I'm sure many of you are aware that I am a master of many crafts and talents. I mean, I have the ability to pick up an instrument and play it beautifully, without having been given any type of formal training. You should see me rock out a tambourine. It's like woah. I've had people throw money at me while I broke out in a random concert playing, what else, but Tambourine Man. Just so you know, quarters hurt, so if you have the urge to throw cash at me, please make it rain with paper money. But back to my "many crafts and talents." I have what the kids call a "green thumb." I can throw something in the ground or pot, and watch it flourish. And then I keep watching it until I decide that it can now die a miserable death and dry out to a big brown heap. I guess I just like to challenge myself to see if I can actually grow something. A few years ago I decided to grow a vegetable garden. Lenny was all like, "Really, Kristina? Really." It's not that he wasn't supportive in my farming endeavors, but rather the man knew exactly what I would do. I would till, churn, water, and pluck. I would have tomatoes grow the size of basketballs, and cucumbers that were huuuuuuuuge, and looked like, well, large cucumbers. Perverts. Where did you think I was going to take that one? I had patches of mint that grew enough leaves to make at least a dozen gallons of mojitos. But eventually after my garden had flourished, I was dunzo. I stopped watering it. The thought of eating anything from the garden made me want to *horf*. I mean, ew. That shiz is growing in the dirt. Do you know what can be found in the dirt? Spiders. Worms. Beetles. SPIDERS. HORRFFFBBBBLLAAARRGGGGGG <--- That's the sound of me vomiting from just the thought of eating any of it. Now, I've had well informed people say to me, "Umm, dummy. You do know where the vegetables that you purchase from the grocery store come from, right? " And I'm all, "Yeah, yeah. I know. But I don't have to see it." At least when I buy stuff from the grocery store I don't have to see it being plucked from the ground. I can just pretend that it just magically appeared there, and not a single spider leg touched a single berry, potato, or cucumber. So I'll stick to buying my produce at the market.
I know I'm not the only one that feels this way, either. My one fur-child, Barkley, decided he was going to have a feast on the tomatoes that left laying on the ground that were being inhibited by a family of tarantulas, and proceeded to come into the house and barf all over the living room carpet about sixteen times. I think the realization that he just ate spider tomatoes hit him, and it made him yak. I mean, he does eat poo sammies on occasion, but whatevs. Spider tomatoes are nasty.
You would think that after The Garden of '09, I would've learned my lesson and realized that I could indeed grow a crop, but nopers. A couple of months ago I wondered if I could grow something inside of the house. You know, away from critters. So I bought a packet of basil and mint seeds, and they grew. Boy did they grow. And again Leonard said, "Really, Kristina? Really. What are you going to do with the basil?" This is a valid question because 1) if it doesn't come in a box or bag, I'm not going to cook it, and 2) I don't recollect the time when I've ever had a hankering for something basil-y. But I grew it anyways, and eventually I grew bored with it (haha... get it... grew), and let it die. I just tossed the shriveled basil and mint leaves away just a few days ago.
For now my growing spurt has dissipated, but I'm sure the urge will return again. In fact I think I'm going to challenge myself and try to grow pumpkins. Inside. On the kitchen window ledge. Oh, the possibilities. :)
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
I am Mermaid. Here me Glug.
I am BACK. Sorry for my absence, *but truth be told I was interning at a scorpion rehabilitation center during the months of August-June, so my blog entries have been few and far between. Note to self: There is nothing snuggly about a scorpion. They are bite-y. And stingy. But I digress... What I'm trying to say is, I'm back now on a more regular consistency. (*I am lying.)
