Author Archives: kelly

Love At First Type

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“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you believe in love before that?”

These two lines sum up the question at the heart of Attachments, the debut novel by Rainbow Rowell. It’s set in 1999 at a Midwestern newspaper in the midst of the Y2K madness. Co-workers Beth and Jennifer spend good portions of their day sending each other messages about very personal details of their lives despite knowing that their email is being monitored. The person monitoring their email is Lincoln, and he doesn’t have the heart to send them a warning.

You see, through their messages, Lincoln has come to enjoy Beth and Jennifer’s interactions immensely. Before he realizes it, he has fallen for Beth but can’t imagine how he would ever introduce himself. Quite a dilemma, isn’t it?

I discovered Attachments after seeing it chosen for the Barnes & Noble Summer 2011 Discover Great New Writers program and the subject matter really resonated with me. Why, you may ask? Well, I’m a veteran of falling for someone online. The most important relationships I’ve had began by reading someone’s words and being drawn to them and the person behind those words. When you love words and feel comfortable using them, I think it’s natural to fall for someone via the written word. If you’ve ever written or received a love letter, you know how powerful it can be to share intense emotions through language. You keep those letters and re-read them over and over and the feelings that get stirred up don’t diminish with each reading. They grow.

If you’re getting to know someone online, it’s easy to put your best foot forward, as it were. You can take time to say exactly what you want to say. There is no stuttering or fumbling over words. You aren’t distracted by the physical presence of the person with whom you’re talking. All you have are your words.

Can this be problematic? Certainly. For example, I know that I can come across much more self-assured online than I normally do in real life. This doesn’t mean that I’m lying about who I am. It just means that I’m presenting my best self, who I am internally, and who I want to be more of, externally.

I must confess that I don’t read much fiction anymore. I don’t know exactly why or when this happened but if you looked at my bookshelves, you’d find mainly nonfiction: biographies, how-to books, philosophy, etc. So, for a book of fiction to grab me, it must be something special.

The subject matter of Attachments may have lured me in, but it was (big surprise), the words that kept me reading. Rainbow Rowell fills her novel with pop culture references to songs, movies and my personal favorite, “Dungeons and Dragons”. (I was a devoted D&D geek in the mid-to-late 1980s). But the quality that most impresses me is her dialogue. Rowell’s dialogue is crisp and punchy, much like the best movie or television dialogue you’ve ever heard.

So I highly recommend Attachments to anyone who loves snappy dialogue and a captivating and unconventional love story. Despite the fact that my previous forays into online love haven’t led to “happily ever after”, I’m not discouraged. To answer the questions that began this post, I not only believe in love at first sight. I believe in love at first type.

Welcome to Bizarro World

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In my never-ending quest to not just entertain, but to enlighten you, I came across this interesting article today. Apparently, British theoretical physicists are attempting to find evidence of multiple alternative universes, aka, “multiverses”. You science fiction and comic book readers are very familiar with the idea of a multiverse. (See DC Comics Infinite Crisis and 52, for just two examples.)

In essence, the thought is that we live in a multiverse in which new universes form each time they collide with each other. What really piqued my interest was the theory that these universes could possibly not adhere to the laws of nature with which we’re familiar. For example, time could move backward instead of forward. Freaky, right?

This is just like Bizarro World. For the uninitiated, Bizarro World, aka, Htrae, is a fictional planet in the DC Comics universe. In Bizarro World, society lives by the Bizarro Code in which everything is done the opposite way it’s done on Earth. I had a dream that I woke up in Bizarro World.

Someone named “Snooki” who inhabits Jersey Shore, supposedly makes $100,000 an episode. According to a website called PayScale, high school teachers in New Jersey earn between $35,269 – $73,705 per year. Snooki must be doing something really impressive.

Then, I hear a creepy disembodied voice talking to me. I’ve heard it before but I have a hard time placing it at first. I realize that it’s Michele Bachmann.

Suddenly, I wake up shaking and covered in sweat.

“Good thing that world isn’t real,” I mumble. But then, I turn on the television and see:

“No, no, no!” I scream. “This can’t be happening. It must be Bizarro World!”

I hear another voice, this time emanating from inside my own head. The voice says, “Kelly, this is your world, for better or worse. Just because it’s not Bizarro World doesn’t mean it’s not bizarre.”

