Kim's Blogs

~The beautiful people” are beginning to make me ill. When Katie Holmes’s haircut makes national news and Paris Hilton’s jail time is more significant than Darfur, it makes me angry as hell. Are these people [media] really serious? As a nation, are we truly so indifferent and uninterested with our own lives that Katie’s new hair-doo gives us enjoyment, pleasure, some sort of fulfillment? What are we trying to fill? What is lacking in our existence? Ask yourselves this question, pleeeeease.
Excuuuuuse me… but have you heard there’s a little war going on in Iraq? Have you heard of a place called Africa, where 2.1 million adults and children have died of aids? Have you heard anything at all? Has anybody read a book lately? (I recommend “Three Cups of Tea.)”


When Brittany Spear’s drug abuse, alcohol neglect and parenting skills are up for debate, I am wondering why we should give a damn! Why are these irrelevant events making CNN? Let me tell you, and you know I will; I’m getting a little anxious about all of this insignificance nothingness, this plague of meaninglessness, this celebrity mania.
They say American students are lower in reading and math than other countries, and it’s true. Jay Leno has a segment on his program where he goes into the streets of Beverly Hills, Hollywood, wherever, showing people pictures of political figures:   Cheney, Churchill,  Thatcher,  Mandela, and  Obama…you get the picture… 
Honestly even the students with Master’s Degrees didn’t have a clue whom these individuals were. But they damn well  recognized Snoop Dog, Lindsey Lohan, and Posh Spice.  And they damn well knew who Paris Hilton was. By the way, can you tell me what she does, what any of these people do, besides strut their superficiality, besides purchase pointless shit, besides take up space?
Evidently, the “beautiful people” are those whom others look up to and worship. Are these people gods? Have they contributed to society in some small way? Have they done a damn thing, except saunter around Hollywood giving the impression that they’re the happiest people on earth, that somehow they’re superior to us, or that their material possessions and excess are what we’re lacking, needing, wanting.
All one needs to do is watch the Barbra Walters special to witness the most fascinating people in America. Nope, you won’t see Obama, Mandela, Clinton, or Wiesel. But you may see Spears, Lohan, Timberlake, and the David Beckam; you may see Hugh Hefner’s playmates or some big knockered, bleached blonde super model.  
Gag. Puke.  Yuk.   Ick.

Imagine the flashing white lights, the American flags being hoisted up, the mad applause of fans, and the howling of ooohs and ahhhs….
It must be someone important you say, a world leader, a humanitarian, a Pulitzer winner of something or another, a Poet Laureate, the President of the United States, perhaps. Nope.  It’s only Brittany Spears getting out of her stretch Limo with no panties; it’s only Paris Hilton strutting around as if she’s earned respect for being rich and beautiful; it’s only a Victoria Secret model revealing white wings wedged in her back like some sort of deformity.

I don’t care about Katie’s haircut or Brittany’s pubic hair or Paris Hilton’s sex tapes. I don’t give a damn about this person’s hair extensions and that person’s botox treatments, or even Madonna’s spirituality.  Do you?
“The beautiful people” are an illusion. They are not real. And they are certainly not who we should be adoring and hero-worshiping. Unless, of course, one desires to live vicariously through celebrities whom do absolutely nothing besides shake their asses, unveil their boobies, and sit hopelessly, restlessly, and uselessly looking pretty; unless one is utterly missionless, desireless, and desperately devoted to a life of irrelevance.


In Memory of Kay

~Apple Pie Therapyapple-pie (apəl pī′) adjective:  The treatment of infection, mourning, or some sort of disorder that relieves tension and insanity as by rehabilitation with apples, cinnamon, sweet butter, flour, sugar, and love. It helps to include a best girlfriend to bake these pies with.  Warning: This therapy may save your life.

~Four words that have absolutely and indisputably pissed me off since my sister’s murder have been: “It. Will.   Get.   Better.”

Please suck those reckless, thoughtless words back into your mouth and keep silent until I ask for your counsel…

Unless, of course, your soul mate has been assassinated, as well. Only then will I consider listening to what you have to say. Only then, will I know you truly understand how one lives with an incomplete heart.

