ya know, just incase I hadn't noticed...Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Roof Of the Viking Franchise Is Caving In
...literally.
The roof of the Minnesota Viking’s stadium couldn’t hold the weight of the snow on Sunday, and collapsed.
This would normally be funny; however, this particular Sunday the Vikings were playing the Giants…and it was televised…in Massachusetts.
The Giants are rarely televised in Massachusetts due to their conflicting schedule with a team slightly more popular in these parts, the New England Patriots.
Sigh.
So, instead of being able to watch the Giants crush the Vikings from the comfort of my parents’ couch on Sunday afternoon, I had to spend the majority of my Monday scrambling for ways that I could somehow figure out how my father would watch the game that night, whether it be via television/radio/morse code/smoke signals.
Long story short: the Giants Vikings game was not to be televised anywhere besides the New York and Minnesota territories. Gee, shocking.
My dad’s solution? Well, sit in the car and check to see if it is on satellite radio in the brand new jeep, of course!
So, at 7:20 PM, my father escorts himself to his car.
At roughly 7:25 PM, I run downstairs in a complete and total panic, half expecting my dad to be passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning, in a running car, in our garage.
Luckily, I found my dad in his car, outside, not on, safe and sound.
Watching the game in slippers and a plush blanket [with warm tea in hand] became sitting in a cold car in my driveway, lights off, staring at my warm, heated house.
At least I can say my father is, if nothing else, dedicated and resourceful [and also rarely affected by cold temperatures.]
This also explains why my parents make the perfect couple. My mother entertains herself by spreading yuletide cheer throughout the house and beyond, and my father hides in the car, yelling at Eli Manning via his satellite radio.
The roof of the Minnesota Viking’s stadium couldn’t hold the weight of the snow on Sunday, and collapsed.
This would normally be funny; however, this particular Sunday the Vikings were playing the Giants…and it was televised…in Massachusetts.
The Giants are rarely televised in Massachusetts due to their conflicting schedule with a team slightly more popular in these parts, the New England Patriots.
Sigh.
So, instead of being able to watch the Giants crush the Vikings from the comfort of my parents’ couch on Sunday afternoon, I had to spend the majority of my Monday scrambling for ways that I could somehow figure out how my father would watch the game that night, whether it be via television/radio/morse code/smoke signals.
Long story short: the Giants Vikings game was not to be televised anywhere besides the New York and Minnesota territories. Gee, shocking.
My dad’s solution? Well, sit in the car and check to see if it is on satellite radio in the brand new jeep, of course!
So, at 7:20 PM, my father escorts himself to his car.
At roughly 7:25 PM, I run downstairs in a complete and total panic, half expecting my dad to be passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning, in a running car, in our garage.
Luckily, I found my dad in his car, outside, not on, safe and sound.
Watching the game in slippers and a plush blanket [with warm tea in hand] became sitting in a cold car in my driveway, lights off, staring at my warm, heated house.
At least I can say my father is, if nothing else, dedicated and resourceful [and also rarely affected by cold temperatures.]
This also explains why my parents make the perfect couple. My mother entertains herself by spreading yuletide cheer throughout the house and beyond, and my father hides in the car, yelling at Eli Manning via his satellite radio.
...And Copious Amounts of Cash
What I want for Christmas:
- new ugg boots. I have always had two pairs of Uggs in my day-to-day rotation: the ones I can wear in public, and the ones that are absolutely trashed and smell like a frat house. The problem? Currently both pairs of my Ugg boots fall into the latter category. I didn’t realize the severity of the crisis until I moved and was unable to identify which pair of boots I was allowed to wear into the open while sober…
- New purse. When it rains, my bag no longer protects my belongings from the elements. I am also getting sick of people judging me while I pick at the interior of my bag when I am bored.
- My white shelves to hang themselves on my bedroom wall. Please use a level when hanging yourselves up.
- My bank account balance to double its amount…okay it might as well triple…
- that cute lil Marc Jacobs clutch I have been eying…you know, the one that can hold all of my multiple personalities, my cell phone, and my camera all at one time…and zip.
- First Lieutenant William Ripley Houpt to return home quickly and safely from Afghanistan. I miss and love you more and more each day. Even in your absence, you still inspire me.
- The scale to read 22 pounds lighter than it did this morning.
- Really long, incredibly blonde hair
- A tan that never fades…
- A golden lab puppy, with a house big enough for her and a person who will clean/walk/pick up poop/feed/train/do everything besides cuddle with it.
Ready, set, SHOP!
Monday, December 13, 2010
Shaq-ing Up?
My mother dedicated much time to a plan re: inviting Shaquille O’Neil to the Christmas Eve service at our hometown church.
Why? Because she thinks Shaq would appreciate a quality worship service with an intimate crowd and an emphasis on music.
Since Shaq moved into Sudbury, my mother has convinced herself that Shaq’s sole reason for moving here was because of our church, and hasn’t come yet simply because he hasn’t gotten the invitation. She had planned to be the one to invite him and include him in our very exclusive, but very warm, religious celebration.
Last night, my mother told us that Shaq would not be joining us on Christmas Eve. I immediately assumed that my mother had bumped into Shaq at our local grocery store, cornered him and scared him into not coming to our church, but for once Diane picked a normal option, and instead researched the Celtics game schedule.
Unfortunately, the Celtics have an away game on Christmas Eve, therefore completely eliminating the possibility of having Shaq join us in our celebration of the birth of Jesus.
She continued by saying that she did some follow up research so that she could invite him to another Sunday worship service, perhaps during advent.
My mother has now memorized the entire Celtics schedule, most games, much to her dismay, are on Sundays.
I have yet to break the news to her that Shaq will never be coming to our church for any type of Christian celebration…
Why? Because Shaq is Muslim.
Guess that didn’t surface in my mother’s research…
(I still love you anyway Mom, and maybe with your killer personality he will come just because you invited him!)
Why? Because she thinks Shaq would appreciate a quality worship service with an intimate crowd and an emphasis on music.
Since Shaq moved into Sudbury, my mother has convinced herself that Shaq’s sole reason for moving here was because of our church, and hasn’t come yet simply because he hasn’t gotten the invitation. She had planned to be the one to invite him and include him in our very exclusive, but very warm, religious celebration.
Last night, my mother told us that Shaq would not be joining us on Christmas Eve. I immediately assumed that my mother had bumped into Shaq at our local grocery store, cornered him and scared him into not coming to our church, but for once Diane picked a normal option, and instead researched the Celtics game schedule.
Unfortunately, the Celtics have an away game on Christmas Eve, therefore completely eliminating the possibility of having Shaq join us in our celebration of the birth of Jesus.
She continued by saying that she did some follow up research so that she could invite him to another Sunday worship service, perhaps during advent.
My mother has now memorized the entire Celtics schedule, most games, much to her dismay, are on Sundays.
I have yet to break the news to her that Shaq will never be coming to our church for any type of Christian celebration…
Why? Because Shaq is Muslim.
Guess that didn’t surface in my mother’s research…
(I still love you anyway Mom, and maybe with your killer personality he will come just because you invited him!)
Friday, December 10, 2010
Rangers Lead The Way
You should thank a soldier today because:
- they fight so you don’t have to
- they cant kiss their loved ones every day like you can
- they’ve written a blank check made payable to The 'United States of America', for an amount of 'up to and including my life.'
- Freedom isn’t free
- They are someone’s daughter or son, husband or wife, friend, mentor, confidant, teddy bear
- They sweat a lot and they sleep a little
- They are survivor
- Their families miss them and pray for their safe return everyday
- They are protecting your children/parents/best friends
- There is someone at home who’s world would be shattered if they didn’t come home
- You are able to read this…in English
You should thank a soldier because you can.
So thank a soldier today….and if you can, thank their mom, dad, sister, brother, dog, friend, and significant other, too. They are the backbone to every one of them.
The world will say goodbye to a great young man tomorrow, and far too early at that.
Scotty, you are a hero to all of us. You are my hero. May you rest in peace.
Tis the Season to Gain Weight.....
Fa La La La La, La La La La!
In a normal day, I exercise caution when making choices at meals, and I opt for the healthier option when given the choice…most of the time.
Beginning around Thanksgiving, the word “no” seems to become a swear word in my vocabulary. Where usually I would be able to say “oh no thank you, one donut is enough for me,” or “no thanks, I think I have had too much to drink,” the words “oh, sure I’ll have another, I mean it is Christmas” somehow manage to leak from my mouth. Without fail.
I mean, tis the season to overindulge, right?
Ugh.
At any rate, this is when I am thankful for the regular routine in my nine to fiver (well, eight to four thirty-er) to keep me from holiday snacking/lunching/gingerbread latte-ing/ “oh, its okay, it’s the holiday season”-ing all day long. There is just simply not enough time for snacking when I am working, plus I find that, under usual circumstances, I have very good self control whilst in the office. [Not to mention my weird complex about whether coworkers monitor how often/how long/for what reason I leave my desk.]
I pack my own snacks so that I steer away from the demons that live in the Cheez-it, Swedish Fish, Gummy Bear, Peanut M&M, Veggie Stick snack buckets that live in our kitchen throughout the year, so that when I do have that occasionally Apple tart with vanilla/cinnamon/nutmeg/other yummy spices/ drizzle atop it, I don’t feel completely and utterly worthless. Sigh.
But then it happens….
The holiday gift baskets start to magically appear in the focal point of my office. The kitchen.
Then I loose all sight of normal caloric intake.
It is only December 7th and we have already had the following delicacies grace us with their appearance in December:
- Homemade Christmas Cookies
- Store bought Christmas Cookies
- Blueberry cake a la a co-workers aunt
- An oversized Caramel/chocolate/peanut butter covered candy apple
- donuts, bagels, and hot cider…twice
- chocolate covered molasses chips
- a marble Boston coffee cake
- a pumpkin/cinnamon roll/thing
Well, here’s to getting back on the bandwagon January 2, 2011? [I mean we all know it is impossible to be good while also being incredibly hungover…]
Thursday, December 2, 2010
TGIT
Here is our 2010 Christmas tree.
Luckily, one of my roomates is just as anal/anxious/psychotic about the Christmas season as I am.
What does that mean? Our christmas tree doubles as a light fixture...
Notice the illuminating glow surrounding the tree. That is the glow of our electric bill doubling for the month of December. Worth every penny.
To Quote "Christmas Vacation:"
Bethany: Is your house on fire, Clark?
Clark: No, Aunt Bethany, those are the Christmas lights.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
My Quarterback Is More Manly Than Yours
There are certain consumer products that athletes just should not be spokespeople for.
Under Armor? Appropriate.
Nike? Appropriate.
Wrangler Jeans? Appropriate.
Male Ugg Boots? NOT APPROPRIATE. I am talking to you, Tom Brady.
You play football, Tom. You get dirty. You say things like “27.32. Hike.” You wear a jock strap. These are all manly things. You are the epitome of the alpha male, and have been since your entrance into the NFL.
Since your marriage to Giselle, however, you have gotten in touch with your more feminine, metrosexual side.
I didn’t say anything when you told reporters to speak to your [supermodel, ridiculously attractive, wears the pants in the relationship] wife re: your new, slickback hairdo, but it is time to say something now.
Who decided that it was a good idea for you to be a male Ugg Boot spokesperson? I understand that you may enjoy wearing Ugg boots on a cool New England evening, but that is not something that you, as an alpha male, should be admitting.
Why? Because you’re reputation as a whipped male is already in full swing…and this newest PR move will not help.
Uggs= fashion= womanly.
Therefore, being a spokesperson for Uggs makes you womanly by default, regardless of the [no doubt ridiculously huge] size of the check made out to you and the fact that you get free Uggs for life.
Is Eli Manning repping Secret? Um, no.
Is Peyton Manning repping BCBG? No [he is too busy repping every other company that puts a dollar figure in front of him.]
Is Michael Vick repping Juicy Couture? No.
And so, I leave you with this question, Tom: what is next in your career?
Superbowl, or a pending contract with Tampax?
I’m hoping for the latter, just to drive my point home.
Under Armor? Appropriate.
Nike? Appropriate.
Wrangler Jeans? Appropriate.
Male Ugg Boots? NOT APPROPRIATE. I am talking to you, Tom Brady.
You play football, Tom. You get dirty. You say things like “27.32. Hike.” You wear a jock strap. These are all manly things. You are the epitome of the alpha male, and have been since your entrance into the NFL.
Since your marriage to Giselle, however, you have gotten in touch with your more feminine, metrosexual side.
I didn’t say anything when you told reporters to speak to your [supermodel, ridiculously attractive, wears the pants in the relationship] wife re: your new, slickback hairdo, but it is time to say something now.
Who decided that it was a good idea for you to be a male Ugg Boot spokesperson? I understand that you may enjoy wearing Ugg boots on a cool New England evening, but that is not something that you, as an alpha male, should be admitting.
Why? Because you’re reputation as a whipped male is already in full swing…and this newest PR move will not help.
Uggs= fashion= womanly.
Therefore, being a spokesperson for Uggs makes you womanly by default, regardless of the [no doubt ridiculously huge] size of the check made out to you and the fact that you get free Uggs for life.
Is Eli Manning repping Secret? Um, no.
Is Peyton Manning repping BCBG? No [he is too busy repping every other company that puts a dollar figure in front of him.]
Is Michael Vick repping Juicy Couture? No.
And so, I leave you with this question, Tom: what is next in your career?
Superbowl, or a pending contract with Tampax?
I’m hoping for the latter, just to drive my point home.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Man-Eater?
I am naturally disposed to attracting men of the working class.
At first I thought this small life trend was just a coincidence, but over the past few months I have learned that my attractiveness peaks with men of the working class.
Example #1: The Gas Station Attendant. This gem has been in my life for a little over five years, when he started working at the gas station down the street from my house.
At first I was relatively naïve at the fact that the gas attendant [who we now lovingly refer to as “Boyfriend”] was blatantly hitting on me. I, for one, was extremely pleased that my little no-name gas station had set such high customer service standards. Maybe he was asking me how I was because that is the polite thing to do?
As our relationship progressed to stage one of uncomfortable, which I have entitled the “Stop and stare” phase, Boyfriend would say hello, linger and then scan up and down my body as I was sitting Indian Style in sweatpants, with no make up on [I mean who doesn’t get gas like that.] Step two included his scan, followed by a wedding ring check, followed by a “You have boyfriend? You so pretty” comment to follow [in broken English].
After that, I developed a gas station complex. I was scared and/or too awkward to go to the gas station and have him pump my gas. I started to pump my own gas elsewhere, but the prices at no-name were just so darn good that I couldn’t stay away for long. Besides, I shouldn’t let an awkward attendant force me to pay more for gas elsewhere.
