6 in 64, but shooting for 500

I’ve recently started preparing for the Marine Corp 10K. I’m running this race in October in Arlington. I know some of you are thinking WIMP! A 10K is only 6.2 miles – who needs training?! Well….. me!

First off, I’m super excited. To be associated in any way with a Marine, or with anything that has the word “Marine” in it, is a personal accomplishment and an honor. One day I’ll graduate to the Marine Corp Marathon, but not this year. Baby steps. I’m over the moon that I get to run in this race which begins just after the MCM, and on the same course. I even get to cross the legendary MCM finish line at the MCM war memorial. AND I GET A SHIRT! (Little things in life..) It’s going to be an amazing day!

My ultimate, ultimate goal is to finish in 54 minutes. I know that is considered a snail’s pace to many others.. but for me, I’ll take it! That would put me in around 500th place out of approximately 2,600. Last year’s winning time was 33.06. Um, I will NEVER do a 5.5 minute mile, and I’m ok with that.

Today I did it in 64 minutes. Looking at last year’s results, that would put me in 1,079th place out of 2,695. Translate – somewhere in the middle. I don’t like being the middle man, so I’m shooting for the 500. Gotta make that extra 10 minutes disappear.

The Backer Inners

Here we go again. Please know that I am not inherently grumpy. Or cynical. Or a hater. I really am a nice person. I simply have a severe case of self-diagnosed S.P.I.D., aka Stupid People Intolerance Disorder. With the over-abundance of stupidity in the world epidemic, I find it my civic duty to call it when I see it.

Today I ran an errand at lunch and decided to pop into Harris Teeter to grab a summer roll. I LOVE sushi, and they have a fantastic sushi bar at the swanky new HT by my office. Mistake number one was thinking I could just “pop” in and out of there. This area, as we have heard me rant about before, is extremely over-populated. Plus this swanky new shopping center is home to about 8 restaurants, a Starbucks, a bank, and a grocery store. All on one block. Not kidding. Going into the HT shopping center at lunch time is like strolling through Southeast DC alone at 1 AM. It’s just not a smart idea. Anyway, off I go to take my chance and get my summer roll.

In these instances of over-crowded streets and parking lots, it’s not uncommon to dodge the occasional pedestrian, flying cart, darting sports car, and SUV a-hole who thinks because he’s bigger he can just run right over you. I’m used to that. That’s ok. It’s even ok that 5 other cars are tailing me around and around the parking lot like the Daytona 500 just hoping for a chance at the parking spot victory. The kicker came when I finally saw the spot. The empty parking spot that I’ve now circled around 15 times hoping for. I start to think the car in front of me is going to pass right by it, and it will be all mine. But no. The idiot goes just far enough ahead that I can taste it, then puts the car in reverse. You’ve gotta be freaking kidding me. Not only did you drive right past the space, you are now expecting me and the five other people behind me to back up and wait so that you can “conveniently” back in. Just because backing in is your preferred method of parking.

So listen up all you backer inners – DON’T BE A MORON. When you see an empty parking space and you know there is a parking lot full of other people who want it, don’t be an a-hole. Just pull forward into the space and have a nice life!

Is it my IPOD or the Running that Speaks to me?

I love running. I’ve gotta tell you. There’s something truly therapeutic about being out on the open trail bright and early in the morning. I’m not sure if it’s the sleepy-headed little critters that call to me as I pass them, or the feeling I get when I pass other runners or bikers who are out enjoying the beautiful day. But, whatever it is - it does it for me. It’s great mind therapy. Things become clearer to me when I’m out on a run, and I notice things and think about things that typically wouldn’t occur to me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe just dehydration!

Lately I’ve been taking a particular notice of bikers. They are cult-like. They are part of a secret society – one where you need to know the secret handshake or speak the special code language to become fully integrated. Since I don’t bike, I don’t get it and I just smile and move out of the way as they chant, yell, snort, grunt, send up a hand signal, and fly right past me.

One day (near Father’s day and my little boy’s birthday), I went out for a run. I always take my IPOD with me because the music gives me the extra little oomph I need to go that extra mile. I was listening to my music not really paying attention to my surroundings. I met one biker who said “Arrrrrgh!” Another said “You’re lucky lady!” Another threw up some sort of hand signal that meant absolutely nothing to me. As I ran along about to pass out from the heat and from just tiring out, Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer came on. I laughed and thought “How appropriate!” as Jon sang “Oh, oh we’re half way there, oh oh Living on a Prayer.” How ironic that I was half way through my run at that exact moment. As I moved along, I heard bikers behind me laughing and chanting something unfamiliar. As they flew right by me, it occurred to me that KC and the Sunshine Band’s Shake your Booty was playing in my ear. Then I started to wonder if my booty was doing a little too much jiggling in my running shorts. Finally, as I was headed for home stretch, G&R’s Sweet Child O Mine came on. I thought about my baby, and how he was about to turn 4 years old, and how incredibly proud I am of him every day. With Father’s Day right around the corner, I though of my dad and knew that he was also proud of me for getting out and trying to stay healthy.

Somehow it all connected for me that day. The running high, the music, the camaraderie among the active. I love it, I love it, and I want some more of it.

The First Name Expletive

Just for a second pretend you are me. If I asked you politely “Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?” Of the following two replies, take a guess at which one drives me bonkers.

A. It doesn't matter to me, you choose.
B. It doesn’t matter to me, KIM, you choose.

If you chose option B, YOU ARE CORRECT. I hate the first name expletive. Putting emphasis on the name in a sentence is like saying mean things without having to use the mean words. Example:

It doesn’t matter to me, KIM, you choose sounds like “Kim, I really don’t give a shit. Just pick a place and let’s go. No need to have a discussion over what to stuff in our mouths. It’s just fat and calories anyway. Who cares?”

Whereas;

It doesn’t matter to me, you choose sounds like sing song. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter to me, I’m simply along for the ride, and to enjoy your pleasant company. So you decide and I’ll be happy no matter what.”

See what I mean?!?!?!?!?

Putting the first name expletive in there is so direct and personal and to the point and mean. It brings seriousness to the conversation. I don’t like seriousness. Seriously!

Don’t call me Kim. Or, I won’t ask you to dinner anymore.

Thunderstorms and Hot Rollers

It’s that time of year when Mother Nature gets pissed and F’s with my golf game. Thunderstorm season. Of course the day before yesterday was Wednesday – my golf night – so she holds out until 3 PM to lay the hammer down. Rest of the flipping day was gorgeous, but right as I start thinking we may be able to play, it was 4th of July in the sky. Pitch black dark and lightening everywhere. We had a few tornadoes touch down near our house – enough to knock our power out for 8 hours yet again. 8 hours seems to be the magic number for P’ville.

As I’m driving to work yesterday contemplating this ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL day-after-the-storm morning, I look to my left. In the car next to me, I notice a commuter (female of course) in hair curlers. It was so out of character, I had to laugh. I’ve seen some crazy stuff on the toll road, but this I haven’t seen since Walmart on a Saturday afternoon back in Mississippi. (At least this commuter spared us the bath robe and fuzzy slippers.)

As I think about this a bit more, I start to question the intent. Did she just forget they were there? Is she really going to work wearing those things? Where and how will she dispose of them when she gets to where she is going? Is the final destination appearance important enough to get all "beauty shopped up" on the toll road? Am I the only one who thinks this is odd? And, of course, does anyone but me really care?

Bottom line, I guess she should be glad she wasn’t wearing those things at 3PM Wednesday. With all of those lightening rods in her hair, she’d have been prime candidate for the hair perm of her life.

