Life sans "Rabbit Rabbit"

I will boycott “Rabbit Rabbit” tomorrow.

Why? Because I am convinced that the act of saying “Rabbit Rabbit” has become counterproductive. “Rabbit Rabbit” meaning luck? I don’t think so, babe.

Exhibit A: Sass. I said “Rabbit Rabbit” during both March and April. Clearly my proactive effort to grace my month with luck did not work, or else cars are an exception to the “Rabbit Rabbit” rule as a whole (which someone should clearly state in a pamphlet somewhere.) Three [major] car problems during two “Rabbit Rabbit” months? Seems like the “Rabbit Rabbit” is good luck theory does not apply to this faithful “Rabbit Rabbit”er.

Exhibit B: See above. I think the torment I have gone through these past two months is enough for me to try another lucky charm. Clearly this one ain’t working anytime soon.

Now, does anyone have a Rabbit’s foot I can borrow?

TGIT

TGIT! Looking forward to a fun, and beautiful weekend...Good: This is an [creative genius] ad in one of my People/US Weekly/other gossip mag that clouds up my brain weekly.
Great: It was a functioning Scratch & Sniff. Again, marketing genius, as everyone knows that it is nearly impossible to not “Scratch & Sniff” something that says to do so.
TGIT: I scratch and sniffed in the check-out line at the grocery store. Yes, I felt aflutter, as all of those commercials accurately portray.

TGIT!

Spotted: America's Next Top Dancer

The following things are wrong with the video above.

1. The dance moves. This needs to be broken down into sub categories because I have so much to say

• The transitions. The dasian (dancing Asian) has her moves all wrong. At first, she had me convinced that I was watching a great multitasker: exercise and complete my daily prayers to my Tribal God? Sure! Then, she morphs into her hip-hop/jump trans, which quickly changes to her low spin/ganstah moves. The transition is much to quick, and doesn’t effectively segway to her next combination.
• The lack of technique. If she had true skillzzz, there would be no need for she to hang onto the safety bars while twirling around and spinning down low.
• Choice of music. If you are going to get amped up over a song, it most definitely should not be “Barbie Girl”… at least in public.

2. Her pace. Lets, for a second, eliminate the obvious fact that there is a prasian (prancing Asian) flailing around on a treadmill. Focus on the pace of the machine; our friend is maybe moving at 2.5 on the treadmill. I say crank it and prove a point, girlfriend. Lets see some real cardio out of you.

3. The outfit. I am not one to judge, but the pants tucked into the back of the shoes are not a good look.

4. The people around her are not seemingly phased by her crazy skillzzz. While they are painfully aware that this crasian (crazy Asian) is dancing along and most definitely invading their person exercise space (which is a big gym etiquette no-no in my book) neither of her neighbors budge. In fact, the woman to her immediate right stretches her arms as if she isn’t even aware that there is anyone on the tready next to her, never mind a flasian (flailing Asian.)

5. The culprit is smiling? It takes a moment to confirm, but by the end, the smasian (smiling Asian) is definitely sporting a cheek-to-cheek grin, especially when she pulls out a big move, like a spin or dip. She digs her moves, and thinks everyone else should as well. Maybe next time, dasian (diva Asian.)

Should I be embarrassed that I just dedicated an entire blog entry to the dance moves of an exasian (exercising Asian)? No. I have faith that Annie is no doubt ROTFLHAO…but she will not be able to tell us so, as she will actually be doing it.

Mint Throwups?

Saturday is Derby day. Derby Day means family Derby party. Fam Derby party means Mint Julips. Mint Julips means Bourbon.

Problem? I hate bourbon and/or whiskey. (Yes, they taste the same.)

Why? Two words. Swim. House.

It all started fall of my freshman year. I was a swim team groupie, and proud of it. What do swim team groupies do? They party at the Swim House, naturally. After a few parties here and there, I was so very proud of myself when I ventured to a Swim House party solo…and dressed in duct tape…and only duct tape. Luckily, I arrived to warm hugs, cheers, and a copious amount of booze.

After getting settled, well as settled as I could be in duct tape, a friend and I decided that it was only appropriate to take shots…and lots of them. At first Justin and I were responsible, you know, as responsible as we could be while taking shots and cheering on our other freshman friends in their game of Beirut. Eventually the allure of sporadic shots wore off, and we found ourselves taking shots for every holiday that we could think of…by month. January was easy; naturally we drank to New Years and quickly moved to February. February we drank to Valentine’s Day and, being the feisty freshman we were, we also drank to the important American holiday that is President’s Day. In March we obviously drank to the great St. Patrick, quickly followed by a drink to April’s Easter. Then things get blurry. I know we drank to Cinco De Mayo, only because I had photo documentation of it. Other than that, I am not sure what other holidays we chose to celebrate…

Fast forward to the end of the night. Piggy back ride home from said swimmer friends, also wearing anything but clothes, and a complimentary duct tape removal treatment, courtesy of my fellow peanut butter connoisseur, future roommate and a pair of scissors. Thanks Jack Daniels!

