I'm not gonna lie; I picture my dad driving her in heaven

It only makes sense that my Sentra would go out in style. None of this weepy not turning over in the driveway because it’s cold out crap that so many lesser cars pull. Instead she waited until rush hour traffic ran ragged through the streets and only then did she give up the ghost. Kaput. She offered no warning, unless in your world squeaky brakes and a hissing tire and a steady bucking motion constitute a warning. She did not pull over in defeat. Instead, she opted for more of a Norma Desmond, hand-to-head diva-like swoon, blacking out in the middle of a main DC thoroughfare, her blinking hazards the only sign of the spark once within.

I am now driving a rental car, one whose design screams "My driver is homely!" and "I once paid a women for sex!" I like that it tells me the outside temperature, but it doesn't feel quite right that all of its windows are intact.

The Un-Jane Austen Book Club

I started with a new book club last night, and I left wanting to make miniature versions of each of the women to keep in a box under my bed. Our splendid meeting reminded me of two cardinal Kris rules:

1) I am utterly obsessed with bright, funny females, particularly those who allow you to express your dislike for the month's book with tipsy, shrill words and the excessive use of hand gestures. It might better us all should the gals of DC abandon men and just start dating one another.

2) Never, ever order a glass of Pinot Noir at an Irish bar.

Michael Clayton, can you get mama a glass of red while you're up? Juno you want to.

Ok, so I'm watching the pre-show on ABC. Didn't it look like Clooney's girlfriend totally didn't get his joke about Cary Grant? I also suspect she might be wearing the pastel bedspread from their room at the Sleep Inn.

Javier Bardem. Sweet Jebus. Somebody cleans up real nice, mutton chops and all. I don't have any Spanish in me, but I wouldn't mind some.

I wonder sometimes who these people are who cheer on the red carpet walkers. I'm pretty sure they're the same folks who get Christmas pictures of their cats taken at PetSmart.

I want to eat Nutella out of Jennifer Garner's dimples. She looks stunning. As does Helen Mirren.

SCORE! Truthitude or falsehood? Did Daniel Day Lewis buy his wife a Bedazzler for Christmas? I'd bet another of Bug's legs on it.

Seriously, how slow is the red carpet this year if Regis is in the bowels of the Kodak talking to third string performers? Brad? Angelina? I'd even take Meg Ryan. Tom Green?

Ok, the main attraction. What is this BS? No opening montage, a skillfully-constructed three-minute orgasm of funny? Our host will eventually redeem himself with the Gaydolf Titler line. Inappropriate, but funny because he's smart and probably does the Sunday crossword in his nudeness.

I love Jon Stewart so much. I want to make out with him hard core and then lie in bed eating separate XL pizzas.

This has been 15 minutes of boring. Even Cricket has resorted to licking herself for stimulation. Ah, here comes the delicacy that is George Clooney. I would go to a Tobey Keith concert if this guy asked me to, which for me is a request just short of having children.

Did they just couple a pic of Christopher Reeve with Celine's My Heart Will Go On? Seriously? The writer's strike may be dead but apparently cheap tears are not. Cripes.

Nothing, my friends, NOTHING says comedy like a Steve Carell/Anne Hathaway pairing. GENIUS.

Normal people (read: those who are not stars or folk from the Island of Pretty) should be given five seconds each to speak when accepting their awards. They should then retire to their Normal People afterparty at Denny's.

Katherine Heigl is adorable.

Am I just sober or is this a really boring broadcast? Maybe things will pick up after the collection of "Best Hot Dog on a Craft Services Cart" awards have been handed out.

Johnny Depp just blew a kiss at an award winner and I almost dove for the television to intercept it. Don't judge.

Ah yes. First acting award - AMEN! And a shot of Christopher Walken with feathered hair! Ah, and Cuba's big moment. No, not the one that ditched Castro.

Jennifer Hudson is adorable. Off topic, sometimes I wonder if there's a Locks of Love-type program for women who have more than their share of breasts. Back to the topic at hand, Jennifer is a talented, amply-busted woman. Who could be helping at least two A-wearing women in LA achieve their dreams. Just sayin'.