Now, you might have looked at today's title entry, and are wondering to yourself, "she's a mermaid, too?" Basically, yes. I have always loved the water. When I was a kid I would lay in the bathtub and have my hair fan out and I would swish it to-and-fro, pretending that I was a magnificent mermaid. I wouldn't leave the tub until my body resembled a large prune, and the water became a tepid fifty degrees. When I got a little older, my family finally got a pool, and I practically lived in it from June-August. I would splash around gleefully, resembling that of an orca, arcing gracefully out of the water, and then thundering down with a loud (and wave churning) *splash*. But when you're a kid, you really don't care how you look in your swim gear, and you're just there for the fun of it. I would rock out a neon colored one-piece suit like it was my job, and my main concern was that I had the less pinch-y type of nose plugs, and if my BFF would be able to bring her blow-up whale over, so we could go on an epic sea adventure in my ten-footer. But as I got older, and the blow-up whale had more than one blow-hole (due to one "sea adventure" that involved jumping on the inflatable whale like it was a clydesdale, only having it sink to the bottom of the pool like a boulder), and suddenly it dawned on me that one should not draw attention to themselves by basically wearing neon colored underpants in the daytime. So, my pastime of swimming like there was no tomorrow were long gone. Until today. You see, now that my summers are free, I decided to get a swim pass at a local rec center, so I could swim myself back into shape. Let me paint you a picture of today's first time back in the pool, in I don't know how long...
I set my alarm for 5 AM, and I actually rolled myself out of bed, stuffed myself into my black life-sucking bathing suit (all the while wishing that it would be acceptable to wear a turtleneck and yoga pants in the pool), and trying to shove my armpit fat down into this torture device known as "swim gear", hoping that I could pass it off more as boobage, instead of having armpit rolls that resemble vaginas. Sorry if that's a little much, but let's be honest. That's what it looks like. After adjusting my bathing suit so my armpit wings wouldn't get in my way, I was in my car and headed to re-live my youth as a magnificent, magnificent mermaid. I pulled into a parking space, and literally had to brace myself before walking in. There actually were quite a few cars in the lot, which induced panic. The thought of swimming like a torpedo in front of an audience made me hyperventilate. But, because I am brave, I went in anyways.
After trying to figure out how to open up the frigging locker for ten minutes-I'm not even kidding. I probably looked like a newborn primate trying to figure out how doorknobs work-I finally was ready to get my swim on. With a deep breath, and my towel wrapped tightly around my waist, I headed for the pool. Luckily there was only one other dude in there who looked like he was a current subscriber to AARP, so I dropped my towel with a little more confidence. I mean, he might've been wearing goggles, so he could've had a clear vision of me thrashing around like a bass out of water, but the man was utilizing a kick-board, and seemed to be in his own little world. I slid into the water and thought that I would start off strong by doing the breast stroke. Oh. My. God. Who knew you could actually sweat while you were in water. I was half-way down the lane and I literally thought to myself, "Self, if you were ever stranded out at sea, and had to swim for it, you'd be screwed. You would sink to the bottom like the Titanic, and then be eaten by barracudas." I honestly think that if Mr. Kick-board wasn't there I would've walked back to the beginning lane, and called it quits. But I didn't. Instead for the next half an hour I swam like a champion. I didn't care that I probably looked like a manatee that was on its last leg, or that I was huffing and puffing like the little engine that (barely) could, and that I kept drifting into the side of the wall because I am incapable of swimming in a straight line. I kept on going.
When I decided that I was ready for the water Olympics, I took a deep breath, splayed my hair out in the water, just like a mermaid would do, and then wondered if it would be okay if I brought an inflatable whale with me for next time. :)
And here is a little photographic evidence of my childhood spent as a neon-donned mermaid. I am the one of the right. The person on the left is my best friend, and inflatable whale supplier. HA! Love you, Brooke!
Now, you might have looked at today's title entry, and are wondering to yourself, "she's a mermaid, too?" Basically, yes. I have always loved the water. When I was a kid I would lay in the bathtub and have my hair fan out and I would swish it to-and-fro, pretending that I was a magnificent mermaid. I wouldn't leave the tub until my body resembled a large prune, and the water became a tepid fifty degrees. When I got a little older, my family finally got a pool, and I practically lived in it from June-August. I would splash around gleefully, resembling that of an orca, arcing gracefully out of the water, and then thundering down with a loud (and wave churning) *splash*. But when you're a kid, you really don't care how you look in your swim gear, and you're just there for the fun of it. I would rock out a neon colored one-piece suit like it was my job, and my main concern was that I had the less pinch-y type of nose plugs, and if my BFF would be able to bring her blow-up whale over, so we could go on an epic sea adventure in my ten-footer. But as I got older, and the blow-up whale had more than one blow-hole (due to one "sea adventure" that involved jumping on the inflatable whale like it was a clydesdale, only having it sink to the bottom of the pool like a boulder), and suddenly it dawned on me that one should not draw attention to themselves by basically wearing neon colored underpants in the daytime. So, my pastime of swimming like there was no tomorrow were long gone. Until today. You see, now that my summers are free, I decided to get a swim pass at a local rec center, so I could swim myself back into shape. Let me paint you a picture of today's first time back in the pool, in I don't know how long...
