open twenty four hours

The Barbie Incident

2008-07-31T01:28:00.003-05:00

I am told I was a pain in the neck as a baby. I, for some reason, thought 9 P.M. was a perfectly acceptable time to wake up and play. For hours. And, if mom and dad weren’t willing to go along with my night-owl tactics, I would scream from my crib. When the choice between A.M. and P.M. Kindergarten presented itself, it was pretty obvious which group I belonged in.
My brother, Brian, is twenty-two months younger than me, but he was widely regarded as the angel baby of the family. He ate and he slept (when he was supposed to). He didn’t cry or fuss.

Luckily, I came first, and my parents didn’t know any better.

When I was eleven years old, my mother led me downstairs to our dimly lit basement, which had recently become a large storage unit (housing all the Christmas decorations that wouldn’t quite fit in the crawlspace, and all the childhood toys my brother and I insisted we were too old to play with) telling me she had to show me something. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, even though I begged repeatedly, almost annoyingly. I thought she had gotten me a present, and she didn’t want my brother to see her give it to me. We had barely walked in the front door after coming home from school. I sashayed through the basement in my plaid, catholic schoolgirl jumper and saddle shoes as she brought me across the mold brown carpet and through the maze of boxes sharpied in my dad’s unmistakable scrawl: “ORNAMENTS,” “ANNALEES,” “BOARD GAMES,” and (more) “ORNAMENTS.” I never understood why he always wrote in all capital letters. I also never understood why, even though we had more than enough ornaments to cover the Christmas tree, he continued to buy new ones every year. Eventually, we reached the opposite end of the basement, near the escape hatch window, and stopped in front of a dresser that had become the new home for my barbies, since I had recently become both too old and too cool to play with them.

But there they were. Dozens of small, tanned bodies, dismembered. The appendages lay jammed into two dresser drawers. Their blond, decapitated heads and beady blue eyes, still wide open, looked up at me in their typical naivety, unconcerned (or, obviously, unaware) about the absence of their arms and legs, lacking curiosity about the disappearance of their breasts, unembarrassed by their uncharacteristic nakedness. I pulled one, then two, then three heads out of the drawers by strands of braided, pony-tailed, or knotted hair and examined their broken necks. The heads had not been simply popped off, clean, quick and easy, but severed, perhaps cracked, unevenly, with no chance of reattachment. The midsections sounded like baby rattles, small pieces of their leftover necks dropped into their stomachs, knocking up against always empty body cavities. Perfectly sculpted legs, never plagued by cellulite, were rendered un-walkable, bent backward in 45-degree angles at the knees. Arms that once waved happily from stylish sports cars, adorned with clinking, decorative, silver bangle bracelets and hands that once proudly locked with those of her boyfriend (or was he her husband?), or kid sister, would never experience these social delicacies again.

Moments later, I found shreds of clothing, bits of lace and cotton poly-blend, in various shades of pink, covering the bottom of each drawer like bedding in a hamster cage. Miniature patent leather handbags were missing their handles, and stilettos were, all of a sudden, arched flats.

Bright pink collector’s edition boxes that had, previously, remained unopened were torn open at the tops like cereal boxes, the clear plastic on the display windows slashed open with a child-proof scissors.

The cars and homes, however, remained untouched.

The look on my mother’s face asked if I had been the one responsible for the massacre. After all, it wouldn’t have been the first (and certainly wouldn’t be the last) time I had attempted to hide some kind of character damaging evidence from my parents. When I was eight years old, I hid a multiplication math test in my underwear drawer beneath neatly folded piles of bikini-cut jockeys. I had miserably failed the test, and I was required to get one of my parents to sign it. Rather than bring my failure to my parents’ attention, I hid it, in hopes that it would disappear on its own. But my avoidant, scheming eight-year-old mind forgot that Mom not only did all my laundry, but also put it away in my dressers for me. I’m sure my cover-up only lasted for a couple days, until Mom sat me down with the test and I made, at last, a tear-filled confession: guilty.

But this time, she didn’t say anything. She just stood by, watching me pilfer through the wreckage searching for survivors. Eventually, my face flushed and I slammed the dresser drawers and ran through the maze of Christmas boxes and dashed up the stairs and went screaming through the house looking for Brian.

We didn’t have family dinnertime very often at my house. I don’t say this to evoke any kind of sympathy, or to insinuate that my parents didn’t think that family time was important. Brian and I were just very involved in our activities. He spent five out of seven nights a week playing hockey, and I spent the same amount of time at my dance studio. Dad acted as Brian’s chauffer, and Mom was mine. Suffice it to say we collected a lot of McDonald’s happy meal toys along the way. I think my parents still have them, boxed up in the basement or attic somewhere.

But before my parents packed them away, Brian and I bartered with them. We created a game called “Pass it Under.” The rules of the game were simple. We closed the door to my bedroom. I sat behind the door inside my room, and Brian sat in the hallway. We’d empty out our bottomless junk drawers filled with happy meal toys, prizes for a job well done from our grade school principal, junk we had won at the indoor carnival at Church, and each create a pile of stuff to “trade.” Certainly, it would have been too simple for us to sit side-by-side elsewhere in the house and trade, the way little boys trade baseball cards, or the way children swap snacks in the lunchroom. There was something more fun, more surprising about sliding treasures through the crack between the bottom of the door and the top of the brown, fuzzy carpet.

