tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23181899118972905022024-03-18T22:51:14.781-04:00Live From Lollywood!Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-8497146384363069402016-08-04T13:36:00.002-04:002016-08-04T16:20:46.649-04:00A parable <div class="MsoNormal">
There was once a girl in love with her outfit. She was especially pleased with how adorable she looked as she headed off to work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking to the metro, she loved how her sleeves fluttered in
the breeze. On the metro, she appreciated how her red lips complimented the
colors she was wearing. Walking to the office from the metro, she acknowledged
how her shoes set off her pants and top. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled at everyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only at the conclusion of her long commuting journey, in the elevator with another person, did she notice with surprise that she had a three-inch hole in her pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she sat down at her desk and crossed her legs while speaking on a conference call.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pkWPblPCy2jOZem3Qlvf2jkZR7LYq9ZygR2V8uesXdOP7K-Eel8KGnPHrGkiGFvMyg4zJGgYSxHt0FZQtQOP00xoHH10jFfYMIS7xdT2ozJ20DUoeXN_9F7scD4Fy03Xq9RhldwuHf6M/s1600/IMG_9327+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pkWPblPCy2jOZem3Qlvf2jkZR7LYq9ZygR2V8uesXdOP7K-Eel8KGnPHrGkiGFvMyg4zJGgYSxHt0FZQtQOP00xoHH10jFfYMIS7xdT2ozJ20DUoeXN_9F7scD4Fy03Xq9RhldwuHf6M/s1600/IMG_9327+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Crotch. To. Knee. All the way. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that, my friends, is why one should always keep an extra
outfit at one’s desk. <o:p></o:p></div>
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-41642660671479457272016-06-14T13:28:00.001-04:002016-06-15T15:51:31.344-04:00Tragedy and love<div class="MsoNormal">
After any terrible tragedy, especially one borne of hate, illuminating,
hopeful messages of love surround us—poignant, often defiant notes that try to
fill the deep, dark void that such an enormous act of hatred creates. The
message in all of them is clear: everyone deserves love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is the only way we get through dark times. It’s what
props us up and holds us steady when it feels like everything is crumbling down
around us. Tragic events make us hug our loved ones a little tighter and take
stock of what’s good in our lives. It’s what we cling to when the despair around
and inside us feels so raw and endless. It’s the light that keeps us moving
forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am lucky to have really wonderful friends and family, terrific
people that I love and support with everything I have. Their happiness
genuinely and wholeheartedly is my happiness and their struggles my pain too.
My heart fills and aches as theirs do. I can feel their love for me span the
miles that sometimes separate us. I can feel it when they show up for me,
however stubborn or silly I may be acting or however absurd the circumstance I’ve
roped them into is. I can even feel it more powerfully when they lean on me in
their tough times, when they need my help. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Always, and especially in times following tragic loss, I am overwhelmed by gratitude for having all these people in my life to love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart is full with them and with my puppy, who has
quickly become my beloved and enduring sidekick and has taught me so much about my own personality
as I see it mirrored back in him (apparently, it's true that dogs take on their owners' characteristics). Aside from his insatiable desire for social
activity, little Lolly’s capacity for unfailing love for everyone he meets once
or a thousand times is a reminder to me to keep putting love out into the
universe. There’s no reason not to, and it causes so much joy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It sometimes strikes me that Lolly is the only one who would
notice if I didn’t come home. I don’t hate being single, most times I really
love it, but sometimes I wish for a human partner to share accountability,
passion, life. And, especially in light of unpredictable tragedy, someone who
would know if the unthinkable happened to me one day and I didn’t come home.
Because, let’s face it, the unthinkable seems to be happening more and more in
this world. Wouldn’t it be nice to know there’s someone who would know to look
for me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
National tragedies, even local tragedies, create lasting
wounds in people, anxieties and sadness that have the potential to really take root,
even if temporarily. One of the anxieties that glows brighter for me at times
like these is knowing that if I were caught up in a random, senseless crime,
there’s a good chance no one else in my life would know I had been there. No one might know to
look for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve heard over and over from many people that they don’t
like to set their friends up because there’s a chance it could go very badly,
and they don’t want to be responsible for that. But, isn’t there also a chance
it could go very well? Wouldn’t you want to offer your friends the possibility
of it going well? I’ve found in my vast (too vast, probably) experience dating
that set-ups almost always go better than online dates. At a certain point in
our lives, set-ups and online dates are really the predominate way people meet,
but there seems to be a lot of reluctance to do the setting up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we’re all looking for some way to contribute a little more
to the amount of love out there in the world and to help in the aftermath of senseless
crimes, I’d ask that, first, you donate blood, time and/or money for the
victims and their families who so very much need and deserve our help, and then
that you think about your friends who might also be looking for a little more
love in their lives. Set your friends up. Give them a chance to have someone
know when they come home at night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-64954334488003831652015-07-06T15:03:00.001-04:002016-02-28T22:46:16.500-05:00"There's been an accident in the pool"You know how sometimes you go to the pool and hope not to get a lot of attention because, say, you've just come from an all-you-can-eat brunch (and brunch was after a spin class where even the instructor said afterwards, "Wow. That was really hard!" so you ate <i>everything</i>, twice)? And then something happens and you have ALL the attention? Yeah... That happened yesterday.<br />
<br />
I love the pool. I love swimming. I love sunning. I love reading and listening to music. I love trying to pretend all those kids at the pool aren't there by sipping cocktails and blasting Taylor Swift in my earbuds.<br />
<br />
Then, the sun goes behind the adjacent building, and it's my cue to get in the water. I throw off my headphones and sunglasses and slip into the pool trying hard not to make a splash or otherwise draw a whole lot of notice to myself. (Right?? The <i>one</i> time I'm not trying to be center of attention! If there is ever a time I'm trying not to be noticed, it's in a bathing suit after stuffing my face, that's for sure.)<br />
<br />
Huh. I'm the only person in the water. All the families must be packing up to head home. All at once.<br />
<br />
Then I hear a child's alarm, "Uh oh!!! There's someone in the pool!"<br />
<br />
What?!?<br />
<br />
All eyes are on me. All of them. Every eye. All over my brunch-inflated, whale-sized floatation. Then, they're all talking to me; well, the ones who aren't staring, mouths agape at what I've done or the bitchy, gay couple that's in a fit of giggles are talking.<br />
<br />
"Miss, miss? There's been an accident in the pool. We're not swimming right now."<br />
<br />
Always apropos, I say, "Oh shit!!!" and jump out.<br />
<br />
Then I get the story.<br />
<br />
How did I miss a kid POOPING in the pool, miss everyone else noticing it and extricating themselves and their 100 kids each from the water and then sitting around chatting about the proper way to handle POOP in the POOL?!??!?!<br />
<br />
Something to think about, I suppose, as I spend the next 4 days in the shower. Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-41117072086329372222015-06-12T11:30:00.000-04:002016-02-28T22:52:42.824-05:00A shameful public admissionLadies and gentlemen, I failed ballet in college.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yep. Failed. Ballet. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is ridiculous for a few reasons. </div>
<div>
First, who fails a college class?! That kind of thing matters. I had never failed anything before. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Also, it was a one-credit elective. To fail a one-credit, elective class you really have to try. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And finally, and probably most notably, until almost that point, I had been training pretty seriously to be a professional ballet dancer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What?! How did I <i>fail ballet</i>?! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, I just didn't go to the class. And, how could I have been expected to?! It was a morning class!! (Well, 9:55, but in college anything before 11 was considered ungodly, especially on mornings after party nights. We'll gloss over the fact that by senior year one could argue that any night was a party night). My body also doesn't perform as well in the morning*. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Plus, I had taken the class twice before when I was a freshman, and I hated the class. It was full of modern dancers. <i>Modern</i> dancers!! (Read that with your most sour, sour face--but jokingly.**) Because of their position in the minor program, they had to be in the advanced ballet class regardless of ballet ability or lack thereof, as was the case. So, let's just say the class had trouble keeping my interest.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The problem was that I needed that one elective credit to graduate. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oops. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Similarly, as a business minor, I had to take corporate finance. I hated that class too. Hated it. So, sometimes maybe I let myself get more wrapped up in handling sorority business than learning about business business. </div>
<div>
<br />
And, thus we land on what we might consider one of my crowning life achievements.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Inevitably, I was able to convince my ballet teacher to let me write a couple papers to pass the class and, thus, graduate. They were 3/4 of a page each. About ballet, a particular passion of mine. So, I created for myself a super taxing assignment, you know?<br />
<br />
I also persuaded my corporate finance teacher to give me a C. I'm positive I bombed the exam. But, you know what? My final grade still ended up a C. Boom. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The moral of the story is that I got a great education in college in talking my way into things I wanted or needed. And that, my friends, set me up far better for my career in public relations than silly courses like corporate finance (though now that I work with a lot of corporations, I could stand to have some of that knowledge...) and ballet. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You see, kids, I've now made a career out of convincing people to do or think things. I might even say I'm not half bad at it.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it pays to slack off. You might discover where your real talents lie. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
