Tag Archives: Kristina

Hair today, paranoid tomorrow.

That hair I found on my shoulder? It’s haunting me. One theory may be that it was not able to fulfill its bucket list.

However, I am more inclined to believe it’s just my paranoia and ability to over-think things. I haven’t officially started my job — which is a blog post for another evening when I’m not quite so frustrated — and I have a lot of time on my hands. That coupled with a strange imagination has created quite the list of weird things about which I can’t stop thinking.

One of those things: I’m terrified that when I’m driving over a bridge with my windows down, some fisherman is going to go to cast out his line and the hook is going to fly through my window, catch on my ear, and viciously yank my ear from my head.

I haven’t even heard of this happening. I’ve seen someone get a hook in his back, but I’ve never seen a fishing hook pull off someone’s ear. How this idea popped into my head, I have yet to find out. I just make sure I roll up my windows before I drive across a bridge.

Another weird thing: I worry that when I’m driving past a golf course with my windows down, someone’s golf ball is going to fly through my open window, hitting me in the head and knocking me unconscious. Then my car will careen out of control and I’ll I drive into the nearest water hazard.

Again, this is something of which I’ve never heard happening. Someday it might. I even Googled “golf ball through car window unconscious,” so now I know how so many weird people end up at my blog.

Someday I’m going to call every hospital ever and I’m going to ask each hospital to search their records for fish hook and golf ball injuries. They have to be the weirdest injuries.

Think about it: you’re out having fun, and suddenly you’re in the back of an ambulance, down an ear and some brain cells.

After Googling “golf ball injuries,” I found this. Definitely click that link and check it out. Art putt-putt? Yes please. I’m such a hipster at heart … again, a post suggestion for another time.

(Although, I’m sure the hipster enthusiasts will say a real hipster can’t admit he or she is a hipster, so that doesn’t make me a real hipster … of course. Because I’m not a real hipster. And I don’t want to be. I can’t work those American Apparel clothes.)

I look like Paul McCartney?

Thank you, star-nosed mole face. You made my celebrity look-alikes include Paul McCartney and Jim Carrey. Huzzah!

A post about tea.

This post is for Mely, who was the first and only person to comment on my Facebook status that said: “First person to comment on this gets to pick the next topic for my blog.” She picked the topic, and that topic is tea.

The letter T is one of 26 letters in the English language alphabet. My favorite phrase beginning with T is “table wine,” because it can make a $6 bottle of Whole Foods wine seem elegant: “This 365 brand merlot will accompany our hamburgers as our table wine this evening.”

T may be difficult for some people to handle. Those with a stutter may stumble across the hard sound this consonant makes as it is produced by the action of both your teeth and tongue. However, since The King’s Speech is the greatest thing since sliced bread and stutterers are emerging from their hovels to speak to the world once more, although T is difficult for them to say, they now do it proudly. Much to my pleasure.

Whenever someone stutters I think of “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” by Bachman Turner Overdrive. And please visit that link. The suit Randy Bachman is wearing is insanely amazing. It makes me think of unicorns jumping through fountains of liquid gold, glittering in the sunlight with the tips of their horns adorned with juniper berries. Also, you can totally tell that he’s lip syncing.

The letter T is also the last letter in the word “cat.” When I think of cats, I think of this amazing video, in which a defenseless kitty is rescued from the clutches of an evil … window.

Seriously though, I know Mely is reading this, rolling her eyes and waiting for something about tea, that leafy substance we all know and love so much.

Let me just say this: I love a good cup of blueberry green tea. It’s one of my favorite things in the world, especially when I’m sick, and especially with some locally-harvested blackberry honey.

But I didn’t always love tea. I really only developed a great relationship with my buddy tea in the last few years. Before that, one experience almost ruined the entire thing. That would be the first time I tried to make tea by myself, and that would include exploding tea bags.

(See? You knew you stuck around for a really great reason.)

I was in fifth grade, and I got home before everyone else so I decided to watch some TV and finish my homework early. As I was working on my social studies (yes, I remember which subject it was), it occurred to me that I was very thirsty. I thought about all of the times I went over to my mom’s best friend’s house after school, and how she would make this amazing sweet tea.

After much contemplation, I set out to make myself a pitcher of sweet tea. Here are the errors I made:

1) I used the biggest pot I could find, which my mom usually only used for spaghetti.

