Dropping Breadcrumbs of Sanity

He Said/She Said

2011-06-16T22:11:00.002-06:00

I’ve heard that marriage is all about communication (but to be honest, I haven’t really been paying much attention). That said, RP and I are lucky to get a good two hours of face time a day, what with our early-morning surf/pilates habits and my penchant for turning in around 9:45 (seriously, I’d be more comfortable in a retirement center than a sorority house).

But even those few short hours provide enough time for some good, old-fashioned miscommunication.

For example

K said:“This purse was such a good deal I had to have it.”

K meant:“This was a great deal, in that it was 50 percent off of its original $600.”

RP heard: “I got a great deal on this purse so I could sell it on eBay to make a profit.”

K said: “It’s so funny that now that I’m married I take the garbage out more than I ever have in my life.”

K meant: “Take the $&*# garbage out, you lazy dog.”

RP heard: “I think you’re funny.”

K said: “I had a long day.”

K meant: “Please cook me dinner and say something nice to me.”

RP heard: “I married you so you would support me. Why am I still working?”

RP said: “If you want two gym memberships you should buy the 2-year deal at Costco because it’s so much cheaper.”

RP meant: “If you want two gym memberships you should buy the 2-year deal at Costco because it’s so much cheaper.”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.”

RP said: “You look pretty. That dress shows off your curves.”

RP meant: “You look pretty. That dress shows off your curves.”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.

RP said: “Did you work out today?”

RP meant: “Did you work out today?”

K heard: “I think you’re fat.”

I don’t really see any problems here, folks.

Hanging the Hat

2011-03-25T21:25:00.003-06:00

I threatened before, but you knew I couldn't end things until I had something else lined up (like the story of my dating life). From here on out, you can read my musings, reflections and failures in marriage, home and life in general at:

www.hiprices.blogspot.com

Yeah, I know that's not how you spell 'high." That name was already taken, so I'm pretending this is all a play on words.

See you there.

Food, TV and Tough Questions

2011-02-21T09:46:00.004-07:00

It's no secret that I spend roughly 90 percent of my waking hours thinking about food: buying it, making it, eating it, throwing it up so I can eat more.... okay, just kidding about that last one. But honestly, checking my mailbox on any given day would likely make you assume I'm living with a bored 1950's housewife complete with pearls and a baby blue vacuum cleaner: Martha Stewart Living, Whole Living, Everyday Food, Food Network Magazine, Cooking Light, Food & Wine... you name it, I get it.

Then it's no wonder that my TV is constantly tuned to the network that cares as much for food as I do. And after hours spent in front of Food Network, my worries concerning a few of its star chefs can no longer be kept at bay.

- Does Ina Garten have any real friends? Or a real husband? Because in each of her episodes, she tends to follow successful gay men all around town trying to have a quick lunch with them (that she's spent the entirety of the morning preparing).

- Does Giada de Laurentes think she sounds more genuine by lapsing into a super-affected Italian accent when pronouncing the names of pasta or cheese? She's basically "California California California PARM-EH-ZGH-EE-AHH-NO California California.." Also, does she throw up everything she eats? Doesn't she know you can't trust a skinny chef?

- Is Sandra Lee just tipsy or raging drunk during her broadcasts? I know she likes to throw in a semi-homemade cocktail with each and every episode (even if that episode is food for a kids party), but I've become suspicious that's she'll be sipping tea with Linsay Lohan at the Betty Ford in no time flat.

- Does Bobby Flay realize that he will never, ever win Throw Down? Why does he keep trying? If the point of the show, as I suspect it is, is to simply highlight the best restaurants and foods in certain geographical areas of the United States, then why don't we just focus on that, instead of this competitive farce of baking a better chocolate chip cookie or grilling a better burger? C'mon Bobby.

- Worst cooks in America was doomed from the start. Do we watch Food Network to see BAD chefs? We may as well just tape ourselves in the kitchen and call it good.

- Paula Deen, you can do no wrong in my eyes. However, I highly doubt your cardiologist would share my sentiment.

February is for Lovers (and Black History)

2011-02-14T16:39:00.010-07:00

Unfortunately, my lover isn't black.

But fortunately, he's decided to stick around awhile--Forever, in fact. Or so the current agreement stipulates.

That's why we got pictures taken. Well, that and to ensure that all our family and friends have a glossy black and white of us stuck on their refrigerator.

We're classy like that.

Musings Upon the Close of Another Year

2010-12-30T15:22:00.006-07:00

Unlike less-pleasant events that take place on a yearly basis (i.e. DMV visits and OBGYN appointments), I thought it fitting--and dare I say amusing--to seal up a year concluded with my thoughts, questions and reflections of our dear 2010.

Buying drugs in Mexico is not as easy as everyone makes it sound.

Smuggling avocados into the United States may produce dire consequences.

In 2010 I received both cosmetic surgery and a large, perfectly-cut diamond. The relationship betwixt these events will remain one of the great mysteries of our time.

I've realized that my greatest fear about marriage is that I'll no longer be allowed to eat cereal in bed at 6 in the morning.

A 7-mile run really will solve most, if not all, of life's problems.

You don't have to be registered to run in the Hungtington Beach Turkey Trot if you pin a paper to your shirt and look like you mean business.

Friendships ended when both of you are on Percocet are usually repairable.

I am most popular among the under-12 and over-50 crowd.

Agreeing to marry a 33 year-old Mormon boy will guarantee his parents love you. For life.

Making it to the last week of December does not let you out of the woods. You could, for instance, receive two traffic tickets and a failed clutch that week. Maybe.

Lots of people care whether or not you wear a wedding dress to your own wedding.

Ocean water less than 74 degrees may as well be the North Atlantic.

If you're getting married in March, don't quietly reflect, once Christmas is over, that you have nothing to look forward to now.

Sometimes it takes 2 years to officially change your residence to a new state.

I will forever wonder how I succeeded in life without a Kitchenaid.

FroYo addiction is a very real and personal problem in our society today.

Just because you quit blogging doesn't mean you have to quit blog-stalking.

Most things are forgivable; even taking a week off for a surf trip but nada for your honeymoon. Sometimes.

Here's to a new year - maybe being a Mrs. will give me something more exciting to blog about than my paltry life alone.

Trading Breadcrumbs for Bread?

2010-09-08T14:42:00.014-06:00

So lately I've been thinking about boredom and how I have it. Not with life - I'm a busy girl, a full-time marketeer, a freelance writer, an (almost) daily runner, a wanna-be personal shopper (so I practice - personally) and an amateur baker. Not to mention there's always miles of San Diego beaches, a handsome boyfriend and - when all else fails - Costco to keep me entertained.

But lately - and don't take this the wrong way - I've been thinking about blogging and how it's sooo two-thousand-and-late. Yeah, yeah, it's like a journal - well, I've never been organized enough to keep one and cataloging my life at this point could only lead to unwanted liabilities down the road (don't read this, unborn children). So I'm moving on to something that interests me more:

Food.

Namely the fluffy, frosted, sprinkled, rolled, cut, iced, folded, piped, and filled kind.

The BAKED kind.

So I bought a web site (name to be divulged when it's up and at 'em), and will try my hand at the online baked goods business (you know, in my spare time). Luckily, I have at my disposal a web designer (hope you're reading this and get the hint), and a businessy-accountanty boyfriend who also doubles as a very willing critic of all things baked.

But for added motivation (and for my journal, wink-wink), I'm displaying a few of my bake-reations (that's not a bad name, huh?)

California Summers: A Photo Essay

2010-08-10T10:47:00.009-06:00

Yes, I'm posting pictures. Because I've finally realized just how odd it is that one as self-absorbed as I rarely engages in the obnoxious over-illustrating of her blog page.

Well, I'm turning over a new leaf. At least long enough to disburse the following pseudo-glamorous happenings in and about Southern California.

Mexico - nothin' says third world like a sombrero, a poncho and a Via Spiga bag.

Graduation - he's smart, handsome, funny . . . AND now - a master.

Sorry, I can't remember the month of July. But I DO know it involved Utah, painkillers and some much-needed (24/7) time with my BFF. Sadly (and fortunately), there are no pictures to post.

But back in California, I spent some time hanging out with wallabies (I know, I'm such a cliche).

Not to mention BOTH of my surfer boyfriends:

Bring us something good, August.

"Changing" their Oil

2010-07-15T15:07:00.003-06:00

What couldn’t come sooner for most Gulf-coast residents (not to mention millions of sea creatures), British Petroleum today announced that the now infamous, record-breaking oil leak in the Gulf has stopped.

Whew.

While this might be an obvious relief to the world’s population and (no doubt) BP executives, it’s quite obvious to the world that this situation’s timetable was . . . less than ideal.

Well, not to play the devil’s advocate, but I’d like to take a moment to defend the oil-lords of British Petroleum and assume that the company wasn’t irresponsible, just misinformed. I’d rather suppose that while the blue-green waters of the gulf were (horrifically) polluted for nearly 90 days, BP was just under the impression that they had to “change” their oil at the same intervals as the rest of us: Three months or 5,000 miles.

Well, it’s too bad (or good?) the oil only made it 600 miles. I propose that instead of demanding reparation and responsibility, we simply advise BP to revise their oil-change stickers. After all, we don’t want to buy a new engine –er—ocean, do we?

Textual Peeves

2010-06-11T10:05:00.003-06:00

As much as I hate to talk about me, I find it necessary to address an unignorable trend that I’ve overlooked much too long: one that exasperates me at least twice daily and sends my grammatical sensibilities absolutely raging on the rare occasion.

I am, of course, referring to text message shortcuts.

“How r u?”
“Gr8. U?
“Want 2 meet up?”
“Y? Ur hungry?”

I can’t hide the fact that it drives me absolutely haywire. And with text messaging becoming an official and accepted form of communication, this is one peeve that shows little sign of abatement.

A word to the wise:

If you use “2” in a non-numeral sense, I’ll presume you’re TOO dimwitted to know the difference between one “o” and two.

If your message contains “r,” used as a singular word, I will take after the Motion Picture Rating System and consider you restricted.

“BTW” in my mind means “bring the weapon,” and assume you are in fact asking me to kill you.

And WTF? I still consider this cursing and will forward the message to your mother.

And while we’re on the subject, “x” does not stand as its own word or make up for a “ks” sound, capish?

Thanks for your time. (Thanx 4 ur time, if translation was needed.)

Undesignated Drivers

2010-05-27T15:23:00.004-06:00

Memorial Day motorists beware: American drivers are slacking. And as we gear up for a long weekend (let’s breathe a mutual sigh of relief), I found this CNN.com article of particular interest.

According to article, one in five American drivers can’t pass a written driving test.

At first this shocked me (and, as a self-proclaimed terrible driver, I am not easily-shocked), but the more I got to thinking about it, the more I realized, this is the perfect excuse to spend this Memorial Day doing nothing.

So, if you’re one of the elite 80 percent with the courage of your motor-skill convictions, why not let those other 20 endanger someone else this holiday weekend? After all, three free days in a row are the perfect opportunity to:

Watch all six seasons of Lost once more in a vain attempt at comprehension.
Write those long-overdue letters to those political leaders who have showed unsatisfactory performance (wait.. we only have three days?).
Send that 2010 Census back (or at least answer the door this time).
Meet your neighbors, so you don’t look like a hermit when the Census guy comes around asking about them.
Gather your “papers” into one convenient, mobile container (this applies only to Arizonans).
Try not to spill any oil.
Buy a new hot tub with the money you saved on gas for the weekend.
Quietly judge the crowds of women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
Become enraged with the men judging the women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
Lose a bunch of money in the stock market. Wait. . . .
Formulate and promote a new, ill-conceived stimulus plan to sink the nation into greater debt (this is applicable only if your first name is Barrack).
Practice driving tests online for the self-fulfillment of being among America’s (80 percent) elite.

Happy Memorials, friends.

