Not many people dislike me.

Oh, God. Just typing it, I can hear how that must sound.

I promise, though, that I'm not that girl. Not the girl who knows within hours she'll be asked to the junior prom, the one who never spends a Valentine's Day dressed in black. I just mean that I'm a pleaser, I'm pretty good socially, I get along with most non-personality-disordered folk.

Sigh.

But I lost someone close to me recently. And the termination of this friendship has been dev-a-stating. It didn't end in the "I don't feel like calling you back" and maybe "you haven't called me back so there!" way, but in the "I don't want to have to see you again" and "I wish death to your babies and their cats and even their koi" kinda way. Well, not really, but you get the gist.

And I have been obsessed.

I ruminate over what I could have done differently. What I should have done to be a better person, to please the other, to deny Nostradamus and Fate and Time their ways. Hours have been spent contemplating just how I would respond to emails. Days have been devoted to whether we'd know each other again in the future. And I'd complain. and I'd sap, and I'd complain some more. This hurts! I'm not used to this!!! Woe. is. Kris.

And today, like it (poof!) appears to the bleached nitwits of afternoon "stories," it dawned on me: I have been consumed, obsessed, dedicated to a friendship that is no longer, while my Holy Chalice of companionship runneth over.

The people who care for me are ridiculous. (Oh God. Just typing it, I can hear how that must sound. I didn't mean it that way.)

What I meant. Was. I just know the best people. The gal with the beautiful tatoos who will text that she will be wherever I need her, whatever the time. The friend in Ohio who listens to my pain despite her own, who indulges my feline stories and pales not at my perversions. The kindred Seminole with whom I share a wine glass. The best friend in Seattle who probably doesn't know I think of her as much as I do; the best friend in DC who doesn't know that I might love her even more than I do the cats. The playful one, no matter the state. The two blonde/brunette uber-talented women who who hold my heart and who decidedly underestimate their gorgeosity. The beautiful "local" girls who have shared photographs and a blow-up bed in my apartment. The multiple Canadians, who know what good righting (sp?), real friendship and real syrup are made of. The beautiful writer who never frizzes, who meets me for new drinks and new foods. The "en Francais, s'il vous plait?" The beautiful BlogHers. The 25-year-old confidante, a friend for life. And her NYC-trapsing counterpart, a woman never to be phased out.

The bloggers from DC!!!, Seattle, from Michigan, FL, abq, Vegas, CT, NY, PA!, from OH, GA, from LA, CO, NC and from where cheese is moldy milk (and you know you are) whose work addresses I now know, but will only use so they are forced to meet me for drinks someday. The one whose shenanigans I miss. The first readers: the candybars and the vaginas and the inspirational Minnesotan. The gals with two names. The new mom who just bore a baby with a flipped up collar. The three funny ones. The ones I only can wish I'd gone to grad school with (damn, sorry for that dangling preposition, ladies). The slug who had the power to break out into a new relationship, when few things must have been more frightening. The grad school friend in Wisconsin who can't possibly know how often I think of him and his gold car. The one named after a highway with whom I share texts. And the commenter who can't begin to appreciate that I know EXACTLY who they are, even if I don't write back, and that I appreciate the comment and the fact that they even come by this l'il ole site. YOU!!!

My life is so rich.

Damn, I know how that must sound.

What I really meant was . . . ALL MY THANKS.

Shocker!

I spent some time drinking this past week. Confession? I spent some time drinking alone. Faced with the option of once again being outrun by a minivan, I turned instead to the warm blanket that is the Internets, the Information Superhighway that provides me all the love my Pinot sometimes can't.

And I did the unthinkable. In my four-glasses-deep stupor, not only did I pound another airplane bottle of fruity liquid mixed with Diet Sprite ("It's a school night, young lady!" screamed Bug), but I fell victim to a CourtTV advert, one clearly intended for lonely knitters/John Karrs/cheap drinkers, and I - gulp - signed up for Eharmony.