Lesson learned?

Nope!

One Thursday night of Spring, 2005, I forgot about aforementioned ABC night. As it had become routine, I headed to the Swim House with a couple of my closest near and dears, ready to conquer booze, the bar, and ultimately a mikeys. Things were never normal at the Swim House unless things were abnormal, and I should have known the night was going South quick…the swimmers had recruits.

Again our evening started with shots. Then things got [normally] abnormal. New house rule? All shots were to be taken off of the body of a particular swimmer. This doesn’t sound too weird and/or disgusting, until you learn that said swimmer was a hairy, belly button lint filled individual. Ew. No need to relive that memory.

At any rate, JD strikes again. Kristin is carried home…again, and spent the night in the shower sobering up. Oh, memories.

Lesson learned. To this day, if I am forced to take a shot/drink a drink/swig a sip of whiskey, I immediately wince and/or gag.

Which brings me back to my original debacle. Mint Julips? Naw, I’ll just drink vodka, thank you!

Amazing Race...pick me, pick me!

Sunday nights are “Amazing Race” nights. I have a fever and the only cure is to be an “Amazing Race” contestant.
I am actively recruiting for a partner, should you be, or know, someone who would compliment my obnoxiousness well. Since this is something that has been monopolizing my free thinking time, I’ve put together a list of things you should know, being that you are most likely my “Amazing Race” partner.

CBS should pick me [and my equally entertaining partner] because:

• I am blonde. This makes me naturally predisposed to doing and/or saying things that seem completely intelligent to me, but in reality are not. Asking if April Fools Day was February 1st? Guilty as charged.
• I am secretly smart? While I may appear, and often sound, particularly scatterbrained and ditzy, don’t be fooled. I am actually bright, especially when it comes to street smarts. My mama dint raise no foo’. I liked to think that my secret smartness would prove to be an asset for my team, being that other teams would not perceive us as threats, enabling us to sneak attack for the win in the end. (Insert evil laugh here)
• I am awkward, yet quick witted. In stressful situations, I will either be on point and focused, sarcastic and judgmental, or crying and throwing a tantrum. Any of these options prove to be entertaining; any of these options are possible. If this isn’t the perfect reality television combination, I am not sure what would be.
• I am down with getting dirty. Seriously. Throw me in the mud; make me roll around in paint; force me to deal with people throwing up. I will be fine. Do not, I repeat, do not make me look at someone wiggle a loose tooth. I will not tolerate such personal torture.

CBS should still pick me, even though:

• I get frustrated easily. Remember how I said my reaction to a stressful situation can differentiate depending on my mood? Yeah, I am sure that would be annoying to my teammate, but it would also make for great television! Plus, I mean there are ways around getting frustrated…doing a task flawlessly the first time always works!
• I can be stubborn. My inability to believe that anything I think of is incorrect may result in my partner wanting to smack me, but it will also result in quality television.
• I am afraid of heights, snakes, spiders, heights, sharks and anything else that…well, that are scary. Want me to eat anything like that? You’ve got a prayer
• I can’t run super fast. This is nothing new. I am not a fast runner, nor do I have high endurance. That being said I am a geat swimmer, biker, Spanish speaker, singer, dancer, and anything else ending in –er which doesn’t require extreme athletic ability.

Don't be fooled. All of my creative answers are under lock and key. I am saving them for when I actually need to convince someone that I am worthy of traveling the world and completing mindless, yet incredibly difficult tasks. I will be great.

TGIT

TGIT, all! This is a tough one, but I am confident in your detective skills.

Matt was here.










Good: Matt, my younger but much bigger brother, is home from Denver. Welcome home broseph!
Great: Matt enjoys spending time with the fam, and often vegs in the family room.
TGIT: Our living room rug is plush enough to serve as evidence that he does so. See footprints above.

scaredy-kad

I am scared to death of being home alone at night. Why? Because I am completely addicted to any kind of crime scene/investigative television show.

I religiously watch NCIS, Cold Case, and CSI (thanks to my genius producer of a cousin, Hi Allen!), and I am fairly confident that I have seen every episode of all Law and Order series; this includes the Original, SVU, and Criminal Intent (sick, I know). A special long weekend Law and Order Marathon? Sure! A Full Saturday dedicated Law and Order? Don’t mind if I do!

While my obsession serves as a form of entertainment when I am with other people, it quickly shifts to an origin of paranoia when I am alone. Instead of being realistic (the chances of my house being robbed while alone isn’t any higher than if someone was with me), I choose to worry about every possible thing that could go wrong. Insert acute paranoia here.

An educated solution would be for me to stop watching said crime scene/investigative television shows, which not only spark my very creative and elaborate imagination, but also no doubt serve as the route of all my safety illusions. Clearly this is not an option for me, as I would rather lay in bed paranoid until I fall asleep every night, instead of give up CSI On Demand.