Brian would start by stuffing a small trinket or toy under my bedroom door, and I would pick it up, examine it closely, and select a trinket from my give-away pile to respond with. If this process took too long (in Brian’s estimation) he would clear his throat and announce, as if addressing an audience, “Pass it Under!” We would continue on in this fashion, until Brian would start trying to give me the same junk I had rejected for trade the last time we played. Sometimes he would respond by opening my door and tossing the toys inside, other times we would jam our fingers from pushing at the same object in opposite directions at the same time. It never occurred to us to throw the cheap, plastic toys that we didn’t want in the garbage, instead of trying to pawn them off on each other.

And wouldn't you know, I have grown to be a woman who avoids conflict at all costs. I don’t like confrontation. At parties, I shrink out of the room when people get into an argument. I don’t even particularly like serious face-to-face conversations. When asked a question I feel uncomfortable answering, I become increasingly interested in the patterns of the tiles on the floor, the cracks in the ceiling, or the clothing of pedestrians on the sidewalk. I make a funny comment. I notice that it’s starting to rain, or snow, or that the sun is coming out. I do everything but answer directly. I swear by my caller-ID, and most of my incoming calls go straight to voice mail. My preferred mode of communication is e-mail. I enjoy the immediacy of text messaging and instant messaging. I do everything possible to avoiding seeing or hearing an in-the-moment kind of reaction. I’ve been told, on more than one occasion, that I’m emotionally closed off, and I’m only verbally straightforward after a glass of wine, or two, or whatever it takes to break down the walls. I'm (still) hiding.

When I finally found Brian, he was sitting quietly on his beanbag chair in his bedroom playing Gameboy in the dark. My face was hot, red, and stinging from the tears rolling down my cheeks. I flicked on the light.

A few minutes later, our mother was standing behind me in Brian’s doorframe. Very few words managed to escape from my mouth. I was too upset and angry to form complete sentences. It was a preview into the future, and proof of how difficult it would be for me to communicate directly later in life, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. But I do remember throwing a mangled Barbie leg at him in my fury.

“How could you do this?!”

“I don’t know,” he said. But he didn’t attempt to deny it, and there was really nothing else for him to say.

“Some of those were collector dolls!” I stomped forward, but mom grabbed me by the hand before I got much further. I was shrieking, sobbing, and thrashing my arms back and forth. “I could have passed them along to my own daughter someday! And you, you just destroyed them!”

It couldn’t have been the fact that I might someday have a daughter and might someday pass along my doll collection to her that made me so upset. Perhaps it was, I imagine, my brother’s single-handed destruction of an aspect of my childhood through an attack on my dolls.

Years later, after Brian and I had gone away to college and moved to different states, we only saw each other for select holidays, obligatory trips home for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. From time to time, on car trips, traveling to visit family, I bring up the “Barbie Incident.”

I still ask him what provoked him to destroy my Barbies the way he did, hoping 14 years has been enough time for him to finally let it out. He still won’t answer. He says he doesn’t remember. He says I must have done something to one of his things, maybe even accidentally. He says he was nine, and it was a long time ago. He jams his iPod ear buds back in his ears and looks out the window, responding to numerous text messages as they come in.
Brian lets all of my calls go to voice mail, and (sometimes) calls me back after he listens to the message. But we do e-mail. And these days, both of us stay up all night.

i've always been the kind of girl that loves re-runs. . .

2008-07-08T23:59:00.000-05:00

so, it’s been awhile.

i debated whether i should just delete all my old postings and start fresh (open 24 hours under new management, i suppose). perhaps i still will. but, re-reading them, they made me laugh (at least a little bit). so, for now, they stay.

(i’ve always been one for nostalgia, anyway).

at any rate, here’s the short version:

i am, of course, still in chicago. still in the apartment i moved into nearly 3 years ago. still in lincoln park. still loving (almost) every minute of it. i thought about moving when my lease renewal came up this year, then quickly came to the realization that i have an abnormally large closet (lucky find), and it would be nearly impossible to replace.

i no longer work at banana republic, though i still work in retail on michigan avenue. i’ve finally decided that this is ok (for now).

i went back to school. i completed a Master’s Degree this spring. i probably won’t use it in my professional life. i’ve decided that this is also ok.

i broke down and got a MacBook and an iPod about two years ago. i take both almost everywhere i go. i haven’t looked back.

i still read, drink (vodka and coffee -- but not together), and shop more than is probably healthy.

as far as the people i always wrote about:

my fav. girl to blog about, and best friend (karen), no longer lives in chicago (so we therefore no longer make long lists of bar songs on business cards (and other similar bar time antics) . . . at least not on as regular a basis as we used to). she is, hopefully not for much longer, in colorado with matt (who will probably go back to making mean comments on my blog once he discovers i’ve started writing again). she still teaches special ed.

i’m still friends with josh, however we did have several “friend break-ups” between then and now. i’m happy to report that we’re currently on-again (which is probably why i’ve returned to blogging). we still live a few blocks away from each other. he started his own web-design business almost a year ago. he has quit bartending, he says, for good. cheers to that.

bill and i are no longer bill and i, and haven’t been for quite some time. he works in publishing, yet he still doesn’t read (he does, however, understand how unfair this is). we see each other around the neighborhood from time to time, and i’m happy to report that we don’t run in the opposite direction.

there are, of course, new people, new stories, new readings, new outrages.

stay tuned.

xo,

kellieannie

Suxtober

2005-10-28T16:37:00.000-05:00

much to the chagrin of this bonafide northsider and diehard cubs fan, the white sox have won the world series. while i have pouted around my apartment for a few days, the white sox victory has ultimately given me pause to be wary of some cubs fans, too.

