Spoons, trains and idears

When I was a wee-little nugget, I had a lot of dreams.  I wanted to own a toucan, I wanted to play the harp, I wanted to be one of the backup dancers/fake guitar players in all of the Robert Palmer videos, and I wanted to marry Ricky Schroder from 'Silver Spoons'. The boy was magical.  He lived in a mansion, got to ride around on a train all day, in his house, and he would say "idear" instead of simply "idea".  Oh, Ricky.  You and your speech impediment.  I thought it was endearing.  Adorable even.  I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Spoons, and to live in a mansion of our own.  With a train.  (Lets face it.  It was always about the train.)  But eventually I moved onto greener pastures when Joey MacIntyer came into the picture, and won me over with his amazing belt buckle-clutching dance moves.  So my question to you is, who was your pretend boyfriend when you were a little nugget? Did you share my passion for trains Ricky?  Share in the comments. :)

And for your viewing pleasure...

When I grow up...

... I want to be Zooey Deschanel.  Love. Her.

                                                                                  The end :)

Craftmatic Adjustable Dreams

Todays bit of randomness is going to be short and sweet.  When I was a kid I wanted a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed, because I thought it would be like having an amusement park ride in my bedroom.  I mean, how amazing would that be?  A bed rocking My Little Pony sheets, and with a push of a button I could make the mattress resemble the letter 'N'.  I had big dreams.  Now as an adult the thought makes me want to vomit, because owning a craftmatic adjustable anything just means that you're more than likely an AARP member.

What's this couple up to?  Not much.  Just catchin' some Zzzzz's, and livin' the dream :)

Dark and twisty

I'm sure by now you've figured out that I'm a bit "different".  An odd ball.  Silly.  Weirdo.  Whatevs.  All are adjectives that I can live with.  Keeps life entertaining.  Anyways... to add to my "differentness" today I will share with you a fascination that I have had since I was a kid.  No, it's not all things unicorn-like.  It's much better than that.  It's a loony bin.  Seriously.  I grew up right outside of the city of Buffalo, and one of the historic features there is the H.H. Richardson building (aka-The Buffalo Insane Asylum), that was a psychiatric building that was built in 1870.  The building was in use until the 1980's, but was eventually shut down because it was falling apart.  My dad worked as security there for a short while, and he would tell me about the history of the building.  The layout of the building goes from the east to the west.  When you first entered the asylum, and you were the mayor of Crazytown, you started off in the east wing of the building.  If you got better (in other words a mere citizen of Crazytown), they moved you down towards the west wing of the building.  You followed the path of the sun.  Crazyballs=The east-or where the sun rises.  Less crazyballs=The west-or where the sun sets.  I always thought that was fascinating.  Now, the part of the building that would literally captivate me (and still does), are the "Screaming Towers". (*Pictured below)

That's where you went if you were naughty and couldn't control yourself. They always held my interest because 1) they look spooky, and 2) what a whackadoo world it once was, and it was crazy (no pun intended...okay.  yes it was), how we used to treat people.
I've always wanted to go inside the building and see what it's all about.  That, and I'm fairly certain that if there ever was a thing like a past life, I'm sure I would've been a patron of this dark and twisty place.
Now, I know that this post isn't filled with hilarity, but it's just a little random fact about me.  And I hope no one takes offense to todays post either, because I in no way think that mental illness is in anyway funny.  Just a little disclaimer.
Okey dokey.  Well, there you have it.  Is there a place or thing that fascinates you?  Are you an oddball like me? (Chances are if you frequent this blog, you are.  And that is why we are friends to begin with.)
Let me know in the comments a weirdo random fact about you! :)

Things that go bump in the night....

