Material for my book is happening

Because I say so, listen to this while you read: 

Y’all, I moved to Texas two months ago and have felt exactly like this every day:

Say "everything's bigger in Texas" one more time.

Say “everything’s bigger in Texas” one more time.

Our closing was postponed by 5 days while our possessions were on a truck along with my suitcase, because I AM A GENIUS. During that time we had the Mother-in-Law staycation, while we were homeless because all of our possessions were on a truck and we couldn’t close on the new house yet because we hadn’t closed on the old house. During MILStaycation, I had exactly two McDonald’s apple pies, two TCBY mint chocolate chip shakes, a bunch of sunflower seeds, 42 cups of coffee (half were iced), and bites of ham and cheese. That was my diet for a week. Super health nut, I know.

And so, we moved to Texas. Three children, one husband, and one basset hound, The Honorable Former Judge Lucille Brown of the Great State of Mississippi. This is the house.



It kind of looks like a painting, but it’s real. I have real landscaping with real roses and oleander in the backyard. I have a courtyard that I can lock, so no one can actually come to my front door if I so desire. Suck it, trick or treaters.

Here are half of the light switches for my open concept living/kitchen. Yes, I’ve been watching way too much HGTV and I have open concept everything in my home. And granite and wood and tile floors. Just once I want the people on House Hunters to say “UGH! Granite countertops?! I want butcher block counters and wall-to-wall linoleum, textured wallpaper and all vertical blinds.”

I have no idea what turns on what.

I have no idea what turns on what.

Like I said, we have a dog. She’s a hound dog. We got this note stuck in the gate of our courtyard after being in our new neighborhood for one week.


First, I do not respect someone who writes in Arial and prints a note to a neighbor in landscape mode. Yes, let me adjust my seven-year-old hound dog’s morning routine for you. Is there anything else I can do? Do the tiny yippy dogs not bother you? Just my hound dog? And, she did not howl for 30 minutes; I am home every weekday until 7:40 and I would never let her howl for more than a couple of minutes. Also, I do tutoring for English/Grammar if you’d like to drop by. No, I don’t – I hate people, but seriously – it’s called proofreading.

Because we are such wonderful pet owners, we decided to adopt a kitten. Actually two kittens, but one died due to Fading Kitten Syndrome. I promise I am not making this up. This is the kind of shit that happens to me because of course it does. This is F. Catz Fitzgerald.

We have the same color hair.

We have the same color hair.

We adopted Fitz the day before Easter. Guess what? There was a note waiting on my car when we happily carried the kitten to come home with us. Texas hates my guts. Texas couldn’t hate my guts more if I punched the ghost of Ladybird Johnson. The Ghost of Ladybird Johnson is my new band’s name, by the way. Here is the note from the person who hates my parking.


Yes, they wished me a happy Easter and drew a picture of what may be a happy sun. You should know that I was parked far away from any other cars in the parking lot and there were no other cars around me when I returned to my car. I do not understand the Texas Notewriters, but I suppose I need to carry stationery in my car just in case. Hell, I’m putting one of my typewriters on the dashboard, baby. Y’all are going to get real notes – and I’ll sign them with my name, not anonymously as if I’m writing for the greater good of society. Bitches. Of course, I’m not going to do this because I’m in Texas and everyone has a handgun, shotgun, and grenades in their trucks and I’m afraid of them. I mean, THIS is an ambulance.



Really, this is around the corner from my subdivision. Everything in Texas is on steroids. It’s not that things are bigger, it’s that they’re on steroids and have major anger issues. As well as other issues. Even the art is angry. What do you expect when this is a painting in my new favorite restaurant?

10286931_10203803588345242_8307309927972585748_oTexas came in like a wrecking ball. No joke.

More later. Working on some random thoughts. There are many.

Edit: in my foolishness, I forgot to mention that the name of my town is HUMBLE. AND THAT IS IRONY, ALANIS.

the weirdest thing I’ve seen today

I thought that the woman I overheard at the nail salon saying she was getting her cat an iPad for Christmas would be the weirdest thing I came across today, BUT NO.  People of the interwebs, I give you a Norwegian video of mostly has been celebrities singing/lip synching "Let it Be."


