The funk has lasted for a few weeks and I'm thinking of naming it. Maybe Fred, I'm not sure. Anyanxiety, yesterday I was having a particularly bad day. We all have them, but a bad day when you're in a funk is really bad. Among other things, I ran into the garage wall WITH MY CAR, the wall I've already dented and made a nice hole in. Pretty soon it will look as though the Kool Aid guy has run through it and into the laundry room. I realized what I had done, put the car in reverse, then park, closed my eyes and told myself to breath. At that moment "You Are the Everything" by R.E.M. came on the iPod and my scalp tingled like all my hair was standing on end and I exhaled and started crying. Now, I'm not one of those I-never-cry kind of girls, don't think that — but yesterday the dam broke and what started as a tear down one cheek and smeared mascara turned into The Ugly Cry.

The Ugly Cry is best cried alone. Fortunately, the three year-old bolted from his booster seat and into the house, leaving me to drench the steering wheel in peace. Unfortunately, I am nothing if not cognizant of my surroundings, bordering on clairvoyant, and I wiped my eyes only to see in my rear-view mirror that the UPS man was standing curiously behind my van, a couple of feet from the garage. Of course, I did what anyone would do in this instance and broke out into maniacal laughter, then got out of the car and got my package from Mr. UPS.

Once in the house, I stopped in the powder room to look at myself and saw that I had cried every inch of makeup off my face, except for my Pixi lip stain in the color Love — which looks very bright pink when you're not wearing any other makeup. For the first time in never, I was okay with my naked face. Pale skin, blonde eyelashes, out-of-control hair and all. I made myself some coffee and sat down to my laptop at my kitchen table, talked to a friend on Facebook, and took a picture with the webcam. I don't know why I thought to do this, it's not like me at all — and even less like me to share a photo of myself without makeup with you. After all, I was fully made-up when I was induced with all three babies, I don't leave the house without my eyes done and lipstick, and I sure as hell don't take pictures of myself without foundation, concealer, eye makeup, blush, and touched-up eyebrows.

I didn't think anything about the picture. I continued in my funk and forgot about it. Last night I was blogging about friends and made the photo mosaic on bighugelabs.com (great site to do neat things with pics) and today went back to that site to play some more. I love David Hockeny's work and his collages he's made with polaroids and thought I'd use the "Hockneyizer" and make my own. And maybe it's Honesty Week on The Kerry Blog, but I want to share it with you. Maybe I'm coming out of the funk, maybe I've finally lost it, I'm not sure — but here I am. Naked, with lip stain.

I'm hitting the "save" button before I chicken out.

pieces of me

Recently I've been pondering the things that make us who we are, what shapes us into the people we become, and for better or for worse — what the end product is. Of course, we are all still still changing and developing into older, wiser, or more enlightened versions of ourselves, but what's been on my mind are the things and people who influence us.

It's like the song "In My Life" by The Beatles,

"There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall"

The "some forever, not for better" part has been on my mind, because it's usually the negative that molds us and forces us to strengthen our character and defines us as individuals. The negative is different for each of us, but it serves the same purpose — and it's what you do with it that matters. Like all of you, I've had my share of bad times and I've shared some of those with you, but some things only my closest friends know about (until I spill it all on Oprah after the book deal, anyway). And it's those great friends who get us through those times and hopefully are there with you to see how you turned out in the end. I have some of the most wonderful friends a girl could ask for and I consider myself blessed to have them in my life. Some I've known for decades and remember me when I was just figuring out who I was, some are lucky enough have met me later on as the SAHM© I am today, who has it all figured out (wink wink, nudge nudge). And a select small number of you poor souls have known me the whole time and I can only ask that you one day be sainted one day (or get the room next to me in the crazy hospital, whichever comes first), and that goes for my poor hubs as well.

So, as I've thought about these events, places, people, and things in my life, I pieced together a couple of ideas and made a mosaic of photos that are pieces of me (past and present) that you will recognize are mostly parts that have been there all along. Here's a little something I made for you visual people.

Of course, my initials (do you love the typewriter key?). Then there is the writer-girl and The Beatles. I love my maryjanes — all 25 or so pair. I had to include my favorite flower — pink hydrangea. What would I be without music? I shudder to think! I'm ever-connected to my computer and have more cameras than any one person who isn't a professional photographer should own. You know girl loves a disco ball and lipstick (my lips haven't been without color since I was 11). And I'm never without a handful of pens or my coffee (my favorite mug, of course). There is the typewriter obsession — which could make me a very poor woman. And lastly, the beloved mix-tape. Isn't life one long mix-tape? I think so.

This post is sure to reflect the odd place where my brain is right now. I'm not operating at a level to string together enough thoughts for a real post, so enjoy what are the random thoughts in my brain on a late Monday night.

The Happening was the best Marky Mark movie I've seen this year. It is also the only Marky Mark movie I've seen this year. No, it wasn't worth my time.

AB said "creative death penalty" this afternoon and those three words struck me as three of the saddest words I've ever heard.

Switching medicications sucks.

Why was there a Splenda packet in my bathroom?

It's Free Rootbeer Float night at Sonic on Wednesday — just saw the commercial.

I really want a cookie. There are no cookies in the house.

My uterus feels like it may just fall out and right now I wouldn't care in the least.

I need a haircut. I don't think I've had a haircut since October. I forget to make appointments and I hope my hairstylist doesn't think I'm cheating on her with another stylist. I think of this every time I pass my salon (which is 2 miles from my house, so I pass it almost every day).

I spend too much time worrying about stupid crap.

My walk-in closet is not at the present time.

I accidentally bought ABC's Greatest Hits the other day on iTunes. Once you have the 4 or so hits, there is really no reason to have the rest of the album. I already had the 4 hits previous to this purchase.

My new swimsuit came today. I tried it on and pretty much look like the Virtual Model. I got two tops and they both smush (smoosh?) my boobs down. Oh well.

It really bothers me that I bought the wrong toilet paper last week.

On our tenth anniversary I started wearing the anniversary ring Scott bought for me instead of my wedding set. When water gets under the ring it makes a blister on the sides of my finger. I took a shower with the ring on yesterday and now have a blister. I am an idiot because I do this at least twice a month.

When the hubs told me he sent a resume to a company in my hometown I thought I would have a panic attack. It's not the town itself. There are many reasons for my anxiety. Fancy a guess? Yes, that is one. No, I'm not telling you the other reasons.

I'm really looking forward to Bret Easton Ellis' new novel Imperial Bedrooms, due out next year. It's a sequel to Less Than Zero and I hope it's just as good. But the question is, will they make a movie and will Robert Downey, JR and Andrew McCarthy reprise their roles? By the way, if you havn't read the book, it's vastly different from the movie, with disturbing moments like Ellis has in all his novels.

I've be cursing a lot lately.

Oh, and I'm apparently a heathen.

My left eye keeps watering for no reason.

I'm thirsty.

Internet Explorer bites.

The acronym SAHM for Stay At Home Mom has been bothering me for a few years. When someone asks me what I DO when I meet them, I say "I'm a stay at home mom" and quickly add that I co-own ScrapFest! but from now on I'm just saying I'm a SAHM. The new acronym stands for Slick Ass Hip Mother(effer)©. That's right, I'm copywriting it, bitches. Don't even think of stealing that one.

Category: life