Your Best of 2005 (or, It's not a competition already)

So here it is, my gift to you: a list of a gazillion hand-coded links. A compilation of more than 70 posts follows, representing countless hours of writing effort and likely hundreds of hours spent living out their content. I have not screened or edited these, so follow each at your own peril. My hope is that you will link back to this post or its entries so that your readers may explore the work of fellow bloggers who shared favorite posts they penned, as well as the writing of those on blogger sidebars who decided to wait for the 2006 edition (you know who you are :)

Enjoy the rest of 2005. I look forward to blogging with you in the new year.

Hit me with your best Plot (or fiction)

FICTION: A SHORT STORY
I was thirteen and my world was a confusing mesh of childish whims and adult desires, as if some demon had possessed my body with an array of skin problems and mood swings. I could have easily dealt with the physical changes, but the feelings were the sort I hadn't experienced before and didn't know how to confront.

Tales from the Ripped (or, I was drinking when . . .)

Dear Skyy Vodka
Binge Drinker? Try and find a sponsor...And not one from AA...

I Thrive on Embarrassment
This post involves drinking, dancing and ripping out the seat of my pants inside of a Las Vegas night club. Then, consuming an excessive amount of alcohol to dull my senses.

Wallace on Wine
Coming up with a weekly wine column is hard work. So I tried to imagine how David Foster Wallace would pen a wine review. Plus I had been drinking.

Zip and Tuck
How good of a friend is Dave? Read on and find out!

Anal Penetration
Rest assured, it's not what you're thinking...

We're just here to do the Superbowl shuffle (or Sports)

Wie, Wie, Wie, All the Way Home
A discussion of Michelle Wie getting disqualified from her first professional LGPA tournament because of some nosy, nabob of a reporter who narced on her after the fact.

Holden Caufield (or, frankly, my disillusionment)

The shit hat and the stool sample
Can dignity and health care co-exist? The sad tale of the stool sample suggests the answer is obvious - no.

Semper Fidelis
Or, more guilt. Just what a new mother needs at Christmas.

Gumming of age (or Growing older)

No pasa nada
It's my problem free philosophy and the realization that this is how I am so just deal.

Siding with Cider
Whether it's because of the spiked cider at Tryst or the absence of this blogger's financial chi, Rebecca Knox quickly gets over a misinterpreted one-night stand and focuses on the relationships that aren't so ephemeral.

Passing time
My little sister Chicky turns 22 today . . .

I can't believe it's not butter, spray! (or Romance/Relationships)

N*ked Man Dance
A little story about my husband that took place shortly after he moved in (before we were married)...

I Could Feel You
(A post from the originator of the Best of List . . .)

Kickball Pays Off
It turned out to be the beginning of an ill-fated romance.

Complacency has its Limits
When are we in danger of dating complacency kicking in TOO much?

Recognizing the Need to Heal a Broken Heart
In this post I describe what it is like to have a huge shield over my heart in order to not become broken hearted once again. I write about wanting to change and take that shield down and take a risk again.

Dear Huge
I had been sparring with this wine blogger, so I wrote him a letter imploring him to try a particular wine. It must've knocked his socks off as his blog closed up shop shortly after our long distance tiff.

By request
Girl meets boy. Hurricane renders boy homeless. Girl and Boy shack up. Romance ensures.

Hurry Up and Date
My experience at a speed dating event . . .

How (not) to have sex
One in a series of "dating guidelines." My approach to the dilemma of how not to rush into sleeping with someone.

You'll rave about this rant (or Opinion)

Driving Me to Drink
A personal opinion? I think not. This is reality, people.

All About Eve
My reaction to All About Eve. I've done a few movie reviews, but this one just stands on its own, whether or not you could pick Bette Davis out of a line up.

Today in Bitchery
An Open Letter to the Folks Who Put the Clear Adhesive Along the Top of
all Packaged CDs.

I love this stuff
Not Your typical Jersey Girl on Skinny Cows.

Is Summer Over Yet?
From the graveyard of Mel's once "Wedded Bliss", we are reminded of why the Summer of 2005 was one of the worst. To be followed by "Winter of '05-'06 can kiss my ass."

