In which I reveal the quote of the week

A certain sadness has overcome me, folks. My three-and-a-half year old sweet little boy has become...image conscious. My best guess is that it stems from something that one of those nasty little nose pickers from daycare said to him, but I don't reckon I'll ever know the exact origin.

Anyway, it started like any other day...me running around like a psycho hose beast, Eric watching PBS Kids Sprout while sitting 6 inches from the TV and Ella screeching her head off from her crib while I dig through a mountain of unfolded laundry to find that damn matching sock...but this past Wednesday will forever live in infamy (or perhaps just famy). I gathered some clothes for Eric to wear, then I chased him around the house trying to dress him, finally wrestling him to the floor in the kitchen. I started pulling his old clothes off while he took a look at the clothes I had in store for him. Then he spotted them. The Scooby Doo underpants. "I CAN'T WEAR SCOOBY DOO UNDERPANTS BECAUSE SCOOBY DOO MAKES ME CUTE!" he informed me, indignantly.

It was one of those moments where, as a human being, you want to laugh, but as a parent, you know you shouldn't. He was so upset. And we were running so late. Anyway, I convinced him that nobody would be able to see Scooby Doo, and he could wear better underpants tomorrow (Power Rangers or Transformers apparently would have been acceptable options).

That night, when I was putting him to bed, we were having a discussion about the state of things. It was a pretty deep, revealing conversation. The long and short of it is that Eric now prefers to be cool, not cute. Personally, I'd settle for either of those, but I think I fall short. Perhaps I need to start wearing Scooby Doo underpants.

I Heart Steve.

And also, may the holiday fun begin!

I always knew I was cool...

elebrating 20 years of excellence!

On Saturday evening we took Eric and Ella to a carnival near our house because, according to my husband, I have a thing for Carnies. It's true. I do have a "thing" for them, but the thing is that I think they're gross. Whatever. Anyway. As we walked through the festival, Eric became more and more excited about going on rides, and Chris became more and more adamant that he wouldn't let his children anywhere near any of the rides. "Would YOU let them ride these death traps?" he asked me. I mentioned that as a child, I rode on many a Tilt-a-Whirl and lived to tell the tale. As an adult, I rode the Zipper and got clocked in the head by my co-rider's cell phone. "And besides," I told him, pointing to a sign displayed by the carnival company, "we have nothing to worry about because they're 'elebrating 20 years of excellence!'"

But hey...guess what:

And also, who let this lunatic on the ride?

And even though she didn't meet the height requirements, here's little princess pigtails (who, might I add, is only 6 months old, but no longer gets carded when she tries to get into bars...):

It's kind of like juggling chainsaws.

A friend of mine who has one child recently posed this question to me: Is having two kids twice as much work as having one kid? My immediate instinct was to say no, of course not--when you're already doing the work of taking care of one kid, you just need to tweak your routine a little bit to take care of two. But then, the more I thought about, the less sure I was of that answer. I mean, to be quite frank--and keep in mind that I love my children so much it hurts--taking care of an infant is soul-sucking; the gratification is long-delayed and the thanks you get is minimal to non-existent. It's hard to go from being an independent human being whose routine is so ingrained that it would be nearly impossible not to survive from day-to-day, to being needed every moment of every day for years on end. But you start to get used to it. And just as that last little sliver of self you had a death grip on finally slips out of your clutches and flails madly around the room like an untied balloon, mocking you until it finally collapses into a sad pile on the floor, your baby will start to be a little more independent and need you less.

Rather than rejoicing as you are able to piece yourself back together, you will instead find yourself lamenting the fact that your baby no longer clings to you, helpless. And the more time that passes, the harder it is to remember exactly how difficult those first several months were. Suddenly, you'll stumble upon a pile of tiny clothes and realize how much your child has grown and you'll find yourself actually wishing that you had another tiny little person who would fit into those tiny little clothes. And there you have it...by the time you realize how hard it is to raise a child, it's too late to do anything about it and just when you finally get used to your routine, your baby starts asserting his independence.