The Reality of $20

For a brief moment, I’d like to invite you on a trip back to 1988. When I was in college, my parents used to give me $20 a week for spending money. Granted, I was on scholarship, lived in the dorm, and my meals were paid for. (Well, my normal three meals a day – not the 2 AM – after the bars closed down - eating frenzy that put 20 pounds on my already big enough butt.)

Anyhoo! Knowing full well that $20 wasn’t a lot of money, I could stretch it beautifully. My friend Rebecca had the car (Becca I know that I am indebted to you for the rest of my life for gas money and back seat road sign stealing repairs.) Since she had the car, and I was a huge moocher, I didn’t pay for gas. Becca would pick me up Sunday evening and drive us both to school. On the way, we would detour a bit and pay our weekly homage to the bootlegger. The bootlegger lived in a house with a circle drive. We simply pulled up, blew the horn, and someone would appear and take our order. $5 later, I had a six pack of hot bud light. (It was college, ok?! We drank it hot if we had to.)

That was Sunday and I had $15 left. No mater what happened, come hell, high water, a natural disaster, or war I needed to save another $5 for Wednesday night. That was Shenanigans night. That was ladies night - $5 to get in the door with a fake ID, and all the beer you could drink for free. Done. If I didn’t have $5 of my $20 left, that meant I was borrowing $50 cents from every person I knew to cover my cover – so to speak. Believe me, I have done this before. Once or twice is charming, more than that is not cool. After a night of partying on Wednesdays we usually stopped off at some Crusty Crab along the drive back for food. Thursdays were hangover days and that meant grease. Which usually meant lunch at the all you can eat Pizza Inn buffet for $3.50. By Thursday night I was completely out of money, but headed home on Friday for the weekend.

Why am I telling you this? I suppose as a reality check. In 1988, $20 bought me all the fun I had to pay for in a week. The rest was mooched and free. Yesterday $20 bought me 5 gallons of gas. Not even a half a tank, folks. If yesterday were 1988, I would have been screwed. Perhaps the lack of funds would have forced me to stay in my dorm and study. Maybe the reality check is not so much that $20 doesn’t go very far these days…. but that if I had studied the first time around instead of partying like a rock star, I wouldn’t still be taking classes today.

You Say Goodbye; But I Say Hello

Hello? Hello? I don’t know why you say good-bye; I say hello. Unfortunately, I’m not talking about my latest trip to Target. I’m talking about my golf game. After 6 months of the winter blues, and a season opening trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods to buy a new putter, I’m back out on the golf course. Last week was kick-off of my weekly golf game with Foreplay. (My fun foursome gal pal golf posse – aka Wik, Jugs, Gracie, and GG.)

I’m the first to admit that I am not that great of a golfer. There are some golfers out there who are worse than me, but my girly golf shoes won’t be gracing any LPGA greens. Ever. And I’m ok with that. Besides, I’m straight. (Did I just say that in my out-loud voice?)

At the end of last season, I was getting close to an occasional par…. mostly bogeys or double-bogeys. (I seem to always choke on the par – like a big old chicken bone in the throat - choke.) But, par wasn’t that far out of my reach. Then Jack Frost rolls around, and poof! Golf game gone. Twice out this spring and I’m back to stinking like a big ‘ol dead skunk on the side of a dirt road. My little pink noodle ball is lying there motionless just laughing at me. She’s looking up at me going “Come on.. come on dumb ass.. hit me if you can – you silly little girl-golfer.” I’m hacking at it like I’m trying to kill a 6 foot long python in my back yard. When little pink noodle wasn’t just sitting there, she was getting comfortable perched in the middle of a bush, wedging herself between rocks, flocking to the nearest sand trap, or hiding under a tree like a pretty little Easter egg. Well, it ain’t Easter, sister.

I know it’s early, so I’m completely optimistic. So for now, I will resign to chasing the noodle. In the end, I WILL get that par.

Hela, heba helloa

The Peacock Stays, Two Sets of Curtains, Four Rugs and Counting….

Yet again after 5 different shades of green splashed all over the walls of our study, I decide on Chopped Dill. Ahhhhhh. I love this color. It looks so pretty across the hall from the dining room and the Odendaga Clay. I’m feeling funky-fied and little bit color feng shui’d all at the same time.

A few months back when this project was a mere speck on my brain (before there was even a feather in my peacock), I bought a rug. My peoples know that I likes me animal print. So, of course I bought a zebra rug. No. I do not think this is classy, sophisticated, or even trendy at this point. I liked it, so I bought it. It makes me laugh. End of story. Unfortunately, it did not go with my Pier One lottery curtains. So, what to do? New curtains, of course! I go back to Pier One and get the second set of curtains – ones that I had hoped would go with my zebra rug. They did not. As things usually go for me, I loved the curtains so much… that the zebra rug had to go.

Now I know what you are thinking. Kim! Stop the madness! People – I say this with every ounce of integrity I have left. I simply can’t. I cannot rest until it’s perfect. So I charge on. With all of my Pier One excursions, purchases and returns, believe it or not I still have a store credit. (Again, see How I Won the Pier One Lottery.) So I go on the hunt for another rug. Back to Pier One, I find a $300 rug for $37! I’m not kidding. This Pier One lottery gift card is the gift that keeps on giving. Unfortunately, that rug didn’t work either. Back it went. For now I’ve settled on a Target rug that is sitting there taking up space until the perfect rug jumps into my car and makes its way into my insane life.

With everything in place, we are ready to hang my piece de resistance. My peacock. After searching the house top to bottom for the stud finder, and then replacing batteries in said stud finder, Greg sets to work. Ten minutes later, it’s up. It’s beautiful, and it’s perfect for the room. We step back, take a look, and I exclaim “Oh, Greg. Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you love it?” His answer – “Oh, it’s you alright. It’s totally you. It fits your personality perfectly. You’re crazy! Crazy like a fu**ing peacock.”

I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

The Peacock and The Gas Tank – Who was the Bigger Retard Here?

This is a long one, folks. So saddle up for a true Caccavo retard adventure.

Still in the middle of Project Spread-age. Dining room complete, moving across the hall now to the study. My house had been turned upside down for weeks at this point. I was nearing the end of this nightmare when we were off to our first family Nats game of the season. (Washington Nationals vs. Atlanta Braves.) We were all super excited as this was our first family trip to the new Nationals Park. (Translate – Greg did NOT want to be late.)

In the previous week, I had made yet another trip to Pier One where I purchased yet another piece of art for the study. As things usually go with me, I hated it and it had to go back. I remembered seeing this really beautiful wooden picture of a peacock. Yes, you heard me correctly, I said peacock. I remembered that it was really big, though. How big? An unfortunate slip of the brain….

I needed two things in order to make operation peacock swap a success 1.) Greg 2) His van. I knew that this would be the only day in the near future that I could catch both Greg and his van in the vicinity of a Pier One. So, me being the ever-resourceful person that I am (toot toot goes my horn), thought “Great! We can load up the ugly picture that I hated and exchange it for the peacock picture on our way back from the Nats game.” So off we go……

We left the house approximately three hours before game time. The boys needed haircuts first, so we stopped off to get that done along the way. Greg says “I’m dropping you and the boys off so that I can go get gas and cash.” A time-saving plan – I love it. The boys finish up much faster than we thought so now we have about two hours before game time. Back in the car we go, and I suggest we just go to Pier One now so that operation peacock swap is complete and we don’t have to stop on the way back. (I’m always looking for a time-saving plan.)

