Reader, let's be honest. I have the best taste in music of anyone I know. And that means I have the best taste in music of anyone YOU know.
You know it's true.
I like lots of different kinds of music. Why, just this morning my ears have feasted on AC/DC, Frank Sinatra, REM, and Les Miserables. But as wide as my musical collection is, it never fails that people who flip through my iPod remark that they don't recognize at least half the artists. And since my favorite music is the kind of stuff you won't usually hear on the radio, so it's a good bet that you aren't that familiar with it.
I don't pretend to be one of those people who knows all the obscure little indie musicians, or even someone with a talent to discover great music in unexpected places. With very few exceptions, most of my music was passed on to me by somebody else. Or, I came across free sample songs from the internet and sought out the rest of the album from there. I rarely find it myself.
It would be a disservice if I didn't help expand your musical world, Reader. I don't think I could live with myself if I knew that one of my devoted followers lived their whole life without ever knowing about Glen Hansard just because I didn't take the time to introduce them... that would be the worst kind of tragedy.
So here you go, Reader - a small sampling of some artists you probably don't know, but should. Click the artist's name for a link to a webpage where you can hear some of their music:
Glen Hansard
Who he is: The lead singer for Irish rock band The Frames, the voice of Swell Season, and the male lead in the Oscar-winning movie 'Once'.
Why you should listen: No one writes a break-up song like Glen Hansard. NO ONE. Watch him sing "Say It To Me Now" at the beginning of 'Once', and you'll have to remind yourself to breathe.
Josh Woodward
Who he is: An acoustic rocker from Ohio, who offers his entire musical catalogue for FREE (legally, too!) on his website. For FREE, Reader.
Why you should listen: Josh's music is refreshingly simple, and since he isn't trying to sell his music he tends to try lots of different things. Listen to "I Want to Destroy Something Beautiful" and then "Don't Close Your Eyes" to see what I mean.
Hymns
Who they are: A NYC-based indie rock band.
Why you should listen: Their sound is very retro, and their bass player is an absolute nut onstage. Unlike a lot of independent rock bands I've heard, Hymns seems to realize that you can have a great rock song without blasting out the bass levels.
Sondre Lerche
Who he is: You probably know him from the 'Dan In Real Life' soundtrack.
Why you should listen: It's like jazz that isn't pretentious. His cover of "Let My Love Open the Door" is possibly my favorite version of the song.
Justin Nozuka
Who he is: You probably know his song "After Tonight". Also, he's Kevin Bacon's nephew.
Why you should listen: Justin has this great, unique, bluesy-rock voice. If you like "After Tonight", you will love the rest of his album ('Holly'). My favorites are "Be Back Soon" and "Criminal."
Band of Skulls
Who they are: Two guys and a girl from Southampton, UK.
Why you should listen: They're a bit quirky, and a bit different, but after listening for a few minutes you really get sucked in. The first time I heard their music, I thought to myself, "They sound kind of like The White Stripes, but with talent."
And lastly, Reader, a few albums EVERYONE should have in their collection. Go buy them if you don't:
"Thriller" - Michael Jackson
"Heathen Chemistry" - Oasis
"Young Hearts: the Complete Greatest Hits" - Steve Miller Band
"Tapestry" - Carole King
"Flight of the Conchords" - Flight of the Conchords
Friday, June 19
Wednesday, May 27
... About "What I Think..."
As you may have realized, I'm on haitus.
Reader, when I started this blog, I had certain objectives. Goals. Ambitions, if you will. I never wanted this blog to act as a kind of public journal, chronicling my day-to-day activities. I never intended it to be a way for people to keep track of what I was up to. I didn't want it to be my own personal soapbox. In fact, I tried to keep it as impersonal as possible. I created a caricature of myself to hide behind whenever I penned a new post. I wanted to use this blog primarily to amuse, to enlighten. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful.
Oh, wait. That wasn't me. That was Batman.
Hopefully, I'll soon return to doing just that. But in the meantime, go read a book or something.
Reader, when I started this blog, I had certain objectives. Goals. Ambitions, if you will. I never wanted this blog to act as a kind of public journal, chronicling my day-to-day activities. I never intended it to be a way for people to keep track of what I was up to. I didn't want it to be my own personal soapbox. In fact, I tried to keep it as impersonal as possible. I created a caricature of myself to hide behind whenever I penned a new post. I wanted to use this blog primarily to amuse, to enlighten. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful.
Oh, wait. That wasn't me. That was Batman.
Hopefully, I'll soon return to doing just that. But in the meantime, go read a book or something.
Tuesday, May 26
Friday, April 10
... About Shmoozing My Snooze Button
Recently, I rewatched the BBC 'The Office' series in its entirety through instant Netflix. Reader, I must confess: I would choose Tim over Jim any day of the week.
Don't get me wrong, all of you American-version devotees. I appreciate John Krasinski's awkward good looks and sense of humor. Yes, he is funny and adorable in a dopey kind of way, and I probably wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers. But Martin Freeman..... come ON, Reader.
Come. On.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "Kristen, of course you love Martin Freeman. He's short, funny, foreign, and has admitted he'd rather sit on his couch and watch Antique Roadshow than go out and have fun with other people." To which I say, "Precisely. The nearly perfect man."
In addition to his memorable turns in 'The Office', 'Love Actually', 'Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy', and an all-too-brief cameo as Simon Pegg (*squee!*)'s doppelganger in 'Shaun of the Dead', Martin was also in a little gem of a movie called 'The Good Night'. Reader, I'd be willing to stake a week's worth of Post-Its that you have never heard of this movie, let alone have seen it.
It's a bit odd, and admittedly has some rough patches, but I quite enjoyed it. Any movie where the protagonist seeks the sage advice of Danny "Frank Reynolds" DeVito is definitely on the right track. In the film, our friend Martin learns the art of lucid dreaming, and falls in love with the literal woman of his dreams.