a few comments about this unfortunate series of events:

while an admittedly dramatic correlation, i can't help but compare this overnight white sox fan phenomenon to the rapid influx, then decline, of patriotism after 9/11. in the weeks of the aftermath of the worst attack on u.s. soil, americans everywhere dug old glory out of the closet where it had been collecting dust since god only knows when and hung it proudly on their porches, automobiles, and from their apartment windows. retail stores sold t-shirts displaying flags, and pertinant quotations from respected (?) past national leaders, then donated part of the profits to help the cause. fast food chains, gas stations, and flower shops, instead of advertising the weekly specials or hours of operation, posted "God Bless America" and "United We Stand" on their marquees. bumper stickers stating similar sentiments were readily available in junk stores, and at least every third car on the road, be it a bmw or pickup truck, had one of these messages displayed askew on its rear windows/doors/etc. and then, a few months later, the flags slowly came down, specials reappeared on marquees, and t-shirts were donated to good will or packed to lay in wait until the fourth of july. the bumper stickers remained, though i believe that was more laziness than anything else -- too much effort to scrape the thing off.

while the city-wide argument is that this is good for the city of chicago, and we should have all been cheering for "the chicago team," i couldn't help but cheer for the astros. i also couldn't help but wear my d.lee cubs t-shirt out last saturday night. in fact, i remember quite distinctly a few years back, as the cubs were in the playoffs, the southside refrained from showing any support in the general north-side direction. now, as i walk around my neighborhood, i can't help but shake my head: the 7-11 on the corner of n.clark and wrightwood is selling white sox cookies. tarascas has a computer generated photograph of a margarita with a white sox emblem seemingly "floating" inside it. on the L platforms fancy enough to have digital transit information marquees, along with the time, date, and estimated arrival of the next train, have "Go Sox!" added to the mix. alleged cubs fans have, all of sudden, donned white sox t-shirts and caps. i could go on, and on, and on. . .

i'm trying to figure out where this fandom has suddenly come from, and why. why certain events cause people to bandwagon jump and claim something they have no right to: whether it be fandom, or patriotism. if you're only going to support a team or a country or any other institution only when it feels like it's popular or appropriate to do so, in my opinion, don't bother.

don't get me wrong, certainly, the sox do deserve their congratulations, their parade, and their grant park celebration for a job well done. i just didn't really expect anyone to show up. because, just as surely, we all observed throughout the duration of the regular season, that the white sox, while undisputably the team with the best record in baseball, continued to fail to sell out u.s. cellular field.

similarly, i will admit to paying well over face value for cubs tickets on ebay even as the season began to wind down and the cubs chances at a post-season were beyond dismal. just as i have sworn and cursed at the box offices for the past few seasons because i was unable to swing out to wrigley on a whim to take in a game. so what draws the crowds? is it the neighborhoods? is it the tradition? is it the idea we have about what cubs fans or sox fans are supposed to be like, and choose the group we would like to see ourselves as part of accordingly? many of us, too, will argue we were raised cheering for a certain team, and that is the team we stand by today.

it's easy to pick out the bandwagon jumpers, too. afterall, if you were a true white sox fan, i would expect your black shirt to be faded from wash and wear; i would expect the brim on your cap to be bent well into shape. but those of you who have smuggly meandered to strange cargo and purchased a shiny new cap and t-shirt. . . i can pick you out as clear as day as you're walking down the street. you are only fooling yourself, and next season, more than likely, you will donate those items to goodwill, and pull out your own faded and worn baseball attire: primarily it will be blue and red.

but, now you've found yourself in quite the debacle: you aren't a cubs fan because you love cubs baseball. you're a cubs fan because you think being a cubs fan is the "popular thing" to be. and, if there's anything i can't stand more than all-so-sudden white sox fans, it's cubs "fans" that force me to attend half as many games at twice the price.

my point, and i do have one, is this: be loyal. pick a team, and stick with them, unwaveringly. if you're going to be a cubs fan, be a diehard cubs fan. same goes for sox fans. and patriotism.

xo,

kellieannie

it's 3 a.m., do you know where your Baudelaire is?

2005-08-19T12:19:00.000-05:00

apparently, it's sitting in a vending machine in one of five Parisian locations, accessible 24 hours a day.

i'm sure you can imagine my shock (that the brilliant city of chicago didn't think of this first) and delight (that someone was brilliant enough to come up with the idea in the first place) upon discovering this book-vending-machine phenomenon.

sure, we have our 24 hour online browsing options available to us courtesy of amazon.com. but browsing is by no means the same as having. Parisians no longer have to wait until 10 a.m. for the bookshops to open. if they want a new novel at 3 a.m., it's theirs; instant gratification to a whole new level (which, i would imagine, is well suited for our american way of living).

it's almost enough to make me want to learn french, then move across an ocean. . . but, if nothing else, i suppose i could just track down Mayor Daley and insist chicago follow suit.

to that end, i recommend the inagural chicago book vending machines be placed by the 24-hour starbucks at north and wells, and the fullerton L stop. i might also suggest a machine for titles on the new york times' bestsellers list, as well as a machine for classic titles. . . perhaps even a machine devoted to children's books (see, it's a cure for stunted literacy rates, too!).

not to mention, reading is a much better way to spend your transit time than re-categorizing the songs on your ipod. *ahem*

xo,

kellieannie

honey, please (don't) act your age

2005-07-27T09:50:00.000-05:00

this weekend, on the bus to alpine for the dave show. . .

preface: there were many scantilly clad drunk girls present, making spectacles of themselves and creating dramatic situations with fellow bus go-ers . . .

