This never happens at J. Crew

I went shopping today. After church, with the whole family, all American and such. We ate at a chain restaurant, shopped an enormous mall complete with Medieval Times and Cinema complex, and filled our trunk with lovely, unnecessary things.

But that's not what this post is about.

It's about how I tried on a jersey dress and it clung in all the wrong places, unflattered me to the extreme, and beat the shit out of my self esteem. And then, when I tried it on again for my mother to see, it was perfect. Curve-skimming, flaw-hiding perfection.

For only 24.99 at H&M.

Menu

Lunch today:

Couscous Salad

Plain Couscous

Chicken broth

Cucumber (from garden)

Red and yellow cherry tomatoes (from garden)

Fresh mint (from garden)

Feta cheese

Lemon juice

Extra-virgin olive oil

Grilled Eggplant

Eggplant

Olive oil

Sea salt

Pepper

Rosemary Olive-oil Bread

(Purchased)



It was extra yummy.

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.

I'm health-conscious, I swear!

I tend to get a little weird when I'm grocery shopping. Well, actually about a lot of things, but today I went grocery shopping, so that's what I'm talking about.

I really like to grocery shop. I'm kind of a foodie, not to an extreme, but I like to cook and I certainly won't deny I enjoy the snobbish satisfaction it gives me. I buy organic canned goods, because Lord knows Miur Glen crushed tomatoes taste waaaaaaaaay different than Hunt's. I refuse to buy any bread except whole-grain (unless it's a baguette or something). And I definitely, definitely, do not buy McCormick taco seasoning.

My mother does. And here's where I have a problem: I can't deal with seeing it in the cart. When I grocery shop, I look in other people's carts and judge them. Like, for fun. Examples:

Bananas+cat food+low-fat bologna+velveeta=old lady

Gatorade+Poptarts+Cheez-Its+Sponge-Bob fruitsnacks=brand name snack foods soccer mom

frozen lasagna+frozen "burrito casserole"+frozen fishsticks+frozen chicken pot pie=grandmother with a deep freeze who feeds her grandchildren food they hate

Etc.

So anyway, since I judge people, I assume other people do the same thing. Because of this, I insist that the cart be fulled at least halfway with fresh produce, contain only fresh meats, at least one kind of fish, only organic/health snack foods, whole grain breads and bakery products, and cheeses costing at least seven dollars. When I go shopping with my mother, though, I end up with things like McCormick taco seasoning thrown in the cart.

And I feel compelled to hide it. Yes, I actually stop the cart and act like I'm rearranging so things will fit, when really I'm hiding the taco seasoning and wonder bread (my mother's favorite) under my organic green tea and yellowfin tuna steaks. I don't know why. I mean, It's not like I have to eat my mother's bleached-out bread, but I get paranoid that someone will see it in my cart and assume that I am going to consume it. It makes be nervous.I have no problem going grocery shopping with tangled hair and mismatched clothes, but I am afraid of the contents of my cart misrepresenting me.

Go figure.

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.

Krissy crosses the Mason-Dixon line

I can't say I dislike Georgia. The overly-tanned, Corona tee-shirt-wearing, "there are fourteen of us packed into one motel room and we don't care if we keep you up all night blasting music and having sex we won't remember" crowd doesn't exist here, and the retirees don't wear speedos. So it's not Florida. I don't hate it.

Savannah is a kind of charming city, despite the sunburnt senior citizen tourists that it seemed to magnetically attract. Looking past the trolley tours and Thomas Kinkade gift shops, there is Spanish moss, gorgeous architecture, and a decent art museum. I think a lot of the charm of city can be missed, though, if the historic district is all that you see. Driving out of the city, we skipped the expressway and drove through the neighborhoods in search of a place to eat.

As we drove past the manicured gardens surrounded by elaborate wrought-iron fences, I spotted, in the midst of tourist territory, a group of Asian hipsters on bicycles. Continuing on in the same direction, I saw more. Girls in vintage dresses with ironic $250 Nikes, scruffy-looking guys with charcoal smears on their shirts, angular haircuts and dark, plastic-framed glasses abounded. All in the middle of the trolley tour route?

