Tag Archives: Kristina Webb

Google keeps me busy.


I’ve been sick for the last few days. It either is the flu or a virus. I’m not sure exactly which, so I just call it the Fluvus. Works for me.

While I’m sitting on the toilet or lying in bed writhing in pain from stomach cramps, or while I’m sitting on my living room floor staring wistfully at the kitchen into which I haven’t ventured in four days because I can’t eat anything in there, I Google myself. (Update: I just realized how dirty that sounds.)

When I Google myself, I don’t put in my full name, because that only returns search results for me. Instead, I put in “Kristina Webb.” The results for this search term are far more entertaining.

And so I present, Kristina Webbs from around the world. They are in order of appearance on the Google search results.

Page 1: Here we meet Kristina Webb, an Australian who works in the IT industry and enjoys “Personal Development, New Age, Share Trading, Wealth Creation, Internet Marketing and generally learning new things!” She has a cat named Jasmin and loves nature.

Page 1: Kristina Webb Shapiro is an attorney from Baton Rouge, La. Her areas of practice include Probate & Successions, Interdictions & Guardianships, Estate Planning, Wills & Trusts, Community Property Partitions & Settlements, Divorces and Miscellaneous. So if you’re heading to court to take of that pesky old miscellaneous and you’re in or near Baton Rouge, give her a call.

Page 1: Another Kristina Webb, this time from Fort Lauderdale. Or is it Salt Lake City? Maybe Macon. No, I think it might be Nashville. Anywho, this Kristina describes herself as follows: “A little crazy and rough on the edges. You either love me or hate me , no in between. Love playing music/writing songs and fronting a band . I love playing golf and love gambling on the holes !” She has a grandson named Tater.

Page 1: Lots of great Kristinas on just the first page of the results, but here we find one who definitely lives life after my own heart. Kristina Webb is a 20-year-old from the United States, according to her Myspace profile. She believes that “to get to the rainbow, you gotta deal with the rain <3” and she lives this mantra in every aspect of her life. From her dreams to be a Playboy Bunny to her belief that “bitches come && go so believe none of wutchu hear && half of wutchu see,” this Kristina believes she is “as real as it gets.” Good for you, sister.

Page 3: Kristina Webb from East Mesa is a piano accompanist who charges $20 an hour. She has 20 years of piano playing experience, and loves holiday arrangements. She is most familiar with classical arrangements.

Page 4: Kristina Webb is a musician by trade. She is a song writer, and wonders “what happened to music? Now a days people just make a song that sounds good in the club.Dont get me wrong we need club music, but your whole album does not have to be about shaking ass and drugs and how much money you have and cars.” Oh Kristina. We are such an introspective breed.

Page 5: Here we meet a Kristina Webb who also can be called Teenie, if she loves ya. According to her Myspace profile, she is a 40-year-old from California who loves glitter-letter graphics. She loves to dance, believes you should just enjoy life, and knows deep down that we all have capes. Her words of wisdom are like gems from God himself: “A little advise, DON’T LET THE PAST CRAP FUCK WITH YOUR FUTURE.” Kristinas, as I’m sure you know, are extremely wise. We poop wisdom like that.

One last Kristina for you to meet:

Page 5: Kristina Webb was arrested in Port Charlotte on Feb. 22, 2009, for petit larceny. She was released on $1,000 bond. At the time of her arrest she was unemployed. Her birthday is April 11, and she has hazel eyes. And she definitely is not me.

Not that I would mind being her. She has a certain charm.

Support your local Kristinas!

Advertisements

Insomnia, or How I Sometimes Can’t Sleep for No Reason.


I started writing a post last night that began with, “Pretty safe to say I’m not falling back to sleep anytime soon. I keep having these awful dreams where nfjen urg vq nrje;qg mrewgre.” So I think it’s time to talk to my doctor about things I can do to help me sleep.

That leads me to the topic of this post (now that’s what I call a segue!): insomnia. Occasionally I’ll have my bouts of it. It usually happens when I’m undergoing stress, or when I’m experiencing a personal dilemma. However, in this case it’s a combination of rampant nightmares and not knowing how much caffeine is too much caffeine when you work a shift that runs from 3:30 p.m. to 12:30 a.m.

The worst part is that I normally am very productive when these things hit. I’ll stay up late at night and write, sketch, take weird photographs of myself with stuffed animals…

Gee golly willickers, however did my hair get on that stuffed turtle-saur's head?