I set my alarm for 5 AM, and I actually rolled myself out of bed, stuffed myself into my black life-sucking bathing suit (all the while wishing that it would be acceptable to wear a turtleneck and yoga pants in the pool), and trying to shove my armpit fat down into this torture device known as "swim gear", hoping that I could pass it off more as boobage, instead of having armpit rolls that resemble vaginas. Sorry if that's a little much, but let's be honest. That's what it looks like. After adjusting my bathing suit so my armpit wings wouldn't get in my way, I was in my car and headed to re-live my youth as a magnificent, magnificent mermaid. I pulled into a parking space, and literally had to brace myself before walking in. There actually were quite a few cars in the lot, which induced panic. The thought of swimming like a torpedo in front of an audience made me hyperventilate. But, because I am brave, I went in anyways.
After trying to figure out how to open up the frigging locker for ten minutes-I'm not even kidding. I probably looked like a newborn primate trying to figure out how doorknobs work-I finally was ready to get my swim on. With a deep breath, and my towel wrapped tightly around my waist, I headed for the pool. Luckily there was only one other dude in there who looked like he was a current subscriber to AARP, so I dropped my towel with a little more confidence. I mean, he might've been wearing goggles, so he could've had a clear vision of me thrashing around like a bass out of water, but the man was utilizing a kick-board, and seemed to be in his own little world. I slid into the water and thought that I would start off strong by doing the breast stroke. Oh. My. God. Who knew you could actually sweat while you were in water. I was half-way down the lane and I literally thought to myself, "Self, if you were ever stranded out at sea, and had to swim for it, you'd be screwed. You would sink to the bottom like the Titanic, and then be eaten by barracudas." I honestly think that if Mr. Kick-board wasn't there I would've walked back to the beginning lane, and called it quits. But I didn't. Instead for the next half an hour I swam like a champion. I didn't care that I probably looked like a manatee that was on its last leg, or that I was huffing and puffing like the little engine that (barely) could, and that I kept drifting into the side of the wall because I am incapable of swimming in a straight line. I kept on going.
When I decided that I was ready for the water Olympics, I took a deep breath, splayed my hair out in the water, just like a mermaid would do, and then wondered if it would be okay if I brought an inflatable whale with me for next time. :)
And here is a little photographic evidence of my childhood spent as a neon-donned mermaid. I am the one of the right. The person on the left is my best friend, and inflatable whale supplier. HA! Love you, Brooke!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Mine
Fact: I am an only child
Another fact: This is a fact that most people are flabbergasted by.
Let me demonstrate-
Me: "I am an only child."
Not me: "You're kidding? I never would've guessed."
The above conversation is a true story. Typically when people come to light of the fact that I am a lone child, they are stunned. Amazed. Bamboozeled. When people are surprised by this piece of information, I usually have a follow-up statement and/or question of: "It's because I'm so amazing, isn't it? You would've guessed by my humble demeanor that I come from a Duggar household. You assumed that I was at least child number three, because I don't seem bratty. Or self-entitled. Or needy, like a middle child." (Sorry you middle children, but Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.) I am a rare breed. Both because I am an only child, and I am all of the wonderful things that I have listed previously. Kind of.... You see, I am a giver of my time, my hugs, my wit and charm. But there is one aspect of my singleness that does demonstrate that I am, indeed, a lone spawn. I hate sharing. Hate. It. And I completely blame my mother. :) Mom Dukes never really encouraged the whole "sharing" thing. She always figured that since I was an only child, I should be able to reap some of the rewards. I never had a brother or sister to rip toys from their hands, or have to fight over who gets what. It was always mine. I can vividly remember Christmases at my house, and I would hold my breath and have a mini melt-down over the fact that someone was touching my new Barbie. I would pile my loot and put all of the extra-special things in the back of the tree, where no one could get their grubby little paws on them. Even though I would never really say anything to anyone, I would be watching them like a hawk, and thinking to myself, "I swear to the Heavens that if anyone, anyoneeeeeee, pushes that pop-o-matic bubble too hard on my new game of Trouble, I will pop them." I'm sure it must've been pretty entertaining (or irritating) for my family to watch a neurotic six year old lose her shiz over the fact that someone was manhandling something that wasn't theirs. I wish I could say that I have outgrown this tendency of selfishness, but alas, I haven't. I still have a difficult time sharing any of my goods. Now don't get me wrong, I do share, but on the inside I am sweating bullets and having a total conniption fit. The thoughts of, "If you break it/ruin it/mess it up, I will squish you," comes to mind. There is a pot 'o gold at the end of this rainbow, though. I find the older you get, the less you actually have to share. The only time that I am reminded of my embedded selfishness is when Lenny and I get Fat Kid Food-aka take out-and he plunges his hand into the bag and starts grabbing random fries. That are probably from my fry container. You would have thought that the man was about to steal a kidney without permission. I seethe with irritation, all the while trying to seem nonchalant, but manage to say through clenched teeth, "You better keep those lady fingers out of my fry box." Okay, maybe I'm not so nonchalant about it, and maybe I've not only effectively demonstrated that I don't like to share, but I can also behave like a total fat a**.
