Insane in the name of “naturally” gorgeous

We do a lot of really crazy things in the name of beauty. I mean, if you really think about it, just bikini waxes and Spanx alone might seem truly bizarre to another culture or, say, men. But, this week, I topped the charts of beauty craziness.

I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.

At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.

Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?

As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.



It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.

My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:

Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”

Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”

Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”

Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”

(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)

Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”

Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…

Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.

So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.

Show Tunes Boy

I once went out with a guy who spent the entire evening talking about how much he loved show tunes.

Wait. Time out. The way this is starting, this blog post could be about either of two guys I’ve been out with. Hmm… There is a slight chance I need a better screening system for dates.

Well, on this particular date there were drinks, there was dinner, there were more drinks but most of all, there were show tunes. Lots of show tunes.

We talked about songs he particularly likes, songs he particularly doesn’t like, songs he has performed, songs he’s dreamed about performing, songs that made a real impression when he saw them performed… And, when I say “we” talked, I mean he talked.

I’d throw things into the conversation just to see if he was paying attention: “Did you know I have a make-believe dog? No? Her name is Lolly.” All that got was, “Huh? No. I also like Show Boat. It’s an old show, revived a lot, but it’s got pretty good songs…”

We talked about college. I said, “I went to Americ—” before he launched in with, “My friends and I weren’t in a fraternity, but we’d go to fraternity parties because their kitchens had great acoustics. We’d gather in the kitchen and sing while the parties were going on! It was great.”

Right. I don’t know. He was cute?

I’m not really sure how this date lasted so long, but after dinner we were going to get more drinks. I suggested a bar at which we could watch the NCAA basketball championship game. I had a bracket going (which was obviously a ploy to drop into conversations with guys, you know, along the lines of the Sports Illustrated subscription) and I needed to see where I was going to come out in the bracket pool. I am not really 100% sure he knew what that meant.

Somehow we ended up at a piano bar with one tiny, tiny TV. I sat so I could see the TV. He sat so he could not. You know what he could see? The piano man. The rest of the evening went a little something like this:

“I can’t believe he picked this song to sing!”

“Oh. He is awful at that song!”

“I can definitely sing this a LOT better than he is!”

“If I were the piano man, I’d definitely sing much different songs.”

And then I tuned him out. Again.

So, the lesson here is maybe one should not pick up guys at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Or at least, don’t do it again.

Dinner and a math lesson?

I cannot cook. Really, I have absolutely zero culinary intuition. I know you think I’m being modest, but I’ve screwed up even instant oatmeal beyond edibility. At least twice.

As dinnertime menus are often limited to a bag of popcorn at my house, it’s always a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner. Ok, it’s usually a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner.

On one particular occasion of potentially romantic catering, I am pretty sure the recipe did not call for my stifled laughter. Let’s just say, I don’t think Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen or Mensa will be calling this young suitor any time soon. And, I can add, I probably won’t be either.

This young Emeril aspirant told me that the two dishes he made really, really well—his specialties, as a matter of fact—were mashed potatoes and homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy macaroni and cheese. And, we were going to have both. In the same meal. Considering that if I make either of those things, it typically comes out of a box, who was I to point out that no proper food-pyramid-constructed meal contains two starches?

As he’s cooking, I’m doing what I do best: providing colorful, delightful chatter and plenty of booze. He tells me that his mac and cheese recipe is so involved that he’s never figured out how to cut it down to feed two people. Be prepared for plenty of leftovers. I couldn’t wait to taste the delicacy!

At one point, I was in the middle of an especially enchanting story when The Chef picked macaroni out of the water and squeezed it between his fingers. At its complete disintegration, it was decided the pasta was ready (I could feel my Italian ex-boyfriend’s family cringing wherever they were—you know the same family who taught me the never-able-to-be-repeated-by-me importance of homemade pasta and al dente firmness).

After he drained the macaroni and returned it to the pot and I returned to my engaging repartee (and wine), he cut me off mid-sentence: “This is the really crucial part, and I need to focus so I’m sure everything melts properly.” Intrigued by the culinary genius that was about to take place in my hardly-broken-in kitchen, I poured some more wine and silently settled in to watch.

