The Closet

My husband and I moved into our house 4 ½ years ago. We moved from a very old ‘fixer upper’ that was about 1,100 square feet and built before television was invented. You have to understand that my husband can do just about anything, so we took on the house as a fun project and let me tell you what a project it was. Well actually, that story is for another day. This story is about closets – every girl’s fantasy closet. The old, small house was built back when you only had two or three pieces of clothing to your name. Our bedroom closet was about 2/12 feet wide. No, I’m not kidding. And yes, I did hear that collective gasp by all you clothes and shoe whores out there. I felt it because I am one of you. Oh…that and purses too.


Now let’s fast forward to the new house. Have you ever heard the statistic that Disney Land in California will fit in the parking lot of Disney World in Florida? I’m not sure if that particular factoid is accurate, but that’s how the old house was to the new house. The new house is a little over 4,300 square feet, so you would naturally think that the walk-in-closets would meet my inflated expectations. I mean this house had everything we wanted – 3 car garage - check, kitchen island - check, giant tub - check…everything on our list of things we wanted in a home. Alas we neglected to remember to put ‘GIANT ASS CLOSET’ on that list.

When we first moved in, I took one side of the closet and he took the other. I bitched and bitched for the first year and tried to convince him that he should relocate his stuff to one of the many other closets in the house. You know…I’m the girl. I need all the closet space – right??. I was even channeling the ghostly voice from the Amityville Horror… “Get Out!” Long story short, he wasn’t budging.

Then, one night the heavens opened up and some divine being decided that it was time for me to win the closet battle. That’s right ladies. I was shown ‘the way’ to happiness and my DREAM closet. We were hanging out with our close friends Dave and Lisa one night and, low and behold, Lisa came up with the best idea since the guy who invented Pringles. Why not take one of our entire spare bedrooms and turn it into my very own walk- in-closet? Lisa Kuhns you are a Fucking Genius!!!!!

Hence, my dream closet was born. The clouds parted, the heavens opened up and rays of golden light shone down upon my own little slice of heaven. Out went the bed and dresser, in with my fabulous-ness. Hey, don’t look at me that way; we still have the other spare room intact. I wanted the room gaudy and a little over the top. Sort of a Zsa Zsa Gabour meets Carrie Bradshaw. It’s like my own little boutique…

Now if only I could convince my husband that I need as many pairs of Manolo Blahniks as Carrie has…I’m still working on that one.

Sleep Trifecta

As I’ve gotten older I’ve developed, so I’m told, a variety of night time sleeping habits that are less than enjoyable to those around me. The least annoying of which is snoring. I know what you are thinking. The least annoying? Snoring? Trust me, I’m about to take you on a ride. I’ve always been a snorer. My first roommate used to complain that she could hear my snoring all the way from her bedroom at night. Then when I moved in with my husband he made the same, head shaking, eye rolling claim. My god, how could so much noise come out of such a sweet little face? I’m told he would just poke me (and no, not in the fun way) and try to roll me over in an attempt to make it stop, if for just a little while where he could pray to fall into a deep coma before the chainsaw sound started again.

Fast forward a few years and the teeth grinding began. My husband has described this action as a noise worse than Freddy Krueger’s fingernails on a chalkboard, all 10 of them at once. He tells me that he ends up grabbing both sides of my face, in the attempt to get me to stop and wake up, but all it ends up doing is aggravated the hell out of him while I grind away, sound asleep. Finally we went to Sports Authority and got me a basic mouth guard. You know the kind the football players wear? Talk about sexy! So now my poor husband is sleeping with a snoring, mouth guard wearing goddess. How could he get any luckier?

Wait for it…then the kickboxing begins. I’m told this has been going on for about a year. Apparently I’ve added this to my nightly repertoire. I’m told it goes something like this: I start off kicking both legs in all directions. I get the covers all twisted up and half off the bed, one leg up in the air blocking the TV. He has told me that at times he has to lie sideways across the bed, his legs over mine, in the attempt to calm the madness. Can you just imagine? This poor man is lying in bed and thinking to himself that the ‘wild side of Kim’ used to be a lot more fun in bed, than this new version, and wondering just how much Benadryl he’d have to add to my nightly Chardonnay to get me into a comatose state.

I can’t wait to find out what I add to the lineup next. I sure hope it’s not my head spinning around and green vomit shooting out of my mouth….

Men and Women Differences Part II

The next man and woman difference I would like to address is driving. Now ladies, I know there are those of you out there who drive crazy and reckless and will find this next part sexist and insulting. To you I say, go with your bad ass self. For the rest of us, this is how it goes.