But I have stumbled upon certain activities to distract me in the midst of my sorrow, to divert me from my insanity.

What a relief—when one can take a break from being crazy. What a release—to become removed temporarily from one’s suffering.

For example, the day before my birthday, my girlfriend phones and says,

“Clear your day tomorrow morning. I’m teaching you how to make apple pies.”

In other words: You Will Be There.

She has the centers prepared and organized in her enormous kitchen when I arrive at 9:30 am: the apple peeling center, the crust making center, the flour, cinnamon, sugar, butter, and the  measuring cups all accessible.

“How about a Margarita before we start?” She asks.

I inhale…exhale.

“It’s 9:30 in the morning.  Are you serious?”

“Believe me, you need a Margarita. BAAAD.” She smiles.

I look at the clock. Hesitate. Feel a bit of guilt. It passes swiftly.

“Well, it is 5:30 in Kenya.  Sure, why not.” 

We sip slowly.  We gossip voraciously.  We cry because Kay should be with us. Kay would have never missed a bit of fun and folly with her best girlfriends.

We begin getting serious about apples at about 10:30.

She has one of those incredible gadgets that peels the apples, removes the core, etc… I could’ve peeled those red and green babies all day long.

Speaking of therapy; there is something quite pleasurable about watching the skin of the apple unwrap and shed its body falling to the floor.

Something revealing, comforting.

But preparing the crust is the ultimate.

Sifting the flower, cutting in Crisco, wrapping your hands around the soft pillow of dough.

“Don’t be afraid of it,” My girlfriend says.  “Pound it. Push it. Press it firm.  Pretend it’s the murderer.”

“Take that ASSHOLE!” I scream.

 I punch the soft dough with all my might, then I take both fists, beat the dough harder and harder…

 “That’s what you get you murdering, good for nothin’ BASTARD!”

“Hey, let me help,” she demands.

We both begin thumping the hell out of the dough.  We begin laughing.  We begin weeping. 

We are exhausted.

“Oh, god, why didn’t we do something?” I scream.  Why didn’t we break his legs when we had the chance; break his fingers so he couldn’t pick up a gun? How are we going to live without her?”

We sit in silence for a long time. The aroma of apples and cinnamon playing in air; Lady Antebellum blasting from the countertop.

The ticking of the clock is deafening, perpetual.

Suddenly, my girlfriend spurts out, “We still have the apple crisp to make! Get your ass up, Kimmers.”

She throws a handful of flour in my face; waits for a response.

We begin giggling until our sides hurt.  We begin dancing and twirling to Antebellum’s “Need You Now.”

Sometimes all you need is a good girlfriend, a sugary strawberry margarita, and love, love, love.

Sometimes all you need is the interruption of apples and cinnamon to survive–One. More. Day. 

My Best Friend.  The other part of my Heart.  Murdered on May 26th, 2010.  I shall NEVER release you. NEVER.   My dear Until we meet again with our Father.

Amercian Idol After Adam Lambert

Kim's Blogs

~~Does American Idol exist after Adam Lambert?

Apparently Not.

Haven’t you observed the blahness, the blandness, and the utter boredomness? Sure, some of the contestants are terrific, but is terrific sufficient? Is terrific worth missing Criminal Minds or a 7:00 roll in the hay?

The truth is, Adam Lambert set the bar so freaking high that every competitor is now, well, how can I word this, “DULL as triple Hell.” Sort of reminds me of Plath’s poem- where she describes somebody (actually, her out of town guests) as “flat paper dolls.”

Yeah, Goldilocks is gorgeous with that bluesy sexiness oozing. Mama Sox has that kind of breezy Bonnie Raitt thing goin’ on. And I want to gobble up Big Mike and hug, hug, hug him to death. But seriously, Lambert has made even these talented singers appear tedious, yawn-worthy, uninteresting, and dry as the inside of a mouth after drinking Merlot mercilessly and recklessly all night long.

I mean, watching Glam Boy each week was like experiencing a bomb exploding, untamed foreplay, and if one lacked any stimulation that particular day, s/he would most definitely and unequivocally receive a full dose of hotness that night.