The Language Barrier (a/k/a Fear and Loathing on the Jersey Shore)

2010-05-24T14:41:00.004-06:00

I’ve made a point thus far to avoid talking about Jersey Shores. I’ll confess, it’s not due to any elitist attitude that excludes the mentally-repressed or the culturally-tactless. Rather, it has more to do with the general sense of unease that the MTV series invokes in me. I feel much like the scientist stumbling upon an undiscovered species: I’m intrigued. I’m fascinated. I’m curious. But I haven’t come close to understanding these beings.

The bouffant, the juice, the tans and laundry. The fist-fights and drunken benders. The blatant disregard for self-awareness. Yes, Jersey Shore has introduced us to a whole new kind of animal. And while, as a shamed watcher of The Hills, I am not unaccustomed to the mindless banter and useless existence of the vapid and venomous 20-somethings that infect LA, I am still freshly taken aback by the vermin inhabiting Seaside Heights, New Jersey.

And since Jersey Shore shows no merciful sign of collapse, I have pledged to give this minute, vacuous segment of the American populace the benefit of the doubt by assuming their despicableness is due entirely to a language barrier: I speak the vernacular American English; They speak Jersey Shore. It is in this spirit of humanity and understanding that I offer the following translations:

“We’re beatin’-up-the-beat, that’s what we say when we’re doing our fist pump. First, we start off by banging the ground, we’re banging it as the beat builds ‘cause that beat’s hittin’ us so we’re fightin’ back, it’s like we beat up that beat.”

Translation: I received poor grades in English.

“That's why I don't eat lobster or anything like that cause they're alive when you kill it.”

Translation: I’m not stupid. I’m anorexic.

“G.T.L. baby. Gym, Tanning, Laundry.”

Translation: As you'll see on my resume, I'm a productive multitasker specializing in cleanliness, illegal performance-enhancing drugs, and extreme skin pigmentation.

“I'm not trashy, unless I drink too much.”

Translation: I don’t mind being trashy, if that's what you're into.

“Everybody at the Shore definitely knows The Situation. As far as I know, everybody loves The Situation, and if you don't love The Situation, I'm gonna make you love The Situation.”

Translation: RUN.

"Your bank account can be low, but you always gotta look good — always have to get a new haircut, always gotta wear new sneakers, always gotta look fresh."

Translation: I used to work for AIG.

“Don’t fall in love at the Jersey Shore.”

Translation: Wait, finally they're speaking our language.

Space . . . Cadet?

2010-04-29T16:50:00.001-06:00

If there’s one thing I love, it’s space. And I’m not just talking about an open floor plan or a full-size sedan. I’m referring to outer space – the final frontier, the great unknown, the home of Martians, Vulcans, Alf and ET. The outer limits, so mysterious that we write books, make movies, form cults and sacrifice ourselves just in hopes of riding through it on a comet.

Okay, that’s just some of us.

Clearly, I’m an advocate for furthering the exploration of this great solar system we call home. I’m dying to know if there’s life on Mars or extra moons orbiting Jupiter and Saturn. So much so that I can understand pumping a few billion dollars into some galactic exploration.

But Barack, with all due respect, I’d advice we do nothing with Mars. Unless, of course, we have substantial evidence that its economy is far-exceeding our own. And perhaps let’s forget the Milky Way for a time, save it will provide actual Milky Ways (dark, preferably) for those using food stamps on Main Street while their homes are foreclosing.

And let’s steer clear of that astro belt until we know exactly what happening on our own Beltway.

Although, in the light of America’s current state, perhaps we could find some new territories – where land and resources are plentiful and the terrain in desperate want of human habitation – and claim it. For China.

In gratitude of the 6 billion we borrowed to find it.

I adore science. But Barack, fellow Americans, this seems a bit spacey.

On Arizona, Immigration, and Costco

2010-04-27T16:50:00.001-06:00

Beware, desert-dwellers: A new sheriff’s is town and he’s taking names. Or rather, the same sheriff is still in town and he’s taking names, ID cards and citizenship documentation.

Arizona, I’m talking to you. And since the introduction of a new law that allows officials to require identification and immigration papers of citizens (or non) on demand, “Show me your papers!” might just be the hot new sub-Utah catchphrase.

Which, naturally, got me to thinking about Costco.

I have a deep-seeded affection for the warehouse company I call my Saturday-morning home. I love its snow-capped frozen meat department, the majesty of the purple-mountain-sporting section, and the amber waves of bulk-quantity grains.

I appreciate –nay, depend upon– the provisions of groceries, prescription medications, tires, housewares and entertainment materials this concrete-wrapped Mecca provides.

To put it simply, if I could pledge allegiance to Costco, I would.

But here’s the catch: you gotta be a member to score the goods.

I know, I know, other stores are free to enter, zip to peruse, nada to purchase. No one at WalMart checks my membership status upon entering. Target doesn’t demand documentation at the pharmacy counter. And Macy’s never asks for a membership card when I’m buying a blender.

Oh, but they are not Costco, nor do they provide the high-qualitied, bulk-quantitied, low-costing products that my native warehouse does. (Nor do they provide a polish dog and coke for a buck-fifty, but I digress).

So cheer up, Arizona. We’ve got a pretty good thing going with this little country of ours. It may be inconvenient, and it may be demanding, but if we let everyone in here we’d just be another giant superstore with high prices and dirty carts.

And then where would you go when you needed to find both a kayak and a rotisserie chicken in one place?

Think about it.

An American Emblem

2010-04-15T10:43:00.002-06:00

Fearless, bold, and free, the bald eagle invokes the firmly-planted seeds of patriotism to swell in all of our chests. After all, the distinguished bird, with its proud posture and undying determination has been our nation’s emblem for more than 200 years, gracing our currency, coins and every nook and cranny of Washington DC.

But with this hearty introduction I, with regret in my heart and sadness in my pen, suggest that this beloved bird no longer symbolize the true American.

Or at least the true American man.

Sure, the eagle is domineering, likes the beach, and is opportunistic in his every mannerism. But, I sadly concede, the bald eagle mates for life.

For life.

That means that Mr. BE (bald eagle), upon winning dozens of eagle-like sporting events, doesn’t flee his fine-feathered-(girl)friend for 10-20 be-beaked escorts.

Nor does he leave his plumaged partner in the nest with her brood of chickadees to pursue life on a reality television show.

And we know he doesn’t run for office while discreetly perfecting his “wide stance” at his favorite watering hole.

Not to mention that our favorite winged one is also known for its courting rituals, wooing the female with “elaborate calls and flight displays.” Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but I only receive elaborate calls when cell minutes are free and football season is over. And as for flights, my mother taught me long ago that there’s always expectations attached to free vacations.

Ah, the eagle. A fine testament to what Americans could be. Perhaps Ben Franklin was right about that turkey after all.

Papa Knows Best

2010-03-29T16:07:00.004-06:00

Papa Knows Best

It might be rebels that make the news, but life isn’t so bad for the obedient, either. Or so it would seem in a recent CNN report (http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/03/26/new.jersey.cold.case/index.html?hpt=C1). As it turns out, the fifth commandment (for you heathens, that’s the one about honoring your parents), might have some validity after all.

This got me to thinking (always a dangerous activity) about the advice I’ve received from my own father through the years. And though, in my 27 years, I have chosen to test the legitimacy of said advice through extensive experimental means, I have compiled the following as the best advice I’ve received from Pop (to date).

If you suffer from Attention-Deficit Disorder, it’s good idea to stay away from standard transmissions.

Just because you’re getting 12 CDs for the price of one, committing to Columbia House or BMG could have catastrophic consequences.

Open cell phone accounts for yourself, not someone else, especially if that someone else may or may not end up in prison.

Stay out of Mexico.

Never take a promotion without a pay increase.

Be wary of men who don’t pay for dinner on a first date.

Be wary of men who procure dates online.

Be wary of men.

Never burn a bridge of someone who might hire you later in life.

Stay out of Mexico.

You can still squeeze 50 miles out of your tank once the gas light comes on (note that this only has a 75% effective rate).

Paying rent will, in the end, fulfill your life more than new shoes will.

Changing your oil is not an optional service.

Stay out of Mexico.

My thanks to CNN for making it en vogue to mind your father.

There are times . . .

2010-03-29T12:39:00.001-06:00

when the most bizarre of song lyrics fill me with the greatest pleasure.

For instance:

"Plants, as far as we know are still bending toward the light. And if we dance, until the heart explodes we can make this place ignite."

My thoughts exactly, MGMT.

I'd really appreciate you all getting on board: www.whoismgmt.com

Like a moth to this flame.

2010-02-19T10:38:00.002-07:00

Being the red-blooded American that I am, I can’t help but be enthralled with the Olympic Games: High-speed skating, aerial ski jumps, rough-and-tumble hockey, and men twirling on ice in a delightful combination of sequins and spandex.

Yes, it gets right into the core of me.

But with the exhilaration of watching these lithe, toned, athletic machines, comes that familiar pang of disheartening regret.

For I am not an Olympic athlete.

Although, to be fair, I do run 35 miles a week and have a resting heart rate of 55.

But alas, I will never mount that grand podium or feel the weight of gold around my neck. Nor will I entertain sponsors or flit about in flag-printed tracksuits.

But it is of no matter, for I have, in an attempt to assuage my open wounds of inadequacy, created an array of alternate Olympic events at which I am confident I’d come away the victor.

The committee can contact me directly for adoption. Potential opponents can contact me directly to commiserate.

Olympic Fro-Yo Survival: this will test the brute resilience of a competitor in surviving solely on sugar-free, peanut-butter-cup flavored frozen yogurt.

Olympic Excuse-Making: may the best reason to get out of a meeting/date/appointment/(ahem)relationship win.

Olympic Vehicle Demolition: The first to wreck their car three times in one year takes the gold.

Olympic Freestyle Living-Room Dancing: Points will be calculated based on a 2/3 ratio of neurotic/unsexy.

Olympic iPhone-Shatterer: This one is self-explanatory (and extremely expensive, believe me).

Olympic Shoe-Buyer: Speed plus style are imperative. As is an AmEx.

Readers, committee-members: no need to thank me.

PS – when do I get my track suit?

Love is in the (70 degree) air

2010-02-17T14:35:00.005-07:00

Ah, mid-February. A time to bask in and savor the sweet, sweet romance around us. It is because of this very special time that I'd like to talk about my deep, passionate, and committed relationship. . .

with California.

That's right, folks, the golden state and I are celebrating a golden anniversary (minus 49 years) this month. And I'm pleased to report that we're still going strong.

I've been wined, dined, and cleverly seduced by one Mr. Saint Diego. Is it the sunshine? Is it the surf? Is it the shopping? Is it the fro-yo that pinch-hits as my daily supper?

Yes.

And maybe perhaps that this is the view from my back deck:

Or that this is how I get to spend my free time (and, let's be serious, some of my work time):

Or that California brought me this handsome boy:

Happy One Year, Cal. Here's to another.

And no, I still won't go blonde for you.

Intellect or internet?

2010-02-12T10:39:00.002-07:00

I’d like to make a confession here.

I used to be smart.

And I’m not talking count-my-own-change smart. I’m talking IQ-over-150-reading-Tolstoy-at-10-premier-MENSA-material kind of smart. I asked for Rand McNally atlases and electronic typewriters for Christmas. A telescope with moons-of-Jupiter magnification capabilities sent me into a frenzied excitement.

And then I discovered the internet.

Now, I’m not trying to assign blame here, and I don’t (really) expect your condolences for my plight, but I want to be very clear here: I could have been someone important if not victimized by the age of information sharing.

And I don’t think I’m alone. While the World Wide Web is brimming with up-to-the-minute news and politics, extensive resources on history, science, math, art, and anything else I was mildly amused with in college, it also houses television shows, entertainment blogs, Meccas for online shopping, YouTube, ESPN and, dare I say it? Facebook.

That’s not to say that, as a generation, we’ve stopped learning, but somewhere along the line, we stopped talking about it. I don’t remember the last time any of my close friends brought up the Paleolithic period, but I have had roughly 1,245 referrals to the “David at the Dentist” clip on YouTube.