Some would argue that size does not matter. I can inform you that in the case of the newly acquired Caccavo peacock, size did matter. I had not realized the peacock was so big. Like 5 feet tall and 50 pounds big. In my mind – whatever! I had to be had. So it was had. As Greg is waiting for me, he circles the parking lot and returns to find a large box with two hands poking around each side, two sneakers underneath, and a Washington Nationals tee shirt flapping in the wind. Shock and horror set in as he realizes those body parts belong to his wife, and we now have to load this thing into the van. Again, after a few choice words, the removal of the kids, the repositioning of seats, and 10 minutes of sweat and swearing, the peacock is wedged in between the boys and we are on our way to DC. To say the least, no one is happy with me at this moment.

A few miles down the road. Sniff. Sniff, sniff. What is that smell???? Ok – when Greg said he was going to get gas, I assumed he meant in the van. Not the plastic gas tank that he uses to fill the lawn mower. The same gas tank that has now spilled in the back of our van. On our way to DC. Are you kidding me? There is a gas station less than a mile from our house. I’m not sure why he felt the need to fill up a plastic gas tank that would travel with us for 60 miles to DC, and then 60 miles back from DC, as well as sit and fumigate the van in the hot sun. Please God, don’t let one of the kids fart and blow us to kingdom come.

So here we are on our way to DC smelling like shit with a big ass peacock perched in the middle of the van in all its glory. Four pissed-off Caccavos, and a day at the ball park to go. I’ll let you decide who was the bigger retard in this adventure.

Project Spread-age

So in the middle of the kitchen face lift (see How I won the Pier One Lottery) below, A very Kim and Greg thing happened. Before we went to Pier One and bought our kitchen furniture, we first looked around at furniture stores. Big mistake. In the door with kitchen furniture on the brain turned into out the door with a new dining room set. This meant one thing. The dining room had to be redecorated. Which meant just one more thing. The study across the hall had to also be redecorated. Sigh. Project Spread-age begins.

I had been anticipating these two projects for over a year. I just couldn’t find what I wanted… and I wasn’t sure of the colors that I wanted to use… yada yada yada. I knew that whatever I decided to do had to now blend in with my new kitchen and my freak-nasty hot orange chairs. So back to the source I went. Pier One.

Let me just say that I do my best shopping (ok – damage) when I am in a hurry. I was on my way to get my hair cut (ok FINE – colored) when I decided just to “pop in for a bit.” Within 20.4 minutes, I was on fire and used my lottery winnings (aka gift card) to purchase curtains, pillows, and an enormous piece of art for my dining room wall. (Barely got it in the car – so thank you nice Pier One associate with the magical art/car seat maneuvering techniques.) You rock.

Alas – ½ of the idea for project spread-age was born.

Now although you have never seen me paint - let me tell you that I am the queen of painting. In the five years of East Chincoteague living, I have painted every inch of every wall, in all sixteen rooms of that house. Some more than once. Some more than twice. Its common knowledge that I am insane, but I accept this.

After purchasing three gallons of the wrong shades of red (I was just sure I had it right every time!), 5 trips to the paint store, and 4 more sample colors strategically painted (ok splattered) all over the wall for “testing” purposes (thank you Benjamin Moore for creating little sample sizes), Odendaga Clay became the color of choice. Unfortunately, I didn’t get finished with this nightmare before my husband came home, saw all of the evidence, and told me that I had turned our house into, what looked like, a murder scene.

How I won the Pier One Lottery

It had been a good 5 years on Chincoteague Ct. But it was time for little nip tuck action. Before you start thinking that I got that much needed lipo, tummy tuck, or botox treatment – rest assured that I am still au naturale. This nippin’ and tuckin’ was of the redecorating kind. We decided that since the kitchen was the heartbeat of 301 East, it would be the first to get the face lift. In true Caccavo style, one project always spreads like a giant cancer, but I will save “project spread-age” for another post.

The first thing we did was to update a few appliances. We stuck with black because, frankly, the only other thing I would go to would be stainless and kid-boogers and finger prints aren’t synonymous with stainless.

We changed our counter tops to a nice earth-tone brown granite, and thus the kitchen table and chairs search began. Thankfully that hunt was short-lived because one trip to Pier One and I was in love. The chairs were orange, they were leather (translate: booger-retardant), and they were fabulous. They were not, however, on sale. After a minor furrow of the brow, a flinch, and a few choice words, he hands over the check book. (Yes, that would be Greg.) A few minutes later, they were mine. Ohhhhh lovely, lovely, mine.

A month or so later, my beloved Catherine calls me up on a Saturday to tell me that she had just left Pier One where my faboo-new orange chairs were - shock and horror – now on sale! Not only were they on sale, they were on big time sale. Now normally, I am not so ballsy. But I grew a pair that day, and gave them a buzz. After a two minute conversation, I was in the car on my way to the store where the lovely folks at Pier One (my new favorite store) gave me a three-hundred-dollar gift card store credit. Cha-ching! Can I just say – I love you Pier One.

Of course, in true Kim fashion, there is much much more to this story… Stay tuned…..

Cheers to the Drinking Lunch

I don’t know if you feel this way, but to me there’s some kind of sneaky-thrill about having a beer with lunch during working hours. It’s almost the equivalent of getting the once a year free pass to have a drink with your parents when you are under age. It feels so sneaky, but it also gives you this weird sense of grown-up satisfaction. It could be because I go through life trying not to “act” like a grown up, and a simple beer with lunch is like cheating on a test and not getting caught. Seriously, sometimes I can’t believe I’m almost 40. I can’t even believe that I’m old enough to have a mortgage!

I’m so fortunate to work with really cool people – the ones who also enjoy the drinking lunch. It feels so nice to go sit for an hour, enjoy a drink and some food, and gossip about the office goings-on. It’s such a nice “screw-you” to the corporate BS that you deal with from 8 to 5. It’s almost like saying “You can control me while I’m sitting in my office, but not while I’m sitting here enjoying this Heineken.” It’s such a liberating adult thing to do. Do you remember the first time you had a drink with your boss? It’s like having a drink with your dad. You have to admit that it felt weird.

I think everyone should have a beer with lunch. It’s good for the soul.

Salute!

Spring Break – Yet Another Crack Smoker Story

Ahhhhhh. Spring Break. This means a lot of different things to a lot of different people – depending on your age bracket and your sense of adventure level. It’s the time of year when spring fever hits, and people go nuts to get out of the snow and into 80 degree weather. Time to pull out those shades and prepare ourselves for the horror of ……. deep breath…… swimsuits. Here come the un-toned winter beer guts and the blinding white legs that are itching to burn after having been cooped up all winter long.

For the Caccavos, it means Disney World. Let there be no mistake. Disney World is indeed the happiest place on earth. We always have a wonderful time when we go there. It’s all about the kids. Or, maybe I should say, for us it’s all about the kids. For others, clearly it’s another crack smoking adventure.

You know I love a good people-watching opportunity. This trip did not let me down. When I got home last night and did my mental down-load, I was left with a few very important perplexes. If you are guilty of these things, put the crack pipe away and pay attention.

The park is open from 8 AM till 1 AM. You are guaranteed 17 hours of Mickey Mouse. Why, at 8:10 in the morning, are you running from the parking lot toward the entrance like your ass is on fire? Relax. Disney World is not going anywhere.

Why is everyone stressed out and yelling at each other as they are walking through the gates? It’s 8 AM. It’s Disney World. It’s the happiest place on earth, right?

If you are there to enjoy a vacation with your children, why are you causing a scene, scaring little kids, prompting adults to search your body for suicide bomb evidence because you are yelling like a crazy person at the ride attendant? You are on the “It’s a small world” ride. It’s not the beltway at 5 PM. Calm down. You will get your turn.

Why do ladies wear high heels to Disney World? You are going to be walking for MILES. Vanity is important – but not that important. Two words – varicose veins.