*- Especially when it's recovering from a hangover. <br />
<br />
**- Ballet and modern dancers are not typically friends. There's a longtime, unacknowledged sort of feud between the two art forms. We used to try and convince our modern teachers to allow us to have a "relaxation" class--which was basically just sanctioned napping for an hour--to avoid actually having to do modern dance. It often worked because modern teachers were usually into that mind-body connection, rejuvenation stuff that budding ballerinas were too uptight to appreciate. But I'm sure modern dancers are all lovely people. <br />
<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-40648639124509794042015-06-11T11:30:00.000-04:002016-02-28T22:55:02.603-05:00Dr. Jenny and the phone consultationsYou know I'm a <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/09/perfect-storm-of-knowledge-and.html" target="_blank">hypochondriac</a>. (Ok, and <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/search/label/hypochondria" target="_blank">all of these</a>.) Fortunately for me, my mom's a nurse. And, my brother's an EMT. And, my dad was the medical guy on his Green Beret and Delta Force teams. So, I'm <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/12/insane-in-name-of-naturally-gorgeous.html" target="_blank">covered </a>when I freak out about my latest perceived, terrible illnesses and impending death. <br />
<br />
My sister has recently become a veterinarian. And, what do you know?! I am a first-time dog owner!! Hooray for the (actually not at all accidental on my account) serendipity! <br />
<br />
As you can imagine, taking care of myself is tough work, but taking care of someone else too?! DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE! I don't know how parents of human babies do it! So many terrible, awful, horrific things could happen to my baby pup!! And, you just never know when they might occur. The whole world is a death monster, conspiring to get the little love of my life!<br />
<br />
So, naturally, I have my sister on speed dial. Here are a few of the phone calls and FaceTimes--you know, if there is something I'm pretty sure she should examine--I've made to Dr. Jenny.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
Jen!! The breeder said to take Lolly's collar off him when he goes to bed in his crate because he could strangle himself. I JUST LEFT HIM AT HOME ALONE WITH HIS CRATE OPEN!!!! Is he going to strangle himself?!?!?!!?<br />
<br />
Jen! Lolly's poop is weird!!<br />
<br />
Jen! Lolly's poop is weird but in a different way than before!<br />
<br />
Jen! Check out this picture of Lolly's crazy weird poop! Is it supposed to look like that?!?! <br />
<br />
Oh my gosh, Jen! Lolly's poop!!!<br />
<i>[The poop call happens a lot. Jenny said to me one time, "Why are owners so obsessed with their dogs' poop?! When I told her that everything you read about puppy wellness says that changes in their poop are first indicators of something being wrong, she said, "Kern*, how different does your poop look from time to time? Do you call your doctor every time it's different??" I mean, I might, if I were related to my doctor...]</i><br />
<br />
Jen!!!! Lolly's making this crazy throat sound! DO YOU THINK HE CAN'T BREATH?!?!?!?! It almost sounds like he's got something in his throat--OR LIKE HIS THROAT IS CLOSING UP!!!! Oh, so you think he's just clearing his throat. So, that happens to dogs too, huh?<br />
<br />
Jen! Jen!!!! Lolly's got weird goopy eyes! It's so gross!!! Here, let me send you a picture! DO YOU THINK HE'S BEING ATTACKED BY A MEMBRANE-DEVOURING BACTERIA?!?!?!!? Yes, there is pollen all over the ground. So, allergies you think, huh? Huh. What?! Give him Zyrtec?! Like I take?!?! That doesn't sound right... You're sure? Really sure?? Really, really sure dogs can take my human medicine?!?!<br />
<i>[Dr. Jenny actually said, "Poodles are known to be prone to allergies. You know, because they themselves are hypoallergenic! Har har." But, really.]</i><br />
<br />
HOW DO YOU DO THE PUPPY HEIMLICH?!?!?! Is there such a thing?!?!?!?! Well, no, he's not choking right <i>now</i>, I'm just wondering in case he does choke one day. Reach into his throat and pull out the object he's choking on?! You can <i>do</i> that?!?!<br />
<br />
Jen! Lolly is eating a whole tennis ball!!! Like, <i>eating</i> it, not just destroying it like he normally does. Is that going to get stuck in his stomach or in his throat?? DO I NEED TO DO THE PUPPY HEIMLICH?!?! Or, will it just come out in his poop?<br />
<i>[LOTS of poop questions when you have a puppy.]</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
How do I know if Lolly's cold, Jen? Do you think he needs one of those puppy coats? Of course, I have a rain coat for him, but does he need a winter coat?? That's true, he does have A LOT of fur... </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Jen, Lolly is sniffing another dog's poop. Is he going to get sick from that?!<br />
<br />
Jen!! Lolly's balls are HUGE!!!! Like so, so, so huge!!! Are they supposed to be that big?!?! I mean really, they're enormous for such a little pup. Look! Look, Jen!! Look at how enormous Lolly's balls are!! No, really! LOOK AT THEM! C'mon, Jen! Just look at them! I mean, one day they were just tiny, little, pea-sized balls, and now they are MONSTROUS!!! I'm pretty sure he's got whatever that disease is that inflames testicles. ...Huh. So, that's boy puberty? <br />
<i>[When Dr. Jenny neutered Lolly, I tried to get her to acknowledge again, in person this time, that Lolly had remarkably large testicles. She refused. But, when the vet tech prepped him for surgery--I got to watch the whole surgery and prep as a perk of being the vet's sister--the tech exclaimed, "Whoa! Now, those are some sizable gnards!" Vindication.]</i><br />
<br />
Hey, Jen. How's it going? Having a good day? So, Lolly got into my bag and ate half a 12-hour Sudafed. Is that a big deal? WAIT!!! WHAT?!?!?! THAT'S A BIG DEAL?!?!?!?!?! <i>IT COULD KILL HIM?!?!?!?!?!?!?</i> WHAT DO I DO?! WHAT DO I DO?!?! WHAT DO I DO?!?!?! No, I don't have ipecac syrup or activated charcoal!! Oh, hydrogen peroxide will make him throw up too? I don't have that either!! NEIGHBORS!!!!! <i><b>NEIGHBORS!!! </b></i>HELP!!!!!! OH MY GOSH!!! <i>LOLLY NEEDS IMMEDIATE AID!!!!!!!!!!!</i><br />
<i>[And, then I spent the next hour watching Lolly throw up and picking bits of Sudafed tablet out of the puke to piece back together to make sure we got it all. THANK GOODNESS for kind, close neighbors!]</i></blockquote>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUYbcc465WxJv3OfiEAgr43QrHfnKkyKKGO1HaI1hvrlTpWIdOc5u9heMR3AVG3RHqd3y6aKayGqlgQvw52r4t4E4pjgeAv51dXjNs2sRGr_yirP-E5gnZnXqOgS5b2Pv0LBY7x0yFJNw/s1600/so+glad+Lolly+is+ok+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUYbcc465WxJv3OfiEAgr43QrHfnKkyKKGO1HaI1hvrlTpWIdOc5u9heMR3AVG3RHqd3y6aKayGqlgQvw52r4t4E4pjgeAv51dXjNs2sRGr_yirP-E5gnZnXqOgS5b2Pv0LBY7x0yFJNw/s320/so+glad+Lolly+is+ok+shot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This was our "I'm so glad you're ok" and "Glad Jenny did that whole vet school thing" shot</i></div>
<br />
I'm so fortunate that Jenny became a vet. Could you image me doing this whole "parenting" thing without a safety net?! Thank goodness for pet insurance for frequent vet visits, right?!?!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school
because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And,
naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these
twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller** because,
sure.<br />
<br />
**-Note from aforementioned sister: "Kern" is actually short for Kernwaller, Shot Caller," which should add further clarity. Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-89968510995388646312015-06-10T11:30:00.000-04:002015-06-10T15:02:19.414-04:00Love your 20's while you've got them!I have the gift of being able to pass life wisdom on to quite a few young people, eager for guidance and knowledge from their wise elders. Ok, I'm getting old, and many of the people I know are not yet.<br />
<br />
It is a responsibility I take seriously, letting them know what's ahead. I'd like to think they greatly value my wise advice and come to me with wide eyes and eager souls, enthusiastic to drink in all that I can impart, having been there, having seen what life can throw at a person.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, no one listens. As the youthful do, they hear what might happen and deny it will ever happen to them. I know because I was that way too.<br />
<br />
How many times did we ignore the adults occasionally taking our ballet classes recreationaly who said, "Never stop dancing. You can't pick it up again like you once were able to." "Pshh!" I thought. "That's ridiculous! I take breaks for holidays now, and get right back into it when I get back." Of course, here we are, having stopped dancing for happy hours, career aspirations, finding a social life, and the body revolts when I try and go back to ballet classes.<br />
<br />
I want to shake that previous me and say, "Foolish kid! Things change! Your body changes! Love what you have now; it will never be like this again!"<br />
<br />
And so, I share with my friends still in their twenties what will happen in a similar spirit of preparedness and appreciation for what I know they're taking for granted, as I previously did. It's not until they hit a milestone I've warned them about do they start to take heed of all I predict, though, and then they get scared. They should be scared.<br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /><span style="color: black;">Timeline:<br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">At 27 and a half, you start to notice a difference.</span> </span>It's subtle. Things just aren't the same as they used to be. Hangovers are a bit worse. Metabolism slows almost imperceptibly. Gravity starts to let you know she exists, and she sees you over there.<br /><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;">At 30, you hit the wall.</span> Gravity proves she's a little bitch. You realize you probably shouldn't be eating or drinking as manically as you used to. Maybe, if you don't have kids yet--or maybe even if you do--you'll try and hang on to the drinking and partying of your 20's, but you might hate it more now the next day. Or the next 3 days.<br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">Every year after 30 increases the rate at which you slide down that wall you hit at 30.</span> </span>It gets ugly. And, it gets faster and faster with each passing year. You clamor for footholds to stop or slow the meteoric descent: trying to wear the same clothes you used to, taking a trip to the hard-partying locales you used to frequent to try and re-grasp your youth. But, it all ends in the same way. You wake up one day and your perky, round, full boobs--once your pride and joy--seem, well, deflated (and that's without kids!). All your pants are a little tighter in the waist, even if they fit the same everywhere else. And, you think you might actually die after your youth-reviving getaway. For an entire week afterwards. </span></span><br />
<br />
It's a sad, sad day when you make such decisions as needing to wear "age-appropriate" clothes, that maybe all your bras should now be push-ups, that Mexican food is no longer a daily option (perhaps the hardest of them all!)...<br />