at a particularly dramatic moment, i turned to bill and the following conversation ensued:

kel: "who do these girls think they are? and furthmore, who taught them it was okay to dress that way and act that way?"
bill: "well, they think that's the best way to get attention. and, you have to remember, a lot of people on the bus are just out of college, you know. 21, 22. they're just not quite mature enough yet to . . . "

bill apparently had a momentary lapse regarding my recent college graduation and my 3 and a half years younger than him age.

kel: "um, bill? have you forgotten who you're talking to?"
bill: (the pr junkie in him pauses to brainstorm some damage control): "see, that just shows that i think of you as the same age"
kel: "uh huh. . . stop talking"

i am, apparently, a (nearly) 26 year old trapped in a 22 year old's body. . .

xo,

kellieannie

laziness on your own terms

2005-07-20T14:17:00.000-05:00

last night, the great city of chicago showed "annie hall" at Butler Field in Grant Park. karen and i attended.

there's an ampitheatre directly behind the field, and the city of chicago provides white plastic chair seating for this ampitheatre. as a direct result, many movie goers were dragging these ampitheatre chairs (joined in groups of three) closer to the movie viewing area. security didn't like this idea, and went around to all the white chair sitters asking them to move the chairs back to where they found them. . . they "weren't allowed to be moved." of course, a woman sitting behind karen and i would not comply.

and here, the recreation of my re-telling the situation to josh:

kel: chair sitter: "fine. but you're going to have to help me move them"
security guy: "well ma'am, you seem to have managed to move it over here by yourself"
chair sitter: "fine. i'll move them. . . when the movie is over"
security guy: "no, ma'am, i'm sorry, you're going to have to move now. people behind you can't see."
chair sitter: well, i'm just trying to have a nice relaxing evening and watch the movie"

josh: I don't get people like that

kel: security guy: "well, you can relax on the chairs back where you got them from"
chair sitter: "but i can't move them. . . they're too heavy. you'll have to help me"

kel (again, but this time only as kel): this exchange repetitiously went on for seriously 10-12 minutes . . . karen was like. . . "is she on something?"

josh: see, that'd be a funny blog
kel: i know . . . i'm writing it now
josh: ...lol

eventually, the woman left. leaving the chairs in the middle of the grass, unattended. interestingly enough, the security guy didn't come back to move the chairs either. . . i'm assuming it would have required too much effort for him to get out of his golf-cart like mobile.

some people. . .

*sigh*

xo,

kellieannie

No John Kerry = No Flip Flops

2005-07-18T16:48:00.000-05:00

to: the northwestern women's lacrosse team
re: white house flip-flop incident
from: a concerned, well-educated, fashionable, chicago-area woman.

ladies,

i don't even know where to begin. but really, honestly, the question must be reiterated. . . why did you wear flip-flops and sandals to the white house?! why?! seriously, how could you?

keeping in mind that you attend one of the most reputable universities in the nation (near a fairly fashionable city!) makes this even more confusing to me. you are obviously intelligent women--how could this have happened? you look like you were about ready to attend a garden party or a barbeque. would you go to a job interview on michigan avenue wearing flip-flops and no pantyhose? no. no you certainly wouldn't. and if you did, you certainly would not be hearing back from the company in question. despite my disdain for conventional formalities, i still believe certain decorum and dress are required for specific occasions. i imagine a visit to the white house ought to be a few steps up from job interviews on the formality scale, but apparently someone forgot to drop this memo into your locker room. i would even have been reluctant to get so liberal as to wear a closed toe, sling-back pump.

i can recommend two books for further reading on the topic. please consult them next time. . . before you step out of your home wearing what you deem to be "acceptable" attire:

What Not to Wear by Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine
What Not to Wear For Every Occasion by Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine

while some reporters have been attempting to cut you some slack by claiming that the flip-flop is becomming more acceptable in certain situations. . . i believe they are just bullshitting you. or, being paid off by northwestern trustees and contributors in order to hide this media disaster.

i must say, there have been nights that i have looked classier in my bar attire.

xo,

kellieannie

latest outrage from the vatican: harry potter is subversive

2005-07-15T08:43:00.000-05:00

even though i'm quite catholic, some things must be disagreed with.

we live in a day and age where children would much rather sit in front of the tv screen, watching tivo'd programs; the computer screen, chatting away for hours with their "buddies"; or the tv screen (again), playing mindless video games, than they would play outdoors like we did when we were kids (note the influx of obesity as you sit at starbucks sipping your latte). also note that when we were kids, mcdonalds was a special treat, not every night's dinner. granted, i'm not ancient, or even old by any stretch of the imagination. but the observation must still be made. even further out of this generation's reach is the desire to take on more antidiluvian pastimes: reading, collecting baseball cards, playing dress up (or g.i. joes), coloring, etc. catching a child reading an actual book, setting foot into a bookstore, or (help us) a library, have become almost obsolete occurences.

the even bigger problem lies not in the physical inactivity of today's kids, but inactivity of a less obvious arena: the brain. suffice it to say, imagination is dead. and, if it has not quite kicked the bucket yet, then it certainly is about to. though the insurgence of popular electronics, i'm sure, won't slow the obliteration of any comeback it may be planning an attempt to make. i wonder how long it will be before we can listen to books on our iPods (note that i will always prefer the bound variety. . . and do not yet [or intend to] own any macintosh associated device).

