Friday, May 28, 2010

The Smoking Gun (notice the capitals, MEW)



Meet the Sam*, the Indonesian 2-year-old who is addicted to cigarettes.

Our chubby friend here smokes up to 40 cigarettes a day, and throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his fix. The government has offered to buy his parents a car if they are able to end his smoking habit.

Mind you, I have spent minutes staring at this clip, looking for evidence that it has been altered and/or edited in any way. I cannot find any clues that would prove that this clip is anything but authentic.

My obvious question? Isn’t nicotine supposed to serve as an appetite suppressant? It is clearly not working in this situation.

*original names have been changed in order to protect the innocent, well guilty in this case.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

TGIT

TGIT

Good: In Charlestown, we are polite. Hence the “Kindly.”
Great: In Charlestown, we are pet friendly.
TGIT: In Charlestown, we have good intentions, but get confused easily. Where’s the grass? FAIL.

I have a headache.

This blog brought to you by: Mean Girls.

Karen: Well, I'm kinda psychic. I have a fifth sense.
Cady: What do you mean?
Karen: It's like I have ESPN or something. My breasts can always tell when it's going to rain.
Cady: Really? That's amazing.
Karen: Well, they can tell when it's raining.

Okay I am no Karen, but really I am meteorologically psychic. I can tell when it is going to rain/snow/sleet/do anything else from the sky. Call it a gift, call it pure talent, but I will never unknowingly get caught in a rainstorm sans an umbrella.

How? I get pressure headaches, yes, I am a human barometer. What does that mean? It means every time there is an approaching shift in atmospheric pressure, I have a painful and incurable headache that only goes away once the front has cleared. Lucky me.

This brings me to an important question, which was particularly relevant for me last night. Why is it that thunderstorms and/or major pressure changes only move through at the end of the day? Why is it that the crack of thunder and the streaks of lighting only occur sometime after 4:00 EST?

Sometimes I think that its because Mutha Nay-tcha loves to watch me attempt to function with a pounding headache for the entirety of my day. Joke is on you, Kristin, I like to watch you suffer. Then I gots ta thinking: “Self, the world is not out to get you, there must be a scientific reason as to why fronts only move in during the pm hours.”

So, I researched. (See, I do enjoy continuing my education.)

Ahem.

Thunderstorms, in a [ridiculously oversimplified] nutshell, result from the rapid rising and cooling of warm air from the earth’s surface. As it rises, the air forms clouds, which in turn, condenses into moisture, which in turn, begins to fall. Said moisture creates heat, which then reduces the air’s density, causing it to rise. Here enter unstable atmospheric pressure, which is the perfect breeding ground for, you guessed it, thunderstorms. Once the air can rise no further, it is forced to spread out, and the moisture molecules fuse together and begin to freeze due to the cool temperature. Here enter hail. As the water falls, it continues to hit the strong updraft created by the unstable pressure, which then sends it back up into the cloud. Once the molecule is big enough to break through the updraft, it then falls to the earths surface. Comprende?

Now, why is it that this process only happens in the afternoon? Well my young pupils, now that we know why thunderstorms occur, the answer is relatively simple. Storms occur in the afternoon because the earth’s surface needs hours to create the heat to cause the air to rise into the atmosphere. Early in the day, the earth’s surface temperature is cool, meaning there is no warm air rising to begin the process. Once the sun has heated the earth’s surface, the atmosphere is conducive to forming thunderstorms.

Look! You learned something new, and now you know why I will forever have headaches in the hours building up to the thundershower, which will most likely never come before 4:00 EST, scientifically speaking of course.

This is how I know so much useless information, because I can’t just let universal phenomena remain just that. I always need an explanation. Up next? Explaining why cocktails are called cocktails.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

You are welcome in advance

Yes, yes, we all love facebook and twitter, but what do you do when you have refreshed your newsfeed several times, and there is nothing good to tickle your fancy?

This.

