Times I Did Stupid Stuff

10

Feel Like Company?

February 3, 2013

First, the big news. If you’re busy and don’t have time to read one of my rambling, stream-of-consciousness, navel-gazing blog entries (or just don’t feel like it, for which I would not blame you a bit, by the way), then here’s the least you need to know: THE GUY AND I GOT CAST IN COMPANY AT SHREVEPORT LITTLE THEATRE!!!!!!!!

(It opens June 27, and you need not worry about remembering to buy tickets, because TRUST ME, I will remind you at least once a week for the next 20 weeks.)

(You’re welcome.)

I would say YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!, but that doesn’t even begin to describe the excitement and utter joy that is practically leaking out of the Powell house this evening. A couple years ago or so, a taped performance of the 2006 Broadway revival version came out on Netflix (pretty sure it’s still on Netflix, actually), and The Guy and I watched it. The only way I can describe our reaction to it is to say the divining rod went down HARD – it’s rare that we BOTH fall like that for a musical or play, as we have different tastes sometimes where theatre is concerned. But man alive, we love Company, and because of it, we fell in love with Stephen Sondheim.

When theatre nerds fall in love with a show, the first thing they want to do, naturally, is put on their own production of it. And we had the idea to approach Bobby Darrow, the artistic director of Shreveport Little Theatre, about putting it on there in his honor, as a way to thank him for his uncountable contributions to community theatre in Shreveport. But there were a number of problems with this little endeavor, motivated by love though it would be. First, we’d have to get Bobby to agree. Second, we’d probably have to raise the money for it ourselves, and for that we’re talking about a sum of money somewhere north of $10,000 (likely a great deal more). Third, we’d more than likely have to find somebody besides Bobby to direct it, and then we’d have to cast it. In other words, it would be practically impossible for two people with a baby and two and a half full-time jobs between them.

It just wasn’t the time.

Fast forward to December 18. I realized I was, as they say, late, took a pregnancy test, and learned, much to our delight, that Baby Powell was on his or her way. Both of us were absolutely ecstatic.

Exactly 10 days later, we heard that Bobby was planning to mount a production of Company at Shreveport Little Theatre in June (i.e., he beat us to the punch). I admit I felt a little wistful. I knew The Guy would probably get cast, but alas, there are no hugely pregnant characters in Company. But in truth, I had no regrets. I would be busily preparing for Baby Powell, and The Guy agreed right away that I could “finish” the nursery (read: do some expensive stuff like have drapes made and get the glider recovered in this GORGEOUS white faux crocodile vinyl I found at Milling Around – I know, I know, it sounds hideously tacky, but trust me, this thing would’ve been drop-dead chic. Also vomit-proof!). And he would probably be cast, so while I wouldn’t be in it myself, at least I would be close to it, and that would be a lot of fun. I thought to myself, I could probably get a babysitter a few nights and go up to the theatre and watch them rehearse. Plus my mom has been wanting to volunteer helping to sew costumes, and that might be fun, too.

It just wasn’t my time.

On January 18, precisely one month after I found out I was pregnant with Baby Powell, The Guy and I went to the OB and had an ultrasound where we learned there was no heartbeat. In a daze, we scheduled a D&C for the following Monday.

It just wasn’t Baby Powell’s time.

I spent the rest of the day alternating between fits of sobbing and a grief-stricken daze. That night, seemingly out of nowhere, a thought occurred to me. “Call Bobby,” I said. “Call him right now and tell him I want to audition for Company.” Understandably, The Guy could not believe I was serious. Somehow, I convinced him I was. Bobby, having no clue that this was anything other than a perfectly ordinary weekend for the Powell family, asked us to come to the theatre Sunday at 4. He said I should prepare a song from the show.

OK, y’all, let’s just stop right here and analyze this for a minute.

1. I am, quite literally, in the midst of a miscarriage.
2. I have not sung for anyone except for babies, dogs and the crowd at a lesbian karaoke bar in New Orleans (long story) since the ninth grade.
3. While I have spent plenty of time singing along with Raul Esparza on iTunes, I do not actually KNOW any of the songs from Company.

I asked Dr. Brandi, “This is the very definition of avoidance and denial, right?”

Her answer?

“Who cares?”

I am here to tell you that the only thing in the entire known universe that could have possibly distracted me from what was to come on Monday would be preparing to sing in front of sober people for the first time since I was 14 years old.

So I threw myself into learning “The Little Things You Do Together.”

