If you would like to give me presents

I would very much like this teapot...

Ask me about 19th century American Locomotives!

I bought this scarf so people will think I'm a train enthusiast.

I'm wearing it today, and I hope people ask me about "George S. Griggs in 1854". That's my favorite train.

You can't carouse in skinny jeans

I had sailor pants. Sailor jeans, actually, but they were still cool. They had wide legs and buttons, and I was all set for drunken carousing.

Somehow, they are now too big. I bought them 2 weeks ago. I've worn them once. This is the saddest tale of losing weight that I've ever heard, really.

WASTED SAILOR PANTS!

This is some tragic stuff.

Above the Store

Patty is my grandmother. The location is Quincy, Michigan, and this store is arguably one of the most influential places in my life. I grew up playing hide-and-seek in racks of wedding gowns and being babysat by employees, playing in dressing rooms. I can't possibly begin to explain how the store's physical qualities-- its rooms, staircases, wallpaper-- have influenced the aesthetics of my imagination.

Out of all the fantastic spaces in the store, upstairs is by far (in my mind) the best. Formerly apartments, interior walls have been torn down, windows boarded up (covered by the faux-stucco facade), and a place where families used to live their lives is now "storage". As depressing as that sounds, it's kind of fantastic. The following photos far from do the space justice, mostly owing to poor lighting and my incompetency, but it's something. I might steal some photos from Kylie, too, as she has a bit more skill with the camera...











*

*A note on this one: My mother, who "never did drugs" painted this "when she was a kid" Mmhmm...


Hole in the floor


Hole in the ceiling

I am solving all of my problems

I hate the shoe cliche. If anybody ever gives me a novelty plaque that says "If the shoe fits...buy it in every color!" or a calendar with a different pair of 6-inch heels on it for every month, I'm going to be pretty pissed. This is a problem because I absolutely fit the shoe cliche, the shopping cliche, the "give me some peep-toe pumps and a piece of chocolate and I'll be happy" cliche. THERE ARE NOVELTY FIGURINES AND CROSS-STITCHES THAT APPLY TO MY LIFE.





This is unacceptable. I am WAY too pretentious to acknowledge that I may have something in common with the so-called fashionistas of mainstream middle America.

Naturally, I had to do something about this. Abandoning my shoe collection, or even ceasing to expand it, really wasn't an option for me. Instead, I bought these:



See? They are totally practical and almost ugly (I'll still wear them with dresses, though). Shoes bought entirely for their functionality.

They don't make motherfucking cross-stitches for that.

What I did yesterday OR How to be a productive member of society

Fire Safety Is my #1 Priority.

So. I burn candles in my bathroom, because I like them, and it enhances bubble-bathing. Sometimes I forget about them and leave them burning while I go do other things. Sometimes the candle melts itself and the wick burns down to the end and green candle-wax drips and splatters all over the place, then dries.





The flash made it look really gross, but you can see it better:



I know, you wish you had my life...

I know you won't do this, but...

Okay, so Dolce and Gabbana's fall ads definately look like stills out of a really pretentious production of Pericles or something. Seriously. Flip through their fall 2007 ads on the D&G site and you'll see what I mean.

Also, I kind of lost interest in the manual labor post, but I'd like to give a shout-out to Kylie for reminding me to write it. Maybe another time. Probably not, though.

Maybe you can drive my car

I guess I should write something new for you all. I really don't feel like it, though. I mean, between classes and college applications, I'm pretty much written-out. I would rather cook or shop or flip through magazines or talk, anything so long as it isn't pounding on a keyboard....but here I am. And it's just because I don't want my readers to have abandonment issues.

Lately I've been contemplating learning to drive. I've always had a handy excuse, courtesy of neurally mediated hypotension, not to, but my doctor has esentially given me the go-ahead. So I technically can learn to drive. My other excuse, of waiting until I'm 18, is fast approaching its expiration, too. So I soon may find myself behind the wheel of the family car, which brings me to my next point.

We own a Chrysler Pacifica, a Lexus somethingorother, and a junky Taurus (which is now my sister's). The Pacifica is impossible to manuver, even for a skilled driver, so there's no way I can drive that. The Taurus is at college with my sister, and is basically hers anyway. This leaves the Lexus.

It is not new, it's like a 2003 or something, but it is still kind of fancy and nice, and I get the feeling my parents would not be cool with me wrecking it. So what will I drive? Hmmm....perhaps something else?

So. This has led me to start thinking about cars, something I have never done (well, beyond saying "Ew. that Hummer is ugly"). I have no idea if my parents will buy me a car or not, but a used one is, I'm thinking, not out of the question. So what would I want, say, if they were to buy me a car? The practical answer is obviously a hybrid, like a Prius or something, but I don't know how much that costs/if it would be very cheap used. Instead, I've kind of been lusting after Jeeps.

Wierd, right?

I like the old-school safari style Jeeps, that can probably drive through quicksand and mountains and maybe even upside-down. Like, a real Jeep, all army-inspired and khaki and with a roof that unzips. Only, with suede and wood interiors in a medium brown color....I'm thinking custom, of course.