Stage three occurred after my brief hiatus away from no-name, to which I was then a victim to a [obviously rehearsed] speech from “Boyfriend” which included him asking where I had been, and him also requesting that I get $2 of gas every day so that he can see me everyday…oh, and that I make his day every time he sees me.
Right. Gas station complex builds. My solution? Bring along a second party to see if I was simply just flattering myself.
Stage four, entitled “stop and stare even with my mother in the car” was next. This seems self explanatory. Stage five, entitled “do a drive by, then if you don’t see ‘Boyfriend’ you can safely pull in and get gas” seems to be working better.
Example #2: The AAA Car Repairman. After one of Sass’s untimely breakdowns, I realized that I should be overly nice to the AAA repairmen who so often fix my car. My thought process? Maybe they will fix my car for free! Maybe they will put a note on my file explaining how nice I am, causing them to come faster! Maybe I will end up having the same repairman once Sass inevitably breaks again and be able to skip the whole AAA process! Apparently the translation for this situation on the AAA repair man’s part = girl likes me, must ask girl out.
Again, I was overjoyed at how great AAA’s attention to customer service was. The repairman was timely, efficient, and even made me feel better. The text messages to follow later that afternoon asking me out, however, left a much different feeling with me. I describe this feeling as the “oh-my-god, the AAA guy had my number when I was in crisis and incorrectly thought my polite/not ripping his head off actions were actually “hey, I am totally into you, thanks for saving me when I was a damsel in distress.’” While it was flattering, it got extremely creepy when he started re-sending texts that I hadn’t responded to, and then late night texting me. Woof.
Example #3: The Sullivan Tire Chaffier. Same day. Same car problem. Same attempt at trying to get to work. Two hours later, I found myself talking to my mechanic-turned-chauffer re: his weekends being a Sunday-Monday schedule. My initial [and what I thought was very normal] reaction to his schedule? That is awesome, you can stay up late watching all of the Sunday night football games! Apparently that is not the normal reaction, gauged by his “I’ve never heard a hotter sentence come out of a woman’s mouth before” statement, followed by his immediate questioning regarding my weekend, specifically Sunday night football plans, and if they might per chance intertwine with his. Right.
Example #4: The Cashier at the Charlestown Johnnies. In an effort to defer attention from the fact that I have yet to remove the make-up from under my eyes from going out the night before and that I was embarrassingly hungover, I decided to strike up a conversation with my cashier, with [equally hungover] roommate in tow. After grabbing my bags, thanking him and walking away, my roommate informed me that said cashier had repetitevly winked at me in an attempt to get a reaction. Clearly I was too focused on not throwing up in the grocery store to notice. If its any consolation, if I were a junior in high school, I would definitely have hoped that he would ask me to prom. Sigh.
Example #5: The Electrician. Meet the newest member of my fan club. This weekend we were semi-powerless, so when Jose [the repairman] was unable to fix the problem, he called his manager. “Manager” [who spoke fluent English and was semi attractive looking] arrived, and my roommates offered him a drink. Just as he refused, all of our power went out, due to NSTAR cutting power to the entire neighborhood. We were now all helpless standing in our dark kitchen. Nice was when he offered for us to call his personal cell if NSTAR didn’t fix the problem. Creepy was when he texted me two hours later asking if we had power and what I was doing.
Stay tuned for when I take out the garbage, run into the mailman, and become a regular at our local coffee shop!
At first I thought this small life trend was just a coincidence, but over the past few months I have learned that my attractiveness peaks with men of the working class.
Example #1: The Gas Station Attendant. This gem has been in my life for a little over five years, when he started working at the gas station down the street from my house.
At first I was relatively naïve at the fact that the gas attendant [who we now lovingly refer to as “Boyfriend”] was blatantly hitting on me. I, for one, was extremely pleased that my little no-name gas station had set such high customer service standards. Maybe he was asking me how I was because that is the polite thing to do?
As our relationship progressed to stage one of uncomfortable, which I have entitled the “Stop and stare” phase, Boyfriend would say hello, linger and then scan up and down my body as I was sitting Indian Style in sweatpants, with no make up on [I mean who doesn’t get gas like that.] Step two included his scan, followed by a wedding ring check, followed by a “You have boyfriend? You so pretty” comment to follow [in broken English].
After that, I developed a gas station complex. I was scared and/or too awkward to go to the gas station and have him pump my gas. I started to pump my own gas elsewhere, but the prices at no-name were just so darn good that I couldn’t stay away for long. Besides, I shouldn’t let an awkward attendant force me to pay more for gas elsewhere.
Stage three occurred after my brief hiatus away from no-name, to which I was then a victim to a [obviously rehearsed] speech from “Boyfriend” which included him asking where I had been, and him also requesting that I get $2 of gas every day so that he can see me everyday…oh, and that I make his day every time he sees me.
Right. Gas station complex builds. My solution? Bring along a second party to see if I was simply just flattering myself.
Stage four, entitled “stop and stare even with my mother in the car” was next. This seems self explanatory. Stage five, entitled “do a drive by, then if you don’t see ‘Boyfriend’ you can safely pull in and get gas” seems to be working better.
Example #2: The AAA Car Repairman. After one of Sass’s untimely breakdowns, I realized that I should be overly nice to the AAA repairmen who so often fix my car. My thought process? Maybe they will fix my car for free! Maybe they will put a note on my file explaining how nice I am, causing them to come faster! Maybe I will end up having the same repairman once Sass inevitably breaks again and be able to skip the whole AAA process! Apparently the translation for this situation on the AAA repair man’s part = girl likes me, must ask girl out.
Again, I was overjoyed at how great AAA’s attention to customer service was. The repairman was timely, efficient, and even made me feel better. The text messages to follow later that afternoon asking me out, however, left a much different feeling with me. I describe this feeling as the “oh-my-god, the AAA guy had my number when I was in crisis and incorrectly thought my polite/not ripping his head off actions were actually “hey, I am totally into you, thanks for saving me when I was a damsel in distress.’” While it was flattering, it got extremely creepy when he started re-sending texts that I hadn’t responded to, and then late night texting me. Woof.
Example #3: The Sullivan Tire Chaffier. Same day. Same car problem. Same attempt at trying to get to work. Two hours later, I found myself talking to my mechanic-turned-chauffer re: his weekends being a Sunday-Monday schedule. My initial [and what I thought was very normal] reaction to his schedule? That is awesome, you can stay up late watching all of the Sunday night football games! Apparently that is not the normal reaction, gauged by his “I’ve never heard a hotter sentence come out of a woman’s mouth before” statement, followed by his immediate questioning regarding my weekend, specifically Sunday night football plans, and if they might per chance intertwine with his. Right.
Example #4: The Cashier at the Charlestown Johnnies. In an effort to defer attention from the fact that I have yet to remove the make-up from under my eyes from going out the night before and that I was embarrassingly hungover, I decided to strike up a conversation with my cashier, with [equally hungover] roommate in tow. After grabbing my bags, thanking him and walking away, my roommate informed me that said cashier had repetitevly winked at me in an attempt to get a reaction. Clearly I was too focused on not throwing up in the grocery store to notice. If its any consolation, if I were a junior in high school, I would definitely have hoped that he would ask me to prom. Sigh.
Example #5: The Electrician. Meet the newest member of my fan club. This weekend we were semi-powerless, so when Jose [the repairman] was unable to fix the problem, he called his manager. “Manager” [who spoke fluent English and was semi attractive looking] arrived, and my roommates offered him a drink. Just as he refused, all of our power went out, due to NSTAR cutting power to the entire neighborhood. We were now all helpless standing in our dark kitchen. Nice was when he offered for us to call his personal cell if NSTAR didn’t fix the problem. Creepy was when he texted me two hours later asking if we had power and what I was doing.
Stay tuned for when I take out the garbage, run into the mailman, and become a regular at our local coffee shop!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Them vs Me- the London Edition
Kate Middleton vs. me
Kate lives in a posh area of London.
Kristin lived on the outskirts of London. One hour commute each way.
Kate no doubt has a private car service to chauffeur her to and from the destinations of her choice.
Kristin battles the late bus, and/or pays for an [overpriced, takes the long way because I’m an American, almost kills us in the process] taxi.
Kate has a fully functioning, fully lit, fully private bathroom for her use.
Kristin first has a bathroom with no lock [walking in on me while showering can only “accidently” happen so many times, host brothers], and then switched to a bathroom which was not only hot-water-less, but also light-less, and shower-less. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy cold baths in the dark?
Kate enjoys the couture and high fashion of London.
Kristin thinks the Top Shop is overpriced.
Kate has a private entrance into Buckingham Palace and private guards.
Kristin needs to battle with commonfolk to get a glimpse at the soldiers hired to protect her.
Kate has never travelled on the tube.
Kristin has never travelled without being on the tube
Kate most definitely didn’t marry Prince William when she played “lets pretend we date Prince William and Prince Harry” as a child with her best friend.
Kristin did. And even believed it would come to fruition. [Have I ever mentioned that I had a vast imagination as a child?]
When Kate wears fancy hats, she looks regal.
When Kristin wears fancy hats, she looks ridiculous.
Kate is engaged to a prince.
Kristin still is not.
Sometimes life is not fair. Now, I will just live vicariously through her, as I did Diana.
Kate lives in a posh area of London.
Kristin lived on the outskirts of London. One hour commute each way.
Kate no doubt has a private car service to chauffeur her to and from the destinations of her choice.
Kristin battles the late bus, and/or pays for an [overpriced, takes the long way because I’m an American, almost kills us in the process] taxi.
Kate has a fully functioning, fully lit, fully private bathroom for her use.
Kristin first has a bathroom with no lock [walking in on me while showering can only “accidently” happen so many times, host brothers], and then switched to a bathroom which was not only hot-water-less, but also light-less, and shower-less. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy cold baths in the dark?
Kate enjoys the couture and high fashion of London.
Kristin thinks the Top Shop is overpriced.
Kate has a private entrance into Buckingham Palace and private guards.
Kristin needs to battle with commonfolk to get a glimpse at the soldiers hired to protect her.
Kate has never travelled on the tube.
Kristin has never travelled without being on the tube
Kate most definitely didn’t marry Prince William when she played “lets pretend we date Prince William and Prince Harry” as a child with her best friend.
Kristin did. And even believed it would come to fruition. [Have I ever mentioned that I had a vast imagination as a child?]
When Kate wears fancy hats, she looks regal.
When Kristin wears fancy hats, she looks ridiculous.
Kate is engaged to a prince.
Kristin still is not.
Sometimes life is not fair. Now, I will just live vicariously through her, as I did Diana.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Do The Wave?
As I was driving to work, I noticed that there were many a people waving at me.
Is my blinker on?
Do they know me?
Do I look particularly attractive on this fine Friday morning?
The answer to all of the above questions was no, [although I do look pretty cute.]
Regardless, I started waving back anyway. Maybe there was some national wave day that I hadn’t heard about. Regardless I committed to participating…that is until I realized what was going on.
This morning I was driving in front of a wrangler.
For those of you not in the know, wrangler drivers are members of an exclusive club. The secret handshake to said club is a small lift with the hand that is holding the wheel and a light nod as you pass each other. Said secret shake says: “I am bro enough to drive a wrangler, you are bro enough to drive a wrangler. Lets be bro together and celebrate how legit we are because we both drive wranglers.”
How do I know about this club? Well, many of my evenings and afternoons were spent in the passenger seat of a certain wrangler throughout my high school career. I very quickly learned the don’ts of the wrangler.
DO NOT WAVE FRANTICALLY.
DO NOT ACT EXCITED.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT IN A WRANGLER.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT THE DRIVER.
DO NOT HONK.
I used to feel so legit after Caleb would wave at a fellow wrangler. I felt like we were included in something bigger. I was, if just for that moment, a part of something really cool.
Suddenly, my own [light blue, very cute, classic] Jeep Cherokee didn’t seem so special. Why wasn’t I allowed to do the wave? I mean I do drive a Jeep. I am just as legit. Why is it that wrangler drivers are the only ones allowed to wave at each other? Who was the kook who decided to make this rule?!
These are the feelings that immediately flooded my brain this morning as I meandered into work, feeling slightly defeated. I was that girl. The one waving to a person not knowing that they were waving to the person behind me. Happy Friday to me.
My personal feel-better-about-myself conclusion? Wrangler drivers need to get validated in order to feel legit, I simply know I am legit, legit enough to wave at randos. Nuff said.
One final question that I am not even going to attempt to answer: um, why are there so many wranglers in my 5 minute commute to work?
Is my blinker on?
Do they know me?
Do I look particularly attractive on this fine Friday morning?
The answer to all of the above questions was no, [although I do look pretty cute.]
Regardless, I started waving back anyway. Maybe there was some national wave day that I hadn’t heard about. Regardless I committed to participating…that is until I realized what was going on.
This morning I was driving in front of a wrangler.
For those of you not in the know, wrangler drivers are members of an exclusive club. The secret handshake to said club is a small lift with the hand that is holding the wheel and a light nod as you pass each other. Said secret shake says: “I am bro enough to drive a wrangler, you are bro enough to drive a wrangler. Lets be bro together and celebrate how legit we are because we both drive wranglers.”
How do I know about this club? Well, many of my evenings and afternoons were spent in the passenger seat of a certain wrangler throughout my high school career. I very quickly learned the don’ts of the wrangler.
DO NOT WAVE FRANTICALLY.
DO NOT ACT EXCITED.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT IN A WRANGLER.
DO NOT WAVE IF YOU ARE NOT THE DRIVER.
DO NOT HONK.
I used to feel so legit after Caleb would wave at a fellow wrangler. I felt like we were included in something bigger. I was, if just for that moment, a part of something really cool.
Suddenly, my own [light blue, very cute, classic] Jeep Cherokee didn’t seem so special. Why wasn’t I allowed to do the wave? I mean I do drive a Jeep. I am just as legit. Why is it that wrangler drivers are the only ones allowed to wave at each other? Who was the kook who decided to make this rule?!
These are the feelings that immediately flooded my brain this morning as I meandered into work, feeling slightly defeated. I was that girl. The one waving to a person not knowing that they were waving to the person behind me. Happy Friday to me.
My personal feel-better-about-myself conclusion? Wrangler drivers need to get validated in order to feel legit, I simply know I am legit, legit enough to wave at randos. Nuff said.
One final question that I am not even going to attempt to answer: um, why are there so many wranglers in my 5 minute commute to work?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
There Is Nothing Restful About the "Rest"room
I conquered my fear of awkward bathroom encounters early on when working in my new office. Two years later, not only am I able to go to the bathroom alone, but I can also participate in bathroom conversation without it being completely and totally awkward.
All this progress will soon be undone.
Why, you may ask?
New office neighbors.
