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.