I have a laundry list of things that either give me the hee-bee-gee-bees, or make me curl up into the fetal position underneath large pieces of furniture, only being lured out with a soothing cup of camomile tea and a brownie (because they both are delicious.  duh).  I decided just to list them for you, so this way you will know what to do if you ever see me react as I just mentioned.
1)  The Pillsbury crescent roll cans.  I am convinced that whenever I'm about to open a can up, it's going to explode open, and my last vision in life will be dough hurtling towards my face.
2)  Grates/sewer caps that are a part of the sidewalk or street.  Why?  Because I know in my heart of all hearts that if I ever do step on one, I will fall through.
3)  Swimming pools.  You'll never see this lady swimming alone because you just know that the imaginary great white shark is going to appear and eat me.  Thanks a lot Steven Spielberg, and your cinematic excellence with 'Jaws'.  I should send him my therapy bill.
4)  Airplanes.  Do I really need to explain this one?  A gigantic metal tube that is floating in the sky.  Ridiculous.
5)  Velour pant suits.  I don't think I need to explain this one.
I could probably go on all day with the things that make me go "eek!", but I figured I'll just ease you into my world of crazy.  Now excuse me, I have to go make myself a cup of tea.  There was a Pillsbury commercial on and I'm feeling a little tense.  :)

Bag-O-Rocks and Hulk Hands

Now, I don't consider myself a violent person.  I think people that have to use their fists (or feet for that matter) who are trying to get their point across are basically weenies.  But every once in a while I get filled with "the rage" where I just want to strap on a mean pair of Hulk Hands, and have at 'em.  I mean, what could be a funnier way of showing someone that you mean biz-naz, then having a gigantic green fist in your face?  Now, let me give you an example of when using Hulk Hands would be acceptable:  I was watching Animal Planet today (big mistake....big, big, BIG mistake....make....Hulk....MAD....), and there was this loser who thought that it was acceptable to have a dog living in his backyard, in horrible conditions.  The poor dog had a fractured back leg that was just dangling there, and this idiot thought it was nbd (no big deal).  *Hulk Hand to the face*  Then I made an even bigger mistake by tuning into the "Kardashians", where they basically act like a clan of spoiled rotten buffoons, who are more worried about how their dupa's look in their new pair of jeggings, or if there are any single basketball players left in the world to latch onto.  *Hulk Hand to the face*  Now, the fact of the matter is, if I ever really met any of the Kardashians in real life, I more than likely wouldn't really let them see my Hulk Hand up close and personal, but the fact of the matter is, they're annoying and kind of deserve a foam knuckle sandwich in the kisser.    The dog guy, pppbbbtttt, I think for that one I'd take the foam fists of fury off and go at him pinwheel style with my bare knuckles.  That, I would have no shame for.
Now, about the bag-o-rocks.... Let me share a little story with you to justify rocks in bags.  The other day I had to stop and get gas, and this idiot in his white Ray-Ban knock-off stunners, comes flying into the parking lot, almost taking off the front end of my car.  I'm going to assume that he had to poop really bad, and needed a potty STAT, but the truth is, he was a tool that was driving way too fast, and could've easily killed or hurt someone.  At that moment I had wished that I had a bag of rocks in my car, because I would've rolled down the window and let one fly.  No guns.  No swords.  Just a handy dandy potato sack full of rocks that I would use to dent in the words, "You're a tool" into their car hoods with said rocks.
Okay.  Deep breaths.  I think I need to take some deep cleansing breaths and calm my chi.  And by calm my chi, I mean go and put on some gargantuan green foamies and practice my Hulk stance. :)

A Ramona Quimby Kind of Day

Whenever it is grey and dreary outside, I always think to myself that it is a Ramona Quimby kind of day.  Now, let me explain what this means exactly.... When I was a kid in the 80's, my uncle bought me a copy of Ramona Quimby, Age 8, and I loved it.  I thought it was literary genius.  That, and I was totes jelly over the fact that Ramona had a big sister named Beezus (I remember thinking "Beezus" sounded so exotic).  Anywhoozle, the reason why after almost twenty-five years of reading the book that I think of it on dreary days, is because it always makes me think of cozy days when I was a kid, curled up on my red bean bag chair, reading about the adventures of Ramona.  It was during a time when wearing corduroy elastic band pants and  turtlenecks with rainbows on them was acceptable.  So even though I've traded in the teal colored cords and sneaks with the velcro straps, I can still curl up on a rainy day and remember the good old days.  :)