Keep the PJs on the QT

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Even though I sometimes think I am, I’m really not that old. I’m turning 46 a week from today. But, there are times like this morning when I feel old. No, it wasn’t because of an achy back or shoulders that felt as hard as Jillian Michael’s abs. (Not that I’d know anything about her abs personally.) I felt old because of flannel pajamas. These were not my flannel pajamas, mind you. They were on a woman going into Walgreen’s yesterday morning. Yes, you heard that right. A GROWN WOMAN THOUGHT IT WAS OKAY TO WEAR HER PAJAMAS IN PUBLIC.

When did this become okay? I’ve never been so tired, hung over or lazy to feel that being seen in public in sleepy-time plaid was appropriate. As I watched Van Winkle (my nickname for our Walgreen’s shopper) lock her car door and walk slowly into the store, a couple of questions popped into my mind:

1.     Did she think these were actual pants and not pajamas? If that’s the case, I shudder at the thought of what she thinks is “appropriate work attire”.

2.     Did she not think anyone would notice? How do you convince yourself to leave the house in your pajamas? I imagine the conversation with herself would go something like this:

 “It’s early. There probably won’t be anyone out.” (It was 9 A.M., at a mall, just outside San Francisco. It’s not like she was in Amish country without a horse and buggy.)

“So what if I’m in my pajamas? You know what passes for clothing at the Pride parade. At least I’m not bare-assed in chaps!” (Pride is in June in San Francisco. This is Daly City in August. There is no rainbow flag and you, honey, are not a leather man.)

 3.     Did she not have anyone in her life who could dissuade her? If I ever even momentarily toyed with the idea of “SWP” (aka, “Shopping While PJ’d”), one of the following people would have shamed me out of it:

Mother: This is a woman who once designed an outfit around underwear and had to buy everything else to match and coordinate. Do you think she’d let me out of the house in my pajamas? Not even if I was wearing matching slippers, I’ll tell you that!

Gay Male Friend: Many women, straight or gay, have or have had gay men in their lives. And these men would never let you out of the house in pajamas, especially flannel. There are some lesbian friends who might. (Insert “lesbian wearing flannel joke” HERE.) I can hear the voice of a friend from college named Freddie right now: “Girl, don’t even think about it. Those pajamas make my eyebrows hurt. Get back in the damn house and change!”

I was tempted to follow Van Winkle around Walgreen’s and observe her to see if she exhibited any other signs of inappropriate behavior. I decided against it because (a) That’s kind of stalkerish and it would be embarrassing to be arrested for stalking someone wearing pajamas in public; and (b) I looked down and noticed her feet. She was wearing flip-flops. This is another pet peeve. Unless you’re going to the beach, put some damn shoes on.

So, I lost sight of Van Winkle and waited in line in the pharmacy department. In front of me was a woman with actual pants on. All is not lost! There is hope for civilization! But then, I noticed her feet. She was wearing slippers. Nooooooo! But you know what was even worse? They totally clashed with her pants. Oh, the humanity!

Straighten Up and Fly Right

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Today I’m getting my hair straightened. Yes, this girl who is so pale that the glare off her skin blinds small children, needs to make her hair calm the hell down. For those of you who haven’t met me in person, I don’t have curly locks that are wayward and unruly. I have VERY thick, straight hair that can frizz and look like a mushroom on top of my shoulders. I didn’t inherit my mother’s Sicilian skin tone or hair texture.

When I was getting my hair cut and colored last weekend, my stylist, Annabelle, suggested the straightening idea as she listened to my lament about my hair overwhelming my face. Even though my hair is in a chin-length bob, sometimes I feel like a weird cross between Cousin Itt from The Addams Family and Gilda Radner’s character from Saturday Night Live, Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I’m hoping this treatment works because I really like my hairstyle a lot. In the past, in order to avoid the mushroom cloud, my hair had to be past my shoulders so the weight of it deflated the mushroom. Think feathered, brunette Farrah hair and you’ll know what my prom pictures looked like in the early 80s. I don’t want to grow my hair longer because (a) After 45, long hair usually makes you look older; and (b) It’s too much work and I have the patience of a gnat on crack.