<br />
It all hits home in small but significant demonstrations of your disappearing youth. You can no longer charm the boys at the Genius Bar into loving you and giving you preferential treatment. The guys at the Mexican restaurants no longer give you extra sour cream in heart shapes on your food (not that you should really be eating that extra sour cream anymore. Oh, all the sadness!). No one notices when you walk into a bar anymore and aren't clamoring over themselves to buy you drinks. You can't actually remember the last time you were in a bar. Well, not past midnight, at least.<br />
<br />
I hear it only gets worse, too, as we get closer and closer to 40 and then to 50. So, seriously. Listen to me, kids. Live it up now, while you still can! Let go of your body-image hangups and love your body before it gets a little harder to and you reminisce about theses days you're in now. Unfortunately, it's coming. It's for real coming.<br />
<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-40588032961703535492015-06-09T11:30:00.000-04:002015-07-09T14:35:52.517-04:00Dogs are love magnets. Or so I've heard.We went to a really fun barbecue at <a href="http://www.montgomeryparks.org/facilities/regional_parks/cabinjohn/" target="_blank">Cabin John Regional Park</a> last weekend. There's a great dog park at Cabin John, so there were a ton of people with dogs there. Lolly had a blast, as he always does when there are people and/or dogs around. Such a social, little bugger, that one! I don't know <i>where </i>he gets it!<br />
<br />
As we were all leaving, we happened upon a guy with a yellow lab he had had for about two weeks. Suddenly, all eight of us girls and Lolly descended on him, cooing about the dog. <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Aw! What a cutie!"<br />
"How cute is your dog?!"<br />
"What a little love!!"</blockquote>
The guy said to us, "Wow! I should have gotten a dog a long time ago! I never got this much attention before I had him!"<br />
<br />
I guess it's true what they say: guys with dogs are way more attractive than guys without. And, guys with dogs get a lot of attention from the ladies. So, single guys, do yourself a favor and get a dog! For real, it works.<br />
<br />
But what about for the ladies?<br />
<br />
Sure, Lolly and I get a LOT of attention when we go out. Lolly is certainly a charmer and wants everyone to know. These are the types that coo over us, though:<br />
<ul>
<li>Families with small children</li>
<li>Moms trying to get their kids to not be afraid of dogs</li>
<li>Older men with their wives who are here on vacation and left their dogs who look <i>just like Lolly</i> at home</li>
<li>Homeless men</li>
<li>Other dogs</li>
<li>20-something girls</li>
<li>30-something girls</li>
<li>Teenage girls </li>
<li>40-something girls</li>
<li>Other poodle owners</li>
<li>Old, old men with poodles (one guy we see occasionally even pushes his elderly poodle around in a stroller. I turn my nose up at that now, but talk to me again when Lolly's little joints are arthritic!)</li>
<li>Gay men </li>
<li>Men out with their girlfriends/wives/fiances</li>
<li>Men who inevitably say, "My girlfriend would <i>love</i> this dog!"</li>
<li>Men I then later see with their wives/girlfriends/fiances and sometime their own dogs</li>
</ul>
So, as it turns out, Lolly is not the love magnet I was assured a dog would be. Nary a love connection has been made since I got the little pooch.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my mistake in <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/four-fold-benefits-of-sports.html" target="_blank">date-attraction ploys </a>was getting a curly, prancy dog. Lolly certainly tries his little heart out, running up with those pet-me, love-me, little, puppy eyes to everyone we see (I mean, really, a half mile walk takes like 40 minutes as Lolly turns on the charm for every, single person).<br />
<br />
I wonder how Lolly's friend Stella The Great Dane's mom does in attracting suitors when they're out for a walk.<br />
<br />
The key, I've decided just now, is to train Lolly to reel in the eligible bachelors. We've got to get some kind of routine down, like when Adam Sandler uses the kid <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TvetwclCFq4" target="_blank">in Big Daddy</a> to manipulate women. This will totally work. Ah, another time life takes lessons from Adam Sandler movies!<br />
<br />
Hey, Lolly! Come here! We've got some work to do!Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-77632372075730332132015-06-08T12:09:00.000-04:002015-06-08T18:32:56.937-04:00Lolly is a boy dog. Longtime readers, and anyone who knew me between 2002 and 2014, know that Lolly was a long time coming. And boy, was that the right decision to wait until I was ready! The lovable, little pup is perfect for me and perfect for my life now. He has opened so many doors and introduced me to lots of wonderful people I may not otherwise know. I'm grateful for finding him and for finally being ready to let him bring so much to my life.<br />
<br />
Sappy gratitude time over. Thanks for hanging in. <br />
<br />
Lolly's a boy dog. I understand his name is misleading. His name was picked way back when. ...When I thought he was going to be a girl dog. But, after 12 years or so of commitment to a name, was I just going to abandon it for a silly, little reason like gender specificity?!<br />
<br />
"Lolly" pays tribute to the first, little poodle I met, with whom I fell madly in love. Her name was Lulu. She was the one who made me consider liking dogs. "Lolly" also pays tribute to our time living in Australia, where they call candies "lollies," a term my dad sometimes still slips into.<br />
<br />
On the weekend I locked Lolly down with the breeder, I happened to be visiting some great friends. It was confirmed Lolly would be a boy, and in the midst of celebrating Lolly finally existing (for so long before that, he was a <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/live-from-lollywood.html" target="_blank">make-believe joke </a>that everyone found so, so funny--<i>everyone </i>found it funny, I know it), I said, "Wait, am I still going to be able to call him Lolly if he's a boy now??"<br />
<br />
Without missing a beat both of the girls I was with--good, supportive friends--said, "Yes! Of course!!"<br />
<br />
The sole, representative guy, who I think was speaking for all guys considering guys I meet are the most confused about Lolly's gender, assessed us all with a sweeping you-all-are-nuts look and said, "No you can't call him Lolly!! That is a GIRL'S name!"<br />
<br />
The rest of us looked at each other and started trying to come up with "boys'" names. As it turns out, "Lolly" is, obviously, the most perfect name ever*. We couldn't top it. So, we set to work "butching" it up.<br />
<br />
Lolly's full name became Sir Walter Lolly.<br />
<br />
Any dog whose name starts with a title, like Sir or Mister or Prince, is hysterical. So, he had to have a prefix. Naturally.<br />
<br />
"Walter" is the name my brother, sister and I attribute to anyone about whom we're inventing stories, and it makes us laugh and laugh. Ask us about Walter Tinkle, and we'll devolve into a fit of giggles! Sometimes there are things only siblings understand.<br />
<br />
Finally, to tie this whole name together with a sweet--masculine--bow, I grew up in Virginia, and Sir Walter Raleigh is largely credited with colonizing Virginia. Sure, sure; history. Really, my favorite place to request birthday dinners when I was little was Sir Walter Raleigh's Steakhouse. So, that's especially apropos, if you ask me and my stomach!<br />
<br />
Inevitably, though, the name Lolly leads to some confusion. I can't tell you how many times I have this conversation:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Stranger on the street (Lolly gets a LOT of attention when we go out. No one can resist the sweet fluff!): Oh! Look at this little guy! What's his name?<br />
<br />
Me: Lolly.<br />
<br />
Stranger: Oh! A girl; I'm sorry!<br />
<br />
Me: No, he's a boy. I named him before I knew he was going to be a boy. His full name is Sir Walter Lolly when he's being formal.<br />
<br />
Stranger: polite laughter as they get lost in Lolly's love.</blockquote>
<br />
I mean, what can you do?! Lolly's so curly and prancy and such a fancy fluff that the name <i>totally</i> works!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzXoz7zZLcaSMMh0mV2RxLDH4ERRArWH6dTDyvT0L86VEP9PWws9zVYNQC5FkYu3pLXd727OCoDohXJwRP554JtMKjX13-Jb4rvOSsf3zXDwysRe82sy7eT7ZMc7uVLROZ_gJFO5PBshV/s1600/Lolly+blog+sideways.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzXoz7zZLcaSMMh0mV2RxLDH4ERRArWH6dTDyvT0L86VEP9PWws9zVYNQC5FkYu3pLXd727OCoDohXJwRP554JtMKjX13-Jb4rvOSsf3zXDwysRe82sy7eT7ZMc7uVLROZ_gJFO5PBshV/s320/Lolly+blog+sideways.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
*- Except for the name Potato. There used to be a goldendoodle in our building whose name was Potato, and that was too, too funny and adorable! Best part? Sometimes they called him Tater or Tot!!!! I mean, come on!!Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-64689777781450815832015-03-28T07:39:00.002-04:002015-06-08T17:21:43.209-04:00The latest diagnosis—the struggle is realFriends, I come to you as a seriously afflicted individual. I have recently learned/decided I have a real, serious condition. I appreciate your sympathy and support because the struggle is real.<br />
<br />
Among the luminaries similarly afflicted with my condition is Monica Seles. I am inspired by her public admission, and as such, am following in her esteemed footsteps by staging this, my own coming out.<br />
<br />
I am a person suffering from BED. That's right, Binge Eating Disorder. According to the commercial (which, in addition to <a href="http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/eating-disorders/binge-eating-disorder/default.htm" target="_blank">WebMD</a>, is the only real medical source I need to make my serious medical diagnosis), my BED may be caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain—so, yes, a factual, legitimate disease if I've ever heard the qualifications for a disease (which, of course, I have not).<br />
<br />
Check out the symptoms of BED and tell me they don't sound familiar. Since the readership of this blog is really only close friends, family and the limited number of people tricked into reading it by me or a snake-oil-salesman-like friend, you can attest to witnessing me <i>putting away</i> some food!<br />
<br />
You've surely seen me brought down by each of these symptoms (stolen directly from the WebMD Binge Eating Disorder page):<br />
<ul style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 10pt;">
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Frequent episodes of eating what others would consider an abnormally large amount of food</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Frequent feelings of being unable to control what or how much is being eaten</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eating much more rapidly than usual</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eating until uncomfortably full</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eating large amounts of food, even when not physically hungry</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eating alone out of embarrassment at the quantity of food being eaten</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Feelings of disgust, depression, or guilt after overeating</span></li>
<li style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 6px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fluctuations in weight</span></li>
