I admit that my activity on both blogs (that’s right, I don’t have one but TWO blogs to broadcast my nerdy thoughts) has been virtually non-existent. I blame the colossal research project I’ve been buried in for the past two months. Thankfully, it is due this Friday, which means I’ll be done very soon and no longer feel the guilt associated with writing here rather than there. That also means I can quit whining about it (sweet) BUT in the same breath I can no longer use it as an excuse NOT to do other things, i.e. play volleyball at Gill Street with friends on a Wednesday night (little known fact, I suck at volleyball. Come to think of it, I suck at sports in general). 

I tend to generate many-a-random thought while in the company of an automobile, particularly if I’m behind the wheel, alone, for an hour or more. To be honest, I need to start carrying around a mini-notebook so I can jot down these thoughts and return to them via blog later. Wait, let me think about that again … hmm … that would make me extra pretentious and supercilious and … well … just completely pathetic. So, scratch that.

As I made my trek home from Chicago yesterday, my random thoughts involved running. I was initially pondering this subject because I was scheduled to run a 1/2 marathon (13.1 miles or something ridiculous like that) this morning in Chicago. Not only am I untrained for such a feat, I also have this paper (see the excuse capabilities behind this sucker?) AND I was exhausted from working an entire day at an National Urban League career expo in Chicago. 

So obviously I’m feeling guilty as crap about not sucking it up and running the race like a real champion or athlete or fighter or whatever you want to call me.  As I’m driving through oceans of corn fields, gulping back my road rage and considering the fact that I am a huge wimp, I begin considering other running-snafus I have encountered over the years.  This is the list I accumulated in my brain:

1. My second ever 5K was at Miller Park Zoo in Bloomington, IL on March 1st, 2007. It was brisk to say the least, and not being much of a “runner” at that point, I did not have the necessary attire to keep my legs toasty (aka running tights, I now have three pairs, thank you.) Anyhoo, I was wearing my iPod, which is apparently taboo for races. I never abided by this rule because I didn’t get it, until this race. Running along, making damn good time for me, I didn’t hear a sideliner shout out, “watch for the black ice!” because Shiny Toy Guns was busy telling me about Le Disko. I instantaneously slipped on the alleged “black ice” and slammed my right knee into the pavement, like a big dope. Completely embarrassed and angry enough to morph into the Hulk, I still managed to pop right up, smile, wave off the “oooh wow that looked bad are you ok?” folk and continue the race. I finished in 23 minutes (my best time EVER). And I still have the scar from that one.

2. A few weeks ago, I was running along on a rather busy road in Bloomington late in the day (around 9pm). Suddenly a cat popped out in front of me. Afraid that the little furball would jolt into oncoming traffic in avoidance of my thundering clodhoppers, I ran towards the left of the feline, hoping it would dart right - into the shrubs where it initially escaped. This cat must’ve had a death wish, because instead of doing what it should’ve instinctually done, it decided to run into traffic anyway. But have no fear, avid readers (all two of you, and I love you for that, BTW) … the cat made it across the road alive. 

3. Back in May, I was running after dark yet again (I like running after dark because nobody can see you if you stop to walk - did I mention how proud I am?) and I approached a cyclist from behind (yeah, she was peddling verrrrry slowly). The cyclist (a female) had earphones on and couldn’t hear anything but Taylor Swift. As I approached her from behind, my eerie shadow cast on the pavement beside her due to the florescent streetlight above. In terror the girl’s front tire wiggled out of control, and she fell half-way off the bike into someone’s yard. She looked at me, panic in her eyes and shortness in her breath.  Once she noticed I was just a burly girl and not a burly rapist, we both had a hearty laugh and went on our way.

4. Last fall I was running across an intersection with a two-way stop. The person on the other side of the street (at the stop sign) was itching to turn left, but the pedestrian always has the right of way, so once the traffic cleared I made my move first. Idiotically the turner made her move too, and nearly nailed me. I was wearing my iPod, blasting a little MGMT when this occurred and didn’t hesitate to shout out, “watch it asshole! What the hells the matter with you - pedestrian has the right of way! Jesus!” Forgetting I had my earphones in and blaring, I shouted this loud enough for people blocks away to hear … including small children. Suffice to say, I was never asked to babysit in my neighborhood after that. 

