Monthly Archives: February 2012

Birthday dress, birthday dress (it’s the best day of the year, girl)

I don’t know about you, but birthdays are super cool in my book. I love birthday parties, birthday cakes, birthday presents, birthday songs, birthday cards, birthday wishes, and of course, birthday deals. (This restaurant once gave me an entire free meal!) I love all these things unabashedly, but my favorite birthday institution hands-down is the birthday dress. Since tomorrow is my birthday, I have to go find this year’s today. Before I do that, let’s reminisce about some of the great birthday dresses that have come before it, shall we? (Warning: this miiiiight be my most self-indulgent post ever.)

The year was 2007. The birthday was 18. The tights made the outfit. Would definitely wear this again.

2008. Turned 19 and celebrated with a party on the 19 bus in Portland. Then, Alex threw me a surprise party. The dress and the birthday were equally perfect.

2009. 20. Wish I had a better picture of this one.

2010. I turned 21 in the most ridiculous dress I could find. Would that I could wear it every day.

2011. For my 22nd, I dressed to match the decorative wagon. If Devin and I hadn't altered it, it would have had huge poofy sleeves.

In conclusion, hooray for birthdays!

My Funny Valentines

On Valentine’s Day, I got to be an extra in an ad. The ad was for a liquor, but we were actually sipping on a mixture of apple juice and coffee. (Delicious and avant-garde! Sure to be a hit at your next brunch!)

I arrived at the photo shoot and immediately liked two of my fellow extras. They were funny and gregarious! They were not too cool to talk to me! Throughout the shoot, I lamented my lack of friend-making savvy. If only I were more like my mother blah blah, etc.

Thankfully, one of the extras suggested we go to my favorite coffee shop after the shoot. When we got there, the barista took one look at me and, before I could say ‘soy latté,’ asked me if I was kristy. I am kristy, but I had no clue who he was. ‘It’s been a while…’ he trailed off, leaving me with no choice but to stammer, ‘Yeah—um—who—I don’t recognize…’

‘I’m [generic boy name with interesting spelling].’

Cue the memory montage of meeting [generic boy name with interesting spelling] at an indie rock show, being serenaded on the guitar to Elliott Smith & Bob Dylan, hearing about his passion for latté art and his dream of working at a snobby coffee shop (mission accomplished!). It all ended with him reading me a farewell letter from his Moleskin notebook at a bus stop, asking to kiss me, & yelling, ‘Miss you already!’ as I boarded the bus.
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This post written by sixteen year-old me.

I have the flu! It’s really terrible! I don’t even feel like updating my blog, cruel world! Or washing my hair! The worst part is that I’m a minimalist, so I don’t even have appropriate loungewear (read: sweatpants + sweatshirts). Super sick AND super sick of pajamas! How sorry do you feel for me right now?

In lieu of an original post this week, I’m outsourcing to sixteen year-old kristy who wrote this blog-worthy e-mail back in July of 2005.  It’s kind of spooky how little my writing style has changed since 2005. And by ‘spooky’, I mean worrisome. Thankfully, I don’t have to edit it. All I have to do is provide a little background info for you, stranger.

BACKGROUND

When I was little my grandmother moved into an apartment (#1); my aunt and her family moved into #2; and my mom and I moved into #3. There was even a time when we occupied the whole (four-apartment) building because my uncle and his family lived in #4. Now, #4 is my aunt’s office. And, obviously, my mom and I don’t live in #3 anymore. Here is a rudimentary drawing so you can get an idea of how the apartment building looks.

Those lines are stairs. All of the apartments have outside entries.

Back in 2005, my family had an elevator built for my grandmother. It had become increasingly difficult for her to walk up and down the stairs to her second-floor apartment, but she was used to her home and definitely did not want to move. At that time, the apartments were also having their plumbing fixed. The following is an e-mail I wrote to my cousin Vanessa. I took out my family’s last name because of on-line predators, duh.

STORY

Dear Vanessa,
Yesterday the most random things happened. Carol & Caren, correct me if I miss anything or mess up the course of events. Okay, here goes.

As you remember from your lovely visit to Chihuahua, our plumbing is being repaired. It turns out that some tree roots are interfering with the pipes, so we must have some trees removed.

Yesterday, all was well in the **** households. The housekeepers cooked, cleaned, and left. The engineer and builders were hard at work making the elevator. The plumbers were yet again hacking at the ground and making our home appear to be even more war-torn. And the tree cutters were adding the final touches to this gruesome scene with branches and leaves scattered amid the rubble. At Carol’s house we were all watching Gilmore Girls, Caren and I arguing over who should have to shower first, when in comes Martha, ‘UNPLUG EVERYTHING! sdakdknkanknkbnbkaffaj CABLE! TREE! kkdnaknfdkajkdjfajf UNPLUG EVERYTHING!’ We promptly obeyed, and Martha proceeded to call the Electrical Commission because somehow the tree cutters had let a huge branch fall on a wire and the wire broke and the tree was sparking and smoking and stuff. Soon after Martha called the E.C., the cops arrived to verify our claim. The sparking was getting worse, so we proceeded to call the firemen, who had already been alerted by the cops and were on their way. Only two came, an old one and a young one, which I thought was not enough because there were a lot of beautiful girls to be saved, and our beauty requires 20-30 firemen AT LEAST (this is assuming, of course, that all of them are hot). Alas, only two came and the old fireman sent the young one to do his job. He proceeded to hack at the big branch with an ax, which produced more sparks, more smoke. Finally, he tried to kick down the branch before the other branches ignited, but the bottom of his boots had metal plates and what did we learn in Science Class? That’s right, metal is a conductor. Yes, our fireman—the one who was supposed to save us—was electrocuted. Thus, we were again maidens in despair until he pulled himself together, flirted with Caren and showed her his ‘hole’ (caused by the electricity that surged through his body). The branch fell. LOTS OF SPARKS! And guess where the branch fell? THAT’S RIGHT! On a beehive, destroying their home. The poor bees had nowhere to go. They just flew around until Animal Control came and exterminated them. At this point there were about 15 to 20 neighbors watching the scene. We were worried Martha would get sued because the little fireman was electrocuted, but I guess she damsel-in-distressed her way out of it (thank goodness!). Then, the newspaper showed up to photograph the whole fiasco. Finally, the Electrical Commission arrived and repaired our electricity. So, let’s count how many non-****s were here yesterday:

1. Plumbers
2. Elevator Builders
3. Tree Cutters
4. Cops
5. Firemen
6. Animal Control
7. Newspaper
8. Electrical Commission

YEAH, it was quite a day.

Love,
kristy

If feminist giants could win the Super Bowl…

This post is brought to you by the Roman numerals. All of them.

II major things happened on the day of Super Bowl XLVI.

I. I got to hear Gloria Steinem’s voice on the telephone. All I did was listen. I didn’t actually talk to her, and it was for something really dull. Regardless, I like to be very choosy about what I put on the internet, so I won’t spill all the beans. Remember when you weren’t supposed to reveal any personal information on the worldwide web? Call me old-fashioned, but I do try to follow that MCMXCVI adage somewhat. I make exceptions for pictures of myself and long rambly stories, but STILL. I didn’t even get an e-mail with my real name in it until MMXI!

II. The New York Giants won the Super Bowl! I am not a football fan, but I am a huuuuuuuuge fan of happy New Yorkers. I happened to be on my way home when the Giants were losing, and let me tell you, it was not pretty. I figured every New Yorker gets to make one wish that’s not subway-related and wished with all my heart that the Giants would pull through and spare me from having a TV dropped on my head. Lo and behold, they did! However, I found out the next day that New Yorkers don’t get any wishes that aren’t subway-related. All you can do is swap a subway wish for something else. On Monday, my subway stop on the Upper East Side was closed, and I had to walk XX blocks in addition to the XV  I already walk as part of my regular commute. Let it be known: New York wishes don’t play.

So yes, those II things happened on the same eve, and as a result my brain was all Super Bowl-Gloria Steinem-football-feminism-hmmm. Later that night, I couldn’t help but wonder…are wimyn allowed to play in the NFL? Apparently, yes, in theory. In actuality, there are zero female players in the NFL. I did find out that all of the football players in the LFL (Lingerie Football League) are wimyn–but guess what! Even though they are wearing very little protective gear and must attempt to look conventionally attractive while playing a full-contact sport, they’re not making millions–and frankly, the whole thing reeks of Hooters-brand objectification.

Ugh. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I thought about the fierce wimyn rugby players I know and how unjust it is that they run around hitting each other and getting concussions without even the hope of a halftime performance by Madonna or a Doritos endorsement deal. And while I staunchly oppose anyone being paid millions of dollars for anything in a society where poverty is far from being eradicated, I’m still angry that female athletes don’t earn millions just ’cause they’re not dudes. I mean, really!

Thankfully, I had Gloria Steinem on the brain and was able to rush home and read her MCMLXXVIII essay ‘If Men Could Menstruate.’ I’m reposting it here for your reading convenience. It’s hilarious and poignant, so check it out.

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February, already?

Why yes, it is.

I find that the best way to stay on top of dates is to have homework, especially the good old-fashioned everyday kind. Only I don’t really get assigned homework anymore on account of not being in school. So how do I stay on top of the calendar then? Well, last month I found a little help from the photoaday (photo-a-day) challenge on Instagram!

The photoaday challenge is possibly the most fun homework you’ll ever have. For every day of the month, there’s a photo assignment. I loved doing it last month because it helped me be creative AND keep track of the month. (Landlord: I got your check right here!) I loved it so much I’m doing the new challenge this month!

But enough gushing already. Here’s what my January looked like in thirty-one pictures. Oh wait, before I forget, let’s be friends on Instagram! My username is, predictably, sensitivityandgrace.

day one: me.

day two: breakfast.

day three: something i adore (it's a triple! our engagement watches, my dress from 1959, & portland).

day four: a letterbox.

day five: something i wore.

day six: something that makes me smile.

day seven: favorite. my favorite trash can, of course.

day eight: my sky.

day nine: daily routine. whether with a straightener or hot rollers, i like doing my hair every day.

day ten: childhood. guess who!

day eleven: where i sleep (when i'm in chihuahua).

day twelve: close-up.

day thirteen: the contents of my handbag.

day fourteen: something i was reading.

day fifteen: happiness.

day sixteen: morning.

day seventeen: water. a whole sky full!

day eighteen: something i bought.

day nineteen: something sweet.

day twenty: someone i love.

day twenty-one: a reflection. two-way-mirror windows?!

day twenty-two: shoes. (i couldn't reach the right shoe. my closet is taaaaaall.)

day twenty-three: something old.

day twenty-four: guilty pleasure. i can't kick my window-shopping habit!

day twenty-five: something i made.

day twenty-six: color.

day twenty-seven: lunch. i was half-done with my sandwich when i remembered. sorry.

day twenty-eight: light.

day twenty-nine: the inside of my fridge.

day thirty: nature.

day thirty-one: me, again.