tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101368512024-03-18T15:02:22.313-07:00She Just Walks Around With ItCocktails, kids, and a sense of humor the size of my ass. Yes. I've always been this awesome.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.comBlogger1054125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-1873169446214993392013-06-09T19:17:00.000-07:002017-11-13T14:21:08.648-08:00All Good ThingsI have good news and I have bad news.<br />
<br />
The bad news (which isn't really) is that I am giving up the ghost.<br />
<h3>
<b>I am retiring this blog. </b></h3>
Retiring it, I must add, after...<i>wait for it...</i>EIGHT-AND-A-HALF YEARS. <a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2006/12/eight-is-lot-of-legs-david.html" target="_blank">Eight is a lot</a> of years, Invisible Internet Friends.<br />
<br />
And you know that everything in my life is so far, and so different, from where it was when I began this crazy blog-thing. Writing about being huddled over my laptop shirtless, slurping soup, before another internet date. (Shirtless because I didn't want to get soup stains on my date-night shirt; soup because it was literally the only thing in my entire apartment that could come close to qualifying as "dinner material.")<br />
<br />
It's not like I have my act together now. It's just packaged differently. Not SF; Napa. Not single; married. Not bored at work; overworked. And there are kids somewhere around here, probably using permanent marker to draw "pirates" on "your fings, mama." And yet in soooo many ways? My messy, crazy, full-of-silly-spills life is <i>exactly</i> the same. It just has totally different wrapping paper.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-85411308632449707802013-05-03T16:05:00.000-07:002013-05-03T16:12:00.405-07:00"You Sound Like A Horrible Parent"<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Here's an email I got a couple days ago: </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "</span><a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2011/09/top-10-weirdest-things-on-yo-gabba.html" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank">The Top 10 Weirdest Things On "Yo Gabba Gabba"</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">": </span></i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This whole post was stupid . I highly doubt little kids see anything sexual about the show. They are KIDS not idiot adults . I also don't see why it's a big deal that god is black and just because he's cheerful that makes him gay. You sound like a horrible parent . </span></i></blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwxKRGO4URqHNuKvm5lXfVtMOGUPdFeMVDhqkAiHew9PdS79AQ_MUKh5OIB730BtXUK1s7XY7tmsTyDD_Bnwgpg49-lpob8B5sLRR4QJrMYm4qDJv1aW3C8R8MBPlw_Ug45wf/s1600/DJ_Lance_Rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="DJ Lance Rock" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwxKRGO4URqHNuKvm5lXfVtMOGUPdFeMVDhqkAiHew9PdS79AQ_MUKh5OIB730BtXUK1s7XY7tmsTyDD_Bnwgpg49-lpob8B5sLRR4QJrMYm4qDJv1aW3C8R8MBPlw_Ug45wf/s320/DJ_Lance_Rock.jpg" title="DJ Lance Rock" width="248" /></a></div>
<br />
Which is really awesome, because of all the insights.
<br />
<br />
So to respond:
<br />
<br />
First of all, OF COURSE I am a horrible parent. I am a blogger.<br />
<br />
Secondly, I KNOW my kids don't see anything sexual about the show. That's why I think ALL children's shows should feature characters that look like sex toys and/or sex organs. Then they will be prepared for later in life, for the day when a friend convinces them to go shopping at <a href="http://www.goodvibes.com/" target="_blank">Good Vibrations</a> in San Francisco, and instead of blushing or panicking they can be all, <i>"Oh hey! Relax! That thing looks just like <b>Hoobie The Space Goat*</b> from my favorite show when I was little!"</i> and then everyone will marvel at how sex-positive and comfortable my children have become. It's a good plan.
<br />
<br />
Next, well, I can't believe you played the race card but you know what? In my (albeit limited) experience, we're led to believe that God looks less like DJ Lance Rock and more like Dumbledore. Is this fair? Probably not. But please direct me to the nearest book or movie or church or house of worship where God is depicted as a young, hip, dancing black man in an orange track suit. Then I will reconsider.<br />
<br />
Lastly, it's not because he's cheerful that I say he's gay. It's because he's just like Dumbledore. Who is gay.
<br />
<br />
And there you have it, folks. Fighting insights with insights.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Hoobie The Space Goat should definitely be a thing</span>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-57343152215787372442013-04-14T16:36:00.003-07:002013-04-14T16:36:36.691-07:00That Time My Chins And I Were In The PaperThere's an article about me in today's <a href="http://napavalleyregister.com/business/napa-woman-helps-harness-power-of-social-media-for-advertising/article_2fd1c9d6-a48f-11e2-8616-001a4bcf887a.html">Napa Valley Register</a>, along with a photo. These are wonderful* things!<br />
<br />
Except.<br />
<br />
<i>(Except</i> of course <i>except</i>.)<br />
<br />
I hate the picture. Haaaaaate. It isn't flattering in the least. And the worst part about it is that everyone** I know has insisted that I "look beautiful" in it. Which means that's what everyone thinks my "beautiful" is. Which is terrifying to me because no, actually, it is not. Objectively, it is not beautiful.<br />
<br />
But instead of getting into a long-winded post about THAT ONE TIME I WEIGHED SO MUCH LESS AND WAS SO MUCH PRETTIER, I'm just going to give it to you in pictures.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
WHEN I PUT ON A LOT OF EYELINER AND HAVE A COUPLE GLASSES OF WINE I AM PRETTY SURE I LOOK LIKE THIS:</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AJjPfPiKgsubdSFgrreLEBqOHW19DKN6DPSWCY2g0mow02dQVfRFZAwBtK7WFeUgNkoIw38TFFDvhqepjovOKiVe-rbhJk002Bxz4Zr8kw3yi6sFp7CDqFP_uOkWvMiWlM_S/s1600/brigitte-bardot-smiling-bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AJjPfPiKgsubdSFgrreLEBqOHW19DKN6DPSWCY2g0mow02dQVfRFZAwBtK7WFeUgNkoIw38TFFDvhqepjovOKiVe-rbhJk002Bxz4Zr8kw3yi6sFp7CDqFP_uOkWvMiWlM_S/s320/brigitte-bardot-smiling-bw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
AND THEN WHEN I HAVE TO GET ALL SERIOUS ABOUT WORK I LOOK LIKE THIS: </h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gqCsPx1ZqCY/UWs7rrgEKGI/AAAAAAAAFuY/xgHdGX-dAf4/s1600/Brigitte+Bardot+In+Glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gqCsPx1ZqCY/UWs7rrgEKGI/AAAAAAAAFuY/xgHdGX-dAf4/s320/Brigitte+Bardot+In+Glasses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
AND THEN THE PAPER TAKES A "REAL LIFE" PICTURE OF ME AND IT LOOKS LIKE THIS: </h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://napavalleyregister.com/business/napa-woman-helps-harness-power-of-social-media-for-advertising/article_2fd1c9d6-a48f-11e2-8616-001a4bcf887a.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvBfOPyLJDo5dvJdIvMDMmTU7ihO28xoSYM4NTvvpRx1_qYjbA0FB4uuA9ERA39o96Bwddqgr9npgdlPreUG3nvRIXuyHjEc2sV6ibElndqZouL1NgT94WBkpT6l4dotzZCTp/s320/KJS-Register.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
AND THEN I THINK "HOLY SHIT" BECAUSE I REALIZE I LOOK MORE LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN THIS: </h3>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24338baXIgNm9Sc95hTEjwYDLEz-_e7huwvJ8YpGFTF8uzJ2B6GvhRWevWiPklyPmq0XHuVNSCZTKgpzSJbJS90Vb_Y-wOVmxI9AdmcDLDVqUQ5ot2UazUA_cyCzOD-99KqNc/s1600/ChrisFarley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24338baXIgNm9Sc95hTEjwYDLEz-_e7huwvJ8YpGFTF8uzJ2B6GvhRWevWiPklyPmq0XHuVNSCZTKgpzSJbJS90Vb_Y-wOVmxI9AdmcDLDVqUQ5ot2UazUA_cyCzOD-99KqNc/s320/ChrisFarley.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
<br />
<h3>
AND THIS: </h3>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TaFEifkyyzo/UWs8c9r_ySI/AAAAAAAAFus/0nnheDWc6x8/s1600/Ursula-Little-Mermaid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TaFEifkyyzo/UWs8c9r_ySI/AAAAAAAAFus/0nnheDWc6x8/s320/Ursula-Little-Mermaid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<h3>
THE END. </h3>
<br />
*The article is great and the photograph is great, I just can't believe that's what I look like.<br />
<br />
**Except my sister Sam who thankfully laughed at it for 5 minutes straight.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com244tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-14270594830332137402013-01-03T00:30:00.000-08:002013-06-09T18:58:40.700-07:002012 In Bullets & Pictures & Bug SprayI'm currently huddled over the kitchen table, trying to work. I'm wearing a tent-like smock dress because it's one of the few remaining (clean) items I own that I can still fit into post- "holiday gluttony." I shoved leggings on under the dress because it's like 35 degrees out and also let's not discuss the leg hair situation. (Oops. Too late.) I have a "for emergencies" (because it's horribly unflattering) sweater on on top of the smock dress and a scarf wrapped around my neck. My hair isn't totally dry from my shower this morning (a rare luxury, showering in the morning) and so it's piled onto my head in some sort of tangly mess, whatever. The point is, I'm next to the OPEN sliding glass door in the kitchen, letting a freezing cold draft in, wearing a sweater and boots and scarf with pseudo-wet hair while my laptop is precariously situated on the kitchen table (beside marker stains and a glop of kid-yogurt from this morning) because I can't sit in my office because of the spraying. I don't want to pass out from poison gas.<br />
<br />
Well, no. The guy said I wouldn't. He said, "You know, it'll just make you dizzy for a while. It won't kill you." OH OKAY THEN.<br />
<br />
Let me start again.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year!<br />
<br />
About 30 millionteen things have happened since I used to blog regularly (REMEMBER HOW I AM A BLOGGER?), although when I go to summarize it, it doesn't sound that impressive. Here's what happened last year (please see corresponding photos below):<br />
<ol>
<li>I worked a lot. Like, a LOT a lot. Like, regularly going 3 days without showering/eating lunch standing over the sink in under 10 minutes between calls/scheduling simple visits with friends 3 weeks in advance a lot.</li>
<li>Ish got a new job and also worked a lot. (But he totally showered every day.)</li>
<li>The kids got a year older and a year cuter, per Facebook & Instagram evidence.</li>
<li>I decided to go platinum blond with a big, bright "<a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2012/03/march-photos-of-day-days-9-14.html?showComment=1332432864565#c3985517396954592234">Suburban mom trying too hard</a>" streak in my hair. Because why the hell not? And I like to quote my haters.</li>
<li>Eve started preschool.</li>
<li>Ish and I went to Chicago for a weekend with our old friends Ben & Emily, and brought Ish's sister along for the ride. We had a great time, and packed a whole lot into two days.</li>
<li>Um.</li>
<li>In October, my sister, Samantha, drove across the country with her new boyfriend and they moved in with us, along with their dog. Surprise!</li>
<li>In December, we all went to Disneyworld. ("We all" = 15 of us and it's a long story.)</li>
<li>Christmas!</li>
<li>Then it rained a lot and now we have fleas. Which is why the guy sprayed our house. (And I thought I was all prepared -- the animals are safely outside and the kids and my husband and sister are out of the house. Except OOPS. I forgot to make arrangements for myself. Thus, here we are. Me, a little dizzy. Probably actually will die.)</li>
</ol>
<ul>
</ul>
<br />
But otherwise I think you're pretty much caught up with the Sammis Highlight Reel from 2012. Pete and I took an overnight trip to SF for a Giants game once, and then later they won the World Series and that was neat. I attended a funeral last August and blogged about it. My cousins had a baby in November.<br />
<br />
Personally, I'm great! Sort of!<br />
<br />
I am happy with work although the stress has been, at times, totally overwhelming. I do my best to always spend quality time with my kids every day.<br />
<br />
I don't do a lot of "me" stuff, though, other than zone out after the kids are in bed, which has increasingly meant drinking wine after 8 p.m. and snacking even later, and oh hey! I've gained 15 pounds over the last nine months. THESE THINGS MAY BE RELATED.<br />
<br />
Still, at this point it's probably noteworthy that since I started this blog <a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2005/01/so-whats-point.html">SEVEN YEARS AGO</a> to chronicle my weight-loss efforts, the only thing that has remained constant is that I (basically) haven't lost weight. The good news is that I truly, genuinely find this funny.<br />
<br />
Can you tell me YOUR 2012 in bullets? I'll be here.<br />
<br />