5. In relation to #4, I have learned to ALWAYS make eye contact with a driver who plans to make a move in your path, particularly the turners. Although the pedestrian does have the right of way, it is the runner’s job to also make sure he/she makes sure the driver sees him/her and can identify the plan of action. I was in Evanston a few months ago and nearly killed a runner when turning in busy traffic. I should’ve been more alert, but that being said, she should’ve made sure we made that eye contact. It was a green light, and I was lost. End of story.

That’s it for now. Whew, it feels good to write something non-research related. I doubt anyone will read this lengthy post, but I needed it. 

I wrote this little cat-monologue for my Second City Comedy Writing Class … Listen, before I’m forced to crawl into that cage I have to present my case. Let me start out by saying I didn’t do it. I am completely prepared for you not to believe me on this one, at least not right away. Besides, I’m a frustrated feline with beautifully maintained claws and fangs. I’ve been abused and mistreated for the entirety of my stay here at Evergreen Place.

The truth of the matter is, I am not a violent animal. I admit, that old man obviously had it coming with his snotty hands and kicking feet, but I restrained from sinking my teeth into his wrinkly flesh because…well, that’s just not how I conduct myself in these situations. Let me clarify by providing some examples.

Lorraine- you know, the balding lady in the wheelchair? Hmm…I guess that describes everyone in this place. She’s the one with the stringy nose hair and extremely competitive nature. Anyway, on numerous occasions she has angrily wrenched me by the neck and elevated me over her wheelchair like a barbaric, handicapped gorilla. This typically happens after she looses a significant amount of Bingo games to her fellow residents. I dealt with this abuse for some odd months, until I decided to handle the situation in a quiet yet strategic manner.

After waiting a few weeks for the purrrrfect moment, I pulled the old Bingo set from the shelf when none of the nurses were around. I skillfully dragged it under a recliner and gnawed the heck out of the boards and pieces for a few hours. I then hauled each piece, one-by-one, to Lorraine, who was taking her afternoon nap in the front room. I gently piled the pieces on her lap during the entirety of her slumber. Bernard was the only resident who saw me do this, but he was moved to the west wing that morning for dementia, so I knew my plan was sure to be successful. An hour later the nurses discovered the shredded game pieces on Lorraine and immediately banned her from the game—and every other game in the building—for the rest of her life. Now, I could have put her in physical harm by biting off a toe or two, but I figured that is only fun and delicious for a quick moment. The satisfaction I get from seeing her in the corner, watching in jealousy as the others rant and rave over a Bingo game every Sunday, far surpasses the taste of her tinny blood.

I resolved a similar issue with Barry—the one with the eye patch who’s quick with the walker. He would get up in the middle of the night and urinate in my litter box. This was a purposeful action, because he claims I give him watery eyes and make him sneeze…a preposterous charge to say the least. He would giggle like a small, one-eyed child as he saturated the gravel with his bright-yellow stream. The box would be left drenched, which would only allow me a mere corner to properly relieve myself until the next time the nurses changed the litter. This went on for over three weeks before I determined it was time to get even and stop this ridiculous behavior. Once again, I waited for the perfect moment to complete my mission. It was a stormy summer night, around 2am. A flash of lightning caused the power to click off unexpectedly, and the night shift nurses and aides scrambled throughout the dark halls with flashlights, tending to the residents reliant on respirators and other fancy equipment.

I snuck into Barry’s room and slithered under his bed, waiting for a clap of thunder to allow a sound-free pounce on his bed. A flash of lightning filled the room with yellow light and I jumped on the small twin bed without even making him stir. I crawled under his blankets and relieved myself quietly in the middle of the bed. The old sap didn’t feel a thing…or at least he didn’t wake up in time to catch me. I dove off the bed and hid under it just as an aide stepped in to check on him. She noticed the large wet spot and called for backup. As the other aides entered to help clean him up, I ran out the door unnoticed. Before I left I noticed his hearing aid was on the side table, and knew I could get away with such a plan without the help of a storm. The following three nights I continued this urinating escapade, which eventually lead the nurses to prescribe that Barry wear a large diaper and drink an extra liter of cranberry juice each day, as they were worried about the strong ammonia smell his pee extracted. His diaper is almost impossible to take off without assistance. Ever since, my litter box has been human-urine free, and I can happily relieve myself in any section of the box.

So, why do I admit to such irate plans? Because, as you can see, I am not a violent animal by any means. I did not eat Lorraine’s toes, nor did I claw Barry’s other eye out of its socket. I utilized my highly capable cat-brain to present a completely violent-free form of vengeance. Therefore, based on my record, it is quite obvious that I did not bite Gary for rubbing his snot-infested fingers through my beautiful mane of black then kicking me when I protested. No. I DO admit that I hide under the front room plants immediately after his abuse and began stewing up a nice plan to get back at him—one that did not include violence or putting his life in danger.