Anticipation is a drug.

Black leather pants. Sleek leopard lined eyes. Vocals soaking soulfully into bones. Testosterone. More. We always wanted more. It didn’t matter a damn if Adam only kissed boys. We wanted him for ourselves, regardless.

Even the judges seem uninterested this year. If Simon isn’t flirting with Kara, his eyes are half opened like Garfield, the Cat. (Yes, Mr. C, it’s a good time to split this gig). Randy is tsk-tsking and yawning- “Oh, that wasn’t good for me, Dog. Sorry.” And Ellen usually says with a sugary smile, “You look cute tonight. I’m acquiring a taste for you.”

Do I need to tell you that when a judge declares you’re cute or that you look super fine; what they’re truly saying is: YOUR PERFORMACE SUCKED EGGS!

It’s time. Meritocracy is not acceptable. Blah is a bore. And I blame Lambert. I blame him because American Idol is finished, over with, repetitive, and irrelevant without somebody who blows your mind from one end of the room to the other.

Sometimes one must know when enough is enough, when it’s time to pull the bloody plug, when the luminosity has finally muted and faded.

Mr. Cowell is a genius for grasping this in advance, for understanding that American Idol is now just going through the motions.

And in my opinion, that really sucks rotten eggs.

1000 Pound Woman. WTF?

Kim's Blogs
~~~~I was going to take a break for blogging, but damn it, how does one rant and rave and scream and become somewhat sane when she is fuming, fuming, fuming? How does one express or articulate the fire which is smoldering inside her tummy?  
Here’s the situation, and you know I’m going to tell you strait, Sistahs.
So there’s this chick named Donna Simpson and she weighs about 600 pounds.
 Whatever turns your crank, I guess.
If you know me one iota, you know that I love large, curvy, sexy women. I mean— I get it, I feel it, I live it.  And I adore individuals who love themselves just the way God intended them to be, you know?
But it seems to me that Donna Simpson has a few psychological issues to deal with.
She is working as furiously as she can to become larger, plumper, and to make a long story short, to become the world’s fattest woman in the Guinness Book of World Records.
“What’s your ambition, Donna?”
“Oh, my dream is to weigh in at 1000 pounds. I want to be the world’s fattest woman!”
Oh, your mother would be so proud.
Simpson’s daily intake will be about the same as world champion swimmer, Michael Phelps: 12,000 Calories.  To obtain this goal, she is now eating massive amounts of sugar and junk food; her grocery bill is a whopping $800.00 per week.
Err; I have an idea, Mrs. Simpson,   why don’t you cut down on your ingestion and give some of that money to your local food shelf?  

Donna Simpson 

To pay for this hefty chow bill and her over indulgence, she has created a website where men {Wrong Turn-Chain Saw Massacre- Hillbillies} can go watch her eat burgers, butter, grease, and potatoes.  
Sounds about as sexy as a snuff film.  
 Zip up your pants, you filthy pigs. What you’re truly interested in is observing a mentally ill woman commit a slow suicide.
Mrs. Simpson, has anybody told you lately that you are a magnificent role model for your children? I wish I would have thought of that! Boy- oh -boy, let’s shorten mama’s life and leave the kid’s with Mr. Hills Have Eyes.
Hubby, by the way, is delighted by Simpson’s aspirations of obesity. 
 I’m a real belly man.” He admitted.  
Oh, aint that the sweetest thang?  
The guy isn’t as dumb as he looks, although he looks pretty dumb.  
You see, when Simpson’s arteries close up from all of the whoppers, tacos, pizza, french fries, oil, and lard… he will be waiting.  Oh, yeah, honey, he will be waiting like a blood thirsty imbecile for that hefty check, because well, apparently the media and the Guinness Book of World Records is making this woman famous and rich for stuffing her face until she blows up, throws up, or just drops dead.   

Tyra Can Kiss My Fat Ass

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~~~~I C-C-Cringe. 

 I get flip-floppy somersaults performing in the pit of my tummy.  I get a slow, steady hot flash. And then I blow, baby….

This is what Tyra Banks does to me, or should I say Ms. Fricking Know it All, or should I say Ms. Oprah Wannabe, or should I say Ms. Narcissist with a head the size of a Montana?