Why is it that men find the need to ‘teach’ when on the road. Oh, I don’t mean teach the passengers in the car anything, I mean the crazy, irrational need to teach their fellow drivers just how awful they are driving. Follow me a minute here, a woman finds someone riding her ass aggressively for miles. She finally pulls over a lane, let’s the speeder go by and get’s back over, content to go about her business. A man, however, decides to show that driver behind him who’s boss. He’ll speed up to the next car in the opposing lane if that driver behind him should even dare to attempt to pass him. HA HA, that’s right, you are boxed in now with nowhere to go, victory is mine!!! God forbid if the driver somehow does find a way to pass because now we get to become the ones riding the ass of the car that just rode our ass for the last four miles. Take that!!!
I just don’t get it. Are they born with this extra aggressive driving chromosome? Don’t they find how tense that is? I mean it takes so much energy to follow that close or to focus on making sure the guy behind you doesn’t get to get over and pass you.

Oh and there is also my favorite. The “Oh no you aren’t coming into my lane” move. I was out to lunch with my friend Jeremy, and a lady began slowly drifting over into our lane. Her car was getting closer and closer to ours and I started out saying “Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy,” until I was screaming “Jeremy!!!!” at the top of my lungs like a howler monkey on a hot plate, only to freak him out and give him permanent hearing loss, sorry about that by the way. They see someone not paying attention and instead of slowing up a bit or honking the horn they hold their ground, getting as close to the other car as possible because they are “teaching” the other car the error of their ways. Let me tell you men, if they don’t see you in the first place and realize they are drifting over, they aren’t about to put their phone down and quit texting to notice now. Years off my life, I tell you. Years off.

Needless to say Jeremy now makes me wear a blind fold if we go out to lunch. I sure hope those hearing aids don’t bother him too much.

Men and Women Differences Part I

There is no doubt that there are a ton of differences between men and women. There have been websites dedicated to it, talk radio shows invented just for it and hundreds upon thousands of books written to explain the why’s and how’s of this obvious phenomenon. I decided it was time to throw my two cents into the ring on the subject.

Firstly, there is this thing I like to call ‘Man Looking’. No, I’m not referring to the occasions when a big boobed, size zero hot babe walks by and catches his eye, forcing his head to automatically follow her until you smack him. No, no, I’m referring to when they can’t find something. It’s lost and gone forever and you, evil woman, have done something with it. Why? Why? I know my husband is not the only offender but I’ll just use him as an example. It goes something like this:

Griffin: “Honey, I can’t find my white polo hat anywhere. Where did you put it?”

I love that part!!! Where did I put it? Obviously I put it somewhere because it’s his hat and I wear it, oh wait let me think, NEVER. It could be his hat, his wallet, his pants, a pair of shorts he wants to wear, basically anything he can’t find, that I moved or hid from him. Once I grow tired of his stomping around getting more and more frustrated, claiming it’s gone forever, I go in search of his hat and low and behold, it’s under a pile of clothes on the chair in our bedroom. You know the chair, the one that looks really nice whenever we have a party, and subs as a place for him to pile his clothes all the rest of the time. Hence, the action called ‘Man Looking’. (I think I just felt the masses of women out there giving a collective sigh having finally identified a name for this illness) You see, men don’t really look for anything. They quickly scan the room and, upon not seeing the item they are looking for, they claim it’s missing forever, how will they ever go on? I mean come on, it isn’t exactly lit up with a 1,000 watt spotlight, how are they supposed to find it? Why? I ask you again, why? I mean really. How hard is it to shift your crap and just toss it aside to look underneath it? Or, I don’t know look in your car, your closet or in your office before bringing in the Nancy Drew of the house to solve the mystery. I would think the thrill of finding such lost item alone would be victory. But no, it’s better when I find it. I do love the part where I get to say something like this:

Me: “Did you really look or did you Man Look?”

Griffin: “I really looked. I looked everywhere.”

Me: “It’s right here! I knew you just Man Looked!!!!

Griffin: “Where did you find it? See I knew you hid it all along.”

Me: Lasers shoot out of my eyes and he comes towards me as cute as can be and I can’t resist him. That is until, he realizes he can’t find his keys…….

Three Blind Mice = cute story, Nine Dead Mice = tragic

My husband and I just recently saw a little mouse running around in our garage. We only ever just saw one mouse at a time so naturally we assumed we only had the "one". Eventually we decided having a mouse around really wasn’t the most sanitary thing ever so we decided to set a few mouse traps. Let me preface this by saying I was so mortified at the thought of killing, and perhaps torturing, the poor little thing, I could barely bring myself to set the traps. Little live mice, very cute to me, the thought of dead mice, a nightmare, but Griffin assured me that they died instantly and wouldn’t feel a thing. So we set up four separate traps all around our garage, not knowing where we would catch it. Oh and have you ever set mouse traps? Let me tell you, it is fucking painful. I cannot tell you how many times it snapped back onto my fingers. Damn that stings. If you know anything about me, I’m incredibly jumpy. Each time I would get it set and attempt to gently place it on the ground, SNAP. AGH!!!! There goes a few more years off the old ticker. Griffin actually found it most amusing to watch.