Now those of you who follow my babble pretty regularly know that I'm a researcher. And you might as well know that despite my bar-setting level of coolness white tee shirt sweat stains, Mama luuuuurves her some surveys and data. I was like a pimpled teen at Hooters while filling out this 999-page, narcissistic-tendency(ies)-reinforcing, instrusive-yet- titillating audit of my psyche as well as all corners of my underwear drawer.

I haven't had that much fun since the 1990 SATs.

Heavy petting is to cotton candy as Andrew McCarthy is to ____________.

If I could make out with any of the assassinated U.S. presidents, I would choose ____________.

Of the following, ________ is of the utmost social importance to me:

1) ending the faux pas that is Fall Out Boy;
2) ending the plague that is sloth circumcision;
3) ending the carnage that is Carnie Wilson.

Awesome.

Wait, wait, wait! Can I add that I don't want kids, can't comprehend that Seinfeld was a hit, and am frightened by those Cabbage Patch-like kids sans faces that people put in their gardens?

SUBMIT.

And I waited. Yeaaahhhhhhh, white haired doctor matchmaker man. Bring me a honey.

REFRESH PAGE.

We have no matches in a 20-mile radius.

Shit. I mean, who does? My sexual soulmate could live in West Virginia for all I know. Let's up it a few more miles.

Did you not hear us? We said NO MATCHES, ASSHAT.

Oooooohkay. Maybe I should reconsider the "homeless that live in appliance boxes" or "postmen without testicles."

Let's try again. 120 miles.

Don't embarrass yourself, Kris, seriously. You will die alone and your cats will eat all traces of you.

Tomorrow I figure I'll go international.

Bored at the Awards

Meh. These awards shows are getting more and more sterile, more and more formulaic as the years go by. Why must everything be done by the book? We get it, already. There's a pre-show, there are ugly and there are pretty dresses, there is a tribute to a dead man, one to a live man, people are played off stage by the same producer with the same cheesy instrumental . . . it's a wonder people still watch television when these essentially promotional shows are so routine and turned out with only slight updates to the prior year's script.

But there is always something to say. My comments:

THE OPENING

We Need A Montage! Few things are funnier than any award show opening montage. That To Catch A Predator spoof had me in stitches, I say. Producers should make every awards show opening montage 45 minutes long and make up the time by completely cutting all lame presenter jokes. Notta one. is ever. funny.

Conan O'Brien is going to show up as one of those corpses on CSI pretty soon. Jennifer Love Hewitt seems to have an abundance of tanning gel; maybe she can help a brother out.

Musical numbers should be kept to a minimum in most environments. Didn't we learn anything from Drew Carrey? Ugh.

Jim from the Office is next candidate for being kept in that box under my bed.

THE AWARDS

Wait, is Desperate Housewives still on the air? Last I checked there was more buzz about According to Jim.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus is the new Dick Clark. I'm convinced that she will never die, and will end up cast in wax by age 50. Or maybe she's the new Cloris Leachman? Jesus, Mary.

I miss you, Huff. And I miss Oliver Platt's coked out ranting and raving. Sunday nights just aren't the same, even with the condolences provided by my Entourage boys.

Um, Simon Cowell, this is a dress-up party. That means wearing one of your best ties, not your finest chest hair.

Piven will now be kept in the box under the bed next to Jim's. A man who can improvise, shares a B Fri charm with one Mr. John Cusack, and is not afraid to tear up in front of millions while wearing an ascot is certainly a keeper. And I bet he is downright amazing in the sack.

Any intro that involves "special tribute" is a TV viewer's cue to use the restroom or pluck wily chin hairs.

MY PROPOSAL FOR NEW AWARDS CATEGORIES:

Most Likely to Pass Out Because She Ate Only Air for the Week Before the Awards: Ellen Pompeo

Most Likely to Pass Out Because She Ate Only Air for the Thirty Years Prior to the Awards: Farrah Fawcett

Most Suprising Candidate to End Up in Box Under Kris' Bed: Hugh Laurie

Never, Ever, Going to End Up in a Box Under Kris' Bed, Even with the Assistance of a Lead Muzzle and in the Absence of Air Holes: Howie Mandel

Most Irritating Been There, Done That: Anyone who says "We're Running Long" at one of these things. I've heard this one more times than Tara Reid's been called a whore. Ugh.

