Kimopolis

My kind of town.

Archive for the ‘Sharing Is Caring’ Category

The “Sharing Is Caring” section is a catchall category that includes ideas, experiences, and interesting things I’ve found while exploring the interwebs. I share because I care.

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Pussy-Cow

Posted by kimlno on February 18, 2010

The Arby's Cowboy Hat Sign

Earlier this week, a bunch of my friends joined a Facebook group called, “When I was a kid I thought Cal Worthington said ‘Pussy-Cow’ not ‘Go see Cal’” and, after I had joined as well, the general sentiment amongst the members was astonishment that others, complete strangers even, could’ve misinterpreted the jaunty jingle in the very same way. Well, when I was a little girl, I used to think that the yellow cement trucks with the little cowboy hats painted on them worked for Arby’s. In fact, I believed that instead of being filled with cement, the giant, spinning drums contained hot BBQ beef.

I don’t know how, or why, I ever made the connection between the two completely unrelated objects, except that the cowboy hat symbol on the truck closely resembles the Arby’s cowboy hat. There was, and there still is, an Arby’s on Lincoln between Wilshire and Santa Monica and, although I’ve never eaten there, the neon sign is prominent in my mind as a long-standing landmark for the area. Perhaps, when I was younger, I saw one of those cement trucks in the parking lot of Arby’s, or idling in front of the place on the street.

In no way did it seem unusual to me that pre-prepared meat would be delivered in a ginormous barrel because, well, those shiny, long, silver tube trucks carried milk in them, didn’t they? So, every now and again, like this afternoon, I still see those yellow cowboy hat cement trucks, and it always makes me giggle picturing thousands of pounds of tasty meat gently rolling around in the back of the truck, waiting to be pumped into Arby’s restaurants across SoCal and beyond.

Pussy-cow, pussy-cow, pussy-cow.

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New Year’s Resolutions

Posted by kimlno on December 31, 2009

Oh, great. It’s that time of the year again. You know…resolution time. Usually, I don’t even bother. By the time January 2nd or 3rd rolls around, most of my resolutions have gone the way of the Dodo. But this year I’m going to try something a little different. This year I’m going to make some reasonable resolutions…ones I can actually accomplish. No more ridiculousness like “lose 50 pounds”, or “finish my novel”, or “volunteer in my spare time/donate blood/give to charity”. Such lofty goals are just a set-up for disappointment. This year my New Year’s Resolutions are going to be small, realistic…easy. So, without further ado, I give you, my resolutions for 2010:

1. Blog more often, at least once a week. They don’t all have to be good, or necessarily even entertaining, but a few paragraphs of my random thoughts ought to suffice.

2. Play less FarmVille. And by “less” I mean restrict visits to my farm to once a day (or less).

3. Finish reading Stephen King’s The Dome. Who knew he could write such a LONG book? And with SO many characters?!? My god, man, I get it. You’re a wonderful storyteller. No need to show off.  I’m 300+ pages into this tome and not much has happened and you’re STILL introducing new characters. Get on with it already. I mean, the title pretty much covers the main issue so how about you start revealing the reason behind the Dome? All I’ve got is: the Dome is impermeable, the hicks in the town are mostly crazy and all potentially dangerous, and the town children are all speaking nonsense about “Halloween” and “pink stars”. The next 600+ pages had better be riveting. RIVET-ing, you hear? (I have a confession to make…when I went to look up exactly how many pages long The Dome was, I couldn’t help but stop by my farm and harvest some crops. I know, I know. I could have just walked my lazy butt into the other room, where the book actually is, and checked, but…I had farm chores to do, okay? Get off my back! The resolutions don’t start until tomorrow! I still have one day of farming left. Which brings me to my next resolution…)

4. Go outside daily. I’ll be honest, in the past two months, there have been days where I haven’t left the house. Now, to be fair, I did have a back spasm that left me completely incapacitated for almost a week. AND I had the flu about ten days after that. THEN, I hurt my back again. And, as if God hadn’t punished me enough, immediately following that I came down with the nastiest cold I’ve ever had. Seriously. It was resistant to all forms of treatment including, but not limited to, massive fluid intake, “The nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine”, tomato soup and tuna melts (which, until this point in time, I believed could cure ANYTHING), and good, old fashioned bed rest. So, some days, perhaps more days than entirely necessary, were spent indoors. Barring any unforeseen illness or injury, I fully intend to adhere to this resolution.