I only saw 'The Good Night' once several years ago, but ever since the idea of lucid dreaming has intrigued me. I rarely remember my dreams, but the ones that I do remember are so fascinating and bizarre that I wake up wondering what could possibly have happened next.
Unfortunately, more often than not, these dreams occur during those precious nine minutes between hitting my snooze button and getting up to get ready for work, so I don't have time to let myself fall back asleep and finish the dream. If only I could master lucid dreaming so I could return exactly to where I had left off when I go back to bed at night!
It makes me wonder, Reader, if all of my dreams are so strange or just the ones that happen during my morning snooze. Isn't it a bit odd that I am able to fall into a deep, dream-inducing slumber instantly after being startled awake by my alarm clock, even though insomnia keeps me awake for large chunks of the night?
Maybe the magic is in the snooze button! Oh, magic snooze button, maybe you really do hold the key to all of my problems. At least, my dream problems. I probably need to go seek Danny's wisdom to learn how to go from zero to hero, or how to impregnate Arnold Schwarzenegger and keep Richard Nixon from finding out... now that would make a bizarre dream.
Don't get me wrong, all of you American-version devotees. I appreciate John Krasinski's awkward good looks and sense of humor. Yes, he is funny and adorable in a dopey kind of way, and I probably wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers. But Martin Freeman..... come ON, Reader.
Come. On.Now, I know what you're thinking: "Kristen, of course you love Martin Freeman. He's short, funny, foreign, and has admitted he'd rather sit on his couch and watch Antique Roadshow than go out and have fun with other people." To which I say, "Precisely. The nearly perfect man."
In addition to his memorable turns in 'The Office', 'Love Actually', 'Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy', and an all-too-brief cameo as Simon Pegg (*squee!*)'s doppelganger in 'Shaun of the Dead', Martin was also in a little gem of a movie called 'The Good Night'. Reader, I'd be willing to stake a week's worth of Post-Its that you have never heard of this movie, let alone have seen it.
It's a bit odd, and admittedly has some rough patches, but I quite enjoyed it. Any movie where the protagonist seeks the sage advice of Danny "Frank Reynolds" DeVito is definitely on the right track. In the film, our friend Martin learns the art of lucid dreaming, and falls in love with the literal woman of his dreams.
I only saw 'The Good Night' once several years ago, but ever since the idea of lucid dreaming has intrigued me. I rarely remember my dreams, but the ones that I do remember are so fascinating and bizarre that I wake up wondering what could possibly have happened next.
Unfortunately, more often than not, these dreams occur during those precious nine minutes between hitting my snooze button and getting up to get ready for work, so I don't have time to let myself fall back asleep and finish the dream. If only I could master lucid dreaming so I could return exactly to where I had left off when I go back to bed at night!
It makes me wonder, Reader, if all of my dreams are so strange or just the ones that happen during my morning snooze. Isn't it a bit odd that I am able to fall into a deep, dream-inducing slumber instantly after being startled awake by my alarm clock, even though insomnia keeps me awake for large chunks of the night?
Maybe the magic is in the snooze button! Oh, magic snooze button, maybe you really do hold the key to all of my problems. At least, my dream problems. I probably need to go seek Danny's wisdom to learn how to go from zero to hero, or how to impregnate Arnold Schwarzenegger and keep Richard Nixon from finding out... now that would make a bizarre dream.
Tuesday, March 17
... About Self-Diagnostics
Hey, Reader! Remember back when I made a resolution to update my blog more often?
Oh, you don't? Good. Neither do I.
Here's what's going on in my world lately: my eye won't stop twitching. I'm pretty sure that means I'm dying. Or, it means that I'm going to throw something through a window pretty soon. It's driving me absolutely bonkers. For the last two days it's been like my upper eyelid is rocking out to some music only it can hear (maybe the crazy bump left over from my toe eye is actually some kind of tiny molecular iPod or something).
So this morning I turned to Dr. Google to find out why my eye is twitching. I long ago decided that Dr. Google is far superior to a real doctor. First of all, there's no waiting room. Secondly, unlike real doctors, Dr. Google never presses one of those freezing cold stethoscopes against your skin. Thirdly, unlike even worse real doctors, Dr. Google never breathes on one of those freezing cold stethoscopes to "warm it up" so you end up with a freezing cold stethoscope coated with a thin moist layer of wet warm stranger breath pressed up against your skin.
And, Dr. Google is free! It's like living in Canada, but without having to deal with all those Canadians. The only disadvantage to using Dr. Google is that you can't sue him for malpractice when he tells you that the reason your eye is twitching is because you aren't getting enough sleep.
Don't be stupid, Dr. Google. As anyone who has ever met me knows, I go to bed at 7:30 every night. Right after I watch Matlock and feed all the cats. There has to be another reason. At the very least, there has to be a more impressive sounding reason, one that will win me sympathy and inspire Reader to make me some sort of baked good.
Aha! Blepharospasm! Much better. But still, that doesn't seem very dire. The most I could hope for with that are some chocolate chip cookies or lemon squares. I want some sort of eye-twitching disease that will earn me Cinnabons or cupcakes. With sprinkles.
Myokymia? Hmmm... does sound a bit more tragic, doesn't it? I know! What if I combine the two? That'll do, Dr. Google, that'll do.
Reader, you might be saddened to hear that I am suffering from a severe case of myokymia blepharospasm. My doctor, Dr. Google, doesn't seem to know the most effective course of treatment. Yes, of course I got a second opinion. In fact, when I asked Dr. Google "how to stop eye twitching", he provided me with over 203,000 opinions.
No, no, don't cry for me, Reader. Tears won't do either of us any good. Really, it's unnecessary. You're too kind. I'll manage to get through it... somehow. But if you really feel like you must do something to help me, I suppose... I suppose it would be ungrateful of me to turn down your generous offer to bring me some sort of delicious homemade baked good. Why, yes, of course, I adore cream cheese frosting, but I couldn't possibly ask you to put yourself out for little old me and my terminal myokymia blepharospasm.
