Thank You for the Gift

Just consider this part one of a series I've entitled:  Really, Really Getting to Know Me & The Reaons Why I'm Kind of a Terrible Person.

Some time last year, I donated $10 to feed the hungry. Not because I'm such a good person (since that would clearly contradict my title), but because it got me a gift certificate for a free slice of cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. Note that I actually realized after my transaction that I only had to donate $5 to get the free slice. I believe at the time I was thinking double the donation, double the cheesecake, but I was wrong. But whatever, my $10 bought 20 bushels of oats & grains AND a slice of vanilla bean cheesecake. BARGAIN!

Cut to this year... I've been getting an outrageous amount of junk mail lately and by "junk mail" I mean letters from every freaking charity in existence asking for donations. I am 99.9% convinced that the organization that I generously donated to sold my address (because they do that, right?). Rude.

Well, my favorites are of course the ones that send you a gift. I now have enough return address labels to last me for the next 2 years (shame we plan on moving this year). I have an over abundance of gift labels for Christmas. I have a super cute greeting card set. AND of course, I have a dime from March of Dimes (I just can't bring myself to use it. I mean I'm terrible, but not that terrible).

The worst are the ones that send you a picture of the child you'll be helping. I mean, don't guilt trip me in to donating with a photo of little Jazahara, shirtless, playing with a rock. And please, don't send me any more pictures of babies with cleft palates. I know what they look like, and I would love, LOVE to help them all, but it's just not feasibly possible (seriously, like the girl who cried about saving all the little kitties, I want to save all the babies... and kitties... and puppies... and unicorns).

But back to the gifts and the first reason why I'm kind of a terrible person. I have set aside the donation slips of all the charities that sent me a gift with the highest intentions of eventually, at some point in my life, making a donation. I immediately threw away the mail of any charity that did not send me a gift and also the charities that DID send me a gift but it was either ugly and/or had the incorrect address... because I'm a terrible person... kind of. :)

Circle, Cirle, Dot, Dot...

Since my wedding day is drawing closer, I thought I'd take the time to reminisce about my tragic first relationship.

I was lucky enough to have one of those mothers who tells her daughters that if a boy teases you that means he likes you. Yes, if you're playing on the jungle gym and little Tommy pushes you to your death, he's totally in love with you.

I actually had a Tommy push me off one of those metal spider webs in kindergarten. I knocked my chin off one of the bars, fell backwards and landed on my back in the sand. I believe I did one of those no air cries for a good 60 seconds.

Of course, I remember this day clearly even 23 years later because he was totes my first love. Duh. We had a very healthy relationship. I shared my snacks with him, and he gave me cooties. The cootie shot unfortunately wouldn't be invented for several more years.

Our relationship came to a halt during our kindergarten graduation when he refused to hold my hand during the procession. His last name being Johnson, and mine JaXXXXX, he really could never get away from me. But it was in that moment I realized he had no qualms holding skanky Ashley L.'s hand (those Ashleys and Amandas, right? there was always more than one). I was heart broken.

How dare he mooch off me for extra snacks for months! How dare he give me cooties and run out on me! You can live a completely normal life with cooties. Ride bikes. Hold hands in the park. Share a Slip 'N Slide.

Well, this tragedy was caught on tape by my parents. They were proud owners of a 50lbs VHS camcorder. I have clear, substantial evidence of the day Tommy became a player. And if I ever run into him again (or you know, stalk him down on Facebook), he will regret it.

Because I've since been cured of my cooties. I have ~circle, circle, dot, dot, now I've got my cootie shot!~ many a time, and I may or may not have gotten damn fine. And like most romantic comedies teach us, he is fat, single, and drives a cab.

So if you ever happen to be in San Diego and take a ride in Tommy Johnson's cab, give him cooties and tell him they're from me. Thanks!

Best I Ever Had

My vows to @cupcass & @drake. You probs wouldn't understand.

Before I met my boos, I was all pussy's only pussy, and I get it when I need it; asking every other hoe out there to show me a good time. But I found their lovin. I found their hearts. And now, all I see is fireworks. I'm a little bit in love.

I vow...

to only throw my ones up in the air for you.
to always keep you fancy.
to let you know, let you knoo-ow...
to miss you a little when you're gone.
to make it whistle like the Andy Griffith theme song.
to be the best you ever had.
To have and to bone, from this day forward, for better, for best, for richer, for more richer, in sickness and in health, until world tours do us part.

Time for the rings... Drizzy?

In Your Eyes

I'm sitting here in my program office, attempting to work on my thesis, but someone just heated up some fish for lunch. There is something about the smell of fish... I will smell like this all day. Like I just ended my shift at Long John Silver. Like I just turned a trick and owe a pimp some money. Worst smell ever.

But slightly unrelated but not completely off base, my life has been a slight mess lately. And to break this down, it's due to 20% family, 30% school & 50% friends related issues. Sooo so much.