Actually, I'm thinking maybe I should put down the fashion magazine that is touting utilitarian chic and deal with the prospect of a totally lame used Honda.

Everyone's a suspect.

So. Today was garage sale day....


6:05- Wake up for the first time.

6:10- Wake up for the second time.

6:15- Wake up for the third time. Get dressed, stumble downstairs.

6:20- Growl at my mom for not putting the muffins in the oven yet. Make three more signs leading to our house on old window shades.

7:00- Assemble way ghetto signs. (Window shade signs+garden stakes+coat hangers+lots of duct tape)

7:25- Wait on first paying customers (and non-paying customers) of the day: A lady and two guys. I take the lady's money for some random household crap, my mom takes guy #1's money for a microwave, and guy #2 walks off with an antique adding machine. My dad gets pissed and won't shut up about it. So a guy stole our adding machine. You're out maybe three dollars. Get over it.

7:40- Leave with still pissed-off father to put signs up.

8:00- Return to garage. Eat muffins. Sell random crap to random people.

8:30- Biker guy shows up, in full spandex and helmet with mirrors. I stifle a laugh and sell him random crap.

9:00- Kylie comes and hangs out in the garage with me. I make her go buy me iced coffee.

9:35- Kylie comes back. I listen to Belle and Sebastian (pretty inoffensive music to shoppers) and half-listen to Kylie while I sing along. We talk about sidewalk chalk, the Prince of Space, and spunky Asian chicks.

10:30- Kylie leaves to get ready for work, I keep selling random crap. People buy the refrigerator and cabinets and leave. They'll pick them up later.

11:00- Parents ditch me to go eat macaroni. I listen to Sufjan Stevens.

12:00- I yell inside and make my mom come be cashier while I eat. I go iside and eat Chinese BBQ pork buns and green pepper.

12:30- I reluctantly return to the sale. My iPod dies. I grumble and refold stuff that customers messed up.

1:00- Biker guy comes back, sans spandex. He buys two bike seats (of course), a polo, and a dehumidifier. Fridge lady comes back and loads fridge into pickup. Her nephew (or something)'s house burned down. He needed a new fridge. Makes sense.

1:30- Cabinet people show. They load the cabinets and buy a hat shaped like a dog's head. I go inside and make my mom watch the sale until it closes. I go watch cooking shows in my room.

2:00- I go back outside and start packing up. It's hot and my feet hurt.

2:30- Stuff is pretty much packed up, I go with my dad to take down signs. We get to the place where the last sign was, and it's nowhere to be found. The day ends as it began, with my father getting pissed because people stole random stuff that's really not valuable.

So. Now you're up to speed. I'm bored and tired, and my neighborhood is full of thieving idiots. Whenever I see someone closing a garage door, or opening their car, I quickly look to see if they appear to be harboring stolen goods. Now, everyone is a suspect.

The end.

So I've decided to start blogging again. Just about random things, like I used to. I'm hoping to avoid angsty rants. They're no fun.

I looked at luggage today (on the internet, I didn't go shopping). I don't really know why I've got this thing about luggage, but I'm convinced that a set of old-fashioned trunks (with wheels) is absolutely necessary. I don't really travel much, and when I do it's hardly for more than a week. Still, I've got this notion that me having a heavy trunk with lots of latches and leather straps is a really good idea.

It's not.

I struggle with standard carry-on. You know, those little roller bags? Remember how when you were little it seemed impossible to drag them along without them (or you) falling over? I still have that problem. I'll be briskly walking down the terminal, feeling all jet-setty with my trenchcoat and moving sidewalk stride....and then I totally trip over a bag the size of a cereal box. Not cool.

Also, trunks are kind of heavy. Now, I've convinced myself that if I get one with wheels, it'll be no problem. It'll weigh a ton, but I can just pull it along like any other piece of luggage. This will not happen. I will end up flattened under the enormous weight of my beautiful trunk, which I sadly could not control long enough to make it check-in.

My final prolem is the luggage carosel. Well, more acurately, the luggage carosel + my lack of upper body strength. As in, TOTAL lack of upper body strength. I'm the girl who is crashing into everyone as she runs around the carosel, tightly gripping her luggage, but is unable to actually lift the bag off until some annoyed businessman takes pity and helps her.

So the trunk thing is definately not going to work.

So.....I want this one.

In which Krissy upsets herself

I started to clean my room today. When this occurs, it is not generally prompted by my mother's requests. Nor is it prompted by her threats ("No Martha Stewart magazine until your room is clean!"). Rather, it occurs only when I have the desperate need or want to find something long buried by piles of clothes or hidden in shoeboxes of random junk.

Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.

Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.

And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.

I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.

In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.

The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.

I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.

It's sleek and speedy. And not a Dell.

I imagine that it will echo in my dusty corner of cyberspace when this entry is posted. The space has long been empty. It will probably take several years for some intrepid explorers to uncover this post. The "Abandoned Blog" sign has scared most readers off long ago. But here it is, to be found tomorrow or next August: An update of Krissy's blog.