Of the way we murr . . . (Memories)

A complex phrase, in which the various parts are enchained
When I was nine years old, my brother and my cousin sat me down taught me absolutely nothing about the female reproductive system.

Shit happens
What do you wipe with in the wilderness? One woman's story of shame in the streets of Santa Cruz, CA.

Vignette
Me, my college boyfriend and his bedroom.

She don't lie, She don't lie, She don't lie
This is a Memories entry about a Girl, a Grandma, Cocaine and a big, blue Cougar. And, in a roundabout way, how they all relate to music.

Her Royal Highness of Pastry Land
Some perks of growing up in the 1970's.

Dear Mom
This is the letter I wrote to my mom the night of the anniversary of her death. I never intended to post it to my blog at all, but somehow it ended up that way. It’s full of honesty and raw emotion and many people commented that it made them cry.

Pieces, pieces, pieces of me (Autobiographical)

Ghosts, Forgiveness and All Hallows Eve
A bit of a rant, a bit autobiographical, a bit philosophical.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda
Thoughts about regrets and do-overs. All the things I could have, would have, should have done.

The Haunted Basement
What's more fun that a barrel full of monkeys? Visiting your Mormon relatives and meeting the ghost who lives in their basement.

Possibly My Most Embarrassing Post Thus Far
Enough said.

Meditations on Sunlit Window
I chose this piece because I like my "truth" posts (meditations) the best; by telling these little stories about myself, I connect with my readers on the grounds that all of us are just a little bit wacko, and that's perfectly OK.

To Know Me is to Love Me
Often my writing comes from anger or frustration or angst or tears. When I am happy I write about what color I painted my apartment. This time I’m frustrated.

I'm an Emotional Eater
After the separation from her husband of less than a year, Mel takes a look at the vices that she must overcome to make it through the end of her marriage. Warning: do not read if you are hungry.

Look kids, it's story time
A story about a girl struggling with her inner demons. You'll be intrigued by this tale of crisis, embarassment and loss....

Revenge is a dish best served cold. And with a Louisville Slugger
Question: What do you get when you live with 2 coke whores? Answer: Kicked out in the middle of the night and swollen knuckles from teaching them to fuck with you.

Perennial
About forgetting an important anniversary and the steps that I took to make up for it after the fact.

I feel witty, oh so witty (or Humor)

Rudi in the Sky with Santa
More enlightened discourse (such as it is) about the unanswered questions posed by the famous Christmas special, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

Blognesia
This is a little ditty about making up excuses when you don't tend to your blog and eating processed food intended for other species. Oh, and a mother's love.

The Pitch
The classic Hollywood battle except this time the writer wins.

Where there are lips
This post is about vaginal teeth.

The Handsome Canadian
True stories that are also truly funny.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Seconds
So what if he thinks you're crazy and doesn't call you again; isn't that the point?

Crazy People Say the Darndest Things
An entry about the town crazy. Especially relatable if you have crazy in your genes.

Another Real Man of Genius
A true classic. This is my own rendition of Bud Light's "Real Men of Genius" ad campaign. This one is in honor of some guy who took a naked picture of himself and kept leaving frat-boy, horn-dog comments on my blog.

Vatican Idol
This fine gem was inspired by the excitement that gripped the world as we waited breathlessly for the word of who the new Pope would be... Anyway, it occurred to me that it would be more fun if they had a show to decide... Vatican Idol.

Lord of the Rinks (or "Midget Hockey")
Today started off with a bang. I was up at the butt crack of dawn to watch the fruit of my womb play hockey . . .

So you wanna be a hipster band
You don't need to be talented or attractive to be in a hipster band, but you will need a coke habit.

Conversations with Myself
I spent a weekend talking to myself and crying over Coach bags. Enough said.

Why, Dex, Why?
The horrors of owning too many phonebooks. Since writing this entry in March, I have received 4 more.

Maybe I'll fantasize about that...
An excerpt from an IM session I had with a boy named Adam Outlaw. We've never met each other.

