True Life: God Laughs at Me

(Disclaimer: this is a long one...)

If I were to describe my life in a single sentence it would be: “My life is comprised of emergencies connected by awkward pauses.” Often times, I think that said emergencies are scripted for an episode of MTV’s True Life. Yes, just think of me as MTV’s next rising reality star, who made her debut on “True Life: God Laughs at Me.” I am this year’s Trek and/or Melissa Rycroft.

Last night was an example of a script worthy set of emergencies. See potential script below.

Scene 1: Happy Go Lucky
(Set scene: 4:37PM, pouring rain, clouded sky, thunder (okay, the thunder is a minor over dramatization.) Enter Kristin, in [cute] work outfit, [non waterproofed] rain jacket, alertly running to car in an event to avoid racoon.)

I left work today feeling powerful. Despite feeling as though my head might fall off and that my eardrums might pop, I successfully launched my first true solo project at work. I beat the corporate monster while feeling completely miserable! Very productive day at work; job well done!

(Pan to devil hiding in corner, who proceeds to laugh evilly, foreshadowing the events to come. Pan back to Kristin who is unaware of her impending doom.)

Scene 2: The Realization
(Set scene: 4:45PM, Kristin driving in almost pure silence to nurse her headache away. Heat blaring, rain continuing to fall heavily. Kristin’s interest perks when she hairs a noise coming from the back of her car.)

As I am sitting in my car, listening to nothing but the throbbing shooting from my ears, I begin to hear a low roar coming from the back of my car. I turn down the blazing heat and the small lull of the radio to most astutely listen to the lurking noise. I break, and as I do so the noise dies. I speed up, it builds. My first thought? “If it is that mother-effing tire, I swear to God I will leave you right here and never look back,” obviously speaking to Sass.

I pull over. Get out of the car, and slyly walk to the back passenger side of my car, you know, incase the tire doesn’t know I am coming, and magically re-inflates when no one is looking. What do I find? The flat, just as she was, if not 14 days ago. Insert swearing, stomping, and a new dog friend watching my throw my tantrum.

Scene 3: The Phonecall(s)
(Set scene: Kristin, defeated, sitting back inside the car. Raining heavier than before.)

After calming myself down, I realized the tire wasn’t going to change itself. I first call Sullivan Tire to inquire whether my new, brand spanking new, tire had any kind of service warrantee on it; I was thinking something like a “damsel in distress” package. No dice. The next call was to AAA, where I was politely told my wait time was 90-160 minutes. The next phone call was to speed dial #4: home. Here enter tears.

Scene 4: The Fix
(Set scene: Kristin, now completely drenched with mascara running down face is now standing outside attempting to change tire. Here enter Dad, my port in a storm…literally.)

After lifting the car, somehow extracting the flat, and putting on the new wheel- all while being on hold with AAA to cancel my service request, my trusty AAA service man pulls up, flashing lights and all. After realizing his arrival was a day late and a buck short, Stunad looks over the replacement wheel, compliments our change, apologized for the wait, and offers to lift the flat into the trunk of my vehicle. Gee, thanks.

Scene 5:The Flood
(Set scene: mid tire change, Kristin and Bob are in the ever building storm. The dog, we have now affectionately named Muffy, is sitting in the front yard, watching.)

Whilst my dad and I battle the elements to change my tire, essentially serving as human rain sponges, Mom calls. I answer mid spare-tire-hand-off, assuming it was to confirm the arrival of my father, but the true reasoning was anything but that, and instead I hear: “Where’s the tube for the Shop Vak, Uncle Dave is going under!” To all you non flood zoners out there, the previous sentence in normal language roughly translates as: “Uncle Dave’s basement is flooding fast. Where is the machine that rapidly sucks water out of a location, and when will you be home so we can go over to help them?” Add a dash of yelling, and a pinch of panic: and Voila, you have our conversation. Still in shock over the fact that I am getting this news while standing mid-tire change on the side of the road in the pouring rain, I panic and hang up. Looks like my real life Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride won’t be ending anytime soon.

Scene 6: Pizza?!
(Set scene: Kristin, now carrying pizzas into Uncle Dave’s house, is garmented in duck boots, rolled up jeans, a sweatshirt, and damp raincoat. Eye makeup has found a home anywhere on her face, but her eyes. House is filled with 8 people, all Shop Vaking and carrying buckets full of flood water out of basement. It is the North Pole for flood victims)

This is when I realized that God’s source of entertainment is my continuing bad luck. I am sucking basement flood water (complete with floating creatures and treasures) into an archaic Shop Vak which houses several holes. After brainstorming with my cousin (my future partner on The Amazing Race), we realized that transporting water our of the basement will either replicate a physical challenge on Double Dare or will require multiple bucket transfers in an attempt to remove the water. Ultimately we settle on the latter, and spend a majority of the night “ShopVak, transfer, move out, repeat”ing until the team realized that we weren’t making any progress. My herniated/ruptured disk(s) surely appreciated the exercise.

