My eyes can only take so much

There are some things I never want to see again: Gwenyth Paltrow singing with Cee Lo Green, Taylor Lautner with a shirt on, and anything with the words 'Mel Gibson' in it. I ESPECIALLY never want to see THIS train wreck again:

(I keep my eyes closed and arms crossed while fantasizing about Niles. It's a coping mechanism.)

I almost hurled my tossed salad and scrambled eggs. Kelsey Grammer sucking the tonsils out of his mistress/girlfriend/fiance's throat at JFK is enough to make anyone have a bad case of air sickness - or in this case - ground sickness. Judging by her body language, the M/G/F concurs. I mostly feel bad for the foreign tourists whose last impression of this great country before boarding their planes was a scene straight out of a Woody Allen movie. On behalf of the people of the United States of America, I apologize.

Kelsey, please button up your shirt the next time you're in public, then take some of that Fraiser money and do us all a public service by staying out of public view. If you must go out, surround yourself with body guards, for cripes sake. That's what they're there for - to protect both you and the public from irreparable harm. It may be too late for me, but I would greatly appreciate your efforts in protecting the next generation.

And for the love of David Hyde Pierce, if you do go out in public, please PLEASE don't play kissy kissy in the airport airport anymore. I must use this mode of transportation on occasion, and there are not enough bars in the Delta terminal to erase the memory of this level of grossness. You've gone off the deep end by cheating on your wife and thinking that these young blonde things want you for your balding, pot-bellied self, and I really don't think Roz will be happy about this.

I never was a fan of gravy

Recently I’ve noticed an onslaught of radio commercials for products that control breast sweat. The commercial I am most fond of is for a product called “Fresh Breasts.” Evidently breast sweat has reached epidemic proportions and requires a major radio campaign to get the cure to the sweaty masses. As a big-breasted woman myself, I understand how this could be an issue. It tends to happen to me when I use the girls as paperweights or to prop a drink between them. And apparently it’s not just breasts that are having a sweaty problem. There is a similar product called “Fresh Balls.” (When I heard of this I immediately had visions of air fresheners shaped like balls, swinging from rear view mirrors everywhere.) Hearing about boob sweat is bad enough, but I REALLY don’t want to listen to ads about perspiring man parts. Knowing men the way I do, the application of the product alone will inevitably result in everything else becoming sweaty. I’m really not convinced these products will work anyway. Call me a pessimist, but I’m pretty sure putting some sort of lotion-y, powder-y product in those areas is just going to produce gravy. No one wants to be around people who can make their own gravy. So I beg of you, the makers of "Fresh Balls" and "Fresh Breasts," please stop with the radio commercials. It's bad enough that everyone in this tropical hell in which I live is constantly glistening from sweat. I really don't need visions of them cooking Thanksgiving dinner in their fruit of the looms. Some things need to remain a sweaty little secret, so let's just pass out paper towels and call it good.

Where have we been?

It's been awhile since we've posted here. Seems like both KP and I have been pretty busy. KP has been especially busy, as this time of year is her craziest time at work. Here's a quick update of what we've been up to lately:

KP has been participating in tribal drumming around bonfires, riding horses, dancing in videos, and attending mixers and various luncheons, all in the name of "work." She's a regular renaissance woman, and quite possibly could be the female answer to the Old Spice Guy. KP does have a demanding job. She's on a mini-vacay at the moment, which is well deserved after the last couple of weeks of training new disciples. Have I ever said how much I dig KP? I do. If her spirit could be bottled and given to every soul, the world would be a better place to live. There would be no wars, and everyone would unite over cheese and music. Perfect.

I've been busy, too, but not having as much fun bonding with my co-workers as KP has. I've spent a lot of time lately with a visiting family member, and there wasn't a restaurant we left unturned in the county. I also just got my hair cut very short, and I really like it. It's been many years and many pounds since my hair was this short, but whateva. I love it. My husband likes it as well, but says it makes my boobs look bigger. If you knew how big my boobs were to begin with, this would really scare you.

KP and I are exceptionally excited about the season premier of Glee in 2 weeks, so I am sure we'll be posting like crazy when it starts. And of course, I can't wait to mock the cast of Dancing with the Stars!! Bristol Palin! David Hasselhoff! Michael Bolton! I can't WAIT!! Stay tuned!

The beauty of music ...