And then there are the ads – enough to send a helpless girl with ADD into a downward spiral of pointing and clicking. Just yesterday I was (wait for it) researching the coming exhibits at the Getty when presented with an advertisement for Bloomingdales.

Getty who?

Even my attempts to keep up on the latest news are foiled by the more entertaining “Highlights from the Golden Globes” videos presented on CNN. Suddenly the Haitian earthquake or the state of healthcare reform are overshadowed by the Valentino Jennifer Anniston wore on Sunday.

And so, while my work ethic or general capability to stay on task might have something to do with my waning intellect, I’d prefer to blame the Internet for the schizophrenic tendencies of my –

Hold on, I have a new tweet.

Why Men don't Understand.

2010-02-09T10:44:00.002-07:00

Kristen: My new boots came in the mail today!

Boy: Which new boots?

Kristen: Brown, suede.

Boy: Don't you have like five pairs of brown boots already?

Kristen: Six, I think.

Boy: You needed another?

Kristen: These ones go over my knees.

Boy: Why would you need boots that go over your knees?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees get cold.

Boy: But you wear tights.

Kristen: Not when it's warmer

Boy: Why would you wear boots when its warmer?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees feel fat.

Boy: Your knees aren't fat.

Kristen: Right, but sometimes they feel fat.

Boy: But you run like 7 miles a day.

Kristen: But I still get my period.

Boy: And that makes your knees feel fat?

Kristen: Well, yes.

Boy: I don't understand you.

And the humiliation goes to . . .

2010-01-18T16:54:00.006-07:00

If the excess of sweeping gowns and molded smiles on magazine pages and entertainment news stations wasn’t enough to tip you off, let it be known: award season is upon us.

Golden Globes, Oscars, SAGs, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys . . . it’s enough to keep Sunday night television around and People Magazine in business for three months of the year.

And while the accolades for actors, actresses, producers, directors, musicians and designers pile up, I find myself regretful that the year’s more spell-binding, more dramatic, and, let’s be honest, more entertaining “performances” aren't receiving the necessary attention.

So, in an attempt to give credit where credit is due, I’d like to offer the following awards, for a full and – umm – compelling 2009.

Best Multiple-Cheater Award: Obviously, this one goes out to Tiger. Lucky for David Letterman, this hit the fan just before the close of the calendar year.

Most Tasteless Relationship: This one’s a toss-up between the Mel Gibson/Oksana-whoever affair and the John Gosselin-college co-ed match-up. The Gibson duo have iced the cake with a pregnancy, but John Gosselin continues to sport an earring and way too much Ed Hardy. Obviously John wins.

Biggest Hollywood Weenie: Chris Brown. In fact, I’m convinced that had she not been seated in a limo, Rhianna totally could have taken him.

Most delusion self-image: “I’m more of a modern Mother Teresa.” – Heidi Montag. This statement might have actually been a bigger mistake than her music video (which is now burned into my subconscious, thank you YouTube).

Worst Idea of the Year: Socialized healthcare. There. I said it.

Best Pro-Athlete Let-Down: Michael Phelps? Alex Rodriguez? No. David Beckham. Why is he STILL married?

Saddest Rejection: Do we award this for Madonna’s inability to adopt another child? Or for Tony Romo dropping Jessica on her birthday? We’ll call it a tie.

Most Vicious Insult: I don’t want to hand yet another one out to Jessica Simpson, but if even the President is mocking your mom jeans and excess “baggage,” something’s got to be amiss.

Most Consequential Resignation: Sarah Palin. Ummm… WHO is watching Russia NOW??

And with all due respect to the above recipients, Kanye West had the best public debacle of all time. OF ALL TIME.

Feel free to thank the academy.

New Year's Reso - YOU - sions

2010-01-06T14:24:00.006-07:00

Before beginning, I must disclaim: I am irreparably flawed. And every January 1st arrives with the same hopeful motivation combined with the looming presence of gross inadequacy. So, in an attempt to make 2010 less disappointing for me, I am giving up my usual resolutions and making new ones – for you, in the hopes that 2010 will annoy me a little less.

Stop looking for parking spots: Just stop. The first one you see is good enough and you could probably use the cardiovascular benefit of actually moving your own body around. My trips to Costco would be vastly improved if each lane in and out weren’t clogged by immobile Suburbans searching for a spot 100 yards closer to the door.

Leave your cell phone in your car/purse/pocket when in a grocery store, movie theater, restaurant, or simply around the general public. Your one-sided, high-decibeled conversation is ruining my shopping/eating/watching/breathing experience.

For the love of all that is holy, learn to drive a roundabout.

Stop carrying your dog in your purse. This doesn’t inconvenience me, but tremendously annoys me.

Please learn and retain the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Use this knowledge in your daily life.

Stop making films (this is non-applicable if your name is not Cameron Diaz, Keanu Reeves or Miley Cyrus).

Dispose of any and all personal items designed or endorsed by one Mr. Ed Hardy.

Stop trying to sneak explosives onto planes. I already have to get to the airport early enough, thank you.

Extricate the phrase “we need to talk” from your repertoire (you know who you are).

Emotionally accept that holding hands is the most you and your significant should do to show your affection in public. Ever.

Hold doors, tip waiters, say thank you, stop for pedestrians, smile, and cease any and all general douchebaggery.

Happy 2010.

Woods for Peace

2009-12-16T14:16:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-12-10T11:04:00.006-07:00

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.

2009-11-17T12:28:00.002-07:00

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

2009-11-11T08:13:00.001-07:00

It's no big deal, people.

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

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

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

2009-11-06T10:59:00.002-07:00

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.

2009-11-05T11:17:00.004-07:00

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,

2009-10-09T09:54:00.003-06:00

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

2009-10-08T09:58:00.004-06:00

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 . . .

2009-09-11T11:45:00.005-06:00

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...

2009-09-08T15:05:00.007-06:00

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.

2009-08-28T11:50:00.006-06:00

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 . . .

2009-08-24T13:27:00.005-06:00

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.

2009-08-14T11:42:00.005-06:00

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.

2009-08-11T16:16:00.003-06:00

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

2009-08-09T17:22:00.014-06:00

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 . . .

2009-07-24T13:48:00.003-06:00

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.

2009-07-17T15:01:00.002-06:00

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 . . .

2009-07-09T11:40:00.004-06:00

I didn't mean it.

I love you.

Take me back.

We do independence right in California . . .

2009-07-08T11:01:00.011-06:00

. . . 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

2009-06-26T15:31:00.002-06:00

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. . .

2009-06-22T10:25:00.004-06:00

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).

2009-06-13T13:29:00.007-06:00

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

Dear Seattle Mariners . . .

2009-06-08T16:48:00.002-06:00

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!)

2009-06-01T15:11:00.004-06:00

I belong here, people.

San Diego Brings Out the Best in Me

2009-05-27T11:09:00.006-06:00

..... and my hair.

FINALLY

2009-05-22T14:16:00.003-06:00

After a good year of reading Craig's List Missed Connections, I do believe this to be me. . .

24 Fitness Solana Beach - m4w - 30 (Solana Beach)
________________________________________
Reply to:pers-cebhk-1179765217@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

Date: 2009-05-19, 10:16PM PDT

Hey,

You were wearing a grey top, stretching right by me as I did the crunches.
I wanted to say hello, and should have..

~Marc
• Location: Solana Beach
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1179765217

My Confessionary Hymn

2009-05-19T14:17:00.002-06:00

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned.

It's been 26 years since my last confession.

What, you might ask, does an angelic girl like me have to confess about?

Exhibitionism, for one. So sit back, relax, and binge on my purging.

When I have headphones on at work, 80% of the time I'm listening to Christmas music.
I answer about 20% of the calls I receive. Even when I've nothing to do.
When I text and say, "Can't talk, but what's up?" I can nearly always talk.
I don't miss an episode of Gossip Girl.
My inability to stay angry at people really makes me angry.
I miss Salt Lake more than I let on.
I fight the urge to further ink up my body nearly weekly.
When I'm sleepy I make purchases via my iPhone that I usually don't recall until I see an order confirmation the next morning.
I have fantastic taste when I'm sleepy.
I quietly judge people who have aol and hotmail email accounts.
I quietly judge people without Costco memberships.
I quietly judge people who don't watch 30 Rock.
I no longer like to admit that I voted for Barack Obama.
I had to take a xanax before I spoke in church.
I read Missed Connections on Craig's List religiously.
I wish someone would post about me on Missed Connections.
I kind of swooned over Edward Cullen.
I know the dance moves to "Thriller."
I know the dance moves to "Bye Bye Bye."
I know the dance moves to "Oops, I did it Again."
I think the fact that I dated Captain Kirk kinda makes me cooler.
I use my kitchen to pretend I'm a ballerina quite often.
I claim frozen pie crusts as homemade with growing regularity (yes, I put them in glass pie plates before baking).
Often before bed I try on clothing that I've already tried on.
Sometimes before bed I stuff a pillow in said clothing to pretend I'm pregnant.
The truthfulness of what I say on dates decreases as my boredom increases.
I've been known to sacrifice groceries for the right dress.
I've been known to sacrifice the right dress for the right shoes.
I will eat the toppings off of any pizza left unattended.
I often pretend to see a cop in order to quickly get off a phone call - even if I'm not in my car.

So sue me, people.

Hot 19 Year-Olds Needed

2009-05-15T20:58:00.005-06:00

Yes, dear readers, you read it right. And no, I haven't joined forces with Girls Gone Wild, nor have I accepted any of my recent offers to 'launch' my 'acting-slash-modeling-slash-escort' career.

Nope. In a completely characteristic stroke of selflessness, I'm writing this on behalf of the West's most eligible young missionary - the handsome, strapping, sensitive Aaron Radford.

He needs hot girls. Well, let me clarify. He needs hot girls who dig pen-pal type relationships and have a thing for delayed gratification. And since I am but a 26-year-old Californian who lacks access to a wealth of just-graduated mormon cuties (not to mention that I'D never write letters ad nauseam to a boy who lacked the time and geographical convenience to spend all day complimenting and/or buying presents for me), I come to you, dear readers. Below is an excerpt from A-Rad's last heartfelt plea:

"kristin* i need your help..i need hot girls to start writing me so i have some prospects when i get home...heres my address...send me cookies and i love you...thanks for everything sis....love

(address available upon request)

hey seriously about the girls..ha ha...but for real, serisouly..just show em some pics from my facebook or something..hey i love you...im lookin forward to snickerdoodles..hey go home sunday..i get to call! i dont have your number! call mamma bear..i love you."

I'll take care of the snickerdoodles, people. You take care of the girls. Peruse the pics -- I offer all this plus some rockin' taste in music and a lil bit 'o spanish romance.

(Fine, the third one isn't of him, but it's a great picture and writing an ENTIRE blog about someone else is EXHAUSTING).

xoxo

*It need not be held against the lad that he cannot spell his favorite sister's name correctly.

Elbow, Elbow - Tisk, Tisk.

2009-05-12T12:02:00.004-06:00

Surely there’s one thing this year’s Miss USA pageant has taught us – and no, it’s not that pancake makeup has a place outside October the 31st. No, this year we have learned there is nothing more important than concise, wise and eloquent responses to those challenging and thought-provoking interview questions.

And as the bar is raised each year (let us remember that merely two years ago most Americans didn’t have maps), I’d like to offer a basic study guide to any of my readers who have their sights set on the public service that is beauty-queening. Or, if you’re super old (you wrinkled 24+ readers), these questions might help you prepare for something equally rewarding – like the wife of the US Vice-President or ball-girl for the San Diego Padres.

As always, I’m just here to help.

xoxo

Q: What do you think the results of Obama’s financial stress-test say about the future of banking in America?

A: “I believe his stress-test just replaced sobriety tests as the FUNNEST to fail!”

Q: Do you think the so-called Swine Flu pandemic should be a cause of concern when normal flu viruses kill thousands of people a year?

A: “Did you not see the swimsuit competition? I haven’t eaten bacon in years. Can I please have a new question?”

