As you may recall from an earlier post (I Haiku. Do you?), I work with a bunch of degenerate creatives.

That said, they are the reason I drive in my little box on wheels to this building (a box) to sit in my office (yet another box) 40 hours a week. (Digression: I didn't come up with that little philosophical gem on my own. I got it from "The Box" -- the most horrible movie that ever was made, which was, somehow, chock full o' great one-liners.)

The most recent anti-minutiae activity we devised was a list of pet peeves. This list of 23 egregious transgressions took a full year to compile. This is mainly because it was posted off the main drag, at the top of the writers' hall, attached to my office door, right next to my giant "K" and irreverent cartoons about office life.

Considering a few of these peeves involved writers bashing artists and artists bashing writers, you'd think this is a hostile environment. Au contraire mon frere. This is where genius is born -- and genius drives out anger, envy, laziness and all manners of evil. (Except for greed. Our greed is firmly intact.) So, with no further ado, I give you the list of personal annoyances as catalogued by the Publications Department.

THE LIST
1) People who text while driving
2) People who put on cologne without showering
3) People who don't wave after you let them merge
4) People who say "Valentimes" instead of "Valentine's"
5) Hallmark holidays
6) People who state/ask the obvious
7) People who say "old timers" instead of "Alzheimer's." [Writer's note: Not really a funny pet peeve, but it irks me just the same.]
8) People who say "liberry" instead of "library"
9) People who are bitter about Valentine's Day
10) Grammar Nazis who obsess over pronunciation and spelling
11) People who make up Pet Peeves list [written next to this one: "listS"]
12) People who correct the Pet Peeve above them
13) Designers who think they're writers
14) Why do some people axe a question instead of ask?
15) No excuse for not knowing the phone system after 6 months [written next to this one: How about 12 years?]
16) People who can't read the instructions and get out the front door
17) When you hit "print" but it doesn't automatically print and you walk to the printer but have to go back and hit the "print" button again
18) People who say "cool beans." What does that mean?!
19) People who mention the race of the people in stories when it's irrelevant
20) People who say itch when they mean scratch
21) People who correct people all of the time [This was directed toward me and signed "From Everyone"]
22) People who cannot lay papers flat within an "In" tray
23) When people call the publications department "pubs"

Now, there were a few from our admin in there, too. It shouldn't be too hard to pick those out. She's all about everything being in its place, which is kinda the reason this place runs like a well-oiled ... well ... runner.

Before you go, I've got a favor to ask: Click on the "Comments" thought bubble at the top right and tell me what truly ticks you off. I've just gotta know!

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"Darla, that looks finger licking good! I'm starting to get 'hongry' again!" Aw, hell. Just skip to 3:53. It's the comedy gold we're all waiting to guffaw/shake our lowered heads in shame over.



I have three things to say about Mr. T hawking Flavor Waves:

1) Clearly I'm late. This hilarious hilarity has been on the air for at least a year, and somehow I've missed out on poot-inducing laughter for this long.

2) I am not mad at Mr. T for parlaying his mid-80s fame into a lucrative infomercial/video game/candy bar* peddling career. Kudos!

3) If you watched a little further than the section about his pity, you saw the host, "Darla", carefully placing some Flavor Wave bling around Mr. T's neck in some sort of cable access TV knighting.

Now, before I end here, I must show you the Snicker's commercial* you probably never saw. I'm not sure how it was offensive to the gay community but, apparently, it was.



That's right. He said "jibber jabber." You may call your friends now.

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Shakespeare was a bad-ass dude. You and I both know it. He helped shape the way theater is performed -- and perceived. He inspired poets and playwrights worldwide. He is haunting high-schoolers and their summer reading lists at this very moment.