Websites that used to be entertaining, but aren’t anymore

  • http://www.fmylife.com/ or, more affectionately known as FML. I used to love reading FML, that is until every pre-teen in America stumbled upon it and decided to submit situations that are not funny. Example? “Today, I decided to lay out and tan. I fell asleep and got sun burned and bitten numerous times by mosquitoes. If I scratch my itch, the burn hurts terribly. If I don't scratch it, it itches terribly. FML” [insert chirping crickets here.] You are not funny, and this situation most likely didn’t happen. It is because if nimrods like you, I no longer read fmylife.com. Thanks, jerk.
  • http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/ TFLN use to be a top tier website for me, that is until I started feeling like a poser when logging on. I secretly love TFLN, but am scared to admit it because then I will be thrown in with the masses.

Websites that are funny right now, but won’t be when people ruin them

  • http://www.ruminations.com/ In a nutshell, this is an archive of many 20-something thought processes. Example? “MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. Pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.” No smarter words have ever been spoken.
  • http://www.thisiswhyyourefat.com/ Yes, as much as I like looking at some of the disgusting [or delicious] looking concoctions that make America fat, I can only look at it for so long before I start to feel really bad about myself.
  • http://www.mylifeisaverage.com/ Just like FML, yet tastefully [and humorously] mocking the original.

Websites that will never get old, no matter who over uses them

I have linked each site above. Consider this your one stop shop to all things procrastination.

You are very welcome.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

risky biz-naz

“Its not the destination, it’s the journey.”

Riiiiight. Lets for a second forget about the fact that we exist in a goal-achieving, monetary driven, “how to get rich quick” culture and focus on how this quote relates to one of the most important things in a 20-something female’s life: fashion.

Being trendy is exhausting.

I want being trendy to be the destination, you know, once I go trendy, I never go back kind of thing, but the reality is that being trendy is a constantly changing, wallet emptying, credit card maxing, “why don’t I look good in a jean jacket” journey. Frustrating.

I want to be trendy all the time, effortlessly. I want to be able to take risks and look like I live on the cutting edge, rather than on edge of the fashion cliff.

So, what have I been doing to remain as trendy/mod/20-something as I can? I have been experimenting with all sorts of small, mini, baby risks. Risk-a-citas, if you will.

Example?



Hi, I am grey nail polish.

I stood in front of the O.P.I display for an unhealthy amount of time while self-debating on whether I should purchase such a risky color. Three coats of “Moon Over Mumbai” later, and voila! Instant trendy trenderson.

I have to say, that I feel, if only a bit, BA with this small dab of metallic perched upon my nails, and we are approaching 48 hours of me not peeling of the polish. I think she’s a keeper.

Also, per the picture above, you will notice another risk-a-cita I took today. I am wearing purple and orange together. I know what you are thinking, and yes, it was very risky. I will try to tone down my intense fashion risks, but I can’t make any promises, as its all about my journey.

due to popular demand,

My weekend…in randoms

I am able to entertain myself [and others] by creating elaborate, soap opera-esque, story lines based on the randos who surround me. Us girls lost 2 hours of our lives to analyzing and dissecting the group dynamics of the drunk teenagers in front of us at Earthfest. Special shout out to “Ashley” and “Dan,” our crowd favorite not-trying-too-hard-to-be-cute-but-is-soooo-cute couple.

I am currently not getting along with random pot holes at the esplanade

I am the only person in America who dislikes leather couches. I dislike having to peel myself off of a piece of furniture, thanks.

Reason for my phone battery draining at lightning speed? Why because I somehow audio recorded 3 days of my life, of course!

I ingested enough calcium this weekend to fortify a small cow

I dislike the word “mulch” because it sounds and is spelled the way it smells. Mulch.

Salad dressing that comes from a spritzer makes me happy

Friday, May 21, 2010

Happy Friday!



I am not sure why, but I think this is a great way to end the week.

Kudos, Target and Huggies.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

tgit

TGIT!
Man vs. Wild- Corporate EditionGood: We have ample parking at my office, we also have wildlife running amuck.
Great: Our office promotes friendly competition.
TGIT: This is what it looks like when you combine the two. I am pretty sure the turkey won.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

For once, I am smarter than technology...I think

Today I googled “Share Booth,” (yes, share booth) and per usual, as I typed S-H-A, Google populated search phrases below the text bar.