5. Be less flaky. If you’re one of my friends, I’ve probably cancelled plans with you more than once (If not, then you’re my FAVORITE friend…kidding. I love you all EQUALLY.). I call it the “Cameron Frye Syndrome”. The full spectrum of CFS can be observed in the following clip from the seminal ‘80s film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, specifically from the 3:03 mark through the end:

That last minute-long conversation Cameron has with himself in the car is the very same inner monologue I endure every time I have made plans to meet my friends. Although, not just limited to friends, CFS extends to doctor’s appointments, going to work, and really anything else that involves leaving the house and interacting with other human beings. I’m not anti-social. I’m just pro-me.

Well, there they are. I know, there are only 5 of them, and tradition dictates at least ten resolutions for such a list to truly be taken seriously. But, like I said, I’d like to keep all of these little promises to be a better Kimberly, so I’m starting small. It may not be much, but at least it’s a start. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even add more as the year passes and these simple changes become routine…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a farm to plow.

P.S. Happy New Year!

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Rock Me Tonite

Posted by kimlno on October 30, 2009

Sometimes I forget just how totally awesome the ‘80s were. Then, I stumble across something that is so indicative of the decade, so radically tubular, like…so tripendicular, it just blows my mind. Fer sure. Today, I found this little gem, and it so totally rocked my world, I just had to share it with you.

I don’t know how I missed jumping on the Billy Squier bandwagon, but it was probably because I was listening to A-ha or Wang Chung instead (like, “Dance Hall Days” was a totally bitchin’ song, dude). To prove how little I knew about Billy, I thought he was Canadian. Turns out he’s from Boston. Eh, same difference. For some reason I just lumped him in with other great Canadian rock bands (there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one) like Loverboy and Triumph.

ANYthousandsofRushfanssendingmehatemail (ARE there thousands of Rush fans?), this video for “Rock Me Tonite” is probably the worst video catastrophe since “Separate Ways” by Journey. However, this was choreographed (and I use that term VERY loosely) by Kenny Ortega (of Xanadu and Dirty Dancing fame). Um, okay…if you say so. I kinda thought he was having a seizure most of the time.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

As the video begins, Billy is in bed, rolling around on his satin sheets. Ew, gag me with a spoon.

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Are his armpits SHAVED?

Next, Squier puts on a shirt. This is no ordinary shirt. In fact, it’s so extraordinary, I can’t even describe it.  It’s like sleeveless, but still manages to have one piece of a sleeve…you just have to see it to believe it.

BS1

The shirt that shall not be named.

Billy gets so pumped by his own singing that he rips off his indescribable shirt a la the Incredible Hulk. Who knew he had such upper body strength? Must be from all that “guitar” stroking. (For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Squier’s musical catalog, “The Stroke” is another one of his “hits”.)

BS2

Well, that shirt's ruined.

Because he’s actually very modest, Billy busts out shirt numero dos. This was obviously his girlfriend’s top that she left on the floor the night before, because, people, I OWNED that shirt in Junior High. No lie. But, even my shirt wasn’t as GAY as Billy’s. I mean, mine wasn’t Love’s Baby Soft Pink, for crying out loud.

BS3

Billy's shirt.

Me 80s BS

My shirt.

But, wait. If you thought the pink shirt was femme, wait until he straps on his matching guitar. What kind of MAN has a pink guitar?!?

BS5

Oh, look. He added a jaunty neckerchief to his ensemble. Cute!

Okay, I’ve avoided the subject long enough. We NEED to discuss Mr. Squier’s, ahem, “dancing”. This guy make’s Elaine from Seinfeld look like Baryshnikov. I didn’t know someone could dance so poorly who wasn’t handi-capable. It’s just so BAD. Honestly, he looks like he has a severe palsy or a twitch or something. I imagine it resembles what Michael J. Fox dancing would look like (going straight to Hell). That being said, I wonder when Dancing with the Stars is going to book Billy? Or Michael, for that matter. (Hey, it couldn’t be any worse than watching Tom DeLay, okay?) Regardless, no screen capture could possibly due justice to Squier’s moves, but this one comes close.

BS Dances

Richard Simmons, is that you?

Oh, wait. I almost forgot. The band makes an appearance at the end. Oh, dear. Talk about a motley crew. Allow me to introduce…

The Keyboard Player.

BS Keyboards

I feel like he's raping me with his eyes.

The Bass Player.

