Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Blonde with Sub-Par Driving Record On Board

Dear driver with the "Baby On Board" sticker,

Is it really necessary to advertise that you actually have a child in your vehicle? I find it difficult to grasp the reasoning behind your announcement, besides being a complete and total jerk.

People have bumper stickers for many reasons:
  1. to be humorous (example: the "what if the hokey pokey is what its all about?" sticker)
  2. to prove a point (example: the "if you can read this, get off my ass!" sticker)
  3. to prove a political point (example: the "don't blame me, I voted for McCain" sticker)
  4. to be proud (example: the "I love my student of the month at ABC School" sticker)
  5. to show school pride (example: the "Harvard/Dartmouth/St. Lawrence/Other uber competitive school" sticker)
Which of the following reasons pushed you to purchase said BOB sticker?

The answer? Um, none of them. You bought it because you want to make sure drivers in close proximity don't hit your car, seeing that you have a child in the back seat.

This just in: No one wants to hit you, your car, or your baby in the first place. Car accidents are called accidents because they aren't done on purpose. No one wants to cause a car accident on purpose, that is just silly! Your posting a measly sticker onto the back of your station wagon isn't going to stop my car from careening into you if I hit a patch of ice, or slam on my brakes for me if I don't see you brake for that j-walking pedestrian approaching (sorry, still not over my car accident one year later.) In other words, your sticker is completely pointless, if not counter productive.

Counterproductive?! Yes, counterproductive. Now, instead of focusing on safely driving, thereby not hitting you and your car, I am distracted by your silly bumper sticker and am now having an angry inner rant while behind the wheel, that goes something like this:
"Well, I really was planning on slamming into the back of your car, causing me thousands of dollars, hours of stress, a few bruises, and maybe even a court date, but since you seem to have a child on board, I will refrain from hitting you. Thank you for the subtle reminder. Maybe I should plaster stickers that say things like 'Blonde who can't afford to loose anymore brain cells from the impact of your car hitting hers on board' or 'poor girl with no money for a rental car if you hit her on board' on the back of my car so that other people know that hitting me would be inconvenient for me. While were on that subject, why don't people over 80 have stickers that say "Blue Hair Special On Board" just so we can all steer clear of them?! At the end of the day, everyone should just be driving as carefully as possible all the time, no matter who it is they are following. Your sticker makes you look stupid, and makes me feel like I am a bad driver, which I am not." [end self rant]

See what I mean? Counterproductive. Especially if you expect me to devote 100% of my attention to me not hitting your baby, I mean your car with the baby on board. Full attention is not happening if I am controlling my blood from boiling. Dur.


This also just in: Should you have a "Baby On Board" sticker, it is in your best interest to promote good driving, rather than driving like a fifteen year old. I am talking to you, crazy minivan driver who hasn't learned to make complete left-hand turns without potentially nailing the car [possibly a lil' black Saab named Sass] stopped at the light.

Something else just in: Stop thinking that you are such an amazing driver that you can start telling people how to drive.

Love, Kristin (the girl you almost just nailed when you didn't check your blindspot.)


Okay, lunch time rant over.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

"I am Scared Easily" - Alfred Hitchcock

I have many completely irrational fears stemming from my childhood normal twenty-something fears, some with known origins, others not.

I usually try to hide my neuroses from my friends, mostly because I am scared that they will no longer associate with me if they were to know all of them. The close friends know all of my fears, mostly because they have had the great [dis]pleasure of being with me during a time when I launch into a completely unprovoked panic attack. Luckily, they have chosen to stick around, and in doing so, have earned the right to mock/laugh at/share my fears whenever they feel appropriate.

(Most of) my fears, in order of intensity, besides my fear of being home alone at night...

My fear of shark attacks. One may directly correlate my fear of sharks with my attempt at learning to surf. Instead of the more popular “look, surfing is fun!” teaching method, my surf tutors went with the less acceptable “for every wave you miss, there is a giant Great White Shark waiting to eat you behind it” route. Granted, my surf tutors were actually no tutors at all, but rather the neighborhood kids, but this combined with a dead shark that washed up on our beach that same summer was a strong enough case for me to believe that it wasn’t if I was to be attacked by a shark, but rather when. I think my having to pass a rip current test before being allowed to swim alone in the ocean also aided to my fear of being kidnapped by the sea. My parents made sure to teach us that the ocean was much more powerful than we were. Me being the anxious kid I am was, I obviously took that to the extreme.