That's right, my terminal myokymia blepharospasm.
You know, Reader, I bet Dr. Google knows some really delicious recipes.
Oh, you don't? Good. Neither do I.
Here's what's going on in my world lately: my eye won't stop twitching. I'm pretty sure that means I'm dying. Or, it means that I'm going to throw something through a window pretty soon. It's driving me absolutely bonkers. For the last two days it's been like my upper eyelid is rocking out to some music only it can hear (maybe the crazy bump left over from my toe eye is actually some kind of tiny molecular iPod or something).
So this morning I turned to Dr. Google to find out why my eye is twitching. I long ago decided that Dr. Google is far superior to a real doctor. First of all, there's no waiting room. Secondly, unlike real doctors, Dr. Google never presses one of those freezing cold stethoscopes against your skin. Thirdly, unlike even worse real doctors, Dr. Google never breathes on one of those freezing cold stethoscopes to "warm it up" so you end up with a freezing cold stethoscope coated with a thin moist layer of wet warm stranger breath pressed up against your skin.
And, Dr. Google is free! It's like living in Canada, but without having to deal with all those Canadians. The only disadvantage to using Dr. Google is that you can't sue him for malpractice when he tells you that the reason your eye is twitching is because you aren't getting enough sleep.
Don't be stupid, Dr. Google. As anyone who has ever met me knows, I go to bed at 7:30 every night. Right after I watch Matlock and feed all the cats. There has to be another reason. At the very least, there has to be a more impressive sounding reason, one that will win me sympathy and inspire Reader to make me some sort of baked good.
Aha! Blepharospasm! Much better. But still, that doesn't seem very dire. The most I could hope for with that are some chocolate chip cookies or lemon squares. I want some sort of eye-twitching disease that will earn me Cinnabons or cupcakes. With sprinkles.
Myokymia? Hmmm... does sound a bit more tragic, doesn't it? I know! What if I combine the two? That'll do, Dr. Google, that'll do.
Reader, you might be saddened to hear that I am suffering from a severe case of myokymia blepharospasm. My doctor, Dr. Google, doesn't seem to know the most effective course of treatment. Yes, of course I got a second opinion. In fact, when I asked Dr. Google "how to stop eye twitching", he provided me with over 203,000 opinions.
No, no, don't cry for me, Reader. Tears won't do either of us any good. Really, it's unnecessary. You're too kind. I'll manage to get through it... somehow. But if you really feel like you must do something to help me, I suppose... I suppose it would be ungrateful of me to turn down your generous offer to bring me some sort of delicious homemade baked good. Why, yes, of course, I adore cream cheese frosting, but I couldn't possibly ask you to put yourself out for little old me and my terminal myokymia blepharospasm.
That's right, my terminal myokymia blepharospasm.
You know, Reader, I bet Dr. Google knows some really delicious recipes.
Monday, March 2
... About Politics
As an avid Reader of this blog, I'm sure you've noticed that I don't often wax political here. But I've been thinking about politics a lot lately, and apparently so have many of my friends. In fact, ever since I announced that I'm creating my own country I've had a slew of friends giving me suggestions about laws I should put in place there. Here are a few I've gotten lately:
In my country, there should be some kind of a device at movie theaters that deactivates your phone as soon as you walk in. Hear, hear!
In my country, there should be a way to inflict physical harm upon people who send you all those stupid Facebook application invites. Hear, hear!
In my country, there should be no John Madden. Hear, hear!
In my country, radio stations should not be permitted to repeat a song within an 8 hour period. Hear, hear!
So, Reader, as I was drafting these laws into my country's Constitution I began thinking about some of the political goings-on in my own neck of the woods. I'll be the first to admit, I don't keep up with local politics the way I should, mostly because I have little to no tolerance for local broadcast news and I'm too lazy to read the local newspaper.
But I do know a douchebag when I see one, and I do know that while certain douchebags may be perfectly within their rights of free speech, their ignorance and maliciousness prove that they are not fit to hold public office. So I stopped by Buttars-Palooza at the state capitol building this past weekend to demonstrate my lack of support for The Worst Person in the World.
While there, I made another decision about my country. All public political demonstrations will be required to have the following: really good music, a homeless guy pretending to be a statue, and a solar-powered amp that looks like a junkyard spaceship:
You know, Reader, as much as I'd like to think that no one in my country would be like Soon-To-Be-Former State Senator Chris Buttars, I know that's not realistic. Statistically, some will slip through the rigid screening process somehow and gain access to my idyllic nation. But I can continue to hope that my country will have a bunch of living statues and people with solar powered spaceship amps that will show up and demonstrate their contempt for bigotry and hatred.
God Bless America. Even though it's home to people like Chris Buttars.
In my country, there should be some kind of a device at movie theaters that deactivates your phone as soon as you walk in. Hear, hear!
In my country, there should be a way to inflict physical harm upon people who send you all those stupid Facebook application invites. Hear, hear!
In my country, there should be no John Madden. Hear, hear!
In my country, radio stations should not be permitted to repeat a song within an 8 hour period. Hear, hear!
So, Reader, as I was drafting these laws into my country's Constitution I began thinking about some of the political goings-on in my own neck of the woods. I'll be the first to admit, I don't keep up with local politics the way I should, mostly because I have little to no tolerance for local broadcast news and I'm too lazy to read the local newspaper.
But I do know a douchebag when I see one, and I do know that while certain douchebags may be perfectly within their rights of free speech, their ignorance and maliciousness prove that they are not fit to hold public office. So I stopped by Buttars-Palooza at the state capitol building this past weekend to demonstrate my lack of support for The Worst Person in the World.
While there, I made another decision about my country. All public political demonstrations will be required to have the following: really good music, a homeless guy pretending to be a statue, and a solar-powered amp that looks like a junkyard spaceship:
You know, Reader, as much as I'd like to think that no one in my country would be like Soon-To-Be-Former State Senator Chris Buttars, I know that's not realistic. Statistically, some will slip through the rigid screening process somehow and gain access to my idyllic nation. But I can continue to hope that my country will have a bunch of living statues and people with solar powered spaceship amps that will show up and demonstrate their contempt for bigotry and hatred.