In conclusion, I think it's fair to say that I am the Captain of the 'S.S. It's Mine-ow', and really have no qualms about it. Share a hug? Sure. Share my sticks of delicious Idaho goodness? Get your own. :)
Another fact: This is a fact that most people are flabbergasted by.
Let me demonstrate-
Me: "I am an only child."
Not me: "You're kidding? I never would've guessed."
The above conversation is a true story. Typically when people come to light of the fact that I am a lone child, they are stunned. Amazed. Bamboozeled. When people are surprised by this piece of information, I usually have a follow-up statement and/or question of: "It's because I'm so amazing, isn't it? You would've guessed by my humble demeanor that I come from a Duggar household. You assumed that I was at least child number three, because I don't seem bratty. Or self-entitled. Or needy, like a middle child." (Sorry you middle children, but Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.) I am a rare breed. Both because I am an only child, and I am all of the wonderful things that I have listed previously. Kind of.... You see, I am a giver of my time, my hugs, my wit and charm. But there is one aspect of my singleness that does demonstrate that I am, indeed, a lone spawn. I hate sharing. Hate. It. And I completely blame my mother. :) Mom Dukes never really encouraged the whole "sharing" thing. She always figured that since I was an only child, I should be able to reap some of the rewards. I never had a brother or sister to rip toys from their hands, or have to fight over who gets what. It was always mine. I can vividly remember Christmases at my house, and I would hold my breath and have a mini melt-down over the fact that someone was touching my new Barbie. I would pile my loot and put all of the extra-special things in the back of the tree, where no one could get their grubby little paws on them. Even though I would never really say anything to anyone, I would be watching them like a hawk, and thinking to myself, "I swear to the Heavens that if anyone, anyoneeeeeee, pushes that pop-o-matic bubble too hard on my new game of Trouble, I will pop them." I'm sure it must've been pretty entertaining (or irritating) for my family to watch a neurotic six year old lose her shiz over the fact that someone was manhandling something that wasn't theirs. I wish I could say that I have outgrown this tendency of selfishness, but alas, I haven't. I still have a difficult time sharing any of my goods. Now don't get me wrong, I do share, but on the inside I am sweating bullets and having a total conniption fit. The thoughts of, "If you break it/ruin it/mess it up, I will squish you," comes to mind. There is a pot 'o gold at the end of this rainbow, though. I find the older you get, the less you actually have to share. The only time that I am reminded of my embedded selfishness is when Lenny and I get Fat Kid Food-aka take out-and he plunges his hand into the bag and starts grabbing random fries. That are probably from my fry container. You would have thought that the man was about to steal a kidney without permission. I seethe with irritation, all the while trying to seem nonchalant, but manage to say through clenched teeth, "You better keep those lady fingers out of my fry box." Okay, maybe I'm not so nonchalant about it, and maybe I've not only effectively demonstrated that I don't like to share, but I can also behave like a total fat a**.
In conclusion, I think it's fair to say that I am the Captain of the 'S.S. It's Mine-ow', and really have no qualms about it. Share a hug? Sure. Share my sticks of delicious Idaho goodness? Get your own. :)
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
I don't even know...