Q: Drug use among high-school students has risen in past years. Why do you think more and more young people are turning to substance abuse?

A: “I’ve never done coke. I mean, like, I’ve seen it at parties. But I’d never do it – um, I’ve had friends do it, but I always passed. Well, I mean, maybe not passed per se. Um, can we talk about the Iraq?”

Q: What would you say to critics who claim that pageants objectify women?

A: “These critics do not understand the actual purpose for these pageants – which is to gain support for our values and beliefs and to make a difference in our communities. But if I’m first runner-up I’ve already made a deal for the July issue of Playboy.”

Q: Recently a US ship carrying humanitarian supplies was hijacked by Somali pirates. Do you think the situation was handled correctly?

A: “Absolutely. But I mean, with all due respect to Walt Disney Studios, I think the first situation was handled much more cleverly than the second and third. Although, I mean, sea monsters can be really hard to tackle.”

Q: Do you agree with President Obama’s decision to release the so-called ‘torture memos’ of the Bush administration?

A: “No, for real. I’ve never done coke.”

And... Since I can't Facebook...

2009-05-04T13:00:00.009-06:00

What does one do to showcase her new life in California?

She posts the photos on her blog, of course.

Now accepting visitors.

The Age of Information Over-Sharing

2009-04-30T10:27:00.004-06:00

After a two-month hiatus, basking in the glow of swine flu and the Southern California economy, I've decided it was time for my much-anticipated return to the virtual world. Why, you ask? Well, with auto manufacturers collapsing, banks failing and disease spreading like a Hollywood rumor, I found it imperative to write about . . . Facebook.

Yes, Facebook. These are hard times, my dear readers, and no one knows that better than yours truly, who was recently - ahem - DUMPED by the king of all social networking.

It was a perfectly normal Thursday. And after a long day skirting the San Diego freeways I merely needed a cold glass of Crystal Light and a gluttonous helping of information-oversharing. But, as I logged in, I was met with the following message: "YOUR ACCOUNT HAS BEEN DISABLED."

Why, you ask? Well, so did I. Upon further research, the disabling of my account was due to an "egregious" (yet unknown) violation of Facebook's terms of use.

Well this got me thinking. And thinking. And thinking some more. And then I thought, how is it that I have unwittingly committed such a violation to a TEENSY code of conduct and been expelled from the widespread circle that is all things Facebook, when everyday - EVERY SECOND! - thousands are committing gross violations of common decency in the name of status updates and wall posts!

So, as an excommunicated member of Facebook, I would like to give the following advice to those of you who still remain in the favor of the social networking gods.

STATUS UPDATES

Please, people, keep it pithy. We don't care if you just took milk out of your fridge. We don't need to know that you have PMS. We aren't looking for you to pour out your moral dilemmas or emotional upsets in 140 characters. We aren't aching for obligation to counter your self-deprecating update with a multitude of compliments. And we do NOT desire to be privy to your spiteful statements of revenge or offense. The following are status updates that should never have happened:

[Violator 1] just ate a burrito.

[Violator 2] thinks that guys who cancel dates an hour beforehand didn't deserve a date in the first place!

[Violator 3] just wonders if there really is anyone out there for her, or if she'll just be alone indefinitely like she is tonight, looking for cookies and melancholy music.

[Violator 4] wishes someone would ask her out already. What's wrong with me?

[Violator 5] is now single and loving every second of it!!!

[Violator 6] is broke and really needs anyone who owes her money to pay up!

WALL POSTS

On to wall posts. I cannot stress this concept enough - There are phone numbers. There are real email addresses. There's even a "send a message" option WITHIN Facebook. Why then, I ask, do I continue to receive wall posts that should be emails. Wall posts that should be phone calls. Wall posts that should never have been communicated in any form whatsoever?

[Violator 1] I should have told you awhile ago, but I decided that everyone who lived in the house in the last six months now owes $80 for the gas bill. This is because we got behind on the bill, have had late fees, and there were some months some people didn't pay. I decided we'd all just split the balance that remains. Oh, how have you been since you moved out three months ago?

[Violator 2] Who's the ugly dude in your pictures?

[Violator 3] Hey, I haven't talked to you in 7 years! You look great! It looks like you've lost some weight since high school. How did you do it? Do you recommend a certain diet? How many calories do you eat a day? Do you work out? I'm just looking to lose about 30 pounds and would really love your advice.

[Violator 4] Thanks again for last night.

[Violator 5] So, just out of curiosity, are you still dating that doctor that will prescribe anything to anyone? I actually DO think I have ADD and anxiety and am in a lot of pain all the time, so if you could give me his number, that would be great.

So, dear friends, as I hang up my Facebook hat and bid farewell to the close friends I haven't seen since the second grade, I urge you to use prudence in your virtual exhibitionism, lest you be a new victim of the tragically overexposed.

xoxo,

Kristen is working on her tan. More to come.

2009-03-16T17:42:00.000-06:00

California, here we come.

2009-02-27T11:28:00.009-07:00

As many of my readers may already know, due to your voracious appetite for the intimate details of my life, or the fact that I never shut up, I am moving to California.

TOMORROW.

Why leave Utah, you ask? The cold winters? The stifling landlocked blues? The seemingly mono-culture of it all?

Nah, I've just dated every man in Utah.

And so, dear readers, from here on out I will be updating you from Sunny San Diego (when I'm not walking on the beach, learning to surf or feeding dolphins).

Luckily, I have very real expectations of what Southern California will be like, since I have seen every episode of the OC, The Hills, and 90210.

Here are a few pics from my farewell to the beehive state. Utah, it's been a pleasure. California, I apologize in advance.

xoxo

Stimulate THIS

2009-02-06T16:32:00.002-07:00

Dear President Obama,

In the wake of this vast, global economic meltdown, I felt it was only my duty to step in and offer some sound fiscal advice. And, as your sole advisor not being tracked by the IRS, I understand the degree to which the American people are investing their hopes (let's be serious -- it's all they have left to invest) in my sage wisdom and fiscal advice.

So we've got a few hundred billion to spend. Well, look no further, Mr. President. I've got a grocery list that's gonna nip this little "crisis" in the bud. Forget the Endowment for the arts. Forget ACORN, forget anti-smoking programs. No, dear President. My method is fail-proof. And substantially cheaper.

So sit back, relax, smoke a cig and let me do the spending.

1. Breast augmentation for yours truly -- I look hotter, thus enticing men to work harder, longer and better in order to impress me with their vast success. Vast success = more money = more money spent on me. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

2. New car for yours truly -- I have a car I adore. I stop getting into accidents. State spends less money on police duty. State can spend money elsewhere. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

3. Free graduate school tuition for yours truly -- I get another degree = I make more money = I buy more clothing = I look hotter = successful men spend more money on me while I invest wisely in the stock market. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

4. All-expense-paid vacations for yours truly -- I leave my job vacant for weeks at a time = my boss is forced to hire temps = job creation. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

5. New home for yours truly -- I receive lavish home = men assume I'm wildly successful = men feel the need to out-success me = men make more money = men spend more money on me. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

6. Awarding me large chunks of stocks in Fortune 500 companies -- I appear as a wise investor = others look up to me as a beacon of fiscal hope = others invest more wisely. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

7. A blockbuster movie contract for yours truly -- We successfully make me famous = America sees the impact of one little person doing so much for the economy = America wants to do their own part for the economy by investing wisely and spending their money on me. ECONOMY STIMULATED.

President, fellow Americans,

No need to thank me.

Stalker Update #2

2009-01-05T14:28:00.002-07:00

Yes, oh yes. Another update. I seem to hear from our dear Kurt with every change of the seasons. Have I responded yet? Not remotely. Don't think that will sway our brave little soldier.

As far as punishment goes, gluttony: thy name is Kurt.

"hope your holidays were good to you! its crazy how fast it comes and goes. I love the new feeling of a new year. a new beginning. goals. etc. a chance to become better in all things. or at least some things. i just got back from san diego. i spent most of last week at my sisters beach house. and mountain house. amazing restaurants. I left 70 degree weather to return to 12 dregre weather! ha what was i thinking!? oh well. i love it. how was your christmas?? "

Christmas Cards 101

2008-12-02T13:47:00.006-07:00

Dear Readers,

As you prepare your holiday festitivies, I wanted to offer some helpful assistance. I'm sure there are those on your Christmas card list to whom you don't know just what to write. Well, fear not, my festive friends, for I have provided holiday messages tailored for just that special someone. Go ahead: copy, paste, make these your own. You owe me nothing except undying devotion and your first-born child.

For the Muslim terrorist on your list:

"In the spirit of Christmas, we are giving you black Friday, pagan symbols and a month of vast materialism to use as future ammunition for your hatred."

For the bailed-out corporations:

"We hope your $600,000 holiday bonus courtesy of American taxpayers helps you finally understand the significance of 'It’s a Wonderful Life.'”

To your favorite Jewish friend:

“This year, I’ve decided to overlook your disbelief in Jesus when addressing my Christmas cards.”

To your friendly mail carrier:

"May the brightly-wrapped packages you deliver by the truckload not remind you of the absence of brightly-wrapped packages marked with your address."

To the drunk next-door:

“Here’s hoping you don’t pass out on rum-spiked cider until AFTER Santa visits.”

For the office flirt:

“We hope the office Christmas party gives you adequate reason to dress like a tramp, drink till you wobble and file a fresh 2009 sexual harassment suit.”

For the Wal-Mart employee:

“May you have better luck this Christmas than the customer trampled to death due to your cheap DVD players.”

To my insurance agent:

“At this festive time of year, we appreciate your generosity to those in need . . . except, of course, those in need who had three claims in 2008.”

To your most recent breakup:

“May the beauty of Christmas warm your heart, and also remind you that you will most likely die alone.”

To the odd relatives:

“As it’s Christmas, let us again acknowledge each others’ existence and chat briefly about vague and hypothetical get-togethers in the new year.”

To my readers:

"My you have enough self-awareness this Christmas to never use the above messages on any living person."

Turkeys overeating.

2008-12-01T14:33:00.015-07:00

Thanks, Thanks, Thanks

2008-11-19T11:30:00.002-07:00

In the excitement of the impending holiday week, I thought I would christen my November blog with a list of things I'm thankful for.

Originality, thy name is Kristen.

I am grateful that . . .

1. I live within a two-mile radius of Nordstrom Rack.
2. I have a nephew that I'm pretty sure is a Martian.
3. If I wear enough blush and style my hair just right in the morning, I can pass for not-a-boy.
4. Using only wide-leg jeans and 5-inch heels, I can create the illusion that my legs are impossibly long.
5. My sister's friends make me feel like I'm cool.
6. I have access to twins that never had to live in my uterus.
7. Pandora has an iPhone application.
8. Conor Oberst made a solo album this year.
9. No one was killed in my two at-fault accidents this year.
10. My insurance company was polite about our breakup due to #9.
11. The person hit in my second at-fault accident has finally stopped asking me out.
12. Cyber-stalker Kurt has not acquired my address or telephone number.
13. I somehow managed to get 3 free plane tickets to San Francisco last summer.
14. My friends are all wildly-attractive.
15. Costco is a very real and present part of my life.
16. My mother didn't disown me after I spiked her Diet Coke with Xanax.
17. The Japanese let us know that not cooking fish was even better than cooking it.
18. My siblings haven't told my parents I voted for Barack Obama.
19. Someone discovered cauliflower puree to replace mashed potatoes.
20. I have no friends with tricked-out civics.
21. A failing world-economy has given me lower gas prices.
22. I am never without a coupon for something free at Bath and Body Works.
23. My mom is a mom, not a BFF.
24. I got a fragment of my father's wit.
25. My brothers are the most handsome boys I know.
26. I have not yet been murdered by anyone I've dated.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!!

Libras on Parade

2008-10-15T11:21:00.012-06:00

No satire here, people. October is for birthdays.