Photos for just because:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mnNgAAwSinI/UOhvhppfFII/AAAAAAAAFiE/bpUZmxv0cJ8/s1600/KJS-tiara.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mnNgAAwSinI/UOhvhppfFII/AAAAAAAAFiE/bpUZmxv0cJ8/s320/KJS-tiara.jpeg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">1. I had to add a tiara to my "professional" headshot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fi9e4xLjFE/UOh2tADjReI/AAAAAAAAFkw/XhwDFjsQhlY/s1600/ishfrogsleap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fi9e4xLjFE/UOh2tADjReI/AAAAAAAAFkw/XhwDFjsQhlY/s320/ishfrogsleap.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">2. Ish at <a href="http://www.frogsleap.com/flash/intro.html">Frog's Leap Winery</a> (highly recommended! go visit!)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lk3eTI6npiY/UOhvYOigRVI/AAAAAAAAFhU/LtfSY5y7ZJ0/s1600/DSC_0166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lk3eTI6npiY/UOhvYOigRVI/AAAAAAAAFhU/LtfSY5y7ZJ0/s320/DSC_0166.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3a. Eve, January 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtYRyuaAvzDJqsMnSfmTI-B37EpNr4MGpUJafHVN3VJieQ66OTCi0Ug4327gJj1i95z44pgxYgWPg2_IyPTIQLob-6X34V2lGsvK8wc0A3LukJInTb3bMTVvVSiamG2nGG9vl/s1600/IMG_6870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtYRyuaAvzDJqsMnSfmTI-B37EpNr4MGpUJafHVN3VJieQ66OTCi0Ug4327gJj1i95z44pgxYgWPg2_IyPTIQLob-6X34V2lGsvK8wc0A3LukJInTb3bMTVvVSiamG2nGG9vl/s320/IMG_6870.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3b. Eve, January 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4PbsLyIsItw/UOhvYKts_0I/AAAAAAAAFhc/amBHAxtdhXs/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4PbsLyIsItw/UOhvYKts_0I/AAAAAAAAFhc/amBHAxtdhXs/s320/DSC_0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3c. Towns, December 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3hpxyTYwq9mNrEgxdcP9N8Y_FqcbyJuk0xsqYZhSznJzMIKBhCZMnjglclAGSbbafc2CuW2pfiRBLu_E8KC0TG7eEjXdt40QBL7nSRkkKNF9C7tIZvVCukXpE2riOIk4L4IF/s1600/IMG_6815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3hpxyTYwq9mNrEgxdcP9N8Y_FqcbyJuk0xsqYZhSznJzMIKBhCZMnjglclAGSbbafc2CuW2pfiRBLu_E8KC0TG7eEjXdt40QBL7nSRkkKNF9C7tIZvVCukXpE2riOIk4L4IF/s320/IMG_6815.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">3d. Towns, December 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FKcwaB2VCLk/UOh4MjRLEzI/AAAAAAAAFlc/VOXIJFuysek/s1600/IMG_0102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FKcwaB2VCLk/UOh4MjRLEzI/AAAAAAAAFlc/VOXIJFuysek/s320/IMG_0102.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4. Pink Streak, March</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wX9oy-HFfMA/UO9v3rk-cwI/AAAAAAAAFnU/EcPb87-vQiM/s1600/IMG_5866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wX9oy-HFfMA/UO9v3rk-cwI/AAAAAAAAFnU/EcPb87-vQiM/s320/IMG_5866.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">5. First day of preschool</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UOiRhobpxGlKFUad5sNHWm8L63vyaplWaBXEJ-eKMMhxA7K9QuiZFdwhZmEl7B9akPprAYXMHK7UAPeLv5w_w_dYIiuPg3EAERFjjr5QUB2NN4_l5stLMTpk82OYikihaefv/s1600/IMG_5561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UOiRhobpxGlKFUad5sNHWm8L63vyaplWaBXEJ-eKMMhxA7K9QuiZFdwhZmEl7B9akPprAYXMHK7UAPeLv5w_w_dYIiuPg3EAERFjjr5QUB2NN4_l5stLMTpk82OYikihaefv/s320/IMG_5561.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6a. Chicago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TawRMrxUO0o/UOh069MUJuI/AAAAAAAAFj8/4gw8w2yEqAE/s1600/WhitneyChicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TawRMrxUO0o/UOh069MUJuI/AAAAAAAAFj8/4gw8w2yEqAE/s320/WhitneyChicago.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">6b. Chicago, Ish's sister</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZ7Q-cutBXfIjU6dfwRLv5yzaT1jbiheRMnWymw79yZR-Cy3l-yXdE5YCIWEaYmNyXHO-Vb74gVFYxr0VPK9q7ti7_XRTFwgtr8tX5aI7FXbzs8i6otl1iFsld13y-uMVxo84/s1600/IMG_5505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZ7Q-cutBXfIjU6dfwRLv5yzaT1jbiheRMnWymw79yZR-Cy3l-yXdE5YCIWEaYmNyXHO-Vb74gVFYxr0VPK9q7ti7_XRTFwgtr8tX5aI7FXbzs8i6otl1iFsld13y-uMVxo84/s320/IMG_5505.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">6c. Also on the river in Chicago. Ben is being...Ben. And Emily is laughing at his ridiculousness. And yes, his shirt says, "Am I supposed to have a boner right now?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLhnXl8MlkL4X0kBQZHtTZuxspy7XYVW_efLhs8m_23-llgMbIQR5uxodz-RyVRzPG7gGbmXsLQKQvyjiZbbnEBUI8LZ8DQEmV8WOgMIHBXcL3MV6G90LzoV5Az4f6qg6aaKl/s1600/ChicagoInstagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLhnXl8MlkL4X0kBQZHtTZuxspy7XYVW_efLhs8m_23-llgMbIQR5uxodz-RyVRzPG7gGbmXsLQKQvyjiZbbnEBUI8LZ8DQEmV8WOgMIHBXcL3MV6G90LzoV5Az4f6qg6aaKl/s320/ChicagoInstagram.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">6d. Chicago, from our boat on the river<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPTebzqFJhrsELaxc4a8Gpnua5HBhrc3zNaGNKG-lbBxzri5Upit_egnailXgckBAfsUWxoUg9k9fBS3rBioUvrnp29dB4KFP0YF5LDiA0zcIsCHcyyZWlknKnCBKVuRlf9ed/s1600/SamsTrip2forBlog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPTebzqFJhrsELaxc4a8Gpnua5HBhrc3zNaGNKG-lbBxzri5Upit_egnailXgckBAfsUWxoUg9k9fBS3rBioUvrnp29dB4KFP0YF5LDiA0zcIsCHcyyZWlknKnCBKVuRlf9ed/s320/SamsTrip2forBlog.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">8a. I tracked Sam's trip across the country using Google Latitude. There she is!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lhSCp7sZ89E/UO9vC6PQlBI/AAAAAAAAFmw/h99EONvUv8Q/s1600/IMG_0314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lhSCp7sZ89E/UO9vC6PQlBI/AAAAAAAAFmw/h99EONvUv8Q/s320/IMG_0314.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">8b. Sam and the kids do selfies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KU0XbByO5To/UOh07MGtfKI/AAAAAAAAFj4/G1mzNxdFFcE/s1600/IMG_6953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KU0XbByO5To/UOh07MGtfKI/AAAAAAAAFj4/G1mzNxdFFcE/s320/IMG_6953.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">9. Disney - Breakfast with the characters, and pure bliss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TY63z1OH-7M/UOhvZwGX46I/AAAAAAAAFhs/_FOKHbqxlxk/s1600/IMG_5789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TY63z1OH-7M/UOhvZwGX46I/AAAAAAAAFhs/_FOKHbqxlxk/s320/IMG_5789.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10. Our "Christmas" card photo which became our "New Year's" card because we mailed them out on January 7.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
BONUS PICTURES IN NO ORDER FOR NO REASON!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4yCMIYkfcs/UOhvhnSqkWI/AAAAAAAAFiI/1oMrhwVbOyU/s1600/MattKikiRyanEve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4yCMIYkfcs/UOhvhnSqkWI/AAAAAAAAFiI/1oMrhwVbOyU/s320/MattKikiRyanEve.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above: My cousin, Matt, and I at Christmastime in Connecticut. <br />
Below: Matt's son and my daughter, at Christmastime in California.<br />
Two impromptu shots, 36 years apart. <br />
(Only after I took the one below did I remember I had the one above.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-62lXiHpIWcI/UO9vz_6CWgI/AAAAAAAAFm4/fWy1YZEvfU4/s1600/IMG_4308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-62lXiHpIWcI/UO9vz_6CWgI/AAAAAAAAFm4/fWy1YZEvfU4/s320/IMG_4308.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random SF Giants Game! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-udzhVS4w63A/UO9v0LGU5mI/AAAAAAAAFm8/XIg3GKQc3x4/s1600/IMG_4408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-udzhVS4w63A/UO9v0LGU5mI/AAAAAAAAFm8/XIg3GKQc3x4/s320/IMG_4408.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We went to Vegas for a weekend and got hair/makeup done just because.<br />
(Kinda foxy, right?) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8rLcjLSOPbs/UO9v0naXlCI/AAAAAAAAFnE/7WpouvyfByg/s1600/IMG_4230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8rLcjLSOPbs/UO9v0naXlCI/AAAAAAAAFnE/7WpouvyfByg/s320/IMG_4230.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG. Eve took a dance "class" and this was the big recital. She's dancing to "Firework" by Katy Perry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6emeooIycow/UO9v1lNogHI/AAAAAAAAFnI/FG9RV50L9Cg/s1600/IMG_4760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6emeooIycow/UO9v1lNogHI/AAAAAAAAFnI/FG9RV50L9Cg/s320/IMG_4760.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep. This happened.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E-yE8ODtMJw/UO9v3Tra2WI/AAAAAAAAFnY/g0jlCE4pjsk/s1600/IMG_4905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E-yE8ODtMJw/UO9v3Tra2WI/AAAAAAAAFnY/g0jlCE4pjsk/s320/IMG_4905.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday in Napa (@ Biale Winery)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSCUHNZoux8KJ2peBIMD7pcVZa_WMjBBE8RsyEwW0LrHqibijMnukF2ClFJjzrORI9OVxY-jki82xUf3NDBRRgpDcFTkphN8UqfsVu9awXCwlBPdtdN4oREv0s-wIcgVVKApl/s1600/IMG_6288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSCUHNZoux8KJ2peBIMD7pcVZa_WMjBBE8RsyEwW0LrHqibijMnukF2ClFJjzrORI9OVxY-jki82xUf3NDBRRgpDcFTkphN8UqfsVu9awXCwlBPdtdN4oREv0s-wIcgVVKApl/s320/IMG_6288.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HALLOWEEN! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6gMyvlYlFCs/UO9v5p1SlDI/AAAAAAAAFnk/BLYUMoVjMEU/s1600/IMG_6398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6gMyvlYlFCs/UO9v5p1SlDI/AAAAAAAAFnk/BLYUMoVjMEU/s320/IMG_6398.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the awesomest things that happened this year was that we grew closer to our friends in Napa. <br />
This is <a href="http://www.twitter.com/erelmartin">Erin</a>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYV54bWBpiqQyTpWWWWixIJYsIFDe12sxrlaK9a7sgyZbqCLMyFEFMkxmr_NPYCRkwqr1fsuXVmcb8mlBqYhW5IPhTXjrXmgxUFMzBqFJvrxjvwmO0pklLPSepr7MQwfQbbYyi/s1600/IMG_4839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYV54bWBpiqQyTpWWWWixIJYsIFDe12sxrlaK9a7sgyZbqCLMyFEFMkxmr_NPYCRkwqr1fsuXVmcb8mlBqYhW5IPhTXjrXmgxUFMzBqFJvrxjvwmO0pklLPSepr7MQwfQbbYyi/s1600/IMG_4839.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">I tried to start a meme and totally failed, but whatever. <br />
Funny picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-91293865168159164202012-10-06T09:07:00.001-07:002013-01-10T18:00:27.591-08:00TWO FUNNY THINGS!Okay, hi.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, we were desperately searching for something "new" for our kids to watch on television that wouldn't make us completely crazy. Because I can only see the same episodes of the same kids' shows so many times.<br />
<br />
We picked, from "Free Movies" on Comcast, OKLAHOMA. A few minutes into the movie, we accidentally played the Gangnam Style song on one of our mobile devices. At which point we discovered that the synchronization was amazing. Like, Pink Floyd/Wizard of Oz amazing. Same beat. Cheesy dancing. Happy cowboys. IT'S LIKE THE SAME VIDEO.<br />
<br />
So we morphed them. (Not that I get how to do anything technical, so this could have been done better...) (and now I think you can see it on mobile devices?)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/GzKYlSb22ao?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
But if for some reason you aren't interested in the above (I DON'T GET YOU) and want to hear my darling daughter say a bad word that she attributes entirely to my husband, please feel free to watch the following video as well.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-C8rsyOwdjI?list=UU1oIrbnz91fuqoppy_rGcvQ&hl=en_US" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
And that pretty much sums up the last two months of my life.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-33830837699875825102012-08-31T13:02:00.001-07:002012-08-31T13:02:15.190-07:00D. DuckI read something at a funeral today.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm here in a hotel room, just having come from this morning's services. We were at the beach. It was gorgeous. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm unexpectedly in Connecticut, in the town where I grew up, sitting in a hotel like a stranger who doesn't belong. My sisters are off running errands and we'll regroup soon to drink wine and tell stories because that's how we do things. We make a party out of everything, and then eventually we start singing. If you're following me on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter, there will be photos. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We'll laugh. We'll play games. </div>
<div>
<br />