Why is it acceptable for fat people to ride the scooters? And why do they get an automatic free pass to the front of the line?

Seriously, is that thing you are gnawing on really a 5lb turkey leg? Did you really pay money for that? Are you a caveman? Or possibly a cannibal? Did you assault Donald Duck on your way into the park?

Why do adults who go to the Magic Kingdom without kids wait on line for 30+ minutes to ride "It's a small world?"

Why do adults who go to the Magic Kingdom without kids wait on line to get autographs from the characters? With their Disney World autograph books? Did you seriously buy that book for yourself?

Why do adults who go to the Magic Kingdom without kids complain that there are too many kids there?

Ummm, and just why "do" adults go to the Magic Kingdom without kids?

It's Gotta be the Limes

The strangest thing keeps happening to me. Whatever the case -- I meet friends for dinner/drinks, We have people over for dinner/drinks, Greg and I sit at home with dinner/drinks.. and I always end up with a stomach ache. This has been going on for a while now --and I must admit -- it's cramping my style.

So, Friday night into Saturday morning when I'm in bed and cannot sleep due to the burning fire in my stomach.... I contemplate the day's events. And it hits me. It's gotta be the limes.

Case in point:

Friday afternoon I began the weekend at 3:30 by attending a work barbeque. All I had was a Carona with a LIME.

5:00 I met friends for happy hour where I started with a vodka tonic and a LIME.

5:30 I had another vodka tonic and a LIME.

6:00 I had another vodka tonic and a LIME.

7:00 I was forced into taking a bite of key LIME pie.

7:30 I had a partial vodka tonic and a LIME.

3:00 AM I woke to the 4 alarm fire raging in my stomach. I got up to get some Mylanta, and my head was spinning so fast I almost fell down the stairs. Who would have thought limes could do such a thing? They're fruit. Supposed to be good for us, right? Thank goodness Eric finished my last vodka tonic with LIME, or it might have been worse.

LIMES were a big contributor to my grumpiness on Saturday, too. Because of the LIMES, I was up all night. Got no sleep. Felt like crap. Had a stomach ache. A head ache. No appetite. No energy. Everyone got on my nerves. Damn limes.

Annual Office Christmas Party Oscars

Roll out the red carpet, guys! It’s time to salute the annual Christmas party patrons. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, “discussing” how they played their role in the annual company throw-down is always a special treat. Here are the Christmas Party Oscar nominees:

The Fun Guy. This is the guy that everybody wants to be around. People fight each other to sit by this guy. No doubt – this will be the fun table. This is where the hot chicks will be.

The Shy Girl. This is the girl who never speaks to anyone at work. She eats lunch at her desk every day, and always declines social events. She does not drive to work – she takes public transportation. Her boss is forcing her to attend the Christmas party – her bonus is contingent upon it. After a few glasses of wine, her skirt is over her head displaying her thong underwear. She has a tattoo on her butt. That is when you find out that she is in AA and is on parole. She is no longer shy and awkward. She is cool.

The Drunk Guy. This is the guy who shows up at the party with 200 Jell-O shooters. It is his mission to get Ethel the secretary, and Marge the receptionist drunk off their asses. He wants to see those orthopedic shoes come off, and those arthritic feet hit the dance floor. He is surrounded by a crowd at the bar. He is doing body shots off of Tiffany, the 22 year old new girl in Marketing.

The Secret Society. This is the group who meets at an undisclosed location before the party begins. These are the cool people. They speak in code language and send secret e-mails the week before the party. No one can find out about their secret plans. They meet to drink, be merry, and predict how the evening will go down. They are the brat pack.

The Person Who Doesn’t Show. This poor soul. By the end of the party, everyone has him/her divorcing, destitute, in jail, a drug addict, a sex offender, a porn star, recovering from liposuction, a prostitute. They should have just made an appearance!

The Office Ho. She works for the company president. How do you think she got that job? She is wearing the latest Fredericks of Hollywood fashion. Complete with 5 inch hooker shoes and fish-net hose. They end up ripped before the night is over because she fell off of the table she was dancing on. One of her fake fingernails is missing also.

The Annoying Guy. This person has tried, unsuccessfully, for years to get into the secret society. People can’t stand to be around him. He shows up without a date because he wants to leave his options open. He pumped iron for 5 hours prior to the party so his biceps would look good in his new tight satin shirt. He thinks he’ll get lucky with the new girl in accounting, but ends up driving Office Ho home. On Monday, he walks door to door assuring people that he did not touch that scank.

The Elves. These are the ladies of the office who think it would be great to play games and give door prizes. You can thank them for the 4 foot tall stuffed Santa, the porcelain angel, the snowman that plays Jingle Bells, and the fruit cake. At the end of the night, Drunk Guy has Santa in a headlock as he stumbles to the car. So much for that $40 bucks.

Why I had to Quit My Favorite Taco Bell

I’m devastated by all of the recent Taco Bell news. My people know that I love Taco Bell. If I could own one in my back yard, I would. Then I’d just lock the door to the public, barricade myself inside, and eat all of the food by myself. I’d come out weighing 400 pounds, but I’d have enjoyed every minute of it. Taco Bell was the single source that turned me back into a carnivore after my 8 year hiatus as a vegetarian. A story for another day.

So all of this “Toxic Taco” talk reminded me of the time when I had to quit my favorite Taco Bell. In hindsight, the first tell-tale sign that I was turning into a Mexican was when I started to pull away from the drive through and the guy working said “Bye bye, see you tomorrow.” Yeah, so he was starting to get to know me. We were becoming friends. Big deal.

The day that we became instant foes went down like this:
I drove up, placed my order, pulled up to pay and get my goods. My guy says “You know, every day when you come through here I recognize that you remind me of someone, but I can never place who it is. Yesterday it hit me. Do you know who you look exactly like?” The young, 20-something me (this was a long time ago guys!) is just sitting there smiling naively and blinking. And, I replied “No, who???” The answer was the equivalent of shock and awe, or better yet, the equivalent of missing out on the Macy’s annual shoe sale. It was Hillary Clinton. Big deep breath. This is still so painful to me. Let me get a tissue, please.

HUH? So, obviously I didn’t know what to say. All I remember is that it got really hot in that car, and my skin started to itch. And I started to scratch. The look on my face must have said it all because he then followed with “I hope I didn’t offend you by saying that, she is a very powerful woman.” Still blinking. Scratching. Blinking. Scratching. Blinking. Blinking. Blinking. Blinking. Put car in drive. Drove away. Never looked back. Never looked back once guys, but scarred forever.

The Christmas Tree – Men vs. Women

It’s that time of year again. Time to knock the dust off of the Christmas decorations and get down with the decorating of the Christmas tree. I love Christmas. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year to me. I love the lights, the smell of the tree, the competition with the neighbors over the gaudiest outdoor lights…. and over who can get theirs up the quickest on the day after Thanksgiving.

When we started putting up our tree this year, I had to laugh over the man vs. woman idea of how the Christmas tree should be decorated.

Women: (On a fake tree.) Each branch – and I mean all 500 must be strategically pulled and stretched so that there are no holes and no funky-looking protrusions.

Men: Take the thing out of the box, stick it in the stand. Stand back. It looks beautiful.

Women: Must have all white lights. Must have fourteen tons of them. Must all blink or none blink. Can’t be a combination of both. Each strand must be pre-measured and placed so that the entire tree is covered – but no cords are showing.

Men: Must have colored lights. Need only one strand. The entire tree does not need to be covered as long as they all work. Blinking or non-blinking is of no importance. Can run an extension cord from the top of the tree, down the front middle, across the bottom to the electrical outlet. Stand back. It looks beautiful.