The other option is to cut it short. I had short hair from the 1990s until a couple of years ago. It’s easy and cute and I may go back to it someday. But, there’s something about a chin-length bob that I like. Maybe it’s the sleek, sexy quality of the cut. What girl doesn’t like sleek and sexy, right?

In life, we all have to make the best of what we have. We play up our best features and play down our less desirable ones. I will never be tall and have legs that seem to go on for days. But I do have good hair that just needs a little taming, that’s all. Wait. I now have the image of my stylist with a whip in one hand and a chair in the other taming my mane. Oy.

Are You Ready for Some Football?

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Football season is fast approaching but I’m not talking about the National Football League here in the United States. The football to which I’m referring is the Barclays Premier League. Still befuddled? It’s the top league in English soccer, or football. As an aside, it really doesn’t make sense that American football is called football, since the focus isn’t on kicking. In fact, punters and field goal kickers are the least respected players on an American football team. Quite a conundrum, isn’t it? But I digress.

Premier League play starts this weekend and I’ve decided to follow it. Bear in mind that I know practically nothing about soccer in terms of rules, players, etc. I tried to get into it back in high school when I had crushes on two handsome French-Italian brothers with whom I had gone to grammar school. I’d go to their games and sit with their parents, taking pictures with my Olympus OM-10. I went to three Proms with the Fontana brothers in 1982. Ah, yes. They were such handsome boys. But, yet again, I digress.

There are a couple of rules I have that are mandatory when I watch a sport: (1) I need to have a basic understanding of how the game is played and (2) I need to have someone for whom to root. In terms of Rule Number 1, I may have to read this book. I have the book for golf but like my golf clubs, it hasn’t been used much. Rule Number 2 is much easier. I have adopted the favorite team of my friend Rob Marshall, the Wolverhampton Wanderers, aka, Wolves. I met Rob on my first, and so far only, trip to England in 1990. He was playing music at a wine bar close to where I was staying in Kensington and we immediately hit it off. We’ve kept in touch all these years and he even visited me back in 1993.

So, I follow the Wolves on Twitter. I “Like” their Facebook page and I may even check out a local Wolves fan group in San Francisco that I came across. If you’re under the impression that I seem rather gung ho about this, you’d be right. I tend to get obsessive about something when I first get into it. If I like a musician, I tend to want everything he or she ever recorded. I got into comic books last year (Batwoman is my avatar on Twitter) and now I’m on a first name basis with the staff at my local comics store. The trick is sustaining my interest over the long term.

It will be difficult to catch matches live. There’s the time difference for one and where to watch them is another. I know Fox Soccer channel airs many matches and I’ve already been doing research on bars in San Francisco that air the Premier League. The thing is, even though I’m very outgoing, the idea of going to a bar by myself to watch soccer is a tad uncomfortable. So, if you happen to be a Wolves fan in the San Francisco Bay Area and you somehow stumbled upon my little blog, contact me. We’ll raise a pint and cheer on the Wolves.

The Personal is Political

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The phrase, “The Personal is Political” has been around feminist circles for decades and it popped into my head the other day while I was thinking about how my political beliefs tilt and shift from one extreme to the other like a teeter-totter. Sometimes I beat myself up and say I’m wishy-washy but really, that’s unfair and inaccurate. I’m an extremely curious person. It’s a trait I highly value in others and myself. I’m fascinated by people, what they think and believe and why, and I know this is a key component to what makes me open to divergent opinions.

However, it’s frustrating to not feel emotionally connected to an ideology sometimes. It’s the same struggle I have with spirituality. I can envy the self-assuredness of true believers and atheists alike and I’ve dabbled at both ends of the spectrum. That sense of fervent belief, or disbelief as the case may be, in a political, spiritual or philosophical ideology is just not part of my make-up and I’m trying to accept that.

I’ve decided that instead of viewing this as a deficiency of character, I should look deeper at why I hold certain viewpoints at certain times in my life. What I’ve discovered is that how I’m feeling about my life and myself directly affects the ideology that resonates with me at that time. For example, when I’m feeling frustrated, angry and depressed about how things are going for me personally, I tend to gravitate to a more conservative political ideology. When I feel more optimistic and happy, I tend to veer towards liberal thought. So, the personal is indeed political, in my case.

I have voted Democrat, Republican and Green. I have contributed to candidates and causes from Left to Right and I have friends who identify as conservatives as well as progressives. What all these people have in common is their love for truth and justice, as they perceive it, and I have the utmost respect for that.