The mystery was solved when I spotted the Savannah College of Art and Design bookstore (we stopped in for coffee and amusing people-watching). While the school's location was obviously based on being in the historic district, rather than its proximity to "Ye Olde Savannah Gift Shoppe", I rather enjoyed the sight of the odd elderly tourist accidentally wandering into art student territory.

Driving out of the downtown, things became even more interesting. Catfish and BBQ joints were common, including the "Oriental Foods Market" occupying an old gas station and selling bamboo, BBQ, noodles, and dried alligator heads. Yum. We ate at Love's seafood, recommended by my mother's Georgia-native friend, which was delicious. (The downside: throwing up catfish nuggets and hush puppies later that evening.)

Tourists, hipsters, and food aside, the biggest impression Savannah made on me was the importance of religion in the South. And so, based on my day in and around Savannah, I present:

You know you're in the Bible belt when...

-Easter services are advertised on billboards and with commercials

-The motel with hourly rates and an attached liquor store has a bible verse on its sign

-There are bible verses on menus, but no wine list to be found

-Even the synagogues look like cathedrals, down to the cross-shaped floor plan

-The island you're staying on has three restaurants, no grocery store, but five churches

And

-A waffle house on Sunday morning at 10:30 is empty, but at 11:30, the line stretches out the door, everyone dressed in suits and dresses

That's all I can think of at the moment....

Iron deficiency

For a long while now, I haven't been able to think of anything to say. Anything, that is, that wouldn't be cause for you to worry.

I've become so stuck in this place that I'm in that sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't worry. I'm hanging in some sort of limbo between real life and total meninglessness, where I exist but don't participate.

I can excuse it now, sure. I'm hundreds of miles away from the only friends I have, I'm too sick to go to school and make new ones, I don't pursue any hobbies because of my physical state, I don't read because my head is too clouded by medications. Nobody's blaming me for sitting around doing (literally) nothing. But I wonder what my excuse was last February, when I was surrounded by friends and seemingly happy with my life. What will be my excuse when I head off to college on my own? My isolation and disinvolvement, while currently pushed to an extreme by circumstance, may not go away.

It's a frightening thing to contemplate. For so long, I've romanticized college, convincing myself of is magical transitional powers. And while I maintian that getting out of Maryland and sorting out my medical concerns will improve my condition, I'm afraid I'll still do this to myself. Like I know, while invisible, that I'm doing now. Like I've done before.

It is not the incapablity of happiness. I enjoy things and I still laugh. What I'm describing is the incapability to sit, alone with my thoughts and decisions, and be fine. Not happy, just fine. Happiness is something else entirely, something fleeting and needing no contemplation. But what I'm talking about, what I'm struggling with, is something more closely related to satisfaction or fulfillment of the self. And while I don't expect my own or anyone else's levels of this thing to ever be complete, I'd like to be a little less anemic.

Same old, same old

I am so freaking tired of being unhappy.

Sometimes I amaze myself...

There are not many things that I am really, really good at. I am adequate at many, decent at some, and good at few. But really, really good? Why, it's almost unheard of. That being said, I have discovered something I am really, really good at.

By this point, we all know I'm excellent at being sick. That basically doesn't even count anymore. However, being sick does play a role in my newly realized talent. So, um, yes. On with it.

I am really, really good at ruining holidays for myself.

Awesome, right? I totally think a $50,000 cash prize is headed my way somewhere in the near future. Although, if this talent is going to win me any contests, I'd better supply something to back my statement up. So here it is, a few of the more recent occasions that I've managed to make miserable:

1. It hasn't happened yet, but this Christmas will suck because I'm sick right now, and viruses generally take me and my incompetent immune system 4-5 weeks to fight off.

2. This past Thanksgiving, I spent the night before throwing up, and the day itself curled up on a couch with no appetite, refusing my grandmother's constant culinary offerings. (which, by the way constitutes an unforgivable crime in her household)

3. Halloween, I sat in my basement with my dog, because I have no friends.

4. My birthday 2005, 2004, and 2003, I was grounded.

5. Last Mother's Day, I slept all day (I was just released from the hospital a day before) and in doing so, convinced my mother that I hated her.

I'm only giving you five, because my skills are getting a little depressing. Happy Kwanzaa. I haven't screwed that one up yet....

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.

I do not like to put a space between the can and not of cannot.