Scene 7: Bed
(Set scene: Kristin now showered, is pouring herself into bed.)

After rinsing myself of cat litter infused flood water, I prepped for bed when I realized that I no longer have a bed frame, but rather just a lone mattress dwelling in the middle of my room. Very friendly, if you ask me. While there has been no physical furniture in my room, besides the bed, for almost 4 months now, the frame has now joined its comrades, and has been removed from my room. As I lay on my mattress, not three inches off the ground, I can’t help but wonder when they are going to pad the walls and lock me in. That will make for an interesting blog entry.

Easter's Top 5

Top 5 Things I like about Easter:

1. Cadbury Mini Eggs: God’s personal way of reminding me that he loves me and wants me to be happy. Being that Easter is the only time of year where Cadbury produces these little oval miracles, it makes for an obvious reasoning behind my excitement for Easter. I am not talking about the regular, subpar Cadbury eggs with the white, creamy filling (vomit,) but rather the thumbnail size, pure Cadbury chocolate delicacies encased in a crisp shell. These heavenly minis melt in my mouth, soothe my soul, and trigger my smile, (too bad no boyfriend can do that! Sigh.) At any rate, Cadbury Mini Eggs are my favorite part of Easter.
2. My very Italian, slightly overbearing, but extremely loving and inclusive family. I love Easter because it is yet another reason (as if we need one) to gather the people that love each other most into one room. Complete with yummy food, (come on, we’re Italian!) fun laughs, and an intense egg cracking competition (See #4), any D’Orlando gathering proves to be entertaining.
3. Hymn #322: “Up From the Grave He Arose!:” To many, this is an average, slow moving, but slightly building hymn. To my family, this hymn serves as yet another inappropriate moment for us to all look at each other and laugh. This is my grandfather’s favorite hymn; his gospel travels right from his lips to God’s ears, and he sings it as though it does. In his Easter suit, he stands proudly with our family, prominently displaying his Italian offspring, builds his strength up through his knees and into his chest for a complete, deep, strong, hearty tone. He has done this since I can remember, and will continue to do so for years to come. “Up From the Grave He Arose!” is another reminder that my family will never be normal, and I am perfectly content with that.
4. The Annual D’Orlando Egg Bashing Fight! What is that, you may ask? Well, my grandmother meticulously hollows out ordinary eggs, and fills them with confetti. The end result? An oval shaped weapon, perfect for whacking, pelting, or noogy-ing into an adoring, yet equally vicious cousin and/or sibling. All cousins are sent outside, each armed with two eggs each, and encouraged to plot and terrorize each other. No rules, just revenge. Yet another indicator that my future children have little to no chance of ever being normal.
5. Easter dresses! One of the best parts of Easter is seeing the little girls prancing around in their floral Easter dress, white tights, and white patton leather shoes. God, I lived for those days as a seven year old, where I could prance my cute self around, parading my spring look. Granted, it wasn’t so fun when we had to wear our pretty party dresses under snow suits, but it was still an entrance nonetheless. I have high hopes for this year’s six year olds, as the weatherman is predicting 75 and sunny.

Oh, and obviously the resurrection of Jesus Christ is another highlight to my Easter. I mean, without his miracle, none of the aforementioned things would be possible, not to mention we wouldn’t have been freed from our sins. Christ has risen! (Christ has risen, indeed!)

Awe Crikey!

Attention all untamed animals, 3 Speen Street has officially become Framingham’s own Wildlife Refuge. Open all four seasons.

Having survived almost two years of our office building’s wildlife and meteorological cycle, I have learned that with each season comes a new animal for all those animal peeping enthusiasts.

Beginning and end of winter brings roaming birds who are travelling for the change in season. While usually I am a fan of any kind of bird in the winter, as it signifies warm weather and spring, I do not enjoy the gifts they leave all over my car. If I had wanted Sassy to be black with white polka dots, I would have bought her as such, but thank you for the kind sentiment, Tweety.

Summer brings the overzealous and overweight squirrel. 3 Speen Street enjoys fostering these little hand puppets by leaving a buffet of delicious squirrel delicacies in stocked trash cans, not 20 feet from the front door, and not 5 from our multi-functioning picnic/bbq area. Being that my alma mater was home to the world's most obese and agressive squirrels, I am somewhat unbothered by these trash can diggers, however, many of my co-workers have yet to cohabitate with them as well as I can. Bright side? I now have a reason to use the one word I managed to learn and retain while Steffi, our German coworker, visited from Munich. Pronounced "Esch-orn-schen" in German, squirrel is a German word that will no doubt be utilized in the coming months.