Stalker Update #1

2008-10-02T15:51:00.003-06:00

Devotees might recall a certain "6'5",smellsgreat, engaging,laidback, educated, sensual, playfull" respondent to my Craig's List ad a few months back. This alluring Mr. K had previously solicited dinner with both my best friend and myself several years ago via MySpace when he responded to my innocent plea for a bed partner.

The plot thickens, dear friends, as I have now received the following message via FaceBook, and am left to wonder how many other ways random "smellsgreat" strangers might find to chat up young girls without being given any definite contact information.

So I post the following, for your reading pleasure, and as evidence (in the event that I go missing and the following "breadcrumb" is the CIA's one missing link).

"still not talking? hope your summer was good to you? it passes to quickly. what are you doing tonight? im craving cucnia tuscanos! ot tsunamis! lets get together for dinner and drinks., your time wouldnt be wasted. whats the harm?? ha (phone number removed)."

Truly, what IS the harm?

Swing Vote?

2008-09-17T10:34:00.005-06:00

Recently I've been overwhelmed by the amount of political commentary aimed in my direction.Four or five emails a day fill my box, links to Newsweek or Fox News or some appeal to view Matt Damon's home video on YouTube. Text messages beg to know if I love Obama, hate Palin, am attracted to the John McCain of yesteryear, or whether or not you can really put lipstick on a pig.

Dear readers, I must say, the result of all this political pressure is making me feel terribly self-important. In fact, I feel that there is so much riding on my opinion that I am swiftly considering adopting five or six African children and dedicating my life to the UN.

That said, I feel that I should clarify why my vote should not trouble your sensitive political ideals.

Self-importance, though a trademark of mine, should be kept slightly lower than the national terrorist threat level. And if you wouldn't walk into an airport at red, you wouldn't want to hang around me at orange.

Decisions aren't my strong point, people. Those who know me well know I can barely decide whether I'm dating or single, blonde or brunette. I sway between law school and med school, mozzarella and goat cheese, and am too busy wondering whether to order from Nordstrom or Bloomingdale's to decide the best policy for foreign wars.

I live in Utah. The effect of my vote on the future of this nation is about the same as the effect of sex education on rottweilers.

I am ill-equipped to be a political spokesperson. While keeping up on current events (in the form of celebrity gossip and fashion trends), I get the bulk of my political information from Steven Colbert and Perez Hilton.

So, if you must continue to send me your political recommendations, I merely say: be forewarned that those appeals could be better aimed at someone a little more caring, slightly more intelligent, and a great deal more important.

Contact me directly for P. Diddy's phone number.

A Dark Confession on a Dark (K)night

2008-08-17T10:41:00.004-06:00

It's true what they say--summer is a time of freedom: sunbathing, beach-frolicking, barbecues... and summer blockbusters. I generally embrace these activities with the energy and enthusiasm of Tom Cruise on an Oprah interview.

However, I feel that I have fallen terribly behind the herd this summer. And I come forward, filled with grief and humility to confess: I have not yet seen The Dark Knight.

Now my dear readers, before you make rash judgments, exit from this window or erase my number from your cell phones, I'd like to lay out my defense so that perhaps, after careful deliberation, you might find it in your hearts to forgive this painful and ridiculous folly.

The following will outline the reasons to which I have not yet partaken of the movie event of the summer:

1. I refuse to believe that Heath Ledger is dead. Or wears makeup.

2. I haven't had a rabies shot in years, and bats of any kind tend to overwhelm me with unease.

3. Christian and I are barely speaking these days.

4. I'm still bitter they cast Maggie Gyllenhaal over me.

5. No one invited me to the movie.

6. I recently saw Spiderman for the first time, and I'm sorry, but it was just a matter of too many superheroes, too soon.

7. I worried that seeing Batman save the world might lead to me engage in several fantasies involving Christian Bale. (Oh wait, that's just a typical Friday night.)

8. I can't risk being caught seeing a non-independent film.

9. I care too much about world hunger and curing cancer to participate in something as frivolous as movie watching. (If you need me I'll be at Nordstrom.)

So there it is, folks. You've seen my case. Make your judgments.

Inner Beauty

2008-07-31T13:25:00.007-06:00

In an attempt to work on my character and spirituality, I have become slightly addicted to non-invasive cosmetic procedures. Those of you who have witnessed me lately, might notice a bit of weight gain---in the general directions of my lips.

Move over, Angelina.

Yes, I've become THAT girl.

So I thought I should "start spreading the news."

What's next? botox? eyelids? tummy tuck? Nobel Prize? the sky's the limit.

Sociological Experiment, Season 2

2008-07-07T13:06:00.007-06:00

As some of you may know, I've been having a tiny problem sleeping lately. While in actuality I took the logical solution (a cashmere blanket and prescription sedatives), I thought I might see what the general public thought of my "problem." As it turns out, young (and old, sadly) men of Salt Lake City are INCREDIBLY selfless--ready to lend a hand at the drop of my ad.

After the healthy response of my last experimental Craig's List posting, I decided to pull out the stops and go for Part II, baiting my advertisement with a little more room for creepiness. For reasons unknown, my ad was flagged for removal by Craig's List, but survived an entire 12 hours of public posting, time enough to generate 167 responses. I give you the best of them.

The Ad:

(strictly platonic) Seeking Bed Partner - w4m

Seeking Bed Partner

No really. Due to extenuating circumstances of which our casual relationship will have no need of explaining, I just can't sleep . . . by myself. This is where you come in. Be charming, be handsome, be lovely -- just don't be disturbing my slumber. Sleep talkers, sleep walkers and snorers are strongly encouraged not to apply.

Me -- I keep to my side of the bed, wear cute pajamas and only occasionally mumble.

You -- Preferably sweet and unassuming with just the faintest hint of asexuality. Try to cuddle and I fear for your more prized organs.

My bed -- Queen, featherbed, coverlet, down comforter and 1,000 count sheets.

Duties include arriving around 11 pm, engaging in brief and formal conversation, and departing by 7 am. Warm milk and ambien available to the right candidate. This is me, and this is how I would like to be:

The Responses (a very select few):

B-- "You're a freak."

Kurt, email 1: "how about charming? 6'5",smellsgreat, engaging,laidback, educated, sensual, playfull, great sleeper!! hello! how are you? hope your enjoying your hot week? i think the sun we have been waiting for is finally here! i just need to be near a body of water around to really enjoy it! I definitely understand how you feel. no explanition is necessary. i do believe energy and connection is important.I mean i think most of us enjoy the comfort of being close to another. affection is healthy and good. its all about connection and energy which comes on many levels. im a unselfish person. and very giving. i believe its all about giving back! ha this is where i step in. i mean if you needed help with a car problem or needed a ride..or just a sleeping partner. im just good like that. im originally from so cal. im tall..and get cute and handsome a lot. so i would i have to say im handsome and cute. im engaging. (at least that is what im told!) charming,playfull,exciting. always can make anyone laugh and smile and feel better about who they are. i love life. im simple, boring, exciting. i love friends, family, cooking,smells (smells are important!), music,shoes..the simple things of life. but i do believe receiving 8 hours of sleep is important! im not a snoarer, not sleep walker or talker! i guess i was blessed! ha im sure i can help! great company. kurt"

Kurt, email 2: (note: I didn't respond) "hello! good morning.! how are you? hope you were able to get some much needed sleep?. sleep is very important! to our health and well being! one thing i love about utah. is that it cools down nicely at night. i love having the window open with the fan blowing. the cool air feels so good! I slept great! ha yes this is Kurt. the one that should stop writting. so i dont feel like a fool. what can i say, im just relentless! actually im pretty confident. so its ok. ha seriously though sleep is important. and we should meet up for dinner tonight. there are a few amazing restaurants i love. you wouldnt be dissapointed. and we would have an amazing time. charismatic,engaging,playfull,exciting and more. give me a chance. whatever you think aboout me. i can show you that you are wrong. kurt"

Shadowrider: "What a stupid ad!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Pathetic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Todd: "You look like you need a professional massage. You right trapezius has a trigger point. I can see it in the second pic. Do you want to come to the spa today for a free treatment. Todd"

Mia: "You’re describing my husband! LOL" (my favorite)

Heyhey: "congrats on having one of the most openly and obviously insane posts on CL. Good luck not getting raped.(I think thats what youre subconsciously wanting.)"

Mike: " A most happy snoozie-coozie to you. Mike" (this was attached to a photo of a middle-aged, saggy man whose pic I won't post, for legal purposes).

ProvocativeOne: "Hmmm, I can't decide if I find this amusing or interesting. Needless to say I'm up for giving it a try. My story: Engaged but my finance lives on the other side of the states and will be until November. In the mean time it's been a bit odd sleeping alone, if it wasn't for our dog I might never sleep. I work late hours and wake up early so I'll be in and out of your hair before you can brush it. My lady is very open minded and is absolutely fine with me trying this, she's actually a bit jealous that the three of us couldn't try to share a king sized.
Let me know what you think and if you're at all interested.
I've got a pic to share if you are...and I request soy milk please."

Brian: "Ever tried getting a cat?"

Russell: "I am depressed as hell. Don't want to load any of my problems upon you, and can be charming and such without being depressing...I also know how it feels to just have somebody there without any expectations.
-- It is better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees!" (followed by a photo of a near-70 year-old man)

Scott: "Hey, saw your ad on CL. I'm intrigued. Like to arrive at your place at 11 and depart by 7. I'm sweet and unassuming, just the way you like it. Drop me a line and let's make it happen. :)"

Old-Fashioned Blogging

2008-06-10T16:13:00.014-06:00

I am finally acquiescing to the request of my cousin and sister that I fill out the following photo survey. As this is published on the Internet, I have no choice but perfect honesty.

Birthplace: Times were hard, but happy. Sometimes.

Guilty Pleasure: (see "favorite flower")

Favorite Actress: Myself

Favorite Actor: Whatever boy I'm currently dating

Favorite Restaurant: This charming place on 400 West. Someone always picks up my tab!

Favorite Color: I look great in orange.

Favorite Place to Shop: See "favorite restaurant"

Favorite Vacation: The "court-ordered" kind

Favorite Car: Whatever current "favorite actor" is driving

Favorite Flower: Poppies. In all their forms.

Dream Career: World's best brain surgeon (well, second to Dr. Derek Shepherd, of course).

Favorite Hobby? (See: "favorite flower")

Painted Faces on Parade

2008-06-03T14:44:00.011-06:00

Welcoming (ourselves) to our new casa, six girls threw a little party---a masquerade ball. Here we are . . . incognito.

The Obsession Continues

2008-05-28T15:15:00.003-06:00

I fell in love last night.

I'd like to publicly tell Jeremy right now that when the Bachelorette falls through (as it inevitably will), I'm here to pick up the pieces.

(Call me!)

And the Husband Goes to. . .

2008-05-08T12:26:00.003-06:00

I have recently developed a small obsession, the indulgence of which I fear is blurring the boundaries between fantasy and reality in my mind. I await each Monday night with the anticipation of a child (or, to be perfectly honest, myself) at Christmas.

I am, of course, speaking of The Bachelor: London Calling.

Never in our time has a love story been so genuine and unaffected: 25 girls compete for the love (and by love I mean diamond) of a man who seeks only his soul mate (and by soul mate I mean dual citizenship).

So you can imagine my delight when, a few weeks ago, I received the following voicemail:

"Hi Kristen, this is Sherry and I'm calling from ABC's The Bachelor. We received your application and photo online (thanks to a humorous friend) and are interested in having you on an upcoming season. I've also sent you an email . . . "

Now, flattering as the offer might stand, I felt I had to decline, though perhaps not for the moral/ethical reasons you might assume. No, I refused because, upon further introspection, I realized I've been living a six-year episode of "Utah: The REAL Bachelor."

Allow me to elaborate: The Bachelor is like Utah dating for the following reasons:

The Women: Tall, beautiful, accomplished. Fashion-forward with the ability to maintain grace while binge drinking and wearing stiletto heels. College degrees, real-life jobs and 401K plans. The clincher: An unwavering desire to get married. This month.

The Men: Possess the ability to walk upright and consider themselves worthy of 25 women competing for them.