Pasta, potatoes, and everything in between

Now, I know the title to todays post sounds delicious, but the fact of the matter is, I'm not talking about my favorite side dishes, but rather nicknames.  In the grand scheme of things, not all that many people call me 'Kristina'.  A handful of good friends do, but my family has called me 'Krissie' since I was basically a zygote.  But then there are a whole slew of other nicknames that have either stuck throughout the years, or have been long forgotten.  When I was about 5 or 6, until I was a teenager,  my mom called me 'Pasta' because I loved pasta (still do).  She also called me 'Idaho' because I loved potatoes (duh).  Then there was 'The Keek', 'Keekee', and the one that stuck, 'Krissie'.  My dad called me 'Kris-a-doo', and *'Krissie-poo-poo'.  My husband has a handful of nicknames, and even our furry boys have nicknames.  Actually, I very rarely ever call them by their actual names.  Bentley is mostly referred to as Teeny, Boots, Zagaza, Turnip, Nugget, Nuggs, Midge, Pidge, and Shmuppin.  Barkley is called Biggie, The Big One,  Bigs, Polar Bear, Beast, Doodle, and Scrumptious Muffin.  Most of these sound nonsensical, but to me and Lenny, they make all the sense in the world.  But then again, most of them usually don't make sense.  Right, Monkey?  Haha.  You know who you are. (xo)  So, if you're brave and willing to share, tell me what your favorite/most embarrassing nickname is or was.
*'Krissie-poo-poo' is off limits.  Only a few select family members (and one friend...hi Jilly :)  have the permission to EVER call me that. So, don't make me regret sharing this delightful tidbit about random facts about moi.   :)

Meet the kids

Bentley :)

Barkley :)

These scrumptious muffins are my two furry kids (aka-"The Dudes").  Now someday in the (hopefully) near future, Lenny and I plan on having children that are not covered in fur.  But in the mean time these two rule the roost at the Sharpe household.  Bentley is my teeny, tiny turnip who is a sass-a-frass (just like his mama), and Barkley is my biggie who is  large and lunky and doesn't have a clue that he is in fact, large and lunky.  They have chewed holes in carpets and walls, went on a Target Dog massacre where they ripped out the stuffed dogs' fluff and ripped out their eyeballs, torn numerous blankets, socks, pillows, baseball caps, and credit cards, and dug holes in the backyard that I'm pretty sure lead you right to China.  The little one has an affinity for stealing wrappers and tearing through the house like a bat out of hell (I swear he is mocking/laughing at me as I chase him around the dining room table like a lunatic), and the big one has been known to eat a poop sammie or two (disgusting, I know).  But despite their naughtiness, (and icky habits),  I love them with all my might.  They are the kindest, sweetest, most unconditional loving creatures that you could ever hope to meet.  And no one better tell me that they don't have souls (Leonard knows this topic gets me more heated then finding out that Paris Hilton has her own t.v. show for simply being an idiot....but I digress).   So if you ever see a polar bear and a curly-qued squirrel tromping down the street, make sure you say hello to The Dudes.  They are the two most lovable furry kids in the world. :)

Like peas and car-rots

You see that handsome devil that I'm holding hands with in the pic?  That's my better half, Lenny (aka-Leh-nard, aka-Shriz, aka- Monkey :)  We have been together for about sixty-five thirteen years, and he's the love of my life.  There are parts of us that are so similar that it's creepy (but that can be a post for another day), but the fact of the matter is, I find him absolutely hi-larious, and he accepts my corniness and sass.  While he humors me by answering my random questions like, "If you had the choice between being an eagle or a flamingo, which one would you be?", or, "If you could either have horns like a ram, or a tail like a tiger, which extra appendage would you prefer?",  he is equally ridiculous by singing about peanut butter sandwiches, in the dead of the night, or trying to figure out a way that we could get a pair of mini pigs. In other words, when it comes to being random (aka-awesome), we are even steven.  We also have a quirk that has become much more frequent as we get older.  Without fail, and I mean EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. we leave a department store/grocery store, or anywhere that we have parked the car, we have this conversation.  Verbatim.  Lenny: Do you remember where we parked the car?  Kristina: Not a clue.  So,  needless to say I'm looking forward to the next handful of decades where Lenny and I can wander around a parking lot trying to figure out where in the world we parked the car. So, if in say sixty-five years you're leaving a department store and you hear an old lady wearing a crocheted vest with bells, ask her old husband who is wearing a faded 'Three Man Wolf Pack' tee-shirt with suspenders, if he would rather have wings or duck feet, it'll probably be us.  Just be a pal and point us in the direction of the car with a big orange ball on the antenna, because Lord knows we won't remember where we parked it. :)