Javier might be the newest man to be kept in inappropriately small Tupperware under my bed. Just so you know, his Spanish tribute to his "mother"? It was actually for me. Javi, I can't wait for us to eat Eggo waffles off of each other's chins either, baby. Come home soon. Mi casa? Well, you know.

Keri Russell is a little bit of sunshine, even if she can't break out of indies. I love me some Felicity, not like a normal WB fan might, but more like a freak that bought her ex-boyfriend the first season DVD under the guise of it actually being for HIM. Yep. I really did.

Gratuitous choral interlude. Cigarette.

Yeah Owen Wilson! Hello, mate! (I hope they remembered to pull him out of the death montage in time.)

Best live action short film followed by Seinfeld's voiceover as an animated bee. Time to bathe the cats and go for my annual exam. In Argentina.

Ok, this redhead from Michael Clayton. A number 1) thank you for bringing some spirit to these here awards. B number 2) a stop at the Clinique counter would have taken 10 MINUTES.

Did they just say stay tuned for Miley Cyrus? Seriously? Is she the only one not in rehab?

Jessica Alba! I'd pee my pants if she presented Juno with an award. Nothing says wholesome like fianceed pregnancy!

Jack Nicholson, your cool 1980s self called, and he wants his sunglasses back.

I've never understood why they sing all the nominated songs. It isn't that fun, is it? I'd much rather see them have the nominated thespians re-enact one of their scenes. Also, did construction workers just pick up Kristin Chenowith and rest her on their manly shoulders? Lucky bitch. I really should start inhaling helium again.

I'm not sure if you guys know this, but one actually can die of boredom. I knew I'd make it into Wikipedia somehow. Wait! Achievement in Sound Mixing! I'm saved!

Forrest Whitaker signals the arrival of a real award. And . . . someone I've never heard of wins it. I wish so much I'd picked up a bag of Baked Doritos to fill the void that now exists in my Oscar soul.

Colin Farrell. Mama likey when you take a shower. I bet you smell like English professor smoking a pipe. While wearing an apron and making huevos rancheros. In my kitchen.

Renee! She looks fabu, but don't you wish someone in the front row would yell out, "Hey, yeah you, Renee! Just what does it mean to divorce someone for FRAUD, anyway?"

Wardrobe malfunction spoiler! Nicole Kidman, YOUR HARRY WINSTONS ARE STUCK ON YOUR BOOB! NO REALLY! YOU HAVE A GAZILLION DOLLARS OF ICICLE DIAMONDS HANGING FOR DEAR LIFE TO YOUR RIGHT BREAST! *camera 1, reduce to head shot stat*

Bwahahahaha! Did they just introduce him as the "versatile and handsome Patrick Dempsey!" Seriously? Versatile? Like a reversible children's jacket? "And when she vomits carrots on it, just turn it inside out, and PRESTO CHANGE-O! It's an adult bib! No need to stop home before hitting the liquor store for mommy juice and takeout dignity!"

John Travolta has no eyes.

Oh no . . . here we go . . . the death montage. Cue excessive Heath Ledger applause. Does anyone else have the experience of finding out five years after you thought a star was dead and buried that he lived several years past your expectation? I've gotta be honest; I thought Bob Hope died in like '43. Apparently not.

Original Score? Wait, I thought that was Kimmay's Senior Superlative! Holla!

Um, does Tom Hanks have somewhere better to be? Like home shining his Oscars? I'm not sure he's even reading the cue cards in their entirety.

You know those commercials in which the tired adventurers with the broken legs and little love for their families tell their companions to go on without them? That they don't mind dying in the snow alone while coyotes chew at their soft tissue? That's how I feel right about now.

Kick ass for the Juno pole dancer/writer winning the screenplay award. Even better she showed up in Bam-Bam wear. Good stuff. A fantastic moment of authenticity, and it's about freaking time.

I want to take Helen Mirren home and make tea. Finally . . . Best Actor! No surprises here. Although I did think for a brief moment DDL and Clooney might miss while going for the consolation hug and full-on kiss. Which would make for a most beautiful You Tube day in the office tomorrow.

