WHO’S THAT GIRL? I went for a long walk thi afternon as part of my “feel good/look good” plan, and since I didn’t see any use in fixing myself up BEFORE sweating for an hour I donned a cinched black trenchcoat, black baseball hat and oversized sunglasses. I headed to an area where I was least likely to run into anyone I knew – the local seaside amusement park. I was aware of the fact that I looked like a movie/rock star with the don’t-recognize-me-or-you’ll-turn-into-a-pillar-of-salt thing goin’ on. In fact, my inner monologue was imaginging that I was mid-1970′s Elizabeth Taylor: more curves than straight-aways, slightly bloated, but still awe-inspiring. I held on to this fantasy just long enough to calculate the median age of the passers-by giving me that special inquisitive look, and only then did I come to the conclusion that they were actually thinking, “Is that Rosie O’Donnell?!” Which begged the question:

What mistaken-identity-almost-a-celebrity-look-a-likes populate your corner of the world? Here in our little town there are a lot of Billy Bob Thorntons and Nick Noltes. There’s an abundance of Vanessa Redgraves and one or two middle-aged Gwen Stefanis, but she’s on the arm of a Drew Carey instead of a Gavin Rossdale. There are too many Tom Greenes and not enough George Clooneys; oodles of Hillary Duffs, Joan Osbornes and Kelly Osbournes, but only one Seal.

Makes you wonder. Okay, maybe not.

Kim

P.S. I LOVE…the thighs on speed skaters

RECENTLY DISCOVERED OPTIONAL DIALOGUE FOR 97.44% OF OLYMPIC ICE DANCING ROUTINES. At least this is my best guess after watching way too much ice dancing, way too late at night.

Boy/Girl (together): Here we are!
Boy: I love you
Girl: I love you, too
Boy: This is nice, the skating, the dancing
Girl: Whee!
Boy: I think I’ll hold you near
Girl: Wait, I’ve decided I hate you
Boy: Come back here!
Girl: No, stay away
Boy: But we had a love
Girl: A shameful, hurtful love
Boy: But who else can please you like this?!
Girl: I look the other way thusly!!
Boy: Damnit, wench, you’re mine, now and always!
Girl: The confusion is making me spin
Boy: My love lifts you high
Girl: I melt for you after all
Boy: We are together again. The happiness makes me giddy. And spin.
Girl: Whee!
Boy/Girl (together): Here we are!

DIZZYING HEIGHTS or JUMP JIVE AND WAIL (or is it TWIST AND SHOUT?). Along with the hours and hours of figure skating, I’ve also been watching the other, less diva-populated sports. Last night I watched the freestlye ski-jumping. Is that what it’s called? It reminded me of the Summer Olympics’ high dive competition for two reasons: 1) they start up high and end down low, 2) I have no idea how to watch them twist, turn or flip. Really. The commentator can detail every double or triple this or that, and I can be staring at the athlete in action, and I still cannot tell what’s going on. “Aaaww…” the informed announcer will say, “He tried for a triple and had to pull out at the double, leaving the last three-quarters of the twist for his next run.” Really? I would have probably just said, “Wow! Look at him go,” every time, for every jump. I would know when to throw in, “Well, he fell down that time,” or maybe “His outfit is white with blue stripes,” and I can spot a good landing from a bad. But please, tell me I’m not the only one who feels like I’m watching my blender while making a smoothie, trying to find the banana in the whirlwind.

Kim

MARITAL DISCLAIMER or NOW THAT YOU BOUGHT THE COW CAN WE BE VEGETARIANS? I was listening to my usual news radio station yesterday and heard the following disclaimer that will fit nicely into my arsenal during “rocky relationship moments.” You know those moments, the ones when you’re engaged in aggressive and audibly enhanced dialogue with your partner and one or the other lets slip a reference to how the other “used to be.” Maybe it’s a comment about tidiness, energy level, instances of actual romance, libido or even just ‘being more fun.” I have now found the proper response to any such comment, real or implied. Here it is:

“Past performance does not guarantee future results.”

PASS ME A GREEN BEAN…NO REALLY – JUST ONE GREEN BEAN. So, another inspiration came to me from an unexpected source yesterday. I’d been hearing on the news about Saddam Hussein’s hunger strike and suddenly it hit me – I’m going to go on a hunger strike of my own. I haven’t decided on my exact demands yet, but my motives might be a little different that the usual strikers. And my methods. See, I’m not going to stop eating, I’m just going to eat a little less and therefore remain slightly “hungry.” Afterall, it’s not called a “starving strike.” Once I settle on the moral outrage that backs my hungry stance, I’ll have an obligation to stick to a plan of eating less, something I have yet to achieve without a mission statement.

