Woods for Peace

I’m coming forward.

No, I’m not number 14. That being said, I do have a few words to say bout Tiger.

He’s the greatest golfer of our time, to state the trite and obvious. But in the light of the current debacle of angry women, drug accusations, lost endorsements and missed tournaments, it may seem like there are few left in Tiger’s corner (er, den?).

Don’t lose hope, Tiger, a few of us are still rooting for you. Just this morning, the associated press named Woods the ‘Athlete of the Decade,’ scandal and all.

Well, I’d like to take that a step further. I’m nominating Tiger for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Let me explain. This isn’t simply a reaction to this years’ selection and the fact that recipients no longer have to actually create peace, but a testament of Tiger’s concrete determination to make and keep harmony in the lives of those… connected… with him.

If we study the chronology (which I will sum-up for any readers without access to trashy entertainment mags), we see that Ty kept his debauchery quiet for at least 31-months. THIRTY-ONE MONTHS. Now, in my mind, anyone who can keep 13 morally-casual-and-self-motivated women satisfied, silent and secret for nearly three years might have what it takes to qualify for sainthood.

Not to mention that Tiger’s a protector (insert jungle metaphor here). While travelling the world as its most prominent athlete, endorsing products and role-modeling as husband and father, he still found the time to consider other people – protecting the reputations of the defenseless and lowly: doctors, porn stars, celebutantes, and wives who beat the hell out of Escalades with golf clubs.

So let’s not just give him another chance. Let’s give peace a chance – just like Ty would.

Once Bitten. . . All a Lie.

Let’s take a minute and talk about Twilight (you knew we couldn’t go on avoiding this). Unless you’re living under a rock (or beyond a 1,000 mile radius of Forks, Washington), you’ve seen the gaggles of preteen-slash-full-grown-women dressed in their gothic best and swooning over one Edward Cullen.

I’ll be the first to admit: the guy’s got some magnetism. That whole brooding-intellectual-too-complicated-for-you-and-filled-with-passion-he-can’t-even-express-but-kinda-wanst-to-so-he’ll-simply-set-his-chiseled-face-to-a-lust-inducing-scowl really works for him.

I have, in fact, heard many a giggly woman exclaim, “Edward is, like, the perfect man!”

Well let’s back up for just a second here, ladies. Sure, he’s the quintessential tall, pale and handsome hero. He smells like warm vanilla and his skin sparkles like the treasures of Cortez. But insert Eddie into the real-world life in which we live?

Loser.

No, beyond that. Loser, loner, and serious (and I stress SERIOUS) creeper.

Let’s start out with what we know. He’s 107 and still scamming on high school chicks. Now, I’ve dated my share of men that just couldn’t grow up, but even I haven’t experienced the depth of this kind of immaturity.

Beyond that, perhaps Bella should have taken adequate precaution when she started hangin’ with a guy who has a history of serious violence. Now, I don’t know where you stand, but I tend to draw a line at homicide (unless he’s a professional athlete).

Let’s move on to the creep factor. The last time a guy let me know that he stayed awake to watch me sleep, I suppressed the urge to vomit and ended any romantic ties right then and there. And he didn’t even sneak into my room to do it.

And for those of you who find this behavior romantic, perhaps we should further analyze what romance Eddie really offers. Hopefully we too can someday experience a man with so much love that he acts aloof, withdrawn, angry, cynical, and keeps mentioning the urge he has to kill us.

Let’s not forget his tendency for abandonment. The guy just can’t be counted on. Save your life one minute, leave you to the wolves (ahem, literally) the next. Hot, cold, in, out – Ed’s dependability factor is about as promising as Colin Farrell’s on St. Patrick’s Day.

So let’s just cool it off, ladies, and maybe give your guy a kiss on the cheek and thank him for being a little less like Edward Cullen.

* the author would like to clarify that the above commentary is directed toward a literary character, and in no way quashes her intensely passionate feelings for Robert Patterson.

You're not the boss of me.

In a somewhat misguided effort at obtaining a rudimentary level of self-mastery, I have been working to overcome a few of my fears/limitations/habits.

I am proud to say that the following is the ever-growing "List of things that aren't the boss of Kristen Radford."

1. Car washes
2. Wetsuits
3. iPhone keypads
4. Pants
5. Freeways
6. Pie crusts
7. Yeast breads
8. First dates
9. Social graces
10. Stop signs
11. Coin machines
12. Airport security
13. Elementary multiplication
14. Mondays
15. Basic office hours
16. Logic
17. Reason
18. Hunger
19. 8-pound dumbbells
20. Thanksgiving
21. Swine flu
22. Basic nutrition


Unfortunately, I feel it only fair to also include the list of ever-dwindling "Things that are STILL the boss of Kristen Radford."