Fall brings the turkey, but not just one turkey…usually its an entire 5-8 fowl contingency. The turkeys change our tranquil office wildlife sanctuary to a tense migration ground. While they move in slowly, their stealth moving turkey coup-d'etat astutely organize small revolutions against our office building, eventually prominently perching outside a large glass window by our main entrance. Last season’s turkey highlights include: a turkey barricade at the front door, complete with spitfest to threaten any professional daring enough to challenge them in a turf battle (um, I will go in the side entrance, thank you very much,) as well as their green initiative, where turkeys sat on top and protested the use of employee cars, thereby reducing our building’s carbon omitting gases (we can most likely thank Al Gore for that mishap.) Oddly enough, said birds always mysteriously disappear just prior to Thanksgiving. Coincidence? I think not.

Spring is usually a transition month, where I can leave the office in peace without worrying about a surprise attack from a turkey, squirrel, or flying bird poop. This spring, however, the good word has spread, and we now welcome a new member to the 3 Speen Street Wildlife Sanctuary. As I was walking out of my office today, ready to battle the elements (yet another wall of rain,) I saw a warning sign posted on the front door of our building: “Warning. Raccoon has been spotted in this area. Proceed with caution.” I do not like raccoons, the obvious exception being Rocky, my childhood stuffed animal a la raccoon. I especially dislike raccoons when they are seemingly disoriented in broad daylight. Unless my relationship with said animals is going to be anything comparable to a typical Disney movie, (think Cinderella’s bird friends gone maid, or mice friends gone seamstresses) I do not foresee that I will enjoy the newest addition to our workplace family.

Here is to another “run from the office to the car” season, and a hope that the raccoon doesn’t hide under my car to rabie-fy me as I step into my car…and don’t act like you are surprised that I would actually worry about something like that.

My Friday Commute: a la Masshole

This morning’s commute was an eye-opening experience for me. I have become a true Masshole commuter. Sigh.

The moment of realization was at 7:41 this morning; yes 7:41 exactly. How do I know this? Being the anxiety-fused, worry wart, punctual Patti that I am, I have meticulously calculated key milestones within my commute and their corresponding times to ensure that I am aware of my time constraints. If I get to my Route 16 exit anytime after 7:36AM, I will hit secondary road/school bus traffic (thanks, Newton private schools), which will further increase my commute time by about 9 minutes. If I get to Route 16 prior to 7:27, which has happened once in my entire time of commuting, then I have time to stop for a Starbucks treat (but only if I have a gift card, naturally.)

Regardless, I know the exact time of my realization because I was only exiting the pike at 7:41, and I was prepping to be late and/or drive aggressively to make up the extra five minutes (I arrived at work today at 8:05, better to arrive late, than never at all- right, Mom?)

Just as I began to my veer toward my exit, it happened. The person in front of me put on their blinker. Not only did the act of putting on the blinker send me into a complete state of confusion, but it also led me to slip directly into defensive driver mode. The person in front of me correctly used their signal to signify their safe exit off the turnpike (who does that?!) and I mistakenly read her signal as: “I am going to aggressively pull over into the breakdown lane, and cut you off. This is an emergency!”

Instead of calmly noting that the white minivan in front of me was also exiting off the pike safely, I preventatively swerved around the car into the second “exit only” lane so that she would be able to stop her vehicle for said emergency without forcing me to a) slam on breaks and honk, or b) swerve even more aggressively.

I continued my commute slightly defeated and heavier hearted. While I continued to follow the minivan I realized that I have evolved as a driver; I haven’t necessarily become aggressive, but I have become overly defensive. No longer does the safe use of a signal signify what it should.

Upon reflecting on further details of my commute, I realized that I also committed three additional tell-tale mass hole crimes. I managed to weave around a clueless, “I drive with my left blinker permanently on,” out-of-state Toyota to make a short light (the one that delays my commute by 4 minutes almost everyday, but who’s counting?) I also found a new short cut to avoid waiting at a pointless light, and even lightly laughed when pulling into my office lot and seeing the bumper to bumper traffic headed onto the pike.

I like to think I am not a Masshole, but rather that I have astutely trained myself to co-exist with them on a daily basis. Lets go with it; I feel better about myself that way.

is this why short people are grumpy?

Why I miss my long hair.