Women: Must have all matching decorations. They can be old world, Victorian, crystal, whatever, but no combination. They must be color coordinated. They must be carefully placed so that no two balls are in direct relation to one another.

Men: The more Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Tony Romo ornaments that can go on the front of the tree – the better. It doesn’t matter. Cowboys rule, and let’s get this over with before the game starts. Stand back. It looks beautiful.

Women: The angel goes on last. It is the piece de resistance. Let the children put it up there. Hold them and pose while I take a picture.

Men: Stick a popcorn ball up there for all I care. If I miss the game – I’m gonna be pissed. Picture or no picture, angel or no angel. Stand back. It looks beautiful.

Women: The lighting of the tree happens last. This happens five hours later – after everything is in its proper place. This is for effect. Stand back and enjoy it.

Men: Light the tree as soon as the lights are on it. This will help me to keep up with my beer.

Check Writers and Serial Killers

Here we are again – back to the subject of retards. Once again, I’m overwhelmed with the retards who have invaded my personal space. Given such - I feel it is my civic duty to expose them, and their stupid retarded actions, to the free world.

Don’t be fooled – this is not just about my blowing off steam. There is a lesson to be learned here. Listen up and think about how you can apply this simple blog entry to your every day life. This itsy bitsy check writing story is not just about check writing. It is about time management, efficiency, and courtesy to your fellow man. Three things that are near and dear to my heart. And three things that, if properly respected, will make the world a better place to live.

Allow me to paint the following scenario for you. (Based on actual events, of course.)

You, like everyone else, are busy. You need to run to the store, perhaps to buy diapers for your child who has a poop-infested butt at home. Perhaps you are a single mom who is paying a fortune for a baby sitter so you can do some quick Christmas shopping for (and without) your kids. Maybe you are a husband who left work early to surprise your wife by picking up dinner at the grocery store. Whatever the case may be – it’s your time – and it’s precious. As the world turns these days, you are busy.

You are at the store. You get in line to check out. You are third, fourth, or fifth in line waiting on everyone else ahead of you. Your wheels are turning – you need to make it home fast for a plethora of reasons. Inevitably, the line is slow. But, finally after waiting for what seems like forever, the person in front of you is finishing up. (I’ll use “she” in my example because it usually is.) The cashier says “That will be $105.42, ma’am.” Then and only then is when “she” decides to take her purse off of her shoulder and start digging through mounds of crap in search of her check book.

Hello?! This is unacceptable folks. Not only have you effectively mismanaged your own time, but your inefficiencies and lack of respect have affected the lives of everyone around you. Now we all stop and wait. For you. Because you were unprepared, and because you have no concern for your fellow man, we are all now farther behind. Have a little common courtesy. You should have had the check book out, pen ready, and everything filled in except for the amount owed long before now. And, furthermore, who writes a check any more? Where is your check card? Last time I checked, it was 2006. We write checks for bills once a month – not for kitty litter and KY at Target.

If you are one of these people, take your check book out right now. Place it in front of your face. Now smack yourself 10-20 times in the head so that you will remember this in the future. Here’s another piece of advice. When you have finished smacking yourself, look around you. It’s stupid people like you that become the targets of serial killers. The ones who are not paying attention. The ones who have no idea what’s going on around them. You are probably also the one who digs through your purse in the parking garage for your keys, the one who gets snatched up because you are parked by a big white van, the one who runs out of gas leaving a party at 2:00AM, the one who walks down the dark alley alone.

If I wake up tomorrow morning and the newspaper says a woman’s head was found in the refrigerator of a serial killer, it won’t be me. It will be you. The inconsiderate, unconcerned, oblivious check writer.

My Black Booty

It's no secret. Those who know me are well aware that I have the booty of a black girl. It’s been an issue my whole life. People know it – and people just accept it for what it is. Don't get me wrong - having a black booty is not a bad thing. If you are black. I am not.

Yesterday I was feeling a little brave and decided to try on some blue jeans. For me, this is almost as traumatic as swimsuit shopping (just without the screaming.) 1 out of 25 pair might fit. Most of the time, I just leave the dressing room empty handed and head for the shoe section where everything fits.

None the less, as I stand there staring at myself in the dressing room mirror, I start to sing the song "Black Betty." Then it dawned on me how appropriate that song would be if I just changed the words a bit. So here goes....

My version of "Black Booty."

Whoa, black booty (bam-ba-lam)
Whoa, black booty (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty had two childs (bam-ba-lam)
The damn thing's gone wide (bam-ba-lam)

I said oh, black booty (bam-ba-lam)
You really make me sigh (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty like french fries (bam-ba-lam)
You know that's no lie (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty up another size (bam-ba-lam)

I said why, black booty (bam-ba-lam)
Must you always get bigger (bam-ba-lam)
Why do you like Hilfiger (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty's so rock steady (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty don't like tready (bam-ba-lam) (tready is short for treadmill)

I ain't from Birmingham (bam-ba-lam)
Way down in alabam' (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty shakes her thing (bam-ba-lam)
Black booty makes me sing (bam-ba-lam)

Whoa, black booty (bam-ba-lam)
Whoa, black booty (bam-ba-lam)

The Top 8 Reasons Why I am a Shoe Ho

To appease Catherine.... uh-hem:

1. You can tell everything you need to know about a person by their shoes. I want people to look at my shoes and say "Cool."
2. Shoes are the perfect date. Pick any pair of the litter. They will go out with you, and they will come back home with you. No questions asked.
3. Shoes provide confidence, power, freedom and support. They carry us through life. They get us through the good times - and the bad. All with dignity. All with style.
4. You may have a bad hair day, a fat day, an ugly day.. whatever. Great shoes never change. Great shoes make us greater.
5. Great shoes don't make our butts look big, and you don't need a girdle for your ankles.
6. I never want to be caught without the perfect pair of shoes. Therefore, I believe more is more.
7. Shoe shopping gets me high. It's better than any martini I've ever had, or any drug I've never done. Shoes don't make you hung over, and you don't puke them up the next day.
8. My name is Kim. And I am a shoe ho.

I'm BaaaaAaaaaak!

Did you miss me? I apologize to all of my blog friends. It has been a CRAZY three weeks. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been unable to post since my last entry of 10/20/06. That is because:

1. Catherine and Amy were right. On 10/20/06 I left work and went shoe shopping.
2. On my way to the mall, I stopped at KFC (not crack-fil-a, mind you) and inadvertently ate the teenage mutant ninja turtle parts that KFC passes off as chicken.
3. I washed it down with a Coke - which I later used to clean my toilet.
4. After a successful shoe shopping trip, I went to the parking garage to get into my car. I was approached by a very handsome looking gentleman in a business suit who wanted to sell me very expensive cologne at a really good price. Smelling it is the last thing I remember. When I woke up, I had been robbed! I don't know for sure, but I don't think that was cologne folks!
5. Since the thief took my purse, my car, and my new shoes, I had to find a pay phone to call the police. Thank goodness I had a quarter in my pocket. But, as luck would have it, the pay phone ate my money. When I tried to retrieve it, I accidentally pricked my finger with the hypodermic needle that had been left in the coin retrieval!
6. After that - I figured I needed a drink. So, I hitched a ride to the closest bar. Since I didn't have any money, I flirted with someone and got them to buy me a drink. Next thing I know, I'm in a sleazy motel room and one of my kidneys is missing! Thankfully, they packed the incision with ice, left a phone nearby, and I was able to call 911.
7. After a week's stay in the hospital, I went back home. (That's when I cleaned the toilet with the coke - worked great by the way.) I also paid the bills that had been piling up.
8. Since I NEVER win anything, you can imagine my surprise when I read my e-mail and found out that Bill Gates wanted to share his fortune with ME! I was notified that I was getting a check for approximately $24,800! That will sure help with those hospital bills.
9. I was so excited that I decided to pay off everything. But just after I had licked all of the envelopes for the bills, a bump appeared on my tongue. My next door neighbor is a doctor who quickly came over and informed me that I had accidentally consumed spider eggs from the envelope glue. There were spiders growing in my mouth!
10. Thankfully, she is skilled with a paring knife. You should have seen those spiders crawl right out of my tongue! It was a horror show.