But, did you know that (and I take full responsibility for the mind blowing that is about to occur) Shakespeare is in the business of possession?! OK, well, maybe I'm exaggerating just a skosh, but he has affected much of what you say on a daily basis, and you had no freakin' idea! (So, maybe the "possession" thing isn't so far fetched, after all.) You're just his marionette, and old Bill is pulling your mouth strings to say his made-up little phrases.* Things like:

All that glitters is not gold

Bated breath

Dead as a doornail

Fancy-free

Fool’s paradise

For goodness’ sake

Good riddance

Heart of gold

In a pickle

Knock knock! Who’s there?

Laughing stock

Love is blind

Naked truth

Neither rhyme nor reason

One fell swoop

Star-crossed lovers

Pomp and circumstance

Pound of flesh

Primrose path

Too much of a good thing

Wear my heart upon my sleeve

What’s in a name?

Wild goose chase

The world’s my oyster

Boom! In your face! You thought your mom coined those little tidbits, didn't you? Well, she didn't. Big Willy did. So take that.

Much of the things your friend convinced you that he "came up with" were first said long, long ago by someone a lot smarter. But it's true that new words are added to the dictionary every year as we begin to communally accept new terms (like when "friend" became a verb). It's what helps our language evolve. It's what allows different generations to communicate with each other in inventive ways that are now -- through social media, the mass production of books, blogs and so much more -- indelible in the history of our world.

Now, before you go repeating infamous terms like "Internets" and "refudiate", remember that not all words that make it into pop culture are fit for public use. If you wanna be sure you're coming off clever (and not clueless), keep copying Shakespeare. He's tried and true. With that said, "all's well that ends well." Deuces.

*Thanks to Pioneer Woman for the great list! (http://thepioneerwoman.com/homeschooling/2010/06/twenty-interesting-things-about-shakespeare/)

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You’ve heard of people talking in their sleep, right? Walking? Thanks to Ambien, it’s been alleged that some people even drive in their sleep. Well, have I got a new one for you. My daughter, the beautiful love of my life that she is, has taken her sleepy-time craziness to a whole new level with – get this – sleep vomiting. That’s right. Early-morning earling. Pre-dawn puking. Unconscious upchucking.

The little princess woke up this morning completely grossed out by the puddle the “dog” had left smack dab in the middle of her desk. Mr. Do Right and I had the same confused response to her horrified cries: “How did Guapo [our 6.5 pound Chihuahua] get up to your desk?!” She answered, without missing a beat, “My chair is right there!”

Well, believe me, what was on that desk was more than the entire contents of poor Guapo’s body cavity at any given time. It was looking more and more like our little canine had nothing to do with this messy package. He was an innocent bystander who was oblivious to the plot being built around him.

Just when we were about to accept her explanation for the gastric grossness, we heard the dog bark … from his kennel … in the basement … where he’d been all night. When the princess realized it couldn’t have been the doggie, she gasped at her latest sleepwalking escapade. She cleaned up the mess, all the while shaking her head and retching. Repeatedly.

Now, not that this is relevant at all, but I’ve just gotta put it out there. It’s all Mr. Do Right’s fault. He passed the gene along, marking my children with this affliction. He’s the crazy sleep-talking/sleep-arguing/night terror-having/looking-for-elves-behind-our-headboard bestower of crazy. I simply manage the crazy that surrounds me.

So, dear followers of mine, pray for the future wives and husband of my children, that they may be blessed with patience of Hillary Clinton, the nurturing spirit of the Jolie-Pittses and the wisdom of Dr. Phil. They’ll need it all.

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I love words. God knows I do. But sometimes, they're just unnecessary.

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I am hereby officially and dramatically slamming my professional and personal worlds together. Before now, I'd limited access to my corner of the blogosphere to a select few friends who I knew wouldn't judge my offensive language, my love affair with the grape or my tendency toward the dramatic.

Now, thanks to author Hollis Gillespie (aka Bleachy Haired Honkey Bitch) via my tenacious, bite-sized friend Natalie, I realize that my success depends on sharing a piece of my "energy" with the world.