But I'm sad in a deep and profound way. Ugly-cry, gut-punched, <i>I don't want to acknowledge a world where I can't hear Tom laughing</i> kind of way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I'll just do what I do. I'll share what I wrote. What I read today. It's more for me than for you, because sharing makes me feel better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wish you could have known Tom. So, well. Here it is:<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs4XqRCp3t4/UEEWeUGtmrI/AAAAAAAAFdE/tCF4ERDnTlY/s1600/Duck&Dad.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs4XqRCp3t4/UEEWeUGtmrI/AAAAAAAAFdE/tCF4ERDnTlY/s400/Duck&Dad.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad, left. Duck, right. Healy's wedding, 2002.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In some ways, I wish I had the perspective to be able to talk about Tom the way my parents, John and Linda, would have. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In some ways, I wish I could share any of the many, many, MANY stories they’d tell. From the fun, to the funny, to the downright completely inappropriate. Because, from the time my dad and Tom became friends in grade school until his passing all-too recently, my dad AND my mom spent so much time with Tom -- gatherings and parties, vacations and the just-stopping-bys, and oh...the late-late-late nights, whenever they were together.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yep. There are a lot of stories my parents could tell. And, even if heavily laced in sarcasm and swear words, there are also so many sweet, wonderful things my parents would say about Tom. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I can’t tell you what my parents would say. Not really. Because I was a very little girl when I met Tom.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tom. I don’t know if I’ve ever called him that in my whole life. The minute he tried to win a two-year-old Healy over with his Donald Duck impression, she dubbed him DEE DUCK, (“Donald” was too hard to say). And that moniker stuck. Even years later, on wedding invitations, he was Mister D. Duck.</span></span></b></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d6UcpzyUZ4A/UEEWoWDvLII/AAAAAAAAFds/QxNehHVZnac/s1600/mom+duck+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d6UcpzyUZ4A/UEEWoWDvLII/AAAAAAAAFds/QxNehHVZnac/s320/mom+duck+wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At my wedding in 1999. At the bar. <br />(My mother would murder me for this picture if she could.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that’s exactly what makes this hard for me. For us. D Duck -- or the informal, “Duck” -- was always and forever the really fun guy who encouraged us to be kids. He was playful, and encouraged us to be playful. The night of my father’s services, 26 years after being given the name D Duck, he gave my sister a piggyback ride. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were always kids around him. And that’s the lens that we will always see him through. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I can’t tell you what my parents would say. Or even what my grown-up self would say if I’d only just met “Tom” a few years ago. Because I can’t even imagine that version of him. I can only really talk about the Duck we loved so much as kids -- because that’s the only Duck we ever knew.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">* * * * * * </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first time Duck visited us at our house in Darien, my mother was beside herself with nerves. She wanted to make a good impression on this “old school buddy” of my father’s. She had no idea she was meeting someone who would become her own lifelong friend. (If only in large part because it takes a really special guy to put up with my father for so many God damned years.)</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" />I don’t know how the night went in general, but I do know that when Duck went to leave, he couldn’t. Because his keys had disappeared. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Imagine if you will, a dinner party where you’re meeting your old friend and his new wife and kids for the first time, and you end the night by explaining that your keys have gone missing. Awkward. Except also true. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know how long they looked or what sort of uncomfortable conversations may have transpired before they gave up and woke both me and Healy (again, aged 2) up to ask if we had any idea where D-Duck’s keys were. Of course, I found this baffling, but Healy, in a dazed toddler stupor, said yep. She knew. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, Healy was a very shy and very particular kid, but took a shine to Duck immediately.</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I mean, who doesn’t?</span><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And in her enamored toddler state, decided that she would take his keys and put them in HER own purse. Because D-Duck’s keys were just that awesome. And then, before going to bed, she decided -- for reasons never entirely made clear to anyone -- to hide her purse at the bottom of the hall closet. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well. For some people, this might have just been a strange end to a pleasant evening, end of story. But I think the Sammis family was sending Duck a message that I’m sure all of you have felt at some point in your lives: we love having you in our home, and we don’t want you to leave. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was that way always. A visit from Duck meant my parents would be happy. It meant good times. It meant jokes. It meant silliness. It meant music and laughter. It meant fun.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lVkGipw__k/UEEWm_MNraI/AAAAAAAAFdk/P86O9IhRnVM/s1600/duck+healy+kitchen+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lVkGipw__k/UEEWm_MNraI/AAAAAAAAFdk/P86O9IhRnVM/s400/duck+healy+kitchen+11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG 80s. Big, curly hair. Miller Lite beers and Tab cans. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duck was the ultimate “fun uncle”. Especially because he always brought cool stuff to our house, including the most amazing thing that had ever been invented in the history of the world ever: the car that would talk to you. “Listen to her when I leave my door open!” he said smiling while his immaculate car idled in our dusty driveway. </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your door is ajar. Your door is ajar. </span><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I think I’m in love!” he exclaimed. More than once.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duck was the only person who could stop by, unannounced, and not rattle my mom. Duck was comfortable; he accepted us all for who we were. Our metaphoric “dishes in the sink” never mattered to him. He was there for the company.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And we loved it. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duck was a fixture in our household-- something of a Sammis family constant. He was there on random Sundays, and the day I learned to ride a two-wheeled bike. He was there for egg-dyeing and swimming and on our Prom Nights. We sometimes called our guest room “the Duck room.” </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" />I know it wasn’t a Christmas Eve, or even any party at all, until Duck arrived. </span></span></b></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoQvDEsEIoeELBEkbJxItCs-JaFg7N6lRA80_LbeZ7htSdBlh9r8kPvKF_hagqrVthsy5q0jif7x8t6IlOLEXImEwlaPIpzljfU97KldayDk405Az6jHWL39BA-KXmikjLiUY/s1600/DDuck-MurderParty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoQvDEsEIoeELBEkbJxItCs-JaFg7N6lRA80_LbeZ7htSdBlh9r8kPvKF_hagqrVthsy5q0jif7x8t6IlOLEXImEwlaPIpzljfU97KldayDk405Az6jHWL39BA-KXmikjLiUY/s400/DDuck-MurderParty.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At a Murder Mystery party my parents hosted. (I wasn't invited.) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even when my parents passed away, he managed to make us all feel better, just by virtue of being around, and being him. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was everything charismatic. He was the guy you wanted to sit next to. He had the laugh you could pick out from everyone else’s -- maybe because it was so funny, but probably because it was so darn genuine, and infectious. He didn’t just like to have a good time, he BROUGHT a good time. He WAS a good time. He was our good time. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So...I’ll share something personal with you now. Despite how I think of Duck, I’m not ACTUALLY still a five-year-old, looking for Duck’s keys...I’m really a grown-up with young kids of my own. And every time we have friends over, and I watch them interacting with my kids... I catch myself thinking: “Is this friend of mine going to be their Duck? I hope we can find someone to be like our Duck.”</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He set the standard for ultimate family friend, and he raised that bar awfully high. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">D-Duck has been such a shining beacon of joy in our lives for so long and for so many occasions, in fact, I kept accidentally looking forward to seeing him today.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“How will we ever get through this?” my family has asked, too many times. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, D-Duck will be there.”</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S4_HbfnvK5z5cgFwhsFPMm4vXkycwHtvogDulmF406vjAirAurT96EMOPvlXvWJhRHcexnwqgI4bWfMxLqiBBVfbRtxiNekWzPGT4OCubSbuqPjXbSCzVbsYFurKoV5kuJbg/s1600/DDuck.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S4_HbfnvK5z5cgFwhsFPMm4vXkycwHtvogDulmF406vjAirAurT96EMOPvlXvWJhRHcexnwqgI4bWfMxLqiBBVfbRtxiNekWzPGT4OCubSbuqPjXbSCzVbsYFurKoV5kuJbg/s400/DDuck.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also he was a Captain in the army and was handsome, apparently.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My family has come to expect that Duck’s smiling face and joyous spirit will be there to get us through anything. I know in some ways, he still will.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, now, it’s our turn to try to return the favor -- at least a little. To try to bring a little celebration to him -- as much as we can.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Ask Healy & Sam to come up.)</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Music and singing has been part of our relationship with Duck since the beginning. And we wanted to honor that today, in a way that felt...authentic. That truly represented Tom, Duck, and how we knew him.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was looking through old pictures, and suddenly had a vivid reminder of a New Year’s Eve party my parents once hosted. (I wasn’t invited, but I watched from the hallway), and I very clearly remember Duck singing this song.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad was at the piano, and Tom was singing with his disarmingly good voice -- at the top of his lungs and with gusto, the way he lived life. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Uh, a song we will humbly try to sing now.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To us -- as, I know, to many of you -- Tom (Duck) has meant love, and he’s meant family, and he’s meant home. He is what a happy home feels like. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And we hope he’s in a happy home now.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Show me the way to go home</span></span></b></div>
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.01419107778929174" style="font-weight: normal;">
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm tired and I want to go to bed</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I had a little drink about an hour ago</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And it went right to my head</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Everywhere I roam</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On land or sea or foam</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You can always hear me singing this song</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Show me the way to go home</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
</b></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHea9fGhzsuu0kT8JAh2m-W8LaeNfuTrmfQDLqlX8Bw8XlBqBdEJr33KGFl4dtaZxbXFjMIqVO4KCAmow7KaIIQEsOkD6LyL0TDKlEM4vyJ4clD22X0qqxVpWETLcuDDsmlfT/s1600/RotonPoint.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkHea9fGhzsuu0kT8JAh2m-W8LaeNfuTrmfQDLqlX8Bw8XlBqBdEJr33KGFl4dtaZxbXFjMIqVO4KCAmow7KaIIQEsOkD6LyL0TDKlEM4vyJ4clD22X0qqxVpWETLcuDDsmlfT/s640/RotonPoint.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At his memorial services today. Overlooking the ocean.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-44340932375512482312012-08-27T16:57:00.002-07:002012-08-27T16:57:33.792-07:00REPOSTED: What If Fat Doesn't Mean Miserable<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>I originally posted this on January 22, 2010. Many things have changed since then, but many things...haven't. It was time to revisit. You can still <a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2010/01/what-if-fat-doesnt-mean-miserable.html">read the original post here</a>.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<b>I am not fat because I am miserable. I love myself. But I don't like the way I look.</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those three sentences are the most important things I could ever write. I don't know who's reading this or who's in the same boat as I am, but nowhere, never, not once in my extensive and exhaustive research on weight issues have I ever EVER seen those three things addressed simultaneously. If at all.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Somewhere, somehow, the American psyche became convinced that either one of two things is true: either you are fat because you are miserable, or you've learned to LOVE! yourself the way you are. I don't know which is worse or further from my truth.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The latter, "Learned to LOVE! yourself the way that you are" infuriates me. I don't embrace my size. I deal with it, I <i>just walk around with it</i>. When I'm feeling up to it, I'll dress myself up and look my best. But I'm not fooling myself. I would look better ("better" by current general American standards, however they came to be such) if I weighed a lot less.</div>