When I say that out loud – “I’m really not a very good singer, and I haven’t sung since I was a freshman in high school, but I marched my ass into Shreveport Little Theatre, climbed on the stage and sang like somebody was paying me a hundred bucks to do it,” I think to myself,

SELF, WHAT THE F–K IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?! SERIOUSLY, WHO DOES S–T LIKE THAT?!

And, as usual, I have no rational explanation for my actions.

It went…to tell the truth, I had no idea how it went, but I chose to trust The Guy when he said (with a surprised look on his face, I might add) that it went really well.

On the car ride home, I broke down, and was inconsolable until the next day when they wheeled me into the operating room, put a suffocating plastic mask on my face and told me to breathe deeply.

Two days later, while I was still very much in a grief-and-painkiller-induced fog, Bobby called and said he wanted me to read for him. I thought, OK, good, my singing didn’t automatically knock me out of the running. Only problem was, we had to wait for the scripts to come in. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

FINALLY, finally, Bobby called The Guy on Friday, and they arranged for him to come to our house at 7:30 that evening. I rushed around, trying to make myself presentable and entertain Harper at the same time. NOT an easy feat.

We read, then we chatted for a bit, and Bobby left. And I was DISTRAUGHT. I felt the reading had gone horribly, possibly so badly that Bobby would be disinclined to cast either of us. In other words, I effed up so bad that I not only failed myself, I took Perk down with me. The enormity, not to mention the stupidity, of what I had attempted to do came crashing down on me. I am a 35-year-old mom who hasn’t been on a stage except to take pictures in over 15 years. What business do I have SINGING and ACTING in a MUSICAL when I have just lost one baby and have another one at home who spends the vast majority of her day trying every way she can possibly think of to fatally injure herself? With everything that’s happened to this family in the previous two months, the last thing on Earth we need is more disappointment, and here I have gone INVITING disappointment into our lives. For God’s sake, I’ve practically rolled out the red carpet for it! How stupid, irresponsible and positively DELUSIONAL can an adult human possibly be?

I took one of the sleeping pills that my OB mercifully prescribed for me and went to bed.

Saturday, I waited uneasily with a big, hard knot in the pit of my stomach. Bobby mentioned that two more people were auditioning on Saturday, so I told myself that we wouldn’t hear anything until Sunday anyway. About 4:00, the phone rang. It was Bobby.

He did not sound especially happy. I braced myself.

And then he said those eight beautiful words: “I would like to offer you the role…”

Everything after that is a blur or, more accurately, a gigantic ball of shiny, blinding light.

I’ve already been going to the gym and exercising at home, getting myself into fightin’ form.

And my first voice lesson is on Monday.

It hasn’t sunk in – and may not for a good many more weeks – that I am going to be performing on stage for the first time since college. That is…just…insane.

I know at least a few of you will sneer at the idea that God engineered this, but I believe He did. There is only one being in the infinite multiverse who could make Kelly Powell brave and/or stupid enough to sing in front of people who can pass a field sobriety test and speak English.

(I also think Thorpe, who was crazy for Broadway musicals, might’ve been kicking, or rather, knowing Thorpe, pinching me, in the ass a bit.)

You know that saying about how when God closes a door, He opens a window? I think that’s what happened here. No show – no TEN shows – could ever “make up for” Baby Powell. But God gave me something to do instead. Maybe it’s not “as good,” but it’s still very, very good indeed. I mean, how many spouses get to do things like this TOGETHER? I get to spend time with my husband and my best friend doing something we both love AND learn from him at the same time.

Both Baby Powell and Company are the blessings of a lifetime. They’re just different blessings for different points in a lifetime.

Now is not the time for one, but it’s the perfect time for another.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I’m playing Jenny, and The Guy is David. You can check out those two crazy kids right here (their scene starts at 2:08).

I’m pretty excited to slip into Jenny’s twin set and pearls and see how it feels to be a square.

Your triple double single-threat
Kel

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8

And Now for Some Good to Go With the Bad

December 14, 2012

Updated: Please pray with all your might for the families affected by the school shooting in Connecticut. Our hearts go out especially to the moms and dads who lost their little ones today. It’s an unimaginable tragedy for any parent to face, and it’s even sadder that it happened at this time of year. We also pray for the children of the world, who have to grow up with the reality that horrors like this are not just the stuff of their nightmares.

Y’all better believe I’m holding Ratine Powell a little tighter today and thanking the Most High God that my biggest problem is screwed-up knees.

—-

For obvious reasons, my appointment with the orthopedist got moved up to yesterday. He examined my knees and took a bunch of X-rays, and while the verdict was not entirely good, it was more positive than we had braced ourselves to expect.