Other similarities include:

First Date: A casual hangout at his pad (Arlington or Belmont)with him and 24 other women.

Third Date: Home to meet the parents.

Fourth Date: He proposes or tells you he'll never speak to you again.

Aftermath: Crying to to the tune of "Goodbye my Almost Lover."

The Ring: Paid for by someone else (either ABC or the groom's business-owning father).

The Scene: women, laying around wrapped in throw blankets discussing their romantic lives ad nauseum (the difference being that in Utah, the girls DON'T realize they're talking about the same man).

And so, I regret to announce that I will not be appearing in any upcoming season of The Bachelor, though I urge you all to nominate me to be the next Bachelorette.

Reasons I Miss Ann Taylor

2008-05-07T12:26:00.005-06:00

No offense to Banana Republic intended..

I've been compared to Christopher Walken

2008-04-21T15:43:00.001-06:00

Yes, in BOTH looks and voice inflection. Enjoy.

Family Weekend

2008-04-15T23:41:00.013-06:00

Thought I'd take a time-out from sarcastic cynicism and post some great pics of my adorable fam!

A Sociological Experiment

2008-04-01T11:56:00.011-06:00

I hear it takes all kinds of people to make this world of ours go round. You have your mechanics, your doctors, your business people--and you have the bizarre sort who respond to ridiculous ads on the Internet.

So, in the name of sociological topography, I placed the following ad on Craig's List:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: Kristen.Radford@gmail.com
Date: 2008-03-14, 11:47AM MDT

Wanted: One tall (6'1" and above), fit (must work out) and devastatingly attractive male roommate to share large house with five gorgeous, spunky and charmingly neurotic girls.

Aside from paying rent, you must also be willing to:

--Spend most of the day shirtless
--Compliment your roommates excessively
--Listen to five girls overanalyze their romantic lives ad nauseum
--Bake chocolate-chip cookies
--Offer fashion advice
--Mow the lawn
--Disqualify any self-deprecating statements your roommies might make.
--Be charming, in general

You will have your own bedroom and some free time. Please send photo upon application. Below are three of your new roommies:

40th South at 20th East
Location: Holladay, Utah
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 606160654
Copyright © 2008 craigslist, inc. terms of use privacy policy feedback forum

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What I thought was a mild-mannered prank, others took, well, quite seriously. And though I might add that the aforementioned solicitation aided in restoring self-esteem to myself and my roommates, the replies were far too brilliant to keep to myself. Below are a few:

1. Hi!

I'm not sure if I fit your whole Prince Valiant, Supermodel, Chiseled shirt off all day kind of guy, but I'm not that bad looking, and I know how to party still. I need to get into a place asap, and somehow this offer seemed so much more enticing than the others. Girls can be a lot of drama though, so I'm a little hasty as far as that is concerned.

I am a graphic designer, and writer here in SLC, and I also work at Murphy's bar and grill down town.

You can check out my profile on myspace if you want, and if I look like a potential candidate, put me in the drawing!

You can call (number deleted) for further inquiry

Love,
~Jaybird Dynomite

2. I will only move in, if im not the only one walking around shirtless. Lol

3. It's hard enough trying to con one girl into getting your way, let alone five. Funny ad, by the way. Do you have pictures of the place? I'm 23, 6'0", 190. Adam

4. Hi there,

I'm probably not good looking enough for y'all. But if I were........would I be required to "service" my roomies occasionally? =-O

Your pics are cute!

Pacing myself for potential demands,
Steve

(this reply was especially creepy due to the photo attached:)

5. Hey, Couldn't find as many good ass shots as I wanted...Oh well, you get the point. My name is Matt(26) just moving to Salt Lake and looking for a room. Living with a bunch of hot girls would really amp up my street cred. I have chose to answer the application questions as honestly as possible and hope that they will impress the pants off all you well dressed, culturally educated, beautiful women.

--Spend most of the day shirtless...shirts are so restrictive
--Compliment your roommates excessively...see above
--Listen to five girls overanalyze their romantic lives ad nauseum...as long as I am not asked advice
--Bake chocolate-chip cookies...sorry, I like brownies
--Offer fashion advice...can't help you there
--Mow the lawn...I'm a landscaper
--Disqualify any self-deprecating statements your roomies might make...obviously
--Be charming, in general...can you settle for nice?

Anyways, if I pass your rigorous screening process it would be great to talk with you guys and answer any 'real' questions you may have. Matt.

6. why does the guy need to be hot when the girls are not? (This one devastated the author, for obvious reasons.)

7. Hey so you girls sound pretty hilarious and thats kind of what I'mlooking for in roomies! I'm Josh, 6'1, decent looking, and an awesomeguy all around.

Ps We are playing for the same team so no worrieshaha. Hit me up if you are interested. -Josh

8. Hi Kristen!

Ha ha I love the add. It sounds like a little much, but I may be up for the task. I am after all the only boy in my family with 5 sisters so....That is if the room isn't already taken. If you really need an application just ask. I've got a resume that should work. Let me know! Take care.

Steve
Oh a pic is attached.

Along with these responses came a great collection of photos: Below are just a few....

A Time for Change

2008-03-26T15:04:00.005-06:00

The modern Calendar is ridden with days recognizing diversity. "International Women's Rights Day"--March 8. "Human Rights Day"--December 10. "Religious Freedom Day"--January 14. Black History Month--the entire month of February.

I have no qualms with the above "holidays," nor do I propose an abridgment thereof. I speak on behalf of a different problem--a growing bigotry that shows no sign of quenching:

I am, of course, referring to the rising population of Americans who are, quite willingly, LACTOSE intolerant.

I first realized the problem when I walked into my local Wild Oats, the aisles of organic groceries sprinkled with cartons claiming to be "dairy free."

I was shocked, to say the least, at the presence of so many openly prejudiced people. They stood there in line, their carts brimming with "soy-based" and "lactose-free" products.

And yesterday, as I ordered lunch from a local deli, the woman behind me said, without checking to see what dairy products might be offended: "Excuse me, is there cream in that sauce? I'm lactose intolerant."

The hum of the busy deli didn't even slow as her abrasive sentence filled the air with her prevailing bigotry.

So, with the interest of cows and farmers firmly in my heart, I propose tomorrow--March 27, 2008--as the first annual "National Lactose Tolerence" day.

Let's celebrate with ice cream.

Un-Fortunate Fool

2008-03-21T15:46:00.003-06:00

Were I a superstitious person, I'd stop typing right now and spend the rest of the afternoon combing the internet for directions on crafting a fail-proof noose, followed by scouting for large oak trees with sturdy branches.

You see, dear readers, I am not destiny's most favored child.

As a girl of ten I was first warned of my impending misery at an elementary school carnival. I'd like to thank the faculty and staff at Southgate elementary school for employing an "authentic" palm reader. The plump, beaded gypsy gave me the following bits of good news:

1. My life, though "intense," would be relatively short.
2. My first marriage would end, quite swiftly, in divorce.

I brushed her off, knowing that long life and happy ending were in store for me.

Fifteen years later, I tried again. A self-taught coworker peered at my palm and, with a grimace, stated:

"Well, it appears that your life line is short and your love line is broken. I'd give you another five years and six or seven more relationship failures."

Well, one always needs a third opinion, so I solicited the help of a roommate's friend--the granddaughter of a voodoo priestess. This shed a bit more light (or darkness?) on the subject of my fortune:

"Yes, your life will be very short. I see three substantial relationships for you. All are intense and strong, but end quite abruptly. The third will end in either his death or yours."

As for children?

"Four. Only three will live. I'm sorry to say you will lose your first."

Do not feel sorry for me, readers. I plan to live my last five years to the fullest. I expect to see you all at the funeral of my firstborn.

Luckily, I've been looking for more reasons to stay in bed all day.

A wee bit 'o eye candy . . .

2008-03-14T09:20:00.006-06:00

Alright, so I usually don't go out of my way to plug a particular movie (I save my endorsements for prescription painkillers and narcotics), but last night I was particularly touched by a little Irish ditty called 'Dear Frankie.' If you haven't seen it, do. As you might derive from the above photo, I spent the bulk of the night in intermittent tears, torn up by such weighty issues as childhood hope, heartbreaking loss and how freaking hot Gerard Butler is.

I think my most profound comment on the film came when, racked with tears, I stuttered, "He's just this sweet, broken child who only wants to be loved. . . and Gerard. . . is just. . . so, so, hot."

As you can see:

"Et Tu, Chica?"

2008-03-11T13:16:00.004-06:00

One thing is for certain: March is for betrayal. And Shakespeare fans take note: The Ides of March will swiftly be upon us. But if your good conscience or your new white carpeting prevents you from stabbing your best friend repeatedly in the back like our dear friend Brutus, I have compiled the follow methods of swiftly ending friendships. Put these into practice and soon you'll have the betrayal skills of a Roman assassin:

1. Every time you see her, give her a visual once-over and thoughfully say, "Hmm... what can we do about your outfit?"

2. Start out most sentences with, "Oh, your boyfriend wanted me to tell you. . ."

3. Ask her if you can borrow her favorite dress--for an 80's dance party.

4. Accept invitations with the qualifier, "love to, unless someone else calls me."

5. Ask for directions to her boyfriend's house.

6. For her birthday, give her a mirror with a note attached: "Hope this helps."

7. Tell her that she always reminded you of Margaret Thatcher.

8. Lose her sweater and then complain about the stress of having to look for it.

9. Run over her cat with your car and then reflect, "I like to believe that everything happens for a reason."

10. Cry for hours in her presence about your lack of friends.

11. Leave random, thoughtful notes on her car--reminding her to pick up your dry-cleaning.

12. Ask her repeatedly if she really thinks her boyfriend loves her.

13. Follow each of her actions with questions such as, "Are you going to eat that?" "Are you going to wear that?" "Did you just say that?" etc.

14. Ask her if the two of you can pretend not to be friends in public.

15. Create dating profiles for her on various sites under the screen name, "Blatant Desperation."

And beware, my friends, the Ides of March.

I'm in love.

2008-02-28T16:57:00.002-07:00

I find it disconcerting how much I look like Christopher Reeves

2008-02-21T12:30:00.001-07:00

A Killer Romance

2008-02-19T16:25:00.016-07:00

Dear Brandon,

Like the deepest romances of history, ours was fleeting. When we met, it was like the universe had thrown us together. You were Mormon; I was Mormon. We both had ties to Utah. We both had the same cynical, edgy rockstar thing going for us.

When we met, you were truly happy:

And so was I.

We had so much in common. You even started loving Christmas just for me.

When you got really, really into eyeliner,

I was right there with you.

But I had my friends,

And you had yours.

And well, we grew apart.

I got angry.

And you went insane.

You begged me not to leave.

And though it broke my heart, I had to say goodbye.

And even now, you think of me every time you sing.

Or so somebody told me.

Happy Belated Valentine's

2008-02-15T12:02:00.002-07:00

Stay tuned for further tales of romantic disenchantment.

Pop-Culture Skill #1--The Self-Portrait

2008-02-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

In an era of increasing self-absorption, few skills are as imperative as the self-portrait. I mean, how else are you gonna have, like the BEST myspace page on the net?? A true bearing of the soul--photography style, there are many forms the SP can take. Typically, the shot should appear as nonchalant as possible, preferably appearing to be the work of an overly-interested third party. Follow my guide and you too will be rocking default profile pics like all your greatest facebook heroes.

Now, the most difficult technique to acquire is correct arm placement. If too much of, say the elbow, shows, you're just another dumb kid with a camera. But if the angle is correct, you appear so interesting that random friends and acquaintances tend to snap your pic when you're going about your mundane daily tasks—like contemplating your existence in the world.

Example 1: Suggested Caption: "Oh, my, I didn't see you there. I was just thinking about poverty and capitalism and the downfall of western civilization."

While the above photograph exemplifies how deep you are, sometimes it's nice to also show a lighter side to life. Be silly and quirky, illustrating that you can show more than one face to the paparazzi.