You’re next question will be, “If I the cat did not bite him, who did?” Well that is an interesting question with an even more interesting answer. The truth of the matter is, he bit himself. After he kicked me in my kitten suckling area I howled in pain and jolted out of the room. I noticed, as I was running out, the mirror on the wall by the door. I kept my eyes on him through the reflection to make sure he was not following me, and saw him glare at his bare hands like some sort of madman. As soon as I exited, I heard a disgusting “chomp” and his wily voice scream in agony. I was too afraid to turn back and see what had happened. It is quite obvious that Gary felt silly for the way I reacted to his snot fingers, and was undoubtedly embarrassed when I ran away. His anger lead him to bite himself in a vengeful frenzy. And believe me when I say, I am one to know the power of vengeance, if anyone does.

So please, do not take me away to be dealt with by euthanasia. I am still in my prime and would like to continue my life here if possible. I will no longer eat the resident’s pudding or gnaw on the blinds in the foyer. I will let them brush me with their wire combs, even if it is making me bald. I simply have too much going for me to be sent away in such an unjust manner.

Once i was a tike
Around three or four.
My mama took me ova to the candy store.
“What do you want?”
She said to me.
“I want somethin’ chocolate”
I responded with glee.
“What about these jelly beans?”
She said lookin’ real smart
That’s when my stupid blood pressure
Went off the stupid charts.
“You know I hate them things!”
I belted to the candy shop.
“That stupid bunny brings ‘em…
With his stupid hop!”
That’s when my mama looked me 
dead in the eye
She said: “Kristi, my dear…
this mama don’t lie…
try these here Jelly Bellys
Thems a type of bean.
Some smell a little fruity 
and some smell real mean.”
I flinched at the candy
Then flinched at her face
My lil’ heart was racin’
All ova the place.
“Okay, Char. I’ll give it a whirl.”
(I said this to suppress
my sudden urge to hurl.)
“Here, try green apple…
I know you like them best.”
I slowly but surely 
gave thems beans a test.
And right away 
I figured it out too soon…
These glorious beans
really make me swoon.
Now, the moral of this story
Is to try somethin’ new.
And while you’re doin’ that
I’m gonna tie my shoe.

I’m not sharing this to appear pathetic or whiny regarding my personal dating scene (particularly the dating scene in Bloomington, yuck) but this particular blog post put my own thoughts and feelings on the matter more eloquently than I ever could.  I’d argue there is a lot of truth to this. 

Music video of the day (this was meant for Wednesday … life got in the way yesterday)

Postal Service - Such Great Heights

It’s official: I no longer find Twitter to be a waste of interweb-space.  I quote from one of my blog entries in April: “Twitter? What purpose does it serve? One-liners describing pointless moments of one’s mundane existence? Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of clarity via text?”

Now I can confidently say I disagree with myself.  My initial issue was this: what could I possibly tweet about that would warrant a textual communication for the world to see?  Typically, when I get a hankerin’ for spilling my pointless thoughts on the internet, I venture out to this blog. I think a total of three people read it anyway, so what do I care if my stories/entries are lame to the masses?  I write knowing my loyal readers will appreciate my decisive utterances no matter what.

(Note: I saw a shirt a few months back that simply said, “Nobody reads your blog” on the front.  I can relate … but, in the same breath, I don’t really give a damn. I write in this piece to get my writing fix. That is all.)

So back to Twitter. I don’t know when this transformation occurred, but suddenly I see, just like that nerdy KT Tunstall song.  I now think I understand this Twitter-hype, and why I find myself to be suddenly twitter-pated if you will. 

It all begins with news. International, US, local, entertainment, technology: you name it, I’m informed instantaneously via Blackberry device updates.  Additionally, although I’m not the FIRST to know, I jumped on this twitter-wagon before most of my friends, and have therefore suddenly become the news-barer of sorts.  I kind of feel like Baron Munchausen (in The Adventures of …): “Remarkable. Unbelievable. Impossible. And true.” I am the news junkie. The news guru. I’m all over it.  

Here’s an example of a typical every-day occurrence now that I tweet:

“Say, Kristi: What’s going on in Entertainment today?”

“Oh, hi extremely hot and intelligent man who came out of nowhere, let me check out my latest Tweets so I can brief you accurately.”