Good: The right kneecap (the one I dislocated) is not torn, and there’s nothing chipped off of it. So there’s no reason to perform surgery now. In fact, the right knee will probably never need surgery (barring any more major disasters, of course). So YAY!

Bad: The knee will, however, have to be in a brace for six to 12 weeks. I will need help with Harper for two to three weeks.

Good: I start physical therapy next week, and the doctor said as long as we’re working on one knee, we might as well work on both, which may either lower the need for surgery on my left knee or make rehab after surgery go much, much easier.

Bad: Surgery on the left knee is still, of course, a distinct possibility.

Good: The brace I wore for my first major dislocation, the original one on the left knee, immobilized my entire leg from hip to ankle, i.e., I could not bend my knee at all. Not only was it difficult to get around, the PT afterwards was, how shall we say, intense. Also painful. THIS brace, however, is smaller (about mid-calf to mid-thigh), so it’s a bit more comfortable AND it has a hinge in it so I can bend my knee a little.

Bad: I have to wear it ON my leg, i.e., not over pants, tights or leggings. Not surprisingly, I don’t have any pants with legs wide enough to accommodate this big ugly mofo. Actually, that’s a lie; I do, but they’re sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret with “PINK” emblazoned across the rear.

Needless to say, I will NOT be leaving the house in THOSE.

Good: I have at least two maxi skirts that I can wear, and I just ordered another one from the Gap.

P.S. If you need a little retail therapy today, use the promo code GAPGIFT to get 30 percent off your entire order, including sale items. I got that skirt and a sweater for $43!

Good: My WONDERFUL neighbor Amanda brought over BAGS of delicious but healthy food yesterday, including: salad, vinaigrette dressing, grilled chicken, kalamata olives, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, a fresh baguette, gourmet cheeses, crackers, roasted garlic hummus, pitas, a jar of Roma tomato chili melange, homemade tabbouleh with shrimp and a bottle of Chardonnay. OK, so maybe the Chardonnay isn’t particularly healthy, but it sure is tasty.

Bad: No bad there, except The Guy and I probably had really rank breath from all that garlic hummus. As he said last night, injured or not, that was one of the best dinners we’ve had in ages.

Bad: I feel irrationally guilty that my mom, mother-in-law and Amanda are having to help me with Rat.

Good: Since I’ll be spending a lot of time with my mom and, well, I have quite a bit of time on my hands at the moment, she’s finally going to teach me to hand-sew.

That’s right – I can cross-stitch, embroider (by hand!) and sew on a machine ’til Jesus comes back, but I have no earthly idea how to hand-sew.

Bad: My husband suggested that I audition for the role of a mentally handicapped woman. Oh yes he did.

Good: After he, uh, CLARIFIED that statement, it became obvious that he has much (misplaced) faith in my (nonexistent) acting talents. And he does have a point – I did grow up around a mentally handicapped person, and I can do a pretty awesome Aunt Carol impression*, not to mention that it’s not exactly a stretch for me to walk funny at this particular point in time.

However, this play is set in New York, and I think any of you who have ever heard me talk can probably agree that the chances of me leaving my Southern accent entirely behind are slim to none. On the other hand, it’s not like I don’t have time for dialect coaching right now.

*Please note: Do not send me 28,000 misspelled emails written entirely in capital letters telling me what a horrible person I am for making fun of the mentally handicapped. Aunt Carol could have an IQ of 192 and an impression of her would STILL be funny, I assure you. She may be mentally handicapped, but she’s also kind of a snob. She is also the biggest LSU fan on Planet Earth, a Goldwater Republican and a lover of badminton. There are students currently studying at Harvard who can’t remember dates as well as she can, and I am 90 percent sure that she would punch my mother, her big sister, in the face for a bag of M&Ms (plain, not peanut).

Bad: I can’t climb the stairs for another week or two, so The poor, long-suffering Guy has to make multiple trips upstairs every night for craft supplies.

Good: I have set up Crafting Command Central on the sofa; The Guy now not only knows what a Xyron is but also what it does.

Bad: Since I am no longer getting LASIK for Christmas, The Guy told me to look on the Internet and find something else I want for Christmas (!!!!). PEOPLE, I COULD NOT FIND A THING. I mean, I was on the Tory Burch site, so believe me, I found plenty of stuff I would NOT turn down, but I didn’t find anything I wanted badly enough to spend the money on it and/or that I can use for the next several weeks (e.g., I’m pretty sure a pair of Hunter Wellingtons will NOT fit over this dumb brace).