So, here goes. Welcome to the buttoned-up side of K.

http://www.streamingfaith.com/news/family/story/peace-and-love/

http://www.askprimerica.com/the-adventure-continues/

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I want Zachary Levi to have my babies.

PLEASE do not interrupt my fantasy with reminders about anatomy and probability. The sad fact is this: I have an unlikely fetish. I really "dig" nerdy white guys. Don't judge me.

Now, before I go any further, forget your black mail aspirations. Mr. Do Right is well aware that geek chic gets my motor running. He's OK with this -- probably because, he's tall (6'3"), dark (as in "black is beautiful") and handsome (bald-headed yummy-ness!). And because he could squish any curly-haired, tongue-tied geek who'd step out of our plasma TV and into our living room.

That said, the Zack Braffs, Paul Rudds and, yes, Zachary Levis of the world could clumsily spill soup on me any day!

BELOW: Levi as Chuck .... and Levi as himself. See? SEE?!

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I am absolutely and undeservingly blessed with friends who keep me off the edge. I don't mean every now and again. I mean that way too often I find my friends protecting me ... from myself.

Today is a prime example.

I had an awesome lunch with

some of my closest gal

pals --

something we haven't done in many, many moons.

During the lunch, we shared awesome fake Mexican food and some primo mid-day Margaritas. (Mine was something called the Texan. It's said to loosen your lips without making you need to call a cab.) I mean, all was right with the world. Then I got the email.

It was one of those passive-aggressive deals. You know the ones that accuse you of something without displaying the balls to actually call you by name. What's worse is that it was a group distribution. Yeah. One of those.

After I checked myself for needing to be checked in the first place, I thought of a few things to say to the sender of the email. It went something like, "Grow an effing pair. Call me out. Be authentic and let's work from there." Of course, my email was nothing like that. That's what I would have liked to say, but my substantial social graces (and a small angel on my shoulder that bore a striking resemblance to my husband) edited my email to read something more like, "Next time, just call me out personally." Neither email saw the light of day. Wanna know why? Because, as I've said in the header of this blog, my friends rock. More descriptively, they kick ass.

I called one of those kick-ass friends to vent -- as I was typing the email. I asked, "Am I wrong for sending this?"- fully expecting her to answer, "Hell, no! Check that trick!" Instead, she asked, "Did you already send it?" "No," I answered. Her reply? "Don't push send." While my aggravated ego wanted nothing more than to reply to all and then push send (over and over again), I heeded the warning of a wise, "tenured" friend (See how I avoided the word "old?" I'm a genius like that.) and canceled the email.

I thank God that I have friends to remind me every now and again that I'm being impulsive or stupid or hypocritical or over-sensitive or neurotic or any of the many disturbing things I tend to be from time to time. In fact, everybody needs someone in his or her life who can look said "one" in the eyes when necessary and say, "Hey, stupid. Don't push send." I'm glad I have friends like that. Now, the real question is why they're having to say it to me so often. Hmm. Self-reflection makes my head hurt.

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Jesus. That's why there is a Christ Mass. Duh!

If you don't realize (or accept) that this is, at the core, why we celebrate this holiday (heck, why it's even CALLED Christmas) you're a moron. Period.

That said, the manner in which we celebrate this holy day typically revolves around a gluttonous, sinful, overindulgence in yummy goodness.

Yes, there are gifts. Of course, there are carols, but when it's all said and done, it's the food that brings us over. It's the food that makes us stay. It's the food that knocks us down (Although, the wine sometimes helps.), and it's the food that makes us get up at 2:30 a.m. and rape the refrigerator. (Yes, I really did write that.)

So, this entry is my thank you letter to fried chicken. It's an ode to

potato salad. I'm paying homage to mashed potatoes and putting Hummingbird Cake on it's well-deserved pedestal. All hail.