I am in the sort of mood to be quiet and read Jane Austen novels, the sort of mood to twist my hair up and secure it with a pen. Naturally, I should be drinking tea. And eating apple crisp. In bed, with flannel sheets and a big down comforter. Also, my dog should be curled up at the end of the bed, not smelling of dog.

Instead, I am blogging. And punctuating fragments as sentances. Soon, I will get between normal cotton sheets and blankets and pretend I am sleeping. I will not be. I'll accidentally kick my iron footboard, and it will bang against the wall, interrupting the quiet, which is the only part of my plan that will actually be carried out tonight. I'll get thirsty and sip from the waterbottle on the floor next to my bed, in the shoebox with all of my pills. I will shut my door to keep the dog out, because if I let her in she would only make noise and smell.

Good night.

What an eyesore

"Oh, how bizarre, how interesting and bizarre..." says Dr. Tong, examining the technician's findings. I'm sitting, slightly elevated, in an optical exam chair. Dr. Tong leans over charts filled with measurements (of what? I don't know) and my mother wrings her hands nervously. "Well," he says, "you have fourth-nerve palsy." I lean back, and for a reason I cannot recall, mutter "I gots me some palsy." to myself.

Dr. Tong continues, explaining exactly what the condition is. To paraphrase, a specific nerve/muscle combination that controls my left eye is screwed up. He stands up, takes a series of prisms from a drawer, and walks over to my mother's chair. "Using these prisms," he says, with a precise and oddly-emphasized English characteristic of non-native speakers, "I will simulate for you the way Kristen's eyes see the world." He lines up the prisms and holds them up to her eye. "Oh, my," my mother said, screwing her face up in concentration. "How on earth does she..." Her sentence goes unfinished. Dr. Tong removes the prisms and asks her what she saw. "Well, everything was doubled," she began. "But not just that. One half of something would be over here," she gestured to her left. "and the other half would be somewhere to the right and above it! I don't know how Krissy possibly sees." Dr. Tong nods. "Hold on," I say, "I don't see like that. I mean, I'll get double vision when I look in certain directions, but it's nothing so drastic as that." "Ah," Dr. Tong turns to me, "But it is!"

He begins pointing things out about me, things like my crooked glasses and the way I tilt my head slightly to the left. My mother tells him that the glasses are nothing, that I've always had crooked glasses, I have since I was in preschool, and so that couldn't possibly indicate anything. Growing more passionate with his speech, Dr. Tong responds. "Precisely!" He takes out some angle-measuring device and, holding it up to my glasses, mutters a rapid series of complex measurements to himself. "Her glasses are crooked at the exact angle to partially alleviate her condition! And you say they have been like this since she was young?" "Well," my mother says, "We always thought she was just rough on them." "Kylie always thought I had crooked ears.." I add. Dr. Tong is fascinated. "It all makes sense." he says. "The way you have bent them is therapeutic to your eyes. It moves things for you. Do you remember how your mother said things looked split through the prism?" I nod. "Well, by tilting your glasses, the lens moves things closer to where they should be. It is remarkable though, for a patient, even subconsciously, to have made these adjustments, especially from a young age!" "Oh. But if that doesn't entirely remedy my condition, how come I see fairly normally?" "Well, you tilt your head to the left, and while it is only a slight tilt, it contributes to the effect of the tilted glasses. Aside from these outward remedies, the rest is done through muscular compensation. You say that you have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?" he asks. "Well, yes," I answer, "But I think that has more to do with the Ehlers-Danlos* syndrome than anything else..." "This may be true," Dr. Tong continues, nodding, "But the muscles of your left eye are working five, perhaps more, times as hard as your right eye in order to straighten out your vision. While it does not seem like your eyes could make you feel tired, this could be a major contributor to your already existent problem. You may not feel strained at this point in your life, but somewhere down the line, perhaps sooner than you think, the constant fight to see will take a toll on you. It will be too much." My mother looks at me, but I don't quite know what to say. "Furthermore," Dr. Tong continues, "your head tilt is dangerous, especially since you have Ehlers-Danlos. Over time, the vertebrae in your neck will stop looking like they are discs, and start looking like they are wedges. Your bones will change shape." "She's already in physical therapy for her back and neck!" my mother blurts out, looking overwhelmed. "Well," Dr. Tong says, "Let us explore the treatment options."