God Bless America. Even though it's home to people like Chris Buttars.
Monday, February 23
... About Things I Never Needed to Know
Reader, I'm a fan of the Food Network. It's just one of the many ways my nerdiness chooses to manifest itself.
But it's nice to know that I'm not alone. I've turned Bailey onto the show "Food Network Challenge," which is a food art competition show. They make these crazy amazing cakes, or sugar sculptures, or chocolate pieces, and it just blows my mind. And now Bailey likes watching it with me, and has even started trying to get other people interested by telling them how AMAZING some of these food sculptors are.
But you know what I can do without? Learning how they make pork rinds.
*shudder*
I mean, seriously, Reader. If you want to have nightmares for a month, just ask Dr Google to show you the liquified meat mixture they pump into Vienna sausage casings. It makes my stomach churn more than the knowledge that someone actually chose to greenlight "Space Buddies." And you know me. I love knowing things.
Why, Food Network, why? I want you to show me how they put the delicious chocolate core into Drumsticks, and I find it fascinating how different shapes of pasta are designed to hold sauce in different ways for different dishes. But there are some ugly, ugly things in the world that I absolutely do not need to know. Like that natural red food coloring is made from mashed up beetles.
Ew.
I don't want to know stuff like that. Call me naive, but I'm a firm believer that I should be able to go through this life without ever having to learn things I don't want to know. Like advanced mathematics, or how that zit Satan popped magically transformed into Senator Chris Buttars. Ignorance is bliss, Reader. If it's good enough for Stephen Colbert, it's good enough for me.
You know what, Food Network? It's a good thing you still have enough fascinating programs to keep me coming back, despite your unnecessary tidbits about making Gogurt and such. But if you show me that liquid meat again, I'm going to have to do something drastic.
What exactly do I mean by that? Trust me, you don't want to know.
Sunday, February 15
... About Baby Steps
Reader, I'm quite proud of myself. You should be, too. Last night, I voluntarily introduced myself to and carried on conversations with perfect strangers. Reader, I even danced. When other people could see me. And not in an, "Oh, crap, I left my blinds open and people could totally see me dancing!" type of way. In a "social" type of way.
I know, it's a lot to digest. Take a moment. Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
Okay, you doing okay now, Reader? I imagine you're feeling pretty disorientated, so allow me to explain. As you may be aware, yesterday was Valentine's Day. This is a holiday designed to remind people in relationships to be more open and verbal about their feelings for their loved ones. It also makes single people feel like losers. In light of this, my friend Ryan decided to throw a "There's Nothing Wrong With Being a Cat Lady" Anti-Valentine's Day party, and invited me to come.
I agreed to attend. Even though I was fully aware that Ryan was the only person I would know. Because I was determined, Reader, to make myself meet new people, even though the idea of it makes my insides feel like I've had a large helping of week-old Frank LanJell-O Salad. I get so nervous talking to people I don't know. I feel anxious if the cashier at the grocery store strikes up a conversation. Once, years ago, I went out dancing with a group of friends. While the rest of my group met, mingled, and danced with the others there, I had what I can only describe as a panic attack and hid in a box for half an hour.
Literally. I found a box and hid inside until I stopped shaking.
I don't know exactly when this aversion to social interaction started. I've never been very good at making friends, and it takes me a very long time to warm up to (most) people. But, I've come to realize that the older I get, the more I just plain don't like people. And that's not the kind of person I want to be. I want to like people. Or, at the very least, I want to be able to tolerate people that are worth tolerating. Or that can hook me up with cool merchandise of some sort. Like DVDs or electronics. Yeah, those are the kind of people I'd love to tolerate.
So when Ryan told me about his party and asked me to come, I put it on a metaphorical scale. On the one hand, I'd have to spend time meeting and socializing with people, which terrifies me. On the other hand, if I didn't attend, I really wouldn't have room to complain about not knowing a lot of people. And complaining about not knowing a lot of people fills up a good portion of my social calendar.
I knew that there was no way I was going to meet new people and make new friends without.... meeting new people and making new friends. So I cowboyed up and went to the party. And you know what, Reader? I surprised myself by how much fun I had. I don't know that any of the people that I met will be my BFFFs, but I learned a few names and shared a few laughs. And I'm pretty proud of myself for that.
Maybe next Valentine's Day I'll have someone really special to share it with. Like, someone that can help me get my hands on free tickets. Hey, if you have stuff I want and are willing to share, I'll totally tolerate you. Just don't expect me to dance.
Thursday, February 12
... About Patience
Reader, I consider myself a rational person (please ignore the last post, or any other evidence you have to the contrary). I think I'm reasonable. I think I'm able to separate the reality of a situation from the way said situation effects my emotions.
That said, sometimes I think the Universe is just out to screw me. And there are a few curveballs the Universe continues to hurl at me that I refuse to tolerate anymore.
Curveball #1: My inability to wake up in the morning. Now, Reader, as I'm sure you'll agree, this one is entirely not my fault. I purposely set my alarm to go off nine minutes before I need to get up, which allows me one full session of snoozing. Well, the other morning I set my alarm an extra ten minutes early so I could get up in time to make myself breakfast. My alarm went off, all right. And it continued to go off for ten minutes, until the time when I normally wake up, at which time I finally regained consciousness.
Curveball #2: Stupid people.
Curveball #3: Whatever my hair is doing right now. Because seriously, Reader, it's just not cooperating in the least. How is it possible that my bangs grow out to the point of being completely unworkable in a matter of weeks, but the overall length stays the same for months on end? How is it possible that some days it goes wavy on its own and other days it just does this weird flippy thing on the ends? I mean, what I am supposed to do? If only there were some sort of hair "products" or "styling tools" that one could use on their hair to make it look certain ways... but alas, that's too much to ask for.
