"Tact is for those who aren't witty enough to be sarcastic."

I have recently discovered that several people who are not fans of mine are following my blog. (I believe this is called “blogstalking”?) This has made me realize that my life and opinions must be so interesting that my enemies are even drawn to it! Fabulous! Even better, these people care to tell me just how unhappy they are about my writing topic choices! Fantastic! While I am not quite sure of their motivation (and truthfully, I just don’t care), I hope they know that all this does is make me feel like Lady GaGa getting stalked by the paparazzi.
Publicity reps will confidently admit that “there is no such thing as bad publicity!” and I believe this comfortably fits into that theory. I certainly don’t care what closed-minded-know-it-all people think of me, so all you are doing with your comments is feeding into my already beautifully inflated ego. So for that, me and my therapist stand, applaud and say, “Thank you!”
Finding out my newfound popularity with those not on Team Kami seemed to be the perfect junction to share with you one of my all time favorite hypotheses about life. (You’re on the edge of your seat now, aren’t you?) Here it is. I am a lot of things… sarcastic, witty, inappropriate, immature, silly and more than occasionally have a good solid buzz going on. But one thing I am not; breathtakingly beautiful. Sure, I do alright. But supermodel status, not so much. My husband thinks I’m hot and my kids aren’t embarrassed to be seen with me in public, and that is all I really need. Ready for the theory part of this surprising low-self-esteem rampage? Here goes! Stunningly attractive women cannot get away with the sarcasm, mockery and pretend egotistical nature that comes so easily to me. We all know what we call gorgeous women who are also wildly sarcastic, and I for one prefer not to be called that! (For any of you out there who consider yourselves beautiful AND perfectly sarcastic, I am sure this does not apply to you… thank you, let’s move on.)
I like to respectfully put friends into categories so that I know all kinds are being represented. One of my friends is known as the “nice one”, someone else as the “high maintenance one”, yet another as “the Zen one”. Me? I am happily and appropriately bequeathed the “fun one”. This is a lot to live up to, mind you. But no one does it with the zest and charisma I bring to the table.
So, let it be known that I appreciate my biological embryo makers for not bestowing upon me genes of exquisite beauty and poise! I would so much rather have all my facial features somewhat in the right places and have wit and humor on my side than to win beauty pageants where I have to be prim and proper all the time. Because it so isn’t me! (But I do still really, really want World Peace!)

Tis true... I am an overachiever.

I am an overachiever. This in no way is meant to infer that I was a child prodigy, the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company or even that I hold several doctorate degrees. The definition of “overachiever” is “to perform better or achieve more than expected, especially by others”. According to the latter part of this definition, my entire life has been that of a classic overachiever. Confused? Allow me to explain. I tend to do things a tad over the top, above and beyond and definitely more than is expected by others.
Defining myself this way has allowed me to justify behaviors such as being married three times (more than is expected by others, I would rightfully assume), throwing parties with far too many appetizers and far too many cocktails on far too many occasions (this would be performing better, right?) and having a baby at seventeen. You might think my justifying abilities are stretching on that last one, but this is the one I am BEST at justifying. I believe that my reckless and immature behavior that summer was somewhat planned, somewhere in the back of my sixteen-year-old subconscious. You see, I hate yard work. Despise taking out the trash. Have a very small desire to kill bugs. And I definitely never planned to mow a lawn. (Still haven’t. Can we say SUCCESS!) Knowing how unreliable men as boyfriends and husbands can be, I think I was practicing some well thought out overachieving by having a boy. It all makes sense now, doesn’t it? Being married three times… well that is clearly an example of my perfectionism colliding with my overachievingism, which can’t be all bad, right?
I do believe that my overachievements started much earlier in life and with greater purpose. For example, when I was four I had a cousin who was two years older than me. She was taller, blonder and had better Barbies. But these were not the things I was jealous of. No way. She had a skill that I wanted so badly. She could read the lyrics to the Grease soundtrack. I stared at those letters that looked so familiar yet so foreign for hours! I begged her to teach me and she would always respond in her sassy little way, “You have to go to Kindergarten to learn how to read like me!” I counted down the days till the prestigious Kindergarten started, only to be epically let down when I discovered all we would do for two and a half hours a day was color and sing. I already knew how to do those things!!! I was already in Girl Scouts, for goodness sake! So, I was forced to do what any self-respecting Grease fanatic would do. I eavesdropped on the first grade class, “borrowed” one of their books and while my cohorts were coloring, I taught myself to read. (I also bragged quite annoyingly to anyone who would listen about my self-taught skill.) And thus, an overachieving monster was born.

A Case of the Mondays...