Here are some quick office stats of people to bathroom ratios:
Prior to office construction:
Amount of women on my office floor: 20
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 5:1
During office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 15
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 3.75:1
After office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 75
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 18.75:1
Lets pause and reflect on those numbers for a moment. There will be four times as many women using the same number of bathroom stalls.
First of all, that is absolutely repulsive. I could be sharing a stall with 18.75 women, if not more, when I was sharing with a maximum of five prior to their move in? Insert germaphobic, “do they make personal anti-bacterial toilet spray that I can prior to my every use?” anxiety here.
Secondly, I will never be alone in the bathroom again, meaning stage fright will be in full effect. If you are a girl, you know what I am talking about.
Lastly, this completely undoes all of the work I have done in order to avoid awkward bathroom conversations. Now there will be new people, and lots of them. There is no way to avoid 50 new women prancing around our office floor. Hopefully they will learn office bathroom etiquette as follows: you are new, I am not, this is my stall, please pick another one, okaythanksnicetomeetyou. I am hoping my soon-to-be new neighbors learn this rule relatively quickly so that all will be harmonious in the 3rd floor women’s bathroom.
Another easy solution would be for them to simply use the rest room on the fourth floor, completely alleviating any problems for us diligent workers on the third floor.
Ultimately, I will end up retreating to the vacant second floor, where I can pee, wash my hands, adjust and stare at my blemishes in the mirror without worrying about Nancy, the new administrative assistant, watching me. Here is to me making life even more difficult for myself, even after conquering the initial fear. Sigh.
All this progress will soon be undone.
Why, you may ask?
New office neighbors.
Here are some quick office stats of people to bathroom ratios:
Prior to office construction:
Amount of women on my office floor: 20
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 5:1
During office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 15
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 3.75:1
After office construction:
Amount of people on my office floor: 75
Amount of women’s bathrooms: 1.
Total women’s stalls: 4
Women to stalls= 18.75:1
Lets pause and reflect on those numbers for a moment. There will be four times as many women using the same number of bathroom stalls.
First of all, that is absolutely repulsive. I could be sharing a stall with 18.75 women, if not more, when I was sharing with a maximum of five prior to their move in? Insert germaphobic, “do they make personal anti-bacterial toilet spray that I can prior to my every use?” anxiety here.
Secondly, I will never be alone in the bathroom again, meaning stage fright will be in full effect. If you are a girl, you know what I am talking about.
Lastly, this completely undoes all of the work I have done in order to avoid awkward bathroom conversations. Now there will be new people, and lots of them. There is no way to avoid 50 new women prancing around our office floor. Hopefully they will learn office bathroom etiquette as follows: you are new, I am not, this is my stall, please pick another one, okaythanksnicetomeetyou. I am hoping my soon-to-be new neighbors learn this rule relatively quickly so that all will be harmonious in the 3rd floor women’s bathroom.
Another easy solution would be for them to simply use the rest room on the fourth floor, completely alleviating any problems for us diligent workers on the third floor.
Ultimately, I will end up retreating to the vacant second floor, where I can pee, wash my hands, adjust and stare at my blemishes in the mirror without worrying about Nancy, the new administrative assistant, watching me. Here is to me making life even more difficult for myself, even after conquering the initial fear. Sigh.
Monday, November 8, 2010
S'NO!"W
After yet another incredibly successful night a la karaoke, my girlfriends and I poured out of a Boston bar and found ourselves frolicking in, what we thought was, snow.
We were actually frolicking.
It turns out that it was not snowing but rather still [very much snow mimicking] raining.
After we did a small snow dance in the middle of Faniuel Hall for the bouncers, who had earlier asked us our opinion on male massages, we continued on our merry way onto our next bar [where unbeknownst to us we would meet an overly touchy-feely Irishman, as well as a group of Mormons-gone-wild.]
This all seemed relatively normal to me until this morning when I paused and thought: “Self, you actually rejoiced at what you thought was the first snowfall?!”
Backtrack.
I hate snow. I hate being cold. I hate scraping my windshield. I hate shoveling off my car. I hate being blown with cold air first thing in the morning when the car isn’t warm, but the heat was on high when I got out last. I hate forgetting my gloves and needing to strategically drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand under my butt…then switch. I hate thinking that a puddle is frozen through only to find out that it is, in fact, not. I hate skidding. I hate the feeling of my foot being wet after said puddle. I hate slipping. I hate slipping in front of people. I hate walking in the sludge infused parking lots.
That being said I still rejoiced when I thought it was snowing, even with my list of things that I detest about snow/winter/cold things.
Why?
After thinking about it, I also love certain things about winter. [Now that’s a big confession!]
I love the calmness of snowfall. I love knowing its snowing outside and being able to get into a warm bed. I love the feeling of overpowering warmth I get when coming into my apartment from the freezing cold. I love Ugg Boots. I love electric blankets. I love blizzards and snow days. I love the silent crunch of my tires meeting fresh snow. I love sledding. I love being a ski lodge bunny. I love Christmas. I love the sounds of snow falling on power lines. I love oversized sweatshirts and slippers. I love not having to peel myself out of the seat of my car from being overheated. I love ugly Christmas sweaters. I love football.
These are the things that came to mind when I stepped outside the bar last night, not the list of things that I hated.
So, after all of the complaining I do about winter approaching, I guess there are certain things I am really looking forward to.
Look whos being little miss optimistic now!
We were actually frolicking.
It turns out that it was not snowing but rather still [very much snow mimicking] raining.
After we did a small snow dance in the middle of Faniuel Hall for the bouncers, who had earlier asked us our opinion on male massages, we continued on our merry way onto our next bar [where unbeknownst to us we would meet an overly touchy-feely Irishman, as well as a group of Mormons-gone-wild.]
This all seemed relatively normal to me until this morning when I paused and thought: “Self, you actually rejoiced at what you thought was the first snowfall?!”
Backtrack.
I hate snow. I hate being cold. I hate scraping my windshield. I hate shoveling off my car. I hate being blown with cold air first thing in the morning when the car isn’t warm, but the heat was on high when I got out last. I hate forgetting my gloves and needing to strategically drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand under my butt…then switch. I hate thinking that a puddle is frozen through only to find out that it is, in fact, not. I hate skidding. I hate the feeling of my foot being wet after said puddle. I hate slipping. I hate slipping in front of people. I hate walking in the sludge infused parking lots.
That being said I still rejoiced when I thought it was snowing, even with my list of things that I detest about snow/winter/cold things.
Why?
After thinking about it, I also love certain things about winter. [Now that’s a big confession!]
I love the calmness of snowfall. I love knowing its snowing outside and being able to get into a warm bed. I love the feeling of overpowering warmth I get when coming into my apartment from the freezing cold. I love Ugg Boots. I love electric blankets. I love blizzards and snow days. I love the silent crunch of my tires meeting fresh snow. I love sledding. I love being a ski lodge bunny. I love Christmas. I love the sounds of snow falling on power lines. I love oversized sweatshirts and slippers. I love not having to peel myself out of the seat of my car from being overheated. I love ugly Christmas sweaters. I love football.
These are the things that came to mind when I stepped outside the bar last night, not the list of things that I hated.
So, after all of the complaining I do about winter approaching, I guess there are certain things I am really looking forward to.
Look whos being little miss optimistic now!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
"Hallo-whine" - Mary Elizabeth Wood
I’ve realized that lately I have been blogging in lists, and while I acknowledge that I should stop listing so frequently, I’ve decided that today is not the day to start.
Plus, I have a very important analysis to share that can only be adequately shared through lists.
After my Halloween self reflection, I’ve learned several not-so-normal, but no-so-surprising things about myself.
Scary Truth #1: no matter how ugly/not creative/rude/any other unfavorable characteristic a trick-or-treater has, I will always open the door and tell each and every one of them how cute and creative their costume is. Further, if I don’t know what they are, I will coax them into telling me what they are without them knowing that I have no idea. It is a gift.
Scary Truth #2: If there are children with whom I have pre-existing unfavorable feelings toward, I will still be nice to them, but snicker behind their back about their unimaginative scream costume once they leave for my own personal satisfaction.
Scary Truth #3: I instantly melt over cute children.
Scary Truth #4: I am turning into my mother:
Exhibit 1: I inherited my “over willingness to help children” gene from Diane, who tried to escort children down our stairs by telling them to hold her hand. Had she not done it, I most likely would have.
Exhibit 2: I think my mother and I get more excited about the doorbell ringing than the trick-or-treaters do.
Exhibit 3: We have made a costume/cuteness scale that really only makes sense to us.
Scary Truth #5: My family is without a doubt one of those families.
Scary Truth #6: I am a 21 year old partier, a 35 year old homemaker, and an 80 year old knitter trapped in a 20-something body. So what if I happen to be very skilled in making homemade costumes and/or props? It means that I am talented and economical, not practicing to be a mother! One day someone will find my craft/creative skills to be an untouchable talent, and I will be writing cards for Hallmark and designing Halloween costumes for iParty.
Scary Truth #7: My favorite Sundays include football, costumes, treak-or-treaters, family dinners, a good knitting project, a glass of Pinot Noir, and wicked good slippers. Further explains Scary Truth #6.
Scary Truth #8: My favorite candies and Milk Duds and Paydays. I am the only American who enjoys them, which is great. More candy for me.
Scary Truth #9: No matter what I dress as for Halloween, I will always have costume envy.
Scary Truth #10: 362 days until Halloween 2011.
Plus, I have a very important analysis to share that can only be adequately shared through lists.
After my Halloween self reflection, I’ve learned several not-so-normal, but no-so-surprising things about myself.
Scary Truth #1: no matter how ugly/not creative/rude/any other unfavorable characteristic a trick-or-treater has, I will always open the door and tell each and every one of them how cute and creative their costume is. Further, if I don’t know what they are, I will coax them into telling me what they are without them knowing that I have no idea. It is a gift.
Scary Truth #2: If there are children with whom I have pre-existing unfavorable feelings toward, I will still be nice to them, but snicker behind their back about their unimaginative scream costume once they leave for my own personal satisfaction.
Scary Truth #3: I instantly melt over cute children.
Scary Truth #4: I am turning into my mother:
Exhibit 1: I inherited my “over willingness to help children” gene from Diane, who tried to escort children down our stairs by telling them to hold her hand. Had she not done it, I most likely would have.
Exhibit 2: I think my mother and I get more excited about the doorbell ringing than the trick-or-treaters do.
Exhibit 3: We have made a costume/cuteness scale that really only makes sense to us.
Scary Truth #5: My family is without a doubt one of those families.
Scary Truth #6: I am a 21 year old partier, a 35 year old homemaker, and an 80 year old knitter trapped in a 20-something body. So what if I happen to be very skilled in making homemade costumes and/or props? It means that I am talented and economical, not practicing to be a mother! One day someone will find my craft/creative skills to be an untouchable talent, and I will be writing cards for Hallmark and designing Halloween costumes for iParty.
Scary Truth #7: My favorite Sundays include football, costumes, treak-or-treaters, family dinners, a good knitting project, a glass of Pinot Noir, and wicked good slippers. Further explains Scary Truth #6.
Scary Truth #8: My favorite candies and Milk Duds and Paydays. I am the only American who enjoys them, which is great. More candy for me.
Scary Truth #9: No matter what I dress as for Halloween, I will always have costume envy.
Scary Truth #10: 362 days until Halloween 2011.
Monday, November 1, 2010
You've Got To Fight For Your Right to...
There is one thing that you must do tomorrow prior to going to bed.
The single most important thing that you will do tomorrow is: vote.
Recently, there has been a [un]cool social movement where young people are no longer voting. Why? Because they “aren’t partial to one candidate or the other” or “don’t want to feed into the lesser of two evil candidates.”
To all you who won’t vote for those reasons, or for others, here is why you should vote and why you should tell all your friends to vote too.
America is a democracy, and in order for a democracy to properly function, everyone must vote. As a citizen of the United States it is your civic duty to support the electoral process and reinforce your regional and national government.
Your vote counts. Election day is the one day a year where your young vote is equal to that of any other American: young or old, rich or poor, famous or not. Your vote is equal to Barack Obama’s vote. Your vote is equal to Madonna’s vote. They are making their votes count, and so should you.
Florida in 2000. Don’t you think the citizens of Florida now understand the value of their vote? Value yours like they do!
People have fought and continue to fight for your right to vote. Thank and honor the soldiers, past and present, who gave up their lives and families to fight for your liberty and freedom. Thank them by voting, because we need to uphold the government at home while they are fighting for it abroad.
If you don’t vote for your rights, don’t expect others to vote on them for you. No one votes with our age group in mind besides us. Everyone votes for their own benefit and if we don’t represent our generation, we will be left with a giant mess to clean up. You should be educated about the issues that will inevitably be affecting your future and vote for what you believe in!
You cannot complain if you don’t vote. If you didn’t care enough to vote [for or] against Obama, than you really shouldn’t care enough now to complain [or praise] his current achievements [or lack there of]. Simply put, if you didn’t vote, you have no right to whine about it, because you did nothing to affect the outcome. And no, saying that you didn’t vote doesn’t prove that you are better than each of the candidates, but merely means that you are too ignorant to learn about and value the issues at hand. Being ignorant < having a different opinion.
Voting sets a good example. Know younger teens? Show them its cool to be educated by voting!
If you don’t vote, you should avoid celebrating holidays that celebrate our independence, like Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. There is direct correlation between these holidays and your right to vote. If you don’t think its important to vote, but you enjoy fireworks and turkey, then you are a giant hypocrite, and no one likes those.
Vote to counter someone else’s vote or to spite the political ads that attack the characters of candidates. Think its annoying to watch and/or listen to candidates constantly bashing each other, rather than addressing the issues? Educate yourself and vote. Want to cancel out the vote of your overly obnoxious democratic friend? Vote, because your vote is worth just as much as theirs!
Bottom line? You should vote because you can, and that should be reason enough.
The single most important thing that you will do tomorrow is: vote.
Recently, there has been a [un]cool social movement where young people are no longer voting. Why? Because they “aren’t partial to one candidate or the other” or “don’t want to feed into the lesser of two evil candidates.”
To all you who won’t vote for those reasons, or for others, here is why you should vote and why you should tell all your friends to vote too.
America is a democracy, and in order for a democracy to properly function, everyone must vote. As a citizen of the United States it is your civic duty to support the electoral process and reinforce your regional and national government.
Your vote counts. Election day is the one day a year where your young vote is equal to that of any other American: young or old, rich or poor, famous or not. Your vote is equal to Barack Obama’s vote. Your vote is equal to Madonna’s vote. They are making their votes count, and so should you.
Florida in 2000. Don’t you think the citizens of Florida now understand the value of their vote? Value yours like they do!
People have fought and continue to fight for your right to vote. Thank and honor the soldiers, past and present, who gave up their lives and families to fight for your liberty and freedom. Thank them by voting, because we need to uphold the government at home while they are fighting for it abroad.