1. The gym
2. Her nephews
3. American Express
4. Edward Cullen
5. Frozen yogurt
6. Costco
7. Ambien
8. Spiders
9. Thank-you cards
10. The Pacific Ocean
11. Gossip Girl
12. The regular flu
13. 15-pound dumbbells
14. Vending machines
15. Parking garages
16. iPhone screens

Here's to progress, people.

xoxo

Twice in One Year

It's no big deal, people.

Brunette beauty at Pipes - m4w - 30 (Pipes in cardiff)

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Date: 2009-11-09, 11:02AM PST

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I see you surfing at Pipes all the time. I always kick myself for not talking to you when you're actually alone. Short brown hair, white and green funboard, silver car. I'd love to surf with the prettiest girl in cardiff.

• Location: Pipes in cardiff
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1458274116

'Tis the Season

Despite what anyone I have ever dated might argue otherwise, I AM A GIVER.

And that, in combination with the impending yuletide festivities of the season, was my primary motivation for giving - every person in my vicinity - swine flu.

Because some things should be shared.

And I'm a giver (slash carrier).

Not to worry, dear friends, for I have redeemed myself (some make good, I make BAKED goods), in the form of dessert.

Because nothing says "I'm sorry I gave you swine flu" like a Bavarian Apple Torte.

Go on, be piggish.

xoxo

Ciento, mis amigos.

And this is my 100th Post, which I'm grateful for, as I have nothing else to share with you fine people. And being as it is such an accomplishment, I will take the rest of the day off and go shopping.

But leave you with the other important 'HUNDREDS' in my life:

The percentage at which I am positive Gerard Butler and I are destined for each other.

The number, plus one, of my favorite gang of spotted dogs.

The number of pills a day it takes to keep me healthy, happy, and socially-acceptable.

My goal weight, in pounds.

The attempts it takes for me to complete a cartwheel.

The number of men I have dated. This year.

The speed, in mph, I would run from any of those included in the above entry.

The number, plus infinity, of peanut-butter cups I could eat in one sitting.

The times I've put off working out. This morning.

The most money I have ever spent for a diet coke.

The least money I have ever spent on an emotional shopping trip.

The years I would wait for Brandon Flowers.

The gallons of the Pacific Ocean I have drunk. This week.

Happy Hundreds, dearest readers.

xoxo

Dear Nobel Prize Committee,

I know it's a little late for nominations, but prior to today I didn't fully understand the requirements for qualifying for the Peace Prize.

You see, I thought it was hard.

However, upon further inspection (i.e. this morning's award), I'd like to throw my own hat in the ring and say:

I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize.

What makes me worthy of this honor, you ask?

• Three days ago I gave a box of Special K to a homeless man on El Camino Real
• I recently bought a hoodie with the words "Peace and Love" scripted on the back.
• I'm a lover of all mankind. But mostly men - kind.
  
• I like peace.
  
• I deliver peace in the form of baked goods on a frequent basis.
  
• I allow other cars to merge in front of me on the 5 (and try really hard not to merge INTO them).
• I apologized for all my at-fault car accidents.
  
• I've dated a few people that would qualify me for sainthood.
• I'm willing to be Brandon Flower's publicist/manager/wife/mother of future children, PRO-BONO.
• I totally bought a pair of TOMS shoes.
• I stay out of the way of good surfers.

I think the choice here is fairly obvious.

Reflections of Life upon Turning TWENTY-SEVEN

Yes. I turned 27.

And before we go on, I need to get the sordid details off my chest immediately: I now have an odd vertical wrinkle along the center of my neck and what I can only call a varicose vein measuring 1/4 of an inch behind my left knee.

That said, these twenty-seven years have made me impossibly wise.

For it is in my aged wisdom that I offer the following treasures of advice, acquired through my 27 years of living:

• ALWAYS make sure someone else is not already inhabiting the lane you're about to merge into.

Here's to the next 27.

Six Months Later . . .

I've become a bit California.

I never thought of myself as a Southern California person. I mean, don't get me wrong, sprawling beaches and 75-with-an-ocean-breeze 9 months out of the year is nothing to scoff at. I just always saw myself in a different place - you know, downtown-Manhattan-sans-car-loft-apartment-walking-everywhere-in-designer-heels-checking-out-art-galleries-and-boutique-openings.

