The sky is a little pink over my city tonight (Or, Happy New Year, friends)

I don't know where to begin. So I'm not going to.

There will be no 2006 recap. No hashing out the good and the bad. This year has been - well, it has been everything. And those of you who come here every day know just how it's been, and those who touch me in the real world know even more of how it has been, and those of you who are scratching your heads have twelve months of archived bliss to keep you busy after the ball drops and the hangovers pass.

On a related note - and I do promise that this is related, at least for me - the powers that be hung DC and American flags along the city's bridges this weekend, likely for the arrival of Ford's body. I care not the reason. They are simple and welcoming, in pairs of three, uncurling with the help of the cool wind that swirls up over the Potomac. Dozens of them waved at me as I drove home tonight at dusk. One of them was caught on something unseen, unable to unfurl completely given the unknown obstruction. I was transfixed. It seemed to struggle to get loose, wanting to whirl freely in the wind with the others.

The moral of this story? It surely must suck to be that much of a p*ssy of a flag. (Now you know better . . .)

I simply cannot wait to wake up tomorrow. A gorgeous, kick ass - effervescent! - 2007 awaits us.

Overkill

Am I the only one finding herself overwhelmed, disgusted and disturbed by the stimulus overload that is the repeated graphic video of Saddam's execution? Saturday morning television, indeed.

But you'll never catch me watching Emeril

Being home with a cold isn't all bad, save the comments from the co-workers that "you sound like a frog" on the phone and the fact that you, per usual, only have diet coke and wine in the fridge and don't want to venture out given that you haven't showered in two full days. Cricket is spending an awful lot of time in the bedroom and I have my suspicions that Mommy needs to spruce herself up a little.

I've been catching up on a quite a bit of live and Tivo'd television during the active life hiatus, and have been dying to share some observations with you . . .

Who are these people? Ellen Degeneres devoted several minutes today to viewer artwork sent in to the show. As she introduced the segment, I'm thinking of the creators as students who want to find footing with famous folk or possibly cool, knitting grandmas who crafted purses or macrame owls or some such crazy things. Come to find out that crazy doesn't quite mean what I thought it would; Ellen produced from these "fans" at least a dozen items, including wooden bowls containing her watercolored face, and many, many odd paintings, and one sculpture that may or may not have been made from pure creamery butter. Disturbing to begin with.

Yet most confusing was Ellen's overwhelmingly positive reaction to receiving these, uh, gifts. I must admit, should I have gotten something like any of the above in the mail, I'd be thinking, a) restraining order against the ex-boyfriend, or b) "he's calling from inside the house!!!" or most likely c) slobbering peeping Tom perched n*ked over his pottery wheel while mumbling "precious . . . precious" over my clay likeness. Not cool. Am I right? People?

Who are they trying to reel in with this crap? As the Sentra still refuses to pass DC Inspection, I'm left actually paying attention to car commercials when they air rather than thinking about whether Bill Gates and his wife have consummated their union as of yet, or something else vastly more interesting than the automobile. But this whole thing with Volkswagon really boggles the mind. Who the hell is going to jump up and buy a VW because they are giving away a guitar with every purchase? Is this a teen stoner demographic of which I'm clearly not a part? Because I'm pretty sure most people my age would rather get socks, or coupons for free Wendy's Frosties, or a signed Alyssa Milano poster than a freaking guitar they plug into the outlet formerly known as the lighter. I'm just saying.

Although lovely, Jill Hennessy is just not a good actress. There really just isn't much more to say about that.

There is a train wreck worse than ABC's The View, and it resides on NBC. iVillage Live, billed as "an interactive talk show for women that looks at topics like beauty, parenting, fashion and food" is a great concept in theory, but on screen resembles grown Mouseketeers given a camera and a T-1 line. These people were so animated and so perky and so happy to be awake, it felt a little bit like cotton candy had exploded in my face. And it wasn't very tasty.

Everyone on CBS soap operas is still amazingly hot, despite it having been at least five years, seven kidnappings and three exorcisms since I last watched any of the afternoon lineup. Nikki, I'm not sure what you're doing to keep yourself so well preserved, but it's working for you, kiddo. Jabot should consider actually marketing that stuff.