If you don’t vote for your rights, don’t expect others to vote on them for you. No one votes with our age group in mind besides us. Everyone votes for their own benefit and if we don’t represent our generation, we will be left with a giant mess to clean up. You should be educated about the issues that will inevitably be affecting your future and vote for what you believe in!
You cannot complain if you don’t vote. If you didn’t care enough to vote [for or] against Obama, than you really shouldn’t care enough now to complain [or praise] his current achievements [or lack there of]. Simply put, if you didn’t vote, you have no right to whine about it, because you did nothing to affect the outcome. And no, saying that you didn’t vote doesn’t prove that you are better than each of the candidates, but merely means that you are too ignorant to learn about and value the issues at hand. Being ignorant < having a different opinion.
Voting sets a good example. Know younger teens? Show them its cool to be educated by voting!
If you don’t vote, you should avoid celebrating holidays that celebrate our independence, like Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. There is direct correlation between these holidays and your right to vote. If you don’t think its important to vote, but you enjoy fireworks and turkey, then you are a giant hypocrite, and no one likes those.
Vote to counter someone else’s vote or to spite the political ads that attack the characters of candidates. Think its annoying to watch and/or listen to candidates constantly bashing each other, rather than addressing the issues? Educate yourself and vote. Want to cancel out the vote of your overly obnoxious democratic friend? Vote, because your vote is worth just as much as theirs!
Bottom line? You should vote because you can, and that should be reason enough.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Move B*tch, Get Out Da Way (Part II)
Sorry for the dispersed blogging this week.
I have been going through my own personal mini-hell, otherwise known as moving.
While even thinking about my relocation sends me into immediate heart failure, I am lucky enough to be going through my move with my best [equally neurotic, equally anxious] friend, so a majority of my whining/venting/ohmygodhowwillImoveallofthisstuffbymyself anxiety has been communicated to her, luckily for you.
Before jumping into my list of why I hate moving, I would like to ask this question to my group of friends, family, and peers:
Why, on God’s good earth, did you let me sign a lease that ends on Halloween?
We already know that Halloween is my most stress-inducing holiday of the year where I over obsess, plan, re-plan, diagram, and ohmygodwhatifnoonethinksmycostumeisfunny until I am down to the wire, left with some really great ideas and nothing to wear. Humph.
This year, however, I decided that it would be a good idea to move [my actual least favorite thing to do] at the same time.
Thanks for stepping in and telling me that this was a good idea. When your Christmas gifts get lost in the mail, you will know why.
So without further ado, here is my list of why I hate moving:
I have been going through my own personal mini-hell, otherwise known as moving.
While even thinking about my relocation sends me into immediate heart failure, I am lucky enough to be going through my move with my best [equally neurotic, equally anxious] friend, so a majority of my whining/venting/ohmygodhowwillImoveallofthisstuffbymyself anxiety has been communicated to her, luckily for you.
Before jumping into my list of why I hate moving, I would like to ask this question to my group of friends, family, and peers:
Why, on God’s good earth, did you let me sign a lease that ends on Halloween?
We already know that Halloween is my most stress-inducing holiday of the year where I over obsess, plan, re-plan, diagram, and ohmygodwhatifnoonethinksmycostumeisfunny until I am down to the wire, left with some really great ideas and nothing to wear. Humph.
This year, however, I decided that it would be a good idea to move [my actual least favorite thing to do] at the same time.
Thanks for stepping in and telling me that this was a good idea. When your Christmas gifts get lost in the mail, you will know why.
So without further ado, here is my list of why I hate moving:
- packing, knowing you are going to unpack
- unpacking, knowing how much time you just put into packing
- elevatorless buildings. Girlfriend needs to work out, but carrying a queen size mattress up three flights of stairs a la narrow isn’t my ideal cardio situation
- Realtors. They are like bad boyfriends. At first, you play hard to get, but then once you have made a commitment to stick with one realtor, tracking them down becomes a temporary hobby until you no longer show interest in an apartment to which they then call/email/text/smoke signal you in any which way possible, only to have them drop you like a bad habit once you have handed over your money. Need to sign your lease? Sure, your realtor will be in her hard to find, inconveniently located office between 4:39PM and 4:42PM [sorry! She will be on the road with much more important clients during any normal hours].
- Where did I put the screws so I can re-assemble my bed frame?
- Those awkward bruises you get all up and down your forearms that remind you of your move when you are typing at work, or even putting on a jacket.
- New landlords. Please write down any damages you currently see in the apartment here. Thanks.
- The overwhelming realization that I am not nearly as organized as I thought I was.
- What do I do with all these awkward boxes once I am done moving?!
- Physically signing a lease. Why do we have to all go somewhere to sign a single document? This is 2010, can’t this be done electronically, or at least in a location where I don’t need to dedicate my entire evening to signing it?
- Forwarding address. I am fairly certain that despite my attempts at forwarding my mail with every move, the majority of it still goes to my first apartment in Brighton.
- Breakage in general. This includes glasses, lamps, bulbs, bones, mirrors, and/or pieces of furniture.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Caff "Fiend"
I have a confession to make.
I have been drinking coffee daily for the last week or so.
Why? Because I have spent my entire young adult life avoiding caffeine addiction, and doing very well at it.
When I needed caffeine? I would have the healthy alternative: green tea.
Sigh. I blame my new addiction on my recent habit of getting less sleep per night [I would like to dedicate this particular life change to all of my girlfriends of Charlestown.] as well as trying to be an over-productive, multi-tasker in the hours where I am awake.
The obvious solution is more caffeine.
I feel guilty about it, to the point where even writing here doesn’t seem to be relieving me of said irresponsible feeling in my gut.
With my new love of coffee comes my new list of why I shouldn’t drink it
- Self, your teeth will turn brown. Um, hello, your dentist told you that you have one of the most perfect sets of teeth he has seen in a long time, virtually stain free. Why are you jeopardizing your flawless grin for your new caffeine addiction? This is why the next coffee you have will be your last coffee.
- Self, coffee will make you retain water. Tea is the healthier option. Why did you switch in the first place, are you just trying to create problems for yourself?
- Self, I think coffee makes you fidget more so than you did prior to consuming the caffeinated beverage, if that is even possible. People most definitely think you have some sort of genetic defect where you are unable to sit still for more than twenty minutes, or those who are not creative will think you have ADD. Either way, not a good look for you.
Well, tomorrow is the last coffee I get. I hope.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Sass:5, Kristin: 0
My morning in self dialogue:
6:30AM: “TGIF. Its not raining and I’m not hungover. Yesssss”
7:00AM: “I was ready early this morning, so I will have time to stop for a starbucks treat en route to work. Going to need it for the crazy night that is sure to ensue” [should have known then, all car problems occur when I am overly optimistic and once I decide to reward myself with calorically rich goodies. Hi, car accident.]
7:10AM: “Did the valet guy just tell me that my car wont start? This is one of those situations where I can’t giggle and pretend to understand what he said. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to practice my Spanish?!”
7:10:30AM: “okay so he is definitely saying my car won’t start. Silly valet-driver-guy, of course it will start. I will show you, Jose [yes, that is his name, not an incredibly stereotypical self assigned nickname.]
7:12AM: “This car better start or I am going to look like an idiot”
7:13AM: “This car is definitely not going to start. Excellent.”
7:13:30AM: “No Jose, the car isn’t broken, the car battery is just dead, which means that somehow after the evening valet-driver-guy parked my car, the battery magically drained. Yet another special shout out to the night valet guys [also guilty of popping my tire(s)], who seem to treat my car with complete respect. Although I want to say this to you Jose, you are the morning valet-driver-guy and you are my buddy. I will not place blame on you, since you are merely the messenger, not to mention that you call me ‘mamacita rubia,’ which I thoroughly enjoy.”
7:15AM: “Oh, we can totally jump start the car. God, I am so smart!”
7:16AM: “I think valet-driver-guy is saying he will help me jump it, which is excellent since I don’t even know where the battery in my car is, never mind how to jump mine using another vehicle, nor would I have another vehicle to jump it with without the permission of said valet-driver-guy. Overall, I am helpless.”
7:17AM: “Last time I jumped a car successfully, the car had started by now, and that annoying clicking had gone away. I’ll take this as an unsuccessful attempt.”
7:17:30AM “Really Sass, really? Can we not get through one month without having some crisis involving me calling AAA and asking for a truck that will fit into my low clearance garage?!”
7:19AM “Um, where is my AAA Card? Oh, it must be in the apartment, looks like I have to trek back there…and I’m putting on Uggs and no one can stop me.”
7:26AM: “Okay, so my AAA card isn’t in my apartment, maybe I left it in the car?”
7:35 AM: “The friggen card is most certainly not in the car. Oh, that’s right its in my other purse. That makes complete sense.”
7:45 AM: “AAA will be here so fast, it probably makes no sense for me to go inside the apartment.”
8:25 AM: “On second thought, maybe I should have gone inside.”
8:27 AM: “Kristin, thank you for picking last night to be the one night you decide to not charge your phone. Lets hope AAA calls prior to my phone dying. Just incase, better call them and give them a secondary number since we know I’m not lucky enough for my phone to last.”
8:30 AM: “I wonder if I should tell the valet guys that I can understand Spanish, and know exactly what they are saying? Nah, its more fun eavesdropping.”
8:32 AM: “Well, way to blow your ‘I don’t speak Spanish, I am just a blond ditz” cover. Maybe next time you should avoid laughing at jokes when they are in a private conversation in a different language.”
8:40 AM: “AAA called before your cell died. The day is starting to look up?”
8:45 AM: “Self, you just approached a truck and awkwardly waves and pointed toward the garage. Said truck was not the AAA truck you thought it was. You now look like one of those people who talks to themselves in an animated matter on the side of the street. New life low.”
8:54 AM: “Kris, if you are really nice to Chris, the repair man, maybe he will fix the battery for you without you needing to purchase a new one.”
9:00 AM: “Fail.”
9:10 AM: “well, at least they recognize my voice when I call Sullivan Tire, and can immediately squeeze me in and shuttle me to work. Why is it that I get VIP treatment in all the wrong places?!”
9:30 AM: “Kristin, please abide by the speed limit, if you get pulled over, you will be unable to turn your car off without it stalling. Further, the police will find you to be a threat because I’d be refusing to turn my car off and acting recklessly and screaming that you can’t shut the car off. This would trigger the defense training in the police officer, and next thing you know my hands are outside my driver’s side window, where the police officer can see them. In summation, don’t speed.”
9:50 AM: “Self, did you really just justify to the Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy that his Sunday to Monday weekend is legitimate because you can watch all of the football games on Sunday, including the night games?”
9:51 AM: “Um, I think that my obvious love for football has increased Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy’s interest in me substantially. So noted.”
12:00 PM: “My eyes are rolling into the back of my head. I’ll go to Starbucks during lunch and get myself a little treat….wait….”
6:30AM: “TGIF. Its not raining and I’m not hungover. Yesssss”
7:00AM: “I was ready early this morning, so I will have time to stop for a starbucks treat en route to work. Going to need it for the crazy night that is sure to ensue” [should have known then, all car problems occur when I am overly optimistic and once I decide to reward myself with calorically rich goodies. Hi, car accident.]
7:10AM: “Did the valet guy just tell me that my car wont start? This is one of those situations where I can’t giggle and pretend to understand what he said. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to practice my Spanish?!”
7:10:30AM: “okay so he is definitely saying my car won’t start. Silly valet-driver-guy, of course it will start. I will show you, Jose [yes, that is his name, not an incredibly stereotypical self assigned nickname.]
7:12AM: “This car better start or I am going to look like an idiot”
7:13AM: “This car is definitely not going to start. Excellent.”
7:13:30AM: “No Jose, the car isn’t broken, the car battery is just dead, which means that somehow after the evening valet-driver-guy parked my car, the battery magically drained. Yet another special shout out to the night valet guys [also guilty of popping my tire(s)], who seem to treat my car with complete respect. Although I want to say this to you Jose, you are the morning valet-driver-guy and you are my buddy. I will not place blame on you, since you are merely the messenger, not to mention that you call me ‘mamacita rubia,’ which I thoroughly enjoy.”
7:15AM: “Oh, we can totally jump start the car. God, I am so smart!”
7:16AM: “I think valet-driver-guy is saying he will help me jump it, which is excellent since I don’t even know where the battery in my car is, never mind how to jump mine using another vehicle, nor would I have another vehicle to jump it with without the permission of said valet-driver-guy. Overall, I am helpless.”
7:17AM: “Last time I jumped a car successfully, the car had started by now, and that annoying clicking had gone away. I’ll take this as an unsuccessful attempt.”
7:17:30AM “Really Sass, really? Can we not get through one month without having some crisis involving me calling AAA and asking for a truck that will fit into my low clearance garage?!”
7:19AM “Um, where is my AAA Card? Oh, it must be in the apartment, looks like I have to trek back there…and I’m putting on Uggs and no one can stop me.”
7:26AM: “Okay, so my AAA card isn’t in my apartment, maybe I left it in the car?”
7:35 AM: “The friggen card is most certainly not in the car. Oh, that’s right its in my other purse. That makes complete sense.”
7:45 AM: “AAA will be here so fast, it probably makes no sense for me to go inside the apartment.”
8:25 AM: “On second thought, maybe I should have gone inside.”
8:27 AM: “Kristin, thank you for picking last night to be the one night you decide to not charge your phone. Lets hope AAA calls prior to my phone dying. Just incase, better call them and give them a secondary number since we know I’m not lucky enough for my phone to last.”
8:30 AM: “I wonder if I should tell the valet guys that I can understand Spanish, and know exactly what they are saying? Nah, its more fun eavesdropping.”
8:32 AM: “Well, way to blow your ‘I don’t speak Spanish, I am just a blond ditz” cover. Maybe next time you should avoid laughing at jokes when they are in a private conversation in a different language.”
8:40 AM: “AAA called before your cell died. The day is starting to look up?”
8:45 AM: “Self, you just approached a truck and awkwardly waves and pointed toward the garage. Said truck was not the AAA truck you thought it was. You now look like one of those people who talks to themselves in an animated matter on the side of the street. New life low.”
8:54 AM: “Kris, if you are really nice to Chris, the repair man, maybe he will fix the battery for you without you needing to purchase a new one.”
9:00 AM: “Fail.”
9:10 AM: “well, at least they recognize my voice when I call Sullivan Tire, and can immediately squeeze me in and shuttle me to work. Why is it that I get VIP treatment in all the wrong places?!”
9:30 AM: “Kristin, please abide by the speed limit, if you get pulled over, you will be unable to turn your car off without it stalling. Further, the police will find you to be a threat because I’d be refusing to turn my car off and acting recklessly and screaming that you can’t shut the car off. This would trigger the defense training in the police officer, and next thing you know my hands are outside my driver’s side window, where the police officer can see them. In summation, don’t speed.”