I think I've paid my dues, Universe. I'm no longer willing to put up with my inability to wake up. I won't tolerate stupid people on the phone. Or stupid people in the checkout line at the grocery store. Or stupid people on television. I mean, really, Universe. Don't you think I've had more than my fair share of encounters with people of stupid persuasion?
I do.
I. Do.
You know what else I think I deserve, Universe? Magic powers to manipulate my hair any way I want it to be. Or a new curling iron.
Wednesday, February 4
... About Discovering I Used to Be a Girl After All!
I had a very productive morning, Reader. And by "very productive" I mean "not at all so." It started much the same as yesterday morning, and the day before that. Which were very much the same as the first few days of every month since I started this job - I've spent hours upon hours over the last three days sorting, stamping, stuffing, and stamping our monthly customer statements.
Well, this particular morning, I was getting pretty tired of sorting, stamping, stuffing, and stamping. So I took a quick mental break and checked my personal email account. That's when it all started. In my defense, the events that followed were simply a result of pure animal instinct. Reader, remember what happens if you give a mouse a cookie? Or give a moose a muffin?
Well, if Kristen is bored at work and her boss is gone, she'll probably check her email. If she checks her email, she'll probably notice that her inbox has 13 pages worth of old messages. If she notices that her inbox has 13 pages worth of messages, she'll probably go through and start deleting ones she doesn't want. If she deletes the ones she doesn't want, she'll probably find some of those funny forwards and want to read them to see if they're worth saving. If she reads funny forwards to see if they're worth saving, she'll probably move some of them to her "Tidbits" folder. If she moves them to her "Tidbits" folder, she'll probably realize she has a lot of stuff in there not worth saving (and/or too hard to find to justify saving) and will want to give it a thorough cleaning. If she realizes she has a lot of stuff in there and wants to give it a thorough cleaning, she'll probably end up getting distracted and reading through 5-year-old emails for the better part of an hour.
So basically, email is to muffin as Kristen is to ________
But despite the rather extensive waste of time, I actually learned something from reading all those old emails. Reader, you'll probably never believe it, but I used to be a girl. And not just in the most literal sense of the word (that part's still true, pardon the pun). I used to be so silly, so overwhelmingly twitterpaited, so irrational - in short, so FEMALE!
It was such a long time ago, and for the past few years I've managed to convince myself that it never happened. I'm not going to lie to you, Reader. Part of me felt a sense of pride that there was truth to all those times I've been told I'm "not like a real girl," but part of me always wondered how my life would be different if I were a bit more girlie.
But right there, stored in my email, unraveling itself from all the 0s and 1s, is the proof that I was once just about as ridiculously girlie as one can get. You see, there is a series of emails spanning from May 2003 to about September 2004 - emails I sent to my female friends, my male friends, my brother, my guidance counselor, and possibly the Prime Minister of Canada - in which I went on for paragraphs upon paragraphs about how aghast I was about boys! Five distinctly separate boys, as far as I can tell. Five boys! In just a year and a half!
And oh, how very pathetic and whimsical I was about these boys! In one particular email, I described in great detail to all the incredibly patient friends I sent it to a story about how I had called a boy using a phone card so he wouldn't recognize it was me on the Caller ID, just in case he wasn't home, hung up on him when he answered (because I didn't want to have to explain why I was calling with a phone card), and waited for two hours to call him back so he wouldn't suspect it had been me the first time.
See? GIRL! You can't possibly be a bigger girl than that!
So I was trying to figure out where it all changed. I know that this girliness was actually more of a phase than anything - Picasso had his Blue period, Sting had his Reggae period, I had my Girlishness period. I know this because of an email from a good friend during this time in which he asked what was wrong with me, and why I was acting like I was over a guy when he had never known me to behave like that before.
Let's be honest. It's not hard to figure out what put me on the path to girlishness (any fool who knew me in high school/freshman year of college knows that one). But what turned me away from it again? I've thought about that today, and I think maybe it's because when I think back to these five boys, I automatically think of the five different heartaches they left me with. It's hard for me to remember the happy giddy twittery feelings. In retrospect, all I can really remember is the hurt.
But now that I realize that, maybe I can use that knowledge to be a mite more proactive about letting myself open up again. Because even though it hurt then, it doesn't anymore, at least not in the same way. I no longer think of myself as 'scarred' by past crushes and loves - just changed. It's amazing how a simple thing like wasting time reading emails can give you a new sense of self.
You know what else I've realized? I could really go for a muffin right about now.
Well, this particular morning, I was getting pretty tired of sorting, stamping, stuffing, and stamping. So I took a quick mental break and checked my personal email account. That's when it all started. In my defense, the events that followed were simply a result of pure animal instinct. Reader, remember what happens if you give a mouse a cookie? Or give a moose a muffin?
Well, if Kristen is bored at work and her boss is gone, she'll probably check her email. If she checks her email, she'll probably notice that her inbox has 13 pages worth of old messages. If she notices that her inbox has 13 pages worth of messages, she'll probably go through and start deleting ones she doesn't want. If she deletes the ones she doesn't want, she'll probably find some of those funny forwards and want to read them to see if they're worth saving. If she reads funny forwards to see if they're worth saving, she'll probably move some of them to her "Tidbits" folder. If she moves them to her "Tidbits" folder, she'll probably realize she has a lot of stuff in there not worth saving (and/or too hard to find to justify saving) and will want to give it a thorough cleaning. If she realizes she has a lot of stuff in there and wants to give it a thorough cleaning, she'll probably end up getting distracted and reading through 5-year-old emails for the better part of an hour.
So basically, email is to muffin as Kristen is to ________
a) moose
b) moose
c) knitwear
d) moose
b) moose
c) knitwear
d) moose
But despite the rather extensive waste of time, I actually learned something from reading all those old emails. Reader, you'll probably never believe it, but I used to be a girl. And not just in the most literal sense of the word (that part's still true, pardon the pun). I used to be so silly, so overwhelmingly twitterpaited, so irrational - in short, so FEMALE!