Yes, that was Roger Moore, Huey Lewis, Jason Alexander, Ricki Lake, Josie Biesett, Alberto Tomba, George Wendt, Philip, Michael Thomas, Glenn Close, Pamela Anderson, Leslie Nielsen, Dolph Lundgren, Kelly McGillis, Tonya Harding, Steve Guttenberg, Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Dee Snider, Right Said Fred, freakin' Judd Nelson, Kathleen Turner, Sherilyn Fenn and the chick who played "Laura Palmer", Daryl Hannah, Lou Ferrigno, Ricky Schroder, and Fab from Milli Vanilli superimposed on a beach.  

I only have one question: where was Hasselhof?

never leaving the house again: part 2

This is Part 2.  Part 1 is below this post.  It's already been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for Blogging.  


My Saturday in the hometown started nicely with a great visit with Darla, her twins, and hubs.  Good times.  I had planned to meet my dad, grandmother, and his fiancé and called him after leaving Darla's.  He told me that my aunt, her boyfriend, and his fiancé's sons would be meeting us — because it was a good time for me to meet them.  Of course it was!  

I sat between my dad and my grandmother, showed pictures on my iPhone of the kids, asked about my other aunts — the usual.  It was going well.  The fiancé was late, as were her two sons.  I have a thing for punctuality, but I let it go because I was in one of my favorite restaurants and my grandmother was unintentionally cracking me up.  I should have known things would turn crazy.

When our food arrived, my dad held out his hands to me and my aunt and asked me to say a blessing.  Now, this would not surprise me if it were my grandfather, but this was my dad.  

The extent of my spiritual conversations with my dad goes something like this: once I was home from college for Thanksgiving or Christmas and was watching Oprah in my parent's living room, half-way paying attention to the show and reading a magazine.  Deepak Chopra was on talking about what he viewed the afterlife to be. At a commercial break, my father says, "you know, I do believe we go somewhere when we die."  THAT'S IT. THE END.  I grew up going to a protestant church with my grandparents, volunteered every year as a teen at VBS, was active in a college Christian organization — the whole nine yards.  My parents were not church-goers and besides the nightly blessing over dinner, God was not a big topic of conversation.  We never prayed in restaurants.  

And so, I said a blessing.  I'm accustomed to praying aloud — just not with this side of the family.  Not ten seconds after I said "amen," my aunt's boyfriend voiced his opinion that prayers should be silent as to each individual's personal preference.  I had offended him.  Great.  Later, my grandmother corners me in the restroom and tells me the fiancé is Jewish.  So, I guess it was a good thing I held back on my prayer and didn't mention the blood of Christ washing away our sins to pave the way for our eternal salvation.  You know, I wouldn't want to offend anyone else.  

After lunch I drove for a bit to process the day so far.  

That night I had a perfectly nice dinner and visit with a friend and afterward was going westbound on I-20 when what seemed like a nightmare began to unravel.  I hit something metal that was standing straight up in the left lane.  After I hit it, I looked in my rear-view mirror in time to see the car behind me hit whatever "it" was and start spinning.  I didn't know what to do, so I drove over the overpass that was before me and pulled over safely, put on my hazards and checked out the damage.  It didn't look that bad, I wasn't injured, but I was hysterical.  I called Triple A and they called the state troopers for me, told me to sit tight and wait, so I did. There were several emergency vehicles on the other side of the interstate by this time, crossing the median to get to the scene.  All I could see were their lights behind me glowing and there were no cars passing me at all. I tried calling the hubs, no answer.  I called my friend Will.  I cried.  I was okay.  I told myself to breathe.  I called the hubs again, this time he answered.  I told him I didn't know what I hit, but I wasn't the only car involved and moments later a deputy appeared at my door.

The deputy escorted me back to the wreck site and told me that it was a six car accident, but one car left the scene. I hit a trailer that had come unattached from an RV. It had been towing a golf cart. An 18-wheeler hit it first, then an SUV hit part of it, then I sideswiped the trailer. My car was the only one that was drivable.  It was terrifying and I was told that if I would have been in the right lane I'd be dead.  None of the vehicles involved had lights on.

