Once Upon a Time...

My BABY sister went to prom.

She is cute.

This is her natural hair color, darn her.

My mom tried to teach her the art of fastening the boutonniere on Papa Booth. He's going to heaven for his patience.

Last minute changes with a pair of scissors made me reallllly nervous for her.

I can make this face too. I think this is the only time Michelle has ever looked like me.

Nicole had to pin on the boutonniere.

Her date was cute.

The end.

Dear Meryl Streep,

I know your secret. You obviously drink blood. That is the only explanation I can come up with at the moment regarding your RIDICULOUSLY good looks and youthful appearance at the age of ... wait, 60? That cannot be correct. No, no... I forgot. You drink blood. Right. Anyway. You are 60 years old. I watched "The Devil Wears Prada" for the first time a couple months ago, and I was dumbfounded by three things:

1. The movie was actually pretty entertaining. I'd even venture to say that I'd watch it again. That is a big deal, because for some reason I just always imagined I would hate it. I would avoid watching if it was on TV, I'd always vote against it when choosing a movie to watch with friends, and basically acted as if I were allergic to Anne Hathaway. I don't know how I ended up watching it, but I really liked it. Tee hee. Silly me.

2. You are so dang convincing as a tight lipped, white haired, El Diablo of a fashionista ... it is chilling. You've obviously still got it.

Speaking of things you've still got:

3. You are one hot mother of a grandma. I mean seriously. Like a fine wine, you just become sweeter and sassier with age. I don't actually know anything about wine. But let me show you what I'm talking about:

This is you as a young actress, you pretty lady you...

And this is you as an old actress:

What the freak? Not. Fair. You are obviously taking waaaaay longer than your alotted 5 seconds at the fountain of youth. Save some for the whales.

And when I say "whales"... I really mean "whale"... and when I say "whale"... I actually mean.... "me".

So listen up bub, I'll be 23 in a couple weeks and you are hogging all the sassy youngness. My joints are achey, I have to take pee breaks in the middle of the night, and when I stand up after sitting I hobble around like a troll until my knees un-stiffen.

Curse you, you wretched Youth Hog!

(I didn't mean it. I'm scared of you. And can I have your autograph?)

Love,

Kristin

Quotes of the Day

"EVERYTHING is a date." - Mama



"Maybe instead of studying for two hours today, I watched George of the Jungle on youtube." -Dear Roommate



Me: "I'm such an emotional baby"
Boy: "Ya right. At dinner group we don't call you Stonewall Jackson for nothing."
Me: "...?"
Boy: "Well, not to your face."

Speaking of the Grinch...

So. I was sad last Saturday. Mostly because I am a single white female. My race really has nothing to do with it, but I wanted to use that phrase. Anyways. Single White Female... emphasis on the single.

Anyways. Whilst I was being a weepy baby I looked in the mirror and realized, that when I cry, I look like the Grinch, but red. My face puffs out to ridiculously unreal proportions and I get red blotches all over my face. Also, it makes my eyelashes look AWESOME.

This is why I'm single.

Uh.....

Please go HERE to read a news article about this guy:

...Who attempted to kidnap a girl in Provo on Tuesday by using handcuffs, a stun gun, easter candy, and a body-sized storage bin with locks and handles. GOOOOO. Why are people so creepy?

He was her home teacher. I have seriously read this article like 5 times. Every single part of it creeps me out. Poor girl. Good for her for not letting him stuff her in a storage bin. If I ever meet this fellow, he will receive a personal greeting from my foot, delivered directly to his face.

And runnin runnin and RUNnin RUNin and RUNIN RUNIN and RUNNNNIN RUNNNIN!

Picture the title of this post as the intro to "Lets Get It Started" by the Black Eyed Peas.

Three days ago, I voluntarily went running for the first time in my whooooole life. I only made it a few blocks before stopping to walk. But then I started again. So quit judgin.

I have the endurance of a morbidly obese individual with emphysema.

I have never had high endurance, ever. Even when I was a spry little spring chicken in the 8th grade.. my fastest timed mile "run" ever took 9 minutes. I just have a small shriveled grinch heart that resists exertion at all costs.

That is going to change because I want to be healthy. And. I got me some spiffy new running shoes. They feel like heaven on my feet. And they are sassy looking. Seriously. They make running so much less tortuous. And they are shiny silver, and white, and orange, and hot pink. They are much cooler looking in real life, but here is a glimpse:

I also went running again before work on Friday. My little heart already feels like it has grown a size or two.

Faaa Rooo doh Ray mmeeee haaaa moooo haaaaa.

Wish me luck in running my butt off. Because seriously. My butt needs to vacate the premises. It's out of control.

Livin' La Vida Loca

So. I was driving the other day on the freeway and I saw the following license plate:

And I started giggling uncontrollably. Like... who on earth would write "Ricky Martin" on their license plate? I was so tickled that when I remembered it the next day, I turned down the music in the car to tell my sisters.

Me: OH MY GOODNESS. Yesterday... I saw a license plate that said Ricky Martin.

Jackie: No way. How did they spell it?

Me: R-C-K-Y-M-T-N

Jackie: ... Uh, rocky mountain?

Me: Oh.

I'm a little bit embarrassed at my brain for its immediate gravitation toward an obscure latin heartthrob rather than toward the much more obvious, GIANT landmark immediately to the east of the freeway. Whatever, I like my Ricky Martin version better.

Things that make me happy.

Peanut butter.

Funny boys.

And running into my freshman year BFFs at the volleyball game. And then taking a really fuzzy picture with a phone because we were so excited.

Monsieur Le Pew

Following this short introduction, I will leave you with an official accounting of my experiences with Pepe. Pepe LePew, to be exact, but Pepe for short. That is what I have officially christened the skunk truck. And yes, Pepe is a male.

I don't think anyone would dispute his gender. I am grateful to my parents who are letting me borrow this truck until they feel like they want it back. We have a special new friendship, the truck and I. I overlook Pepe's weaknesses (general skunk-like appearance, loose driver's door that falls partially open if not locked, manual transmission, etc.) and try to focus on his strengths. I mean come on, he has a shell. The possibilities are basically endless.

Official Stats:

Year of Pepe's birth: 1984

Days I have been in possession of the skunk truck: 3

Days of experience driving a stick shift all by myself: 3

Number of successful trips: 3

Feet needed while stopped on a hill: 3

Number of stalls experienced total: 5

Number of stalls experienced on a hill or driveway: 2

Number of stalls experienced with a car waiting behind me: 0

Number of honks received for crappy driving: 1

Number of visible birds flipped at me: 0

Number of approximate non-visible birds flipped: 5

Number of near-collisions as result of me rolling backwards at a stop light on a hill: 1

Average increase in heart rate while driving: 50%

Vehicles or objects struck while driving: 0

Sense of accomplishment felt when I parallel park and walk away unscathed: Immeasurable.

Quote of the Day

A young mother came into our office the other day with her 3 or 4 year old son and asked if they could use our bathroom. We showed her the way and she walked back to the bathroom right as I was clocking out for the day. When I walked into the bathroom to change from my skirt into some jeans, her son was in a stall while she waited by the sinks.

He was making small talk with his mom through the crack in the stall door when all of a sudden he paused and matter of factly proclaimed:

"Mom, its okay when I get poop under my finger nails."

No inflection or questioning. His mom looked at me embarrassed and I tried to reassure her by suggesting: "At least he isn't one of those kids that cries when that happens...."

To which the little tot replied: "Why would I cry?"

Thank you, little man. And uh, please wash your hands.