My therapist is concerned about my negativity, here’s a stab at happiness: Stuff I dig.

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Okay, enough with the constant negativity, no more cantankerous Kathleen, welcome to the spring-influenced Kathleen. I shed my persona of the malaise, apathy and disdain that I cloak it in, and want to share a few of my favorite things.

I'm not usually the princess type.

I’m not usually the princess type.

Lily James in “Cinderella” I can’t remember the last time I was so astounded by an actor’s performance and by their sheer beauty. Lily James’ performance reminded me why I go to the movies: to get lost in the magic of the story. It was refreshing to be moved without being disturbed, and to see a children’s movie without watching some Oscar-nominated actor try to steal every scene by overacting. Hello, Angelina Jolie and her co-starring “Maleficent” prosthetic cheekbones. More Lily James in absolutely everything, please..

Meet Nick Jonas. Now that Justin Timberlake’s temples are

Nick Jonas, the new Justin Timberlake. Yes, I went there.

Nick Jonas, the new Justin Timberlake. Yes, I went there.

graying and he’s baby proofing his palace for his super-human baby with Jessica Biel, allow me to pass his torch to Nick Jonas. Oh, “sacrilegious” you cry? Listen and watch again. Nick Jonas has the voice, the vision and the abs to be a pop sensation contender. He polished his roots in a pretty decent boy band, can play a slew of instruments and is flexing his bad boy muscles for all to salivate over, or is that just me?

Fennel keeps me well-preserved. I eat raw fennel every day,

This picture has me salivating.

This picture has me salivating.

all day long. It’s a fairly expensive habit, but more affordable than some of my nasty young adult addictions. I dig the crunch and the wonders of a vegetable that tastes like black licorice. I’ve been told that it cures an upset stomach, and it does calm me after my daily consumption of gallons of coffee.

Dan Harris, teach me how to meditate.

Dan Harris, teach me how to meditate.

Male newscasters are my new rock stars. Oh, George Stephanopoulos, how I enjoy your full head of ruffled hair, your small stature and smart suits. You’re so well-informed, intelligent and Greek. Let’s not forget about geek-chic Dan Harris, that meditating fox. I suggest that we all go somewhere lovely, order a few extra dry martinis and you can both explain the intricacies of Yemen and I can break down the differences between the Jonas brothers.

It’s a Redhead Riot: I am attracted to gingers, I want to be near

Florence, I want to kiss you, then braid your hair, then drink bourbon with you.

Florence, I want to kiss you, then braid your hair, then drink bourbon with you.

them, I enjoy staring at their hair and wonder if it’s turning white like mine. To be fair, my hair is a bottled red, but it was, at one time, before jadedness and wretchedness crept into my pores, it was a lovely red. Redhead’s hair tends to fade and go white, but who cares? The journey was splendid. Much like my fondness for redheads, I am also enamored of freckles, on both men and women. Yes, I am attracted to redheaded men and maybe even married one. The marriage was brief, but his hair was divine. Julianne Moore, Emma Stone, Ron Weasley, I’m talking to you, you are my people.

 

 

I love Elliott Smith in a spiritual sense.

I love Elliott Smith in a spiritual sense.

I love Elliott Smith. His music is timeless beauty drenched in melancholy, grit and heroin, his voice sparkles with delicate touches of longing, depression and humor. Watching Elliott Smith play live was a high in my life, I was so close that I could touch him and he was so fucking good. I can’t believe that he died and every year, I feel my own mortality when the anniversary of his death gets longer and longer. He died twelve years ago and his latest CD, “From a Basement on the Hill, has not moved from my life since. Give it a try, it’s angry and lovely, heart-breaking and life-affirming. It’s Elliott.

Coconut oil will cure what ails you.

Coconut oil will cure what ails you.

Moisturizer is my friend.

I’m taking aging by her wrinkled throat, and I am squeezing the life from her. I will not go down without a Housewives-style fight. I slather my face so heavily that I look like an oil spill. When I wake up in the middle of the night because of my aging bladder, I put on a dollop of whatever moisturizer I’ve got, and I have plenty.

I’m creative with my moisturizer, constantly searching for that fountain of youth. I’ve got the store brands, but I also lubricate my face with coconut oil, olive oil and a blend of vitamin e with essential oils. I’ve applied Vaseline, lemon, yogurt and avocados all over my freckled face. The results are not Jen Aniston, but I think I look younger than Lindsey Lohan.

Therapy. We should all be in therapy, there’s nothing that

I should have been a psychiatrist.

I should have been a psychiatrist.

makes me feel more important and justified. I‘ve seen so many: there was the older gentleman that would cajole me into purchasing expensive handbags because I liked them. He was like a father figure, if my father had absolutely no rules. I’d tell him about a drunken adventure and he’d listen with glee. His office was blanketed in expensive mahogany, and his magazines were top-notch.