In other news, my family appears to be on a “carelessness and sloth strike.” Their demands are unclear, but I suspect they include cartoons and sugar.

Kim

MOTIVATING CIRCUMSTANCES or PERFORMING THE FORMERLY UNEXAMINED TASK. My days are filled with mundane activities, repeated chores and lackluster errands. More often than not I’ll procrastinate as long as possible and then achieve enviable quantities of crap in record time (see me at the Bonneville Salt Flats for the bank-to-post-office-to-market-to school-pick-up land speed trials. I’ll be driving the Goldfish and cold french fry-modified Dodge Caravan). However, I have hit upoon a motivator that gets me through these soul-sucking tasks with some modicum of my sanity left in tact, if your definition of sanity includes role-play and imaginary camera crews and audiences. I have discovered that folding 61 (that’s an odd number, damnit) white socks will push me over the edge, but starring in my own DIY show, “Secrets of Fluffing and Folding” is almost entertaining. Simply pretend that you are an international expert at whatever is on your list today and proceed as if teaching a live and/or broadcast audience the tricks of your trade. This accomplishes two important goals: 1) the chores are completed, 2) you realize just exactly how much thought, experience and expertise you have culled after years (nee eons) of toilet scrubbing, dishwasher loading and dustball wrangling. This weekend you can see me live on my special show, “Redecorating the Disgusting and Awkwardly Shaped Bathroom, With Your Host, Kim.” Hmmm..the homeowner seems to have left us a real mess to wade through…

Match the following quotes to the appropriate episode:

QUOTES:

“If the dirty sock comes to me inside out – it goes back to the wearer inside out. Better the one to dirty the object sticks his or her hand in the sullied object.”

“The third strike offense will be dealt with by the disappearance of ALL the washcloths, for a period to be determined by the launderess.”

“Clean the child’s room with an opaque contractor’s bag. The color, shape and muffled sound will be masked by the industrial appearance. Rocking ‘n Rolling Elmo passes for a wad of dirty diapers under veil of brown plastic. “

“Fresh fruits and vegetables do not adhere to the interior of the produce bag – skip the smell test and dispense immediately.”

“Knives go blade first, so unloading is not a risky endeavor. Other cutlery goes handle first so they don’t “spoon” during the cycles.”

EPISODES:

“Cleaning Out the Refrigerator: Use Your Five Senses (Sometimes Your Sixth)”

“Mildewed Rags in the Corner of the Tub: Nag or Snag?”

“Dishwasher Loading, From a Loaded Dishwasher”

“The Souls of my Feet Are Permanently Imprinted With Lego Marks”

“It’s Bad Enough I have to Sort Your Stinky Garments, Don’t Expect More”

Well then. It’s off to step one: remove everything from the bathroom. Ugh. Let’s go to commercial.

Kim

MADAME LUKE’S DICTIONARY. Dispisal, n. An imaginary appliance used to dispose of articles and/or persons one despises. “My sister gave me a pair of sweatpants with writing across the ass. I deposited them directly in the dispisal.”

NEW DEFINITION FOR OLD WORDS. Fashionista, n. Formerly used to describe an expert on haute couture. New improved meaning: A cappucino server who reads Vogue (i.e. Barrista + Fashion).

HOT FASHION TREND SPOTTED. During an infrequent night-on-the-town last evening, I was shocked to see that the Serpico look is back and hotter than ever. Unfortunately I don’t think any of the young men sporting the scruffy-face-knit-hat-oversized “cop undercover making drug deals” look were old enough to even know who Serpico is. I think it was more of an Ashton-Kutcher-with-a-hangover thing.

WHY I SUCK AT FINDING A JOB. Here is my inner monologue while perusing the jobs section of the Sunday San Francisco Chronicle:

“Accounting – no. Activity Director – maybe, wait, old people? No. Administrative – yes, oh, advanced computer skills. No. Architect – I wish. Asphalt? No. Auto, Autobody, Automotive – no, no, no. Bakery – yum. Banking – no. Biotech? Caregiver – you’ve gotta be kidding, everyone knows I don’t care. Carpet, Chemist – no thank you. Computer? Yeah, um, no. Construction – with my knees and back? Counselor – see Caregiver. Dental – no. Driver – enough already. Editor! Yes, yes! Oh, audio/video, nevermind. Education – sounds great, too bad about the whole pre-requisite thing. Engineering….hahahaha. Environmental – must be volunteer work. Executive Assistant – been there, done that, and what exactly is so great about this Excel? Finance – investment risk? That would be me as a financial advisor. Oh, and the eight years related experience probably doesn’t mean balancing my checkbook. Fitness…snort. Healthcare…snort snort. Human Resources – not qualified. Maintenance, Management, Marketing Coordinator, Medical, Nursing – over and/or under qualified. Pharmacist, Pilot, Police, Printing – see above. Real Estate, Receptionist, Restaurant – need to actually MAKE money, not lose money with prospective job. Retail. Retail? Not in high school anymore, and secretly despise the general public. Sales – see general public, despising of. Security Guard – vigilante tendencies not a plus. Software, Tailor, Teacher, Telemarketing, Tree Climber. Tree Climber? Visual Effects – hmmmm, that sounds good. For Industrial Light and magic?! Cool! I pull off visual effects all the time – appearing to be a put-together mother-of-three, giving the impression that I am cooking healthful meals for my family, slight-of-hand minimal house cleaning for company, making my 185 pounds look like a svelte 178… Oh, they want compter graphics. I was thinking more old school. And that brings us to Warehouse Stocker – no.

Well, at least I’m trying.”

k

THE BOBBY EWING SYNDROME, or AM I DREAMING NOW? HOW ABOUT NOW? I dream very vividly, always have. Full color, intriguing plots and sometimes enviable dialogue and fully arranged pop songs. However, one type of dream has been popping up more and more frequently, and it’s absolutely one of the more confounding. It’s the “dreams wherein I wonder if I am dreaming, then proceed to sleep and awaken in my dream, therefore proving to myself that I am NOT dreaming, only to really and truly wake up later” type of dream. I can hear my psyche snickering when I actually do come to, and I think, “damn, she fooled me again.” It also makes me a little insecure in real life when I’ll wonder “am I dreaming?” because, really, who can tell anymore with that lying bitch of a dream trickster psyche.

POST-HOLLYWOOD BLOCKBUSTER DREAMS. I am a self-serving casting agent when I’m asleep. We watched “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” on Friday night, and later I dreamed that Angelina Jolie and I were action buddies being chased by assasins, ransacking my dad’s house in search of his toddler-proof hiding place for his arsenal. Unfortunately (but predictably) Angelina ditched me for Lucy Liu.

WILL YOU STILL RESPECT ME? There was a week back in the late 80′s when I dreamed repeatedly that Michael Jackson was my best friend. I was not then, or ever, a Michael Jackson fan, and he rarely showed up on my conscious radar, even though I lived in Hollywood. But in my dreams we had a deep and thoughtful friendship and I was all warm and fuzzy and proud of his accomplishments. When I was awake and would hear or read something about him I would feel this twinge of “aaaw, there’s my old dear friend Michael,” then remember that, of course, I’d never met him. Can anyone explain this?

FAA WARNING. I fly in my dreams, but frequently forget how to land. I’ll leave this open to discussion.

WINCHESTER MYSTERY DREAMS. One of my most frequent dream themes is finding previously undiscovered or forgotten rooms in my house. I’m overwhelmed with one of two feelings. 1) How can I have forgotten this, my favorite room! 2) Thank god we have more square footage, maybe there’s even a closet in here. Pretty transparent, I think.

ODDS AND ENDS AND COMMON DENOMINATORS. My other weekly, monthly or quarterly standards are fairly universal: going to school with no pants on, all my teeth falling out, screaming with no sound coming out, trying to talk but feeling drugged and incoherent, being pushed onstage without a clue as to the play or character, hot ex-boyfriends adopting the physical characteristics of drug-addled former child actors.

And you?

Kim
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……………

MY 7 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER IS IN LABOR. Well, actually she’s not, obviously, but she has a terrible stomach ache and a finely honed sense of high drama, and the combination is resulting in very labor-like moaning, screaming, ranting and writhing. I feel awful for her, because I know how those stomach aches can be, but I can’t help but look at her oddly while I’m thinking, “Wow, you sound exactly like me when I birthed you! If only dad was at home today to see this.” Maybe it’s her screaming, “Make it stop, make it stop! I’m gonna die, I’m dying!” Or maybe it’s my mantra of “Breathe, honey, relax and it’ll come out,” knowing from experience that painful peristalsis and ye olde birth canal log ride are so similar and essentially both need deep breathing and out-of-body calm. Of course she won’t get the big payoff at the end of all her work. I’m really looking forward to her first childbearing experience.

Not really.

Kim

AND THE GOODHOUSEKEEPING SEAL OF APPROVAL GOES TO…Here is the kind of housekeeper I am: When someone comes to my house and the kitchen is sparkly clean and the counter-tops are cleared and lovely, she doesn’t think “Wow, Kim is a really great housekeeper,” she thinks,”Wow, Kim had ants.”

kim