<div>
<br />
At NO point will I ever be happy with classifying myself as a "BBW." I am also not a "Diva." I am not "Large and In Charge." I am not "sassy." Yet these are the labels I get to choose from if I am going to go along with my larger size. I can't just passively accept it; I can't just exist as though I'm exactly the same as other women...just a few sizes bigger.<br />
<br />
This is never made more painfully clear than when I'm out shopping. WHY do the styles have to be so entirely different for the plus-size shopper? Because, I guess, the moment I passed from size 14 to size 16, I suddenly became a "Glamazon!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ladies and gentleman, I am not a Glamazon! I'm not even a glamazon.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, toned-down alternatives exist, but I am not appreciative of being called a "WOMAN," either; at least, not when that's what the plus-size area of a department store is calling me. And by the way: If I'm a WOMAN, what does that make those sized 14 and under? GIRLS? The implications of "bigger = woman" are humiliating for all parties involved.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's be clear. I don't disparage women who do, actually, <i>like</i> being big (or are at least comfortable with it), and I don't dismiss that there are men (and women) who love big women. I am just not one of them. We can blame my parents and the media, but I don't generally perceive overweight women as sexually attractive. Myself included.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except I don't hate myself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't wake up miserable every day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No, I don't like the way I look, but:</div>
<div>
1) That doesn't mean YOU can't like the way I look, and, more importantly;</div>
<div>
2) SO WHAT?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I don't like the way I look. <i>Lots</i> of people don't like things about themselves that they could change.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've just put less emphasis on controlling my weight than on other things.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Other things, like my career, my financial stability, my emotional well-being, my family, and, you know, achieving my life goals. Oh, and speaking of life goals? "Being thin(ner)" is definitely on my list...it's just below "finding love" "having a family" "career satisfaction" and "getting published."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hey, I get that we all have different priorities. I firmly believe that everything's a trade-off. I simply cannot work as hard as I'm capable at health, weight, career, education, family, extra-curriculars <i>and</i> emotional well-being all at the same time. I <i>can</i> find a balance that works for me, though; I <i>can</i> find compromise. And that's precisely what I've done.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But why is that so hard to believe? I chose (directly and indirectly) not to have my weight be my top priority. NOT because I didn't have other priorities. Not because I didn't care, not because I don't have a life, not because I'm not a worthwhile human being.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I keep thinking of Jillian on <i>The Biggest Loser</i>, screaming at contestants until they break and finally reveal the emotional scars that led them to their 400-pound selves. And of course, for some people, that's just it. They eat because they're unhappy. They try to fill an emotional void with food. They put other people first and don't take care of themselves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, okay, fair enough. But what about the rest of us?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because that's not my story at all. That's not my life at all. I feel like if I had Jillian yelling in my face, asking me why I've "done this to myself" I would have to yell back, "Done what? Let myself gain weight? Oh, well, sorry! I was busy trying to make myself a fulfilled human being!"<br />
<br />
(I might ALSO be tempted to yell back, "Why are YOU so AFRAID of fat?" but that's neither here nor there and probably why I'll never be on tv.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I care. I do care. I don't want to be this size, and I am not happy with my size. But with me overall? Well, my weight has taken a back seat to other, worthy priorities...priorities that make me feel like a whole person, and that make me feel confident with myself. My self-esteem is pretty well intact.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My self-esteem is not <i>dependent</i> on my size.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Correlated, yes. I would feel better about myself if I were thinner. But I would feel a lot <i>worse</i> about myself if the rest of my life were in shambles. (Trust me, I speak from experience.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I just constantly feel like people who see me, people who meet me but don't really know me, wonder what's wrong with me that I am this size. <i>Surely deep down I must be unhappy with myself. </i>I think it's really hard for people who (subconsciously or consciously) link their self-worth with their weight to understand that not everyone does.</div>
<div>
<br />
That I couldn't possibly love myself if I look like this.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except I do.</div>
<div>
<br />
But...so...then...what if I want to lose weight?<br />
<br />
<b>How do I find motivation to lose weight if I'm not coming from a place of broken? </b><br />
<br />
Most motivational advice I see/read/hear is based on the premise that fat = lazy, fat = uninformed, fat = unhappy. I need to find something better than this. I look to shows like Biggest Loser to inspire me, but the message I come away with is "If I just figure out why I hate myself so much, I will let go and start taking better care of me."<br />
<br />
But that doesn't fit me and so I have no model. I'm not overweight because I'm lazy, because I have nothing better to do, because I'm unhappy. I'm not angry at the world, I'm not failing at life. I haven't let myself be held back by my weight. </div>
<div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead, it's just the opposite. I have so much else going on, I just don't know how to make weight-loss a priority without giving up something else. Like, by virtue of math, I have to do <i>less</i> of something in order to do <i>more</i> of something else. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know people talk about making "lifestyle changes" but they always seem to just say that "eating well" has to be a priority and "eating crap" has to, well, not be a priority. They say that <i>now you need to make time to go to the gym</i> as though you were previously spending that extra hour or two sitting around twiddling your thumbs. As though it's apples to apples.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I look at my life now and it is full-to-the-brim busy. I have two young children and a start-up. I spend practically every waking moment wrangling a child or wrangling an overflowing inbox, save for the occasional conversation with my husband. I have to schedule showers.<br />
<br />
I know I need to reconfigure to give weight-loss a new, prominent position in my life. But.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But losing weight is hard. It's hard to stay motivated in general, but it's REALLY hard to stay motivated when being overweight doesn't bring you abject misery.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I ask: What about those of you who DO work, who have active social lives, who do 8 billion other things with your bad selves and LIKE it that way and so can't quite figure out how to make "weight loss" one of your priorities? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Is it because you are secretly miserable? Or is it because you're just...not?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
* * * * * * * * * * * *</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b><i>Disclaimers:</i></b></div>
<div>
<i>1. Absolutely no antagonism is intended toward those who are thin, who are in good shape, who care about their size, who are athletic, who enjoy working out, etc. I think that's awesome! I want to be more like you! </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>2. It IS possible to prioritize working out and still balance millions of other things. However, *I* have not, PERSONALLY, been able to find that balance yet; not since I became a grown-up with a full-time job and certainly not since I had kids and started a company. This is MY cross to bear and to explain. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>3. For the record, I have NOT always been fat and I HAVE been in great physical shape -- just not since graduating college and getting a job.</i></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-7909663802455729972012-07-27T15:23:00.001-07:002012-07-27T15:39:20.226-07:00Fun With Fridays, The Olympics, And The Word Penis!<span style="background-color: white;">I have so much fun stuff for you today! In fact, let's make a list.</span><br />
<br />
<h3>
<b>1. Opening Ceremonies Bingo Cards!</b></h3>
<a href="http://www.prairiehive.com/" target="_blank">This amazeballoons blogger</a> created lovely Bingo Cards for tonight's opening ceremonies. You should print them out and play, especially if you have friends over and want to keep them (and kids) entertained.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.prairiehive.com/blogimages/OpeningCeremonyBingo.pdf" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Opening Ceremonies Bingo Game" border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JtJkiCuuKkM/UBMSVzybPAI/AAAAAAAAFbc/WHugEg41BiY/s320/OlympicsBingo.png" title="Opening Ceremonies Bingo Game" width="268" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. Opening Ceremonies Drinking Game!</h3>
<div>
Perhaps even better (YES I KNOW IT'S ALL ABOUT PREFERENCE), I found <a href="http://www.sbnation.com/london-olympics-2012/2012/7/27/3192250/opening-ceremony-drinking-game-2012" target="_blank">this amazing drinking game for tonight's ceremonies</a> and it wins.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sbnation.com/london-olympics-2012/2012/7/27/3192250/opening-ceremony-drinking-game-2012" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Olympics Opening Ceremonies Drinking Game" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6_ijHV2GM80/UBMYNoyDmjI/AAAAAAAAFcM/1CFO_QKEmsg/s1600/openingceremoniesdrinkinggame.jpeg" title="Olympics Opening Ceremonies Drinking Game" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from sbnation.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Indeed, what London lacks in precision group drumming it will make up for with nods to British culture: British music, British literature, royal figures, and crumpets -- all of the crumpets! It will be either a grand tribute to England as the Games begin, or a hilarious Frankenstein of cultural history ("No, no, no! The </span><a href="http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/olympics-fourth-place-medal/mary-poppins-fight-voldemort-olympic-opening-ceremony-170354031--oly.html" style="border: 0px; color: #c52126; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">40-foot Voldemort</a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> is supposed to come out to the Sex Pistols' cover of 'God Save the Queen'! Don't cue 'Hey Jude' until the 30 Mary Poppinses start descending from the sky.") Regardless, the event calls for a drinking game.</span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. Here is a video of the US Olympic Swim Team singing "Call Me Maybe":</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/YPIA7mpm1wU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. What did my favorite <a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-poor-english-shower-boobs.html" target="_blank">Chinese Wholesaler</a> send to my inbox this week? </h3>
<a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2012/07/hipster-toddler-with-bonus-sad-chinese.html" target="_blank">Another</a> women's bag.<br />
<br />
Was it gorgeous? Beautiful? Useful, even?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgm30TFbyPWqTKe3lNlNQUK4tTcorkoQKDBwA9RZv5uHtGtG3gUbIo_IxBcM28_NmhylSvuFUq-VIBocagcyYUlby38GsHiMMuaiRNE4esQBQcwuCQlSr9HgZrO8fBDUWohKop/s1600/DecentBag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgm30TFbyPWqTKe3lNlNQUK4tTcorkoQKDBwA9RZv5uHtGtG3gUbIo_IxBcM28_NmhylSvuFUq-VIBocagcyYUlby38GsHiMMuaiRNE4esQBQcwuCQlSr9HgZrO8fBDUWohKop/s1600/DecentBag.png" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">No. It was just <i>decent</i>.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">5. Last but not least? The word PENIS. </span></h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