</ul>
Did I eat a full, enormous lunch? Sure, but I'll still finish off your leftovers. And, what's for dinner?!<br />
Oh, there are a dozen cupcakes? What are you going to have?<br />
Wait, those fajitas were supposed to serve two?!<br />
<br />
My appetite is of such lore there is even a song that is sung in half disbelief and half—I hope—love:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
(Sung to the tune of Shaft)<br />
Who is the girl<br />
Who eats all the food<br />
In the world?<br />
KERN* </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Who is the girl<br />
Responsible for all the starving children<br />
In the world?<br />
KERN</blockquote>
I appreciate, again, your empathy and support. It's only with a strong network of love that we'll make it through this difficult diagnosis and beat this disease. Now, someone get me a cheeseburger!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*- A nickname attributed to me by my dear, sweet sister in high school because I was, at the time, quite a happily without a nickname. And, naturally, since I hated it, it has stuck for all these twenty-fygwmumbleskhe years. It's actually short for Kernwaller because, sure.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-60178318771221955602015-03-27T21:46:00.000-04:002015-03-28T07:41:07.100-04:00Stuff's kept me away<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Guys. Raising a puppy is EXHAUSTING! Remember that little poodle <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/live-from-lollywood.html" target="_blank">I've been talking about for years</a>? Lolly exists! (Also? Lolly's a boy—Sir Walter Lolly when he's being fancy. More on that later.) And, as it turns out, it is a lot of work and pretty much all consuming. He's mostly peeing outside now, though, so I've got some time to start writing again. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Guess what! Puppies are good for a LOT of content, none of which I captured in the blog, naturally. So, just as I live most of my life slightly detached from reality, let's go back and pretend that these following puppy chronicles have all happened within the last week rather than the last year. And, while we're at it, let's imagine I'm 20 pounds lighter and much more financially responsible! </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I've got some non-puppy-related posts to pepper in there, too, for your reading pleasure. Oh! There was also a hilariously terrible juice cleanse during my blogging hiatus that maybe I'll "live blog."</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Stay tuned, folks. There's gold coming. Gold.</span></div>
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-62549442439905609062012-12-30T21:36:00.000-05:002012-12-30T23:24:35.905-05:00Let's do this, 2013<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2013 is going to be my year. I know I've said this before (and probably every year since I could talk), but 2013 is the year. THE year. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If you're a close reader of this blog or have ever actually met me, even for 20 minutes, you might think I'm prone to such grand proclamations, and you may also be wondering how some of those <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/12/facing-down-32-and-its-on.html?m=1" target="_blank">past resolutions</a> are working out. Well, I'm not 33 for another two months! Get off my back! You never know what could happen, especially since this is the year of my romantic comedy. I'm certain of it.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I am moving on New Year's Eve. You might be thinking, "Wow, that sounds horrible," and you would be right. But, also, wouldn't it be the beginning to a perfect romantic comedy?! The single girl spends New Year's Eve just she and her movers while fielding calls from all the fabulous out-of-town parties <i>all</i> of her friends are enjoying, drinking champagne alone and unpacking after her movers dump her stuff and leave. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sounds sad and lonely, right? But also and exciting and new? Maybe? Like the beginning of every chick flick! </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Options for how this will play out in the movie version of my life:</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'll burn effigies to all the bad I want to leave in 2012 to start afresh in 2013!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'll end up passed out at 11:30, in bed surrounded by 5 empty champagne bottles with chocolate cake smeared all over my face and pillow (this may be the most likely way the evening plays out)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next morning I'll stumble to the trash chute, cake stuck to my hair, trash bag clanking with the unmistakable sounds of multiple empty booze bottles, all from me, and make quite the impression on my new neighbors who will inevitably be on their way to a New Year's church service, bright and early</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A few new neighbors—super hot guys, of course—will come knocking on my door on their way home from a cool party because they hear music and loud singing along, assuming they've stumbled into a rocking apartment party, only to find just me dancing on top of my dining table in my underwear, singing into a champagne bottle</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or—fingers crossed—I'll emerge from the building in the morning, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun wondering why it's so freaking bright and how the traffic got so, so loud. Maybe I'll stumble backwards a step or two as I adjust to "outside" (let's be real, this part is inevitable, not the fingers-crossed part. I'm getting to the part we're hoping for), just as a really cute guy walks up the steps (here we go!). Maybe he catches me in my stumble. Either way, he pulls out two breakfast sandwiches, saying something like, "I always get more than I can eat, and you look like you might need this more than I do!" Then, laughing with me, he invites me to eat our breakfast together, and we fall madly in love. </span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a feeling any number of these options may happen. The odds are highest for the most embarrassing or pathetic of them, of course! I'll keep you posted. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-76508503916179896172012-08-02T10:30:00.000-04:002012-08-02T10:30:00.377-04:00The numbers are dire. Dire!The Wall Street Journal <a href="https://twitter.com/WSJ/status/230660672348901376">tweeted yesterday</a> that one in five women in Hong Kong will never find a husband as the gender imbalance widens. One in FIVE! <br />
<br />
ACK!!! What if that statistic is relevant in DC?! I would totally be the one out of the five (in spite of all my sparkly magnificence, obviously. <i>Obviously</i>. Please agree!)!! <br />
<br />
This was a funny joke to me until I actually did a little digging. Now, I’m bordering on a breakdown. The news does not sound better for me when you take a look at the actual comparative numbers. As I <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2012/08/man-hunting-in-alaska.html">reported yesterday</a>, for every 100 women in DC, there are only 89 men (according to the 2010 US census). Well, get this! For every 100 women in Hong Kong, there are <b>94</b> men (according to the 2012 World Factbook)!! That’s 5 more men than in DC! And, I’m not entirely sure how the gays play into this statistical meltdown I’m about to have! <br />
<br />
I’m doomed!!! DOOMED!!!!!<br />
<br />
That’s it. I need to move! Where should I move?! You know what I need? I need an insider at the US Census Bureau. We need to approach this logically, rationally and scientifically—you know, the same way as I approach everything. <br />
<br />
The Census would have broken down all sorts of population statistics by state, region, city and—important to relocation imperatives—neighborhood. I’m almost sure that all this information could probably be found publicly, but in such a panicked state, who can sift through the vast and endless interwebs and <i>then </i>sort through numbers?! Do you know how long it took me to put the Hong Kong ratio of men to women into similar terms as I had the DC number?! I need an insider whose head doesn’t explode facing down so many digits!!<br />
<br />
So, please, spread the word that I am in search of a number cruncher from inside the US Census Bureau who can run the numbers and tell me, down to the neighborhood, where I should move to ensure I am not the ONE in FIVE who never gets married. I will be sitting here, with my head between my knees.<br />
<br />
Thank you.<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-9301913285308432282012-08-01T12:20:00.000-04:002012-08-01T12:20:25.687-04:00Man hunting in AlaskaDid you know that for every 100 women in DC there are only 89 men? And, a depressingly/delightfully significant number of those 89 men are gay, gay, gay. Conversely, in Alaska, for every 100 women, there are 108 men. Burly, sexy, manly men.<br />
<br />
So, I went on a cruise to Alaska. <br />
<br />
Let’s just take a minute to reflect on the cruising population. At least on an Alaskan cruise and not including the 28 members of my family that were on the boat, obviously (what solidarity and support my family has, right?! There were so many of them on such a trip just to help me find a man!!*), cruisers are not what you might define as “eligible bachelors.” As it turns out, an Alaskan cruise is a popular vacation for family reunions and the retired community. It’s definitely not the top choice for hot, thirty-something men looking to cut loose, party and meet the loves of their lives! Imagine my shock! No matter, my sights were set on the man-packed land excursions!<br />
<br />
Let me show you a picture, literally, of what the ports looked like where we stopped for a few hours at a time. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNgp3EoiNXapBZvtJT7lUxcHbKBZhdiJIX8KmpLw3R6KCHf2gvUoCQB3sTgyPp4ko1u8vKm9rXhnVxLZgbqbnR8DcSAA3VBrZykg25P_bnluRsvgCI_xMUYqdz9CqfA6mK_49qYMZse8U/s1600/Skagway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="238" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNgp3EoiNXapBZvtJT7lUxcHbKBZhdiJIX8KmpLw3R6KCHf2gvUoCQB3sTgyPp4ko1u8vKm9rXhnVxLZgbqbnR8DcSAA3VBrZykg25P_bnluRsvgCI_xMUYqdz9CqfA6mK_49qYMZse8U/s320/Skagway.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It’s hard to step out of the shadow of the cruise ship and the <i>cruisers </i>to experience the swarms of Alaskan men I was promised by the statistics (statistics!! That’s <i>science</i> after all!) when you’re in a town with a population of 600 that exists solely to cater to tourists. <br />
<br />
One local Alaskan man tried to run me over in his minivan while I was taking the above picture and when he started backing into me. “What a potential meet cute,” you’re thinking, right? Well, you didn’t see me screaming at him and his toothless expression of overwhelmed surprise/fear.<br />
<br />
Our stop in Juneau was more promising. The scenery was gorgeous! The hike we went on was beyond incredible! The guide, adorable! And, from California. Not local. Not Alaskan. Not single.<br />
<br />
Everyone we met seemed to be a transplant from another outdoorsy city in the “Lower 48,” shipped in for the summer months to cater to the tourists. But, they were cute and endearingly passionate about whatever it was they were guiding us through. So, maybe there are more of them in the places from which they came? <br />