Seriously, watch this video -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_NpxTWbovE&feature=related

Just wanted to share a little inspiration for the day. Hallelujah (written by Leonard Cohen) is my absolute favorite song of all time. I've probably listened to it a thousand times over the years. The lyrical beauty brings me to tears every time I hear it. And K.D. Lang's rendition is the most moving I've ever heard. (Where have you been, K.D? Your voice is one of the most beautiful in the world! (Calm down, Celine. Yours is right up there.)) I watch this video whenever I need to be inspired, I'm off-center, or just need to relax. It always sets me straight. Whatever your spirituality is or isn't, this will blow you away. Leonard Cohen's view is that many different Hallelujahs exist, and I couldn't agree more. Peace. K-Dub.

Eat, Pray, and Go Away!

So maybe I am shallow. Or maybe I am just cranky (ok, there’s really no question about that), but I get annoyed by overly introspective people who have the need to “find” themselves. This is why I love and hate the book Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a well-written memoir with a plot that, to some extent, we can all relate to. For those who haven't read the book, it's about a woman who reached her breaking point and took a year to travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia to find herself, and along the way did a lot of eating, praying, and a little loving. Hence the title. Who hasn’t reached a boiling point in life and wanted to run away for awhile? I’ve been there more than once. But the whole “Who am I?” crap just wears on my last nerve. Just look in the mirror. Surprise!! THAT’S who you are. Do you really need to go see a guru in India to figure yourself out? And the only thing you are going to find by eating your way through Italy is that you’ve doubled in size. The real you is not hidden under that 20th bowl of pasta you are about to gorge on. But maybe that’s the secret to the Olive Garden’s success … just a bunch of lost souls trying to find themselves via ravioli.

I know, I know, it’s all about the emotional journey. I get it. Some people need to see what else is out there; to put all their troubles behind them and start anew. A fresh start can indeed change one's life. But life shouldn't be so hard to figure out. I’ve had my share of hell, but one thing I know for sure is who I am. I am comfortable in my own skin and couldn’t care less what people think about me. Maybe I should care, but that would require more effort than I am willing to exert. I guess I am lucky in that sense, and I didn’t even have to join a commune or run off with some guy named Luigi Spaghetti to figure it all out. If I do ever lose myself and need to find my center, I will just get some Ben and Jerry’s, pray to the sports gods, and love my husband some more. That’s pretty much my life anyway, and so far it’s working just fine. Ciao.

*As a side note - if you really need to go on a spiritual journey, save yourself an expensive plane ticket and go pray to the "Big Butter Jesus" statue in Ohio. (Disclaimer to cover my ass: I mean no disrespect to the religious types, and I did not make this name up. The statue is affectionately known by Ohioans as "Big Butter Jesus" because of its textural resemblance to butter. But I like to call him by his other name, "Touchdown Jesus." If you have ever driven on I-75 through southern Ohio, you know exactly what I am talking about.) If you choose to take this journey, just be warned - you might learn more about yourself than you would by going to India. It's Ohio, after all - home of William McKinley High School (gratuitous Glee reference) and Lima Beans. Plus, you will have an awesome picture to post on your blog!

TOUCHDOWN!! Amen.

I've fallen and I don't want to get up

I’m getting old. I’m having teeth pulled. I take a handful of prescriptions daily. Something always hurts. I bitch a lot about my ass aches and have long conversations about them with friends that are in the same pathetic physical state. So what happened? When did this all begin? And how is it that at the age of 43 I feel like I’m 80? Well after very little thought, I’ve concluded that it all started when I got married. That’s right. I said it. And you married people know it’s true.

Marriage ages you and sucks your former self out of you, and I mean that in a good way. It takes a once fit and energetic person and turns you into a blobitty blob that is barely distinguishable from a couch. “Did the couch just move?” Nope, that’s just my husband. But it is all good. Being married is a good thing, and my former self was pretty boring anyway. Marriage adds a foundation of contentment to your life that you didn’t know was missing until you get married and realize that it is exactly what’s been missing. And then there’s the thing about having that person who always has your back, no matter what. I must say that it's pretty damn cool. But yeah, it ages you. The contentment ages you because time flies by so fast that before you know it you’ve just spent the last decade staring at each other (or more likely the t.v.) and you haven’t moved off the couch. You are no longer running to or from the unknown, nor are you working hard to accomplish some intangible thing that you can’t quite put your finger on. You get married and you’re good. It takes awhile to get to this point in marriage, but one day you look around and realize that you can just stop, because everything you will ever need is sitting right next to you on that couch. So I guess the getting old thing isn’t so bad after all. My better half makes my soul happy, and he’s worth every ass ache that I have.