Assuming a serial killer doesn't leave a tape of a crying baby on my doorstep leading me to wander outside in search, but am thereby abducted - I'll be back tomorrow. No promises though. Like I said, it's been a crazy three weeks.

The Flu Shot

I guess it's that time of year again. We found out today that our pediatrician's office is wait listing kids for the flu shot. They are expecting a shipment, and will call us when it's our turn. Our turn for the hell that will be when our kids realize there is a reason why we are bribing them with McDonalds during the middle of the week. Let there be no mistake. Taking our kids to the pediatrician for shots is no fun! Bribing helps until they see the big ugly monster-like nurse coming toward them with the two foot long needle. Then reality sets in. They're screaming, they're running, they're hiding, they're putting every Power Ranger, Ninja Turtle or super hero move they've ever known to good use. It's a battle, and it's ugly.

As I sit contemplating this upcoming horror show, I start thinking about myself. People say to me every year "Are you getting the flu shot", "Make sure you get the flu shot", "Have you gotten your flu shot yet?" I say to them "Are you nuts? Of course, I don't get the flu shot. I love the flu!"

Let me explain. When else will I get two to five days of solid rest with NO ONE bothering me? Hum? When? I can sleep all day, all night, watch TV in bed without anyone trying to turn the channel or complaining that they don't want to watch what I am watching. I get waited on by my husband, I get lots of TLC from him and the kids, and I get to miss work. I am almost guaranteed the loss of that last five pounds, all while I'm laid up in bed like a princess. That, my friends, sounds like a great deal to me.

The Last 5 Pounds

I don’t know if it’s because I’m older or because I’ve popped out two kids, but I can’t seem to shed the infamous last five pounds. I used to be able to ask the magic skinny genie, and poof, my wish was granted. 5 pounds were gone within 24 hours. Not any more. That genie has left me in the dust, and has been replaced by the evil mirror mirror on the wall. (You already know my feelings about mirrors.)

I sweat my butt off 5 days a week exercising. I’m convinced that there is nothing Billy Blanks, Denise Austin, Jane Fonda, or Richard Simmons can do to make this last 5 pounds go away. I can sweat to the oldies until I am an oldie, and it ain’t budging.

I don’t know why it’s so easy to put on weight, but so impossible to get it off. I mean, I was PREGNANT! I wanted ice cream! Is that so bad? The universe should be forgiving in those situations. Long gone are the days when I could eat whatever I wanted. Now I simply walk by a plate of cookies or a box of donuts they leap right off the counter and onto my butt. Let me tell you, I do not like this arrangement one little bit! I say hook me up to some sort of fat-sucking machine and put me out of my misery.

Sun, Sun, Sun: Here We Come!

According to http://www.mapquest.com/, I live “approximately” 26.62 miles from my office. The “estimated” door to door trip should take 31 minutes. Wanna know what I say to MapQuest: HORSE CRAP! While I can’t blame my commute problems on MapQuest, it makes me feel better to criticize somebody.

Yesterday morning I dropped the kids off at day care a bit early. It was a beautiful morning, and I had good intentions of getting to work as peacefully as the day was proving to be. I placed my diet coke expertly into the cup holder, I put on my shades, I put in my new Nora Roberts thriller (cd of course – I do not “read” books in the car like other morons read the paper), and headed East. I got approximately 1 mile down the road and came to a screeching halt. For fear that my mother is reading this, I will spare you the expletives that came forth.

I could barely get off the exit ramp onto the main highway - the traffic was that congested. So, I automatically start thinking: horrific accident. I mean – it would have to be bad for the traffic to be backed up that far. I mentally prepared myself for the arms, legs, guts and eyeballs that I expected to see hanging from the trees ahead. There was nothing. As a matter of fact, there was nothing for the full 26.62 miles and the HOUR AND A HALF of bumper to bumper crack-smokage. Hello?! No fender bender, no farmer on a tractor, no escaped horse, no overly self-important cop giving tickets in rush hour traffic, no gigantic road kill, not even two dogs screwing on the side of the road.. notta. My conclusion: It was the sun.

Unfortunately for me, I travel to work headed east – and back home headed west. I get sun both ways. Most people wouldn’t consider this a bad thing. But when you’ve got 249,999 morons (1 less of 250,000 which would be ME), all headed to work in the same direction – the sun causes problems.

Here is what I have to say to all of the sun-impaired idiots that ruined my commute yesterday morning:

1. You are not all Chinese! Stop squinting. Open your eyes. Put on your shades. MOVE IT.
   
2. That big bright light ahead is not the second coming of Christ. It is the sun, folks. It’s there every day. Don’t be afraid. Snap out of your trance. We have a mission to accomplish here. Put on your shades. MOVE IT.

From Road Smear to Here

Ever wondered what happens to road kill? Honestly, me neither. That was before I caught an episode of "Dirty Jobs" on The Discovery Channel the other night. You guessed it. There are people out there who get paid to pick up road kill. Dirty job, but........ (pardon the pun.)

So there are men who drive around all day picking up road kill. They see it, they pick it up and drag it, (they may take a moment to barf about it), but ultimately they throw it in the back of their truck and move on to the next victim. Once they have the truck bed full, they take it to the county composting facility where they bury it. After a while.. it decomposes and becomes the mulch we pay money for in the store today. (Don't know about you, but I'm seeing a business opportunity here.)

That's ALL I could think about when the lawn service was out the other day spreading Lord-knows-what onto our yard. Now I'm afraid to walk up the driveway for fear that I'll hear the ghosts of animals past haunting me. All of a sudden, I see the animal version of the "Thriller" video coming to life in my front yard. The smell has attracted every fly in the closest five counties. I'm sure the neighbors are loving us right now. Thankfully, Halloween is approaching because this definitely adds to the fright factor.

I've attached a picture of our yard for your viewing pleasure. I rest assured that what ever this black stuff is will make our yard look beautiful in the spring. In the mean time, please look closely and let me know if you see any not-so-completely-decomposed deer hooves. I hear there is a market for those as well.

What Not to Wear

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Calling all of my friends. Can somebody please show me some love and nominate me for TLC’s What Not to Wear? (Yes, of course I'm secretly hoping you'll tell me I don't need this service.) However, it is not about need girls! It’s all about me, and what I want. And, I want this.

Yes, they pick on some poor unsuspecting fashion anti-diva.
Yes, they follow her around for weeks making fun of her on video for the world to see.
Yes, they surprise her at work with the invitation to the challenge - ultimately humiliating her in front of the universe.
Yes, they follow her around after the show to make sure she hasn’t died and gone back to fashion hell.

Whaaaaaaah! Cry me a river, and bring it on.
This is how I break it down:

I would get to throw out every item of clothing in my possession and start anew. (Big whoop. There are ways around this one folks. It’s called hiding things at your friends’ houses.)
I would get to live it up in Manhattan for a few days.
I would get to shop it up in Manhattan for a few days.
I would get a credit card with my name on it boasting a five-thousand dollar limit. Oh, the shoes.
I would get to hang out with Stacy and Clinton and get free fashion advice from two sure-to-be life long gal pals.