I barely remember driving back to my hotel.  

Sunday morning I got up, cried, cried some more, and got ready to check out.  I went by my grandfather's house and told my mom what had happened, had coffee, and told her I'd call when I made it back home.  I had breakfast with Molly and her two boys, then left for my five-hour trip home.  I drove like a grandma.  

The damage to the car is not impressive.  I'm not sure about the damage to my emotional state.  I'm not eager to get behind the wheel again.  The hubs went to the grocery store today because I couldn't do it.  We were planning on making the trip up for Thanksgiving, but now I'm not so sure. I may be making the cornbread dressing and sweet potato pie myself (if someone gets me the ingredients).  

So, Universe, you win.  

I'm not leaving the house again.  It's okay, really.  It will give me time to organize my closet and maybe learn to knit or quilt or clean.  It's a good thing, right?  

never leaving the house again: part 1

I am never leaving my house again.  

I mean it.  I plan to become a hermit.  I see only a few drawbacks to my plan.  I'll need to learn to make sushi and if I don't leave the house my chances of meeting Andrew McCarthy will be virtually nonexistent.  

When I leave home things happen.  I know things happen to everyone, but as you know, I'm special.  Because I'm special, crazy ass things happen to me.  I would pull out the KBF Crazy Ass Archive and reminisce, but there are new stories to tell.  And so, here's most of the story — because I don't care anymore.

October 10th was supposed to be the date of my dad's wedding.  A couple of months ago the wedding was postponed because my aunt was diagnosed with ALS and the ex-husband of my father's fiancé died suddenly. It was understandable that they would choose to postpone the wedding with all the family drama, but I still planned on making the trip to the hometown to visit family and friends because it was a good weekend for me.  

The drive up was fine.  Lunch with Hillary in Baton Rouge — had a great coconut and lemongrass soup, laughed a lot, spilled some sauce on the boob shelf which is my chest — whatever.  It was good.  On the way, I noticed that all but one mile of all three interstates I travelled on were being mowed.  It was at this time I realized that when I switched purses, I hadn't put my inhaler in the bigger raspberry satchel.  Don't worry, I ended up not needing it anyway.  

When I got to the hometown, I went to my grandfather's house, said my hellos and went to dinner with my mom who told me she hates my Facebook profile picture.  Hates.  No reason for the hatred given.  That's okay, there is plenty of hatred to go around, I suppose.  We went back to my grandfather's, watched tv, then I left to check into my hotel.  Of course their computers were down at the hotel and it was 30 minutes before I could check in.  The front desk lady apologized several times and I thought "what would I expect – this is me, this is what happens when I leave home."  On my hotel room door was a wet paint sign.  Still, I'm not surprised.  No, I'm jaded and know the universe fucks with me to see just how far I can be pushed before I hit my head against the freshly-painted door repeatedly and the men in white coats come to take me away.  

The next morning I ripped the coffee packet thingie open and coffee went everywhere.  I said "I give up" out loud and went on about my day despite not having coffee.  I put on my new cute gray mary janes and dared the universe to beat me.  Ha.  My plan was to go the Red River Revel arts festival to see my friend Will perform. The Revel did not want me to go.  I drove around for at least 20 minutes looking for a place to park.  I accidentally drove over the Texas Street bridge because I was in the wrong lane at one point.  So, I'm not good with the parking, fine.  I parked in a casino parking garage, noted that I was on the second level, and walked approximately 42 blocks to the festival.  It was at this point I remembered that the last time I'd worn new shoes on a day I would be doing a lot of walking I'd said that was the LAST time I'd do that.  Obviously, I'm not good with the learnin' either.  But the Revel was great.  Will's wife Molly, their son, and I walked to the parking garage afterward, said our "see ya laters" and I began to look for my car.  It was not on the second level.  I could see my car below and walked down the ramp, cursing my mary janes and my bleeding ankles.  

