Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your chin hair!

Soooooo, yeah.  I'm not exactly what you would a call a "Spring Chicken".  I have passed the tolerance threshold of wearing a tube top in public and getting away with it, or having more "elasticity" and "height" in my boobage.  Each year they drop about three millimeters, so I figure by the time I'm 50 they'll be down to my knees.  The picture that I'm trying to paint here is that I'm getting older, and I'm not exactly shy when it comes to admitting to the changes that I notice.  Like for example, the other day I was pulling back the skin on my face so that I looked both sleek and surprised (more like terrified), when a shiny strand caught my eye.  What is this?  I asked myself.  Is that a speck of glitter that I see perched in between my brows?  A rouge eyelash that lost its way?  Nope.  It was a long, majestic blonde hair that had decided to grow smack dab in the middle of my forehead.  In other words, I'm transforming into a unicorn before my very eyes.  Except instead of a magical horn, we can replace it with a hair.  A long, shiny, can't miss it, can't pass it off as a bang, hair.  Grrrrrreat.  So, how does one grapple with such a situation, you may be wondering.  The answer is easy.  After I stopped crying over the fact that my youth has withered down to a glistening hair that is perched atop the bridge of my nose, I grabbed the tweezers, and then began furiously wrestling with my new bang.  And guess what?  It was a slippery little jerk.  No matter the angle, that lone hair slid right out of those tweezers like a champ.  It stood there in defiance, standing straight at attention.  I believe it even waved at me and laughed.  Cripes.  What was this thing made out of?  After the umpt-teenth attempt I finally clamped it in between the tweezers and gave it a yank.  And that stupid thing curled like a Christmas ribbon.  So instead of having a poker straight hair sticking out, I now had a jheri curl.  It was a quandary.  Do I try to blow torch it off?  Mat it down with some gel?  Pull it back and try to incorporate it with the rest of my not there bangs?  Nope.  You swear at it and call it a jerk while you squeeze the tweeze with a death-like grip, and yank that little curled b@stard out.
There you have it folks.  I'm sprouting hairs in random places like a Chia Pet.  I'm random, so why shouldn't my hair particles be anything less?  So if you ever see me sporting a random curled chin hair, you really don't have to point it out to me.  I more than likely can feel it tickling me in the breeze and attempted to yank it out using hedge sheers.  Just be sure to tell me that my hairs are looking rather fantastic that day.  Maybe I'll even let you give that curl a little yank.  The bounce on those things is rather spectacular. :)

To the guillotine you go!

I just have to express my genuine aggravation over something.  I mean, it seriously pisses me off.  To the point where I wave my fists in the air filled with fury, and exclaim the same thing Every. Single. Time.  Don't believe me?  Just ask my husband, because he's the one who witnesses this on a weekly basis.... We like to watch a lot of reality shows.  No, not the Kardashians.  I CAN'T STAAAAAAAAAAAAAND them.  I think the Jersey Shore idiots look like a classy, brilliant bunch when compared to those fame whores.  But I digress.  When I say "reality t.v." I mean shows like Chopped, or X-Factor.  But there is always a line in each of those shows that drives me INSANE.  Let's see if you can spot it:  Chopped: "It's down to two contestants now, and they both will be cooking for their lives."  X-Factor:  "Tonight our remaining contestants will be singing for their lives."  Really?  Seriously?  So you're telling me that whoever is the big fat loser of the night, is going to be executed?  They're going to die if they don't win??!?  Holy crap!  What kind of contests are these?  If you don't hit the high note, or you don't know how to correctly saute a garbanzo bean, they're going to take you out back, and a firing squad will have their way with you.  I just wish they would say what they really mean, "If you suck tonight, you're off the show, and no one will be around to stroke your ego, and you'll have to go back to your job of folding pants at the Dress Barn."  If they are going to promise such things, then they need to unleash some hungry tigers.  Let's start a new trend:  "Reality Shows-Gladiator Style."  Let's do it.  And we can name the show, "You Better Run Fast, 'Cause That Starved Feline is Going to Eat You A#%."  I would't have any false advertising.  If you have the audacity to incorrectly sing 'Eye of the Tiger', or show up to my contest wearing a blazer with pointed shoulder pads, you best run.
I have to go figure out my theme song for my new show, and contact my boys Siegfried and Roy to see if I can borrow one of their tigers.  I hear one is rather feisty.   (<---I know that is bad.  Really, really bad.  But funny.  And true.  And we all know I'm all about the truth).  :)

Get a job!

This is what Lenny and I tell our boys on a daily basis.  And by "boys" I mean our two fur children, Bentley and Barkley.  I have long ago imagined that if my two furry chicken nuggets were able to be gainfully employed, they would be working at the Home Depot.  Why?  Because they both would look adorable in orange smocks, that's why.  And the "r" in Barkley's name would be written backwards.  Before you (continue) to judge me and think I'm a total nutbag, I've decided to throw my husband under the crazy bus, right along with me.  This is a conversation we had just the other night:
Me (to my boys): "Go get a job.  I hear the Home Depot is hiring."
Barkley and Bentley's response: *Bentley continues to chase reflections gleaming from the Christmas tree lights, and Barkley brings me his bouncy ball, because they both are masters at changing the subject.  They enjoy being given a free ride.*
Me (to Lenny): I think Barkley would work in the power tools section, and Teeny would work with the plants.  What to you think?"
Lenny: *with a "are you kidding me?" stare:  "Wrong.  Barkley would work in the lumber section, and Teeny would obviously work with the paints.  Obviously."
You thought his stare was going to indicate that my husband thought I was nuts, didn't you?  Negative.  He encourages this crazy like it's going out of style.  :)
And I apologize for the delay in posting, but truth be told it's huntin' season around here, and I've been busy. Nooooo, I don't hunt.  I just spend most of my evenings decked out in camouflage that I picked up on the clarence rack at Cabella's, and I hide behind trees and scare strangers.  I will try to be more diligent in updating my posts more frequently, but it's hard work blending in with a pile of leaves, but somebody's got to do it.

I brake for dragonflies

The above title is actually true.  You see, I adore animals.  Furry ones, winged ones, even dragonfly-y ones.  Whenever the ASPCA commercial is on that features Sarah McLachlan, I have to put the t.v. on mute, and bury my head in the couch cushions.  She has even inspired Teeny's bath time song (Teeny is Bentley... don't want there to be any confusion about that one...).  I sing "In the Arms of an Angel" at the top of my lungs, because he looks like a pathetic wet rat, with big brown peepers that say, "You are a cruel, cruel woman, Mama.  I currently hate you. Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spray the noggin.  Don't spr-Argh.  She sprayed the noggin."  Whenever I am driving along and I pass by horses, puppies, bunnies, or geese, I always exclaim the obvious.  Leonard and I could be having an intense conversation about pajama jeans, and I will without hesitation interrupt him by shouting with glee, "Oh!  Ponies!"  Of course the man is used to this by now so it doesn't even register with him that I am easily distracted by adorableness.  I have also come to the realization that not everyone is used to this part of my charm.  A while back I was driving with a few friends, and we drove past a herd of cattle.  Midway through my rant about Justin Bieber's bangs, I shouted, "Oh! COWS!"  and then went right on back to how I think he should decorate said bangs with a bow.  The two lovelies that I was driving with burst into laughter, and looked at me like I was insane.
A couple of years ago I watched this movie called "Dead and Breakfast".  It was a cinematic delight, I tell you, but there was one character in the movie that has always stuck with me.  I forget his name, but his character would jot down the types of roadkill that he would see along the side of the road, so he could say a prayer for them later on in the day.  The other characters thought the guy was a weirdo for doing this, but I say nothing wrong with it.  Now, I don't have a roadkill list, per say, but whenever I do see a small (or large) creature laying in the middle of the road with a tire print down its' back, I literally make a frowny face, say something the lines of, "poor baby", and then have a teeny tiny urge to find the person that ran them over, and punch them.  Now I do know that sometimes you can't break for an animal darting into the road, because you can cause more damage to you (or another car), but I just can't help myself for feeling awful for the four-legged smooshers.  I am guilty of being a Michelin murdered, and I have cried each and every time it has happened.  I have smooshed birds that have swooped down in front of my car, bats that have flown into my car, and a squirrel who decided to play chicken against my automobile.  And every single time I have either called up my mother or my husband to confess my vehicular sins, and every single time I can hear them holding back their laughter as I sob over the fact that Mr. Nuts will never be able to complete his squirrel destiny.
So if you ever find yourself driving behind a Jetta that has a bumper sticker that says, "I break for honey badgers", give yourself at least a 100 foot distance from my car.  :)