Once a million years ago, my a cappella group was at karaoke and Roe who is awesome drew a picture of the word penis for absolutely no reason. I thought it was "artistic"...so I had another friend upload it and color it in and here it is. I don't know. Happy Friday.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gaxYLX1E1_Q/UBMSWTUiptI/AAAAAAAAFbk/fBFK2WgfJqo/s1600/penis-roe.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gaxYLX1E1_Q/UBMSWTUiptI/AAAAAAAAFbk/fBFK2WgfJqo/s320/penis-roe.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
Penis.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-59347141129557774352012-07-22T15:03:00.001-07:002012-07-22T17:00:41.690-07:00Hipster Toddler With BONUS! Sad Chinese Bag Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I don't totally understand where or how memes get started, but I'm pretty sure it's not from people taking pictures of their kids and then putting them on MemeGenerator and then blogging about it. Then again, maybe that's exactly how memes start.<br />
<br />
Funny thing, this internet.<br />
<br />
Anyway. I took the requisite* photo of toddler-wearing-oversized-sunglasses...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNlIzt1V5ofS9gsaL8MNvdmE_sgGPOwwcsh6oCSGqwYr63rJrWwHNdzqRrZKtP3thSb50zD29mk1XebA-Y-dzwpLf4RJ8HvFHdRnnzKucDcmIPOwYEU1FUau2gWYr0DdHwpIO/s1600/HipsterToddler.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="HipsterToddler" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNlIzt1V5ofS9gsaL8MNvdmE_sgGPOwwcsh6oCSGqwYr63rJrWwHNdzqRrZKtP3thSb50zD29mk1XebA-Y-dzwpLf4RJ8HvFHdRnnzKucDcmIPOwYEU1FUau2gWYr0DdHwpIO/s200/HipsterToddler.jpeg" title="HipsterToddler" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
and then laughed at the result because she looked like such an <i>over it</i> hipster. So I decided to start this meme thing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.memegenerator.net/hipstertoddler" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Hipster Toddler Digs Tacos" border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gqeEA_I-Plc/UAxzBfkI4sI/AAAAAAAAFZs/LuxA2pwiQyU/s400/HipsterToddlerTacos.jpeg" title="Hipster Toddler Digs Tacos" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.memegenerator.net/hipstertoddler" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Hipster Toddler Is Over Your Tweets" border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PvEF5rOCVvg/UAxzB7YiqqI/AAAAAAAAFZ0/PV7XvOOvAAQ/s400/HipsterToddlerTweets.jpeg" title="Hipster Toddler Is Over Your Tweets" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">You can create your own versions of</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><a href="http://www.memegenerator.net/hipstertoddler" target="_blank">Hipster Toddler here</a><span style="background-color: white;">, if you're so inclined (if you do, let me know). Or go ahead and make your own! It's a fun thing to do when you're supposed to be watching your children.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This one is my favorite: </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.memegenerator.net/hipstertoddler" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="Hipster Toddler Should Run Your Social Media" border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dW0jYp4YQtw/UAxzCd32XXI/AAAAAAAAFaE/voj8NoXgT0g/s400/HipsterToddlersocialmedia.jpeg" title="Hipster Toddler Should Run Your Social Media" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;">Because it's in direct response to a widely circulated, laughably stupid post by a </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">recent college graduate called, "</span><a href="http://nextgenjournal.com/2012/07/why-every-social-media-manager-should-be-under-25/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;" target="_blank">Why Ever Social Media Manager Should Be Under 25</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">." </span><br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
::::BONUS::::</h4>
<br />
I got my <a href="http://shewalks.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-poor-english-shower-boobs.html" target="_blank">Chinese Wholesaler email</a> on Friday. Below was my favorite image... somewhere between "<a href="http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/duck-face" target="_blank">duckface</a>" and abject misery.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-39jPSiOW9dY/UAx27DXia9I/AAAAAAAAFaw/3zdWdoGoWxw/s1600/EverbuyingBigBlackBag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Pretty Asian Girl Hates This Bag" border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-39jPSiOW9dY/UAx27DXia9I/AAAAAAAAFaw/3zdWdoGoWxw/s320/EverbuyingBigBlackBag.png" title="Pretty Asian Girl Hates This Bag" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"New Arrival Rivet Embellished Black Big Bag For Women"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Pretty and chic Chinese girl will buy your bag. But she won't like it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*It's in the Parental Handbook. See also: Santa's Lap, Asleep In Carseat, Running Through Garden Hose</span>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-76170378921375846212012-07-16T18:12:00.004-07:002012-07-16T18:12:55.494-07:00My Poor English & Shower BoobsIt all started with Pinterest, as so many internet adventures do.<br />
<br />
I saw some totally cool item someone had Pinned, and I decided I should get it for my sister-in-law, Whitney, for Christmas.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.everbuying.com/product71417.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Lw3VkxEhKsmi8Mt_NJLojpksdC2sAqWjVSSbavGMxUB1H6F_i3j9wz74jy6ZIhWAC7fZFOmx_jcasyrYrw786tBnVep7FxhLPoAVvZf8bQXOT9iD08zclC2qyz3CleaIQgGU/s1600/RetroPhoneiPhoneCharger.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In case you're wondering, this sells for the totally guessable price of $23.58.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, in an online-Christmas-present-buying frenzy, I didn't really pay attention to where this item was coming from. But at some point when I was going through my list of items purchased, I realized I never even received an order confirmation from this place.<br />
<br />
I opened an account and issued a help ticket. The content of my inquiry was exactly as follows:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-left;">I Haven't Received Shipping Confirmation or Order Tracking info. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-left;">I just want to be sure I receive this shipment in time for Christmas. Can you please update me on my order status?</span></blockquote>
And I awaited a reply, hoping that I hadn't given out my credit card to a fraudulent website, and also that the item from this Chinese Wholesaler wasn't actually being shipped from China. Two weeks before Christmas.<br />
<br />
About a day later, I logged in and saw there was a reply waiting for me! Oh, happy day!<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Hi, </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">For you choose Flat Rate Shipping ,it will need 10-30 days to your country.you can't receive track information,but you can only know the send out time .The midway track information is blank.If you want get track information and want get it in time ,please choose DHL .bue you must pay us Additional postage. </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">My English is poor ,so I can’t express myself well , if has grammar mistake , hoping you can forgive , thanks. </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Waiting your reply. </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Mandy</span></blockquote>
Well alright then.<br />
<br />
I realized three things:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Yeah. It was coming from China.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">No. It wouldn't be arriving in time for Christmas.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Fantastic customer service, all things considered. And hey. They opened the door on this one, so I was going to pursue it...even though I knew no good could come of it.</span></li>
</ol>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Hi! </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I never received this reply via email. My email address is: kristysf@[gmail.com]. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Yes, I would like to use DHL and pay additional shipping costs. Can you let me know what to do?</span></blockquote>
<br />
I anxiously awaited the reply.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Dear , </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">sorry to tell you your order is shipped out 09/12/2011 .Tracking Number: [redacted] you can't receive track information,but you can only know the send out time .The midway track information is blank . </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">if it get in time is ok ,and if it get out of time ,you can choose to refuse it and it will return to us . and you must tell me you refuse it ,when we received it ,we will give you refund . </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Sorry to tell you that </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">My English is poor ,so I can’t express myself well , if has grammar mistake and misunderstanding , hoping you can forgive , thank you for your understanding and your patience. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Mandy</span></blockquote>
I don't actually think her name is Mandy. Also, when I realized the "sorry about my grammar" sentence was cut-and-pasted, I felt way less special. I pushed on, though.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">I just have one more question: </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">What is the midway tracking? What does it mean? Will I be notified when the product has reached the midway track point? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Thank you so much, Mandy!</span></blockquote>
Mandy's response didn't disappoint.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">For my poor english i can't express myself well , and don't know how to express ,it's so hard for me to explain , it means when it on the way , the express information will few and sometimes you will get no informations about it until you get it . </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Can you understand?and can you tell me how to express in a word?</span></blockquote>
Of all the customer service experiences in my life, this had swiftly become my favorite. And you know what? It's really hard to get mad at someone who tells you <b>"sometimes you will get no informations about it until you get it."</b> <br />
<br />
I replied saying thank you, I think I understand. And then Mandy sent the best answer of all.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">It doesn't matter,your welcome haha</span></blockquote>
WHY WAS MANDY LAUGHING AT ME?<br />
<br />
Well, it's no matter and probably you're wondering about the boobs. So let me get there.<br />
<br />
Not only did I eventually get the phone charger (first week of January), I also got added to the email list of Everbuying.com. And now I get weekly updates on Friday, and they are <i>spectacular</i>. In addition to selling the most random assortment of electronics stuff on the cheap, their Americanized advertisements are cultural vignettes unto themselves.<br />
<br />
For instance, here was their Mother's Day promotional email banner:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6zbW9FiF1rFEBwRNzuozLSVjLIVJH60iaUsCQe3AzBoktFSNnDy0uRUgKjmQs20sSVtN6yZw-xfPYKaSeeotdXNAI-OcPWIpaeV9PxmBjHT6rH1Lt_3BsHDMbd1r_jMudGov/s1600/Everbuying2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6zbW9FiF1rFEBwRNzuozLSVjLIVJH60iaUsCQe3AzBoktFSNnDy0uRUgKjmQs20sSVtN6yZw-xfPYKaSeeotdXNAI-OcPWIpaeV9PxmBjHT6rH1Lt_3BsHDMbd1r_jMudGov/s640/Everbuying2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I think -- <i>think?</i> -- whoever used this stock photo perceived the blond on the left to be the daughter of the man and woman on the right. Except um, no.<br />
<br />
I think actually she is just the hotter neighbor-friend, and she's about to get some red wine in the face by this man's wife (who looks really, really pissed off).<br />
<br />
On the upside, if you're ever at a loss for how to define "FAMILY"? Now you know.<br />
<br />
I also had the opportunity to earn 8% off (???) by participating in a questionnaire, where I contributed to their further business life:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h0oNroa5apI/UAS3NsZRt8I/AAAAAAAAFX8/irXC5rRQ9z0/s1600/EverBuying.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h0oNroa5apI/UAS3NsZRt8I/AAAAAAAAFX8/irXC5rRQ9z0/s640/EverBuying.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And yet none of this is anywhere near as amazing as what was in this last Friday's email.<br />
<br />
Among Chinese-made tablets and cell phones and headsets, this set of product images...uh...stood out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; text-align: left;">Popluar Shower Gel Sexy Breast Automatic Foam Soap Dispenser</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_N-ujHeuoSg/UAS5kETngtI/AAAAAAAAFYU/zEMAw7GDTAo/s1600/GelSexy2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_N-ujHeuoSg/UAS5kETngtI/AAAAAAAAFYU/zEMAw7GDTAo/s400/GelSexy2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
