What's the haps, broseph?

Fun fact: I heard someone say just that a few minutes ago. A grown-man, I might add. Wooooof.

I know I haven't been around these parts in a while, but it's because I've been learning one very important universal truth: having a life is exhausting.

Case in point, I spent Saturday night out at a "club" filled with "people my own age" and had a jolly good time. Whoops, that last one doesn't fit with the hip kid vernacular. I had a bomb ass, hip to the mother effing Twitter Facebook time of the Apple Bottom Jeans. That's all the cool terms I could think of.

As a result of spending the evening doing what every 21-year-old in the world does every weekend, I spent all of Sunday out of commission. I did nothing but eat Chinese food, sleep and watch old episodes of "The Office".

The past few days have been busy. My summer school classes are slowly sucking the soul (and a few hundred bucks for books) out of me, work is insane in the membrane and I have been a social butterfly with friends, family and an awesome, potentially meaningful boy situation.

So, because it's rare for me to be both upbeat and eloquent at the same time, here is a list of things I am currently grateful for. Here we go.

1.) Saturday nights. Listen, all the best stories happen on Saturday nights. Lampshades get put on heads, alcohol is consumed, laughably bad decisions are made and dancing is had. Saturday night is the night of the week every other weekday is jealous of. Do you think that anyone is hooking up with a guy who looks like Geraldo Rivera on a Wednesday or eating tacos from a hut on the side of the road on a Monday? Pashaw.

Saturday night marked an important evening. My pals Deezy and Papa J officially ended their time as roommates and my friend Thurber is in town for a few days before moving to Portland. Having a trifecta of friends in town, I decided it was only necessary to take them out and get them all drunk. So, Saturday night, our group headed to one of my favorite bars for a night of drinking and debauchery. It was a blast. I have some pics that I'll put up later, but let's just say the night ended with a few new acquired phone numbers, drunken rambling, smokey hair and tacos at 3 in the morning. Verdict: success.

2.) Baby Miles. M and Garland are six months along and I get more and more excited every time I see them. M and Garland are like pioneers; my own personal Magellan into the cloudy waters of adulthood. They've handled everything beautifully so far and it makes me happy to know that, in three months, they'll have a son to add to their family. And I'll have a nephew who I already want to buy everything for. Because the baby is a boy, poor M has had to endure this question over and over:

KV: If I bought you and the baby matching hats/glasses/shoes/bowler shirts, would you wear them at the same time?

The answer every time: a shrug and a "sure". That's all I'm asking for.

3.) Laughter. Alright, before you roll your eyes and vomit on me because I just listed "laughter" as something I'm grateful for (what is this, Chicken Soup for the Cheesy Ass Soul?!), hear me out. I have laughed harder and more frequently in the past week than I have in a while. I've been hanging out with a new boy and he has me in stitches non-stop. Red is fine tuning his own sassy brand of humor with hilarious results. Even Simon, that smelly tan dog of ours, has been cracking me up. I laugh a lot as it is, but this past week has been out of control. If I keep it up, I'm pretty sure I can get abs of steel just through the magic of laughter. Suck it, P90X.

This fire is out of control.

This is going to be a glorious morning. Do you know how I know? Because it's Fire Guys morning. What's Fire Guys morning, you ask? Why do I keep asking you so many questions, you wonder? You didn't realize you were in for an early morning quiz, you say? Oh you.

In the line of work I do, I see my share of firefighters. They're a large part of the organization I work for. You know that stupid stereotype where women will see a firefighter and completely lose her mind? It's preposterous and, frankly, offensive. I want to set the record straight: it's most definitely not a stereotype. It's true life, baby. Real as Aretha Franklin's love of powdered donuts and "look at me" hats.


Is that a bear claw I see?

If you are a woman and you don't at the very least get a hot flash when you see a fireman then your ovaries are plotting against you. Get that checked out.

Unfortunately, the fire guys only come in occasionally because this is an office, not a forest. There aren't as many fires to be put out here.

Today is one of the mornings where the stars aligned and God said, "Bring the dudes," and for whatever reason, there are fire guys around. There's one standing at my desk right now. Swooooon.

Ahem, focus. So earlier I was minding my own business at my desk. Doing a little typing, sipping a little tea and completely and totally groping myself. It's laundry time so my choice of clean bras has been a little limited. I was forced to go with one that, as it turns out, is trying to strangle my boobs into submission. I had one hand in my shirt, trying to mediate the fight between breast and bra when a fire guy wanders up.