First of all she’s screaming “Kiss my big fat ass!!”   But that was only for your benefit, wasn’t it, Ms. Banks?  I mean cuz now you’ve lost that big fat ass and you’re walking around like a skinny bitch with an attitude.  I guess you didn’t really like the curves, did ya? 

So the other night I’m watching her show for the lone reason that she has my girl on, Blythe Beck; they’re talking about food and how wonderful Tyra is, and Blythe is sort of gaga eyed saying stuff like how lucky Tyra is to possess all of those wonderful enterprises, and rather than focusing on Blythe (whom is taking over the world culinary sector and is her Guest, after all)  Banks says, “Oh, and don’t forget that I have my own talk show!”   All the while she’s stuffing her face with the ribs that Blythe so graciously brought her.

               I am drowning in the sugary superficially and sticky barbecue sauce.

I’m thinking, “You’re in the wrong chair, Sister.  Blythe should be in your chair.  You’re an embarrassment. You’re like one of those chicks in high school that all of the girls hung out with, but secretly couldn’t stomach.  Like one of the Mean Cheerleader Chicks that thought she could bat her eyelashes and get anything she wanted out of life because she was pretty.

Before a taping of her show recently a source tells the publication:

~ “You could hear her going on and on because she was standing right behind the stage curtain. She’s talking and talking. Meanwhile, you have the entire audience waiting almost two hours for the taping to start.”

“She leaves us waiting, and everyone is sitting there complaining, and then she comes out and doesn’t say a word about it. She didn’t even say hello, she got right into her script. She acted so cold towards everyone. She’s a phony. She had the audience prance down the street and then release black balloons. –Celebrity News

Kind of reminds me of “The Office.”  You know, where the cameras are filming all the time and the characters know it, so they act all phony and counterfeit, and annoying as hell.  Banks has no substance or softness…. sort of like running your fingers over a cat in the wrong direction. And I’m wondering why American women are so transfixed on her inarticulate words, which she gives us ceaselessly in large doses.

               Emptiness.    Substanceless.   Black Balloons floating in air…

I Do. Not. Identify with this woman.  I already met her  back in high school and I didn’t like her.

….Oh, and one more thing, Ms. Banks—

You aren’t, or never shall be—an Oprah Winfrey—whom continually speaks from her mouth, her heart, and the wisdom of her soul….

Yeah, her soul…

…Opposed to one who verbalizes directly from her ass.

Painting 2 Cancers

Chicks Who Rock

~~Through an innovative site called WWomenGlobally, I’ve discovered a glittering jewel; a woman who has captured my heart. Her name is Ria Vanden Eynde, and I’ve fallen in love with her spirit and strength, not to mention her astonishing, life-changing paintings. 

 Although I am not a painter, I can still appreciate the poetry and beauty in Ria’s brush strokes; the brilliance and shadows of her thoughts, and her soul glimmering directly from the canvas.

Ria is surviving two cancers, thyroid and breast, diagnosed about nine months apart. A Belgian, inspired by Frida Kahlo and other artists, she expresses her experience, her scars, her emotions,and thoughts in the language of painting…. (Among others on her website)

 RiaVanden Eynde is my new Hero!

Serendipity:My Favorite Photo of Ria…

  How long have you been Painting?

Ria Vanden Eynde: I started drawing at 14, my parents wouldn’t let me take art classes. I went to university to study mathematics and doing something with my brushes went on the back burner.

At 30, after I recovered from a depression, I went to art school, then dropped out again, because of life-stuff and a full time job. Before I was diagnosed, I did a myriad of different things. I have a Ph.D. in mathematics, taught it, did a Gestalt therapy training, studied Applied Ethics, Buddhism, Gender Studies …and worked in all those fields.

I started painting again after going through two cancer treatments (thyroid & breast). I re-enrolled in the art school I took 2 years of painting in about 20 years ago. I’ve started to gear my activity towards leading an “art life.” I’m making pieces I’d like to see travel across the world and live a life of their own. Jennifer Zoellner, an artist friend of mine paraphrases it as “pieces of my (he)art,” sent across the world. I find that idea very moving.