Those aren't cupcakes!!

So a couple of nights ago I received a text message from KP. This is not unusual seeing that we text just about every day and our text threads usually involve a good 10+ texts for each important subject we discuss. In fact, I went way over my text allotment a couple of months ago, all to and from KP. We were likely simultaneously watching either Glee or an awards show together at the time, via text, as we have been known to do. But the text I received the other night seemed more urgent than usual. “Oh my God! You have to turn on TLC. They’re doing a doc about a seventy-something cougar woman and it is amazing!” I have to admit, her excitement was contagious and my first thought was Oh my god! Which was immediately followed - Wait. Gross. The last thing I want to watch is grandma getting it on with anyone. But just like driving by a car accident, I had to look. Unfortunately (or not), by the time I turned the channel on, that particular cougar show was over. However … and most definitely unfortunately, I was not prepared for what else I encountered that night on TLC. As a result, I will most likely have to seek therapy for the sudden onset of TLC-induced intimacy problems that I am likely to have for years to come.

Imagine the horror of innocently turning on TLC and witnessing a circle of men writhing on the floor as they played with their mipples (man nipples) as they were …. wait for it ….. “Thinking Off.” That’s right. Thinking Off. An alternate form of enjoying oneself that doesn’t necessitate the standard physical touchy-touchy. The premise of thinking off (I’m going to stop capitalizing “thinking off” … it makes it much less disturbing to me) is that all the magic happens in the brain and manifests itself in the form of a happy ending. Now I am not a sexual prude in any way, shape or form. I watch Jersey Shore. But this was more than I could take. And it got worse. Much worse.

Picture this - A very giddy 50’ish woman with pink streaks in her bleached blonde hair, bursting at the seams with excitement while explaining the virtues of thinking off. TLC decided that it would be a GREAT idea to do a segment involving this woman thinking off while getting a brain scan so that the doctors could study her brain activity during this absolutely not-made-for-television event. Bad idea, TLC. I knew this wasn’t going to end well. Not for me, anyway. I SO wanted to change the channel, but again ….the whole car accident thing.

So the woman proceeded to get into the MRI machine and the fun began. Let me tell you, this should have been rated G for GROSS! What would you do in this situation? Would you pull out your full menu of vocal exclamations that escape you during such an occasion? No, most people would not. Not if it were being broadcasted to millions of homes. Not if someone other than your accomplice were watching. Not if there was any chance in hell that your parents or your co-workers or your pedicurist could one day stumble upon your TV work. But the mayor of think-off town didn’t hold back. She brought out her ENTIRE menu, and my eyes and ears will burn forever. She couldn’t hold still. Her legs were flailing! She was pounding her fists! She was moaning! And laughing! And screaming!! Screaming as if she were being tortured! Screaming as if there were three men in the machine with her! And it was gross. GROSS!!! I almost vomited in my mouth. Control yourself, I say!! You are on TV!!!! No one wants to know what your hoots and hollers sound like. No one wants to watch your crazy lady legs kick in the air. NO ONE wants to witness any of this! EVER! Case in point: I called my husband into the room, told him what I had just witnessed and offered to rewind it for him. He immediately walked out of the room.

The concept of thinking-off is not the part that disturbs me. It actually seems quite fascinating. Masters and Johnson studied the connection between sexuality and thought, and there is obviously a strong connection - especially in women. And I’m all for whatever works for you. It’s just that I don’t want to witness you doing whatever works for you. I have watched many, ummm, how do I say … movies not suitable for those of the prudish persuasion. Many. A lot many. But at least I knew what I was getting into. I was prepared. I knew how each movie was going to end. The people were actors and they exaggerated for effect. But watching some woman do her thing on TLC - (TLC! A network with 9 different shows about cake!!) while destroying a piece of medical equipment as she kicked and screamed like a caged monkey on crack? JUST. PLAIN. GROSS.

KP, the next time you text me about a TV show, please pre-screen the lineup and make sure it only involves cupcakes or makeovers. A cupcake makeover would even be better. That's all my fragile mind can handle from this point forward.