You guys. Are you not amazed at the Gel Sexy Breast? And its foaming soap?<br />
<br />
Well, before you purchase one (<a href="http://www.everbuying.com/product169309.html?utm_source=emmail.0709&utm_medium=mail&utm_campaign=regular.0709">for the totally not-made-up price of $24.84</a>), allow me to explain to you its many, many features, which I am not making up (although my commentary is in italics).<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b>Main Features: </b></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Rubber breast attaches to flat surface with suction cups </b><br /><i>Because you wouldn't want anything gaudy in your shower, like a hook. </i><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Novel foam soap dispenser </b><br /><i>Yes. Novel. So very, very novel.</i></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Sexy breast in the bathroom can make you shower more interesing</b><br /><i>AHAHAHAHAHA.</i></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>This is a pure soap security device </b><br /><i>I was unaware that soap required security measures, but I don't know anything. "Quick! Hide the soap! Someplace they'll never look!" </i></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>It is very creamy texture and soft touch </b><br /><i>Can we agree at this point we're just talking about a sex device? </i><br /></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Moderate size, it will not feel squeeze up a little uncomfortable </b><br /><i>I have no idea what we're talking about anymore.</i></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Can be hung in the toilet and the kitchen most of the place very easy</b><br /><i>YES! IN THE KITCHEN! For dispensing...soap? Or like, ketchup? Maybe mayo? </i></span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
So now I can't wait for Friday's emails. And if you're on my Christmas list? LOOKOUT.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-19767533545283146052012-05-07T11:39:00.001-07:002012-05-07T11:49:38.827-07:00My Son Accidentally Turned One When I Wasn't LookingWhen Eve was born, and I was experimenting with the idea of being a "Stay At Home Mom," the first few months of her life seemed to last forever -- for better and worse. I was terrified (OMG I'M GOING TO BREAK THE BABY) and exhausted and confused and stressed and happy and hormonal and also bored, in the way only parents of infants can understand "bored."<br />
<br />
I went back to work when she was about eight months old, and eased into it, and dealt with separation and still do.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Townsend is a different story.<br />
<br />
He was born, I took leave, but it was totally unlike my experience with Eve. I wasn't quite as terrified, first of all, and by then we had the help of nannies. I wasn't alone with a baby every second of every day and night, worrying about when Ish or I would break the baby. My hormones were a little wackier, but I was a thousand times more relaxed, and days weren't endless.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There weren't months of endless/joyous/sleepless "terror-bonding" with Towns.<br />
<br />
So while of course I love and feel close to my darling baby boy...it's just...it's just gone by <i>so quickly</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How has it been a whole YEAR? Yeah. A YEAR.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, and since I don't know how to write a blog post about a baby that doesn't sound like every other blog post about every other baby on the planet, here comes the gushing (followed, naturally, by a video):<br />
<br />
Towns is sweet and funny, cute and charming. He is a completely un-fussy kid. He pretend moan-cries when he's hungry, which is often. Every time he gets hungry, he behaves as though he has never been fed and might never be fed again. He is very dramatic this way. <i>Whhhhyyyyyyyy won't annnnyyyyyoooonnnnneeee feeeeeeeeeed meeeeeee!??!</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He also fake-cries when we close the baby-gate because he wants nothing more than to be allowed to scurry up the stairs and throw himself off of things.<br />
<div>
<br />
He adores his sister. He is fearless, and is walking, and running, and getting up and down single steps without holding on to things. (Eve would sit in order to get down even just a single stair until she was nearly two.) </div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Towns will dance at any HINT of music, including Eve singing. Or chanting "Let's Go GI-ants!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He actually naps, which Eve wasn't very good at. He is more or less sleeping through the night, although we have lots of 5 a.m. wake-ups because he's just <i>soooooooooo starving</i>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He's shy around strangers, and actually the only REAL tears I've ever seen him crying have been because someone he didn't know said hello to him when he wasn't expecting it. But that's probably more because he's a year old than that he hates people. I think.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He is adorable because I say so, and I clearly have a totally unbiased viewpoint.<br />
<br />
To prove this unbiased opinion, I offer you this video, which I wish I could say took the better part of a weekend to put together, but actually took about 17 minutes. One year = two minutes.<br />
<br />
Mahna-Mahna*!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" height="240" id="vp1qcamg" width="432"><param name="movie" value="http://static.animoto.com/swf/w.swf?w=swf/vp1&e=1336415296&f=qcamg8IwdLdll6YjvgPYxg&d=135&m=a&r=360p&volume=100&start_res=360p&i=m&options=">
</param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true">
</param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always">
</param>
<embed id="vp1qcamg" src="http://static.animoto.com/swf/w.swf?w=swf/vp1&e=1336415296&f=qcamg8IwdLdll6YjvgPYxg&d=135&m=a&r=360p&volume=100&start_res=360p&i=m&options=" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="432" height="240"></embed></object>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<i>I created this video using an app called <a href="http://www.animoto.com/" target="_blank">Animoto</a> (a Clever Girls client I decided to try out just for fun). And since I happen to know that they have a deal running right now, you can make a full-length video for free using code: <b>CleverFL</b>. It really takes no time at all. In fact, most of the time I spent was trying to decide which song to use. I am glad I had an excuse to try Animoto because I have a special loathing for iMovie and couldn't bear to use it.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
*The Muppets movie is like my favorite kids' movie ever. I am a giant, GIANT Muppets fan, and this has only made my love stronger.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
</div>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-12328623054728062342012-04-16T10:48:00.001-07:002012-04-16T10:53:17.813-07:00For All The Blog DetectivesNot long ago, I deleted a rude comment from an anonymous someone for maybe the second time since starting this blog. The comment stuck with me anyway, as they tend to do.<br />
<br />
The gist was about how I'm not a real blogger anymore.<br />
<br />
Which, okay. I suppose that's true. And it's not like it takes a BLOG DETECTIVE to note that I hardly post anymore, and that when I do it's mostly to post photos or pictures and write captions, not meaty, important things like about how I took the wrong bus or don't understand the refrigeration rules for mayonnaise. (Yah. I wrote about both of those things at one point in my blogging career.)<br />
<br />
It's just...<br />
<br />
My life is different now. Not just because I have two small children, although that would be plenty of reason right there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUjA7tIWMavsfn-VFKgPenLL89Dt9_lIi6qqnUhlKLXIyoGrqa7I58BqezEN8A308zv-kv7vJTQoB2jCzOuK-PBJac7F-hK17VX_QSfvbKycQA4yShKId3fW5LVAD7x4UELWs/s1600/EveGiantsFan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUjA7tIWMavsfn-VFKgPenLL89Dt9_lIi6qqnUhlKLXIyoGrqa7I58BqezEN8A308zv-kv7vJTQoB2jCzOuK-PBJac7F-hK17VX_QSfvbKycQA4yShKId3fW5LVAD7x4UELWs/s400/EveGiantsFan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GO GIANTS!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ba-CJNq9d9Q/T4xaicqgS-I/AAAAAAAAE5Y/JbfcUMZpjKw/s1600/TWalks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ba-CJNq9d9Q/T4xaicqgS-I/AAAAAAAAE5Y/JbfcUMZpjKw/s400/TWalks.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guess who started walking this weekend? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But my work, my company, makes everything different. I work ALL THE TIME. I love what I do, and I'm proud of the company we've built. Are building.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLgJspKe6uu8_UD6NEPSM9wzMvPfNdCpKuE_IAeQJoeboKDlsm6UZqtR26_petUZdQeLDRfmn8fBjfS_xM0dkND7k-CqVfcnvoXdYyiqVwtbI8Eeq38f4GjSRbL3DHtB59NNX/s1600/instagram.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLgJspKe6uu8_UD6NEPSM9wzMvPfNdCpKuE_IAeQJoeboKDlsm6UZqtR26_petUZdQeLDRfmn8fBjfS_xM0dkND7k-CqVfcnvoXdYyiqVwtbI8Eeq38f4GjSRbL3DHtB59NNX/s400/instagram.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Staff Meeting" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But -- and I do feel like this needs clarification -- it's a real company. No, we do not have cubicles (YET), but we are really really real. Like with a real business plan and goals and infrastructure and clients and employees (fewer than half are featured above) and salaries and benefits. And even profits.<br />
<br />
It's awesome, but it's incredibly stressful because of all the reasons owning your own business is stressful.<br />
<br />
And, obviously, whenever I'm not working, I'm spending time with my family. I make every effort to be fully attentive to my children during the parts of the days, evenings, and weekends I'm with them.<br />
<br />
Someday, maybe I'll add my own entries to the already-everything-has-been-written-about-it canon of "working mother guilt/not-guilt" blog posts.<br />
<br />
The point of this entry, however, is to say that after the kids are in bed and it's somewhere between 8 and 9 p.m., I am not a lot of good. I use that time to have grown-up talk with my husband, catch up on one or two shows on television, maybe, and mostly zone out playing Draw Something. I don't have it in me to start blogging at 9 p.m. I don't have it in me to do much of anything after 9 p.m.<br />
<br />
If I socialize, it's either with the children or after they go to bed, and both of these things require planning ESPECIALLY if a sitter is involved. Which, again, isn't anything new or different from how ALL working parents live, it's just that there are only so many hours in a day. Blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
I'm not complaining. I have chosen this path and I am making the most of it. But everything is a compromise. I had to quit my BELOVED a cappella group. I "joined" a book club about a year ago and I have attended precisely none of the once/month meetings. Not one. My husband got me a gift certificate for a massage for my birthday (LAST JULY) that I haven't made time to redeem.<br />
<br />
And then someday. Someday, once this company is bigger and more successful and different and it's not taking every ounce of energy I have that isn't going into being a mother, then I will write. Again. And the cool thing is that then? I'll have a lot to say.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-50366298500898470572012-03-16T17:18:00.001-07:002012-03-16T17:18:26.133-07:00"sunglasses"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6_xuB5oJiIjkyUR63_ZWX6N8qfhNP-o8wYvlo4JO2_jABkSLaErCENWD4iUTWCXKZhNqOGFAHCdE0t9T58kqi4dhvcfViWqc7FSdzzXN-y9roNp0Gjt4IRZ5J0cYwo4wBgS5/s1600/sunglasses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6_xuB5oJiIjkyUR63_ZWX6N8qfhNP-o8wYvlo4JO2_jABkSLaErCENWD4iUTWCXKZhNqOGFAHCdE0t9T58kqi4dhvcfViWqc7FSdzzXN-y9roNp0Gjt4IRZ5J0cYwo4wBgS5/s400/sunglasses.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"sunglasses"<br />#MarchPhotoOfTheDay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div>
So before I got married (the first time), my BFF put together a lovely scrapbook featuring photos from our years of being friends which was all of them. Literally. Our parents were friends before we were born, and we've been friends since before we can remember. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Someday I will post the entire scrapbook here because it is a colorful homage to friendship and fashion, where by "fashion" I mean "I can't believe I left the house dressed like that from ages 11–20." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If those aren't the worst sunglasses ON BOTH OF US, well. I DARE you to find me a picture of what worse sunglasses could possibly look like. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the record, my sunglasses folded up completely and fit into a tiny square box. OH MY GOD 80'S ARE YOU SERIOUS?</div>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-40720309935845120632012-03-16T17:09:00.000-07:002012-03-16T17:18:37.416-07:00"car"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g7slqPhcxTc/T2PVkRQz3SI/AAAAAAAAEbY/bfn_nm5NcRE/s1600/car.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g7slqPhcxTc/T2PVkRQz3SI/AAAAAAAAEbY/bfn_nm5NcRE/s400/car.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#MarchPhotoOfTheDay<br />