1. I miss having a ponytail that doesn’t resemble a “nub.” A low ponytail can only look cute for so long, especially if it is nothing more than a nort on the back of my head. Trying for a high ponytail? I don’t think so, as any attempt in a ponytail higher than my ears results the “half up, half down” look, cool circa 1995.
2. I miss being able to wear my hair up…period. I miss the knot that I used to casually fold my hair into when putzing to the store, around the house, or when driving with the windows down. The previously effortless pull up has now become a strategic pull back in an effort to avoid stray whispies.
3. I miss going to the gym and not needing to wear a headband to prevent whispies from matting to my forehead and the back of my neck. Yes, I sweat at the gym. I admit it, but it was a lot easier to hide when I had blonde locks to cover the neck area. Now, my intense glow is visible to all gym rats; so far for meeting Mr. Right at my gym. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sweepaway bangs (which are now overgrown,) but not when I look like a giant greaseball. (I promise I am not an excessive sweater, Mr. Totally Hunky Gym Beefcake!)
4. I miss being able to sleep on my hair and not have to restraighten it. I know this sounds neurotic (if only just slightly,) but I miss being able to shower at night, sleep on my hair and wake up without looking like I went through a minor perm procedure whilst sleeping. My hair is not thinning, nor is its thickness/consistency changing at a rapid rate, therefore the only changing variable that could constitute this change would be my mane’s length.
5. I miss the perfected beach tousled look. You know, the “I am not trying to make my hair look curly, but the slight wave/curl puts me smack in the middle of the Anthropologie magazine” look. I had perfected that look, and was beginning to utilize well, particularly during the warm months. I have tried to recreate the vibe, but often my slightly sloppy, yet trendy tendrils is mistaken for bad bed head, or forced gel curls. Fail.
6. I miss the side braid. Um, hello? How am I supposed to pull of the summer-boho-cowboy-chic image I go for every year if I can’t sport the side braid? It is practically impossible to successfully achieve. Yes, I most certainly can attempt a braid, but ultimately my wannabe braid looks more like a twisted messy knot than anything resembling the proper look. In order for said braid to remain intact, I need to twist it like I am tying a corset to my head. End result? A four inch braid sticking straight out the back of my head. Attractive? I don’t think so.
7. I miss people saying: "Millions of women pay to have your hair." Call me vain, call me superficial, but I miss getting compliments on how beautiful my hair was/is. Now, my hair is just the ugly duckling of blondes everywhere.
8. I miss rock band head bang. It doesn't happen often, but when it should, I can't. Sigh.
9. I miss people playing with my hair; not in a creepy kind of way, but I love the feeling of someone else brushing through my hair. Apparently short hair sends out the "don't touch me" vibe.
10. I miss being able to go underwater, come to the surface, and not look like a tad pole. This is a privilege you have that you are completely unaware of. Yes, I look like a tadpole when I emerge from a body of water; my short, wet, blonde hair mats to my head and creates a recipe for tad pole/swimming cap disaster. Its my problem, not yours.

I. Want. My. Long. Hair. Back. Its been a year and a half since I chopped it off in the name of charity, and I think it is due time for my locks to grow back to their original length. Summer will not be the same without long blonde hair to wrestle with the wind.

I remember telling my adolescent brother that his facial hair would grow faster if he pushed really hard, you know what I mean. I wonder if that would also work for my mane…?

TGIT

TGIT: Sunday’s al fresco lunch, made by ever improving Chefs Kristin and Diane

I never thought I would be one to blog about a delicious meal I have made, mostly because:
a) I rarely cook anything picture worthy, nevermind blog worthy
b) I follow my fellow delta’s "Two Sisters, Two Suppers" blog and could never imagine comparing to some of the mouth watering delicacies that grace her food stage. (If you are a foodie, need a good recipe, or just want to drool at delicious looking food, you should check it out!)

Nevertheless, here enter Hawaiian Chicken with a Pineapple and Mango Chutney:
(you can save the "oohs" and "ahhs")

Good: it was a quick make!
Great: it was delicious, and tasted just as yummy reheated for dinner
TGIT: no one was harmed in the production of this meal. Dacey women cooking a new recipe together usually results in screaming/yelling/emergency calls to my grandmother on how to rescue a simple frosting recipe.

All in all, a culinary success!

two tags=a crowd

Alright, itchy tag on the inside of my shirt, its either you or me today, and I am not prepared to walk around my office shirtless because of your inability to relax.

I have to say I am a bit disappointed in you. I’ve already gone after your lengthy fibers with scissors and shortened you to a manageable length, but even after your new due, your pestering is still incessant.

Why is it that you exist anyways? Is one tag not suitable enough for one shirt? Tags are made to display very few things, and all of them can fit on one tag:

1. The size: further reminding me that bikini season is right around the corner
2. the genetic fiber make up of my shirt: so that when my shirts no longer fit, I can explain it away with: “don’t worry, self, the shirt is 94% cotton…she shrunk”
3. washing instructions: so that if I ever were to want to properly wash my clothes one day, I could.
4. "Made in China:” this is here to remind us that everything we own is exported, very important.
5. The “inspected by #456” sticker: so I know exactly who to blame when I find that my shirt is faulty. Thanks a lot, #456!

All of this very important information can be found on the primary tag of the shirt. There is no additional need for another tag, if only to serve as a nagging itch for me.

Further, who was it that decided that the best place to put a tag is on the side seem above my hip bone. Everyone is ticklish and/or sensitive there, and it is faulty product quality to implant a stiff side tag into an otherwise “relaxed cotton tee” (and yes, the shirt is actually called that!)