This time it’s the complete opposite. I wake up from the dreams, sit in my pajamas (read: underwear) on my couch and watch “The Office” on Netflix while eating almonds and occasionally drinking red wine. What used to be a space occupied by creative outbursts now houses lethargy and loneliness. Sloth. Gluttony. Me in my underwear. Sins running rampant.

So I’ve decided to do something about this. I need a challenge, but one I can do at night. I thought about giving myself the challenge of doing individual photo series of each object in my apartment, but then I realized that might get monotonous since many of the objects interact with each other.

I also considered doing a kind of “found at night” project, where I drive out into the world and find something interesting, then photograph it and post it here. That was an OK idea until I was driving home (the long way) tonight and saw the kind of hooligans that float around the downtown after midnight. If my primary goal were to photograph drunk white trash wandering around with paper bags full of who-knows-what, then I would have a never-ending supply of material.

As I thought about this last night, mulling over the many ways I can make good of such a late hour, I decided that I can’t make a plan for creativity. If it’s going to happen, it will happen. Maybe I’m not feeling creative right now because I have no inspiration. And if that’s the case, perhaps I should work on finding inspiration before I force myself to start churning out useless crap that no one wants to see.

Speaking of which, here’s a photo of a flower, taken in my parents’ back yard after a rain cloud passed over. It’s a metaphor for religion, and how the dew always springs fresh from fertile ground, and how with rough hands and tender hearts we can conquer our fears and make our names known, make our names remembered for the ages as kings and queens of eternity. We will rise up and forever be aligned with the brightest stars, with the farthest reaches of the universe, from the rings of Saturn to the very deepest depths of Uranus.
Or something like that.

Here we are, flowers of the universe.

A day on the Treasure Coast.


Peter and I got lost in the wilderness north of a nuclear power plant last Friday. However, before that happened, we took the time to experience downtown Stuart’s River Walk. It’s cute, but be cautioned: there’s a lot of pollution. Litter everywhere. And it’s hard to get great shots when there are Doritos bags and empty Jimmy John’s cups.

The River Walk is a cute little boardwalk that runs right along the St. Lucie River to the north of downtown Stuart. Despite the trash, it’s pretty great. We parked over by the Pelican Cafe, at one end of the boardwalk, then walked the entire length and back through the downtown area. The breeze was amazing, and I went crazy for all the little fishes we saw swimming along the way. Plus, two jellyfish! I love spotting creatures.

Butterfly shell!

I fell in love with this shell. I would have picked it up if I could, but I think it’s considered bad form to hop off the boardwalk and tromp all over the beach.

Under the Roosevelt Bridge.

To be perfectly honest, the first thing that comes to mind looking at the underside of the Roosevelt is, “Does the wittle Roosevelt wants hims belly scratched? Huh?” Ugh. I disgust myself sometimes.

Master of all he surveys.

Peter and I found this guy strolling along in the water next to the boardwalk. I think we threw him off his hunting groove.

Cool creature.

I want a blue heron as a pet. Someday, not right now, because the pet deposit in my neighborhood is $600, which is just too much.

I'm pretty fond of this photo.

There’s something about that one that I really like. Maybe it’s the bridge in the background, maybe it’s the posture of the heron. Either way, it’s one of my favorites from the day.

Peter.

Welcome to historic downtown Stuart! Their motto should be, “It’s frickin adorable.”

Holy bangs, Batman!

Peter took this picture of me. Believe it or not, it’s posed. I know, I know, it looks so casual because I stand next to shaky lampposts all the time, so you’d never know it wasn’t natural.

Jelly!

I tried to convince a small child to jump in and pick it up for me, but his mother quickly escorted him away while giving me the stink eye. Geez, sorry lady. I’m just trying to teach your kid the value of entrepreneurship by offering him 25 cents to pick up a jellyfish. Don’t hate. You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.

Thus begins the photo set from the wilderness.

After visiting the River Walk, we decided to head to a natural area just north of the St. Lucie nuclear plant. I pulled into an area on the west side of A1A, thinking it would be a short walk to the Intracoastal.

WRONG. It was a very long walk that involved horse flies, alligators making noises and hiding in the shallow water next to the path, mosquitoes, sunburn … and fish jumping out of the water, which, admittedly, was incredible to watch (but very difficult to capture on camera since I was so dehydrated that I was shaking by the time we got to that spot).

Another favorite shot.

I think I like this photo because it’s so sharp. You could just imagine cutting yourself on those leaves. Also, I think there was an alligator hiding in there.

Hello, friend.