Shake It Like A Polaroid Picture and Kickin' Buckets

I hope you are singing the song now.  Out loud.  And proud.  And I also hope you are shaking an imaginary polaroid picture around in your hand as you are singing the song.  Lord knows I do each and every time.  Even when I'm car dancing.  I think people mostly think I'm swatting at killer bees or flies, but truth be told I am just jamming out to my imaginary boyfriend Andre 3000's sweet, sweet tune.  Right now you are (hopefully) thinking to yourself, "Why the is she talking about this?", and then you smack your forehead because you then remember that this blog is dedicated to all things random.  Specifically my random, pointless thoughts.  Let me 'splain.  The other day I was driving home from work and this particular song came on.  And like always I sang it at the top of my lungs, and shook my pretend polaroid picture.  And then it happened.  I now knew what song I want played during my funeral.  Can't you just imagine it?  Me. Laying there decked out in my prom dress and tiara, surrounded by roses and lilacs (but not carnations.  NEVER carnations.  Right Brooke? 'Cause you know that I'll come back and haunt your a**), and all of my minions will be dancing around like fools, all the while shaking imaginary pictures.  GLOR. I. OUS.  Now I know that this is slightly morbid.  Okay, it's super creepy and gross, but as God as my witness, this actual thought popped into the old learning nugget, and I thought, "Whomp.  There it is."  Before I always felt that a somber tune should be played (I always imagined something from the Titanic soundtrack, perhaps), and people should throw themselves on top of my casket while sobbing uncontrollably.  And then I had my polaroid epiphany, and thought, "Nahhhh." I mean, if you rearrange the letters in "funeral" you get "real fun".  *Ba-da-bump*  People already associate the ridiculous with me, so why should it be any different when I kick the bucket and get ready to play the harp with angels, and bounce on a cloud?
So when I'm a hundred and twelve, and my Spanx are losing their elastic give, and my BINGO dabbers have run dry, I hope you all shake it.  Sha-sha-shake it.  Shake it like a polaroid picture, just for me. :)
I leave you with the all time greatest song in the world.  IN. THE. WORLD.

Not Your Typical Halloweener

It's that time of year again, where pumpkins are carved, the undead roam the earth, and women display their own pumpkins while being "dressed" up as a pirate, and aren't afraid to show off their parrot. (I use "dressed" loosely.)  I, however,  am not one of those women.  Hardly.  First of all, it really wasn't until this year that I actually enjoyed the thought of Halloween.  Typically I would barely acknowledge the day.  If Lenny and I bought pumpkins, they were bought for the purpose to decorate our porch for Thanksgiving.  I saw no real need in purchasing Halloween decorations, and the thought of getting dressed up seemed ridiculous.  This year was a whole other story.  Suddenly I was covering every nook and cranny with fake spider webs.  We bought a 100 pack of plastic spiders, and I used them.  All of them.  I made my poor husband twist his body into Gumby proportions, so I could outline his body with red electrical tape, so that my foyer resembled a crime scene.  I cut mouse silhouettes until my fingers cramped, and the old arthritis kicked in, and we toasted apples in the oven so that we could  float shrunken apple noggins in a batch of fresh apple cider.   Just what is going on here?!  Could it be that I was possessed by the H-ween spirit?  Did Martha Stewart somehow channel a part of herself into me?  I think I'll just blame it on the hard cider....  But back to the topic of costumes.  I have never, nor will I ever, dress up in a leotard with fishnets for a holiday that I feel should be more hilarious, than ho-ish.  First of all leotards should only be worn while either a) exercising, or b) you are a part of a jazz dance ensemble and are displaying spirit fingers.  Second of all, there is no such thing as a "sexy pirate".  Pirates were/are dirty and gross.  They sailed the high seas for months on end, and trust me, they didn't have an opportunity to soak in a jet tub, or have Calgon take them away.  If anything, if I'm going to be a pirate, I would do my best as displaying the fact that I have scurvy, and my teeth are rotting out of my head because I haven't had the chance to water-pick those joints in a few weeks.  Maybe I take things too literal, or maybe I just don't enjoy the fact that my pumpkin patch might catch a draft because my bumblebee tutu is too short.  I read an article the other day that said a persons Halloween costume says a lot about a person.  The holiday gives people the opportunity to pretend to be something that they aren't.  It gives someone the chance to be sexy, or voyeuristic.  Or if you want to pretend to be a mass murderer, have at it.  But then I reviewed my costumes from the past two years (I did get a little into the holiday last year), and I thought to myself, "Wah-oh."


Here is a picture from last year:

You see, my husband and I wanted to have a "pair" costume, so we decided to be the White Trash Twins, Carl & Karl.  I was a dude.  That wore jorts.  I'm trying to figure out what this costume says about me, and the only thing that I could come up with is that I'm awesome.

And then there was this year.  Would Lenny and I be The Captain and Teneal?  Ketchup and Mustard? A sassy plug and outlet?  Nope.

We were Pork and Beans.  

So next year, if the spirit strikes me again, don't be on the lookout for me being dressed up as a naughty nurse, or a sassy dinosaur.  But if you happen to see two "dudes" wearing super sweet mullet wigs and handlebar 'staches, dressed up as Jon Baker and Ponch from CHiPS, it'll probably be Lenny and me. :)

Happy Halloweenie, Friends!

Hogs, pretzels, and star fish

I'm not going to lie... Lately my brain feels as if it has been sucked dry of any and all things that are considered random/funny/pointless.  I don't know why.  My exhaustion and lack luster blogging approach could be because I have been busy with life.  You know how it is.  The never ending cycle of work, laundry, paying bills, and being on a life mission of finding the perfect unitard that both accentuates the positives, AND sparkles.  It's a tough combo.  And incredibly time consuming.  So as I sit back in my chaise lounge while donning a uni that neither sparkles nor accentuates the goods, I thought to myself, "Self.  What ARE you going to blather on about today?"  And then I answered myself, "Well self, there isn't a whole lot to share at the moment.  I don't think people will find it especially interesting how I discovered another gray particle that tries to pull itself off as a hair, or that I have never gotten over the fact that NEVER ONCE during a Romper Room episode was my name ever mentioned.  Ever."  And then I give myself a hug, and remind myself that I AM somebody.  From that point on it just becomes awkward.  The only thing that has popped up in this random magnificent bean is how my husband continuously hogs all of the sheets and sprawls like a starfish, so that I spend most nights  having a toasty warm big toe, and not much else.  And because of his sheet stealing ways, the blankets end up resembling a pretzel.  Here's the problem, and random fact number 352 about me:
If the blankets and sheets on my bed are not smoothed and tucked, I will not, and cannot sleep.  When I was a kid my mother would have to tuck me in at night, and I use the term "tuck" loosely.  You see, I wouldn't be able to fall asleep unless I was swaddled like an infant.  The blankets had to practically cut off circulation before I was pleased.  Garfield's face had to resemble that of one that had received copious amounts of Botox, because it was pulled so tight.  Now, I'm not as bad now, but if the sheets are in a bunch, so is my attitude.  What usually occurs is something like this:  Lenny is happily entangled in the blankets, not giving a care in the world that his wife is having a meltdown over the fact that the sheets are unsleepable.  As he rests in his slumber I typically yank the blankets and sheets with all of my might, as he rolls like a log, teetering precariously close to the edge of the bed.  In my huff I fluff the sheets and blankets, attempting to smooth them out, and then eventually lay back down having the bedding just so.  The funniest part is, as I'm having an adult temper tantrum, Leonard continues to snooze like a happy star fish.  *sigh*  He's lucky he's a cute star fish.
So there you have it.  I told you I'm lack luster, so sorry if this post was a colossal failure.
Until next time, friends. I bid you, adieu.  :)
Redemption!  Here is a clip of Romper Room.  Notice how my name is not mentioned.  And yes, it still pisses me off.  Sonofabitch:

Namaste

First off, I want to apologize for being so neglectful of this hot mess of a blog.  The fact of the matter is, I've been incredibly busy tending to my Bonsai garden, and nursing a brood of honey badgers back to good health.  I'm a caregiver.  What can I say.
Now my faithful blogger friends, I have a favor to ask of you all.  You can consider it your way of thanking me for giving you life lessons on spandex underpants, and that a rat tail is best left brushed out.  I want you to think of interesting questions, for moi.  Think of it as a "Getting to know that big bag of crazy, Kristina, a little bit better."  I've already included the ole ball-and-chain in on this adventure, for he will be the one conducting the interview.  He's been given the task to come up with a list of *creative questions to ask me, and I extend the challenge to you.   Leave your questions in the comments, or facebook me (that sounds so douchey), or if you are on Twitter, you can even ask me there.  The key piece is creative.  If you ask me what my favorite color is, you grant me full permission to throw a large, heavy object at you while screaming, "LAME-O!!!!" at the top of my lungs.  But no pressure.
So come on.  Have some fun.  I promise it will be entertaining.  The more creative you are, the more ridiculous I will be.  So bring your A-game.
Well, Hank the badger needs help with his eye patch, and my Bonsais are getting out of control.  See keep tappin' that third eye, and happy questioning! :)
*I will not answer any "numbers" questions.  I.E.: How much do you weigh? (A buck twenty.  Glad we got that out of the way.)  How old are you?  370 months (I'm like Benjamin Button.)  What is the girth of your ponytail?  (Sensitive subject.  Sensitive.)