“Great. Wow, you’re so tech-savvy.  And informed.  Also, nice bangs. Can I take you out for some cotton candy some time?”

“Why yes, yes you can. I’m actually going to tweet about this right now, if you don’t mind.  Excuse me.”

And that’s that. 

I gently slurp the frothy strawberry slush 
with a lanky pipe. 
A saporous delight, my taste buds rejoice. 
But then, slowly, marble-sized beads- 
vesicles of honey and gelatin, 
travel slyly up the tube and into my mouth. 
Chewy egg sacks on my tongue. 
I gag… 
and throw the repulsive sludge in the small vendor’s face. 
In a vicious rage I bolt out the door and exclaim: 
“Next time no balls!”

I’m rather afraid to inform anyone of this, but … to be honest … things have been going splendidly in my world lately. 

I’m enjoying this lucky-streak thoroughly, but I woke up mildly concerned this morning.  Why am I so lucky?  Is it karma?  I mean, I haven’t necessarily been “good” but I haven’t really been “bad” either. To be honest, it doesn’t seem fair.  I feel like I’m going to get it … BAD … painful … mortifying … at any moment.

Examples of bad luck I’m anticipating:

• Experience a massive heart attack while running. 
• Trip over a live wire while running. 
• Choke on my morning oatmeal and suffocate with only my cat, Bruce, to witness the fatal bite.  
• Fall down a flight of stairs because I was carrying 18 grocery bags up to my apt in a moronic balancing-act. 
• Get acid thrown on my face, deforming me for life.  
• Fall victim to a pandemic.  Or a nuclear holocaust.  Or a zombie attack. Or all three at once.
• Go blind from staring at the sun too long.  
• Suddenly form an intense allergy to dairy products, rendering me incapable of consuming cheese (a major part of my diet).
• Form an allergy to my cat, the only person on the planet I feel really understands moi.
• Form adult-acne.  
• Lose my arm in the washer right after I haphazardly lost my finger in the microwave. 
• Get gangrene on my toes … get forced to remove all ten and thus never run again.
• Getting fat in an incredibly short amount of time, like Kirsty Alley, because I can never run again.

Anyway. Who knows … and who cares … but the reality is this: I sense some bad junk coming my way. It’s time for it. You know, like a parking lot falling victim to a 100 year storm because doesn’t have the accurate drainage plan necessary to beat the flood.

There’s no way this delightful goodness … like a seemingly bottomless butterfinger blizzard that is, in actuality, just a size large … will last forever.  

Either way, I’m being verrrry careful with scissors these days. 

Still in the office with lots to do.  Have to run tonight. Have school stuff to do.  Never-ending responsibilities.  The task list never runs dry. That’s what I get for going to Mexico and Portugal within a 2 month period.

I just have to note something … and it’s going to be near impossible to articulate it in words, but I’ll give it a shot:

Have you ever seen a picture … or smelled a smell … or witnessed a micro-event that nobody else noticed … and felt a sudden longing for something? I’m not referring to a person or even a place, but I guess more of a state of mind.  A state of being.

I just saw a picture someone posted on their tumblr.  The colors are rusty and a bit hazy. It isn’t the actual image that is making me feel this way, but rather the space it has captured.  It reminds me of something.  Something I miss or a mental place I wish I could go. 

I know, I’m delving into a semi-pretentious “what is the universe” kind of post, so I’ll stop.

I hate:

1. Top sheets.  I seriously hate them.  I kick them off within 5 minutes of snuggling up in my bed.  What a pointless waste of fabric.

2. Dieting.  I’m not going to pretend I love that cucumber over a potato chip.  I might say I do, but don’t believe me. It’s a damned lie.  This is why I don’t diet and run instead.  At least with running I can pretend to be somewhat athletic.

3. Sunburns.  I’m not a baby about much when it comes to pain, but when it comes to sunburns, you might mistake me for a 7-year-old who just got her Shetland Pony taken away because she didn’t clean her bedroom (yeah, long-winded metaphor that doesn’t make a lot of sense - lay off).  Additionally, if you have a sunburn I warn you to keep a distance. I know I can’t get it, but there’s a 68% chance I’ll gag at the sight.  That hot-cold stuff makes me cringe.   

4. My new twitter obsession. For some reason I feel the need to share every thought I encounter while I’m running around solo these days.  It’s my way of sharing all the meaningless junk that bounces around in my head … you know, the stuff I can’t say to the checkout lady at Panera without raising her eyebrows. Example: “Top sheets can go to hell.”

