All my ideas for making money in one fun list!

1. Selling my soiled underwear online
2. Starting a website featuring pictures of me seductively smoking - pay to view!

Sister Christian explained

From Wikipedia:
Sister Christian
Origin and meaning

"It was written and sung by the band's drummer, Kelly Keagy, for his sister. It was the band's biggest hit, peaking at number five on the Billboard Hot 100.[1]

The song is about Keagy's little sister, Christy. Keagy wrote the song at his apartment, near Divisadero and California streets in San Francisco, after he had just returned from a visit to his hometown of Eugene, Oregon. He had been struck at how fast his teenaged sister, 10 years younger than he, was growing up.

"After we started playing it a lot, Jack turned to me and said, 'What exactly are you saying?' " Keagy recalled. "He thought the words were Sister Christian, instead of Sister Christy, so it just stuck." He added that the real Christy was so mortified when the song came out she nearly changed her name.[2]

The lyric, "You're motoring. What's your price for flight? In finding Mr. Right?" is the subject of much debate. The band stated in a VH-1 Behind the Music interview[3] that the term "motoring" was synonymous with the term "cruising." The term is most often used to describe driving around in a car slowly as a social experience, but can also be used to describe picking up people for casual sex. When Keagy visited his family he heard second hand about his sister cruising for a man to casually sleep with. After verifying this with her he was shocked and lamented how fast she was growing up. He then went back home and wrote "Sister Christian" about the experience. This song is sometimes incorrectly called, Motorin'."

I feel so helpless

I'm overhearing a conversation in the other room, and a woman can't think of the the band who sings Sister Christian, or even the name of the song. The band is Night Ranger. The song is not Motorin'! It's not Motorin'! You won't find it through Google if you search that!

This one time I was a secretary for 6 weeks

From the Livejournal archives: "Today I installed a filter for my boss's Blackberry e-mail. Apparently, he's been getting 400 e-mails a day that 'even a murderer couldn't look at.'"

Let me elaborate.

"Kelly, I need to stop these e-mails from coming into my Blackberry, I mean, this is really ridiculous, I'm getting 20 e-mails a minute. I can't function like this. I don't know what e-mails to read anymore. Call T-Mobile and complain. Why are they sending these e-mails to me? Ridiculous."

Basically he wanted me to yell at T-mobile till they became the internet and deleted all spam. I found this terrifying because A. I don't like calling strangers B. I don't like yelling at people for no reason and C. I don't totally understand Blackberries or their e-mail, so what he was telling me to do could have been exactly what needed to be done.


As was my understanding, T-Mobile was not his e-mail service, it was his phone service, and they just allowed whatever office mail he received to go to his Blackberry inbox.I had a feeling yelling at innocent T-Mobile employees to change his internetz inbox was not the correct answer.

He might as well of asked "Kelly, can you drive to united_billharris@yahoo.com.hk's house, hold a gun to his dog's head, and tell him that I sent you and that this is for that motherfucking Viagra message before you blow his pooch's brains all over the living room carpet?" or "Kelly, can you travel through time and meet each e-mailer at a crucial point in his or her life and direct them to a mysterious island where they will play as pawns in an omniscient being's karmic game, instead of send me trash e-mails?" or just "Kelly, can you travel through the computer on a golden unicorn across the sea of bandwidth and do battle with each unwanted e-mail to protect the honor of my in-box?"

After summoning 3 out of 7 of my animal spirits, calmly calling T-Mobile, being put on hold, and getting told that what he was asking for was bizarre and impossible, the customer service rep suggested I try installing an e-mail filter and directed me to a lovely program. While the e-mail filter didn't stop all the spam - Bossman was still complaining, I like to think it helped some.

Blocked words: penis; mortgage; sluts; teenage; teens; horny; pills; bestiality; twin towers; cock; cocks; dick;dicks, Valium; fuck; fucked; fucking; fvcked; cum; cumming; hardcore; debt; pussy; cunt; xanax; Paris Hilton

Big Dog

This house is clean.

THE APARTMENT HAS BEEN SPRAYED FOR BUGS.

In other news:

THE LANDLORD DOES NOT THINK WE HAVE A BUG INFESTATION.

Dear America, Leslie has bedbugs or why I can't have nice things

"Can I iron this couch?"

Les asked me that because intense heat kills bedbugs. He can't sleep in his bed - he has bedbugs. So he slept in the living room on the antique couch I got from a friend's grandmother(RIP), sweetly nestled in his possibly bug infested childhood blanket, surrounded by garbage bags full of clothing.