I then moved onto a psychologist, a refined, thin, well-maintained woman of a certain age, old-age. She’d try to get at why dressing well was so important to me and chastise me for being so hard on myself. She’d often ask “Do you want to be known as the life of the party?” The true answer is that, yes, I do. Is that a crime?

See, I don’t hate absolutely everything. Next week’s list will include things that I despise and I have a premonition that it will be a bit longer.

xo

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Everything I need to know, I learned from The Housewives. Dancing with the Stars is in the gutter.

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Dancing with life's forgotten has-beens.

Dancing with life’s forgotten has-beens.

Another year of Dancing with the Stars? Calling these has-beens or never-weres stars is akin to calling me a pharmacist: My uncle and grandfather were pharmacists and I do enjoy a pill or two, but no, not quite a pharmacist.

The reason to watch this show is to watch Erin Andrews stumble with the English language and to stare at the guests of the “stars”. Ooh, I spy Bruce Willis sitting with his new wife

Demi is wondering is she can skin her daughter for her skin.

Demi is wondering is she can skin her daughter for her skin.

while his ex-wife and known nitrous oxide enthusiast Demi Moore shoots arrows from her dead eyes into their backs. What is it that Demi is clutching? Oh, it’s just her youth.

While I’m being awful, or myself, whatever you want to call it, it’s time to be brutally honest about Erin Andrews. The best thing that ever happened to her career was being spied on and filmed while undressing in hotel. The

Erin Andrews, journalist.

Erin Andrews, journalist.

film was never made public, the pervert was caught and jailed and now America knows and loves Erin Andrews. The only character America loves more than a good victim is a comeback kid. After the invasion of her privacy, Erin became a television personality without finesse, coolness or apparent intelligence, but damn, she is pretty.

The Housewives: My Spiritual & Social Guide

Teresa was practicing for prison.

Teresa was practicing for prison.

The Housewives have taught me how to navigate life while providing me with endless hours of television-viewing pleasure. Here are a few of the lessons I’ve learned:

More cleavage: Push those breasts up, baby; cleavage is appropriate for each and every social occasion. Children’s birthday party? Get out the push-up bra and show what you spent your ex-husband’s money on.

Don’t give up on what you care about. Housewives are like lice, they’re hard to squash: The world can’t stop a housewife in her climb to fame. Skinny mess and Beverly Hill’s wifey Taylor

Taylor, you'll always have your lips, until they leak.

Taylor, you’ll always have your lips, until they leak.

Armstrong did not allow a little snafu like her husband’s suicide stop her; she continued swilling white wine for the whole next season. She even found some other sucker to take care of her and her daughter. Cheers to her and her fake lips.

Alcohol does not cause weight gain. If you witness the sheer

Brandy, staggering.

Brandy, staggering.

volume of rosé and white wine that these housewives swill, it’s clear that excessive alcohol must not equal weight gain. Brandy Glanville is a great example of this, I’ve never actually watched her consume food, but her alcohol-intake is impressive. Her constant slur is the best thing that has happened to Leanne Rime’s career since Blue came out in 1996. Leanne stole Brandy’s hubby while Brandy was, no doubt, lost in a bottle of vodka. Unfortunately, no amount of cheap stilettos, rented mansions or cheek filler can heal Brandy’s broken heart. She’s a riveting wreck and every moment she’s on shines like the cubic zirconia on in her ears.

Plastic surgery can’t help an ugly soul.

Tamara of O.C. She's crying. I think

Tamara of O.C. She’s crying. I think

Wowza, from the menopause mammas on the O.C. to the botoxed stick figures on Beverly Hills to the butt injected urbanites on Atlanta, these ladies have had some work done. Poor Tamara from the O.C has been through a divorce, death and a custody battle and she’s not been able to frown, her face is permanently cemented into “resting bitch face”.

Vow renewal ceremonies equal impending divorce: The next

I take thee to leave soon.

I take thee to leave soon.

time you’re invited to a vow renewal ceremony, start the divorce clock; because I can assure you, it’s ticking. Vow renewals are good for a few things: ratings on reality shows and temporary forgiveness for a straying mate. New York’s wide-eyed Ramona and her hunky idiot husband Mario appeared so sincere with their customized vows, but the setting was stages: Mario soon left poor Ramona for a woman twenty years his junior.

The always-annoying and aging supermodel Heidi Klum and one-hit-wonder Seal

One day your in love, the next you're not.

One day you are in love, the next you’re not. Klum, you can leave the marriage.

renewed their vows every year, right until their bitter end. I think she gets to keep their cute kids and he keeps the unattractive ones. Seems fair.

Other failed vow renewal ceremonies: JLO & Marc Anthony- divorced one year later, Madonna & Guy Ritchie, Jon & Kate Gosselin ( I just threw up a little typing their names).

Men are necessary, but useless extravagances that have co-starring roles. Men, don’t quit your day jobs while residing in Housewives’ Hell, you come and go quicker than Brandy Glanville’s vaginal rejuvenation scars.