<br />
Alaska turned out to be a bust on the quest for marriage material. But, there is hope! There have to be other regions that boast high numbers of eligible men. I saw some of their ambassadors while in Alaska. I’ll just have to start traveling to these other regions that promise high concentrations of men! <br />
<br />
People travel all the time based on special interests: good hikes, beaches, white water rafting adventures, spa vacations, yoga retreats, safaris, wine tours… How is this any different?! I may have just created a new genre of vacationers! <br />
<br />
You’re welcome, travel industry.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*The cruise was really for my grandma’s birthday. She loved it, and it was an awesome celebration! My <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/12/facing-down-32-and-its-on.html">impending nuptials</a> were raised again and again, however, amid a flurry of familial support. My cousin in the hair care business, for instance, is on a quest for the perfect shampoo combination to put my tresses at maximum man-attracting potential. It really takes a village, doesn’t it?<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-79051852605778223192012-05-04T13:58:00.000-04:002012-05-04T13:58:46.655-04:00I'm hooked<br />
Phew! Sorry I haven’t posted in a while—I’ve been so busy running!<br />
<br />
And then realizing I HATE running. And then stopping running. <br />
<br />
As it turns out, that running thing was a passing fancy. But, I have landed on a new obsession that seems to have stuck! <a href="http://www.barmethod.com/bar-method-exercises.html">The Bar Method</a> takes all the most defining, muscle toning and lengthening aspects of pilates, yoga and ballet and crams them together in an intense hour-long session of pushing yourself to make your whole body shake. Seriously, the relief in coming out of some of the exercises is so extreme, it approaches orgasmic sometimes. It hurts, and I LOVE it!! <br />
<br />
<a href="http://dc.barmethod.com/">Bar Method</a> is everything I’ve been searching for and missing from all my years in serious ballet training in all the other crazy workouts I’ve tried, notably <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgH_ZoMOht8">Crossfit </a>(are you kidding me?! What was I thinking?!), spinning (the most pain there was not from the muscle strain) and running (the worst of all of them, hands down!). I love it! I can’t say that enough! <br />
<br />
There is an interesting phenomenon I’ve come to realize in my Bar Method classes, though. Everyone wears <a href="http://shop.lululemon.com/home.jsp">Lululemon </a>outfits. All of them. All the time. This is something I’ve been marveling over for a month now. How can it be that so many people would spend SO much money on <i>workout </i>clothes?! Lululemon is pretty expensive to be so widely popular. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really cute stuff, but they’ve got pants for over $100—<i>workout </i>pants! <br />
<br />
Then, as happens when one starts to obsess over something, I started noticing Lululemon all over the place. Everyone on the metro carries their lunches and shoes into work in Lululemon bags. Lululemon is EVERYWHERE! How is it possible that such an expensive brand is taking over the entire world?! The ENTIRE WORLD!!* Everyone everywhere is wearing Lululemon! Head to toe!<br />
<br />
I became a broken record, talking to anyone and everyone with whom I came in contact about how this could be. The clothes must be magic, right? They must be. Are they magic? Why are so many smart people willing to spend so much money on workout clothes? They’re just going to get all sweaty! Upon the third hour of my obsessive ramblings one day, one friend finally said, “I don’t know. Let’s go to the store that’s a block away from here and check it out.” And so we did. And so I tried something on. <br />
<br />
<i>It is magic</i>. Lululemon <i>is </i>magic. Everything is so well and thoughtfully made! Zipper pulls on hoodies become hair ties! Drawstrings melt back into seams so they’re not in the way or even visible! Everything’s made in a miraculous way that flatters every body type and wicks moisture away as if it’s been naughty! It’s incredible! <br />
<br />
Of course, I walked out of there with the most beautiful workout top I’ve ever owned, and now I’m hooked. My friend had to put her foot down and not allow me to wear my new top to a bridal shower we were going to later that day. Oh, but I wanted to, though! All those women I’ve seen all over everywhere are most definitely onto something! I never want to wear anything else.<br />
<br />
So, all in all, I’m pretty sure that it’s only a matter of time before I’ve amassed a closetful of Lululemon and am only ever seen wearing the adorable workout attire anywhere I go (likely because I won’t be able to afford any other types of clothes!). As a friend recently said to me, though, there are worse expensive habits to have developed, like cocaine. At least I’m not doing cocaine. Perspective.<br />
<br />
And, don’t worry, those fancy sneakers I bought are still getting plenty of important use. <a href="http://www.the3day.org/site/TR/2012/General?px=6468439&pg=personal&fr_id=1772">I’m doing the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 3 Day</a> in October, so training for that (I mean, I know it’s just <i>walking</i>, but it’s walking SIXTY MILES in three days!! That’s a loooooooong way that deserves some attention ahead of time) has me walking all over kingdom come, and footwear, apparently, is very important. It’s good that I just happened to have already picked up some fancy, supportive shoes with serious inserts, huh?!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Editor’s note: Ok, I realize I sometimes tend towards the dramatic and that there are probably large parts of the earth that have not been overtaken by expensive active wear, but in my corner of Washington, DC, and Arlington—admittedly pretty yuppie corners on which to be basing assessments of world domination—it’s totally taken over!<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-1092977753107935902012-02-05T13:22:00.000-05:002012-12-31T01:21:15.373-05:00I am a “runner.”That’s right; you read correctly, I am a “runner.”<br />
<br />
I hate to run. Hate it. But, I better learn to love it since I’m a “runner” now. Running is like a cult, though, so I’m sure the Kool-Aid will be passed around soon enough, and I will drink heartily because I am a “runner” now. <br />
<br />
I went to a very serious running store last weekend and bought very expensive running shoes and inserts. The inserts make it REAL. I am a “runner” now. The guys at the running store put me on a treadmill with a whole computer and video setup to evaluate how I run and inform what shoes I need—and inserts as it turns out. Inserts make it <i>serious</i>. <br />
<br />
As the computer indicated, I run sort of on my toes. After all, I <i>was </i>a ballerina! The running store guys thought that was mildly peculiar. Dancing seemed to them as weird as their love of running seems to me. But, I’m one of them now. A “runner.” Get used to it!<br />
<br />
Once I announced to the store that I was becoming a “runner,” people there—actual runners—were excited to welcome me into the club. <br />
<br />
Me: “I’m a ‘runner’ now!”<br />
<br />
Store guy, a runner: “That’s great!! You should come to our fun runs! They’re great! Very social!” <br />
<br />
Me: “Social?! I’m way more into socializing that running! I’m IN! I mean, I’m a ‘runner’ now, but I’ve always been social!” <br />
<br />
Store guy: “We have fun runs on Tuesday and Thursday and a ladies’ fun run on Monday. You should come to any of them!” <br />
<br />
Me: “Whoa, whoa… This seems intense. Which one is the slowest? I’m just a novice ‘runner.’”<br />
<br />
Store guy: “Come to the ladies’ run! That’s a good one, and we’ll make sure you’re in a good pacing group. It’s a nice, flat course they go on, too.” <br />
<br />
Me: “Like a really slow pacing group, right? How far do they run?” <br />
<br />
Store guy: “It’ usually about 2 to 4 miles.” <br />
<br />
Me: “That sounds long!!” <br />
<br />
Store guy: “Haha! You can turn back at any time.” <br />
<br />
Me: “<i>That </i>sounds like quitting!!” <br />
<br />
Social running seems like an excellent way to meet running friends, maybe even running guys. We’ll bond over being runners, and then we’ll fall madly in love and get married (and, obviously, <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/12/facing-down-32-and-its-on.html">engaged before I turn 33 on February 21, 2013</a>). Maybe we’ll then run around a beautiful tropical island on our honeymoon! <br />
<br />
So, now I have to train up for a 4 mile run so I can seem like I know what I’m doing when I go “fun” running and then really “fun” running on my island honeymoon. This “running” thing seems like a lot of work. And, <i>training</i> to meet a man! Sheesh! Maybe the “love” of the “run” will be enough, and the fiancé will be a bonus? <br />
<br />
Well, either way, I have way more friends who will run with me than who will go to a dance class with me, and working out is always more fun with someone else. Maybe one day it will be a really special person who will work out with me! And then maybe he will be the one to want to go to a ballroom dance class with me because it’s what <i>I</i> like. “Running” leading back to dancing. I like the way that sounds.Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-5546118108781621792012-01-22T16:22:00.000-05:002012-01-22T16:23:05.990-05:00Living with a BOY! Yikes!!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With all this talk about my upcoming engagement (haven’t you heard all
the buzz?! It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>!), it’s
making me think. I mean, sure, the ring is going to be gorgeous, but it doesn’t
end there, from what I hear. I mean, eventually, I’m going to have to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i> with this guy! And, that could get
tricky!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’ve never lived with a boy—well, except for my brother and a guy-like
roommate. My brother was 12 when I left for college, so I don’t think my
experience living with him will be the basis for any type of grown-up
cohabitation. At the very least, hopefully there will fewer Legos all over the
place. And, let’s talk about that one roommate: he had a bathroom completely
decked out in cartoon ducky and froggy bath accessories. He also spooked easily. I’m
pretty sure I scared him. Me! Sweet, little kitten! I’m really hoping my fiancé
won’t share too many characteristics of his. Here’s crossing my fingers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, living with a boy… Seems frightening! There was a Sex In The City
episode that one of my friends can quote in its entirety all about Secret
Single Behavior. Those ladies were on to something! There are a few things I’m
not sure a guy really wants to know about me, so here, let me share them on the
internet instead, because that seems reasonable:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li>I can spend hours staring at my face in a mirror, examining every pore,
emerging wrinkle and hair follicle. </li>
<li>I have almost as much make-up and beauty products as any medium-sized
Sephora store. While this is no surprise to anyone who walks into my bathroom,
I have a feeling it would be much less cute when my six different types of eye
cream edge the lucky gentleman’s shaving cream right out of the medicine
cabinet.</li>
<li>Sometimes—gasp!—I like to sleep in full-butt underwear. Full. Butt.