Medieval Torture American Style
I joined a bodybuilder gym. Hilarity and humiliation ensues.

An Open Letter To Tom Cruise
This is the post where I let Tom know that I'm hip to what he's up to and throw down the gauntlet. That was eight months ago and I still haven't heard from him. What a p*ssy!

Morning Person? Not So Much
If you know what’s good for you, do not bother me in the morning.

I can't decide between a story I posted about seeing my mother-in-law naked and the story about her feeding me glass in soup.

Blog, sweat, and fears
I am a sweat-phobic. I am totally and completely paranoid about perspiration. And I don't even sweat a lot.

And Now.....The Man You've All Been Waiting For...
FUDD: One Night Only

Moving to Entertainment News:
In a surprising turn of events, the role of Angelina Jolie will now be played by up and coming newcomer, Brookelina.

Weber You Believe Me or Not
The blog post was a true story from this year's Thanksgiving festivities. I had to do something to rescue the family from a lack of turkey so they got me. Maybe too much of me.

Iambic pentameter, hear me roar (Poetry)

Lament
About not having what you think you want.

Ode to Tea
For the lovelorn, the under-sexed and all those who are uncompanioned ... there is tea.

Unnatural State of Philosophy
With a backdrop of Georgetown swank, Rebecca Knox takes hold of her emotions right on M Street -- distracted by a cab's spinning rims. Fresh out of college, she shows an inner-struggle for truth and understanding.

Gardenburger Poem of Devotion by Erin
I wrote this after attending a barbeque where i stood around looking stupid and drinking a beer. After 5 people gave me the protein inquisition, i decided to drink 3 more beers, go home, and write this poem of devotion....

Untitled
I posted this on another blog and it was definitely drug-induced while in the ER one day, but here it is for your enjoyment.

A Bumble A Bumble
Big Bouncy Bumbles with Bounteous Bosoms

My cat beat up your honor roll student (or Stuff about my babies and/or felines)

Perfection Itself is Imperfection
This is just a strange post regarding the amazing ways to compartmentalize my music collection and the revealing patterns that I found thanks to the good folks at iTunes. It was also a huge experiment in linking. I went ape-link with it. My iPod is like a baby...or a pet.

The List will be posted at midnight tonight.

Right about the time I start applying suntan lotion.

In other news, do an MSN search for: SWF Cat Lover.

Mama doesn't like being on the first page.

Reading the labels

I was watching Starting Over the other day - you know, five women are picked to live in a house with life coaches and work through issues that would be dealt with at my house with either Chardonnay or Ben & Jerry's - and I was disturbed by the repeated use of labels. (I understand you being disturbed at my admission of watching Starting Over to begin with, but that's a topic for an entirely separate post).

"I was raised by a bipolar mother." I was immediately taken aback by the finality of this statement; it was as if this term alone defined the individual to whom she was referring. Forget that Mom nurtured contest-winning tomatoes in a backyard garden, taught her to ski when Dad deemed it too dangerous, and hand-sewed sequins on a dress until 2 am so her daughter would feel special for her first prom. But the label is all we will ever know of her.

Read any articles about the death of Pat Morita? It was apparently the booze that killed him, you know, a fact to which the authors devoted 3/4 of the article that I read. For my Canadian readers, I'm pretty sure he was an actor, as well - something about Wax on, Wax off? I wonder if People magazine would have focused on his Wendy's Single with Cheese and Starbucks Frappacino (with whip!) consumption should the cause of death been heart disease.

Less embarrassing is my obsession with true crime, a genre that tends to fall into the very same quicksand. Victims are strippers or drug addicts or otherwise undesirable. If they are PTA Moms, you hear about it down to the very last detail - how they made snow cones from actual atmospheric precipitation and subbed on occasion for Mother Theresa at the orphanage. Women who shop at Talbots should never be the victims of violent crimes.

Bigot. ADHD. Hysterical. I wonder if this makes us feel better somehow. Hateful. Schizophrenic. Disturbed. Assigning labels to others allows us to place people into categories of which we would never be a part.