This is what happens when you get us on the phone

KDub: We had someone view our blog from Latvia!
KP: They have internet in Latvia?!?
Then later...
KDub: We could be big! We could start with Latvia! We could become celebrities in Latvia! We should probably know the language then. What do they speak? Russian? Latvian?
~~~
KDub: I just...I don't understand Twitter!
KP: It's just like a Facebook status update. That's all. Just in 140 characters or less.
KDub: But I don't like that you can't see what everyone is Twatting to celebrities. I WANT TO KNOW!!
KP: *big huge sigh*
KDub: You think I'm an idiot, don't you?
KP: I would never say that you were an idiot! Though I might describe you as internet illiterate to my other friends. You have a degree in lawyer-ing and you're working on an MBA. HOW you don't get Twitter is beyond me.
~~~
KP: I feel bad for anyone who leads an ordinary life. And that person? Is going to lead an ordinary life. Poor honey-child. While I will go on to live an extraordinary life in extraordinary places.
KDub: What is that from?
KP: What is what from?
KDub: What you just said! That quote! Where is it from?
KP: Ummm...my mind?
KDub: You just made that up?
KP: YES!
KDub: YOU NEED TO BE FAMOUS AND WRITE BOOKS! AND BLOGS!
KP: Well check and check on the blog thing!

Our Summer Portrait

Liquid tolerance

My ability to put up with other people’s crap is directly related to the amount of wine I have ingested. Don’t get me wrong, I am no lush. My bark is bigger than my bite. Although I do dream of a life of lounging around all day drinking wine by the pool while being fanned by muscular men with IQs lower than styrofoam, I realize that I have a better chance at becoming the next black president. I do, however, enjoy a glass of the red stuff on occasion. I usually find myself reaching for it after a day of dealing with idiots. I call it liquid tolerance. Some people are just born with it, but my tolerance level needs to be replenished regularly. Here is a list of some of the things that deplete my tolerance:

• People
• Humidity
• People who wear pajamas to the grocery store
• Mariah Carey
• People who ride their bikes dressed like Lance Armstrong
• Couples who sit beside each other in a booth at a restaurant when no one else is with them
• People who speed up to a 4-way stop so that they can go first
• Kate Gosselin
• People who fondle fruit (the kind you bite directly into) with their bare hands in the grocery store
• Fat free sour cream
• Weddings
• Kindergarten graduations (Congrats! You can piss your pants in a structured environment.)
• The Yankees
• People who put clothes on dogs
• People who post 185 pictures at a time on facebook of their 2-year old
• People who can’t seem to master the correct use of your, there, to - (Correct: Hey there! It’s too bad you're an idiot.)
• The person who invented Valentine’s Day
• That creepy plastic Burger King guy
• People who interrupt your story to tell one of their own
• Camel toe
• Anything Kardashian

I could go on and on. Maybe these people and things are not truly annoying. There’s a good chance I'm just overly sensitive. I’m sure I am equally annoying to others under certain circumstances. But until I figure that part out, I will continue to keep a very close eye on my tolerance level and top it off as needed or whenever I come in contact with an idiot.

The deterioration of K-Dub

It has been said that the age of a deteriorating object is described by the corresponding process of degradation and is compared with chronological age. This makes me 184 years old. The onset of my deterioration started when I broke my foot playing basketball at the age of 12.

It took my parents 2 days of watching me crawl around the house for them to realize that I had a problem. I can still feel where I broke my foot whenever I am performing my ninja duties.

It has also been said that the more severe the environment, the more intensive the deterioration. This means that objects are aging faster and therefore the corresponding virtual age is larger than the chronological. My virtual age has been determined to be 509 years old. This explains why I pee myself.


I tend to hurt myself whenever participating in anything physical. A large percentage of my injuries have involved balls. This is probably why I didn't get married until the age of 32. Basketballs, softballs, ping pong balls (that was an internal injury), and soccer balls seem to always be involved. This has led me to the conclusion that sports should only be played while sitting on the couch.


After getting into a car accident caused by an old man eating donuts, the rate of my deterioration sped up exponentially. On the positive side, this accident led to the law that forbids old people from driving while eating donuts. If they blow a blood sugar level of over .002, they will be charged with driving under the influence of donuts (DUIOD).