It was such a long time ago, and for the past few years I've managed to convince myself that it never happened. I'm not going to lie to you, Reader. Part of me felt a sense of pride that there was truth to all those times I've been told I'm "not like a real girl," but part of me always wondered how my life would be different if I were a bit more girlie.
But right there, stored in my email, unraveling itself from all the 0s and 1s, is the proof that I was once just about as ridiculously girlie as one can get. You see, there is a series of emails spanning from May 2003 to about September 2004 - emails I sent to my female friends, my male friends, my brother, my guidance counselor, and possibly the Prime Minister of Canada - in which I went on for paragraphs upon paragraphs about how aghast I was about boys! Five distinctly separate boys, as far as I can tell. Five boys! In just a year and a half!
And oh, how very pathetic and whimsical I was about these boys! In one particular email, I described in great detail to all the incredibly patient friends I sent it to a story about how I had called a boy using a phone card so he wouldn't recognize it was me on the Caller ID, just in case he wasn't home, hung up on him when he answered (because I didn't want to have to explain why I was calling with a phone card), and waited for two hours to call him back so he wouldn't suspect it had been me the first time.
See? GIRL! You can't possibly be a bigger girl than that!
So I was trying to figure out where it all changed. I know that this girliness was actually more of a phase than anything - Picasso had his Blue period, Sting had his Reggae period, I had my Girlishness period. I know this because of an email from a good friend during this time in which he asked what was wrong with me, and why I was acting like I was over a guy when he had never known me to behave like that before.
Let's be honest. It's not hard to figure out what put me on the path to girlishness (any fool who knew me in high school/freshman year of college knows that one). But what turned me away from it again? I've thought about that today, and I think maybe it's because when I think back to these five boys, I automatically think of the five different heartaches they left me with. It's hard for me to remember the happy giddy twittery feelings. In retrospect, all I can really remember is the hurt.
But now that I realize that, maybe I can use that knowledge to be a mite more proactive about letting myself open up again. Because even though it hurt then, it doesn't anymore, at least not in the same way. I no longer think of myself as 'scarred' by past crushes and loves - just changed. It's amazing how a simple thing like wasting time reading emails can give you a new sense of self.
You know what else I've realized? I could really go for a muffin right about now.
Sunday, February 1
... About Mild Head Injuries
Reader, I'm sure you remember almost exactly one year ago when I posted about how my relationship with Ice was on the skids. Well, Ice is at it again.
We've been getting along fairly well all winter. Ice has been a constant presence in my parking lot, and together we've successfully imitated the Tom Cruise Risky Business slide more times than I can count (although, to be fair to Tom, I was wearing pants all but one of those times). I've been fairly impressed with my ability to remain upright every time I've walked out to my car in the dark.
That is, until last night.
I was coming home from a night of wild shenaniganing with Maren and Lexie. I'd stopped on the way to my apartment to buy a drink, because even though it was really really late (nearly 10 pm, if you can believe it!) I was craving a little Dr P. So as I was walking from my car to my apartment, I noticed a bit of shininess on the pavement in front of me. It was unusually warm yesterday - Lexie was even wearing flipflops during all of our crazy aimless wandering/time-killing-while-we-waited-for-our-movie-to-start downtown. So of course, I assumed that the bit of shiny was just wet.
I was wrong. It was Ice.
The moment Ice and I met, it threw me up into the air and brought me down directly on the back of my head. Meanwhile, my drink slipped from my hand and landed all over my pants and, unbeknownst to me until I was looking for them later, my keys flew out of my jacket pocket and halfway back across the parking lot.
Reader, as you know, I am a certified hippopotmonostrosequipedalianist, and as such I like to always use the best word to describe any given situation. I don't use "sad" if I can get away with using "morose" instead; I rarely say "that's too bad" in lieu of "that's most unfortunate." Oftentimes, there is no ideal word for any given situation, but luckily there is a perfect word to describe what I was feeling at the moment the back of my head introduced itself to the parking lot, and the word is: "pain."
And that "pain" not only remained throughout the night, but intensified as the hours ticked on. Now the sensation radiating throughout my skull can be described in a plethora of ways, including but not limited to: "ow", "ugggghhhh...", "I want my mommy", or "make it stop, please make it stop!"
I blame it on Ice, of course. Because my utter lack of coordination is obviously not to blame. No, it's all Ice's fault. That much is clear to me. Although not much else is at the moment, because ever since I hit my head I've discovered my judgement has been compromised. For example, before going to sleep last night, as my brain was throbbing, I reached over and set my alarm to get myself up early today. WHY? I don't have to be anywhere until 11 o'clock today! Question: Why would any reasonable person do that? Answer: Blame it on Ice.
I hope Ice's effect on my ability to make decisions isn't long-lasting, or else the next thing you know you might be watching TV and spot me jumping up and down on Oprah's couch like a loon.
Sunday, January 25
Wednesday, January 21
... About History
Reader, I am many kinds of nerd. I know this. I've accepted it.
I've always been a writing nerd. I've always been a grammar nerd (which I think is really just a subset of writing nerds). I've always been an I-tend-to-fall-off-of-small-vehicles-such-as-jetskis-and-Razr-scooters nerd. Over the years I've also become a random factoid nerd, a Harry Potter nerd, and a Lost nerd (just mere hours to go!).
But to be perfectly honest, Reader, I never considered myself a history nerd, mostly because I always thought history was one of the most boring subjects in school. I understood it, and got decent enough grades, but I was never really invested in it.
In the last few years, however, I've grown to realize that I am, in fact, a history nerd. Just not in the traditional sense. I'm not real big on who was the king and what laws passed when and all that nonsense. But I am very interested in the history of stuff.
I am a material girl living in a material world.
For example: I just came across a penny from 1957. When I first spotted it, lying face-down on the desktop, I instantly felt a little giddy inside. I knew it was a treasure of some kind, because rather than the Lincoln Memorial it had the bold "ONE CENT" text flanked by the wheat tares. I flipped it over to see how old it was - this little penny is in its 52nd year. Amazing, isn't it?