I'm sorry.... WHAT did you just call me?!?!?

There are a few things in life that gets my blood boiling;  The mistreatment of people or animals, ignorance and small mindedness, Christina Aguilera, and when people call me "ma'am".  MA'AM.  REALLY??  You see, the problem probably lies in the fact that in my head I'm still twenty.  Twenty-two, tops, so when some kid calls me "ma'am", it's like a slap in the face.  A slap in the old, wrinkled, past my youth, face.  Automatically in my head I think, "Cripes.  How old do I look?!?", and then my next thought is how I would like to lunge across the counter and tell the youngster, "I'll show you "ma'am!"", and that I still have the dexterity and vibrancy of someone that is still considered a "miss".  My question is, when does the "ma'am" status become acceptable?  Late twenties?  Thirty and beyond?  How about, never.  I don't care if I need to invest in Oil of Olay wrinkle reducer, and the three grey hairs that I have are glistening in the sunlight, humor me and call me "miss".  Even "lady" would suffice.  So the next time you are in a store and you see a woman line driving the cashier, it's just me teaching the whipper snapper a lesson.  Ma'am.  Pppbbbtttt.  I'll show you ma'am.  :)

A "Maxxinista Fashionista".... Not this broad

All right folks.  I'm just going to lay it all out there.  I HATE shopping.  With a deep seeded passion.   I don't even like online shopping.  It's probably because I have the attention span of a goldfish, but what it really boils down to is, shopping tends to make me panic-y.  There are too many distractions that my gigantic wrinkled grey matter in the ole bean can't process all at once.  Now, certain stores I can tolerate more than others.  Target is my home away from home, and I am trying to figure out how I can move into Anthropologie without getting arrested.  But then there are places like TJ Maxx and Nordstroms Off the Rack that literally make me have panic attacks.  I so wish I was joking.  Now, I know what you're thinking, "This chick is a whackadoo that is one quirk away from appearing on TLC, following the lady that eats twelve tons of corn starch a day, and the dude that loves balloons WAY too much", but the fact of the matter is, when things aren't ROY G. BIV'd out, and it's a 'sort through it' type of establishment, I just can't handle it.  I have heart palpitations, and I break out in hives.   I don't know where to look first, or where I should even begin.  It's s'okay though.  I've come to accept that fact that I'm *slighty* nuts (or endearing), and the next time you venture into a Burlington Coat Factory and you hear a woman fretting over the fact that the plaids are mixed with the solids, no need to be alarmed, it's probably just me.  :)

It's a bird...it's a plane...it's Super Sharpe!

I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm kind of a super hero.  That happens to be a picture of me in my super hero costume.  The lady behind me is my sidekick who is snapping on my cape (all of the power is in the cape....don't let anyone fool you.)  I have the ability to move lightening fast, and leap off of tall buildings,  all the while landing on my feet (Years of ribbon dancing leaves you nimble with cat-like reflexes.  Think twice before you make fun of a little miss streamers.  The only difference between a ribbon dancer and a ninja is pastels.  We can be lethal.)  But I digress.... even though I have matrix-like capabilities, I do not however, have the one super hero skill that would make Super Sharpe that much more super.  Turning beans and rocks into money.  How amazing would that be?!?  Screw flying and invisibility.  I would be just like Scrooge McDuck from Ducktails, and swim around my room filled sky high with gold coins.  Then I would take a satchel full of said coins and buy my own jet pack and invisibility cloak (trust me, it's already been invented).  So the next time you see me zipping through the air because I'm wearing my amazing new jet pack, I hope you will exclaim in pure happiness, "It's a bird!  It's a plane!  No! It's Super Sharpe!  And she looks ah-mazing in lightening bolts!"  :)