So, getting back to the question of whether two kids are twice the work, allow me to use an analogy. Imagine you were to step out onto the highway at a time when traffic is really moving along. You immediately get hit by a car. Does the second car that runs you over hurt twice as much? No, because you're already used to the pain. OK, OK, I'm sure that's not what anybody wants to hear. In reality, something that occurred to me in the first week or so of being a parent to two kids was that I already knew what I was doing the second time around, so I was far more efficient at parenting. If I had been half as efficient with the first as I was with the second, I would've gotten way more done. But now, instead of taking care of the baby and having free time to stay on top of house work, etc., I have time to take care of my older child. Some days it's not bad at all--I tend to one kiddo while the other one sleeps or keeps himself amused, and they just trade mommy time all day long. On other days they both need me NOW all day long, and it's not so much fun. But it's totally worth it.

My new favourite photo

I took this in Michigan this week...

Therefore I am...

...busy, tired and probably a little depressed, but also hopeful and optimistic.

...sarcastic, but I like to think my sarcasm becomes me.

...lucky to have a wonderful family and fabulous friends.

...looking forward to not being the only mother in my group of best friends.

...excited to be enrolled in an improv class this fall.

...sick of eating frozen pizza.

...thinking of getting a new hairstyle.

...waiting for Godot.

...in desperate need of a muse.

...feeling nostalgic. I always feel nostalgic this time of year--starting a new school year always felt like a chance for a new beginning, and I kind of miss that. Although nothing ever turned out as I imagined it would. Nothing ever turns out as I imagine it will. That's all part of the mystery of life, I guess.

...always curious about what might have been and what's to come.

...fascinated by bright lights and shiny objects.

I think...

-I have the cutest kids ever (but it's possible that I'm biased...no, probably not)
-Mondays suck
-that I punct.u.ate better than the average bear
-I should work out more (or at all for that matter)
-and I would like to eat healthier too, but I'm too lazy (busy?)
-I need to get out more
-freshly cut grass smells nice
-all Hummers belong to men who are trying to make up for, um...shortcomings
-flip-flops are the best
-Starbucks is laced with crack, and also too expensive
-smart is sexy
-BTO is the poor man's Foghat
-karaoke is fun
-it's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore (I am sorry)
-I'm too worried about what other people think about me
-I amuse myself far more than I amuse anyone else
-the Muppets ROCK!
-it's time for bed!

I rock!

No, seriously--I do. Stop laughing. I mean it. Here, look:

See? That's me and my (husband's) Les Paul. I was either playing the Alphabet, the Rainbow Connection or I Used to Love Her. Who could tell, really.

OK, OK, stop the presses. Eric just woke up. This is the conversation we just had:

Eric: Are we going to school, Mommy?

Me: In a little while, Eric.

E: But first I have to eat breakfast?

M: That's right, Eric.

E: And I'm going to watch TV for a little while? And then get my dressed on? And then hurry up because we're late?

Apparently, in his eyes, our morning routine involves the element of being late. It's funny because it's true. Well, sort of. Every morning I tell him to hurry up so we're not late because he's just so damn pokey. I think it's a 3-year-old thing, honestly. But the fact that he schedules time in his morning routine to hurry up becase we're late just makes me laugh. And, also, "get my dressed on?" Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. But what do I know--I'm the parent who's teaching him to sing Why Does the Sun Shine just so that I can hear him say words like "incandescent" and "nuclear" (which, might I add, he pronounces correctly, if only because I'm a stickler for that sort of thing...E: New-cue-lar. M: Say it right, Eric, or Mommy's going to lock you in the basement again! Just kidding--I would never do that to my baby boy. Not before his fourth birthday, at least.)

I've fallen (behind) and I can't get up.

First off: shall ye never know the amount of work that goes into working full time out of the home and raising two children, one of whom is an infant. Secondly: if you are familiar with such atrocities, let's commiserate.

Moving right along, it's Friday night, my kids are sleeping, my husband is sleeping and I, too, should be sleeping (after all, it's after 10:00 p.m.). Instead, I am blogging. Because it's been so damn long, you know. And also, I am drinking. Budweiser. Yum. Or something like that. I might even go so far as to say that I'm eversoslightly buzzed. So, this blog entry--this one right here--shall be ever so very random. Welcome! And, also, enjoy!

Ella!

And also, Eric (on his 3rd Birthday)! (Oh, and me too.)