I also considered asking for chickens, but Mom and Dad, as former chicken keepers themselves, assured me there is no way my injured self can have a coop and all the other paraphernalia The Ladies would require prepared in time for Christmas.

Kelly’s Christmas Wish List:
1. Tory Burch flats
2. Chickens (hens)

Clearly, I have a wide range of interests.

Good: The Guy is going to surprise me! On the one hand, I’m a little afraid that I’m going to get a stocking full of nothing but leopard-print panties, but on the other, I’m pretty darn excited.

Despite a couple of bummers, the Christmas season is full of possibility.

Your optimistic
Kel

P.S. I almost forgot! More good: A lovely and radiant pregnant Christmas angel by the name of Emily brought me a GORGEOUS Christmas tree skirt that looks absolutely fantastic with my tree. MUCH more beautiful than the one I ordered, I assure you. Obviously, this is the skirt I was meant to have all along!

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7

Of Bum Knees and Christmas Tree Skirts

December 12, 2012

So I guess I need to let y’all know what’s been going on. I was in denial for about 24 hours. And actually, while we’re on the subject, you should know that I love denial. You can convince yourself of anything, you know, including that everything is juuuuust peachy.

But reality has sunk in, and I have come to terms, more or less, with the fact that life in the Powell household is going to be very different for a while.

The last couple of weeks have been…yeah.

In order:

1. My child had an ear infection so bad that she had to go to the doctor twice and the E.R. once. This went on for 10 straight days. Those of you who are parents are cringing right now, imagining what her mood was like.

As The Guy’s boss said, “It’s been 15 years since I had a baby with an ear infection. Can’t say I miss ‘em.”

2. On Oct. 15, I ordered a red and white chevron-striped Christmas tree skirt with “Powell” embroidered on it in green from one of those deal-of-the-day sites called Very Jane. After much back-and-forth, the seller assures me that it shipped last Tuesday. It never arrives.

After several more terse emails, she finally tells me that, in essence, she fibbed when she told me the skirt shipped Tuesday, because it turns out that she didn’t even have it yet. Either that, or she was planning to make, monogram and ship my Christmas tree skirt in one day.

(My mom is a professional seamstress who has been sewing for most of her life. Even she is unable to make, monogram and ship a Christmas tree skirt in one day.)

Rather than in any way making this situation right, she simply tells Very Jane to refund my money. So now it’s 13 days until Christmas and I have no tree skirt despite ordering one two months ago, and as you will soon see, I can’t exactly go shopping for one, either. Oh, and Very Jane DID give me a refund, but they steadfastly refuse to acknowledge my horrible customer-service experience.

Merry Christmas to me.

3. I went to the doctor, where I learned I will have to have surgery on my left knee. This is inconvenient but not necessarily unexpected. As Dr. Brandi put it, “Knees usually finally say ‘enough’ after so many years of dance.”

What was most disappointing is that I had finally made the decision to start taking ballet again. Feel free to laugh all you want, but I don’t think I can express how much I was looking forward to it. I mean, I know good and well that I could practice seven days a week for the rest of my life and never again reach the level I was at when I quit, but 1) it’s some of the best exercise there is and 2) it’s an activity that I truly love like no other.

But that’s life, and that’s dance. There are lots of disappointments.

4. I go on a photo shoot, where I dislocate the OTHER knee.

Excuse my profanity here, but no, I am not, in fact, shitting you.

I didn’t fall, and I wasn’t hanging sideways out of a tree or doing anything equally risky. I simply knelt to take a shot (just like any of you who are clients have seen me do a hundred times), and when I got up, bingo. The pain took my breath away, and I couldn’t talk for a little bit.

Here’s the craziest part: After it happened, I just kept on shooting. Not because I’m some kind of badass or anything, but because a) I was completely and utterly humiliated and 2) I am apparently a pathological people-pleaser. The way I saw it (at the moment, at least) was that my clients had driven all the way to Benton from Mooringsport and I was not about to send them home with four pictures simply because my knee couldn’t behave itself.

Thank God it popped back in on its own, or otherwise this story probably would’ve ended with them calling an ambulance for me.

On the bright side, their pictures turned out really pretty.

5. Because of Knee Dislocation IV (yes, four; that’s exactly four more dislocations than anyone should experience in a single lifetime), I had to cancel a three-hour birthday party shoot for this coming weekend. Thank God, my friend Henrietta agreed at the last minute to take the job in my place. Also thank God that the kid’s parents are doctors, so they understand the situation and were super nice about it and grateful that I found a replacement for them.