the church, while once claiming the harry potter books were marginally appropriate to help children distinguish between good and evil, now practically strikes them down as the anti-christ. please, Pope Benedict, kids today already know about the difference between good and evil. certainly if they are old enough to pick up an 800 page book, then they are old enough to have understood what happened in america in 2001 on september 11th. they are also old enough to understand that family friends and possibly older siblings are leaving to fight in a war across the world, and why. they are also probably old enough to understand, if their parents clue them in to world affairs at all (which, now that i think about it, considering the level of involvement parents have in their childrens' lives these days, this possibility is slim), that the people of London are pissed off because they, too, were attacked by, in the words of our president, faceless cowards. they have already had too harsh of a realization about what is good and what is evil in the world.

these "kids" are too old already; their minds and bodies will be defunct before they reach the age of 25. too often, we tell them how things are, leaving them no time to consider or ponder how things ought to be, or could be.

obviously, Pope Benedict is overlooking the fact that these books are getting children to read. while illiteracy rates continue to climb, while children continue to be "diagnosed" with behavioral disorders they don't have, while test scores continue to suck in the nation's largest cities, while thousands upon thousands of volunteers are looked to for help in boosting the literacy rates, isn't it slightly refreshing to know that, at midnight tonight, kids all over the country will be in line at their local borders or barnes and noble for a copy of a book? If kids are waiting for a book to be released at midnight on a non-school night, i think it's pretty obvious where they stand on the whole good vs. evil continuum. and, while these "subversive harry potter books" aren't restoring any kind of physical activity, they are restoring their imaginations, and giving them perhaps a glimmer of hope that, even though the "real" world seems to be chasing down evil to no avail, good can triumph in the end. at least it's a step in the right direction, and i can't see anything wrong with that.

xo,

kellieannie

oh amazon, you're such a tease . . .

2005-07-12T15:22:00.000-05:00

dear amazon.com,

i've widely regarded you as my pre-in-store shopping go-to for many years, and now you slap me in the face with disappointment.

i cannot believe you placed My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands on your Breakout Books for the Summer of 2005 list.

shame on you.

make no mistake, i have no moral qualms regarding the topic of the "novel," or, shall we call it a "collection"? i have certainly been known to knock down marginally trashy chic lit novels until i'm blue in the face. this english major needs a break from salinger and fitzgerald from time to time, too. (and, i'm sure, some might argue that those authors have their trashy moments as well. hell, salinger is "verboten" in many school districts (but we'll get to censorship and book banning another day)).

while Ms. Handler was able to evoke a few chuckles from my general direction, these aforementioned chuckles were typically directed at her lack of style and command of the english language. please, Bloomsbury Publishers, what were you thinking? i could write a more creative sentence at the age of 15. okay, maybe 16. yes, these trysts are funny. but can you imagine how many more books you would have sold if these funny stories were told well?

my point is now, and always has been, this: quality. it doesn't matter how good your story is, or how interesting the idea is if you can't tell it well. i, like most readers, found the notion of a collection of one-night stands to be entertaining. in this day and age, who wouldn't? but Ms. Handler fails miserably in her re-telling of these sexual encounters; a poor attempt at super-imposing the brilliance of Candace Bushnell on her own life.

i beg all of you to take into consideration the difference between "entertaining" and "good writing." for example, i will call on The DaVinci Code since most of the western world has read it, as long as they haven't been hiding in a literary dark cave for the past two years. the story, yes, is incredibly entertaining. reading level: probably about 5th grade. writing: poor. Handler falls into the same bunch. no, i'm not asking for Joyce or Shakespeare quality, but come on people. . . where are your standards?

of even greater disappointment is Jennifer Weiner's comment on the book's cover. come on Jennifer, you're a decent author, why are you endorsing this crap? no surprise that Jay Leno likes it, though.

and the ending? oh the ending. almost as bad as ending a story with:
". . . and i woke up and it was all a dream." i think that's how i ended a project i was working on in 6th grade.

Ms. Handler, i can only hope you are a better stand-up comedian than a writer. either way, i won't be rushing to read your second book (if Bloomsbury decides to disgrace the literary scene with another), nor will i patronize a show with your name on the marquee.

*sigh*

nick hornby, i'm on to you next. but, at least i'm going into it with the knowledge that the man can craft a thoughtful sentence.

as for you, amazon.com. . . i just. . . i'm so disappointed.

xo,

kellieannie

petunias, and fireworks, and tire blowouts. . . oh my!

2005-07-06T22:56:00.000-05:00

this weekend, i was invited to dixon, il for fourth of july festivities and the petunia festival.

incidentally, i was also meeting bill's parents and one of his sisters for the first time.

because i was invited to the cubs game earlier in the day, i got a late start on the road to dixon. bill was expecting me around 10, and told me to call when i got off at the dixon exit.

around 10:15, i was about 3 miles outside of dixon (because i am always generally at least 15 minutes late for everything), and i started to hear an odd driver side thudding. naturally, my first inclination was that my music was too loud and i was rocking out too hard. but the thudding persisted. i turned the music lower, and rolled down the window. the thudding got louder, and driving started to become not so easy.

luckily, whilst driving west down i-88 circa 10 pm, there is minimal traffic, and i easily managed to pull over to the side of the road. once i finally pulled the car to a stop, small billows of smoke came from what was left of my front driver side tire.

oops.

first i called bill: "uhh. . . well, i've got a flat tire. i'm at mile 60. i don't know if there's a spare back there. . . it might be awhile."