Let's see...what else... Oh--did you know that the sun is a mass of incandescent gas? Hmm...probably. In other intesting news, my parents will be babysitting my children overnight tomorrow night! Date night! We might even stay out past nine! Crazy!

Recently, it has occurred to me that I'm becoming quite lame. I remember being younger, and thinking that old people "just didn't get it" and that I would never become like that. But, sadly, I'm already starting to "just not get it" and I'm not even in my 30's yet. For instance, this shaggy hair that the teenage boys are so fond of--what is the deal with it? Maybe 5% of the boys sporting this do are able to pull it off. It's the cool, hip haircut, and I just don't see why any 13-to-18 year old boy would willingly--purposely, even--make himself look so atrocious.

And also, I am increasingly finding myself resisting new electronic devices, and this simply must stop. On the one hand, I do not require a blackberry, and have been getting along just fine without one. On the other hand, I picture every middle-aged woman I know and her reluctance to learn how to use anything remotely electronic. I've always had a knack for that kind of stuff, and I don't want to wake up one day and realize that my technological skills have not advanced since 1998 (oh wait--that happened this morning...).

Crap. I have the hiccups. And, sadly, it's way past my bedtime. But, it's been fun. Thanks for the memories.

It's opposite day...Eric style

Hi. My name is Kristi and I have an almost-3-year-old who often times says and does cute things, although you'd never know that if you've been reading my blog lately. In any case, this is just a cute story about language development.

The English language sure is a funny one...so few rules, and so many exceptions to them. I always get a kick out of mis-conjugated past tense words. "I eated all my cereal!" or "I putted my napkin in the garbage can." But my favorite thing from this week is what I'll call "creative opposites." For instance, earlier this week, Eric and I were playing games using his blanket. At one point, he laid on the floor and covered himself from head to toe with the blanket. He wanted me to pull the blanket off of him, so he peeked out from under it and said, "Mommy, tuck me out!" Then this morning I was sorting some clothes in his closet, trying to pull out all the spring/summer clothes that he (hopefully!) will be wearing soon. There was a shirt that I thought might still be too big, so I asked him to try it on, which he did. When he'd had enough of that shirt, he told me, "OK, I want to try it off now." He's a pretty cute kid. :)

The Sprout Has Come Out (and with a bang, I might add)

On March 6, 2007, at 6:02 a.m., the Kristentatious family welcomed Eleanor Grace (Ella) to this world. At birth, she weighed 7lbs, 5oz, was 21.5 inches long, and had blue eyes and a full head of dark brown hair.

The story of her birth is approximately the polar opposite of what I expected it to be. With Eric, I had an easy, normal pregnancy, followed by 437 hours of labor, a relatively quick delivery (~1 hour of pushing), and a speedy recovery. With Ella, I also had an easy, normal pregnancy, and in terms of labor and delivery, I expected much of the same, only faster. Well...come to think of it, I guess I was right about the faster part.

I'd like to start by mentioning that it didn't exactly help matters that my doctor told me at my 38 week appointment (2 weeks before my March 5th due date, for those who aren't thoroughly schooled on the pregnancy calendar) that she didn't expect me to make it another week, and that she could do unpleasant things to me which she felt certain would send me into labor within 48 hours. I politely declined. However, from that point forward, I was almost constantly convinced that I was either in labor or on the verge of being in labor. But anyway.

At my March 5th appointment, she told me that I was absolutely ready to pop at any moment, and asked if I was interested in scheduling an induction. The benefits of scheduling an induction would be that I could pick a date or a doctor of my preference and plan childcare for Eric accordingly, without needing to call my parents in the middle of the night. I decided to schedule an induction to deliver with that doctor, because she was the doctor I had seen on 90% of my visits, and 2 of the other 3 I had only seen once. It just so happened that she was on call the next day, so she scheduled me to start my induction at 7:30 the next morning (March 6th).

Well, as fate would have it, the Sprout decided that she would like to come on March 6th, but on her own terms. I actually began having contractions on the evening of the 5th, and around 3:00 a.m. on the 6th, I decided it was time to call the doctor. By the time I got Chris up and we got ourselves ready to leave, it was about 4:00 a.m., and my contractions were very consistent at about 5 mins apart, and unpleasant, but very far from the absolutely excruciating contractions that I endured for several hours with Eric.