Dear Butter, Chocolate, Gravy and Fried Potatoes:

You've done so much for me this year. You calmed my nerves when I was unsure what decision to make. You tempered my temper and kept me from stabbing Mr. Do-Right when he'd done wrong. You quieted my children when I needed a moment of silence. You fed colds (and some fevers, despite the adage). You were, sadly, closer to me than most. I thank you for your being here for me. Always.

But, in this approaching new year, I think we may need to see other people. I'm thinking of spending some time with my running shoes. I may even have a weekend getaway with the Wii Fit. It's not that I don't love you anymore. It's just that ... well ... some relationships are for a reason. Some are for a season. Some are for a lifetime. I think we are seasonal.

I know we'll see each other again. I'll save room for you. Don't say goodbye. Just say, "Until we meet again." Au revoir, mon cheri.

(Chocolate, call me in February. Maybe we can hang out for a bite - I meant "bit.")

K.

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OK, so the blog changed. It looks different; and, in the words of our great American hero Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

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My mom was the neighborhood mom. Like in an 80s TV sitcom, our friends would often call her by some variation of her name (Mrs. V, Mama E., Moms, etc.). She was known to bake a mean pound cake (still does!) and could prepare a chicken that was better than Popeyes, Bojangles and KFC all deep fried into one. She was THAT mother.

Now, as welcoming as my mother has always been, she would never welcome you into her past. She's always claimed she doesn't remember much about her childhood or that children didn't know much because they were required to be seen (briefly) and then dismissed. So, having a mom with Fort Knox-like locks on her memory banks, I always grasp onto her every shared memory like an old lady on a steering wheel - unrelentingly.

You can imagine my surprise when my mom caught a case of word vomit today and revealed a devilish little memory from her childhood. In a conversation about my little problem (let's just say it starts with "con" and ends with "stipation"), my mother told me about the unconventional reply she and her childhood friends would give when asked if they wanted cheese. She recalled, "Anytime someone would offer it to us, we would giggle and say:

Me no eat cheese.

Cheese choke 'em ass.

Me no shit for many, many moons."

Now, I'm still not quite sure why adults were walking around offering cheese to impressionable young girls, but it was the 50s, and I'm guessing it had something to do with the advent of fondue.

The great part about this little tidbit, though, is not its blatant vulgarity or even the equally vulgar conversation that led to it. What's so awesome about this memory is that my 69-year-old mother remembered it. That gives me hope.

All the little blank spots from my past, the moments I just can't seem to fill with some important event I know must've happened - because my siblings told me so - could come back to me. What's more, they might be filled with hilarious, racist Native American limericks or something equally as "cheesy." Thanks, Mommy.

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I thought it would be a friggin' riot to get my work buddies - a degenerate bunch of creatives - to write haiku. I informed them all ahead of time that these would be published in this august medium. They sent them to me anyway.

Gary, Designer, with his cat's fave haiku:
You must scratch me there!
Yes, above my tail! Behold,
"Elevator butt."

Natalie, Writer, with an ode to her neice:
Sweet Addie looks up.
She sees me and yells: "Nat-Nat!"
My heart melts. Again.

... and again with several odes to the best shows on TV:
You are my person.
'Cause we are dark and twisty.
You really get me.

O Slushy shower
You cannot drown out my song
Groove is in the heart.

Oh baby Stewie
Why do you hate your mother?
And how old are you?

Roger, Writer, with a love story:
Gail liked to kiss John
But he liked it better when
She had her teeth in

... and again, with a political entry:
Stealthily I sneak
Into your room as you sleep
I'm Dick Cheney - suck

Renee, Administrative Assistant, with the truth:
Back against the wall?
Had all you can take this week?
Call K.; have a drink!

Don, Designer and cycling enthusiast, with "A Mountain Bike Haiku":
Over roots I spin
wheels roll forward up the hill
burrito after

Then there was Alan's. He's also a designer. It was funny. He wouldn't let me publish it. Boo. Hiss.

And, finally, there's mine. I call it "Thinking of Others:"
My slacks are too tight.
I need to go shopping soon.
Don't look! Camel toe.