I spotted this creature from the path and took three pictures as I tried to keep a horse fly from eating my ear.

I also was very concerned with crabs crawling over my toes. The thought of it terrified me, and there were so many crabs of such varying size that I never knew if I would look down and find a large crab crawling over my foot, or if I would walk along for five minutes with a tiny crab hitchhiking on my sandal.

Since they bothered me so, I have excluded any pictures of the crabs. They’re not that great anyway. Have you been to a restaurant, seen a crab there? Imagine that guy on a bed of sand instead of lettuce. There you go. You just saw the pictures I took.

Beautiful spot.

After walking along for what seemed like an hour but probably only was about half that, Peter and I came to this spot where we could look out over this stream and watch fish jump out of the water to catch mosquitoes. Not only was I appreciative of the fish keeping the mosquito population in check, but the breeze was great, the company was amazing and everything smelled so fresh and clear. Despite my complaining about being lost in the wilderness, we never were lost because we never left the path. Sometimes a long walk gives you the feeling that you’re lost because you’re hot and tired, but in the end you can always turn around and wind up right back where you started. If only everything in life were that easy, eh?

Oh what the hell. I’m in a pleasant, introspective mood now. Why not give you a crab picture?

A small crab with a big claw. He's got heart.

The mystical allure of the Freshly Pressed page.


When I first began blogging, I had no goal in sight. I just wanted to get my ideas heard, have a place to post rough drafts of articles and write in a very stream-of-consciousness fashion with no fear of genuine critics.

I started this endeavor earnestly enough. My first post was pretty stereotypical: “Hello, I’m Kristina. I write and take photos. Here are my activities. I go to school, and that’s kind of a big deal. You should care about me because I’m a middle class Caucasian girl, one of hundreds of thousands who blog every day and expect people to care. Look at me and see I’m not different.”

Oh, the laughs we shared!

Throughout this process, I’ve become more involved with my blogging. Remember that stint where I blogged every day for almost a month? I even joined the WordPress Post a Day 2011 movement, although I’m not sure I should continue with that badge on the right side of my page since I haven’t posted in so long.

It was during my Post a Day 2011 phase that I became obsessed with Freshly Pressed. I read it every day. I would check to see who had been chosen — anyone I follow? — and then I would wait breathlessly until the next morning to see if my blog, by some incredible chance, had been chosen.

Chosen. Like God chose the Israelites, so some divine hand reaches through the internet and hand-picks blogs to be featured on Freshly Pressed. Some powerful being with impeccable taste (admit it, you love every post you’ve ever seen on FP) miraculously locates the very best posts on WordPress.

Who knows how it occurs? Is it based on page views? Search terms based on timely topics? Quirky photos that pop up in the image stream?

Most importantly:

How can I get their attention?

How do I get my blog on Freshly Pressed? I became obsessed for awhile. Every time I worked on a new post for Post a Day, I would wonder if this would be the one to break the barriers. I really thought I had something with the exploding possums, and again with my prehistoric crane photo. But somehow I just can’t seem to catch the all-seeing eye of the Freshly Pressed judge.

I am sure there are others out there like me. Now that I’m back in the game, I’m more determined than ever. And surely you know, my readers, that should I make it to the Freshly Pressed page, I will ask my questions of the One Who Sees All and Selects, and I will publish the answers here.

The first question I’ll ask: How many of you are there? Is it just one, or are there many? Is there a Holy Trinity of WordPress?

Answers. I need answers.

Possibly a pensive post.


I just love alliteration, don’t you?

Still taking requests, and today we have one from Kelsay: “Friends…inside jokes with them. Great memories that make u grin instantly.”

First of all Kelsay, I applaud your use of the letter “u.” (I have to pick on you now, because if I did it when I see you I’d have a red cheek from the immense smack you’d give me.)

A lot of things in my life lately have led me to think about past friendships. I’ve been listening to a lot of indie folk, which is never conducive to a productive mood; the music of Mumford & Sons only robs me of ambition and makes me pensive.

That song could be about a million things: a romantic relationship at its end, or a friendship breaking apart.

I’ve lost touch with many friends I once considered “great.” Through my dedication to school and work, I lost touch with a lot of people with whom I really enjoyed spending time.

Here’s a really great memory I have from elementary school.

When I first moved to Florida, I was extremely lonely and awkward. Apparently Tracy could sense that, because she sat next to me on the bus one day. We were fast friends.

Tracy and I spent the night at each other’s house for days at a time. She, being a year older than I, moved on to middle school ahead of me. This still didn’t stop us from being close.

