Technorati, why don’t you come to your senses (or neediness, Kris style; or the second time I mention a Designing Woman on this here blog)

Last week I was going through my blogger neediness routine – you know, the trifecta of checking my comments (as a professional comment whore is prone to do), looking at my Statcounter geek charts to ensure that you are still employed at the places where you read my blog the week prior (no worries; your secret is safe with me) and looking at new links via Technorati.

I said NEW LINKS. I get a new link about once a week, and it is terribly exciting. Someone else is reading my blog! And this person writes cool stuff and things and thinks me worthy of linkage! I, Kris Likey, am becoming a bigger part of my neck of the tiny woods of the blogosphere!

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

My numbers had gone down. Someone had – gulp – de-linked me.

I’m not proud of it, but a rush of 7th-grade, Claire-Danes-like angst came over me. The same feeling you got when someone spread a rumor around junior high that you were a lesbian at the age when that wouldn’t have been boner inducing. The feeling you got when you didn’t make the band for the ’89 undisclosed-northern-New Jersey production of Damn Yankees. Effers.

I’ll admit; I’ve done it. I know it’s routinely done. But I’m a fragile being right now, sans beau or sufficient intoxication. Clearly this isn’t the right time to turn my comments off to see if I can subsist without the feedback. Ugh. Stupid social experiments.

In other news, I have more evidence that my appropriate-meter is clearly in need of tune up. Today I began watching a Lifetime movie – starring, no, not Susan Lucci, NO! not Valerie Bertinelli, but the indomitable and fabulous Delta Burke – and like a short woman/tall man romance I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Maternal Instincts was a real 1996 watcher about a woman who undergoes an emergency hysterectomy and then kills, maims, or teases the hair of those who perpetrated the unwanted surgery. Delta seeks vengeance by replacing her doctor’s progesterone shots with EVOO, running a woman over with shopping carts in the grocery store parking lot (file that one under I effing kid you not), and switching pregnancy results from positive, you GO GIRL to negative, get a fertile mate a la Mel Gibson already via the office Atari. My friends and I left for lunch mid-movie, and I Tivo’d the remaining hour and a half. AND I WATCHED THE REST OF IT TONIGHT. I couldn’t help myself.

Forget sponsoring me for the upcoming Blogher conference. Can somebody sponsor both my therapy and Chardonnay?

File this under: You don’t need more bone vitamins or female cleansers, no matter what Lifetime Television should suggest; Gerald McRaney; Kris, this behavior is to be expected with the onset of your lady cycle; Jennifer Aniston promises it’s cool to be single; Colonel Mustard; and Prozac, Yellow Tail, and something else with a low incidence of sexual side effects and loneliness.

Making points

Going back to Weight Watchers always makes me feel a little bit like I'm in the witness protection program. I start fresh in a new city, or even just a new part of an old city, and even I feel new. For all anyone knows, I could have been rescued by Richard Simmons on one of his home invasions and have dropped dozens more pounds than I've actually been able to. There's an element of excitement to each new beginning.

And then, circa meeting four, the novelty wears off. You realize that Weight Watchers meetings are much like TGI Fridays: although the framed baseball jerseys amazingly bear the names of local HS teams, the Milwaukee artichoke dip tastes surprisingly just like it did in Gainesville.

For example, no matter where you weigh in, there is always one woman who thinks everyone has gathered to hear her share her personal stories. The ever-effervescent Dub Dub leader poses the benign question, "what challenges did you face this week?" For those new to the adventure that is WW, this is similar to someone seeing you in the work hallway and asking you how your day is going. They want five words or less. More than that, and they talk about you on IM when they get back to their cubes.

Although the leader does her best to ignore Miss DiPesto, she is the only one with a raised hand. Old timers groan upon seeing this. Said woman then launches into a full-blown diatribe on how difficult it was to avoid the Gouda at her nephew's bris, and wouldn't you think she'd be able to stop eating altogether that day - you know, given that penis surgery was happening right there? But she ate it anyhow! Next week should be better, though, because then she'll be over her period.

A member shuffles her small child from the room and I'm convinced that this visual will help at least three others cease eating altogether until the next meeting.

There is also the one Weight Watcher who comes to a meeting fully clad, weighed down by multiple wool sweaters and bling and lead boots. She then proceeds to hold up the line of those waiting to weigh, carefully removing hairpieces, hearing aids, press-on nails, and teeth in an effort to lose that .6 of a pound. We've ALL been there, sweetheart. It's just that most of us think twice before resorting to stepping on a public scale wearing only a n*de bodysuit.