The occupational hazards of sitting cannot be overstated. While sitting at my desk at work, I leaned too far forward in my chair and caused something in my back to pop. The searing pain was enough to make me want to fall to the floor and cry like a baby. But because the 5-second rule applies to people, I am quite confident that my co-workers would have just circled around me to take pictures. The worst part was that this incident interfered with the time I allocate at work for facebooking and paying my bills.



My deterioration has finally gotten to the point of acceptance. I am no longer surprised by any harm that comes my way. Luckily I have discovered the medicinal value of liquor and am medicated most evenings. So although I am falling apart at the seams and even get heart palpitations that remind me of its eventual failure, I am far from upset. I am just happy to be alive and will continue to spend my days looking forward to my next dose of "medicine."

Not quite the Mile High Club

True story - circa 2005: Picture this - me on an airplane to California. I am sitting in the middle seat of a row with 3 seats. During the refreshment leg of the trip orange juice is spilled. I sop it up with my airplane napkin, along with the one my window seat neighbor gave me. A bit later, the flight attendant walks by collecting trash. Not wanting the nice man sitting in the aisle seat to have to touch my soaked napkins, I decided to make a free throw over the guy's lap and into the trash bag. Trouble is - I missed. Not only did I miss the trash bag, but my orange-juice-soaked napkins fell right on to the starched khaki crotch of aisle seat guy. Acting on pure instinct, I grabbed the napkins as quickly as possible. However, not only did I grab the napkins, I grabbed his penis at the same time. Yeah. And I don't mean that I brushed up against it or kinda sorta grazed it while grabbing at the napkins. I fisted the whole thing and yanked it in my haste to get the napkins off of him as quickly as possible. It was like non-consensual foreplay. When I yanked the guy, he jumped up with a look of absolute horror on his face. I apologized profusely, and he just kept saying it was alright. We didn't speak after that. He just sat there staring straight ahead, but I swear I caught him watching me with his peripheral vision. Needless to say, the rest of the flight was awkward. In retrospect it was one of the most entertaining flights I have ever been on. I got to second base on an airplane with a stranger and am quite proud of it. It's just too bad he wasn't into it, because I could have used my very expensive bottle of airport water to clean that orange juice stain off of his khakis.

Are you there, Tori? It's me, Farrah.

So I started the week lathered in cranky sauce. Not sure if I’m PMS’ing or just upset that 19 Kids and Counting is over for the season. Speaking of which, there should be a point in time when one’s vagina gets fed up and just closes for business. I mean, if I were Michelle’s vagina, I’d pack my bags and head for the barren hills without leaving little Jim Bob a forwarding address. But anyway, the week just keeps getting more discouraging. Despite having cankles the size of softballs, I decided to start exercising again. I started by lying on my back while trying to stretch out on my exercise ball. This is a difficult task when you have two very large breasteses that like to move in opposite directions when you're on your back. (The only time the parting of the white boobies comes in handy is when I am trying to watch tv in bed. If they didn't part, I wouldn't be able to see the tv. They are just that big.) Inevitably, lying on my back on the exercise ball resulted in me rolling off and on to the floor more than once. Mind you, this was only the warm up. Then I tried front-side down on the ball, thinking a different position would help. Nope. I rolled off and hit my head on the table. So me and my never give up attitude gave up. Later the same day I dropped a pork chop on my foot and burnt my toe while cooking dinner. I really don’t need to say anymore about that; it stands on its own.

Today alone has caused me more aggravation than I care to acknowledge. It started when I was at the doctor’s office this morning, where I helped a little old lady on to the elevator with me. The elevator doors closed and little old lady decided it would be the PERFECT time to pass some gas. She just looked at me and smiled. I should be used to this considering every old person in Walgreens and Publix walks around passing gas. It must be some kind of gas safe zone to them. I also almost ran over a kid and a snake today within a 2 minute period. Skip ahead to right now. I am sitting here with freshly spilled ice tea all over my pants. I can’t decide whether I am too annoyed to clean it up or just so used to spilling on myself that I don’t care. Whatever the reason, this should clearly be more of an urgent matter to me. I guess I take my cues from BP.

So anyway, I just want this week to be over. After reading today that the spirit of Farah Fawcett contacted Tori Spelling and gave her a message to pass along to her family, I’ve decided this week should be officially erased from history. There’s only so much I can take.