No, you can't hot iron satin, friend. It melts.

Leslie has informed me that there is a bedbug epidemic in Chicago, but I'm not sure it isn't localized entirely in his bedroom. Unfortunately, according to the internet - he's right. There was a recent article in the Trib, and there's a website called Chicago Vs. bedbugs.

I am completely humorless on the subject of my house being infested with bedbugs. They will attack every material object I have obtained, force me to wash all my possessions in one exhausting day and cover my home in chemicals. Bedbugs can live a year to a year and a half without feeding. Bedbugs are tiny, and hard to spot. You have to hunt them, stalk their feeding ground (your bed at night, you)looking for their waste or their skin husks. They will bite you and your cat, then lay eggs that will hatch more biters and skin shedders and arbitrarily bury themselves in belongings till they've buried themselves in everything.

Just the thought is anxiety inducing, irritating, frustrating. It makes me angry. Why did this happen? Who the fuck gets bedbugs? This shouldn't be happening to me! This isn't my problem. Why is this my problem? Fuck! The Tanya Harding of life has knocked out my knee with a lead pipe. WHY ME, GOD, WHY ME?

Then mid pity party, a little voice in my head says, "Ah ha ha! You had this coming. All the bullshit you own is covered in parasites, and deserves to be covered in parasites. You don't need so many vintage dresses - I don't care how beautiful and haunted looking they are! You don't need all those clothes, those records and furniture that you think is so lovely and necessary. All they gather are wretched bugs. All your possessions have brought you nothing but irritation and they will rot in landfills for centuries - unnecessary junk, garbage, crap, everything you hate."

I believe the voice is right. If I didn't have these things, bed bugs wouldn't be so horrible. There wouldn't be mountains of clothes to clean, furniture to fumigate. I could even throw whatever meager, worthless possessions I have away. So long, bugs! Why do I feel the need to amass cold, senseless objects? I've bought into the system of consumerism. For example, that g.d. car. If I didn't have a car, I wouldn't have to work a job I hate to pay for it. I am a slave to the cycle, and if I rid myself of these things, and the urge to possess them, finally I would be happy, maybe even free. Free!

I believe the voice is right...for like 10 seconds.

I bought a bunch of stuff with stupid money from my stupid job, but that's what I did, and there's nothing wrong with the desire to keep what I bought safe. I like collecting things! I like listening to music! Sometimes I like spending my money, choosing what I put in my house. I choose wrought iron bed frame! I choose parasol umbrella! I get joy from looking at that antique couch - I love the carved flowers on the wooden frame, the silky mauve fabric covered with shiny gold and cream colored flowers. It's art, it's functional, and it was free! FRRREEEEEEEEEEE!

Who's to say these possessions won't help me do something great, something I love. Who says they don't bring me real joy? They do! Objects are not a life sentence. Neither are bedbugs. It's okay to like things. And I do like things. And I like them the most when they are bug-free.

Thank you Friday

Lady Gaga + lady jail + poison + great hair everyone =

http://www.ladygaga.com/player/default.aspx?meid=5599

Between us

I didn't really enjoy McQueen's last show. I thought it was only okay.

It's that kind of afternoon

One time I was a secretary for 6 weeks

The big cheese at work was a younger guy, maybe in his late 30s - mid 40s. He seemed very tense all the time (which a coworker alluded to being the result of cocaine for breakfast). He was nice to me. He was intense and at times almost apologetic with his requests, no matter what they were. "Kelly, (deep pause) I need you to do something for me, ah, please. In my personal fridge, in my office...there is some baloney...and there should be some mustard. There is a loaf of white bread in the break room...I am so hungry. Please make me a sandwich. I'm very busy right now, and I need to eat, I'm not feeling well. It doesn't have to be fancy, I just need it ASAP, I'm getting dizzy. Thank you so much." I was fine with making my boss a sandwich. It was way more interesting than the filing I wasn't bothering to do. But I can't stand when someone in a position to fire me acts pitiful.

The head bossman had a brother, Carl, and he was a bit of a sleaze. Before the other secretary quit, she told me that he spent company money on strippers. She also said someone caught The Brothers Pervert with a dominatrix in the office over a 3-day Fourth of July weekend. Oh, and the secretaries they hired before me were usually aspiring playmates. Before they hired me, they started to figure that maybe hiring on those credentials wasn't working so well, and decided to switch tracks and go with educated and homely, but still busty.