The dedication, intensity and mild stress—the likes of which while cooking I had only ever before witnessed on those reality cooking shows—was almost awe-inspiring. That was, until I realized that the entire homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy tour de force consisted entirely of 1 box of elbow macaroni and 1 box of Velveeta cheese. And, that was it.

Laughter and so many questions came bubbling to the tip of my tongue: That’s the extravagant, secret family recipe? Wait, you can’t figure out how to cut that recipe down to half or quarter? Maybe ½ a box of macaroni and ½ a box of cheese-like substance? You know they sell exactly this dish in the grocery store, and all you have to do is put it in the microwave for a few minutes?

A little giggle did escape, and maybe even a, “That’s it?” But, the rest was suppressed by the sincere and beaming, “Yep! Sorry I had to shush you. It was just right at the really critical and intense part of the whole thing. I really had to concentrate. So, I hope you like it because you’ll have a lot left over. It’s just such a tough recipe to cut down to be appropriate for two people!”

I was eating Velveeta and macaroni for a week. But, the mashed potatoes were, admittedly, pretty tasty!

The name game

Sometimes (ok, most of the time) I like to play a fun, silly game of “Who Should Kristin Marry?”

The game really has nothing to do with finding a good match for me or even someone I’m remotely attracted to. It’s all in the name.

What’s the point of having a color name unless you can have a little fun with it? I love to find people with last names that if hyphenated with Brown would be a hilarious new last name for me.

For instance, I once worked with a lawyer whose last name is Cherry. Brown-Cherry would be funny.

So would Brown-Mann.

Kristin Brown-Stone.

Kristin Brown-Starr.

And forget a white Christmas; there could be a Brown-Winter!

Of course, other colors are also funny:
Kristin Brown-Green
Kristin Brown-Teal
Brown-White
Brown-Gray

It’s also funny to take the game one step further and pick out wedding favors for these fantasy unions!

If I were to marry Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (or his much younger nephew or son—although I’m not sure he actually has either), our wedding favors could be little milk chocolate White Houses (not to say anything about the Senator’s political aspirations)! If I were to marry someone with another color last name, the favors could be boxes of crayons with the two colors tied together with a little ribbon! Ha!

I think this game is just too funny. Every time I meet a new person whose last name fits with the game, I can’t help but giggle.

The lesson here to potential suitors: it may not ultimately work between us unless your name is really funny hyphenated with my last name—or unless you come at me with a really big diamond.

At least I think I’ll strike back if ever actually attacked

A couple years ago a man known in the media and on the mean streets of Arlington, VA, as The Bagger held women on the orange line of the Arlington-area metro to a state of constant alertness and mild fear.

The Bagger’s MO was to run up behind women, put a plastic grocery bag over their heads and assault them. He was rarely ever able to go all the way through with his attack, though, as the women were usually able to fight him off—no doubt a lesson to would-be attackers: don’t come after the super-motivated, ultra-savvy women of this area because we will bite back (ask some of the unfortunate guys who have unsuccessfully tried to use a stupid line in hitting on us at bars!).

One day, I was walking home from the metro and noticed a shady-looking guy lurking and holding an empty CVS bag. Convinced he was the bagger and I was his next target, I kept him in my periphery, very aware of where he was, as we walked towards my apartment.

I should probably point out, in the interest of full disclosure, that most of my walk from the metro to my apartment is directly in front of the police station. There is no shortage of lawmen wandering around, keeping an eye on things. It’d have to be a really stupid criminal to try and attack someone here, but nonetheless, I was ready for it to happen.

As I was approaching the final few feet before I was home, The Bagger started running for me! I heard his footsteps nearing me, so I braced myself for my counterattack: I started taking my purse (which, like any good stiletto-clad working girl knows, contained a pair of shoes and various other nonsense that would make a serious dent in someone’s head) off my shoulder, poised for action.

Closer…

Closer…

Right behind me!!

I screamed and swung! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

A regular-guy jogger with empty hands stared back, incredulous, like I was totally insane for trying for attack him.

A little afraid for his life instead of mine now, he ran a little faster as I tried to explain I thought he was The Bagger and realized he was actually kind of cute.

In case you were wondering, swinging your giant purse at a stranger is not a way to create a love connection.