then i called my parents:
"mom. . . my tire blew out on my way to dixon. i don't know if there's a spare one in back."
mom is, at first, worried about my well being, but secondly she is laughing at me because she can't believe i'm convinced her one year old toyota camry is without a spare tire.
"kellie," she says, "of course there's a spare tire in the back. all new cars come with spare tires. you know how banana shirts all come with extra buttons and thread? all cars come with spare tires."
"oh. . . "

meanwhile, bill and his dad are en route to my rescue somewhere around mile 60 on i-88, and i'm completely mortified at the fact that the first time i have to meet bill's dad is on the side of the highway, even though there's nothing i could have done to keep my tire from exploding.

for the rest of the weekend i am introduced as bill's girlfriend, and everyone consistently responds with, "oh, the girl who's tire blew out on the way into town" (or variations thereof).

for some reason i had my first trip to dixon pictured differently in my head. . .

xo,

kellieannie

p.s. i'm now back home safe in suburbia, without any subsequent tire blowouts.

emily post would shake her finger at you for this!

2005-06-27T19:16:00.000-05:00

today, at work, i noticed something:

people consistently ask me if they can purchase an item at a reduced rate because there's "something wrong with it." for example: the fabric is delicate so it has snagged at the hands (literally) of previous try-oners (aka careless customers). and, sometimes our hangers leave small black lines on the clothes, which come out very simply with one quick trip to the dry cleaners (though no one seems to believe me when i tell them this). of course i must add my personal favorite: deodorant up and down the front of the shirt. i could go on. . . and on.

i understand there's a certain allure to buying something new in its purest form. and the desire to get it cheaper when it's not. but really, what's 10 percent off a shirt that's 80 dollars and has a snag on the front? i wouldn't even wear that if it was half off. aren't you better off just bringing the "defect" to our attention and picking something else?

and it gets worse. the people who most often complain about "manufacturing defects" or other product impurities are the ones who, when they drop an article of clothing on the floor. . . they leave it there. perhaps we should start charging you 10 percent extra for every shirt you toss to the side to cover losses incured by your disrespect and sloppiness.

please, someone, explain this to me.

the rest of you: stay tuned for more shopping don'ts. . .

xo,

kellieannie

ambivalence a la Citizen Girl

2005-06-23T03:06:00.000-05:00

i cannot make a decision. . . about anything.

i haven't blogged for two weeks because i can't decide what i want to say. i have about 6 posts halfway finished in my edit bin. and it's quite possible this one will end up there too.
i haven't sent any resumes anywhere because i can't decide what i want to do with my life. and do i really want to start working a "real" job if i'm going to go to grad school in the fall of '06?
i'm even having trouble deciding what i want to wear in the morning.

i haven't done anything constructive in about a month. even things that aren't constructive in the cosmic sense of the word, like reshelving boxed books or scrapbooking pictures from the last few (legitimate) weeks of my life as an irresponsible college student. putting away laundry even gives me pause to think that when the basket is empty i'll somehow all of a sudden be a full-fledged adult, and i'm not sure if i can handle that. because that would mean i'm moving forward, and that would also mean i'm standing up and saying, "yes, i'm ready real world. . .let's go."

they really weren't kidding when they told us to enjoy college while we could. now, i'm sitting here half hoping someone will grab me by the hand and point me down the road to my perfect career path/life.

if anyone else is feeling this way, i recommend Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus' book Citizen Girl. it may not make you feel any better, but i imagine you'll gain some solace in the knowledge that this phenomenon is widespread enough for two authors to write a 320 page satire.

xo,

kellieannie

"in a relationship, what are the deal breakers?" - carrie bradshaw

2005-06-06T01:16:00.000-05:00

last night, sunday funday, at maeve. . .

taking the northsiders v. southsiders disagreement to a whole new level:

(jumping in from a side conversation)
matt: . . . he broke up with her because she was a cubs fan.
me: hey, i totally understand that. i'd definitely break up with a guy if he was a sox fan. no questions asked.

karen: see, this goes into the category of things you can't talk about with people if you want to stay friends. you know, religion, politics. . .

me: . . . baseball. (pause) seriously though. even if i saw a really hot guy wearing a sox hat, i would lose interest. immediately.

lacey: i know you're serious. . . that's why it's funny.

xo,

kellieannie

Monday Fun-day is my Local Option. . .

2005-05-31T01:27:00.000-05:00

because it was memorial day weekend this week, sunday fun-day wasn't quite enough for us. instead, (or, additionally, if you prefer) karen, matt and i 'opted' for an additional "fun-day." because we can.

here, for your reading pleasure, some of my favorite comments heard and said at monday fun-day at The Local Option.

(sidenote: matt was in rare form. . . and will probably get me back for actually making good on my promise to put these statements on my blog via the commentary section. stay tuned).

karen: "hey! look at those burnt out hippies!"
me: "oh, i still would really like to have a pet hippy. . . for my very own."

"hey, remember your dirty text messages? my fav. was, 'i made an appointment at a sushi restaurant. want to be my date? do me?'" - matt (to karen).

"negative. i've been stirring like a camel." - matt (regarding his bladder capacity)

"hey, don't you think PG-13 should be PG-10 now? kids are growing up so much faster these days." - matt

"i can't believe i just took a shot of jager on a monday. " - me . . . but, why not?

"i thought you said 'blow my nuts to new jersey.'" oh, the things that get lost in translation. . .

also, a shout out to dave. . . he really might be the best bartender ever.
or, as karen would say, "aww. i really like him."

who knows what the next "fun-day" will bring. . .

xoxox,

kellieannie

She's just not that in to you. . .