I was downtown at a red light when there was a knock at my passenger's side window.  A heavily-tattooed ZZ Top reject on a motorcycle was making the international sign for "roll down your window" despite the fact that no one has the rolly things anymore and we push buttons now.  I figured it was daylight and he might not kill me, so I put the window down.  He said "yer back tire's going flat."  I said "thanks" and put up the window and got on the interstate headed toward my grandfather's house.  My grandfather put air in my tire and told me to go to a tire/tune-up place he goes to, so I did.  At the tire place, Mr. Tire Man told me it would be two hours before they could get to my car because one of his guys was on vacation and one was out sick.  I didn't have much of a choice, so I waited.  And waited.  In the big waiting room there were two tvs.  One was playing CMT, the other (by the coffee machine) was playing Gangland.  I sat by the coffee machine.  The show told the story of a gang member named OMG.  I decided I was changing my name to STFU.  After Gangland, Mr. Tire Man switched the channel to the Andy Griffith Show.  It was the episode where Andy opens the first coin-operated laundry in Mayberry.  Yippee.  Then Good Times came on.  It was dyno-mite.  Then The Jeffersons.  We were movin' on up.  Mr. Tire Man told me my car was ready and I was "all good."  I asked him how much it would be.  He said I was "all good" again.  I asked what that meant.  He told me they changed the inner liner and it was no charge.  I wondered how they make any money and left.

That night my mom and I took my grandfather to dinner for his birthday.  It was nice.  Afterward, my grandfather wanted me to drive by his church to show me the new building, so we did.  After that he asked if I'd like to go by my grandmother's grave.  Well, sure, because that's the way I like to end my evening and no meal is complete without stopping by the cemetery.  


End of Part 1.  Part 2 will be up soon.  I need a margarita.  


ugly Christmas lawn decor contest: entry #1

Let me preface this entry by saying: I have never in my life.  


This is Jennifer C's entry and she has outdone herself.  This house is somewhere in Mandeville, LA.

Readers, behold the ugly.

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 Yes, those are gift-wrapped columns, stuffed animals, and gift boxes.  I don't know what's up with the tigers.  I'm thinking LSU fans.  Or maybe it's Seigfried and Roy's winter home.

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Another view.  I think the gift boxes bring the Christmas joy.  I like stockings in the window and Elmo, because nothing says happy birthday, Jesus like Elmo taped to your shutters.  Yes, that's the finest packing tape money can buy on the siding.

To fully appreciate the tacky, Jennifer took shots at night too!

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I'm glad this homeowner has home security, you wouldn't want anyone to break in and steal those stuffed animals.  

Okay people, send in your pics for the Ugly Christmas Lawn Decor Contest to  The winner will be announced on Christmas Eve and I'll send you a $25 Starbucks giftcard.  So, get our your camera and go find the tacky!  

in which Kerry convinces herself of things she already knows

There have been many pets in my life.  My first pet was a dog named Shine who "ran away."  Then we had a dachshund, Otto, who also "ran away."  Next was a cocker spaniel, Sam, who was the best dog ever — you guessed it — "ran away."  My parents then got a chow we named Bear who "went to live on a farm."  At some point between dogs, I had a gerbil, Penny.  I put Penny on the back steps in her cage while I cleaned my room in the middle of the Louisiana summer and when I went to get her later, she was deceased.  Once I had a fish that committed suicide by jumping down the garbage disposal while I was cleaning the fishbowl.  When I turned 18, my best friend gave me a kitten (Figaro, the best cat ever), who a year and a half later my mom took to the humane society when I was in college (at least she didn't tell me it went to live on a farm).  Lastly, the kids had a cat named Tinkerbell who actually did run away almost two years ago.  Seriously, why would I lie to you people?  The cat ran away.  She was declawed, so she was probably met with an unfortunate end with a big dog or some creature from the woods or an alligator.

I have not had the best of luck with animals.  Most of that was due to my crazy parents who were obviously not pet people.  My family now has a basset hound, Lucy Dog.  She's a half inside/half outside dog because she still acts like a puppy and lives for knocking down Andrew, the smallest member of the family.  I know I do not need to take on another pet.

So, why am I looking at kittens and puppies in the classifieds of  I have obviously lost my mind. 

