With a few minutes left before the MegaMillons drawing, I have decided to compile a list of my soon-to-be accomplishments. After taking care of a few of whom I consider to be elite players on Team Kristin, here's what I would do if I had $640 million:
- Build a lazy river around my modest 50 acre estate.
- Buy a jet ski for said river. Whip around like a lunatic.
- Hire Robert Pattinson to be personal bartender/pool boy.
- Buy an elephant. Name elephant Horton Von Tuskenburg. Require elephant to enjoy only the most elegant of treats, which will be fed to him by new pool boy.
- Buy Horton a lady-friend elephant for super fun elephant times. Name lady-friend Khloe Kardashian.
- Hire representation. Sue T Pain for auditory battery. Win. Watch him sob while his auto-tuner is destroyed by zoo animals.
- Pay Bel Biv Devoe $19 to play at Horton and Khloe's elephant wedding.
- Charge Bel Biv Devoe $350 for destruction of property.
- Purchase state-of-the-art camouflage. Pretend to be a shrubbery. Scare the cat.
- Wear designer sunglasses indoors, at night.
- Pay all local radio stations to stop playing Adele and LMFAO every 6 minutes.
- Gamble regularly.
- File for bankruptcy.
- Get a job in retail. Weep quietly.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sibling Rivalry: A Story of Hair-Pulling, Name-Calling and Sabotage
On September 18, 1989 my brother was born. Upon hearing this news, my three-year-old mind viewed this as yet another gift for me, reigning queen of the household. A token of my subjects' appreciation. I soon realized that this tiny shrieking creature was no gift sent for my entertainment. He was sent with the intention of stealing my throne. This would not do.
My first attempt at thwarting him happened when my brother was 9 or 10 months old (what does it matter? I was four). While he was tooling around in his rolling walker (complete with tray so the little hellion could stuff his drool-covered face with MY snacks), I devised a plan. My mother was in the kitchen and my father was at work, thus leaving me alone with my brother in the living room. It didn't take long for me to grow bored of Curious George's adventures. Obviously you were going to end up in the ER for swallowing a puzzle piece, George. This is why primates should not be kept as pets. Nor should they be brought to a human hospital to waste resources when the puzzle piece will just be passed and subsequently flung at the Man with the Yellow Hat. Anyway, while sitting on the pristine ivory carpet in the living room was when I noticed the potted plant in the corner. I snuck over to the plant and grabbed two handfuls of dirt. I trailed some of the dirt on the carpet and dropped the rest on the tray of the walker while my brother stared at me with a toothless, I-don't-understand-what's-happening-but-yay! grin. I put a little dirt in his hands, and even smudged some on his face to give the illusion that this little beast will eat us out of house and home if he is not destroyed immediately. I wiped my hands off on the back of the couch to destroy the evidence. Show time. I ran in to my mother, put on my most angelic, how-could-anyone-not-trust-my-four-year-old-sweetness face, and shouted, "Mama! You're gonna kill him! Look what he did!" My mom rushed in and surveyed the scene. In the small amount of time it took me to run to the kitchen, my brother had now rolled over the dirt on the floor and was now picking up what was left on his tray and rubbing it in his hair. "Muahaha!" I thought, and sat back to witness my brother's excommunication.
I, however, underestimated my mother's intelligence. I saw her pick up my brother's hands and look at them. She then came over to me and looked at mine. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back toward my brother. "This is it!" I thought, "That little lump has a first class ticket to foster care!" She quickly turned back to me and picked up my hands again. That's when I saw it. The dirt under my normally sparklingly clean nails. Son of a bitch. I knew I should have done this when dad was home.
My mother was shocked that such a sweet plum could have conjured such a heinous plan. My brother was immediately whisked into the tub where he enjoyed a spa day while I sat in Time Out. I vowed to be smarter next time. TWO steps ahead. My brother's cuteness was merely a mask for what was truly underneath. Pure evil. I could hear him giggling in the other room. That little brat was mocking me. "This will not do," thought the Queen, "This will not do."
To be continued....
My first attempt at thwarting him happened when my brother was 9 or 10 months old (what does it matter? I was four). While he was tooling around in his rolling walker (complete with tray so the little hellion could stuff his drool-covered face with MY snacks), I devised a plan. My mother was in the kitchen and my father was at work, thus leaving me alone with my brother in the living room. It didn't take long for me to grow bored of Curious George's adventures. Obviously you were going to end up in the ER for swallowing a puzzle piece, George. This is why primates should not be kept as pets. Nor should they be brought to a human hospital to waste resources when the puzzle piece will just be passed and subsequently flung at the Man with the Yellow Hat. Anyway, while sitting on the pristine ivory carpet in the living room was when I noticed the potted plant in the corner. I snuck over to the plant and grabbed two handfuls of dirt. I trailed some of the dirt on the carpet and dropped the rest on the tray of the walker while my brother stared at me with a toothless, I-don't-understand-what's-happening-but-yay! grin. I put a little dirt in his hands, and even smudged some on his face to give the illusion that this little beast will eat us out of house and home if he is not destroyed immediately. I wiped my hands off on the back of the couch to destroy the evidence. Show time. I ran in to my mother, put on my most angelic, how-could-anyone-not-trust-my-four-year-old-sweetness face, and shouted, "Mama! You're gonna kill him! Look what he did!" My mom rushed in and surveyed the scene. In the small amount of time it took me to run to the kitchen, my brother had now rolled over the dirt on the floor and was now picking up what was left on his tray and rubbing it in his hair. "Muahaha!" I thought, and sat back to witness my brother's excommunication.