Google thinks I want to learn about Shaws, Shaun White, Shakira, Shark Tank, Shake Weight, and/or Shakespeare when I type a search beginning with S-H-A.

Interesting.

Um, where do these “hot phrases” come from? Are these the most common Google phrases that begin with the letters S-H-A? Is it related searches based on my previous searches or cache? Is there a small Google gnome and/or overpaid executive somewhere that populates random collection of words beginning with S-H-A? How do you do it, Google, how do you do it….

First of all, I doubt the most popular SHA search is Shaws, and I don’t believe that more people google the Shake Weight over other only-buy-on-tv-products beginning with S-H-A, such as the Shamwow. Duh. Secondly, I know for a fact that no one has googled Shakira since 2001. So, I guess this eliminates my theory that these are the most popular SHA searches.

I might be slightly persuaded that the suggestions are related to my recent searches/cache. Guilty as charged on the googling of the Shake Weight and Shaun White, but I know I have never googled Shakespeare and/or Shakira. Perhaps this is Google’s way of promoting their own up-sell: “if you like this search, then you might be interested in these other searches.” If so, they have failed, as I dislike almost all of the searches displayed in the suggestions, with the obvious exception being the Shake Weight.

What do I do to solve this enigma? Why, google it of course! I decide to conduct another [popular] search to investigate my theory further…

Searches beginning with “How to” sparks all sorts of interesting suggestions. Am I looking to search how to tie a tie, how to kiss, how to lose weight fast, how to get pregnant, how to solve a Rubix Cube, how to get a girl to like me, how to make it in America, how to train your dragon? Um, no, but thanks for trying, Google.

If those are the most popular “how to” searches, America is in a lot of trouble. Again, the popularity theory is out the window.

It also throws out the “recent searches” option, as I am more likely to google how to not get pregnant, rather than how to, and we all know that I’ve made it in America and my dragon has been trained for years now, even without Google’s help. Further, how would google know what I was searching if I had only written “how to…” the opportunities are endless; what made them decided on these eight random suggestions.

I guess that leaves the gnome theory…

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Insert Grace's "Told You So" dance here

Its time for another episode of “I told you so.”

Let us rewind to January, when the world was being bombarded by high pitched, pantless chipmunks that is the Squeekquel trailor.

Here enter the “All the Single Ladies” singing chipmunks.



My initial reaction? Female chipmunks, proactively dancing to a large audience, including an older [extremely creepy] man snapping photos of them, all while wearing a barely there skirt, sans underwear and/or pants. If this isn’t a great example to set for 10 year old girls, I don’t know what would be (I mean, besides Miley Cyrus using a stripper pole at the Teen Choice Awards…)

Um, hello?! Why is the world so perplexed about how sexually advanced America’s children are when we plant images and dance moves like this directly into movies targeted to them.

My friends made fun of my [overly motherly, slightly neurotic, anxiety filled, oversensitive] interpretation of the preview, but I stood my ground. I was surprised that the always accusational, overly aggressive media hadn’t already blamed someone for objecting the children of America to this. The Chippettes were going to create a cultural controversy, even if I was the only one who saw it coming.

Fast forward to present day.

Saw this little ditty on the news the other night with its preview as “‘Single Ladies:’ Too Sexy, Too Early?”



Unlike the chipmunks, this video has sparked controversy all over America. These dancers aren’t being recognized for their unbelievable natural talent, but rather their lack of clothing, inappropriate and oversexual dance moves and their age.

Sound familiar? Is this not what I predicted would happen three months ago when the chipmunks were displayed doing the same thing?

I am a dancer, and I am an advocate for dancers everywhere. I am more captivated by their unbelievable unison and technique than I am by their “inappropriate” dance moves. I don’t think they have done anything wrong, but I just can’t understand why no one else saw this coming….

The final catch? Once it became apparent that this dance number required an explanation, the choreographer explained that the dancers were merely trying to emulate the dancing they saw in the Squeekquel.

I told you so.

Monday, May 17, 2010

One minute remaining in the period...

Advanced apologies for the overly nostalgic post.

