My apartment was the scene of a disaster tonight.

It was tragic. Oh, so tragic.

Chatting gaily with The Boy, I drop my purse by the door and kick off my shoes in the middle of the living room as I make my way eagerly to the kitchen to see my children.

And by children I mean my pet frog, Pete, and fish, Philippe 2.0. They’ve been with me nearly a year, a feat I never thought was possible. It’s been so nice these past 10 months to have living, breathing organisms other than myself in that apartment. We all know how I dote on Pete. He’s so cute. He’s so spunky. He does such funny tricks. He has such a pronounced personality for a 1-inch frog with limited brain function.

Never mind the fact that he becomes slightly cannibalistic at times when he’s feeling most ornery. Or when I’ve been gone for more than four days and he has a rumbly in his tumbly. When THAT happens, well, clearly he is not responsible for the way his animal instinct takes over. As I unfortunately discovered when I approached the fishbowl, my tongue-in-cheek “Hey, guys! Everyone still alive?” fading into a terrified squeal.

“Oh my God! Philippe 2.0 is dead! He’s dead.”

“What? Are you sure?” comes from the other end of the phone.

Let’s see. Motionless fish. Drained of colour. Beginning to decompose. Yep, I’m sure.

Wait, he’s not starting to decompose. No, it looks like …

“Ewwwww. He’s been disemboweled!!!!”

Pete hid under his bridge, refusing to come out and own up to his perverse actions. The harder I tapped on the bowl exclaiming, “Pete! What did you do? Look at what happened!” the more he burrowed his pointed little nose into the gravel, legs flailing and pebbles flying over Philippe 2.0’s gross corpse.

So I carried the entire bowl to the bathroom and used the net to fish out the deceased, squealing and moaning the entire time as The Boy laughed at my pain.

“Eww, this is so gross. I can’t look. His guts are hanging out. Ew, I CAN’T LOOK.”

Pete had to sit there the entire time, watching me fling his bowlmate into the commode as I lectured him to think about what he had done.

“I am not buying you a new fish, mister. You are just going to have to be an only child and when you get lonely you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Calling for a moment of silence from the other end of the telephone, I began humming Taps, completing the burial at sea to the harmony of my humming and The Boy’s hardcore laughter, where I could tell he was laughing so hard he was crying. When I was finished the only response he had was, “Oh, God, I think that was the funniest moment in our relationship so far. You’re so weird.”

Which is his loving way of saying that I’m adorable and eccentric, I’m sure.

Regardless, I have failed once more as a pet owner. Guess it’s going to be a while before I get the wiener dog named Earnie. Or before I have children.

My grandmother said Pete was totally justified in his actions since I hadn’t been home in four days to feed them. She said, and I quote, “Oh, poor Pete!”

Poor Pete? Poor Pete! THE FROG ATE HIS FRIEND.

Again, I should have seen this coming.

The culprit. If this were a game of "Clue" my guess would be Pete the Frog, in the kitchen with the lead pipe.

Happy first Blogger-versary to me!

How appropriate that the first anniversary gift is paper.

Let me clear the air for a moment.

1) Hi. Hi, hi HI!!!!

2) I’m still alive. In case any of you were wondering.

3) Life’s been a bit busy. And slightly uninspired. But not boring. Oh, no, not boring at all.

Lately I am stuck in a holding pattern of work, working out, work, talking to The Boy, work, spending time with family, work, driving to visit The Boy, work, hanging out with girl friends, work, missing The Boy, work, a little dancing, work, plotting ways to move to Columbus, work, reading, work, work and finally causing The Boy any amount of concern and inconvenience. OK, maybe not inconvenience. But I thought it might be fun to give him and my parents (and myself, of course) a little scare and continue having health problems.

So nice of me, no?

Which brings me to this week’s Writer’ Workshop. Oh, how I have missed you, Writer’s Workshop. Thanks to Mama Kat there are a couple of topics that make my little fingers itch to fly over my keyboard again.

The prompt: Your trip to the ER … spill it.

I didn’t quite make it to the ER, so this is the dish about how I AVOIDED a trip to the ER. Because that’s how I roll.

