For those who don't know, this chick loves Neil Young.

Indeed I do.

I also love to randomly spit out the entire theme song to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air at odd times of the day, including during important conversations of a serious nature.

Let's call it my own special breed of Tourettes.

And so, when I heard about this video, I had to see it.

Without further ado, I give you:




plus



equals




I gotta admit, Jimmy Fallon. Ya done pretty good.

Grey Matter Matters

The following is a short list of random things I often think about, and therefore often discuss to no end. There are no real answers. Only speculation.

- If you can be overwhelmed and underwhelmed, is there ever a point in between where you are simply 'whelmed'?

- If a bad person is considered to be an "unsavoury character", why are good people not referred to as "savoury"?

- Who was the meathead that started incorrectly putting an 'a' in definite and definitely? Definate does definately NOT exist, but thank you to all who continue to make the 'a' part of a team that it does not belong on.

- I am not disgusted. I am simply gusted. I am also not dismayed. So, I guess I am mayed.

- Y do ppl type actual letterz & emailz in weirdo txting shorthand? Ur hrting my hed. lolllzzzz. idk. I'm old or something.

- If a tree falls in the forest, does anyone hear? Oh wait. That one's been done. Without a real answer.

- If you are "under the weather" when you're sick, do you feel "over the weather" when you feel better than good? And if you feel normal, are you just "the weather"?

That is all. For the moment. The rest have left my brain at this time. There will be more soon, unfortunately for you all.

Moulin Rouge

We've lived in our "new" place for about half a year now. So for half a year, we've lived with the horrible "apartment off-white" colour that they all come with.

We've been meaning to paint. Really. We know the colours we want.

We just didn't do it.

Til now. The three walls that wrap around the kitchen (one in the front hall, one in the living room, one in the desk area) are FINALLY painted red. It went a li'l something like this:

C - Surprise, Kris! I bought paint while you were at work. Look at me... paintin'!

Kris - Didja tape it right? Is the shade right? Shouldn't we have drop cloths? What if the dogs get paint on them?

C - The paint is kinda pinkish.

Kris - NO! NO PINK! YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT PINK!

C - Oh, nevermind. Not pink anymore.

Kris - whew.


Kris - Since you won't allow me to paint, I'm just going to take pictures of you. You're pretty when you paint. But you should paint shirtless. I'm just sayin'.

C - It's been a day already. Stop taking pictures of the walls.

Kris - Can't help it. Need to take pictures from different perspectives at different times of the day.

Jack - Mummy? Why are the walls bleeding?

Kris - Shhh, dog. Want a treat? Then be quiet.

Jack - You DO look like that lady in the painting.

Kris - That's it. No treat for you.

Daisy - Look over there!

Jack - I am! I am!

Daisy - Mummy... Daddy... I have to show you something...

Daisy - I couldn't help myself. The paint looked fun, so I rubbed up against it. I was wrong. It was not fun.

Jack - I'm a good boy! Where's my treat?

Kris - Aw, I have a red dog. Like Clifford.

C - Who?

Kris - Clifford The Big Red Dog. Ah, nevermind. It'll go away on its own, right?

Jack & Daisy - Sooo.... treats?

Gagged.

Yep. That's right. It's time for another "Letter To Random Person Or Thing" post. Today's victim/ recipient? Lady HatchetFace. I mean Gaga.

Dear Lady Gaga,

You and I, we seem to have a problem.

I'm starting to think you have put some kind of hex on me, a voodoo curse that makes people completely insane in an undetectable manner.

Why do I think this?

Well... as of late, I've been falling asleep at the usual time. Sleeping a solid few hours. But it seems that almost every damn night at around 2am, I wake up. I look at the clock. I think "Oh, good. I've got quite a few hours yet. Back to sleep I go", and close my eyes, waiting for sleep to hit.

But you know what hits instead?

This:





Yeah.

This damn song plays in my head over and over until 6am. Not the whole song, mind you. Just the beginning part where I'm convinced that you are speaking in hieroglyphics.

Hieroglyphics, I say.

I can't sleep, Miss Gaga. Can I call you Gaga? I think that since you keep me up every night, we're past the usual pleasantries. Gaga it is.

I realize that I work at a gay & lesbian radio station, and will therefore never escape your wrath. I also don't really hate you, I am just sometimes frightened by you. I enjoy how you push the envelope. Just push it elsewhere, and let a chick get some rest.