Underwear. Embarrassing! And, likely not sexy.</li>
<li>I often have nothing in my refrigerator except eye masks and beauty
peels.</li>
<li>I don’t clean that often. </li>
<li>I drink wine in the bathroom when I’m getting ready to go out
sometimes. Ok, most of the time. (One time I knocked over the wine glass, shattering
the glass and spilling red wine all over the toilet and shower curtain, which
looked very, very horrific and wrong.)</li>
<li>I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, irrationally convinced
that something in my apartment is going to catch on fire and catch me off guard.
Of course, this fear could be alleviated by buying a fire extinguisher to have
on hand, but that just seems too simple. </li>
<li>When left to my own devices, I sometimes eat the same thing every day
for a week (let’s be real. I don’t know how to make all that many dishes!).
And, you can count on whatever it is involving sour cream. </li>
<li>I can spend hours playing spider solitaire.</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, there you have it. Landing the proposal is one thing. Getting the
guy to stick around after we’ve moved in together might be another challenge
all together! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-20766479840994763322012-01-11T11:02:00.000-05:002012-01-11T13:05:53.695-05:00Know what is *not* awkward?<br />
Introducing your dad to your gynecologist. <br />
<br />
<br />
I know, you’re thinking, “In what scenario would that even happen?!?!?!” Well, don’t worry; it didn’t go down as creepily as I suppose it could have. <br />
<br />
My dad and I are ballet buddies. We have season tickets to the ballet series at the Kennedy Center, which means we see every ballet that comes through the venerable theater together. My dad is super into ballet since I was a very serious ballerina for a long time. He built sets for and stage managed many of my performances. He was eventually talked into performing in many of the performances in character roles such as Uncle Drosselmeyer in the Nutcracker and Dr. Coppelius in Coppelia. He started taking adult ballet classes. He even had these tight sweatpants he would wear to class. Those sweatpants weren’t so cute, though, 20 years later when he tried to bust them out with the family this past Christmas. We immediately sent him back upstairs to change. <br />
<br />
All this is more interesting when you juxtapose it against his professional career. He was a green beret in Vietnam. He was one of the founding members of the Delta Force, on the team that established and got the Delta Force certified as a thing and then went in to Iran to get the hostages out in 1980 (right after I was born!), and he was paramilitary for the CIA. So, he’s kind of a badass. In tights.<br />
<br />
Last night, we were at the Kennedy Center to see Billy Elliot, an add-on to our regular ballet series. As we’re walking into the magnificent grand foyer (where, if I had infinite amounts of money, I would have my wedding reception—after my already established <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/12/facing-down-32-and-its-on.html" target="_blank">engagement </a>this year—because it’s so beautiful!), I spotted the good doctor. Now, I LOVE my doctor. He’s awesome, and I’ve been seeing him for more than ten years. Considering what a hypochondriac I am, that’s equated to about 1,000 visits with each other.<br />
<br />
As the shout of his name was coming out of my mouth—in other words, too late—a couple thoughts went through my head: <br />
<ul>
<li>“Wait, outside of the exam room he probably goes by his first name, you know, like normal people. I’ve never used his first name with him! How weird is it that I’m shouting Dr.?!” </li>
<li>"Uh, do doctors <i>like </i>to see patients socially?! Is this weird?!” </li>
<li>“Who’s the crazy girl screaming in the <i>Kennedy </i>Center?!”</li>
</ul>
<br />
Oh well! It’s happening now, like so many of the act first, think about it later situations I get myself into! Introductions were made all around without actually acknowledging how we knew each other. I did keep calling the good doctor, “Dr. HisLastName,” though, so I’m pretty sure it was wildly apparent that we were not grab-a-beer-after-work buddies!<br />
<br />
I also felt the need to make it very clear that this older gentleman I was with was my <i>DAD </i>and not my <i>DATE</i>. When you’re hanging out in the glittery theater set, one sees a quite a few May-December romances, and I’m apt to nip in the bud that impression from following us around whenever I can. I’ve considered making a button to wear that says, “This guy’s my dad!” Not only would that help clear some things up, but maybe it would also help my dad meet some nice theater-going ladies who think it’s sweet that he goes to the ballet with his kid!<br />
<br />
Anyway, I’m not sure that knowing my gynecologist has met my dad is going to make my next appointment <i>more </i>comfortable for me or the good doctor! So, now there’s that…Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-334283447061840112011-12-28T18:40:00.001-05:002012-01-22T16:23:23.941-05:00Facing down 32, and it’s on!I’m going to be 32 in February. <i>Thirty-two</i>. Yikes. To paraphrase the great oracle Jessica Simpson, 32 is almost 33, which is almost 35, which is <i>almost </i>mid-thirties. Hell, in my calculations, it’s pretty much almost 50! <br />
<br />
It’s time to take control and be a grown-up, so I’ve made a life decision—you know, like grown-ups do. Here it is: I will become engaged while I am 32. There. It’s out there! It’s happening. Now, let’s get busy making it so. <br />
<br />
I’ve written about various <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/09/its-college-football-season.html">plans </a>and <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/four-fold-benefits-of-sports.html">schemes </a>I’ve concocted to attract worthy suitors, but those were <i>so </i>ideas for my twenties. It’s serious now! This is for real. It’s time to pull out the big guns! So… Now, we just have to identify what those big guns might be…<br />
<br />
I enlisted my friends to help. And, within a minute of announcing my big resolution for my impending nuptials, they all swore their assistance and then decided I will write a book and go on a big book tour. I think that plan has some kinks to work out; for instance, what the heck would I write a book about? And, of course anything I would <i>possibly </i>write would be completely nonsensical and fall into the broad category of chick lit. <br />
<br />
Now, I haven’t actually been to a whole lot of book signings for chick lit books, but I’m <i>pretty </i>sure they aren’t swarming with eligible bachelors. Thanks, girls, but while that might be a fun idea, let’s focus on the task at hand!<br />
<br />
Putting a pin in the book tour, I’ve instead made several happy hour plans—you know, at bars, where guys are proven to gather in hordes. I’m also building my events calendar for the year, trying to attend every interesting gala (I know what you’re thinking, but really, isn’t the guy <i>I’m </i>going to end up with also going to like dressing up and going to big, fancy events? I sure hope so.), all sorts of sporting events and any number of other fun gatherings. By the time I’m 33, I’m going to be either engaged or bankrupt, come hell or high water! <br />
<br />
Stay tuned for updates on how this endeavor goes. We’ve got 13½ months to lock in a ring. Game on. <br />
<br />
<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-64281173788327183912011-12-09T15:44:00.001-05:002011-12-09T16:14:32.072-05:00A double date without the double?I dated this guy for a while once who really enjoyed cooking. I can’t relate. I can’t even really understand, but I did enjoy reaping the benefits of having someone in my life that had a particular culinary acumen. So, I was delighted that he enjoyed cooking for other people—even if it wasn’t to be reciprocated! That is, I was delighted until it became evident that when he considered people for whom he liked to cook, I didn’t seem to register when provided the option of other people. Come on! I am an excellent eater!<br />
<br />
We were out one night with a bunch of his friends when the conversation turned to various cooking techniques. Obviously I had to tap out of being an active participant pretty early on, when discussion moved beyond the cooking technique I’ve most mastered: microwaving. <br />
<br />
Somehow the chat moved towards “braising.” (I know. Who <i>are </i>these people with these strange discussion topics?!)<br />
<br />
Me, to myself: “Braising?! I don’t know how that even happens, but it’s definitely something that occurs only at restaurants and is delicious—at the restaurants, where all sorts of magic food preparation transpire.”<br />
<br />
My boyfriend to his friends: “Yeah, I’ve wanted to experiment with braising myself.”<br />
<br />
Me, again to myself: “Wait, what?! ‘Experiment with braising’ yourself?! Is that even safe?! Can you just <i>do </i>that in a home kitchen? There must be special equipment involved, right? Or skill? It seems hard. He’s bluffing.”<br />
<br />
Boyfriend, to friends: “In fact, I’m having a few people over for dinner day after tomorrow. I’m going to make short ribs, and I think I’ll braise them.”<br />
<br />
Me to myself: “I guess he’s not bluffing! And wait, he’s having a dinner party?”<br />
<br />
Me to boyfriend after we had left the group: “So, you’re having a dinner party?”<br />
<br />
Boyfriend: “Yes, I’m having Mr. and Mrs. Dinner-Party over on Sunday.”<br />
Editor’s note: Of course, he used their first names, but I feel it’s important to highlight that they’re a married couple, that he was having a <i>couple </i>over for a dinner party with himself.<br />
<br />
Me: “So, you’re having a dinner party, some might even call it a date, with a couple, just by yourself. You know <i>you’re</i> in a couple, right?”<br />
<br />
He tried to back-peddle, telling me that he invited me (nope.) and then that he was going to invite me but it had just been arranged, and he hadn’t had a chance to mention it to me yet (in the four hours we had been hanging out before he found time to mention it to a bunch of other people who were also not invited). He really tried to cover himself when he let it slip that he had bought three short ribs that he was going to serve at the dinner by saying that he had been planning on making the short ribs for us and having extra left over. Suuuure… <br />
<br />
So, while he went to the store to buy another short rib for me, his unexpected dinner guest, I tried hard not to think too much about why he didn’t seem to want me to meet particular friends of his (was he hiding something from me or hiding me from them?) and what it meant that he had forgotten he was in a relationship while making arrangements to do one of the most couply things there is with another couple. That’s like being a third wheel because you’ve slashed the remaining tire yourself! <br />
<br />