UPDATE: Alan relented. His haiku is below. It's called "Love: A Haiku"
Colin, Faith, now Grace
What were we thinking that night?
Call the doctor, quick!

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My dog had an interview today. Seriously. No bull.

We were required to arrive at 7:45 a.m. (A little early for my tastes, but ... whatever.) We pulled into the lot of Camp Bow Wow at 7:40, and were surprised to see that the place was already bustling. From the tight ship they were running, it seemed they had been going for hours - long before Guapo had licked my daughter's face and well before I'd slid him into the middle seat of my crossover vehicle like some kind of hairy little toddler.

The facility's exterior was unassuming, but it belied the glorious doggie heaven that is the inside of Camp Bow Wow. We waited among the Shepherds and Daschunds, Boxers and Terriers -- but they were already where we wanted to be: "in."

You see, Guapo was seeking admission into one of the most exclusive of area doggie day camps and boarding facilities. It's sort of like the Brown University of boarders -- you know, not quite Harvard, but still expensive enough to allow us to look down on lesser dogs. Getting into said program is not as simple as you may think. It required much more than just calling, weighing and proving vaccinations. It all started with a three-page application.

The subsequent process involved several phases:

1. Meet the Directors - We were greeted by management who proceeded to feel Guapo up like he was hiding a balloon full of crack somewhere in his digestive tract.

2. Alpha Male - Guapo was put in a room alone. The directors introduced a male of similar size to him to see how he'd react. He didn't.

3. Freaky Deekie - The male was escorted back to his pen, and the directors brought a female of Guapo's size (actually, twice his size) into his bed chambers. Again, nothing. (Though, I think in this case he was simply playing hard-to-get.)

4. Menage a Trois - The trio was then taken to the play area where they proceeded to frolic in the sunrise. Actually, the other two frolicked. Guapo ran in retarded little circles until he was overcome with dizziness and simply sat, exhausted, on the AstroTurf.

Finally, the directors came out with their report: Guapo gets to stay for Phase 5 of this house party. I was politely asked to leave for a minimum of 3 hours as the staff monitored his play habits with up to 8 dogs at a time (gratis, of course).

I left my fourth child at Camp Bow Wow this morning. I was given nothing more than the Web address through which I could monitor his behavior on streaming video (and I have, much much more than I expected to).

Now, lunch time can't get here soon enough. Keep your fingers crossed. Guapo really needs this gig. We want him to have his own little "Cheers," you know? A place where everybody knows his name, and they're always glad he came.

UPDATE: Guapo was deemed worthy!

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It has recently come to my attention that I'm not very productive at my nine-to-five. This harsh fact was brought to my attention by a good friend - and co-worker - who has noticed my half-hearted attempts at looking busy. What she calls half-hearted, I prefer to call by a more accurate moniker: apathetic. In other words, I no longer give a damn.

You know where my mind is, right? You know that dimly lit, musty mental place in which you can't really think of a good reason to keep pretending to care about your J.O.B.? You know, when you show up late for work and no longer bother to call in and say, "Hey, a delivery truck ran into a city bus which ran into a mustang-toting trailer on my route, so I'm running a little late" OR "You know, I thought I had the mumps this morning, but I'm over it. See you after lunch!"

That's where I am. I mean, they're lucky to get a "My morning toilet time ran a little longer than I planned" or a "What? It's not like you really expected me to be on time."

I have resorted to using the following techniques to entertain myself as I wait for the imaginary bell to signal the time to activate voice mail and log out of this ankle bracelet they call a computer. (Like Big Brother really needs to know how I voted on the Lindsay Lohan vs. Gabrielle Union "Who Wore It Best" online smackdown!):

1. Reading a book from the pull-out supply drawer in my desk. (Once you've read the first [insert Sookie Stackhouse, Twilight, Dan Brown novel here] book, you can't stop until you've read 'em all!)
2. Booting up my laptop next to my work computer. (Why should I do freelance work on my own time? That's just working hard, not smart.)
3. Making my next to-do list during meetings. (I have a list of lists I need to make. Help me.)
4. Searching for things on Craigslist. (I'm going to need something at some time, and I will expect it to cost between a minimum and maximum dollar amount.)
5. Taking extended bathroom breaks. (I can SO get facebook on my phone in the John. Sweet!)