Watching the Top Chef marathon without leaving the couch will make you want to be a better cook. Nay, a better person. I'm not sure what sort of crack they're putting in that show - either beautiful season of this reality series - but I could use an extra helping of it. There is backstabbing, there is drinking, there is really ugly food made of squid ink and pomegranate that you know just can't be filling without a side loaf of bread, there is name calling and there is sex in the walk in. Well, not that last one, but it's only a matter of time, people. All of it, down to the "pack your knives" and go on back to your job at Applebees rejection line, it's just all good. By the end of my sixth consecutive episode I had downloaded a dozen new recipes to print out and then promptly forget about, looked up part-time cooking schools in my area, and fed the cats "le kibble with a tuna reduction" twice.

But I still haven't showered.

Kris’ totally secular reaction to what one reporter wore to the birthplace of Jesus (OR What's that Cat Doing in that Hat?)

Under the weather this Christmas, Kris battled a cold,

So she watched TiVo’d House and 48 Hours of old.

Correspondent Ms. Maher tracked Jesus’ birth,

Her bad choice of fashion lent Miss Kris some mirth.

Now how does one choose what to don for the Savior?

Kris recreates our reporter’s buying behavior:

“Isn’t it exciting?!?” to her colleagues she said.

“I’m going to where He first lay his sweet head!”

Now to bigger things, “what in the world should I wear?”

To the big three-tiered mall Ms. Maher did tear.

There was Hecht’s and a Macy’s and clothes shops galore!

Where should she start? Who still made clothes of yore?

Nordstrom offered reserved linen pants with a top,

Victoria’s Secret and Bebe most certainly flopped.

In Wet Seal a crop Ms. Stefani would just adore!

But she did not want the Father to think her a whore.

To the third floor she made it! Ann Taylor might help?

At the bright pinks and purples she let out a yelp.

Onward to Abercrombie - her final great hope!

Those small sizes left her clutching the end of her rope.

Was there no place that made the right clothes for this meeting?

Through her velour jogging suit she could feel her heart beating.

Then she rounded the corner – it was Gap, what a goodie!

“Just perfect! KHAKIS AND AN OVERSIZED HOODIE!”

"This is wrong! It’s atrocious!" Kris screamed from her couch,

The birthplace of Jesus and she’s dressed like a slouch!

An outfit one might wear to a basketball game,

Was apparently good enough for our Lord just the same.

So note to self, dear readers, when visiting the manger

To simple good conduct do not be a stranger.

One hopes she might read this and feel some chagrin,

For those sans good taste there’s no room at the inn.

MERRY CHRISTMAS from My Family to Yours

. . . life hardly gets more beautiful than this.

xoxo,
kris

On the Flip Side

Amazing what a dichotomy life can be.

I have not felt this energized, this anxious to wake up and seize the cliched day, to take the time to wear earrings of length and change the day's purse out, eyeliner and all, since my last relationship first began. Then, as I lay my head on the pillow at night, I knew the morning would hold something unexpected and amazing and spectacularly different. Our new site has handed this to me in a way I could not possibly have anticipated one week ago. Admittedly I cannot spoon it at night the way this needy woman is prone to doing, but it sure is a nice relationship for a single girl to hold onto right now. It suits me.

But the other side of the coin is tarnished, a sure sign that something isn't quite right. For the last two days back pains have crept up from the depths I successfully relegated them to in late spring. I am eating. I am eating not because I am quitting my Marlboros or find myself in the claws of a depressive episode or on a pre-first-weigh-in WW binge, but rather because I am awake. In the Kris Handbook of Things You Should Know Before You Marry Her (and 101 Other Neuroses), this falls in the Top 10 (and may or may not be bolded, and possibly underlined), and is generally followed by commands akin to Poison Control Warnings. The alert is out.

I should also probably admit that I couldn't stop crying in the Sentra today. (Anyone who references my last post with rolled eyes and a "duh!" warrants immediate revocation of blogroll privileges. YOU IN THE BACK! What did I say, young lady???) Off the bat I mislead you, sweet reader, by terming it crying; it was more of that heavy weeping that involves both forward shoulder rolls and asthmatic kindergartener wheezing. Because this was the year that everything changed - breath - he didn't come back and the pain was unbearable and that must have meant - breath - something about me just wasn't and isn't good enough and may never be for anyone - breath - and my father is so very ill and my car failed inspection three times this month and AM I NOT JUST SUPPOSED TO FEEL CHEER AND BE FILLED WITH GOD'S LOVE RIGHT NOW? - breaaaaaaath -

It's quite possible that even the crickets were crying.