Ya gotta die of something ...

If you know me then you know I love coffee, which makes me a very cheap date - especially since I recently discovered 7-Eleven’s mocha iced coffee. Much cheaper than Starbucks and conveniently located right next to the Krispy Kreme display (of which I just inhale the fumes - I do not consume!), I thought I had discovered liquid gold. Yes, it’s THAT good. But knowing that anything that tastes good is going to kill me and wanting to avoid a repeat of the great pumpkin latte ass bloat of 2009, I decided to check out the nutritional info online just to make sure I wasn’t ingesting 16 ounces of pure Crisco. To my horror, the results were, well, horrifying. I discovered that besides drinking 6 grams of fat, THERE IS NO COFFEE IN MY ICED COFFEE DRINK!!! Coffee “extract" is used as a coffee flavoring ingredient. Really, 7-Eleven? Shouldn't this drink be called "Iced Coffee Extract"?? I take part of the blame for this disturbing discovery. I just shouldn't of looked. I should have remained in my ignorant bliss, where coffee doesn't kill, running to the refrigerator is exercise, and losing five pounds means putting my purse down. So there you have it. Once again, curiosity killed the grumpy woman's joy. My one daily treat. Ruined. No more thanking heaven for 7-Eleven. But at least I'll always have the Krispy Kreme fumes.

K-Dub is the Devil

I am the girl with the red hair and the endless supply of red lipstick. But when it comes right down to it? K-Dub is the one in this relationship who is--how you say? oh yes--THE DEVIL. And of course I mean this is in the most loving of ways. But witness this text conversation we had earlier today. And by earlier today, I mean when I rolled my cute little butt out of bed at the crack of 1 pm. (No, I'm not joking.)

KP: How am I supposed to be productive when there's a True Life marathon on MTV?
K-Dub: Hahaha! U rock! I've already gone to an Imax movie, went to Chili's, went grocery shopping , and now I'm making bread. Something is clearly wrong with me today!
(KP's thought: Mmm...Chili's. And bread.)
KP: WTF?!? Clearly you took my energy and used it to eat at Chili's and bake bread! What movie did you see?
K-Dub: Hubble--about a space telescope. My husband loves that stuff.
KP: Oh cool! You're such a good wife going to stuff like that. Meanwhile I'm still in jammies watching iCarly.
K-Dub: Hahaha! That's why you're my hero!
KP: Stop! All of this flattery does nothing for my motivation! And? You're my hero.
K-Dub: LOL! I would never want to help motivate you! Psssssshhhhh!

See?!? The devil. Though, actually....upon examining the evidence it is clear that I really need to get my butt into gear and both of us need to stop reinforcing our far-too-high levels of self-esteem. But then what fun would that be?! If we stopped doing that, then I couldn't call my friend The Devil, when I'm pretty sure that beneath her very pouffy hair there are little red horns hiding.

(A note from KDub) - One of the many things I treasure about our friendship is our mutual lack of shame when it comes to enjoying trashy tv. And although I may be the devil by way of helping KP stay unmotivated, I will leave the Prada-wearing to her fabulousness. This devil wears flip flops, and I am sure KP is ok with that.

How do you say "YOU'RE WRONG" in Ikalanga?

Preface: I started receiving past-due notices from Alltel last summer for satellite air card service. I have never ever done business with Alltel. They didn't believe me. After numerous calls to their customer service, I decided to write a letter, mostly just to humor myself. I have yet to receive a response. Follows is a copy of the letter.

Dear Ms.-----:

This note is in response to your most recent “Late Notice,” dated September 15, 2009, whereby you stated that I have a past-due balance of $422.00. First of all, let me just say that I have never done business with Alltel. I have called your customer service number four times to tell your representatives the same, but they insist I have an account with you. Apparently your service reps are trained to believe only what is in front of them on the computer screen, and not what comes out your (alleged) customer’s mouths. I find this quite insulting.

The object of your discord is the supposed satellite card for my computer, for which you state I have activated and have been using for well over six months. Seems to me like I would know if I were using satellite internet service. Listen, I live in the Tampa Bay area of Florida, not podunk Idaho. We have 30 different kinds of internet service here, all of which are significantly cheaper than this satellite service you speak of. In fact, there are so many wi-fi signals floating in the air that I hear voices in my head. I think I am picking up inter-space communications between aliens. They try to speak to me, but I don’t always understand what they are saying. I think they are Russian.