Respectfully, if slightly fearfully yours,

Kristen

p.s. - with most of the fucked up... uh, excuse me... I mean artistic... outfits you wear - how the hell can you SEE?

I am intrigued.

Until next time, Gaga....

So... same time tonight?

It's Rude To Stair

It is widely known and well-documented how much I truly hate working out.

(See: here ...um, here ...and, oh... here, too)

To summarize, the thought of excercising generally brings about this type of facial expression:

Yeah. Pure joy, really.

But alas and alack, while my metabolism has been MORE than gracious to me, I'm not getting any younger.

I have no muscles. I am weak. I am unhealthy.

Chick's gotta do some movin' or it's all downhill from here.

So what do you do when you hate the thought of joining a big stupid gym with confusing machines and judgy, judgy eyes?

You take the stairs, my friend. You take the stairs.



I live in a building with a lot of stairs. 15 floors, I think.

So I'm making use of what's right in my home.

I'm just starting out, so there hasn't been much to speak of yet. But I'm feeling it. And I know that running up, up, up and down, down, down as much as possible will be a lot better than the sitting, sitting, sitting, and eating, eating eating that I do.

I'm hoping that, in time, my ass will be so toned and lifted that it'll be reachin' for my neck.

(Yeah, I realize that made no sense. So?)

And if I ever want to travel and excercise on the go, I'll just borrow the Bluth Family Stair Car.

I hope to avoid hop-ons.

Breakin' The Law, Breakin' The Law

At the request of my significant other, I am going to post about a dream I had the other night:

It was one of those far-too-real type dreams. Everything was pretty much the same as real life. C and I lived where we do now, only the apartment in the dream was a bit bigger and better.

(It's my dream, I can upgrade if I want to.)

Anyway - as it happened, we ended up in a bit of trouble. It seemed as though my dear law-abiding boyfriend was somehow fixing Leafs games along with our lovely friend Jeff (of Hockey Night In Canada, which may explain things) and got caught.

Not only were they in trouble legally, but the backlash from regular hockey-loving folk was quite bad. Death threats and what-not.

And so, one night I was alone in our dark, floor-to-ceiling windowed, slightly-maybe-kinda-larger-than-normal apartment, when two men came to my door. They informed me that C was in a LOT of trouble, but the biggest danger was the angry mob of pissed-off men who wanted him dead post haste.

He was going to have to go into hiding, also known as The Witness Protection Program.

And therein was where this chick got emotional. In order to stay in a relationship with my boyfriend, I was going to have to move to the States (I think Michigan?), dye my hair blonde (again?!), be re-named Rita (Dexter's wife? No thanks.) and leave a job that I had really wanted.

When C finally came home, he was ready to pack up and leave. I was not. We got into a huge heartbreaking discussion about whether or not I was going to come with him or not.

I woke up crying.

I'm fully ready for the comments about how the dream relates to my relationship, lack of commitment, blah blah blah. But trust - In real life, you'd be reading a blog written by a newly American blonde chick named Rita.

Moral of the story? Witness Protection Program = Kristen crying herself awake.

And to the Toronto Maple Leafs? Don't make this dream a reality.

Win. More.

Thanks.

Forgot To Remember

Dear "other blog",

I'm writing this to you in apology.

It has been brought to my attention that I've neglected you, ignored you, and possibly even betrayed you.

Be assured - it was not purposeful.

It's just that I had other things going on. Events. Life stuff. You know how it is.

Like Halloween! That just passed...

Yes you're right, I did recycle an old costume.

You know me so well.

But it was fun nonetheless.

And before that?

Well, there was Dave & Tally's wedding:

We may have danced like drunken fools.

And we were the only couple to slow dance / sing loudly to GNR's "Patience".

But y'see, that's exactly why I didn't post about it to you. That's just not your kinda thing.

And before that, you ask?

Oh, lots of things happened.

And while I may have posted about them on this blog, I want you to know... I'm not playing favourites.

In fact, I just posted something new for you. Right now.

See? A new post!

I DO still love you.

So no hard feelings, ok?

*whew* Thanks.

Sincerely,

Me

p.s. - Oh... right... about that whole "changing haircolour" thing. I, um... did that. Sorry. Forgot to tell you.

Salty Tears

I remember a time when nothing would make me cry.