Then can you imagine our surprise the next morning when all four traps were full? But wait, surely we only had one mouse. How could there be so many if we only saw one at a time? Oh and have I mentioned that the thought of dead mouse bodies makes me so crazy and freaked out you’d think they were going to attack me or something? I mean really. I couldn’t even go near them. We immediately set two more traps and that evening when we got home from work they were both full. Oh Come On Already! We appeared to have a full blown killing spree on our hands. Quick, send up the Bat Signal for heavens sake!! We’re going to need some serious help. With the death toll on the rise we set the three remaining traps we had right away. Later we were standing at the top of our driveway watching the sunset when we heard three quick snaps...pop, pop, pop. We both looked at each other wide eyed still able to hear a weird scratching noise. Griffin walks to the back of the garage where we set the traps and returns to where I’m standing with a very disturbed look on his face.
“Okay, I guess I was wrong. Sometimes they do apparently suffer and struggle.”
WHAT DID HE JUST SAY??? GULP

And thus, my friends, ends the Griffin’s murder spree.
Death toll to date: 9

A week to be jealous of...so far

Do you ever have that kind of week where everything is just going your way and you have a little extra pep in your step because your mood is so good? This has been one of those weeks for me. Monday my girlfriend Wendy brought in her brand new 10 week old schnauzer puppy and we spent the entire day with him in the office. Then Tuesday I spent my lunch hour getting a much needed chair massage to work the knots out of my neck. Today I spent my lunch hour getting pedicures with a couple of my girlfriends from work, only to return to an ice cream social hosted by my office building. Yay me!! Not bad for it only being Wednesday.

Trouble is now the rest of the week is under some major pressure to keep up. Oh, I know, maybe I should make sure and get some Powerball tickets on the way home. After all, it’s has been my week so far right? I have this rule where I never check on the winning numbers from home. I have that fantasy, as so many working people do, that I check the numbers at work, realize I’ve won, and freak out. And when I say freak out what I am really saying is full on clumsy-Kim-style freaking out. Having stated that, the scene I am picturing would probably go something like this:

I see the winning numbers on the Powerball website causing me to give one of my well known GASPS, popping up in my chair and knocking both knees under my desk, the way I do when the fire drill goes off right over my head. (Yes Jodi, just for your entertainment) I then, would probably flail backwards in my chair toppling over and landing with my skirt up over my head, subsequently breaking the heal off one shoe in an attempt to catch myself. Oh and damn it! I’m out of clean laundry so everyone, say hello to my grandma panties with the holes in the side. But wait, who cares, grandma panties be damned! I’ve won the Powerball. I can buy all the pretty, sexy, uncomfortable panties I want too now. Flash back to me on the floor. Once I am picked up I’d start hurrying around, on my now one high heal and one flat, squealing incomprehensibly. At this point my co-workers don’t know whether I forgot to take my ‘special pills’ this morning or if a bee somehow got in the building and flew down my shirt. Well some of my coworkers would be thinking that. Others, who know me so well, might just think perhaps I’ve had too much sugar again and need to calm my shit down.

Wow, ok maybe I’ve had too much sugar and ice cream today. I mean I did accept seconds when the lady came around with the leftovers… but come on, it was mint chocolate chip people! And let’s all remember…this is my week

Kyle Gonzalez is it??

My husband thinks he can understand Spanish. He thinks this because he likes to watch the Spanish television channels on cable. Yes, yes, this is the man I love. I’ll walk into the room and think surely he’s got to be just randomly channel surfing when, low and behold, the remote is on the coffee table and he’s kicked back and totally engrossed. I like to ask him what the hell he’s watching just to see that smile he gets while letting me know the plot of the show, as he sees it unfolding. Also he likes to say the words he thinks he is identifying, father…. mother…. burrito.... airplane/ or maybe dragonfly, that one could have gone either way.

And as if that wasn’t enough, we switched cars a week or so ago.  When I was clicking through his preset stations, to find something entertaining to listen to, guess what I found on preset number 5. That’s right folks. A Spanish channel. I had to laugh out loud for that one because come on, you have to admit it is a little amusing. Can you just see the looks on peoples faces when he rolls up to a stoplight, with the windows rolled down, and someone looks over and my husband is jamming out to Spanish Top 40?

Having said all this, I thought I’d be clever and buy him a Spanish birthday card one year for his Birthday. Knowing, of course, that he doesn’t read, speak or understand Spanish, but nonetheless I thought it was a brilliant idea. It was in the Happy Birthday section. However it very well could have said ‘Get Well’ on the outside and, on the inside, ‘Sorry to hear about your explosive case of diarrhea.  I sure hope your ass is okay’.

I guess we’ll never know.