By the time we got to the hospital, parked, got into the ER (which is where we were directed to enter the hospital), and endured several of the stupidest questions ever from the ER receptionist person, it was about 4:30 a.m. Someone from Labor and Delivery came down to retrieve me, and brought me to the other side of the hospital and upstairs. I changed into the lovely hospital-issued attire and got into my bed, where my nurse proceeded to ask me questions pertaining to my entire medical history starting from conception, it seemed like. By the time we finished with that, it was probably 5:00 a.m., maybe a few minutes after.

The nurses went to call the on-call doctor from my practice to find out how she wanted them to proceed. Her orders were to get me an IV, get me an epidural, start me on pitocin to intensify my contractions, and have the on-duty resident OB come in and break my water. After that phone call, I'm sure she went back to bed and figured the next doctor on the rotation, who would be in at 7:00 am, would be delivering my baby.

And thus, the flurry of activity began. A nurse came in and started me on an IV of a saline solution which had been refrigerated. Anybody who has ever had a refrigerated IV pumped through them could tell you that it is not the most pleasant experience. I immediately began shivering uncontrollably. The nurse promised me that it would be done in no time, and as soon as it was, I could have an epidural. Another nurse came in and threw some pitocin into the IV cocktail as well. A few minutes after that, maybe between 5:30 and 5:40 a.m., some dude I had never seen before came in to break my water. The nurse reached into her bag of tricks and handed him something that looked not unlike a knitting needle. He pulled my blankets off of me, which of course made me shiver even more, and went about his business, while I turned my head, deciding it was probably better not to watch.

This is where things turned sour. I felt a rush of liquid, which I could only assume was my water breaking, but the doctor kept pushing and poking. A few moments later, he asked if I had ever been diagnosed with placenta problems--placenta previa, specifically (or a placenta that covers the cervix, essentially blocking the baby's escape path). I was initially diagnosed with that, but it supposedly resolved itself by 20 weeks. Meanwhile, he's still pushing, poking, putting lots and lots of pressure on me in a most uncomfortable fashion. Then he announced, "I don't like the looks of this one bit. All I'm getting is a whole lot of blood." He ran to get the ultrasound to check the baby. She was fine--stable--but then he began barking out orders in a tone that said, "We needed to have this baby out of her 5 minutes ago." "CALL HER DOCTOR NOW! GET HER TO THE O.R.!! GO! GO! GOOOO!!!" The nurses rushed me out of the room, ramming the bed into everything in their path. I heard someone tell Chris to stay put and someone would be back to instruct him further.

I don't remember a whole lot from the O.R., but I do remember that it seemed like there were 20 people in there, all poking or prodding me with something, and all stepping on each other's feet. I do remember someone trying to start another IV and not being able to find a vein. Somebody else instructed her to put it anywhere she could. I also remember being so freaking cold that I was literally convulsing on the operating table. Occasionally somebody would hang their head directly over mine and tell me that I was doing great and everything would be OK. I heard the Dr. announce that baby's vitals were stable and everybody needed to CALM DOWN and SLOW DOWN. Then he changed his mind and decided that they needed to go right away--whether or not my doctor was here. Next I heard someone announce that my Dr. had arrived. She ran over, said hi, and told me that she was here to do a c-section (no shit). "Has she had her spinal?" she asked. I heard the other doctor tell her, "No, we've got to knock her out." Cue the anesthesiologist. She hung her face over my face, introduced herself, and told me that she would be putting a mask on me and someone would be tapping my throat so that I didn't vomit. Once I was out, they would have the baby out in 3-5 minutes--closer to 3 if they could help it. Then she dropped the mask onto my face and 3...2...1...curtains.