I sit back, waiting for the expected round of drugs that usually comes my way when doctors discuss my treatment options. "You have three options." Dr. Tong begins. "You can have surgery, wear prism glasses, or do nothing. I strongly warn you not to do nothing, because while it may not seem like an insurmountable challenge to overcome right now, fighting this disorder will only become harder for you. Surgery is your best option." "Well, we don't really want surgery." my mother says. "What are the prism glasses?" "The prism glasses use special glass, prisms, to shift the problem. You must be aware though, that the problem is not corrected, it is merely shifted. As Kristen currently sees, her vision to the right (with glasses) is fine. The center is mostly fine, but she occasionally sees double, and her vision to the left is awful. What prism glasses will do is shift the problem so there is no problem in the middle, less problem to the left, but the right, where there was no problem, will now have some problem. That is why I recommend surgery." Alright, but exactly what does the surgery entail?" my mother asks, clearly unsure of herself.

"Well, we don't actually take the eyeball completely out..." says Dr. Tong.



And so it looks like I'm getting eye surgery pretty soon. (I don't know how long it takes to get an appointment.) It also looks like I gots me some palsy.

I feel like Harry Potter, and for once it's not teen angst

Last night, I had a terrible dream. I can't quite recall what happened that made it so terrible, but I woke up trembling, with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that can only be described as a feeling of dread, or possibly doom. I keep getting that feeling, or a random shiver, and I'm not sure if I caught whatever nervous disorder Kylie has over Thanksgiving, or if some subconscious event (that of my dream) is goin' all psychosomatic on me. Or, perhaps it is dementors! I haven't noticed any frosty windows around the house (it's 70 degrees here), and eating chocolate doesn't work, so I guess not. Perhaps, though...

Anyhow, I haven't the foggiest what's really causing it. Maybe it's just Maryland. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I should try the chocolate one more time, just to be safe.

Why I stuffed my mouth with Kleenex at 2:40 last night

I can't sleep.

That came first. I came off a med or two, started up some new ones, and I can't sleep. Okay, fine. The doctor said that might happen. Sure, it's uncomfortable when four o' clock rolls around and I'm still tossing and turning, but cool. Whatever, I'll just take a nap tomorrow.

It continues. Three nights later, my problems start. Not sleep deprivation. Not even headaches. Nope.

Saliva.

It's only 11:30 on Tuesday night. I'm awake, no surprises here. But holy shit, I'm swallowing an awful lot. Hold on, maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe it's just because I'm lying here with nothing else to think about except swallowing. That's it.

Gulp.

It's 3:45 now, and what the hell? I can't stop swallowing! Okay, everyone swallows their spit. I've always done it...so why is it happening so often, or why am I noticing so much? Maybe a drink of water will help.

Ugh!

The stuff's only tasted worse at wellgroup waiting for a urine sample. And that's saying something. It's probably just the meds. I'll get used to it. I fall asleep sometime after 4:30.

I'm fine.

Until Wednesday night. It happens again, only it starts in at nine, not eleven. I haven't even crawled into bed yet. Again, swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...that's all my brain is doing. Telling me to swallow. I try to focus on other things, anything!

4:15

...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...
Somewhere along the line I drift off. 8:30, Mom calls upstairs, time to get up. And swallow.

No!

This went away after sleeping yesterday! Well, as crime fighters everywhere (or maybe just Buzz Lightyear) bellow at evil-doers: "Not today!!" And so ,as Gogol Bordello would say: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

Twelve hours pass.

Still swallowing. And still not knowing if its the meds or I'm just crazy.

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...

I heart Cat and Girl

Guess which one I want.

Coming soon to Krissy's blog....Photos and updates a-plenty!

I apologise for not writing more frequently. My life is frightfully dull.

Right now, though, as I speak (or type or something), something exciting is happening! there are six men in my front lawn digging holes! That's right, holes! Now I'm sure you all are curious as to why they are digging holes. It must be, as I said, terribly exciting! Is there hidden treasure? An ancient burial site? Or perhaps an expansive network of undergroud caves that my mother discovered while gardening?!?!

It is none of these.