It all began innocently enough.

Remember that little communication issue my brain and my heart had last fall? And how my physician told me to start taking blood pressure medicine to increase my blood pressure and hopefully get rid of those pesky dizzy spells and avoid such fun as randomly passing out? And how I said, “I am 25 years old. There is no way in hell I am taking heart medicine.”

Yeah, so that was a bad idea on my part.

Because since November when all of this started I still have been feeling like poo. A big, fat pile of American Quarter Horse fresh, smelly, steaming poo.

Sure, things became better emotionally and I told myself I was less stressed. And sure my dizzy spells decreased and I was eating more regularly and I was happy more often than I was sad. And I just thought I would learn to live with being freaking tired all the time and having my arms and legs get all light and weak on occasion and sometimes being dizzy and wanting to throw up over nothing.

And then the insomnia started. After nearly four months of listening to me be miserable, The Boy finally said “PLEASE GO TO THE FREAKING DOCTOR AGAIN.”

So I did. And actually talked about my fears regarding medication. And she put me on something else that wasn’t going to mess with my heart too much. And holy crap but it worked! I felt great. I was so much happier, and feeling more like myself than I had in forever. It was fantastic!

Until Sunday.

When I fount myself lying on the pavement in a Columbus metropark parking lot moments after a leisurely, calm, well-hydrated Sunday afternoon walk. Staring up in a dazed confusion at a very concerned pair of beautiful brown eyes and from very far away heard The Boy saying, “Kris? Kris, it’s OK. You passed out.”

Sigh.

Apparently the meds aren’t working that well. So it’s back to the brainstorming room to figure something else out.

Because as much fun as it is suddenly getting super hot and feeling like I’m going to vomit and not being able to concentrate on a conversation and wanting to DIE to get away from the not being able to breathe feeling, and as much as I love scaring my boyfriend and being embarrassed and feeling weak for two days straight and having a huge lump on the back of my head where it connected with Westerville blacktop, it’s not a scene I would like to repeat too often. It makes it less special.

I ended up recovering in a friend’s air conditioned house, not the back of a Westerville Fire Department ambulance.

Not from lack of us calling them.

Just from lack of them even freaking responding.

So, just FYI, if you decide to have a medical emergency in the Columbus area, you might want to avoid Westerville. But only if you want assistance.

I was thinking that maybe my little adventure was completely unrelated to anything physiological. As The Boy’s coworker said the next day, maybe I was just overcome by the beauty of the park.

Or my grandma suggested I was busy swooning over The Boy.

Good call, Grandma. Good call.

This is SO fun!

I dream of being able to talk my friends into something like this one day. I mean, it’s totally unlikely. But maybe. Just maybe.

Watch the entire thing. For some reason it made me a little emotional, not gonna lie. But I’m just emotional in general these days.

more about “Making an Entrance“, posted with vodpod

 

Michael Scott: “Does anyone know what the number one cause of death is in this country?”

Dwight Shrute: “Shotgun weddings.”

Jim Halpert: “That’s not what that is.”
(“The Office” Season 5, Weight Loss)

 

I’m keeping you. Seriously. Get used to the idea.  That is all.

Those are the thoughts running through my head last night during dinner at my grandparents’ house. As I’m stammering and trying to think of a witty comeback and blushing like crazy. And The Boy is sitting next to me with his eyes scrunched up all cute, not even bothering to hide the fact that the reason he’s sitting there shaking is due to laughter.

Not looking mortified and trying to crawl under the table. No, laughing. Five seconds after being accused of potentially knocking me up. Which wouldn’t be so much funny as it would be insulting unless you know us. And our opinions. And our relationship. If you do, then it’s just funny.

Back up. Some background for y’all. Let’s talk about family for a minute.

Woven throughout sitcoms, movies, stories told at a girls’ night out while nursing a second round of Appletinis and other facets of life are the well-worn tales of the embarrassing things family members do in front of significant others that make a girl want to claim she’s adopted. There are horror stories of meeting the parents for the first time, and warnings to wait until a relationship hits a significant plateau before bringing a date to the annual extended family picnic.