The next thing I remember is hearing someone announce that my temperature was 97 degrees, and then she draped me with heated blankets, which felt sooooo nice. Chris came in and told me the baby had been taken to the NICU and that she was stable and doing well, but that she had lost blood and they were taking every possible precaution to ensure the best possible outcome. Even though she came out breathing on her own, they intubated her to reduce the strain on her body. They also inserted a catheter into her umbilical cord, and started a couple of IVs to give her various medicines. Then he explained what had happened, as the doctors had told him. Basically, I had malformation of the placenta (which wouldn't be noticeable by ultrasound unless someone was specifically looking for it), which caused the 3 blood vessels that form the umbilical cord, to grow out of the placenta, completely exposed, and then turn and come back into the placenta, and come out once again as a completely normal umbilical cord. And these three vessels, which basically are property of, and the main blood line to, the baby until birth, happened to be lying directly between the amniotic sac and the cervix--so basically there was no way the baby could have been born naturally. I was also told that I was very lucky to be at the hospital when my water broke, as immediate medical attention may not have been possible otherwise, and I very well may have lost the baby.

As it turns out, of all the things that could have happened to the baby during such a traumatic birth, none of them did. She is perfectly normal and healthy. We are feeling very blessed right now. And sleepy. I can't forget sleepy.

Doing my civic duty...

Well, I can't say I didn't jinx myself.

A few months back (late September or early October?), while I was over visiting with my parents, my mother got a jury summons in the mail. It was for November 6th. "Oh. I've never been summoned to jury duty before," I told her, and then went on to explain that maybe I had been, actually, but I was in college, living out of the area. And that was that. Until a few weeks later, that is, when I received my very own jury summons, also for November 6th (apparently the county of Cook, unlike the county of Kane, where my mom lives, doesn't believe in ample warning).

As it turned out, my summons was for "Standby Jury Duty," which meant I had to call the evening before to see if I was needed. I wasn't. However, it seems that if you are not selected for jury duty at that time, your name goes right back to the top of the list of potential jurors. So, a month and a half later, I received another summons--not standby this time--for jury duty on January 22nd.

So, that was Monday. I arrived and checked in, drawing a panel number at random from one of those large popcorn tins--panel 3, whatever that meant. I showed up promptly at 9:00 am, as requested on my summons, and I sat there in awkward silence with 70 or so other people for the next half hour, until someone finally spoke to us. It seems that they wait until 9:30 to give us poor saps a chance to get lost and find our way back to them. Anyway, they showed us some dumb video about how important we were, and then explained how the day was going to go: we were going to sit there in more awkward silence for now. If and when our panel number was called, we would be escorted to a courtroom, where we may or may not be chosen for jury duty. She also explained that it was entirely possible for us to have to sit there in awkward silence until 4:30 p.m., without ever being called. Alrighty then. Sounds like fun.

The movie and explanation ended around 10 a.m. I had brought a book, but instead I mostly sat there and zoned out. At 11:30, the Deputy came into the waiting room and called panels 3-10 down to the courtroom. It was a total of 48 people, from whom they would be selecting 14 people--12 jurors and 2 alternates. I guess the possibility also existed that if they exhausted all 48 people without finding their 14, they could have requested more people from the waiting room.

At this point I'm thinking, OK, I have less than a 1 in 3 chance of being chosen based on the number of people from whom they are selecting. On top of that, I work for a law firm, am related to and friends with lawyers, am 8 months pregnant, and am visibly (and audibly) suffering from a bad cold. I'm the worst of the bad choices, right? How could these people not take pity on me?

When we arrived in the court room, the judge explained to us what was going to happen, and what was expected of us. He then told us the name of the lawsuit and read the charges involved. At that point, it was a little after noon. He decided that he would read the first group of names that they would interview as prospective jurors and have those people come sit in the jury box. I was the third person called. When the jury box was full, he excused everyone to lunch, telling those in the jury box to return after 45 minutes, and the rest of the crowd to return in and hour and a half.

We returned and did our interviews a little while later. It turned out that maybe I wasn't exactly the worst of the bad choices, but I still didn't think I would be selected. I guess I tend to assume that the population at large is living on the right side of the law, but apparently that isn't always the case. I was surprised that 3-4 people of that original group of 14 either currently had lawsuits pending, or didn't know if their lawsuit was still pending. Although, of those pending lawsuits, only one was criminal (apparently the guy had "a whole slew" of charges against him, including criminal trespassing and disorderly conduct). Then, of course, there was the Chinese restaurant owner, who has lived and owned a business in the US for over 20 years, and raised his teen aged children here, who proudly proclaimed that his English was "no very good." That seemed like a convenient excuse to me. But I digress. After interviewing all 14 of us, we were excused for another short break, and would be selected or released upon our return.