We could talk about anything: problems with our families, boys, where we wanted to go in life. I wanted to be a lawyer or a NASCAR driver (weird, I know, but that’s pretty much how my life has always been), and Tracy saw herself moving on to work with children. She talked about teaching.

On these sleepovers, there usually wasn’t much sleeping. Usually we would stay up late and dare each other to do ridiculous, bizarre things.

This is how the narcoleptic ballerina was born.

I recently had learned about narcolepsy somehow (it was too early for it to have been from Third Eye Blind), and Tracy and I were watching a lot of MADtv. Our dares increasingly involved characters we would suggest were we given the opportunity to audition for the show.

My dare initially came from Tracy as such: “Dance like a ballerina.”

I complied. I fell. However, as I fell, I knew exactly what had to be done. I took my flop as gracefully as I could. That flailing looked effortless, my 11-year-old brain reasoned. Just work this a bit. Go limp. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So there I was: laying lifeless on the ground while my best friend was laughing herself to tears.

Until she realized I wasn’t moving.

Tracy: Kristina?

(silence)

Tracy: Kristina? Are you okay?

(silence)

Tracy: Kristina?! Oh no … oh no. Kris? Are you okay? Oh no.

I let the suspense build until I was sure my audience was captivated, then I sprung up and announced my life.

Me: Oh, I must have lost consciousness briefly. Almost as though … I fell asleep … while I was dancing. (snicker)

Tracy: How could that happen?

Me: Perhaps I have … (snicker) narcolepsy?

I laughed for a solid five minutes. I don’t think I had yet laughed that hard in my short life. After the laughter, I explained narcolepsy. Tracy and I agreed it was hilarious.

We perfected our act, then sat in the front yard and waited for my mom to get home. As soon as she got out of her car (the aforementioned Lincoln), Tracy yelled, “Now!” My mom ducked — probably expecting some ambush — and Tracy and I began whirling through the front yard. At my yell of “NARCOLEPTIC BALLERINA” we both fell to the ground in tears, laughing uncontrollably.

As we stood, rubbing bruised elbows and wiping grass clippings from out jorts (of course we were wearing jorts; it was 1996), my mom said, “Good job,” shook her head accordingly (because parents just don’t understand), and walked into the house.

Tracy and I thought our act was just too good to be contained in the house. We performed in the front yard for another 20 minutes.

We couldn’t sleep at all that night. We kept thinking of ways we could improve on the narcoleptic ballerina character.

The next morning (or afternoon, whatever, geez), we were still all a-flutter over our comedic genius. Then it struck me: roller skates.

In the front yard, with the cushion-y softness of the sandy Florida ground, I put on my roller skates (white hi-tops with purple laces) and began to do some sort of ballet routine that, to a casual observer, probably looked more like an interpretive dance routine choreographed while on very powerful hallucinogenics.

I roller’ed as best I could on the grass, and when the time came for me to fall, I fell with grace the likes of which you’ve never even imagined.

People were watching us! They were laughing! We were funny!

Only now do I realize that people were laughing because two pre-teen girls were whirling and flopping in public with absolutely no shame. They were laughing at us, but at that moment we thought we had an audience in love with our particular brand of physical humor, and that was just wonderful.

Ahhh, the good old days.

On a possum.


Sorry about the lack of recent posting. This is one I started a while back in response to a request. I finished most of it, then left myself the last paragraph to finish (for some reason, I just didn’t feel I could get out that last graf).

I like this whole “taking requests for blog posts” thing.

Today we have a suggestion from Kerry, who asked me to write about possums. Apparently, her husband likes to play Billy the Exterminator. One of his recent catches was a possum. Those marsupial guys are just so darn cute, with their big eyes and big ears … and their little pink bows.

I didn't Photoshop this. I found it this way.

When I did the last request post and Mely had already submitted her request for tea, Kerry suggested that I write about possums. So here we go.

Possums aren’t just cute. They are also very talented at getting into places where they just should not be. A friend of my sister’s tells a story about how she found a baby possum in her air conditioner’s intake. I once knew a guy who would pull over on the side of the road and pick up dead possums to take them home to “study them.” (We don’t talk anymore.)

My possum story is a simple tale of a young woman who goes to take out the trash, but instead finds a deceased mother possum in the bottom of the garbage can. The deceased mother possum, of course, is surrounded by her babies, all of which are trying to feed off of nothing in their attempts to survive.

Apparently possums like to chill in cylindrical objects.