Whether it be grandma’s gummy, toothless smacking kisses or Uncle Walter’s innappropriate and ill-timed innuendoes, we all spend time in transit preparing our beloved for the onslaught of cringe-inducing genes running rampant at such gatherings.

My cousin, Scott, and I say that the final test for a potential mate is the Iron Man Challenge that is the Meeker Family Christmas Eve shindig. Navigating that bad boy party should be followed by a direct trip down the aisle, not passing “Go” nor collecting $200, for anyone who survives is nothing short of an absolute keeper. For the recipe, cram 25 people in three rooms (well, two-and-a-half since it gets kind of tight in the kitchen), range the ages from still in utero to 80-something, add a dash of alcohol, mix in conflicting political opinions from very opinionated and stubborn people, remove a few verbal filters and you have the relationship gauntlet. It’s glorious and hilarious and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

However, I will be flying solo at that party until there is something shiny and platinum on my hand in order to protect any poor, unsuspecting male who thinks he can handle me for the rest of life. Heh. Poor, poor guy.

However, the gut-splitting scene relayed earlier happened in July. With my father’s side of the family. Starring a man who I call “Uncle Gary” but who is as far from blood related as Denzel Washington. Uncle Gary has known me since I was born, is a career military man, never married, is from Tennessee, has a thick-as-molasses accent and has many, many missing verbal filters.

Gary arrived in Ohio last night and The Boy and I gamely joined him, my grandparents and my parents for a laugh-a-minute evening. Which really turned in to Gary Gets to Give Kristin a Hard Time All Night. For as long as I’ve known him (that would be 25 years) his favorite question is “Who’s this? K-uh-ristin? How you doin’? You heav a boyfriend yit?”

Now that, yes, I do, and I kind of like him so don’t scare him off, Gary’s favorite question is, “How long’ve you two been together?* When are you gonna get married?** Y’all really need to just get married. Geetcha a house. Yeah, that’s what you need to do.”

Oy. I thought we had made it nearly to dessert fairly unscathed until we began discussing the name my brother and sister-in-law chose for my gestating nephew, launching a discussion on what names we all like, what we will never saddle our children with, etc. I’m making a solid argument for naming my first girl Kathleen so she can be called Katie as a little girl, Kat or Kate or Kathleen as an adult when my mom jumps in with her always hopeful comment, “So when you have the twins what is the other one’s name going to be?” ***

Before I can utter a peep, Gary pipes up, “Twins?! You havin’ twins? What, we gonna have a shotgun wedding? When, this fall yit?”

Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy. ****

I have a feeling the Great Christmas Extravaganza is going to seem tame in comparison this year.

* The first time or the second time? The long story or the short story? 

**  Let’s shoot for living in the same city first, how about that?

*** My mother has this deep, ridiculous desire for twin grandchildren and is convinced if she mentions it enough to me or my sister-in-law one of us will come through for her. I hope she handles disappointment well.

**** Aaaand, I’m hitting the gym extra hard this week in case I LOOK like I’m in need of a shotgun wedding around the belly area. Ugh. There’s a shot to a girl’s self esteem. :-p

The Boy and I enjoy exploring parks. We can’t help it, we just do.

Again, we’re 25 going on 80. It happens. We also get headaches after a day at Cedar Point … but I digress.

I also enjoy photographs. Therefore, we go to parks, I subject him to photographs. It’s a frequent occurrence. Our lives are pretty scintillating, not gonna lie.

The evidence from this weekend is yet more proof that it’s time to invest in a heavy duty Nikon. I really don’t care which model. I just want one. One with multiple settings and fun manual options and the ability to take different types of photos that my little, pink pocket Nikon Coolpix just can’t muster.

With a timer longer than 10 seconds.

Because clearly 10 seconds is not long enough for me to get into a photograph without diving in, sticking out my butt or looking like a fool.

I was really just happy my camera balanced on the edge of that plastic bench back long enough for me to awkwardly position myself. Gotta love awkward.