There may come a time when you’re too much of a regular

I often thought it was nice to be adored by the people behind the line at California Tortilla. It was like walking into Cheers when I’d go in there. Everyone would look up from what they were doing, and choruses of “hello!” would ring out like the trumpets of Heaven. They knew my order, exactly how I like it, not missing one of my weird substitutions. And, they’d draw hearts with the sour cream on my bowl. It was good being beloved.

However, the Cal Tort near me recently got a new franchise owner/manager, who is VERY hands-on. She loves that I love the place so much, and I love her for loving me loving them. Last week she asked my name, which I thought was sweet. Little did I know that that familiarity would soon come back to bite me in the ass.

Let me play out the scenario from the other day when I met one of my best friends there for lunch:

The scene: a drizzly afternoon. My BFF’s waiting for me to arrive. I come in. I wave and say hello.

And… ACTION!

BFF: Hey there!

Cal Tort Manager (a small Asian woman with a heavy accent standing behind BFF): Kristin!

BFF: Did she just yell your name?

Me: Yes. She loves me.

Manager: Nacho chili bowl, no guacamole?

Me: Yes.
(Secretly hating that she yells that for everyone to hear because it may be just about the worst thing, nutritionally, on the menu for one to order. In fact, I once had a cashier say to me, “You look like one of those little girls who only ever eats a salad.” Instant love with the cashier--until, “But I’ve never actually seen you order one!” And, thank you for that.)

Manager: You have a boyfriend?

Me: No.

Manager: Oh, that’s why you’re always in here alone.

Me: Yes (sad face).

Manager: At least today you have a friend!


And, I think it may be time to learn to cook.

The four-fold benefits of the Sports Illustrated subscription

I have been a longtime Sports Illustrated subscriber, and not because I’m a die-hard sports fanatic. A Sports Illustrated subscription can be a dangerous weapon in a single girl’s arsenal. The benefits are four-fold. Let me share with you what they are:

First Fold
If you read SI, you can drop into conversation all your newfound sports knowledge; boys will love it and will ask you out.

Second Fold
You can drop into conversation that you have an SI subscription, which boys will love and be impressed by and will then ask you out.

Third Fold
If you read your Sports Illustrated on the metro, boys will see you, will love it and will ask you out!

Fourth Fold
When you’re not actually reading your Sports Illustrated, you can fold it carefully so it is unmistakable what the magazine is and place it in your bag, strategically sticking out the top so people can see that it is Sports Illustrated. Boys will love it and will ask you out.

Trust me, this is a GENIUS plan!

Now, I’m still waiting for the payoff, but this plan is so brilliant it’s bound to work! Any day now…

“I just want to lie down next to you…”

There are some guys that you regret allowing to pick you up at your house for dates because you’re later sure you’ll see their cars slowing in front of your house regularly at all hours of the night...

I had one of those dates a little while ago. It was like the kid had never been on a date before and didn't understand that there are some things it’s ok to say out loud and there are some you just shouldn’t. Another good date tactic he wasn’t familiar with was to at least pretend like going out with me wasn’t another chore on a to-do list. You know, I probably rank somewhere between mopping the floor, folding laundry and cleaning out the liquor cabinet (which, coincidently, is the only chore that regularly gets done at my house).

If you know me or have read any other blog posts, you’re probably pretty familiar with the fact that I am rarely ever serious about anything. I mean, have you met Lolly? This guy couldn’t have been less on the same page. He was so intense and serious and, I might say, very tightly wound! Let’s just say this was not a match made in Heaven. In fact, there were several times I wanted shake him and tell him to relax. I think I did actually reach out to shake him once but thought the waiter might call some sort of authorities as he approached the table to find me violently shaking my date.

So, of course, I tried to keep the mood light and bright and airy, telling silly stories, making ridiculous comments and trying to be really flirty. Now, I am a champion flirt, but even Olympic-level flirting was going over like lead balloons. The only time he was really ever very animated was when he got alarmingly worked up explaining to me the far superiority of Bill Mahr to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. So, obviously that cinched it. He’s crazy. No one tops Stephen Colbert. And that is the truthiness of that.

