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Sunday, December 31, 2006

keeping it moist

Originally uploaded by kristalynn.
this past summer i went to dairy queen with a friend. i ordered my favorite - the chocolate-dipped cone.

gimme gimme gimme gimme... my outstretched fingers grappled for the cone.

"what is up?" my friend asked.

i looked at him like he was nuts. "you gotta eat the top part while the chocolate is still... moist."

"moist?" he laughed with his dumb dilly bar.

it wasn't the most correctest choice of words, but i received my ice cream cone before it hardened - while it was, indeed, still moist.

this past christmas, while visiting with some friends, we discovered that our predetermined meeting place was closed.

"let's just go to starbucks," one of us conceded.

"there's never any room. there won't be any room," said one of us.

but there never is anywhere else to go. we went to starbucks.

upon arrival, all four of us peered in the window.

"no room. see," said the same naysayer.

"how about that middle table that doubles as a chess board?" i suggested.

but then we all noticed that the prime real estate chairs, the "fancy" chairs by the window, were available.

"krista! go get them. go save those fancy chairs!" my friend instructed.

i took off after those chairs like a dog after a stick.

as i strewed my personal belongings across the chairs to indicate their occupancy, i noticed that one of them had a newspaper on it, which, when removed, revealed a dark spot.

concerned for the person who was to sit there, and without any forethought, i inserted my finger into the middle of the stain to verify if it was fresh.

moist it was.

it also dawned on me what the origin of this stain could be.

my friend approached.

"um, this chair has something on it,” i indicated while my index finger hung limply.

"oh, no. someone relieved himself on the chair. we're not staying."

"i stuck my finger in it," i disclosed as we walked to our third destination.

"krista, why did you touch a urine-soaked chair?"

"i wanted to see if it was moist," my sullied finger dangled in the winter air.

"you know," my friend postulated, "any situation that prompts you to ask 'is it moist?' cannot be good."

“where's your antibacterial gel?” i asked, deflated.

Monday, December 18, 2006

the first rule (of fight club)...

Originally uploaded by kristalynn.
kids in canada have to wear snowpants during winter. they protect you from the cold, permitting you to play outside without succumbing to the elements.

i remember, as a kid, one of the first spring days. it had warmed up considerably and one of my friends called on me to play. despite the warm weather, my mom made me put on my snowpants. we ran around the small woods we had in our backyard, sweltering. we stopped by the stream, which was flowing freely with all the melting snow. i wanted nothing more than to jump in. for no good reason other than it looked like it would be so much fun. but i knew the repercussions would be drastic.

but i jumped in, snowpants and all. i emerged, heavy and laughing.

my friend and i jumped in several times. sodden, we knew we had to go home and face the facts. we went our separate ways, waving with our smiles disappearing. our boots were full of mud and our snowpants probably absorbed 39 liters of water.

"what happened to you?" asked my mom.

"i jumped in the stream," i winced, preparing for the onslaught.

but there wasn't any.

i recently moved in with my boyfriend. i only lived 6 blocks over and we decided to move in together because "change is good" and "for financial matters".

within the first week i was provided with the roster of rules.

"there aren't many, but they must be adhered to."

"yes, go on."

"none of your stuff can come into my home."

i glared at him.

"okay, well minimal stuff. we have no storage."

i continued to glare. "what is your next rule?"

"all dishes must be done when i come home at night. i can't stand to see dishes in the sink."

"i'll see what i can do."

"krista, this must be done every night. i'll seriously freak out."

"no promises."

dishes, to me, should not be a chore. they should be left until the spirit moves you. one of my greatest vacuuming experiences involved a few glasses of sake and dylan’s "blood on the tracks".

soon enough, the tiny rules and regulations took their toll. "where is the fun?" i snapped. "there's NO fun!"

i wiped away my tears and put on my jogging shoes. i tied the house keys into my shoelaces and went for a run.

about three blocks away i noticed that my right shoe felt loose. i looked down and saw that my shoelace had come undone. and sure enough, the key was gone. "fuck!" i came to a screeching halt.