In honor of the second anniversary of my collegiate graduation (eek!), I would like to make a list of things that I miss about my alma mater.

  1. Mikey’s Special. For all you non’s, a Mikey’s “Spesh” is a reverse pizza. Sauce on top, cheese on bottom, pure happiness in the middle. Eating a Mikey’s is the closest experience one can have to heaven, without dying first.
  2. The Tick Tock Inn – Front bar. No Bostonian bar has yet to compare to this old rundown, leaking, favorite. You will always have my heart, ticker.
  3. 19 Judson’s kiddy pool, cold dorm, kitchen and back deck
  4. The Tick Tock – Back Bar. So hot, the walls sweat.
  5. Chicken Salad: both a la Partridge and a la Newell
  6. Having a student ID that doubles as a meal card…(why can’t Driver’s Licenses do that.)
  7. the ability to wear a sweatshirt, spandex and Uggs everwhere….and having it be socially acceptable
  8. Potsdam NY, and the culinary delicacies that reside there.
  9. being overly drunk in a place where its not just normal, but often encouraged!
  10. double lime rickey with gin…or vodka!
  11. sober drivers. These exist in Boston; they are called cabs, and they come with an expensive bill and a sketchy driver (usually muttering to himself in some unrecognizable language)
  12. Bid Day (insert cued “aw” whenever you feel appropriate.)
  13. Being surrounded by people who appreciate good music such as Bette Davis Eyes, Wagonwheel, Shake It, and Bleeding Love.
  14. Dana. Brunch.
  15. Being able to go to the grocery store in full theme party attire, only to find yourself feeling overdressed. (RIP P&C.)
  16. having my nearest and dearests all within walkable distance of each other including my witty/gin loving, redhead counterpart (you should probably read her blog too, http://betteroffred.wordpress.com/), da boyz (yes, all of them collectively), my fellow Sudburian and pool enthusiast, my big/ psychologist, my tri-delt sistahhhs, the loyal and laughing shorty, the [often hated] S6, my future Charlestown roommate, and “Barb, shut the eff up.”

…and Clarkson still sucks!

Friday, May 14, 2010

great expectations

Lets talk about expectations.

My mother always tells me that I have unrealistic expectations.

How so? Examples of my constant inability to live up to my own [mental] expectations present themselves in all aspects of my life.

Exhibit A - My bedroom decor:

What I want it to look like.



What it actually looks like.


Its times like this where I need to remind myself that my bedroom wont magically transform into an oasis a la Pottery Barn, just because I purchased three of their white shelves.


Exhibit B - My baking:

What I want it to look like in my head.


What it actually looks like.


Maybe I should leave the decorative cakes to Martha Stewart, or Carvel.


The newest victim to join my group of unrealistic expectations is my wardrobe.

Meet the romper. The outfit that is theoretically perfect for the graduation party/ Grandmother 80th birthday bash marathon I have on Sunday. Throw on a theoretical pair of gladiator sandals, maybe some cute theoretical bangles, along with a dark theoretical tan, and, voila, you have yourself a theoretical cute/super trendy/ ultra-wearable outfit. Right?

Here’s to another attempt at yet another unrealistic vision in my head. There will be no pictures to follow if, no, when I fail at recreating this look.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

TGIT

TGIT!



Good: We. have. a. pool.
Great: They are prepping it for summah!
TGIT: We will be sipping vodka sodas poolside in two weeks. Maybe you can join if you are really nice! I'm talking to you, Charlestown boys.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Exh-awww-sted

Well my medical tests are back, and there is actually nothing [medically] wrong with me.

This is good, right? Wrong.

This only further proves that there is nothing medically relevant that can explain why I am constantly exhausted, thus proving I am indeed a mental nutcase, as if we needed more proof.

Regardless, my [slightly neurotic, slightly hypochondriac] self has re-diagnosed my problem.

I am suffering from allergies. Yes, while all this time I thought it was my thyroid acting up, it is actually little angry particles of pollen, determined to make me forever tired.

This is my final conclusion, until it is otherwise disproved.