Throughout the date, between rebuffing my playfulness and worshipping Bill Mahr, Humorless Guy repeatedly told me that he was absolutely not, under no uncertain terms, going to sleep with me. Mind you, this was entirely unwarranted. I was certainly not asking for it right there at the dinner table. I had not done one of those swift, table-clearing moves that sends plates and glasses crashing to the floor like you see in movies. I was not at the time unbuttoning my top. Or my pants. Or his pants. I was not blowing him kisses across the table or crossing my legs like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. I was certainly not giving him anywhere near bedroom eyes nor was I crawling over the table towards him. And really, the thought had never even entered my mind.

The first mention of his intended celibacy for the evening was a little uncomfortable but, I suppose, sweet on some strange level. But after the ninth or tenth time, it became unnerving. Nothing makes a girl feel prettier or sexier than the repeated insistence that even if she wanted some action (again, let’s remember that I didn’t. Not from him, at least) the idea of it was so repulsive to the other party that he felt the need to repeat his unprovoked refusal over and over and over again.

When it came time to take me home (maybe about an hour and a half after we went out, which may have been about an hour and 25 minutes too long), he said, "I really want to come inside with you." When I reminded him, only half joking and entirely relieved, that the reason he wasn't coming inside was his rule, not mine, he said, "Kristin! I know you've been teasing me about being so serious, but let's be serious for just a minute. I don't have to come in and sleep with you. I just want to lie down next to you and maybe kiss a little bit, hold hands." Huh?! Romantic proposal, don’t you think? "I know if I took you back to my house I wouldn't be able to leave. But, if I come in to your house with you, I can just get up and go whenever I want to."

I don’t think the car even actually came to a complete stop before I had leapt out. And then packed up and moved.

Bobsledding Darlings

In this down economy, I’ve been thinking lately about what I would do if I were going to have an alternate career. I’ve been considering jobs that are relatively unaffected by changes in financial climate and do not require going back to school.

As such, I have decided that being part of an Olympic bobsled team with my friends might be fun. I mean, Olympic athletes are athletes whether they have money or not, right? I’m also pretty sure we’d be so good at it that we’d get crazy endorsement deals. Does Sephora have a bobsled endorsement deal yet? We’d be excellent Sephora spokespeople. And, you know, an endorsement on the bobsled track would surely have a big impact on Sephora’s target audience.

As I continue to fantasize over this career change, I even wrote a news story about when our bobsled team wins Olympic gold in the unique manner that is my friends.

…………

Olympic Darlings: US Bobsled Team Lives Up to Hype and Wins Gold

SOMEWHERE, Yet-to-be-determined -- The four-woman US bobsled team is known for being loved by all who meet them and celebrated for being "just so darn fun," as their fan club's t-shirts read. Who knew they could additionally compete against such esteemed teams as the Germans and Italians--and triumph?

The team, made up by Jackie, Kate, Maura, and driver Kristin, owes its success to its unconventional race technique. Coach Mary-Ellen starts them off at the top of the course by encouragingly screaming "MOVE IT, BITCHES!" before she hurries down the mountain herself on a snowmobile the women lovingly refer to as Gizmo The Cat, named after their infamous college pet that caused a lot of problems in their house. Mary-Ellen then positions herself to hand open beer to the team as they pass the finish line.

“This team is like no other team I’ve ever coached. There’s a real synergy there. They love to win, but more than that, they love to drink beer at high speeds. Since it’s illegal in cars, we’ve found a way to make it happen for them and maybe pick up a few medals along the way,” Coach Mary-Ellen said of the women.

The technique was at first controversial, but after seeing the success of the team and the technique, other teams have begun to adopt similar styles. There was an unfortunate incident at the world games when the Canadians missed their timing and careened into the crowd as margarita salt got into the driver’s eyes.

No other team has been able to master the beer handoff while zipping past the finish line as smoothly as the Americans. No one has, therefore, ever used the technique in a winning race, unlike the Americans who have done it today to bring home the gold.

………

So, this may be my last blog post, as we will need to move to Nagano or somewhere in Northern Canada shortly to begin training on the bobsled track. Wish us luck.

Needless to say, I’m not an Alfred Hitchcock fan

I am deathly afraid of birds. I mean, really terrified.

I’m routinely laughed at by strangers as I give pigeons a wide berth walking by them on the sidewalk or scream and duck when one flies at my head (ok, “at my head” may actually mean "within several feet of my general direction" but let’s not get caught up in semantics).