BS Bassist

I think this dude did time.

The Guitar Player.

BS aha

Obviously, this guy thinks he's in A-ha.

The Drummer.

BS Drummer

I know for a fact this doofus stole his outfit from the lead singer of Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Billy Squier and his band.

Band

Are we SURE they're not Canadian?

P.S.
He DOES shave his pits!

BS Pits

This image will stay with me forever.

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My Mom

Posted by kimlno on September 22, 2009

My mom and me.

My mom and me.

To celebrate turning 39 for the 27th time (you do the math), today’s post is dedicated to the one woman who can proudly (cough) call me her daughter, my mom (everybody say, “aw”). Yes, I’ve decided to share all the wonderful ways my mom is super special with you, my audience (which I am pretty sure consists solely of my friends and relatives, who, and this is a big bonus, are already acquainted with my mom). Behold the list of all things that makes her uniquely extraordinary, and all the reasons I love her as much as I do. Happy birthday, Mom.

  1. Dinner. What we are going to have for dinner, whether she cooks it or not, is of utmost importance to my mom. Above almost all other things, the dinner question must be answered in a timely fashion and WELL before the dining hour (second only to, “where’s the bathroom?”). Usually the dinner question makes its first appearance after lunch. Which is logical, because, lunch comes before dinner. However, and I don’t know about you but, after lunch I am FULL. The farthest thing from my mind is thinking about eating more food. Often, my mom has even solicited dinner suggestions as she heads off to bed the night BEFORE. Apparently, it’s all about dinner.
  2. Bathrooms. As previously mentioned, the definitive knowledge of every location of each bathroom within a 5 mile radius of our home is a given. This includes temporary bathroom structures, otherwise known as Port-A-Potties, ingeniously placed in residential areas where access to public bathroom facilities may be limited. I don’t know what my mom would do if people stopped remodeling their homes. Perhaps she’d have to resort to wearing Depends, but let’s hope it doesn’t get to that stage any time soon.
  3. Grammatical Errors. Bearing in mind that my mom taught high school English for 42 years (yes, 42 YEARS), the proper usage, spelling, and punctuation of absolutely everything in the entire universe is under scrutiny. Signs, billboards, books, magazines, anything that relies on the 26 letters of the alphabet is fair game. And, my mom wants to correct it ALL. Of course, that would be impossible, but she still tries.
  4. Walking. My mom has walked 3 miles every day for the past 4,627 days IN A ROW. Take a moment and try to think of something you have done every single day since January 21, 1997. Bodily functions don’t count. I got nothin’, and you? Just for fun, I decided to calculate exactly how far my mom has walked. That’s 13,881 miles. That’s almost TWO TIMES the circumference of the Earth. The EARTH, people! Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor dead of night can keep my mom from taking her walk. Before she retired, there were many days she would wake up at 4:00 in the morning to take her walk, because she knew she would be too tired when she got home from work. To most people, this seems commendable, an example of true dedication. To me, it seems insane.
  5. Crossword Puzzles. Each day, my mom completes at least three crossword puzzles: The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times online crossword, and The Los Angeles Times Crossword that comes in the morning paper. Don’t ask me why there are two different L.A. crosswords. I have no idea. And, when vacationing in Hawaii, she adds two more crossword puzzles to the daily tally, The Honolulu Advertiser and The Honolulu Star Bulletin. She’d do more, if there were more available. Seriously. I kid you not.
  6. Indomania. According to Wikipedia, “Indomania, or Indophilia, refers to the special interest India, or the Indian subcontinent, that has generated in the Western world.” That being said, my mom’s enthusiasm for Indian culture, books, music, and movies has turned her into an INDOMANIAC. She hasn’t gone as far as wearing a sari and a bindi, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
  7. Cats. If there is one creature in this world my mom hates more than any other living thing on Earth, it’s cats. In her opinion, cats are as revolting as cockroaches. I honestly believe, if she were forced to choose, she’d rather live in a house full of cockroaches, than a house full of cats. And don’t even mention purring.
  8. Dark Chocolate. Although she loves dark chocolate more than life itself, my mom is allergic to it. Not one of those serious “one-bite-and-you-will-die” allergies, but an allergy nonetheless. Eating chocolate makes my mom sneeze. Oh, and not just one sneeze, we are talkin’ major double digits and no less than 5 tissues. One would think that all that sneezing would put her off chocolate altogether. One would be incorrect. For future reference, dark chocolate ganache is her absolute favorite.