I trust that you will investigate my claim that I have never had an account with Alltel. It would be negligent of you not to do so, as you are accusing me of committing the crime of stealing your product and service. The only crimes I have ever committed in my life are crimes of the heart. I have loved too hard, not enough, and on one occasion – too many at once. You know how it is when you are in your 20’s – too much liquor, surrounded by men, you let your guard down and your legs up. Those were the days. Anyway, please investigate this matter further and let me know the outcome. I would like to get this settled before I go on my sabbatical to Botswana next month, where I am travelling in order to learn the Bantu language of the Kalanga tribe. They have six different dialects, and I have chosen to learn Ikalanga. I hope to be fluent in the Kalanga's Ikalanga dialect within a year. If I don’t hear from you before I leave, I will call you upon my return. I’ll run some Kalanga Ikalanga by you and see if you can guess what I am saying. It will be fun.

Sincerely,
----------------

I'll take mothballs for a hundred

I have a new obsession and it is called Estate Sales. If you’ve never been, then let me explain. When someone dies, quite often the family is left to deal with the contents of their dearly departed’s home. Removing a few of grandma’s things is fine, but what is a family to do with 112 capodimonte hummels from HSN? They call in the experts and they sell the entire contents of the house to the public. Crazy people like me stand in line outside the house waiting for the sale to start, hoping to find something special inside besides mothballs and 340 sugar packets from Bob Evans. Let me tell you, when those doors open it’s like the running of the bulls, if bulls were 75 year-olds with blue hair. I actually had an older lady push me out of the way because she thought I was reaching for the same item as she was – a half-empty bottle of Windex. Yes, Windex!! I go to these estate sales looking for antiques, and my competition is little old ladies looking for a deal on Windex. If not for the great source of depression-era glass, I would not put up with such elderly tomfoolery.

I must admit, it is quite eerie to walk into a stranger’s home to buy their belongings after they have died, especially when their pictures are still on the walls. Although the history of their belongings will never be known to me, I try to treat each item I purchase with the respect it deserves. Or I sell it on ebay. Luckily for me (and not so much the deceased) estate sales in Florida are endless. And for now, so is my obsession.

KP's Note: So, um, when I was reading the first paragraph of this post I truly, honestly thought that K-dub was referring to some random reality show that she was currently into. Don't laugh! With shows like Pawn Stars and Antique Road Show, I thought this was the next big thing, not K-dub's newest hobby. For the record, I could never go to an estate sale--I went to an auction once and while the old biddies bidding was quite entertaining, the deeply sorrowful sense that hung over the room was too much for me. But K-dub? If you see some amazing antique earrings, be sure to snatch them up for me!

Our posse'

The fabulous K-Dub and I have been friends for a while. We met while working for an, um, interesting corporation that neither of us felt entirely loyal to. So in between sight visits, we spent our time gossiping about celebrities, eating lots of junk food and laughing at ourselves (and occasionally the people by whom we were surrounded). I knew we'd be friends on her first day at the office when she came to my desk with a serious look on her face.

K-Dub: Promise me something?
KP: Umm...sure?
K-Dub: Promise me that you'll tell me IMMEDIATELY if my zipper is down, ok?

I knew we'd be fast friends. And we've gone strong ever since, despite the fact that I quit my job and gallavanted off to grad school and she quit her job and ran away to Florida (where she currently stalks the St. Petersburg monkey). Our friendship has grown steadily since our days of cheese and celebrities because we're committed to harassing each other via email, text and Facebook. It's a lovely friendship.

During the course of our technological friendship, we started to compose a list of people we want to be friends with. Here now is that wish list. I want to note that with the two of us, things change frequently based on our whims and fickle nature, so I'm sure we'll add to it (or edit people from it) as time goes on. But in a perfect world these people would be in our K-Squared Posse':