Example 2: Suggested Caption: "My mom tells me my face might freeze this way."

You're fascinating. So fascinating, in fact, that you can't even sleep without your photograph being taken. Don't worry, we all sleep in flawless makeup. But please note: do not attempt this if you're merely an amateur; any and all signs that the snapshot is self-taken will strip you of any credibility.

Example 3: Suggested Caption: "My roommate thinks she's sooo funny." (apologize to your roommate later for making her seem totally creepy.)

Ah, the tragically beautiful. It's not enough to merely have a snapshot of yourself to display to the world. Give 'em a little depth, I say. Like in the below picture: can't you see how tortured and complicated I am? The first one says, "not now, I just popped a few valium." But add a glistening tear to the second and voila! We have angst personified in 8 megapixels.

Example 4 and 5: suggested caption: "Life." (exactly.. make them think about it.)

Oh, the mirror shot. Head cocked, hand on hip, severe expression: While it reeks of blatant egotism, you can usually pull this shot off with a self-deprecating caption. For further credibility, add "lol" to the end of nearly any caption. Tip: Do it in front of a dirty mirror. It's wayyy more edgy.

Example 6: Suggested Caption: "I'm a dork, I know! lol!"

For art's sake, self-portraits can be quite effective. Whether or not the shot appears to be first-person is almost irrelevant in this category. The subject is, after all, not inspired by egotism, but art. Singular facial features or body parts work well in this category.

Example 7: Suggested Caption: "All things bright and beautiful"

Remember, friends, practice makes perfect. And don't feel egotistical. We're doing this for posterity's sake. Well, and to break 1,000 myspace friends. Happy snapping.

God bless the New Yorker

2008-02-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

Ironic, as I tend to consider my blog as pointless, incessant barking.

Outsmarted, outspelled, thrashed, sacked and beaten

2008-02-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

Dear New England Patriots,

At the close of a near-perfect season, there are few words that could bring a bit of comfort to a devastating end. Last night was not merely the loss of a game, but the loss of a title, a record, and, well, your reputation.

I offer my condolences in the form of empathy, for I know, all too well, the harsh reality of hard losses. Yes, I am speaking of the first time I lost a game of Scrabble.

Though it pains me to bring it up, I feel that you could use it as a bit of comfort during this hard time. You play football, I get it. It’s a little side hobby on Sunday afternoons.

But I’m a writer; if I don’t have words, I have nothing.

Tom, you can imagine my horror when I saw my first inferior score. It was like I’d been punched—or sacked—right in the stomach. You’ll still go home to Giselle, or find another Victoria’s Secret model to drown your sorrows in, but after my loss, I had no one. No one wants a girl who can’t put a few random letters together in the form of a semi-intelligible word.

I went home that night, my mind cluttered and dizzy with k’s and t’s, vowels meddling with consonants and spinning webs of chaos in my head.

So there was a sack here, an interception there. I challenged a word and lost an entire turn. Twice. How was I to know that “ais” is a three-toed sloth of South America?

A last-minute touchdown to win the game? Try "zipper" on a triple-word-score with only four tiles left to play.

Yes, you let some people down, lost some fans a bit of money. But you’ll get through it. Just as, months later, I blew the dust off my old board and reopened the velvet pouch, by next season you’ll have new resolve, and this loss will be but a dot on the radar of past disappointments.

Here’s to a brighter future for us both. Here’s to V-I-C-T-O-R-Y (double-word score, 30 points).

To My Mother....

2008-01-29T22:14:00.001-07:00

My mom has a bit of a thing for Matthew McConaughey. The above is dedicated to her.

Closure

2008-01-29T21:16:00.000-07:00

You might say that I have a difficult time saying goodbye. I’m awkward ending phone calls, terrible at airports, and when my little brother left on a two-year mission, I simply clapped him on the back and said, “Well hey, let us know how it all turns out.”

So you can imagine how torn I am to type the following phrase:

Goodbye, Christmas.

Today, I dismembered my tree, feeling much like the Grinch caught by Cindy Lou Who, tearing to shreds the very essence of Christmas cheer.

Each ornament, wrapped in tissue and tucked in for its own hibernation, broke a little piece of my heart. After all, what have they ever done to me, aside from sprinkling tidings of great joy throughout my living room?

I mean no offense to January through October. You serve us well. I even hear that some enjoy the warm months, basking in the trivial festivities of, like, the 4th of July.

But to December 25th and its surrounding advent, I pledge: I will wait for you. Until the Gods of holiday cheer bring you back to me, I will anticipate our reunion, when you will once more wrap me in the warmth of mistletoe and holly.

I will politely celebrate the impending holidays:dye an egg in April, light a sparkler for July, even paint my face come October. But rest assured, dear Christmas, that my heart is yours alone.

So long, my darling friend. I’ll see you in November.

A Gift for YOU

2008-01-18T21:57:00.000-07:00

For those devastating days when I don’t have time (or creative desire) to share a post, I am adding, for your auditory pleasure, a small smattering of my musical passions. In case you haven’t previously discovered, I have, like, awesome taste in music. Take a listen and you’ll see first-hand why I am virtually powerless before an acoustic guitar and some melancholy lyrics.

January is for resolvers.... .

2008-01-13T23:08:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that we are 15 days into the new year. It is normally at this point that I have successfully broken all of my New Year's resolutions, but in an effort to more valiantly improve myself, I am publishing mine for the world to see. There. Call me on it, if you dare.

For 2008, I resolve. . .

1. Court appearances will be kept to routine misdemeanors. (i.e., no drug trafficking, assault and battery, or 2nd-degree homicide charges in '08).

2. I'm whittling myself down to three personalities this year. So long, Samantha and Jorge.

3. In my dating world, I will only allow ONE state-hospital-escapee per month.

4. Learn to ski.

5. Withdraw all moneys from my swiss bank accounts before German gestapo close them.

6. Brutal honesty in 2008. Or 2009. Okay, 2010.

7. Break up Brandon Flowers' marriage in a coy enough manner to simultaneously attain his undying adoration.

8. Return all calls to parole officers.

9.Perfect the ancient art of piracy.

9. Convince the greater Salt lake area that there is no harm in sporting hot pink tights to work.

10. Listen to one song per week that DOESN'T make me want to overdose on painkillers.

11. Convince the world that Christmas need not be kept merely in December.

12. Settle the national debt.

13. Star in a major motion picture blockbuster.

14. Take my vitamins.

15. Date an Irishman.

16. Find out, once and for all, who shot John F. Kennedy.

17. Acquire an English accent.

(number 14 is optional.)

So this is the new year..

2008-01-02T22:40:00.001-07:00

Much to our dismay, 2008 didn't wait for the temperature to rise before arriving.

We snuggle for warmth.

Pam's captivating conversation.

The expression my victims always make..

'07, you were sooo last year.

Photographic Evidence That I...

2008-01-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

1. Need to unsubscribe to the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.

2. Am willing to terrify any potential suitor in a 100-mile radius.

3. Would make one rock-star of a mom.

4. Will still need to stuff my bra when pregnant.

5. Need to purchase dresses too small to stuff sweatshirts under them.

The End of an Era

2007-12-31T14:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Crayola,

This is, of course, a difficult letter for me to write. It's been three days since we last saw each other, and the vision of your obvious dejection has been pulsing through my head since I drove off the dealership.

I wish that I could tell you that this decision was not about you, but dear Crayola, it was. For four years I stood by you while you were in and out of mechanic shops, sputtering and stalling on the street, and obstinantly refusing to go on. I was there, Cray, because we were in this together. But I just can't do it anymore.

I wanted to take some time after our split, figure out what I really wanted in a vehicle. But a shiny silver Solara came into my life unexpectedly, and I wasn't strong enough to say no. It breaks my heart that you had to watch us drive off together, but I hope that you would wish us the best, as I wish for you in your next 100,000 miles.

We must move on, Crayola, but I will never forget you and the times we had together. Just as my initial remains embroidered in your headrest, your memory will linger in my heart and inevitably in my credit card statements.

Take time, Crayola. Get healthy. Become what some high school junior has always dreamed of in a car. I leave you with a full heart, but hope you understand that there is only room in my life for one prima donna.

Love always,

Kristen

P.S. I hope this isn't salt in an open wound.... but look how pretty she is....

Christmas: A Photo Essay

2007-12-29T10:54:00.000-07:00

Idaho winters are hard on everyone, especially Germans.

This is what happens when my brothers are told to shovel the driveway. Note the antenna, the only evidence that this snowdrift is actually Crayola, my friendly Jetta.

At ten in the morning the sleeping Radfords still had not discovered that Santa had visited.

Shortly after this picture was taken, Papa whined, "But the other kids are already outside trying THEIR new bicycles out!"

Kristen and Preston are still celebrating their firm appointment as
favorite children, due to this gift.

Photographic evidence that I'm a rock star in the mornings.

Papa wonders if Santa was telling the truth about how much he spent.

Marisa pauses mid-celebration to calculate the calories in this slice of Christmas orange.

And Aaron ponders why Christmas is hard when you're this good looking.

Kristen and Ashley celebrate their subtle vanity.

And to all, a good night.

Preparation for Separation

2007-12-18T11:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve been labeled fickle. Where I prefer a more euphemistic approach, with verbiage more along the lines of “impulsive” or “picky,” I can’t deny that my own impetuosity has seeped deeply into the neurotic happenings of my romantic life.

At this point, you might say things are over before they begin. Short of calling it quits over appetizers, I often feel the need for quick, clean and blameless breaks.

This is not always easy, my friends.

As vast as the assortment of men within a 40-mile radius of my house are the possibilities of break-up methods with the aforementioned gents. Allow me to share a few fail-proof methods.

The Fruit of a Loon:

It’s a bit like going to trial: be diplomatic, be fair, be sensitive. And when that doesn’t work, plead absolute insanity. In fact, many break-up obstacles can be avoided simply by allowing your neurosis to do the work.

“Darling, you were actually dating my other personality for the past few weeks. Due to her tragic suicide, I’m taking over and, well, things are going to be a bit different.”

Don’t Cry: Just Deny

So it’s time to cut things off. Problem: you’ve previously expressed affection to the unsuspecting lad. A simple solution, my friends: close your eyes grit your teeth and pretend it didn’t happen.

“When I said I love you I was actually just quoting a line in a movie I once saw. I apologize for the confusion. But I can loan you the DVD.”

It’s not you, but it sure as hell isn’t me.

Polish your PR skills; this tactic requires bad news to be delivered in the most flowery way imaginable.

“I hate to do this, sweetheart, and it has nothing to do with you. It’s entirely about me, and my inability to be with someone who is so sweet…even to the point of clingy. You’re so wonderfully devoted… though that got a bit pathetic. And I love how stable you are… even if it comes off as unadulterated boredom. I wish I could be better.”

A Charming Game of Chicken

Give him a challenge he never saw coming: “Break up with me before I break up with you.” This is perfect for those whose consciences can’t rock the three prior methods.

“I love our relationship. I love that we just get each other. I love how much fun we have. Oh, and I love that you’re okay with me dating so many other people. Oh my gosh, John did the funniest thing at dinner the other night….”

Happy Breaking.

MY Grown-up Christmas List

2007-12-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

Dear readers,

It has come to my attention that many—if not all—of you have been torturing yourselves in the quest of finding me the perfect Christmas gift. And though your concerns have not been shared verbally, I can only deduce through body language and casual mannerism that this is a topic of utmost concern, no doubt darkening the shimmering days of the advent in needless worry.

"I know she usually just wants world peace, but I'm on a budget this year," you mumble as you thumb through stacks of cashmere sweaters.

"What do you get someone whose selflessness prohibits her form ever asking for anything?" The question numbs you, stopping you in your shopping tracks to question your prior method of gifting.

Say no more, dear friends, for this year, with humility coursing through my veins, I will shed my Mother Theresa-like disposition to offer some helpful suggestions. As I live a life of material self-deprivation (in order to give myself more fully to charity), it is quite difficult for me to generate a list of material goods. That said, here goes:

Subscription to J. Crew's "Shoe of the Month Club" (Yes, it's for real!)