I'm chalking it up to the holidays. To routine end-of-year taking stock. To the soundtracked emotional montage that runs through a worried mind just as the multimedia ode to the dead does at the Oscars. To a lack of good television during this week that every soul on the planet is seeking nothing but distracting entertainment while they wrap everyone else's gifts or get drunk on cooking wine or endure the homophobia of Uncle Phil.

Ba rum pa pa pum, on my tum

JOY! has a new name, and it’s called my period.

Nothing, nothing, my friends, says MERRY CHRISTMAS like beginning the menses while trying to finish up shopping, while starting the dreaded wrapping that involves taping and retaping and once more! because somehow every and every piece of Scotch attracts at least one of Bug’s hairs, and did I even start writing my Christmas cards yet? because I probably should get on that GIVEN THE IMPENDING NATURE OF ALL THINGS MERRY.

Ho.

Did I mention the stiletto-wearing elves in my belly, dancing to the dulcet yet awful tones of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas”? Because that feels good. And waking up realizing I used a Regular rather than a Super? Even better. And my pants not fitting because I broke into the office holiday party cookie stash FOUR HOURS BEFORE THE EXTRAVAGANZA WAS EVEN SET TO BEGIN?

Ho!

It probably isn’t PC or Christianlike or at all acceptable to take that incessant ringing bell outside Giant and stick it down that volunteer ringer’s throat, now is it? BECAUSE I GAVE THREE TIMES ALREADY. And if I give again, how can I possibly buy more cookies and Doritos and wine to appease these damn stiletto-wearing elves?

HO.

Putting Your Code Where Your Mouth Is ** NOW WITH ACTUAL WORKING LINKS (woot!)

A few of us have been griping (I know that’s a surprise) for some time about feeling underrepresented in the Blogosphere. There are organizations for female bloggers, parent bloggers, foodies, and politicos, but those of us who write about, well . . . us, are just sort of floating around without anchor. Think about it: if you were to categorize my blog, where would you shelve it? Humor? (we all know I’m only funny on third Tuesdays.) Relationships? (My closest are with my cats, BUT I DON’T KNIT THEM BOOTIES YET SO I’M STILL OKAY, DAMMIT!) These feelings came to a head when we attended BlogHer this year, and found ourselves answering the question, “what do you blog about?” with a hung head, a tail between our collective legs and a stutter . . . although not made to feel this way, somehow writing about the intricacies of one’s life and foibles and neuroses suddenly seemed self involved and unworthy of the title of Blogger when there were so many important things to write about (read: Gaza! Racism! THE CHILDREN!)

We started to feel as if, despite our numbers, we were underrepresented and underexposed and needed a network to find others like us, a forum that blogroll clicking alone wasn’t – and still isn’t – affording us.

So Stacy, clearly the only person in my life who majored in Follow Through in college (with a minor in General Motivation), took this discussion and ran with it. And the results of her spearheading this gorgeous effort are beautiful.

Meet Indie Bloggers, a site for those of us who write personal/life/general blogs that don’t fit into any particular niche. This site is gender neutral, whatever that means, but I’m pretty sure that translates into both Barbie and Ken being welcome and invited to post. We don’t care if you are already published or if this is your first time on the Interwebs. We only care that you have something to say, something interesting or inventive or clever to share with a larger network than you may regularly reach with your own site (well, those of us that don’t get 5000 or even 500 hits a day.)

Take a look around. Leave some feedback here. We’d love to hear your thoughts on the idea, your interest in participating, and your thoughts on my most recent choice of chunky highlights rather than those little wimpy stripy ones (I just thought it might brighten my face for the winter . . .)

Won't you join us? My first post is here, and more information can be found here.

Kris, Stacy and Heather

It’s Blog Crush Day, a bona fide holiday unlike those asshat Hallmark holidays like “Children’s Day” (like when isn’t it?!?) and “Arbor Day” (thanks, trees!), as established by two very fine blogger gals I know and love (via the information superhighway; like, we've never dated).

This blog crush makes me feel a little like I’m in high school, admiring one of the popular + smart kids from afar. You know, the kid in your Honors English class who had so totally read the Great Gatsby off the summer reading list even though he denied it when asked. The guy who your mom begged you to date because he was so smart and so nice and so funny and when you grow up you’ll wish you had paid attention to him. The kid who didn’t make fun of you (to your face) when your overpracticed rendition of “You Light Up My Life” failed to dazzle the 6th-grade talent show as planned.