I returned with my fingers crossed, but I was the first name selected. The judge explained that the trial would start on Tuesday, and that he hoped it would be wrapped up by Thursday. So, if anybody has been looking for me, that's where I've been all week. Interestingly enough, I don't seem to know of anybody who has actually had to serve on a jury before. I certainly don't know anyone who has had multiple consecutive days of jury duty. So, as much as being an interesting tale, I guess this is also a PSA for what you might expect if you receive a summons for jury duty.

I have to say, I find the trial process interesting. What's kind of annoying is that at this time, we still have not been instructed as to who the alternate jurors are. So, when we go into deliberations tomorrow, 2 people will not be needed. I feel like, at this point, I would be annoyed to find out I was an alternate. I guess I will know tomorrow. And then, when the trial is over, I'll be able to share all the sordid details. Until then, you shall just have to wait with bated breath.

Oops

October 25th, huh? That's the last time I wrote something here? Well, I wish I had something interesting to report, like that my 8-week intensive training course for the KGB is now over, and I will be moving to an undisclosed location in Russia shortly. Or that an excruciatingly handsome man found me wandering around the desert in an amnesic state and nursed me back to health. Or perhaps that I had joined the Peace Corps and was off building orphanages in the rainforests of Costa Rica. But, yeah... Really? It was a big old mixture of laziness and busyness and writer's block, with a healthy dose of home computer problems thrown in.

So, the good news is that Christmas is now over, along with all the familial stress and financial drain that goes with it. I'm seriously considering going to sleep and not waking up until January, but it seems my work and family obligations (you know, like showing up at work and taking care of my toddler...) will not allow for such tomfoolery. Christmas was good though. It appears as though Toys 'R Us had a case of explosive diarrhea in my living room. Eric got entirely too much stuff, but that's ok. It's his last Christmas as the only child/grandchild, so I figure let him be spoiled rotten. I think his favorite gift, though, was his big boy bed that Santa Claus brought him. Well, more like Santa Claus dropped off a big box from IKEA with a million parts in it, and Chris and I spent 14.5 hours assembling it (mostly Chris--I decorated once the bed was together).

Well, I do have a bunch of other things that I'm planning to write about, and a million other pictures to share, but for now, I'm exhausted. I promise to be back before 2 months time. Promise!

Admission

Sometimes, when I’m at work, I get an overwhelming urge to do something half-assed, because it’s a lot easier, it’s what everyone else would do, and by the time anyone figures out that it wasn’t done right in the first place, it could never be traced back to me. But I don’t give in to that urge. Maybe because I work with my mom.

That feeling reminds me of this:

The ultimate in laziness.

I am so grateful that somebody finally invented hot dogs already in the bun, because I just don't know how much longer I could have survived the old routine of opening not only the hot dog package, but also the bun package, and then going through the whole rigamarole of trying to fit the hotdog into the bun. Talk about a time saver! It's reassuring to know that, on my death bed, I will no longer be grieving for the handful of minutes I would've given up over the course of my life, had I continued to make microwave hotdogs the conventional way. Just think of the moments I will save by not needing to fumble with twist-ties! Yes, it's true. The world is now a better place.

And also: dear lord--what is this world coming to?!?

The Kristrilogy

Chris got this "survey" from one of his friends. I thought it was pretty cool, different, and fun to do...so I did it three times. Here are my results:

Creating the Soundtrack for the Movie of Your Life
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button

A New Kristi
Opening Credits:Tiny Dancer-Elton John
Waking Up: Chiquitita-ABBA
First Day at school: The Impression that I Get-Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Falling In Love: Man on the Moon-REM
Fight Song: White Wedding-Billy Idol
Breaking Up: Ain’t Even done with the Night-The Cougar
Prom: Free Fallin’-Tom Petty
Life's OK: Let it Be-The Beatles
Mental Breakdown: Paradise City-Guns ‘N Roses
Driving: Who’ll Stop the Rain-CCR
Flashback: Pinball Wizard-The Who
Getting Back Together: Dope Nose-Weezer
Wedding: Loveshack-B-52s (Which, ironically, has been played at every wedding EVAR)
Birth of Child: Crisis King-Helmet
Final Battle: Standing Still-Jewel (I guess I'm a pacifist)
Death Scene: The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite-REM (Clearly dying in my sleep)
Funeral Song: Just a Girl-No Doubt