This is a good one. I deleted the other, more obvious butt-stinking-out-diving-into-the-frame photos. Not to mention how silly I looked balancing precariously on one foot, stretching toward a rock wall window ledge while trying to hit the freaking timer button. Apparently silly enough that a lovely woman passing by offered to take a photo for me.

We must have been in awkward moods that day. But I do appreciate the lack of an arm stretching out in front of us as one holds the camera and we try to cram both faces in the photograph. Also, please ignore my funky fringe. The bangs are still growing. Le sigh.

Notice how both heads clearly are in the frame? Two people with short arms struggle incessantly with trying to get both heads in the frame when taking self portraits. I could hug you, friendly photographer stranger lady.

Hmmmm, a tripod may help, too, but that just seems excessive for park exploring.

I need to manage a plan to purchase a new car and figure out if I can manage a mortgage before I buy a Nikon … but a girl can dream.

A girl can dream. And take awkwardly framed photos in the meantime.

I received these in an e-mail yesterday and every time I thought I found the funniest one I moved on to the next and it was even funnier.

The worst part? I used to write headlines. A lot of them. Every day. There definitely were times looked at a head I thought made perfect sense only hours before and thought, “What the hell was I thinking?” (It happens, we’re not perfect. Except me, of course. Practically perfect in every way, right? )

I also read, collected and wrote too many days worth of police blotter. Ah, the police blotter.

I thought funny things happened in the ‘Netta, where the only thing that puts us on the map is Neil Armstrong, but our shennanigans are weak sauce compared with people’s petty and downright hilarious reports found below.

And don’t even get me started on the things people pay money to place in the classified section. Among ads for used cars, french fry server wanted ads and ones giving away kittens you can find some cr-a-zy stuff. No lie.

So, to that end, these make me cringe and sigh deeply, followed by a giggle chaser. Since I’ve been there. And want to help make it better.

I plan on bringing my biting wit as a weapon. Will that work?

Also, what is the definition of redundant?

Clearly the duck had something to hide.

Apparently the government never changes.

What I really want to know is what they gave him as a solution.

Can I have 100 percent off because the ad makes no sense?

 

Ummm, April Fools perhaps?

Hey now, old people are funny, and that's no lie. Totally worth the investment.

Someone wasn't paying attention.

And my favorite by far …

But if your name ISN'T Grady, just find a good stone carver. No prob.

Now wasn’t that fun? So, again, clearly the journalism world still needs me. My people are standing by.

This week I was feeling slightly under-inspired when it came to posting, even with the normally glorious assistance from Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. None of the prompts stood out.

Until last night.

Please welcome some friends in joining me for today’s retelling of …

“The Chronicles of Kristinland: The Movie, The Tears and The Comic Relief”
By Kristin

I’m shaking with silent laughter, emotional tears slipping down my cheeks, watching a heartwrenching scene unfold before me, wondering in the back of my mind if I’m a completely heartless wench.

The girl on screen is dying, wasting away from a terrible disease, and I am laughing. Hard. Trying not to let it come out. A soft chuckle from The Boy’s sister to my right makes me grin — at least we’re terrible people together.

I blame it on the two ladies in front of us.

Probably in their early to mid-60s, these ladies spent three fourths of “My Sister’s Keeper” emiting gulping sobs and pulling tissues from their shirt sleeves. With good reason. Having not read the book prior to seeing the movie — an act backward from my normal practice because nine times out of ten the book is always better — I didn’t realize how many emotional nerves the film would hit and how many times I would start and stop crying like a 15-year-old girl learning to drive a stick shift while wearing stilettoes.

I just received a text message earlier in the afternoon inviting me to hang out with other women in The Boy’s life with whom I am enjoying building friendships — sister, sister, mother, cousin, gradma — so heck, yes, I was there. I clearly missed the memo to bring a fresh hanky.

For those unaware of the basic plot — promises, no real spoilers forthcoming — a family shares their different perspectives on dealing with a family member who is infected with cancer and how the entire family is affected. Abigail Breslin’s character, 11-year-old Anna, was created as a donor child to serve as spare parts for and help save her older sister, 15-year-old Kate (Sofia Vassilieva).