Maybe it has something to do with the kids getting older.  It's been an adjustment having Andrew in school everyday, even though it's only two full days and three hours a day on the other three days.  I can't deny that it's been a little weird for me now that the baby isn't a baby anymore.  Knowing we're not going to have anymore babies, that mothering thing in my head wants to hold on to the baby.  That mothering thing in my head has been rather loud lately, saying, "get another pet."

I do not need to take on another pet, I say.

But you love the animals.

But I'm allergic to the animals, I say.

You're already on allergy stuff, it's cool.

But I don't want to take care of another breathing thing, I say.

Oh, but puppies and kitties are so cute.

They are cute, I say.

Remember how great Figaro the cat was?

Yeah, but Tinkerbell the cat was insane, I say.

And she ran away, so that took care of that.  You need a pet of your own.

I would really love a cocker spaniel, I say.

Cockers are great.  Remember how great Sam was?

That was one great dog, I say.

There are cocker puppies on

Oh, look how cute THAT puppy is, I say.


At this point I realize I have said the last statement out loud and three children come running to the kitchen table to look at the puppy. 

I want this puppy.  I would name her Sadie and I would let her sleep in my bed.  I've never let a dog sleep in my bed, but look at that face.  I am in total puppy love with this puppy. 

I do not need to take on another pet.

in which I call fowl on “roostergate ’09”

So, a good friend of mine who shall remain nameless because there is a good chance once this gets out she'll be spending the rest of her life haunted by PETA, sends me this email after being kept awake very early in the morning by a neighbor's rooster:

You know I'm not getting enough sleep if I am googling "How can
you kill a rooster".  But guess what?  I'm not the only one with this
problem; there's a link called "How to kill your neighbor's rooster"
Here's the solution I like, and don't think I won't be calling
feed stores today looking for coyote urine.  (One day, one of you will
either: have to bail me out of jail or testify on my behalf or both!)
This is insane!
04-01-2006, 01:24 AM

First you need an A#1 long range water pistol.
Second, some coyote pee (available at better sporting goods stores everywhere).
load the water pistol (with coyote pee) and shoot the area between you
and your "neighbor". Really give the area a hearty treatment.
Chanticlere's genetic memory will drive him to the farthest distance he
can get from that powful pee pheremone plus make him a neurotic wreck.

If this fails give him the "HydroHarold Silent Treatment",
a Wham-O Wrist Rocket slingshot propelled 1/4" steel ball bearing (also
available at better sporting goods stores everywhere)… Cruel and so
anti-PETA-istic but achieving effective permanance non the less.

No doubt I will be bailing her out of jail soon.  This afternoon, I get the following email from her:

So I called some local feed stores today, and guess what? Nobody
laughed or hung up on me! The first store is out of coyote urine (must
be a run on it these days).  Second store has both coyote and wolf
urine-this could get intereting. 

I feel a covert operation coming on….stay tuned!

No doubt there is a run on coyote urine these days with all the roosters in suburban unincorporated areas of town.  One never knows when one may need coyote urine, so I've always suggested keeping some on hand in case of emergency. 

Now, as you may know, I've never been one to turn down a covert operation, so I replied to my friend, telling her we need code names as well as face paint, perhaps really cute outifts, and walkie-talkies for this operation. 

Stay tuned indeed.


For many reasons, I've never been one for self-portraits or seeing photos of myself.  Mostly because I — like a lot of you — am highly critical of myself , my looks, my skin, my hair, my anything and everything.  So, I'm usually the one behind the camera (or cameras, as the case may be).  I'm quite the amateur photographer, you know.  But when I'm the subject of a photograph, I see my round face and double chin, the two scars from when I had chicken pox in high school, and acne.  I see the complete lack of color in my face and lips that point downward at the corners.  I see eyebrows that must be dyed to be seen and barely-there eyelashes.  And over the years I've noticed my freckles have faded and my nose is getting bigger at the end, which is par for the course, really, isn't it?  At least I still have my sense of humor.  Lord knows where I'd be without it. 

So, those are the thoughts that are with me when I look in the mirror or see a picture of myself.  And please, I've only listed the issues I have with my face.  I'd go into the rest, but frankly, I have plans later this month and I don't have that kind of time. 