Direction . . . and it's the Coens! The new Weinbergs of the City of Angels! Clever, clever boys these two. Somewhere in America, the cute girls who turned these meh looking guys down are wondering if they can Google their phone numbers in the morning.

BEST PICTURE! It's almost time to hit the 7-11 for a bag of Doritos busted open with nacho cheese pumped into its innards hay!

Yeah. Next year it might be best to skip the Oscars and instead watch old people put in their teeth. Am I wrong?

Das Live Blogging

Alrighty - the guilty pleasure will be indulged! The live blogging of the 859th Academy Awards will begin promptly at the stroke of 8:30 pm here on the eastern seaboard. I may start at 8 if the pre-show is relatively interesting, which I am guessing it will not be. Unless someone falls or has a boob malfunction on the red carpet. In that case, I'm so there.

Oscar Wild

Hmmm. My girl buns asked if I'd be live blogging the Oscars tomorrow night. Thinking about it. Anyone going to be around?

You said duty

Its a funny thing, this not making the final jury cut. It's a different kind of rejection, but it smacks a little like watching Steve K. dance with another while you stand alone picking potato chip shards out of your braces.

I did my best to make both sides happy. Mr. Prosecutor, I'm 5'5", I abhor violence and simply adore tighty whities and recent law school grads. Ms. Defender, I have a clinical psych background, meaning either a) I believe we all can change given a Coke and a smile or b) I'm honestly too damn crazy to care. Love the skirt.

Neither my intent stares nor my nose-in-book indifference seemed to charm the right judges. And when-in the final five!-I was asked to leave the jury box to return to the DC commoners' pit, I wanted nothing more than to commandeer a limo to bawl my mascara off like so many Bachelor finale rejects. Did we not have something special? What was it about her, the one who wore the dazzling yellow hat despite Bull's repeated warnings, that made you want to be with her more? Justice isn't the only one who's blind, baby.

It might be time to get back together with Virginia.

Monday, Monday, so good to me

Monday was a ridiculously perfect day, one of the ones that makes you suspect there might be a deity other than Oprah at work in the world. In DC, the temps reached into the 70s, launching pasty folk out into the sunshine. With their pasty kids, of course. I cared not. Monday was the kind of pseudo-spring day that makes me want to throw my panties in the air with some Mary Tyler Moore zest.

I did none of the things I promised myself I’d do – the hardwoods are missing their Murphy’s and I’m pretty sure the cats’ nails have started to curl into corkscrews – but both will wait.

The day began as it always does, with a soda of gargantuan size that makes tourists stop to take photos. I sat in a café with its doors open, writing long overdue letters. I love to write letters. There’s something about getting a handwritten communication that makes your heart rise, makes you run to the apartment a little faster with anticipation. I have great respect for folks who take a moment to make you feel good with the handwritten word.* Better yet if they can do it on unique stationery, the kind that keeps me on Etsy.com more hours than I should wishing I had either a million dollars or an ounce of design talent.

Lunch was eaten outside, and when I discovered a market with pesto pasta salads and freshly-baked breads, I carefully reattached my head to its proper place. I sat in the sunshine and ate ham and brie on a baguette with yet another Diet Coke, all the while making up stories about those around me. The two women lunching to my right who had just enough tension in their conversation to make me think there’s an academic or romantic competition between them. The man sitting by himself facing the sun with his eyes closed, cramming for an exam or trying to avoid it altogether? The girl in the sundress, immaculately coiffed, out for the day and quite possibly a perfect run-in with him.

The rest of the day was as it should have been. Checking out a new card store and finding the perfect gift for a friend’s upcoming birthday. Buying cigarettes after I tried to shrug off a man's request for coins with the “I’ve only got a credit card on me” response. Touche, persistent homeless guy. Buying ingredients to make a spicy pork tenderloin and others to whip up a curry. And drinking simply glorious amounts of fountain soda Diet Coke.

Of course the hardwoods are sporting a strange film and the cats are starting to walk on their knuckles, but there’s always the weekend for that.



* This does not count the time someone FedExed me hate mail in the pre-Internet years. Carry on.

Observance

I like to think that while our forefathers were fighting for independence and alternatives to Earl Grey as a national beverage that they envisioned me Murphy’s oiling the hardwoods, returning videos to Blockbuster, and watching the View in honor of their very special date. Happy Presidents’ Day.