The Indian Dance:

How has cancer changed your life?

Ria Vanden Eynde: I have a heightened respect for my body, more awareness of it and of the fragility of life. Maybe also spiritually. I see us as vulnerable sentient beings of warm flesh and blood and life as precious. I don’t understand the idea that getting cancer would be a betrayal of the body. My body works incredibly well, it reacts in tone with treatments. The zillion reactions that go on at once, why would you expect it to be faultless? My body is on my side, unconditionally- the stuff I sometimes eat… And then at (cancer) times my body can’t do it all on its own and needs help, meds, surgery, radiation…and when these don’t help anymore, I’ll die…and I think that’s ok… It’s a Buddhist idea: the body is finite and has its limitations; you have a body, hence you know suffering. But also: how else would I be able to experience compassion than through the body, how else would I be able to feel so increasingly vital?

I consider myself extraordinarily lucky and feel intensely grateful…A fellow-survivor said in a magazine, “you need to have luck in all of this, luck that it’s discovered in time, luck that they can treat you, that they have meds, that you can rely on your doctor’s skills, luck that you’re surrounded well by your family and friends, that you can carry the financial cost, that you’re mentally strong enough, that people don’t abandon you…” I feel that cancer can bring families together, that it can re-connect those who’ve been out of touch. I’ve met new friends along the (living) way, I’ve lost others. My husband is THE best! My family and my in-laws and I drifted more apart, I didn’t have much support there…To me, that’s also where coping lies, as you deal with all of that …

These 2 cancers won’t kill me-I hope, I want to be careful, after all, statistics…They are, to paraphrase Kris Carr, both pushing me to live. I’ve started to paint again, a long lost love along the way of living. I paint about my cancer experience too and post the pieces on a blog, as an attempt I guess to “give” something back for all the support I received,

I often do the deathbed-test. Can I live with it/myself if I don’t do such and such…won’t I regret not taking a chance? I’m more pro-active in what I want out of life, …I’m more selective with the company I keep…I often feel empowered, when hiccups are in the way, I tend to think, “hey… I’m surviving 2 cancers, do you really want to stand in my way, will I really let this stop me?”

Getting a second cancer really “rubbed it in”: whether I’m optimistic or pessimistic, whether I’m angry or not, whether I cry or scream or stay silent, whether I question all of this or not, whether I anticipate or whether I’m scared, whether I’m hoping or feel desperate…it has no bearing whatsoever on the outcome of this….I’ll have to take it for what it is…I’ll take it as it is… And that, I think, is (my) resilience right there.

What would you like to communicate through your art?

Ria Vanden Eynde: While being treated paintings by Frida Kahlo often came to my mind. Whenever I look at ‘The Broken Column,’ for instance, I experience(d) compassion. Should my pieces be able to do that for other patients, should they provide them with hope for their own process of coping with cancer/of living with cancer, that would be wonderful…

Also, to me, painting works as a language, as a journal medium and the blog as an illustrated diary of sorts. I don’t bring the subject up in every context though it’s always “with” me. I don’t “talk” much about the despair, the chaos, the fear, the anger, the grief of having cancer, words fall short, but I paint about it. I want to exteriorize what I went through, for myself, but also for those close to me. Picasso said “I don’t say everything, but I paint everything,” I guess that’s true for me and my cancer-pieces too.

Aggressed Body:


What are your thoughts about the future – your own personal future as well as the future of cancer treatments?

Ria Vanden Eynde: As far as my own future, I will be short: I would love to live a long, ‘healthy,’ good life, filled with art, love and friends! And when the moment comes, a good death in that I wouldn’t have to suffer too much or be dependent on those close to me.