Who do these things happen to, I ask you? Who?

6. Then, after rearranging my and The Guy’s entire lives because I can’t pick up the baby off of the floor and/or carry her anywhere, I go to the eye doctor to have my pre-op LASIK exam and learn that I am at risk for a complication and have to have an additional scan before I can have the surgery.

Good: This scanner represents the very latest in ophthalmologic technology!

Bad: However, it has not yet arrived in Shreveport.

Worse: Because it was ordered from overseas and is currently stuck in customs.

Because of the Christmas holidays, they’re not doing surgery as often, so my procedure has been postponed until January 25. This after wearing my glasses and having a perpetual headache for two weeks. I am not ashamed to tell you that I started crying right there in the doctor’s office.

So instead of getting 20/20 vision for Christmas, it looks like I’m actually getting surgical scars and at least two knee braces.

Santa, I’m gonna be honest right now: I’m considering baking Ex-Lax into your cookies, you fat m0#$3^f@(43^.

Because I am trying to maintain some semblance of positivity, we will not discuss the likelihood that, for my and The Guy’s Great-Gatsby-themed New Year’s party, an event I have looked forward to literally for YEARS, I will be sitting in a chair almost the entire time.

—-

While I would like to tell you that I have maintained an unfailingly sunny attitude throughout all this strife, that would be a bald-faced lie. There has been much wailing, gnashing of teeth, rending of garments and florid, Texas-style profanity. It is exceedingly difficult – nay, impossible! – for me to sit and watch a movie without doing anything else, so you can imagine how I feel about being confined to the sofa for two and a half days. And not being able to take care of the house, laundry and baby the way *I* like to do it is about to cause my OCD to eat me alive from the inside out.

The Guy cautions me all the time to stay out of the business of trying to decipher God’s plans, but in this situation, if I had to guess, I’d say that this is his sure-fire way of getting me to slow down. I never take off work even when I intend to. Technically, I’m taking December off, but I turned in an article yesterday and had scheduled no less than four photo shoots. I haven’t slowed down in a long, long time, and I know in my heart that I need to. I’ve been working as hard as I can this year to be the best mom I can possibly be and to grow the photography business, and I’m getting really tired – like, tired way deep down where I can’t even see. There’s just so much I want to do and make and plan and help with! But it’s time to take a break. Obviously, my knees think so, too.

So if you need me over the next few weeks, for once, you’ll know exactly where to find me – on the sofa. While that may sound heavenly to some, I know it’s going to take some adjustment for me to be OK with it, but I also know those are adjustments I need to make. And I’d love some company, so if you feel like visiting, stop by and sit a while. (Bonus points if you bring Thai food like my sweet friend Angela did today.)

Apparently, I’m not going anywhere for a while!

Your laid-up
Kel

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6

Party Girl

November 26, 2012

Predictably, a sense of melancholy fell over me after Harper’s first birthday party. After weeks of planning, strategizing, shopping, choosing, ordering, crafting, sewing and a whole lot of hot gluing (also: second-degree burning), I finally had a moment to sit and think about my girl being one whole entire year old, and how this “baby” business is flying by way, way too fast for my liking.

Rat's first birthday party is five days away, and Mom and I are sitting smack in the middle of crafting and sewing hell.

I think I shall take her out in the rain and shrink her so she’ll stay a baby forever.

That’s how it works, right?

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At any rate, she had a blast at her party, which is the best outcome I could’ve possibly hoped for. And, after some initial skepticism, it turns out Little Miss is quite the fan of cupcakes, just like her mama.

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Also, she is now under the erroneous impression that all cupcakes are for her. I.e., she threw a fit at Joy’s birthday brunch when I wouldn’t hand over my entire cupcake.

Before Harper was born, I started planning a cowgirl theme (yes, I am EXACTLY the kind of person who begins planning her daughter’s first birthday party before she’s even born), but in February, I decided Raggedy Ann was the only way to go. See, Raggedy Ann dolls are one of Delta Gamma’s symbols. (Well, officially, DG refers to it as a “Hannah Doll,” but in reality, most chapters use Raggedy Anns.) It was my small way of honoring Thorpe, whom Harper never got to meet.

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I hope Thorpe would’ve been tickled pink.

The lovely and incredibly talented Henrietta Wildsmith photographed the event for us. She also took Harper’s newborn photos and photographed her baptism, and as usual, she did an incredible job. Thanks to her hard work, I was able to be completely present for Harper’s party and focus on being a proud mom, not a photographer, and that meant the world to me.