9:50 AM: “Self, did you really just justify to the Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy that his Sunday to Monday weekend is legitimate because you can watch all of the football games on Sunday, including the night games?”
9:51 AM: “Um, I think that my obvious love for football has increased Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy’s interest in me substantially. So noted.”
12:00 PM: “My eyes are rolling into the back of my head. I’ll go to Starbucks during lunch and get myself a little treat….wait….”
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Move B*tch, Get Out Da Way
Its official.
I am not moving home.
Insert your “Kristin, why is your life always full of moving drama?” reaction here.
Instead of moving home to the metropolis that is Sudbury, Massachusetts [famous for Babe Ruth and his piano, a recent accused terrorist, and, well, nothing else], I will be staying in the town that has become the hub of my 20-somethings, Charlestown.
This top of the ninth plan came about when a friend of mine decided to pick up and move to Vail (we will miss you, Clark!), leaving her room vacant and completely and totally available for me. Needless to say, this directly correlates to my not saying “rabbit rabbit” this month.
Moving in completely removes my fears of social isolation, what I like to call the “I don’t want to trek all the way into Boston” syndrome [which would most certainly set in Week 2 of living at home with my parents.] This also completely does away with my need for a storage unit, but more importantly eliminates my newest phobia: storage unit bed bugs.
This is great! Right? I mean I no longer have anything to obsess over!
Please, like that was actually going to happen.
Now instead of googling “how to bed bug proof a mattress” or “techniques to help you fall asleep when you are up thinking about all of the awful things that could be happening to your possessions whilst in said self storage unit,” I have now resorted to googling “small space storage solutions.”
Yes, my new room is tiny: positive because it gives me less room to crap up, but negative because ohmygodIhavesomuchstuff anixetyanxietyanxiety.
The obvious solution? Measure said closet of a room, obsessively mentally place, re-place, and re-re-place my furniture in my mock room so I can be ready for move-in, and learn everything I can about cute/trendy/incredibly practical storage solutions.
This goes back to my whole problem of unrealistic expectations.
Kristin, your small space is not going to look like the examples shown on the Pottery Barn, or even Ikea, website. Should you try to recreate it, you will end up with an expensive, awkward looking mockery. You would be one of those girls. The same girls who wear way too much Lily and pearls.
My new approach? Use what you have, and attempt to not over plan. Right, we will see how long that lasts.
Lets try to not scare off the new roommates before I even move in, but stay tuned for the morbid/stressful/anxious details that make up moving anywhere.
I am not moving home.
Insert your “Kristin, why is your life always full of moving drama?” reaction here.
Instead of moving home to the metropolis that is Sudbury, Massachusetts [famous for Babe Ruth and his piano, a recent accused terrorist, and, well, nothing else], I will be staying in the town that has become the hub of my 20-somethings, Charlestown.
This top of the ninth plan came about when a friend of mine decided to pick up and move to Vail (we will miss you, Clark!), leaving her room vacant and completely and totally available for me. Needless to say, this directly correlates to my not saying “rabbit rabbit” this month.
Moving in completely removes my fears of social isolation, what I like to call the “I don’t want to trek all the way into Boston” syndrome [which would most certainly set in Week 2 of living at home with my parents.] This also completely does away with my need for a storage unit, but more importantly eliminates my newest phobia: storage unit bed bugs.
This is great! Right? I mean I no longer have anything to obsess over!
Please, like that was actually going to happen.
Now instead of googling “how to bed bug proof a mattress” or “techniques to help you fall asleep when you are up thinking about all of the awful things that could be happening to your possessions whilst in said self storage unit,” I have now resorted to googling “small space storage solutions.”
Yes, my new room is tiny: positive because it gives me less room to crap up, but negative because ohmygodIhavesomuchstuff anixetyanxietyanxiety.
The obvious solution? Measure said closet of a room, obsessively mentally place, re-place, and re-re-place my furniture in my mock room so I can be ready for move-in, and learn everything I can about cute/trendy/incredibly practical storage solutions.
This goes back to my whole problem of unrealistic expectations.
Kristin, your small space is not going to look like the examples shown on the Pottery Barn, or even Ikea, website. Should you try to recreate it, you will end up with an expensive, awkward looking mockery. You would be one of those girls. The same girls who wear way too much Lily and pearls.
My new approach? Use what you have, and attempt to not over plan. Right, we will see how long that lasts.
Lets try to not scare off the new roommates before I even move in, but stay tuned for the morbid/stressful/anxious details that make up moving anywhere.
TGIT
Good: Fajitas and Ritas serves margaritas in a pitcher.Great: I like margaritas, especially when the are served in large quantities.
TGIT: my friends agree with my “never let anything go to waste” mentality, even if it does mean drinking margarita remnants off our table with a straw.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Sweatshirt: The Novel
Yesterday's post, which by the way didn’t post until this morning [I never said I actually remembered to hit post] left me stuck on the idea of the sweatshirt, namely my personal sweatshirt phases throughout my life.
As a kid, I spent much of my time in sweatshirts that were either way too big, way too small, or way too tacky for my liking. There was never that Goldilocks of a sweatshirt that fit just right. Don’t get me wrong: I will absolutely be dressing my children in the same god-awful sweatshirts I was forced to prance around in, but I know that I will be doing it because they look cute, not because they are fashionable. Regardless, I will forever be scared by sweatshirts with giant, goofy, puffy-penned faces plastered on the front in the same way that I will always be scarred by the vest-turtleneck combination. Thank you Christmas photos of 1992.
Middle school was the covering-up phase. Things were changing, and no one needed to see my body morph itself into something new. I was going for the before and after look, no one wanted to see it during construction.
High School had three phases. The first being high school sports gear. You either had a letter jacket, team pants, team shirt, team hat, team windbreaker, team mouthguard, team underwear and team spirit, or you didn’t. The younger you were to receive a letter jacket and/or other cool varsity apparel, the cooler you were. It is relatively simple. For us dancers, we pranced around in our dance team gear, so that people knew we were dancers, and not just plain old lazy and/or geeky. [Side note: we weren’t allowed to have letter jackets as dancers, but chearleaders were? And further, now pretty much anyone at LSRHS can get a letter jacket because no one should ever feel left out, right Mrs. O’Neil?]
The Second High School Phase was bragging rights. Did you get into Duke? You wore the sweatshirt. Didn’t get in to UVA, but wanted people to think you were smart enough to visit and buy a sweatshirt? You wore the sweatshirt. Huge Penn State football fan, but also wanted people to think you might go there on full scholarship? You wore the sweatshirt. Applied to a state school as a safety school? You wore the sweatshirt. Are we sensing the trend here? People defined you based on what letters where sewn onto your sweatshirt. All of a sudden wearing a sweatshirt isn’t the easy way out anymore, is it?
The last phase of high school was college pride. You have been accepted to St. Lawrence University, and damn, were you proud. Everyone else should be just as proud of you as you are. It is time to advertise. Not only did you buy the SLU sweatshirt as a way to celebrate your amazing in-person interview on campus, but once you were accepted, you also purchased half of the online bookstore’s clothing selection. You now find it appropriate to wear your SLU sweatshirt, sweatpants, shorts, hat, sandals and t-shirt anywhere, and choose to accessorize my ensemble with a SLU water bottle, koozie, keychain. There is nothing abnormal about this, since every one of your peers did the exact same thing with their future university, but don’t worry, your school is much better than theirs.
College also had multiple phases.
The freshman phase is very similar to the last phase of high school, only now you are on campus and wearing everything you own that says St. Lawrence University. To top it off, you decide that since you love college so much, your entire family will love a Christmas gift from the SLU bookstore, because they also want to associate themselves with such a fine institution. You bring a couple sweatshirts from high school so that all your potential new friends will know that you played varsity lacrosse and were popular in high school. Also, if you joined an athletic team in college [ahem, dance team] you started to prance around in order to form your collegiate identity.
The second phase of college continues with greek pride. You rushed and pledged and are now a member of a greek house. You collectively order everything from lettered sweatshirts, tshirts, skirts, sweatpants, hats and belts in order to distinguish yourself as a member of your house, God forbid anyone associate you with the wrong house [which they won’t since you are fashionably toting around your custom vineyard vines sorority bag.] Conversely, if you didn’t go greek, you either hated or were jealous of the people who were decked out in sorority gear. This is one of the many Greek to GDI battles that occur while in college.
Third phase of college was the "I don’t care what I am wearing, I just want to be comfortable when hungover and freezing in class" phase. Usually, you didn’t care what it was you were wearing, so long as it wasn’t on inside out or smell of anything you drank the night before. This phase is fairly simple and easy to understand.
The most recent sweatshirt phase, which I believe I am still in, is the “I am too poor to purchase anything, besides produce and alcohol, so I will continue to wear the sweatshirts I already own until I wear straight through them” phase. Right out of college I still insisted on wearing my Tri Delt letters, because frankly they were the only sweatshirts I had left after three years of constant purchases [I mean a girl can only have so many sweatshirts] but I slowly started to wear my SLU sweatshirts again, with the obvious exception being when I am hungover, and then everything is fair game and non-judgable.
Does anyone have other sweatshirt phases they went through?
As a kid, I spent much of my time in sweatshirts that were either way too big, way too small, or way too tacky for my liking. There was never that Goldilocks of a sweatshirt that fit just right. Don’t get me wrong: I will absolutely be dressing my children in the same god-awful sweatshirts I was forced to prance around in, but I know that I will be doing it because they look cute, not because they are fashionable. Regardless, I will forever be scared by sweatshirts with giant, goofy, puffy-penned faces plastered on the front in the same way that I will always be scarred by the vest-turtleneck combination. Thank you Christmas photos of 1992.
Middle school was the covering-up phase. Things were changing, and no one needed to see my body morph itself into something new. I was going for the before and after look, no one wanted to see it during construction.
High School had three phases. The first being high school sports gear. You either had a letter jacket, team pants, team shirt, team hat, team windbreaker, team mouthguard, team underwear and team spirit, or you didn’t. The younger you were to receive a letter jacket and/or other cool varsity apparel, the cooler you were. It is relatively simple. For us dancers, we pranced around in our dance team gear, so that people knew we were dancers, and not just plain old lazy and/or geeky. [Side note: we weren’t allowed to have letter jackets as dancers, but chearleaders were? And further, now pretty much anyone at LSRHS can get a letter jacket because no one should ever feel left out, right Mrs. O’Neil?]
The Second High School Phase was bragging rights. Did you get into Duke? You wore the sweatshirt. Didn’t get in to UVA, but wanted people to think you were smart enough to visit and buy a sweatshirt? You wore the sweatshirt. Huge Penn State football fan, but also wanted people to think you might go there on full scholarship? You wore the sweatshirt. Applied to a state school as a safety school? You wore the sweatshirt. Are we sensing the trend here? People defined you based on what letters where sewn onto your sweatshirt. All of a sudden wearing a sweatshirt isn’t the easy way out anymore, is it?
The last phase of high school was college pride. You have been accepted to St. Lawrence University, and damn, were you proud. Everyone else should be just as proud of you as you are. It is time to advertise. Not only did you buy the SLU sweatshirt as a way to celebrate your amazing in-person interview on campus, but once you were accepted, you also purchased half of the online bookstore’s clothing selection. You now find it appropriate to wear your SLU sweatshirt, sweatpants, shorts, hat, sandals and t-shirt anywhere, and choose to accessorize my ensemble with a SLU water bottle, koozie, keychain. There is nothing abnormal about this, since every one of your peers did the exact same thing with their future university, but don’t worry, your school is much better than theirs.
College also had multiple phases.
The freshman phase is very similar to the last phase of high school, only now you are on campus and wearing everything you own that says St. Lawrence University. To top it off, you decide that since you love college so much, your entire family will love a Christmas gift from the SLU bookstore, because they also want to associate themselves with such a fine institution. You bring a couple sweatshirts from high school so that all your potential new friends will know that you played varsity lacrosse and were popular in high school. Also, if you joined an athletic team in college [ahem, dance team] you started to prance around in order to form your collegiate identity.
The second phase of college continues with greek pride. You rushed and pledged and are now a member of a greek house. You collectively order everything from lettered sweatshirts, tshirts, skirts, sweatpants, hats and belts in order to distinguish yourself as a member of your house, God forbid anyone associate you with the wrong house [which they won’t since you are fashionably toting around your custom vineyard vines sorority bag.] Conversely, if you didn’t go greek, you either hated or were jealous of the people who were decked out in sorority gear. This is one of the many Greek to GDI battles that occur while in college.
Third phase of college was the "I don’t care what I am wearing, I just want to be comfortable when hungover and freezing in class" phase. Usually, you didn’t care what it was you were wearing, so long as it wasn’t on inside out or smell of anything you drank the night before. This phase is fairly simple and easy to understand.
The most recent sweatshirt phase, which I believe I am still in, is the “I am too poor to purchase anything, besides produce and alcohol, so I will continue to wear the sweatshirts I already own until I wear straight through them” phase. Right out of college I still insisted on wearing my Tri Delt letters, because frankly they were the only sweatshirts I had left after three years of constant purchases [I mean a girl can only have so many sweatshirts] but I slowly started to wear my SLU sweatshirts again, with the obvious exception being when I am hungover, and then everything is fair game and non-judgable.
Does anyone have other sweatshirt phases they went through?
Free Fallin'
On Tuesday, I went to California, wearing yoga pants and a short sleeved sweater. I would define the weather as Indian Summer [not too hot, not too cold, no need for a light jacket] and green.
On Sunday, I came home from California, wearing yoga pants and a full long winter sweater. I define this weather as ohmygodwheredidthewarmweathergo Fall with different colored trees.
Very different. Very unhappy. While I was gallivanting around the [fairly un-sunny and foggy] California coast, Mother Nature decided to switch seasons without me, foliage and all.
As I am sure you have learned, I am not very good with change. I require a lot of prep and hand holding prior to a big change. Summer to Fall is one that requires a good amount of preparation. Clearly I hadn’t had enough time.
In five short days, New England changed seasons without me, inadvertently leaving me behind. While every other Massachusettian was able to slowly transition into the freezing cold, I was forced to change seasons at the Terminal D Departure Exit. Thanks for that, Mother Nature.
As if last evening’s airport exit shock wasn’t enough of a wake up call, I decided to fall-ize one of my summer work outfits by simply adding black tights to the ensemble [per Glamour Magazine’s request.] I looked adorable. Adorable, that is, until I hit the morning Massachusetts freeze that kicked the “last minute hope for a heat wave” spirit right out of me. Welcome to Boston, Kristin. We have seasons here.
At any rate, being that I am now completely aware that it is in fact Fall in this great state, I have compiled my list of fall must-haves.
