Monday, June 29, 2015

Check Yo-self Before You Wreck Yo-self.

My "gift of gab," I imagine, is not always a gift to the listeners. I'm sure people can get annoyed with my tireless talking; hell, I tire of hearing myself talk, which is one of the reasons I decided to blog - so I could have an additional outlet to type-talk.

I've always been pretty chatty. From kindergarten onward, the only thing my teachers had to report to my parents was that I talked too much. I was voted Most Talkative in my middle school yearbook, making me oh, thirteen or so at the time? And that same year, my teacher decided to move my desk smack in front of hers to keep me from talking to everyone else, since the other dozen times she relocated my desk didn't stop me. Know what I did then? I started talking to her all the time. "Mrs. LaFosse!" I once whispered, after inspecting her (always) hand sewn outfit."You have a string hanging from your dress, want me to cut it off?" So embarrassing to think about now. It's like no, Krista, what the teacher wants is for you to focus on her lesson and not her attire. But that is was me!

I think I've cut back on the constant yammering though - or certainly have tried to - and now I spend a good amount of time assessing and reassessing what I want to say, if I should even say it, and to whom I say it. Because honestly? I've learned, quite simply, that no one really cares. My sweet grandfather, my Papa, said it best a few years back when he asked how I was doing. "Can't complain!" I declared. "No you can't, know why?" he proceeded to ask. "'Cuz no one gives a shit, ha!"

Now, my grandfather wasn't telling me that no one gives a shit about me, nor was he implying that he didn't give a shit about me; he meant that generally speaking, no one really wants to hear someone grumble about whatever it is they are decidedly grumbling about. And he's absolutely right! I read this recently about the impact of a positive response, AKA essentially lying to people if you're having a bad day (that's my condensed interpretation of it, at least), and I can't agree more. It's the "keep that shit to yourself" theory, where it's not always necessary to state every last thing that is on your mind, and to everyone you encounter. It jives perfectly with my "it is not necessary to react to everything you notice" new mantra, as well.

Does my friend want to know that I don't like her boyfriend? No - always no - she does not. Spare yourself from looking like the asshole boyfriend-basher, versus the Saving Grace you really swear you are, because it's not even your business to begin with, and now you risk losing your friend because she'll likely choose her guy over you.  (Hard lesson to learn though, and I'm definitely still learning it.) Should I tell my friend I think he looks like a pompous dink, intentionally flaunting his new money on social media? Nope, spare yourself from looking like a straight hater. And he could easily buy a new friend to replace you anyway.

Ironically enough, just as I had decided to hit the 'send' button for the aforementioned "pompous dink" comment on my friend's Instagram photo, this scene from RHNYC popped on my TV screen (pardon the poor video quality):

video

Facepalm! A minute late and dollar short, I was. Glad there was some sort of divine intervention though, albeit a tad too late, because these helpful reminders are really worth noting for the future. I really need to think about whether it's my place to say anything and refrain when it's not. Or to just refrain from talking in general. This way, someone else has a chance to talk too, ha.

(Unfortunately for anyone reading this, when I really want to "talk" about something, you'll be the first ones to "hear"about it.)

(PS, how hysterical is Bethany Frankel?! That was like one big run-on sentence, and it was great, IMHO.)

Sunday, June 28, 2015

27/52

(Apologies in advance for the transition of this blog into a mere compilation of dog portraits.)

A guy saw me walking the mutts this week and asked if the dogs liked "not having grass." I've beaten this dead horse a few times, I know, but I just wanted to point out that there is grass to be found! And seriously, is this the face of a dog who is at all bummed about living in a city?



And then there's this face. He's half-drunk off the grass eating.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

TWF (texts with friends).

   

First text: self-explanatory. (I didn't ask her if I could post.)

Second text: Sharon isn't a friend; she's my mama, but I thought her text was funny ("weird hippie weird ass?"). Also, it's funnier to call her "Sharon" vs. "Mom," which is why that's her contact name in my phone. I am likely "Krista" in hers, because "my favorite daughter" is already taken:

She accidentally shared that with me this morning. YES, WE ALL KNOW MAGGIE IS THE FAVORITE, thanks for drilling that point home.