As I've mentioned recently, I've been in a funk.  The funk has lasted for a few weeks and I'm thinking of naming it.  Maybe Fred, I'm not sure.  Anyanxiety, yesterday I was having a particularly bad day.  We all have them, but a bad day when you're in a funk is really bad.  Among other things, I ran into the garage wall WITH MY CAR, the wall I've already dented and made a nice hole in.  Pretty soon it will look as though the Kool Aid guy has run through it and into the laundry room.  I realized what I had done, put the car in reverse, then park, closed my eyes and told myself to breath.  At that moment "You Are the Everything" by R.E.M.  came on the iPod and my scalp tingled like all my hair was standing on end and I exhaled and started crying.  Now, I'm not one of those I-never-cry kind of girls, don't think that — but yesterday the dam broke and what started as a tear down one cheek and smeared mascara turned into The Ugly Cry. 

The Ugly Cry is best cried alone.   Fortunately, the three year-old bolted from his booster seat and into the house, leaving me to drench the steering wheel in peace.  Unfortunately, I am nothing if not cognizant of my surroundings, bordering on clairvoyant, and I wiped my eyes only to see in my rear-view mirror that the UPS man was standing curiously behind my van, a couple of feet from the garage.  Of course, I did what anyone would do in this instance and broke out into maniacal laughter, then got out of the car and got my package from Mr. UPS.  

Once in the house, I stopped in the powder room to look at myself and saw that I had cried every inch of makeup off my face, except for my Pixi lip stain in the color Love — which looks very bright pink when you're not wearing any other makeup.  For the first time in never, I was okay with my naked face.  Pale skin, blonde eyelashes, out-of-control hair and all.  I made myself some coffee and sat down to my laptop at my kitchen table, talked to a friend on Facebook, and took a picture with the webcam.  I don't know why I thought to do this, it's not like me at all — and even less like me to share a photo of myself without makeup with you.  After all, I was fully made-up when I was induced with all three babies, I don't leave the house without my eyes done and lipstick, and I sure as hell don't take pictures of myself without foundation, concealer, eye makeup, blush, and touched-up eyebrows.  

I didn't think anything about the picture.  I continued in my funk and forgot about it.  Last night I was blogging about friends and made the photo mosaic on (great site to do neat things with pics) and today went back to that site to play some more.  I love David Hockeny's work and his collages he's made with polaroids and thought I'd use the "Hockneyizer" and make my own.  And maybe it's Honesty Week on The Kerry Blog, but I want to share it with you.  Maybe I'm coming out of the funk, maybe I've finally lost it, I'm not sure  — but here I am.  Naked, with lip stain. 


I'm hitting the "save" button before I chicken out. 

somebody better call freakin’ PETA

I'll get to Tunes You Need Tuesday later, this couldn't wait.  You'll see why.

There are a few blogs I read everyday, from friends' blogs to scrapbooking blogs to more serious-toned blogs and one of my favorites is Manolo For the Big Girl, which I've written about before.  Today I went to MFTBG and found a link to what may possibly be the wrongest (yeah, I know it's not a word, that's how outraged I am!) site I have ever seen. 

Somebody better call freakin' PETA before I have a stroke.  I hate it when I see dogs dressed up in sweaters, so this made me nuts. 

WTF?  Now, I'm all about expressing creativity, but damn.  This is all kinds of wrong.  There is no explantaion other than this dog groomer never got to play with the Barbie Make Me Pretty Head when she was little and it taking it out on her dog.  No dog wants their ass fur turned into a sunflower!  I can't believe I actually wrote "ass fur" on the Kerry Blog; I've reached a new low, people. 

Groomer lady didn't stop with the flower, that dog has antenae!  She turned the dog into a snail in a garden of hell. 

Don't get me wrong, I love animals (cute furry ones anyway), but this is cruel.  And just when I thought I'd seen it all I scrolled down and saw this. 

Good Lord, now the poodle is a camel.  This dog is going to have and identity disorder.  For realz.  And groomer lady walked like an Egyptian for the award ceremony.  Poor camel/dog.  You know when they go to the dog park camel/dog gets made fun of by all the other dogs.  Even the chiauauas and those weird barkless dogs point and laugh at the camel/dog and tell all the other dogs to ask what King Tut was really like.  This dog is the Rodney Dangerfield of dogs, no respect. The dog is thinking "someone help me.  Michael Vick, anyone." 