Right now, six men are digging holes in our lawn to bury a cable. That's right, a cable. A cable which will bring with it faster downloading, more efficient blog updates, and will free our singular phone line from the bondage of Kylie's lengthy online fanfics! That's right, friends, I'm getting high-speed internet!!!

Please note: I do not endorse, promote, or encourage excessive punctuation in any way, shape, or form. However, in order to convey such an overwhelming emotion, it was necessary for this post. I will continue to make efforts aimed at minimizing the use of this unfortunate and tasteless device in the future. Thank you.

I've got a bag of Milanos, a shopping magazine, and an iPod in my carry-on.

For lack of anything better to do, I have devoted my life to Audrey Hepburn-ing.
It makes me happy. Cropped black pants and tailored shirts, sixties evening-wear, and short pixie-ish haircuts....what's not to love? I can sit in my basement and drink cocoa and watch movies and almost forget that I live in the lamest place ever. It's nice. I can hug my poodle and and hum along to corny romance themes that play under the dialouge....and then I can go to my room and read the biographies of Audrey that I keep getting from the library.

It's pathetic, it's a waste of time, and it's fun. So hrmfp. I'll do what I want, bitch!!! (That is me being assertive. Not bad, eh? Note the excessive punctuation.)

Anyhow, I'll be back in Illinois (pronounced in the French manner: eel-ee-nwah) by 9:30 tonight, and for a week, my only unhappiness will come from stressing about not having time to see everyone I want to.

Krissy reaches a new low

Before I come out and say it, I want to establish a few things:

1. I still dislike being white.
2. I still dislike (as a whole) white people.
3. I still dislike WASPS.
4. I still dislike my recent tendency to continue getting WASPier.

Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. You see, and please don't hate me for it, I

1. have decided that J. Crew is almost my new favorite store (it was a close tie with Banana Republic)
2. bought myself a leather and linen handbag for far too much money
3. wear white cropped pants and a grosgrain ribbon belt at least every other week.
4. wear heels to the grocery store

And, worst of all,

5. saw a coach bag in the store and intend to buy it, despite the fact that A) It is Coach, and I hate Coach, as well as people who like Coach. B) I will be wasting 118 dollars on it.

Please. Still talk to me. I know it will never be the same, but I didn't mean to like it! It just happened! I only wish I had never seen it, and that we all could return to the happy days of my Coach loathing. But we can't. I've already seen it, and wanted it, and decided that it would go really nicely with my black wool coat. All I can say is that I'm sorry.

If it's any consolation, it is black, which automatically makes apparel better, and because of that, you cannot so clearly see the little "C" design printed all over it. I know, I know, it's the principal of the thing, but face it, kids, things have changed.

I'm addicted to lazy.

I am all kinds of unhappy right now. My migranes are back, despite my various meds, I live in Ellicott City, my father is annoying, I have absolutely nothing to do with myself all day, I have a stupid schedule at my new school, and, oh yeah, I'm fat now!

I have no idea if it's the meds, which can cause weight gain, or my constant boredom (read: constant eating), but I've definitely gone from a size 4-6 to an 8. I only know this because I went shopping yesterday, and also because I fit perfectly into my baggy jeans. I know it's stupid and superficial, and it shouldn't bother me, but it really does. Also, I know that I'm not obese or anything, but it's just one more thing on top of everything else. Oh, and also my parents, father included, were telling me that they weighed less than me in college. This again? Didn't my mother get this out of her system when I was in seventh grade? I didn't think parents wanted their children to become anorexic, but hey, what do I know?

In not-so-stupid news, I gave my dog a bath today. Yes, that is how bored I am here. I chose to bathe my dog.

Back to stupidity. (But wait, Krissy, how was you blogging about bathing your dog not stupid?) I can't eat feta anymore.






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I just can't. We even found a middle-eastern grocery, where I can get any variety my heart desires, fresh pitas, hummus, pastries, and everything else I live for. The only thing is, there's a pound of Bulgarian feta in my kitchen just waiting to be devoured, and I can't go near it!

Maybe this is why I'm fat! Maybe, there was some enzyme in the feta that sped my metabolism, and now that I'm not eating it, my already disfunctional body's entire digestive system has slowed down! Yeah! I'll bet that's it! I'm a genius!

My brilliance aside, I really don't know what's going on with this whole feta thing. It worries me though...