I regret casting out a college friend based on high-school perceptions of her. I went through a stage of adolescent rage toward my mother in which I said things I still wish I could take back. And yes, I even have 1989 photo documentation of myself wearing a Coca-Cola sweatshirt out in public. I'd hate for some of my lesser moments to define me on a headstone or on a reality show in the future.

There's still time.

Even the Rizcheks have submitted their faves. Where are yours?



In other news, I came home tonight to find Bug playing with a wine cork.

That's my boy.

Your Best of 2005

In just a few short, cold days, Kris will depart on an international Christmas vacation of mystery. While on the lido deck, I will be unable to post or stalk you via the information superhighway. To cope I have enlisted the permission of the sassy originator of the BEST OF series to devise my very own list.

While on vacation, I'd like you to sample the best of our collective 2005 blogging.

Please pick one or two of the best posts you've crafted!

Then tell me which category they come from:

Hit me with your best Plot (or fiction)

Tales from the Ripped (or, I was drinking when . . .)

We're just here to do the Superbowl shuffle (or Sports)

Holden Caufield (or, frankly, my disillusionment)

Gumming of age (or Growing older)

I can't believe it's not butter, spray! (or Romance/Relationships)

You'll rave about this rant (or Opinion)

Of the way we murr . . . (Memories)

Pieces, pieces, pieces of me (Autobiographical)

I feel witty, oh so witty (or Humor)

My cat beat up your honor roll student (or Stuff about my babies and/or felines)

Iambic pentameter, hear me roar (Poetry)

To submit your personal Best of 2005 entry, please choose your favorite post of the year, email me (if you put it in the comments you'll give it away, silly!) by Saturday: the link to your post, the header above which best represents its flava, and two sentences describing its content in fetching detail. The entry will be posted prior to me leaving your asses in the cold winter dust.

To Egan/Seattlephile: this is not a competition. All you have to do is submit something.
To Jorge/George: humble as you are, this is the opportunity to submit your OWN work, not someone else's!

Kisses,
Krisses

I'm a pageant mom.

Bug wins his first big crown at the Seahag Invitational!

Sounds of silence

I'm noticing more and more lately that silence is difficult for me. It isn't the calm I mind. In fact, most days I am in search of contentment in the quiet. But silence is another story.

I can't stand to watch a couple at a neighboring restaurant table eat an entire meal without conversation. To me it is diagnostic of a dying relationship rather than a choice steak. There is always the intricate design of the silverware, the vivid blue of the hostess' skirt, the bit of cork that make it into your glass of red. There must be something to say.

I find silence in public bathrooms to be excruciating. Someone lingers at the group mirror while there is silence from your one closed stall. Why can't I go already? I bet she can hear that I can't go. Maybe I should flush just to make some noise. Why isn't she running the water or something? Doesn't she know I'm dying in here? I'll just take more toilet paper off the roll so it sounds like I'm doing something. Now I'll blow my nose. Oh, come on! FTLOG, HOW LONG CAN ONE WOMAN LOOK AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR?

And scene.

I'm undecided as to whether it is worse to be the caged urinator or the neurotic at the spigot.

I cringe thinking of the last time I watched someone tell a long-winded story or joke. You know the one. And whether it's a druncle at a family reunion or a coworker at the last staff meeting, people begin to dream about today's Lean Cuisine and check out the cracks in their fingernails long before a punchline is in the cards. This is the whole reason drinks are served at open mic nights and improv. It's to get us through the absence of reaction.

Try being the silent one during your next small talk encounter. Perfect timing; a seemingly never-ending string of Christmas parties will provide you unenviable fodder for such an experiment. Go ahead, see if you don't cough up pictures of your cat during long pauses between you and a holiday-themed-sweatered stranger. I'll give you 10 bucks if you don't break in a minute or less.

The void that follows asking a question in therapy.

The cricket-laden I think it might be time for us to move in together.

An unsuccessful exercise in fishing for a compliment.

In context, you can always reliably translate these silences into their real meanings. Discomfort, disappointment, rejection, confusion, anxiety. Even Art and Paul muzak would be more palatable.