One (1) digital camera (think of the blogs, my friends!)

One (1) green wool coat, Banana Republic, size Small

Four (4) tan seat covers, Volkswagen Jetta (2001)

One (1) black wool asymmetrical jacket, Ann Taylor, size 4

Fifteen (15) pounds macadamia nuts

One (1) Six-Carb cheesecake, Cheesecake Factory

An item of your choice from the Winter 2007 Tiffany catalog

One (1) weekend in New York City

Seasons 1-3 of Grey's Anatomy, DVD

One (1) 2008 BMW M5. Black.

The complete works of Charles Dickens

Diamonds, in general

Merry Christmas, all.

My Frustration with Claymation

2007-12-07T13:26:00.000-07:00

As the self-appointed ambassador for universal Christmas cheer, I openly campaign for the free expression of yuletide celebration as any individual sees fit. One’s shining star is another’s shimmering angel. Here a wreath; there a light. Bing Crosby or MoTab.

I advocate; you celebrate.

This open policy of holiday sponsorship has one heaping, glaring exception:

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. In Claymation.

I have nothing against my fine rhino-challenged caribou friend. I adore his blinking nose, his tender insecurity, and his new-found fame. I find his a classic tale of duckling to swan, rags to riches.

But the movie? It’s just creepy.

First we have a tiny elf with a perma-swept blonde ‘do who looks more like a disadvantaged Ken doll than one of Santa’s jolly helpers. What’s more, the tiny sprite wants nothing more than to leave the whimsical land of Christmas cheer and become a dentist. A dentist! I can picture it now: Little elf moves on to the real world only to drag himself through 8-5 days in a shapeless white coat, trudge through a volatile and depressing marriage and hang himself in his hallway closet.

Not the stuff of Christmas cheer.

Next we have Santa: a pudgy, stick-legged dictator who more resembles a troll than a jolly-old-elf. But his physicality is the least of our problems. Santa is downright mean. “Donner, you should be ashamed of yourself!" What, for fathering a kid who doesn’t fit the mold of the average reindeer? Well, Santa, why don’t we start recommending therapeutic abortions for Prancer and Dancer’s offspring, just so we’re safe from threat of further birth defects. Perhaps if the North Pole provided better health care, Mr. Clause…

I can't ignore the issue of the Island of Misfit Toys. No, I’m not speaking of a Salt Lake City Single Adult Ward. I’m referring to the depressing, color-saturated environment wherein all the “weird toys” have been exiled. Charlie-in-the-Box is a great example to children of what happens when you’re a little bit different: “Kids, it’s best to be like everyone else. Why? Because if you’re not, not only will you be banished into seclusion with other loners, but Santa will never, ever visit you again.”

And who can forget the terrifying, panic-inducing Abominable Snowman? Thirty minutes into this warped tale and your child may never again sing along to “Let it Snow.” Trips to the park for sledding and snowmen? Forget it. Why? Because charming, jolly snowmen quickly transform into sharp-teethed, raging monsters desperate to tear red-nosed reindeer and dentally-minded elves to shreds.

And so, this Christmas, I urge you to pull this horrid display of Christmas cheer-gone-awry from your DVD shelves, focusing on more healthy, more genial celebratory entertainment.

Lessons from Seattle Grace.

2007-12-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

I have an addiction. Thursday nights are blocked out on my calendar, and I anticipate 8 pm as most 5 year-olds anticipate Christmas morning. I find myself chattering on about dream-men with Scottish nick-names most afternoons, and I've mapped out what classes it would take for this writer to be accepted into medical school.

Yes, Grey's Anatomy has taken me hostage. And I've never been such a happy victim. The following are indispensable life-lessons that I have learned from my Thursday-night love affair:

Brilliant, rich, devastatingly handsome surgeons are solely interested in masochistic, emotionally-unstable basket-cases.

Folk music always plays across the hospital loud-speaker just as a patient is about to die.

An 'on-call room' is simply code for 'consensual brothel-house.' i.e. KNOCK FIRST.

Surgeons don't sleep. Upon returning home, they toss and turn until 4 am, when they get up to make it back to the hospital.

When in doubt, push another round of epi.

People are often dead for three hours and come back to life (after multiple rounds of epi).

US surgical teams, especially in the Pacific Northwest, are a clean 50/50 ratio of black/white.

Doctors cry. A lot. Preferably in the hospital ladies room.

The best way to snag a doctor is to get on the heart transplant list. (Denny, we miss you.)

Scrubs are made tie-waisted strictly for on-call room purposes.

Doctors never get paged while having sex.

On any given day there are three important patients. Of those three, two will live, and one will die (cue the folk music).

Even though your best friend slept with your wife, moved to Seattle to win back said wife, and flirts with your current girlfriend, you will inevitably end up as best friends again.

Most surgeons live in packs, usually in a fraternity-style setting.

Surgeons are not psychiatrists. Nor are they even slightly mentally healthy.

Failing your exams, cutting l-vat wires or covering up for a surgeon whose trembling hand could kill a patient at any minute will never get you fired.

Mercy West is sooooo lame.

Just when you get attached to a handsome, black cardio-thoracic surgeon, you find out he's actually a bigot.

When epi doesn't work, charge to 360! Clear!

Nurses are merely props in the OR. They remain nameless, usually faceless, and always wordless.

Seattle Grace, my friends, is the place to be.

Thanks-surrendering

2007-11-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

It’s always been my opinion that the fourth Thursday in November is reserved for the voluntary giving of thanks to God, nation, family, etc. However, as T-Day 2007 rolled by, I came to the painful realization that upsetting the gods of Thanksgiving leaves them with no choice but to squeeze every last bit of gratitude out of your haughty being through random acts of inconvenience and humiliation.

Beware, my friends, of upsetting the omniscient gods of gratitude.

I’m not entirely sure at which point during the preemptory weeks to Thanksgiving that I first upset this grand council. It might have been when I labeled Thanksgiving merely a “Kick-off-to-Christmas” holiday. Perhaps it was when I threw a brick through the window of Nordstrom for broadcasting their Thanksgiving observance and swearing not to decorate for Christmas until black Friday. Was it when I committed to driving back to Utah while dinner was still warm on the table to work a shift of frivolous retail? Or maybe when, in lieu of gushing our blessings around the dinner table, I suggested we all claim the things in life that annoy us the most.

“I’ll go first,” I said, my mouth full of creamed broccoli. “Neons and Civics disguised as racing cars.”

Believe me, dear readers; the Spirit of Thanksgiving has made me pay.

T-Day Karma is a sneaky fellow, first securing my Volkswagen as an accomplice. As I tried to make my escape after dinner, my on-again, off-again German companion (see prior posts) decided to offer its own fuel pump as a sacrifice to the Thanksgiving gods.

Fettered, but not broken by the demands of November gratitude, I instead solicited the help of my brother’s unregistered (shhhhhh!), but reliable Chevrolet for the trek southward, leaving my sad broken German on my parent’s cold Idaho curb.

Successfully arriving in Utah in time to work a midnight-to-eight am shift at Banana Republic and then a full day at my full-time job, the all-powerful Thanksgiving gods attacked my health. By the time I made it home on a very black Friday, my temperature was up and my spirit was down.

If only I had acquiesced at that point.

Instead I carried on, ill and unlicensed, until a pothole dug by the very spirit of gratitude took with it not only my brother’s tire, but also the rim of the front passenger wheel.

And so now, let it be known: to the spirit of Thanksgiving I surrender. You have my gratitude. I lay my undying humiliation at your autumn feet.

Beware, my friends, the gods of November.

I am your ghost of Christmas present.

2007-11-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

In Miracle on 34th Street a disenchanted pig-tailed tot convinces the whole of New York City to believe in a Santa Clause moonlighting at Macy’s.

Will Ferrell, dressed in green tights and a perma-smile, used carols and sugary snacks in order to urge city folk to discover Christmas spirit.

And who can forget a blanket-dragging Linus convincing his scribbled cohorts to believe in “the true meaning of Christmas.”

All valid causes, to be sure, but I have a different agenda on my mind.

This year, I pledge to make Christmas entirely about me.

My plan is at work, and the tinsel-encrusted wheels in my head have been turning for several months. My anticipation of the holiday season will only be cap-stoned when, as carols ring and colored lights twinkle, your thoughts are turned from North Pole elves and bright colored packages to, well, me.

That’s the plan, my friends. I vow to insert myself so blatantly into every party, each parade, every nutmeg-sprinkled vat of wassail, never ceasing until the line where Christmas ends and Kristen begins becomes irreparably slurred.

“Oh, the vanity!” you might exclaim as I adhere my tiny self-portrait to the face of a kneeling shepherd in your nativity.

Come now, I’ve always been drawn to random acts of overwhelming narcissism.

“But why?” you ask as I scribble your name on my own naughty/nice list.

Power. Authority. Self-efficacy, blatant egotism.

You know, Christmas cheer.

And so this Christmas, I urge you to turn your thoughts from the vast commercialism and exhausted consumerism that has become the holiday season, focusing on what is substantial, meaningful, and long-lasting….

ME.

Prepare for the unfolding of the greatest PR scheme ever performed.

Never, never, never trust a German.

2007-11-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

I can’t deny that I would loathe a society void of German influence. I live for the cocoa-filled decadence that is German chocolate cake. I can’t begin to imagine Christmas without the regal Taunenbaum, and epic poetry without Faust seems much like a feast without the entrée. In fact, aside from the tiny historical blunder that was World War II, Germany has, in my mind, contributed quite nicely to the social order.

Or so I thought.

Enter Crayola, the sputtering, untrustworthy Volkswagen that is my daily German companion.

Sure, she looks innocent enough: her cool blue exterior the very color of loyalty, premium alloy wheels and an initial-embroidered headrest that once was our special bond.

This, my friends, is my very own femme fatale.

Our past has always been a bit rocky. I brought her home on a whim, always attracted to something new and shiny. From the start she made me work for her affection: learning to drive a stick being more effort than I’d ever put into a relationship before.

And yet we seemed to get along, and our first year together was the stuff they write books – or auto brochures, rather – about.

And then something changed in Crayola. She was no longer the zippy 1.8 I fell in love with. She began backing into everything. Mailboxes, garbage cans, mini-vans, you name it – Crayola hit it. I didn’t understand the masochism then, and I blamed myself, knowing full well that I couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t help herself.

So we separated.

It was two years, and the dark days she spent as my mother’s chariot made her realize how good we were together. When we reunited, it was magic. It was as if Crayola had grown a new heart – albeit simply a clutch and a fresh set of performance tires. Many a long hour we spent together, gallivanting through town, soaring down the interstate. I fed her premium, gave her baths and never left her unattended for long.

But she snapped anyway. And one stormy April day Crayola tried to kill me.

The rain was pouring, mud and sleet flinging at my windshield when Crayola halted her wipers without explanation and drove me, quite nearly, into the freeway median.

I pulled over, shaking, fuming at the temper tantrum I hadn’t known her to be capable of.

Well, that was April.

June brought with it bad brakes and threats of rear-ending every car on the road.

August was a busted coil pack and Crayola taunting me with her flashing CEL light.

And just this week, she attempted again.

I was pulling out of Fashion Place mall, cold and exhausted from a 14-hour work day. I wasn’t asking for much: merely a safe trip home and perhaps a heated seat. But she was having none of it, and her halting, choppy acceleration let me know that our relationship was, once again, on the rocks.

Despite her protests, I made it home, slamming her door and marching into the house, telling her to sit outside in the October cold and to think about what she’d done.

I gave her 10 hours, but 8 a.m. brought no remorse for her previous actions. In fact, it wasn’t until she saw my tears that she began behaving.

And so here we are, picking up the pieces of a broken relationship and trying to move on. I wonder, at length sometimes, how life could be different had I chosen another companion – Japanese or American, perhaps.

And yet, we’re here, and every day is a risk with this menacing European.

Because, my friends, you can never trust a German.