I almost feel like I grew up with this blogger. In a sense we did, starting things up in the blogosphere at the very same time, corresponding early on over email. His blog career has skyrocketed, not in small part due to a fantastic use of words and his effortless sense of humor and an unfailing kindness unto fellow bloggers. I wish I could spend more time over at his site learning more about impacting people in the way that he does through writing.

Neil, thanks for giving many of us something to aspire to.

Maybe Britney will let me be part of her single girls party train now

For various reasons, the CNB w/ dog thing is just not going to happen. At least I know it wasn’t my inability to keep anything but wine and I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter in my fridge that did it. Or my nighttime skin care regimen. Or my obsessive compulsive tendencies.

Or my obsessive compulsive tendencies.

It didn’t get far enough for me to reveal those beautiful things about myself.

In due time.

I clearly need more to do on Friday nights than be mean to reindeer, even wussy ones

Penned 12/8/2006 . . . this is just the first half hour. I'll post the rest if anyone really needs more of this.

I’m home. Flight was tolerable given my Jack and Coke. I always wonder why the flight attendant looks at a woman so strangely when she orders such a drink. Anyhoo, I’m in for the night. You know, given the frigid temps and me loving to go sleeveless and all. Might as well give you my interpretation of the holiday classic I came home to on Tivo.

Kris Likey Does 1964’s Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer:

Plump snowman enters stage left. Mumbles something about an awful winter and missing Christmas through his very Hitler-like facial hair. If this was a real movie, Wilford Brimley would be appropriately cast as this snowperson crystal cyborg.

Next scene. Mrs. Claus, looking like the redneck mom in A Time to Kill, nags Santa about eating. These two minutes of fluff permit the viewer to wonder why Santa and the Missus never did procreate. I hypothesize that cumbersome plastic joints may have been prohibitive.

Back to Snowborg. He wears a bowtie similar to that of the KFC Colonel. Without the tasty breading. And no pants, which I find particularly offensive given my extreme piety. Credits roll, and I attempt to interpret the MCMCV blah blah blah with minimal success.

Refocus on Snowborg, flashing back to Rudolph being born in a reindeer manger. His nose lights up and his skin is revealed to be papier-mâché-ish, nay, beige Astroturf-ish, which makes the child in me just furious. Like my first kiss, I so thought this was the real thing. Soon enough, Rudolph Mom and Dad totally freak, and the latter overreacts like a Republican discovering his son partying in Dupont in a mesh rainbow crop top. Santa enters, and I cringe at his sweaterdress. So 80s. He sings, and I’m pretty sure that the baby Jesus weeps in Rudolph’s pseudo-manger.

Buck Pops, wearing a lovely grey eye shadow I can only attribute to the genius that is MAC, wipes some of his greasy colored lid onto Rudolph’s “nonconformity.” It works for a time. Just like contraception.

It’s here that we first meet the abominable snowman, a tongue-twister name I’m pretty sure Burt Ives had to record for voiceover like 86-87 times, whatever it took, given well-established snowman tendencies toward extreme drunkenness.

Scene XVII: The Elf Workshop. There’s a small blonde elf who is being ridiculed at the work table, a scene which unfortunately resembles my 7th grade shop class, and who most closely resembles Andy Dick on Proactiv. The bully is a beefy elf, a la Kevin James with felt shoes, one who I’m pretty sure would be forced to post 10-year-old pics of himself to Match.com. All the elves are very, very White, and it’s no surprise that the Andy Dick one aspires to be a dentist. He’s mocked, and I’m reminded of Eddie Baumgartner who in the first grade caught his sneaker on my desk and proceeded to projectile vomit in pure slow motion as he fell. The memory can’t overcome the awesome terribleness of the brief Andy Dick singing that ensues. The n*ked Snowborg thankfully saves us.

Cut to Rudolph’s Dad ripping him a new one. We are apparently supposed to know that Rudolph has matured to young adulthood given the two Milk Duds placed atop his Astroturf head. The cartoon/Astro-turfmation director does a nice job of giving Dolph a Peter-Brady-like creaky voice here, and suddenly I’m thrown back into 9th grade when I was a reject, a burnout who drank Bartles and James and smoked Pall Malls under the bleachers while the jocks mocked me with their groin muscles.

Yeah, that never happened.