"Uh, morning," he says. Strike one.

I try to play it cool, like this guy didn't just watch me get to second base with myself.

"Hey, good morning," I say. "How's it going?"

He is beautiful. He has a sort of Roman haircut going on, like Russel Crowe in Gladiator minus the body armor (unfortunately). He's young, maybe a few years older than me. He's got a trimmed beard (hello, would you like to father my children?), muscles and a killer smile.

"I'm going to be in the conference room all day," he says. "But I was wondering if you had any Tums? My stomach is killing."

It's because it's trying to tell you that you're madly in love with me. Listen to your body, cute Fire Guy.

I scramble around my desk for Tums. Scramble is putting it nicely. I tore up every first aid kit, every drawer and every shelf in my area. All the while I'm trying to make small talk in the hopes that Fire Guy will realize that I'm hilarious and witty and he wants to elope with me.

"We have 5 first aid kits, one of them has to have Tums right?" I say.

He chuckles. Score. "I hope so. I think I just had too much coffee; had to get up early."

"Oh yeah, what office are you from?" I say.

"[Town four hours away]," he says.

"Oh lame," I say. I was about to say that if he moved to Tucson, he would never have to drive anywhere except over to my place, when I opened a cabinet and a glass vase fell out and shattered. Strike two.

"Shit," I say. I turn to face Fire Guy and he is giving me a look that says, "I didn't know our company hired the mentally handicapped."

"Sorry, but I think we're all out of the good stuff," I say. "You might check with Safety Officer down the hall. That guy has all the good pills." I laugh at my own joke and Fire Guy offers up a pity smirk.

"Uh, alright I'll go check," he says. He lingers for just a second, looking at the digital picture frame on Desk Mate's desk. I start walking towards another drawer to find something to clean up the broken glass with when I tripped on a loose piece of carpet and have to use a fan to keep myself and my dignity from crashing to the floor. Strike three.

Fire Guy was nice about it and pretended like I didn't just feel up the fan. Oh wait, I already felt something up this morning. That joke is tired.

I think it's best to observe the Fire Guys from a distance, lest I make more of a fool of myself. They may fight fires for a living, but they can never extinguish the fire in my heart. Or my pants. Maybe I should get that checked out.

Nobody likes Julia Roberts anyway

Sometimes I have a hard time with things. Things, in this case, is all encompassing. Every once in a while everything seems to cave in at exactly the same time. Like an earthquake, except instead of plates in the earth shifting it's serotonin levels in my brain freaking the fuck out. So, y'know, basically the same thing.

When my head decides to take it upon itself to bring the crazy*, it can be really hard to see the silver lining. This time, the silver lining came in the mail.



It was so nice of Entertainment Weekly to do a cover story on me and my celebrity husband, Clive Owen. Not like those biased cheese wieners over at People magazine who haven't named Clive Owen Sexiest Man Alive yet. There's only so many times you can name Brad Pitt or George Clooney sexiest men alive, People Magazine. Jeez guys, get it together.


*Do you guys think Bring the Crazy would be a good movie title? I could follow it up with a sequel, Bringing the Crazy 2: I Think Blue People Are Following Me. Someone get Paramount on the phone.

We Go Together Like Groupies and Herpies

Hi. I'm KV and I love cheesy pop music. I've been a bad pop-music addict since I was in 8th grade and stood in line for four hours outside a Sears to purchase Backstreet Boys tickets. My addiction worsened the following month when I willingly and without influence purchased Will Smith's album Big Willie Style. My addiction further intensified when my brother's wife, Garland, became my music pusher. I discovered Rhianna, Robbie Williams, Michael Jackson, One Republic and, god help me, even that one Britney Spears song that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the face.

I am nowhere near recovery. But here's a secret: I don't want to be. I love pop music. I like to sing to it, I like to dance to it and I absolutely LOVE to get drunk to it.

That being said, does anyone else have a massive crush on The Killer's lead singer Brandon Flowers after seeing this video where he wears this:


"Is this enough brooding?"

I don't know what it is, but I want to be on him. Wait, that came out wrong. I meant to say that I, er, he's, um, screw it.

I want to be on him.