Most Desirable Moment that of Course Will Never Happen: A gorgeous Heather Locklear jumping off stage and mounting the crazy but hot Charlie Sheen for an impromptu makeout session, while their dirty bird exes are forced to watch.

Least Discreet, But Most Envied Early Departure of the Evening: Cricket, who passed out on my laundry after the second award, realizing that if the actual ceremony was this boring that the afterparties were definitely going to blow.

If the bitches have to be new, at least the theme song is the same

Laguna Beach is back, and it’s brought with it a whole new breed of bitch. The bitches of yore were pretty low, but the antics were run-of-the-mill stuff consisting of juvenile comments about extensions and weight gain and skanks and such. This year signals the debut of a new borg-like bitch, one who eats sushi and clarinet players for breakfast before her noon colon cleansing. A bitch who would probably wilter when exposed to Wet ‘n Wild body glitter or a holiday spent in a soup kitchen. These are a relentless, ruthless breed, and I’m convinced their moms are never in sight because they’re either a) dating Hasselhoff, or b) trying to off themselves with a cocktail of Ritalin and Red Bull.

(One of these nasty girls used “likey” during a particularly snarky scene in the first episode, and I seriously contemplated a change of url. Enough said.)

Die hard fans need not worry. Not everything with the bitches has changed. The needy, deprived, desperate, anxious – oh, and stringy – Jessica can’t get past her 14 minutes of Laguna fame, and slinks her distressed way into every other scene. Note to Jessica: He = a junior. in high school. You = graduated when Britney was still hot. Move on to the guys working security at the Laguna mall, sister.

Oh, and the girls still have barbeques. With Laguna-patented red Solo cups. Containing boob-fortifying and highlight-enhancing bitch juice.

Now let’s talk about the dudes. Everyone is hot for these meaty, bandy, at times bright, at times frat boyish boys, who at all times reflect shaggy perfection, with glowing hairless skin and perfect teeth, the kind that look disturbingly like Faye Dunaway’s dentures because their braces were removed only an hour prior to production. These are boys who say things like, “did I tell you where I woke up last night? Uh, this morning?” while playing golf. When they’re 15. At least these chumps don’t wear their collars up, even if they exclaim “dude” more often than they expose their treasure trails. At those chaperone-less barbeques.

Stupid bitches.

I’m so totally hooked.

DC Woman Driven to Brink; Admits Emotional Outburst Didn't Happen "On Accident"

District of Columbia -- A Washington, DC resident was heard violently berating a friend in a Northern Virginia mega-store earlier today, reportedly nearing a psychotic break after withstanding years of inappropriate word usage on the part of the same-aged acquaintance.

"You cannot lose your senility, you asshat," fellow Target shoppers reportedly heard the striking blond scream. "It's sanity. You lose your SANITY!"

Kris Likey, 32, stated to a growing crowd of bystanders that her peer had, "for years, been plagued by a tendency to eff up every major word in the English language, even the real short ones at the front of the SAT book!"

Ms. Likey ranted for several minutes in the feminine hygiene aisle, apparently initially set off by the simple statement that her friend was "on her period." Likey acknowledged to the disappointed crowd that this use was clearly only a borderline infraction, but redeemed herself quickly with "It's jibe, not jive!" and the crowd pleaser "YOU GRANDFATHER DOES NOT HAVE A 'CONGENIAL' HEART DEFECT!"

The profusely perspiring Likey continued to assault her clearly startled and guilty companion with a barrage of misused words. "No, as you so loudly stated on our flight to Europe, snails are not a delicatessan in some cultures!" she yelled. The hail of insults continued for a full four minutes, until out of steam, she concluded with a raised arm, "and no, Greenpeace freak, plastic will not lead to our eminent demise!"

Local resident Betta Vanson, disturbed by the commotion in the next aisle, quickly maneuvered her 1999 Rascal out of harm's way. "This is why I never come to Virginia," the DC resident stated, tightly clutching her case of clearance Dial soap. "It's just not safe in the suburbs anymore."