      

Andddd Sophia re: the Yeezy Boost's I want, andddd Rachel for the win, after she came across someone posting about being a #basicbitch on Instagram. God I love her. (She did her contact name in my phone, BTW.)

(I guess I can be kinda funny too. Thanks for thinking the same, Cait.)
    

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

I Could Have.

Father's Day was this past weekend, which anyone with access to a smart phone or a computer or any device with Internet access would know, should they have needed the reminder. Photos shared of a Father's Day brunch, luncheon, or dinner; photos shared of recent outings spent together; "throwback" photos shared of fathers from decades ago. Sharing, sharing and more sharing of people and their fathers, from years past and present, from all around the world.

I could have shared a photo of my father. It would have been a throwback photo - not by choice, by circumstance - but I could have shared one nonetheless, thanking him for being one half of the reason I was brought into this world. I could have shared a photo where he looks pretty damn cool, exactly like James Morrison, decked out in seventies' attire with a head full of curls (I got that from him). I could have shared a photo of the two of us in his Corvette Stingray, with the red leather interior, or the black and white photo shot in a professional studio with a basketball placed in between us (a tribute to his favorite sport). I could have shared any photo in my possession, all of which are almost too perfect to share, as if they were designed specifically to post on social media without any photo filtering needed. Hashtag-cool-dad, or whatever. I could have.

And I bet it would have garnered dozens of likes.


Monday, June 22, 2015

26/52

I'm not intentionally slacking here. Do my wisdom teeth count as a sufficient excuse for everything neglecting the blog (and my camera), cleaning my apartment, working out, grocery shopping, cooking, and everything else in my normal daily life? Yeah? 'Kay good.


My happy boy and the funniest girl I know. Nellie really makes the best expressions, or #moods, ever.


Thursday, June 18, 2015

Wisdom teeth do not impart wisdom...

...rather, copious amounts of pain and frustration when extracted. And that is why I am MIA, folks (should anyone have been wondering).

       

Featured photos of my Disney dinner (applesauce) and tons of cuddles with these guys. They're enjoying the extra couch privileges, I'm enjoying the extra love.

And just in case you were wondering why the fluck they are called "wisdom teeth," according to KAPLAN:

"The usual answer is that they’re thought to be called “wisdom teeth” because they appear so late—much later than the other teeth, at an age in which people are supposed to be wiser than children – which is when all your other teeth grow. Easy isn’t it?


The real origin of the word is more complicated though.
The term Wisdom Teeth comes from a mistranslation of the Dutch word for these teeth, ‘verstandskiezen,’ literally ‘far-standing-molars,’ referring to the fact that they are located at the back of the mouth. In Dutch, such compound words are contracted (written without the spaces), leaving the first part of the word as ‘verstand’ which can correctly be translated as ‘wisdom’ or ‘understanding,’ in English."
 (You're welcome.)

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Sorry.

I feel sorry for him in many ways.

-It's hard for me to but yeah, I guess.

For you to what?

-IDK feel sorry for him I guess.

People who do dumb things are the ones you should feel sorry for. Sorry for the way they are, sorry for the choices they make. Sorry for the hurt they feel inside to act they way they do.

-Yeah you're right.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Things I'd rather blog about than...

...the heavier stuff I've been drafting over the last couple of weeks and can't seem to muster up the energy (or courage) to finish. Because the stuff below doesn't require much competence or written content. So there ya go.

^^Taking it back to 1987, minus the fat face.  People seem to like the mop, affectionately known as my "fro," because out of every 10 people I see, 8 of them tell me they dig it (and ask if I had it permed).^^

        
^^Gentle reminders to breath (a la The Giving Keys) and take some time for myself.^^

          
^^Dog walking, er, people walking? AKA, Chaucer walking me where he wanted to go, and subsequently telling me when it was time for us to rest.^^

    
^^A rare moment Nellie doesn't mind Ziggy; Ziggy smelling the roses peony.^^

^^The sweetest girl I know. And crap all over my black sweats.^^

Friday, June 5, 2015

TWF (texts with friends).

A new series comprised of boundless text exchanges with friends, also serving as a subtle reminder to why I befriended these people:

                    
 



(And a special thank you to each of the contributing authors for enriching my life.)
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