Friday, November 27, 2009

Heart of Gold Chains and Neon Hats

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.


Monday, November 23, 2009

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.

Friday, November 20, 2009

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?

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

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?

Friday, November 13, 2009

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.

Monday, November 9, 2009

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.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

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.

Monday, November 2, 2009

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.
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