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.)