I certainly appreciate more than many that people in relationships should enjoy time doing their own things, cultivating their own independent interests. Everyone needs time with the girls or time with the boys or time doing something the other has no interest in if it's something they, themselves, like. But, isn’t one of the beautiful things about being in a relationship the fact that you don’t have to be the only single person in the room anymore? That you can do couple-centric things and be included in the couple-centricity of them, revel in it, even? There was, unfortunately, very little couple-centricity in this particular relationship, except for the few times he “sacrificed” and went to something he was clear was for my benefit.<br />
<br />
In the end, I did score an invite into the double-date dinner party, and boy did I learn some important lessons. As it turned out, the wife didn’t end up making it to dinner after all. We found out that night that she was pregnant and was in the pretty queasy stage. I had made such a stink about being included that I couldn’t then sit it out, of course (crow should probably have been on the menu!), so I went to dinner since the boyfriend had already told The Couple that I was coming. In deference to the evening being no longer about hanging out as couples but rather about the boys catching up, I turned off the sparkly, center-of-attention, bubbly-conversation-driving part of my personality—if you can imagine that—and let it be all about them.<br />
<br />
And, here are the lessons I learned from the evening:<br />
<ol>
<li>Careful what you throw a fit to be a part of. (And, maybe date people who want you to actually be a part of things!)</li>
<li>Boys are not the engaging conversationalists that women are when they get together! Did you know that when boys get together, sometimes there’s SILENCE between them?! There are so many strange, strange differences between men and women. I mean, silence! Times when <i>no one is talking</i>! If I hadn’t seen it for myself I’d never know that kind of thing happened!</li>
</ol>
<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-58159719509213156092011-12-05T09:58:00.001-05:002011-12-05T09:58:39.741-05:00Next on the reading list, Goodnight Moon?I finished the Hunger Games series last night, reading the entire trilogy in about 3 days. This makes me nervous. Very nervous. <br />
<br />
I couldn't put the books down. They were so captivatingly haunting. (I did not like the ending, if anyone’s interested.) I do have a tendency to get very involved in books I'm reading and even particular movies (let's be real, I also think I pretty much <i>am </i>Lorelei Gilmore), and this book pulled me in to the point, even, of making me afraid to go to sleep myself, in danger of slipping into the same nightmares that tortured the main characters. Of course, they were remembering the horrific deaths of their friends and the devastating roles they played in someone else's manipulation. I'm not really sure what types of tragedies I'm afraid of recalling from my own life—earlier in the day, they didn't have brown rice when I went to Chipotle? <br />
<br />
I had a similarly enraptured experience in reading the Harry Potter series, I'm embarrassed to admit. It was a begrudging rapture, but enrapt I did become. <br />
<br />
It all started when the fifth book came out. I lived with two very intelligent, well read and mature young women when the fifth book in the Harry Potter series was published. They each had pre-ordered their copy as soon as they could and were on pins and needles waiting for the day to come when the books would arrive. When that day finally came, they were beside themselves with giddiness. None of us could leave the apartment in fear that we’d miss the delivery. I was sent down to the lobby of the building several times throughout the day to check to see if the FedEx man had come and had just not buzzed up. In fact, that day FedEx was very busy. I saw three different FedEx men make trips to our building, each with a truckload of the specially marked Harry Potter boxes from Amazon. They told me it was a crazy, crazy day for them.<br />
<br />
Now, until this day, I had made fun of all the Potterheads. I mean, seriously, these are <i>children’s</i> books that people were getting wild about! But, it started to gnaw on me, watching two of my best friends and some of the smartest people I know bouncing around our apartment in anticipation and excitement like I’d never seen out of them, that maybe there really was something to the books, so I picked them up and was instantly hooked. I would even ditch out of happy hours early to go home and read Harry Potter. Ditching happy hour! Me!! That’s how you know things have just gotten serious! <br />
<br />
So, as you can see, I have a very severe problem on my hands. My enjoyment of these young adult series has been insatiable. I liked reading them more than any adult series besides Philippa Gregory’s historical fiction books about King Henry VIII's court. <br />
<br />
This can only be the beginning of a slippery, slippery slope. It’s a matter of time before I'm reading nothing but choose-your-own-adventure books and then dissolving into a reading list devoid of anything but pop-up books! <br />
<br />
I need to get my hands on a very intellectual, non-fiction book, post-haste!<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-43124440230343263542011-11-17T07:33:00.001-05:002011-11-17T07:57:19.125-05:00One small speech can become very big—just waitI’ve been invited to present a social media training at a conference this week in Puerto Rico. Obviously, I’m a pretty big deal. <br />
<br />
I’d like to say that the conference organizers heard about this blog and were in awe of my social media prowess demonstrated by my engrossing blogging and tweeting, but alas, I do this social media stuff for a living. So, it was through my use of social media and my counseling of others in using social media to accomplish public policy goals that I was invited. Oh, and someone else canceled. <br />
<br />
Nonetheless, I’ve spent hours developing the most kick-ass “How to do social media, and how to do it to advance advocacy efforts” presentation that these people will have ever seen! It’s going to be brilliant. It really is only a matter of time before I become a regular on the conference circuit. Maybe I should start developing what I would say in a keynote address, since we’re probably minutes from when those invitations start piling up. Move over Carly Fiorina with your household name and inspiring stories of climbing to the top of a business empire. Kristin Brown’s here, and she writes a nonsensical, irreverent (and mostly irrelevant) blog that a handful of people read.<br />
<br />
Hmm… So, what will I say in my keynote? What are some of my more inspirational stories to constitute my speech? <br />
<br />
Perhaps I could talk about important life lessons I’ve learned: cool it on <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/12/insane-in-name-of-naturally-gorgeous.html" target="_blank">weird ways to ingest caffeine</a>. Don’t be surprised when you <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/10/show-tunes-boy.html" target="_blank">pick up a guy at the theater and find that he may be closeted gay</a>.<a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/09/wait-who-do-i-look-like.html" target="_blank"> Looks don’t matter</a>. Or, maybe I could anchor the speech on the times I’ve been <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/05/there-may-come-time-when-youre-too-much.html" target="_blank">shamed into learning to cook for myself</a>.<br />
<br />
Of course, part of the speech will have to center on the ever-important characteristic of <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2010/01/metro-stalker.html" target="_blank">resourcefulness </a>in achieving great personal success. I could provide sage advice: don’t be afraid to <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/09/its-college-football-season.html" target="_blank">create cockamamie schemes</a> to get what you want; <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/four-fold-benefits-of-sports.html" target="_blank">sometimes genius isn’t realized immediately</a>. Let people <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/i-look-just-like-eva-longoria.html" target="_blank">call you crazy</a> along your path to fulfilling your own <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/08/im-baaaaaack.html" target="_blank">destiny </a>(<a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/04/live-from-lollywood.html" target="_blank">especially if you thoroughly amuse yourself</a>). Surround yourself with <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/09/dinner-and-math-lesson.html" target="_blank">smart people</a>. <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2010/01/unconventional-interview.html" target="_blank">Bring anyone along on the ride who wants to go</a>! Aspire to <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/07/name-game.html" target="_blank">greatness</a>. Dream <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2010/08/its-funny-life-charlie-brown.html" target="_blank">big</a>. <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2010/06/carbon-monoxide-poisoning-is-not-way-im.html" target="_blank">Don't sweat the small stuff</a>. Let yourself <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2010/10/i-am-going-camping-tomorrow.html" target="_blank">explore</a>. Have a <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/08/strategic-mating.html" target="_blank">plan</a>. <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2011/08/babies-yikes.html" target="_blank">Fight </a>against obstacles.<br />
<br />
I’ve obviously got the elements of a really fantastic, inspiring speech ready to go. Let the invitations start rolling in! But, send them to the lazy river or swim-up bar at this Puerto Rican resort. That’s where I’ll be “networking” between conference sessions.Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-53289098592771483162011-11-08T11:24:00.002-05:002011-11-08T11:24:50.291-05:00I’m famous, of sortsI am a known celebrity. I don’t know if you knew that. Sure, I’ve got blog readers and followers that span from Alaska to Brazil to Russia and surprisingly far beyond my immediate circle of family. (Thank you to all of you loyal readers!!) But, that doesn’t even cover the half of it. I am famous in the most valuable of realms.<br />
<br />
Mexican restaurants. <br />
<br />
Seriously. There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in the DC area that I can’t walk into and have someone come over and say hi. I even get hugs sometimes and sour cream hearts drawn onto my food. Can you feel the love?! There have been a couple times when I’ve thought maybe it’s a bit too much and <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/05/there-may-come-time-when-youre-too-much.html">I’m a bit too familiar to the servers</a>, but I just can’t help it.<br />
<br />
It all started in college when at any excuse I’d orchestrate a celebration for something at Guapo’s near campus. A birthday! End of finals! Sorority rush! A study break! A Sunday afternoon! That annoying paper cut has gone away! I had many friends who also loved Guapo’s, so I was never wanting for people to go with me. On any nice, spring day, I could inevitably find someone to talk into skipping class to sit on the Guapo’s patio with a swirly margarita and a plate of nachos. <br />
<br />