2) I put the tea bags in the pan before I even turned on the heat.

3) I used about 15 tea bags.

I set it all on the stove, walked away and hoped for the best. From what I had seen Donna do, the tea was usually ready when it reached a boil. Then she would pour it into a pitcher and let it steep for a while, then remove the bags and add the sugar and lemon. I couldn’t find a big enough pitcher, so I took out the second largest pan we owned, not realizing at the time that it definitely was not large enough for the quantity of water in the spaghetti pot.

I went back to my work. Probably about five minutes later I heard something along the lines of POP! SPLAAAT! I looked out toward the kitchen, but figured it was just the natural sounds of water boiling (I have never been especially inclined towards the culinary arts). Deeming the sounds unworthy of my attention, I went back to work.

But it happened again. And again. Then a third time, all in rapid succession. I ran out to the kitchen and found four tea bags in the middle of the tile floor, exploded like tiny Lipton bombs, their innards scattered.

Yes, those are tiny airplace wings on the tea bags. Thank you for asking.

Panic began to set in. Not two weeks prior, I had been home alone when a crock pot caught on fire. I thought for sure that if my parents found out about the tea bag explosions, they would never leave me alone by myself ever again.

I decided it was time for a cover up. First things first, I had to turn off the stove. As I began to approach, a tea bag popped out of the pot, slammed against the oven’s hood and ricocheted into the living room.

I had to move fast.

I shut off the stove, slipped my hands into some pot holders, took the pot over to the sink and poured the entire mess down the drain. I remember the steam hitting my face and making me sweat like the greasy Italian I am.

What did I do with all the tea bags? Well, the ones that exploded were cleaned up and thrown away. The rest were laying in the sink, so I did what any normal kid would: I used a wooden spoon to force them down the garbage disposal, figuring that five tea bags in the garbage looked a whole lot better than fifteen.

So that was my first experience trying to make tea. I still get a little nervous when I’m about to make a pot of tea. One cup and I’m fine, but when I go to make a whole pot I get shaky and start snapping at people, saying things like, “Oh, you think you’re so great at making tea? Well I can make tea bags fly! What do you think about that, huh?”

By the way Mom, I’m sorry you had to find out like this. This is my dead parrot story. This is my palm tree.

Riding the tide.

Even though I haven’t posted on this blog in, oh, 1,000 years, somehow it still gets more hits than my other blog.

Here’s why: I wrote this post in a frenzy of frustration. I was irritated that people kept telling me to give 110 percent, and I was pretty sure those people just wanted me to work myself to death.

So I wrote about how unlikely it is that anyone can give more than 100 percent. If you’re already giving all you can, you can’t work harder. Saying, “You need to give 110 percent” … well, that’s just a cop-out for a lazy employer who doesn’t want to teach you the skills you need to do what they want.

That’s what it comes down to: it’s not about working harder. It’s about having the appropriate tools to follow instructions.

Since this blog gets so many more hits than the other one, I’m moving the operation back here (possibly only temporarily) to see what happens. With that blog, I usually just write about books. With this one, I can write about books, work, boyfriend or photography. Hell, I could even write about writing. Imagine that.

As an introductory post, how about a photo of myself pretending to be a star-nosed mole?

Dig it?

I’m not normally all gussied up, but I was covering a story today so I needed to look fancy. Also, I do have hair. It’s just hiding behind my head.

An image for comparison:

He digs it.

Okay … maybe that’s a stretch.


Update: Do a Google search for “110 percent.” My post is on the third page. No wonder it gets so many views.

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.


This is my first entry in a blog that has already had several posts on Blogger.

I write for PBA Local, an online news blog serving the Palm Beach Atlantic University community. I also write for PBA’s official newspaper, The Beacon. At PBA, I have 72 credits and a 3.73 GPA, and I’m really proud of that. I have had a pretty difficult go with school through the years, but that’s something that can be covered later.

I love photography, so I will be posting a lot of pictures from Flickr on here. I don’t have an account for myself yet … but it’ll happen.

Stay tuned: this blog is all about whatever I’m thinking at the moment. It’s my Twitter, but more verbose. It’s my outlet for every random, weird, potentially hilarious thought that passes through my brain.