Ok girls. Help me out here. Where's the love? I’m waiting to be nominated. Waiting for Stacy and Clinton. Hello? Hello? Anyone there?

On the Lookout for Jake Ryan

Barf me out - gag me with a spoon. I'm having a cow. Can somebody please call Marty McFly and get me back to the future?

What the heck is going on with fashion lately? Don't get me wrong. I love fashion! But, walking through the malls I'd swear I'd somehow managed to step inside the wrong Camaro headed straight back to 1980. Have I landed in the Cannonball Run? It all happened so fast. Long shirts, striped sweaters, drop belts, leggings, skinny pants? LEG WARMERS? Stop the madness, and please call VH1 to report a fashion emergency. I simply cannot do it again.

My philosophy: It was bad enough the first time around, but we prevailed! If you had to live the 80's fashion nightmare once, why the heck would you want to do it again?

I shutter to think what's next. Lace gloves, bangle bracelets, jelly shoes, lace bows in your hair? Please keep this stuff for your Halloween party collection, people. We don't need to see it every day. At the first sighting of "Mork from Ork" suspenders, I'm moving to South Beach. They don't wear clothes there.

p.s. You are enjoying a lovely photo copied today from www.anntaylorloft.com. YIKES!!

The Nick Toe Project

So our boys are in day care. Before we had kids in day care, I was not aware that we had enough extra money to afford a small island. This is really good to know. I'll be hitting my mid-life crisis at just the moment we're no longer paying for day care. Could the timing be more perfect? Ahhhhh. I can feel the breeze and taste the daquris. Bring on the Bob Marley.

Anyway, at the beginning of each month the boys bring home a calendar detailing the day-by-day events of their classes including their homework assignments. Two and four year olds have homework assignments, you ask? Yes they do. Some examples have been: bring in a circle cut out of colorful paper, draw a sad face, draw a picture of your family, bring a book about school to share. Most of the assignments include stuff we have around the house, so simple enough. Plus, it's fun to do as a family.

So when I read Nick's assignment for today, I had to go huh? It said bring in a toe picture. Reading it again, it still said bring in a toe picture. First thought, where the heck am I supposed to find a toe picture? Second thought, why? Lucky for us we have our very own toe model at home - resulting in the Nick Toe Project.

Some September Events of Interest

September 6th is Quaker Oats Day
September 8th is National Pledge of Allegiance Day
September 12th is National Policewoman Day
September 14th is National Cream-filled Donut Day (One I wouldn't mind celebrating!)
September 17th is National Apple Dumpling Day
September 24th is Good neighbor Day

Can't wait to see what October has in store for us.

Satellite Radio

Can I just say I love my satellite radio?! Thank you, thank you, thank you mom for getting me this for Christmas. Listening to satellite radio is like being back in high school, and listening your best friend's favorite "mix tape." Seriously (or should I say sirius-ly), this is the greatest thing ever.

A confession. I thought I would fall over dead when Howard Stern left regular (terrestrial) radio. I love the man. So, like the rest of his faithful cult - I went to Sirius just for Howard. Well! Let me tell you - I mean no disrespect, but Howard Shmoward! Give my kool-aid to somebody else, buddy. I've got 125+ channels of whatever girlfriend is in the mood for!

To have "The Big 80's", "Totally 70's", "Hair Nation", "The Strobe", and the "Cosmo Channel" at my fingertips makes Kim a happy, happy gal. Driving in this morning, I was listening to Hair Nation (yea, you heard me right - a station solely dedicated to hair bands.) Whitesnake came on the radio. Ok - I was waaaaaay down memory lane before I realized people were staring. In an instant, reality set in. My neck was killing me from swinging my head round and round in circles. I almost broke my window (and my head), I spilled my drink, my hair was a mess, people were covering the eyes of their small children. I know they were thinking - CRACK HEAD. But, no. It was just me and my Whitesnake. Thank God I snapped out of that trance before I got out in the middle of stand-still traffic and pulled a Tawney Kitaen on the hood of the car!

Crack-fil-A

You know it as Chick-fil-A - I know it as Crack-fil-A. I say that because that is the only explanation I can come up with. The chicks put crack in their fil-A. Why else would the one by my office be 25 cars deep at the drive-through EVERY time I go by there? I am not kidding. 8 AM, 10:52 AM, 1:17 PM, 3:59 PM - doesn't matter. The place stops traffic. The people waiting in that line have an addiction - they must. And it ain't the chicken, people.

I could understand if the food were good. It is not. I could understand if it were the only restaurant around. It is not. I could even understand if the line-formers were super-dooper hungry and it were a convenient place to stop. It is not. Seriously - it is SO not.

My theory: It is the crack-smoker's heaven, and they are all following the big bright light. Yeah, I'll just stay away from that.

The Skinny Mirror

Mirror mirror on the wall
Which pair of jeans make my butt look small?
The mirror says "all of them", but this can't be true.
I wear a size 6, but now I'm a 2????

If you are female, you will no doubt fall victim to the "skinny mirror." It is a nasty department store conspiracy that turns fugly into fabulous in seconds. Department store owners aren't stupid. They install mirrors in the dressing rooms that make even the chunkiest of butts look two sizes smaller.... and a few inches taller. We're taken to an instant paradise as soon as we walk through the dressing room door. We take one look into that mirror and stand before a goddess. The sky opens up, the birds start singing, the fragrance of lilacs penetrate the air. All is peaceful in the world. Next thing we know - we're floating on the wings of our credit cards to the cash register. Three shopping bags later, we're off to Starbucks for a full blown latte with the whip. Why not? We're skinny - the mirror said so!

The skinny mirror and I have a love/hate relationship. Love the skinny mirror when I'm in the store and everything I try on looks fab. Hate the skinny mirror when I get home and everything I just bought looks flab. Nothing is more frustrating than getting your new fantastic outfit home, taking it out of the bag and gently caressing it as if it were your newborn baby, carefully trying it on to see if it matches the shoes you bought one week earlier.. then WHAM! It doesn't fit! Your mirror at home reaches out and slaps you right across the face. Your mirror at home doesn't lie. She is bent over laughing at your fat ass saying "Idiot! What the heck were you thinking! You haven't worn that size in years!" Reality sets in. You've become a victim of a vicious scheme, and have had a come to Jesus meeting with your credit card bill all at the same time.

Me Likey Me Friday - And Here's a Tribute

10 reasons why I'm happy this Friday!

My kids, my hubbie, and myself are all happy and healthy!

I am going out with Catherine tonight. C-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E equals F-U-N.

I do not appear to have contacted E. Coli from eating bagged spinach. Whew!

It is NOT raining today. (Greg, we can put the ark construction on hold.)

Adam - the Survivor contestant I drew in my "Survivor pool" is still in the game. ($80 bucks to me - $1M to him if he wins.)

I am not Katie Holmes, and am not forever more linked to Tom Cruise.

I have the second episode of Nip Tuck on DVR awaiting me when I return home from my hot date with Catherine tonight.

Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown have split. This will make for some great ghetto reading over the next few weeks. Who gets all the bling? Can I have some bling?

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were put on this earth for our entertainment. I can't wait until one of them gets eaten by a big giant rat while they are on a safari saving Africa. Just the thought that it might happen makes me happy today!

I have the greatest husband, two kids, friends, and family in the whole-wide-world!!!!!

Rain Equals Retards

Why, why, WHY must people put on their retard raincoats and get behind the wheel of a car every time there is a sprinkle? Sometimes I think it's a universal joke on me because there are more retards on my commute than there are anywhere else in Northern Virginia. When it rains, forget it. May as well sit there and watch my eyelashes grow - there will be time.