Some may scoff at being emotionally driven when it comes to matters of world-altering consequence and that’s okay. I understand that. I tend to live in my head a lot and only accept something if it makes sense to my head first, and then to my heart. My goal is to integrate my heart and my head in an attempt to find peace internally and externally. I haven’t mastered it yet but it’s definitely worth the effort.

Death and Catholics

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To those of us who grew up Catholic, especially of the Irish and Italian variety, funerals and cemeteries were as much a part of growing up as playing CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) sports and dodging a nun’s fury. The first significant death in my life came while I was in utero. When my mother was seven months pregnant with moi, her best friend, who was her brother, was killed by a drunk driver, He was 36 years old and the father of seven. Can we say that the last couple months of her pregnancy were stressful? There are no pictures of her pregnant because she was crying all the time. For years I insisted that I was either (a) adopted or (b) the next Immaculate Conception. With my mother, the latter was definitely more plausible.

From 1965 to 1976, there were at least seven immediate family members who died. I must admit that I didn’t attend the rosaries and funerals of these relatives until my maternal grandmother’s funeral in 1976. You see, a traditional Catholic rosary features an open casket which, to many, let alone a child, is a tad gruesome. So, when Nan died, my parents wanted to spare me the trauma of kneeling in front of her, seeing her decked out in one of her prettiest dresses with hair and makeup perfect. It never occurred to them to just CLOSE THE CASKET. No. Not an option.

What I was required to do on practically a weekly basis was to schlepp between four cemeteries with flowers for the various dead relatives. In those days, the Catholic Church didn’t allow cremation; so getting scattered to the wind wasn’t an option. You were buried in the ground and that was that. The dead needed a place to go that the rest of us could visit. Kind of like that one rich kid in school or a rich relative who had the summer place you got invited to occasionally. As with the rich kid or relative, the cemetery served as a reminder to the living to pay some damn respect. Jesus, the Virgin Mary, the saints and the dead relatives were ALL watching. Guilt does survive the grave. Don’t you forget it.

This sentiment is why it’s so ironic that my mother doesn’t visit the cemetery anymore. The change seemed to have happened when her mother died. After that initial pilgrimage following the funeral Mass, she hasn’t been back. She doesn’t even know if the headstone has been updated. And when my Dad died 20 years ago, she has only visited a handful of times. I haven’t really asked her why mainly because I haven’t wanted to get re-acquainted with the weekly cemetery crawl. I don’t need to visit a plot of ground with a stone slab on it in order to think about my father or my grandmother. I have my memories and that is enough. Maybe after a lifetime of open caskets, chanted rosaries and funeral plots, it’s enough for Mom too.

The Key Thing

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I lost my keys for a full 24 hours. Ever done that? Yeah, it’s not fun. I re-traced my steps of places I’d been, checked pockets and purses, and accused the cats of hiding them. (They may be cute, but they’re sneaky little buggers too.) Eventually I did find them in one of the purses I had searched multiple times. I have no explanation for why they were there except that the cats took the keys from wherever they hid them and put them in the purse. I knew I shouldn’t have let them watch Gaslight.

Once the crisis was averted, I looked for a deeper meaning behind losing the keys. This is what I do. I always look for deeper, hidden meanings in life’s every day occurrences. I took a lot of media analysis classes as a broadcasting major and we always looked for hidden meanings in commercials, newscasts, you name it. Looking for death masks and naked women in ice cubes in liquor ads wasn’t just a class assignment; it was Friday night entertainment when drinking with friends!

So, I got online and started searching for information on the symbolism of lost keys. Here are some of the tidbits I found:

Losing keys can represent loss of identity or personal power: I lost my job in May rather unexpectedly so, yes, my “9-to-5” identity is no more and it’s an odd feeling. As for personal power, that’s one of those things I always want, but never seem to find… like a healthy relationship. Uh, yeah. Moving on…

Losing keys can represent a loss of security: See job loss above and I’ll raise you dealing with my mother’s major back surgery in January and her recovery, a cat’s major surgery at the same time and hurting my own back. Woo hoo! The bulk of this year has felt like I’m on a 24-hour, 7 day-a-week Tilt-A-Whirl. Hey, little girl on the video. I feel like crying and screaming too. But unlike you, I can make myself a martini.