My fear of driving over bridges over water. This fear comes from a youth group mission trip down south where, when en route, I saw my life flash before my eyes while our bus appeared to be hanging over a New York bridge, with our next stop being in the Hudson River. Also, American infrastructure is a mess. Bridges are collapsing everywhere, and you better believe that I won’t be on one when it decides to fall. If I am, I will already be holding my breath in preparation for a swim a la survival. Speaking of holding my breath as a way of preventing my fears from coming true, I also use this tactic in…

My fear of flying, specifically take off and landing. Did you know that approximately 80% of all aircraft accidents occur shortly before or during take-off and landing? Well, now you do, and you also now know why I insist in reciting the Lord’s Prayer repetitively throughout take off and landing while also holding my breath. I do so until we are either safely in the air, or on the ground. I figure that if my flights have been incident free for twenty something years, I must be doing something right. You are welcome, fellow passengers.

My fear of burglars attacking me when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I attribute this fear to my peeing with the bathroom door open to this day as a young child, only to have to slam it shut when someone began walking up from the basement. This then carried over to my mid-night bathroom trips, where I would still pee with the door open, only now the people that I was scared about seeing me pee magically change into felons who want to kill me, mid-pee. I know, I had quite the imagination as a child.

My fear of boa constructors living under the mattress of my bed, and killing me in my sleep. Yes, this is an actual fear, and before I completely lose your readership to my insanity, allow me to explain. When I was a kid, my cousin’s pet boa constructor went missing. Let’s completely skip over the fact that someone related to me would have a boa constructor as a pet. Snakes are not pets, they are snakes. You cannot pet them, or snuggle with them, or teach them tricks. They can kill you. That is not trait I want any pet of mine to have. I attributed their odd pet to the fact that they lived in California. Pause, I have digressed. Anywho, the snake went missing and stayed missing for weeks. When my cousin went to the pet store to ask about the dangers in losing a boa constructor, Pet Store Guy told them that the snake would surface once it was hungry. Great, just how I like my deadly pets: hungry and on the prowl for prey. At any rate, the snake did eventually surface…my cousin found it when it was slithering up his bed in the middle of the night. Turns out, the space between a mattress and a boxspring is a pretty comfortable place for a gigantic snake to hibernate between feedings. At this time, my favorite book was Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends." His poem "Boa Constructor" only added to my complete and utter fear of going to bed. You would have thought that I would have avoided all books even eluding to any sort of snake, nevermind an entire poem dedicated to a person being eaten by a boa constructor. At any rate, in order for me to even consider getting into bed, there had to be an intense boa constructor search in/on/under/surrounding my bed. I also needed to have Smudge [my cat-dog, may he rest in peace] with me as I fell asleep, so if I surprise-attacked by a boa constructor, Smudge would protect me.


Wednesday, June 22, 2011

I Am No Delecate Miss Muffit

This just in.

I hate spiders.

I am sure this comes as no surprise because, well, who actually likes spiders?

Good point. Moving on.

This past week I have had two unwelcomed run-ins with my furry, eight legged friends and I didn’t handle either encounter nearly as elegantly as a one Miss Muffit did. In fact, I’d describe my reaction somewhere between ohmygodisthatpoisonousitstryingtokillme and killitkillitkillit.

My first encounter came while alone at my apartment, where no one could hear me scream.

I was walking to the shower, having just finished assembling my new [infant sized, no really] dresser when I pulled open the shower curtain and turn on the water. Here enter spider, we will lovingly refer to as Charlotte, by slowly jumping ferociously launching itself onto the floor from between the shower curtain and the liner. Let me make it clear that this was no innocent jump; Charlotte was obviously trying to kill me. Killitkillitkillit.

Reactively, I scream bloody murder and jump on the closest elevated surface I can find, hello, toilet, and grab some sort of defensive weapon, hello, toilet bowl foaming cleaner. I stood ready with knees bent for a long moment, which reminded me of all the long moments I had atop the high dive at the pool, knowing that I couldn’t go back down off the ladder and that the only way out was to jump.

Looking back, this could have been used as a great reflective moment. Self, you are currently standing on top of a toilet in a bathrobe, holding a bottle of toilet scrub as a lifeline against an insect that is no larger than a nickel. You also have several suppressed childhood memories that surface at the weirdest times…

But instead, I devise a plan of attack, realizing that my usual “scream and cry until someone comes to kill the spider for me” tactic was not going to work.

I had two options. One: lock Charlotte in the bathroom with a warning note on the door explaining the poisonous, ready to attack spider that sat on the other side of the door, or, two: kill it myself.

Reluctantly, I opted for option two, if only to avoid the possibility that the spider would escape and end up somewhere even scarier like my bedroom. Killitkillitkillit.

As Charlotte started to move, I realized that I might loose my chance before she disappeared in the abyss of our apartment, so I attacked and did the only thing a panicked twenty-something should do in an emergency of this nature.