Do tell . . .

What blogs here on the World Wide Internets are on your list of everyday must reads?

On love and lust . . .and lust.

Another Valentine’s post. Just how many of these things have I written to date, anyway? I wonder sometimes when it was that I actually got caught up in the holiday to begin with, the one that Hallmark and M&M Mars use to pimp out all things screaming gluttony. It’s an excess of pink, of naked babies inappropriately armed with archery supplies, of pajama grams sold on late-night television. I care not. Whatever it is, I’m buying.

To be entirely honest, I’m not particularly saddened that I’m not gazing into the eyes of my life mate this February 14th, and I’m 66.6 percent sure that isn’t the Cab talking. Sure, I love the fantasy of a black halter dress zipped up my back, of reservations I didn’t have to prompt him to make, the smell of my perfume hanging in the hallway as we leave for the night. Of his hand on the small of my back, of coy looks that we haven’t given each other in a few weeks. Of a savory filet. Of a slow dance to jazz and conversation that doesn’t stop even when the next seating has arrived. Of my closest knowing money for roses would be much better spent on an amazing bottle of red poured into glasses with a stately stem. I won’t lie. All of that would be delicious.

I should say it will be delicious. Because I know it will happen just as surely as I know Pamela Anderson will marry again and Matthew McConaughey will turn up greasy in the tabloids. It’s in the cards. I have little doubt.

It’s that this year I have no one to be close to. To hold tight. To caress. Need I be more blunt?

Ahem.

I’m entering what my 11th grade health teacher deemed a woman’s sexual prime, and my arrival here couldn’t be more textbook. I want to be so close to someone that I lose track of our skin, to feel his kiss on the back of my neck when I’m hatching, to have him slowly and deliberately move his lips up to my ears where the feel of his warmth alone might make my head tilt gently when it in reality wants to explode. I think about tracing his mouth with my eyes as he talks at a crowded restaurant table, glancing over to me with every turn to his right. Of both suggestive and loving notes left in wool coat pockets. Of dinner left to simmer on the stove and healthy weekends spent in bed. Of the joy of choosing to engage in this way with one and only one, of adoring that his being and this moment is yours and likewise. Of leading one by the hand to a familiar spot and finding yourself still holding that hand in the morning.

It’s gorgeous decadence and I can seem to think of little else. I wouldn’t have said it two years ago, but I want the cocktail of love and desire, of ripping one another’s shirts off despite the irritation of lost buttons, of moments of this-isn’t-your-father’s experimentation and time spent together in the shower that leaves no hot water for guests. It’s about knowing you’re safe and he’s there for the long haul. You’re a force taking on the world and making mince meat of each other in your off time.

Sweet Lord, I can’t stop. I think about things I shouldn’t write about lest my mother and childhood pastor ever learn the ways of the Google. It’s like I’m 17 again, and beyond the ability to consume 4-lb. solid chocolate hearts, it’s what I’m missing most this year. Closeness. Familiarity. Confidence in yourselves and your hips and each and every last touch and whisper.

It will happen. I know this. It’s all simply in the cards.

contentment

Today is a good day. And I’m knocking on wood and all things particle board to keep it that way.

My sister has agreed to go on a trip with me, one originating in Venice in the fall, and I thought my head would explode when she accepted my vacation proposal. My enthusiasm for the long term is closely followed by complete thrill for my date for Valentine’s Day, a woman with whom I will compete for the most stellar Missed Connections post in the history of Craigslist (you: blonde, chin covered in turkey leg grease and mead; me: noble knight smelling faintly of horse manure; us: fortuitous meeting by the stocks after supper?)

Cricket took her asthma medication without writing her gang sign in my skin. The writers’ strike may end today, giving me something other than PBS and sanding my foot skin to entertain me. 7-11 had extra Super Big Gulp cups hidden in the cabinet, and the clerk retrieved one for me with a smile and without a comment about caffeine addiction. My apartment is incredibly toasty despite the bitter cold. I am down three pounds. I am not Amy Winehouse.