Plus, we got our Christmas card photo out of it, so SCORE.

We also need to talk about how AMAZING The Guy was during my days (and nights) of June-Cleaver-on-speed-esque over-planning and neurosis leading up to the party. He never ONCE complained, and he jumped in and cheerfully did every single thing that needed to be done, including, but not limited to, going to three different stores to find polka-dotted balloons and paper straws and making an 11 p.m. run to Walmart to get Tabasco for the cucumber tea sandwiches. Because if THAT’S not a bona fide emergency, you’re going to have to tell me what is because I just don’t know.

In sum: A real man will hold you while you freak the eff out about be-glittered chipboard letters.

Want to see some more pics from Harperpalooza? They’re right here. That’s not all of them – Henrietta literally shot hundreds (a photographer after my own heart!) – but those are the ones that tell the story of a fun, exciting day that we two out of three of us will remember forever.

Your party-hoppin’
Kel

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4

Menu-less Monday

October 22, 2012

No menu today, folks. Not because I don’t plan to eat this week (that’ll be the day), but because until Wednesday, The Guy is in Las Vegas eating all sorts of delicious and exotic fare, and I’m taking one for the team and eating up the leftovers in the fridge.

Needless to say, he better bring me home something amazing. This sounds like a job for Tory Burch.

I did, however, order a Johnny’s Pizza Saturday night and, over the course of two days, ate the whole thing by myself, and I didn’t have to share my anchovies with anybody, even Harper. It was, in a word, magical.

So instead of regaling you with what we plan to eat this week, I’m going to tell you all about how Chihuahua went missing Saturday. Don’t worry, we found her.

The Guy: “Is it wrong to admit that I’m a little disappointed?”

No, my love. No, it is not.

For those of you keeping score at home, this makes TWICE. If it happens a third time, I’m calling it God’s will and going home to live out the rest of my days in canine-free bliss.

Longtime readers may remember two years ago when Chihuahua went missing the night before my birthday. A husband, a baby and a whole lot of sleep deprivation later, I handled the situation somewhat differently this time around.

Saturday afternoon, in between Halloween mini-sessions, I drove to my parents’ house for a little target practice. I was outside with Dad getting an introductory lesson in handguns when Mom hollered out the back door (we’re so Southern, we bleed sweet tea and Bourbon) and said she couldn’t find Chihuahua. Frankly, I wasn’t all that worried. If she was hiding in the woods near where we were shooting, then chances were good to excellent that she was sitting on a cloud begging Jesus for a hotdog right about then. But given what happened last time, I was pretty sure she was hiding in the house.

When I noticed that Aunt Carol, who is mentally handicapped and has balance roughly equivalent to that of a beach ball with feet, was traipsing around IN THE WOODS looking for Chihuahua, I figured it was time for me to locate the rat-dog and set everyone’s minds at ease once and for all.

Except I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in the house, in the woods, in the garage, under the camper or in any of her usual hideouts.

Mom was, by her own standards, at least, frantic (meaning that, from the rest of the world’s point of view, she was slightly concerned). You see, she’s the one who let Chihuahua out and then forgot about her. She blamed herself, and, like the good – no, great – daughter I am, I kept reassuring her that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Even though, technically, it was TOTALLY her fault.

(I think that proves decisively that I’m the superior child and should therefore inherit everything all to myself. Don’t you agree?)

Personal to Mom: I’m gonna let this one slide, but the next time you lose my dog, we’re going to have to start talking about cut-rate nursing homes.

Is threatening a person with discount elder care the senior adult equivalent of a time-out?

Nah, I’m just kidding. Like I tell Mom all the time, I’ll never put her in a nursing home. Instead, I’ll keep her at home with me where I’ll dress her in holiday sweaters and pay her a quarter to water the plants.

Anyway, back to Chihuahua. Still couldn’t find her. Finally, I had to go to another shoot. And in sharp contrast to the last time she went missing, I had what the self-help books call a “peaceful acceptance” of the situation. Although, to be fair, that “peaceful acceptance” probably had more to do with the fact that Chihuahua has peed in Harper’s room three times in the last four days than any sort of personal serenity.

After the shoot, I drove back to my parents’ house to retrieve Harper and, hopefully, Chihuahua. I made up my mind to drive the streets surrounding my parents’ house one more time on my way out of the neighborhood. And just about the time I turning onto the road home, The Guy called and said that Home Again, Chihuahua’s microchipping service, had just called him. Apparently, a good Samaritan named Cynthia, who lived just one street over from Mom and Dad, had Chihuahua. I turned around and went back to get her.