My [not so] educated solution? Lock the doors, set the alarm, open interior doors to block views of lurking prowlers, set booby traps, sleep with two phones (both hard line and cell phone), hide a knife near my bed, and lay very still if I hear a peculiar noise. I wish I was kidding. Oddly enough, when I am sleeping in my apartment, I only feel it necessary to set traps, leave a light on, and lay still upon odd noises. Intuitive, I know.

This has been a developing trend over the years, but particularly in the past few months. I find that recently I have knowingly been doing things that I will regret later. Example? Well, besides my self-objection to televised guts/gore and body mutilations which will later turn to back-of-mind thoughts, I have also been eating ice cream. This may seem innocent, but it is not. I am a lack-tard.

I find this whole situation to be rather ironic. Why? As I write this, I am watching NCIS while eating ice cream. She will never learn (but props for the multi-tasking.)

Q-tip tips?

Apparently, I use Q-tips the “wrong” way.

While pediatricians and I won’t see eye to eye on the definition of its correct use, I don’t see my Q-tip usage as wrong; so much as I see it as traditional.

I use Q-tips they were intended and created to be used, damn it. I grab two. Stick one in each ear. Twist. Its quick; its [relatively] harmless; it achieves its purpose.

Frankly, this is the only way I actually use Q-tips. To say the intended use of a Q-tip is to do anything other than clean and/or itch one’s ear is simply dismissing its value. If I want to apply makeup, I use a make-up brush; if I want to brush my teeth, I use a toothbrush; if I want to scratch the unscratchable ear itch, I use a Q-tip. Am I the only one that feels this way? By deeming a Q-tip’s original purpose as wrong simply removes it from its niche in the marketplace.
Q-tips are the only product that can soothe that itch you can’t scratch; the one you are simply unable to rid of yourself, even after shoving your finger as far into your ear as possible, and attempted to itch from the inside of your mouth using your tongue. If you are without a Q-tip, you must live with the unbearable, uniquely miserable inner ear itch. There is no replacement tool for a Q-tip.

That being said, I understand that there are dumb people who do dumb things which in turn change the rules for us normal people. Like who, you make ask? People who attempted to dye their own eyelashes, thereby blinding themselves, thereby causing eyelash tinting to be federally outlawed (the blondes thank you, assholes) or people who stick Q-tips too far in their ear, thereby damaging their eardrum, thereby changing the original purpose of a Q-tip for all. Because of dummies like these, my once correct use for Q-tips is now deemed to be unhealthy/unsafe and/or wrong.

Just add my said Q-tip usage to the list of things that I do that used to be correct, but are now deemed politically incorrect.

A Day in the life: Marathon Monday

It is Patriots’ Day, and that means one thing for Bostonians: it is Marathon Monday.

8:00AM: My day starts with race excitement. I immediately regret not taking the day off…despite telling myself last year to do so. I begin to settle into work and then place all of my friends/family/loved ones/random people from my town in my marathon tracker. This year, I was only able to follow 5 of my closest near and dear’s but was spontaneously tracking all those I wanted to follow, including a dear friend, Valerie Bertinelli (HA!)

By about 10AM, I have most likely already become nostalgic. Marathon Monday was important when I was 7. Every year, our entire family would gather at my great grandmother’s Wellesley home to cheer on the runners as they reached the halfway point. There we were, all 25 of us, perched on a Wellesley stoop ready to cheer on anyone who was willing to listen. Our family’s marathon mentality? Cheer for the ones who are struggling, per Grammy’s request. Cheer for the guy who has “Yell: Go Bob!” plastered across his front? Absolutely. Yell for the man dressed as a giant church? You bet. Route on the guy who looks like he might die right then and there? Without a doubt. As a 7 year old, I felt as though it was my civic duty to cheer on those who I thought were running/struggling for our freedom. (Admittedly, I got a bit confused when someone tried to explain the correlation between Patriots’ Day and Marathon Monday. I obviously took it to be a much more direct relationship.) Runners have usually started their pilgrimage to Boston around this time.

12:00PM: I am at the race during my lunch break. The childhood memories flood back, and I soon get the urge to cheer on runners, Grammy style. I watch the runners fly by, usually at a quick pace (and already 15k into it). I realize, that even as a 23.7 moderately active Chiquita, there is no feasible way I would be able to complete a marathon. End. Of. Story.

1:00PM: Back at the office, and I begin reflecting. Why wouldn’t I be able to run a marathon? What is stopping me? I should immediately begin training so that I can cross this item off my bucket list! I think about it, and often map my large post-work run in my head when I realize that as I am pondering the notion of becoming the next Wilma Rudolph, someone has been continuously running since the 10AM start. The interest of running a marathon suddenly loses all of the [minimal] appeal it had if not ten minutes before.

5:00PM: After finishing up a day of work and slowly separating from the excitement that is the Boston Marathon, I suit up for my run, still [slightly] curious as to whether I could participate in a race of this size. I grab my Ipod and pick my most aggressive running playlist, which currently is entitled “run fatty, run.”