So, you can imagine the trauma when I went to Target today and there was a bird INSIDE the store!

I'm sure you can imagine my terror. What you may not be able to accurately imagine is the other shoppers and their children's terror, not at the bird but at the crazy lady who couldn't stop screaming. Picture me sprinting from aisle to aisle to get the shampoo, hand soap and lotion I needed as quickly as possible so as to get the heck out of there. Now, add the bird flying around above me back and forth, back and forth, taunting, and me screeching and then hitting the deck so it wouldn't get me. I wish I were kidding. And, I’d imagine the woman who grasped her young son a little closer to her also wishes this scene were a little different.

The hand soap aisle was the worst since the absence of the type I usually get demanded a little deliberation. You know those bouncy, inflatable punching bag people that kids hit? They fall flat on the ground, and then bounce back up for a second until the kids punch them again and they're on the ground. That was me, but substitute the kids’ punches for me grabbing different soaps to examine on the safety of the linoleum floor.

I got out of there as quickly as I could to drive home with the top down on my convertible and try to stop shaking. As I passed under a flock of birds flying from their perch on a light post, it dawned on me that it is probably pretty ridiculous that I even have a convertible.

There’s a chance I’m a picky eater

I was on a date recently for drinks and dinner. We got drinks and were moving on to the dinner portion of the evening, discussing where we were planning on going. He suggested a Thai restaurant I was interested in trying because the restaurant looked cool, despite my mild aversion to Thai food. One time I had a salad at a Thai restaurant that was so spicy it made my head hurt! What is the appeal in that?!

Allow me to share with you the narrative from that conversation. It will be like you were there!

Thai Food Lover (obviously not me): How about Thai food?

Me: That sounds good. I don’t LOVE Thai food, but I’m not a picky eater. I’m sure it will be great!

TFL: What is it that you don’t like about Thai food?

Me: I don’t like peanut sauce. But I also had a Thai salad one time that was so spicy it made my head hurt. I didn’t really love that.

TFL: Ok, so keep it mild. You just don’t like peanuts?

Me: Oh no, I love peanuts, just not peanut sauce.

TFL (now reviewing the menu and sweetly trying to find something I might like): Ok, how about this dish? It has peanuts but not peanut sauce. And, you can order it mild or spicy.

Me: Hmm… Yeah, I love peanuts, but not actually peanuts IN things.

TFL: Ok, how about these stuffed tomatoes?

Me: Oh no. I don’t really like any cooked fruit, including tomatoes.

TFL: Ok, stuffed mushrooms?

Me: I love mushroom flavor, just not actual mushrooms.

TFL: How about this shrimp dish?

Me: Oh no. The only seafood I like is tuna fish but only if it’s mixed with Miracle Whip and pickles.

Me (again): Oh yeah, I know that sounds weird.

Me (again): Well, I don’t think it really warrants that sort of appalled face.

TFL: Ok… Well, that knocks out this whole section of the menu… Are you sure there’s something on the menu that you’ll eat?

Me: Oh yeah! Nothing to worry about! This chicken fried rice looks delicious.

TFL: Uh, ok. Good, I guess? Adventurous.

Waitress: What can I get you guys?

Me: I’ll have the fried rice with chicken please. But, could I get that with no egg?

TFL: YOU DON’T LIKE EGGS EITHER!??!?!

I think everyone in the restaurant could see the tremendous amount of restraint it took for him to not throw his menu at me. He also ordered a lot to drink. I’m pretty sure that’s because he’s an alcoholic and not because he needed it to cope with me. Yeah, I’m pretty sure of it.

I look just like Eva Longoria.

Huh. I’m sort of surprised you’re still reading. Don’t worry. My crazy isn’t catching!

As I said, one of my favorite things to do is to say really outrageous things and observe people’s reactions. Their faces flash from “Is she serious?!” to “She is certifiable. It’s amazing people with giant butterfly nets aren’t chasing her around,” to “Oh no, wait. I think she’s kidding,” to “Yeah, she’s kidding,” to finally “Is she kidding?”