In an attempt to avoid any breakdowns (Read: Shambles & Cupcakes), I told TJ, my fiancé, that I just wanted to be alone and listen to music. So I close myself in our guest bedroom, put my iPod on the dock, and turn on shuffle.

The first (and only) song to play is "Lullaby (Rockabye)" by Shawn Mullins. You know it. Don't lie! I become immediately transfixed. Closed my eyes and sang along at the top of my lungs. I'm sure the neighbors could hear me through the walls, which is unfortunate because I played this song over & OVER, joining in every single time.

After maybe the fifth or sixth play (I KNOW!), I decide to turn it off and just enjoy the silence. Maybe only 60 seconds of silence... I hear yelled from outside the door, "PLAY 'IN YOUR EYES!'" And so I do.*

And I open up the door to find ALL my boys: TJ, Corey (my son), and Max (our dog) standing there and surprisingly not looking at me like I'm completely insane and this makes me smile.

Today, I'm still smiling, despite smelling like fish and still having 101 issues to deal with, because I have my boys, and they're safe & healthy & happy & love me even though I might be insane and that's all that really matters. Everything else I'll just sing away.

*I am 100% sure TJ thought these songs were sung by the same person. It was an odd choice otherwise. And don't judge me for having Peter Gabriel on my iPod in the 21st century.

Shambles & Cupcakes

This is the story of how a poor, poor kitty on the side of the road led to my... breakdown?

Setting: Driving down the street just like any ole person listening to Katy Perry would be. Bass bumping. Sipping on gin and juice.

Emotional State: I'm listening to Katy Perry, so yea, sane & joyful.

Cue poor, helpless kitty hit lying on the side of the road.

Cue tears. Mega, MEGA tears. Crazy hormonal imbalance tears.

Cue a snot-faced, bawling Kelly with untinted windows looking a hot mess for the entire world to see.

So where do I drive for a pick-me-up? Starbucks, of course! Where else!?

Hello, empty drive-thru. Hello, speaker. Hello, poor barista that has to listen to my short breath, gasping order.

Onto the window.

Cue barista asking if I'm alright.

Cue me interjecting, "MY LIFE IS IN SHAMBLES!"

Cue free strawberry cupcake from barista.

Cue my I'm so in love with you, you're my new best friend, what time do you get off, I'm going to buy you a drink but not really, I'll find a hot guy to buy us both drinks SMILE.

Four for you, new bff barista!

Now as for my life... shambles? News to me. I think subconsciously I knew this would get me something free. Apparently, my subconscious is obese.

Hypothetically, Of Course.

This is a "game" TJ and I like to play when *I* can't sleep. A good ole thing called hypothetical questions...

T: What if you could live in your dream location: Fiji, for example, but you had to be homeless?
Me: I think I'm kind of cute so I could be a private dancer for money and break out of poverty.

Me: What if you could have the most amazing sex for the rest of your life but you'd have to be a quadriplegic?
T: No way. Really, Kel?

T: What if you found the guy of your dreams and he was perfect except he picked his nose?
Me: YOU PICK YOUR NOSE!?
T: It's hypothetical.
Me: What kind of f'ed up question is that?

Insensitive quadriplegic question = a-okay.
Nose picking question = hell-to-the-naw

I'm only hypothetically terrible.

The Book Challenge

I haven't fallen completely in love with a book since I read The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. That was years ago. I have been searching and waiting for THAT BOOK; the next read I can't put down, a book my fiancé would have to pry out my hands to get me to come to bed.

This search has been long and disappointing. It has led to a slump and I don't want to say I've lost my love for reading, but the time I once spent reading is now filled with crappy TV shows and The Vampire Diaries (this is not crappy, it is pure gold).

So to hopefully set fire to my love for reading again and to find "the one," I am challenging myself to read one book a week.

For week one, I am reading The Girl Who Fell From The Sky by Heidi W. Durrow (began 2/4/2011).

I'll be adding my challenge books to a special bookshelf on my Goodreads account. Please, feel free to send me recommendations, especially if it's that book for you.

I'm a Witch

I have a lot of random quirks. I don't know if you remember my (muthafuckin) snake in the (muthafuckin) toilet story [See "Z"]? Just thought I would share another...

At some point when I was younger, during my elementary school era and after the release of Teen Witch (special shoutout to Janet for sending me a copy!), I convinced myself that all little girls have magical powers. And like tradition, your powers of course don't become active until the eve of your 16th birthday, when you float over top your bed mid-slumber and then get sent off to live with your 500y/o aunts Hilda and Zelda or you just make friends with a creepy psychic.

I believed that in the years leading up to your 16th birthday, you had to protect your powers or fairies would come in the middle of the night and steal them little by little. And to protect your powers, you had to sleep with your hands balled into a fist. I am not even shitting you. This is what I honestly believed. BIG, CREEPY imagination.

Well, to this day, I cannot fall asleep without holding my hands in some deformed, fist-like manner, even though clearly those fairy bitches already stole my powers, right!? OR DID THEY? (DUN. DUN. DUN.) Only time will tell. I'm currently in wizard training with the Russos.