5:30PM: 3.5 miles into my run, I realize why I am not training for any race larger than a 5K…I am completely and totally miserable. Maybe next time, Speedy Gonzalez…

6:00PM: I am now sitting on the floor, stretching out from my rewarding, yet simultaneously wretched, run. I sit there watching the 6:00 News with WCVB anchors still standing at the top of Heartbreak Hill. Behind them? Runners, still digging deep to finish…in the dark…with no one there cheering them on. The marathon allure is now completely gone when I realize that I would be one of those people, shuffling into Newton at 7:00 at night. I like to think that my Marathon Monday experience is quite perfect from the sidelines, no running required.

7:00PM: I remind myself to take Patriots day off next year.

when will it actually rain men?

Mother Nature has a fever, and the only prescription is more [inconvenient] natural disasters.

Here starts the 2010 fight between civilization and Mother Nature. Ding!

Round 1: At first, it seemed as though Mutha Nay-tcha was just playing a prank on Washington DC. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch all of the politicians try to pass the healthcare bill while shoveling themselves out of hundreds of inches of snow? I admit, I think it is a bit ironic, but that is another topic, for another time. Admittedly, while watching Southern Belles operate shovels for the first time in the lives proved to be entertaining to me, I did not like how it left my dear friend Emily stranded, snowed in, and most importantly, unavailable on gchat. One point: Mother Nature.

Round 2: Next came Haiti, who suffered Mother Nature’s wrath far worse than DC did (although DC could arguably have suffered even more, post healthcare reform.) Haiti was knocked out cold early in the second round, and quickly at that. Experts predict that it will take Haitians decades to physically, economically and mentally recover from the January 12 quake. Hope you feel powerful in the eyes of devastation, Mother Nature. Maybe you should think about picking on someone your own size! One low blow point: Mother Nature.

Round 3: Next came the quakes in California and Chile, both suffering from tremors exceeding 7.0 on the Ritcher Scale. After minor damage in California, and brief recovery in Chile, along a delay of friend’s trip to Chile, all was well in the world again. I am impressed that we were able to handle such a large rupture without having major to significant damage. The outcome didn’t look good for civilization at the beginning of the round, but luckily we were able to pull the upset at the end. One point: civilization.

Round 4: Mother Nature didn’t like losing round three. So to prove a point, she sent precipitation…and lots of it. Here at home, spring arrived, and with it came severe rain storms hosting over 20 inches of rain between them. Mother Nature was feeling generous, and brought said moisture to us in the form of rain, as if it had been snow, we would have been shoveling out of 16.7 feet of snow (each inch of rain equates to 10 inches of snow; you do the math.) In an attempt to reclaim her power, MN proved she had control when the rain proved to be too much and flooded the entire states of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. While I do enjoy Duck Boating around town, or using waders in an attempt to walk down my street, the allure of these activities wore off quickly as I was shopvaking basement flood water into buckets. While civilization put up a good fight, Mother Nature’s wrath proved to be too strong, and eventually we retreated, sadly and saturated in flood water. One heavy hearted point: Mother Nature.

Round 5: Now, Mother Nature has decided to add a buffer to her already overwhelming lead. For good measure, she has benched her best line, and brought in the underplayed freshman players to play on the varsity team. Who would have suspected the surprise upset to come from the outcast of the team, the Icelandic Volcano (which I think is an oxymoron in and of it self, but whatever) who erupted and thereby disturbed international travel across the world. Props to an otherwise unnotable volcano, which was able to singlehandedly interrupt flight patterns and travel plans of families everywhere. What a pain in the ash! One “don’t think we didn’t notice this is all happening during April vacation week” point: Mother Nature

So, here we are, merely sitting ducks in the game that is 2010 Natural Disasters. So far, civilization has had a tough fight, and I am wondering when the judges will decide it is appropriate to use the mercy rule, thereby ending the match. I am looking forward to Rounds 6 and 7, which will no doubt include extreme heat and/or severe drought. Bring on the suntans!

TGIT

TGIT, everyone!

Sad: looking at this picture reminds me of my epic life fail, and that I am currently car-less.

Good: It was 33 degrees yesterday, but I mean, it hit 75 degrees at some point this week!

Great: This isn’t the last time my car’s thermometer will read 75 degrees…summer is approaching!
TGIT: This isn’t the last time Sass thermometer will read 75 degrees…she isn’t TOTALLED!

Mazel Tov, Cheesecake

Cheesecake has won the Pie vs Cake March Madness Bracket, and albeit, I am [along with one very fun colleague] a bit sad to see this competition come to a close.

As if the fact that the entire competition revolved around complex carbohydrates was not enough to tantalize our taste buds, the fact that the bracket existed solely due to online participation and online marketing really revved our e-marketing, social media geek engines. We were hot for the social media pool.