Its so reassuring that it takes hours of poking, prodding, fainting, and doctor anxiety to find out there is nothing wrong with me. Its like the Swine test, all over again. Lets do this again in four months!

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

My day in randoms...

  • no matter what context “the situation” is used in, I always route back to Jersey Shore. Shaaatttts
  • Chuck Norris Jokes met my Twitter newsfeed, and they weren’t funny. Example: Chuck Norris doesn't have an iPhone App. The App Store built itself around him. This is why comedy and technology should not mix.
  • I like the smell of gasoline; this probably explains everything.
  • I still cannot believe that the two most popular American baby names are Jacob and Isabella. Yes, I still refuse to read the book(s).
  • Why do I look like a 5 year old, dance recital ready, when I try to wear bright red lipstick, but the diva prancing around Whole Foods looks like the next Twiggy. Ugh!
  • Someday I will be able to drive normally again, sans white knuckles.
  • Tailgating me will only cause me to go slower. Sass and I are recovering from a major car accident, asshole!
  • I voted today, and visited our 45357 year old town hall. Still smells like Republican Victory to me! (Go, Scott, Go!)
  • I like nude nail polish, and I don't care if the nalasians (nail lady asians) tell me that I like "Old women colors"
  • I have been mentally preparing a list of things my SLU friends need to do while they relive our glory days at graduation

Monday, May 10, 2010

"I just cant get you outta my head"- Kylie Minogue

I am a walking jukebox. There are always pop/rock/country/80’s divas in my head and they won’t leave. Today I learned that it is apparently abnormal to constantly have a song stuck in my head. I must say, I am a bit shocked, and I am not sure if I buy into it quite yet.

Regardless, much like my thyroid condition, I am stuck with “constantsonginheaditis” for the rest of my life. I have accepted it and [mostly] learned to live with it; however, there are certain situations when I cannot handle having this [dis]ability.

When its not appropriate to have a song stuck in your head:

  1. At work. Much to my dismay, I have become the girl who sings to herself. In an attempt to salvage whatever dignity I may have (you can’t come back from that), I began telling everyone what song was stuck in my head, in hopes to remove it. Not only does this removal option not work, but you still look like a weirdo. Further, I also laugh to myself, which doesn’t help my cause.
  2. At family functions in public places. Example: yesterday, at our Mother’s Day dinner, at the fine establishment that is Lotus Blossum, I apparently decided to otherwise entertain myself while the other nine people around the table were participating in conversation. How? I decided to sing the hymn “Up From the Grave He Arose,” and didn’t realize I was doing so until I caught a confused, but slightly annoyed look from my mother. I am 23.7 years old, wouldn’t you think I would be able to control these things? Evidently not 100% of the time.
  3. While trying to fall asleep. For all you non-brain-singers, it is impossible to relax when you have Beyonce on the brain. I need to consciously switch my mental pre-set from Kiss108 to Magic106.7. Every. Night. I go from rave to slow dance instantaneously. Sometimes I catch my subconscious switching it back to the dance party, led by Chumbawumba, only to then need to mentally change it back. Essentially, I play a game of clicker commando with myself every night, prior to falling asleep.
  4. Nannying. College summers were years of song censoring, as there were several times where I caught myself humming “Crazy Bitch” whilst at the pool with the kiddos. Luckily, my subconscious swear patrol caught my internal song, thus reducing it to a hum, and not full-on-song.
  5. When traveling. Don’t be the girl that mouths songs to herself while standing in the airport security line, Kristin…that most likely raises red, terrorist flags.

Oh, what's playing in my head right now, you ask? I am jamming to Shania Twain's "Man, I Feel Like A Woman."

Thursday, May 6, 2010

TGIT

TGIT!

Good: This is Annie’s Boston Bucket List. Looks like we’re going to have a lot of fun before Annie moves back to the other [less fun, least cool] coast.

Great: lots of said events involve drinking!

TGIT: #24. August is going to be a hard month.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

When life gives your burbans...

...parallel park them.

Exhibit A: The suburban I parallel parked on the first try. Yes, I am just as shocked as you are.