"car"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Those stupid fake flowers in the background of this and the "loud" photo are hilarious to me. I bought them as an "impulse purchase" from Pottery Barn about 13 years ago. I stuck them in a little metal pot in the den of my first house with my first husband. I liked the way they looked then, and I still do. They have come a long way.<br />
<br />
Just thought I'd point that out.<br />
<br />
Oh, also? My son looks exactly like me.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-85504124666792605042012-03-16T11:20:00.002-07:002012-03-16T17:18:49.367-07:00March Photos of the Day: Days 9-14I am just going to have to cram all kinds of pictures into this post, because I haven't been keeping up with blogging even though I have been taking my monthly photos diligently!<br />
<br />
Given that I once tried to participate in National Blog Posting Month and failed after like 4 days, I think I should get a prize.<br />
<br />
Here are some pictures from my life, completely out of order.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6N8zCt2UFOc/T2KM2fZ_tJI/AAAAAAAAEaM/GzYHHej7aFA/s1600/sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6N8zCt2UFOc/T2KM2fZ_tJI/AAAAAAAAEaM/GzYHHej7aFA/s200/sign.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 13 - A Sign</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Probably people got really creative and artistic and inspirational with this one and instead I took one because the "THICK & ROUGH" made me giggle. The store was out of my regular oatmeal, and, well, I don't know. Probably this isn't funny to anyone but me. Those are just some really assertive adjectives for oats.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-epH8lHEgU5o/T2KMz_JGREI/AAAAAAAAEZ0/jIOvNPfVGeM/s1600/loud.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-epH8lHEgU5o/T2KMz_JGREI/AAAAAAAAEZ0/jIOvNPfVGeM/s320/loud.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 10 - Loud</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is a photo of my <a href="http://www.sonos.com/" target="_blank">Sonos</a>. It is a speaker, kind of like a BOSE, that allows you to play music from any portable device. It integrates with your iTunes library and with Pandora. IT IS AMAZING. My Sonos app is totally easy to use, and it's just magical. <i>Here, let me swipe, touch, and then listen to all the music ever. </i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBiCtG3vF9a17R5sKofyzZf1ppzFUcHTxMEuyqdJbIRMxitYVkdIhmY5KmdTfMDkuGM2vZHBlVdur0FZUzcnqOfTCNuupkl5Dmk8jbAD1Hh-ybk8eOVw34eUra8UMp1YQJeVF/s1600/someoneyoutalkedtotoday.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBiCtG3vF9a17R5sKofyzZf1ppzFUcHTxMEuyqdJbIRMxitYVkdIhmY5KmdTfMDkuGM2vZHBlVdur0FZUzcnqOfTCNuupkl5Dmk8jbAD1Hh-ybk8eOVw34eUra8UMp1YQJeVF/s320/someoneyoutalkedtotoday.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 11 - Someone You Talked To Today</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is my parents' favorite picture of my parents. It hangs on my wall wherever I go. They were, quite evidently, groovy and hip and happy. And while maybe not aloud, I definitely talk to them everyday.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9-suHm7Kls8/T2KMyoc4xlI/AAAAAAAAEZs/W2V66q6a9Us/s1600/fork.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9-suHm7Kls8/T2KMyoc4xlI/AAAAAAAAEZs/W2V66q6a9Us/s320/fork.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 12 - Fork</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Over the weekend, we hosted a very small, potluck dinner party based on The Hunger Games, somewhat on the insistence of a very particular 13-year-old boy. It ended up being quite a feast that included (because of course it did) lamb stew with dried plums, Katniss' favorite.<br />
<br />
The bowl was for the stew. The napkin was filled with goodies, kind of like a parachute. The orange card had quotes on them, and we each went around guessing who said what.<br />
<br />
It was quite a nerd-fest: real or not real?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tMv3k6tRIss/T2KM1ZF-NiI/AAAAAAAAEaE/N7bkWwnmT7g/s1600/red2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tMv3k6tRIss/T2KM1ZF-NiI/AAAAAAAAEaE/N7bkWwnmT7g/s320/red2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 9 - Red</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've had a love/hate relationship with my stylist since moving to Napa. She is a little on the nutty side and I think she's a hoot...but every time I visit her and ask for something "funky" or hip, she gives me slightly blonder highlights or slightly shorter bangs. This is a soccer mom kind of town, and I don't think she gets that I am clinging desperately to a stylish version of myself (that maybe never even existed) that could pass as a city-dwelling internet startup person.<br />
<br />
So I wound up going to the local beauty academy to get the funk I have been seeking.<br />
<br />
This was happening when I walked in. It's as if he knew the photo-prompt of the day was "red." TOTALLY AWESOME.<br />
<br />
But actually, the "red" photo I wanted to take was/is this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0Wv6ikMvzE/T2KM0bksk6I/AAAAAAAAEZ8/R8k0Xkp4aeU/s1600/red.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0Wv6ikMvzE/T2KM0bksk6I/AAAAAAAAEZ8/R8k0Xkp4aeU/s320/red.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Yep. I'm now totally Gwen-esque platinum save for a crazy hot-pink streak. And I love it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Lastly, because that's six whole pictures that don't feature my children, I present to you "Day 14 - Clouds":<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AjQSFYsKUig/T2OEEUC9XRI/AAAAAAAAEbA/YYPZaCNG0U0/s1600/clouds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AjQSFYsKUig/T2OEEUC9XRI/AAAAAAAAEbA/YYPZaCNG0U0/s320/clouds.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running in the rain. To clarify, she's gleeful, not furious. Fine line. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-31683134324422912662012-03-14T18:01:00.000-07:002012-03-14T18:01:00.100-07:00"window"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JD8ZSX-rhqE/T1ldxOhy2jI/AAAAAAAAEYY/zUe8PnmgT4o/s1600/window.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JD8ZSX-rhqE/T1ldxOhy2jI/AAAAAAAAEYY/zUe8PnmgT4o/s400/window.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#MarchPhotoOfTheDay<br />"window"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is the view from my bedroom.<br />
<br />
The last apartment I lived in in San Francisco overlooked an alley where crackheads would yell at each other and, for a brief couple of days, play the harmonica. It almost made it Steinbeck-y, with the harmonica, until the drugged-out profanity-laced yelling wars took over and the guy with the harmonica left.<br />
<br />
I miss the city a lot. I do.<br />
<br />
But this isn't so bad.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-86332321551362930732012-03-07T17:53:00.000-08:002012-03-13T17:54:10.179-07:00"something you wore"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1HujKmfRfQQ/T1ldjSxDCYI/AAAAAAAAEYQ/q4NyFWzbPUQ/s1600/somethingyouwore.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1HujKmfRfQQ/T1ldjSxDCYI/AAAAAAAAEYQ/q4NyFWzbPUQ/s320/somethingyouwore.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#MarchPhotoOfTheDay<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I don't think I've ever written about Jason.<br />
<br />
I dated him when we were sophomores in college. He attended the Naval Academy, and he was sweet, and cute, and one of the nicest, most good-hearted people I've ever known.<br />
<br />
We talked about getting married but I wasn't serious and he was and when we broke up, it was harder on him than it was on me.<br />
<br />
He is the only friend request I've ever made on Facebook that's gone unaccepted.<br />
<br />
Jason and I were together while I went through an epic body transformation, the first (and only) (ahem) time I've lost a LOT of weight. It's hard for me to separate my emotional memories of our time together, which was totally wonderful, and my emotional memories of Life As A Thin 20-Year-Old, because it was so different and...novel. I guess the upshot is that I remember those months vividly.<br />
<br />
I have hung on to a few small vestiges from that era. My "skinny jeans" collection, if you will. (Except I know better than to save jeans that don't fit.) Instead, I literally have four t-shirts folded in my closet, taking up a tiny bit of space, reminding me of what I once wore and maybe someday will again. And as utterly ridiculous as this sounds, each t-shirt has its own story.<br />
<br />
This t-shirt was Jason's. He loaned it to me while I was visiting him over the one summer we were together, and I loved it so much I asked to keep it. Selfishly, I loved it because it was really flattering -- even if, on a hanger in a closet 3,000 miles and 15 years away, it's not much to look at. But I also loved it because it was <i>his</i>. He was my <i>boyfriend</i> and he was <i>cute</i> and he <i>worked out</i> and had a stocky <i>wrestler's build</i> and the more big and masculine he was the more petite and girly I felt.<br />
<br />
And I liked feeling that way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-14103796499047506612012-03-06T17:28:00.002-08:002012-03-06T17:29:32.479-08:00"5 PM"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6lxf3OTOYAIN5zQlYNStpCcFytbzk4LfGfvSPRuJv6QBELORPx0XxeULvQg4AEu2QU_w_eMrCdRUtNQqYUacFJOag5BYKY2o9r3B9xWtHc6I_GMjrlWdW2E6KVk_Lo8am1Q5/s1600/5pm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6lxf3OTOYAIN5zQlYNStpCcFytbzk4LfGfvSPRuJv6QBELORPx0XxeULvQg4AEu2QU_w_eMrCdRUtNQqYUacFJOag5BYKY2o9r3B9xWtHc6I_GMjrlWdW2E6KVk_Lo8am1Q5/s400/5pm.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"5 PM"<br />
#MarchPhotoOfTheDay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Where the magic happens.<br />
<br />
Someday, there will be stuff on the walls and everything I do/use/look at won't be crammed onto desk space.<br />
<br />
Someday.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-10489972352868620522012-03-05T22:14:00.000-08:002012-03-05T22:17:05.593-08:00"a smile"Ask a toddler to smile...<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HpR0K21zOVU/T1Wq80LKM8I/AAAAAAAAEXw/ImA1WbVigBQ/s1600/smile.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HpR0K21zOVU/T1Wq80LKM8I/AAAAAAAAEXw/ImA1WbVigBQ/s400/smile.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"a smile"<br />#<a href="http://www.fatmumslim.com.au/2012/02/thank-you-march-photo-day-starts.html" target="_blank">MarchPhotoOfTheDay</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-14701242973840433072012-03-05T22:03:00.002-08:002012-03-05T22:03:34.603-08:00"bedside"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xaUig3ng0d8/T1WGBOVBKvI/AAAAAAAAEXo/0zfFdcNasSs/s1600/bedside-instagram.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xaUig3ng0d8/T1WGBOVBKvI/AAAAAAAAEXo/0zfFdcNasSs/s400/bedside-instagram.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"bedside"<br />
#MarchPhotoOfTheDay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Maybe someday I'll post real pictures of the inside of our house, like when everything we own isn't a complete hodgepodge of furniture covered in baby toys and cat hair. You know, in like two decades.<br />
<br />
Here's what you're looking at for the photo inspired by "bedside."<br />
<br />
This is Ish's side of the bed, exactly as I found it on Sunday morning at 7:38 a.m.<br />
<br />
A. We have <b>textured walls</b> throughout our house. This is sort of an homage to...I don't know? Adobe style homes? Napa is weird. Eclectic. There's agricultural influence, so some "farmhouse" style, and outside/inside decor, and "barrel room," and general "California." And also Mexico? I really don't get it, but the creamy yellow is nice.<br />
<br />
B. This is Ish's <b>pile of books</b>, in front of Ish's pile of New Yorkers. Your first question is going to be, "Did you read Infinite Jest?" And the answer is no. Did Ish? No. He started it months ago, and refuses to give it up. He just keeps chipping away at it the way a man makes his way through a 32-ounce steak. His lack of enthusiasm does not inspire me. Perhaps you feel differently?<br />
<br />
C. <b>Baby monitor</b>.<br />
<br />
D. This is what we use as our bedside table; there's one on each side of the bed. They are a pair of <b>"dressers" from Ikea</b> that Ish got for his "Bachelor (Again) Pad" in SF. They are made of very durable cardboard with a layer of textured plastic stapled over it. Better Homes & Gardens will be calling any moment.<br />
<br />
E. This is <b>Snow White Barbie</b>. I don't know why she's naked. I don't know why her head is turned 180-degrees from where it should be. I don't know why she's laying atop the radio in some sort of über-creep stiff Exorcist-like repose.<br />