For those of you who haven’t been religiously following the better of the two March Madnesses, I will quickly recap highlights from Cheesecakes victorious path, but I strongly suggest you educate yourself on the bracket results using this link. Begin salivating now.

Final Four was an exciting round, where Cheesecake pulled an overwhelming upset over the favored #1 seated pie, Apple, and while on the cake side, Red Velvet successfully beat out its contender, German Chocolate. Cheesecake then continued on her path to victory after her (expected?) win over Red Velvet Cake.

After being a closet voter in the first round (flying solo with excitement over this wick-id smaht online marketing ploy), I decided to introduce the world to my new found love via twitter, my other not-so-new-found love. Since my twitter fan based is mostly comprised of colleagues and work friends, the bracket soon became our daily multi-cube gossip topic.

I quickly realized that I am not the only social media/complex carb combo enthusiast out there, and that dessert is a very passionate topic for many, and soon our daily bracket votes became full discussions. If the daily pair-ups were a controversial combination, such as Red Velvet vs Coconut cake, there was an expectation for each voter to explain their [educated] vote. My first “explanation required” vote was my pick for Blueberry over Key Lime pie. Why? Obviously for its higher nutritional value, being that there are natural blueberries nestled into every bite, and its ability to be a multi-season pie, where as Key Lime is neither of those (no offense, Key Lime.)

Through Cheesecake’s victory, I also realized that I have found my corporate niche, as there are few people in the world that would appreciate social-media-infused desserts as much as I do, and all of them are conveniently located around my cubicle.

As if I needed further evidence to support my love of cheesecake, here it is!

why rent when you can walk?

Yesterday was a hard day.

I was required to get behind the wheel of a car and drive. This may sound simple and routine, but when my last driving escapade resulted in glass breaking and plastic cracking, it was more traumatic than I would have hoped.

PTSD?

Driving someone else’s car is always a foreign experience, especially when you drive a Saab. I am always immediately uncomfortable because, well, its not my own car.

Why driving a rental car sucks:

1. the unfamiliar [and often low] seat and mirror positioning. Perhaps my car just places its seating closer to the wheel than other models, but whenever I sit into a foreign seat, I automatically feel like I am attempting to drive like a badass, seat leaning way back, low to the ground. All I need to complete my look is some hardcore rap, a flat brimmed hat, and a [tin foil] grill. Word.
2. the different [and often peculiar] smell. Nothing says home like a rental that reeks of old cigarettes, cheep upholstery cleaner, and old [pine tree shaped] air fresheners
3. the awkwardly placed [and often hard to find] windshield wiper location. I understand that I am [just slightly] neurotic, but I have a hard time understanding why car developers relocate the location of the windshield wipers with every new car made. Why is it that some choose to place the blinker in the same spot where their predecessor thoughtfully placed the wipers in the model before it? Doesn’t it seem counter productive to constantly relocate important car functions from model to model? I often find myself on a semi scavenger hunt looking for all the vehicular basics I may need. Think you found the blinkers? Surprise! It’s the windshield wipers!
4. the fact that I am unable to find the keyhole to start the car. Why is it particularly difficult for us Saab drivers to adjust? Because the key hole is in a completely different place. Normal cars have their key hole located behind the wheel; we opt for vehicles who choose to be different, placing the key hole in the center console. The very act of starting and shutting off a foreign car serves as a stagnant and constant reminder of the mistakes I have made over the past 72 hours. Can’t find the key hole? Maybe you shouldn’t have taken Sass on a joy ride into the back of the car in front of you!
5. the fact that I believe everyone who looks at me while I drive the rental is now judging me. Yes, Lady Driving Range Rover With Oversized Sunglasses, I got into an accident and am now driving this P.O.S., get over it.
6. the radio presets are not my own. Never has there been a Latino or AM station on my preset, yet with every rental I have had, somehow these delightful favorites have made their way to the spotlight. I immediately, and often times spitefully, reset my rental’s preset. Take that, Shakira!
7. Rental cars serve as a reminder to your problem. Unless you frequently rent cars while away, rental cars are only used when there is a problem with your own car. Rental car equals problems; problems equal money; money equals stress; therefore, rental car equals stress. Did you follow the direct correlation?
8. Rental cars make me doubt my ability to safely operate a vehicle. I am a safe driver; however, something has happened to my original vehicle, and I am now required to drive this P.O.S until they are able to fix whatever I did to you. Good job.
9. Rental cars remind me that I am the one at fault for being stuck in said rental car. Every time I get into a rental car I usually say something self deprecating to myself, such as: “Self, you have no one to blame but yourself.” or “Lets remember how crappy you feel at this particular moment so that we refrain from damaging the car again.” You know, so if I ever feel like getting into an accident for fun, I will remember to avoid doing so.
10. Because its not my car. This may come across as semi psychotic, but I love my car and I miss it when I don’t have it. Insert my ongoing wish to time travel.