No movie ever made me cry until I was 12 or 13 and watched the Disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame and bawled with my best friend Vicky.

I was upset at how they treated him.

Now, I'm 26.

And certain things make me really emotional.

Stupidly so.

Observe, example A - a friggin' NOODLE commercial, no less:

I watch this. And I cry.

Craig called me in to the living room yesterday to watch me cry at this commercial. He laughed at me. But then HE cried too.

You can't hide from this one. It'll getcha.

Poor little salt boy.

I'll be your friend. You don't have to cry.

But I hope it makes you feel better to know

that I'm crying like a freak

right beside you.


Sigh.

Hollow Weiners

Oh hey, everyone.

Did you know it's Halloween this weekend?

Riiiiiight. That.

I usually like to have a well-prepared costume weeks in advance.

This year however, I do not.

And so this Shambled Rambler is scrambling for a ramblin' shambled costume.

I need to turn this:


... into something semi-awesome.

But here's the thing - last minute chick costumes usually end up cheesy, skanky, or just plain bad.

Try googling Halloween costumes for women. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Here are a few I found:

Tin Chick.

Right. Instead of Tin MAN. But, by turning him into a woman, you must automatically bring out the tits and get as close as you can to showing the ass and babymaker.

Since most people believe the Tin Man preferred men, I don't know that he'd go for this.

Next!




Harry Potter....Girl?

Cuz that's not Hermione. That's Harry Potter as a woman.

Not my thing. I'd definitely Avada Kedavra that one. (That's right, I read all the books. And liked em, too. Wanna fight about it?)

Onward and upward....



Ah. Wonder Woman.

I considered this one, what with the new dark hair and such.

We found an AWESOME vintage Wonder Woman costume from the 70's or something. Gotta love vintage shops. It would have been perfect, but it was too big.

Such is my luck, friends.

And so... on I go, journeying forth to find something to turn me into someone else for a night or two.

But I may just find a masquerade mask

throw 'er on

and be done with it.


Tra la la, folks.

The Friendly Giant Would Be Proud

I used to be a Floor Fixator.

Assuming no one has any idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain.

When I was younger, I watched the floor as I walked. I couldn't help it. I found out when I was in highschool that people had different perspectives and ideas about my floor staring.

Some people, before they actually met me, thought that I stared at the floor because I was a bitch and had no need to make eye contact with any of the lowly humans around me.

Others knew that it was because I was just plain scared. In my own eyes, I was the lowly human.

Over the years, I've done my damndest to change that. It's no wonder some people took advantage of me - they could tell my weakness by taking one good look at me. How much self esteem can one person have, when they're too afraid to even look up in a crowd?

I hadn't thought about it too much. Until today.

Walking to work, I passed a woman who was staring at the ground ahead of her as she walked. Because I had noticed, I realized that meant my head was up.

In the past few months especially, I realize that I have made a conscious effort to keep my head up as I walk. It makes a difference.

When I pass the horrible gang dudes that yell disgusting things at me, or homophobic insults at others? My head's up. They can't know that I'm scared of them everyday, because I know what they'll do - I've seen 'em.

When I pass the bitchy predatory girls who automatically hate every other woman in a ten foot radius? My head's up. I look em in the eye, because my fear of them is long over.

Point is, I'm learning. And changing. And maybe becoming more like the tough-shit chick I'm really good at pretending to be.




And now I look up.

Waaaaaaaay up.

Anniversary Of An Uninteresting Event

Two years ago I went on a date.

It was a first date.
He was from Toronto. I lived in St. Catharines.
He drove all the way down to see me.

We didn't know each other that well yet, and first dates always make me nervous. Especially because I wasn't used to dating men so much older than me.

Being the control freak that I am, I offered to drive us around for the night. We met in a Kelsey's parking lot off the highway.

A little strange, a little new.

He had asked me what I wanted to do.
So I made him come to the lake with me and go on the swings.
I am a swing freak.

Any man that will go on swings with me on a first date - with his good shoes and swing-hating ways - is automatically a good catch.

...at least until he tells you about the time he ate a spider. But I learned to look past that.

We then went to a bar, where we managed to procur a hidden corner booth in the basement. Conversation was not a problem. A good sign.
Unbeknownst to me, a couple of my friends were there for drinks and stopped by for a moment.
I got the thumbs up. He passed the test for them.