The pinnacle of this fun game is to tell people just how much I obviously look like Eva Longoria. If someone tells me I look familiar, I’ll respond with, “Oh yeah, I get that all the time. It’s because I look exactly like Eva Longoria.” Or, I’ll say things like, “Oh, Eva Longoria’s new haircut looks super cute on her. Maybe I should get my hair cut too, since it will clearly look great on me too.” The trick is to do it with a straight face and sit back to observe the wonderment (yeah, “wonderment;” that’s what we’ll call it…).

I’ll let you in on a secret: I look nothing like Eva Longoria. I couldn’t look less like Eva. Well, I probably could, but it’s a pretty long shot as it is. First of all, I’m about a hundred pounds heavier than she is. Ok, probably not actually 100 pounds heavier. I mean, if Eva weighed only 30-something—err,let’s go with 5—pounds, she probably wouldn’t have gotten the role as the sex symbol on Desperate Housewives that she did. She’s also probably a little shorter than I am and wears her hair a little differently than I do. And, oh yeah, I am not even an ounce Latina.

This particular joke really took off when I started sending out Christmas cards with “my” picture on them. Look, they’re from Lolly too!

People had really funny reactions to the cards. The lucky recipients would display the cards at their houses, and at one particular friend’s house, someone commented on it saying, “Hey, who’s this?! Your friend is HOT!” My friend then replied, “Well, Kristin is hot, but that is actually a picture of Eva Longoria, you know, the major celebrity.” Everyone had a good laugh then.

A favorite story, though, is when one of my best friends’ sister and boyfriend-at-the-time, who I’d met a hundred times, received my card in the mail. My friend, who had recently gotten married, happened to be at their house, so when the boyfriend-at-the-time opened the card, he said, “Oh my gosh! Who is your friend Kristin and why didn’t I meet her at the wedding?!”

My friend: “You have met Kristin many times, including at the wedding. She’s even been over here to your house. This, however, is a picture of Eva Longoria. Do you watch TV?” I’m sure he then instantly noticed the resemblance.

Live from Lollywood!

Hi! Welcome to my brand spanking new blog where we’ll delve into my innermost thoughts. Ok, maybe not innerMOST thoughts. I’m not sure a whole lot of people would want to be that far into the circus tents that are the inner workings of me, and I think I’ve got a few ex-boyfriends who would probably agree.

For the first order of business, allow me to provide some insight into the adorable name of this rollercoaster of hilarity and mild insanity.

I have a make-believe dog. Her name is Lolly.

Lolly exists (or doesn’t, as it is that she’s imaginary) at the intersection of my love for saying absurd things just to see people’s reactions (usually the reaction is an internal debate about whether I should maybe be taken away by men in white jackets) and my desire to eventually own a toy poodle puppy. You see, I’m far too into happy hours and amorphous evening schedules to commit to the responsibility of feeding, putting on her rain boots and rain hat, walking, fighting off the hoards of people vying for little Lolly’s attention, grooming, matching collar with leash, disciplining, plying with treats and all the other normal duties associated with dog ownership. I’m not ready to actually invite a real puppy into my life, but I have her name all picked out and know exactly what she’ll look like: curly and small enough to fit in my purse, with a little bow in her precious tresses. I know, I’m a total cliché.

Somewhere within the years I’ve been talking about someday adopting Lolly, my family started buying Lolly presents for her to one day enjoy using. And, I prepared by buying all the poodle ownership books, including the ones about litter box training a small dog. Eventually, “Lolly will,” finally became “Lolly does,” and because I thought it was so freaking hysterical, it stuck.

If a dog jumps on me or goes crazy sniffing me (what can I say? Boys and dogs both seem to love my signature scent!), I’ll say something like, “Oh, he probably smells Lolly on me.” This is the most fun to say to a stranger in front of a friend who knows Lolly isn’t real, because whether it amuses the friend or not, I’m inevitably laughing so hard at my really funny joke, the friend is left to explain to the stranger that Lolly is make-believe and then to watch the stranger run in the other direction.

One day I had a guy over whom I had told about Lolly but had neglected to let in on the joke. When Lolly did not bound to the apartment door when we opened it, he asked where she was. I told him that she was probably running around the building somewhere, since everyone loves Lolly, but who knows where exactly she was. His horrified look was exactly what the joke is about.