<br />
F: Fun-Fact! <b>BOSE radios</b> can only be operated by their remotes. When you have things like "children" you lose things like "remotes." I suppose we could order a replacement remote, but what's the fun in KNOWING what hour it actually is? I prefer to be perpetually confused and surprised.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-33092214328334880742012-03-03T15:54:00.001-08:002012-03-05T22:04:04.448-08:00"your neighborhood"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1mT3UDTIF1Q/T1KtKD_DcnI/AAAAAAAAEXY/A99lGcbE0Lo/s1600/neighborhood.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1mT3UDTIF1Q/T1KtKD_DcnI/AAAAAAAAEXY/A99lGcbE0Lo/s400/neighborhood.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#MarchPhotoOfTheDay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today's prompt was "your neighborhood" and, in case it's not ridiculously self-explanatory, here is a picture I took while walking with Eve. Through our neighborhood. Because sometimes I don't need to get creative with interpretations.kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-65761546960801879472012-03-03T08:06:00.000-08:002012-03-03T08:06:18.747-08:00"fruit"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMue-W6tuhr9qa2ws9XIERW1iMEuXa2AeTRCDzNk8REXHGCHh2YWqzOZJyDFS_FM55nY_Ri9VEsTpco_jf0RNIaRQyQcsumGALKEUd-jkkMxUmeXrBwjN7mVIVTJ2p62E-JGN/s1600/fruit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMue-W6tuhr9qa2ws9XIERW1iMEuXa2AeTRCDzNk8REXHGCHh2YWqzOZJyDFS_FM55nY_Ri9VEsTpco_jf0RNIaRQyQcsumGALKEUd-jkkMxUmeXrBwjN7mVIVTJ2p62E-JGN/s320/fruit.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"fruit"<br />
#MarchPhotoOfTheDay<br />
Taken at the ever-lovely <a href="http://maisonry.com/" target="_blank">Ma(i)sonry</a> in Yountville, CA<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Last Saturday, I got to go on a wine tasting tour with Ish, all because of this crazy blog.<br />
<br />
Not because some company came to me and asked, but because the funniest, sweetest, cleverest woman with the best taste in bloggers EVER found this little website several years ago and, well. We became internet friends. And then Kristin had this brilliant idea to visit Napa during a girls weekend in San Francisco, and she invited Ish and me to tag along with her and her two super awesome girl friends.<br />
<br />
Which of course we did because wouldn't you?<br />
<br />
The trip was amazing. And I'm not just saying that to be nice. I'm saying that because I've done a lot of stuff around here -- from the super-touristy to the super-hidden -- and this was absolutely awesome.<br />
<br />
Next time you're thinking of coming to Napa, please consider using <a href="http://www.vinambassador.com/" target="_blank">Vin Ambassador</a> as your guide. We had fantastic wines...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWIBnGVWWK5D1PgaQTnnTD-Mo-e_TClSR3LrHUtUnduHDa8JPiKvuCWsH86n056zB2G_CGvhjtZqV0iG4qQK4P2F2W6aqRKIuf8RPgt87Clx-I_8MyhKwbVWS8IaejhTUgowpr/s1600/DSC_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWIBnGVWWK5D1PgaQTnnTD-Mo-e_TClSR3LrHUtUnduHDa8JPiKvuCWsH86n056zB2G_CGvhjtZqV0iG4qQK4P2F2W6aqRKIuf8RPgt87Clx-I_8MyhKwbVWS8IaejhTUgowpr/s320/DSC_0101.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Round Pond Winery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
...great views...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LBXFWjqwqFU/T1FSeqJhTzI/AAAAAAAAEW4/nvrMA9FwBrM/s1600/DSC_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LBXFWjqwqFU/T1FSeqJhTzI/AAAAAAAAEW4/nvrMA9FwBrM/s320/DSC_0164.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">O'Brien vineyards</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
...a "hidden" private lunch catered by <a href="http://www.napastyle.com/home.jsp" target="_blank">Napa Style</a> (Michael Chiarello's shop & sandwich place, a side-shoot of <a href="http://www.botteganapavalley.com/index.html" target="_blank">Bottega</a>) that involved truffle potato chips...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmR-XkxPTzqcc88CPrieTzjAlNXJqGrApV8lGKcCA240Oa9ZGurN67d3dMTYrWUjjSmlu2gUZ8XKGHxS9QXxHQsFnHeWG4JmJ2wIF6HovH6ld1AJlbPJqDjDOtVhXkPAEmv5U/s1600/fruit2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmR-XkxPTzqcc88CPrieTzjAlNXJqGrApV8lGKcCA240Oa9ZGurN67d3dMTYrWUjjSmlu2gUZ8XKGHxS9QXxHQsFnHeWG4JmJ2wIF6HovH6ld1AJlbPJqDjDOtVhXkPAEmv5U/s320/fruit2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sandwiches were great. But.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
and a guide you will adore with the best stories ever.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOjGCSWAF-2OpJjSNq6HhoYri1CPRmci6q7LNq-s77jrvSEM6hWrkyHwDKlsc6XX6wyqskx4ehP7fKL_PvqUn351-fWyynuWGuxpwjLOupgQwy5QC3OZtFzuZuTnMOalbw8GM/s1600/fruit3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOjGCSWAF-2OpJjSNq6HhoYri1CPRmci6q7LNq-s77jrvSEM6hWrkyHwDKlsc6XX6wyqskx4ehP7fKL_PvqUn351-fWyynuWGuxpwjLOupgQwy5QC3OZtFzuZuTnMOalbw8GM/s320/fruit3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andres!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nlScdlm39sQ/T1FSacic85I/AAAAAAAAEWw/Et_-6Hg2MO4/s1600/DSC_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nlScdlm39sQ/T1FSacic85I/AAAAAAAAEWw/Et_-6Hg2MO4/s320/DSC_0144.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Kristin! (Not the best portrait ever, but I think it captures the moment.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-79310256993604808822012-03-02T13:29:00.001-08:002012-03-02T13:29:43.020-08:00"Slut Shaming"<div>
<i>In case you don't want to read my opinions on the matter, scroll down to watch the most jaw-dropping video ever, of an adolescent girl discussing "slut shaming."</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
I've long felt our country is bi-polar when it comes to ideas of sex and sexuality. Boiled down, I think that our overwhelming philosophy is that sex is dirty and bad and sinful, until or unless you're having sex with your spouse. Whereupon, magically, sex is supposed to be loving and wonderful and magical and -- maybe, on occasion -- fun.<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We have unhealthy and unrealistic views about what's okay and what's not, and everything is made a thousand times more complex by how media represents "sexuality." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mostly, it seems to me that women who are openly sexual are not respected. Are found to be unworthy of respect because of their sexuality. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have wanted to blog about this forever, but I get in my own way. I seem unable to be articulate and unclear about what my point is. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rush Limbaugh calling Sandra Fluke a slut sort of pushed me to the edge, though. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/02/rush-limbaugh-sandra-fluke-sex-slut_n_1316625.html?ref=media&ref=media" target="_blank">Here's an excerpt</a> from today's HuffPo:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">Rush Limbaugh doubled down on his incendiary comments about </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">Sandra Fluke, the Georgetown law student who was denied the right to speak at a contraception hearing, during his Friday.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 15px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
The conservative radio host <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/02/29/rush-limbaugh-sandra-fluke-slut_n_1311640.html" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; color: #e43300; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_hplink">sparked outrage</a> on Wednesday when he called Fluke "a slut" and "a prostitute." He alleged that she was "having so much sex" that she couldn't afford contraception.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 15px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
He <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/01/rush-limbaugh-sandra-fluke_n_1313891.html" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; color: #e43300; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_hplink">went further</a> the next day, adding,<b> "if we're going to pay for your contraceptives and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something for it. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch."</b></div>
</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, since I discovered this video several months ago, I'm glad to have a reason to post it. It shocked me. SHOCKED. I don't know how a 13-year-old becomes so poised, so articulate, so confident as she is about such a tricky subject, but I was blown away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And probably when you watch you will be a little uncomfortable, because I was. Because I'm not used to any of these topics being discussed openly at all, let alone by someone so young.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In fact, my gut reaction was "But she...she shouldn't <i>know</i> these <i>things</i>!" Except what I really wish is that 13-year-olds didn't know enough to call each other "sluts" in the first place...which simply isn't the case. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/SXH2K7OC37s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
</div>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-494901571621817042012-03-01T17:25:00.001-08:002012-03-01T18:00:03.178-08:00"Up"I have decided to try out this whole "Photo Of The Day" thing an <a href="http://www.fatmumslim.com.au/search/label/photo%20challenge" target="_blank">awesome woman</a> started. She goes by <a href="http://www.twitter.com/fatmumslim" target="_blank">@fatmumslim</a> which you probably just read as "Fat Muslim" because I have thought that was her name for at least six months. Until today, when I went to type in her URL and was like, STOP TRYING TO CORRECT IT TO <b>FAT MUM SLIM</b>, GOOGLE! THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE!<br />
<br />
Except of course, Google was right. (And that is why it is taking over the entire world.) Her name is not "Fat Muslim" she is "Fat Mum Slim" and the latter is, I suppose, more likely to explain her cute blond hair.<br />
<br />
The point is, you take a photo every day, following her prompts. Today's March 1 and the prompt is "up."<br />
<br />
I submit two photos:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pkagpLewyPmIl9LWKYWtYPNitCJVXGBD8Ev05Xyb6M97qnq4KzY7gibY5N4HYCuSujCvB-NvuibQkeeEy2jORxLF5RY2DebpMRxTRXS1KR021hD_Q4GchosgL1I0nQw4lLkW/s1600/Up1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pkagpLewyPmIl9LWKYWtYPNitCJVXGBD8Ev05Xyb6M97qnq4KzY7gibY5N4HYCuSujCvB-NvuibQkeeEy2jORxLF5RY2DebpMRxTRXS1KR021hD_Q4GchosgL1I0nQw4lLkW/s320/Up1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pulling Himself Up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Townsend, who we mostly call "T" or "TT" is almost 10 months old. He has taken a few steps, even, and clearly wishes it were more. He spends most of his day pulling himself up on anything that sort of seems stationary* and then practically LEAPING from it, in an effort to walk. Mostly he just falls down and then speed-crawls to the next stationary object and repeats the process.<br />
<br />
I love this photo because it captures two things. The first being that he is clinging <i>desperately</i> to Virginia's leg to gain purchase; the second being that he has absolutely NO INTEREST in Virginia. His feet, torso, face, and eyes are facing in another direction entirely -- the direction in which he will momentarily catapult himself.<br />
<br />
<i>*I say "sort of stationary" because he will try legs, cats, and the Sit-n-Spin to varying degrees of success.</i><br />
<br />
However, the photo I actually tagged as "Up" was this one:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2RIsP0pVCHU/T1AfIR9uLeI/AAAAAAAAEWU/OkOajY874Yo/s1600/Up2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2RIsP0pVCHU/T1AfIR9uLeI/AAAAAAAAEWU/OkOajY874Yo/s320/Up2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Things Are Looking Up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because of his unapologetic cute.<br />
<br />
And while I know this post makes me seem like a tried-and-true, in-the-trenches MOMBLOGGER, I promise that not all my photos this month will be of my children. And I will resume swearing and saying inappropriate things. Penis.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10136851.post-85042009275945274792012-02-28T16:53:00.002-08:002012-02-28T16:53:28.966-08:0010 Reasons I Should Not Be Allowed On Pinterest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cKoBpRC2dxI/T012k5wtlsI/AAAAAAAAEV4/F4-G-JEkXDI/s1600/PinterestList.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cKoBpRC2dxI/T012k5wtlsI/AAAAAAAAEV4/F4-G-JEkXDI/s1600/PinterestList.png" /></a></div>
<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a cute little bonus to this non-blog-post-blog-post, I have decided I am going to do the "Photo A Day" challenge in March. Which means, at the very least, I'll have something to SHOW you if I don't have the ability to TELL you. Won't that be fun? (YES. Let's just ignore #3 above...)</div>kristyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00879301751663532121noreply@blogger.com6