Jacked up Jeep or Truck = Tiny Man, Little Penis

I cannot, for the life of me, understand why some men decide to put tractor size tires on their jeeps and trucks. I mean really people. (And I don’t mean the people who have normal off road vehicles that are all tricked out.) Isn’t there a law or something that states these sort of additions are only to be made to vehicles that are going to be competing at Monster Truck rallies? Hell, I’ll start the petition. I’ll march that shit all the way to Washington. Stop the madness people.


Does it make them feel more alpha, tougher, more kick ass? Does being eye level with the 18 wheelers not seem a little odd to them? I mean sure, they need a step ladder to get into their vehicle but hey, they look cool as shit driving down the road sitting up on top of the world. They couldn’t possibly be overcompensating for some short coming.

It reminds me of that scene in Shrek when Lord Farquaad meets Princess Fiona for the first time. He rides up on his giant steed, looking all stately, but then his guards lift him down and we see the full him. All 3 feet or so of him. That is the picture I have in my head every time I see one of these jacked up, too tall, overdone vehicles on the day to day road. Like, we get it already. You don’t have a Napoleon complex and you are hung like Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights.

Shooting Stars

Last night Griffin and I, armed with our glasses of chardonnay,  headed out to the back lawn chairs at 11:00 to watch the meteor shower.  It was amazing.  We live in a neighborhood that specifically has little to no street lights, so combined with the no moon, it was just perfect watching conditions.

There is a song currently on the radio right now, which features Eminem, that starts with "Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?  I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now...".  I used to really love the whole wish upon a star or throw a coin in the fountain and make a wish come true concept.  Remember that time in life when you truly thought maybe, just maybe, it could steer the cosmos your way?  Most of us are grown up and realize that wishes are not really granted that way.  But sometimes..sometimes, like last night, with those streaks of light soaring across the starry sky, it takes you back and lets you believe in magic.  If only for a short time.

Then, and yes Internet be prepared to gag, I went to bed and woke up with the sun shining in our bedroom and my husband still asleep beside me.  This man and I have been going to bed and waking up together for 12 years and each and every day it gets better and better.  Damn I'm lucky.  Who needs shooting stars when you have that?

My thoughts on exercise....

If god wanted us to exercise why did he create chardonnay and processed foods?


I, as I’m sure you do also, know quite a few health nuts. You know, those odd people who would rather drive to a gym after work, change clothes and proceed to sweat to death, surrounded by other sweaty people, on machines made to annoy. The only smiling and happy people you ever see working out are on those infomercials, and believe me, that is a total load of crap. I, being a very non-work-out kind of gal, bought into one of those DVD “workout parties” once. Once. Horribly embarrassing to admit but damn that woman and all her friends seemed so happy and they were just melting away the fat. Why not right?

RIIIIGGHHHTTT. In anticipation of my new work out regime, Griffin and I, (my husband’s name is Kyle but I call him Griffin) cleared out a giant space in our basement and got a TV and DVD all set. I was good and ready for my exercise dance party. I’m really going to do this and just watch the inches melt off. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a big girl by any means but wouldn’t mind dropping a few pounds and maybe toning up a bit. So finally it arrives.

Well what felt like at least an hour, and was really only ten minutes into it, I thought I was going to die. Not only could I not catch my breath but my heart was hammering so loudly in my ears, and my vision was getting so blurry, I was sure I was about to experience my first official heart attack. My poor dog was horrified. She looked at me and I tell you, I saw pity. Surely she thought I was having some sort of epileptic event. No way that whatever was happening to me was of my own doing. You can imagine my surprise and horrification when the woman on the screen said “Good job everybody. Now we are warmed up and ready to start”. I’m sorry what did she just say? I have to admit it. I hate that perky little bitch with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. Why would anyone put themselves through this on purpose? Where is my glass of wine? Holy crap!

Another favorite of mine is the runner. Every time I see these odd people outside running I just want to yell to them “Hey, it’s okay. That crazy haired, knife wielding man with the rabid dog is no longer chasing you. You can stop now. Here, have a donut.” I mean come on. Can you honestly tell me that there is nothing you would rather be doing than running? Where are you running to? Is it really that worth it to be in good cardiovascular shape when everywhere you go there are elevators and/or escalators? I just don’t get it.

I’d love to go on but my wine glass needs filling and I think I just heart the oven beep with the pizza in it.

By the by, anyone who happens to read this blog needs to read Dooce.com.  She is way brilliant, funny, inspired and is the inspiration for me to want to go ahead and blog my own thoughts. 

My First Post

I've long decided that life is made up of moments in which we make our own decisions and then when decisions are made for us.  I believe so many of us wake up every day breathing in and out, feeding the dog, feeding the kids, hell, feeding ourselves.  Once in awhile I think everyone needs to stop.  Realize the world is just spinning, and we all have the power and the responsibility to control and direct our own happy story.