It's as if there's some big retard convention going on up in the sky and they're all looking down at me saying, "Ok-Kim is on her way to work let's all synchronize our retarded watches and get out there just to screw with her." It's so unfair! My commute is long enough, I don't need to spend my morning with these people. I AM NOT RETARDED. I don't intentionally flock to their kind.

Thought for the day. Before you get into your car and get in my way, have your breakfast eaten, your phone calls made, your face shaved, your teeth brushed, your hair combed, your paper read, your butt scratched, and your crack pipe put safely back into it's rightful place. Otherwise, move over and get the hell out of my way.

Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy - Ben Franklin

More proof - martinis and sushi! A salute to good old Ben who knew about beer. Here here. But, perhaps Ben never had a mojito martini at Roy Yamaguchi's when he walked (or rode his horse down) the streets of Philadelphia, PA. See how happy we look, Ben?!
So here's the story. We girls decided it was time for a weekend get-away. No husbands, no kids, no responsibility. My girl Raju and I headed up to Philly for a long weekend and some R&R. (Translate - shopping, drinking, eating, and sleeping.) And, that we did. Big shout out to Raju and Rob for the free hotel hook-up! Big shout out to the hotel for the FREE 2 hour manager's cocktail special. Oh yeah!

One might ask what there is to learn from enjoying a FREE 2 hour hotel manager's cocktail special. Well, let me tell you! Two 5'6" (weight undisclosed!) women can successfully drink 5 vodka tonics each in that period of time and still walk across the room in three inch heels looking fabulous. Do you really need to know anything else?

A Dollar Sixty-Two and a Friendly Wave

I don't know about you, but I am a soda FREAK! I don't deny myself many things as far as food goes, but even when I can't zip the jeans and have to start the proverbial crash diet - COKE is always included. Most of the time I make it a diet, but a coke - a real coke - is my favorite beverage, ever.

Every morning before I join the forces of evil and start my journey through traffic hell, I swing by my local McDonald's to get my 32 oz diet coke. (Yeah - it's nearly an hour commute and I need it!) I live in a small town in the DC burbs, and my McDonald's wants to promote a "home town" experience. Every morning (rain, snow, sleet or shine), a wonderful individual is standing outside manning his or her (and it's usually a his) post to personally take our orders. I've been doing this routine for three years now. My McDonald's guy and I are past the "Good morning, welcome to McDonald's may I take your order please" hooplah. There's really no need for it - we are friends. I know how much my large diet coke is going to cost - it's always $1.62 - and I always have my money ready. There's no need for communication over my order. Instead, we wave to each other, he punches in his "here comes the crazy large diet coke lady" code, and I keep going. As soon as I get to the first window, I pay and move to the second window. By that time, I see my diet coke (it all it's beautiful glory) being extended to me by the arm of my inside girl. I don't know her name - I just know her as the girl with the gold tooth who doesn't speak English. We smile at each other and I move on. Sometimes I don't even have to come to a complete stop!

Can I just say - I love this realationship with my Micky-Dee's folks! This epitomizes the "Have a coke and a smile routine." Service at it's finest - and always with a gold-toothed smile. Does it really get any better than that?!

Batman Begins

Little did I know that a four year old could have such a strong opinion about how his bedroom should be decorated. I mean - come on, he's four. When he was one and I decorated his room, I just assumed he'd like sports. Three years later, I'm approached with "Momma, why did I not get to choose what I wanted in my room. I do not want a sports room, I do not like my room. I think I should get to choose what I want my room to look like." Then when I asked him how he'd like for his room to be decorated, the reply was - of course- super heroes. SHOCKER! Thus, Batman begins. Before I started this project, I knew if I painted "just" Batman on the wall, he'd want "Spider Man." And, if I painted just "Spider Man", he'd want "Super Man." So, I'm painting all three (plus the Riddler and Robin.) Can't have Batman without the croanies. Here is a picture of how the room is progressing. Stay tuned for updates!!

My Handsome Dudes

Here are some pictures of my babies. These were taken as a surprise for dad on Father's Day. My boys ROCK!

A few things I've learned from living with 3 boys (husband is included here.)

They all snore. It just gets much MUCH louder and more annoying as they get older.

They are obsessed with their private parts - at all ages. (Even in the womb. I have the pictures to prove it.)

I have four toilets in my house. I can go to any one of them at any time of the day, and there will be something floating.

If I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I find the toilet paper in the dark and wipe the seat off first. Trust me on this one.

They fart more than is comprehensible.

Even when they beg, I will not let them show me what just came out of their nose. And, when I find foreign particles stuck to my walls, I pretend it is play dough.

Not even a padlock (or an armed guard) at the bathroom door will keep them out when I am in there.

They secretly love to put on makeup - and they all want their toenails painted.

There's something very disturbing about them running through the house playing "super heroes" while wearing my underwear on their heads, and fighting each other with my tampons.

Ten Reasons why you should not drink heavily when you have toddlers. (In no particular order)

Just because you go to bed at 3AM does not mean they will let you sleep in. They are not sympathetic to your cause. Remember, you put them to bed early so you could party like a rock star. They woke up pissed, and they are seeking revenge.

To them 5:45 AM is like Mardi Gras has begun, and your bedroom is Bourbon Street. They bring out the horns and the beads, and your bed has just been transformed into a parade float. The party has just started and you're running for the toilet.

Kids are smarter than you think. They really don't want juice, pancakes, bacon, sausage, Captain Crunch cereal, a donut, yogurt, a fruit bar, a freshly peeled apple, chocolate milk, waffles, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast. They just want you to suffer. It's one of the few times that they will EVER sit patiently and wait. They wait until you resume your comfortable position on the couch. They watch and wait until you get that cold head compress reapplied. Then they ask for something other than the item they requested 10 minutes prior. They are evil.

The smell of their orange juice reminds you that chugging that last screwdriver during a drinking game was not such a good idea. After all, you are not single and 21 any more.

Is it really possible for someone to crap their pants 6 times in one day? I mean, really. Is it?

What is that brown stuff on the floor? Never mind. It can stay there until the carpet gets replaced. I really don't care.

You are seriously wishing you hadn't taught them those karate moves. Especially that round-house kick to the gut. It's no longer cute. It's painful.

OK FINE! You can have marshmallows, M&M's, caffeinated soda, and whipped cream for lunch. Get it yourself, and leave me alone.

10 reruns of Sponge Bob makes you want to stab yourself in the eye. Actually, that would probably feel better than your head feels.

Your child’s cry sounds like weapons of mass destruction have just exploded in your living room. Again, even that feels better than your head.

Captain Toilet and Mr. Poopy

My boys decided they wanted to be super heroes. Since they are two and four, I figure this is yet another phase that will fizzle out soon. I get to make fun of them, I get lots of pictures, and I get some good black male material for their teenage years. It's all good. In my mind it's a good excuse for the jumping off of furniture onto a carefully constructed pile of my foofy pillows, and body surfing their skateboard through the house. I mean, all super heroes need their practice, right? Then I asked them what they were going to call themselves. Every "super hero" needs a name. That is when I was introduced to Captain Toilet and Mr. Poopy. This came as no surprise to me. It was also no surprise that Lucas named himself Captain Toilet, and demoted Nicholas to Mr. Poopy. The little brotha can't catch a break.

Why did this come as no surprise to me, you ask? Because every reference to every moment in time, and every event - including every breath of air - begins with some form of potty talk. They eat "poop cereal", they drink "pootie pootie milk", they want "stinky-butt pancakes" for breakfast, they call each other "booty head", they burp at the table, they fart in public. They are disgusting. It all started with their father and the infamous "pull my finger" routine. There is enough gas in our house to start an automobile. And, I blame him completely.