Losing keys can represent shirking responsibility for yourself: What are you insinuating? I told you the cats took my keys. It wasn’t my fault. Shirking responsibility my as…

As I was saying, I lost keys, I found keys and who really knows the reasons why. It could all have a larger, more cosmic, symbolic meaning or I can just be a pre-occupied 40-something who needs to slow down, watch any movie but Gaslight and enjoy a nice cocktail.

The Ballad of Mole and Yoko

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I have a mole, or family of moles, living under my lawn. Yes, a little guy similar to this one has been busy digging up dirt and piling it on the sidewalk. Gone is the lush, nicely manicured lawn. It has been replaced by patches of dirt. As you may imagine, I’m not happy about this latest development. You see, growing up in San Francisco, we didn’t have a lawn. We had cement. The only greenery was what grew up through the cracks in the cement.

Granted, this lawn is the original one my aunt and uncle put in when they bought the house in 1954, but it’s the principal that matters here. It should be MY choice as to when a new lawn needs to be put in, not some damn mole’s. No matter how cute he is. How do I know he’s cute? Well, I saw him once as I was cursing him and calling him, “That little mole bastard.” I was looking for his little mole holes and aiming the hose nozzle down them when his little head popped up and then back down really quickly. And damn it, he was adorable. So, I put the hose away and went in the house grumbling.

Is it too much to ask that pests be ugly? Rats and cockroaches comply with this rule. A giant Miller moth terrified me in the bathroom the other day. I know he had fangs. I just know it. I like wildlife but I don’t like it in my house, in my yard or under my lawn. Where’s the ideal place for wildlife to be? On my T.V. in a nature documentary.

So, I’m trying to find other ways to make the mole leave. Cursing him, his mother, father and family name hasn’t worked. Getting all Noah’s Ark on his ass and flooding him out hasn’t worked. A neighbor was having the same problem with moles and she bought some device you stick in the lawn that emits sounds underground that drive moles nuts and make them leave. Hmm…I guess that’s why they’ve moved down to my lawn. (Gee. Thanks, neighbor!)

I bought one of these devices but I haven’t put it in yet. I’ve been wondering about what kinds of sounds would drive a mole crazy. I’m envisioning something like the military blaring music at an enemy to weaken their resolve. Didn’t we bombard Manuel Noriega with heavy metal? I imagine prisoners at Gitmo waking up to Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” I mean, that song grates on my nerves and I’m not a suspected terrorist.

Can you imagine if this was the sound that the moles were subjected to, over and over and over again? Yoko Ono sounds like some crazed predator who wants to eat little moles for dinner. Hell, if she could break up the Beatles, she can certainly chase my moles away.

The Costco Commentary

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I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. What’s not to love about 36 rolls of toilet paper and ginormous jars of peanut butter? But what I hate are my fellow shoppers. Whether I’m at Costco or anywhere else, I shop like a man. I don’t stroll. I have a list and a purpose. Get in, get out of my way, and go home.

One key to surviving a trip to Costco is to get there early. By doing this, you can avoid the masses clogging every aisle desperate to get a sample of some food or another. Are you really that hungry? I mean, if you can afford Costco, you can afford to buy some damn food, you mooch! Besides, if you’ve had one kebab, you’ve had them all.

I’m beginning to think that Costco is the new “hip” place for retirees to mingle. Aside from gathering around the communal sample trough, you can find senior citizens chatting with old pals in the pharmacy department. Whether it’s commiserating over colonoscopies or harping about heartburn, Costco is the place to be and be bitchy for the over 70 set.

Costco is like other places in the summer when it comes to children. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE AND THEY ARE IN YOUR WAY. I think Costco could make a fortune if they offered on-site daycare. Stop those little rugrats from screaming and running down the aisles and stick them in a room with some books and toys you couldn’t sell and everybody’s happy. Hey, you can feed the kids the damn food samples!

My most recent pilgrimage to the Church of Costco wasn’t too bad on the whole, aside from the damage to my checking account. I didn’t hit anyone in the shins with my cart (though it was very tempting) and surprisingly, there wasn’t a long line to pay. I did wonder where everyone was, however. Then I remembered. They were gulping down gouda and goldfish crackers in aisle five.