Kristentatious Strikes Back
Opening Credits: Wake Me Up Before you Go-Go-Wham! (If I'm ever in a band, I want that band to have an exclamation point at the end of its name!)
Waking Up: Paradise by the Dashboard Light-Meat Loaf
First Day at school: Promise-Violent Femmes
Falling In Love: Here I Go Again-Whitesnake
Fight Song: Maybe Katie-Barenaked Ladies (Ummm...watch out Katie?)
Breaking Up: Penny Lane-Beatles
Prom: Mama Mia-ABBA
Life's OK: Rhiannon-Fleetwood Mac
Mental Breakdown: Simple Man-Lynyrd Skynyrd
Driving: Last Hour-Elliott Smith
Flashback: Hold Me-Fleetwood Mac
Getting Back Together: We are the World-USA for Africa (Various Totally Rockin’ Artists)
Wedding: Riders on the Storm-Doors
Birth of Child: Girls Just Want to Have Fun-Cyndi Lauper (Birth? Fun? Maybe Cyndi and I need to have a talk.)
Final Battle: Can’t Stop-Red Hot Chili Peppers
Death Scene: I Heard It Through the Grapevine-Gladys Knight and the Pips
Funeral Song: Shower the People-James Taylor

Return of the Kristi(For the easy-listening crowd)
Opening Credits: Let’s Get Lost-Elloitt Smith
Waking Up: Footloose-Kenny Loggins
First Day at school: Tell Her About It-Billy Joel (one)
Falling In Love: Layla-Derek and the Dominos
Fight Song: Piano Man-Billy Joel (A. Who fights to Piano man?!? B. two)
Breaking Up: Here I go Again-Whitesnake (Interesting that I get this for falling in love and breaking up--apparently I'm a love 'em and leave 'em kind of girl...)
Prom: Take the Money and Run-Steve Miller Band
Life's OK: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da-Beatles
Mental Breakdown: Why Can’t We Be Friends-War (It's entirely possible that wondering why we can't be friends would drive me to drink)
Driving: Dreams-Fleetwood Mac
Flashback: Ugly-Violent Femmes
Getting Back Together: Come to my Window-Melissa Etheridge
Wedding: Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door-Bob Dylan
Birth of Child: Peace Sells-Megadeth
Final Battle: Don’t Stop Believin’-Journey (Seriously, Journey. I never stop believing)
Death Scene: Uptown Girl-Billy Joel (three...Dear I-Tunes, we need to sit down and have a talk about your shuffle mechanism and why you've chosen to play 3 Billy Joel songs in rapid succession)
Funeral Song: Hard Day’s Night-Beatles

It's fun...try it. Sometimes the song doesn't make any sense at all, and sometimes its just so apropos.

Taking what they're giving...

Oh how this "work" thing interferes with my blogging. Not only do I not have much time to write anything, but I'm completely zapped of any type of creative energy. And non-creative energy, for that matter. I'm lucky if, by the time I get Eric in bed, I have enough energy to sit on the couch and do sudoku puzzles until my eyes are so dry that it's painful to blink. Sometimes, though, I just sort of sit there in a daze thinking of things that I could do if I were only more ambitious. Like that hat I started knitting right after I knit that one hat that one time, and then immediately realized that it was too itchy to wear. (I've never knit anything besides that hat. In the knitting patterns book I have, it says something like, "Don't attempt this hat until you have a few easier projects under your belt." Ha! I showed them.) Anyway, so, there's hat no. 2, which currently looks nothing like a hat, but more like maybe an inch or two of knitted yarn. There's also a plethora of scrapbooking stuff that I've bought and fully intended to use for Eric's scrapbook, which is great, and so cute, and also one page long, with that one page containing only his name. And most of the stuff I have for his scrapbook is stuff I bought before he was even born and, oh, have I ever mentioned that he's almost TWO AND A HALF?