So anyhoo, we rejoin Burl Ives’ meth festivities and Snowborg is back in his Talbot’s clearance rack vest sans pantaloons, talking smack about elves and life lessons and the Christmas that almost never was. A taxing elfin song ensues, one for which I’m driven finally to employ the full power of my fast forward, and in which we finally meet a deer with a worse weave than Britney’s. The falsetto in this number hurts a part of my back I didn’t know existed.

Santa leaves the room after this aching theatrical number, and I confuse the door slamming abruptly with Santa putting a cap in his own ass. Would you blame him?

Next in the saga less entertaining than the epic that was Alexander: Kevin James begins screaming at Andy Dick in the elf sweatshop again (“You’ll never fit in!”) and I long for the sweetness and Dianetics that are Leah Remini.

And back to harsh Nature reality:“Coach” is introduced to us in the next scene, after Andy Dick bails out of the elf office, and I am forced to stifle the instinct to run into the HS locker room to avoid doing the vault. He wears an awful denim ball cap cocked to at least 45 degrees, and he attempts to assert his buck manhood by making the little ones do jumps and twists in the snow. The weave boy speaks twice too often.

Rudolph then meets his new girlfriend, Doe a Deer, (sentence removed due to content offensive to Jorge), just as I’m completely consumed by his ample ear hair. Wouldn’t you know it? His nose lights up at the most inopportune time, thanks to Lavitra. For all intents and purposes, Rudolph is now standing in front of the group in assless leather chaps. What a lesson of fellowship and acceptance for today’s youth. Awesome.

I beg for a commercial. And I am not at all rewarded.

More singing. This time by the bow-wearing doe, who is apparently named Clarice or some other FBI profiler name. And lots of lots raccoons wearing robber masks.

Are we not to the half hour yet?!?!? Next, Andy Dick pops out of the snow, and apparently Santa has shared the news that pants are completely unnecessary in the real world. Andy trills that he’ll accept Dolph despite his red stub, and the whole affair leaves me thinking that Dateline really needs to make a visit to the North Pole.

Driven crazy

Just home from Orlando, I left the apartment today only to pick up groceries (read: tomato sauce and wine) to find that my beloved car needed to be reinspected by this Tuesday.

Ugh.

When she failed her initial inspection, the actually very helpful DC DMV peeps gave me a bright orange paper that outlined the "drive cycle," a series of steps designed to both 1) reset something or other within the bowels of the car so she can pass with an A++, and 2) humiliate the victim driver, who must go through the following hoops suspecting inclusion on some new version of Punk'd WHILE LIVING IN A MAJOR CITY WITHOUT TRUE BACK ROADS.

Please don't skip a line. You can't really appreciate the full magnitude of the insanity until you read each and every line. Or, rather, DRIVE THEM ON YOUR BELOVED FIRST DAY OFF. Ahem.

Accelerate part throttle to 36 mph and maintain speed for 50 seconds. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 30 mph and drive for 4 minutes. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 36 mph, drive at 35 mph for 2 minutes. Decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 26 mph and drive for about 3 minutes and then decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 27 mph, drive for 3 minutes, and decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 26 mph, maintain speed for 5 minutes, decelerate to 30 mph.

Accelerate to 23 mph and drive for about 4 minutes, then decelerate to 15 mph. Accelerate to 28 mph and back to 15 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 34 mph. Vary speed between 34 and 19 mph for 5 minutes. Vary speed. Decelerate from 25 mph to 15 mph.

Accelerate to 29 mph, drive for 3 minutes, decelerate gradually to 20 mph.

Accelerate gradually to 28 mph and drive for 5 minutes back to 20 mph. Accelerate gradually to 27 mph and back to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 24 mph and drive for 3 minutes decelerate back to 15 mph. Accelerate gradually to 22 mph and back to 10 mph. [Emphasis not mine, but I can personally, without a doubt, certify it as excellent placement nonetheless.]

Accelerate gradually to 30 mph, drive for 5 minutes then decelerate to 20 mph.

Accelerate to 25 mph and drive for 5 minutes, decelerate back to 20 mph.

Do not shut the engine off after the drive cycle has been completed and during the drive cycle!

Has your head exploded yet? Oh, right. I forgot that one final step.