And, yes. There are more. But, I'm sure you're so busy judging me that you don't have time to read on.

I know the economy is slowly recovering, but I'm not oblivious to the fact that there are thousands of people right now praying the government extends their unemployment benefits so that they can continue enjoying creature comforts like, I don't know ... sustenance. I'm grateful for that direct deposit on the 15th and the last. It always signals Wine Buying Day, and that's my favorite holiday of all.

However, there has got to be more than this. And there is. I try to remind myself daily of something that Mr. Do-Right said to me after my first month at this job. I was wracked with self-pity after my "boss" excoriated me for writing like I "don't know what I'm talking about." (She told me a month later that my writing is "exquisite." Hmph!) He said, "Remember why you're there." So, at times like these, when I start sending out Evites to my annual pity party, I try to remember why I'm doing this. I want to be able to give my children the things that make them smile. I want to be able to have a girls night out or spend New Year's Eve in a cabin with some of my closest friends. I want to be able to fill my gas tank up, and not just stop at $10. I want to be able to open my refrigerator and have choices. I want to be able to give to people who need it, and throw a little away on something ridiculous like a Salad Spinner or a Snuggie.

And, of most import to my readers, I want to be able to spend a night with my favorite man, eating something sinfully cheesy and sharing a bottle of some bad-ass vino. Salud!

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If you know me (or if you can read ... or both), you know that I love wine. It says so right in my "About Me" blurb. As my first blog, I thought it would be good to share some basic information about myself, and the first thing that came to mind is the fact that I do, so very dearly, love wine.

But, as I painstakingly (HA!) crafted that very first blog paragraph, I came to a startling conclusion. I, friends, am what was known in the age of "Sanford and Son" as a "wino." That's right. I'm a good, old-fashioned wino. I like everything about wine and, if left to my own devices, I would have some every time I put food into my mouth. That's how I commit to things. I go hard.

Now, one would think I'd be ashamed to make such a confession. Ha! Fooled you. I'm so NOT ashamed. Know why? Over the past three years, I have discovered something incredible: most of my friends are also winos! It's the strangest thing.

See, in college, you do college things: drink cheap liquor, regurgitate said liquor, and do it again the next weekend for four years straight (or more, depending upon your school and major). When you get married, you become a social drinker, having Cosmopolitans and Fuzzy Navels, Gin and Tonics and Vodka Cranberries -- you know, cool drinks. But, when you have kids ... oh, Lord! Children turn you. They make you crave the tartness of a semi-dry chardonnay along the sides of your tongue. They make you buy gargantuan wine glasses. They make you spend more time in the wine aisle at Publix than you do in the produce section. They make you add wine-related items to your Christmas Wish List. They make you into a wino.

Now, because I have three children of my own - and most of my closest friends have at least two each - we are firmly set into the wino way. Whenever we look upon each other's faces, we expect wine to be involved. We know each other's favorites. For instance, Miki likes a Riesling and doesn't care if it's room temperature. Boom Boom will sip on whatever is clever and I like anything white ... as long as it's cold and in good supply.

So, is there hope for the middle-aged wino mom? I think so. We are part of a special club. (Don't worry. I consulted Mr. Do-Right before this post, and he's assured me that I'm not an alcoholic. Whew!) We don't drink and drive. We don't hide our drinking. We don't get drunk, and we don't have our kids popping bottles for us.

Most importantly, though, a glass of wine each night keeps me off the local TV news. And you moms out there know exactly what I'm talking about.

Cheers!

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