Having just gotten out of a long-term crazy relationship, I needed more convincing.

Fast-forward two years:

Guess I quickly became convinced.

Add two dogs. One cat. An apartment. Love, stress, friendship, jobs, bickering, smiling, laughter and life. Major ups and major downs.

A partnership.






Happy two years, boy.

Thanks for the dates. You must've been a good kisser.

Hair I Am

So.

I guess no one will sing "Leggy Blonde" to me anymore...




And no one will will tell me I look like these and other random celebrities...


l

... simply because I'm blonde.

After all the indecision, and the literal YEARS of "to dye it or not to dye it",

I've finally taken the leap.

It may seem small and insignificant to most people. Understandably, as it is just dye.

But for me it's a re-invention, and an opportunity for me to actually do something I've been scared of for so long.

Change is good. And when I look in the mirror, I see something different. I see a chick who isn't going to hide behind her hair and lie down and take the "blonde" assumptions and incorrect ideas that people had of me.

I'm lovin' the dark side.

So be happy, readers and friends.

The bitching and inability to make a decision

is

officially

OVER.

Bye bye, bleach. I've moved on.

J-E-L-L- Oh, no you didn't!

Everyone knows the saying "the proof is in the pudding".

And so I must ask:

WHY is the proof in the pudding?

WHAT is it proof of?

And WHO put said proof in the pudding?

Was it Cosby?

I'll bet it was Cosby.

Hey Cosby - next time put your proof somewhere else.

I'ma eat my pudding. And I don't want to accidentally choke on any of your elusive "proof".

Thanks, Doctor Huckstable.

A Shambled Bathroom PSA

Recently, signs went up in the bathrooms where I work:




Reading them daily makes me think.

Are people not washing their hands anyway, and therefore need to be reminded and threatened with H1N1 before they do?

So,

I made up my own sign:

Look for it in a bathroom near you.

(editors note - Yes. I misspelled genitals. But really, you shouldn't be touching your gentials either.)

White Night

Last weekend I experienced my first Nuit Blanche.

It's pretty much a city-wide art extravaganza, with art installations set up throughout Toronto.

Crazy awesomeness could be a better description.

And so, our favourite Arts & Media Power Couple, Bob & Laura, were our official tour guides and drinking buddies for the evening.

Better late than never, here's my re-cap:


Ready to go!

Three of us looking up at one of the first pieces we came across - I call it "Big Damn Silver Bunny Thing"

Please keep in mind that I had been into the rye prior to and during these shenanigans.

Bob & Laura can out Nuit Blanche any Nuit Blancher. Who else has homemade matching shirts?

No one. That's who.

This is also art.

It's called "One Eyed Mongoloid Hides Behind Man With Facial Hair"

Ok, ok, there's more coming...

Hey, Dave! Who are you?

Dave, if you read this. Email me. I wanna know why YOU get this kinda recognition.

A crazy group of fun-havers.

Another art installation - garbage bags. Laura is nicely asking you to pick up your trash.

Give a larbage.

Throw out your garbage.

This picture is my favourite.

To me, it looks like Craig is suggesting things to Laura that Bob is not impressed with.

We didn't. Whoooops.

What's in the coke bottle?

Couldn't be rye. Just couldn't be.

Ant thing at the Cameron House. These things crawled up the walls.

At least, as far as I can remember. Oh, the foggy brain I have...

I pose in front on an old car because my boyfriend asked me to.

Mama does what Mama's told.

Pylons!

Lit up pylons!

What's better than pylons?

Nothing.

So... I really like pylons.

On our way home, Craig and I passed this.

I'm realizing now how much my pictures fail to explain our night. Did I mention there was rye involved?

The hordes of people romaing the street was unbelievable. After mapping our walk, we now know that we walked 10km across the city.

This is how you a) expand you horizons artistically b) spend time with friends c) get hours of cardio and d) do it all drunkenly.

The. End.

Kristen View

Everyone is going nuts about Google Street View today.

So I checked it out.

Searched my house. Searched my work. Searched the way home from work.

And look what couple I found pictured on said Street View.

Nice.

I've always wanted to be a blurred face on a public website.

Thank you Google for making a little girl's dream a reality!

A Three Hour Tour

We recently held a work party aboard a boat. Looking back I realize that the boat cruise was, in fact, a three-hour tour.