Rub-a-dub-dub

Let's play a quick game....
Sock is to shoe, as mitten is to hand.
Hat is to head, as belt is to pants.
And the last one, I shall see if you can figure out....
Hugs is to kisses, as limp sausage is to ______________________
If you guessed "bathtub" you are the winner winner chicken dinner.  Don't see the correlation?  Yeah.  Me neither.  But according to all of the "male enhancement" commercials, virility goes hand-in-hand with soaking in a bathtub in an outdoor scene, with your lady-friend lounging in a tub right next to you.  I just don't see the connection.  What does a trip to the land of Calgon have to do with a *ahem* limp appendage?  Is it a bath fizzer that puts a little "pep" in their "step"?  Are they supposed to play a water game that involves tug boats?  Is "Mr. Bubbles" code name for bath magic?  And I'm sorry, but there is nothing enticing about sitting in a bathtub in the middle of the outdoors, even if the feller next to me is pulling off a fine impression of Captain Stubing.  I just keep thinking about mosquitos swarming, and then the water getting chilly.  Are these people that have outdoor tubs-of-love that fancy that they have outdoor plumbing so they can keep pumping in the hot water?  And don't things prune when you're in the water too long?  So if someone can explain to me the connection between appendages that salute and a bathtub, I'm all ears.  For now, I have to get going because I have the sudden urge to catch up on old Love Boat reruns. :)

Spanx you very much

I'm going to be frank.  Being a woman can sometimes blow.  When I have to run down a set of stairs, I usually have to hang onto the girls so I don't knock myself into unconsciousness, or give myself a nose bleed.  Every few weeks I practically have to strap on a feedbag so I don't die from the hunger pangs, and then the only thing I can wear that doesn't cut off my circulation is my Snuggie and a pair of sweatpants.  On top of all of the "perks" that women have to deal with, we're expected to primp, pluck, dye, wax, pencil in, or erase out.  And because it's not socially acceptable to walk around town in a backwards bathrobe, and lumps are frowned upon, "scientists", aka-some dude- invented a contraption that smooths you down, and sucks the life from you.  It's called 'Spanx'.  What it really should be called is an "Extra thick sausage casing that will squeeze the air out of your lungs, give you a case of swass and swoobs, and prevent you from sitting, bending, breathing, and eating. But hey, it helps smooth down that awesome case of muffin top." I figure they chose 'Spanx' because it was easier to fit on the label. 
Now let me paint you a little picture.  It was a balmy summer day, and I had to wear an ensemble that required a few smoke and mirrors. And spandex.  So before I put on my LBD, I had to do what 98% of American women do.  I pulled out the pulleys and cranes, and attempted to pull up a nude colored onesie that promised to cast my muffin top, good day.  I guess I should've waited until the steam cleared from the shower, because I soon found myself in a "Chinese finger cuffs" situation.  You know, you get one body part in, but find yourself at a standstill because nothing else is going in, and nothing else is coming out.  So then you do what any rational individual does in a situation where you are stuck in lady shape-wear.  You panic.  You yank and pull and cry and sweat.  And then you realize that sweating just makes things even more immobile, which only makes you panic even more.  The only thought that is racing through my head is, "For the love of God, if I have to call the Fire Department and tell them that I am stuck in a pair of lady underpants  that go all the way up to my second chin, I will die of embarrassment first."  And then it dawned on me.  My husband was home.  This man has seen me at my best, at my worst, and now stuck in something that only someone doing the Tour De France should wear. 
So take a bit of advice, if you're ever in need of a smoother rump, bust out the nude colored biker shorts.  But do yourself a favor, either do it in frigid temperatures, or make sure you have a pair of meat sheers handy in case you have to cut yourself out of a sticky (or life squeezing) situation. :)

Hot Cross Buns

Today's post is brought to you by the antics of my husband.  You see, I am not the only prankster in town (reference H2Oh-no-you-didn't), and I feel that it is only fair that I illustrate his capability of being mischievous ( <----I just had to google search the correct spelling of that.  It still looks wrong...)  Leonard and I are kind of opposites when it comes to pulling a fast one on one another.  I toss around frosty beverages into the shower, and he turns up the bun warmers in the car so I think that I either a) peed my pants, or b) am having a hot flash.  Oh that trickster.  He manages to put that baby on high when I'm not looking, so that ten minutes into the car ride I'm suddenly sweating bullets, and my badunkadunk feels like it's on fire.  Just as I'm about to hang my head out of the window like a labrador, it dawns on me that the husband has pushed the magic seat warmer button, and now we don't need to make a pit stop to Target to buy estrogen supplements.  You would think that after the first twelve times of him doing this in the middle of the summer, that I would eventually catch on.  But no.  I don't.  And he keeps on pushing the bun toaster buttons when I'm not looking.  So if you are ever the lucky passenger in the Sharpe Mobile, and the Lenster is behind the wheel, try not having a panic attack when you think that you are going to spontaneously combust.  He just cranked the heat seat to high.  Just levitate your rear end off the seat for a solid ten minutes, and then it should be cool enough to sit down once again.  And then when he's glancing off to the side, just click his bun warmer to a solid three.  All is fair in love and bun warmer war. :)

Words with friends...

...the real-life version.  I LOVE learning new words.  And I'm not talking about the ones that you'll find in the Webster's Dictionary.  I mean the ones that people ever so cleverly come up with on their own.  The list below is a list that was generated by brilliant minds.  Next to each word will have a definition, which will then be proceeded by it being used in a sentence.  I hope you enjoy these little diddy's, and find a way to include them into your own vocabulary. 
*Swass-Translation: sweaty a**.  He had swass from riding on his banana seat bicycle for too long.
*Swoobs-Translation: sweaty boobs.  She had a bad case of the swoobs because her bra didn't have enough support.
*Swassh-Translation: when you get mustache sweat because it's hotter than big-o-b's out there.  My swassh was uncontrollable as I rollerbladed  in my speed suit.
*Bowlette-Translation: a combination of a bowl cut and a mullet.  That man has the sweetest bowlette I've ever seen.
*Thees-Translation: when your knees and thighs become one and are indistinguishable.  Thanks to the water weight, my thees are ginormous.
*Boob loaf-Translation: the appearance your boobs make when squished into a sports bra.  Check out my big boob loaf.

Those are just a few.  Now if you can find an individual that has a bowlette with a bad case of the boob loaf, and they have a bit of a swassh situation going on, please take their picture and send it to me.  I will then iron that picture onto a tee-shirt, because that would be more glorious than a screen print howling wolf tee-shirt. 
Alright, I have to go to my Scrabble tournament.  It should be fairly stupendiful.  :) 

H2Oh-no-you-didn't

Here is the God's honest truth, if I find an opportunity to act like I'm twelve, well, then I seize the day.  Carpe Diem.  Or in my case, carpe shower.  Let me clarify.  You see, Leonard and I have been married for a handful of years now, and there are certain things that will never get old.  Hugs.  Kisses.  Forgetting where we parked the car.  And tossing ice cold water onto the other unsuspecting person while they are in the shower.  I take total and absolute credit for this little doozey, because I'm the one that started this awful surprise.  This is another childhood trait that I decided needed to be resurrected because of the sheer brilliance of it. When I was a kid I would fill up my dinosaur glass cup with freezing cold water, sneak into the bathroom, and then toss it over the shower curtain where my mother was completely unsuspecting.  She would shriek and yell, "Krissie!!!!", and I would dart out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell, laughing hysterically thinking that I was so crafty.  Now, fast forward about twenty-five years, and I still do it.  Except this time it's my husband, who instead of just yelling at me, he gets me back.  Let's take the other day for example.  He was taking a shower and I had too much time on my hands.  So as he's chatting away about lord knows what, the wheels in the old bean were turning so I carpe showered.  I muttered a few, "Uh-huhs", and some, "Oh reallys", to make it seem like I wasn't up to something suspect.  When I knew he would be taking at least the next thirty seconds to tell me all about how he wants to update his short jort collection, I flew like a gazelle into the kitchen, grabbed a gigantic plastic cup, and filled it with water that would have put the Arctic Ocean to shame.  Right when he was about to tell me the importance of having exposed pockets along the bottom fray of your jorts, I ever so cleverly pulled back the shower curtain just a tad, and threw him a cool beverage.  Right in the kisser.  I don't know what my favorite part was.  The look of sheer shock on his face, or how I could actually see the wheels beginning to spin in his own bean, about how he was going to get me back.  Of course, this precious moment is promptly followed by him yelling at me about how immature I am, and me doing the silent laugh because I'm laughing so hard no sound is coming out.  Now, lets fast forward again to today, where he got me back.  Was I suspecting a frosty cup of water to come hurtling over the shower curtain?  Yes.  Did I still cling to the side of the wall like my life depended on it?  Absolutely.  Did I find a new and innovative way of getting him back?  You're darn tootin.  After I was all gussied up and had shiny hair (cold water tends to shock the old hair follicles and makes them glisten), Leonard jumped on into the shower.  Every few minutes he kept peeking out of the curtain to see if I had a water jug, canteen, or bucket of some sort.  But I didn't, and I had zero intention of doing it either.  So instead of giving him the expected, I stole all of the towels in the bathroom instead.  Even the wash cloths, because I knew he would try to use those to dry off, and I wasn't about to give him the opportunity.  So you see, even though I am technically an adult, I try not to act like one too often.  And as far as my husband is concerned, he already knows that if you mess with the bull, you're going to get the horns.  Or in my case, you'll get a refreshing icy beverage tossed in your kisser, and then be left with toilet paper squares to towel off. :)