I feel anything but relaxed thanks, in part, to you. Lets try to get along for a majority of the day…otherwise I have no problem cutting a whole in the seem of my shirt to remove you completely, as my tee is only used for layering.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, itchy tag.

QUACK!

My parent’s road is flooded, as in completely impassable. We have become the Chappy of the western suburbs of Boston…you know, [celebrity filled] neighborhoods which are only accessible by boat. Residents at the far end of Pelham Island Road are unable to leave because flood waters have them surrounded. Come out with your hands up!

Solution? Bring in the duckboats.

For all you nons, Duckboats are a fleet of land-to-water megaboats that transports tourists to and fro all the historical and culture cornerstones of Boston. To all Bostonians, the Duckboats are a mass tourist movement company that efficiently moves slow, meandering tourists around the city, effectively getting them out of our way. I am 90% duckboat fan; the other 10% of me cannot forgive the lone boat who snuck up behind me and sneak attacked me with massive amounts of group duckboat quacking. Apparently I wasn’t in a non-quacking zone (yes, they have those) but regarless, I may never come back from that. All details aside, Duckboats have now temporarily found a home in my parents suburban neighborhood/standing body of water.

Luckily for Bob and Diane, our home is on the civilization side, meaning we can access the Metropolis that is my hometown without needing to take a boat. As if Sudbury, MA isn’t already completely separated from all other walks of life as is, Mother Nature wanted to isolate our road even further. Thanks, girlfriend!

This whole duckboat conundrum leaves me with one very important question. Is Pelham Island Road a quack-free zone? Do I now need to remain alert on walks with my mother incase a feisty duckboat crew decides perform another surprise quake-a-thon at my expense? I wonder if the driver has prompted them to quack, and if those being transported to and from our beautiful wildlife sanctuary are in good enough spirits to participate.

I am hoping we remain quack free but at this point, anything is possible.

Also, looking forward to another three inches of rain this evening!

TGI(w)T

Thank God it (was) Thursday! (Woopsie!)

This is my annual "I don't know jack about collegiate basketball" March Madness bracket that I make with my father (who also doesn’t know jack.) I have now made her public. Please note: I am very sensitive about my picks, especially when they loose.

I still get anxiety about completing this bad boy. I sit there and stare at it, with no background information.

A majority of my picks have nothing to do with the actual sport of basketball. Below is an example of my inner monologue when picking between Notre Dame (#6) vs Old Dominion (#11)
Self #1: Well, ND is the familiar name here, so they will win because I know who they are.
Self #2: But what if ODU is the #11 upset and wins? ODU is the winner.
Self #1: Yes, but Bud (my grandfather, may he rest in peace) loved Notre Dame, so I should pick them to win.
Self #2: Yes, but Bud also loved the Giants, and they didn’t win this year.
Self #1: True, ODU is going to win because their colors are pretty, and their mascot is a lion

TGI(w)T: Kristin, you don’t know shit about basketball, so even if you only get a few right this further proves that you have slight psychic abilities…and yes, there is a direct correlation between the two.

springing to summer?

I don’t want this to turn into a meteorology blog by any means, but March’s weather has been purely unpredictable. Yes, Spring by definition is supposed to be inconsistent, but this spring has been particularly hormonal…to put it lightly.

This year, New England Spring is the mid-puberty adolescent daughter of Mother Nature, complete with mood swings and tears.

Monday graced us with 8 inches of rain, hurricane force winds, and flash flooding, which was fun by all standards.

Tuesday came along and Spring then felt bad for making such a stink over the weekend. She cleared the clouds away and left us with crisp but unusually sunny weather. To be honest, the sharp contrast was mildly ophthalmologically offensive, being that my eyes hadn’t seen sunlight, nevermind cloudless sunlight, in over 5 days.

Still redeeming herself, today was another absolutely perfect day, stunna even. The sun was warm (judging by the 7 minutes of outdoor time I got today) and the skies were the perfect shade of blue. It wasn’t too cold, but I wasn’t uncomfortably warm in my [very fashionable] blazer.

To ice the cake, I predict that both Friday and Saturday will send thermometers into shock, clocking in at 68 and 66 degrees respectively. It will be perfect. I will whip out my flip flops and pool floaties, just incase I can find some time to soak up some rays.

I think about this and smile; this must mean that summer is just around the corner, right? Wrong! This is not Florida in June. This is New England people, in March nonetheless. I predict after this weekend of pure bliss, we are due for at least one more solid frost and/or deep freeze, only to then thaw out again and plateau in a semi-cool spring until July. Maybe you find me to be pessimistic, but I am going with realistic.

So for now, I will enjoy the premature spring that is being handed to me, and wait for Indian Summer (my favorite season of all).

hop shuffle leap tip!