I, however, underestimated my mother's intelligence. I saw her pick up my brother's hands and look at them. She then came over to me and looked at mine. Seemingly satisfied, she turned back toward my brother. "This is it!" I thought, "That little lump has a first class ticket to foster care!" She quickly turned back to me and picked up my hands again. That's when I saw it. The dirt under my normally sparklingly clean nails. Son of a bitch. I knew I should have done this when dad was home.
My mother was shocked that such a sweet plum could have conjured such a heinous plan. My brother was immediately whisked into the tub where he enjoyed a spa day while I sat in Time Out. I vowed to be smarter next time. TWO steps ahead. My brother's cuteness was merely a mask for what was truly underneath. Pure evil. I could hear him giggling in the other room. That little brat was mocking me. "This will not do," thought the Queen, "This will not do."
To be continued....
Monday, December 19, 2011
Reasons I Wouldn't Fare Well in the Hunger Games
It's easy to take freedom for granted when you've never experienced the horrors of oppression at the hands of your government. While I will be the first in line to criticize our political leaders for their sexual indiscretions, mispronunciations of words and general lack of a moral compass, I can freely admit I know nothing about what it takes to run a country. I would also be the last person on the list to be put in charge of the national debt, considering that I can justify anything that's bedazzled or made of Italian leather to be "practical, and soooo worth the extra money." What's a little extra in taxes for the 1% if it means elementary school students can carry their iPads in Michael Kors bags? It would be so cute, no? Siri says yes.
If you have not read the Hunger Games series, I strongly urge you to do so. If anything, it has the ability to open your eyes to the "it could be worse" aspect of the current presidential/economical situation. "It could be worse" meaning, "the president could be forcing two members of each state to fight to the death like gladiators to prove he has control over us." These games can last for weeks in any type of wilderness setting. My luxurious lifestyle in these here United States has destroyed my chances at becoming victor of said Games.
The following are reasons why the odds would not be in my favor, should I ever be reaped into the Hunger Games:
1. I have a minor aversion to bugs. And by that, I mean I shriek like the Crypt Keeper when a dust ball that I suspect could have at one time been a spider's carcass floats by.
2. Even though I've watched Cast Away approximately 752 times, there is no way I would be able to start a fire without some kind of accelerant. Like a gas fireplace. I'm not confident in my ability to use matches without singing off my eyelashes. I AM confident in my ability to perform Ice, Ice Baby (including dance moves) to a level of such perfection that Vanilla Ice himself would send me provisions for the arena. And probably an engagement ring.
3. When I'm hungry, tired, hot, cold, or don't have access to WiFi I become such an insufferable hell beast that my competitors will spear me just to save themselves from the constant barrage of complaints about there not being a Longhorn Steakhouse in the arena.
4. My coordination is less than stellar. The chances of me severing an artery as a result of tripping over, well, nothing, are far better than my actually being taken out by another tribute.
5. Thanks to the many hours of Man vs. Wild watched during my brief period of unemployment, I know what you have to resort to when trying to survive in extreme wilderness conditions. And I would sooner leap to my death than chew on a yak's eyeball and wear its hide as a sweater.
6 - 10. I don't run.
So I can complain about the direction in which the country is headed, that we are going to be doomed to endless poverty if we don't stop voting for idiots who are more concerned with their jump shot than implementing "change." But as of right now I'll say it could be worse. We could be Canadian.
If you have not read the Hunger Games series, I strongly urge you to do so. If anything, it has the ability to open your eyes to the "it could be worse" aspect of the current presidential/economical situation. "It could be worse" meaning, "the president could be forcing two members of each state to fight to the death like gladiators to prove he has control over us." These games can last for weeks in any type of wilderness setting. My luxurious lifestyle in these here United States has destroyed my chances at becoming victor of said Games.
The following are reasons why the odds would not be in my favor, should I ever be reaped into the Hunger Games:
1. I have a minor aversion to bugs. And by that, I mean I shriek like the Crypt Keeper when a dust ball that I suspect could have at one time been a spider's carcass floats by.
2. Even though I've watched Cast Away approximately 752 times, there is no way I would be able to start a fire without some kind of accelerant. Like a gas fireplace. I'm not confident in my ability to use matches without singing off my eyelashes. I AM confident in my ability to perform Ice, Ice Baby (including dance moves) to a level of such perfection that Vanilla Ice himself would send me provisions for the arena. And probably an engagement ring.