Finally, there is always a little envy in the newbie group when a new mom joins. Is it because of the glow she wears proudly, her precious newborn barely visible under his blankies? No. It's because when you read the week 1 manual, you see that nursing moms get to eat like 4,000 MORE CALORIES THAN YOU DO. And suddenly having babies doesn't seem so bad.

Commence Blog Pimping

In unrelated news, I'm a finalist!



Winning this award would:

1) enable me to stop the 5 am ice dancing practices my mother has had me going to since the 4th grade, because I would FINALLY BE GOOD AT SOMETHING, and MAYBE WOULD GET MYSELF A MAN (as if ice dancing was ever my stud ticket),

2) avenge my being the bottom of Troop 12’s Samoa sellers in the Spring of ‘83,

3) prompt the beau to reconsider our breakup decision, as a good, honest woman with a blog award is hard to find in these parts, and

4, and perhaps most importantly) enable me to be known for something other than that one, silly little episode of Elimidate.

Cheers.

Don't need no hateration in this dancery

I'm not a big fan of Internet hate.

But Kris, you say, you hate all the time! As is evidenced by this entry and this post and this little number.

Semantics, I know. But here's my explanation.

To Hate On: (origin: Kris Likey) What Kris does. Making fun of, calling out, or ridiculing individuals of unspecified origin who cannot be identified via CSI-like Super Glue latent printing or basic context clues. Intended for your fun only (only, only . . .) Use: I hate on when that parking attendant gives me the wrong change.

To Hate: (origin: Dawn, reportedly of Time) With malintent, making fun of, calling out, ridiculing or otherwise causing targeted recipient(s) to experience embarrassment, dropping of computer-side booze, or gastrointestinal distress IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BLOGOSPHERE. Use: What the hell, Paul of CMI Parking Booth #5491 in Adams Morgan??? Your mom probably wishes you were never born. Don't they teach your people to count?

insert appropriate crickets here.

I'm sick of it. In the past several weeks alone, I have come across several incidents of this. Writers, do you have no blog fodder other than personal attacks on others? Surely Blogger has a template you can use to cure this.

Quite a few attacks have been anonymous, and quite frankly, I cannot imagine anything more cowardly (with the clear exception of suicide bombing. Suicide bombing usually takes the cake, except when no one dies but the suicide bomber. Then this is still clearly worse.)

It amazes me just how many readers claim to find this entertaining. Who are these people? And who has sex with them? I don't think I know any, but I'm pretty sure these are the same kids who still find joy in knocking people over via the back of the knee tap. NO. NOT HILARIOUS IN THE 8th GRADE.

AND STILL NOT GAINING HILARITY.

So do everyone a favor. Talk about people away from the dinner table just like we do in all of our civilized families. Or if you're going to choose the path of public ridicule, at least take the napkin off your face.





These views do not represent the views of Bug, Cricket, or Kris' exceptionally talented blog friends.

I double dog dare ya.

Can someone fill me in on this Brrreeeport thing?

Go ahead. Google it.

Do you really, really like me?

I've been nominated for my first ever blog award! Rules and stuff and things are here.

Is it too early to thank God and Oprah?

I wasn't going to speak of today, but don't want to be a poor sport.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HUGH DOWNS!

My coverage of the LMNOP Olympics

I didn't know the Olympics were even on the horizon. Crap, I can't recall if I had tuna or ham for dinner. Call me a sloth (that's right; I'm not opposed to it). I knew less about the startup of this crazy uber-workout frenzy than I did the 4x30 season finale of Arrested Development (which I consider to be a personal overBluth.)

Let us begin.

I absolutely embrace, positively ADORE the awkward early-morning pauses that affect the Baghdad correspondents, Matt Lauer on his excruciating Carmen Sandiego escapades, and, at present, vulnerable Torino reporters when corresponding with the studio.

Ahem...

From NYC: "What would you say is the confidence level of the American luge team right now?"

Crickets.

The Torino correspondent simultaneously monitors his earpiece. And his fly.

Ann Currey checks for split ends. Long, gorgeous, smart, Wicked Pantene tresses are a bitch to tame.

Rachael Ray has Oprah count her money.

Al Roker eats another .78 ounces of food while arrogance seeks revenge on Gumbel's innards.

And 8-9 seconds later, Rootsman begins. "Hello, Katie. The lugers aren't thinking small anymore. They're thinking luge."