Today is Tuesday, and that means two things:

1. tomorrow is Wednesday which means essentially, I am halfway through my work week
2. tonight is my tap class.

Yes, laugh it up if you want to, but I take a tap class and I find it to be one of the most enjoyable parts of my week, you know, besides that small light at the end of the tunnel called “the weekend.”

I am a life-long dance enthusiast (duh), and tap has always been one of my favorite genres of dance…especially to perform. Tap was always my favorite class throughout the years (besides those senior company classes where we performed fosse-esque numbers that allowed me prance around like a hootch with little to no repercussions.) There is nothing more therapeutic for me than throwing on a pair of tap shoes, and cramprolling my problems away.

In all seriousness, what is there not to love? I am wearing a pair of flat shoes with large metal noise makers on the bottom and encouraged to stomp, stamp, step, or hop around (yes, those are all different tap moves, and all require different weight shifts)!

Talk about serious stress relief, unless of course we rewind back to my tap glory days in high school, where if I didn’t land all four sounds in my double pull backs, my dance teacher would threaten to cut off my leg. (Oh, the memories…)

And so, in the words of said dance teacher (when happy): “Of to tippity-tap!”

1 in of rain= 1 ft of snow

What did I do this weekend? Well, like most New Englanders, I fought with Mutha Nay-tcha! Yes, God was doing some serious crying...and no one was able to stop him.

Now usually, I love me a good spring rainstorm. For one, rain serves as an excellent excuse for almost anything. Don’t want to go to the gym? Don’t worry about it, its raining! Want to watch television all day? Why wouldn’t you- its raining! Don’t want to go out tonight? Probably shouldn’t because its raining! Accidently got excessively drunk when you were forced to go out? Obviously, its raining!

Secondly, rain serves as the perfect backdrop to the end of a wintry/springy weekend. Throw in some lightning, a bit of (light, but not overly aggressive) thunder, a good television show, a bottle of wine and a pizza, and you have yourself a pretty wonderful Sunday evening.

This is not to say that I approve of this weekend’s weather forcast. This weekend was more of a monsoon than it was an enjoyable storm; and I enjoy rain, not aggressive, yet slowly moving walls of water. So, besides the major road floodings and closures, a declared state of emergency, a washed out bridal shower, and some minor (very minor) hydroplaning, I would rate this rainy weekend in the high 9's.

And for the record, so proud of myself for fixing the windshield wiper prior to the wall of water that moved in on Friday afternoon. I most likely avoided causing myself a coronary. Mazel Tov, Kristin. You are learning!

When life gives you lemons, fix your own wiper

Today was a big day.

Today I fixed Sass’s broken windshield wiper. Alone. I used multiple tools.

Yes, yes I did.

I had an inkling that I would be able to do it myself, as the last time my wiper broke (yes, it happens often) I hovered over the Saab tech, watching his every move of the 35 second fix. I remember driving away from the dealership feeling defeated after seeing how easy it was to complete the repair, and knowing that the techy was inside the dealership mocking me and my inability to speak car talk, nevermind understand it. Generally, I walk into the service center, and my appearance alone triggers cash register sounds for the technicians. Cha-ching! I hate that feeling. I am smart. I am quick to understand. Do not treat me like I am inept, and then charge me $150 for an oil change, thank you very much.

So, today was the day where I either had to make the call to Saab, or fix the wiper myself. I decided today was the day where I take back my voice… and did I ever take it back.

I fixed it, and yes, I had a witness. My mother, who is my #1 supporter in all my “I can do it myself” endeavors (which usually end up with me making the problem even larger), came down to the garage to bear witness to this miraculous event. And while I am sure the thought of me failing, and ultimately breaking the windshield wiper completely off my car, had her ready to run, Diane did very well throughout the exercise, and even participated with a celebratory thumbs up upon my fix.

I admit my experience was not free of problems. The once 35 second fix for the techy ultimately turned out to be a 35 minute fix for this novice, but I attribute a majority of that time to searching for the correct tools in my father’s OCD organized workshop. (Do not ever borrow a pair of scissors from Bob’s workshop, even if you put them back he will still know they were used.)

After a quick hood pop, removal of a decorative cover and some quick, but stern bolt tightening, I had single-handedly fixed my own windshield wiper. Mission complete.

I would like to take a moment to thank Sass and acknowledge her willingness to accept change. I know today was a turning point in our relationship because even though she knew that I had never operated on a vehicle before, she still trusted me enough to fix her.

Sass and I are no longer fighting.

TGIT

Being fifth row at the Bruins / Mapleleafs game last week? Good!

Being forced onto the jumbo tron 3+ times? Great!

Bruins winning in a shoot out? Amazing!

Watching one of Tim Thomas' best NHL games? TGIT...especially for my family...