My thoughts have been so disjointed lately that there is a whole random cluster taking place in my brain, making it nearly impossible to get any of the "funnies" into competent, coherent sentences. So, to be a little less of a slacker, I have decided to jot down the swill that has been churning over in my thought wrinkles:
*My irrational fear of garage zombies (I will go into more detail about this one at a later time, but it pretty much coincides with the scary death man hobgoblin that lives under my bed, that will grab me by my ankles and pull me down into Torture Land-where there are spiders the size of Cadillacs, and 'Keeping Up With The Kardashians' is playing on a constant loop-if I don't jump into my bed fast enough at night.)
*How I feel that skinny jeans and fedoras should be illegal (and anyone who wears them together should be shipped off to Hipster Island, where they can watch Downton Abbey on a continuous reel, and have contests like, 'Who Has The Tightest Pants', and, 'Watch How I Can Turn This Palm Frond Into A Stylish Scarf', together.)
*The fact that I have owned too many turtlenecks in my lifetime, and have used the word 'wanderlust' (Out loud. To a person that could hear me), to ever be considered cool.
*How I want to own this shirt, because I find it ironic. (*The shirt is described as a "zombie wound", but I took it to mean something totally different before I read the description. I mean, seriously. How many times have you told a person, "I'm fine," when clearly you aren't, but it's just too exhausting to explain otherwise.)
*How I want to adopt a slow loris, because this critter is one outburst of, "Scratch my wingies! With both hands! In circles!" from being the fur version of me, demanding to be tickled and/or scratched.
*And finally, how I feel awkward and uncomfortable listening to Justin Beaver "rap" about being someones boyfriend. Oh, the Beave...the Beave...
So hopefully on a day when my thoughts aren't all squishy and mushed together, I will write a cohesive piece on why there is nothing better, or more hilarious, than a deep-V neck t-shirt. :)
*My irrational fear of garage zombies (I will go into more detail about this one at a later time, but it pretty much coincides with the scary death man hobgoblin that lives under my bed, that will grab me by my ankles and pull me down into Torture Land-where there are spiders the size of Cadillacs, and 'Keeping Up With The Kardashians' is playing on a constant loop-if I don't jump into my bed fast enough at night.)
*How I feel that skinny jeans and fedoras should be illegal (and anyone who wears them together should be shipped off to Hipster Island, where they can watch Downton Abbey on a continuous reel, and have contests like, 'Who Has The Tightest Pants', and, 'Watch How I Can Turn This Palm Frond Into A Stylish Scarf', together.)
*The fact that I have owned too many turtlenecks in my lifetime, and have used the word 'wanderlust' (Out loud. To a person that could hear me), to ever be considered cool.
*How I want to own this shirt, because I find it ironic. (*The shirt is described as a "zombie wound", but I took it to mean something totally different before I read the description. I mean, seriously. How many times have you told a person, "I'm fine," when clearly you aren't, but it's just too exhausting to explain otherwise.)
*How I want to adopt a slow loris, because this critter is one outburst of, "Scratch my wingies! With both hands! In circles!" from being the fur version of me, demanding to be tickled and/or scratched.
*And finally, how I feel awkward and uncomfortable listening to Justin Beaver "rap" about being someones boyfriend. Oh, the Beave...the Beave...
So hopefully on a day when my thoughts aren't all squishy and mushed together, I will write a cohesive piece on why there is nothing better, or more hilarious, than a deep-V neck t-shirt. :)
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Someone get out the meat sheers
*The following conversation is embellished (aka-fictionalized), but it basically sums up my life:
911 dispatcher: 911, what's your emergency?
Me: I'm stuck.
911: You're stuck? In what? A well? A hole? In quick sand?
Me: No. Boots.
911: You're stuck in boots? Is that a place?
Me: No. My BOOTS. My knock-off Wellies. They're stuck. On my feet. And I'm having a panic attack.
911: Is this the same lady that called before about getting stuck in her Spanx?
Me: I don't want to talk about it.
911: And wasn't there also the time, something with a turtleneck?