As to the future of cancer treatments, I’m not a doctor or policy maker, so what I think has much to do with my own personal experience during my treatment-trajectory. I’d like to see insurance companies to cover at least a portion of the costs of ‘own tissue breast reconstruction’ for women who choose to have one. I’d like to see patient-centered care with consideration for the quality of life of cancer patients. Multidisciplinary care too. As a patient having two cancers I benefit from an approach that encourages dialogue between the two oncology departments. I’d like to see girls educated early on self breast-exams. I’d like to see more public awareness on all types of cancer so as to get it into the public “vocabulary,” as opposed to it still being a taboo subject sometimes. Nobody benefits from a taboo subject.

 The Dream Of Two Rias:


When I was training as a Gestalt therapist, we did a visualization once, in which we were to explore our ‘inner house of being.’ In the attic we were to meet with our primordial ancestors. I remember having a fright when I ‘saw’ a wrinkled old woman with long, silvery hair and eyes glowing like coals. The therapist who was training us, said to me : “Yo

ú are scared of your own strength.” For what it’s worth…I’m not scared anymore.


Kim's Blogs

My girlfriends give me heaps of content and material for my blogs.

 For instance, the blog I wrote about Jax, called “Brazilian Wax, Oh My,” is my most popular blog…. so I call her in Minneapolis and utter excitedly, “Hey, I wrote a blog about you that people really dig.  Check it out on my site. And  call me right back!”

I waited and waited.  She never called back. 

I begin questioning myself.  Should I have censored the stuff I said about the wet t-shirt contest, the waxing, her buttocks,  her vagina?  Should I be calling my friends before I write about them, ask permission?   Could I be sued? I really should change the names to protect the innocent.

  I should.  I really should I guess.

Anywho, Jax left a message on my answering machine about three weeks later.  “I read the story,” she said quite seriously.  “Just to inform you, Kim, I was not in a wet t-shirt contest.  I would neeeever do that.  It was a ‘hot legs’ contest.  Call me back.”

I did not call her back…cuz  I was scaaaaared. 

I’m thinking, “Well, Excuuuuuuuuuuuse Me.   Wet t-shirt, hot legs contest,…. is there really a difference?”  Is there a  big distinction between nipples and legs?    What does she have to be ashamed of?  She’s gorgeous.

Am I exposing too much?  Should I change the names?  What do these people want? 

So, Tony calls and says, “I want to tell you something about what I did last night.  You would loooooove this story.  But I swear to God, if you put this in your blog, I’m going to kick your ass. And believe me when I say, If you write a blog about it…


I am flabbergasted.  “Are you kidding me?  Would I do that?”    I mean, who does she think I am? 

“Yes, you would.  You most definitely would.” 

It’s like obsessive bloggers begin documenting their entire lives for others to see; almost like they’re allowing people (strangers) to peek inside their windows, watch them undress.  Taking a bra off here, nylons off there (metaphorically speaking)…. but isn’t that what ‘true writers’ do…. 

 Tell the truth?     Write all the juicy shit down?

So, hubby and I are watching television the other night.  Showbiz Tonight.  Anyhow, they say some star broke up with her boyfriend because he revealed some intimate details about their sex life on he blog.  I start laughing.  My husband looks at me like I’m wacky.

  He does this often.

“What’s up?” He asks, his eyes flicking pins into me.  I feel the prickling against my skin.  “Do you write about us in your blog?”

“Nope, but I write about everybody else.” I say.

 Then I add,   “But I did write that I dreamed about Brad Pitt, George Bush, and Bono.”

“George Bush?”

  “The younger one,”  I admit.

In any case, I talked to Jax recently and apologized for the comment about the wet t-shirt.  She tells me not to worry about it. 

 “Oh!   I must tell you about my balloons breaking?” She yells over the phone.  

 I’m intrigued; another blog, perhaps.

 “Well”, she goes on to tell me, “My silicone started to seep out while I was giving a presentation at work.” 

You see, Jax is quite “blog-worthy!” I think she should take this as a compliment,  don’t you?  I mean, the opposite of this would be BORING!

Look for a soon to be released blog, “Seeping Silicone.

Just kidding.

As Carrie Bradshaw would ask:  When is enough…Enough?   Or for that matter…Is it ever enough?