I love when I find old coins like that. I love to think about where it's been. Who's pocket has it jangled around in? What did it buy? Maybe it was lodged in somebody's loafer at Central High School in Little Rock the day the first black students arrived. Maybe Paul McCartney used it to buy a new guitar string before the Beatles rocked Shea Stadium. Maybe Bill Gates used it to buy himself his morning cup of coffee the day the idea for Windows struck him.
This little penny has been around for the moon landing, for the launch of SNL, for the end of the Cold War. This penny was around the Day the Music Died. And yes, while my parents were also around for all of those things, their exact whereabouts aren't as big of a mystery. They are much easier to keep track of than a tiny piece of copper. It could have been anywhere. This penny could have played a significant part in history, and nobody would even know it!
With all the talk lately about the historic-ness of President Obama's election, inauguration, and the start of his term in office, I have to wonder if maybe someday, some other nerd like me will find this little old penny and think to themselves, "Wow! I wonder where this penny was the day that Barack Obama became president?"
So maybe I'm a history nerd after all. But at least I'm not a read-other-peoples'-blogs-and-make-fun-of-their-nerdiness nerd. Those are the worst kind.
I've always been a writing nerd. I've always been a grammar nerd (which I think is really just a subset of writing nerds). I've always been an I-tend-to-fall-off-of-small-vehicles-such-as-jetskis-and-Razr-scooters nerd. Over the years I've also become a random factoid nerd, a Harry Potter nerd, and a Lost nerd (just mere hours to go!).
But to be perfectly honest, Reader, I never considered myself a history nerd, mostly because I always thought history was one of the most boring subjects in school. I understood it, and got decent enough grades, but I was never really invested in it.
In the last few years, however, I've grown to realize that I am, in fact, a history nerd. Just not in the traditional sense. I'm not real big on who was the king and what laws passed when and all that nonsense. But I am very interested in the history of stuff.
I am a material girl living in a material world.
For example: I just came across a penny from 1957. When I first spotted it, lying face-down on the desktop, I instantly felt a little giddy inside. I knew it was a treasure of some kind, because rather than the Lincoln Memorial it had the bold "ONE CENT" text flanked by the wheat tares. I flipped it over to see how old it was - this little penny is in its 52nd year. Amazing, isn't it?
I love when I find old coins like that. I love to think about where it's been. Who's pocket has it jangled around in? What did it buy? Maybe it was lodged in somebody's loafer at Central High School in Little Rock the day the first black students arrived. Maybe Paul McCartney used it to buy a new guitar string before the Beatles rocked Shea Stadium. Maybe Bill Gates used it to buy himself his morning cup of coffee the day the idea for Windows struck him.
This little penny has been around for the moon landing, for the launch of SNL, for the end of the Cold War. This penny was around the Day the Music Died. And yes, while my parents were also around for all of those things, their exact whereabouts aren't as big of a mystery. They are much easier to keep track of than a tiny piece of copper. It could have been anywhere. This penny could have played a significant part in history, and nobody would even know it!
With all the talk lately about the historic-ness of President Obama's election, inauguration, and the start of his term in office, I have to wonder if maybe someday, some other nerd like me will find this little old penny and think to themselves, "Wow! I wonder where this penny was the day that Barack Obama became president?"
So maybe I'm a history nerd after all. But at least I'm not a read-other-peoples'-blogs-and-make-fun-of-their-nerdiness nerd. Those are the worst kind.
Saturday, January 17
... About the Icy Clutch of Fear
Reader, I have a confession to make. Now I know this is silly, and that I'm being entirely irrational, and that my behavior in the past has proven that I'm prone to bouts of paranoia, but I have developed a certain type of phobia that's becoming a bit overwhelming. It keeps me awake at night, and I think it's really beginning to affect my relationships with other people.
I know what you're thinking, Reader, but you're wrong. This isn't about bees.
Seriously.
Not that bees aren't the single most frightening creatures on the planet and some sort of sick and twisted joke from God (this is me not laughing, Big Guy), because they are. But it's wintertime, and the bees are hibernating or migrated south or something, which means that this other fear of mine has taken center stage.
Now don't laugh at me, Reader. I'm only telling you this because I feel we've developed a sort of trust, a safe harbor for our most intimate secrets, and I desperately need to talk to somebody about this.
Sometimes I worry that I am the person they base annoying SNL characters on.
It all started a couple of months ago when Bailey and I were watching "The Soup". On the show, Joel McHale showed a clip of a girl in some reality show who was very very excited to meet some 'famous' person. She was so excited, in fact, that she pinched her eyes shut and squealed about it in such a voice so high-pitched I'm surprised I could hear it at all, all while flapping her hands nonsensically in front of her face as if attempting to cool down her glee.
"I do not understand why girls do that," I said to Bailey.
"Are you kidding me?!" she replied. "You do that all the time!!!!"
I do? Seriously? I had no idea! How could it even be possible that I act like that and never realized it? Then, a couple of days later, I caught myself doing it.
Oh.
My.
Hell.
What's wrong with me?!
Shortly thereafter, Reader, I began to recognize pieces of myself in other annoying TV characters, like Penelope on Saturday Night Live. I mean, I'm not best friends with a tomato and Liza Minelli (one can only dream), but am I always trying to one-up everybody else, or is that just my imagination? I'm sorry if it's true, Reader. I don't mean to be 'that' person. Trust me, the very last thing I want to be is a character played by Kristen Wiig. Amy Poehler, sure. But Kristen Wiig? What have I done to deserve that? What have you done to deserve that?
I'm worried about my future. How far will this go? Will I soon discover that I've unknowingly become a middle-aged squeamishly kinky professor who spends all my free time in a hot tub eating spiced meats with my lovah? Or that I'm a hyperactive Catholic school girl who's bound and determined to make it big in showbusiness?
Am I an ignorant slut?