Me: Hey! It's not MY fault that the fashion industry discriminates against people who happen to have a large circumference around their dome. They should take people like us into consideration when they make their turtleneck holes. It was like giving birth to my own head. I just saw flashes of blue cotton fibers, and my life flashing before me eyes.
911: Just exactly how are you stuck in your boots? Or excuse me, "wellies".
Me: Same as the Spanx and the turtleneck.
911: You're squeezing things of a large circumference into something too small?
Me: I'll happen to let you know I have large feet to hold up my large head. I'm proportionate.
911: We can't send emergency workers to release you from your boots, ma'am.
Me: Dammit.
911: Just get out the meat sheers, ma'am.
Me: But then my boots will be ruined.
911: Ma'am...
Me: Dammit. Fine.
And that is the story of the time my boats got stuck in the dock, so to speak. My predicament did give me an idea for my next Halloween costume, though. I'm going to go as a Chinese finger cuff, decked out in my death trap blue turtleneck, Spanx, and blue wellies. And I think Lenny should be one big giant meat sheer. (Gotta keep with the couples theme. :)
911 dispatcher: 911, what's your emergency?
Me: I'm stuck.
911: You're stuck? In what? A well? A hole? In quick sand?
Me: No. Boots.
911: You're stuck in boots? Is that a place?
Me: No. My BOOTS. My knock-off Wellies. They're stuck. On my feet. And I'm having a panic attack.
911: Is this the same lady that called before about getting stuck in her Spanx?
Me: I don't want to talk about it.
911: And wasn't there also the time, something with a turtleneck?
Me: Hey! It's not MY fault that the fashion industry discriminates against people who happen to have a large circumference around their dome. They should take people like us into consideration when they make their turtleneck holes. It was like giving birth to my own head. I just saw flashes of blue cotton fibers, and my life flashing before me eyes.
911: Just exactly how are you stuck in your boots? Or excuse me, "wellies".
Me: Same as the Spanx and the turtleneck.
911: You're squeezing things of a large circumference into something too small?
Me: I'll happen to let you know I have large feet to hold up my large head. I'm proportionate.
911: We can't send emergency workers to release you from your boots, ma'am.
Me: Dammit.
911: Just get out the meat sheers, ma'am.
Me: But then my boots will be ruined.
911: Ma'am...
Me: Dammit. Fine.
And that is the story of the time my boats got stuck in the dock, so to speak. My predicament did give me an idea for my next Halloween costume, though. I'm going to go as a Chinese finger cuff, decked out in my death trap blue turtleneck, Spanx, and blue wellies. And I think Lenny should be one big giant meat sheer. (Gotta keep with the couples theme. :)
Monday, January 2, 2012
It's good to have goals
Happy New Year, my darlings. It is now officially 2012, and the world has not imploded. *sigh of relief* It's that time of year where people typically make resolutions. I honestly don't ever do that, because it's basically setting yourself up for failure. However.... however, this is the time of year when the "random strikes again", and I get new and different ideas in my head that I want to accomplish. I mentioned one of my ideas to my husband the other day and he had the audacity to mumble, "Gah, you're so random," and I was like, "Really? Really." Like it's something new.... But I figured I would share my list with you of 2012 goals, and then I figured I would be able to share with you through this new year if I accomplish any or all of them.
Here it goes....
1) I want to do a Polar Bear Plunge. Number one, I LOVE polar bears. I think they are adorable and delightful. Now I know I won't become a polar bear if I accomplish this goal, but I do plan on roaring and swiping my p. bear paws as I plunge into the frigid lake waters of MN. I did my research and there is a plunge-a-roo coming up at the end of January. I'm *thisclose* to registering, because I have also tangled a few friends into this delightful tangled web of hypothermia, and I figured if I end up losing a few ears and limbs due to frostbite, and least I won't be alone.
2) I want to learn how to rock climb. I'd be fine with starting off on one of those rock climbing walls that they have at a gym, or at an REI, and then make my way to a canyon that is about ten feet high. Where did I come up with this little diddy, you may be wondering? Well, there is a new commercial on t.v. for a credit card, where this insane woman and her pretend boyfriend climb to the tippy top of a mountain. My first thought was, "What a nut bag." My second thought was, "I would poop my pants if I did that." And then my third and final thought about it was, "I wanna try it." I definitely do not want to climb something that high, but I feel that it is important to do something that scares the crap out of you, at least once, because that's how many times you live, and you might as well enjoy it. So if you happen to venture out to an REI store, and you see a woman swinging like an orangutan on a wall made out of plastic, and her shouting, "Get me doowwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!! I just pooped my pants from fear," it's just me, crossing an item off of my "to do" list.