How very Gilligan of us.

This calls for another Shambled How-To.

Shall we??

How To Re-Make Gilligan's Island Without The "Stranded" Part:

1. Before boarding the vessel, meet with fellow cruise goers at a safe house to ensure rules of boat safety are explained and memorized. Then drink mimosas and take pictures.

2. Travel to location of docked boat by limo, so that the stress of city driving does not impair one's judgement and cause them to later become confused and throw themselves off of said boat.

Besides - men this pretty should travel everywhere in style.

3. Board boat. Receive drink tickets. Use one or more ticket. Socialize. Repeat.

4. When the buffet lunch becomes available, be sure to eat more than you think you can fit, just in case you DO become stranded on an island and a fatassed skipper decides to take all the rations you may have brought.

5. The guy with the hat is always in charge. And he always has a hot lady beside him, who can take the place of Mary Anne and Ginger. Also remember - he who wears the captain's hat is probably the captain. This means he is in charge of drink tickets. Make friends with the captain.

6. If you've mistakenly forgotten your neck protection, borrow someone else's. Even if it is fuchsia and looks better on him than you.

7. Take picture inventory of all who board the ship, and later do a head count. If another woman kisses you while picture is being taken, it does not count as one head due to attachment. It's still two people.

8. Lastly, and most importantly, REMEMBER TO GET OFF THE BOAT WHEN IT DOCKS. I cannot stress this enough. Otherwise, who knows where you will end up. And sometimes, when you get off that boat, there's a limo waiting to take you to another location full of beer and wondrous things.

So screw you, Gilligan. This is where you went wrong.

Ask! Ask! Ask!

I have a new girl crush. I just couldn't help myself.

I know, I know... you're probably thinking "Another one?!"

But it's beyond my control.

Isabella Rossllini is the newest addition to my chick crush roster.

As most of you know, The Toronto Internation Film Festival recently ended.

My dear friend, the lovely Laura, had two tickets to see a screening and discussion with Isabella Rossellini for the Green Porno series.

So we went on a date and both fell in love with Isabella.

Lemme tell ya... She is cute, funny, intelligent and just twisted enough to make me love her.

We weren't the only ones crazy about her. In the audience, there were some folks (including a rocket scientist and other similar professional-types) who were dressed as different animal reproductive systems.

Even an alien one.

They follow Isabella everywhere.

Yep.

Take a look at one episode of Green Porno. Meet Claudio Campagna and learn something funny, interesting, and then sad.

Click here to view.

Sigh.

Such a crush I have.

Respect Walk

On Sunday September 13th, Craig and I hooked up Jack and Daisy's leashes and headed out on the AIDS Walk for Life along with our fellow Proud FM'ers.

Days like that remind me of why I'm happy to come into work.

We were walking for a serious issue - we were there for a reason. But we still managed to have a laugh and good time, even while serving our purpose.

Exactly how it should be.

The Proud family is a happy family.

Next year, join us.

As Requested

Dear Masuka,

Thanks for giving Craig and I tickets to the Leafs opening pre-season game last week.

We didn't know it was a free game until Jeff told us it was probably too late. Rabid fans had surely eaten up all the available tickets. And just as we were getting ready to head down there to see if we could charm our way in, you sent me a text saying that you had tickets for us.

It was indeed my first NHL game, and thus my first Leafs game. I am a horrible Canadian.




You couldn't come to the game right away, and would meet up with us later. So we went and found our seats. Up the stairs we went... and up more stairs... and then more... and then another set.

When we sat at our seats in the last row of the ACC, the place started spinning wildly for me. I began to sweat and get a bit dizzy.


Insane fear of heights causes vertigo and mental craziness. I thought I was going to have a panic attack and pitch myself forward, only to fall to my death.

I lived.

Eventually I got over it enough to use my noise makers, swear at the Boston Bruins, chastise shitty plays by the Leafs, and scream for really no reason at all.

I also finally got to see my first real, live hockey fight.

But honestly... I've seen better.



All in all, it was a good time.

And it was lovely spending a bit of time with you and your hot wife.

So thanks for the tickets, Masuka. Tell Dexter to get his head out of his ass and divorce that chick. She talks like she's been lobotomized.

Love,

Kristen ( & Craig)

P.S. - I lost my free can of Coke that they gave us on the way out.

Do you think this guy took it?

Jerk.