I'm not sure what Carl's job actually was. He was equivalent to the office dog in terms of what he did - wander around, make noise, and bother me for attention. I'm glad I didn't have to take him on walks, although he probably would have loved to be at the end of a leash I was holding.

In my wise old age, I now know that the Carl was flirting with me when he said "Wow, you like Robert Mitchum? We should talk movies more..." and "Hey, you should really come out for a drink with us after work some time." I thought he was just being weird. My favorite pass came after I re-booked a flight for him. (It was actually quite a hairy situation - I had sit on a three-way call for 45 minutes while I listened to a booking website rep and an airline rep duke it out over some unresolved prices... they'd been at each other's throats for months! The airline rep was all "YOU again!") Carl was ever so grateful for my trouble. "Wow, cute and smart. Kelly, you're so great to me. Thanks so much for booking me that flight." What could I do but modestly reply, "Well, Carl, it's my job." Because it was my job. He was in London and insisted on buying me a drink when he returned. My drink never came to fruition, however, because he died. Just kidding! I quit before he came back.

I love when Mike Ray said this

"It's Britta, Bitch."

"All the world is queer save thee and me and even thou art a little queer'"

I was last minute shopping at Target on Christmas Eve. My ingenious gift plan: buy my step dad some thermal socks. He snowblows the pavement, it's cold outside, feet get cold - why not get him super socks? Practical. Something you may not get for yourself. Well done, Kelly, great idea! Bravo!

At Target, I could not find thermal socks. Wool socks, nylon socks, cotton socks - where were the thermal socks? By the shovels? I saw a man stocking underwear. Surely, he would know all about socks.

And he did know about socks, and so, so much more.

K: Excuse me, do you know where the thermal socks are?

Man: THERMAL SOCKS? Well let me tell you, I had a woman ask me about thermal socks two days ago, and I know we used to have thermal socks, but we don't have 'em this year. I don't know why we don't have them. Follow me.

We revisit the sock aisle, so he can scan the socks and confirm what he found out two days ago.
M: No thermal socks. Nope. But you know what? You could probably get some wool socks; those are pretty thick. What did you want them for?

K: I want to give them to my step dad for when he shovels (suddenly shoveling is somehow more honorable than the truth - snowblowing - and I want to impress this stranger with my step dad's old fashioned work ethic). It's cold out there!...you know?...all that shoveling out in the cold... (please read with lame enthusiasm)

M: This isn't cold.

And here's where I know I'm not leaving the store for at least another 45 minutes. The following is a crude summary. I can't remember everything, and I certainly can't begin to convey the manic gusto with which he delivered his monologue.

M: I was in the Korean War, before your parents were even born! The temperatures there would be way below freezing. There were no thermal socks! And they issued us leather boots...do you know what happens when you get leather wet!?

K: It shrinks?

M: It shrinks! Men lost their feet in those shoes. This isn't cold! And the summers. The burning hot summers 105, 110 degrees. You'd get thirsty and so dry out there. Before we'd enter the desert, we'd pick up a pebble from the ground, clean it off, and put it in our mouths. You do that and you'll never get thirsty! Two days I didn't drink water. And I was fine, didn't even want it! They tell you to drink water now, everyone is tellin' you to drink water, but you know what? (grabs my jacket cuffs) You don't need it. You don't need to drink that much water. I never drink water. I don't drink coffee or pop either. I don't drink juice. I drink milk! I drive the boys in the store room crazy 'cuz I can do more push-ups than them. And I only have one kidney. I only eat twice a day, too. Three meals a day, they say. Three squares a day. I only need two.

K: Wow, which one do you skip?

M:(pauses a beat) Breakfast.

This "conversation" goes on for a bit longer, in the sock aisle. The sock aisle is very small by the way. It's really more of a sock island interrupting the sea of men's pajamas. Here's some "highlights":
- In the army they make you turn your brown leather boots black, but they don't tell you how to do it. The trick is matches.
- Something about the war in Iraq.
- Woman don't belong in combat.
- His daughter works with him.

Eventually, I shake his hand, thank him for his service (in the war and in Target) and head off in the opposite direction of whatever way he walked. I collect myself in women's clothing. Then I realize I forgot the socks and mill around in the pajama section until I think it's safe to go back to the socks. I got the wool ones.