  9. Choking. My mom is the only person alive who can practically choke to death on a single grain of rice. Sometimes, she chokes on air. Again, I have no explanation to share with you, it’s just a fact.
  10. Freshness. Perhaps it’s because for the past 30 years she has lived within 50 feet of Gelson’s, because my mom is obsessed with how fresh food is. She will rifle through every single loaf of bread to find the one with the best “sell by” date.  And it’s not just bread. It’s everything. Absolutely anything that can possibly expire including, but not limited to: deli meats, cheese, eggs, bacon, chicken, and chips. If it’s not fresh, she won’t eat it.
  11. Food Temperature. If her food is one degree less than scalding, my mom won’t eat it. At home, she heats up the dinner plates in the oven so the food won’t catch a chill by being placed on a room temperature plate. And it’s not like the kitchen is another wing of the house or anything. If I had to estimate, I’d say the oven is approximately 5 feet from the dining room table, maybe less. You think I am kidding, don’t you? Come over some time, and you can see for yourself.  God forbid we should ever eat in a restaurant where she can see the food waiting under the heat lamps to be served. Every ounce of restraint is needed for her not to go and pick up the plates herself. Most especially if French fries are involved.
  12. French fries. There is no other food my mom loves more than French fries. If she could have fries with every meal for the rest of her life, she would die a happy woman. Fries are to be served plain. No ketchup. Not too much salt. Possibly a side of Ranch, but not entirely necessary. But they’d better be HOT, or you will hear about it.
  13. Mary J. Blige. For some unexplainable reason, my mom cannot accept that Mary J. Blige pronounces her last name as B-L-I-G-E and not B-I-L-G-E (as in pump). She always says it incorrectly and she doesn’t care anymore. As far as she’s concerned, the woman’s name is Mary J. Bilge (sorry, Mary).
  14. Drugs. One does not venture forth from the house without a wide selection of medications to treat one’s ills, especially not my mother. I’m not saying she’s a drug addict or anything like that, it’s just that my mom has quite a few prescriptions for a number of different complaints. Got a headache? Here’s a Darvon. Feeling stressed? Take a Xanax. Tummy upset? Pick your poison: Nexium, Ranitadine, Immodium, Advantix?  I’m probably missing one, but you get the idea. My mom’s motto is to be prepared, lest you be in pain.
  15. Ready for Anything. As I just mentioned, my mom believes heartily in being prepared. This means that at any moment my mom is equipped with the proper tools to get the job done. If you find yourself without a pen, just ask my mom. Scissors? Paper? Nail file? Bottle opener? Measuring tape? My mom has it. She’s not unlike a walking Swiss Army Knife, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a magnifying glass or a saw from her bag. She is absolutely prepared for anything and everything. Bring it on.
  16. Chablis. You can keep your fancy schmancy Chardonnay, my mom prefers a nice, chilled Chablis. On occasion, she might have a glass of Pinot Grigio or Merlot, but for her, Chablis is where it’s at. Oh, and toss a few ice cubes in her glass while you’re at it because as much as she likes her fries hot, she demands that her wine be cold.
  17. Cleanliness. Nothing can be too clean when it comes to my mom’s standards, and you can bet your bottom dollar that if there’s even the tiniest spot or smudge or stain, she will zero in on that sucker like a hawk. She has a full arsenal of cleaning potions and solutions to rid the world of its filth, and she uses them liberally. Dirt has no place in my mother’s world.
  18. Organization. Aside from dirt and cats, nothing bothers my mom more than clutter. Disorganization is the eighth deadly sin as far as she’s concerned, and everything under her management is color-coded, labeled, and alphabetically arranged.  I’d say she has OCD, but she’d rearrange it as CDO.

And you people wonder why I’m insane. Now, you know. (Kidding, Mom…kidding.)

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One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure

Posted by kimlno on September 15, 2009

"Dirty White Trash (with Gulls)" by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

"Dirty White Trash (with Gulls)" by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

Have you seen Hoarders? It’s GNARLY. I literally had to pop a Xanax (okay, TWO) to finish watching last night’s episode. Somewhere around the second commercial break, I realized I was clenching my jaw and sitting on my hands (I don’t know why I sit on my hands when I’m feeling stressed, I just do…so, get over it). If you haven’t seen the show, you’re probably asking yourself what could this reality program be about that is so totally disturbing that Kim would have to self-medicate in order to watch? Well, I’m going to tell you.