2005-05-30T11:47:00.000-05:00

12:11 am. Sunday Fun-Day/Monday (morning?) Bacchus.

during the fall of '04, we all witnessed the run-away success of Greg Bernhardt's self-help book He's Just Not That Into You. for those of you who aren't avid Sex and the City watchers, the book was preconceived when Greg was a guest writer for one of the Berger episodes when Berger so adeptly gives Miranda the advice, whilst the girls are pining over her first date with some guy, that this guy is just not into her, and she should move on: "if a guy's into ya, he's coming upstairs, he's booking the next date. there are no mixed messages."

in his book, Greg suggests a few simple rules to live by, words of wisdom. . . guidelines, if you will.

for example, he's just not that into you if. . .

he's not contacting you.
he's not asking you out.
you've been dating him for years and he insists he just doesn't want to get married to anyone.
he's married. (okay, well this is obvious, but some women still can't quite wrap their minds around the idea).

you get the idea. common sense.

so, instead, we decided to shift gears and play the game ourselves, while decoding body language to try and figure out which one of two girls a guy in a bar was going to hook up with, dependent solely upon which one was the most into him.

the girl who wasn't into him: was in the middle of a three person conversation. literally. she was scrunching, folding herself in half almost (seemingly trying to escape into the couch cushion) instead of showing any sort of interest.

the girl who was into him: after he went to the bathroom, he went to the bar. she joined him, put her arm around him (and possibly other flirtatious behavior i care not to remember).

i guess it works both ways.
no mixed messages from either camp. . .

sorry, carrie.

xoxox,

kellieannie

I'll bet you two dollars your middle name is Elizabeth

2005-05-28T14:30:00.000-05:00

last night, karen joined bill and i for a few drinks at the Fieldhouse.

immediately after she walked in the door, three 30-something gentlemen sitting at the table opposite us made it their "game" for the rest of the night to guess (and bet -- 2 bucks per question) on various aspects of karen's life/abilities/lifestyle choices.

after awhile, we began making a list of their questions. among my favorites:

- the color of karen's underwear. . . to which she responded "well, you all lose, because i'm not wearing any"
- her ability or inability to do a cartwheel. . . which she later proved (twice) by flawlessly performing a cartwheel in the middle of the bar (sober).

between questions, she turned back to our table, and said, "it's like getting to know you with odds. . . "

xoxox,

kellieannie

Manufacturing an American Girl's History

2005-05-25T16:40:00.000-05:00

yesterday, while cleaning out my closet (feel free not to cue the eminem tune), i stumbled upon some artifacts from my childhood:

i retrieved all of the American Girl Doll clothes i had insisted on having as gifts for about 4 Christmases, Birthdays, and Easters.

the funny thing about American Girl Dolls, is, i think, that they aren't too incredibly special anymore. everyone has one (some special girls even have two). there are so many different varieties, and you can custom design one with whichever hair color and eye color you choose. i know the point is that we are all, of course, American Girls (and therefore can create a doll-like clone). . . but i thought the original point of the dolls was to give young women a little better of an idea what girlhood was like "in other times." a way for us to delve into American history and heritage, if you will. i also thought the point was to con little girls into reading if they didn't enjoy it very much. unless, of course, every non-original American Doll (and by original i mean: Kirsten, Molly, and Samantha) maker is given blank books to fill -- then, i suppose, this creative writing major would be amenable to this create your own doll phenomenon (because, if i was still seven, you better believe i would have sat down and filled every single page). perhaps i was then, or am now, missing the point. . . or perhaps it's just another shameless marketing scheme by corporate america. or, perhaps, i have always been into gender studies and literature. who knows. though i do still refuse to go into the American Girl store right off Michigan Ave. . . . it's vibe is now eerily similar to build-a-bear(multiplicitiously manufactured).

also, notably, a grass skirt (from all those Benet Academy sock hops and KKG bar bashes). . .

[well, there had to be something sans emotional attachment, eh?]

xoxox,

kellieannie

Would You Rather. . .

2005-05-24T20:55:00.000-05:00

backstory: karen is going to guatemala (soonish) and had to get various immunizations today in order to prepare for this venture.

while taking a fifteen minute break in the mall, i received a voice mail from karen after she had been "immunized:"

"hey kel, it's karen. so, i just left the place where i had to go to get all of those shots for guatemala. they gave me two options to make sure i don't get typhoid. i could either get a shot that lasts for two years. or i could take these pills for 8 days, and that lasts for 5 years. . . but i can't drink. i literally pulled out my calender to see what i had goin on this weekend to make sure not drinking for 8 days would fit into my schedule."

of course, since she is going into the peace corp soonish, the 5 year plan sounded like the most obvious option.

would you rather have typhoid or a few nights out?

karen's not sure; though she feels unopened bottles of bud light peering at her in disgust. . .

xoxox,

kellieannie

Anyone Want Seconds on that Polyester?

2005-05-22T00:24:00.000-05:00

Today at work. . .

I was minding my own business and board-folding a pile of shirts. My attention was torn from the pile, as someone asked me to go grab something from the back room.

Upon returning to the salesfloor, I walked past a (35 + year old) gentleman (with dreadlocks) on the men's side of the store.

He looked over at me strutting/traipsing/etc to my predetermined destination, and said,
"wow, you just look delicious in that skirt."

"excuse me?" i reply (half not having heard him, half hoping that i've heard him wrong).