Here he is, the man of the year: Tim Thomas. The player who owes his entire professional career to my father, who believes he single handedly fostered it with a single nod. For more information on said nod, read #4 of"...and Canada Dry Gingerale." If you would like my father to foster the career of one of your loved ones, please feel free to email me. TGIT!

Just "Pee" Yourself!

Why is it that I find it necessary to “hold it” until I can no longer stand it. Going to the bathroom is never a leisure stroll down the hall, it is almost always a dire emergency due to my holding it for too long.

There are 3 “need to go” stages/levels.

1. your typical “gotta go” feeling. No description necessary. Everyone gets it. I usually am aware I need to go by this stage, but am preoccupied…often times I say to myself: “Self, you can go to the bathroom once you finish [insert work/home/blog task here.]” A weird, yet classic psychological negative reinforcement situation…do something good, take away something that is painful or uncomfortable. Yes, I know I am odd.
2. the low hip, tingling sensation. Here enter the leg crossing, avoidance of laughter, and the “don’t think about flowing water” mentality. Usually I go here, because I have finally realized that the sensation is not going to go away on its own.
3. the low hip, pressure and pain. This is the mother of all need to pee symptoms. I rarely experience this sensation, but when I do I am always in a car. Never mind talking or communicating, because I am far too preoccupied with the pain that comes with moving and breathing. Then, there is an opportunity to go and getting out of the car and walking to the bathroom is a borderline out of body experience. See me. See me hunched over. See me hunched over, attempting to walk, with hundreds of sharp, pressurized pains that seemingly start and end in my bladder…its like finishing a marathon, seeing the finish line, and not caring about what you look like finishing it.

My conflict with peeing began with family road trips circa 1990 (that would be all road trips, post potty training.) The 4 hour drives to Burlington, VT ultimately became a game of chicken between my father who refused to pull over for

Years later, my mother figured out the solution that solved our roadtrip saga…dehydrate the kids, particularly me, beginning 12 hours before you buckle up. That’s right, no liquids starting the night before a big trip. Prepping me for a long car ride was essentially like prepping me for major surgery: do not eat or drink anything after midnight the night before; you may brush your teeth but do not swallow the water; take Tylenol with your last meal before said dehydration. Oh, the memories.

Ultimately, I have these wonderful road trip experiences to thank for my ability to drive home from my alma mater in upstate New York, without needed to stop for a rest room. That’s 6-7 hours of pit stop free cruising…and guess who hates to take bathroom breaks now…

i'm a 8.5 out of 10?

The self evaluation. A time for pretentious people to shine and self doubters to, well for lack of a better term, self doubt.

I have always struggled with self evaluations, and I am not sure if it is my inability to make decisions, my lifelong struggle at giving myself compliments, or a combination of both, but regardless they have always proved to be difficult for me.

The self evaluation process usually brings out my conscious/devil, Id/Ego, nice/naughty/whatever you want to call it conflict. There is me, my “good self,” and my “bad self” all reflecting on my actions throughout a paper, project or assignment.

On one shoulder sits my self advocating mini-me. I imagine her to look like me, only small enough to sit on my shoulder. She’s smart, quick witted, and very aggressive (reminds me of someone else I know.) She kicks in and discusses how hard I worked on said project, and that I deserve recognition for the sweat, stress, and most likely tears that went into the process. I am hard working pupil/colleague; I submit quality work that I deem qualified for review; I put in the effort. She thinks I deserve “excellent” in all categories of the self eval rubric. End. Of. Discussion.

On the other shoulder sits my honest, conscientious mini-me. She is wearing glasses, and holding books, perhaps something like Moaning Myrtle from Harry Potter, sans really annoying voice. She is always the one to keep my self-advocating self in check, and asks questions like: “Self, did you really work as hard as you could have on the ‘proofreading’ section?” or: “Self, don’t you think there are other students who probably put more effort into their ‘title and introduction’ section than you did?” She usually rates my achievements as average; not sub-par, but definitely not admirable. Honest mini-me immediately butts heads with self-advocating mini-me and looks to diffuse any kind of self encouraging campaign or spark that comes with her.

Me? I serve as the mediator between the two, and historically speaking, the situation ends with me handing in the evaluation wondering whether my superior will find me to have overshot or undershot their thoughts. My mother always tells me that I am way too hard on myself, and that I tend to set unrealistic expectations for myself. So while in the real world I am particularly hard on my effort and actions, I try to create reasonable criteria for myself when self evaluating, as not everyone is as big of a nutcase perfectionist as I am.

Insert immediate anxiety until feedback and/or grade is returned.