Forget about how Cynthia, my wonderful, and fellow “slightly Type A” friend, trusted me enough to put behind the wheel of her car, even after hearing about and seeing Sass, and for a moment focus on the fact that I successfully parked this beast on.the.first.try.

This may not seem like anything extraordinary, but coming from a girl who purposely scheduled her driver's test at a location that didn't require parallel parking, this is quite an achievement

Please pause for a brief moment, as I bask in my parallel parking Goddess glory.

...and no, this is not my TGIT; I just couldn't help but share.

Fight or Faint

It all started yesterday in that God awful chair. You know, the stiff ER chair that they stick you in right before they stick you, literally. There I was, nervously laughing and chatting away, waiting for the nurse to stick me with a needle and take 435356 vials of my blood.

Problem? I am a fainter, and have been since my very first blood test (yes, I have had my fair share.) Being the habitual fainter that I am, I have gone through all of the necessary stages to accepting my illness.

Shock came with my first fainting spell, right after the first time I had blood taken. I had never fainted before, and did what any young kid would do after waking up on the floor, having no idea how I got there. I cried. Then, soon after my rendezvous with the floor, I hit stage two: guilt. I felt badly that I had inconvenienced the poke-ologist and fallen to the floor on her watch. How inconsiderate of me.

My teenage years came, as did lots of tests and lots of ‘tude. This is where denial came into play. I decided, being the independent “adult” that I was, that I was not a fainter, but rather that I was a victim to my own mental disposition. Fainting was not a physical reaction, but rather a mental one. I decided that I would not tell physicians that I was a fainter, as if I could convince myself that I wasn’t, I ultimately wouldn’t faint. Wrong. Not explaining that you are a fainter doesn’t mean that you wont faint, it just means that when you do faint, it will be more dramatic and painful. Anger set in immediately after denial wore off, as now there was no escaping it: I was a fainter. Lesson learned.

The embarrassment phase kicked in pre- through post surgery circa 2004, when I needed to tell every poke-ologist, phlebotomist, doctor, specialist, and nurse I encountered that I was a fainter. Yes, I was over the age of ten, and I was required to sit in the “fainting chair.” The embarrassment factor was further heightened when my “regular” clinics would open my e-file, and then look at me with the same old concerned/scared/alarmed/pitying/”Aw, you’re a fainter” look. Apparently the giant, flashing “fainter” alert must be the same from hospital to hospital.

I hit acceptance a few years ago, when a phlebotomist, named Pamela, questioned my fainting abilities. When I told her about my tendencies, instead of embracing me and making me comfortable, she decided to use the tough love approach. Girlfriend made me sit in a normal chair, drew my blood, and then made me look at the vials she had just drawn from me, just to prove it was mental, and nothing more. I came to on the floor, entangled in the highchair she had put me in. I glared at her, stood up, and muttered: “I told you I was a fainter,” and walked away. Don’t worry, being the well spoken, self defending diva I was, I made sure to tell the registration desk that Pamela was an aweful poke-ologist, thank you very much.
I know I am a fainter; I know I can’t fight it. If you are taking blood from me, you will also be dealing with my fainting in some way, shape or form. Prepare yourself now.

Back in the doctor’s office, in my nervous stupor, I somehow forget to tell the [very chatty and distracting] nurse that I am a chronic fainter…for the first time in my life. Woops! Clearly our deep and meaningful conversation on where I lived and what I did for a living must have completely distracted me from the obvious impending doom.

After getting my blood drawn, the sensations came: blurry/pixally vision, sensitivity to light, loss of hearing, cold sweat, dry mouth. I was going to faint. In an attempt to save myself from immediately embarrassing myself at my new doctor’s office, I attempted to fight it off. While my vision was still off, I was still mid-cold sweat, and I had no business walking on my own, I calmly made my way to registration, where I somehow made my next appointment (June 28, remind me when I forget). Here comes the next wave, which I thought I fought off well.
I came to, on the floor, with 6 nurses hovering over me, and an elderly woman awkwardly staring at me open mouthed, I said the only thing that came to mind: “Did I mention I’m a fainter?”

Yet again, I can’t pass up an opportunity to embarrass myself in a group setting.