Victoria Secret Yoga Pants [extra long, for the very leggy people like me]
Hungover, freezing, rushing to work, and/or just too lazy to pull together a suitable outfit? Black yoga pants go with everything: dress them up, dress them down, or just plain dress in them- yoga pants have been a staple in my wardrobe since freshman year at the tundra. Similarly, yoga pants serve as a great day to evening to night staple. From work, to karaoke, to bed- they seem to due diligence at each venue.
Starbucks Caramel Apple Cider
If you pretend they are calorie free, these little treats are a direct path to heaven. You are welcome in advance.
L.L. Bean’s Wicked Good Slippers
Yes, that is what they are called [take that, all you hella California people] and, boy, do they live up to their name. L.L. Bean has created a shoe that not only survives, but excels, in almost every environment.
Sunglasses
Just became the warmth went away, doesn’t mean the sun did.
Hooded Sweatshirt
With the cold months comes more time for fires, hangovers, and other cuddly occasions.
All of these situations equal an opportunity to snug up inside an overly large, super comfy, wicked warm sweatshirt. Snug up, make some hot chocolate, spike it with some baileys if you are feeling frisky, and you have yourself a pretty wonderful evening.
Ugg Boots
The socially acceptable version of a slipper. You may call them ugly, but I call them practical.
Four Wheel Drive and/or A Great Car that You Can Handle In Snow
Before Sass, there was my jeep. She was a powerhouse in the North Country. I barely had to clean her off when I needed to get anywhere. I felt pretty much undestructable in that car, except for when she started to fail me. Then came Sass. Sass doesn’t have the power of the jeep, but boy does she have the willpower. She fights snow well, except for that one time when she got stuck during the halftime show of the 2008 Superbowl (wooopssss!)
High Duck Boots (yet again, another L.L. Bean product)
See that frozen piece of ice about 20 paces in front of you? Yes, well in about 20 paces you will realize that the piece of ice you just walked over wasn’t completely frozen through, and you will be standing in a cold, slushy dirt puddle in shoes that are not waterproof. You will then spend the rest of your travels feeling your wet shoe sole press into your wet sock with every step you take. Invest in duck boots, you will thank me later.
Pashminas
Any color goes with any outfit, and each can be used as mittens/hat/ear/neck warmers in the case of an emergency.
A Hooded Jacket.
While they may not be the most stylish article of clothing you have, you will be extremely happy when the wind driven rain doesn’t chill your ears through, turning them bright red.
On Sunday, I came home from California, wearing yoga pants and a full long winter sweater. I define this weather as ohmygodwheredidthewarmweathergo Fall with different colored trees.
Very different. Very unhappy. While I was gallivanting around the [fairly un-sunny and foggy] California coast, Mother Nature decided to switch seasons without me, foliage and all.
As I am sure you have learned, I am not very good with change. I require a lot of prep and hand holding prior to a big change. Summer to Fall is one that requires a good amount of preparation. Clearly I hadn’t had enough time.
In five short days, New England changed seasons without me, inadvertently leaving me behind. While every other Massachusettian was able to slowly transition into the freezing cold, I was forced to change seasons at the Terminal D Departure Exit. Thanks for that, Mother Nature.
As if last evening’s airport exit shock wasn’t enough of a wake up call, I decided to fall-ize one of my summer work outfits by simply adding black tights to the ensemble [per Glamour Magazine’s request.] I looked adorable. Adorable, that is, until I hit the morning Massachusetts freeze that kicked the “last minute hope for a heat wave” spirit right out of me. Welcome to Boston, Kristin. We have seasons here.
At any rate, being that I am now completely aware that it is in fact Fall in this great state, I have compiled my list of fall must-haves.
Victoria Secret Yoga Pants [extra long, for the very leggy people like me]
Hungover, freezing, rushing to work, and/or just too lazy to pull together a suitable outfit? Black yoga pants go with everything: dress them up, dress them down, or just plain dress in them- yoga pants have been a staple in my wardrobe since freshman year at the tundra. Similarly, yoga pants serve as a great day to evening to night staple. From work, to karaoke, to bed- they seem to due diligence at each venue.
Starbucks Caramel Apple Cider
If you pretend they are calorie free, these little treats are a direct path to heaven. You are welcome in advance.
L.L. Bean’s Wicked Good Slippers
Yes, that is what they are called [take that, all you hella California people] and, boy, do they live up to their name. L.L. Bean has created a shoe that not only survives, but excels, in almost every environment.
Sunglasses
Just became the warmth went away, doesn’t mean the sun did.
Hooded Sweatshirt
With the cold months comes more time for fires, hangovers, and other cuddly occasions.
All of these situations equal an opportunity to snug up inside an overly large, super comfy, wicked warm sweatshirt. Snug up, make some hot chocolate, spike it with some baileys if you are feeling frisky, and you have yourself a pretty wonderful evening.
Ugg Boots
The socially acceptable version of a slipper. You may call them ugly, but I call them practical.
Four Wheel Drive and/or A Great Car that You Can Handle In Snow
Before Sass, there was my jeep. She was a powerhouse in the North Country. I barely had to clean her off when I needed to get anywhere. I felt pretty much undestructable in that car, except for when she started to fail me. Then came Sass. Sass doesn’t have the power of the jeep, but boy does she have the willpower. She fights snow well, except for that one time when she got stuck during the halftime show of the 2008 Superbowl (wooopssss!)
High Duck Boots (yet again, another L.L. Bean product)
See that frozen piece of ice about 20 paces in front of you? Yes, well in about 20 paces you will realize that the piece of ice you just walked over wasn’t completely frozen through, and you will be standing in a cold, slushy dirt puddle in shoes that are not waterproof. You will then spend the rest of your travels feeling your wet shoe sole press into your wet sock with every step you take. Invest in duck boots, you will thank me later.
Pashminas
Any color goes with any outfit, and each can be used as mittens/hat/ear/neck warmers in the case of an emergency.
A Hooded Jacket.
While they may not be the most stylish article of clothing you have, you will be extremely happy when the wind driven rain doesn’t chill your ears through, turning them bright red.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
tgit!
Good: I like tic tacs.Great: I like grapefruit.
TGIT: my inadvertent donation to breast cancer awareness. In my purchase of these tic tacs, I have single-handedly donated more to breast cancer research than anyone who noted where they like to put their “purse” collectively. Please also note my pink cream cheese [yes, I like strawberry cream cheese]. While Philadelphia didn’t donate based on my purchase, they sell something pink. They are a-okay in my book.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I Like It Anywhere But Your Status
Breast cancer is a fatal and very real disease. Since the beginning of this year, 207,090 new cases of invasive breast cancer have been recorded, 40,000 of them being fatal.
Your chances of having breast cancer in your lifetime (if you are a woman)? Less than 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer? 1 in 35. These are real, cold stats from the American Cancer Society. I didn’t just make ‘em up, people.
As I sit here, my grandmother continues to fight her battle with breast cancer, and may I add she is doing a fine job at doing so. Go Grammy, Go!
I admire those who dedicate their time, money and energy to Breast Cancer awareness and research. Thank you, angels, for your role in the saving and enrichment of the lives of those who have been touched by such a toxic disease.
Moving on.
Want to know what really burns my toast [shout out to you, Clark]?
Young girls who are using breast cancer awareness as an excuse to post sexually suggestive facebook status’.
For those of you unaware, there is a guerilla marketing program on facebook promoting breast cancer awareness, where women are updating their status to explain where they put their purse once arriving home.
Examples?
“I like it on my table.”
“I like it in my car.”
How does it work? Those who aren’t made aware of the tactic begin to question why their newsfeed is suddenly overflowing with places people “like it,” they google it, learn its for a good cause, and then re-post to their status, continuing the cycle. It snowballs.
Usually, I am all for guerilla marketing, especially when it is for a good cause. Some of you may remember last year’s initiative where women posted what color bra they were wearing in the name of breast cancer awareness. Shamefully, I admit to participating in that, seeing it as more of an innocent way to jump start the beginning of breast cancer awareness month.
This year is much different for me.
Now, I am seeing status updates like this:
“I like it on the couch, in front of the window, where everyone can see.”
or even better,
“I like it on the floor, next to the lit fireplace, with my socks on.”
So you are trying to tell me, Miss 15-year-old-girl-I-used-to-babysit-for, that you like to leave your purse out in the open, for anyone to see? Is that the safest decision? I mean if you leave your purse in plain view, there is a much greater chance for someone to take it or for you to forget where you put it? Similarly, Miss-girl-who-used-to-date-one-of-my-friends-so-I-couldn’t-reject-your-request, I highly doubt that you leave your purse on the floor near the fireplace when you have a fire lit. This is an extreme fire hazard. Propping your purse up against any warm surface is quite an idiotic motion, as your purse and all its contents could melt. Duh. Also, how is your sock wearing relevant to the location of your purse?
Analysis: What started as an attempt to raise awareness has now become an excuse for young girls to post sexual innuendo all over their facebook walls. It has now become a sexual joke, which seems counterproductive to its original intent.
Maybe you should think twice about your “I like it in the back seat of my car” posting. I know I did.
Your chances of having breast cancer in your lifetime (if you are a woman)? Less than 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer? 1 in 35. These are real, cold stats from the American Cancer Society. I didn’t just make ‘em up, people.
As I sit here, my grandmother continues to fight her battle with breast cancer, and may I add she is doing a fine job at doing so. Go Grammy, Go!
I admire those who dedicate their time, money and energy to Breast Cancer awareness and research. Thank you, angels, for your role in the saving and enrichment of the lives of those who have been touched by such a toxic disease.
Moving on.
Want to know what really burns my toast [shout out to you, Clark]?
Young girls who are using breast cancer awareness as an excuse to post sexually suggestive facebook status’.
For those of you unaware, there is a guerilla marketing program on facebook promoting breast cancer awareness, where women are updating their status to explain where they put their purse once arriving home.
Examples?
“I like it on my table.”
“I like it in my car.”
How does it work? Those who aren’t made aware of the tactic begin to question why their newsfeed is suddenly overflowing with places people “like it,” they google it, learn its for a good cause, and then re-post to their status, continuing the cycle. It snowballs.
Usually, I am all for guerilla marketing, especially when it is for a good cause. Some of you may remember last year’s initiative where women posted what color bra they were wearing in the name of breast cancer awareness. Shamefully, I admit to participating in that, seeing it as more of an innocent way to jump start the beginning of breast cancer awareness month.
This year is much different for me.
Now, I am seeing status updates like this:
“I like it on the couch, in front of the window, where everyone can see.”
or even better,
“I like it on the floor, next to the lit fireplace, with my socks on.”
So you are trying to tell me, Miss 15-year-old-girl-I-used-to-babysit-for, that you like to leave your purse out in the open, for anyone to see? Is that the safest decision? I mean if you leave your purse in plain view, there is a much greater chance for someone to take it or for you to forget where you put it? Similarly, Miss-girl-who-used-to-date-one-of-my-friends-so-I-couldn’t-reject-your-request, I highly doubt that you leave your purse on the floor near the fireplace when you have a fire lit. This is an extreme fire hazard. Propping your purse up against any warm surface is quite an idiotic motion, as your purse and all its contents could melt. Duh. Also, how is your sock wearing relevant to the location of your purse?
Analysis: What started as an attempt to raise awareness has now become an excuse for young girls to post sexual innuendo all over their facebook walls. It has now become a sexual joke, which seems counterproductive to its original intent.
Maybe you should think twice about your “I like it in the back seat of my car” posting. I know I did.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Mad Dog, Mad Dog, Whatchu Gonna Do When I Come For You?!
This is a Mad dog and I have been on the hunt for them as a gag gift for my sorority sisters at our friends wedding this upcoming weekend. (Congrats Alicia!)
The word “Mad Dog” has been used as multiple parts of speech throughout my collegiate and young professional life.
As a noun, a Mad Dog is a low-end fortified wine, often used as an easy, cheap and quick way to get sufficiently drunk, extremely fast. As a verb, to Mad Dog means to suffer through one of these neon beasts with friends as fast as possible, fully knowing that you will be completely obligerant (please refer to my list of 2010 made-up words) after consuming the entire thing.
For the normal 20-something, a Mad Dog is something that is only consumed once, maybe twice, in your collegiate career and, no matter what part of speech it is used in, you usually remember more negative things about the next morning’s recovery than you do about anything that occurred the night before. Woops.
Needless to say, we weren’t planning on completely and fully Mad Dogging each other this weekend, but it certainly would have brought back some good memories and laughs.
Regardless, here I was in the middle of our hometown liquor store, staring at a 55 year old man, explaining to him why I needed Mad Dogs.
The conversation went something like this.
Me: “Hi there, you wouldn’t happen to carry Mad Dogs, would you?”
Man Behind Counter (lets call him Ralph- seems appropriate): “Mad Dogs?”
Me: “Yes, Mad Dogs, you know those neon-colored fortified wine bevys [insert nervous ramble because of how embarrassed I am to be standing in front of a man holding a $300 bottle of shiraz, ready for check out, and me asking for the food stamp equivalent of wine coolers.]
Ralph: “No, I know what they are- you are just the first person who has ever asked if we carry them. We don’t”
Me [still recovering from aforementioned nervous ramble, phasing into my polite, young professional banter]: “Ah, I see. Well, do you know where I can find any in the area?”
Ralph [removes glasses, leans in to offer me his wise, Mad Dog advice]: “I am going to be honest with you dear. The only places you will find Mad Dogs are in the dangerous parts of Dorchester [ghetto], Roxbury [yet another ghetto] or Mattapan [most recent location of a tragic mass murder, in yet another ghetto].” He continued on, just incase there was any chance I somehow thought it would have been a good idea to risk my life to buy 6 Bling Bling Mad Dogs, saying: “I owned a liquor store in Boston for 20 years and never carried the stuff. Further, I would strongly hope that you wouldn’t go into any stores that might sell Mad Dogs without some form of protection.”
Me [now wide eyed, and in some form of shell shock]: “Ah, understood. Thanks for the advice.”
As I got in my car, I locked the doors and just sat there listening to the rain hit my windshield. I proceeded to have a minor freak out.
Why is it that Mad Dogs were only sold in the ghetto here when they were placed in a pretty, lit display case in college? Did I go to school in an unsafe ghetto? Why did I feel such a false sense of security? Why didn’t I know that I lived in a ghetto? Shouldn’t I have known that the sale of Mad Dogs indicated that I was in an unsafe setting? Why did I feel confident enough to walk alone anywhere? Why was I never shot? How did this happen?
I proceed to text the bride, feeling extremely defeated, and got a comforting “bahahahah, basically what I was told,” which was a nice way of bringing myself back to the “you went to college with a bunch of pretty wasps, and never did get shot” reality.