It's all about the girth of the tail

This post is specifically for my friend Gina, who wants to *HORF* every time she hears the word "girth".  So Gina, girth girth girth girth giiiiiiiiiiiiiirth. :0) 
The reason why I know this word makes her want to vomit, is because the other day I was talking about the girth of my ponytail.  You know, the wideness and thickness of it, and we determined that her ponytail girth put my ponytail girth to shame.  You see, I shed like a Golden Retriever.  Once a month I have to bust out the Drain-o because the shower drain is clogged again from my brown locks of delight.  Every week when I vacuum, I have to take out the shears to unclog the Dyson, because my Rapunzel tendrils cause the sucker to sound like a yeti.  My luxurious strands end up on the dogs.  And at least once a day a single strand finds its way down in my shirt, nestled securely next to my unmentionables, causing it to tickle, and resulting in me shoving my hand into my tee shirt digging around like I'm trying to find buried treasure.  I feel like Gretel leaving a trail behind me, except instead of delicious gumdrops, it's hair.  At least I'll always be able to find my way back to my starting point.  I'm even considering starting a new business selling baby toupees.  I figure what I pull out of the brush every few days will be enough to don the cap of a newborn.  I like to be practical.
On an end note, for those of you that know Gina, please ask her to discuss the girth of her p-tail with you, and make sure you say the word "girth" repeatedly.  Try it in an accent to give it more flair.  She'll really enjoy it. 
*Gina, you know that I love you, and was only able to do this because I know what a great sport you are.  And trust me... she has enough on me to get me back at any time.  I'm fairly certain she knows my own list of words that make me want to vom.  And for the rest of you, you're all fair game.  Ha. ;)

A little of this, a little of that

Sorry for the delay in posts my darling lover bunnies, but truth be told I have been busy practicing playing the kazoo.  And you know what they say:  Don't forget to breathe in while playing the good old 'zoo, otherwise you might pass out.  That, and practice makes perfect.  It's a goal in my life to be a part of an orchestra, and I figure a kazoo is probably considered a woodwind instrument.  So what if it's made out of plastic and sounds like a swam of buzzing bees.  I can play "On Top of Old Smokey" like a champ.  I figure if it doesn't work out I can always go to my "fall back" instrument.  Finger cymbals.  *ding*  But back to business.  Today is really going to be a smattering of a bunch of nonsense. A hodge podge if you will.  Here it goes...
Random thoughts that have occurred within the past week:
1) I wonder if dogs bark in different languages, or if it's all the same.
2) Do I have a doppelganger somewhere in the world, and if so, is she as awesome as me?  Pssshh.  That's crazy talk.
3) I have determined that I am confused about 93.8% of the time.  This is probably because when someone is talking to me, I will start off listening, but then about 15 seconds into the conversation my mind starts to wonder.  And it isn't because the other person is boring, it's just that I have the attention span of a goldfish, and I'm easily distracted by shiny things. 
*Buckle your seat belts, 'cause we're switching gears...
I love pinterest.  I have to find a way to link it to my page so you can see the things that I "pin". I peruse it daily, and today I came across three things that made me go "Heh".  That's my version of "lol", but I believe that when people write "lol" they're full of crap.  Maybe they cracked a smile, but literally "laughed out loud"?  Nonsense.  Don't even get me going on "rofl".  Really?  You were really rolling on the floor laughing?  Really.  Well then whatever had you bursting at the seams, you need to pass that little nugget of delight along.  I long for the day where I can literally fling myself on the floor and laugh with unbridled glee.  And if anyone can figure how to really "lmao" spread the word because I would love to go down a pant size.  Anyways, here are some pictures from pinterest.com that made me LITERALLY go "Heh".  And for you that had difficulty following along, please refer to #3.  It also applies to just me, because I have the tendency to talk to myself, and then I just end up distracting me.  Oh look! A shiny penny!....
*When I first saw this photograph, my first thought was, "Someone must have told her Justin Bieber cut his bangs."  Which would be blasphemy because those babies are magical.

And for the next one, I feel that it is fairly self explanatory.  I mean, I'd be that excited too if I was so close to a camel.

And for closing, this one made me go "Heh" (which is the equivalent of a smirk and a laugh.)

I have to go practice my kazoo now.  "Whoomp, There It Is", is a rather challenging piece.  Until next time, my little lamb chops. :)

Inspiration and fruit in a hammock

I have to admit, I get the ideas for some of my material through day-to-day conversations with friends and family.  I love it when people can acknowledge the ridiculousness in life, and aren't afraid to laugh about it.  Chances are, if you are a friend of mine, it's more than likely because #1: you are funny #2: you know how to take a joke, and #3: you can find the humor about the fantastic. Like stirrup pants.
Just the other day a friend had suggested that I should write about men who wear Speedos, and I thought, "Money!!"  No, not dollars and cents, but HA! What a priceless piece that could be.  You see, I absolutely, positively LOVE banana hammocks.  Love. Them.  If they are neon colored fruit slings, then I love them all the more. I mean, who needs mystery?  Who appreciates modesty?  Not this girl.   Now, the real kicker is, the ones that are always wearing their glistening t-backs with pride, are always the ones that are sporting a one-pack, have a case of rectangle arse, and are already collecting their Social Security.  A while back I had the opportunity to spend some time on Orient Beach in St. Maarten, and let me tell you, it was bananas and pajamas hammocks galore.  I think my favorite one was an elderly, portly fellow who was all nestled up in an orange sherbet colored whale tale, that was frolicking in the waves.  I mean, what better sight is there to see than a senior citizen dancing in the surf while wearing his spandex underpants for the whole world to see?  So the next time you have to go shopping with your fella (or you are the fella that needs a new pair of ocean-wear), bypass the board shorts and head straight for the nanner hammocks. Just make sure you get it in day-glow. :)

It's unbe"wii"vable!

Alright friends, I think you need to sit down for this one. I have some exciting news to share with all of you, and I just need you all to brace yourselves for this epic announcement.  You see, not only am I mind-bottlingly smart, I also am an amazing Wii bowler.  I can handle that controller like nobodies biz-naz.  Nobodies.  *So, soon I will be touring the circuit with a professional Wii bowling team "The Big Wii's", which means that I will not be updating posts as often as I have been.  *insert sadface here*  I will still be posting weekly, but it will probably be whittled down to three or four posts a week, as opposed to the five or six.  Wipe away your tears, friends.  Honestly I'm super psyched because I bought a brand new wrist guard, and I even found a portable mini fan that I can use to cool down the hand that controls Big Blue down the lane.  Big Blue is my bowling ball.  And yes it has sparkles.  I have my pink satin bowling blouse all pressed and ready to go, and I'm still trying to figure out if I should don my new bowling shoes, because the last time I wore them I accidentally slid into the television screen. Those puppies don't do much for traction. 
I will still be posting updates on my Facebook page, as well as my Twitter account (@K_Sharpie), so keep your eyes peeled.  I am looking forward to share with you my adventures regarding my experience as a professional Wii bowler.  Who knows, I might be able to squeeze in more posts than I think.  I am pretty amazing after all.  I mean, I am a fantastic blogger and a master bowler.  Don't be jelly.  Okay, you can be a little jelly.  I have to go finish embroidering my new bowling bag.  You wouldn't believe how many sequins it takes to create lightening bolts striking through (HA! Get it?!) bowling pins.  Until next time, my friends.  Until next time. :)
*I feel that it is important that I "blow my cover" so to speak, because a few people have actually emailed me asking about my new role as a professional Wii bowler.  Here's two tidbits:
1) I'm not really a professional Wii bowler.  It's actually badminton.  I just don't like to chat up too much about my real-life job, because I have enough randomness going on in my life, so it's completely unnecessary to incorporate any of it.
and 2)  I can't even begin to tell you how hysterical I find it that the thought of me going out and actually being a professional bowler doesn't even faze anyone, is absolutely priceless.  I could probably admit to you all that it's always been my dream to play the tambourine with the Partridge Family Revival Tour, and you wouldn't even bat an eyelash.  And that is just one of the reasons why I adore you all. ;)

Hey Ya'll!

Fun fact number 387 about me... I find southern accents endearing. And contagious.  If I am around a person or people that have the ever-present southern twang, I find myself mimicking them.  Out loud.  I just can't help it.  The idiot part in my brain goes into high gear and I find myself saying things like, "Well, bless her heart", or referring to pants as "britches" and saying "ya'll" as much as I can.  This too stems from when I was a child, and my best friend and I would sit in my backyard and speak in southern accents for hours on end.  We were little weirdos, but entertaining little weirdos.  You would think a grown woman would be able to control herself and be more aware of the fact that she sounds like Dolly Parton on overdrive, but nooooo, it's like an uncontrollable tick.  Last Spring my husband and I went on a cruise and the ship was crawling with gen-u-ine southerners.  I thought my head was going to explode from all of the magical twangs, and there were a handful on instances where my husband had to remind me that I was born and raised in New York, and not Mississippi.  I don't think he found it as entertaining as I did when I insisted that he call me Weezer (Steel Magnolias...holler!) and that he go along with my story of being a southern belle peach farmer.  I seriously had to make a conscious effort at not speaking with an accent, and Mr. Belle had to insist that carrying around a parasol was completely unnecessary, and the closest thing that I've come to "croppin'" was a patch a dandelions on my front lawn.  But if ya'll ever see me out and about and you hear that I introduce myself as "Weezer", just go along with it.  Just make sure you ask me how peach farmin' is goin', and I'll compliment you by shouting, "Well I do declare, those are some lovely britches your wearin'!"  Just roll with it. ;)

Good morning, Sunshine!