• Kathy Griffin. We adore anyone who can be both self-depracating and hilarious. She's a fame-whore and proud of it. We like that. And we're not afraid to grovel at her feet to be in our posse'. Or just to have an appearance on My Life on the D-List.
• Jen Lancaster. If you don't know who she is, then we're both disowning you as friends. She is brilliant and hilarious and sarcastic and gets paid to say the things the two of us wish we could say without repercussion. We recommend buying all of her books stat, but if you don't want to do that you should at least check out her blog, Jennsylvania. Seriously, we have mad love for her and her mad love of reality tv. If we had it our way, Jen would visit us weekly and we'd drink wine and watch lots of Tivo'd reality shows together. And our lives would be complete.
• Lady Gaga. Because she doesn't give a flying fudgeball what people think and the gays love her. Plus we can't get Bad Romance out of our heads. And we want her to teach us how to dance. (Sidenote: we came up with the idea to enlist her into our posse' while watching The Grammys.
  K-Dub: She should be in our posse'! Her performance was amazing!
  KP: YES! And I can steal her starry-orbity dress thingy!
  K-Dub: YES! Maybe she'll write a BAD ROMANCE with us! HAHAHAHAHA!!)
• Jane Lynch. Nobody can play a character like Sue Sylvester without having a little of her edge in real life. She, too, can get away with saying things that most people would get fired for. Plus we dig the fact that she's fighting the good fight for the LGBT community.
• Tina Fey. Another whip-smart woman on our list. Surprise surprise. Have you not seen 30 Rock? It's pure brilliance! Plus she could help us come up with smart ways to insult the dumb people in our lives.
• Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey. We like her talk of "bubbies" and the fact that she spends money like she's the Queen of England. We'd live vicariously through her. And secretly hope she'd buy us some crazy-expensive furniture.

When all is said and done, we'd be friends with anyone who'll either bring us cupcakes or make us laugh if they're not on the above list. So what I'm trying to say is most people in this world could probably be in our posse'. But we dream big and dammit, we want to host a dinner party where Gaga and Teresa sit across from one another and debate the merits of feminism in the 21st century. Wouldn't you?

Dear Lindsay Lohan

I do not understand why you are sunning on the beaches of Cannes when you have not completed your court ordered say-no-to-alcohol-classes. You have a court date tomorrow to review your progress! Maybe it's just me, but shouldn't your first priority be to make sure you stay out of jail? They don't serve cocaine in jail, Linsday. You will not do well there. Seriously though, you need to start listening to the adults in your life (except your parents, as they are bigger train wrecks than you), and get your act together. You say that you are doing great, yet you aren't even doing the bare minimum to make sure you remain free. Just think of your glory days when you starred in Mean Girls, Freaky Friday, and Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. I miss that Linsday, and you should, too. You have officially taken over the "crazy" role from Britney. I am not happy about this. The saddest part of this mess is that you will not be able to twitter from the pokey. That hurts, Lindsay. A LOT.

A little texting between friends

(Said in my Jack Bauer Voice): The following takes place between the hours of 11:56 pm and 12:02 a.m - while in mid-text conversation ...

KP: That's exciting! It must feel good to have a plan in motion.
KD: What's even more exciting is that bottle of Kahlua Mudslide in my refrig that I really want to go hit. Woud I have issues if I were to get out of bed to drink?
KP: Why else would you get out of bed? I think it's more than legit. Better than getting up to go to the bathroom. Pssh! Hahaha!
KD: Well said. But let me be a cautionary tale. Don't take after me. Save your liver before it's too late. Mine's already pickled in vodka.
KP: You're my hero.

More ...
KD: Did you watch The Office?
KP: I did. Erin is craaaazy! But I loved the Cookie Monster plotline. Hahaha!
KD: Jim's impression of Kevin was hysterical. BTW - I am twittering with Kirstie Alley right now! I can see this easily getting out of control!
KP: When you say twittering with her do you mean she's talking back? Or that you are sending her tweets in hopes of becoming tweeting bff's?
KD: Oh, I meant twittering to her. She hasn't responded, but she will. When she does, you will know! Twittering may be my new purpose in life! hahahaha!
KP: Hahahahaha! Twitter = new purpose in life! Awesome!

Why we are Gleeks .. even via text!
KD: I think my cat's been reading my diary!
KP: I was going to text you the same thing! The songs have been great though. I loved the ballad duet.
KD: Yes, great music. But I don't like sad tears during my favorite show!
KP: OMG! it just got AMAZING! GO MERCEDES!
KD: Now I'm really in tears!
KP: Sobbing! Sobs! Lots of tears! That is one of the best moments on the show thus far. How incredibly profound and beautiful.
KD: Sing it! We are beautiful no matter what they say ....