These ladies can throw it down: The Housewives have flipped tables, thrown wineglasses, pulled weaves, slapped and pushed each other. Much like Dynasty once was taught us, a good old-fashioned cat fight is the highest form of trashy entertainment.  The housewives never learned that it’s rude to point a finger in someone’s face, slap a friend or accidentally urinate while intoxicated (thank you Vicky). Even Andy Cohen has wrinkled many a Prada suit attempting to break up a melee.

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Andy Cohen tries to control his cash chaos.

Andy Cohen tries to control his cash chaos.

Vicky, we don;t know where that finger has been.

Vicky, we don;t know where that finger has been.

Sisters and former child stars, finger-pointers.

Sisters and former child stars, finger-pointers.

Madonna’s fall, E’s Fashion Police is out of style, Ryan Phillippe’s abs make a comeback, and do you hate me because I think Kid Rock is lame?

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A crack about Madonna breaking her hip is just too obvious, I am more worried that she may have fractured the tiny souls she’s consumed over the years to look this good at 56. Those souls live in her body and Madonna thrives off of their sweat, tears and blood. Don’t worry though, Kabbalah heals all.

Is it an insult to smell of weed and patchouli at 18? That was my ode to life scent.

Is it an insult to smell of weed and patchouli at 18? That was my ode to life scent.

Guiliana irks me as she fuels the fire for strangers to urge her to eat a cheeseburger. I try to keep my thoughts on people’s weight to myself because, well, have you seen me lately? However, for G, as her E News’ family of horrors call her, she made her health personal by chronicling her infertility and her fight with breast cancer. Her insights were touching, but G’s insistence that her career necessitates that she be rail thin is bogus, she demands that on herself. I don’t pretend to understand, kleptomania and an eating disorder are probably the only two dangerous behaviors I did not

Do not take fashion advice from these idiots.

Do not take fashion advice from these idiots.

dabble with in my troubled youth, but G looks frighteningly frail. Regardless, Fashion Police should end and G needs to take a few weeks off, regroup, get back to her “journalistic roots” and rejoice in the absence of Kelly Osbourne.

Kelly, my favorite, most annoying violet-haired, uneducated

OH, remember when Kelly O. was young, untalented and always looked ridiculous? an she go wherever they're keeping Avril?

Remember when Kelly O. was young, untalented and always looked ridiculous?

celebrity spawn. Let’s all celebrate that she jumped from the sinking ship that is E Fashion Police, but spun it to appear that she was offended by G’s ruthless comments about Zendaya. Kelly O. is not as dumb as I thought, she’s got some of Sharon’s rotten blood flowing in her veins: she knew that without Joan Rivers, this show is useless and she got out before it got really bad.

I don't know if he can act, but his abs can.

I don’t know if he can act, but his abs can.

ABC’s Secrets and Lies is worth the watch. Ryan Phillippe is the star and his glorious abs have a costarring role. I never knew how much I missed Ryan until I watched a few minutes of this show. How I longed for his strong jaw, shifty eyes, off-key delivery and yes, his abs. Juliet Lewis strips herself of her usual quirkiness and plays a detective, the best in her field, of course. It’s entertaining and there’s some kind of murder mystery wrapped around Phillippe’s defined biceps.

Kid Rock’s getting stale.

People are like, ‘Beyoncé’s hot. Got a nice fucking ass.’ I’m like, ‘Cool, I like skinny white chicks with big tits.’ Doesn’t really fucking do much for me.”

An excerpt from Kid Rock’s insipid interview in Rolling Stone.

If you want a hearty laugh of the “oh, where’s the humanity?”

Kid Rock: American Bad Ass

Kid Rock: American Bad Ass

variety, pick up the latest issue of Rolling Stone and read the Kid Rock article. No, I’m not whining about his love of hunting, I’m no PETA card-holder, but just read it to witness Kid Rock’s coolness thin like his scraggly hair. I don’t hate Kid Rock, he’s stayed relevant for years and he hasn’t changed his redneck ways, but I have a problem with his created existence. Kid Rock is from Romeo, Michigan. His father owned several car dealerships and the family lived on a six-acre orchard where they would ride horses and pick apples. Sounds ideal, right? Sounds drastically different than his “American bad-ass” persona. Yes, rednecks can hail from affluent backgrounds, but that is not what Kid Rock professes to be. He wants you to read about his simple life, shooting wildlife in his double wide. Bore.

Harrison Ford for President?

Harrison Ford for President?

Harrison Ford is landing a plane at the age of 72 and I need to swallow a fistful of anti-anxiety meds to get on a plane? Damn, this man is a true American bad-ass, can he show Kid Rock how it’s done? In true Beverly Hills fashion, after Harrison Ford landed his plane, he was assisted by a spine surgeon who just so happened to be golfing in the area Ford crashed. Only in L.A.

More Prince every day and in every way.

More Prince every day and in every way.

Hello Prince.

In my mind, Prince was on the basketball team that I cheered for in high school, but then I remember that my high school was 99.4 free of funk.