Rage Against the Machine

Now I know I tend to paint myself in a glorious light.  I try to highlight the positive attributes that I have.  You know... My ability to swim like a dolphin, play intense instruments like the kazoo and finger snapping, and my greatest goal in life, becoming an exceptional fisherman of items that have fallen down into the deep crevice of my boobie cavern.  Not all of us can be graceful creatures.  But today I figured I would show you the more "human" side to me, and that I too, have flaws.  I think I just heard audible gasps from the crowd, and can practically hear some of your internal thought processes:  You mean this woman who tries to pass off mustache sweat as a glow has flaws?  Say it ain't so.  Oh.  It's so.  Okay... here it goes.  *Deep breath* I...have road rage.  NOW WAIT A MINUTE!!!! Let me explain.  The problem you see isn't me.  It's all the douche nuggets on the road that goad me into a rage of fury.  I have two wishes in this world.  1) That my car came equipped with a box of rocks, so that I could have them on hand to hurl at people who are driving like ace-holes.  Each rock will come equipped with a note tethered to it that would say: YOU are a douche nozzle.  I'm not concerned with a "Baby On Board" window sticker.  I want one to say "Lady With a Box of Rocks On Board".  See if you'll want to ride my a-s-s then.  Douche.  My second wish is that the my back windshield had LED lights that would spell out "You Sure Must Be An Ass Man, Because You Sure Are Riding Mine-BACK OFF", or "WARNING: Lady With A Box Of Rocks".  *sigh* A girl can dream.
You might be wondering why someone as demure, calm, and classy as myself would be filled with such rage, and the answer is simple.  People are ace-holes and don't know how to drive. The other day I went out to lunch with a friend of mine, and the issue of road rage came up.  My friend had a theory that the reason why we probably have road rage (she's a rager, too), is because we have to have so much patience during our daytime jobs, that by the end of the day our patience tank has been completely depleted, and we are ready to lob some rocks.  Being professional beekeepers  does require copious amounts of patience, so I totally get her point.
I will end today's post with a conversation snippet that happened between Leonard and myself, as we were driving along the thruway, and the King of all Douche's that was driving a gigantic white Dodge pickup truck, license plate number IMADOUCHE, decided to ride my rear and then had the AUDACITY to flash his high beams at me, and then proceed to make hand gestures to me, suggesting that I should get in the other lane.  Yeah. Well I had some hand gestures for him too.  Unless you have a RAGING case of butt rush, get off of mine.
Me:  OMG...This ace-hole is going to run me off the road! And now he's giving me the thumb!  I'll give him the thumb!  Except instead of my thumb I'm going to flash him the Doublemint Twins.
Leonard:  Seriously Kristina.  He can't hear you calling him a douche bucket.  Your window is rolled up.  Just get in the other lane.
Me (too busy being enraged to listen): I am busting out in HIVES, I'm so mad right now. HAHA! I'm not moving over. I'm going to box this tool off.  Let's see how going forty in a seventy feels. *maniacal laughter*
Douche Nugget behind me:  More erratic thumb gestures.
Me, having a death-like grip at ten and two on the steering wheel, plotting new ways to piss the D.N. off even more.
Leonard: OMG, Kristina! PUT YOUR MIDDLE FINGERS DOWN, AND PUT YOUR HANDS BACK ON THE WHEEL!!!!!  People carry guns in this state!
Me: I AM NOT AFRAID!!!!  Dude's lucky I don't have my box of rocks.
And that my fine friends is an example of how I can be quite scrappy, and have absolutely zero tolerance for people that don't know how to drive.  So if you're ever driving along the thruway and you see a lady driving around in a black Jetta, and she's waving around her two middle fingers screaming, "You're lucky I don't have my box of rocks!!!!", it's just me.  Remain calm, and help me box the D.N. in. :)

Swimming Upstream

So I’m seriously considering changing the name of this blog to “Sweet Bass”, because of the copious amounts of aquatic fodder that I’ve been supplied with, due to my new adventure of training to become a deep-sea diver.  It’s like I’m the female version of Michael Phelps, except cuter and I don’t have a banana to fit snuggly into a banana hammock.  Anways…. 

Where shall I begin.  Oh, I know.  How about how Leonard thinks that I have an “old lady” bathing suit, because it has “old lady” ruffles on the front.  First of all, it doesn’t have ruffles, it’s ruching to help accentuate my one-pack.  Second of all, old ladies tend to wear tropical print bathing suits that have built in over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders that make their tah-tahs resemble torpedoes.  My bathing suit has not a pastel palm frond in sight, or a built-in cone bra. So there.

But back to my story of how I felt like a salmon trying to swim upstream.  When I got to the pool the other day, I noticed that there were a few fellow Olympic swimmer hopefuls that had beat me to the early bird arrival.  One man, who I believe was alive during the Lousianna Purchase, was doing what I believe were aquatic lunges, while simultaneously doing arm curls with the foam arm “weights”.  And then I saw her;  My water nemesis.  She was  decked out in the typical old lady swim gear, i.e. not my bathing suit.  Black suit with purple and teal tropical flowers, and her lady missiles were creating a wake in the water.  I didn’t realize her plan at first, but after I discovered that I was treading water in the same exact spot for five minutes, and not moving anywhere, I discovered her evil, master craft plan.  Let’s just call my new arch nemesis “Lilly Pad”.  L.P. was walking laps in the pool.  NBD.  Who am I to dog on a person for doing a little water aerobics?  Not this lady. As I furiously tread water in the same spot, I noticed that I was being slightly carried towards Missiles MaGee, I realized her tactic.  Lilly Pad created what I believe was essentially a water vortex.  L.P. wasn’t just walking back and forth, up and down the lane.  Oh no.  She was creating her very own whorl pool by walking in a circle.  The same small circle, over and over and over again.  I think she was threatened by my aquatic prowess.  I mean, it’s not everyday that you come across a thirty-ish mermaid who is gasping for breath as she’s attempting to doggy paddle in her not-old lady bathing suit.    So, being the grown up that I so am, I stood up and huffed at her.  And when I say “huffed” I mean I mean-mugged her to her backside, walked back to the part that allowed me to paddle freely, and sighed heavily.   She probably thought I was just trying to catch my breath from attempting to do the dolphin in her whorl pool of destruction, and didn’t realize that I was actually just exasperated at her.  And exhausted from swimming like a mammal with a blow-hole. 

After her 7,862 laps around, she finally called it quits, and I was able to go back to swim like a sweet, sweet Bass.  Little does Lilly Pad know that tomorrow when I go back, I’m going to be prepared.  I plan on wearing a bathing suit that will give me missile boobs, because those babies can make some headway in a current created by Ms. Palm Fronds.  :)

Mrs. Green Jeans

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. :)

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!

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. :)

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.  :)

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. :)