Food for thought

My Friday: in random, oxymoronic, food related thoughts

1. I love chocolate…in all forms and phases. I do not, however, like chocolate ice cream…unless it is a fudgesickle.
2. I do not like coffee, nor do I like its taste or smell…unless its slowly churned into a delicious ice cream. Yes, I love coffee ice cream, preferably covered with chocolate jimmies. (To be clear, they are jimmies…not sprinkles.)
3. I love strawberries, as in I eat them everyday in season, so why is it that my least favorite type of lollipops and jams are strawberry? Because I said so.
4. I love bananas, and enjoy almost everything that is banana flavored (foul, I know), the obvious exception being banana popsicles. Those should be publicly defamed and permanently discontinued.
5. I didn’t like Chinese food or chocolate until I was twelve…same time I hit puberty and ballooned. Coincidence? Doubtful.

TGIT

What life looks from my driver's seat in light rain

...without functioning windshield wipers.

Here's to 48 hours straight of not stressing about condensation. TGIT.

i'm in a glass case of...non function?

raisinets > chocolate covered espresso beans

I do not like strong coffee; I do not like espresso; I do not like coffee beans or any other coffee specimen (the obvious exception being coffee ice cream,) so I am unsure as to why I am so perplexed by the fact that I dislike chocolate covered espresso beans.

I do not like chocolate covered espresso beans. End of story, but occasionally I will cross paths with the opportunity to eat them, and a majority of the time I will try one….you know, just to be sure I do not like them.

End result? Always the same. I do not like chocolate covered espresso beans. Not one bit; not one iota. I like all other chocolate dipped delicacies, but not the bean of espresso.

This leads me to bigger questions here. What kind of crazed, caffeine addicted chocoholic created these little mocha morsels of energy? Lets be frank here: chocoholism and caffeine dependence are real addictions. Combining them is just plain cruel for mocha enthusiasts. Luckily for me, I am not one of them, however, my obvious vice is peanut butter, and we all know how delicious combining chocolate and that tasty treat can be.

Secondly, why do people choose to drink coffee when they can nosh on these caffeine caplets all day and achieve the same desired effect? I think it is a no brainer...especially when chocolate is involved. Bet your bottom dollar that if Raisinets dispersed caffeine into my bloodstream and boosted my metabolism, I would eat those suckers all day, every day (calories removed, of course!)

i scream for ice cream

In my years of vast experience, I have found that there are few problems that a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream can’t fix. Honest.

Ben and Jerry have created the perfect companion to break ups, sweet tooths, swine flu, removing of the tonsils, hot weather, cold weather, boredom, and pregnancy. I think that my good ole friend Ben and/or Jerry found the direct path to pure happiness through saturated fat, heavy cream, and chocolate chunks, nuts, brownies and cookies. Can I get an “Amen?”

This said list of blissful, yet deadly, ingredients is obviously counter balanced with all of the healthy, natural things in my bucket of bliss. Being a “Cherry Garcia” and “Chunky Monkey” girl myself, I am of the most healthy ice cream eaters, being that each of my flavors are fruit based, and are therefore by default more healthy.

I also ingest many beneficial vitamins from Ben and Jerry’s baby, such as omega-3-fatty acids from Chunky Monkey’s walnuts, and vitamins C and A from the cherries in Cherry Garcia. Not to mention the added benefits in consuming dark chocolate, which we all know is part of a healthy heart diet in moderation.

Why get the Fro-Yo when all the natural, healthy ingredients are already in the original version? As I continue to prove time and time again, no sequel is ever as good as its predecessor. Don’t skimp on the original, especially when you are already buying the Chocolate Fudge Brownie variety.

At any rate, I would just like to thank those wonderful people up in Waterbury, VT for creating the most perfect comfort food for this ice cream addict.

Sans one wiper and one wheel

February was a bad month for Sass.

For those of you who haven’t met Sass, shame on you. She is the most loving Saab 9-3 out there, and my, does she have stories to share….if only her hood can talk.

Sass has been through it all, and has been a good sport in all weather. She handled beautifully during my 9 hour drive from Burlington, VT in my family’s attempt to “beat the blizzard home” in late 2007 (Great idea, Dad!), and has effortlessly honked and whipped around to sorority tunes with many a deltas hanging out her windows on bid day. Way to go Sass!

Regardless, February was a bad month for Sass…making March an even worse month for my checkbook. As much as I love her classy shine or her willingness to stick it out in tough storms, Sass truly lived up to her name this month, much like her owner. Sass and I are now fighting.

As if her windshield wiper breaking during the monsoon of last week did not serve as enough entertainment for her, this week’s flat tire no doubt added some spice to her month. Sass clearly thrives on my ability to totally freak out over things that I cannot control. The tears, stress, and cash spent on her in the last 24 hours equal out to about the amount I have cumulatively spent on her in the past two point five years. Thanks Sassafrass.

Apologies ahead of time, checking account, for the hit you are unknowingly about to take.
I am hoping these said Sass problems stem back to my not saying “Rabbit Rabbit” on February 1, 2010 (please see my rabbit rabbit rant for all details).

Don’t worry, I said “Rabbit Rabbit” this morning…