Part of me feels like I should just lock myself up in a cave somewhere for a few months just to keep myself from becoming an annoying SNL character. But then, I suppose that would be like hibernation, in which case I'd be just like bees. Now that's a scary thought.
I know what you're thinking, Reader, but you're wrong. This isn't about bees.
Seriously.
Not that bees aren't the single most frightening creatures on the planet and some sort of sick and twisted joke from God (this is me not laughing, Big Guy), because they are. But it's wintertime, and the bees are hibernating or migrated south or something, which means that this other fear of mine has taken center stage.
Now don't laugh at me, Reader. I'm only telling you this because I feel we've developed a sort of trust, a safe harbor for our most intimate secrets, and I desperately need to talk to somebody about this.
Sometimes I worry that I am the person they base annoying SNL characters on.
It all started a couple of months ago when Bailey and I were watching "The Soup". On the show, Joel McHale showed a clip of a girl in some reality show who was very very excited to meet some 'famous' person. She was so excited, in fact, that she pinched her eyes shut and squealed about it in such a voice so high-pitched I'm surprised I could hear it at all, all while flapping her hands nonsensically in front of her face as if attempting to cool down her glee.
"I do not understand why girls do that," I said to Bailey.
"Are you kidding me?!" she replied. "You do that all the time!!!!"
I do? Seriously? I had no idea! How could it even be possible that I act like that and never realized it? Then, a couple of days later, I caught myself doing it.
Oh.
My.
Hell.
What's wrong with me?!
Shortly thereafter, Reader, I began to recognize pieces of myself in other annoying TV characters, like Penelope on Saturday Night Live. I mean, I'm not best friends with a tomato and Liza Minelli (one can only dream), but am I always trying to one-up everybody else, or is that just my imagination? I'm sorry if it's true, Reader. I don't mean to be 'that' person. Trust me, the very last thing I want to be is a character played by Kristen Wiig. Amy Poehler, sure. But Kristen Wiig? What have I done to deserve that? What have you done to deserve that?
I'm worried about my future. How far will this go? Will I soon discover that I've unknowingly become a middle-aged squeamishly kinky professor who spends all my free time in a hot tub eating spiced meats with my lovah? Or that I'm a hyperactive Catholic school girl who's bound and determined to make it big in showbusiness?
Am I an ignorant slut?
Part of me feels like I should just lock myself up in a cave somewhere for a few months just to keep myself from becoming an annoying SNL character. But then, I suppose that would be like hibernation, in which case I'd be just like bees. Now that's a scary thought.
Wednesday, January 14
... About Being a Resolutionary
Hello there, Reader! First of all, allow me to apologize for not posting for such a long time. I made a New Year's Resolution to update my blog more often. Clearly, I've deserve this:
But I also made a New Year's Resolution to only FAIL miserably at 3 or fewer of my New Year's Resolutions this year, so I'm only at one for three thus far! Hooray!
I made a lot of resolutions this year. But I did it a little differently than in years past. A long time ago, I read somewhere that people are more likely to accomplish their goals if they write them down. It's something about holding yourself psychologically accountable because having your goal in ink on paper makes it a tangible piece of the fabric of the Universe or something. Well, psychological shmpsychological, I say (or at least I tried to say, but "shmpsychological" is really really really hard to pronounce).
I used to write down my resolutions, but not anymore. I figure if I'm holding myself psychologically accountable for my goals, then I also have to hold myself accountable for not reaching those goals. And I'm sure you can imagine, Reader, what a strenuous task that would be.
So this year, instead of setting myself up for FAILure by writing down very specific ideas for self-improvement, I decided to just have a few flexible resolutions that I could adapt as I see fit throughout the year. For example, I made a resolution to set aside an hour or so every day to work on some of my neglected writing projects. So far, two weeks into the year, I've done that exactly once.
But rather than condemn myself to FAILure status, Reader, I choose to see the WIN side of things. After realizing the impossibility of the task at hand, I've altered the goal slightly so that now, instead of spending an hour a day writing, I've gone to see more movies. Yea, me! See how well this is going to work?
So I'm pretty confident that with my new New Year's Resolution system set firmly in place, 2009 is going to be a banner year. And I'll be sure to tell you all about it, because I'm going to be a lot better about updating this blog!
Well, that, or I'm going to always remember to replace the Handi-Wipe in my wallet. But either way, Reader, you
But I also made a New Year's Resolution to only FAIL miserably at 3 or fewer of my New Year's Resolutions this year, so I'm only at one for three thus far! Hooray!
I made a lot of resolutions this year. But I did it a little differently than in years past. A long time ago, I read somewhere that people are more likely to accomplish their goals if they write them down. It's something about holding yourself psychologically accountable because having your goal in ink on paper makes it a tangible piece of the fabric of the Universe or something. Well, psychological shmpsychological, I say (or at least I tried to say, but "shmpsychological" is really really really hard to pronounce).
I used to write down my resolutions, but not anymore. I figure if I'm holding myself psychologically accountable for my goals, then I also have to hold myself accountable for not reaching those goals. And I'm sure you can imagine, Reader, what a strenuous task that would be.
So this year, instead of setting myself up for FAILure by writing down very specific ideas for self-improvement, I decided to just have a few flexible resolutions that I could adapt as I see fit throughout the year. For example, I made a resolution to set aside an hour or so every day to work on some of my neglected writing projects. So far, two weeks into the year, I've done that exactly once.
But rather than condemn myself to FAILure status, Reader, I choose to see the WIN side of things. After realizing the impossibility of the task at hand, I've altered the goal slightly so that now, instead of spending an hour a day writing, I've gone to see more movies. Yea, me! See how well this is going to work?
So I'm pretty confident that with my new New Year's Resolution system set firmly in place, 2009 is going to be a banner year. And I'll be sure to tell you all about it, because I'm going to be a lot better about updating this blog!
Well, that, or I'm going to always remember to replace the Handi-Wipe in my wallet. But either way, Reader, you
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