That young woman? That’s me as a high schooler, taking out the garbage as always. The garbage cans were right outside my room, and I had heard some odd noises outside my window the night before, but there were always raccoons and other troublemakers getting into the garbage. I just hadn’t thought much of it.

After finding the possums — and the incredible stench that accompanied the mother’s death — I went back inside to consult with my mom and sister as to how we should attack this problem.

Me: There’s a dead possum with her babies in the garbage can.

Mom: What?

Sister: She said there’s a dead possum outside.

Me: Not just outside. It’s in the garbage can. At the bottom. It’s not moving so I’m pretty sure it’s dead.

Mom: Did you poke it? (snicker.)

Me: (almost in tears) No, Mom, I didn’t poke it.

Thus began the Odyssey of the Dead Possum and Her Babies.

My mom looked up a place where we could take the babies. First we called Animal Care and Control. All they told us was that they couldn’t do anything. They would take the babies and euthanize them; there was no one to take care of them. We called a trapper, and he wanted money to come out and pick up the possums to take them to a refuge.

Then a brilliant idea struck my mom. It was a beautiful collision of inspiration and her brain, like a Mack truck hitting a pianist: she asked the trapper where he would take the baby possums, then resolved that to save money, we would take the baby possums there ourselves.

With my mother in the driver’s seat and my sister positioned next to her, I was stuck in the back seat of our white 1991 Lincoln Town Car with a garbage can full of dead/dying possum sitting next to me. The smell is unparalleled to this day, and I’ve stood on a landfill.

It was 20 minutes of sticking my head out the window, inhaling fresh air, pulling my head back inside the car and holding my breath. By the time we made it to the refuge, I was light-headed and barely able to stand. My mom and sister thought it was great. They laughed the entire way over while I was smothered in possum stink in the back seat.

We left the baby possums with the kind woman in Wellington who apparently totally digs digging baby possums out of their dead mother’s pouch.

She didn’t have a way to dispose of the dead mother, so she left it up to us. The garbage can was no good; once a possum dies in the bottom of your garbage can, you just can’t get that stink out. (I swear the Town Car smelled like it until we got rid of that awful car.)

So we dumped the garbage can/Momma Possum combo on the side of a dirt road, and as we drove away, dust kicking up from the spinning tires as my mom sped away, the vultures were already beginning to congregate.

The circle of life. A wheel of fortune. A dead possum in a garbage can on the side of a dirt road in suburban Lake Worth.

Thus ends the greatest possum story ever told.

(Actually, it ended later when we had to explain to my dad why his garbage can disappeared.)

Getting over it.


I don’t want to let my insecurities hold me back. It’s hard when there is something staring you in the eyes, telling you that you’re not good enough, not strong enough, not attractive enough. But for everything that tells you that you don’t deserve what you want, there is at least one thing that affirms that you do. There is a smile, a pat on the back, a hug.

When I was growing up, I was extremely insecure about how I looked. This led to doubts about any talent that I’ve ever possessed. I wonder to myself, Am I earning this on my own merit, or is because they feel bad for me? Writing is one thing that I am fairly certain of. (Playing the violin was the other, but I had to give that up in the move to Florida when I was young, along with so many other things I loved about Massachusetts.) I know that I can write well; I know that sometimes people want to read what I write; and I know that I receive constant encouragement and praise for this one thing from people that I barely know.

But if it’s true, if I am a writer and destined to make a career of this, then why do I receive so little praise from the professionals for whom I am interning? I constantly second guess myself. Every day, I look at what I’m writing and wonder if it will be good enough, if it is what they want or if it will be chopped and sliced and copied and pasted until it is what they wanted but I was unable to produce?

My insecurities are what hold me back. I have never felt comfortable in my own skin. I don’t like meeting new people in general, but when I do I paste on the happy face with the knowledge that they are judging me from the moment they lay eyes on me. I wear my mask as well as they wear theirs. It hurts to think that people can be so cruel, but I know from experience that appearance is important.

I just don’t know what to do anymore.

Not to mention the fact that I am completely broke. I have $27 in my checking and $50.01 in my savings (the minimum amount to keep my account open). I have a job that offers me work, but it is not consistent. Unfortunately, I realized only too late how dire my financial situation is and now I am left with a month until I go back to school. No one will hire me for a full-time job for a month. As it is, I applied to more than 30 places when the semester ended and only heard back from one. I’m broke, I’m frustrated, I’m tired, I’m sad and I can’t sleep. Throw me another punch, Monday.