Likey's friend, clearly overcome by "the emoticon of the moment," said it would take some time for the two to get past this very public incident, but that she respected her longtime friend for opening up to her. "Of course, I would never have axed for something like this to happen, but I'm almost glad it did. Heretofore** I will pay more attention to my talking."

Likey was last seen sassing Target customer service for not carrying wine in their beverages section. At press time, no charges had been fled.

Reason #401 Why I Love the Support of You, My Friends and Family. And Why I Worship one Mr. Dave Grohl

Because for the first time in at least four months, I unabashedly and shamelessly danced - nay, grooved - in the shower today.

Moving on.

Three Pretty Irritating and Irritating and yes, also Irritating Reasons I Want To Punch Blogger in the Face

Seriously. Was Sarah Jessica's husband not playing War Games with that supercomputer like 29 effing years ago? How is it possible that in this day and age (insert other fogie language here) a blogger can't upload photos when two year olds have cell phones and GPS in their g-damn strollers?

Because I never got to punch Jennifer *#%! in the face in the 100-wing of my high school when she called me a slut, no matter how much I wanted to maim her that day or six years later when I saw her at that New Jersey wedding.

Because, Blogger, I stay with you, like the boyfriend who doesn't treat you quite right and drinks too much at family functions. While my close friends are courted by the captain of the football team (Moveable Type) and that semi-hot guy in AP English who hung in the back of the room (Typepad, of course), I stay with you. And worse, I defend you to my mom.

Wise up, or I'm so leaving you.

What it feels like for a girl

The day began like any other day. With the exception of the happiness seemingly all around her and the issue of that broken air conditioning and the fact that she had to pick up her belongings from the ex's apartment.

And she went through the motions. She arrived at his place, poised and together as anyone would suspect her always to be, sunglasses ready to eclipse any emotion for the man that she should be over already.

And in his absence she picked up the few things he had left for her, the three years of laughter and intimacy and friendship and yes, disagreements, that had been reduced to nothing more than a couple of boxes of books and minutae, all left outside on the pavement without a note.

Knowing full well that he probably remained unfazed, she held her head high and loaded each and every reminder into her car before driving home with the windows down and the lite radio blaring. She was still okay. She would be okay. Isn't that what everyone kept telling her? No. She should be okay.

And she scoured her apartment, tossing anything that didn't belong in her everyday. Gone were the sizes she was too small or too large for, the notes that she hadn't read in over a year, the memorabilia from trips past that no longer held any meaning.

That night in the quiet she turned to her address book, realizing quickly that most of her friends were either otherwise occupied or living lives of which she was no longer a part. And she was reminded, as if she had not been reminded enough as of late, that she was once again on her own.

New digs

Mama needed a change.

You like?

My partner in crime wine

I can't believe it worked!

Ok, Blogger, I guess I'll start wearing your letter jacket again. Anyhoo, here is pic one from my time in San Ho (copyright 2006 Jurgen Nation, 2006 Heather B., 1986 Nabbalicious). Soon after this photo was taken, Stacy and I finally had our heads and livers separated thanks to a 14-hour conjoined BlogHer surgery performed by Dooce.

Isn't she beautiful?

Neuroses Numbers 471 and 582.73

Let us begin with #471: You and I leave competing Target checkouts at the same time, you pushing a cart full of cereal and body wash, me wielding two Diet Coke-laden bags in each hand. You approach. I, heading for an alternate exit, approach you. You weave, foraging for your keys rather than paying attention to your place in space. You nearly knock me into my 12-year-old cashier.

Scenario 1: You continue on without acknowledging me or my 12,000 ounces of soda product.

Scenario 2: You giggle and tell me you're sorry, making a joke about not being sure you should drive home.

