Not Your Typical Halloweener

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


Here is a picture from last year:

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

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

We were Pork and Beans.  

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

Happy Halloweenie, Friends!

Hogs, pretzels, and star fish

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

Namaste

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

Rub-a-dub-dub

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

Spanx you very much

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

Hot Cross Buns

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

Words with friends...

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

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