Hoarders, on A&E, is about people who never throw anything away. And when I say never, I mean NEVER. These certifiably insane men and women have so much crap that they couldn’t possibly even imagine having to part with, it’s taken over their lives. Their houses are filled to the brim with everything you can imagine: books, bottles, boxes, and a whole boatload of junk that doesn’t necessarily start with the letter B. Most of this clutter is simply garbage, foul rubbish these freaks can’t separate themselves from because each tiny scrap of paper or empty to-go cup from Wendy’s MEANS something to them. Like a keepsake, or a souvenir. It’s not only incredibly disconcerting the way these people cherish their trash, it’s disgusting.

Some of the rooms in the hoarder’s house are completely inaccessible due to the giant piles of stuff covering the floors, tables, chairs, and shelves. Most have managed to fashion themselves a footpath that grants them access to the essentials: the bed, the bathroom, the front door. However, some of these folks can’t even FIND the bathroom or the bed anymore. Many just carve a small spot out of the giant heaps of garbage where they manage to live, eat, and sleep…if you can even call that living. It’s some serious Grey Gardens shit.

When I was younger, members of society who preferred to live in such squalor were referred to as “pack rats” or just plain, old “slobs”. I’d be willing to bet that many of you have known someone who fits the description. Heck, you’re probably even related to one or two of them. I am. My great-grandparents fit the general depiction of hoarders, and I loathed visiting them because of it. Thankfully, they’re dead now (oh, I’m already going to Hell so why not excel at it?). But when they were alive, my grandma would bribe me with a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the condition that I would save it to eat while she had a short visit with her in-laws. I’m still unconvinced this was a fair trade-off.

Usually, I wasn’t permitted to explore any other parts of their house other than the front room, but I do remember going out to the backyard once or twice. It wasn’t so much a yard as it was a make-shift swap meet. The garage was separate from the house itself and my great-grandparents had strung up a large, green tarp to cover the outside area. Obviously, they didn’t want their precious refuse to be exposed to the elements. Duh. They had extraneous furniture that couldn’t fit in the house anymore placed outside so they could heap more crap on top of it. Sure the junk was relatively organized into various identifiable stacks (e.g., newspapers, magazines, shoe boxes, etc.), but garbage is still garbage even if you arrange it neatly.

I remember being worried that one of the giant pillars of newspapers might come crashing down on top of great-grandma or great-grandpa, trapping them until the other one found a phone to call for help. I seriously considered buying them a Life-Alert system with my allowance money (“Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!). Once, I tried to eat a piece of candy from the candy dish they kept on the table in the front room, but my grandma nearly smacked it out of my hand before I could unwrap it and put it in my mouth. I faintly remember her telling me not to eat anything I found in my great-grandparents house, and to stick to the food I’d brought with me. You know that’s some sketchy shit if McDonald’s is a healthier alternative. But that was cool by me because I’d seen some pretty scary looking jars full of unidentifiable substances in their kitchen. You don’t have to tell me twice. But now, looking back, I realize they were definitely hoarders albeit tidy ones. My grandma explained to me they kept all that junk because they’d survived the Great Depression and learned to never throw anything away. I just thought they were crazy.

And that’s the thing about these people on Hoarders. Are they really crazy? Or are they just LAZY? I think it’s a little of both. I mean, you’ve got to be slightly touched in the head to keep drawers full of empty wine bottles for safe keeping. Right? Plus, these people have obvious visceral reactions to having the trash taken out of their home. The producers of the program send along a psychiatrist (absolutely necessary) and what can only be described as a “special forces” garbage collecting crew to rid these homes of their vile and potentially dangerous contents. Each and every scrap of paper, empty can, and broken floor tile piece has to be “Okayed” before it’s tossed. As you can imagine, this is a long and arduous process that takes DAYS to complete. I think they should just douse the place with gasoline and light a match to those pig sties, but apparently there’s some sort of healing process or something the hoarder has to deal with so he or she doesn’t end up in this same situation a few months down the road. Whatever. You KNOW they’re going to do it again.

Personally, I just don’t get it. I’m not OCD organized, but there’s no way in HELL I’d let filth fester in my home. If I make a mess, I clean it up. Put it away. Toss it. Just get it out of my house. Otherwise, you could end up like the cat lady hoarder. I won’t even discuss with you what they found in her stacks of shit. The very thought of it makes me want to go take another shower. *shiver*

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