All in all, having a rental car is never fun. That being said, I am so glad that my insurance is kind enough to not cover me for a rental, thereby not subjecting me to such horrors. I would much rather bum around and need to beg loved ones to drive me and/or let me borrow their cars. (Insert sarcasm here.)

Saving Sass: Round 2

I am worried that the vehicular DSS is going to deem me as an unfit legal guardian and take Sass away from me. Said DSS agent will most likely be in the form of an Insurance Appraiser, who holds Sass’s fate in their hands. Sigh.

Why?

This is why.

This is what happens to cars who are neglected by their owners. Poor Sassafrass. I love her so much, yet I let things like this happen to her. I am such an awful mom.

I am naturally curious, so I will share my traumatic experience with the world, in hopes of receiving sympathy cards, singing telegrams, and/or deductable donations. I am only telling it once because I have just exhausted my ability to talk about it. Even seeing that very picture of poor Sass defeats me.

Ahem.

Saturday afternoon was particularly satisfying for me, pre 2:00 PM EST. I was finishing up errands, looking forward to a fun evening with some girlfriends, and enjoying a leisurely drive home in the beautiful weather…I even pondered enjoying a Starbucks treat and cleaning out my car (yes, I was in that good of a mood.)

While traveling into the metropolis of Framingham, I drove through the mad house that was the TD Bank Wayland Grand Opening Extravaganza. Here enter people handing out pens at the red light, children/teenagers/employees running amuck and crossing the street wherever they please, loud music, balloons, and my personal favorite…men on stilts. While safely stopped at a red light, I sat there staring slash awkwardly avoiding the guy approaching my car with balloons and free pens, and thinking to myself: a) wow, I semi wish I had TD Bank and b) keep your eyes on the road, diva.

After my successful jaunt in Framingham, I began my journey home to Charlestown for a run, light dinner, and evening of dancing. Approaching the light, the very light where I had sat pondering before, I was relieved to see the circus had relatively died down. As my light turned green, I accelerated through the light and began to prepare for the straightaway to come…you know, the same thing I do every day during my daily commute to and fro work.

The driver in front of me; however, had other plans. In an attempt to appease frolicking pedestrians, who were not on a crosswalk nor had begun their cross, the driver abruptly yielded and prepped for them to cross the street.

If only I had gotten the memo sooner, as I was unable to stop quickly enough to prevent the collision that was about to occur. Insert screeching brakes, bracing arms, holding breath, colliding cars, breaking glass, cracking plastic, sizzling radiator, yelling onlookers, deafening silence, absolute terror.

The next five minutes is a blur, as I was in complete shock. Various people were talking to me, but I can’t find a face or a voice to go with it. The only things I recognize are Sass’s hood bent beyond belief, and the shooting pain down my back, into my leg, and the fact that I caused it. I somehow got my car out of the middle of the road, exchanged information, and called both the police and my parents before suffering from my complete mental breakdown after reality set in. My breakdown occurred just in time for the surprisingly nurturing and understanding Wayland Police Officer who eventually came to my aid.

To my surprise, the officer sympathized with me, as she understood that while the accident was ultimately my fault, the stimulus surrounding it wasn’t. Whether she was sharing her genuine reaction, or merely attempting to console a crying 23 year old, it worked, and I was able to calm down…until my parents pulled in. Insert second round of waterworks.

I will spare you with the painfully boring details that would follow this event, but I am sure this is not the last you will hear of this adventure with Sass. Clearly she has been unhappy with me since the original windshield wiper break.

So that’s the story.

I will never, ever switch to TD Bank, nor do I wish I was a member of it.

TGIT

TGIT.

Just on a casual walk down our road on a beautiful spring day.


















Good: my waiders did not overflow, nor did I fall in
Great: I didnt drop my multi purpose phone/camera/video camera in the water
TGIT: We are famous, and have made it onto the Channel 5 News Website! (I may or may not have been the one who submitted it...) http://ulocal.thebostonchannel.com/_Pelham-Island-Road-Wayland/photo/8369473/61862.html

lets throw the whole thing out? NO!

My name is Kristin. Not Kristen, Kristan, Kirsten, Kristyn (really?!) or most recently Kristian.

I have investigated the reasoning behind this “constant incorrectly spelling Kristin wrong” Phenomenon for about 23 years, and I have come up with the following solution: Kristin is stuck in between mainstream and unique.

Explain? Surely.

Mary, Alex and Annie are mainstream names (and beautiful names at that!) I have never seen Mary spelled any other way besides the traditional m.a.r.y. When an individual named Mary introduces herself to people, or signs an email as “Mary,” the other parties involved automatically know how to spell her name, simply because there is truly only one way to spell it, and it is a common, simple word to spell. Conclusion: People named Mary, Alex, or Annie never received cards, emails, or any other love notes with their names spelled incorrectly.