I've rediscovered the internet, it seems, after months of ignoring it. The principal reason behind my rediscovery is the computer I'm typing on. While not the apple I'd hoped for, my new Sony Vaio is certainly satisfactory. No more busted-up Dell with dial-up. Quite frankly, it's inspiring.

So that's what brings me back to the internet. Hopefully, I'll stay here, and not drift back into technological seclusion, but I can't say for sure...

Flexible Fabric Is Better

I really hate plastic band-aids. They remind me of every part of my chilhood that I hated. The uncomfortable feeling of it being either too tight or too loose depending on how you move, the way it never really fits, I can't stand it. No matter what you do, a plastic band-aid will not be comfortable.

You have to make sure, when applying a plastic band-aid, to choose the correct size. If you pick one too large, you will not only waste it, because there are always less big ones ion a box, but you will cover a larger area with adhesive than neccessary. This means more stinging than neccessary when the time comes to rip the band-aid off. If you choose one too small, it will fall off easily, exposing the wound and losing adhesive. You will then have to apply a secondary band-aid. A careful consideration of band-aid proportion is very important.

I hate things that don't fit. I always have, always will. I refused to wear anything but stretch pants until the age of eleven. I still refuse to wear souvenir tee-shirts until at least two years later, after they've shrunk and I've grown. I will only wear certain pants with certain shirts, not because I care so much that I look cool, but so that things don't bulge or baag or cling in the unappealing ways that most people don't even think about. Things don't necessarily have to be tailored--the occasional tunic or breezy linen blouse is fine. However, they must be carefully matched so that the outfit is balanced, not baggy all over, but not loose on the top and skin-tight on the bottom. I like it when things fit.

Also important when using a plastic band-aid is applying it. Certain angles are not condusive to muscular movement, and certyain locations on the body are hard to fit band-aides to. When dealing with a difficult spot, multiple band-aids are sometimes needed to protect a wound. It is also important that they are not made too tight or loose, as it may case wrinkling or other undersirable things, like peeling or loss of adhesive.

I'm pretty sure that half of my childhood was spent making sure things fit properly. I did not like it when I was playing with a friend dressed in pastels and I was wearing brights. I did not enjoy putting on my mother's shoes, because they were obviously too big. I wasted hours and hours of collective classtime reorganizing my desk at school to accomadate each and every new item, from a stray pencil to a new workbook. Textbooks on the right, stacked parallel to the blackboard, folders and workbooks on the left, perpendicular, pencil cases and tissue boxes had to be level, and no more than two writing utensils coiuld fit in the pencil tray without being stacked. This was very important.

When wearing a plastic band-aid, regardless of whether or not the box says "waterproof", bear this in mind: Plastic band-aids are not waterproof. Do not wash your hands if you are wearing one on your thumb. It will start peeling and you will have to reapply. After bathing or showering, you must also reapply. It is possible though, to kind of "wash around" a bandaid, say, when rinsing your hands off because they are sticky. To avoid loss of adhesive, use one hand to carefully wash the other, rather than slathering both in suds under the faucet. With great care, it is possible to both wash your hands and keep a band-aid. It doesn't quite get your hands as clean, and the band-aid doesn't ever really stay dry, so really it's simply a hassle.

I also really hated conflict as a child, I still do. When I weas young, though, I really hated it. I hated disagreements and uncomfortableness to a point where when my sister and I made up imaginary games, I would sooner have our characters redecorate three times than have them go on an adventure and potentially get in trouble with their imaginary parents or get lost in an imaginary world. I couldn't watch "Arthur" if the characters were fighting. It made me too upset. This feeling applyed to my real life as well, where from third to eigth grade, I carefully cultivated friendships with members of "groups" that did not get along. In elementary school I would schedule when I would sit at what lunch table, because my friends didn't all get along, and I didn't want to upset anyone by not sitting with them. Monday, Wednesday, Friday at Bridget's table, Tuesday and Thurday at Sam's. Every week the schedule rotated, so it was even. The two groups never hated each other, they just didn't get along. I scurried back and forth this way well through juniopr high, taking pains to ensure everything remained intact, that I wouldn't lose bearing in one group by spending too much time with the other. I sidestepped conflict, promoted mediation, and made compromise my middle name.

Plain plastic band-aids are ugly. They not only have the discomforts listed above, but they are just not as cool as the neon ones with cartoons on them. They are boring and tacky, but not in the over-the-top tacky way band-aids should be.

Because of my chilhood quirks above, I turned out to be a really dull child. I hated dirt, activity, games, adventure, and just about everything else that makes a childhood a childhood. I was a delusional six-year-old who thought she was an interior designer. I was a stupid sixth-grader who thought she was an event planner. I kind of hated fun. It wasn't orderly, you couldn't rearrange it, and you had to be spontanious. I wasn't a trouble-maker who started food fights or a pre-teen who had strings of prepubescent boyfriends. As long as I can remember, even in my pre-Kindergarten days, I cannot remember ever wanting to do what my peers were doing. I was always "too mature" or "too good". As result, I became a ridiculously dull child. To this day, I wonder why I ever had friends.

That is why I hate plastic band-aids.