Not to be too specific.

So imagine my own surprise when it hit me -

I. Dig. Southern. California.

I might be speaking too soon, since beaches and sunshine during the yuletide months might very well throw me into a downward spiral the likes of which California hasn't seen since Lohan and Barton returned to LA.

But for now, I'll revel in my contentedness. Namely for the following reasons:

1. Frozen Yogurt - People, it's worth moving here. Fro-Yo shops are like hot dog vendors in Chicago (only healthier and served by a long-haired 19 year-old surfer). I eat at least one a day. Sometimes, it's two. Okay, it has been known to take up all three of my major meals.

2. Surfing - In a shocking twist that even I wasn't prepared for, I. Totally. Heart. Surfing. Granted, as yet, all I have to show for it is a few scrapes, a wetsuit that's too big for me, bruises on my knees, hips and ribs, and up to 6 glorious seconds of actually standing up on the board.

3. Sunsets - Before moving to California I could NEVER have written a proper personal ad, as I had no appreciation for sunsets and walks on beaches. But seriously people. Seriously. That's all I can say.

4. Decent Drivers - because I'm still not one of them. I appreciate that they are defensive enough to stay out of my way.

5. My recent affinity for flat sandals and Chucks - my feet (and podiatrist) thank you, California fashion.

6. Strangers who propose to me on the street - And I thought I could never find a guy who would commit.

7. Blessed Produce - Ain't no berry like a west-coast berry.

8. Cooking - due to that nagging little requirement that I pay my rent, thus wrenching my prior habit of obtaining every meal from a restaurant, I have become quite a little cook. If you think this makes me more of an eligible young lady, well, so did I. I'll let you know if anyone else decides to second that.

Lest you fear I've completely changed my character, I will follow up shortly with a pessimistic view of everything lame about the Golden State.

It's hard to blog...

When you're spending this much time with Johnny Depp.


Whilst avoiding paparazzi.


Hollywood, we love you.

John Steinbeck and I have something in common.

A love of the written word? A knack for description? A deep, creeping cynicism?

Wrong.

The answer, of course, was California tragedy.

I know what you're thinking; What could go wrong in a state that houses both Micky Mouse and Shamu the whale? Where winter never arrives and body imperfections are quashed using only a scalpel and your rich boyfriend's bank account?

Well, aside from gross budget deficits, convicts running free on the streets and the threat sheer economic chaos, I can think of only one thing -

My Life.

What could have happened in a 24-hour period that would make me feel this way, you ask? Well, dear readers, I'll have you guess:

A - I got dumped
B - I got evicted
C - I broke the heel of my shoe
D - All of the above

CONGRATULATIONS! If you answered "D" to the above, you've won an all-expense-paid trip to my pity party.

It starts now. And lasts until noon, at which point this pathetic mess of a girl will be surfing, tanning, and once again realizing that nothing REALLY bad ever happens in California.

xoxo

Photographic Evidence . . .

That I haven't changed that much.

Kristen, circa 1986.



Kristen, circa 2008.



Yes, I was ALWAYS this rock 'n roll.

Longevity, thy name is Breadcrumbs.

By way of announcement, I have now blogged regularly (with my signature irregularity) for 2 years.

TWO years.

That is longer than I have ever:

- Kept the same job
- Maintained the same weight
- Dated the same person (by about a year and 10 months)
- Gone without a car accident

Congratulations to me.

Sucro-Masochism.

So if you know me (and may God generously bless those of you that don't know me and still find some interest in reading about my blasé life), you are more than likely aware of one (or several) of my glaring, horrific flaws:

I don't eat sugar.

Or simple carbohydrates, or trans fat. In fact, it's only been in recent months that I have healed the rift betwixt me and the world's population of fruit (although I still have nutritional aversions to dates, bananas and figs - shame on your high glycemic index).

In the words of my (loving) grandmother last week,

"Well she is completely obsessed with food!"

I am. Sue me.

A bowl of fettuccine alfredo is at times enough to send me into a nervous panic.

That being said,

I. LOVE. TO. COOK.

And not just cook. Bake. With sugar. And brown sugar. And cane juice. And butter. And butter. And butter. And cream. And shortening...

Well, you get the general idea.

My question is, from where does this odd dichotomy stem? And since my culinary behaviors are perhaps the ONE thing I haven't discussed at length with my therapist, I send this out into the cyber void that is my blog:

Is this obsession a sign of loving, beautiful charity? Or pure, unadulterated masochism?