I shook up the Scrubbing Bubbles can, leaned toward the floor, and started spraying as hard as I could directly onto Charlotte, while also yelling diediediediekillitkillitkillit. Charlotte was dead after my Blitzkrieg a la Scrubbing Bubbles, and a few more sprays, just for good measure.

It wasn’t a direct attack by any means, as to get any supplies to cause a quick death would have required me to get off the toilet and risking being bitten.

After the storm passed, I stood there, relieved, but now realizing that there was a mound of toilet cleaner on the bathroom floor that wasn’t going to clean itself up. I then swore to myself that next time I was to exterminate a spider, I would remain calm, slowly get a shoe and kill it in the traditional, humane way. I am woman, hear me roar.

Fast forward to last night, when Encounter B occurred in my bedroom at home. Whilst laying in bed reading, accompanied by my mother, Charlotte Jr. appeared. There was no recollection of the promise I had made to myself just days earlier.

I screamed, yelled, and begged my mother to rid of the spider, which she did effortlessly and flawlessly. I stood vigil atop the closest elevated surface, known as my bed.

Lesson here? I need to marry someone with the ability to kill spiders….

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Summah Time in Chahleztown

It is time to finally come out of hibernation! Summer is upon us. [Cue the hallelujah choir now.]

My goals for this summer:
  1. Build and maintain a very strong, dark, yet naturally looking tan, to compliment the blonde hair I will also be building and maintaining.
  2. Eat as many hotdogs as I am able. Why? Because summer is the only season where eating hotdogs are socially acceptable. Summer brings excellent news for this bbq connoisseur, as I prefer a good hot dog to any other grilled delicacy
  3. Take many a road trip with the windows down, and the music up. Bonus points if the destination can help reach goal #1.
  4. Take more pictures! This can roughly translate to someonepleasebuymeanewcamera.
  5. Befriend someone with a boat, or befriend someone who has befriended someone with a boat.
  6. Try gold nail polish and rock neon. Neon’s the poo, so take a big wiff (Bring It On, anyone?)
  7. Attend at least one day event where a cowboy hat and boots are required.
  8. Eat lots and lots and lots of fruit.
  9. Have a really good story to share with my future children involving my family.
  10. Not get into any kind of accident with Sass.
  11. Somehow integrate my leather jacket into fun summer chic.
  12. Find my DVDs that are still missing from my move out of 8th St. Where are you, Overboard and Dirty Dancing…my life isn’t complete…
  13. Read. A lot. This also will compliment goal #1.
  14. Utilize our "state-of-the-art, ooh look we even have a grill" roofdeck

Really, the ultimate goal here is to do anything to promote and enhance goal #1. My thought process behind this is that if I become exceedingly tan now, I will have a semi healthy complexion through November. I mean, a girl can dream.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

From Burlington to Vancouver...

Last night, Tim Thomas skated around the ice holding the Stanley Cup with pride. He also was named Most Valuable Player and was awarded with the Conn Smythe Trophy.

This marked a significant moment in two people’s lives: one being Tim Thomas, the other being my father’s.

Some of you may recall that my father is a die-hard University of Vermont hockey fan. He prides himself on his vast knowledge of all things catamount, and also has an impressive talent to recall any UVM alumni, their year of graduation, their position, and what NHL team they currently play for. If it is a Friday or Saturday night during hockey season, you can find my father sitting in his office, in the dark, cocktail in hand, listening to the catamounts game. Yes, listening… as in the radio [this is because no honorable television station will carry every UVM hockey game, much to my father’s distain.] Don’t worry, we pre-order the satellite radio station every year, just to make sure there are no unforeseen errors come game day.

Anywho, Bob also believes he single-handedly fostered the career of Tim Thomas with a single nod.

Rewind to 1997ish.

I was tenish. I was convinced that I would someday attend the University of Vermont, just like my entire family had. I would become a member of my mother’s sorority, find a husband, and then become a stay at home mom. [I had big dreams as a tenish year old.] Anywho, I developed an intense interest in UVM hockey because, well my Dad and Grandfather did, and I was taught that being a hockey fan was a pre-requisite to getting into UVM. Done.

So there we were, all four of us at a Harvard-UVM hockey game, dressed head to toe in full UVM hockey gear with our lucky swag en tow [including my giant, golden foam mitten paw].

This was the night that changed everything for my father.

It was the end of the third period, and UVM was up three to one. Harvard was getting into a solid groove.

Just like that, a Harvard offensemen scored on Tim Thomas and the entire arena, besides our measly traveling UVM fanbase, erupted in cheers. Harvard knew they had a chance to tie it up. I remember my heart feeling so heavy, and then looking up at my father who was gazing in the direction of Thomas.