Don't get me started on the silence that follows sending out 35 resumes.

Mama has been:

a) skipping work to dance the day shift at the Crystal City Restaurant,
b) cutting and pasting the blog fodder of others, similar to what happened to Que Sera Sera and other of our fellow bloggers, (tsk, tsk, young one. not nice.)
c) practicing to perfection the MC Skat Kat moves from Paula Abdul's Two Steps Forward video,
d) neglecting you just as she does routine ear hygiene.

I shall return over the weekend with kisses and snowman peeps for all.

Most forgettable, that's what you are.

Within a two-hour period on Sunday, I ran into three people who I have met on separate occasions within the past four months. Each of these individuals reintroduced themselves to me, stating emphatically that it was so good to meet me. "But we've met before," I wanted to say. "Don't you remember?"

To one, "it was a warm evening in October. You were having a cocktail in a scotch glass and I distinctly recall that there was a lime resting on the ice cubes. We discussed the gentrification of DC, how a neighborhood can be turned into an entirely new world within the span of five years. As evidence of your tightly-knit community, you told me about sitting your neighbor's cat - a man whose name I distinctly recall to be James - anytime he is on travel for work. I remember you mentioning the year you bought your apartment, and the irony of the story of the teacher who made the sale. How does the memory of even my face elude you?"

Context clues be damned (e.g., you have been a friend of the beau for years, you spent last Thanksgiving with my family in this very same house), this has happened to me since the dawn of time. I find it infuriating. It's also slightly confusing, given the fact that I have a face that many have told me is not run of the mill. You see, I have been afflicted with a chin that can only be explained as the likely result of my mother being a comedy club groupie in the early 70s. It is paired with a nose that lacks both cartilage and structure; think a ball of Play Dough smashed with a frying pan. I'm not easy to forget.

What might be even more insulting to my ego is that people cannot place the content of our discussions. I find many of these brief, informal encounters to be some of the richer interactions I have in life. The five-minute discussion with the housekeeper in Toronto who tearfully recounted a teaching life left behind in India. The colleague with whom I braved an uncomfortable icebreaking exercise. The couple whose Pleasantville role assumptions made me alarmingly uncomfortable while apparently working beautifully for them. The close friend of an ex who spent at least three days on my couch during his last visit.

I think if we're honest with ourselves, we will collectively admit to remembering exactly what we ordered the last time we went to IHOP. I bet most of us recall to the penny how much the last gallon of gas was that we got on the cheap. But isn't life in the human details?

Maybe therein lies the key. More unleaded plus and Belgian waffles coming to a memorable Kris conversation near you.

Scrooge

First off, thanks to you for your thoughtful wishes. I know it’s hard to know what to say at times like these, but your printed comments have come through beautifully.

In other news, I know it’s been said before, but I’m going to say it again if you’ll listen. Christmas has gotten the freak out of hand. The beau and I discussed it via cell the other morning.

“I’m sick of Christmas music already. What gives them the right to play it even before December 1st?”

“I don’t even notice it,” he said.

“I can’t take it.”

He uh-huhed.

I continued, “what if I decided to play ‘Happy Birthday to me’ in various ways for a month leading up to my birthday? That’s essentially what’s happening. Jesus is milking it.”

He ignored me. Appropriately.

I saw a posse captivated by a singing Santa at the CVS. I haven’t seen that kind of response since the barbershop bass made its debut next to the blaze orange vest at Walmart. Damn I hate kitsch. Give the three dollars you paid for that plastic bomb to a six year old without jeans.

Even Hallmark turned the Aspartame to 11 this year. Their most recent commercial shows plump cherubs gathered around the tree, dumbfounded by a shadow snowflake on the ceiling brought to them courtesy of a plastic $1.99 (with three card purchase) tree topper. I’m pretty sure Rhett Butler was in the background brewing up some Folgers Crystals for Oklahoma GIs.

Next up: Tara Reid and E! take you to Jerusalem.

In other religious news, I’m pretty sure Pope John Paul II would be psyched to hear they’ve made an ABC movie out of his life. Myrrh.