3) I want to learn how to sew and get one of those fancy sewing machines. You see, I am awful at sewing. I had pants hems that have fallen more than Lindsey Lohan on a bender, and I always resort to tape, a stapler, and maybe some Elmer's glue, and for whatever reason, it never really keeps. So I'm feeling crafty, and I want to give it a whirl. Nothing would give me more satisfaction that proving to my Home Ec teacher from twenty years ago that I can indeed use a sewing machine without physically punching it and destroying the bobber.
4) Now this last one is probably on everyone's list this year, but I refuse to call it a "resolution", because like I said before, I feel like I'd be setting myself up for failure. But here it is, my last random act of to do's for 2012 (until the next ridiculous idea comes to mind):
I would like my thighs to not touch. There. I said it. And I mean without the help of Spanx. How glorious would that be to not have to worry about the chub rub? So I'd like to get a treadmill so I can skip myself into a smaller circumference in the privacy of my own home.
There you have it, folks. My List. I'll let you know if I accomplish any of these things. Chances are, pick the most ridiculous one off the list, and that's that one that I'll probably tackle first.
So heres to 2012! May it be a year filled with (intentional) icy plunges, rock climbing gear that rides up your triangle, and smaller thighs! Happy New Year, friends! :0)
Here it goes....
1) I want to do a Polar Bear Plunge. Number one, I LOVE polar bears. I think they are adorable and delightful. Now I know I won't become a polar bear if I accomplish this goal, but I do plan on roaring and swiping my p. bear paws as I plunge into the frigid lake waters of MN. I did my research and there is a plunge-a-roo coming up at the end of January. I'm *thisclose* to registering, because I have also tangled a few friends into this delightful tangled web of hypothermia, and I figured if I end up losing a few ears and limbs due to frostbite, and least I won't be alone.
2) I want to learn how to rock climb. I'd be fine with starting off on one of those rock climbing walls that they have at a gym, or at an REI, and then make my way to a canyon that is about ten feet high. Where did I come up with this little diddy, you may be wondering? Well, there is a new commercial on t.v. for a credit card, where this insane woman and her pretend boyfriend climb to the tippy top of a mountain. My first thought was, "What a nut bag." My second thought was, "I would poop my pants if I did that." And then my third and final thought about it was, "I wanna try it." I definitely do not want to climb something that high, but I feel that it is important to do something that scares the crap out of you, at least once, because that's how many times you live, and you might as well enjoy it. So if you happen to venture out to an REI store, and you see a woman swinging like an orangutan on a wall made out of plastic, and her shouting, "Get me doowwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!! I just pooped my pants from fear," it's just me, crossing an item off of my "to do" list.
3) I want to learn how to sew and get one of those fancy sewing machines. You see, I am awful at sewing. I had pants hems that have fallen more than Lindsey Lohan on a bender, and I always resort to tape, a stapler, and maybe some Elmer's glue, and for whatever reason, it never really keeps. So I'm feeling crafty, and I want to give it a whirl. Nothing would give me more satisfaction that proving to my Home Ec teacher from twenty years ago that I can indeed use a sewing machine without physically punching it and destroying the bobber.
4) Now this last one is probably on everyone's list this year, but I refuse to call it a "resolution", because like I said before, I feel like I'd be setting myself up for failure. But here it is, my last random act of to do's for 2012 (until the next ridiculous idea comes to mind):
I would like my thighs to not touch. There. I said it. And I mean without the help of Spanx. How glorious would that be to not have to worry about the chub rub? So I'd like to get a treadmill so I can skip myself into a smaller circumference in the privacy of my own home.
There you have it, folks. My List. I'll let you know if I accomplish any of these things. Chances are, pick the most ridiculous one off the list, and that's that one that I'll probably tackle first.
So heres to 2012! May it be a year filled with (intentional) icy plunges, rock climbing gear that rides up your triangle, and smaller thighs! Happy New Year, friends! :0)
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
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. :)
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. :)
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