Just prior to completely losing it, mostly due to the stares and ridicule and middle fingers of fellow drivers on 395 who somehow fail to comprehend that hazards mean I probably won't be speeding up, so freaking pass me already, asshat!, drive on empty stomach on verge of hypoglycemic crisis with engine still running and minimal gas to one and only DC Inspection Station to find that they closed only minutes earlier and the computers are already shut down. Please come back on Monday morning at 6 am, when we'll be more than happy to serve you.

Oh --

And be a peach and repeat the drive cycle before you come in again.

The warm weather isn't all its cracked up to be

I always envied those women who traveled the world for their jobs: London, San Francisco, Hong Kong. I don't think I want to be one of them anymore.

I am going on my fifth day of being hotel bound, and I miss home. I miss Bug laying stretched out on my chest while watching television, leaving my apartment with actual keys, being able to get ice without primping and putting on a bra.

I miss Court TV. And my shower, the kind that doesn't have a wispy curtain that sticks to your n*ked parts when wet. I miss vegetables. And my friends. And my little sweet car that just failed inspection. I miss home.

Although this maid thing is really quite nice.

I am a gross, gross woman.

I'm in Florida all week for business. If I didn't miss my cats so damn much, I'd move into this hotel and lie in the just-right king bed all week while drinking $3.75 Diet Cokes from the mini bar. You know, the one to which I have a key but which, mysteriously, doesn't even lock. 20/20, I smell a scam.

I ordered room service last night. Nothing, but nothing on that menu was enticing. I don't eat seafood, and since we are in the land of water and old people, and old people aren't all that tasty given their sell by date, that leaves seafood as the main culinary attraction. Discussions with the incredibly friendly room service (it always freaks me out that everyone in the hotel seems to know my name, whether I call or meet them in person; it smacks of an episode of the Twilight Zone in which I'll realize I'm on a martian military installation and I actually have a pig face or I'm the main course in How to Serve Kris, you know, that sort of thing) revealed that Yes! they could make pizza! And bring it to my room! And that gratuity was included even though you'll feel incredibly guilty leaving that line blank while signing the receipt!

I devoured two slices of that tasty, doughy, tomato-slathered beauty and passed out on the king bed, Seaweed at my side. It was only 8 pm. I woke up at 2 and had another slice. After I'm done talking with you, I will have another, now 13 hours after it's been sitting out on the desk. And folks, just so I can lie in said king bed a little bit longer, I just might have it for lunch in three or four hours.

I picture this being the post everyone turns to when I end up fighting some terrible Tex-Mex bacteria after eating a seven-day old Taco Bell burrito (if that happens, call FOX, because I'm pretty sure House would know just what to do), but I will eat most foods left out on countertops, in the sun, and in the communal work kitchen, time of arrival completely unbeknownst to me. I've eaten cheesecake 10 hours after the caterers were packed up and gone, ranch dip left out overnight after a wine and cheese, and - gulp - mayonnaise that I forgot to refrigerate after lunch.

But I won't eat seafood, even if that mahi was swimming just before it hit my plate. That's just gross.

Crickets

What does one say when all is going well?

When the red wine stains come out of the carpet almost immediately, thanks to a heavy dose of Resolve* and some pretty serious 30-something muscle.

When your skin is clear. Because you finally Googled your damn self some version of a Boolean search that led to some effective skin care, courtesy of Dove Sensitive Skin something or other.**

And Mom is purportedly talking to you for the next three minutes, the work bigs invite you to join a promising business trip, a certain reliable and often drunken blogger agrees to watch your kids and your underwear drawer during said professional commitment, and you have a job and your parents are living and your bras still fit and your cats religiously prefer the litter box to your bedsheets.

Things are ridiculously ok.

And CNB with Dog asks you out on a date. You pick an outfit. You ensure that you floss for two days prior because Sweet Jesus it will be so beautiful to be kissed softly and anxiously again someday. He is temporarily sidelined by a sore throat and lost voice which are confirmed by a visit, an invited dropoff of an "Early Winter Illness Survival Kit" that you scrambled to put together before sunset, one filled with ridiculously salty chicken noodle soup and stupid glee, not to mention the anticipation you haven't felt since your days as a 13 year old who ne'er been dated.

I swear to God and Oprah that I will read everything in the latter's book club - the Bible is just so looooooong - should things continue to coast.

I am very much enjoying the ride.


*This is not a product pimping blog, commercial people.

** Ditto to the above; however, free samples of the gorgeosity will not be turned down as my 10th grade Christmas dance date was.