Is a greeting that has never, and will never apply to me.  When the alarm goes off at 5:30 in the AM, I'm like a bear being poked by an annoying stick during the middle of my hibernation time.  I often times will glare at the enemy, aka the alarm clock, and then swear at it like it has the capability of understanding my fury.  I hope for it to spit out apologies for waking me out of my slumber, instead of blaring Brittney's latest jam about letting her freak out.  The stare-off is usually proceeded by me punching it into submission for the extra nine glorious minutes of sleep.  How do I know that it's nine minutes?  Because every thirty seconds or so I crack my peepers open to see how much time has passed, and at the nine minute mark it wails its howls of annoying-ness in my face.  Finally I roll my bear-rear out of bed and slump my way into the kitchen to make my happy juice, which is also commonly known as coffee.  Ten times out of ten I feel like crying real tears of sorrow over the fact that I have to now function when I didn't get my eighteen hours of needed slumber.  The husband has long learned that it's best not to talk to me in the morning, and if he attempts to carry on a conversation, he doesn't have high expectations of full sentence responses.  Endearingly enough, he has been able to crack the code of my "AM Speak."  One grunt means, "Yes," two grunts means "We're having pork chops for dinner tonight," and three grunts means, "Your tan socks are in the dryer."  After our caveman-like conversation I usually make the attempt at putting on eyeliner with both of my eyes still closed, and then have to make big decisions like what type of disgusting Lean Cuisine should I have for lunch.  Trust me.  By 6 in the morning, a decision like that is equivalent to solving a problem dealing with quantum physics.  So, if you ever have the pleasure of seeing this happy face before eight in the morning, don't expect too much.  If I manage to crack something that resembles a smile, then it's your lucky day and the news should be alerted.  If I grunt at you four times, it just means that I need a refill on my happy juice.  Good morning, Sun Shine!  Never.  Good afternoon, you magnificent ray of light, you!  Always. :)

Zee Plane, Zee Plane!!!!

Today's post is going to focus on tattoos.  You see, I've actually been grappling with the idea of getting one for quite some time now.  If you've read any of my previous posts, then you already have an idea that once I get a thought stuck in my head, I'll usually think it through for many, many moons, and then actually go through with it.  (*Reference I am an (oxy)moron)  Despite my ramblings about wanting to get a rainbow-shooting badger on my back, that is carrying an eagle engulfed in flames in its' adorable little paws/talons, I really want something that is teeny tiny, and on my foot.  It's a saying from my favorite book, and it carries a lot of meaning. Three simple words that would be a daily reminder that life is what it is, and you just have to keep on trucking.  But I just need to know, how many of you have tattoos?  Do you ever regret getting them?  Is it true when they say that once you get one, you'll want to get many, many more?  Should I just live up to my potential BAMF status and get head-to-toe ink of the Muppet Babies?  I was just curious.  Tis all.  If you feel like sharing in the comments, then my deepest and most sincere gracias.  If you would rather keep the fact that you have a scorpion tattooed on your rump a little secret, I can respect that.  And as far as what those three little words are, well, you're just going to have to figure that one out on your own.  It shouldn't be too hard.  I tend to drop little nuggets of randomness about myself in each of my posts, so feel free to do a read through.  And to save you some time, no, it doesn't have anything to do with unicorns.  Happy solving!  :)
*Oh! A mystery post!  I'm like Nancy Drew and Ann Landers all rolled into one!

Kettlebell Hell

I hope you realize how dedicated I am to bringing the funny each and everyday, because I am currently typing this little ditty with my elbows.  You see, today I started a new aerobic adventure and decided to give the kettlebell a whirlsie, and the only part on my body that is not "feelin' the burn" are my eyelids.  I knew something needed to be done when I had to dust off my Sketchers Shape-ups, and I found my sparkly blue unitard that I've affectionately named "The Electric Slide" balled up in the corner of my closet.     You're picturing me in my Shape-ups and unitard right now, aren't you? Well stop it... I was also wearing a sweatband and wrist guards, to help paint an even more astounding picture in your mind.  *Focus* I decided to give the good old bell a try, because I have a special place in my heart for gimmicks equipment that will help me become successful at bouncing a quarter off of my rear end.  Now you see, some people collect stamps, I collect exercise equipment that promises me body parts of steel, and the ability to do the splits.  This collection started when I was about ten and I convinced my mother to buy me the Thigh Master, because I figured I should start early at achieving my goal at becoming the world's youngest body builder.  I figured I could wow the judges over with my ability to crack open watermelons with my thunder thighs.  But, my thighs did not become masterful, and I ended up using the contraption as a sling-shot for water balloons instead.  Then when I was about twelve I invested in the Powerslide, which should have been labeled "The Death Mat with Booties".  All it was, was a slippery mat with paperweights on each end, and you slipped on a pair of booties and glided your way towards a twelve pack.  Well, what it actually did was test your ability to remain standing and alive, and to not crack your head open on the dresser that was in your family room because those booties were nothing more than a blade short of an ice skate.  I think that exercise adventure was retired sooner rather than later, and was used only during reenactments of the film classic "The Cutting Edge."  And then there was the Ab Roller, which just resulted in rug burn because I didn't "power up" my power house of a core, and was unable to wheel myself back up, and then last but not least, the Gazelle, which only proved that I am not in fact gazelle-like, and opposed to what Mr. Little told me, No. No, I can not do it.  I practically catapulted myself off of the thing, while simultaneously gripping onto the handlebars for dear life, and kicking my legs into the air higher than a Rockette.  You would think that after all of these life-lessons of trial-and-error, I would give up and just stick with pilates, but a girl who has an affinity for spandex just can't help herself. Now I've moved onto a contraption that I have to pray that my sweaty mitt doesn't cause the 7 pound bell of hell to go hurtling through the air and into the television screen where it would maim Bob Harper, and cause his insistence of "just a few more" to come to an abrupt halt.  So, if you ever see an infomercial that claims that all you need to do for thinner cankles is to ride a unicycle for a thinner you, please don't tell me.  And if you do tell me, then don't be surprised if you see a woman decked out in a leopard print onesie flying down the road on her uni screaming, "Where are the handlebars on this thing?!?!"  proceeded by asking the EMT if my cankles look any slimmer.  I have to go soak in a tub of Icy Hot right about now.  Hopefully tomorrow I will be back to typing with the proper appendages. :)

Shake your tail feather

Today I had lunch with the husband, and let me tell you, it was people watching galore.  Now, besides being a passionate tambourine player, I also thoroughly enjoy studying the masses trying to figure out what exactly it was the persuaded them to don a pair of short jorts and a mesh tank top (besides trying to demonstrate their awesomeness).  As I was soaking in all of the khaki pants, stiletto heals, short jorts, parachute pants, and one man that I was unsure if he was even wearing pants, I hit the people watching jackpot.  There, sauntering in front of me was a man decked out in a three-piece tailored suit, and wait for ittttttttttttttttt.......a RAT TAIL dangling gloriously between his shoulder blades.  From the shoulder blades down this man was all business, capital B.  On the upward path it was a rat tail party, that was daintily braided and adorned with a hair tie.  I had to hold myself back from pulling on his tail tapping on his shoulder and suggesting that next time he should add a bead to the end.  I thought it would make it more whimsical.  I then let my mind wander, and thought, when he's having a bad hair day, does he just brush it out and let it free flow, so to speak?  Tuck it underneath his collar? Does he decorate it with hair tinsel during the holidays?  Possibly a feather?  And then I wondered if he topped it off with a scrunchie in the 80's, but then ruled that out because I figured the scrunchie would've been like an anchor on his magnificent tail, tipping his head back like a Pez dispenser.  My thought bubble was eventually broken when the hubster directed my attention to a man that was wearing a plaid jacket and big, white shoes.  I thought my head was going to explode from all of the brilliance before my eyes. 
That's all for today.  I'm going to go continue trying to convince Leonard that he should grow a rat tail, because I want to brush up on my french twist skills.   :)