Outcome for Scenario 1: Because I am my mother's daughter, I don't pow you in the kisser, but I force an exasperated "Achhhhh" as you pass. I loudly observe to my shopping companion that people are "SO RUDE THESE DAYS" and she and I come up with at least five hypotheses in response to "WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!?" I later have a dream that I key your Chevy Malibu while you cry, but not before dumping out your six boxes of Froot Loops onto the filthy pavement. I wake up smiling. I later achieve full glory by cutting you off in real life traffic while screaming something exceedingly lame like, "HOW DO YOU LIKE DEM APPLES, BE-OTCH?!?" Then I blog about it.

Outcome for Scenario 2: You and I share a laugh, a high five, and a roll of cinnamon Mentos.

I actually thought this through. In the Target today. I'm not right.

Now for 582.73. I am infuriated by stealing. When kids take soda and candy and condoms from stores, I want to grab them by their Pleasantville ears and have them spread their contraband on the counter while pouting and saying in black and white, "Geez, Ms. Likey!" I find it uncomfortable when I witness coworkers pilfering paper clips and Post-It notes for use on their NCAA pool sheets. But I will take, from anywhere and at anytime, any periodical that strikes my fancy.

Most recently I secured a rather stellar Good Housekeeping from my salon.* During the highlighting process I discovered a well-written article on anxiety. Eh. Take it or leave it. Under the dryer I noted a fantabulous pesto recipe that I will never, as long as I live, actually reproduce in my own kitchen, but HAD TO HAVE, PEOPLE. During the haircut I found a lengthy interview with some celebrity with whom I identify because of her difficult breakup/teen acne/oppressive beauty. By the blowdry I was sweating profusely due to my overconcoction of a plan to fold the magazine under my arm, all the while covering my tracks with a hastily-assembled toilet paper cast and a stealth diversion consisting of, "is that a spider on your chin?" to the now-hysterical receptionist.

Don't even get me started on the time that, as the anesthesiologist asked me to count down from 10, that I made her promise not to confiscate the Self I had taken from the waiting room. I couldn't have been more happy to see it safe and sound. After the colonoscopy was over.




*naturally, it shall remain nameless. I watch Court TV. I know how this could go down.

Some of the Real Creamery Goodness I've Been Meaning to Tell All Y'All

Hot damn it feels good to be back. Suffice it to say that I've found 16 ways to stalk via the Information Superhighway each and every person I know . . .

Bwahhhahhhhhahhhhhahhhhaaaaa! I'm just kidding. I'm over it. And here is my warning: I'm back to being me, and should you choose to read further, you may at any point from here on out read things about me that may - should you know me - make you feel angry or uncomfortable or frustrated or turned on.

Wait, that last one can't be right . . .

And by reading on, you who know me in the Real World: DC also heretofore and E Pluribus Unum certify that you will 1) accept that this is my space, 2) that mocking my love of Falco's Rock Me Amadeus is really just childish, now isn't it? and 3) that Tampax tampons are clearly the inferior of the major brands.

Enough about that. A few completely random but nonetheless very important things have been running about in my head. AHEM.

ON HOUSING. One rather depressing day, when I was trying to pull myself out of a funk with a beauty of a spicy takeout Thai dish and a walk to Eastern Market, I became physically stuck in my apartment. Not the drunk kinda "I can't figure out which one of these rectangles in the wall is my portal to the outside," but the ONE-HOUR LONG kind of jam that is MY WOOD DOOR HAS SWOLLEN TO MAD PROPORTIONS, and not knife, nor hanging on the bullheaded handle with sweaty palms, nor misdirected spells of "I wish you were never adopted!" directed at Bug and Cricket were of any assistance.

The effing thing didn't budge until in a Bailey Salinger-like emotional stuttering frenzy I phoned my father. Naturally after his first ten words the door popped open just as if the edges had been slathered with a mixture of Crisco and my humiliation.

I spent one hour on the cell bitching about the trauma and another three quarters of an hour downing a $6.99 bottle of Chardonnay from the corner store.

Because this episode apparently didn't max out the fun of being the last 32-year-old renter on the planet, my central air began pumping out HEAT Sunday afternoon despite every available dial being set to "Did you not hear me, asshat? I said really, Really cold." Sadly, I didn't realize that something was wrong until 3/4 of my face had melted off, which is most unfortunate for that big work meeting today.