Then, I graduated from college (no credit to the many margarita-filled class skippings!) and moved an inconvenient distance away from college Guapo’s. To my delight and the relief of the withdrawal shakes I had developed, five years later, a new Guapo’s popped up in a neighborhood where some of my friends lived! So, of course, I made people go. Many times. Wouldn’t you know that one of the waiters from my original Guapo’s was the manager at this Guapo’s?! And, even five years after the last time he had seen me, he recognized me. We even had a large group and were put straight to the front of the line for a table, on a Saturday night! <br />
<br />
About eight years after I had graduated, I stumbled upon another delicious Mexican restaurant in a different neighborhood (I’ve thought about doing a taco tour of DC, but haven’t steeled my stomach for that kind of one-day taco intake. Let’s say I’m in training). And, again! I walked in, and there were a couple of my old friends from college Guapo’s greeting customers! No one else got the enthusiastic bear hug of a reception that I got, which was probably for the best, considering how startling it was for the friends I was with. Apparently they didn’t know just how well known I am in certain circles. I guess there’s no Page Six for the Mexican restaurant set.<br />
<br />
Once, I thought I was falling from grace and needed to start plotting my Britney Spears-style comeback when I walked into a particularly favorite restaurant and the hostess asked while she was seating us, “Have you been here before?” <br />
<br />
What?! At this point they should be throwing open the doors for me and chanting my name as they see me approaching! “Have you been here before?!?!?!” What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the staff t-shirts have my face on them by now?<br />
<br />
Boy was I relieved when the waiter came over to the table and said, “Oh! Hi! Wow, twice this week, huh?” Maybe I was relieved and perhaps a little sheepish, actually. He hadn’t even been the one to serve me the previous time!<br />
<br />
At first, I thought all this was embarrassing. Obviously, I probably indulge in a few too many tacos a little too often. But then I thought about it. I mean, sure, it’s prestigious to be popular among the ritzy society glitterati or to be so well known that people camp out in front of a hotel you’re staying in just to catch a glimpse of you. But, when’s the last time one of their admirers offered a member of the royal family free queso?! For me, it was yesterday.<br />
<br />
So, if a girl’s going to strive for notoriety, my particular brand of fame sure seems to taste the best! <br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-40031149910275593352011-10-24T21:40:00.001-04:002011-10-24T21:43:54.511-04:00A foray into a different landI went to Kansas City once. <br />
<br />
That may have been enough. It’s <i>weird </i>out there! Everyone’s nice. Like really nice. Unnervingly nice. It’s peculiar. I don’t know if I like it.<br />
<br />
I was there with two coworkers for a business meeting. One of the coworkers grew up in Missouri so understood the whole strange sweetness in the people. It wasn’t unusual to her, so she didn’t think to warn the rest of us East Coasters. I wish she had. I was unprepared.<br />
<br />
When I started telling people I was venturing into the Great Midwest, people told me about the barbecue. Oh, did they tell me about the barbecue. There were apparently two real choices for good barbecue and everyone had an opinion on which was better. Was it the BBQ place inside the gas station or was it the place at which they yelled at you when you walked in?<br />
<br />
The Midwesterner coworker was really pulling hard for Gates, the place where they were promised to yell at us. Yell at us? Huh? She conspired with our driver, who agreed. (The driver, by the way, was a woman! I don’t know what’s happening in the Midwest, but girl power is alive and well!! No job is just for men! Get it, Midwestern ladies!) Gates it was! All the way from the meeting to this supposed Mecca of meat, the coworker and our driver made a very special point of preparing us for what we were about to walk into. <br />
<br />
Apparently, as soon as we stepped into the line we would be screamed at for our orders. The warning was to be prepared. Look at the menu before you got in line. Be resolute in your order before you made it to the counter. Don’t look back. Don’t look the servers in the eye. Don’t blink! Don’t panic!!<br />
<br />
So, of course, when we got to Gates, we made careful business about the menu board before the line, expecting the Soup Nazi of barbecue to <i>own </i>us if we made a mistake or stuttered in the least. It was nerve wracking. I was anxious, but I was ready. Pulled pork. Potato salad. Let’s do it.<br />
<br />
Then the yelling started.<br />
<br />
“Hey honey!! You ready, sugar?! What can I get you?! What you want today?!”<br />
<br />
Wait. That’s the screaming barbecue version of the Soup Nazi? I. Don’t. Understand. They were <i>niiiice</i>. They were loud, but they were very gracious, sweet and patient. <br />
<br />
Naturally, we became fast friends as I chatted over what the best sides were and what I should order. Midwesterners are crazy for being intimidated by these glorious women! And boy was the barbecue delicious!! My boss can’t stop talking about how awesome his burnt ends sandwich was. To this day, I still hear about it regularly. He’s right, though. I’d go back there again to visit my meat-slinging friends. <br />
<br />
Full and happy, the driver drove us back to airport, and then she did the most bizarre thing. Dropping us off, she <i>hugged </i>us, each of us. HUGGED us. Our driver HUGGED us! Hugs! Hugs all around! Her arms, my body. HUGGING. <br />
<br />
I got on that plane back to DC and respectable, polite distance and familiar hostility between people, clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-2664490525811912292011-10-12T09:31:00.000-04:002011-10-12T09:31:00.595-04:00When “men’s” fashion fights backNow, I appreciate a guy who is aware of his image. I mean, I’m in PR and I’m also obsessed with make-up and <a href="http://livefromlollywood.blogspot.com/2009/12/insane-in-name-of-naturally-gorgeous.html">beauty treatments</a>, so image is something I’m acutely tuned into myself. Sometimes, though, a guy can get a bit carried away. <br />
<br />
I dated a guy who turned to GQ as if it were his personal style advisor. This might be a triumph for many guys, and I certainly enjoyed his attention to current trends and fashion. When we’d find ourselves having endless conversations about whether he could pull off particular looks or when, for weeks after a new GQ came out, I could count on having pages laid out for me that we’d then dissect at great length, it became more than amusing.<br />
<br />
Some of our most frequent conversations:<br />
<br />
“What do you think of that guy in that cardigan? Do you think I could pull off a cardigan? No, only hipster or gay guys can wear cardigans, right? Well, maybe I could wear a cardigan. No, I can’t do the cardigan look. I’d be too Mr. Rodgers. Yeah, I think that cardigan is cool, too, but I couldn’t wear that. Could I wear that? No. Cardigans wouldn’t work on me. Cardigans?”<br />
<br />
“I think only girls and a very particular type of guy can get away with a vest.” Of course, then, at least three times a month, we’d revisit what sorts of guys actually fell into that “particular type” and whether he was one of them. Really, at least three times a month. <br />
<br />
There were also some notable style mishaps. <br />
<br />
One time he came over to my house after an evening out with the guys. My first reaction when I saw him was, “Whoa! Was this a theme night? Are you dressed as a homosexual gas station attendant?!?!” <br />
<br />
His response? “This shirt is <i>cool</i>! Why has everyone made fun of me for it tonight?!” <br />
<br />
Eventually, I had to admit that it was a good top. “No, you’re right, babe. This is a nice shirt. See, it looks great on me! Can I have it?”<br />
<br />
And then there were the jeans he wore to my birthday party that have become famous. They had studs on the pockets and pink trim. Theories abound about whether they actually may be women’s jeans. He insists that they’re just especially trendy men’s jeans. Since they’re Rock & Republic jeans and were very expensive, he may be right—except that R&R also makes women’s jeans, so your guess is as good as mine!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D90Z10ntCHpsK3pdVz2b4ZvVbOUH_b6rL8B2gMvuPGjiF4vI9GYY-hegHWzBw-K7J4BtaVU3ouWjNu0xsvS6NPQ4sB5cSjaK0nfpwfy-YY9NRnndhpfUBMgtVsqDZdsQhPtLNHA9dT4i/s1600/Studded+jeans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D90Z10ntCHpsK3pdVz2b4ZvVbOUH_b6rL8B2gMvuPGjiF4vI9GYY-hegHWzBw-K7J4BtaVU3ouWjNu0xsvS6NPQ4sB5cSjaK0nfpwfy-YY9NRnndhpfUBMgtVsqDZdsQhPtLNHA9dT4i/s320/Studded+jeans.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>
<br />
Apparently, he ordered them online and didn’t take a look at the rear view of them on the website before he clicked “Buy.” Then, he got them, liked the way they fit and couldn’t decide whether the sparkles on the butt were a deal breaker. I’ve got several friends who still, many, many months later maintain they were. <br />
<br />
Knowing the way he thinks—especially about himself—I know that he just really, really enjoyed how they showed off his assets, and he probably, not so secretly, really appreciated how the sparkles drew more attention to his butt. I’d agree that they did fit him well and weren't so bad, especially paired with a sequin and feather, Las Vegas-style headdress to complete the look!<br />
<br />
Sometimes we all make style mistakes that we can appreciate as pushing boundaries or attempts at trend setting. The important thing is to have a good attitude about them and be able to laugh at yourself. Thankfully, this guy usually did. I wonder, though, after all the teasing he got that night, whether he’s ever worn the pants again—or the top I was forced to give back to him. God be with him if he has!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318189911897290502.post-81604013932484056202011-10-10T10:36:00.001-04:002011-10-10T10:36:18.861-04:00Work sparksThere’s a guy whose company shares office space with my company, and he is not ugly. So, obviously, I’ve zeroed in on him as the next potential Mr. Kristin Brown target. <br />
<br />
Our interactions are those that will fill romance novels one day: I say something witty and brilliant; he looks overwhelmed, laughs, says something less than witty and borderline boring and goes on his way. Can you feel the excitement of burgeoning love?! <br />
<br />
Like in high school when a crush would find excuses to just happen to be near your locker, the frequency with which he passes by or lingers near my office has definitely increased. I think we can all agree that clearly all this Kristin is <em>working</em> for him!<br />
<br />
I’m pretty sure that I’m going to find that he’s less than smart if we ever eventually go out, and then I’ll be stuck with him at work. He seems nice, though, and has a good, professional job. And, at this point, that seems like just about enough!<br />
<br />
Kristin Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00395712897629238659noreply@blogger.com0