He chuckles while Katie has a colonoscopy and waits for this and Fear Factor Neilsons to register. I ache freshman-year style and yet long to make out with this time delay discomfort at the very same time.

Lesson 2.

Should you be my pairs skating partner, I will effing kick your ass (to this day, I'm still not sure why I blog "eff" rather than the full-fledged f*&%)"#, but I digress. . . )

Seriously. If I have used my Boflex religiously for 27 years, without masturbation even slightly interfering, I would at least expect that you would deny salami Hot Pockets prior to our Olympic runs and BE ABLE TO SWIRL YOUR 112-POUND BODY THREE TIMES IN A SIMPLE LOOP OVER THE ICE YOU HAVE SKATED OVER SINCE YOU AND I WERE FREAKIN' FIVE so I could at least place and my Kappa Sig bros would STOP MAKING FUN OF MY ASS FOR THIS. Did I mention that this is only frozen H2O, FOR CRIPES SAKE?

3.

Let me say up front that you have to be a complete and utter Dumas to take/shoot up/consume via osmosis THE ROIDS. I'm on Weight Watchers and I have yet to snarf McDonald's fries, my friends. They are going to find you, much like they discovered that polio vaccine and that Eglesias removed his mole without our permission. Show some restraint, would ya?

and 4.

I don't care if they are a half second behind pace. There is no earthly reason to put speed skaters in those spandex leggings – other than to get me through my weekend. Smiling.

Tsk, tsk

Dear DC,

I'm not sure it was the greatest idea to bring a caravan of bussed prisoners through downtown at 8 am today. Last time I checked, 8 am was still right smack in the rush hour here in the Eastern Time Zone. And although I enjoyed the colorful array of armored cars with pretty flashing lights, are you not just asking for a Patriot Games kinda thing when you play like this? And on Pennsylvania Avenue, no less. Marion Barry was so behind this.

I know MS Project and can help improve your planning,

Kris
DC Resident

Please, sir, may I have some more?

Only moments ago, I was staring so longingly at the mashed potatoes on the work café hot bar to my right that I walked into the sneeze guard on the work café cold bar to my left.

I did so with such force that I knocked over the faux vegetation atop the buffet, revealing both its Marshall’s price tag and my mad gross motor skills.

FEEEEEEEEED MEEEEEEEEE.

The part of Chrissy Snow will now be played by Kris

I made it halfway to my old job this morning before realizing I was going the wrong way. I then proceeded to get lost in parts of Arlington and Falls Church that I didn’t know existed.

I apparently lost 4.4 pounds of BRAIN MATTER last week.

How many points are in cat?

Tonight is my first Weight Watchers weigh in. (Or my 173rd, depending on which tour of Weight Watchers duty you consider this to be.)

In a perfectly sane and rational attempt at weighing less this eve, I actually SHAVED BOTH OF MY LEGS (and it isn't even Saturday) AND HAVE OPTED TO GO COMMANDO (my splendid rationale? "I'd like to keep my earrings on, so these just have to go.")

Tags: Reason #782 you don't want to be inside my head; mustard sandwiches; how it all began for Lindsey Lohan; growling stomach; why hasn't Hurley lost any weight, dammit?

I'll have my Roethlisberger with fries

Although I was rooting for Pittsburgh, I always feel bad for the loser. Poor Matt Hasselbeck. First your sister-in-law shames the clan by co-hosting the View, and now this.

In other news, I didn't realize Andy Rooney had purchased a football team. HOLY HELL. They need to get that man to Disney World before his 60 minutes are up.

Please note the reference to cocktails

Mama likes supporting lady bloggers


Anyone want to share a room?




Crickets.

Crap I'm pretty sure I didn't sign up for today

“Oooooh. Our Diet Coke machine appears to be broken.”

The mega-spit globule outside my car door this morning.

“Welcome back to Weight Watchers!”

“We’re getting married!"

We have secretly replaced your normal Tivo activity with the STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS.

“Miss Likey? This is the clinic.”

“What’s a blog?”

Any song by Christopher Cross, Billy Joel (sorry, my love), Lionel Richie, Phil Collins, Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, the Carpenters, Marc Cohn, Harry Connick, Journey, Air Supply, Barbra Streisand, Sergio Mendes, Aaron Neville, Chicago, Dick Marx, or Mr. Manilow. I truthfully don’t give a crap if you made it through the rain.

Punxsutawney Phil: 6 more weeks UNTIL YOU STOP CRYING. (stupid marmot)