Then when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

Oh hell no.  It's a damn Teenage effing Mutant effing Ninja effing Turtle dog. 

People, shut the back door.  Call the cops, it's all over.  I feel so deflated as a creative person, I'm going to get my scrapbook supplies out after the kids go to school tomorrow and get to work on making Lucy the basset hound the most glittery, blingged-out dog you've ever seen.  I may fold her long ears into some kind of origami — forget those cranes!  I'm going for a damn helicopter or a bi-plane or something that will fly, 'cause damn if we're gonna be shown up by a poodle!

Stay tuned for further developments, I may have finally gone off the deep end since I've seen the camel/turtle/dog and a damn pink freakin' dolphin this week.  Dear Baby Jesus, please let life start making sense or I'm going to check myself into the looney bin.  Please don't tell me I'm seeing things, because that means either I'm on too many meds or not enough and I think we all know the answer to that one.  Plus, it's National No Swearing Week and I tried my best, but there was no chance of that with Fluffy the dolphin and this travesty of the dog world happening in the same week.  I'm going to head to bed before I see a damn unicorn in the backyard or a dragon circling the house 'cause no one invited them to this party, that is unless they do laundry. 

open letter to SJP

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,

Can I call you SJP?  Good.  SJP, I feel like I know you — I know you don't know me, but I know you because I've grown up with you, via the television greatness known as Square Pegs and the film masterpiece Girls Just Want to Have Fun.  I've kept up with you through the years and being BFFs in my head the way we are, I can't help but feel it's time to have an intervention.  I'm calling your friends Helen Hunt and Shannen Doherty from Girls Just Want to Have Fun and along with your hubs, we're going to get things right with you.  About what?  Have you not seen the photographs?  Well, I was going to leave the evidence for the intervention, but you've forced my hand.  Go ahead and look. 


Do you see it?  Come on, SJP.  You know it's there.  You have a bad case of over-topping and side-boob. 

I know, I know.  It's the dress — no, it's not.  It's the boobs.  You've managed to put on a dress than serves as a boob-tray and go to the Oscars.  You know the dress looked like that before you left the hotel.  Not only do you look half an inch away from a wardrobe malfunction, you're boobs look like they're fighting and running in seperate directions.  When you're boobs look like they've had an argument, it's far from being a good thing. 

In the second pic, Matthew looks like he's about to break into everyone's favorite Broadway number "Hello Booby."   Lord only knows what painful undergarments you were wearing to boost those babies up and make them look fake.  I don't think they are, but they're looking it.  SJP, there was simply not enough fabric in the bodice of that dress.  I know a thing or two about boobs.  I have two of them, I've had them since fourth grade — I am an authority on the subject.  We've all had bad boob moments.  Lord knows I've inadvertantly flashed more people than I care to admit, but SJP, you have people. 

You have a stylist and a team of people who are paid to make you look good and make sure the girls are in place.  The girls did not behave.  I've never been so lucky as to have a team of people to help me get ready for an event, but I have had good friends to point out bad boob moments.  Once before a casino night in college, I put on a dress I'd worn before, a great black dress from Pier 1 (when Pier 1 carried clothing back in the day — man, that was awesome) which had an empire waist in the front, a deep scoop neckline, and was more fitted in the back — it was pretty cool.  Unfortunately, I had the wrong bra and I would have flashed everyone all night, so I did what any girl would do in the situation, I wore the dress backward.  And it looked great.  And no one knew I had the dress on backward.  And my boobs didn't fall out for everyone on campus to see.  True story.  Ask Kim, she will tell you (and she'll also tell you how her boyfriend Cody complimented me on my shoes that she said were ugly and didn't acknowledge how bangin' she looked, so she broke up with him.  Okay, so that wasn't the reason she broke up with him, but it was the last straw).

So, SJP, consider this your intervention.  Also, watch the final scene of your best work to date and remember the good old days before the Oscars when everything could be solved with a dance-off.