I'll let you know if I ever figure it out.

That being said, I've never been that charitable.

xoxo.

Another (Radford) Bites the Dust

So Dan and Mel got married.

And I wore orange.

All in all not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

Let this be a warning to you . . .

I've become very domestic.

I also very much enjoy feeding people food that I'm morally opposed to consuming myself.

Because I'm a masochist.

Breaking up is hard to do.

Goodbyes are tough.

There's that sentimental wrap-up, a few tears shed here or there, the barrage of well-wishes, and then the awkward hug/kiss/handshake to seal the deal.

And to make matters worse, breaking up has never been my strong point. Usually, it goes something like this:

K - "I'm not good for you. I'm crazy."
On-again/Off-again BF - "Do you want to break up?"
K - "No, you want to break up with me."
OA/OA BF- "I do?"
K - "Don't you?"
OA/OA BF - "Well, you ARE crazy."

two months later

K (via text) - "Miss me?"

That being said, the mass of on-again-off-again beaus in my life is no concern here (unless you're currently in my life, in which case, maybe we should chat).

I speak of a much more serious farewell.

Having put myself on a strict diet of no-shopping (and stuck to it this entire week except for that one incident at the Rack and the other two at revolveclothing.com (because honestly, does online shopping even COUNT?)), I am taking a bold move and..

cleaning out my closet.

Before you say anything, I need to tell you - this isn't about the clothes. Well, this is exactly about the clothes. But what I mean to say is the clothing didn't DO anything. It's me. And what the clothes do to me.

There I am, innocently perusing the racks of silk, cotton, cashmere, wool, when our eyes lock. I reach for you - you reach back. We connect. I get you into a room, and there we are - we've become one. Within minutes I've spent all my money on you.

And you're right there on board. I take you home to meet the family, and you fit in so nicely - right next to like colors/fabrics. But you're not there for long. No, you're special, and I can't keep you off of me.

But then, something fades (and I use color-safe bleach!). I bring home some coral linen-blend or something in a silk ombre and suddenly I forget you - forget US.

And before you know it, the seasons have changed and we've become strangers.

I don't like what this has done to me, and it's time I take control.

And so, with plastic garbage bags and rubbermaid containers on hand, I will settle in for the hardest of goodbyes.


xoxo

Dear Seattle Mariners . . .

I didn't mean it.

I love you.

Take me back.

We do independence right in California . . .

. . . despite the financial dependence we have on the world.



Yes, this was how we slept.

Newport on the 4th




San Diego on the 4th.

Reason # 34,236 that I love Brandon Flowers

Also, let it be known that we are now officially closer to the upcoming Christmas than to the previous one.

These two topics are unrelated.

Unless you're Santa.

Santa, please send me Brandon for Christmas.

xoxo

In Honor of Father's Day Week. . .

I'm staying out of Mexico.

Because, due to the wisdom of this man, I now know that visits to Tijuana result in decapitation and swine flu contraction.

In that order.

Every time.

Saturdays are for pictures (and pure, unadulterated vanity).

Yes, they're all of me. And California. And, you know, whoever.

Dear Seattle Mariners . . .

I don't know where to begin, but we can't continue avoiding this conversation.

You know that I've always been faithful to you. During the good times, we were amazing. Remember 2001? Ichiro and pennant races and 'My - Oh- My?' I was your greatest fan, your biggest support. I cheered for you, bought your merchandise and even quietly wept after that fateful Yankee ninth-inning grand slam in game six.

And I was there for the bad times (roughly my birth until now, minus 2001). I stayed with you while we lost loved ones - Griffey, Martinez, Johnson, even Rodriguez (good riddance, juicer!).

And I was here for the reunion (welcome back, Jr.).

I was yours alone.

And it started out so innocently - a score-check here, a hoodie there. I never meant for it to end up this way, but...

Well, there's no easy way to say this.

I've been seeing the Padres.

It's not you.

I mean, they're not even a winning team. But - and it has to be said - they ARE out of your league (the National is so refreshing!).

I'd like to try to be friends still. I know you'll be in town next week, and I'd really like us to see each other - awkward as it might be that my new lover will also be in attendance.

Let's attempt to be civil.

xoxo,

Kristen

P.S. - in the event that you make it to a world series in the next decade, please burn this letter and accept my undying and unwavering devotion.

My California Resume (click me!)

I belong here, people.

San Diego Brings Out the Best in Me

..... and my hair.