I will see you Saturday, wedding, but alas, I will be Mad Dogless.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Stop Bed-Bugging Me!
My newest mission?
To find myself a [clean, flood proof, bug proof, fire proof, thief proof, option to use as a studio apartment in the event of an emergency] storage unit for when I move out of my apartment and back home to save for a few months. Sigh.
Luckily, I love my roommates, I mean parents, and so I am sure this will be a smooth transition.
At any rate, this storage unit situation is causing me much anxiety [like you are surprised.] The whole situation is just one giant anxiety attack waiting to happen. Lets forget for a moment that I have an extreme phobia of strangers touching any of my furniture, and think about how I am putting all of my belongings into a random, dark closet.
Inner monologue occurs as follows: “Self, what happens if you get a sketchy storage unit, or if you get one that doesn’t have moisture control and all of your prized possessions are ruined? What if it gets really hot and everything melts? What if a homeless man breaks in and sleeps on my bed and uses my dishes? What happens if there are bugs?”
Bugs. My ultimate fear. My fear of having bug infested possessions is enough for me to move everything home with me. If it were up to me, I would put everything in my room if only to reduce the risk of my lying away at night, wondering if there are tarantulas mating in my underwear drawer.
The recent bed bug epidemic in the country further escalates said fear of mine.
What if my stuff is invaded by bed bugs? My life would be over. I could never recover from that. I would perpetually itch for the rest of my life.
My solutions?
Well, clearly my bed is no longer going to the storage unit. That just is not going to happen.
So, I came up with the following ideas so that when challenged by my parents, I mean roommates, I was ready for battle.
- Put mattress under my existing bed. This is something I thought of while falling asleep worrying about whether I contracted bed bugs from the movie theater I had just been in. Obviously it was important for me to measure, right then and there, if my mattress would fit under my bed. As expected, I deduced that the mattress wouldn’t fit [based on my in-the-dark, roll-to-the-floor, and blindly-eyeballed measurement.] Plan 1 status: fail.
- Stack my mattress and box under my existing bed. Sure, it may look silly and I might need a forklift to get in and out of it, but my spare mattress will be bed bug free. Plus, it pulls out into a guest bedroom fairly effortlessly.
Put the mattress in the basement. While this may sound counter productive, our basement, affectionately called Man’s Land, is actually remarkably clean and, more importantly, bed bug free. Knowing that this argument was one that I was sure my parents wouldn’t agree to, I prepared to present this option last as a backup, shortly followed by tears. - If the mattress had to go in the bed bug farm, I mean storage unit, then I would insist that I protect my mattress from the elements in some way. Airtight, ain’t no way those bugs are getting in, vacuum sealed mattress cover [maybe double bag it just to be safe] seemed to be the most logical choice. At the end of the day, I would still need to get my mattress de-bed-bugged before ever touching it again. This options seems to be getting progressively more expensive. Lets push for the more economical options, I mean we are in a recession.
Ultimately, when it came down to discussing the options, I had vastly over prepared [gee, shocking.] My parents gave in to my “mattress needs to be protected” argument rather quickly, I think fully knowing that I would rather leave my mattress leaning up against the exterior of our house, than have it resting in a potentially moldy, bed bug infested, breading ground. Thanks but no thanks.
The final decision? To the basement she goes. No princess and the pea for this princess.
What My Child Needs To Sound Like
Remember how I told you I love babies the way most people love puppies?
This is why.
This is why.
You are welcome. Happy Friday.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
TGIT
TGIT is in multiple parts.
Part 1.
The clue lurking on my desk, alerting me that there I had somehow gotten black marker all over myself. Yes, I am apparently five.
Part 1.The clue lurking on my desk, alerting me that there I had somehow gotten black marker all over myself. Yes, I am apparently five.
Part 2.
The culprit.
Arm into wet sharpie, upon over aggressive crossing out.
Good: It is still September, and Delta is still on the calendar. We roll deep.
Great: Even when it is no longer September, aka tomorrow, I will still have September hanging in my cubicle. Why? To exemplify that hard work and cooperation actually pays off, even with a bunch of 20-something girls whose only true form of communication is through an old sorority listserve.
TGIT: I didn’t notice that my arm was repetitively sticking to my calendar until my desk (and arm) was completely covered in black magic marker. Maybe we shouldn’t be so eager in hurrying away the month, there Kristin.
The culprit.
Arm into wet sharpie, upon over aggressive crossing out.
Good: It is still September, and Delta is still on the calendar. We roll deep.
Great: Even when it is no longer September, aka tomorrow, I will still have September hanging in my cubicle. Why? To exemplify that hard work and cooperation actually pays off, even with a bunch of 20-something girls whose only true form of communication is through an old sorority listserve.
TGIT: I didn’t notice that my arm was repetitively sticking to my calendar until my desk (and arm) was completely covered in black magic marker. Maybe we shouldn’t be so eager in hurrying away the month, there Kristin.
*please also note the fashion risk-a-cita, red skinny jeans. Yeah, I did.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Pet Peeve: The Chronic Serious Liker!
The implementation of social media has caused a vast majority of consumers to lose their social best judgment.
I am talking to you, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship.
Perhaps in the real world, you might privately tell Steve, your old college roommate who just broke up with his girlfriend of 3 years, that you like that he broke up with his girlfriend. Maybe she was horrible, maybe it was only a matter of time, maybe she cheated on him with a 45 year-old with a boat, maybe she broke up with him and you were just trying to help with the coping process. Whatever the reason, a comment such as this is only appropriate when with a close group of friends, or between two confidants.
I doubt, however, that you would ever publicly announce that you like Steve’s recent marital change face-to-face with all of his friends, frenemies, colleagues, parents, and the very-recent-ex-girlfriend all in one place. Even if everyone is glad that Steve finally broke up with the loser/really annoying drunk girl/cheater/whatever, you certainly shouldn’t publically judge your friends in an unrestricted, open conversation. People would think of you as a jerk, as they rightfully should.
Facebook is that very forum. The single forum where all of Steve's social connections can see his life updates in one place. All of his social connections. All of them.
This is why the whole topic of virtual “liking” completely perplexes me when it comes to serious social situations.
Yes, I am the first to like someone’s status if I find it to be a) funny, b) an achievement or c) especially “likeable” in one way or another, but I only use the “like” button during light hearted situations. Break ups is not one of them.
Tell me, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship, why it is that you would most likely never publically “like” this situation face-to-face with all the people who may encounter it on facebook, but have no problem doing so when it is from the comfort of your computer screen?
The very act of “liking” the situation only makes a mockery of their entire relationship [which was most likely fairly serious, since it hit Facebook to begin with], showing that it is now nothing but a joke to you. I am so glad you were able to recover from Steve’s break-up so fast. Let’s also hope that Steve has recovered faster than you, as this would be counterproductive for your relationship if he is still emotionally wounded.
Similarly, your “liking” will certainly hurt feelings in the most passive aggressive way possible, and you do not have the right to publically humiliate the very-recent ex-girlfriend, even if she was unkind, mean, or otherwise unappealing. Your job, as Steve’s friend, is to help Steve recover, not hinder the recovery of the ex. That isn’t going to fix anything.
Perhaps you should just focus on keeping Steve’s personal life off facebook, and take him for a drink, where you can privately tell him that he is better off without the cheating/backstabbing/all around not fun ex-girlfriend. By doing this, you are still getting your point across, but still keeping your integrity intact.
Just some food for thought…
I am talking to you, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship.
Perhaps in the real world, you might privately tell Steve, your old college roommate who just broke up with his girlfriend of 3 years, that you like that he broke up with his girlfriend. Maybe she was horrible, maybe it was only a matter of time, maybe she cheated on him with a 45 year-old with a boat, maybe she broke up with him and you were just trying to help with the coping process. Whatever the reason, a comment such as this is only appropriate when with a close group of friends, or between two confidants.
I doubt, however, that you would ever publicly announce that you like Steve’s recent marital change face-to-face with all of his friends, frenemies, colleagues, parents, and the very-recent-ex-girlfriend all in one place. Even if everyone is glad that Steve finally broke up with the loser/really annoying drunk girl/cheater/whatever, you certainly shouldn’t publically judge your friends in an unrestricted, open conversation. People would think of you as a jerk, as they rightfully should.
Facebook is that very forum. The single forum where all of Steve's social connections can see his life updates in one place. All of his social connections. All of them.
This is why the whole topic of virtual “liking” completely perplexes me when it comes to serious social situations.
Yes, I am the first to like someone’s status if I find it to be a) funny, b) an achievement or c) especially “likeable” in one way or another, but I only use the “like” button during light hearted situations. Break ups is not one of them.
Tell me, Mr. Friend Who “Likes” When A Friend Gets Out Of A Relationship, why it is that you would most likely never publically “like” this situation face-to-face with all the people who may encounter it on facebook, but have no problem doing so when it is from the comfort of your computer screen?
The very act of “liking” the situation only makes a mockery of their entire relationship [which was most likely fairly serious, since it hit Facebook to begin with], showing that it is now nothing but a joke to you. I am so glad you were able to recover from Steve’s break-up so fast. Let’s also hope that Steve has recovered faster than you, as this would be counterproductive for your relationship if he is still emotionally wounded.
Similarly, your “liking” will certainly hurt feelings in the most passive aggressive way possible, and you do not have the right to publically humiliate the very-recent ex-girlfriend, even if she was unkind, mean, or otherwise unappealing. Your job, as Steve’s friend, is to help Steve recover, not hinder the recovery of the ex. That isn’t going to fix anything.
Perhaps you should just focus on keeping Steve’s personal life off facebook, and take him for a drink, where you can privately tell him that he is better off without the cheating/backstabbing/all around not fun ex-girlfriend. By doing this, you are still getting your point across, but still keeping your integrity intact.
Just some food for thought…
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Double Vision?
Lets play spot the difference (or lack there of)
Below is a picture of the South Hall Lobby of the Los Angeles Convention Center.
I can identify the LACC in any picture, as I have logged over 70 miles within these walls over the last two years (accumulated over 6 days, mind you)
Below is a picture of the South Hall Lobby of the Los Angeles Convention Center.
I can identify the LACC in any picture, as I have logged over 70 miles within these walls over the last two years (accumulated over 6 days, mind you)
Below is a picture of “the airport” in this week’s episode of Parenthood (my favorite show in the entire world, duh)
Are we seeing some very odd similarities here?
So being the naturally curious detective that I am, I froze two separate pictures to compare the similarities to prove to myself that I am not, in fact, going crazy. Yet another example of how I just cant manage to let things just occur, without over analyzing
Detective skills at work:
Are we seeing some very odd similarities here?
So being the naturally curious detective that I am, I froze two separate pictures to compare the similarities to prove to myself that I am not, in fact, going crazy. Yet another example of how I just cant manage to let things just occur, without over analyzing
Detective skills at work:
- Signage placement and font similarities, I mean hello, I am in marketing
- railings= same
- columns=same
- column placement in relation to its surroundings = same
- escalator = same
- floors, both here and on the lower floors = same
- background = same.
Overall analysis: They are the same place. Can just put a potted plant and a garbage can in the middle of my domain and tell me its an airport. Its just not going to happen.
Don’t believe me?
Here’s another angle so that I can further feel good about my useless detective skills:
Hall connecting West and South Lobbies.
Parenthood “Airport Security”
Gee, weird, they look so similar!
- the style of the hall = same
- floors match previous LACC picture shown above
- walls/windows along right = same
- hanging signage = same
Need I prove it further?
I just need to give myself a pat on the back, and reassure myself that it is normal to recognize a scene in a television show, and completely lose all involvement in the plot. Thank the lord for DVR.
Okay, I feel better.
Monday, September 27, 2010
I May Have Just Killed Someone...Again
I hate segways.
You know, these things.
You know, these things.
Segways are yet another reason while Americans are getting increasingly more obese. Why walk/commute/get a bit of exercise when you can stand on this platform-on-wheels and essentially relocate to a new area without exerting any time of energy to get there?
Right.
Boston has taken this to a new level. People no longer walk the freedom trail (gosh, that is so ten years ago) but rather, tourists now segway the freedom trail.
You know how tourists aimlessly walk with little to no direction, stopping whenever they please to snap a photo, look at a map, or just stop to inconvenience the Bostonian population? Well now do the same thing, but put said tourist on a lifted, motorized, fast moving vehicle…and traveling in a pack. It is traumatic when being passed by a school of segwayers, who have little to no understanding of the fact that they are on a moving vehicle, capable of seriously hurting pedestrians around them aka me.
At any rate, this weekend, in a pure fit of rage, I may have said something along the lines of this: “I hate segways. Whoever invented them should die.”
Childish? Yes. Reactionary? Of course! Therapeutic? Absolutely.
Many agreed, so I cannot take full responsibility for this but….
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/27/jimi-heselden-segway-boss_n_739983.html
…I cant help but feel partially responsible.
I mean, if not 24 hours before I had just said that he was no longer worthy of living life, but I certainly didn’t mean that to be taken literally, Mr.Jimi.
Clearly, I have learned my lesson. I will never say “…should die” unless I really truly want them too.
I’m kidding, but seriously I feel like a horrible person.
This hasn’t happened since 2008, when I told my cousin that our [very old, but still very alive] relative would never die.
She died a month later.
I still suffer guilt from that one.
Guess I need to keep my mouth shut.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Franken-fish
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/39265727/ns/health-food_safety/
Saw this little conundrum on the news earlier and thought it was an appropriate conversation to open up to my [semi understanding, but educated] blog audience.
The Cliff Notes:
Saw this little conundrum on the news earlier and thought it was an appropriate conversation to open up to my [semi understanding, but educated] blog audience.
The Cliff Notes:
Scientists have figured out a way to grow salmon twice as big, twice as fast through altering their genetic make up
- Scientists: more salmon for everyone, and maybe salmon prices will go down (leave it up to Americans to figure out how to supersize yet another food group)
- Health Conscious Public: haven’t Americans learned that when we change things from natural to, well, unnatural, there is always a greater danger down the road? Fake boobs pop, diet soda is so bad for you [insert current cultural freakout], and diet pills now cause you to grow a third leg.
The FDA isn’t sure if it is safe for the American public to consume next to natural Atlantic Salmon
- Scientists: Salmon is salmon. Scientist claim that the fish haven’t been chemically altered, merely just genetically tweaked.
- Healt Conscious Public: This superhuman salmon might cause some awful side effect/cancer/other cultural freak out somewhere down the road. The American public will only learn about the epidemic when the modified salmon start growing in our stomachs and someone gives birth to one out in Utah somewhere, claiming to have been impregnated by Poseidon.
The FDA is concerned about the reproduction of mutating fish
- Scientists: Don’t worry, we will keep all genetically altered fish completely separate from natural Atlantic Salmon. There will be no way for them to reproduce with unmodified fish.