3. When I'm hungry, tired, hot, cold, or don't have access to WiFi I become such an insufferable hell beast that my competitors will spear me just to save themselves from the constant barrage of complaints about there not being a Longhorn Steakhouse in the arena.
4. My coordination is less than stellar. The chances of me severing an artery as a result of tripping over, well, nothing, are far better than my actually being taken out by another tribute.
5. Thanks to the many hours of Man vs. Wild watched during my brief period of unemployment, I know what you have to resort to when trying to survive in extreme wilderness conditions. And I would sooner leap to my death than chew on a yak's eyeball and wear its hide as a sweater.
6 - 10. I don't run.
So I can complain about the direction in which the country is headed, that we are going to be doomed to endless poverty if we don't stop voting for idiots who are more concerned with their jump shot than implementing "change." But as of right now I'll say it could be worse. We could be Canadian.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Your Bad Grammar Is The Reason I Don't Like You
My family moved to a new house during the summer before my fifth grade year. Since we moved to a new district, I had to leave the elementary school that I had spent the better part of my life and start a new school. I learned on my very first day that my fifth grade teacher was a grammar, spelling, math, science, and BrainQuest 5 Nazi. On any given day, at any given time, there could be as many as five students standing at one of his two very large blackboards scribbling feverishly. All of them trying to redeem themselves in time to be granted the privilege of going to recess. Luckily, my social activities at the age of ten consisted of playing the Sims and listening to my father sing Bruce Springsteen lyrics punctuated with swearing at the cat, so I was a very good student. At first I was horrified to imagine the level of embarrassment those students were suffering through while I watched them write, "I will be a more responsible 5th grader" twenty five times in front of all of us. As the year went on, it became more of a normalcy. I no longer cared that my classmates continued to shame themselves by not completing their homework and ending up at the board. My teacher had high expectations and strict rules, but as long as I stayed in line I would not earn that fate. I could stop sweating.
One day in late March when I was feeling particularly good about myself (I was crowned the winner of that day's BrainQuest 5 game), the hand of God came down and punched me in the face. Upon grading my homework from the previous day my teacher found what he described as a "deplorable and inexcusable error." I saw my snack time flash before my eyes. I knew as I approached his desk that I would not be enjoying my Gushers and blue Mondo that day. Here's how a fifth grade grammar mistake changed how I choose my relationships as an adult:
Teacher: Look at this and tell me what you've done wrong.
5th grade me: ::I say nothing and stare. I feel my organs exploding::
Teacher: Sigh. What do you want to be when you're older?
5th grade me: Um, a teacher I think.
Teacher: Ha!! You think any school is going to hire you with THIS in your permanent record?! You can kiss your teaching career goodbye! I'll be ordering my hamburgers from you in the very near future, dear.
5th grade me: But, wait. No! My friend and I did our homework together! She helped me! ::at this point I was lying, desperately trying to shift the blame::
Teacher: People who give you this kind of advice are NOT the type of people with whom to be friends. That's the fastest route to Juvenile Detention, I'll tell you that much.
I thought at this point that maybe I had murdered someone in my Lisa Frank notebook and forgot. I saw visions of my future self living in an alley behind a dumpster with rabid pet raccoon named Chuck. My teacher then circled my mistakes in red pen.
I could not believe this. How could I have confused 'there' with 'their'? I vowed at that moment to pledge my life to avoiding grammar mistakes and helping others to do the same. I paid a heavy price for that mistake. I wrote "Their is not there nor they're" twenty five times while my fellow students enjoyed their Fruit Roll-Ups and teenies. I would find myself at the board three more times that year for math-related incidents. I accepted those as inevitable, as I had no time to focus on math skills while I was busy obsessing over how not to end a sentence with a preposition.
Fast forward to age 25. I don't want to contribute to this nation's unemployment rate, so I have a job. I am required to interact with hundreds of people over the course of a week. Each day I find myself screaming at people in my head to learn how to speak like a human. I like to pretend I don't judge people for saying "alterate" instead of "alter," but I do. I like to pretend that when I find spelling errors and misplaced apostrophes in a mass produced advertisement that I don't want to put a paper bag over my head and flush myself down the toilet, but I do.
I choose my relationships based on a wide range of personality-related criteria. However, if you send me a text that says, "Yea ,,, u should of gone ova thea !!!!!" consider our friendship terminated. Internet shorthand is not an excuse to not learn how to converse like an adult. The fact that you still use it at 25 is not something I'm interested in exploring.
I learned a lot from my fifth grade teacher. If you know the difference between your and you're, you won't end up being a criminal.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Taking Wardrobe Suggestions
Sometimes I think about becoming a vigilante. The only reasons I don't leave my job in retail and follow in the footsteps of the Dark Knight are that I am dangerously under qualified, and that I have yet to sketch a good enough costume.
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