Siobhan, Esther, and Sequoia are unique names, meaning that others take note of their original and uncommon names. Usually when an individual has a unique name such as Siobhan, others take particular interest in spelling their names correctly in daily, common communication. There are two reasons behind my “people take more notice at unique names” theory: the first is that people do so to be polite, and show the Sequoia that while her name is unique, they have taken the time to learn the proper spelling behind their interesting name. The second is that they truly don’t know how to spell it correctly, so in an effort to avoid the awkward “Hi There” email introduction, they have taken the time to either copy/paste Sequoia’s name from her signature, or double check that they have spelled it correctly. Conclusion: people named Siobhan, Esther, and Sequoia never received cards, emails, or any other love notes with their names spelled incorrectly.

Us Kristins are a rare breed, but not rare enough for others to take notice. I throw Kristin in with other tweeners such as K[C]atheri[y]ne, Al[l]i[y]son, Bri[y]an, and other not too common, but variously spelled names. Our names are commonly misspelled because they are recognizable in the signature of emails, however, not unrecognizable enough for a closer, second look. Other people are confident they are able to spell our names correctly, solely because they have seen them before, but fail to think about subtle spelling variations that completely change our name. These various spellings are lost in transition during typical daily communication, and while they may be retained when reading an email, small variations are lost in transition from the signature to new salutation. Same goes for posting on various social networking websites.

Once you misspell Kristin, you might as well call me Gertrude, as it is just as different as Kristen is. Tomato, tomahto? Not in this case.

My name is Kristin.

Click here to see my post baby body!

On my twitter newsfeed today (yes, I tweet, and yes I tweeted before it was cool to do so,) I stumbled across this prize of an update on my feed: “StyleWatchMag: Gisele shows off her post-baby body in sexy new ads for Brazilian brand Colcci: http://ow.ly/1vGLC”

For a brief moment I sat in my cube and pondered whether to click on the link, which by then was boaring a whole into my retna.

Then I decided. No, no I will not click on the post baby pictures of Giselle, thank you very much. Why, you ask? Because I am not going to willingly subject myself to material that will certainly make me feel inadequate.

While I have yet to bear a child, I am positive that Giselle has a hotter body than I do sans child. Giselle has given birth, put on baby weight, ate ice cream, miraculously lost it, and still, despite it all, has an unbelievable figure. She not only has a [much] hotter bod than I do, but she also has a hotter body than you (although I think you are beautiful just as you are,) and 99.85% of the American population.

This brings me back to the original question. Why would I click on the link if I know that staring at Giselle’s toned, tanned, and slightly airbrushed body would make me feel less beautiful? Because it forces me to fight against my natural curiousity. If I do look, I walk away with all of my curiosities satisfied.

So, back to me sitting at my cubicle, staring at the tweet link. Did I click it, thereby willingly subject myself to feelings of inadequacy but satisfy my inquiring mind, or did I avoid it, keep my esteem intact, but leave the answerable questions untouched?

Today I avoided the link and felt slightly empowered. Take that Giselle! Will my curiosity get the best of me tomorrow? Who knows.

Now, I have left you with the same decision, as I have provided the Giselle link above. Are your going to succumb to the temptation and ultimately feel that pit in your stomach after seeing her six pack abs, or are you going to leave the link unclicked, and forever wonder what the bod of bods looks like, post baby.

The choice is yours. Make sure to tell me which you decided to do.

My Celebrity Rider

After reading about how little Lady GaGa requires to keep her satisfied on the road, I thought it was only appropriate to build my own celebrity rider. You know, for when I become famous and am required to suddenly travel extensively throughout the world…

While I have done extensive research on many celebrity road requirements slash judged divas on the ridiculous things they require venues to provide in order to appease them, (19 six foot tall leafy green plants, really Paul McCartney?) I have yet to figure out the length of time each rider covers. That being said, my rider will include all items I will need in order to please me and my [extensive, yet very intimate] entourage before, during, and after my shows.

Kristin’s Celebrity Rider:
(please note, celebrity rider is built as though I weight 115 pounds and am at no risk for weight gain, obviously)

The Healthy:

• Grapefruit, peeled (yes, I eat them like oranges)
• Veggie spreads
• Fruit spreads
• Large strawberries (you can forget those little, dinky ones)
• Grilled chicken and salmon
• Sliced turkey meat
• Multi-grain bread
• Cheerios with skim milk
• bananas
• lots of bottled water, but not evian...(Evian is naive spelled backwards, and everytime I drink it, I feel conned.)

The Sweet

• Cadbury mini eggs ( I don’t care if they are only made seasonally)
• Swedish fish
• Fully stocked Ben & Jerry’s bar
• Raspberry jam

The Salty

• Gold. Fish, cheddar and parmesan. (when you think you have bought enough, grab 4 more boxes…)
• Smartfood and/or Cool Ranch Doritos
• Mikeys Special with several ranches, and one bleu cheese (Available at Sergi’s Pizza, Canton, NY, 315-386-4581)
• Extra Chunky Peanut Butter
• Pretzels, not the thin rods and/or oyster crackers (only from the blue box)
• A quesadilla bar

The Bevys

• Crystal light, lemonade
• Polar seltzers and diet bevys
• Fresca
• Absolut Boston (good luck with that one…it’s a limited edition item, sigh)
• Kettle One Vod
• Tanqueray gin

The Entertainment

• An elliptical somewhere on the premises
• A rad 80’s dance mix, and speakers to play it on
• The “ya, you’re welcome” lady from the pub
• Required after show theme party

Ready, Set, Buy!