- Health Conscious Public: a) what happens if some get loose and then start reproducing with normal salmon, what happens when it becomes a situation like the North Dakota genetically altered canola plant that is resistant to weed killer, which has now been carried by the wind and is creating a superweed across much of middle America. Freakoutfreakout! b) If this salmon is as safe as you say it is, then why isn’t it alright for the fish to reproduce with “normal” fish. Stop contradicting yourself, fools!
This fish really isn’t fish
- Scientists: yes, it is
- Health Conscious Public: what if there is a mysterious chemical that causing some Americans an allergy, then what if you aren’t allergic to the natural salmon, but are allergic to the modified salmon, and what if I wont know which is which. panicpanicpanic
So after all this bickering is said and done, I ask myself: “Self, if you knew that the fish you were about to ingest was genetically mutated would you eat it?”
The answer: I still have no idea.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Hallo-ween Or Loss?
Tis’ that time of year again. Time for trick-or-treat
Time for candy (don’t eat anything already opened, of course!), pumpkins, crunchy leaves, and neighborhood kids running on our streets uncontrollably (wait…).
Tis’ the season for another important event: my overanalyzed, overthought inner monologue regarding what I will be for Halloween.
I can never decide. I am bad ad making decisions.
Since I had this very problem when I was deciding on what colleges I wanted to apply to, I will take my mother’s advice [again] and list the things I do not want to be for Halloween.
My List of Things I Won't Be this Halloween;
Cat: Are you 6? Are you completely and totally lazy and/or unoriginal? If you answered “yes” to either of those questions, then it is completely appropriate for you to be a feline friend. If you answered “no,” then perhaps you should think of something else to prance around in on October 31.
The Over Slutty Disney Character: Little Miss Muffit certainly didn’t wear that when she was eating her curds and weigh, so neither should you. Similarly, calling yourself “Poke-a-hot-ass” doesn’t make you creative, it only makes you look easy and unoriginal. Lastly, the point of Halloween is to dress up in a costume, and since you paid over $60 dollars for your Snow-white-sloot outfit, I am assuming that you are most certainly trying to show off your goods for all to see. The fact that you chose this slutty number proves that you are in fact slutty, not just pretending to be. Next year try really dressing up, maybe as a nun or even a good role model, neither of which you are in your day-to-day reality. Same goes to you, nurse, French maid or sailor.
Pimp: You are no pimp, so in theory this costume should work; however, the fact that you are a complete tool in reality greatly outweighs the humor and/or perfection of your outfit.
Dorothy: Follow the yellow brick road, go to the Wizard, and ask the Wizard to give you an original costume idea!
Sarah Palin: It was funny in 2008, and it was slightly amusing [but overdone] in 2009, but for the love of all things holy, please do not be Sarah Palin anymore. The “I can see Russia from my house” line expired long ago, and I would rather see you dress up as a cat. Plus, the Palin reference always sparks some sort of political debate, and I don’t like listening to people bicker between costumed keg stands. [Yes, I usually end up at parties involving kegs. I have high caliber friends]
Anything involving a Scream mask: Scream came out in 1996. You had almost 15 years to wear the scream mask, the glow-in-the-dark Scream mask, and the bleeding scream mask. This year, let’s try to use props that your 10 year-old brother wont steal from you afterwards
Ghost: I know! I’ll put a sheet over my head, cut out two eye-holes, and call it original.
Kissing Booth: I know last year was the year of Swine Flu, but seriously that is just yucky.
What else should be added to this list? Whats the worst halloween costume you've seen?
Time for candy (don’t eat anything already opened, of course!), pumpkins, crunchy leaves, and neighborhood kids running on our streets uncontrollably (wait…).
Tis’ the season for another important event: my overanalyzed, overthought inner monologue regarding what I will be for Halloween.
I can never decide. I am bad ad making decisions.
Since I had this very problem when I was deciding on what colleges I wanted to apply to, I will take my mother’s advice [again] and list the things I do not want to be for Halloween.
My List of Things I Won't Be this Halloween;
Cat: Are you 6? Are you completely and totally lazy and/or unoriginal? If you answered “yes” to either of those questions, then it is completely appropriate for you to be a feline friend. If you answered “no,” then perhaps you should think of something else to prance around in on October 31.
The Over Slutty Disney Character: Little Miss Muffit certainly didn’t wear that when she was eating her curds and weigh, so neither should you. Similarly, calling yourself “Poke-a-hot-ass” doesn’t make you creative, it only makes you look easy and unoriginal. Lastly, the point of Halloween is to dress up in a costume, and since you paid over $60 dollars for your Snow-white-sloot outfit, I am assuming that you are most certainly trying to show off your goods for all to see. The fact that you chose this slutty number proves that you are in fact slutty, not just pretending to be. Next year try really dressing up, maybe as a nun or even a good role model, neither of which you are in your day-to-day reality. Same goes to you, nurse, French maid or sailor.
Pimp: You are no pimp, so in theory this costume should work; however, the fact that you are a complete tool in reality greatly outweighs the humor and/or perfection of your outfit.
Dorothy: Follow the yellow brick road, go to the Wizard, and ask the Wizard to give you an original costume idea!
Sarah Palin: It was funny in 2008, and it was slightly amusing [but overdone] in 2009, but for the love of all things holy, please do not be Sarah Palin anymore. The “I can see Russia from my house” line expired long ago, and I would rather see you dress up as a cat. Plus, the Palin reference always sparks some sort of political debate, and I don’t like listening to people bicker between costumed keg stands. [Yes, I usually end up at parties involving kegs. I have high caliber friends]
Anything involving a Scream mask: Scream came out in 1996. You had almost 15 years to wear the scream mask, the glow-in-the-dark Scream mask, and the bleeding scream mask. This year, let’s try to use props that your 10 year-old brother wont steal from you afterwards
Ghost: I know! I’ll put a sheet over my head, cut out two eye-holes, and call it original.
Kissing Booth: I know last year was the year of Swine Flu, but seriously that is just yucky.
What else should be added to this list? Whats the worst halloween costume you've seen?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
tgit
Good: Last night was family fun night to celebrate the birth of my mom. We saw Wicked as a family. Yes, that’s right…all four of us and there was [little to] no fighting.
Great: We had amazing seats, you go Bob!
TGIT: Wicked caused me to completely re-evaluate my role at the Wicked Witch of the West in our third grade play. I feel as though I completely misrepresented her, and I am a little bitter at my music teacher for not telling me the whole story. Then again, the Wicked Witch was pretty wicked, and I did have a pretty killer cackle, so given the information I had, I nailed it. Time for a weekend.
Overall, I still like Jersey Boys better.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Participation Anticipation
Class Participation.
(Anxiety. Anxiety.)
I used to hate class participation, specifically due to an event that occurred circa third grade when I thought the capital of Massachusetts was Springfield, and the entire class laughed at me. [I still specifically remember my teacher saying the capital was Springfield, but whatever.] At any rate, after that day, it was easier to force myself off the side of a building than it was to force myself to participate inside an educational classroom.
In high school, participating in English was usually easy for me, mostly because I had always done my homework and had highlighted my book for pertinent quotes to use in upcoming papers (yes, I was that kid.)
It was math that was my stressor. Calculus and I didn’t get along, which was always difficult for me to grasp since I had gotten along with Alegbra, and even Pre-Calc, so well. Sigh.
At risk for losing my LSRHS Scholar standing, (Eek! Gasp! The Horror!) I needed to magically change my C+ to a B-. This heightened my anxiety level for an entire year. Anyways, like any good goody-two-shoes, I moseyed to my teacher for after school help, set up regular tutoring, and attempted to get her to like me so that maybe she would just magically turn my C to a B. [Remind me to blog about the follow up situation involving said calc teacher telling me I had an anxiety problem. Gee, thanks for that insight, jackass.]
No dice, in fact, she fed me the very line I hated hearing the most.
“Kristin, you can boost your grade if you participate more in class.”
Yes, yes. I was an educational studies minor. I understand the fundamentals behind participation and how it can nurture the educational process for all students in a classroom, not just those who are struggling. I will also take this moment to spit out the traditional teacher line, which is: “If you have a question, chances are that someone else is wondering the exact same thing.” This is what the “adult” voice now says in my head.
I didn’t have that voice in Calculus.
Whatever.
Riddle me this, Mrs. I-teach-calculus-and-you-need-to-participate-more-if-you-want-that-B-. If I am not doing well on my quizzes, why is it that you want me to participate more in class? Clearly I am not retaining the curriculum. Isn’t it counterproductive to ask a student who doesn’t understand what is going on to participate in a discussion? Wouldn’t that further confuse other confused students, and only agitate those who did understand it? Further, wouldn’t it be time better spent for me to sit and attempt to learn the information you are presenting to me, rather than spewing the what-I-think-to-be-correct answers into the classroom, and polluting everyone’s learning experience?
The answer was always “no Kristin. In order for you to get a better grade, I want you to spew your incorrect version of what you think the answer should be, and then use you as an example in front of the whole class.”
Here I go again, making a personal agenda out of every non-personal situation to every exist.
(Anxiety. Anxiety.)
I used to hate class participation, specifically due to an event that occurred circa third grade when I thought the capital of Massachusetts was Springfield, and the entire class laughed at me. [I still specifically remember my teacher saying the capital was Springfield, but whatever.] At any rate, after that day, it was easier to force myself off the side of a building than it was to force myself to participate inside an educational classroom.
In high school, participating in English was usually easy for me, mostly because I had always done my homework and had highlighted my book for pertinent quotes to use in upcoming papers (yes, I was that kid.)
It was math that was my stressor. Calculus and I didn’t get along, which was always difficult for me to grasp since I had gotten along with Alegbra, and even Pre-Calc, so well. Sigh.
At risk for losing my LSRHS Scholar standing, (Eek! Gasp! The Horror!) I needed to magically change my C+ to a B-. This heightened my anxiety level for an entire year. Anyways, like any good goody-two-shoes, I moseyed to my teacher for after school help, set up regular tutoring, and attempted to get her to like me so that maybe she would just magically turn my C to a B. [Remind me to blog about the follow up situation involving said calc teacher telling me I had an anxiety problem. Gee, thanks for that insight, jackass.]
No dice, in fact, she fed me the very line I hated hearing the most.
“Kristin, you can boost your grade if you participate more in class.”
Yes, yes. I was an educational studies minor. I understand the fundamentals behind participation and how it can nurture the educational process for all students in a classroom, not just those who are struggling. I will also take this moment to spit out the traditional teacher line, which is: “If you have a question, chances are that someone else is wondering the exact same thing.” This is what the “adult” voice now says in my head.
I didn’t have that voice in Calculus.
Whatever.
Riddle me this, Mrs. I-teach-calculus-and-you-need-to-participate-more-if-you-want-that-B-. If I am not doing well on my quizzes, why is it that you want me to participate more in class? Clearly I am not retaining the curriculum. Isn’t it counterproductive to ask a student who doesn’t understand what is going on to participate in a discussion? Wouldn’t that further confuse other confused students, and only agitate those who did understand it? Further, wouldn’t it be time better spent for me to sit and attempt to learn the information you are presenting to me, rather than spewing the what-I-think-to-be-correct answers into the classroom, and polluting everyone’s learning experience?
The answer was always “no Kristin. In order for you to get a better grade, I want you to spew your incorrect version of what you think the answer should be, and then use you as an example in front of the whole class.”
Here I go again, making a personal agenda out of every non-personal situation to every exist.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
GooGoo For GaGa?
Lady GaGa needs to make one really good, honest [slightly neurotic, germaphobic] friend.
Why?
Why?
This is why.
Someone let her leave her house/mansion/overpriced hut wearing that.
Since no one else is willing to be, I am volunteering to be GaGa’s said really good, honest [slightly neurotic, germaphobic] friend.
Gaga, it is time to be frank when I tell you that your fashion risks are becoming unsanitary.
Lets, if only for a moment, forget about the giant slabs of meat that you wrapped around your body/appendages and called it fashion. We will come back to that.
Let’s start with last year first.
Yes, it was a smart PR decision for you to wow the crowd and captivate the spotlight whenever possible. You were up-and-coming, and needed all the exposure you could get, even if that did mean framing your face with a giant, white wreath. I will let that slide, because as your supportive, germaphobic friend, the only potential danger I would be worried about is if a bird mistakenly took your face wreath as a nest and began to build her home there.
As a friend, the first outfit I would like to talk to you about is this one.
Love the lace, love the cut, however that isn’t where my eyes are immediately drawn to. Agree? I wish you had told me that your outfit was to include a frontal crown, described somewhere between Max’s headdress in “where the wild things are” and Wilson from “Castaway.” I would have been a true friend and told you that maybe there were better options.
Your hair after your removed said crown, looked fantastic. Who let you put that awful thing over your head?!
Oh, and as a friend, I wont even bring up your whole bleeding onstage saga. A true friend will just let you forget that ever happened. You are welcome.
Moving onto some of your other spectacles over the past year.
Your sister’s graduation.
Who said this was a good look?
I get it. Your high school years were tough, and you wanted to send a message to all those mean girls who terrorized your life during your days at your alma mater. Newsflash: they won’t be there, and they already know that they effed up and now will never get free concert tickets or perks. I don’t think you need to wear an outfit of mourning to your sister’s graduation to prove how miz you were when you went there. I think your multi-million dollar empire speaks for itself.
Plus, as a friend, I think its important to let your sister be the center of attention for once. Maybe this is the mother in me, but perhaps on her one day to shine, you could have let the spotlight focus on her, if only just for a moment. This may have been your opportunity to set her free from behind that giant shadow of yours. No? No, you are right, you should have all of the attention, all of the time.
Now lets move on to Sunday’s major malfunction.
Yes, I understand your intention of creating a personal statement through your outfit. I do not, however, understand the logic behind using raw meat as the fabric, and below is a list of reasons why:
- um, its raw meat?
- PETA will be pissed. Unless you someone walking behind you, reading a disclaimer citing that no actual cows were harmed in the production of this dress, don’t be surprised when PETA people show up and throw red paint all over you at your next red carpet event. You know better than that, girlfriend.
- The smell. I am sure all of your neighbors appreciated your stench after you had been sitting in raw meat after a few minutes. I’m sure that felt equally as wonderful.
- Disease. Maybe I am being selfish, but the sight of you hugging people in your gown du cow made me feel nauseous. I am your friend, but friends don’t make friends hug them when they are draped in raw meat. Everyone knows that. Yes, it was baller when you asked Cher to hold your meat purse, but it won’t be so baller when Cher ends up with Mad Cow’s disease. Just Sayin’.
- The high risk of a wolf attack. You are a walking butcher’s shop, and asking for it. Might as well chum the water and jump right now, diva.
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