Ever have one of those days when you completely feel like you’ve dropped your awesome? Lost your mojo? Broke your fabulosity? Yeah, me too. Those of us who are Office Space worshippers can easily refer to this infliction as a “Case of the Mondays”. Because there is nothing that I despise more than me in a grouchy mood, I have devised several pick-me-ups to rid myself (and my poor, sometimes undeserving family), from the wrath of the crabby Kami.
It should be noted that I had a sort of nervous breakdown about a year ago. I’m not talking about the kind of breakdown that lands you in a mental hospital on electro-shock therapy or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… at times it sounds like a nice little vacay to me! I had the kind when you realize you hate your job and you really need a new wardrobe. So, I quit my job, drank some wine, bought some new shoes and vowed to never enter such a state of dismal gloom again. (Here would be an excellent time to point out that I’m prettier when I’m happy as well. And we all know it’s all about the pretty.)
There are several fool-proof approaches to find happiness. My favorite? Music therapy. Not that silly jazz or classical. Good, old fashioned 80’s pop rock is the remedy for chasing off the grumpies. It is absolutely, physically and intellectually impossible to be in a bad mood when singing Tone Loc, The Go-Go’s or Billy Idol at the top of your lungs in your car. Even better, do it with your kids in the car! The embarrassment you impose on them during this act will double the happiness it brings, I promise.
Another magnificent tip for fighting off your bad mood is very simple, can be found on any street corner and costs less than five dollars. Coffee! Sure, it’s not as energy efficient as its dark and moody cousin Crack-Cocaine, but it perks you up without the bad teeth and possible trip to jail. If you choose to go to Starbucks for your cup of caffeinated goodness, you can engage in one of my all-time favorite activities; eavesdropping on innocent peoples conversations! This is sure to make you feel better, as most people I eavesdrop on have much bigger problems than my own.
Finally, the best way to cheer yourself up? Shopping. But one must be very careful, or this can take a disastrous turn. Best to steer clear from clothes that might not fit, making you feel fat or things you can’t afford, making you feel poor. I suggest shoes and purses. Nothing creates pure bliss and jubilation than a new handbag and strappy sandals!
If none of these pointers pull you out of your doldrums, call me. We’ll listen to Madonna, go shoe shopping and get coffee together until you are busting a gut and on the verge of wetting your pants, because well, that’s how I roll!

This really IS all about me!

When I was approached by one of my fans (okay, my husband) to write this little ditty of a column, many things went through my mind. Things like, “Well, of COURSE they want me to do it… I’m the funniest person I know!” My husband will argue that HE is the funniest person I know, but I will stand my ground until I’m whooping it up Betty White style at the retirement home that I have known I was funny for over three decades. I’ve only known the husband was funny for five measly years… hence, I win. The next nugget to enter my over inflated head was, “Are they sure 500 words is enough? Undoubtedly, once the readers get a glimpse into my thought processes, they will want more!” I can always allow my rowdy group of pitchfork wielding fans (that’s how I picture them… do not disappoint me) to picket the office and demand more word count at a later date. Once I got over myself for a brief moment, one more thought came into play. And this, my new found friends, is a big one. I fear to think it, but are any of my thoughts, rants, opinions and love of inappropriateness suitable for the average Southern Oregonian? I seem to entertain (shock) those that choose to be my friends (employees, actually-I pay many of them to laugh at me) without too many of them running away, embarrassed by my shenanigans (it helps that I frequently tie them to chairs). Nonetheless, not so shockingly to those that know me, I agreed to do it. Mostly because I have a lot of free time right now, and I still find it socially unacceptable to drink before noon (unless it’s a mimosa or bloody mary, of course). I then had to decide what I would delight you, the deserving reader, with! I would love to pretend I was somewhat Carrie Bradshaw-esque, living in New York City with lots of tales of dating and cosmopolitans and shopping at Barney’s. But, this is Medford. I am married. And we don’t even have a Nordstrom’s. So clearly THAT wouldn’t work. I do have some fantabulous shoes, however. My second consideration was to help others, give guidance and suggestions! However, I quickly realized that I am ill-equipped to dole out advice like the ever intelligent, yet witty Ann Landers. (My attempt at advice usually falls short… like this gem to my then three-year-old daughter, “Emily, if you’re gonna talk bad about people, you have to wait till you’re far enough away from them so they can’t hear you.” Don’t worry, she quickly explained to me how wrong that “helpful advice” was.) So, my suitable place is somewhere comfortably situated between Carrie and Ann. Where I can turn to either of them for counsel, as needed. Which is quite appropriate, actually, because the only advice you should probably accept from me is where to shop, where to eat, and most definitely where to get a fabulous cocktail!

What? They're letting me write a column???

So.... I have been a very bad blogger. I'm ashamed of myself, really. I don't even have a good excuse. I blame the drinking. BUT!!! I have been blessed with the opportunity to write a column for our local small publication, Buys-Galore. So now... the two can merge as one in a paper and electronic ego boosting madness for Kami!!!

I will share my column here each week... So be prepared for some KamiFoolery :)