In the midst of a completely quiet moment, my dad gave a heavy clap and yelled “Shake it off Tim, shake it off.”

Then, it happened.

Tim Thomas nodded in the direction of my father.

This is when the tenish year old in me just about lost it. I remember being so proud of my dad for making Tim feel better when everyone else was cheering against him. [The fact that goalies always shake their heads to adjust their helmets when they are between plays or that it would have been almost impossible for Thomas to hear my father never really seemed to affect us.]

As the puck dropped for the duration of the period, Harvard pulled their goalie. It was an open net and the pressure was on Thomas to keep UVM out of the red.

As Thomas saved a tough shot from Harvard, the puck deflected off of his stick, and slowly started moving down the ice, toward the Harvard goal. I still remember this moment in slow motion.

All the players on the ice were skating as hard as they could: the Harvard players to save it, the UVM players to shoot it.

But for all of them it was too late. Tim Thomas scored a goal. Tim Thomas scored a goal right after his nod to my father. It was fate. I remember knowing that day that I would remember that moment for the rest of my life.

From then on, our family always had a bond with Tim Thomas and his career, and so last night when Tim skated around the ice on his final lap, he wasn’t just carrying the Stanley Cup, but he was also carrying my father’s heart with him.

Watching my father as he did it was another life moment I will never forget.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The inner monologue of the TSA as it pertains to KAD and Airport Security

Okay, I am back from the black hole, otherwise known as ohmygodihavenolifebecauseworkissobusy so thanks for hanging in there and waiting [ with baited breath, I am sure.]

At any rate, to re-acquaint you with my [if only just slightly] neurotic self, I would like to applaud my recent improvement on one of my travel neuroses.

The TSA likes to see me squirm. How do I know? Simple. They invented security check points.

Step 1. To start, they create one common queue for all passengers looking to board an aircraft. Coincidentally, the people surrounding me will definitely include a few smelly/overly loud/non-speaking English people, just for good measure. A large, mass crowd will maximize my wait time, and also heighten my awareness of all personal belongings. There will also be a crying baby somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

Step 2. Next, the TSA attendants will begin to yell at everyone waiting in line re: restrictions aboard an aircraft carrier. While I know that I have no contraband materials in any of my carry on, I will neurotically check, just to make sure there isn’t a lingering water bottle and/or rifle in my bag, you know, in case I missed it during one of my own personal check-thrus. Now, my once extremely organized, strategically packed bag is now a clutter of pillows, books, and underwear [just for if my luggage gets lost, and I have nothing to wear besides clean underwear.]

Step 3. Then, they make everyone put all toiletries in a clear plastic bag in a separate bin on the conveyer belt. I find this to be completely mortifying. Is it completely necessary for it to be a clear bag? Now, not only will everyone know that I use a shampoo specifically for blondes, but they will also know that I use a men’s razor and Barbosal shaving cream [it makes for a closer shave and smooth legs, okay?!]

Step 4. As I am completely vulnerable in front of a crowd of strangers, the TSA throws a germaphobic curve ball. You want me to take off my shoes?! I don’t even like walking around my apartment barefoot. Am I the only one who isn’t comfortable removing my shoes and walking on the same airport floor where thousands of other dirty/smelly/foreign/athlete-footy feet have also been?

Step 5. Now in complete panic [but not showing any of it out rightly – I am no terrorist, just deathly afraid of Swine Flu], I calmly put on, what I affectionately call, my airport socks. Airport socks are socks packed specifically for security and plane use. They are put on at security, removed when I put my shoes on, only to put them back on should I choose to remove my shoes once I get on the plane. Once I am done using my plane socks, I pack them in a manner so that I can recall which side of the sock touched the floor versus my foot. What is the point of wearing socks to protect my feet if I am only going to infect my bag once taking them out? The socks are carefully reversed so the germ side is in; crisis averted.

Step 6. Ready to cry, I am summoned to walk forward to the new, state-of-the-art body scanner. Great. Now not only are my toiletries on display, and my feet indirectly making out with the fat guy’s feet from two feet in front of me, but now a complete and total stranger is going to see me naked…as if I don’t already have a complete and total body image complex.

Step 7. Feeling completely violated, but a tad relieved that the TSA didn’t pull me for any other personal security searches, I calmly and strategically remove my plane socks and put my shoes back on. I then begin to stress about my next airport anxiety: the safety instructions en plane. This is my time to freak out and make a game plan, should my plane have an emergency [keeping in mind that the nearest exit may be behind me.]

Why write about this? Because on my recent trip to Los Angeles I broke out of my routine and didn’t wear plane socks through security. I did put them on once on the plane, but baby steps here, baby steps.

PS: should you ever choose to bring this up to me in person, I will vehemently deny that any of this actually occurs.