There’s always someone to ruin a beautiful day like this one and today is no exception. This is the person we all know, the one who waits at the side of the stage stroking his handlebar moustache while plotting a puppy’s drowning. If the opportunity presents itself to me again today, which it will undoubtedly do given that I haven’t felt this positive since Noah built his ark, I will smile, threaten to pull his eyelashes out one by painful one, and remind him in a whisper that one cannot smell even the faintest traces of cyanide in Diet Coke.

It helped to pretend it was a three-legged cat.

Spread 'em.

So lots of stuff hasn’t been going right. Cue violins, cue Bailey Salinger-like angst, whatever floats your boat. And so it continued last night when I realized, upon arriving home late and enduring the incessant yowls of the hairy ones of whose biological care I am clearly negligent, that I missed jury duty last week. In the whirlwind of lawyer’s calls and Google searches on Social Security forms and multiple obit drafts I forgot to report to the Superior Courthouse of the District of Columbia, a duty I considered not only civic but personally engaging and ridiculously more fulfilling than my current sex life.

I, Kris Likey, forgot about jury duty. This from a woman who daydreams about where she’d plant a body to maximize shock value and who wept openly when she gave up Court TV with the rest of her highly-priced cable. It’s a dream to me to be sequestered, 12 Angry Women and all that.

Like I do about most things, I panicked and worried that the DCPD would be knocking down my door and hauling me “downtown” given my offense. It would have been kinda fun, to be honest. Especially if they were from a K9 unit. And were prone to shining an overhead light in my face during questioning and smoking Winstons just that much too close. Classic.

The DC court lady was absolutely lovely, the kind of person they should use all this cloning nonsense on and divide her multiples among the DMV and all fast food drive thrus nationwide. A clear surprise and far cry from the tough love I imagined - secretly hoped? - they’d hand down NYPD, rough stuff, no filter style.

I report for duty later this month.

apparently some people actually have them on purpose

Kim’s got yet another baby in her life, and this time it isn’t one of her boyfriends. Her lovely sister gave birth to a munchkin last week, a little bundle of skin and much more hair than I, or any of my boyfriends, actually. I held said baby for several minutes on Saturday (we have photographic evidence of this momentous event that we shall never, ever share with my mother lest I be disowned).* Nice to see that even in times like this there is more than enough joy to go around. The circle of life, I guess. Sing it, Simba.



* I should also admit that I asked to be present when his diaper was changed, just to witness the sheer wonder if it. I know, odd. I watch the cats in their litter boxes too. Don’t judge.

Publisher’s Clearing House does knock on the door before calling, right?

I’m a raging hypocrite at times, and it hasn’t taken me years of therapy to figure this out. It’s a no brainer. I talk over my mother while pleading with her to listen to me. I want you to allow me my neediness but I abhor it in you. I simply cannot stand avoidance in other people. Man up, I think. Make the call, support the friend, face up to what’s eating at you and let’s get this show on the road. Got an issue? Tackle the damn thing. Talk it out, sweat it out, drink through it, whatever it takes to feel it and move on to greener pastures. After an extended stay with self-pity, likely involving a large delivered pizza that I swear I’ll freeze the rest of, I like to think that I get in motion. Not cured, and as is evidenced by archives resplendent with tales of highwayside crying, but moving forward nonetheless.

Not right now.

I don’t want to talk about it. I so don’t want to face this, this situation, that it took a bottle of Cab Sauvignon for me to check the 19 new cell messages I’d been sitting on for the week after my father died. There are a dozen or so on there right now and I don’t want to listen to a single one. Truthfully, of what real importance can they be? Gone are the days of the scattered phone calls from Mom, the question marks around my travel given my father’s condition. These new calls can wait. As can the cards. I’ve opened about five, and the remaining ones are kept as far away from me as is physically possible, on the windowsill in the foyer. I can see them from my vantage point on the couch, much like the bills from Pepco and Comcast, but I see no need to open them right now. I’m just keeping things steady. Ask my closest. I tell them I’m fine – more about them is better. Maybe I can do something tonight; I’m just a little bit tired.