I drove up to Cynthia’s beautiful home, where she graciously invited me inside. Turns out I had to go inside because Chihuahua wouldn’t let Cynthia and her family touch her. (Except, of course, to read her microchip tag.)

So I walk in, and what do I find but Chihuahua sitting on a settee – not even a COUCH, y’all, a damn SETTEE – eating hotdogs. HOTDOGS. I swear to God.

And rather than jump around or in any way act happy to see me, Chihuahua looked at me balefully, like, “MEAN LADY ALWAYS SHOW UP AND RUIN ALL CHIHUAHUA FUN. NOW CHIHUAHUA HAVE TO GO BACK TO HOUSE OF STUPID AND BORED.”

Cynthia was all like, “Oh, you must have been so worried about your baby!”, not knowing that in that moment, I really wanted nothing more than to drop-kick Chihuahua into my parents’ driveway.

So I loaded her up and took her home, and now here she is next to me, snoring and farting, just like last time.

So what have we learned today, boys and girls?

1. Chihuahua is part boomerang.
2. Don’t let my mother let your dog out to pee.
3. I’m a much calmer person when allowed to shoot at things periodically.

and finally

4. Good neighbors are worth their weight in gold.

Your dog-hunting
Kel

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4

Menu Monday

October 1, 2012

Recently, I had a major Martha Stewart moment during which I decided to make a menu chalkboard for my kitchen. The plethora of giant screw holes pock-marking the kitchen wall may or may not have provided further motivation for this project.

I picked up an oddly-sized (and, apparently, wrongly-sized) frame from Michael’s for $8. I bought a small piece of particle board from Home Depot for a couple more bucks, and The Guy took it out to the garage and cut it down to size for me. I specify that he took it out to the garage because if he’d done it in the house, I would’ve worried and fretted and pestered him so much about being careful and not cutting off any of his fingers that he would’ve either a) gotten so flustered that he actually cut off one of his fingers, thus turning one of my irrational and neurotic fears into a self-fulfilling prophecy that he would’ve had to hear about for the next 30 years or b) choked me out with an industrial extension cord.

Safety first, y’all. Safety first.

Anyway, I then painted the frame with a leftover can of paint the previous owner of our house had used to paint the dining room and the particle board using some chalkboard paint I already had. Once they were dry, I searched for and failed to find my brand-new staple gun that my dad bought me for Christmas, so I had to go to Lowe’s and buy another one. After I returned home $30 poorer, I attached the wood to the frame and voila! Menu chalkboard.

So proud am I of my creation that I’ve been taking Instagram photos each week of our dinner menus. My friends are compassionate people as well as good actors, so they (convincingly) pretend to get a kick out of it.

And as you have probably figured out, a teensy bit of encouragement is all it takes with me, so now you’re being subjected to the weekly menus as well.

Enjoy!

Let's eat!

Mon: Grilled pork chops and roasted cabbage.

Tue: In which I eat like an eight-year-old.

Wed: Grilled cheese sandwiches and creamy tomato soup, i.e., a doctored can of Campbell’s finest.

Thu: Homemade pinto beans, cornbread and salad.

Fri: Two dates in two weeks! Whether or not I still own two date-worthy outfits remains to be seen.

P.S. Hurry up and buy your Louisiana Film Prize tickets so you can vote for Papillon and Harper!

Sat: Slow cooker Cajun Alfredo Pasta (our own lightened-up version) and salad.

Sun: Taco Casserole

Your chowing-down
Kel

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11

Pot Is Dangerous

July 18, 2012

When I was single, any time I imagined the joys of having children – the smiles, the coos, the sloppy kisses and the messy artwork destined for the greatness of the refrigerator gallery – that fantasy was inevitably followed by nightmarish visions of my own incompetence. I might leave it in a shop, for instance, or neglect to feed it until late in the evening, like I sometimes do with Chihuahua.

Chihuahua say, “‘SOMETIMES’ IS VERY GENEROUS ESTIMATE BY MEAN LADY. CHIHUAHUA IS WITHERED HUSK OF CHIHUAHUA. MEAN LADY HIDE CHIHUAHUA FOOD IN CLOSET SO CHIHUAHUA CANNOT GET TO FOOD. IS LIKE EPISODE OF ‘LAW & ORDER.’ PEOPLE OF INTERNET SHOULD COME OVER EVERY DAY FOR TO FEED CHIHUAHUA AND YELL AT MEAN LADY.”