5. Internet courses.  What a clustery mess.  I seriously get anxiety just contemplating logging in to Blackboard to review the days “to-do” and announcements.  

6. Sushi as a meal.  I have many theories about sushi. One theory I spout that tends to erupt angry responses among friends is this: sushi eating on a frequent basis is merely a fad with big-city folk. I’m referring to the people who like to throw patronizing comments at us country mice such as, “Haven’t you ever tasted real wasabi?” or “What are you doing putting ketchup on that hotdog?” … So, OK.  Sushi is tasty and I enjoy trying new kinds … but I’m not going to admit I could eat three or four of the little gobs of rice and crab and respond with “mmm … how fulfilling” when I’m done.  Instead, I’ll be looking at my empty plate, wondering when the server is bringing me beef.

On the plane home from Mexico yesterday I finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Survivor. 

I attempted this book last summer but lost interest quickly after reading the second chapter.  Essentially, within a whopping ten pages, the protagonist described a plethora of ways to get stains out of various fabrics and other porous materials.  I felt like I should be taking notes and prepping for an exam.  Obviously I grew tired of such an overload of unnecessary information … since I don’t really have an issue with stains (unless Bruce eats one of those plastic milk-jug rings).  

In Indiana a few weeks ago I decided to pick it back up and give it another whirl.  Palahniuk is the author who wrote Fight Club … one of my favs … so I figured I owed it to him to push through the second chapter and keep going.  Through the tears and horrendous brain-pain, I popped a few Excedrin and finally made it through. Miraculously … once chapter 2 was way in my past and long forgotten, I enjoyed every moment of the rest of the story … until the end.

One important factoid about this book is the page numbers are counted down to the end.  I’m not spoiling anything when I say the format of the book is basically written in the first person who is ultimately going to kill himself.  The protagonist is on his way to suicide via crashing a plane he has evacuated, and is telling his story to the black box during his slow descent (while waiting for engines to burn out).  Additionally, I must add that the grammar and writing style of Palahniuk drove me a little bananas … my OCD was kicking in and I almost grabbed a red pen to correct some of the sentences.  I refrained since I borrowed it from my brother and his wrath is terrifying when it comes to scratched DVDs or bent pages.

Anyway, the end, which I will not spoil, was kind of a humdrum.  I had a flashback to Steven King’s The Stand … which was ridiculous enough to make me throw the book across the room, stand up in a rage of fury and exclaim: “The hand of God card?  F-you, King!”  The entire book leading up to the end was really interesting (regardless of size - you could seriously kill somebody hitting them over the head with this thing) … and then the Hand of God came and ended it.  It was as if King got to a certain point, realized he had enough pages to level an entire rain forrest and thought, “Hmmm … crap.  Well, there’s always the glorious Hand of God, which could do anything at any time and doesn’t really need an explanation to work in this context.  Bada-bing.” (In my head apparently King is having lunch with Joe Pesci?)

Anyhoo, Survivor didn’t make me quite as angry, but I was still annoyed.  Upon completion, I glanced over at the lovely Mexican lady (who couldn’t speak a lick of English) sitting next to me as I closed the little soft-cover and made a “slit my throat” motion.  I don’t think she understood … and the next two hours on the plane were rather awkward … (she slept with one eye open, staring directly at me …)

Endings can be difficult, and I’m not just talking about books and movies.  The climax and resolution is always exciting … but it can definitely leave a bad taste in your mouth if not done artfully.

RT @badbanana China has blocked Twitter. Now 1.3 billion people will have no idea what I’m having for lunch. - hilarious

I used to listen to Dave Matthews Band.  A lot. 

Nowadays I think all of this songs sound relatively the same. BUT … in light of the release of their latest album (today, actually … well I’ve got three minutes before today is tomorrow) … I thought I’d share one of my favorite DMB songs.  This song especially hits home for me … jabs me right in that central vascular organ that likes to drop and race at inopportune times.  So you’re dying to know, right?  It’s called Stay or Leave … and it truly is a wonderful, melancholy little tune.

On this same subject, I heard the big “headliner” song from his recent album and, although the rhythm is fine and the beats get my thumbs drummin’ on the steering wheel, once I listen to the lyrics I want to forget I ever admitted to liking it. Horrendously cliche.  Way too obvious.  No poetry there at all. Blah.

There’s my musical soapbox stand for the day.  Hope you enjoyed it.