"i said, 'you look delicious in that skirt'"

"thanks. . . ?" (thinking: WHAT?! can I ask him to leave?)

beautiful, hot, sexy. sure. these are all acceptable adjectives. but delicious? come on! I wonder if "no means no" applies to our customers as well. . .

of course, i told my manager about this indiscretion as i was about to leave for a fifteen minute break (whereupon i sashayed across the mall to the pretzel stand). . .

to add insult to injury, when i returned, he (almost unable to hold back the laughter), said "wow, kel, that pretzel looks delicious."

bright red, i faux-sulked my way to the back room to enjoy my "delicious" pretzel.

*sigh* i'm wearing pants tomorrow.

xo,

kellieannie

Patent Pending

2005-05-20T17:26:00.000-05:00

preface: karen and i regularly have brilliant ideas.

setting: you're in a (crowded) bar. there's (loud) music. all of a sudden, you get the urge to hold your beer bottle up to the mouth of the friend standing next to you, because everyone else in the bar is singing to this song, and a beer bottle, quite honestly, doubles nicely as a microphone.

question: what song is playing?

because we are both very observant, and as a result of our extensive bar time, karen and i have compiled a list of these "beer bottle microphone bar favorites."

karen carries around our list on two business cards in her wallet. last night, at Maeve, i decided i would borrow them. enjoy.

I Will Survive
Livin' on a Prayer
Piano Man
Jack and Diane
Cecilia
Sweet Home Alabama
American Pie
Pour Some Sugar on Me
Shout
Summer of '69
Paradise City
Sweet Child of Mine
Free Fallin'
Mary Janes Last Dance
Jessie's Girl
Brown Eyed Girl
Come Together
Margaritaville
Take Me Home Tonight
Don't Stop Believing
99 Luft Balloons
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Tainted Love
Like a Prayer
Wayward Son
Glory Days
Come on Eileen
You Shook Me All Night Long
The Joker
Jenny (The 867-5309 song)
Shake Baby Shake
With or Without You
something by Michael Jackson, though we haven't decided what yet.

Feel free to send me suggestions/additions. . .

. . . also feel free not to steal our brilliant idea. we'll have an intellectual property lawyer on you faster than you would believe :)

xo,
kellieannie

Retail Therapy

2005-05-19T18:07:00.000-05:00

sidenote: i work at Banana Republic.

today at work, i had a pair of customers come in, a man and a woman, looking for an outfit for her to wear to attend a "first communion."

the man was waiting outside the fitting room area as she was trying on a variety of different outfit pairings. . .

. . . eventually, his 25 minute wait brought him to the end of his patience

"i just don't understand women and their shopping habits," he said. "whenever i need to go buy new clothes, i buy the same size pants, the same size shirts, and the same size shoes. there's no need to waste time trying things on and dancing around in front of a three way mirror to see if it fits and how it looks."

while i didn't respond outwardly, my internal response was: yeah, but the problem with not trying things on before you buy them is this: we live in america, and the majority of our clothes are mass-manufactured, which means that very rarely will pieces of clothing (even the same item in the same size) fit how we expect them to. and, different skirts, whether they be a-line or pencil, will fit differently, especially if you're hippy (and i don't mean the smoking weed variety). also, sizes aren't calibrated from store to store. while you may wear a 6 at Banana, at the Gap it might be an 8, etc.

this is why we try things on, and you should too.

something to hang your hat on, boys, the next time you take a girl shopping. . .

xo,

kellieannie

A Different Star Wars Trilogy

2005-05-18T18:54:00.000-05:00

well friends, this is it. the last star wars movie ever.
this "end of an era," of course, (like most things) gives me some variety of nostalgic pause in trilogy fashion:

Part the First:

when i was a sophomore in high school, i dated a guy who, for our purposes, is the star wars equivalent of a "trekkie." At 16, i had never seen any of the movies, and did not express much regret over this apparent "void" in my life.

before he would agree to term me his girlfriend, however, he sat me down, and forced me to watch the "old" star wars movies. i have to admit i did enjoy them. . .

. . . then i subsequently attended opening day (the first show we could get in to after school got out) of The phantom Menace. . .

three years later, my star wars trekkie and i were no longer together, though still good friends. And, because we were in college and feeling like time was no object, we attended the midnight showing of Attack of the Clones. . .

I am marginally disappointed I won't be there at midnight tonight for the Revenge of the Sith. . . though we are going ring shopping for my star wars trekkie's future fiance on tuesday. :)

i guess we all do take little pieces of each other everywhere.

Part the Second:

A couple weeks ago, while I was completing the final weeks of my undergraduate life at Butler University in Indianapolis, a Star Wars convention took place. . . in, ironically, the convention center. . . . which is very very near the Circle Center Mall . . . . which happened to be my place of (part-time) employment.

Since indianapolis is not large, when a crowd of 30,000 is expected, the city pretty much shuts down, and parking becomes unavailably impossible.

Not only was I late for work on both Saturday and Sunday as a result of this "convention," but i was also nearly run-over by faux storm troopers and darth vaders traipsing about the mall. (and, if i may, i will also send a shout out to the radical group of three dressed in ghostbusters uniforms. . . u know who you are).

i'm still not sure how i feel about the ability of people to dress in costume, whilst carrying costume guns through a mall crowded with people . . . and receive no questioning. This is still the Sept. 11th aftermath, is it not?

Part the Third:

Joe (regarding the midnight opening of Revenge of the Sith): there have been people waiting in line for a month, maybe more. imagine what you could accomplish in that time.
me: sad, but true
Joe: i suppose a 24 hours gal can appreciate the value of time
me: very true, very true. . .
Joe: i guess i could if i watched less tv

what are you wasting your time on? and, more importantly, is it worth it?

xo,

kellieannie