Close-up. #photoadayjune

ANYWAY, I’ve been pretty proud of myself over these last eight months that I haven’t yet managed to injure Harper. (Almost starving her via my non-operational boobs barely counts.) I haven’t dropped her or stepped on her or sat on her or anything, and that’s more than I can say for any of my previous babysitting experiences.

Able to leap small toys in a single bound...well, almost.

That has all changed in the last 24 hours.

It started yesterday afternoon when Harper and I were playing on the (hardwood) floor. Lately, she has perfected her “roll-over-and-sit-up” move. It’s a thing of beauty, really. Wendy-Whelan-esque. The very definition of poetry in motion.

Lately, my little Martha Graham has been trying to figure out how to maneuver herself from a seated position onto all fours. She manages it every once in a while, but she hasn’t figured out HOW she does it, and it frustrates her. Yesterday, after watching her struggle for a few minutes, I thought I’d lend her a hand. So to speak.

Instead, I accidentally pulled HER hands out from under her, and she face-planted onto the floor. And then, because she does not yet know enough curse words to express her rage and indignation, she howled.

She's got her cape on and she's ready to save the world.

“AMATEUR,” Chihuahua say.

And I felt like a heel.

But then I made it up to her by taking her to Toys R Us and buying her a baby pool.

While I was perusing the jogging strollers, I spied the baby potties. “Perkins, can I buy a baby potty?” I asked The Guy. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Isn’t she a little young for one of those?”

PSHAW, PERK! You obviously don’t spend enough time on Pinterest!

Pinterest: The source from whence all good parenting advice comes.

(Also recipes and tutorials about how to make Valentines out of used coffee filters and washi tape.)

Chihuahua say, “WISH MEAN LADY WOULD FIND TUTORIAL ABOUT HOW TO REMEMBER TO FEED CHIHUAHUA EVERY DAY SO CHIHUAHUA NOT STARVE TO DEATH AND DIE. CHIHUAHUA BET THERE NOT ENOUGH BURLAP AND CUPCAKE LINERS IN WHOLE WORLD FOR THAT.”

SMALL THING IS SOURCE OF ALL CHIHUAHUA MISERY. ALSO WOE.

As I perused Pinterest yesterday, I ran across a pin entitled “5 Things to Do With Your Baby to Make Potty Training Later on Easier.” Despite the fact that the author’s grammar and sentence structure make me physically uncomfortable, she grabbed my attention with one of my favorite words: “easier.”

Turns out, her method involves some of the principles of elimination communication. Some people have great success with EC, but personally, I’m not into it. What I AM into, however, is clean floors. And therein lies the impasse.

Regardless, some of EC’s practices are undeniably sound. And one of this lady’s suggestions was to take the baby to the bathroom with you (check) and let her watch YOU use the toilet (also check). In other words, PERKINS, stop facing her toward the wall so you won’t be embarrassed.

She also suggested purchasing a baby potty and, when you go to the bathroom, place the baby on her own potty. This way, she gets used to seeing the potty and sitting on it, and it familiarizes her with the idea that we when go into the bathroom, we’re supposed to do something with this thing here. Sounds good to me.

“I don’t know, Perk,” The Guy repeated, eyeing the potty uneasily. “I’m not sure she can sit on that thing.”

“Of course she can!” I answered brightly. I sat the potty on the ground, unstrapped Harper from her stroller and sat her on the little seat. Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor, but such are the disadvantages of fat legs, I figured.

“There!” I said. “Look at our big girl sitting on the potty all by herself!”

And with that, my daughter took a header off of a fake toilet and smacked face-first into the concrete floor of Toys R Us.

(“WHERE CHIHUAHUA POTTY?”)

Have you ever noticed how judgmental people are in Toys R Us?

When we left, I was nearly in tears. I caused my sweet, innocent Rat-Rat pain! TWICE! In one day! And all because I tried to push her into using the big-people potty far too soon. My guilt was overwhelming.

So I called my mom.

MISTAKE.

I thought she’d never stop laughing.

Finally, Mom had to pause to catch her breath, and I got the chance to tell my side of the story. “I was just trying to make potty training less traumatic for Rat!” I wailed.

“F–ked that up,” The Guy mumbled. And he and and my mother dissolved into hysterical laughter again.

I guess this is what happens when you a) get ahead of yourself and b) try to cut corners.

So what’s the most bone-headed move YOU’VE pulled this week?

You talkin' to ME?

Your chagrined
Kel

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