The Cup Runneth Over

Today's post is dedicated to my friend, Ham Boobs, who inspired this little ditty.
I believe I have already made note of this, but it is worth repeating.  I am completely incapable of owning/wearing a shirt that does not have spillage on the cleave area.  It's almost on a daily basis that my husband says, "You know, you have a stain on your boob", and my response back is the all-knowing head shake of, yes, yes I know I am an incompetent eater-slash-drinker.  Just the other day I was drinking iced tea-sitting in a stable position, on a stable surface-and I looked down after I drank, and low and behold the white tee shirt that I was sporting now had these awesome brown spots that started near the shelf, and ended somewhere around my belly button vicinity.  It has gotten to the point where I should invest stock in Tide's Stick To Go, and their new stain release thingies.
When something is not of the liquid content, then I'm for sure going to drop something down into what I like to refer to as, the boobie cavern.  Oftentimes I will be chowing down on a pretzel/pasta/taffy, and then whoops, it drops down the wrong hatch.  Without thinking, I nine times out of ten will just plunge on down into Fort Knockers, trying to find the lost goodie.  The problem is I tend to do this in public, where not everyone knows that I was attempting to eat with my elbows, and I lost an edible trinket down the boob luge.  I try to be snappy about it, but truth be told, I should start wearing more turtlenecks so this can no longer be a problem.
I leave you with the FB conversation between me and Ham Boobs (who has been an awesome and willing sport about today's post.)  I'm putting this in (further) print, because I want to prove that I'm not the only one in this world that doesn't realize that food and beverage should just end up in your gullet. :)
Ham Boobs status (aka-the inspiration): I completely just dropped a piece of ham down my bra.
Me: This just made me laugh like a donkey.  Was it in public? Don't you love having to fish something out of there, looking like a loon? :)
Ham Boobs: Yes, Kristina-it was in my spiraling ham class  (<--real location left out to protect fellow spiller),  and I sit in the front. I then proceeded to dump water all over the right side of my face while taking a sip from my water bottle.  It was a failure of a meal.
Me: You sound like me.  I think I am incapable of drinking a beverage without it spilling down my face.  I always look like I took the cup of water/coffee/juice and just tossed it in my own face, like a running champion at the end of the finish line.  I've also gotten to the point in my life where I drop things down into the boobie cavern, and I rifle around down there completely unaware that I have an audience.  You have my sympathies. :)
...
See!! I'm not the only one!!!!  Alright.  The end for today my lovelies.  I have to learn how to stitch together a bib from the Youtube.   :)

Blush and Bashful

How many of you thought of Steel Magnolias when you read today's post title?  HA.  "My col'as are going to be blush and bashful."  Lord I love that movie.  Crazy Weezer.  Huge tangent. Huge.  Today I am not actually going to be discussing the 1980's epic southern classic, but rather how I quite frequently blush because I am quite simply, bashful.  Now right now I'm sure you are tsk-tsk-tsking, and thinking to yourself, "Why, this woman seems to be as obnoxious as they come.  One minute she's talking about her chub rub, and then the next how she wants to make the "Snooki Poof" illegal."  Well, all of those things are true, but the fact of the matter is when people meet me for the first time, or even the first few times, they probably think I'm a mute and socially awkward.  The last time I spoke freely to a group, and I didn't particularly care if they were interested in hearing about my scented Crayola markers or not was when I was six.  I remained pretty outgoing and self-assured-aka obnoxious-until I was about eleven, and then puberty struck and I had to wear a stupid retainer.  Suddenly I was hyper-aware of everyone around me, and even more aware that I sounded like Mush Mouth every time I tried to speak with my retainer in.  Trust me.  It was horrible.  I'm sure a few folks exclaimed, "I never knew that girl had a speech impediment."  No.  I just never figured out the whole speaking with a piece of plastic in my mouth thing even though I wore it 24/7 for about two years.  (And ps... I hate the term 24/7.  I knew it had to be retired after I heard Dan Rather use it during the nightly news.)  Even though I'm an old broad now, some of that shyness is still there.  I'm not nearly as bad as I was when I was a pre-teen, but I'm still not the type to jump into a situation where I hardly know anyone and strike up a conversation.  So, if you ever see me out and about, and I am introduced to someone new, just know that I am not being rude, but rather I have suddenly become incompetent to form a cohesive sentence and my brain is scrambling to think of something, anything, to say.  The topics of weather, jobs, and if you agree that bicycle shorts are both atrocious and awesome at the same time, dry up pretty fast. I tend to be much more witty and sarcastic when it's in print, or if you are someone that I know very well.  If you are a "new person" don't expect the charm and sass to come out all at once. Give me a minute and I'll be harassing you about your skort in no time.  Just promise me that if you ever see a woman that is breaking out in hives and has the "red lobster" slowly creeping up her neck, making her way to her face, just know that it's only me.  Just do me a favor.  Come up to me and in your very best southern charm twang, exclaim to me, "Why Kristina.  I see that your col'as seem to be blush and bashful."  That should snap me out of it. :)
**Oh, brilliance!!!!  Yesterday I read a quote on my friends FB page (hey Tiffany!) and I promised her that I would post it on my blog.  It actually fits like a puzzle piece to today's bloggie, so yay!  Here it is:
"Should you find yourself the victim of other peoples bitterness, ignorance, smallness, or insecurities, just remember it could be worse-you could be them." 
And then I saw this video on another friends page, and I thought, perfect! Enjoy!

Meaning, be kind, be secure, be you, no matter what people think.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of this message.

Steppin' on my soapbox

Alright.  Today I am just going to let 'er rip.  No, I didn't indulge in too much dairy, I mean I am going to rage and complain about the things that make me go *ROAR*.  Now, oftentimes I bring on the aggravation myself.  You see, I am a celebrity gossip website fiend.  I usually relax by going to my favorite website to catch up on all of the celebrity dirt, but within 8.9 seconds I find myself in an uproar mumbling either, "what a douche" or "you've got to be kidding me".  I get pissed over the fact that people are taking time out of their day to write about the train wreck of a hot mess that is Lindsay Lohan, or the incompetent poofed disaster idiot that goes by the name of Snooki, who didn't know that Montana was a state.  SERIOUSLY?  Seriously.  Now, you must be thinking to yourself right about now, "Well Kristina, if you hate reading about them so much, then why do you bother going to those sites?"  The answer is, I just can't help myself.  It's a mix of wanting to feel smarter and classier, to really just wanting to rile myself up about the jerks of this world who take away the light from real issues like war, starvation, and civil rights.  It makes me SO MAD when I hear about someone who has become a celebrity simply for the reason of them utilizing the Bump It, has an affinity for pickles, and wears furry moon boots in the middle of summer.  And then this person who shall remain nameless (because ten bucks says you already know who I'm talking about), goes on to become a NY Times best selling author when they have more knowledge about which tanning booth is the best, rather than knowing that a state is in fact a state.  And then there is the other handful of winners who treat rehab and being thrown in the clink like a joke,  those that are famous because they made a "special tape" where they showed off their triangle in night vision, and reality shows about women who are "Bad Girls" and get enjoyment out of tearing out each others weaves, and turning a tube top into a complete ensemble.  ARRRGGGHHHH.  It just makes me so mad, because these are the type of people that kids are looking up to.   It would be amazing to reach the masses and tell them that it's okay to have an education and to *gasp* actually use your brain, that you don't have to show off your triangle to get people's attention, and that if you are ever actually blessed with holding millions of peoples attention that you should give back to other people, instead of showcasing your abs and demonstrating how they glisten in the sunlight.  I really hope that our society doesn't turn into one that becomes obsessed with those that are so completely vapid and self-centered, even though I think we're already there.  Now, the question is, am I contributing to this problem because I visit sites like Perez (who I would love to meet just to tell him what a large hypocritical imbecile he is),  or is this just simply the world that we live in today?  How can it be changed?  Can it be?  Am I just a big, fat hypocrite because I actually have knowledge about the people that I basically just bashed?  What do you think?  Does today's "celebrity standard", and the things that our media glorifies bother you?  Let me know in the comments if you'd like, because I really would love to know what other people think.  And I'm sorry that today's post isn't HA-HA (you know, like usual ;) but it's just what was on my mind today.
I need to go take a breather.  Hope you all have a glorious day. *Fist bump to the people. ;)

Sexy...