RIP, Fluffy

Today,I killed a squirrel.

Yes, I am a Christian and I killed a squirrel on Good Friday.

As if God didn't have enough reasons to reject me from Heaven, this certainly does not help my case. The conversation at the gates of Heaven will be sure to challenge my litigation skills.

More to come, as I am too traumatized to discuss it further.

RIP, dear Eschornschen (ooh, another opportunity to use my new German phrase.)

there is nothing funny about LOL

Today is my in depth analysis as to why I dislike the term “LOL.” Keep in mind the difficulty I had writing this, as I needed to write the word LOL repetitively. Sympathy cards and donations accepted.

We all know that I am a full supporter of abbreviating, affectionately known as “abbreving,” and I admit, back in my preliminary online interactions, I was an active LOLer, and perhaps even an occasional BRBer, TTYLer, and IDKer. With my online interactivity growing and maturing, I find my use of each has faded nominally. I am not ten anymore; therefore, I choose to avoid writing as one.

Below are some of the reasons why I refuse to use the term LOL, and why you should refrain from doing so if you are an avid LOLer:

LOL makes you a liar. Calling my bluff? Think about it. For all the LOLers out there, how often are you actually “laughing out loud” when typing the three letter abrev/swear? I bet it is a rare occasion that your physical LOLs align with your typed LOLs. While sometimes you may have smiled, or even let out a small silent laugh (the kind where you stimulate your stomach muscles and smile, but don’t make a noise), a vast majority of the time you write LOL, you are most likely not smiling at all. If you cannot hear yourself laughing, then the use of LOL is not only inappropriate, but also a lie. Similarly, if you find yourself using the term ROTFLMAO, you are also lying. No person who is actually rolling on the floor, laughing their ass off, would be able to effectively communicate that they are doing so without getting off the floor first.

LOL is a conversation killer because LOL often means: “I have nothing else to say.” Its true. LOL perpetuates dying conversations everywhere by providing a shallow response to which there is no answer. In an attempt to salvage an ending conversation, a LOL user thoughtlessly throws the LOL card to place the next response, and the fate of the conversation, on the second party. The result? The conversation usually dies. While the LOLer’s attempt at continuing the conversation may have been meant in a proactive way, what can the second party say in response to such a thoughtless abbrev? Nothing. The LOLer has admitted that they have nothing of value to add to the conversation, thereby ending it with one “word.”

LOL provides false hope. LOL can mean: “You just said something you thought would make me laugh, but it didn’t. I won’t abstain from responding, as I want to give you the satisfaction of your [lame] pun resonating with me; however, I wont give you the satisfaction of a HAHA, because it really wasn’t funny.” This use of LOL is also a conversation ender.

LOL makes people cowardly. The use of LOL can often stop important conversations or topics from being seriously talked about. Often times people say things of significance then follow it with the LOL to add a lighthearted component to an otherwise tense conversation. This is one of the most frustrating ways to use LOL: “Its not a big deal, but I thought you were super obnoxious when you were dancing naked at the party on Friday. LOL!” Here, LOL serves much like the term JUST KIDDING, where the person has a serious thought to share, but doesn’t want to suffer the repercussions of sharing it. Adding the LOL at the end serves as a disclaimer to whatever they need to get off their chest. Ineffective use of time; say what you need to say, but get to the point.

Lastly, LOL CAN MAKE IT SEEM LIKE YOU ARE YELLING WITH LAUGHTER. If you are one of those few people who actually use LOL while LOLing, your use of LOL can be overbearing. When someone responds to something I said with LOLOLOL, I usually believe that they genuinely find me humorous; however, I will never know, as I haven’t spoken to them since they used that very term. Luckily, LOLOL rarely occurs in my personal online encounters, but rather is just a disassociated comment I stumble across while facebook stalking. Lets keep it that way.

While I admit that I am still a loyal OMGer (gasp!) and that at times I will use BRB when rushed away from the computer, I will never use LOL in a conversation…and neither should you.

I admit, I am still a full fledged OMGer. I know, I lower my head in sheer embarresment

TGIT

TGIT.

This is your house.










This is your house on drugs.











Okay, but in actuality, this is when Bob decides to burn brush.

Good: he burned it to completion.
Great: no Fire Department was called, nor was any person or animal hurt in this year’s burning.
TGIT: the following conversation.
Mom (nervously): “Bob, its really smoky out there”
Dad (matter of fact-ly): “That’s what happens when you burn things…”