Hypochondria, hardhats, and zombies

For those of you that know me well, know that I tend to be a bit of a hypo.  I always convince myself that I am dying from some new ailment, and WebMD is both my best friend and worst enemy.  Oh! A pain in my right nostril.  Must be a gremlin taking refuge in my sinus cavities.  A hangnail?  No, no.  Must be Leprosy.  I tend to be a bit irrational when it comes to life.  If there is even the slightest inkling that it's going to storm outside, chances are you will find me in my downstairs bathroom, donning a hardhat, clutching a Rosary in one hand and a flashlight in the other.  In other words, I don't handle crisis very well, even the ones that I make up in my very own sweet nugget of a noggin.  But there is one particular scenario that neither scares me nor sends me running to the bathroom, and that is the possibility of a zombie apocalypse. CNN did a feature not too long ago where scientists figured out the chances of a zombie apocalypse  actually happening.  Obviously the chances are slim-to-none, but they also said that it wasn't impossible.  Now,  instead of rushing off to CVS and picking up a years supply a face masks and hand sanitizer,  and calling up my husband in hysterics shouting that we are all doomed (you know.... a typical Monday),  I came up with grand plans if ever this apocalypse were to ever really occur.  I would happily slump through my neighborhood looking for brains, while 'Thriller' blasts from the boom box that I will have perched on my one shoulder.  This coming from the girl who has to tell herself that the angels are bowling every time there is a thunderstorm.  So, if a storm is a comin', you know where to find me.  And if a zombie apocalypse is to ever occur and you suddenly hear M.J. singing about 'thriller nights', and you see a particularly adorable zombie wearing a hardhat, just know it's only me. :)

All I wanna do is dance...

Here's a little tid bit about myself.  I am a dancing MACHINE.  You know that saying, "dance like no one is watching"?  That's pretty much my mantra in life.  There are no limits.  Car dancing, isle dancing, ribbon dancing, etc. etc.  The odd looks from strangers do little to deter these dancing feet.  I mean, when I am perusing the isles at Home Goods and a Tears For Fears jam comes on over the PA, I just can't help but shake what my mama gave me and drop it like its hot.  My latest goal in life is to be part of a Flash Mob.  I want to be the person who is casually sipping on a coffee at Dunkin Donuts, and then spontaneously break out the high kicks and jazz hands with a large group of people.  But my question is, how does one become part of something so glorious?  Is there a sign up sheet?  A secret club that I don't know about?  Either way, I will get to the bottom of this.  So, if you're ever at the mall and a Flash Mob suddenly breaks out into some sweet dance moves, just look for me.  I'll be the one probably facing the wrong direction, but I'll be having the time of my life.  :)

It's the simple things...

So, I'm sitting here thinking to myself what on earth my first post should be about.  Should I tackle my thoughts on Weinergate?  How my husband recently google searched "can you have a sloth as a pet"?  Or better yet, my critique on the Pajama Jean?  But no.  My first post is going to be about the simplest thing that I absolutely, positively detest doing.  And trust me, it's a looooong list, but I decided to ease you into my world of whine, and give you a small example... Right now my cell phone is currently sitting beside me, blinking.  And that blinking light is indicating that it is about to die and needs to be charged.  Now, a normal person would just plug the stupid thing in. But this person?  Nopers.  I just let it sit there. Dying a slow, cell phone death.  And then when I'm out and about and I actually need my cell phone, I have a *slight* panic attack over the fact that it's dead.  So the next time you try to give me a jingle on my cell phone and it goes directly to voicemail, don't get irritated with me.  Just remember that I am adorable, and the fact that I haven't charged my phone in over a week is just part of my charm.  :)