...I've already brought that back, but I was thinking the other day about other things that should also make a comeback.  And here is my list:
*The Bolo Tie:  It's like the mullet of the neck tie world.  It's a party in the front, and yet it means business at the same time.  I'll take you even more serious if your big bolo is adorned with turquoise.
*Spurs: I know the West has already been won, but I feel that it is necessary to be able to hear people a'comin'.  *chingching-chingching* {insert western whistle here}
*Jellies: Popular in the 80's, and made a brief, but not quite the same comeback in the late 90's.  The way that I look at it, the Jelly shoe will help refine your ninja skills, because once those babies come into contact with any type of moisture, good luck trying to remain standing.  They turn into jet skis in the matter of 2.3 seconds, and you look like a nubile young doe trying to get your sea legs.
*Coolots: Only for the sole purpose that they are called "coolots".
Now, if you manage to pull off all of these pieces together at once, you will be my favorite person.  Ever.  If you throw in a crop top and an acid wash denim handbag, then *mind explosion*.  So there you have it folks.  But I gots ta go.  I have to figure out a way to attach my spurs to my jellies, so that they can act as an anchor.  If you hear a *chingching-chingching* followed by a large thud, it'll only be me.  Just be a doll and make sure my bolo tie isn't crooked and that I didn't forget to zip up my coolots. ;)

It's all about the banana

Today's witty anecdote is brought to you by the letter 'M' for monkee.  No friends, that is not a misspelling, but rather an intro into today's post.  You see, when I was about six or seven there was a fierce battle taking place between the loves of my life.  One of them was Ricky Schroder, and his glistening spoons.  His rival was none other than Davy Jones from The Monkees.  As in, "Hey, hey we're the Monkees".  It all started with an album cover of the primate band that either belonged to my mom or my aunt, but either way my cousin and I practically came to fisticuffs over who loved the wee sprite of an Englishman more.  We decided at the time that the only way to end this turf war was to write a letter to our beloved, proclaiming our everlasting love to Sir Davy.  We tore a crisp sheet of loose leaf paper from our Trapper Keeper, sharpened our unicorn pencil, and made sure we had plenty of Lisa Frank stickers to adorn our Baby Soft scented love letter.  We spilled the beans to Mister Monkee about how much we loved his stylish bowl cut, his tight corduroy bell bottom pants, and snazzy black booties. I believe we included self portraits of ourselves, and of course I gave myself bright red lips and eyelids that were adorned with the most vibrant indigo a girl could find.  After we finished our masterpiece that would've made Shakespeare proud, we handed it off to my mom to have her mail it off to the fan club address posted on the back of the album.  Little did we know that the fan club had ceased to exist since 1967, and  Davy at the time was a ripe old age of 40.  We didn't realize that he was old balls even then, but rather fixated on the young buck that was pictured on the album cover.  But since my mother realized that our passion for David ran deep, she and my aunt "mailed" our letter, basically to shut both me and my cousin up.  Time had passed and we continuously asked if they thought the letter had ever been received, and we were frequently given the reply, "Davy is busy frolicking around the nation, beating his tambourine. When he takes time out of his striped pants wearing days, I'm sure he'll write back."  Of course we eventually forgot about Davy and spent that majority of our days trying to figure out just how did Boy George successfully get that smokey eye shadow effect, and where we could get our paws on an authentic Debbie Gibson black hat so that we could look like even bigger goons.  It wasn't until years later that we learned just how off the mark we were with the age difference between us and Mr. Jones.  But even now, years later I still smile whenever I think about the Monkees, and wonder when Davy will ever write me back. :)
*The fantasy... And no, it's not a picture of Donna Hamilton.

*The reality.... And yes, those are moobs.

*And for old times sake....

Oil of Oh-hey

Banana boobs.  Muffin tops. Cankles. Chub rub. Bat wings. Thees (when your thigh and knee look like one).  These were words that were foreign to me as a spry youngster.  When I was twenty there were times that I would be so preoccupied in my day that I forgot to eat.  Now, I get the hunger pangs if I don't feed at my trough every twenty minutes.  Then, I could shove chicken fingers subs and a BK broiler down my gullet and it wouldn't even be a blip on the radar.  Now, I even think about a french fry and my *dunkadoolittle quintuples in size (*fill in the blank).  Things that were once high, toned, sleek, and smooth are now low, flat, stretched, and wide.  When I was twenty-five I had a conversation with a friend who is a few years older than me and she said, "Sharpe, just you wait until your tree rings of life hit thirty.  You'll be looking in the mirror and ask yourself, when did that happen?  Has that always been there?  Were they always so close to my belly button?"  Being young and naive I brushed off the "warning" and thought, "Nah.  Not me."  Ppppbbbbtttttt.  Let me tell you, twenty-something me was an idiot.  Now at the ripe old fat ass age of thirty I have since learned that some things are inevitable.  Gravity takes over areas that were once protected.  I find myself wandering down the "healthy" isle looking for a good flax seed oil that will help prevent my bat wings from taking flight, and vitamins A-Z to help stave off crows feet, triple chin, frowny knees, and a three-ring circus from taking up tent around my mid-section.  I have to do things that make me sweat, lift bells that are dumb, and do the ever dreaded squat.  And whoever invented the squat, I would personally like to pinch in the face.  But the fact of the matter is, things change and apparently I have to roll with the punches.  I've already decided that when things really start to droop/wither/sag, I will hire a team that will conduct the pulleys and levers that will help hold things in place (and up high), and  I will wear a head-to-toe unitard of Spanx to help give the illusion that I am one finely tuned fifty year old (it's good to plan ahead.)  I will scotch tape my face back to give me that shocked/scared/surprised look, and will simply pluck out all of the shining/glistening gray hairs so that my four strands remaining will boldly gleam in their brunette brilliance (which I will adorn with a bow.)  In other words, I plan to (continue to) age gracefully.
To sum it all up, growing older blows, but I've found it easier to deal with when you accept things are bound to change.  Now pardon me. I have to go do my leg lifts so I don't get "flat ass syndrome" because I just thought about something other than a Lean Cuisine. :)
And for your viewing pleasure, a video clip of me.  In the future.

Never have I...

See, a while back I "confessed" to you some things about me, and while mulling that list over I have come to the realization that there is still lots more. LOTS more. So sit back and enjoy the extended ride into Crazytown....
1) I have never watched Top Gun in all of its entirety.  I believe my response to the movie has always been, "That's the one with the planes and volleyball, right?"  It is then always proceeded by the question of, "Do you think Tom Cruise has to shop for his jeans in the boys department, because that man is built like a lithe garden gnome, or something that you would find at the end of the rainbow protecting his stash of gold."
2) I didn't see Dirty Dancing until I was twenty-five, and even then I don't think I saw the whole thing through.  But I do know that nobody, and I mean nobody puts Baby in a corner.  My question is, why the hell would anybody name their child, "Baby", and why would you want to put someone in a corner?
3) I have never successfully slid all the way down a Slip-and-Slide.  I think it had something to do with the fact that I was a "big boned" child, and I always came to a screeching halt when I was about half-way down the slide of terror.  It was like trying to slide a boulder down a piece of plastic.  Instead of being a sleek bullet, I always turned into a Slip-and-Slide dam.
4) As much as I pride myself on being a dancing gazelle, the fact of the matter is I tend to be a klutz.  It used to be way worse when I was a kid, but my mother used to blame it on the fact that I had "weak ankles", aka-I was one tumble down the mountain away from wearing a leash.
5) I am severely allergic to cats, but that has never stopped me from petting one.  Because I am an idiot.
Trust me, there's more, but alas I shall save it for another day. I hope you enjoyed this edition of "Kristina Yet Again Demonstrates Why She is a Weenie."  Until next time my friends. :)

The Wiggles

There is a lot of "grossness" that I can handle.  I live with three dudes so things are bound to get *horf* worthy.  Farts are the norm in the Sharpe household.  I believe that farting is as automatic as breathing and blinking when it comes to the Sharpe Boys.  Do I enjoy the butt bombs going off?  No, of course not.  But other than emitting an, "Ew. You are disgusting.  Aim it in the other direction next time", it doesn't send me dry heaving into the other room.  Between Bentley and Barkley, I have handled more puke and poop then I care to remember.  There have been times when I have had my hands cradled underneath their mouths, trying to catch the puke before it hits the carpet, because the Resolve sprayer was empty and I didn't want an orange patch adorning my beige colored carpet.  But again, no biggie.  I consider it all part of the job.  But there is something that I absolutely, positively cannot stand.  It's something that makes my eyes roll back into my head, and my body erupt in convulsions because it is the most repulsive thing in the whole, wide world.  And that my friends, is loose teeth.  There has already been an agreement between the hubbers and I, that when we have human children and they have loose chiclets, I will not be the one to look at it, touch it, and most certainly not pull it.  It is not normal to be able to bend a chomper at a 90 degree angle.  No, I don't want to see how you can twist it around in almost a full circle like it's possessed.  The fact that it's hanging on by a thread is not "super neat". (I am twitching as I type this...So gross...) If there is something that is wiggling inside of your head, I am not your go-to person.  This may all sound harsh, but the fact of the matter is, I think we all have things that are past our gross-out limit, and wiggly teeth are mine.  Projectile vomit, whatevs. Explosive diarrhea, ain't no thang.  A bendy wiggler, *HORF* *SHUDDER* go find your father.
So that's that my fine friends.  Keep all things that are wiggly and loose to yourself.  Keep flossin'! :)