"shit, shit, shit..." i backtracked, looking for my key. it had a green marker and should have been easy enough to find. i couldn't go home without a key - i was bound to get yet another sermon.

after ten minutes of searching i realized the key was gone, i started to laugh. i'd fucked up yet again: i didn't do the dishes in a timely fashion, my showers are too long in addition to too hot, one sock is here while the other is there, my vacuuming techniques are lackluster, i don't wake up in such a manner so as to allow myself the correct amount of leisure time in the morning, and i don't possess the proper windshield wipers.

i realized that fucking up is engrained in me. you know, i'll miss the odd plane and splash water on the floor when i wash my face. yet all it took was for those wet snowpants to be thrown into the washing machine.

it was time for them to be put away for the season anyway.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

on the house

Originally uploaded by kristalynn.
"oh no, that's an onion. our kitchen is clean."

its legs hung limply, soggily from being steamed.

my appetite departed.

"no, this is a cockroach. onions are white."

"that is a fried onion. they become brown when fried," the owner argued.

i've found many, many things in restaurant food. and unless it's a pube, i'll generally remove it and continue eating. i'm not prissy. and i understand that due to the random workings of the globe, the odd thing is bound to make its way into my soup.

but i pushed the bowl with the cockroach/onion away from me.

"when we go out, we like to have a refined experience," said the girlfriend of an acquaintance.

my boyfriend and i looked at each other. "well, have we got a story for you..."

there's a portuguese restaurant in montreal that you go to for the meat: lamb chops, pork chops, steaks with eggs fried on them. meat.

it's delicious. which is why you tolerate the rude waiters and the 30-minute wait for your reserved table. on our last visit there, my boyfriend and i sidled up to the bar to make the best of the long wait.

we sat next to a portuguese man and woman. they weren't a couple - she was in her mid 30s with a baseball cap, and he in his late 50s. they looked as though they had done some hard living. and here they were, drinking cheap red wine.

a raucous conversation took place between this man and woman. it took place in portuguese, so we didn't understand. but it looked like she was egging him on.

seems like she's challenging him... i whispered to my boyfriend.

and then a carafe of wine was placed in front of him. an entire liter of red wine. chances were pretty high that it was homemade.

he grabbed it by the neck.

oh gawd... i thought.

he lifted the carafe and commenced drinking.

"he's going to barf," i said to my boyfriend. i looked around in an attempt to move, but the place was packed.

i grabbed my boyfriend's arm. "he's going to BARF!" my voice had become shrill.

the woman in the baseball cap cheered him on. no one else did. no one else seemed to notice.

he was halfway through the liter of wine. my mind flooded with memories of horrible things that happen when cheap red wine is consumed: my friend knocked out her front teeth on a bus due to red wine. she also had to graft skin from her ass onto her leg due to a red wine/tobogganing incident. but, of course, we were 16. this man was 59.

"this guy's gonna vomit." said my boyfriend.

the man slammed the empty liter of wine on the bar. he was swaying.

the woman with the baseball cap forked over $20 to the man. she then ordered 2 beers.

i shook my head.

when my boyfriend and i decided to turn our attention back to each other, i noticed that the man had placed his hand over his mouth.

"oh SHIT!" i jumped off my barstool and grabbed pulled my boyfriend's arm, trying to drag him away.

the force of the hand over his mouth increased the pressure of the already projectile vomit. he barfed all over himself, the bar, and my boyfriend's arm.

"jee-SUS!" my boyfriend exclaimed. i looked at the frothy red wine vomit on his arm. i hate vomit. it makes me want to vomit.

i pointed to the bathroom. "WASH YOUR ARM! GO WASH YOUR ARM!"

my boyfriend accepted the towel from the unapologetic bartender, hopped off the stool, and strode to the bathroom.

the old man stood up and slowly made his way to the front door. she left three minutes later, once she finished her beer.

everything had been cleaned up by the time my boyfriend returned.

"you okay?" i asked.

"yeah, yeah. it was just wine."

"mm. wine and bile. there were bubbles."

"no bubbles krista. just wine. it was only in his stomach for a minute."

"bile resides in our stomach."

"whatever. are we staying?"

"you're the one who just got vomited on. are you okay to stay?"

"yeah, it's fine. i feel sorry for the guy. where'd he go?"

the bartender informed us that the drinks we had ordered were on the house.

"wow," i said, picking up my glass and making my way to our table.

"i think i'll have the steak," said my boyfriend.