I don’t want to face this head on. What I want to do is fall asleep while watching delightfully bad television, while Simon berates some fool who should have known better and Paula claps her Labrador puppy-sized man hands. And when I’m awake, I want to drink wine and pore over buckets of old photographs while listening to Bridge over Troubled Water on repeat. As much as I want to remain numb right now, it’s like I want to soak in him. It’s why I frantically record memories of us in Blackberry memos before I forget them. As if immersing myself in the living part of my father will allow me to stave off the inevitable.

He isn’t here.

I know rationally that this masterful avoidance will not bring him back, that I will open those dreaded envelopes and with them the floodgates. But it sure keeps me from spilling out of the thin coating I’ve managed to wrap myself in for two weeks and counting.

Just the facts, ma'am.

Dad’s obituary has run in all the proper places. Thank goodness that part is over. Rather than being a celebration of life, newspapers force you to make obituaries dry and flavorless, like a life without ketchup. It’s ridiculous that families must pay hundreds of dollars to reduce a love one’s life to so many lines full of the same old, same old. He went to school here, she married at this age, he did community service, she won an award. They’re both dead, and it doesn’t seem to be a horrible loss to the universe, because they both appeared to be pretty damn boring.

I’m not an exciting woman, what with my Tivod Dead Zone and cheap wine purchases, but I do hope that someday my obituary reads better than a 1040 tax form.

Kris Likey, researcher, blogger, defender of animals and the social contributions of the Ghost Whisperer
Kris Likey of Washington, DC passed away this morning after an extended episode of writer’s block. She was 34.

Likey was born and raised in Northern New Jersey, and thinks you should be ashamed for making a “What exit?” joke as you read this. She and her family lived overseas during her formative years; during a stay in London as a five year old, Likey first played doctor with a boy with whom she’d later graduate a New Jersey high school. During her travels, she discovered that although an unfriendly people, the French make amazing pastries and ham and cheese baguettes, while the Belgians clearly got the nice genes. Likey was a popular and well-rounded high school student for whom that all ended in 1991, when she graduated with a basket full of dreams and unachievable aspirations, including spending time at the Peach Pit with Brandon Walsh. Throughout these years Likey displayed a strange preoccupation with Duraflame logs.

Despite her love of the city, culture, and a decent slice of pizza, Likey decided to attend school in rural bumf*ck Virginia. She graduated in 1995 with a degree in both psychology and bitterness, the same year she moved to Arlington to begin a life of city snobbery and attendance at Weight Watchers meetings. After several years of fulfilling DC research work and equally unfulfilling sexual experiences, Likey moved south in the late 90s to begin accumulating 1 million credit hours in her pursuit of a doctorate in clinical psychology. She did not complete the degree, but does own a brick at Florida State University bearing her name, an achievement she was known to describe as “same diff.” During her tenure in Tallahassee, Likey moved six times; at her death, she was known to despise most every individual with whom she’d ever shared a group house.

Likey loathed elitism, poorly-behaved children, her cell phone, Forrest Gump, animal haters, and wintertime darkness. She loved waking up in a foreign country, the feel of an expensive wine glass in her hand, the magnificence of both Easy Cheese and smoked Gouda, Coach bags, the warmth of the Gulf, and a really good murder. Sadly, Likey was most proud of two high school writing awards, overcoming her fear of organized sports, and a tiny Web site she began in 2005 to regale others with tales of cat leg amputation and drinking wine in her tub. Friends report her greatest regret was never owning her own fountain soda machine.

Likey is survived by her mother, J, amazing bargain shopper and recent Josh Brogan convert as well as a sister, K, remarkable chili maker and writer who Likey recently forgave for being the chosen one. Likey was mother to two cats: Bug, Tallahassee native and recipient of the first feline prosthetic leg, and Cricket, well-known socialite and Lindsay Lohan party pal. Likey is predeceased by her father, D, grillmaster and lover of all things Simon and Garfunkel. Although she does not believe in an afterlife, if there is one she hopes her father's secured an amazingly large television for football watching purposes.

A private memorial service will be held, complete with disco ball, open bar, and Taco Bell burrito supremes. Kris Likey requested that in lieu of flowers, someone break into her apartment to remove her vibrator before her mother goes through all of her stuff.