BING-Oh no you didn't

Besides having charisma and charm coursing through my veins, I also have something else very special a-flowin', and that my friends, is the BINGO gene.  You see, ever since I was a wee little nugget, I would go to BINGO on Sundays with my grandparents, and they taught me the ropes of the game.  You thought it was just about dabbing away at random numbers, didn't you?  Well you're wrong.  There was a lot that I learned as I was bored out of my gored and nearly choked to death by second hand smoke (back then it was legal for the old folk to puff away.  And this was in a school for crying out loud). I watched the players much like a panther studies their prey.  The old women would smoke their Marlboro Reds down to the filter, as it dangled precariously close to their pruned lips, but their hawk eyes were focused on their fourteen bingo cards that they had sprawled across three cards tables, and would snarl at anyone who would dare come close to their boards.  I also learned a lot of new and colorful language when someone in the crowd-who wasn't them-yelled "BINGO!" with unbridled delight.  Who knew an old, frail looking grandmother could throw a BINGO dabber so far?  And with such might?  I don't think I learned that it was inappropriate to holler "Sonofabitch!" every time someone else won, until I was at least eleven.  But besides all of the coarse language and projectile BINGO apparatuses, I focused on something even more amazing.  The victory.  It seemed like the ones that won the round didn't even seem to mind being pelted in the head with dabber caps, and I believe I heard a few times the winner say, "I may be a sonofabitch, but I'm a winning sonofabitch", and then they would proceed to count and fan out their big bucks.  I wanted that winning status and I wanted it bad.
Now besides letting the adults smoke their brains out, they also used to let minors play the boards, as long as someone else yelled "BINGO!" for you, and the money was handed over to the adult.  So there were many a Sunday where I would have my two BINGO boards neatly lined up on the table, would wave my grandmothers lucky lighter over the boards, and perfected my evil glare every time someone won that wasn't me.  And then it happened.  Let me set up the scene: It was a chilly, grey fall day (oh, you don't forget these details when your spirits light up like a Christmas tree because you FINALLY get a taste of what being a winner is like), and I was decked out in my corduroys and turtleneck, sporting the attitude of a winner even before I sat down in between my mom, my grandma.  As the game began I furiously was dabbing away at my numbers, and then BAM.  My winning number was called.  My eyes got as large as saucers and my voice got caught in my throat. "BINGO!"  Wait?  How did I manage to holler when it feels like I swallowed a golf ball?  How did I-Oh.  I looked up from my spot and noticed my mother was frantically waving around my winning board.  My shining moment was eviscerated by someone else claiming my victory.   I eventually realized that she had to yell the most beautiful word in all of BINGO Land, and she had to collect the winnings, because I was only seven at the time, but this was after I sat staunchly in my chair with my arms folded crossly over my Care Bear 'neck, and being snotty to my mother for stealing my moment.  All was forgiven when she of course, forked over my big winnings of thirty-five dollars, and I bought a new Barbie.
It has now been many moons since that victory, but the BINGO gene is still very much present.  Nothing sounds more enticing to me then spending a Thursday evening at the VFW with a good group of friends, my BINGO boards, and my lucky BINGO charms.  I even won once again, and this time I was able to holler "BINGO!" all on my own, and taste that sweet, sweet victory once again.  And you know what?  Being beaned in the head with a dabber doesn't even hurt, or being called inappropriate names by the elderly isn't nearly as biting as I thought it would be.  Because you know what?  I may be a sonofabitch, but I'm a winning sonofabitch. :)

Donkey laughs and triangle inspiration

I'm sure by now you have figured out that I am basically a member of Mensa, and am what the kids would like to call a "genius".  When I was seven I read Great Expectations.  Granted, the only reason I read it is because I loved the book cover (And yes, I do judge books by their covers.  Sometimes people, too.  Oh please.  Like you haven't.  Can you honestly tell me that if you ever saw a dude that was wearing a tee shirt that had a screen print of a wizard and lightening bolts on it, all the while rocking a mullet, you didn't think "keeper" to yourself?  Bull.)  <---Tangent.... Getting back on point, and elaborating on the fact that the reason why my head is so large is because my brain is so big.  When I was ten I read Gone With the Wind because I thought it was going to be a story about a girl who went on an adventure after she got sucked up by a tornado.  I don't even think I have to tell you what a big disappointment that one was.  When I was seventeen I read Faulkner and Tolstoy and was practically hospitalized because I almost died from confusion, and because I felt compelled to torture myself even further, I decided to major in English.  I also wanted to see if it was humanly possible for someone's head to actually explode from ultra-intelligence overload.  Though my head did quadruple in size, it did not in fact, explode.
After years of reading "proper" literature, and trying to figure out what the hell William Faulkner was talking about, I decided that the best type of literature is the kind that makes me laugh out loud like a donkey.  Now, I have two favorite authors.  One is Kurt Vonnegut.  The man was a genius (a real one), and  the mantra in Slaughter House Five is one that I live by (So it goes.).  Now Vonnegut may be intriguing, but his literature isn't exactly the type that will have you bursting at the seems and tinkling in your pants.  But there is one author in particular that makes me laugh like a donkey, without fail, and that my friends, is Laurie Notaro.  Ms. Notaro was the one that coined lady bits as a "triangle", and it has been a word that has stuck in my vocabulary for years.  The majority of her work is memoir-esque, where she recounts experiences that have happened to her.  She talks about getting stuck in a shirt that she was trying on, because it was a medium, instead of a large.  She has an unparalleled gift of describing people to the point where I can't breathe.  Just the other night I was reading one of her newest books, and my husband didn't even have to ask what I was reading because of the tell-tale signs of me laughing and gasping, "Oh my gosh, I think I just peed myself."  I like to think of Laurie as my literary soulmate, who unabashedly talks about her underarm swing (aka-bat wing or bingo arms), or that her corduroys zipzipzip because of the chub rub.  In other words, she doesn't take herself too seriously, and seems to realize that if everyone else is laughing at you, you might as well join in.
So consider todays post as a recommendation for a nugget of joy.  I'm including a link to her page if you are interested in checking out any of her work.  But if Russian literature is more your speed, then I would be more than happy to link you to sparknotes.com, which was the website that saved my GPA in college.
Happy reading my friends.  I hope it is filled with donkey laughs. :)
http://www.idiotgirls.com/contents.html

Big Pimpin'

Another day, another nail adventure.  Can you guess which one I consider pimpified? :)  It's kind of my fave...

Ring fingers-Smoky quartz glitter (Martha Stewart)
All others-Fairy Tale Ivory (Sally Hansen)

Random Thought of Whenever

Alright.  Here's the deal.  Every now and then (aka-always) I have the utmost random thought pop into my head, and I decided that since the whole "theme" of this blog is randomness, I will post short little snippets of whatever random thought is floating around in the old noodle.  Here is the latest:
I someday hope to own a pet that I shall name "Peeve", simply for the sole purpose of having the chance to introduce my pet to new people as follows:  "This is my pet, Peeve."  HA.  The end. :)

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle...Lights, Camera, Action

Two things you need to know about me.
1) I am ridiculous when it comes to recycling.  Like it's borderline obsessive compulsive, but I just can't help it.  I will explain in a little bit though as to why I believe it is embedded so deeply in me, but let me take the time to demonstrate how ridiculous I am when it comes to saving the polar bears (and the rest of the planet.)  You know how people from PeTA will throw red paint onto people who wear gross fur coats/clothing?  Well I'm the type of person who will throw a plastic bottle at a person who dared to throw it away in the regular trash, and screech at them, "RECYCLE THIS!!!!!  Don't you want to save the polar bears?!!??!  Are you so heartless that you don't care if little Nanook, the white ball of loveliness, doesn't have an ice cap to live on?!??!"  They usually look at me perplexed and frightened, but hey, it gets the point across.  I am the type of nut person that recycles everything.  I mean EV. REY. THING.  I will cut the plastic loops that connect pop cans together, and then throw them into the recycling bin, because I can't stand the thought of a poor innocent little bird/raccoon/polar bear getting one tangled around their beak or snout, and then dying a miserable death of starvation.  I have gone to the extremes of picking up other peoples trash, and taking it home just so I can throw it into my own recycling bin.  I'm sure people are wondering where my shopping cart is that's filled with all of my worldly possessions, and that I probably live in a cardboard box down an alley with my sixty-seven cats, but whatevs.  I really don't care.  If it can be recycled, I will do my best at making sure that crinkled up pop can can be turned into a toilet seat cover, or new turtle neck, all through the magical powers of recycling.  Now, I'm going to assume you are thinking, "What the hell?" right about now, so all of this leads us up to Part II....
2)  You see, there is a reason as to why I am so committed to being a vigil anti for the planet.  When I was about ten years old, and during the most awkward stage of my adolescence,  I had the opportunity to have my picture taken and be in a NATIONALLY PUBLISHED BOOK about the importance of recycling.  You know.  NBD.  I was in the fifth grade, and the author of the bookS (oh yes, there were two books) came into my fifth grade classroom and told us the importance of recycling, and even showed us how to make recycled paper out of a concoction that resembled shredded newspaper and boogers.  When the time came and the author asked if any of us would like to have our pictures taken so we could be in the book, I flew on her like a spider monkey going after a treat.  With my arms wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air supply in all of my excitement, I exclaimed, "Pick me! Pick me!  Let me be in a book that will be sold nationwide, so millions thousands hundreds dozens of people can see me with my perm, poof bangs, donkey teeth adorned with braces, and pinned jeans!  Pick me!"  After she passed out on the floor thanks to my vice-like monkey grip, I took that as the a-okay for my debut as a recycling model.  So off I went with a handful of other dedicated recyclers, and the rest is history.
So, that's that my friends.  And remember, if it can be recycled, it should be recycled.  And if I ever see you attempt to throw something away that will threaten the life of little Nanook, I will be all over you like white on rice (that means I will be all up in your biz-naz).  Happy recycling! :)
*And for your viewing pleasure, I leave you with photographic evidence of me looking as awkward as ever.
Enjoy.
*The faces of the other students that I am pictured with have been blurred out, because I don't want anyone else to steal my limelight.