So, what is my point, you ask? My point is this: before I worked full time, I had so much more time to think about knitting and scrapbooking and how snapshots of my life could more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog, if only I had infinite time and money, and well, desire to make snapshots of my life more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog. If I wanted to, I could've sat around for hours (where by "hours," I'm referring to 4-minute intervals) and planned out how I would make caramel corn balls, wrapped in wax paper, tied with a little black ribbon and decorated to look like a ghost, which I would then give as Halloween treats so the other neighborhood moms would think, "Oh, how darling, she's really got her act together," and would then go home and promptly throw my concoction into the garbage, because, let's face it, how do we *really* know it's safe and razor blade free? BUT INSTEAD, I don't even have time to properly punctuate, which in my book, ranks right up there on the embarrassment scale with incontinence. So, there you have it, folks. No time for punctuatin', plenty of time for rampant lunacy.

Eric says...

HAPPY ROCKTOBER!

You and me, we go in style.

Whenever I hear Neil Diamond's Cracklin' Rosie, I can't help but think of a guy I used to work with. Actually, we were both promotions interns for a radio station at the same time. His name was Bill, but we started calling him "June" because he was a Junior. He was a really funny guy, but he had a bit of an abrasive sense of humor. He was always setting somebody up to be the brunt of his joke. Sometimes it was kind of annoying, but I have to admit, he was funny...even when it was at my expense.

Bill and I worked together every Tuesday, and we were the only interns there that day. Tuesdays were generally Corporate Takeover day, which meant that Bill and I were usually faced with the task of hauling a bunch of swag to the office of whichever company had won the weekly contest. Our weekly trips were always an adventure because we always had either bad directions or were headed to a hard-to-find address, or both. Bill always drove because he was a smoker, and I wouldn't let him smoke in my car. He was definitely one of those guys who would never admit or even acknowledge the fact that he was lost...and we always were.

I can remember one time, in particular, when our travels took us to downtown Chicago, about as far east as you can go on Randolph without being in Lake Michigan. The thing that we didn't realize was that Randolph was a one-way street heading west. And there was also a Lower Randolph (screwy Chicago and its screwy lower streets...). To make a long story short, we circled around the Grant Park area no less than 10 times, each time ending up on Lower Randolph when we wanted to be on Upper Randolph, with Bill getting more and more agitated with each loop we made. By the time we finally figured out how to get to the building we were heading towards, he had eaten a bunch of the candy bars and stuff that we had brought to give out.

The other thing I remember from that particular trip was that he told me, as we passed over a drawbridge on the way back out to the west side of the city, that he'd like to be the guy who sits in the tower and occasionally has to raise and lower the drawbridge. He insisted that he would like either that job, or the graveyard shift at any gas station, because he wouldn't have to do much and would have a lot of down time to play his banjo. That's the kind of guy he was.

One of my favorite moments from my internship involved Bill and I traveling either to or from a Corporate Takeover. Once we got over the initial weirdness of the, "Um, do you care if we don't listen to the radio station that we are currently working for," Bill would station surf to the point I wanted to smack him. Then he would inevitably settle on something weird. One day, he paused on the Oldies station and Cracklin' Rosie came on. At that point in my life, I don't remember having strong feelings one way or the other toward that song. I certainly didn't mind it, but I fully expected him to change the station. Instead, he turned the song up REALLY loud. And then proceeded to sing even louder. Then I joined in, and for the next 3 minutes, we did nothing but drive and sing Cracklin' Rosie at the top of our lungs. We must have been a sight to behold. When the song finished, he turned down the radio and said, "Sorry. I just really like that song." And then we proceeded along as if nothing had happened.

When our internships ended at the end of 2001, we parted ways and I haven't seen him since. Occasionally he'll cross my mind, along with all sorts of other people that I wonder what the hell happened to. Today I heard Cracklin' Rosie on my way home from work and it prompted me to run a google search on him to see anything turned up. As it turns out, he's doing quite a bit of improv these days, which of course makes me insanely jealous. But I'm happy for him--I bet he's really good at it. And I wouldn't want the song Cracklin' Rosie to remind me of anyone else.