ON TELEVISION. What else? Since we last spoke, I discovered the plain truth that Grey's Anatomy is the best thing to happen to the cathode ray tube since Court TV. McDreamy, you can buy me love any day. On the flip side, NPR revealing that Tina Fey is leaving SNL is akin to me someday finding out that I'm pregnant with something other than a third cat.

Last, can someone tell me when Inside the Actor's Studio became such a sellout enterprise that MARTIN LAWRENCE became acceptable talent? This is worse than 80-year-old Hicks pimping Foci on those Ford commercials. Ugh.

BUT MORE ABOUT ME. I lied. One more thing. Am I the only gal who looks at those e-Harmony and Match.com promos and thinks, Now wait one second! Klingon McSpocksalot and Cyclops found happiness and regular intercourse in this universe, and I - with my perfect penmanship and lack of snorting and swallowing when I have a cold and relatively symmetrical eyes - am still a single woman?

NOTE TO SELF. I probably should have stopped with Martin Lawrence.

The First Rule of BlogHer Is - You Do Not Talk About BlogHer

In the first session I attended, one of the gorgeous BlogHer management reminded the masses of ovaries that we were all on the record at the two-day event. That everyone was press. That anything we said, even beautiful blogger to other beautiful blogger and again under the dandy influence of the FREE WINE DISTRIBUTED ON BOTH NIGHTS AT THE COCKTAIL PARTIES (yeah, you can reread that part if you need to just to soak it all in) - could be smattered across the blogosphere at any time.

That is pretty effing awesome.

Somehow this has put the fear of God and Oprah in me and has made me hesitant to share any negative details of my San Ho (copyright Jurgen Nation, 2006) experience. So I won't snark to excess on the spider that jumped out of Stacy's hair towel when she pulled it from the bathroom shelf, the fact that it rained on my I'm a sassy, independent woman day trip to Carmel, or the man on our tour of the Winchester Mystery House who snapped photos without focus in every crevice of every one of the 110 rooms we visited just in case a dead person's "orb" were to manifest itself. Like any dead folk would choose to hang around San Jose when they could go to the Maggiano's in heaven.

I will, instead, share some of the sheer joy that I experienced while being surrounded by litters of like-minded amazing women.

I have not felt that invigorated, that proud of a group of which I was a part, since I sold the top number of Samoas and those bland old Trefoils back in '82. Politicobloggers, Celebribloggers, Vinobloggers, Mediabloggers, those who chronicle their relationships and their body image and their life transformations and their experiences with racism . . . Every last one of them a cool chick in her own way (except for that one . . . ;)

My confession for the day involves the fact that I felt somewhat isolated when I was there, that the absence of children or a true passion in life or a nationwide cause somehow left me unaccounted for in the blogosphere. Truthfully, how important can the everyday details of one neurotic, at alternating times humorous then purely miserable, comment-obsessed, Pop- and cat-loving woman be in the scheme of things?

I have since reconsidered this perception. My site may not change your world, but I have been absolutely lost without it for the past few weeks. Without an outlet for my stories about Bug lying on his back to expose as much hairy belly to the ceiling fan as possible, my sadness and confusion about my now defunct relationship with the ex-beau, and snorting overchlorinated water while failing miserably at the breast stroke, I have felt as if a portion of me was missing.

Thank you, to those of you who left such supportive comments when I lost my mind and left for a bit. Thank you, Delta, for opening up the embargo you put on anyone using 108,000 accured miles on flights to anywhere other than Lebanon with layovers in Bogota and Beaumont, and making a $10 flight available so I could attend BlogHer. This Her needed it.

Suffice it to say, it has been many months since I smiled - ok, ok, and snarked - as much as I did in those few days.

[Insert happy picture of Kris and Stacy here, the only photo taken in three days in which Kris doesn't have a wayward eye, when Blogger stops its tantrum and allows the upload. UGH.]
And although this site clearly doesn't generate school supplies for kids displaced by Katrina or provide Extreme Makeovers for kittens born with two faces, maybe in some little way my site is leaving a mark on even a tiny slice of this world. I know it has mine.