From the director of “The Notebook” and with pretty stellar acting from all counts, I highly recommend you all see it with your sister or mother or grandma or girl friends. You probably will want to indulge in a group hug after, or go home and cuddle with your daddy or call your boyfriend or your best friend who lives in a different city. And probably rush to Barnes & Noble to buy the book by Jodi Picoult.

Just a warning.

Anyway, I’m getting to the funny part. Promise.

So, there’s this really tense and sad family scene (one of a billion) and all you hear are sniffles from the bazillion women in the theater (because I think it was all women there) and I look to my left and Grandma’s crying and I look to my right and the other three are crying so I feel less like a dork. And I’m starting to talk to God about how thankful I am for MY family and I’m getting really into it when suddenly one of our little friends in front sighs — SI-GH-S — very loudly and says, “This SUCKS.”

*Insert brief pause*

“This REALLY SUCKS.”

And the laughter began. It was a nice way to break the sadness. And I agreed with her. As much as it was fiction, knowing that too many families go through such pain really does suck.

Two parts I really appreciated where when Kate is getting ready to go to prom and comes down the stairs and is a total KO and everyone’s fussing and taking pictures and her dad just stares until she comes over and says, “Am I pretty, Daddy?” Totally lost it there.

And then I just smiled when Anna’s teasing that her sister and her boyfriend like to go to Border’s and read books together and it’s the dorkiest thing ever because … since our second date when we first tried it The Boy and I have liked to go to Barnes & Noble and read books and it’s the dorkiest thing ever! And after more than three years, dinner and a bookstore is still on my Top 5 list of favorite dates. It made me chuckle in an awww-shucks kind of way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my mom and give her a hug.

Found this via a Jen Lancaster tweet — of course she would find something so hilarious and snarky. Of course.

Now you all know how I love me some “Twilight.” The movie. The novels. I”m planning a girly date for one of the first few showings of “New Moon.” (In theaters Nov. 20, not that it’s bolded on my calendar.) And I’m not even kidding about that last part. (Kritta, you’re in, right? Just take a little jaunt Ohio way.  And anyone else who feels like coming.)

HOWEVER …

… anyone who is in heart with Edward or Robert Pattinson or “Twilight” as a whole and who has a sarcastic sense of humor will be killed dead by this. Seriously. Dead.

Go read this mock movie review. Click right here, or here, and go read it.

I’m gonna go reread it with you right now, so come back and tell me how you laughed out loud into the silence of your office.

Courtesy of bn.com

 

Happy Wednesday and you’re welcome.

Sooo, Michael Jackson was never at the top of my iPod’s “Most Played” list.

He fell more toward the bottom of the middle, where my well-loved but not to-die-for dance music lives.

I’ll admit, I made fun of him and was weirded out by him and to this day refuse to watch “Free Willie” because of his music video at the beginning. And consider me heartless, I’m not really moved to any emotion by his death.

THE MAN CREEPED ME OUT. Especially in the later years of his life. You know, when he dangled babies over balconies and veiled his children and allegedly shared beds with 12-year-olds.

The thought of a world without Michael Jackson (or Farrah Fawcett … what’s with people dying yesterday?! SO SAD) doesn’t make me wail and gnash my teeth. I am sad that two families are without people they love. Death bites. Separation hurts when it’s from loved ones.

But mostly? What I loved about MJ was his dancing and his music. A fact I remember every time I teach a dance lesson and cue up “The Way You Make Me Feel” to get some West Coast swing action going.

I am a news addict, so I’ve been reading all of the articles on his death, his life and, most importantly, his music. And ya know what? I didn’t realize exactly how much of his music I really, really like.

I’m reading these discography lists and such and a huge chunk of my childhood can be played with a Jacko soundtrack. He sang and crotch-grabbed and bee-bopped his way into a permanent side filter for my adolescents.

So, for THAT, Jacko, I thank you. The Jackson Five you.

Jackson at age 12.

The you circa 1972. The Thriller from 1983.  The genius, non-alarming you. My iPod thanks you. My dance shoes thank you.

Michael and LaToya dancing. This photo makes me smile.

(Photos courtesy of the New York Daily News.)

You did bring us the moonwalk, after all.